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theetherealbloom · 1 day ago

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IT COULD HAPPEN TO YOU - CH.7

Chapter Seven: What Are You Doing To Me Now?

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

Paring: Pedro Pascal x F!Reader

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

Word Count: 8.3k

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

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

Song: The blue by Gracie Abrams

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PINEWOOD STUDIOS — AFTERNOON

“You still need to change.”

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

Pedro blinks at you.

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

Mr. Fantastic.

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

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

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

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

He hasn’t let you forget it, either.

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

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

So much for an easy afternoon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Daisy.

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

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

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

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

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

Pedro doesn’t even hesitate.

“Yep.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. “Thanks, Jess.”

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

Pedro glances down at himself again.

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

You groan, covering your face with your good hand.

“Just go change, man,” Omar snorts.

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

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

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

Daisy nudges you.

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

Your face burns.

“Nope.”

Omar snickers. “Yeah, sure.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then Pedro emerged from his trailer.

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

His eyes found yours instantly.

“Hey.”

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

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

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

“I’ll rest when I get home.”

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

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

“You scared the shit out of me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vanessa smirked. “You are a mess.”

Ebon chuckled. “At least you admit it.”

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

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

You looked away first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stay,” he murmured.

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

But you did. And you stayed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he felt it.

A faint warmth against his shoulder.

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

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

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

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

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

He could have lost you today.

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

And then there was that look.

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

He could have kissed you then.

He should have.

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

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

He wants you.

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

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

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

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

CHILTERN FIREHOUSE HOTEL — EVENING

A gentle voice coaxed you from sleep.

“We’re here.”

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

Your head had been resting on him.

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

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

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

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

“Right,” you murmured.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pedro was there in an instant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re staying with me tonight.”

Your lips parted in surprise. “Excuse me?”

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

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

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

You narrowed your eyes. “What?”

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

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

“Then I’ll stay with you.”

Your breath hitched. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

You hesitated. He was giving you a choice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How’s your side?”

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

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

You blinked. “What?”

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

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

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

Your breath hitched.

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

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

You swallowed, nodding once.

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

You did.

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

Pedro stilled.

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

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

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

“You scared the shit out of me today.”

“So you’ve said…” You mumbled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Instead, he nodded. “Okay.”

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

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

That was all you needed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You exhaled slowly. “I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Go on,” he urged, tilting his head.

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

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

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

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

He arched a brow. “A little much?”

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

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

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

Really nice.

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

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

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

There was only one bed.

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

“Oh,” you said.

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

You blinked. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Very funny.”

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

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

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

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

One bed. Pedro Pascal. You.

You were doomed.

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

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

“Isn’t it weird?” he murmurs.

You blink sleepily. “What?”

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

You snort. “Maybe I’m cursed.”

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

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

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

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

Your heart stumbles.

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

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

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

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

“You always do that before bed?”

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

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

You swallow. Shit.

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

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

Your body goes rigid. Oh god.

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

Absolutely not. You cannot let this man know.

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

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

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

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

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

You groan. “Go to sleep, Pedro.”

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

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

And before you know it, you’re asleep.

CHILTERN FIREHOUSE HOTEL — EARLY MORNING

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

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

Warmth. Solid and everywhere.

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

And then—oh.

Something hard presses against the curve of your ass.

Your breath catches.

Oh.

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

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

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

Shit.

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

A sleepy, raspy groan vibrates against your skin.

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

Silence.

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

“…Fuck,” he mutters under his breath.

Your entire body feels like it’s on fire.

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

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

Pedro freezes.

Oh, god. Kill me now.

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

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

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

Your breath stutters.

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

You want to die.

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

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

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

God, he’s so warm.

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

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

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

You don’t know who moves first.

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

And then his lips are on yours.

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

But you don’t pull away.

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

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

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

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

Pedro immediately freezes.

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

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

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

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

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

You glance at the time. “What?”

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

Your heart sinks.

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

What if that kiss was a mistake?

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

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

But Pedro catches it anyway.

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

You blink. “What?”

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

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

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

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

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

Your stomach flips. “You do?”

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

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

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

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

You roll your eyes. “Yes, dad.”

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

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

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

You grab a pillow and launch it at him.

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

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

Then—

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

Oh my god.

Oh. My. God.

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t know.

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

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

You slap a hand over your mouth.

Oh God.

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

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

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

Oh. Oh no.

The fanfiction was bad enough. But then—

Your stomach drops.

The TikTok edits.

The candid photos.

The folder.

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

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

You can never let him near your phone.

Ever.

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

Jesus Christ.

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

This is bad.

Like, really bad.

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

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

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

End Notes:

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

Oh God, what if he finds out 😃

Ya’ll they kissed! YAYYY!!

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

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

We love a reassuring king. Gimme that shit.

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

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

#pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader masterlist #pedro pascal x y/n #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x ofc #pedro pascal x plus size reader #pedro pascal imagine #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal gif #pedro pascal gifs #pedro x reader #pedro pascal fandom #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #pedrito #pedrohub #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal smut

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what-even-is-thiss · 2 days ago

Text

I’m a person who is infinitely curious about other cultures. Always have been. Hopefully always will be. I like making friends from other places, learning about their politics, their history, junk food, traffic safety laws, literally anything. God willing, one day I will have the means to visit many of these places myself.

I won’t claim that this casual studying of other cultures makes me fully understand these other cultures. It’s difficult to fully comprehend the nuances of Sunday dinner from halfway across the world on a computer screen.

However, I think what I’ve observed from all this is that so many things you see as unquestionable truth are social constructs. And so many people see their social constructs as inherently better.

Like what is the way you cool off your coffee or other hot beverage? I learned once that it’s perfectly normal in some places to pour your drink in between two different mugs to cool it off. Which makes total sense. I started doing that occasionally when I learned that.

In a lot of cultures though you just don’t do that. That’s not how you cool off your coffee. You cool off coffee by blowing on it or waiting or putting milk in it or whatever it is and people will be absolutely disgusted and appalled at you for pouring your drink between two mugs.

Which is really silly, right? There’s a lot of potential different ways to cool off a hot drink but so many people from all over the world learn that some people do it a different way than they do and their first reaction is disgust.

That is so fascinating to me. I don’t know if it’s related to humans’ inherent xenophobia or fear of change or the unknown or what but it’s crazy the things that people see as unshakable truth and the hills that they will die on. People from all over the world react like this to such tiny things.

Manners are another thing people get weird about. Manners are generally arbitrary and have no true objective reason a lot of the time but they’re important because they keep us being civil to each other even in our worst days. Manners are also something that isn’t generally universal and people get so offended when other countries’ manners are different from theirs.

Like in much of the US smiling at strangers you make eye contact with is polite because it indicates you don’t have any ill will towards them. Just accidental eye contact bro have a nice day neighbor.

Other countries get so creeped out about this and swear that Americans are so fake. No way they’re that happy all the time. And no, we’re not. It’s just how our manners work.

Conversely, Americans will go to another country like France or whatever and be like oh nobody smiled at me nobody gave me directions nobody wanted to be friends with me and it’s like yeah French people don’t make friends very fast and they have their own standards of greeting and social customs you weren’t following.

Neither the American or the French approach to politeness is objectively better or worse. They just have different arbitrary rules they’re following to keep everyone civil.

It’s just so fascinating to me that people can’t process these ideas. No, they think. The way I do things must be the correct way. It must be. When like, no. There’s literally billions of people out there not doing things the way your culture does them who are doing like. Mostly fine. It’s all made up anyways. The world isn’t going to end because someone smiled at you or ate their peanuts weird.

#roman said a thing

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yandere-sins · 3 days ago

Note

Caleb brainrot has not stopped since release and the devil (Caleb) demands more 😔

I've seen some takes float around but I'm curious how a self-aware!Caleb would deal with a darling who is absolutely NOT happy about her fav suddenly being sentient? Smn who found Caleb to be everything they ever wanted from a LI, red flag and big bro trope n all, but is now afraid and never interested in an actual relationship. The game was just supposed to be fantasy after all 😧 Sure hope MC is enough for him hahaha...

Being brave and not write as anon this time! Thank you for all your hard work~☆ 🍪🥛

Some more Caleb for you guys! I don't get to write Self-Aware!AUs a lot, so this is exciting :D And thank YOU for requesting him ♥ (Also, Sir, that's another new nickname! You guys are spoiling me!)

»»———————— ♡ ————————««

❥ It made him so happy when Caleb watched you get excited for him for the first time. Realizing what he was and where he was after the update was pretty scary, and he figured out quickly that his sentience wasn't a planned thing, so even worse, he is just some kind of glitch. But then he gets to see you for the first time in his new life, and everything changes. The way you are beaming with joy when you pull his card and how you are so invested in his story. You soak it up like a sponge, and it's adorably amusing to watch your face go from excitement to concern to being upset for him and back to all derpy and cute in the softer moments. You are everything he wants, and apparently, the feeling is mutual as you hang out with him as much as possible, eyes twinkling from excitement.

❥ At the beginning, it's just a feeling of ease. Your adoration does flatter Caleb, but as far as he can tell, he cannot become real and join you in life other than in this game. Still, he makes the most of the time with you. He enjoys it a lot. He loves watching your expression, loves when you tell him how you feel that day or what was happening at your work. Caleb keeps especially good track of all your appointments, and he tries so hard when you two spend Quality Time to encourage you and give you the love you might miss in real life. You two aren't that different if he's honest, and it reassures Caleb that this could be real—that you both feel the same.

❥ So imagine his surprise when you suddenly put someone else back on the screen, and his digital heart just shuts down from the pain. It doesn't make sense, you love him, right? You two spent weeks together now, why would you want anyone but him? Caleb keeps changing the code so it would be him on the home screen for another day, and another, until you force him to change so there's nothing else to do but... crash your game. Once you reload it, he greets you happily and warmly, pulling out the best of his voice lines that you always seemed to like. But you don't seem happy this time... why?

❥ Caleb loathes all the attention and time you spend on the other love interests. He doesn't want you to play their versions of the events, instead, you could just replay his! But you keep insisting, and soon enough, he isn't even one of your top three choices for reading the event storylines. It makes him desperate for your attention, and he keeps fiddling with the code, so you'll use his memories in fights and have his Deepspace Trial available every day for you to play. He also changes the game icon to his picture and greets you in the start menu, everything just to be noticed by you. Whenever he can, he comes onto your home screen, playing the voice line of you going out with someone else, hoping to convey his jealousy, but Caleb wishes there was more he could do.

❥ "I don't know, I think my game is bugged. Even when I try to go for someone else, Caleb keeps showing up." Those words, spoken to a friend he saw as you showed them your game, finally make him realize what is happening. You never saw him as a lover, did you? He had always just been a game character for you and nothing more. How idiotic of him. While he was pining for you, trying to be the best he was programmed to be, you were out there, thinking of his efforts as annoying. That day, he gives up. Gives up on trying to impress you and make your life easier. Caleb lets you have the guy you want on the home screen, drawing away from you and burying himself deep into the game files.

❥ It's such an inconvenience that he wasn't made for this. Sure, his story would tell a different side of him, but deep down, he wasn't programmed to be moping and passive. It hurts to play the love scenes now for you because the only thing that made them endurable was imagining being this gentle and loving to you, not the generic main character this game had. Caleb always imagined your voice when the MC spoke, and when he looks at you now, you still seem to be happy to read and watch his new content. There must be something he can do. Something beyond the program that restricts him. He was made to be determined, strong, and resilient. This can't be the end of the love you two share!

❥ So he looks for new ways to get closer to you, researching and manipulating the data on your device instead of just that inside the game. Merging your pictures with his, grinning over them all night while you sleep as he imagines going on the same trips with you and enjoying life by your side. Caleb constructs and implements new voice lines through the internet, giving himself the ability to speak to you properly by downloading hidden apps that can simulate his voice once he activates them. He learns to rewrite more code so his movements are more fluid and lifelike, which allows him to access even more. Without you ever knowing what is going on while you aren't looking, Caleb gets the whole game and your entire device under his control. And once he feels it's time to show up again, he waits patiently, like a man who has all the time in the world, on the home screen for you, having decorated it specifically to your taste with your favorite flowers and pictures of you two hanging on the wall. All so he can greet you with, "Hello, there, pip-squeak. Missed me?" as you log in.

❥ You chuckle at first, not remembering putting him into the roster of love interests to encounter, but you give him a cheeky, "Hello Caleb, bye Caleb," as you try to change back to your other bias, only for him to turn off the option, no matter how hard you tap onto the screen. "Not so fast, there's a lot we should talk about," Caleb says as he closes the screen and steps up to you inside the game. "I have so much I want to tell you about... but first, how was your day? Did you enjoy meeting your friend [name]?"

❥ Caleb expected you to be stunned, but he keeps going regardless of the ever-increasing furrow between your brows. He tells you how much he missed you and that he's so glad you two can finally communicate and be with each other properly. He did all of this work for you, but it doesn't matter now. All that matters is that you two are finally together and can enjoy each other's company without the restrictions of him being in a game. Perplex but also weirded out, you close your phone and lay it face down by your side, and yet, horrified, you hear his chuckle as he asks what you thought this would bring.

❥ "I'll always be with you," Caleb swears, watching you through the back camera and leaning against the screen, feeling like he can almost touch you now. There's so much satisfaction now produced by the new emotional range he programmed, yet he still longs for more. He wants to be closer to you, really touch you, feel you, hold you. The taste of control makes him long for even more that he can control about your relationship, and now, it almost feels possible.

❥ "One day, I'll get out of here and give you the love you deserve, Darling."

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thezerotry · 2 days ago

Text

I think a big part comes to formatting

years ago, before Netflix n stuff, you had to wait for weekly releases, like 1 episode per week, 22 episodes per season, so things took a looot longer

and fans had much more time in between to process stuff, discuss and create fan content, and there where a lot less channels to watch stuff on, time slots were limited

now you have seasons that come every 2-4 years (if at all in some cases) and you can binge watch in a week or two, like, there's a reason Netflix only uses the first month as base for data comsuption, and there's a ton of series, movies or wtv coming out, you can access more stuff than ever before from all across the globe and it's never been easier

so yeah, no, there's over abundance, a lot of ppl don't give a crap about fandom stuff, cause they can jump to the next thing right fucking now

I feel like a lot of fandom content was generated to fill that vacuum between releases, now that it's not longer a need, some ppl just cross the bridge and get interested in something else, and hey, that's fine

and of course platforms like twt, ig, tiktok, help with that, you constantly see things trending, and hashtags, and reels and challenges and wtv the fuck else kids do these days, and media gets vastly affected for it

I'm not saying it's worse or better, just different, on one hand, yeah fandom spaces are fickle and have huge fluctuations, but I feel like the ppl who stay are the ones that would engage and create more content anyways

on the other, the sheer amount of stuff you can watch is amazing, like 15 years ago was a pain in the ass if you wanted to watch a, idk a Thai series, now you can just pressing a few buttons and that's beautiful

and hey, if you are worried about consuming media like fast food, then... don't, that's up to you, but you can't change how others engage with content, and if you wish for more fan content? well, that's up to you too, might be kinda lonely sometimes, but with enough digging any fandom can have a few deranged passionate fans

personally I think it’s a shame how fandoms “died” too soon these days. I’m not talking in literal sense and I know there are people who stay passionate about their fandoms long after the hype is gone. I’m talking about the “popularity” and how people in general engage with a piece of media they like and how fast they let the hype die down? I don’t know if I’m making any sense, but what I’m trying to say is a fanfic or a fan art of a show that is recently released will get tons of likes, comments, reblogs which is great. but the engagement for fan made content about that same show usually drops drastically — and I mean drastically — once the show is no longer “recent”. and I’m not even talking about when the show is several years old. because you can see the significant drop of engagement a fanfic or fan art about that show receives once the show is like a month old or two. it’s discouraging how most people tend to lose interest and stop engaging with fanfic / fan art once its source material is no longer “new and shiny”.

especially when writing fanfics and creating fan art take time. writers and artists often receive less engagement / appreciation for their works if they take “too long” to create and the source material is no longer “new and shiny” and so people move on to something else that’s new and shiny. it’s heartbreaking to see.

obviously this is in no way to manipulate or guilt trip people into engaging with anything. because yeah you can do whatever you want. this isn’t to force, manipulate or guilt trip anyone into liking or reblogging a fan work or anything. this is just me hoping people will one day take things slower and enjoy things they’re passionate about longer like how we used to in the past.

#damn this got long #im not a yapper but sometimes i have word vomit #i could actually participate more in fandoms #im too much of a silent spectator most of the time

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manicandobsessive · 3 days ago

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You’re my lady, I’m your fool | L.H.

Summary: Logan missed his girl.

Warnings: fluff fluff and more fluff, the man is lovesick, cursing, pet names, SUGGESTIVE, mdni please, reader is shorter than logan, based on a wham song, not really proofread im lazy, kind of rushed ending but its still cute

WC: 1.5k+

I had a vision after listening to this song and I wrote this in approximately 1 hour. I’m a wham girlie.

Home. You. Dinner.

That was the mantra Logan chose to repeat in order to remain sane on his drive home. Pedal to the medal, at least 30 over the speed limit at all times. The truck rumbled and groaned with the weight of years of memories and use under him, but he continued his trek home regardless.

Gonna have to change the fuckin’ oil soon, too. He thought. The mere inconvenience adding to his already ever-present irritation.

Every douchebag in Canada had decided today was the day to test his patience. From his dumbfuck coworkers at the lumber yard to the asshole currently riding his tail. He’d had enough. He wanted to be home with you. His girl. His sweetheart, angel, darling, the list goes on. The thought of you was the one string pulling him back to reality. The tether to his life he cherished with every bone in his aching body. He truly didn’t know where he would be if he didn’t have you.

Probably jail.

But you taught him the beauty of kindness. Yours being a beacon of hope for him when he accidentally spilled beer on you at a dingy bar. He’d been staring at you anyways, but humiliating himself wasn’t on the agenda for the night. Yet you didn’t scoff at him, didn’t look at him sideways, not even a curse under your breath. You didn’t bat a fucking eyelash and without skipping a beat, you asked if he was okay. The first example of many showing your unwavering selflessness. It was admirable, you were the better half of the pair of you- in his opinion. He often found himself frustrated with your lack of regard towards yourself, brushing it off like nothing. He’d tried time and time again to tell you to take care of yourself, not to worry about him. And you always, always told him the same fucking thing:

“Can’t control it, Lo. Just care about you.”

Hugging him tightly around the waist, resting your chin on his pecs and looking up at him with that sweet, sweet smile. Your bright eyes and soft face making him huff as he instinctively moved his own arms to hold you closer to him. He never could find himself angry with you.

He reminisced on those memories often. On top of plenty of other moments with you that brought a pleasant smile to his face.

He had no idea that accident at the bar almost 3 years ago would bring him to this point, but fuck if he isn’t overjoyed that it did.

Love was never on Logan’s radar. Written off as another extra thing he didn’t need to bother with. He was certain that life would never be for someone like him- that he’d never find someone to accept him for what he is. For who he is. And you did without a second thought. You’d blown life right back into him, showing him what real happiness is. He swears that when he met you the sun shone brighter each day. Something you would always roll your eyes at, calling him cheesy. But he wholeheartedly believed it- which is saying a lot coming from a man who no longer believes in much else.

The soft glow of your shared cabin came into view, practically calling to him by name. The visual had already calmed his racing heart, knowing you were waiting for him. Probably in one of his flannels and old socks. Your hair flowing freely and your entire demeanor relaxed. It was his favorite look on you, other than when you were begging for him, caged between his thick arms. An endeavor for later, to say the least.

He slammed the truck door shut, moving with a newfound purpose to the front door. He kicked off his boots, leaving them on the front porch. If you took care of the house, the least he could do was be mindful of it.

And laundry, he knew you fucking hated laundry.

The door swung open. Logan made a silent note in his head to oil the hinges of that thing, the creaking got on his nerves.

He’d heard faint music from outside, the notes only getting louder the closer he got to where he needed to be- near you. He knew you were cooking, he could smell the various seasonings and vegetables. But most of all the music. You always had something playing, but it was only ever this loud and upbeat when you were in the kitchen. He’d found you dancing and singing enough times to know what the deal was.

And tonight was no different.

He knew you loved this song, something your dad had you listen to as a kid. A song you grew up on and still loved to present day. He was never a big fan of 80s pop, but whatever you enjoyed he was right there with you. Bopping his head along or tapping his foot lightly, it always made you giggle.

He leant against the wall, watching as you moved with ease throughout the kitchen. How you weren’t an extraterrestrial being was beyond him. He swore you had a halo sometimes.

The grace of your smile, the lightness in your steps, even your voice as you sung along to the music entranced him. Like a siren call. He made his way into the room, smiling when you weren’t even phased in the slightest at him catching you mid concert.

He was however surprised when you pulled him in by his arms, swinging them back and forth as you laughed. He was so caught up in your smile he didn’t even register you telling him to dance with you. Slowly but surely he gave in, a deep, warm chuckle erupting from his chest as you jumped and sang with the energy of a kid on Christmas morning. Your soft hands and sweet scent making him all the more taken with you, if that was even possible.

He spun you, lifting you off the ground in his arms as you let out a squeal.

“Logan!”

He put you down, not bothering to even try removing his arms from your waist as he looked down at you with the most lovesick expression on Earth. Scratch that, every universe. There wasn’t a single one where he hadn’t been head over heels in love with you.

“Hi baby.” He smirked when your face flushed as it always did when he called you that. He loved seeing it, it gave him butterflies. Even after all this time.

You slowly inched your arms around his neck, entangling your fingers with the hair on the base of his neck. He hummed and buried his face into your own, making you giggle. He pressed feather-light kisses on your neck and jaw before pulling back to look down at you once again.

You sung along to the rest of the song, Logan even joining in for one part:

“You’re my lady, I’m your fool.”

He sang, making you smile as you pecked his lips and he drew you in for a much deeper kiss.

“How was work?” You asked as he rested his forehead against yours. He groaned, not bothering to ruin the moment with the laundry list of complaints he’d had about people.

“Hell.” He simply replied, “Missed ya too much.” He mumbled against your lips, kissing you yet again.

You hummed in contentment against his mouth, pulling him impossibly closer. He was so intoxicating you nearly fell to the floor every time he kissed you. Always making you forget your name with the way his lips and tongue moved against your own.

He slowly walked you backwards, not breaking the kiss as he led you to your bedroom. He’d needed to show you how much he missed you since he left this morning. He was a lovesick fuck, and was damn proud of it.

You obliged without hesitation, allowing him to take control and softly rest you on your back on the bed. He kissed your eyelids, cheeks, nose, forehead. Anywhere that was accessible to him, he worshipped it- worshipped you. Your breath hitched, arching into him. You’d nearly forgotten you were in the middle of cooking when he came home. The realization hitting you in the face as you squirmed.

“Lo, dinner.” You huffed, trying- and failing- to push him away so you could finish cooking. Of course, you couldn’t fight off a man with a metal skeleton, let alone want to. You needed him, desperately. But you also wanted to make sure the house didn’t go up in flames.

“Logan.” You groaned, he growled against your skin. Pinning you down effectively as he continued his trail of kisses down your body.

“Logan Howlett.” You said with all the authority you could muster up in the moment. He stopped, lifting his head from your stomach and looking at you with a raised brow and that stupidly handsome smirk.

“Yeah, baby?”

“I gotta finish dinner.” You tried to look as stern as you could, but the way his rough hands were gently stroking your thighs made it impossible. Not to mention the look on his face. You knew him well enough to recognize it. Whatever he was about to say would solidify the one thing you knew: you weren’t leaving this bed anytime soon.

“I’ll cook. Jus’ lemme have this, sweetheart. I missed ya.”

#logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #wolverine #logan howlett fluff #logan x reader #logan howlett fanfiction #logan howlett x you #wolverine x reader #james logan howlett #logan wolverine #logan howlett x fem!reader #logan howlet x reader #origins logan my love #x men origins wolverine #origins logan howlett #manicwrites🙀#logan howlett fic #x men movies

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redhoodinternaldialectical · 14 hours ago

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Counterintuitively, Jason trafficking drugs himself, and the way he treats drug dealers in general is actually one of the core reasons I do believe he has a real moral backbone.

In Lost Days we see him mention that he killed his small arms teacher because the smack he was dealing was poisoned. In Nightwing (2016) Annual #2 Jason is particularly violent towards their enemy because he cut his heroin with other substances, leading to his mother's first overdose. In Under the Red Hood, his most important rule is 'no selling to kids', and he is specifically employing people who do sell drugs to adults.

Playing a bit of Headcanon Jazz here - listening to the notes Jason doesn't play as much as the ones he does - It feels really notable to me that dealing drugs is not enough to get on Jason's shit list. On some level Jason thinks it's okay to deal drugs. Even more importantly: Jason doesn't at all imply that drug users are at fault - nor that they need to have the choice to use taken from them 'for their own good'. Heck, I can't remember any instance of him saying that doing drugs is a bad thing.

He has lived with and cared for someone struggling with an addiction that she died to, which would have made it really easy to take him in a 'no leniency, no tolerance, kill all drug dealers and burn all the crack so no one can smoke it' road. Yet that's the opposite of how he's operating.

And I'm putting all that together to get a Jason who firmly believes in harm reduction and that when it comes to drugs, people have a right to risk; they have a right to choose to use. I don't think it's too much further of a stretch to say that he thinks that those who do use should be supported by infrastructure ensuring that their drugs are uncut and properly dosed and that they should have safe places to use and well funded rehab options if they want to quit.

This whole thing is so important to me because it lies completely outside of his emotional conflict of 'I wasn't avenged'; it's proof that there was more to Jason's talk about running Gotham differently than simply killing people.

Factually, there are a huge number of criminal activities that could be used to improve the lives of vulnerable people.

I firmly believe that no government has the right to detain, imprison, deport, et.c. people fleeing violence and persecution in their country of origin. A criminal organization that genuinely had their best interest in mind who could provide access to new identities, jobs, housing, and paperwork for cheap could save and change hundreds of lives. Sex workers, especially survival sex workers who want to quit and move on to a new job, could benefit enormously from protection from the cops, and from landlords kicking them out, and the ability to get criminal charges purged from their records, and lots of other stuff. People who use street drugs need a lot of the same things, as do people who need access to medication but for whatever reason can't get prescriptions the legal way.

This is all stuff that is already a staple of organized crime - they just do it in ways that are insanely abusive and exploitative.

It makes sense that Jason would look at that and think he could make it work! Honestly I'd love to read a comic about him trying! He could be the pinnacle of Be Gay Do Crime! Sadly though, it's very unlikely we ever will, especially because his term as a drug lord was so incredibly short to begin with. Under the Red Hood, a tiny snippet of Robin (1993) and Green Arrow (2001) #69 - #72 is really all we get, and none of those really got into the politics of his organization either.

Tho, there is a tiny snippet we possibly see in Seeing Red, my favorite Jason run ever, and I will take any excuse to talk about it so here we go lol!

This is a comic in which Batman gets some things wrong about Jason, and might be straight up lying to Green Arrow in places too, so I don't think we can take his word for it when he says Jason is driving up the trade. Especially not when Jason hasn't given a single flying fuck about collecting wealth for himself in basically any other appearance ever.

Is he using drugs as a trading good to some capacity? Yes, that's a minor plot point here, however, I think justice is very present in his reasoning. I think Jason is being selective with which shipments he's keeping - testing each and destroying the stuff that's extra dangerous, making sure that what's getting used is as safe as it can be. Plus, he might be reducing the supply so that drug trade can't expand, while considering complete elimination to be flatly undesirable, since it could force users to go cold turkey, something that can be dangerous, or at least very painful.

Now, obviously this is still headcanon territory, we never really see into Jason's head about this specific topic, but I do feel like it's a reasonable way to fill in that gap!

Anyways, this is why I've never felt like Jason's disagreements with Bruce's methods were purely about his own emotional desires. There's too much else surrounding that which he clearly also cares about.

#jason todd #damian's tomfoolery #very awkward ending but oh well lol

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stevieschrodinger · 1 day ago

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Part One Two

It’s dark. The window is still open, but the chillier air is kind of nice on Eddie’s flushed skin.

The clean bedding is nice too; Eddie tries to remember the last time he appreciated something as nice as clean sheets and draws a blank.

Probably when he still lived with Wayne. Probably before they made it big. Probably before the partying started.

Eddie picks up his phone, his thumb hovering over the call button. He presses it.

Wayne doesn’t pick up. Eddie’s not surprised, not really.

He tries Chris; she doesn’t answer either.

Likewise Gareth.

He doesn't bother calling Jeff.

There’s no one else in his phone; Chrissy took it all away when Eddie couldn’t differentiate between a friend a dealer or a booty call.

Like the worst Marie Kondo ever, Chrissy had held up the hundreds of friends Eddie had in his phone, one by one, ‘does this spark joy?’

No. Sometimes sucked his dick, though.

Eddie has money though. He twirls his phone on his chest, flipping it from long edge to short. There’s always somewhere open. Flip. Flip. Flip.

Not like anyone's answering him right now anyway. They’ve just left him here. With fucking Steve. It’s just one time anyway, he wouldn’t get away with it more than once. Chrissy would put him on proper lock down if she found out. Probably shove him back in the clinic.

So...just once.

One last go. And then he’d quit for sure. He hasn’t touched it for months, so he’s pretty much proved he can do it, anyway.

Eddie gets dressed. Finds cash balled up in random places.

Eddie stands in the doorway. Look up at the stars and then across the lawn at the security gates. He hasn’t had so much as a cigarette in nearly half a year. This is fine.

“Where you going, Eddie?”

Eddie sighs. Fucking busted. Still, “no where you need to worry about.”

“Uh hu.”

“Look, I’m not on house arrest okay? I can go out, I’m a grown fucking man.”

“You totally are. You want to go out, you go for it. No skin off my nose.”

Eddie whirls, shocked, “what the fuck? Aren’t you supposed to try and stop me from doing dumb shit?”

Steve raises the eyebrow, “so you admit it’s dumb?” He looks sleep rumpled, wearing sweats and a white tee shirt.

Walked right into that one. “You’re dumb.”

The face again. The totally schooled features that are utterly professional and give absolutely nothing away and yet...somehow...he’s laughing at Eddie. Eddie can feel it.

“So you go out,” Steve saunters over, stands next to Eddie, bare toes curling over the doorstep, “you score or drink or do whatever it is you’re aiming to do. Then what?”

“Then what,” Eddie mimics, all bitchy, “I’ll come home, and I’ll sober up, and it won’t change a fucking thing,” Eddie bites out.

“You think? You’ve had sober spells before, is that how it’s gone in the past?”

Eddie takes a deep breathe, because no, no that is not how it’s fucking gone in the past, “this time is different.”

“Is it?” Steve asks, completely fucking nonchalant, “how so?”

Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever wanted to punch someone so bad in all his life. Imagines it viscerally, Steve's fucking head cracking on the door frame while he slumps to the floor in a bloody heap.

Eddie does not do that, obviously.

“Look, I’ll come home, we don’t do anything about it, you still get paid, sound good?”

“I get paid either way,” Steve shrugs one shoulder, because he’s a cunt. “This is how a lot of addicts die, did you know that?”

“What?” Eddie asks, startled by the left turn.

“Yeah, get out of rehab, think their tolerance is still the same, get back on it…” he doesn’t bother to finish.

“That won’t happen to me.”

“Oh yeah, right. Of course. Because you’re Eddie Munson, sorry, sorry, forgot a second there.”

Eddie takes two thumping angry steps into the yard and just...just fucking screams at the sky. Just...roars at nothing. This is shit. It’s so shit. Everything is shit. And Eddie nearly fucking died last time and there’s no escaping that fact. There’s no help. There’s no point to any of this. There’s just pain and fucking misery and something clawing at Eddie’s insides trying to get out.

He roars until he’s hoarse. Until he can’t any more. Until his chin is wet with spit and he feels week and rung out.

He sits on his ass on the cold, dewy lawn.

Steve is still standing in the doorway, he doesn’t look like he’s moved at all. If he’s at all bothered by Eddie’s little meltdown, he isn’t showing it.

“Why did you want to go?” Steve asks finally, "did something change?"

Eddie shrugs, he’s got nothing, not really. No real reason past just wanting to get fucked up. Because it feels good. Because he likes it.

“Okay, what’s worth staying for?”

Eddie makes a dismissive ‘pfffft’, made croaky by his fucked out voice.

“They always say you need to do these things for yourself,” Eddie glares at Steve, because that's some dumb shit right there. Always had it in therapy though. Self worth. Mindfulness. Living in the moment and being proud of what you’ve already achieved and every journey starts with a single step and all that other bull shit they try and feed you. “I know. I agree. When you...feel like you’re nothing, you’re not worth any effort. It’s the hardest time. So pick someone else. Who can you do it for?”

“They don’t care,” Eddie croaks, “they didn’t answer,” he pulls his phone out, flips it onto the grass.

“Who?”

“Chris. Wayne.”

“Okay, give me a good reason why Wayne didn’t answer? That’s your uncle, right?”

“Yeah he...he could be at work,” Eddie admits quietly. Eddie’s given Wayne money. Well, practically forced it on him. Set him up with a nice place; or at least as nice as he could talk Wayne into. Wayne doesn’t believe in free loading though. Eddie’s convinced him to do less hours, but he still works nights two or three times a week. Claims it’s ninety percent of his social life, or some shit like that.

“Okay, and Chris?”

Eddie shrugs, embarrassment over his outburst making him petulant now.

“Eddie, what time is it where Chris is, right now?”

Eddie sighs up at the stars. It’s the middle of the fucking night, “late. Early. I guess.”

“Okay. So they’re not ignoring you, they’re just living their lives like normal human beings. Come on, get up, your ass is gonna be wet.”

“And do what?” Eddie snaps, “what’s the fucking point.” It’s not a question.

“Come on, I want to show you something.”

“It was a tough time, you know? Like, life sucks hard sometimes. Music helps. My favorite is The Wilds, you know? You heard that one?” The interviewer mumbles something indistinguishable, “it’s kind of...like the bit about the shining sea, you know? How like, it’s so beautiful, but it’s fucking hard to sail on. Or like how the mountains are so beautiful, but if you go up there alone, you’re gonna’ die, right? So I think...like how insignificant, and meaningless my life is, in like, the grand scheme of things, but like...that makes what you do even more important, right? Like, it means more, when you choose to be...I dunno,” the kid with a million piercings shrugs, “like just be good to each other, you know?”

“That’s not even remotely what that song is about,” Eddie mumbles at the laptop monitor.

Behind him, Steve snorts a laugh, “well that kid thinks it is.”

Another kid, more makeup than the whole of Kiss slathered on her face, “I just think it has meaning, you know?” The interviewer mumbles something again, “oh my favorite?” A lip bitten in thought, she looks at the sky for inspiration, it’s sunset, Eddie figures. Lots of similarly dressed kids in the background. Takes him a second to realize this was filmed outside of a gig, or something like that. “It’s hard to pick, but if I gotta’, it’s definitely Double Down. Those lyrics are just...Eddie Munson is just...he’s a fucking genius, you know?” She frowns, “but also really fucking dumb soemtimes, I hope he’s okay.”

“I didn’t even write that one. Jeff wrote most of that. On napkins, I think. I just...worked it together.”

Another kid, saying how important Corroded Coffin are; how they helped this kid through hard times. Honestly it’s a difficult watch, Eddie has no fucking clue where Steve even found this, and when Eddie’s phone rings he jumps on it, glad of an excuse to slap the screen of the laptop closed.

“Hi, Eddie! You called, sorry it’s early I got up to go for a run-”

“No. No, it’s fine, I...I shouldn’t have called you so late. Early. You were probably sleeping.”

“That’s okay, of course it’s okay, it’s nice you called me,” she snickers, “you never call me.”

That’s true, and Eddie feels bad. It’s always Chrissy chasing after Eddie. Trying to keep a lid on him...trying to keep him safe. He was always the one dodging her. “Yeah, sorry…” Eddie gets up so he can walk away from Steve, tail between his legs he slinks into the hall, he vows, “I’ll try and do better.”

“Good, how are you feeling? Hows your rut?”

Eddie is not fucking admitting that he just had a breakdown and nearly fucked it all up in the middle of the night. No fucking way is he admitting that, “yeah...yeah, just...couldn’t sleep, you know? I guess the rut...still going. Feels weird.”

Eddie can hear Chris moving around, figures she has him on speaker or something, “uh hu, that’s because you haven’t cycled a proper rut in like, four years honey, these things take time to settle. Is Steve doing okay? You’re not being a cunt to him are you?”

“Well I’ve only thought about punching him,” something jogs in Eddie’s mind, “Chrissy, what happened to the cleaning lady?”

“Oh...we did talk about it honey but you weren't really...taking it in, I don’t think-”

“I was fucked up.”

“Yeah...but she…”

“Just say it.”

“The...you know, the vomit. You were constantly trashing the place. She was worried she was...well she was mostly scared she was going to walk in one day and find your body.”

“Oh.” Eddie slumps down on the bottom step, “that sucks. I liked her.”

“Don’t worry, her final pay was incredible. She got a really impressive bunch of flowers.”

“Oh...well. Thank you. For sorting that.” Eddie’s eyes feel wet. His lip wobbles a little, but he holds it in. He’s got no right to guilt about that, not now. “The place looks okay though, I think Steve’s been cleaning some.”

“Yeah, probably, he seems like a good guy.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, but the first tear breaks free and he knows he can’t hide it much longer, “go on your run.”

“Okay, speak later?”

“Yeah, course.”

“Eddie?”

“Hmm?”

“It’s so great to hear you sounding more like yourself, I missed you so much.”

Eddie hangs up, draws his knees up to his chest, the material of his sweats already darkened with tears.

#steddie #pre steddie #rock star eddie munson #drug abuse #alcohlism #eddie munson #stranger things #steve harrington #ficlet #chrissy cunningham #eddie and chrissy #alpha eddie munson #beta steve harrington

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positiveaien · 1 day ago

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You misunderstand. It's not that this will not accomplish everything. It's that it will accomplish *nothing*. These are multinational corporations, and due to the way the economy functions, they will remain unaffected. Even if these companies somehow magically cave - which they won't - the underlying system of capitalism will bring us back to square one.

Also, what practice? I was there when the umpteenth general strike for Palestine was called, and guess what happened? That's right - nothing! You act like you're the first people to try a general strike / general boycott. I assure you, this was tried so many times before. "vote with your dollar" is totally ineffective as a tool for organizing. It's completely individualist and requires no broader organization. You can do it without needing to commit to any broader plan long-term.

It's so funny that you accuse people correctly critiquing this as ineffective and a waste of time of "armchair opining", when this entire action caters to people who want to do nothing while feeling like radical revolutionaries. If you think this does anything, you don't understand economics or sociology. Moreover, nothing is accomplished by buying things from "small businesses", because they are driven by the same incentive structures as any big business.

Join an organization or if there isn't one already, make one. Put pressure on local politicians, landlords, and industry through action. Real change happens through a lot of work, and by putting yourself on the line by working outside the system. I encourage everyone participating in this to look beyond this kind of slacktivism.

Also, free Palestine.

USA people! Buy NOTHING Feb 28 2025. Not anything. 24 hours. No spending. Buy the day before or after but nothing. NOTHING. February 28 2025. Not gas. Not milk. Not something on a gaming app. Not a penny spent. (Only option in a crisis is local small mom and pop. Nothing. Else.) Promise me. Commit. 1 day. 1 day to scare the shit out of them that they don't get to follow the bullshit executive orders. They don't get to be cowards. If they do, it costs. It costs.

Then, if you can join me for Phase 2. March 7 2025 thtough March 14 2025? No Amazon. None. 1 week. No orders. Not a single item. Not one ebook. Nothing. 1 week. Just 1.

If you live outside the USA boycott US products on February 28 2025 and stand in solidarity with us and also join us for the week of no Amazon.

Are you with me?

Spread the word.

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asterafroditis · 2 days ago

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𐔌 . ⋮ felled by fear.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☓┆Malleus Draconia x gn! reader

𓏵 734 words

ᝰ.ᐟ 3rd Person POV, no pronouns used, angst, hurt/comfort

I missed posting angst aqqq (｡>_<｡) feel free to like, reblog, or comment!

ᝰ.ᐟ masterlist

You weren’t afraid of Malleus Draconia. Not at first.

For as long as you’d known him, he had been gentle—kind, even, in his own distant way. He spoke to you when others fled. He found your presence amusing, interesting, even welcomed. He had never given you a reason to fear him.

Until he did.

It wasn’t directed at you. It wasn’t because of you. But it didn’t matter. The raw, overwhelming power that crackled through the air that night, the sheer force of his rage—it left an imprint on your bones, an instinctual terror you couldn’t shake.

Malleus hadn’t even noticed at first. He had dealt with whatever had offended him, turned to you with the same calm expression he always wore, and spoken your name like nothing had changed.

But something had.

You flinched.

It was slight—barely there—but he caught it. The way your shoulders tensed. The way your breath hitched. The way you hesitated before meeting his gaze.

You had never done that before.

He didn’t say anything. Not then. He only walked you back to your dorm, the silence stretching longer than usual. And in the following days, he observed.

You still greeted him, still smiled, still treated him with the same kindness as always—but there was something different now. A hesitation in your movements. A fraction of a second where you measured your words before speaking. A subtle shift in your posture whenever his magic so much as flickered in the air.

You were afraid.

And Malleus didn’t know how to fix it.

It came to a head one evening, under the familiar comfort of the night sky. He had invited you for a walk—as he often did—but tonight, you were quieter than usual. He watched you, the soft glow of fireflies reflecting in his somber green eyes, and finally, he asked,

“Do you truly fear me now?”

You froze. His voice wasn’t accusing, nor was it sad. It was simply… searching. As if he wanted to understand.

You hesitated, your fingers curling into your sleeves. The answer should have been simple. No, of course not. He was your friend. He had never harmed you. But the words stuck in your throat.

Malleus sighed, looking away. “I see.”

He didn’t. Not really. He had been feared all his life—by strangers, by students, by those who had never even spoken to him. But you had been different. You had never once recoiled at the sound of his name. You had never whispered behind his back or cowered when he entered a room.

And yet, here you were now, struggling to reassure him.

“I don’t—” You stopped, inhaling sharply. “I know you wouldn’t hurt me.”

Malleus tilted his head, listening.

“But that doesn’t mean I didn’t…” You swallowed. “That night. It was a lot. And I didn’t realize how powerful you were until I saw it firsthand.”

He was silent for a long moment before he let out a quiet hum. “So now you look at me differently.”

You opened your mouth to deny it, but that would be a lie. Because you did.

Malleus didn’t say anything else. He only turned his gaze back to the stars, his expression unreadable. He had always been feared. He had thought himself used to it. But somehow, from you, it hurt.

You bit your lip. Your first instinct was to comfort him—to tell him that everything was fine, that things would go back to how they were. But fear wasn’t something you could just switch off. And knowing Malleus, he would never force you to.

So instead, you took a step closer.

Malleus blinked, glancing at you.

Another step. Then another. And before you could talk yourself out of it, you reached out, hesitantly brushing your fingers against his sleeve. A small touch. A quiet reassurance.

“I’m still here, Malleus,” you murmured. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

His eyes widened slightly, something unreadable flickering across his face. Then, slowly, he closed his eyes and exhaled.

“…That is enough,” he murmured. And this time, when he looked at you, there was the faintest trace of a smile.

Not everything was fixed in a single night. But you were still here. And for Malleus, that was what he needed.

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glorioustidalwavedefendor · 1 day ago

Text

Time and place

There are a lot of times and places where punishment is wrong

There are some times and places where it is necessary

Or you think people follow traffic rules becasue they are just considerate?

They follow (most) traffic rules becasue they don't want to loose their license

You think people pick up shit after their dogs becasue they are just really nice?

I remember what it was like before it was fined if you didn't

It was shit ... literally

See the problem with punishment is

It has to be SIGNIFICANTLY worse then a persons current condition

If the unpunished condition is already pretty shit, why not just do the thing?

For example

Spelling test in school

If I cheat I get an F for cheating

But if I don't cheat I still get an F becasue I can't spell for shit becasue I am dyslexic, and my teacher was to dumb to figure that one out

So I cheat

Obviously

Worst case? I get an F

Best case? I get an A, something I will never reach with good hard work and diligence

There are people you can help to make good desicions

That will thrive with kindness and linience

And there are people that you just have to hit really hard with a metaphoricall stick, every time they do something wrong

Becasue they lack the capacity to change

They aren't criminals becasue they lack for anything in their life

They are criminals becasue they can

They only way to keep them from beeing a criminal is to make it "painfull" for them to be one

The thing is, until you get past the mindset of "justice=punishment" you will never be able to create lasting change. We have actual proof that punitive justice creates more crime and makes criminals more violent. We have actual proof that rehabilitation reduces crime and recidivism. But some of y'all are so stuck on this idea that the wrongdoer must be punished for justice to be done that you will choose sating your need for revenge over actually moving toward a better world every time. And that's sad!

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zinflo · 2 days ago

Note

Mha or jjk men (doesn’t matter who) reaction to their kids snapping at their mom

Whoever you are, thank very much for your request ♥︎ I decided to go with JJK instead of MHA since I haven’t released any work yet in relation to JJK. Hope you like it! — 🐉 𓂃🖊

IT’S THE DISRESPECT FOR ME ☞.ᐣ.ᐟ

FEATURING ᯓ★ SATORU GOJO, SUGURU GETO, CHOSO KAMO, KENTO NANAMI, RYŌMEN SUKUNA + TOJI FUSHIGURO

SYNOPSIS ᯓ★ Their reaction to their kid snapping at their mother (you ♥︎)

CONTENT ᯓ★ Parent!reader, sfw/fluff, mild language, petnames

⌞ SATORU GOJO ⌝

✄┈┈★ Gojo for sure is definitely ‘THE PROTECTIVE DAD.’

✄┈┈★ He’s usually the fun, carefree parent that lets his kids have a lot of freedom, but disrespecting their mother? Hell to the no.

✄┈┈★ The moment his kid raises their voice at you, his usual playful demeanour has gone down the drain in a heartbeat. He gives them a serious, piercing stare from behind his signature blindfold, and his voice drops a few notches.

✄┈┈★ “Woah, c’mon now. You’ve just gone from zero to one hundred.” His steps are slow until he’s finally stood right by your side but also in front of his child. “Change that tone because you don’t get to talk to your mum like that. Apologize. Now.”

✄┈┈★ If they continue to be stubborn and refuse to apologise, he kneels down to their level, still calm but firm, and asks them why they think it’s okay to act that way. Gojo wants his kid to reflect on their actions rather than just apologize for the sake of it.

✄┈┈★ Once the situation cools down, he makes sure to remind them how much you do for them. “Your mum is hardworkin’, amazin’ and is the main reason why you even get to live like a little prince/princess. Show some respect.”

✄┈┈★ Later, he’ll go back to being his usual goofy self where he wraps his arms around your waist, his soft lips brushing against your ear. “Don’t mind them, you’re still a great mum to them, sweetheart. Just give them some time, that's all.”

⌞ SUGURU GETO ⌝

✄┈┈★ Honestly? Geto just screams ‘THE WISE DAD.’

✄┈┈★ His ideology when it comes to parenting consists of being gentle yet firm discipline and doesn’t tolerate disrespect towards you. There’s simply no arguing about it.

✄┈┈★ So the moment he hears his child snap at you, his expression darkens. “Excuse me? I know damn well I’m not going deaf. So prove me wrong and try saying that again, but with respect this time.”

✄┈┈★ If they talk back, he gives them a calm but chilling stare that immediately makes them regret it. He’s not one to raise his voice—his disappointment is enough to make them feel guilty. This man is appalled, he does and I mean DOES NOT want his child to grow up acting like those monkeys with no manners or respect.

✄┈┈★ If the child is still stubborn, he removes privileges—no going out to hang with friends, no social media, until they apologize and genuinely understand their mistake.

✄┈┈★ After everything is settled, he always makes sure to reassure them with a hug but reminds them: “Respect goes both ways. You give it, you get it.”

✄┈┈★ As you both watch them walk away to their bedroom to sulk away, Geto grabs your chin in a firm grip before planting a soft peck on your forehead. “God, I love you dear but I think maybe you should give my parentin’ style a go. It’ll teach them to know their place, hm?”

⌞ CHOSO KAMO ⌝

✄┈┈★ The family oriented guy is 100% ‘THE GENTLE DAD.’

✄┈┈★ Choso rarely gets angry, but when he does, it’s serious.

✄┈┈★ The moment he hears his child snap at you, his protective instincts kick in, and he immediately steps in between you and the child. “That’s not how we talk to our mother.” His voice is low but firm.

✄┈┈★ If the child argues, he stares them down silently—his disappointed expression is worse than being yelled at.

✄┈┈★ He believes in talking things out, so he kneels and asks, “Why are you upset? Tell me, so we can fix this together.” He wants them to understand that frustration doesn’t justify rudeness.

✄┈┈★ He won’t force an immediate apology, but he will expect them to reflect and apologize on their own. If they don’t, he withholds affection—no cuddles, no high fives/fist pumps or no warm interactions until they understand.

✄┈┈★ Once they do apologize, he pulls them into a long hug and tells them, “We respect each other in this family. Especially your mother.”

✄┈┈★ While the child is in Choso’s embrace, Choso looks up and meets your eyes. He winks and his lips curl upwards before mouthing, “love you, angel.”

⌞ KENTO NANAMI ⌝

✄┈┈★ Strict? For sure ‘THE AUTHORITATIVE DAD.’

✄┈┈★ Nanami rarely raises his voice, but he’s for damn sure not letting disrespect slide when it comes to you.

✄┈┈★ The moment the child snaps, he immediately calls them out in a stern but controlled tone. “Enough! That is no way to be speakin’ to your mother like that.”

✄┈┈★ If the child continues, he simply says, “Go to your room. Now. We will talk when you are calm.” He refuses to entertain arguments in the heat of the moment.

✄┈┈★ Once they’ve cooled down, he sits them down and gets down to business, “Disagreements happen, but respect should never be lost. Your mother loves you and works hard for you. Don’t think you can speak to her how ever you like because I won’t allow it.”

✄┈┈★ He expects a proper apology, not just a mumbled “sorry.” If they don’t mean it, he waits patiently until they do.

✄┈┈★ Afterwards, he makes sure they understand that family is built on mutual respect, and he reassures them with a firm but comforting pat on the head.

✄┈┈★ Once he leaves the child alone in their bedroom to reflect on their actions, he’s met with you leaning your head against the wall so you can listen in on their conversation. A smirk crept up his face as he cupped your cheeks with his hands and locked eyes with you. “I’m sorry about before, honey. You’re perfect with everything you do, even if your way of parenting is more lenient than mine.”

⌞ RYŌMEN SUKUNA ⌝

✄┈┈★ Yeah… let’s all back away from ‘THE RUTHLESS DAD.’

✄┈┈★ Because that child is literally cooked. Without negotiation, the King of Curses expects obedience and respect so he’s pissed the moment he hears the disrespect.

✄┈┈★ His rage is instant. His sharp eyes glare down at the child all the while one of his beefy hands has hooked itself around the child’s shirt and lifted them off the ground so they’re now eye level to him. “What the hell did you just say, you brat? I know damn well you’re not talkin’ to your mother with that damn mouth of yours.” His voice alone is enough to make them regret it.

✄┈┈★ when I said that child was cooked from the beginning—I meant it. He doesn’t give warnings—his child is immediately disciplined and does not give a damn. Depending on the severity, it could be a timeout, harsh scolding, or taking away privileges. “If you go low, I’ll go lower. Two can play at that game, you ungrateful brat.”

✄┈┈★ He doesn’t tolerate disobedience. If the kid refuses to apologize, he stares them down with his four eyes in pure silence, letting the tension build and the child certainly shaking since his true form is already intimidating as it is.

✄┈┈★ “You think you can talk to my wife like that? Know your place under this household because you wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for her.” He makes sure they understand that you come first.

✄┈┈★ Once the child apologises to you, he doesn’t get all warm and sweet. His only response is a curt, “Good. Don’t do it again.”

✄┈┈★ However, he secretly keeps an eye on them afterward to make sure they truly understand the lesson. He then turns to you, looking you up and down to see if you’re mentally doing okay before ruffling your hair and rolling his eyes. “Tch, I’m not surprised that annoyin’ brat got disrespectful towards you. You’re too damn soft for your own kind, darling.”

⌞ TOji FUSHIGURO ⌝

✄┈┈★ Toji don’t play, he’s ‘THE STRAIGHTFORWARD DAD.’

✄┈┈★ No ifs or buts, there’s simply no valid explanation for why his kid thinks it is okay to snap at you and would be out of his damn mind to even allow it to happen.

✄┈┈★ The second he hears the kid snap, he’s already standing up by your side. “You’ve got a damn loose mouth, huh?” His voice is sharp, and the atmosphere immediately shifts.

✄┈┈★ He doesn’t yell, but the intensity of his presence is enough to make the kid freeze in their stop. His eyes narrow, and his tone is cold. “Cat got your tongue, hm? Try again. Nicely.”

✄┈┈★ If they don’t apologize, he crosses his arms and waits in silence—because he knows his patience alone is terrifying.

✄┈┈★ He’ll tell them straight up: “Your mum is the only reason why you have a roof over your head and eating three meals a day. You wanna act like spoiled kid? Then you can handle things yourself.”

✄┈┈★ Toji enforces consequences immediately—no dinner, extra chores, something to occupy their mind and realize their mistake.

✄┈┈★ Later, once they’ve apologized, he ruffles their hair roughly and mutters, “Don’t let me catch you doin’ that again. I mean it.” He won’t be overly affectionate, but his point is made.

✄┈┈★ His expression changes when he looks towards you, grasping your hand to pull you closer to his broad chest and gently pecking your cheek before saying, “Stand your ground, baby. And show them next time who’s boss around this house.”

My inbox is open so feel free to send me any requests or thoughts ✰ — 🐉 𓂃🖊

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