#something's got to give. but i don't know what happens in between then and now. i don't know who survives. everyone should. and yet

[mandalhoerian]

(6) 🦭 signed, sealed, delivery pending...

When a last-minute opportunity presents itself to become a distraction from the shame of not attending the reunion of your university friend group, you take it. One thing, though, yes, you might have been wrong for chickening out. But falling overboard in a storm, almost drowning, and getting saved by the biggest oddball of a skinny dipper out in the wild is a bit too much for instant karma, you think.

genre: fluff, comedy | word count: 13k | read on ao3

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note: apologizing for late chapters is getting old now i know, but i swear it would have come out earlier if it hadnt been for tumblr's ridiculous mature content label flagging issue . i've been wrestling with that bicth now ever since that update dropped on the 11h. all seal raf chapters are FLAGGED and i cant get them out of superhell. and apparently its their image recognition bot, i had to change the banner image. god if i have to deal with this bs AGAIN im crashing out i hope you enjoy the chapter

The wetsuit is half-zipped, clinging damp against your hips, something that doesn’t quite want to let go. You’re sitting on the flattest rock you can find near the lip of the cove, knees drawn up, elbows balanced on them, phone balanced precariously between your fingers. The mist is still stitched thick between the cliffs, and the morning sun hasn’t quite managed to cut through it yet. Cold air brushes against your bare arms, lifting the baby hairs, biting gently. Your knees are cold. Your mind is worse.

The group chat lights up again.

You scroll without reading at first, just watching the little cascade of names and icons — familiar and sharp-edged in ways you can't explain. It’s watching someone else’s memories keep moving while yours have stalled out in the same old frame. Same island. Same ferry. Same breath caught in your throat.

Yesterday’s conversation still occupies your mind, and you read through it once more.

"F4NT4STIC 4 REUNION ERA" (Yesterday, 13.37) [ tara ♡ ]: LADIES . YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT ISSSSSSS [ simone (👹🤙) ]: girl i already took the days off. if yall flake i’m showing up to macie’s with a suitcase anyway [ fleetwood mac ]: LMAOO i mean my living room is still 80% cardboard boxes but sure, suffer [ simone (👹🤙) ]: if there’s karaoke i’m unplugging the speaker with my teeth [ tara ♡ ]: also HELLO??? miss ferrymaster of heartbreak bay??? [ tara ♡ ]: we see you reading and not respondingggg [ tara ♡ ]: THE WAY SHE’S STILL NOT ANSWERING [ fleetwood mac ]: come online and disappear if you're alive. don't write anything if you’re still in love with your ex [ fleetwood mac ]: you’re still in love with him???? [ fleetwood mac ]: damn it didnt work [ simone (👹🤙) ]: she’s gonna come back in like six hours and act like nothing happened [ simone (👹🤙) ]: literally text back. we're not mad you couldn't come. stop acting like this is a break-up !!!

(Yesterday, 23.35) [ you ]: sorry. alive. extremely salty. [ you ]: had to scrub barnacle residue off my soul before texting back. [ fleetwood mac ]: SYBAU girl you disappeared like a victorian child into the mist 😭 [ simone (👹🤙) ]: anyway. macie's wine count is at 3. tara made a playlist. theo hasn’t cried yet [ you ]: bold of you to assume he won’t [ fleetwood mac ]: we placed bets. i give him until desert [ tara ♡ ]: also you were right, he brought the seal mug he made in his pottery course. Unironically. [ you ]: I feel the emotional blackmail all the way from over here … [ fleetwood mac) ]: i had to leave the room. i was spiritually unprepared [ you ]: move it like half an inch every time he looks away and pretend like nothing happened to freak him out that paranormal shit is going on. for my sake. please [ tara ♡ ]: That's horrible. How do you come up with stuff like this? Do you want us to get kicked out if he makes a scene? [ tara ♡ ]: I'll send you pictures 😘 [ simone (👹🤙) ]: we set a place for you vtw. it’s got a rock on it. and a fork. [ you ]: that’s exactly how i would’ve wanted it <3

Your thumb pauses above a message. Just names. Names that once belonged to cramped dorm rooms, midnight indomie, and mutual breakdowns in libraries that smelled of old glue. The kind of friendships that were lifelines — loud and chaotic and necessary. And they still are. But you’re quieter now. Less sure what part you should play in their world.

Tara’s already published several scientific papers, both on her own and with her teacher — ResearchGate profile overflowing with content. Simone’s backpacked solo through South America and made it look unreal the entire time, every photo gold-dusted and cinematic and you’re sure she lives in an indie travel documentary. Macie just got picked up for a docuseries pilot. The one who shall not be named passed his bar exam and launched a website in his name that has to be surely coded by a tech god and branded by a Parisian design firm.

And you?

You still have this wetsuit from sophomore year. A freezer full of discount frozen meals. A collection of ferry schedules memorized down to the second.

You still work shifts that stretch into your bones. Still sleep in the room with the glow-in-the-dark stars you stuck to the ceiling at fourteen. Still get asked by tourists if you ever get tired of paradise. As if it’s not the same damn shoreline every day. They don’t know paradise comes with guilt-paid free health insurance and the inability to look into your parents' eyes without sweating through your shirt.

The museum front desk application sits untouched on your desktop. The deadline came and went while you were distracted by nothing in particular. There’s a half-written email to the local heritage center still sitting in your drafts. Volunteering was mentioned once, briefly, in passing, and never again.

You told your advisor you were taking a year. Time to figure things out. To recalibrate. To breathe.

But the year kept slipping. One month into the next. One season curling into the other. You started taking the same walk every morning. Then you stopped bothering with a route. Some days, even brushing your teeth was something that had to be earned.

You tried to make plans. Tried to start a spreadsheet. Color-coded your week and pretended it meant something. It lasted three days. Then the shame of seeing your own optimism undone by inertia sent you spiraling into the sea with your phone on do-not-disturb.

Sometimes you wake up already disappointed in yourself. Sometimes you manage to coast until lunch. The rest of the time, it sneaks up in strange places: folding laundry, stirring pasta, passing your own reflection and not recognizing anything urgent in your own eyes.

You keep saying you’ll get out. That it’s temporary. That you’re not stuck. You tell yourself that so often it’s started taking the shape of a prayer. Or a dare.

But every time you scroll, you feel it. That sharp, quiet pinch in your ribs. You're watching a starting line recede in the distance while your legs stay tangled in the sand.

A sharp twist of your mouth curls before you can stop it, too bitter to be a smile, too wry to be pain. You toss your phone a few inches further across the towel, willing the distance keep the elephant in the room away for a while longer.

And Theo. Of course he’s there.

Ha.

You sit still. A breath leaves your nose. The rock beneath you is cold, uneven, your palms flat against it. Wet grit clings to your fingers. You focus on that. The gulls loop overhead, shrieking into the pale air. Below, the tide moves against the rocks in shallow bursts, licking foam into the cracks and pulling it back again with a hiss. The world hasn't stopped, but it’s ignoring you on purpose.

No, you're ignoring it on purpose. 

A sleek head breaches the surface a few yards out, rising between two fingers of rock where kelp sways below in long green ribbons. A huff leaves him in a pfbbbth sound — short, damp, unimpressed — and he glides forward in a meandering path, stirring flecks of foam in his wake. The water around him flattens, then rolls behind his body in lazy spirals. Even the cove is used to making space for him.

You don’t smile. It almost happens, your face twitches because it wants to. But it doesn’t make it all the way. He’s watching you, waiting, head tilted just slightly.

"Someone’s a little restless today," you mutter.

He barks again. Short. With an imaginary question mark at the end of it. Surely it’s because he hasn’t received his usual cooing greetings and your, “Hi, hi, hi, my cutie pie,” — but your spirits are as gray as the weather. You can’t summon the cheerfulness.

"Yeah, yeah, I’m coming."

You slide into the water slower than usual, the cold biting at your ankles and climbing. Raf circles once, then again, but doesn’t dart off the way he normally does. He floats closer instead, trailing you as you wade out to the deeper part. When your feet finally lift from the sand, you turn toward him.

"I should’ve just gone," you say. "I don’t know why I’m so scared of a little get-together. Who cares if I’m not working yet? I should just say I’m taking a gap year… Like for uni graduates. Or say like I’m looking into Work and Travel but haven’t really liked any of the choices or something."

He tilts his head. How clueless and cute. Smooth brain. No ridges or lumps, no valleys or bumps; all ideas slide right off.

"You don’t even know what LinkedIn is," you mumble. “You’ll never have to. I’m so jealous, you don’t even know.”

Raf makes a bubbling snort.

You hate how bitter it makes you, sometimes. Hearing them talk about opportunities and networking and beautiful apartments with friends who leave them soup in the fridge. And you smile, as you’re supposed to. It’s good news. You’re proud. You are.

But it still seeps into the spaces between each of your vertebra, shapes you into a shrimp before the stateliness of ambition and purpose, making you feel small for not having more to offer, and worse for resenting even a flicker of it. There’s something sour in you that can’t be sweetened into a lemonade.

And you don’t want to be that person. You don’t. But you are. Quietly. Privately. The kind of ugly that you don't admit aloud unless you’re alone. Or talking to a seal.

"I hate that I get annoyed," you say under your breath. "Every time one of them says they’re doing great, I get that twist in my stomach like I swallowed a rock. Even when I’m proud of them. Even when I love them. What does that make me, huh?"

Raf offers no reply. Just a slow blink and inquisitive, a train’s choo-choo sounding breathing from his flaring nostrils.

"It makes me pathetic. That’s what."

Your throat tightens. You wipe your nose with the back of your glove and look up toward the cliffs, eyes still hot.

"There’s something you’re unlucky with. You know what?" you say, voice hoarse. "Of all the fish in the sea, you ended up with me. Should’ve gone for a marine biologist. Or a rich heiress with a yacht."

Raf surfaces again, blinking at you with deliberate slowness that mirrors a cat’s. Then, with a low chuff, he glides closer and presses the side of his head against your shoulder. You’re still floating when he wriggles around, flippers flopping clumsily, and half-latches onto your side, a wet, overgrown toddler trying to hug a pool noodle. His whiskers tickle through the neoprene.

You flip onto your back and float, arms out, hair fanning around your head with a seal glued to you. The sky above is pale and empty, the kind of soft gray that feels too big when you're already too full. You drift for a moment with your ears half-submerged, the world muffled except for the splash of Raf's flippers somewhere nearby. Clouds move. You don't.

"Watch. You’ll get discovered by some cute environmental documentary crew next and leave me behind. Get famous. Start an OnlyFans for your flippers."

Pause.

“OnlyFins,” you snort to yourself.

Raf lets out a long, wet blort, and disappears underwater with a cute bloop. 

You barely have time to curse before something nudges your ribs — hard. Then again. And then you’re yanked downward, the flipper hooked around your waist is basically an overly confident tugboat.

You surface with a gasp and a splash, hair in your eyes, sputtering.

Raf bobs a few feet away, grinning in the smug way only a seal can, going "AUUUUU," over and over again, following that up with a performative spin and a slap on the water.

"No more jokes, fine," you cough.

He dives again, leaving a trail of bubbles — pops up, and pauses, twisting back to look for you. His head bobs once. Twice. Then he disappears again, darting just beneath the surface, drawing a path for you to follow. A loop, a spiral, a flourish. He resurfaces ahead with a sharp snort and flicks water in your direction.

You blink water from your lashes. "Okay, okay, I get it. Impatient little show-off. Seashells aren’t going anywhere, let me go get my gear, damn."

He dunks under again, tail flippers wagging just enough to be smug about it.

And after your preparations, you follow.

Because if anything makes sense — if anything ever feels whole — it’s this. Salt in your mouth. Raf’s stupid flipper smacking water like an impatient bunny stomping his foot. A sky so wide you can’t get your arms around it.

You may not know how to move forward. But here, right now, you don’t need to.

Here, you can just be.

By the time the end of the day rolls around, the dive with Raf has dried to salt on your collar, and your limbs are already back in work-mode — anchored, alert, one hand on the wheel, the other near the comms, watching the weather shift with a sailor’s instinct and a whole life of knowing exactly when things stop making sense at sea.

The last round trip of the day is quiet in a different way today, though. No commuters or tourists, and no one but you on board.

A rare fluke of timing: your dad tied up with engine trouble on the backup skiff; the senior deckhand down for the count after slipping on ice during today's last unloading shift and sent home limping; the second deckhand called out with food poisoning from bad market shrimp; the engineer out for two weeks recovering from wrist surgery after trying to fix a rusted coupling by himself; the backup engineer already covering freight route duties on the north side; and the high schooler who usually mans the snack kiosk bailed last-minute for a school recital he 'forgot' to mention until this morning. Even the part-time lookout who mostly just watches Raf from the upper deck found a way to slip away.

You’d said yes before your dad even finished the ask instead of just cancelling the entirety of the day off — if a perfectly fine excuse for why you didn’t show up at the reunion made itself available to you, you would take it without question. It was serendipity, why let it go to waste?

And it was only one run, the weather wasn’t supposed to break yet. You knew the route. You could handle it.

Though, frankly, it felt good to be trusted with something this real and just empty your head for the rest of the day.

So it's just you, the hum of the engine, and a stretch of sea that's growing moodier by the minute.

You clock it before it starts showing.

The pitch is wrong.

Movement is expected, up-down, up-down, sometimes with more vigor and distance. No, it’s not that. It’s the angle, the timing, the tension underfoot that rolls in just a half-second too late. The swell pattern doesn’t match the forecast, the wind has teeth it wasn’t supposed to, and the gulls have gone silent over the water.

You glance up from the console, watching the sky fold itself into layers. That soft lilac haze from earlier has gone bruised at the edges. There’s a kind of waiting baked into the air now, the hush before the sky opens its mouth and howls.

You should’ve already turned back. You know the signs. You’ve trusted them before.

But the timing’s tight, and you know the shape of this route better than the lines in your palms. If you hold speed and cut between the outer channel markers, you might beat the worst of it. The system’s moving in fast — but not fast enough to make you fold early. Not if you don’t have to.

Besides, there’s only one round trip left back home. The radar isn’t red yet. The pressure’s dropping, but the water’s still got give in it. Dad made worse calls in tighter windows.

So you stay the course.

Pushing until everything starts pushing back.

The ferry bounces over a swell so hard you almost lose your grip on the wheel, rattling the life preservers along the wall with a thwack loud enough to echo inside your skull. Water sprays white across the decks, and something about the sound makes your bones ache. For a moment, you swear you can taste seaweed. Feel the drag of sea lines on your wrists, rough as rope burn.

But you catch yourself. Stabilize your footing, hands steady on the wheel, leaning into the rise and fall as they taught you in driving school all those years ago. The first day your father stood beside you and showed you how to balance the revs and the brakes on this machine, how to feel each part working together to drive, how it wasn't about forcing the craft, but guiding it with trust — it’s all muscle memory.

Trust the machine. Trust your gut. Trust your judgment.

So you do. And you guide. Until the storm arrives. Until the weather begins to roll in dark as tar — resentful black clouds, brindled with light, coiling together as if building, brewing, churning in unison above. Eerything then becomes curtained with rain and water, a shower splintering against the ferry roof. Sheets of water cut across the deck is a fog obscuring everything further than a foot away. Wind batters against the sides of the hull, shrieking louder and louder every minute, whistling shrill through every seam and corner and vent, and by now the ocean is actively trying to shove this boat off the face of the earth.

Everything turns sideways for one split second, and your heartbeat almost rips out of your throat, and when the ship steadies itself it takes several painful heartbeats of thinking I fucked up, I fucked up before you regain equilibrium and resume steering.

Everything starts to make sense. 

Raf had been strange from the moment you showed up this morning — clingy, louder than usual, almost pacing the cove. He kept making pup noises at the tide, splashed too close to shore while you suited up, and refused to go too far in the open water — his favorite thing was to drag you out further before. When you finally entered the water, he didn’t dart ahead the way he usually does. He hovered, brushed against you, circled you so tightly you had to push him off just to move forward.

You didn’t think much of it. You were too busy rereading texts, too busy spiraling over group photos and inside jokes and what-the-hell-was-he-thinking-by-showing-up.

Raf’s insistence was a complication you didn’t have room for when you’d been already feeling stifled enough. Even underwater, he kept doubling back to check on you, tapping your hip with his nose, making strange high-pitched whines that only made you more irritated.

When you got out, he followed you up the hill, paralleling you from the sea. Right up the ramp. Flopped against the loading zone and refused to budge, and not in the usual cute way. He clung to your boot when you tried to walk. Grabbed the hem of your jacket and yanked. Made noises so loud and pitiful that a couple tourists pulled out their phones to call wildlife protection. They thought he was hurt.

You shoved him back toward the cove and joked that he was a diva — a barnacle, a stage-five clinger.

He bit Elias when the poor old guy tried to help nudge him off the deck.

You didn’t look him in the eye when you closed the gate. Didn’t even wave, muttering something about spoiled animals and going inside. Because you had a job. Because you were on the schedule. Figuring out how to phrase it, how to make ferry work sound intentional, how to talk about staying without admitting you failed to leave. You practiced the words, hoping the right ones would dull the sting.

You didn’t notice how restless he went in the way he took the lead once the engine started.

You didn’t want to.

You'd practically ignored him the entire day for being annoying. To entertain the idea he was like that because he sensed the incoming weather... but you were too wrapped up in the reunion and your own spiraling thoughts to notice what he was trying to tell you. He knew something was coming — you’re sure of it now — and you hadn’t listened.

Too busy nursing your own useless grief.

And now you’re the only one out on the water when the storm decides to bite, regret and fear coiling around each other snakes in the pit of your stomach. The poor little man must be terrified wherever he's hiding. You hope he's tucked away safely somewhere sheltered and cozy, not roaming around trying to find you and ending up hurt or lost or trapped. If something horrible happened to him during this storm, it would be all your fault.

And now, as the radio crackles to life, a sharp burst splinters through the chaos, and all those words ash-scatter.

"—ayday—day—fishing boat—toward—Devil’s Teeth—repeat, Dev—no powe—can’t steer—"

It cuts out, sharp as a snapped line.

Your hand’s already moving. Mic in hand before the words even sink in. "Copy, how many aboard?"

Nothing. Just static, thin and needling, buzzing against your skin.

Your heart doesn’t lurch. It drops clean and heavy, straight into the pit of your stomach.

You flick your eyes to the GPS. The rocks are close — less than a kilometer to starboard. But you don’t need the chart to tell you that. You can already see them, those serrated black silhouettes clawing up from the water ribs punched through the ocean’s skin.

The Devil’s Teeth. The name alone carries some horror. They don’t forgive. Sharp enough to sheer a hull clean if you come at them wrong, but deceptive enough to trick even seasoned sailors into thinking they’re safe.

Above the water, they jut out like gap-toothed palisades — almost orderly, almost safe. From a distance, they seem to mark a clear path, multiple narrow channels that promise passage. But beneath the surface, the truth spreads wide and uneven, masked by the shifting tide, what looks navigable from above is a maze fanning out is a hidden reef below, disguised by the illusion of space, a trap waiting to splinter anything that trusts too easily.

Now, you watch from the waterboarded windshield as the ocean breaks against them sideways, spray exploding into the air in fractured bursts, mist swirling breath from something alive and restless. You’ve seen them before. Too close once, from a rescue boat.

You know the pattern they form, the way they beckon, offering what looks to be safe passage only to tear apart anything foolish enough to trust it. And you know the names of the people they’ve taken.

You flick the comms again, voice tighter now, a thread of instinct winding tight in your chest, tugging you toward the danger. "Any vessel transmitting, identify yourself.”

The wind shrieks through the cracks, high and thin, something caught between teeth. Water lashes the glass, streaking down in frantic rivulets as the ferry pitches harder, the deck groaning with the weight of the sea.

Your breath catches as you scan the horizon, nothing but the vertical outlines of the Devil’s Teeth. Black knives from the churn. For one terrible moment, everything slows. The sea draws back, coiling, holding its power just a beat too long. Waiting.

And then it breaks.

You move, but it’s not a choice. It’s reflex tangled with terror, the wheel wrenching in your hands as the ferry shudders beneath you. The shift is too sharp, the hull protesting with a low, gut-deep moan as it fights the turn. Your muscles burn, braced against the pull as the deck tilts hard, balance slipping for half a heartbeat. The bow dips — just a fraction — before you correct, knuckles losing color where they grip the wheel.

The spray blinds you for a moment, mist shearing across the windshield. But you blink, steady, locked on the path that doesn’t exist but has to be there. The space between those treacherous spires where, if you’re off by even a meter, the sea will swallow everything.

Raf knew. He tried to tell you. Fuck, you hope he’s not out here. He’s too much of a smart cookie for that, but still, you hope to god he’s safe.

The comms hiss softly, a broken thread of sound lost in the roar that fills the wheelhouse.

"—adrift—can’t—hold—taking on water—drifting t—engines are—"

Static. Again.

But you don’t need to hear it. The truth is already laid bare on the horizon.

Your eyes are locked on the shape just beyond, the battered fishing boat barely holding its own against the waves. A thing too small for this weather, its hull pitching wildly, the wind tossing it like it’s a toyboat in a child’s pool.

You flick the comms again, voice tight. "Vessel approaching Devil’s Teeth, do you copy? Repeat, do you copy? I need the status of anyone aboard!"

The answer is silence, thick and pressing.

But the sea answers instead.

Each wave shoves the boat closer to the rocks, their sharp edges barely visible between the peaks of the swells. You can make out three figures, barely, blurred shapes clinging to the railing, fighting against the chaos, one at the bow, steady but strained, another near the stern, slower, unsteady.

And the third—

A hollow space where someone should be.

"Shit," you breathe, throat tight.

You throttle down, the ferry groaning as the engine strains against the push of the current. The bow swings wide, cutting across the waves, too close but angled just right to shield the smaller boat from the worst of the wind. The wheel vibrates in your grip, the metal cold and damp, the pulse in your fingertips matching the beat of the sea.

The deck is bobbing harsher under your boots as you cut the engine to idle. A deep, unsettling quiet follows, the kind that means the sea is holding its breath.

You shove the throttle down, setting the engine to idle, the ferry rocking in protest as it fights against the churning sea. You can’t leave it drifting for long, but there’s no choice now.

The door to the deck slams open under your hand, wind tearing through as if the sea itself is trying to conquer its way inside. Salt spray slices across your face, cold and biting, nails and claws of an animal trying to get you. You barely register the sting. Your focus is on the deck below, where the equipment locker sits by the stairs. The rope should be there.

You swing down the short, steep steps, boots skidding slightly as the ferry shifts beneath you. The locker groans as you yank it open, cold metal biting into your fingertips. The rope’s there, coiled tight, damp and heavy.

You haul it out, the weight dragging at your arms as you push back up to the deck, boots pounding on slick metal, breath burning in your throat. The rope is rough and solid in your hands, the damp fibers biting into your palms as you step toward the railing, eyes locked on the men still fighting the sea.

"Line! Now!" Your voice barely carries, but the men on deck move. One of them, older, face lined with years of fighting the ocean, catches your eye, and you know you can trust him with this. He knows. He moves fast and nimble as you toss the line, and he hauls hard, pulling the boat closer inch by inch.

The younger man beside him fumbles, hands trembling as he secures the line, but his eyes are wide and fearful, darting between the shifting boats, the storm reflected in them. You can't have him slipping.

"Hold!" you shout, stepping to the edge.

The fishing boat rocks violently, a wild thing barely clinging to the world. But it holds. For now.

"Get them across!" You wave the first man forward, stretching your hand. His grip is iron, calloused and cold, and he hauls himself over with a grunt. The second follows, shaky but determined. His boots slip, but you grab his arm, steadying him as he clambers onto the ferry.

"One more!" The older man’s voice is barely audible over the wind. He points—

And you see him.

Near the stern. Slumped, half-draped over the edge. Too still.

"I’m going." Your words are lost in the chaos, but you’re already moving.

The wind slams into you the moment you step across, boots slipping on slick metal. You grab the railing, knuckles white, muscles straining as you pull yourself onto the listing deck. The world tilts beneath your feet, the boat rocking harder as if it knows it’s losing.

"Come on," you mutter, heart pounding.

He’s heavier than he looks. Deadweight. His clothes soaked through, dragging with seawater. Your fingers slip against the slick fabric as you grip his arm, muscles screaming as you try to pull him up.

"Help!" You barely need to say it. The older man is there, hands grabbing the man’s other arm. Together, you drag him inch by inch toward safety. The wind howls, the sea pushing harder, trying to reclaim him.

You’re so close.

"Almost there," you breathe, arms burning with the weight.

The man’s head lolls, his breath warm against your neck, but it’s faint. You brace, dragging harder, the metal beneath your boots slick and treacherous. Every muscle in your body screams for relief, but you hold on.

"You hang on, girl!" The older man shouts, his voice raw, but the younger one is there now too, reaching to grab the man’s collar and help.

"I’ve got him—" You don’t finish. The deck tilts—

The ferry shifts—

And the wave hits.

It’s not a push. It’s a blow. A force that tears you off balance, rips your grip from the man, and sends you weightless for a heartbeat before the world crashes back in. Or, you crash into the world. It resembles falling on solid ground from considerable height, except that it swallows you right up.

Cold.

Needles slip beneath your skin, knifing past layers of wool and overalls until nothing is left but frost-bright pain. Nothing blazes brighter, burns colder; the sea owns it all, every sensation, every heartbeat, every flicker of memory, snuffing them out one by one until all that remains is fear. Cold, bone-deep, blinding fear that has you kicking and flailing.

The water wants you. It pulls without pity, claws without remorse, wrenches without warning. Everything happens at once: pressure and chaos, liquid ice tearing at your lips and choking down your throat. The current twists around you, a tangle of unrelenting hands dragging you deeper even as you fight.

Down. And down. Until light bleeds away, dissolving like ink in water.

Something flashes just outside your blurring vision—

Then something else—

And another—

Infinitesimal silver glints cut through the dark. Shifting shadows dart between the pinpricks of pale light as shapes coalesce above. Thin silhouettes slice through the dark, through the gloom as you fall farther from safety. The pressure builds, crushing against your skull, a terrible humming filling your ears as if the entire ocean is singing an ode to your demise. Your chest begins convulsing fiercely, throat contracting in response as you begin thrashing around, lungs on fire and desperate for oxygen. Drowning in the sea, alone, terrified and hopeless, primal instincts demanding you do everything you can to stay alive, struggling uselessly to kick upwards towards the surface.

Wherever that is.

You reach upward desperately with a lone hand, vision having tunneled from lack of oxygen and panic combined. In that brief moment, something soft brushes the tips of your fingers. Like... fur...?

There's no way to know. Darkness has already consumed your consciousness, the struggle to survive giving away to oblivion and acceptance the moment your lungs breathe in water.

                    Singing.

Somebody has been singing to you.

Nearby. Simple, wordless, a melody winding slowly through the haze. Notes rise and fall around you — lavender smoke, crocheting your consciousness together bit by bit. You think maybe the song sounds familiar, that you could remember how it goes if only you could focus enough. As it is, your pulse stirs in time with the tune, waking limbs that were limp and numb as they thaw, muscles flexing as if remembering the shape of themselves.

Warmth comes first. Gentle heat kissing along the edges of your senses before bleeding inward in honeyed tendrils. Softness next: fur beneath your chin, blankets pulled tight across your chest.

The quiet of snowfall settles around you after that, muffling, easing, cushioning every inch of you as reality drifts into your awareness.

Everything returns in increments: salt crusted to your lips, drenched clothes wrapped around your frame, a layer of sodden clay. Beneath you: sand. Matted to the backs of your arms, your calves, the hollow of your throat. Behind your shuttered eyelids, sunlight filters softly. Red glow, distant orange. Sunglow, the color of melting copper. There is sky above you and beach below, but most importantly — there is breathing inside you again, each exhale shuddering as your pulse struggles toward normalcy, softly but surely.

Slowly, ever so gradually, you pry your eyelids open.

A canopy of branches, feather-soft green interspersed with golden brown, stretch overhead in a gentle dome. The bark glistens in the morning light, sticky still from the previous storm. Below the shelter, sand stretches outward in a sweep of endless shoreline, punctuated only by tufts of grass and gnarled driftwood that form a natural barricade from any casual passerby. The tide ebbs gently just past that barricade, washing fizzy seafoam high up the shoals before sliding back out lazily in a smooth curl, and further still, the horizon stretches — spun cotton candy, pink on blue, melted into haze at the edges, mingling seamlessly with the sky. And you're tucked carefully among the roots of one of those great trees, cradled and swaddled by the same fur-coated bundle your cheek is pillowed on, wrapped protectively in its embrace and held secure.

It takes your brain a full minute of groggily attempting to piece together these strange details before you realize there's a figure in the water, maybe twenty feet out, half-shrouded by the hush of early light.

Your brain coming back to you is akin to hitting the floor after falling for some time. You flinch. Sit up too fast.

A tangle of dark gray, thick hide spills from your shoulder, pooling in the crooks of your elbows. You shove it off with a gasp, limbs sluggish but panicked, fingers catching in the strange texture. It hits the ground with a muted thump, heavy as wet rope but somehow dry and fluffy at the same time. The cold hits you immediately then, skin pebbling beneath the cling of soaked denim and wool and the frigid touch of salt wind. A full body shudder grips you, hard, teeth rattling in your skull, blood singing through your veins faster.

But not even that kind of cold is enough to distract you from the sight before you.

There’s a person waist-deep in the shallows, facing the sun.

Long hair drips like spun violet ink down a narrow back, plastered in curling sheets to sharp, bare shoulders. You've never seen natural hair that long in your life, it trails all the way down her body to fan out against the waves, streaming in shimmering bands over the crests of each swell, lit gold in the early sun. She tilts her head back to face the dawn fully, and you can only see the barest hint of her profile from the angle, the delicate slope of nose, the lushness of parted lips. There’s something arresting about the stillness of her, the way the sea seems to hush around her body. A statue the tide forgot to reclaim.

For a breathless, silent moment, she simply stands there, perfectly balanced, completely undisturbed, arms spread at her sides as if greeting the daybreak directly, skin glittering in the light, slick with seawater and—

A scar. A slash across one side of her shoulder, pale even against her skin tone, stretched tight as though dug deep enough to make bone.

Huh, you absentmindedly think. I think it's the same side as Raf's?

You break out of your trance with a loud gasp with the thought of your seal friend, which causes her to whirl around to face you, startled and wide-eyed.

Which brings another revelation. The person in question is a man, not a woman.

Skinny dipping, at that.

Your brain catches up to your eyes in a rush of static and shock. This is a Family Feud moment.

Name something a burglar would not wanna see when he breaks into a house.

The contestant yelling it with his whole chest. Naked grandma!

Naked HUH?

The buzzer in your head goes off.

Question: What’s the last thing a girl wants to see when waking up alone on an unfamiliar beach after falling unconscious?

Answer: Naked man.

You make a strangled noise and scramble back so fast the pelt half-slides off you, and at the same time, sharp pain lances through your right side, turning the motion into more of a hunch than a duck and roll. The sudden flare knocks what little breath is left out of your lungs, knocking sense back into you in the process.

Wait, what happened? Why does it hurt?

"Easy! Easy." The naked dude darts forward through the surf without missing a beat, water splashing everywhere with his hurried strides. The sound of his approaching footsteps makes you instinctively curl inward, arms hugging tight around your midsection while wincing. You don't look up, mostly out of embarrassment, and your thoughts immediately go brrrr when you become hyper aware of the fact you're definitely going to see things you won't be able to unsee. "You'll bleed again if you keep squirming like that! All my hardwork's gonna go to waste!"

You flail one arm between the two of you in a futile barrier while the other cradles where the injury is, still keeping your face down and staring down furiously at the ground to avoid looking anywhere higher than knee level. "Ah-ah-ah! Stop, stop!”

The sloshing of jogging doesn’t stop.

“Just — man, don't charge at me, I don't know you!"

He stops short as though you've thrown a rock at him, legs cutting off mid-stride with a chaotic splash. For one blessed second, all is still again — except for the water lapping at his shins and your pulse banging against your teeth.

Then, a noise.

A half-choked sound that might be a laugh. Or a cough. He doesn’t come any closer. Just stands there, suspended mid-motion, your words having pinned him in place. The water stills around his legs. The surf hesitates, then draws back with a hush. You're still locked on a particularly blurry patch of sand wet with the red of your congealed blood like your life depends on it, but you hear the the tiny inhale that catches weird in his throat, and the breeze picks up with a stutter again.

He erupts worse than a volcano all of a sudden. “You’re joking! What? You don’t know me? You don’t know me? After everything — you just made me go through, that’s—”

“—a very reasonable response!” you shoot back, your voice high in octave, blood rushing so rapidly to your head that you’re not even comprehending properly.

“Wow,” he says, all affronted drama and wounded pride in one breath. “It's not like I'm gonna eat you. Humans aren't even safe for consumption anyway!"

"Whoa-hoh—" you start, but he steamrolls over you before you can properly get a word in.

There’s the wet slap of a foot shifting in the surf, heralding that he’s gearing up for a rant. “Most people say thank you, you know. Or ‘hey, cool of you to make sure I didn’t die horribly’—"

"You're naked, random guy!" you shout hoarsely, throwing out a pathetic arm to shield you from any and all compromising views. This is the politest way you could have put it. The next best thing was to shout, 'Don't come near me with your dick out.' Which. Yeah.

An awkward pause follows the admission, thick enough to make you glance up before thinking twice about it. You get a flash of purple before you look away once more, clutching the strange gray fur to yourself as some sort of feeble shield.

"—der why," he mumbles, more to himself than anything else.

"Excuse me?"

He deadpans, stopping just short. “I said, so now you’re body-shaming the guy who literally rescued you from certain death?”

“I’m shame-shaming the fact that you’re approaching me with your — your — entire situation out in the open!”

"You have my pelt," he says, with almost childlike seriousness, expecting you to be able to read his mind from the tone of his statement alone.

"Uh, okay?" you respond articulately, weirded out by how the conversation was lacking common sense. "What does that have to do with your clothes?"

This time, the quiet stretches out like taffy.

“I want you on the other side of this damn island if you’re an exhibitionist, I swear to god don’t think for a second I’m not capable of—”

“I am not!” The way his voice changes pitches has to be studied. “Have you lost your mind in the ocean? I can’t believe you’d suggest such a thing after everything I’ve done for you—”

You tune out his yapping. Yeah, this isn't getting anywhere. You're stranded on an island with a man you don't know, politely asking him to put his penis away, which, he won't get the hint for some reason and making it a 'I am who I am,' moment. Do you have to yell "Pervert!" at this guy for him to get a move on? Things couldn't get more absurd.

You rub your forehead wearily and groan in defeat. Is there something ironic about this exchange? Because you sure feel there should be something ironic here. There is probably supposed to be a joke somewhere here. The universe loves to deliver them in bundles.

An idea strikes you.

"Here, hold on," you say, shakily standing up while keeping your face diverted elsewhere. Your side does hurt, but the burn doesn't stretch as bad as when you felt it at first. "Just... turn around, please. No sudden moves."

"No sudden moves?" He answers with audible skepticism, the shuffling on the sand giving away his complying after a moment. The nervous waver in his words does manage to placate you somewhat. An exhibitionist wouldn't act this way. “I’m turning my back to you. How am I gonna know what you’re doing? For all I know, you could be ogling me with your squidlike human eyes, which, mind you, I wouldn’t blame you for—”

God, he loves the sound of his own voice, doesn’t he?

Muting him out once more, you pick up the fur coat blanket thing from its dropped position with an audible, "Hup!" It's bulky in your grip, almost too thick to lift, yet remarkably light at the same time — trying to pick up water without getting wet.

“—I’ve been told I’m distractingly shapely in the flesh, but I didn’t exactly wake up today planning to be admired in the wild. And it’s not even my best side, you know? My shoulders are uneven. I think. They used to be non-existent—”

You're in no position to be in awe right now though, so you brush off all possible questions concerning the bizarre phenomenon until later. With as much caution as you can muster, you raise it up like a curtain until the only part you can see of the man is his luscious hair, and start walking up to him.

“—Not that I’m implying anything. You are not the ogling type. Then again, I once trusted a cormorant and it stole my entire lunch while I was mid-swim, so what do I know? I’m just out here, my back wide open, accosted, and trying very hard not to hold a grudge—”

Then, you drape the cloak of fluffiness onto his shoulders in the gentlest manner you could possibly afford, avoiding touching his skin. The pelt closes around his back, reminiscent of the wings of a giant bird closing protectively, encasing him from neck down to calves. A gasp slips out of him. So small you might've missed it if you hadn't been holding your breath, waiting for any negative reaction.

His own hands come up to pull the flaps snugly closed, then he slowly looks over one shoulder at you with such stunned wide-eyed silence you almost want to crack a smile at him, but promptly freeze in place as soon as you lock gazes.

Not only does he have the most enticing eyes you've ever seen with vertical heterochromia transitioning from blue to pink like a bi-color tourmaline, but he has such an attractive facial structure that is both masculine and delicate all in the same breath it punches all of your buttons in one go and oh god — it is so not helping this entire situation. This stranger is the epitome of beauty. Handsome face and lovely features and soft bone structures and everything you didn't expect from a random naked dude on a beach you couldn't recognize as a local.

And the hair. You'd seen it from afar already but... it reminds you of strands of ashen lavender blossoms dripping with morning dew, wet waviness disappearing underneath the collar of the pelt. You'd kill to have this Rapunzel hair. It's unfair how a man—

You snap back to attention with a hard blink as the initial shock wears off.

"There you go, now I won’t get flashed," you exhale with obvious relief, trying to will yourself to act casually so you don't seem weird to the stranger who probably saved your life.

His head tilts, just barely. Long strands of wet hair slip over his shoulder as he stares down at the pelt wrapped around him — your handiwork. The fur shifts slightly under his touch, and he goes very still, watching it settle again. You wonder what he’s waiting for.

“You gave it back to me,” he says.

The words come out soft, a little too careful for something so simple. He looks at you, expecting the world to shift around what he just said. He’s silently saying this should mean something to you, too — but it doesn’t. And that mismatch only deepens the quiet between you.

You blink.

He lifts the edge of the fur in his hands, shaking it, then looks at you like the answer should be obvious.

A pause. “Right,” you say slowly. “And… that’s important to note because?”

He shifts his weight, brows drawing together in a look that’s too serious for the situation. “You could’ve kept it.”

"Wet as my clothes are, you need it more than I do.”

He is surprisingly docile and red in the face now that he has something on for modesty and can’t quite look you in the eye. The tips of his fingers peeking from all the fur in his grip are fidgety.

You give a wry grimace before remembering the manners Dad always told you to have around new acquaintances. "Yeah, um — uh, thanks. For saving my life.”

You tell him your name, and bow your head a bit in acknowledgment. His shoulders pull in tight at the sudden gesture of goodwill — though you aren't quite sure why — but relax after a breath as he meets your stare squarely, searching for something. The intensity throws you off balance; those odd and piercing mismatched shades fixed solely on you make the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end in both curious and fearful wonderment.

"And you are...?"

"Oh," he says, as if the question took him off guard, too. One hand comes up to brush through damp locks. Almost self-conscious, if the look on his face is anything to go by. There’s some sort of a faraway look in his eyes. "Raf — Rafayel."

"Were you the third guy on the fishing boat, Rafayel?" You recall that last crew member was slumped half overboard and passed out, prompting the rescue attempt that sent you both to sea in the first place. If Rafayel was wearing his pelt when you attempted to pull him up, the added weight could have been a factor in tipping both of you over. You find it's all a blur in your memory, though, and suppress a shudder. "Did you fall with me or—"

A shadow passes over his features as quickly as the changing tides. When he speaks, though, it's measured, almost cautious. "Yeah, I—" He pauses, shakes his head. Locks those impossibly colored eyes on you again, bright in the early morning light. "How are you feeling, though? Still hurts?"

"My side feels bruised like I was elbowed in the ribs but besides being chilled to the bone from falling into the ocean, I'm alright," you supply honestly. "I saw the blood on the sand, though. It feels unreal that I'm up and about right now. How can a scrape bleed that much?"

Rafayel's mouth goes flat as a line, looking you up and down with a concerning intensity deepening his tone. "You're lucky I was able to pull you back from the worst of it."

Shallow as it is, your wound isn't even dressed, but you decide not to engage in a conversation about the technicalities, patting him on the arm once in thanks and walking around him to get out of the forest line's shadow.

The beach stretching wide and strange before you is a postcard you don’t remember collecting. The sand is darker than you're used to, siltier, almost gray, and littered with glinting shells you don’t recognize, long and spiraled in augers, brittle as glass. Pale reeds jut from the shore at uneven angles, hissing faintly in the breeze, and the driftwood here is stripped bare, almost white, tangled in patterns that look too intentional for nature.

The water itself is clear, almost iridescent, casting strange reflections across the shallows, warped ripples that shimmer pink and green, an oil slick pretending to be pretty. And further out, offshore, strange half-drowned statue-shaped stones loom out of the surf.

You know this archipelago better than most, its coastlines and hidden inlets, the soft-bellied coves that tourists miss, having traced its map with your own hands, ferry lines, rock clusters, the way sandbanks shift after storms. Usually, it takes you seconds to place yourself. A curve in the shoreline, a type of dune grass, the slope of a treeline, something always gives it away.

But this place doesn’t register. No matter how long you stare, it refuses to sort itself into something known. The landscape’s been scrubbed clean of every tell you’re trained to read.

The most logical possibility is Seolhwine’s Hook — the island nearest to the Devil’s Teeth. That makes the most sense, right? You were heading back when the squall hit, and it’s the only one close enough for a current to drag you to overnight, and for Rafayel to be able to swim with you. But even then… even that doesn’t feel right. You’ve docked at Seolhwine’s before. This doesn’t match.

“I hate to say it but... Do you know where we are?” you ask finally, turning to him.

"My aunt's," he answers with a straight face.

You pause mid-shiver, your brain tripping over the simplicity of the statement.

You give him the flattest look you can afford, eyebrows lifting slowly. The pelt is clutched too high at his chest, his fingers wound tight in the fabric, you think he might be afraid of dropping it, though it doesn’t seem he notices he’s doing it. You can’t tell if he’s being deliberately evasive or if he genuinely thinks this is the helpful version of an answer.

"What?"

"Look, I’m all for jokes usually, but right now I need an actual place name — not just that your aunt lives here. I’m cold, I’m tired, and I just want to figure out how to get home—"

"It's my aunt's island."

You blink. Once. Twice. The explanation hangs in the air, weirdly self-satisfied. And it’s not satisfactory at all. Not even close.

What’s with the serene confidence of someone stating the color of the sky, as if “my aunt’s” is a perfectly normal answer to what island are we on? As if those two words magically orient you on a map?

You wait for more. Anything. The punchline. The name. Even a smirk. But there’s nothing.

Is he joking? Is this some elaborate bit? Or does he genuinely think that’s helpful?

The frustration in you sharpens. You’ve had to deal with flaky locals and clueless tourists and broken ferries before, but your patience is thinning by the second. You’re exhausted, still damp, still bleeding a little, and now stuck playing twenty questions with the world’s most uncooperative pretty boy.

"My aunt’s island."

He says it again, but there’s a slight shift in tone — firmer. He's correcting you. Thinks you’re the one being slow. And somehow, that makes it worse.

You stare at him. This time longer. He looks so damn earnest about it, truly believes he’s given you a helpful answer. It’s not smug. It’s not sarcastic. It’s not even deliberately vague to give away he’s fucking with you just to be a tease. It’s literal. Painfully, infuriatingly literal.

You’re trying to get directions from a very impatient child who only answers exactly what you ask and nothing else. Nuance is definitely a foreign language he never got taught.

But something tugs at the edge of your thoughts.

Because as stupid as it sounds — and it does sound stupid — it’s not impossible.

You look around again, really look this time, and you realize something’s been bothering you since you first stood up. It’s too pristine. Too quiet. There’s no old trailhead, no ferry dock, no graffiti-scuffed boulder where kids have carved hearts. No signs. No fishhooks, no cigarette butts. Just wind, tide, trees.

It clicks.

They’re marked on the maps you’ve seen, but only just. Annotated with little circles and names like SH-07 or East Ellinor. Places people like you aren’t supposed to go. Places the ferry routes steer around.

You’ve never been to one. You’ve never had a reason to. The people who owned them had their own transport, their own staff, their own little worlds with locked docks and private everything.

That’s why you didn’t recognize it. It’s not not on the map. It’s just never been part of your map.

You exhale, slow. Let the realization settle.

"So you're saying this is one of the private islands."

Rafayel’s brows lift in vague approval and he nods fervently. "Yes! That. Exactly. It's very private."

You rub your forehead, as if that’ll push the absurdity back into place.

Of course it is. Of course you almost drowned and then washed up on a privately owned island like some shipwrecked stray. Of course the first person you meet is a socially weird, mostly-naked man claiming ownership through familial inheritance like it’s a perfectly casual thing to drop.

You stare up at the sky for a moment, trying to piece together how the hell you even got here.

None of the private islands are anywhere near the Devil’s Teeth — most of them are tucked deep in the inner chain, clustered where the water’s calmer and the currents don’t rip you sideways. But this? This place isn’t close to any of that. You were unconscious, but you remember the storm. You remember going overboard, water in your lungs, panic in your throat, and then nothing. Blackout.

But you weren’t alone.

Rafayel said he pulled you out. Which means he swam you here.

You glance at him again, still draped in that ridiculous pelt and giving you weird pointed looks conveying that he wants to tell you something so bad. He doesn’t look winded enough for someone who hauled another body through open water during a storm. But if he did — if that’s how you got here — then he swam farther than you can make sense of. And maybe lost his clothes in the process. Somehow the latter makes more sense compared to the hypothetical that precedes it.

You were near open sea. This doesn’t add up. Even if he unexpectedly took you somewhere else than Seolhwine's, it just happening to be his aunt's private island is no coincidence.

You look back at him, more confused than before.

"Come," he says softly, extending his hand toward you with palm upward. "I'll take you to her. We'll help you get home. I promise."

A dozen different responses crowd your tongue as you stare down at his offered hand. All the questions rattling between your ears, each booking it for your lips faster than the next. None make it far. Suspicion should be there, but your instincts are unresponsive. They don’t find anything worth questioning about the situation despite the red flags.

Sure, maybe a weird randomly naked guy saved your life, brought you to a secret beach that doesn’t look on any travel maps, and claims to have ties with some rich aunt that owns the whole damn thing...

But he isn't dangerous.

You know that fact unequivocally. Call it a hunch, maybe? Gut intuition. It makes no sense considering your rational side has zero interest in jumping through hoops to trust the random person that literally dragged you out of the ocean to the least convenient place he ever could — but then again, life tends to toss the strangest circumstances and situations your way whenever you least expect it.

What matters most is getting back home, your parents have to be dying of worry — a search party must be out there wasting resources. Having someone who seems oddly comfortable on the island lead you directly to shelter would certainly speed things along.

"Hey," he gently adds when you're quiet for too long, breaking the train of thought running rampant inside your mind. The softness in his tone brings your attention back to him entirely, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

He offers his hand a little higher, which draws your focus back on it with curious clarity. How smooth it lookd, even from this distance, perfect nails without a single scratch or imperfection, fingers delicate, elegant bones visible under the pale skin. "I just want to help. You're safe with me. I won’t hurt you."

You stare at his hand, then at his face, then back again. The tone is soft, the words gentle, but something about it scratches at the back of your brain. The kind of voice usually reserved for nervous animals crouched under porches. Any second now, he might start whistling and offer a treat.

Though the weird phrasing shouldn't work its weird magic on you, it does. Maybe because it sounds so nostalgic and familiar in a way that it invokes a sense of safety in you? Or maybe because you're tired, soaked to the bone, bleeding lightly still, and sore all over and this guy seems too nice to be anything less than honest?

Perhaps both. Probably both. You really have no business trusting strangers who wear big pelt blankets instead of actual clothing and give basic information away akin to some kind of social anxiety sufferer with performance issues, yet here you are, contemplating on the idea of taking his hand.

What the hell, you think eventually. Sure. What alternative is there? If the worst comes to pass, you intend to make him have one less limb to his name — it would be his own fault for walking around like a Resident Evil nude mod. How did that one text post go? Boy put that boaner away lest a sloppy little critter grabs hold of it.

But you’re not that sure what kind of answer you expected when you ask him where you’re headed, but he doesn’t so much point as let his hand drift outward, loose and imprecise — more communion than instruction, as though the land might whisper the route if you stand still long enough. He plants himself in the emptiness with the ease of someone who’s never needed a map, naming vague landmarks with the casual grace of someone expecting the road to rise just because he’s ready to walk it.

As someone who has mastered the art of minding your own business, you don’t call out this behavior. As long as he gets you someplace you can call help from, Rafayel is free to be a weirdo.

But you do press him for information.

“She has lavender near the steps, and her door is the color of the sea,” he offers, like that narrows it down. “The path smells of sage sometimes, if the wind’s right. And there’s a stone shaped like a sleeping dog near the turn — you have to squint a little. The house groans when it’s too warm. There’s a wind chime that only rings when someone she doesn’t like shows up. And the garden gate bites if you don’t know how to open it.”

Not helpful. But then he refuses to add anything else more along the lines of fucking common sense and normal people direction-giving. What does he expect, the scent alone pulling you in the right direction if you just walk long enough?

And maybe he's right. Maybe you're the weird one for expecting something as formal as an address out here. If this really is a private island, there might only be one house. Maybe 'lavender and a blue door' is all anyone needs. Maybe people out here remember things by the curve of the land and the way the air smells after rain.

It isn’t a real plan. It’s the shape of a promise, just strange enough to follow, just vivid enough to believe in for a little while. The way he speaks about it, there’s no room for doubt, and you’ve learned to believe in the word of a local in all your years of living around the archipelago.

So you follow.

The pelt shifts when he moves, catching bits of drift and sand, trailing slightly as he walks beside you through the underbrush. He doesn’t shiver, unlike you. And that makes sense, considering how warm and cozy you were when that thing was your blanket when you first woke up.

The morning light hasn’t yet burned the fog from the trees, and the forest path ahead is dappled in grey. Your boots sink into the softened moss with a squelch. His bare feet barely make a sound, but your skin does hear something because of your wet socks.

You glance sideways at him. No wince, no flinch, not even when he steps straight on a gnarled root that would have you cursing in three languages.

“Seriously?” you mutter. “You don’t even feel that?”

“I’ve walked stranger paths,” he says. Great.

You stop walking with a groan. The wind catches your soaked clothes, cutting straight through to the bone. Your arms are already shaking.

“Okay. New plan.”

He watches as you crouch in front of him, back turned.

You look over your shoulder with an encouraging gesture for him, “Climb on.”

He tilts his head. “Huh?”

“Piggyback. You're barefoot, this path is hell, and I'm freezing. Carrying weight warms you up.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You're not that heavy, and I’ve hauled crates bigger than you off ferries for years. So. Just. Climb on.”

He makes a strangled noise. “I didn’t learn bipedalism just to be carried like a pup by you!”

Such drama. There really is no time for this and you’re not in the mood for negotiations.

You grab one of his wrists and tug it over your shoulder. His entire hand twitches in response. “If it makes you feel better, this is entirely me being selfish. I want to get warm.”

He hesitates, and it’s not pride, he keeps glancing at your side, where the torn side of your turtleneck still clings damp and darkened. His hands hover like he might stop you.

“You’re not healed,” he mutters. “Not properly.”

You hitch his arm higher on your shoulder. “It’s fine.”

“That wound’s still raw.”

“So are my fingers. Cold does that.”

He makes a frustrated noise.

“Listen, enough with courtesy stuff, okay? I don’t care, I’m freezing,” you cut in. “And you don’t have shoes. We’re both going to be miserable either way, so pick your poison.”

He sighs, dragging it out. Eventually, he caves, muttering something under his breath that could be an insult but could also be a compliment. He hoists himself up, arms settling uncertainly around your shoulders, pelt-covered legs bracketing your hips, and you make sure he won’t slip away from your grip because of the material. You’re trekking along the forest in no time, feeling pleasantly distracted from the cold.

“This is deeply undignified,” he mutters.

“And being inexplicably naked in front of a stranger isn’t? Where and why did you lose your clothes anyway? You still haven’t told.”

There’s no response, except from a huff he lets out from his nose, which fondly reminds you of Raf. It must be a tale particularly embarrassing for him to tell, and he did have the fur to make it up for, so you once again don’t pry. Master of minding your own business.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Get comfortable.”

He doesn’t. He sits stiffly at first, as though unsure how much weight he’s allowed to give you. Then he starts shifting. Sighing. Squirming. Grumbling under his breath about the jostling, the pace, the way your shoulder bone is probably bruising his ribs.

"You walk uneven," he complains after the first bend. "See, it hurts after all, yeah? Put me down."

"It's a forest," you grit out. "The ground walks uneven."

"I wish you would listen for once."

"That's a wasted wish on a star. You've known me for like what, fifteen minutes?"

He exhales through his nose again, slow and beleaguered. No witty answer to that one, it seems.

The longer you walk, the more he settles. His complaining slows into occasional muttering, then thoughtful silence. The forest begins to close in around you. Damp leaves brush your arms. The world smells of pine sap, wet bark, and something almost metallic beneath the rot. The silence here is dense, broken only by the soft rhythm of your boots against the ground and the occasional rustle of something unseen in the undergrowth.

Then his voice, soft and close beside your ear: “Do you name the trails you take at sea? Or are they just known to you?”

“What?”

“The water routes. The ones you steer the ferry along. Do they have names?”

He’s talking about sea lanes. You’re about to question how he doesn’t know these things, considering he’s a fisherman, but remember he might not be one. His aunt owns an island. This is a rich kid who probably wanted to fish and got the locals involved in his request.

“They’ve got designations. Letters, numbers. Eights and alphas and things like that. But most of us just… call ’em what we call ’em.”

“Like?”

You think a moment, breath fogging in the damp air. “There’s Shiverstretch. That’s the fast cold current between Dolos and Ternhook. Everyone calls it that ’cause it’s a backslap to the face, especially on the morning runs. And there’s Dead Hour Channel — no wind, no sound, just this long, empty drift. Makes you paranoid that something’s watching. I don’t like that one.”

You feel him shift slightly on your back, listening.

“There’s Longshout,” you add. “Named after a guy who tried to boat through in a storm and ended up yelling for help the whole way ‘til he ran aground on Fallow Reef.”

Rafayel snorts quietly. “That one sounds personal.”

“It is. He still works the east docks. Won’t shut up about it.”

“How do you find your way around, then? I always wondered. Do you read the water like seals do?”

“Reading the water is one way to put it, I guess. They’re charted. We use navigation systems. Landmarks. Depth markers.”

A pause. The trees rumble, disturbed by a sudden gust of wind, brittle leaves dropping pebbles onto the path in front of you. Rafayel shifts awkwardly behind you, almost toppling off to the left before righting himself with a steadying grip.

"Question," you say. "What indicators do you use? Chip on a tree or something?"

He whispers eventually, cheek lightly pressed against yours. You feel his eyes on you. "Smells."

You blink, twisting around to glance at him. He seems surprisingly somber all of a sudden. "Uhhh...."

"Just focus on the road, we're almost there. You'll see."

The path winds past the last of the scrub grass, and then it opens.

The trees fall away in a hush of damp leaves and saltlight, and there, cradled in the middle of the forest-clad small valley, is a sprawling, mansion of a house that doesn’t quite belongs to any century in particular. Can't be called old or modern. The word you’re looking for is neo-classical architecture made to be a beach house. Pale limestone, veined and sun-bitten, gleams beneath the overcast sky. Its walls are streaked with wind-carried brine, but the stone holds strong, weathered soft rather than worn down. And there is the giveaway Rafayel was talking about: blue door.

Lavender spills along the pathway in loose drifts, unruly and fragrant, tangling with sea-thrift and clover like the garden grew itself wild. Carved wooden shutters hang half-closed against the morning chill, and a curved archway frames the entry looks the part of a half-remembered temple. There’s something mythic about it, a story you were almost told once. A place that holds onto memory whether you want it to or not.

And then there’s the scent, ocean first, bright and sharp, but something warmer curling beneath it. Resin, maybe. Incense burned into the beams. Citrus oil in the wood grain.

You adjust your grip beneath Rafayel’s knees as you approach the door. Acting as a barrier between your bodies, his pelt is still slung down your back , trailing behind like a second spine, damp at the edges. He hasn’t said much since the last hill. Just rested his chin between your shoulder blades and hummed, quiet as tidewash.

You reach the first step. Hesitate. The house isn’t grand in the usual way, no columns, no gates, but there’s a heaviness to it. Not unfriendly, but expectant.

You knock.

Silence falls. The melted caramel of sunlight scatters through the dark glass in the windows. Rafayel shifts on your back, going rigid so suddenly it almost jolts you. His breath stills sharply against your spine, and in that single suspended moment, you can feel the piano wire of tension strung through his bones.

You don’t get the chance to ask why. Wood cracks loudly within the doorframe, and there's a pop, a groan, and then a soft, sweet creak as the lock disengages, allowing the door to slowly swing inward with an audible squeak.

The scent hits first, warm and strange. Spiced velvet, a whisper of cloves, dried orange peel, and something more ancient baked into the lintel wood. Then the figure behind it, unexpected.

For an “aunt,” she looks barely older than him. Mid-thirties, maybe, though it’s hard to tell. Her features are sharp, dignified, and her presence is a light cloud, wrapped in layered satin and lace shawl, white and lilac, all shot through with shimmer where the light catches on glinting jewelry. Her hair is swept back, rich violet and pinned with silver shells, and her eyes—

Dusty purple brightening with shock.

“Rafayel?” she breathes, her grip whitening on the frame. Her gaze darts down, takes in the sealskin clinging to your back, the way his taut arms still drape over your shoulders like iron bars. “Gods, is it really you? Look, look at you! Oh... oh!"

Rafayel slides off you, and she practically throws herself out the door as soon as the initial shock wears off, taking two long steps across the threshold until she's directly in front of you, cupping his cheeks with hands that only tremble the smallest bit. He meets her halfway, tilting his forehead to rest against hers as his own hands come up to gently caress her elbows, cradling them lightly. His motions are hesitant at first — touching with clear clumsiness, as if handling glass. But the moment she exhales an astonished little laugh, something changes, he pulls her close, tightening his grasp not to let her blow away on the wind. The woman leans fully against him then, looping her arms around his neck with a relieved shudder that shakes both their frames.

And you're there, a comical stick figure at the background of a well-drawn manga panel with a big arrow pointing at you.

You hope they won't hunt you for sport. Private island. Two eerily good looking family members. Girl who got deliberately delivered there when a closer island was the most blatant option. This has the potential to be a horror movie premise.

But no. Nope. Too late. She glances past his shoulder as soon as her embrace is complete and the silent reunion done with, locking eyes with you, and your soul flees your body, trying to squeeze itself back through your pores like some furtive worm to avoid the full brunt of her curious scrutiny.

She raises one perfectly shaped brow, but before either of you can exchange any words or reactions, Rafayel says something.

You say something, because it's in a language you don't know, one that doesn't bother to make itself easy, sharp at the edges, rounded at the core. It rolls out of his mouth, mist over moorland — thick, tangled, hard to follow. The stone-teeth syllables grind against each other, but every so often, they break open into something strange and sweet, the howl of a reed pipe carried on sea wind.

It just plays into the horror movie vibe because why would he blatantly switch language to probably speak about you, judging from the glance thrown your way, as if you aren't there? Probably conspiring how to eat you! You do feel like tenderized meat.

The woman hums again, a thoughtful note this time, and the conversation carries on in murmured exchanges of tone and gesture — softness here, a flicker of frustration there. And yet you can pinpoint the exact moment everything changes. Rafayel says something. But she draws back, cups his cheeks in her hands, and stares at him hard, searching. Whatever she finds isn’t enough, because she shakes her head once, firm, decisive. He asks again. Another shake, stronger this time, more insistent. Her fingers flex tight against his skin as if she means to hold him there, but he speaks again, something softer, fainter, and her hand relaxes, trembling on the edge of defeat. A faint frown crosses her face, a small downward curl that somehow turns the lines at the corner of her lips into parenthesis, closing off the shape of whatever she might have said next.

"Hey, uh," you finally intervene when their staring contest becomes too intense. They both startle, seeming to remember your existence at once. You smile nervously, holding one raised palm up in defense and nonthreatening greeting. "Sorry to interrupt, ma'am, but could I, um..." Your free hand gestures vaguely to indicate the general situation you find yourself in. "Use your phone? I don't mean to intrude or anything, I just. I got thrown over board during the storm, I don't even know if my ferry was capsized and I really, really need to get back—"

Rafayel says something else under his breath, hasty now, almost tripping over his words.

Her brows furrow in mild concern at his rambling. "Oh dear, I apologize, yes! Do forgive me for being impolite, I forgot myself for a moment there."

You nod politely in acknowledgment of her apology, lowering your arm hesitantly. "Not a problem, it happens."

"It's been so long since our house had guests," she admits candidly, placing an elegant hand over her heart in embarrassment. "Come, come in, please, you need a hot shower and change of clothes." She takes you by the arm and guides you inside. "You're drenched! Look at those goosebumps. Oh, you poor thing."

She leads you into a grand hallway filled with golden hour sunlight spilling through windows framed by sheer white curtains billowing lazily in the breeze, and it is not unlike stepping straight into the interior design section of an expensive department store. You could smell the money dripping off every nook, cranny, wall, and corner. If your wet socks were making muddy imprints on the flooring you knew you'd pass out from mortification on the spot. The floors here look pristine and polished enough for you to see your reflection clearly on its surface. Even the vase tucked neatly into the center of a glossy dark wood console table is worth more than your boat. Everything about this mansion is clean and orderly, it must be heaven on earth for a neat freak like your dad.

"He needs clothes the most, I think," you try to joke, letting her steer you through the main hall with wide curious steps and an awestruck stare. Rafayel, wherever he is behind you two, remains silent. You think he might have disappeared somewhere.

Her grip tightens around your arm like a mother hen dragging her chick into a coop to shelter from winter, her nails lightly digging into the sleeves of your sweater with a pleasant firmness that feels strangely grounding. "Don't worry about him, you focus on getting warmed up now."

"Thanks, ummm..." you begin, hoping it's polite to ask for her name while inside her home. But before you could continue, she turns to regard you with a serene smile — so gentle and graceful she could've been sculpted from marble if it weren't for her very lively personality. She smells nice, too. Floral. Very floral. The same kind of perfume bottle your aunt kept on display near her sewing machine that you stole a few sniffs of when Grandma wasn't looking.

Her attention is summer afternoon sunbeams on your chilled skin. "You can call me Talia.”

[devilmaymetalgear]

That was a long time ago

swap/evil au!Dante x childhood friend!Reader

Cw: a lot of exposition, dmc3 Dante, gn!reader, this is more of an intro post for the au so I could practice writing him, use of baby and sweetheart, next post WILL be smut with an older evil Dante where he actually is horrible, he's just a little mean in this ❤️

(THIS IS ANOTHER AU I DONT ACTUALLY THINK DANTE WOULD DO ANY OF THIS SHIT IN MAINLINE)

A/n: i have not played dmc5 in a while and forget what the fuck the area around their house looks like, so play along if there's not a forest nearby. I also like... i dont know what happened near the end, its not verg good

He remembered that fateful day. He was left alone, sparring outside. Vergil said he wanted to keep reading his dumb poetry. It was quiet, that familiar of bugs was missing. The chirping of birds gone silent. It was as if time went still.

He didn't notice it at first, that buzzing in the back of his mind that made him want to flee. He probably should of. At 8 years old his mother left him to die. Thrown to the wolves. Thrown to the demons, more accurately.

He watched as the house burned down to ash, the smoke high in the sky. Even as he fled, running for his life, he could see that smoke high in the sky.

And he remembered the days before that. Where he played with his brother and his friend. His secret friend. Mother and father were always worried about them, said they couldn't go too far off the property. But Dante never listened.

He saw another kid in the woods next to his house, plucking some of the wild flowers from the ground. Placing them into their little basket. They looked so excited with each little flower they plucked. And Dante never got to hang out with other kids his age. He crept into the forest, dodging every little leaf and twig that if crunched could scare them.

"Hii!" He shouted, watching them look up.

"Hi?" You waved back at him nervously, and he watched as you stood up straight from the ground.

"Who are those flowers for?" He pointed down at the basket, stepping in front of you.

"They're for my mom. She told me not to come over here but they're just so pretty. Look!" You held your hand up to his face, a small, red wildflower limp between your fingers.

"Can I pick some?" Reaching towards the ground, he grasped at the little flowers, squishing them in his hands. The delicate petals fell onto the ground, leaving partial, crumpled stems in his hands. He was about to give up and sulk, stomp off to go bother Vergil and hope that'll make him feel better.

But you reached out, gently picking up another flower of the ground. Setting into his hand as carefully as you can.

"Now you have one to give to your mom."

Thats all he can remember. His head aches if he thinks about it anymore. That's all he needs to remember anyway.

Why would he ever sit and daydream about the eight year old you, when he's got the smoking hot adult you?

"Dante.." You mutter, gazing down at the rubble and gore beneath temen ni gru. Hundreds dead or injured, the squeals of demons feasting ringing out loud enough for the next city over to hear. His hand tightened around your hip, pulling you close.

"Yeah, baby?" He snaps out of whatever place his mind was, a sharp grin on his face. He looked a little too delighted staring at the gore below him. Like a king on his throne. You wouldn't be surprised if he saw himself as one. "You like what you see, right?"

"It's... definitely something!" His hand drifts lower, resting right on your ass. As much as the urge to swat his hand away rises in you, staring at all the viscera makes you rethink that. "A little... excessive, don't you think? Couldn't we have done this somewhere more... rural? Not right in the middle of the busiest part of town?"

He snickered, leaning into you and glancing over. "I forget how stupid you are when it comes to hellgates and stuff. We can't just move a hell gate, baby. That's where it is so that's where it comes up. Not my fault that I killed a few people."

"You're the one who raised the hellgate! If you didn't raise it then those people wouldn't have died!"

He went quiet, snarling a little. He dipped his head a little lower, his nails digging into your skin.

"If you talk back like that again, I'll throw you down there with them since you pity them so much. You humans are so fragile, any time someone dies you just have to whine about it." He rolled his eyes, as if you were complaining about spilt milk.

He adjusted his grip on you, grabbing your wrist and walking away from the edge.

"Enough of this anyways, I've got a reunion party to plan."

Intro to the au next post WILL be sloppy pervert sex leave me recommendations for what he should do pls ❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹

[phantom-of-the-501st]

What happened to Echo between the Citadel and his rescue from Skako?

I started randomly thinking about this and it got stuck in my brain so now we're yapping about it.

The thing is, the initial assumption when watching the Bad Batch arc is that Echo has been kept in a stasis chamber with cables stuck in his head for a year(ish). But that doesn't actually make much sense when you think about it and because of that I don't think that that was the initial plan. So here's a vague outline of what I think was going on with Echo between S3 and S7.

Echo would have been found by the Separatists, and the fact that he was alive would have been of great interest to them because it means they could have a clone in their possession that they could try and use. Now the first few days/months (depending on the quality of healthcare) would have been spent waiting for Echo to recover enough. Following that, the Separatists would have likely tortured Echo in an attempt to get information out of him because, lets be honest, spending a load of money to extract information from his brain by hooking him up to a machine would not be the logical first step. That's the "oh fuck nothing is working" stage of planning.

And the thing is, whatever torture methods they likely put Echo through didn't do a whole lot because otherwise they would have been using the information they got from him a hell of a lot sooner. Echo probably spent who knows how long being tortured (and we've seen Andor. We know the shit the Empire does) and gave them nothing. Give that man some credit because wtf.

And then what? They have a clone (more specifically and ARC trooper) in their possession and they aren't going to let that opportunity go to waste so easily, so they devise a new plan. If they can't get anything out of him, then how else can they use him?

It's this bit that I think explains why Echo has so many prosthetics for a man being held in a container for months on end. If you have a prisoner you don't want escaping, why give him legs? That seems counterintuitive. And why give him a scomp? Honestly, I don't think the Separatists initially handed him over to the Techno Union for information extraction. I think they wanted to brainwash Echo into something that they could control, to turn him into a droid.

Look at the CX troopers. The Empire has taken clones to convert them into brainwashed agents and I wouldn't be surprised if Echo ended up being a test run for that. The fact that he has prosthetic limbs suggests that gave him to the TU with the promise of payment if they could turn him into something they could use. Who better to help fight against the GAR than someone who was trained by them and knows their fighting style?

However, that plan clearly didn't pan out either because when Rex and the Batch find him, he's hooked up to machines in a stasis chamber. What I think happened is that after weeks/months of Plan B not working out, the Separatists threatened to withhold payment from the TU unless they actually gave them something useful. And with nothing else working, I think the TU went to the only option they could really think of: to wire Echo into a machine and forcibly remove the information.

It explains the prosthetic limbs and it explains why it took so long for anyone to notice that the Separatists had Echo's strategies. I think they tried other things with him, and when that failed, went for the only option they had that actually worked.

Now that does raise the question of why Echo thinks he's still at the Citadel when they initially remove him. If he's spent several months conscious and being tortured/experimented on before being plugged in, then why does he not know that time has passed?

I think the answer is simply that he's disoriented. It probably took a second for his brain to catch up with where he was following the data extraction. And honestly, that would explain why Echo doesn't seem to be confused at any point following that when it comes to what period of time it is. There's no "wtf do you mean it's been a year?" moment, he just kind of falls back into things. I think it just took a couple of minutes for him to reorient himself before he was aware of where he was and what was happening. And to be honest, I wouldn't be surprised if there're periods of time that have been blocked from his memory as a trauma response. That would also explain why he only ever talks about Skako specifically and nothing else.

So yeah, that's my ramble on what I think happened to Echo. I truly don't think that the stasis chamber was the initial plan. It seems like a last resort following failed attempts at other things. Either way, I just wanna give Echo a hug because he's been through a lot. :')

Tagging soon Echo-loving moots in case they want to read this :D

@saturn-sends-hugs @the-bi-space-ace @nobody-expects-the-inquisitorius

[cccakessslicemeee]

Spoilers for fantasy high read at your own risk

-------

I wanna see Fig find out about all the shit Bobby Dawn and how it personally affected her mom. Like I don't think Sandra Lynn would ever tell Fig about that. At least she would tell-if pushed the softest version of what she went through. Probably chalk it up 'yeah well... It was a really difficult time. I made my bed and that's where I got to stay for awhile. It was a mistake and I learned from it." But she's clearly doing that thing where she doesn't want to be too open or too vulnerable because all that shit happened in the past right? It doesn't matter now and she shouldn't make her daughter feel bad for HER own mistakes. It's just a thing that happened.

I feel like Sandra Lynn wouldn't tell Jawbone. Or maybe do that thing where she just says a lil bit to give him an idea but she doesn't tell the full story. He'd know though. He's been through some shit of his own and he would definitely have an idea.

I like to imagine it happens so organically.

Like Bobby Dawn returns to town. He's done nothing wrong. He's just doing a little shopping and he runs into Sandra Lyn while at fantasy grocery store. Fig and Kristen are probably there Figs looking at pre ripped jeans and Kristen is probably trying to convince Sandra Lynn to pick up a huge thing of protein powder. They don't need it they still have half a tub of that nasty shit at the manor.

Sandra Lynn sees Bobby Dawn as he comes around a corner. Probably got milk or bread. Maybe both? He's a white conservative so I soupy his grocery list is super complicated. Maybe eggs if he's feeling the light of Helios blessing. Anyway they stare at one another for a moment but he smiles first. Sandra Lynn turns away and grabs something off the shelf.

Bobby Dawn can't let it go. He must say something. All he has to say to get under her skin is just a simple hello. And she's shrinking into herself.

Kristen puts herself between Sandra Lynn and Bobby and also says hello. She didn't think he'd be coming back to town anytime soon. And he agrees. It's not his job to know everything, only to follow under Helios light.

Fig is baffled. Her mom is such a force of nature usually but now she's so...quiet? What the fuck??? Fig looks to to her mother who just focuses on the grocery list but her hands are shaking. Maybe with an unspoken rage or fear but it's not ..this is so weird.

Bobby's eyes don't meet Kristen. They are set on Sandra Lynn.

"I think it's so fascinating that you choose to continue living in broken homes."

Sandra Lynn does not react. She's in a store. She's buying milk and eggs and a shit ton of pork for a barbeque later and pool cleaner and a bag of coal and all this other stuff .. she can't.. she can't be.. she cannot just leave. She has shit to do and this asshole doesn't fucking matter anymore. Why won't he just leave?

I like to think Fig reacts before she even realizes what she does. It's not a spell or a punch and even Kristen has to kinda duck (fall honestly) out of the way to avoid being smacked upside the head with a bass guitar. It catches him in his stupid mouth and his glasses are flung nine isles over. Fuck this guy. Broken home? BROKEN?

"maybe shit has to break so it can be fixed and it comes back better than it ever was!" Fig wacks him again. He's prone. The man is pissed and scrambling to get away.

Kristen is like haha yeah fuck him up!

Sandra Lynn turns to see what the fuck Fig is doing and it's a lot. She feels like she's a failure because Fig should not be fighting her demons. None of this should be happening. She thinks about saying something like "you can't just beat up on people shopping" but she doesn't. Her mouth doesn't seem to be cooperating and her hands won't stop buzzing.

Kristen cast a zone of calm on Sandra Lynn and it helps sure but she's still so uncomfortable.

Bobby Dawn scrambles away and Fig absolutely chases after him but stops short when she gets to the threshold of the store only to scream obscenities and then come back to her mom who still seems so messed up?

They get the stuff they need and head home. Just this interaction has Sandra Lynn all discombobulated. She's having some thoughts and old memories she buried bubble up on loop. Her mind becomes a hellscape she just can't seem to escape from.

She remembers the bad things but worse than that she remembers the good things. When he was kind and kissed her cheek and ran his fingers through her hair telling her she was the most beautiful woman in the world and quite possibly the best ranger he's ever witnessed. She remembers snuggling up to his chest and whispering sweet nothings back and forth. She remembers sharing meals and making plans. She can't forget the first night she slept behind a dumpster. It's everything all at once. Good and bad and ugly.

Where the fuck is Baxter? Oh right. He's sleeping at the manor or playing tug of war with jawbone. (Jawbone lets him win all the time)

They get home and she's real quiet. Stuck in her head reliving memories and what not. Baxter goes to her and he knows he's glued to her side and she's in tears nearly..but not quite.

Jawbone asks what's up. Sandra Lynn says something about "It doesn't even matter I should feel like this anymore it happened so many, years ago. Everything's fine now. I have a home."

He makes tea. He sets his paw on her hand and let's her have the floor. She doesn't talk, he doesn't make her. They just sit there for awhile.

Fig talks. She's so pissed about that Bobby Dawn guy. How come he has this effect on her mom?? What the fuck? Kristen agrees but she's well aware of Bobby Dawn and his...less than stellar work in the church. It's a hard night.

Fig is a bitch on a mission now and Sandra Lynn won't talk but maybe Gilear will? She presses him. He's not quite the guy to spill other people's secrets but Fig feels like she has a right to know. So he tells what he knows. She's livid. Not at him tho and she reassures him of that.

I like to imagine that days go by and Sandra Lynn is still very much on edge. Like spacing out and accidentally dropping mugs or over filling her coffee cup. Just a mess. Adine is doing her best to follow her around subtly and just not really sure what she can do other than hover around. Fig can't be around to see her mom like that. It hurts so bad seeing someone so capable struggle to put the milk back in the fridge.

Sandra Lynn is so certain she can just push through this. She'll be fine. She's done it before.

Adine assures her that "They are gonna murder that guy so hard."

[totallynotavampir3]

Over and Over Again

a/n: this had been cooking in my mind for a few months and i had begun to write it, then i kinda gave up lol, en-y wayz! i decided to give this a second shot and this is what i came up with! i also have a few other chapters i had been working on, so lmk if you want to see those, this has also been cross posted to Ao3 on Suki_363

Every timeline ends the same: with you loving him and losing him. You remember it all—every pun, every death, every reset. He doesn’t. Not always. Sometimes he’s Geno. Sometimes Fatal. Sometimes Error. And each time, you fight your way back—through code, through glitches, through the void—just to find the version of Sans you once called yours. Even if he’s twisted, broken, or barely holding on. Even if he forgets. Because no matter how many timelines it takes, no matter how many versions of him you meet, you’ll always find him. And you’ll always love him. Over and over. ⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆

It was always late when he walked you home.

The street lights flickered, the stars seemed too dim for how bright the night used to be. Beside you, Sans dragged his slippers along the cracked sidewalk, hoodie drawn up and hands tucked in. Same old grin on his face. Same old silence between the puns. But something in his eyes—the part he never talked about—made you ache.

“Another long day?” he asked.

You nodded, letting your fingers brush against his. “Better now.”

He chuckled low in his throat. “Smooth.”

The shortcut came up—his favorite one, through the alley that skipped five blocks. The one where time always felt like it hiccuped.

And tonight, like so many nights, you stopped at the gate and turned to him.

“I’ve missed you.”

Sans blinked. “I saw you yesterday, didn’t I?”

You shook your head. “Not you. Not... my you. But I always find you again.”

He went quiet. No pun. Just a slow tilt of his head, studying you.

“[Y/N],” he said, and for a second, just a second—he looked scared.

You smiled through the ache in your chest. “I’ll fall in love with you every time, Sans. Even if you don’t remember, but trust me, i will remember and continue to love you. No matter how long it takes, no matter how many timelines i have to jump…”

“I..” he started, not knowing what you were talking about or what you meant, but you just stepped through the shortcut, and he followed.

…

The first time you lost him, it was in a genocide timeline.

Frisk may have been the last to fall, but you were the second, you had come long after chara, but before the other children. You had landed in the Underground as a child, befriending monsters, learning names and stories. And you had fallen in love with Sans—your Sans. The one who told you puns as a child, you and him had been the only ones who remembered gaster, for whatever reason that may have been. He was the one who fought until his last breath when the world fell apart.

You ran through the underground looking from him when you heard of the rumor surrounding the new human. He told you he would handle it, you don't know why you believed him, he was fragile, maybe not mentally, but his hp was 1, the weakest monster in the underground hp based. 

You ran and ran until your throat swelled and your lungs and legs burned. Tears fell from your face as you saw him, his body was still there somehow, you saw code and glitches coming from him as you watched the blood pool below him. His eye was melting and you saw his dust form a glitched mass, covering the lost eye socket.

You shouldn’t have survived. But something happened—a glitch. The moment the timeline shattered, you fell through it. You woke up in a pacifist world.

You walked around aimlessly for days, not understanding why you survived, why everyone knew you, everyone who’s dust you saw litter the underground, hours, and days before.

Then, you got an idea, you remembered your alphys talking about a timeline theory, and if you were a form of proof, she may believe you.

You ran to Alphys, desperate, wild-eyed, explaining what you had been through and begging for her to believe you.

She believed.

With her help—illegal tech, corrupted files, and a pinch of desperation—you found a way back.

And when you did, he wasn’t the same. He was Geno now. Corrupted. Alive, but stuck in the after-image of a massacre.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he rasped, when you found him in the Judgement Hall.

“I had to.”

“You remember me?” he asked, disbelieving.

“I never forgot.”

He tried to push you away, but you stayed. For months. You stayed until the glitch in him consumed everything.

When the corruption peaked—when the void swallowed him whole—you were thrown out. Spit back into the pacifist timeline.

You told Alphys everything again, The corrupted code. The love. The void. the odd thing being how real time never passed where he was, you told her that too.

She warned you: “It’s dangerous to go back. He might not even be... him anymore.”

You didn’t care, and you told her such, you told her that you didn't care and how you wouldnt stop caring, not even if trying to stay with him killed you.

You found him again, deeper in the code this time. No longer Geno. Now, a Fatal Error.

He didn’t recognize you at first. Rage had twisted his voice, his form. You dodged the attacks, kept calling his name until—

“SANS!!”

He heard you

“[Y/N]?”

You saw him hesitate. Saw something flicker in his shattered eye.

“You remember me.”

He dropped his weapon.

“I... I killed everything,” he whispered. “I almost killed you.”

“You didn’t. You couldn’t.”

“I may not have done it with my own hand, but i watched it happen- i-... i let it happen!’

You stayed with him again, kept trying to reassure him. And again, the corruption and now guilt took him. Again, the timeline rejected you.

Thrown out.

Again.

And again

A Pacifist timeline. Alphys. Desperation.

You went back.

This time, it was Error.

He had unraveled almost everything. Worlds. Characters. Himself. His guilt turned to anger.

You appeared behind him as he stood at the edge of existence.

“I warned you,” he said without turning. “Every time I glitch, the timeline spits you out. You’re uncorrupted. You don’t belong there.”

“I'll come back anyway.”

He turned. Face unreadable. Eyes glowing.

“I thought I was pulling you back. Every time I remembered a piece of you, you’d show up. I thought... Maybe I was strong enough to fix it. That I brought you.”

“You didn’t,” you whispered. “Alphys did. I fought my way back.”

His jaw clenched. “Then... you’re not the same. You’re not her. Just another version.”

You stepped toward him.

“I am. I’ve always been her. Your unofficial wife. Your girlfriend. I remember every version of you. Every fall. Every change. Every time you broke and pushed me away, I came back.”

He glitched violently, like the truth physically hurt.

“I love you,” he said, voice breaking. “I understand if you don’t remember. I don’t expect you to. But I never stopped.”

You took his hand.

“I never forgot, and I never will…”

…

A Reset

You didnt want it, but you had no choice, you were being corrupted by the silence, by the loneliness, by the isolation. Error couldn't have that. He wouldnt have that. So he found a way to send you to a reset. One without frisk, one where it would be safe for you, even if he would never see you again. 

And now, in a quiet pacifist world, the sun shines down on an ordinary walk home.

And a familiar skeleton walks beside you, cracking jokes, unaware.

But when your fingers brush his, and he feels you shiver—

You smile through the ache.

“Hi again.”

He blinks. “You okay?”

You nod. “Just missed you.”

Because even if he doesn’t remember yet, you always do.

And you’ll love him again.

Over and over.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

this fic was inspired by the song "Would You Fall in Love with Me Again" from the musical epic

[glitchstrikr]

"make V1 not fully an ass"

YESSSSSS. All this one ever wanted was to be safe, happy, and accepted. And he got none of that! V3/4 is actually really similar to V1 (Maybe because V3/4 is based off Solars code, who was technically a version of V1?). I can only imagine the similarities with how those two act.

Like, V3/4 is very gruff, very tired (after suffering for so long), and pretty much met his few goals in life. He's accomplished himself, and now just exists for the people around him (which, while sad, is kinda keeping his going at this point. Hence the breakdown episode when he could be useful anymore.)

In comparison, we don't know what exactly V1 has gone through since Oct 2022. What we can speculate though is that he's been outside, extremely damaged, for just under three years. He's had to have been suffering this whole time. There's no way he hasn't been. What happens when you suffer with no escape for too long? You give up. He's probably just as tired if not more so than V3/4. He was already resigned to his fate when Sun expelled him (last minute bravado act or not, he clearly was ready to die, and let his backup take over the job). Then Sun flubbed the spell, and now he's in practical hell on earth? That'll do wonders to someone's mental state.

Something else both have in common? They're protective. V3/4 its not hard to see this, with everything hes done for his family and new friends there. But V1? V1 didn't show it much, but he did care for Lunar. He wanted to keep him safe, doing check-ups to make sure Moon stayed down, shielding him from his past mistakes (tho that also had manipulation uses too). Yeah, im aware V1 hit Lunar, but also? We know he had a temper. Like, major anger issues seems to be a SAMS Eclipse trait, regardless of version. Heck, even Solar has a temper. Up until V1 started guessing about Lunars betrayal, started getting frustrated with Monty (aka temper flaring up to cover all other emotions), V1 didn't do that much to Lunar besides mean comments and the slap. I'm not saying he wasn't abusive; he very much was. I'm saying their relationship was more complicated that just V1 hating Lunar.

We also have the obvious attachment issues, Abandonment issues, antisocial behaviors, gruff honesty, fears of being trapped, and even their motivations being similar.

The only main different between them was their fire; after Ruin was dealt with, V3/4 kinda lost his flame. V1 had his up until he resolved himself to his fate, when Sun expelled him. And ofc, their moral limits. V3/4 has learned some moral limits that I doubt v1 ever had to learn. But V3/4 has said so multiple times; those are other people's limits, he just follows them for convenience. So maybe they aren't so different in that manner after all.

eclipse’s first life

do you ever think that, eclipse’s first life is still in that forest, mangled and broken.

Like, by now, it’s probably overgrown with vines and other things

do you ever imagine that?

[welcometogrouchland]

Going to be completely real with everyone for a second. What do you even do in times like these? How can you not just fall apart with it all? How do you live???

[npdiyozane]

I don't like BSD I'm sorry if I'm putting myself through the little sister bullshit I'm doing it for a VN that does something interesting not for a basic shounen anime with a mafia aesthetic and some questionable literary references.

[doodlemancy]

Hey, so, Patreon is lying to you about Apple forcing their hand.

Patreon is getting rid of 1st-of-the-month/per-creation billing, claiming a new decision by Apple has forced their hand. This will hurt a lot of creatives, and their excuse is bullshit. Allow me to explain.

In 2018, Patreon tried to impose a new ill-considered fee structure on everyone that would have cost creators a lot of smaller pledges. They ended up apologizing for this profusely; they have now deleted this apology from their website and unfortunately I was unable to find it on the Internet Archive. This was shameful, but to their credit they backed off quickly when things got ugly.

Back in 2021, Patreon discussed plans to force all creators into a rolling bill structure and get rid of first-of-the-month/pay-up-front billing. The community once again very decisively shouted them down, and they had to walk it back again. This whole fiasco damaged the already shaky trust between Patreon creators and staff.

This week, Patreon announced that, along with extra fees, Apple's policies were supposedly forcing them to move everyone over to the rolling fee structure that they first tried to get us to agree to in 2021. Patreon will tell you they are not happy about this. As a person who spent a long time watching Patreon make terrible decisions, I can tell you-- they are probably very happy about this, because it's exactly the smokescreen they needed to do what they've been trying to do for years, which is pull ALL Patreon creators away from 1st-of-the-month and per-creation billing.

The spin in the news I've seen so far is "Apple bullies Patreon, boo hoo hoo poor Patreon". This is very obviously not what's happening. Mind you: Apple does suck, and they are doing something bad here. Fuck apple. But Patreon and Apple are BOTH the asshole in this situation; Everyone Sucks Here. Patreon has options: they can make the iOS app a reader app and do billing through the browser to avoid the restrictions and the extra fees (Netflix and Amazon, notably, both do this), or they can allow creators to opt-out of iOS billing if they want to use billing models that don't work with it.

It seems most likely to me that the Apple situation is a real fire that Patreon has chosen to use as a convenient smokescreen to do what they've been wanting to do since at least 2021, and maybe since 2018.

What do we do?:

They have a feedback form specifically about this.

They also have a creator discord.

And they have lots of social media pages where they probably really, really hope that this doesn't blow up again, because they never learn. The incidents I've described here aren't the only two other times Patreon has pissed off their creators. They know if they don't contain the noise it'll be harder to get away with it, so make some noise. They've done a lot of work to spin this cleverly so you'll have sympathy for them and they won't get the kind of backlash they know they deserve.

Please don't misuse these links and make threats or spam or something. All you have to do is give well-reasoned feedback. Patreon hates feedback. Make sure they get a nice heaping helping of their least favorite vegetable.

[sai-int]

fwb!simon, reader catches feelings- NO. FWB!SIMON BUT SIMON CATCHES FEELINGS. [ pt 2 ]

--

it's quite simple.

simon comes home from a mission, he's restless, twitching, pacing, can't figure out what to do with his hands.

so what does he do? he knocks on your door, waiting anxiously until you open it and he's scooping you up, hauling you across the hall and into his basically empty apartment, and fucking you into the mattress for the night.

and you're just so good at taking it—whatever he gives you and whenever he gives it. you cry, whine, beg and plead for his cock in all the ways you know how—until you go blue in the face—and simon fucking revels in it. he's all harsh words and degrading names, calling you a filthy slut, his cocksleeve, a fucking cumdump—you name it, he's probably said it.

it's perfect, until it's not.

he's spent months fucking you stupid, night after night. he fucks you even when he's not restless. he fucks you when he's bored, when he's lonely. especially when he's lonely.

simon riley's a gridlocked man. hardly anything ever gets past him, but it didn't take many rendezvous between your thighs for him to forget that.

his mask would come fully off—not just above his lips—and you'd still kiss him breathless, still scream his name until your throat went hoarse. you weren't afraid of everything underneath. if anything, you liked it.

It's not like the both of you frequently exchanged actual conversations, but he could tell by the way you dripped and soaked his sheets even more than you ever had.

after that, he even began to gather enough courtesy to let you get some rest after he fucks you, letting you stay wrapped in his sheets for whatever sliver of the night was left.

you never pushed, and that's what he liked most about you. you always went by his terms because you never really cared as long as you got fucked six ways from sunday.

so, you always left when he woke without a problem. that was the arrangement and you were more than fine with getting a good fuck only a few steps away from your own home.

then even you began to notice the shift.

simon could never fuck you badly, per se. but he began to fuck you more softly. tenderly, as if he was suddenly aware that humans shouldn't be bent in half as long he's had you pinned underneath him in the past. he'll rock his hips into you with similar fervor, but he'd caress you, rather than grab at you. hold your forehead to his, rather than choke you with his thick hands.

then came the praise. god, it's like fucking a completely different man. from one week to the next, you're no longer a slut or a hole, you're pretty girl and angel. it makes your head spin. you try to pinpoint the change and why it happened, but you can't. somehow, you cum twice as hard now.

it all came to an ugly head when he spent the better part of 2 hours between your thighs, moaning and groaning as if you were doing him a service.

now, you weren't going to complain, but love just wasn't in the cards for you right now, and the looks simon was giving you from where he lapped at your cunt were filled with adoration, like he was waiting for you to tell him how good he was doing.

hell, you could see a phantom tail wagging each time his eyes met your own. and after a session that felt more like making love than an explosion of pure lust, you could feel his eyes lingering on you as you slipped your panties back on.

"what?" you hum, not wanting to face him in fear you'd see that godforsaken look in his eyes again.

and you were right, because he's staring at you like he's about to drop to one knee. "nothin'."

you toss your shirt back over your head and steel yourself as you turn to face him.

"simon," you start and he's already hanging on your words, "what's going on with you lately? i don't mean to sound rude but—"

this is it, he thinks. it has to be now, or nothing will change. he's not a religious man, but if he's ever prayed to god for anything, it's for this to become something real.

"'m in love with ya."

one blink, then two. two to three, three to four. you stare at him as you try to piece together what he's saying.

"simon, i don't think you understand—"

"—i do. i do understand and i want ya, bad. so bad, i can't even stop thinkin' bout ya, sweetheart. even when y'not 'ere im thinkin' about ya. everything about y'is perfect, and i don't think i can function without y'with me."

this is the most emotion you've ever seen out of simon and it rocks you to your core. if you didn't know better—and if the lighting wasn't so dim—you'd think he was tearing up.

you didn't know how to break it to him.

[dilf-docs]

Call It What You Want

husband!pedro pascal x younger!reader

summary: you and pedro are married, but you've kept it a secret up to the point you sometimes forget there's supposed to be a golden band on your finger. but then you both get cast in your first movie together. the chemistry is off the charts, and it starts to catch upon you: will the lines between shipping and reality finally blur?

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap (ñom), smut, dry humping, oral (m. receiving) while pedro wears the skirt™️ (welcome to another episode of the writer's barely disguised fetish), p. in v., teeny bit of angst because i malfunction if i don't bring sad vibes to the function, the worst ever attempt of comedy witnessed by human kind, they're so down bad it hurts, jealous!reader, possesive!pedro, reader speaks spanish and may or may not have direct/indirect latino blood somewhere, use of spanglish but no translations ☹️ (boo go do your homework, citizens. that's what u get for making my dieter bravo fic flop BYE), i transcripted two real interviews for this so keep those likes, reblogs and comments up in the air where i can see 'em 🪓🪓

word count: 11,706 words

side note: hello! this is me, sliding my cv to become president of the pedro pascal fics. i'm kidding, just on duty to fulfill another request 🫡 believe it or not, i envisioned something like this but for myself IJBOL we have to keep the delusional levels UP!! i hope this meets ur expectations, it was fun to write :)

part: prev | masterlist | next

"Please welcome, the internet's newest darling, Y/n L/n!"

You walk into the set, cameras flashing bright and the band playing on the back. You hug Jimmy Fallon, and when he notices your body trembling he tells you everything will be alright. So did your manager before you stepped inside, but you can't help the nerves. You've never been this big before, and now it's all coming down together without letting you breath.

You take your seat and so does Jimmy.

"Hello, Y/n. This is your first time here, right?"

"Am I being too obvious?" you snort. The crowd laughs with you.

"Don't worry. It happens, especially when you're so young"

"Oh, please" you blush. "I can promise you there are kid actors who could handle this better than I am right now"

"Kid stars?" he lets out one of his famous cackles. "No need to be humble. You are great! Let's just talk about the year you've had: big breakout roles, ascend to fame, you're rocking it!" the crowd cheers, and you again turn into a flustered mess.

"Yeah, I suppose. It's hard to dimension when you've started as an extra for popular shows, to now being, you know, the main face of projects. But I could get used to it" you smile, "it's been a dream. I still can't believe it sometimes, look- I'm shaking"

The camera pans closer to the hand you're showing to Jimmy.

"Oh my God, even big stars like you get nervous"

"Big star? I wish I could feel like a constellation. I'm feeling more like a red dwarf star, baby"

The whole place bubbles in laughter. You feel better, your manager even giving you a thumbs up from behind the cameras.

"So, Y/n" Jimmy says once the laughter dies. "You just got casted in the upcoming Gladiator II movie, directed by Ridley Scott. How does it feel to be on your first big movie, alongside names like Paul Mescal, Denzel Washington and Pedro Pascal?"

You try to steady your heartbeat. "First of all, I have to say, it's such an honor to work with Scott. I grew up watching his movies. Like, Thelma and Louis is definitely my go-to movie. So, like, getting paired with such a talented cast is as awesome as terrifying" you answer with a laugh.

"Talking about that, you see" he leans closer, like he'll tell a secret. "I've heard things about you and a certain future co-star of yours"

You shift your position on the couch, your ring(less) finger itching. You have to avoid breathing in relief when Jimmy pulls out a picture.

"Oh. My. God"

He stiffles a laugh. No way. Has the room's temperature suddenly gotten hotter? Why is your face burning?

"Will you tell us the story behind this?" he asks, the camera focusing on the picture in question. The audience laughs, and you pray to God this is a nightmare, because it's too much embarrasment for a human to bear.

"Okay" you clear your throat, coughing awkwardly. "For my 25th birthday, I uploaded a bunch of pictures on Instagram, including ones where I was a teenager" you begin to giggle, "So. Um, there was this one, you see, that's, me, in my childhood home's bedroom, and my fans were quick to notice the poster above my bed"

"You mean, this one?" and Jimmy points it out. You cover your face with your palms. "It's a... Narcos poster" the audience laughs as you get redder. "A Pedro Pascal's Narcos poster"

"I know" you groan. "Picture this: me 18, and while my friends had posters of their favorite bands and artists, I was so different because I had a whole ass poster of a crime drama show about the world's most famous drug dealer on my bedroom" you recall with a laugh. "It was hard to explain to my mom. I believe she thought I wanted to sign for the DEA or something. When I told her I was going to be an actress, she was so relieved! She said: Oh, well. You'll die, but of hunger! Not a bullet in your head, at least"

"Oh. I'm so sorry. You proved her wrong though!"

"I did! Don't worry, Jimmy. She's my biggest fan now" you look at a specific camera before saying, "Te amo mami!"

"I see you speak spanish. I sometimes forget" he comments. "You've got one thing in common with Pedro, it seems. Think that'll make working with him less awkward?"

"I just hope he forgives me or I'm capable of moving out of the country and changing names" you giggle. "Pedro, lo siento!"

"Well, that's Y/n L/n, everyone! Pedro Pascal's number one fan" you burst out laughing in shame. "More on her lastest movie after the break"

mandoshoney: tell me i'm not the only one who started shipping pedro pascal and y/n l/n PLEASE can't wait to get content of them interacting ㅤㅤann-gell: mandoshoney y/n's pedro pascal's controversially young gf era starts now! i wonder how the press tour for #gladiatorII will go 🤔 unhing3dprincess: i bet my grandma they are dating ㅤㅤstarlightt180: unhing3dprincess ptwt can never tweet like normal ppl…wdym you're betting your grandma?!!!?

You were never a fan of secrets.

But then Pedro waltzed into your life with his charming smile and iconic mustache, and before you knew it, you had married him off in some church in California one random sunday morning ("I love you so much, can't wait to marry you, cariño" "If you can't wait any longer, why not now?")

Flash forward, four years later, and you'd think such event would be plastered all over the internet. But there is a reason why only you, family, a selected number of friends and your agents knew: you kept it a secret.

To the world, he was Chile's most elegible bachelor and you were a young rising star. The public loved both of you for the same reasons: charming persona and acting skills. Yet inside the privacy of your home, he was Pedro and you were y/n, wife and husband; he was yours as you were his.

And of course, no marriage is perfect, and your first real challenge is rather funny: you both get casted in your first movie together.

It shouldn't be hard, but it is. Being inside the Gladiator II set during seven months, so far away yet so close at the same time, was torture. You were Rome's empress and he's Marcus Acacius, yet behind the scenes, the actual married couple were you both.

It was hard to pretend you didn't know what he looked like without clothes when he wore his bathing suit, or that you didn't know his favorite food when Paul asked, or acting like you weren't interested in dating when a local in Malta during your trip at the beach asked you out (he didn't know who you were. You were flattered when he called you pretty in such a hot European accent, but then Pedro appeared from seemingly "nowhere" and you remembered what your real favorite accent was. He immediately called you bonita after that)

It was so hard to keep hands to yourself when he walked by you, covered in fake blood. To not think about licking it all over and under his armour. So was to pretend the thought of dry humping him with his Roman skirt on wasn't tempting. Or that the urge to kiss him got harder and harder to fight each passing day, even getting to a point where you would envy Connie for being able to kiss your husband in the open more, a privilege you didn't have.

You were loosing your mental health here. But Pedro was no better.

It was so hard to see you, the Moroccan sun shining over your features like you were an angel. Otherworldly. That he'd see red when you'd finish filming a scene with Joseph, forcing himself to interrupt the small chat you'd engage in after. He too couldn't keep pretending he didn't want to tear off those silk dresses out of your body, and kiss you out in the open like Joseph did.

He almost failed once, cornering you in the hallway of the hotel you were staying. His hot breath lingered on your neck. I miss you, he had said. You felt his hard brush the inner of your thigh. We can't, you whispered in a dragged out voice.

It was hard.

So you gave him your used panties, and you swear you could hear him jacking off in the bathroom of his room, next to yours. He'd screamed your name, and your hand had found it's way to your dripping cunt, doing what he was supposed to do; touching you the way he did. And you came, drowned out moans against your pillow. But it wasn't like when he did it.

But God has heard your prayers.

For the first time in weeks, you're lucky. You find Pedro sitting alone in the cafeteria, his phone in hand. He's still wearing his armour and skirt, not bothering to change for the break. You aren't God's strongest soldier, but you're trying not to go down on him so badly right here and now.

"Hey" he raises his head when he hears your voice, smile adoringly. It only grows wider when he notices you alone. "Thought you'd never get rid of Paul. He's like, stitched to you"

"Same can be said about you and Joseph" you sit across him, and despite most of his tone being playful, there are still hints of jealousy behind. It arouses you deeply, and with this hot summer day above you, your skin isn't the only thing that's getting sticky.

"In case you haven't read the script, I'm his wife" you wink. "Sorry this is how you find out"

He laughs loudly, and God, how have you missed that laugh. Sure, it's been there when you've been out with the cast together, but it doesn't tingle your chest as when you're the cause of it; it feels like it's for you only, and that's what makes it special.

"I miss you so much" he whispers, his hand sliding across the table, finding yours. His thumb carresses your soft palm, and you melt under Pedro's tender touch.

"I do too" you sigh, but it's instantly replaced by what could only be described as a smug face. You lean closer, whispering on his ear, the warm meeting cold. He shivers. "Wanna know something?"

"I'm all ears"

"I just came back from walking. Guess what?No one is 'round here" you lean back against your chair, shit-eating grin on your face as all his body tenses up. "Made sure of it. The trailer zone is empty too"

Pedro gulps, his adam's apple bobbing as his eyes look at you.

"Y/n" calling your name as a warning.

"What? Can't a girl find ways to have her husband all for herself?" you snort. "Please say yes" you let go of his hand, but the free fingers now travel across his broad chest, taunting him. "C'mon, we both deserve a break"

He can't say deny you anything, can he? You know it, he knows it.

Before you register, his big hand engulfs yours as you run across the set. You giggle at his rushed steps, even more when you stand before his trailer and he's fumbling his slippery hands with the doorknob, sloppy movements erratic.

"But you told me to stop" you tease, and he doesn't even let you add more because he's pushing you inside, forcing you with rough calloused hands to a chair and then you to sit over his lap.

"Fuck, babygirl. I've spoiled you way too much" he groans against your lips. "Lo sabes, ¿verdad? Just can't say no to you"

Your eyes darken dangerously, the hunger on them mirroring his own.

"How could you ever say no to this?"

You press your chest against his broad one as your lip bites into his lower one, teasing. Pedro feels his underwear getting tighter when your tongue finds its way inside his mouth, even getting a glimpse of the taste of the strawberries you had earlier before.

He deepens the kiss, and when you pull away to catch your breath, he doesn't waste his lonely mouth and busies himself with the task of kissing your sun-kissed neck, licking and pressing his lips under your jaw. Pedro goes even lower, down until he's reached your collarbone, making you groan a bit under his wet sloppy needy mouth. He's enjoying how putty you are under his intense kissing, fingers in his curls, that have begun to damp under the ablaze of the small space and pleasure that fills the air.

"Kiss me again in my lips" you whine after a while of him teasing you with kisses that get only rougher. "Pretty please, papi"

You cup his face in your hands, and Pedro's back to kissing you in the mouth, tasting all of your insides as he hasn't had in what feels like a lifetime.

"Of course, baby. Missed this pretty mouth" he mumbles in between hot kisses, his now growing boner pressing into you.

"Baby" you giggle. The skirt he's got on may hide it, but your fingers refused to wait, pulling it up. His bulge presses against the shorts he's got under the skirt, and you can feel your pussy and mouth drool. "We have to do something about this big boy" your hands pull down the short, leaving just his underwear on. He's about to remove the skirt, but your demanding hands stops him. "This stays"

His brown concerned eyes make you laugh, but you don't give him time to think about it, rather grinding against his erection. Pedro's breath hitches when he feels your daring movements, bucking his hips against yours.

The friction is addicting, and he captures your lips once again to make you feel what he can't with words: how fucking good this feels.

You keep moving over his aching dick. Your husband throws his head back, groaning in pleasure at the way your hips move against him, knowingly. His hands find their way to your ass under the flowy almost translucent skirt you chose to change in, gripping the rosy skin tightly, hands almost covering all of it.

"You wore this for me, right, cariño? Knew I couldn't say no" he groans, firm hands on your cheeks, the grinding meeting his hips now harsher. "Less with you walking around with this slutty skirt of yours"

You make little sounds he's obssesed with, dripping out of your filthy mouth.

"Fuck" Pedro groans after a while, "I need to have you, mami. Missed you so much" eager fingers make it to your top. He growls, deep within him―guttural, ready to pull it off as he mumbles naughty wife when he realizes you got no bra on, chastising you for a "rushed" plan that seemed planned all along, when a sound cuts through the air.

You both stop.

The sound gets clearer.

It's a knock. A knock at his door.

A knock in Pedro's trailer.

And you are inside. Both.

While you're grinding him.

With his skirt on.

(It's time to build a bomb and kill yourselves off and whoever is stading behind that door)

"Pedro!" a familiar accent calls. Peudrou. It's Paul. "Hey, man. Just wondering if you are here"

He's debating on speaking up when he sees your red face and rising-falling chest before him.

"Answer" you whisper breathlessly. He tries not to groan when he fills you slip out of the spot in his middle while also trying not to think about murdering Paul as soon as he gets out.

Aside from the order, you're unexpectedly quiet, and Pedro quirks an eyebrow at you. He knows you better―you're his wife after all, and if there's something he's aware of, is your inability to loose.

"I'm here" tone clipped and annoyed. But no footsteps backtracking are heard: the Irish man is still there.

You bite your lip, watching the skirt with his legs spread, a sight too tempting. Also, he was still hard, as hard as the task to not go and keep doing your job.

Oh, fuck this shit.

Your devilish hand equals the grin in your face, fingers making their way toward his unattended bulge.

"What are you doing here?" Paul asks, but Pedro's attention has completely deviated, now focused on how they land right over his clothed dick, skirt pulled up by your other hand. "I thought you were at the cafeteria"

"Yeah?" but it comes out strained, yet the younger man doesn't notice or comment.

His hips raise when your fingers press his member, massaging it.

"Yeah" he uses a tone that equals a duh. "You texted me yourself"

Pedro rolls his eyes, wishing desperately he would go away, annoying him just as much as a fly hovering above fresh food. Talking about food, fuck, weren't you hungry? He tried to warn you, holding your wrist, but all resolve was lost the moment you looked in his eyes: he immediately pulled down his briefs, dick sprouting hard.

"Well, changed my mind" his tone falters in between words, member now free from the confines of his tight underwear.

"Are you tired, man? You sound tired" Paul comments on his tone. "Came to rest?"

You spit on your hand, and he gulps.

"Somethin' like that"

You start to jerk him off, leaving little wet kisses and licks just above his dick. Pedro's eyes are hypnotized, glued to every lick of yours across his girth, the spit making your movements smoother. Sexier. Fuck.

"Well, sorry to break it to you but rest time is over. They want us back on set now"

Your tight needy lips are wrapped around his his length and it's so hard to keep the talk normal when he justs wants to yell at Paul to fuck off. Your hand is there too; you are as of help as much as you aren't.

"I'll be there, Paul, just―Fuck!"

But his attempt to cover a moan doesn't go unnoticed.

"Are you alright in there?" he tries to enter, but Pedro locked the door. He's yelling he's fine, but Mescal doesn't sound convinced. "I can't go inside; it's locked. Are you sure you are okay, mate?"

"Didn't want you to take a picture of me drooling on my sleep" he manages to get out in a monotone voice. A real win if you take into account you've gotten to a point where you squeeze under his cock, massaging his balls.

"Smart move!" he chuckles from outside. "I guess I'll see you there"

Pedro covers a moan with his palm as he's throwing his head back in pleasure. He can feel his orgams looming over, minstrations growing sloppier around his pulsating cock, the need to fill your greedy evil mouth with his seed making him sick. He's a simple man: he just wants his pretty wife to fuck his cock silly and come in her mouth in peace. Is that so hard to get this days?

Paul seems to be finally gone as Pedro can't keep containing his grunts anymore, steps moving: until said steps sound closer again.

"Oh, I almost forgot, have you seen Y/n? I can't find her anywhere" it's coming. His orgasm is coming in the absolute worst moment. He can feel you gagging at his hard rock cock, hitting the back of your throat now. Still, your hands don't loose their grip on his cock and skirt, determination filling that sexy little body of yours. It was rather admirable the effort you were putting in this. "Think she went to the beach? She said she loved it. God, that little rebel. Anyway, if you see her, tell her-"

He leans his head back once again, seeing stars. No one knows him like his wife, truly.

The sight of you drooling from your chin, the wet sounds of him fucking himself onto your mouth as your spit-coated fingers pump his girth, you gulping down the precum from his tip, his fingers holding your face roughly by the cheeks...

"Yes, Paul, yes!" Pedro barks, barely hiding the moan that erupts from his ribcage, thick shots of his hot cum hitting your tongue and deep of the throath. "Fuck off and let me get ready"

"Jesus, mate, chill. I'm sorry. See you there"

And Paul Mescal's hovering fly ass is finally gone.

"Poor Paul" you say as soon as you pull off his length, voice raspy as you huff for air. Pedro lovingly cleans rests of your saliva and his cum from your chin as he chuckles at how much audacity, courage and horniness could fit in such a small young body. "You've ruined the friendship"

"You think?" he licks off some as you sit on his lap again, tongue directly on your face. You feel aroused again, but time's up. "It's your fault. That and this"

He points down.

"Just as you used that pretty head of yours to think of the trouble you just made, think of an excuse for Mr. Ridley about the skirt"

at0michips: wait wdym paul is sick??? ㅤㅤl-u-n-a-m: at0michips he's died vnightx: i'm wondering who'll do now the do you even know me interview with pedro now :( i was so excited!!! hope they don't cancel it :( ㅤㅤunhing3dprincess: vnightx i bet my grandma it's y/n ㅤㅤat0michips: unhing3dprincess why do u keep betting ur grandma omg 😭😭😭

"You know what I think would be fun?" Pedro comments while you wait for the interview's set to be prepared.

Tour press has finally begun. That meant you could go home for a while after the filming wrapped, just to be back for the promotion of the film. You were excited of course, the experience new and thrilling. After much needed battery recharging and husband/wife time, you were ready to take over the world.

But then Paul got sick.

Today's interview was scheduled to be him and Pedro, but since he was unavailable, they paired him with you, since you both spoke Spanish (which felt slightly racist in your opinion), and because Fred and Joseph were already paired up for the other.

You leave your coffee, knowing he's about to say something stupid or endearing, perhaps both, brown liquid probably spilling out of your mouth. Or worst, nostrils.

"Tell me"

"What if we left little hints that we're together?" his smile is one of mischief. "Like you could wear my cap, or I could wear a chain with your initial around my neck, like Ryan Gosling did at the Barbie premiere"

"Or as Taylor Swift sang" you counter. "But Pedro, dear, you're underestimating our fans. You don't think they'll match it sooner than we think?"

"Maybe" he agrees. That's just what I want. "What's funny is we're about to do a type of interview where we could blow our cover"

"Maybe" you repeat, "or maybe you don't know all about me as much as you think, Mr. Pascal"

He fake gasps, feigning hurt. "Is this a dare, Mrs. Pascal?"

"No" you try to be mature for once, cutting the banter as much as you'd like to go on and kiss him right there. "Also, remember to answer incorrectly sometimes, you know..."

"There's no way I'm letting you win though"

"Pedro, no seas necio!"

The producers arrive just in time to let you know it's ready.

"After M'lady" he's back to being charming as he is, not as husband charming but just Pedro Pascal charming. The nerve of this guy to do it in front of the LADbible crew.

"Whatever" you grumble, the nerves getting the best of you as you realize this interview may or may not give away more than you've been allowed before.

"Hello, I am Y/n L/n" you present yourself. Wow, the camera is really close. This isn't going to end well.

"And I'm Pedro Pascal"

Hearing his voice soothes you. It's okay, y/n, you got this. "And this is Do You Really Know Me- No wait, it's do you even know me. Okay, let's start again: Hello, I'm Y/n and this is-"

"I don't even know anymore" Pedro jokes, making you laugh. "Do you even know me?" he asks while looking forward, now making the crew laugh.

"This is Pedro Pascal, that'll do" you sigh.

"This is gonna be sad, she's not going to know any of these" he says, but in reality, he's mocking you, the mischief in his eyes glowing as he only looks at you tauntingly.

"Same can be said about you" you tease, "we're like a million years away"

"That's not true!" he gasps, "I watch your every move" punctuating each word. God, you try not to make a face. "I have Google alerts on you"

If he was gonna play, so were you.

"Glad to know I have you alerted" with the sweetest voice ever, seeing how his friendly façade falters for a bit at the tone you've used. You laugh, and Pedro takes the chance to laugh it off too.

After the introduction, they ask one of you to keep score, and you offer yourself because, well, you don't trust Pedro.

"I'll go first" you say. "Which was my first ever role in the industry? As an extra during an episode of Stranger Things, as a voice actor in A dog's purpose" you can't help but laugh, "or as a back-up dancer in Hustlers?"

"In Hustlers?" Pedro inquires in disbelief. "You're telling me you were in Hustlers?! I didn't even know you could dance!"

Lies. You and Pedro sometimes put some bachata and dance in the kitchen. God bless Juan Luis Guerra.

"Jennifer Lopez and I are practically besties" you answer nonchalant.

You know the answer. He does too. But he chooses the last one for comedic purposes.

"I'll go with Hustlers. Now that I'm looking at you, you do have a... dancer face"

"It's okay, you can say the forbidden word. I'll take it as a compliment" you laugh, "you're wrong, though. The answer is Stranger Things"

"No way!" and it sounds as if he genuinely didn't know. Good lying son of a bitch; Jim Carrey on Liar, Liar would've been proud.

"Yes. If you look in the background of season two, on this one episode where Nancy and Steve appear to have broken up during a halloween party, you can see me drinking from a cup on a corner"

"That's so crazy"

"Yeah, I was twenty already, yet playing a highschooler" you giggle. "Wow, time flies by. Anyway, we're both at zero. Your turn"

"What film did my dad not let me see at the cinema when I was, uh, ten years old?" Pedro reads from his card. "Rambo: first blood, The Breakfast Club, Day of The Dead"

"I'm going to base this in the year you were born. Okay, so 1975. Let's see" one of the things Pedro loves about you is that you're like a film encyclopedia, but right now, that'll cost him a point. "They all came out the same year, and they were also R rated. Hmmh, I'll choose The Breakfast Club"

Your analysis was just mindless bragging really. You knew the answer the moment he started reading the question, because the anecdote came during a time he heard you listening to the movie's soundtrack ("Did you know that my dad...")

"You complain about Paul all the time, but you're just the same" he comments. "She's a real competitor, people!"

You flush in embarrasment. "Okay, that's one for me. Next question" you read the card in your hands. "What pet do I own? An orange cat named Louis after my favorite singer, a fish, or a Shih Tzu named after my brother"

The orange cat lives with you both. You're curious as to how he'll answer.

"You aren't naming a Shih Tzu frickin' Fernando" he laughs, so loud, it ends up catching up to you and the crew. "I'll go with the cat"

"That's correct" you lament. "How would you know?"

As if the damn cat doesn't love him more than he loves you.

"I follow you on Instagram" he defends himself. Clever. "We are, um, what do you call it-"

"Oomfs"

"I'm not gonna try to pronounce your made up language. Okay, my turn. Which of these characters I've played in Saturday Night Live? Naughty daddy, protective mom, or weird uncle who has a creepy sneeze" he reads out loud in a confused tone.

This is easy. It was all over your timeline.

"Protective mom" you answer on a beat.

"This isn't fair, that was really popular!" he complains.

"It's still two for me and one for you" you mock. "Now, what is the nickname the internet has given me? I won't give you clues because it's an easy one"

"Easy? You said we were million of years apart and now I'm supposed to know?"

"Well, you seem to manage Instagram so I think you'll be just fine" you tease, and Pedro just wants to rip that smirk off of you. So he caves in first.

"It's people's princess"

"What?!" your eyes grow comically large, shimmering with betrayal as you shout with an incredulous tone. "I can't believe you know" more like can't believe you said it.

"You're royalty! How am I supposed to not know that, internet darling? Besides, told you: I keep my eye on you" and he winks.

This motherfucker. Oh, he's totally sleeping on the couch tonight.

"Talk about internet darlings" your snarky tone comes out, and Pedro knows he's pissed his competitive wife off. "I guess we have a tie. Your turn"

"What are the initials of my full name?" his brows furrow. "I forget. JBPP, JPBP, JBPP"

"José Pedro Balmaceda Pascal" you recite. "B, of course"

"But that's too easy, everyone with Google knows it!" but then he's leaning into your ear, whispering in a very low voice to make sure only you hear. "I'll let it pass, though. Love hearing you pronounce my name, mami"

Your face grows obscenely red. "I'm back ahead. Let's see if you can keep up. Okay, here it goes" you read the card, "what is the director I've stated I want to work with? Greta Gerwig, Pedro Almodóvar, or Quentin Tarantino"

"Pedro Almodóvar, no? You said you were jealous I had already worked with him" he playfully nudges you. Too much contact, face hot again. Maybe in group interviews you'll do better, because right now, you're doing a rather poor job at controlling yourself, even as an actor; you can already picture your agent pulling her hair behind the cameras.

"It's Greta Gerwig, actually"

"What?! No way, you told me this!" he grumbles. "This game is rigged"

"Don't get me wrong, I'm still jealous. I just think working with Greta Gerwig is peak womanhood, and I gotta live that. So, Greta, if for some reason this silly video gets to you, call me. I promise I'm not that childish"

"She is" Pedro slips in, "don't call her. So unprofessional" in a mocking exaggerated tone.

"Whatever, you sore looser. Me three, you two. Next!"

"Fine. Which of these songs would I have played at my funeral? My Heart Will Go On, Purple Rain, Nothing Compares To You"

He looks at you, silently pleading you to not answer correctly. Your competitive side screams in agony.

"I have no idea. Why do I feel you've already said it somewhere, though? I'll go with Nothing Compares To You, because the first its too corny for you and the second too epic"

He scoffs, amused at the fact that you did obey, but at what cost? Pedro's well aware his princess can get as competitive, if not worse, than Paul.

"You're saying I'm not epic enough for Purple Rain? Too bad, because that's the answer" you grunt, crossing your arms. "That's right, I am cool enough to have it played. I guess we're tied again!"

"No, you don't loose a point. It's still three to two. This just gives you the opportunity to tie"

"W-wait a minute"

"Settle down" you pat his thigh, "you can still try, handsome"

He gulps when your hand meets his skin, despite the layer of clothes. It's still something that gets him on edge, no matter the years you've known each other. And handsome? You came here for blood.

"Okay, here's your chance: what image of me became trending topic on twitter? An image of me eating a typical dish from my country, an image of me watching Deadpool and Wolverine with glasses while Hugh Jackman's shirtless scene reflects on them or C, me meeting Taylor Swift at the backstage of the Eras Tour"

"The typical dish is tempting" he muses out loud, "but I'll go with the Taylor Swift one because that sounds like something that'd trend"

"You're right" you throw your card. "I'm not complaining though. Best day of my life"

"Does this mean I'm winning?" he beams excitedly. "Oh, in your face Paul! I will finally win something!"

"Slow down, cowboy. There's still some left"

He purses his lips. "Let me have this one thing, would you? Guess not. Here it comes" he starts to read his card, "At school I competed in state competitions, in which sport? Soccer, lacrosse, swimming"

"Swimming" you answer hastily, trying not to think on Pedro wearing tight little swimsuits, as you've only seen him wearing swim trunks.

"Okay, that's dissapointing. Please continue"

"I participated in which play while I was in highschool? Hamlet, The Iliad or Much Ado About Nothing"

You doubt he remembers. The only time it ever came up, was when you visited your parent's house and a photography of you during said play was showed to him by your dad.

"The Iliad, right?" you laugh. The answer is wrong: It's Hamlet. "What? I swear it was that one! It's just you have very..." beautiful is at the tip of his tongue but he refrains himself, "...very greek features"

You can't help but laugh.

"Why of course! This is a face people go to war for"

"I agree" your heart skips a beat, "but I don't think I'll make it that far, if we talk about a war"

"You big fat liar!" you slap his arm playfully. "You've played all sort of characters, from soldiers of all nationalities and places, and like, superheroes, f*****g Joel Miller, even a DEA agent. You at least learned something!"

"Wow, slow down, this isn't a filmography recount" he jokes. Liar, you mouth to the cameras. "Okay, last one: I became a viral sensation for eating what type of sandwhich in LADbible's snack wars: BLT, PB&J, grilled cheese"

You remember the video fondly. Even your brother had sent it to you, along a text that said: Isn´t this your husband?

"PB&J, I win!" you cheer, instantly getting off the chair to do a celebratory dance. Pedro doesn't say anything, just throwing the cards away while the fondness of his eyes betrays him.

pyramiidsf: i want someone to look at me the way pedro looks at y/n mybritishstyle: guys they're just friends 😭 he's like that with all his female co-stars ㅤㅤann-gell: mybritishstyle me when i'm delusional af mandoshoney: where's that girl that's always betting her grandma??? SHE WAS RIGHTFLKRGJ

"Hello, I'm Paul Mescal. I'm here with my friends from the cast of Gladiator II" Connie and you both raise your palms to greet the camera, laughing when you realize you'd done it at the same time, "and we are going to play a game about how well we know each other for Vanity Fair" the irish man introduces the interview you're filming today.

"Did they prompt you?" Pedro speaks up, "or did you just make that up on the fly?"

You laugh a bit too loud, hoping they cut it off in the editing process.

Paul goes first, taking up a card with the first question written on it.

"Okay. Question: What's my least favorite day of the week?"

"Tuesday" answers Joseph once Paul is done reading. "Oh, you're writing it down?"

"Yeah" he answers.

"You just wrote Tuesday" Connie points out, Paul's card on his legs. You laugh along the rest.

"Yeah" he repeats laughing. "I actually, when you said Tuesday" Yeah, he said Tuesday Pedro adds on the background of laughter. "I was like...I'm gonna give everybody a point for that"

"I think I deserve a point for being observant" Connie complains.

Everyone gets a point and Paul moves towards the next question.

"What was the name of my character in Normal People?"

"Connell" both you and Joseph answer, looking at each other before squinting your eyes playfully.

"Callum" Pedro answers out loud at the same time, and you laugh. He clearly had slept when you played it for a re-watch last summer.

"No, you're out" Paul pokes Pedro next to him.

"Connel" Joseph repeats, and Fred agrees to the same answer.

Paul then asks Connie what's hers after he confirms you three.

"Connor?" she asks, confused.

"Incorrect. Three points" while pointing you three.

"You got wrong" he tells Pedro, "Callum's a different character"

"See? You just don't pay attention when you watch things" you blurt out, stopping yourself before adding the with me. It would be harder to come back from that, but so is this as everyone looks at you, even your husband, subtle panic in his eyes. Where the cameras this close? How long had you been silent?

"It's just, quick funny story" you improvise. "Pedro didn't know much about Paul's career, and as I am a fan, I took the time to show him and recommend him your stuff" Paul smiles. "Clearly, my fanatism didn't rub on Pedro but a girl can try"

He laughs, before saying "So the answer is Connell" and you try so hard to remain normal like the energy hasn't shifted.

"He only plays characters with the letter C in the name" Pedro jokes, chewing on a toothstick he seemingly pulled out of nowhere. More laughs follow, and you are so grateful for how he's handling your little metida de patada.

"What's number one on my bucket list?" he asks next, "and don't look at my answer"

The marker is the only sound to be heard, and then Pedro jokingly tries to take a peek.

"No peeking" Connie berates as Pedro laughs.

"You're not gonna be able to see that" Paul replies in an anyways tone.

You repeat the same joke, before Fred blocks you. "Not you too!"

Paul finishes after a while, Connie commenting it was long. Joseph raises his hand.

"Yes, Joseph"

"Is it to see the Great Wall of China?" he asks.

"No, but it's in that-"

"It's close, isn't it?" you interrupt.

"...family of thought" he finishes.

"It's to go and see something" Pedro points out.

"Okay. Rajasthan" tries Connie. "Go to Rajasthan, for a tour"

"Travel to South America" Paul interrupts with the correct answer, "I've never been to South America"

"I'm from South America" Pedro comments, never missing a chance to shout out his dear Chile.

Paul jokes about him getting three points while the rest of you laugh.

"I was born in South America. 17 points for Pedro"

"I want points too" you jump on the joke. "I know Spanish, so I can take you there and avoid you getting lost, mi querido amigo"

"But who was born there?" Pedro counters, "you get no points"

"I think Joseph is the only person who gets a point there" Paul adds, "because everybody just jumped on the bandwagon"

"He said to visit the Great Wall of China" Pedro protests, "which is nowhere near South America"

"It really is not" Connie agrees.

"Qué gente tan tramposa" you complain. "That's unfair. I remove my offer"

"Think about bucket list, and he came up with travel to bit" he tries to reason Joseph's point.

"And by the way, where in South America?" Pedro questions.

"Don't fight, don't fight" pleads Joseph, the calm one. Fred just sits there, enjoying the chaos.

"I want, any, I want to do a big tour of everywhere" Mescal defends himself.

Pedro doesn't back down. "'Cause it's very different"

Paul starts to get angry too. Jesus, men. Competitive men of it all.

"I know it's very different" making an annoyed face.

"Well, different is nice" you intervene, a hand placing in Pedro's left shoulder. "If you stop giving points for free, I'll come with you to the big everywhere tour"

"Alright" Paul agrees. "When's my birthday?" is the next question.

"February" all of you say.

Joseph struggles with the date first, saying seventh, then fourth. Fred tries with ninth, Pedro with eight, and then Joseph starts counting from one to two. Fred counts from eleven to twelve.

"Second" Mescal reveals. "Point to Joseph"

"Oh my God, you guys are good" Connie mentions.

"That's all my questions" and it's time to move on the next one: which happens to be your dear husband, Pedro.

"Paul is like" he brings up while the toothpick dances on his teeth, "Paul is motivated to catch up on points. He's coming for you" to pick on his competitive side as Mescal looks deep in thought.

"He's coming. He's coming" Joseph repeats as Fred laughs.

"What is my full name?"

"Oh! Pedro-" Paul tries in a blink. "Something, J? Jose? Juan?"

"Pedro Pascal, something, something" says Joseph.

"Nope"

"No?"

"Pedro Maria, Jose Maria Pascal" Paul struggles.

Pedro is about to answer when your voice cuts through the air.

"It's José Pedro Balmaceda Pascal" you recite.

"It indeed is!" he says, smiling a bit too much. "She gets a point"

"Jose Pedro Balmaceda Pascal" your husband repeats in a more english-friendly pronunciation, looking at the camera while toying with his toothpick.

"I said Jose, I said Jose" Paul protests.

Pedro shakes his head. "You said Jose, but then you put it-"

Connie takes Paul's side. "You did say Jose"

"But then you put it behind Pedro which eliminate- which disqualified you" he replies.

Paul gets angry. That sore looser.

"That's absolute bullshit"

"Don't worry mate, the game has just begun" you joke, making the man more irritated. "Think you can get ahead of me?"

"Joseph is still ahead, y/n" Paul counters, still irritated. "Besides, wouldn't it be cheating? You can speak Spanish!"

"So? Not like speaking a language allows you to know every person's name Paul" you mock. He just snorts, despite still being half angry. Pedro is allowed to continue, trying not to make a face at yours and Paul's banter.

"The question is, who is my favorite actor?" he reads. As the cast members laugh, he uncaps the marker with his mouth, and now you have to try not to make a face, thinking about those teeth sinking into your flesh.

Quinn raises his hand. "It's me"

"That you're my favorite actor?"

"Yeah. You said that to me once" the bald man sounds sure of it.

Paul tries to think in the background. So do you. How can you not know this? he must've brought it up at least once.

"Do you remember?" Joseph insists.

Pedro finally remembers. "I said you were- I said I thought you were special"

"Oh" he sounds rather dissapointed.

"And special can mean a lot of things" he jokes, laughing by himself. Fred laughs with you as Joseph makes a face, your laughter turning even louder when you notice Paul all moody, trying to get this point.

"Who's your favorite actor?" Paul asks, "I think we just have to shoot from the hip here guys"

"Marlon Brando?" Connie guesses.

"Is it Harrison Ford?" Fred guesses.

"Let's go with Harrison Ford just because he's my favorite actor..."

You can't believe you didn't know this. You've re-watched and watched so many Star Wars content together. He gives you a brief look, knowing you're embarrased at your lack of answer.

"As a kid?"

"He's most influent, yeah" Pedro agrees.

"What job did I have before I became a full-time actor?" is next.

"Dancer. You were a great dancer" Paul aswers. Both Fred and Joseph repeat it, adding he was specifically a go-go dancer.

"Oh, he is" you add. "Videos of you dancing are lovely. Ever thought of getting back in the bussiness?"

He laughs, what appears to be a light blush creeping up his cheeks.

"Sure, darling. When you ask me to dance, I'll be there"

Nobody comments on this, too busy waiting for Pedro to say yes or no to the answer they believe to be right. But he isn't saying it is. Now you remember why.

"Come on, come on, come on" Paul begs.

"Can any of you guys remember?" Pedro pleads.

They insist that he danced in Spain, then New York, then settle with Spain again, even Pedro confirming so. But it still isn't the answer written on the card, no matter how much the boys insist.

"Connie?" he tries. She just looks confused.

"The answer in the card is-"

"Waiter" you answer. "You were a waiter"

Now you have three points under your belt.

"Why do you always say the answer at last?!" Paul grumbles. "You are cheating!"

"I'm not" you laugh the accusation off. "You just can't accept I'm better"

"Si que lo eres" Pedro agrees. "Es divertido hacer que se enoje Paul"

"What did you say about me? It's not fair, you're probably sharing the answers!" he's still adamant on insisting with the supposed cheating issue, making you laugh.

Now it's Connie's turn, who starts with: "How many languages do I speak?"

You put a puzzled look.

"You speak seven, eight maybe" Joseph guesses. Pauls says she speaks french, "but most likely seven"

Pedro points his finger at him. "Once he gets going, he's on a roll"

"Joe's got it" Connie agrees.

"Paul, end this reign" Pedro jokes. He looks rather frustrated.

"And the bonus points" Connie offers. "Okay, bonus, what are they?"

"This is an emperor's reign" your husband adds.

Joseph answers: Italian. Danish. English. Swedish. French. Spanish. Norwegian.

Connie agrees she speaks Spanish, making you jump in excitement.

"Oh, I didn't know that!" you beam. "Wait, does that mean you did get what Pedro and I gossiped about you?"

"What?" Joseph asks.

"Nada" you quickly correct yourself. "Yo no dije nada"

"Not that much. I just speak a bit of Spanish. I mostly dominate my own language, German and English"

"You blew our cover!" Pedro nags, hitting your bare leg, yet its devoid of anger.

"He needs a bonus" comments Connie, surprised at Joseph.

"This is horrifying" Pedro says when Joseph gets another point and a fricking bonus on top of that. "This is a slaughter"

"Oh, for which film did I have a gym built in my garage?"

Both Joseph and Paul answer the question correctly, saying Wonder Woman. The latter is quick to state they both get that point.

"That's one for me" Paul says, then looks at you. "And none for you"

You stick out your tongue at him as Connie reads the next card.

"If I were to take this cast on a vacation where would I take you?"

"Ibiza" answers Joseph. Connie agrees in Spanish, with a cute and excited correcto.

Your husband feels the need to crack a joke at Quinn's expense.

"Somebody was paying attention to Connie Nielsen very closely during the shooting of this movie"

"Okay. What is my favorite curse word in Danish?"

"Fuck" Pedro tries.

"No"

"Nobody is going to get that, Connie" Paul bickers.

"Oh, I don't know any Danish" you lament.

"At least now you know how it feels" Mescal drops, making you snort. You playfully kick him on the ribs with your shoe.

"It's very simple" Connie gives as a clue. "It's the same word in every language"

"Shit" Paul tries.

"Satan" she reveals.

Everybody is laughing in confusion at that, saying there's no way you could use that.

"Vos Satan!" Connie curses.

Now it's Fred's turn.

"What is my weirdest on-set habit?"

"I haven't noticed you do anything weird on set" Paul tells.

"I have" Pedro interrupts.

They all get on a small briefing about what could it possibly be, that it was weird, and wasn't part of his character, as you ponder. It was funny before, but now Paul is behind you by a point. So think fast.

"Yeah. I would say being yourself" Pedro jokes, but surprisingly, it works.

"Me! Five points for Pedro" he celebrates as you all laugh. "Love Fred. Oh, Fred"

"Oh, oh, okay" he moves to the next question. "What is my favorite reality TV show?"

Joseph tries with Survivor and Paul with Alone. Truth is, you don't watch any show of said kind, only vagely hearing about Love Island.

"You and I have talked about reality TV" Pedro reveals, "It's just that we never identified one"

They keep guessing shows that sound like a foreign language to you.

"You know what's offensive? That I'm the second youngest of this cast and I have no idea what are you all talking about"

"She's not to be trusted" Pascal quips, "can't trust someone who doesn't appreciate the art of reality TV"

You huff, annoyed.

"Is it A&E stuff?" Pedro asks.

"Yeah, it's the competitive cheapskates" Fred answers. "It's people that really save money on everything"

Pedro gets the point because he mentioned the A&E bit.

"There's like this amazing guy that made a stew out of fish bones, and I just thought it was incredible" he shares. Then, moves to the next question. "What is my go-to crafty snack?"

Nobody remembers eating snacks on set, and Fred gives the clue that it's a drink. Joseph says it's a smoothie, and he does remember it but it isn't the answser.

"I'm thinking of something specific. That Emerge-C that you put in the water"

"Oh, that's very good" you agree, so does the rest, even discussing the best colors

"Who in the cast would I ask to bail me out of jail?"

Everyone even Pedro agree its him. Everyone gets a point, yet Joseph remains ahead.

It's Joseph's turn. "What is my favorite sport?"

"Skateboarding" Paul is so quick to answer, earning him two points for both being correct and time.

"What celebrity do I get mistaken for?"

"Daisy Edgar-Jones sometimes" says Mescal. Of course he had to bring her up.

"No, she gets mistaken for me" Joseph jokes. "Yeah, poor Daisy. But I'm writing it down"

"That was the two letters?" Pedro notices. Still, no one gets it.

It's fucking Justin Timberlake. You'd never guess that.

"What is my favorite film franchise?"

You've probaly named all the existing franchises to no avail. You think fo your dad, a huge geek, trying to remember if there is one missing.

"Oh- Lord of the Rings!" you both answer with Paul at the same time.

"C'mon!" his celebration is short lived when he realizes you tied to him.

"What is my favorite British slang word?"

Pedro says it can't be said, but Quinn insists they can, even adding it's his favorite one too.

"We can say bad words? We can say-?" but the camera beeps over it.

The answer is Bellend. What even is that? Joseph feigns sadness and Pedro keeps apologizing, even as you sit on the chair.

"Okay. I'm last"you wiggle your eyebrows with interest. "Let's see. Okay, first question: what did I take from the Gladiator II set?"

"You took something?" Joseph asks on disbelief.

"Why wouldn't I take something?"

"Is it like an item or memorabilia?" asks Connie.

"It's an item" you uncap the marker, scribbling down the answer.

"It's a short word" Fred points out, but still can't provide a guess.

"You took the rings home" Pedro answers. You snap your had on his way, probably obvious. "What? You told me" he says.

Of course Paul complains. "Hey, that isn't fair! He knew the answer before!"

"Well, if you payed more attention to me, you'd know it"

Lies. Pedro knows because it's sitting in the jewelry box inside your house.

"See? I do pay attention" Pedro playfully hits Mescal.

"I could pay you more attention" he looks at you.

"Alright, then do. Ready? Next question: what is my go-to movie? Oh, this is a good one. I'm always changing it, but most of the time I end up choosing the same one"

They all give you a puzzled look as you scribble.

"C'mon, guys! I've said it on interviews before too. Paul?" the man shrugs. "Thought you said you'd pay me more attention. Heads up, you're doing a terrible job so far!"

"Hey!" he protests. "It's not fair if the answer's changing. Give us a clue"

"You didn't give any clues to yours!" you giggle. "Besides, I don't want you to win"

"Hey, that's against the rules!"

"I'd say it depends on the season" Pedro speaks up. You quirk an eyebrow. "Like, if it's changing, I don't think your Christmas go-to movie is the same as your summer one"

"Actually" you smile fondly, "that is true. On summer, it's Mamma Mia. So I suppose, if you can't guess the one, that'll do"

"No" he smiles, cheeky. "I know it too"

"Yeah?" you challenge, "what is it, then?"

"It's Thelma and Louise" he answers, and your heart beats fast.

"How do you know?" Paul inquires. "Somebody was paying attention to Y/n L/n very closely during the shooting of this movie"

Ah, his joke from earlier. Joseph giggles behind him. Karma, he supposes.

"She said it on an interview, guys. C'mon, learn your sources!"

"Okay" you clear your throat. "What movie got me into acting?"

"Thelma and Louise" Joseph tries.

"No" you laugh, "you're just recycling the answer"

"Is it an old or modern movie?" Connie asks.

"Hmh, old" you pause, "just not... I don't know if you'll ever guess it"

"Is it a Pedro Almodóvar film?" you shake your head. "What? You're always mentioning him!"

Pedro looks into your eyes amid the others' discussion, and you can tell he remembers the conversation.

"There isn't one"

You smile, chest pounding at his soft tone.

"That's correct"

"A trick question?!" Paul yells. "I quit"

"When there's just one left?" you tease.

"Yes, because you've been hiding it all the time but no more" he counters, pointing both you and Pedro. You feel the space getting smaller, breaths going from even to noticeable. "You are sharing answers"

You try to make your breath of relief pass as a chuckle.

"I'm not even gonna win, relax. And drop the charges, please. Loose like a man"

"You didn't explain it though" Connie speaks. "What did Pedro mean?"

"While I have many movies that are inspiration to me, they aren't the reason I chose this path. I did it because I saw an Oscar's ceremony when I was 11" you explain fondly, feeling warm at the memories. "I still remember when they handed the award to Diablo Cody for best original screenplay. I don't know, man, it moved me. What it meant for young artists who came from nothing. I guess I wanted, one day, to be the one standing there, for other dreamers to see it's possible"

"Wow, that's beautiful" Connie says.

"Thank you" you get flustered. "Suppose it was worth it, you know, to do interviews about not really knowing my cast mates" and laugh.

"How does Pedro know, though?" Joseph asks.

"We talk a lot" you clear your throat. "Last one: what indie horror movie did I make a small appearence in? I'm feeling generous because it's the last so I'll give you a clue. It's a Stephen King adaptation"

Paul is the first to speak. "You where in a-"

"Yeah but it wasn't such a huge role. Don't make yourself any ideas"

"I have no idea" Connie surrenders. "Other clue, as in how many words?"

"It doesn't even have any words" you laugh. "You give up? It's 1922. Was an extra as well. Made me think Netflix had my name highlighted in the extra call sheet, because I did so many minor and background roles during that year. Grateful, though, because now I get to be Rome's empress and not fortune teller or highschool #6"

The interview ends, and the camera may or may have not captured the last seconds, Pedro's gaze fixated with you the entire time.

elysyannemimi: we all saw that right? GET PEDRO AND Y/N IN A ROMCOM ❗THEIR CHEMISTRY IS INSANE❗ at0michips: love paul and y/n so much 😭😭 gimme enemies to lovers RN ㅤㅤbobgirllll: at0michips wait what if paul and y/n are secretly dating 😳 ㅤㅤann-gell: bobgirllll quick question are u dumb unhing3dprincess: i bet my grandma they're married. it has to be. trust me ㅤㅤstarlightt180: unhing3dprincess BESTIE U ARE BACK

You arrived in London today. The premiere will be in a few days, and things have been, well, hectic.

Lux couldn't stop talking all the plane ride, but your mind kept going back at the email your manager had sent you before you had boarded the plane.

It's catching upon you, read the haunting message. Attached below, a TMZ article that claimed a regular church attendee had seen you both getting married. It also used a lot of the noise fans had been making on social media, connecting dots or just hyping up the undeniable chemistry. It ended with a little paragraph saying it was obvios, and they're just hoping you'd confirmed it.

You came to realize you didn't care about it anymore. Sure, the pushing around annoyed you, but the thought of still keeping your marriage under wraps feels pointless now. Why wouldn't you shout to the world how in love with your husband you are?

Yet, when you arrive at the hotel, you keep the same protocol of arriving after Pedro, who has already checked in with two keys, claiming its for him and his sister, while you ask for the key to Lux's actual room. After you swipe cards with her, you head over the room you'd be sharing with your husband.

His face appears in your frame, everything happening quickly.

"Get inside. Now"

Your body is dragged inside the hotel room, not even giving you time to swipe the key for yourself.

"Pedro!" you exclaim, between surprised and confused. "What the hell is your problem?"

"Did you read it?"

"What? The article?" your tone is filled with annoyance. "Yes, I did. Why?"

"What do you mean why?" he snaps, voice raising higher. "Don't play dumb with me. You know fans have fuelled the rumors, and tabloids have started digging every corner in fucking California"

"So, what? You're acting as if people finding out is the worst thing in the world" you roll your eyes.

"It is, yes!" Pedro bursts out, caving in to the stress.

It feels like you've been hit across your face.

"Excuse me?" you seethe, hurt etched all across your features. "Would it be the worst thing in the world to admit you're married to the person you supposedly love the most?"

"I love you, y/n. It's just-"

His voice softens, trying to reach for you, yet you pull back, his hand falling to his side in an akward manner. He sighs in frustration, running a hand through his hair as he sits on the edge of the bed.

"I love you" he repeats, sounding much more sure this time.

Your frame seems smaller as your voice comes out hoarse, filled with emotion, appearing to be in the brink of tears:

"Then why do you act like you're embarrassed of me?"

He hates himself for making you feel this way, making you think things that aren't true.

"I don't. Never" he emphasizes. Then, tries to reach once again when you move a little bit closer to him, recognizing that's your way of letting him know you're ready. "You're the most precious thing in the world to me, don't ever think the opposite" then he sighs, heavy. "I'm just scared"

You silently ask him to explain, rubbing his thumb soothingly across his tattoo.

"You're so young, and I'm, well- I know we're aware of it, but people are cruel and the press is ruthless. I don't want to see your name dragged across the mud because you decided to marry me. Your career is starting, and I'd never forgive myself is something happened to you because of me. Not trying to make this about me, yeah? But this industry is fucked up. You've work hard to get to where you are, and it'll be unfair if you'd loose it. I'm scared because us..." he wavers, words trailing off. "I want us to be. I wouldn't want to live in a world without you, i-it would kill me not to have you be my wife"

You desperately want to kiss off the worry on his face, but let him finish.

"N-not saying our love is weak, or anything! That a couple of opinions or tabloids will- you know? Just, I-I don't want them to break us apart. Mi vida, you're the light of my life. Please, forgive me, I-"

He feels his throat closing up, words failing to come out. You sense the grip on your hand to be stronger, immediately letting loose of it.

"Hey. C'mere" your voice is tender, allowing him to bury his face in your stomach as you comb his messy curls with your fingers. "It's okay, I'm here. I'm not going anywhere"

He lets himself melt under your touch, his mind loosing itself in the soft of your digits and your perfume up his nostrils. He's again breathing normaly, hands now hugging your waist.

"There you go. Better?" Pedro nods, still not being able to talk. "That's okay, take all the time you need. We have all day"

"Do we?" he raises his view, his eyes soft yet there is something else to the brown shade.

You hum as to nod. "We agreed to join Lux for dinner. It's barely 1pm"

"Tell me you're thinking it too" his voice cuts throughout the air, boucing off the tapestry on the walls.

You laugh, nervously. "I don't think I do"

"Hmmh, I see" he stands up, towering over you. "You sure you don't?"

"You sure you want this?"

Before you know it, his lips capture yours in a passionate kiss, cutting off all words to be said. What a waste of air, anyway. You are quick to reciprocate, whimpering against his lips.

Pedro picks you up like you're as light as a feather, his arms flexing as he carries you and places you on the bed, frame hovering over yours. He breaks the kiss to breath, but you're pulling him back in, his hold on your hips tighter and the wet spot in your panties wetter.

"Look at you, pretty baby. So needy" he whispers against your face, hot breath lingering above your lips. "And mine. Mía. Only mine"

"I am, yes. Yours only. Need you so bad right now, papi" you answer in a rush. "Now shut up and fuck me"

"Con gusto" he chuckles darkly, "gotta keep the wife happy"

"Happy wife, happy life" you recite, stripping him off of his plain shirt, revealing his toned torso, bulging biceps defined by the movements. You gulp. "Fuck, papi. Gotta thank Marvel for this. I love all of your versions, but I can work with this too" you dreamily stare at him, your hands cupping his face.

He strips the rest of his clothing, but a cute blush adorns his cheeks.

"Yeah, well, it's Scott's fault too"

Your impatient fingers reach the middle of your panties to rub your clothed pussy, letting out a sound that darkens his hazel orbs.

"Fuck that guy" you mutter. Pedro laughs.

"Thought you said you loved the guy"

"Until I learned what he said about your body" you groan, still rubbing. "Connie told me"

His hands now travel to remove your clothes, almost ripping them off.

"Who cares? I just want to fuck you now" he breathes out, practically drooling at the sight of your damp panties. "Lemme take this off too"

He unhooks your bra, seeing the hard nipples. The urge to lick them is so bad, but his desire to fill you silly to the brim is stronger.

You see his hesitation, which is why you grab him by the neck to pull him in for a kiss. He kisses back fiercely, labored breaths as he struggles to focus on your lips, his wet mouth darting to your jaw, neck and collarbones. His hands roam all over your body, needy.

"Gotta be inside of you, mami. Can't wait any longer"

"Then stop waiting" you plead, tugging at his boxers with urgency.

Seeing you so cockhungry, lips parted and pupils blown wide makes his hard dick twitch with anticipation.

He mutters a labored fuck, aligning himself to enter your sticky folds. Pedro enters your tight pussy with a low groan, burying himself deep inside of you, used to his length by now. You're basically begging for it, nails digging and eyes supplicating.

He can't deny you anything, can he?

A messy whine leaves your widened mouth as you adjust, pleasure mixed with pain.

"Mhmm" you moan.

"Mhmm what?" he mocks. "You asked for it. Now take it, cariño"

He thrusts deeper into you, watching in awe how his dick enters your pussy; it was always perfectly, your pussy made for him.

"You're drippin' baby" his rough voice caresses your cheek. He kisses the are, giving a lick to the sweat starting to form. "S'fucking tight too"

You move your hips towards him, trying to augment the friction. The overstimulation starts to cloud your sense, reducing you to a whiny mess as you grip his steady arms.

"I can't think of anything but you, baby" he confesses between grunts, "filling up your pussy to the brim, you dripping with my seed for days"

You moan at the filthy words.

"Love how you take my dick, amor" stretching you as Pedro moves in and out. "S'made for me"

"Yes" you moan, skin slapping sounds bouncing off the walls. "Fuck, I love your dick..."

His pace picks up, and it comes to a point where he's just fucking you silly, his grip on your hips surely to leave a bruise as you keep spilling obscene sounds of pleasure from your lips.

"Your pussy's mine, yeah? No one else gets to have you like this"

"N-no, just you, Pedro. My h-husband" you manage to squeeze, more moans vocalizing the pleasure you felt with each thrust, his big dick inside of you moving in a a steady rhythm, making your eyes roll back further and orgasm closer.

Your breasts bounce with each thrust, and he finds impossible to resist the urge anymore, licking the sensible skin and hard nipples, your hands moving to his back, scratching him harshly, both chasing your release.

"Please!" you whine out loud, not caring how desperate you sound.

Harder. Faster. Rougher.

But your husband knows you, so he indeed starts to fuck you harder, heavy breaths and slippy kiss noises hanging in the spaces between each thrusts. He pants with every motion of his dick, a knot forming on his belly.

"Shit, baby. I think I'm gonna cum. Gonna come so hard"

"Do it. I'm on birth control, remember?" you groan, feeling your high approach as well. "Fill me up, please. Give me all your cum"

Your bodies move as one, precise thrusts hitting exactly that sweet spot of yours repeatedly, chasing your orgasm. For a brief moment, your eyes lock with his and then he's saying:

"I love you, y/n. So much"

Your heart skips a bit, his dick twitching inside as his gaze glimmers with adoration and possesiveness, teeth grazing your skin with marks for him to call you his.

"I love you too, Pedro. More than you know"

A final thrust is delivered. Fuck, feels so good you think you hear him say. Just like promised, he fills you with his release, shots of his thick, warm cum inside your sticky walls. You follow soon, back arching, toes curling, and both head and eyes rolling back. Pedro falls on top of you, his broad body collapsing over yours, as you both pant hard, trying to steady your pulse and breath. He then removes himself and positions you to be the one on top now, lazily throwing the covers over your bare bodies. We need to shower, you said, but he argued you'd do it later before going out.

"I needed that" and you happily hum in agreement at your husband's dragged out words.

Your head falls and rises, with the movement of his chest, silence settling on the previously filled with sex noises room. That until he speaks up:

"One day, I'm gonna fill you up so good until you have my babies, mami" he murmurs, just then realizing what he said. But you snuggle closer, hand and legs drapped over his bare body. You look at him closely, seeing nothing but certainty on his eyes.

I choose you. I'll always choose you.

"Whatever it is with you" your nose brushes his, a small sweet kiss on his lips, "I want"

His eyes shine, probably with tears or the glow of affection.

"Let's do it"

"What?" you look into his eyes for any sign of doubt, bull all you see is love. "Pedro, are you serious?"

He nods. "Wouldn't you want that?"

You feel the corner of your lips pull up.

"Never have I wanted anything more"

poppysplayground: Y/N AND PEDRO RED CARPET DEBUT AT THE LONDON PREMIER OF GLADIATOR II WTF I JUST WOKE UP ptwt is in SHAMBLES mostannoyingbillioner: UM HELLO pedro showing up with two hot women on his arms LUX GIMME A CHANCE pompeiianbollockr: WAIT WDYM THEY ARE MARRIED?!??! ALL THIS TIME?@?#? HOW???! NEED BIGGER CAPS TO SCREAM I'M GOING INSANE at0michips: that article better come out now or i'll burn the TMZ building ann-gell: not me thirsting for a married man 😭😭😭 how they kept this a secret for so long?? we should've noticed ㅤㅤunhing3dprincess: ann-gell i did. knew betting my grandma was the way all along ㅤㅤpyramiidsf: i'm gonna start betting my grandma too

cr: divider @kodaswrld / gif @trashcora

[why-animals-do-the-thing]

There's a viral video circulating from the Fort Worth Zoo, of two keepers who ended up in a habitat at the same time as a silverback gorilla. Spoiler for good news: neither the humans nor the gorilla got hurt. It's a bad situation that ended extremely well, and that's why I want to talk about it.

The audio for this video is mostly someone praying loudly, so if you need to turn the audio off to watch it, you won't miss anything relevant. If you don't want to watch it, here's the summary: it starts with a keeper running around the corner into the main exhibit, pursued by a large male gorilla. She is quickly able to get into a doorway at the back of the exhibit, but does not completely close the door because the gorilla is standing across from her, watching. He eventually moves off to the right hand side of the exhibit, where we can see a keeper is trapped in the corner at the front. She was trying to move towards the exit as he moved to the right, and she stops, standing very still behind a tree, while he stays along the far right wall. They stay like that for a minute, and then the gorilla runs to the front right corner, and the keeper is able to run to the door in the back of the exhibit and get to safety.

Let's start with basic information. Even though it's just going viral now, this video is from October of 2023. It was taken not by a guest, but by the zoo security officer responding to the situation. Hmmm, seems like he maybe should have been doing something else during that situation, instead of than taking a phone video. It's going viral now because the guy (who is no longer employed at the zoo) decided to post it on TikTok for his five minutes of fame. This guy immediately started giving all sorts of media interviews, answering questions like "why no tranquilizers" inappropriately, making memes out of his own video, generally distasteful shit.

Zoo spokesperson Avery Elander gave a public statement that "thankfully, there was no physical contact between keepers and gorilla, and all staff and animals are safe." A comment from the zoo has also indicated that the incident was due to keeper error. (As opposed to, for instance, something in the fencing breaking.) According to the guy who posted the video, a lock was left unsecured and the gorilla was able to open the door to the habitat. I don't know if I buy it, and again, this just... is probably why he doesn't have a job anymore. By sharing that detail - real or not - he places a ton of public scrutiny and blame on that keeper team. (If that's what happened, I can promise you it will have been dealt with internally.) He also was nice enough to say he wouldn't name the women in the video... but verified they're still staffers at the zoo... which means they're eminently identifiable! Excuse me while I ragequit for a second.

So there's two reasons I wanted to talk about this. The first is to make sure it is well known that this guy is purposefully and intentionally exploiting the worst day of someone's life for media attention. Their lives were in danger, and he's using it for fame. His name is in the media articles - I'm not going to share it because he doesn't deserve that attention. The second reason, though, is because this video is a masterclass on how to survive if you end up sharing space with a gorilla. Every zoo person I've spoken to or seen comment on the video is so, so impressed with how the keepers handled themselves.

The gorilla in this video is 34-year-old Elmo. All apes in AZA zoos are managed in protected contact, so keepers are supposed to be separated from them by a barrier at all times. The zookeepers were in the habitat putting out a mid-day meal when he got out. Watching the video, you can see he's not actively being aggressive towards them - he's not making threat displays or trying to approach them. Mostly, Elmo seems like he doesn't know what is going on and he's kinda freaked out about it. (This is confirmed in the zoo's press statement, too). The staff stayed calm, and importantly, watched and waited to see how he'd move and act.

The zoo did say one thing, though, that's a bit misleading. In one article, their press person I quote as saying “In general, gorillas are considered the “gentle giants” of the great ape species.” Just because this may be true in comparison to other great ape species doesn't meant gorilla aren't still incredibly dangerous. This type of messaging always worries me, because I think it leads people to misunderstand the risks of being close to megafauna. Gorilla are extremely strong animals, and their social norms/behaviors are very different from that of humans. That's why it's such a big deal any time people end up in gorilla habitats, and why sometimes in those circumstances lethal measures have to be taken to protect human life.

These keepers are incredibly lucky to be unharmed. These women stayed safe specifically because they're trained professionals who knew how to act around gorilla, they knew this particular animal well, and they'd learned the escapes from the exhibit just in case this ever happened. We should applaud them for their cool heads and quick thinking.

As for the guy who posted the video? As a colleague put it, may he always step on a Lego.

[muwapsturniolo]

Raw Dawg 𐂯 M. Sturniolo

"We uhh...W-we could go raw?"

⟢ NSFW CONTENT AHEAD, smut, fingering, condoms/raw sex, snowballing (or some version of it?), that's it me thinks. let me know if i missed something please!!!!

part 1 here (you don't have to read part one because it's chris. this is just the matt version!!)

Dividers are made by @bernardsbendystraws (as usual)

Needy.

That's what you and Matt were both feeling.

It had to have been something in the air. The two of you woke up that morning with an anxious feeling in the pit of your stomachs. However, it wasn't anxious in a way that made you feel sick, no, it was something good.

As the two of you went about your day, the touches lingered, and the glances lasted longer than they should have. There were a few times his words seemed to have a double meaning, and there were also a few times when you shot him your famous bedroom eyes.

The day was filled with strong sexual tension - neither of you could handle it anymore.

The door shoots open as both of you tumble into his bedroom, teeth clashing, tongues tangled, and clothes falling - you couldn't get enough of each other.

As soon as you both land on the bed, his fingers find their way to your excessively wet cunt. It's not an exaggeration, you were dripping. You could feel it all day, the slimy liquid seeping out of you, squelching softly between your folds.

"Shit-" he hisses as he pulls away from the feverish kiss, looking down between your bodies. Your inner thighs were drenched with your own mess, his middle and ring finger looking the exact same. His mind was going crazy trying to figure out if he wanted to taste you, or simply fuck you. Both seemed like wonderful options, but with the way you're looking at him, he knew which option to go with.

He shoves his soaked fingers in your mouth, letting you taste your own juices as he haphazardly reaches into the nightstand for a condom. He tears it open with ease, having done it many times before. It was second nature to him, the two of you deciding it was the best contraceptive.

He rolls the condom on quickly, your hands holding the back of your knees as he lines himself up. In one swift motion, he was inside of you, both of you moaning at the first sense of relief. He grasps your thighs, starting to give you the pleasure you both so desperately crave, however, an issue occurs.

You whimper as he slips out of you, his tip prodding at the lower entrance you two don't indulge in. "Shit- I'm sorry sweetheart!" He grabs his dick once more and slides it inside of you, but it happens again,

and again

and again

and again

"Matt," you whine, tears of frustration already building in your eyes. He was frustrated too, all he wanted to do was fuck his girlfriend for hours on end - and he couldn't.

"Fuck sweetheart, I know I know. You're too fuckin' wet, I-I can't stay in!" He rakes his brain trying to think of a way to make this work.

"Get on top."

He catches the glare you give him and he groans, "Dawg, I don't know - Did you just call me dawg?" You stare at him in disbelief, there was no way he just called you, his girlfriend, dawg.

"First you tell me to get on top, and now you're calling me dawg?"

"Ok ok I'm sorry! I don't know what you want me to do! You're too fuckin' wet for me to actually fuck you and you being on top is the best thing I can think of!"

The two of you stare at each other, breathing harshly and frustrated. Both of your minds are buzzing with ways to make this work. The tension has been building all day, and you both were determined to make this work. It was only a few seconds later when Matt got an idea, his body language becoming shy.

"We uhh...W-we could go raw?"

"Matt- I know! We never go raw, we agreed on that, but baby I don't know what else to do. I really need you." His hands rub over the back of your thighs needily. You look over his face with an unsure look. Of course you wanted to have sex with him, you've been waiting all day, but would you risk going raw?

"...Fine, we can go raw. Just make sure you pull-" You're cut off with his lips slamming against yours, your body already melting into the kiss.

"Pull out, I know."

In one swift movement, he takes the soaked condom off, throwing it to the floor with no care. He was eager, he finally gets to experience sex with you raw.

Just like the previous times, he lines himself up, slowly pushing in.

It was shocking how much of a difference condoms made. You could feel everything, his warmth, the vein running up the side of his dick. He could finally feel the real warmth of your velvety walls, the sponge-like texture.

You two felt close - Connected.

He starts off with a few slow thrusts, trials if you will. When he realized that he was finally staying inside, something in him changed.

He pushes your legs to your chest, his grip harsh as he begins slamming into you vigorously. Your eyes roll back, your jaw dropping at the new and incredible feeling. The headboard was slamming into the wall, surely leaving dents and scratches into the plaster.

His moans combine with yours, creating a pitch-perfect harmony. Your bodies are covered in a thin layer of sweat, the heat between you too making the room smell like a mixture of lust and love.

You felt good, so good to the point where you no longer cared.

You manage to push his hands away from your thighs, your legs collapsing on the bed as you pull him closer. Your eyes are half-lidded, glossy as you give him those puppy dog eyes.

"P-Please, need you to c-cum in me!" You urge, pleading for him to give you something you usually would never want - but it was a craving, you were feigning for it.

You needed it.

You miss the way his pupils dilate due to him slamming into you with newfound vigor, your eyes rolling all the way back as your body lurches with each thrust. You could feel the tip of his dick reaching your cervix, nudging the sensitive spot and making you see stars.

"Fuck- god m'so close!" He grunts, his jaw clenched as he tries to get you closer to the edge.

He doesn't have to work that hard, all it took was him moaning in your ear and you were releasing all over him. You let out a small scream as your juices splash between you both, wetting the sheets beneath you as well as both your bodies.

Your nails rake down his back, leaving deep scratch marks on his milky skin as he continues to rut into you. It was becoming too much and he knew it. He whispers sweet words into your ear as he pumps into you relentlessly

"Gonna cum soon. You want me t'fill you up? Give you my babies?"

"Gonna look so pretty preg- oh fuck!"

The idea of you being filled to the brim with his seed, and being pregnant, was enough to send him over, his body shaking as he moans and groans into your ear.

The two of you lay there, fucked out and sweaty as you try to catch your breath. He sits up and pulls out of you, pushing your legs back to watch himself drip out of you.

You were a sight for sore eyes, you looked so pretty like this.

He couldn't help himself.

Despite knowing you're sensitive, he lowers his body and attaches his mouth to your cunt. You jerk and grab at his hair, yanking harshly as you feel his fingers dipping into you. Thankfully it wasn't long, but you still had no chance to catch your breath.

It was something so new and erotic, the way his lips met yours and his tongue pushed the warm salty liquid in your mouth. You moan at the taste, swallowing each drop eagerly.

He pulls back from the sloppy and lustful kiss, staring at you with hungry eyes.

"No condoms for the rest of the night. Hands and knees, now."

[bbokicidal]

"Where else was I supposed to sit?" - [OT8 SKZ]

quick summary ; lap sitting w/ ot8 skz

warnings ; thigh touching, casual groping (light suggestive content, MDNI), handsy skz

chris ;

sitting in chris' lap is like asking for a death wish. he welcomes it, when he's not busy of course, but he's got a bad habit for needing to always have his hands moving. he has to constantly be touching something, squeezing something - even when he's standing still during interviews or shows his hands are at his sides, fingertips rubbing restlessly on his palms. so when you're in his lap, he finds ways to make his hands useful; whether it be carefully twisting the hem of your top around his fingertips, sliding his fingers in and out of your belt loops and tugging on them here and there, or gently kneading at the plush of your thighs. that's what most commonly happens - he just really loves the warmth and soft squish between his fingers. he can't help it.

minho ;

you're more than welcome to sit in minho's lap - but you have to be facing him, and i'm sure you know why. if you're around friends or the other boys he'll let you sit facing away and just loosely lace his arms around your waist while chitchatting or pestering hyunjin. but if you're together, he wants you facing him so he can somehow wiggle his hands into your bottoms and casually, non-sexually, rest his hands on your ass. he'll either slip his hands up the bottom of your shorts - or tuck them into the back pockets on your jeans, letting you rest your face in his shoulder as he watches some drama jisung told him about. (no, not the dating ones. he refuses to indulge in those.)

changbin ;

sitting in binnie's lap is like heaven on earth. his thighs are the perfect mixture of muscle and fat - soft enough to be perfectly plush and comfortable but strong enough to nearly push you off when he tenses in frustration at some silly jab seungmin made thirty seconds ago. he's always got his arms around you when you're this close to him, so you're basically just enveloped by big thighs - big arms - his big ol boobies- all in all sitting in binnie's lap is just the perfect stress reliever. but don't think he doesn't notice the way you slide a hand down to grope at the skin when he's wearing shorts - he sees everything.

hyunjin ;

hyunjin likes to sit cross legged and then have you sit in his lap that way - so you're not on top of his thighs, but in between them. the man sits like he's sporting ten inches so i'm bound to believe he is - simple as that - he just prefers it that way, freedom for his thighs so he doesn't feel too pinned down wherever he's sitting. he finds solace in playing with your hair when you're in front of him, occasionally bouncing his legs so you're bopping around enough to make him laugh from behind you. if you're really compliant, he'll probably hold onto your wrists and pretend to puppet you around - which seems to make the other boys laugh quite a bit as well.

jisung ;

he's got a leg bouncing problem, but not in the way that hyunjin does it where it's for fun. he's said before that he's just done it since he was younger but was always told to quit, so now he only does it when he's alone. so if you're on his lap and no one else is around, he's probably carefully bouncing one leg beneath you. it's not too bothersome and if you do huff about it, he'll stop - he just finds it a habit and sort of relaxing. but if you give him something else to do? he'll go with that instead. like playing with the necklace you're wearing, or twisting the hem of your shirt around his fingers. he just needs some way to let out the energy that builds in his tiny ass waist while he's sitting still.

felix ;

i'm bound to believe that felix is like hyunjin and prefers when you sit between his legs - but he likes to spread his legs as wide apart as possible and have you sit in front of him so he can do your hair. he likes braiding it or combing his fingers through it, apologizing if a ring catches on you. he'll fix your shirt from behind and pull you back to lean into him, wanting to support you while you relax - and his hands always find a way beneath your shirt. his fingertips will brush over your skin, thumbs smoothing over any beauty marks or potential scars - always tracing every dip and bump to commit it to memory. (and hoping he'll see it later.)

seungmin ;

he's the type to refuse to let you in his lap at first, pushing you away with laughter and putting his arms up so you can't sit down. but he'll give in eventually, letting you sit on his thighs and sighing. if you're not comfortable that's on you - because he's going to manspread and he's not putting his thighs together just for your ass to rest on. he'll cuddle up soon enough though, so expect him to rest his head on top of yours and wind his arms around you, squeezing you every few moments or swaying with you in his arms. he won't admit it, but he does enjoy the comforting warm of you so close to him.

jeongin ;

sitting in jeongin's lap is like a luxury if he allows it. or - well, if he likes it. sometimes he'll let it happen but he won't touch you, he'll keep scrolling on his phone or talking to felix nearby - but it's not because he doesn't want it to happen; he's just not one for skinship. he'll bounce his leg to give you a small bit of affection so you know he doesn't mind. but if it's a good day, and he really is digging the touchy-feely vibe, he'll wrap his arms around your waist and squeeze you to him until you're barely breathing. if you're around the others, it's common he'll lean forward so you're flush together and rest both of his hands on your knees - which makes you stare and wonder just how his hands are engulfing your body so easily...

[neverendingford]

.

[bunnis-monsters]

I hope I'm not too late! For the 5K event (congratulations btw!!! You deserve all of them ^^), could my request be of a merman pod finding reader and deciding she needs to be their mate/breeding partner? I guess it'd be kind of a similar situation with the cow/bull hybrids?? I'm not sure how it'd go, but It can be as sfw or nsfw as you want (I deeply apologize if this exceeds 1k words. Of course you don't have to write this if you don't want to). Thank you in advance! ^^

A/N: my requests and commissions are closed for the foreseeable future, but my commission wait list is open! Consider reading my commission info and helping me out! Slots are limited, so get on the waitlist while you still can~

Warning: dubcon, breeding, virginity loss

It had been a normal day out on the water for you, swimming and splashing around in a small cove near your home.

Unfortunately(or maybe fortunately) for you, it was the spot where a pod of mermen spent their breeding season, relaxing and eating there before going out to try and find a suitable mate.

As you got ready to get out and go grab a snack from your cooler, you felt someone’s eyes on you…

When you turned to look, a head quickly dipped back under the water, and you felt your blood run cold when you spotted several dark shapes swimming in your direction.

Of course you immediately swam for the shore, afraid of it being a shark or some underwater predator. You were alone out there, and if you were eaten no one would ever even know.

Before you could stand to start wading through the now waist deep water, something grabbed your ankle, pulling you under.

You cursed yourself for not bringing your goggles, unable to open your eyes under the stinging, salty sea water.

You prepared for some kind of attack, hoping it wouldn’t be too painful… but nothing happened. Your body was gently lifted out of the water, and you felt something cool and smooth rubbing against your cheek… and your belly… and pretty much every part of your skin.

When you opened your eyes, you were surprised to see that you were surrounded by strange creatures, half human and half fish. They all were nuzzling their cheeks unto your flesh, some giving you soft licks as if inspecting you.

After thoroughly looking over you, they all began purring and trilling, some cooing as they set you on your feet. Getting a better look at them, you realized they were all handsome, and were all smiling as they surrounded you.

“A female in our cove? What luck!”

You were surprised when one of the creatures spoke, even more surprised when another responded with soft trills and clicks.

“Yes, she is quite warm… and so soft!”

The feeling of cool scales rubbing against your thigh made you yelp. One of their tails was curling around you, keeping you close and still.

“H-hey! What do you think you’re doing!?”

They all flinched when you raised your voice, their fins perking up. Some looked at you curiously, while some seemed a bit annoyed or afraid.

“Mmm? We’re preparing to breed with you. It’s not often a female is so close to our cove while it’s mating season.”

You nearly fainted, this was all too much. First you were having to accept the fact that mermen were real, which was hard enough by itself.

Now, these mermen that you just learned actually existed wanted to breed with you.

Another merman pressed against your back, letting out a soft coo as something sticky and hard slipped and rubbed between your thighs.

There was one in front of you as your thighs were fucked from behind. He examined your bathing suit, talking his head and pulling at the fabric curiously.

“Something to cover your mating slit? Perhaps human females are more cunning than I thought…”

He seemed to view the fabric as a separate layer of skin, his weighed fingers moving to trace over your clothed pussy.

The merman’s eyes went wide, and his finge red pressed against your clothed hole. “Warm… so warm…”

The feeling of his cool, webbed fingers moving over your warm pussy made you shiver and buck your hips uncontrollably. This made the merman purr in delight.

“Y-you can remove it… it’s clothing,” you said, panting softly. Honestly, it had been so long since you’ve really pleasured yourself, and you desperately wanted to get fucked stupid.

Your bathing suit was unceremoniously ripped off, and the pod gathered around you.

There were whines and hisses, each merman fighting over who got to breed you first.

It was finally settled that they would go from smallest to largest. A merman, a bit younger than the rest approached you shyly. He was excited, this would be his first time breeding!

He chirped at you, giving you puppy dog eyes as his cock bobbed up and down in need. It seemed this one couldn’t speak, possibly being new to human speech.

“Go on, just inhale her scent and your instincts will take over,” one of the merman said, encouraging the other as he placed a hand on your thigh.

His face buried itself in his neck, and as soon as he inhaled your scent his body stiffened and pressed against you.

The feeling of his cock struggling to find your hole, rubbing against you desperately made your heart throb. This merman was too cute!

You loved your hand down, the man letting out a nervous yet aroused trill when you helped to guide his cock to your entrance.

“There you go, baby… r-right there…”

He nuzzled his cheek against yours, the flesh slightly rough against your soft skin.

The second he sunk his cock into your cunt, he let out a groan, unable to stop his hips from rutting into you roughly.

You but your lip, trying not to make too much noise. The other merman moved in closer to watch, and they all seemed to communicate with the one mating with you.

“Warm? You said she’s warm there?”

“Oh… cum already, I want a turn!”

The first merman came, relaxing against you as your pussy was filled with his cum. The next was eager to get a feeling of your pussy, pushing the other out of the way before pushing in.

“Nngh… w-warm…” he gasped out, his body hands trembling as they grasped your plump hips.

None of them were used to fucking into something so soft and warm, mermaid were usually cold and rough… but god you were the complete opposite.

It was a breeding frenzy after that, each desperate to get their turn fucking that fat, warm pussy of yours. The sound of wet squelching and shameful moans and cries echoing through the cove.

After each had a turn, they returned you to the shore, leaving you with a freshly caught fish before they left to go hunt.

“We’ll be back by nightfall, mate!”

“Don’t enter the water until we’re home! We don’t want our scents attracting other competing males!”

They waved to you as they swam away… and you were looking forward the summer with your new pod of mates.

part 2? might make a little series based off this concept where you meet each merman and get to know them!

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