#how less he weights in a subjective way

[somerandomcockroach]

(I just wanted Orion to greet teeth at Sentinel, I think Sentinel could mention somehow that he regrets the loss of such a figure as Senator Shockwave, I think Orion wouldn't like how he could say it)

Song: CRAWLERS - Come Over

[deathofacupid]

ceo!sukuna x bubbly!barista!reader, i fear it's my new obsession. banner credits to @/uzmacchiato. both inspired by, and dedicated to @salsakiyoomi! hope you like it, pretty <33

ceo!sukuna, a man whose resting face could curdle milk, hates physical touch. like, he'd rather wrestle a rabid badger than endure a friendly pat on the back.

his employees? mere rodents scurrying around his corporate cheese grater, their sole purpose to make his existence slightly less agonizing.

of course, they mostly failed at that. they were less "competent assistants" and more "walking disasters with access to staplers." his day was basically a high-stakes game of "clean up the employee-induced apocalypse," and he was running out of patience, and more importantly, employees.

ex-employees, he'd mentally correct, adding them to his ever-growing blacklist. he'd personally ensure they'd be lucky to get a job at a clown college.

and yet, despite this raging misanthropy and deep-seated aversion to human contact, he ends up craving your arms. the irony was thicker than his expense reports.

"'kuna?" you ask, peering up from your couch fort. "how was your day?"

a grumble is his reply. you've deciphered his grumbles into a complex language, and this one translates to "hell on earth."

you open your arms, and he promptly transforms into a sentient, grumpy weighted blanket, flopping onto you with the grace of a falling grand piano.

you wheeze, but you're used to it. he’s basically a cat, except instead of knocking things off tables, he knocks the air out of your lungs.

"don't even get me started," he mutters, his voice muffled by your chest. he sounds like a toddler who just lost his favorite pacifier. "do you know how many people i had to terminate today?"

"fired, you mean? sukuna, you mean fired, right?" you’re picturing a corporate bloodbath, and it’s not a pretty image. he waves a dismissive hand, which, due to his position on top of you, almost knocks your phone out of your hand.

"yeah, yeah. whatever. they were basically performance art pieces of incompetence."

"okay, but, like, how many?"

"enough." he then changes the subject. "what about you, flower? how was the café?"

your mood instantly does a 180. "oh! it was great! nice and slow. but this one guy came in, all grumpy about his coffee. said he could make it better."

"he did?" sukuna raises an eyebrow, a feat considering he's basically face-planting into your chest. "what happened?"

"told him to go do it, then," you say, grinning. "and then kicked him out."

"that's my girl," he says, a rare flicker of approval in his eyes. "did you throw his coffee at him first?"

"i considered it, but i didn't want to waste good coffee."

he's impressed, that much he'll admit. he shifts, crushing you further. "sukuna!"

"i've been away from my girl all day," he grumbles, nuzzling into your neck. "let me have this."

for a man who supposedly treated physical contact like it was kryptonite, he sure seemed to enjoy clinging to you. maybe he just needed a you-shaped stress ball, you think. and maybe, just maybe, he was secretly a giant softie, hidden under layers of corporate armor and general grumpiness.

or maybe he just liked your couch. either way, you were trapped, and honestly, you weren't complaining. too much.

general taglist: @jeonwiixard. (i didn't forget this time 👩‍❤️‍👩)

[prettyboykatsuki]

keel | sylus (qin che)

♡ tags ; afab + fem!reader, gendered language (good girl, sweet girl) , the use of kitten like one time, praise kink heavy, domestic sex, unprotected sex, fingering, loverboy sylus, 18+

♡ wc ; 1.8k

♡ a/n ; stuck in my bkg draft so i tried my hand at sylus. not sure how i did im sorry sylus fans </3 pls forgive me if the characterization isn't up to par.

♡ synopsis ; sylus likes fueling your praise kink when the mood strikes.

It's easy to miss the way Sylus is sweet on you.

He does that on purpose. It's a secret. One he promises to keep tucked between the creased edges of his longing. No one knows the depth of his affection, the weight of it, the truth of of it—except Sylus alone.

There is a laundry list of reasons it's like this. Filled with calculated consideration and logical outcomes.

Less reasonably but more truthfully - it's also in his nature. Dragons are known for hoarding their precious belongings.

What could be more precious, more worthy of guard than his love for you?

He doesn't even think he's all that good at hiding it, truthfully. If you catch him at the right time- you'd see it written all over his face. Etched into his features, in the sway of every motion and lasting seconds of every glance.

Of all people, you seem to know the least how much Sylus utterly adores you. At least, you pretend that's the case.

He can't be entirely sure why that is. Or rather—he isn't sure why it's like that even now. Your first reactions to him were warranted, he knows that.

But it's different now. Most of your misunderstandings resolved and your disagreements settled—even without the memories of past, you should know it clearly, right? How much he adores you?

You do know. You can't not know. Not with the way Sylus treats you.

It's almost like you want to avoid the subject all together. Like you're trying not to linger on it too long, or think about it too hard - afraid of what will happen if you do. Each time Sylus makes you face it, you turn away—chin tucked, eyes screwed close, embarrassed. As if the very presence of his love for you is enough to make your face burn. It threatens to swallow you up.

If he didn't find it so horribly loveable, he might venture to call it troublesome.

He likes it about you though, like he likes everything else about you.

Sylus likes to meet you where you are. Where you're sarcastic and easily frustrated, he's patronizing and relaxed. Knowing you get shy so easily when his affection is more overt, he'll push but never far enough to really upset you. He treads carefully, rides the line until you come to him willingly. Always asks, always waits. He's patient like that, especially with you.

Sylus likes crooning about you being catlike - but there's truth in it. It's part of why he's good at handling you. Just like he knows not to move when a cat settles in his lap, Sylus knows not to push you by coming onto strong when you're not asking for it.

(It gives him the same feeling of accomplishment when you come to him first.)

It's rare that Sylus gets to spoil you for all the reasons above.

Spoil you in the overbearing, affectionate sense at least. He usually curbs that desire through spending money on you - but there's something more he's after.

When you come to him wanting it—there's not a single part of him that thinks of refusing. He couldn't even if he tried.

That's why, when you come barreling down his bedroom door and demanding to be fucked - Sylus can only really think to be amused.

You're feeling lazy, and somewhat bold. It's a good deal for him, anyhow.

A single hand cups the back of your thighs as you stand on your knees - straddling Sylus with your hands resting at his at his shoulders. Sylus presses his forehead just underneath your sternum as his other hand focuses on stretching you out.

You let out a soft breath as Sylus scissors his fingers open inside of you. You feel warm around him, wet and slick and inviting. It makes his cock twitch, almost guilty with his desire.

"Feeling alright, sweetheart?"

You open your eyes and look down at Sylus. He smiles at you, head tilted as you frown at him. "I'm fine. But you're taking too long. Want you to—"

"I like letting you have your way but I'm afraid I won't budge on this one," Sylus says, cooing. He presses a chaste kiss to your stomach, adding another finger inside of you. You whine audibly, knees weakening in his grasp. Sylus laughs.

"Awfully worked up today aren't you, kitten?"

"So what if I am?" You spit with familiar hostility he's come to love.

"Now, now - I didn't say it was bad, so don't be that way, hm? You were being so sweet a second ago,"

"I'm always sweet," You say plainly. Sylus laughs harder than he should, and you glare at him with a pronounced frown.

His eyes twinkle with amusement. "That so?"

Your frown deepens. "Yeah."

Your reply comes out firm in a way that makes his chest tight. He stares up at you bemused. "Sure, then. Is there any reason my sweet girl is in particular mood?"

You clench down on his fingers. His brows raise, the grip on his shoulders getting tighter.

"Don't say anything," You hiss. He shrugs.

"There's no shame in it," Sylus says smoothly. "If there's anything you want, you just have to ask. No need for your pride to get in the way, right?"

Your face twists. It's cute, watching you go back and forth - more with yourself than anyone else. You let out a frustrated groan.

"Just—"

"Just what? Will you really be satisfied if I just fuck you?" Sylus purrs, curling his fingers up towards your g-spot with a deliberate control. You gasp as you tighten around him, growing wetter. He feels you go weak in his grasp, smiling as your eyes roll back. "What you really want to hear is how good you are for me, right?"

Your pussy flutters around his fingers again, an involuntary reaction - soft whimpering leaving your mouth. How unusual. How uncharacteristic of you to be so docile towards him, or about him - so openly lusting after such an affectionate sort of attention.

"Be a good girl and ask me to spoil you,"

Your eyes widen. "That's humiliating—,"

Sylus quirks his brow. "So you won't be good for me?"

Your face contorts again. So cute, he thinks. He can see all the gears turn in your head as you sigh. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, your voice next to his ear - muffled by his shoulder as you bury your nose against his neck.

"Spoil me," You say, half-demanding. Mostly just needy in a way that makes his skin prickle with heat. "I want you to spoil me,"

Sylus laughs deeply. He can't help it. It's a heavy sound. You hit him when he does, clawing at his shoulders. There's no malice to his laughter though, though. Just a sort of disbelief of how deep his affection can run for you. Like just when he thinks it can't run any deeper, it does.

"You did well, hm?" Sylus hums. It comes easily. He's just voicing what feels like his thoughts are most of the time. "Good job, kitten. Should I give you something in return of your hard work?"

You nod into his shoulder. Sylus feels all the lovesickness in his body jolt, cock going stiff at the innocent gesture. He breathes out.

"Here," He pulls his fingers out from you, relishing the way you hiccup from loss of contact. He strokes his cock with sticky fingers - painfully hard before grabbing your hips and settling your weight of his lap.

You lean down to kiss him and Sylus meets you - a soft tongue kiss and gentle reminder that he's here. You linger there longer than he expects you to, but finds himself eager to stay. When he finally pulls away, he turns his attention back onto your pussy.

He admires your cunt as it hovers over his length. Clit swollen with need, sticky and supple and begging to be fucked - Sylus feels his head go heavy. He rubs the sensitive bundle of nerves with the tip of his cock, reeling at the silky sensation. The muscles in his abdomen feeling tight.

You whimper above him. Your usual moan softened to noisy, desperate mewls. Something in your demeanor spurs him on. He finds himself more eager than usual to sing your praises.

"You'll look so pretty sitting on my cock won't you, dove?" Sylus croons, his voice thick with arousal. A syrupy lust spreads through his limbs, makes his hold on your hips tighter. "Always take it so perfectly. Made just for me sweetheart. How could I ever think of anything else?"

"Sylus," You draw the syllables of his name out with a whine.

"Shh, I know. Time for me to kiss it better, right?"

You whimper at the implication. Kiss it better when he means to fuck you, it makes your hold on him even stronger. Sylus pulls you down onto his lap slowly. The tip of his cock nudging past slick folds, careful and thoughtful. You buck your hips - seeking tension and depth but Sylus holds you firmly in place.

It'll be better for you if you feel his cock inch by inch. It'd be best if you remembered it carefully. Every vein, every curve, ever angle - carved into your body from now to eternity. It'd be good if you got so used to it, your body couldn't crave for anything else - so you'd have something only he could give you that'd bring you more pleasure then pain.

You sink down on Sylus' cock slowly. Whimpering as the tip finds your entrance, stretching you open slowly. Your pussy accommodates to his size with effort - even after so much stretch. A dull pain that has you squeezing around his length tight the farther down you drop.

"You feel so good," Sylus groans. Your pussy squeezes down on him hard. "That's it. Easy."

Sylus barely touches you. When he bottoms out, you're clamping down on him so hard it barely takes him any effort at all to make you cum. One hand slides between your bodies, fingers resting at your navel as he rubs slow, precise circles into your clit - unmoving.

"Such a good girl for me," Sylus coos. Your whole body wracks into a shiver, as you swear into his shoulder. "Cum. You want to, right? Go ahead and cum,"

"Hnggh, fuck. Sylus I'm—"

"Let go sweetheart. Cum."

Your body coils in as Sylus whipers sweet nothings against your shoulder. You grip his cock like a vice, bottomed out - trembling as arousal and slick floods his length, a sticky sound filling the room as you rock your hips and ride out your high. Your breathing is shallow, trembling as your orgasm knocks the wind out of you.

You're pliant in his grasp. Pleasant and sweet. There's no way you don't know that he adores you.

"You want more?"

Fucked out, you nod your head. An almost docile quality to you.

"Sure, then, sweetheart. We have all day,"

[moon-ttokki-x]

Hi Ttokki! 😁 I just wanted to ask if you could possibly write some short scenarios of Stray Kids being protective over their ninth member!maknae!reader? 🙏

Here are some ideas: a staff member is rude/impatient with the reader for no reason; a fan is being weird (getting too close, saying uncomfortable things, asking weird things); the reader receives hate for something stupid (sweating, being "too" comfortable/close with the members, having a scar, acne, whatever); during a variety show, the reader is forced to face a phobia and even almost cries (snakes, spiders, insects, etc); because of some pain or uncomfortable outfit, the reader's vocals are unstable during a performance and people hate on it.

I know there are many ideas... you of course don't need to use them if you don't wanna. Or even do this request at all. 💕 Either way, I hope your life is full of happiness! 🫶

hii !! thank you for the request, anon <3 i think i might make this two parts lol . . . it might have gotten a bit long otherwise . i'll use the rest of your ideas in the maknaes' part . here you gooo~

protective!hyung line skz x maknae!9th member reader

pairing: protective!ot8!skz x maknae!9th member reader

summary: how skz would be protective of their maknae (that's you!)

genre: idol!au, 9th member!au, just hyung line being super sweet and protective, chan being intimidating asf, hyunjin being super cheeky but that's just who he is lmao (we love him really)

a/n: divider by @mikeykuns . also taglist is open for anyone who wants to join !

skz masterlist

Chan who firmly chides a staff member who's getting a little too riled up over a small mistake that you made during filming. He picks up the camera stand that you accidentally knocked over and guides you away, a hand on your back. Whispers a little joke to you and tries to make you smile in a bid to make you forget about being told off. Needless to say, that certain staff member seems to disappear when Chan is around you from then on, and you ask him if he did something to make that happen. He just looks away and suddenly changes the subject, and then later on, you notice that the staff member who kept telling you off is suddenly nowhere to be seen. Their belongings are gone from the desk and you're glad to see them gone, and you catch Chan smirking to himself as he shuts their empty office door.

Minho who glowers at a fan who's being just a little too flirty; he's sitting next to you for the fanmeeting, and there's a fluffy headband sitting on the crown of his head. It doesn't stop him from responding effortlessly to him own fan, but his hands tighten around the gifts in front of him as the creepy fan in front of you begins to inch a little closer over the table, reaching for your hands. As the fan doesn't notice his attempts to intimidate, he knocks over a bottle of water, spilling a long, thin stream of it over your side of the table, effectively creating a water line between you and the fan, and making said fan jump back in shock, complaining over soaked sleeves. Minho just winks at you and pokes your knee, muttering a rather vile phrase and making you giggle as the fan storms out.

Changbin who watches you trip over on stage as you walk up to begin your part of the song; your mic clatters to the floor and the entire audience holds their breath as you scramble to pick it up, cheeks scarlet from embarrassment. Your energy is dimmed for the rest of the performance, and you can practically feel the judging, disapproving stares of everyone in the crowd. That is, until you hear another clatter from in front of you, and realise that Changbin has dropped his mic too, leaning down to pick it up with a cheeky grin as he jumps back into place. Your heart rises, the weight lifted off of it as he shoots you a wink, reassuring and reckless. The murmurs get louder but now you couldn't care less, leaning down to whisper a thankyou to him as the choreo brings you closer to him. Later, his face will be proudly tinged with pink as you all walk off the stage.

Hyunjin who quickly changes the subject during an interview that's getting a little too personal, and leans down to put a hand on your shoulder as the interviewer starts getting a little too close. Interjects with loud laughing and funny skits to keep the attention off you, and his gaze is slightly maniacal as he eyes the interviewer, squeezing your shoulder before pulling away so the cameras don't pick it up. Is so smooth with it that you begin to feel more comfortable throughout the interview and you even become confident enough to question the interviewer himself, who stutters and changes the subject. Hyunjin watches on proudly and definitely reports the guy afterwards for harassment, and even sits through a scolding from a staff member about being polite to the reporters and interviewers. He couldn't care less, if he was being honest, and fights a cheeky, rebellious smile as he's dismissed from the room.

a/n: yay first post with my new taglist~ send me a dm, ask, or comment under the taglist post to be added !

ttokki's taglist: @emilywhyyy @galaxy4489 @hyuneskkami @justsomekpopstuff @wavetohannie @strayingawayy @its-stayville-forever

[pankowcrumbs]

Blurred Lines X Pedro Pascal

MasterList

Word count: 6.8K

Sex implied in a movie scene but no actual smut.

Plot: You and Pedro are romantic love interests in a new movie but there is a 25 year aged gap and it gets complicated when the feelings are becoming real underneath the characters.

There’s always a strange rhythm to film sets. Long stretches of waiting around, interspersed with bursts of concentrated magic. I’d learnt that quickly, although this set Falling Slow was different. Maybe it was the subject matter, maybe it was the man I was working opposite. Or maybe it was both.

The film was a sweeping, slow-burn romance between a young academic and her older, world-weary professor. Forbidden, scandalous, but written with nuance and aching tenderness. And, yes, it was about a large age gap. Just like us.

I was twenty-five. Pedro was fifty.

On paper, it should’ve been awkward. But Pedro had this way about him all warm smiles, self-deprecating humour, and inappropriate dad jokes that made the whole cast and crew instantly at ease. He was like the sun on set. Infectious. Easy. Except when it came to scenes with me. Because when the cameras rolled, he changed. He became something else entirely. Something... intense. Something that curled low in my belly.

And today, we were filming that scene. The one everyone had been whispering about for weeks. The sex scene.

It was a closed set. Just Pedro, me, the director, the sound guy, and Elodie, our lovely but terrifyingly precise intimacy coordinator. We’d choreographed it all beforehand where my hands would go, when to kiss, how long to linger down to the second. Every move mapped like a dance. Modesty garments in place. No actual sex. All smoke and mirrors.

But even with all the prep, I could feel the tension humming under my skin the moment I stepped onto the set a dimly lit bedroom dressed with crumpled linen sheets, soft golden light, and a half-empty bottle of red wine on the nightstand.

Pedro was already there, shirt unbuttoned, lounging against the headboard, eyes flicking up when he saw me. He smiled warm and reassuring but there was something unreadable beneath it. Like he knew the weight of what we were about to do. Like he felt it too.

"You good, cariño?" he asked softly as I sat on the edge of the bed.

I nodded, smiling back. “Just thinking I might’ve had one less coffee if I’d known I’d be straddling you today.”

He chuckled, low and warm. “I’m flattered. I didn’t even have to buy you dinner first.”

Elodie raised a brow. “Alright, Pascal. Save the charm for the camera.”

We all laughed, and the tension eased just a little.

After a final rundown of the choreography, we got into position. I climbed onto the bed, straddling Pedro, knees on either side of his hips. He was warm beneath me. Solid. I could feel the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing under my palms as I pressed them lightly to his chest.

“Scene twenty-two, take one,” came the director’s voice.

The clapper snapped.

And then the world narrowed.

In the scene, my character was supposed to kiss him first shy at first, then hungry. So I did. I leaned in, my lips brushing his gently, then deeper, letting it linger. Pedro kissed me back not as himself, but as Henry, his mouth soft but full of restraint, like he was holding back years of want.

Our movements followed the choreography: my hands sliding up his chest, his fingers trailing down my sides, my hips rolling ever so slightly.

But somewhere, somewhere between the scripted kisses and the unspoken glances, something shifted.

His hands gripped my waist a little firmer. My fingers tangled in his hair, not because the script said so, but because I wanted to. And then just barely I felt it.

The faintest shift beneath me.

A subtle, growing pressure against my inner thigh.

Pedro stilled for the briefest second. A breath caught in his throat. And then he kissed me again slower this time, deeper. Less scripted. More real.

I should’ve pulled back. I knew I should. But I didn’t.

The lines blurred.

Heat rose in my cheeks, pooling low in my stomach as I rocked against him again, instinctively, almost imperceptibly. And this time, the pressure was unmistakable. He was getting hard.

I didn’t look away. Neither did he.

His pupils were blown, lips parted, chest rising faster than it had a minute ago. I could feel his fingers flexing where they held me not guiding me, not moving me, just feeling me.

“Cut,” the director called, his voice slicing through the air like a blade.

I jumped slightly, pulling back, blinking as if I’d just surfaced from underwater.

Pedro cleared his throat, giving me a small, apologetic smile. “Sorry. Got a bit... carried away.”

The intimacy coordinator stepped in immediately, her voice gentle. “That was great work. Let’s just take five. Everyone okay?”

I nodded quickly, slipping off Pedro’s lap and wrapping the robe around myself, suddenly hyperaware of every inch of skin.

Pedro stayed sitting on the bed, running a hand through his hair, then glancing at me with a crooked grin. “If I say I’m too old for this shit, do I sound appropriately flustered or just creepy?”

I laughed, breathless, still flushed. “Bit of both, honestly.”

He chuckled, then sobered, his eyes searching mine. “Hey. You alright?”

I met his gaze. There was no sleaze in it. No arrogance. Just genuine concern. And maybe a flicker of something else.

“I’m fine,” I said softly. “It was... intense. But I’m okay.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. “You were incredible, by the way. I mean that. Professional. Committed. Very distracting.”

I raised a brow. “Distracting?”

He smirked, that familiar playful spark back in his eyes. “In the best possible way.”

We stood there for a beat, just looking at each other, and I wondered if he felt it too that slow pull. That blurred edge between fiction and something else entirely.

Then Elodie called us back.

The rest of the takes went by in a haze. We stuck to the choreography, reined it in, kept it clean. But the charge lingered. Like the air after lightning.

When we finally wrapped for the day, Pedro caught me just as I was leaving the trailer.

“Hey,” he said, voice low. “Walk with me?”

I nodded, tugging my coat tighter around me as we stepped into the cool evening air. The sky was bruised with twilight, the last of the crew packing up around us.

We walked in silence for a while, side by side, shoulders brushing. Then he stopped.

“Today was...” He trailed off, frowning at the gravel beneath his boots. “I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t,” I said quickly. “Not at all. If anything... I don’t know. I felt safe. Even when it got a bit... blurry.”

He looked up, meeting my eyes. “Yeah. Blurry’s a good word.”

Another pause.

Then: “You’re not just good at this, Y/N. You’re magnetic. I’ve worked with so many people, and you” he broke off, exhaling. “You’re dangerous.”

I smiled, unsure whether to laugh or cry. “So are you.”

He chuckled, the sound warm but laced with something heavier. “We’ve got more scenes like that coming up.”

“I know.”

“And we’ll keep it professional. Of course.”

“Of course.”

But neither of us moved. Neither of us turned away.

The next morning, set felt quieter than usual.

Not in the literal sense there were still cables being dragged across floors, PAs shouting about coffee orders, the wardrobe trailer buzzing with life. But there was a hush in the way people looked at us. Or maybe I was imagining that.

Maybe it was just the way he looked at me.

Pedro had always been good at eye contact playful, expressive, sincere. But today? He barely held mine for longer than a second. A quick glance. A smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. A soft “morning, cariño” that sounded more distant than usual.

And I understood. God, I understood.

Because the moment I’d gotten back to my flat last night, I’d played the scene over and over in my head the way his hands had felt on my waist, how his breathing had changed beneath me, the weight of his body and the way our kisses had slowed, deepened, blurred.

It had been just a scene. Technically. But we both knew it wasn’t just a scene.

Today’s call sheet had us shooting a quieter moment our characters sharing wine in the kitchen, stealing kisses in between bites of takeout. Innocent. Sweet. No sex. No straddling. Still, my heart had already begun its steady, traitorous drumbeat the moment I saw his name next to mine.

I was perched on the counter, wrapped in a faded jumper that wardrobe insisted made me look “young and lovesick”, when Pedro walked onto set.

He looked... tired. Not in the usual way actors did. This was something heavier. Like sleep hadn’t come easy. Like he’d been wrestling with something all night. His jaw was tight, his eyes shadowed.

But still, he smiled. Softly.

“You alright?” I asked, voice barely above a whisper as the crew adjusted lights around us.

He nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Just... head’s full. Long night.”

Before I could ask more, the director called for quiet, and we rolled straight into the scene.

We were mid-take when Pedro, in character, leaned against the counter beside me, close but not touching. I offered him a chip from our fake takeout box, and his fingers brushed mine when he took it. He didn’t pull away right away. Neither did I.

Our eyes met. The silence stretched.

It wasn’t scripted.

“Cut,” the director called gently. “That was nice. Really natural. Let’s reset and go again.”

Pedro stepped away immediately, exhaling through his nose, like he’d just run a mile. I could feel the shift in him something coiled and tense, barely held together.

After the take, he hovered near me, hands shoved in his pockets. Then finally as the crew fiddled with lights and lens changes he stepped closer, voice low.

“Can I talk to you?” he murmured, eyes still not quite meeting mine.

I nodded, following him off-set to a quiet corner behind a lighting rig. The hum of activity faded, and suddenly it was just us. And the air between us felt impossibly thick.

He ran a hand through his hair, took a breath, and finally looked at me really looked at me.

“Listen,” he started, voice rough. “I need to say something, and I hope to God I don’t make this weird, but I can’t keep pretending nothing’s happening.”

My pulse spiked. “Pedro”

“I’m not going to cross a line,” he said quickly, firmly. “That’s not what this is. But yesterday… you felt it too, didn’t you?”

I swallowed. “Yeah. I did.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, like hearing it out loud confirmed some terrible truth. When he opened them again, they were filled with guilt and ache and something so tender it made my throat tighten.

“You’re twenty-five,” he said softly. “You’re brilliant and talented and beautiful and kind. And I am exactly double your age. I’ve been doing this for twenty years longer than you. I’m more famous. I have more power. That’s... that’s not a dynamic I want to mess with.”

I nodded slowly, my heart cracking open. “I know. I’ve thought about all of that too. People would talk. They’d assume the worst. I’ve already seen what they say when any young actress is seen next to an older man. They’d crucify you.”

His jaw flexed. “It’s not about them. It’s about you. I don’t ever want you to wonder if I respected you. If I saw you as just a... a pretty face or a fantasy. Because I don’t. You’re so much more than that.”

I blinked back sudden tears, overwhelmed by the gentleness in his voice.

“I don’t think you’re creepy,” I whispered. “Not even for a second. You’re not that guy.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I’m not crossing internal lines,” he murmured, looking down. “Because I wake up thinking about you. And then I come to set and try to be professional, and then we’re kissing, and suddenly it’s not acting anymore, and I hate how easy it is to forget where the fiction ends.”

A silence fell between us. Neither of us moved. Neither of us breathed.

Finally, I said, “So what do we do?”

He looked up, eyes heavy. “We be smart. We finish this film. We keep it clean. We don’t give anyone a reason to whisper.”

“And after that?” I asked, my voice barely audible.

He hesitated.

“If you still feel the same when the dust settles... I’ll ask you to dinner. Properly. Not as a co-star. Just as me.”

My heart flipped, twisted, bloomed.

“I think I’d say yes,” I whispered.

He smiled small, tired, but real. “That scares the shit out of me.”

I laughed quietly, because it did the same to me.

We stayed there for a minute longer just two people suspended in that blurry space between right and wrong, between reality and longing. Then someone called for us, and the moment shattered.

Back to work. Back to the act.

The set is quiet, save for the sound of the camera rolling and the soft direction from the crew. The kitchen set is warmly lit, almost intimate, and it’s just the two of us in the frame. My heart races, and I can’t tell if it’s because of the scene we’re about to film or the electric tension between us. The weight of our confessions earlier still hangs in the air, unacknowledged yet palpable.

The director calls for a pause as the crew resets a light. I catch my breath, watching Pedro lean against the counter, his expression unreadable. He looks good in this scene his dark hair a little tousled, his shirt slightly undone at the collar. But there’s something deeper in his eyes, something I’ve never seen before. I know he’s feeling it too the same heat, the same unrelenting pull.

"Ready when you are," he says, his voice low, warm, almost inviting.

I swallow hard, nodding as the director signals for us to reset. My body feels light and heavy all at once. This scene it’s supposed to be a simple kiss. Nothing more. But the way Pedro looks at me makes it feel like everything else has faded away. The crew, the cameras, the world outside of this kitchen they don’t exist. It’s just him, and it’s just me.

We’re called into position, and my stomach flutters as Pedro moves closer. His hand brushes against my waist as he adjusts his position, and I feel it all the way down to my toes. It’s a light touch, but it carries an electricity I can’t ignore. This is the moment where everything we’ve been dancing around comes to a head.

The director calls out, “Action,” and I look up at Pedro, my breath catching in my throat. His eyes soften, his lips curling into a faint smile that doesn’t reach his eyes not completely. I feel my chest tighten, my heartbeat accelerating.

Then, we kiss. It’s slow at first, tender, like we’re still testing the waters. But there’s something else now, something different that wasn’t there before. The kiss deepens, and I can feel his hands on my back, pulling me closer. He’s no longer just my co-star he’s the man I’ve been trying to keep my distance from, and now he’s here, wrapped up in my arms, his lips on mine.

And for a moment, everything blurs. The scene, the cameras, even the crew they’re all nothing compared to the heat I feel building between us. It’s as if we can’t stop ourselves anymore, as if the line between acting and reality is fading.

“Cut,” the director calls. But it’s not a relief. It feels like a premature end to something we both want to continue. I pull back slightly, our lips just a breath apart, and I see it in his eyes desire, conflict, the same storm I feel swirling inside me.

“Sorry,” I murmur, stepping back to give us both space. I’m not sorry for the kiss, not exactly. But I am sorry for the mess this is going to cause. “That was…”

“I know,” Pedro interrupts softly. His voice is low, almost a whisper. “It’s getting harder to pretend, isn’t it?”

I nod, unable to speak. I’ve been trying to ignore it, trying to convince myself it’s just the job, that the attraction is all part of the performance. But this? This is something different. Something real. And that makes everything so much more complicated.

The director seems to notice the shift, and he smiles approvingly. “That was perfect. We got what we needed. Let’s take a break, everyone.” The crew begins to pack up, but I can’t shake the tension in the air. It lingers, thick and palpable.

Pedro stays where he is, watching me carefully. I don’t know what he’s thinking, but I can see the internal battle on his face. He knows this is all so wrong so forbidden but the chemistry between us doesn’t lie. He’s feeling it too.

The lights are blinding, and the cameras flash relentlessly as we make our way down the red carpet. The press tour for our film is in full swing, and I can feel the tension building inside me. Pedro walks beside me, as always with that calm, collected presence of his, but I know he’s feeling the weight of the questions just as much as I am.

“Y/N, Pedro! Over here!” A reporter calls out. They wave their hands, trying to catch our attention. We both smile, the practiced, polished smiles we’ve been wearing all day.

“Your on-screen chemistry has everyone talking,” another reporter chimes in. “What’s the secret to that incredible dynamic?”

Pedro chuckles lightly beside me, his arm casually brushing against mine as we pose for a photo. "I guess we just have a lot of fun with it," he says with his usual charm. "But, honestly, the whole thing is a team effort. It’s about trust, right?”

I nod, glancing over at him. There’s something almost too knowing in his eyes, but the smile on his face says it all. “Exactly. It’s all about trust and respect. We’re both in it together, and that’s what makes everything flow so naturally.”

Another reporter jumps in with a question that makes my heart skip a beat. “So, there’s been a lot of talk about the age gap between you two. How did that affect your dynamic, both on and off screen?”

I feel Pedro’s hand subtly brush against the small of my back as I step forward to answer. It’s almost imperceptible, but the touch still sends a wave of heat rushing through me.

“Well, I’ll say this,” I begin, keeping my voice steady, even though I’m aware of the weight of every word. “Pedro was always incredibly respectful, both in the work and outside of it. He’s very aware of the power he holds in this situation, and he made sure that I never felt pressured or uncomfortable in any way. It’s something that’s really important to me, especially with the age difference.”

Pedro turns toward me then, his smile warm, but there’s a flicker in his eyes that tells me he’s not quite as unaffected by all this as he’s trying to seem. “Yeah, it’s not lost on me that I have a certain... position, you know?” His gaze shifts, and I see the sincerity in his eyes. “But it’s all about making sure that everyone feels safe and respected. That’s the priority.”

The reporters are eating this up, their cameras clicking nonstop as we both speak. They want more, but they’re not going to get anything out of us that feels too revealing.

“I think we’ve both been really aware of the situation,” I continue, glancing back at Pedro to make sure we’re on the same page. He gives me a small nod, clearly in agreement. “We’ve worked together as equals, and that’s what makes the chemistry on screen feel so natural. It’s a partnership.”

Another reporter presses further. “So, with that in mind, do you think the age gap affected the way you approached the romantic scenes?”

Pedro gives a soft laugh, his hand running through his hair. “I don’t think it’s something we dwelled on. We’ve been doing this for a long time, both of us, and we know how to keep things professional. Of course, there’s always a certain level of vulnerability in those scenes, but you can’t let the circumstances get in the way of what you’re trying to achieve artistically.”

“Exactly,” I agree, trying to keep things light but feeling the tension in my chest as the press continues to ask about the dynamics between us. “We had an amazing team around us, especially the intimacy coordinator. Everything was choreographed with such care. So, honestly, it just made the process feel safe. And that’s key to making the chemistry believable.”

One reporter, seemingly a little more daring, steps forward and lowers their voice. “There’s obviously so much palpable chemistry between you two are you ever worried about people reading into it too much? I mean, you’re clearly very comfortable with each other. And let’s face it, the age gap is something that has a lot of people talking.”

I see Pedro stiffen beside me, his jaw tightening just slightly. He’s trying to keep his composure, but I can feel his internal conflict. I know what he’s thinking: This is a line we’re toeing, and if we’re not careful, it could all unravel.

“Well,” I say quickly, trying to steer the conversation, “Pedro and I have worked incredibly hard to develop this connection. It’s all been about creating a space where we both felt comfortable, respected, and safe. And yes, the chemistry is definitely there, but we’re also very aware of how people can interpret things. We have a responsibility to each other, as actors, to make sure we’re always in sync.”

Pedro’s eyes flick to mine then, something unspoken passing between us. He smiles again, but this time there’s a sadness in it, like he knows that the truth is always just beneath the surface, and yet we can’t allow ourselves to fully acknowledge it.

“Y/N is an amazing actress,” he says, turning to me. “She makes it so easy to get lost in the scene. But the most important thing is that we always communicate. Always make sure the other person is comfortable. And I think that’s what made the whole process work.”

I smile at him, feeling my heart swell a little. I’ve praised him countless times today, and I know he’s doing the same for me. The interviews, the questions they’re all just a front, a way to avoid saying what’s really on our minds.

But the truth is, we’re both terrified. Not of the chemistry or the age gap but of what it means if we were to ever let this connection spill over into something real. It’s not just the press, or the fans, or anyone else watching us that’s the problem. It’s that neither of us wants to cross that line. Not yet, at least. Not in a way that can’t be undone.

As we move on to the next round of questions, we’re both exhausted, but the answers keep coming, just as rehearsed, just as careful. Every word a mask for the real truth, the one we can’t say aloud.

I think Pedro feels it too the tension, the pull. But he’s always been good at keeping a straight face, keeping his emotions close. And for now, that’s what I’ll do too.

Because as much as we might want to, we can’t allow ourselves to fall too far into this. Not yet. Not when the consequences would be so much greater than the fleeting thrill of what we feel in this moment.

One month after the movie’s release the buzz still hasn’t died down.

Even with the press tour wrapped and the red carpets rolled away, the film has taken on a life of its own living, breathing, and growing in whispers and headlines, most of them no longer about the movie itself.

They're about us.

Pedro and I have been texting constantly. At first, it was innocent. A few “saw this meme, made me think of you” or “did you see that fan edit?” But slowly quietly it shifted. The texts got longer, deeper. Little confessions snuck in. “I couldn’t sleep, so I was thinking about that night we wrapped filming...” or “Do you ever replay our kitchen scene in your head?”

Now it’s every day. Every night. Sometimes I fall asleep with my phone in my hand, mid-conversation with him, and wake up to a sleepy reply at 3 a.m.

We’re not dating. We haven’t said that out loud. But we’re something.

Something complicated.

Something neither of us can define, because we’re both too scared to say the words.

So we start small.

A coffee run. Somewhere tucked away in a quiet part of the city. We wear sunglasses and hats and keep our heads down. But people notice. Of course they do. The blurry photos hit Twitter before we even finish our cappuccinos.

The headlines follow within the hour:

“Pedro Pascal & Y/N Seen Grabbing Coffee Post-Press Tour: Just Friends or Something More?”

Our publicists are fast. The statement goes out before the afternoon:

“Pedro and Y/N have remained close friends since working on the film. They’re simply catching up and celebrating the success of their project.”

And maybe that’s true. Maybe we are just catching up.

But then it happens again. Another coffee. Then brunch. Then dinner with a group, but we still leave together.

The press might be playing along, but the fans?

They know better.

And they’re relentless.

It’s a rainy Thursday night when we finally cave and just let ourselves be still for once. Pedro’s place is warm and quiet, a world away from the noise. We’re on his couch, legs tangled beneath a throw blanket, my head on his chest. He smells like cedarwood and clean laundry, and his heartbeat is soft beneath my cheek.

He’s reading a book. I’m scrolling.

Bad combo.

“Oh my god,” I say, half-laughing, half-horrified. “Listen to this one: ‘Y’all, they’re not just friends. Look at the way he looks at her during interviews. That’s a man down BAD.’”

Pedro lets out a low chuckle, still not looking up from his book. “They’re observant, I’ll give them that.”

I keep scrolling, barely blinking. “This one says: ‘They think they’re being subtle, but the tension is screaming. Pedro blinked eleven times when she said his name.’”

That gets a real laugh from him. “Okay, that’s impressive. Eleven?”

“I’m serious! I think there’s a spreadsheet. These people are invested.”

I scroll again, my stomach sinking a little now. “Here we go... ‘Let’s not forget the age gap. I don’t care how good the chemistry is it’s inappropriate.’”

I feel Pedro tense slightly beneath me, just for a second.

I try to laugh it off. “Some people are really loud on the internet.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Then, gently, he reaches down and takes the phone from my hand, placing it on the coffee table.

“Hey,” he says softly. I glance up at him. “You don’t need to read that stuff.”

I bite my lip. “I know. I just... it’s hard to ignore. It’s like they’re waiting for us to mess up. Like we’re already doing something wrong, even though we’re not even...”

“Even though we’re not even saying what this is?” he finishes for me.

I nod.

He sighs, his hand finding mine under the blanket. His fingers are warm, steady. “People are always going to find a reason to tear something down. Especially something that doesn’t fit their version of what’s acceptable or normal.”

He pauses, then adds, “But this you and me this is real. Whatever it is, however it started... I’m not playing pretend anymore.”

My breath catches.

“I think about you constantly,” he continues, voice low and sure. “Even when I’m trying not to. And I’ve tried, believe me. I’ve run every reason through my head for why this shouldn’t happen. The age gap. The public eye. The press. But none of it matters when I’m with you.”

I blink, tears suddenly pricking the corners of my eyes. “Pedro...”

He reaches up, brushing his thumb along my cheek. “You’re smart, and kind, and brilliant at what you do. You don’t owe anyone an explanation. And I’m here. I’m real. And I’m... I’m falling in love with you.”

The words hang between us, so soft and certain, I swear the world goes still.

I sit up slightly, just enough to look at him properly. He’s nervous I can see it in the way he swallows hard, waiting for me to respond.

So I kiss him.

It’s slow, sweet, careful like we’re finally stepping into something we’ve both wanted for months. His hand cradles the back of my neck, anchoring me. When we pull apart, his forehead rests against mine.

“I’m scared,” I whisper.

“Me too,” he admits. “But I’m more scared of not trying.”

We don’t say anything after that. We just settle back onto the couch, wrapped in each other, the rain still tapping gently against the windows.

And for once, there’s no press. No fans. No judgment.

Just us.

Three Months Post-Release we went on a holiday together to Amalfi Coast, Italy

What started as a “casual friends getaway” to Italy Pedro’s idea, after months of carefully planned dinners and movie nights behind drawn blinds turns into the headline of every entertainment outlet before our second gelato cone has even started to melt.

The pictures hit the internet first.

Pedro and I on a yacht, sun spilling across our skin, his hand around my waist as I laugh at something he whispered against my shoulder.

Then one of him pressing a kiss to my temple, his sunglasses pushed up into his curls, his fingers twined with mine.

Another of us walking along a cobblestone street in Positano, clearly mid-conversation, clearly not aware of the lens trained on us from a balcony above.

And the one that makes every news outlet spiral: us in a quiet candlelit restaurant, sitting side by side instead of across the table, my head tipped against his shoulder, his hand resting gently on my thigh, both of us smiling like there’s no one else in the world.

By the time we’re back in the hotel that night, our phones are buzzing nonstop.

Pedro scrolls through a few headlines and hands me his phone, half-laughing, half-terrified.

“Pedro Pascal, 50, and Co-Star Y/N, 25, Spark Romance Rumors With Intimate Italian Getaway”

“Too Close to Call It Platonic: Inside the Blossoming Off-Screen Relationship Fans Saw Coming”

“From On-Screen Chemistry to Real-Life Romance? Internet Reacts to Viral Yacht Kiss”

I let out a shaky breath. “Well. Subtle isn’t our strong suit, is it?”

He laughs, wrapping an arm around my waist and pulling me into his chest. “We weren’t doing anything wrong.”

“No,” I say softly. “We weren’t. But they’re going to have opinions.”

Pedro is quiet for a moment, then presses a kiss to my forehead. “Let them. As long as we’re clear, and respectful, and... honest.”

We are. So we act fast.

The joint statement goes out the next morning:

“After the completion of our recent project together, we found ourselves growing close in a way neither of us anticipated. With mutual respect, open communication, and the support of those closest to us, we are exploring this relationship with full awareness of the scrutiny that may come with it. We want to be transparent in saying that our dynamic developed after the film wrapped and was not present during production. The age difference has been part of many conversations between us privately, and we’ve approached this connection with care, mutual consent, and a shared understanding of the power dynamics involved. Thank you for allowing us the space to navigate this thoughtfully and respectfully.”

It’s careful. It's honest. It’s us.

Still, the world explodes.

Some are skeptical. Some are cruel. But the overwhelming majority especially fans support it. The same people who tracked every blink in press interviews now stitch together fan edits of our vacation photos, pairing them with dreamy music and captions like “this wasn’t acting, it was real all along.”

There are comment threads filled with speculation:

“You can tell how much care Pedro has for her. Look at the way he moves with her protective, not possessive.”

“Y/N always looks so comfortable around him. Like she knows he’s a safe place.”

And others more direct:

“I don’t care about the age gap, I care about how happy they look. Let them live.”

We do our best to stay grounded. For every sweet photo that gets posted, there are five blurry ones taken through restaurant windows or behind shrubs. I learn to ignore the flash of phones in the corners of cafés. Pedro tightens his hold on my hand when the paparazzi try to corner us leaving a small museum.

There’s one day hot, bright, filled with salt air and sun where we walk through a market in Ravello and split an ice cream cone because mine melted too fast. A fan catches it on video and uploads it with the caption: “They’re so in love it’s ridiculous.”

I want to argue. I want to say “we’re just figuring it out.” That we haven’t put a label on it, that we still talk more than we kiss, that some nights I stay up wondering if we’re really allowed to feel this way.

But then I look at Pedro.

The way he always lets me answer first in interviews, never interrupting. The way he sits just a little closer in photos, but never too close. The way he constantly checks in with soft glances and quiet, whispered questions: Are you okay? Are you overwhelmed? Do you want to go home?

And I know.

I’m allowed to feel this way. We both are.

The car door opens.

And for a split second, I hesitate. Not because I’m nervous about the flashing lights or the ocean of voices waiting to shout my name but because this time, I’m not walking this carpet alone.

I step out anyway, smoothing my hand over the satin of my dress as the warm Los Angeles evening hits my skin. The moment I reach back, his fingers find mine. No searching. No fumbling.

Just instinct.

Pedro’s hand is warm and steady as he steps out beside me, his other hand gently brushing the inside of my wrist in a quiet, grounding gesture. I glance at him, just for a moment. He’s smiling already soft, familiar, like this is just any other day between us. Not the moment the entire world has been waiting for.

Click. Flash. Clickclickclick.

The sound is deafening. But I keep my shoulders back and my chin high, hand wrapped in his.

We walk together down the carpet. Not arm-in-arm. Not anything too deliberate. Just two people... tethered.

And when the reporters catch on really catch on it becomes a blur. Questions shouted. Cameras flashing faster. One voice yells, “Is this official now?” and Pedro just lets out that low, breathy laugh of his. The one that says I’m not telling you everything, but I’m definitely not denying it either.

I feel his hand give mine a squeeze. I don’t look at him. If I do, I’ll melt into this feeling too much. And I need to stay composed professional. It’s what we agreed on. Even if we’re both failing miserably at hiding how giddy this feels.

We’re ushered toward one of the bigger outlets. I recognise the host. We’ve talked to her before back when all of this was just about the movie.

Now? She’s grinning like she’s sitting on a goldmine.

“Y/N, Pedro so good to see you together tonight!” she beams, and I can’t help it I smile too. Because despite the nerves and the constant beat of my heart trying to break through my ribs… I am happy.

“Lovely to see you again,” I say, my voice steady even though my hand is still clutching Pedro’s like a lifeline.

She dives right in. Of course she does. The Italy photos, the yacht kiss, the “mysterious gelato date.” I nearly roll my eyes but Pedro’s already laughing beside me, and it makes me laugh too.

He leans over, mutters, “Told you the yacht would haunt us,” and I elbow him gently.

Then the interviewer shifts. Her smile softens. Her tone goes from playful to genuinely curious.

“In all seriousness… you’ve both released such a thoughtful statement about your relationship. But people want to know what’s it really been like navigating something so personal, so publicly?”

Pedro lets me speak first. He always does.

I take a breath.

“It’s been… a process. But one we’ve been really intentional about,” I say slowly, making sure I mean every word. “We care about each other deeply, and we knew that if we were going to share any of this with the world, it had to be on our terms. Carefully. Gently. With respect.”

I feel Pedro’s hand brush the small of my back, and it steadies me.

“There were so many conversations,” I continue. “About power, about timing, about agency. Pedro’s been incredibly aware of his position throughout all of this. He’s never once made me feel pressured. He’s always made sure I felt safe and heard.”

She turns to him then, and he smiles at me before answering.

“She said everything I wanted to say,” he replies. “But I’ll just add that… being older, I was conscious from the start that I didn’t want to create any imbalance. I didn’t want to cross a line or risk anything we’ve built, professionally or personally. I just… wanted to honour her. And this.”

God. The way he says that.

Honour me.

I think it’s that moment that hits the crowd. Because the interviewer visibly softens. The air around us shifts. And suddenly, it’s not a story anymore. Not a scandal or a headline or a photo op.

It’s love.

Raw and warm and kind.

When the interview ends, we walk the rest of the carpet like it’s nothing. Like we haven’t just publicly opened a door we’ve been peeking through for months.

But I know what’s waiting online already. The screen grabs. The tweets. The shipping hashtags.

And for once, I don’t care. Because when we’re finally alone in the car again Pedro lacing his fingers through mine with a breathless little, “Well, that went alright” I don’t feel scared.

I feel seen. And protected. And quietly, fully adored.

The moment the hotel room door clicks shut behind us, I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath since the car ride over.

Pedro doesn’t say anything at first. He just slips off his jacket and tosses it gently over the back of the armchair, his fingers already moving to unbutton his shirt, just the top few buttons. Casual. Comfortable.

Safe.

I kick off my heels with a quiet groan and lean against the wall for a second, still in my dress, makeup still flawless under the dim golden light of the suite. It’s quiet here. No flashing lights, no crowd. Just muted city sounds through the window and the soft hum of air conditioning.

“Do you want to take it off?” Pedro asks gently, nodding toward my dress.

I smirk. “Smooth.”

He laughs and holds up both hands. “I meant the dress, because you’ve been yanking at the zipper all night.”

I sigh dramatically and spin around. “Then help me, smooth talker.”

His fingers are warm and steady as he finds the zipper and drags it down, slow and careful. It’s nothing we haven’t done before, on set or off but tonight, it feels different. Not charged. Just… soft. Unspoken.

When I step out of the dress, I leave it draped over the back of the couch and tug one of his oversized T-shirts from the open suitcase on the chair. He watches me pull it over my head with the tiniest smile.

“Was that mine?”

“Possession is nine-tenths of the law,” I mutter, sinking onto the bed.

Pedro walks over, tugging the throw blanket from the foot of the bed, and wraps it around us both as he sinks down beside me. His arm slips easily around my shoulders, and I tuck into his side like muscle memory.

Everything feels quieter here. Like the world left us alone, just for tonight.

“You were amazing,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to my hair.

“You said that already.”

“I’ll say it again tomorrow too.”

I turn to face him slightly, my cheek pressed to his chest. “Do you think it was okay? What we said? How it came across?”

He hums thoughtfully, fingers tracing lazy shapes on my arm. “I think it was honest. And that’s the best we can do.”

I nod, letting the silence settle again.

For a few minutes, we just lie there. The weight of the evening slowly peeling away from our shoulders. The heels. The suits. The expectation.

“You know what I keep thinking about?” I whisper eventually.

Pedro tilts his head, brushing his lips against my forehead. “Tell me.”

“That first day we met. The chemistry test. When I walked in and you were so calm. And I was shaking so hard I couldn’t hold my water bottle.”

He smiles into my hair. “You hid it well.”

I pull back just enough to see his face, the tired lines near his eyes, the softness there now that he doesn’t have to perform. “And now here we are. Sharing a hotel bed, still kind of pretending it’s all professional.”

He chuckles. “I think we’re way past professional.”

His hand comes up, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear, and he looks at me like I’m the only person on the planet.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he murmurs. “About falling. About being here, being real.”

My chest tightens. In a good way. In a how-is-this-my-life kind of way.

“I know,” I whisper. “I believe you.”

We kiss then. Soft and slow. No cameras. No stage directions. Just his lips and mine and the quiet hum of something real threading between us.

And when we fall asleep tangled up in each other, wrapped in the blanket and the safety of everything we’ve built, I let myself believe this might just be the beginning of something that finally, beautifully, isn’t pretending at all.

[oceanicwriting]

3 questions.

summary: theodore nott and you have always been rivals. dis you both decided that? no. the circumstances made you hate, and it only took one night away from all the pressures for you to see each other as you really are.

pairing(s): theodore nott x fem!reader

a/n: i thought this would be less serious, but it ended up being very serious... i hope you like it as much as i do! i genuinely think this is one of my favorites.

. . .

ㅤㅤㅤ you look at the ceiling of your room. you can hear the snoring and breathing of your roommates near your ears covered by the pillow. you had tried to sleep for hours, but you hadn't even managed to doze off on the soft mattress of the bed.

ㅤㅤㅤ in the middle of a sigh, you throw the sheets aside and dress the sweatshirt that hung on the desk chair. every time insomnia catches you in its clutches, you go to the same place, seeking shelter in the stars and the huge moon shining over the lake. you walk through the halls, careful not to get caught, arriving at the large astronomy tower minutes later.

ㅤㅤㅤ when your sleeping problems were present, you were always close to the final exams of the semester. between all the subjects you had to study, tutoring for classmates with problems in some subjects, recreational classes, and quidditch practices, it was impossible not to have serious problems controlling stress.

ㅤㅤㅤ and, on top of all that, there was him. theodore nott with his perfect grades. theodore nott with his scathing comments every time you receive a grade. theodore nott with that disinterested look that remains stuck in the back of your mind. it was impossible not to talk about him when the bubble of academic pressure was about to burst.

ㅤㅤㅤ you and theodore have known each other for years. your families are from the most renowned pureblood lines in the wizarding world, and even if they claimed to be good friends, they were always pushing their children's competition. you were only the ten in a long line of brothers, parents, uncles, or grandparents who had to compete. if theodore learned to play an instrument, you had to learn one. if theodore did a sport, you had to do one. if theodore did anything, you had to do the same.

ㅤㅤㅤ you were good at keeping up with your family's commands, or you were until this last year, where the weight of your effort began to hurt in every part of your body. your dream was to live off the art you could make with a frame and jars of paints, however, you knew that the honor of your name depended on the position you wanted to get in their precious company.

ㅤㅤㅤ you sigh, lighting a cigarette, as you rest on the railing.

ㅤㅤㅤ —don’t the stars look beautiful? —his voice makes your skin crawl, forcing you to turn around. he had arrived so silently that you were surprised to see him less than five steps away—. smoking on the astronomy tower? who would have thought?

ㅤㅤㅤ theodore has a half smile that makes you want to slam a fist into his face, and he thinks about how pathetic you looked in pajamas like that.

ㅤㅤㅤ —no more —you say, taking a drag of the cigarette and trying to walk away—. i’m out.

ㅤㅤㅤ theodore laughs. the sound that escapes his lips does nothing but ignite a wave of confusion or rage that makes you freeze.

ㅤㅤㅤ —escaping. always escaping. —he approaches, leaning on the railing a few feet away from you—. we hate each other, i get it. do i hate that you're here when i want to be alone? a little. if you like coming here to think or some shit like that, i won't ask you to leave.

ㅤㅤㅤ you could have gone back to the bedroom with the intention of catching up on sleep in some other way, but there's a force that invites you to stay. is it because of the way his voice had challenged you? maybe. but in that place that had often accompanied you, were your greatest enemy, and yet, you remain four meters away.

ㅤㅤㅤ almost thirty minutes have passed, neither of you have said anything, and theodore had lit his own cigarette seconds after being on your third. you can notice that he smokes more slowly, holding it between his lips more delicately than your hurried hands. on the contrary, he sees that you smoke cigarettes after cigarettes with agonizing desperation.

ㅤㅤㅤ —why do you smoke?

ㅤㅤㅤ —we’re not doing this —you answer, dismissing the question instantly.

ㅤㅤㅤ theodore looks at you, raising his eyebrows and settling himself against the railing so he can see you better.

ㅤㅤㅤ the questions are simple. did theodore hate you? probably. did you hate theodore? yes. had you decided to hate each other? no. it’s clear that neither of you, from all that life of competition, had had the courage to get to know the rival beyond the heavy comments. both of you at some vulnerable moment had thought about what would happen if one day you decided to meet each other. really meet each other.

ㅤㅤㅤ —why are you always in such a bad mood? don’t you think it eats at your soul?

ㅤㅤㅤ you laugh, pulling a new cigarette out of your pocket, reluctant to speak. theodore takes the liberty of throwing a spark that hits your hand and makes the cigarette slip through your fingers to fall into nothingness.

ㅤㅤㅤ —are you kidding me? —you question, looking at him with a frown. his smile has not left his lips at any moment, looking at you as if you were the most entertaining animal on the planet—. i thought we were going to pretend that neither of us were here.

ㅤㅤㅤ —it got boring having you here next to me without bothering you —he mumbles. you sigh, noticing that you have run out of things to smoke—. did you run out, stella?

ㅤㅤㅤ you don’t say anything at the nickname, avoiding theodore from noticing how irritated you are just minutes away from exchanging words. he digs into his pocket, extending his arm in your direction with a new cigarette between his fingers.

ㅤㅤㅤ —i can give you one of mine —he says.

ㅤㅤㅤ you look at him, frowning and doubting his good faith.

ㅤㅤㅤ —what will you ask me in return?

ㅤㅤㅤ the truth is you had never seen him like this. most of the time together, you were as tense as two huge rocks full of hate, but now he looks so serene that it awakens an unknown interest inside you.

ㅤㅤㅤ —nothing, why would i want something? —he says, but as soon as you make the slightest attempt to approach him, he speaks again—. although yes, i want something. three questions or three answers. i ask one, and you ask another until we get to the third. isn’t that easy enough?

ㅤㅤㅤ questions? why would theodore nott want to ask you three questions? why is he looking for answers? and why were you thinking so hard to get one more cigarette? you knew that wanting a cigarette so desperately wasn't healthy. you were one hundred percent sure that you had a serious addiction problem and you wouldn't be able to change it for a long time.

ㅤㅤㅤ —okay.

ㅤㅤㅤ theodore smiles, putting the cigarette in his pants pocket until it's time to give it to you. he looks up at the sky as if trying to think of his first question.

ㅤㅤㅤ —why do you smoke?

ㅤㅤㅤ you look at him with a raised eyebrow, causing a sarcastic smile to appear on his face. theodore had just discovered that the red on your cheeks increases with your obvious annoyance with him.

ㅤㅤㅤ —because i want to. —you both knew it was a lie, and you ignore his suggestive look, asking for more information—. my turn. shouldn’t you be with some girl on top of you?

ㅤㅤㅤ he takes a drag on his cigarette and looks in the direction of the darkened castle. there’s a hint of amusement in his gaze that makes you wonder what’s causing it.

ㅤㅤㅤ —nothing can assure you that i wasn’t with a woman before coming here. still, i’m impressed that’s the vision you have of me. a guy who sleeps with a new girl every weekend —he says, walking two steps closer to you—. honestly, it’s exam season, i’m not really interested in rolling around with other girls when i’m thinking about how to beat you.

ㅤㅤㅤ there’s a hint of remorse or sadness in his voice that repeats in the back of your mind. somehow, that makes your defenses go down, and you look at him carefully, taking advantage of his ignorance. how crazy would it be if right under his eyes there were three moles identical to the three marías?

ㅤㅤㅤ —why do you smoke? —the confusion in your gaze is obvious, but theodore just stays there—. yes, that's my second question.

ㅤㅤㅤ you don't know if it's because his eyes are chained to yours or the tranquility that his whole body emanates as he takes two more steps closer to you, but you feel a wave of peace that only manages to make a series of answers travel to your mind. there were so many reasons, so many pains or ideas that you wanted to turn off.

ㅤㅤㅤ —because i hope that it frees me. i don't dislike it, but i don't like it either —you admit, smiling in the middle of a sigh—. i smoke because there's always something that haunts me, and i never know how to stop it.

ㅤㅤㅤ theodore can see how your gaze falls to the ground, feeling ashamed of what you had just said. could he understand it? yes, of course he did. after all, he was just like you in many ways and had used the same self-destruction techniques for a long time.

ㅤㅤㅤ you look at him. you know he's waiting for your second question, but you haven't thought about it, and you dedicate yourself to observing the sky. the twinkling stars from blue to yellow tones, immense moon that looks like a toenail and shooting stars that disappear the second they travel.

ㅤㅤㅤ —why are you here? —you whisper, turning to see how his eyes shine.

ㅤㅤㅤ theodore takes two more steps in your direction. every time he gets closer, you find some detail that interests you. moles in areas you had never noticed, spots from the light that stand out with the contrast of their paleness and scars with stories.

ㅤㅤㅤ —i couldn't sleep.

ㅤㅤㅤ —so you weren’t with a girl? —you ask, feeling your heart race as the words slip out without any thought.

ㅤㅤㅤ —you just used up your last question. —you frown, he steps closer, standing two steps away—. you asked three questions. so, it’s my turn.

ㅤㅤㅤ —what? no, that’s not...

ㅤㅤㅤ —you have no right to ask another question.

ㅤㅤㅤ you try to say something else, but theodore has a new air that leaves you completely silent. it’s unbearable.

ㅤㅤㅤ —and no. the answer to your question is no. i’m curious about your insistence, but i’m not going to waste my last question —he says, throwing his whistle to the ground—. why are we still fighting battles that aren’t ours to fight?

ㅤㅤㅤ your eyelashes flutter rapidly in bewilderment. you’re envious of how calm and carefree he is. why couldn’t you be like him? why did he seem to stop trying so hard a long time ago? why were you still trying so hard to catch up to him?

ㅤㅤㅤ —i’ll be honest with you. you don’t look like the worst person on the planet. you always look perfect, your friends adore you, and if i asked anyone, they’d say you’re an angel. why are we still fighting over something as stupid as our grades?

ㅤㅤㅤ theodore keeps staring at you, and you can’t think straight. there’s no honest thought in your head about your hatred. really none. you didn’t hate the girls who made fun of you during freshman year or your strict parents or grandparents. you didn't hate chocolate as much as you don't like its sweetness, much less smoking when you hate the smoke inside your mouth. why do you hate him?

ㅤㅤㅤ —it's been so many years, theodore. don't you think it's foolish to look back at this point?

ㅤㅤㅤ he shakes his head, smiling softly and looking out at the horizon.

ㅤㅤㅤ —it would be foolish to never have asked you. i hated you when i was little because you were always one step ahead of me. —you shake your head because it's not how you remember it—. don't look at me like that. we both know that, even though i managed to beat you in all those shitty activities our parents forced us to do, you always make my world tremble.

ㅤㅤㅤ his gaze is fixed on the horizon, avoiding crossing glances with you.

ㅤㅤㅤ —i don't know how not to hate you. i grew up living in your shadow for my own parents, theo. they told me over and over that anything i would do, you would do it better. do i hate you now? probably a little less than yesterday, but i feel like i have to keep winning.

ㅤㅤㅤ he laughs, turning to look at you from head to toe with a smile that you could classify in a list of beautiful things.

ㅤㅤㅤ there is a silence that embraces both of you. he is so close that, when you turn to draw the dark mountains with large shadows of trees, you can feel the heat that his body gives off. you would have wanted to escape. however, you do not move for a warmth that envelops you comfortingly. maybe you could bear it.

ㅤㅤㅤ after an hour, sleep begins to weigh on your eyelids, closing softly every now and then. then you stretch, catching theodore’s attention, who hadn’t said or moved a muscle in the entire time.

ㅤㅤㅤ —i think i’ll go to sleep —you say, walking awkwardly towards the exit.

ㅤㅤㅤ theodore nods his head and says—: i’ll stay a little longer.

ㅤㅤㅤ you nod, waving goodbye. on the short walk to the stairs you can only think about how nice the last hour had been. then, motivated by a force greater than your own conscience, you turn. theodore was already looking in your direction.

ㅤㅤㅤ —we should do this again —you whisper, gripping the stair railing—. next time, i’ll win.

ㅤㅤㅤ —it wasn’t a competition.

ㅤㅤㅤ —whatever you say.

ㅤㅤㅤ he watches you disappear, running down the stairs with a smile that's impossible to avoid. that little annoyance he had felt of you being in the place that always gives him loneliness disappeared, and he eagerly waits for it to happen again. besides, you had completely forgotten about the cigarette he was supposed to give you.

[ivyues]

A Promise - Lee Know

With his enlistment approaching, Lee Know contemplates building a deeper commitment with you.

It had been snowing all day, the gentle flakes turning the streets into a quiet, glistening world of white. The snow was the reason you stayed at home today, crushing your plans, instead leaving you cozy and content indoors.

Here, the muffled sound of the snowstorm was replaced by the occasional soft clink of your mugs on the coffee table and the low hum of a playlist you'd chosen. The familiar weight of a shared blanket draped over your legs added to the sense of calm, grounding you in the moment.

Lee Know leaned back against the couch, his arm resting casually around your shoulders, while his other hand laid under the edge of the blanket, his fingers absently tracing gentle, aimless patterns against the fabric. The two of you had spent hours talking, covering everything from small, inconsequential topics – how his new choreography was coming along, the places you wanted to visit one day – to deeper subjects that made the minutes blur into hours.

Now, a lull settled between you, the kind of silence that felt natural, comforting rather than awkward. He turned his head slightly, his gaze meeting yours. There was something unspoken in his eyes, a softness and an intensity all at once, like he was searching for the right words.

He inhaled deeply before saying, "You know things are going to change soon, right? With… everything coming up for me." You nodded, understanding immediately what he meant. His military enlistment had been a quiet but persistent shadow over the horizon, something neither of you spoke about too often but both felt deeply.

"I’ve been trying to picture it," he continued, his voice tinged with a vulnerability he didn’t show often. "Being away for that long, and coming back to… well, I want to come back to you. To us. And I was wondering if… getting married is something you’d want—" He paused, his lips quirking into a soft smile. "As a promise."

The way he said it, so tentative yet hopeful, made your heart ache. He wasn’t rushing, wasn’t asking for a definitive answer. It felt more like he was letting you in on a dream he’d been holding close, a quiet hope he wanted to share with you.

What you didn't know about were all the times he’d found himself looking at jewelry, rings especially, without meaning to. He’d ignored it at first, dismissing it as idle curiosity or just passing ideas, but now he couldn’t help but wonder if it had been more. The thought of choosing something for you, something that could say all the things he couldn’t quite put into words, tugged at the edges of his mind

You looked at him with wide eyes, your hand reaching instinctively for his under the blanket. "I’ve been thinking about it too," you admitted. "Not marriage, exactly, but… how I’d handle you being away. I try to think of it like you’re just on tour for a long time," you said softly, the words coming carefully as you worked through your own emotions. "It’s not forever. And knowing you’re coming back to me, that we could build something—together—would maybe make it less scary."

His lips curved into a faint smile at that, the kind that made his eyes crinkle just slightly at the corners. He glanced at you with an expression that was equal parts affection and relief.

"I’d like that," he murmured. "But I don’t want to rush you, or make this feel like it’s happening just because of the timing. This year’s going to be so busy, and you deserve... more. You deserve me doing this the right way, not something rushed before I leave."

The sincerity in his voice made your chest tighten, and you laced your fingers through his, grounding yourself in the steady warmth of his hand. "You don’t have to do anything perfectly for me," you said, your voice steady despite the emotion welling up inside you. "Just... keep coming back. I’ll wait for you."

And as he sat there, his hand still in yours, a thought struck him – a quiet resolve he didn’t speak aloud. It wasn’t just about serving and fulfilling a duty; it was about the future waiting for him on the other side. Coming back to you, his fiancée by then – or maybe even his wife – was the image that kept him steady. It was the thought of building a life with you, one step at a time, that made the prospect of leaving more bearable.

masterlist

[robert-smirke-official]

MAG Avatar Fuckability Tier List

It’s here. You’re welcome. Avatars are ranked most fuckable (S Tier) to least fuckable (F Tier). They are also ranked within their respective tiers. In true Robert Smirke style, I will not be accepting criticism. Fight me.

S Tier

Have special traits that actively contribute to the sexual experience.

Daisy Tonner (Hunt) - excellent strength and stamina. Essentially has a werewolf form, and we all know how hot Tumblr gets for werewolves. Deserves the #1 spot.

Jared Hopworth (Flesh) - will mold his body into whatever shape you want. May also mold your body into whatever shape you want. Can help with your dysphoria, might steal your bones.

Annabelle Cane (Web) - if you’re into bondage. Webs that are never too tight or too loose, and that can move on their own.

Tom Han (Flesh) - an avatar of the Flesh absolutely knows his way around a body. Also an incredible cook. He will make you dinner first, just don’t ask what’s in it.

Jude Perry (Desolation) - perfect temperature control, and hard into sadism. She will ruin your life, but the sex will be fantastic.

Breekon & Hope (Stranger) - two for the price of one, but they are so in sync that you’ll never feel the awkwardness of a threesome. Also, they’re blue collar workers. Very hot.

Michael Crewe (Vast) - imagine sex in freefall, like an eagle. I’ve never tried it but it sounds thrilling. Nobody but the two of you in a vast, empty sky.

A Tier

S Tier with drawbacks, or excellent options without being exceptional.

The Distortion (Spiral) - everyone wants to talk about "mind-breaking sex" but nobody wants to deal with the consequences. You’re gonna have a hell of a migraine.

The Coffin (Buried) - some people like to be crushed under the weight of their partner. Very clingy.

Emma Harvey (Web) - excited to experiment in the bedroom. May bring other Avatars over. Does not understand the concept of safe words.

Simon Fairchild (Vast) - old but still spry and flexible. No drawbacks, but doesn’t make S Tier because the Magnusverse has more to offer.

Martin Blackwood (Lonely) - a good listener. Will take your needs to heart. The human version of a cheetah’s emotional support golden retriever. Not exceptional, but dependable.

Manuela Dominguez (Dark) - sex with the lights off. Intelligent and bold, likes to take charge. Not extremely distinguishing.

B Tier

Mostly good options with some less-than-ideal traits.

Alfred Grifter (Slaughter) - an old man who's still got it, and a musician to boot. Don't let him choose a playlist to "set the mood." The mood is murder.

Elias Bouchard (Eye) - besides being subjectively hot he really doesn’t have anything going for him. Short temper. You do not want this man's pipe.

Julia Montauk (Hunt) - intense, but maybe you’re into that sort of thing. Will break up with you just to get you back. Daddy issues.

Jonathan Sims (Eye) - knows what you want in bed, and is good at getting you to open up. A little too anxious to be a really good lover.

Oliver Banks (End) - attractive, sure, but distant, like trying to fuck a statue. Doesn’t help that he can see when you are going to die.

Hezekiah Wakely (Buried) - expert at putting you to bed afterwards, but the sex itself? There are better options.

C Tier

Mostly bad options with redeeming qualities.

Gertrude Robinson (Eye) - constantly checking you out for weaknesses. Will not make eye contact.

Trevor Herbert (Hunt) - canonically grimy, though some people are into that. Body of a 70 year old marathon runner.

Dexter Banks (Web) - your classic film boyfriend who'd rather watch Das Boot than actually get busy. At least he's not transphobic.

Benoit Macon (Corruption) - are you open to threesomes with his beetle wife? How do you feel about becoming a rotten log full of termites?

Samson Stiller (Eye) - plenty of circuits for you to short out. Refuses to log out of Omegle.

Nathaniel Thorp (End) - likes games, but won't let you win. Too bony for good cuddling.

Gabriel (Spiral) - you’ll feel like putty in his hands. You’ll also develop a phobia of doors and fingerprints.

D Tier

Will give you a bad experience, or just boring.

Jonah Magnus (Eye) - prefers to watch. Dusty.

Agnes Montague (Desolation) - doesn’t want to hurt you, but literally cannot touch you without giving you third-degree burns.

Angela (Flesh) - very possible you would wake up the next morning without genitals.

The Piper (Slaughter) - hard to find a private spot in the middle of a war zone. Unfuckable due to bagpipes.

Not!Them (Stranger) - disconcerting, especially since the person you think you’re having sex with is actually dead. Emotionally distant.

Maxwell Rayner (Dark) - feels like he is going to crumble to dust. Insists on doing it with the lights off. Doesn’t know any interesting positions (he is from the 1700s).

F+ Tier

Just for Jane Prentiss (Corruption) because some of you are into that shit.

F Tier

Active health risks.

Nikola Orsinov (Stranger) - maybe some of you want to fuck a mannequin, but this one is actively homicidal. May also steal your skin.

Mary Keay (End) - gross as fuck, will kill you horribly, and the sex isn’t even very good.

Sarah Baldwin (Stranger) - by all accounts, taxidermied animals are nasty to cuddle with.

Monster Pig (Flesh) - no! What? No!

Raymond Fielding (Web) - has no friends. Will fill you with spiders. Also a devout Catholic. One of those has to be a deal-breaker.

Peter Lukas (Lonely) - does not want to be there. Likely has never been more intimate than being on first-name basis in the workplace.

John Amherst (Corruption) - girl the rot

[stillnotyourmusebitch]

Young at Heart - Alternate!Silco x GN!Reader

This all came about from a 'Late Night Thought' I had last week and i didn't think it would have any traction and it seemed to take off. So, I wrote the fic. (The poll wanted it the Alternate timeline Silco. This is my first time writing this version of him)

((Fluff, humour and established relationship) with a suggestive ending)

When Silco asked me to drop everything and meet him in the upstairs office ASAP. You know I threw my bar rag a little too hard in the direction of my co-worker, hitting him square in the face, declaring I was taking my break early. I couldn’t even hear their disgruntled profanity ridden response. As I was already hopping up the staircase, taking some of the steps two at a time. When I burst through the door, my excitement instantly vanished.  

“When did a bomb go off in here?” I chuckle dryly as I try to edge my way into the office to get a better look. Papers were strewn about all over the floor, boxes overflowing with files and receipts that surround a rather dishevelled looking SIlco who was sat in the center of the explosion.  

“Ah, you’re finally here. You can start over that side of the room.” Not even looking up from his mismatched pile of papers, he waved off in the general direction he wanted me to be. 

“Ya knooooow. When you told me to drop everything, this was not what I had in mind.” I sighed as I slowly manoeuvre my way, without slipping, through piles of documents and files to the far corner where he wanted me to begin. “Why are you needing my help exactly?” I ask flicking the lid off a box stuffed with all sorts of crap I couldn’t care less about. 

“I’m trying to find certain set of files that I need to update the agreement we have on the bar but as you can see from the mess around you that the filing system I had perfectly in place was not up to standard and I'm needing to go through everything again because ‘some’ people did not see fit to follow my system.” 

I can hear the exasperation laced in his voice.  

“Where is Vander and why isn’t he helping you with this?” I turn to face Silco, he meets my eye. 

“He is out trying to buy me the time to find said files. It’s the least he can do after this.” He gestured to the mess around the room. “He thought he knew exactly where the files were and . . .” He imitates an explosion sound throwing some of the papers he held to get his point across. I wince at the realisation of it all. 

“How long have you been going at this? I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages” I lean gently against the bookshelf as to not upset any boxes nearby. 

“Hours have become days and I'll be damned if it becomes weeks.” He throws the last of the papers in his hand down onto a makeshift pile that collapses under its own weight. “Urgh, fuck me!” he rubs at the bridge of his nose.  

“If I'm honest I thought that’s why you called for me.” I smirk at his gently reddening cheeks. Choosing to change the subject matter I ask. “What do these files actually look like? I might be able to help you better knowing what I'm trying to find.” 

Silco realising his basic error, begins to explain what I needed to assist him in recovering before we settle back into the search again. 

----- 

The task carries on for a few more hours in a comfortable silence. I had to ask if someone could talk to my coworker about my elongated break. When SIlco requires my presence most of the time he calls me away from work it's for a brief yet hot and handsy make out session that leaves me flustered when I go back to my post. Our relationship was known only to a few close friends and family. But I’m pretty sure everyone knows now because he and I aren’t quiet by any means. Yet nobody says anything about it to protect his professional image. 

“AHA!” Silco exclaims aloud as he stands up from the desk chair, a few precious papers clutched in hand. 

“Found them I see.” I glance over my shoulder briefly at his gleeful face. 

“Yes, finally.” He lets out a sigh in relief, looking over to where I was preoccupied with a box that he didn’t realise was accessible to me. “Please stay out of that one. It's labelled private for a reason.” His voice catches when he saw what I held. 

“Daaaaamn, so it is true.” I turn waltzing over to him, being careful of the still very messy floor, I flip the photo over in my fingers so he can see better. 

“Give me that.” When I get close enough, he reaches out for worn item in my hand. I lift it just out of reach above my head, playing a little game of keep away with his beloved memory. He steps nearer to me, so our chests are touching. 

“Oooo, so close.” I change hands quickly keeping the photograph away from his long fingers. “Come on you can do better than that sweetheart.” I smirk booping his nose quickly with the corner of the photograph before pulling my hand away again. His left arm snakes around my waist turning us around enough so he can push me backwards onto the desk with him almost straddling my right thigh. 

“Well now” I wiggle my brows suggestively, making sure the photograph is still too far away to grab in our new position. 

“Get your mind out of the gutter.” He rolls his eyes at me as he leans closer for the photograph. 

“Funny you say that as it’s normally you dragging me down with you.” I lift my knee grazing his inner thigh causing him pause. 

He says my name in a warning way. 

“Okay Mr Serious pants.” I reply in a mocking tone. 

He manages to finally grab the photo from me, checking it for rips or tears before pulling away and walking back to place it safely back into the box of memories. I follow behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist, resting my chin on his shoulder. 

“Next time you see a something marked private. I expect you to respect my privacy.” He places a one hand on top of the box of memories and the other rests atop my crossed arms. He sighs again.  

“Maybe you can grow it out again.” I let my inner thoughts be known. 

“What are you talking about?” He turns his head to the side to look at me. I pull one arm away so I can thread my fingers through his much shorter hair, scratching lazily at his scalp. Pulling a low moan from his throat. 

“Your hair darling, that picture proved you can rock the style, plus we know how much of a whore you can be when I do this.” I pull lightly on his hair making him gasp. 

“Don’t you think I’m too old for that style.” His breathing was ragged as he tries to remain calm. I chuckle darkly at my flustered partner, with practiced ease I spin him so I loom above him, lifting his chin with a single finger. 

“Of course, darling.” I lean down our lips graze with my words. “You’re just proof that men get finer with age.” He smiles at my words as I steal his response away with a soft kiss.  

-----

I really enjoyed writing this. I hope you enjoy reading it

[bi-writes]

Do you think Simon would get a vasectomy in the MOB universe?👀 I remember you mentioning that the two of them wouldn’t have children and I feel like Simon wouldn’t want his life on the pill because of all the side effects, so he would offer to get the old snip snip

100%. (fyi, birth control itself is not just used for preventing pregnancy, it is a necessary medication that actually has helped people in many other ways -- this point of view is simon thinking about birth control simply in the context of maintaining a childless marriage)

simon thought about it. thought about how it might go, what he could do to make the decision you had made together a concrete one.

simon read the list of side effects for just one birth control pill and made his mind up then and there. the hormonal effects. the acne. the pain. the cycle changes. the weight gain, the weight loss, the feelings that couldn't really be explained because they hadn't been researched enough.

simon is horrified by what he finds. it makes his stomach hurt thinking about putting you on one of these. his chest aches. having you take it every day, the stress of missing one of them, the added burden of the many different effects it could have on you, including blood clots and other terrible outcomes from one single little piece of medication.

simon would never ask you to do this for him; and if you offered, he knows already that he would say no. it wouldn't be fair--to subject his wife to something like this. she already would be the losing party in the event that something would happen. if he got her pregnant, his wife would be the one to endure every outcome. every decision, every happenstance, every scenario, it is his wife that would be at the receiving end of it all, even if he was the cause of it.

simon can't have that. he refuses. he won't let that happen.

he slides a pamphlet into your hands when he comes home one afternoon. he's looking at you with an easy smile as you read the cover of it, and you flip it open as you read some of the information inside.

safe. easy. minimal pain. quick. effective.

you blink, looking up at him, and he reaches over with a warm hand, smoothing his knuckles down your cheek.

"really?" you ask, and he shrugs.

"no big deal, swee'eart," he murmurs, and you take his hand in yours, squeezing it gently. because it isn't a big deal. because he loves you more than anything in the entire world. because you deserve nothing less. because he would endure anything if it meant nothing about you would change, if you could remain as you are, happy, loved, relaxed.

the decision is easy, and this will be, too.

[tsubaki94]

Hi, just found your phantom comic and I'm very excited about it. I'm a wheelchair user and I'm wondering, do you have someone in your life who uses a wheelchair? Danny has a lot if mannerisms that I also find myself doing, so I'm impressed with your accuracy. Especially popping a wheelie pretty much whenever you are sitting still to shift the weight in the seat and make your butt less tired. It's very nice to see a comic with a wheelchair user whose wheelchair isn't a hospital chair.

No, I don't have anyone.

When I started this comic (even before putting pen to paper), I looked up as much as I could regarding the subject. I always felt like there was something stiff and uncomfortable the way comic book characters in wheelchairs move, and I did not want Danny to be like that. So I tried to find information on the internet and stumbled across two YouTube channels, Wheels2walking and Wheelsnoheels, which I learned a lot from, and then I applied that to the comic.

I also set a rule that Danny wasn't allowed to just be sitting in his wheelchair like someone sitting on a chair, he had to move. Also he would rather sit on a couch, his bed, or just a chair than in the wheelchair but don't have the energy to transfer all the time in school so he popps a wheelie in class.

Oh and the design for the wheelchair has gone through a couple of changes, both in the comic and on the drawing board. The first one in Ch2-4 is customized but not to Danny, I'm thinking it's something they bought secondhand so he could get out of the awful hospital chair. It has the armrests, push handles, higher backrest, and breaks which he bangs his hands on when he isn't thinking of what how he is pushing himself. Second wheelchair see see him make at the beginning of Ch5. He is savaging for parts in the garage, frankenstining a chair for himself. If one looks closely at Ch5 pg 17 and compare it to Ch2 pg32 there are two bikes missing from either sides of the skis. The footplate is the kickbike and the fabric of the backdest has the Fenton logo in black on it.

I'm thinking of evolving the chair further as Danny learns both about his powers and what he wants out of his mobility aid.

[anakinstwinklebunny]

PAIRING: sweetheart!anakin x f!reader

FLUFF ❦

The bedroom you were snugly in was dressed in quiet, its walls wrapped up in that heavy kind of silence that only came after a long, exhausting day of twins' parents. As to in their matter, they were finally asleep, snuggled in their sheets after ANAKIN SKYWALKER's bedtime story about a princess and a knight - you quickly had to come up with something else, knowing Leia’s full dislike for such stories. She was the epitome of the definition of not needing a knight to survive. She could have had it all done by herself, at least that's what she's saying.

You laid on the bed, tucked under the covers, chin propped on your hand, watching him move around the room.

Anakin was pulling an old, loose t-shirt over his head—the one that always smelled like him, the one that clung to his shoulders and chest before falling soft over his abs, the lines of his body still sharp and distractingly perfect even after a full day of wrangling toddlers and working.

You stared a little too long. Stared until your stomach knotted itself up in a sad, ugly kind of way.

Because there he was, looking like he could be carved out of stone —

and then there was you.

You tugged the blanket a little higher up your body without even thinking, voice barely a whisper when you finally spoke without much thought; it was already eating you alive.

"…Annie?"

He turned immediately, sensing the shift in your mood like he always did. "Yeah, sweetheart?"

You hesitated, biting your lip.

You hated how small you sounded.

How insecure. But with his eyes gazing straight at yours as he slipped into the black shirt he used to bed, you truly understood what you just caught yourself in. It wasn't like you wanted to weight him down with your problems, he already had a lot on his plate. Yet at the same time, if you'd just brush it off, he'd know something is off, and won't let go of the subject till you'd eventually tell him

You braced yourself at the possible worst thing that could ever leave your mouth; you took a deep breath in, let it sink for a moment

"Are you still… attracted to me?" The words left your mouth too fast, too rushed, as if saying them quicker would somehow make them hurt less than they already did.

Anakin froze, a soft, almost pained crease forming between his brows. "What?"

You dropped your gaze to the blanket, fidgeting with a loose thread.

"I just—" you sighed, voice starting to crack.."I know you love me. But I want you to, you know… want me too. Not just because I'm the mother of your kids or your wife or whatever. But because… because you actually want me." You trailed off, cheeks burning, shame curling in your chest. You didn't dare to look up at him; there was no courage for that anymore "I just feel so… gross lately. Tired. Soft. Fat. Not like the girls you work with or--or just see on TV..And sometimes I look at you—" You swallowed hard. "—and I wonder if maybe you're just staying nice things because you're a good man..and not..because..you mean them.."

The room was so still you could hear the distant hum of the air conditioning.

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest. You thought he might get mad at you; for doubting his love for you when he shows it everyday. He didn't say anything, and you really braced yourself to just brush off the subject but before you could even open your mouth to say anything, you saw him cross the room in three long strides—

and then his hands moved to you, pulling the blanket down, not to expose, but to pull you closer to himself. Anakin knelt at the side of the bed, face right there, one hand cupping your jaw so gently it made your throat tighten.

His thumb brushed across your cheek. Blue eyes burned into your watery ones, being so intense, so present; holding so much love.

"Sweetheart," he said, voice rough and low. "I’m gonna say this once. And you're gonna listen to me, alright?"

You nodded, tears already threatening to spill.

"I don’t just love you," Anakin murmured, his forehead dropping to yours. "I am in love with you. Every fucking day. Every hour."

You whimpered softly, squeezing your eyes shut.

"And your body—" his large hands slid down to your hips, squeezing firmly, grounding. "—your body is the most beautiful thing i could ever imagine looking at. It gave me our babies. It holds my heart. It’s the first thing I reach for in the morning and the last thing I hold at night. It’s perfect, you are perfect for me" with that he kissed the tip of your nose, then your cheeks, then your trembling mouth.

"I don't want anyone else," he whispered against your lips. "I only want you. Always have. Always will."

You broke then, a little sob escaping with hiccuped apologies, and Anakin shushed you gently, pulling you into his chest, tucking your head under his chin. With one hand holding your back, the other twisted to the side to turn the lights off, causing the darkness to touch the room. Then he cuddled closer to you, keeping a rhytmhmical tune slip from his mouth as he pulled a duvet over both of you, tucking you into the bed. "You don’t have to apologize," he said softly, rocking you slightly.

"You’re allowed to feel. You’re allowed to hurt. But don’t you dare talk about my girl like she’s anything less than a fucking masterpiece."

You clung to him, breathing in his scent, feeling the steady thump of his heart against your ear. And for the first time in days, the knot in your chest started to unravel. Anakin shifted slightly, hands stroking your back.

"You wanna know what I see when I look at you?" he murmured, voice thick with emotion.

You nodded wordlessly.

"I see my home," he whispered. "My safe place. The love of my life."

You sniffled, laughing a little wetly. "You’re sappy."

His lips curled in a little tired smile, a light sound of silent chuckle briefly following "I don't remember you complaining before, Rapunzel" he teased, kissing your hair once again "Thought you loved your Flynn Rider"

And god, you did.

You loved him.

TAG LIST: @kingdomhate @divineani @haydensprettyprincess @skyguys-princess @catnipaddictt @heartscone @haydensbbg @inneedsoffanfics @jediavengers @babybell-cheese @anisluvrgirl @slutforfinnickodair @xhunnybeeex @fuckmyskywalker @gallerygourmet @ysrjune @anakinskwkler @cookybananas @emotionallybruisedx @diorvalentina @sevinax @throughparisallthroughrome @aniiuv @ritosparty @ninastyless @lily-strnlo @thesassypadawan @awhhayden @sydkneez @anisangeldust @l1ttle-misssunsh1ne @anakinca @rubiesarepretty @luluartpop @cloverina @nikiloveshayden @cherriies-snake @skywalkerssgirl @fredswrite

[shaiyasstuff]

3:07 a.m. | xavier

synopsis : The call always came at 3:07, not 3:00, not 3:15. content : bestfriends!au, angst

It always started the same way.

You would be done with your day, come back shower and lay in bed. Waiting.

You didn’t need to expect it, didn’t even need to ask.

It would always come, at exactly 3:07 a.m.

Almost never early, never late.

Ring.

And there it is.

The low vibration of your phone against your nightstand, and the soft glow of your screen cutting through the darkness of your room was telling enough.

He had called.

You’d reach for it, mindlessly swiping right to answer. It had become routine at this point, an unspoken one, but a routine no less.

Your fingers know the weight of this moment better than your mind does. And when you answer, he doesn’t say hello.

He never does.

Instead. “I can’t sleep,” you would hear him murmur over the phone.

Neither can you, but you don’t tell him that.

You don’t tell him that you were always waiting, whether on purpose or subconsciously, even you weren’t sure anymore.

“What’s on your mind this time?” Was always your reply, soft, calming.

Sometimes he talks about nothing—half-baked thoughts, the dream he just woke up from, the sound of rain against his window.

Other times, he asks questions he’d never dare voice in daylight.

“Do you think people can just belong to each other?”

“What if I told you I almost kissed you that night?”

“Would you miss me, if I disappeared?”

You would laugh, but you never answered him. And he never asked, or expected you to.

You both just fall into the same routine, neither willing to push further in fear of something unravelling.

Then silence. But it wasn’t quiet, it was loud with millions of unspoken words.

This is your ritual.

Sacred in its smallness.

Just you, him, and the liminal quiet of 3:07 a.m.—a time that belongs to no one else.

You never ask why he calls at that hour.

You never ask why he calls you.

And you never ask what this is, even though you want to.

Because some fragile part of you knows, if you give it a name, you might lose it. Perhaps, he knew it too.

So you stay quiet.

And he keeps calling.

And the nights keep passing like this—gentle and aching and almost enough.

The call stretches on in soft sighs and rustling sheets.

You can hear him shifting, maybe lying on his side now. Maybe curled around a pillow the way he used to curl around the conversations—like they were the only real thing left in his world.

He doesn’t know this, but you’ve memorized the cadence of his breaths.

The soft hitch when he’s about to say something vulnerable.

The exhale when he chooses not to.

“You still there?” he asks, even though he knows you are.

“Always,” you say.

It’s not just an answer. It’s a promise.

One you’ve been making without words, over and over again.

Every time you pick up.

Every time you let him in.

He hums softly, like the sound of your voice is enough to anchor him.

Like you are.

You wonder if he can hear the way your heart tightens when he does that—if he can feel, through the thread of connection between your voices, how much of you he holds in those seconds.

“I saw a fox tonight,” he says out of nowhere. “It ran right across the road, like it didn’t care if it got hit.”

There’s a pause, a silence that tastes like something else.

“I thought about stopping. I didn’t.”

You smile, as if he could see you. “You never stop.”

“Maybe I should.”

You don’t say what you’re thinking.

That maybe he already has.

That maybe this is his version of stopping—these calls, these pieces of himself he gives you when the rest of the world is asleep.

He changes the subject before you can answer, asks you about your day like it matters, like he’s collecting the ordinary parts of your life to keep for himself.

You talk until your voice starts to blur.

Until your eyelids flutter and your words slow into half-dreams.

And then, as always, he says, “Go to sleep. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

He never says goodbye.

Just a quiet click. A vanishing voice.

You lie there, eyes tracing the shape of the ceiling in the dark, phone still warm in your hand.

The world outside is still asleep. You try to follow.

But sleep never comes easy after him.

—•

It begins like it always does.

3:07 a.m.

The vibration hums through your nightstand like a ghost tapping its fingers. You don’t even flinch anymore. Your hand finds the phone.

Your voice doesn’t need warming up.

But tonight, he sounds tired.

Not the sleepy kind. The somewhere else kind.

He says your name like he forgot he had permission to.

“Hey,” you breathe.

“Hey,” he echoes, but it lands wrong. Softer. Distant.

You sit up a little in bed, trying to shake off the weight in the air. “Rough night?”

A beat. Then—“No. Just… long.”

You wait for him to say more. He doesn’t.

You’re used to silences with him, but this one presses against your ribs. You shift the phone to your other ear.

“Wanna talk about it?”

He exhales. It’s not quite a sigh. “Not really.”

You nod, though he can’t see it. “Okay.”

There’s the faint sound of a faucet dripping on his end. A distant car. Maybe even a siren. But not him.

Not in the way you’re used to.

You wonder where he is.

Not physically. Emotionally.

He’s in that place he goes sometimes—behind his walls, just out of reach, and you don’t have the map to follow him there.

“Tell me something nice,” he says after a long silence. “Anything.”

You try.

You tell him about a dog you saw with its head out the window, tongue flapping like it didn’t care who was watching.

You tell him about a cloud shaped like a heart that broke apart before you could take a picture.

You tell him about a song you heard that reminded you of him, though you don’t say that part out loud.

He hums, and this time, it doesn’t anchor you.

It leaves you floating.

“Do you think,” he starts, then stops.

“What?”

Another breath. Another almost.

“Do you think we’ll still talk like this… in a year?”

You laugh. It’s the wrong reaction, but you don’t know what else to do. “You’re the one who calls. I just pick up.”

But he doesn’t laugh with you.

He just says, “Yeah. I guess you do.”

And then, quietly—“I hope you sleep well tonight.”

That’s new. He’s never said that before.

“Are you not calling tomorrow?”

He hesitates. Long enough for you to feel it.

“I don’t know.”

The call ends before you can ask anything else.

And that night, for the first time, you fall asleep with your phone pressed to your chest, instead of the pillow beside you.

Like you’re holding on to something you already know you would lose.

The following night you wake up before the call.

3:01 a.m.

You don’t know why.

Maybe your body knows something your mind hasn’t caught up to yet.

Maybe your chest already aches from the absence it hasn’t met.

You lie there, staring at the ceiling, the minutes ticking forward like a countdown you never asked for.

3:03.

You glance at your phone. It’s still.

Silent.

You tell yourself it’s fine. He’s probably just late.

He’s been late before.

Not often. But still.

You wait.

3:07 a.m.

Nothing.

No buzz.

No glow.

No voice murmuring your name like it’s a secret.

You blink at the time, as if it might change if you look at it long enough.

As if you’re dreaming, and you just haven’t pinched yourself awake yet.

You check your signal.

It’s fine.

You check your battery.

Full.

You check your messages.

Empty.

Still, you wait.

3:12.

3:18.

3:24.

By 3:30, your phone is still clenched in your hand, your knuckles aching, but you refuse to put it down.

Not yet.

Not like this.

You don’t call him.

Because that’s not the way this works.

He calls. You answer.

That’s the rule. That’s the rhythm.

That’s the sacred, fragile thing you’ve built.

You don’t chase.

You’ve never had to.

But tonight, the silence is louder than anything he’s ever said to you. It fills the room. It presses against your skin.

It winds around your throat and settles there.

By 4:01, you set the phone on your chest and lie back down.

You don’t cry. You don’t let yourself.

You just stare at the dark until your eyes burn, and you whisper his name once, like it might summon him.

It doesn’t.

You close your eyes, and wait.

But it would never come, you knew it.

—•

Day One

You check your phone every hour.

Even though you know better.

Even though it wasn’t a promise.

He never said forever.

He never said I’ll keep calling.

But he never had to.

Some things don’t need to be said to be true.

Until they aren’t.

You scroll through your old call logs. His name is there.

The pattern. A history of 3:07s that meant something.

Meant everything.

You find comfort in their symmetry, the little blue check marks that look like loyalty.

You tell yourself he must’ve been tired. Or busy. Or just fell asleep.

Maybe tonight.

You keep the volume on, just in case.

Day Two

You don’t sleep.

You lie in bed, eyes dry and wide, watching your phone like it’s a lifeline.

Like if you stare hard enough, you can will it into ringing.

3:07 a.m. comes and goes.

No vibration.

No voice.

No him.

You keep holding your breath.

All the way until 3:15.

Then 3:22.

Then 3:41.

Then it’s 4 a.m., and your chest hurts from how long you’ve been hoping.

You put the phone under your pillow.

Not because you’re done waiting.

Because the screen feels too cold against your fingers.

Day Five

You almost text him.

You type it out—hey—and then backspace it.

You try again—everything okay?—but it feels too raw, too real, too much like begging.

You stare at the blinking cursor for ten full minutes.

Then you close the app.

But you don’t delete the draft.

Not yet.

Day Eleven

You change your alarm. You stop looking at the clock at night.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter anymore.

You lie to yourself a lot these days.

But your body still wakes up on its own.

3:07 a.m. sharp.

Your eyes open like clockwork, and your hand reaches for the phone before your mind can catch up.

It’s not there.

It never is.

Week Three

You laugh with a friend and feel it crack in your ribs.

You make a playlist and skip every song that reminds you of late night conversations.

You open his name in your contacts, stare at it, and close it again.

You tell yourself you’re fine.

You even say it out loud once.

But your voice doesn’t sound like yours anymore.

Month Two

You stop checking.

You stop waking up.

You stop listening for something that isn’t coming back.

But you still dream of him sometimes.

And in the dream, it’s always the same.

A phone ringing.

You answer.

And then you wake up before he says anything.

By month four, you start sleeping through the night. Not always.

But sometimes.

The first time it happens, you wake with a start and check the time in a panic. 6:41 a.m.

You missed it. And for a moment, your heart clenches—like you’ve broken something sacred by not waking at 3:07.

Then you remember. There’s nothing to miss.

You lie back down and it’s the first time in months you fall asleep again without the weight of waiting.

Soon, month six rolls around.

You rearrange your room.

Not for him. For you.

The bed moves by the window. You get new sheets. A softer lamp. You delete your old playlists. You keep one song, though—the one that always made you think of him. Not because you want to, but because you can’t make yourself let go of everything.

You start writing again.

Reading again.

Living again, in bits and pieces.

You don’t tell anyone about the way you used to whisper into the phone in the dark, or how you held your breath between his silences, hoping they’d mean something.

It becomes a memory you keep tucked behind your ribs, like a book you never finished.

Someone new asks for your number in month eight.

You gave it.

You smile when you do it. Not because you’re ready. But because it doesn’t feel like betrayal anymore. Just possibility.

He doesn’t call. You don’t think about it as much.

Except when the night feels too quiet. Or when your phone buzzes and you hope, just for a second, that it’s him.

But the ache isn’t sharp anymore.

It’s dull.

Manageable.

Almost gentle.

Soon, you’d lost count how long it’s been.

You forget his voice.

You realize this in the middle of brushing your teeth. It hits you like a quiet truth—you can remember the words he said, the things you felt, but not the exact shape of his voice.

Not the softness. Not the timbre.

Just the echo of him.

You stare at yourself in the mirror, toothbrush in hand, and try to summon it back.

You can’t.

And somehow, that hurts more than the silence ever did.

Now, almost a year later.

You stopped waking at 3:07.

You don’t remember the last time you did.

Your body has moved on.

Even if your heart is still learning how.

And on the rare night he crosses your mind, it doesn’t hollow you out anymore. It just lingers. Like a song you don’t skip, but don’t put on repeat either.

You survived it.

You’re still surviving it.

—•

It’s late.

But not that late.

You’re up reading something you won’t remember in the morning, bathed in the golden quiet of a lamp you’ve grown fond of. The air hums with a calm you’ve earned. You don’t look at the time anymore.

Not the way you used to.

Your phone is face down on the nightstand.

It doesn’t live in your hand anymore.

You’ve let go of that version of yourself—the one who used to hold it like it meant something.

So when it buzzes, your first instinct isn’t panic. It’s confusion.

You glance at it casually.

And freeze.

3:07 a.m.

Your stomach drops.

You blink once, twice, as if your eyes are playing tricks on you.

But no—it’s real.

His name is on the screen. Glowing like it never left.

Like time never passed.

Your heart stutters.

You don’t pick up.

You just stare.

It keeps ringing. Four times. Five.

You almost let it go to voicemail.

Almost.

But something in you—the part that still remembers the sound of his breath, the way he used to say your name when the world felt too heavy—that part reaches for the phone.

You answer.

Silence.

And then. “Hey.”

You close your eyes.

It’s him.

The voice you forgot.

The voice you mourned.

But now it’s real. Now it’s here.

You don’t say anything. Can’t.

He swallows on the other end, and the line crackles with something like regret.

“I didn’t think you’d answer.”

You still don’t speak. Your mouth is dry. Your chest too full of things you swore you buried.

“I just…” He pauses. “I’m getting married.”

You let out a breath, but it doesn’t sound like one. It sounds like grief cracking open all over again.

“I wanted to tell you myself,” he adds, like it matters. Like it changes anything.

You press your lips together. You taste a year’s worth of silence on your tongue.

“Why now?” you whisper.

“I don’t know.” His voice is soft. “I kept thinking about you. About how I never said goodbye.”

Your eyes burn.

“I would’ve answered,” you say, and it comes out too quiet, too late.

“I know.”

And then—“I’m sorry.”

There’s a pause. Long. Heavy.

You picture him in the dark, phone pressed to his cheek like always, saying things he should’ve said a year ago.

But it’s not a year ago anymore.

It’s now.

And you’ve changed.

“I’m happy for you,” you lie. Or maybe you’re not lying. Maybe you’re just trying to mean it.

He breathes in like he might say something else.

But he doesn’t.

Just a simple, “Goodnight.”

And then, the call ends.

No click. Just absence.

You stare at your phone.

3:13 a.m.

The silence feels different this time.

Not a wound. Not a ritual.

Just… an ending.

—•

You don’t remember saying yes.

Not really.

Somewhere between the call and the invitation, your mouth formed the word like muscle memory.

As if a part of you still wanted to be near him, even if every part of you knew it would hurt.

You almost backed out.

Twice.

Once while buying the dress.

Once in the car, parked just outside the venue, hands gripping the wheel like it could anchor you.

But you’re here now.

And it’s beautiful.

Of course it is.

The kind of beautiful that feels designed to make you ache. Everything is soft and warm and gold-lit, like a dream you’re not supposed to be in. Laughter spills across white tablecloths. Music drifts like smoke. Everyone is dressed in joy.

You keep your hands folded. Keep your face neutral. Keep your heart quiet.

You don’t look for him.

Not at first.

But your eyes find him anyway.

There he is.

In a black suit. Smiling in that effortless way, the way he used to sound at 3:07 when he’d call and say your name like it mattered.

He looks happy.

And it cuts, clean and deep.

He hasn’t seen you yet. You hope he won’t. You don’t want to be a shadow on this day.

But then—he turns.

And his eyes find yours.

Just for a second.

Just long enough for something to flicker there. Recognition. Regret. Or maybe just memory.

He doesn’t look away.

Neither do you.

And then the music swells.

Everyone stands.

She walks in.

She’s stunning. Glowing.

Effortless in a way that makes you feel like a child again, holding something breakable you were never meant to touch.

He turns to face her, and that’s when he looks away.

That’s when your breath catches.

That’s when you realize you’ve been holding something inside you for years, and now it’s slipping through your fingers.

You don’t cry.

You promised yourself you wouldn’t.

You just stand there, watching the man who used to call you in the middle of the night take someone else’s hand.

And you smile.

Not because you’re happy.

But because you’re still here.

Because you made it.

Because loving someone doesn’t always mean staying.

Sometimes it means showing up for their happiness, even when it costs you your own.

And when the vows are said, and the cheers erupt, and the kiss happens like a punctuation mark at the end of an old sentence.

You let it go.

Quietly. Completely.

You don’t stay for the reception.

You slip out before anyone can stop you. Before he can find you. Before you forget how to be okay again.

Outside, the sun is setting. The air smells like lavender and something new.

You don’t look back.

You don’t need to.

Because now, you wouldn’t wait for 3:07 a.m.

masterlist

[obito-in-disguise]

| Unreceived |

Itachi's spiral.

<<Prev

It wasn’t that he doubted your loyalty, he doubted his worthiness. How many times had he left you alone to fend for yourself, with nothing but promises of a distant reunion and a Maltese to fill the void?

The door slamming echoed in his mind long after it stopped ringing in his ears.

He stood there, water dripping from his hair onto the tile floor, his chest heaving as if he’d just come out of battle but this wasn’t a fight he could end with precision or strategy.

It was a messier, more uncertain one, terrifying in a way he couldn’t articulate.

The calm and collected mask he always wore was slipping, cracking under the weight of insecurities Itachi just couldn’t suppress anymore. The years of sacrifice, of leaving you behind, of putting duty before his desires, had gnawed at the edges of his resolve.

“You should refrain from making jests about something so serious.” The memory of his own words burned in his chest, now sounding harsh and unkind in the silence that followed.

He clenched his jaw, shame mixing with the frustration already coursing through him, to form something he couldn't quite put his finger on.

This new feeling was too much. He stumbles backwards toward the wall before sliding down it slowly, gripping his hair harshly.

He felt immense shame, most of it from his inability to prevent his startling display of jealousy and other petty emotions. If his father could see him now he would be so disappointed.

This wasn't the Uchiha Itachi he raised, he had raised Itachi to be an emotionless weapon, to suppress every weakness and he was severely punished anytime he strayed the slightest bit from that image.

Even now miles away from any punishment his father could possibly inflict, Itachi couldn't help but feel that suffocating feeling of shame and disgust for his shortcomings.

His father was just a figurehead for all the people and systems that had subjected him to ridiculously high standards and expectations his whole life. He kept glancing at the door, half expecting them to burst in and scorn him for becoming so weak.

God he was so damaged, what did you ever see in him? Itachi was convinced that you had every right to leave him now, he wouldn't even hold it against you.

You, you were the complete opposite of him, so loving, so put together, so deserving of so much more than what he had subjected you to.

He throws his head back, letting it hit the tiled wall harshly, maybe the impact would somehow reset his spiralling mind.

Alas, it doesn't work. Sighing, he grips the edge of the bathtub as leverage before pulling himself up.

He staggers, his towel slipping slightly, but he barely notices. All that was on his mind was how he let you leave the room like that, without stopping you, without fixing everything.

But how could he? How could he face you when he was like this? He would only make things worse.

Still, he had to try. Even if you told him you hated him and never wanted to see him again, he needed to let you know he loves you and that he's the fuck up not you.

He takes a few steps forward, catching his reflection in the mirror. His sharingan was activated, glowing ominously in the dim light. He didn't even realize he had turned it on, it had become a habit ever since his eyesight started deteriorating.

Ah yes, another one of his fuckups, he had used his mangekyo so much that he started to go blind.

He didn't care, his only regret was that he could no longer see your beautiful face as clearly as he used to without the sharingan. He would never tell you that though, he had burdened you enough already.

He exhales shakily, leaning forward, bracing himself against the counter. He couldn’t let this fester. Couldn’t let you think, even for a second, that you meant anything less than everything to him.

Gathering his thoughts, he pushed himself upright and reached for a robe, tying it tightly around his waist.

The hallway beyond the bathroom was quiet, save for the faint sound of the dog’s nails clicking against a surface, its needy whimpers following suit. He followed the noise, his steps hesitant, his heart heavy.

The noise leads him to the living room where the little creature is pawing against the verandah door. It could see you through the clear door, sitting on the steps of the porch, looking utterly defeated. Perhaps if the creature knew Itachi was behind your distress it would attack him right now.

He squats down to the dog's level, beckoning it to come closer. It growls at him in warning, after all it was quite familiar with you but not Itachi.

He crouches lower, signalling he means no harm before gently scooping the dog into his arms when it curiously trots over to him.

He didn’t know what he hoped to achieve, but maybe seeing fluffy or whatever its name was would make you more likely to accept his apology.

You had been pacing for a solid 10 minutes before you eventually got tired and sat on the porch steps. All the anger had left you at this point, you were just jaded.

Jaded to the reality that there was a huge possibility your marriage wouldn't work out. You loved Itachi to death but you simply couldn't be with someone who thinks you're unfaithful.

You regret the moment that stupid joke left your mouth but...maybe it was necessary. After all it exposed just what Itachi thought about you.

He didn't even come after you, that one hurt a lot. Was he even sorry? Forget about leaving him, what If he was packing his things right now getting ready to leave you.

You scowled kicking a stone with your foot.

Whatever.

You don't need him, he can leave, that way he'll have more time for his stupid missions. In fact, why were you out here freezing your ass of in the cold instead of the asshole who had accused you of cheating?

With that you got up, dusting your clothes off, ready to head back inside and show Itachi that you weren't the same cry baby he left one year ago.

But before you could take another step, your pupils contracted in shock. You screamed, scrambling backward and landing on your butt, as a tall figure with those damned glowering red eyes came into your line of vision.

"Stop doing that!" You cried out, your hand clutching your now rapidly beating chest. The dog squirms out of Itachi's hands, running to you. It barks at Itachi before fussing around you, licking your skin as if to soothe your fall.

Itachi cringes as you land harshly on your behind, he quickly walks over, grasping your shoulders and pulling you up into him.

Neither of you say a word. He dusts off your clothes for you, his hand gingerly coming to rest on your cheek as he finishes.

"You're cold princess..." he murmurs, his fingers gently stroking the cool skin of your cheek.

You stare up at him, your touched starved body nearly giving into his caress before you snapped back to reality, stepping away from him with resolve.

"Don't Itachi..." you hadn't meant for your voice to come out so broken but you couldn't help it, you were hurt and he was trying to love you up into forgiving him.

"Can we talk...please" he sighs letting his hands fall back to his side, they clench and unclench, wishing they were on your skin again. He didn't like the look on your face one bit, especially because he had put it there.

He had seen you angry before, but this, this was different, this was heartbreak. He could see it in your eyes, hear it in your voice, and it twisted the knife deeper into his chest.

"Please," he starts again, softer this time, his voice barely audible over the gentle whimper of the dog.

"I just want to explain... I-" He stops himself, the words catching in his throat.

How could possibly begin to explain his inner turmoil to you? Was it even appropriate to bring it up right now? What if you thought he was just bringing up his insecurities to deflect from his hurtful actions or downplay his accusations.

You watched him skeptically and a bit irritated. Despite that, you softened against your will.

You had never seen your husband this distressed, maybe something was wrong. That would definitely explain why he lashed out like that.

You crossed your arms tapping you foot anxiously. You were worried but you weren't going to baby him and play the role of understanding wife, because look where that got you so far.

If something was wrong then he would have to tell you about it like a grown adult.

He continued to dwaddle, his eyes anywhere but you.

You gripped your arms, your lips pressed into a thin line as you stared at him.

For a moment, you thought about walking past him and going inside, leaving him to wrestle with his guilt on the porch. But something in his eyes stopped you.

Despite the red glow of his Sharingan, they looked vulnerable, pleading, almost. It was a side of Itachi he rarely let anyone see. Against your better judgment, you sighed, lowering your arms slightly.

"Why do you have that on" you murmur your hand reaching up to brush against his long lashes that framed those hypnotic red eyes.

Itachi stared at you his eyes widening and his jaw quivering. You noticed.

That gentle touch from you was a trigger, it was all he needed to finally crumble, his mental spiral reaching its crescendo.

He embraces you suddenly, burying his face in your shoulder as he starts to cry silently, his shoulders shaking violently.

You're startled to say to say the least, you had never seen Itachi cry. Still now, you tried to pull his face out of the crook of your neck to see if your eyes were deceiving you, but he wouldn’t let you.

His distress was slowly rubbing onto you, what on earth happened on that mission. You clench your teeth as you fight the urge to hug him back.

Why did you always have to be the forgiving one? What were you supposed to do with all this anger and resentment you were always forced to put away on his behalf?

"You can't cry your way out of this one Itachi..." your voice is shaky as you fight back your own tears.

By now the dog had headed back inside, the atmosphere making him just as distressed as you both were.

Even as you spoke those harsh words you found yourself embracing him back. Perhaps this was the tragic bane to loving, your heart would always cry out on their behalf no matter how displeased you may be with them.

The second your arms wrapped around Itachi he pulled away harshly, he wasn't deserving of your kindness, he knows. He wasn't going to take advantage of your love, no matter how much he wants to.

He pulls back staring at your shocked face, his chest still heaving and his cheeks still glistening.

He hesitantly raises his fingers to his still activated sharingan, your question echoing off the walls in his head torturously "Why do you have that on?"

and before he knows it, he blurts out the answer to your forgotten question "because I can't see..."

"What?..." What on earth was he talking about. "Itachi what a-"

"I can't see y/n. I've been over using the mangekyo and in return it has been taking my sight. The more I use it the more I plunge into this...this darkness. Not just here" He points to his eyes "but here too" he grips his chest, where his heart lies.

"I lost my eyesight, Christ I've lost my mind and now I'm losing you" he chuckles bitterly, his nails digging into his palms painfully.

"You said if you wanted to cheat, you would do it while I was away" He speaks softly, almost as if to himself. Your eyes widen, and you scramble to clarify. "I shouldn't ha-"

"No let me finish." He says, his gaze finally meeting yours.

"When you said that..." he looks up at the sky swallowing "it was like someone held up a mirror, to my shortcomings, to my failures, to this darkness growing in my soul..."

If there was ever a time you wished you were an Uchiha, it was now. You desperately wished you could understand what he was saying. You stepped forward again gripping his robe "tachi..." He doesn't let you finish, placing his hands on top of yours as he continues speaking.

"I have failed you in so many ways. I’ve put my missions, my clan, my duty, everything before you. And yet, you’ve stayed. You’ve loved me through it all, even when I’ve given you every reason to leave." His gaze met yours, the pain, the torment in them was unbearable for you.

"I've humiliated you by even suggesting you would be capable of infidelity. I don’t deserve you. I’ve never deserved you." He grips your hands tighter "I'm sorry, I'm absolutely sorry...I..."

His words fail him as he pours out his heart to you, now you felt terrible.

Your feelings were justified but if he had only told you how much he was struggling the two of you wouldn't be here right now.

Maybe it was because of how intense the moment was but you didn't notice until now how freezing cold it was getting, so you grasp his hand and tug him toward the warm inside of the house again.

You shut the verandah door so fluffy doesn't get any bright ideas like running away. The cold is a stark reminder of how much time you've both spent lost in your own hurt, far away from each other.

You head toward the couch, sitting and gently tugging Itachi into you. His head rests on your chest and his limbs automatically wrap around you like you were his lifeline, just how you liked it.

"I forgive you tachi...but I don't forgive how you kept all this from me" He swallows looking away before burying his face into your chest.

"I know, I should know better. I always try to do everything alone and it never works out..." He muses, his voice muffled from his position in your bosom.

"I want to be someone you can rely on" he grasps you tighter, the next words difficult for him to say "I didn't want to be weak..."

The more you watched him the more you couldn't be angry with him, here he was hiding in your chest like a baby and putting himself through all this just so he can be strong for you.

You can’t stay mad at him anymore, not like this. You reach up, gently tilting his face towards you, your fingers brushing over the cool skin of his cheek before flicking his forehead as hard as you can.

"Ow! What was that for!" He scowls rubbing the now reddening spot. You chuckle for the first time since the fight before leaning forward to kiss the spot you just inflicted pain on.

"Just what does for better or for worse mean to you? Even though you make it incredibly hard...I love you no matter what tachi, whether you're strong or weak"

He shivers as your lips make contact with his forehead, his chest warming at your kind words. He really didn't deserve you.

He slips back into his quiet nature, not responding to your words but holding them dear in his heart from today henceforth as he snuggles back into your chest, whispering a quiet thank you that doesn't reach your ears.

The atmosphere in your home is back to its warm nature as he listens to you ramble about how you're going to make him an appointment to see Tsunade and fix his eyes.

He doesn't even complain when fluffy, hops on the couch and snuggles between the both of you. Fluffy could sit on the furniture, he was part of the family now.

And Itachi wasn't going to let a repeat of last time happen again, he was going to give all his devotion and time to his little family henceforth.

I just adore when people leave comments. Initially part 2 was just going to be a short continuation where they make up and everything is ok again but ya'lls kind comments, especially @catlover19282 's compliment about the dialogue, made me want to dive more into the characters' psyches and talk about how both their feelings in the situation are valid. Itachi was going through dark shit but the reader is also allowed to feel hurt by his actions.

So thank you to eveyone who left a comment and to those who read as well💕

Click here for more Naruto Shippuden fics and other stories!

[psicheanima]

Gregor Linguistic Analysis

Hello. I just finished Canto 1, so as I said, here are some things I found fun about the way Gregor speaks. I’ll do Rodya after Canto 2, and so on and so forth.

Do not mention any events after Canto 1 in the notes or tags of this post, thank you.

Gregor’s sentences are short to mid length, maintaining a natural, almost casual rhythm. His syntax is straightforward, avoiding complex subordinate clauses or elaborate phrasing. This reflects his laid-back and nonchalant attitude— his speech is efficient, unpretentious, and devoid of pretense. His words flow with a conversational ease, almost never rushed or clipped (despite his habit to drop subjects, compare him to someone like Ishmael, for example— he’s more warm), reinforcing his uncomplicated nature, which is something he really wants others to see— he wants to be a simple, regular man. He does not want to be seen as someone important.

He uses shortened constructions—such as omitting subject or auxiliary verbs—which gives his speech a relaxed, even offhand feel. In particular, when he talks about his past, he almost never talks proactively.

Fitting his casual speech and “action-oriented” past, Gregor also uses phrasal verbs in a casual context quite a bit. This also ties in with his tendency to downplay his personal struggles by speaking as if they were just ordinary events. When he does this, he also tends to pass the responsibility to his superiors, placing himself in the position of “but I’m just a guy, it’s (external thing).”. (His landlord, his manager).

Gregor is, however, quite the normal guy when it comes to how he speaks, so though there’s no much to say about his word choice outside of some strangely old-timey whimsical words every now and then (absolutely used to make him seem more warm, affable, and distinctively NOT like a strict military guy.) But there is quite a bit to say about what he “chooses” to say.

When talking about serious or painful things, he keeps it brief but adds this elliptical phrasing that lets the weight of his words sink in without outright stating it. He never spells out his emotions—his restraint makes the pain obvious without needing to say it. It’s less about what he says and more about what he holds back.

However, the most standout thing about the way Gregor speaks is the way he always subjugates himself whenever joking. Gregor himself says he does this.

However, his jokes about his arm will always hold more passive aggression and underlying hurt than his more elaborate, whimsical jokes about his previous military position— the topics that make him most upset.

He eases not only outright— but any potential hostility with humor. Consider the way he uses a mild, almost playful, word like “pest” to describe his condition—it reflects the level of detachment he’s employing in his suffering, a detachment that very much is the only thing helping him manage that suffering. He can’t open about how much discomfort it causes him, so fashions it as a palatable thing others can laugh at WITH him, instead of AGAINST him.

He believes people will always mock him, and even more importantly thinks there is something worth mocking about him, so this humor is always light hearted and easy to ignore. He does not challenge others cruelty towards him.

It’s not so big of a deal that people see him as something other if he’s not dangerous. He’s a monster, but just a small one. A pest. Insignificant.

In this same way he often uses rhetorical questions and double negatives to get his point across on this topic. For example, when he says the above, he’s highlighting the unpleasantness of his arm without directly addressing the actual discomfort it causes others. It’s his way of communicating subtly— avoiding bitterness or confrontation, trying to force himself into the “joke” of how revolting he is. Another way he does this is by referring to the other soldiers as “things”. Othering himself.

So despite his ease with small talk (being the first to introduce himself to us), his deeper emotions often surface in the spaces between words. He lets the quiet do the heavy lifting, as he is unwilling to say things plainly.

His distaste for status is reflected most simply in how he speaks to Dante.

“Manager Bud” → “Bud” softens authority. It reflects his preference for informal, cordial relationships rather than professional ones. The very concept of a work life similar to the military structure he knows is something he is absolutely terrified of. He does not like putting people higher or lower than him.

Gregor’s speech register is informal, with a blend of

- Working class pragmatism

- Older, slightly rustic quirks (usually one off words like “bugger”)

- Military lingo (in particular, he mentions “getting medals” a lot where others would say “rewarded”.)

In conclusion: He is someone who has been through a range of social settings but refuses to perform “proper” speech anymore in any effort to seem like a regular citizen, something he feels deeply he is not, and so he uses humor to feel as if he is “in” on the joke of how revolting he is.

[metranart]

hey, I know you probably busy and I’m sorry to bother you, but could you maybe make some headcanons of what hawks would do if y/n got pregnant?

You don't bother me at all, cutie. :) Here you have some cute little headcanons of our favorite birdie boy.

What Hawks would do if Y/N got pregnant? <3

Takami Keigo is not complicated, he wants as many chicks as he has fingers and toes, and he wants them all with YOU. 

You hadn’t thought about the subject but every time you’ve been at it … -it WAS unprotected. There was nothing to keep you from getting, round and heavy, with his child. And it wasn’t just once. Keigo could go for hours on end- he wouldn’t stop until he fucking collapsed on top of you, completely spent. “Sheesh, that-that was something else entirely, dove.” His smile bright enough to compete with the sun in the sky and win.

“If you get pregnant… I’ll be required to take care of you for the rest of our lives.” He shared all too proud of his deed, that look of adoration in his face, way too close to possessiveness. “—But one thing I swear, (Y/N). I’ll take care of EVERYTHING, you, them, us… All, you just watch me.” 

When the pregnancy test finally confirmed that his secret efforts had been fruitful, he nearly exploded with happiness, he carried you in his arms and your feet did not touch the ground again for the next forty minutes. 

“Dear god- you got even tighter.” Keigo’s voice sounded deeper, “So WET- my love, taking my time to preparing you first was more rewarding than I expected it’d be.” The lingering taste of you on his tongue nearly enough to get him off- “I’m LOVING this pregnant stage, don’cha?” 

The more your belly grew the more he glued to your side. All of the energy that in the past went into making the baby now goes into keeping you and his child happy and healthy. 

One morning, Keigo was looking at you with that unblinking, unreadable look of his, anxious you chewed at your lower lip before voice out your deeper doubts out loud. “I'm not a fan either-” his head cocks to the side, questioningly, and you suck in a nervous giggle, “-of my mom body.”

It would have been better if you slapped him, that would have been less offensive than what you just said. "I LOVE your mommy body, dove. I dream with your plump adorable tummy and all your mommy curves, all night long!" he stressed, ignoring your embarrassed giggles, in order to give a clear and firm statement, "... I'm even thinking about keeping you with that mommy body, all round and pretty and full of my chicks... how would that sound to you?" You shake your head, and he pouts playfully, your heart impossibly warm for him and his cute efforts which always work to make you feel better.

“Stop starin’.” You grumbled, cracking one eye open and staring at him, a tired grin ghosting your lips. “I can’t sleep with you watching me, Keigo.” The Hero grins, “Just checking that you were comfortable-” you shake your head, “For more than an hour?”

Keigo glanced downward at your stomach, a fond grin twisting the corner of his lips up as he imagined a little boy or girl, who looked everything like you- just with his last name, he asked for nothing else. The little one snuggled up in his arms as he read bedtime stories. He imagined teaching the child to ride a bike, to fly-… At this point, Keigo craved just for two things, domesticity and YOU… or just you, if it came to that.

“There’s nothing wrong with you.” He growled for the thousand time, though his hands stayed gentle on your round belly. “I love everything about you. Your imperfections are so mouthwatering, (Y/N). My favorite parts.” He managed to sound reverent, like a man speaking of his Deity. He would kiss the ground your feet touch if you let him but sometimes you are so restrictive with him.

Having you in his arms has become his favorite part of finishing his patrol, that little extra weight you've gained is mesmerizing, he could adore you for hours, that's why since he met you, he leaves some feathers hidden in your apartment when he must leave, that way he can at least be close, even when he's far away.

"Don't think I don't know what you do, birdie." You whine playfully and he laughs, "how long have you known?" you snort through your mouth, "since we've known each other." Keigo snickers widely, you are definitely his person, no one else could stand how mushy and clingy he can be, more than you, his adorable and pregnant, dove.

🔞➡️ MHA X Reader NSFW ART