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whataperfectwasteoftime · 3 months

Text

Trigger Points

Pairing: Erotic Massage Therapist Ezra x f!reader (not romantic)

Rating: E (explicit smut, 18+ only)

Word Count: 5.1k

Warnings: Medical kink, massage kink (is that a thing?), erotic massage, mentions of sexual dysfunction and difficulty orgasming, consent forms, the clinical is erotic now, power imbalance due to the masseur/patient dynamic, mentions of uhhh *checks notes* anal massage, lots of vaginal fingering I mean massaging, pelvic floor massaging but make it erotic, dubcon only in the sense that Ezra says orgasm is not the goal and then definitely deliberately gives her one anyway, g-spot orgasms, squirting, Penny gets on her soapbox at the end

Summary: Ezra is a massage therapist. What kind, you ask? Internal massage. That’s it that’s the fic.

A/N: I wrote this in twenty-four hours in a horny unhinged writing frenzy. Am I embarrassed that this came from my brain? Yes. Am I posting it anyway? Also yes. Thank you to @littlebirdsbookshelf for the beta (and all of the screaming) and to @leslie-lyman for egging on the medical kink that I definitely don't have.

Masterlist

You aren’t sure what you’re doing here.

This isn’t like you.

As you stare at the nondescript building–no sign, no name on the door–you think back to the seemingly random circumstances that brought you here.

The party you hadn’t wanted to go to.

The friend–acquaintance–who insisted.

The man with a distinctive blonde streak that kept lingering by the snack table and popping cocktail shrimp into his mouth with an enthusiasm that had made you look twice in wary amusement.

Like so many men, he’d taken your glance in his direction as an invitation to come over and start a conversation, but the resulting discussion was decidedly unlike any other man–or human–you’d come across.

Loquacious to the point of being humorous, the man–Ezra, he told you–was disarming and insightful. You opened up to him immediately; he seemed to have this uncanny ability to pull your life’s story from your lips, much to your surprise and chagrin. Did you really tell a strange man at a party that you’ve been from doctor to doctor, complaining of sexual pain and dysfunction, only to be given dismissive, unhelpful advice? Have a glass of wine, one said. Use different soap, said another. Make sure your laundry detergent is fragrance-free.

“I think I’m just built wrong,” you said bitterly, taking a sip from your wine glass. “Anyway, it’s fine. You didn’t sign up to listen to a stranger’s problems at some house party.”

“On the contrary,” Ezra replied mysteriously, raising one eyebrow as he regarded you with amusement. “I think our fortuitous meeting must have been arranged by the universe itself.”

Fishing his wallet out of his back pocket, he had handed you a business card that had only his first name–Ezra, no last name, and a phone number.

“I just happen to be a certified massage therapist, trained to assist with the very complaints of which you speak.”

“What kind of massage?” you’d asked, scrunching up your face in skepticism.

“Internal massage.”

You may have told him to fuck off then and there. You may have made your excuses and left the party in your embarrassment over having spilled your heart to a stranger with a questionable line of work, to say the very least.

…You may have called two weeks later to inquire about an appointment.

The woman who answered the phone in that same kind of warm, soothing tone that seems to be common in so many legitimate massage practices made you feel slightly less insane about calling. The lengthy consent form she emailed after hanging up, however, sent you spiraling again.

Extensive questions about sexual history, your beliefs about sex, your relationship to sex, your experience with pain, dysfunction, your sexuality, etc. Check boxes indicating your level of experience and comfort with a number of sexual acts and situations. And at the end, three check boxes asking whether you would like to be massaged vaginally, anally, or both.

A bell tinkles pleasantly when you open the door, and the scent of lavender fills your nose. Soft, soothing music plays from a hidden speaker somewhere, and one of those self-contained rock garden water fountains bubbles away in the corner of the brightly lit waiting room.

A woman behind the desk greets you–it must be the same one you’d spoken to on the phone–and checks you in. She walks you through what to expect during the appointment–first, you’ll meet with Ezra to discuss the consent form, then you’ll be asked to disrobe and lay on the massage table under a sheet. The type of care you’re given, she tells you, depends on what you put down on the consent form, which of course she hasn’t read, so she can’t tell you any specifics.

“But he specializes in women with sexual dysfunction?” you ask skeptically. It had said as much on the forms.

“Oh, yes,” the woman nods enthusiastically. “I know it’s an unusual service he provides, but Ezra is a professional, conscientious, and passionate about the work he does.”

You nod slowly, and she flashes you a warm, comforting smile before instructing you to sit anywhere.

You do, trying not to look too nervous as you wait.

Thankfully, you aren’t there for too long before a door opens, and Ezra softly calls your name.

Your nerves cause you to babble as you follow the man to the quiet, dimly-lit massage room. “Sorry I told you to fuck off,” you say. “That was pretty rude, and I’m sure it’s weird that I’m here now even though I clearly thought you were a pervert at the party, and–” you trail off, standing awkwardly beside the massage table as Ezra sits on a rolling stool.

“Now, now. Water under the bridge, I assure you, sprite. My profession is often met with skepticism at best and outright hostility at worst, but I let the testimonials speak for themselves. I assume you’ve read them?”

You nod, thinking back to the paragraphs of women saying they’d never known their bodies were capable of such pleasure before experiencing what they had called erotic massage.

“And I have read your consent form very carefully; I like to commit these things to heart, you see. Helps me do my job to the very best of my ability. Now, I did have a question about your very last answer: you made a checkmark indicating you were interested in vaginal massage only, but drew in a little question-mark next to anal massage.”

“I’m not sure yet,” you say, too quickly, jumbling the words together. “Depends on how… how…”

“How everything goes. Of course.” Ezra nods, making a quick note on your form. “I’ll consider you to be a vaginal-only patient for now, to be revisited at a later date if so desired.”

“Kay,” you squeak.

“Allright, let me give you a rundown of how this works. I’m not a sex worker; my job isn’t to make you orgasm. Like any massage therapist, my job is to find muscles that need to be worked out, and work them out. I just happen to specialize in muscles that other areas of practice typically ignore. This will involve both internal and external work–you might find that I might press on your lower abdomen, for example, with the other hand inside you. I always start slow with new patients; I’ll begin externally, massaging the entire pubic area and finding spots that might require extra attention. When you’re ready, we’ll move to an internal massage starting with one finger and seeing how many is most comfortable for you right now. Eventually, as we progress through your appointments, the goal is for the internal massage to involve two hands.

“Now, all that being said, the goal of these sessions might not be orgasm, but I want to let you know that it is normal and okay if that happens during your massage,” Ezra continues. “This is a safe space, and your comfort and pleasure is encouraged through this process. All of that seem hunky-dory?”

“Mmhmm,” you nod rapidly.

“Perfect. If you’re ready to get started, I’ll leave the room so you can get undressed. You can undress only from the waist down if you’re comfortable, or you can disrobe completely; the rest of you will be covered by the sheet, so it’s all down to what you prefer.”

Ezra leaves, the door clicking shut behind him, and you take a few moments to steady yourself before taking off only your pants and underwear. Grimacing at the awkwardness, you tuck the underwear into your jeans and place your shoes on top of both on the spare chair in the corner of the room. Then, you lie down under the sheet and wait.

Ezra taps lightly to herald his return before opening the door. “Good,” he says, seeing you laying stiffly on the massage table. “I’m going to check in many times during this first appointment especially,” he explains. “So much so that you may tire of it. You may simply say ‘good,’ when I ask how you are feeling, and I will continue. If you do not feel good at any point, I must ask that you say so. Sound okay?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now, this massage table is custom made for my area of practice specifically,” Ezra explains, reaching under the table and unfolding a pair of stirrups–the kind you’ve seen many times at the gynecologist–and you grimace.

“Ah, I know, most people on this table do not have the most positive memories associated with these,” Ezra tuts, “and if you aren’t sure about using these, we can simply rest your legs on either side of the table.”

“I think I’m okay,” you tell him, cautiously reaching your feet out until your legs are uncomfortably splayed open.

“You tell me if that changes.” Ezra sits down on the stool and rolls it over to sit at the front of the table. “I’m going to do the external massage with the sheet down,” he says. “No need for a cold breeze if it isn’t necessary, after all. As discussed before, I’m going to feel around the entire pubic area, finding anything that needs extra attention. If you’ve gotten a regular massage, you might notice that this one is much gentler; there won’t be any harsh poking or prodding, just light pressure and rubbing. If that’s all good, sprite, say the word and I’ll begin.”

“I’m good.”

“Very good. First, we’re going to warm up a little by touching your inner thighs. All muscles in this area are interconnected, so this will help soften things up as well.”

You keep your eyes closed and let out a slow breath through pursed lips as you feel Ezra’s large, warm hands slowly working out the tension in your thighs. The unfamiliar feeling of someone’s hands in such an intimate area is an odd one, at first, but you can’t help but slowly begin to relax as he works out the delicate muscles of the upper-most part of your legs.

“Checking in again, sprite, how are we feeling?”

“Good,” you answer, with a little more confidence this time. “It’s good.”

“Excellent,” Ezra praises. “If we’re feeling nice and comfortable about it, I’m going to start to move upward and inward. You’ll feel me touch your outer labia, your perineum, and your pubic bone as we move forward. How do we feel about that?”

“Nervous,” you admit, giggling awkwardly. “But good.”

“Of course, sprite, it’s normal to be nervous about an unfamiliar sensation. Always remember that you are able to say ‘stop’ at any time.”

At your nod, Ezra’s hands shift, his thumbs beginning to rub up and down the outside of your labia. He rubs little circles around the entire area, including–something that makes your entire body flush with heat immediately–the skin just above your little puckered hole.

“I know, I know,” Ezra soothes. “Just trying to get a complete picture here. We aren’t doing any internal massage in this area, but you may feel my fingers on the skin around it occasionally.”

“Okay,” you agree, nodding again.

“You’re doing so well, sprite. I’m going to stay external, but we’re going to start to examine a little deeper, does that sound okay? I’ll be rubbing your inner labia this time, spreading them apart to examine your vulva, urethra, and clitoris with my fingers. This is where it might start to feel pleasurable, or it could feel odd and uncomfortable as you become accustomed to this type of massage.”

“Yep,” you say, voice tight with anxiety again.

“I need a little bit more than that, sprite,” Ezra chastises. “Are you good to continue?”

“Yes. Good.”

“I can tell you’re nervous; why don’t you take a deep breath in for me for the count of five…” he counts slowly as you obey, “...and as you let it out slowly, you’re going to feel my hands move inward.”

The feel of Ezra running his slicked fingers up and down your inner labia doesn’t feel quite as uncomfortable as you’d feared. You’ve never been touched like this, or even touched yourself like this. It’s an exploration of sorts, collecting some data that means something only to him, perhaps. After a short time, he pulls you apart with his thumb and forefinger, spreading you open.

“I’m going to rub back and forth just on the surface level,” Ezra says, “You might feel my thumb press down on a few places to locate any areas to focus on later.”

You take more slow, even breaths as you feel his warm thumb move from your perineum to your clit, then back down again. In a few places, he presses down, rubbing gentle circles with his thumb as he locates some unknown source of tension.

“How well you're doing,” Ezra praises warmly. “I've definitely found some areas of tension that we can work on during your sessions. This isn't the end of the external massage, per se, as I'll still want to work on some of those spots, but this is where I start to add an internal component, if you're up to it. What are we thinking?”

“Yeah,” you agree. “I'm okay with that.”

“Good. As I explained before, I'm going to start very slow. I work with clients with a wide range of comfort levels and ability, and I'm not going to push anyone too far before they're ready. Not to be glib or reductive, but this is not dissimilar to a basic shoulder massage. I'll be working all along the muscles of your vaginal wall. We'll start with just one finger, and if that's comfortable for you, we'll see how it goes with two. I'm going to slowly slide one finger in, let you adjust to how that feels, and then I'll begin the massage on your right side, moving to the back, the left, and then the front, around in a little circle like so. At the same time I'll be gently pressing with my other hand so that I can get a feel for the muscles that are stiff, sore, or carry any tension. If at any point any sensation is unpleasant, please bring it to my attention immediately. In that event, I will stop and reassess. If that discomfort is the result of muscle or pelvic floor tension, we will slowly, slowly work through it without causing you any pain. Is all of this acceptable?”

“Yes.”

“And am I okay to begin your internal massage?”

“Yes.”

“Very good. Just as before, I'm going to spread open your labia nice and wide, only this time you are going to feel my finger slowly enter you. Once inside, we'll take a few deep breaths together, I'll ask if you are comfortable, and I'll begin the massage.”

As Ezra speaks, he does each action in turn. You feel your labia being parted, and then one slick, warm finger slips inside. It hits a bit of resistance when he passes your pelvic floor, but doesn't cause any pain. At his instruction, he guides you through three deep breaths as you become accustomed to the sensation.

“I'm going to begin moving now,” he announces. “Beginning on your left side.”

It's an odd feeling to adjust to, the way Ezra’s finger moves inside you. With his other hand pressing sometimes on your hip, sometimes at your side, you can feel him pressing against your wall in–true to his word–the same way one might massage a shoulder. This is just… very different. Or perhaps it's the same, and your brain only perceives it as such.

Despite the awkwardness of having someone rubbing such an intimate, deep, vulnerable part of your body, you can admit that something does feel good about this. Ezra is right, of course; there are muscles internally as well as externally, and you've never had yours attended to in such a way before.

Ezra’s finger rubs this way and that, covering all possible knots and tense spots on that particular side.

“Checking in, sprite,” he intones gently. “How does it feel?”

“Weird… but kinda good. I think I understand why you say it's just like a shoulder massage–I never really thought about having muscles there, but… I can feel them relaxing the same way they would as… as if it were my shoulder.”

“No physical difference between the two,” Ezra says, voicing your earlier thought. “Only up here do we make a distinction.” He taps the side of his head and gives you a sideways grin. “If we’re feeling pretty good with one, would you like to try adding one more? It all depends on your level of comfort, but it is easier to get at the muscles with two, rather than one. Would you like to try?”

The gentle loosening of the muscles you hadn't even known were tense is surprisingly soothing, so of course, you agree.

“You're doing so well at checking in with me,” Ezra says. “Take a nice deep breath for me, and we’ll switch to two fingers. Ready?”

You make a little noise of assent, and as you exhale, you feel the pressure inside you increase as Ezra slips another finger inside you.

“Doing good, sprite. I’m going to move to the muscles at the back of your vaginal walls now, which means my other hand is going to be pressing up on your lower back and buttocks. Is this fine?”

“That’s fine, yeah,” you nod, and at your consent, Ezra goes back to his steady, methodical working of your pelvic floor.

At this new angle, the sensations inside you are new and different from before. When he was massaging your left side, all you could really feel was the gentle push and pull as your muscles were soothed and relaxed. You can still feel the muscle tension easing away… but it’s very quickly being replaced by a different kind.

You try to focus on taking deep breaths in and out of your nose as Ezra seems to draw heat into your core with every stroke. You stop focusing on the relaxation entirely, instead concentrating every effort to not make any awkward noises that indicate how much your body is responding to his touch.

You really should have known better.

“Many people find that different areas of the vaginal wall can cause different kinds of sensations,” Ezra says quietly as he gently rubs small circles from within you while pressing just above your puckered hole. “The front vaginal wall, of course, has the tendency to produce the strongest impression because of what most people call the g-spot, but the rear wall is also very responsive. I want to remind you of what we discussed earlier; that you are welcome and encouraged to lean into those feelings. It is common for patients to come to orgasm multiple times during a session, and can be helpful for further muscle relaxation. All this to say, sprite, you don’t have to work to suppress the fact that this feels pleasurable. Of course it does. It’s far more advantageous for you to allow it to happen rather than spend the session working to rein it in. Understand?”

“Y-Yeah,” you nod, trying to sink back down onto the massage table again and stop fighting against your body’s automatic responses.

Even so, you don’t really believe you could orgasm from just this. Hell, you can barely orgasm during sex even when you use a vibrator. Your body’s need for intense, prolonged clitoral stimulation is simply a fact. A law, as immutable as gravity, and no amount of “internal massage” would ever have the same effect.

“If you ever do wish to revisit that last little question on the consent form, one type of treatment that can be incredibly effective is to massage the area in between, if you take my meaning,” Ezra comments lightly, as though discussing the weather. “It’s perfectly workable through what I’m doing now, of course, but even though I’m capturing the same general area, in my years of practice I’ve actually found that anal massage is an important component in achieving a comprehensive relaxation of all pelvic muscles.”

“Okay,” you say dumbly. His words–all the more impactful because of the detached clinical tone–combined with the constant pressure of his fingers, are creating a maelstrom of pleasure in your brain. You still aren’t sure if you’re “allowed” to find this entire situation to be incredibly erotic, but you worry you’ll soon have no choice, especially if your mind keeps conjuring up how it might feel to have both of Ezra’s hands rubbing something deep within you. How full you might feel.

“Nothing that needs to be discussed now or even in the near future, sprite,” he adds. “But just something to keep in the back of your mind as we progress through treatment.”

“Mm,” you agree. It’s–oh God, are you going to come? The pressure is building, building inside you, and even though there’s nothing touching your clit, it feels as though you might be reaching that point of no return. You make a soft, whining, desperate little sound as Ezra massages your vaginal wall with methodical precision.

“I know, I know,” he soothes in that syrupy voice of his. “Take a few deep breaths for me–I promise, it’s okay to let it go. Allow your body to do what it’s meant to do.” At this, he presses down even harder, and you gasp as you suddenly begin to clench around his fingers. Your chest heaves as you ride the waves of pleasure until they subside to a gentle ebb. Ezra remains still throughout it all, waiting patiently until you stop twitching with aftershocks.

“See? So much better when you listen to your body,” he praises. “Can you feel that? It causes your muscles to relax even further, so much more effectively than even I can manage. Feel the difference right here–” he rubs a wide circle up and down your wall, “–there’s so much less tension now, isn’t there?”

“Yeah,” you agree, still catching your breath.

“Let’s do a quick check-in before I move on,” Ezra suggests, “and while we do, I’d like to make a quick recommendation, if you are amenable.”

“That’s fine,” you answer.

“Give us a quick run-down of how you’re feeling,” he says. “Any pain? Discomfort?” When you shake your head, he continues. “How about mentally? Orgasm can make us feel vulnerable, and that’s perfectly okay, of course, but not if it leads to feeling uncomfortable or unsafe.”

“It still feels a little… strange, but I’m okay.”

“Ah, of course. Now, as far as my recommendation… Now that you’re far more relaxed, I think it might be helpful to switch to three fingers. How do you feel about that?”

You swallow. “It might feel like a lot,” you admit quietly.

“Indeed,” Ezra agrees. “As a general rule, the more fingers I am able to use, the more effective the massage. The ideal internal massage would be either with all four fingers on one hand, or a combination of three and two. If you’re feeling at all apprehensive about discomfort, however, I think it would be better to wait and see, yes?”

“Yes,” you nod gratefully.

“Moving on to your right side, sprite,” he says cheerfully. “Halfway there, and doing great.”

You can see what Ezra had been saying–you can feel that your walls are more pliant and moldable after your orgasm. However, it’s also made your nerves more sensitive to his touch, and the intense feeling of pleasure continues to flicker inside you with every gentle probe of his fingers.

You begin to float, losing track of time and simply focusing on the sensations within you. Ezra quiets down when he senses your more meditative state, and continues to massage with minimal commentary. When his thick fingers begin to move, pressing upward toward your abdomen, however, your breath catches and your hips lift of their own accord.

“My apologies, sprite. I should have warned you I was moving to the front wall before I did so, but you were in such a state of utter relaxation that I was loathe to speak up.”

“S’fine.”

“You may find this area to be the most intense in terms of sensation,” Ezra comments. “There’s a reason I usually save it for last.”

You make a slightly garbled, strained noise of assent as his other hand rubs gentle circles on your mons pubis while the other continues its deliberate path up and down your walls, soothing out all of the tension and finding some incredibly sensitive spots as it does.

Ezra pauses over one such area, and, in such exquisite torture that makes you actually cry out into the room, curls both fingers up to apply even more pressure.

“Ah, that,” he chuckles to himself. “That thing–the little area they call the ‘g-spot’–it’s not some mysterious, unique phenomenon, nor is it mythological. What they didn’t know at the time–and far too many people still are not aware–is that the clitoris is much larger than just the little bit that we see on the outside.” His fingers rub little circles, back and forth, up and down, massaging so meticulously that it feels almost ruthless. “Sooo many nerves in one relatively small place,” he murmurs. “Stimulating the clitoris is normally the most reliable way to acheive orgasm, and yet so little of it is accessible. But here–” he presses up again, and you gasp, “–here we are able to access the other end of the organ.”

You can hardly concentrate on the original goal of muscle relaxation with so much pressure on your g-spot (or, apparently, the back of your clitoris) but you can still feel Ezra dutifully and clinically working out the tension in your pelvic floor.

“Doing so well, sprite, so well. One nice, big, relaxing orgasm for me and then we’ll gently explore how the tension lessens afterward.”

Despite his insistence before your appointment that orgasm was not the goal of these sessions, you can’t help but notice Ezra appears to be guiding you towards one with masterful precision. With one hand applying light pressure on your abdomen and the other pressing upward to meet it, it feels as though he’s got the most sensitive organ of your body trapped between his fingers. He plays it like an instrument, each finger working independently to stroke different parts of the soft, spongy membrane.

Finally, finally, the pressure becomes so much that you simply seem to implode; all at once, you clamp down on Ezra’s fingers like a vice as your lower back lifts from the table. A feeling of pure, hot, wet relief surges through you, and the release feels endless, as though your body simply cannot stop pulsing and contracting. Dimly, you realize that it must be the ruthless stimulation from Ezra’s hands keeping you suspended in what feels like a never-ending orgasm. His fingers press upwards, rubbing quickly and insistently back and forth against the sensitive organ, and the movement draws more and more rhythmic clenches that seem to ripple across the entire area.

And–Oh, God–with each intense throb, little streams of fluid splash out over Ezra’s hand, and you realize with absolute mortification that the sheet, massage table, and Ezra’s white coat are already soaked with your release.

“Oh shit, I’m sorr–” you try to apologize as soon as you have the presence of mind.

“Now, now, not to worry, little sprite. Any manifestation of pleasure is welcomed and encouraged here, and I’ve been at this long enough to know that stimulating the back of the clitoris oftentimes results in strong and voluminous ejaculations…” You twitch with one last, pathetic aftershock, and Ezra soothingly rubs his fingers up and down your wall in the same way one might rub someone’s back after a long day. “But feel the difference, little sprite. Feel how supple and pliant your muscles are compared to before. This is the state we strive for, little sprite. Complete and utter relaxation. When you find yourself starting to tense up again–such is the consequence of the stressful lives we lead–I want you to call up this moment, and the way your pelvic muscles so easily move for my hand, and try to get back to this state. With enough practice on your own in between sessions, this will become easily achieved.

“I’m going to do a couple of nice, wide circles with my hand to stretch out those muscles one last time, and as I do, I’d like you to take some nice, deep, easy breaths with me. Once we get to five nice big breaths, I’ll slowly remove my hand. Does this sound good?”

“Yuh-huh,” you nod.

“Nice big inhale,” Ezra reminds you, and you dutifully suck in a deep, cleansing breath of air as you feel his hand circle around your vaginal walls, pressing deep into the muscle as he does. You repeat the action four more times, and on your very last exhale, the light feeling of pressure within you finally abates as his fingers slip out of you.

“How do you feel?”

“Pretty relaxed,” you say with a relieved laugh.

“Mentally?” he prods.

“I dunno, fine,” you shrug.

“Any feelings of vulnerability are normal,” he says as he stands from his stool and helps you guide your legs out of the stirrups and back onto the table under the sheet. “You may find that these feelings may be delayed by a few days, even, so be gentle with yourself for the next week or so. Light muscle soreness is also normal, in the same way it can occur after a normal massage. If at any time this light soreness transforms into pain, please do not hesitate to contact me.”

Ezra picks up your consent form again and scans it briefly before setting it back down and giving you a serious, thoughtful look. “You told me three weeks ago that you were ‘built wrong,’ and you mention several times in your form that you have difficulty bringing yourself to orgasm. Little sprite, I have lost count of the number of clients who have the same complaints and who have similarly insisted their bodies were simply different from ‘normal’ people’s. Now, mind you, the sample size may be biased, but from this data I can only conclude that no human being is ‘built wrong.’ The problem lies in our minds, and more specifically, in the social conditioning we’ve all received since birth–conditioning that in no way favors the female experience of pleasure. Society has failed you, has labeled your pleasure as secondary, illusive, impossible, or even imaginary. Your sessions with me will help to reverse the physical symptoms from a lifetime of unhelpful social conditioning, and now that you know your body is not only capable of experiencing pleasure, but of doing so in ways you weren’t even aware, your mind will follow.”

“Wow,” you breathe, awestruck by how different you feel. “Yeah, I think you’re right.”

“I’ll leave you to get dressed, little sprite,” Ezra says, briefly patting your hand in a comforting manner. “When you’re ready, go ahead and open the door and I’ll walk you to the lobby to schedule your next appointment.”

#ezra #ezra prospect #ezra x you #ezra x reader #ezra x f!reader #pedro pascal #prospect fanfiction

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pedropascalsx · 2 months

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BIRTHDAY PROJECT FOR PEDRO PASCALS 49TH BIRTHDAY!

After the success of last years birthday project, where we raised an incredible $2,683 for abortion rights we are back again with another birthday fundraising project!

This year we are raising funds that will go directly to doctors without borders / Médecins Sans Frontières - a charity that we know Pedro himself is very passionate about.

Donations and shares are very greatly appreciated as we aim to hit our first goal of $490! The fundraiser is live now and will remain live until Pedro’s birthday on the 2nd April.

I am co-chairing this fundraiser with my partner in kind @leslie-lyman again this year - please feel free to reach out to either of us if you have any questions!

Please donate, reblog and share if you can ❤️

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal birthday #pedro pascal birthday project #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #pedro pascal fans #pedro pascal fandom #doctors without borders #MSF #medecins sans frontieres

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avastrasposts · 3 months

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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

#pedro pascal character fanfiction #pero tovar #pero tovar fanfiction #pero tovar fic #fluff

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psychedelic-ink · 1 year

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To no one's surprise whatsoever I read a lot of joel miller this month lmaodfbf I also just want to give a huge thank you to all the amazing writers out there I have yet to read, your stories bring so much joy to many many people 💜💜💜

please show your support by commenting and/or reblogging!

categories include: pedro pascal characters (max phillips, ezra, frankie morales, din djarin, marcus pike, pero tovar ), the last of us (joel miller, tess), misc. (cassian andor, santiago garcia, marc spector, wanda maximoff, steven grant)

as always don't forget to check the warnings before reading!

click here for last months fic recommendations

PEDRO PASCAL CHARACTERS

I cannot get you close enough by @leslie-lyman (max phillips)

frankie in new york by @iamskyereads (frankie morales | series)

a cut above by @wildemaven (frankie morales)

catching snowflakes @magpie-to-the-morning (din djarin)

untitled by @frannyzooey (ezra)

Punchbowls & Pincushions by @leslie-lyman (marcus pike)

Boyfriend for Hire by @absurdthirst (ezra)

red by @toomanystoriessolittletime (pero tovar)

darkness by @ezrasbirdie (ezra)

kernow by @honestly-shite (ezra | series)

never going back by @juletheghoul (max phillips)

god is a woman by @wheresarizona (max philllips)

THE LAST OF US

gift (giving) by @inklore (joel miller)

taste by @the-ginger-hedge-witch (joel miller)

middle of the night by @frannyzooey (joel miller)

strange love by @ozarkthedog (joel miller & tess)

strawberry wine by @pedrito-friskito (joel miller | series)

home by @radiowallet (joel miller x tess)

seeing you, seeing me by @amywritesthings (joel miller | series)

morning coffee @mindidjarin (joel miller)

code breaker by @inklore (joel miller)

west by @radiowallet (joel miller)

mine by @toomanystoriessolittletime (joel miller)

not enough by @queenofthefaceless (joel miller)

bloody knuckles by @pedrito-friskito (joel miller)

expectations by @pedrito-friskito (joel miller)

reassurances by @pedrito-friskito (joel miller)

radio static by @foli-vora (joel miller)

fool me twice by @inklore (joel miller)

MISC.

rebel suns by @pedrito-friskito (cassian andor | series)

untitled by @dameronscopilot (benny miller)

say it too by @astroboots (marc spector)

Thank Me Later by @writefightandflightclub (santiago garcia)

untitled by @fluffyprettykitty (wanda maximoff)

forbidden delights by @dameronscopilot (steven grant)

#.sil’s monthly fic recs #.sil's monthly fic recs #january fic recs #joel miller x reader #pedro pascal character #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #frankie morales x reader #mcu x reader #moonknight x reader

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morallyinept · 3 months

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A list of all my favourite MARCUS PIKE Fic Recs, with the writers tagged. Includes fics I am currently reading/want to read.

Please show some love to the writers by re-blogging and commenting on their work. 🖤

PART 3

⚠️ Please ensure you check the triggers/warnings etc... on the stories themselves as some of them may not be suitable to your own particular tastes.

The Longest Night - @agentmarcuspike

The Interrogation Series - @charethcutestory02 Featuring Dave York & Javier Pena

I'm Here & Affirmations Part 1, Part 2 & Part 3 - @davnittbraes

Couples Getaway Series - @katareyoudrilling Featuring Dave York

The Sweepstakes - Marcus Pike & Marcus Pike Epilogue - @katareyoudrilling PornStar!Marcus

I Can't Believe You're This Innocent - @missredherring

A Baker's Dozen - Marcus Pike - @avastrasposts

She's Under The Weather, Tulip - @nerdieforpedro

Birthday Kiss - Marcus Pike - @something-tofightfor

Dirty - @bitchesuntitled

Give & Take - @agentmarcuspike

Lost In Our Vices Series - @thetriumphantpanda Professor!Marcus

One Night - @secretelephanttattoo

The Art Of Healing Series - @northernbluess

All About That Bass - @katareyoudrilling

Love At First... Bite - @goodwithcheese

Prince F*ucking Charming - @toomanystoriessolittletime

The Louvre - @psychedelic-ink

Long Distance - @ladamedusoif

Confetti - @secretelephanttattoo

The Worthwhile Fight - @swiftispunk

Keep It - @jksprincess10

Butterflies - Spring Prompts - @nerdieforpedro

The Ghost Of You Series - @write-down-your-dreams Ghost!Reader

Playdate Series - @daddy-dins-girl Featuring Dave York

One Condition - @pedroshotwifey Featuring Ezra

Second Chances Series - @pedroscurls Neighbour!Marcus

In Shades Of Gray & Candlelight - @freelancearsonist

Only For You - @burntheedges

Congressman Marcus Pike Series - @leslie-lyman

Lujuria - @absurdthirst Sex Pollen

The Plan - @criticallyacclaimedstranger

Something New - @ezrasbirdie PlusSize!Reader

The District Sleeps Alone Tonight - @whataperfectwasteoftime

#marcus pike #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #marcus pike x f!reader #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike smut #marcus pike fluff #marcus pike the mentalist #marcus pike x you #jett's fic recs #fic recs

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wannab-urs · 6 months

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The Spreadsheet Digest - Vol. 24

Howdy folks!

I love how I said I was never waiting two weeks to do a digest again and then almost immediately did it again. Anyway if you're new here, this is every new (to me) fic I read this week (and last week) and some of my silly little thoughts about them. I have 19 fics for you this week!

As always you can find all of my previous recs here and the original spreadsheet here (now updated with warnings, author summaries, and word counts + I'm checking for broken links).

Recs below the pedro!

Multiples/MMF/MMMF

Euclidean Geometry - Frankie/Jack/Pero one shot by @leslie-lyman

I’d never have thought to put these three together and even if i had, it would have been straight up PWP no feelings. But this is STUNNING. It’s only 1.4k words but there’s such a depth to it. The different dynamics each of the boys and reader brings to the relationship, the way they care for each other AHHH and then the little flash scenes of smut 🥵🥵

The Impaler - Tim Rockford/Max Phillips one shot by @kiwisbell

This is my first Tim Rockford fic EVER and I adored it. I’m a big fan of making Max into a more serious and scary vampire and this was… so fucking hot y’all. (kinda dubcon for Tim bc he seems to be under a bit of a trance). Guys this has like every MMF position you could ever want. DVP… Spitroast… It’s so hot. And reader is so hot. And I’m melting fr.

Joel

Attraction Spell - joel one shot by @jksprincess10

I love a vampire Joel, I really really do. And I love a witchy reader just as much if not more. TW for NonCon bc Joel like… stalks reader and then gets her to basically drug herself with an attraction spell and then he also like.. Is a vampire? So there’s that. I loved this so so much. Joel is hot and scary.

Made by Hand - Joel one shot by @tinycozycomfort

Reader is married and Joel is your lover. He doesn’t really have anything to offer you at all – I mean he can’t give you something that would get you caught and he doesn’t seem to have much to give anyway. But he hand sews you a pair of cuffs made from blue ribbon AHHHHH. This fic is heartbreaking and so beautifully written. Of course the smut is hot, but the peek into Joel’s mind is really what does it for me here. He is so sad. UGHGHGHGHGH. Gimme 800 chapters of this STAT.

Garden of Earthly Delights - Joel one shot by @thesimulationswarm

What’s Gin a slut for? That’s right. Sub!Joel. Reader is a little badass in this and Joel is honestly pathetic and it’s so hot. His general air of violence and like… being a terrifying man are still present, which just makes it better that reader reduces him to a pathetic whimpering mess. Submissive Apple Washing is my favorite tag ever, also.

Balsam - Joel series by @thesimulationswarm

This one is great if you love characters. The author really takes the time to build up the characters in the town, really situating you in the lives of the people of Jackson. There’s no smut as of yet; this is a slow burn and Nina/Doc (the OC) is really just starting to connect with Joel at this point. I cannot say enough how much I love the worldbuilding in this. I adore the characters and their intricate and detailed relationships and the inner conflicts going on with each of them. This is gorgeous and I’m so excited for the next chapter.

@theywhowriteandknowthings Murder Daddy Kinktober

Neighbor's Gardener's Brother Joel, MDKT Sex Pollen - Joel, MDKT Day 17 - Din

Ok the neighbor’s gardener’s brother Joel is hotter than it has any right to be. He’s filthy, reader is filthy. It’s beautiful.

The sex pollen fic… man I fucking love sex pollen. And you also get tentacles and mind fuck and all the other delicious monsterfucking things that drive me up a damn wall (dub con obvi…).

And Day 17 - a bounty who keeps running from Din because she loves to be caught by him. She’s thrilled by the chase so much she…. Oops spoilers… Just read it. It’s being turned into a full series and I cannot wait to read it!

Din

Good Taste - Din series by @charnelhouse

Pornstar!Din – the crack fic this came from is also great, but I really enjoyed this. Din is so fucking hot and like kind of a dick, which I love very much. I only read the crackfic and the main fic, but there’s a whole list of drabbles that I’m sure I’ll dig into later.

Ezra

Long Fall into Oblivion - Ezra one shot by @oonajaeadira

As usual, Adira wrote something I love with my whole heart – who’s surprised? Not me. Anyway Ezra is training you to be a prospector and he is absolutely lovely. Reassuring, kind, protective. Adira does non-explicit smut so well she basically invented the concept.

Shorn - Ezra one shot by @gasolinerainbowpuddles

Ezra really likes your body hair, but it is time for you to shave – I love a fucking weird ass fic and I’m gonna go out on a limb and say erotic shaving is weird. I also don’t normally love shaving scenes in fics/books because there can be an element of shaming the natural body? But this fic does the opposite. It celebrates the natural body through the lens of Ezra and is also just unreasonably fucking hot. I love that weird little man with all my heart.

Dream Within a Dream - Ezra one shot by @gasolinerainbowpuddles

Incubus!Ezra – so yes, you die, because that’s what incubuses (incubi?) do. They rock your dream world and then they consume you. But listen… Ezra is ethereal and gorgeous, the dream world is absolutely stunning, the smut is hot, and honestly I’d beg him to eat my heart out too. I can’t say enough about this fic actually. I read it this morning and I’m still reeling.

Javier Peña

you miss me? - Javi P one shot by @amanitacowboy

You tease Javi while he’s at work and he punishes you for it when he gets home… and it is so deliciously good. Dom!Javi has me in a chokehold (or I wish he did).

The Raid - Javi P one shot by @toxicanonymity

Some dark!Javi from toxic! Your boyfriend or whatever gets his house raided by the DEA and Javi saves you from getting uhhh used… by his coworkers. But then he takes you for himself. Based loosely on her Raider!Joel series. Obviously non/dub con. Javi is so mean and hot pls.

Pent Up - Javi P one shot by @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin

Javi hurt his ankle (which Ang did as a dig at me because I did the same) and can’t drive, so he hasn’t been able to get any… release… which leads to him jacking off at his desk after hours. It’s so hot. I was like laughing at him up til he actually touches himself and then I about fell over. What I wouldn’t give to be his lil stress reliever. Javi baby I would live under your desk if you asked me to.

Frankie

You hired a cleaning lady, Mr. Morales? - Frankie one shot by @beskarandblasters

After the events of TF Frankie is in a bit of a depression (understandable), and his house gets more than a little messy. Santi hires a cleaning service (you) to help him out. Listen… I wish I was as bold as reader. After the sexual tension between you and Frankie gets too much to bear, you show up in a god damn sexy maid outfit to torture him into convince him to finally make a move on you. It’s so hot… reader is a sexy bad ass bitch and Frankie is adorable and so hot.

snowball kiss - Frankie one shot by @beskarandblasters

The discord found this definition on urban dictionary and Kel ran with it. It’s filthy in the best way. Pussy eating king Frankie learned a new trick and honestly it’s devastating me emotionally that I can’t have him

Dieter

Dress me up and call me pretty - Dieter one shot by @morallyinept

Messy Messy Messy Dieter – my favorite type of Dieter. His drug addiction and overall patheticness are in full force here. He wants to make himself look pretty so he uses your makeup. You come home and make sure he feels loved and beautiful, and also ruin his makeup. Pegging/sub dieter/etc but also… this fic is really fucking sweet. It kind of broke my heart despite also being filthy and depraved and I love that in a Dieter fic. I love how reader is like "we'll try again" like??? How dare you make me cry when I'm reading sub!dieter. Dammit.

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My most recent work is Starving Season - a twisted little Dave York love as consumption three parter that I plan to add a fourth part to soon.

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Happy Reading!

#fic recs #the spreadsheet digest #fanfiction recommendations #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro fics #pedro pascal character fanfiction #joel miller fics #ezra fics #dieter fics #javi p fics #frankie fics #din fics #dave york fics #pedrostories

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prolix-yuy · 1 year

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LJ! 12, 15, 16 pls?? ❤️

Leslie my darling! Good evening!

12. Are there any tropes you used to dislike but have grown on you?

You know, enemies to lovers used to baffle me because I couldn't wrap my head around the dynamic, but the more I read (and dabble in writing) the more I get the fun of it. Especially when it's less "we totally fucking hate each other, now we're in love" and more "we annoy the shit out of each other because we like each other too much and won't admit it."

15. What’s your favorite AU that you’ve written?

I almost said Cognitive Dissonance but let's be honest. SW!Frankie has been the AU to beat all in my masterlist. I love that sweet ex-sex worker and every time I write something for it it's so indulgent. Frankie and Ms J are my comfort couple and I adore them.

16. What’s an AU you would love to read (or have read and loved)?

Modern AUs for the historical characters are super fun, and I also love AUs where characters are given redemption arcs/chances to grow that the source material denied them. Post-apocalypse AUs are also a guilty pleasure, though with Joel coming soon I guess it won't be an AU for one character much longer!

Questions for fic writers

#lovely mutual!#leslie lyman

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hopeamarsu · 1 year

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Happy birthday M!!!!!! Hope it’s a good one. 💖

Thank you so so much Leslie!! ❤️

It has been a very good day and I haven’t been able to stop smiling 🤗

#lovely messages from lovely people #leslie lyman

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the-institute-rpg · 8 months

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HIATUS UPDATE:

LARA (DHANI LYMAN, JODY LINNEL, WAT FLETCHER, LESLIE STEDEMAN) SEPTEMBER 2-OCTOBER 2

#hiatus update #dhani lyman #jody linnel #wat fletcher #leslie stedeman

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whataperfectwasteoftime · 1 year

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Special

Pairing: Dave York x virgin f!Reader

Rating: E (explicit smut, 18+ only)

Word count: 7k

Warnings: large age gap, virgin!reader, first time sex, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, PIV sex (with a condom), possessive!Dave, ambiguous/dark ending

Summary: You’re part of the newest class of interns at the DIA. Told to either sink or swim, can you stay afloat long enough to get everyone’s coffee order right, deliver reports to the correct offices, and juggle the attentions of the gorgeous man in office 712, the only person at the DIA so far who’s given you the time of day?

A/N: I wanted to write first time sex with Dave York and this ended up going in a direction I did not expect! Dave is soft, but gets a little unhinged at the end, and the ending is ambiguously dark. I don’t use beta readers; instead I just send my friends increasingly unhinged screenshots with no warning or context to see how they react. Thank you to @leslie-lyman, @pedropascalx, @honestly-shite, and @radiowallet for dealing with my shenanigans, I love you all.

Masterlist

“First of all, let’s get one thing straight right now. You are not special. You think you were hot shit at Harvard? You’re worms here. The way the DIA vets their interns is simple: we throw you into the middle of the ocean. Some of you are gonna drown, that’s the point. The rest of you are gonna survive by crawling your way to the top of the pile and fighting to stay afloat.”

You try to keep your face neutral as the woman–who doesn’t look to be much older than you, but who clearly has a chip on her shoulder after surviving her own cutthroat internship at the DIA–introduces the new group of interns to their first day on the job.

“You have questions about what to do, where to go? Fuck you! Figure it out. You–” she points at a young man beside you. “What’s your focus?”

“C-Counterintelligence,” he stammers.

“Second floor, talk to Mike.”

“Who’s–”

“What did I just say?”

The man’s mouth snaps shut and he rushes away in the direction of the elevators. The woman sends several more interns scrambling in scattered directions, looking for their new offices for the next year. Finally, her finger lands on you.”

“You.”

You’re ready. “Cybersecurity,” you announce, keeping the waver out of your voice.

“Oh.” She looks you up and down with a wrinkled nose. “That means you’re with me. Basement.”

You follow your guide down the stairs to a room at the end of the hallway. You look excitedly around the cramped room, where your fellow interns take up almost every available surface, typing furiously on laptops stacked on books or piles of paper. Everyone in the room is lucky to be here: all the tops of your classes in Ivy League schools, all considered prodigies in your fields, all with overblown expectations of yourselves before your careers even start.

“Where’s my laptop?” you ask, eager to get started.

Your guide gives you a withering stare. “You can’t just arrive here on your first day and be top dog,” she says. “Everyone you see here has spent months earning their place doing the important work.”

“What am I going to be doing?” you ask warily.

“Coffee.”

“Coffee!?”

“Coffee. And–” she checks her watch, “–you’re late. Go up to conference room E403b and for God’s sake, take a notebook. You’re going to want to write it down.”

It takes you ages to find the conference room. You try first to look for it on your own, wandering the labyrinthian maze of offices and cubicles, trying to make sense of the naming convention on the doors. Finally, you have to ask a floor secretary, who looks at you like everyone seems to look at the interns at the DIA–with aggressive indifference.

The meeting is apparently in full swing when you enter, and you fight down the urge to grimace as conversations cut off in mid-sentence as every head in the room swivels to look at you. You hold up your little notebook and shake it slightly.

“Coffee orders?”

Everyone speaks at once, of course, and you scribble furiously, trying to get it all down. Carmel latte, cappuccino, macchiato, americano–fuck, wait–which one of those was nonfat? It’s all the more difficult because you don’t know a single person’s name; you try to write down simple descriptions instead. Blondie. Guy with paisley tie. Hawkish nose. Thick glasses lady. Eventually, you look down at your writing. It’s chaos, of course.

“Thanks!” you squeak. “Be right back with your–uh, with the coffees!”

You run across the street to the nearest coffee shop, feeling more like a magazine editor’s PA than an Intelligence intern. All that’s missing is vague instructions to get various fashion designers on the phone. You juggle fourteen coffees on your way back, a delicate balancing act of cardboard trays and sloshing, hot liquid.

By some miracle, you manage not to spill any on yourself when you reach the fourth floor again.

“Hi! Me again. Um–okay. So, americano… cold brew… iced latte…” you begin handing out the coffees, glancing down at your muddled cheat sheet in vain, trying to remember who had what.

"What's this?" the man with the hawkish nose asks, frowning down at the cup you’d placed in front of him.

You look down at your hastily scribbled notes.

"Uh, a… pumpkin spice latte?"

The man's eyes narrow.

"That's mine," a woman to his left pipes up. “I’ve got your black coffee right here, Dave.”

The table is a flurry of movement as several other people switch drinks, correcting your apparently many mistakes. You want to sink into the floor–this isn’t what you’d signed up for in the slightest, and now this entire conference room thinks you’re a moron.

“Thank you,” the man–Dave–says. “That will be all.”

You nod at the obvious dismissal, and retreat from the room. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Thankfully, the rest of the day is spent organizing a massive filing cabinet by alphabetical order, and you don’t have to interact with anyone else for the rest of the day after such a major fuckup. You’re just finishing up the V’s when you hear the same woman from before call out your name, and you cringe inwardly. God, what now?

“More coffee?” you ask with a wry twist of your lip.

“Hilarious. Will you take these up to Mr. York? He’s on the seventh floor, wing C, office 712.”

A stack of reports is thrust in your face, and you have to scramble not to let any of them go cascading to the floor around your feet.

You mutter the directions under your breath as you take the elevator up. York. Seventh Floor. C wing. 712. York. Seven. C. 712.

You tap timidly on the office door. The occupant looks up, and you have to suppress the urge to turn around and run away. It’s the black coffee guy. The man who’d dismissed you after you handed nearly everyone the wrong cup.

Dave York.

Dave appears to be on a conference call, but he holds out his hand, beckoning you in. Before he drops his arm again, he makes a ‘just one moment’ gesture as he finishes up the call, so you wait, awkwardly rocking back and forth on your heels as you stand just inside the doorway, listening to the conversation.

“We were fortunate that a potentially serious nuclear incident did not happen,” someone on the computer says. “Next time, we may not be so lucky.”

“All we can do is monitor the situation,” Dave responds. “I want a report that we can submit to the hill by Wednesday at the latest.”

When the call ends, Dave closes his laptop and looks up at you expectantly. “What do you think?”

You blanch. “Think? I–”

“The call. Zaporizhzhia. What do you think?” Dave folds his arms and looks up at you with a neutral, open expression. He’s the first person who’s really looked at you all day. The one thing you’ve learned is that interns do have one superpower: invisibility. Most people have looked right through you, as important and significant as an office potted plant.

To add to your nervousness, the man is gorgeous, and you find yourself staring at his pursed lips and dark eyes for longer than strictly necessary.

“I don’t… I’m just delivering stuff,” you mumble. “I brought these, uh, reports I was supposed to–”

“Our intern program only takes the highest talent from the most prestigious schools,” Dave interrupts. “I don’t believe for a second that you came here to just fuck up some coffee orders and deliver reports.”

Your gaze drops down to the floor, embarrassed.

“What school did you go to?”

“Brown,” you answer automatically.

"What was your major?"

"Cybersecurity."

“Honors?”

“Highest.”

You peek up at Dave through your eyelashes. He’s smiling now, as if he finds you amusing.

“And I’m guessing you didn’t fund your education by working at Starbucks,” he says sardonically.

“I had a fellowship,” you mumble.

Your answer makes Dave laugh out loud, but you don’t find the humor in the situation. You can't figure out if he's making fun of you or giving you a very back-handed pep talk.

"So, Miss Brown," Dave says. "What do you think?"

“The–the reactors at the plant are shut down,” you start slowly, “but there’s a risk that the nuclear fuel could overheat if power supplies to the plant’s cooling systems are cut off. They’ve already been forced to operate on backup generators a number of times. The–uh–the shelling should be tantamount to the use of a weapon of mass destruction.”

Dave listens, nodding intermittently. When you’re finished speaking, he holds out his hands for the stack of reports. When you hand them to him, he drops them on the side of his desk.

“Thank you.”

Another dismissal.

You nod and make your way over to the door.

“Brown?” Dave calls out, making you turn.

“Sir?”

“You’re going to be treated like a doormat for the next twelve months, but you are not one. The most important thing you can do right now is to have some fucking teeth. Got it?”

The words may be harsh, but Dave’s eyes are warm, one corner of his mouth turned slightly upward.

You nod rapidly. “Yes, Sir. Thank you.”

The smile grows. “Chin up, kid.”

Kid.

You nod, and with a little sigh, you head back down to the crowded cave that serves as a home base and office space for all of the interns in the building.

– – – – – – –

The next week there are more reports to deliver to office 712. And the next week. And the next. You wonder just how many deliveries the man gets, or if it just happens to be you every time. After the first day, Dave continues to make small talk with you–sometimes asking about work, sometimes discussing current events, or just remarking on the weather.

Dave York is off-limits, but you can’t help the way your heart starts to pound when he looks at you, or worse, when he talks to you. Sometimes you feel like he must be able to hear that telltale waver in your voice that indicates how incredibly flustered he makes you. You feel off-balance whenever he’s around; your words are more breathless, delivered at a higher pitch, and you can’t stop yourself from looking at him with wide eyes and parted lips whenever he says anything. He fascinates you. He’s just aloof enough to be mysterious, but personable enough to give the illusion of approachability.

Dave asks you things. Your opinions on foreign affairs. Your approach to cybersecurity. Your desired career path in Intelligence. Your… your weekend plans? Captivated by the older man’s attentions, you tell him everything. Sometimes you want to slap yourself for not being able to shut the fuck up whenever you step foot in his office, but Dave listens so intently–or, at least, gives the impression of listening intently–that it’s hard to stop. You tell him your career aspirations, your future dreams, your opinion on blockchain, the fact that you had a disastrous blind date last weekend, everything.

“Disastrous how?” Dave chuckles.

You laugh. “Where do I begin? First, he shows up twenty minutes late, then he won’t stop talking about his ex and his investment portfolio…”

Dave makes an exaggerated gasp, making you giggle harder. “He–that’s not all–he insisted on ordering for the both of us, which would have been fine, except he ordered filet mignon for himself and a house salad for me.”

“Where the hell do you find people like this?” Dave asks with a grimace.

You shrug. “Tinder.”

Dave shudders. “Doesn’t sound worth it.”

“There’s really no other way to meet people my age,” you mumble.

Dave’s head snaps up. “People your age?” he parrots.

“Yeah, I dunno. I mean, I wish I could skip to the part where everyone knows what they’re doing, but that’s just not how it works, right?” God, how you wish you could find someone who could show you everything you’ve been missing, everything you’ve wanted but was never really sure how to ask for–at least, not with the right person. There have been plenty of wrong people, and it never seemed like the right time with any of them. Of course, now, at twenty-three, you’re considered a late bloomer–and that narrows the field of potential first partners even further. No one seems to want to deal with someone as inexperienced as you.

You shudder to think what that dipshit from last weekend would have said if you would have confessed just how inexperienced you really are…

“If you want someone who knows what they’re doing, it sounds like you’re looking in the wrong place,” Dave murmurs, and is it just your imagination, or has his voice gotten deeper, more husky?

You swallow. “Probably, Sir,” you mutter noncommittally. “I, uh–I have to go. I’m supposed to be taking meeting notes down on three.”

“Stay safe out there,” Dave says quietly.

You can’t help but turn back as you reach the exit, giving Dave a small, shy smile as you leave. His dark eyes are piercing into yours, and you feel the burn of his gaze long after you’ve left the room.

– – – – – – – – –

You start staying in Dave’s office longer and longer after you deliver your reports. You always sit in one of the chairs opposite his desk–the left one, usually–and talk with wide-eyed enthusiasm for a half-hour or more, sometimes. You start talking about everything. Your family. His. You learn that he’s divorced and has two girls. You learn that he plays the piano, and that he almost always reads non-fiction, rather than novels.

“Any more dates from hell?” Dave asks one afternoon with a wry grin.

You laugh. “The last guy put me off of Tinder for a while.”

“Good.”

Your eyes snap up to meet Dave’s questioningly.

“You can do better, you know that, right?”

You shrug sheepishly. “Not like I haven’t been trying,” you grumble. “They all seem sweet online, and then they turn out to be jackasses.”

“Maybe it’s the online thing that’s the problem,” Dave suggests.

“Old man,” you tease. “That’s how people meet nowadays.”

“Is it,” Dave murmurs.

“Mmhmm. Well–I’m gonna go, I’m supposed to be handing in some statistical analysis of supply chain cybersecurity risks by the end of the day,” you say, popping out of your chair and heading for the exit.

Your hand is on the doorknob when Dave speaks again.

“I would treat you as you deserve,” he rasps under his breath.

You freeze on the spot. Did he really just…? Slowly, you turn your head to look back at the desk. Dave’s gaze is downright predatory, with hooded eyes and a little half smile that seems as if it’s challenging you to act.

“S-Sir?”

“Think about it.”

– – – –

You do.

You do little else but think of Dave’s words for days. I would treat you as you deserve. Think about it. You speculate wildly about what it would look like–whatever Dave thinks you deserve. You have little to go on–so little experience, that you can only call up steamy romances and movie scenes for examples. What would Dave York be like as a lover? Would he be rough? Gentle? Intense? The prospect of this man being your first… well, it’s daunting. Intimidating.

But if the idea scares you so much, why have you been soaking through every pair of underwear since Dave said those words to you?

Why does your heart skip a beat every time you deliver coffee to his meetings, his dark eyes burning into you as you pass paper cups around the conference table?

Why do you touch yourself to the thought of him, late at night, your fingers a poor substitute for Dave's deft hands?

Dave, for all of his intense staring, doesn't bring the subject up again. You would think his silence on the matter is a mark of chivalry–you didn’t accept his advances, and now he’s backing down–but for the way the man looks at you like a treat to be devoured. It isn’t the look of someone who’s been turned down.

It’s the look of someone who’s waiting.

You know–and Dave seems to know, too–that it’s a matter of time before you approach him again. He’s achingly polite every time you deliver anything to his office, asking about your day and listening intently to the answer, although the subject of your failed Tinder dates doesn’t come up again. If it had, there wouldn’t have been anything new to report–you’ve stopped responding to any messages, unable to entertain the idea of anyone else when the person you want the most is right in front of you.

Dave has ruined you for any other man, and he hasn’t even touched you yet.

– – – – –

In the end, it takes two weeks. It would have only taken one, but you spend the second week gathering up the courage to say something to the man. Your mind is made up, but you drag your feet until Friday, when the tension inside your body is so great that you can finally stand it no longer.

You knock on Dave’s door that afternoon with empty hands. No reports. No coffee.

Dave, when he looks up to see you standing awkwardly in his doorway, seems to know exactly the reason you’re there. His eyes dance with equal parts amusement and desire when he says, “Shut the door.”

You do as he asks and take a few steps forward, not moving all the way inside and sitting down in one of the chairs opposite Dave’s desk as you usually do.

“Don’t lurk in the doorway, pretty girl. Come sit down.”

You give Dave a shaky smile and sink down into ‘your’ chair, nervously smoothing your skirt with your hands as you do. “You–you know why I’m here,” you say timidly.

“I do.” Dave nods, leaning back in his chair. “I need you to say it out loud, though.”

“I–I want–” you trail off. What is it that you want? You can’t think properly, the only thing you want is him, you want this man and all of his dark, intimidating energy and you want his attention and most of all, you want to know what he meant when he said he’d treat you as you deserve.

“What do you want,” Dave prompts when you don’t finish the sentence.

“You,” you whisper. “I just–you. That’s what I want.”

Dave’s smile is wolfish. “I’m going to need you to be more specific.”

“I want you to show me exactly what you meant,” you say, tilting your chin up and growing bolder. “You told me to think about it, and I have.”

“You’ve thought about it?” Dave repeats, his smile widening.

“I’ve done nothing but think about it,” you admit quietly.

“Did you touch yourself?”

“Did I–Dave!” you protest, aghast.

“Did you?”

Your heartbeat pulses in your ears, and you’re barely able to hear your own answer over the rush of blood to your face.

“Yes.”

“Good,” Dave murmurs. “Good. I want you to come over tonight,” he says. “Give me your number. I’ll text you the address.”

You dictate it to him with your heart in your throat while Dave taps the numbers into his phone. A few moments later, your own device buzzes with a text.

“There,” Dave says. “Seven o’clock. Don’t be late.”

– – – – –

Your head is buzzing with anticipation for the rest of the day, and the feeling grows when you arrive back at your little studio apartment to get ready for tonight. You shower again, taking extra care to shave, and you pull on the sexiest lingerie that you own–a black lace thong and matching bra. You spend too much time dithering over what to wear–should you be casual? Sexy? Flirty? The address Dave had given you is in a neighborhood; it’s clearly his home. Should you still dress as if it’s a date? After some deliberation, you choose your favorite ‘date’ outfit–a maroon dress with off-the-shoulder sleeves and an enticingly short skirt.

You can’t help but notice the difference in the way the two of you live, when your Uber pulls into Dave’s neighborhood. You live in the cheapest housing you could find–a drab, postage stamp of an apartment with peeling wallpaper and faulty electricity. Dave lives in a pretty white house with a generous yard and a garage. You try not to think about the fact that the man must be fifteen years older than you, or more. What does he want with you?

When you knock on his door and Dave’s eyes widen and darken at your outfit, you know you’ve made the right decision to dress up a little. He ushers you in with a warm hand at the small of your back–the first time he’s ever touched you, and your breath catches at the simple intimacy of the gesture.

When you enter the house, you’re hit with the pleasant aroma of food, and you shoot Dave a questioning glance.

“Did you… make dinner?”

Dave chuckles. “Did you think I invited you here just to fuck you?”

“...Yes?”

Dave tsks. “I believe I said I’d treat you as you deserve,” he says simply, leading you into the kitchen. He hands you one of two already-poured glasses of white wine, letting his fingers brush yours as you accept it.

Dinner is chicken alfredo, which is incredible, but your stomach is already full of butterflies, and you don’t eat as much as you usually would. The two of you chat easily, as you always do, although things on your end are a little quiet. It’s not that you’re nervous, it’s that–okay, yes, you are nervous. Not because you don’t want to lose your virginity tonight to Dave York, but because you just don’t know what to expect. Will it hurt? Will he hold you after? Will you cum? Will he care if you do? Would he want to touch you first, would he, would he, would he—? With so many questions swirling around in your head, is it any surprise you can’t get a word in edgewise?

Eventually, Dave clears the plates and stacks them gently in the sink. Not sure whether to follow him or not, you take the awkward middle ground, rising from your seat and taking a few steps forward, standing in the middle of the kitchen feeling silly.

You needn’t have felt awkward in the slightest; Dave walks toward you with dark, hooded eyes and a predatory smirk. When he reaches you, he runs one finger tip across your bare shoulder. “You dressed up for me,” he remarks.

Breathlessly, you nod.

“Sweet thing,” Dave murmurs. His hand moves up to gently cup your cheek as he steps in closer until you can feel his body heat. Your eyes flutter shut reflexively as his lips draw near, his breath ghosting across your face as he descends.

It isn’t your first kiss, by any means, but it’s the first that makes you forget how to breathe. Dave's lips are gentle, but insistent, his mouth moving sensually against yours until your lips part of their own accord and Dave's tongue flicks out to taste you.

Dave is apparently spurred on by the full-body shudder it causes, and his arms are suddenly around you, crushing you to him, as he delves into your mouth and takes what he wants. You give it all willingly, although your heart is hammering at the prospect of more to come.

Your hands clutch at Dave's shirt uselessly as he deepens the kiss. You're vaguely aware of the little whimpers you're making into his mouth, the gasps and sighs as he subtly changes the tilt of his head or teases your tongue with a playful lick of his own.

Finally, when you're about to drown in your arousal, Dave breaks away and takes your hands in his, pulling you out of the kitchen and up the stairs to his bedroom.

Dave kisses you again beside the massive bed, and this time, his hand slides up your bare thigh underneath your dress, causing you to shiver again.

Dave chuckles. "Poor thing, you feel like you're about to fall over," he teases. He guides you down onto the bed, and your heartbeat reaches a crescendo.

Dave is on top of you, a low growl in his throat as he presses his length against your thigh. His hand slips underneath the material of your thong and he groans at the wetness he finds there, but the feeling of his hand on your labia is foreign and unfamiliar and suddenly your body stiffens, your eyes going wide with trepidation.

Dave pauses, his hand still inside your underwear. His eyebrows draw together, his lips pursing with confusion as he pulls back to look at you.

“Why do you look so scared?” he asks, concerned.

Your mouth opens, but you can’t find the right words. You search Dave’s face, trying to think of something to say, but all you can think about is his finger resting on your parted folds, the first time anyone has ever touched you there, and you feel like you’re about to spontaneously combust.

“Tell me,” Dave insists.

“I… fuck, I’ve never done this before,” you mumble.

Dave looks as if a bucket of ice water has been poured over his head. “Done what?”

“Any of it. I–I’ve never–”

Dave’s hand slips out of your underwear, his eyebrows knitting together as he takes in what you’re saying. “Nothing?”

You press your lips together and shake your head. Oh God, this is it–the moment Dave realizes this isn’t what he thought it was, and you’re a girl playing pretend.

“Oh, honey,” Dave breathes. “Why didn’t you say anything before now?”

“I didn’t want to ruin it,” you say quietly. “I know I’m too old to be–you know–and I just wanted to get it over with, and–”

“Shh,” Dave commands. “It wouldn’t have ruined anything. I just would have done some things differently.”

“Like what?” you ask timidly.

“Moved slower, for one,” Dave answers. “Savored you.”

“Oh,” you say dumbly.

“And I will,” Dave promises darkly. “Savor you. Enjoy you thoroughly. I need you to tell me one thing, though.”

“Anything,” you agree.

“Do you really want this? Think about it. There’s no going back.”

You nod rapidly up and down. “I want it.”

Dave surges forward and captures your lips in a passionate kiss. “It will always be me,” he growls against your mouth. “I will ruin you for anyone else.”

You barely have the presence of mind to utter one final word.

“Please.”

Just as he’d said, Dave moves slower now. He divests you of your dress and bra, letting his fingers dance across your cleavage, circling closer and closer to your nipples until you’re squirming slightly on the bed, your breath coming out in little pants. When the tip of his finger just lightly touches one, you arch off the bed as if an electric shock had just coursed through you. You’ve never been this keyed up in your life.

Dave chuckles at your response, and you duck your head in embarrassment at first, but he grips your chin and tilts your head back up to meet his dark gaze.

"Don't do that," he chastises. "I want to see every little thing that I do to you."

His mouth engulfs one nipple and you sob out loud into the room. Oh God, it's hot and wet and you can somehow feel the way his tongue is licking at you all the way down into your pussy.

"That's it," Dave encourages. "Fuck, you’re so responsive.”

You feel like your brain is melting. Dave is a real and heavy and delicious weight on top of you, his hands pulling pleasure from you that you’ve never felt in your life, and he’s barely even touched you yet. He lavishes attention on your nipples until you’re shaking, licking and sucking to find out what you like–and he discovers quickly that you like it when he flicks his tongue back and forth against the little bud by the way it makes your head tip back as you gasp loudly.

“Take it,” Dave whispers. “That’s a good girl.”

Eventually, he kisses a path down the sensitive, soft skin of your belly, making you squirm and giggle slightly. Dave chuckles darkly.

“Ticklish?”

You nod breathlessly. Dave nips softly at the little swell of your belly before moving down to the lacy fabric of your underwear and running his nose up and down the material.

“Oh,” you exclaim. “Y-You don’t have to do that, that’s–”

“I really fucking want to,” Dave says. “I want to taste this sweet pussy and I want to feel it shake around my tongue when it cums for me.” He inhales deeply with half-lidded eyes, making a low noise in his throat at the smell of you. When he finally hooks his fingers underneath your waistband and starts to pull your panties down your legs, you think you might combust.

"Has anyone ever done this before?" Dave asks.

"No."

Dave's lips curl into a wicked smile. "Beautiful girl," he rasps. "I'm going to fucking ruin you."

The first little kitten lick to your clit nearly makes you cum right then. You clench violently, and Dave chuckles, the low vibrations sending little shockwaves through your cunt.

"Ohh, I'm going to enjoy this," Dave murmurs before he starts lapping at your pussy again. You're impossibly wet, so worked up that you can already feel the telltale heat crawling its way up your spine.

You babble at the ceiling– "Dave–Dave, fuck, I can't–oh my God, this is–Dave!" The last cry of his name ends in a squeak as you shatter for him, clenching around his tongue and feeling, rather than hearing, his resulting groan.

When you come back to awareness, Dave is hovering over you, his dark eyes flitting over your face, watching you come down.

“Taste yourself,” Dave rasps, his lips–shiny with your slick–too close to yours. “How fucking sweet you are.”

You nod, and Dave lowers his mouth to yours, his entire body pressing against you again–and you feel the hot, hard length of him against your thigh. His hand grasps your hip, his fingertips digging into your flesh, and you moan at the feeling, and at the unfamiliar taste of you on Dave’s tongue.

Despite the orgasm, you still ache between your thighs, an emptiness that cannot be soothed by just Dave’s tongue.

“Dave, I need–”

“Shh, I know,” Dave murmurs. “I know.” His hand moves to the button of his pants, undoing it with one hand and shoving his pants down around his thighs before kicking them the rest of the way off. You stare at the way his erection strains against the tight material of his boxer briefs. When you hesitantly reach out and touch it, Dave hisses but doesn’t move, letting you explore at your own pace. It feels… big.

“Dave,” you begin, shaking your head slowly, “it’s not gonna fit. It’ll–”

Dave chuckles low in his throat. “I promise, it will.” “But what if it—hurts?” you squeak, growing timid again.

Dave lowers himself again until the two of you are flush together. “Look at me,” he directs. “Look at my face. Would I ever hurt you?”

You search his face, but all you can find is blunt honesty. “No,” you whisper.

“No,” Dave agrees. “No, and by the time I’m done with you, you’re going to be fucking gagging for it, pretty girl.”

He sucks his index finger into his mouth, coating it in his saliva, before slowly sliding it into your soaking cunt.

“You’re gonna cum again like this,” Dave states frankly, “with my fingers and with my mouth, and I’m gonna make you so fucking wet that it’ll slide right in.”

He thrusts gently with one finger, watching your face, those dark, burning eyes sweeping over your expression and assessing your reaction. When you start chasing his finger, making little mewling sounds when it’s just not enough, Dave crawls back down your body and lathes his tongue over your clit for the second time that night as he adds a second finger.

Just when you’re about to reach your peak again, Dave pulls back, reducing the friction and causing the feeling to retreat. You shoot him a questioning glance, but he simply smirks back, gradually giving you more until you feel it building back up, and then eases off. He repeats this little ebb and flow of pleasure, this little game of give and take, over and over and over until you’re panting and squirming and desperate to cum.

“Dave–” you whine when the pleasure recedes again.

“One more time,” Dave promises. “You’re doing so well, sweet thing, being such a good girl for me.”

It’s as if Dave has the ultimate control over your pleasure–knowing how to make it rise and fall at his pleasing, and he does, fucking up against a spot you’ve never reached yourself while his tongue swirls around your clit until everything starts to tighten again, when he stops.

“Dave!”

“I said one more, didn’t I?” Dave protests. “Trust me, I’m gonna make you cum so fucking hard after working you up like this.”

He presses a gentle, feather-light kiss to the tip of your clit, his eyes dancing with amusement at your desperation.

“Poor thing,” he goads, and his fingers start to rub insistently against you again. He sucks your clit into his mouth, gently flicking it with his tongue, and the spot inside you–you suddenly realize you feel like you’re about to–

“Dave–DaveDaveDave–shit, hang on, it–I’m gonna–”

He doesn’t withdraw in time, and something bursts inside you and splashes out around Dave’s fingers as you come apart again. You’ve never felt anything like this–it feels so fucking good but fuck, your face heats in embarrassment as you realize just how wet the sheets–and how wet Dave–is.

“Oh–oh no…” you mumble, but Dave is eagerly licking you clean with a deep groan, licking up into your cunt to chase the last droplets of the surprising deluge.

“Dave, I–” you start to apologize, but Dave is on you again, kissing you passionately before you can utter another syllable.

“My good fucking girl, so fucking sweet for me,” Dave murmurs against your lips. “Squirting all over me on her first time.”

“Please,” you beg him. “Please, I want more–”

Dave rolls off of you to rifle around in a drawer. He pulls out a condom and a small packet of something else, and you watch as he removes his underwear, heavy cock bobbing free between his legs, before rolling the condom on and opening the packet, drizzling the viscous fluid into his hand before coating his cock. He slides the same hand between your legs, coating you with the thick, slippery liquid.

“It’ll be easier with lube,” Dave says by way of explanation. You expect him to crawl between your legs with you on your back, but instead he lies down beside you, urging you onto your side and pulling you flush against him so the two of you are spooning, instead.

“Just lay like this,” Dave murmurs into your ear, sending goosebumps to the surface of your skin. He grabs your top thigh and pulls your legs open, so that your top leg is splayed over Dave’s. His lips are still at your ear when you feel the thick tip of his cock sliding back and forth against your pussy, and your breath quickens even as your hips instinctively push back against him.

“Shh, relax,” Dave soothes, and slowly starts to push in.

“Oh–” you breathe, feeling him breaking you open for the first time. True to his word, it doesn’t hurt. It’s overwhelming, and somehow incredibly emotional, even though you’ve never really attributed any significance or meaning to your virginity, viewing it more as an inconvenience over the past couple of years. Still, the reality of Dave pressing inside of you feels profound in some way, and you think back to what he’d said earlier.

“I’ll ruin you for anyone else.”

He might be right. At this moment, you aren’t sure if you’ll ever want anyone else.

Dave pushes in inch by inch, taking it slow, paying attention to every little hitch in your breathing, until the two of you are completely joined.

“Feel that?” Dave grits out, his voice sounding unusually strained. “Feel me?”

You nod, breathless.

“Tell me.”

“It feels–fuck, I feel so full.”

Dave’s hips flex experimentally, and you whimper pitifully.

“Again,” you exhale.

Dave obeys, giving you his cock with slow, deep thrusts, one arm banded around you, holding you flush against him and the other still gripping your inner thigh. You can feel every inch of him, heavy and thick inside of you. You never would have imagined that sex with Dave would be this sensual, this intimate. His breath is hot against the shell of your ear, his breaths getting heavier with effort and pleasure. His lips nip at your earlobe, then brush messily up and down the side of your neck. He finds a little spot just behind your ear that makes you shiver every time he passes it, and he sucks a mark into your skin there, making you moan pitifully.

“That’s my girl,” Dave rasps against your skin. “My precious girl. I wanted this from the beginning, you know? That morning with the coffees, I pictured laying you down on that conference table and eating that pretty cunt until you begged me to stop.”

The dark timbre of his voice, the filthy words, and the drag of his cock along your walls all combine to make you a puddle in Dave’s arms.

“Little did I know that I’d be the first to taste you,” Dave continues, his thrusts increasing in intensity as he speaks. “The first to make you come undone with my fingers, the first to feel how fucking tight and hot you are.”

His hand slides up your inner thigh until his fingers strum at your clit. “I’m gonna make you cum around my cock and once I feel it squeezing me, I will never let you go, you understand? I’m going to make you mine, sweet girl. I’ll give you everything; ruin you for everyone else so you’ll never want anyone else. Say you’ll let me give you everything,” Dave commands, his voice deepening to a low growl.

“Y-Yes,” you breathe, stunned at the shift in tone.

“Yes, what,” Dave leads.

“Yes, you can give me everything.”

“Good girl,” Dave coos. “I’ll treat you how you deserve. You won’t have to worry about anything; you’ll be my special girl. Won’t you?”

Dave’s possessive words are slightly unsettling, but the coil is tightening inside of you thanks to Dave’s deep thrusts and his fingers circling your clit, and you can’t find it in you to disagree as you start to reach the point of no return, the little moment of vertigo before the plunge.

“Yes,” you gasp.

And you fall.

– – – – –

The first thing that comes to your awareness is something warm and damp between your legs. Your eyes blink open sluggishly and you turn your head to see Dave kneeling between your legs, wiping you gently clean with a washcloth.

His cock is softening, resting inoffensively between his legs, no longer flushed and angry, and you tilt your head to the side thoughtfully as you watch him.

Dave notices you looking, and he smiles.

"Did I hurt you?"

You smile and shake your head. "No."

"Good." Dave discards the cloth and joins you on the bed, folding you into his chest.

"Is it always like this?" you ask softly.

"It is with me," Dave answers frankly.

"Did–did you mean… all of the stuff you said? I mean–at the end?"

"Of course," Dave says. "You are my special girl, aren't you?"

"I–" you swallow. "Yes?”

"I'll give you everything," Dave promises. "You won't be an intern anymore, I'll see to that. I want you as an analyst on my team, working for me directly."

"Won't–won't people object to that?" you ask, aghast.

"They wouldn't dare," Dave rumbles. "They don't go against me. And they won't go against you, either. You'll be mine, and that means you're off-limits. Wouldn’t you like that?”

You nod slowly in agreement. Would it be so wrong to let this man help you along in your career? Especially a man who’s so very attentive to you, who says that he’ll give you everything, who says sex with him is always this incredible. Wouldn’t it be akin to madness to say no to this?

“Perfect,” Dave says. “You’ll start on Monday. You won’t go down to that basement cave any more, you’ll work in my office. With me.”

“Oh,” you say, hardly able to believe what’s happening. “I–wow, Dave that’s really sudden–”

“Mmm,” Dave hums, nuzzling into your neck. “All the best for my special girl, hmm?”

You laugh disbelievingly. “Okay,” you giggle. “Yeah”

Dave chuckles too, deep in his throat.

You glance at the old-fashioned alarm clock sitting on Dave’s bedside table. It’s nearly ten. You start to second guess yourself–would you be intruding if you stayed the tnight? Do people usually stay over after the first time, or do they leave? Why didn’t sitcoms prepare you for this moment?

“Should–should I go home?” you ask, unsure of whether Dave wants you to stay.

“You think I’d kick you out after this?” Dave teases, his fingertips digging into your ribs to make you squeal ticklishly. “Silly girl. You’re staying right here.”

You nod. “Good,” you mumble. “‘Cause I’m feeling a little tired.”

“Go to sleep,” Dave says softly, kissing that little spot behind your ear that makes you shiver.

Your eyelids are impossibly heavy, and you think you must fall asleep in a matter of minutes.

Just before you do, you think you hear Dave say one more thing.

“My special girl, you are home.”

It was probably just your imagination.

#dave york #dave york x you #dave york x reader #dave york x f!reader #dave york pit #the equalizer 2 #pedro pascal

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