#red medical pixels

[junabuggy]

ahh can i ask for some medical/hospital/first aid graphics ? not like the gore (sick of it myself) but like those cute pills, heart monitors, and bouncy first aid kits if you can <:3 thank you ! hope today an tomorrow are kind to you

This request sat in my drafts for.... *checks notes*.... 3 months Σ( ° △ °|||)?!

Ssosoo uhm I hope these are good !!! I went with two different colour schemes (more pink and then more traditional with red and white). Sorry for the wait, Anon !! o(；>△<)o

[lordoftablecloths]

med v med

edit: there's a less blurry version in the reblogs (sowwy 🥺)

if emesis blue taught me anything at all, it's this :3 one is insane the other is going insane i love it it's such a silly dynamic even if it is just a headcanon lol

oh, aldso, look at this video: https://youtu.be/WR95vy8O88k

it's just a compilation, but the original source is this guy: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLQ5TsaXkVpyJ3408guy8iSkwQXp3xiAVp

haha it's so silly i love it :3

[grandisknight]

zayne: a doctor's companion

summary: A certain healthcare companion finds its way into Linkon City, and a particular doctor is about to discover what it means to say ba-la-la-la-lah.

tags: established relationship, baymax (big hero 6), fluff, canon-complaint, one-shot, medical terms, phone call, gender neutral reader mentioned, mostly zayne's POV, first meetings

word count: 1.8k | (ao3)

notes: inspired by this tweet! also i just love baymax a lot and i think him and zayne would be a cute duo thank you ; including the stanford article i read for the surgery mentioned here! (not necessary for understanding though) (also if i get any med stuff wrong apologies i did my best! i was a girl in stem but not Stem yk)

+ update: the cutest zayne baymax art just dropped everyone say thank you mimi (zaynefied) (i cried)

⊹˚₊‧───────────‧₊˚⊹

Zayne was sure he had slept well the night before. Had his full eight hours, breakfast accomplished and a handful of kisses from his partner before heading out in his pristine, white coat. The drive to work was the same scenery of Linkon City rushing past, soon parked in his designated lot and tracing a familiar path towards Akso Hospital’s entrance.

So, even with such a practiced routine, how did he end up here? 

“I will scan you now. Please remain in place, Dr. Zayne.”

Zayne raises a hand in an effort to dissuade his unforeseen guest. “That won't be necessary.” But his rejection, in turn, was rejected itself—his brows narrowed at the losing notion.

“But it is. I am Baymax, your personal healthcare companion.” The robot calmly states, reflecting a similar monotone diction to the doctor. “I was alerted to the need of medical attention,” he continues, plush footsteps along the hardwood floor squeaking as he approaches the seated doctor. "When you said 'Oof.' So, I am here."

That singular oof traced back to the faint murmur under Zayne's breath just minutes ago when pushing through the growing crowd of peering eyes at Baymax's unprecedented presence. An unusual sight for everyday work life, the mysterious yet kind robot drew in the attention of incoming patients and passersby who happened to catch a glimpse. Zayne’s opportune timing and arrival to work hurriedly whisked away the looming inflatable as crowds huddled in growing excitement, geeking and gossiping alike. Most of his efforts thus far were put into escorting the curiously soft giant through the pristine halls and past the doorway of his office without garnering further unwarranted attention.

And currently, Zayne found himself subjected to a consultation by said robot.

“On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your pain?” Baymax inquires. A chart of faces ranging in emotion and color flash over his chest in display. At the highest end stood a red expression painted in anguish, and to the lowest was a green facade of serenity.

Quickly, Zayne plainly states his number to mirror his current state. “Zero.”

Baymax stares him down with the abyss of his rather blank eyes wordlessly after receiving the response. In mere seconds, a pixelated, monotone hum with a hint of warmth made its way to Zayne’s ears. “Scan complete. You have sustained no recent injuries. However, your cortisol and neurotransmitter levels indicate that you are experiencing stress.”

No, really? Zayne’s brows and posture straightened then, removing his glasses and setting them aside. He echoes the conclusion, pushing down the unspoken remark with a bite of his tongue. “Stress? Is that so?”

Baymax nods, holding up a singular finger as he continues to reveal his findings. “This can be attributed to, for example, overconsumption of sugary foods or work overload. Have you had any of these two things recently?”

Zayne’s lips purse in thought, remembering the new maple syrup you had doused his pancakes in over an hour ago. ‘I picked this up during an overseas mission and thought you might like it,’ you explained to him, drawing an intricately sticky pattern of hearts atop his breakfast. It was still just syrup—not so much a difference in flavor to a regular one you could find at the nearby supermarket—but he was grateful for the gift nonetheless as he indulged in the sweet treat with you.

“Sugar, yes. Nothing wrong with it when done in moderation.”

Sure, he had a sweet tooth. But had been doing well to maintain a healthy intake of sugary pieces, lest he wanted another round of your ‘scoldings’ and an appointment to the neighboring orthodontist again.

With a slight sigh, he clasps his hands together over the expanse of his desk and continues. As for workload? He was almost always caught up in it, whether it were hands-on procedures or consultations. Today was no exception to the rule.

“And I do have work, if that’s what you’re referring to.”

“I see. May I make a suggestion?” Baymax asks.

Zayne gives him a curt signal of acknowledgement. “You may.”

“I can assist you with said workload. I am equipped with several modules and sensors that will be of use.”

Zayne contemplates for a moment, curious to the veracity of such a claim. Well, when one forms a hypothesis, the best way to test out the theory was through a designed experiment; and he was ready to do just that. “Alright. Give me just a moment.”

With a couple of speedy taps, Zayne pulls up a recent patient file and gestures for Baymax to approach. As the airy robot bounces into place beside him, Zayne points towards a diagram, a series of numbers and waves indicating observational data. “Here. Based on what you see, can you tell me what surgery this patient underwent?”

Baymax follows the trail of red lines, analyzing quickly in succession. “Their ECG fluctuations are affected by the noraderaline administrations over time. This line,” Baymax points to a blue parallel. “Indicates the oxygen levels throughout the surgery duration.” Calmly, he turns to blink at Zayne. “Diagnosis? The patient underwent a coronary artery bypass grafting procedure.”

Zayne nodded. Each detail was right on par, much to his surprise. “I’m impressed. Your creator must have put a lot of great effort into you.”

“He did. He was wonderful.” Baymax gives a thumbs up in return. “Am I to take it that I have passed your test?”

So he knew, even without having to say anything. “You have,” Zayne confirms with a small smile.

“Here.” Baymax raises his fingers and curls them into a fist, waiting for Zayne to meet him halfway. Slowly, Zayne does just that, meeting the soft plush before it was pulled away and sealed with a robotic tune.

“Ba-la-la-la-lah.”

“Bah… What now?”

“We have completed our first task together. This warrants a celebratory fist bump.” Baymax returns his enclosed fist towards the confused doctor once more. “You must also say it while our fists connect.”

Not finding it in himself to disagree, Zayne repeats the actions from before and adds on with an unsure, “Ba-la-lah.” Slightly strange, though it held a tinge of endearment that reminded him of a certain someone; he suddenly didn’t mind it as much then, shaking his head to himself.

It satisfied Baymax all the same, hand wiggling away before a sound disrupts the next file to be displayed. Zayne’s phone rings then, a custom set of notes indicating there was only one special caller. Your name flashed on his screen, buzzing in patience as his gaze flicked between that and Baymax.

“Do you mind if I take this?”

Baymax blinks. “I do not mind.”

“Thank you.”

With a swipe, Zayne presses his phone to the cup of his ear, voice softening to answer your call. “Good morning. Are you heading out now?”

“Morning! How did you know?” 

Zayne could make out the rustling of keys with the pattern of your footsteps, a light yet amused scoff from him trickling into the receiver. Even if it weren’t for the traces of noise, you usually left around this time and always texted him a new emoji without missing a day. So, of course he knew. You followed up almost immediately with another answer to support your stance. 

“New mission just came in, and it happens to be near Akso. Guess we’ll be seeing each other again pretty soon.”

“Oh?” His brow quirks at the idea. “What requires you to be in the area, exactly?” Zayne’s hazel hues instinctively settle on the black pools of Baymax’s blink, already knowing the answer that you proceeded to relay.

“There was a… Wanderer sighted?” Even over the phone, your voice relayed doubt amidst a warm crackling sound. “Well it’s not exactly one…allegedly. But rather something big, round and white? Tara said it looked like a walking marshmallow,” you chuckled. Well, it’s not like you were wrong, Zayne confirms with another glance.

“Either way, it’s caused an uproar and the Association is sending me to check it out. I’m assuming you already know what it is?”

“I do.” Baymax tilts his head, pointing a finger to himself in quiet curiosity. Zayne raises his own to his mouth, indicating for a secret to be kept as he muses into the call. “And no, not a Wanderer. Stop by my office when you get here and you’ll see.”

“I’ll be there in 15 if traffic is kind to me,” you chirped in reply. He could make out the humming of your motorcycle come to life, indicating the start of your journey. “See you then! Love you.”

“Alright. Love you too. Be safe.”

As the call came to an end, Zayne shifted his gaze to the even shiftier companion before him. Though Baymax couldn’t necessarily smile, the doctor could feel it radiating off of its plush form as he lifted a familiar finger.

“Your pulse and heart rate have quickened greatly. The rate went from 87 beats per minute to 102 in about ten seconds.” Baymax pauses, and a screen with infographics begins to luminate across his chest once more. “Symptoms may include, but are not limited to, your pituitary glands—“

“I’m aware of how hearts work.” Zayne gestures around to their environment, the glimmer of his name tag reflecting the morning sun filtering through the tall windows. “And… everything else.”

He was a cardiac surgeon, first and foremost. His efforts and contributions have earned him plenty of accolades in the field, a testament to his brilliance and especially at a younger age in comparison to his medical peers. But second to none was he also your partner—naturally, his heart would’ve soared regardless. He was aware of the source to his increased palpitations.

“You are also smiling,” Baymax comments. “Does this person make you happy?”

Zayne freezes then, unbeknownst of how the edges of his lips were curled into a gentle grin. His mouth almost straightens, fingertips brushing over them in thought. He lets out a resounding hum in confirmation, looking away bashfully for a brief moment. “Very much so.”

“That is good. Having someone who makes you ‘happy’ will improve your quality of life.” As if sending him his seal of approval, Baymax gives an affirmative fist of encouragement. No sooner did a wrapped lollipop appear between said fist, and he held it towards Zayne in offering. “Here, have a lollipop.”

“Thank you.” Zayne takes the candy in acceptance, wrapper crinkling in removal before a taste of winterberry spreads across his tongue. “Shall we go through another file until a certain someone comes barging in?”

He could already imagine how your grand entrance would play out, and this time, knowingly smiles to himself at the thought.

With an enthusiastic nod, Baymax takes a nearby chair and places it beside Zayne’s own. Deflating slightly to fit the mold, he puffs up once more in preparation.

“I am ready. Let’s work together, Dr. Zayne.”

[tatsumi-rin]

Anyone else thought about this?

With the popularity of Mouthwashing as a game, I've seen people who talk about it talk about the mouthwash itself as a metaphor for Jimmy (and they're definitely correct in their read imo), but dear god NO ONE is talking about it as a potential metaphor for Pony Express itself as a company.

This is an item considered to be an essential. It is a dental hygiene product dentists would generally recommend you have. 99.9% of bacteria gone - but this one is loaded with sugar. Using this is going to be detrimental to its own cause and probably worse than using no mouthwash at all.

Pony Express? No matter your start, it seems like a good, stable job and a promising future. People will always need goods transported to other planets. It even has a cute mascot representing pride in their work that they sell toys of to kids!

Butttttt, the caveats. Oh boy, the caveats. All of those cute images are done to soften the blow of little red pieces of text about how doing things to the point of basically existing means your credits are going to get docked - something that's just as much Aperture Science-esque dark humor as horrible foreshadowing. Late delivery? Docked. Resting in any manner for more than five hours? Docked. Using medical support in any manner? Docked. REPORTING ISSUES TO HR??? MOTHER. FUCKING. DOCKED.

And trying to avoid any of those dockings; those detriments? Pretty much impossible, and that would spell doom for anyone: including members of a certain ship. With every one of those rules, if they survived that payout would be hilariously low. The usual rules; made by out of touch people in fancy suits.

The members of the Tulpar all (mostly) had reasons to be there, even at radically different life stages. Reasons why they needed the work, and reasons why it should fulfill those reasons and enrich their lives.

It was meant to be Jimmy's ticket away from struggling on earth. It was meant to be Daisuke gaining direction in life. It was meant to be Anya finally getting into medical school. It was meant to be Swansea gaining a stable and fulfilling life as he made it into sobriety, and it was meant to be Curly making it further up into his career path with glowing words of praise.

As per capitalism's usual spiel that we were even shown in the game itself via public domain cartoon, taking this job was meant to be joyous opportunity and innovation for their lives; but with so many flaws in the system around them around them - including the words on those posters - just trying to find benefit in the system they needed in order to survive was nothing more than fatal poison. The dead pixel, the sugar, and the 0.1% all working together.

[swivi]

Kinich with a sick S/o

●Kinich is the type to find out your sick before you do.

● Kinich is the type to head out to get medications for you before you wake up and prepare a meal for you.

●Ajaw mocked him for overreacting over you having a small cold, only to get put in time outfor the 10000+ time.

●Ajaw complained the entire time Kinich went out early looking for medicine and herbs to give you.

●If you refuse to take the medicine or complain, he would try to bribe you.

●If you still refuse he would sigh, pinching your nose before forcing the spoonful of medicine into your mouth. Ignoring your whines of protest.

●Ajaw mocked you the entire time, calling you a oversized baby.

●New nickname unlocked: Kinich's dramatic baby. Loved the look of annoyance on Kinich's face when he called you that.

●Forced you to stay into bed especially if you like overworking yourself.

●Kinich would take time off his commissions to make sure you don't sneak out sick or do something stupid.

●Kinich is the type to carry back books and small gifts in hopes of it making you feel better.

The morning had came by quickly in your shared bedroom as you squirmed in the bed, reaching out to Kinich for comfort from the cold feeling that seemed to wrap around you. It was like a cold bucket of water was dunked over you as you felt around the bed for Kinich. Only to find the spot empty, your eyes slowly cracked open, adjusting to being open and as you thought..the side of his bed was empty.

You felt cold as chills ran down your body, yet before you could get up. The door opened, the lights of your bedroom turning on, almost blinding you in the process. Your eyes had opened again, fighting to adjust to the light in your room. There Kinich stood, Ajaw was no where to be found. You couldn't help but smile, knowing me probably put him in time out again. Your eyes trailed down seeing the tray in his hand as Kinich stood infront of you. He slowly placed the tray down on the table, that consisting of a bowl of porridge and a glass of water before moving to check your temperature. Placing his hand on your forehead. As expected, you had a fever as he sighed, sitting beside you.

After some convincing he had gotten the oppurtunity to feed you as he silently spoon fed you the porridge. You felt like a child at that point and as if your embarassment wasn't enough, Ajaw had gotten out of time out. The sound of him appearing reached your ears. Kinich had ignored him, focused on feeding you but Ajaw, the moment he saw what was happening, all hell broke loose.

"Oh, look at you..feeding them like their some two year old toddler...pathetic and over a small cold too?" Ajaw went on, amused by the sigh of weakness as he mocked you both. You could feel your face heat up even more from embarassment and the fever as Kinich fed you the last bit of porridge. Handing you the glass of water with a small sigh, as he turned to Ajaw.

"Will you shut it?" Kinich seemed unamused at his mocking words as took out a small bottle of cold medicine he had bought from the market and just like that...your guard was up yet again. Kinich studying your expression sighed as he filled a clean spoon with the medicine, holding it out to you. As expected, you turned away. Dodging it like it was a bullet as you closed your mouth stubbornly. Kinich sighed, trying to feed you again as Ajaw watched with a scoff.

"Aww..look at Kinich's dramatic baby, can't even handle drinking medicine. Can you be anymore pathetic?" Ajaw's voiced reached your ears again and Kinich frowned. He had turned to Ajaw tired of him and in a bold move, he forced the spoonful of medicine into the pixel dragons mouth. Ajaw choked, not expecting it as the bitter taste reached him. His body turning red and orange as he glitched around yelling insults at Kinich.

"WWKERSJ, HOW DARE YOU FEED THE ALMIGHTY K'UHUL AJAW THAT ATROCITY!" His voice rang out, disgust present on his face as he went to complain more, only to be flicked away into time out by a calm Kinich.

The room went silent as you stared over the side where Ajaw was. His disgusted face at tasting the medicine making you laugh before wincing at your sore throat. Kinich seeing that sighed as he turned back to you.

"See? It's safe, now take the medicine..your gonna get worse if you don't." He seemed calm, acting as if he didn't just shove a spoonful of cold medicine down the pixel dragons mouth. You didn't even think that was possible. Thinking of it made you shudder as you agreed. Reluctantly waiting as Kinich grabbed another spoon, pouring more of the medicine in it. You took it this time, not wanting to face his wrath and as expected it was bitter as you held back the urge to spit it out.

A few hours had passed after and you had started feeling better or so you told yourself. Wanting to go out to work, only to get denied as Kinich ignored your protests and whined of being side and wanting to go out...yep today was gonna be a long day.

Along the way seeing how bored and annoyed you were at staying home, Kinich had went out to get some gifts and books for you when you were sleeping. Placing them beside you, so that when you woke up, you would have something more to entertain you.

Side note~

strangely, a certain pixelated dragon hadn't came out of time out even after he was given freedom...Guess the medicine traumatized him, even if he didn't wanna admit it.

(Be warned I'm still sick, yes I've been sick since October and after like 2 weeks of recovering from my last cold, I got slapped in the face with a flu. So sorry if there is any mistakes or wrong writing. I did this while waiting at the hospital..well I still am here.)

[hyusun]

🌻 - 39.4 Degrees of Stupid - L.HC

Pairing: roommate!Haechan x yn

Genre: fluff, slow-burn ???

Warning : fever and snotty nose, rain/storm

Vibe : haechan ran through the rain after finals just to catch a game session , and ended up with a 39.4 degree fever and a blocked nose. yn, his unlucky roommate, spends her day off nursing him back to life and sanity. It’s chaotic, exhausting... and maybe a little bit sweet in the end.

The rain came down like grief-thick, endless, humming against windows and rooftops like the world was trying to cry out everything finals had wrung from your bones. You’d barely collapsed face-first into your bed, hoping to sleep away the academic carnage, when the front door slammed open like a thunderclap.

A soaked figure exploded into the apartment, trailing puddles and chaos in his wake, like some tragic Shakespearean fool who fought nature and lost.

And, of course, it was Haechan.

Your beloved, stupid housemate. Drenched to the bone. Hoodie plastered to his skin like betrayal, sneakers squelching with every dramatic step as he announced his arrival like a war hero returning from battle.

You didn't even lift your head from the couch.

“Why are you wet?” you called out, deadpan, too emotionally bankrupt to deal with his nonsense.

“I had to run!” he shouted, breathless, triumphant, utterly insane. “My ranked game session started in ten minutes!”

You rolled over just enough to glare. “You ran through a monsoon. For pixels.”

“They’re competitive pixels. It was my post-finals treat!”

“Your immune system is not going to treat you.”

But he waved you off, water still dripping from his sleeves, tracking a trail of regret all the way to his bedroom. You made a mental note to let natural selection do its thing.

But nature works fast.

By the next morning, your phone buzzed with a single dramatic message: “I’m dying. Bring water. And love. Mostly water.”

And when you dragged yourself out of bed and into the living room, what you found was not a man, but a melting popsicle of blankets and tissues. Haechan lay half-buried on the couch, nose red, cheeks flushed, fever blazing high enough you could feel the heat radiating from him like he was auditioning for the role of ‘Human Stove.’

He looked up at you with the wheezy pride of someone who made a dumb decision and refused to regret it. “It’s not that bad,” he said, voice sounding like a kazoo underwater. “I’m thriving.”

“You’re fermenting,” you corrected, crossing your arms. “Your fever could boil soup.”

He sniffled violently. “You’re being dramatic.”

“You ran through a thunderstorm to play League, Haechan.”

“It was a team game.”

He gasped, actually gasped—like you’d slapped him with a wet sock. “How dare—” But his righteous wail was immediately swallowed by a rapid-fire sneezing fit that sounded like a dying trumpet and shook the tissue box on his chest.

You didn’t even flinch. Just calmly handed him another tissue like this was your normal Thursday. A beat passes, and silence drapes over you both like a second comforter. Just as sleep begins to pull him under, you hear it—soft, barely audible.

“Thanks, yn... If I die, you get my gaming chair.”

You slapped a cold compress on his forehead, no gentleness spared, and when he whimpered, you rolled your eyes and adjusted the blanket around him. You were supposed to be doing nothing today. Catching up on sleep. Watching trashy variety shows. But no,your birdbrain roommate had turned your one peaceful day off into a medical emergency wrapped in fleece.

Still, when his hand twitched slightly and he shifted to lean into your touch, something inside you softened. Maybe it was the fever. Maybe it was the way his lashes fluttered every time you checked his temperature. Maybe it was because you were hopeless.

You spent the day beside him, nursing him like some reluctant Florence Nightingale with a grudge. You cooked him porridge while he dramatically insisted he was “withering.” You force-fed him vitamin C and wiped his sweat away while he tried to flirt between coughs.

At one point, you caught him staring at you with that hazy, fever-glazed look, quiet, almost reverent.

"You have nice hands," he murmured, like it was a secret.

You froze mid-spoon.

"And a nice heart," he added, lips chapped and clumsy. "And maybe a nice face, but I can’t really see you clearly.”

You blinked.

He blinked.

Then promptly sneezed into a tissue with the force of a hurricane.

“Moment ruined,” you muttered.

“I regret nothing,” he mumbled, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips like he hadn’t just nearly given himself pneumonia for a ranked match.

By early evening, he finally fell into a deep sleep. The rain outside had softened into a gentle hush, like the sky was finally letting go. You sat beside him beside the couch, half-dozing, your fingers still loosely wrapped around his wrist as if guarding him from any more of his own decisions. His fever had finally dipped. His breathing had slowed. And in that quiet, something delicate bloomed in the silence.

Later, just as the world was starting to settle into the night, you felt him stir. His eyes fluttered open, slow and dazed, landing on you with a softness that felt new. He looked at the blanket wrapped around him. By the way your head had tilted slightly off the couch. At your hand, still resting gently against his.

“Y/N,” he whispered, voice rough like sandpaper but gentler than you’d ever heard it. “Thanks for today.”

You didn’t answer,too tired, too close to falling asleep yourself.

But he kept speaking, his words barely above breath, fragile like paper.

“Stay close. Even when I’m not dying next time.”

You could’ve made a joke. Could’ve called him a dramatic little gremlin. Could’ve rolled your eyes.

Instead, you laced your fingers with his, and didn’t let go.

And outside, the rain finally stopped.

thank you so much for taking the time to read it. I’d love to hear your thoughts, so any feedback is welcome! - 🌻

All works are copyrighted © HyuSun, 2025. Please do not repost, rewrite, or distribute without explicit permission.

[britney-j-christ]

Oh man, Curly really had no good options, huh?

I see a lot of people jumping to "Curly should have shot Jimmy", which is fine to say because he still should get to shoot Jimmy, but not a compelling argument.

Unless this is even more dystopian of a universe than it seems (Ala the villain being capitalism, not The State Shooting You Without Trial In Space style) there's no legal grounds to do that. That's vigilante justice and while it would solve a part of the Safety Concern Jimmy causes, it leads to too many problems on earth.

Also, you cannot just casually shoot a coworker or 1/5th of the locals. Daisuke and Swansea would have *very reasonable concerns* if their captain just shot someone, even if it was explained. And I don't think either would be down to do a cover up about it. And if they did...

Daisuke would Crack in seconds under interrogation or scrutiny.

We're also talking about Captain Curly pre, uh... "character developement" as it were, being able to see Jimmy's abusive nature first hand now that he's under his control. There's a pattern for trying very, very hard to see the good in Jimmy and enabling him. He'd never be in this position as copilot if Curly hadn't been there, trying to pull Jimmy out of whatever trouble he was at back on Earth. Curly is a big picture guy who doesn't see the dead pixel; he sees Jimmy climbing up and out of the muck with him and he ignores the red flags or, possibly, even prior offenses?

Captain Curly can be seen *trying* to be a good Captain, not unlike the way Jimmy as Captain is also "trying" to be a good Captain(for selfish ego driven and guilt-avoidant reasons). It really is a goal they share. Both of them fail at it, but it is both their motivations in those roles. Even stressed and overworked, jumping to killing his best friend three months into a year long voyage isn't rational.

So how about we downgrade to more reasonable option; jailing. Except the places where one can be locked in are the hold full of valuable unknown cargo, so a non option if they want to get paid (they desperately do), and the medical bay, which is much more viable if they could a) get that set up in a way that didn't jeprodise the health of everyone and b) didn't have a huge human sized vent that might kill you if you go through it. I understand why neither were chosen.

So, how about the cryopods? Seems pretty viable. Much like murdering Jimmy, you'd have to get everyone on board for this. So, confronting Anya's rapist in front of Daisuke and Swansea and hope they can sway them both in favor of Lawful Detainment.

It's not impossible. I think, if they tried, it would have worked in terms of grouping up together- if they could do it without Jimmy getting wind of it and doing something drastic beforehand.

But then there's no copilot. This is such a major issue for an eight month voyage where we see that the ship will see a problem approximately like 2-3 minutes before it happens and requires corrections. Curly cannot do this job for that long. No one else is appropriately trained. Swansea is busy, Daisuke is not reliable enough to handle this, and Anya... could probably do it tbh I have complete faith in her but that's a lot to put on her shoulders to not get paid appropriately for, just for her to be *safe* from Jimmy.

I struggle to blame Curly for the choice he did go with. I don't see any good options, especially without knowing what's going to happen. It's already a huge jump to go from Best Friend to Rapist; expecting Jimmy to go down to Murderer is a big leap. It seems like he thought he had eight months to work with Anya, to figure out what to do. "Talking with Jimmy" could have been anything from Boys Club protection racketing to clinical setting of boundaries for likely the first time in their relationship to a full on confrontation. We don't know. We only get to see the death spiral that came out of it after.

It's pretty clear that Curly failed as a captain to protect everyone, but the scenario was hopeless to begin with. The choices he made before they got on the ship doomed them: trusting and supporting Jimmy was the mistake and it happened well before they got on the freighter.

And in every single scenario, I find it leads back to Pony Express being the ones at fault. Every bit of the ship they are trapped in exists to funnel more money into a dying beast of a company at the crews expense. I think Curly and maybe Anya both thought they had 8 months to figure out what would happen off the boat. A looming unavoidable threat of consequences. Everything to do with getting the company involved would likely drive Anya and or Curly broke; they say straight up they fine the crew for problems arising. That it's flat out the captains duty to handle it and then get charged by the company $$$ about it. They will double the amount of responsibility back onto the Captain and crew. Imagine working a year in isolated space and getting NOTHING for it? Imagine slashing thenrest of the crews wages.

Curly wasn't able to predict what Jimmy would have done. I think his plan was to handle things Off Board. Too late in multiple ways, but I do think he would have genuinely back up Anya in however they go forwards once they've landed.

The option he chose didn't deal with the real problem though. It feels like he tried to problem solve to deal with the consequences and not the issue at hand; the safety of Anya, his crewmember. It's how he failed as a captain.

I'm proud of him rushing headlong unto danger to try and save them all. God. What a vicious cruelty to deny Curly the one thing he does deserve credit for.

Anyways I'm redressing him like a mummy so he's nice and cozy for his 20 year sleep. Poor guy tried to intervene, badly, into something that needed to be prevented instead by the company and by foresight he didn't have about a dangerous, narcissistic best friend. Doomed from the beginning because of your character flaws and unwinnable scenarios. You're such a good little horror character; if feel like he's a good parable about putting safety first. Thanks for your follies bro I hope it has impacted my personal decision making for the better so I don't become you if I'm in your position.

[weirdagnes]

Mouthwashing: The Musical

cant get it out of my head so dumping some ideas in a non-arranged way:

SONG NUMBERS

The songs ABSOLUTELY has to derive leitmotifs from the original soundtrack. It has to be 80s inspired dark synth-heavy with a little industrial/experimental touch. Maybe some of the songs are titled after the actual track titles (“Heroes”, “Here, On Earth”, “Bad News” - very theatrical titles).

Every character gets a soliloquy (ofc)

I can see Swansea having 3 leading songs. One will probably have the motif of “Close your eyes” (character introduction song), two is the reprise (Daisuke death scene), three is the speech he gives to Jimmy.

Anya’s solo comes in the “Dead Pixel” scene, but maybeee it can be a duet with Curly;

Daisuke will have the silly song and dance number that becomes sad mid song when he talks about his insecurities as intern (but it still ends with a bang).

Jimmy and Curly will absolutely HAVE to duet in the “I want to go home” We ARE home” scene.

I can envision a lengthy number heavy on spoken featuring Anya, Curly, and Jimmy during the scene where Anya reveals her pregnancy and the talk before the crash.

Curly could have a solo song with post-crash actor on upstage while in his headspace, his pre-crash actor sings on downstage.

There has to be a painful Anya, Jimmy, Swansea and Daisuke number on the scene when Anya locked herself in the medbay except this time! we get to hear Anya sing her side of the story (maybe Curly’s precrash actor is standing at the side too while Anya sings her last moments but he’s unseen by her, ya know like implied “audience sees, characters dont” thing)

LIGHTING/SCENES

Lighting has to be the peak highlight of the play, like in the game! Instead of black curtain bg, there’s a projector and screen as background that’ll display the day/night/sunset screentime.

Floor lighting is going to be used a LOT for dramatic scenes, like in Curly’s blood sea hallucination, floor lighting could be red as like, reflection of the blood sea.

Light direction goes INSANEE during crash reveal, imitation of emergency lights.

Can you IMAGINE Swansea’s speech scene on stage with projector and screen??? I cant explain because i never studied stage lighting but OUGH PLS IMAGINE HOW COOL AND DOABLE IT IS -

SET DESIGN

This is kinda hard because with set design, you have to be creative limiting stage props while keeping imagery of the set so changing set isn’t troublesome. There’s 6 sets: lounge, medical bay, cockpit, utility, cargo, and hallucination areas. But we can cut it down to:

SET 1 - LOUNGE + MEDICAL BAY. Both have screentime so they can be the same set, maybe Medical on stage right and Lounge on stage left. I think this format will make the “Anya locks herself” scene flow better. Anya is singing her final thoughts stage right, spotlight focus on her as she slowly moves downstage while the crew changes the set to Utility so after Anya takes the pills, the transition to Jimmy and Daisuke entering the Utility is quick.

SET 2 - UTILITY + COCKPIT. The set is pretty unique because of the cryopod and the vent, but it can share set with the cockpit since they have the common design of pipes and screens. The difference between the set are objects that can be easily taken away or added during set change, which is the pilots’ chairs in the (Cockpit) and the cryopod (Utility).

SET 3 - CARGO + HALLUCINATION AREAS. These set are mostly dark in lighting and not much prop other than boxes or shelves (with wheels underneath for easy pushing) of mouthwash and TVs. Scarce lighting and mostly empty stage allows free space for imagination which is perfect for hallucination scenes. The cargo area doesn’t have much design variety anyway.

[lucybronzey]

father figure - pedro pascal

pairing: pedro pascal x fem!reader warnings: physical anxiety, panic attacks, alcohol, long distance, relationship establishing, the reader is her late 20s, pedro is 50. no proof reading done. author’s note: please note that i’m dyslexic & non-native english speaker - i make mistakes! feedback is very welcomed! enjoy! you can also buy me a coffee here to support my work & help me with my medications. word count: 7k!!! NO MINORS! 18+ READERS ONLY!

It had been a year since you found out the truth—not through confession, not through closure, but through an Instagram message from one of your closest friends. A direct message that changed everything: a single grainy photo, forwarded without warning, along with a message that read, “I didn’t know how to tell you. I thought you should see this.”

You were back in your home country at the time, visiting family—reconnecting with people you hadn't seen for months, catching your breath after a long period of work and city noise. The visit was meant to be restorative and a time of relaxation. A kind of a reset from everything. You had even FaceTimed your now ex-boyfriend the night before, his face pixelated and warm on your screen, telling you to enjoy yourself and not to worry about anything back in the UK. But his messages started to dry out and became very short, to the point where he did not even take the time to answer your messages.

And yet, there he was in the photo your friend had sent. Blurry but unmistakable, taken in a crowded bar somewhere in Nottingham city centre, leaning in close to a woman with curled hair and red lipstick. His hand rested low on her back. Too familiar and way too intimate. The timestamp on the story said it had been posted just hours ago—while you were asleep under your parents’ roof, thousands of miles away, still trusting him.

Your stomach had dropped before your mind could even make sense of what you were seeing. The smile on his face was the one you used to think was yours. The kind that used to say, I want you here.

You didn’t cry at first. You didn’t throw your phone or rage against the walls. Instead, you felt an eerie kind of stillness—like your body had gone completely quiet to protect you from something it wasn’t ready to process. You just sat there, phone slack in your hand, staring out the window of your childhood bedroom while the world outside remained oblivious.

The betrayal was worse because you had trusted him across the North and Baltic Sea. You had believed in time zones, phone calls and the space between visits. You had believed in the loyalty of someone who kissed your forehead in airport terminals and promised he’d wait. You had believed him.

But he hadn't waited. And worse—he hadn’t even hidden it that well. It was way too transparent. A wicked action.

When you returned to the UK, nothing felt the same. Your flat in Nottingham, which had once been full of warmth and morning light and his toothbrush in the bathroom, felt like someone else’s life. You had thrown away his stuff to the bin so you would not feel any of his presence in your small flat. You barely unpacked after arriving back. You barely slept as the thought of being cheated on was flowing through your mind . Panic began to seep into your skin, creeping up on you in the most mundane moments—waiting in queues, crossing the street, standing under hot water in the shower. It was becoming quite obvious that you sometimes forgot how to breathe without trying. Every photo, every object, every café held a ghost.

So, three months later, you left Nottingham. Without notifying even your closest members in your circle - you could not just stay in that city anymore.

You packed up your life and moved to the buzzing and bustling city of London. Not for adventure and not with excitement. You just needed space and distance from the city that you had created for yourself and defined it as home. You also never thought in your life that you would ever move to London but here you were now. It had to be somewhere the thought of him could never catch you again, somewhere the echoes of him did not ring in your head.

The panic attacks started in Nottingham, long before you even knew what to call them. At first, you called an ambulance, thinking it was a heart attack. The lovely team of nurses of the NHS were assuring you that it was just a panic attack and nothing to be worried about. Afterwards, they felt more like tightness in your chest or a fluttering in your throat—things you could write off as stress or maybe just not enough sleep. Just your own body rebelling against you, in the silence.

You found yourself on the floor of your bedroom one night, wrapped in your duvet like it might shield you from whatever your body was doing to itself, the fabric pulled so tightly around your shoulders that it felt like armor. Your forehead was pressed to your knees, legs drawn in close, your entire body curled into itself as if trying to shrink away from an invisible threat. The room was silent, but your mind was loud—heart pounding too fast, breath catching in your throat, skin prickling like something terrible was about to happen. You told yourself to breathe, repeating it like a mantra: In through the nose, out through the mouth. Again. And again. It didn’t work right away. Nothing did. You stayed like that for what felt like hours, waiting for the world to stop spinning.

You hadn’t been sleeping well, not since the breakup. Maybe your body was just reacting to all the stress—maybe it was nothing. But three nights later, it happened again, and this time it was worse. You felt it coming like a wave from far off, slowly building, then crashing over you without mercy. You hadn’t even made it to bed that night—you were standing by the kitchen counter with a cup of tea in your hands when your knees buckled slightly and your vision blurred at the edges, and you had to sit down on the cold tile floor to steady yourself, your hands shaking so hard that you spilled hot tea down your arm without noticing until the burn registered minutes later.

From that point on, you started sleeping with the lights on. At first, just a lamp on your nightstand, but soon, the overhead light too, humming quietly above you as you lay in bed wide-eyed, unable to surrender to sleep because sleep had begun to feel like a place you might not come back from. You began checking the front door twice before bed, then twice more after you’d already crawled under the duvet. Some nights, you’d get up a fifth time—just in case.

It was as if fear had taken up residence in your flat. At first, it lived in the shadows, tucked quietly behind the wardrobe or underneath the sink—just out of sight, just out of reach. But soon, it made itself known in every corner of your day. It whispered to you when your phone lit up unexpectedly. It pressed against your chest during meetings, on buses, in the silence between texts. It crawled into bed with you at night and reminded you, again and again, that nothing was safe anymore—not your heart, not your body, not even your thoughts.

You stopped recognising yourself. The version of you who had once laughed easily, who made plans without hesitation, who trusted her instincts—she had been replaced by someone you didn’t quite understand. Someone who flinched at doorbells. Who forgot entire conversations. Who avoided mirrors because she didn’t like the sadness she saw staring back. That was the night you realised this wasn’t something you could manage alone.

The walls of your Nottingham flat felt smaller every day, closing in around you like a cage you couldn’t unlock. The memories clung to the paint and the worn floorboards—the echo of his laughter in the hallway, the scent of his cologne lingering in the air long after he was gone. Each room held a weight that made it harder to breathe, harder to pretend you were okay. You realized that no matter how many therapy sessions you attended, how many nights you forced yourself to sit with fear, you needed distance. Not just from him, but from the life you had shared and the place that now felt haunted by what was lost. So, after months of restless nights and quiet goodbyes to friends and routines you once cherished, you packed your bags and moved to London. A city vast enough to swallow your past and loud enough to drown out the doubts swirling in your mind. You weren’t running toward something —you were running away—from pain, from memories, from the girl you used to be. And somewhere, beneath the noise and the unfamiliar streets, you hoped to find yourself again.

Your company had been kind enough to transfer you to their London office—a gesture that felt more like a lifeline than just a change of scenery. From the moment you arrived, everyone you met was friendly, welcoming in a way that made the city’s vastness feel a little smaller and less intimidating. No one pressured you for explanations or asked about the sudden move—your colleagues respected your privacy and you appreciated that unspoken understanding more than words could say. It was a relief to be part of a workplace where your silence wasn’t mistaken for weakness and where kindness didn’t come with expectations.

What you didn’t have to say aloud, your company anticipated. They were fortunate to have a partnership with a mental health therapy organisation, a benefit they encouraged all employees to use if needed. One morning, your manager quietly slipped you a small card with a phone number and a simple note: “For whenever you feel ready.” The offer felt like a soft hand reaching out in the dark—a chance to take care of yourself on your own terms, without judgment or pressure.

That number became a quiet promise to yourself. You didn’t call immediately, not yet. But knowing it was there, waiting, was enough for the moment. It was a reminder that healing wasn’t a path you had to walk alone.

You started going to therapy slowly, taking your time with each step—making the appointment, walking into the quiet waiting room, sitting with your own thoughts before the session even began. You were no’t in a rush; some days, just getting yourself there felt like progress enough. The therapist never pushed you to speak before you were ready. Sometimes you came with stories, sometimes you sat in silence, simply letting the space hold you. Over weeks and months, the sessions became a steady thread, weaving a new kind of strength into your days.

But those moments stayed private—your sanctuary away from the busy hum of office life.

One evening, your company announced that there would be a social gathering between all the teams in the UK—a chance to unwind outside the usual meeting rooms and email chains. They had booked a spot at a posh, tucked-away venue in Soho, known for its elegant decor, craft cocktails and a clientele that included some of the most celebrated people such as Hollywood actors and actresses. The place had a reputation for discretion and charm, a haven where stories whispered in hushed tones and laughter lingered under soft lighting.

As you stepped into the venue that night, the atmosphere wrapped around you like a warm embrace. The clink of glasses, the murmur of conversations, the subtle glamour—you felt, for the first time in a long while, the possibility of joy quietly blooming again. It wasn’t about dating or drama. It was about connection, even if just with colleagues, in a space that sparkled with life and whispered promise.

The party was alive with a vibrant energy that pulsed through every corner of the sleek Soho venue. The room was filled with a swirl of colors from elegant dresses and sharp suits, the soft glow of chandeliers casting a golden hue over smiling faces. Laughter spilled from clusters of people, weaving through the steady hum of conversation and the rhythmic beat of music that encouraged some to dance with carefree abandon. Glasses clinked repeatedly, carrying the sharp tang of citrus cocktails, the crisp bite of white wine, and the deeper warmth of red one. Groups formed and reformed, exchanging stories and jokes, some animated and loud, others whispered and intimate. You found yourself drifting from one circle to another, soaking up the lighthearted atmosphere, the way the laughter lifted the heaviness you’d carried for so long. For the first time in what felt like ages, the weight in your chest loosened and your smile felt real, not forced. It was a rare moment where the past felt distant and the present felt… almost too easy for you.

Making your way to the bar for your second bottle of white wine, you paused, letting your eyes wander across the room. That was when you noticed the man standing beside you, ordering tequila shots and a glass of red wine with an easy confidence that piqued your curiosity. He glanced over, breaking into a small smile before asking, 

“What are you ordering?” 

You matched his smile with a playful smirk and answered, 

“Try to guess.” 

He studied you for a moment, as if trying to read the expression on your face, and then guessed, 

“Whiskey?” You laughed, a soft, genuine sound that surprised you with its lightness. Shaking your head, you said, 

“Nope.” That little exchange sparked something warm between you, a flicker of connection that felt unexpected and welcome.

Then, with a friendly nod, he introduced himself. 

“I’m Pedro,” he said, holding out his hand with a sincerity that felt both natural and disarming. Recognition flickered in your mind. 

“Oh, you’re that guy from the Kingsman film,” you said casually, as if naming a colleague at work rather than a famous actor. He laughed—a rich, easy sound that didn’t carry an ounce of arrogance—and shrugged, clearly used to the recognition but not defined by it. The moment was simple, unforced, a brief crossing of two very different worlds in the middle of a bustling party. It wasn’t about fame or flashing cameras; it was just two strangers sharing a laugh and a connection in the soft glow of a London night.

You took a long swig of your white wine, almost chugging it down like it was the only thing keeping the nerves at bay, when Pedro caught your gaze with a teasing smile. 

“Easy there, little birdie,” he said, his American accent rolling around the words in a way that made you laugh out loud. There was something utterly charming about hearing those casual words come from someone so effortlessly confident, and you shook your head, still smiling as you set the glass bottle down. The nickname stuck with you, a playful reminder of the evening’s unexpected lightness.

The two of you peeled away from the bustling bar, navigating through clusters of guests with their animated chatter and clinking glasses, until you found yourselves sinking into a pair of plush, velvet sofas tucked into a quieter corner of the room. The soft, amber lighting wrapped around you like a gentle cocoon, muting the noisy hum of the party into something distant and soothing. You felt the tension in your shoulders begin to unravel as you settled back, the leather cool beneath your fingertips. The glass of wine warmed your hands as you took slow sips, matching the unhurried rhythm of the conversation that blossomed between you. There was an ease in the way words flowed, a give-and-take that didn’t demand more than you were willing to offer. His eyes held your gaze with steady kindness, and you realised you hadn’t felt quite this heard—or this safe—in a long time. For the first moments that night, the weight of your past, the knot of anxiety and fear that had tightened inside you for months, softened, melting away into the background.

Time seemed to stretch and compress all at once, until a subtle shift in Pedro’s voice caught your attention. His usual easy cadence faltered just a little, as if he was weighing his words before sending them your way.

“I should probably tell you something,” he began, the faintest hesitation lining his tone, “I’m leaving London in a week. Not exactly sure when I’ll be back.” His eyes searched yours briefly, then softened into a warm, rueful smile that carried a mix of regret and hope. 

“But I’ll make sure I come back. I love a long getaway here.” The honesty in that moment struck a chord deep in your chest—it was an unexpected, bittersweet truth laid bare amidst the lightheartedness of the evening. You nodded slowly, feeling the ache of his impending absence, but also the quiet thrill of knowing he wanted to come back—to you, or at least to this shared space. When he finally asked for your number, it wasn’t with urgency or expectation, but with a gentle hopefulness that made your heart flutter in a way you hadn’t expected tonight. Your fingers brushed as you handed over your phone, a small, electric connection that promised possibility, no matter how uncertain the path ahead might be.

Over the weeks that followed, you and Pedro settled into a rhythm of daily texts and late-night FaceTime calls, bridging the thousands of miles between New York, Los Angeles, and London with a steady stream of shared moments. Each morning, you’d wake to a good morning message, sometimes a simple “How are you doing today?” that carried more warmth than you expected. The conversations were unhurried and honest—talking about your day’s small victories and struggles, the funny things that happened or just the quiet spaces where neither of you needed to fill the silence. Pedro’s easy laugh came through the screen, a comforting presence when the city outside your window felt too big or too lonely. You found yourself looking forward to those calls more than you’d admit, a tether pulling you back from the isolation that had clung to you after the breakup. It wasn’t romance at first—not the way you’d imagined it—but a steady companionship, a connection that felt safe and real. After six weeks of these digital exchanges and long distance communication, Pedro surprised you with a message that made your heart skip: he was flying back to London, just to see you. The anticipation that followed was like a slow-burning flame, both thrilling and terrifying.

When you finally met again, it was at a posh restaurant tucked away in a quiet corner of North London—the kind of place that felt like a well-kept secret, where the soft lighting and muted chatter wrapped around you like a warm embrace. The scent of fresh herbs mingled with the subtle flicker of candle wax, and the hum of other diners created a cocoon of intimacy around your small table near the window. You smoothed your dress nervously as Pedro arrived, his smile immediately putting you at ease. He looked exactly like you remembered, relaxed yet attentive, his eyes lighting up as he greeted you. 

“It’s good to see you in person again,” he said softly, pulling out your chair with a quiet charm that made your heart flutter unexpectedly.

The dinner unfolded gently, like a carefully composed melody. Between sips of wine and shared bites of food, you talked about everything and nothing—his work trips and meetings to and in New York and LA, the quirky little moments that made each day feel different, and the small victories and frustrations that peppered your own routine in London. 

“I’ve got to say,” Pedro confessed, leaning in slightly, “I missed this—just talking with you. No cameras, no scripts, just… us.” You smiled, feeling the warmth of his words settle deep inside. 

“Me too,” you admitted, “I didn’t realise how much I needed something like this. Something real.” There was a pause, a quiet space where your eyes met, and you felt something shift—a flicker of connection that went beyond the casual.

Pedro reached across the table, his hand briefly brushing yours, and you caught your breath. His smile was warm and easy, full of that quiet confidence that made the night feel safe. He didn’t know anything about what you’d been through—the panic attacks, the nights when fear took hold so tightly you could barely breathe. He only knew the you sitting here now, laughing softly, sharing stories, making jokes. 

“I’m really glad we’re doing this,” he said gently. You smiled back, but inside, the old doubts stirred—could you really let someone in again after everything? 

“I wasn’t sure I’d even want to be here,” you admitted and it sounded worse in your head, hoping that it would not put off Pedro’s thoughts about you, “not after a year of being out of the dating world. But tonight feels… different.” Pedro’s eyes softened. 

“Sometimes the best things come when you least expect them.” 

After a while, as the easy laughter died down and the music softened in the background, playing Somebody Else by The 1975, you found yourself wanting to say more—something deeper, more honest. Pedro’s steady gaze gave you the courage you didn’t know you had.

 “There’s something I haven’t told you,” you began, voice low and a little shaky. “Before I moved here, back when I used to live in the middle of England, in the city called Nottingham, I went through a really hard time. I was back in my home country and something really fucking shit happened.” Pedro was listening patiently, not interrupting your talk.

“I have told myself that I would not speak about it until like the fourth date or something but I feel like if we want to get to know each other, then why the fuck not say it right now,” you chuckled, a bit of a panic surging in your body as the adrenaline increased in you. Your neurodivergent brain was really telling you to say everything out loud, on a proper hamster on the wheel moment.

“I was cheated on and it fucking broke me to bits. I did tell myself that I would never fucking date again or go out for a dinner with a male person so that’s why I was quite hesitant about today. I started to have very strong and bad panic attacks, the anxiety was killing me inside—it was like a shadow I couldn’t shake. I’ve never really talked about it much.” You took a breath and looked at him.

“I didn’t want to scare you off or make things complicated. But I’d rather be an open book than some little bird locked in a cage, pretending everything’s perfect when it’s not.” Pedro reached out, his hand warm over yours, his smile gentle and steady. 

“Thank you for trusting me,” he said softly. “That means more than you know.” In that moment, something really heavy shifted from your heart and shoulders—a quiet relief, a doorway opening between you, inviting trust. He was an absolute gentleman, something you never thought would happen in your life again. Pedro wanted to make sure that you were seen.

You felt it like the subtle change in air pressure like something that happens before a summer storm appears—gentle, but undeniable. Pedro didn’t let go of your hand right away. His thumb traced a slow, thoughtful line along the edge of your knuckles, not absentmindedly, but as if he were grounding himself in the weight of your presence, in the fact that you were sitting across from him and letting him see just a little more of who you really were.

There was a pause then—not awkward, but thoughtful. He tilted his head slightly, eyes searching yours in that way that always made your chest feel too small for your heart. 

“Can I ask you something?” he said finally, his voice careful, but not unsure. You gave him a small nod.

“I know I’m flying back to New York soon, and I don’t want to make anything complicated or overwhelming… but would you want to go out with me again? A proper date this time. Just… you and me, somewhere quiet as I know a few places around here.”

You hesitated and were not sure about that—not out of fear, but out of surprise. Not because the idea scared you, but because for the first time in a long time, it didn’t. And that alone felt like something worth acknowledging. You looked down at your joined hands, then back up into his eyes. There was no pressure in them, only warmth. Only patience. 

“Why not,” you said with a slow, genuine smile, your voice light but sure. “I’m actually feeling… comfortable with you.” The word ‘comfortable’ wasn’t flashy, wasn’t poetic—but it was rare, and true, and exactly what he seemed to understand the value of. Pedro smiled like he’d just been handed something delicate and precious, and nodded.

 “Good,” he murmured. “Then let’s make it a date.”

Three days later, the real date happened—an evening that shimmered with a different kind of anticipation, heavier than casual, lighter than pressure, but undeniable all the same. The restaurant Pedro chose was nestled on a quiet side street in Fitzrovia, one of those hidden gems that felt both intimate and electric, the sort of place that whispered of slow conversations and long glances across candlelight. The notes and sounds of different genres of music spilled warmly from the speakers, not too loud, just enough to score the night with a pulse of elegance. You wore something that made you feel beautiful—not for anyone else, but for yourself—a soft satin dress the colour of red wine that brushed your knees and shimmered just a little when you moved. Pedro stood when you arrived, pulling your chair out for you with a shy, almost boyish smile, and you felt your heart stutter unexpectedly at the quiet charm of it.

As the night unfolded, the conversation deepened in that unspoken way two people sometimes fall into when the timing is just right. You laughed—really laughed—at something ridiculous he said about trying to make sourdough during lockdown and accidentally creating what he described as "a weaponised crouton." In return, he listened with that warm, undivided attention that made you feel like your words had gravity, like they deserved to be heard. You talked about your favourite films, the weirdly specific type of cereal you couldn’t live without, your favourite parks in London, and whether or not dogs should be allowed on restaurant patios (you both agreed wholeheartedly that they should). Each time your hands brushed on the table, each shared smile held just a little more weight, a little more charged air, as if the night was quietly asking you both to step closer, if only a little.

Halfway through the meal, somewhere between the second glass of wine and the shared chocolate fondant you didn’t plan on ordering, a strange warmth had settled in your chest—not from the alcohol, not even from the food, but from the simple, gentle truth that you felt safe. Not just physically safe, but emotionally, too. You could feel it in the way Pedro looked at you—not with hunger or expectation, but with something steadier, more curious. A part of you, the part still tender from your past, wanted to pull away, to protect what was still healing—but another part, braver now, let itself lean in. 

“I didn’t think I’d feel like this again,” you said quietly, swirling the last sip of wine in your glass, your voice dipped in vulnerability. You weren’t even sure what “this” was, but you knew it mattered. Pedro didn’t flinch, didn’t try to fill the silence with jokes or assurances. He just reached across the table, his fingers curling gently around yours, his thumb brushing the back of your hand. 

“Neither did I,” he said, his voice low, sincere, and steady. “But maybe that’s why it’s worth seeing where this goes.” There were no fireworks, no declarations of love, but at that moment—two hands joined across a table in the corner of a softly lit restaurant—it felt like a beginning. A quiet promise between two people still figuring themselves out, but willing, cautiously, to try.

As the evening wound down, the plates were cleared and the final drops of wine sipped slowly, both of you reluctant to move too quickly, to shatter the delicate stillness that had settled between you. The conversation had softened into low tones and shared glances, into stories told with your hands and laughter traded in the pauses. The rain had begun sometime during dessert, soft pitter-patters at first, then a full symphony against the windows. London outside had turned blurry and grey, its chaos muted by the falling water, streetlights smudged into watercolor glows.

Pedro walked you out, always the gentleman, one hand at the small of your back as the maître d’ held the door. The air was cool and damp, the kind that kissed your cheeks and curled at your hairline. You both stood beneath the overhang, watching the rain coat the pavement, the smell of wet stone and the far-off sense of the dust hanging between you. Your taxi hadn’t arrived yet—it was running a few minutes late—and neither of you minded.

You turned to say something, maybe a thank you or a joke about the weather, but Pedro beat you to it—not with words, but with a look. There was a softness to it, a careful weighing of a question behind his eyes. He shifted just a little closer, close enough that you felt his warmth, but not enough to crowd. 

“Can I ask you something?” he said, and his voice was quieter now, not nervous exactly, but reverent, as if he didn’t want to disturb the shape of this moment. You nodded.

His eyes didn’t leave yours. “Do I have your consent… to kiss you?” The question hung in the air, simple and respectful and more intimate than anything he could have done without asking.

There was a beat of silence—not hesitation, not fear. Just stillness, like your heart needed a second to catch up. You felt something shift inside you again, not a door this time, but a window cracking open, letting in air you hadn’t breathed in ages. You smiled, slow and sincere, your cheeks warm even in the rain.

“Yes,” you said, your voice soft but certain. “You do.”

And when he leaned in—gentle, unrushed—it wasn’t the kind of kiss that made your world spin, but the kind that made it feel like, for the first time in a long time, it had steadied.

The kiss was exactly how the films tried to sell it—the good ones, the ones you used to watch on weekends with a blanket pulled to your chin and hope tucked somewhere quiet inside you. It was soft at first, barely there, as if Pedro was still giving you a chance to change your mind. But you didn’t. You leaned into it, into him, into the moment that felt like it had stepped straight out of a romcom and into your real life.

His lips were warm, unhurried, and somehow... familiar, like a song you didn’t know you remembered until the melody started playing. It didn’t make your knees weak or your heart race into a panic—instead, it calmed everything. Your shoulders didn’t tense. You didn’t feel like you were about to be pushed aside or left hanging in the dark again.

For the first time in what felt like forever, the press of someone else’s lips against yours didn’t feel like a risk—it felt like home. Like permission to stay a little longer. Like maybe, just maybe, the worst had already passed, and this—this simple, steady kiss in the middle of a rainy London street—was something you were allowed to feel good about. Something that could be yours. You didn’t want this night to end, as you were telling yourself - expect the unexpected. The thought of Pedro going back to the United States was something that you did not want to happen but his work was there and you didn’t have a say in it - you just accepted it.

The days after Pedro flew back to New York passed with a strange kind of ache. You weren’t unfamiliar with missing someone—it was a feeling that had carved itself into you long before—but this was different. This wasn’t the hollow silence of absence; it was a hum beneath your skin, a low thrum of connection stretched across an ocean. You found yourself looking forward to his texts more than your morning coffee. The FaceTime calls became part of your routine—some sleepy and quiet, others filled with stories about his long days on set or you venting about the nightmare of the Northern and Piccadilly Line at peak times and rush hours. Sometimes you’d fall asleep with the call still connected, the glow of your screen dimmed and his breathing soft through your headphones like a lullaby you hadn’t known you needed. You did snore but he did not mind it, although in your anxious brain, it was telling that he definitely did.

Pedro missed you, too. He didn’t hide it. He told you in ways that felt easy and honest—“I saw someone at Whole Foods today who looked like you from behind. I almost called your name like a total idiot.” Or, “The pizza here tastes like cardboard now. It’s your fault - your European taste has changed me.” And in quieter moments, he’d say things like, “Wish I was there tonight,” voice low, thumb rubbing absently against the side of his whiskey glass. There was a tenderness to the way he said it. A yearning that settled in your chest and made you whisper, “Me too,” even when it hurt.

Four more weeks passed like that—half-lived, half-waiting—and then he booked the flight. No big declarations. Just a simple text one morning: “Coming back next Friday. I can’t wait to see you.”

This time, you invited him to your flat.

It was still strange, letting someone into that private, quiet space you’d built for yourself in North London. A place that had become your little sanctuary—the one you’d slowly reclaimed after heartbreak and fear. But it felt right. It felt like the next step you were meant to be ready for.

The buzz of your intercom jolted through the stillness of your flat, pulling your heart into a stuttered rhythm as you moved toward the door, equal parts anticipation and nerves pooling in your chest. You opened it slowly, fingers trembling slightly on the handle, and there he was—Pedro—standing in the dim, golden light of the late afternoon, framed by the hallway of your building like some beautiful, familiar scene from a film you didn’t want to end. He looked the same and yet different somehow—maybe it was the way his eyes lit up at the sight of you, or the relief that visibly softened his features the moment you stepped into view. He wore his usual soft hoodie layered beneath a tailored coat, dark jeans that clung just right, and that grin—the crooked, sleepy one you’d seen over blurry FaceTime calls, now right here in front of you. In his hands, a bouquet of tulips—your favourites—fresh, delicate, still beaded with the faintest hint of water, in a pale blush pink so soft it made your throat tighten. In the crook of his other arm, a bottle of the same white wine you’d both accidentally gotten tipsy on at the bar in Soho all those weeks ago.

“Hi,” he said, his voice low and warm, like the word had been waiting on his tongue for far too long. 

“I come bearing gifts... and a really average case of jet lag.” His eyes searched yours, half teasing, half sincere, and you couldn’t help but laugh—one of those real, from-the-stomach laughs that bubbled out before you could think. You stepped aside to let him in, and as he passed through your doorway, everything about your flat—the familiar books stacked by the window, the soft throw blanket draped over your worn couch, the faint scent of the candle you always lit in the evenings—suddenly felt brighter, more significant. Pedro dropped his bag gently in the hallway without taking his eyes off you, then leaned in with no hesitation and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close like he’d been counting down the minutes to this exact embrace. You sank into him instinctively, your face pressed into the fabric of his hoodie, his arms secure around your waist, and for a long, quiet moment, the world outside ceased to exist—no ticking clocks, no emails, no endless distance—just the warmth of him, real and solid, right here.

Then, without a word, he leaned back just enough to see your face, eyes flicking down to your mouth in a way that made your breath hitch. He didn’t rush. His hand came up to brush a strand of hair away from your cheek and then—slowly, deliberately—he leaned in and kissed you. It was soft at first, gentle in the way that said I missed you before it said anything else. It wasn’t urgent or frenzied like in the movies—it was intentional, grounding and quietly electric. The kind of kiss you’d always seen in romcoms, the kind where the camera lingers, the world goes quiet and everything else blurs out except for two people standing in a hallway lit by the promise of something unfolding. His lips moved against yours with the kind of care that didn’t try to take anything, just offered. And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t flinch or hold your breath or feel the old fear curling at the edges. You felt steady. You felt chosen. You felt… home.

Later, after the tulips were placed carefully in a glass jug and the wine poured into mismatched glasses you’d forgotten you even had, the two of you settled into the low hum of an ordinary evening—the kind that asked for nothing more than time and closeness. You didn’t bother with anything elaborate. No plans. No pretense. Just the quiet lull of your living room, low lamps casting soft amber across the walls, and Amy Winehouse crooning from your old speaker, her smoky voice curling like incense through the room. Pedro had kicked off his shoes and was now stretched out on the sofa, his back leaned comfortably into the armrest, one arm slung across the top as you lay with your legs draped over his lap. It was domestic, almost dangerously so, but it didn’t feel heavy—it felt good— it just felt…real. His hand rested on your thigh, warm and unmoving, just there, a gentle reminder that he was with you, and you were with him.

There were kisses, here and there—nothing urgent or scripted, just soft brushes of lips exchanged in between shared comments about the music or the weather or how surprisingly nice your North London flat was despite your constant complaints about it over FaceTime. His presence was steady, grounding, like gravity reimagined in human form. And for the first time in a while, your body didn’t feel like it was bracing for anything bad. You were just... there. Existing. Breathing. Safe. The kind of safe you almost didn’t recognise at first because it had been so long.

But then, just as “Love Is a Losing Game” faded into the next track, the atmosphere shifted—not in a bad way, but like something was pressing gently against the surface, asking to be let in. Pedro’s fingers, which had been absently tracing lazy shapes against your leg, stilled. His eyes found yours—not intense, not heavy, just... clear. Present. His voice was low, careful. 

“I have a question to ask,” he said.

You sat up slightly, heart ticking up, and nodded, trying to read the sudden seriousness in his face.

“I know we’ve been taking our time, figuring this out in our own way,” he began, voice steady but laced with something fragile around the edges. “And I’ve really loved that—every moment of it. But I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been thinking about what this actually is. What we are.” He reached for your hand, his thumb brushing against your knuckles in small circles. “I guess what I’m trying to say is... are you ready to take this to another level? Like, properly—me and you. As in, boyfriend and girlfriend.”

The question hung there, full of breath and weight and possibility.

Your mind didn’t go blank—it went loud. Questions rushed in like a flood: How does he really feel about me? Is he just being kind? Does the age gap ever make him hesitate, even if he’s never shown it? What about my anxiety—does he really know what he’s signing up for? The days I might shut down or pull away, the nights I might cry without a clear reason? Can he handle the version of me that isn’t put together and pretty?

Your breath caught, not in fear exactly, but in the overwhelm of suddenly being seen so clearly and offered something real. Pedro must have noticed the flicker of doubt in your eyes, because he squeezed your hand just slightly and tilted his head. 

“Hey,” he said softly. “I don’t want you to say yes because you think it’s what I want to hear. I want you to say yes if you want this too. I already know you’re not perfect. You think I don’t see when you get quiet and go somewhere else in your head? I know. And it doesn’t scare me. If anything... it makes me want to be here even more.”

You blinked, lips parting, your heart tightening with something that almost felt like relief. The part of you that always braced for people to run... eased back just a little.

“I don’t know if I’ll always get it right,” you said quietly, voice a little shaky. “But I think... I want to give it a go, again. I want to try it with you. Because I feel safe with you. And that doesn’t happen often.”

Pedro smiled, his eyes softening, and leaned forward to kiss you again—slow and sure and full of something that didn’t need words.

And just like that, something shifted—quietly, powerfully. No fireworks. No dramatic music swells. Just the steady heartbeat of two people choosing each other in a world that rarely makes things simple.

please do not copy and translate my work (unless it’s in my native language and you give me full credit)! you are more than welcome to support me by buying me a coffee - link in the blog!

[junabuggy]

𝖥𝖠𝖵𝖨𝖢ᝪ𝖭𝖲 , STAMPS, BLINKIES, DIVIDERS & MᝪRE !!

Favicons = ☀︎ Blinkies = 𖤐 Stamps = ☾ Dividers = ❋

-- What's a favicon? Well I'm glad you asked !! Favicons are small images that represent a company or website. Although some people just collect them for fun (like me!!!!!!1!!!)

-- What's a stamp? Stamps were made popular on Deviantart in the early 2010's. They are traditionally 99x56 pixels, and can be used to decorate any blog or website :3

-- What's a blinkie? Blinkies are a type of graphic that was popular 15+ years ago on personal blogs

-- What's a divider? Well a good example is right in front of you, BUT!! Dividers are any graphic that is used to divide two things, usually bodies of text. They are useful for breaking up blog posts and signalling the end of a topic.

(Hey hey!! I yoinked all this info from @cheezitofthevalley , go check out the two posts they have on this topic!!)

A little disclaimer!!!!! ⚠︎⚠︎⚠︎ none of the dividers, favicons, stamps, etc, unless explicitly stated by me, are mine ദ്ദി(｡•̀ ᗜ^)

I do try my best to find the original owners // their rules for reposts and credit stuffz, but sometimes I come up short

The stuff that IS made by me however, is usually reblog + credit to use (once again, unless stated otherwise) ꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱₊˚⊹ ᰔ

Also see...

Red:

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Red .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ ☀︎❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Red (Emo Undertones) .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ ☾❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Red (Emo Undertones)² .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ ☾❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Hospital/Medical .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ ☀︎☾

Orange:

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Orange .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ ☀︎☾❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Random .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐❋

Yellow:

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Yellow .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ ☀︎❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Pompompurin .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ ☀︎☾❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Pompompurin .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ ❋ + others

Green:

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Green .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ ☀︎❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Botanical .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Pastel Green + Pink .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐☀︎☾❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Weird Girl Spring .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ ☀︎���❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Green .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ ☾

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: 4/20 .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐☀︎☾❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Military .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐☀︎☾❋

Blue:

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Winter .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ ☀︎❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Blue Webcore .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐☀︎☾❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Frutiger Aero .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ ☀︎☾❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Snow/Ice .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ ☀︎☾❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Snow/Ice² .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

Purple:

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Kuromi .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ ☀︎❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Thistle Flowers .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐☀︎☾❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Purple Gothic .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐☾❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Pastel Goth² .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ ☀︎❋

Pink:

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Pink .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ ☀︎❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Coquette .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐☀︎☾❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Valentine's Day .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐☀︎☾❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Pastel Pink + Green .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐☀︎☾❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Pastel Goth .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ ☀︎☾❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Hospital/Medical .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ ☀︎☾

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Vampire .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐☀︎☾❋

Multi:

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Oddcore (???) .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ ☾❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Frutiger Metro .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ ☾❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Evil Autism™ .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Webcore .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐☾

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Weirdcore .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ ❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Clowns .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐☀︎☾❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Clowns² .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐☾❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Random .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Random .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Eyes .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ ❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Flowers .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ ❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Kidcore .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐☀︎☾❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Twee .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Saniro .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Stickers .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ ❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Random .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Me Core .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐☾

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Spring .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ ☀︎❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Random .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Mail .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ ☀︎☾❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Random .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Random .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ ☾

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Grandma's House .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐☾❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Specific Breed Of 2000s .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐☀︎☾❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Funky Favicons .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ ☀︎

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Random .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ ❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Scene .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐☀︎☾❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Gimmick Stamps .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ ☾

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Personality Quiz !! .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Emoji Pins .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ ❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Sushi .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ ❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Weirdcore .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐☀︎☾❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Didn't make the cut .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ ❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Divider Dump .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ ❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Editing Resources .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Divider Dump² .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ ❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Random .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐

Fandoms:

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: MLP .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Undertale .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐☾❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: House MD .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐☀︎☾❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Fnaf (Assorted) .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐☾❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Fnaf (Assorted)² .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: LBP .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐☾❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Chappell Roan .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Power Pop Girlies .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Minecraft (movie) .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Minecraft² (movie) .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: South Park .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Green Day .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐☾❋

Exclusively Pride:

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: TDOV .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: TDOV² .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐

Fruits:

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Spring Fruits .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Strawberry .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ ☾❋

Animals:

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Jellyfish .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ ☀︎❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Cute Lil Evil Deer .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ ☀︎❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Service Dog .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐☀︎

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Fish .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ 𖤐☀︎❋

𐔌 . ⋮ Theme: Cookie Cats .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ ❋

[mimi-fy]

How these hotties are related (curly mouthwash analysis connection and meaning)

Yes id fuck the mouthwash bottle. No i will not explain myself. Im spouting bs and if anything is wrong im on edibles.

Has 14% ethanol (alcohol)

Kills 99.9% of germs

Leaves a nice aftertaste

Has a sweetener (the only thing that doesnt have bacteria in its content)

You gotta Consult with your local dental hygiene specialist before, during, and after use of Dragonbreath X mouthwash. Dragonbreath will not accept any responsibility for any harm caused by use of this product.

These are red flags. Mouthwash is ultimately useless, you cant use it as a disinfectant due to the sugar content. The alcohol content can make it easy for people to become addicted to it. People think it’s healthy for them and using it is a good thing for their dental health, but it’s not. The sugar content can damage your teeth, and cause cavities in some cases if you have it after washing your teeth properly as it washes away the fluoride. And the fact that you have to consult your doctor to take it or you can ignore the professional help and red flags (like everyone else) and the fact that the company will not take any responsibility for the harm it may cause. And the fact that it only cleans 99.9% of germs.. what happens to that 00.1%? If no one realizes that it’s there then.. who will? Using the mouthwash over and over will cause risk and can cause that 00.1% of dirt to become something serious.

This is just basically the whole game summarized in one product, well maybe not the whole game but the most important parts and how it leads up. In mouthwashing you are in the mind of the abuser and enabler. The most important parts in the game. There is also many metaphors in mouthwashing, the mouthwash itself is a metaphor for curly the mouthwash is the enabler and the user is jimmy who is addicted to the mouthwash (even though we dont see him drink it but hear me out.) jimmy uses the mouthwash thinking it will heal daisuke, jimmy could’ve used the mouthwash to drink and hide his problems, jimmy used the mouthwash to knock out Swansea. Jimmy is always using the mouthwash to his advantage. Jimmy is also using curly always to his advantage too. Making a connection between the two. The mouthwash is blue, curlys eyes are blue. We always see mouthwash, we always see curly. Even though curlys body is destroyed we always see his blue eyes, even if the food is finished we have the mouthwash, even if we cant have cake we got curly. Even if everyone is dead we have curly, even if everything is done we have a whole warehouse of mouthwash. these may not be logical things but mentally curly and the mouthwash are one. The fact that mouthwash cannot be used medically and cannot be a disinfectant is connected to curly (distantly), curlys advice cannot be seen as to purify and remove the problem, but jimmy ignores both of these warning signs. Mouthwash and curly aren’t the solution but jimmy sees both of them as the solution. But you know what you do with mouthwash? Mouthwashing. You wash your mouth with mouthwashing. Mouthwashing is a metaphor for suppressing and getting rid of a bad taste, Mouthwashing can mean trying to hide something by rinsing the taste out of your mouth but its still there, even if the taste is gone its still there in the back of your mind. Curly is also trying to think of the bigger picture, jimmy is a problem but curly mouthwashes and gets rid of the taste of jimmy but its still there. Mouthwash kills 99.9% of germs, but jimmy is that 00.1% that can never be washed away, that flies under the radar, jimmy is always the odd one depicted in metaphors in the game and most commonly jimmy is seen as a dead pixel. Curly cannot see jimmy and he always flies under the radar, and even if curly takes action he can never manage to suppress him. You know why? Because curly sugarcoats his words. The mouthwash has sugar content. Because the mouthwash has sugar content, it isn’t good for your dental health but it makes the mouthwash good no? It would taste strong and of chemicals without it. If curly was direct and and stern jimmy wouldnt be with him and wouldnt associate with him. But curly isn’t direct and sugarcoats his words mood and punishments with jimmy, and that’s ultimately the reason why jimmy becomes a larger problem. Sugar isn’t good for your dental health right after properly washing your mouth, the mouthwash has sugar but the mouthwash doesnt clean the whole mouth it leaves 00.1% of dirt that is never cleaned and constantly missed and putting the sugar on the overlooked germ has caused it to become a cavity that is rotting, a little mistake that was overlooked and enabled for so long that it caused irreversible damage.. that is jimmy. Another thing that curly and the mouthwash have in common is that others constantly use them to clear out their heads, Swansea uses the mouthwash to drink his problems and responsibilities away, jimmy uses curly to clear his mind and justify his crimes and uses curly to take responsibility for him. Jimmy uses the mouthwash to try and ‘fix’ his problems, like when daisuke is bleeding out and jimmy uses the mouthwash on him. Using the mouthwash trying to hide his mistake, suppressing it even. Making it worse. He uses the mouthwash knowing damn well it wont fix everything, he uses the mouthwash (curly) thinking itll take responsibility instead of him. Abusers always need to be fueled by someone or something, abusers need something to be abused to. (Continued in pinned comment)

[paikothemouthwasher]

CW: spoilers for mouthwashing, Jimmy.

Curly is not perfect, in fact, after Jimmy, he is undoubtedly the worst person to step foot on the Tulpar. However, by the end of the game, I consider him to be fully redeemed.

The reason Curly frustrated me so much in the beginning is because of one scene in particular. The hallucination sequence leading up to his conversation with Jimmy in the cockpit. You know... The one where he literally walks right through warning signs just to get to the cockpit. The one where he barely even notices the blaring alarms and the billions of flashing warning signs as well as the knee-deep pool of a red liquid we can only assume is blood.

This scene barely gets talked about because of the much more relevant dead pixel conversation, but I think the reason this one is kind of pushed to the back is because of how on the nose it is.

However, to me, this one is more important because it highlights how differently Curly approaches the idea of taking responsibility compared to Jimmy.

Jimmy will do anything to avoid facing the music for his actions. He will stop at nothing to avoid having to do the right thing, usually opting for what he perceives to be the easier way out. Crashing the ship seems like a much more pleasant option as opposed to taking responsibility for what he did to Anya as well as the effects of it (the baby) which to him are even worse because he knows he can likely get Curly to keep the situation on the down low, but now that there's a baby involved, there is nothing Curly can do to stop Anya from rightfully demanding financial support (which she will no doubt need) not to mention the likely possibility of Anya passing away giving birth to this child given she is the only medic on board with limited tools. There is nothing Curly can do to explain that away, so Jimmy does what he believes is necessary to avoid dealing with that.

In short, Jimmy will not only run from his responsibilities, he will throw more obstacles in their way to stop them reaching him.

Meanwhile, Curly's approach to his responsibilities is a lot more subtle which is why people are more quick to defend him.

Instead of running away, Curly pretends he can't see them or he'll straight up turn his back to them. Why? To keep the peace. Jimmy is afraid of taking responsibility, but Curly is too lazy to.

He already has a lot on his plate, piloting the Tulpar and having to answer to catastrophes here and there (courtesy of Daisuke) as well as receiving the news from Pony express which he stupidly decides to share too early. Am I saying this to defend him? Absolutely not. This is to demonstrate his mentality, so when Anya comes to him with warnings about Jimmy, he doesn't want to hear it, he just wants to say whatever will get her to leave him alone. When Jimmy is obviously angry about being fired with no plan for his future while Curly gets good recommendations and the options he'd been wanting, Curly tries to comfort him with the same impersonal lines everyone uses in this situations. 'we'll figure out together' you'll move forward one step at a time' those infuriating phrases that are only good for pissing people off further.

In fact, Curly gets so used to using these shitty, lazy responses, that he just breezes through conversations using them without caring about what anyone is saying which is why he not only overlooks Anya's warnings, but he also overlooks Jimmy's concerning language like when he talks about how instead of going home and dealing with the Anya situation, the Tulpar could just be remembered as a tragedy with no one surviving to tell the tale. Curly asks no questions because he doesn't give a fuck about what Jimmy is saying. He does not care.

Jimmy knows that Curly is just that checked out that he can get away with pretty much anything.

So, why is Curly redeemed in my eyes?

For a few reasons.

1) as I mentioned before, part of his dismissive behaviour is a result of Jimmy's conditioning. Jimmy is the one who made him this way. He managed to cement his image in Curly's head as a positive one, so why would he ever question him?

2) Curly takes responsibility in the end by talking about all the things he should've done and acknowledging the things he's done that could potentially make him a villain. He blames himself as much as he does Jimmy.

3) it's safe to say he's been punished enough. Not only did he become a helpless meat sack, but he also had to watch Anya end her life at his bedside, taking their painkiller supply with her, he watched Daisuke agonisingly drag himself across the floor to open the medical room door which I can only imagine was just... Gut wrenching for Curly, then he sees Swansea, axe in hand, fully ready to murder Jimmy for what he did to Daisuke and Anya, not to mention Jimmy sawing his leg off followed by feeding it to him.

Let's talk about that for a second while we're at it.

Jimmy's thoughts when doing that are 'someday he'll thank me', but I would hate it for anyone to believe a word from this man. I believe Jimmy only did everything he did to Curly post crash was to inflict as much physical pain on him as possible. When he says 'pain is how we know we're alive' it's not some attempt to be clever or deep or comforting in any way, it's his way of making his intention of hurting Curly as much as he possibly can very clear and apparent. He beats him after giving him the painkillers at some point. That's not someone who cares about Curly's comfort. Him feeding him his own leg is not his own twisted way of showing he cares for him, it's a hateful gesture. He wants to punish Curly for being better than he is and having a better life because he believes he's entitled to getting the same thing even though he doesn't put in the same work.

[alfea]

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[4pv]

TAG DIRECTORY

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[britishraptor]

Gonna kick the hornets nest here, but the file from the most recent episode of The Magnus Protocol was incredibly underwhelming. It didn’t take into account at all anything that actually makes snakes scary, little to no foreshadowing, and basically attempted to jumpscare the audience with a reveal that reads more like a parody of a horror story than an actual one.

I might look like an idiot or a fool when everything all strings together later than the line, but I’m questioning so much about this episode.

Parasites are scary. Worms, and insects and mold and rot. Decay, possession. Spiders are scary because they’re hard to see, hard to pinpoint and they move fast, plus the connections with webs related to control, and manipulation. So yeah, a worm lady, sure, a person filled with spiderwebs, also sure. But the only connection between snakes and parasitism could be a joke about ‘shedding your skin’ or how disturbing that one scene in Harry Potter was.

Snakes are scary for two reasons:

1) the same reason bears and tigers all that are scary. Hunt style being hurt, and killed, and eaten. Simple.

B) uncanny valley reasons. Snakes don’t blink. They don’t have facial expressions. The way they move and eat and exist is totally different from humans and mammals. They’re often described as alien and cold.

My questions:

a) why rodent control? why was he even actually brought in? His walls are FULL OF SNAKES. It wouldn’t have lasted five minutes. It doesn’t make any sense even if you know he was concerned about parasites. Snakes don’t give a shit about other snakes. To call someone a snake is to literally call them callous and prone to betrayal. A snake eats the rodent, so you kill the snake. Plus a snake store would have access to medications to kill mites and deal with snake illness? Why call the guy at all?

b) the foreshadowing on the owner is terrible. You could have mentioned his skin needed moisturising. That it seemed dry, flaky. Scaly. But just. A red rash? A rash? Are you saying being full of snakes is an infectious disease? That’s what he said at the end, right? That his throat itches. It was swelling. You can just?? Grow your own snakes?? Is that the implication?

No uncanny valley mention on the owner either at all. He didn’t move weird, being full of snakes? Didn’t sway or limp as he walked, didn’t move sluggishly? Bad hearing, didn’t know what to do with his hands? No? Just a short tempered customer. Okay.

c) You lost me at the thousands of snakes. THOUSANDS? What is this, a clown car? A snake clown car in some random guys skin, who explodes because he was mad a customer walked out.

Look, I’m Australian. And when I ask my friends ‘hey, how big do you normally picture a snake being?’ we picture snakes about 1.5m long. Dinner table length is pretty common for all of our common brown, tiger snakes, red bellies, and even longer for our common carpet pythons. But even if I adjust to like, other countries’ grass snakes, thousands?

The throwaway line at the end was plot relevant I’m sure, but I’m all around confused, and totally not even a little bit scared.

The only praise I have is that the description of the crickets was very creepy, and I loved the visual of them moving around like a shuddering wave of pixels on a screen, only really perceived by their screaming.

But yeah. The setup, the foreshadowing, the coherent theming and consistency all just fell totally flat for me. The only thing I learnt was that this guy applied to the institute and was rejected, and that snakes can’t do dishes.

[mr-1-2-3-4]

7-11 if he was the average mom- @pampanope

Oldest-

-Pixel crawls in weak as hell into 7-11’s office, bloody and bruised-

Pixel-“Mom I just totaled myself and dad’s bike”

7-11-“you pay for the hospital bills or his bike”

Pixel-“Mom please!”

-throws a ice pack at him-

7-11-“I’ll pay for the bike and you can pay for the medical trip”

Middle-

HiJack-“I’m not his child I just simp- you know what never mind, umm sir, I cut my hand opened doing repairs on a vehicle”

7-11-“which hand?”

HiJack-“the human one”

7-11-“let me see”

Youngest-

Hawks-“ma I fell and nothing happened”

7-11-“my poor baby!”

Fiancé-

-[RED] hits his side on the table and hisses slightly-

[RED]-“thank god I didn’t hit a corner”

-7-11 on the other side of the base and main character music starts playing-

7-11-“I've been summoned.”