rainontherooftops

[rainontherooftops]

Keeper of the House - Chapter 1

AN: We all saw Pedro Pascals outfit at the SAG awards ( he won!! ) and a lot of people were reminded of Mr. Darcy. So... I did a thing. Enjoy!

Summary: Miguel F. Darcy, cousin of Fitzwilliam Darcy, has arrived from Spain to celebrate his cousins wedding to Miss Elisabeth Bennet. While they are on their honeymoon, he is charged with looking after the Estate and his cousin Georgiana. But she is not the only woman who is on his mind....

Fandom: Pride and Prejudice AU - Pedro Pascal as (OC) Miguel Fitzwilliam Darcy Genre: Romance, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Historical Drama, Family Drama,

Pairing: Miguel x OC! Millicent Tealeaf Triggers : Mentions of class differences and issues of the age, Mentions of slavery and racism, broken family dynamics, mentions of male domination over women

Rating : T

**

Keeper of the House Chapter 1

Miguel Darcy did not cross oceans to his ancestors’ land very often. But for his cousin Fitzwilliam and his wedding to Miss Elisabeth Bennet? He’d boarded a ship as soon as possible.

It was hard to distinguish the male members of the Darcy family by name, since almost all of them carried the name Fitzwilliam in some way or another.

Fitzwilliam Darcy, the man who he had just sent off on his honeymoon, was the heir to Pemberley. His other cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam Darcy, had been at the wedding but had taken off to see to his military duties soon after.

And so, it was up to him, Miguel Fitzwilliam Darcy, to run Pemberley and look after his cousin Georgiana until the newlyweds would return.

“It is so nice of you to stay a while, Cousin Miguel”, the blonde young woman across from him in the carriage said. “My brother would never have left on his honeymoon were it not for you. He deserves happiness.”

It had been ten years since he had last been to England, spending his time in the country of Spain where his mother was from and where one of his uncle’s brothers had fallen in love with her - him being the result of this union.

He could scarcely believe that the young girl who had been six years old on his last visit was sitting across him now, a young beautiful woman of sixteen.

He smiled.

“It will give us time to get to know each other better, dear cousin. And your brother promised me that you would entertain me with your piano playing.”

She smiled shyly, leaning back against the cushions and wrapping herself in her blanket. Miguel silently cursed the cold winter air – he was not used to these temperatures.

He would spend about three months at Pemberley, not only to look after Georgiana and the family affairs, but also to spend some time with his cousins and his new cousin-in-law, who he had thought a perfect match for him.

“Tell me again Georgiana who I am to expect at Pemberley. It’s been so long since I’ve visited.”

Having stayed at an inn close to the wedding venue, he hadn’t had time to move into the estate yet.

“Our housekeeper and the staff are mostly the same. We do have a new cook, Mrs. Glenn. She makes the most excellent pheasant pie. Our cousin Fitzwilliam will stay from time to time when he has time off from his duties with the military. Oh, and Milly will arrive in a few days!”

“Milly?”, Miguel enquired.

“Miss Millicent Tealeaf. She is to be my tutor. I have known her since I was a little girl, but now my brother has finally engaged her to be my teacher rather than my playmate. She is to move in in a few days and teach me about literature, biology, languages… all kinds of things.”

Miguel frowned. Now he had to look after a young woman as well? But as she was to be a staff member, he couldn’t argue.

**

“Uaaaah!”

Miguel looked up from his place at the window in the parlor to see what the commotion was about. He was bored out of his mind. The last three days had snowed them in, the thick white blanket covering the whole estate.

A small carriage, only one horse and one driver, had fought its way into the courtyard. The yell had come from a young woman who now lay in the snow, face up and dishevelled, ungraceful and her skirts indecently exposed.

The coachman had his work cut out for him with the horse that didn’t want to stand still because of the coat.

‘Anything to fight off the boredom’, Miguel thought, threw on a coat and went outside.

The woman had made no progress in getting up, so he stomped towards her, holding out a hand – and stopped.

A pair of piercing blue eyes and met his, framed by rosy pink and plump cheeks. Her hair had escaped her bun and strands of dark brown curls were escaping their confinement. She was beautiful.

“Are you alright, Miss?”, he asked, trying to get his bearings, not looking at her disturbed skirts and slowly helping her sit up in the snow.

“Yes, thank you. Just a bit of clumsiness on my part. I’m just glad the master of the house didn’t see me like this.”

Miguel smirked and helped her to her feet.

“That would be hard, considering he should be on his way to the South of France for his honeymoon by now.”

The woman laughed and clapped the snow off of her dress and overcoat.

“Oh, I am aware. But he left one of his cousins in charge. I would be absolutely mortified if a member of the Darcy family would see me in this state.”

Before Miguel could say anything, an excited yelp came from the entrance. Georgiana had spotted her friend and tutor.

“Milly! You’ve made it!”

“Hello Georgiana! Best stay back, my dear. The snow is treacherous.”

Georgiana wrapped herself in her shawl to watch the coachman unload her friend’s luggage.

“I see you’ve already met my cousin.”, she said.

Milly blinked at her in confusion and then the mortification set in.

Miguel Fitzwilliam Darcy had just witnessed her ungraceful arrival – and Millicent was ready to let the snow swallow her in embarrassment.

**

AN: We are all fantasising about Pedro as Mr. Darcy now.... I have deserved a cookie.

#Pedro Pascal #Pedro Pascal Fanfiction #Pedro Pascal fandom #Pedro Pascal Mr Darcy #Pride and Pejudice #AU #pedro pascal AU #Pride and Pejudice AU #Pedro Pascal SAG

[rainontherooftops]

Sweet Souls create Sweet Blood

Summary: Taravella "Tav" Greenleaf sneeks away from camp one night to have a good cry. Her friend Astarion, ever vigilant, comes to talk to her - finding out what makes her so sad. Add a concerned wizard to the mix...

Fandom: Baldurs Gate 3 Pairing: Gale x Tav - Platonic! Astarion x Tav (Virgin!Tav) Rating: T Trigger Warnings: Low self esteem, talk of sexual intercourse, self doubt, tears, jealousy, rejection Info: This is set between Act 1 and Act 2 of the game somewhere.

*

Sweet Souls Create Sweet Blood

„Tears are really not attractive, darling. You should stop crying.”

Taravella “Tav” Greenleaf chuckled through her sobs and tried to wipe her cheeks. She’d thought she was alone this night, sitting at the edge of the small plank that reached into the river that flowed past her, her feet dangling lazily in the current.

Tav didn’t need to look to see that a vampire was near. Her new friend and companion Astarion sat down beside her on the wooden walkway, looking out onto the water and watching the moon reflect on the surface.

“Why the tears, my dear?”

She wasn’t really surprised that he wanted to know. Ever since the party at their camp to celebrate the Tieflings rescue, the two of them had become more friendly. Not in a sexual or romantic sense – but somehow, unspoken, they had woven a small but strong strand of friendship and trust between them.

“Because I think Gale tried to kiss me and I blew it.”, she finally admitted, being more open than she’d wanted. But there was no use in lying. And if Astarion wanted to be her confidant, why not?

“Really now? I understand why you’d want to cry then. Did I tell you that he allowed me to take a nibble the other day? The man tastes like bile.”

Another chuckle.

“But I’m very perceptive. By now I think the whole camp knows that you want him to kiss you. So, I ask again. Why the tears?”

Sighing, Tav leaned her throbbing head on Astarions shoulder and let his arm sneak around her in a comforting gesture.

“I’m not surprised that it’s that obvious”, she finally said.

He squeezed her shoulder to nudge her along.

“Can you taste if someone is a virgin or not, Astarion? In their blood, I mean?”

From the corner of her eyes, she could see that he looked a bit taken aback. Apparently, one could not taste that someone has never had sex by sucking their blood.

“You act quite innocent, and you didn’t indulge at the party like some of the others – but I didn’t really think you were still an innocent”, he finally answered.

Tav shrugged. “It just hasn’t happened yet. Haven’t met a man or woman in my past that was interested in me. And look at me, I’m not exactly a price…”

“Nonsense, darling. You might not be as beautiful as me, but you have your charms.”

Another chuckle. Tav could feel that the conversation between them slowly lifted the weight on her heart.

“The thing is”, she continued, nudging a bit closer for warmth, “I like Gale. I really… really do. And the other night I think he tried to kiss me. But… but I backed away.”

Astarions grip tightened just a bit, a growl in his voice.

“Did he try to force himself on you? Because if he did…”

Tav shook her head vehemently. Gale would never….

“No… But when he tried to approach I suddenly… well. He’s been in bed with a goddess… An actual goddess… and I’m… Well, I know the mechanics of sex of course, and the people in camp are not exactly quiet, and I’m a healer so of course I know what part goes where and what to look out for and how to be save and…”

“You’re spiraling, darling.”

Another sigh.

“I just found myself asking: Why would he want to be with boring, plain me? I can never measure up to Mystra.”

Astarion was silent for a while and Tav relaxed under his soothing half-hug, her feet still being tickled by the cold torrent of the water.

“Do you know what makes blood taste sweet, darling?”

Confused, she leaned back to face her vampire friend, shaking her head.

“I thought Gale would taste rich, like a fine aged red wine – but the magic orb inside him makes his blood taste awful. Given his character though, I thought he would taste sweet.”

Tav listened, fascinated.

“I told you drinking the blood of thinking creatures was different. So, what makes blood taste sweet, sour, spicy, awful, rich or stale is entirely up to what their soul is like. You, my darling, are sweet, caring, helpful, have a heart of gold and most of all – you are kind. Which is why your blood taste sweet, like honey being put into a rich cup of tea. And if the wizard doesn’t fall in love with your soul, then he is a fool.”

It was perhaps the most wonderful compliment anyone had ever given her. So wonderful even that Tav started crying again, hugging Astarions midriff and sniffling, staining his expensive shirt with her tears.

Before the vampire could react however, someone behind them cleared their throat quite loudly.

“Apologies for the interruption”, Gale said, not sounding sorry at all.

Astarion acted so fast that Tav only later realized what he had done. He muttered “thank me later”, into her ear before laughing and pushing Tav into the cold river.

It wasn’t very deep and the current not as strong as she had thought. When she stood up, the water reached her bellybutton.

Tav could hear Astarion laughing, sauntering away while Gale was running along the edge of the plank to lean down and give her a hand.

“Are you alright? Did he hurt you?”

Tav shook her head, suddenly shivering, while she took Gales hand and let herself be pulled from the water.

“Why the hell would he do that?”, the wizard growled as he cast what Tav could only assume was the Gust of Wind spell as she felt a warm breeze envelope her and slowly but steadily drying her clothes.

“It was a prank”, Tav fibbed. “We were having a rather… illuminating conversation and I think he wanted to lighten the mood a bit."

Gale was still holding her hands in his, looking down at her face, his features sinister.

“And the tears…. Were they because of him or because of me?”

Damn. Was she that bad at sneaking away from camp? She had hoped the impromptu dip into the river had masked the fact that she had been crying, but apparently not.

When she didn’t say anything, he must have assumed that her silence was an answer, because he backed away slightly.

“Ah, I see…”

“Gale- “

“No need to explain. I clearly misread your behavior towards me. Or perhaps I’ve been blinded by wishful thinking. That doesn’t mean that your rejection hurts any less.”

“Gale, I’m not…”

“But I really thought we shared something.”

“Will you shut up for a second you stupid wizard?”

Gale stopped his speech and looked at Tav in confusion and shock – but to his credit, gave her the time to speak.

“I… I like you, Gale. I like you a lot. But…”

Now or never, Tav. Your blood is sweet. Your soul is sweet. You can do this….

“I… I was afraid that… I am afraid that you might not want to be with me because…. Because I’ve never been with someone. Ever…”

For all his intelligence it took Gale Dekarios a long while before the copper dropped. His eyes went wide before he looked Tav up and down – and then the most delicious blush covered his face.

“Y-You… you mean like…. Never ever?”

She shook her head, sheepishly.

“And… and I thought I could never in a million tendays live up to the experience you have… I mean you’ve slept with a goddess and I…”

Tav was silenced by a tentative but determined fingertip to her lips.

“I admit that is not what I expected to hear tonight. And it does put a few more steps into my plan to romance you properly on my to-do list. But, Tav… Mystra may still be my mistress. But my thoughts and my heart are with you. Have been for a while…”

There were no words for the next few minutes as Tavs heart burst with joy and she suddenly had the urge to wrap her arms around Gale and kiss him.

Unfortunately, the wizard was not well balanced, and for the second time that night Tav landed in the river below.

But this time it was not as cold – because she was wrapped in the warm embrace of the man that she was slowly falling in love with.

**

AN: This is my first fic for Baldurs Gate 3 - and gods do I love these characters. I really really would like to have Astarion as a friend - so giving him a friend to console when she pines for Gale was something that I wanted to write.

I hope you enjoyed this!

anyone up for a NSFW Part 2?

#baldurs gate 3 #bg3 astarion #bg3 gale #gale x tav #gale romance #platonic astarion #Astarion x Tav #Baldurs Gate Fanfiction #bg3 fanfic #Gale dekarios #Astarion #bg3 tav

[rainontherooftops]

Cradle

Summary: FBI Agent Marcus Pike finds out that one of his agents is pregnant - yet still insists on going into the field and taking risks. Fighting his feelings for her, he needs to step up and be a boss instead of a caring friend.

Fandom: The Mentalist - Pedro Pascal as FBI Agent Marcus Pike Genre: Colleagues toFriends to Lovers, Drama, Family Drama, Pregnancy Pairing: Marcus x f! Reader Triggers : Mentions of pregnancy and broken family dynamics, mentions of abortion and misscarriage Rating : T

IMPORTANT INFO: THIS IS A REPOST FROM MY FORMER TUMBLR BLOG

+++

Cradle

„Being pregnant is not the problem here, mother!”

Eavesdropping, Marcus thought, was an awful thing. And he really didn’t want to eavesdrop. But you weren’t exactly silent on the phone as you argued with your mother.

He had asked you to come into work on a Saturday morning, in hopes to finally catch a break on the case the team had been working on, when the building was less busy.

Two coffees and pastries from your favorite bakery down the block in his hand, he had almost knocked on the door to your office – until he had heard your voice through the door and stopped in shock.

He could, of course, double back and give you your privacy, wait five minutes until he was sure that your argument was over – but this was a delicate topic.

Chastising himself for eavesdropping, he sharpened his ears. You were one of his agents. If you were pregnant, he didn’t exactly have the right to know, but he should probably think about not sending you out into the field anymore.

Marcus didn’t have the time to think things over or digest the information that you were pregnant, because you were still shouting at your mother.

“Ohh, no, you can’t play that card. It is not the woman’s fault when the bastard who impregnated her leaves her as soon as he finds out! If you want to blame someone, blame Curtis. He’s the one who packed his bags and hauled ass. The pee hadn’t even dried on the pregnancy test!”

He really, really shouldn’t listen. But the story got spicier, and more heart-wrecking by the minute. Marcus hadn’t even known that you had been seeing someone. He had even hoped that there was a spark between the two of you. But now-

“No, Mom, just no. Don’t bring God into this! It’s all ‘be a good, Christian, abstinent girl’ – until the day you turn twenty-one. Ever since that day you’ve asked about ‘potential husbands and grandchildren’.”

Marcus suppressed a sigh. He knew that your relationship with your mother was strained at the best of times, but right now, it seemed positively chaotic.

“Abortion?! Mom! You’ve been complaining to your friends about the lack of grandchildren for years, and now that there’s one on the way you want to get rid of it?! Just because it doesn’t come with a marriage certificate? Fuck you! Either you show some fucking support for your daughter and your future grandchild, or you prepare for a future without them. Your choice.”

Marcus almost dropped the coffees when he jumped back as the cellphone that you had probably been shouting into hit the heavy oak door with a shattering smash. He could hear you groaning and cursing, and he knew it was time to retreat.

Thanking the gods above for the carpeted floor in the old building that hosted the art department, he slowly walked back towards the doors.

He made it around a corner just in time; he heard the door of your office open and close again. Deeming it save to appear now, he put on his best bland face so as to not rise suspicion that he had heard and now knew your secret.

You had been power walking so fast towards him that he almost collided with you in the hallway.

“Woah, good morning there.”

Marcus could see the anger in your face, the storm in your eyes and that you were still fuming. But as soon as your gazes met, he thought that your features softened a little.

An exhausted sigh left your lips as you stopped in front of him.

“Marcus. Sorry, I didn’t look where I was-… Please tell me those are pastries from Cherry’s.”

He smiled.

“It’s the least I can get you when you’re willing to come in on a Saturday”

Pregnant, and probably with a lot of other things on your mind, he added in his thoughts, trying not to worry.

Normally he’d ask you how you are, but he refrained today, just handing you your coffee. After all, he knew that you were not feeling good. Also, he was afraid.

Of course he would listen to your problems if you decided to tell him – but somehow he wasn’t ready for it.

**

You hadn’t talked to your mother in six weeks. Between working on cases and reading books about babies and pregnancies, there was one more thing that weighed on your thoughts – Marcus Pike.

Your boss slash friend slash secret crush was acting weird. His mood altered between being nervous around you to straight up ignoring you. And every time a new case came in, he asked you to stay behind and do the research instead of going into the field.

Had you done something wrong? Were you being punished? Marcus knew you were a damn good field agent – so why was he benching you?

It didn’t just hurt your pride that he was effectively “demoting” you – it also hurt that somehow you had seemed to lose his friendship over the last weeks.

The breaking point came during an “all hands on deck” situation, where you slipped into your stab vest and prepared to leave with the rest of the crew, when Marcus turned around and told you to stay.

Your colleagues had of course noticed that something had changed in the last weeks – they were trained agents after all. You wanted to say something, but Marcus lifted his fingers, and it seemed like he was trying to keep it together.

“Please, just don’t argue with me on this. Stay here.”

“But why? Marcus, seriously, we need all the people we- “

“I told you to stay, agent, and that’s final!”, he shouted, effectively silencing the whole bullpen.

Nobody tried to hide their stares. Never had any of them seen Special Agent Pike lose his cool.

“Fine…”, you growled, throwing your stab vest on the ground and stomping back to your office.

You could see that your colleagues were eyeing you and Marcus with curious glances, their eyes burning into your skin.

**

It was 3. A. M. when Marcus returned to his apartment, only to see you sitting beneath his doorframe, shivering, and waiting for him to get home.

Th glare he received made his skin crawl – but he had done what he had to do. You were taking too many risks, actively putting the baby and yourself in peril – and he would not stand for that.

If you still weren’t feeling like telling him that you would be out of duty soon, then he had to take the reins.

“Why are you lurking at my door, agent?”, Marcus asked, exhausted, fumbling for his keys.

You were getting up and it took all the strength in him to not scoop down or lend you a hand. Every fiber of his being wanted to help you – but technically he still didn’t know about the pregnancy.

“Don’t ‘agent’ me, Marcus. I’m not here as your employee, I’m here as your friend.”

Sighing, he opened the door and let you in. Darkness surrounded you, only the faintest moonlight illuminating the hallway.

Marcus suddenly yelped in pain when you punched his upper arm as hard as you could.

“Oi!”

“What the fuck”, you complained, “was that earlier? What did I do, Marcus? Why have you been ignoring me? Why have you been benching me?”

Growling and frustrated, Marcus massaged his sore arm and trotted into the living room, turning the light on, carelessly throwing his leather jacket towards a chair.

“I could ask you the same thing. What the hell is wrong with you? Why are you still insisting on going into the field?”

That sentence earned him a confused look and two arms crossed in front of a heaving chest.

“What do you mean ‘still’? Why shouldn’t I go out into the field anymore?”

Marcus was fumbling, pacing up and down. He knew he had to tell you now that he knew you were pregnant. He had to face his feelings.

The feelings of rejection he had felt ever since he found out. The feeling of losing hope once again and heartbreak – heartbreak about a woman he had not even had a first date with yet.

“Because… Because of your condition.”

“My condition? Marcus, what…”

“Oh, for fucks sake, I know you’re pregnant, okay? I accidentally overheard you fighting with your mother on the phone”, he exploded, sitting down on the sofa and running his hands through his hair.

He had thought a lot about your predicament in the last weeks. Would you be alright as a single mother? Where could he find this bastard who had left you and kick his ass, make sure he paid child support?

How much help would you accept?

Should he… Should he offer to help out with the baby?

He expected for you to shout at him, to be mad, to cry or to leave the apartment, but instead he heard you ask: “Marcus? What is this?”

Turning his head, he saw you kneeling on the living room floor and cursed inwardly.

On one of his trips to an antique store in the last weeks he had found an old-fashioned wooden cradle and he had thought of you and your child.

He had bought it and some mint green paint from the hardware store and had repainted it. Now it was standing on a stack of old newspapers, waiting for finishing touches. It was supposed to be a surprise present.

Sighing, he leaned against his couch cushions.

“A present for your baby. I found it in an old antique store, and I thought it would be a nice thing to get you.”

Marcus watched you as you stood back up and stepped toward him, plopping yourself onto the couch, your thighs touching his. You grabbed his hand in yours and squeezed it.

“That… that is very sweet of you Marcus. But I’m not pregnant.”

His second hand enveloped your intertwined ones and goosebumps were crawling along his skin. All the color left his face and it suddenly felt like his heart dropped into his stomach.

“D-did… Did you lose the baby? I’m so- I’m so sorry. That must be so horrible. No wonder you were mad. I’m…”

With the one free hand you had left, you silenced him by placing two fingers to his lips.

You shook your head.

“I didn’t lose the baby, Marcus. You misunderstood. I was never pregnant in the first place.”

His shock was now replaced by confusion. He remembered the phone call vividly, had repeated it in his head a lot of times.

“My sister Caitlyn is moving in with me next month”, you then explained, leaning your head against his shoulder. “Her boyfriend Curtis left her as soon as she told him she was pregnant. Just packed his bags and left, the bastard. My mom is not happy about it, but she is more concerned with what people might think about Caitlyn having a child out of wedlock than anything else. She’s ten years younger than me, only twenty-two, and honestly pretty scared and lonely.”

Marcus could feel the weight that had been pressing on his chest in the last six weeks lifted from his chest. Your sister was pregnant.

“I thought I had done something to make you mad at me – or worse, did something to disappoint you. But you just wanted to protect me because you thought I was with child.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled. And that earned him another, yet lighter, punch.

“Don’t apologize for being the sweetest man alive, dumbass.”

Marcus could feel your heard on your shoulder turn towards the cradle again.

“You would have gotten me a cradle?”

He gulped, suddenly realizing the very close proximity you were in. You were still holding hands, the left side of your body pressed against his right.

“It’s… It’s still yours if you want it. I mean, your sisters. I’d like to help any way I can”, he said.

He could almost feel you smile next to him.

“Of course you do. You’re wonderful, Marcus.”

“I’m not. I’m selfish.”

“Why’d you say that?”

Now or never, Pike, he thought, shifting to look into your eyes.

“I didn’t bench you because I thought it would be dangerous for you to be out in the field. Well, yes, I did, but that was not my main motivation. I ignored you and benched you because every time I looked at you and thought about… you know… I got incredibly jealous.”

He could see in your eyes that you couldn’t follow, so he continued, his heart rapidly beating in his chest. Were his hands getting clammier?

“I… I like you. A lot. Have liked you for a while. And when I heard that you were pregnant and that you were left behind, all I felt was jealousy. I was jealous of the guy that you had apparently loved. I wanted to- “

Marcus was silenced by a pair of soft, eager lips who sealed his mouth with a kiss that was both sweet and innocent, yet still needy and full of passion.

Before he could reciprocate however, you retreated, biting your lower lip and shyly smiling up at him.

“Oh…”.

“Yes, oh”, you giggled.

“So... does this mean you… I mean…”

You snuggled back into him, now wrapping your arms around his torso, leaning your head on his chest.

“I like you too, Marcus. A lot.”

“Thank you?”

He could feel your chuckles against his ribcage. Carefully he rested his hands against your body, rubbing your shoulders.

“D’you think your sister will like the cradle?”

“I’m sure she will love it.”

**

AN: Abortion is healthcare. Nobody should be forced to carry a child they can not provide for - or be forced to give a reason why a pregnancy is being terminated. The only reason it is mentioned here as no viable option is because of the history with the mother.

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal character #marcus pike #marcus pike x female reader #colleagues to friends to lovers #colleagues to lovers #pregnancy

[rainontherooftops]

A (cooking) lesson in patience

Summary: You and Marcus Moreno have been dating for close to nine months, taking everything very slowly. And due to stress at work and him taking care of his daughter Missy, the two of you hadn't had any quality time together for a while. So, being a little petty, you thought that it was time for a little punishment.

Fandom: We can be Heroes- Pedro Pascal as Marcus Moreno Genre: Smutty Romance with a little Plot, Erotica, NSFW Fiction Pairing: Marcus x (plus size) f! Reader Triggers : Mentions of nudity, p in v sex, oral sex, rough lovemaking (with consent) impulsive kissing, foodplay

Rating : E! (Very Explicit. Absolutely not safe for Work) Minors - Goodbye - do not read.

*

A (cooking) lesson in Patience

You put the ingredients for tonight’s dinner (and adventure) on the table in your kitchen just as your phone went off.

Smiling, you opened a message from Missy. It was a picture from a tabloid, featuring her father.

Number 6 on our “most eligible bachelor” list is the leader of the Heroics, Marcus Moreno. Sure, dating a guy who has a 16-year-old daughter is a challenge for every woman (or perhaps even man?), but we’d wish for this handsome man to finally get laid again and find a new partner.

The message from Missy read: “Tabloid reporters really need some better sources. Have fun you two <3 “

Rolling your eyes, you texted back: “Have fun on your field trip. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do <3” and put your phone away.

You had secretly been dating the leader of the Heroics for close to 9 months now, and nobody except Missy, her grandmother and a few of your closest friends knew about it. One of the reasons was – yes – that he had lost his wife and Missy her mother, which was why you two had agreed from the start to take this relationship slow.

Up until now, you even had kept things quite vanilla. You only had sex a few times and at your place out of respect for Missy, and you two were still getting to know each other’s likes and dislikes.

Which was why there was a nervous giddy knot in your stomach when you thought about the night that was to come.

Marcus and you had planned to attend a cooking class together – but he’d had to cancel because he had rushed off to an emergency mission. The weeks that followed he had constantly postponed dates and had understandable excuses at hand because work kept him so busy and the little time he had he also wanted to spend with his daughter.

You understood. Missy was the top priority - as she should be. Still, you had felt just a little neglected. And thinking of the cooking lesson the two of you had missed, you had thought of the perfect punishment.

Marcus was on his way over to your place for his first weekend off in almost two months and he planned to stay all through Monday morning. So, tonight’s Friday dinner would set the mood for the weekend – and hopefully kindle some spice in your relationship.

The outfit change was done, dinner preparations were started, and a chill ran up your spine when you heard the key in your lock turn. You had given Marcus a spare key as a sign of trust, knowing fully well that with his powers he could (but never would) force an entry anyway.

You could hear the exhausted sigh from the hallway and tried to keep your smile under control.

“Buttercup, you home?”, Marcus’ voice sounded, a smile spreading across your lips when you heard your nickname.

“In the kitchen!”

“That’s it. We have the whole weekend to ourselves. I can finally relax…”

‘I sure hope not’, you thought, hearing his footsteps coming towards the kitchen.

“Something smells really goo- ohmygoodlord…”

A heavy thunk made you turn around, wooden spoon in one hand, hot pan in the other. You were wearing your best bland face, as if nothing was wrong.

As if you weren’t cooking in your kitchen, wearing nothing but a teeny-tiny red apron that just barely covered your nipples and lap, your behind on full display.

Marcus had dropped his overnight bag and stood in the doorway to the kitchen, his eyes wide as dinner plates, ogling you shamelessly. You suppressed the smirk that threatened to decorate your face as you saw that his hands moved unconsciously, wanting to grab something, and he was gulping.

You didn’t react to his half-finished sentence and turned back to your stove.

“You came just in time, Marcus. I thought we could try and make up for that cooking lesson we missed. I got you an apron.”

Now you gave yourself a moment to smirk as your back was exposed to him – and he could see the back of your body fully unclothed, save from the fabric band around your waist that kept the tiny apron in place.

When you realized that he still hadn’t moved, you turned around again and saw that his pants were having a hard time concealing his obvious excitement. The two of you hadn’t had sex in almost two months because of his busy schedule – and before that he’d had gone a long time with no sex at all.

“Go on, your apron is on the table”, you said nonchalantly and put a knife on the chopping board next to you. “Start chopping shallots, Moreno.”

“Yes ma’am...”, he gulped, suddenly very eager to get out of his clothes, throwing them across the room. You stole a cheeky glance at his naked body – and very erect penis – while he struggled with the apron, too eager to follow your orders quickly.

“Let me help you, sweetheart”, you purred, putting the wooden spoon down and approaching him. Marcus was watching your every move. He had already confessed that he was in love with your ample breasts and your curvy figure – so in order to put them on delicious display you had tied the apron in a way that made them pop and barely covered your nipples.

He continued to ogle you as you approached, took the strings from his hands, pressed yourself against the front of his body to reach around him and tie a bow in the front just at above hisnavel. The sharp intake of his breath had told you that he’d felt it.

The only other thing you were wearing underneath your apron was a pair of metal nipple-clamps.

On instinct, his powers reached out to tug, and you had to suppress a moan.

“Ah, ah, ah…”, you said, playfully slapping his cheek. “No touching allowed until we have finished eating, Marcus.”

“Until we’ve finished eating?!”

You looked at him innocently, having removed yourself from his space.

“Of course. You must be so hungry. You’ve been working so hard. The least I can do is cook for you and enjoy a quiet night in.”

The tug on your clamps subsided, but you could feel various metal kitchen utensils vibrate in anticipation and frustration.

Oh, he knew this was a punishment. You didn’t bother hiding that smirk anymore.

Your turned around, looking after the pasta sauce that was simmering in the pan, before going to the fridge and pulling out a cucumber.

“Start chopping those shallots, Marcus. I still have to wash some veggies.”

You were careful to squeeze by behind his back, your breasts and the clamps on your nipples barely touching his exposed, brown skin. He reacted with a predatory growl and a cursed profanity under his breath that almost made you shoot the whole plan to the wind and have him take you on the small kitchen island immediately – but no. This was the time to be strong.

You didn’t check, but you were sure that Marcus watched the performance of your hands washing the cucumber under the running water, which you did extra slowly and extra thoroughly.

“So…”, he said, “spaghetti, self-made sauce, salad? What am I missing?”

“That depends”, you answered, putting the cucumber on the chopping board so he could deal with it – another devilish move. “First, I need to ask you what you want to drink. Wine or beer?”

His eyes told you that he was thirsty – oh so thirsty – for something else entirely, but he opted for a beer. You handed him a bottle from the fridge, the droplets from the condensing water dripping down your fingers. Your hands touched and it was as if both of your fingertips were on fire.

But at this point, Marcus seemed to be determined to prove that he could also play this game – even if you could see that there was already a wet spot leaking through his apron where the tip of his cock was.

You sipped on a glass of white wine while Marcus occasionally nipped on his beer, both of you cooking in silence, stealing glances, watching steam escape from pots and goosebumps run up each other’s flesh when the two of you got too close in your tiny kitchen.

In all honestly, it was torture – but also so much fun and electrifying. All too soon, the two of you put the plates of food and the salad on the table, taking a seat across each other.

“Well then, let’s eat...”, you said, moving for a killing blow and slipping out of the apron, hanging in on its place on the wall. You sat down at the table, ignoring the wolfish look on Marcus’ face as you sat onto your chair, wearing nothing but your nipple clamps – and probably drenching the fabric of the chair underneath you.

“I’m starving…”, Marcus growled, sitting down too, forgetting to take off his apron. His eyes were glued to the nipple clamps that were connected by a small metal chain that dangled between them, connecting the left nipple-clamp to the right. Not for the first time did you wonder if your tits had some kind of hypnotic power.

You felt another tug at them, his control slipping, but you let it slide – concentrating on not moaning out loud when you wanted to eat your spaghetti in peace.

Smirking, you observed as Marcus struggled with his food, refusing to let his eyes wander from the feast that was sitting right in front of him. But you decided to tease him just a little longer.

The two of you ate in silence for a while, Marcus actually also finishing his place in defiance, before you bent over, took his plate for him and swayed your hips playfully while returning to the kitchen to set the plates down.

“Now”, you said teasingly, “I believe it is time for desert.”

Reaching into the freezer, you pulled out a tub of salted-caramel ice-cream, fetched a big spoon and walked past Marcus seductively. He was glued to his chair, as if waiting for instruction.

In the doorway, you turned around, winking at him.

“You coming?”

Finally, he snapped, chasing you and he ignored the surprised squeal that left your mouth as he threw you over his shoulder and raced to your bedroom in two quick steps.

“You delicious little minx”, he cursed, playfully throwing you onto the bed, making the nipple-clamps jiggle and you gripping the ice cream and spoon tight.

“That…”, he started, fidgeting with his stupid apron… “was so fucking sexy….”

You giggled, watching him fight the knot you had tied pretty tight on purpose.

That fight gave you the chance to open the ice cream tub, get the spoon in and – locking eyes with a finally gloriously naked Marcus – putting two scoops right above your nipples.

The clamps were ripped off your nipples by his invisible powers – with care you realized as not to hurt you – because just a second later Marcus was on top of you, licking at your breasts and the ice-cream that was slowly making a mess of your upper body.

“Oh god… I missed this….”, you moaned, finally giving in to your desire.

“You’re a menace”, Marcus gasped, switching nipples to get the other scoop of ice-cream – the cold treat making the nipple stay erect and at attention.

You made sure to keep eye contact with him while you took another spoonful and moaned as you licked the ice cream off the metal utensil. He punished you with a teasing little nipple-bite that made your moan intensify.

“I missed you…”, you finally admitted, putting the ice cream and spoon away on your nightstand, cupping Marcus’ cheeks and pulling him into a ravenous and filthy kiss.

“Missed you too…”, he gasped between kisses, groping and squeezing your body anywhere his strong hands could reach. You felt his cock pulsing between your bodies, leaking onto you. “‘m sorry I’ve been so busy.”

“Shush”, you said, changing the tune a little, massaging his scalp and enjoying the sigh of enjoyment that left his lips. “Your job is important. And Missy comes first. But now, Mr. Moreno- “

He opened his eyes again, his pupils blown with lust.

“Yes?”

“I’d very much like for you to finish your desert”, you smirked, spreading your legs and tentatively pushing his head lower.

In order of taking the relationship slow, the sex the two of you had had so far had been mostly vanilla positions and nothing adventurous. You wanted to change that. Starting with finally introducing oral sex into the mix and hopefully starting a more intensive conversation about likes and dislikes.

Marcus got the hint and apparently it was something he was comfortable with – even wanted to do pretty badly, because as soon as his hands touched your hips, he scooted downwards, got in position and started to put his mouth on your pussy, his tongue like a heat-seeking missile.

And goodness, this man had a talented tongue. It didn’t take long before you were a babbling mess, writhing in bliss, your hands tangled in his hair, your legs around his shoulders, locking him into place.

“Oh god, oh god right there….”, you moaned – but then the bastard suddenly put his thumb into the mix, circling your clit and you exploded in his face, your cum positively drenching him. You cried out as your spine bent backwards and you buried your head in your pillow, your entire body cramping with ecstasy.

You wondered if you’d lost consciousness for a second, because the next thing you registered was Marcus slowly, blessedly, kissing his way up your body until he was latching onto your neck to leave a love mark there.

He already knew that you loved feeling his weight on top of you, so when he let himself go a little and pressed his body against yours to press you into the mattress, you smiled as the oxytocin and dopamine in your brain sang.

“I certainly don’t have to teach you anything about desert”, you smiled giddily after a long, slow, tongue-dancing kiss.

Marcus just grinned like a cat that got the cream, suddenly grabbed your hips again and turned the two of you. Looking down at him, straddling him, feeling his cock against your clit, you remembered that his poor penis had been suffering from over an hour now.

With a wicked grin, you lifted your hips and decided to put poor Marcus Moreno out of his misery.

*

Later – you had no idea how much time you had spent in bed, but a bath was definitely in order to get rid of ice-cream stains and other liquids – you were leaning against Marcus’ chest in the bathtub, sighing as the warm water rippled between you two and he put his arms around you.

“I knew you had a bit of a wicked streak”, Marcus whispered in your ear, tickling your love handles under the water.

“And I hoped you would like it.”

“I did. Although for a while there in the kitchen I thought my dick was going to fall off. That was torture. And the nipple-clamps were especially cruel…”

You smirked.

“Well, what can I say. I felt a bit neglected.”

You felt that he didn’t exactly take it the wrong way, but still the mood was a bit dampened. You leaned against him, turned your neck and kissed the spot under his cheek you could reach. “I’m just teasing. I know that there will be times where I can’t see you – especially with you being so busy and Missy being a teenager. I don’t mind not being a priority, Marcus.”

Marcus sighed, putting his head on your shoulder from behind, his damp hair tickling your cheeks.

“But you are… I want you to be… It’s just…”

“Just?”, you said, massaging the aching knees he complained about so often and relishing in the delicious sigh he breathed onto your collarbone.

“The day does not have enough hours for all the stuff I have to do and want to do.”

Giggling, you agreed.

“Which is why I bought enough food to last until Monday morning.”

Struggling, you turned around in his arms, putting on your best fiendish grin, while fishing for his penis underneath the water, finding it already half-hard again. When you made contact, he breathed in through his teeth, but challenged your gaze.

“I’m not planning on wearing anything but an apron this weekend, Mr. Moreno”, you said, kissing him.

And you didn’t.

And you didn’t even mind that you had a mountain of dirty dishes to wash when Marcus went back to work on Monday morning, with a spring in his step.

*

AN: I'm gonna go get some ice-cream now....

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #marcus moreno x you #pedro pascal character #plus size reader #marcus moreno x reader #NSFW fic

[rainontherooftops]

Pulling Strings

Summary: You and Frankie try to disassemble your hydrotherapy equipment before autumn takes hold. You soon find out that close proximity to Frankie in a heated pool is dangerous ....

Fandom: Triple Frontier - Pedro Pascal as Francisco "Catfish" Morales - Lifeguard !AU Genre: Colleagues to Lovers, Erotica, NSFW Fiction Pairing: Frankie x plus size f! Reader Triggers : Mentions of nudity, p in v sex, oral sex, outdoor sex, rough lovemaking (with consent) impulsive kissing, workplace sex

Rating : E! (Very Explicit. Absolutely not safe for Work) Minors - Goodbye - do not read.

*

Pulling Strings

It was no use. You needed a second pair of hands, or the chair wouldn’t budge.

Swimming to the stairs to get out of the pool, you had a look at the clocktower on the greens of the waterpark.

10 P.M. People had left two hours ago – most people anyway.

The cleaning staff would arrive at around midnight.

You hoped one or two of your colleagues would still be in the office at the end of he park to help you with your equipment.

Soaking wet, you dried your hand on the flimsy towel you had and dialed the front desk.

“Hello?”

You recognized the voice of your colleague Francisco Morales instantly. He had started at the beginning of the season as a new lifeguard along with his friend Benny, right when the Waterpark had opened. Now that it was the beginning of October, only the indoor pools of the park were actually open and most of them were used by professional athletes, for the swimming classes and for water aerobics and therapy.

“Frankie? It’s me.”

You were shivering a bit, but in a way you were used to and liked. The October had been kind so far, but it was not feasible anymore to do hydrotherapy outdoors – which is why you had tried to get the equipment indoors until you would install it again in the spring for your patients. It should not have taken so long, and the autumn air was chilly, but not as cold as it could have been.

“Hey…”, Frankie said, hesitantly as if he was looking for something. “Is that you at the outdoor therapy pool over there? You’ll catch your death, what are you still doing here?”

You turned around to the general direction of the office building where you could see the silhouette of a man in the control room – Frankie – wave back.

“I wanted to get the rest of the equipment inside for the winter. I had a late therapy session today. But the thing won’t budge. Could you give me a hand before you go home? Santi said they’d come and clean up the pool tomorrow and once the water is gone it will be so much harder to…”

“I’ll be right there. Stay put.”

You smiled and put the phone back onto the steps of the lifeguard podium. It was rude to stare – you knew that. But lifeguards had a habitof wearing very flashy and easy to spot swimming trunks. And if the man or woman who was wearing them was gorgeous, it was even harder not to look.

With Francisco it had been especially hard, because you’d found that you were very attracted to the little belly he had once complained about. You suspected that he had seen the somewhat uncomfortable look on your face and you had once confessed that while most of the time you were fine with the way you looked, sometimes being a bit bigger in volume still gnawed at you. So he hadn't brought it up again and your own size had never been up for discussion.

People even tended to not take you serious as a hydro therapist because of your body. Shouldn’t a physical therapist be fit themselves? Slim? Muscular?

You didn't mind – the clients that didn’t book you made way for the ones that appreciated you and you were able to help all kinds of people with disabilities and in rehab get the exercise they needed.

It didn’t take long for Frankie to come and help.

He was wearing a typical pair of red swim trunks with zippers on the side and a red zipper hoodie – no shirt underneath, you noticed – as well as a big fluffy bath towel around his neck.

“Seriously? The chair? Benny was supposed to dismantle that thing today!”, he sighed, getting rid of his cap, his hoodie and the towel, placing them all right beside your phone.

You chuckled, already back in the water, a screwdriver in hand.

“He was”, you said, setting the tool onto one of the bolts that still held it to the metal bars that sunk into the water. “But he asked me if he could leave early because apparently, he has a second date with that swimsuit model that was here a few days ago.”

Francisco cursed in Spanish and then you felt the water ripple as he swam towards you. While you were up to your midriff in water, the level only reached to Frankie’s navel.

“At least the pool is heated, otherwise I’d be freezing my nuts off”, he said.

You looked up – the stars were already out but the lights were still on, illuminating the waterpark until they were automatically killed at midnight. You could hear bats and insects chirping, the wind rushing through the leaves. It was kind of romantic.

But you doubted that Frankie saw you that way. He never looked anywhere but your eyes when you talked to him – which was of course polite. But you couldn’t help but hope to catch a glimpse of him looking at you with interest.

“What do I need to do?”, Frankie asked, coming closer and rippling the water beside you.

“Can you reach those screws at the end of the chair? I will hold the chair in place to push it so I can get it off the bars later. I’m too short to reach, and if I do it in the water, I’ll never get the chair out.”

“Sure, let me try.”

You handed off the screwdriver to him and dipped underneath the surface of the water to cover the fact that you were blushing. Why was the fact that little water droplets were caught in his small ruffle of chest hair so sexy and endearing?

You came back up for air between the two metal bars that helped lower the chair into the water and held it in place so it couldn’t slide down by accident.

“So … uhm… That color suits you...”, you heard Frankie murmur.

“Huh? Sorry what?”

“That color. Peach. It suits you.”

You looked down on yourself and blushed a little. During therapy sessions you were either wearing neoprene suits, one-pieces or special-made clothes for hydrotherapy, but never your private swimwear.

Your last therapy session had left your once-piece soaking wet, so you had changed into your private two piece that was in your locker for emergencies.

“T-Thanks...”, you murmured. “I guess I’ve never worn this here before, huh?”

Frankie shook his head.

“I would have noticed.”

You would have answered, but the chair gave way a little – the sign that the two of you were one screw down and one to go.

The next few minutes were spent in silence until Frankie removed the second screw and you saw him put both screws into the pockets of his swim-trunks and zipped them shut. He put the screwdriver onto the edge of the pool.

“Now what?”, he asked, also holding the chair in place now.

“Hold on…”, you said, diving again and coming up next to Frankie.

“I’ll hold the chair. All you need to do now is take hold of the metal bars and rotate them to the left out of the pool so that they don’t reach into the water anymore. Once the whole thing is on dry land it’s easy to maneuver.”

Frankie pushed the bars, and you held the chair in place.

“Benny will carry all this stuff by himself tomorrow, I'll make sure of that”, he gruntled as you let go and he pushed the handlebars onto high ground out of the pool.

Suddenly you felt a tug at your torso, and you watched as the top-part of your swimsuit got tugged away from you. One of the strings was caught in the gears of the chair and being pulled away from you.

You gasped, clasping your arms around your breasts to cover yourself.

Could this day get any more mortifying?

“Uhm... Frankie? C-Could… could you…?

“What? Did I miss - oh…”

You turned around and pressed yourself to the side of the pool so only your back was exposed.

“S-Sorry. One of the strings got caught”, you mumbled, sinking into the water to your chin, blushing furiously.

“I’ll just… wait a sec…”

Now you remembered why you didn’t wear this particular bikini during your therapy sessions. Kids desperately clung to you during their physical therapy – and more than one had pulled on the strings, almost disrobing you.

You heard a cough from behind you and saw your top piece dangling from Frankie’s (damn gorgeous and muscular) hand in front of your face.

“Thanks…”

You grabbed it and tried to but it back on – but you couldn’t move freely without exposing yourself and putting your boobs back into their cups without securing them and looking ridiculous was a challenge.

Besides, the garment was wet already, which made it even harder to put on.

“May I?”

Frankie’s voice was a whisper behind you, and you felt the heat of his body at your back, almost touching you. The water was still rippling between the two of you.

“Please…”, you whispered, fixing the cups to your breasts with one hand and pushing your hair away from your neck with the other so Frankie had access and could tie the suit back in place.

You felt your skin burn as Francisco’s fingertips glided across your right shoulder and take the strings at your neck to tie them. At least you thought he was reaching for the strings.

Instead you suddenly felt a hot tongue on the left side of your neck, an open-mouthed kiss and a small bite that made you gasp.

“F-Frankie?”, you said, trying to turn your head but it was impossible in this position.

“Tell me to fuck off and I will….”, he whispered, a desperate plea in his voice. You heard the truth in his words. Francisco had never been anything but respectful, friendly and nice. But now, he was taking a leap of faith. His lips hovered above the spot he had just kissed, but not a single other part of his body was touching you. He had even lifted his hand off your shoulder from just moments before.

You had plenty of space to push him away. It wouldn’t even be necessary to push. He made sure to give you plenty of space to just swim away from him without feeling caged in or being pressured.

Gulping, you knew you had to make a decision. Francisco was actually, truly asking to be physical… Something you had wished for for months now. So instead of answering with your words, you stopped clenching the top to your breasts, letting it float away. You grabbed the edges of the pool, took a deep breath and leaned against his chest, automatically connecting Frankie’s hovering lips with the spot he had kissed just moments before.

Frankie held the loose strings with one hand while the other snaked around your torso where the other strings were floating underwater. But he ignored them.

You saw the offending piece of swimwear float away in your peripheral vision – but other sensations quickly took over. Two muscular arms wrapped around your toros, one right underneath your breast and the other on your hip. With a strong tug he pulled you against him and you could feel his excitement through his swimsuit at your butt.

He growled while kissing up your neck, nibbling at the exposed skin ever so often while his hands kept exploring.

“You’re so fucking sexy…”, he moaned, carefully and slowly cupping one of your now exposed breasts, teasing a nipple. He was rewarded with another gasp and a desperate whine of his name.

“‘m not…”, you said automatically – because you were rarely called sexy.

Frankie’s ministrations suddenly stopped as he turned you around in the pool, looking into your eyes.

His pupils were dilated and the look of lust in his eyes would have made you shiver had you not been surrounded by the warm pool water.

“Yes, you are…”, he insisted, daring to look down and see your breasts now pressed against his torso and feeling your skin against his. You could feel his member twitching, pressing against your thigh. “You’re a goddamn feast…”

You gave yourself a little boost and snaked your legs around his hips, wrapping your hands around Frankie’s neck and pulling him down for a desperate kiss. He was surprised at first, but the heat of the moments was contagious.

You were both suddenly groping each other like horny teenagers, gasping, moaning, licking, exploring. You felt one of his arms support the backside of your thigh as he broke the kiss and dove down to latch onto a nipple.

Driving your fingernails into his scalp in return and moaning in heated agony, you could feel Frankie’s dick pressed against your entrance underneath the water, still hindered by your own bottoms and his trunks.

The two of you were surrounded by the steam that the heated pool water was giving off into the night. The goosebumps on your flesh were from Frankie’s ministrations and the cool autumn wind alike – but you were sure you had never felt hotter in your life.

This was happening.

Francisco Morales was going to fuck you in this pool.

You tipped your head and torso back – the movement made easy by the water holding you afloat – and gave Frankie better access to your upper body. You were sure he was leaving bruises all over, especially on your breasts – but you loved the attention.

After a while though you started feeling dizzy, and the need to feel him inside you was unbearable.

Detaching yourself from his hips and standing upright, he wanted to kiss your mouth again, but you wouldn’t let him. Instead you placed your mouth on his chest now, nibbling at him, while you palmed his erection through his swim trunks and grabbed his ass with your other hand.

“Fucking hell…”, he groaned, and his arms shot out on both sides of you so he could grab the edge of the pool. He was breathing heavily into your neck, his warm breath making your skin crawl.

“I’ve wanted you for so long…”, he started rambling into your ear while you sneaked your hand inside his trunks and finally wrapped your fingers around his cock. Now it was time for your pupils to dilate. Your mouth started watering, but you kept kissing his chest and enjoyed being pressed against the pool wall by his body. “Always taunting me with your swaying hips… Those gorgeous tits of yours… and your goddamn beautiful smile…”

A drop of tenderness dropped into the pool of your soul as you realized that Frankie really wanted this. Not just because he somehow found your body attractive – but because he genuinely liked you.

You detached yourself from his chest, wiggled his trunks down his hips and snaked your hips around him again. One hand took hold of his now damp locks as you leaned your back onto the edge of the pool to give him a perfect angle. He was lined up at your entrance, twitching, waiting for permission for the final step. In the end it was your hungry kiss and that one sway of your hips that drew him into you. Once he felt you drawing him in there was no stopping him.

You had pulled your bottoms aside for him and no you could feel him stretch you and bottom out.

Both of you growled and moaned and stood still for a second, Frankie’s hands supporting your head and grabbing onto your ass while you held onto his shoulders for dear life, feeling him pulsing inside you. Your skins were soaking wet, pressing against each other, slick and slippery.

“Fuck me, Frankie…”, you begged, hardly recognizing the desperate plea in your own voice.

He did as he was told, setting a rough and excruciating pace that made both of you dizzy and desperate. The warm water was sloshing all around you and every thrust pushed you further out of the pool until your back was lying on the smooth tiles and both of your bottom halves sank in and out of the water with every hard push and chase.

Frankie latched onto one of your nipples again, biting down teasingly. The changed angle suddenly made you see stars as his cock pressed against a sweet spongy spot inside you. “Right there…”, you cried out desperately, fisting his hair again, clinging to his body.

You were thrown over the edge as Frankie’s fingers suddenly pressed against your clit without warning. You were pushed into your orgasm with brutal force, your whole body cramping around him, a deep throated moan and the cry of his name escaping your lungs.

You could feel Frankie trying to pull out of you, but you clasped him tighter and felt him shudder, the warmth of his seed mixing with the pool water as he came inside you.

Feeling your arms loosen you lay on the tiles, looking up at the sky, feeling yourself relax for a moment – until you got pushed out of the pool a bit further for good and suddenly felt your body leave the water entirely.

Before you could ask Frankie what he was up to, you could feel his fingers pull your swim trunks aside and his tongue diving between your legs to fuck you with his tongue. He didn’t give you time to recuperate.

“F-Frankie…”, you whined, trying desperately to hold onto something. One of your hands found one of the metal bars of the chair, the other had no choice but to clutch one of your own breasts.

“You’ve got one more for me in you, sexy…”, he growled from between your legs. He sounded like a hunter, enjoying the desperation of his prey.

“B.. But…”

His thumb pushed against your clit again, silencing you and making you concentrate on his hands and his tongue.

Frankie buried his face between your legs so deep that you would have worried about his breathing – if you’d had the ability to think straight at this moment. His nose that nudged your clit and his tongue that fucked you pushed you over the edge once more, making you squeal and see stars.

You must have closed your eyes and lay under the night sky for a few moments, because the next thing you realized was that Frankie was suddenly out of the pool, behind you, helping you sit up as he put his towel around your shoulders.

Exhausted, but smiling dopey and brimming with serotonin and bliss, you held the towel around your torso and leaned against him.

“That…”, he said, sitting next to you and letting his feet dangle in the pool, “was fucking amazing.”

“Agreed… I don’t think I can walk”, you giggled.

You felt Frankie stiffen beside you, one of his arms wrapped around your shoulders.

“Was I too rough?”

You shook your head.

“You were fantastic.”

Now it was his turn to giggle – before swearing.

“We just had sex in one of our goddamn pools. We can’t let anyone use- “

You interrupted him.

“They’re letting the water out tomorrow, remember? Nobody needs to know.”

Frankie helped you up and neither of you were surprised when the two of you fucked again while sharing a shower before changing. He drove you home that night, kissing you goodnight, asking you out on a proper date – and what was there to do but to enthusiastically agree?

Both of you had your poker faces on the next day when Benny came into the office, holding up a discarded peach colored bikini top, telling you about “goddamn teenagers” that had probably broken into the park in the middle of the night and fucked in the pool.

*

AN: I earned a snack now....

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #francisco morales #frankie morales #pedro pascal character #triple frontier #frankie x reader #plus size reader #nsfw #erotica fanfiction #nsfw fic

[rainontherooftops]

Helpful Hands - Part 1 of 2

Summary: When Frankies son Martino asks for your help because his father is sick, you readily go, only to find that Frankie has a serious cold. Someone has to take care of the single father - and as his landlady, isn't it kind of your responsibility?

Fandom: Triple Frontier - Pedro Pascal as Francisco "Catfish" Morales Genre: Romance, Tooth Rotting Fluff, New Relationships Pairing: Frankie x f! Reader Triggers (Chapter): Mentions of minor Injury, Single Parenthood, Sickness and Disease, Mention of Drug abuse Rating : T

*

Helpful Hands - Part 1

Francisco Morales and his son Martino had been living with you for about six months now. Although “living with” was a stretch.

After the death of your beloved grandmother, you’d realized that she’d left you one of her properties. A house that had long since been turned into a two-parter.

It was way too big for you and separated into two different properties, legally speaking. The big abode had been divided by a wall that had been built straight through the house, and through careful remodeling and renovating, two half-houses with a shared garden had been built.

You had moved into the right half soon after the funeral. It had been your grandmothers and you knew it inside and out. It was closer to your work too and a serious upgrade to the small studio apartment you had been living in.

Both parts of the house had been properly and professionally cleaned, and after some repairs on both sides, you had decided to put the other part of the house on the market to rent.

The responses had been overwhelming, but in the end Francisco Morales and his son had won the bet by being polite, caring, in need of a new place closer to daycare and because out of all the applicants, they were the only ones that didn’t seem weird.

Greetings at the mailbox and in passing had turned to dinners on the terrace and emergency babysitting sessions when Frankie had to go into work and slowly a friendship had kindled.

You knew that Frankie absolutely adored his son and scarcely left him out of his sight – which made the picture you saw as you climbed out of your car all the weirder.

It was seven in the morning when you returned from your night shift at the hospital. You were ready for a shower and bed – but little Martino was sitting in front of your door in his pajamas, cuddling his teddy bear. And Frankie was nowhere to be seen.

“Martino! Darling!”, you exclaimed, hurrying up your stoop. The little boy looked up, his eyes still sleepy. It was late autumn, and he was only wearing his nightclothes – he’d catch his death.

Wriggling out of your coat you wrapped it around him.

“Sweety, what are you doing outside my door? Where’s your father?”

“Daddy’s not waking up…”, he mumbled, cuddling his bear, and a chill ran down your spine.

“What do you mean he’s not waking up, sweety? Did something happen?”

You fumbled for your keys and simultaneously searched for the key to Frankie’s place. As his landlady you were entitled to have it on you.

“I want breakfast”, Martino said, yawning. “I went into Daddys room to wake him. He’s not waking up.”

A million different thoughts raced through your head. Had Frankie fallen and hit his head? Had he relapsed?

The door swung open, and you put Martino down onto the carpeted floor.

“Why don’t you go to the living room darling and play a little? I’ll wake up your Daddy and then we’ll have breakfast together, okay?”

“’kay…”, Martino mumbled, still half asleep, toddling to his room.

As soon as he was out of sight you took the stairs two at a time to the room you knew he slept in. The door was still ajar.

“Frankie? It’s me!”

When no answer came you entered the room and found Francisco Morales buried under his blanket, his hair tousled. You could see he was breathing – thank the gods – but by the rattle that escaped his mouth you could hear that all was not well.

As your nurse-mode kicked in, you leaned over and placed a hand on his forehead.

“Fuck…”, you cursed.

Frankie was burning up. His skin was damp with cold sweat, but his face flushed. As soon as your hand left his forehead, a violent coughing fit raked through his body. His fever was so high it was no wonder Martino couldn’t wake his father up.

Pondering what to do next, you went down the stairs again and dialed Santiago’s number.

Pope and the Miller Brothers had accepted you graciously into their group of friends – but there was no plan in place on what to do when Frankie was sick.

“’llo?”, a very tired voice said, and you were glad you hadn’t been confronted with voice mail.

“Santi, it’s me. I got a 9-1-1 over here.”

“What’s going on?”

You had your nurse-mode, the men had their soldier-mode. Santi was awake from one second to the next.

After finishing your tale about how you’d found Martino on your doorstep and that Frankie had a really serious cold, Santiago assured you that reinforcements were on the way.

Martino was sitting on the couch, playing with his bear.

“Is Daddy awake?”, he asked hopefully, and you hoped that he asked because he was hungry and not because he was worried.

You shook your head.

“Your Dad has a cold, sweetheart. That’s why he’s still sleeping.”

Martino pursed his lips.

“He needs medicine?”

You chuckled, remembering Frankie asking for help when Martino had refused to drink his cough sirup a few months ago.

“Yes, I’m afraid so. But don’t worry. I’m a nurse, remember? I will make him all okay again.”

Martino seemed to juggle the idea over in his head, then nodded.

You took him by the hand to lead him to the kitchen.

“Now, I will make you some cereal. And in a while, Uncle Santi will come and take care of you for the day, okay?”

That perked little Martino right up. Santi was spoiling the kid rotten, much to Frankie’s dismay – because he had to deal with the crashed of the sugar high at the end of the day.

You prepared some cereal for the young boy and looked at what was in the fridge.

It was time to shoot off a shopping list to Will, who by now was aware of the situation.

“There is nothing of culinary value in here….”, you typed.

The answer came swiftly.

“That’s because you invite them over to eat so often. What do you need?”

You sent him a list of groceries and after some consideration asked him to stop by the pharmacy. The topic of medication was tricky to bring up with Frankie because of his past history with addiction – but you hoped that you could talk him into taking at least something that would help him.

Hearing the door open you poked your head out of the kitchen to see Santiago opening it with his spare key.

“Good morning, honeybun”, he said, trying to give you a hug, but you stepped back.

“Uh, uh. I’ve been contaminated. Who knows what Frankie caught.”

“Fair point”, he said and then had to brace himself for Martino who shot at him like a bullet.

“Uncle Santiiiii!!”

“Hey there, buddy. I heard you got your dad some help this morning. Good job!”

Discussing a battle plan for the next few days was easy.

Santi was going to take care of Martino while Frankie was sick – since he was one of the registered adults who could drop him off at daycare and pick him up, it would be the best option.

Getting a few days off work was not so easy for you, but you had so many vacation days lined up that they could hardly refuse you.

While Santiago was packing a few bags, you returned to Francisco’s room. You had to wake him up, there was no way around it. You and Santiago couldn’t just decide to take Martino without his consent.

He had somehow snuggled himself deeper into his pillow fort and now he resembled a burrito – a shivering burrito.

You’d brought a cold compress for his head and hoped that the change in temperature would wake him up. Carefully draping back his blanket, you saw that he was shirtless – but now was not the time to ogle him.

The attack came suddenly and unexpectedly. A few seconds passed after you placed the cold compress on his forehead – and then Frankie grabbed your wrist, turned you around and pinned you to his mattress, growling. He expected an enemy underneath him.

It only took a second for Frankie to realize what his subconscious had done – but Santi had heard your surprised “eeeep” from the room next door.

“Oi, hermano, calm down!”, he said and gently pulled Frankie off you. He hadn’t hurt you or anything, but still your heart was racing.

“W-What…?”

Another coughing fit shook him, and you winced. You could almost feel how much this was hurting him.

This was the first of several instances over the next two weeks that you’d end up in Francisco Morales’ bed. But it wasn’t the most memorable by far.

*

AN: Why do I enjoy making Frankie suffer so much? Also, give Frankie a son for a change...

#Frankie Morales #Francisco Morales #Pedro Pascal #Pedro Pascal Fanfiction #Pedro Pascal Character #Triple Frontier #Oscar Isaac as Santiago #frankie x reader

[rainontherooftops]

Soup Kitchen Confessions

Summary: You have been volunteering at a soup kitchen in your neighbourhood for the last five months and had met Zach Wellison. He had shown you the ropes as a fellow volunteer and ex-homeless person. No wonder you've developed a crush, right? The question now is - how to ask Zach out on a date?

Fandom: Brothers and Sisters - Pedro Pascal as Zach Wellison Genre: Slice of Life, Romance, Trigger-Stories, Drama Pairing: Zach x f! Reader Triggers : Mentions of homelessness, Mentions of anxiety and mental health problems, PTSD, sickness, bodyfluids Rating : M

No Beta - Shame on me

*

Soup Kitchen Confessions

„Help! Volunteer in distress! “

You were holding a big ladle in one hand and the lid of an enormous pot in the other, making it impossible for you to wipe your glasses. The fog of the hot stew had fogged them up and you were rendered absolutely useless.

The chuckle next to you made your heart skip a little. You felt someone gently grab your chin and turn your face to the side, before your glasses were taken off your face and wiped.

The red-white-and-black pattern in front was slowly sharpened and registered as the checkered flannel of Zach Wellison who was stationed right next to you at the food-handout.

“There you go,” he said, “good as new.”

You were grateful for the flush that grazed your cheeks because of the hot stew – otherwise Zach might have thought you were blushing because of him. Which you totally were. But he didn’t need to know that.

“T-Thanks.,” you mumbled and put the lid to the side before giving the stew a good stir. Zach chuckled again with his deep baritone voice, pulled up the sleeves of his flannel and got back to cutting the bread into slices.

Now that you could see again the line outside the homeless shelter was already vanishing behind the corner of the building, five minutes before opening time. No wonder – the forecast was predicting rain.

You and Zach were the first group of volunteers that helped out once or twice a week – food, cleaning, sorting donations and giving information were the things you could provide. It was hard to admit, but you were relieved that you didn’t have to deal with the fact that there were probably not enough beds for all who were seeking shelter tonight.

“Ready?,” Zach asked beside you as one of the shelter employees was walking towards the entrance with the keys in her hand.

“As I’ll ever be,” you said – the answer you had given Zach at the start of every shift since you’d started volunteering five months ago.

As you put the ladle aside to tie your hair back you tried to concentrate on the task at hand – not the task you had set for yourself once the shift was over. Tonight you would ask Zach out on a date. Just like you had planned for the last month or so. But tonight, there was no chickening out.

The hungry patrons formed a line and came by for the dinner rush– some knowing what to do from experience, some unsure how to proceed because they were here for the first time. As you dished out a delicious chicken-veggie stew in disposable bamboo bowls, Zach handed out wooden cutlery and bread. There were water pitchers on the tables and enough space on the benches. And like every Monday and Thursday, the line didn’t seem to end, and your four allotted hours went by in a flash.

Five minutes before end of shift the line had trickled down somehow and you knew that the next volunteers would come in for the evening shift until midnight.

Your heart fluttered as you sidestepped so that Zach could hear you whisper: “D-Do you have a few minutes before heading out? There’s something I want to ask you.”

Zach smiled, handing over a piece of bread to a regular before answering: “Sure I- Oh no…”

Following his gaze, you sighed as you saw why his brows had furrowed.

A regular – a young veteran who shared Zachs past and who had a ‘place to sleep problem’ as he had explained it – had shown up. You thought he was nice, just a man who needed a bit of help adjusting to civilian life. But there was one thing that he had to work on. His other problem.

Zach rubbed his neck in anticipation before stepping out to meet the young man.

“Pete, you know the rules. If you want to come here, you need to be sober…”

‘Pete’ had a drinking problem. He was not an alcoholic, but he was on a dangerous path and in order to escape his PTSD he bought cheap beer and tried to drown his sorrows once in a while. And it seemed today was a particular hard day.

The young man was wobbling, looked pale – but something was off. You had a guess as to what it was when the poor man suddenly puked all over Zach and collapsed into his arms.

Handing your ladle off to another volunteer you hurried over, ignoring Zachs warning look and put a hand to Pete’s forehead.

“He’s not drunk, Zach. He’s sick. I don’t like how high his temperature is.”

Before you had started volunteering at the shelter, you’d done a first-aid course to prepare, and you had always been good at spotting when someone was not feeling well.

Zach sighed, the signs of annoyance on his face quickly shifting to concern. He put Pete’s arm around his shoulder and looked around for Beth, the shelter manager, who quickly saw what was up and threw the keys to you.

There was a separate room that was used as a makeshift infirmary, but it was locked when nobody was in because of all the medication that was kept there.

“C’mon Pete, move those legs for me,” Zach gruntled and you felt shame crawl up your spine because the sight of the strained muscles under Zachs soiled flannel and his voice made you all giddy.

You hurried ahead to unlock the infirmary and were intercepted by Chris and Madeline, a married couple who were both trained paramedics.

“We’ll take care of him. Go wash up, we’ll see what we can do.”

Zach wanted to protest, but his clothes were sticking to him, and he was leaving a trail of puke in his wake. You gave Madeline the keys and followed your volunteer-crush to the shared changing room.

“Switching from puked-on shirt to sweaty gym clothes,” he growled sarcastically. “Now that brings back wonderful memories.”

You had fetched a towel and held it under the faucet so he could clean himself up. Zach was already trying to wiggle out of his white shirt and tried not to get any of the puke on him when you returned. Ignoring his damn good looks – and the scars you could see – you tried to keep your blush under control.

“Let me help,” you whispered and held the towel to his neck where he had failed in his endeavor.

Zach took over before slipping into his gym shirt. Yes, it was sweaty, but at least that was all.

“D’you mind if we talk at the laundromat across the street? I’d like to wash these clothes before I get home. I think he sprayed my pants as well…”

“T-Talk?,” you asked and handed him a plastic bag you had found to put his clothes in.

“You wanted to ask me something, right?”

Ah yes… you had been interrupted.

“Uhm…. Okay? I’ve got time.”

By the time you left the shelter it was dark outside, and when you crossed the street, you panicked. Your carefully prepared speech was gone, you needed more time. A sign down the road caught your attention.

“I’ll be right with you, go on ahead.”

When you came to the laundromat ten minutes later, two helpings of frozen yoghurt in hand, you saw Zach sitting on one of the dryers as he watched the washing machine spin.

He was wearing yet another shirt and new pants– a washed out black shirt with some holes in it and some grey gym shorts – and he seemed deep in thought.

“Where’d you get that?,” you asked, and you saw that he had to suppress a panicked jump. He had been deep in his thoughts it seemed.

“Lost and found. I grabbed it on instinct. I used to do that when I was still homeless, looking for somewhat clean clothes when others couldn’t be saved anymore. Is that for me?”

Smiling encouragingly, you handed him one of the frozen yoghurts with kiwi and salted caramel (your favorite and you hoped he would like it too) before you hopped onto the dryer beside him with some difficulty.

“You deserve that after being puked on,” you said and the faintest of smiles was now decorating his face.

“Thanks. How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing.”

“But…”

“Zach, I didn’t ask you if you wanted it. I just bought it. It’s on me.”

He didn’t argue, although you could tell that he wanted to. The moment was over though when he put the spoon in his mouth and sighed in bliss.

“s’good.”

You smiled, let your legs dangle, and indulged in your own treat, listening to the sounds of the washing machines and dryers around you. Monday night was not a busy day at the laundromat it seemed.

“So, what did you want to ask me?”

Damn, Zach was quick on the pick-up.

You wiggled on your dryer, not able to look him in the eyes.

“Nothing important.”

“Come on, spit it out.,” he said, bumping his shoulder against yours.

“I… I can’t ask you while your clothes are still in the washer.”

Zach blinked in confusion and looked first at the washing machine, then at you.

“What does your question have to do with the fact that my clothes are getting a wash?”

You could feel the flush burn your cheeks and your gaze returned to the slowly melting half eaten froyo in your hands.

“B-Because it’s a personal question. And as long as your clothes are still in the wash, you can’t back away from me if it gets awkward.”

Apparently, Zach didn’t like where this kind of conversation was going – but he seemed to pick up on the wrong strings.

“A personal question? Are you okay? Do you need help?”

He was completely ignoring the second part of your sentence, so you decided to change the subject.

“I’m fine, honest. I just… I’ll ask you once your clothes are dry, okay?”

Zach was not okay with that, you could tell. But he was a man who cherished his privacy, probably because he didn’t have one while living on the street, so he didn’t push.

So instead, he picked up the conversation again.

“Okay… Mind if I ask you something while we wait?”

“Sure.”

Zach turned around on his dryer and leaned forward a little – not in a hovering way, but just enough so that you could smell the deodorant he had sprayed himself with when he had put on the sweaty t-shirt that was now also tumbling in the machine.

“Why are you volunteering at the shelter?”

You felt your stomach drop and you immediately turned your head. Somehow Zach had asked the question you had hoped he would never ask. But how should he have known not to ask for the reason? It was just a normal question.

“Oh dear…,” you said, putting the froyo aside. “Two questions that make me anxious. You have a talent, Mr. Wellison...”, you tried to joke.

Zachs reaction surprised you. He clicked his tongue, disappointed and with a hint of anger. He jumped off his dryer when his washer beeped. You could understand him. He had opened up to you right from the start, telling you that he had been homeless himself a few years back, living on the streets and that he still had trust issues.

By now the two were friends, but you had never told him why you volunteered at the shelter. Maybe he thought you were biased? Or didn’t trust him enough? But the reason was – at least for you – much worse.

Still, he had asked and just because you were uncomfortable didn’t mean that he didn’t deserve to know the truth.

While he was putting his clothes in his dryer next to your feet and ignored your gaze, you gripped the corners of the metal machine underneath you and took a deep breath.

“I do it because I’m selfish. And I do it to scare myself.”

Zach banged the door shut, probably louder than he had intended and started the drying program. When he met your gaze again, his eyes were softer, curious – but you know he wouldn’t pry.

“For me being homeless is of the scariest things I can think of. Not having a roof over my head, not knowing where my next meal will come from, not knowing where the next toilet is… It terrifies me,” you confessed.

“You’ve been homeless. And I just know if I ever would be faced with that situation I would never survive. Which is why I volunteer. I want to help the people who are homeless – but even more so I want to be confronted with it, so that I know how fortunate I am. Volunteering because it makes me feel better? That’s the crappiest reason.”

The cocktail of emotions on Zachs face was fascinating. It shifted from anger to pity, to a hint of disgust and the recollection of memories he wanted to forget. But you didn’t really notice, because during your confession his hands had wandered to your knees, rubbing the kneecaps in comfort.

He was standing between your legs, probably not even realizing how close he was.

“Being homeless is scary,” he finally said, lost in his memories. “And it was really, really hard. And I don’t think there’s anything wrong with your reason to help.”

“You don’t think it’s condescending somehow?,” you asked, always having had the gut feeling that if someone who was homeless knew that you volunteered and did everything just to not be like them would be awful.

“There’s nothing wrong with not wanting to be homeless. And you’re helping every week. You support the ones who are less fortunate. You would have supported me when I came into that shelter when I was still homeless.”

The dryer beeped, Zachs clothes finally washed and dry. But he didn’t move away.

“So – what is it you wanted to ask me that’s so personal? My clothes are dry, I can flee now if it gets awkward.”

“I… this is really nothing I should ask you when you have been puked on…”

The sound of your name on his lips made you look him in the eyes. He has slipped closer still and suddenly spellbound, the question refused to keep sitting on your tongue.

“I… I wanted to ask you if... if you’d like to… to go on a… on a date? With... with me?”

Zachs eyes widened in shock, and you felt as tough someone had emptied a bucket of ice water onto your neck.

You were sitting on the dryer, caged in because he had stepped between your legs. It was you who couldn’t escape.

Panicking, you started to stutter.

“Forget it… Forget I said anything. I shouldn’t have…”

A soldier’s reflexes were not to be taken lightly, you realized, as Zachs hands suddenly slithered up your thighs, around your waist and pulled you closer to the edge of the dryer.

His aim was also on point. His lips fit against yours perfectly, finding their mark.

For a few seconds you sat there, frozen, feeling Zachs slightly chipped lips against yours, your heart racing and vibrating against his own heart beneath his warm flesh. But it was impossible not to reciprocate.

You were rewarded with a blissful growl as you ran your hands through his hair, changing the angle of the kiss and deepening it, trying to get even closer to him.

Soon you needed to come up for air though. Neither you nor him dared to leave each other’s orbit, so you leaned your forehead against his, breathing heavily.

“A second date? I’m a lucky guy…”, he finally said.

You blinked in confused.

“Second?”

He chuckled and retreated, finally tending to the dryer that was reminding him to get his clothes with a beep.

“You got me a froyo. We talked, got to know each other. And we just had a genuinely nice kiss. I’m counting that as a date.”

You were sure that the human skin could not turn a darker shade of red than the one that was now on your face.

“O-okay…. So, will you go on a second date with me?,” you asked, suddenly extremely shy again.

Zach shouldered his gym bag that now held his freshly laundered clothes before turning to you, lifting your chin, and placing another kiss to your lips.

“With pleasure.”

*

AN: Do we want an NSFW! Part 2?

#Pedro Pascal #Pedro Pascal Fanfiction #Zach Wellison #Zach Wellison x f!reader #Brothers & Sisters #Pedro Pascal Fandom #friends to lovers #pining

[rainontherooftops]

Keep the Bathrobe on

Summary: As Dieter Bravos assistant, it made you furious to see that Dieter was once again forced to wear an absolutely ridiculous outfit on a red carpet. You decide that once you're home, something had to be done - but the consequences or your plan are surprising...

Fandom: The Bubble - Pedro Pascal as Dieter Bravo Genre: Slice of Life, Colleagues to Friends to Lovers Pairing: Dieter x f! Reader Triggers : Horrible Fashion Choices Rating : T

*

Keep the Bathrobe On

The fact that Dieter was smiling and posing on the red carpet and doing his thing as if nothing was wrong was proof of his great acting skills.

You however did not have to act. You were not in the limelight right now, but way off, away from all the bustle, clutching your clipboard to your chest.

This was the final straw. Lucile had done it again. She had dressed Dieter in something “fashionable,” which meant the clothes were extremely expensive but looked ridiculous.

For you it was even worse to watch Dieter flaunt these looks on the carpet, because you knew that he felt most comfortable in soft fabrics and his robe. But lately the studios and his stylists were forcing all kinds of weird looks on him. Knitted sweaters with cut off sleeves, weird forms and cuts, fabrics that didn’t complement each other – or just way too much for one look.

Tonight’s look was just one of many fashion disasters that Dieter had to endure because of his contracts. And rumors aside that he was a stuck up actor, you knew that he was actually way too nice to fire anyone himself.

You were close to break your clipboard in half – and if this hadn’t been a fashion event where (Thank God) so many worse looks were around, you would have gone home, fetched him a pair of his favorite jeans and a shirt and let him wear that.

But for now, your job was to watch from the sidelines until the appropriate time to leave arrived. You had to wait for his “ready to go” text to bring the car around. And you tried to hold your anger in check.

And there was one thing that was missing, which nobody but you would notice once the pictures were all over the internet and in magazines.

The smile in his eyes was missing, his heart not really in it.

*

Four hours later, after the designer who had dressed him watched with eyes of a hawk that the outfit he had worn was collected and nothing was missing, you entered one of the preparation rooms with a bag that held a change of clothes.

He was not allowed to keep the clothes this time – he had worn an outfit that totaled around 4,000 dollars today – and for once you were grateful for it.

“Thank God,” he groaned when he saw you with the bag. He was not wearing anything except his underwear now and you tried to focus on your job - not oggle him. He looked to see if the designer and his people were gone and waited for you to close the door before he fell down into one of the make-up chairs in his underwear.

“That was terrible! What did that man think, making me wear those shorts and that weird coat? I looked absolutely ridiculous.”

You had been through the “post photo-op routine” hundreds of times by now. Dieter would change into comfortable clothes, put on big sunglasses and a cap to make him as unrecognizable as possible – and then the car would pick you in a designated area behind the venue so you could go home without anyone seeing you.

“And what the hell did they do to my hair? I feel like someone dropped a bucket of glue on my head,” he whined. But you didn’t mind. He had every reason to whine. Lately the outfits chosen for him were just awful.

“Let’s get you home so you can wash it off,” you said, sending a text so that the driver could pull the car around. “And you’ve earned some take-out. What are you in the mood for?”

Dieter raised his brows in suspicion, cap in his hand.

“Take-Out? Normally you don’t indulge me when I have late night cravings.”

“We both need food tonight. I need some carbs after this shitshow,” you growled and didn’t meet his gaze.

Dieter didn’t say anything but followed you down the hall and to the secured parking lot.

*

The shower was running, and you heard Dieter groan as he stepped under the warm spray of water. Normally this would have you gulp and fantasize. You were long past the point of pretending that you did not have feelings for your boss – but tonight you had no time to imagine following him into the shower.

Tonight, you had a task to fulfill.

Take-Out ordered and on its way, you shoved the sleeves of your sweater up to your elbows and opened Dieter’s drawers and closet.

You started throwing every single piece of clothing this man owned onto his massive four poster bed. Tonight, you would get rid of any and all clothing that you knew Dieter only kept for appearances and had been gifts from designers but made him look weird. For a moment you had to remember the time when you started this job three years ago, when you had looked through his things to find his hidden drugs. But after you had gotten him through rehab, he had gone cold turkey and he hadn't taken anything since - and his career had skyrocketed as a result of his efforts.

Time to clean up again - this time to save his dignity, not his health.

You needed some pump-up music, so you started your usual work playlist and turned up the volume. “Supermassive Black Hole” by Muse seemed a good, blood pumping song for this kind of task.

The music was so loud that you didn’t notice Dieter coming out of the shower twenty minutes later until he stopped the music, and you turned around.

He was wearing a pair of well-loved comfortable pajama pants, no shirt, and his favorite cotton bathrobe. You could see his tattoos and his well-toned muscles – and the curve of his little belly.

“What are you doing?,” he asked, drying his hair with a fluffy bath towel before placing it around his neck and holding on to the ends. His hair was still damp, but the curls were coming back, finally free of the horrible hair glue they had been trapped under.

Dieter looked comfortable. He looked like himself. He looked happy.

“At first, I thought of just throwing away some of the stuff you’re never wearing. All the things that you don’t like, all the things that look ridiculous. But I’ve decided not to burn them or throw them away. Instead, we’re going to plan a charity auction.”

Dieter sat down on the only corner of the bed that was still free and looked at the heap of clothing on his bed. He looked confused, but he smiled.

“The look tonight was that bad, huh?”

You nodded.

“You know I don’t like what Lucile makes you wear. But she doesn’t work for me, she works for you. It’s not my business to deal with her. What I can do however as your assistant is make sure that at least at home and when you don’t have photoshoots, you can wear what makes you feel comfy.”

“And the charity thing?,” he asked, picking up a brown knitted vest he remembered wearing not long ago with a pair of weird pants, his lips pursed in distaste.

“Most of the things you have here are designer pieces that you’ve only worn once or twice and got to keep. I figured we could do some kind of Fan-Auction. They can owna piece from your wardrobe and the money will go to a good cause.”

His closet and drawers were empty now – even his underwear drawer – and you had ignored the box where you knew he kept his sex toys in.

You had prepared a big box already to put the clothes in that you could put into the auction – and the brown knitted vest was part of that, so you walked over to take it from him.

“I was thinking we could donate the money that comes in to the homeless charity that reached out. You know, the one your friend Zach works at now? With the money they could finally build that new shelter that they- “

How you suddenly ended up straddling Dieters legs, you didn’t know. Had he really just pulled you towards him?

His big puppy eyes were looking up at you. You were unsteady on your legs, so you had to grab onto his bathrobe for balance. One of his strong arms was around your waist, he other was cradling your neck.

The both of you were on the verge of toppling over onto the pile of clothes behind you.

“D-Dieter?”

He didn’t grin. He smiled. An honest smile that made your heart skip a beat.

“I’m so lucky to have you look out for me,” he whispered before he brought your head towards him and captured your mouth with his.

You were so shocked that you completely forgot to react. But when you suddenly felt him retreat, you couldn’t allow it. Your grip on his lapels tightened and you drew him back in, deepening the kiss.

He responded with vigor, his grip around your body tightening. His arms wandered, one up your back, the other into your head to swivel you around and change the angle of the kiss. The shift made you stumble forward. You were now sitting in his lap, your knees resting on the mattress on either side of him, your legs off the floor.

Just as his tongue tentatively but playfully asked for entry into your mouth and you were about to grant him access, the shrill ringing of the doorbell brought you both back to reality.

The Take-Out had arrived.

You forced yourself to get off him.

Dieter sat there and you were way too good an assistant to miss what was going through his head. He was worried that he had fucked up. He was afraid you would tell him this kiss was a mistake. He sat there, arms still in the air where he had held you – waiting for you to say something.

Before hurrying out of his bedroom, you placed a kiss on his nose.

“Come on, let’s eat,” you said. “And afterwards, we’re going tackle this pile of clothes.”

“O-okay?,” he asked.

The outside world saw Dieter Bravo always putting on his bravado, flaunting his personality around. But in private, he was much softer, insecure – a man who just wanted to be liked by everyone.

“You’ll have to share my bed though,” you said, grinning. “There’s no way we’ll finish tonight.”

Dieter beamed.

“Yeah?”

“Positive. And for the record – I like you best when you’re wearing that bathrobe.”

*

AN: Someone needs to rescue Pedro....

#Pedro Pascal #Pedro Pascal Fanfiction #The Bubble #Dieter Bravo #Dieter Bravo x f!reader #Dieter Bravo Fanfiction #First Kiss #Colleagues to lovers

[rainontherooftops]

How did you come up with the idea for Loving Francisco Morales ??

I really like it and it kills me at the same time , poor Frankie, so much trauma for him.

Hello Anon. Thank you for your question. For my actual job I do a lot of research on crime and also, I am not okay with the constant "Big Dick Energy" Posts surrounding Celebrety Males and Pedro specifically. People should not be judged by what is or what is not under their clothes - which is why I came up with that story.

[rainontherooftops]

Loving Francisco Morales

Summary: You have been in a relationship with Frankie for six months, but you have still not shared a bed. As it turns out, the reasons for that are far more traumatic than you could have imagined.

Fandom: Triple Frontier - Pedro Pascal as Francisco "Catfish" Morales Genre: Angst, Trigger-Stories, Drama Pairing: Frankie x f! Reader Triggers : Angst like whoa, Mentions of anxiety and mental health problems, violence, body dismorphia, panic attacks, PTSC, knifes, injuries and blood, mentions of sex Rating : Explicit!

*

Loving Francisco Morales was easy.

Not that you had a lot of men to compare him to. After seven years of living a life as a single woman – and not minding it one bit – Francisco had been a surprise for you, but a welcome one.

While your girlfriends had been hit on in bars, at events or just constantly on a daily basis, you weren’t as “out there”.

Francisco had not chosen you – you had chosen him.

He had been sitting at a booth at the Irish Pub, absentmindedly playing with his bottle of beer. It was still early evening in summer, and the sun shone through the thick glass window, bathing this handsome man in a perfect light that you just had to capture.

“I’ll be right back,” you had said in your daze to your girlfriends, fumbled in your backpack for your camera and made your way over to his table, where three other men were having a blast. You just had to take this man’s picture.

Not once did you take your eyes off him as you maneuvered your body past the other patrons, until you stood at the men’s table, shyly clearing your throat.

“Uhm, excuse me?”

Three heads were turning to you – but the one you wanted to turn was lost in thought.

“What can we help you with, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart was not a word you liked in particular, but somehow coming from the man – who later introduced himself as Santiago – it didn’t sound condescending, just friendly, endearing even.

Somehow realizing that his friends were no longer talking amongst themselves, the man with the cap looked up – and it was as if Armor had shot an arrow straight through your heart.

“You are beautiful!” you babbled, putting a hand to your mouth in shock.

The handsome man looked puzzled, pointed a finger to himself as if to ask: Me?, while his buddies burst out laughing.

You introduced yourself, telling them you were a professional photographer.

“I… I’m sorry, I’m not normally this confrontational. But you looked so …. Would you be okay with me taking a photo of you? I just know if I hadn’t asked you, I would have regretted it forever.”

He seemed uncomfortable at first and sadly you were losing the light quickly. But his friends were very persuasive. He reluctantly agreed after you promised him that you would not publish this photo anywhere without his consent – and once you had his permission, you went to town.

You gently positioned him just as you had seen him from across the bar, then kneeled on the ground – yourknee landing in a wet spot you hoped was beer – and took a few shots, your heart pounding.

It was a professional hazard. Every time you stumbled upon a perfect shot, you just had to take it.

And this man, in this moment, in this angle, was perfection.

When you'd finished shooting, you sat down beside him to show him the pictures – and you hadn’t left his side for the rest of the evening. After a while your girlfriends came looking or you, bringing your bag to you. Introductions were made, but somehow you and Frankie came to a silent understanding that you liked each other.

He had been fascinated by the photograph, denying to the last possible minute that it was a photo of him. A week later, when you texted him that you had printed a complimentary set of photographs for him, he asked you out for coffee.

That first date had been six months ago.

Six months in which you had gotten to know his beautiful little girl, Marisol. Six months in which you had been hiking together, taking beautiful photos. Six months of cuddling on the couch, kissing and snuggling.

And six months without sex.

You had both decided early on that you wanted to take things slow. Not just for Marisol’s sake, but also because it was his first relationship since his divorce – and your first relationship in seven years.

But there was slow – there was snail pace – and there was the option of a total fuck-up, which was happening right now.

“Come on Will. Pick up, pick up!” you cursed, trying to ignore the sobbing and painful noises coming from the bathroom.

Marisol was at Frankie’s parents’ house for the weekend. You had decided that you might be ready to take the next step, with plenty of time to spend together. But once you had approached the subject and touched his thigh, Frankie had shot up in panic, looking at you like you were a monster.

He had fled to the bathroom, locked the door and he had not reacted to your pleadings to open the door.

Was this a PTSD flashback? Did this have something to do with his history with drugs? You didn’t know, but you were at your wits end. You needed the cavalry.

“Hello- “

You didn’t even let Will finish his greetings.

“Will, Frankie is having some kind of meltdown. He locked himself in his bathroom, he won’t stop crying and I’m afraid he might hurt himself.”

You didn’t recognize your own voice. It was full of fear. It was hoarse and only now did you realize that you were crying as well.

“We’re on our way, sweetheart.”

You heard something shatter – the mirror maybe? – and a cry of pain.

“Please hurry,” you begged and put the phone away.

You had no idea if the guys had been fast or slow. You spent the time until they came begging Frankie to let you in, but he didn’t seem to hear you. He was just sobbing, muttering incoherent words.

Will, Benny and Santi came barreling through the door and – to your shock – Santi even had his gun drawn, which almost gave you a heart attack. As soon as he saw you however, he put it away.

“We’re kicking the door down, sweetheart. Come here.”

They could all hear Frankie’s distress – there was no time for chit-chat or to mind the furniture. You stepped aside, letting Benny curl his arm around you, while Will took a stance and barreled his foot against the door near the handle.

The wood splintered after the first kick and Will and Santi were in the bathroom in a flash. All you could see from this angle was that the mirror was smashed – had Frankie punched it? – and that Francisco Morales was lying on the ground, curled up in a ball, sobbing and shivering.

You registered with a shock that Santi was checking Frankie for any marks of drug use. They had to be sure. But he was clean, as far as they could tell.

Will came out to switch with his brother, who apparently had some medical training. You didn’t want to leave Frankie alone in there, even with his best friends. But seeing as you had probably been the catalyst of what you realized was a severe psychological meltdown, you let yourself be dragged toward the kitchen, clutching onto Wills bicep like it was a lifeline.

A squeeze to your shoulder and the pressing of a glass of water into your hand brought you out from your daze. Will was looking at you with concern, searching your eyes for any injury.

“He only cut his hands a bit when he punched the mirror, sweetheart. He’ll be fine.”

You took a deep breath and a large gulp of water that you desperately needed. Your face felt puffy, and you had probably dehydrated yourself with your own crying. Will did not let go of your shoulder.

“Are you hurt? Did he do something to you?”

Shaking your head vehemently, you said: “He’d never!”

Will sighed. “I know, I know… But when PTSD is triggered, anyone can be considered an enemy.”

You thought it over. Frankie had run from you in a panic. Had he been afraid? Or had he tried to save you from becoming the target of his psychotic episode?

“He didn’t hurt me,” you answered more calmly. “But I think I might have triggered this.”

“How so?” Will asked, finally sitting down next to you on one of the chairs in the kitchen.

You were all grown adults, so talking about sex was not supposed to be embarrassing. But it was nobodies’ business what your sexlife was like. But in this moment, you didn’t care. The more information his friends had, the better they could help him.

“I… uhm… We haven’t had sex yet. Not once since we started going out.”

Will didn’t interrupt, but his brows were furrowing.

“I… I somehow tried to initiate it earlier on. Marisol is away and we planed that I would stay for the weekend, so I thought…. But when I touched his thigh, he…”

Suddenly you had the feeling that a vital part of information was kept from you. You were certain that Will knew exactly why this had happened. He ran his hand trough his short-cut hair and sighed.

“I told him to talk to you. I knew something like this would happen.”

You watched Will stand up, your ears still picking up voices from the bathroom. You could clearly hear Benny taking care of Frankie’s wounds and Santi speaking to his best friend in a calming voice. The friend in charge of you meanwhile opened the liquor cabinet, took out a bottle of tequila and two shot glasses and sat back down.

“Trust me, you’re going to need this. I’m going to need this.”

You liked where this story was going less and less. But by now you trusted these men with your life. So when Will poured the first two shots, you grabbed the glass, ready to down it.

“Normally I would never ever tell you this. Your sex life is yours and Frankie’s and none of us have the right to butt in – but these are special circumstances.”

Will looked shocked, uncomfortable, and concerned at the same time. You were not used to the older Miller brother to express so many emotions at once. He gulped down his shot.

“I’m only telling you this, because two months ago Frankie talked to me – to us – about his concerns and gave us permission to tell you his story, in case something might happen before he had the courage to talk to you.”

You knocked back your own shot glass and set it back down, feeling the liquor burning down your throat. Apparently, this was a crisis much larger than anticipated.

Will poured two more glasses before he asked: “Do you know why Frankie has full custody of Marisol despite his history with drugs?”

You shook your head. Knowing that he had been clean for almost two years now and that he had the full support of his lovely parents might have helped – but every time Marisol’s mother came up in conversation, the topic had been changed. Nobody dared talk about her.

“When we came back from our mission,” Will began, “we were broken. We had just lost Tom and Frankie came home to his wife and newborn child with new scars on his soul, just like all of us. But his wife had had problems of her own long before we went on that mission.”

You listened carefully; your heart pumping hot led through your veins instead of blood.

“We… we didn’t know at the time that he had left Marisol with his parents because he was afraid that her mother was unstable. Frankie managed to get clean early on – but we only found out pretty late that after giving birth, his wife who had been using with him, had relapsed while he was away. Some sort of post-partum… oh I don’t know what it’s called, but she tried to self-medicate and fell back into old habits.”

You realized that you had no idea if Frankie’s ex-wife was alive, dead, or living far away. She was ‘not in the picture anymore,’ was all you knew. And Frankie had asked you very early on not to ask, for his and Marisol’s sake, until he was ready to tell you.

“Frankie tried to deal with it himself. He didn’t want to lean on us, so soon after losing Tom. Long story short, he tried but failed. And one night, she apparently had been using a pretty bad batch of whatever she was taking – because in the middle of the night, she had a total meltdown and took a … she took a knife and tried to cut off his….”

Will made a cutting motion around his groin area and you gasped. You didn’t blame him for not speaking the words. You understood anyway.

“He was really really lucky,” he continued. “The emergency surgery went really well, and all of his bodily functions are working just fine. He has no problems with urinating and apparently there’s no problem with erections or ejaculations. But…well I haven’t seen it, but there’s a lot of scaring and they had to do a lot of cosmetic surgery.”

It was then that the both of you knocked down your second shots.

You had imagined a lot - but not this. No wonder Frankie had never initiated sex. No wonder he wanted to go slow and never even went further than kissing.

“What happened to his ex?” you couldn’t help but ask.

“After rehab she was sent to a psychiatric facility. She was charged with a number of things and will spend the next fifteen years or so on the other side of the country under care and supervision. It was only because of Frankie that she hasn’t been charged with attempted murder.”

You thought of poor Marisol, who one day would probably have lots and lots of questions about her mother.

Before you could say anything else, Benny poked his head into the kitchen.

“We have to take him to the hospital. We can’t calm him down. I contacted his therapist, he’s on his way there.”

Benny looked at you concerned.

“I…I’m sorry but it’s probably best if you don’t come.”

You shook your head in understanding.

Benny left, probably to get an emergency bag together, and Will turned to you.

“Do you need me to stay with you?”

You wanted nothing more than to say yes, but you could see in his eyes that he wanted to drive to the hospital with his friend. So you shook your head.

“I’ll be fine. Besides, I should probably talk to Frankie’s parents, tell them that Marisol will have to stay with them for a while longer?”

Will nodded, then pulled you into a rib-crushing hug and placed a kiss on your forehead.

“You call us as soon as you need anything, yes?”

You nodded. “Please, just take care of him.”

You forced yourself to sit in the kitchen while you heard the three men escorting Frankie outside to their cars with military precision. It was probably not the first time they dealt with a PTSD attack, and it would probably not be the last.

But the fact that right now you could do absolutely nothing broke your heart.

**

After a very emotional phone call with Francisco’s mother, it had felt wrong to stay at Frankie’s house alone. So you had grabbed your overnight bag, which you hadn’t even unpacked, and had left.

The guys kept you in the loop and you were grateful. Benny sent you a picture of the repaired bathroom mirror with the caption : “All fixed!” Frankie had been given something to calm himself – which apparently wasn’t easy to find without it counting as a relapse – but they had eventually found a drug with a very low dosage that could be administered, especially created for recovering addicts. It just took a bit longer…

Santi didn’t send pictures, but assured you that Frankie was recuperating at his apartment and that they didn’t leave him alone. He was sleeping off the exhaustion of his meltdown.

Marisol was obviously worried, but Frankie’s parents assured you that they were taking good care of her.

It was almost fourteen days later, when finally, a text from Frankie’s phone arrived.

I’m back home. Can you come over? Please don’t be afraid of me. Please don’t hate me.

All you wanted to do was sprint to your car and race to Frankie’s house – but you took your time. You needed to do this calmly.

You answered:

I’ll be there in an hour. I could never hate you.

And then you started packing a bag.

**

You left the overnight bag in the car. You were ready to stay the night – without sex in mind – but you didn’t want to put pressure on him.

What you did carry with you to the door was your small backpack and a tote bag.

You saw Frankie watching you through the window as you walked up the driveway, and he opened the door cautiously before you could ring the doorbell.

“Hey…,” he said, hesitantly.

“Hey…” you said, cautiously opening up your arms.

Frankie crashed into you, wrapping his arms around your torso, knocking his cap off his head as he buried his face into the crook of your neck. You felt the tears staining your shirt almost immediately.

He was sobbing again, but not in the panicked way.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry… I didn’t know I would react this way… I didn’t…”

You shushed him, rubbing his back, careful not to touch him anywhere near his belt area. Instead, you started massaging his scalp, mumbling sweet nothings into his ears while he tried to get his sobbing under control.

“Let’s get inside, okay?”

He nodded and let himself be guided inside. You made tea, ordered take-out food, sat Frankie down on the couch, peppering his head with little kisses and constantly ensured him that he had nothing to be sorry for.

While you were eating in the living room, sitting on the couch and not touching, you told him that Will had filled you in, but he already knew. Surprisingly calm, he tried to fill in any gaps, but it turned out that Will had informed you about almost anything.

The new information was that due to the severity of the injury and the cosmetic surgery, Frankie’s penis had to be “redesigned” as he called it, from a respectable 7 inch lenght down to 2 inches.

Now or never, you finally thought when Frankie had finished his tale and was staring at his half-eaten meal, which he hadn’t had the appetite to eat.

You took the plate from him before reaching into your tote bag to get out a new and shiny photo album.

“I want to show you something,” you said, sitting next to him.

You placed it on your lap and opened it.

The first photo was the first that you had taken with him and his friends, taken on the same night you had met. The pages showed a six month journey of photos with the three of you, photos of Marisol, of the trips together, of the good times and on the last page you had put the photo of Frankie you had taken on that very first evening.

“I told you that day that you are beautiful, Frankie. Do you know why I did that?”

You saw the tears in the corners of his eyes well up again as he shook his head.

“You are a very handsome man, Francisco Morales. But that’s not the reason why this photo is so breathtaking. This photo is wonderful because it managed to capture the beautiful soul that lives right here.”

He carefully poked at the spot where his heart was, before putting the album away.

“Frankie, I love you because you are a kind man. A passionate man, a good father, a good listener and because despite all the awful things you have endured, you still think that this world is a beautiful place.”

You took his hand then and placed a kiss to his knuckles, feeling him shiver.

“I am not going to lie. I thought that sex would be a part of this relationship. But Frankie, I will never hate you if we don’t have sex. I love who you are. I had fantasies, yes. And yes, I imagined all kinds of scenarios for us in the bedroom – but if we never get there… I don’t care.”

Frankie was crying again and shaking his head. He didn’t seem to quite believe yet what you were saying.

“We can go as slow as you want to go. Or we can not go at all. I did not start to go out with you because I was looking for someone to fuck me, Frankie. I entered this relationship because I like you. I am not asking for sex. I’m asking for you. And I’m not asking for all at once.”

Frankie pulled you into a hug again then and you shushed him again.

“I’m fine with crumbs, Frankie. I will take everything you are willing to give me, for as long as you are willing to give it.”

Loving Francisco Morales was easy for you. It turned out that he had some problems with loving himself, but over the years he managed that, with the help of his family and friends.

But for you, the first sentence you had ever uttered in his presence was still true. In your eyes, this man was beautiful – and always would be.

**

AN: I am a terrible person....

#Pedro Pascal #Pedro Pascal Fanfiction #Francisco Morales #Frankie Morales #Triple Frontier #Frankie x reader #francisco x reader #trauma #ptsd #ptsd recovery #Angst Fic #Will Miller #Benny Miller #Santiago Garcia

[rainontherooftops]

Distract Me

Summary: You have an anxiety attack during one of Bennys Fight nights. Frankie takes you outside to calm you down.

Fandom: Triple Frontier - Pedro Pascal as Francisco "Catfish" Morales Genre: Friends to Lovers, Drama Pairing: Frankie x f! Reader Triggers : Mentions of anxiety and mental health problems, impulsive kiss without asking consent, panic attacks Rating : M

IMPORTANT INFO: THIS IS A REPOST FROM MY FORMER TUMBLR BLOG

**

Distract me

It happened during one of Benny’s fight nights. The week had been absolutely horrible, and you had felt on edge and queasy the whole time. Despite your better judgement you had ignored the exhaustion and the prickling of your skin and went out. You didn’t want to miss his fight.

And it was a Friday night, so you would have enough time on Saturday and Sunday to recuperate.

The second you felt the anxiety attack approaching, you grabbed for the hand next to you, which just happened to be Frankie’s. You absolutely hated when this happened.

Your arms and legs started to tingle, your skin went pale, and your heart felt as if it was pumping hot, burning lead instead of blood through your veins. Breathing was getting harder, and every heartbeat constricted your chest. Cold sweat broke out all over your body. Suddenly, everything was too much, and your vision got blurry.

You could feel Frankie talking to you, but all you could hear was the thumping of your heart in your ears. Fearing that your legs would turn to jelly any minute and give out, you let go of his hand and wrapped yourself around his arm instead.

“Come back to me, Buttercup.”

The uttering of your nickname brought you back to reality. You had no idea when you’d gotten outside. As if someone had flipped a switch, you suddenly took deep, greedy breaths of fresh air.

Your eyes started to focus and found Frankie’s concerned gaze. He had brought you outside and set you down on a chair. Kneeling in front of you, he caressed your upper arms, rubbing them in slow motions.

“Do you have your medication with you?”, he asked, trying to get you to focus. You nodded absentmindedly, clutching at the small handbag at your side that always contained emergency drops from the pharmacy.

“Wait here for just a minute, okay? I’ll go and get you some water.”

Frankie draped his jacket over your shoulders before hurrying back inside the venue to buy a bottle of water. You could hear the cheers and shouts from the men and women inside who were still watching the fight. The smell of sweat, beer and to many people attacked your nostrils.

With shaking fingers you grabbed your medication out of your bag and placed a few drops of the bitter tasting concoction under your tongue. It would help slow your heartbeat and help you focus on your breathing.

A bottle of water was placed in your hands and Frankie got on his knees again in front of you. You took two cautious sips and then closed your eyes, concentrating on your breathing. Deep breath in – hold – breathe out – repeat.

You didn’t know if it was minutes or hours, but slowly the exhaustion after an anxiety attack kicked in – and with it, the anger.

“I hate being like this, Frankie”, you sighed, tears threatening to escape your eyes.

Frankie and the others were no strangers to your anxiety attacks – hell, most of them had their brush with PTSD and knew how to deal with the fact that a body sometimes went into overdrive.

He had placed his hands on your knees, rubbing soothing circles over your kneecaps while you clutched the bottle in your hands.

“Urgh, it’s been six months since my last episode. Why now?”

“Did something trigger you?”, Frankie asked, his voice a concerned whisper.

You sighed.

“My week was absolute shit, but I didn’t think it was taking it’s toll on me that bad. I- I think there were too many people in there? Not enough space?”

You shrugged and felt your legs starting to bounce. Now the queasiness and the need to move came. All the adrenaline that your body had released during your anxiety attack now wanted to be used.

You stood up and paced to and fro like a caged lion in front of Frankie.

“I’ve been doing so good! There was nothing to be scared of. I know that by now! But my body just goes into overdrive and I just…”

As you started cursing, Frankie watched you pace.

He knew that you felt helpless in these situations and that it frustrated you – because now you would spend your weekend sleeping and barely eating from being so exhausted.

“What can I do?”, he asked, knowing that there was not much he could do.

“I don’t know”, you said, stopping in front of him. “Distract me.”

The feeling of Frankie’s lips on yours as he cupped your face in his hands and drew you in was definitely a distraction you did not expect.

Your brain short circuited as you suddenly felt your heartbeat speed up again, but in a good way this time, pumping endorphins through your exhausted body.

His lips were slightly chipped but still soft and he sighed against your mouth, rubbing his thumbs over your cheeks.

As he felt the wetness of your tears that had started spilling, he backed away, his face a mask of shock.

“Oh God… Oh shit… I’m so sorry. That’s not what I… I didn’t want to…”

You were absolutely stunned.

Kissing Frankie had been something you had dreamed about for months now, but you had never thought he would want to kiss you.

“Do it again.”

“I- what?”

You stepped closer to him, your heart now pumping courage and serotonin through your veins instead of anxiety and stress. Placing your hands on his biceps, you got on your tiptoes and leaned forwards, your lips just a tilt of his head away from meeting again.

“Do it again…”, you whispered.

His cap got knocked off his head as it bumped against your forehead, but Frankie didn’t seem to care as he dove in to capture your lips again. Your hands found their way up his arms and past his neck, running through his curls in a desperate attempt to get even closer to him.

What started out as a sweet kiss soon turned into a dance of hunger and need. Your legs almost gave in again when you heard a desperate moan escape from Frankie’s lips. His hands were wrapped around your waist now, holding you steady.

Both of you had to separate for air soon enough and you took in the much needed oxygen with greedy breaths.

“I’m sorry…”, he mumbled, placing his forehead to yours.

“What for?”

“I… when you said you needed a distraction, kissing you was the first thing that came to me. But… are you sure this is okay? I don’t want to take advantage of-“

You shut him up with another peck to his lips.

“Frankie. This is the best distraction you could have given me. But anxiety or not, I wanted to do this for a while now.”

He blinked in surprise.

“Really?”

“Really”, you sighed, placing your head on his chest.

His heart was thundering in his chest – and if you didn’t know better, you would have thought he was anxious as well instead of happy.

#Pedro Pascal #Pedro Pascal Fanfiction #Frankie Morales #Frankie #Francisco Morales #Triple Frontier #Frankie x f! reader

[rainontherooftops]

P*rn is Art - Part 3 of ?

Summary: Marcus Pike, leader of the FBI Art Crimes Unit, has to form a rather peculiar taskforce. Together with his civilian consultant Lynn Flemming, he is on the hunt to catch a group of art thieves who use pornographic videos as their channel for selling stolen art. This case may prove in more ways than one that yes, P*rn can be a form of art.

Fandom: The Mentalist - Pedro Pascal as MARCUS PIKE Genre: Romance, Colleagues to Friends to Lovers, Drama, Crime, 18+ Content Pairing: Marcus Pike x f!OC Triggers (Chapter): Mentions of Pornography, Nudity, Sex in general, sex-crimes, criminal content, blood, murder, crime scenes Rating Chapter: Explicit - MINORS Do not Read

IMPORTANT INFO: THIS IS A REPOST FROM MY FORMER TUMBLR BLOG

**

Everything was awkward. There were no right angles, nothing seemed to fit and there was frantic and urgent touching – but neither Marcus nor Lynn really cared.

As soon as their eyes had met, they had attacked each other – and maybe a bit too eagerly. Their teeth had collided and Lynn was sure she had bit Marcus’ lips too hard, because she tasted blood.

Both of them were moaning, groping each other and searching for friction.

“Ah.. cramp…”, Lynn moaned as she tried to stretch one of her legs while simultaneously grinding against Marcus.

“Wait, let me…”

“Ouch... Marcus, your watch is caught in my hair.”

“Sorry, wait a sec, oh god, right there...”

“Hold on, I’ll just”

“Uff...”

“Oh god, Marcus, are you oka- oomph.”

The result of the attack: A few strands of green hair stuck in the wristband of Marcus’ watch, a knee to the stomach of the agent as she had tried to shift, him doubling over, which had sent her off the couch onto the carpet on the floor.

They were looking at each other, disheveled, out of breath and both with a hungry look in their eyes, their chests heaving. Marcus was holding his stomach where Lynns knee had hit him and he had a hard time to suppress a predatory growl.

Lynn was lying on the carpet on the floor, her stomach exposed, her legs spread, almost ready for the taking.

But alas, they were cockblocked by no other than Marcus’ boss.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me…”

“Let it go to voicemail, Marcus.”

“Can’t… That’s the boss’s ringtone.”

Maybe this was good. They had agreed not to devour each other. They had agreed to stay professional.

Groaning in frustration, turning away so Lynn could not stare at his erection as openly, he picked up his phone.

“Director?”

“Pike? You okay? You sound exhausted.”

Lynn just grinned, biting her bottom lip and wiggling her eyebrows.

“Just got home from a jog. What can I do for you?”

Lynn could feel the change of the atmosphere in the air and knew that she was not going to have sex tonight.

Marcus frowned as he listened to their boss, then sighed and hung up.

“Tell me what turns you off the most”, he wanted to know.

“Someone saying ‘yeehaw’ during sex, why?”

Marcus chuckled then, but it was a hollow chuckle.

“I need to go.”

Lynn sat up then, crossing her legs, her toes rubbing against the fluffy carpet.

“Trouble?”

Marcus nodded.

“We asked cyber to try and identify the hotel the videos were filmed at, right? Well, they found it. Along with two very naked, and very dead bodies.”

Lynn cursed, letting herself fall back onto the floor again and ran her hands through her hair.

“So you need to ‘sober up’ so to speak”.

He was back to his bashful, nice, slightly timid state and it was hard for him to… not be hard.

“Okay, imagine this. Donald Trump , wearing a leather dominatrix outfit and threatening to lick caramel sauce off your naked body.”

“Good lord, your imagination is… something…”

The image was planted and it seemed to work.

“Can I borrow your bathroom for a sec? I need to get changed.”

Marcus’ brows furrowed.

“You’re not coming.”

“Yes, I’m coming. I know I’m not an FBI agent, Marcus – but this is my case. And you said it yourself. I have a good eye.”

He could play the boss card and order her to stay, he knew that. But he also wanted her to come along.

Sighing, he said: “Fine. But what you have on is fine, you don’t need to change.”

It was Lynns turn to blush a little then as she stood up, but her cocky and sarcastic side won over quickly.

“I disagree, boss. I think it’s highly unprofessional to show up at a crime scene with no underwear on.”

“No un- Oh god…”

Lynn didn’t wait for his reaction, fearing that she would attack him again. Instead, she grabbed her overnight bag from the hall and disappeared into the bathroom to change. Her leggings were positively drenched. She would have loved for Marcus to touch her, to chase a collective high with him – but somehow she was also happy that they had been stopped by fate.

Something was stirring inside her that she had not felt in years. It took her a while to realize that not only was adrenaline involved – but also feelings.

And that made her curse again, because that was not the plan.

‘Well, Fuck.’

**

DC traffic at night was light and the ride to the Merryweather Hotel took them only twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes in which neither of them really talked much.

Lynn had changed into washed out jeans with rips, chucks and a T-Shirt with a Japanese cherry blossom tree, while Marcus had donned his uniform of suit, gun and FBI badge.

They could see the blue lights of the police cars up front and the coroners van from afar. As Marcus slid into a parking spot, Lynn hyped herself up in her mind to get back into work mode.

Marcus needed her sharp, he needed her with eyes focused and head in the game.

She was glad when the cold DC air hit her and cooled her down, because as much as she tried, it was hard to forget his hands leaving hot trails all over her body.

The outside of the hotel was quite normal, except that there seemed to be some renovation going on on the upper floors, as the windows were draped with some kind of foil.

As his credentials opened all doors and blockades, Marcus tried to forget the feeling of Lynns soft flesh underneath him, above him, beneath him…

No, he thought to himself and cursed his sex drive which was suddenly acting like he was a teenager again, I will not get a hard on at a crime scene. Get it together, Pike!

The elevator brought them up to the third floor.

The sight that met them as soon as they entered the hotel room finally killed all thoughts of carnal relations from their brains.

Marcus saw the mess first and turned around to block Lynns view.

“Are you sure you want to see this? It’s not pretty.”

Lynn nodded, letting the elastic material of the gloves she had grabbed snap onto her wrists.

“I can do this.”

It was gruesome. No amount of soap could ever get the soaked sheets crispy white or even clean again.

There was blood all over the bed, two naked bodies sprayed out over the mattress.

Lynn had taken a crash course to be allowed on crime scenes, so she would not contaminate anything – but still it was hard to move around in the room.

Marcus was talking to the coroner and the police officer in charge now, while she started to look around. The bodies aside, it looked like the room had been ransacked – as if someone had looked for something.

Lynn was trying to think back to the videos she had seen earlier, filmed in this very room.

She positioned herself in front of the bed but at the wall, trying to find the angle they had been filmed at. But something was off.

It was hard to focus with all these people around, all the flashing lights of the cameras and all the noise-

The noise...

Lynn gasped, took two strides to the window, and opened it carefully. She stuck her head out, turned, and looked up.

“Yeehaw…,” she grinned and swung back in.

“Got something?”, Marcus asked, having watched his partner closely.

“Oh yeah.”

She took his hand then, returning to her position at the wall and placing him next to her.

“In the videos, the camera enters from the hall into the room, where the action is already going on mots of the time. It’s dark, but there is illumination coming in from the window – from the Casino sign across the street.”

“True.”

“But the angle of the lighting is wrong and it doesn’t seem as strong as it is in here.”

Marcus dipped his neck and checked, almost leaning his head on Lynns shoulder.

She gulped but continued.

“Now, imagine having sex on that bed, with an open door in the middle of this hall…”

They both know the had imagined it sometime today, but ignored it.

“The actors were loud. They were not holding back. That would be bad for business, don’t you think?”

“It would certainly not be easy to explain,” he said.

“But what if you had a whole floor to yourself? What if you could be as loud as you want, because you had all the space and time in the world?”

Marcus eyes lit up then and he too took the trip to the window to look upstairs.

“This is the wrong room”, he mumbled. “The porn was shot a few floors higher up. Right where…”

“Where the rooms are being renovated – if they are being renovated at all.”

Both of them quit the room then, leaving the scene to their colleagues, dashing towards the elevator – only to be met with a man who they both thought looked familiar.

“FBI!”, Marcus shouted, drawing his gun just in case. “Hands where I can see them!”

The attractive man at the elevator raised his arms, terror in his eyes.

Gone was the look of ecstasy on his face that both Marcus and Lynn had seen an hour earlier as he had fucked the living daylights out of his “boss” underneath a Jackson Pollock painting.

**

#Pedro Pascal #Pedro Pascal Fanfiction #The Mentalist #Marcus Pike #Marcus Pike x female oc #Marcus Pike Fanfiction #f!oc

[rainontherooftops]

P*rn is Art - Part 2 of ?

Summary: Marcus Pike, leader of the FBI Art Crimes Unit, has to form a rather peculiar taskforce. Together with his civilian consultant Lynn Flemming, he is on the hunt to catch a group of art thieves who use pornographic videos as their channel for selling stolen art. This case may prove in more ways than one that yes, P*rn can be a form of art.

Fandom: The Mentalist - Pedro Pascal as MARCUS PIKE Genre: Romance, Colleagues to Friends to Lovers, Drama, Crime, 18+ Content Pairing: Marcus Pike x f!OC Triggers (Chapter): Mentions of Pornography, Nudity, Sex in general, sex-crimes, criminal content Rating Chapter: Explicit - MINORS Do not Read

IMPORTANT INFO: THIS IS A REPOST FROM MY FORMER TUMBLR BLOG

**

P*rn is Art 2

Lynn was not an anxious person. Whenever she was anxious, it was a bubbly feeling of dread. She did however often feel giddy and excited – it happened when she was looking forward to something.

But right now, standing in front of her partners apartment at 9 A.M. the next day, her stomach was churring.

After having left Marcus at the pub and venturing to the nearest sex shop to get supplies for their case, she had repeated her words in her mind. And she had not liked what she had said.

It wasn’t like she didn’t want to have sex with Marcus. She did. Very much so. But she had pushed her idea on him, once again ignoring what he had to say, how he felt, and not considering the very sticky situation, pun not intended, that he was her boss.

‘You can do this, Lynn. Talk to him. He’s the nicest person in the world, he will listen to you.’

She was carrying three bags, of which she hoped that she only needed one.

The first bag was full of groceries and snacks, for very much needed breaks – and the only one she really wanted to use.

The second bag was an overnight bag, should there be a need to stay. There was always space for her on his couch and it would not have been the first time that the two of them worked way into the night.

The third bag was the one from the sex shop – and she hoped that they would not have to use it.

Marcus opened the door, clad in dark jeans and a black T-shirt, greeting her with a nervous grin.

“Morning”, he said, taking the grocery bag from her hands. “You didn’t have to go shopping for food. We can get take-away.”

“I thought cooking would take our mind off things”, she said, slipping off her shoes. She was wearing clothing very untypical for her. Black leggings and the black P*rn is Art T-Shirt. The usual specks of color where her mint green hair and her sleeve tattoos.

As he led the way to the kitchen, Lynn put her bags on the floor and then took a seat on one of his bar stools, nervously wiggling her hands.

“Marcus?”

“Yeah?”, he answered, putting away grapes, meat, vegetables, and junk food.

“Can we… Can we talk for a second?”

The anxious sound of her voice made him stop in his task, turning around with a concerned frown.

“You okay?”

She shook her head, not able to meet his gaze.

“Not really. I-I wanted to apologize for yesterday.”

Marcus closed the door of his fridge, pulled a chair towards himself, and sat down across from her, trying to look her in the eyes.

“Apologize? For what?”

Lynn sighed, massaging the spot between her eyes.

“I did what I always do. I acted before thinking through what I said, not considering the consequences.”

She could see that Marcus wanted to interrupt her, but he didn’t have enough information, so he let her continue.

“What I said at the pub- I… Well I just assumed that you would be on board with it, and that is not okay. Especially when we’re talking about sex.”

Taking a deep breath, she finally scraped together some courage to look him in the eyes. Marcus had taught her to be more considerate of others and she had tried to be in the months that she had known him.

“You’re more or less my boss, so what I said was uncalled for. We’re friends, and sex is something extremely intimate. And I know about your history. I didn’t even stop to think about if you even want to have sex with someone you’re not in a relationship with. I never asked for your opinion or what you want – and that’s just wrong.”

She broke eye contact then, and hid her hands under her thighs, sitting on them because she didn’t know what else to do with them.

“I’m sorry. We… We should try and do this like professionals. Just because we have a lot of porn ahead of us doesn’t mean that it’s not important that we do our work. Right?”

As she was hiding her hands underneath her, Marcus didn’t have the chance to grasp them. He put one of his hands on her knee, which made her look up.

“I admit I was a bit overwhelmed by what you said yesterday. And we were both pretty exhausted and anxious. I’m happy that you’re considering my feelings about this, but I wasn’t offended in any way. That being said”, he uttered, standing up and putting the chair back where it belonged, “I think you’re right. We have some art to save. And if we have to dive through hours of porn to do it, we can do it while staying professional.”

The weight of a hundred meteors was lifted from Lynns chest at his words. He was not mad at her and still willing to work with her. And she had managed to properly apologize.

Suddenly filled with new energy, she hopped off the bar stool and helped him put some snack food together so they could munch on something while watching.

Coughing, she said. “I did stop by the sex shop though for supplies. So when we have to take a break, we can... you know… have slightly longer bathroom breaks.”

An adorable blush crept up his neck and tinted his face red and he nodded.

“Sounds good.”

Together they went into the living room, each some ice tea and a sandwich in hand, heading for the sofa. On the coffee table, Marcus had prepared notepads and pens, water bottles, tissues and he had hooked up a laptop to his big TV-Screen, where their allotted portion of porn was waiting for them.

“We’re going through pages 1 to 5”, Marcus said. “There are videos with active comment sections up to page 15, so we’ll have our work cut out for us.”

There was also an empty white board in the corner; everything was ready for a day of brainstorming and work. Except that there would be lots and lots of porn involved.

“Okay, before we start watching”, Marcus said – and Lynn could hear that he was trying not to sound nervous – “what do you suggest we fixate upon?”

He was trying to treat this like any other case they had worked on, for which she was grateful. Not only because it would make things slightly easier, but also because it would give her mind something to focus on, other than the intoxicating smell of his cologne or the fact that she noticed all of a sudden how small his couch was.

“Right, uhm… The actors? We might want to see if the forgers always cast the same people or if they use different couples every time. The same goes for locations.”

Marcus nodded, stood up and wrote these first two points on a notepad.

“Time frames and quality of the videos too”, Lynn said, scrolling through the overview. “It might tell us if they have high quality film equipment at hand. I doubt they would film with amateur stuff or smartphones if they want to convince the buyers that the items are genuine.”

“Good point”, Marcus agreed.

“And we should ask cyber to run an algorithm or something for words in the comments. To see if there are specific words that identify potential buyers.”

“Brilliant.”

There was only so much preparation talk for the case they could do before they actually had to watch some porn, so after a while Marcus sat back down on the couch. Lynn noticed that he took care of sitting as far away from her as possible.

He grabbed his notepad and pen, while Lynn reached for the mouse and exchanged a look with him.

“Ready?,” she asked, trepidation making her stomach flip.

“Ready,” Marcus answered.

“Alright, first video. Uploaded three days ago, on the 31st of March. Duration 25:07 minutes. Titled – urgh, cliché much? >My stepsister caught me masturbating<.”

Lynn could see Marcus roll his eyes.

There was no build up whatsoever. As soon as Lynn pressed play, a young man in his early twenties was on display, sitting on his haunches on a mattress in a hotel room, his erect penis in his hand, stroking it leisurely.

“Huh”, Lynn said, dipping her head to the side.

“What?”

“That looks a bit … strange. I’m pretty sure a penis is not supposed to bend that way.”

Marcus stopped the video, also changed the angle of his neck and frowned.

“You know what, you’re right? Peculiar looking”, he agreed.

For the next ten minutes they made notes as the blonde, skimpy dressed step sister entered the room and talked about how she would tell on their collective parents, unless she could participate. She was twirling her locks, swaying her hips, biting her lips.

“There’s definitely a cameraman involved. Or even a stationary set up”, Lynn interrupted as the man started slobbering over his ‘step sisters’ breasts. “It’s too steady to be an amateur set up.”

“Agreed. The lighting is too good as well and the angles are perfect.”

As the supposed siblings started to tumble on the bed, the angles changed to give a wider view of the room. Lynn and Marcus set their eyes on the surroundings, but couldn’t find anything that looked like stolen or forged art.

The actors left a mess on the sheets, but otherwise the video was boring and bore no fruit for them.

“Alright, that was a dud. What’s next?”, Lynn asked, making sure that she too was taking notes on the videos.

They hit pause on the next video to make a phone call to the sex crime unit. The actresses, two this time, looked barely legal and it concerned both of them – which effectively killed any erotic mood that may have come up in the first place.

“I’m sure it’s legal though”, Lynn said after Marcus hung up and they forced themselves to watch the video to the end.

“How so?”

“They’re dealing with art that’s worth millions of dollars and they figured out a genius way to sell it. I can’t imagine that they’re stupid enough to hire minors or film any problematic kinks that would flag them.”

Marcus nodded and clicked on the third video, titled ‘surprising my boyfriend with my new underwear set’.

At thirty minutes long, this film featured a woman in her late twenties and a man in his thirties, posing as wife and husband, in a romantic but passionate setting in the privacy of their bedroom. It was the first movie they both struggled with as it was tasteful, erotic and featured positions and ideas that they both found intriguing.

Lynn tried not to squirm in her seat too obviously while also trying to ignore that Marcus was quiet and trying to sit more comfortably.

“Recognize that painting?”, he asked after a while, ignoring the man buried between the woman’s legs, coaxing what sounded like an earth shattering orgasm out of her with his tongue.

“Yepp. IKEA mass print. My dentist has one of those on his wa- Wait, go back.”

Marcus clicked pause and shuffled back a bit, ignoring the arch of the woman’s back as she moaned in pleasure.

“Tell me I’m dreaming and that’s not a First Edition of the Three Musketeers on the bedside table”, she said, leaning in. Her head was now next to Marcus’, both of them trying to Zoom in on the image. Lynn could feel his breath near her neck, smell his cologne – always something with pines and a note of whiskey – and fought back the urge to hold onto his knee in anticipation.

“Possible. Very possible. Good eye, Lynn. Not worth millions, but to the right buyer certainly worth a bit of cash.”

They had their first win and as soon as the couple cried over the lingerie that was now ripped to shreds, it was time for lunch.

‘That didn’t go so bad’, Lynn thought as she stood up and stretched, hungry for some fuel.

“Too bad the guy was so eager”, Marcus said, following Lynn into his kitchen. “That was a lovely underwear set.”

Lynn turned around, shocked, her brows wandering up her forehead. He only seemed to realize now what he had said, blushing. But before he could talk himself out of it, she smiled.

“I agree. Not really my color though. Red clashes with my hair.”

The work in the afternoon was harder and while Marcus and Lynn did their job professionally, the videos got more appealing. They noticed that the hotel room from the first video was used two or three more times, but always when videos with no valuable items were involved.

At about three in the afternoon, Lynn excused herself to deal with her arousal in the bathroom. It didn’t take long for her to find release on her fingers and upon returning, she was sure that Marcus seemed a bit more relaxed as well – and that the door to his bedroom had definitely been closed before, when now it was open.

They worked on well into dinner time, but were soon frustrated because they couldn’t find anything of value.

Marcus groaned, burying his face in his hands after the third, or was it fifth, infidelity video and leaned back on his couch. “I feel violated”, he moaned, rubbing his temples.

Lynn felt much the same and had a look at the computer. There was only one video left until they could tick the second page of pornography off their list.

“Let’s do this last one and then call it a night, yeah?”

Marcus took a deep breath, rolled his shoulders, made his joints pop and sat up straighter, his thigh touching hers in the process as he leaned forward.

“Alright, we got this. One more.”

Lynn noted the date of the video, two weeks prior, titled ‘sex at the office’. She tried not to gulp.

She had once had a wet dream about Marcus, pressing her against his office wall and taking her, standing up, the cold stone wall pressed against her naked flesh.

The office looked modern and was scarcely furnished, a desk, a chair and a couch had to suffice. The man was wearing a suit, but his jacket was off and his shirt was shoved up so that his muscular arms could be seen.

Three of his buttons were undone to show off his muscular chest. He had playfully tied his boss to her chair with his tie, massaging her breasts.

Lynn was shocked as all of a sudden she had to suppress a moan. Warmth and a tingling, familiar sensation was once again starting to build up inside her. She had to bite her lip as the actor finally discarded the rest of his clothes, revealing that he was well endowed indeed and leaking, ready to let his boss ride his cock on the couch.

As she impaled herself on him and guided his palms to her breasts, both of them moaning and trying to find the best rhythm, Lynn could feel Marcus shift beside her. His breathing was heavier and a secretive glance his way showed her that his jeans were definitely tented.

The camera angle changed and suddenly both of them gasped.

“Oh my god…”

“Marcus, is that…”

“That’s a Pollock. No doubt about it.”

“Wasn’t there a theft of a Jackson Pollock about three years ago in…”

They both grabbed for their smartphones, googling for the missing Pollock piece that had been stolen while transported a view years back.

“That’s it. Worth roughly six million dollars.”

Hearths pounding, success and endorphins pumping through their veins, they laughed in excitement and faced each other – and then attacked each other’s mouths in a needy and hungry kiss fueled with heat and desire.

**

#Pedro Pascal #Pedro Pascal Fanfiction #Pedro Pascal Characters #Marcus Pike #The Mentalist #marcus pike x female #marcus pike x female oc #f oc #Pedro Pascal as Marcus Pike

[rainontherooftops]

Looks can be deceiving

Summary: In order to get over the crush you have for your roommate, bountyhunter Din Djarin, you accept an invitation to a date from a colleague at university. When everything goes pear shaped, he is there to pick up the pieces - and tell you exactly how looks can be deceiving.

Fandom: The Mandalorian - Pedro Pascal as Modern! Din Djarin Genre: Romance, Tooth Rotting Fluff, New Relationships, spicy, Roommates to Friends to Lovers Pairing: Modern! Din Djarin x f! Plus Size Reader Triggers : Mentions body shaming, nervous breakdown, mentions of violence and sexual content Rating : M

IMPORTANT INFO: THIS IS A REPOST FROM MY FORMER TUMBLR BLOG

**

Looks can be deceiving.

Din Djarin was not what you had expected your new roommate to be. For one thing, you had never thought you’d share accommodations with a professional bounty hunter. Secondly, sharing rooms with a man who was so handsome and way out of your league was unexpected.

Nine months into your cohabitation, (after the trailer he had lived in had caught fire and burnt down), you had yet to find him bring a man or a woman over.

You liked living with Din.

He was a silent type, but honest and strong and kind. No wonder you had developed a crush on the handsome bounty hunter. Some of his charisma and charm must have rubbed off on you, because a colleague at the university you worked at had asked you out on a date. And you hadn’t been on a date since, well… in forever.

Going out and having some fun would be the perfect opportunity to get Din out of your system. Or so you thought.

As you closed the door to your room, you heard a whistle from behind you. “Someone looks dashing”, Din said. “Going somewhere? I didn’t know you own a dress.”

He was sitting at the living room table, his weapons laid out on it. He was wiping and polishing everything down. ‘You look dashing yourself’, you thought as you took him in, his dark grey shirt and black jeans hugging him in all the right places and enhancing his muscles perfectly.

You looked bleak compared to him. Normally you were sporting jeans yourself and ridiculous shirts or jerseys. This dark green number was the only dress you owned and made you look less like a geeky bookworm and more like a desirable woman – or so you thought.

“I have a date”, you finally admitted.

The frown on Dins face astonished you. “A date?”, he asked, inquisitively – and it stung.

Like so many people, including your mother, you would have expected him to say: “A date? You? How’d you manage that?” But his look was enough – and you hadn’t thought that he of all people would think you not nice enough – or pretty enough – to get a date.

“Yes, a date. A colleague asked me out. We’re going to a fancy dress cocktail party.”

Were you imagining things or were his fists clenched a bit tighter around his gun and the polishing cloth?

Before he could ask any further questions, you decided to flee. “I’ll probably be late, so don’t wait up.”

**

Din was nice enough to wait anyway, checking that you would be home save. Of course he was.

Which meant that you could not hide the shame, tears and embarrassment from him or sneak into your room to cry your heart out. It was dark in the apartment, the only light visible was the blueish tone of the TV.

Taking a shaky breath, you entered the living room after slipping out of your shoes. Din was sitting on the couch, one arm draped on the top of the sofa, the other one nursing a beer.

“Hey, you’re back earl-…”

It wasn’t easy to read Dins expression most days. But your eyes were swimming with tears and your glasses were askew and your face was puffy, and you couldn’t think straight – so now it was impossible.

All his gaze did was make you break down even more. You fisted your hands into the fabric of your dress and started sobbing in earnest. You would have sunk down to the floor, had Din not been by your side in a flash and held you upright.

It was impossible to tell if he talked to you or not as you let go of your dress to hold onto your roommate like he was a lifeline, shivering and trembling all over, leaking all sorts of fluids onto his shirt.

Somehow, after minutes – or was it hours? – of sobbing and receiving calming back-rubs and being shushed, you found the strength to breathe again.

“That’s it. Deep breaths, mesh'la. Come back to me.”

You still had no grasp of his native language, but you knew that mesh'la meant beautiful. And especially after tonight you felt anything but.

“I’m not…”, you stuttered.

“You’re not what, cyar'ika?“

“Beautiful”, you said, somehow finding the strength to escape his embrace and starting to pace in the living room, hugging yourself while walking on unsteady feet.

“Who said that? Did he say that?”, Din growled, trying to catch your gaze, but you were too far gone.

You shook your head.

“It wasn’t just him. According to the voting I was a runner up for the ‘Queen of the Pigs’”, you spat, anger and embarrassment boiling inside you.

Din looked confused – and how could he make sense of what you were saying? He would never take part in activities like the ones you had to endure tonight.

“You’ve lost me”, he admitted.

You sighed in frustration.

“He took me to a fucking ‘Pig Party’, Din.”

Oh gods, did you really have to explain what that was? Was he that innocent slash clueless?

Sighing, massaging your temples in hopes to fight the oncoming headache, you explained: “It’s a party where a group of people ask out the ugliest person they can find on a date and have a secret voting. And at the end, the king and queen of ‘ugly’ are being crowned and the winner who brought the price pig gets a ‘reward’.”

The description alone almost made you want to puke.

It had started out nice. The party had been fun and you were introduced to so many nice people – dates of his colleagues and friends. Interesting people, funny and kind hearted.

Until the small stage in the ballroom had lit up and the true nature of the gathering had been revealed.

The room was eerily silent when you looked up. You had never seen Din look like this. Stiff as a statue, storm clouds in his eyes and anger rolling off him in waves, his fists clenched.

He growled something inaudible.

“What?”

“I said ‘Give me his name’”, he growled, his frown deepening. “I am going to break the bastards fucking legs.”

You shook your head then. The thought of Din hitting the fucking daylights out of your ‘date’ was a nice one, but you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

“It doesn’t matter anyway”, you said.

“What do you mean it doesn’t matter. Of course it does. Why would you say that?”

“Because he’s right!”

You started pacing again, not able to stop the waterfall of words that broke the dam of your insecurities.

“I am not beautiful! I’ve never been! I look like a mess all the time, I have three different clothing sizes in my closet because none of it fits right anyway, and I’m fat, and ugly and not even a stupid dress like this can change that!”

Ripping at the fabric then, you managed to slip out of the dress and threw it aside, standing in the living room in your black underwear. The black underwear set that somehow made you feel sexy – at least sometimes. Now you just thought it looked ridiculous.

You caught your reflection in the mirror that hung in the room. Disheveled, a puffy red face, glasses still askew, your carefully crafted ponytail ruined – it stung but for a moment you thought this is what a pig ought to look like.

With wobbly legs, and exhausted from your temper tantrum and open floodgates, you leaned against the dining table behind you, gripping the edges of it for balance.

“Are you calling me a liar then?”

Confused, you looked up. As always, it was hard to read Din.

“What do you mean?”, you asked, preparing to be showered in pity by this handsome man who held your heart in his hands without even knowing it.

“I’ve called you beautiful on multiple occasions”, he explained, turning to you. “Are you saying I’ve been lying?”

The look in Dins eyes made goosebumps spread all over your body. Was this how his bounties felt like? Staring into the eyes of a predator who they couldn’t escape from?

He came closer then, the storm in his eyes still there, thrilling. Putting his arms on either side of you, he caged you in. You had to strain your neck to look him in the eyes. He was so close that you could feel the fabric of his jeans against your legs, his breath on your face.

He smelled intoxicating. Like the gun oil he had used earlier and a spicy, leathery cologne.

“For months now”, he growled, continuing, “I’ve been restraining myself. Every time I saw those hips sway, dancing around in the kitchen.”

It was not painful, the way he dug his fingers into your hips – it was possessive.

“You’ve been taunting me for weeks with that perfect, round, juicy ass of yours”, he groaned, his hands wandering, massaging your flesh through the fabric of your underwear.

“And every time you come out of the shower, only clad in that flimsy, tiny robe of yours”, he moaned, “I’ve prayed to all the gods that the belt would give away and show me those perfect boobs of yours.”

He nibbled at your clavicle then, sucking at the flesh, making you take in a sharp breath. What was happening here?

“I’ve been dreaming about worshipping your body, kissing every inch of skin I can reach. But… all of these features are not what make you beautiful.”

You had to grab his shoulders for balance then as he started kissing your neck. Your breath came out in short, excited huffs as your skin pressed against his chiseled, muscular chest.

“Do you want to know what I see when I look at you?”, he asked, not waiting for an answer. “I see a woman who took me in without a second thought, when I had nowhere to go. I see a woman who is kind, modest, helpful, sweet, honest, feisty, full of love and humor – and most of all – cares for others more than she cares for herself. If that is not the incarnation of beauty, then I don’t know what is.”

Your heart skipped a beat as he finally sealed your lips with his in a passionate kiss, one of his hands loosening the ponytail and cradling your head, the other massaging the flesh of your thigh and managing to lift you onto the table.

It was impossible not to kiss back, to give in to the yearning and desire you had been hiding for months. It was impossible to not believe every word he had said. You knew nobody more honest than Din Djarin. He was many things, but a liar he was not.

Still, after the two of you broke apart for breath, you asked.

“D-Do you really mean that?”

“Of course, mesh’la. And in case you haven’t noticed”, he said, guiding your hand between your bodies and placing your palm against his jeans. “This is what your state of undress does to me.”

Gulping and blushing, you remembered that you were sitting on the dining table in your underwear.

Din could feel that you were shying away, but he didn’t mind. Instead, he stepped away (with great difficulty, it seemed), went to the sofa and draped the blanket you kept there around your shoulders.

“Now, if you’ll allow me – I will spend my time every single day showing you how beautiful you are. Starting now.”

He placed a kiss on your forehead then and a chuckle left his mouth when he looked at you.

“What?”, you asked.

“There it is. The most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen.”

Another blush covered your body then.

“Now, since you are not allowing me to break the fuckers legs, I need to distract myself. How does a cheesy horror movie and late night pizza sound?”

You hopped off the table.

“That sounds perfect”, you said, smiling, still not really believing what had just happened.

Din cleared his throat, saying: “Can I make a request though?”

You blinked but nodded. “Sure.”

With a predatory grin, he bent down to whisper in your ear: “Don’t get dressed again.”

**

#Pedro Pascal #The Mandalorian #Pedro Pascal Fanfiction #Din Djarin x Reader #Modern AU #Plus Size Reader #din djarin x plus size reader #The Mandalorian AU #din djarin x female reader #Pedro Pascal Character

[rainontherooftops]

Quality Test

Summary: You had reassured your new boyfriend Francisco that you could put your new bed together by yourself. But when he comes over to help, things get romantic.

Fandom: Triple Frontier - Pedro Pascal as Francisco "Catfish" Morales Genre: Romance, Tooth Rotting Fluff, New Relationships Pairing: Frankie x f! Reader Triggers (Chapter): Mentions of minor Injury, Sexual Relationship Rating : M

IMPORTANT INFO: THIS IS A REPOST FROM MY FORMER TUMBLR BLOG

**

Quality Test

Sitting on the floor in front of the cartons that held your new bed, you sighed. Frankie had asked you if you wanted some help putting your new bed together, but you had refused, insisting that you could do it on your own.

But now?

Frustrated, you punched at your smartphone screen and waited for your boyfriend to pick up.

“Good afternoon, honeybun,” he answered after the second ring, a smile in his voice that made your stomach do flips.

Your relationship was still in its starting phase and every endearment made you blush.

“Hey Frankie. Listen, uhm… Are you still free this afternoon?”, you asked, knowing fully well that he would be really smug about you asking for his help.

“Yeah, I was planning on doing some grocery shopping but nothing else is on.”

“C-could you maybe come and help me with my bed? It got delivered today.”

Oh, you could almost feel the smirk on the other side of the line. But you had to get through it, there was no other way.

“I thought you wanted to do that on your own? Wait, what was it you said? >I’m not a damsel, Frankie. I can put a stupid bed together on my own<.”

You rolled your eyes, knowing exactly what you had said.

“I know”, you whined, looking down at your left hand, wrapped up in a fresh bandage. “I wanted to do it by myself, but the doctor said-“

Frankie interrupted you instantly.

“The doctor? What doctor? Are you hurt?!”

And there it was, Frankie’s overprotective, sweet, caring side that you fell in love with a few months ago, all smugness gone from his voice in a heartbeat.

“’m fine, Frankie. It’s just a sprained wrist. But the stupid bandage makes it hard to hold a hammer, and-“

“I’m on my way”, he said, and suddenly the line was dead.

You blinked at the screen of your smartphone, surprised at the sudden cut of the call.

Sighing, you turned to your left to grab the smaller box that also got delivered today. Maybe the contents of this package would let him forget his worries.

**

You opened your door thirty minutes later, finding Frankie on your doorstep, his toolbox in hand and slightly out of breath.

“Did you run here?”, you asked, planting a kiss on his cheek before letting him in.

He didn’t answer, but put his toolbox on the floor and took your bandaged hand in his, inspecting it.

“What happened, sweetheart?,” he asked, looking for any signs of pain in your face. You flashed him a reassuring smile.

“Honestly, Frankie, it’s not a big deal. I just slipped on the icy sidewalk and had a clumsy landing. I only went to the doctor to be sure that nothing was broken.”

He sighed, already exhausted, took off his cap and ran his fingers through his hair before planting a kiss on your forehead. “You have to tell me when you get hurt. You know I worry.”

You almost wanted to tell him again that it wasn’t a big deal, but thought about what you would have felt if Frankie hadn’t told you he was hurt. You would have wanted to know too.

So instead you leaned against him and said. “Sorry.”

He held you just a few seconds longer, before picking up his toolbox again and heading towards your bedroom. “Let’s see if I can get this bed set up before dinner.”

You stood leaning against your doorframe, arms crossed in front of your chest, watching Frankie opening boxes, getting rid of his flannel shirt to reveal the black t-shirt underneath that highlighted his biceps so well, grunting, handling his tools – and you felt a familiar heat building up inside you.

Sex was relatively new to you and Frankie, as you’ve only been together for a few months. You’d shared a few wonderful, romantic nights together in his bed and a slightly messy and passionate love-making session in the back of his beloved truck, but you were still not at the stage where you felt comfortable to initiate sex just out of the blue.

But damn, did the look of Frankie wielding his tools and bending over and grunting get your motor running. Biting your lips absentmindedly, you thought about the contents of the second delivery again that were stashed in your walk-in closet just behind him.

Your boyfriend was so immersed in putting together the new bedframe that he didn’t even notice you slipping into the closet and shedding your clothes in order to slip into something more comfortable.

You twirled around in front of the mirror, not sure if he would like what he’d see. But the feeling of the silky lingerie set in wine red that you had ordered for a special occasion made you feel sexy. And hopefully, Frankie would agree.

“Frankie?,” you asked, still hidden in your closet.

“Yeah?” he grunted, his back still to you.

You stood behind him, not sure how to position yourself in order to show off your best features in the underwear set of lace and silk. So you just gripped the handle of your closet door, in order to have something to hold onto. Your heart was pounding.

“How long to do you think you’ll need to finish this?”

“Why, do you have somewhere to b- oh my good lord…”

Frankie had turned around, following the sound of your voice, and had promptly dropped his screwdriver. He was staring at you like a deer in the headlights, not sure where to look first. You could almost see his pupils dilating, taking in every inch of your body. His hands twitched in anticipation, but he was glued to the spot.

“I… I thought we could test if the bed is sturdy enough when you’re done. You know, like a quality test”, you said, the shyness in your voice betraying your nervous state. But Frankie didn’t seem to notice. He gulped.

“Give me five minutes.”, he said, turned around and started putting the last pieces together as if he was trying to break a record. Smiling, you turned back to the closet to pull out a thin blanket from the depths of your linen closet. As soon as that mattress was placed on the frame, both of you would not be patient enough to get proper sheets onto that bed.

“I’m done!”, Frankie cried in triumph, turning around and unceremoniously picking you up bridal style. You squealed as he let you fall down onto the mattress, still clutching the blanket, but careful not to let you land on your injured hand.

He didn’t lose any time and threw his shirt somewhere near his toolbox before crawling onto the mattress, pinning you underneath him and hovering over you.

“Are you sure this is okay?”, he asked, his gentle demeanor suddenly back.

You nodded, guiding his hand and placing it on the soft fabric of the nighty right above your stomach, so he could decide which direction he would like to go.

“Let’s see what this bed can take”, you smirked, hooking your uninjured hand behind his neck and drawing him in for a kiss. The first kiss of many in your new bed that eventually became “our bed”.

**

#Pedro Pascal #Pedro Pascal Fanfiction #Triple Frontier #Frankie #Frankie Morales #Francisco Morales #Frankie Catfish Morales #frankie morales x reader #Frankie x reader

[rainontherooftops]

Petrichor - Part 2 of ?

Summary: Pero Tovar is not very impressed by the arrival of the new counselor at his nursing home. He has to take care of his elderly patients and has no time to make sure that the new hire doesn't fuck up. But soon he will have to learn that his new colleague is not intimidated by his grumpyness.

Fandom: The Great Wall - Pedro Pascal as MODERN! Pero Tovar Genre: Romance, Colleagues to Friends to Lovers, Drama, Alternative Universe, 18+ Content Pairing: Modern! Pero Tovar x f!OC Triggers (Chapter): Mentions of Sickness, Workplace Drama, Dementia Rating Chapter: T

IMPORTANT INFO: THIS IS A REPOST FROM MY FORMER TUMBLR BLOG

**

Teatime on Amelia’s second day was more eventful than she had expected. The nurses took care of the residents, so she had time to get her office ready for her first official day. The room was still very blank and not very inviting.

She had an empty desk, a green sofa on the wall and two chairs – and now an electric kettle, some tea and a bag with a change of clothes for emergencies after yesterday’s mishap.

Movement from her open door made her look up and blink in shock.

Mr. Belville, one of the residents of Wing A, was standing under her doorframe – bollocks naked and very confused. Pero had warned her that he was prone to wandering the halls and didn’t like wearing clothes.

“Hello Mr. Belville”, she said, trying not to ogle him and be friendly. He seemed to be in a very confused state.

He ignored her and sat down onto one of her chairs – thankfully on a cushion - before looking around and finally setting his eyes on her.

“You’re the new lady”, he stated, his fingers drumming on his naked knees.

“I am, yes.”

He looked down at himself, confused.

“I am naked.”

“That you are”, she chuckled, turning around and fixing a cup of tea for the octogenarian. “Why don’t you have some tea and I’ll call, Pero, so he’ll come and pick you up?”

He accepted the paper cup, cradling it in his hands. He pouted. “Meh. He will be mad at me. He doesn’t like it when I run around naked.”

Amelia chuckled and said: “Well, that’s because he’s a prude.”

She was rewarded with a smile while pressing the call button for Pero. After yesterday’s bed pan ordeal, he had insisted she call him whenever something was wrong. But with a sour face.

“What?”, she heard him answer, the noise of the other residents in the common room loud in the background.

“Hello Pero. Do you have two minutes?”

“I’m busy”, he growled. “What do you want?”

“I was just wondering if you have misplaced Mr. Belville.”

Amelia sat down on the couch next to Mr. Belville with her own cup of tea, smiling at the old man, having handed him a towel to cover his nether regions while she waited on Pero’s answer. He was probably scanning the common room and then the residents chamber to see where he was.

A heavy sigh could be heard at the end of the line a minute later.

“Where is he?”, Pero inquired, telling another nurse that he would be right back.

“In my office, very much naked. We are enjoying a nice cup of tea. Aren’t we, Mr. Belville?”

“Tell him to not bother me. I’ll stay here.”

“You heard the man”, Amelia giggled and hung up.

Together they were listening to the rain that had not let up since yesterday, the droplets drumming onto her windows.

“You’re welcome here anytime, Mr. Belville”, Amelia then said, thinking that it was alright to start her counseling early. The sooner the residents knew that they could talk to her, the better.

He smiled, the wrinkles in his face lifting and telling the story of a life well lived.

“I might take you up on that. Maybe I will bring my wife with me next time.”

She knew that she would have to write that down later, as his wife had died five years prior.

His dementia was under control most of the time due to good medication, but as he got older the disease got worse.

For now, she just smiled and sipped at her tea. “I’d love to meet her. I’m sure she’s lovely.”

The pure gaze of love in his eyes made her heart skip for a moment. This was the kind of love she wanted to experience herself one day.

“She’s my beautiful little dewdrop”, he sighed, lost in memories of her. “She has the most beautiful, silky, blonde hair. Much like yours, but without the funny color in it. But she’s been thin all her life. Told her to put on more weight. Eats like a man starved, I tell you, but it never takes. She’s a beansprout. But she’s my beansprout.”

Pero knocked on her door then, making them both look up. He was carrying the old man’s robe, which he had shed somewhere on the way probably.

Mr. Belville groaned.

“Go away, you grumpy Spaniard”, he complained.

“No can do, Wilbur. You have a date with a pottery class in thirty minutes.”

That seemed to lift his spirits, but he still acted reluctantly.

“Fine. Thank you for the tea, sweetheart.”

“Anytime, Mr. Belville”, she answered, watching as Pero helped the man into his robe and tightened it properly. The nurse seemed as if he wanted to say something to her, but in the end, he just lent the man his arm to hold on and walked off, leaving Amelia to further making her office a welcome space to work and talk.

**

Amelia was lost in decorating and organizing her office, not having noticed that the shifts were about to change. As her first “official” day was not for another two weeks, she could come and go as she pleased still, but she wanted to get to know her place of work beforehand.

And that meant getting started on her own four walls.

The wall behind her desk was an empty bookshelf from left to right, but she was adamant that it would not be empty for long.

Boxes upon boxes on medical literature and books she had read for her degree sat on the floor. The problem was that the shelf was way taller than she was.

‘I’ll need a stepping stool’, she thought and added it to her list, before slipping off her shoes, stepping onto one of her chairs and trying to reach the uppermost shelf, to no avail.

“Are you trying to break your neck?”

That did make her fall, but fortunately two strong arms wrapped themselves around her and her back connected with a sturdy, muscular chest while she was clenching her books.

Pero set her down gently, her naked feet touching the cold wooden floor. Only then did she allow herself to breathe again.

“Pero, you scared me to death!”, she complained, turning around. She was not prepared to see him in civilian clothing. She had to admit that the dark jeans, leather boots and the dark blue flannel with white and caramel stripes looked good on him. Very good indeed.

“So, I’m scarier than an eighty-five-year-old naked man who walks into your office? Noted”, he said, lifting his brows in amusement.

“Mr. Belville had the decency to talk to me when I was not trying to hold my balance, thank you very much.”

“Speaking of old Wilbur”, Pero said, picking up a pink rose from her office desk. “He insisted I give you this. His daughter came by earlier to visit and he wanted you to have one of the flowers she brought. Why I am being demoted to delivery boy, I don’t know.”

A wicked thought entered Amelia’s mind as she accepted the rose. “Aw, I’ll have to thank him. Will you deliver this to him?”, she asked, getting onto her toes and placing a kiss on his cheek.

“Wha- Oi!”

Pero’s blush and absolute dread at the thought of kissing the old man was adorable as well as hysterical and made Amelia laugh uncontrollably.

“Y-You should see your face!”, she giggled, while putting water into one of the paper cups she brought. A vase would be another item for her list.

He was mumbling something in Spanish, while she had a look at the clock and cursed herself. “Damn, I totally lost track of time. I missed my bus.”

“You take the bus? Here? We’re so far out, the thing only comes every two hours”, Pero said.

Amelia nodded, letting herself fall into her chair, trying to ignore her growling stomach. I should have set an alarm.

She watched Pero massaging the space between his eyes and nose, before growling: “I’ll take you home. By the time you’ll get out of here it will be pitch black.”

“It’s alright, I can- “

“Nonsense, I’m taking you. You’re not prepared for the craziness of this care home at night yet.”

Amelia really didn’t want to wait another two hours for the next bus, so she grabbed her bag, locked her office door and followed Pero to his car. It was only drizzling by then, so they didn’t have to hurry.

She was surprised to find Pero driving a quite big and modern car with on-board computers, heated seats and a lot of space. It almost looked like a family car. Noticing that she didn’t really know a single thing about her new colleague, she wanted to ask him some questions, but he was faster.

“You already have a nickname”, he stated, starting the engine.

“Do I?”

A wicked smirk covered his face.

“The residents call you Sprinkles.”

She’d had a lot of nicknames in her life, but that one was new.

“Sprinkles? Because of my hair I presume?”

Pero drove onto the street, down the hill into the direction of the town.

“Jepp, because it looks like someone washed your hair with rainbow sprinkles, and because you’re sweet. Their words, not mine.”

She chuckled.

“Right. Because the ‘grumpy Spaniard’ would never call someone sweet.”

Amelia could feel that he wanted to respond with a snarky remark, but he had to concentrate on traffic.

Or… or was it that he did call people sweet, just not when they were... female?

Her gaydar had always been crappy, she had to admit. And statistically, ‘nurse’ was still a career pursued by more women than men. But Amelia didn’t like statistics. And what did she care for anyway what he liked? Or what was in his pants? It wasn’t her business anyway. Although she liked the image of those muscles tangling with soft female flesh more than battling with …

“Oi! Earth to Sprinkles! I asked you where I have to take you!”

Blushing, she looked around, checking where they were.

“Sorry”, she mumbled. “I must be more tired than I realized. I live near River Park.”

The rest of the drive was spent in silence. Pero waited until Amelia was inside her building, and she wondered if she’d not had enough sugar today. Normally it took her way longer to form attachments.

But thinking of the grumpy nurse was a hard thing not to do. And she had more important things to do than wondering if he would wrap his strong arms around her again.

**

#Pedro Pascal #Pedro Pascal Fanfiction #Pero Tovar #The Great Wall #Pedro Pascal Character #Pero Tovar x OC #Modern AU

[rainontherooftops]

Apple Pie America - Part 1 of 3

Summary: Detective Tim Rockwell has hit a wall in his latest murder case. His only lead is a woman that broke into the crime scene and refuses to talk. He has no idea that his idea of the perfect "Apple Pie America" will be crumbling in front of him the longer he investigates.

Fandom: Merge Mansion Commercial - Pedro Pascal as Detective Tim Rockford Genre: Crime, Detective Story, Drama, Supernatural, Pairing: Tim Rockford x f Character Triggers (Chapter): Mentions of Murder Rating Chapter: T

**

„Apple Pie America" – PT1

You had been sloppy.

That was almost more annoying than having been locked up for the last 46 hours in police custody. The waiting game was one you were used to.

But being sloppy? Getting caught because you hadn’t paid enough attention? In your line of work?

Unforgivable.

They had given you a simple outfit of gray unisex sweatpants, a white t-shirt and a gray hoodie with cotton slippers that were actually quite comfortable. Better than the orange “you are under arrest suit”, but still you would have preferred your jeans, your own shirt and your pouches.

Your pouches. What would the American Police make of those?

**

Detective Tim Rockford was at his wits end – which did not happen often. He watched the woman in the interview room from behind the glass. She was connected to his latest case, but that was all that he could say.

A gruesome murder of a whole family in an old mansion in the woods outside of his city. He’d worked on it for a week before he’d hit a dead end and went to the scene of the crime on his own in the dead of night to look for more clues; only to find this young woman snooping around his crime scene.

“Showtime”, he said to himself, clutched a manila folder to his chest and exited the room before entering the interview chamber.

The woman looked up at him, annoyed. She had black, wavy hair that came down to her chin and piercing green eyes. If looks could kill…

“Good afternoon, Miss”, he said, putting the folder on the plastic table and sat down, his eyes never leaving her.

“Detective”, she said, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

“I would love to call you by your name, Miss”, he said, “but you still haven’t identified yourself. No ID, no passport, nothing. And we can’t find a trace of you anywhere… You’re a mystery to us.”

A smirk crawled onto the woman’s face. He didn’t like it.

“I thought you had a murder to solve, Detective. Isn’t that a bigger mystery to you than a woman who got lost in the woods?”

Tim sighed. He did have a murder to solve. But there were too many dead ends, and this woman he had stumbled upon was his only lead.

In hopes of opening a new line of enquiry, he opened the folder and put out photos. Lots of photos of the cruel crime scene.

“You were in this house”, he said. “You were looking for something.”

Now it was the woman’s turn to sigh. She tapped her fingers on her forearm in annoyance.

“I already told you…”

“… that you were on a hike and got lost in the woods and entered the house, looking for shelter. Yes, you told me. The problem is, I don’t believe you.”

Tim could feel a migraine announcing itself, but he would not give in. He had to make another step towards clearing this case.

“Why don’t we forget about the fact that I caught you messing up an active crime scene. Would you do me a favor and have a look at these photos. See if something catches your eye?”

The smirk was back.

“Like what?”

“Anything”, he said, leaning back, watching.

To his surprise, the woman reached out her hands and looked at the gruesome photos, one by one. Most of them were discarded after a quick look. But after about seven or eight pictures, she hesitated. Just for a second. Just a little move of an eyebrow. But he’d caught it.

“What?”

The woman was staring at the picture and suddenly a mask of horror covered her face. She was going pale, the hand holding the picture was shaking.

“You need to let me go”, she whispered.

“Why? What are you seeing that I’m missing?”

She was in his face suddenly, standing up, leaning into his space. All of her smugness was gone and instead a pleading tone had entered her voice.

“Detective Rockford”, she said, “you need to let me go. If you don’t, you’ll have a lot more bodies on your hands.”

There was no way he would agree to that. He would have to let her go in a few hours anyway, since he couldn’t nail her to a crime.

But why did he suddenly have the feeling that if he didn’t let this woman free and do what she had to do, he and his town would be doomed?

Tim kept his detective face up and thought things through.

“I’ll make you a deal”, he said. “You tell me your name. And I’ll go back to the crime scene with you. You help me solve this and I’ll forget that you trespassed.”

He held out his hand and saw the woman hesitate. It seemed to Tim that every fiber of her being was telling her not to agree, but the fear from before still had a grip on her.

“Miriam”, she said, finally, shaking his hand. “My name is Miriam.”

“That your real name?”, he asked.

She chuckled.

“That is the least of your problems, Detective. If you don’t get me back to that house, you have bigger problems than me. If we don’t get there in time, it’s ‘Bye, bye, Apple Pie America.’”

**

Tim was breaking so many rules, but the buzzing in the back of his neck that told him that he was doing the right thing was still there.

‘Miriam’, if that was her real name, had been given her belongings back and now sat next to him in his car. They were driving through the pouring rain, which made the scenery very spooky.

But he was born and bred in these woods; he was used to this weather.

“So”, he said, trying to start a conversation. “Those pouches you have on your belt have quite interesting contents. Some of them we’re not even sure what it is.”

The smirk was back, just for a second.

He couldn’t see the leather pouches from his place behind the wheel, but there were five of them hanging from her belt.

“Which ones are giving you a headache, Detective?”, she asked, surprisingly engaging him in conversation.

“Well, the lavender was easy to spot. As were the glass marbles. The rock salt we thought were drugs at first. What really puzzles me is why you’re running around with a leather pouch full of dirt andwe have no idea what that creamy paste is that stinks up my car.”

She chuckled. Tim found himself liking that sound.

“Promise me you won’t freak out and I’ll tell you.”

“Scouts honor”, he replied.

She crossed her arms in front of her chest again and Tim could see from the corner of his eyes that he was thinking about whether or not to trust him.

“Well the pouch full of dirt is just that – a pouch full of dirt. Where it’s from is the important part”, she explained.

“Why, where is it from?”, Tim asked, set the turn signal and made a right turn up a steep hill.

“From a graveyard.”

He could hear and feel his neck creak and cursed when he lost control over the car for a split second.

“Why would you carry graveyard dirt with you?!”, he screeched.

“I’m afraid you will find out soon.”

A couple of seconds nobody said anything. Then….

“And the other pouch?”

“Believe me, you don’t want to know.”

Tim left it at that. He had a murder to solve, he could wait for the lab results of that stinking cream after he had caught murderer.

Tim parked in front of the mansion in the woods ten minutes later as the rain was still pouring. Police tape was sealing off the place, which obviously hadn’t bothered Miriam the first time she had entered the place.

He was about to get out of the car, but Miriam reached out and touched his shoulders.

“Detective. I need you to promise me something.”

She was so sincere and her voice had that plead in it again. Like she wanted to say ‘please just trust me on this.’

“I’ll try?”

“Fair enough”, she said. “You will see things in here that will not make sense to you. And it will be dangerous. Your gun will not protect you. So if I tell you to run, you will have to run.”

A chill ran down Tim’s spine, but he chuckled. A hollow chuckle.

“Why, are we hunting a ghost or something?”

Miriam didn’t blink.

“Worse”, she said. “We’re hunting a demon.”

**

AN: Yepp... I'm making this a ghost story.

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #tim rockford #tim rockford x reader #female character #merge mansion commercial #merge mansion fanfiction #Tim Rockford Fanfiction #Supernatural #Pedro Pascal Character #Pedro Pascal Commercial #Pedro Pascal x female character