#pedro across the street (calls)

[oonajaeadira]

i was rereading a GTTT chapter and Patricio has just been in my mind rent free, creeping in from daydreams in places i should not be daydreaming. So I’ve got a PATS question for you. How would Patricio and Reader navigate the issue of him being too drained sexually when Reader is needy?

Hello, lovely.

First of all, I want to apologize for the long hiatus I've taken on Pats and Pres. This ask--and many more--have been sitting in my inbox for far too long and I'd like to think that answering late is better than never. Thank you for your patience with me!!!

This is a very interesting question and it sparked some over-arching thoughts. I have half an answer for you here--from his point of view, and therefore the "drained" part of it. Pres may not seem too needy here, but look to the next installment for more on that.

Also, a non-apology here to everyone.

For so long I've made you believe that Patricio is confident, in control...or at least in denial about it when he's not. But he's growing. Changing. There may be more vulnerability here than you want and much less sexy times. Not everyone has a good day every day.

Kiss and Tell: Everyone's Allowed a Bad Day (GTTT PATS)

FANDOM: Calls - Apple TV (PATS is a character from ep. 3. “Pedro Across the Street.” This is not RPF.)

As with all of my PATS installments, warnings abound for explicit content. (This one's much tamer than most.)

(gif by cavill-henry)

It’s nights like these that he sometimes wished he smoked. He’ll pour himself a drink once the client wakes up and leaves, but he doesn’t want her to catch it on his breath.

Bourbon. Bath. Bed. Maybe something short and calm on streaming. There’s a new cowboy film just dropped by that Spanish director looks good. 

Leaning on the kitchen counter and staring out across the silent living room, he contemplates the novel you left on the coffee table. Wonders if you’re missing it.

It occurs to him that he could call you. He can do that now. He doesn’t need a reason anymore, but even if the reason is a rough day…actually, maybe that’s even more reason to call you. In fact, he really should ask you–

His phone vibrates on the countertop and he frowns. It’s your pattern and his heart races a little, not only because it’s you, but thinking he’s been lost in thought too long, that he’s missed the three-hour mark. But a flip of the phone shows him he’s got 20 minutes to go. 

Odd. It’s not like you to interrupt a session.

“Hey, muñeca, everything okay?” he mumbles, stepping barefoot out onto the front porch in nothing but his sweatpants.

Your voice sounds far away, “Oh shit,” before a riffling sound and then a clearer, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hit dial. I didn’t know I did. I was going to call and then I saw the time…I know you’re in the middle of a session, oh loverboy I’m so sorry–”

Just the sound of your voice is an instant balm. “It’s okay, it’s okay, she’s sleeping. I was actually just thinking about calling you.”

“Oh, really?” There’s something there behind your fluster, hiding among the smile in your voice, something that he might not have noticed if you hadn’t said you meant to call.

“Something you wanted to call me about?”

There’s a sound in the background. An announcement. You’re in public. “Um, no, not really. I just had a lonely moment, that’s all.”

“Well that’s an ego boost. You wanna come spend the night?”

There’s a pause. Shocked, judging by your voice. “Really? On an appointment night?”

He scratches his head and focuses on his feet as he aimlessly paces the porch. “Sure. I mean, if like a quarter after ten isn’t too late for you to drive just to go to bed.”

“With the weather shifting and how warm you run? It’s never too late to say yes to a heated bed.”

He smiles. “Glad I can be of service.” There's silence from you and he cringes. “Shit. Not you– not– Was that a bad choice of word?”

“No. It’s just–”

“Hey. I want you here tonight. I wanna talk to you.” Another silence. He supposes that sounds ominous. It shouldn’t. “You know, here. Not…on a phone.” He’s still not good at this. 

“That sounds nice…. You, uh, need anything? I’m at the grocery store.”

“No. Just you.” It feels good to say. Right. It’s what’s needed to break what feels like an odd tension into a few comfortable, mutually smiling moments. “So. The grocery store. And you’re feeling lonely. At a grocery store.”

Your laughter--hushed but musical--is kept close to the phone. “Well I am standing in produce and they just got in some preeeeeetty nice looking eggplants.”

“Wow.”

Another laugh, less hushed, throatier. “Okay, I’m sorry! I’ll let you get back to your work. I assume you’ve got a sleeping beauty to wake up.”

Pulling the phone away from his face for a timecheck, he winces. “Yeah. I’ll see you in 20?”

“I’d say I can’t wait, but you know that I will.”

Wow. “I know and I…”Something sweet twists inside. “I know.”

After you hang up he stands a minute more on the porch in the dark. The leaves are almost all off the trees now, the crickets are gone. His feet are freezing and the skin on his torso is goosebumping; doing its best–and failing–to lift his fine hairs to shield him from the autumn chill. But it’s far from unpleasant and he finds that he’s awake for the sensation in a way he hasn’t been in a while.

He’s alive again in a way he hasn’t been in a while.

The last couple of months have been…nothing short of amazing.

He should tell you that. He should say it.

But he’s got to get to that point where…he accepts it. 

Not the relationship…the fact that there’s always a possibility it’s too good to be true, that he could lose it. He could lose you.

You’re handling everything so well, but for how long? How long until you make him choose?

Oh fuck, please don’t make me choose, preciosa, please.

The phone buzzes in his hand. Timer; no need to look, just thumbs the button to silence. On another night, he’d allow himself more time, let the client sleep while he mused. But he’s got a job to do. 

And someone special arriving soon.

So he packs these thoughts away and goes quietly inside to prepare.

________

He’s just poured the detergent in the washing machine when he hears the door open. “Hey, I’m just cleaning up, gimme a second.”

Out in the entry, your shoes clatter on the floor and then your keys jingle on the kitchen counter and before he knows it you’re on him, topless and crowding him against the washing machine, kissing him like he’s just come back from war. It’s jarring but pleasant and full of hungry sighs…until there’s a ping in his calf muscle.

“Ooh, hey, Pres, hey hey, hang on.” Taking your face in his hands he calms, he whispers, he soothes you in order to soothe himself, but you catch on instantly, concern splashing over you.

“Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

A kiss to the tip of your nose, to your smart little nose. “No, no, I’m a little sore; just had a difficult session–a difficult day, actually. And I haven’t showered yet. So don’t get yourself too worked up here. You don’t want me like this.”

He expects you to recoil from this, to find the sex with someone else still lingering on his skin. You don’t.

You simply run your hands over his sides, lean in to kiss his chin. “Of course I do. I want you like whatever you are.”

You’re backlit from the kitchen and there’s something like a soft halo around you, bringing a glow to the roll of your cheeks, the swipe of your lip. Tracing these with a finger and finding himself reflected in your eyes, he trusts you, accepts this, tries to see himself like you do. How are you so effortless?

There’s nothing but surrender when you rake your fingers through his beard and push yourself up onto tiptoe to press a warm kiss to his forehead. “But if you really feel that way, beautiful, let me run you a bath.” 

Everytime he opens his eyes and you’re there, it's like a small miracle.

“Come on,” you smile, taking his hand and guiding him to the stairs, “let me take care of you and you can tell me about your day.”

You’re perfect. He’s so grateful he picked up the phone tonight when he did.

________

“Mmmmm, that’s good.” The sigh comes up from his bottom wells, like a contented creature crawling out of hidden caverns within. The back of his head rests in your palm, warm water spilling over his scalp. Your hands whisper and calm and soothe. He spends so much time using his touch to bring relaxation to others that he’d all but forgotten that it could go the other way. And your touch–

“So there was some heavy lifting tonight, huh?” Your finger lightly wipes away an errant rivulet from the corner of his eye. “Ness, right?”

The ghost of irritation looms. “Mmm. She has a pretty severe tailbone injury. Didn’t tell me about it before she showed up. Lot of full-body lifting on the table just to get her in the right positions for stretch.”

“I see. You’ll feel it tomorrow. And sore tailbone means no actual sex tonight.”

“Oh no, we had some fun. She’s got weeks of recovery ahead of her and she needed some practice re-routing some natural orgasm responses to different muscle groups when she ejaculates.”

“Ejaculates? She…? Ohhh.” A loving hand begins to wander lightly over his chest. “I assumed. My bad.”

“Sorry. Should have been more clear. But yeah.”

“No need to apologize. I don’t know why I hadn’t just assumed that you…took all forms of payment.”

He peeks an eye open to catch your reaction as you reach over the side of the tub toward him and finds your warm, curious smile. “Not to disparage the vaginal anatomy, but sometimes it’s nice to have my dick handled by someone who has a lifetime experience with their own.”

“Noted. Fair.”

Closing his eyes and sinking into the warm bath of your care a lifetime goes by with your hands running over his skin.

“You’re very accommodating.”

A kiss lands on his temple. “Wait until you realize I’m terribly selfish and am in it for the rewards points.” When his smile fades, your hands slow. “That was a joke.”

“I know.” Sensing a shift in tone coming when he turns to you, you instinctively pull back, but he catches your hand in his, pulling it in to place a wet kiss to your knuckles. “Would you mind if I don’t want to have sex tonight?”

“Of course. That’s okay.” A half-smile. Are you covering disappointment?

“I’m more than happy to go down on you if you–”

But a shake of your head stops him. “No, it's fine. I can tell you’re tired. You said you had a hard day. Wanna tell me about it while we get you dried off and into bed?”

He feels like a child as he simply nods, allows you to help him up, succumbs to you as you care for him. It’s easy to do, to melt under your attention, to crack open and spill. He does his best not to control the spread as he generalizes a failed report at work, a difficult project he’s fallen behind on. By the time you’re sliding into the sheets and curling up next to him, he’s breaching the topic he’s been deciding and undeciding and deciding again to tell you about–that his mother called without warning.

“She wants to meet you.”

Your breathing stills in the darkness. “You told your mom about me.”

“Is that okay?”

“Yeah, I..” you stutter, “I guess I didn’t… I’m flattered that you talk about me?”

There’s a pang of guilt that he’s let you believe you’re not important enough for him to tell the world that you’re in his life. But he sighs as you squeeze your arm around his middle. “You might feel differently if you met her.”

“Are you kidding? I’d love to meet your…is it just your mom?”

“And my father. I have an older brother but he lives in Australia. Doesn’t go home much.”

“Home issssSantiago?”

“Just outside of it. Rancagua.”

Another squeeze. Perhaps that was a lie; your arm around him and the brush of your lips on his shoulder feels like his true home now. 

“So this call was stressful because she wants to meet me. And you’re nervous?”

“The call was stressful because…I don’t…want her to meet you.” Your squeeze lightens a bit and he slides his grip over your arm in case you decide he’s awful and want to pull away. He knows he should let you go if you want to but– “I wanted to ask you, Pres…I’m sorry I don’t know if I can ask this much from you but–”

It almost breaks his heart when your arm slides through his hand, when your warmth leaves his side, when you abandon him…

But it’s only for the time it takes to hear the click of the bedside lamp, register the bright sting and spill of light, and you’re back beside him, leaning over him, turning his face to yours with one patient hand on his cheek. “What’s going on. I’ve never seen you like this.”

Shit. Get it together.

“You’re going to think I’m a fucking jerk–”

“Don’t tell me what you think I’m going to think, sir. Tell me what you need from me. Just say it.”

This leaves him with depleted gambling chips, raises the stakes. But you’re right. He has to be honest.

“The relationship I have with my family is…strained. That’s why I live here and not there. I see them somewhat regularly, but the holidays are when the whole family gets together–all the cousins–and it’s just a lot. There’s a lot that’s expected, a lot of judgements…it’s overwhelming. I can barely make it through myself, but having you there? Watching you be scrutinized on top of it when we’re just figuring this out? I just…no.”

“You know I won’t tell them–”

“It’s not that, fuck, it’s not that.” He surges in for a kiss, taking you in deep, willing you to understand him by osmosis; if only… “Every time I’ve gone down for the holidays it’s stressful enough…it’s…it’s bad enough that I’m away from my clients, but–”

“But under stress the itch gets worse. And you don’t have your outlet. And you’re not in control.”

Oh god, you see him. You see him and he’s so…fucking pathetic.

The last thing he expects is for you to pepper kisses along his mouth and chin, to dot a lingering one on his cheek before pulling him into your chest, to cradle him, breathe into his hair.

But it’s exactly what you do.

“What do you need, beautiful boy? Anything you want.”

He breathes. Sighs. Curses himself for doubting you, for assuming you wouldn’t surprise him. Allows you to hold the weight of his heart on your own without a spotter.

“I need to…not do the ‘meet the family’ thing this year. I just want you to myself for a while.”

A hum of sympathy, of bittersweetness, one that stakes his heart into the ground at your feet. “Oh Patricio. Is that all?” Your breast moves under his cheek as you lean over to turn off the light, your soft curves and soft scent and soft hum whispering to him, calming him, soothing him into you. “I’ll admit that I’m a little sad that I don’t get to show you off to my family, but I definitely see the appeal of a quiet holiday season, just us hiding away from the world together. You want me to yourself? Did you really think I would find that anything but absolutely wonderful?”

All at once, the strains of the day overtake him, the need to say more is gone and took his energy to do so right along with it. A whole lifetime of relief in just an hour. That’s your secret power. Always has been. He cannot think of words more meaningful than, “Thank you.”

Your fingertips begin their pattern of affection along his jaw, tattooing a spell of sleep through him. “This really means a lot to you, huh.” He’s too gone to get his voice to work and it seems you assume he’s fallen asleep. “Well you mean the world to me. You don’t even know, mister.”

It’s not worth the effort to drag himself from the downward pull of dreams to ask you to say more about that. Not when he knows you’ll be right here in the morning and he can ask you then.

Or say the same thing right back to you.

Maybe this time he’ll find a way to do that.

______

MASTERLIST

SERIES MASTERLIST

[firsttarotreader]

Pedro - 7 of Pentacles

The next character in our “Pedro’s Characters as Tarot Cards” is Pedro, from “Pedro Across The Street”, an episode of the Apple TV show Calls. Pedro represents the 7 of Pentacles.

7 of Pentacles is a card about patience, perseverance, progress and investing in something to see the results over time. It’s about patiently working and building something. A person with this card’s evergy is patient, contemplative, methodical, someone who will carefully plan his actions and take the time to assess said actions and outcomes and evaluate their progress with the plan. This person is calm and composed, persistent and hardworking, and focused on long-term results.

Pedro is a character that we never see, we just hear. The episode consists of phone calls, and he calls his neighbor, Patrick, to ask for a favor. He’s heading to the airport and wants him to check if his front door is locked. Patrick hesitates, but he ends up deciding to do what Pedro is asking. When he goes to his place, he sees the door is wide open. Pedro continues with what seems to be a carefully thought plan, by asking him to open his wardrobe and see if some valuables that are supposed to be inside are still there. Then he asks Patrick to take the bag with the valuables to his place and keep it for him. Patrick reluctantly agrees, while also talking to his wife on the phone. Once they apparently discover the bag is full of robbed money and see the police is arriving at Pedro’s house, Alexis, the wife, tells Patrick to burn the money. All along, Pedro patiently and carefully builds his narrative step by step, and seems to evaluate his progress and readjust when he feels like he needs to. He tells Patrick he can’t trust his wife, then he seems to know everything she’s gonna say, he tells Patrick he got a call from himself from the future and that’s how he knows, and then he confesses he is sleeping with Patrick’s wife. Patrick finds Alexis’ earring by Pedro’s bed, along with extra large condoms (🫢). In the end, when Patrick runs away with the money, Pedro isn’t that bothered, even if he planned Patrick would only get half the money. During this episode, Pedro remains calm and composed, being patient and methodical, focused on something that he works step by step thinking of the long-term results. For these reasons, he is our 7 of Pentacles.

[the-blind-assassin-12]

Also, as a second, optional thing for you to answer: Here's a list of six songs; which character do you think that they fit with the most... and why? Blinding Ghosts Light Of Love No Light, No Light Throwing Bricks Various Storms & Saints

OKAY I LOVE THIS QUESTION.

And *technically* I didn’t get any of these songs as requests, so none of them will overlap with any of the drabbles.

Under the cut because this got long.

Blinding: I’d go with Ezra for this one. It’s actually on my playlist for the Oracle series I started and then left sitting to collect dust haven’t worked on in a while. This line, which gets repeated, is what speaks to me most in regards to that AU: No more dreaming of the dead as if death itself was undone I REALLY NEED TO GET BACK TO THAT ONE. THERE'S A HALF-WRITTEN CHAPTER FULL OF FANCY EZRA AND FANCY READER IN A FANCY LOUNGE THAT I NEED TO FINISH.

Ghosts: Okay here’s where the *technically* comes in. Ghosts is the demo version of I’m Not Calling You A Liar, which I did get a request for (for Din) and the lyrics are the same. BUT! The tempo and tone is slightly lighter and more carefree for Ghosts, so I’d set that one in my Long Con AU for Pedro Across the Street. It’s about not being sure that the other person won’t burn you in some way, but that not being enough of a deterrent to stay away. I’m not calling you a thief, just don’t steal from me and When you kiss me I’m happy enough to die. Stick out to me for PaTS. I’m excited to share the one I’m working on for the Din request, though!!

Light of Love: First of all, I love this song a whole lot. Secondly I could go two ways with it. I feel like it works best for Dieter, but I could also make a strong case for Frankie. It touches on drug use/addiction and depression but on coming out of it and realizing that there is light and there are people who care and about fighting even when you want to quit. For Dieter: Flashes appeared in the corners of my eyes, I saw the stars and I didn’t ask why. Heard the voices and caught my breath, so close and yet so far from death - it also came out during the height of pandemic closures and lockdowns, which tracks with the timeline of The Bubble and the theme of isolation. For Frankie: I’ve been up all night, let’s stay awake. Push it further, you know I’ll never break. He says at one point he doesn’t sleep much, and I HC that plays partly into him getting busted for cocaine - he uses it to stay up for work or simply to stay up and not have nightmares. And then the push it further refers to how easily Pope and Tom (and maybe others) talk him into things he probably knows aren’t the best idea but doesn’t trust his own judgement enough to say no.

No Light, No Light: Joel. Joel. Joel. Joel. This one is Joel. Forget the mention of blue eyes (Or think of them as blue in sadness not color) There���s a theme of loss/things fading and of jarring violence. These lines specifically point to Joel for me: I never knew daylight could be so violent. A revelation in the light of day. You can't choose what stays and what fades away Along with Would you leave me if I told you what I've done? And would you leave me if I told you what I've become? There's also a line about wanting to make something right but not being ready for that conversation yet, and if that's not Joel & Ellie idk what is.

Throwing Bricks: This is the only one that made me really scratch my head. I like this one a lot, and it always cheers me up when it comes on because it's fun to sing along with. But if I had to match it to a character, I'm not sure who it would be. Maybe Nico? Since it's about building a man and bringing him to life and that man is a whole weird blank slate for writers to play with? (Me writing ACR: I built a man made out of bricks, and lived inside his chest. I beat my head against the wall to make a heart beat in his breast)

Various Storms & Saints: Hi, this one is for Aphelion Oberyn. It's about being caught in something overwhelming and powerful but in an "I chose this on purpose" sort of way, and about trying to keep finding a way forward. Lines that feel the most fitting: And I'm in the throes of it, somewhere in the belly of the beast. But you took your toll on me, so I gave myself over willingly. And also: I know it seems like forever, I know it seems like an age. But one day this will be over, I swear it's not so far away. It's definitely a more melancholy song, so I think it would be relevant to the time in his life between the last person he marked and meeting Reader.

Thank you so much for sending this alternate ask! This was fun to think about, and you chose some really good ones!

[workersolidarity]

[ 📹 Scenes of evidence left behind after Israeli occupation naval gunboats fired artillery shells at fishing boats on the Mediterranean coast of Rafah, in the southern Gaza Strip. Following the shelling, the gunboats waited until residents and first responders arrived to put out the flames before shelling them as well. ]

🇮🇱⚔️🇵🇸 🚀🏘️💥🚑 🚨

DAY 229: HEALTHCARE SYSTEM COLLAPSING IN NORTHERN GAZA, NORWAY, IRELAND AND SPAIN RECOGNIZE PALESTINIAN STATE, ISRAELI MASSACRES IN GAZA CONTINUE

On 229th day of the Israeli occupation's ongoing special genocide operation in the Gaza Strip, the Israeli occupation forces (IOF) committed a total of 6 new massacres of Palestinian families, resulting in the deaths of no less than 62 Palestinian civilians, mostly women and children, while another 138 others were wounded over the previous 24-hours.

It should be noted that as a result of the constant Israeli bombardment of Gaza's healthcare system, infrastructure, residential and commercial buildings, local paramedic and civil defense crews are unable to recover countless hundreds, even thousands of victims who remain trapped under the rubble, or who's bodies remain strewn across the streets of Gaza.

In move welcomed by Palestinians and Arabs across the world, Spain, Ireland and Norway have officially recognized Palestinian Statehood, to take effect on May 28th.

The Prime Ministers of all three countries announced their recognition of Palestine as an independent State on Wednesday, May 22nd, calling on more Western countries to follow suit.

In his announcement, Norwegian Prime Minister, Jonas Gahr, said the goal of recognition was to establish a cohesive Palestinian state based around the Palestinian Authority, further noting that a two-state solution is in the interest of the Israeli occupation authorities.

Reflecting on his own country's recognition of a Palestinian state, Spanish Prime Minister Pedro Sanchez said "We are a peaceful people, and this is what thousands of demonstrators show in the protests against the Gaza massacres."

Sanchez went on to accuse the Israeli Prime Minister, Benjamin Netanyahu, of working to destroy the Gaza Strip, further endangering a two-state solution.

Irish Prime Minister, Simon Harris, made a similar announcement regarding his country's recognition of Palestine, adding that he expected more nations to recognize Palestinian statehood in the coming weeks, adding that "there is no future for the extremist version of Zionism that fuels settler violence and land seizures."

He went on to add that "there can be no peace without equality, and it is important that our decision is not misinterpreted."

In response to the announcements, the Israeli occupation authorities summoned the ambassadors for Norway and Ireland in order to "conduct emergency consultations."

In other news, in an urgent warning issued by the World Health Organization (WHO), doctors with the international healthcare organization say the last two hospitals remaining in the northern Gaza Strip, Al-Awda Hospital in Jabalia and Kamal Adwan Hospital in Beit Lahiya, are barely functional after 8 months of non-stop bombardment, and the blockade of fuel and medical supplies by the Israeli occupation.

Doctors with the two hospitals told reporters that the Israeli occupation army continues to open fire on associated buildings, while occupation snipers have been posted on nearby rooftops at one of the hospitals.

According to Dr. Muhammad Saleh, the acting Director of Al-Awda Hospital, today marks the "third day of the siege of Al-Awda Hospital in northern Gaza," while the Israeli occupation forces continue "shooting at the hospital buildings" while Israeli "snipers" have taken positions in nearby homes.

Dr. Saleh went on tell journalists that the Israeli occupation has destroyed the southern wall of Al-Awda Hospital, while "all the medical staff and patients" remain inside the hospital's wings, which have become "very difficult to move between."

The doctor went on to add that hospital staff are forced to bring water from one hospital building to the other, a result of IOF soldiers having "struck the first building with a shell that targeted the fifth floor and destroyed the water tanks."

Speaking from a press conference in Geneva, Switzerland, the head of the World Health Organization (WHO), Tedros Adhanom Ghebreyesus, told reporters that “148 hospital workers and 22 patients and their companions are trapped inside” the hospital.

Following several recent visits to Al-Awda Hospital by WHO staff to deliver medical supplies and fuel, Ghebreyesus says Israeli snipers targeted the hospital, while occupation artillery shelled the fifth floor of the building.

Similarly, the Emergency Relief Coordinator for Doctor's Without Borders, Donia Al-Dakheili, said that "nothing enters or exits" the Al-Awda Hospital for fear of the Israeli snipers who remain looming over the building from nearby rooftops.

Previously, the Israeli occupation army besieged Al-Awda Hospital for several days, during which, two staff members were killed while many others were arrested and detained.

Kamal Adwan Hospital is in similarly dire circumstances, coming under fire in recent days, forcing the evacuation of patients and staff, according to Dr. Hossam Abu Safia, the hospital's Director.

"Currently, the hospital is being evacuated of the wounded, patients, and medical staff... There are many patients that the medical teams were not able to evacuate," Dr. Safia said of the attacks, adding that "the reception and emergency gate at Kamal Adwan Hospital was subjected to artillery shelling" as the occupation army advanced towards the complex.

According to Rick Peppercorn, a representative with the WHO, the reception center in the Intensive Care Unit for Kamal Adwan Hospital was bombed by the IOF.

"At the moment, there are still 20 health staff members and 13 patients," Pepperkorn said, adding that Kamal Adwan and Al-Awda are "the only two hospitals that are still working, and we cannot afford for them to stop working."

Even while Gaza's healthcare system verges on collapse as supplies run thinner than ever before, the Israeli occupation forces continued the closure of the Rafah and Karm Abu Salem border crossings for the 16th consecutive day, blocking humanitarian and medical aid trucks, along with fuel, from entering Gaza.

According to press reporting, more than 3'000 aid trucks have been prevented from entering Gaza, along with preventing at least 700 sick and wounded Palestinians from leaving Gaza for treatment abroad during the period the two crossings have been closed.

Meanwhile, the bombardment of the Gaza Strip continues unabated as occupation bombing, shelling, drone and missile strikes continued to target civilian residences and infrastructure, resulting in dozens of casualties.

Local reporting stated that the Israeli occupation forces fired several artillery shells into civilian neighborhoods in the Tal al-Hawa area, southwest of Gaza City, while Israeli warplanes bombed a residential home belonging to the Abu Zaida family in the Al-Faluga neighborhood of Jabalia, in the northern Gaza Strip, killing 6 civilians and wounding 6 more.

In another atrocity, occupation fighter jets bombed a barracks in the vicinity of Terrence al-Baba, where displaced Palestinian families were sheltering from the war in the town of Al-Zawaida, in the central Gaza Strip, slaughtering at least 10 civilians, including an infant pulled from her mother's womb, and wounding a number of others.

Wounded civilians were transported to Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital in neighboring Deir al-Balah.

A similar assault targeted residential areas of the Al-Zaytoun neighborhood, southeast of Gaza City, martyring 2 Palestinians and wounding several others who were taken to the Baptist Hospital in the city.

Occupation artillery shelling also targeted the northern and southern neighborhoods of Gaza City, while neighborhoods east of the Nuseirat Camp also endured intense shelling.

At the same time, aircraft belonging to the Israeli occupation army bombed the Farhat family home in the Tal al-Sultan neighborhood, west of the city of Rafah, in the southern Gaza Strip, wounding several people who were transported to the Kuwait Specialized Hospital.

Additionally, occupation artillery forces renewed their shelling of central and eastern Rafah, and Israeli quadcopters opened fire on several areas of the Tal al-Sultan neighborhood. Meanwhile, Israeli fighter jets bombed civilian targets in residential neighborhoods of central Rafah.

Occupation gunboats also shelled Palestinian fishing boats off the coast of Rafah, after which, the gunboats opened fire on civilians who rushed to put out fires resulting from the shelling.

As a result of the Israeli occupation's ongoing special genocide operation in the Gaza Strip, the current death toll has risen once again, now exceeding 35'709 Palestinians killed, including upwards of 15'000 children and over 10'000 women, while another 79'990 others have been wounded since the start of the current round of Zionist aggression, beginning with the events of October 7th, 2023.

May 22nd, 2024.

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@WorkerSolidarityNews

[avastrasposts]

A Baker's Dozen - Eleven**

A collection of fun and fluffy one shots set in the same bakery. Twelve Pedro boys, twelve stories, twelve recipes.

Hello!

The second to last visitor to the bakery is here and I can hardly believe it! Eleven weeks of Pedro boys have flown past and I've had so much fun with them!

So before we get started with number eleven, this series was meant to be all fluff, but then this Pedro boy arrived and just really got out of hand and I had nothing to do with it, he just took over!

So I had to ask my friend @morallyinept if I could use her very handy Scoville Smut Rating to issue some warnings. Thank you, Jett!

Series Master List

This chapter is rated:

🌶 - "Don't hurt me, cadejo." 

Scoville Level 15,000. The Donis Cadejo Hot Sauce. (Buy the sauce here) The story contains mildly spicy smut. Tingles left on your tongue.

The week’s been slower than usual, as it always is in February, post-holiday blues setting in, everyone trying to be extra healthy and save some money. No time to be indulging in sweet things. Your shop does fine though, planning and prepping for Valentine’s Day and the upcoming wedding season. 

But the slower hours in the shop makes you take note of the black car that’s been parked across the street all day. Nothing odd about that, but there’s also been someone sitting in the car all day. You’ve been glancing over as you go about your business, studying the man behind the wheel as he makes notes and phone calls, focused on something further down the street, out of your view. From the way he’s dressed, a crisp, well ironed, pale blue shirt, you’re guessing he’s an agent for some agency, or maybe a very well dressed private eye. He’s not doing a very good job though, he sticks out like a sore thumb on this street of small businesses. When he glances over at you just before noon, you give him a quick smile, to hide the fact that you’ve been staring at the way he’s been rubbing his large hand over his chin for the past five minutes. He locks eyes with you, surprise flitting across his face, before he gives you a crooked smile in return. 

This is the beginning of a dance; you glance over to find him looking at you rather than the street in front of him, you raise your eyebrows in challenge and he seems to chuckle, looking away. You study his strong nose, the dark curls brushing over his forehead as he makes more notes, and he catches you staring when he looks over, one eyebrow arching in a questioning look and you shrug with a smile, going back to the cake you’re decorating. 

It’s late in the afternoon when you notice movement in the street, a second car parking behind the first and a man getting out and walking over to the first car. Quick words are exchanged, you steal glances from the corner of your eye as you finish up an order for tomorrow. Bending down to put the order away, you hear the bell on your front door chime. 

“Hi, I thought I’d stop by and say hello properly,” the man from the car is standing in front of the counter with a small smile as you straighten up. 

“Hi,” you say, returning his smile as you take the chance to get a better look at him for the first time. He’s taller than you expected, and broad, so much broader than the side view you’ve had all day indicated. The light blue dress shirt is stretching over his shoulders and arms and you immediately decide that he must be an agent, no private eye is ever this fit, not that you have much experience, but still. 

“I just wanted to introduce myself and explain what I’m doing,” the man says, nodding over at his car on the other side of the street, “And I hope I can count on your discretion too.”

“Uuhmm, sure,” you say, looking at him as he pulls a badge from the pocket of his suit trousers, “I was kinda assuming that you’re on some sort of stake out.” 

“That obvious, huh?” the man chuckles, showing you his ID.

“Yeah, your sleek car and nice shirt gave it away a little,” you smile, “and the way you sat out there all day, I’m pretty sure every business owner on the street has spotted you.” 

“I’ll need to fix that for tomorrow then,” he smiles, “I’m special agent Dave York, I’m with the CIA, and we’ve got surveillance on an apartment further down the street. I can’t tell you what it’s about but you don’t have to worry, it’s nothing dangerous for the neighborhood.” 

“That’s good to know,” you reply, “And you’re welcome in for coffee or something to snack on whenever you want,” you thumb at the coffee machine behind you, “I’d offer delivery service but that might be a little bit too obvious.” 

He chuckles at that and you notice the dimple on his clean shaven cheek, a slight five o’clock shadow indicating that it’s been a while since he got up and shaved this morning. 

“I’d love a coffee right now, if you don’t mind,” he says and you point at the menu. 

“What’ll it be? 

“The dark roast, black, please,” he says, “You’ve got a good selection.”

“Thanks, people mainly buy bread and cakes, the coffee machine is mainly for me and a handful of regulars who like good coffee, we like trying different beans and roasts,” you throw him a smile over your shoulder as you prepare his coffee to go. 

“I’ll have to become a regular then, keep your coffee business going,” he taps his card on the machine as you hand him the cup. 

“I just realized I know who you are,” you say, the penny finally dropping, “One of my regulars, Mrs Levinson, knows your mom. Mrs Levinson bought a Lemon Meringue Pie for her a while back.” 

“Oh yeah, those two are as thick as thieves, always trying to set me up on blind dates,” he chuckles, taking a sip of the coffee, “I’ve been blaming my workload to avoid them." He raises the cup to you with a smile, “Great coffee, I’ll definitely come back."

“If I don’t spot you, I’ll know you’ve done a better job of hiding,” you tell him and he laughs, giving you a cheesy thumbs up as he leaves.

You watch him take long strides across the street to his car, the coffee still in his hand, and just as he gets in the car, he turns and looks back at you, a smile cracking across his face as he raises his hand in a wave. 

You do spot him the next day, but you are keeping an eye out for him, glancing out to see if he’s arrived. He parks a different car across the street this time, a beat up, rusty looking banger, and he’s in a ratty looking t-shirt and a beanie pulled low over his forehead. Much less ‘agent on a stakeout’ this time, but you still glance over at him from time to time, far too often in fact. And you bite back a smile when you catch him glancing over at you too, catching your eye on a few occasions as he winks. 

Half way through the day he’s relieved, and he steps out of his car, coming over to the bakery again. 

“Hi,” he says, giving you a dimpled smile as he pulls off his beanie, “Did I blend in better today?” 

“Yeah, better,” you smile back at him as he comes up to the counter, “The distressed t-shirt was a good choice.” 

“I had to dig it out from the bottom of some box left over from when I moved,” he holds up the front of it and studies the suspicious looking stain on the front, “I swear this is not my usual casual look.” 

Holding up the front has resulted in the hem of the t-shirt lifting up over the edge of his pants and you can’t help but glance down as he flashes a few inches of skin, his sweat pants sitting low on his hips. The trail of dark hair disappearing beneath the waistband has you momentarily distracted as you follow it down to- 

“I’ll take your word for it,” you say, snapping your eyes back up to his, but not before he notices, giving you a small smirk, “NIce sweatpants.” 

“Thanks,” he chuckles, “not as old as the t-shirt, but still not my best look, I promise.”

“I don’t mind that much,” you smirk back and he flashes a crooked grin, his eyebrow cocked, before he looks up at the coffee menu behind you and tilts his head to the side.

“What do you recommend today? I’m feeling adventurous,” he says, looking down at you again with a smile, “blame the sweatpants.” 

“A single espresso shot vanilla hazelnut latte with salted caramel and whipped cream on top? I usually add some cookie crumbles too,” you say and Dave’s face falls, his eyebrows pulling together in a concerned look. 

“Ah…uhh…” he stutters, rubbing his hand over his jaw, clearly looking for a polite way to decline your suggestion and you bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing at his panic, but he catches the mirth in your eyes. 

“Holy shit, you’re kidding,” he gasps out, wiping imaginary sweat from his brow as you start giggling. 

“Sorry, I had to check if you’re serious about your coffee,” you wink at him as he shakes his head and puffs a relieved breath. 

“Had me worried,” he says, “I thought I’d have to drink one of those to be allowed to stay a regular.” 

“No, I think I’d have to kick you out if you did order one of those,” you smile, picking up the bag of new beans that just arrived, “Here, smell these, I just got them so I haven’t even tried them yet.” 

Dave takes a deep breath and nods with a satisfied look, “That’s nice, can I try that?” 

“Sure, I’ll make us one each. Single or double?” 

“Double, please, this stake out thing is kicking my ass,” he says, leaning against the counter as you start the process of grinding the beans. 

“Do you want some cake or something else too?” you ask, nodding at your selection. 

“No, I’m good,” he says, “It all looks really good, but not today.” He does let his eyes drift over the cakes on display though and you smile to yourself, you know the type, sooner or later he’ll cave and get something as a treat no matter how strong his resolve it. 

“Here you go,” you say, passing him his espresso, in a cup this time, “let me know what you think, if it’s good I might give it a permanent spot on the menu.” 

You both take a few sips of the coffee in silence, humming at the flavors. 

“It’s good,” Dave finally says, “Really good, I wouldn’t complain if it was a regular on the menu.” 

“I agree, I’m going to order more,” you reply, draining the cup as he pulls his wallet out of his pants. 

“Let me pay for both coffees,” he says, holding out his card, “as a thank you, for letting me come in and disturb you.” 

“You’re not disturbing, Dave,” you smile, “you can come in whenever you want.” 

“Even if I’m not on a stake out?” he asks, a small smile playing around his mouth and you feel your cheeks heat up. 

“Especially when you’re not on a stake out,” you smile back and his dimple makes an appearance as his smile widens. 

“I’ll remember that,” he says, tapping his card to pay for both coffees, “I’ll see you tomorrow though, more stake out.” 

“See you tomorrow,” you say, returning the wave he gives you as he leaves. 

He’s back the next morning, already sitting in the car as you come out into the shop to open up for the day. He looks tired, yawning big and rubbing his hand over his eyes as he leans his head against the headrest. You glance over at him while you work and serve the small morning crowd, but he doesn’t look back at you. Saying goodbye to the last customer you look over at the car again, Dave’s head is flopped to the side, mouth hanging open and eyes closed, sound asleep. The sight is adorable, the big CIA agent clearly exhausted if he’s passed out on the job. You grab your travel mug, the one you keep filled with coffee through the morning, and give it a quick clean. Filling it up with a triple espresso shot from the beans you’d had with him yesterday, you screw on the top and exit the shop. He stirs as your shoes scuff over the asphalt, jerking up as you lightly tap the window. 

“Hey, want some coffee?” you ask, holding up the travel mug and he gives you such a look of relief and gratitude that it melts your heart. 

“Thanks,” he says once he’s cranked down the window in the old car, “I’m dead here, can’t keep my eyes open.” 

“Doesn’t do you much good on a stake out,” you say, “drop off the mug when you leave, and just wave at me if you want more coffee, I’ll come over with a refill.” 

“Thanks, you’re a lifesaver,” he smiles, and you smile back, giving him a wave as you cross the street to the bakery. 

Dave stays a bit more alert through the rest of the day, and gets relieved earlier than usual. You smile when he comes into the shop. 

“Any luck with whatever you’re waiting for?” you ask as he hands you the travel mug. 

“No, and we’re running out of time, this might be a waste of resources,” he says, shaking his head and yawning widely, “I’m sorry, I was up late last night, working on this and then I couldn’t fall asleep, too much stuff on my mind.” 

“Go home, Dave,” you say, shooing him out of your shop with a smile, “You’re no good to anyone when you’re like this.” 

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” he says, “But I like our chats, makes this stake out more enjoyable than any other I’ve been on,” he suddenly looks a little bit shy as he’s half turned towards the door, a small smile as he looks back at you. 

“I like our chats too,” you say, butterflies erupting in the pit of your belly, and for a few seconds you’re just ogling each other like a couple of fools, both too shy to say anything else. Dave clears his throat, a small chuckling sound, and looks at his shoes before he glances up. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow then.” 

“See you tomorrow, Dave,” you give him a wave and a small smile, biting your lip to hold back the bigger one that’s being pushed up by the butterflies as he returns your smile and leaves. 

But the next morning you don’t see his car, or any other car that might be a covert CIA operation and you wonder if the stake out got canceled. The day passes slowly, the usual February slump slower than usual without Dave outside your window. Realizing you don’t have his number, you can only hope he’ll come back even though he’s not on a stake out. And when you finally see him the next afternoon, crossing the street at a slight jog to avoid a car, you feel yourself smiling before he’s even spotted you. When he pushes open the door he gives you a wide grin. 

“Hey, how’s it going?” he asks, coming up to the counter as you put away your phone. 

“Hi,” you smile at him, thanking your past self for changing the stained t-shirt and apron into something cuter, “I’m good, but things are slow today so I’m glad you’re here, it’s been kinda boring without the stake out to distract me.” 

He chuckles at that, looking out onto the spot where his car had been for the past three days. 

“Yeah, orders came yesterday to can it, another team has picked up a hotter lead so we’ve been working on that. But that place doesn't have any nice bakeries nearby, so it's a complete loss,” he says with a smile that makes your insides liquid. 

“So you’re actually here when not on a stake out?” you tease him and he laughs. 

“Told you I’d be back,” he says, pushing the sleeves of the sweatshirt he’s wearing up over his thick forearms and crossing his arms, scanning the coffee menu. “Should I go for another one of those nice beans, or should I be adventurous?” he asks. 

You give him a crooked smile, tilting your head like you’re assessing him and he raises an eyebrow in question at you. 

“What do you have in mind? That look is making me nervous.” 

“I’m thinking….” you begin, “the regular coffee, but…you get a snack too, one of the cakes.” 

Dave gives you a grin in response and begins to scan the cakes, “The carrot cake,” he says, pointing to one of the smallest slices covered in white cream cheese frosting.

“Good choice,” you smile, “it’s a best seller and I made it this morning.” You plate the slice and start making the coffee for him.

“It’s kinda healthy, right?” he asks, eyeing the carrot cake with suspicion, “It’s got carrots and all?” 

“I mean, it’s still got sugar and fat in it,” you chuckle, “but it’s made with vegetable oil and not butter, so there is that.” 

You bring the coffee to the counter and start making a coffee for yourself as Dave picks up the plate. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” you sputter out as you watch him scrape the frosting off the cake with the spoon, “That’s the best part!” 

“It’s just fat and sugar,” he says, putting the dollop of frosting on the side of the plate, “I’m trying to stay healthy.” 

“I don’t know what to tell you, Dave,” you smirk, “if you don’t eat that frosting on the cake like the baker intended, I don’t think this friendship is going to last.” You point to yourself and raise your eyebrows in a challenge. 

 “You know, I usually don’t eat sweet stuff, it’s the job,” he says, “I need to stay fit for it.” He’s toying with the cake, the intonation heavy on the 'eat'. He's not looking at you, but there’s a smirk playing around the corners of his mouth. 

“So indulge a little, it’ll be worth it,” you smile and he looks up at you, his smirk suddenly changing into something more challenging as he seems to evaluate you in silence for several long seconds.

“Only if you’re on the menu,” he says, his dark eyes pinning you in place while he runs his tongue over his bottom lip, “Are you on the menu?” 

The question is direct as he slowly raises his eyebrows, the intention clear.

You feel your brain grind to a halt, Dave’s dark brown eyes are boring into you as you slowly inhale, you feel like he’s flicked a switch and turned on his professional side, but he’s not using it to interrogate you. Instead he’s using it to put pressure on you, to get you to tell him what you want. 

What he wants. 

Glancing down at the plate still in his hand, he swipes his finger through the frosting and slowly rounds the counter, coming up to where you’re still standing frozen by the coffee machine. 

“Are you?” he says, repeating his question and slowly bringing his finger to his mouth, sucking the frosting off with a pop. 

The tip of your tongue comes out to lick across your top lip and Dave glances down at your mouth, following the movement. Taking a step closer, he’s almost touching you now, you can feel the scent of his cologne wash over you as his eyes come back up to yours. 

“I’d really like it, if you were on the menu,” he says, his voice low and dark, “but if you’re not, tell me, and I’ll leave.” 

You swallow, still transfixed by his dark eyes on you, the way he’s looking at you, like he’s trying to read you and succeeding. You slowly nod your head yes. 

Dave inhales softly, putting down the plate, “Use your words. Tell me I can kiss you,” he says, the frustration clearly thrumming just below the surface of his low tones as his breath skates across your cheek, his hands hovering just inches from your body, ready to grab as soon as you give him permission, “You’ve been driving me fucking crazy all week but I couldn’t do anything.” 

A shiver runs through your body, your hand shaking as you put your coffee cup down, slowly putting both your hands on the front of his gray t-shirt, feeling the bunched up muscles flex under your palms as you slide them up to his shoulders. Dave is watching you intently, a small crease between his eyebrows, his fingers twitching by your waist. 

“Not here,” you say, dropping your hands to your sides, and side stepping him. He turns as you slip out past him, quickly walking the front door and locking it, flipping the ‘Back in five minutes’ sign. When you turn back, he’s still standing by the coffee machine and you pass him. 

“Less nosy neighbors in here,” you say, holding out your hand to him. 

He reacts in a heartbeat, taking your hand and crowding you as he pushes you further into the kitchen, out of sight. He lets go of your hand and grabs your waist, the other landing on your neck, his large hand easily spanning across it and up, cupping your cheek as he walks you backwards. The cool metal of the walk-in fridge hits your back and Dave’s towering over you, bending his face down so that his strong nose brushes against yours, his eyes almost black under his eyebrows, pulled together tight, and the hand at your waist bunching up your shirt. 

“Now?” he husks and you nod. 

“Yes, now.” 

His mouth is hot when it reaches yours in a flash, he’s pushing you further up against the fridge as he angles his head to have more. There’s an edge of desperation to the way he holds you. The hand on your cheek keeps you where he needs you as he licks the seam of your lips. When you part them, his tongue is eager and needy, a groan escaping from somewhere deep inside of him and you pant into his mouth as his sounds fire up your brain. Heat shoots through your body like rocket fuel ignited, the cool metal behind you a sharp contrast to the solid warmth of Dave’s body in front when he pulls you closer with his hand on your waist, tugging you into him. 

It’s messy, tongues and teeth fighting for control, your hands in his hair, his thick fingers grabbing your neck, his thigh between your legs. There’s no hiding the arousal coursing through you both as you moan at the way he rubs over your core, his low groans mixed in when he rolls his hard length into your hip. 

He tangles his fingers into your hair, pulling back your head and trailing wet kisses across your throat, sucking a mark into where shoulder meets neck, moving up again, his teeth gently tugging on your earlobe before you gasp when he nips at the soft skin just underneath. 

“I’ve been fucking dreaming about how you’d sound when I did this,” he growls when you moan loudly into the silent kitchen, “sound so pretty, so fucking sweet.” His hand on your waist tightens, he’s pulling you down onto his leg, rocking into you as you clamor for a grip, tugging at his hair, loud, satisfied groan coming from Dave. 

“I wanna hear what you sound like when you come,” he mutters, moving his mouth up to yours again, biting your bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth, tongue coming out to caress it, taste it, before he lets go.

Pulling back a little, he looks down at you. You meet his dark eyes, lust clouding them as you gasp at the way his thick thigh creates just enough friction to make you convulse under his firm grip. 

“So fucking sweet,” he mumbles, a tone to his voice like he’s been craving this, “always looking at me from the bakery, always smelling so good, so tempting. Been wanting to do this since the first day, just get you in here and make you come all over my leg, hear you say my name.” 

You try to unscramble your brain, it’s hazy with arousal, the coil that he’s wound so tightly about to snap. But all you can feel is the tell tale tingling that’s started in your core and you close your eyes, the feeling radiating out from where his thigh rubs against you. 

“No, keep them open for me, baby,” Dave growls, “keep your eyes on me,” his voice forcing you to look up at him as it hits. 

“Dave…” you gasp, “Pl-please, Dave…” 

It shoots through your system like electricity, your legs closing around his, your skin burning as he kisses you, swallowing down your cries of his name as he keeps moving his leg, working you through the high until your muscles finally relax. 

He holds you up, his arm around your waist now, as his kisses soften. Soft movements across your lips, his tongue gently teasing yours until he pulls back a little, pressing his lips against yours, foreheads touching as you take a deep breath and you can feel him smile against you.

He moves his leg back, bending down and grabbing hold of your thighs, picking you up like you weigh nothing. With your arms around his neck, you hold on until he sets you down on the workbench, his hard erection is pressed tight between you but he seems to ignore it. 

“You ok?” he asks quietly, bending down and pressing a small kiss to the side of your neck, “seemed like you needed that.” His chuckle is low and amused as you sigh deeply. 

“That’s how you indulge?” you ask, caressing the back of his head, raking your fingers through his thick hair. 

“Better for your body than that carrot cake,” he smirks, pulling back a bit so that he can look at you while he cups your jaw and strokes his thumb over cheek. 

“I told you, this friendship won’t last if you don’t eat the frosting,” you give him a small smile, your body still humming. 

Dave gives you a smug look, “I don’t want your friendship, I want your frosting,” he says with a grin, tugging gently at your chin so that he can press his lips to yours and slip his tongue inside before your addled brain can come up with a comeback. 

The kiss is languid and slow, Dave takes his time, holding you back as you try to pull him closer, your hands still in his hair. After several long minutes he reaches up and untangles your fingers and pulls them down to your sides. 

“I’m leaving now,” he says against your mouth, his lips brushing over yours, “And I want you to be good. I have to go take care of something on that case. Close the shop when you’re done, go home, I’ll come by later.” There’s a promise in his low tone, in the way he nips at your bottom lip one last time and his fingers dig into your hips as he moves around your neck.

“Listen,” he whispers, his mouth close to your ear, “I’m not done with you yet.” 

Part Twelve

Series Master List

Ok, so that got spicier then intended right? I don't know what to say, Dave just stepped in and took over.... blame him or thank him!

For the cake, this recipe uses pecans but I prefer walnuts but you can also leave them out if you want too. But it really is a very good cake...

Taglist: @harriedandharassed @inept-the-magnificent @sheepdogchick3  @readingiskeepingmegoing @noisynightmarepoetry @survivingandenduring @vabeachazn @amyispxnk @oberynslady @vabeachazn @amyispxnk @thewiigers  

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

Hey, Cee!💗Congrats on your amazing milestone!👏I’m rather new to the family, still making my way through your master list and I enjoy it a lot😊 For the sleepover I’d like to request a micro drabble if you’d be so kind - Roommates Au with Dieter Bravo 🙌 What a nightmare!😅

Hi lovely! I'm so glad you're here and I hope you're having a good time with my Pedro boys 😘 So this one ran away from me, I'm very sorry if this wasn't what you were hoping for, but I've been itching to write for a younger Dieter, and this is what came out.

Dieter Bravo x Roommates AU

Fuck Yeah 2222 Sleepover micro drabble request | 1000ish words (sorry) | warnings: mature themes but not explicit, mentions of drug use, angst, hopeful ending

You're not sure how you ended up sharing an apartment with Dieter Bravo.

Honestly, calling this dumpster fire of a studio above a laundromat/dealer's den an apartment is a kindness it does not deserve.

You tried in the beginning. You painted the walls a soothing buttercup that has long peeled off in patches. You fixed the table with the crooked leg so it doesn't wobble when you eat discounted sandwiches on it. You even bought potted plants, dotting trellises of green throughout the small space to give it some semblance of life (that quickly expired from lack of daylight).

But then one day, your college boyfriend, your supposed ride-or-die, left for an audition and never came back.

The next morning, Dieter Bravo showed up on your doorstep, a beat-up weekender bag at his feet. He looked bored even then, wearing an unaffected nonchalance like he does his favourite green robe. 'Some dude I met an an audition yesterday said there's a cheap room for rent?'

Except there's not really a room. There's a bed in the corner with a privacy curtain around it like a fucking hospital ward, and there's a fold-out couch on the other side of the tiny space.

Dieter lets you take the bed.

You don't bother getting to know your new roommate, too wrapped up in the cotton wool of your heartbreak and a blind determination to make it. Honestly, you'd struggle to pick him out from a lineup.

All you know is that he's messy, but he consciously contains that mess to his side of the studio. It's like there's a glass wall holding back his dirty clothes and mismatched shoes from spilling into the shared kitchen. He's also bad at clearing out the fridge, always forgetting the discounted Cheddar he seems to have a fondness for, but always leaves rotting at the back of the dairy shelf.

He doesn't complain when you throw his shit out though, and you don't mind cleaning up after him.

You're ships in the night, each pulling as many shifts as possible in between auditions to stay alive in this money-guzzling, soul-crushing city.

By the time you come home well after midnight, the only sign that another person lives with you is the occasional Chinese takeout he leaves out on the (still wobbly) table if the buffet place he works at gives him leftovers.

In your rush to leave for your first shift one morning, you accidentally make too much coffee, which you leave on the counter for when he returns from his graveyard stint. A few more accidents later, you start making enough for two out of habit.

The first time you actually share space in the studio is maybe five months into your not-quite-cohabitation. It's been a tough day - two rejections after third-round auditions, and a drunk customer spilled Jack and Coke onto your favourite white top, which will definitely leave a stain.

You let yourself into the studio quietly, not bothering with the lights. Stripping down to your underwear, you're about to head into the bathroom when you hear it.

Just above the thumping bass of the illicit nightclub across the street, and the whirr of the industrial-sized washing machines under your feet, is the unmistakable squeak squeak squeak of old springs in the fold-out couch.

You freeze. Someone else is in the apartment with you.

A breathy, distinctly female moan reaches your ear, but a vicious blare of a car horn promptly drowns it out.

Holy fuck. Dieter is fucking some girl not ten steps across the studio, with nothing but the flimsy curtain around your bed separating you.

Suddenly hyperaware, you hear everything. The heavy, loaded slap of skin on skin. Shallow breaths muted in the curve of a neck. The low timbre of his voice, whispers of words that you can't make out - but you know that it's filthy by the way the fold-out creaks under the motion of quickening thrusts, and the desperate cry from the woman, quickly muffled.

You know exactly the moment he cums - there's a sudden stillness, a suspension of time, like everything is on tiptoes - and then three long, drawn-out thumps of the couch hitting the wall.

Then all goes quiet.

You can barely open your eyes the next morning when you trudge to the bathroom in just a threadbare sleep shirt and underwear. The door opens without you noticing, and you walk nose first into a broad, wet chest.

You open your mouth to apologise, but no words come out as you tip your chin upwards.

Dieter Bravo has brown eyes, hooded by deep set lids. He will change a lot in the years to come, as fame and drugs take hold - but one thing that does not is the way your breath hitches when he looks at you. Really looks at you.

His curls are long and unruly when dry, but wet and slicked back, the contours of his profile are more pronounced, and your eyes slide down the strong bridge of his nose and linger on the plush lips under a moustache that seems almost fastidiously tidy compared to the rest of him. It's the one constant when everything else in his life is anything but.

Dieter Bravo will be many things to you over the next fifteen years. Lover, boyfriend, ex, stranger, co-star, friend, friend with benefits, fiancé, ex, fiancé once again -

But he was your roommate first. And that morning, in the doorway to the tiny shower, your tits inadvertently pressed up against his bare chest, the wet towel wrapped around his narrow hips brushing your bare thighs, he smiles at you for the first time.

And when things get difficult down the line, because by god, do they get difficult - you hold on to that smile.

You hold onto him. Sometimes you have to, literally, wrapping your whole body around his through withdrawal shakes, and you whisper in his ear to remind him of how far you've both come from that dumpster fire of a studio above the laundromat/dealer's den -

Which you're kind enough to call an apartment.

[pascaloverx]

Rewrite The Stars

Chapter Two

Summary: One photo changes your whole life, when you accidentally bump into a celebrity and the world starts to believe that you are a couple.

chapter one. chapter three

The next day you woke up with a sore body, feeling as if life had shaken you. You lost your job and your dignity in the same night. But at least he met Pedro Pascal and spoke to him. Unfortunately this won't pay your bills but it will be a good story to tell your future children. You slowly get up feeling the daylight hitting your face. You woke up to your cell phone ringing like crazy. Damn charges that don't let an unemployed woman sleep in peace. But there's something different today, a strange noise outside of people almost whispering. None of your neighbors whisper. Everyone either shouts or speaks very loudly, which in your ears is the same thing. Will someone be arrested or caught cheating in an apartment near yours?

Your curiosity takes over you and you peek out the window while watching countless messages from your best friend. She first asks if you have anything to tell her, then tells you to turn on the tv. You don't understand anything, and on the street there are people hiding near your apartment like vultures. Then you turn on the television and come across photos of you and Pedro Pascal last night. Photos taken out of context.

Without context, what was him stopping me from falling to the ground turned into him holding me romantically. And him giving you the check as a tip became him paying for the "time" you spent together. What the hell is that?

You take out your cell phone and search for the mysterious woman who is having an affair with Pedro Pascal and several pages appear with those photos you saw on television. But you were still feeling safe until you saw a post written by your old boss telling the world who this mysterious woman was. And you started to understand who the people outside your apartment were. You began to feel the world around you becoming suffocating. On the internet, there are people wondering what you are to Pedro Pascal: a lover, girlfriend or stalker?

It was when an unknown number called you that you focused on something else, regardless of how confused you were.

"Can you leave your apartment through the back and go to the corner? There's a car waiting." A woman speaks with a serious and assertive tone. You wonder if this isn't some prank or parallel universe where you get screwed every day of your life.

"If you tell me who you are, I can get out the building's fire exit and be in that car in five minutes." You speak with distrust of whoever is on the other side of the call.

"Mr. Pascal's agent. Now be discreet and don't be funny." She says seconds before hanging up on your face. Kind of rude but if she's offering you a way out, that's what you're going to do. It takes no more than two minutes for you to put on a sweatshirt before heading down the fire escape. Yes, you're wearing pajamas but you didn't think you'd have time to take a shower.

"You walk too slowly for a person who's running away, you know?" The same voice on the phone says this to you as you get into the car.

"And you're very rude for someone who makes a living managing famous people, since we're being inconvenient." You say as you sit in the car, putting on your seatbelt then. Only then do you notice that Mr. Pascal is in the car too. In fact, you're sitting next to him. Which is unusual to say the least.

"The girl is right. Sorry for the commotion but we're out of time, which isn't an excuse." Pedro Pascal speaks the first part, addressing the woman in the passenger seat and then speaks looking at you. He extends his hands towards you and you greet him, shaking hands.

"I imagine you're aware that the world thinks you two are having an affair. And while it's not true, it's gotten the media's attention." Pascal's agent doesn't even introduce herself and starts talking about the topic of the moment.

"Let me guess, you think I faked everything and you want me to disappear with the photos?" In today's world, you know that people rarely trust each other.

"I know it wasn't you. Not to mention that anyone wouldn't risk hitting their head on the floor to create a scandal. But we need to resolve this, for the good of both." Pedro Pascal says, looking in your direction deftly. It even seems like he trusts your good intentions.

"For an older man, you trust people easily. But I didn't really publish the photos, or force any of those moments with you." You speak thinking you just accused one of your favorite actors of being naive.

"I don't know what offended me more, being called old or naive. You seemed kinder yesterday." Mr. Pascal speaks pretending to be hurt, which is kind of cute in your opinion.

"Look at them, already tuned in as a couple. It's going to be perfect." The agent speaks in a genuine tone of happiness, which you find strange.

"I'm sorry, what's going to be perfect?" You ask, confused about what she meant.

"You two will be the next Cinderella couple of this generation. The internet is already highly mobilized to know what you are to each other, what you do together. Of course, there are haters but there are many supporters of this couple." She speaks so seriously that you have to laugh. No one will ever believe that you are dating.

"Sorry, but have you gone crazy? Who's going to believe I'm dating him?" You say in total disbelief that this will work.

"We'll leave the details for later, but don't worry. All you have to do is take this relationship contract with you and read it. If you agree, you and Pedro have started a fake relationship as soon as possible. If you refuse, let's pretend this proposal never existed and you can move on with your life." The agent speaks and then asks the car driver to stop near your building.

"And you agreed to all of this?" That's all you say, holding the contract in your hands and getting ready to get out of the car. The question was clearly directed at Mr. Pascal, who seemed surprised.

"I decided to give you a chance, I hope you give me the same opportunity to be your fake boyfriend." That's all he says, opening the car door for you. And then you got out of the car feeling like you were trapped in a very crazy dream.

[patdkoala]

Meant To Be Yours

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x female reader

Warnings: smut, riding, bottom!Pedro, nicknames

I am not an actress. I am not a model. I am not famous in any way shape or form.

I met Pedro at a Mexican restaurant. Not at a convention, not at a concert, not even at some premiere. We met by accident.

I was at the bar ordering drinks for me and my friends who were all seated at the table close by. It was my best friend's bachelorette party.

"Hi, can I get 8 shots of your cheapest tequila? We have got a group of horny women that need to drink," I said as the bartender smiled at me and then he started pouring the drinks as I handed him the cash.

I dropped one of my dollars and so I went to pick it up off the floor but instead this handsome man bent down on the floor and picked up my money and handed it back to me.

"Here you dropped this, sweetheart," He said as I rolled my eyes and took the money from him, and handed it to the bartender.

"Sorry, did I say something wrong?" The man asked as I just stood there and ignored him. "I'm not your sweetheart," I said as he chuckled to himself and then he ordered his drink and walked away.

I took the shots that were on a tray and walked back over to my group of friends.

"Who was that hot guy talking to you?" My best friend asked as I looked back at the bar but the man was gone. "I don't know. He gave me the ick," I said as they all groaned.

"No! Gross, what did he do?"

"He called me sweetheart," I said as a couple of friends groaned and a couple made cute faces. "What? I think it's kind of nice. How old is he? He probably just was talking to you like you are a daughter," One of the friends said as I laughed.

"Yeah, or granddaughter," I said as they all laughed and then we downed our shots and made small talk or had conversations about the upcoming wedding.

The night went on. The restaurant got more crowded and we were all getting overwhelmed.

Ubers were called, boyfriends came to pick them up ( as well as fiancés), and I was the last one standing outside the restaurant.

"Fuck," I muttered to myself as I watched my phone die in my hands.

I looked across the street and saw that there was a pay phone. As I was about to leave the restaurant parking lot, the man from inside the bar stepped outside into the moonlight.

He looked well over 40 but not really 50 yet. No wedding ring meant either divorced or single which was sketchy because of his age.

His hair was dark brown with light grey pieces popping through in the light. His dark brown eyes glistened when he looked at me.

He was tall. Well, tall compared to me. And well dressed. He wore a nice pair of trousers and a nice button-up shirt with a t-shirt underneath. He looked clean and well kept so either this man is gay or the world is finally sending me a message about my impending doom with being an old maid.

"Hey, I'm sorry for calling you sweetheart back in there. I meant it as just a thing to say to a young lady, not something creepy to hit on a lady with," He said as I just stood there and I realized that I had been staring at him.

"No, it's ok. I'm sorry for seeming rude. I thought you were some ugly guy," I said and then I quickly turned red for saying that. Not because I was blushing but because I felt like such an idiot for saying that.

"So it would have been ok to be rude to me if I was an ugly guy?"

"Yes?" I responded now even redder than before.

He laughed it off as I searched my purse for loose change so I could use the payphone.

"I hate to ask but do you have some quarters I could use for the pay phone? My phone died and I need to call a taxi," I said as he just straight up handed me his phone.

"I would offer to drive you home but I don't want you to think I'm a creep."

"I wouldn't think you were a creep," I lied. I totally would. If he was an ugly guy.

"Right. Only if I was an ugly guy," He added.

"So, where is your car?" I asked as I stepped closer toward him and handed him his phone back.

He smirked and then offered his arm for me to take since I was a little wobbly in my heels at the moment.

We walked to this nice big black SUV.

"Damn, either you are a drug dealer or a pimp because I don't know anyone with a badass car like this," I said as I got in the passenger seat.

"You really don't know who I am?" He asked as he got in the driver's seat.

"No? Am I supposed to?"

"You ever see the Mandalorian?"

"No."

"The Last of Us?"

"No."

"Game of Thrones?"

"No."

"Law and Order?"

"No."

"Damn, What do you even watch?"

"I don't have time for tv," I said as I smiled at him.

"Oh. That's cool I guess."

"So, what's your name?" I asked as he pulled out of the parking lot.

"José Pedro Balmaceda Pascal. But, you can just call me Pedro. That's what everyone else calls me," He said as I smiled.

"Well, I want to call you something that no one calls you. So I'm going to call you José. Or brown eyes," I said as he smiled at me as he stopped at a stop sign.

"Well funny enough, someone does call me both of those things," He said as I turned to him. "My mother," He added as I laughed at him.

"What's your name? Because as far as I'm concerned, it's giggles," He said as I laughed again.

No one has ever made me laugh this much.

"(Y/N) (L/N), but you can call me giggles. No one has ever called me that before," I said as he nodded.

We talked the whole drive. He drove for two hours. All over LA.

It wasn't until we noticed that it was 3am.

"Oh my god, I never told you where my house was," I said as he and I laughed so hard.

"Well, are you hungry?" He asked as I shook my head. "Always," I said as he then pulled into a drive-thru.

We ordered the food and laughed at each other the whole ride up to the window.

"Oh my god, you're Pedro Pascal!" The woman at the window screamed as we drove up.

"See? I told you," He said as he took a selfie with the sweet girl.

We ate in the dark parking lot.

We laughed. Talked some more. Ate some more. Laughed some more.

Before we knew it, the sun was rising.

"I wish this night would last forever," I said as he rested his head back on the headrest.

"Yeah, me too," He said as we then just looked at each other.

"I mean, it can. Where do you want to go now? I'll take you anywhere you want to go," He said as I smiled and laughed at him again.

"Home, José. I have to go to work in a few hours," I said as he nodded then I told him my address and he took me home.

The car came to a complete stop in front of my house and I turned to smile at him.

"Thank you for hanging out with me, José," I said as he smiled back at me. "My pleasure, giggles," He said with a wink.

I got out of the car and then as I walked up the front steps to my house, I realized that he was staring at me as I walked up the steps.

I never told him where I work. I hate to sound clique but I work at a coffee shop in downtown LA.

I clocked into work and started my day with 0 hours of sleep. My boss was annoying per usual. Customers were mean per usual.

Except for the one customer that walked in and made my day 100 times better.

"What are you doing here, giggles?" He asked as he walked up to my register. "I could ask you the same thing, José," I said as he smiled and then ordered his INSANE coffee order.

"How are you not dead?" I asked as I handed him the cup. "Dude, I have no idea. My brain is so fried right now."

I laughed at him again and this time he just stood there smiling at me.

"I don't mean to sound so forward but we did spend all night together so, can I get your phone number?" He asked as I continued to laugh.

"Well, then I should probably tell you the truth."

"What are you talking about? Oh no. Are you married or something?" He asked as I shook my head.

"No, but I lied when I said I didn't know who you were. I wanted to humble you." I laughed as he then laughed.

"The truth is that I was late to the bachelorette party because I was sitting in the parking lot watching your hot ones episode and then last night I watched your SNL skits. I also binged all of The Last of Us last week," I said as he stood there and then he nodded.

"Right, well. I won't ask again."

"Ask for what? Do you still want my number? Are you sure? Even though I lied to you?"

"Everyone deserves to be humbled every once in a while," He said as I smiled.

I then turned toward my coworker. "Hey, can you cover me? I'll be back in 30 minutes," I said as she nodded and then I handed her my apron.

I took Pedro by the hand and dragged him outside toward his car.

We go in the back seat.

I pushed him into the car so it was only fitting that he be on the bottom.

"What are we doing here exactly?" He asked as he held onto my hips.

"I am going to ride you before I have to go back to my shift and then you are going to pick me up from my house tonight and take me out on a proper date," I said as I undid his belt. "Is that okay with you?"

He just nodded and then shimmied out of his jeans just enough for me to sit on his dick.

He felt so good.

"God, you feel so good," He said as I moaned and felt my whole body clench around him.

He held onto my hips as if I was filled with helium.

"Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere," I said as he bucked his hips up and moved further into me. "Good, because I won't let you," He said as I screamed out in ecstasy.

I felt him jolt inside of me which was a sign that he was close.

I got off of him and I went back to work.

I just fucked José Pedro Balmaceda Pascal.

Like a girlboss.

[oonajaeadira]

FLUFFBRUARY 2: engagement | scent | jam (PATS)

ADIRA'S SELF-IMPOSED FLUFFBRUARY RULES:

Six sentences.

Must be fluffy.

All 29 ficlets must feature a different Pedro.

All three words must be used (Fluffbruary prompt list here).

Use the words in order.

I reserve the right to break rules and/or cheat.

Eggs, pastries, coffee, tea…just waiting on the toast.

Standing in the kitchen, Patricio’s mind wanders–beyond the breakfast he’s working on, beyond the apron covering his bare bits and pieces, beyond the butter melting on the waffles–to you, asleep in his bed upstairs.

And he finds himself staring at his hands.

He wouldn’t be able to wear a ring if he had an engagement…er…a client, but maybe there could be an alternative…maybe on a chain around his neck?

There’s a squeak from above, the bathroom door he needs to oil–the scent of the coffee must have woken you–and he’s back to the task at hand, plenty of time to think about the little details later.

When the toast pops up he adds it to the tray next to your favorite jam and takes the whole production upstairs, apron included…he knows getting to take it off him is your favorite part....

___

@fluffbruary

FLUFFBRUARY MASTERLIST

[beefrobeefcal]

my fellow Pedro Scout 🫡

Beefro, i must know. what is each Chubby P-Boy’s post-full belly ritual/routine? when they simple cannot stuff themselves anymore (impossible, i know)?

THIS WHOLE EXERCISE IS GOING TO BE THE DEATH OF ME, SCOUT STATY!

Alright... are we ready? There are 11 - yes, E L E V E N - P-boys in the Bistro and I'm not going to leave a single one out!

Thanks for the ask, @hellfire-state-of-mind - I hope this helps sate your insatiable need for knowledge!

Yours in sin,

Beefro👌🥩💜

Frankie [The Catfish & The Mouse]

He's only hit his absolute, stuffed-to-the-gills threshold a handful of times and at the end of each one, Frankie has found himself on the couch. Mouse is cuddled up with him, offering soothing belly rubs and maybe a lazy hand job to get his mind off of how full he truly is. He can't say he hates the feeling and he likes the fact that Mouse is all over him when he's in this state.

Joel [Joel Miler & his Darlin']

This man doesn't have the willpower to not hit that limit at least once a week. He's obsessed with Darlin's cooking, and he cannot hold himself back for very long. So the routine is this: Darlin' listens to Joel exclaim his regrets while also praising her cooking skills; they go home and Joel complains about how many steps there are to their home and then again to their bedroom; Darlin' gets him a glass of water and piles the pillows so he can lay back but not flat on the bed; Joel complains about how much harder it is to get his pants off and Darlin' helps him get undressed; Joel usually lets out a gunshot sneeze or two before falling into a food coma while Darlin' gives him a foot or belly rub. Joel does not learn his lesson.

Pena [Javier Pena & his Sweetheart]

Much like Joel, Pena doesn't like to admit he can't control himself when the food is just that banging. Unlike Joel though, Pena is completely in denial that his eating habits are the culprit of his over stuffed and uncomfortable belly. HIs lovely Sweetheart can just roll her eyes and and offer a soothing shoulder rub while he grumbles over paperwork while sucking on a hard candy. Until Pena admits this is all his doing, this is how he's gonna handle being too full.

Dave [Dave York & Kitten]

We saw what Dave's ritual is when he has one too many Little Debbie's snackcakes in Play Nice. The man literally just wants to be coddled but still call the shots. Luckily for Kitten, Dave is a creature of habit and that isn't about to change any time soon.

Dieter [Dieter Bravo & Cookie]

Sex. He just wants to bump uglies when he's overly full. He once mentioned to Cookie that the increased heart rate and body heat makes the food digest quicker... or something scientifically inaccurate, but she's not going to complain. If Cookie isn't around to get on all fours for him (or ride his face, dick, where ever...), he's completely fine with putting on a b-grade porno version of one of his own movies and beat off into a pocket pussy. Dieter enjoys this too much to ever take on anther role that has a weight limit.

Joel [the BEEF | #1: Joel Miller]

Why are you here? So what if he ate a whole box of Wal-Mart brand waffles and several pizza pockets? What do you want? Oh you want to... to help Joel? No. He's busy trying to keep his mind off how full he is by watching the garage sale across the street through his blinds. No matter what, this man is not going to admit he's too full and he's gonna double down on who ever asks - even Sarah - and say to GET OFF HIS LAWN.

Ezra [Ezra & Cricket]

Much like Dieter, Ezra is acutely aware of how much more sensitive he is when he's in a heightened state - like being overly full. He knows the inflated and loquacious string of words to coo at Cricket to signal he's ready to put his serpentine rocket to good use in her winking eye of Kevva. He's not going to change this method, even when he feels over exerted and almost nauseous - it's all part of the thrill for him.

Tim [HeftyThrowaway - And eat it, too]

Unlike the rest of the P-boys. Tim is an enigma. So far, we only know he really enjoys cake. I guess we'll have to see what he's like when he officially joins the Bistro in Some Like it Hot.

Frankie [HeftyThrowaway - Being Neighbourly]

This version of Frankie really enjoys the feeling of being overly full - he just loves food too dang much to not get his kicks from sitting back after a few plates of spaghetti and meatballs to not revel in it.

Marcus [Marcus Pike & Dex]

Marcus is a stats man and he's competitive. He can tell you almost down to the bite of food - before he eats, mind you - how much it'll take to get that full, and if he pushes that limit? all the better. His post stuffing rituals include cuddles and tummy rubs courtesy of Dex, with lots and lots of praise.

BigFish Morales [On the Waterfront]

The chokehold this man has on me... If he found his limit, he'd want to get the upper hand on someone else (considering the shepherd's pie got it on him), and a good old fashioned blow job would be in order. He wants relief without having to do a damn thing, so y'all better get on your knees.

[the-blind-assassin-12]

Hello!! I'm very curious about two of them, the two firsts of your list actually: Lattice and Don't Turn Around? … if you don'tmind me asking for two of them! 👀

Hi Angie!! Of course I don't mind you asking about two of them! I'm happy that you're intrigued!!

Both of these are actually responses to a prompt list that I posted a few nights ago, and since they're the only ones I got, they're going to be longer than quick drabbles.

Lattice corresponds with your request for "ruffling the other's hair" + Ezra, and I decided that it's going to take place in the Point of No Return universe, featuring Ezra and Cee. (and cats.) I'm going back and forth between Lattice and Trellis as the title, but a hint? They're working on a surprise for Clara. ;)

Don't Turn Around corresponds to the request I got from @something-tofightfor for "hugging the other from behind" + PATS which is going to fit into the Long Con universe that I started for that character. This one is going to be a very vulnerable moment for that pair of grifters, lemme tell ya.

[exquisiteserotonin]

Stargazin'

I'm just gonna go out and say it: it's Friday and we're feral

Rating: E is for Explicit - 18+ only 🔞MDNI🔞

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader (no use of y/n)

Word count: ~1.9K

Summary: An unexpected suprise is waiting for you when you get home. Will these two crazy kids ever admit that they're crazy for each other?

Warnings: Oral sex (m!receiving) PiV sex, riding, cheesy jokes (it's Dieter, come on!) --- like I've said before, my fic is not for youngsters, please do not engage if you are not 18+

A/N: This all came about after seeing a certain person with a sparkly accessory.

Divider by @cafekitsune

And as always so much love for my magical sluts at the Juice Collective! @basicoccult @imalrightllama @legendary-pink-dot @pink-whiskey-woman @sparklefarts38 @redhotkitchen @youandmeand5bucks @arcanefox207

“You’ve been over at that guy’s house almost every day last week,” Alex said through the Bluetooth speaker in your car. “What was his name again? The one who lives across the street from El Rey.”  

“Pedro,” you responded with a giggle, thinking about how his thick cock filled you, “I mean he’s a good fuck.” 

“Sounds like it’s getting pretty serious.”

“Eh,” you replied, suddenly feeling almost guilty at having anything negative to say about getting fucked on a regular basis. 

“Uh oh, did your red flag radar go off?” 

“There’s just something a little shady there,” you added as you clicked your tongue against your teeth, “and called me old fashioned, but I like my fuck buddies to be transparent.”

“You mean like Di---,” she started as you took a right turn uphill towards your street.

“Don’t start!” you said, your voice darting out like an arrow. “Hey, I’m almost by my house, I’ll call you later.” 

You ended the call as you turned into the driveway of your beachy bungalow. The bright afternoon sun danced against the rhythmic sway of the shade trees in your front yard. An instant feeling of calm met you once you unlocked and walked through the front door of your home. The mix of the golden light, the warm neutrals of your decor, and your beloved plants placed with intention alongside windows and in the corners of each room all came together as your personal sanctuary. 

Muscle memory led you to your bedroom and your feeling of peace left you with a gasp at the sight before you. 

“Howdy.” 

Dieter greeted you with a low, flirty growl as he affected a Texas drawl. He lay in your king size bed, naked, with his legs sprawled out, a sparkly, silver cowboy hat covered his cock, like a glimmering bow atop a present. His hands were resting behind his head as he looked at you with a libidinous smirk shining through his stubble which had grown longer since last you saw him. As much as you fought against it, you found yourself biting your bottom lip.

“What do you have under that hat, cowboy?” 

Dieter pushed himself up by the elbows, accentuating the broadness of his shoulders. The sunlight that floated in through the blinds lit his golden skin with a perfect combination of light and shadow. A heat grew inside you as you marveled at how it defined the obvious muscles that had emerged since you had last seen him. 

Fuck, he’s been working out. 

“Well ma’am,” Dieter continued, his accent was so sweet it was as though he’d dipped his tongue in tupelo honey, “why don’t you mosey on over here and find out?”

It was like he was pulling you into some kind of metaphysical trance as he leaned up one inch more, emphasizing his belly. Though noticeably slimmer, it remained endearingly soft.

With wicked intentionality, he adjusted the shimmering hat and bucked his hips. Every movement he made had your skin tingling from each strand of hair on your head through every inch of your body to your toes. The worst thing about him knowing you so well was that he knew exactly what to do to drive you absolutely insane. And with one more wink and a scrunch of his nose, he beckoned you to him. 

“You’re a fucking menace,” you said, trying to hide your smile. 

“C’mere and I’ll show you just how much of a menace I can be,” he hissed, his tongue taking a small peek from behind his smile.

It was hard for you to imagine who might deny Dieter, knowing that there was an 8-inch cock waiting for you underneath that obnoxiously loud, silver cowboy hat. Whoever that might be, it certainly wasn’t you. 

You had discarded all but your bralette and panties as you began to crawl on the bed towards him. The muscles in his calves were solid and defined, you noticed, as you knelt between his spread legs massaging your hands up their length. The hairs on them tingled with a wave of raised goosebumps at your touch. With one hand you removed the only physical accessory that prevented him from being bare and unfurled for you. 

“You know what they say,” Dieter tempted you with a roll of his tongue, “save a horse, ride a cowboy.” 

A loud, warm laugh echoed from the depths of your belly. Any other man would have been threatened and immediately lost his hard on from your laughter, but not Dieter. You took the hat off his dick placing atop your head as he laughed with you. His chest and belly rumbled, his laugh echoing out wildly and boisterously with yours while his cock still twitched. Reaching for his forearms and pulling him towards you, you interlaced your fingers in his. The smile you wore on your face before you kissed him was so big that your cheeks hurt. 

“Well cowboy, I’m going to ride this cock,” you hushed him as you lowered your lips to his glistening cock, “but first…”

Gripping him first with a gentle hold of your right hand, you pulled back his foreskin and caressed your lips and circled your tongue against the smooth skin of his cock. A gasp escaped him at your initial touch. A smile slowly formed on your lips before you wrapped them around the tip, pressing a broad stroke of your tongue to the center of the head of his cock. His body shuddered with a few strong pulls of him into your mouth.

“Shit, you’re…so good,” he groaned, placing a hand gently to your hair. 

At that motion you moved your lips down the length of his shaft. Your lips savored each ridge and vein as he throbbed against you. You took as much of him as you could into your mouth to the back of your throat. You hollowed your cheeks to take more of him in, at least, as much you could before finding the perfect rhythm of your lips moving up and down to fuck him with your mouth. 

“Fuck, I’ve missed you,” he said with the tiniest whimper. 

A low, muffled moan vibrated from the back of your throat to his cock, making him moan out for you again and again. The feeling of him shaking for you and the way he sighed and moaned in desperation as you sucked him off had a special way of making you want him even more. As you delighted in the taste of him, your pussy clenched as your sex slipped from you to coat your panties. As you massaged his balls, you focused your mouth back to the head of his delectable cock, sucking until he gripped the sheets. 

“Stop, stop---don’t want to come yet!” He groaned through sighs and gasps. “Need to fuck you.” 

“No…,” you purred as you slipped off your panties and pulled your bralette off over your head, “I need to fuck you.”

“Well come on then,” Dieter tempted, scrunching his nose with a playful snarl, “ride it like you stole it.” 

You hadn’t even sunk over him, and your pussy was already pulsing with need. The anticipation coursed through you as you crawled over his defined thighs, feeling the muscles in his quads flex as you lowered yourself onto him with an unrestrained moan. With a slow, deep roll of your hips you began to grind yourself on his cock. With each wave of movement, you felt how hard you kept him and how every controlled gesticulation you made stirred the most intense delight in your folds. Your sex glided from your pussy onto his cock as you swayed your hips into him faster and faster. He clutched at the pillow beneath his head, bouncing his hips up for you as you rode him. His herculean hands reached for your waist, massaging your hips as you continued to bounce on him, feeling every inch as he thrust up into you. The head of his cock hit you in the most exquisite way, leaving you shuddering against his hips. Your approaching climax began to light up nearly every nerve in your body like a switchboard. His hands journeyed to your breasts, grasping them, kneading them until his fingers found your nipples to pinch and flick at them like the strings on a fiddle. 

“Ahh, Dieter, fuck!” you cried, your nipples tingling at his touch.

Holding the silver cowboy hat to your head with one hand, you leaned back against his left thigh until you began to gently massage his balls with the other. A long, low moan left his pouty lips, and he gave one strong thrust upwards, making you yelp out in ecstasy. As Dieter propped himself up towards you, you leaned forward to grind your pelvis into the base of his cock. Every nerve ending in your clit simmered with electricity from the motion. Perspiration glistened over your skin as you began rocking into one another. You knew each other’s bodies so well that you moved in unison. With them, you created the perfect rhythm until your hearts raced faster and faster and your breaths became ragged at your approaching climax. 

“Shit---I’m---I’m gonna come this way,” he moaned, his hips thrust deeper into you as you continued to grind onto him. 

“Me too!” Your words came out like a blur as you felt the perfection of your pussy starting to quake around his cock.

His pace was unbridled and rough as he began to lose himself in you, his large hands gripping your ass. The way your pussy vibrated against him sent waves of pleasure that rippled over every inch of your body until you felt them all the way to your head while you cried out his name in exaltation. 

The cowboy hat fell from your head as he gave you one, last powerful thrust. He stilled and then emptied himself into you, letting out a raspy moan that melted into ardent whimpers. For a few moments you let your breath come down to a natural pace while you held each other in ethereal bliss. Your lips pressed against his forehead as he nuzzled against you, his lips and nose kissing and caressing your neck and shoulders.

Both of you sighed as you climbed off him to collapse next to him in bed.

“Jesus, that was amazing!” You exclaimed as you kissed him. 

Your fingers played with the brim of the glittery cowboy hat before looking up at him to see the goofiest, post-coital grin spreading onto his handsome face. 

“I’m taking it, you got this on set as a joke?” you asked in reference to the Western movie he’d been away filming. 

Dieter confirmed it with a nod, unable to get rid of the smile beneath his mustache. Rolling over to his side, he propped himself up on one elbow. His eyes traversed the curves of your body followed closely by his fingers. The caress so soon after your orgasm sent shivers straight to your still throbbing pussy. 

“Just think, now you can tell everyone you’ve rode a stallion and a cowboy.” 

His cheeks were rosy and tight with stifled laughter. You rolled your eyes as you turned to face him, shaking your head with a low chuckle. Everything in that perfect moment - the silly cowboy hat, the bad jokes, and goofy smiles were so classically Dieter. 

“You’re a dork,” you teased, pressing a small peck to his aquiline nose. “Welcome home.” 

[pedge-stuff]

arrangement (pedro pascal x gn/m!reader)

a/n: same vague universe as "marked." here we go.

summary: his manager’s new idea might just crack the foundation.

——————————————————————————

"What is it going to entail?" 

"I swear to god, nothing. 

"But she's gonna come to the house, right?" 

Something bitter dies on his tongue— my house. His house. You wonder, with a sinking pit, whether you'll even be allowed in the house while she's there. Whether you'll be expected to go elsewhere, wait at some coffee shop while she sits on your couch and plays with your dogs. 

"Yeah." He runs a hand down his face. "Just to be spotted outside. Get to know her, I guess." 

Publicity arrangement, his manager had called it. Your relationship has been under-wraps from the beginning, for protection; Pedro has never quite felt safe coming out, and you've never felt the need to push it. Met him where he was at, kept things as quiet as humanly possible. It was enough. He was enough.

You understand, very keenly, that he is not asking for permission. He is asking for forgiveness. 

"Yeah, fine. Sure. I can't say no, can I? If you need to do this, you need to do this." The burn at the back of your throat is embarrassing. You can't meet his eyes. 

He reaches for your hand, but you don't take it. Can't. It's getting dark outside, but you can't stay in the house. 

"I'm gonna take a walk," you say quietly, leaving him on the couch as you make for the door. There is a depth of sadness you've rarely seen, wrinkling his forehead and clouding his eyes.  

"Please," he starts. "It's dark, love, come on—" 

"There are streetlights." 

--- 

The house is dark when you return. Compelled to enter quietly, you slip off your shoes by the door, without turning on the lights. Your head is pounding, nose congested with the remnants of the good long cry you had along the empty streets of Hollywood Hills. 

A dim light is spilling down the staircase, but you're not going up. You take your time, methodically folding up your jeans and shirt, before settling on the edge of the couch. Your hands are still shaking, mind still dangerously blank. Should've known, as your feet hit the pavement, that it was a panic attack— a layer of ice has frozen beneath your skin. You're shivering, in your underwear, but the prospect of sleeping in jeans feels worse, dirty. 

This is the cost to pay. The other shoe. In six days, you will re-board a plane at LAX, return to New York, work another month or two without him. Following him from coast to coast has been a necessary exhaustion. Until now. Your mind turns circles on the logistics of moving your shit out of his place. So much of your life is intertwined, after two years. 

There is no blanket on the back of the couch, and you can't bring yourself to go looking for one. His hoodie, discarded over the arm, feels like a dangerous comfort. You pull it over your head, anyways. Inhale the orange-mahogany remnants of his usual cologne. A fresh wave of tears burns sharply. It's not fucking fair. 

You lay there in the dark for a long, long while. 

--- 

Pressure on your arm jostles you awake. Before you can register what's happening, you're being gently rolled forward. A large, warm chest settles behind you on the couch. Legs intertwine with yours, bare and chilled. 

Pedro fully settles in behind you, pulling an arm tight across you chest. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, lips pressed against the back of your head. "I'm sorry." 

For a split second, your brain short-circuits again. The evening comes back to you in a sickening burst. Breath catches in your throat again, as you try and force yourself to stop taking comfort from the rise and fall of his chest, as it expands against your back. 

"I will call them tomorrow," you mumble. "JetBlue. See when they can move up my flight."

He props up on one arm, suddenly. "Baby, no." It's dark, but he's looking down at you with his big, stupid, suspiciously wet, brown eyes. "Please, no." A tear, caught in the moonlight through his balcony window, trails down his cheek, into his scruff. 

Before you can help it, you're reaching up a hand, to cup his cheek and brush the tear track with your thumb. His hand finds yours, holds it there. 

"I already emailed Nicole while you were out. Told her to go fuck herself. Well, nicer than that. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I even considered it. Jesus Christ." 

It is your turn to manhandle him. You sit up, nudging him backwards until he is reclined against the arm of the couch. Use the opportunity to crawl up and settle against his chest, face pressed to his clavicle, arms around his waist, legs still tangled together. Say nothing, just let his quiet exhales blow gently across the top of your head. 

"I am sorry for reacting so—" 

"Don't apologize for that," he says quickly, "You have nothing to—" 

"I know. I'm not sorry for how I feel. I'm sorry that you feel like this is something you need to do. I understand why. But it’s not fair.” 

His hand moves under his sweatshirt you’re wearing, albeit not for untoward purposes; he splays it, firm, across the middle of your back, gently running it up and down the curve of your spine. A nervous habit of his, as much as a comfort to you. Fucked up that you were about to trade this for a cold apartment and an empty bed. 

You lay there for a while. Listen to the sound of him breathing. Let the panic bleed as you relax against him. His cheek is pressed to the top of your head, lips occasionally pressing to your temple. 

“If we stay here much longer, you’re gonna fuck your back up again.” Sitting up slowly, to avoid loose limbs in sensitive places, you extract yourself off the couch. Reach back down to massage a hand against the trap of his neck.

Upstairs, the dogs have already claimed new territory across your pillows. They are affronted to be sent back to the foot of the bed. You slide into place: beside Pedro.

[avastrasposts]

A Baker's Dozen - Nine

Twelve Pedro boys, twelve stand alone short stories, all set in the same bakery.

Hello!

Pedro boy number nine is waiting in the wings but I need to add some warnings before anything else. This chapter contains mentions of blood, a small injury and fairly detailed description of cleaning said injury.

I want to dedicate this chapter to @leslie-lyman and her wonderful Stranger at my Gate fic which I absolutely love and gave me a new found love for this Pedro character. ❤❤❤

Series Master List

You’re not often scared in the bakery, even though you often work early mornings and late nights. But when you suddenly hear the rattle of the dumpster outside your back door, and a muffled gasp as if someone’s in pain, your heart flies into your throat. It’s been dark for a few hours, evening coming early as the heavy rain refused to let up. You’re clearing up after preparing for next weekend’s wedding cake, and it’s already late when you’re startled by the sound. Grabbing your rolling pin, you carefully nudge the back door open and peer out into the dim light, rain dripping down from the eaves of the building. The glow of the street lamps don’t reach too far and most of the back yard is cast in shadows, made even dimmer by the heavy rain. But you see the source of the disturbance straight away, a man is crouched down by the dumpster, his hand held tight to his chest as he curses in a low voice. 

You clear your throat lightly, “Umm, are you ok?” you ask. 

The man immediately snaps his eyes to you and straightens up, his hand still cradled against his chest, but his other hand drops to his hip and for a fearful second you think he’s reaching for a gun. But his hand pats his side and when he doesn’t find what he’s looking for he quickly scans the ground around him and curses again, giving an exasperated sigh and briefly glancing up at the sky. 

You’re not sure if you should slam the door shut and lock it, but the way he winces when the movement jostles his hand keeps you from retreating. 

“Is your hand hurt? Do you need some help?” you ask, still only opening the door a little bit. The man sighs again and nods, looking up at you. 

“I think I cut it when I fell,” he replies, looking down at his hand and carefully unfurling his fist. 

“Ok…” you say, trying to figure out what to do, let an injured stranger into your kitchen late at night, or just call an ambulance? 

“How bad is it?” you ask, “Can I see it?” 

The man nods and cautiously holds out his hand, but doesn’t make a move to come closer, and you suddenly realize that he looks a lot more hesitant than you feel, his eyebrows are bunched together, and mistrust is written across his dark features. 

“Uhm…could you maybe come over here, the light’s better,” you say gently, opening the door a little more and, in a sudden decision, put the rolling pin on the shelf behind you. The action seems to earn you a bit of trust and the man takes a few tentative steps forward into the light. He holds out his hand and you step down on to the stairs and look at it. 

“There’s quite a bit of blood,” you say, carefully nudging his fingers tips back so that he opens his palm a bit more. 

“Hands always bleed a lot,” the man says curtly, “It’s not my first injury, and I can move my fingers, I just need to clean it.” 

He has an accent that makes you look up at his face as he speaks, his voice low and rough but not unpleasant. The scar that cuts across his left eye draws your attention, and when he catches you looking at his face he meets your eyes, his eyebrows still bunched together as he points with his good hand to the scar. 

“Does it scare you?” he asks, scowling, and you pull back from where your fingers were gently touching his injured hand. 

“Should I be scared?” you ask in return, challenging him a little with your tone. 

“No, not if you don’t intend to steal from me,” he says, and you can’t help the smile that pulls at your lips. He’s a sorry sight, wet to the bone by the looks of it, injured and bleeding, and he’s worried you’ll steal from him? 

“I promise I won’t steal from you,” you smile softly, taking a step back and opening your door wider, letting him in, “C’mon in, you look soaked.” 

He hesitates for a few moments, glancing around him and then back at you. 

“Thank you,” he nods, not smiling, the scowl a permanent fixture on his face, as you lead him through the back room and into the kitchen. 

He looks around the space with cautious eyes as you go to the sink, and as you turn, you notice his clothes for the first time. He’s dressed head to toe in faded black, an old fashioned shirt billows half way down his thighs. Underneath you can see dirty trousers and well worn leather boots with an intricate pattern in the leather. He looks very much out of place, especially as he widens his eyes and seems to stare at the water running from the tap into your sink. 

“Are you ok?” you ask for the second time of the night, tilting your head and giving him a worried look. Maybe he’s hit his head too, he looks dazed when you motion him over to the sink. 

He gives a curt nod, still looking at the streaming water as he takes a few tentative steps forward. 

“It might sting a bit but rinse it out and I’ll get my first aid kit,” you tell him, handing him a roll of paper towels, “And I think I have an old hoodie that might fit you, if you want to change out of that wet shirt?” 

Confusion flits across his face again as you speak, his guarded eyes moving between the water and you, but eventually he carefully puts his hand under the stream. As you fetch the first aid kit and the hoodie, you hear him wince and mutter low curses in a language you can’t make out. 

You put the hoodie on the bench next to the sink and open up the first aid kit, pulling out the disinfectant and motioning the man to sit on the stool you’ve rolled over. 

“Do you know what you cut yourself on?” you ask as the stranger watches blood drip from the gash on his palm into the sink. 

“Broken glass, I think,” he mutters, “it was too dark to see but the cut looks sharp and clean.” 

“It does, it should be fairly easy to patch up as long as we get it clean,” you reply, unscrewing the disinfectant, “Do you want to clean it yourself, or do you want me to do it?” 

He looks up at you then, the scowl on his face softening into what you think might be surprise. He hesitates, but then he holds out his hand to you. 

“Please.” 

“Ok then,” you reply, “this shouldn’t sting too much but let me know if it hurts.” 

“I’ve had worse injuries,” he replies and you glance up at the scar across his eye.

“Of course, I didn’t mean to-” 

“No, I know,” he interrupts, “but I don't want you to worry you’ll cause me pain.” His tone is low, almost hesitant, as if the sincerity in his voice is unfamiliar to him. Your eyes meet his for a few moments as you both try to find balance with the person looking back, you can feel a shift in the room. Nervously you swallow and look down at the strange man’s hand. You realize you don’t know anything about him yet, not even his name, so to distract him from what you need to do, you start talking again. 

“You have an accent I can’t place,” you say as you gently make him open his hand, water still streaming over the cut, “but it’s very beautiful,” you give him a small smile as you glance up and his eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “It is,” you giggle at his dismay, “I like your accent.” 

“Thank you,” he mutters, looking almost ashamed and you change the subject. 

“What’s your name?” you ask instead, turning off the water and starting to drizzle disinfectant over his hand. 

“Pero Tovar,” he replies, and the way he rolls the r’s in his name sends a little shiver of pleasure down your back.

“Pero Tovar,” you repeat, trying to roll the r the way he does, but you can tell from his small chuckle that you’re not successful. 

“Almost,” he says and when you look up, you catch the smallest of smiles on his face. 

A sharp hiss from Pero pulls your attention back to his hand. He’s opened the hand flat to let the liquid rinse his injury, but the movement has revealed a small shard of glass still pressed in at the edge of the cut. 

You quickly reach into the first aid kit for the tweezers and take hold of his wrist, bending down to grasp at the edge of the shard. 

“This might sting, but I’ll try to be quick,” you say and Pero grunts in response as you pull the sliver of glass out of the cut, dropping it in the sink. 

“I think that’s all, how does it feel?” you ask him and Pero gingerly moves his fingers as you drizzle more disinfectant over his hand. 

“Better,” he nods as you turn to take out what you need to close the cut from the first aid kit. 

“You’re lucky you ended up at front of my door, Pero,” you say, “I’m an expert at cutting my fingers, and therefore, an expert at taking care of them too.” 

The man only grunts in response, tugging at his shirt and you suddenly hear it rip, as he pulls a strip from the hem. 

“Tie this around my hand, it will stop the bleeding and then I’ll leave,” he says, “Thank you for your help.” 

“Pero, that’s dirty, you can’t put that around your hand,” you exclaim as he holds out the rag to you. 

“It will do,” he scowls, “it’s what I usually do.” 

“You’ll get an infection, please, let me put a proper bandage on it,” you point to the sterile compress and Pero’s eyes narrow as if he’s considering a potential risk, before he glances back at the door where the heavy rain can still be heard. Then he nods, looking at you again, dropping the dirty strip from his shirt on the edge of the sink. 

It doesn’t take you long to bandage up his hand, wrapping surgical tape around the back to keep the compress in place. As you turn his hand over and press down the tape you can’t help but notice the many faded scars that marr his skin, and you run your finger lightly over a long one. 

“A knife,” Pero mutters, and you look up at him. “A thief tried to take my coins and he had a hidden blade. It was a nasty fight.” 

“It looks like you’ve been in a lot of fights, Pero,” you say, touching an uneven scar from something slashed across his wrist. 

He doesn’t reply to that, just grunts again and pulls his hand back, getting back up from the stool. But he doesn’t get far, on unsteady legs he stumbles across the floor and puts his uninjured hand out to balance himself, briefly closing his eyes. 

“Careful,” you say, reaching out to steady him, your hands on his wet shirt, as he suddenly sinks down to the floor, his back against one of the shelves, “you’re very pale, maybe you need a few minutes rest?” 

Pero shakes his head with another grunt, “No, I should..” he tries to stand up again but sinks back down, his eyes closing as he tips his head to his chest, breathing hard through his nose. 

“At least change your wet shirt, please,” you say, grabbing the dry hoodie from the bench and holding it out to him and Pero opens his eyes, “you’ll feel better if you’re dry.” 

He regards the hoodie for a few seconds before giving in, taking it from you. You turn your back to give him some privacy and you hear him tug the shirt over his head, dropping it on the floor with a wet sound. 

“Thank you,” comes his rough voice from behind a few seconds later and you glance over your shoulder. The navy hoodie fits him and he’s leaned back against the wall again with his eyes closed, his skin still paler than you suspect that it should be. 

You open one of your storage cupboards and pull out a container, bringing it over to Pero together with a bottle of water. Kneeling down in front of him you peel open the lid and hold it out to him. 

“Here, your blood sugar is probably low, maybe a bit of shock, have a couple of these,” you offer him and Pero opens his eyes enough to see the cookies that are starting to spread their chocolate scent. They widen further when he sees them clearly, darting up to look at you before he tentatively takes one and flips it over in his hand. He smells it and then takes a careful bite. 

His reaction flips a switch in your head, a light bulb moment, as his eyebrows furrow at the flavor. His tongue comes out, almost as if he’s about to spit the cookie out, before he grimaces and swallows, eyeing the rest of the cookie with suspicion. 

“Pero…” you ask hesitantly, “where are you from?” 

He looks up at you for a beat before he answers, running his tongue over his lips. 

“Asturias,” he says, “but I haven’t been back in many years.” 

“In Spain?” 

“España, sí,” he nods, eyeing the cookie in his hand, “This…this food is very…sweet?” He looks up at you again and almost looks apologetic as he brings it to his mouth again. 

“You don’t like it?” you ask, “You don’t have to eat it if you don’t like it, maybe it’s too sweet for your palate.” 

“I’ve never tasted something so sweet before, I’m not sure…” he trails off, taking a small bite again. 

The penny drops, impossible as it may seem, but his clothes, his wide eyed reactions to your kitchen, the fear and mistrust, the pieces seem to fit together, and you sink down on the floor in front of Pero, the container of cookies forgotten next to you. 

“Pero…” you begin again and he tilts his head as you seem to study the pattern on his well worn leather boots, “A-are you…do you…w-where…- “

“I’m not from your time,” he interrupts your stuttering question, holding your eyes as you meet his gaze, your eyes are the ones that widen this time. 

“How?” is all you manage and he shrugs. 

“I do not know, a curse, a blessing, just chance?” he shrugs again, “All I remember is darkness and then bright lights, as bright as the sun, but much closer, a terrible noise, and then I ran.” 

“Here?” 

He shakes his head, “Not first, I think that was yesterday, or maybe two days ago, I found somewhere to hide, a small tunnel, but the rain made the water rise too high so I was forced to leave.” 

“You must be hungry, Pero,” you suddenly realize, “how long has it been since you last ate properly?” 

“Two days, maybe three,” he says, rubbing his good hand over his belly that rumbles at the mention of proper food. 

“I haven’t got anything but hang on, I’ll order something,” you go to stand up when you realize he won’t understand what that means. Your head suddenly reels with the implication of having Pero in your kitchen. 

“I mean, I’ll make someone bring food, but don’t worry, I won’t say anything about you,” you hurry to add as you see him shake his head. 

“Thank you,” he sighs, looking relieved, “I don’t know what dark forces brought me here, but it doesn’t feel safe.” 

“Just wait here, I’ll be right back,” you say to him, leaving him sitting on the floor, “You’re safe here, I promise.” 

You hurry out to the shop and pull out your phone to place an order through the delivery app when you’re suddenly stumped, what the hell would Pero be most comfortable eating? A stew maybe? Meat, veggies and bread seems like something people have eaten through the centuries, so you quickly scroll through the options and find a local place that offers Boeuf Bourguignon. A rich, hearty stew must be something Pero will be familiar with even if it’s not exactly something he’s eaten before. You quickly place the order and hurry back to the kitchen to find Pero getting to his feet, holding on to the shelf for support. 

“Someone is coming over with a meat stew, how does that sound?” you ask and Pero nods. 

“Thank you,” he replies, letting go of the shelf and standing a big steadier this time. 

“I have some bread and butter for you while we wait, it’s stale bread, but it might make you feel a bit better.” 

“Thank you”, he says again and you go to your big walk-in fridge and pull it open. Pero follows you cautiously and peers into the large space. 

“It’s cold?” he says, taking a tentative step into the fridge. 

“It’s a special cold storage,” you explain, “it stays cold even though it’s warm outside, the food stays fresh longer in here.” 

Pero nods as if he understands exactly what you mean but you can tell by the way his eyes scan the shelves that he’s distracted by the produce that lines them. 

“Would you like to try something?” you ask, “Maybe some fruit?” 

He looks over at you and nods carefully, as if he’s uncertain if he should say yes and you’re suddenly hit by how much mistrust he holds on to. Even though he’s a little bit more relaxed now than when he first arrived, it’s clear that he’s not a man used to trusting people easily, and just the simple gesture of accepting the apple you hold out to him seems to test his instinctual reaction to say no. 

You take the butter from the shelf, fish one of yesterday’s loaves from the bread basket and slice it up on the counter while Pero slowly walks around your kitchen, the apple you notice, is already gone. 

“Here, eat this, slowly, it should help you feel better.” 

“Thank you,” he replies again, taking the thick piece of bread and carefully smelling it just like he had with the cookie. You cut yourself a slice and spread butter on it before biting in to it and jumping up on the work bench surface. 

“It’s not poison, I promise,” you wink at Pero and he scowls back at you, but it’s not intimidating this time, there’s a slight smirk to it as he realizes you’re teasing him. 

“I’ve never seen bread this white,” he says, coming over to the bench and heaving himself on to it too, “Bread where I come from is much rougher, this is like something a king would eat I think.” 

“It’s just the way the flour is milled and sifted,” you explain, “we make bread the same way now as we’ve always done. Water, flour and salt.” 

Pero takes a large bite as you speak and he hums as he chews, “It tastes almost the same,” he says, “I like it.” He takes another big bite and the whole slice disappears within a minute. 

“I’m glad you like it,” you smile at him, “I made it, I’m a baker.” 

“You’re a baker?” Pero asks, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. 

“We still have bakers in our time,” you laugh but Pero shakes his head. 

“I thought it would be your husband who baked, I have never met a woman baker.”

“Oh, yeah, I suppose that would’ve been pretty unusual back in your time,” you say, smiling at Pero’s surprise, “Many of the jobs only men did in your days are now done by women too, a lot has changed that way. And I have no husband.” 

Pero seems to consider this for a few moments while he eyes the loaf sitting on the counter across the kitchen. 

“Do you want another slice?” you ask him and he nods. 

“Yes, it was very good bread.” 

“Go on then, but remember there’s meat stew on the way so don’t eat too much or you might be sick,” you say and he slides off the workbench and grabs the  knife. 

“It’s good that you can be a baker too,” he says as he slices the bread, “I’ve seen women be warriors, generals even, why should women not be able to have the same professions as men?” 

“You’re pretty progressive, Pero,” you smile, “not even all men nowadays would agree with that.” 

“Fools,” he scowls, buttering the slice and coming back over to you, “I’ve seen many strange things in your time, but nothing that a woman couldn’t do as well as a man. The general I knew would scare the wits out of the men I’ve seen here so far.” 

“What year are you from, Pero?” you ask and he shrugs, it seems to be his standard response when he has no answer. 

“I do not know, I’m a sell-sword, a mercenary, what year the priest  says it is doesn’t matter to someone like me.” 

You think back to your high school history lessons, chewing your bread as you try to figure out how to pinpoint what age he might be from.

“Are there any big events you know of that happened in your time?” you ask and Pero furrows his brow for a few seconds before he shakes his head. 

“I’m not educated, I can write my name, read a little, but that’s it,” he shrugs again, swallowing the last piece of bread, “I follow whoever pays my wages and don’t ask questions.” 

His face softens slightly as he sees the disappointment in your face and he turns towards you, “I apologize, these things are not important to me, but I wish I’d paid more attention to them now, so that I could tell you more about where I’m from.” 

“It’s alright, Pero,” you say, giving him a smile, “I’m just curious, just tell me to stop asking so many questions.” 

He actually chuckles at that, only the second time you’ve heard him laugh and it makes you feel warm as his face transforms into a beautiful smile. 

“Ask as many as you want, you’re feeding me, you patched me up, you’ve shown much more kindness than a broken sell-sword could ever expect. The least I can do is to feed your curious mind.” 

Now it’s your turn to shrug, “It was nothing, you were hurt, I couldn’t leave you out in the rain, anyone would’ve done the same.” 

Pero tilts his head to the side and regards you with wonder, “Maybe your world is very different, querida…” he says as he tentatively reaches out and carefully wraps the fingers of his good hand around yours, “but in my world, I don’t know anyone who would’ve looked at my scarred face and let me in.” 

He gently lifts your hand and brings the back of it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss there, before holding it to his heart. 

“Thank you.” 

You feel heat rush to your face as he places your hand back on the bench, letting go of it as you fumble for something to say and coming up with nothing, just biting your lip and nodding as he continues to look at you, his face unreadable but gentle. 

“What do you bake, apart from bread?” he asks after what feels like an eternity and your brain still hasn’t kicked back into gear, the warm mark of his chapped lips still on the back of your hand. 

“Ahh…most things,” you stumble, “cakes for weddings, for feasts, cookies and pastries, anything sweet really, if people want it.” A thought suddenly hits you, “Do you have a favorite, Pero? Maybe something I could make for you here?” 

He looks taken back by the question, starting by shaking his head almost on impulse, “No, I never had cake, or sweet things, maybe just a simple fruit pie if I had coin, but it has been rare. Although….” he suddenly looks up, his words lost in thought as he looks at you as if you know the answer to what he's thinking of. 

“There was a baker in my hometown, he was not from Asturias. He made sweet bread from Albion, with dried fruit and honey,” Pero licks his lips at the memory and grins, “that was the best bread I ever had, he would give me the scraps if he burnt a loaf and even burnt, it tasted like heaven.” 

“Albion,” you hum, thinking out loud, “that’s the old name for Britain, so maybe he made something like barmbrack, or bara brith…” you slide off the workbench and go over to the bookshelf and run your finger along the spines of the books. “But what dried fruit would they have then? Raisins? Maybe…the Romans made wine in Britannia after all, the climate was warmer… maybe apricots? Cherries?” You pull out a well worn copy of The Love of Cooking, and take it back to the work bench as Pero regards you with a curious grin. As you flip the book open his eyes go wide as he sees the colored photographs of food, the fine print in neat rows. 

“This is a book?” he asks, carefully sliding his fingertips over the page and you nod. 

“They invented a machine that can make copies of what we write very fast, so they’re cheap to buy nowadays,” you explain as you flip back to the index, looking up barmbrack, “I think this recipe might be similar to what you’re familiar with,” you say, finding the right page and pointing to a dark loaf filled with dried fruit. 

“Can you make it?” Pero asks, his eyes locked on the image as if he wants to chew on the paper and you smile. 

“It’s a pretty fast thing to make, if I make it now it’ll be done by the time we’ve had our dinner.” Pero’s eyes are still glued to the page, a hungry expression on his face.

“I would very much like that,” he says, tearing his gaze away and grinning at you, “Put me to work, what can I do?” 

“You want to help?” 

“Of course, teach me how to bake, mistress baker,” he winks and again his usually scowling face is transformed, a warm smile lighting up his sharp features as his brown eyes soften. You smile back at him, marveling at how he transforms from a sourly looking soldier to a handsome man when he lets himself smile. 

“Ok then, Pero,” you grin, “time to learn a new profession.” 

Under your direction Pero pulls out the necessary ingredients and tools, making comments about the flimsy quality of the metal in your kitchen. 

“This would not hold up in a kitchen or on a battlefield,” he remarks, holding up one of your stainless steel bowls, “It would melt over a fire and even a child’s arrow would pierces this, I’m sure.” 

“It’s stronger than you think,” you laugh, setting a bag of dried cherries down on the workbench and giving one to Pero to try. He sucks on it, smiling at the familiar flavor, and nods in approval as he goes in search of a knife. He finds your custom chef knife, your name stamped along the blade, and this is the only item that gets his commendation. 

“This is a good weapon, querida, if any more strange men turn up at your door. You should keep it on you at all times,” he says, effortlessly spinning the knife in his hand, testing its weight and balance. 

“I hope no more strange men come tumbling into my backyard,” you laugh, “what would I do with you all?” 

“If fate lets me, I’ll stay here and keep you safe, just feed me,” he grins, coming to stand next to you and placing the knife on the workbench. 

“That sounds like a good deal for me, Pero,” you smile back at him and his eyes crinkle at the corners as he laughs, a beautiful sound in your kitchen, his rough voice smoothed out by the warm vibrations. 

“Querida, even if you only fed me your bread and butter, I would be the winner in that deal; a full belly and a beautiful mistress? What man could ask for more?” 

He sees the way your shy smile reaches your eyes before you look down at your hands on the recipe book. Heat creeps up your neck and you have to squeeze your lips together to stop a silly grin from splitting your face open. You can feel Pero’s smiling eyes on you as he waits for your reply, and when he wraps his fingers around your hand on the book, you almost jump, his grip a gentle touch. The fingers on his other hand find your chin, softly bringing your face up to look up at him. 

“Beautiful,” he mumbles, the rough pad of his thumb caressing your chin as your heart rate picks up and you part your lips.  

“Now put me to work,” he smiles, “So I can have this fruit bread again.” 

You draw a deep breath, your heart fluttering in your chest as you pull your eyes away from Pero and down to the recipe. 

“S-so…ok, we need tea, I’ll make that if you fill this with flour and put it in the bowl. Then crack an egg in there too.” 

“Your wish is my command, mistress,” Pero replies and your cheeks heat up again, but you can’t help the wide smile and it makes Pero grin as you fumble for a saucepan to fill with water. 

He completes the tasks you set him, and then comes to stand next to you as you spoon tea leaves into the kettle and pour the boiling water over it. 

“I visited China once,” he says, “They drank black tea, it’s strange to see it here too.” 

“This tea comes from China, we started importing it a long time ago. I’m going to soak the fruit in the tea, it really should sit overnight but it works like this too, just a bit less flavor.” 

What Pero said suddenly hits you, and you turn to look at him as he stirs the dried fruit through the tea, “You went to China? That must’ve been such a long journey?” 

Pero nods, his face falling back to his default scowl as he pulls his eyebrows together at the memory. 

“It was very long, dusty and dangerous. Both there and going home, I’ll tell you about it someday when you know me better, but you’ll still think I’m a liar, it’s a hard story to believe.” 

“Sounds like it was an adventure,” you reply and Pero shrugs, shaking his head a little. 

“A storyteller would call it an adventure, I would call it a terrifying nightmare,” he grumbles, taking the fruit back to the workbench and changing the subject, “I can’t read your book, what should I do now?” 

You pass him a loaf tin, “Smear this with butter and I’ll mix the rest of the ingredients together.” 

Pero nods and takes the butter in his good hand and gets to work while you mix the dough. You leave out some of the spices that would be too foreign to Pero you think, and reduce the sugar a bit. From the corner of your eye you see Pero watching you work, and as you mix the fruit into the dough you glance up at him and give him a small smile. He looks lost in thought for a moment, before he smiles back at you, a much softer looking man as he almost seems to be shy, handing you the prepared tin. 

“You look very capable,” he says, taking a few small steps closer to look at the dough, “more capable than any baker I’ve ever seen.” 

“Thank you, Pero,” you reply, smiling to yourself as you pick up the bowl to tip the dough into the tin. 

“Oh! I almost forgot!” you exclaim and put the bowl back on the counter, hurrying over to your small desk while Pero looks surprised. From a box you remove a gold ring and quickly wash it in the sink. Bringing it back to Pero you hold it up. 

“It’s tradition to mix items into the barmbrack, some things for bad luck, some for good luck. But I prefer adding only things for good luck so I usually add this ring. It was my grandmother’s wedding ring and she was a baker too,” you flip the ring over and show the date written on the inside of the ring, “June sixth, nineteen forty-one, her wedding day.”

“It will bring luck?” Pero asks and you nod. 

“Whoever finds it in the cake will have good luck,” you reply, “Well, as it’s a ring it’s meant to mean that you’re getting married within a year, but I prefer to think of it as good luck.” 

“I’ve heard of superstitions like this one before,” Pero says, “I don’t know if I believe in them, but it’s probably not wise to ignore them.” 

“My thoughts exactly,” you smile as you toss the ring into the dough and mix it again, “I’m just going to put the dough in the tin and then bake it.” 

You’re interrupted by the doorbell on the front door, and you look towards the shop. 

“That’s our food I think, take over here and I’ll go pick it up,” you say, handing the bowl to Pero. You hurry to the door and tip the delivery guy, bringing back a bag of food. Peros is carefully patting down the dough with serious concentration and it makes you smile to see him looking so focused on his job. 

“It looks great, Pero,” you say and he looks up, giving you a quick smile. You’re struck by the difference a little bit of time with him has made, his distrust has disappeared, replaced by curious looks and grins. You realize again how handsome he is as he stands up and holds out the tin to you, his deep brown eyes warm instead of cautious, and the near permanent downward turn of his mouth has been replaced by the soft smile he gives you as you take the tin from him.

“Thanks,” you say and hand him the bag, “There’s food in there, get us set up while I put this in the oven, then we can eat.”

Pero inhales deeply as the scent reaches his nose and his stomach growls as he hastily grabs the bags and looks for a spot to sit. 

The oven is ready to go so you just put the barmbrack in and turn back to Pero, grabbing cutlery as you go. He’s on the floor, leaning against the bookshelf again, and is unpacking the food. Sinking down next to him, you groan at the relief of getting off your feet and sitting down. You tip your head back against the bookshelf and let slip a deep sigh that turns into a yawn. Pero chuckles next to you as he peels the lid off one of the containers. 

“You’re yawning but I’m the one who spent a night inside a cramped tunnel,” he says and you clamp your hand over your mouth, giggling.

“Sorry, it’s been a long day, I get up very early to bake every morning,” you say, stifling another yawn as Pero picks up one of the containers with stew, looking at it with hungry eyes. 

“It smells incredible,” he says, taking the spoon you hand him.

“Eat, Pero, you look hungry,” you smile and he flashes you a quick grin before digging in. 

The stew is good, rich and hearty, with big chunks of meat. Pero demolishes his portion and you get the rest of the loaf of bread, watching him tear chunks out of it to mop up the sauce. You’re sitting close together, his shoulder against yours, the warmth of his body a comfortable presence against your arm as you eat in silence. Pero groans as he does so, a deep moan escaping him when he scrapes up the sauce.  

“Feeling better?” you ask as he swallows the last piece of bread and sets the container down on the floor. He nods and tips his head back towards the bookshelf with a contented sigh. 

“Yes, much better, it was the best stew I’ve ever had,” he says, tilting his head to look over at you, “A full belly and your company, you’ve cured me.” 

“Happy I could help  you,” you smile at him, “you seemed a bit lost.” 

“I still am,” he says, his eyes slipping down to your lips, almost as if he doesn’t notice he’s done it, until he catches himself and snaps them back up and meets your eyes, “But I feel…safe, I think, here. With you.”  

His voice is low, softer than before, a quiet rasp in the silent kitchen. The rain is still rushing down outside and the white noise wraps you in a bubble as he carefully moves closer. You feel his hand, rough and calloused, come up and gently stroke your face, his eyes watching his fingers trail along the edge of your jaw, cupping your cheek and letting his thumb run over your bottom lip. 

“So soft,” he whispers, his breath tickling your lips as you close your eyes. 

The kiss is gentle, featherlight, but he stays close, pressing his lips against yours again and again, and you relish in the hushed words he whispers in another language, praise you can’t understand. But the way his lips never leave yours for more than a second, his reverent tone in every phrase, makes you feel cherished as his words wrap around you. 

When he lingers against your lips, you bring your hand up and touch his cheek, slipping your hand around his neck, holding him close so that he knows he can stay. You hear a rumble in his chest as he pulls you in closer, pulling you over his lap, his arm coming around your waist to keep steady, the other still cupping your cheek. You test his mouth, the slight parting of his lips where his soft bottom lip has a divot, and he groans, pulling you impossibly closer. His hair is still damp when you curl your fingers into it, still dirty from two days of wherever he managed to seek shelter when he first fell into this time. But under it, he’s warm and solid, his mouth hungry as he opens up and lets his tongue taste yours. 

Pero grows bolder as you guide him, pulling your leg over his lap so that you straddle him. As your hands caress his hair and explore the firm muscles of his shoulders, he seeks out the edge between your shirt and your trousers. The skin there is soft and smooth and he runs his hands over your waist, mumbling into your mouth between kisses. He pulls back a fraction and lets his hands slide high up on your back, under your shirt, pressing you into his chest.  

“Hermosa…” he whispers, “you’re so soft, your skin is like silk under my rough hands, so soft, warm, I’ve never…” he trails off, reaching up to claim your mouth again and you bend down to meet him. You can feel him grow hard under you, he’s holding back from rutting up, panting harder as his fingers dig into your waist. Gently you pull back from him and lean your forehead against his. 

“Pero…Pero…Pero…” you whisper, catching your breath as his grip on your loosens, his hands resuming their soft caresses up and down your back. 

“Querida,” he smiles, pulling back a little so that he can look at you, his dark eyes warm now, softer than ever, as he brings up a hand to cup your cheek again. 

“Come home with me tonight, I can’t send you away to sleep in a tunnel again,” you whisper, closing your eyes as his fingers trace across your lips. 

“You would let me?” he asks quietly, “You trust me, a stranger?” His hand goes still on your cheek and you look at him again. 

“You’re not a stranger anymore, Pero, I trust you. If you trust me to not steal from you that is,” the last thing you say with a small grin, and Pero laughs, a deep rumble as he wraps his arms around you again. 

“You’ve already stolen from me, querida,” he smiles, “you think all these kisses were free?” 

“I’m paying in food and more kisses,” you tease him, pressing your lips to the tip of his nose and he wrinkles it, his shoulders jumping as he laughs again. 

“Steal all my kisses, hermosa, you can have every single one.” 

Somewhere behind you the oven timer goes off and Pero stiffens for a second before he relaxes under you again. 

“Only the oven telling us the barmbrack is done,” you smile, pushing yourself off Pero’s lap and standing up. He holds out his hand for you to grab, and you pull him to his feet too. 

“Feed me,” he smiles, snaking an arm around your waist as you turn the oven off and open the door. 

“It needs to cool a bit first, I’ll put it in the fridge,” you wriggle out of his arms with a giggle as he tries to hold on to your shirt. When you close the fridge door behind you, the barmbrack safely on the shelf, he’s behind you again, bending his head to your shoulder. 

“Are you really letting me stay with you tonight?” he asks, his voice betraying that he still can’t quite believe that you’re trusting him. 

“Pero,” you reply, turning around and taking his hand, “I was scared when I first saw you outside, you looked frightening. But you also looked scared, like you needed help, and something told me I could trust you. And you’ve done nothing to make me regret that. I trust you.”

He looks at you for a few moments, uncertainty flitting across his face, “Not since I became a man has anyone seen my face and trusted me like that. No one but you.” 

“I’m sorry, Pero,” you reply but he shakes his head, suddenly crowding you, making you walk back towards the work bench. 

“If you’re the only one to trust me, I think that will be enough,” he smiles, his eyes soft again, the uncertainty gone as he puts his hands on your waist and lifts you up to sit on the counter, stepping in between your thighs. You feel him push his calloused hands under your shirt again, moving over your back, softly kneading at your curves as you pull him closer, making him bend his head to yours. 

“I trust you, Pero,” you mumble, tracing your fingers over his face, his short, uneven beard, the sharp curve of his nose, carefully moving up to gently caress the scar across his eye. He closes his eyes as you touch it, mapping the way something sharp has cut across his eyebrow, down onto his cheek. 

Pero’s hands have gone still on your waist, warm palms gripping your flesh as you reach up and press your lips to the spot over his eyebrow where the scar begins, moving your mouth further down, a brief whisper against his eyelid and then a firm kiss at the top of his cheek, the jagged point of the old injury. 

“I think whatever brought me here was a blessing,” he mumbles and you nod as he opens his eyes again to look at you. 

“I’m glad you found your way here, Pero,” you reply, moving your hands up to cradle his face, finding his lips against yours again. 

The rain continues outside, flashes of bright light shining in through the window split seconds before rolls of thunder move in. But neither of you notice, lost in the sensation of warm hands and soft lips exploring something new. Pero buries his face against your neck, inhaling deeply as you wrap your fingers around his curls. You can feel his lips leave small, wet kisses all along your neck, rubbing the cool tip of his nose against the soft spot under your ear where your pulse flutters. 

“Pero,” you mumble, pressing a kiss against the tip of his ear, and he lifts his head, meeting your eyes with a warm smile, making you kiss his lips again, losing several more minutes as you both savor the moment. 

With a giggle you finally pull away a little as he chases your lips with a protest, “Let me cut the barmbrack and then we go home,” you say and he pulls you off the counter. 

“I will take it as payment for all the kisses you have stolen,” he mumbles, pressing another one to your mouth as you laugh into it. 

The barmbrack still holds some warmth when you cut it, and the rich smell that it emits as the slices fall makes you salivate and Pero groans next to you, his hand shooting out to grab the thickest piece. 

“Wait, we need butter on it too,” you laugh, slapping his eager hand away and he repays you by sinking his teeth into your neck instead, playfully biting the soft skin. 

“It smells too good, querida,” he grumbles as you spread butter on the slice and hand it to him. 

“Impatient,” you smile at him as he takes a first giant bite of the barmbrack, grinning at you around the slice. You butter your own slice and Pero hums, muttering his praise between bites until his teeth clink against the ring. 

“Oh, you got the ring in the first slice!” you exclaim, “That’s really lucky!” 

Pero carefully spits the gold ring into his palm, “I feel like my night has already been lucky,” he smiles at you, holding out the ring for you to take it. 

“No, wash it off and then keep it, until we make a new barmbrack. It’s your lucky charm for now.” 

“Are you certain?” he asks, rinsing the crumbs and butter off the heavy gold ring at the sink, and holding out to you again. 

“Absolutely, you found it, it’s yours for now,” you say, finishing your own slice as Pero slips the ring into a pouch on his belt and eyes the rest of the loaf, “Do you want another slice, Pero?” you ask with a smile and he grins back at you. 

“It reminds me of the one I had as a child, but it tastes much better. This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” he says, coming to stand behind you as you prepare a second thick slice for him and wrap the rest of the barmbrack to take home. 

“Thank you, I’m glad you like it,” you smile at him and he takes the slice. 

“Querida, I love it,” he says, smiling back at you, “it’s almost as good as your kisses…” he quirks his eyebrows and leans in to capture your lips with his again, making you open your mouth to his eager tongue. 

“Still the best thing,” he mumbles as he pulls back a little, both you catching your breath. 

“Let’s go home,” you whisper back at him, “I’m just going to make sure everything is locked up, we’ll go out the back way."

He nods and you reluctantly disentangle yourself from him and walk out to the main shop, checking the door and the alarm. When you come back, Pero is sucking on his fingers, the second slice disappeared as fast as the first and he grins back at you as he notices your look. 

You flick off the main lights, Pero’s eyes widening in surprise as the kitchen is cast into darkness, and lead him to the backdoor and let him out. The rain is only a drizzle now but the thunder is still rumbling through the sky and Pero looks up as he goes down the stairs, waiting for you to set the alarm and lock the door. 

A bright flash of lightning cuts across the back yard, followed by a loud clap of thunder that makes you jump and let out a yelp. 

“Oh shit, that scared me,” you laugh, locking the door and turning around, pocketing the key, “the thunder must be right above us.” 

But the yard in front of you is as empty as every other night. No trace of Pero, only the dim light of the street lamps and the light patter of rain drops. 

Your heart clenches in your chest, you can still feel his lips on yours. 

It’s not until a week later that you see the article. A patron has left a newspaper behind and as you clear the table, a headline catches your eye. 

Modern ring found in 11th century grave

Archeologists at a dig in Sevilla, Spain, were surprised when excavating an 11th century grave. The site is being prepared for a new residential area and the grave is being moved to a nearby churchyard. The remains of an 11th century man was found in the grave, and around his neck was a thin gold chain, also 11th century in design. What surprised the archeologist was the modern gold wedding band hanging on the chain, with the date “June sixth, nineteen forty-one” engraved on the inside.

“The grave was undisturbed, and the chain was intact, clearly placed on the man in the grave either while he was still alive or before he was buried,” said chief archaeologist Maria Ruiz. “It’s impossible, of course, for a man from the 11th century to be in possession of a 20th century ring, but at the moment we have no explanation as to how the ring ended up in the grave with him.” 

Part Ten

Some author notes here at the end too; I don't think it's canon that Pero is from Asturias, but Tovar is an Asturian name and I have a personal connection to the region so it felt right.

I have no idea if barmbrack was a thing in 11th century Europe, the earliest sources are from the 18th century. But it's bread with fruit, seems doable in any age really. If you've never had it, give it a try, it's a very easy recipe and it goes amazing with butter and a cup of tea.

Taglist: @harriedandharassed @inept-the-magnificent @sheepdogchick3  @readingiskeepingmegoing @noisynightmarepoetry @survivingandenduring @vabeachazn @amyispxnk @oberynslady @vabeachazn @amyispxnk @thewiigers  

[joelsmochi]

Dirty Work - Javier Peña

Part 2 to Desperation

i really just needed an excuse to use this gif red is def his color

Warnings: possible ooc Javi, smut [minors dni beyond this point], first person POV [Jackie with the big boobiez], also ofc Jackie (she's poc ! i more than likely won't specify her ethnicity so feel free to read as a self-insert), lazy proofreading

Smut warnings: not nearly as filthy as the last one, but still a lil dirty, public (?) sex [it’s in an office y’all], risk of getting caught, strip tease (? eh), SQUIRTING HEHE (pedro’s javi has a squirt kink from last time), overstimulation, slight pain+crying from overstimulation (consensual i promise!), basically brief masochism, worried!Javi, gentle!Javi, tummy bulge, this is basically like…mainstream porn, please proceed with caution, FLUFF at the end they like each other :o

wc: 3.5k (much shorter :( lo siento)

I walk through the halls of the quiet building, the smell of cigarettes and various colognes filling my nostrils. I haven’t seen Javier in a few weeks but we’ve spent nearly every late night on the phone as if we were two lovesick teenagers still living with our parents. Javi wasn’t just some guy I fuck and never call again, he was intriguing and mysterious, but also a little easy to read. He’s funnier than one might imagine—corny, but funny.

I told him about the Ammazza restaurant a couple of nights ago and he had been dying to try some of their food so I decided to be nice enough to surprise him with dinner.

A few people tried to stop me from walking through but I just kept on walking until I saw a room with an open door. I figured it must be where his desk is considering how often he complained about never having enough privacy so I poked my head inside the door and spotted Murphy’s profile, quickly seeing Javi’s face right across from the blonde. I strutted in quickly, making their heads turn at the sound of my platform heels hitting the floor.

“Woah, woah, woah, woah—“ Murphy protested.

I just waved him off without even bothering to look at him. “Shut up, Murphy,” I said before leaning over to pop a kiss onto Javi’s lips and sitting on the edge of his desk. “I brought you some much-needed Ammazza since it sounded like you’d be here late.”

Javi seemed a bit shocked at my appearance but sends me a warm smile nonetheless. “Thank you, uh… How did you know where I worked?”

Shrugging I answered, “I was across the street walking Angie’s dog and I saw you guys come in… That was last week I think?”

“Oh, so you’re stalking me now?” He joked. I noticed him checking out the straps of my chunky heels, probably noting how their fuchsia color complimented my brown skin.

I chuckled. “You just have a hard time blending in.”

“I’ll take your insult as a compliment. What’d you bring me anyways?”

“I didn’t know what you liked so I got you a pizza, much better than back in the states.”

“Thank you, muchas gracias, but I gotta get back to work… I’ll call you later?” He asked.

I smirked at him eyeing my nipples through my white blouse and nodded. “Sure thing, suga’.”

He curled his fingers and tilted his head up a little bit. “Dame un beso,” he hoarsely whispered. I gave him another kiss, only this time our lips linger a little longer. I noticed the smell of cigarettes so I asked for two.

I pulled my red lipstick out of my purse and put some on; I could tell the men were exchanging weird looks but I ignored it and grabbed a pen to write my hotel name and room on one of the cigarettes before I placed a kiss on the cigarette butt and placed it back into his hand. I pecked his cheek to stain it before lighting my cig and leaving without having said another word.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ✮ ✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚

“Javi?” I called with a swift knock on the open door. “Javi, ¿donde estas?” I took a few extra steps into the room I had visited hours prior and looked around the empty desks. A hand from behind pulled me back out into the hallway and I yelped before being spun around and finding Javier’s eyes. “God, fucking—Jesus, Javier you can’t do that!”

Chuckling he wrapped his arms around my hips to give my ass a firm, slow squeeze, practically grinding his clothed dick against me. “Lo siento, mama,” he whispered against my chin.

I smiled, hovered my lips over his, and tangled my fingers through his work-messy hair. “Te perdono... Why’d you call me and ask me to come back, Javi?”

He tried to kiss me but I backed away, his grip on me causing me to hit the doorway. “Mm, you looked so sexy in those jeans earlier I couldn’t stay away from you another night.”

“You coulda just came to my room.” He picked me up and walked over to his desk after kicking the door shut, and sat me atop some papers in the open area.

“Maybe I wanted you to come to me as you did earlier,” he flirted. I raised daring eyebrows at him and played with the hair on his exposed chest. “How ‘bout we go somewhere a little more… Private?”

“Lead and I shall follow.” He helped me off of the desk and held my hand while I followed him to a nearby office with a door. He shut and locked the door behind me before sitting in the chair with his toned legs sprawled out. “Oh, is this the part where I just get on my knees and beg to suck you dry?” I stood in front of him and watched his eyes follow the lines of my jeans.

“You don’t have to beg sweetheart,” he said while shaking his head ‘no’. After bending over I slowly undo the rest of the buttons on his shirt.

“You wanted me to come crawling back to you, you said?”

“Maybe… That a problem?”

I hummed and ran my cool hands over his sweat-covered chest. “No.” I walked a few feet away, turning my back to him. “You sure nobody else is here? Hmm?” I asked while facing him again.

“Yeah,” he mumbled.

I smirked down at him and unbuttoned my jeans, cheeks flushing at the sight of his jeans tightening around his dick. I untucked my shirt and undid a few buttons at the top, enough to reveal just above my nipples. I turned my back towards him again and bend over as I pulled my tight jeans down my legs. I heard him exhale deeply at the sight of me not having any panties on and still bent over I rubbed my middle fingers up and down my squished slit, shivering at the pressure. I balanced myself as I took my free hand to spread my left ass cheek so that he could see more of me. I jiggled my ass, giggling bashfully at how exposed I am; I stood up and stepped out of my jeans, remembering how he seemed to have liked my shoes earlier. Turning around I took off my blouse, let it slip from my fingers to the floor, and slowly walked to him before I sat on the desk and propped my legs onto his shoulder. He slid his hand up my bare skin, admiring my low eyes and smile.

“Jackie… Jackie, Jackie, Jackie…” He cooed. “Spread your legs for me?” I obeyed his request and propped my right leg on his other shoulder; he rolled his seat closer to me and kissed the goosebumps on my belly. I ruffled his hair a little bit which made him pull his head back to look at my nails. “Mm,” he cheerfully moaned, “Pink, yeah? Like your heels?” He rubbed my calf, leaned back to leave little pecks on my ankle above my heel straps, and darted his tongue out to lick up my entire leg until he got to my hot vulva. His hands gripped the sides of my thighs roughly as he chose not to wait any longer to get a proper taste. He moaned and practically melted into my skin. “You taste better than I remember,” he affirmed.

“Hmm, thank you,” I whispered, leaning back on my elbows. I watched his tongue work over my clit, trying to hollow my moans into breaths but failing miserably. My moans bounced off of the walls in the small room while his mewls fell onto my dripping lips. He buried his nose deeper into the flesh of my pussy and allowed me to close my legs around his head; I cried out his name, begging him to fuck me with his fingers. He just moaned and slowly slid one inside of me wanting to feel me convulse around him before sliding another one in, stretching me out so much with his fingers alone that it nearly burned. “God, you’re gonna make me come already,” I moaned.

“Need to make you squirt again,” he said close enough to my clit to make it vibrate. “That was so sexy…”

Giggling, I said, “Won’t I get—fuck, right there—I can’t get these papers wet?”

“Don’t mind ‘em, cariño, Cesar will live.”

Before I could even think to question him again he sucked my clit between his teeth gently and shamelessly rammed his curled fingers against my g-spot; my hands clamped around his curls and my knees tightened against his jaws. I felt a similar urge as I did that night in the car where I squirted all over his backseat. My eyes closed thinking about him ruthlessly fucking me in the puddles of my secretion was enough to… Well, make it happen again.

I let out the most obnoxiously high-pitched scream as my orgasm took over my body and mind. He pulls his head up, unable to take any more of the pressure my legs were causing; he rubbed my clit with all four of his fingers and pumped his other hand in and out of my pussy at a pace my orgasm couldn’t keep up with. He laughed and boasted once my squirt began to spill everywhere, some even splashed up onto my chin.

“Good fucking girl!” He boasts, not letting up on my body. “Good girl, baby, oh my goodness—“ He cut himself off by giving me a tender kiss. “Do you want me to stop?” He asked after I had finished squirting, but I feel some more build up inside of me so I shook my head and urged him to keep going even though my clit was beginning to swell from the overstimulation. I saw how hungry his eyes grew at the sight of me squirting all over him and wanted to keep it going. The possibility of getting caught made this that much more exhilarating. “Oh, I can feel you squeezing around my fingers… Mmm… M’gonna have to replace my fingers with my cock, how does that sound? Good? Good.”

Watching his slick lips talk me through my elongated orgasm had me speechless—no, practically fucking braindead. His cock replacing his thick fingers and his hand still doing laps along my tender bud was enough to get me going again. This time it started out little, he didn’t even notice it at first and I thought my squirting session was coming to an end, but the numbness of my urethra turned out to be an indicator of another orgasm. As I said, it started out small but ended up much more explosive and messier than the first time. I didn’t feel a single bit of it even as it was coming out, soaking my and Javi’s face in the wetness. He rubbed even harder, almost as if to take out his frustration of it getting all over him.

After a few seconds, I had to use all the strength I could muster to push his hand and body away from me, my moans turned to gasps of agony and my already wet face being soaked in tears. I laid flat on the desk and took a moment to myself, jumping at his hands touching my thigh.

“You okay?” He asked softly after pressing his chest to mine. He kissed my collarbone sweetly and asked, “Was I too rough?”

I rubbed my palm against the side of his face and breathed in a few more times. “I just need a few minutes.” It was true. I loved the way he could effortlessly yet effectively get my body to do the things he wanted even with the slightest touch. I opened my eyes and grinned up at him. “Maybe just be a little gentle now?” He kissed me sorrily a few times. “You can do what you want, just ease up, okay? I loved it,” I reassure, “I love how you can push me to my limits. I just need some softness for a bit, that’s all…” He kept giving me a guilty look, not understanding that I admired him so much more than before. I loved being controlled and used during sex and getting to the point of cumming so hard I shed tears was a new turn-on for me. I kissed his sorrow-filled face and guided our bodies so that we were upright again. “Here,” I whispered; without breaking eye contact I lined his semi-hard cock up with my entrance again, tugging at his hips to inch inside of me. “See? I’m okay, that’s okay.”

He lifted his hands up to my face to place a kiss on my forehead. “Does it hurt?” He asked, pumping only halfway into me.

I shook my head and danced my fingertips over his back. “Shh, sh sh…” I brought him down to kiss me and guided him to fill me back up. “You feel how wet you made me?”

“Yeah?” His breath was shaky and his upper body trembled in my grasp.

“I loved it, I love the pain and the way you use me,” I said in the sense of begging him to forgive himself.

“Yeah?” He whimpered. “You promise?” His slow pumps gave my body time to relax around him. I wrapped my legs around his waist and lifted one of my nipples into my mouth, mewling out a ‘yes’. He cursed at the sight of me, droplets of my squirt still dripping from my hair onto my shoulders. I squirmed at his tip curving to my cervix, surprised (but thankful) that it didn’t hurt. I went to watch his length pump in and out of me but was surprised to find the bulge in my tummy spring up upon his entry into me. He noticed it too, I watched as his eyes widened and he quickly started to worry again.

“Come here,” I ushered before he could even get a word out. I pulled him to lay on me and gasped at how much deeper he seemed to reach. He couldn’t hold his pleasure in any longer. He adjusted us so that his knees were on the desk and my head was hanging off; on his knees above me, and forced my hips up to level with his and he sped his pace up just a little. I pleaded for him to keep going, tantalized by his whimpers and grunts. He shoved his arms under and around my waist to pull me in closer as his thrusts had gotten sloppier. “You’re s’close already,” I said when I felt his shaft throb inside of me.

He kissed me in response and paused for a moment to prop one of my legs on his shoulder; he started pounding inside of me forcing a few yelps to come out whenever he hit my pelvis with his. The desk creaked loudly and sounded as if it were on the verge of collapsing, but that didn’t stop him. After a while his pounding turned into short but fast thrusts, only allowing the base of his shaft to move in and out of me. I screamed his name and clawed at the papers on the desk letting a few books fall off whenever my flailing arms bumped into them. I cupped his face, moaning at his constant rubbing against my sweet spot.

“Oh, baby, you look so pretty like this,” he said.

Before I could give him some more dirty talk the sound of the other door slamming shut caused both Javi and me to freeze. I covered my grimacing mouth and sat up after he pulled out to tiptoe to the door. I didn’t hear what was said, but I could tell there were at least two men in the bigger room yet I am unable to move in the slightest bit. Javi turned the light off as quietly as the switch would allow and I prayed that neither of the men were looking at the opaque glass on the door. The further door being heard slamming shut again made Javi look outside, scanning the room.

“Be right back,” he whispered while pulling his jeans up and grabbing his gun.

Freaking out I tried to stop him. “No, no, Javi, please don’t leave me alone!” I whispered harshly.

Hey, I said possibly getting caught was a turn-on. Not nearly getting caught.

“It’ll be for two seconds, cariño, okay? I promise I’ll be right back.” He kissed my forehead, and left, but kept his promise. He was gone for maybe 45 seconds before he walked back in and shut the door. “We’re okay… Um… Do you want to stop?” He asked after standing in front of me.

I rolled my eyes and smirked, pulling him in for a kiss. My heart still pounding from the quick scare caused me to shiver in his arms but I ignored it and undid his pants again. “I want you to fucking hurry up and cum inside of me before we actually get fucking caught,” I urged, turning around on the desk into doggy position and not letting any more time slip away by putting his cock back inside of me.

“Yes, ma’am,” he chuckles, “it won’t take long.” He gave my ass a light but loud spank, tugging at the ends of my hair with his free hand. He pulled me back by my hair to meet him halfway on his dick, moaning out a loud, “Fuck, your ass is amazing.” He planted a kiss on my spine and dug himself into my overflowing pool of discharge and precum. It took him no longer than a few minutes of listening to my whines from how my pussy was aching for his cum for him to get close again. “You feel so fucking amazing,” he breathed onto my back, giving it a love bite.

“Javi, I can’t wait anymore…” I begged, “Please fill me up.” His hand wrapped around the front of my neck at my words, and he began to let his warm cum pour inside of me. “You’re so good to me, Daddy.” He shoved himself deeper inside of me to give me his last few drops.

“I’m good to you?” He tiredly asked.

I turned back around after he pulled out and gave him a sloppy smooch; he fixed my hair and grinned at me. “You’re so good to me.”

“Sorry about earli—“

I placed a finger on his lips and shushed him. “I’m fine, really.”

“Promise me again,” he insisted.

“Javier Peña, prometo… Que me encantó… There, does me saying it in Spanish make you believe me?” I laughed at his sleepy state.

“Actually, yeah.” He kissed me again and again and again until I felt his cum starting to drip out of me. “Here…” He grabbed my jeans and helped me into them carefully, picking me up off the piss-soaked and messy desk; he zipped and buttoned my pants for me before grabbing my shirt. “You should wear this on our date,” he nonchalantly mentioned.

I scoff up at him and start to close the blouse. “Excuse me, Agent Peña, I don’t believe you asked me properly.”

Blushing he finished dressing and quickly threw me over his shoulder earning a quick yelp from me. He walked out of the room to his desk and began gathering his things with his other hand. “Pretty girl, will you do me the honor of gracing me with your presence over a lovely dinner at Romas?” Laughing, I said yes to his proper offer which rewarded me with a slap on my ass as we began to leave the building. “Atta girl!” Once we arrived at his car he sets me on my feet and asked, “Need a ride?”

“Mhm… I walked because it’s not too far from me.” He opened the passenger door for me so I gave him one more kiss before climbing in. He turns one of his scanners off and lights a cigarette for us to split on the short drive to my hotel. “Javi?”

“Hmm?”

“Why did you wanna fuck in the Cesar guy's office?”

He choked on a laugh. “He gave me some bullshit tip which ruined my progress… Why?”

“I feel bad,” I admitted. “We could have at least cleaned it up a little… I mean I did piss everywhere.”

Shrugging he said, “If you met him you’d know why it didn’t matter.”

“I’m gonna trust you on that,” I said. “How was your pizza?”

He glanced over at me and nodded happily. “Oh it was great, thank you. Are you hungry? You told me once you always eat dinner late.”

I mantled at the small detail he remembered, firmly nodding my head. “They have good food at the hotel… Why don’t you stay over tonight?”

[ravensmadreads]

Positive Reinforcement

Rating: T? (for me being a Tease) 18+ !

Pairing: Jack "Whiskey" Daniels x f!reader

Summary: oh god don't make me do this. This is a Tattoo Artist Jack Daniels AU that @fuckyeahdindjarin lovingly coaxed me to write and now here we are.

Warnings: cursing. bad writing? People being idiots? Yearn? Idk fam I'm new to this let me know

A/N: lots of love to @barbiewritesstuff for listening to me panic about this and for reading this and for letting me be a disaster about pedro despite not even being in the pedro fandom ! ily 💙 also this is my first fic AND first time writing fiction AND English isn't my first language AND I know nothing about tattoo artists or tattoos in general so I ask you to forgive the multitude of sins I'm about to commit.

Tagging: @fuckyeahdindjarin (you're the master and this is my humble offering) @barbiewritesstuff (i gotta be a menace) @chronic-ghost (all the italics for you bby) @sherala007 @oscar-wilde-thing @perennialdoll247

P.S the gif isn't related to the fic but damn guys its a gorgeous gif?!!

Oh.

Oh God.

This was a bad idea.

This was a no good, top of the line, terribly stupid idea; and that was saying something coming from someone who'd once pulled a double shift on nothing but 7 cups of espresso and half a chocolate bar.

So maybe your track record for making sensible decisions wasn't stellar, and somebody should've talked you out of getting a tattoo. But it was far too late for that now.

The needle was buzzing away happily; stabbing tiny pinpricks into your skin and your heart was trying to beat itself clean out of your chest. Although, the very handsome man, with the very wonderful biceps, and the inexplicably sexy Stetson, currently leaning over your arm might have something to do with that. Might have several somethings to do with that in fact since he's the entire reason you're in this predicament in the first place. 

****

Jack "Whiskey" Daniels.

Proud owner of the tattoo parlor right across from the quaint little diner you co-owned and worked at. He'd given you a grin and taken your breath clean away with a "thank you darlin', that's mighty sweet of you"  the day you'd welcomed him to the block with a box of cookies. Sufficient to say, you'd been a goner since then.

After four months of long distance pining, smiles exchanged across windows, (you'd dropped a fork the first time he'd grinned at you from across the street but that was nobody's business but your own), the very rare small talk, and borderline bullying from your bestie Ginger, you had summoned the courage to go ask him out. And promptly panicked at his front door.

Because how were you supposed to talk to one of the most perfect specimens of the male species you'd ever seen? When you knew next to nothing about him!?

Except for his coffee order from when he'd walked into the diner one fateful day.

It had been a slow day and you had been lamenting your lack of love life with Ginger when the front door bell had jingled to announce a new customer. 

You'd twirled on your spot in front of the cashier and had been well in the middle of your welcome spiel before glancing up. Jack, in his infamous leather jacket, had been giving you a warm smile and you'd made a strangled squeak, to Gingers great amusement, before closing your eyes and trying to disappear into the Earth.

When that had failed, you'd taken a deep breath, counted to 5, before opening your eyes and regaining the ability to speak. He'd watched the entire thing with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes but graciously hadn't called you out on it. His parting smile and "you have a great day, honey" had been soft and you had caught yourself grinning about that smile, and that stupidly adorable pet name, throughout the entire next week.

Still, one coffee order and gentle smile didn't mean you could walk up to him and ask him out! He could be in a relationship! He could be married! He could turn out to be a total prick hiding behind a charmingly soft Southern accent!

Although, in that case, this little crush would be over and you could tell Ginger to suck it. Your mental spiral into the abyss had been interrupted by the door opening and the man of the hour himself poking his head out; his brows knit in concern. 

"Everythin' okay, sugar?"

The sight of his brown eyes so close to you had thrown you for a loop. You'd gaped at him for half a minute before blurting out the first excuse that came to mind. You vaguely remember convincing him that you were here for a tattoo and rambling about always wanting one and him opening up shop right in front of you, seeming like a sign from the universe. (A sign that you were losing it? Maybe. A sign to get a tattoo. Probably not.)

He had taken your weird behavior as first time jitters and had led you in for a consult. He'd eased you into the shop, a hand on the small of your back, while recounting the story about how a drunk tattoo had earned him his infamous nickname. You'd been giggling too hard to notice that he'd already sat you down on a couch in the back and pulled out a sketchpad.

He had been all soft smiles and twinkling eyes and thoughtful ideas. While you had been a bundle of nervous energy; trying and failing to not stare at his pretty eyes, long fingers and sharp jaw. You're pretty sure he'd caught you checking gaping at his hands several times. But nothing in his demeanor had changed, apart from the appearance of a mischievous little sparkle in his eyes. Which had only made it harder to resist the urge to jump his bones right then.

You ended up agreeing to a small design (that you had totally fallen in love with), and he had given you an appointment for the very next day. Your protests had failed at his insistence and you'd just been able to nod around the lump in your throat when he squeezed your arm in reassurance.

"Trust me darlin', you're in safe hands. I know what I'm doin'.

A furtive glance at said hands and another nod from you had sealed the deal. (Best keep your mouth shut until you were sure that words were going to make it out instead of embarrassing whimpers.) He'd smiled at you as he walked you out with a particularly devious look in his eyes. Like he knew. Like he knew exactly why you were here and insisting on getting a tattoo. And you couldn't decide if that would be the best or worst thing to ever happen to you. 

****

It was too late to do anything but reminisce now. The tattoo is halfway done and you're not one to brag but you'd made it through without too much fuss. A particularly vicious stab has you hitching a deep breath as you try not to flinch and suddenly, Jack's locking those soft eyes with you. 

"You gotta stay still now, sweetheart okay?” he rumbles, his voice low and throaty. 

Oh God.

That voice.

He could tell you to jump in front of a train with that voice and you wouldn't even blink. Your gaze drops to his mouth as his tongue peaks out to dart across those plush lips. You're caught up in the images of that tongue flicking out and tangling with yours. Figuring he'd be sweet at first; gentle and soft, with just the tiniest bit of pressure. Before licking hard and playfully biting your lower lip as he pulls away. Grinning that mischievous half smirk that makes you want to grab fistfuls of his hair and yank-  

He clears his throat and you fall back to Earth. Gulping, your eyes meet his amused stare and you nod cheerfully in response, trying not to be completely transparent. Apparently you fail miserably, because Jack just sends a knowing smirk your way before carrying on.

"That's a good girl."

Oh.

Oh God.

This was such a bad idea.

You were going to explode right in this seat.

The hum of the needle starts again and you try to shift your focus. Your gaze draws, as always, to the man bent over you; his broad fingers encircling your arm and gently holding it in place. His eyes laser focused on the design. Your gaze moves to ogle his broad shoulders and the way the muscles ripple under the leather jacket covering him. He tilts his neck and you trace the skin trying to pinpoint the exact point you'd like to sink your teeth in. Okay enough! Suffice it to say, you definitely wouldn't mind being under him in a different context.

You nearly squirm at the thought of his broad body on top of yours, but catch yourself just in time. Wouldn't be out of character for you to mess up your first tattoo right near the finish line. That would be quite the story. 'O hey, nice tattoo, what's that squiggle at the bottom?' 'Oh. Yea I was just picturing getting cracked like a glow stick by my tattoo artist when he had a needle on my skin.'

You hold back a flinch and wriggle in the seat when Jack raises the needle from your skin to start a different line. Those caramel tinted eyes rise from the half etched pattern on your bicep and fix onto you as he looks over with a raised eyebrow. 

“Behave darlin’,” he coos. “We're nearly there. You’ve been doin’ so well for me. Let’s not get carried away now.” 

Oh. 

Oh fuck.

This was a really bad idea.

You gulp and grit your teeth and nod for him to continue. You're thinking of kittens taking baths, ice cream in the park, that absolutely terrible but totally worth it for the eye candy vampire movie you'd seen last weekend, and how bad your issues with yourself had to be for you to get something permanently etched into your skin than tell a handsome man that you might like him. Mentally shaking your head at yourself, you glance over to see how much of the tattoo was left. Which turned out to be a mistake. 

"Ack!" You cry out.

Fist clenching and arm twitching immediately, as you watch the needle touch a sensitive part of your skin, and you flinch badly. Jack lifts the needle and fixes you with a stern half glare. But there's a twinkle in his eye that has you giving him a sheepish grin. 

"Whoops?"

You pout at him, with a teasing tilt of your head. He chuckles and your eyes flicker to his lips for a beat too long. When you look up, Jack's smirk has turned roguish as he catches you shamelessly checking him out. Again. 

Oh no. 

"Maybe you just need some positive reinforcement sweetheart, hm?"

Before you can even process the statement, he has already shut the needle off.

"Such misbehavin', darlin'."

He tuts at you before leaning down and pressing his lips against the corner of your mouth. He smells like leather. And a soft cologne. Both of which assault your senses; hints of pine mixed with sandalwood and something inexplicably him wraps around you, and it is dangerously delicious. His tongue darts out to have the tiniest taste as his mustache tickles the corner of your lips. Before you can restore the brain power needed to tilt your head, and maybe pull him on top of you by the lapels of his jacket, tattoo be damned, he's already pulling away. 

"Fuck me."

The whimper that leaves you is entirely involuntary.

He grins at your flustered face as the needle starts again. His grip on your arm tightens and you squirm for entirely different reasons as he winks at you.

"Absolutely. But only if you're good and hold still now sugar."

Your jaw drops. There's nothing but static in your brain.

Wait.

Did he just- ?

Oh God.

"Be good for me now honey. 'M almost done. And then we can see about rewardin' good behavior." 

Fuck.

This was the best idea you'd ever had.

.

.

.

.

****