#last reblog has me in stitches

[tojisun]

konig makes me so crazy bro like ik this man loves fucking you against the wall or smthn. lets you wrap your legs around him only to chuckle when they cant even close around his bulk. and he bites so much. folds you there against the wall because he knows you got a size and strength kink-

i dunoooeoe

[lubdubology]

Take My Love and Wear It

SYNOPSIS: Taking care of Charles has its own special challenges, but you didn’t expect the hardest one to be the man who hired you. Distant, gruff and rough around the edges, Logan still manages to worm his way under your skin. But you’ve worked your way under his, too. 

PAIRING: Old Man Logan x fem!reader

WC: 10.8k 

WARNINGS: smut 18+; mdni; angst; swearing; non-explicit mentions of wounds, blood and use of stitches; extreme physical pain; Charles is a lovable, meddling little shit; fluff sprinkled in for good measure; Logan in a tub (if I had a nickel for every time I bathed him, I’d have two nickels—which isn’t a lot, but its weird it happened twice, right); touch-starved Logan; handjobs; shower sex; fingering; dirty talk; oral (f receiving); sex with feelings; unprotected p in v; creampie

A/N: There’s something special about Old Man Logan, isn’t there? Old and grumpy and desperately in need of some love and affection. I know the Charles caregiver story has been done before, but I couldn’t get this idea out of my head. And then Charles starting talking in my head and well...it blossomed into this. As always, thank you to @joelsgoldrush for allowing me to send her snippets of this as I went along and offering her love, support and suggestions. I hope you enjoy this and any likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated!

You stare down at the remnants of yesterday’s cold and congealed dinner and sigh. Scraping the food into the trash, you resist the urge to pack everything you have and leave. 

One month. 

One month of helping Charles—making his meals, washing his clothes, giving him his meds, making sure he doesn’t hurt himself (or others), assisting with daily tasks—and Logan still regards you as a nuisance, like a gnat needing to be swatted away. 

At best, he ignores you, moving around the house as if you don’t exist. 

And at worst, he treats you with barely concealed contempt, his scowl deepening the lines of his face whenever he’s around you. As if you’re invading his space uninvited even though he’s the one that sought out help. 

You grip the edge of the sink, staring down into the porcelain basin as if it holds some hidden answers. Every day you’ve tried to break through walls Logan’s built around himself, held onto Charles’ promise that eventually he’ll soften, just give him time, but he only seems to have grown more hostile. And you’ve done nothing to incur his ire besides watching him come home every day battered and bruised, his very bones weary with exhaustion, and offering your assistance.

Part of you is angry—angry that you care so much when your main focus is supposed to be Charles. Angry that despite all his efforts to come across unapproachable and cold, Logan’s worked himself under your skin and takes a little piece of you with him whenever he leaves. 

Angry that somehow he’s stolen a piece of your heart. 

You hear shuffling behind you and turn to find Logan entering the kitchen, fingers fastening the last buttons on his dress shirt. “What?” he asks gruffly and for a moment you wonder if he can read your thoughts.

You straighten and meet his gaze head on, swallowing down your nervousness. “How much longer are we going to keep doing this, Logan?”

“Doing what?”

“This,” you say, gesturing between you. “You walking around here like I’m some stain upon your life, acting like I’m a problem when all I’ve ever done is try and help.” Your voice is steadier than you feel. “You asked for me to be here, Logan. It’s not like I barged in here without permission.”

Logan holds your gaze, his jaw tight, and for a moment you think he’s going to grab his keys and leave, head off into the night and drive until sunrise. His eyes soften for just a moment, something like regret crossing his features. 

“I know why you’re here. And I do…appreciate it,” he says, his words coming out low and rough. As if the words taste foreign in his mouth. 

“Wouldn’t kill you to show it,” you challenge.

You’re waiting for him to lash out and instead he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, I’m not good at this.”

“I’m not asking you to bow at my feet,” you say, hoping to ease some of the tension in the air. “Although, I wouldn’t be mad about it.” You think you see the briefest hint of a smile flicker across his face. “I just want us to be able to live in the same space. I’m here to help, Logan. Let me.”

“You have no idea how hard this life is.”

A rueful smile tugs at your lips. “I understand more than you think I do.”

Logan’s gaze sharpens, inquisitive as he searches your face, as if he’s trying to decipher the meaning behind your words. He rubs a hand across his face, scratching lightly as his beard. “I’ve gotta couple jobs tonight. Maybe more,” he finally says, changing the conversation. “Should be back before sunrise.”

You nod, his switch in topic not lost on you, but you don’t push him. “Alright,” you say softly. “Just—just take it easy, okay?”

He glances down at you, relief softening his gaze and you know a part of him is grateful you didn’t push further. 

Grabbing his keys, Logan heads towards the door but pauses just before he’s about to leave. He turns to look back over his shoulder. “Thanks,” he murmurs, the word awkward on his lips. 

You give him a small nod of encouragement as he slips out the door. He may not be ready to full open up, but you feel as if he extended a tiny olive branch tonight, cracked open the door just enough to let you peek in.

+++

Over the following weeks, Logan’s a little less avoidant. He doesn’t go out of his way to make conversation—you didn’t expect him to—but he at least as acknowledges your presence. Small nods and murmured goodbyes when he leaves and sleepy hellos when he returns. It’s not much, but you’ll take it. 

You’re cleaning the last of the dishes from dinner, Charles safely settled in front of the TV watching an old movie when Logan comes home. He’s earlier than you anticipated, but exhaustion lines his face nonetheless. You expect him to slip away quietly, but he pauses instead, lingering in the doorway. 

“Smells good,” he says softly, nodding towards the pan of half eaten lasagna still sitting on the counter. 

Surprised, you turn around to face him. You brush the hair from your face and say, “Sit. I’ll make you up some.” 

Logan hesitates and for a moment you think he’s about to decline, but then he nods, his shoulders dropping slightly as he sits down at the table. You fix him up a plate, setting it down in front of him with a bottle of beer as you slide into the chair across from him.  

He tucks quietly into the food, his fork scraping against his plate as he eats, pausing only to wash it down with a few swigs of beer. You watch him, a strange satisfaction tugging at you at the sight of him actually sitting down, enjoying a meal with you, even if it is in silence. 

“Long day?” you ask quietly, gesturing towards his bruised knuckles.

He flexes the fingers on his free hand before tucking them under the table. “Nothin’ I can’t handle,” he mutters, taking another bite of lasagna. “They’ll be gone in a day or two.”

You know not that long ago an injury like that wouldn’t have even marred his skin. Now, the simplest of wounds can take days to heal and it’s not the appearance of his skin that bothers you, but the newfound ache he experiences, the heaviness of constant pain.

You want to help him, ease his discomfort, like you know you could. But you know he’s not ready for that. Not yet.

“You’re good with Charles,” Logan says then, his gaze steady on his plate. “He seems calmer around you.”

Logan’s admission is so unexpected, you find yourself staring at him in disbelief. At your silence, his eyes flicker up to yours and you see more than simple acknowledgement in his expression. It’s subtle, but it’s there, a current of something more, something you’re not quite sure how to address.

“Thank you,” you murmur, your voice softer than you intended. “Charles—he means a lot to me.” You pause briefly, but something compels you to continue. “You both do.”

His gaze is focused on you and you don’t miss the flicker of surprise that breaks through his usual stoic expression. Clearing his throat, he looks down, pushing around the last bit of lasagna on his plate and then after a moment, he sets his fork down and leans back in his chair. “You mean a lot to him, too,” Logan finally says and you wonder if he’s talking about more than just Charles.

From the living room you hear Charles call for you, his voice soft but insistent. The moment between you still crackles as you stand from the table and as you begin to walk away, Logan reaches for your hand. His fingers are warm and rough against your skin and you’re barely able to suppress your shiver. 

“Thank you,” Logan says, his voice surprisingly soft. 

His grip against your skin is gentle, a stark contrast to all his roughness and you can feel the weight of his unspoken words curling around you. Charles calls again, his voice breaking through the moment, but Logan’s hand lingers just a beat longer before he lets go, fingers trailing along your skin. 

+++

“He likes you, you know.”

You glance up from shaving Charles’ face and find him staring at you, a mischievous glint in his eye. You give a soft hum. “Did he tell you that or did you read his mind?”

Charles scoffs and waves his hand dismissively. “What’s the difference, dear?” 

You chuckle, shaking your head as you rinse the razor. “With Logan I’m pretty sure there’s a big difference.”

“Bah, if Logan wanted to keep me out of his head, he would. Stubborn man.” He tsks softly to himself and shakes his head. “But, no my dear, he can be quite loud if you know how to listen.”

You raise an eyebrow, giving him a playful look. “Loud, huh? And what exactly is that brain of his telling you?”

Charles gives you a knowing smile. “Oh, just little things,” he says casually with a wave of his hand, but you can tell by the look on his face that he’s holding back. “He notices you—what you do for me, this place, for him. He may not realize it himself, but his thoughts linger on you more often than he’d like.”

A flicker of hope sparks in your chest and despite yourself, you feel a blush creeping into your cheeks. “Logan doesn’t strike me as the sentimental type.”

“Logan has spent so much of his life running,” Charles continues, his tone and expression growing more thoughtful. “The loss he’s experienced has led him to believe it’s better to be alone than form meaningful connections with people. But you’ve somehow become something of a home for him. And he doesn’t quite know what to make of that.”

Your heart skips a beat as you take in his words. The idea of being a home for Logan, a comfort, feels surreal, and yet...there’s a part of you that dares to hope what Charles is saying is true. That this isn’t some fictional truth his brain has concocted, a product of his disease riddled mind. 

“Home.” You repeat the word softly to yourself, testing the word on your own tongue as if it might shatter into pieces.

Charles nods, his hand reaching for yours, his gaze warm and knowing. “Yes, home. He feels it, deep down, in a way that’s unfamiliar and frightening for him.”

You glance down at your hand in Charles’ grasp, his touch grounding you as his words settle over you. 

“Logan’s spent so long hiding from himself,” Charles continues. “I think he’s convinced himself he doesn’t deserve that kind of peace.”

“And you think I can give him that peace?” you ask quietly, your eyes flicking back up to Charles’ face.

He smiles knowingly and gives your hand a squeeze. “You already have, dear.”

+++

“Want some help?”

You turn to find Logan standing in the entrance of the kitchen, hands tucked into his pockets.

It’s a rare night—one where Logan’s chosen to stay home, taking a night off from the almost endless driving he does. He’s dressed down, well worn jeans and a button-up flannel, and for once you actually think he looks comfortable.

You smile, surprised, but happy to see him there. “Sure, the company would be nice,” you reply as he comes to stand next to you. “Want to wash and dice the potatoes?”

Logan nods and rolls up his sleeves before reaching for the bowl of potatoes you had set aside earlier. You watch him for a moment as he settles into the task with a quiet focus. 

“Smells good,” he comments, gesturing towards the oven. “What’re we having?”

“Charles has been asking for beef tenderloin for weeks now, so I’m finally indulging him.” You finish trimming the last of the green beans and toss them into the bowl beside you. “You know, if you have any favorite meals you’d like me to make, you can tell me.”

Logan pauses and glances at you as he shuts off the tap. He clears his throat and says, “You already are.”

You blink in surprise as Logan’s words sink in and then the realization dawns on you. A soft smile spreads across your face as you piece together the extent of Charles’ meddling. You can’t find it in you to be annoyed and only feel a mix of amusement and fondness towards the old man as you chuckle softly to yourself.

“What’s so funny?” Logan asks, raising his eyebrow as he catches your expression.

“Oh, nothing,” you say, waving him off with a smile. 

Logan doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t pry as he picks up the knife and begins to deftly dice the potatoes. You watch him for a moment, captivated by the simple domesticity of the task. It’s in direct contrast to the man you’ve seen numerous times before, brooding and gruff, brimming with an almost untamed violence. 

It suits him, you think, this quieter version of himself.

You both finish the prep with relative ease. He helps you set the table as the rest of the food cooks, plates clinking softly as he sets them down. You busy yourself with finishing the green beans in a garlic butter as you wait for for the tenderloin to rest enough to carve into. 

“Ah, my dear, this smells wonderful,” Charles announces as he rolls into the kitchen, a warm smile on his face. “And you managed to pull Logan out of his room. What a treat.”

Logan snorts in response, giving Charles a pointed glare.

“I dare say it’s because the company has improved much as of late,” Charles says, his eyes twinkling in amusement as he glances between the both of you. “We all know he’s not out here for my benefit.”

You laugh as you bring the dishes to the table, noting the faintest of blushes creeping along Logan’s cheeks. “I’ll take that as a compliment, Charles.”

“As you should, dear. Your personality is quite sparkling.” He looks over towards Logan. “Isn’t it, Logan?”

Logan’s eyes land on you as he answers, “Yes. Yes, it is.”

Dinner begins quietly, the three of you settling into easy conversation as the first few bites are consumed. Both Charles and Logan hum in delight and a warmth blooms within you watching them both. This—this is the simplicity you’ve been craving with Logan.

As the meal continues, Charles launches into his usual repertoire of stories, those of the school and his students, his words brimming with nostalgia and pride as he talks. Logan sits back in his chair, arms crossed as he listens to him speak, shaking his head fondly at some of the memories.

“You know,” Charles begins, setting his fork down with an air of mischief, “I don’t think I ever told you how I met Logan, have I?”

Logan’s head snaps up. “Don’t, Chuck.”

But Charles is already smiling at you, ignoring Logan’s warning. “It’s a good story, dear. See, Logan had quite the career as an underground cage fighter.”

You lift your brows in surprise and you glance over at Logan, who’s thoroughly unamused by Charles’ choice of topic. “Cage fighting, huh?” you ask, unable to suppress your curiosity. 

Logan shifts uncomfortably in his seat, stabbing at his potatoes with a little more force than necessary. “It wasn’t a career,” he mutters. “Just a distraction. Way to get by.”

“Mmm, yes, perhaps,” Charles chuckles, clearly enjoying himself. “Regardless of the reason, it lead you to this exact moment. Didn’t it, Logan?”

Logan narrows his eyes at Charles, though the glare is only half-hearted. “You make it sound like all it all had some grand purpose.”

“Did it not?” Charles says gently, his tone shifting into something more serious. “Kept you alive, for one. But more than that, it brought you to us. To me.” He pauses for a moment, his eyes darting towards you. “To her.”

The words hang in the air and you glance over at Logan, whose expression softens just slightly. Without thinking, you reach across the table and give his forearm a gentle squeeze. His eyes meet yours, a flicker of a smile tugging at his lips.

Charles watches the exchange with quiet satisfaction before clearing his throat. “Well, I believe my work here is done,” he announces, wheeling himself back from he table. “Logan, fancy a game of chess? I haven’t made a player out of her yet.”

You laugh to yourself as Logan follows Charles into the living room. After clearing the kitchen from dinner and loading the last of the dishes into the dishwasher, you join them both in the living room. Tucking yourself into the couch, you read while the two of them play, the clinking of wooden chess pieces and the occasional dry quip from Charles filling the room.

From your spot on the couch, you glance up from your book every now and then to watch them. Logan’s brow furrows in concentration, while Charles’ face is more relaxed as they play. You smile to yourself, wondering how often they played like this in the past, when times were simpler.

You’re not sure when you fell asleep or how long you’ve been out, but you’re jostled awake as two large, warm arms wrap around you, holding you close as you’re lifted off the couch. Logan’s familiar scent—cigar smoke and pine—fill your nose and you blink up to find him walking you down the hall towards your room.

“Logan?” you mumble, voice thick with sleep. “D’you really cage fight?”

Logan chuckles softly, the sound rumbling through his chest. “I really did.”

“Did it hurt?”

“No.”

You blink slowly, your sleep-laden mind struggling to process his answer. “Not even a little?” Your voice is barely audible as you nestle closer into the warmth of his chest.

“Not in the way you think,” he answers, nudging open the door to your room with his foot.

You’re too drowsy to ask what he means and instead you hum softly, a noncommittal sound that Logan feels more than hears. Lowering you onto the bed, he moves with a gentleness you’ve never felt from him before. He brushes a strand of hair from your face and pulls the blanket over you before he turns to leave.

Your limbs are heavy, eyes barely open, but you call out softly—“Logan?”

He looks back towards you. “Yeah?”

“I’m glad Charles found you,” you murmur, closing your eyes.

Logan doesn’t answer, but you swear you feel the lightest of kisses against the top of your head before he leaves.

+++

It’s deep into the night when you hear the front door finally open. Your heart flutters against your ribs as you swing out of bed, unsure of what condition you’ll find him in. He was expected back two days ago, those extra hours away feeling like an unfathomable eternity. 

You find him sitting at the kitchen table, dress shirt hanging off one shoulder, the rest of his clothes rumpled and bloodied. A large gash oozes from his shoulder and you can’t stop the gasp that falls from your lips. 

Logan looks up at you, eyes narrowed and lined with exhaustion. “Don’t look at me like that,” he grunts, tugging off the rest of his shirt. 

“How else am I supposed to look at you?” you ask, taking a tentative step forward. “No phone call or text letting me know you’re not coming home and then you waltz in after midnight soaked in blood and covered in wounds.” Unshed tears burn in your eyes but you will yourself not to cry. 

“Didn’t ask you to care about me,” he bites back, but his tone is more weary than argumentative. 

“Oh, fuck you, Logan,” you snip, but your tone lacks venom.

He ignores you, pushing up from the chair with a heavy groan and limps over towards the cabinets. He shuffles through one of them, pulling out the makeshift sewing kit before sitting back down. You watch as he attempts to thread the needle, growing increasingly frustrated when he keeps missing. 

Shoving down your own frustration, you pull up a chair next to him and reach for the needle and thread. He pulls his hands away from you, turning in the chair to keep you away. You chase after his movements, finally grabbing his wrists and removing the supplies from his grasp.

“I don’t need your help,” he growls. 

You sigh, tired of this same argument, this same endless loop every time he comes home injured. “Goddamit, Logan, just let me help you.”

He drags his gaze up to yours, eyes tracing the lines of your face. His chest still heaves with heavy breaths, but you can see the anger bleed from him. He nods once, turning just enough so that you have access to his wound. Threading the needle, you place a gentle hand on his shoulder, ignoring the flinch he gives at your touch. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” you whisper. 

Logan huffs. “It’s a needle, darlin’. It’s not gonna feel nice.”

You try to ignore the flip your heart does at his use of the word darling. Despite his earlier gruffness and proclivity to push you away, Logan has softened to you over the last couple of months. Since that first dinner you shared, he’s joined you and Charles more often. Or if he comes home late, sought out the leftovers you’ve kept for him. He’s engaged in conversation, offering small pieces of himself, pieces that you’ve cradled close and nurtured. 

But there’s a tension between you, thick and heavy in the air, and you wonder if he feels it too. Feels that same undeniable pull you’ve always felt in his presence. You’d like to think so, otherwise you were doomed to love him silently, your feelings for him bound in the quiet of your mind.

“Just trust me,” you say. 

Slowly, you release your power, warmth spreading from your fingertips, easing his pain and discomfort as you begin to stitch him up. You try to ignore the heavy press of his gaze on your face and you can almost hear his unspoken thoughts, his words still stuck on his tongue.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, his shoulder relaxing as you continue to work.

You glance up at him then, finding his expression softer than you’ve seen it. “A mutant is a dangerous thing to be, Logan,” you answer, your voice soft. “Few people know what I can do. Those I trust.”

For a long moment, Logan just looks at you, his eyes unreadable. Then, a rough, tired sigh falls from his lips. “You coulda told me.”

You take a steadying breath, his words lingering in the space between you. “Maybe,” you say, your fingers brushing against his skin as you continue to stitch. “But you don’t make it easy to talk to you.”

Logan lets out a low huff. “No. I guess I don’t, do I?”

You finish the last stitch, securing the knot. Your fingers linger a touch long than necessary, the warmth of his skin a comfort you’re loathe to lose just yet. Slowly, you lift your gaze to his and you feel your heart beat solidly against your ribs as he looks back at you like he’s seeing something there he hadn’t allowed himself to before. 

Logan’s voice is low when he finally speaks. “Why you keep stickin’ around? Watchin’ me come home time after time covered in blood?”

“Because you deserve it.” The words tumble from your mouth before you can stop them. “Even if you don’t see that.”

He doesn’t respond, not right away, as he continues to watch you, his eyes tracing the lines of your face. Then he reaches up for you, fingers curling around your wrist, his skin warm and rough against yours. He holds you there as if grounding himself in your presence, his thumb drawing random patterns against your skin. The gesture is simple, but vulnerable and open in a way he rarely shows.

“I’m no good for you,” he murmurs, glancing down at where he’s touching you. “For anybody.”

“How ‘bout you let me be the judge of that?” you answer, your voice steady. “You’re more than you think you are.”

Logan clenches his jaw, a flicker of disbelief crossing his features, and you know deep below the surface he’s waging a war against himself, one he’s been fighting for far too long. His thumb stills on your wrist, his grip loosening slightly, but not letting go. 

Placing your hand over his, you give him a soft smile. “C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.”

+++

You’re surprised that he doesn’t argue, doesn’t try to brush you off or push you away as you gently nudge him towards the bathroom. He still gives you a dubious glance as he looks down at the tub, but you just ignore it, moving past him to run the tap.

You give him privacy to undress and get settled before you reenter the bathroom. The sight of him, as large as he his with his knees pulled up to his chest, makes you laugh, garnishing a terse look from him.

“You find this amusing?”

“Big man in a little tub? Yeah, I do,” you reply with a smile. “Just relax, Logan. This’ll be our secret.”

He huffs, but does seem to visibly relax, resting his arms over his knees. You kneel down in front of him, resting one hand gently against his forearm as your other reaches for the washcloth. You can feel the tension release from his muscles as your power floods through him and he breathes out a soft, “Oh,” as all the pain and discomfort is eased from his body.

You wonder how long it’s truly been since he’s felt like this, unburdened by the pain and suffering of his own body. Your heart aches for him as you slowly begin to wash him, rubbing soft circles over the scarred flesh of his back, rinsing away the blood dried to his skin. 

Even battered and marred as he is, you still find him beautiful—you always have. When you first started working with him all those months ago, you felt that pang of attraction when you met him, you’d have been blind not to. Ruggedly handsome, so strong and sure of himself. But you know that wasn’t all that drew you to him. Deep down, below all the tough, seemingly impenetrable exterior, you saw the man he truly was. Someone born of scars and rough edges, yet gentle. Someone who would selflessly put himself before others, even at his own expense. 

You let the cloth linger a moment longer against his skin before dipping it back into the water, watching as his blood rinses from the fabric. Squeezing the excess water out, you press it back against his collarbone, tracing the warm cloth along his neck and over his shoulders. Logan doesn’t move, his eyes half-closed, his expression relaxed in a way you’ve never seen before.

Something deep tugs at you as you realize how vulnerable he is right now, how trusting. He hides behind a gruff exterior, his true self guarded so carefully so that he doesn’t let people in, doesn’t open himself up to the hurt that trusting another person can bring. But maybe you’ve finally cracked through, broken down a little bit of that wall he surrounds himself with.

The warm water drips from his skin as you continue to wash him, letting your fingers trail gently along the newly cleaned lines of his arms. Logan shivers at your touch, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he seems to lean into it, his breathing deepening, muscles falling even more slack. 

“Feel nice?” you ask in a murmur, voice barely above a whisper.

He nods, finally glancing up at you through his half-lidded gaze. “’S very nice,” he replies, his voice rough.

“Good. You deserve it,” you say, repeating your sentiment from earlier.

You feel a flicker of warmth as his eyes meet yours and he simply nods. It takes everything in you to not smile too widely, to keep the moment gentle, but you take his acceptance to heart. 

Running the cloth down his ribs, you pause when you feel the misshapen knot of a bruise beneath your fingers and glancing down, you find a deep purple hue coloring his skin. Your eyes dart to his with worry, knowing that an injury like that will take him at least a week to heal, if not longer, in his weakened state. That with every breath he’ll feel the pain of his muscles pulling and the bruise spreading if you’re not touching him.

Dropping the washcloth in the water, you press your palm against his side and take in a deep breath to steady yourself. Then, a warmth spreads from your skin into his as you pull his injury from him, feeling his skin knit back together, feeling his abused muscles realign themselves under his skin. A dull, yet sharp ache, blooms along your ribs as you continue to pull his pain into yourself, erasing the injury from his body. With a final gasp, you draw back, your fingers now running along unmarred flesh knitted whole. 

Logan tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze as the back of his knuckles brush against your cheek. His eyes flicker to yours, holding your gaze, and for a moment, the room falls into a deep quiet.

That pull between you, the magnetic force that you’ve felt since the beginning, feels amplified now. You’re acutely aware of every inch of space between you—how small it is, how easy it would be to close it. How badly you want to close it. You swallow, feeling the tension coil in your belly as he continues to hold your gaze, unblinking, but more open and raw than he’s ever been before.

“What are you doing to me?” he asks.

Your breath catches in your throat at his question, voice rough and laced with something between wonder and disbelief. As if he can’t quite fathom what you’ve done for him—what you’ve given him so freely.

Logan’s eyes search yours, his fingers drifting from your cheek to trace along your jaw, lingering with a tenderness that belies the man he presents to the outside world. His gaze is steady and intimate, as if he’s trying to understand you in a way that goes beyond words. But you say nothing, your heart pounding too loudly in your ears to form a reply.

“You took it on yourself, my pain?”

You simply nod, distracted by the way Logan’s fingers continue to brush along the edge of your ear, tracing the lines of your face as if he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. 

“Why?”

“Because I want to,” you whisper, unable to resist the pull of his hand against your skin, the warmth of his touch that you feel with every fiber of your being. “Because it’s the one thing I can do to help you.”

A beat of silence passes, the air thick and heavy with unspoken words. He exhales, shaky and deep, letting his hand slide to the back of your neck. The calloused pads of his fingers press gently against your skin, anchoring you in place and you can feel him pull you closer, his gaze dropping to your lips, his breath mingling with yours in the small, intimate space between you.

“I shouldn’t want this, want you,” he says, voice so low it’s almost a rumble. “But, fuck, I do.” 

His confession is raw, leaving him unguarded for the first time in a long time and before he can pull back, before he can throw those walls back up around himself, you close the gap, resting your forehead against his. You bring your hand up to touch his face, thumb brushing over his cheek as you breath him in, feeling the heat radiate between you. 

Logan’s hand slides further along your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair as he finally, gently, presses his lips to yours. His kiss isn’t demanding or rushed or filled with passion, but a lingering connection, the promise of something more. His lips are softer than you imagined, his touch more careful than you expected, as if he’s afraid he’ll break you. Slowly, his thumb traces circles against your cheek, steadying and soothing, pulling you closer. 

When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed. His breath is warm against your skin. “I don’t wanna push you away anymore,” he murmurs.

“Good because I don’t want you to.”

Logan lets out a breath, a hint of a smile finally softening his features. 

Reluctantly, you pull away and pick the washcloth up again, intent on finishing what you started. The water turns to rust as you wash him of blood and grime, making sure you reach each cut, each bruise, each scar on his body that makes up the map of who he is. 

You turn off the tap and hand him a towel, averting your eyes as he stands, wrapping the towel low across his hips. Logan reaches for you, tugging on the collar of your shirt to pull you closer. You stumble a bit as he pulls you in, surprised by the insistence in his grip. Logan’s eyes meet yours, an intensity behind his gaze that makes your breath catch.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, hand slipping along your jaw, his thumb pressing against your bottom lip. 

You’re drawn forward as Logan’s lips find yours again, but this time there’s an urgency behind the kiss, a desperation and need he’s no longer trying to hide. He holds your face gently in his hands as he deepens the kiss, his nose pressing against yours, his beard scraping against your skin and you find yourself melting against him.

This is what you’ve been craving since you met him. Despite it all—the rage simmering just below his surface, the sharpness of his exterior, the sometimes shocking callousness of his words—you always knew there was a tenderness underneath, a softness that even his tortured past couldn’t erase. 

Logan’s hands drift from your face, trailing down your neck and tracing along the curve of your spine as he presses you closer until there’s no space between you. The dampness of his skin bleeds into your shirt and you gasp into his mouth when he shifts his hips just enough and you feel heat of his erection against your thigh.

He pulls away from your mouth long enough to husk against your lips, “I’m old, not dead.” His teeth nip lightly at your bottom lip. “I’ve gotta beautiful woman lettin’ me kiss her, what did you expect?”

Your fingers trail along the edge of the towel slung low across this hips and a thrill runs through you as you feel his abdominal muscles flutter beneath your touch. You peer up at him, noting the flush of his skin, the black of his eyes as you tug the fabric just enough to loosen it. “How long has it been since someone has touched you, Logan?” you ask, your breath warm in the space between you.

Logan’s hands urge your hips closer, seeking friction as he starts to slowly rut against your thigh. You hear him swallow as your fingers dip below the fabric, brushing along the damp hair at the base of his cock. 

“F—fuck,” he groans, guttural and low, his head dropping down to your shoulder. “Since before you.”

The weight of Logan’s confession presses into you and in that moment you want to give him everything. Wrap him in all the love you can muster, show him something other than pain and suffering. 

You move your hand from the towel, allowing the fabric to fall from his waist and pool forgotten on the floor. Logan’s breath catches as your fingers wrap around him fully, the heat and weight of his cock pressing against your palm. 

A ragged groan escapes his throat. “Christ,” he mutters, voice thick and vibrating against your skin. “You don’t gotta—”

“I want to,” you interrupt, slowly and deliberately dragging your hand along his length, tracing the vein along the underside of his cock with your fingertips.

Logan’s hips jerk involuntarily, seeking friction, chasing your hand, and you oblige, tightening your grip just enough to elicit another groan from him. 

“What do you like?” The question lands in the sliver of space between you, your strokes still light, teasing.

“Firmer, more ah—” He breaks off as you tighten your grip on the upstroke. “Fuck, yes, like that, sweetheart.”

A shiver runs down your spine as his hands find your waist, fingers clutching at you almost hard enough to bruise. His breaths are growing uneven, each exhale warm against your neck as he fights to maintain some semblance of control.

“You keep that up,” he rasps, lips grazing your ear, “and I’m not gonna last long.”

His admission sends a rush of pride through you and you tilt your head back to look at him, your thumb brushing over the sensitive head of his cock, spreading the wetness there. Logan’s eyes meet yours, dark and heavy-lidded, his expression raw and unguarded. You like him like this, such a large, imposing man boiled down to pure wanton need. 

“I don’t mind,” you reply, keeping your movements steady, your strokes firm yet gentle. You focus on the subtle shifts in his breathing, the way his fingers grip you tighter each time you find the right rhythm. “Just wanna make you feel good, Logan.”

He leans forward, capturing your lips into a kiss that’s both rough and messy, teeth nipping at your lip as his tongue licks into your mouth. He groans are muffled against your mouth as his hips begin to thrust in time with your strokes, his movements growing more erratic as he chases after his release. 

“Can’t believe—ah, fuck—can’t believe how good you’re makin’ me feel,” he growls against your lips.

You smile into his mouth, your free hand brushing along his hipbone as your strokes quicken. His whole body tenses, the muscles in his shoulders and arms flexing, his abdominal muscles taut as he teeters on the edge.

“Let go, Logan,” you say. “I’ve got you.”

With a strangled groan, he comes, his release spilling over your hand, hot and thick. His body shudders against yours as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. You hold him close as he continues to thrust lazily into your grip, your own movements slowing as you guide him through the aftershocks. 

For a moment, neither of you speaks, then Logan lifts his head, his hazel eyes soft as they meet yours. “You walked into my life and I knew—I knew—you would ruin me.”

You smile to yourself, unable to stop the thought that floats into your head—he’s ruined you as well. 

+++

The text comes in at a little over one AM—hurt.

You jump out of bed, adrenaline rushing through your veins as you slip into one of his discarded flannels and head out into the night. Pacing the driveway, your heart jumps into your throat at every passing headlight, your thumbnail almost bitten down to the quick as you wait for him.

The minutes bleed into eternity until you finally see the limo turn down the long drive and it takes all your willpower to not run and meet him halfway. You’re bouncing on your heels as he finally comes to a stop, the driver’s side door opening with a faint groan of steel. 

Your heart stutters in your chest as he emerges from the car, blood soaking through his shirt, dark and spreading, as he steps towards you on shaky legs. Logan’s face is pale in the moonlight, his breathing uneven and shallow and white-hot dread shoots up your spine as you see his arm hanging limp, two of his claws unsheathed and dripping blood.

“Oh, fuck, fuck!” you gasp, rushing to his side.

Logan tries to wave you off, gritting his teeth as he grips the doorframe. “”M fine,” he grits, but the tremor in his voice betrays him. 

You reach for him, hands already attempting to steady him as his knees buckle and he collapses to the ground beneath him. “Careful. Claws,” he rasps as his left hand seeks purchase against your shoulder.

“I don’t fucking care about your claws, Logan,” you snap, although you both know your anger isn’t at him. You glance up at him and for once you think you actually see fear in his eyes. “What happened?”

“Gas. Robbery.” Each word punches out of his chest, the effort to speak sending tremors down his limbs. “Got ‘em.” He nods down towards his limp arm, claws still unsheathed, but slowly, so slowly starting to retract.

He winces as you help him peel off his coat to get to the shirt underneath. Your fingers shake as they trace the holes the bullets made—one in his shoulder, dangerously close to his lungs and the other just below his ribs. Hooking your fingers through the fabric, you rip it from his chest—the wounds are deep and his skin is hot and slick with sweat.

Panic claws at you and unshed tears burn in your eyes. You’ve seen Logan hurt before, but this—this was different. His breathing is painfully shallow, his usual gruffness and resilience absent. 

“Logan, you’re not healing,” you whisper, your voice shaking as your fingers stain with blood. Logan simply grunts, trying to wave you off, but lacking the strength. “I can’t…I can’t lose you. I can help.”

Logan’s eyes widen as he grabs for your wrist. “No. You’ll hurt yourself.”

“I don’t care!” you shout. “I love you, dammit, and I’m not just going to sit here and watch you die!”

Before he can protest, you press your palms over his wounds, the familiar warmth of your power surging through you as it spreads from your palms into his torn flesh.

The pain hits you like a freight train.

It’s sharp and relentless, searing through your shoulder and into the softness of your belly like molten fire. You gasp, biting back a scream as your body jerks instinctively away from the intensity, every cell in your body demanding you withdraw from the torture. 

But you don’t stop. You cling to him, tears streaming down your face as you channel your power into him, knitting his flesh back together. You can feel it, the way his muscles, bones and tissue rearrange themselves, months of healing taking place in mere moments. Every second feels like an eternity, but you refuse to let go.

You’re dimly aware of Logan yelling at you to stop, his own pain momentarily forgotten as he watches you endure his agony. 

Black dots dance in your vision as the last of his wounds come together, the spent bullets clinking to the gravel and you finally collapse against him, trembling, your breath coming in ragged gasps. The fire in your body begins to dull, fading to a cold, hollow ache as Logan wraps his arms around you, pulling you tight against his chest.

“Hey,” you mumble against him, your voice barely above a whisper. “You’re okay now.”

“Me?” Logan’s voice is low, disbelieving as his hand cradles the back of your head as if you might shatter. “You’re the one—why the fuck would you do that? You could’ve—dammit, you—”

His words break off, his forehead dropping to yours as his breath shudders against your cheek. You can feel the tension radiating through him, warring with himself between his gratitude and anger, between his guilt and the love he’s too afraid to speak out loud.

“I told you why,” you answer, lifting your head to look up at him. 

Logan’s jaw clenches, his words caught in his throat, but his eyes say everything is voice won’t. You don’t need him to say it, not yet, but you can feel it, pressing just below the surface.

“C’mon, let’s get you inside.”

+++

There’s a reverence in which Logan washes you. 

Steam swirls around you as he works the thickly lathered loofah over your shoulders, down across your collarbones and down along the soft planes of your stomach. The water rinses away the faint metallic tang of blood, leaving behind the fresh scent of soap. He continues with a silent determination, as if the act of washing you can erase all the pain you’ve taken from him.

You know better than to convince him you’re fine, that the pain is always temporary, that it only lasts for a few minutes, sometimes just a bit longer. That the pain is something you’d endure for him again and again if he’d let you. 

His thumb brushes along the underside of your ribs, searching for a wound you know he won’t find. You reach for him, lacing your fingers together with his. He blinks up at you, hazel eyes holding far too much worry for such a stoic man.

“I’m not going to break, Logan,” you say softly.

A wordless noice escapes his throat as he removes himself from your grasp and continues to work, ditching the loofah in favor of his hands. His fingers are warm and calloused against your skin as they glide lower, down over the swell of your hips, over your thighs, down towards your knees. 

His touch morphs from one of care and comfort to one more sensual, simmering with unspoken tension as his fingers rest in the hollow behind your knee. You glance down at him, water droplets catching in his hair, running off the slope of his nose. 

Though you’ve seen him bare before, you can help but trace the lines of his body—the broadness of his shoulders, the well defined muscles of his chest, the sturdiness of his thighs, the scars that mar his skin. The sight of him stirs something deep within you and you feel your pulse thrum beneath your skin.

“Logan,” you murmur, your voice almost lost in the sound of the water.

He looks up at you then, eyes locking with yours. A storm swirls within them, a mix of guilt, affection and an intensity that takes your breath away. Leaning in, he presses the barest of kisses to the inside of your knee before he rises to his full height, pressing you close.

“D’you mean what you said before?” he asks, voice low.

I love you, dammit!

“Yes,” you answer without hesitation.

Logan exhales sharply, the tension he’s been holding coiled in his muscles loosening as he loops his arms around your waist. “I’m not very good with words,” he admits, his breath fanning across your damp skin. “Can I show you?”

There’s no mistaking the meaning behind his words and you can only nod, your voice catching in your throat. 

His lips find yours, mouth moving over yours slow and deliberate as if he’s savoring the taste of you. The first touch is a spark, the second a fire, and by the third, it’s an inferno that engulfs you both and leaves you breathless. Logan kisses you like you’re his anchor, his salvation, his touch desperate and full of everything he can’t yet put into words.

Your fingers slide into his hair, gripping the strands at the nape of his neck as you pull him closer, deepening the kiss. He groans against your mouth, the sound swallowed in the space between you. His tongue brushes against yours, teasing and exploring and you respond in kind, your nails scraping along his scalp.

Logan’s control is fraying. You can feel it in the way his teeth nip at your bottom lip, the way his hands press along the curve of your spine, the way he can’t seem to find enough of your skin to touch, to caress. A low growl rumbles through his chest as you slip a hand between your slick bodies, finding his cock, thick and heavy against your belly.

You give one slow drag of your palm along his length before he’s gripping your thighs and forcing your legs around his waist. His mouth leaves yours, trailing down to the curve of your jaw as he presses you against the wall, the coolness of the tile a direct contrast to the heat of your skin and you can’t stop the gasp that escapes your lips. 

Despite his age, the metal bones inside him slowly poisoning him and causing him human aches and pains, he’s still able to hold you up solidly with one arm as the other trails along your hip bone and dips down to where you’re warm and wet. 

“This all for me?” he asks in a murmur, sliding a finger along the seam of your cunt, just barely brushing against your clit. 

Your breath hitches and you grip his shoulders, nails pressing lightly into his skin as you nod. Logan’s eyes darken at your reaction, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Yes,” you finally manage to whisper. “Always for you.”

“Good,” he growls, leaning in to nip at the skin just below your ear. The deep rumble of his voice vibrates through you, his touch deliberate and almost torturously slow as he slides his fingers through your folds, spreading your slickness with a focused and unrelenting precision. 

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp, your head tilting back against the wall as he finally presses his thumb to your clit, circling it with just enough pressure to have your thighs trembling around his waist. 

“I got you,” he coos against your skin, his lips trailing from the pulse point in your neck to your collarbone. His teeth scrape along the curve of your shoulder, his free hand gripping your hip tighter to steady you as his fingers continue to tease and coax. “Lemme make you feel good.”

Every nerve ending is afire beneath him, every motion, every stroke of his fingers against your cunt leaving your mind reeling with pleasure. Your nails dig further into corded muscles of his shoulders, desperate for something to anchor yourself to. You pull back when you see the tiny, crescent shaped cuts marring his skin.

His eyes snap up to yours, sharp and molten. “No, do it,” he urges, fingers still moving. “Mark me with somethin’ pretty.”

“Fuck, Logan,” you gasp. 

“Say my name again,” he demands, his voice rough and commanding. There’s a quiet desperation in his tone, as if hearing it grounds him. Grounds him to this moment. To you. 

You can’t help but obey, whispering his name like a prayer, and he rewards you by slipping one long finger inside you, the sensation sending a jolt of pleasure along your spine. Logan watches your face intently as if memorizing the way you react to his touch. When he adds a second finger and slowly begins to thrust his hand, you cling further to him, the heat inside you building to an almost unbearable intensity.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice low and reverent. “You’re so beautiful like this. So wet and warm and tight around me.”

His words barely register in your mind, too focused on the way his fingers curl and thrust inside you, finding that soft spot that makes your eyes roll back. He’s relentless now, his thumb pressing hard against your clit as he brings you closer and closer to the edge.

“Logan, I’m so close,” you whine, your hips beginning to roll against his hand, seeking just a bit more friction, forcing his fingers deeper inside of you.

The tension coiling low in your belly finally snaps, your orgasm washing over you in waves that make your whole body shudder as you cry out his name. Logan holds you through it, his hand continuing to thrust against you as he draws out every ounce of pleasure from you, his own breathing ragged against your skin.

When you finally come down, Logan presses a kiss to your temple as he helps you unwrap your legs from his waist and carefully sets you down, keeping you close. 

You tilt your head to meet his gaze, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “I didn’t think you’d be into shower sex, old man,” you tease with a smile.

His laugh is low. “I can make exceptions. I need a bed to fuck you properly, though.” 

“Prove it,” you challenge.

+++

The heat and intensity between you doesn’t diminish as Logan helps you out of the shower and guides you down the hallway towards his bedroom. A shiver of anticipation crawls up your spine as you get closer, knowing that once you cross this line, there’s no going back, that he will have claimed you fully.

You scoot back onto the bed, watching as he approaches you with a fire in his gaze that doesn’t waver. He climbs onto the mattress, knee pressing down between yours as he cages you in from above, gently pinning you beneath him. 

Leaning down, his lips brush against yours, teasing. “Still wanna challenge me, sweetheart?” His voice is a low gravelly growl that sends a prickling rush of arousal down your limbs.

“Always,” you reply breathlessly, arching into his touch as his hands slide down your thighs, parting them with ease. 

His grin is sharp as he leans back to take you in fully and you acutely feel the weight of his gaze against your skin. He traces his calloused fingers over your damp skin, along the dips of your collarbones, under the swell of each breast, mapping the curve of your hips as if committing you to memory. Dipping his head, he leans down between your legs, his beard grazing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs and you can’t help but shudder at the sensation.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he says, almost to himself, his voice dripping with desire. He drags his lips higher, brushing along your damp cunt, his breath hot and tantalizing. “And all mine.”

The possessiveness in his tone has you clenching around nothing, heat pooling low in your belly and your fingers tangle in his hair, urging him closer. But he ignores your silent plea, almost deliberately testing your patience as he kisses you everywhere except where you want him most.

“Logan, please,” you gasp, the ache between your thighs almost painful.

“Patience,” he chides with a smirk, though his own resolve seems to be thinning. His hands grip your hips, pulling you closer before he flattens his palms against your thighs, opening you fully to him. Then, his tongue is on you, lapping at you with flat, broad strokes in a rhythm that quickly has you teetering on the edge.

Logan’s focus is unrelenting, his low growls of approval vibrating through you as he works you over with an enthusiasm that proves to you this is about more than just pleasure—he’s claiming you, showing you just how much you mean to him. Making you his. 

Your thighs tremble around him and his warm, rough hands hold you steady as he slips one, then two fingers deep inside of you. It’s embarrassing how quickly you come as he thrusts his fingers against that spot inside you, your second orgasm of the night crashing over you as his name falls from his lips in a breathless moan. 

Before you can properly catch your breath, Logan is moving from between your thighs, making his way back up your body, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses against your skin. His lips finally find yours in a kiss that’s messy and desperate and you can taste yourself on his tongue, sharp and bright, and the intimacy of it sends a thrill through you. 

“You taste so fuckin’ good,” he groans against your lips, his voice wrecked as he grinds his hips against yours, his cock hard and insistent against your hip. “Could spend the rest of my life between between those thighs.”

“Why stop there?” you tease, your lips tugging into a smirk. “I thought you said you’d fuck me properly.”

Logan’s eyes darken, your challenge seeming to light something dark and primal in him. His grin is all teeth as he sits back on his heels, hands curling around your hips and pulling you down the bed like you weigh nothing until your hips are flush with his. “You gotta mouth on you, sweetheart. Should we see if you can still talk stuffed full of my cock?”

The weight of his cock brushes against your slick folds and you gasp at the sensation, your nerve endings exquisitely sensitive. Logan grips himself at the base, giving himself one languid stroke before running the thick head along your cunt, teasing you with shallow thrusts. Each slow, deliberate stroke of him sliding against you leaves you desperate and aching and you lift your hips in search of more.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “So needy. Bet you’ll take me so well, huh?”

“Yes,” you breathe, nails digging into the muscles of his forearms. “Please.”

He presses into you then, the stretch of his cock making your jaw drop as he takes his time, sinking in inch by inch, filling you completely. Logan’s gaze is locked on yours, heavy and possessive as he watches every flicker of pleasure cross your face. 

“Fuck” he groans when he’s fully seated against your hips, his body trembling with the effort to stay still. “You feel…so fuckin’ tight. So damn perfect.”

Your hands clutch at his shoulders, anchoring yourself to him as he starts to move, pulling out torturously slow before thrusting back in harder, setting a rhythm that’s relentless and consuming. Each stroke of his hips has you crying out, your body arching into his as you meet him thrust for thrust.

“Takin’ me so well, sweetheart,” he growls, his fingers gripping the flesh of your hips hard enough to bruise as he continues to pound into you. “Like you were made for me.”

The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mixing in with your whimpered moans and Logans own ragged groans. He leans down, bracing himself on his forearms, the wiry hair on his chest teasing your nipples as his lips find your neck, biting and sucking marks into your skin that feel like promises.

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him in deeper, your heels digging into his back as the coil inside you begins to tighten once more. He feels it too, the way you body clenches around him, and his pace falters slightly, his breaths coming faster.

“C’mon,” he rasps against the pulse point on your neck. “Wanna feel you come. Wanna make you fall apart.”

It doesn’t take much more—just a few more well-angled thrusts that hit that spot inside you and the tension finally snaps, your orgasm ripping through you with a force that leaves you trembling. Logan’s finesse is slipping, thrusts growing erratic as chases his own release.

“Come Logan,” you manage in a whisper. “Come for me.”

His hips stutter as he groans your name, spilling into you as his body tenses, lazily thrusting against you as he wrings out the last of his pleasure. He stays deep inside you, still for several moments before he shifts just enough to collapse against your side.

For a long moment, neither of you moves, the only sounds in the room being your heavy breathes and the pounding of your heart. Logan rests his head against your chest, heavy and sweat slick between your breasts. You brush at the strands of hair against his forehead before running your finger along the old scar on his cheek.

He lifts his head to look up at you, his gaze soft yet still simmering with hunger. “I do, you know,” he murmurs. His fingers brush idly against your skin. “Love you.”

A smile spreads across your face, warming blooming in your chest.

“I know.”

+++

You wake before he does, rolling over to find him prone, face buried in the pillow he hugs close to his chest. Sunlight filters in through the half slatted blinds, catching on the silver in his hair and beard and you can’t help but admire how handsome he looks, how at peace he is beside you. He’s relaxed in sleep for the first time since you came here. You’ve heard his growls and yelps of terror that echo in the night, seen the claw marks that pierce his sheets.

Your mind filters back to last night and how he looked as he came apart inside you, how desperate and needy he was for your touch upon his skin. The memory of his gasps and groans send a rush of warmth over your skin, making you dimly aware of the ache between your legs. Logan, so guarded, so unyielding and seemingly unbreakable, trembled as he came, his voice rough and wrecked as he called out your name. You shiver thinking about it.

You want to hear it again. But not now.

Resisting the urge to reach out and brush the hair from his forehead, you leave him undisturbed and slide out of bed. Padding into the kitchen, you find Charles sitting in his chair at the kitchen table, the newspaper spread out in front of him. He looks up at you with a warm smile as you start a pot of coffee, the machine humming to life. 

“Ah, I see,” he comments, a smirk tugging at his lips.

You glance over at Charles, his eyes back on the paper in front of him, but his smile still paints his face, sly and knowing. Heat creeps up your neck as you busy yourself with the coffee. “Are you reading my mind?” you ask, trying to force nonchalance into your tone.

Charles chuckles softly and taps at his temple. “I don’t have to. You’re projecting. And quite loudly, at that.”

You bite your lip as you fill your mug, leaning against the counter as the coffee warms your hands. You attempt to clear your mind, trying to think of anything mundane—the weather, baseball, laundry. Charles just shakes his head. “Relax, my dear. What the two of you do together as consenting adults is none of my business.”

“Oh, God,” you groan, your cheeks aflame. “That’s what I’m projecting?”

“Not that explicitly, no. You think more in feelings, rather than words. But they’re quite powerful emotions and rather hard to ignore when they’re radiating as strongly as yours are this morning.”

You bury your face in your hand, peeking at Charles through your fingers, which only seems to amuse him further. “You’re enjoying this far too much,” you mutter. 

“Perhaps,” Charles says with a laugh. “But you’re helping him. Healing him. And that, my dear, is worth everything.” 

Before you can respond, you hear the sound of heavy footsteps coming down the hall. Logan rounds the corner, hair tousled from sleep, his body still bare except for the pair of low slung sweatpants clinging to his hips. His eyes find yours first, softening in a way they rarely do for anyone else as he scratches at the back of his head and mumbles, “Mornin’.”

“Morning,” you reply with a smile, thankful for the distraction. You pour a second cup of coffee and offer it up to him. “Coffee?”

Logan grunts in affirmation, moving towards you, but instead of reaching for the mug, he loops an arm around your waist, pulling you against him. He buries his face in your neck, beard scraping against your skin as he sighs. “Didn’t like wakin’ up with you not there,” he breathes into your hair, his voice so low you almost don’t hear him.

“Sorry,” you whisper. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“S’okay,” he says softly, pressing the lightest of kisses just under your ear. “Next time, wake me.”

Your heart stutters against your ribs at his open display of affection, the softness and warmth in which he holds you, and the promise behind his words. From over his shoulder you see Charles give you a slight nod, a bright smile on his face before he turns his attention back to the newspaper in front of him.

You think back to what Charles told you all those months ago, about how you were a home for Logan. Those words echo in your mind as you feel Logan’s steady weight against you. He’s so different now, soft and unguarded and in that moment you know.

You’re home, too.

[theetherealbloom]

IT COULD HAPPEN TO YOU - CH.7

Chapter Seven: What Are You Doing To Me Now?

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

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x F!Reader

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

Word Count: 8.3k

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

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

Song: The blue by Gracie Abrams

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PINEWOOD STUDIOS — AFTERNOON

“You still need to change.”

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

Pedro blinks at you.

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

Mr. Fantastic.

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

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

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

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

He hasn’t let you forget it, either.

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

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

So much for an easy afternoon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Daisy.

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

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

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

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

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

Pedro doesn’t even hesitate.

“Yep.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. “Thanks, Jess.”

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

Pedro glances down at himself again.

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

You groan, covering your face with your good hand.

“Just go change, man,” Omar snorts.

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

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

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

Daisy nudges you.

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

Your face burns.

“Nope.”

Omar snickers. “Yeah, sure.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then Pedro emerged from his trailer.

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

His eyes found yours instantly.

“Hey.”

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

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

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

“I’ll rest when I get home.”

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

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

“You scared the shit out of me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vanessa smirked. “You are a mess.”  

Ebon chuckled. “At least you admit it.”  

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

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

You looked away first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stay,” he murmured.  

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

But you did. And you stayed.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he felt it.  

A faint warmth against his shoulder.  

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

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

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

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

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

He could have lost you today.  

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

And then there was that look.  

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

He could have kissed you then.  

He should have.  

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

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

He wants you.  

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

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

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

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

CHILTERN FIREHOUSE HOTEL — EVENING  

A gentle voice coaxed you from sleep.  

“We’re here.”  

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

Your head had been resting on him.  

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

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

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

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

“Right,” you murmured.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pedro was there in an instant.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re staying with me tonight.”  

Your lips parted in surprise. “Excuse me?”  

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

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

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

You narrowed your eyes. “What?”  

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

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

“Then I’ll stay with you.”  

Your breath hitched. “What?”  

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

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

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

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

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

You hesitated. He was giving you a choice.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How’s your side?”  

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

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

You blinked. “What?”  

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

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

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

Your breath hitched.  

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

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

You swallowed, nodding once.  

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

You did.  

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

Pedro stilled.  

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

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

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

“You scared the shit out of me today.”

“So you’ve said…” You mumbled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Instead, he nodded. “Okay.”  

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

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

That was all you needed.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You exhaled slowly. “I know.”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He arched a brow. “A little much?”  

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

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

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

Really nice.  

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

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

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

There was only one bed.  

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

“Oh,” you said.  

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

You blinked. “What?”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Very funny.”  

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

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

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

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

One bed. Pedro Pascal. You.  

You were doomed.

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

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

“Isn’t it weird?” he murmurs.  

You blink sleepily. “What?”  

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

You snort. “Maybe I’m cursed.”  

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

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

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

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

Your heart stumbles.  

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

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

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

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

“You always do that before bed?”  

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

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

You swallow. Shit.  

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

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

Your body goes rigid. Oh god.  

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

Absolutely not. You cannot let this man know.  

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

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

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

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

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

You groan. “Go to sleep, Pedro.”  

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

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

And before you know it, you’re asleep.

CHILTERN FIREHOUSE HOTEL — EARLY MORNING

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

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

Warmth. Solid and everywhere.

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

And then—oh.

Something hard presses against the curve of your ass.

Your breath catches.

Oh.

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

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

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

Shit.

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

A sleepy, raspy groan vibrates against your skin.

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

Silence.

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

“…Fuck,” he mutters under his breath.

Your entire body feels like it’s on fire.

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

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

Pedro freezes.

Oh, god. Kill me now.

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

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

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

Your breath stutters.

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

You want to die.

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

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

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

God, he’s so warm.

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

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

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

You don’t know who moves first.  

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

And then his lips are on yours.  

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

But you don’t pull away.  

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

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

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

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

Pedro immediately freezes.  

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

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

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

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

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

You glance at the time. “What?”  

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

Your heart sinks.  

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

What if that kiss was a mistake? 

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

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

But Pedro catches it anyway.  

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

You blink. “What?”  

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

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

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

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.  

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

Your stomach flips. “You do?”  

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

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

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

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

You roll your eyes. “Yes, dad.”  

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

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

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

You grab a pillow and launch it at him.  

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

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

Then—  

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

Oh my god.  

Oh. My. God.  

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t know. 

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

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

You slap a hand over your mouth.  

Oh God.  

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

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

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

Oh. Oh no.  

The fanfiction was bad enough. But then—  

Your stomach drops.  

The TikTok edits.  

The candid photos.  

The folder.  

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

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

You can never let him near your phone.  

Ever.  

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

Jesus Christ.  

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

This is bad.  

Like, really bad.  

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

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

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

End Notes:

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

Oh God, what if he finds out 😃

Ya’ll they kissed! YAYYY!!

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

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

We love a reassuring king. Gimme that shit. 

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

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

[balladofboothill]

Joe burrow x EMT

note : wrote this purely off kissing a tree with your car brownies and 10hrs of shitty sleep

warnings : brief talk of medical stuff, the q word, couple sex jokes and very short

Like any medical household, the q word is banned (quiet)

"Why the fuck is it so quiet here" Ja'marr comes busting in through the doorway, disturbing the much needed peace of the household, joe shushed him right away as the last time he said the q word he got a stuffed animal thrown his way, "we never speak of the q word here" Joe says quietly as Ja'marr gives him a look as if he has four heads.

Joe asks the strangest questions

"What happens if someone's dick snaps off during sex?" Joe asks, randomly at 4am, "uhhhhh, I don't know, why?" You ask, "dunno just wondering" Joe answered with this strange look in his eye, still slightly confused at why he's asking this, another time while eating dinner he asked what would happen if someone stuck a carrot in their eyes.

Med truck sex.

JK! But he did ask if that was possible while he was watching you load it. "Could you ride me on that stretcher?" Joe asks in a bland tone for the question he just asked. "Joe baby, great idea but I'd like to keep my job." You answered to him, clearly joking upset

Thinks it's the coolest thing that he now has a personal nurse for when he's sick

Man flu is the worst thing to ever happen to men, Joe is 100% down for the count, acting like he's gonna puke his lungs out, "nurse can you please give me some cough meds" Joe begged as best he could between the coughs, "yeah here." You said as you hand him the cough meds, "this isn't what I expected to be using my schooling for" you though to yourself, praying you don't get sick next

If his friends get injured while they're doing guy things he'll text you a picture and ask what to do

A text pings during your lunch break of a photo that Joe sent, it's of a pretty sizable open cut with a fishing hook stuck in it, Joe had taken a couple high school friends fishing at your family's pond earlier before your shift, texting back "don't remove the hook, cut the line and go to the ER", a couple hours later you receive a photo of the stitched up cut

any EMT is awful to watch football with

Watching a random college game after a long shift with Joe should have been relaxing until you get bored and start commentating the injuries that can happen, "during my first week I saw a player snap his entire latissimus dorsi" you commentate as Joe looks in slight horror

Thank you for reading :) please reblog to support writers!!<3

[rbfclassy]

TAKE CARE! — DABI

SYNOPSIS...dabi has always been stubborn, always been trouble, so whenever he gets hurt you’re the only one willing to help him even if he says he doesn’t need it

INFO...ex bf!dabi x fem!reader, slight angst mentions of blood, kissing, makeout, groping, mentions of a breakup, not proofread

OTHER...likes and reblogs are appreciated

Your eyes were fixated on the tv in front your as you watched one of your favorite movies. It was late at night and you were finally granted a day off from work after working seven days straight. You were exhausted and just needed time to yourself after the last hectic week. This was the perfect way to unwind. You sipped on your cup of juice, letting a small giggle at the scene from the movie before there were three loud knocks on your door.

Quickly, you paused the movie and waited in silence as you looked towards your front door. It was nearly one in the morning and you didn’t have the slightest clue who it could be. That wasn’t until you heard their voice. “Y/n, come on! Open up!” They knocked on the door again. Your eyes went wide as you recognized who it was. Jumping to your feet, you ran over to the door and unlocked it, only to see Dabi standing there slightly hunched over with his hand holding his side. “Fuck!” He hissed.

“Dabi? What—what the hell happened?” You look to see his jacket and hand are soaked in blood and you quickly pull him in and rush him towards the kitchen. He’s stumbling over his feet and groaning in pain before he plops down in one of your kitchen chairs, eyes half open. You quickly remove the jacket and discarded on your floor, a part of his white shirt covered with his blood, but all Dabi could do was chuckle at the sight.

“Motherfucker got me good. Shit!” He chuckled. You carefully lifted his shirt to see he had me slice with a knife. It didn’t seem too deep, but with the way Dabi was bleeding you weren’t sure if he needed stitches or if he was too stubborn to get help. Probably the latter.

“My gosh.” You shook your head. “I’ll be right back.” You ran to your bathroom to grab the first aid kit from the bottom cabinet, hoping you had enough to even get this gash covered up. It look to be about three to four inches in length, but you couldn’t really make it out. When you walked back into the kitchen you placed the kit on the counter and quickly washed your hands. “Wanna tell me what happened?” You asked, voice calm. You dried your hands off before opening the kit.

Dabi looked towards you, you were facing away from him as you grabbed supplies. How long has it been since he last saw you? Spoke to you? He can’t even remember. “Doesn’t matter now.” He answered. You hummed in response knowing you could never be too pushy with Dabi and his business. He always seems to hide it anyway even when you guys were dating. You’d bet money that he doesn’t even remember the last time he was here. It’s been maybe six to eight months when you saw him last, doing the same thing you were doing now, fixing him up. The breakup with maybe two years ago now, tired of the way he lived, tired of his secrets and closed off personality.

You felt like you’d never be able to get through to him no matter what you did and you reached a breaking point. Called it quits out of the blue and threw him out of the house you two lived in. Now, it’s just you. “Keep the shirt lifted,” you ordered, putting pressure on the wound. Dabi groaned in pain, cursing under his breath as his eyes clenched shut. Truth be told, he waited an hour before finally coming to you for help, contemplating whether or not he wanted to see you again after everything that went down. But he knew no one else would be willing to help him, no one would patch him up as good as you do and he sure as hell couldn’t go to a hospital.

He remembers the breakup very clearly, remembers your frustration and anger towards him and throwing all of his things out the door. But damn you two had a good thing going. You were his girl, the one he could always count on to hold him steady and keep him safe and he’ll do the same to you. He just didn’t know that keeping his secrets and keeping his lifestyle from you would drive you crazy. He just wanted to keep you safe from all of it, keep you from seeing what life was really like for him. Overtime, he came to an understanding of how you felt, so he left you alone. That was until the first time he got into a fight and then another and then now.

“Don’t be so rough!” Dabi shouted, gritting his teeth as you cleaned the wound.

“Maybe don’t go getting into random fights and I won’t. If anything, you deserve this,” you retaliated, glancing up at him. All he did was let out a loud sigh, gripping onto the table. “This is gonna burn.” You took the alcohol wipe and placed it on the gash.

“Goddamnit! Shit!” He hit is fist on the table as his leg bounced up and down. He took a deep breath in and exhaled through his nose. The stinging pain ran deep and lasted more than a few seconds as he tried to adjust to it. You lifted the alcohol pad and tossed it in the trash beside you, standing up to walk to the first aid kid to grab a bandage and gauze. “After this I’ll be out of your hair,” he spoke.

You shuffled through the contents of the box, ignoring his words as you grabbed what you needed. He looked towards you, hoping that you’d at least say something back or even look at him, but you didn’t. He looked over your figure noticing the crop top and shorts you had on, your excuse for pajamas. He quickly looked away when you walked back over towards him. "Sit up," you demanded.

Dabi grabbed onto the table for support as you gently placed the bandage on the wound, holding it in place as you wrapped the gauze around his abdomen tightly. "I appreciate this, really." He looked down at you. You hummed in response, not even glancing his way before standing to your feet. His jaw clenched and he reacted before thinking, his hand reaching out to yours. Snapping your head back to look at him, his eyes bore into yours. "Will you just talk to me for a moment? Come on, y/n."

A scoff leaves your lips as you pull your hand away from his grip. "You show up to my apartment bleeding after not seeing each other for months, don't tell me what happened, and then expect me to act like your friend?" Your brows furrow as you stare at him. Dabi then uses the strength he has to stand to his feet, now merely inches away from you.

"I know and I'm sorry-"

"This is the last time," you bluntly state.

"You know it's not," he responded. He gets into fights on purpose, gets himself hurt on purpose as an excuse to see you. There's no other way you'd talk to him, let alone let him see you. So, he gets into pointless fights just so he could come to you to get fixed up because the truth is, he misses you. He misses your presence, your touch, your voice, he misses everything about you. Then, he tells himself he doesn't want your help, he doesn't need it, but his legs are moving on their own and before he knows it, he's at your front door. "I miss you."

"Dabi...don't." You sigh, closing your eyes.

Your feel his hands wrap around your waist. "I do. I know you feel the same way otherwise you wouldn't help me."

You stay silent, looking down at your feet, afraid to look him in the eyes, but Dabi forces you either way. His finger hooks under your chin as you meet his gaze. There's tension in the air, tension so thick that it could be cut with a knife. You already know what he's thinking, the look in his eye is all too familiar with you. It hard to resist, hard to ignore the feeling bubbling in your chest and the thoughts flowing freely through your mind.

You kiss him. You broke your own rules and kissed him. Though it's been forever, your lips still feel like they belong on his, the way your bodies melt into each other feels like two puzzle pieces that fit perfectly together. His hands squeeze your waist, groping your skin before they sneak down to the plump of your ass. Your hands entangle in his hair, pulling him in and deepening the kiss. Before he could think, Dabi pushed towards the counter, lifting you onto it without breaking the kiss.

"Dabi-"

"Shhh." His hands move up under your shirt, caressing your skin. "Let's just have this moment. Together."

You break away from the kiss, panting heavily. "But, you're hurt. I don't think-"

"I don't care. I need you."

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Sum of All 5

Warnings: non/dubcon, mentions of crime, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: mob!Steve Rogers

Part of the mob drabbles au

Summary: you are given an unexpected assignment.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

“You look upset?” Rogers’ voice startles you. You sit straight and rub the stitch from your forehead. How long has he been there? 

“Do I?” You wonder.  

Three days in this place, sifting through scraps and musty old receipts, and it’s starting to bleed through. Oh, don’t think of the blood. You grip the desk and shift in the chair. 

“I guess,” he shrugs. “Something wrong? I can get you a different chair.” 

“Chair, uh?” You look down, “no, that’s fine. Actually, I think I’m probably almost done.” 

“Good,” he says.  

He crosses his arms and turns on his leather sole. He starts to pace. He does that a lot. If he’s not sat in the arm chair or disappearing to wreak havoc out of sight, he’s there, walking back and forth. Back and forth. Combing his fingers through his hair, waving his hand in a wordless argument, moving his lips silently. Even if you hadn’t witnessed it that first day, you could tell he’s a man with a lot of pent-up anger. 

You go back to tallying it all up. Your stomach somersaults as you hover the pencil along the columns and review the numbers. Honestly, you are done, you just don’t know how to say what you need to. To tell this man what you discovered. 

“You’re breathing heavy again,” he stops and turns to you, “what’s the matter?” 

“Asthma?” You lie. He grimaces. 

“You got something for that?” He asks. 

“No...” you look away guiltily. “Alright, I don’t have asthma,” you wiggle the pencil nervously then tap your nose without thinking. What are you doing? You still it and put it down. “I’m done, okay, and, er...” you suck in air through flared nostrils, “you gotta promise you’re not going to freak out.” 

“Freak out?” He echoes as if the concept is absurd to him. 

“Yeah, because it’s not good news.” 

“Spill it,” he steps closer to the desk. 

You lean back in the chair and look up at him. A shank of his dark hair slips past his ear and the sheen of silver strands on his chin catch the light. His jaw squares under his thick beard. 

“Okay, but like just remember that it’s this Warren guy...” You clasp onto the armrests as you talk. “Oh boy, right. I’m not sure how to say it...” your eyes skitter back and forth. When you look back to him, that vein is bulging in his head. Just say it before he explodes! “He stole. A lot of money. And he actually hid it quite well but... yeah, I can show you--” 

“Amazing!” He claps and his face lights up. You flinch and your eyes go wide. Huh? He looks almost happy. 

“It is?” You flutter your lashes as the fog fades away from the edge of your vision. 

“You did it,” he said. “Get up. You gotta tell the boss.” 

“Huh? Me? You can’t--” 

“You’re the one who knows numbers. Grab the book, let’s go,” he commands. 

You don’t dare disobey. You grab the ledger and stand so abruptly, the chair snaps on the axle. You give a sheepish smile and scurry around the desk. 

He waves you out of the office. You’re all too happy to oblige at the realisation that you’re close to being out of here. He takes you down the hall and stops you at that same door. He knocks and waits until he gets an answer from within. 

He ushers you in ahead of him and shuts the door with a heavy click. That man, Buck, or Bucky, or Barnes, or whatever he wants to be, sits behind his desk. He is just as unimpressed as the last time you saw him. 

“Steve,” he greets the other man. 

“Go on,” Rogers nudges you with his knuckles. “Tell him.” 

You hold the book up in front of your chest and sway, “may I?” You nod towards the desk. 

Barnes gestures to the empty space and you approach. You put the ledger down, flipping it to face him. You turn the pages back and start at the beginning. 

“So, I was going through it all. This Warren guy. You see, here are the expenses, then--” 

“I don’t need the exes and ohs, doll, just get to the business,” he insists. 

“Right, I know you’re a busy man so I wouldn’t want to waste your time,” you chuckle nervously. “Alright, well,” you stand straight. Your head feels bubbly. “He stole a whole bunch money!” You say it a bit more chipper than you mean too. “Oops, well, not that it’s a good thing but...” 

Barnes’ eyes narrow and his chin ticks. You gulp and chew your lip. Shoot. 

“Sorry, don’t be mad. It wasn’t me, you know, I just added it up and--” You rock backwards and tip.  

You’re saved from hitting the floor as Rogers catches you and puts you back on your feet. He keeps hold of you, an arm across your back and his other hand on your shoulder. Barnes watches with unyielding derision. 

“Holy hell, she got something going on in her head?” Barnes asks. 

“She’s fine.” Rogers insists. “Look, Buck. We figured it out. You got everything you need to off that guy.” 

“Off... you’re going to kill Warren?” You squeak. 

Barnes gives you a sharp look and you seal your lips. Why did you say that? Your vision pulses and the colours blur. You feel yourself tilting and your head falls back. You slip into darkness to the shallow noise of your own breaths. 

When you wake again, you’re in a car. Rogers’ car. It’s dark and he’s silent. You look over at his shadow as he drives. You don’t recognise the streets outside the windows. 

“Noooo,” you sit up and pull on the handle as panic course through you. “Nooo, please, don’t kill me--” 

“Hmph?” He grunts and grabs your arm, pulling you back against the seat. “Sweetheart, if I was gonna kill you, you wouldn’t be awake right now.” 

“Oh god, so you would?” You screech. “I don’t know anything. Consider it all forgotten. Out of my head... oooh, my head.” 

“Calm down. Have some water,” he points to the cupholder. Your water bottles firmly in it. “Boss is happy. You did a good job.” 

“Oh, okay, right. Yeah. I’m a good accountant,” you say. You cringe and take the water bottle. You uncap it and clear your throat. “I’m sorry.” 

You drink deeply as he keeps his foot on the gas. You feel a bit better. You put the water back and wipe your hands on your skirt. 

“Um, Mr. Rogers?” You eke out. “Where are we going? You don’t have to say but I’m just asking.” 

He snorts quietly, “gotta pick someone up. You just stay quiet and don’t move.” He pulls up in front of a house. It looks like a really normal one. “Can you do that without passing out?” 

“I...” you look between him and the window, “I’ll try.” 

[irisintheafterglow]

but who wants to live forever, babe?

summary: you're too sweet for dabi.

wc: 1.45k

cw/tags: gn!reader but dabi calls them pretty, swearing, brief reference to blood and injury, pet names (doll, baby, pretty), dialogue driven, emotionally constipated touya todoroki

note: this is very shamelessly written because of hozier lol. hope you like it :)

likes, reblogs, and replies are appreciated <3

You were irritating, excessively irritating. 

You woke up too early to watch the sunrise and stayed out too late to see constellations. You lingered in flower shops to touch the prettiest blooms and gave the last of your coins to street musicians. You were the first to suggest the tastiest food around and always volunteered to pay for everyone’s meals, no matter how large the group. You were thoughtful, selfless, and frustratingly kind. He wouldn’t have as much of a problem with it if you weren’t the deadliest killer-for-hire in Musutafu’s criminal underground. 

“You’re too nice,” Dabi says one night after a period of calm silence following the chaos of him crashing through your window and bleeding all over your floor. You glance at him from your spot on the windowsill, peering carefully over the construction blueprints for the following day’s assignment. He sits up with a groan, his hand grabbing the the spot on his abdomen you’d stitched up a few hours prior. “It’s infuriating.”

“A simple ‘thank you’ would suffice, you know,” you deadpan and he scoffs, wincing when pain shoots across his side. “Had it been anyone else who broke into my apartment, I’d have to deal with a fully dead body instead of a semi-dead one.” 

“That’s exactly my point,” he argues, straining his arm to grab the cup of water on the side table. Before he can get a good grip on it, you stand and snatch it from his fingers, holding it enticingly with a hand propped on your hip. “C’mon, doll. Now, you’re just being mean.”

“I’m being nicer than you are,” you counter with an iron grip around the cup. “Calling me infuriating after I just saved your barbecued ass from dying. Didn’t your mom ever teach you manners?”

“My mom didn’t teach me jack shit,” he reminds you, making another futile swipe for the water that you easily pull away. “What do you want me to do, take it back?” You shake your head with a tired sigh, finally handing him the cup. “I’m not taking it back,” he mumbles as you sit on the edge of the bed. Against his better judgment, he doesn’t immediately flinch away when you reach out to check his bandages, your fingers brushing delicately across his skin.  

“I know you aren’t,” you murmur absentmindedly. 

“Aren’t you gonna ask why?”

“Why should I? It’s not like you’re going to tell me why you hate me,” you concede and a muscle in his jaw tenses. 

“Stop being a brat and just ask.” You resist the urge to jab your pointer finger straight into his stab wound but settle for pulling back your hand from his body, leaving him craving your touch no matter how his logic told him to resist. He has half the mind to reach out and grab your hand, part of him ready to beg you to just stay with him. But, when his palm covers the top of your hand, it sits there awkwardly until he clenches it into a fist and pulls away. He tries another tactic. “Look, all I’m saying is you shouldn’t open your window for every stranger that crawls up your fire escape.” 

“But you’re not a stranger, as much as I wish you were one.” You return to your papers at the windowsill and he’s alone in the bed again. 

“You don’t mean that,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. “Tell me you’re lying.” His voice is almost too quiet for you to hear it break. Almost. 

“No,” you admit. “Of course, I don’t mean it.” You were looking at him too softly, too tenderly. Taking him in, stitching him up, and letting him rest while you kept watch was infintely more than what he deserved, especially after banging on your window and immediately passing out when you opened it. “Tell me you don’t mean what you said.”

“I do, though.” You nod and he watches your walls go up in real-time, closing yourself up so his words, good or bad, can’t get through. A million thoughts of panic race through every nerve in his body and only one command makes its way through: Fix it. 

“I understand.”

“No, you don’t.” Your blank expression becomes a frown and you look ready to kick him out onto the streets, or at least reopen his wound. “Let me explain first before you beat the shit out of me.”

“You have thirty seconds.”

“I think you’re too good for me,” he declares simply. He can’t see his truth make your heart stutter. “I think you’re too good for this life in general, and I think you should get out of it.” You scoff humorlessly, rolling your eyes to the side. 

“Because you hate me?”

“Because I don’t,” he corrects. You dare to meet his eye and feel your breath catch in your throat. His eyes are shining bluer than you’d ever seen them before, the scarce moonlight leaking through your window catching in his eyes just right. They’re scorching, hotter and more intense than anything his Quirk could create. “I should, but by some cruel twist of Fate, there are no words for how desperate I feel when I’m not with you, however much I despise that feeling.” In any other circumstance, you wouldn’t be able to waterboard this information out of him; yet here he was, bitterly lovesick and scowling as he told you that he’d rather burn alive than hate you. You fail to stifle a laugh and his scowl deepens. “You laughing at me?”

“A little bit, yeah,” you confess, standing to check his temperature with a hand on his forehead. It’s scathing hot and you suddenly notice the shivers he was trying to conceal. “You must be delirious if you’re admitting this all out loud, and you’re probably going to start burning up if you continue talking.” 

“I’m not delirious,” he grumbles. “And it’s normal for me to get like this when I… overdo it on missions.” Your mouth opens in understanding and he lets you touch his forehead once more to confirm the fever. “I figured you’d know this by now after all the times you’ve had to fix me.”

“Forgive me for thinking that you were becoming ill because you were forced to say one nice thing about me,” you say with a smirk, grabbing a small towel and heading to the bathroom. His voice calls after you while you turn on the cold water. 

“There you go again with your stupid sweet-talking sarcasm. You can at least acknowledge what I just confessed to you.” You chuckle again and re-approach him at the bed, draping the wet towel over his forehead and gently pushing him back onto the pillow. “You’re doing it again.” You make a split-second decision to mess with him, just for the hell of it. 

“Doing what, baby?” The petname disarms him and he blinks at you once, then twice before regaining consciousness. 

“Being too sweet for me,” he manages to force out and you let yourself smile at his obvious blush. You flip over the cloth to the cooler side and he sighs, closing his eyes in contentment. “You don’t do this with everyone, do you?”

“No, Touya,” you answer patiently and something in his chest tightens at the use of his true name. He’d forgotten he told you his true identity, most likely a result of a circumstance similar to the one you were in where he was too tired and weak to think clearly. “You are the only one I will take care of and allow to barge through my window at three in the morning. Not because I’m ‘too sweet,’ like you say, but because I care about you. Got it?”

“Mmm. Yeah,” he rasps. “Thanks, doll. You mind getting in here with me? I’ll sleep better if–”

“You don’t even need to ask,” you finish, slipping under the covers and settling against his chest. “Just stop being an asshole for a second.”

“Hey, careful on the–” 

“I’m aware of your wound, stupid,” you interject. “I’m the one who fixed it, remember?” 

“Right. Yeah, sorry,” he mutters, his lips brushing the top of your forehead. The tension in his body gradually dissipates the longer your skin is against his. “Can we sleep now?”

“If you shut up for long enough, yeah,” you joke and he lightly pinches your side. 

“I finally get in bed with you and you’re not so sweet anymore.” You snort against his chest. “What happened?” 

“I think we both have a lot to learn about each other. For now, please shut up and sleep.” 

“As you wish, pretty.”

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[thyme-in-a-bubble]

the brie

buttercup, chapter two

a/n: i was originally gonna go into more detail and dive into and actually write the traumatic moments, but i decided to go a little bit more easy on myself, just focus mostly on the healing part and regaining the good.

summary: “well, we’re going out to our usual watering hole, or it’s not just us, Karen, who works with us, is also tagging along. Would you wanna join? Might be fun… might tear the city up, dance all night and watch the sunrise or whatever kids do these days.”

warnings: matt murdock x baker!reader, neighbours to lovers, rape recovery, ptsd, wingman foggy, reference to croissant theft, alcohol consumption, drunk munching on cheese, kissing, crying, retelling of trauma (if it gets too much for you, then please feel free to just skip the last part of this chapter)

word count: 4978

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Scooping one divided lump of dough closer with the bench scraper in your grasp, you put it down before first folding the bottom of the blob over itself, then the sides and then stretched the top down as well before you rolled it all up to create that much more tension in the loaf. As you plopped the soft mass into one of the nearby dusted bannetons, nippily pinching the seam and giving it a few stitches, the ingrained dance only kept on as your fingers moved on to shape the next loaf of sourdough. 

To your left, not at the central table where you worked, stood your uncle Howard, a piping bag of vanilla-flaked cream in his grasp as his rotund frame bent over rows and rows of delicate, flaky little pastries, filling the sunken centre up before he could top them off with little chunks of crimson berries. 

“Are you alright, cupcake?” you glanced up to see Walter leaning against the doorframe that led directly behind the counter, “you look like you’re about to nosedive into the dough and use it as a pillow.”

“I’m alright, just didn’t sleep much last night,” you blinked back down at your work, noting how your weary eyes stung slightly from the lack of rest, “I had a nightmare that was really, really not fun, and immediately when I woke up I started crying and shaking, like instant panic attack, so I couldn’t really fall asleep again after that,” you glanced back up at him and offered a tight-lipped smile. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“I just don’t get why it has to feel so real,” you let your hands halt their waltz as you shared, Howard too glancing over in your direction, “why my body needs to remember it so vividly when I fall asleep. It hasn’t forgotten it while I’m awake, so I don’t feel like I need the reminders… sorry…”

“Don’t apologise, it’s–…” instead of uttering the painful truth, Walter instead let a heavy sigh flow and offered, “…do you want me to make you a cup of coffee? Maybe that could be nice, just a little bit?”

“Yeah,” you exhaled, “thanks,” before clapping the worst of the flour off your hands, briefly wiping them against the chocolate brown apron that partially covered your t-shirt and jeans, and wandered around the table, shadowing Walter as he fiddled with the espresso machine, making it hum and puff, till he handed you a steaming mug that had a little heart in the frothy foam floating on the top. 

“Here you go.”

Bringing it up to your lips, you offered him a genuine smile, “thank you, Walt.”

Staying behind the counter as Walter disappeared into the back, the chime of the small bell above the door brought your attention to the pair that then strolled in. Setting down your latte and expecting it to be just any other customer, your eyes instead went wide as you saw who it was.  

“Heya, neighbour!” 

“Y/n, hi,” Matthew smiled as both he and the floppy-haired man beside him came to a stop on the other side of the stocked display case, “uh, Y/n, this is my friend Foggy Nelson,” he gestured to the friendly looking fellow, “Foggy, this is my new neighbour Y/n.”

“The pastry goddess!” Foggy exclaimed excitedly, “I bow to the.”

“Goddess?” you giggled, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks as you glanced over at Matt, secretly in hopes that he’d gotten that nickname from him, “oh, I don’t know about that. My uncle’s the one who oversees most of the pastries. He studied in Paris back in the 70’s, so in other words he’s a bit of a control freak. But, he is getting better! Slowly letting me take care of more things that I’m more than capable of doing… I’m talking a lot, aren’t I?” you sucked in a sharp breath as you noticed your rambling, “I’ll shut up. The point was just that he is the one who makes most of the pastries here, not me. He’s the goddess.”

“Well, I tasted one of your croissants the other day–”

“Actually,” Matt raised a hand and interrupted his friend, “you stole it.”

“I did not–”

“You came over and I turned away for two seconds and the next thing I knew you’d obliterated the entire bag.”

“That sounds more like a you problem,” Foggy joked, managing to keep a straight face as Matt chuckled, “you’ve known me how many years now? You should know not to trust me with baked goods unless you mean for me to enjoy them,” turning his attention back to you, he leaned his folded arms against the tall section of the counter, “anyways, Y/n, that croissant was properly one of the best things I’ve ever tasted.”

“Really?” your face lit up with a bright grin. 

“Yes, it was so buttery and flaky and urgh!”

“Well, if you liked that, you might like today’s special…” your feet began to carry you further to the left to the very far side of the counter. 

“Oh, please do tell me,” he followed along like a magnet.

Pointing down to the pastry row on the other side of the glass, you explained, “it is this rhubarb danish that also has a little base of pastry cream at the bottom to balance out the tart compote.”

“Oh… my… god…” Foggy nearly salivated, his hypnotised gaze never straying from the treat, “you gotta be some angel sent from above.” 

Busting out a laugh, you grabbed a brown paper bag, “should I take that as confirmation?”

“Yes, please,” he nodded as you plucked one up with a set of tongs. 

“Will that be all?”

“I don’t know if it ever can be all, but slowly but surely I’ll get through your spread, and that is a promise,” Foggy accepted the bag into his waiting fingers, “but for now, yeah.”

“Matt, do you want anything?” you asked, feeling the flutter of butterflies wake up within your stomach as you returned your attention to him, “do you want me to describe the options for you?”

“No, I’ll just have the same as Foggy, as well as–, do you sell coffee?”

“Oh,” the scent wafting off your half-empty mug probably caught his attention, “yes, we do.”

“Then I’ll have a cup as well.”

“Oh, one for me too,” Foggy interjected. When you’d packed up another pastry and filled up two to-go cups, the shaggy-haired man pipped up as they were paying, “hey, what are you doing later tonight?”

“Uh, I don’t know. Properly just head home and rewatch some series for the billionth time,” you said, putting the cash they’d handed you away in the register, “why?”

“Well, we’re going out to our usual watering hole, or it’s not just us, Karen, who works with us, is also tagging along. Would you wanna join? Might be fun… might tear the city up, dance all night and watch the sunrise or whatever kids do these days.”

A laugh then rumbled within Matt’s chest, “we’re not gonna go dancing, Foggy.”

“You never know,” Foggy sang, “I’ve got moves like you wouldn’t believe!” he snuck a small sip of his steaming coffee before meeting your eye, “so, Y/n! Please tell me you’re coming?”

“…and then Karen was like what’s that? Turns out a giant piece of glass had stabbed my side,” Foggy clutched onto his drink as he told his dramatic tale, “I nearly died.”

Cutting her sip of beer short, the golden-haired woman sitting beside him at the round bar table objected, “you did not nearly die.”

“Oh yeah?” Foggy squinted light-heartedly back at Karen, “says the person who barely got a scratch. I single handily rescued both you and Mrs. C from that building and got a sick ass scar to prove it.”

Their voices faded away like grown-ups in a Saturday morning cartoon as you glanced back down at your drink and let the radiating heat of the man next to you seep into your bones. As your fingers brushed down the sides of the glass and played with the condensation, Matt suddenly reached out for his own, though in his search for the stout glass that stood ever so close to your own, his touch briefly grazed against your skin. But if that wasn’t enough to spike your heart rate, when his long fingers enveloped his short glass, the back of his hand pressed up against yours at the proximity.

You weren’t sure how long it persisted before he raised his dark drink up to his lips, but it didn’t seem like he was in a rush to let the contact fade. Your breath managed to grow ragged in the chunk of time you got to stare down at his hand, it looking so massive up against yours. Though the light in the dingy bar was low, you could still manage to make out the dizzying pattern of prominent veins that cascaded off the back of his hand like a calm rainfall rolling down a windowpane. 

For a moment there, assisted by the few drinks in your system, you let yourself dream, just for a little while, just until Foggy’s voice cut through your haze and stirred you from your fantasy. 

“… I mean, am I right? I’m right. Come on, Y/n, back me up here!”

“Huh? I’m sorry, uhm…” you blinked, in some ways feeling more drunk than you had a minute ago, “wha–what did you say?”

As Foggy then began to explain what you’d missed, Matt leaned down close to your ear and whispered, his hot breath tickling your skin and causing goosebumps to erupt. 

“You okay?”

“Mhm,” you hummed fuzzily. 

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” you glanced down and noticed how rapidly your chest was rising and falling. 

“Do you wanna go home? I can walk with you if you want,” he offered quietly. 

“Uhm…” you blinked up at him before uttering, “sure, but I don’t wanna end your night before you want to.”

“No, you’re not,” he reassured you, “I’m ready to go home myself.”

“Alright then,” you nodded before Matt turned to the others. 

“Guys, we’re gonna head home.”

“No!” Foggy boomed, “really?”

Throwing her hands up, Karen added, “but we haven’t even gone dancing yet!”

“Sorry,” Matt got up from his tall stool, “another night.”

“Thanks for inviting me,” you tugged your jacket back on, “I had a lot of fun.”

To your surprise, they both got up and hugged you in return.

“Thank you for coming!” Karen gave you a tight squeeze before Foggy took over. 

“And we’ll be seeing you for the next one, right?”

“Uh, sure,” you gave his back a light pat, “if I have time and stuff the day that it happens, then I’d love to tag along.”

Casting his glance upon the other lawyer, “bye, Matt,” Foggy then yanked him into an embrace, “I love you, you know that?”

“Yeah,” Matt chuckled, clapping his friend’s spine, “I know, buddy.”

“You love me too, right?” Foggy pulled back, though still kept his hands fast on Matt’s broad shoulders, “don’t leave me hanging, it’s bad for a man’s health.”

“Foggy, I started a firm with you. Of course, I love you,” Matt smiled back at his sloshed pal, “good night.”

“Night, night,” Foggy patted his scruffy cheek before letting him out of his gasp, though adding as you turned to exit the bar, “night, Y/n! I love you too! I just met you today, but I love you!”

Soft giggles bubbled out of you as the door slammed shut behind you. 

“So, those are your friends...” you smiled into the night, “I like them. They’re nice.”

“Yeah,” the corners of Matt’s lips turned further up till dimples bloomed, “they’re good eggs.”

As the two of you began to move along, the silence didn’t last very long at all. 

“This is really nice of you, walking me home like this,” you uttered, “I know it’s just because we’re neighbours and headed in the same direction, but–”

“It’s not.”

“What?” your eyes found him.

“It’s not because we’re neighbours. It’s just, you know, the decent thing to do.”

“Right,” you exhaled, casting your glance back down onto the sidewalk as you momentarily got your hopes up. 

“And you know how this city can be,” Matt went on, “it’s not smart for anyone to walk alone at night.”

“Yeah,” you nodded, trying to keep your tone nonchalant, “of course.”

When a street then appeared before you, slicing the path you journeyed on, and even though there wasn’t any traffic in sight, your hand still instinctively shot down to grasp Matt’s forearm before the two of you could cross.

Realising what you’d done, you quietly muttered, “sorry,” though couldn’t find the strength to withdraw your touch just yet. 

“It’s okay,” his low voice slid from his lips like silk. 

“I just didn’t want you to walk straight out into ongoing traffic...” you tore your gaze away from him and forced yourself to look at the road before you, “but there aren’t any right now, so we can cross the street…”

Guiding his palm up to the curve of your elbow, he accepted the gentle aid as you began to cross the lane. 

Once you’d reached the other side and his grasp slowly began to drift back down. When his palm reached the height of your own, you softly caught it before timidly testing, “…do you mind if we–…”

“Hold hands?” with a gentle smile, he filled in before you might wonder if he could even sense your shy touch at all.

“Yeah…”

“No,” you felt him weave his fingers with your own, “not at all.” 

His touch somehow felt even better than you’d imagined. Though surprisingly gruff, with harsh calluses all throughout, he cradled your palm with such care, like he’d held it a thousand times before, occasionally swiping his broad thumb over your knuckles, presumably just a subconscious gesture from his end that still caused shivers to trickle down your spine every time he did so. 

You wanted the latter part of your walk home to last forever, engulfed in the comfortable silence of endless possibilities. But alas, when you did reach your building’s front door and then climbed the steps all the way up to your respective apartments, you couldn’t get yourself to let go just yet. 

“Are you hungry? Because I kinda am,” you weren’t really, but anything to just stretch the night a little longer, “or maybe it’s just my subconscious taking care of me and lessening my hangover by giving me a sudden craving for cheese.”

“I don’t think I have any cheese.”

“I do,” you said maybe a bit too fast, “do you want some?”

Exhaling lowly, a soft smile twitched at his lips as he then uttered, “sure.”

As you unlocked your door, you finally let go of his hand, “make yourself at home!” you placed your keys down on the slender entry table before kicking your shoes off and peeling off your coat, hanging it up on the row of hooks, “oh, do you want me to, uh, describe the layout for you? Or just plant your down on the couch?”

“Just tell me the direction and I think I’ll be fine.”

Facing him, you haphazardly explained, “alright, the hallway goes on for a few steps and then it’s to your right–, no, wait, my right, that’s your left. It’s to your left.”

Whirling around, you delved deeper into your home till you reached the kitchen. Ripping open the fridge, you snatched up a block of half-eaten cheese before seizing a clean butter knife from the dishrack and a roll of seedy crackers from a cupboard. 

Matt was already comfortable on your sage couch as you laid the humble spread out on the coffee table and joined him. 

“I hope you like brie because that’s what I got. Unless you want a single slice of american cheese, then this is all the cheese I have to offer.”

“Brie it is then,” he relaxed into the cushions as you unwrapped the snack. 

“Here, let me make you a bite,” slicing off bits of soft cheese, you spread it both on a cracker for him and one for you. Gently picking up his hand to place his snack in his palm, you then popped your own in your mouth and nearly melted into the couch next to him, “yep… that’s the spot…” you grinned hazily out the tall windows at the night sky as you chewed, “there’s just something about eating cheese when the moon is out that’s just so right in a way I can’t describe…” 

Your murmuring conjured a light chuckle to rumble within Matt, one that swayed your gaze to train on him. Resting your head against the back of the couch, you watched as the moonlight reflected in his tinted glasses. 

When the silence stretched on, Matt eventually cocked his head, “…what?”

Not tearing your eyes off of him, you breathed, “nothing…”

“You’re quiet,” his dark brows furrowed gently, “what’s going on?”

“Nothing,” you repeated, feeling almost like you were floating in a calm sea. 

“You tired? Do you want me to go so that you can go to bed?”

“No, please don’t, I–…” you reached out and grazed his arm, “could–… do you want to go?”

Letting his body relax once more, he breathed, “not particularly…”

Gazing up at him, your bottom lip snuck its way in between your teeth, “Matt…”

“Yeah?”

“You–… you’re–… I–…” your pulse pounded in your ears. 

“Mhm?”

“I really, really wanna kiss you right now…” you uttered thickly before you had the chance to chicken out. Like a wave crashing a shore, you didn’t even think as you let yourself dive in and press your lips to his. The kiss however didn’t last too long as you swiftly drew back as soon as your brain turned back on and you realised what you’d done, an apology hastily rushing out of your lungs, “Oh my god… I am so sorry.”

“Y/n,” hearing your name on his silky tongue did not help matters. 

“I didn’t mean to just–”

“Y/n,” he repeated, trying to cut through your fog. 

“We can just forget any of that ever happened, I totally get it if you don’t–”

As he brought his hands up to cradle the sides of your face, your nervous ramble fell short. When he ghosted his thumb across your cheekbone, you swore that you stopped breathing entirely. 

“…can I kiss you?” he slowly asked, leaving you utterly dazed. 

“W-what?”

Drawing in a breath, he repeated for you, “can I kiss you, Y/n?”

Blinking back at him, you hazily hummed, “mhm,” before he leaned in and brushed his lips against your own. The kiss was soft, just as your shoddy attempt had been, but it made your limbs feel like they morphed into jelly. When the pecks soon departed, you filled your lungs with a shaky breath as you gazed back at him in total awe, “holy shit…” only staying there a moment before you had to have another taste. 

Slowly growing more confident, the intoxicating kiss gradually grew more hungry. When his fingers then weaved into your hair, you realised that up till now he’d been holding himself back, gatekeeping a kiss that caused your frame to crawl into his lap, starving for more. Your little whimpers vibrated against his tongue as he danced it against yours, growing dizzy as you melted into the heart-stopping sensation. 

But suddenly a tormenting flash stabbed your being, and you abruptly tilted your lips away from his, breathlessly uttering, “wait, wait, there’s-, there’s-, uh…”

“What,” he breathed thickly, nose grazing yours before you retracted further, “are you okay?” 

“I’m…” carefully crawling off his lap, you kept going till you were a safe distance away on your own side of the couch, “Matt, there’s something I need to–, uhm, tell you…”

Staying silent, he patiently waited as you gathered up the courage needed to jump off the cliff and tell him.

Casting your gaze up to the tall and dark ceilings above, you felt your limbs begin to tremble, “okay, alright… I have no idea how to, uh, say this, so I’m just gonna do it,” and like a band-aid, you uttered, “I-, I was raped,” your eyes squeezed shut, not daring to risk glancing at his reaction, “a little over a year ago… and I haven’t–, uhm, done or tried anything with anyone since… so yeah, I just thought that was a good thing for you to know since even though I hope for there not to be any problems, I just don’t know, I don’t know what it will be like for me, if my body will suddenly freak out, but I just wanted to tell you so that in case something does happens, that you know not to automatically take it personally...” drawing in a shaky breath, you fluttered your gaze open and waited for his response, “Matt?”

“Yeah?” he answered carefully. 

“Please don’t say that I’m scaring you away right now…” you shifted your position, turning to face him once more.  

“You’re not, you’re not,” his head softly shook from side to side, “I just–… I really, really sorry.”

“Yeah…” you exhaled slowly, feeling tears sting the corners of your eyes, “me too…” staring at him a moment, you then bared your all and uttered, “I really like you, Matt,” a faint smile accompanied the declaration, “I think you might be the only guy in all of New York that I’m not scared of,” every other man you could think of had all had at least a second, a little flicker, of something that over the past year had terrified you, “and I don’t want you to think that I’m made of glass, that’s not what I want, that’s not why I’m telling you this. Please trust me when I say that I want to, I wanna do–…” a weighty exhale flowed from your lungs as your lips remembered his taste, “I wanna do everything with you… if–, if that’s something you’d like as well… but if we do, even though I really, really want to, I think it’s probably smartest to go slow, no pressure, you know, just in case, so that my body doesn’t freak out. Also, I’d really appreciate it if I at any point indicate for you to stop or even just pause a moment, that you’ll do that, that you’ll listen to me,” you briefly glanced down at your fiddling fingers, “and you know, I’m not saying let’s only do PG things, there are so, so many wonderful steps on the way that we can have fun with… I just–, I wanted to let you know now, before, so that we wouldn’t potentially have this conversation when something did happen.”

Only parting his lips when he was sure you were done, he uttered, “thank you for telling me. Are you–… are you okay? Was what happened before too much?”

“No…” you shook your head gently, “no, it wasn’t,” taking his hand in yours, you shared, “and I’m okay, I think… I mean, some days it still feels like it just happened, and others I notice something, something small, that I’ve gotten back, that I’ve regained…” absentmindedly tracing the lines of his palm with your thumb, you asked, “do you–… do you have any questions? Is there anything you wanna know?”

“No, I–… I just want you to tell me however much or little you feel comfortable with sharing.”

“…can I tell you? About it?” you asked slowly and he swiftly offered you a soft nod. Drawing in a deep breath, you began, “It, um, it was a Saturday night… I’d just gotten back from the bakery super late, maybe close to midnight… and when I was getting ready for bed, my roommate came home, he’d been out drinking as he usually spent his weekends. I remember we stayed up a while, just talking about the mundane stuff we always did. It was like any other Saturday, really. That was until I got too tired and went to go to bed, but he didn’t wanna stop talking, so he followed along into my room while I got ready and stuff,” averting your gaze, your bottom lip began to tremble, “we were just talking, it wasn’t anything special and then the next thing I knew, he was kissing me. It just–… it happened so fast… his hands were all over me… I remember he pushed me up against my closet so hard that my back was bruised the next day, and I don’t bruise that easily. He was just so wasted that I don’t think he realised or maybe even cared what he was doing. I tried to say something, tried to make him stop, but he didn’t listen to me. If he heard me, then I don’t think he understood what it was that I was saying… I would have pushed him away, slapped and hit him, but I couldn’t, I couldn’t move my body, not even a little, I just froze…” 

“I can still feel what he felt like… like my skin won’t let go of the memory…” tears rolled down your cheeks as you squeezed your eyes shut and tried to ignore how your palm tingled with recollection, “how he forced me to touch him and held his hand over mine, making it move as if he just thought I didn’t know what to do… he was my friend, you know? He wasn’t just some stranger who dragged me into an alley and held a knife to my throat. He was my friend. He would always make offhand jokes about seeing me as just a little sister and how he wasn’t attracted to me at all. Made such a big deal of it that I never thought he’d try anything… I have no idea how long it actually went on… I don’t even remember when it was that I landed on the bed, if it was before or after he–… after he–… did stuff, t-touched me… I just remember I was laying there when it happened. The masked man, the devil of hell’s kitchen, he ripped him off of me…”

“He’d somehow heard… I think maybe if I hadn’t opened the window that night to air out the room, he wouldn’t have saved me… he beat him up... knocked him out… he told me to call the police, but I couldn’t, so I instead asked my uncle to come get me… my body’s never shaked the way it did that night… I remember I was so confused because I wasn’t cold, didn’t get it till the masked man said I was in shock… it didn’t stop till the next night… when he was about to leave, I asked what if Mi–,” you couldn’t get yourself to utter Michael’s name out loud without feeling as if your whole world would crumble around you, “what if he woke up before Howard arrived, and so he just stayed there with me, right till he somehow heard my uncle walking up the stairs and then he slipped out the way he came in, right before I heard the front door unlock.” 

Letting out a long and unsteady breath, you raised a trembling palm up to wipe your cheeks. 

For a while, the silence got to encompass the space completely, your left hand still shaking in Matt’s as you eventually heard him ask. 

“Did you ever go to the police?”

“No. In the small window that I had to do one of those kits, I was just way too overwhelmed and confused and I just couldn’t think straight, I couldn’t do anything but relive that moment over and over again, so I didn’t do anything in time. But the longer time that passes and the more it sinks in what he did and the ways that I’m still paying for it, the things he ruined inside of me that I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to get back, the more I wish that I had gone to the police. But it’s too late now.”

“No, it’s not,” his fingers squeezed slightly around yours, “I could help you, I’m a lawyer after all.”

“No, Matt,” you said firmly, “it is. I don’t wanna sit there and hear them go oh, it’s your word against his, sorry, and have them think that not enough happened technically for them to take it seriously. Enough happened, trust me. I’m eternally grateful that Daredevil saved me from whatever else he could have done to me that night, but enough happened. Just because he didn’t stick it in me doesn’t mean nothing happened. That is the kind of belief that only belongs to people who think that the only sexual act that counts as sex is when a penis is in a vagina, and that is just so incredibly wrong,” an enraged laugh tumbled out of you as you fumed, “they are the kind of people who think that someone queer, disabled or just someone who isn’t into that sexual act isn’t actually having sex when they are. Sex is about connection, it’s about pleasure and there are endless amounts of things that can give a person pleasure,” clenching your jaw, you let out a heavy sigh, “I wish it could be different, I wish many things, I wish it hadn’t had happened at all, but it did, and I hope that at the very least he learned something from it, that he changed, that he wouldn’t do it again to someone else.”

© 2024 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[dragonrider9905]

Before TBB Ends...Regardless of HOW it Ends...I've Got to Say Something...

In 2021, TBB was released, and over the last few years, it's grown to mean a lot to me. Not just the stories, the storytelling, the characters whom we've fallen in love with and hope to see more of someday, whose stories we've learned important lessons from, but how it profoundly affected my life.

And it is something I am incredibly grateful for.

Regardless of how the show ends, if it's something I'm going to love or be totally heartbroken over and hate, I'm so glad it happened and went on this journey.

For one, it gave me the plug to start writing. Writing was always a dream of mine but it wasn't until I discovered fanfiction, because of TBB, that I actually realized it. I had this idea of writing and thought I'd never really be able to accomplish that. The show enabled me to move past that and I've been able to be enflamed by my love for writing. It brings me so much happiness. No other show pushed me to write like this one.

Secondly, my writing has allowed me to touch and interact with people. I can't tell you how much it means to me and how thrilled I am to hear and learn my work has touched you in some way. I'm humbled by your words and taking the time to actually read and appreciate what I've written.

Thirdly, I've gone on so many adventures, crazy amazing adventures because of what other brilliant minds I met through the show have written. There are SO many great stories that just hit me so.....I was touched by your stories that you wouldn't have written if you hadn't watched the show!

Lastly, but CERTAINLY not the least, I have made SO many friends and writing buddies because of this show. It has connected me to so many cool people that I otherwise may never have found. I've grown really close with some of you, while others, though we may not be friends per say, I hope we can someday. In the meantime, I will admire your work from here. You guys mean so much to me and I can't even begin to express how wonderful it's been getting to know you over the past few years. The fun experiences we've shared, the theories, the stories, all of it. I am not putting this as well as it was in my head so please forgive that.

This includes but isn't limited to: @eclec-tech @photogirl894 @apocalyp-tech-a @lizartgurl @jedipoodoo @arctrooper69 @carolinetano7567 @trapezequeen @ghostofskywalker @masterjedilenaaa @ladysongmaster @moonstrider9904 @klmwrites @techs-stitches @ovaa-bi-bia @frostycatblr-fandom-files @imabeautifulbutterfly @sverdgeir @oceansssblue @marvel-starwarsfangirl @jedi-hawkins

How about you? What are you guys grateful for? Reblog and share what TBB meant to you!

Copy and paste the red as your header and let's see how many people we can get so share their stories!

I will end with no other quote than this!

"With love comes loss; it's part of the deal. Sometimes it hurts, but in the end, it's all worth it. There's no greater gift than love."

[mydadleft471]

For The Love Of A Daughter: Chapter 2

Summary: After waking up from what you were sure was a dream, you receive an invitation from your Lord and host.

Spoilers for Elden Ring and SOTE (got tired of writing out the full name lmao). No warnings, just a soft morning and Sianet being the best.

It seemed like people really liked my first chapter, so boom, have another! Have some Sianet backstory! (Bonus points if you look up the meaning of her name). Have my clueless ass trying to describe clothing! Have some good feels! God I love this man. Next chapter breakfast date with snakes??? I think so!

As always, thank you for reading, liking, commenting, and reblogging! It means so much to me. I hope you enjoy!

When you woke up this morning, you were terrified to open your eyes and find that yesterday’s events were a pleasant dream. But your fears were put to rest once you realized it wasn’t a figment of your sleeping imagination. Jasmine was still next to you, her small body tucked into yours. Her face is peaceful. Smiling, you carefully shift your way out of bed so you don’t wake her by accident.

The marble floor is cold on your bare feet and it helps you wake up. You hadn’t noticed last night, but you had a balcony. Opening the beautiful glass door, you’re greeted by the sweet morning sunshine and fresh air. You look over the landscape before you, and it’s only now you realize its quiet beauty. The grass, tinted a delicate gold, sways in the breeze. Below, you can see a few animals grazing and some of Messmer’s soldiers patrolling. Even a place such as this can hold some semblance of serenity.

Your thoughts are torn towards the sound of your door opening. You pull your robe around you tighter and smile when you realize your visitor is Sianet.

“Good morning. I trust you slept well?” Her pleasant, motherly voice echoes around the room. Her hair is tied up today.

“I did, thank you. Jasmine’s still asleep.” You gesture towards the small bump in the sheets.

“Poor thing, she must have been exhausted.” You notice her eyes are a pale blue, almost white. They’re beautiful.

She has clothing draped over her arm and a small bag slung over her back, and when your gaze shifts to it, she smiles. She moves to the gold wardrobe to the left of your bed with light steps. You follow her.

“Lord Messmer had our seamstress make new clothing for you and Jasmine. Right now, you only have a few options, but in a few days, you should have a full wardrobe to choose from.” She carefully lays out your clothing on the large vanity table, a few elegant tunics with delicate embroidery, and a couple pairs of pants with gold stitching. She opens her bag and reveals a pair of leather boots for you and some sandals for Jasmine.

You hear a loud yawn behind you and you turn to see Jasmine stretching and slowly making her way out of bed. Once she notices that you and Sianet are awake, she toddles her way over to you both.

“Good morning, Jasmine.” You reach down to smooth out her horrible bedhead. 

“Hi. What are you guys doing?” She yawns again.

“I brought some clothes for you, little one. Would you like to see?” Sianet gestures to the remaining clothes on her arm.

Jasmine’s eyes light up and she bounces excitedly. She is no longer tired at the mention of gifts, it seems. “Please! I wanna see!”

Sianet laughs and begins to lay out the little dresses. All of them are beautiful and they all vary in color. Some are somber greens and reds, but there are a few colored lilac and cerulean. The seamstress did a wonderful job. Jasmine carefully touches each and every one, awe evident in her eyes. 

“These are all for me?” She speaks like she can barely believe her eyes.

“Yes, and you may wear whichever one you’d like.” Sianet lays a gentle hand on her back.

“Can I wear the purple one? I like purple.”

“You may. Let’s get you dressed up.” She smiles and looks back at you. She grabs a small envelope from her bag and hands it to you with a golden letter opener. There is a red wax seal on it with Messmer’s insignia.

“This is from Lord Messmer?”

“Yes,” she answers. “He instructed me to give it to you.”

“Thank you.” Sianet nods in response and begins to help Jasmine get dressed.

You walk back to the bed and sit, delicately dragging the letter opener across the top. With shaky hands, you unfold his letter and read his loopy writing.

Good morning. I hope thou hast found thy bed comfortable and sufficient for plentiful rest. I am writing to request thine presence at breakfast. Jasmine is welcome if it pleases thee. If thou art overwhelmed by my request, I shall not be offended if thou wisheth to spend this day in isolation. Give thine answer to Sianet, and she shall see to it that whatever thy choice, thee and thine child shall eat.

Lord Messmer

He was writing to invite you to breakfast? Your heart raced and you found yourself nervous. He is a Lord, and he wants to have breakfast with you and Jasmine? You’re not worried for your safety, he’s proven that he doesn’t want to hurt you or her, but you’re afraid that you will offend him. You have no clue on proper eating etiquette outside of the basic don’t chew with your mouth full. 

Jasmine bounds up to you, flaunting her new dress. The delicate lilac compliments her green eyes, and you smile. She looks so happy.

“What do you think?” She spins around so you can see the entire dress.

“You look like a princess, sweetie.” She beams at your praise and dances around the room, her skirt swishing and swaying with every movement.

Sianet approaches you, laughing at Jasmine. “What would you like to wear today?”

“I’m not sure, honestly. Lord Messmer asked if we’d like to join him for breakfast, but I’m not royalty. I don’t know proper etiquette and I’m terrified I’ll offend him.”

“Lord Messmer never requests anyone’s presence for breakfast. You would be a special exception, therefore I don’t think he’d be offended if you went.”

“I’m not worried about going. He’s very polite and he’s given us so much already. I’m worried I’ll do something or say something wrong.”

Sianet sits down beside you on the bed and grabs your hands in hers. She smiles softly at you. “I cannot make this decision for you, but I have known Lord Messmer for a very long time, and he is not like his enemies describe him. He is sweet and considerate, though you’ve seen this already. I ask you trust yourself and not give into these anxious thoughts.”

She had a point. Maybe you were just allowing yourself to spiral.

“How long have you known him?” You ask.

“Goodness, I’m not sure anymore. I was his nanny when he was around Jasmine’s age.”

Your brows almost launch off your face in shock. She looks good for her age.

“You took care of him when he was little?”

“Oh, yes. Marika-” she stops herself, huffing. “Queen Marika wasn’t around much during his childhood. She had responsibilities that took priority over her son, I suppose.” She trails off. You can almost taste her disgust in the air and the scowl on her lovely face looks unnatural for someone so sweet.

“What was he like as a child?” 

Her smile returns immediately. She squeezes your hands. “He was well-behaved, most of the time. He loved to read more than anything. Some children prefer to be social and play, but his favorite spot was the library, somewhere quiet and secluded. To this day, he enjoys reading above most things.”

“Hey, I like books too!” Jasmine climbs up onto the bed, eager to join the conversation.

“Perhaps you can ask Lord Messmer to lend you some at breakfast.” Sianet quirks her brow at your words.

“You’ve decided then?” There’s a hopeful glimmer in her voice.

“It would be impolite to refuse after all he’s done for us.”

“We’re going to have breakfast with Lord Messmer?” Jasmine leans her head against your shoulder and you wrap an arm around her.

“Yes we are. Is that okay with you?”

“Mhmm! He’s nice. Very tall, but nice. Do you think he’d let me pet his snakes?”

“Maybe, but we have to be very polite, okay?”

“Okay.” She nods, then looks down at your robe. “You’re not going to go to breakfast like that, are you?”

You laugh and squeeze her arm lightly. “No, I am not.”

You rise to get dressed, leaving Sianet to brush and tame Jasmine’s hair. You look in the mirror and you realize you should probably do something with your hair, too. You comb it back and make it look presentable, then slip on a dark green tunic and black pants. The gold embroidery on it dances along the fabric, making you look almost regal. Your new clothes are quite comfortable, and you take one more look into the mirror. You’re pleased at the results.

You pull on some soft cotton socks and then your boots. They’re a perfect fit. Maybe the seamstress knows magic?

You return to Jasmine and you see Sianet carefully braiding her hair. She’s pulling the long brown hair into a braided bun, which looks beautiful. You’d have to have her teach you how to do that sometime. At the mention of her hair being done, Jasmine runs towards the vanity and climbs into the chair, shaking her head back and forth to try and see the bun. You chuckle and hand her a small mirror, turn her around, and when she sees her hair, she lets out an audible gasp and looks on, transfixed.

“You look wonderful.” Sianet compliments you.

“Thank you. Would you tell Lord Messmer that we’d love to join him for breakfast?”

She smiles and bows her head. “I’ll tell him right away.”

She exits quickly, steps light and hurried. The door shuts behind her and you try your best to keep anxiety at bay.

Jasmine tiptoes over to you and grabs your hand. You look down and smile at her.

“I think you look wonderful, too.”

“Thank you, sweetie. You always make me feel better.” 

She thunks her head against your hip. “So do you.”

[nebulousboundsfloof]

The primary alteration I did was insert a drawstring in most of the waistbands of my skirts step one is to unpick about 3-5in of the center (ish) of the front of the skirt (or wherever you're sticking your grommets and tails)

I used a pair of pins to mark the start and end of my section. There's two rows of stitching at the waistband you'll have to undo.

The next thing you'll need to do is poke your holes for your grommets (grommets are important to prevent wear on the waistband and unraveling)

Because the materials you are setting the grommets in are very stretchy you want to make that stretch work to your advantage and make the tiniest hole you can get away with (if your hole is too big the material will stretch away from the grommet and the grommet will fall out) I found that only cutting vertical threads in the elastic worked best (and not more than like 3) I used the tip of my seam ripper to gently move the threads over to the sides of the grommet.

The placement of your grommets is very important. You need to make sure there is roughly 1/2 in between the edge of the grommet and the end of your open section so you can fit your setting tool in and that the pair of grommets are not too close together (for me that is about 1-3 in apart, you do want to be able to bridge that gap with your lace)

Next you will thread your drawstring. I'm using 72in shoelaces, use whatever you like. I chose shoelaces because they come with nicely finished ends, are fairly durable and come standard in several sizes. Whatever you use you'll want it to be about 16in longer than your body's widest point (roughly 8in per end to tie with at the most relaxed)

Now while you can feed it without a tool (so long as it has a hard end you can feel and move from outside the waistband a safety pin works ok in a pinch) I strongly recommend using a tool of some kind. The ideal tool for the job is a bodkin (a clamping lacing tool specifically designed for this sort of thing) of course I have consistently failed to aquire one for the last decade or so so I'm using a pair of clamping tweezers (not ideal but workable)

You'll also want to secure the other end (not the feeding end, I usually feed it through the eyelet and tie a decent knot in it and that'll handle it. You will want to start feeding into the waistband on the same side as the eyelet you used as an anchor and away from the other eyelet

Some tips for feeding drawstrings (particularly those paired with elastic)

-Feed your drawstring a few inches then grip the waistband and string in one hand while shoving the gathered material away towards the other end of the channel

-The seams and pockets are the fiddliest bit but a bit of careful wiggling will get you past them (it is an open channel all the way around!!) DO NOT force it gentle wiggling is your friend

-Your hand will probably get tired after a bit don't hurt yourself and feed the next one the opposite way.

-Because of the construction of these skirts I ended up feeding my drawstring along the outside of the elastic inside the outer portion of the waistband feeding from the same side as your drawstring is much easier (even though your grommets are in the inside of the skirt)

Once your drawstring is fed through you are on to the next tricky bit. Sewing.

You probably can hand sew it. I didn't. I'd guess that an invisible hem stitch and a running stitch might be the best way to do that but ymmv. I did mine on a machine, which had it's struggles but also was easier for me.

Sewing directions wil be continued in the reblog because I seem to have hit the image limit.

[skyguytoast]

HAYDEN CHRISTENSEN X COSPLAYER!READER - PART THREE

SYNOPSIS: Hayden helps you craft your new cosplay.

WARNING: none, just fluff

WORDS: 1.4k

A/N: as always i open for request, don’t be shy…anyway, comments, reblogs are appreciated. kisses and good reading 🥰🤩

It hadn’t taken long for Hayden to realize that dating a cosplayer was... well, an adventure.

He’d wake up to the hum of your sewing machine instead of the coffee pot, catching you cross-legged on the floor, stitching layer after layer of a pleated skirt like it was a sacred ritual. He’d go for a quick morning run and come back to find you painted head-to-toe in green, or blue, or whatever shade your latest project required—half-dressed, paintbrush between your teeth, mumbling about "undertones" and "screen accuracy."

It was chaos. But it was your chaos.

Even when his favorite hoodie ended up smeared with streaks of body paint, Hayden never got mad. He just laughed, tugged it over his head, and tossed it in the laundry with a fond, “Remind me again what character is green this time?”

What really struck him was how dedicated you were. For all the long hours he’d spent on film sets, learning lines and fighting off the fatigue that came with ten-hour days, he couldn’t imagine how you handled whole weekends in full costume—posing for pictures, performing in-character nonstop, barely breaking for water.

You made it look effortless.

And, truthfully, Hayden loved helping you. Whether it was running lines when you cosplayed Padmé or practicing stances with you in the backyard because “Ahsoka would never stand like that,” he was all in.

This time, it was Bo-Katan.

Which explained why he was currently in the living room, carefully wrapping loop after loop of duct tape around your torso while you stood on a stool in leggings and an old tank top.

“Are you sure it’s not too tight, babe?” he asked, brow furrowed with concern. The tape was cinched snugly around your waist and chest, and he was suddenly aware of how hard it must be to breathe.

“That’s the goal, love,” you said with a soft laugh. “It has to be skin-tight so the mold’s accurate.”

Hayden made a small, worried face, like he wasn’t entirely convinced this was necessary but would do anything you asked anyway. “Alright. But if you pass out on me, I’m blaming the Mandalorians.”

You giggled, and that sound was all it took to ease the tightness in his chest. He kept going, wrapping layer after layer, occasionally pausing to ask if you were okay, if anything pinched, if he should slow down. Every few minutes, his fingers brushed your side a little too gently for someone supposedly “taping armor.”

“Okay,” you finally said, once the last piece was smoothed flat. “Time to cut it off.”

Hayden nodded, reaching for the scissors with exaggerated caution. His movements were slow and deliberate, his tongue poking out in concentration. He really didn’t want to mess this up.

“Just cut along the sides,” you coached softly. “And go slow, so you don’t ruin the chest section.”

“I got it, I got it,” he murmured, even as his hands trembled slightly.

Once the mold peeled away from your body in a neat, clean shape, you held it up, turning it in your hands, a smile lighting up your face.

“It turned out amazing,” you beamed, looking down at Hayden with so much affection it made his heart ache.

He looked up at you, eyes wide, cheeks a little pink. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “You killed it.”

His smile bloomed, that shy, boyish grin that made you melt every time. “So… what’s next?” he asked, already scooting closer to you, clearly ready to take on whatever crazy crafting task came next if it meant spending a few more hours like this—with you, in your element, happy.

You reached down, brushing his hair back gently from his face. “Next is tracing the pattern onto foam. Wanna help?”

Hayden didn’t even hesitate. “Only if I get to wear the helmet when it’s done.”

You laughed. “Deal. But no promises you’ll look as good as me.”

He grinned. “Never doubted that for a second.”

And just like that, you got back to work, Hayden kneeling faithfully at your side, his sleeves pushed up as he watched you trace the armor pattern onto foam like it was an ancient craft passed down through generations.

Your focus was so absolutely—tongue sticking out, brow furrowed, brush in hand as you layered glue and paper mache over the base. You were deep in it, completely lost in the rhythm, when suddenly a plate slid into view in front of your face.

A perfectly cut triangle sandwich. Neatly chopped apples on the side.

Your stomach growled like a starved creature.

“When did you leave?” you blinked, genuinely surprised as you set the brush down with a soft thunk. You turned to find Hayden already settling in next to you again, casual and smug.

“You were too busy crafting your beskar masterpiece,” he said with a knowing smile, one brow arched. “So I figured I’d sneak off and make you something before you fully forgot you’re a living being who needs food.”

Your expression softened into a sheepish smile as you picked up the sandwich, holding it with two hands like a kid. “Thank you, love,” you mumbled between bites. “I guess I got carried away. Again.”

Hayden leaned back on his hands, watching you with amused affection as you chewed. “It’s okay. That’s why I’m here. To remind you that cosplay doesn’t count as actual nutrition.”

You let out a quiet laugh, nudging his knee with your foot. “That line absolutely belongs on a sticker.”

He shrugged. “I’ll pitch it to Etsy.”

After a moment, he reached over to pull you gently against him, arm looping around your waist as you leaned your head on his shoulder, still munching on your sandwich. His other hand brushed over the foam armor pieces laid out across the floor, careful not to smudge your work.

“Almost done?” he asked softly, glancing down at the pile of supplies, the bits of duct tape still sticking to the floor.

You sighed contentedly. “Not even close. I’m just finishing the structure. It needs to dry for at least a couple days before we move on to sanding and painting and sealing and—” You stopped yourself, laughing. “Basically, no. But I’m getting there.”

Hayden kissed the top of your head and smiled into your hair. “Then I guess we have a few more cozy craft nights ahead of us.”

“Mm,” you hummed, wrapping your fingers around his hand, squeezing gently. “As long as there’s more of your sandwiches, I think I’ll survive.”

“Don’t worry, darling, I plan to take such good care of my girlfriend,” Hayden promised, smiling at you like you were the only thing in the galaxy that mattered.

You felt it — the weight of that smile. That quiet, steady kind of love that didn’t need grand gestures or a red carpet, just little things. Like triangle sandwiches. And apples. And duct tape armor.

You leaned into him, your cheek resting against his shoulder as his thumb traced lazy, soothing circles against the curve of your waist.

“I think you already do,” you whispered.

He turned his head to press a kiss to your temple, the kind of kiss that lingered—his lips soft and warm, his breath a hush against your skin. “Good,” he murmured, “but I still plan to outdo myself.”

You laughed quietly, letting your eyes flutter closed for a moment. Around you, the living room was a beautiful disaster of glue sticks, foam scraps, reference photos, and love. It didn’t matter that you weren’t even halfway done with the armor. It didn’t matter that your fingers were sticky, or that Hayden had somehow managed to get duct tape stuck to his sock.

What mattered was this.

Him. Here. Now.

“Once Bo-Katan’s finished,” Hayden said softly, “I think you should take her out into the world. To a con. In full armor. Helmet and all.”

You blinked up at him, eyebrows raised. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “And I’ll be right there with you. Front row. Taking pictures. Holding your helmet when you need a break. Carrying your bag like a doting little roadie.”

You giggled, your heart swelling. “You’d really go?”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” he said, pressing another kiss just behind your ear. “And since I help bring this cosplay to life, it'd be awkward if I didn’t.”

That made you laugh again—full and bright and real—and Hayden grinned, looking completely smitten.

“Besides,” he added, resting his forehead gently against yours, “you make saving the galaxy look really, really good.”

''I learned from the best'' You smiled so hard your cheeks hurt. “I love you.”

“I love you more,” he whispered. “Now and always.”

And as the stars blinked outside your window and the armor dried in the corner, you let yourself believe it fully, completely, without question.

You were safe. You were loved. And you had Hayden as your crafting partner, your biggest fan, and the softest space to fall.

Not a bad deal at all.

TAG LIST: @ihearthayden @anakinstwinklebunny @sometimescharlolette @awhhayden @dessxoxsworld @throughparisallthroughrome

[hexb0nes]

Flesh & Blood / Metal & Machine

word count: 3.2k

pairing: zaun doctor!viktor x pit fighter!reader

contains: explicit content relating to violence and injury, death of multiple children, mentions of mass death, mentions of police (enforcer) brutality, reader has PTSD (PTSD flashbacks), medical trauma, childhood friends to strangers to lovers, drugs, illusion to drug abuse, HELLA angst, there's a somewhat fluff ending?, there's a scene that somewhat parallels the jinx shimmer operation scene so heads up to that

summary: you have a history with dr. viktor reveck, one that spans at least a decade. as a pit fighter, you frequent his small clinic for treatment, but after a particularly brutal fight, viktor's suggestion of you retiring and making a better life for yourself triggers heavy memories of your life before, your prosthetics a painful reminder of how you ended up in the pits

a/n: wooo this is a heavy one, but i'm very proud of it. remember to like, comment, and reblog! love you lots <3

Blood drips from your nose like a leaky faucet, your lip split in half. Your left eye is black and blue beyond recognition, barely able to see the man donned in white before you. Dr. Viktor Reveck’s gloved hands nimbly sew the last of the stitches on your scalp, looping the surgical thread and tightening it in place.

“Have you ever considered retiring?” his accent punctures through his words, as he passes you an ice pack. You hold it against your swollen eye and state to the doctor, “I got bills to pay, Doc. Besides,” you flash a grin, one of your fangs cracked from a previous fight, “Everyone loves me in the pit!”

“I’m well aware,” answers Viktor. He wraps up some gauze and shoves it up your bleeding nose, “You’re a top contender in the Pits, given how many of your blooded and bruised opponents I’ve seen over the years,” he removes his glasses, honey amber irises glistening under the fluorescent examination lamp, and pinches the bridge of his hooked nose, “However, you must admit that you’re…” he trails off.

“That I’m getting slow?” you hum, nonchalant. Viktor nods, “Yes, slow. Your words, not mine.”

“I know that’s what you’re thinking,” you huff, hopping off the rickety examination table, the crude metal joints in your prosthetic leg clicking with each step, “I could’ve dodged that hook, I could’ve blocked that kick, I could’ve gotten up sooner,” you tie any loose hairs back from your face, “Got any pain meds for me to take the meantime?”

“Unfortunately, my supply has been low,” the doctor remarks. He approaches his small desk and opens up the bottom drawer, “Other than Shimmer, I have a day’s worth of Oxy. Will that satisfy you?”

“I’ll take the Shimmer,” you jest. Viktor’s expression darkens at your ill-timed joke, “You know what you promised me,” he grabs a small pill bottle and slams the drawer close, locking it up with a rusty key. Viktor tosses the bottle of Oxy to you, “No Shimmer. You’re better than that.”

“Am I?” you question, pocketing the bottle in your boxing shorts, “What defines ‘better’ in this hellhole?” a bitter laugh escapes your sore vocal chords, too many hours spent screaming for the delight of the crowd.

Viktor sighs and puts his glasses back on, the lenses clouded from the occasional blood splatter. He walks over to you, the soft tapping of his cane accompanying his footsteps, and places a hand against your unharmed cheek, “Someone like you,” his voice is strangely soft, almost tender, “Someone who can get out of here.”

“Me? Getting out of here?” you scoff at the idea of vacating Zaun, “I don’t think any Pilties are interested in a beast like me,” your canines shine under the exam room lights, sharp and wolf-like, “There ain’t a place for me in Topside, Vik. If anything, you’re the one who can make it out of here.”

“My priorities lie with Zaun,” he retorts, “There’s enough doctors in Piltover.”

“But they get paid better,” you fire back, removing the used up gauze from your nose and discarding it in the trash can, “They have nice houses and fancy clothes and- Stop,” the doctor cuts you off, “My priorities like with Zaun.”

You size Viktor up, tilting your head with innate curiosity, “What’s with you?”

“What’s with me?” he repeats.

“You had every chance to leave,” your voice drops to a whisper. You take a few steps towards Viktor until you are eye to eye with one another. Viktor stares at you, eyes slightly wide and pupils enlarged, and you slam your hand against the wall, the strength of the prosthetic nearly putting a hole through the shoddy wall, “What keeps you here?”

“You know what does.”

・・・・☆・・・・☆ ・・・

Over the years, you and Dr. Viktor Reveck had developed an odd relationship. Viktor was always a strange fellow; yet, as estranged childhood friends, you once held a small crush on the brillant boy who frequented the sludgy waters closest to the looming walls of Piltover. You admired his intelligence and his creativity, not to mention his cute face. Yet, you two would drift away, as Viktor left to study under the tutelage of a Dr. Corin Reveck and you enlisted into the mining corps to make a honest living.

Mining was hard labor, but it offered you security and a means of living. It even offered you a chance for love with a fellow miner named Erik, who you wed only a year after you met. The two of you, like many Zaunite miners, dreamt of a better world, a free Zaun, that you and the generations after could partake in. 

You were barely in your twenties when the Revolution failed, many of your own friends were killed by Enforcers for the crime of fighting for freedom. Erik shielded you from an Enforcer bullet, using his last words to tell you to run. The revolutionaries collapsed under the weight of their own guilt, children had been orphaned, and a mining accident left your left hand paralyzed. Any hope for a free Zaun died on that bridge.

It was only a few months after the attempted revolution that you received the worst news: you were pregnant. Regardless if your hand was paralyzed or not, you couldn’t rejoin the mining corps while pregnant–the fumes and coal dust were too dangerous for a fetus–so you resorted to finding your old co-worker and former revolution leader, Vander. He offered you a job as a barkeep at his bar The Last Drop and housing in exchange to help him raise four children orphaned by the Enforcers’ hand during the Revolution.

Little Vi, Powder, Claggor, and Mylo became your kids and with Vander, the six of you enjoyed nights of joy, rage, quiet, and so on. Those kids were your pride and joy, a core element to your soul. Yet, it wasn’t long before your makeshift family of six turned into one of seven, as you delivered your baby girl Sophia with the help of the brothel manager Babette and Vander. 

With the kids entering their teens, you were able to get the assistance you needed to raise Sophia properly. By the time she could walk and talk, Sophia knew the basics of fighting from Claggor and Vi, how to scavenge from Mylo, and ways to invent by Powder. A sad smile would always grace your lips whenever you saw the two of them tinkering together, it reminded you of your long absent friend Viktor. 

However, things quickly unraveled on the night Vi attempted to turn herself in for the explosion at one of the Academy District’s apartments in Piltover. You were left to tend to the children when Vander left to rescue Vi, you prayed to the Gods for their safe return. Hours went by before someone returned, Vi. She explained that Silco and something monstrous kidnapped Vander and took him to the abandoned cannery. Vi, Claggor, and Mylo assembled them to save Vander, but you told them that they couldn’t go alone. 

“I can fight!” eleven year old Powder exclaimed to you, as you set four year old Sophia next to her. You offered a restricted frown and informed her, “I know you can, Powder. You’re tough and strong, but I need you to watch Sophia,” you pressed your forehead against Powder’s, “Protect your baby sister. That’s your job, okay?”

“Okay…” she grumbled, pouting and crossing her arms. You ruffled Powder's hair and blew her a kiss, squatting down to see your daughter, “Hi, Soph,” you greeted with such a special kindness and love in your voice. 

“Mama!” she exclaimed in retort, holding out her hands to you, “Where are you gonna?” 

You sit down and pull Sophia onto your lap, tickling her stomach. She lets out squeals and laughs, as you tickle her to your heart’s content. You finished the tickling with a kiss to Sophia’s temple, “I have to go help your Pa, he’s in trouble,” you held her tight in your arms, “You and Powder are too young to come with, but I promise that we will be back as soon as we can!”

“Okay!” answered Sophia, resting her head against your chest, “Bye-bye, Mama.”

“Bye-bye, Sophia,” you murmured and touched your forehead to hers, “I love you.”

“I love you!” she flashed you her gummy baby-toothed smile. With one last hug, you tucked both Powder and Sophia in bed and bid them farewell for the night, exiting the basement with Vi and your boys in tow. 

Everything afterwards came to you in flashes. You remembered arriving at the abandoned cannery, finding Vander tied up; you remember Mylo’s lockpicking and Claggor working his way through the wall to make an escape. The four of you encountered the monster Vi spoke of; a mutated being glowing with purple veins, barely resembling a human. You watched Vi go toe to toe with Silco’s goons like a true warrior, only to get body-slammed by the monster. 

Then the explosion happened.

A catalyst of bright blue puffs vibrated throughout the factory, shaking the foundation. You barely had time to react, opting to shield the nearest person to you, Vi. Chunks of the wall fell off and crushed Claggor, his goggles flying off and splattered with blood. Debris and broken machine exploded towards Mylo, as a pole impaled him and more broken wall fell to crush him. You couldn’t shield all of Vi, as her lower half got trapped under rubble; with all the strength you had, you attempted to lift the rubble off her, only for a large piece to pulverize your hand. 

“Mama!”

Sophia’s voice rings out to you, “Sophia!” you yelled back. Why is she here?! Why!? With two of your kids dead and another trapped, you didn’t know what to do. You had to do something.

“Vi!” you called out to the redhead, “Hang on!” you tug at your hand, trying to free it from the rubble, but to no avail. Desperate, you reached for your small axe from your side and with a scream, you slammed it down on your wrist, cutting through damaged flesh until you cut off your hand. With a missing hand and heavy bleeding, you left the torture room and onto the catwalk, scanning the fiery remains of the cannery for Sophia. 

“Mama!” there she was, on a ledge by the window. With as much speed as your weak body could muster, you sprinted over to your daughter and caught her in your arms. With Sophia in hand, you ran back towards where Vi was being held, only to see another mutated beast ahead of you. It turned its head to you and you gasped, “Vander.”

A final explosion reverberated through the cannery, the most powerful of them all. Vander slammed through the wall with Vi and you followed, only to trip over some rubble, “NO!” you cried out, as you lost your grasp on Sophia and she spun out of your reach.

“MAMA!” she wailed, crawling back towards you. An eerie clicking of a toy rang through your ears, but you had no time to think about it.

The blue light of the explosion made contact with one of your legs and eradicated every part of it from skin to bone. The world slowed down, as Sophia held her hand out to you, “Mama!” you powered through the pain and grabbed her again, throwing the two of you out the wall. 

You wrapped yourself as tight as you could around Sophia, as you fell from the second story. The corpse of Vander softened the fall and you gasped for air, still clinging on Sophia, “VI! VI, WHERE ARE YOU?!”

“H- Here!” she answered, tears rolling down her cheeks at the sight of Vander’s corpse. You pulled her into an embrace, “Oh, Vi, baby, I’m so so so- Mama…” the weak croak of your daughter interrupted your condolences. 

“What’s wrong?” you asked Sophia. She touches her multi-patterned dress, a large piece of glass protruding from her abdomen, “No…” you collapsed to the ground, “No, no! It’s gonna be okay, baby! Mama’s gonna fix you! Vi- Vi-” you yelled for the redhead, only to see her missing. In the distance, you see Powder with Silco and his crew, her sobs piercing the air, “Powder! Powder-” 

You felt a prick against your neck and exhaustion took over your body, falling prone on the muddy ground. Your eyes flutter with sleepiness, your daughter still in your arms. A figure in black picked her up and you tried to scream, but your vocal chords were inoperable. The figure removed the shard from Sophia’s stomach and handed her back to you, allowing you to properly hug her. Blood stained your clothes, as you embraced your dying daughter.

“Love you… Mama…”

Your daughter’s last words, the final echoes of a life-altering night.

・・・・☆・・・・☆ ・・・

You heard someone call out your name, accompanied by the whining of equipment. Flashes of a ruffled brunette in a lab coat and goggles crossed your vision. Violent, hot pain suddenly engulfed you, as your screams were drowned out by the equipment. You thrashed against your restraints, tied down to a table. Your bloodshot eyes zoned in on the figure in the lab coat, trying to see who they were or where you were.

“I’m sorry,” the person in the lab coat spoke up, hovering by your left side. Their words were deepened by a strong accent. They placed an oxygen mask over your face and turned on the gas canister, forcing you to inhale an oddly vanilla gas.

“Vik…” you croaked, “Viktor…” you shut your eyes closed, falling unconscious once more.

・・・・☆・・・・☆ ・・・

“Because I’m your favorite creation,” you chuckle, pulling your prosthetic hand back, “You built me anew,” your prosthetic clicks and cracks when you move the joints, chipped titanium stained with various people’s blood from that night’s opponents, “You were even kind enough to equip me with the good stuff,” you spin the prosthetic around and extend the joints, “Titanium. That must’ve cost you a pretty coin.”

“You,” Viktor weaves out of your grasp and sits down at his desk, “You would have died if I had not intervened,” 

His words make your blood boil like bubbling pits of lava; you kick your prosthetic leg upward and smash it against the side of Viktor’s leg, embedding itself into the metal overhead cabinets, “I should have. I should have died with my daughter.”

“She’s-” you cut him off with a grab at his chin, digging your human nails into his skin, “You don’t speak her name, don’t utter a syllable of her name in my presence.”

Your debut into pit-fighting was spurred on by the death of your daughter and other loved ones during the cannery explosion, The Last Drop now under the control of Silco and the Chem-Barons reeking havoc on the streets of Zaun. After the implementation of your prosthetics, you were nursed back to health with Viktor and Dr. Corin Reveck–now a disfigured man, but not lacking in his genius–through rehab and modifications. Yet, you had no prospects, no means of living without your baby girl. It was only when you saw a flyer for new fighters needed in the Pits that you regained somewhat of a spark, albeit a violent one.

“Why didn’t you leave me?” you pull your leg back and plop down on Viktor’s lap, dangerously close to the doctor’s face, his pretty moles on display for you, “Why didn’t you let me die?” you clench your fists, fighting back tears.

To your surprise, Viktor sets his hand against your back and strokes it, bony fingers cold against your hot skin. Tears spill from your one functioning eye, as you collapse into Viktor’s arms, “Why didn’t you let me die!?”

“I-” he inhales, wrapping his arms around your waist. Your head finds its way into the crook of the doctor’s neck, a perfect fit. He exhales, “I love you.”

“Wh- What?” you stammer, the adrenaline from your earlier fight finally wearing off.

“I love you,” he whispers again, “I tried to save both of you.”

“You did?” you ask, tears dropping onto Viktor’s button down.

“S- She didn’t make it to the lab,” he croaks, as he rubs your back, “She lost too much blood that doing a transfusion wouldn’t have saved her,” tears form in Viktor’s eyes, “She looked so much like you when we were kids.”

“She was my baby…” you stifle back a sob, “The last part of my husband’s love. I’m alone.”

“No, you’re not alone,” Viktor tilts your chin up, his honey amber irises gazing into yours, “I can take care of you. It may not be much, but you can have your second chance. That’s why I- I fixed you, so you try again. They’re gone, but you’re still here. You must live on for them.”

You bury your face into Viktor’s chest, “I feel like a beast.”

“Then let’s make a new life,” Viktor hugs you tightly, “You and me. No pit fighting, no more violence, no more pain,” he touches his forehead to yours, “Come with me, we can start fresh, together.”

You pull back for a moment and cup Viktor’s hand with your hands, one human and one machine. Your fingers–flesh and metal–stroke his cheeks and you smile through your tears, “As a kid, I always had a crush on you, Vik,” you laugh softly, “But then you left with Dr. Reveck and I had to move on.”

“I never did,” he confesses, “You were all I thought about when I was under Reveck’s care. After completing my training with him, I tried finding you, but by that time, you were married and I didn’t- I couldn’t interfere with that.”

“Then the Revolution happened,” you add on.

Viktor nods, “Then the Revolution happened. I treated so many wounded and I- I thought you were among the casualties when I saw your husband’s body. I couldn’t find you, so I assumed the worst.”

“Erik saved my life,” you explained, “Then I found out that I was-” your voice shakes, “I couldn’t return to the mines, so my friend Vander took me in. I became a mother, I was a good mother,” you wipe away tears, “I lost all my kids–all my babies–that night.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs in your ear, brushing your hair with his pale fingers, “I wish- I wish- I could fix that, but I can’t.” 

You sniffle back some snot and reply, “I know,” you dry your face of any remaining tears, “But we must live on for them, right?”

“Right,” he confirms.

You hop off Viktor’s lap and extend your hands out to him, “Then let’s live on for them.”

Viktor holds back a surprised laugh and looks at your hands. He accepts the one made of flesh and pulls himself up, using the one made of machine to steady his balance.

“Let’s live on for them.”

[theetherealbloom]

IT COULD HAPPEN TO YOU - CH.6

Chapter Six: I Keep These Longings Locked In Lowercase Inside A Vault

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

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x F!Reader

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

Word Count: 9.6k

A/N: GOOD MORNING CHICKENS 🙂‍↕️ Lowkey, I ran into a wall writing this chapter LOL. Anyways, almost murdered the reader cause why not HEHE. If we’re doing hallmark tropes�� I’M GOING ALL THE WAY, BABY.

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

Song: Guilty As Sin? By Taylor Swift

Previous Chapter → Next Chapter | Series Masterlist |Main Masterlist|

CHILTERN FIREHOUSE HOTEL — EARLY MORNING

Sunlight filters softly through the windows, casting a warm, golden glow over the room. The air feels calm, almost too calm, as if it knows that something is about to shift.  

“You know we’ll still see each other at work, right?” you say with a soft laugh, zipping up your suitcase and trying to keep things light.  

Despite your tone, there’s a strange ache in your chest—a heaviness that lingers just beneath the surface. You keep your focus on the zipper, avoiding his gaze for a moment too long.  

Pedro stands in the doorway, arms crossed, his shoulder resting casually against the frame as he watches you with that familiar ease. But there’s something different in his expression this morning, something quieter. “Doesn’t mean I’ll miss you any less,” he replies, his voice warm but tinged with a softness that makes your heart stumble.  

Then his lips curl into a teasing pout. “Especially the cuddles.”  

Your breath catches, heat rushing to your cheeks as flashes of last night fill your mind—the two of you curled up together on the couch, your head on his chest, his arm draped around you. You’d fallen asleep like that, wrapped in warmth and comfort, his steady heartbeat beneath your ear. Neither of you had moved until morning.  

You clear your throat, trying to play it off. “I’m sure you’ll survive without a cuddle buddy for one night.”  

“Survive, yes.” Pedro sighs dramatically. “But thrive? Highly questionable.”  

You can’t help but laugh, shaking your head at his antics. The knot in your chest loosens just a little. Stepping closer, you reach out and gently take his hand. Your fingers brush against his palm, and for a moment, you forget how to breathe.  

“Walk me to my new room?” you ask, your voice quieter now, almost shy.  

Pedro’s eyes soften as he looks down at your joined hands, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles. “Of course,” he says, his voice steady, reassuring. “Lead the way.”  

The hallway is peaceful in the early morning light, the soft hum of the hotel’s quiet routine filling the air. Pedro stays close, his shoulder brushing yours with every step. It feels effortless, this closeness, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.  

When you reach your new room, you pause, staring at the door as your grip tightens around the keycard. Suddenly, you’re not so sure you’re ready to walk in and let the bubble of the past week burst.  

Pedro notices, his head tilting slightly as he studies you. “You okay?”  

You nod, giving him a small smile. “Yeah. Just… feels a little weird, that’s all.”  

He steps closer, his hand resting gently on your arm. “Weird how?”  

You hesitate, chewing on your bottom lip. “Like… we’ve been in this little bubble all week,” you admit, your voice barely a whisper. “And now it’s about to pop.”  

Pedro’s brow furrows for a second before his expression shifts into something reassuring. His thumb traces a soothing line against your sleeve. “It doesn’t have to pop,” he says softly. “It can stretch—change shape a little. But it doesn’t have to go away.”  

You blink up at him, caught off guard by how easily his words settle the swirling uncertainty inside you.  

“You’re right,” you say, a small smile tugging at your lips. “You’re annoyingly good at this.”  

Pedro grins, stepping back just enough to give you space while still keeping his hand on your arm. “It’s one of my many talents,” he teases.  

You swipe the keycard and push the door open, the soft click of the lock breaking the moment. “Well, thanks for the walk,” you say softly, standing just inside the doorway.  

He lingers for a moment, his eyes lingering on yours like he’s not quite ready to leave. “Anytime.”  

There’s a beat of silence, charged but gentle, before he takes a step back.  

“Pedro?” you call after him, your voice instinctive and soft.  

He turns back, one brow raised. “Yeah?”  

You hesitate for just a second, then smile. “See you tomorrow?”  

His face lights up in that easy, familiar way that feels like home. “You can count on it.”  

You watch him disappear down the hall, the warmth of his presence lingering in the air long after he’s gone. The ache in your chest eases, replaced by something lighter—something that feels suspiciously like hope.  

With a soft sigh, you close the door behind you and lean against it for a moment, letting the quiet settle around you. It feels strange not having Pedro right there, filling the space with his warmth and playful banter. The silence feels heavier now, but you shake it off and turn toward your suitcase.  

Unpacking is slow and deliberate, each item placed carefully, like it might somehow ground you in this new room. Eventually, you unzip the side pocket and spot the little polaroid photobooth strip you’d tucked away.  

You pull it out, your fingers brushing gently over the glossy surface. The photo was taken just yesterday, but it feels like a lifetime ago—a perfect little slice of happiness frozen in time. Pedro’s grinning wide in the picture, his arm slung around your shoulders as if it was the most natural thing in the world. You’re laughing, caught mid-giggle, eyes bright and cheeks flushed from too much teasing.  

Your lips curve into a small smile at the memory. That day… it’s up there in your top three moments in life, one of those days you pray you’ll never forget—if you’re lucky.  

It had started with a spontaneous coffee run that turned into hours of wandering through the streets, popping into bookshops and vintage stores, taking goofy photos at every opportunity. Pedro had insisted on the photobooth, dragging you inside with that mischievous glint in his eyes.  

You’d rolled your eyes but followed him in, unable to resist the way his excitement was so contagious. The tiny booth had been cramped, your shoulders pressed together as you both tried to fit into the frame. Pedro had leaned closer, his head nearly resting against yours, and flashed a ridiculous grin just as the camera clicked.  

The memory warms you now, a soft glow that spreads through your chest. You can still hear his voice, still feel the weight of his arm around you, still see the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled.

You carefully set the photo on the nightstand, propping it up against the lamp. It feels like a little piece of him is here with you, anchoring you in a way that nothing else can.  

The rest of your unpacking is a blur, your thoughts drifting back to him over and over. It’s ridiculous, really, how much space he takes up in your mind.  

Stop it, you tell yourself. You’ll see him tomorrow. It’s no big deal.  

But deep down, you know it’s a little more complicated than that. You’ve been in this bubble with him for days—wrapped up in late-night conversations, shared coffee runs, and the kind of closeness that feels far too easy. Now that you’re on the edge of something new, something that feels like it could change everything, you don’t quite know how to navigate it.  

Your phone buzzes, snapping you out of your thoughts.  

Pedro: Miss me yet?  

You bite your lip, trying to suppress the grin that’s already forming. He’s impossible.  

You: I was just starting to enjoy the peace and quiet.  

There’s a pause, and then:  

Pedro: Liar. You miss me.  

You roll your eyes, warmth blooming in your chest.  

You: Maybe a little.  

Pedro: Thought so. Meet me for coffee in the morning?  

Your heart flutters at the thought, the ache in your chest completely forgotten.  

You: It’s a date.  

You set your phone down, the smile lingering on your lips.

SOHO HOUSE – AFTERNOON 

The café is buzzing with the low hum of conversation, the scent of freshly brewed coffee mixing with something warm and buttery from the kitchen. You slide into a booth where Daisy and Omar are already waiting, their plates half-finished, because of course, you’re the late one.  

“There she is,” Daisy grins, sipping her iced latte. “Surprised you could make time for little old us.”  

Omar smirks, leaning back against the booth. “Figured you’d be too busy playing house with Pedro.”  

You nearly choke on your water. “Oh my god, shut up.”  

Daisy gasps dramatically. “So defensive. We’re just saying—you two have been… spending a lot of time together.”  

“Yeah,” Omar adds, raising an eyebrow. “Like, a lot.”  

You roll your eyes, setting your napkin in your lap. “We were literally just sharing a suite until my room was ready. That’s it.”  

Daisy exchanges a knowing glance with Omar before turning back to you. “Sure. And is ‘just sharing a suite’ why you’re glowing like you’ve been in a rom-com montage?”  

You groan, hiding your face in your hands. “I hate you both.”  

Omar laughs. “That’s fine, but tell me I’m wrong.”  

You hesitate a second too long, and that’s all Daisy needs to pounce.  

“She’s not denying it.”  

You huff, taking a pointed bite of your food. “Can we talk about literally anything else?”  

Daisy leans in, dropping her voice. “Fine. Let’s talk about how Cecilia is a raging bitch.”  

Omar sighs. “Finally.”  

Your stomach twists. You’ve been dealing with it all week—Cecilia’s passive-aggressive comments, her cutting looks, the way she talks over you during meetings like you don’t even exist. You thought maybe you were imagining it at first, but then Daisy started noticing. Then Omar. And now it’s become impossible to ignore.  

“She’s been awful to you,” Omar says, frowning. “Like, openly awful.”  

“Yeah, I don’t get it,” Daisy adds. “It’s like she’s got some weird grudge against you. She’s only nice when Pedro’s around.”  

You exhale slowly, pushing your food around with your fork. “I don’t know what her problem is.”  

“She’s threatened by you,” Daisy says matter-of-factly. “You’re good at your job, and Pedro actually, you know, likes you.”  

You shoot her a look. “Daisy.”  

“What? I’m just saying. She’s been trying to sink her claws into him forever, and now she’s watching him give you all his attention. You think that’s a coincidence?”  

Omar nods. “She’s not even subtle about it.”  

You groan, rubbing your temple. “It’s just exhausting. I don’t want drama, I just want to do my job.”  

Daisy softens. “I know, babe. But you should bring it up to the first AD. This isn’t just personal—it’s affecting your work.”  

Omar nods. “Exactly. You shouldn’t have to deal with this shit.”  

You chew on your lip, debating. The idea of escalating it makes your stomach knot, but at the same time… they’re right. You shouldn’t have to just deal with it.  

“I’ll think about it,” you say finally.  

Daisy raises an eyebrow. “You better.”  

Omar smirks. “Now, back to Pedro—”  

You groan.  

Daisy grins, nudging you. “What? Just curious—how’s the cuddling?”  

You hide your face in your hands again.  

They’re never going to let this go.  

OXFORD STREET – AFTERNOON  

The city hums around you, the air thick with the scent of freshly brewed coffee from a nearby café, the distant chatter of tourists mixing with the occasional honk of a taxi. The sky is an endless stretch of soft blue, and the warmth of the sun against your skin makes the day feel lighter, easier.  

Daisy swings her shopping bag dramatically as she walks beside you. “Alright, so we’ve got the essentials—skincare, snacks, some clothes. Anything else?”  

“I could use some new art supplies,” you muse, adjusting your tote bag on your shoulder. “I ran out of markers.”  

Omar gasps. “Tragic. We must fix this.”  

Daisy nods solemnly. “Immediately.”  

You laugh as they steer you toward the next store, their enthusiasm contagious. The three of you weave through shelves of neatly stacked notebooks, sketchpads, and rows upon rows of colorful markers. You let your fingers trail over the different shades, your mind already picturing what you could create.  

“Should I be concerned that you look this excited over pens?” Omar teases, peering over your shoulder.  

You roll your eyes, tossing a pack of markers into your shopping basket. “Not everyone can be an influencer like some people. Some of us need hobbies.”  

Daisy cackles. “Wow. Drag him.”  

Omar clutches his chest. “I am wounded.”  

You smirk, grabbing a sketchbook before leading them back into the bustle of the street.  

A few stores later, as you browse through a boutique filled with delicate jewelry, something catches your eye—a simple but elegant bracelet, a thin gold chain with a tiny, shimmering star charm. You pause, tilting your head as you trace a fingertip over it.  

It’s beautiful. Understated but meaningful.  

You hesitate, then shake your head, gently setting it back down. You’ve already bought enough today.  

Daisy, pretending to check her phone, subtly snaps a picture of the bracelet the moment you turn away. She shares a quick glance with Omar, who smirks knowingly, before tucking her phone back into her pocket like nothing happened.  

“Alright,” Omar announces. “Time for the grand finale.”  

You raise a brow. “Which is?”  

He gestures dramatically toward a shop just a few doors down—a musical instrument store. Through the large glass window, you can see rows of guitars hanging on the walls, keyboards set up near the back, and a few people testing out instruments.  

You take a step back. “Oh, no.”  

“Oh, yes,” Daisy says, grabbing your arm.  

“I just wanted art supplies,” you protest, even as they start dragging you toward the entrance.  

“And now you get music,” Omar grins. “A full creative experience.”  

The bell above the door chimes as you step inside. The scent of polished wood and old sheet music fills the air, and soft acoustic strumming floats from the back where someone is testing a guitar.  

Daisy and Omar immediately start messing around—Omar taps on a few piano keys while Daisy picks up a tambourine and shakes it dramatically.  

You, however, find yourself drawn to the guitars.  

Your fingers brush against the smooth neck of one, its warm, honey-colored wood gleaming under the soft lighting. Without thinking, you pick it up, settling it onto your lap as you sit on a nearby stool.  

The weight of it is familiar, grounding.  

You give the strings a tentative strum. The sound vibrates through your fingertips, sending a shiver up your spine.  

Omar and Daisy go quiet, watching as you idly pluck a few chords, your fingers moving almost instinctively.  

And then, without meaning to, you start playing something real.  

The opening chords of Risk by Gracie Abrams fill the air, delicate and wistful.  

Your voice follows, soft at first, barely above a hum.  

“And I wake up

In the middle of the night

With the light on

And I feel like I could die

'Cause you're not here

And it don't feel right

'Cause you're not here”

The melody flows effortlessly from your lips, your fingers moving with muscle memory, like the song has always been resting just beneath your skin.  

Daisy and Omar exchange a look, their teasing smiles replaced with something quieter, something fonder.  

You don’t even notice the way the store quiets, how a few people glance in your direction.  

“God, I'm actually invested

Haven't even met him

Watch this be the wrong thing, classic

God, I'm jumpin' in the deep end

It's more fun to swim in

Heard the risk is drownin', but I'm gonna take it”

Your voice is steady but gentle, carrying the weight of the lyrics, the quiet ache of them.  

For a moment, it’s just you and the music.  

When you finish the last chord, letting it ring softly into the still air, you finally glance up.  

Omar and Daisy are staring.  

“…What?” you ask, suddenly shy.  

Daisy blinks. “So you’re just gonna casually have the voice of an angel and not tell us?”  

You huff a laugh, setting the guitar down. “I just… like playing sometimes.”  

Omar shakes his head in disbelief. “Unacceptable. We need to form a band immediately.”  

You roll your eyes, standing up. “You’re being ridiculous.”  

Daisy loops an arm around your shoulders, squeezing you. “No, we just love you and think you’re unfairly talented.”  

Your cheeks warm, but you let yourself smile.  

Maybe today really was a good day.

CHILTERN FIREHOUSE HOTEL — EVENING  

The ride back is filled with laughter, the kind that lingers even after the jokes have faded, warmth curling around the edges of your chest. The three of you are crammed into the backseat of a cab, shopping bags piled between you, the city blurring past in a wash of golden streetlights and neon signs.  

“I still cannot believe you didn’t tell us you could sing like that,” Daisy says for what has to be the fifth time.  

Omar sighs dramatically. “Honestly, I feel betrayed. I thought we were close.”  

You groan, leaning your head back against the seat. “It wasn’t a secret—I just never thought to mention it.”  

Omar clutches his chest. “Oh, so we’re just chopped liver then?”  

You give him a deadpan look. “Yes. Exactly.”  

Daisy cackles, and Omar glares at both of you before shaking his head with an exaggerated sigh. “This is the worst day of my life.”  

The driver chuckles quietly, clearly entertained by the three of you.  

The cab slows in front of the Chiltern Firehouse, the warm glow of the entrance lights spilling onto the pavement. You reach for your bags, shifting them into your arms as Daisy nudges you lightly.  

“Alright, superstar. We’ll see you tomorrow?”  

You nod. “Breakfast?”  

“Obviously,” Omar says. “We can’t function without an unhealthy amount of caffeine and gossip.”  

Daisy smirks. “And don’t think we forgot about her.”  

You groan, knowing exactly who she means. “Cecilia?”  

Omar scoffs. “Yeah, Cecilia.” His expression darkens slightly, annoyance flickering across his face. “You have to say something, babe. She’s been unbearable this entire week.”  

Daisy nods in agreement. “Seriously. If you don’t, we will.”  

You sigh, adjusting your grip on your shopping bags. It’s not that you haven’t noticed Cecilia’s behavior—how she seems to have made it her personal mission to be as dismissive, condescending, and outright rude as possible. You just…haven’t figured out how to deal with it yet.  

“I’ll think about it,” you say, because that’s all you can promise right now.  

Daisy eyes you like she wants to push the subject, but instead, she reaches out and squeezes your arm. “Alright. Just don’t let her get to you, okay?”  

You nod, giving her a small smile. “I won’t.”  

Omar tilts his head. “Liar.”  

You snort. “Goodnight, Omar.”  

“Goodnight, secret singer,” he teases.  

Daisy gives you a quick hug before stepping back into the cab, and with one last wave, you turn and head into the hotel.  

The warmth of the lobby greets you as you step inside, the scent of polished wood and fresh flowers filling the air. The quiet hum of conversation drifts from the bar, a few guests lounging in the plush chairs near the fireplace.  

You shift your bags onto one arm, your fingers brushing over the handles of the shopping bags as you make your way toward the elevators. The day’s events settle over you like a soft blanket—the shopping, the music, the laughter.  

You feel good.  

Better than you have in days.  

The elevator dings softly as the doors open, and as you step inside, you can’t help but let a small, satisfied smile slip onto your lips.  

Maybe tomorrow will be even better.

You make your way to your room, tap your keycard on the lock and enter. The door clicks shut behind you, muffling the distant hum of the hallway. You exhale slowly, rolling your shoulders as you set your shopping bags down near the dresser. The room is quiet, save for the faint city sounds filtering in through the window—London still alive and buzzing outside, even as exhaustion begins to settle into your bones.  

You flick on the bedside lamp, the soft golden glow washing over the space. Kicking off your shoes, you make your way to the vanity, catching your reflection in the mirror. There’s a tired sort of happiness in your face, a contentment that lingers in your eyes despite the long day.  

You start unpacking your shopping bags, sorting through the few essentials you picked up. The art supplies make you smile—new markers, sketchbooks, things you didn’t necessarily need but wanted anyway. Your fingers brush over a particular bag, and you pause, pulling out the Polaroid photobooth strip you’d nearly forgotten about.  

Pedro’s face grins up at you from the tiny squares—one shot of him making a ridiculous expression, another where you’re both mid-laugh, and the last…  

The last one makes your stomach flutter.  

It wasn’t planned, wasn’t posed—it was just the two of you, caught in a quiet moment, his face turned toward you, his expression soft in a way that makes something in your chest tighten.  

You let out a breath, carefully tucking the photo into your nightstand drawer before shaking your head at yourself.  

It’s fine. It’s just Pedro.  

You brush your fingers over the bracelet you liked—the one you didn’t buy. For some reason, it lingers in your mind longer than it should, but you push the thought aside and continue getting ready for bed.  

By the time you’ve showered and slipped into an oversized t-shirt, exhaustion has fully caught up with you. You slide beneath the cool sheets, letting out a sigh as your body finally relaxes.  

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand.  

You reach for it, blinking at the screen.  

Pedro: Made it back okay?  

A small, involuntary smile tugs at your lips.  

You: Yeah, just got into bed.  

There’s a brief pause before his reply comes through.  

Pedro: Get some sleep, cariño. Big day tomorrow.  

You bite your lip, warmth blooming in your chest at the nickname.  

You: Goodnight, Pedro. 

You don’t wait for his response, setting your phone down and rolling onto your side. The weight of the day settles over you, but it’s lighter now, easier to carry.  

And as you drift off, the last thing on your mind isn’t Cecilia, or the long production days ahead.  

It’s a bracelet you didn’t buy.  

And a Polaroid you won’t forget.

CHILTERN FIREHOUSE HOTEL — MORNING  

Your alarm blares, dragging you out of sleep far earlier than you’d like. With a groan, you fumble for your phone on the nightstand, blindly swiping at the screen until the sound finally stops. The room is still dim, the soft glow of early morning creeping through the curtains, casting long shadows across the walls.  

You sit up slowly, rubbing at your bleary eyes before forcing yourself out of bed. The floor is cool against your feet as you shuffle toward the bathroom, yawning through the motions of your morning routine.  

The second your toothbrush is in your mouth, you grab your phone, squinting at the screen as you scroll through your notifications.  

Pedro: Morning, sleepyhead. Still up for coffee?  

You smile around your toothbrush, quickly typing back.  

You: Morning! Yes, definitely. Meet you in the lobby?  

His reply is almost instant.  

Pedro: I’ll be the one looking devastatingly handsome and in desperate need of caffeine.  

You roll your eyes but feel warmth creep up your neck as you set your phone down and step into the shower. The water is warm, waking you up as you let your playlist play softly in the background. You don’t linger too long—just enough to wash away the remnants of sleep before stepping out and wrapping yourself in a towel.  

As you get dressed, you glance at the Polaroid on your nightstand. The memory makes your stomach flutter, but you shake your head, pushing the thought away.  

It’s just Pedro. 

You grab your bag, double-check that you have everything for the long production day ahead, and head downstairs. 

Pedro is already there when you step into the lobby, leaning casually against the wall near the entrance. He’s dressed comfortably, a hoodie pulled over his curls, sunglasses perched on his nose despite the early hour.  

His head lifts when he spots you, and a slow grin spreads across his face. “Well, look who’s alive.”  

You roll your eyes. “Barely.”  

He chuckles, pushing off the wall. “Coffee. Stat.”  

You nod in agreement as you both step outside, the crisp morning air waking you up a little more. The streets of London are still sleepy, only a few people out at this hour, and for a moment, it feels like the two of you exist in a quiet little pocket of the city.  

Pedro falls into step beside you, close but not overbearing, his hands tucked into his hoodie pockets. “Did you sleep okay?”  

You hum, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder. “Yeah. I was out as soon as my head hit the pillow.”  

He smirks. “Tired from all that shopping?”  

You side-eye him, but your lips twitch. “Maybe. It was a productive day.”  

“You have fun?”  

You nod. “Yeah. Daisy and Omar were great. We just wandered, picked up a few things, nothing crazy.”  

Pedro hums, glancing over at you. “Get anything good?”  

“Some art supplies,” you say. “Markers, sketchbooks. Stuff to keep my hands busy.”  

Pedro’s brows lift slightly, though his expression softens into something knowing. “Still adding to your collection, huh?”  

You glance at him, a little shy under the weight of his gaze. “You say that like I have a problem.”  

He smirks. “I’ve seen your stash.”  

You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch. “It’s not that bad.”  

He hums, clearly unconvinced, but before you can argue your case, you both step into the small café near the hotel. The smell of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries wraps around you instantly, sinking into your bones like comfort.  

As you approach the counter, Pedro turns to you with a look of exaggerated concentration. “Alright, let me guess your order.”  

You snort, crossing your arms. “You know my order.”  

“Do I?” He taps a finger against his chin, drawing out the moment. “Let’s see… you’re obviously an iced salted caramel latte girl.”  

You blink at him, half-impressed, half-annoyed. “You’re just showing off.”  

Pedro grins, triumphant. “I knew it.” He turns to the barista, ordering for both of you before you can protest.  

As you wait for your drinks, you lean against the counter, watching him. He looks relaxed, the usual weight of the long days ahead not quite settling on him yet.  

“You always this perceptive?” you ask, tilting your head.  

He glances at you, a small smirk playing at his lips. “Only when it matters.”  

Your stomach flips unexpectedly, and you quickly look away as the barista calls your names.  

Pedro grabs both cups, handing you yours with an easy smile. “Alright, let’s get to set before they start sending search parties.”  

You take a sip, the sweet caramel mixing with the bitter espresso, and let the warmth settle in—not just from the coffee, but from the way Pedro falls into step beside you again, his presence easy, familiar.  

Maybe today will be even better.

The car ride to set is comfortable, the early morning haze still lingering outside the windows. You and Pedro are seated next to each other, the quiet hum of the car filling the spaces between conversation.  

Joseph, Ebon, and Vanessa are preoccupied—chatting, answering messages, scrolling through their phones. But you and Pedro? You exist in the quieter moments, where words don’t have to fill the silence for it to feel full.  

You glance at Pedro from the corner of your eye. He’s leaning back against the seat, fingers wrapped loosely around his coffee cup, sunglasses resting on the bridge of his nose. There’s something about him like this—relaxed, unreadable, but somehow still entirely present.  

“You’re quiet,” he muses, breaking the silence.  

You blink, caught. “I’m just… waking up.”  

Pedro smirks, tilting his head toward you. “It’s been half an hour.”  

You hum, taking a slow sip of your coffee. “Some of us don’t bounce out of bed with full energy at the crack of dawn.”  

“I do not ‘bounce,’” he protests, dramatically offended. “I drag myself out of bed like the sleep-deprived, overworked adult that I am.”  

You snort. “That’s not what I saw yesterday. You were practically bouncing into set.”  

Pedro shakes his head. “I think you hallucinated that.”  

“Sure,” you say, amused. “Maybe I should sketch it next time.”  

His lips curl at the mention of your sketching, but he doesn’t tease. Instead, his voice dips, quieter now. “Do you still draw at the end of the day? Or are they keeping you too busy?”  

You hesitate, fingers tracing the rim of your cup. “I try to. Helps clear my head.”  

Pedro watches you for a beat, then nods. “Good. You should keep at it.”  

Something about the way he says it, like it actually matters to him, makes warmth spread through your chest. You don’t know how to respond to that, so you just sip your coffee and hope he doesn’t notice the way your fingers tighten around the cup.  

The car slows as it pulls up to the studio lot, and everyone starts gathering their things, stretching, shaking off the sluggishness of the morning. Pedro slides his sunglasses to the top of his head, glancing at you as he opens the door.  

“Ready for another day of pretending we know what we’re doing?” he asks, grin lopsided.  

You laugh, stepping out of the car. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”  

The driver bids you all a good day, and you offer a small wave, adjusting your bag over your shoulder. The familiar buzz of set life fills the air—crew members moving equipment, voices overlapping, the faint sound of someone running lines in the distance.  

Pedro falls into step beside you, and despite the chaos around you, you feel oddly settled. Maybe it’s the coffee. Maybe it’s the warmth of the morning.  

Or maybe it’s just him.

PINEWOOD STUDIOS — DAY 

The day stretches long and demanding, filled with the constant hum of movement, orders being called out, and the steady rhythm of set life unfolding around you.  

You and Daisy barely have a moment to breathe, running between departments, making sure everything is where it needs to be. The production schedule is tight, which means there’s no room for mistakes, no time to slow down.  

“Okay, okay, hold up,” Daisy pants, stopping next to you behind the set, hands braced on her knees. “If I have to run across this lot one more time to deliver another prop, I’m throwing myself into the fog machine and disappearing.”  

You huff out a tired laugh, adjusting your headset as you check the call sheet in your hand. “I hate to break it to you, but we still need to get the next set of dailies to the editing bay and make sure wardrobe has the updated continuity notes.”  

Daisy groans dramatically. “How did we get roped into this again?”  

“You volunteered to take extra PA shifts,” you remind her, smirking.  

She scowls. “And you agreed to do it with me, so who’s the real fool here?”  

You nudge her with your elbow before checking your watch. There’s a brief window before the next setup, and you both know better than to waste it. Without another word, you split up—Daisy heads toward the props department, while you weave through the maze of trailers and equipment toward wardrobe.  

The moment you step inside the wardrobe tent, you’re met with the sharp scent of fabric steam and the controlled chaos of stylists making last-minute adjustments.  

“Hey, got the continuity notes from this morning’s shoot,” you say, handing over the folder to one of the assistants.  

They glance up, looking relieved. “Oh, thank God. We were just about to send someone to chase these down.”  

You flash a tired smile. “Happy to save you the trouble.”  

Before you can leave, someone’s headset crackles with an urgent call from set, and you hear your name being mentioned.  

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath, already moving.  

By the time you get back to set, Daisy is already there, headset tilted as she listens to the first AD barking orders. She shoots you a look when she sees you approach, her expression somewhere between we’re so screwed and why is everyone like this?  

“What now?” you whisper.  

“They need another PA to help reset the stunt rigging for the next take,” she mutters back. “Guess who gets to be that PA?”  

“Us?”  

“Ding, ding, ding.”  

You sigh, but there’s no use complaining. Instead, you follow Daisy toward the main soundstage, where the crew is resetting for another action sequence. The rigging team waves you over, already handing you harnesses to help secure the area.  

You’ve barely finished clipping things into place when Pedro appears nearby, already in costume, watching the controlled chaos of set. His gaze catches on you, a flicker of recognition in his eyes before amusement settles in.  

“Didn’t realize this was part of your job description,” he teases, arms crossing over his chest.  

You roll your eyes, adjusting the straps on your harness. “I do everything around here.”  

“Clearly,” he says, grinning. “I should start calling you the real MVP of this production.”  

Daisy, overhearing, snorts. “Oh, don’t encourage her. She’s already got enough of a complex.”  

Pedro laughs, and you glare at Daisy, but it’s all in good fun. The truth is, despite the exhaustion, despite the constant running around, there’s something oddly satisfying about the work. It’s not glamorous, not in the way people think movies are made, but it’s real. And you love it.  

Even if, by the time lunch rolls around, you feel like you’ve run a marathon.

PINEWOOD STUDIOS — AFTERNOON 

You slump onto the nearest empty bench, your limbs aching from the nonstop running around since the crack of dawn. With a tired groan, you twist open a bottle of water and down it in several long gulps, the cool relief barely making up for how drained you feel.  

“I’m so glad I brought an extra change of clothes because holy shit,” you gasp, wiping at the sweat on your forehead.  

Daisy collapses beside you with an equally exhausted sigh, her head lolling back against the table. “If I don’t sit down for the next hour, I might actually pass out standing up.”  

Omar drops into the seat on your other side, groaning dramatically as he takes a long swig from his water bottle. “No, because fuck this,” he grumbles, shaking his head. “Why does it feel like production’s been testing our stamina like we’re training for the fucking Olympics?”  

You huff a tired laugh. “Because we are.”  

Nearby, a group of other PAs are in similar states of exhaustion, scarfing down sandwiches like they’ve been starved for days. The entire crew has been running on fumes all morning, juggling stunts, continuity notes, and last-minute script changes.  

You dig into the lunch Daisy had brought back for you—a sandwich and a bag of chips, simple but satisfying. The three of you eat in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds being the occasional sighs of relief from getting off your feet for even a few minutes.  

Eventually, Daisy leans forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “So… have you thought about saying something to the first AD about Cecilia?”  

You nearly choke on your bite of sandwich. "Oh my God, not now.”  

“Yes, now,” Daisy insists. “She’s been a bitch all week, and it’s only getting worse. I swear, if she snaps at you one more time, I’ll throw my walkie at her.”  

Omar nods, chewing thoughtfully. “Yeah, it’s actually getting kinda unbearable.”  

You sigh, pushing your food around with your fork. You know they’re right. Cecilia—one of the senior production assistants—has been making your life hell lately. Every little thing you do is apparently wrong, and her constant nitpicking has started to feel personal.  

“I just…” you hesitate, rubbing at your temples. “I don’t want to make it a bigger deal than it already is. Maybe she’s just stressed?”  

Daisy gives you an unimpressed look. “Stressed my ass. We’re all stressed, babe, and we’re not out here making everyone miserable just because we can.”  

Omar points his fork at you. “Exactly. And look, I get not wanting to stir the pot, but if she keeps treating you like shit, it’s gonna start affecting your work. You need to say something.”  

You bite your lip, mulling it over. You’re not the type to cause a scene, especially when it comes to work—you’ve always just kept your head down and powered through. But this… this has been eating at you for days.  

“I’ll think about it,” you murmur, still unsure.  

Daisy narrows her eyes. “You better do more than think.”  

Before you can respond, the sound of approaching footsteps makes you glance up—only to find Pedro making his way toward your table, two cups of iced coffee in hand.  

“Oh, look who’s finally gracing us with his presence,” Omar teases, smirking.  

Pedro grins, unfazed, before setting one of the iced coffees in front of you. “Thought you could use this.”  

You blink, surprised. “You—” You glance down at the drink, recognizing it immediately. Iced salted caramel latte. Your go-to. “How did you—”  

Pedro shrugs, casual as ever. “You think I don’t pay attention?”  

Your stomach flips, heat creeping up your neck. Daisy and Omar exchange a look before Daisy not-so-subtly nudges you under the table.  

“I—uh, thanks,” you say awkwardly, taking the cup and focusing very hard on the condensation forming on the plastic.  

Pedro watches you with a knowing smile before he turns to the rest of the group. “So, what’s the gossip? What’s got everyone whispering like high schoolers?”  

Daisy doesn’t hesitate. “Oh, just Cecilia being Cecilia.”  

Pedro’s smile fades slightly, his gaze flicking to you. “She still giving you a hard time?”  

You shift uncomfortably, avoiding his eyes. “It’s nothing, really. Just—”  

“It’s not nothing,” Daisy interjects. “She’s been riding her ass all week, and it’s getting ridiculous.”  

Pedro frowns, leaning against the table. “You talked to the AD about it?”  

You sigh. “No, because it’s not that serious—”  

“It is,” Omar cuts in. “You’re working twice as hard as half the people on this set, and she’s still treating you like shit.”  

Pedro’s jaw tightens, and for a moment, he looks like he wants to say something—something firm, something protective—but instead, he exhales, rolling his shoulders back.  

“Well,” he says finally, voice measured, “if you don’t want to bring it up, at least let me know if she crosses the line again.”  

You glance up at him, the warmth in his gaze soft but serious. There’s something reassuring about it, like he’s quietly telling you that he’s in your corner, no matter what.  

Your chest tightens, and for a second, you don’t know what to say.  

Daisy, of course, fills the silence for you. “Damn, maybe you should just let Pedro handle it,” she jokes, wiggling her brows. “Bet she’d shut up real quick if he just—”  

“Daisy,” you hiss, mortified.  

Pedro chuckles, but there’s a hint of mischief in his eyes. “I mean… I could have a word with her.”  

“Oh my God, no.” You shake your head rapidly. “That would just make it worse.”  

“Debatable.”  

“I swear to God—”  

He laughs, hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright, I’ll stay out of it.” A pause. “For now.”  

You groan, but there’s a warmth in your chest that wasn’t there before.  

PINEWOOD STUDIOS — AFTERNOON 

The day isn’t over yet.  

After lunch, you’re right back at it, running around set, checking call sheets, adjusting rigging equipment, and making sure everything is in place for the next round of stunt rehearsals. You, Daisy, and Omar move like a well-oiled machine, setting up wires and double-checking safety protocols.  

Matt Shakman, ever the observant director, watches from a distance, arms crossed and a satisfied nod of approval on his face. “You three are killing it today,” he says, passing by as you finish tightening a harness.  

“Thanks, Matt,” Daisy beams, nudging you playfully. “We try.”  

Jess Hall, the first assistant director, chimes in, “Seriously, you guys have been on top of everything. Keep this up, and I might actually sleep well tonight.”  

You let out a small, shy laugh, ducking your head. “Just doing our job.”  

“Yeah, but you’re doing it well,” Jess points out, before heading off to oversee the final checks.  

As you straighten up, rolling out the tension in your shoulders, you spot Pedro, Vanessa, Ebon, and Joseph arriving on set. Pedro catches your eye first, grinning as he waves. The others follow suit, greeting you and the crew with casual waves and easy smiles.  

You lift a hand in return, a small but warm flutter in your chest.  

And then there’s Cecilia.  

Standing off to the side, arms crossed, face like thunder.  

You don’t even have to look directly at her to feel the glare she’s boring into you. The barely contained resentment. It’s been like this all day—every time you do something right, every time you get even a sliver of recognition, she seems to grow more and more pissed.  

But you push it out of your mind.  

You have a job to do.  

And right now, that means making sure this next stunt goes off without a hitch.  

The rigging for the next scene is extensive—multiple actors wired up, intricate movements choreographed down to the second. You’re double-checking the setup, securing a final carabiner when someone calls for places.  

“Alright, let’s lock it up!” Jess shouts. “Rolling in five!”  

You step back, joining Daisy and Omar off to the side, scanning the setup one last time. Everything looks solid. No loose wires. No unsecured equipment.  

At least, that’s what you think.  

Then—  

A blur. A crack. A scream.  

It happens too fast.  

Something above shifts—maybe a light, maybe part of the set structure—but it’s falling, fast and heavy, right where Pedro is standing.  

Your body moves before your brain does.  

“Move!”  

You shove Pedro with both hands, hard, sending him stumbling out of the way just as the metal rig comes crashing down.  

The impact never comes.  

Not for him, at least.  

Pain explodes across your shoulder, sharp and jarring, but adrenaline surges through you, numbing everything as chaos erupts around you.  

“Jesus Christ—”  

“Someone get a medic—”  

Voices blur together. There’s movement, hands reaching for you, but you’re not even thinking about yourself.  

You blink up at Pedro, his face inches from yours, panic written in every crease of his expression.  

"Are you good?" you ask, voice tight, breath coming faster now.  

Pedro just stares at you, jaw clenched, eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to process what just happened.  

Then he swallows, hard. “Am I—?” His voice is strained. “You’re the one who—”  

He doesn’t finish, just reaches for you, steadying you as a medic pushes through the small crowd that’s formed around you.  

It’s only then that you notice—  

The blood.  

Your sleeve is torn. There’s a gash on your arm, deep and angry-looking, but you barely feel it.  

Pedro does.  

His grip on you tightens, like he’s just realizing how close that was. Like he’s just realizing you took the hit for him.

You don’t register the pain at first. The adrenaline drowns it out, buzzing through your veins like white noise, making everything feel strangely detached—like you’re floating just outside your body, watching everything unfold in slow motion.  

But Pedro’s grip on you is very real.  

“Shit, shit, shit—” His voice is low, strained, hands hovering over you like he doesn’t know where to touch, afraid he’ll make it worse. His eyes flicker between your face and your arm, widening at the sight of the torn fabric, the deep gash beneath it.  

“I’m fine,” you mumble, blinking rapidly as the world tilts slightly. “You’re fine. That’s what matters.”  

Pedro exhales sharply, jaw tightening. He looks anything but reassured.  

The medic finally pushes through the crowd, dropping to his knees beside you. “Let me see,” he says, already reaching for your arm.  

“I’m good—” you try to insist, but Pedro gives you a look. A look that immediately shuts you up.  

A storm of emotion brews behind his eyes—concern, anger, something else you can’t quite name yet. He’s tense, his entire body coiled like a spring.  

You feel a little dizzy. Maybe it’s the blood loss. Maybe it’s the fact that Pedro is looking at you like that, like he cares too much.  

“Alright, this is gonna sting,” the medic warns before pressing gauze against the wound.  

It does more than sting. A sharp, searing pain shoots through your arm, and you hiss through your teeth, eyes squeezing shut for a second.  

Pedro flinches. Actually flinches, like he felt it too.  

“Fucking hell,” Daisy breathes from behind him. She’s pale, wide-eyed. “That thing could’ve crushed you.”  

Omar nods, face just as grim. “Yeah, what the hell even happened?”  

There’s a murmur of agreement from the other crew members gathered around, voices overlapping in hushed confusion. Because this wasn’t supposed to happen.  

The rig had been checked. The lights had been secured.  

So why did it fall?  

You glance toward the area where the rigging had come loose. Something gnaws at the back of your mind—an unease you can’t quite name. Your gaze flickers briefly toward Cecilia, who stands a little too still, a little too composed.  

She doesn’t look shocked.  

She looks… interested.  

Like she’s watching.  

And then, as if she senses you looking, she tilts her head slightly—just a fraction—before turning away.  

A chill snakes down your spine.  

“Hey.” Pedro’s voice pulls you back. He’s crouched next to you, closer now, his hand still hovering near yours but not quite touching. His knee almost brushes against yours. “You with me?”  

Your breath hitches.  

You hate how he does that—how he sees you so easily, how he pulls you back from the edges of your own mind with nothing but a word, a glance.  

“I’m good,” you say, voice quieter than before.  

Pedro’s expression darkens, like he doesn’t believe you, but he doesn’t press. Instead, he turns his attention back to the medic. “She needs stitches, right?”  

The medic nods. “Yeah. We’ll need to get her patched up properly.”  

Pedro exhales through his nose, rubbing a hand over his jaw. He looks like he wants to hit something.  

“Stop looking at me like that,” you mutter.  

“Like what?”  

“Like I just died in front of you or something.”  

Pedro does not laugh. In fact, he looks even more tense, if that’s possible.  

“You could have,” he says, voice low. “If you hadn’t moved so fast, that thing—” He stops himself, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t have done that.”  

“I shouldn’t have saved you?” you arch a brow. “I didn’t realize that was a bad thing.”  

Pedro levels you with a look, one that sends heat crawling up your spine. “You know what I mean.”  

There’s something charged in the air between you. A tension neither of you acknowledge, but it’s there, lingering like the static before a storm.  

Jess Hall calls for a short break while the crew inspects the rigging failure. People start to disperse, murmuring about safety protocols and near-misses.  

But Pedro doesn’t move.  

Neither do you.  

The medic finishes wrapping your arm in temporary bandages. “She should get properly stitched up in the medical tent.”  

Pedro stands before you can even process that. “I’ll take her.”  

You blink. “That’s not necessary—”  

“Not asking,” Pedro says, holding out a hand to help you up.  

You hesitate, but the moment your fingers brush against his, the warmth of his palm against yours, you stop thinking.  

He pulls you up carefully, keeping you steady when you sway slightly on your feet. His grip lingers—just a little too long.  

And when you finally look up at him, there’s something in his expression that makes your stomach twist.  

Something unspoken. Something more.  

Something you don’t have the words for yet.

PINEWOOD STUDIOS — MEDICAL TENT 

The walk to the medical tent is quiet.  

Pedro hasn’t let go of you. His hand hovers near your lower back, not quite touching but close enough that you feel him there—like a tether, grounding you.  

You should say something, maybe make a joke, lighten the mood. But the words don’t come. Your arm is starting to throb now, the sharp edge of pain creeping in as the adrenaline fades. You exhale slowly, focusing on each step forward.  

Pedro doesn’t rush you. He matches your pace, his brows drawn tight, his jaw locked so hard you can see the muscle tick.  

You swallow.  

“I mean,” you start, forcing out a breathy laugh, “at least I’m lucky insurance covers this.”  

Pedro stops.  

Just—stops.  

You nearly stumble, caught off guard, but when you turn to look at him, the expression on his face roots you to the spot.  

His eyes flicker over you, frustration darkening his gaze. “That’s what you’re thinking about right now?” His voice is tight, controlled, but there’s an edge to it. “Insurance?”  

You blink. “I mean… yeah?”  

Pedro exhales sharply, raking a hand through his hair. He looks like he’s about to say something else, but then he presses his lips into a firm line, nostrils flaring.  

You watch the way his shoulders rise and fall with the weight of whatever he’s holding back.  

And suddenly, you get it.  

He’s mad.  

Not at you. Not really.  

He’s mad that you got hurt. Mad that you shoved him out of the way instead of letting him take the hit. Mad that he almost lost you—over a fucking light rig.  

Your chest tightens.  

“Pedro—”  

“Don’t.” His voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper. He looks away, shaking his head. “You scared the shit out of me.”  

Your throat feels thick. “I—”  

“I saw that thing falling, and I couldn’t move—I couldn’t do anything. And then you—” He cuts himself off, dragging a hand down his face. “Christ.”  

Your fingers twitch at your side. You don’t know what to do with this—this version of him. The one unraveling right in front of you.  

“I didn’t think,” you admit, voice small. “I just—moved.”  

Pedro lets out a quiet, bitter laugh. “Yeah. You did.”  

There’s a beat of silence. A moment where the world around you fades, leaving only the two of you standing there in the dimly lit corridor just outside the medical tent.  

Then—  

Pedro takes a step closer.  

And another.  

Your breath catches.  

His eyes search yours, something raw flickering beneath the surface. He looks at you like he’s memorizing you, like he’s trying to commit this exact moment to something permanent.  

You don’t move. You can’t.  

Then, barely above a whisper—  

“Don’t do that again.”  

You part your lips to respond, but before you can say anything—  

Pedro cups your face.  

And then—  

He doesn’t kiss you.  

He hesitates. His breath is warm against your lips, his fingers trembling slightly where they rest against your jaw. He’s so close you can count every fleck of gold in his eyes, so close you can feel the way his chest rises and falls against yours.  

You exhale, something between relief and longing tightening in your stomach.  

Then—a sharp ahem cuts through the moment.  

You jolt, heart still racing, as Pedro pulls back slightly—just enough to let you breathe, but not enough to let you go. His hands remain where they are, warm and steady against your skin.  

The medic staff is standing in the doorway, arms crossed, one brow arched like they’ve seen this kind of thing play out before.  

“Hate to break up the moment,” they say, voice dry, “but I have some stitches to put in.”  

You blink.  

Right.  

The pain in your arm, dulled by adrenaline and—well, Pedro—suddenly makes itself known again, pulsing in time with your heartbeat. You wince, shifting slightly, and Pedro’s hands immediately fall away.  

But he doesn’t step back.  

If anything, he lingers, his fingers ghosting over your wrist like he’s reluctant to break contact entirely. His brows furrow as he glances down at your injury. “She’s not gonna need the ER, right?”  

The medic shakes their head. “Nah. She’s lucky. It’s a clean cut—deep, but nothing life-threatening. We’ll get her stitched up, give her some pain meds, and she’ll live to tell the tale.”  

Pedro exhales, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. But not all of it.  

You try to make a joke. “Told you I had good insurance.”  

Pedro doesn’t laugh.  

Instead, he just looks at you.  

The kind of look that makes your breath catch, that makes your chest feel too tight, that makes you ache in a way that has nothing to do with your injury.  

He doesn’t say anything, but his hand finds yours again, his fingers curling around yours. He squeezes, just once, before letting go.  

“Come on,” the medic says, gesturing toward the exam table. “Let’s get this over with.”  

You try really hard to be tough about the whole thing.  

You really do.  

But the moment the needle pierces your skin, you can’t help it—your breath stutters, your body tensing so hard it actually hurts.  

“Hey,” Pedro’s voice is right there, warm and grounding. His hand finds your knee, rubbing gentle circles over the fabric of your pants. “Breathe, cariño.”  

You suck in a sharp breath through your nose, blinking rapidly against the sting behind your eyes.  

God, this is so stupid. You literally work on a film set—you’ve seen worse injuries, watched stunt performers brush off things ten times more intense. But the sensation of the needle threading through your skin, pulling tight with every stitch, is enough to make your stomach turn.  

Pedro must see it written all over your face, because before you can spiral too much, he shifts, crouching beside you so you’re eye level. His voice drops lower, softer.  

“You’re doing good,” he murmurs. “Just a little more.”  

You nod, swallowing against the lump in your throat.  

The medic works quickly, but it still feels like forever. You squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself to think of something else. Anything else.  

Pedro.  

The way he looked at you before he almost kissed you.  

The way he held you.  

The way he’s still here, watching over you like he has no intention of going anywhere.  

“Almost done,” the medic announces, tying off the last stitch. “You’re a champ. Didn’t even cry.”  

Barely.  

Pedro doesn’t let go of you. His thumb brushes over your knee one last time before he finally stands, watching as the medic cleans up and starts giving you aftercare instructions.  

“No lifting anything heavy for a few days. Keep it clean, change the dressing daily. Try not to move your arm too much—don’t want to pull the stitches.” The medic pauses, glancing between you and Pedro with something suspiciously close to amusement. “And get some rest. I mean actual rest. No overworking yourself.”  

Pedro snorts. “Yeah, good luck with that.”  

You glare at him, but the effect is ruined by how utterly exhausted you feel. The medic finishes up, giving you some painkillers and a fresh bandage before stepping back.  

“You’re good to go,” they say. “But seriously—take it easy.”  

Pedro notices.  

Before you can protest, he’s already there, an arm sliding around your waist to steady you. “Alright, that’s enough excitement for one day,” he mutters. “Come on, I’m taking you back to the hotel.”

End Notes:

I’m a sucker for having character A get injured and character B absolutely losing their shit and realizing they could lose them SO FAST and they haven’t even had a chance to love each other yet LOL

YAHHH I KEEP TEASING YA’LL WITH THE KISS IM SORRY— But I swear it’ll probably happen in the next chapter... maybe... 👀

There’s something wonderful about delayed gratification idk why

Pedro probably didn’t want to kiss you in such a situation like that– he’s probs the type to want to do it right.

Also OOoooOOOoo I almost killed the reader lol. How fun.

Again, my apologies for taking so long with this chapter, school is a bitch and I had to lock tf in for a little bit.

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

[silvysartfulness]

Chapter 61 - A Grand And Breathtaking Sight of Heaven Has A Road But No One Walks It is up! :D

“The water smells different,” Xiao Xingchen said, cocking his head to smell the breeze. The river was so wide here it looked more like a huge lake, the far shore so distant it was hard to make out in the haze of the late summer sun.

Curious, Xue Yang leaned over the edge of the boat to trail his hand in the water – Song Lan had made a fuss last morning and insisted on more pressure treatments, rubbing most of the ache out of the bones again, but that was alright because he had retaliated by poking said grubby hand all over the stitches of the once-wound to make sure the fierce corpse was holding himself together properly. Which he was, so they were even.

He brought his wet fingers up to his lips to lick at them, then grinned with excitement.

“It’s salty!”

Xiao Xingchen leaned in close, every bit as excited.

“Really?”

“Here,” Xue Yang told him, holding his wet fingers to his lips. Xiao Xingchen started, then opened his mouth almost on reflex to let him touch his tongue, a bright, surprised smile bursting onto his face.

“It really is! Salty. Like a river of tears.”

---------------

The beach episode! Surely the three disaster-boys have earned a nice, relaxing vacation completely free of angst. 🥰

I'm telling you guys, I'm going through it wrapping this beast up - the end is both so near, and SO SO far. I appreciate your encouragement, reblogs, tags and comments more than ever! Or maybe come yell at me in my discord server?

We can do it together! 😭🙏💚

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Know Your Place 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, power dynamic, age gap, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Walter Marshall, destroyer!Chris [for the purposes of this AU, I will give him the last name Jackson] (Professor AU)

Summary: after a life time of home schooling, you finally get to experience the real world in college. (petite reader)

Part of the Bad Professors AU

Note: Please leave some feedback and reblog <3 As always, I love to chat with you all. 

The noise all around has you reeling. You’re not used to so many people. So many voices and smells and sights. The frantic action of it all reminds you of a mid-00s movie about a high school. The coeds are like animals milling about in groups with the odd single body rushing between with a mission stitched between their brows. 

You sit with your thermos of tea and try to focus on your schedule. You have a campus map from the Student Support Centre next to it, trying to map out your route for each day. Momma said you should try to get ahead, figure out where you’re going. She’s always right. 

You have two classes that day. As you find the buildings on the map, planting a finger on each, you find that they are on completely different ends of the campus. Of course. Well, momma didn’t know that where they would be, did she? She said you have to balance your load; if you’re going to be an English major, make sure you take some math and science for your electives. 

You circle the two buildings and put lets beside them denoting which day you need to be there, numbering them in the order the classes occur. A burst of laughter breaks your concentration and you look around, trying to find the source. You almost miss the calm isolation of your childhood living room. 

No, you’re grown now and you begged Momma to let you go to college. Not online, but in person. You even worked all summer at the deli so you could live in a dorm. She was proud but worried. She’s never been good at letting go. She’s already called three times today and it’s not even noon. 

As the crowd blurs around you, a sudden gust blows over the table as someone sits across from you. You stare back at them with a gasp. They must’ve mistaken you for someone else. You blink as the man tugs on the front of his letterman jacket and smiles. He doesn’t seem mistaken. 

“Hey,” he leans forward on an elbow, “you waitin’ for someone? Got some cute girlfriends on their way?” 

He’s so forward, he has your brows as high as they can go and your cheeks are on fire. It’s not much of an introduction. 

“Excuse me?” You eke out. 

“Ah, I’m sorry, hon, I’m getting ahead of myself,” he smirks as he crosses both his arms on the table. “I’m Colin. You looked lonely.” 

“Oh, uh, I’m just... figuring out my schedule,” you utter dumbly. Yor brain isn’t clicking. Why is he talking to you? 

Your ears tweak and you notice a group in similar jackets, sitting just across the dining area, gabbing loudly, snickering. You wonder why he isn’t over there with them. You wiggle your pen anxiously. 

“Ah, you’re not gonna give me a name for that pretty face?” He says. 

“Huh?” Your brows drop, “what?” 

Your momma’s voice echoes in your head. ‘Be careful of those college boys. They only want one thing.’ You didn’t believe her. They don’t want that from you. You were sure once you saw the other girls in their tight leggings and short tops. 

“Your name, baby? Gotta be something sweet, huh?” 

Your face ripples as you wade through surprise, confusion, then something else. You’re almost giddy. This man, with his mussed blond hair and bright blue eyes, and his chiseled features, is asking you your name. It’s flattering. 

“Mauve,” you can’t help but smile as you answer. 

“Oh, yeah? That’s pretty, well, Mauve,” he takes out his phone, “me and my buddies are having a party tonight and we’re supposed to find a hottie to bring with us. I’m having no luck but if I show up alone, well... I might not get to stay in the frat. You get it?” 

You stare at him. You're confused. You don’t really understand frats and whatnot. They just seem like clubs people join so they can drink. 

“You wanna do me a favour? Come with me?” He asks. 

He’s bold. Bolder than any one you’ve ever met. You sputter but can’t come up with any words. 

“Please,” he pouts, “promise, I won’t try anything, I just gotta get these guys off my back.” 

He looks over his shoulder at the table of rowdy guys. You squirm in your seat, uncertain. You’ve never been to a party. Wow. 

“Here, I’ll get your number,” he taps on his phone screen, “I’ll send you the details--” 

“Leave her alone,” a grizzly voice undercuts the frat across from you. 

A thick man stands behind him. He has a cardboard cup in his hand as he glares down at the coed. His burly figure is swathed in a dark green sweater and grey slacks. He’s older and his dark curls are threaded with subtle twinkles of silver. 

“Huh? Who the hell are you?” 

“Why don’t you show her those pictures you were snapping of her? The ones you and your pals were laughing about?” The other man growls.  

You frown. What? You don’t understand what’s going on. You look from one to the other. The younger man sat across from your sighs and rolls his eyes. 

“Fuck it. Whatever. Lots of pigs to go around,” he shakes his head and stands, facing the other man. “You know, bro, just cause you’re too old to get with any ass around here, doesn’t mean you gotta ruin it for others.” 

“Get out of here,” the thicker man snarls. The other winces just slightly before puffing up his chest and stomping away. 

You remain as you are, aghast and lost. The man with the dark curls looks at you. You shrug at him. 

“I’m sorry, sir, did I do something wrong?” You ask. 

The harsh angles of his scowl ease and he lets out a long breath, “uh, no, not you. That boy, you know, any one that wears one of those jackets, they’re no good. Just some advice.” 

“Oh, right,” you look over at that guy, Colin, “sorry, I didn’t know. He just started talking to me. I was being polite.” 

“Seem like a nice girl. Just tryna look out for you.” 

“Yeah, thanks,” you chew your lip and sniff. “Are you... are you teacher?” 

“I’m a professor,” he confirms as he holds his cup close to his chest. He's one of the biggest men you’ve ever seen. And his eyes are as blue as the ocean. “Professor Marshall but unless you’re a psych student, you can call me Walter.” 

“Walter? My neighbour is Walter. At home. He’s eighty-one and he collects baseball cards,” you let yourself smile. You always felt more comfortable around older people. You never had many friends your own age. 

“Don’t mind some baseball myself,” he dips his chin. “Well, you look out for yourself and avoid the Greeks.” 

“Greeks?” You make a face. 

“Fraternities,” he says. “And sororities, if you can help it.” 

“Oh, okay. Thank you, sir,” you feel a little better. You think he’s right and he is a professor. He would know. “I’ll do that.” 

“Sir? It’s Walter,” he corrects you. 

“Oh, sorry, Walter,” you smile. “I’m Mauve.” 

He nods and shifts his cup, “Mauve,” he repeats, “well, nice to meet you.” 

“You too, sir, er, Walter. Thank you,” you say. 

He hesitates then steps back on his heel, “yeah, no problem.” 

He slowly retreats and you watch him, your heart playing like a drum. You did it. You spoke to strangers and you didn’t melt. Things are getting easier. If you could get through that, you’re sure you’ll make lots of friends in your classes.