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littledes1re · 3 days ago

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Hey girl 💕💕 love your stories!!

So, I have a little story request. Can you do a story where PeePaw Joel gives the reader an over the knee spanking to teach her a lesson? 🤭🙈🥰🥰

Over his knee

Pairing: Oldman!joel x fem!reader

Summary: a small dinner with the family in jackson makes you end up over joels knee, to teach you a lesson. Aka joel spanks reader.

Warnings: spanking (obviously lol), fingering, praise kink, pet names, crying, darcyphilia, softdom!joel, age gap! (Joel is in his 60s and reader is in his 20s), ddlg undertones, daddy kink, there is no ellie in this universe that I created✨

A/N: First time doing a request, hope you like it! 🫣

It was a lovely evening. At least in the beginning.

You two were invited to Tommy and Maria for a little dinner to catch up on things and have a little fun. With all of those patrols and work to do in Jackson, it was something good to look forward to in the evening. Conversations were flowing easily, the warm air was filled with laughter while sharing stories and memories. It was easy, relaxing and no stress. And if you would‘ve able to keep yourself together, the evening could‘ve been a lot better.

But now you were sitting on your couch, in your house, the dinner cut short because Joel wasn‘t feeling well.

Bullshit.

It was you that wasn‘t feeling too well. The laughter and the people speaking in the dinner, blurred into the background as your eyes were just all on Joel. He was looking good. Too good. His slicked back hair, the decision not to trim his mustache and beard, rough and big hands swaying from left to right while he talked, the board shoulders and that dad bod he had, growing since you baked for him every single day.

You were ovulating.

And he always noticed it before, but not today. Not when you squirmed around on his lap while he read his book and drank his coffee, not when you pouted and whined at him as he denied you more kisses and cuddles in the morning because he had to leave early. Not the cloudiness behind your eyes whenever you looked at him that day, nipples perked behind your grown and cheeks red, feeling vulnerable whenever his eyes landed on you.

„Can‘t believe you.“ he muttered as he came back from the bathroom, his hands on his hips. Your eyes scanned his huge frame, landing on that belly pudge he had behind his flannel. Your mind was him, only him.

You can remember the pinched eyebrows and eyes he gave you as a warning while your foot stroked up and down his leg under the dining table. Signalising you to stop, but you took it to another level as your foot landed on his bulge, making him recoil and stand up suddenly, the whole room going silent and looking at him. You embarrassed him.

„What am I gonna do with you, huh? Is it that hard to behave yourself?“

„But daddy—”

„Nah, no ‚but daddy‘“ he mocked your voice. Your lower lip wobbled, your eyes getting all glassy as you looked up to him. He was still standing in that position, just looking at you furrowed brows and his hands on his hips.

As no one said another word he suddenly sighed, clicking his tongue and sat down on his big armchair, and put his glasses away.

„C‘mere, now. Over my knee.“

Your heart sank, that‘s not what you were expecting. Sure, you misbehaved and he was angry with you but you thought he would just understand that you were feeling needy, couldn‘t get any word out and that you wanted him to see and notice. You wanted him to take you to the bathroom and make you cum, to even if, he excused you two from the dinner, to come home and make love to you because he saw that his girl needs it right now.

„Don‘t make me repeat myself, girl.“ his stern voice snapped you back to reality as you just looked at him, dumbfounded, the first tears already knocking on your glands. You wanted everything but to make him more disappointed at you.

So you stood up, and walked up to him with wobbly legs. You quickly got rid of your pants because you knew, whenever daddy says over his knee it means getting naked too.

„There we go, at least now ya listenin‘.“ he mumbled as you laid yourself down on his knee, your ass prompted up on the rough material of his jeans and your hands hold on to the chairs arm. Without a word you felt his hands on your ass, kneading the flesh, caressing softly and when you least except it, a slap.

You cried out into the silent room, hearing him hum, his other hand coming to your hair, gently brushing it away from your face and trying to soothe you.

Another slap.

You wondered if your skin was feeling extra sensitive or that his calloused hands were spanking you extra hard today. It sting, badly.

„s‘what you get, baby. Trying to get in my pants in front of these people, making me embarrassed.“ he said slowly, making your heart just sink more into your stomach. Knowing you never intended in doing so and that your daddy now thinks badly with you. His hand came down on your bum once again, this time making you sob into the chair with how hard it was.

„oh I know, I know. Shh shh.“ he gently soothed you, stroking your back and your hair again.

„always with the tears, huh?“

„M‘sorry daddy.“

„I bet you are, sweetheart. But you still need to learn your lesson.“ you were looking up to him with big glassy and red eyes, the tears all over your face. His face looked like he wasn‘t enjoying it either, giving his good girl a spanking because he was the one who didn‘t notice.

„could‘ve said something, baby. Y‘know daddy always take care of you. But you tried your luck and now ended up here.“ another slap and then two right behind. Your bum was already looking red, his hand always trying to soothe the place and rock you back and forth with his knee but you were only sobbing.

„just four more, angel. Show me your face c‘mon.“

You softly held your head up, looking up to him, making him coo.

„my poor baby.“ he whispered, „s‘not happening again, s‘that clear? Daddy has not the heart to punish you anymore, baby. Y‘need to behave, be good for me. Ask me or talk to me. Understood?“

His eyebrow arched up as he looked at you, making you immediately nod your head earning a very hard and very painful spank on your bum. Your head buried into the chair again, crying out and moving in his lap.

„That ain‘t counting. It was a warning, what do we say? Whenever daddy ask something you answer me.“

He was gently stroking your back, letting you cry out. Rubbing firm circles on the place he spanked, while simultaneously hushing you. You raised your head once again, and looked at him trough wet eyelashes and swollen eyes.

„I understood, daddy.“ your voice was small and soft. He could never be more mad at his baby.

„there she is. My good girl. Lets finish this so I can take care of you, yea?“ earning a nod from you as you felt better, knowing now that you are a good girl and that your daddy wanted to take care of you.

He gave you the rest of the punishment, the tears slowly drying out and your body relaxing again on his, while enjoying your praise that came from above. His hands were massaging the area for a while before slowly drifting to your slit. Your breath hitched, feeling his fingertips finding your clit and then your hole, stroking you up and down.

„Fuck, sweets. You‘ve been wet this whole time?“ he asked you, making you nod your head desperately. The punishment long forgotten you concentrated on the pleasure, his two fingers going into your hole and the other one gently thumbing at your clit. You mewled in his lap, body moving as he thrusted these fingers in and out. But you wanted more. You wanted him to fuck you.

Your head coming up again, you looked at his concentrated face just looking at your squelching cunt. As his eyes softly landed on you, you gave him an desperate look, trying to grind on his cock with your body, signalising him that you need more than his fingers. But he wasn‘t having it.

„Nah, baby. That‘s the only thing you‘ll get today. Be grateful, don‘t even have to do this here.“

Your head lulled back to the chair with a sigh.

His fingers curled in you, trying to look for that one spot he loves so much. After finding it he started to target it with his fingers, rubbing and thrusting them in and out making you arch your back in response.

„That‘s it. That‘s it, sweetheart. Feel you clenching, reckon if I do this—“ he pinched your clit between his fingers hard and you saw absolutely black as you came with a shout. „yea, s‘what I thought.“

He made you ride out your orgasm, by slowing down his fingers and rubbing your clit gently. As he didn‘t feel any clenching or pulsing from your cunt anymore he put them slowly away, wiping his fingers on his flannel.

„took it like a good girl. Y‘got now the rest of the night to proof if ya really understood your lesson. Daddy still can fill you before he leaves for work.“ he murmured, gently grabbing you and making you sit down on his lap. He saw your messy hair, beautiful lips bit all swollen and those red exhausted eyes.

He kissed all over your face, making you giggle.

„Understood, daddy.“ you nodded your head, earning a little ‚good girl‘ as he softly rocked you back and forth in his lap, while gently stroking your back and your bum, giving you kisses everywhere he could reach.

Day 6276161 of yearning for peepaw joel😔

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missmaymay13 · 1 day ago

Text

complete mess - w.smith

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

w.smith x fem!oc | 3k

masterlist

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The rink is cold. Not just the kind that stings your nose and cheeks—this cold is bone-deep. Lonely. The kind that settles in your chest and makes your heart feel hollow.

Will leans against the boards during warmups, his stick clutched loosely in one gloved hand. The San Jose Sharks crest weighs heavy on his chest tonight, heavier than it ever has. He should be proud—rookie year, NHL dream realized, playing on the biggest stage in the world.

But all he feels is empty.

Because when he glances up at the stands, he knows she's not there.

She used to be. Every game. Every practice, when she could swing it. Always in that same hoodie—his hoodie—her coffee clasped in both hands like it was the only thing keeping her warm. Or grounded.

April Murray. The girl who knew him before all of this. Who sat with him through draft night, who helped him pick out his first apartment, who walked him through his first panic attack when the pressure of being Will Smith, top pick, future of the franchise became too much to breathe through.

And he let her go.

No—he pushed her away.

He doesn't even remember when it started. Maybe it was after the third game of the season when the headlines started turning. Promising, but inconsistent. Maybe it was when the media began comparing him to players he'd grown up idolizing, asking why he wasn't already there yet. Maybe it was the fourth night in a row he stayed late watching film, trying to be everything for a team that didn't even know how to support him back.

He started canceling plans. Ignoring her texts. Tuning her out when she tried to talk to him about anything not hockey. He blamed it on stress, on timing. On things she couldn't understand.

But she did understand. She always did.

And eventually, she stopped trying.

"Will, I'm not asking you to give it up," she'd said once, quiet and careful. "I just need to know that I still matter to you. That we still matter."

He'd scoffed. Cold. Tired. Empty. "I don't have time for this right now, April."

"Right. You never do."

She didn't cry. Not in front of him.

She just left.

He thought she'd come back. She always had before.

But this time—she didn't.

It's been three weeks since she moved out. Since she left her key on the counter and didn't say goodbye.

And Will? He hasn't scored a point since.

The team says it's a slump. A rough patch. The media calls it nerves. Rookie inconsistency. But Will knows what it really is.

He's a mess without her. A complete f*cking mess.

The kind that can't be taped over or fixed in the weight room. The kind that doesn't go away with a win.

She was the only thing keeping him grounded, keeping him human. And he treated her like a footnote to his career.

Now he's skating on autopilot. Eating alone. Sleeping in a bed that feels too big and too cold. Going home to a condo that still smells like her shampoo and can't be aired out, no matter how many windows he opens.

After the game, he sits in the locker room long after the others have cleared out. His head in his hands, the sharp scent of sweat and gear clawing at his throat.

His phone is on the bench beside him. A message unsent. It's been there for days.

"I'm sorry. I miss you. I don't know who I am without you."

He doesn't send it. Because it's too little, too late.

And maybe she's already moved on.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Will used to call her his "safe zone." Not to her face—he didn't know how to say that kind of thing back then. But she was. Every time the weight of being Will Smith, the phenom, got too heavy, he'd end up at her off-campus apartment. No questions. No lectures. Just soft music playing from her speaker, ramen on the stove, and her voice cutting through the noise like sunlight through blinds.

It didn't matter that she had three midterms the next day. Or that she'd been pulling double shifts at the campus bookstore just to make rent. When Will called—she answered.

Always.

The first time he cried in front of her, he was sitting on her tiny futon, head in his hands, the pressure of the Frozen Four and NHL scouts looming over his shoulders like ghosts.

"I'm not ready," he'd said. "Everyone thinks I'm ready, but I'm not. I don't even know who I am without hockey."

April didn't try to fix it. She didn't tell him he was wrong or feed him the same lines his coaches did. She just crawled in beside him and pulled his head into her lap, running her fingers through his curls until the shaking in his chest finally stopped.

"You're still Will," she whispered. "You're still mine."

And for that night, it was enough.

She missed her sister's wedding to fly to Denver for the Hockey East semifinals. She called in sick to her internship when he had food poisoning and was throwing up between classes. She sat in hospital waiting rooms when he got concussed freshman year—even though no one would tell her if she was "family."

She was. She always had been. She just never needed the title.

And what did he do when he finally made it?

He forgot.

He let the weight of the NHL chew up his time and spit out his patience. She became background noise—until one day, she was gone, and the silence was deafening.

Now he walks through his condo like a ghost, brushing past memories like cobwebs. Her hoodie still hangs on the coat rack. Her mug is still on the counter. The photos are still framed on the mantle—Boston, Denver, Nashville.

She was always there.

Until she wasn't.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The worst part wasn't that Will forgot their anniversary. Or that he left the pasta she made untouched on the counter three nights in a row. It wasn't even that he stopped texting goodnight.

The worst part was how he used to care.

Back then, it was little things.

Him dropping off coffee before her 8 a.m. class. Reminding her to eat during midterms. Crawling onto her dorm bed with his laptop open just so she wouldn't feel so alone during late-night study marathons.

"I'll quiz you," he'd offer, head on her stomach, eyes fluttering half-shut from practice. "Just don't make me read the long-ass definitions."

She'd laugh. Toss a pen at his forehead. He'd grin like she hung the stars.

That Will—the one who saw her, who wanted to take care of her too—that's the one she fell in love with.

But the version she followed to San Jose? The one that let hockey consume him? That Will barely remembered she existed.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

She tried to be understanding. God, did she try.

He was under pressure. Rookie year. Big expectations. So she didn't say anything when the late practices turned into full nights at the rink. Didn't complain when he forgot to call. Didn't show him the tears after another solo dinner eaten over the sink.

She told herself it was just a phase.

He loved her. He was just overwhelmed.

So she picked up the pieces. Of him. Of their life. Of herself.

Every rescheduled date, every night he stumbled in hours after midnight with nothing but apologies and excuses—she forgave.

She was fighting her own battles too. Online school had been brutal. Isolation made it worse. Her professors didn't care that she lived on Pacific Time. Her friends were all back in Boston. She'd built a whole life there—one she gave up for him.

But she didn't tell him. He already had too much on his plate.

So she swallowed the words every day until they burned holes in her chest.

Then one day, the letter came.

She almost didn't open it—thought it might be another bill or course notice. But her hands shook as she peeled it open.

"Congratulations. You have fulfilled all requirements for graduation..."

She reread it six times. Finished. Done. Four years of work in two and a half. Through COVID. Through relocations. Through loneliness.

She looked around their apartment—no, his apartment—and realized he didn't even know she'd been close. Hadn't asked. Hadn't cared.

The excitement turned bitter in her mouth.

So she did what she never thought she would. She packed a bag. Called the one person she knew would understand.

Grace.

Will's sister picked her up from the airport that night.

Neither of them spoke for the first five minutes of the drive. Then Grace reached over and took her hand.

"You should've told me sooner."

April's voice cracked. "I didn't want to make you pick sides."

"I would've picked you anyway."

April didn't leave a note. She didn't need to.

He wouldn't have read it.

And to this day, she knows he still doesn't understand.

He knows he pushed her away—knows he f*cked up—but he doesn't know what day it was. Doesn't know the meaning it held. Doesn't know that he missed her biggest moment—because he never thought to ask.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The air was crisp. Familiar. Healing.

April stood in her cap and gown, surrounded by the people who mattered. Grace. Her old roommates. Her professors. People who saw her, celebrated her, even when she wasn't holding anyone else up.

They took a photo.

Grace posted it later that night.

"Proudest sister moment. Congrats to April for finishing her degree in record time. You're everything and more."

April's smile in that photo was real.

She never saw Will's reaction.

But Grace did.

And she never took the post down.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Will wasn't even looking at Grace's Instagram when it happened.

One of the rookies was scrolling beside him on the team plane, laughing about some TikTok when he paused and went, "Yo, isn't this your sister?"

Will looked over.

And there it was.

April. In a cap and gown. Grinning, radiant, unrecognizable—in the worst way.

"Congrats to April for finishing her degree in record time."

The words blurred.

Four years. Two and a half. She never told him.

He didn't even know she'd finished.

Didn't know the day she left was the day she got that letter.

Didn't know anything.

His stomach twisted into knots.

And worse—Grace knew. His own sister knew and never said a word.

The next few days, Will couldn't get the image out of his head.

She looked so proud. So sure of herself.

So gone.

His hands shook every time he picked up his phone, hovered over her name. But he never hit send.

When Grace and the family came to San Jose for a home game, it started civil.

Until it wasn't.

It was after dinner. Everyone had gone back to the hotel except Will and Grace. The air was stiff, sharp with unsaid things. Grace stood at the window, arms folded, jaw tight.

Will broke first.

"You couldn't tell me?" His voice cracked. "You let me find out on fcking Instagram*?"

Grace turned slowly, face hard. "You didn't exactly ask."

"Are you serious right now?" he snapped. "She graduated, Grace. I didn't even know she was close!"

"And whose fault is that?"

His hands clenched. "You knew. You picked her up from the airport and didn't say a word. That's—" he choked, voice rising, "—that's a betrayal."

Grace's eyes burned. "No, Will. You betrayed her."

The silence cracked like glass.

"You think I wanted to keep it from you?" she spat. "I had to pick up her pieces because you left her so f*cking shattered she couldn't breathe without crying."

Will staggered back like she'd punched him. "Grace—"

"She used to be everything to you," Grace pushed forward, voice shaking. "She gave up her life, her school, her friends—for you. She didn't ask for much, Will. Just to be seen. Just to feel like she still mattered."

"She did matter," Will argued, weakly.

Grace laughed, bitter and cold. "Then why didn't you act like it?"

He couldn't answer.

"She didn't tell you how hard school was getting," she continued, relentless. "She didn't tell you how alone she felt. You stopped asking. You stopped caring. She cooked you dinners you never touched. She sat alone in your apartment every night waiting for you to come home—hoping you'd remember she existed."

Will turned away, chest heaving, blinking hard against the sting in his eyes.

Grace wasn't done.

"She left on the day she got her graduation letter. You didn't notice. You didn't text. You didn't even call."

He swallowed the lump in his throat. "I didn't know—"

"Exactly," Grace snapped. "That's the problem. You didn't know. You didn't even try to know."

Will dropped into a chair, like the weight finally hit him. Hard.

"She won't go near a rink," Grace added, quieter now. "Not even to watch me coach. She says it makes her sick. You make her sick."

Will stared down at the floor.

"She loved you so much, Will. And you broke her."

The room buzzed with silence. A silence full of anger. Of grief. Of truth.

Will couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. The guilt closed around his chest like a noose.

He wanted to scream. Cry. Take it all back.

But the past didn't give do-overs.

That night, he didn't sleep. He sat in the dark of his condo, scrolling through old photos, old texts, old videos.

April in Boston. April on the beach. April half-asleep in his hoodie, laughing at something he'd said off-camera.

He didn't even know that version of her anymore.

And she sure as hell didn't know this version of him.

He was a complete mess. Without her. Because of her. Because of him.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Three Years Later

The Boston air smelled like old memories. Like the streets they used to walk, fingers laced between them. Like the rain that had soaked their jackets on late-night campus runs. Like the laughter that once echoed through the Smiths' home when everything still felt whole.

Will was back, older now. Calmer. The NHL didn't rattle him anymore. He'd weathered the pressure, the slumps, the spotlight. But no matter how far he came in his career, he never quite got over her.

He didn't even try.

He never fell in love again. How could he, when no one else even came close?

Grace's engagement party was loud—too many people packed into their childhood home, voices overlapping, champagne flutes clinking. Everyone was glowing, buzzing with joy.

Everyone except Will.

His chest had been tight the entire night, breath caught just under his ribs. Because she was here.

April.

She hadn't changed—at least not in the ways that mattered. Still graceful without trying, still holding herself with that quiet strength. But she was sharper around the edges now. More careful with her smiles. Especially when they were aimed at him.

She didn't look at him the way she used to.

He spent half the night trying to catch her eye. Half the night staring at the empty spot next to him at the dinner table where she should've been. Where she used to always be.

And the other half? He spent wondering if she hated him.

He caught glimpses of her—drifting between rooms, helping Grace in the kitchen, laughing softly with people he didn't recognize. But every time he inched closer, she slipped away. Like a ghost. Like muscle memory.

He almost gave up.

Until he saw her again—alone—in the kitchen.

She was restocking a bowl of crackers, hands moving mechanically, a furrow in her brow like she was willing herself to focus on anything but the memories pressed into these walls.

And then she froze.

She didn't need to look. She felt him.

Will stood in the doorway, hands shoved in his pockets, voice barely above a whisper.

"Can we talk?"

She didn't answer right away. He thought she might say no. Thought she might walk past him the same way she had all night.

But finally, she gave a small nod. Reluctant. Steady. And without a word, they climbed the stairs—like muscle memory.

His childhood room looked exactly the same.

Posters on the wall. Hockey trophies collecting dust. The twin bed still creaking under the weight of too many conversations never finished.

April sat on the edge, hands resting in her lap. Will sat across from her, just barely touching the opposite end of the mattress. The space between them felt like a chasm.

He couldn't look at her at first.

Couldn't even breathe.

He wanted to say so many things—had rehearsed them in the mirror, in hotel rooms, on empty plane rides across the country. But now, nothing came out.

Until—

"Congratulations," he said quietly. "I never got to say it to you. Not on the day. Not in person. But... I want you to know I'm so proud of you. I was then. I still am now."

April's eyes flicked up. Just barely.

He kept going.

"I don't know how I f*cked up so much that I let the one thing that was always so good to me slip away. But god, April. I'm so sorry. You didn't deserve any of that."

His voice cracked.

"You were always there. Always. And I—I took that for granted. I let the game chew me up and spit me out and I just... I let you disappear without ever realizing what I was losing. And by the time I did—it was too late."

He finally looked up. She was watching him.

Tears welled in her eyes, but she didn't cry. Not yet.

"I replay that year in my head all the time," he whispered. "And I think about everything I missed. Everything I should've seen. The way you kept trying. The way you kept choosing me. And I didn't even see how much it cost you to do that."

His hands trembled in his lap.

"I should've asked. I should've noticed. And I didn't. I didn't even know you graduated until I saw it on Grace's f*cking Instagram. And I should've been there. For that. For all of it."

The silence between them buzzed.

Then April's voice, soft but sure:

"It's okay, Will."

He blinked.

She was staring at her hands. Then she looked up.

"I used to think it would never stop hurting. That what you did—what you didn't do—would follow me forever." She paused. Swallowed. "But I grew up too. And I see it differently now. We were young. You were drowning. And I was too scared to admit that I was, too."

She looked down again, her thumbs rubbing circles over each other.

"You hurt me. A lot. But... I know you didn't mean to."

They stayed like that for a long moment.

Then slowly, like gravity pulled them together, they leaned forward. Their foreheads touched, eyes closed. Breathing in the moment. The years. The ache.

His voice came out like wind through a cracked window—shaky, fragile, but certain.

"I still love you so much, April. I never stopped. And I'm sorry I did that to you."

He felt her inhale, felt her hands twitch against her thighs. Then:

"I still love you too, Will."

It wasn't loud. It wasn't dramatic. It didn't need to be.

Because even after all this time— Even after all the distance— They were still in sync.

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fic-girlie · 11 hours ago

Text

Everywhere With You

!made by request! Well i had one where the reader has tickets to fleetwood mac for pedros bday and she surprises him with it cause she knows hes a big fan (so is she) and they go either the 2 of them or with friends and family and at the concert they are really close together there and he keeps hugging her and holding her and tells her its ths best bday gift ever and later they go celebrate at a bar or dinner and the end with smut?

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x f!reader

Summary: You surprise Pedro with Fleetwood Mac concert tickets for his birthday. After a night filled with music and emotion, you return home, where the chemistry between you intensifies.

Warnings: 18+ explicit, smut, oral (f and m receiving), unprotected sex, p in v sex, fluff, established relationship (If I left out something, tell me!)

The sun had just started to stretch across the hardwood floors when you slid quietly out of bed.

Pedro didn’t stir as you moved, only shifted slightly beneath the covers and let out a soft, content sigh. You paused for a second, watching him. There was something holy about the way he slept—arms loose, lashes long against his cheeks, the faintest crease between his brows like he was dreaming about something serious. His hair was a tousled halo against the pillow, and one strong leg had kicked out from underneath the blanket sometime during the night.

You smiled to yourself and padded into the kitchen barefoot, the chill of the morning tile meeting your toes. Everything had to be perfect. The little things mattered—especially to a man like Pedro. He never said so outright, but you saw it: the way he softened when you remembered how he took his coffee, the way his arms tightened around you when you tucked a note into his jean pocket before he left for a shoot. Thoughtfulness made him unravel.

And today wasn’t just any day.

You hummed a bit of Everywhere under your breath as you got to work—eggs with soft yolk, toast spread with the raspberry jam from the little farmers’ market he loved, thick-cut bacon fried just enough to curl at the edges. His favourite mug sat waiting for him, filled with black coffee. Everything smelled warm, familiar. Like the two of you.

The envelope was already tucked beneath the corner of the napkin on the tray. Just two slim pieces of paper inside but holding something so much bigger. You had kept them hidden for months, waiting for this. And now it was time.

You nudged open the bedroom door with your hip, tray balanced in your hands, the smell of breakfast following you in.

Pedro was still there in the same position, only now one hand had drifted up to rest over his chest, fingers curling slightly. His mouth parted at the scent and his brow twitched—just barely—but he didn’t wake up.

So you tiptoed to the edge of the bed and whispered, “Pedro…”

A low, sleepy groan rolled out of his chest like thunder in the distance. “Mmm?”

“Happy birthday, sleepyhead.”

He stirred, face turning into the pillow before he peeked out at you through one barely open eye. The corner of his mouth lifted. “You’re too sweet to me, hermosa.”

You set the tray down on the nightstand and leaned in, brushing your lips over his forehead, then the tip of his nose. “It’s your birthday. That means you get spoiled.”

Pedro blinked up at you, still groggy, still gorgeous in that half-woken way that made your heart flutter. “That smells like bacon.”

“It is bacon. Crispy, just how you like it. There are eggs and jam toast too. And coffee. I even made it extra hot since you like to forget about it until it’s cold.”

He let out a raspy laugh and finally pushed himself up to sit, groaning softly as the sheet slid down his bare chest. Your eyes followed the movement—broad shoulders, warm tan skin, the sparse trail of hair down his stomach disappearing into the waistband of the boxers you’d half torn off last night.

He caught you staring and smirked, voice still thick with sleep. “Enjoying the view?”

You lifted your brows, handing him the coffee. “Only the birthday boy gets that kind of attention.”

“Oh, so I’m in luck.”

He sipped the coffee and groaned again—this time in pleasure. “You really are trying to kill me with kindness.”

“Nope,” you said, climbing back onto the bed and settling beside him. “I’m just soft for you.”

Pedro gave you a crooked little smile, then leaned in and kissed the side of your head. You felt it through your whole body.

As he started in on the eggs, you nestled into his side, your cheek pressed to his shoulder, breathing in his warmth, the scent of skin and sleep and that little bit of cologne that lingered from the night before.

“Don’t forget the envelope,” you said casually, after he’d finished the last bite.

“What envelope?”

You gestured at the napkin.

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously, then leaned over to pick it up. “You got me a card?”

“I got you more than a card.”

Pedro peeled the flap open slowly, the pulled out the two tickets. You watched as the words registered.

Fleetwood Mac. Tour concert. Tonight. 7:00 PM. And two seats—good seats. Close to the stage. Close enough to feel the reverb in your bones.

His entire body went still. He read the top line twice, three times, then looked at you in stunned silence.

“No…” His voice cracked. “You didn’t.”

You bit your lip and nodded. “We’re going tonight.”

For a moment, you weren’t sure he was breathing. He just stared at the tickets like they were some ancient artifact. Then, all at once, he broke into a grin that could have lit up the whole damn room.

“You’re joking,” he whispered.

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

“You go us Fleetwood Mac tickets?”

“Yes.”

“For tonight?”

“Yes.”

He let out a half-sob, half-laugh and dropped the envelope on the bed as he surged forward and kissed you—mouth hot and open and smiling into yours, his hands sliding into your hair as he cradled your face.

You laughed into the kiss as he pulled you into his lap, practically crushing you to him, arms wrapped tightly around your back.

“I love you,” he whispered, over and over, between kisses. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

You cupped his cheeks, ran your thumbs gently under his eyes, and said, “I wanted to give you something you’d never forget.”

“This is…” He shook his head in disbelief. “I’ve wanted to see them since I was a teen. My siblings and I used to sneak into the living room late at night to watch those old concert videos on VHS.”

“I remember,” you said softly, resting your forehead to his. “That’s why I knew.”

Pedro’s eyes glassed over, and he let out a soft, shaky breath.

“You’re gonna make me cry,” he said, and laughed through it. “Jesus.”

“They’re probably going to play Landslide,” you murmured. “So you’re definitely going to cry.”

He gave a helpless smile, eyes wet, and pulled you into a slower, deeper kiss. This one lingered. His hands slid along your spine, tracing up under the hem of your sleep shirt, warm palms smoothing over your bare back.

When he pulled away, his voice had dropped low and husky. “I don’t even care what else happens today. This… this is already the best birthday I’ve ever had.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth. “I’m not done yet.”

He blinked. “What?”

You shrugged playfully. “There’s more.”

Pedro stared at you like you’d hung the stars yourself. “More?”

“Dinner. After the concert. Late reservation at your favourite place—you know, the one with the garlic bread you love so much it makes you emotional?”

He groaned dramatically, burying his face in your neck. “You’re gonna be the death of me, mujer. You really thought of everything.”

“I wanted you to feel loved,” you whispered.

He looked up at you again, softer now. Like you were something precious he didn’t know how to hold gently enough.

“I feel it,” he said. “Every second I’m with you.”

You stayed curled in his lap for a long while, just breathing together, kisses pressed to bare shoulders, hands tangled, the envelope resting on the covers beside you. Pedro held you like he was afraid he might wake up and find it was all a dream.

Pedro had barely stopped smiling since you gave him the concert tickets.

His face was still flushed with that golden kind of happiness—the kind that shimmered just beneath the surface, softening his eyes and curving his mouth even when he wasn’t speaking. The scent of his coffee, mingled with your shampoo and the lingering crispness of breakfast hung in the air between you.

You tilted your head, watching his profile. The delicate creases around his eyes. The flutter of his lashes as he looked down at the concert tickets again, rereading the seat details as if he needed to be sure it was real.

“I can’t believe we’re seeing Fleetwood Mac and after that we go to my favourite place,” he murmured.

You smiled gently, your fingertips brushing the back of his neck. “That’s still not all.”

He blinked, turning his head slightly to look at you, brows lifting. “What do you mean?”

“There’s one more part to your birthday gift,” you said softly, and felt your heartbeat begin to pick up. “A surprise for tomorrow.”

Pedro tilted his head, narrowing his eyes in that playfully suspicious way he always did when he was trying to read you. “Okay… should I be nervous?”

“Not nervous,” you said, cupping his jaw and smoothing your thumb over the hinge of it. “Just… open.”

He laughed under his breath, but the sound was quieter now. More curious. “Alright. I’m open.”

You exhaled slowly, threading your fingers through his and holding them between both of yours. You wanted him to feel the warmth of your hands, the steadiness of your grip. You wanted him to feel grounded. Safe.

“I’ve been working on this for a few weeks now,” you began, your voice low and steady. “Coordinating flight times, making sure it would all line up. I didn’t want to tell you until I was sure it was happening.”

Pedro’s brow furrowed faintly, lips parting. He sat up a little straighter, but he didn’t pull away.

“I know how much you miss them,” you went on, heart beginning to flutter with the weight of it. “How much you miss home—even when you don’t say it. I see it when you get off the phone with your sisters. I see it in the way your voice gets quiet when you talk about the little pranks you pulled on your brother when you were younger. I see it when you stare at photos a little too long.”

Pedro’s eyes were fixed on you now. Still and focused, the way he always looked at you when something touched deep.

You swallowed. “So… tomorrow morning, your family’s flying in. All of them. They’ll be here for a couple of days.”

His breath caught. You felt it—sharp and sudden.

“They're staying at a hotel nearby,” you said softly. “But they're coming here first. For breakfast. Pajamas and cafecito and pan dulce if I can find it in time. I told them you'd want it casual. Comfortable. Just... family.”

He didn't speak. Not right away.

He just stared at you, jaw slack, lips parted in silent shock. His hands went still in yours.

You reached for his face, your palm cradling his cheek. “Pedro—”

His eyes welled instantly.

The shift was like sunlight behind clouds—barely a flicker, but it changed everything. The glimmer of tears turned his warm brown gaze into something luminous. He swallowed hard, but the emotions hit him before he could hide them, and a single tear rolled down his cheek.

You leaned in and kissed it away.

“I couldn't stand the thought of you spending another birthday missing them,” you whispered against his skin. “So I brought them to you.”

Pedro laughed—wet, shaky, disbelieving. He covered his face with one hand, dragging it down slowly as more tears slipped free.

“I—” He shook his head. “I don't even know what to say. You... You did that for me?”

“I'd do it a thousand times,” you said, voice thick with emotion. “You're the most generous, selfless man I've ever known. You give so much of yourself to everyone. You deserve to be surrounded by people who love you. Not just through a screen. Not just in messages.”

He dropped his hand from his face and looked at you again, eyes raw, lips trembling with the effort to keep from falling apart.

“I missed them so much,” he whispered, and your heart cracked open a little wider.

“I know, honey, “you murmured, pressing your forehead to his. “I know.”

He wrapped his arms around you tightly, pulling you fully into his chest, his body trembling just slightly with the quiet force of his emotions. You held him close, letting him breathe through it, your fingers curling into his curls at the nape of his neck, grounding him.

He didn't speak for a while. He just held you. Like you were the only thing in the world that made him feel real.

Eventually, he murmured, “You love me so much it hurts.”

You pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. “Always.”

“Tomorrow, when your siblings ring the bell, I want to see that smile again. The one you haven't shown since the last time you were home.”

Pedro leaned in and kissed you—slow and aching, the kind of kiss that said more than words ever could.

And when he finally pulled back, his voice was quiet but certain. “Yeah. This is definitely the best birthday I've ever had.”

——

By the time the sun began to slip behind the edge of the city skyline, the sky had turned that dusky watercolour blend of blush and indigo, like something painted just for the evening. The venue buzzed around you, a living pulse of conversation, laughter, anticipation—but all Pedro could feel was your hand in his.

His fingers were threaded tightly with yours, his thumb stroking the back of your hand like he couldn’t stop touching you, couldn’t stop reminding himself you were real and this was really happening.

“Have I told you I love you for this?” he murmured as you handed your tickets to the usher.

You glanced up at him with a smile that made his chest squeeze. “Only about six times since we left the house. At home you said it about five.”

He gave a soft, breathy laugh, then leaned down to kiss your temple. “Good. I’m not done.”

The usher led you toward the lower rows, the lights dimming gently overhead as the stage came into view—wide, simple, elegant, with vintage amps glowing under strands of overhead lights. Pedro slowed as you reached your seats, letting the moment sink into him, letting the reality bloom fully in his chest.

Front section. Dead centre. Nothing between you and the stage but the warm summer air and a few rows of swaying bodies.

He turned to you and took a step closer. “These seats are—damn, cariño. You weren’t playing around.”

“I wanted it to be perfect,” you said, fingers brushing his arm. “I wanted you to feel it. The music. The moment. All of it.”

He didn’t speak for a second. His face softened, lips parting, eyes flicking over your features like he was memorizing you. Then he gently took your face in his hands and kissed you—right there, in the slow-humming twilight, with the chatter of strangers around you and the smell of warm popcorn in the breeze.

“Thank you,” he whispered against your mouth. “Thank you for loving me like this.”

You reached up and rested your palms over his wrists. “Always.”

The lights dimmed further. The crowd began to rise and stir, voices lifting in a low wave of anticipation. Pedro kept you close, his arm snug around your waist now, anchoring you beside him. When the band took the stage and that first familiar chord rang out—low, electric, rich with history—Pedro inhaled like he’d been holding his breath for years.

His body went still, reverent. And then he laughed, quiet and breathless, a sound you felt more than heard.

“God,” he murmured. “This song. I swear it’s tattooed on my ribs.”

You turned your head, smiling against the shell of his ear. “Let it break you a little.”

He looked at you with that melted, love-struck expression he wore only in the softest moments, and nodded. “You first.”

The music swelled, and suddenly, you were surrounded—guitar harmonies stretching out across the night like silk, Stevie’s voice a haunting, familiar echo that felt like home and heartbreak all at once.

Pedro’s arm tightened around you. His other hand slipped down to your thigh, warm and steady. He didn’t just listen—he felt every note, every beat, like the songs lived inside him.

“I played this track,” he said near your ear, during The Chain, “every time I drove through the outskirts of New York. Windows down. Hair a mess. Swore I was in a movie.”

You grinned. “You are in a movie.”

He laughed, his breath warm against your cheek. “Then you’re my favourite scene.”

As the night wore on, he couldn’t stop touching you.

Sometimes it was subtle—his fingertips grazing the inside of your wrist, his palm resting low on your spine. Other times it was more obvious: pulling you against him during Dreams, his shoulder pressed to yours as you swayed gently together; brushing your hair back and tucking it behind your ear during Gypsy, then tilting your face up for a kiss that lingered through the chorus.

But it was Landslide that changed everything.

The first note landed like a sigh through the crowd, and Pedro’s whole body stilled. You glanced over and saw it: the catch in his throat, the shimmer rising in his eyes. He blinked slowly, then reached for your hand and brought it to his chest, laying it over his heart like he needed you to feel it beating.

“This song,” he whispered, voice cracking. “It carried me through some of the loneliest fucking years of my life.”

You leaned in and kissed his shoulder. “Then let it carry you through this one, too.”

He turned his head and kissed you—deep and slow and trembling a little at the edges. When he pulled back, there were tears in his eyes, one trailing down the curve of his cheek.

You reached up and brushed it away with your thumb, your heart thick with emotion.

“I love you,” you whispered.

Pedro exhaled shakily. “You saved me. You know that, right?”

You nodded and pressed your forehead to his. “Then let me keep saving you. Every year.”

He closed his eyes and held you, tight and full and wordless, as Stevie Nicks’ voice floated into the stars.

By the end of the show, the crowd was roaring with joy—but Pedro didn’t move. He stayed wrapped around you, arms snug, mouth pressed to your hair.

“I don’t want this night to end,” he murmured.

“It doesn’t have to,” you said softly, tilting your face to meet his eyes. “There’s more to come.”

He looked at you, wide-eyed and glowing from the inside out. “You’re gonna be the reason I start believing in magic.”

You laughed gently, nose brushing his. “Let’s go to dinner.”

He nodded slowly, reluctantly unwrapping himself from you. “But I’m warning you,” he said, voice low and playful as he kissed your cheek, “I’m going to keep touching you the whole time.”

You smirked and tucked your hand into his as you turned toward the exit. “Good. I’m not done touching you either.”

——

The restaurant was a warm pocket of golden light tucked away in the quiet hills above the city—far enough from downtown that no one bothered with flash photography or autographs, just the hum of jazz and the low clinking of glassware. From the moment you stepped inside, it was like the world softened around the edges.

Pedro’s hand rested low on your back as the host led you in. He leaned close, his breath warm against your ear. “This is perfect.”

You smiled and tilted your head toward his. “I wanted the night to keep feeling special.”

“It does,” he murmured. “You do that. Just by being here.”

The host showed you to a small corner table surrounded by tall potted plants and dark wood—intimate and private, just enough shadow to keep everything between you soft and golden. Pedro pulled out your chair before settling into his, his eyes never really leaving yours. Even in the dim lighting, the affection in them was unmistakable.

A candle flickered between you, its light catching the edge of his features—the strong curve of his jaw, the warm brown of his eyes, the tired but blissful glow still lingering from the concert. His hair was a little mussed from the wind, his smile slow and a little dazed, like he still hadn’t quite come down.

“Stevie Nicks and then this?” he said with a soft laugh, picking up his wine glass and holding it up to you. “I don’t know how you’re ever gonna top tonight.”

You clinked your glass gently against his. “I don’t need to. I just want you to feel loved.”

He stared at you for a long, quiet moment. Then his fingers reached across the table, sliding along yours until your hands met again. “I do. So much it scares me sometimes.”

You didn’t speak right away. Just looked at him—really looked—at the way he was still in awe, the way his voice dropped when he got serious, the way his thumb rubbed small, grounding circles against your palm like he couldn’t believe you were real.

You ran your fingers up his wrist slowly. “You don’t have to be scared. I’m not going anywhere.”

Pedro exhaled, and it came out like relief. “You mean that.”

You nodded. “I mean that.”

He brought your hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles. “Then I’m yours. Completely.”

The wine helped, of course—rich and red and slow on the tongue—but even without it, you could feel the warmth blooming between you. It wasn’t just the music from earlier or the candlelight or even the fancy little plates of food you shared without thinking. It was him. And you. And the unspoken pull that had been tightening ever since he looked at you under the concert lights with tears in his eyes.

Conversation drifted easily between laughs and deep glances. He told you about old memories—his first time hearing Tusk on vinyl in a friend’s garage, the way his heart used to ache for things he didn’t even know how to name. You told him how you used to sing Silver Springs into your pillow as a teenager, how the music made you feel seen when nothing else did.

He was quiet for a beat after that, eyes lingering on your mouth like the words had etched themselves there.

Then he said, “You understand me in ways no one else ever has.”

Your breath hitched. You didn’t mean to, but you reached for him under the table, fingers resting on his thigh. His eyes darkened.

The music in the restaurant was soft, the piano barely a whisper beneath it all. You could feel his leg tense beneath your hand as he leaned forward, voice low and rough around the edges.

“Can I tell you something?” he murmured.

“Always.”

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about touching you. Since the concert. Since the second your hand brushed my knee during The Chain. I’ve been trying to behave and be patient and savour every part of tonight but—” he exhaled sharply, almost smiling, “—you’ve been driving me crazy, cariño.”

Your breath caught at the heat in his voice.

You leaned closer. “So stop trying to behave.”

His eyes met yours, and the quiet tension that had been coiling all night finally stretched into something unmistakable: want. Real, deep, consuming.

“I don’t think I can wait much longer,” he said. “I want to take you home. I want to worship you, properly. Slowly. Every inch of you.”

You swallowed, heat curling low in your belly. “Then let’s go.”

Pedro pulled out his wallet, dropped the money with a generous tip on the table without looking, and stood. His hand found yours immediately, lacing your fingers together tightly. You didn’t even bother with dessert. His attention was fully on you now—hungry, reverent, and visibly aching with the need he’d been holding back.

As you stepped into the cool night, he leaned in and kissed your shoulder through your dress, voice husky against your skin.

“You have no idea what you’ve done to me tonight.”

You smiled and looked up at him. “Show me.”

He didn’t speak again. He just led you to the car, opened the door like a gentleman, and once you were inside—he reached across the seat, placed his hand over your thigh, and let it stay there the whole drive home.

The silence between you was electric.

And it was only the beginning.

——

The door clicked shut behind you both, and the quiet of the house wrapped around you like a soft, familiar embrace. The hum of the night settled in your chest, a warm afterglow from the concert and the dinner still pulsing between you. Pedro stood close, his hand still on your waist, his thumb brushing gentle circles against the soft fabric of your dress. The energy from the night, from the music, and from being so close to him hummed through your veins, making every step seem both deliberate and electric.

Pedro leaned in, his lips grazing the curve of your ear. “I can’t believe the night’s already over,” he murmured, voice thick with the same kind of contentment that made his eyes soft and his movements slow. “It was perfect… having you next to me.”

You turned your head slightly, catching his gaze with a playful smile. “Well, it’s not over yet.”

He tilted his head, the spark in his eyes lightning up as if the promise of more only made him more curious. “Oh?” His voice dropped low. “What do you have in mind?”

You smiled, a touch of mischief flashing in your eyes. “Come with me.”

You led him into the living room, your heels clicking lightly on the floor with each step. The house felt still, private—intimate—like a space just for the two of you. When you reached the couch, you stopped and turned to face him, the air between you electric with the unspoken words that hovered in the quiet.

Pedro stood there for a moment, his eyes darkening as they traced over you. “You’re making me wait, huh?”

You bit your lip, a subtle nervousness swirling in your stomach. But the excitement was stronger. “Just a little longer.”

He took a slow step toward you, his hands gently lifting to rest on your hips. His touch was soft, almost reverent, like he was savouring every moment. “You’ve got me all intrigued now,” he said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

You swallowed, your breath hitching slightly at the intensity in his gaze. “I want to show you something.”

You reached for the back of your dress, your fingers trembling slightly as you slowly unzipped it. You could feel Pedro’s gaze on you, like a touch of its own, heat radiating from him. You slid the dress off your shoulders with deliberate slowness, the fabric brushing against your skin as it fell to the floor in a soft heap.

The matching lingerie you had chosen for the night was now fully visible: deep red lace, the kind that clung to your curves like a secret, shimmering subtly in the light. You stood there for a moment, heart racing, your pulse quickening at the way Pedro’s eyes darkened, his breath catching as he took in the sight of you.

Pedro’s mouth parted, his gaze sweeping over you like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. He stepped toward you, his movements slow, deliberate. His hand reached for your waist, and he pulled you gently to him, his lips brushing your forehead, then your temple. “You’re… unbelievable,” he whispered, voice thick with awe. “Every inch of you, just…”

You couldn’t stop the smile that spread across your lips. You leaned into him, resting your head on his chest for a moment, allowing yourself a quiet moment of tenderness. But there was a heat in the air now—a tension that was undeniable. His body was pressed against yours, and you could feel the warmth of him, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with yours.

“I’ve been wanting to do this all night,” you murmured, your voice barely a whisper.

Pedro’s hands slid lower, fingers brushing your curves, his touch light but sending a jolt of sensation through you. His lips brushed the top of your head as he kissed you softly, then pulled back, his gaze full of that same intensity that always seemed to make your heart beat faster. “Do what, baby?”

“Take care of you,” you replied, the words coming out with a mixture of confidence and that soft nervousness you couldn’t quite hide. “Let me show you.”

He paused for a beat, his expression flickering between disbelief and desire. Then, without another word, he moved to sit on the couch. His hand slid to the back of his neck, massaging it briefly before he spread his legs slightly, giving you room.

You felt your stomach flutter as you slowly knelt before him, your fingers brushing the tops of his thighs as you lowered yourself onto your knees.

Pedro looked down at you like he couldn’t believe you were real. One of his hands slid gently into your hair, fingers spreading wide at the nape of your neck, while the other relaxed over his thigh. “You don’t have to, baby.”

“I want to,” you whispered, voice velvet-soft, sure and steady. “Just let me take care of you.”

You kissed the inside of his thigh first, slow and teasing, watching his breath catch. His skin was warm beneath your mouth, tense under your touch. Then you reached for the waistband of his jeans, fingers moving slowly as you undid the button and zipper, watching his face the entire time. He lifted his hips slightly when you tugged his jeans and boxers down, letting them settle low on his thighs.

The moment you took him in your hand, Pedro exhaled a rough, quiet breath. “Fuck…”

You leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to the tip of his cock, then another lower, and another—watching the way his mouth parted, his brows knit with restraint already. He was heavy in your palm, already so hard, warm and pulsing with need. When you finally took him into your mouth, slow and deep, his hips shifted slightly, trying to stay still beneath you.

“Jesus, cariño…” he murmured, his voice thick and strained. “You’re gonna kill me…”

You hummed around him, slow and steady. You let your tongue swirl, your lips gliding in a soft, wet rhythm that made his head fall back against the couch. His grip in your hair tightened just slightly—never forcing, just anchoring. His thighs were taut beneath your hands, body tensed like a live wire.

“You look so pretty like this,” he breathed. “So fucking good. So—shit.”

You picked up the pace a little, just enough to make him curse again. His hips shifted, his breath growing shallow, body betraying how close he was already.

But just before his stomach tensed fully, before his body tipped over the edge, Pedro’s hand tightened in your hair—not rough, but firm. “Wait, wait—baby…”

You slowed instantly, looking up at him.

Pedro looked wrecked. His chest was heaving, eyes dark and hooded, a flush rising along his neck. “I—I need to stop. If you keep going, I won’t last. I wanna… I need to be inside you.”

You smiled softly, wiping the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand. “Then take me.”

He picked you up like you weighed nothing, your legs around his waist, arms around his neck, lips never straying too far from yours. The walk to the bedroom was slow, his hands sliding under your thighs, the weight of him between your legs making your skin burn with want.

He set you on the bed and stepped back, finally shedding his jacket and shirt too—each piece removed with lazy confidence, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. He pulled off his jeans completely, along with his boxers, and then he knelt on the bed, between your legs, and peeled your lace panties off inch by inch.

“Pretty girl,” he murmured, brushing his lips over your inner thigh. “Bet you’re already wet for me.”

Your breath caught. “Touch me and find out.”

He growled softly at that, eyes gleaming with heat.

Then his mouth was on you.

His tongue stroked through your folds—slow, deep licks, teasing circles around your clit, then soft suckling pressure that made you cry out, hips jerking. His hands gripped your thighs tightly, keeping you open for him, completely at his mercy.

He didn’t stop until you were shaking—until the orgasm built so tight it hurt. You came with a gasp, hands fisting the sheets as he moaned into you, lapping through your release like he needed it.

When he finally pulled back, his mouth was slick with your release, just like his mustache and beard, and his eyes burned with nothing but want.

“You taste like heaven,” he whispered.

He climbed over you, kissing your mouth again, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. His cock, hard and heavy, pressed against your entrance.

“You sure?” he asked softly, brushing your hair from your face.

“Yes,” you breathed. “I want you.”

Pedro pushed into you with a deep, groaning breath, filling you inch by inch. He moved slowly, watching your face, kissing you between thrusts as he bottomed out.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, clutching his back.

He set a rhythm—deep, smooth strokes that had your eyes fluttering shut, your body tightening around him. He whispered praise into your skin: “So good, baby... taking me so well... fuck, you feel perfect.”

The teasing softened then. He slowed down even more—letting each thrust linger, the weight of him pressing into you, chest to chest, breath to breath.

“I love you,” he whispered, voice rough.

“I love you,” you gasped back, your climax spiraling fast now, every stroke dragging across that perfect spot.

“Come for me, hermosa” he murmured, fingers between your legs, stroking you in time with his thrusts. “Let me feel you fall apart.”

You shattered under him—your second orgasm crashing through you like a wave, thighs clenching around him, cries muffled in his neck.

He groaned loudly, hips faltering.

Pedro groaned into your neck, hips faltering. “Fuck—gonna come.”

He pulled out quickly with a strained gasp, stroking himself just once, twice—and came undone across your stomach, eyes locked with yours the entire time. His breath caught, his lips parted, and you’d never seen anything more beautiful.

When he was done, he collapsed beside you, chest heaving, one hand immediately reaching for yours.

He pressed his forehead to your shoulder, still catching his breath, and smiled against your skin.

“Best. Birthday. Ever.”

#pedro pascal #pedropascal #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x f!reader #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal fandom

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holdmytesseract · 2 days ago

Text

daryl dixon x fem!reader

🪶 part one

warnings for this part: twd stuff? thirst - a lot, daryl has a man bun and is an absolute cutie patootie, swear words, teasing?, carol and daryl being best friends, cliffhanger?

word count: 3,5k

a/n: this lil' mini-series is based on this post @ellasdixon made. i actually just planned to write a thirst oneshot, but well... my writer brain decided there had to be way more plot, so... i hope y'all enjoy this!

a big shout-out goes to @fictive-sl0th for helping me along! oh, and @dixonsdarkelf , of course for your guidance with the poem!

disclaimer: a few lines in this are not mine. it's from the series, obviously. i just used them for the plot. masterlist 🪶 EoH Masterlist

LITRM Masterlist 🪶 Daryl Masterlist

The first time you had seen him was all those years ago, when he and his group 'raided' your camp for all the guns you possessed to fight the Saviors. He had been the one who tied your hands with that uncomfortable, scratchy rope. Daryl - like the woman with the katana addressed him - had been kneeling in front of you on the rough, earthy ground. One big, work-worn hand had captured your smaller ones around the wrists, while the other worked to wrap them up with the rope. His long chestnut brown curls had fallen into his face; preventing you from seeing his stunning blue eyes. He hadn't said much during the task at hand. Nothing but a few grunts. Your eyes had been stuck on him the entire time; entranced, stunned, enchanted.

It had been only a short encounter. A small touch. A fleeting moment - and yet you remembered everything. It was like engraved in your mind.

Now, Daryl stood merely a few yards away from you on the sandy underground of the beach in Oceanside - your home, so many years later. The memory from your first encounter was still vividly present, like you discovered. Sure, you had seen him before after you first saw him. Quite a few times actually, but most of the times only fleetingly. This... This was different.

The archer had passed you by with a soft touch on your arm and a 'Hey, Y/N, ya good?'. You wanted to answer him casually, but when your eyes met his and the wind carried his scent to you - a mix of smoke, leather and something earthy and musky, your mind went blank. Mostly. All you were able to think about was that damn moment all those years ago and suddenly crashed those warm, fuzzy feelings you had thought dead full force into you again.

Apparently had the crush you developed on the handsome archer never ceased. It had been just hidden; buried underneath a ton of other feelings.

You had barely managed to give him a proper answer; too overwhelmed by his sudden presence and the feelings running wild inside you. Now he was watching you (and everyone else) fighting off the walkers Jerry and Ezekiel released from that old shipping container to practice your fighting skills and test out different strategies. To say you had a hard time concentrating was an understatement. Your eyes were like glued to Daryl; unable to tear them away from him.

"Y/N?" Michonne's voice reached your ears and brain, but nobody was home at the moment. "Y/N. Hey, Y/N." Only when your friend grabbed your upper arm and gently shook you 'awake'. You blinked; focusing again and turned your head to face the woman. "Huh? What?" "Eyes up front, soldier. This is where it's at!" An uptight smile crossed your face as a reddish blush crept up your cheeks. "Uh, yeah, sorry, I just... I thought I saw something out there in the distance," you lied; referring to the ocean. You actually hated lying, but your brain just short-circuited in that very moment; not finding a different way out of this kinda embarrassing situation.

Michonne's eyes flickered over your face as if to analyze your reaction and expression. Then she turned her head up front again. A knowing smirk was on her face - unbeknownst to you. "Sure, Y/N, whatever you say."

It got only worse the following days from that point on. It seemed like everywhere you went, everywhere you looked, there was always Daryl. As if he was a ghost, haunting you. It wasn't your fault that you ended up sitting underneath a tree, which shielded you from the warm sun, your old notebook in hands and drawing the handsome archer working a few yards across from you. It was clearly his fault.

Well, at least now you had a... reason to constantly watch him. You just hoped that neither he, nor someone else noticed it. That's why you opted to 'hide' underneath that tree; providing you the perfect opportunity to fully indulge in the crush you harbored for him.

Most likely unbeknownst to him had chosen Daryl violence today - in your opinion. His old, kinda ragged brown jeans were still the same, sure, but they nevertheless didn't fail to accentuate certain... body parts as he moved around and helped Beatrice to fix that small boat with the leak. Therefore, that it was a quite warm day for Spring, he didn't wear that greyish black shirt he had worn yesterday, no, he wore a black one... With the sleeves ripped off - what caused his arms to be on full display. Logically. A perfect view on his tattoos. A perfect view on his bulging biceps. To say he had a pair of strong muscles was probably an understatement... Always carrying around a quite heavy crossbow was apparently showing. It was the first time you saw him with bare arms, and you positively had to swallow.

If you could, you would definitely take a bite out of those delicious arms. Just a small nibble.

The sweat glistening on those arms in the afternoon sun wasn't helping at all. If not, it made everything just worse. Just like the sweat on his chest - on which you caught a pretty good glimpse of as well, since the top two buttons were undone. Tanned skin - kudos to quite a few hot summers spent without sunscreen in the Georgia heat, adorned with a dark patch of chest hair curling over his pectorals and clinging to the slick skin there; leaving you thirsting for more.

Was there more underneath that shirt? A happy trail perhaps? Starting from just underneath his navel and leading straight over the softness of his stomach past his pelvis region straight to-

Your eyes widened as you caught yourself thinking this; a blush spreading over your cheeks. You quickly shook your head to try to get ahead of these... inappropriate thoughts.

But... Weren't all your thoughts kinda inappropriate at the moment?

Most likely, yes, and you definitely felt a bit bad for sexualizing him so hard, but you just couldn't help yourself. Your crush on the brave and selfless archer with his rough and tough edges but definitely with that heart of gold underneath the hard shell was beyond huge. Not that he'd ever feel the same way about you, but a girl could dream, right? Instead of acting on your feelings you chose to suffer in silence; afraid of making a fool out of yourself.

You sighed softly and gave his shirt on your drawing a last pencil stroke, before you redirected your attention back to Daryl; now focusing on his handsome face.

And you really thought things couldn't get worse, but like so often before you got proven wrong...

Those eyes... Those beautiful, breathtaking blue eyes... You were sure you could drown in them - and you wouldn't even complain if you did. It made you kinda sad that you just possessed a pencil to draw and not any colors. Such eyes deserved to be seen.

Daryl's beard hadn't changed much. Except that the fine hairs got a little bit more gray in them now - and you would lie if you said that it wasn't hot. His shoulder-length, chestnut brown hair hadn't changed as well; was still one of your favorite features of him.

Your hand which was literally glued to the sheet of paper on your lap seemed to work on its own accord, as you kept on drawing the handsome man. But suddenly, he stopped at his task at hand to rummage through the pockets of his pants. Once Daryl had found the object of desire, he did the unthinkable. It caused your eyes widen to the size of plates...

He tied his long curls together into a man bun.

Your jaw dropped; brain on the verge of collapsing. The man across you looked even prettier now - something you didn't think was possible. Until this very moment. It suited him to perfection. You had always thought his long hair to be sexy. But Daryl with a man bun was just devastatingly hot. You'd even go as far and say it was a panty dropper.

"You'll catch flies if you keep on staring at Daryl like that." The sudden voice urging to your ears from your left managed to burst the dreamy bubble around you. You blinked and quickly clapped your mouth shut again; head snapping into the direction of said voice. Michonne was standing beside you; arms crossed over her chest with a smirk on her lips. "W-What?" You squeaked, then quickly cleared your throat. "I-I wasn't staring. I was just... in thoughts," you stated; trying to somehow get out of this kinda embarrassing situation. "You weren't staring at him?" You shook your head, acting innocent like a well-behaved school girl. "No." The woman raised a suspicious eyebrow at you, but stayed quiet. Michonne just eyed you for a long moment in silence, "If you say so..." before she moved to sit down beside you. "What are you drawing?"

You instantly blushed; clutching your notebook against your chest. "Uh, nothing." "Nothing?" "Nothing important," you corrected and hoped Michonne would just buy your story and drop the topic, but deep down you knew that you blew your cover already at the very beginning of this conversation. Her smile widened. "Just Daryl, right?"

Well, shit.

Your silence was answer enough for the Alexandrian. "Show me? I won't laugh or judge you. Promise." You took a deep breath and looked at your friend, before hesitatingly handing your notebook over. Michonne's eyes scanned the paper; instantly widening. "Wow, Y/N, this... This is beautiful! Absolutely stunning."

A small smile spread on your face.

"Thanks..." The woman shook her head; still marveling at your art. "Amazing, truly..." She looked at the drawing for another moment, before handing the notebook back to you - and you really believed that you were off the hook now.

"You like him, don't you?"

Nope.

"W-Well, I-I-I...," you stammered; the reddish color returning to your cheeks. "Oh, you absolutely do," Michonne smirked, while you helplessly shrugged your shoulders. "H-He's a kind, cute guy..." "Yeah, you got it bad for Daryl," she giggled; placing a hand on your shoulder. "Why don't you tell him?"

Your eyes widened a second time.

"T-Tell him?! Are you out of your mind?!"

"Why?!" She chuckled. "Because he won't ever - not even in my wildest dreams reciprocate those feelings, Mich!" You exclaimed. "And I certainly don't plan to make a damn fool out of myself." You clapped your notebook shut and hugged it to your chest; resting your chin on your drawn up knees. The woman sitting beside you sighed. "Y/N... Life's too short for this bullshit. Every day could be our last, as hard as it sounds. We've got no time to 'think it over' or to 'wait another while'... Just do it. Tell him. Friends, family, hope and love is all we got those days. Thought you know that." With those words your friend stood up and left you alone again with your crush on the archer and those raging thoughts inside your head.

"Where is it... Where is it..." You mumbled under your breath as you rummaged through your stuff. You were on the search for your beloved notebook. You could've sworn that you placed it on your bedside table yesterday, but it wasn't there. It was nowhere, actually. Not on your bed or under the mattress. Neither in your backpack, nor in the box where your fishing gear and weapons were. It seemed like it just vanished - and you were close to losing it. This notebook meant so much to you. Held various memories, captured in the form of drawings and sometimes even poems. You didn't know what to do if you had truly lost it.

Frustrated, you made your way outside the hut; almost crashing into Cyndie. "Woah, Y/N, carefully." She was carrying a crate with fresh fish. "S-Sorry," you apologized instantly and rubbed your left upper arm. The leader of your group frowned. "Are you okay? You seem... absentminded and worried." "Yeah, I'm good. It's just... I can't find my notebook..." Cyndie knew how much value this plain little object had for you. "I'm sorry. I hope you'll find it again. Look around the camp. Perhaps you forgot it outside somewhere and somebody found it. I'll keep my eyes open, okay?" You smiled softly at her. "Thanks." Cyndie gave you a compassionate smile in return, then passed you by.

Following her advice, you started to search the camp. It just had to be here somewhere...

"Tara woulda been proud," Daryl stated, while walking side by side with Michonne through the bustling camp. "Mhm, hope so," answered the Alexandrian leader with a smile. "It's good to bring the kids also... Let 'em see the ocean for the first time." "Yeah, I know one idiot that woulda loved this." Michonne's smile even widened as she gently bumped Daryl's upper arm with her fist, causing the crossbow-wielding archer to smile as well.

The two friends kept walking in silence, before Michonne spoke up again. "Hey, what you got there?" She asked; noticing in the corner of her eyes the not very subtle book which peeked out of Daryl's back pocket of his jeans. "Oh, uh, tha'..." He reached behind to retrieve the item, "Found it underneath a tree." and handed it over to his friend. Michonne inspected the paperback sized book. Her eyes widened. She knew that book. It was yours. The conversation she had with you yesterday immediately flooded her brain again.

"Have you looked inside?" Daryl shrugged. "Nah, not really. Jus' flipped through the first few pages... Lotta drawings 'n some poems or sum'thin'." The woman smiled; unable to resist the urge to help you and Daryl along. Sometimes you had to push them into the right direction, right? "It belongs to Y/N," she said; turning her head to face her friend. "Yeah? Really? Didn't know she could draw like tha'... 'S real good." "Mhm... You should take a look at her last drawing," Michonne said; still smiling like a Cheshire cat. Daryl frowned. "Why? 'S her personal stuff. Been already snoopin' 'round too much." The Alexandrian leader stopped in her tracks to pat the archer's shoulder, "Do it. Trust me." before she walked away.

Daryl was quite confused about his friend's behavior. A frown stretched across his forehead. Nevertheless, did he decide to follow her advice and take a look at the last drawing. Once he reached said page, his eyes almost widened to the size of plates; jaw dropping. The drawing wasn't just anything or anyone, no... It was a drawing of him. A beautiful one at that. Very detailed and so realistic, as if you had taken a photograph of him. Just in black and white. The only color this piece of paper possessed was an oceanic blue. His eyes. The archer smiled softly; feeling honored that you'd draw him. He didn't question yet why. But then he noticed the small text written underneath the drawing...

'Your eyes so blue, just one view enough to sink and drown. Can only think of you etched into my mind like a tattoo. Is this what love feels like? Then never wake me up and let me wander in this dream of mine, too afraid to cross that line.'

The archer stared holes into the written poem; totally taken aback. He wasn't stupid. He knew what those words apparently meant - and they caused his brain to malfunction. A woman. Apparently in love. With him?! How was he supposed to react now? Clapping the notebook shut again, he quickly stowed it away in his back pocket again, before it got too real for the archer.

He carried the small item around with him for days. It almost felt like it was burning a hole into the fabric of his tattered jeans. It was always present in his mind. You were always present. It didn't help that he often saw you. Constantly. Everywhere he looked, there was always you. He knew he should give you the notebook back, but he was afraid. What was he supposed to say anyway? He just didn't know how to react or what to do. And when he left Oceanside with the others to return to Alexandria, Daryl felt utterly guilty. So guilty and so helpless, that he did the only thing his brain was telling him seemed right to do... Ask his best friend for help.

"I feel like there's a reason you took me on that hunting trip. Am I right?" Carol's voice urged to his ears from behind him. He swallowed. He should've know that the woman looked right through him. She knew him like the back of her hand. No wonder after all those years spent together in a apocalypse... "I can literally see the gears turning in your head, Daryl." He stopped; Carol coming to stand beside him, while Dog already trotted ahead. "So there is," she stated finally. "You gonna tell me or do you need another while to come around?" Daryl scoffed and shook his head, before he continued to walk. "Came out to hunt. Gonna do tha' first." A smile spread across Carol's cheeks, "Alright. Whatever you say, pookie." as she followed him and their animal friend.

About two hours later, the two of them sat around a little campfire they made; grilling a few of the fishes they had caught. "You're awfully quiet. More than usually," stated the gray haired woman after a long while of almost crushing silence. "Whatever it is that's on your mind, it must be bothering you a lot..."

It did. She wasn't wrong.

Daryl sighed. He came here to talk and he wanted to. It just didn't come easy to him. Things like that never did. Wordlessly, Daryl turned to rummage through his backpack and handed Carol your notebook. "Last drawing. Towards the end of the pages." His best friend gave him a curious but also questioning look, before she opened the book; skipping to the last drawing.

Like Daryl's before, Carol's eyes widened as well as she studied the page. Then she smiled. "I think someones got a huge crush on you." As if it wouldn't be obvious... "Let me guess who? 'Cause I think I know." The archer looked at the woman sitting beside him; leaned against the log with an almost shocked face. "Ya know?!" She nodded. "Y/N." Daryl's jaw dropped. "Wha'? How do ya know?" Carol chuckled. "Are you kidding me? It's obvious. Have you never noticed how she looked at you whenever the communities meet?" The clueless man blinked. "Of course you haven't..." Carol rolled her eyes but was still smiling. "That her notebook?" He nodded; swallowing hard and trying to find his voice again. "Found it... Quite a few weeks ago. Back when we were at Oceanside for tha' training..." "And you didn't give it back to her?" Daryl shook his head; chewing on the inside of his bottom lip and nervously fumbling with his fingers - and Carol knew. "You saw the drawing and now you don't know what to do, right?" Another nod, before a beat of silence passed between the two best friends - only the sound of the crickets and the crackling fire could be heard. "'S jus'... I dunno how... how to act on this. I've never..." He paused. "I've never thought someone could ever love me, ya know... Let alone a woman... 'M a stranger to all 'a this..."

Carol gave the man a compassionate smile; not judging her best friend and rather wanting to help. "Do you have feelings for Y/N?" Daryl thought for a moment, then merely shrugged his shoulders. "Dunno," he whispered; staring like hypnotized into the fire. "Okay, let me rephrase that question... What did you feel when you saw Y/N in Oceanside a few weeks back?" The archer thought again. He was trying. He really was. "Uh, happiness, I guess? Like... 'S always nice to see 'er. She's a kind woman." Carol nodded. "And what do you feel now when you think of her?"

Her best friend swallowed; the stone he had just found on the wooden ground beside him suddenly very interesting.

"Been lookin' at tha' drawing a lot... Been thinkin' 'bout her also a lot... 'S... I dunno. 'S like somebody handed me glasses 'n I see her different now tha' I wear 'em." Daryl paused. "When I think of 'er now, I... I think 'bout how, uh, great she is. 'N how... pretty. Feels like an itch in my, uh, stomach. A tickle or some flutter. Dunno how else to describe it." Carol smiled encouragingly at him. "That's good. Keep going. What else?" "Uh... Think my heart also beats, uh, faster. 'S like I've been runnin' a damn marathon or sum'thin'." "Mhm," the woman sitting beside him hummed. "Do you have the urge to see her? Talk to her? Be with her?" Daryl blushed; cheeks turning crimson. He nodded.

Carol's smile brightened, and she hooked her arm through his; patting the strong muscle. "Wha'?" The archer asked a bit confused.

"You're in love, Daryl."

🪶 part two

tags: @angelwings-crossbowstrings @belitoxx @fictive-sl0th @marvelcasey05 @loz-3 @whore4romance @stitchintimefan @bigbaldheadname @making-the-most-0f-it @erebus-et-eigengrau @km-ffluv @0-aubrie0 @sweetz1919 @mikaela-granger @secretsicanthideanymore @dilfdixon @txtttttttttttttt @dixons-sunshine @cakesandtom @mayday2007 @dixonsdarkelf @huntedmusicgardenn @ffsjustletmesleep @negansbestie

#daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon #daryl dixon twd #daryl dixon the walking dead #twd daryl #the walking dead #daryl dixon x female reader #daryl dixon x you #daryl dixon x y/n #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon fic #daryl dixon series #the walking dead fanfiction #the walking dead fanfic #twd

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kykyonthemoon · 3 days ago

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Floating Floraletter

and why it will always be my favorite!!!

‼️ This post contains spoilers for Caleb’s 5 star memory. Read at your own discretion.

‼️ These are just a few words from my perspective after reading the card. I'm aware that each person might have different views, and I'd love to hear from yours too. Please do share your thoughts.

❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。

❀ At first, when I read the title of the card “Floating Floraleter”, I was a bit confused. The “floating” part is quite clear because it refers to Caleb’s boat, Evol (which he uses to make the flowers and MC float). And “Floraleter”? It must be a combination of “floral” and “letter” but I don’t see any letter here. Turns out it’s in the card’s content. And it made me cry.

Since his time at the Academy in Skyhaven, Caleb wrote many letters to MC but didn’t send them. They were all very normal thoughts and reminders he had for her. Yet if she had received them during that time, it would mean that she would never be able to see him again.

Because all those letters were goodbyes that he wanted to say to MC, in case something unexpected happened and he couldn’t come back to her anymore.

All those letters reminded me of the Violet Evergarden episodes; when the mother asked Violet to write a letter to her daughter every year on her birthday because she couldn’t live anymore; or the letters without an address, stacked up at the post office… I felt like this part of the card, although only a few short lines, was enough to be my most favorite so far, because of the emotions it conveyed.

It wasn’t anything grand, it wasn’t anything big, or fancy. Just a few simple lines he sent back to the most important person in his life. It was enough, and sincere. That was all my heart needed.

❀ In addition to the letters that never reached MC, Caleb also kept her photos, and photos of both of them together. He kept them in the most important chip on his aircraft. So that when the time comes and he must go, her image will be the last thing he sees before leaving this world. 😌

❀ Loving a soldier, not only MC but also Caleb always have to face the possibility of never seeing each other again. Caleb states that he also wants to come back as much as MC wishes to see him again. Perhaps it is that small wish of both that makes them try every day, despite all the misunderstandings, the arguments, the distances... to finally truly return home - where each other is. They choose not to say goodbyes, but only hellos. So romantic yet painful at the same time. It makes me cherish peace more than ever, and at the same time remember that separation is inevitable in everyone's life. But if even the desolate land can still grow flowers and grass, then death is only temporary (as the church has taught me that).

❀ There are also some minor details that I probably won’t be able to name them all out here. I love the way MC trusts Caleb unconditionally. He tells her to jump, she does it without hesitation. Because she knows he will always catch her no matter what. I love the way they interact, tease, joke and caress each other. I also love the way MC appreciates him more, understands him and is more proactive with him. If in the previous cards (especially the normal ones) the way MC behaves didn't move me much, then in this card, she shows me the role of being Caleb’s trusted support. Although not much, it is a spark that I hope to see more of in the future.

Let me sum it up by what MC feels:

I know that no matter what happens, I’m just like him. We always yearn for our home and long to return to each other’s side.

#floating floraletter #caleb #love and deepspace #mahiru #xia yizhou #lnds #lads #l&ds #caleb x mc #love and deepspace caleb #kyky's diary of a deepspace hunter #lnds caleb #lads caleb #l&ds caleb

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stevenose · 2 hours ago

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bestie, i cannot stop thinking about rockstar!steve and how he’s been on tour for like three months and you could only go for the first leg. you call each other every single night and he swears he gets off just at the sound of your voice purring through the receiver, but it doesn’t compare to you. the curves of your body and how he has them memorized, mapped a thousand times, fingers trailing, searching, pressing.

the second he gets home, you hear the key in the door, and both of you are just ON each other. he’s still a little smug, a little cocky, c’mon babe he’s a rockstar, but it’s also a little desperate and a lot reverent. worshipping you because being away from you this long has him feeling like he’s been lost in the desert. wandering without water or purpose or direction and then suddenly you appear. a goddess, his fucking salvation, down on his knees between your legs and devoting his every breath to you.

yeah ok i had to write this.

you’re not sure if it’s a coincidence that you’re touching yourself every night about an hour after his concert ends, or if you’re subconsciously doing it. either way, it’s nearing midnight, and your hands are wandering.

your sheets feel colder without him. your hands aren’t quite as big and as warm as his, but you still trail them down your stomach and between your supple thighs. you sigh about it — that you have to do everything yourself for the foreseeable future.

but when your eyes drift closed, you can imagine him. all yours, not the world’s. you can see how he looks at you, beaming, chocolate brown eyes lightening like you’re the world to him. you get to see him like this - no one else. never anyone else. and you don’t worry, either. in fact, it’s a little hot to you to know he’s yours when everybody wants a piece of him.

your spare hand reaches lazily to the empty space beside you to grab a crewneck. steve sprayed half of his damn cologne on it and wore it for almost a week before leaving so that you had something to remember him by. you bring it to your nose now, shakily exhaling at the scent. it makes your stomach somersault, your clit throbbing, imagining him on top of you.

you miss the weight of him. the heat. the way he’d make you sweat when he crowded you against the mattress, propping himself up on toned, muscled biceps to kiss you. to call you beautiful. to tell you he loves you.

you gently swirl your fingertips across your swollen clit, a breathless moan slipping past your lips. you tease yourself, just like he would. you know he’d be so enthralled with how wet and tight and warm you are. and christ, if he was here, you’d let him have you all night. raw, any position he wants, however long he wants. he deserves it, and so do you.

your phone ringing shocks you for only half a second before you’re lunging towards it, heart beating fast, the pleasure between your legs temporarily forgotten.

“hi.” you know it’s him.

“hey, baby,” steve responds. you hear the smile in his voice, the hoarseness attained from singing. “didn’t wake you up, did i?”

you roll your eyes. “you know i won’t sleep ‘til i hear from you.”

“you know i won’t sleep til i hear from you.”

you giggle, and then he joins in.

it’s almost pathetic how in love you are.

“what’re you doin’, hm? you reading that book you told me about?”

you pause, biting your smiling lips. “well, you called at a perfect time, stevie. i was just thinking about you.”

the tone shifts immediately.

“yeah?”

“yeah.” you lay down again, spreading your legs. just the sound of his drawl, that gravelly tenor, has you way more aroused than you had been five minutes ago. “bet you can guess what i’m thinking about, huh?”

steve laughs. “if it’s anything like what i’ve been thinking of all night….”

“thinking of me, too?”

his voice turns quiet. “sweetheart. almost got a goddamn boner on stage because i couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

your face sets alight. “where are you right now?”

“i’m alone, if that’s what you’re asking.”

you hum, giddy. “want to help each other, then?”

————————

steve’s talking so quietly you can hardly hear him, especially over your own panting.

“how many?” he murmurs.

“two,” you whimper, a bead of sweat tickling its way down your forehead.

he laughs lowly. “come on, honey, know you can take more than that.”

you whimper, sinking a third finger into yourself. the stretch hurts but you still feel so empty without steve’s long fingers reaching where yours can’t.

“fingers aren’t enough, sweetheart?” he asks softly, groaning lightly. “my hand isn’t enough, either. need to feel that tight, wet pussy, miss it.”

you shiver and smile. “what would you do if you were here?”

steve groans again, louder this time. “wouldn’t know where to start.”

you bite your tongue, swiping your thumb over your clit. “tell me anything.”

you hear him spit and you gasp, imagining him fisting his cock, still sweaty from the show, jaw clenched tight, hair a mess. your thighs squeeze together around your hand.

“i want - i wanna put your calves on m-my shoulders, bend you in half, ‘nd fuck your pretty pussy raw til you’re full ‘f me.”

“steve!” you gasp, fingers working faster. “need it, need you, please —“

“what would you do if you were here?” he interrupts with a shuddering moan.

“i’d suck you off until you had nothing left to give me.”

steve moans loudly and you smile triumphantly.

“miss your lips,” he pants. “you’re gonna get me into trouble, sweetheart, shit.”

“what if i came and sucked your cock in front of all of those people, huh?” you continue wickedly, your words getting yourself off. “let everyone know who you belong to.”

“ohhhh my god,” he gasps. “don’t say shit like that.”

“or maybe everyone would see that i belong to you? would you be sweet with me, steve, or would you be too eager in front of all of those people?”

“holy shit,” he grits. you have to strain to hear him. you can see him when you close your eyes - eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched, head thrown back, his hand wrapped around his pretty, freckled shaft. “cumming — cumming — ‘m gonna cum….”

“yeah, steve, cum with me,” you push. “make a mess, baby, wish i could see it —“

steve’s really good at cumming quietly, except the one time he accidentally bit his tongue and yelled “shit!” halfway through his orgasm. tonight, you only hear breathless, choked whimpers, a groan settling low and in his throat.

you follow suit, much louder than him, back arching off of your bed as your fingers stroke your sweet spot. your ecstasy is short lived, though — your throat aches as you catch your breath, eyes stinging.

“you okay?” steve asks softly.

“i miss you,” you whimper.

he sniffles on the other line. “miss you, too. so goddamn bad, baby, you wouldn’t believe it.”

there’s a silence that stretches out, both of you thinking of the other.

“let me clean myself up, and then i want to hear all about your day. you have a few minutes? are you tired?”

you smile lazily, relaxing into your sheets. “i’ve got all the time in the world for you.”

#category: blurbs #EEEK….!!!!!#thank u for this thought 😵‍💫😵‍💫

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the-conspiracy-board · 1 day ago

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Thinking about the Magnus Archives Fears and how I don't think they'd have any success in Night Vale. Just imagine the Fears trying to establish themselves there, and how Night Vale already has them all covered...

- The Eye, that sees and knows everything? You mean like Cecil Palmer, the Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives in Your Home, the Sherrif's Secret Police?

- The Buried, that cloying claustrophobia, feeling the weight of all of the earth above you and not being able to flee from it? Well, Night Vale has houses that collapse into sink holes, and giant purple worms that burrow under the ground and emerge in a dust storm, and a miniature city under lane five at the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex, so burying as a concept is a little... been there, done that.

- The Slaughter, that sees you mindlessly, erratically destroy everyone and everything? Night Vale got that covered in the Blood Space War, in the fight against that miniature city, in any of countless battles.

- The Web, that plots and spins its own machinations and taunts you with them? You mean the People's Church of the Smiling God, Station Management, government officials, the Labyrinth, whatever Big Rico is up to in that basement?

- The Vast, an endless expanse that you can never escape? Did you mean the Desert Otherworld, Night Vale itself, or looking up into the Mysterious Lights that Flash Overhead While We All Pretend to Sleep?

- The Stranger.... also known as anyone the town chases away with cries of 'Interloper', or the Appalachian Tracker (who's really just a super racist white guy in a Native American headress who speaks in Russian), or the Man in the Tan Jacket, or the Man Who is Not Tall and his companion, the Man Who is Not Small?

- The Spiral and all it's many Distortions? You mean like the mysterious corporation whose logo is a literal labyrinth, or that house out on the edge of town that leads to the Desert Otherworld, or Khoshekh?

- The Dark... well, that doesn't do a whole lot when there's a void in the Dog Park that people are NOT allowed to go into, when there's an infinite black above that is lit only by the Lights Above the Arby's.

- The Corruption, and it's sicknesses and plagues? Mm, well Night Vale outlawed Wheat and Wheat By-Products when the wheat turned to snakes, and there's a well established plague of Throat Spiders, and every single soul is corrupt in one way or another.

- The Lonely can't really get its legs underneath it when everyone is suspicious of their neighbours, when the Numbers Station is hosted by a woman who doesn't know herself, when Cecil Palmer doesn't remember who he was and all of the things that happened in his past, when the Condos exist as they do, when there are Angels (all named Erika) who DO NOT EXIST and cannot be known.

- The Hunt hasn't got anything to go off when Murder Night in Blood Forest is coming to a town near you, when Kevin and Lauren are popping into town to recruit for their malevolent Smiling God, when the Librarians will eat you if you linger too long.

- The Desolation and how it brings destruction and so much personal loss... well Carlos was trapped in that Desert Other World all that time, and Cecil doesn't remember much of his mother, and time and the fates force lovers to seperate.

- The Flesh will only be celebrated in a town that plays host to Torniquet (the best restaurant in town!) and wears Soft Meat Crowns to celebrate the founding of the town itself, and has Josh who changes their form at will.

- And the End.... well, the end doesn't really exist in Night Vale, not when there's ghosts who drive the taxi's, when Cecil Palmer's predecessor still shares his broadcasts from an Other Place, when death is well established to be a temporary affair.

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sasukekys · 2 days ago

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What are the chances of Kishimoto "breaking up" (in the literal, explicit sense, without having to look for subtexts in the writing) SS, don't get me wrong I know they are "only together" (Sasuke going home just for his daughter) because of Sarada, but Sakura continues to use Uchiha clan symbols, the house is full of Uchiha clan symbols and we need to believe that they are married precisely because of that (even if there is no ring)

And when I say breakup, I mean Sasuke saying "enough" and we get the truth of the situation

uhhhh no? sakura wearing the uchiha crest doesn’t force us to believe in anything, i’m sorry, i’ve been getting way too many anons about ss and somehow all of them are trying to push the ship to be believable in one way or another, wether it’s that we need to believe sakura is married to sasuke because she wears the uchiha crest, or that you can’t decanonise the novels because of sj, or that sasuke needed to fall in love with sakura to have a daughter with her… it’s the rhetoric that feels iffy, so i beg your pardon if i’m mistaken, but i’m wondering about your true intentions regarding ss in this blog.

sakura wears the uchiha crest but sasuke doesn’t, it’s the only moment of the story that he stopped wearing it, not after the massacre, not after tobirama called them a cursed clan. coincidentally, the moment kishimoto designed sakura wearing, sasuke isn’t anymore. it doesn’t say anything good about sasusaku, but rather it only makes sakura look worse.

fugaku says you can only be considered an uchiha after you master the fire style jutsu.

sakura surely hasn’t done that, and yet she still wears the uchiha crest. this is at the very least disrespectful to the clan’s name and beliefs.

not only sakura is ignorant about the uchiha, but also about sasuke as a person. his “wife” can’t even tell if he ever wore glasses, a trait that is literally in the person’s face.

she doesn’t have a wedding photo with sasuke, she doesn’t even have a normal photo with sasuke, she doesn’t have a wedding ring. but more importantly, she doesn’t have any of sasuke’s affections. has never been kissed, even though she still tries to get it and then lies to her daughter about something that is “better”. her daughter questions if she’s really married, and sakura can’t even comfort her in that. so many insecurities, and the only thing to overcompensate to all of that seems to be many many uchiha crests.

when naruto mentions “the truth about itachi” to sasuke, kishimoto does draw sakura wondering about it, but she never demonstrates any interest in some big truth about the most important person of the guy she’s “in love with”. when sasuke talks about his revolution, she thinks it’s great timing to confess to him (even though he has already rejected her before) and say she wants things to go back as they were… sasuke had just said he wanted things to change, did she even pay attention? sakura is constantly portrayed as ignorant, but not innocently, not being kept in the dark by others, sometimes she’s willingly so. she chooses to be ignorant. just one more indication of her selfishness, portrayed in many occasions in the manga.

what we can take from all of this is that sakura doesn’t care about her surroundings if it doesn’t affect her personally. sasuke’s clan isn’t important to her, not the history, not the sad truth about it, what truly matters is that she can use it as a decoration. she doesn’t have sasuke’s affections, but it doesn’t matter, because she can compensate that by flaunting his crest everywhere, i guess. it makes her look like she only cares about status and empty titles, that’s how she’s always seen sasuke and that’s what he’ll ever be to her, someone to fulfil her fantasies, to make someone so unremarkable feel special that “she won” against all the competition. but it still doesn’t say anything good about sasusaku.

i don’t remember where this quote is from but “someone pointed out how in gaiden we see sakura brandishing the uchiha crest, we see her painting it on her house, and wearing it proudly on her back even though she’s not an uchiha. you know who else was doing that in gaiden, the shins. yes, sakura is using the uchiha name in the same way the shins are. kishimoto made it a point to show us that sakura thinks of the uchiha in the same way the shins do by brandishing the crest on her house and on her clothing. we all know sasuke doesn’t wear that crest anymore. we know he doesn’t particularly care who wears it anymore. we know he has taken up itachi’s ideology about practically everything. so why does it seem so important to sakura and people say that kishi isn’t anti sasusaku.”

so does kishimoto really need to say things explicitly? do things have to be perfectly said? no one can use their interpretation skills anymore? is there some hidden truth beyond everything he has written already? let’s be for real.

#ask #anonymous #naruto asks

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jude457 · 3 days ago

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More Hwang Brothers and 457 Angst

Okay, but this won’t leave me alone.

I keep thinking about it. This post-rebellion scenario where the VIPs decide to punish Gihun and Inho in the cruelest way possible.

They don't physically torture them. They don't execute them right away.

They make it a game.

They sit Gihun down in some velvet-lined horror show of a room. They hand him a gun. And then they bring in Inho and Junho. Two brothers. One who wore the mask, the other who tore it off.

Junho, who came back to the island for answers. For his brother. Who got caught in the crossfire of something too big, too awful.

And the VIPs—smiling behind gold masks—say:

“Pick one to die. Or all three of you will. Your choice, 456.”

And the thing is… it’s supposed to be simple. Inho. The man who ran the games. The traitor. The one who watched people die for sport. Who let the system grind on.

Gihun knows that. He knows.

But then Inho just sinks to his knees, hands shaking, voice barely more than a whisper:

“I know it’s going to be me. I’m ready, Gihun. I deserve this. Just… please, don’t let Junho pay for my mistakes. Make sure he goes home.”

And Junho—oh my god—Junho just loses it. He’s screaming, pleading with Gi-hun.

“Don’t kill him. Please. Don’t give them what they want. If you shoot him, I swear I’ll never forgive you. Shoot me instead. Please.”

And it’s this awful sound. Not angry. Not even scared. Just grief. The kind of grief that knows you’re already losing something no matter what happens.

And Gihun just stands there.

Suddenly it’s him holding the choice Inho once had—back when it was him or Jungbae. He remembers that. The weight of it. The way it’s still in his bones.

Now the game wants to play it again.

Except this time, he understands what it means. And the worst part?

He can’t choose. Because choosing means killing a brother. Either the one who made the wrong choices…or the one who believed enough to come back for him.

All Gihun can do is let the gun fall from his hands. And in that moment, everything feels still. Like the world’s holding its breath. Inho’s sobbing. Junho’s begging him to change his mind.

Except this time… Gihun understands.

There is no right answer.

If he kills Inho, he destroys Junho. If he kills Junho, he finishes off what little of Inho underneath the mask is left.

If he kills neither, all three of them die.

That’s when it hits him.

The only choice left—the only one that isn't part of their game—is to pick up the gun and turn it on himself.

The room is quiet now.

The VIPs lean forward in their chairs. Curious. Confused. A few murmur bets, wondering if he’s bluffing.

Gihun looks at both of them.

“I’m sorry. But I can’t play their game anymore.”

And he raises the gun—

Not toward them.

But toward himself.

And that’s the choice they never saw coming.

#squid game

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all-pacas · 2 days ago

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literally one of the first things i ever wrote for this fandom, and yet never finished or found a larger story to put it in: my take on how chase got the scar on his cheek

What made you want to be a doctor? is a common enough question.

He knows Cameron’s story: to help people, and be the one to help — and Foreman’s: to help people, but feel superior about it. Knows House’s, more or less (to solve people, to understand and take apart and know), and Chase supposes he’d be closer to the latter example than the former if want had ever factored in.

The truth: Chase has known he would to go to medical school since he was four and fell out the upstairs window.

He remembers the day dimly. The room vividly. His father’s study was the only room in the house that locked from the outside, and even then his father had rarely been home long enough to use it. Stately desk, wooden chair. A small closet packed with banker’s boxes, shelves lined with textbooks and journals. In those days, Chase had still thought of himself as Robbie, and Robbie’d eventually thought to stash a throw pillow in the closet for when he fell asleep waiting to be let out. Spend hours looking at pictures in textbooks, struggling to read the dense medical texts. His first year of medical school he’d been made fun of, pronouncing terms wrong, more used to seeing them in print than heard.

He’d needed the toilet. Banged on the door, shouted for his mother. He’d grown desperate, and afraid of punishment if he’d wet himself or made a mess. The house had a veranda spanning the first floor. He must have thought he could climb out the window, onto the porch roof. Jump or climb down onto the lawn, to freedom. Sometimes he thinks it’s surprising he hadn’t tried sooner. Sometimes he thinks it’s worse he never tried again.

He can recall — or imagine he recalls — his rush of excitement as he’d gotten the window open, and the incredible heat of the roof on his bare feet in his moment of triumph. How big he’d felt, how high up and free.

He doesn’t remember falling, but he had.

His mother found him on the gravel outside and called an ambulance. He’d been taken to his father’s hospital: his father had been furious. Less about the neglect and more the embarrassment of it, the nurses gossiping about his wife’s blood alcohol level. He remembers the plastic furniture of Pediatrics: the tropical landscape painted onto the far wall, bright orange curtains on the windows, and his parents arguing in whispers. Broken arm, broken shoulder. Cuts and abrasions on his palms, legs, cheek. He tells girls he got the scar from a shark, sometimes. If they seem likely to buy it.

It had been a nurse who’d fussed over him as his parents argued, told him how brave he was being, made Robbie feel like he was. Your dad’s a great doctor, love; he’s looking after you personally, she’d lied. I expect when you grow up you’ll want to be just like him!

This had been enough to catch his father’s attention across the room, turning away from the golden palm trees and his crying wife. Of course he will, he’d said.

Chase had been too young to wonder: did he mean be a doctor, or want to be like him?

Robert, his father had added, his voice icy with anger, is a good boy.

His mother was crying, he remembers.

When Robbie was twelve, a classmate of his had his tonsils out, missed exams, and came back to school a week later bragging about how his parents had bought him a SNES for his trouble. They’ve long since lost touch, but Chase has been using his story for years.

#malpractice posting #robert chase

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cloversnstrawberries · 1 day ago

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YOU LIKE LABYRINTH????? I love love love David bowie since i was little and loveeeeee anything with him with(人´∀`)♪

Please feel free to post anything you feel like about it!!! Imagines or full works or whatever, you wrote jareth so well💔💔💔

Have a good night:D🏝

"metamorphosis" platonic!yandere!jareth & past runner!new fae!preteen!gn!reader [oneshot] ! !

masterlist !

description; You were once a runner of the Labyrinth, one of the many that failed to complete the challenge in time-- but in a desperate plea to save your younger sibling from becoming a Goblin, you volunteered to stay in their stead. Too old to become a Goblin, you became a 'guide' meant to lead runners astray; the Goblin King should've known better to think you would've actually helped him in that way. Of course you'd disobey him, but for some reason, he doesn't seem all that bothered about it.

additional notes; heeey... how ya'll dooinnggg... I accidentally took a bit of a break because i was having seizures and needing to be hospitilized!! whoopsie!! even though i don't post on ao3, the curse still hit me. but i'm better now!!! and i finally finished this!! i hope i did well!!! i also literally lOVE david bowie, i also love 80s, dark fantasy, jim henson & jennifer conneoly and i blame it all on Labyrinth. or most of it at least. YIPPEE

warnings; possessive behavior, jareth being cryptic, jareth is non-human therefore does not abide by human culture/morals nor understand it fully, past kidnapping, reader took the place of their younger sibling after failing to complete their run, non-consensual body modification (reader unknowingly becomes a fae), restraints (reader's wrists/hands are tied), and if there's anymore i miss, please lmk!!! once i write something, i seem to instantly forget it </3

w/c; 4.1k

It was supposed to be a little joke-- you wishing your sibling away to The Goblin King. It was just a story, obviously; you'd said it to scare them, that's all.

You never thought it could actually be real, otherwise you wouldn't have done it. It was just a fairytale--! but you found it rather difficult to cling onto that idea when The Goblin King appeared before you, in the flesh; telling you to either run his Labyrinth or give up right then and there.

Go back to your life without your sibling, that he'd use his magic to fill the gap they left in everyone else's mind. Wipe their chubby little face from family photos, make it seem like their school desk was always empty; their half of the room would be gone, and it'd seem like it was always just your room.

But you'd still know, even if The Goblin King tried to wipe your memory or whatever, you know that, deep down, you'd still feel like something was wrong. A nagging itch in the back of your mind, that there was something missing.

It'd drive you mad, not knowing what that something was. But even more-so, if you did remember them, it'd drive you insane. The idea that you could've saved them from your stupid mistake, but didn't take the chance.

13 hours seemed like plenty of time to get it done; but The Goblin King played dirty. You should've known, that he wouldn't make it easy for you. When the clock chimed 13, appearing in front of your face, a pit formed in your stomach.

In a last ditch effort, as The Goblin King appeared before you once again, stood beside the intricate golden clock-- you begged, pleading that there had to be another way.

By the end of it, you traded places. Your freedom for your younger sibling's, who got to return home under the impression that this was all one big dream. Got to come home to their own room, no traces of you left; got to greet your parents as their only child.

Like it'd always been that way.

Obviously, you weren't so lucky. In place of your little sibling getting turned into a goblin, you were now tasked with being a 'guide' for the new runners.

You were supposed to guide them away from the Labyrinth, convince them that it wasn't worth it to continue on. That whoever they wished away was a lost cause, and there was no point in trying.

The Goblin King should've known better than to think you'd go along with it. You know that he's watching your every move, he has eyes all over-- in form of his subjects, the creatures lining the Labyrinth, his crystal balls, and probably some other means that you aren't yet privy to.

There's no solid way to tell how long you've been here, but you keep track of it by how many runners come and go. Time works strangely here, you're sure of it. Why wouldn't it? The Goblin King was already capable of so much more.

So far, you've encountered 7 runners. 3 of which claimed to be from the past, 2 who didn't speak any language you knew, and one that was from the near future. The 7th was eerily close to you, in a similar spot as you'd been.

Her name was Sarah, and she, by far, had been the one to make it the furthest. From what you've heard, she made it. She did what you couldn't, and saved her little brother at no expense to herself.

You wouldn't know, since you got a bit too bold in your way of helping her; you were 'deactivated', in a way. You just collapsed suddenly, on the groups way to the Goblin city. Fallen into a deep sleep,

One you, realistically, should not have woken up from. You weren't dumb, you knew what happened to those who disobeyed The Goblin King past the point of his own amusement.

And you knew that, at least on some level, he must've known you were helping the other runners. But he must've found your efforts entertaining, didn't see it as a real threat.

Not until you succeeded in what you thought was a pointless kind of endeavor, and actually helped a runner succeed where so many others had failed. You can't take all the credit--

But you're going to take the brunt of the punishment for it, you're certain. Yes, Hoggle had also been a large help to Sarah; so had Ludo, Sir Didymus, and Ambrosius;

In The Goblin King's mind, though, you were different. You were not his subject, you were not a creature of the Labyrinth. Before you arrived, he'd never had any issues like this. With his subjects defecting like they had,

You were the perfect scapegoat, you realize now. Sat in front of The Goblin King's throne, legs criss-cross-apple-sauce and your arms bound behind you with... vines, you believe; you've come to expect the worse.

For a while now, The Goblin King has been sitting in his throne, staring at you. Studying you, like you were the most interesting thing in the world. The throne room was eerily silent, only faint, very faint, sounds from outside could be heard from here.

And for a while, you'd been zoned out. Eyes on The Goblin King, but not looking at him. Eyes glazed over, hardly blinking-- off in another world. A world where you didn't do this to yourself, still living happily with your parents and younger sibling.

"Human's are stubborn little things, aren't they?" Is what broke the silence, and you jolted in place at the suddenness of it. Quickly, you blinked away any residual dryness from your eyes, before casting your eyes to the ground.

It was interesting, the stones were uneven and different colors. Some where more sparkly than others, some were a normal gray while others were fantastical shades of purple, or green, or something of the like.

You weren't here to admire the floor, though.

A few beats of silence passed, before you realized he wanted a response. Voice croaky, throat dry from fear, you quickly agreed "...Yeah." You don't know what he wants from you, in any sense of the word.

He leaned forward in his throne, arms folded and braced atop his knees. On reflex, you look up at him to see how his hair fell around his face, framing it like you imagine a halo would to an angel, in a tangential kind of way.

Which he very much isn't, but he was ethereal like one. That's how Fae used to lure in weary travelers and lost children in the woods, yeah? Their beauty?

He studied you for a few moments more, before suddenly saying "You've began to change." Well that was-- cryptic. And you should knew better than to prod, you really should--

And you do, but that doesn't mean to you heed it.

"How?" Something you couldn't quite name curled deep in your gut, a primal kind of terror that you've never felt before. Not like your are now. The Goblin King didn't respond immediately, and you feared the worse.

You feared that you'd ticked him off even more than you already did, with how you (supposedly) paved the way for a runner to conquer the Labyrinth. Something that didn't happen very often, you've been told.

It should've brought relief, when he opened his mouth to speak-- and didn't seem angry. But you can never tell with him, you think. Fae are tricky like that, or so you've heard. Despite being in his... employ(?) for however long you've been, you don't interact with him much.

This would be your... 4th, maybe 5th if you're being generous, time meeting with him since you failed your run at his Labyrinth. You don't have much to go off of for his behavior, and for all you know, he could be livid right now. Masking it-- you aren't sure.

In a shocking turn of events, he decided against what he was going to say. Instead, he closed his mouth and reached forward-- it took all your energy not to violently flinch back, as he cupped your cheek with his hand.

Tender in a way you didn't think he could be, especially not to you. it's a trick, something in the back of your mind hissed. he's tricking you.

But you can't do anything about it, so you just sit impossibly still-- like a statue, as you try to keep your trembling under check. Staring into the eyes of your inevitable end, like you were, was bound to make you nervous.

Slowly, gentle in the way you'd be gentle with something fragile-- like he was handling a priceless porcelain doll, delicate and easy to crack with one wrong move--, the Goblin King guided your head to the left.

He kept you in place for a bit, studying you-- he had no care to disguise what his intent was, so you caught on rather quickly. You aren't sure how long you two stayed like that, until he gently guided your head to the right.

what's the point? you think to yourself, swallow past the lump in your throat. what is he getting out of this?

The relief you felt when he pulled his hand back was almost crushing in its weight, you felt like you could collapse from it right then and there. But you knew that the worst has yet to pass, as you chance a glance up, and catch the Goblin King looking lost in thought.

Reclining in his throne once again, elbow propped on an arm of the ornate chair, chin propped up against his hand-- he simply stared at you. Hands curling along the hem of your shirt, you dare to ask "What are you going to do with me?"

You reason with yourself, that it can't already get worse than this. The Goblin King despises when people 'talk back to him', when they don't play along with his tricks and games. Acts amiable until you become a disturbance to his ever-important amusement,

But really, you must already be at rock bottom with him. You're a scapegoat, you'd figured that out quite some time ago; the quicker this is over with, the better.

The stone floor wasn't the most comfortable surface to sit on, and your muscles began to ache from sitting in one position for so long. Being as tense as you had been for the last... however long you've been stuck here. Again, not very easy to tell the passage of time in a place like the Goblin King's realm.

And to your blatant shock, the Goblin King didn't immediately snap at you for interrupting his thinking. Instead, he... smiled, and it made your skin crawl. Scared you more than if he'd just straight-up yelled at you, or turned you into a toad or whatever.

"That's what I'm deciding on, little one." He's called you that before, little one, so that's not what caught you off guard. Not as much as the tone he said it in,

Usually, he was mocking about it. Like he couldn't bother to even remember your name, let alone use it; it lent him an air of superiority, the inherent power dynamics to that of an elder and a younger.

It sounded almost fond, not entirely devoid of what you could interpret as mocking, but softened to the point where it could pass for some friendly teasing.

A part of you wanted to push him, to tell him 'well decide faster, i'm getting bored' just to get it over with. The anxiety of it all was awful, waiting for him to come to an agreement with himself. In the end, he was probably well aware of it,

He just wanted to drag your torment out even further. Wring the last few drops of entertainment from you before tossing you aside-- you'd more than ran your course. You were an outsider, something strange between a runner and an inhabitant of the Labyrinth.

But you didn't tell him to get on with it, for one reason or another. You continued to sit there, staring up at him-- hoping he'd come to a conclusion soon. Whatever he did, it wouldn't be pleasant for you.

Execution? Banishment to the Barrens outside of the Labyrinth's walls? Sentencing you to become a punishing bag/training dummy for the Goblin warriors? Leave you to rot in an oubliette?

Really, the options were endless. maybe that's why he was having such a hard time choosing between them.

Suddenly, he broke the silence by cryptically asking "Have you noticed anything different?", and it was far too vague for you to even know where to begin "I... pardon me?"

His laughter sounded like bells, light and airy and chiming-- it felt more like a funeral toll than church bells. Slow and damning, a sentence of your demise in-of-itself. "Ah, excuse me for being so general about it. Allow me to specify,"

Leaning forward from his throne once again, the Goblin King's smile resembled that of a wolf. It took everything in you not to lean back--Jesus, you'd never noticed how sharp his canines were. It was disturbing. Lending him more of an uncanny feel than before,

"Have you felt any different, as of late?" Waving his hand aimlessly by the side of his head, he was begin listing different examples of these 'differences' he was looking for. "Maybe you can see better, you don't need to sleep as much, can go longer without food or water...?"

Cautiously, you nodded your head. But that's just an affect of the Labyrinth, isn't it? Even when you were running it, you didn't feel tired or particularly hungry during it.

Then again, maybe it was the fear of your situation and desperation to reach the castle in time that kept your mind off of those subjects. The human physiology can do funny things under immense and prolonged amounts of stress, you know that much.

Grin stretching impossibly wider, his teeth on full display-- almost like he was baring them, making it even more difficult to stop from shaking under his suffocating presence-- he leaned back into his throne, head thrown back,

And he laughed. The ones he'd done before paled in comparison to this one, like comparing the fire on a matchstick to the one of a forest fire's. Full bodied and winding, almost like a hyenas. Edging on hysterical, like this was the funniest thing he'd ever encountered.

You don't know if that meant something good, or something terribly bad for your fate. On one hand, maybe you were so entertaining he's decided to let you live-- but then again, he could be tricking you.

It's hard to tell with the Goblin King, with any type of Fae, as you've come to learn. Even the lesser sorts, like the little Fairies that reside just outside the wall of the Labyrinth that communicate only in squeaks and other vocalizations-- are tricky sorts of creatures.

Ethereal and beautiful, you'd expect them to be kind and benevolent. Not to take any chance they get to sink their awfully sharp teeth into your palm; not to eat, maybe just to cause needless harm. Giggling about it after the fact, taking joy in the distress they cause.

And you had half the mind to stand and try to run-- your hands were bound, but your legs were not. It's not like that'd make much of a difference, because either way you can't escape whatever the Goblin King has planned.

But still, some part of your pride remained. Made your gut twist in discomfort as he laughed right at you, not a care in the world-- why was he laughing? It irked you, more than if you'd known what exactly he was laughing about.

When he was done with the hysterics, his head tilted down as he delicately wiped a tear from the edge of his eye, you felt something... shift. Practically saw it, in the strange emotion(s) he held in his gaze when he opened his eyes to look at you again.

"Do you know how long you've been here?" And this you can answer completely honestly, shaking your head slowly. Refusing to take your eyes off of him now, afraid that if you do, he'll do something when you aren't looking. Then you'll never see anything again.

"You've been here... hm, I suppose it's been a decade or so by your standards." No-- that can't be it. He's lying! Or-- well, Fae can't lie, but he certainly has to be stretching the truth.

But time works differently in the Labyrinth, so that can't be much cause for concern. Despite that explanation, you can't ease the worry, or the fear curling around every part of your mind.

Leaning forward again-- good god, this man doesn't like to stay still, does he?-- he puts his hand on your head this time. If he noticed your flinch when he did so, he didn't comment on it.

Didn't do anything further, just kept his hand atop your head as he continued speaking "I'm not one to keep track of those sorts of things; but it's odd, now that the fact has come to my attention. You stopped aging shortly after you began your... tenure."

He sounded far too smug, calling your semi-involuntary stay in his realm, under his control-- as a tenure. Like this was some run-of-the-mill office job.

Jackass.

When he doesn't continue, you grow bold as time drags on in silence. Asking in a biting tone "So? The Labyrinth handles time weirdly. That doesn't mean anything." He snorts "My, you act as if you know my Labyrinth better than I do."

You bit your tongue on that one, it felt too much like bait. Like he wanted to coax you into a greater offense, just so he could snap at you for it. But that would be too logical for him, if he wanted to be mad at you, then he would've already done so, yeah?

The Goblin King hummed, his fingers began to card through your hair in what you assume was meant to be a reassuring gesture, but it only put you more on edge.

"But no, it does mean something." You don't know how to feel about it, when he takes his hand away from your head just to stand from his throne. Beginning to pace around the room, you try to follow his movements all the while.

The sly smile on his face let you know that he was more than aware of that fact. He must be basking in it, your unease. Your fear of what was to come "Do you know what it means, since you seem to know so much about my Labyrinth?"

Yeah, he was definitely baiting you-- but for what? Surely not to get mad at you, because, again, if he wanted to do that than he already would have. what was the point of this all? You asked yourself before responding.

Not like you had much choice, either way he'll get what he wants. Whatever that may be, well, you'll just have to wait and see.

"...I'm becoming apart of the Labyrinth?" That made the most sense. it didn't scare you nearly as much as it should, the idea that you're becoming apart of this realm-- because for all intents and purposes, you may as well already be apart of it.

An outsider in technical terms, still far too human to be a formally regarded resident of the realm; but you know you're never going to leave here. Not alive, at least-- and you'll never be back to your actual life.

Becoming apart of Labyrinth might be a blessing in disguise, really. Hopefully you don't lose yourself to madness, though. You'd like to keep as much of your mind as possible.

Maybe he'll spare you because you're becoming one of his subjects. Perhaps he thinks that means you'll have to obey his every whim--

Suddenly, he stops dead in his track-- facing away from you at first, he slowly turns, that wide, wolfish grin still on his face as he tilts his head to the side "Hmm, not quite! Closer than I thought you'd be, though."

Heart pumping faster than it ever had before, your vision blurred as the Goblin stepped forward. The click-click-click of his heeled boots made your heartrate spike, and just as your ears began to ring; your felt his hand tuck itself beneath your chin, pull your head up so you could truly look him in the eye.

"No, darling little nestling." ...Well, that was new! Miraculously, you held back a frown at the, uh, pet name(?). For now, at least. "Something similar, though."

Why does he hate being straight-forward? Does he always have to drag it out like this-- seriously, it was beginning to get on your nerves. It always did, but then again, your meetings with him were never this long, so you were never exposed to it in large increments.

He pouted, overdramatic and obviously fake "Aren't you going to ask me what I mean?" You want to stay quiet for once, not give him what he wants. The way his fingers ever-so-slightly dig into the flesh of your jaw, however, makes you grit out a "What do you mean?"

"Hm." He said, like he was going to comment on the tone you used, but he didn't do anything further like you thought he would. His grip loosened up, but his hand never stopped holding your head in place "The Labyrinth's taken a liking to you, supposes I've been lonely as of late."

You always found it strange, how he speaks about the Labyrinth like it was a living thing. And maybe it was-- you couldn't be sure, of course the Goblin King would know. So it probably is sentient, at least to some degree, but to what degree? You don't know.

There's some other evidence to prove that the Labyrinth isn't entirely inanimate, piecing it together lends truth to the idea that it isn't just some building or piece of land. That it was an entity, one that the goblin King supposedly had a close bond with.

"You have the Goblins?" You couldn't stop yourself from saying it, quickly shutting your mouth after saying it-- like that'd do anything to undo what you just said. Luckily (or maybe unluckily, you can't be too sure), Jareth didn't take it to heart. He just huffed, and raised one brow "And you think they'd make good company?"

"How can you be lonely with so many creatures-- The Goblins are always hanging around you." You're done for-- or maybe not. The Goblin King is so weird, never know if he'll be angered when talked back to, or if he'll find it entertaining and let you off the hook.

He rolled his eyes, before crouching down-- now at eye level, he seemed even more intimidating than before, believe it or not. "None of them are like me, all too simple minded for me to truly consider them company."

"I'm not either. If I was just a bit younger, I would've been a Goblin." You aren't too sure about the cutoff range for a Goblin was, but you'd guess around... 7 or 8 at the oldest. Bit of a reach, 'just a bit younger' was, but it was still kind of true. There was no set meaning for 'just' after all, could mean whatever you wanted in the moment.

His grin faltered for a moment-- you almost missed it, too focused on your throat closing up from fear in the moment, but happened to catch it by pure coincidence. It was reinstated just as quickly as it'd began to fall, but you know you saw something.

"But you aren't. You're becoming a Fae," His hand shifted from holding your chin to cupping the side of your face. Too familiar, too kind-- gentle, warm, like he actually cared for you. "I can't just toss you out after that, can I? It's quite obvious that you'd make a fantastic heir when the time comes."

You're just so lost that you don't even bring up why you were here in the first place-- you helped a runner to the end. If anything, you'd be the worst fit for an.. an heir!

"I'm not--" You try to argue, the Goblin King frowns and scoffs, snapping his fingers. Suddenly, your mouth shuts so quickly that your teeth click together with the force of it. "Hush. Nothing you can say will sway me on this,"

Other hand cupping the other side of your face, he shook your head side-to-side for a moment, grin back on his face as he continued to observe you. "Yes, I think you'd do quite nicely. You'll be the most spoiled child in the realm-- can't have anything less for my heir, now can I? How does that sound?"

awful. you think to yourself, but you find yourself unable to speak against it.

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tiredandkindaoverworked · 3 days ago

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I have work in 8 hours so instead of sleeping.

Now presenting:

Redactedverse and Noodles

David prefers to cook for Angel to make sure that they’re properly fed. It’s the provider Alpha in him. However, they both have nights that run rather late and they’re both pretty exhausted. On these nights, whoever gets home first will create a double batch of instant Laksa noodles and throw in some dumplings or leftover protein. Nutrition be damned for one night, they’ll have delicious noodles and each other.

——————————————————————————

Sometimes, when Damien gets stressed, Huxley decides he wants to cook for him and take his mind off things. Seems counter-intuitive, right? WRONG. Hux, knowing how Damien is, elects to cook before Damien gets home, cleaning up his mess along the way, just to ensure that Damien doesn’t try to insist on cleaning up because Hux cooked. He’ll make jjajangmyeon, a dish Damien had mentioned his mom making whenever they would celebrate a big accomplishment. Dames is super touched that Huxley would go to such efforts to comfort him. He also gives Huxley the sloppiest head later.

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Ollie and Baby have a Friday night tradition of starting their weekend off with chinese food and binge watching shows. A beautiful shared ritual. Baby orders their food over the phone. An orange chicken plate with white rice, a beef chow fun plate, and two hot and sour soups. Ollie picks it up and tips well and the owner hands them a bag with something extra in it. An order of steamed dumplings. Just like clockwork. Ollie tries to tip more and the owner lovingly shoos him out with a promise to see him next week. What a beautiful, vicious cycle.

Baby and Ollie conspire on how to sneak the owner more tips.

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On the night of Anton’s return, Love makes him a feast. Through their culinary prowess, one dish shines through for Anton. In passing, Anton had previously mentioned a dish made by his babička called nudle s mákem. He’d made it previously, but was never able to recreate it the way his babička had. So for his Love to have not only remembered, but gone out of their way to find and make it for him? His heart swelled at the thought of their efforts. And for the first time in his adult years, he had a taste of home right in his kitchen.

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With their newfound freedom, Avior and Starlight have vowed to spend as much time as they can doing new things, within reason of course. They’ve made their foray into coffee making, gardening, biking, hiking, and most recently cooking together. Avior mentioned he hadn’t had a lot of different cuisines seeing as he didn’t particularly need to eat. So far, Starlight’s introduced Avior to arancini, ribollita, tiramisu, and most recently, spaghetti alla puttanesca.

Avior’s a big fan of the sweet/savory combination. He puts extra pepper flakes into his portion. He likes the kick.

——————————————————————————

Asher and Baaabe love going out to their local pho spot. It’s a family owned restaurant and the owners are long-time friends of Frank’s. They treat Asher like family and by extension, Baaabe as such as well. Asher’s go to order is their house special with all the fixings. He’ll get the combination and add everything on the side too. Beansprouts, jalapeños, thai basil, lime, he’s even got the little side dish for a mix of hoisin and sriracha. The family takes care of him, especially knowing that Asher’s family pretty much all moved away from Dahlia. When he’s there, they’re his family away from family. Depending on the day, Baaabe will either get pho or bun rieu. They’re forever thankful that the owner’s daughter introduced them to bun rieu.

——————————————————————————

Dear introduced Lasko to khao soi on their third date. Lasko was under the weather and dreaded calling Dear to let them know he wouldn’t be able to make it to their date. Dear asked if he wanted company and Lasko jumped at the idea. 30 minutes later, they showed up with a bag of groceries and a warm smile that could make Lasko melt into a puddle.

They insisted that Lasko lay down and rest while they made him something to eat, but Lasko stubbornly sat at the island, out of their way as they cooked. Dear explained their parents’ lives in Northern Thailand and how the dish was always made for them when they were sick.

Lasko immediately fell in love with them the mild taste of the coconut milk in the broth and the slight burn of the spice as it traveled down his throat. When he recovered, he asked Dear to teach him how to make it. Now, when either of them are sick, the other will make khao soi for the other.

——————————————————————————

When Guy and Honey first moved into their new apartment, money was a little tight considering all the things they had to replace. A lot of costs stack up when you move into a new place. So on their first night, Honey made the two of them simple Indomie with frozen veggies topped with a fried egg. A delicious meal, cheap and easy. They make it every year on their anniversary now.

——————————————————————————

A/N: ok, i’m going to bed now good night LMAO this was a fun idea, i like doing little blurbles of just random shit.

#redacted audio #redacted asmr #redactedverse

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rj-anderson · 5 hours ago

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I've just realized I never posted another update here about how we got my 93-yo mom into assisted living a couple months ago, and it is THE ABSOLUTE GREATEST STORY and I'm still just reeling with amazement over how it all came together, so here it is under the cut.

As you will know if you read my earlier posts about Mom, I've been her primary caregiver for the last few years, especially since my dad passed away in early 2020 (we were able to hold a beautiful, well attended memorial service for him right before the first lockdown, another bit of timing I am still very grateful for).

And as you will also know if you read those previous posts, Mom's mental clarity and ability to look after herself has been going downhill for the last couple years, and despite her overall sweet disposition and gratefulness for everything I was doing, by Dec. 2024 I was at my wits' end and really close to burning out. Only a blessed last-minute increase in respite care, thanks to a pilot program coordinated by my local hospital and Alzheimer's Society, enabled me to keep going while I waited and prayed for a long term care placement for Mom.

That being said, we'd already been warned that it could be up to five years before Mom got an offer, because despite her acute nerve pain attacks, chronic vertigo and increasing cognitive issues, she was not considered to be "in crisis". (I was definitely having a crisis as her caregiver, but that didn't count.) So from an outside perspective, it looked unlikely if not downright impossible that we would find a place within the next 12-18 months, unless Mom had a major health crisis.

Despite that, though, I had a strange deep-down confidence that something was going to change soon. In fact, part of me really felt sure that it would happen by spring at the latest. Now this was a bewildering feeling to have, because I am one of the least mystical woo-woo people in the world, and objectively it didn't seem likely to happen at all. So I found myself praying that God would keep me from clinging to false hopes (if they were false) and prepare me not to be discouraged or bitter if my feeling turned out to be groundless.

But I also found myself praying, "Lord, I don't how this is going to work out with Mom, but I look forward to praising you for whatever you're going to do." Because I remembered how things had gone with my Dad's care, and how the best plans I had in mind turned out to be not nearly as wise or good as the way God arranged it in the end.

Anyway, a number of things happened in December that made me question my belief that Mom would be best off in long term care, despite all the efforts I'd gone to choosing the right places for her. I took her to see the closest home on our list, thinking it would be a positive experience and put some of her fears to rest, but EVERYTHING about that tour was a disaster. It was far too big, and noisy, and overwhelming, and my mom kept saying "I could never go to a place like that, I would be totally lost. I'd rather be out on the street."

So I ended up having to take that particular home off the list, which brought our options from three down to two and made it even less likely to get a room offer. But that experience did make very clear what kind of place Mom wanted -- small, homey, quiet, and easy to navigate, with fellow residents she could talk to, and ideally some opportunity for Christian fellowship. Unfortunately, I didn't know of a single long term care home in our area that fit that description.

Until the first week of January 2025, when I joined my regular Zoom prayer meeting with three women from my old church. And as I was telling them about my difficulties, one of them said, "Oh, I wish your mom could go to the home where [a woman who also used to go to our church] is living! It would be so perfect for her!"

Now, I had heard plenty about that woman and the wonderful Mennonite assisted living home she'd moved into a few months earlier, but I never thought it could be a fit for my Mom. However, after that conversation I looked up the home's website and realized that not only was the place much closer than I'd thought it was, it sounded like they might actually be able to provide the level of care Mom needed.

I called the care home. We had a good, thorough talk about Mom's needs. I set up an appointment for a tour. And from the instant I stepped in the door, I knew this was the place our family had been praying for. Not only was it newly renovated, small, quiet and cozy, offering home-style meals and regular church services, there was a lovely vacant room with a view that immediately made me think, "This is Mom's room."

Long story short -- and skipping over a multitude of other unexpected blessings and mercies of God along the way -- we moved Mom into her new apartment in mid-February. They even allowed us to paint the room her favourite colour, and set it up with all the furniture and pictures she needed to make it feel like home, before we brought her in. And since then, she's been getting all the medical and personal care she needs, I've been able to enjoy regular visits with her while also having a life of my own again, and despite having had twelve acute pain episodes over the six months before the move, Mom has not had even one attack since she got there.

Despite all the hardships, discouragements, seeming dead ends, and other ups and downs of the past year -- even because of them, in some cases -- God has been faithful and very, very good. So I am keeping the promise I made a few months ago, when all seemed utterly hopeless, and praising Him for what He's done.

#eldercare #caregiving #valley of the shadow #answered prayers

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auroraharper · 10 hours ago

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Text me when you get home - Charlos

Summary:

Carlos starts texting Charles “let me know when you get back safe” after every race. It becomes a habit. Then: inside jokes, flirty texts, long midnight convos. They fall in love through messages—without saying it out loud.

The first time Carlos says it, it’s instinctive.

They’ve just finished a grueling race in Japan, soaked in sweat and adrenaline, heads still buzzing from radio calls and tire strategies. The paddock is a blur of motion—PR staff, mechanics, journalists. But for a second, it’s just them. Charles with his backpack slung over one shoulder, eyes red from exhaustion. Carlos nudges him lightly.

“Let me know when you get back safe, okay?”

Charles raises an eyebrow. “To the hotel?”

Carlos shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “Yeah. Just text me. In case you get lost or kidnapped by your fans.”

Charles rolls his eyes, smirking. “Sure, Sainz. I’ll make sure to keep you updated on my very perilous 10-minute car ride.”

But that night, at 11:02 PM, Carlos’s phone buzzes.

Charles: made it alive. not kidnapped. you can sleep easy.

Carlos chuckles to himself and sends back a thumbs-up emoji. He doesn't think much of it.

Until it happens again.

And again.

Race after race, country after country, it becomes their ritual.

………….

By the time they reach Baku, it’s not just about checking in.

Charles: landed. my seat was next to a baby that cried for 6 hours. i think i’ve transcended humanity.

Carlos: i hope you’re stronger for it.

Charles: no. i’m broken. nothing remains but a shell of a man.

Carlos: dramatic. you’ll live.

Charles: can’t believe you’re bullying a war veteran.

The messages get longer. Funnier. Softer. Carlos finds himself waiting for them, checking his phone at odd hours. Sometimes Charles texts first, even before he can ask.

Charles: made it safe. btw, the hotel has a raccoon that tried to murder me. call me if you don’t hear from me in 3 hours.

Carlos: honestly i believe the raccoon.

Charles: betrayal 😞

Carlos saves the texts. He doesn’t mean to, but he does. Something about them—about Charles, unfiltered and candid in the glow of late-night blue screens—makes him smile even after the longest, worst days.

…………….

Things shift after Austria.

They’ve had a rough race. Carlos’s DNF. Charles’s P5. Neither of them are in the mood to talk in the paddock. But that night, Carlos’s phone lights up again.

Charles: you okay?

He doesn’t reply immediately. He sits with it. Then—

Carlos: not really

There’s a beat. Then:

Charles: want to talk?

And they do.

It starts as a phone call. Then two. Then three. Then texts that stretch past midnight into 2AM. They talk about everything—races, regrets, dreams, dumb things they did as kids. Charles tells him about his piano, how he only plays it when he can’t sleep. Carlos admits he misses Madrid more than he lets on. They laugh, they rant, they get quiet sometimes, and that’s okay too.

Carlos doesn’t remember when he started needing it.

But now, when his phone lights up, when the little bubble with Charles’s name pops up—his heart skips. Just a little.

Just enough to notice.

……………..

By Monza, it’s become ridiculous.

Carlos: text me when you get home

Charles: define home. is it the flat in monaco? the paddock? your hotel room?

Carlos: your hotel room

Charles: bold

Carlos: you like bold

Charles: yeah. i like you too

Pause. Carlos stares at the message.

A second later:

Charles: i meant boldness. i like boldness. not you. definitely not you.

Charles: ignore me

Charles: i’m tired

Carlos smiles so wide his cheeks ache. He doesn’t reply right away. He waits. Then:

Carlos: get some sleep

Carlos: text me when you wake up

…………….

They don’t talk about it.

The weird tension, the undercurrent of something more. It lingers between them like humidity in the summer air—thick and tangible. Everyone notices they’re closer, but no one says anything.

Neither do they.

Carlos learns how Charles sounds when he’s half-asleep. He knows when Charles is lying about being fine. He knows what Charles’s silences mean. He knows Charles’s favorite emoji is the upside-down smiley, and that he types faster when he’s nervous.

And still, he waits. He doesn’t push. Neither of them are ready to say it.

But he starts sending it every night. Without fail.

Carlos: text me when you get home.

Even when they’re in the same city.

Even when Charles is just a few floors away in the same hotel.

Even when Carlos could walk over and knock on his door.

Still—he texts it.

………………

Then comes Singapore.

It’s muggy, brutal, unforgiving. Charles has a long night of media rounds, Carlos finishes late meetings. They’re both wrecked, but Carlos still finds time to type it out before bed.

Carlos: text me when you get back

No reply.

He waits.

10 minutes. Then 20. Then an hour.

Nothing.

He double checks. Message sent. No response.

Maybe he’s busy. Maybe he fell asleep. But something tugs at Carlos’s gut—something uneasy and sharp.

He tries calling. No answer.

He gets up.

He doesn’t care that it’s late. Doesn’t care if it’s irrational. He grabs his keycard, throws on a hoodie, and takes the elevator to Charles’s floor. His heart’s pounding, thudding like a drum in his chest. The hallway is quiet. Too quiet.

He knocks once.

Nothing.

Knocks again, louder.

Still nothing.

“Charles?” His voice cracks.

He tries the door.

It’s unlocked.

He bursts in—

And there, sitting cross-legged on the bed, phone in hand, is Charles. Very much alive. Very much fine. And smiling like a devil.

Carlos stops cold. “What the fuck—?”

“I wanted to see if you’d come,” Charles says simply, grinning.

Carlos stares at him, breathing hard. “You— You scared me. I thought— I didn’t know what to think.”

Charles pats the bed. “You thought something happened to me?”

“Yes!” Carlos snaps, exasperated. “You always text back. You always—”

He doesn’t finish. His throat’s tight.

Charles’s expression softens. “I didn’t mean to freak you out. I just—” He shrugs. “I wanted to know if it meant something to you. All this. The texting. The calling. Me.”

Carlos’s chest aches.

He crosses the room in two strides, standing right in front of Charles, who looks up at him like he already knows the answer.

Carlos says quietly, “Of course it means something.”

Charles’s breath catches.

“I don’t text everyone to let me know they got home,” Carlos says. “Just you. Always you.”

Silence. Charged. Crackling.

Charles sets his phone aside and stands.

They’re close now. Too close. Carlos can see the freckles on his nose, the way his lashes flutter when he blinks.

He swallows.

“I never said it,” Charles murmurs, “but I meant it.”

Carlos doesn’t ask what it is. He knows.

So he leans in. Finally. And kisses him.

………………

Later, tangled on the bed, breathless and warm, Charles laughs against Carlos’s shoulder.

“What?” Carlos asks.

“I can’t believe that worked.”

Carlos groans. “You’re evil.”

“You love it.”

Carlos presses a kiss to Charles’s temple. “Yeah,” he says, voice low. “I do.”

………………..

A week later

Carlos gets a message after a late flight.

Charles: made it safe. not kidnapped. sorry.

Carlos: glad.

Charles: i missed you

Carlos: i missed you too.

Pause. Then—

Charles: text me when you get home?

Carlos smiles.

Carlos: always.

.......

Author’s Note:

HELLOOOOOO. I am feral. I am in shambles. I wrote this entire thing because I couldn't stop thinking about Carlos being the kind of person who says “text me when you get home” and MEANING it with his whole chest and soft Spanish heart. Like??? Sir??? Who gave you the right to be this boyfriend-coded before you’re even officially dating??

This fic was supposed to be cute. It was supposed to be soft. And then somehow it turned into late-night longing, unspoken love, and Charles being a little menace who tests Carlos because he wants to be loved back so bad. I don't even know who gave these two permission to build a whole relationship via TEXT MESSAGES and flirty emojis but here we are. Obsessed. Unwell. In love.

Anyway, thank you for reading this unhinged love letter to texting, tension, and the unbearable tenderness of falling for your teammate one message at a time. If you felt anything, even the tiniest flutter in your soul, please yell at me in the comments.

Love , Ria💌

Don't forget to Check out : https://riavolkov.stck.me/

#charlos #fanfic #fluff

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rafayelsbeloved-bride · 2 days ago

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LOVE AND DEEPSPACE GRADUATION FIC UNIVERSITY AU

Pairing: Caleb x Reader

Synopsis: A year ago, your senior Caleb had graduated. Through many tutoring sessions, and time spent together, you’d become close friends and his graduation wasn’t easy. But now it was time for yours. And you missed him.

Contains: slight long distance, confession

No smut!

Word Count: 1714

———————————————

Last year, your closest friend, Caleb, graduated from your university, leaving his life behind to begin his pilot training. These days you hardly saw him, and your only means of communication was usually through texts or phone calls. It was time that you reminisced about a lot; you’d cried a lot at that time, afraid of never seeing him again. And it was still painful, of course, but you were dealing. Simply because you had to. Since then, time had passed quickly and before you knew it, your graduation was tomorrow. You were walking back to your small apartment when your phone screen lit up and a call came through.

“Hello?”

“Hey, pipsqueak! You didn’t call me yet today. It’s pretty late. Are you home already?”

“No, I’m walking there now. I stayed a little late to sort some stuff out for tomorrow.”

“Oh, that’s right, your big day. How’re you feelin’?”

“I mean, it’s weird obviously. But I’ll be fine.”

The truth was, you were upset and didn’t want to graduate. You knew for a fact that Caleb would too busy to attend, and so hadn’t even asked him because you knew it would hurt too much to hear his rejection. Even though you were close, he wasn’t under any obligation anyway. He was simply just a senior, after all. Although you weren’t going to lie to yourself, feelings had developed since you’d met him, and it made it hurt all the more that even though you’d pushed through your own selfish hurt to celebrate his graduation, he wasn’t going to be able to be present for yours.

“You doin’ anything to celebrate?”

His voice grounded you once more.

“Not really. I mean, we’ll probably have a farewell dinner or something.”

“You should do something special. It’s an exciting time, pips, you’re becoming independent.”

“I’ve been independent for a long time, Caleb.” You smiled.

The conversation over the phone lasted right up until you arrived at your apartment, and let him know that you had to make yourself some food.

“Alright. It’s good that you’re taking care of yourself, y’know. I’ll speak to you soon. Congrats on graduating! You’re so grown up now, it feels strange.”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly.

“I know, it’s crazy. Thank you.”

You ended the call after saying goodbye and finished making food, eating it before collapsing into bed, your heart heavy. You were excited to graduate, excited to start a new path in your life. It just didn’t feel so good when you remembered you could barely share it with the person who meant the most to you. And then you felt silly, he probably didn’t even think of it as deeply as that. You were just the younger student that he’d tutored and somehow become friends with, after all. Even so, you couldn’t stop the hurt from creeping in. He was going to become a pilot, and travel the world, meeting countless people and making endless memories. Without you. So despite knowing that you should be ecstatic, you fell asleep with wet cheeks from the tears that had fallen.

The morning of your graduation rolled around, and you woke up to some messages, however, only one caught your eye.

Caleb 🍎🫶: It’s today!! Congratulations pipsqueak :P

You messaged him a quick thank you before getting yourself ready for the day. One last longing look into the mirror, mourning your younger self and you were gone, sat beside your friend Tara in the audience, waiting to be called up on to the stage.

It felt like a really long wait, but slowly happiness was bubbling up inside you as you applauded your friends. Before you knew it, your name had been called and you walked across the stage as people cheered for you; you couldn’t help but smile. You took your diploma and looked over to Tara and your other friends. Maybe this wasn’t so bad. Of course, you didn’t need Caleb to survive. You could find other friends and happiness on your own. Besides, it was just a graduation, no need for any dramatics.

As some speeches from various teachers happened, you could feel the electric buzzing through the air of anticipation; even Tara beside you seemed to be fizzing in her seat.

Slowly, the ceremony came to an end and you began walking away with your arm around Tara’s waist, hers around yours as well, with big smiles on both of your faces. It was only when you neared the exit that Tara insisted she really needed to pee, and asked you to wait for her, which you agreed to, laughing and shaking your head fondly.

What you didn’t expect was arms to embrace you from behind. It caught you off guard, and you turned sharply, only for your mouth to fall open and your eyes to widen.

“Caleb?”

“You didn’t think I’d miss it, did you?”

His voice was warm and familiar, but soft as he embraced you into a tight hug, which you returned, confusion still etched across your face.

“I don’t- weren’t you busy?”

He pulled away and studied your face for a few seconds, his hands on your shoulders making your face heat up slightly, though you were determined to blame it on the same day if he noticed.

“It’s your graduation, pips. I requested the day off months ago.”

“Really?”

“Obviously. You really thought I’d be a no show?”

“I didn’t…”

It suddenly hit you that you hadn’t seen Caleb in months, not in real life anyway, and video calls were much less frequent than regular voice calls or texts. That stung. In your heart and in your eyes. He leaned closer to you, a hint of a smirk crossing his face.

“Are you cryin’?”

There were many teasing undertones to his question and you couldn’t help but smile, despite sniffing and rubbing your eyes.

“No.”

“Liar. It’s okay, y’know. This is the start of your life, right?”

“Caleb, you can’t just show up after months…”

“Did you miss me?”

You didn’t even have the energy to argue with him, so you just nodded.

“Of course I did.”

“I brought you somethin’.”

You tilted your head as he pulled out a small letter, folded up just like the one you’d given him at his own graduation and you smiled as you took it from him.

You unfolded the piece of paper and your eyes scanned over, reading his words and trying to ignore his looming presence right in front of you.

To Y/N,

You’re not a kid anymore, congrats!! But just so you know, you’ll always be my pipsqueak :P

I didn’t get much of a chance to tell you the first time, when you gave me your letter, so I’m writing my own for you, just to let you know some things.

Number one, I’m so proud of you, pips. All of those tutoring sessions really paid off, so I’m taking some credit for your amazing exam grades. Number two, if you think I haven’t missed you since I left you couldn’t be more wrong. And number three, in response to what your letter said: I can’t imagine my life without you either. I’m thinking about you every day, and I promise to show you the world someday with our own private plane that I can fly whenever I want. But if we’re gonna travel the world together, there’s definitely something you should know, because travel mates don’t keep secrets. This is also your invitation to tell me anything you’re keeping close to your heart too. Since that’s my spot, I wanna know what else you hold dear. I want you to know that I think you’re the most beautiful, precious and amazing girl I’ve ever met. I know you’re scared of your own personality sometimes, but you’re perfect in every way. And to be completely honest, I really like you. I’m taking a shot in the dark with this, but I was kind of getting a feeling that’s how you feel too. Am I right? I hope so. Congrats pipsqueak :P

You read each word. And then again. And then again. This was…a confession? You opened your mouth and then closed it again, your eyes still fixed on the paper. Suddenly, a hand lifted your chin. Caleb was tilting his head at you, his expression soft, yet…vulnerable.

“No matter how many times you read it, what it says isn’t gonna change. Is that a problem?”

“No- no it’s not. I just…wasn’t expecting this.”

“That’s the point of a surprise, pipsqueak. Is there something you wanna say?”

“Uh..was Tara in on this?”

You blurted out without thinking. Caleb blinked, but chuckled.

“Yeah. She’s a good wing woman. Very willing to help out.”

“I can’t believe you both went behind my back for this. How did you even organise that?”

“Does it matter? I’m still waitin’ on your answer.”

“There wasn’t a question.”

You really didn’t know what to say. You knew, of course, you were over the moon, your cheeks were flushed pink enough to tell him that.

“You want an actual question?”

“How am I supposed to answer a sentence?”

“You haven’t changed at all, pipsqueak. Fine.”

He gently placed his hands on yours and your heart fluttered slightly.

“In this galaxy, and every other, could you find it in your heart to indulge my selfish desires?”

“Caleb.”

“Will you be my girlfriend?”

Those words. Those words that you’d been waiting for, for over a year now, even maybe almost two. Your heart was pounding and it felt a little bit like you were floating, yet stunned into silence so you just nodded.

“Are you sure?”

He looked at you intently.

“Yes. Yes, of course. I want that. I want it.”

He chuckled, and tilted your head up slightly.

“You want what?”

“Caleb, I swear..”

“Kidding.”

He leant in and pressed a soft kiss to your lips, making your heart leap its way right out of your body. Forget his airplane, you were sure you must be in space by now.

After a few seconds, he pulled away, but not much, your faces still incredibly close together, yet your eyes still locked on each others. It was over so quick, and your heart was racing, your face warmer than the sun could ever make it. You could taste salt on your lips and it took you a moment to realise there were tears rolling down your cheeks.

“Come on, pipsqueak. There’s some flowers waiting for you in the car.”

#lads #love and deepspace #love and deepspace caleb #lnds caleb #caleb x mc #caleb #caleb x reader #lads caleb #caleb x you #lnds

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