#Pedro Pascal characters

[preciosapascal]

Sleepless Nights

Summary: another sleepless night in jackson for both you and your neighbour Joel.

Warnings: MINORS DNI 18+, NSFW, alcohol consumption, unprotected sex (don’t be silly, wrap your willy), pinv, oral (f receiving), dirty talk, pet names, fingering, pussy pronouns

Word count: 3.4k

Pairing: Jackson!Joel x f!reader

A/N: thank you guys for so much love on my first post last week!! <3 (that you can read here) I’m trying to get through my drafts because I have far too many. Ty again, feedback is appreciated 💝

Reading a book in front of the fire every night was becoming overwhelmingly tedious. You've read the books you have from cover to cover so many times you could probably read them with your eyes closed.

And then one night a month or so ago, you decided to sit on your porch in the middle of the night and saw your neighbour Joel on his. It quickly became a sort of habit for the two of you. Talking til the sun comes up a few nights a week.

Tonight’s no different. Tossing and turning in bed, books boring you half to death, the sound of the fire crackling becoming somewhat annoying at this point, so you step outside.

Joel's already out there, a glass of whiskey in hand, and staring up at the night sky. His head turns as you open your door, a hint of a smile on his lips.

"Here she is. Can’t sleep again?” he asks, though he knows the answer.

As soon as his raspy voice reaches your ears, your skin prickles with goosebumps and it's not because of the cold breeze.

"Can I ever?" you reply, scoffing a laugh quietly.

He lets out a soft hum in response, nodding in agreement. "Nah, me neither recently." he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “What’s keepin’ ya up tonight then, darlin’?”

"I have no idea, it's driving me crazy." you sigh, wrapping your plaid blanket over your shoulders a little tighter and sitting on the old used-to-be white wooden chair on your porch.

He hums in agreement, seemingly a man of few words tonight. He silently observes you as you sit down before speaking again.

“You tried countin’ sheep?” He quips, taking another sip of whiskey.

“and the pigs and the horses and every other fuckin’ animal on that damn ark.” you mutter, scooting the chair sideways to face him better.

He can’t help the gruff laugh that escapes him, shaking his head. It makes you smile as you wrap the blanket tighter around your shoulders when a cool breeze runs through you. A brief silence falls, but it’s comfortable.

"Can't remember the last time I slept through the night. Been a long damn time." he admits, exhaling softly from his lips and shifting in his seat on the bench, resting his free arm over the back. "it's a nice night, though."

You nod with a small smile and look up at the night sky, taking in the stars and the deep blue colour. "Yeah. Makes a change from what’s happening outside these gates.”

He looks over at you as you take in the beautiful sky above you. Every damn time he looks at you, it drives him almost insane. He turns his head forward, swallowing.

"Did you wanna-" the words escape Joel's lips before he can think about them first, leaving him staring straight ahead for a second. When he glances at you he's met with a nod, urging him to continue. He hesistates for a moment but decides to run with it.

"-wanna...join me?" he finishes, nodding towards the empty space on the bench beside him and the bottle of whiskey on the floor.

Every time you've done this, you've been on your respective porches that're directly next to each other. The prospect of getting closer to him makes your tummy flutter.

You nod softly as you rise from the wooden chair and step down your porch steps, boots crunching in the blanket of snow that’s fallen for what seems like weeks, and up the steps of his porch before sitting next to him, the old bench creaking softly.

Joel looks at you as you sit down. The thought of having you this close crossed his mind a few times as you spoke till the early hours.

Seeing the moonlight touch your skin, the way you wrapped yourself up in the plaid blanket, you were just the sweetest thing he’d ever seen.

You could feel the warmth of his body against your side, making you want to wrap yourself around him. He holds up the bottle of whiskey, in your direction.

You take the bottle from his hand and swig it, letting the amber liquid warm you up on it's way down.

He takes the bottle back from you when you offer it to him, also drinking from the bottle since his glass is now empty. He wipes his bottom lip with his thumb and leans forward with his elbows on his knees.

You both relish in comfortable silence again for a little while, sharing the bottle of whiskey. You realise something feels different. Like a shift of energy.

When Joel eventually sits back, you rest your head on his shoulder. He looks down at you, shocked at first but enjoying the feeling, and rests his arm on the bench behind you. He could smell the vanilla from the soap you use and it took all his strength not to bury his nose in the crook of your neck right there.

Your head on his shoulder and the weight of your body against his was both simultaneously soothing, and incredibly torturous. For weeks, he’s spent countless hours of the night talking to you. He loved listening to the sound of your voice, making him wonder what it would sound like to hear you whispering his name.

What you don’t know, is whenever you go back inside, he spends the night fisting his cock in his bed, imagining being buried inside of you. And what he doesn’t know is you’ve let your hands wander in the early hours, imagining his huge hands all over you, fingers inside you, mouth on your cunt…

It didn't take long until both of you had nearly finished half the bottle of whiskey and with each passing second, Joel's guard was lowered more and more. The buzz he was beginning to feel was only adding to his internal struggle.

He glances in your direction again; studying the relaxed look on your face. His self restraint was quickly becoming non-existent.

Without thinking, he suddenly raises his hand, slowly running his fingers through your hair and tucking a strand behind your ear. The small gesture, combined with the soft look in his eyes made your thighs squeeze together.

And, it didn’t go unnoticed.

He feels the way you shift against him when he does that, sees the way you squeeze your thighs together. How could he not? Joel lets out a shaky exhale, his free hand flexing on his thigh.

You notice his hand on his thigh, as if he’s itching to do something with it and you snap.

“Joel…” you speak, the breathy tone unintentional.

Joel nearly chokes. The way you just spoke his name, he’s never seen you like this. His hand stops in your hair, fingers curling slightly in the soft locks. You’re already looking up at him as his eyes roam down to your face.

Even in the dim light of his porch, Joel can see the lust in your eyes, realsing they must be mirroring his own. It ignites something inside of him, his hand moving from your hair to wrap around the side of your throat. His thumb brushing along your neck.

“Please kiss me.” you whisper, not caring how desperate you sound.

Joel was a strong man, but he was only human and even he could only handle so much. Hearing those words from your lips, in that voice, he was fucked. His fingers trail from your throat to the nape of your neck as he pulls you in for a kiss.

You’re unsure how it happened, but one minute you’re making out on the porch and the next you’re straddling his lap on his couch. Your boots and blanket on the floor in the hall.

Joel’s hands slide to your hips, gripping them tightly, his lips traveling to your jawline and down to your neck. “Mmdarlin’-” he mumbles against your skin, nipping and sucking at the sensitive flesh.

You gasp quietly and instinctively roll your hips as his hand slides up your shirt, fingers splayed over your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your right breast.

He groans at the sudden movement of your hips, his own bucking up in response. “S’all it takes, huh?” He murmurs, continuing to kiss and nip your neck with his hand up your shirt. “Few kisses from me and you’re a mess, ain’t that right, darlin’?”

Fuck, he was so right. You’re soaked already and he’s barely fucking touched you. A pathetic “yes” is all you can muster. You can’t get enough of him, hands roaming over his broad shoulders, fingers straying to thread through the greying curls at the nape of his neck while still rolling your hips.

He moans low in his throat when your fingers brush against the back of his neck, his eyes falling shut. “Shit-” Joel murmurs, his hands moving from your hip and side to grasp them hem of your shirt.

His eyes are still closed at the sensation as he blindly pulls your shirt off of you. He opens them to discard your shirt somewhere behind him and sucks in a sharp breath when he looks back to you.

“Fuckin’ Christ…” he whispers before pulling you closer to kiss along your collarbone. His kisses move lower and his hand pulls one of the cups of your bra down, then he flicks his tongue against your nipple.

“Oh-” you gasp softly, hand trialing up to his curls once again. A low moan escapes him at the taste of you and he continues for a little while before moving to the other one, giving it the same attention.

While his mouth is occupied by your chest, his hands travel over your body, resting on your ass and encouring you to grind on him a little harder.

“Tha’s it, baby.” he rasps against your skin as you grind yourself down on him harder. He reaches one hand from your ass to unclasp your bra.

Baby baby baby. It echoes in your head like a beautiful symphony. You want to hear him to say it over and over again.

When your bra falls away, he throws it aside with your shirt and then kisses up the valley between your tits, his hands coming up to cup and squeeze them gently before kissing up the side of your neck and back to your lips.

You kiss him back, your fingers pulling at the buttons of his shirt, trying to undo them. When they’re undone, you push it off of his shoulders. He’s so hot.

He taps you, signalling you to stand up and when you do, he pulls you closer by your belt loop. “C’mere.”

He starts unbuttoning your jeans and yanks them off your legs, leaving you in only your panties. His eyes zero in in the damp patch, then he turns you around you pulls you onto his lap, your back against his chest and his thighs spreading yours wider.

You want to protest that you can’t see him until his hands trail over your thighs. One comes up to hold you against him by your stomach and the other slips into the front of your panties, making you gasp. His index and middle finger tips tease you, running lightly over your folds.

He’s teasing you, and he’s enjoying every second with his smug ass grin against your neck. “Look at you.” he coos, “she’s achin’ for it, baby.” he whispers, resting his chin on your shoulder as his fingers move further down, collecting your arousal before using it to rub your needy clit.

“Shit…Joel…” you whimper, as his fingers rub tight circles against you.

“I know baby, I know.” he says between more kisses and nips to your shoulder. “you just keep on makin’ them pretty sounds, hm?”

His fingers rub a little faster and it’s as if he knows exactly what you need, how your body works. “just gimmie one like this, sweet girl. one like this and then you can have my cock.” he promises, salt and pepper scruff tickling your skin as he speaks.

It’s all too much and not enough at the same time. His body against yours, his lips and tongue on your skin, his fingers working you over - you’re a mess, whimpering, moaning, letting any noise out that wants to escape. Your fingers dig into his jeans clad thighs, desperate for him.

“need your- hmmph -your cock, Joel. Please.”

“Y’do?” He coos, his fingers slipping down to your needy hole once more to collect more of the wetness there before returning to your aching bud. “come for me like this first n’ I’ll fuck you real good, darlin’.”

Those words have you moaning and whimpering even more. You’re squirming, desperately clinging onto his thighs as you feel yourself reach that edge. “Tha’s it, baby. Tha’s right, c’mon now.”

His gruff words are what does it for you, your back arches off of him as you come, thighs trembling and a string of moans, and breathy whispers trail out of your mouth.

“Good girl.” he murmurs praises against the shell of your ear, fingers still coaxing every last bit of your orgasm from you. His fingers gradually come to a stop against you and he places a quick kiss to the spot under your ear.

“Wanna see ‘er.” he mutters, carefully plopping you down on the couch, ripping your ruined panties off and spreading your thighs for him. He watches as your cunt clenches around nothing, begging to be stuffed full of him. A low moan escapes him at the sight as his thumbs spread your lips apart.

“Prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.”

You watch him in awe as he gets a proper look, his thumbs gently running over your glistening folds before one prods at your entrance, illiciting a moan from you. “Can I give ‘er a little kiss, baby?” he asks, already leaning down, brown eyes on yours.

You’re nodding your head before you even fully process the question. You’ve imagined this so many times. He wants to tease you, wants to tell you to ‘use your words’ but he can’t, he needs this just as much as you do.

He wastes no time, diving in like a man starved. He licks a longe stripe from hole to clit first, moaning against you, sending shockwaves through you.

His lips and tongue don’t let up, tasting your release, the tip of his tongue teasing your still sensitive nub gently before sucking it into his mouth, making your hips jerk. He chuckles lowly at that and then moves down and fucks you with his tongue, his beard scratching deliciously against your thighs.

“Oh god-” you whine, fingers threading through his curls, making him hum appreciatively. You don’t give a damn how desperate and needy you sound, this man is working you over like you’ve never been before.

He replaces his tongue with two fingers, teasingly dipping them in and pushing them slowly all the way in before he pulls them all the way back out to do it again. “So fucking sweet.” he groans, flicking his wrist up to curl his fingers inside of you. Your moans, your body, you, have got him rutting against the couch like a teenage boy.

“Need to fuck this pussy now, baby. Can I?” he asks, looking up at you, though you and him both know the answer to that. His cock strains against his jeans to the point it’s starting to hurt.

You nod eagerly, letting go of his curls. “Yes, please, need you.”

He pulls his slick coated face and fingers away from your dripping heat and you almost whine at the loss of contact. He stands up and you can see he’s rock hard through his jeans. He unbuckles his belt, the sound of metal clinking exciting you as you track his movements.

When he’s free of his jeans, he sits down, patting his legs for you to come over and you obey quickly. As you move over, he pulls himself out of his boxers, resting the waistband under his heavy balls. You glance down, almost salivating at the sight.

You run out of time to look as he pulls you over, gently but impatiently. “C’mon, sweet girl.” he mutters, lazily stroking his huge cock from base to tip a couple times and you position yourself above him. He runs the tip of his cock through your soaked folds, touching your clit and making you moan. He chuckles, doing it a couple more times before notching at your entrance.

You move forward slightly before slowly sinking down onto him, both of you moaning. One of his hands grip your hip as the other grabs one of your asscheeks as his head falls back against the couch. “Goddamn…” he grits.

You slowly move against him, grinding your hips. “Fuck…needed this….needed you.” you ramble as his cock fills you perfectly. He matches your movements, thrusting up into you. “Yeah? Me too, fuuuck, me too.” he groans, his breathing picking up.

“Look at me, baby. Yeah, tha’s it. Wanna see that pretty face while I fuck ya.”

You meet his eyes and he looks as wrecked as you. Pupils blown, cheeks flushed, panting. It’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen. You interlock your fingers behind his neck, riding him faster now. It’s as if you have zero control over what comes out of your mouth.

“C’mon now, ride that cock, pretty girl.” He grunts, smacking your ass and encouraging you to move against him a little faster now.

You ignore the burning sensation in your knees, making it your mission to be full of his come as soon as possible. His hand slides from your hip to the nape of your neck, pulling you in for a messy kiss.

The lewd sounds of skin meeting skin fill the room, you can hear how wet you are and it only spurs him on more. He swallows all your moans, pushing his tongue into your mouth.

He hold you in place and ruts up into you, hitting that spot over and over, making you clench around him. “Makin’ a mess a’my cock, fuckin’ drippin’ all over me ain’tcha?” he almost growls against your lips, pistoning his hips into you.

Your eyes roll back as you moan his name like a prayer. “M’gonna come inside this pretty pussy, baby. That what you want?”

You’re cockdrunk. Everything he says, everything he does just makes you want him even more. “Yesyesyes.” you whine. “Gonna come.”

“Yeah? Gonna milk my cock for all its worth? jesus you’re so fuckin’ tight.” His words are filthy, a stark contrast to the tone he speaks them in, making your cunt clench around him as you teeter right on the edge.

“Mmpleasepleaseplease.” you whine, fingers tugging on the hair at the nape of his neck again. That makes him moan and he buries his face into your neck.

“Fuck, I can feel it. C’mon, gimmie another one. Lemme feel you.” he murmurs against your neck. You can feel his warm breath agaisnt your skin, and that mixed with his cock hitting the right spot over and over and his massive hands gripping you send you straight over.

“Joel-” you try to let him know but it happens so fast, your back arches and your head falls back. His movements falter slightly as you grip his cock like a velvet vice.

“Ah, fuck, look so pretty like this baby- shit-” he mutters as his orgasm washes over him too, his head rolls back, his brow furrowed and his mouth open as he lets out a string of breathy curse words and grunts and fills you up with ropes of his hot load.

You’re both in a state of bliss, breathing laboured, skin shining with sweat. Joel rests his forehead against your shoulder, trying to control his breathing. His hands now delicately running over the parts of you he gripped tight as your cheek rests against his head.

“Y’know what?” You say after a moment, moving your face from his head, your arms hanging loosely over his shoulders.

He slowly lifts his head up and tucks your hair behind your ear. “What, sweetheart?” he asks softly.

“For the first time in months, I’m actually tired.” you say, a lazy smile on your face. He exhales an amused puff of air from his nose, smiling up at you.

“Yeah, yeah me too.”

[dilf-docs]

Darlin', Can I Be Your Favorite?

dbf!boxer pedro pascal x younger fem!reader

summary: it should be simple. helping your dad's best friend to train for his upcoming match in his hometown, chile. but turns out, world-renowned boxer the viper isn't just a menace in the ring.

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap (girthy), smut, p. in v., oral (m. receiving), rough sex, public sex, praise kink, humilliation kink, daddy kink (she's got daddy issues; idc if this is mischaracterizing you, you'll live), dom!pedro, use of pet names (doll/baby), some angst because that's my staple, idk shit about boxing my bad (i'm more of a ufc girlie kinda) so let's focus on the filth!!

word count: 5,874 words

side note: this very different albeit genius request got me a small hit tweet. song of choice for this piece i sped up because of my ovulation is favorite, by isabel larosa. there are several paragraphs in this that could be used against me and are proof i'm loosing my mind during this midterm/fertile week had to use a clint gif because freaky tales clint is so sexy might watch the movie on theatres with my legs open

You weren't new to this.

The small walls, dim light, the sweat, the blood... you were shoved into it. By your father, since you were a baby. Long before you could even walk, grabby hands trying to reach for a ring that seemed so far, the violence and the rage contained inside the quadrilateral.

So you grew up wanting it. The desire. The ichor. Rough and brutal.

You'd never step in, but always stood by your father's side. Until the age of boys, over-coated glossy lips and blooming girlhood arrived. Long gone where the days were you'd be next to your dad inside the dim-light place, now filled with car rides and girly laughter about all and nothing. You changed the sweat scent of the place for vainilla, and the oversized t-shirts for skirts that showed your laced panties if you bent.

The fights started then, but the ring became your home. Slut, he'd call you, saying this wasn't the girl he raised. Your mother would cry, tired of trying to stop the fighting that extended sometimes until late at dawn, when you'd show up on the doorstep, skirt torn apart and panties wet despite the dry summer.

The beast laid dormant inside you. That primal raw hunger; it never ceased to exist.

Now it was on your roaring voice, refusing to shut up and take the harsh language spoken by your own blood. It was on the defiance, cutting your clothes even smaller, pushing the wearable limit. On the way your makeup and manners got more scandalous, and how you'd throw your door louder each time another confrontation took place, the once lively home now a wrestle between two forces refusing to back down. But when you weren't with a bottle in your mouth or a guy in between your legs, you'd think of his hands grabbing yours as he showed you the gym around, introducing you to regulars. My little girl, he'd said proudly, and you would smile like he did. You'd grab the broken frame you once threw against the wall in a fit of rage, crimson imprinted over the photograph below the broken shards you tried to miserably put together again. Fucking failure. But it's impossible to piece what's already broken back together.

But you were still a believer, despite it all: the same girl who saw the magic in the beasts trapped within the cage, thunderous brutality in the place you once called your second home.

Maybe that's why you agreed to help your dad on this. To see a bit of that smile that had faded in time like the colors of the rust painted lockers. To hear a good girl praise. Not slut. To see a glimpse of the man who said he'd pass this place to you, useless now on his mouth as the gym crumbled just like your relationship. In the end, you were his daughter, begging to be seen.

And you were seen. Not by him. But by him.

The Viper. Pronounced in a whisper, because out loud sounded like a curse, bound to risk too much.

He had been a casual before, remembering his days when no facial hair adorned his face and he'd talk with your dad while laughing in a boasting sound, like he knew he'd break out in the scene. He did. And then he stopped coming, because he was too busy winning and living life than to return to a place that was falling apart.

But then your dad came rushing home, like he was to bear bad news. And boy, wasn't he? The leather, the greys now starting to take over his hair like the bad choices in the form of women and alcohol, ones that had once carried a bad boy charm which now had ripen into a sour taste, a lifestyle that belonged to the golden years left in a past long left behind. He didn't belong anymore, but refused to quit. The violence was a vice, and despite loosing everything, he had never lost a match.

"He wants to train" your dad panted out to your worried mother, who thought worst. "For a match, in Chile, his hometown. He talks about coming back"

Your dad may have been the first to know such, but not the last. No, because what started with a call late at night on your dad's old office (He had said Remember me, old friend? oscilating between nostalgia and teasing, and when your dad called his name, a soft incredulous Pedro? he had let out one of his victorious golden laughs, like coins falling down, as to let him know it was still him, despite it all), ended up on the news.

He's coming. He's coming. He's coming. Like a warning before the big bad wolf struck again.

In a way, you think, as he stands before you, he is one: the sharp eyes and bearing teeth. A fighter never backs down, and he seemed to be always in guard.

Hadn't recognized you at first, blinking a few times before a lazy and easy sleazy smile appeared on his face.

"This the same girl that asked me to carry her on my shoulders?" and a chuckle. "I think I still could"

A low, dangerous rich rumble. A dare. Challenging. Pedro didn't know you too had changed in many ways, and he certainly didn't know either you had touched yourself at night to the sound of his velvety voice, wrapping you up like the sweat that set your skin ablaze, a fist in your mouth to stop his name from slithering past your lips, image set on the way his eyes roamed over your woman body like an all too well trap he always falls in like a vice, trying to think if it was real or just another one of the troubles you loved to cause yourself.

But once you're deep, you can only go deeper.

Your dad left for Chile a day earlier, to set preparations you could care less, which is why you're here.

You promised not to fuck it up, seeing a peek of that man who swore to protect you from the cruel world outside. You needed this. Wanted this. When his lips parted but closed, many words hanging on the air coated with burnt cigars and sweat (I'm sorry. I'm proud of you. Don't dissapoint me. Don't break my heart. Don't fuck this up. I love you), you decided you'd do everything in your power to get your dad back.

The task was rather easy: help The Viper train before his big match in Chile.

Easy, if said man wasn't your dad's best friend, Pedro Pascal.

You feel like a voyeuristic freak watching from a corner as he pounds into the boxing bag repeatedly. Drops of salty sweat begin to run through his back, the white cloth now near transparent with how it sticks to his tan skin.

Pedro is big. All boxers were, seeing them coming and going from your dad's gym. But he was beefy. Not the slender and compact, but the huge thick type. The one were just his hands alone looked like he could snap your neck in two if he wanted.

You're supposed to be out there, helping him, but after your dirty little session two nights ago, and yesterday's dinner at your home, you're just not capable to meet him in the eye, despite promises to your dad and the fire to get his affection back.

(He had come over for dinner. Your mom made lasagna, your favorite dish of hers, but the plate went cold as you took in his words like an oil, spreading the grave tone that coated your panties like a second skin. You pressed your legs together, a shaky breath escaping past your treacherous lips when he said how much you'd grown, blaming the sauce when he licked his lips. Your parents stood up to collect the dishes, and then he leaned down and whispered: Ain't you become a doll?)

(It was nothing. It was just a man who knew your father and no better. But you didn't, either)

Last night, to erase the spell he seemed to have cast upon you, you went to one of your old friends while he beat himself up on the gym, where you were supposed to be. But when your orgasm washed over, you said his name instead; no cold shower could scrub away the humilliation.

(And the house still smelled like him. Bitter coffee, leather and sweat. It was salty and citric, up in your nostrils with an invasion that was, if not, fitting. You were obssesed, with the champion and the legend, and he was an old man looking for a fresh doe-eyed girl who could take it)

You gawk like a man would, but, how not? Dude too appeared to be hung. What is it they say about men with big noses, big hands and big thighs? Big. Big. Big. Fucking hell, you needed to be locked up.

"I know you're in there, baby" his voice cuts through the silence. It's night, and you should be locking up already, scarce customers long gone. "Was never good at hiding"

You emerge from the shadows, sporting only a small black short and a white tank top. He chuckles. With you, nothing is a coincidence.

"Some things never change"

He snickers, "but glad some do"

You breath in, getting closer to him. Again, his scent intrudes your senses, making you dizzy like a drug. Your circuits are busy, and his high.

"You were supposed to help me 'round here" he motions the place. But you're stuck on his hands, wrapped in tape. Those hands, brief peek of his tattoo hidden between the white. "What would your dad say, huh?"

His tone is devoid of malice and full of teasing, but your stomach churns.

"He'd say what he always says" he shots up an eyebrow, as if daring you to speak. "That I'm a fucking failure"

Pedro seems taken back by the sudden change in the atmosphere, nonetheless, still charged with unspoken uncertainty.

"Your dad?" like he couldn't connect the man he knew to the one he is now.

"How would you know?" comes out harsher than you intended, a shameful bitter taste in your mouth. "A lot has changed since you left"

A quiet rage settles in his eyes, the beast caged behind the enclosure begging to be let out.

"Why you throwing it on my face? I ain't your daddy"

It shouldn't hurt. This is ridiculous. But, hell, it does; you're nobody's daughter.

"Good you aren't my fucking daddy"

The silence washes over you at the same time the embarrassment does. You realize too late the words that left your mouth, and if you're quick to try to run, he's faster, your back pressed to the material of the hanging punching bag.

"Say it" he demands, "again"

Your face grows hotter by the minute. "I have no idea what you're talking about"

"First a terrible discreet and now a bad liar" his spit spurts in your face, each word with punctuation and a seethe. "Anything else?"

Yes. So much. You're drowning at this point, still not deciding if it's because of the smell his body is emanating or your heavy heart's fault. But he's the last person you'll tell all of this to.

"Not that it matters to you, anyway"

Yet, to an extent, it seems like he knows. As if he's able to see past the forced sweetness, the sarcasm and the layers of makeup and numbingly intoxicating vainilla. Pedro thinks at least he does.

So if you're on fire, he'll let you keep burning.

"I could be him, you know?" your ears start ringing at some point, and you're sure your heart stops. "I could be your daddy"

There's no going deeper than this.

"Thank God you aren't"

And it's like a slap to his face. The oh-mighty undisputed champion steps back. There is always a first, and maybe this is what loss feels like.

"Baby-"

Your ears keep on ringing as you move far from him, your heart dangerously close to leaping from your throat to the cold hard ground. Who does he think he is? He hasn't even been back for a day and has already found a way to break you from inside. To ruin you. As if he never left and has known every secret hidden between your ribs, his memory nestled since forever. But he's too picked apart your bones, in just a matter of seconds, biting down on the marrow of your deepest insecurities.

You hate him. You hate Pedro. You hope he looses, and you accept you've already lost your dad.

But then, as you realize your sat at the end of the gym, the worn out lockers on display, you have an idea.

With you, it was always about revenge, wasn't it?

The beast is awake, howling upon you. Ichor. Rage. This rotten girlhood that started with Malibu dreams and has ended on beds that reek of cheap whiskey and a quick fix in the name of forgetting.

"Pedro"

His head almost snaps looking in your direction. Not like he wanted to search for you to ask for your forgiveness. A match to mark his comeback and change his life will happen in just a couple of hours; he's got bigger problems than a girl who can't see things the way they are. He isn't an apostle of acceptance, but his wicked selfish nature finds pleasure in punishing you for his same sins.

But to play a game, you need two.

"In here" he answers, as if he hasn't moved since your little altercation.

"You need to shower" he catches in time the towel you throw at him. He chuckles dryly at your childish behavior. "You stink"

"You sure? 'Cause just a minute ago, it seemed you were into it" he's quick to quip, matching your energy.

That cocky motherfucker. So full of himself. You hate the sleazy smile of a winner. Does he think you're going down as easy as that?

Of course, you aren't blind. He's attractive, but is this worth it? You see his damp shirt and sweat drenched thighs. No. You look away, flustered.

"I think you need a break, old man. You're not who you used to be" you turn your back to him, so he doesn't see your red hot face, "seeing things that aren't real"

You start to walk to the changing room, and even if not spoken, there's an implication to follow you. So Pedro does, because it's night and Friday and he's got nowhere else to go.

He follows you into the locker room, but this isn't you.

Not the little girl who looked up to him like he could beat the whole world, hand in hand. Not the broken woman, who tried so hard to keep up a mask he could easily see through, maybe because it was akin to his own.

No. This is a fucking temptress. A siren call to drown.

"Sit"

He decided to be a boxer the day he knew he wasn't meant to be bent. The day he realized he hated being weak and wanted to always lead his own path. If it was through violence and punches, so be it.

But he's obeying your command, like a lap dog. If the change isn't noticeable enough, your wicked grin gives it away. He takes his place on the bench, sitting down with aching joints.

"What were you thinking?" you whisper.

A vein on his neck pops out aggressively at the remark.

"I can still handle it"

The way his voice drops to a lower octave, the scowl on his face prominent, like he's both offended and peaked in interest by your remark.

"Is that a challenge?" you tease, playfully. "I'm not your opponent, Pascal. Save it for tomorrow night"

Your fingers itch, and before you think about it twice, they're digging across the soft flesh of his broad back.

"What-"

You hush him almost instantly. "Let me"

You trace patters across the expanse of his hard planes, arousal pooling at the rough of his edges, the dry and scarred of his skin. It's also the sturdy built, what makes it harder to not... appreciate. You happen to be into appreciating the small things, that's all.

(But small, he definitely isn't)

"You're tired" you trace his worn muscles, lost in the way he seems to equally tense and relax under your fluttering touch. "Let me help you"

"What's this?" equally soft. A tattoo. But not the one's you've seen; you wonder if it is for your bad memory or because it's new. "Vae victis"

"Woe to the defeated" he's quick to answer. Taking your silence as a signal to continue, he adds. "It's a way to remember the ones I fight are people, not numbers"

If his voice carries a tinge of vulnerability, you must've imagined it.

"Never took you as the empath type" and your fingers leave his skin, as if it burns.

He lets out a soft humorless laugh.

"There's a lot you don't know about me, baby"

You don't let him have the last word, and to punctuate your final blow, you press a short kiss to the tattoo. He didn't see it coming-- your mint breath ghosting over his shoulder onto his face. Pedro forgets how to breath.

"I've always loved a good mystery"

Knockout.

He looks up from the bench, breathing still panting as he sees your retreating figure, until all that's left in the room is him and his worn-out body. Then, the soft pit-pat of the water hitting the tiles jolts him awake.

"It's ready" your voice says, but you're still there, and not back to the lockers.

Why were you preparing him a shower? It's not like he couldn't turn on the switch.

Pedro removes the towel from his neck and walks over to the showers, only to find you still there, white blouse as damp as his.

"What-"

"Get in"

He's about to repeat it, this time harsher and louder (Have you gone insane, woman?), but then your sweet persistent voice digs on his mulish character like a knife to a wound, and his reasoning has flown out of the window.

"You're gonna wet yourself" is all Pedro can manage to say.

The (possible) double meaning makes his belly rumble.

"I know" you repeat, answering for both. And then get inside.

The water starts to make your clothes hug your body, and he's lost in the curves of your ass and tits. Your muscles, while albeit not worked out, are both soft and strong, plush skin inviting for a bite. You've got both the firm and the soft that comes with age and womanhood, and his cock is itching to have his invite to your warm walls.

"What are you waiting for? Are you going to bath with clothes on?"

He rolls his eyes. "Look who's talking"

The cold water hits him when you too have taken off your clothes.

Couldn't get challenged because your too stubborn ass fell right into the bait.

His breath gets caught in his throat as your soapy hands explore his body. His adam's apple bobs as he gulps, enthralled by your firm yet gentle scrubbing, washing away remnants of sweat and dirt. All words are lost at the devotion, worship and reverance that seems to pour from your digits as you sweep his body.

"How?" your voice drowns out with the drops of water.

"Bad move" he whispers, seeing it across his arm. It's runs across almost all of his inner bicep, big. It didn't heal as good as he'd liked, but chicks seemed to dig it. "Had to go to the hospital"

You, however, seem more into the... understanding side of it. Not on the thrill and the danger, but on the damage that's healed in time but never left. More on the pain, and not the punch.

"And this?"

"Gloves"

"What?"

"Gloves" he repeats, still not that loud, as if he's ashamed. "They can create cuts when the skin is pulled during a strike"

"I don't get it"

And instead of mocking you, Pedro finds himself trying to explain it.

"It's because of the friction of the gloves against the skin" he sighs. "Was too dumb and too full of myself to understand it. Then it happened and I got this"

"What has changed?" you tease him, but it's as tender as a lingering touch. "Don't worry, Pedro. Everyone makes mistakes, even the greats"

It's a rather sweet moment, only broken by your teeth sinking into the scarred tissue, yet you're quick to soothe it with a wet kiss.

He groans, head falling back as your greedy little hands now slide through the hard of his chest, his nipples perked under the cold of the water and the warm of your touch; body electric.

"Fuck, baby. You're going to be the death of me" he groans, shivering at your insistence on making him break. "Keep tryin', but you won't make me beg, muñeca" (doll)

Still hellbent on denying you of himself, the hotheaded stubborn prideful bastard. Not even with your tits in the air, bare cunt aching.

"No?" you feign innocence, batting those wet eyelashes of yours. Then your lips find his scars, licking and pressing sweet warm kisses across the expanse of his chest and body, ending on the one across his face. For a moment, he falters at the intensity of your gaze, almost slipping on the tiles. "Still no?"

You fucking minx. "Fighters don't beg" he says, but every contact of your lips and tongue against his wet body send bolts of electricity to his aching semi-hard cock.

"But real men do"

Without further ado, you descend until your knees hit the tiles, water running through your legs like a river. You don't wait for an answer, all you need to know in his parted lips and his deep stare at you through dark hooded eyes.

A low, guttural moan tears from Pedro's throat as your tongue flicks a quick lick at his sensitive head. He's grabbing your hair with rough hands, tangling into your damp curls, his hips jerking involuntarily as your lips wrap around the tip, tongue swirling and teasing the most sensitive parts.

"Fuck" he groans, "aren't you trouble, doll? Really gonna make me beg for that release, ain't you? With that tongue of yours"

You give another proud lick at his throbbing angry red flesh, head already leaking with precum.

"What'd your daddy think about his daughter sucking his best friend's cock in the showers?"

You ignore him, too busy lost in the way his cock throbs and pulses in your mouth, his balls tightening with a pressure that built more each passing second.

"Not a talker, huh? Were that loud mouth of yours go?" he teases, his grip not faltering on your hair. "That's what y'r daddy said. Or maybe he was talking of another daughter. Not this little obedient slut who devours my cock like she's starved" his voice is strained. "Such a good girl, though, taking care of an old man like this. You like how it tastes?"

You pull out, making him groan.

"Why'd stop?" his voice is strained, rough with desire. His pupils are blown wide, circling with desbelief and something more primal. But he'll never say that, will he?

Too bad for him, you don't know when to shut up. Or quit.

"I want to hear you say it"

He chuckles darkly, his grip on your hair tighter now. "What'd say?"

"Me? Nothing" your lips part, words slurring before you think better. "You is I wanna hear"

"Fucking cunt" his eyes darken, "think you can tease me and get away with it? No, you'll be a good little cocksleeve and take it all"

You moan at his lewd words, thighs clasping together in search for some relief for the pressure building on your bare cunt.

"That's right, you dirty cocksucker. Look at you, thinking you can bend a fucking champion like me"

He knew his power over you. Frankly, he had to thank your old man for fucking you up so bad. Pedro loved how all your resolute seemed to vanish in the air, looking so eager and willing, desperate to please him. Be it for praise or for how much you wanted this like him, but it is this what makes him feel like a true winner.

"Don't you wanna suck this dick so bad?" his thumb tugs down your lip, "Be a good girl and I might give it to you"

Just like that, you're done.

"Please, I want to be a good girl. Use me, fuck me with your mouth"

He lets out a growl, voice low and rough. "Oh, t's alright, muñeca. I'll use this dirty little mouth of yours, all right" he fists your hair again, pulling you closer. "Gonna fuck you so good, you'll be feeling me all week: every time you taste, swallow and speak. Fill your dirty mouth so good with so much cum, you'll be tasting it for hours, for days, 'n for the rest of your fucking life"

Pedro thrusts his hips forward, pushing more and more of his thick, hard cock past your lips. He sets a steady pace, eyes locked on your face as he fucks your mouth with deep strokes.

"Just like that" he praises, breaths sharp as he looses himself in how his girth is nestled in your mouth. "Take it all, like a good little girl. So show me, baby, show me how much you love the taste of my cock. How much you need it-- crave it"

Your moan gets lost in your constricted throat, struggling to take him deeper, breathing and swallowing almost impossible with his girth taking up all of the space inside of your mouth. If Pedro felt like a king before, now he feels like a god.

"Such a perfect little cock sleeve for me to use, to fill, to fuck" he groans, his hips picking up speed, thrusts growing harder and more urgent.

His orgasm starts building, and he knows it by the way his balls tighten and his cock pulses inside the heat of your throat. Pedro knows he's close to coming, that he's seconds away from it.

Even if he's lost completely in the act, he's foremost a gentleman, but when he's about to pull out, your hands grip tightly to this thighs, and hold him in place as he tries to move. A rush of lust washes him over the cold water, a dark desire coursing through him at your pathetic display of eagerness and desperation.

"Fuck, baby" Pedro's voice reduced to a low, guttural rumble as he gazes down at you. You swear you can see a brief glint of admiration on his eyes. "You want my cum that badly, muñeca? Do you want to swallow it all down like a good little slut?"

He's rocking his hips forward, burying himself balls-deep in your warm throat, his swollen cock pulsing and throbbing against your tonsils as his orgasm crashes over him. Pedro throws his head back as so do his eyes, body shuddering and convulsing as thick ropes of hot cum shoot from his cock.

"You're doin' great, baby" he pants, his grip on your hair tight as he grounds his hips against your face, pushing himself deep into your mouth as he physically could. "Show me what a good little cumslut you are and don't waste a fuckin' drop. Swallow it all"

Aren't you perfect? Gulping and swallowing, trying your best good girl shtick as you take everything he has to give you, his musky sweat filled scent up your nostrils, despite the soap still covering some of his body.

"Fuck, y/n" he groans, body going limp. He falls back against one of the shower's walls, chest up and down with uneven breaths. "Greedy little girl with a greedy little throat"

He slowly pulls out of your mouth, his softening cock slipping from your lips.

"Get up, baby. Your father's bill will be brutal if we don't hurry up" he hauls you up and into his arms. "But truth is, I'ont give a fuck. I'm still thinking 'bout your lips 'round my cock"

Before you say anything, he's dragging your body again like you weight nothing, but this time, it's to crush his hot desperate mouth into yours with a rough kiss. Pedro can taste himself mixed with your sweet and drool. He groans at that, the sound painfully animal.

"Hey" he gently tugs you, a mannerism you would never associate with him. "Where you think you're going?"

You blink once. Twice. Then again, slower.

"What are you talking about?"

Your back meets the wall, Pedro brutally slamming your body until the tiles dig into your skin.

"Ow- wait" you hiss, "the fuck's gotten into you?"

"Think I'll let you go after this?" he growls. Then, chuckles, darkly so. "No, baby. I gotta try first" his fingers grab the supple skin of your ass until you feel them melt into it. He then spanks it, creating a weird sound with the combined water droplets. "Need to see if the pussy is as sweet as your mouth. So be a good girl and let me handle this, alright? As I said, I still can"

And for a reason, that feels like a threat.

His calloused digits venture dangerously close to your entrance, fingers going in. He coats it with your slick, making him laugh that laugh uniquely his.

"Fuck, muñeca. You're as wet as this shower head" Pedro presses himself into you, his cock touching your stomach. "Don't ever try to lie to me again, I ain't no fool"

Traitorous body. But his seething voice, the way his dominance slithers into jolts through your slick folds. You whine, pressing your tighs together. Pedro's quick to see this, and before you get to say anything else, he parts them roughly.

"I said I ain't no fool" he grunts while rubbing the tip of his cock over your folds, applying pressure on your clit. "Bad girl"

No warning, just his cock slipping past your wet dripping folds. Your hands fly to reach his neck for support.

"S'fucking grabby" he teases, slipping his pulsating dick between your folds once more, pressing and then pushing in slowly.

He swallows your whimper in a kiss, your poor pussy stretching to accommodate his thick girth. His big hands pull your body closer to his.

"But I'm the grabby one"

He growls. "Quit talking"

With one brutal thrust, he buries himself to the hilt, balls pressed against the flesh of your ass. You grip his hair, chocolate curls tangled between your fingers. He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours. The pain carries waves of pleasure laced within, despite his aggressive thrusting and quick pace. You roll your hips upwards, eliciting a faint whimper out of your lips.

"No, doll" his fingers dig in your waist, a purple soon to follow. "You do what I say, clear?"

His cock grinds forward, stretching you out.

"Fuck-!" you choke out, "Pedro!"

He growls when he hears his name on your lips, an all consuming desire to make you his washing over him.

He then grabs you by your legs, hooking them around his waist.

You mewl out his name in a cry.

"See?" Pedro blurts out. "Told ya' I still had it on me, baby"

Your hands scramble to grab him by his shoulders, the pain and pleasure making your head spin. He can feel your tits jump with each bounce provoked by his thrusts, the rosy skin pressed against his chest.

"Gonna fill you up so bad, you won't ever doubt me again"

Pedro pulls back and uses his arms to push himself up and hover over you. He began to drive his hips faster, loud clapping noises mixing with the falling water.

"I'm- I'm gonna"

"Ask, baby. Remember what I told you?"

"Yes. Sorry, daddy" you whimper. "Please, let me-"

"Let you what?" Pedro chuckles.

"Cum. Let me cum. Please, daddy, please" the words slurred as you feel yourself on edge.

"Very well" grinning satisfied, "but don't you dare keep any of those pretty noises just for yourself"

A high-pitched wails falls past your lips as you throw your head and eyes back, your legs shaking.

"Pedro-!"

He grunts at the sensation of your juices on his cock, coating it. In the way your walls flutter around his length, pussy tight making him groan against your neck, where he has now buried his face.

"Stay there, baby. It's my turn" his hips snap and his thrusts turn sloppy. "Gonna paint all of your tight folds with my cum"

His grip tightens as he fucks himself silly into you, chasing his high.

"S'fucking tight" he groans loudly. "Such a good girl for me"

He comes undone, salty hot ropes of thick white cum spurting inside of you, his cock deeply nestled inside of your welcoming warm walls.

"Fuck. Need to fill you up, doll. Until you're so stuffed you can't move without making a mess"

The water keeps falling, as you whimper softly, burying your face in his neck. Pedro keeps rocking into you while riding his orgasm out, soft breathless groans leaving him. He places you down, some of his cum on your thighs. He uses his finger to push it all inside.

"We have been to wasteful to keep on being, right?" Pedro jokes before closing the valve.

"Be honest. You don't give a damn about the planet"

He lets out a hearty laugh.

"Guilty as charged"

There's some silence before he's helping you get back on your shorts.

(He smacks your ass, saying you did it on purpose. You agree. After all, he's quick to know when you lie)

"Good girl" he praises with a small kiss. "Did so well for me"

You kiss him back, fiercely, your mouth practically sucking his lips.

"For good luck, daddy"

Pedro chuckles at your antics. "You fucking minx"

He leaves you after that, going for his stuff. But you stand still in the middle, lost like a little deer. Your ragged breaths fill the room, and he feels a little guilty about having fucked his best friend's daughter on his gym before leaving first thing in the morning to his home country.

"C'mere" you turn your head. "What? C'mon, don't leave me hanging"

You carefully make way to where he is, back in the same bench.

"Sit" he orders.

Oh, the irony of it all.

Once you take place next to him, he makes sure to remove a strand of wet hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear.

"When I win, which I will" you chuckle at his ego, "I'll be sure to remember you, doll"

So when your dad sends you a video of Pedro's match in Chile a day later and The Viper winks to the camera, you like to think it's for you.

[mysterious-moonstruck-musings]

He’s so damn adorable and I miss this hair. His neck in that last gif though…😮‍💨

[capuccinodoll]

The boyfriend act, part 7: "The one with unexpected visit" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter summary: You plan your weekend, preparing to tackle the clutter—the disorganized clothes in your closet, the ones strewn at your feet, but most of all, the chaos in your mind after an unexpected visitor shows up at your door. WC: 10.4k

A/N: Okay. Here it is. 😭

Don’t forget to share your thoughts in the comments, love reading them!!!If you want to be in the tag list, let me know. Follow capuccinodollupdates for notifications! love you <3

Friday, August 30th

“This place is packed,” Santi muttered beside you, his gaze sweeping over the crowded tables, each one occupied by people leaning in close, lost in conversation or absorbed in their laptops. The low hum of chatter filled the air, punctuated by the occasional hiss of the espresso machine. The scent of freshly brewed coffee and warm sugar hung thick, comforting, almost intoxicating. The display case by the register was lined with golden croissants, glistening danishes, and—most importantly—rows of perfectly round, sugar-dusted donuts.

“The donut thing must be true,” he added, still scanning the room like he was making a tactical assessment.

“No, I heard the coffee’s actually good. Though, yeah, maybe the donut thing too.”

“I hope so. I want my free donut,” he said, flashing you a grin.

Ahead of you, two people stood in line. The café itself was like something out of a storybook—warm, inviting, all soft golden light and mismatched wooden chairs. A chalkboard menu hung above the counter, the handwriting slightly smudged in places, as though someone had changed their mind halfway through writing “oat milk.” A framed picture of what appeared to be the owner’s dog hung beside it, wearing a tiny apron.

“When’s Yov coming back?” you asked, nudging forward as the line inched along.

“Sunday. Why? Trying to get rid of me already?”

“No,” you said, smiling. “You can stay with me if you want. Tonight.”

Santi nodded, his gaze fixed ahead. “I’d love to, but I can’t.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Why?”

“Dinner at Will’s place.”

“Ah.” You nodded, as if that explained everything. “Well, I guess I’ll be alone again.”

“Oh, don’t be like that,” he laughed, nudging your arm playfully. “As if you don’t love being alone.”

“That’s true,” you admitted, raising your eyebrows. “Now that you mention it, maybe I’ll use the night to finally sort out my closet. Do you have any idea how many t-shirts must be buried at the bottom of everything?”

“Wow,” he said dryly. “You really know how to have fun on a friday night.”

“Next,” the man behind the counter said, his voice carrying over the soft hum of conversation and the clatter of ceramic cups.

You and Santi stepped forward. He ordered an espresso. You ordered a latte. Simple, predictable.

But beside you, you could feel Santi hesitating, his fingers drumming lightly against the counter, his weight shifting from one foot to the other. Like he was holding himself back.

“And I’ll have a blueberry muffin too,” you said, sliding your gaze toward him, leaving space. An opening.

Santi didn’t say anything.

The man behind the counter gave you a knowing smile. He looked like he was in his early forties, maybe late thirties. His light brown hair was touched with soft gray at the temples, and his eyes—large, dark green, almost too deep for their color—had the kind of quiet presence that made you think he was good at remembering faces. He was tall, too, though he moved with an easy, unhurried air.

“This your first time here, right?” he asked, punching your order into the register.

You nodded. “It is. I, uh—” You gestured vaguely toward the sidewalk behind you. “I have a bookstore just a few doors down. Right next to the florist.”

Recognition flickered across his face. His eyebrows lifted slightly. “Ah, Vandspell Books—that’s yours?”

“That’s right.”

“I’ve been meaning to stop by,” he said, wiping his hands on a dish towel before leaning slightly against the counter. “My daughter loves to read. She’s in that stage where she’ll devour an entire book in a day.”

That got your attention. You smiled, suddenly much more invested in the conversation.

“Really? What’s she reading now?”

“Anne of Green Gables. She’s ten.” He hesitated, as if considering something, then added, “Do you have any recommendations?”

Your mind immediately began sorting through titles, but a quick glance behind you told you there were already three more people waiting in line.

“Oh, I have lots,” you said, shifting your weight slightly. “You should bring her by. I’d love to talk books with her.”

His face lit up, as if the idea genuinely delighted him. “Of course. I’m Bill, by the way.”

You told him your name, then gestured toward your brother. “This is Santi.”

“Nice to meet you, Santi,” Bill said, then tilted his head. “You want anything else with your coffee?”

Santi opened his mouth, hesitated. “Uh…”

“Pick some donuts,” Bill interrupted. He gestured toward the display case behind him, where an array of golden, sugar-dusted, chocolate-drizzled, and rainbow-sprinkled donuts sat under the soft glow of the pastry case lights. “On the house.”

You turned just in time to see Santi’s expression shift. You smiled.

With coffee in hand and two paper bags filled with still-warm donuts, you and Santi stepped out of the café and onto the sidewalk. The air outside was delicious, the kind of perfect morning where the sun felt warm against your face without being overbearing. A breeze moved lazily through the streets, carrying the scent of fresh bread from a bakery down the block, the faintest hint of lavender from the florist next door.

And, as it turned out, everyone had been right about the coffee. It was good—really good, the kind that made you close your eyes for a second just to savor it. The donuts, too. You had chosen one with plain icing, while Santi, walking beside you, was already biting into his, the chocolate coating cracking under his teeth.

“You look happy,” you observed, watching as he chewed, looking for all the world like a contented child.

Santi laughed, brushing a stray crumb from his shirt. “I’m happy in the mornings.”

You reached the bookstore and pushed open the door, the small brass bell overhead letting out a familiar chime. Immediately, the scent of books wrapped around you—old paper, faint traces of vanilla from the spines, something earthy in the air like dust settling in sunlight. The morning light streamed in through the tall windows, pooling in golden patches on the wooden floor.

You took a sip of your coffee and moved behind the counter, switching on the computer, unlocking the register, setting everything in place for the day. Santi made his way to the couch on the left, the one tucked against the universal classics section. He sat down with a sigh, stretching his legs out in front of him, his gaze drifting across the shelves.

“Thinking about something?” you asked, noticing how still he’d gone, how his eyes seemed focused on something only he could see.

“Not really,” he said, leaning back. Then, after a pause, “Just remembering how dad used to read Henry James to us.” His mouth quirked up at the corner. “And Poe. That man was out to terrify us.”

You laughed, the memory slipping in as easily as if it had happened yesterday—those slow, humid summer mornings, your father behind the counter, his reading glasses sliding down his nose, the two of you sprawled out on the floor, half-helping, half-distracted.

That first summer, when you were seven and Santi was twelve, you had spent the mornings at the shop mostly because there was nowhere else to be. Santi had been having a rough year at school, and your parents had decided bookstore shifts were a more constructive punishment than being stuck at home. You, naturally, had followed him. It had been the off-season, slow and uneventful, so your father had pulled The Turn of the Screw off the shelf and started reading it to you in pieces, depending on how long you could sit still. He hadn’t expected you to love it, but you had. You’d finished the book quicker than he planned. And after that, the habit had formed—morning readings of Poe, a little May Alcott, sometimes Dickens. Always, at the end, your father would close the book, clear his throat, and say in that particular, expectant voice, Well, kids, what did you learn?

“Yes,” you said now, settling onto the couch beside Santi. “I remember every story like it was yesterday.”

“Well, you have a better memory than me,” he admitted. “I’ve forgotten a few.”

You rolled your eyes, standing up.

“Take the book, then.” You crossed to the shelf, letting your fingers trail along the spines, stopping when you found the one you wanted.

“Really?”

“Yes, Santiago.” You pulled the book free and handed it to him. “Read it again and tell me what you think of it now that you’re old.”

He laughed, flipping absently through the pages. “Change of perspective, huh?”

“That’s what they say.”

Santi made a quiet sound, thoughtful, tapping his fingers against the book’s spine. “Something I remember, though.”

“What?”

“The way Henry James talked about it.” He paused, searching for the phrase. “Change of perspective.”

You laughed. “You mean 'points of view’?"

Santi nodded.

You raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“Nothing. Just an interesting thing to think about. How we all have different points of view. How stories—experiences—can be—”

“Oh, shut up,” you said, swatting his arm as you walked back to the counter.

Santi just grinned, flipping open the book.

Saturday, August 31st

“What about this one?” you asked, holding up a shirt to the light filtering through the blinds. Mr. Darcy, curled at the foot of the bed, blinked at you in slow, feline disinterest. You stretched the fabric between your fingers, tilting your head as if seeing it from a different angle might reveal something new. “I think this color looks good on me,” you mused, glancing at your reflection in the mirror. “Don’t you think?”

Mr. Darcy did not respond. His eyes drooped closed, an infuriatingly serene expression settling over his face.

With a sigh, you pressed the shirt against your chest for a final moment of consideration before tossing it onto the “stay” pile. The bed was covered in these small mountains of fabric, some meticulously folded, others crumpled in a way that suggested their fate was still undecided.

“You’re not being much help,” you told the cat. He responded by shifting slightly and sighing—a real, proper sigh, as if he too were exhausted by the ordeal.

You picked up the last two sweaters that had been holding you hostage in indecision for the past twenty minutes. One was soft and familiar, a shade of blue you always liked on other people but never felt quite right in. The other was oversized and cozy but had a tiny stain near the collar you would never actually get around to fixing. With a sharp exhale, you placed them both in the “go” pile.

This had taken so much longer than you expected.

Yesterday night, full of unwarranted optimism, you had yanked everything from your closet in a single dramatic motion, watching as shirts and dresses tumbled onto the floor in a heap of fabric and regret. At first, you moved with purpose—lifting, sorting, folding—but soon, fatigue crept in. You had far more clothes than you realized, and the sheer volume of it all became overwhelming. Then your stomach growled, and you told yourself you’d take a quick break, have dinner, then get back to it.

Except you didn’t.

Instead, you ate too much, stretched out on the couch for what was supposed to be just a moment, and woke up (many) hours later with Mr. Darcy sprawled across your chest, his full weight pressing into you like a tiny, indifferent furnace. Your mouth was dry, your limbs heavy, and the mess was still waiting for you.

Now, after a long shower and a strong coffee, you had finally pushed through. The bed was covered in neat stacks, some slightly more chaotic than others, but it didn’t matter. Most of these clothes were staying.

Humming along to the song drifting from the speakers in the living room—Perfect by The Smashing Pumpkins—you began folding the last of the pieces, tucking them carefully into drawers, smoothing them into place. The sun had started to set, golden light spilling across the room, stretching shadows across the floor. Mr. Darcy let out a soft sigh in his sleep.

You rolled your shoulders back, stretching your arms overhead. The apartment felt quieter now, softer. As if, for the first time in a while, there was a little more space to breathe.

When everything was finally in place, you stepped back, hands on your hips, surveying your work with quiet satisfaction. The closet doors stood open, revealing rows of neatly folded clothes, the bed cleared of its previous chaos. It felt good, in a small but tangible way, to have imposed order on something.

Mr. Darcy chose that moment to stretch luxuriously, arching his back, his tail curling in the air. He let out a slow, deliberate meow, as if announcing his presence.

“Oh, now you’re awake,” you said, sitting down on the bed just as he slinked over to rub his head against your leg. His purring started up instantly, a low, soothing vibration under your fingertips as you scratched behind his ears.

“You’re a sweetie, you know that?” you murmured, pressing your forehead lightly to his.

He responded with a small, almost reluctant meow.

“Of course you know,” you said. “You’re the cockiest little thing in the world, and I love you for it.”

Mr. Darcy accepted this praise for a few more seconds before deciding he had better things to do. With a final flick of his tail, he hopped off the bed and padded out of the room. You followed his lead, heading into the bathroom.

Your reflection in the mirror was flushed, your skin still warm from the shower. Strands of hair clung to your neck. You ran your fingers through it absently, shaking it out, then padded barefoot to the kitchen.

The clock on the microwave read 5:37 PM. You hadn’t eaten anything substantial all day, which explained the hunger curling in your stomach. You opened the fridge, scanning the shelves, your eyes landing on a carton of eggs. Maybe pancakes. You could make pancakes.

Just as your fingers brushed against the milk, the doorbell rang, muffled beneath the music playing in the living room.

You cursed under your breath, shutting the fridge with a little more force than necessary before glancing toward the window.

“I’m coming!” you called, raking a hand through your t-shirt, smoothing the fabric over your stomach as you walked toward the door.

You glanced down at yourself—Santi’s old, faded Soundgarden t-shirt, worn soft with time, and a pair of shorts. Not exactly presentable, but it was just your brother. What did it matter? You only hoped he’d had the decency to bring food. A bowl of his stew, preferably.

You opened the apartment door and made your way downstairs, still prepared to greet him with some sarcastic remark about how he always showed up unannounced. Your fingers curled around the handle of the front door, pulling it open with a practiced ease, your lips already forming the beginnings of a smirk—

But then, you saw who was standing there.

Not Santi.

Frankie.

The smirk disappeared instantly.

Your gaze rested on his face, searching for something—an emotion, a clue, anything that might tell you what he was thinking. But if there was something there, you couldn’t decipher it. All you could tell was that he didn’t want to be here. Or maybe it was something else entirely, something you weren’t perceptive enough to name.  

“Hi,” he said finally, shifting his weight back slightly. “How are you?”  

There was a hesitation before you answered. “Fine.” Your eyes dropped before they could linger too long on his face, skimming down his body instead. No cap. No glasses. A gray T-shirt, black cargo pants. His car was parked behind him, engine off, as if he wasn’t sure how long he’d be staying. “You?”  

“I was wondering if we could talk for a minute. About the other night.” His voice was steady, careful. “If you want to. If you can.”  

Your pulse jumped, an uncomfortable awareness settling in your chest. You hoped the heat rising in your cheeks wasn’t visible, but it probably was.  

You nodded. “Yeah, sure. Do you want to come up?”  

You stepped aside, gesturing toward the stairs with a thumb.  

Frankie nodded once, silent, and crossed the threshold. As he passed, you caught the faintest trace of something—clean, warm. You exhaled through your nose and turned to close the door behind him, hesitating a beat longer than necessary. A small, quiet breath left you before you followed him upstairs.  

At the apartment door, you pushed it open and stepped inside first. He hesitated for half a second before following, his eyes flickering to the floor, scanning for the cat.  

“Sit,” you said, already walking toward the kitchen.  

He wordlessly lowered himself onto the couch, elbows resting on his knees. You opened the fridge, the sudden cool air brushing against your skin as you scanned the shelves.

“Do you want something to drink? I have coffee, tea, juice, um—”  

“Water’s fine.”  

“Okay.”  

You poured two glasses—one for him, one for yourself—and returned to the couch, setting them down on the coffee table. You almost sat beside him. Almost. But at the last second, something made you change your mind, and you lowered yourself into the couch across from him instead.  

Silence stretched between you, thick and unmoving. Neither of you seemed to know where to begin.  

You were just about to reach for something, anything, when he let out a breath and spoke first.

“I owe you an apology.”

Frankie’s voice was steady, but there was a tightness in his jaw, in the way his fingers laced together, elbows resting on his knees like he was bracing himself. He was looking at you now, fully, not shying away. “For the other night and… for everything. I’m sorry.”

Your brows pulled together. “Everything?”

The word sat between you, unanswered.

Everything felt too big, too vague. How far back did he mean? Since the other night? Since years ago? Since always?

His gaze dropped to the coffee table where the glasses sat untouched. His brow furrowed slightly, as if he were weighing his words, as if the right ones might suddenly appear among the condensation rings forming on the wood. When he lifted his eyes again, he looked more sure of himself.

“I shouldn’t have pushed you so hard about Harry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have said all that shit. I—” He exhaled, shaking his head. “I had no right to get in your business like that. And it won’t happen again. You can trust that.”

There was something about the way he said it—without defensiveness, without expectation—that made you believe him.

“I know I don’t have an excuse,” he continued. “But I do know how you feel.” His fingers flexed against his knees before his hands finally relaxed. “I’ve been there.”

His gaze dipped again, like the weight of saying it out loud was too much. “I’ve been abandoned. And I found out the hard way that it was pointless to spend every day crying, wondering why.”

Your mouth opened before you fully registered the thought.

“Rachel.”

The name landed between you, quieter than you meant it to be, as if it had slipped out on its own.

Frankie nodded. You noticed the smallest movement in his expression—the way his eyebrows twitched slightly, how his throat bobbed as he swallowed. A moment of remembering.

“And I know you’re not me, and Harry’s not Rachel,” he said. “But I couldn’t help it. It felt the same. Like I was watching something repeat itself right in front of me.”

“It’s not the same.”

“I know.” He nodded quickly, closing his eyes for a second, like he needed to reset. “I know.”

Frankie rubbed his palms over his thighs, exhaling through his nose. “Seeing you hurt over him reminded me of myself, and I—I—”

“Do you wish someone had demanded you get over it? Would you have preferred someone to yell it in your face?”

The question came out softer than you expected. Frankie’s head tilted slightly, his lips parting just enough for a breath to catch. Then, slowly, he let out a quiet, bitter laugh.

“I wish they’d been less careful with me,” he admitted. “Everyone acted like I was this fragile thing they couldn’t say certain shit to. Like if they said the wrong thing, I’d just… break.” His eyes flickered to yours. “Honestly? If I could go back, I’d tell myself to get over it. That it didn’t make sense.”

“But that’s not how it works,” you said gently. “You can’t force yourself to get over something. And you can’t force other people to, either.”

His jaw shifted slightly, the muscle tightening before releasing again. “I just would’ve liked some honesty. You know what I mean?”

You held his gaze and nodded. "Yeah, I get it. But, what, did you think I wanted the same thing? Everything you said that night wasn't new to me."

“I just... I know I have no right to tell you what to do. Or give you advice," he said, quieter now. "And even beyond that, I know the way I spoke to you was wrong. I was insensitive. And for that, I’m sorry.” He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “I got caught up in it. I saw how much you were hurting, and I—I messed up.”

His hand dropped, and when he looked at you again, something in his expression had softened.

“You and I… we’re not exactly made for each other, are we?” His lips quirked, but it wasn’t quite a smile. “And I don’t even know what it is that makes us like this. But whatever it is…” His voice grew quieter, like he wasn’t sure he wanted you to hear the last part. “I’m sorry. I really am.”

For a moment, you considered the easy way out. You could tell him you understood, that you had been unfair too. You could nod, accept his apology, smooth over the jagged edges between you.

But the truth was, you were tired. Tired of this, tired of swallowing words, tired of pretending you didn’t feel the way you did. And, honestly, you had no idea when you’d get another chance to say these things to him. Knowing yourself, probably not anytime soon.

You took a breath, tried to shape your thoughts into something measured, something that wouldn’t unravel into a mess of frustration and regret. But overthinking it wouldn’t help. It never did.

So you just said it.

“You make me feel stupid,” you told him, and even though your voice was steady, it felt like tearing something open. “Almost all the time. Since the very first day.”

Frankie blinked, but he didn’t say anything.

“It’s like nothing I do is ever good enough for you. Like all my choices are inconsistent, irrational. If I wanted to be sad about Harry, if I wanted to cry over him, why couldn’t I? Just because something similar happened to you? This pain is mine, Frankie. I get to decide how I deal with it, how I suffer through it. That doesn’t mean I’ll carry it forever. That doesn’t mean I need you—or anyone—to rescue me from it.”

His expression didn’t change, but something about the way he was breathing, the way his hands were clasped so tightly between his knees, told you he was listening.

“And I get it,” you continued, exhaling sharply. “In some messed-up, roundabout, very us kind of way, you were trying to help me. But you…” Your throat tightened, but you pushed through it. “You have this particular way of hurting me. Like you know exactly where to push, which strings to pull to completely disarm me.”

Frankie didn’t move. He just kept looking at you, so still it was almost unnerving. And as the words left your mouth, you felt something uncoil inside you, a weight lifting. But it wasn’t enough.

You straightened, rolling your shoulders back, bracing yourself.

“Can you be honest with me?” you asked. “Really honest? No bullshit, no deflections.” You gestured vaguely with your hand, like you were wiping the excuses away before he could even reach for them.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. Then, he nodded. “Yeah.”

“Tell me how you feel about me.” The words landed heavy in the space between you. “Tell me how you feel about the way I treat you. Tell me what it does to you, being near me. What you feel, and what you’ve felt all this time.” You inhaled, grounding yourself. “Right now, Francisco. I’m asking you for honesty.”

For a second, he just stared. Like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard you right. Or like he was trying to figure out if this was a trap.

And then he seemed to decide that, whatever it was, it didn’t really matter.

“I…” He exhaled, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “I feel bad.”

His gaze dropped to the coffee table, avoiding yours like he was embarrassed to be admitting it out loud.

“I feel inadequate. Out of place. Like when you’re a kid and you go to a birthday party and no one wants to play with you.” His fingers flexed, then stilled. “Like I’m failing a test over and over again.”

You were quiet for a few seconds, letting his words settle, letting them exist in the space between you. If he had felt that way—if he felt that way now—you had never noticed. Not even once.

“I didn’t know,” you said finally, careful with your tone, as if the wrong inflection might break whatever fragile honesty was hanging between you. “I mean… I never thought anything I said actually got to you. All these years, you always seemed so sure of yourself. Like you wanted to prove that between the two of us, I was the one who wasn’t enough.”

Frankie lifted his gaze, meeting yours. His expression didn’t shift, but something in his posture did—something subtle, something you almost missed.

“What made you think that?” he asked. “What made you believe that what you said didn’t affect me?”

“You.” 

Frankie blinked, caught off guard.

“You make me feel small,” you went on, voice steadier than you expected. “Like I don’t know what I’m talking about, like I’m constantly getting it wrong. Every time we’ve argued, you always seem to know exactly what to say to hurt me, like you have some map of my insecurities, like you know exactly where to press.” You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “And I’ve always felt like you win. No matter what I say to you, no matter how angry I am, it never feels like I’ve landed a hit. You always turn it around, always make it worse for me. And then it’s like you’re fine—like you’ve already moved on, like it didn’t even matter. Like you enjoy knowing you won, until the next time we see each other and do it all over again.”

Frankie’s eyebrows lifted slightly before he exhaled, dropping his gaze to the floor. He pressed his lips together, jaw flexing, and when he looked back up, something unreadable had settled into his expression.

“I didn’t feel like I won the last time we saw each other,” he said. “If that makes you feel any better. Or any of the other times, really.”

You let out a quiet breath, looking down at your hands, suddenly unsure what to do with them.

“Shit,” you muttered. And then, because it felt right—because it felt true—you lifted your eyes to his and said, “I’m sorry.”

His brows twitched slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I’m sorry for everything I said to you,” you continued. “It wasn’t true. None of it. I was just—I was mad, and I was hurt, and I wanted you to feel just as bad as I did.”

Frankie’s lips curled at the corners, a small, wry smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”

You shook your head. “That’s not—” 

“It’s okay.”

“No, that’s not okay,” you said, shaking your head, as if you could physically reject the thought. “Because something like that—what I said to you—no one deserves to be treated like that. And it wasn’t true. Not even a little bit. I don’t actually think those things about you, Francisco.” You swallowed, your throat dry. “I just wanted to hurt you.”

Frankie exhaled, looking down, shaking his head as if he could shake off the weight of it.

“I deserved it.” His voice was quiet, but firm. “I… I didn’t know I made you feel that way. That it was that serious for you.” His hands flexed against his knees, knuckles pale with tension. “I didn’t know, or maybe I just didn’t let myself realize it. Not until the other night, when I—When I made you cry.” A pause. Then, barely above a whisper, “Jesus Christ, I’m such a fucking asshole.”

He pressed his fingers against his temples for a second before looking back at you. “All this time, all these years, I knew we were hurting each other. But I didn’t think—I didn’t think anything I said could actually wound you like that.”

“You didn’t realize?” The words left your mouth before you had time to temper them, sharp and incredulous.

Frankie nodded, almost to himself. “We fought, we pissed each other off, and in you, all I ever saw was anger. I thought, yeah, she hates me. So I figured that was all I was provoking—just that. Just anger. I never thought I was really—” He hesitated, exhaling through his nose. “I never thought I was actually hurting you.”

You let out a dry laugh, shaking your head. “That’s what always got to me the most,” you muttered. “How come you always knew where to hit? How to cut?”

Frankie’s eyes rested on yours, unreadable, and then drifted down to your hands. You were twisting your fingers together, restless, wound tight.

He let a breath pass before answering. “The first time we actually argued was that day at the lake, remember?”

You did.

You nodded, and Frankie went on. “I took your life jacket by mistake. And when you found out, you just—tore it out of my hands without a word. We hadn’t even talked much before that. Barely knew each other. But that moment felt like… like it told me everything I needed to know.” He wet his lips, glancing at you briefly before looking back down. “I went after you, asked you what the hell your problem was, and you said I needed to be more careful. That I should keep my hands off your stuff. That I always managed to screw things up.”

His fingers tapped absently against his knee.

“Later that day, you lost the parking ticket, and we argued again. And I—I remember throwing it back at you. That you were the one who always screwed things up. That you were careless. That you needed to pay more attention.” He gave a small, breathy laugh, shaking his head at himself. “After that, I don’t remember the specifics. Just that it was always like that between us. Always fighting, always picking at each other, always knowing the worst possible thing to say. And Santi losing his mind over it.”

He glanced down at the side of the couch, where Mr. Darcy had stirred, stretching lazily before padding toward Frankie’s feet. Frankie reached down, scratching lightly behind his ear, gaze unfocused.

“I didn’t know the things I said were touching a nerve,” he said finally, still not looking at you. “But I did know that the things you said to me were.” His fingers stilled in the cat’s fur. “It always felt like you knew exactly where to press. Like you could see my insecurities before I even admitted them to myself.” He finally looked at you, his mouth curling in a wry, humorless smile. “And if you think about it too much, it’s almost funny. Because our attacks—our words—they’re the same. They always have been.”

You followed his gaze to your cat, who had curled up beside his feet again, content. Your thoughts tangled together, unspooling into more questions than you could keep track of. Would he answer them?

“Yes, I understand that. What I don’t understand is…” You stopped, your throat tightening so suddenly it caught you off guard. You swallowed hard, willing yourself to push through the burning behind your eyes. “What I don’t get is… why?”

Frankie looked at you, his expression unreadable at first, then shifting into something closer to confusion. “What?”

You blinked rapidly, a thin sheen of wetness gathering in your eyes.

“From the very beginning, you never liked me.” You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “Since the first day, the first moment we met. You made up your mind about me on the spot. Why? You didn’t know me. You knew nothing about me, and yet somehow, you decided I was—” You stopped, struggling to find the right words. “—not worth your time. Not worth being kind to.”

His expression didn’t shift at first, just deepened into something unreadable. “I don’t... I don't know what you mean.”

You let out a breath, something like a laugh but without the humor.

“Francisco.” His name felt strange in your mouth, too formal, too intimate at once. “Come on.”

"No... I mean, I know it was weird, but that's not how I—"

“From the very beginning, you hated me.” A tear slid down your cheek, warm and humiliating.

“I didn't,” he said quietly.

“You did. Since the first time we met.”

His gaze flickered over your face, searching, like maybe the answer would be written there instead. “The first time we met?”

“Yes.”

He hesitated. “I... I don’t know if we’re talking about the same thing.” He glanced downward, rubbing his palm over his jeans, like the answer might be tucked somewhere there. “I—”

“We are.” Your arms folded tightly over your chest, and a single tear slid down your cheek.

Frankie watched it fall, his expression still, like he was afraid to move. “Are you... are you talking about the party?”

Your breath came out unsteady. “Yes. When Santi introduced us.”

Something changed in his posture, a nearly imperceptible shift. He straightened, his head tilting slightly.

“You decided,” you went on, voice gaining weight, strength, “that I wasn’t enough. That I was something you just didn’t care to bother with.” You swallowed against the ache in your throat. “Why? What was it about me? What made you so sure, right away, that I wasn’t worth respecting?”

The last word broke in your mouth, and you turned away, unable to keep looking at him.

Another thin tear traced the curve of your cheek, warm against the cool air. Frankie shifted, pushing himself up from where he sat, his movements unhurried but purposeful. He didn’t hesitate—he crossed the space between you, lowering himself beside you, close enough that you could feel his presence in the subtle press of air, the quiet weight of him.  

He didn’t touch you, not really. Just the faintest brush of his fingertips against the edge of your jaw, a barely-there pressure, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed. Like he was testing the shape of the moment, waiting to see if you would pull away.  

“That’s not true,” he murmured. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Something burned beneath your ribs, something twisting and insistent, and you shook your head, exhaling sharply. A thin, bitter smile flickered across your lips, but it barely lasted a second. It collapsed the moment your eyes found his again, replaced by something heavier, something almost resigned.

“I heard you, Francisco.” Your voice was quiet, steady. “I heard you that night. Talking to Will.”

Frankie’s expression barely shifted at first. He was watching you carefully, trying to read you, as if unsure whether this was an accusation or something else entirely.

“What are you talking about?”

You studied his face, searching for any flicker of recognition, but there was nothing. Not yet.

“After dinner, when everyone went down to the bonfire,” you started, measured, watching for his reaction. “Benny stayed behind to help me with the dishes. I was already feeling off—because of you, because of how you looked at me when Santi introduced us, because of how you acted during dinner. Like there was something wrong with me. Like I was—” You hesitated, feeling heat rise to your throat, but forced yourself to continue. “Like I was something unpleasant that you had to avoid.”

His eyes stayed locked on yours, but there was a shift in his features—subtle, almost imperceptible. He looked puzzled. But still, not like he knew.

You exhaled through your nose, gathering yourself before speaking again. “I wasn’t in a good mood after that. So after we finished, I went to the bathroom. And that’s when I heard you.”

Something in Frankie’s posture stiffened slightly, but he stayed quiet, letting you go on.

“You and Will were outside, talking near the bathroom window,” you said, watching him closely now, waiting for something in him to give. “I wasn’t trying to listen. But then I heard you talking about me.” You swallowed. “You were telling him there was something weird about me. That I had... something.”

A pause. The air in the room changed. Frankie’s gaze darkened—not in anger, but in something closer to realization.

“Will told you not to be like that,” you went on, voice quieter now. “He said I was Santi’s sister, that you should at least try and talk to me. And you—” You stopped, bracing yourself, because saying the words out loud after all this time felt different, sharper. You forced them out anyway. “You said you’d rather sacrifice yourself in another way.”

And then—there it was.

His expression shifted, something cracking open behind his eyes. His brows lifted slightly, and his mouth parted like he might say something, but no words came. He pulled back just an inch, like the memory had physically landed in his chest. His gaze dropped to the floor, breath measured, something about the way his shoulders rose and fell too precise. He shook his head—at himself, at the situation.

When he finally met your eyes again, there was something different there.

“What else did you hear?” His voice was careful, but there was something uneasy in the way he asked.

“Just that,” you said simply.

“Nothing else?”

You shook your head. “Does it matter?” Your voice was steady, but there was an ache behind it. “You were clear.”

Frankie dragged a hand over his mouth, exhaling as his gaze flickered to the floor again. For a moment, it felt like maybe he wouldn’t say anything at all.

Then, finally, he looked back at you.

“It’s not what you think,” he said.

“I heard you, Francisco,” you said, voice steady but sharp at the edges. “I heard you clearly—”

“I know,” he interrupted, nodding, inching closer. His voice was quiet but urgent, like he was trying to get ahead of whatever was coming next. “I know you did. But it’s not what you think. I didn’t—I never thought those things about you, I—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Just—just listen to me.”

Your stomach clenched. “Why the hell would you say it then? If you didn’t believe it, why did you say it?” You could hear your own voice rising, the frustration bleeding through. “Because from where I was standing, it made perfect sense. The way you looked at me that night, like I was something disappointing. Like I wasn’t what you expected or wanted me to be. And then to hear you say it out loud to Will—” You cut yourself off, shaking your head. “It all lined up.”

Frankie held your gaze, unblinking.

“It’s not what you think,” he said, firm, his voice low. And for some reason—against all logic—you almost believed him.

You swallowed. “Then tell me the truth! Tell me what happened!”

Something flickered across his face, something uncertain. His posture stiffened just slightly, and his eyes darted away, just for a second, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to go down this road at all.

He hesitated. Then, finally:

“I can’t,” he said. The words came out carefully, cautiously. “I can’t tell you. But you have to believe me when I say that what you heard wasn’t the full story. It wasn’t even the full conversation. I—” He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling. “I said those things so Will would drop it. So he’d stop insisting.”

Your eyebrows knitted together. “Insisting on what?”

Frankie’s jaw tightened, his gaze shifting slightly, landing on Darcy, who had perched himself on the coffee table, lazily observing the conversation. He didn’t answer.

Your patience frayed at the edges. “Francisco.”

His eyes finally met yours again.

“I’ll tell you,” he said, his voice quieter now. “I promise. Just—not right now.”

You let out a hollow laugh, shaking your head. “You’re lying to me.”

“I’m not.”

“Then why won’t you just tell me?” You leaned in slightly, closing the space between you, your face inches from his. He had nowhere to look but at you, no way to slip past the moment, no escape. “I asked you for honesty.”

His breathing was uneven, his chest rising and falling like he was trying to steady something inside him. His eyes had darkened, locked onto yours with an intensity that sent something twisting in your stomach.

“It was a weird night for me,” he said finally, his voice rough at the edges. “A weird week. I—” He exhaled, shaking his head, running a hand down his face as if he could wipe away the memory. “Please, you have to believe me. Yes, I said those things to Will, but no—none of it was real. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t think those things about you.” His voice caught slightly before he pushed through. “I barely knew you. We’d exchanged, what? A few words? An introduction? I wasn’t sitting there analyzing you, deciding what I thought of you. And whatever impression I gave you that night, whatever you think I believed—I swear to God, it wasn’t that.”

You let out a shaky breath, something sharp and unsatisfied curling inside you.

“How am I supposed to believe that?” Your voice wavered but held. “How do I know you’re not just lying to make this easier, to convince me I misheard, that this was all some kind of misunderstanding?”

“I—”

“You ignored me all night,” you went on, your heart picking up pace. “When the others spoke, you were fine. You looked cool, easygoing. But when I spoke?” You let out a breathless, bitter laugh. “It was like you forgot how to be a person. Like you wished I wasn’t there at all. You barely looked at me, and when you did—” You hesitated, feeling the heat rising in your cheeks. “It felt like you’d already made up your mind about me. So tell me, Francisco. How can I fucking believe you? You deliberately ignored me all night. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice? Are you seriously going to deny it? Do you think I’m stupid?”

He didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you, something unreadable passing through his expression. And for a moment, all you wanted was to know exactly what was going through his head. To break him open and sort through whatever the hell he was keeping from you.

But it wasn’t that easy.

“No, not at all. I... I just... Fuck. Yeah.” He dropped his gaze, running a hand over his jaw for a moment before looking back up at you, his eyes filled with nerves. “I know I acted weird that night, I do. But it wasn’t because I didn’t like you or because I thought anything bad about you. And I know I probably sound like I’m making excuses, but I swear I’m not. I mean it. I’m serious.”

"I'm sorry, but I don't believe you. Are you seriously trying to tell me that something happened that night that made you act weird only with me? Just me? Come on, Francisco, don't fuck with me."

"I'm sorry, I really am. I didn’t think I was being that obvious. I didn’t think you noticed how I was feeling that night. And I never would have imagined that you thought my attitude meant I didn’t like you. Honestly, I remember feeling like you were the one ignoring me all night. If I had realized back then that it looked like I was ignoring you on purpose, things would have been different."

"That's not believable, Francisco, seriously. Just stop."

"I'll tell you everything, I promise. Just... not right now. The conversation with Will, that whole night—I’ll explain it all, really."  

You snorted, glancing to the side for a moment before looking back at him.

“Please, trust me,” he said, his voice quieter now. “I’ll tell you, I will, but not right now. I can’t.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “But if you trust me—” He stopped himself, inhaled sharply. “God.” He shook his head, stepping back slightly, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “You have no reason to do it. I know that. But please—please, just trust me.”

"Why should I trust you? I know I have no real reason to. But give me one. Why should I trust you?"

Frankie stared at his hands for a few seconds, trying to come up with an answer (or maybe an excuse?) to give you.  

"I don't have one." He met your gaze, his eyes full. "I... I only have my word. And if you decide not to trust me... I get it."

You stared at him for a long time, searching his face, studying every shift in his expression, every flicker of hesitation. You were ready to call bullshit, to let yourself hold on to the anger, to the version of him you had carried around for so long.

But you couldn’t.

Because somehow, against every instinct, every logical explanation—you believed him.

Whatever else Francisco was, he wasn’t lying. Not right now.

“All right, okay,” you said finally, your voice quieter now. “I don't know what's wrong with me, but I trust you. But you’ll tell me. You will. You promise.”

Frankie nodded. “Yeah. I’ll tell you. I will.”

"And I won't wait too long. I mean it. I think I deserve an answer. I do."

"Yes, you do. And you will get one, I swear."

You stared at him in silence, your eyes locked on his, like lie-detecting machines. Frankie didn’t look away. He held the gaze until it felt like it was too much.

Then, ee exhaled heavily, running a hand down his face before looking at you again. “Jesus… are you telling me this all started that night?”

You let out a small, humorless breath, crossing your arms.

“I don’t know what super secret reason you had, Francisco, but you were a dick to me. That’s just how it was. Whether you like it or not.”

His lips pressed together, his gaze fixed on you like he was trying to piece something together.

“I’m sorry,” he said eventually. “I really am. I just… I thought this was all because you didn’t like me first.”

You turned to him with an incredulous look, eyebrows raised. “Seriously?”

His mouth twitched, just barely.

“I didn’t like you,” you admitted. “But only because I thought you were a rude, arrogant pain in the ass. That’s all. In fact, you have yet to prove to me wrong. ”

Frankie let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Is that why you didn’t give me a slice of cake?”

“Uh-huh,” you said, glancing at him. “And how do I know you’re not still that smug asshole, huh?”

Frankie held your gaze for a second, then shrugged.

“You don’t.” His expression softened just slightly. “And if you wanted to take some distance after all of this, I’d get it.”

Your breath hitched. “Really?”

He nodded. “I haven’t exactly been good to you. Not at all. I’ve hurt you, disrespected you. And yeah, it’s been mutual, but… I’d understand. If you wanted me to step back.”

You swallowed, something thick forming in your throat.

“I’ve been mean to you, too.”

A ghost of a smirk played at his lips. “Yeah. You have.”

“Remember when I threw that dart at you?”

Frankie groaned, rolling his eyes. “I still have the scar. Of course I remember.”

You looked at him then, amused, but it didn’t last. The lightness of the moment faded as quickly as it had come, replaced by something heavier pressing against your ribs.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, barely above a whisper. You blinked hard, but it was useless—your eyes were already burning. “About the other night. I’m really sorry. You’re none of those things. I don’t think you’re a failure. And I—I feel awful about what I said, Francisco.” You let out a breath, your voice wavering. “And I really like your family. Your mom is… she’s wonderful. No one with a family who loves them that much could ever be a failure.”

A tear slipped down your cheek, and before you could wipe it away, Frankie moved. He didn’t hesitate this time.

His arm came around you, pulling you in—not forceful, not demanding, just steady. Solid.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice low and warm against your hair. “It’s all right.”

You closed your eyes for a second, listening to his heartbeat, to the rise and fall of his breath.

“I’ve been a jerk to you,” he continued. “I just hope someday you can forgive me. For all the times I made you feel small or stupid. You’re none of those things. Never have been.” He let out a quiet breath. “I was—I'm just an asshole.”

You pulled away from him, your breath still unsteady, the warmth of his proximity lingering on your skin. When you looked up, his expression was tight, conflicted. There was something guilty in the way his gaze dropped for a second, like he wished he could take back whatever had just passed between you.

“Maybe,” you said, a small smile curving at the corner of your lips, though it wasn’t entirely lighthearted. “Then again, maybe we’re just too different. Or similar, at times.”

Frankie tilted his head slightly, his dark eyes fixed on yours, steady and unreadable.

“Maybe,” he said, his voice even. “That must be why you make me so uncomfortable sometimes.”

A small, puzzled laugh escaped you before you could stop it. Your eyebrows pulled together.

“What do you mean?”

As soon as the words left your mouth, you could see the realization hit him, the regret arriving a beat too late. His shoulders shifted, a quiet exhale leaving him as he glanced down at the cat beside him, as if Mr. Darcy might somehow provide him with an escape route. But then something like amusement flickered across his face, and a breathy, almost reluctant laugh followed.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, finally looking at you again. “It’s strange. You make me nervous, I guess. Like, I don’t know how to talk to you, what to say. Maybe it’s the arguments, maybe it’s my self-esteem, who knows.” He lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug, as if it wasn’t something that had been bothering him for a long time.

You raised an eyebrow. “Huh. I wouldn’t have guessed.” A pause. “Although, now that I think about it, you do come across like you have a hard time talking to women.” The words were teasing, but your gaze stayed on him, curious.

He huffed, shaking his head. “I grew up surrounded by women. Believe me, a man learns things,” he said, eyes steady on yours, serious but with something wry beneath the surface. “Even if he doesn’t want to.”

You let yourself smile then, dropping your gaze to your hands. There was something about this—about him, about the quiet between you—that felt different than before.

Mr. Darcy rubbed against your legs, then made his way toward Frankie, stretching out lazily before flopping onto his back, belly exposed, trusting. Frankie ran a slow hand through the soft fur, absentmindedly scratching along the cat’s ribs.

Funny, you thought. Mr. Darcy already trusted him enough to show him his ridiculous little belly.

Maybe—just maybe—you could consider doing the same.

“Frankie?” you murmured, watching the sharp lines of his profile, the way the dim light carved shadows across his face. Your fingers fidgeted in your lap, absentmindedly pinching at the skin around your nail, a nervous habit you hadn’t been able to break.

He turned to you at once, eyes steady, dark, unreadable. “Yeah?”

You hesitated. Swallowed. “I want this to end.”

A crease formed between his brows. “What?”

“This,” you said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you, as if that could encompass everything—the biting words, the unresolved tension, the years of something tangled and unsaid. “The fights. The confusion. I’ve had enough of it. I don’t want it anymore.”

Frankie was quiet for a moment, watching you carefully, his expression serious but thoughtful. Then he nodded, once.

“Right.” His voice was steady. “I don’t want it either. And I get it. If you want me to stay away, I will. I’ll tell Santi. I’ll stay out of your way if that’s what you—”

“No,” you interrupted, leaning in just slightly, just enough for him to notice. “I don’t want that either.”

That caught his attention. His posture shifted, the tension in his jaw loosening. “No?”

You shook your head. “I think Santi’s had enough, too. I don’t want to put him in the middle of this, make him feel like he has to split his time between us. It wouldn’t be fair. Don’t you think?”

Frankie exhaled, nodding. “Yeah.”

You glanced down at the coffee table between you, the two water glasses still untouched, condensation pooling at their bases.

“I just… I don’t like this. It doesn’t feel good, for either of us. Maybe we could try again. Be normal. Be… cordial.” Your eyes flicked back up to him. “We’re doing it right now, aren’t we?”

Frankie let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. “Look at us. Talking like regular, well-adjusted people. What’s next? Respecting each other?”

You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched into a smirk. “Actually, I’d like that.”

“So would I.”

“But it’s not going to be easy,” you said, crossing your arms and straightening slightly. “This is years we’re talking about. You don’t just patch up a road that broken overnight.”

“I’m aware of that, ma’am.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Really?”

He lifted his chin, his shoulders squaring as if accepting a challenge.

“That’s right,” he said smoothly. “Let me make it up to you.”

Your brow furrowed. Suspicion prickled under your skin as you studied him. “How?”

Frankie didn’t answer right away. Instead, he just looked at you, a slow, knowing smile tugging at his mouth, something familiar sparking in his expression. You recognized it immediately. It meant he was up to something.

“Are you still making your list?” he asked.

You blinked. “Yeah…”

“Good.” He leaned forward slightly, the space between you shrinking just enough. “If you let me, I could help you with that.”

Your lips parted, then curled into a grin. “You’re telling me you’d go to a club with me just so I can kiss strangers?”

Frankie laughed, deep and genuine. “If that’s what you want. Do you?”

Your gaze dropped, landing on Mr. Darcy sprawled between you, tail flicking lazily. You considered it for a second longer than you meant to.

Then you looked back up at Frankie.

“Not yet,” you said.

“Okay. Just think about it. Pick something, and I’ll do it with you.”

You lifted an eyebrow. “Anything?”

“Anything.”

“Really?” Your skepticism sharpened the word, your head tilting slightly as you studied him.

“Just say it.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you stood there, watching him, searching his expression for any sign of hesitation. Was this just him being polite, trying to smooth things over? Or did he actually mean it? Would the weight of the last few years—the fights, the misunderstandings, the things he knew you’d overheard—make him agree to anything just to prove a point?

The thought was almost amusing.

Your list was long. Some things were easy, some a little more complicated. Others, though, would be downright painful in the oppressive august heat.

How far would Frankie really go? He’d said anything. But how much did anything actually mean?

“Okay,” you said finally, drawing the word out just a little, watching the way his shoulders stayed loose, the way his eyes remained locked onto yours, waiting.

“Anything, then,” you repeated, testing him.

He didn’t blink. “Uh-huh.”

“Good.” The corners of your mouth began to curve upward, the anticipation stretching into something almost giddy. You let the moment breathe, dragging it out just long enough to watch a flicker of uncertainty cross his face.

Then you said it.

“Skydiving.”

Frankie made a sound—something between a cough and a laugh, caught in his throat. His eyebrows lifted slightly, his expression somewhere between surprise and intrigue.

“Skydiving?”

“Yes.” You nodded, resolute.

For a second, he just looked at you, like he was waiting for you to take it back. Then, to your astonishment, he nodded.

“Perfect. We’ll go skydiving, then.”

Your breath hitched slightly. Your smile faltered, just for a moment.

“Really?”

Frankie shrugged, still watching you. “Yeah. If that’s what you want to do.”

“Good. Yeah.” You nodded, though the certainty you’d felt a moment ago was already beginning to waver. “Skydiving. I want... Skydiving.”

Frankie watched you closely, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “We can do something else if you want.”

“No, no.” You shook your head, as if saying it more than once would make it true. “Skydiving. I want that.”

You stood up, grabbing your glass of water from the coffee table and carrying it with you toward the kitchen. The condensation on the glass chilled your fingers as you took a slow sip, trying to steady yourself.

Behind you, Frankie got up too. His footsteps were unhurried as he followed, his presence easy, unintrusive. He stopped in front of you, shifting his weight slightly as his hand settled on his hip. His grin had stretched wider, like he was already enjoying whatever came next.

“Good,” he said. “I’ll figure out all the details this week and let you know.”

You watched as his gaze drifted past you, landing somewhere on the wall behind you. He seemed to be thinking about something, his lips pressing together briefly before his eyes flicked back to yours.

“I think it’s a good idea, you know?” he said, tilting his head slightly. “Starting the list up here,” he tapped his fingers against his temple, “and then working your way down. I mean, after this, going camping in the middle of the woods is going to feel like nothing.”

You considered that, then nodded. “Yeah. That’s true.”

His smile deepened, like he could see the shift in your expression, the way you were already beginning to believe it. “See? It makes sense.”

There was a beat of quiet. A comfortable one.

Then Frankie’s posture changed, his shoulders squaring just a little as he took a step closer. His voice was softer now, more deliberate.

“Well. Thanks for talking to me.” His eyes searched yours. “And for listening to me.”

You exhaled, glancing down at your glass before looking back at him.

“It’s okay, really. I needed it too.”

Frankie’s head tilted slightly. “Yeah?”

You lifted one shoulder in a small shrug. “Yeah.” A pause. “And I really hope things will be different from now on.”

He nodded, slowly, his gaze dropping to your feet as if grounding himself. “Me too.”

But he didn’t move just yet. He stayed there, hand still on his hip, eyes lingering on the floor like there was something else on his mind.

You watched him in silence, a dozen new questions forming, waiting on the tip of your tongue.

But they could wait. You could ask them another time, another day.

Now you knew you could.

“Well, I’ll leave you alone,” Frankie said suddenly, shifting his weight before stepping back. His voice was casual, like he’d just remembered he had somewhere else to be. He was already turning toward the door. “I’ll call you, okay?”

“Yeah—oh, Frankie,” you called after him. He stopped, glancing over his shoulder, brows lifting slightly.

“Santi told me your mom was asking about me,” you said. “That she was a little worried. Is everything okay?”

Frankie exhaled, running a hand over his jaw like the question had pulled something heavy to the surface.

“Things are complicated,” he admitted. “But don’t worry. I’ll tell her something—”

“I’ll go to dinner with you,” you interrupted. “At her place. If you want.”

His expression shifted, something flickering behind his eyes. “Oh—you don’t have to, really.”

“I know,” you said. “But I will. I don’t mind. Besides, I promised her.” You lifted a shoulder, watching him carefully. “Really, it doesn’t bother me. I like your mom.”

Frankie studied you, his gaze steady, assessing. Like he was waiting for you to crack, to take it back, to say you were just being polite.

You didn’t.

After a few beats, he nodded. “Okay. I’ll talk to her, then.”

“Okay,” you said, smiling.

“Okay,” he echoed, and this time, there was something softer in his voice. He smiled back. “See you, then.”

“See you.”

He pivoted on his heel, crossing the room in a few strides. The door creaked open, and just like that, he was gone.

You stood there for a long moment, gripping your glass a little tighter, your mind catching up with everything that had just happened.

Were you actually going to throw yourself out of a fucking plane?

Jesus.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Taglis: @paleidiot @gothcsz @everyth1ngfan @katw474 @mellymbee @pedritosgirl2000 @tsunamistorm123 @jokesonthem @sunnytuliptime @greenwitchfromthewoods @ashleyfilm @darkheartgatita @joelmillerisapunk @nandan11 @whirlwindrider29 @onlythehobi @diabaroxa @yellowbrickyeti @daybleedsintonightfa11 @mys2425 @pigeonmama @speaktothehandpeasants @pez3639 @stylesispunk @imaginecrushes @isla-finke-blog @smiithys @jokesonthem @brittmb115 @sukivenue @awkwardmebaby @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @suzysface @picketniffler @gaypoetsblog @merz-8 @doblasftcisco @ultra-nina-bella

[andy-15-07]

Could you please write a pedro pascal x reader, where the reader has the flu/fever and she's acting like she's fine and Pedro takes care of her even if he's a terrible cook? 🥺

Flu Season with Pedro

PAIRING:Pedro Pascal x reader

WORD COUNT: 654| requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist

Pedro had been watching you like a hawk all day.

It started when you woke up with a slight sniffle, your forehead warm to the touch, but you brushed it off, claiming it was nothing. He wasn’t buying it.

“You’re sick,” Pedro stated firmly, arms crossed as he leaned against the kitchen counter.

“I’m fine,” you replied, waving a dismissive hand as you sipped on some lukewarm tea.

Pedro narrowed his eyes. “You’re literally sweating and shivering at the same time. That’s not fine, sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes, attempting to stand up and make your way to the couch, but the moment you did, your vision blurred, and you wobbled slightly. Pedro was by your side in an instant, steady hands on your waist.

“See? Not fine,” he murmured, his brows knitting together in concern.

You sighed, leaning into him just a little, your body betraying you. “Okay… maybe a tiny bit not fine.”

Pedro let out a soft chuckle and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “C’mon, let’s get you back to bed.”

You groaned. “Nooo, I wanna be on the couch. I’ll be bored in bed.”

“You’ll be bored wherever you are because you feel like shit,” he pointed out. “At least let me make you something to eat.”

That made you perk up, but not for the reason he’d hoped. “Oh no,” you said, deadpan. “Pedro, last time you ‘cooked,’ you almost set the kitchen on fire.”

Pedro scoffed, placing a hand on his chest in mock offense. “That was one time.”

“It was last week.”

“Details,” he muttered, guiding you toward the couch anyway. “Now, sit. I’m making you soup.”

You opened your mouth to protest but gave up. Your body was too exhausted to argue, and honestly, the thought of him fussing over you was kind of sweet.

From your spot on the couch, you watched as Pedro banged around in the kitchen, muttering to himself. He read the back of the soup can like it held ancient secrets, turned the stove on with the careful precision of a bomb expert, and nearly dropped the pot twice. You couldn’t help but laugh, weak as it was.

“This is very stressful,” he called out. “How do people just… cook?”

“Some would argue that soup from a can isn’t really cooking.”

Pedro shot you a playful glare before dramatically stirring the contents of the pot. “You’re lucky I love you,” he grumbled.

You smiled, watching him struggle but knowing his heart was in the right place. “I know.”

Eventually, after a few more mishaps (including but not limited to nearly adding sugar instead of salt), Pedro approached you with a steaming bowl of soup. He sat beside you, carefully blowing on a spoonful before holding it up to your lips.

“Alright, open up,” he instructed.

You quirked an eyebrow. “Pedro, I can feed myself.”

“Oh, I know,” he said with a smirk. “But I’m already in caretaker mode. Let me have this.”

You sighed dramatically before obliging, letting him feed you. The soup was… well, edible. Barely. But the way he was looking at you, all warm brown eyes and soft smiles, made it taste a little better.

After a few spoonfuls, you leaned back against him, exhaustion creeping in. Pedro immediately wrapped his arms around you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“You know,” he murmured against your hair, “I hate seeing you sick.”

You nestled closer, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. “I know. But you taking care of me almost makes it worth it.”

Pedro chuckled, his chest vibrating against your back. “Almost?”

You hummed sleepily. “If the soup was better, maybe.”

“Rude,” he whispered, kissing your temple. “Go to sleep, troublemaker.”

You closed your eyes, a small smile tugging at your lips. With Pedro holding you, whispering soft reassurances, you let yourself drift off, knowing you were in the best hands.

[jeewrites]

✨manifesting✨

So hear me out….. their fourth brother “Orlando” played by Oscar Isaac and their papa played by “Antonio” Banderas…..

[myownwholewildworld]

uplifting the bipoc community in the ppcu

hi everyone! after the recent discussions about racism in the ppcu, i have been thinking about what i can personally do to help. i've seen others doing similar things and i would like to join in the efforts of making this fandom more welcoming for the bipoc community.

i have decided that, if people are willing to chime in, i'll be reblogging (once a day or perhaps more) fics from bipoc writers in the pp fandom. and this is where i would need your help - i would love it if people would send in fic recs via dm or askbox that i can reblog, the more the merrier. this can either be fics you've read from a bipoc writer or self recs if you are one. that way i can queue a few. and if there's a bipoc writer who rather not have their works shared, please do let me know.

mind you, i am not one of the big blogs, my follower count is just under 1k. but if one reblog will reach a slightly bigger audience, then it's completely worth it. every little helps. and if other fellow writers are inspired by this and decide to do the same or something similar, then even better!

this is a beautiful community we have here, but it can obviously be even better and more welcoming. so let's make it happen! 💖

tagging some moots under the cut that may be inclined to help <3

@joelmillerisapunk @syd-djarin @gothcsz @pedgito @almostfoxglove @iknowisoundcrazy @joelalorian @baronessvonglitter @inept-the-magnificent @chronically-ghosted @goodwithcheese @tightjeansjavi @sixhours @gracieheartspedro @strang3lov3 @aurorawritestoescape @styleispunk @jessthebaker @almostempty @yopossum @rivnedell @djarins-cyare @yxtkiwiyxt @lokischocolatefountain @punkseyes @strangererotica @pepperstories @missyorkswhore @javierpenaispunk @romanarose @orcasoul @jolapeno @mushgloomz @joelslegalwhre @huntingingoodwill @papipascaaaal @maiamore @josephquinnswhore @slimybeth69 @peepawispunk @itwasntimethatdidit40 @probablyreadinsmut @max--phillips

[ohhoneypascal]

I’d happily let Javier Peña grab me by the throat, while angrily staring at me and pointing a gun in my face…

[nonbinairyboi]

I know I don’t have a lot of followers but I wanted to add to the recent discourse that has incensed an army of anons.

I have seen a few people comment on how they are basically scared of being criticized if they end up doing something wrong so they stay silent.

As a white person, you need to distance yourself from this idea. You need to let go of the fear of being wrong, otherwise you cannot grow. I say this as a white person.

If you are scared of getting things wrong, you will inherently not grow. I know this might be hard, as it is kind of the opposite of what some people have been told, but along with that you need to remember that your fear of being wrong does not outweigh the rightful fear BIPOC experience everyday about things that have more dire consequences.

It also means that you may run into a situation where you make a mistake, and that can lead to a few things. First of all, you need to get rid of your defensiveness. If you are told you did something wrong, you need to look inward. Is telling them how it was not badly intentioned really the way to repair the hurt? No.

Apologize and take a step back. Be thankful that they did the hard emotional labor of teaching you. They didn’t have to. They could have simply stopped interacting with you without comment.

It may still mean some BIPOC won’t want to interact with you even after you apologize. That is their right, just as it is anyone’s right when someone genuinely hurts them or makes them feel unsafe.

This doesn’t mean you can’t grow from the experience and change.

I see so much fear in white people around me who consider themselves ‘woke’. But truly, this hinders you from being able to be woke.

And I am not saying don’t try to not make mistakes, I’m just saying it shouldn’t be your biggest fear.

Allowing yourself to brood in a corner about how well intentioned and misunderstood you are turns you into exactly who you may be trying to distance yourself from.

[22thumbs]

I'm looking forward to see Clint.

PEDRO PASCAL as CLINT Freaky Tales (2025) dir. Ryan Fleck, Anna Boden

[toomanystoriessolittletime]

Lights, Camera, Colombia

💫  Prologue 💫 

Summary: Ten years after he quit the DEA Javi gets approached by a production company, asking if he would like to be involved in the production of a documentary about Pablo Escobar and the drug war. When he agrees, he meets you, one of the producers of the documentary and the woman who he will spend the next months working with on the documentary and travel back to Colombia, the woman who will get to know about the side of him that he never wants anyone to see, the woman he wants to spend the rest of his life with.

Pairing: Javier Peña x fem. reader

Wordcount: 3k

Rating: G (for now)

Warnings: angst, kind of a meet cute, fluff, a look into Javi's head, mentioned character dead (I'm sorry), a little big of backstory

follow @toomanystoriessolittletime-fics and turn on notifications to get notified when I post new fics

Full Masterlist // Javier Peña Masterlist // Lights, Camera, Colombia Masterlist

There was a Colombian restaurant across the street form where Javier lived in San Antonio. 

When he came back from work he would sit on his small balcony with a cold beer and just watch. It wasn’t much different from watching the boats on the Rio Grande back at his papa’s ranch. They had raided the place almost three months ago but now it had opened up again with new owner. 

A little search in the DEA database told him everything he needed to know about those new owners, another raid already in progress within the next week.

The internet would have made his job back in Colombia so much fucking easier. 

Sometimes he wondered how his life would be now if he hadn’t taken the job with the DEA all the years back. He wondered what his life would be like without the nightmares, without the urge to watch over his shoulder when he walked the streets at night.

His therapist told him what he had was PTSD.

And his therapist didn’t even know half of what had happened in Colombia. 

After he emptied his beer he made his way back inside his apartment. It was a good apartment. Big living room, small kitchen, two bedrooms, one of which he used as an office/guest room. Not that he did get any guests. Ever.

It was the space where his computer stood on a desk his father had build for him when he went to high school. It was one of the few things he had taken with him from the ranch when he left Laredo three years ago. 

He didn’t see any point in staying after his father died. 

There was nothing left there for him, except the ghosts from his past.

And those were with him no matter where he went, so why continue to stay back in a town where he was reminded how lonely he was at ever corner?

So when the call from Steve came about the job offer in San Antonio he took it even though he never wanted to be involved with the DEA again. Not that he thought they would take him back anyway after what he had pulled, but things had changed. 

It was around the time that he moved here that he began to write. Write about his life, his experiences in Colombia and about his thoughts. About how everything had changed him.

To a certain point he became numb to his own feelings. He saw so many people die in front of him that he was sure that something inside of him had died too. 

He realised that after he caught his ex girlfriend Alice cheating on him back in Laredo just before his father died. He wasn’t sure if he just didn’t love her anymore or hadn’t loved her at all. They had been together for almost two years and he thought back then that she could be the one. Maybe. 

He now knows that it would have never worked out between them. Not because Alice cheated on him (well maybe that was a factor too) but because he wasn’t sure if he was made to get married. Or be in love. 

He wasn’t sure if he had ever been in love at all if he was honest with himself. 

And so, in a never ending spiral of anxiety and self doubt his therapist, a woman in her sixties called Margery, told him to try to write everything down when it felt like the thoughts were getting too loud, or when he couldn’t fall back asleep after a nightmare. 

And after a year he had written almost 100.000 words of something that Margery said could have people interested if he were to turn it into a book. 

He still remembered her laugh at the look he gave her at hearing that. 

But anyway…

When the offer of this documentary came in the first time, he never even entertained the thought. Writing things down about Colombia for himself was a very different thing from sitting in front of the camera and talking about it to a room full of strangers. 

But then Steve had called and told him that he signed in on it. 

It was a small studio in New York that had been working on several documentaries about the drug war before and once he watched a few of them he entertained the idea of participating. 

Truth to be told he was getting bored. So why not try out something new?

He flew out to Miami to meet up with Steve and the producers to talk things through. 

It’s where he met you for the first time. Well, sort of. You were on the phone from New York and called into the meeting to answer every question the both of them could have. Apparently your flight had been canceled, otherwise you would have been there too.

While he first thought his job would be to only have a few questions to answer in front of a camera he pretty quickly learned that this was not the case at all. 

Originally the idea was for Steve and Javier to both go back to Colombia to revisit some places that were significant to them, and that had been significant for Pablo Escobar and to just speak about their memories about these places.

It would mostly be only them and you with your camera traveling through the country while the rest of the team followed to shoot some of the scenery and be on call should you need them. 

But since Steve couldn’t just leave for six weeks, it would be Javier and you alone for the most time. 

Something he was less than thrilled about. Going back to the place that gave him nightmares with a woman he hadn’t met before? 

He never wanted to smoke as much as he did as they took their lunch break. 

„So you gonna do it?“ Steve was sitting across from him in the restaurant of the hotel they had met up at. Javier would stay at Steve’s place tonight though to visit Conny and the kids and he would never admit it, but he was looking forward to it.  

„Man, I don’t know,“ Javier sighed, rubbing his finger over the moustache he was still rocking no matter how much he got teased about it from anyone.

„Why? Not like anyone is waiting for you at home,“ Steve grinned and Javier rolled his eyes. 

„Fuck you,“ he spat, making Steve laugh. 

Steve didn’t know that he hit a nerve with his jest. Lately he had realised just how lonely he was. He never craved a typical family with a wife and some kids. He never was really lonely before because no matter how many people he pushed away, he knew that back in Laredo, on a ranch he grew up on was his father.

But ever since his father had died, Javier found himself questioning if this was it. If working his nine to five for five days a week, eating single microwave dinners and drinking too much beer in front of the TV would be his life until he just…. Died.

Would people even care? When would someone realise that he was truly gone?

It had been a topic in his latest therapy session that he was still processing. But Steve didn’t know that. He didn’t even know that Javier went to therapy in the first place. 

„I’d go back. Would love to watch everything that somehow had to do with that fucker crumble,“ Steve said with a shrug, before he began to eat his burger. 

Javier sighed. 

What exactly was holding him back?

Steve was right, there was nothing and no one at home waiting for him and frankly, he hated his job. But somehow he had to make a living and there were worse things than spending eight hours a day in an air conditioned room. 

But going back to Colombia?

„I think this could be good for you, Javi,“ Steve said, emptying his glass. 

„How so?“ Javi asked.

„I think you never really got closure on what we did in Colombia. Yeah, you went back for Cali but… all the things that happened while we chased Escobar through the whole country? All the decisions we made? All the deaths? It’s been fucking awful. And I think going back to see that we actually did make a difference? That all those years we spent there were actually worth something? I That we helped the people? I’d fucking love to see that,“ Steve said and Javi looked at him before he leaned back into his chair with a sigh. 

„Fuck, Steve. When did you become so fucking wise?“ Javi said with a small chuckle and Steve shrugged. 

„Got a killer wife at home and a therapist I see regularly,“ he said and Javi was surprised to hear that. Part of him still was ashamed that he had to get help from someone, even though his therapist is slowly convincing him it’s actually pretty damn great that he took the leap of faith to talk to someone. 

Mental health was not really something people talk about, especially men. 

You're either a strong man, who can handle everything that life throws at you or your a fucking pussy if you couldn’t. 

He never understood someone using the term pussy as an insult. Pussies were fucking powerful. Pussies could make men drop to their knees. They gave life, for fucks sake. 

„You know I read that they’re turning Escobar’s home in a fucking waterpark,“ Steve said and Javier snorted. 

„Seriously?“

„And a zoo. Apparently those hippos he brought there have been fucking like… well animals and now there are so many there, they have no idea what to do with them,“ Steve said with a grin, shaking his head, clearly amused. 

„Think they have plush hippos so I can get Olivia one?“ Javier asked and Steve chuckled. 

„Guess you gonna find out huh?“ He got up, slapping Javier on his shoulder. 

„Think we still on some kill lists over there?“ Javi asked as he got up too, walking next to Steve towards the elevator, back towards the floor they had their meeting on. 

„Probably,“ Steve shrugged and Javier rolled his eyes. 

„I have some questions,“ you heard Javier Peña say once the meeting continued. You were sitting in the small meeting room of the production company you worked in. You were alone, everyone else already having gone home to enjoy their weekend. 

You never minded staying longer, loving your work. 

And this project? Well this was very close to your heart. Growing up with the knowledge that your father had been killed because he was one of the patrol officers at the Mexican borders that regularly found the coke that the cartels tried to smuggle into the states, left you to grow up with a hatred towards everything responsible for taking your father from you when you were just four years old. 

You were very passionate about this project and would do almost anything to have one of the DEA Agents that have been involved the most in taking down not only Pablo Escobar but the Cali Cartel too in your documentary. 

„Go ahead. I’m sure I have answers for all of them,“ you said with a smile and heard the men on the other end of the line chuckle. 

„If I agree to this, I need to reach out to some of my contacts beforehand. There is the possibility of me still being on kill lists and that would endanger you and your crew,“ Javier Peña said and you did a little happy dance, because it sounded like he was on board. 

„Of course. If you feel better, I could also arrange for some kind of security…“ you began but were interrupted. 

„No. I would…. I would handle that myself. I just like to be prepared beforehand. I hope you have no problems with me carrying a gun throughout the whole thing, because there’s no way in hell I can go back there without one,“ Javier said and you nodded. 

„Understood. I took extensive shooting classes and I have a gun license too. If you can handle the part of me actually taking a gun to Colombia, I could carry one too,“ you said. 

There was a pause. 

„I’ll think about it,“ he finally said and you nodded. 

„Talk me again through the timeline,“ he said.

„The overall time we would spend in Columbia would be six week. We would fly out to Bogota to meet up. I have a few locations lined up that I would want to visit. I would send you those via email and I would love it if you have some locations that are significant to you too that we could add. Overall I am thinking about three weeks in Bogota and three weeks in Medellin. We would fly out to Medellin, spend time there to go through all the locations and then we would drive back to Bogota. I am currently working on getting the permit to film at what used to be Escobar’s hacienda.“

„Are they really turning it into a waterpark?“ The other man, Steve Murphy asked. You smiled to yourself. 

„Oh yeah. Apparently it got a lot of traffic after Pablo died and people took everything they could find from there. I am also trying to find out how much money was found on the property,“ you said, hearing the man chuckle on the other line. 

„It would be just the two of us,“ Javier said again. You nodded. 

„Yes. The crew would travel with us, and be on call. They will shoot scenery from all the places we visit, but going through those locations and talking? That would be just the two of us and my new travel sized camera,“ you said. 

You had tried the camera out on your nieces third birthday party some weeks ago and were pleasantly surprised by the picture and sound quality. 

You could hear murmuring on the other end of the line and you pursed your lips, your feet nervously tapping on the floor. 

„Fine. Send me the whole plan via email and I will look into it and get back to you with any suggestions. When would we leave?“ Javier asked and you threw your hands in the air in a silent cheer. 

„Middle to end of may. We would have to be back by mid July because I have another job I need to be here for. Interviews would happen sometime in August for a release of the documentary before Christmas.“

„Sounds good to me,“ Javier finally said and you felt like a weight was lifted from your shoulders. 

You had a vision for this project, and you were now so much closer to getting your vision. 

„Thank you Mr. Peña. It’s…. I am looking forward to officially meeting you in Colombia,“ you said.

„Me too. And please call me Javier. Or Javi. Mr. Peña makes me feel fucking old,“ he said.

„You are old, Mr. Peña,“ Steve Murphy said and you couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you as you heard what sounded like a slap on the other line followed from an Fuck you Javi. 

„Noted, Javier. I will send you the schedule and legal will send you the contract.“

„Please also send me your ID and gun license so I can take care of the permit for Columbia,“ Javier said and you nodded. 

„Will do. Thank you so much for agreeing to do this,“ you said. 

„No need to thank me,“ he said.

„Do you have any more questions?“ You asked. 

„Not right now. If I do I’ll get back to you. I do have you number,“ he said. 

„Perfect. Well then, have a great rest of the day,“ you said. 

„You too,“ he said before they all said goodbye to you and the call disconnected. 

You jumped up and did a little happy dance, feeling so fucking relieved that you had one of them on board for this. With the extensive research you had made on them you had to admit that you would have loved to have Steve Murphy on too, but with him having a family that was waiting for him at home, you could understand that he didn’t want to spend over a month apart from them. 

Javier Peña was a little mystery to you. 

You knew from your research that he had left Columbia just weeks before Pablo Escobar was killed, only to be sent back after to take down the Cali Cartel. Something about the whole thing didn’t seem right to you and you had the hope that spending time with him would lead to answers to that question. 

From your research you also knew that he had a… let’s say unique system on how to get information. You had actually reached out to some of the women he got out of Colombia after finding out about him using prostitutes for information on the cartel members. 

Something an ex CIA agent with the name William Stechner had told you when you had met up with him weeks prior for the possibility of having him on the documentary too. 

An idea you had pretty quickly got rid off after meeting him. 

There was something about the man that left you uneasy, and the thought of spending one on one time with him for too long was not your idea of a great work environment. 

Yes, you wouldn’t meet Javier Peña before Colombia either. But except for Stechner, every single person that you had talked about him had only good things to say about him. So you were going with your intuition and would trust those people. 

That meeting Javier Peña would end up changing your whole life?

Well that was something you hadn’t anticipated in your documentary (or life) plan. 

next chapter

Taglist (please send me an ask if you want to be added to the LCC Taglist, I only have a taglist for this series, not for all of my works)

@pasc4lfuzz// @kirsteng42 // @imdreaminghere // @greenwitchfromthewoods // @theorganasolo // @inept-the-magnificent // @maried01

[andy-15-07]

First Lessons in the Dark

PAIRING:Pedro Pascal x reader

WORD COUNT: 2115| requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist

Warning: smut.

request:Heyy🩷 I hope this is where you send in requests. Could you please write a smut one with Pedro or Joel or literally any of his characters? Like it’s the reader’s first time, she doesn’t really know what to do, is a bit embarrassed that she’s so inexperienced, meanwhile he is and he’s talking her through everything.

The night was unusually warm for early autumn, the city lights casting soft glows over Pedro’s apartment. I had been excited all day for our date, yet as the evening drew on, my nerves grew with each lingering touch and suggestive glance. I’d always been inexperienced—unsure, timid, and painfully aware of how little I knew about truly giving in to desire. But with Pedro, everything felt different. His mere presence sparked a daring curiosity inside me, even if my heart pounded with embarrassment.

We’d started the evening with quiet laughter and shared confidences over dinner at a small, cozy restaurant. Now, in the privacy of his dimly lit living room, the air was thick with anticipation. Soft jazz murmured from speakers, mingling with the subtle scent of sandalwood and his cologne—a combination that left me dizzy.

Pedro leaned in as we settled on his plush couch. His dark eyes, so intense and kind, met mine. “You’ve been quiet tonight,” he observed gently, his hand brushing my cheek. “Is everything alright?”

I swallowed hard, biting my lip. “I… I’m just nervous,” I admitted softly, feeling my cheeks warm. “I haven’t done… this before.”

A tender smile curled on his lips as he pulled me closer. “Hey, don’t worry,” he murmured. “I know it can feel scary when it’s your first time. But trust me—I’ll be with you every step of the way.” His voice was a soothing rumble, and the way he said it made my heart flutter.

I nodded, my voice barely above a whisper. “I… I want to, but I’m not sure what to do.”

Pedro’s hand found mine, his thumb caressing my skin in slow, reassuring circles. “Let’s just take our time. There’s no rush. I want you to feel safe and comfortable.” His words wrapped around me like a warm blanket, slowly melting away the tension in my body.

The conversation shifted naturally into flirtatious banter, filled with playful teasing and soft laughter. Pedro’s confidence was intoxicating. “How about we start slow?” he suggested, his gaze never leaving mine. “Just a kiss, maybe a little more if you’re ready?”

I hesitated, feeling a mix of fear and longing. “A kiss…” I echoed, my voice trembling slightly.

He leaned forward, capturing my lips in a gentle, exploratory kiss that ignited a spark inside me. It was as if he was teaching me a language I’d always wanted to learn. His lips were soft yet insistent, his hand sliding from my cheek to the back of my neck, drawing me in deeper. “Just relax,” he whispered against my lips. “I’ll show you.”

In that moment, all my doubts began to dissipate. Pedro’s experienced, reassuring presence made me feel cherished. With each soft kiss, every careful caress, he was guiding me into this new, uncharted territory. I felt vulnerable, yet completely safe in his arms.

When our lips finally parted, I could see the tenderness in his eyes. “How do you feel?” he asked, his tone both playful and caring.

I let out a shaky laugh. “Honestly? I’m a mess… but in a good way.” I could sense his satisfaction and relief mingling with desire. “Pedro… what if I don’t know what to do next?”

He chuckled softly, his warm hand still cradling my face. “Then I’ll show you,” he replied, his voice low and inviting. “I want to make this special for you. No pressure, just… us.”

The next moments were a blur of sensation and whispered guidance. Pedro slowly began to undress me, his hands moving with a deliberate gentleness that made my skin tingle. I closed my eyes, trying to focus on the soft sounds—the rustle of fabric, his measured breaths, and the quiet murmur of reassurance.

“Tell me if you’re uncomfortable,” he said, his tone laced with concern as he slid my blouse off my shoulders. “I want every step of this to feel right for you.”

I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me. “I’m okay,” I replied, my voice catching as he ran his fingers lightly over my bare skin.

He paused, looking up at me with an intensity that made my pulse race. “I love how you trust me,” he whispered. “I promise to be gentle. Tonight, we’re exploring together. I’ll guide you through every touch, every moment.”

His confidence was magnetic. Slowly, he brushed away my insecurities as he led me to his bedroom. The room was softly lit by flickering candles, casting dancing shadows on the walls. Every detail—the subtle scent of lavender, the plush pillows, the quiet hum of the night—seemed designed to create a sanctuary of intimacy.

We sat on the edge of the bed, Pedro’s hand still holding mine. “Let’s start with something simple,” he suggested, his voice calm yet charged with desire. “Just relax and focus on how you feel.”

I nodded, swallowing hard. “Okay,” I managed, my voice small.

Pedro’s eyes softened. “You look beautiful tonight, you know that?” he said, his hand gently caressing my hair as he leaned in for another kiss. This time, the kiss was slow, deliberate, almost like an invitation to let go of every doubt. I felt my body responding, an internal warmth spreading through me despite my lingering nervousness.

“Do you want me to… show you more?” he asked, pausing to give me a moment to breathe. “We can take it as slow as you need.”

I bit my lip, my heart pounding. “Yes,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “I want to, but I’m scared I’ll mess everything up.”

Pedro smiled reassuringly, his eyes full of compassion. “There’s no right or wrong, love. We’re just exploring what feels good. I’ll guide you. Just tell me what you like or if something hurts, okay?”

“Okay,” I promised, my voice steadier now. “I trust you.”

With that, he slowly began to explore me further. His hands wandered gently over my body, each touch igniting sparks of desire and warmth. I shivered with anticipation and vulnerability, every nerve ending alert to his ministrations. Pedro was a master at reading my reactions; a soft moan here, a subtle gasp there, and he adjusted his touch accordingly, always asking softly, “Is this alright?” or “Do you like that?”

The dialogue between us was a soothing melody of affirmations and gentle corrections. “Pedro… a little slower,” I murmured at one point, and he immediately nodded, his expression tender. “Of course, baby. Just relax and let me do what I do best.”

As the night deepened, Pedro’s expertise became more evident. His touches turned more purposeful, guiding me through sensations I’d never known. I found myself lost in the experience, every whispered word and every carefully crafted caress building a bridge between my insecurities and a newfound pleasure.

At one point, as he kissed a trail down my neck, I couldn’t help but let out a soft whimper. “Pedro…” I started, a blush creeping over my skin as I realized how exposed I felt, not just physically, but emotionally. “I’m not sure I know how to… how to do this properly.”

He pulled back for a moment, his eyes searching mine with a mixture of concern and admiration. “There’s no manual for this, love,” he said softly. “It’s all about feeling, about listening to your body. You’re doing perfectly. Let me guide you.” His words, firm yet gentle, made my heart flutter, and I felt a surge of trust and desire.

Encouraged by his reassuring tone, I allowed myself to be more vulnerable, more open. Pedro’s hands became my teachers, his voice my guide as he led me through every step. “Feel how your body responds,” he would whisper as he caressed me, “let every touch remind you that you deserve pleasure.” His affirmations melted away the embarrassment and self-doubt that had plagued me, replacing them with a growing confidence in my own sensuality.

The intensity of our encounter escalated slowly but surely. The room filled with the soft sounds of our mingled breaths, whispered dialogue, and the occasional murmur of encouragement. “You’re doing amazing,” Pedro said repeatedly, his words a constant source of comfort and arousal. “I love watching you discover what feels good.”

With every passing moment, I began to relax, to let go of the need for perfection. It wasn’t about being flawless—it was about embracing every sensation, every moment of vulnerability. Pedro’s patient guidance turned every uncertainty into an opportunity to learn, every hesitant movement into an exploration of my own pleasure.

When the moment came for us to fully unite, it was with a tenderness that defied the raw passion of our desire. Pedro’s expert touch, combined with his soft, reassuring words, transformed the act into something transcendent—a melding of two souls in the quiet intimacy of a shared first time. “Just relax,” he coaxed as he slowly entered me, his voice a mix of instruction and adoration. “Let me show you what love feels like.”

I gasped, the physical sensation nearly overwhelming me, yet Pedro’s steady presence kept me anchored. “It’s okay,” he murmured, pausing to meet my eyes. “Tell me if you need me to slow down or if something feels off.”

The dialogue between us was constant—an unspoken contract of trust and care. “Pedro… it feels so intense,” I whispered, my voice trembling with both pleasure and wonder.

“Good,” he replied softly. “That’s exactly what I want for you. Every touch, every move, is about your pleasure. I’m here to make sure you feel everything beautifully.”

The rhythm of our bodies synchronized, guided by Pedro’s experienced lead and my newfound willingness to explore. Every moan, every whispered word of encouragement from him, helped me shed the layers of insecurity I’d carried for so long. It was as if, in the dark glow of that candlelit room, I was finally allowed to discover the power of desire—my first time becoming a journey of self-discovery as much as passion.

Time seemed to slow as we moved together, each moment stretched out like a gentle caress. Pedro’s fingers traced patterns on my skin, each one leaving trails of warmth and reassurance. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his eyes full of adoration. “I love how open you are to this.”

“Thank you,” I breathed, feeling a tear slip down my cheek—not out of sadness, but from the overwhelming intensity of the moment. “I’ve always been so scared of not being enough. But you… you make me feel like I can finally be myself.”

His smile was both proud and tender. “That’s all I ever wanted,” he whispered. “For you to feel safe, to feel cherished. There’s no right way to do this—only the way that feels true for us.”

In the soft afterglow of our intimacy, as we lay entwined and catching our breaths, the room filled with whispered promises and gentle laughter. Pedro stroked my hair, his hand soft against my skin as he continued to reassure me. “You did wonderfully tonight,” he said, his tone a mix of pride and affection.

I reached up to trace his jawline, my fingers trembling slightly. “I still feel a little embarrassed that I was so… inexperienced,” I admitted, a blush creeping across my face.

Pedro chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” he replied firmly. “Every first time is special, and tonight was all about learning and trusting. I’m honored you shared this with me.” His voice was sincere, and it filled me with warmth.

We talked for hours, the dialogue flowing easily as we recounted every sensation, every whispered instruction that had led us to this shared discovery. Pedro was patient, answering my questions with gentle humor and care. “If you ever feel unsure again,” he said, “just remember: I’m here. We’ll figure it out together.”

That night, in the quiet intimacy of Pedro’s embrace, I learned more than just the physical acts of love—I discovered a newfound confidence and the beauty of being guided with care and passion. It was a first time that transcended the physical, etching itself into my memory as a moment of profound connection and trust.

As dawn began to hint at the edges of the sky, I snuggled closer to Pedro, feeling the steady beat of his heart against mine. “Thank you for tonight,” I murmured, voice soft and sincere.

He kissed my hair, his whisper tender in my ear. “Always, baby. I’ll always be here to guide you, to care for you, and to love you—no matter what.”

In that serene morning light, all my fears faded away, replaced by the promise of many more moments of passion, discovery, and mutual tenderness—a journey we would share together, one step at a time.

[jobean12-blog]

Starving

Pairing: Javier Peña x reader

Word Count: 643

Summary: Javi has been so busy at work so you stop by the office to check on him.

Author’s Note: Just because I love him so❤️ thank you so much for reading! Much love always❤️❤️❤️ divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy🥰

Warnings: softness, tension, implied smut, a curse lol

You lightly knock on the door, hearing nothing more than a grunt of recognition from inside his office and it prompts you to turn the knob and slip inside.

At first he doesn’t even look up from the papers sprawled haphazardly across his desk, his eyebrows drawn in with steely focus.

You walk over to his desk and place down the brown paper bag. He looks up.

“Angel,” he blinks and let’s out long exhale.

Rounding his desk, you cradle his face between your hands and kiss first one cheek and then the other before softly pressing your lips to his. When you pull away his eyes are still closed.

“Have you eaten anything today?” you ask.

He opens his mouth, but you press a finger to his lips.

“And coffee does not count Javi.”

When you release his lips he doesn’t bother with an answers and you frown.

“I know you’re still busy, so I won’t take up too much of your time. Just promise me you’ll at least eat what I brought you.”

He nods and grabs your wrist, sliding your hand from his cheek to kiss your palm.

“I will angel. Thank you.”

You start to pull away, but he doesn’t let go of your wrist, dragging you closer for one more kiss.

As you pass by Steve’s desk you whisper, “make sure he eats that…and you too,” you add looking at the bag in front of Steve.

“I will and thanks babe.”

You nod with a smile and head for the door.

Javi’s on you before you get very far, his hand closing around your arm and tugging you away to a hidden corner of the office.

It’s a dark space behind the tall file cabinets and when he spins you around and presses you against the cool metal it disrupts some long-standing dust.

His body is firm and warm against yours and he’s so close, you can smell his skin, your deep inhale filling your senses with spice and smoke.

With his eyes fastened on your mouth, he slowly drags his tongue along his bottom lip. The breadth of his chest dips and swells and your pulse flutters at the base of your neck.

His expression is strained as his eyes wander over your face and you hear him swallow loudly.

“Shouldn’t you be working?” you ask, trying not to sound breathless.

“You…” he starts, bracing a hand on the file cabinet above your head, “you’re very distracting.”

He leans in, movements unhurried, his mouth stopping a hairsbreadth away from yours. He stares, shifting against you like some barely controllable wild animal, his right hand lifting to tilt your chin, his lips ghosting up the side of your neck.

You make a breathy sound.

“You need to work…and have something to eat,” you try again, even as your eyes roll back and your lashes flutter against your cheek.

His thumb caresses the hollow of your throat, his dark eyes studying your mouth with such fierce concentration your heart stutters.

“I know…but there’s something else I need first,” he murmurs as he brushes his lips to yours.

Your mouth parts and you feel his warm breath but before you can ask him what it is he needs, even though you know the answer, he tightens his hold on you and whispers, “you. I’m fucking starving for you.”

You gasp and he swallows the sound, his lips soft and tentative at first, drawing out every whisper of breath until he can’t control himself any longer and he kisses you like you’re a meal he wants to memorize every flavor of.

“Are you gonna let me have a taste angel?” he rasps against your mouth, dragging your bottom lip between his teeth.

“Yes.”

“Good girl.”

He traps your waist between his hands and holds you still as falls to his knees.

[honeyedmiller]

Midnight Showing

joel miller x f!reader

rating: none

synopsis: you take joel to his first ever midnight movie premiere.

word count: 783

warnings: no outbreak!joel, spoilers for a thirteen year old movie, brief descriptions of a gory (?) scene, fluff. no use of y/n.

a/n: this is my submission for @yxtkiwiyxt ’s never have I ever writing challenge. I got “never have I ever been to a midnight movie premiere” for Joel as the prompt <3

-

NOVEMBER 12, 2012

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” Joel grumbles.

You just look back at him and give him a heart-stopping grin, tugging him by his hand intertwined with yours as you walk down the sidewalk toward the movie theater.

Through a silly drunken game of never have I ever a few nights back, you found out that Joel had never been to a midnight movie premiere.

So, naturally, you convince him to join you to see the most anticipated movie of the year: the Twilight saga, Breaking Dawn part two.

You tried to explain the lore of the whole series to Joel while he drove you both to the theater, but to his dismay, he could barely keep up.

You stand in line and to Joel’s surprise, there’s a lot more couples here than he anticipated. He thought it would be a bunch of teenage girls with ‘Team Edward’ or ‘Team Jacob’ on their shirts.

Instead, he found groups of friends excited about the movie, and men looking a little distraught that they’re forced to watch this ‘girlish’ movie with their significant others.

He takes one look at you and his heart cracks open and melts to a puddle on the floor. You’re giddy, and he loves to see you so happy, so going to see this with you is without a doubt in his mind one hundred percent worth it.

Anything to make his girl happy.

You get your tickets and head to the concession counter inside, getting a large popcorn and a couple of boxes of candy with a large cherry icee to share.

You take your seats and cozy up next to Joel, and his curiosity is suddenly piqued.

“So are you team Eddie or team Jason… whatever their names are?”

You laugh at his question and misstatement of their names, but a smirk tugs at your lips as you meet his curious gaze.

“I’m team Charlie and team Carlisle.”

The girl beside you nods vigorously.

“Hell yeah. Amen to that,” she says, and you both share a fit of giggles.

The cogs in Joel’s head are turning, and he’s wracking his brain trying to remember who the hell they are.

He’s about to ask you, but the lights dim and the previews start rolling. Guess he’ll have to find out in a bit.

You can’t help but look over at Joel in the midst of the movie, only to find that he’s just as invested in this as you are. You roll your lips into your mouth to stifle a laugh and turn your head back to the screen.

Then the fight scene comes on. The whole theater is invested with what Alice is trying to show Aro to prove Renesmee’s condition and that the Cullens didn’t commit a crime.

The whole theater is in a frenzy the next minute later when Aro is holding Carlisle’s decapitated head in his hand, and all hell breaks loose on screen.

“That didn’t happen in the book!” Someone shouts.

“What the fuck?!” Another person says, confusion clear as day in their tone.

So many different reactions and horrified gasps are heard throughout the theater, and the thrill of experiencing this with everyone else is unexplainable.

“Holy shit,” you hear Joel say, and you turn to look at him with a stunned expression. Popcorn and candy forgotten, he’s leaning forward in his seat with a concentrated expression, and you watch the fight ensue until Aro’s head is ripped off and burned.

Then everything warps back to Alice proving Bella and Edward’s innocence to Aro, with everyone standing completely still.

Everyone goes nuts in the theater, energy ramped up to a ten as they try to grasp what the hell just happened.

Talk about a fucking insane plot twist.

The rest of the movie plays out, and it’s after two in the morning when everyone leaves the theater completely satiated by how the series ended—heartfelt and bittersweet.

Joel’s arm is wrapped around your shoulder as you two exit the building to walk back to his truck, and you lace your fingers with his.

“Sooo what did you think? How was your first ever midnight movie premiere?”

You see the smile that tugs at the corner of his lips.

“Eh, it was cool. Whatever,” he shrugs, acting nonchalant.

You burst out in laughter, knowing he’s completely full of shit right now and he totally enjoyed himself.

You get to his truck and he opens the passenger door for you, kissing your temple before you climb in.

He pauses before he closes your door with a smug smirk playing at his lips.

“By the way, I’m way better looking than Charlie or Carlisle.”

-

hope you enjoyed <3

[aurorawritestoescape]

MAKE THEM KISS

Javier Peña x f!reader || 1,2k

Summary: yeah, we’re riding that boot, bbs!

Tw: 18+ mdni, smut, degradation, praise kink, dom/sub dynamic, reader is down bad for Javi but who isn’t, pussy pronouns, boot grinding, leather kink, m!oral, cum eating, m/f masturbation, multiple orgasms, swearing.

A/n: huge thank you to the beautiful @itwasntimethatdidit40 for inspiring me with this post yesterday! I love you so much, V🫂❤️ Kisses to my baby @milla-frenchy for beta-ing💋Dividers by @/saradika-graphics

MASTERLIST

“Look at you. Already biting your lip. Always so easy for me.”

Javi’s mocking tone makes you gush in your panties as you’re standing in front of him, your face flushed, eyes glossy. He’s sitting in the rolling chair, his ankle resting on the knee, his legs spread widely. Everything about his pose screams dominance, power, confidence, and you melt and drip under his piercing stare. Your breath hitches and your heart beats faster as his darkening eyes lustfully slide up and down your body.

“Javi.” Your whisper is barely audible, yet your complete submission to him is as loud as it can be.

“Yes, baby?” Javi’s lips twist into a condescending smile.

You open your mouth but your brain has turned to mush the moment he stepped into the room, the scent of leather and him switched your brain off as if at a snap of the fingers.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he chuckles. “Too dumb to speak.”

Trying to keep your composure, you look away from his handsome face and stare at his shiny boot.

“Oh, these? These are new. Do you like them?” Javi asks.

You nod and he licks his lower lip.

“How much?”

You’re blinking at the man and he sighs with disappointment before speaking,

“How much do you like my new boots?”

You clear your throat and squeak, “a lot.”

”Show me.”

Your wide eyes dart between his face and the boot, up and down, up and down, as you’re trying to understand what he wants from you.

Fuck! Why is it so difficult to think when he’s around?

“Do I have to spell every single thing for you, dumb slut?”

Dumb slut–dumb slut—dumb slut—

Javi’s words reverberate in your ears, sending waves of arousal through your body, and your pussy beats with every syllable, ringing in your head.

As if proving him right, a soft moan escapes your lips, and Javi echoes you with a groan, bucking his hips and making the chair squeak. Then he coos at you, slowly palming his bulge,

“It’s ok, that’s why I’m here, beautiful. To tell you what to do, so your little pussy could cry happy tears. Wanna make her happy?”

You eagerly nod and he commands,

“Good. Now straddle my boot, your needy cunt real nice and close, and then make them kiss.”

“Kiss?” You repeat, but your feet already carry you to Javi, knees bend and you kneel in front of the man.

“Yeah. Pull your panties to the side.”

He sits up slightly and watches you bunch up your skirt around your waist.

“C’mon. I don’t have all day,” he hurries you and you slide your index finger under the fabric and expose your wet folds to his hungry eyes.

“Hey, pretty,” he compliments your pussy and your heart sings— you love his praise as much as you love him degrading you.

“Now make those lips kiss my boot. Want them to make out. Wet and sloppy, baby. I know she can do it.”

Your clit twitches in anticipation as you scoot forward and sit on his booted foot, holding onto his leg. The leather is cold against your hot wet pussy, but the second you adjust your position and the material grazes your hardening clit, you whimper loudly, as arousal burns your core with a hot flame.

“That’s my girl,” Javi growls, leaning back in the chair, and starts unbuckling his belt. ”Keep riding it.”

You don’t even need his order now. Having tasted the caress of the hard material on your pulsating cunt, you crave more, and your hips start moving back and forth, helping you to pleasure yourself with Javi’s boot. The smell of leather quickly mixes with the scent of your arousal, spreading over the material, and you breathe it in, panting and moaning.

“Yeah,” you whimper and pause chasing your high, when Javi pulls his hard cock out.

“Not today, baby. Shine my boot with your drooling cunt,” he mutters and spits into his palm and you continue your horny dance.

“Come on it and I’ll feed you my load. Know you want it, needy slut,”Javi grunts, stroking himself with his veiny hand.

You lick your lips, watching his slit ooze prefuck juice so close to your mouth, desperate for a taste. But you always do what he tells you so you’re abusing your clit and folds, mercilessly grinding them against Javi’s booted foot, covering it with your slick.

“Yes, baby. Make it nice and shiny.”

Javi matches your eagerness, his hand quickly jerking his cock while his half lidded eyes are set on your face. Even clouded by lust, your mind lets you appreciate that only the sight of your pleasure turns Javi on so much. Or is it the complete control he has over you that drives him crazy? You’ll take anything.

The sight he’s giving you turns you on to the max as well— his wet parted lips, his dilated pupils, his big hand tightly wrapped around his gorgeous cock- all of it brings you higher to the peak.

You slightly tilt your hips and one lick of your clit over the leather makes you explode. You feel the heat spread from the depth of your core up, up, up and soon it’s everywhere, every cell of yours is drowning in ecstasy as you come on Javi’s boot, moaning and shaking.

“Good girl,” Javi pants, slowing his hand down, watching you unravel on your knees, at his feet. When your climax dissipates, he gets up, his big cock bobbing, and helps you to slide off his boot.

“Here,” he mumbles, positioning his engorged cock in front of your mouth. ”Get your reward.”

You part your lips and unhinge your jaw as wide as you can, already trained to take his thickness.

Javi’s tip falls heavily on your waiting tongue and then slides inside your mouth, finally giving you the chance to taste him.

“Ughhh, you were made for this, baby,” Javi groans and your body ignites again, from his words, from the feel of him in your mouth, and your hand slithers down to twirl your puffy clit.

“Close your pretty lips around it.”

You hear Javi over you and raise your hazy eyes up at him.

“Yeah, like that. Gonna fuck your mouth.”

He takes your head between his hot palms, holding you in place, and starts moving his hips, sending his cock to the back of your throat and then pulling it out almost to the tip.

Javi’s increasing his pace as he’s getting close, and you’re drooling from both holes, getting used by this god of a man.

“Hnggg—yeahh—fuckkkkkk,” Javi roars and begins squirting his cum into your wet mouth, still fucking it. His load is big and you’re swallowing around his fat head again and again, milking him even better. The taste of his ecstasy sends you over the precipice and you come the second time, moaning around his cock, your pussy throbbing against your hand.

When you eat the last drop of his cum, Javi pulls his cock out and looks down at you with a tired smile. He cups your cheek and rubs your flushed skin with his thumb.

“You ok?” he asks quietly, still catching his breath, and you nod, barely able to think, let alone talk.

“Good. Now fetch me those documents I came for and I’ll go. Murphy’s waiting in the car.”

Thank you for reading! Please comment and reblog if you enjoyed the fic!<3

MASTERLIST

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