#not to be a downer of course..
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RETROSLOP this… RETROSLOP that… what ever happened to fun & whimsy and joy??? letting other people be happy?? if someone has a completely appropriate avatar (not explicit/offensive) just let them BE. even if it’s cringe. you gain absolutely nothing being a dick to (what’s probably a kid/teenager) ppl online, please go outside and talk to someone face to face 😭😭😭 there is ZEROOO need to harass people for their ONLINE avatars
#yap yap yap 💥#of course slop isn’t good i know that but you know what i mean.#ppl who use the term to describe whatever they don’t like#even if it’s not slop#i’m an avid twitter user (sorry) and i see all of the stupid shit going on in the forsaken fandom like 24/7#debbie downers dni#lol
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they cast a 28 year old for Tyson 💀
[relevant rants: here and here]
yeah, i saw - i wasn't holding onto hope of them casting a disabled actor for Tyson (still disappointed, just not surprised) but casting a 28 year old for a middle schooler is really out of left field. It's just an odd choice? Particularly given how much they've been emphasizing age-accurate casting so far.
It makes me really wonder what major rewrites they have planned for Tyson's character. Because as things stand currently there's no way to make Tyson's existing character work with this casting. Tyson is supposed to be in Percy's grade, but Daniel Diemer sticks out like a sore thumb against the child actors. Tyson being in Percy's grade is pretty important for the entire arc of Sea of Monsters with the main character arc being Percy combating internalized ableism and establishing him as a character who stands up for other marginalized kids. If they remove that, what's Percy's arc going to be for that entire season? At what point are they going to establish that about his character? Or are they just going to exposition it at us like usual with nothing backing it up and no actual character progression? And in later seasons the age gap is only going to be more prominent - like how is Tyson going to work in BoTL or TLO? Are they planning on removing his character entirely for those scenes? Are they going to remove him as a recurring character in general? It'd be really weird if they killed him off or something.
I'm also afraid for if they do try to keep Tyson's disability coding in some form - cause there's kind of no good way it can go at this point. Either they completely erase Tyson's coding because they cast an abled actor for him and that messes up the entire arc of the book and his character particularly in relation to Percy, or they have an abled actor attempt to portray a character heavily coded as having down syndrome (and i believe they're already doing similar with iirc Chiron's actor is abled but they're doubling-down in the show on Chiron being disabled) and given how they've written the neurodivergence themes (or absence there of) in the show so far there's just no way that'd end well. Like, Tyson's characterization is a little questionable to begin with in the books, but given the show's writing so far it just feels like we're very rapidly ramping up for an extremely ableist characterization of Tyson. Like i'm sure Daniel Diemer is a great actor, but... i'm just getting real tired of the show erasing the entire premise of the series :T
anyways as per my initial post about pjo tv tyson casting theories i guess it's time for me to start tearing stuff apart with my teeth ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
#pjo#riordanverse#pjo tv#pjo tv crit#tyson pjo#Anonymous#ask#sorry to play debbie downer i just would really like the Disability Series to. yknow. keep the Disability part in it.#the show has kind of already had subtle problems in the casting with stuff like a lack of plus-sized actors for plus-sized characters#and again with like Chiron casting abled actors for disabled characters. im glad they did it for Hephaestus#and im VERY happy about Hephaestus' casting. but he seems to be the only time they've actually done that in the casting so far#im not even sure if any of the demigod actors are adhd/dyslexic? i havent heard anything about it#like its not uncommon so i wouldnt be surprised if they are but i would think we would have heard about that by now if so#deepest sigh. i think the most annoying part is the series has so much potential to be really good!#like most of the casting would be the best thing ever if only the script was actually decent#i mean im not surprised if disney is afraid to cast more than one disabled actor or any plus-sized actors for major roles#cause it's disney. of course they'd be like that. which just kind of continues my point of - if youre gonna adapt a franchise#you should really be aware of like. the major details about it and the characters. before you dive head first into it and go#''oh whoops! no we cant do any of that because we dont want to. guess we'll just Change Everything or blatantly ignore it.''
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The 6 chapter epilogue moves to 'end' the Tododrama this chapter leaving a divided fandom...
For me I think that given the story the Todorokis have had up to this point it both makes sense and is the best we could have hoped for. I'm not one hundred percent happy with it, but I defiantly don't view as negatively as a lot of people seem to.
First off Touya dying makes sense and this is perhaps harsh but I hope he does. People theorizing that the mysterious Tenko like figure is Shigaraki and he will heal him and the rest of the LoV with his restored Overhaul powers is insane to me. With only four chapters left idk how that would even be covered or concluded, since even if they were healed they would all still be put in prison--it wouldn't erase the fact Touya killed 30 innocent people by his own omission. So, how Hori would cover that kind of plot in a cohesive way in four chapters is beyond me. It's pretty much people wanting a worse story because they want their favorite character to live.
Also, I'm a bit frustrated that yet again people are acting like Enji should die instead and making wild accusations based on nothing. Namely that Touya dying supposedly soonish negates Enji saying he'll watch him and his death will let him off the hook so to speak.
Enji has shown that he really loves Touya and feels immense guilt and rightful responsibility for how he treated him and his the rest of the family. Touya dying doesn't suddenly heal his permanently crippled body or give him back his Hero job. It will only make him feel worse. Also it's not as if once Touya is gone he'll ignore the rest of his family either. He still owes them as well, and will probably try to help them in whatever way he possibly can.
People acting as if Touya's death will free him or that afterwards he'll go on with his life completely happy and forgetting about him is just not in any way accurate to what we've seen of his character.
The other thing I've seen floating around is the idea that if Enji had been killed off during the first PLF War, Shoto would have saved Touya and the family would have been happy in the end. I don't think that's true. I will admit I'm bias because I like Enji and I'm not a fan of Touya, but given how Hori seems to have delt with the LoV and villains in general (unless he pulls a 180 and heals them last min) I think Touya was always meant to end up dying slowly in a hospital or get some other bittersweet ending.
BNHA is not grimdark by any means but it is not the idealistic manga of the past like Naruto. Hori punishes characters that make bad choices no matter how understandable or even shitty the choices they had were. Aoyama, despite helping defeat Afo, being a child and under the threat of death to him and his family, still drops out of UA because he feels he still has to earn his place there. Bakugou dies and his heart and hand will never be the same, while also having to deal with the guilt of Izuku loosing his Quirk (if that sticks). Enji, even though trying to change and atone for most of the Manga's run is still left permanently crippled, the job that meant everything to him, lost, his legacy gone.
For Touya who killed so many people without care, only to get back and his father. Who plotted to kill his little brother despite knowing he was abused. Not caring if his plans got his other innocent family members killed. After everything we've seen with other characters who did far less wrong and tried hard to amend those mistakes getting harsh consequences, I doubt it was ever the plan to have Touya sitting at the table with his family eating his favorite food with a smile, regardless of Enji being alive or not. To suggest that Hori only had Shoto fail because Hori needed Enji to be involved just isn't true. If Hori wanted to give Touya a happy ending he would have--many fans have already come up with how that could have happened even with Enji still alive.
The only criticism I agree with is Rei's ending. You can defiantly read how she wheels Enji around and answers his phone as them being back together or in the very least her becoming his caretaker. Now, That might not be the case--she could just doing those things because they were both going to see Touya and she's just helping him out that day, while they actually live separately, with Enji having a paid home assistant that couldn't or wouldn't go with him to see Touya (because of the stigma or visiting regulations). The issue is that we just don't know for sure and Rei has been shafted pretty badly.
That said, I wasn't expecting much from/for her anyway. I think getting a little blurb about what she was doing like Natsuo and Fuyumi did would have helped, but I sort of doubt Hori had any idea what to do with her character outside being Enji's abused wife and Shoto's mom. With him rushing to get these last chapters out I'm not shocked he just stuck her in the background, especially when Enji and Shoto as secondary characters needed the screen time.
#bnha 426#bnha spoilers#ask#thanks for the ask :)#todoroki enji#endeavor#idk i just think people expected a Steven Universe/Naruto/ She-Ra kind of ending#where everyone is happy in the end#(minus Enji of course because he deserves to suffer for all eternity apparently)#but I've noticed alot of modern Manga are way more cynical then those in the past#BNHA is no JJK#but it's not super unrealistic idealist story either#it's not a downer but it doesn't sugar coat things#one of the major themes is that people can change#but that it's really hard#and it doesn't necessarily mean everything works out perfectly afterwards#Bakugou is constantly punished for making bad choices#so is Enji#Even shoto gets some when he fucks up--like the during the Hero exam#for the lov particularly Touya who never made a different choice even when he was given multiple opportunities to#I don't think the story would have made sense if he just got a happy ending anyway#after so many other characters were punished and forced to learn/change#Yes he was abused but so was the rest of the family#and they didn't decide to kill strangers or each other just to spite Enji#that was Touya's choice and even after his entire family nearly died to save him he shows no real remorse#heck in the end he only apologized to Shoto#like at least Natsuo deserved one too after he nearly killed him twice
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Is calling shanks important part of buggy arc and he’s closest connection a reach? Are those shipping googles or am I correct? You have more objective way of thinking
mm, i don’t know how objective i really am. i try to take the shipping goggles off when i meta, but they’re very obviously still perched up on the top of my head, you know? my bias is my bias.
that said, i really don’t see how this particular claim can be called a reach when it seems like such a straightforward read of the text to me. like, think about it…
the first bit of personal insight we get into buggy (ch 19) is about his history with shanks. the most recent bit of personal insight we’ve gotten from buggy (ch 1082) is about his history with shanks. oden’s flashback constantly shows the two of them together. whitebeard suggests that if buggy isn’t at shanks’ side, he must be dead.
who else is there in buggy’s life that he has that kind of connection with?
it may not be a positive connection at this point, but it’s undeniably present. for good or ill, buggy hasn’t ever stopped thinking of shanks, or comparing himself to shanks.
i just can’t see a satisfying conclusion to his character arc that doesn’t involve shanks—even if it’s just in (permanent) absentia.
#tos answers#one piece#shuggy#buggy#shanks#—end of series speculation#of course a satisfying conclusion to buggy’s arc may not be in the cards!#he’s an antagonist and a bit of a narrative punching bag after all#an anticlimax or downer ending of ‘looks like he never learned his lesson’ are always possible
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i love madoka magica however i dont think we as a fandom talk enough about how tragic madoka herself is. probably because the narrative itself steers you away from thinking about her personally. shes not a character shes a desire that homura has, shes a force of good, shes homura's foil. but those are all madoka's narrative roles but madoka herself as a person is not really looked at because we are viewing this world from an unreliable narrator(homura) who only sees madoka as those things. The best thing homura could have done for madoka was give up on her, to let her go. because every time we go back in time the image of madoka is distorted, she loses more of herself every regression of homura's as she tries harder and harder to save her. We don't even know what madoka originally wished for to become a magical girl in the original timeline. and she actually acts quite differently than the madoka we meet. shes a lot more honest and caring and bold. by the time homura's has reached the actual anime madoka has been reduced by the sands of time to a figment of herself. she has no wants or desires of her own beyond wanting to do good and help her friends and when all her humanity is stripped away is when she finally acends to godhood because thats all thats left of her. an ideal and a faith in her. madoka kaname died a long time ago and all that is left is her ghost.
#of course homura doesnt care anymore because she cant go back she can only go forward cuz if she gives up she killed madoka for nothing#she could have left her pass away with dignity but now shes a ghost stuck in a web of time and the only thing she can do is keep trying#to save her#i feel like inately homura knows this but she doesnt want to admit to herself thats shes the real one who killed madoka kaname#this is a very charitable reading of homura#homura died too but its a clear moment because homura is our narrator#homura akemi will never come back madoka kaname will never come back#but life goes on anyway for homura#heres my truth#i loved rebellion but im actually a bigger fan of the original anime's ending so im glad it seems like red ribbon homu is coming back#i thought that ending was a lot more hopeful and beautiful and rebellion was kind of a downer but i always accepted they were parallel#and seems im right based on posters#for walpurgis#madoka uses one of my favorite literary devices which is the underuse of a character#i dont know whats it called but i love it when they dont outright develop a character usually to signal an upholding of the status quo#i already explained how madoka is not shown as a character but they do this in princess tutu too with mytho#mytho is a character from a book hes not real in the way that the others are and therefore cant actually change like the others can#hes always the focus of others and never the one thinking of others#i mean yeah he spends like the whole anime thinking about tutu but thats PART of his book its not him as a person#anyway ive been talking too much but i wanna bring up my favorite subtle use of this in takopi's original sin#the boy#idk his name rn lmao#hes straight up not present for the bulk of the manga and hes legit just absent from the ending scene despite being one point of a triangle#at first that weirded me out like??? he doesnt get closure???#but the reason was he didnt need it#the focus and moral is that those girls were 'weird' unable to be normal (because of trauma) and their closure was theyre at least together#but he doesnt need that because hes already normal hes the status quo a benchmark for the reader for the reader to judge the characters off#and the characters to judge eachother off of#anyway anyway sorry this has been so long#i had to get all of that out of me
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running my drawings through glaze to repost them on twitter and wondering if this shit is even worth it anymore
#im so tired.#i feel like the world is passing me by again. so much of my time is spent doing job apps or courses or simply being tired from those things#i really wonder how much i'd be able to get done if i wasn't weighed down by all these worries#like my parents have been supporting me ever since i got out of college and im grateful for that but#sometimes it just feels like they're prolonging my existence when i should have been weeded out by the cruelty of the system long ago#i cant complain about being spared from it for the time being but am i ever going to be able to survive in it on my own?#sorry. this is a bit of a downer post. i'm just real tired of it all#cowposting
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Somehow, I now have 200 followers. I didn't expect this to make me emotional, but it does. Thank you to every single person who follows me. It means a lot ❤️
#I never expected I'd have that many people want to see what I do and say and feel about certain things#it's a weird feeling but a positive one#a few of you came here after I started spamming this site about 4 Minutes and I'm super glad for it#because I love the show and I love that so many people ask me every week about it#but of course that doesn't change the love I will always have for VP and especially Pete#the non-person of my heart#I'm sorry I'm posting less about him but there are a few reasons for it#1. I have writer's block so my little random snippets have disappeared and I can't even open my docs now because of it#2. 4 Minutes has taken over my brain mostly (though definitely not completely)#3. Due to No2 I feel that the VP fandom doesn't... really care about my VP/Pete posts anymore#I know that's not exactly the case I still get notes on my posts and stuff#It's just... idk#I feel isolated from the rest of the fandom#to me the reasons are clear and valid and obviously no one is obligated to interact with me#I just wanted to express my sadness a little bit#I have a lot of it stored in there#sorry for being a downer under a positive post haha#can't promise it won't happen again#Love you all <33#yu speaks
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Posts here will likely be on hiatus for a couple weeks as I finish up the semester <3 I'll be back soon enough!
#not aesthetic#not stim#txt#txt post#I wanna build up a big ol queue for next semester because. Well.#Next semester is fixing to be... uh... course-heavy... and I probably won't have time to make new stuff for... well. a while...#But I still want a steady queue to come out even if I don't have time to make new gifs#because I wanna be able to check on the new comments and responses every couple days or so!#They brings me insurmountable amounts of joy#And... it's really nice to have the responses to read when schoolwork is overwhelming me and getting me down#Not to be a downer on here#Just... in a sea of things I'm doing wrong or doing late... it's nice to know that there's something I can do right#And do well. And that brings joy to people#Er-- well I didn't mean to spew all that into these tags.#I just wanted to say I love this blog and its niche community. And gif-making brings me so much joy#Thank you everyone who likes my silly little images <3#I'll be back soon
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my conceit for a hotelpod game would effectively be scp containment breach but with hotel skin n flavoring - first person horror where you play as a guest walking thru the hotel having to avoid creatures and staff in an attempt to find a way out. instead of containment chambers or whatnot you'd have rooms w/ specific kinds of death traps or monsters that will follow you thru the halls. + procedural generation so the layout is different each time
#of course there Is no getting out or escaping or anything. we already know this#youd have to go in already knowing the ending is gonna be a downer and the main character/player isnt going to Win their Main Goal#but youre not really there for that. youre there for the haunted house. youre there to Peep All The Horrors not conquer them#so it could work i think. maybe#dont mind me just. musing out loud on the blog 2night.
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um. so i finally made a folder for all my screenshots from echo, and. well

AND THIS IS JUST TJ'S ROUTE??? 😭😭
#i have a problemmmmmm#this game is such a downer idk why i even took so many screenshots in the first place 😭#(said with love of course. but also i AM going to kms <3)#echo tag#🎮 tag#send tweet
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Movies that make fun of adults living with their parents really didn't age well.
I guess this was funny, when we thought we thought it could never happen in real life on a global scale. And possibly forever unless you get married. If you get married.
#sorry to sound like a downer#even i'm guilty of laughing at movies like this#like stepbrothers and failure to launch#tbf back then i was just a kid who didn't know better#and of course living costs were much lower back then so living on your own was much more feasible#steven crowder#steven crowder meme
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.
#i don't wanna be a debbie downer on someone else's post#I don't know how i survived work today but it was a close one#people are trash#some of course#and i wish all those trash people meet karma soon#i thought I'll be moody because of v day#but it didn't bother me as much as I thought#i will stay off social media today anyway#don't need to look at all of this circus#saying that#thank you to the real ones that make my life a little brighter#i know they know#it reflects off of me to them ☀️#bye for now
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Long ago you had gotten into some trouble with the gods, being the mischievous little Cat Hybrid you are. You had actually managed to trick one of the Gods in a deal. A deal where you ended up earn everything and they ended up looking like a fool. At the time you were astonished and quite prideful. To trick a God was no small feat. But that quickly came to regret your trickery, even if you couldn’t help it.
The Gods decided that the best course of action was to punish you, of course. They couldn’t let you walk free, spreading word you had humiliated one of their own. So they made sure you could only trick mortals by trapping you within the confines of a ‘Hero’s Trial’ that once entered cannot be left. There you’d live for eternity using your wits to mislead heroes intent on proving themselves.
Eventually you lost count of the years you had been stuck within the trail. You were bored and restless. While it was fun tricking silly humans they always ended up dying. So your job became a little bit of a downer. Until he appeared. You didn’t pay him any mind at first. You thought he’d die like all the others. While he intrigued you with his own wit and cleverness, you didn’t have high hopes. The odds not in his favor.
That is until a year later when he returns at the start of your trial. You immediately perk up on the stone gate you rest upon, remembering him immediately. He made enough of an impression for that. You look him over, noticing his weakened stated. Armor torn and barely a weapon in sight. Yet he was returning to do the trial again.
“Why have you returned?” You ask, your tone demanding the truth. The air was knocked out of you as he smiles at you weakly, barely standing from the extent of his injuries. Yet his eyes glittered with adoration.
“To see you, of course,” he replies simply but you find your cheeks still turning red.
The rest of the exchange is a flurry of back-and-forth. The banter and ease in which you two talk is beyond anything you’ve ever experienced. You tricked a damn God! How could a mere human ever manage to keep up with you. But… he did. And as he walked back into the trial you can feel your heart breaking. A deep longing filling you to the brim. With his injuries and lack of protection you’re sure this time he’ll perish. There’s no way, right?
Another year passes with no hope and so much hurt. But butterflies burst in your belly when the day comes that he appears back at the start of your trial. He had somehow survived. He actually did it! With none of the grace your cat hybrid nature demands, you jump off the gate. Your human meets you just past the entrance where you two crash into each other in a fierce embrace.
“You have returned,” you breathe out with relief, your claws digging into his skin in your excitement. It’s then you realize he now has even less armor on than before.
“I’ve come to see you,” your human croaks, his voice tired but just as relieved as your own.
You lean back enough to look at his face, eyes flickering over his rugged features. He looks back at you as if you are the sun and he is the moon destined to forever remain in your orbit. You can’t explain the wave of emotions that wash over you in that moment as he confirms he’s come back to you all over again. You don’t know where to begin explaining how much it means to you. So you stop trying to explain.
As if one mind and one heart, you and your human move in at the same time, your mouths meeting in a passionate kiss. Your hands roaming along each other’s bodies with a familiarity that shouldn’t be there for two people who are only now touching for the first time. Yet it feels as if you’ve done this with him a million times. And you two share a night of passion and ecstasy before he continues off in the trial.
Years pass, one after the other, and every year your human returns to you. Proving to you time and time again the lengths and depths of his devotion to you, a sly Cat Hybrid. You count the years that pass now, not only remaining aware but keenly so. As each time your human returns with a little less armor, a weak weapon he must’ve found somewhere or none at all, his skin a little more wounded, and his mortal body a little older.
As time goes on, you grow more insistent, begging him to stop returning to the start, and still never fully understanding why he’s returned just to see you. Not when it hurts him so. Not when it hurts you to see him struggling while you have no possible way of helping him. You’re trapped to remain at the start, never allowed to go behind or beyond its entrance.
“Please, you must stop this,” you beg one night as the two of you lay under the stars, bare bodies tangled up in each other.
Your hand caresses his chest, right over his heart and his gaze softens. It’s an argument you’ve had time and time again but his patience and understanding with you remains.
“I cannot. How else will I see you?” He asks softly, lifting a hand to brush some of your hair back. You instinctively lean into his hand, nuzzling into him as you begin to purr.
Your eyes flutter shut as his words seep into you. An ache settling over your heart. The weight of his words has you shaking your head. A part of you wanting to be selfish, to keep him with you for as long as possible. But your love for him quickly overpowers it.
“Indeed you cannot. For if you see me again you will surely perish,” you whisper tearfully, your claws lifting to softly caress the forming lines on his face that begin to show his age.
Something akin to heartbreak flashes across his features. But just as soon as it comes it leaves, replaced with his usual understanding. A glimmer in his eye shows he’s close to tears as well. Needing your touch he takes your wandering hand in his, kissing it tenderly.
“Fine… If that is what you wish. Just don’t cry, my love,” he whispers, voice breaking as he speaks.
The two of you move as one, leaning in to fitting your lips together in a searing kiss. Losing yourselves to a needed final night of love and passion. Treasuring each other and the time you’d had. Knowing this will be his last time through the trial.
Another year passes at a snails pace. Never realizing how lonely you had been before meeting your lover. His love and utterly endless devotion changing you to your very core. For the first time in your very long life, the punishment the Gods had given you felt exactly like that… a punishment.
Eventually the leaves begin to turn orange and brown once more. The flicker of excitement inside your chest at the idea your lover would be here soon quickly flutters and dies to a lonely ember. Remembering once again that he was never to come back.
So when you see a strangely familiar form through your blurry tear-filled vision, you swear you must be seeing things or simply dreaming. But a quick swipe to your eyes has reality crashing down on you.
A gasp escaping from your throat to see your love stumbling toward you, clutching his stomach with his hand outlined in red against his tunic. He’s silent for a moment before something gurgles in his throat and he begins to choke.
You scramble off your perch, landing on the ground with a sickening thud. Your heart lies still in your stomach, unable to beat as you try to stand. The two of you rush toward each other just past the entryway to the trial. A strangled cry leaves him as he collapses in your arms and the two of you instantly crumble onto the ground, the leaves scattering around you.
“What are you doing here?!” You scream through broken sobs, frantically wiping away tears so that you may better see him. A rattling wheeze leaves him as he lifts a hand to softly brush the tears from your cheeks.
“I’m here to see you… one… last… time,” he rasps, cupping your cheek and bringing your forehead down to rest against his. The difference between his cold and your warmth is chilling. Unbearable. You can’t take it, you’re very being threatening to fall a part as you feel his final breath ghost across your face. His eyes never once leaving yours.
You throw your head back, letting out a cry mournful enough that it shakes the heavens. You can sense their leering eyes peering down on you. Oh, how they must be relishing in their revenge. Your tongue cannot be stopped as you spout endless curses at them.
Despising them as they must despise you, their punishment finding affect even now. For even if you didn’t mislead and trick your lover within the trial itself. You always tricked him into coming back. You must’ve. Somehow. His devotion too pure, his love too endless to be anything but the result of a trick. It couldn’t be real.
You couldn’t handle losing anything that real.
#monster fucker#monster smut#monster lover#monster lust#monster fluff#monster romance#monster angst#monster fic#monster imagine#monster bf#monster boyfriend#monster reader#hybrid furry#furry fiction#furry#hybrid fic#hybrid smut#cat hybrid#hybrid cat#hybrid creature#werecat#werecreature#hybrid x reader#hybrid x human#monster x reader#monster x human#monster x y/n#monster x you#monster x monster#monster x chubby reader
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Popping on to say sorry for the extended absence once again and that I'm not sure when I'll be back in full capacity. To paraphrase that one old newspaper clipping about life being one damned thing after another being an understatement, The Damned Things Are Overlapping, quite a lot right now. Miss you all and I hope to catch up at some point but I don't know when exactly. One would hope soon, but everything feels like shaky ground right now, so no promises. Love you though 💜
#my dearest friend is in a dismal situation at the moment and thus so am I because we may as well be joined at the hip#despite being on separate continents#I was so worried I was sure I would give myself stress hives the other day before I'd heard back. still worried now but#it was not knowing what was up that made it That bad#things at home are a little rocky atm too but that's peanuts in comparison to the other thing#also some hats I ordered after mulling over the decision all year hit Out For Delivery 3 days ago then entered some nebulous tracking state#been stuck on Alert - Awaiting Delivery Scan ever since. mysterious. are they in a limbo realm? lost? destroyed? no clue lol#and the gradual decline of twitter is a looming background radiation as well of course#my priv there used to be my comfy space where I could mournfully wail like an alley cat and feel a little less alone#and share my little project development art stuff for a pick me up. but it's a ghost town more than ever now#what's a man to do when he's too shy to original character art post in discords but too concerned with privacy to do it on tumblr#science has not yet found the answer#anyway ramble ramble this has gotten excessively long huh#thank you if you read it. and sorry for the downer#but considering what I've just said above about worrying myself sick from Not Knowing I figure maybe it's worth letting people know#puttin my money where my mouth is... eheh :')#I hope things start looking up soon. for me and you#personal pulse#maybe delete later etc
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I Recall Late November, Holdin' My Breath
husband!pedro pascal x younger fem!reader
summary: becoming an actress has always been your dream, and this job you've taken to be elvira lind's assistant is a step closer to doors of an industry so far has only given you meaningless extra roles, but you get more than you bargained for.
warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap, smut, dry humping, fingering, humilliation kink (ooc but a girl can dream for a man to be mean on bed and cute outside of it), mutual pinning, hurt/comfort, holy trio of angst + jealousy + possessiveness, ptwt cameos went on vacation for this chapter, lots of pov change, why is this so long and tortuous omg my bad if it's shitty but my current delusion/pain is pouring into my works.. if y'all don't comment ill unalive myself didn't pull an all nighter with my statistics hw and this for nothing
word count: 12,515 words
side note: inspired by a comment left in the og call it what you want and this req. finally, this became a series! y'all love this couple too much and so do i! for the record, this has been imprisoned in my drafts since jan 20; i have no shame. i reallyyyyy tried to let it out of draft asylum for his bday―THAT BEING SAID HAPPY (four days late) BIRTHDAY TO MY 50 YEAR OLD BABYGIRL―but it got too long and i'm too tired with uni and midterms coming up. my procrastinating inconsistent slow updater ass is to blame as well, my bad ++ i made an edit because i love p a normal amount
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You hated parties.
Scratch that. You hated parties where you didn't know anybody.
It isn't like you were anxious or an extreme introvert, and though you valued a lot the time you spent alone, it's more in the sense you can't help but overthink in this type of events, especially given the industry you're in. And so far, that industry had only given you meaningless roles. But it was better than nothing, of course, and you were glad to at least be in Netflix's call sheet for extra roles.
Your dream, however, was very much still alive. Hence, this job you've taken: working as Elvira Lind's PA, wife of famous actor Oscar Isaac. Did that guarantee you something? No, but it was closer than you were months ago. It is also the same reason why you're stuck in this party: Oscar Isaac's birthday, which you planned. You were forced to stay, both insisting it was unfair you did all that effort and didn't get to enjoy it. You didn't mind it, really: you loved planning parties. Thought, you felt in no position to deny the couple of anything, so you agreed.
Which brings you back to now, where you lay against one of the walls of the garden, sipping your drink: away from the music, chatter and people.
Today, the last thing you need is this.
You stare at your nails, bitten to the very finger in an anxious self-hating manner. It's a cruel reminder of today's failure: the audition, rejection burning in your back like a second skin.
You're growing tired of it: the closed doors in your face, the look of pity to let you finish even if you won't get the role, the condescending tone of I'm sorry, you're not what we're looking for.
You glance back at the party, your boss obviously having a good time with her husband. Well, at least she did. Sighing and trying to stay far away to be a Debbie Downer by yourself and not ruin the mood, you empty the glass in your hand in one gulp. Hey, maybe the alcohol will make the rest of the night more tolerable. Your aunt said you were a fun drunk once; you haven't seen her since you move to LA.
Isn't all this too depressing for a birthday party?
"Fuck" you exhale out loud, closing your eyes and letting your head rest against the wall.
"Rough night?"
You pay no mind to the new voice, deciding to sulk in private. So you keep your eyes close, humming as to answer: not out of wanting to engage on conversations or politeness, but because you hate silence.
"Looks like it"
More silence settles in. You refuse to open your eyes, hoping they're gone.
Despite it all, you find yourself replying. "You have no idea"
"At least there's a free bar" their voice is laced with mischief. "Very mindful of the person who organized this. And I know it wasn't Oscar, maldito tacaño" (fucking cheapskate)
Maybe it's because you shouldn't laugh, since it's your boss' husband. Or it's the way they haven't been deterred by your dry demeanor, or the fact that the voice sounds... familiar, for a reason you can't quite place.
"I did"
You open your eyes, turning to the person who decided the lonely sad looking woman on the pathetic silent corner of the garden was more interesting than the party going on behind.
"Ay, carajo!" you jump, soul practically leaving your body. You swear, after such shitty day, your head is playing games with you, and for some reason has decided to imagine your favorite actor as a coping mechanism. "Pedro Pascal?" (oh, damn)
He laughs, "Unless there's another way of calling me I'm not familiar with"
Of course he would be here. You organized the whole thing: went through the food and drinks as much as you went over the list of guests. But Elvira said that he probably wouldn't be able to make it, so of course, there was no reason to expect him nor try to put an extra effort in your look and plaster a fake smile.
Yet now he stands before you, and it's like your brain has crashed.
"Uh- You okay?"
"Definitely no" you're quick to answer, your voice sounding distant. "Now less"
"Oh!" he scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, as his face flushes a pretty pink. "Is it my fault?"
He looks genuinely sorry about it, making you borderline distressed.
"Yes" Pedro raises his eyebrows, "but not how you're thinking. Yes, in the sense you're right here, right now, when you weren't supposed to. Ms. Elvira said you wouldn't make it but oh- Don't feel bad. This is my fault, for acting weird" you start rambling. "It's just, you're my favorite actor, and I we met while I'm wearing the worst dress in my closet on my worst day ever"
Pedro gives you a shy smile. "I would've never guessed"
You quirk an eyebrow, heart slamming against your chest, agitated.
"Guess what?"
He shrugs, as to mantain the mystery. "It's up to you to decide"
You look down, to your dress. You play with a loose thread as you speak.
"It's definitely not about the dress"
He laughs, but the sound is small, as if it was for you only. Like he wanted you to be the only one to hear it, like a secret of yours to keep.
"Can I tell you something?" he leans in, and the smell of clean and his cologne get in your nostrils. "I think you're the prettiest sight I've seen in a while"
The air is knocked out of your lungs at his breathless confession. The party goes quiet, and for a second, the cold of the condensation that spills from the drink and mingles with that of the night's wind is gone. All you know is there's a warmth you've never felt before, one that is settling in your chest like it's making itself a home, like he is entering your life for it to be felt now ever since.
Everything has changed.
"Please, stop talking" he looks shocked at your harsh words for a moment, but then your face turns redder by the second. "I think I'm going to throw up and I haven't even had a full drink yet" your glass sweating as much as you now a testament to this.
"Oh-" he sheepishly looks down. "I'm sorry"
It's been a long week. You still can't believe this is happening. How could anyone in their right minds believe so?
"I don't know you"
He offers you a small smile.
"I thought you said you were a fan"
You can't choose what burns more: your face, lungs or chest. It's like he's breaking you, little by little. You're folding. And it's the unknown that terrifies you: you're not exactly a control freak, nor a cold person, but this is all too new and too soon. All he had to do was look at you, make you feel seen, and you don't know if it's years of fighting to be noticed or the way you easily believe in every word he says. He might as well just caught you the moment he first spoke, world stopping to hear his every breath and your shaky heart.
You look at him, sternly, trying from a different angle.
"You can't just say things like that"
"Why not?" he tilts his head, "last time I checked, lying isn't bad"
You gulp, hardly.
"You don't mean it" you insist.
"Why not?" he repeats. "Is it that hard for yourself to believe you're pretty?"
"It's rather hard to believe Pedro Pascal of all people rather spend his time complimenting me in a room full of pretty and famous guests"
"I suppose I like telling things the way they are. And how I see it, no matter how much you try to downplay yourself, you're still the most interesting person in this room"
Your stomach can't decide if to tie in a knot or let the butterflies fly.
"You're trying to tell me I'm pretty?"
"It's even better when you say it" he purses his lips together, satisfied. "Don't you think?"
He leans against the wall, next to your small wallflower spot.
"Pretty" he whispers into the air, his exhale condescending into the night.
"I still can't believe you'd choose to be here" he looks at you, eyebrow raised. "I mean, how interesting can your friend's wife's PA be?"
He laughs, loudly. You don't think what you just said is that funny.
"What?"
"They did said you had a bit of a character"
You scoff, pouting lightly. Pedro sees your posture relax a bit, shoulders less tense, and smiles.
"My boss talks behind my back?"
He shots you a look. "Don't you do the same?"
You place a hand on your chest. "I'm actually a honest person. If I don't like you, I'll say it to your face. Same if I do"
"And how are you liking me so far?" he asks, smirking.
Pedro knows he's playing with dangerous waters, seeing the conflict in your eyes torn between letting go or holding back, but he can't help it. Ever since the moment he went through the door and caught your lonely figure in the back, away from the noise and the livelihood of the party, he was drawn to you, intrigued by your guarded posture. Like you were bracing yourself.
"Who's that?" Pedro asked Oscar.
"Elvira's new personal assistant" he answers. "I told you about her"
"You did?"
He's surprised about that. He thinks he'd remember.
"Yeah, y/n. Rings a bell?"
Oh, that y/n. "The one who got you the costumes for your kids last Halloween?"
He thinks of the picture Oscar sent him, the words accompanying the photo carrying love and pride for his children, all dressed up. The costumes were nice, detailed, like the person behind them just knew what they were doing.
"Yeah, she did them herself. Pretty smart and useful girl; been working with us for a while. Seems part of the family by now"
He nods, distracted. Oscar gives him a knowing stare accompanied by a smirk.
"Hey, why don't you go talk to her? Está toda solita, ¿no ves?" Oscar nudges him. "Use that nice smile of yours. She's had a pretty rough day" (she's all by herself, don't you see?)
Despite his interest in you, complimenting you (more like flirting) hadn't been exactly his plan, yet as soon as he went by your side, your perfume clouded his judgment and the sight of the silhouette of your curves under your flimsy dress made him dizzy. All common sense went out the window, and by Oscar's earlier reaction, something tells him his friend expected this to happen.
"So, the rumors are true" your voice breaks his train of thoughts, "you're a heartthrob"
The tip of his ears go red. God, he loves the way your eyes lit up with fierce passion, as if accepting some kind of game he isn't aware of. That fiery crack, spark of yours was all too consuming. Pedro finds himself drawn to the fire of your spirit, not minding the burn.
He can handle the heat, anyway.
"Look how the tables have turned" you say, smirking. "Am I making you nervous?"
Maybe not that much.
But your smile, victorious grin on display, carrying the same illusion of a child on a Christmas morning, brings him down to his knees. He finds himself wanting more of it, being the one to provoke it.
"Very" he decides to reply. "But it's a good thing"
"We're good then"
"Pedro Pascal" he offers his hand. "But you know that"
"Y/n" grabbing his hand makes something settle deep in your bones. "But judging by how Elvira and Oscar look at us, I think you do too"
"Jesus" Pedro murmurs, "what are they up to?"
"Nothing good, I suppose" you look in their direction, and they both play clueless, looking away. "Don't worry, they'll pay for that"
"Oh, look at you" he teasingly touches your shoulder. Even if for brief seconds, your skin feels on fire. "Little evil thing, who would've thought?"
You barely contain a smile. "There's a lot to me you don't know"
He leans in closer to you. The lingering smell of alcohol on his breath gets under your skin. Talking about it, you need another drink, fast.
"Well, I'm interested in learning"
"Are you?" you taunt.
"Trust me. You aren't getting rid of me"
Pedro was many things: funny, charming, loyal, educated and hot. Like, offensively handsome. But he was also honest and a man of his word.
Just as told, he kept his promise to stay, committed to the whole knowing me, knowing you bit.
Months had passed and he had stayed.
You went from talking about coffee orders with way too many shots and the weather to political stances and failed auditions. Dreams and secrets. Things you'd probably never say outloud to anyone else. It had begun with loud laughs and conversations turned to hushed whispers under the palm leaves of his house. He invited you to his home: gave you a chance to enter the most kept part of his life, away from the noise and cameras, and let you settle inside, like you always belonged. Let you carve a space on his heart and mind, where you where for most of the time if you weren't sitting on his couch, two big for one person but that now felt complete, dipping under the new weight of someone else. Someone to keep.
(He told you about missing Chile and his family. You told him you had always wanted to be a mother. Spoke in Spanish sometimes like the language belonged only to your world. He shared his brief swimming career. You told him about your first kiss; bad. Said your fears, like heartbreak and the sharp solitude of being forgotten. Fame. Failure. Pedro told you to be patient, no one better to tell you so, but allowed you to break down in tears as you mumbled a What if it never happens? as he whispered back a It will, sounding so sure, your heart quieted and you allowed yourself to believe him. You always would, ever since his first promise: You aren't getting rid of me)
Oscar and Elvira, of course, had noticed. How could they not? Their most trusted and professional employee and one of their closests friends had fallen together in the slow delicious burn of the amber flame of love.
It was obvious to everyone but you. Or maybe you knew, teetering around the edges of a delicate friendship that pressed with a hurting softness on your ribs, trying to remind you it shouldn't be like this if it only meant that. Perhaps you were scared of the sharp corners that threatened your frail dancing around the real, big question:
What are we?
Maybe summer was the answer: with it's sun, salt air and sweat on shirts of flimsy material. He had already your spring and your winter. New Year's was at his house. Happy New Year, he had whispered, so close to your lips, it felt like a kiss. A silent I want you here, for all year promise behind his hushed tone, just for you to hear, no matter the fireworks and the glittery noise of music and mellow conversations of excited purposes with new chapters to be written. It was just you and him, as when you sat on the Santa Mónica Hills, white Hollywood sign below your feet, or when the poppies on that park he took you to brushed your feet with the sweet blossom of spring.
He'd taken all your cold and daises with him. The leaves growing and falling. Growing again. The smell of grass that reminded you of when you were young, running around with your brother without a care in the world. Safe. You weren't religious, but believed in a God out there who heard your prayers for Pedro to be by your side all the time.
You'd give him all your seasons. All your life.
"Nice view, isn't it?" Pedro asks, leaning to your side.
His smell, one you wore as your own, the hugs (wasn't he touchy as hell?) and fleeting lasting touches to blame, fills your nostrils. Your body stiffens at the closeness, never allowing yourself to relax at how close you were: to hearing his breath, to mapping all his face... But he always managed to amuse you, like today: his moustache was a tad bit unkempt, new greys here and there. So was his hair, yet managed to look breathtaking as the scenery below you.
"Listen, if you were going to peak this much all the trip, you could've taken the window seat" you chastise with no malice behind your soft voice. "I offered you so"
"I wanted you to have it"
There it goes. The reason you had thought about him all the flight. But again, when weren't you?
"There's no winning with you, huh?"
"Oh, please" he makes a funny face, lips in a pout. "You love to be close to me"
"As if, old man" you joke. "Whatever suits your delusional ass"
This banter makes Oscar and Elvira, sitting in the row next to you, roll their eyes.
"If we knew you'd be this annoying, we wouldn't brought you along"
Life had been crazy right now. Lots of roles and filming, especifically Pedro finishing to film The Mandalorian, a series soon to hit Disney's streaming service and one that could make him a household name. You just knew it, despite how many times he looked insecure about it. Still, he was excited, probably more than he was with the Wonder Woman sequel. Yeah, the role Oscar convinced him to take was what got him excited for the rest of the year to come.
So, before Pedro went to film a Netflix movie he didn't want to tell you about (you wondered why he seemed embarrassed to talk about it, despite committing to the role, as always) and Oscar went to fully inmerse in Dune (God, you were excited for that one), Elvira had suggested to take a break, and as a Thank you for the almost three years working for her, they took you with them. Now, Pedro was a last minute addition, him being surprised about being invited at all, but judging by the continuous stares from the couple, you think this was their plan all along.
"We're about to descend, isn't it great?" Oscar shares, holding his wife's hand. "I needed this"
"We all do" she agrees, leaning on his shoulders. He hums happily, closing his eyes as the pilot's voice announces for seatbelts to be worn.
"Should we do that too?" you whisper to Pedro, wiggling your brows.
"Oh, we should" he agrees in an exaggerated sweet tone, grabbing your hand. You're used to it, but today, more than ever, your heart beats fast. You lean to him, closing your eyes to avoid his brown eyes that seemed harder not to fall into each passing day, so inviting.
"You're not funny" you hear Oscar's voice say. "What a weird sense of humor you have, my sweet girlfriend"
Pedro clicks his tongue. "You guys are gross"
"Right, you won't be saying that when you fall in love" Elvira adds.
"You'll have to die waiting" he says, still holding your hand. "You know I don't do that"
You tense, and he must've felt so.
"You okay?"
"Yeah. I just hate the landing"
But your heart sinks like the plane over the tracks, crestfallen.
Despite the initial sadness, the blue of the sea took away the one in your heart.
Water had never seemed this alluring, so transparent you could see your feet pruning and the sand below your toes. You laughed under the sun, skin sprinkled with the salt of the sea and sweat.
"I wished the sea would swallow me away"
Outloud. Voice distant. The water isn't even at your waist, but Pedro looks at you. The couple are behind, sunbathing in their towels while music plays from their speaker.
"I would never allow that" sounding so serious. "I can't let you leave me"
You're taken back to your first night. You can't just say things like that.
"Right" you continue, "I'd do you a favor"
"The favor would be to stay. But I'd rather have it be a promise"
Promises. Funny. Why did Pedro say this things so freely, as true as a breath, when then he'd go and voice his fear for commitment and refusal for love in the next beat? Of course, you can't force nothing, nor have the right to change him. But it stings, that you no longer know what his initial promise meant. Friends. Yeah, could be that, but boy, didn't it hurt?
It isn't enough.
Your heart doesn't get the memo though, fluttering with his words.
"The promise to bother you forever?" you try to keep your tone steady.
"I can live with that if it means to keep you"
You suck in a breath.
"Look"
You kneel down, trying to avoid his face. Pedro should notice, he always does, but he's too busy staring somewhere else. Someone else. By God, this bikini you're wearing... It's making him insane. And hard. Under his swimtrucks, but you can't find out. He already feels like a creep, staring at your ass while you bend, giving him your back. Obscene images fill his mind, brain racing with filthy ideas of the position, reimagined.
He's a fucking joke.
"What?" he asks, mind elsewhere, somewhere between the tanning marks that have started to appear in your skin.
"A seashell" you hold your discovery to his face, giggling like a high schooler.
"It's cute" he murmurs, big fingers brushing past yours. He sees you gulp. "Like you"
You gulp again, this time with difficulty.
"Stop it, bobo" (dummy)
"You make it hard"
No, he made it hard by saying this things without a care in your poor heart.
You splash some water onto him, making Pedro laugh. Feisty girl, his deep voice rasps, making your cheeks flare up as your bottoms start to feel wet, and not by the shallow water. You remember then your menstrual cycle app. Fertile week, the notification said.
"If you ever say something like that again, I'll drown you"
"The compliment or the berating?" Pedro's quick to reply.
Jesus Christ.
"I'll tell Oscar and Elvira to send you home. Now"
"You wouldn't" he responds, laughing.
Your own laughter quiets down.
"That's right" with a soft, quiet acceptance. His laughter dies too at your tone, looking so deeply into your eyes, you feel dizzy. There's something you can't quite place in them. "I wouldn't"
A wind breezes by. The air has shifted. And the worst part is you both feel it.
Later that night, you joined the couple for dinner. Pedro was already there, changing his red swimming trunks for a Cuvabera shirt that clung to his broad shoulders and showed a weak peak of his soft silhoutte.
"Good you joined us"
"I wouldn't miss it" you reply to Elvira's sincere words, taking a seat next to Pedro.
What he wouldn't miss, is you. Holy fuck. Had you done this on purpose for him being a teasing ass to you earlier? No, how could you? You didn't know the effect you had on him.
The same effect that's making it so hard to ignore how your breasts are pushed up, and how it graciously adapts to your figure. He feels blood rush to his face and cock, and by Oscar's teasing snicker, he knows he's been obvious with the staring.
Nevertheless, conversation flows easily as the drinks and food. After rounds of wine and pasta from the hotel's restaurant, you feel a bit drunk. Nothing too alarming, just enough to do something stupid.
Like saying I love you.
"Are you okay?"
Despite being his usual loud self, Pedro's been spacing out here and there, and it always seems to happen when you talk.
"Yeah. 'M fine" you try reaching for him, but he stands up, abruptly so. "I just need some fresh air"
"I can come-"
"No!" his voice cracks. Fuck. Did he just yell at you? Judging by Elvira's glance, he did. God, and to your sweet offering and smile? He's going to hell. "Sorry, just better off by myself"
You flinch. Something like hurt makes its way to your face. He's hating himself more by the minute.
"Okay. Have fun"
But it's emotionless. You let him walk away, and it doesn't even take a minute of Pedro's back leaving the restaurant for the couple to gossip.
"Must be work stress"
"Sure it is, babe"
You don't like their tone, as if they knew an inside joke you aren't part of. Like you're the joke.
"I'll go after him"
You don't know what bothers you more: their silent stare or how they didn't stop you.
You find Pedro on an alleyway, propped against the wall. His features are lit by a dim glow.
"I thought you quit"
He blows some smoke. "And I thought I told you not to follow me"
You sigh, standing next to him.
"You smoke when you're nervous"
He doesn't look at you when he replies. "I don't"
You click your tongue. A beat.
"You do"
"I'm sorry, Ms. Expert On Me" he mocks, taking a drag.
"Fuck you" you retort, tired of his off-putting behavior during dinner and now. He gives you a bewildered look, making you angrier. "And don't give me that face, you're the one who's been acting weird all night. I'm just trying to be a good friend"
"If you were a good friend" he delivers the words in a way it feels like a slap to your face, "you would've leave me alone"
Pedro hardly lost his temper, yet now, his eyes burn with a barely contained rage.
"P..." you try one last time, never one to beg but finding yourself doing the impossible for him. Using that silly nickname as your last weapon.
"Go" is his last plead.
"Not until you tell me what is going on"
He loves how stubborn you can be.
He hates it.
"Go" he insists.
"No. You can't just- act like this! Shutting me out and..." you feel frustrating bubbling up your chest. "I don't know what's happening, just talk to me. Help me understand. Pedro, you can't treat me like I'm a nuissance when you have flirted with me hours-"
The words spill out before you can contain them. He lets out a cold laugh that chills your bones.
"Flirted with you?" Pedro takes another drag. "Jesus, y/n"
It's the way he said it that makes you want to vomit. Like the sole idea of it is offensive.
"Why do you say it like that?" you shove him.
His jaw tightens. Eyes red from the wine and anger. Cigarrette dangling from his lips.
"Like what?"
"Like the thought of it makes you sick, pendejo!" (Bastard)
"Why can't you just leave me the fuck alone!" he finally snaps, shouting. You stumble back slightly, almost falling due to your drunken senses. "See? This is why I told you to go. I say things I don't-"
"Don't you fucking dare blame this on me" you seethe. "It was your choice. To hurt me"
He hates how your voice cracks. Guilt creeps in.
"I don't want to" he runs a hand through his already messy curls. "I'm sorry"
"But you did. Why?"
Why do you hurt me when all I do is love you?
"Because I'm stupid" he leans against the wall, his regrets falling like the ash losing among the patters of the sand.
"You are" you stiffle a laugh. Without asking permission, you steal the half burnt cigarrette from his hands.
He let's you, without a word. He always has given you everything.
"We need to stop dragging this" you let out, flat. Decisive, as you stomp the cigarrette in the ground.
His heart beats so loud, it's the only sound on his ears.
"What's this?" voice barely above a whisper.
This means all those times he'd lean in too close, suffocating, because he'd always knock the air out of your lungs. When he'd hold your hand for too long, mind wandering to places it shouldn't. How your toothbrush stayed at his place, and he didn't tell you to take it back. How you changed the way the pillows on his bed where lined up, because it was comfier, and he never changed it to the way it was. You had changed his life in so many little and meaningful ways. He just couldn't imagine a life before you.
Without you.
"You know what this is" your voice is calm, accepting. "But you can call it what you want"
The moon shines above. The water crashes softly on the shore. The air feels humid and hot, but not smothering. Not anymore.
"I'm scared" is all he says. "Ever since one morning, I woke up feeling different. I just... I wanted you to be there. That your face was the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes"
You always know what to say. Words seem to bloom out of you. Now they're stuck in your throat, choking you up like thorns.
"I think I've known for a long time, but you know... It's hard to accept something familiar yet foreign. Old but new"
You gulp. Your heart races.
"Pedro" your own voice feels foreign to you. "You don't have to-"
This was an apology. A search for answers. This is it. It's too much to take. You'd never guess you'd hear him utter any words that spoke about the nature of your relationship, made it clear, gave it a name, less to be under the pale moonlight.
"I'm not ready, but I want to. For you. Us"
His lips aren't as close as they have been other times, yet now, it feels it can end with a kiss.
"I can wait" you reply softly, cupping his face. Your fingers grace his two day stubble, focused on the small heart resembling patch where no hair grows. "For you, anything"
You'll kiss. Finally.
But then―
A ping. Small sound. You recognize it as the one you've designated for emails.
"What's that?"
You take out your phone, seeing the mail app icon badge on your notifications. With shaky fingers you unlock it, heart trembling. Pedro places his hand on your shoulder, as to ground you. Doesn't he know you well?
It's from your agent, the one Elvira had recommended you.
You suck in a breath. Casting call, reads the subject line.
"Oh. My. God" you cover your mouth with your hand. "P-Pedro! Fuck, look!"
He has always loved your victory face. It's the best view, even with the sea in front of him.
"I got the role" you whisper. Some tears of happiness show in your eyes.
"I knew you would"
"I-I got it" you jump in excitement, a scream lost in the night. "I got it, I got it, I got it!"
This time louder. Happier. More excited. He just watches mesmerized every little jump you do and how joy seems to ooze out of your body, the energy contagious. He finds himself smiling at you, something warm as pride settling on his chest.
"I would've personally hunt them if you got rejected"
You stop your celebration, looking at him between playful and breathless.
"Good thing they didn't"
You get close again. He doesn't know when, just that now he can see the acne scars on your face.
"Because they know what's good" he replies, tucking a loose strand behind your ear with a gentleness never known before.
You can't help but smile, your nose brushing with his.
"Don't we all?"
There's a kiss. Strong. Full of yearn, like the one on movies. On songs. This is what they want to write and sing about; try to put the feeling into words. He bits your lower lip and your tongue slides into his mouth, eager. His hands find their way to your hips, tight as a promise, pulling you even closer.
"God. You taste so good. So sweet" Pedro mumbles. Drunk. Wine or you, he doesn't care. It all makes him feel warm and fuzzy. "Need more"
With a sudden burst of movement, Pedro spins you around, pushing you up against the wall, pinning your wrists above your head with one large hand. His eyes are dark and breathing ragged, as if he's lost control.
Your heart jumps in your throat.
"W-what are you doing?"
His other hand slides down the curve of your side, over the flare of your hip, to grip your ass, pulling your hips flush against his own as he grounds the thick ridge of his erection against your core.
His voice drops.
"Don't be surprised, baby. As if you haven't thought about it"
He was right but also wrong. When you came looking for him, this was the last outcome in your mind.
Other nights, alone in your bedroom, however...
Your voice comes out in a breathless whisper. Pleading. "You know they could come looking for us any minute by now"
"Let them" he whispers, heavy breaths out of his mouth, mingling with your own. "Don't you want to properly celebrate, baby? Don't act like you don't want it. What if they walked in right now and saw their assistant grinding on their friend? Dripping all over my pants like the dirty slut you are?"
He whines as you grind your hips down on him.
"Then we better put on a show, don't you think?"
The khaki does a very poor job of hiding the wet patch already forming in the fabric over his tip, and if you had more time, you'd probably ask to suck him off; that's how equally horny and grateful you are now.
"Dirty girl"
So damn hot, your arousal pools into your now wet and sticky panties. Shout out to the dress: you don't think you could've handled the pulse of your aching cunt inside jeans.
"M'sorry for not being able to, you know-" he wiggles his eyebrows, smile soon strained by gritted teeth. "Wish I could just fuck you, here and now"
"Well, you can always come to my room tonight" and pull out the spare keycard the hotel gave you, taunting him with it like a hungry dog with a bone.
He gives you a hopeful look.
"You bet I'll be there" and bites it away from your grasp.
It's so sexy, but he's soon dropping it somewhere, falling with a soft click to the sand, because he's kissing you again, whole mouth devouring yours. Pedro makes little noises, all too strained and eager, groaning as his head falls back, your damp panties pressed intimately against the cloth of his shorts.
Pedro is fucking flying. Borderline ascending. All he knows is his cock throbbs hard as your clothed pussy grinds down on his lap while you rock your hips against his.
"Fuck-" he curses, "shouldn't wore such a small little frail dress while parading around me, baby. Es una puta tortura" (it's a fucking torture)
He grips your hips tighter, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he fights the urge to grind up against you. His large hands slid up your sides, skimming over the side of your ribs, the swell of your breasts. Pedro hums in satisfaction. Along blooms something akin to pride in your chest.
"You like it?"
"More than I should" he admits, cheeks flaring up.
"So that's why you were distracted" you laugh at him, playfully swatting his chest. "Couldn't handle the y/n charm?"
"Shut up" he mumbles, embarrased.
"Make me"
He rests his head down in your collarbones, stubble making light tickles as it grazes against your flushed skin, down in the crook of your neck, hiding his face there. Pedro breathes you in, musk mixed with sweat and the fading notes of your floral perfume, then growls.
"I don't know how I'll stop myself from not having you, baby. You've fucked me up, I swear" you moan at the intensity of each word that spills from his mouth, "might not care if Oscar and Elvira walk in now-"
"Pedro!" you yelp as his hips rolling to meet yours. A pink embarrassement washes over your face, not only at the thought but also at how you're not entirely displeased. "D-don't say that"
"Oh, please. Will you tell me you don't like the idea? Should've thought about it first, then, naughty girl" he rasps, voice a low, desperate rumble. "Don't you feel what you do to me? How hard I am for you?"
With each word, a new thrust of his hips, khaki shorts against your panties rubbing deliciously. He could feel all of your heat even through the layers separating you.
Pedro groans softly, hips rolling urgently against yours as he pinned you harder to the wall with his body, his soft planes molding with your own.
What a vacation.
(Dry humping with Pedro Pascal on a hotel room during a getaway with your boss, who happened to be Elvira Lind, wife of Oscar Isaac? After being handed a role you fought hard for? Never ever even dreamed of it)
"You want to come on my cock like this?" Pedro purrs in your ear. "Want me to dry hump this little cunt until you're coming?"
The thick bulge of his erection rubs right over your clothed slit. He feels your body tensing, breath coming in short gasps. One of those dies in your throat as you feel his fingers dipping underneath to touch your slick folds.
"Jesus, baby. You're soaked" he speaks as his fingers part your lips, delving deeper to stroke over your swollen clit. "Is this all for me, sweetheart?"
He circles your clit with the rough pad of his finger, feeling your hips buck and writhe against his touch. He can feel your walls starting to flutter, your body tensing as your climax approaches.
"Let me reward you, then, for bein' such a good girl" voice a low rasp in your ear. "My future movie star"
Pedro rubs your clit harder, fingers pumping in and out as he ground his cock against you, chasing his own desperate pleasure. He too was so close, balls tight, cock throbbing and leak on his pants.
"Fuck, Y/n... come on, baby. Come for me"
He feels your body stiffen and then fall against him as your orgasm crashes over you. He groans long and low as he feels your slick walls pulsing and fluttering around his rough digits.
It's not long before he comes, hard, his cock jerking and pulsing as he spills himself in his pants, seeping through the cotton and staining the fabric.
Now it's his turn to slump against you, pinning you to the wall with his larger frame as he struggles to catch his breath. His fingers still their movements, pulling them out of your soaked heat as he tries to even his breathing.
He nuzzles into your hair, wearing a lazy smile you can't see.
"That's my good girl. Came so pretty, all for me" Pedro praises. "Made a complete mess of yourself, didn't you? Even when you knew they could come looking for us, but that didn't stop you at all, dirty baby"
You chuckle, readjusting yourself.
"Time to head back, dirty boy"
"Boo, you're boring" he jokes. "But whatever my girl wants"
Pedro leans to kiss your hand, softly. You giggle.
"I like my men obedient"
"And I'm into submission" he winks, "so we're even"
Oscar and Elvira don't ask about your thirty minute absence, yet by their unspoken married couple secret language, it's like they know or at least guess what happened. And your shared glances and smiles give it away, anyway.
"I'm heading to my room" you announce after dessert, brushing your fingers with Pedro's. A small reminder.
"It's barely ten" Oscar replies with a strange tone.
"Tonight was fun but I'm tired" you offer a rather lazy excuse. "Goodnight"
The copy of your key burns in his pocket. He abruptly stands up, not even five minutes after. He is as obvious as impatient.
"Wow, slow down buddy" Oscar grabs his arm, forcing him to sit down again. His cock twitches, as pissed as he is. "Easy. There's no rush, is it? Or do you have somewhere else to be?"
He gulps down.
"Oh, look at them. Didn't I tell you so?" Elvira laughs.
"I thought so too!" Oscar argues.
The woman just gives him a glare. "Yet who came up with it first?"
"Fine, wife wins this round" he slumps on his chair. Then looks at Pedro, pointing her. "You can't win with this one"
She ignores him, leaning forward, elbows propped in the table.
"So, did you two-"
Pedro's cheeks burn. "I'm not gonna share that-"
"-Talk" she finishes, "but now I'm curious to know what you aren't meant to share"
"Secundo eso" Oscar chimes in. (I second that)
"I need to go, really" he insists, thinking of you. On your bathroom, propping yourself in the mirror, starring and smiling too much at your reflection.
"I get it, time's precious" his friend coincides. "You aren't getting any younger dude"
This is his banter with Oscar, all playful no damage meant. But his stomach sinks.
In a way, he's right, and some of the doubts that held him back come crawling and settling on his head. They whisper until their words cut deep and find home in the darkest corners of his mind, feeding from the shadows.
A young couple passes by him. He hadn't even registered he'd stood up until the perfume of the woman, fruity, wafts into his circle. Until the man's voice and laughter is clear, full of life and less burden of the years passed by. They look so good together, and then she leans in to whisper to him, looking at Pedro. The man turns around, smiling but then looking at her, lastly at the exit doors. And they're gone. Maybe they recognized him, but right now, it feels like the universe has sent him a message.
A cruel unwarranted blow of reality.
(Aching joints meeting your brand new. The coloring of his hair that hadn't started in yours. The rough of his skin against the soft of your own. The wrinkles you had of laughter and expression opposed to those he simply had because of time. His soft planes compared to your rigid body. The size difference. The age gap. That was his reality and it fucking sucked)
His phone chimes in on cue.
Thank you for tonight. That was amazing
Pedro smiles, sadly so, as he types an answer.
It was
In past. Fitting for an ending. A goodbye.
The key burns still. But he doesn't take it out, not even when the shorts drop somewhere on the pile of clothes on his room's couch. He just falls in bed, burying his face into the pillow until the pushing force of guilt and feelings lull him to sleep.
On the other side of the hotel, moon shines it's light into an empty room, waiting bed cold with deception, many questions asked to the silence, not sure if you want the answers.
You should always trust your intuition.
It didn't fail you when you decided to leave your country behind, despite the failure, homesickness and loneliness gnawing at your heartstrings season to season.
Now? You were about to star in one of Netflix's original romcoms, and while to others it may seem small, to you, this leap in your career from background roles to lead meant everything.
It also didn't fail you when it came to Pedro. Whom you caught his first stare across the room, holding it dearly to your heart like the night you met. The age gap, different stages in life, work... all of it blurred to the sound of his low laugh and voice.
I think you're the prettiest sight I've seen in a while.
You loved being right. You hated not being proved wrong now.
For the rest of the vacation, is like Pedro did a whole switch: he made it his mission to act like nothing happened, like you hadn't happened.
Maybe, the thrill or vacation release was what he wanted, and the hoping was only on your side. The deep connection you'd nurtured for months was gone in seconds, taken away from you before you even learned what loving was.
He was commited, you have to give him that. Even on the plane, in such reduced space, he managed to remain quiet, not even batting an eye at Oscar and Elvira's questioning stares. They were probably as confused as you.
It all stayed back in the island: the sound of waves, sand in your feet and the hot sun of stolen stares and whispers lost in the humid night. The hard of the wall pressed against your back. The moonlight over the sea as he said Us. And how he tasted, like the wine and cheese he glazed his pasta with. In every cup and serving, he will be now, not like you wanted but like a ghost. Haunting.
It was over.
So were your days working for Elvira, who had become sort of a mother figure to you, especially after being away from yours. In this new stage of life, being an assistant just didn't fit into your schedule anymore, and as grateful as you were to have met them―what the family did for you―, it was time to go.
This meant you'd still keep in touch, though. Still, the chances of seeing Pedro again were low, and you have yet to decide if that was good or bad, because what made you feel giddy had turned to dread.
Despite it all, you forced yourself to remain positive. Shooting for your role was about to begin and you weren't going to let a man ruin it. You hadn't let this things hurt before, why should they now?
Pedro was different.
If for fleeting time had your paths converged, you're aware you'll remember those weeks for the rest of your life. You know it by the way your digits twitch with need, his number ingrained into your mind due to the hours spent thinking about it. You called your parents all the time, as usual yet felt guilty because now, Pedro was the first person on your mind.
He was the one you wanted to speak. Talk about your day on set. For him to go through your lines with you, like he had done before your audition. Take this, and he gave you one of his hoodies that day, the Carrie one. I'll be there, Pedro said. Now you won't feel alone. You wish you kept it, just to remember his smell, gone weeks ago of your house, last reminder he once lived in here like it was his real home.
You hated driving across his house, not daring to step a foot inside. How leaves turned from green to yellow, the orange spicy cinnamon air of November's autumn welcoming your still broken heart. How the premiere for his series was around the corner, days away, and you kept staring at the phone for too long. To congratulate him. Ask how he's been. If he's nervous. If you'll watch the first episode together.
"Hey, y/n" you raise your head from your phone, fingers hovering over his contact, yet again. You turn it off, embarrased. "Got any plans for later?"
It's your co-star, Jordan Fisher. You both share a passion for dancing, something you do a lot in this movie, Work It. It had been fun so far, and you've met the two leads, him and Sabrina Carpenter, spending much more time with the latter as you play her bestfriend. While not being the main role, you would treasure this experience forever.
"Um, I don't think so" you answer, smiling. "Why?"
"I was going to grab some drinks in this café nearby. Want to come?"
You look at your phone, then at him. You tell yourself this is okay, even if a part of you is screaming in betrayal.
No, you deserve to be happy. To go out and not think about Pedro at all. Enough moping around when no one is looking. Enough of forbidding yourself from moving on, holding onto heartache like it's a crown or a badge to wear with honor.
"Sure" you stand up, throwing your phone inside your bag. For the first time, you truly smile and don't think about Pedro and the summer sorrow. "A coffee right now sounds perfect"
Pedro has been miserable.
Ever since you came back from your trip, the distance got even bigger. Not louder, quieter: long gone the loud laughter and endless conversations. You didn't question him, just gave him those eyes full of grief, pain and confusion he hated. He avoided your stare, knowing he would cave in the moment he gazed back. So you respected his silence and distance, helped the breach grow bigger. Pedro doesn't know what hurts the most: that you stopped trying because you respected his boundaries that much, without a question, or that you had given up on him that easily.
He's currently sat on his living room, some movie playing in the background as he scrolls through his phone. He never thought he'd be one of those people, but once the bad habit started, he couldn't quit it. You'd chastise him: Look at you, trying to fit in with the youngsters and our bad etiquette. Your voice was light, teasing, but now he's reimagining it with a cruel light to it, laced with mockery. Not joking with him. At him.
His phone chimes in. It's a text from Oscar.
Pedro. Have you seen this?
Three dots. Erased. Then again. Finally, he gives up and just sends a link.
Jordan Fisher And his Co-Star, Y/n L/n, More Than Friends?
He turns off the phone, unable to see more. His breathing turns frantic, lungs burning with each breath he takes.
Pedro turns it on again, like he wants to punish himself in a way. His fingers presses over the blue text, the article showing up in no time on his screen. If the title hurt him enough, the picture below kills him.
That smile he misses, again seen through a screen, as the one's he's captured and keeps on his phone, seeing them when it's late at night and the pain of your absence becomes unbearable. But he's not the reason why you smile. It's him: young and handsome, coffee in hand with the same logo as yours.
Did he know you preferred brown sugar just because you liked the color? It's my favorite color, while looking at his eyes. Does Jordan know you always buy extra whipped cream when you order it cold? How does he know what to say to make you laugh the way only he knew: eyes crinkled, corners wrinkled and that loud sound that lit up a room? It was his, in a way, a trophy as important as any award the industry could give him. But now he's staring at it through an article, a young man by your side.
You look good. Beautiful. A dark part of him wishes you weren't doing well, that it's just a facade, like him. That deep down, you can't sleep at night thinking of him, and when you close your eyes, he's the last thing you think of and the one you dream of.
He wants you to mourn this fight that went down with cold acceptance. For you to feel the same tug at your heartstrings when you look around you, because for him, you're everywhere: in every corner of his house and life, haunted by the brushstrokes your colors painted on his life. But now the paint has dried, cracked, and he's selfishly wishing you haven't moved on. That you think of him as much as he thinks of the sand, your moans and your sweet taste. Of being so close to paradise and letting you go.
That you're hurting just means it mattered to you, yet now, with the smile mocking him on his face, he thinks you never cared.
Worst part is he deserves it. He was the one who pushed you away.
His fingers hover over his phone. No, it's not the right time. It never feels like it is, regret washing away with cowardice his chances. He's dialing other number. It takes a while for the line to pick up.
"I was waiting for your call"
Pedro rolls his eyes. "Very funny"
Oscar scoffs. "I wasn't trying to be"
"Why'd send me that?" he's asking, knot on his stomach.
"Why do you think?" voice stern, acompanied by a matter-of-fact tone. "Usa la cabeza" (use your head)
"To torture me?"
He only laughs. "So you can do something about it"
And the only thing he did was grab the closest bottle and drink until the tears of his amber eyes melted within the mirroring liquid, world reduced to a quiet blur of ringing ears and broken heart on his lonely bed, missing your smell and how it dipped under your shared weight.
Grief turned to anger fast. A fury that went in burning circles of regret and helplessness.
How could you?
Why hadn't you fight more for...
How could he even call you both?
(Call it what you want, you said)
No. He had no right being mad.
But, was he that easy to forget?
Anger makes his face hot with embarrassement and rage. His fists turn white, curling and uncurling. His hair is a mess and he knows every breath he takes now reeks of whiskey. What he doesn't know is how he ends up in front of your house after months of not being able to even call you on the phone, same white knucles now relaxed into a bright pink that matches with the drunken blush of his face, falling into the peaceful familiarity of coming home, all pain gone for a fleeting moment as soon as he senses the faint smell of your plants in the porch. Daises are my favorite, the entrance to your house filled with them. He gave you one for your birthday last year.
"Pedro?"
Had he already knocked your door? He stares at his trecherous hand. Pedro doesn't even know what to say, his name called by you sinking into his chest.
Despite his slurred senses, he can see you: your soft hair, still damp from the shower. The roses and milk aroma on your skin he so dearly missed. The way the loose t-shirt hangs from your body, paired with your Cherry Blossom socks with Van Gogh's painting on their pattern. Your bare legs make him dizzy, as if the alcohol had not done enough damage to his balance already.
"Pedro" you repeat, "what are you doing here?"
Good question. He doesn't even know the answer.
(Or maybe he does, but damn, isn't he a fucking coward?)
"Are you with him?"
"What?"
"That guy" he tries explaining, his own voice sounding distant to himself. "Are you dating?"
You laugh, coldly. He takes a step back, like you've landed a blow across his face.
"What makes you think you have the right to show up at my door after months of ignoring me to ask that?" you lean on the doorframe, dismissive, but he feels you're blocking the entrance. Blocking him out of your life. "It's none of your bussiness"
"Y-you can't be with him"
Weak. Like a fucking beggar.
"I beg your pardon? Jesus, the nerve that you have-" you throw your hands in the air, a thing you do when you lose your temper, which is frequent to happen. As calculating and driven you were, you weren't a patient woman. "Did you think it was a good idea to come by and tell me what to do? On top of all that, drunk? Fuck, you're a mess"
His shoulders slump down with the weight of shame, running a hand through his messy hair, distressed. He looks up again and examines your features.
They're the same, and he doesn't know why he's relieved, as if you were to change in months. But to be loved is to be changed, and God knows he was scared of finding another version of you behind the door, one without free hair and floral scent: one that didn't belong to him anymore.
"You didn't even call for my birthday" he looks up to you, but you look at the floor, voice breaking. "I knew that's when it was over. For real"
"Y/n-"
God, you missed the way his voice would call you. But the hurt is too much to bear, months of piled up sadness forming a storm: the one you've always been, never a calm sea like the one in front of you when you kissed, but always roaring, each word aiming to hit like thunder.
You had spent so many hours, shrinking in fear under the force of pain, body trying to cry―to release, anything―and live through just another empty night.
He, the reason of your ache, now standing before you, looking as miserable as you feel.
"You need to go"
Final. No room for more to be said. He just hates how determined you are sometimes.
You're closing your door. Shutting him out. He can see the pain on your face, let's himself believe there's a chance as he tries to erase feeling so dumb for succumbing to harmless teasing words of his friend―mixing with previous fears, and the image of you, holding hands with another. Kissing another who gets to taste the flavor of those strawberries you ate so frequently and that of your gloss. To be whole with someone who isn't him.
But it's his fault.
His, his, only his.
He doesn't want to lose you. He can't. Even if love isn't natural for the likes of you and him, he knows it's yours and his.
It can't be over. Can't. He doesn't know nanything like you. Has got nowhere else to go.
"I love you" he tries, desperate.
Your eyes go wide, with surprise, then sadness and finally rage, one that's quiet, simmering and scratching the surface to let wrath go loose.
"You can't love me"
He might as well have already lost you.
"What you did to me" The silence. The betrayal. Closing off. Throwing away in the blink of an eye. Asking why's to a rusted dead line. "Not even a friend would do" your hand grabs the doorknob with ending resolution, but it shakes. With vitriol, tears or uncertainity, he doesn't know. "So don't talk about love like you mean it. You can't just say things like that"
The soft waft of alcohol in your breath. Petricor mixing with the smell of freshly cut grass. Your shy smile and light blush despite the flame of ambition in your eyes. Your words take him back. To the night you met. He would go back and tell himself not to be stupid, not to fuck the best thing on his life.
"Please" like it pains you to say it, "stand up. Don't make this harder"
He's on his knees, begging. For what? It's over. He not even prayed but is willing to sacrilege vows he hadn't taken to keep your love.
"I'm sorry" he buries his face in your thighs. Feels the humid of his tears running and the warmth of your skin combing through his hair. "I'm an idiot"
You chuckle weakly. "I know"
"One" Pedro holds tighter, wretched. "Just one chance"
"P..."
You feel his grip loosen.
"Don't" choked up, "don't say it like a goodbye"
You kneel down to his level, tilting his head with gentle fingers by his chin as he refuses to meet you in the eye.
"At least now you know how it feels" and brush a stray tear away.
"I love you" he repeats. "I'm sorry I didn't know how to deal with it"
You let him continue, hand still on his face, stubble rough, prickling your skin.
"When I found out... This is gonna sound very corny, but that one phrase about not knowing what you've got until you lose it? It's fucking real, baby" he laughs, humorlessly. "The moment I saw those images, all I could think about was our kiss and how I'd never get to kiss you again. How you were there for me, had me like no one before. How we talked for hours, and you listened, bringing things we said sometimes, like trinkets on a box or charms of a necklace. Tiny things and moments that belonged to us. And to think you'd share that connection, that- silence, that only comes when two people understand eachother... It fucking ruined me. I forgot about my fears, our age gap-" he cuts himself off, self-conscious. "All I could think about was saying those three words I've felt since we first spoke on Oscar's garden, but was to afraid to say. Even know. You have no idea how crazy my heart is beating right now" he breaths in, deeply. "I'm sorry for loving you and having no idea how to properly do so"
It takes a while for you to realize he's now cleaning your tears. That you've stayed silent for too long.
"Why?"
"Because you deserve someone better. Someone who isn't too old. One you waste your youth with. Like him" he can't even bring himself to say his name. "You looked so good together. Fitting. No one would say anything, no one would disgrace your name. But I'm selfish, I know. Didn't wanna see you with him. At all. Almost broke my phone screen"
Each word punctuated with a green colored hurt. And that, even in all this blues, makes you feel flustered.
"Pedro" you softly call him. "Look at me"
"I can't-" he whispers, browns elusive. "I'll never forgive myself for hurting you. I wanted you to be as miserable as me, but now that I see it to be true, I hate myself"
"Were you jealous?"
He can't deny it. "Fucking seething"
You laugh. God, he longed for it. Prays for it all to be back to how it used to.
"Happy birthday"
You laugh. "What?"
"Did he tell you that?"
"Jordan?" Pedro nods. "We just met. Shooting isn't over yet"
"Well, happy birthday"
"It was two months ago" you counter.
"Only I get to wish you so" face closer to yours now, whispered words ghosting over your nose.
"Silly" you smile, sheepishly. "Are you the birthday police? You can't decide who gets to congratulate someone on their special day, you little jealous freak"
"But I get to decide this"
He captures your lips in a searing kiss, pouring every ounce of his passion and desperation into it. The unsaid yearning and ache on his tongue. It delves deep, claiming your mouth as it tangles with yours in a dance of hunger and need.
Like a couple of young highschoolers on their mother's porch, breeze flowing by their little town. It smells as home. It's simple. It's real. It's extraordinary. It's just what you wanted.
Love.
"I missed you"
You feel a surge of love and lust at his breathless confession.
"I missed you too"
With rushed steps he takes you to your bed. Your room is still the same. Your picture stands on your nighstand.
"I'm surprised you didn't tear it"
His hands slide down to grip your thighs, pushing them apart.
"I'm surprised you think I would"
Clothes go off with the desperation of two people who have circled around eachother for too long. Your bed feels full, unlike the one of the hotel, where you waited until your tears dried in the pillow.
"Well, you're full of surprises" he adds, voice strained.
Pedro settles himself between your thight, the hard, thick length of him nestling against your slick, heated flesh, groaning into your lips at the feel of you. Warm, soft... Ready for him.
His lips mark a trail down your throat, teeth grazing your collarbone. He licks and nips his way down to your breasts, taking one rosy peak into his mouth. His tongue swirls around the hardened bud.
"Pero sí fui un pendejo" growled against the skin in the middle of your breasts. "Forbid myself of tasting you when you taste so fucking good. Could devour you for hours, baby, and never get enough" (i was such an asshole)
"Please, P. Just quit the fucking talking and make me yours"
A surge of emotion and desire wash over him. He holds your stare, seeing the longing and desperation on your face. This unbridled want, he felt it too.
"Shit, baby" he breathes, voice rough and thick with emotion. "You have no idea how badly I've wanted to do this. To feel you with me, next to me and under me"
You allow yourself to believe in him. In his words and touches, cracking a fire in their wake.
"Then do"
To show just how much he means it, he forces your mouths into a fierce kiss. Pedro pours every ounce of his love, his need, his desperation into it. His tongue delves deep, claiming you. Consuming you. Making you his.
All you've wanted.
"For the record, Jordan and I are just friends"
He reaches down to grip himself, lining the thick, hard length of his cock up with your entrance.
Pedro grunts, feeling the promise of warm tight walls taking his dick.
"I don't care"
He rubs the swollen head through your slick folds, coating himself in your arousal.
"You're not even looking at me" you tease. "He's getting married next year, by the way"
He groans into your mouth at the feel of you, so hot and ready for him.
"I don't care" he repeats.
"Said I could come to the wedding if I wanted to"
Right after the last word you speak, with one powerful thrust of his hips, he buries himself inside you. A broken cry comes out of your mouth, desire coursing through your veins like the most powerful and addictive drug there is ever to exist, only rivaled by him: he, who after years of being his fan, months of friendship, a summer of love and some other months of radio silence filled with unspoken terrifying truths, is finally yours.
"With how much you bring it up, I'd think you're in love with him"
"And by how much you refuse to listen to my words, even as you're buried inside me, I'd think you're jealous"
He hilted himself fully, cock throbbing as it stretches to fill you completely.
"Quit sayin' that, when you know it's the other way around" a broken wail leaves your lips at his girth inside of you, your folds trying to adjust to his size. "Got all giddy with him, at his dumb stories and jokes. But does he know how you like you coffee? No, but I bet you fluttered your eyelashes and laughed like a fucking attention starved brat when he handed you your order. Bet he's a whole gentleman who payed for your order. Probably offered you a ride home, but can't play any of your favorite songs. The ones I know" he throws his head back, a guttural moan tearing from his throat at the exquisite feel of your tight, wet heat enveloping him. "Yet the funniest part is he doesn't know you did all of this for me"
"P-Pedro" you plead, reduced to a moaning mess.
"Tell me you didn't, but we both know how the answer goes" he grabs you by your chin. "Tell me that you were desperate to get a reaction out of me. That you wanted all of my attention. That it's me who you really wanted and not that fucker. Say you did all that little flirty whoring show to make me angry, because guess what? It worked, you desperate slut"
You should be humiliated, but instead, your treacherous brain makes your mouth whine.
"Dirty baby" he whistles, amused. "You're into that? Like me to call out your bullshit, huh? You're a real bad girl"
"I'd call myself resourceful" your voice is strained, "a girl can only do so much for to get her supposed bestfriend who dry humped her last summer to talk to her again"
He laughs, a sound that makes you nostalgic.
"And I take full responsability for that"
"Why don't you fix it the best way you know?"
"Can I get a clue?"
"Shut your mouth and start moving"
He's so compliant is hard to watch and not moan just by his sheer obedience. Surrendering himself to you and your alluring voice clouded with lust. Pedro starts to move, his hips rolling and rocking against yours in a slow, sensual rhythm. He takes his time, savoring every inch of your silky walls as he slid in and out of your depths.
"Fuck, y/n" he pants, voice ragged. "You feel so fucking good, baby. So perfect, so right. Like you were made just for me"
He leans down to nuzzle into your neck, his lips brushing against your ear.
"I love you, y/n" he murmurs the three words again, tone low and intimate.
You tangle your fingers on his hair, pulling him closer for a kiss.
"I love you"
Feels good to put it out there, but maybe he's more excited than you are, given by the goofy grin that takes over his features, eyes shining like the stars on the starry night outside.
His heart soars at your words, and Pedro can't help but kiss you with all the passion and commitment burning inside him, pouring every ounce of his devotion into the press of his lips against yours.
"Three words and you've made me the happiest man on earth, baby"
He thrusts into you harder, driven by the overwhelming feelings on his chest. He wants to mark you, claim you.
"That's it, you naughty little girl. Getting yourself all worked up after your little devilish plan" he grunts. "Gonna make you mine now and fuck you until you can't walk. Until you become a mess. So dumb you can't speak anything but my name"
His hips snap against yours with each powerful surge of his cock, the wet, obscene sound of flesh meeting flesh filling the bedroom.
"Mierda, you'd should be so fucking embarrassed, shouldn't you? Ashamed of opening your legs for a man who could be your father"
He can feel his release building, the hot, tight coil of pleasure winding tighter and tighter in his stomach. You pull him closer, arms around his neck, pulling him off his thoughts.
"I'm not ashamed" you purr in his ear. "In fact, I think it's fucking hot"
"Oh, yeah? Dirty girl likes old men?" he grits his teeth, fighting it off, determined to hold back until you cum first. "Loves to be stuffed up nicely by men old enough to be your daddy? Quit that moaning or I might just give you what you ask"
You whine, receptive to his words.
"That's it, baby. Cum for me. Cum all over my fingers like a dirty little girl. I want to see your pretty face and hear your pretty noises. Need to prove if they're better than I imagine as you clench yourself on my cock"
Pedro lets out a roar of triumph as he feels your pussy spasm around his cock, your scream of ecstasy pushing him over the edge. With a final thrust, he buries himself to the hilt inside your warm cunt, cock pulsing and throbbing as he erupted.
"Take it, baby. Take every last drop of my cum like the hungry whore you are. Let me fill this hungry little pussy like you deserve"
He grunts and shudders as spurt after spurt of his hot, thick seed paint your walls.
"Now I get to show him and any other fucker who you really belong to"
He collapses against you after emptying himself, his weight pressing you into the mattress as he continues to twitch and pulse inside you. Pedro peppers your face with kisses, restless hands roaming over your curves, touching and caressing every inch of you with desire.
"Baby, listen"
His voice is soft with scary twinges laced within as he rolls to the side, pulling you with him so that you were draped across his chest. He wraps his arms around you, holding you close, the silent vow to never letting you go on his strong grip.
"I know I keep making the same mistakes every time" he sighs, his hand stroking your hair. "Yet, it's worth it. The fame, my name, the press... It all reduces to nothing. Because when I look at you, I know at least I did one thing right"
He tilts your chin up, his eyes burning into yours with fierce intensity.
"Then run away with me" you say softly. "Where no one knows who we are"
"We can't" he laughs. "But I'd love to. For you to be mine, forever and always"
"To be with you, I would do anything" you lay on his chest, humming with approval. "I mean it"
"Well" he grabs your hand, "we can't exactly run away, but I have a close idea to it"
"I'm all ears"
He looks deep into your eyes, afraid of his own words.
"We can talk about it more later on but, how about keeping this matter... private?" your body gets goosebumps. "Just you and me. Some friends and our family. Teams too. But it'll be our little secret"
It's the start of something. That something that started on Oscar's birthday when he first called out your name. It was all about falling since then, never quite landing, not knowing what to say. Hiding behind silence the loud thoughts you wanted to shout, words you both couldn't get out, ones to be proud of.
Maybe one day you'd get to do so.
"Something to keep" you add as your way to agree. A promise, to follow him everywhere. To bring him home when he needed. To build something out of what you both feared: with late dinners, kitchen dancing, shared clothes, line reading, fleeting touches, long showers and deep kisses.
You lay again your head on his chest, content and at ease, feeling it go up and down, his heartbeat tranquil and your body soft against his rising and falling tummy. It feels right, like where you should be. Forever and always.
"Like you"
"No, Pedro" you whisper, lazily kissing him as sleep starts to lull you in to the best night you've had in months. "Like us"
It's only getting started.
cr: divider @kodaswrld / gif @trashcora
#dilfistwrites#gladiator II#gladiator ii#gladiator 2#pedro pascal#pedro pascal x reader#pedro pascal fanfic#pedro pascal smut#pedro pascal x you#pedro x reader#pedro pascal fluff#taylor swift#reputation#call it what you want#paul mescal#call it what you want series#pedrito#jose pedro balmaceda pascal#pedropascal#pedrohub#pedro pascal fandom#josé pedro balmaceda pascal
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The Long Way Home I Chapter One
Oscar Piastri x Harper Grace (OFC)
Summary — When Harper, a kind girl with a guarded heart, meets rising karting star Oscar Piastri at their English boarding school, sparks fly.
It only takes one silly moment of teenaged love for their lives to change forever.
Warnings — Teenage love, growing up together, falling in love, teen pregnancy, no explicit scenes when the characters are underaged (obviously??), strong language, manipulative parents, past death of a parent, dyscalculia, hardly any angst, slice-of-life basically!
Notes — Eek, welcome to the chaos! This one is going to be a whirlwind of emotions. Send me all of your thoughts on the fic and of course what you think of our new OFC, Harper!
Wattpad Link | Series Masterlist
Harper had never meant to like it here.
The East dorms smelled like cheap PVA glue and the radiators hissed like they were always pissed-off, and the girls who lived in the room two doors down were always either screaming at eachother or crying; sometimes both.
The shower water was always lukewarm, the food was worse, and the uniform blazer made her shoulders itch.
Still, she stayed on for term after term. Because slowly — it'd become a safe haven. Better than being at home.
And that, she'd long ago decided, was its own twisted kind of victory.
She sat curled on the window ledge, bony knees pulled to her chest, one cheek pressed against the cold glass. Down below, the grassy stretch was all muddy edges and stone paths. There were a few boys dragging suitcases across it with frowns and hunched shoulders — like they'd rather be anywhere else.
"New intake," said Jane, her roommate, from behind a cloud of dry shampoo and Juicy Couture perfume.
Harper didn't turn around. She just scrunched up her nose and gave the boys another curious kind of look. "Bit late for January, innit?"
"A few brats who've just come back from spending the winter in the Alps. And some kid from Australia — sports scholarship. Karting prodigy or whatever. They've already decided he's going to be the next Hamilton."
Harper snorted. "Because nothing says motorsport champion like dragging your arse to this hellhole."
Jane laughed and rolled her eyes. "You're such a debbie-downer."
Harper didn't answer. She just stared at the last boy stepping out of a black car — tallish, quiet-looking, a duffle slung over one shoulder. He didn't glance up at the windows or anything like that.
Smart.
Most people stared at the building like it was Hogwarts, and were met with heckles for their trouble.
But not him.
Something in her stomach — something small and sudden, like a hiccup of curiosity.
She ignored it.
She moved out of the window and picked up her biology folder. "Come on, Janie. If we're late again, Mr Jones might spank you in the cleaning cupboard."
Jane shrieked. "Shut up, Harper! I told you already — that was just a stupid rumour!"
—
That night, Harper couldn't sleep.
She never slept well in winter. The wind scraped at the windows like it was trying to get in, and the heating clicked off at midnight like clockwork. Their bedroom was pitch black, quiet except for Jane’s breathing and the occasional fox scream from outside.
She slid her notebook out from under her pillow — soft cover, edges frayed, ink smudges all along the bottom corner where her hand dragged. The majority of the pages were full of doodles and fragments: half-written poems, to-do lists, thoughts that she would never say out loud.
Things I Am: • Hard Work • Sarcastic • Ungrateful
Things I Am Not: • Dumb • Ugly • My mother
She paused, pen hovering.
Then, she flipped the page and started sketching instead; a silly half-formed thing. A boy with a duffle bag and a face you could never forget.
⸻
The next morning, they crossed paths.
It wasn't dramatic. Just two kids reaching for the same packet of Weetabix in the dining hall, and then awkwardly backing off. He nodded. She didn't.
"You take it," he said, accent all weird and sunny like it hadn't registered the grey skies yet.
She shrugged and took the box without saying thank you.
Harper didn't do small talk before 9am. Or at all, really.
She wasn't mean. Or snobby. Or any of the other things that people liked to label her as.
She just didn't have the patience required to be the kind of girl with all soft edges.
⸻
Later, in English Literature, he was there again.
Mr. Callahan gestured toward the front of the room. Smiled with his sweetcorn coloured teeth. Gestured with his wrinkled, age-spotted hands. "Mr. Piastri, care to introduce yourself to your new classmates?"
There it was. The ritual humiliation. Worse than being the new kid — being the new kid asked to introduce yourself.
Harper didn't look up, didn't want to make it worse for him by adding another set of eyes. She just stared at the blank margin of her workbook, pen poised like she might be taking notes. She wasn't.
"I'm Oscar Piastri," he said. Accent clipped and his words a bit slanted — probably because he was embarrassed. "I'm from Melbourne. In Australia. I like maths. I, uh, moved to England to work on my career."
The class rippled with whispers. A few people snorted derivatively. Someone in the back muttered something about "wannabe Mark Webber," and a boy near the window pretended to rev a car engine.
Harper bit her lip.
I like maths.
Brave thing to say in front of Mr. Callahan, a man who had once declared long division "the enemy of poetic soul."
Still, it was honest. Or maybe just literal. Boys like him — boys who were not British — usually were.
Moved to England to work on my career.
Not many people her age had a single clue what they wanted to do with their lives — let alone any of them actually have the guts to travel halfway across the world and actually do something worthwhile for the sake of their futures.
She imagined what it might've looked like for him — saying goodbye to his mum at an airport gate, suitcase heavier than his bones, chasing speed across countries when most kids their age couldn't catch a bus on time.
Harper's pen shook. Just for a second.
Mr. Callahan cleared his throat. "Thank you, Mr. Piastri. Seat behind Harper, second row."
She felt, more than saw, the shift as he passed her. Quiet footsteps. A soft cough. And then the sensation of being watched — not in a creepy way, just... watched.
For the rest of the lesson, Harper didn't turn around. But she caught herself pressing harder into the page than usual, the letters carved into the page instead of written.
He smelled good.
Like soap and something else that she couldn't put her finger on.
It was a nice change from the boys who usually just stank of B.O and cheap beer.
—
That night, curled into a ball on her side in bed, she added something new to her notebook.
People to pay attention to: • Oscar Piastri
—
The next morning, the Weetabix basket was empty.
Harper stood in front of the cereal shelf, arms crossed and expression soured. Rows of sad Cornflakes and soggy-looking bran flakes mocked her.
Someone had left a single Shreddies square on the counter like a bad joke.
She didn't say anything. Didn't need to. Her pout said it for her — the subtle downturn of her mouth, the slight tightening around her eyes, the way her shoulder rose just a touch as she turned to walk away, resigned to jam on toast or something equally as boring.
"Hey."
She turned around.
Oscar Piastri was stood a few feet away, breakfast tray in hand, holding a fresh, unopened box of Weetabix. He offered it toward her without a word, just a faint shrug, like no big deal.
Harper blinked. "What, you just... found it?"
"Got it just now," he said, quiet and a bit sheepish. "Last one. Figured you might want it."
Harper stared at him for a second too long. Not in a swoony way; she'd never admit to that, but in a what-kind-of-person-actually-thinks-that-far-ahead kind of way.
"You were thinking about me?" She asked dryly, reaching for the box. Her tone was classic Harper: half-defensive, half-a-test.
Oscar didn't flinch. "Nah. Just noticed you looked kinda gutted yesterday when there was almost none left."
She stared at him.
Noticed.
Most people only noticed Harper when she said something sharp or raised her voice. Not when she was quiet. Not when her disappointment stayed on the inside of her mouth.
"Thanks," she mumbled, trying not to sound like it hurt to say. Then, a little louder, with a tilt of her head. "You're nice."
He smiled; barely. "Yeah. People say that a lot."
They stood in the middle of the cafeteria; two awkward kids who weren't quite sure what to do next. Harper shifted her tray from one hand to the other.
"You sitting with anyone?"
Oscar glanced around. "Nah."
"Cool. You can sit with me, but don't talk for the first ten minutes. It's a no-chat zone until I've eaten my cereal and drank my juice."
He nodded sagely, like she'd given him an important instruction and not a ridiculous one. "Understood."
They walked side by side toward the back table where Harper usually sat, their footsteps quiet, their trays clinking with spoons and silence.
And Harper didn't say it aloud, obviously. But that morning, for some weird and unnamable reason, her Weetabix tasted better than usual.
—
Three weeks later, breakfast had quietly become a thing.
Neither of them ever said it out loud, least of all Harper, but it was a foregone conclusion.
Oscar always got there early and saved her at least one box of Weetabix. She gave him half of her toast when the dining hall ran out of the nice raspberry jam. They sat at a table toward the back windows, never exactly chatting, but never not aware of each-other.
He'd wait for her before eating every single morning — even if she was running late. She'd roll her eyes like he was somehow annoying for doing it. Then she'd sit down next to him and they'd divvy out their trays like it was the most normal thing in the world.
This morning, she dropped her tray beside him and flopped into her usual seat with a tired mumble of 'Morning'.
He held out the box wordlessly.
She took it and gave his bed head an amused glance. "Nice hair," she said, poking the corner of the cereal box with her thumbnail.
Oscar shrugged, chewing on a bite of toast. "Grew it myself."
"Fuck off." She said. "Were all the pancakes gone?"
He swallowed. "Probably. You're later than usual."
She made a face. "Yeah. Sorry. I got stuck queuing for the bloody shower block. Jacqueline, you know her? The blonde one with the red lipstick? Yeah. She was hogging the third stall all morning, and everyone knows that the third stall is the only one that has warm water in the mornings."
He scratched at the back of his neck. "Boys showers are disgusting so I just... avoid them at all costs. Middle of the night is safest, right after the cleaners have been."
She hummed. "I peeked my head in there once. Wanted to see if you guys had more room than us — you know, sexism and all that. All I managed to actually see was three inches of disappointment and enough steam to know for a fact that you get way more hot water than us."
He gave her that awkward half-smile he did sometimes, like he wasn't totally sure if he was joking or being serious.
They ate in silence for a bit after that. Harper mashed her weetabix into her milk and then set it aside for a second to thicken up.
Oscar tilted his head toward her notebook, which was sat open on the table beside her tray.
"Is that the code for that website you're building?"
Harper tensed — just slightly. "You can read upside down now?"
He blinked. "Sorry. Didn't mean to be nosy."
She stared at him, then exhaled. "Sorry. Got defensive. It's still early. But — yeah. It is."
He peered over at it again. "It all looks... really complicated."
"It's not." She shrugged.
"You say that like it doesn't look like the Matrix just threw up in your notebook."
She cracked a reluctant smile — God, he was so dry. So unfunny. "It's just logic, Osc."
Oscar squinted at the page. "But that's, like... maths."
"No," she said sharply. Then, after a beat, she softened and said. "Well — yeah. But no."
He frowned at her.
"I suck at maths," she added, quieter this time. "You know that already. It's why I'm in a lower bracket than you even though we're the same age. And it's not like... normal bad either. It's 'wired differently' bad."
Oscar's brow creased.
She sighed. "It's called dyscalculia. It's like dyslexia, but with numbers. Different for everyone, but I can't read clocks properly. I count on my fingers, even if it's just like seven plus two. I fail every single timed test they set. I swap digits in equations and don't even realise I've done it." She took a breath and gave her weetabix a poke with her spoon. "I used to think I was just stupid. Teachers thought I wasn't trying. My mum used to just call me lazy, which, in hindsight, is hilarious. Because I haven't been relaxed since I was eight."
Oscar's lips tugged up slightly — a bit wry.
"But coding," she continued, "that makes sense to me. It's all structure. No weird fractions or mental math traps. Just... clear instructions and consistent answers."
She expected him to nod absently, like he'd stopped listening a while ago. Or change the subject. Or say something vaguely patronising.
But Oscar just said, "That's kind of cool."
She narrowed her eyes at him. "That I'm a functionally useless human being?"
"Well, no, you're not." He argued flatly. "But I meant that I think it's cool that your brain works differently and you still taught it to do that." He waved at her notebook.
Harper blinked. For a second, she forgot to be sarcastic. "You're so weird," she muttered, but there was no venom in it.
"Thanks," he said, smiling into his spoon like he didn't know what else to do with his mouth.
She looked back at her code. Then at him.
He was chewing on his toast and staring at his phone. He had the latest iPhone. It had a blue case.
His t-shirt was creased and his hair was still an absolute mess.
And still, she couldn't stop looking at him.
—
It was a Saturday, grey and windy, and Harper was buried under a school-issued fleece blanket in the common room, laptop on her knees, headphones on.
She wasn't working on anything important — just cleaning up a chatbot code, fiddling with syntax like it was a loose tooth. Her headphones were playing some lo-fi thing she didn't even like. She just needed the white noise to help her focus.
Across the room, the door creaked open. She didn't look up until someone said, "You'll get square eyes."
Oscar.
She paused her music and pushed her headphones off, raising an eyebrow at him. "Yeah? Fucking ace. I'll go on Britains Got Talent and become a niche celebrity."
He grinned sheepishly, his cheeks going a bit red, and then nodded behind him. "Didn't come alone."
Behind Oscar stood a man in a zipped-up jacket, casual slacks, and sneakers that were too clean to belong to a teenager. Same posture as Oscar. Same gentle eyes.
"This is my dad," Oscar said. "Chris."
Chris stepped forward and offered a hand to shake, like Harper was a grown-up and not a fourteen-year-old-girl who'd spent the last two nights using toothpaste on her forehead acne to try and get rid of it. "You must be Harper. Oscar's told me about you."
"Oh. Right. Cool," she said. Then she stumbled to her feet, abandoned her laptop and her headphones and the fleece, and hastily shook his hand before it become awkward. "I'm Harper."
Chris laughed, warm and unbothered. "I know. Oscar told me you've been helping him with his English work."
Oscar made a noise of protest. "Dad, come on."
"I'm yeah," Harper said. "He's awful at it. Can't string together a sentence to save his life." She gave Oscar a teasing glance.
Chris turned to his son. "One failed class and you're risking your scholarship. Don't let that happen."
Oscar stared at him. "I won't fail any of my classes." He said, without missing a beat.
She bit her lip and looked between them — the way Oscar didn't shrink even a little bit around his dad. The way he could be quiet and awkward and it was fine. Safe.
"Anyway," Chris continued, "just wanted to say hi before I head home. I fly out tomorrow."
Harper blinked. "Back to Australia?"
"Yeah. Stuck around to help Oscar settle in. Make sure his gear arrived in one piece, check out the karting circuits, learn how to pronounce Hertfordshire without offending the locals."
Oscar rolled his eyes. "He's still saying 'Hurt-Fard-Sheyre'"
Chris laughed. "Don't let the Brits fool you, son. They put vowels in weird places on purpose."
Harper smiled before she could stop herself.
Chris checked his watch. "Right. I'm going to have a word with the headmaster about Oscar's travel plans, but it was really nice meeting you, Harper."
"Yeah. You too." She said.
Oscar sat down next to her, picking at the corner of the couch cushion.
"Your dad's cool," she said, and meant it.
"Yeah," he replied, but his voice was smaller now. "He is."
"You okay?"
Oscar hesitated. Then nodded, but not very convincingly. "Just weird. Makes the whole staying here on my own thing feel more... real. Now that he's leaving too."
Harper looked at him carefully. "You can call him whenever, though, right?"
He snorted. "Yeah. And about seven backup methods. He's the type to send a courier pigeon if I don't answer a text within ten minutes."
She wanted to say 'you're lucky'. But that would make it sound like she was bitter. And she wasn't. Not exactly. So she just said, "That's... nice."
They sat in silence for a beat.
Then Oscar added, a bit shyly, "He liked you."
Harper shot him a look. "I was terrible. I don't know how to socialise with adults who don't expect me to be, like, all stuck-up and perfect."
"Right." Oscar said, a bit awkwardly. "I mean, he just — I think he's glad I've made a friend, you know?"
Harper's chest clenched. She didn't know what to say to that — so she didn't. She nudged his knee with hers instead. "You're not bad," she said.
Oscar smiled at her.
And then Harper opened her laptop again, and when Oscar picked up her legs to drape them over his legs so he could sit back on the sofa, she didn't even blink.
—
The chill of the late Hertfordshire night nipped at Harper's cheeks as she and Jane sprinted across the empty quad, sneakers barely squeaking against the dew-slick paving stones. Their hushed giggles echoed in the dark. Jane, always the instigator, had convinced her to sneak out—"Just for five minutes! I swear!"—to the locked astroturf behind the science block.
They slipped through a gap in the fence, flashlights off, relying on moonlight and adrenaline. Harper dropped to the ground, fingers brushing the fake grass. "Feels like we're on another planet," she whispered. Jane flopped down beside her, smirking. "The planet of the incredibly bored."
Ten minutes later, just as Harper dared to close her eyes and breathe in the strange peace, floodlights blazed to life like a stadium mid-match. "Run!" Jane hissed.
They didn't get far.
Now, Harper sat in the back of a golf cart, arms crossed, heart racing, as one of the groundskeepers muttered something about "ridiculous girls" and "Headmaster's office come morning." Jane had managed to charm her way into walking.
Across the dormitory court, high up in the boys' wing, a window cracked open.
Oscar, hoodie drawn up, leaned on the sill. He squinted into the brightness—and there she was. Harper. Eyes wide, lip curled in protest, being hauled across the lawn like a criminal. The surreal procession made him chuckle despite himself.
She looked furious. Or maybe mortified.
Their eyes met, briefly.
Oscar raised an eyebrow.
Harper, red-faced, stuck her tongue out at him.
—
Harper sat on the edge of her narrow dorm bed, fingers frozen around her phone. The headmaster had promised one call home "just to inform," but of course her mother had demanded a personal conversation. She always did. Control disguised as concern.
The line clicked.
"Harper Grace," her mother's voice hissed like steam through a cracked teapot. "I knew leaving you at that school was a mistake. God forbid I get one term without a phone call from some smug administrator telling me my daughter is playing fugitive on school property!"
Harper clenched her jaw. "It wasn't like that."
"No? Then do explain it to me. You snuck out. You trespassed. You embarrassed yourself and—by extension—me. Again."
Harper swallowed the ache in her throat. "It was just the astroturf. Jane—"
"Oh. Jane. Of course. I knew that girl was trouble the minute I saw her on your Instagram. She's got you playing shadow to someone else's mess — just like you always do. No spine. No judgment."
There was a pause. Harper didn't speak. That was the trap—engage, and her mother won.
"You're wasting every opportunity I've broken my back to give you," her mother continued, voice tightening. "You are not some ordinary girl, Harper. Do you think your tuition fee grows on trees? Do you think I work hard every single day so you could roll around on fake grass like a delinquent?"
Harper stared at the ceiling, eyes hot. "No, Mum."
"Exactly. So you'll fix this. You'll write an apology letter to the headmaster. You'll stay away from that Jane girl. And you'll remember who you are. Because I will not have my daughter become another pathetic little scandal. Do I make myself clear?"
A long silence stretched between them.
"Yes," Harper said softly. "You're clear."
"Good," her mother snapped, already moving on. "Now go and do something useful, will you? Preferable something that won't ruin your life and discredit our family name."
The call ended.
Harper sat frozen, the low hum of the disconnected line ringing louder than the yelling ever had. She didn't cry. She hadn't because of her mum in years. But her chest felt splintered all the same—like something small and important had cracked.
From the hallway, she heard Jane's laugh—unapologetic, alive. For a moment, Harper wished she could step into her skin and exist in the peace for just one beautiful day.
Then she put her phone face down and stared out the window, toward the corner of the West building, where Oscar's light was still on.
—
Saturday breakfast at Haileybury was always quieter than weekdays—no teachers barking about uniforms, no ridiculous assemblies looming. Just a murmur of voices, the clink of spoons on bowls, and the comforting scent of burnt toast and cheap blackcurrant cordial.
Harper found Oscar already at their usual corner table, grey school hoodie half-zipped, one hand absently twirling a spoon through a rapidly dissolving Weetabix. She slid in across from him without asking.
He looked up. "Hello, criminal."
She rolled her eyes. "Very funny."
"Did they handcuff you?"
"I was in a golf cart. Not a police car."
"Same thing."
She tried to suppress a smile, then gave up and let it bloom. "Shut up."
Oscar nudged a plate of toast toward her without looking. She took a slice. Their fingers brushed but neither of them blinked.
The conversation, such as it was, drifted between silence and occasional muttered words. Harper hated explaining herself, and Oscar never asked too many questions. She liked that. He was content to just exist, solid and easy.
She reached for the plate of butter and jam packets; he slid it toward her before she could ask. A beat later, her socked foot bumped his under the table, and when she didn't move it, neither did he.
Oscar leaned his elbow on the table, close enough that their arms almost touched. His pinky brushed hers once, twice. Stayed.
"You're quiet," he said, not looking at her. "Did you get in actual trouble?"
Harper shrugged, chewing toast like it was a strategy. "No. Just a warning. I'm just... tired."
"Yeah." A pause. Then, "Your mum?"
She hesitated—long enough that Oscar glanced at her. She didn't meet his eyes, but her hand drifted over the table between them, her fingers brushing the cuff of his sleeve. Light, thoughtless. He didn't pull away.
"Yeah," she said quietly. "She was... her usual self."
He didn't say sorry. Didn't offer advice. Instead, his hand turned slightly under hers, letting their fingers rest together for a moment—awkward, warm, electric.
Harper blinked. Neither of them looked down.
Somewhere across the room, Jane shouted something about hashbrowns. Plates clattered. The world moved on.
But at their table, it seemed to pause. Just for a brief moment.
—
It wasn't a date.
That's what Harper told herself when Oscar muttered, barely above a mumble, "If you're not doing anything tomorrow... I've got a session. Karting. Local place. You could come, if you want."
She hadn't answered right away—just nodded and said, "Sure," like it wasn't the most exciting offer she'd received in months.
Now she stood behind a sagging wire fence at Rye House Kart Raceway, the tang of petrol thick in the air, her hands jammed into her coat pockets. The morning was all grey light and loud engines, but something about it felt oddly calm. Like a different frequency from school life. Like she'd somehow stepped into Oscar's world and it'd welcomed her with open arms.
He was already out there when she arrived—helmeted, gloved, tucked low into the kart like it'd been built around him. She might not know the first thing about apexes or tires, but she could tell that he was fast. Efficient. Focused.
The kart didn't fight him; it moved with him.
One of the mechanics, a guy with oil-stained hands and a thick Northern accent, noticed her hovering. "You Harper?"
She blinked. "Yeah?"
"Well, shit. He told us you might show up today. Nice to meet you. Kid doesn't stop talking about you."
Harper flushed. "Oh."
The man grinned and pointed toward the pit lane. "You can stand closer. He won't mind. Nobody will say anything — I'll make sure of it."
So she did.
She leaned against the low rail as Oscar pulled in, lifting his visor with one hand. His hair was plastered to his forehead, cheeks flushed red from the cold and the adrenaline.
"You came," he said when he saw her, his eyes slightly wide.
"You invited me." She said with a shrug.
"Didn't think you would actually come." He admitted.
She raised an eyebrow. "Do I seem that unreliable?"
He gave her a sarcastic once over. "A little bit."
She nudged him with her shoulder. He nudged back—more of a lean, really, casual and warm, his helmet tucked under his arm.
He glanced down at her hand, fiddling with the cuff of her coat. "You wanna sit in it?"
She froze. "What?"
"The kart. You'll fit. You're smaller than me. Won't make you drive it. You can just... sit. See what it's like."
Her heart kicked up—something small but definite. "Okay."
He guided her by the wrist, gently, like he didn't even realise he was doing it. The kart was lower than she expected, more cramped. When she settled in, Oscar crouched beside it, adjusting a loose strap around her shoulder like it mattered; even though she wasn't even moving.
"Suits you," he said, voice cracking. His cheeks flamed red as he cleared his throat.
She looked up at him, her knees scrunched and her spine stiff against the plastic shell of the seat. "I feel like I'm going to get a foot cramp."
Oscar snorted. "Yeah. You get used to that." He crouched beside her, the team-branded grease-stained hoodie pulled over his head, a smudge of oil near his temple he hadn't noticed—or didn't care to. He leaned on the side of the kart like it was his second skin, completely at home here.
Harper squinted up at him. "You don't look like you've ever had a cramp in your life."
"Permanent state of cramp, actually," he said. "But the adrenaline outweighs the pain."
She rolled her eyes and laughed. The sound seemed to catch the attention of the crew around them.
One of the younger mechanics, a guy maybe nineteen with bleached tips and a cheeky grin, sauntered over. "So this the infamous Harper, yeah?"
Oscar looked vaguely alarmed. "Don't call her that."
The guy stuck out his hand. "I'm Cal. Oscar's part-time therapist-slash-punching bag. You hungry? We usually get a delivery of sausage rolls around eleven."
She blinked. "I mean... yeah. I wouldn't say no to a sausage roll."
That was all it took.
Within half an hour, Harper had been half-dragged, half-adopted into the garage crew's rhythm. Someone threw her a hoodie—two sizes too big, slightly smelling of petrol.
Someone else tossed her a bottle of orange Lucozade. They didn't ask who she was or where she came from. No grilling. No polite smiles that felt like there razors hidden underneath.
They just let her be.
Oscar didn't hover. He just looked over now and then between runs on the track—when she laughed at Cal's bad imitation of an Aussie accent, when she actually tried the sausage roll and grumbled in bliss at the greasy goodness, when she leaned back against a stack of tires, hoodie sleeves rolled over her fingers like she belonged there.
He caught her eye once across the pit, and her smile was quieter. Less amused, more... settled.
After the second session, she walked the track with him, boots crunching on gravel, their shoulders brushing once, twice, until finally she just left hers pressed against his.
"You l like them," he said, not a question.
"They're..." She trailed off. Words felt clumsy again. "They're nice. Kind. Easy."
Oscar glanced at her sideways. "Not like the people you normally meet, then?"
She shook her head. "My mum would have a full meltdown if she saw this place. She's big on etiquette and thinks that men belong in office buildings."
He let out a bark of laughter. "What does that mean?"
Harper smiled, but it was the sad kind. "It means I grew up learning how to be a cold-hearted bitch instead of... a good person."
Oscar didn't say anything for a while. Just walked next to her, silent. Then, in a voice barely above the hum of tires cooling nearby, "I think you're a good person."
She blinked hard at the ground, heart tight in her chest.
And then she reached out, without thinking, and hooked her pinky through his.
He didn't look at her.
He didn't let go, either.
—
By the third weekend — no one blinked when Harper appeared trackside.
She knew where the best shade was. Knew which toolbox to sit on without getting yelled at. She'd learned to nod like she understood when Cal rattled off tire compound jargon, and even managed to not flinch when someone dropped a torque wrench three feet from her head.
Oscar never really invited her anymore; she just showed up. Like clockwork. Like she belonged.
And the weird part? She kind of felt like she did.
Today, the garage buzzed louder than usual. Something was off; not in a bad way, just... more charged.
Harper felt it before Oscar even pulled back into the garage from the track. A couple of the guys were cleaning things that didn't need cleaning. Cal was actually wearing a clean team polo. And it'd been ironed.
Harper raised an amused eyebrow. "Who died?"
"No one died, mate," Cal said. "It's who's coming."
Before she could even ask, a black SUV pulled up just beyond the gravel lot. Out stepped a tall, broad-shouldered man in dark jeans and aviators.
Oscar appeared seconds later, clambering out of the kart and instinctively holding out his hands for Harper to unstrap his gloves.
She did so without thinking, keeping her eyes on the guest of honour. "That's..." Harper frowned. "Is that Mark Webber?"
Oscar nodded. "Yeah. He's my manager. Mentor. Basically part-time third parent." He shrugged. "No big deal. Hey." He said to Mark as he approached.
Mark clapped Oscar on the shoulder, firm and familiar. "Hey, kid." Then his gaze drifted to Harper. "And this is?" His Aussie accent was smoother than expected.
Harper stood quickly, brushing dirt from her jeans. "I'm Harper. I, uh—I go to school with Oscar. I just, kind of... hang around here. Sometimes. Sir."
"Yeah. She's really good at it," Oscar teased, smirking.
Mark offered her his hand. "Well, it's nice to meet you, Harper."
She laughed, nervous but charmed. "Yeah. You too."
Later, after a test stint that had the crew whispering about sector times and potential upgrades, Oscar was called over to one of the race officials' tents. When he came back, his expression was unreadable.
Harper swung her legs over the tire stack she'd claimed and watched him approach.
"What did they say?" She asked.
He didn't tell her anything right away. Just stood there, squinting against the sun. "They offered me a spot in WSK. Full calendar."
Her mouth parted slightly. "Oscar... that's—oh my god."
He nodded. "Yeah." He exhaled.
There was a long pause. People moved around them, laughing, working, shouting. But in the middle of it, everything else blurred.
"You're gonna take it, right?" She asked, trying to sound excited, not scared.
He didn't answer at first. Just looked at her for a long time. Like he was memorizing her.
"I think I have to," he laughed dryly.
She nodded, heart thudding too hard. "Yeah. You do."
Oscar took a step closer. Close enough that she could see the flecks of black in his eyes. "You'll still come to watch me practice, yeah?"
"If I'm allowed." She bit her lip.
"You're always allowed." He said; like he was daring anyone to say something different.
She smiled. And without thinking, she reached up and fixed the strap of his race suit, the way she'd seen him do a hundred times.
It wasn't a kiss. It wasn't even a hug.
But when their fingers touched, briefly and completely, it felt like something.
NEXT CHAPTER
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