#Pedro pascal one shot

[xbeababyx]

Can I just sit on your big package?

[bronzepascal]

Hi love! Could I request some angsty Pedro fic if that’s okay? I live for angst and I cant rarely find anything on here? Maybe some misunderstandings? Maybe they have an argument? I have really bad communication problems so when I’m upset I just shut down and push people away, maybe something like this also? I don’t have anything specific in mind, so you can come up with anything, be creative!

Hope you can do this, if not it’s okay also :) 🩷

the silence between us

requested!

pairing: pedro pascal x fem!reader warnings: angst, comforting, miscommunication, overstimulation, emotional shutdown, references to social anxiety and autism, ableism from minor characters, emotional vulnerability. author’s note: thank you for requesting, darling! i hope i got the gist of the idea, if it was not what you were expecting, please do let me know! please note that i’m dyslexic & non-native english speaker. feedback is very welcomed! buying me a coffee is also recommend :) word count: 1.4K or 3 pages NO MINORS! 18+ READERS ONLY!

Pedro and you have been together for a couple of years now. He is aware of your communication issues — nope, not issues, — struggles. Ever since you both started dating, you knew that you had to bring up your struggles about talking with people and in general, your autism diagnosis. After a while, becoming more comfortable with and around Pedro, your inner self started to ease off and your communication around him became more loosened. Of course, there were situations and moments where you shut yourself off from the outer world or muted yourself away and Pedro did not think of it too much. He did not even mean to snap around you for being muted. 

He rarely ever did it—he is not the kind of man who raises his voice or lashes out without cause. He is patient, slower to anger than most, more often the one to soothe frayed nerves than to fray them himself, but tonight, as the two of you sit in silence in the back of a sleek black car, the tension has sunk its claws into the corners of his mouth, pulling his lips into a grim, frustrated line. His fingers twitch on his knee, itching to say something, to do something—but you are curled up against the window, shoulders tight, gaze locked on the passing blur of streetlights, and he knows that look.

You have shut down, again. Not just quiet— literally gone. Disconnected in the way you get when things become too much, too loud, too fast, and there is not a clear script for how to act, how to be, how to protect yourself from the subtle barbs and glaring gazes of people who just do not get it.

Tonight was important. The dinner was with people he has known for years—film industry people who flew in from LA. It was supposed to be easy and quick. You did not even have to say much, he told you, just come with him, just sit by his side.

The dinner had been a disaster, not because you did not try. You always tried— fucking hell, you tried so hard. You spent two hours rehearsing your polite small talk with Pedro before you even left the apartment, pacing in front of the mirror, repeating responses like mantras, mentally preparing for eye contact and forced smiles and elbow grazes from unfamiliar people in expensive suits.

The second you sat down, across from a producer who would not stop talking over you, a casting director who spoke about you rather than to you, in addition, a talent agent who narrowed her eyes every time you paused too long to respond—you felt your insides curl in on themselves like burning paper. You knew what they were thinking—you were cold, bitchy, arrogant, rude, maybe even a diva.

They did not understand the gaps between your sentences were not indifference, but calculation, more like a hardcore effort from your side. Every word out of your mouth had to squeeze past a wall of invisible static in your brain. That you were not avoiding eye contact to be disrespectful— it was just that looking at them while trying to form a sentence felt like someone was screaming into your skull with a bullhorn.

Pedro had squeezed your hand under the table, tried to cover for you—tried to turn attention away when it became too much—but even he had started to stiffen toward the end, sensing the unspoken judgment in the room, the increasingly uncomfortable silence surrounding your stammered replies.

Now, in the car, he exhales—loudly, the kind of breath that says I’m trying not to be angry but I pretty much am. You flinch, barely perceptible, but he notices. Of course he does, he always notices.

“I just…” he begins, then stops. His voice is quieter when he tries again. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do sometimes. I wish you’d tell me.”

Your throat tightens, you want to tell him. You always do, but how do you explain the absence of something? The way words go missing, how they drop from your mouth before they are even formed. How you are not trying to be cruel or distant or difficult, you just— fucking can’t. Especially not when your brain is on fire, your skin feels too tight and your chest is full of bees and everyone is looking at you like you are absolutely broken.

“I—I can’t,” you say, voice brittle, almost cracking. “Not like that, not in front of them. You know I fucking can’t.”

Pedro turns to face you more fully, leaning his elbow on the armrest, brow furrowed. 

“I know, cariño, I really do, but it’s hard for me too! I feel like you won’t let me in when it really matters. I get shut out. Whenever I try to help, you just go... so fucking quiet.”

“I have to,” you snap before you can stop yourself, voice shaking now. “Because if I talk, I’ll cry, or scream, or say something wrong, and then they’ll think worse of me. Even you. You were with me, Pedro. They’ll think I’m some freak you’re dragging around.”

The silence after that is thick and awful. Your hands shake in your lap. The inside of the car suddenly feels suffocating. Pedro does not respond right away. When he does, his voice is quieter, more raw.

“You’re not a fucking freak,” he says, not like a defense, but like a truth, like the sky is blue and gravity keeps us grounded — you are not a freak. Full stops after every single word.

“You’re my person, the love of my fucking life,” he continues. “Do you get that? You’re—Christ, you’re so much. Smart, sharp, and funny in this weird little dry way, and yeah, sometimes you shut down, but that’s just part of you. It’s not a flaw. It’s not something I want to fix.”

You turn to him, slowly, still blinking through the sting behind your eyes.

“I just… don’t want to ruin your reputation,” you whisper.

Pedro lets out a laugh that is not really a laugh—more of a scoff, laced with disbelief. “I don’t give a shit about my reputation if it comes at the cost of you feeling safe.”

His hand reaches out, tentative, until it covers yours. He does not squeeze, does not demand, just holds it.

“I’m still learning,” he says, softer now. “I want to, every day. I read, I ask questions, I mess up sometimes— and I might get fucked in my head if I mess up for you—but I care. Enough to keep trying.”

You let yourself lean into him, finally, your head finding the familiar curve of his shoulder. The night air cools your skin through the window glass. Your body stops buzzing, just a little, finding comfort from him. When Pedro presses a kiss to your hair and murmurs, “We’ll figure this out, mi vida. You and me,”—you believe him.

Over time—months, then years—you learn to meet him halfway, but not always and not perfectly. There are still days when your words disappear mid-sentence and all you can do is gesture weakly toward the door, overwhelmed and mute, while Pedro instinctively dims the lights and closes the curtains, grounding you in quiet without needing you to ask. You still have bad stretches—times when even brushing his hand away feels like too much, too loud—and he still gets tired sometimes, not resentful, just worn, like he has been trying to hold a shape made of water. He never leaves and he never gives up. When your brain will not let you speak, he adapts—lighting candles in soft amber hues because he read once that warm light made processing easier for you, or writing notes instead of asking questions out loud. On some of the nights when all you can manage is a few phrases in your native language, slipping from your lips with halting rhythm, he answers back in clumsy, careful syllables he has been practicing in secret—each word a bridge, each mispronunciation a promise that he is still learning. You never become someone who communicates like everyone else and you do not have to. With Pedro, you are understood—even in the silence, even in the mess—and there is nothing more freeing than that.

[joelsrose]

was just thinking about how old as fuck bf Joel would have you in bed by 9pm and had to write it 😭😭 all fluff xx

It’s 8:42 when he flicks off the living room lamp with a sigh, the whole house dipping into that familiar, sleepy hush. You’re already brushing your teeth, barefoot in his flannel that hangs loose and low, the sleeves swallowing your hands as you lean over the sink. He watches you from the hallway like he always does, arms crossed, eyes soft, like he still can’t believe you’re here—his—night after night.

By 8:56, you’re both under the covers. Clean sheets. Fresh pajamas. His arm is warm around your waist and the windows are cracked just enough to let the breeze in. The town outside is quiet. Your limbs are tangled, skin on skin, and he smells like cedarwood and peppermint toothpaste and the kind of comfort you never thought you’d get to keep.

You glance at the clock. 8:59.

“You made me boring,” you whisper, smiling into his chest. “I used to be wild. Fun. The last one to leave the party.”

Joel’s voice is low, sleep-soft. “You’re still fun. You’re just tired now.”

“Because I’m in bed at nine. You’ve aged me.”

He snorts, the sound muffled by your hair. “You’re the one who yawned through dinner.”

“You were the one talking about home insulation and firewood like it was the highlight of your week.”

He chuckles again, hand smoothing down your back beneath the blanket. “That’s ‘cause it was.”

You bite back a laugh, snuggling closer, cheek pressed to his chest. You can hear his heartbeat—steady, warm, yours. His other hand cups the back of your head like he needs to keep you there, needs to hold on even in sleep.

“You like our little life?” he asks suddenly, voice quieter now, almost shy.

You blink up at him, and the look on his face is so open, so tender, it makes your breath catch. That furrow between his brows, the one he always wears like a shield, is gone. He looks… safe. Happy. Home.

“I love our little life,” you whisper. “I’d go to bed at 7 if it meant doing it with you.”

He smiles. Really smiles. The kind that starts in his eyes, slow and crooked and completely devastating.

And then he leans in, presses the softest kiss to your lips, like a thank-you. Like a goodnight. Like a promise.

By 9:01, you’re both asleep.

Wrapped in each other.

Wrapped in peace.

[lazysoulwriter]

mourning through joel - pedro pascal.

I got a few requests for this same situation, so here it is! - for all of joel miller's widows.

---

You were not okay.

Tears streamed down your face, hot and aggressive, as you sat hunched under a blanket like a dramatic Victorian widow. The screen had gone dark a minute ago, credits rolling silently, and yet you hadn't moved. Not an inch.

Pedro’s voice came gently from behind the couch. “Bebita?”

You sniffled. “Don’t talk to me.”

He paused. “Is this about—?”

“Joel’s dead, Pedro. He’s dead,” you wailed, voice cracking like it was your own father who just got beaten to death by a golf club. “And it wasn’t even dignified!”

Pedro slowly came around, kneeling in front of you like he was approaching a wounded animal. “I know, cariño. It was rough.”

You stared at him, bottom lip trembling, tears pooling in your lashes. “He deserved a second chance.”

“I agree,” Pedro said, nodding solemnly.

You pushed the blanket off your face just enough to breathe dramatically. “Like—to have a family. A real one.”

“Yeah.”

“Kids.”

“Totally.”

“A dog. A retirement plan.”

Pedro smiled, soft and amused. “Sure.”

You inhaled like you were about to make a groundbreaking point. “To get laid, Pedro.”

He blinked. “Pardon?”

“To. Get. Laid.” You grabbed a tissue like it was a dagger, wiping at your snot with flair. “He was a sad, traumatized DILF with a heart of gold. And he never even got laid in peace!”

Pedro covered his mouth to stifle a laugh. “I mean—he and Tess—”

“She didn’t count! That wasn’t post-character development Joel! That was pre-tenderness Joel! The world owed him some cathartic post-trauma sex!”

Pedro lost it, finally letting out a laugh as he sank to sit on the floor beside your feet. “You’re really grieving, huh?”

“I’m inconsolable.”

He leaned his head on your knee and looked up at you, his hand finding yours under the blanket. “If it makes you feel better… I’m right here. Alive. Very real. And very, very down to fulfill any…uh, DILF-based fantasy needs.”

You hiccuped a laugh through your tears. “You’re so annoying.”

“Also, pretty sure Joel would want you to stop crying and maybe, like, make out with me a little in his honor.”

You gave him a deadpan look. “Pedro, I’m in mourning.”

“You said it yourself—he deserved to get laid.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “We could make it symbolic.”

You let out a short, choked giggle that turned into another sob. “God, I love you so much, it’s stupid.”

He brought your knuckles to his lips, kissing them gently. “I know, cariño. I love you too. Even when you're snot-crying over fictional versions of me.”

---

[softiepedrito]

superstar 💫

[saturnyo]

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH OMGGGGGGG I AM NOT NORMAL ABOUT THIS MAN

[talaok]

Okay so I’m thinking Pedro x Actress!reader where another famous guy/actor says in an interview that he has a crush on us which makes Pedro a bit jealous and then we all end up at the same event - maybe Pedro gets abit angsty with him but he’s super loving and affectionate toward us…

warnings: jelousy

a/n: it goes without saying that i apologize for the wait babe, i really loved this request 

It wasn't that he hated him, it was just that if anything were to happen to him he wouldn't be the one to cry, that's all...

and maybe he'd thought about punching that smug look off his face once... or twice... or every time the thought of him came up.

But it still wasn't hate

Hate is a strong word, and Pedro wasn't not one to throw it around easily, he was all for peace and love and everything but this guy... this guy was really pushing the limits

And what the actual fuck was he even doing here tonight?

"You're staring"

Your soft, amused voice pulled him out of his own thoughts, his eyes sliding to you

"I just don't get why he's here"

You stifled a laugh as you answered "The same reason why we are baby"

"he's not even nominated" he grumbled,

"neither am I" You smiled, placing your hand on his cheek, feeling his soft scruff graze your palm "It's not a big deal babe, he probably said my name just because it was the first one that popped into his mind" you shook your head "I bet it's not even true"

Yeah right

He would have believed that if you were anybody else, but you... fuck- it didn't take him even a second to fall in love and you expected him to believe that that guy didn't have a crush on you? He would have sooner begun believing that Mark Zuckerberg was one of those lizard guys.

You were everything anyone could have ever dreamed of, you were funny, so incredibly smart it made him feel like a fifth grader in comparison, and god you were the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen 

he knew what you did to men, he knew what you did to men because that's exactly what you did to him,

and he didn't even mind that much, he'd never been the jealous type, but the problem with Shawn wasn't that he liked you (because he clearly did), but it was that he had the audacity, the smugness to fucking say it out loud, to admit it in front of a camera for anyone to see, like the woman he was talking about didn't have a husband, like he wasn't her fucking husband.

"I saw him look at you before"

This time, you did let out a little snort

"what, how dares he?" you mocked him, laughing again as his face remained completely unamused "It's your big night babe, don't let this silly little thing ruin it, please"

But just then, just when he was finally starting to let go a little, the focus of all of his loathing appeared beside you

"I'm sorry to interrupt-"

Then fucking don't

"I just wanted to introduce myself" 

Shawn's eyes were only on you, as if he didn't even exist, as if your hands hadn't been on his cheeks but a moment prior

"I'm Shawn," he said, offering his hand to you "I'm... well, I'm a really big fan" he ended with a soft laugh, smiling in that charming way that surely made women all woozy

"Hi Shawn, it's a pleasure to meet you-"

As you shook his hand, Pedro was closing his into fists

This fucking guy-

"Hi pal"

Pedro's voice didn't sound even a little bit not completely pissed off

"I'm Pedro," he said "her husband"

The flicker of amusement that sparked behind his eyes made Pedro seriously ponder whether or not a little punch was that bad of an idea

"Oh, I didn't know you were married"

Andrew's eyes were back to you, and god it was taking all of Pedro not to grab him and throw him to the other side of the room

Just the fact that he was looking your way seemed too much, 

How dare he look at you, at his beautiful wife, at the love of his life?

It felt wrong, it was wrong, and it was making him furious

"I'm sure you didn't" Pedro grunted, taking a slow step closer to him "Shawn right?" he asked, even though he knew much too well who he was "What exactly are you doing here?" Pedro's eyes narrowed, his head tilting "I didn't notice your name in any of the nominations"

"baby" your soft warning was met with a soft smile from him, one that faded into a stoic/murderous gaze as soon as your husband's eyes were back on the man before him

"I'm just asking a question sweetheart, that's all"

Shawn seemed to accept Pedro's challenge in the blink of an eye

"I'm here with a friend, he's the one that got the nom"

Pedro nodded slowly, "ah. Right," he said, his hand going to your back and drawing gentle circles on it

He didn't miss the way Shawn followed the movement

"And why exactly are you talking to my wife Shawn?"

Now that, that seemed to take him aback a little, but he recovered quickly

"What?" he laughed "is no one allowed to talk to your wife without your permission or something?"

"Oh absolutely not, my wife can talk to whomever she wishes," Pedro spoke "I'm just not very fond of her talking to men that have openly admitted to liking her" he shrugged as if his eyes and voice weren't yelling murder 

You, in the meantime, were busy looking for the fastest way out of this place

"You've seen the video," Shawn said more like a statement

"I sure did" Your husband nodded "I especially liked the part where you described her as your "dream woman""

Shawn sighed loudly, shaking his head

"listen, man-"

"No, you listen, man" Pedro interrupted him "How 'bout you get the fuck away from me and my wife, mh?" he said more like a threat "How bout that?"

Shawn let out a loud breath before responding

"whatever man" he sighed, his eyes moving to you "It was nice to meet you y/n, maybe we can meet another time..." he glanced to the man on your right "when the guard dog isn't around"

"yeah" Pedro scoffed "Go fuck yourself, buddy"

You both stared at his back as he walked away, but after no more than two seconds, you couldn't help but let your lips pull into the smile you'd been holding this whole time

"that was a bit harsh"

Pedro only grinned as he brought you flash against him with his hands on your waist

"Like you haven't done worse" he smirked

Yeah... while Pedro wasn't usually jealous, you were... let's just say you were not exactly on the same wavelength

"you looked ready to kill him" you chuckled, wrapping your arms behind his neck

"mh" he hummed, ghosting your mouth "Who says I wasn't" he teased, his lips crashing with yours in a long, deep kiss that Pedro absolutely didn't wish for Shawn to be witnessing

[sinful-sonnet]

“Bad Idea” Pairing: No-Outbreak!Joel Miller x Younger!Reader WC: 1k

Warnings: NSFW, age gap (reader is mid-20s, Joel is late 40s), rough sex, dirty talk, slight power imbalance, Joel feeling conflicted but giving in, unprotected sex, mild angst.

Joel shouldn’t have even been on Tinder.

It was Tommy’s fault. His dumbass younger brother had gotten drunk one night, talking about how Joel was too “damn grumpy” and “probably rusty as hell” when it came to women. Next thing he knew, Tommy had his phone in hand, setting up a profile for him with a blurry photo from a barbecue and a half-assed bio:

“Just a guy. Work too much. Lookin’ for something easy.”

Subtle.

He hadn’t taken it seriously. Had barely even looked at the app—until your name popped up.

You were young, too young for a man like him, but there was something about your profile that made him pause. Maybe it was your smile, all pretty and sweet, or the way your bio read just looking for trouble in a way that sounded like an invitation.

And maybe—maybe—he was just a little desperate.

So he swiped right.

And when the screen lit up with It’s a Match!, something hot and uneasy settled in his gut.

The messages started innocent enough. You asked him how his day was, teased him for using “dad emojis” when he sent a thumbs-up. He tried to talk himself out of it, but you were persistent, funny, and way too easy to talk to.

Then you sent, Wanna grab a drink?

And that was when Joel really should’ve deleted the damn app.

Instead, he replied: Yeah.

Now, he’s sitting across from you in some dimly lit bar, wondering how the hell he got here.

You’re even prettier in person, and that’s a problem. A big one. Your outfit hugs your body just right, and when you lean forward on your elbows, looking up at him with those wide, mischievous eyes, he feels like a goddamn fool for showing up.

“Didn’t think you’d actually come,” you admit, swirling your drink in your hand.

Joel exhales through his nose, gripping the beer bottle in his palm. “Neither did I.”

You laugh. “You nervous, old man?”

Joel huffs, taking a sip of his drink to mask the way his jaw clenches. “Not nervous. Just wonderin’ what the hell a girl like you wants with a guy like me.”

Your lips curve, slow and knowing. “Maybe I like older men.”

He swallows. He shouldn’t. Shouldn’t engage, shouldn’t entertain it.

But then your foot brushes up his calf under the table, and his fingers tighten around the bottle.

Yeah. He’s fucked.

It doesn’t take long to end up back at his place.

Joel barely gets the door shut before you’re on him, pressing up against his chest, fingers sliding beneath the hem of his shirt. He groans when your hands find his stomach, when you kiss up the side of his throat like you already know he’s been starving for this.

“Bad idea,” he mutters, even as he cups your jaw, even as he tilts your head back and drags his mouth over yours.

“Yeah?” You hum, pressing against him, rolling your hips up to feel the evidence of how bad an idea it really is. “Then why aren’t you stopping?”

Joel growls, gripping your ass and walking you backward until your back hits the wall. “Because you don’t want me to.”

Your smirk falters when he presses a thigh between your legs, forcing a gasp from you. His hands are rough, gripping your waist, pushing your shirt up so he can feel the heat of your skin.

You whimper when he shoves a hand down the front of your jeans, fingers sliding over soaked fabric. “Jesus,” he rasps. “You been like this all night?”

You nod, panting against his lips. “Wanted you since I saw your picture.”

“Fuck.” Joel’s resolve snaps. He grabs the hem of your shirt, yanking it up and over your head. “Gonna ruin you, sweetheart.”

You moan, arching into his touch, letting him strip you down piece by piece. When he gets you on the bed, he’s already yanking his belt free, already undoing his jeans.

You spread your legs, looking up at him with those wicked, needy eyes, and any last bit of hesitation he had vanishes.

Joel fists his cock, stroking himself as he takes you in—soft and open, waiting for him. “Gonna regret this in the morning,” he mutters.

You smile, hooking your fingers into his belt loops, tugging him closer. “Not a chance.”

And then he’s sinking into you, slow and deep, groaning as your body stretches around him.

And fuck, it’s a bad idea.

But it feels too goddamn good to stop now.

You’re making the prettiest sounds—little gasps and whimpers, breathy moans that go straight to his cock. Your pussy is tight and hot around him, squeezing down every time he drives in deep, and it’s making him lose his goddamn mind.

“Fuck, Joel,” you whimper, rocking your hips up to meet his thrusts. “So good—so fucking deep.”

He groans, leaning down to nip at your throat, gripping your hips tight enough to bruise. “Yeah? This what you wanted, sweetheart?”

You nod frantically, body arching against him. “Please, don’t stop.”

And he doesn’t want to. Not even close. He wants to ruin you, fuck you stupid, make sure you’ll be thinking about this for weeks—

But then it happens.

His rhythm falters, his breath catches, and suddenly there’s a tight, burning heat in his spine, his balls drawing up too fast, too soon.

“Shit,” he grits out, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to will it away. He’s not ready yet—fuck, you’re not ready yet—but your pussy feels too good, too perfect, and he’s slipping, losing control.

Panic flares in his chest, and he blurts out, “In or out?”

You blink up at him, dazed. “What?”

Joel stills, and that’s when you feel it.

His cock twitches inside you, hot and pulsing, and you realize—oh.

You bite back a grin. “Did you just—?”

Joel groans, pressing his forehead against yours, jaw clenched. “Goddammit.”

You giggle, reaching up to stroke his cheek, amused at the way his face is flushed with both exertion and embarrassment. “It’s okay,” you murmur, tilting your hips just a little to squeeze around him. “You were just too excited, huh?”

He glares at you, but there’s no real heat behind it. Just frustration.

And maybe just a little bit of shame.

“Don’t start,” he mutters, but you can feel how sensitive he is, how he twitches inside you at your teasing.

You smirk, knowing damn well you’ll be replaying this moment later, fingers between your thighs, chasing the high he didn’t quite get you to.

Joel sighs, pulling out slowly, already reaching for a towel. “You’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me.”

You stretch out on his bed, still flushed, still needy, and watch as he runs a hand through his messy hair.

Maybe next time, you’ll finish first.

Or maybe… you’ll make him lose control again.

[08luvmailz]

★ ﾟ๑ BABYSITTING MISHAPS ୧ ⊹ ࣪ ❪ Sep, 10 2018 ❫

❪ 𝖶𝖧𝒾𝖲𝖯𝖤𝖱𝖲 ❫ babysiting oscar isaac's child with pedro pascal, leads to a couple of mishaps ─⠀ fluff ꒰ 🧾 ꒱ when life give you tangerines , 9th member of girls generation ⸝⸝ ◜◡◝ i just imagine pedro being the fun uncle + based on a tiktok i forgot to like it but if you found it , its based by that

The house had settled into that sweet, heavy quiet, the kind that only comes after a storm of baby giggles, tiny tantrums, and runaway sippy cups. Oscar asked the two to take care of their sweet baby boy ─Eugene, as he and his wife, Elvira would take a four day escape in Maldives.

It wasn’t that the two of them didn’t love Eugene—they did—but they had to admit, there was a bittersweet sting to the thought of spending four days in the same house as a one-year-old and they wanted to go to Maldives with the couple. And that sting was layered with the knowledge that they wouldn’t be able to escape the diapers, the flying food, the midnight feedings, and the inevitable burping messes.

Pedro’s eyes softened, and he exchanged a knowing glance with Amari. “It’s like sending a piece of our hearts away,” he murmured. Oscar, seeing their hesitation, just chuckled and ruffled Pedro’s hair. “You guys got this. He’s a good boy, promise.”

Pedro shot him a dramatic, pleading look, his eyes wide like a puppy who’d been left out in the rain. “I know he’s a good boy... but the kid is like a tiny human tornado. He gets it from you,” Pedro grumbled, his voice half-joking, half-serious.

Amari laughed softly, shaking her head, but she knew they were in for a wild ride. “We’ll survive,” she assured Oscar, her smile gentle. “You deserve it." She smiled as she glanced at Elvira's knowing look of guidance and nervousness, "Just—please don’t forget to text us every hour or something. I might need a sanity check.” Amari laughed at her and hugged her to soothe her with ease.

In that moment, the gravity of the task mingled with humor, creating an atmosphere of shared responsibility and gentle teasing. As the couple instructed many things like, don't forget to place the toys after they were played or take the trash everyday. Pedro wrapped an arm around Amari’s shoulder as they watched Oscar and Elvira disappear down the hallway, their departure marked by the soft clack of shoes against the wooden floor.

The pair settled into the new rhythm with a promise to keep Eugene safe and loved—a soft, playful pact. And even as they braced themselves for the challenges ahead, they couldn’t help but smile at the unexpected gift of time: time to explore each other’s company in the peaceful silence of a house that, even for a few days, belonged entirely to them.

And with that, the two were off, leaving Pedro and Amari standing in the doorway with Eugene, now tugging at Pedro’s shirt as if trying to drag him toward the living room. “Alright, little man,” Pedro said, settling Eugene on his hip. “Guess it’s just you and me now.” Amari glanced at Pedro, her lips curving into a playful smile. “I’m starting to think I was the third wheel in all this, huh? You two look pretty cozy already.” Pedro laughed as he rocked eugene, him and his quirky dances.

“Great,” Amari sighed, but she couldn’t help but laugh. “Guess the real babysitting has begun.” Oh how wrong she was with those four days of suffering (joy).

The house had settled into that sweet, heavy quiet, the kind that only comes after a storm of baby giggles, tiny tantrums, and runaway sippy cups. Pedro was sprawled across the couch, one arm thrown lazily over the backrest. Amari curled beside him, a soft blanket tangled around her legs, her head tucked neatly into the space just under his collarbone like a bird finally at rest.

The baby—finally full after a heroic battle involving mashed bananas and half a tub of yogurt—was waddling sleepily across the carpet, tiny fists rubbing his eyes.

Pedro chuckled under his breath, brushing a hand gently through Amari's hair. "You’re dangerous, you know that?" he murmured, voice low and syrupy, vibrating against her ear. "Feeding him, singing to him... I think you just stole his heart." She smiled as her fingers lazily draw circles, playing with the hem of his shirt, "Takes one to know one, oppa," she whispered, teasing.

Pedro tipped his head back against the couch, a soft, rumbling laugh spilling from his throat. His other hand reached for the baby, guiding him into his lap effortlessly. The little one collapsed against him like a drunk sailor, safe in the fortress of Pedro’s arms.

For a moment, Amari just watched—heart aching sweetly at the sight. Pedro, his dark curls messy, his smile softened into something golden and unguarded. The baby breathing deep against his chest. A slice of forever tucked into an ordinary night. But then—a low, subtle ache bloomed in her stomach, quiet but persistent. Hunger, threading itself through her senses. She hadn't eaten since early afternoon, too swept up in bottles, bath times, and tiny socks scattered across the floor.

The thought of food made her almost giddy with longing, but she swallowed it down with a small, guilty breath. She didn’t want to disturb the softness of the moment, the gentle miracle of it, Pedro warm beside her and Eugene breathing in even, delicate puffs.

Instead, she leaned into him for one last second, memorizing the way his chest rose and fell, the faint scent of him — baby milk, baby soap and something uniquely Pedro.

Pedro hummed low in his throat, not quite awake but feeling the loss of her warmth as she untangled herself slowly, like pulling free from a dream. She smiled faintly, standing up and padding quietly down the hallway.

Her footsteps were soft as secrets on the hardwood floor, the ache of hunger growing, but she said nothing. As she glanced at pedro still rocking little eugene to sleep she went to the counter where she placed — lotte cheetos as she grabbed it b her fingers slowly, lifting it and tucking in her waist. It was easier to slip away quietly, to pretend that everything she needed was as simple as stepping into another room.

꒰ ྀི ᥩ few minutes later

Finally, peace. Finally, her long-awaited Cheetos.

She placed her phone carefully against the white cabinets of the small pantry, the smell of leftover food and sweet spices lifting into the air, cradling her in a quiet kind of joy. Her figure, still wrapped in the cozy nighttime air, was bathed in the low kitchen light, all soft edges and sleepy laughter.

She hit record without thinking, planning to send the video later to Elvira—just a secret between girls.

With a sigh almost reverent, she opened the bag of junk food. Her hand, pinkie raised like a quiet crown, raced upward. The crinkling of the plastic was thunderous in the small space. The scent hit her first—cheese dust and pure happiness.

She popped the first Cheeto into her mouth, biting down with a dramatic crunch that echoed off the pantry walls. Bliss, pure bliss as she closed her eyes and leaned near the wall, but just as she was reaching for a second piece—

The door creaked.

The door just creaked.

Her eyes widened, as she was in mid bite glancing at her side was Pedro—hair a mess, socks dragging on the tile floor, looking like he had just survived a war. His eyes locked onto the bag in her hand, wild and wounded. Not that he is helping in his hand was a pair of a large pizza slice he stole from the counter.

A heartbeat passed. Then two.

And without a word, the two laughed uncontrollably, bumping into each other with such clumsy force that it sent them spiraling into another fit of breathless giggles, their shoulders colliding, hands scrambling for balance. Trying—desperately trying—to muffle the sounds, both of them pressed their palms against their mouths, bodies folding in half from the effort.

"You’re unbelievable," Pedro wheezed, wiping tears from his eyes—but his hand was already buried deep in the bag, fishing out another Cheeto with that same desperate, childlike glee. Amari elbowed him gently, breath hitching, laughter bursting in soft little puffs through her fingers as she fought for air. She clutched her side, trying not to collapse entirely.

"Close the door, close the door," she whispered, sharp and giggling, jabbing him with her knee as he just stood there uselessly, grinning like an idiot.

Pedro, still half-wheezing with laughter, flailed backwards and slammed the pantry door shut with his foot. But as his foot slammed accidently.... created a loud thud, waking the child.

unfortunately, it didn't save the peace.

Both of them froze, eyes wide, mouth agape.

A tiny wail echoed outside as amari hit his shoulder with her palm, "You woke him up, go there" as amari whispered at pedro, smacking Pedro's chest with the back of her hand. Pushing him slightly at the door, as Pedro just looked at her, half-terrified but with an adoring grin on his face. “Babe, you slammed the door,” he hissed, voice cracking.

"I did not, give me the pizza. You gonna walk in there and soothe him" She said as she lunged at the pizza. Pedro snatched the slice higher over his head like a playground bully, grinning wickedly.

"You're taller, go," she hissed, jumping for it, her fingertips just grazing his torso. "You’re lighter, you're faster, go," he countered in a whisper-shout, side-stepping like they were in a clumsy waltz inside the cramped pantry.

Another wail. Louder now.

"Pedro!" Amari gasped, scrambling to catch the tumbling cereal box while trying not to slip on a rogue Cheeto. He looked at her in dismay, as he breathe and bracing himself like a soldier.

"Fine! Fine!" Pedro gasped, surrendering the slice into her hands dramatically, like a knight handing over his sword. "But if he asks for me, tell him I love him." Pedro gaze lovingly at the pizza as she pushed his face with her palm, "Just go!" She murmured at him while giggling.

As Pedro closed the door with a pained look, mouthing exaggerated curses to the heavens, Amari caught the soft click of it latching and turned, breathless.

Her phone was still recording.

The screen caught her in perfect imperfection — hair a little mussed, cheeks flushed from laughter, cradling the stolen slice like a war prize. She grinned, triumphant, the kind of grin that creased her eyes and made her look half her age.

Without missing a beat, she lifted the half-eaten pizza to her mouth and took a huge, unbothered bite, cheeks puffing as she munched happily.

After a while, she sent it to the couple who is still in maldives and a couple of pictures of their sweet baby boy eugene.

She didn't know that after this, Elvira just tag her on her instagram story and she and pedro would never live the day after this.

[judysxnd]

hii can i have a request?

could you do a pedro x reader? bascially they are married, and one evening when the reader was washing the dishes, her engagement ring slipped off her finger and went down the drain (maybe from all the soap?) basically she gets all worked up and sad about it and pedro hears her and comforts her telling her its okay... you can decide how the ending is !!

thanks love! 🩷🩷🩷

hello hello, sorry for writing this so late! As I said previously, I work a lot and my crush changed so I don't follow closely Pedro anymore. I still have another request to write and then I'll be officially done with my requests! I mean I think so, idk why but Tumblr shows only two messages but says I actually five of them? Idk it's weird.

Anyway, there ya go!

It turned out better than I expected so I published it right away!!!

———————————————————————

You were peacefully enjoying dinner with Pedro in your house discussing any topics that would show up. You had some music playing in the background filling the silence while you were both eating. Those nights were your favorite. It was just you and him, nothing else, chilling, spending some quality time away from everything.

Now you were both done eating, you decided to put away the dishes while Pedro would clean the table and put the rest of the food and drinks away.

"remind me why we don't fix the dishwasher?" you sighed as you remembered that you had to clean everything yourself.

"because we're barely home and it's useless to spend money on that?" he said as he closed the fridge, looking at you. "I can do the dishes if you want" he suggested

"No it's my turn, you've been doing them all week"

"I don't mind" he said leaning on the counter

"I do" he smiled, moved closer to leave a sweet kiss on your cheek

"I'll dry them then"

So you started to clean the dishes. Before Pedro had to start drying them, he put the music a bit louder so that you could sing and/or dance. He always makes everything more fun. You've been married for three years and there's never a dull moment with him, even during moments like these, doing something as simple and little as the dishes.

You were rinsing a plate, singing and dancing a bit with Pedro when you heard something falling. It sounded like it was something small but metallic. You both looked around, not knowing where it came from. It's only when you heard the same noise but closer and deeper that you realised it was in the sink.

"What was that?" Pedro asked, looking in the sink.

"I have no idea but it's gone now" you joked, giving a plate to Pedro.

Around fifteen minutes later, you were all done. You grabbed another hand towel since Pedro was using the main one and started to dry your hands. When you moved around your fingers, something felt weird. As you removed the towel, you saw that your ring was no longer there. And it hit you. The noise you heard earlier that coincidently happened in the sink. It was your ring. You gasped, making Pedro suddenly turn.

"What?" he said, looking at you confused as he was drying a pan.

"my ring" you had wide eyes, touching where your ring used to be, looking at Pedro "I think that's what we heard earlier" you said now looking at the sink. Pedro looked around, realising what you had just said.

"It's oka-" you cut him off

"shit shit shit" you said going over the sink, trying to see if you could see it through the hole, like a delusional person.

"y/n it's okay we'll find it, or I'll buy you another one"

"no, no it's not okay" you turned towards him "it's- the ring you proposed with" you had tears forming in your eyes

"don't cry for that cariño" he said putting both his hands on your face "It's just a ring, it doesn't make the souvenir go away"

"I know, but still. It's so beautiful, it means so much"

"Maybe I'll offer you another one that means even more" he looked at you, reassuring you. And it worked, you smiled. "It also means I can propose another time, so double bonus" you laughed

"You think it's gone forever?"

"Maybe we can find it under the sink"

"Can we look right now? I feel terrible"

"we can, don't worry corazón" Pedro kneeled to open the cupboard and look for the ring. He unscrewed the pipe to see if it was there, but it wasn't.

"So?"

"It's not here baby"

"So it's gone gone" Pedro stood up once he put everything back the way it was

"I'll find another one. More beautiful"

"It won't be the same"

"I know" he hugged you "it will be better"

After three weeks, Pedro and you were in LA for some appointments you both had. You decided to join at the beach to have a nice picnic and watch the sunset. As it is predictable, it was the perfect moment where Pedro surprised you with another proposal. You were watching the sea, and Pedro got on one knee next to you.

"Pedro!" you gasped "no you didn't" you said as he opened the box, showing a big beautiful diamond ring, even more beautiful than the one you had

"I told you I would do it again. There's nowhere I'd rather be. Everywhere is home with you. We don't need anything to prove it, but I promised to cherish you, and seeing how loosing the ring made you feel, I got you another one." he said, not looking away once

"And you proposed another time" you said, tears in your eyes

"double bonus" you laughed "you still have to say yes though" he added

"are you sure? I don't know" you pretended to hesitate, both laughing. You stopped, looking at him more seriously. "I love you so much Pedro. You're the man of my life, making this crazy world the best place. You're my home. Of course I'm saying yes another time" you laughed. You gave him your hand another time so that he could put, once again, a ring on your finger.

You immediately kissed him after that. Simple moments. A sunset at the beach, washing dishes, whenever, wherever.

[pascalssbabyy]

Desperate 💦

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Rating: 18+ Explicit

Word Count: 6.1k

Summary: You leave Joel in a uncomfortable situation all day while you’re at work. Hours go by and Joel struggles to keep his craving under control. And once you’re home, Joel can’t seem to give you his full potential.

Warning: 18+ SMUT, no use of Y/N, no age mentioned, mostly Joel’s pov, pet names (from both), Joel is a little sub in this but he’s a little dom too?, F!oral, blowjob, Joel gets blue balls, P in V, unprotected sex (don’t be naughty!), Joel's very horny in this, doggy style, premature ejaculation, creampie, overstimulation, rougher sex near the end, one cheeky ass slap, Joel comes twice (love that), Joel is soft and needy so make sure you’re ready. Also, I write the word cock wayyy to many times in this.

🤍 Okay listen, because I have somethin to say. The thought of Joel being so desperate and finishing early has me actually weak and I had to write about it. It’s such a compliment when this happens! Anywayyy, I hope you all had an amazing New Year!🫶🏼 And please enjoy my first fic of this year 🩵

If you’d like to be added to my Taglist. Please let me know! @harriedandharassed @mumma-moonchild @millercontracting @chyannealaniz 🤍

Joel's week had gone agonisingly slower than usual, but thankfully, his weekend off had finally arrived. The weekend was always the time Joel would cherish the most; not having to wake up in the early hours of the morning to spend twelve-plus hours then cutting, shaping and assembling wood that would soon have him shouting obscene profanity into the air or hands trying not to gouge his eyes out from the tense strain he felt in them. He wouldn’t arrive back home late almost every night, exhausted, worn out and in desperate need of sleep.

Joel didn’t have to deal with any of that on the weekends. He didn’t have to put up with impatient customers or irritating coworkers. Instead, he’d wake up feeling refreshed, cheerful, and eager to spend the days with you.

But for Joel, this day would be different than the others. Your work was currently understaffed, and had asked if you could go in for a full day, and Joel knew instantly, being the people pleaser you were, you wouldn’t turn it down.

You were only going to be gone for a little while, surely what could go wrong?

⏰⏰⏰⏰⏰

Joel's 'issue' had started early in the morning when he abruptly woke up just before your alarm, with his cock immediately begging for attention, needing your attention. Joel knew he should let you sleep, knowing you’d both been up late last night with a similar issue he was currently dealing with, but how could he not? You were facing away from him, hair spread out and resting over your pillow with the cover under your armpit. His lips would eventually wake you with tender kisses and roaming hands would glide across your naked thighs, with his own hips thrusting into you, his hard cock rubbing up against your back and a quiet mumble of a good morning baby now caressing the side of your cheek.

It’s the first time Joel opens his eyes, and he stares immediately at you, watching you with a hooded gaze, his pupils adjusting to the dark surroundings. His eyes observe the way your lashes flutter against your face, your eyelids lazily opening, limbs stretching out, and your face pulling inwards as you alter to the morning sun subtly passing through the spilt in your closed curtains and to Joel's now- wondering mouth and hands.

"Joel…" You hum his name, and he groans at the way it falls weakly from your lips, sounding so soft and warm, his length throbbing inside his confined boxers with how it vibrates onto his skin.

“G’morning baby,” Joel repeats, shuffling himself even closer and wrapping both arms around your waist, caging you in as his head falls into the crevice of your neck, his silky curls tickling the side of your face.

His hard cock lies on your lower back, and your body shivers.

"Joel, honey we can't. I have work today, remember? I'll be late—" you whine, your voice unforgiving, but your body soon reacts to how his hands mark and trace your skin.

"Mmm come on sweetheart. Please. I'll be nice and quick, I promise.” Joel's already pulling the covers off, and you gasp at the crisp breeze that falls onto your bare skin, his fingers sliding your wet panties down your legs, his lips moving lower and lower until his teeth gently bite down on the flesh on your thigh.

He stares at your soaked cunt and spreads your folds open with the tip of his finger, you were always so fucking wet and ready, and Joel unintentionally licks his lips at the sight.

“Jus’… please. Just lemme have a taste, s’all I need."

The next lie leaves his mouth with sheer certainty and confidence. “Only need five minutes baby.”

You look down at him with your eyebrows raised.

And that look has Joel thinking, “shit yeah, okay. Maybe ten, give me ten.” And you chuckle at him, your hands soothing his broad shoulders.

“Alright Joel. You’ve got ten minutes. I can’t keep being late, not this time okay?”

He gives you a reassuring nod, his wet lips moving down as he sucks your clit into his mouth, your hands reaching into his hair from the sudden shock.

“Oh my god—yes Joel,” you pant, fingers pulling tightly on his curls, and Joel groans at the harsh pull, the sound wavering causing your hips to buckle up, pushing his face deeper into you.

He hums into your needy cunt, his eyes dropping shut whilst he pushes his two fingers into your hole, curly them up and hitting your pleasure point.

He licks at your folds and gives your clit a light flick, “You look s’good spread out like this for me baby.”

The air is covered in your blissful moans, the sound of your arousal wetting Joel's fingers and sliding down his knuckles and wrist while he fucks you at a steady pace.

“Fuckin’ dreamt about this pretty pussy.”

Joel loves to build it up slowly, to get you right there at a pace where he knows you’ll beg and beg and beg him to make you come, each curve of his fingers and his tongue teasing you closer to your release.

And fuck can Joel feel it right now. He can see it in your face, those short bursts of air being pulled into your lungs, your back curving off the bed, your thighs and hips shaking, and walls hugging his calloused digits.

“M’that’s it, baby,” he ushers, “I know you can feel it. Go on, let go f’me.”

And you do, so effortlessly too, your pussy releasing that pressure and gushing your arousal all over his mouth and stubble, your cunt twitching and convulsing on his fingers as he keeps up with his rhythm, prolonging your orgasm as he helps you ride out your high.

Joel unlatches his lips from your abused clit and pulls his digits out of your cunt, lifting his body so he’s back on top of you with his mouth dropping down onto yours, his moustache and stubble wet with your release as he deepens the kiss.

“Christ, you taste fuckin’ incredible. Could stay in between your legs all day.” Joel praises, kissing your neck until his lips lick, bite, and nibble at your collarbone.

He bends his arm so it’s flat on the mattress to hold his weight while he inches his other lower and under the waistband of his boxers, “Let me feel your pussy on my cock darlin’.”

You cease Joel’s movements before he goes any further. “Joel…” you moan, “I—baby, we can't. You promised. I have to get up. We'll get back to this when I’m home, okay?”

Joel let’s out a whine in the crevice of your neck. Fuck he doesn't want to stop, but he knows he needs to.

"Come on baby,” he attempts to protest, “I don’t think I can wait. I really need you now.”

Your alarm on your bedside table gives Joel the exact answer.

You pout your lips at him, your eyes pondering into his own, smiling at his neediness. “Don't give me that look, Joel. You can wait. I'II be back home before you know it, and then you can have me however you like."

Joel groans at your words, his eyes drooping down at you. He lifts his body off you so he's back to lying on his side of the bed, arms slumped over his eyes to hide his sexual aggravation.

⏰⏰⏰⏰⏰

Joel watches you freshen up and get ready in the bathroom, his body still slumped in the warmth of the covers. You take a quick shower, brush your teeth, make yourself look presentable, and change into your work clothes. Now, you are all set and prepared to leave the house.

With the time that it’s taken you to get yourself up and going, Joel thought his body would’ve relaxed by now, but throughout all of his observing of you, his cock was still hard.

His length was throbbing, and his tip was now leaking in his boxers, and so sensitive to touch when he'd add minimal pressure on it to relieve some of that heavy strain.

A few minutes later you come back into the bedroom, giving him his usual morning coffee and a quick see you soon honey and a kiss goodbye on his lips. But before Joel can muster up another word to keep you here, the bedroom door shuts, leaving him in his train of thought.

His body falls back on the bed in failure, groaning at his knowing regret.

He knew as he lay there he could make himself come, and fuck it would be so easy if he did. The sweet taste of your arousal still lingered on his lips and fingers as he brought them up to his mouth, swirling his tongue around the digits and sucking the remains of your taste off them, a painful sigh erupting from his throat.

Your taste makes his hips buckle up involuntarily, bringing back that vivid memory of being back in between your legs again.

As his cock rested heavy in his boxers, Joel still hadn’t touched himself, not even once. And even though he needs to, he decides he’s going to wait. He actually wants to wait. So once you’re back home, he’ll get to show you how much he’s missed you.

But fuck Joel was well aware at how hard it was going to be to ignore that temptation.

⏰⏰⏰⏰⏰

When Joel gathers enough energy, he crawls out of your shared bed and prepares for the day. He starts by making himself some breakfast, pairing it with the now cold coffee you made him. He then takes a quick shower, brushes his teeth, and finishes off by grabbing a fitted top from the drawer and pairing it with jeans.

He tries to find things around the house to fill up the hours until he sees you; he checks his unread emails and has another cup of coffee; he also cleans and finishes the leftover chores.

He struggled to push the feeling to the back of his mind, to avoid the pulsating he felt in his jeans but fuck he couldn’t help it. He still feels it, that craving. It continues to grow and spread all across his body, it starts to cover all aspects of his mind.

Joel’s established that this was going to be a lot harder than he thought.

⏰⏰⏰⏰⏰

You had been gone for three hours now, not that Joel was checking his watch every half an hour, and it couldn’t have gone any slower for him. Joel as expected, had eventually run out of chores and jobs to do, so he dropped himself down onto the sofa with a heavy thump.

How was Joel going to last the whole day like this? It’s bad enough that he’s bored, but to top it off his cock is still fully hard. And whenever he looks down, his neediness is clearly evident in the way his jeans are pressurised around his crotch.

Maybe if he messaged you and tells you about his 'current situation', you'd make him feel somewhat better.

So he reaches over and grabs his phone, which rests on the coffee table.

Joel: Darlin’. I’m sorry and I know you’re busy but fuck I’m going mad here. I’m still hard from this morning and you’ve been gone for 3 hours. I need you.

He gazes down at the screen, thumbs shaking and whispering a please fucking answer to himself. You’re going to be occupied with jobs he knows that, he just hopes you’ve got your phone on you to help ease him and his ongoing position.

His heart thumps when he sees those familiar dots appearing on the screen. Thank god.

You: Well hello to you too.

You: What's gotten into you, babe? Haven’t you just had me?

You: Wasn’t tasting me this morning enough for you?

Of course, you push and spur him on. The fact that he's messaging you like this, telling you how much he wants you, how he’s still hard for you and how much his cock needs you, for you to then just tease him about it has him yearning for you even more.

Joel: No it wasn’t enough darlin.

Joel: You’re never enough.

Joel: Need you to sit on my cock baby. I’m so fucking hard just thinking about it. Wanted it so bad this morning.

Joel: I don’t think I can last if you’re not here in the next hour.

Joel: Please, baby. I really can’t wait till you get home.

Before Joel met you, he had never been like this. He never was the type of man to be overcome with a passion for someone or even sex in general. It hadn't even been twelve hours since Joel felt the comforts of your pussy on his cock, and by the way he was acting, you’d think it had been fucking months.

You: Well you'll have to wait babe.

You: I'll be home soon, just hold tight.

You: I know you can do that for me Joel.

He groans at your sternness, his head falling back onto the sofa and throwing his phone to the side.

⏰⏰⏰⏰⏰

Four hours till you’d be home.

And all Joel had done was waltz around the house like a madman. Packing the rest of his day with unnecessary jobs or current projects that needed to be finished for next week when he was back at work on Monday.

He eats random contexts from the fridge, he fixes the kitchen tap that started leaking just the other day, he even makes himself a neat whisky with ice, yes it’s that bad, hoping the alcohol with relax the thumping of his heart, the heat flowing through his veins.

He paces around the front room, his body striding from one side to the other. Pull yourself together Joel. Stop fucking thinking about it.

Fuck this he thinks. He can’t take any more of the waiting. He reaches back and pulls his phone out of his jeans pocket, preparing to bombard you with desperate and continuous messages;

Joel: Darlin come home please.

Joel: I can’t take this anymore.

Joel: Thinking about this morning and how you felt on my fingers.

Joel: Fuck baby you tasted so good, licked you off of my fingers when you left.

Joel: Need to feel your pussy around me darlin’. I'll be so good to you, give you whatever you want.

Joel: Gonna fill you up just how you like it.

As Joel began to type his promises to you, his own conscience comes crashing forward, his feet hesitant and stalling to an immediate standstill.

Shit. What would eventually happen when you walked through the door? Could he even give you his full potential when you do? How was he going to fuck you when his cock was so close to coming already?

Joel had been hard for the past five hours now, and he knew indefinitely that the moment his cock is engulfed by your warm and wet walls, he’d without a doubt, come.

This need to have you starts to make his mind dizzy, his vision is clouded and becomes blurry. It causes his knees to buckle under him with each weak step he takes. It causes his body to feel hot, his skin sticking to the material covering his body, his forehead cascaded in a thin sheen of sweat.

He needs to come. No, he has to come if he's planning on fucking you when you get home. And Joel can't wait much longer for you to reply to his texts, so he hits the call button, waiting to hear the sound of your voice.

And just a few seconds later, you answer.

"Hey Joel. Y’called just at the right time. I’m just going on my break.” Your voice comes out a little breathless, it’s mumbled like you’ve been busy with something on the other end.

“How are you honey? Sorry I haven’t texted you in a while."

He wipes his dampened forehead with the back of his hand, his lower limbs squeezing the muscles in his thighs. "Hey, baby.” Joel chokes, coughing out the strain in his voice. “Why don't y’come home on your break?”

He waits for you to say something, but there’s nothing as he prays your following words are yeah okay baby, sure. I'll be there in five.

A silenced chuckle leaves your end of the phone. “You know I can’t do that, Joel. I’ve only just got half an hour, and it takes me twenty to get home. Why? What’s wrong?”

He digs the tip of his fingers into his temples, “Don’t act like this, y’know exactly what’s wrong. Christ sweetheart you're killing me here. I need you to come home, like right now."

He swears he can feel your smile against your phone.

“It’s that bad huh?”

“Yes. Please sweetheart. I’m begging you.”

"Poor Joel. You need me that bad do you? Is your cock still hard since you texted me last?"

Your fucking voice. The way you playfully edge him on. The way the sound travels down and straight to the tip of his cock, his arousal seeping all over his boxers.

It lights up a dangerous spark, his hands pulling at his belt as Joel unbuttons his jeans and lifts his hips up to pull them down his thighs.

This is the first time he’s looked at his cock since he got changed this morning, and fuck he was wet. So wet. Joel wraps his hand around his girth and instantly has to tighten his first around his tip he’s that close to coming, and he wants to make sure you hear all of it.

He bites on his bottom lip, his voice quivering. "Yes…fuck darlin’, I’m still hard. I don't— I don’t think I can wait any longer. Jus’—shit keep talkin’ to me like that.”

Joel’s breath hitches in his throat, the sound of his deprived moans becoming higher and higher in pitch, until it’s cut off with your voice ringing in his ears.

“Are…are you touching yourself, Joel?”

His voice breaks, and the squelching of his hand stoking his cock fills the room, the slick pooling at his head getting wetter and more projecting. “Yes, I-I need—fuck baby’m gonna come."

"Don't you touch yourself Joel. I mean it. Don’t come. You better stop and wait till I get home.”

He can sense you’ve abandoned everything you were doing, putting full attention to the situation in hand. “Be a good boy Joel and wait for me.”

He nods at your demanding words, faltering his movements and it makes his eyes water. Fuck he was so close.

Joel chokes out a shaky yes before the phone call ends, your low and commanding voice echoing in the back of his mind.

Don't touch yourself Joel. I mean it.

⏰⏰⏰⏰⏰

You should have been home twenty minutes ago, and Joel was officially at his wits end, feet banging on the old oak wood flooring and hands in his hair to let out some of his built up frustration. You never had to do any overtime, you’d always arrive home at the same time each shift.

So why weren't you home?

Joel feels like he could pass out he’s that desperate. How he’s lasted the full 8 hours without coming is beyond him.

His ears pick up the sound of a car door shutting, your footsteps following up the driveway, only this time they're much louder; they’re rushed. He knew his words and texts affected you as much as it did him. So when Joel's gets up from the sofa to open the door for you, and when he sees your body standing in the doorway, his heart freezes.

You smile up at him. "Hey Joel. Sorry I’m late the traffic was—” Your words are knocked from your lips when Joel drops his head down and collides his mouth onto yours, a heavy exhale leaving his nostrils.

Joel pulls you inside whilst grabbing the back of your head and slamming the door shut before he pushes you up against it, your back colliding with the wood as he presses his chest into yours.

His cocks hard and thick, digging into your thigh causing you to gasp openly into his mouth.

He needs you to understand. He licks and pours his wants into your mouth in hopes you know that he had listened to you, that he didn’t touch himself after your words, even though he needed to, that he had done what you asked.

That he had been good for you.

Joel’s hovers his lips so there merely just touching yours, his eyes dark and pupils blown, "fuck baby. M’gonna explode if I don’t have you now. Shit—I need to fuck you."

And who would you be to deny him? He had done just what you’d asked of him, and that was clearly evident in the way he was pressing his cock closer to you.

You smooth his jaw with your thumb, and his head falls into the feeling. “You’ve been s’good for me Joel. Not touching yourself. You gonna let me help you? You gonna let me make you come?” You capture his lips with a quick kiss, using both hands to undo his belt, with Joel’s eager hands joining in and helping you undo the buttons, his stare concentrated on your bruised lips.

You swiftly drop to your knees and Joel groans at the sight. "Fuck sweetheart, I won’t last if you—"

"Shush, Joel,” you calmly interrupted him, looking up and hooking your fingers into his belt loops.

“Want your cock inside my mouth first.”

Joel doesn’t know why, but he’s assisting you as you pull his jeans and boxers down in one fleeting move, his thick length bouncing up and now only inches away from your face.

Joel doesn’t think he’s ever been this hard. His tips painfully red and swollen, his shafts decorated with long veins that coated the sides of him, and his pre-comes everywhere. It’s messy, and it makes your mouth water.

“Fuck Joel you’re so wet. I’ve been neglecting you haven’t I. So big and desperate for me aren’t you.”

You grab his hard cock in your hand and bring the tip of his length to your mouth, swirling your tongue along his slit and collecting the pre-come around his head, the salty taste of him pouring all over your tastebuds.

"Fuckkk baby I can’t—" his words are cut off with a sharp intake of breath, your mouth on him instantaneously bringing his orgasm to the surface.

“You can baby,” you praise. “Just hold on for me. Let me do this for you.”

And that’s when you take his length all the way down your throat, alternating between licking the sides of his cock and sucking his tip into your mouth, hollowing out your cheeks and hands gripped firmly to his trembling thighs.

"Christ—” Joel grits, “sweetheart m'not gonna last if y’keep that up."

You release his cock from your mouth and look up towards him, fluttering your eyelashes at him as you slowly stoke his length with your hand.

"Why Joel? You gonna come? You gonna come down my throat if I don’t stop?”

You had a filthy mouth when you put your mind to it. Joel musters up a feeble yes, his one hand bracing itself on the door, and the other is in the back of your hair. He needs to come so bad, and he’d want nothing more than to come down your throat, but he wants to be inside you when he does.

His stomach tenses in, and it hits him. One more pull of your fist on his cock he’s going to come in your hand.

"O-okay Darlin’. Fuck now y'gotta stop. Shit I’ve waited too long for this to end now."

You remove his wet cock from your grip, raising back onto your knees with a wobble as Joel discards his jeans into a pile in the hallway.

“Y’gonna fuck me now, Joel? Gonna fuck me hard?” You beckon him to follow you up the stairs, your hand interlocked with his.

Joel’s minds in a twisted state. What the fuck is he going to do? You almost pulled an orgasm out of him just moments prior, and now you expect him to fuck you?

And fuck you hard?

Yep, Joel’s screwed.

⏰⏰⏰⏰⏰

Joel treads behind you, and once your feet make their way into your shared bedroom, you both take turns to remove each other's clothing, well, what's left of Joel's until finally, you’re both naked and bare, pushing Joel onto the cushioned mattress by his chest.

You take a seat on top of him, your pussy resting on his lower belly as your mouth collides with his again. It quickly becomes sloppy and rushed, tongues dancing with one another, whimpering desperately into each other’s mouths.

Joel flips you so you’re resting on your back, his lips following down your naked body as he nibbles and licks at your breast, flicking your taut nipple with his tongue and sucking it into his mouth while his one hand plays with the other.

Joel spreads your legs apart and nestles his body above you, his fingers roaming lower and lower so they glide in between your already-soaked folds.

Maybe if he can make you come first, he won’t feel as bad.

“Please, Joel,” you beg, pulling him back up by his shoulders and kissing his lips.

“Sweetheart, let me—,”

“I thought you needed to be inside me,” you murmur, pulling your body up and around as you rests on all fours, arms bent and back arched, your wet pussy now on full display.

“Wanna feel y’deep Joel. Want you to fuck me like this.”

Well shit.

Joel settles himself behind you, perching his cock at your opening and that minor touch already feels too good, he just fucking prays he can last long enough to feel you come around him first.

“You ready aren’t you darlin’. Y’sure you’re ready for me?” He knows he’s overthinking, but he has to make sure that you enjoy this as much as he’s going to.

“Yes, Joel I’m ready,” you promise. “Just please, fuck me already.”

Joel takes a deep breath in before pushing his hips forward, his cock sliding into your velvety walls with so much ease, every inch of his girth becoming engulfed and squeezed as he glides more of himself into you.

You felt tighter than usual, and Joel knew it was because he hadn’t used his fingers to assist with the stretch he knew his cock would give you. Your pussy chokes him, and he’s surprised he didn’t come right there and then.

Once the hairs above his cock meet your ass cheeks, you instantaneously circle your hips, and Joel's hands are quick to grasp onto the plushness of your waist, abruptly stopping your rhythm.

Fuck don’t come. Don’t come. Don’t come.

Joel hisses through his teeth, "f-fuck darlin' jus’. Shit… just—give me a minute."

You whine in protest and the sound makes Joel’s whole body shudder.

If only you could see him right now. If only you could see how he’s already out of breath, how he's looking everywhere apart from you, because he knows if he peers down and sees how well his cock is stuffed inside you, that'll be it.

And it’s the fact that Joel can hardly put in the work. Hands resting on the curve of your waist as his hips directly quaver behind you, he’s barely moving, and that compressed knot in his stomach and the feeling of your walls convulsing around him immediately becomes too much.

He knows your oblivious to how close he is, eyes falling shut, back curved and mouth hung open.

"Fuck Joel…," you moan, "mmm y'feel s'good."

Joel can feel it. His balls begin to tighten, and his cocks way too sensitive; that heat felt boiling in his body, his orgasm rising with each slick glide of your cunt on his length, the pulsing of your walls being too much for him to hold onto.

You're so incased on the pleasure of Joel's cock stretching your cunt open that you don't realise when his hips suddenly stop behind you, his back arching forward, his head falling into the bend of your spine.

He clenches his eyes firmly shut, "okay, m’gonna come”, he warns, blurting out the confession in rambles to apprise you and give you a heads-up before he boils over. "Fuck baby, l can't—" his voice is cut off before pulling your hips back in one deep thrust.

"Holy shit, I'm—" his tone ceased by the long and drooled out moan withdrawing deep within his chest, his cock spurting his hot seed inside your warm walls.

It completely knocks him out, and fuck he’s never had an orgasm this intense before, and the relief it gives him floods all over; his body shakes as his nails dig deep into the flesh of your hips, prolonged and ragged moans floating through the thick air as his teeth bite into your shoulder blade in attempt to keep him quiet.

He repeats your name over and over and over. Like it’s the only word in his vocabulary, like his minds blank and all that hides behind it is you.

You gasp at the mixture of lust filled sensations; the way Joel’s wet skin is glued to your back, his drenched curls scattered across your skin, his cock throbbing and hot as his come paints your insides, his hold indefinitely leaving marks on you, traces of his pained and awaited pleasure.

When Joel’s high subsides and his eyes aren’t clouded with white specks, he lifts his head where it had settled on your back and kisses your shoulder, wrapping both arms under your body, hugging you in a warm embrace.

"Christ sweetheart..." his breaths out, his voice quivering and low, "I couldn't hold it. Shit I've been so fucking hard since you left this morning and I—”

“Joel, honey…” you turn your head towards him, giving his cheek covered in sweat a soft peck.

"—N’you felt so good and tight I just couldn't help myself—”

"Hey,” you gently say. “It's okay Joel.”

Your chest fills with pride with how effortlessly it had taken Joel to fall apart above you. How with only a few minor thrust of his hips had thrown him straight over that edge.

He’s keeps himself nestled inside you, his hand cupping your jaw as he kisses your lips.

“Wanted you to come,” he sighs. “Fuck I should’ve— you always come first.”

Joel’s never been a man to reach his own limit before he’s made you feel good. Wether it be with his mouth, his fingers or his cock, he always has your pleasure in mind before anything else.

“It’s not over yet Joel. You can still make me come.”

And he’s gonna. He eyes holding that determination as the two of you easily sink into that well known pattern, Joel’s tongue exploring the inside of your mouth and swirling your hips around with his strong grip, pulling your ass back onto his still hard cock.

A precious moan leaves your lips when Joel's hand hooks down and under your body, his middle finger circling your clit, causing your pussy to squeeze his cock again.

“Fuck baby,” he murmurs, “this pussy feels so fucking good wrapped around me.”

You need him to move. “Joel. Please,” you whimper.

You start moving your hips on your own this time, orbiting them in small and impatient circles, and Joel simply let’s you, straightening his back and watching how your body moves on its own accord.

Joel's voice comes out more confident, more focused. “Been so mean, haven’t I baby. Putting myself first. Not making my girl come like the good girl she is.”

Joel finally looks down at where you’re both connected, and the sight is filthy. He stares at how easy his cock fills your pussy, your own arousal and his thick, white come covering all of his length and leaking out of your hole and down on the bed cover below.

“Made such a mess baby,” Joel says, his free hand giving you ass a harsh slap, the plushness jiggling from the hit. “Pretty pussy’s already being filled and she still wants more.”

“Oh my—yes Joel,” you sob, “please.”

Joel grabs your hair into a makeshift ponytail, pulling your head back as you spine arches into shape.

“Go one baby. Gonna watch you come while you fuck yourself on my cock.”

You use all of your energy to drag yourself backwards onto Joel, using all the weight in your arms to help push you back and forth, his cock hitting that soft and spongy spot inside making you moan and whimper his name over and over.

Joel. Joel. Joel. Joel.

“Yeah? That’s it’s baby. Tell me who’s making you feel this good.”

“Yes Joel, f-fuck it’s you—,” you cry, the pleasure overcoming your words.

“That’s fucking right. Keep going baby, keep fucking yourself. Y’doing so well.”

You pull your lip in, your teeth biting down on the flesh before you muster up a yes. Yes thank you Joel. Thankyouthankyouthankyou.

This might be too much for Joel. He’s never endured or persisted on fucking you once he’d already finished, and it makes his body feel like it’s on fire. His skin scorching hot as your ass cheeks slap repeatedly against his groin, his eyebrows furrowing as his cock becomes sensitive to your pussy.

His finger continues to strum over your bundle of nerves, beckoning you further into your own orgasm.

“Joel—please. I’m gonna come,” you confess, moving your hips backwards and forwards at a now much faster pace.

“Go on darlin’,” Joel grunts, “make yourself come, lemme feel it.”

His words of encouragement are the last push you need, and your high washes and crashes over you in vigorous waves, arms shaking as your top half falls onto the mattress below, your moans being muffled by your pillow.

He thrust his own hips in and out of you, “mmm now that’s a good girl. Fuckin’ hell your pussy’s soaking me baby.”

Your fingers grip hard onto the quilt below, with every curse and whimper spilling so willingly from your mouth, and Joel’s continuous praises assisting you through it.

Joel's eyes can’t move away from the scene unravelling in front of him. His cock starts to feel tight and responsive again, fuck could he come again? Shit, he think he could.

Joel can see that you’re body’s no longer shaking, he watches how your face lifts out of your pillow, how your eyes only just open a smidge, with a look of satisfaction displayed across your features.

But his hips begin to move again, increasing their pace and they get rougher, holding your back down with his palm but keeping your ass in the air, fucking his cock hard inside you, his stomach pulling tight and his jaw locking shut.

“Holy fuck,” Joel howls, hips slamming into yours, “yes fuck, m’gonna come again.”

You gaze up at him and your walls pulsate, “please, Joel. Yes—please come inside me.”

Joel’s orgasm rushes through him for the second time tonight. Something he never fucking expected. And he’s surprised when he feels his cock shoot more of his come inside you, your cunt milking him dry and shaking his head in shock at his own ability.

Joel’s hips eventually come to a stop, his body no longer trembling. He lifts you up so your’e sat on his thighs, chest rising as he attempt to recatch his breath.

“Jesus. Fuckin’. Christ.” Joel breaths. “Shit that…that felt fucking incredible.”

Your arm moves above and you wrap your fingers into the curls at the nape of his neck, holding and keeping his body up close.

You hum into his neck, “wasn’t too much for you, was it Joel?” You question, looking all over his features as he gives you a consoling smile.

“No sweetheart, it wasn’t.”

And you smile back at that, bringing his lips down just so they’re ever so slightly touching yours.

“I might have to leave you with a boner more often if that’s the result of it. What d’you think?”

He raises his eyebrows at you, shaking his head in immediate disagreement.

“Absolutely not. Fuck darlin’ I don’t think I can go that long again. You can be late for work next time.”

🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍

Thank you so much for reading! If you liked please show a girl some love and tell me what you thought!🫶🏼🩵

[honeyedmiller]

Traditions | Joel Miller

pairing: husband!joel x wife!reader

rating: explicit. 18+ only.

warnings: husband!joel, joel is handsy af in this, no outbreak!joel, au where joel doesn’t have kids, mentions of christmas, tooth-rotting fluff bc joel and reader are just so in love, smut (body worship, unprotected piv, m oral receiving, riding, reader praises the fuck out of joel bc he deserves it, breeding kink), brief talk of having kids, no use of y/n.

a/n: sorry this was kinda poorly written. this wasn't revised, so apologies for any mistakes. hope you enjoy ~

word count: 4k

synopsis: you and joel make holiday traditions in your new home.

divider by the incredibly talented @saradika 🤎

The early December sun bled through the cream curtains of your bedroom, stirring you awake. You softly groaned at the world’s way of waking you up, pleading just five more minutes in your thoughts. Your eyes slowly peeled open as you took a deep breath, stretching your limbs to try and wake your tired body up. A couple of bones popped in the process, loosening up your post-sleep stiffness. 

An arm weighed heavy across your waist, and you turned your head to find your husband snoring lightly, still deep in his slumber. You smile softly as your eyes run over his features. He looked so peaceful while he slept, not a worry in the world etched within the lines of his face. 

You turned on your side so you were facing him, bringing your hand up to softly trace the features on his face. The alarm clock on his nightstand that you could barely see over his broad shoulders read 8:20. Normally, you two loved to sleep in at least one day during the weekend. You wish you could stay in this blissful little cocoon of warmth and sleepiness and content, all while being held by your husband. 

But, to your misfortune (and truthfully, to Joel’s too), you had errands you needed to run today–one of which included getting Christmas decorations for your house. You and Joel had moved into this new house during the summertime, so you needed to re-up on decorations as Christmas was nearing the corner. 

“Joel, honey, it’s time to wake up.” Your voice was soft, not wanting to startle him awake. His eyebrows quickly twitched as they threaded together. He groaned softly, refusing to open his eyes. 

“What time is it?” He mumbles, turning his head to kiss the palm of your hand that now rested on his cheek. 

“Almost eight thirty, baby. We have to get up. We have errands to run today.” You reminded him, and he groaned again as he shook his head. 

“Five more minutes.” You softly chuckled at his response. You and him really were two peas in a pod. 

“Uh, uh, c’mon cowboy. Up n’ at ‘em.” Your hand travels down to his chest, patting it twice as you try to pull yourself away from him. 

Joel tugs you back and pulls you closer to him so your chest is flush against his, and he buries his face into the crook of your neck. You card your fingers through his hair gradually, pressing a kiss to his forehead. 

“I want to stay in bed as much as you do, but the sooner we get these errands done the sooner we can come back and relax.” You try to reason with him, and he lets out an exasperated sigh. 

“Fine. I guess I’ll get up.” 

“I’ll make breakfast after I shower so we won’t leave on empty stomachs.” You reassure him, knowing that your breakfast was the one thing he usually looked forward to on Saturday mornings. 

“Why make breakfast when I have a delicious meal riiight,” He pauses, flipping you on your back so he's hovering over you. He leans down and his lips brush your ear, the coarse hair of his mustache and stubble tickling your soft skin. “Here.” He whispers, kissing your neck as his hand travels down the curves of your body, dangerously close to the place you were most desperate for him. 

A whimper bubbled in your throat, but you shook your head and playfully smacked his arm. 

“Joel Miller, you’re a naughty man.” You laugh, and his face hovers above yours once more. 

“And you’re a naughtier woman,” He smirks, kissing you once. “Naughtiness deserves a punishment, hm?” 

“If naughtiness deserves punishment, does that mean I get to smack your cute ass too?” Mischief was written all over your features, but Joel’s brows turned downward. 

“Don’t even think about it, sweet girl, or I’ll deny you.” 

You quirk your brow at him. “Deny me of what, exactly?” 

“Me. My cock that you seem to fuckin’ love so much.” He shrugs, as if any part of this conversation was nonchalant. 

You decided to tease him further, seeing how far you’d get. “I hate to inform you, Mr. Miller, I do have some handy dandy trustee ‘ol vibrators stashed away that can do the job just fine.” 

He clenched his jaw at your words, rolling his eyes. “Ever the smart fuckin’ mouth on you, eh?” He chuckles, knowing you’d immediately fold for him and let him take care of you much better than your pink and purple toys can. 

“Isn’t that why you married me?” You can’t wipe the stupid grin off of your face as he buries his head into your neck. 

“Mm, one of the reasons,” He moves his hands up to your breasts underneath the shirt you were wearing, squeezing the soft flesh generously. “‘S okay darlin’. I know you only married me for my skills in the bedroom.” 

“Ah, ya got me there.” You throw your hands up in surrender, and Joel lets out a hearty laugh. He moves his hands from underneath your shirt up to your wrists, pinning them down to the bed as he leans down to kiss you. 

“You sure we can’t just stay in bed and y’know, let me put my amazing bedroom skills to use?” Joel juts his bottom lip out and pouts, and you can’t help but laugh at how persistent he was. 

“No, my love. We really do have to run these errands.” You run your hand through his brown curls, pushing yourself up to kiss him before wiggling out from under him. He collapses onto the bed with a groan, slowly making his way out from the array of your fluffy comforter, blankets, and pillows. 

He stands in front of you, wrapping his arms around your waist as he kisses your forehead. 

“Last person to reach the shower has to make a pot of coffee!” You giggle as you run to your master bathroom, Joel right on your heels. 

“I don’t think so, missy.” He wraps his arms around your waist and picks you up, moving you behind him so he can reach the shower first. 

“Asshole!” You laugh, eyes squinted as you swat his arm. 

“Yeah, but you love me.” Joel winks at you and you roll your eyes, quirking a brow at him as he turns on the shower to a temperature comfortable for you both. 

“That I do, Mr. Miller. That I do.” 

-

Joel ended up making the pot of coffee anyhow after you both showered and got ready for the day. You gratefully thanked your loving husband as he poured both yours and his serving into two thermoses before you set out for the day. 

You had a game plan in your mind, because the quicker you got these errands done, the quicker you’d be able to change into sweats and watch a Christmas movie. First stop was getting gas. You offered Joel for you to pump the gas, but he refused and begrudgingly reminded you that as long as you were with him, you wouldn’t ever be touching a gas pump again. 

Next stop was the local bakery. You needed a restock on the fresh bread they baked, and every holiday season, they made pastries that were absolutely delectable. 

After you left the bakery, you needed to go to Target to get the majority of your Christmas decorations. You drove in a comfortable silence, Joel’s hand securely on your thigh as he drove. A soft country song was playing over the radio, and you looked out of the window to see many stores and houses already decorated for the holidays. You smiled at the sight, loving this time of year more than anything. 

“What’s on your mind, pretty girl?” Joel breaks the silence as he looks over at you when you reach a red light. You look at him, admiring his handsome features before leaning over the center console to kiss him. 

“Nothing in particular, baby. Can’t wait to decorate our house.” You smile at him, and he gives your thigh a soft squeeze. 

When you arrived at Target, it took everything in you to not run to the Christmas section to scour for the perfect decorations. Joel could sense your excitement, and he chuckled as he got a cart to give to you. Joel had to take bigger strides to keep up with how fast you were moving, but he couldn’t help but adore the excitement that overtook you. 

There were so many options for decorations, you didn’t even know where to start. You were examining some ornaments when Joel wrapped his arms around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder. 

“See any you like?” He asks, turning his head to kiss your cheek. 

“Should we stick with the classic red ornaments? I think they’re so pretty, but multicolored ornaments would go good with our tree since we have the white lights around it.” 

Truthfully, Joel had no idea decorating for Christmas would be full of so many options. Before you moved into your house, you and Joel lived in an apartment that barely had room for a four foot tree. Now you had more than plenty of room for various decorations that were going to stay with you both for years and years to come, encapsulating new traditions within the four walls of your home. 

“Let’s do classic red. We can get multicolored ones next year.” Joel kisses your shoulder before standing up behind you, rubbing circles into your soft, sweater-covered waist. 

You nod in agreement, putting the ornaments in the cart. You pick up a few other things including an ornament that has two wedding rings interlinked with a ‘forever yours’ engraved at the bottom, Joel insisting it needs to be put up on the front of the tree. 

“So do I get to unwrap you as my present this year?” Joel’s lips brushed your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. 

You laugh at his joke, rolling your eyes. “Such a cheeseball, I swear.” You huff, and he holds his hands up. 

“What, I can’t admire my beautiful wife in some sexy lingerie then gladly take it off of her?” 

“I’ll let you if you buy it for me. Last time I bought a pretty set, you literally ripped it off of me. You’re a menace, Mr. Miller.” You give him a fake stern glare, reencountering your husband’s inability to be patient and take the pretty pink set you liked so much off of you. 

“Fine. Fair point. Maybe I’ll get you some for Christmas.” 

Joel slots his hand in yours and gives it a squeeze, and a soft smile curls onto your lips. 

“C’mon, let’s look at the trees.” 

-

“A little to the left.” You tell Joel as he hangs up some garland you found on your trip. He does as told, moving to the left before you stop him and tell him it’s perfect. He steps off the stepstool he was on, wrapping his arm around your waist as he observes his handiwork. 

It was five in the evening now, and Joel had just finished putting up the last of the decorations. Your living room basked in a soft yellow light, complimentary of the Christmas tree and the fireplace. 

You were in awe that your living room looked so festive and warm. Owning your own home with the love of your life was something you’ve always dreamed of, and decorating it for one of your favorite holidays had your heart feeling all fuzzy and warm. It was cliché and you knew it, but you couldn’t help yourself. 

You looked up at Joel with a proud smile. His dark eyes reflected the soft lights and the fire as he stared back at you, eyebrows creasing together. 

“What?” He chuckles, pulling you in closer. You grin as you rest your hands onto his solid chest, sliding them up until they intertwine at the back of his neck. 

“Just grateful I have such a hardworking, loving man.” You kiss him briefly, and his hands slide from your waist and down to your ass before you have a chance to pull away. He hums against your lips as he squeezes your pillowy flesh, causing you to gasp. He took that as the perfect opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth, softly groaning as his hands started to roam furiously. A giggle bubbled in your throat, and he nearly whined when you pulled away from him. 

“So needy, Mr. Miller.” 

“You still owe me a chance to show you my neat bedroom skills, Mrs. Miller.” He retorts, recalling the conversation you had with him this morning. 

“Mm, that I do,” Your eyes glance down to the fireplace, tilting your head in curiosity. “Can we try a new location?” Your pleading eyes look into his as you bat your lashes, knowing Joel always gave in when you gave him that look. 

“And where would that place be?” 

You nod your head down next to the fireplace. “I think it’ll be romantic.” You shrug, and Joel laughs. 

“It does, baby, but you know my knees and back ain’t what they used to be.” 

“Who said you’d be doing the work?” You quirk a brow up at him, a sly smile curling onto your lips. Joel’s cock throbbed at the thought of his pretty little wife taking care of him. 

“Darlin’, are you sure? You don’t have to.” He shakes his head, knowing he gets off just on pleasuring you alone. 

“Can’t your wife show you how much she appreciates her hardworking man?” You take his hand and tug on it, grabbing two pillows from your couch before tossing them on the carpet near the fireplace. 

“Fuck, baby. ‘M so goddamn lucky.” Joel groans, kissing your temple. You pull him in for a kiss as you begin to unbutton his favorite flannel, sliding the worn material off of his broad shoulders. His skin was warm beneath your touch, so inviting and full of life. Home. 

Your nails lightly scratched down his soft torso. He was slightly insecure about his tummy, but you loved it. More of him for you to love. 

You begin to trail your kisses down his neck, nipping at his collarbone and chest as you fumble with his belt buckle. You get it undone, sliding the leather through the loops in his jeans and tossing it on the floor before undoing his button and zipper. He takes the liberty of shucking his jeans off himself, standing before you in nothing but his boxers. 

Your eyes roamed his body hungrily, licking your lips as you trailed your gaze back up to his. Joel’s breathing began to slightly quicken, getting too turned on for his own good just by your lustful stare. 

“So handsome,” You whisper. “Lay down for me, baby.” And he does. He situates himself so his head is propped up on a pillow, staring at you. 

“No fair that I’m nearly naked and you’re still fully dressed.” He playfully pouts, and you laugh. You easily discard your warm sweater over your head and let it pool to the floor with the rest of Joel’s clothes. Your pants follow suit so you’re just left in your bra and panties, and Joel’s dark eyes admire the sight before him. 

“C’mere baby.” He says, holding a hand out to you. Your hand slots in his and he tugs you down so you’re level with him. He grabs your hips and maneuvers you until you’re straddling his hips. 

The flames illuminate his face, softening his features in a way that makes you fall in love with him even more. 

Your gaze moves down to his plush lips before moving back up to his eyes, smiling in the slightest before moving down to kiss him again. One of his hands moves to cup the back of your neck, pushing you further into him to deepen the kiss. You moan softly and can’t help yourself when you slowly start to grind your hips into his, clothed clit catching his bulge just right. 

The whole thing is cathartic, wanting to prove to him how much you appreciate him and everything he does for you, though he already knows it. 

“I love you.” You mumble against his lips, and separate yourself from him to nose at his scruffy jawline to litter soft kisses among his jaw. You move down to his neck, licking a long stripe up a spot that drives him absolutely crazy. His hands grip your hips tighter, the cool metal of his wedding band pressing into your hot skin. 

“I love you–too, fuck, love you too, baby.” He can’t control the noises that fall from his throat as you suck onto his collarbone and chest in the slightest, tongue soothing over the areas you’ve bitten. 

You make your way down his torso, making sure to kiss his stomach a few times before looking up at him. 

“You’re so handsome, my love.” 

Your lips are back on his skin and Joel’s heart fucking flutters. You’re the only woman in the world that can make him feel so adored, so appreciated, so loved. Your praise always gets to him. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever find the right words to tell you what your words do to him. 

Your lips find purchase near his happy trail, poking your tongue out to lick his skin just before the waistline of his boxers. You grab the elastic band, tapping his hips gently. He lifts his hips for you and you easily slide the underwear off his body. He cradles your cheek for a few seconds, admiring how pretty you look. 

You look down at his weeping cock, pre cum bedaubed on his tip. You take his length gently in your hand, giving it a couple of tugs before moving your head down to kiss his thighs. It was rare when you had opportunities to worship Joel’s body like this, so you were going to take advantage of it. 

He only ever got to be soft and slow with your body, never giving himself the grace to allow you to do the same for him. He always made sure your pleasure came first, but tonight, and many more if the stubborn man would let you, his pleasure came first. You wanted to make him feel just as good as he makes you feel. 

You drag your lips up to the apex of his thigh, kissing his hot skin until you get to the base of his cock. You moved your lips to his tip, kissing it once before licking the pre cum off of him. He groaned softly, eyes falling closed. He tossed an arm over his eyes, trying his hardest not to cum just from your lips touching his throbbing cock. 

You gave him a few more slow tugs before licking the underside of his length, humming against him. You finally decided to stop being a little tease and took him into your mouth, inching down slowly until your nose met the tuft, dark curls at the base of his cock. 

He was heavy in your mouth, throbbing at the feeling of your lips wrapped around him. He cradled the back of your head with his other hand, signaling for you to move. You slid your mouth up his shaft, hollowing your cheeks as you worked your way to the top. His silky flesh slid easily against the flat of your tongue, working its way up and down his length to create a steady rhythm. 

You moan around him as you taste the salt of him on your tongue. You move one hand to brace his thigh and the other to gently toy with his balls, knowing that’s what drove him crazy. 

Throaty moans were elicited from your husband, hand tightening on the back of your head in the slightest. 

“Fuck fuck fuck, yeah, just like that mama. Right there.” You whine against his cock when he calls you that, something purely primal licking a flame into your core and up your spine. 

“You like when I call you that?” Joel chuckles, uncovering his eyes with his arm. He looks down at you as desire has completely taken over your expression, zeroed in on one thing only: making your husband cum. 

You furrow your brows as you look up at him, and he moves his hand from the back of your head to cradle under your jaw. He lifted your mouth off of him slowly, drool spilling from your bottom lip as it was still connected to his swollen tip. 

“Answer me, darlin’.” He tilts his head at you, and you shyly nod. 

“Yes.” You’re breathless, moving your mouth back down to his cock before he stops you. 

“Wanna fill you up. Ride me, baby.”

Your thighs clench at his words, the flame in your core burning hotter each second that passes. 

You discard your panties and straddle him once more, the heat from the fire keeping your body a comfortable temperature. 

Joel’s hands slide up your body and up your spine, goosebumps forming onto your skin at his expert touch. He easily unclasps your bra and tosses it to the side, moving his hands to the front to grab the pillowy flesh. 

You slide his tip against your dripping cunt a couple of times before slowly sinking down onto him, the fullness setting your body aflame. 

You moan as you toss your head back, and the feeling of Joel rolling your sensitive nipples between his thumb and index fingers have you keening for release. 

You start to grind your hips back and forth, building sweet friction before you settle your hands on his chest to move up and down. Joel’s hands move down to the curve of your ass, giving it a playful smack as he admires you bouncing on him. 

“Fuck, Joel, feel so good.” You cry, eyes screwing shut at the burning pleasure becoming harder to ward off. 

“Takin’ such good care of me, mama. ‘M gettin’ close.” He says, hands moving to settle onto your hips. You whine in response, moving down so your body is flush with his as you give him another searing, passionate kiss. 

“You deserve to be taken care of too, Joel. So grateful for you, my honey.” Your lips are next to his ear now, whispering praises to him like it was the last thing you’d ever do on this earth. 

“Fuckin’ love you. Everythin’ about you.” Joel’s voice is strained now, a tell that he was about to come undone. One of Joel’s hands moves down to rub at your clit furiously, desperate to send you over the edge. 

“I love you too—oh, fuck.” You cry, the internal flame finally engulfing your body as a whole. Your orgasm triggered Joel’s as your tight cunt squeezed him, and he held your hips steady to release everything he had into you. Your body convulsed a few times before finally settling down, laying on top of Joel. He wrapped one arm around the small of your back as the other hand traced patterns on your warm skin, kissing your head a few times before a deep chuckle rumbles within his throat. 

You lift your head to look at him. “What?” Your voice is timid again, too fucked out to be any octaves louder than the crackling flames of the fire. 

“One of these days ‘m gonna fuck a baby into you, Mrs. Miller. Then I’ll get to call you mama for real.” 

You tucked your face into his neck at his words, laughing softly. You and Joel have talked about kids before, but both agreed you’d want to buy a house first with a possibility of owning a dog too before having any. 

You kissed Joel’s neck once more before hovering your face over his, smiling down at him. “Until then, Mr. Miller, we’ll need to start our own traditions… just us two for now. Starting with fucking by the fireplace more often.” You laugh, and Joel shakes his head with a hearty chuckle as he flips you over so you’re underneath him. 

“That I can do, darlin’,” Joel looks at you with a knowing smirk. “Round two?” 

tags: @ilovepedro ; @party-hearses ; @nostalxgic ; @tinygarbage ; @bastardmandennis

[eviesaurusrex]

longed for so long | P. Pascal

Pedro Pascal x Photographer!Reader

summary: Pedro didn’t think he would ever see YN—his sister’s best friend—ever again. Until he did. And oh boy, was he still smitten.

word count: 4.2k

warnings: fluff, mention of age gap (reader is described being around Lux’s age), more fluff, being part of the family, reader is a photographer, reader is described as being shorter than Pedro, insecurities, kissing, my Spanish skills using Google, not 100% proofread

author’s note: I think I’m finally onto something when it comes to the sweetheart this man is. Sorry for the shit ending, tho! Dividers are by @enchanthings-a!

It was always a joyous affair whenever someone's birthday was celebrated, and the family tried to come together. So it was no surprise when he arrived at his sister's house in California and was greeted by the people he held most dear to his heart, already celebrating the new year his sister begun.

"¡Feliz cumpleaños!" The man grinned widely after his booming greeting, one arm filled with presents, while his other hugged Lux close to him, pressing a kiss to her cheek. She laughed at his obnoxious grin and patted his cheek closest to her, pressing a kiss of her own to it. "Thank you," she smiled at him, accepting the stacked gifts. "Make yourself at home, hermano. But could you help—…. YN! What in god's name… Put that down, it's too heavy, querida!"

Pedro felt like he was experiencing a heart attack right this instant when his eyes fell on the one woman he never could quite forget, not even after years without seeing her. She was even prettier than in his lousy imagination, the man realized then and there when he watched her carefully balancing a cake board topped with the most spectacular birthday cake he had seen so far.

YN blinked in their direction, her arms slightly shaking in her pretty, flowy blouse dotted with tiny, delicately embroidered daisies, her eyes widening when they fell on Pedro standing in the hallway.

"Oh," was all that escaped her in a breathless whisper before her eyes settled onto Lux standing there with her fists propped against her hips, eyes almost burning a hole into her face. "It's not that heavy, Lulu. Remember, I carried this thing from the Airbnb into the car and up to the door—and even managed to ring the bell!" She didn't mention that she had done that with the tip of her nose and had experienced an honest-to-god moment of almost instant death when she feared the cake would follow earth's gravitational forces.

YN felt her heart beat so rapidly inside her chest that she felt like passing out when her eyes jumped back to Pedro's handsome face she seemingly saw everywhere she went these days—not that she minded. Quite the opposite despite the ache and longing always settling in immediately, and still, she loved the view of her New Yorker office directly onto a massive billboard showing Pedro Pascal in all his glory, watching her while she bloomed in her new job. It was almost as if it was her good luck charm, that silly billboard, because everything had been smooth sailing ever since seeing it across the street when she stepped into the new office for the first time on her first day.

But now? With him in his very flesh and bone mere feet apart from her?

Her lifelong schoolgirl crush came barreling back—the same lifelong schoolgirl crush she suspected was something much deeper and more profound than she would ever tell a soul. YN ignored the fact that she had spilled her secret to Lux during a drunk girl's night out with pleasure, especially when she caught the teasing, menacing gleam in her best friend's eyes. Perhaps she should put the cake down and instead take her feet into her hands and run, leaving the country.

That seemingly tempting thought evaporated into thin air when Pedro stepped toward her, closer than he had been in years, his big hands outstretched in her direction, kind eyes looking warmly down at her. YN knew her heart had just stopped beating altogether. Especially when he directed that smile at her—the smile he only showed in the rarest of moments; so sweet it almost turned her into a diabetic; so heart-achingly genuine YN knew he held not a single malicious bone in his body.

"Let me, princesa," he murmured, making her almost miss it entirely over the rushing sound in her ears. Was she experiencing a stroke? YN allowed him to take over; his hands slid under the cake board and heaved the cake into his hold with ease, their hands touching at the exchange, making them both freeze mid-movement. She couldn't avert her eyes from his, even if YN tried, the skin where he had touched her fingers tingling in the most pleasant of ways, forcing her to swallow drily.

Lux's clearing of her throat made YN jump out of it, pushing her to stagger a few steps back, a trembling smile gracing her lips. "Thank you." Pedro nodded woodenly, eyes widened a fraction before he turned on the spot and carried the cake across the hallway and into the living room, where the rest of the family started to cheer and greet the man.

YN, on the other hand?

She had to lean her back against the wall right behind her, her head hanging lowly while she took deep, steadying breaths. A groan fought its way out of her when she heard the birthday girl chuckle. "You two idiotas need to stop this, whatever this is," she decided, and YN looked up through her lashes, brows furrowed. "I don't know what you mean, and I'm not sure if I like the train of thought you're seemingly having there." Lux let out an exasperated sigh, her eyes remaining on her, and YN wasn't sure if she liked that very much either. "Are you blind, querida? Everyone can see the signals—except for, well, you two. He is smitten. He is head over heels. He is longing for you. Do I need to write this down for your little chicken head to grasp it?"

YN sputtered at the suggestion, shaking her head in clear and complete denial. "Excuse me? Chicken head? I will remind you that I was valedictorian of our year—both in high school and college." Lux rolled her eyes with a smile, tucking at her lips before YN could even continue. "And I think you've read too many romance novels for your own good. Longing for me? Please." Even the implication was so laughable, the woman almost turned into a hysterically giggling mess.

As if someone like Pedro would fancy someone like her. He was this amazing, kind, compassionate, loving, and beyond-talented man who could have literally any human being walking this earth—men and women alike—while she was… well. She was YN. His little sister's best friend since childhood. The annoying girl who spent more time at their home than at hers, trailing behind him whenever he was near, looking up at him with wide eyes even though he had always ignored her. The woman who always tagged along during family holidays because Lux knew she would be lonely if she didn't bring her—in her opinion, YN had been adopted a very long time ago anyway. So, no. Pedro would most definitely not be smitten with someone like her.

"What's that supposed to mean, querida?" Lux watched her as closely as a hawk, her head cocked to one side. But knowing what the other woman would think and say if YN shared her self-deprecating thoughts, all she did was shrug her shoulders almost helplessly, wringing her hands in anxious repetition. "Och, love," the birthday girl smiled then so soothingly, it warmed YN from the inside out. "Well, I will keep my mouth shut—for now, but only because I cannot wait for my cake. We will be talking about this again."

It sounded like a threat, but either way, YN only rolled her eyes at that, allowing Lux to pull her arm through hers and lead them into the living room, where José sat up immediately, his arms opened wide. "¡Mi querida YN! ¿Cómo has estado? The cake looks spectacular, dear. You have outdone yourself once more." Smiling, she let herself get hugged by the older man, soaking in the warmth and welcoming feeling she had always received in this family. "I've been busy," she still smiled when his hand patted her cheek gently, a fatherly expression on his face. "So we've been told! We all were very proud when Lux told us about your new job—it was a brave thing to do, mija." Feeling her cheeks warm under the praise and the soft Spanish term for daughter, YN tried to get out of the spotlight. "It's barely worth mentioning, really. It was time for a change, that's all."

The woman felt a gaze on her body, and when she turned, she saw Pedro watching their exchange with a soft expression, a somewhat far-off look in his eyes, not even realizing she had caught him. He only woke from his trance when José and Lux pulled her to her chair—right next to him, sharing a conspiratorial look when they sat on their respective spots, deep in conversation.

Cumpleaños Feliz was sung, and the cake was cut into pieces in a flurry of emotions and laughter around the grand table when Pedro started to speak. "We haven't seen each other… in a while," he opened, and YN nodded at that, daring a glance in his direction, seeing him already watching her. "Yeah, I guess we were both pretty busy?" Apparently busy for years and always missing one another by a mere few days whenever they had visited. Pedro hummed softly, taking a savoring bite of the cake she had spent hours upon hours in the small kitchen of the even smaller Airbnb she had rented in the city, involuntarily asking herself if it was to his taste.

His slowly closing eyes and the soft moan escaping him at the fork-full of cake was more than enough for her—and not enough at all. The sound made a shudder run across her back and made her skin tingle yet again, her mouth suddenly very dry and competing with Death Valley.

"This is heavenly," Pedro spoke with so much sincerity after he opened his eyes again and stared right into hers, not moving an inch, barely even blinking. The compliment pulled at the corners of her mouth and tucked her lips into a broad smile, and Pedro was sure he stopped breathing altogether at the radiance she was personified. "You think so?" He nodded without hesitation, taking another bite, the flavors exploding on his tongue, and leaning back in his chair, he took the plate with him, cradling it to his chest, and continued eating the most delicious cake he had ever had the pleasure to taste. It hit all the boxes for him—and knowing YN made it? The woman he had longed for for so long? The knowledge topped it off like a cherry on top.

He watched her intently when her radiant smile morphed into a wide-spreading grin and YN leaned back in her chair herself, settling into the comfortable cushions and watching him just as intently. "Well, then enjoy. There is more where this slice came from. Unlike other bakers, I don't do fake styrofoam layers." Chuckling at that, Pedro let his cheek rest against the backrest of his chair, not letting his gaze stride away from her.

He couldn't, even if he'd try.

"Of course you don't," the man mumbled and felt practically thrilled when he saw the warmth in her cheeks and the bashful glance she threw in his direction. "What were you up to beside baking? You got that fancy job in Manhattan when we last saw each other. Are you still into photography?" He still remembered the excitement floating through the house back then, Lux already planning her move and the furniture they would need to find during one of their many girl trips. And he still remembered the heaviness settling into his chest at the prospect of barely seeing her anymore. That they wouldn't see each other for years? Pedro certainly hadn't expected that.

His life had been somewhat empty without her smiling eyes, her charm, and her witty retorts whenever they had quarreled and bickered like an old married couple despite trying to deny what he felt. He had played the denial game for so long, he finally realized how stupid it was. He couldn't care less for the opinions of others, of strangers when it came to his life and the one he wanted to share it with in his wildest dreams.

His eyes tracked the movement of her lips when YN gathered her glass of homemade lemonade, watched her throat move with each sip, her tongue gliding across her bottom lip after the glass had found its spot on the table again. By god, he still was as mesmerized by her every move as he had been before she had left for New York City, perhaps even more so than before, with only daydreams and memories of her as his companion.

"Well, that fancy job turned out to be a life and soul-sucking monstrosity in a pretty costume, which has taken me a moment too long to realize and do something about it." His heart almost broke for her if her next words didn't exist—and still, he felt the hollow ache right in his chest. "It took a while, but the moment I was brave enough to be done with it, I quit and never looked back. It was hard for a while, and it wasn't pretty, but Lux kept looking out for me." Pedro watched YN glance across the table, the clear love for his sister showing on her face a reminder of what these two went through together in all the years they had known one another.

As she shook her head gently, her soft locks caressed the skin on his arm, and the man was almost too weak not to lean closer, feeling it again—feeling more—but he kept his composure—for now. Pedro wasn't sure if he'd survive this day without doing something foolish because of how much she made him lose his mind with every little thing she did. He must not feel well because even watching her breathe did something to him.

"Papá said something about a new job?" Maybe he was noisy, maybe he was prodding at things he didn't have any business knowing, but he wanted so desperately to know everything there was. He was glad that Lux was so focused on the conversations around her that she didn't pay them any attention because if she had, he knew he would be in trouble.

YN turned bashful again, her finger following the wooden carving of the table. "I have this Instagram profile for my photography—I just put everything on there, you know? My professional work, my snapshots, unedited pieces. Well, someone seemed to like it all very much, my take on things, the way I capture scenes, my editing, so I… I handed in my application via DM? To Variety? And they liked it so much, I got a job interview within hours, and they…" Pedro edged a little closer. "They hired you. They had to. If not, they are a bunch of idiotas," he grinned, practically glowing at the sound of her giggle.

He had achieved that.

The woman glanced up at him through her lashes, making the man almost swoon, and yet again, he lost his grip on himself. He would make a fool of himself today; he felt it in the air—and he didn't mind it. Not when it was for her.

"These idiotas made me their Chief Photographer," she revealed with yet another giggle which suddenly died down when his hand found the side of her neck and his lips pressed a gentle kiss to each of her soft cheeks, lingering far longer than necessary. "I'm so proud of you, princesa. You, of all people, deserve it the most." It was a mere whisper, practically drowned by the other voices echoing through the room, and still, YN stared at him, her eyes slightly wider than usual, her lips slightly parted, and oh, how much he wanted to feel them, to taste them. Dios mío, was all Pedro could think, still leaning into her space, unable to move back.

She didn't seem to mind, though?

And this observation made hope grow inside him.

"I really missed you, Pedrito," YN then smiled at him, that sweet smile morphing into a full-blown grin when Pedro felt his cheeks warm at the familiar, silly nickname, his eyes averting for a moment or two before he glanced back at her teasingly sparkling eyes. But there also was a sincerity to be found, which let his heart rate spike in unhealthy ways, especially when his fantasy and imagination started to run havoc in his mind. "I missed you too, cariño, more than you think," he whispered back, his voice turning hoarse at the too-intimate endearment, but she continued to sit right next to him, not storming away.

Instead, a soft expression settled on her pretty features, and he saw her hand rising in the corner of his vision. Pedro held his breath in bone-shaking anticipation and didn't dare to let it out in a sigh when her warm palm cupped his jawline, resting there heavily. Everything around them seemed to move far away until only YN existed right in front of him—and the question she asked.

"Would you like to go for a stroll?"

YN wasn't sure where she had taken that bravery to ask him for a smidge of his time alone, away from the thrown glances she was sure Lux wouldn't deny if she asked, the satisfied smile on the face of José, and the teasing stares Nicolás and Javiera shared with each other. She wasn't stupid. Ever since that fateful drunken night, seemingly everyone in the family knew of her silly, soul-filling crush on the eldest child—and everyone seemed to be approving of it despite the age gap between Pedro and her.

It isn't as if I'm just out of college, a small voice in her head reminded her, and she had to agree. She was a grown woman with a respectable job and life experience. She had been in love, heartbroken, and had her own ups and downs, which taught her more than she cared to contemplate. She wasn't the school girl anymore, the younger friend of his younger sister. She was an adult—a successful one at that.

And still, another voice reminded her that he was Pedro Pascal.

But the hateful voice quieted down the moment they had reached the beach, and YN slipped out of her shoes, already bending down to grab them—but a larger, male hand was faster and snatched them out of her reach. Looking up, she blinked at the handsome man wearing a smile and turning him from handsome to otherworldly—her shoes dangling from the tips of his fingers before they found their spot tucked underneath his arm where his shoes rested as well. And suddenly, her heart stopped all over again when he stretched a hesitant arm out toward her, palm facing upward, a question on his face he didn't need to articulate.

It was nothing YN had to consider because her body reacted on instinct and desire alone; their hands fit together quite perfectly when their fingers laced tightly together and their palms pressed against each other. She had to swallow drily when his smile turned that tad sweeter, and she was sure he would be the cause of YN turning into a diabetic—she wouldn't mind it. Not when she was allowed to see more of those smiles he rarely—if ever—showed on social media.

"You don't have to carry my smelly shoes, y'know?" YN tried to joke around her anxiousness, around her nervousness and failed miserably when Pedro nudged her with their laced fingers, squeezing her hand in the process of it. "You are a lady, and I am a gentleman—of course I carry your smelly shoes, cariño."

YN's heart stopped anew at Pedro's use of the softest endearment known to mankind—in her humble opinion—and she knew she would never grow tired of hearing it. She had almost fallen to her knees when he had used it for the first time inside, her cheeks so warm, she was sure the aliens in outer space could see how flushed they were. And despite hating whenever she was flustered, she longed to hear it again.

When Pedro softly pulled at her hand when she halted her steps for a moment, YN caught back up to him, walking beside the man in the sun-warmed sand, their lands softly swaying back and forth. "You know," she began then, not knowing why she would say the things she was about to tell him. "There is this huge billboard in Manhattan of you—it's massive, really. Hard to miss." She was rambling. She needed to stop. "And, funnily enough, it's right outside my office. They gave me a corner office with windows from floor to ceiling, with all this natural light coming in—and your face was the first thing I saw when I stepped foot into this—my—new space." YN didn't dare to look up at him; instead, she let her gaze wander across the ocean to her left and the beach right in front of them. But then, as if something forced her to look either way, despite feeling bone-deep insecurity swirling around in her stomach, she glanced up at him. "I think you are my good luck charm."

Not the billboard. Not the picture of him.

But him.

He stopped walking and faced her instead, dark, warm eyes roaming across her face, looking for something he seemed to find because YN still recognized the soft thud of shoes dropping into the sand when he stretched out his other arm as well, his fingers grazing the skin of her naked arm. They wandered up and up and up until they reached one of her locks of hair, softly swaying in the breeze and catching it, Pedro slowly let it curl around his fingers, eyes never leaving her face.

"YN…" The raspy sound of his voice would be her undoing. "If I overstep… I apologize for it. I would never do something you don't want, but I… Please…” She had never seen him speechless in a way that would resemble this moment. It wasn't because of his anxiety, she could easily tell, but something else entirely. His eyes jumped from her eyes to her lips and back up again as if he caught himself too late and didn't want to make a wrong impression, but all it did was make her stomach flutter and her heart ache. So, she took a step closer, squeezing his hand gently while her other fingers slowly grasped for one of the buttons of his shirt, playing with it to distract herself from the stupid thing she would do in a matter of seconds.

Looking up at him, YN let her gaze linger a moment longer than necessary on his soft-looking lips before they shared a long look, which made his hand wander further from her shoulder up to her neck and cheek, where his palm cupped her skin and made her lean into the touch. "Pedro…"

It was her whisper that undid him, and the man dove for her lips, bending his neck to capture them in a tender but desperate kiss, pulling her in at their lazed fingers. He soaked in the tiny sound she made, a sound he wanted to hear over and over again, which made his knees turn into jello. A sigh left him at their contact, and he never thought he would crave her more than before, never thought it possible, and still, he felt it all the more because now he knew how she tasted—sweet like pastries—and how she felt in his hands, on his lips.

No, he would never get enough of this woman he had fallen for years ago.

He pulled her in even closer until their bodies were pressed together, and even then, he felt like it wasn't enough. "Mi amor," Pedro couldn't hold back the whisper escaping him when their lips parted to catch up on breathing, nudging her nose with his and complied to the urgent pulling of her fingers wrapped around his chin. He hummed, deeply satisfied when YN kissed him of her own accord just as desperately as he had, clearly showing him how he wasn't alone in his longing.

Lux had been right, after all.

"This is not a game for me, Pedrito," the woman in his arms whispered then, right against his lips, making him almost double over. Staring into her eyes and trying to convey as much certainty and assuredness as he was capable of, Pedro cupped her face with both hands, holding it as if she was something precious to protect—because that was precisely what she encompassed for him. "It's not a game for me either, YNN. I respect and adore you too much to treat you like something you are not, so let me be clear about it." A soft kiss was pressed to her lips before he continued: "I will wine and dine you, I will spoil you rotten, I will shower you in affection, love, and respect. You will be my number one priority every single day until you get rid of me. I am on my knees at your feet."

He could watch the smile spreading across her face and lighting up her eyes. It shouldn't shock him anymore what power she held over him, and still, he was shocked.

"So… Hypothetically, I don't get rid of you… Will you stay forever, then?"

Their laughter echoed across the beach when Pedro hoisted her into his arms and spun circles with the woman he loved on the beach they first met.

Thank you so much for reading! It would mean the world to me if you'd consider leaving a like, a comment, and a reblog! <3

[joelsrose]

Father of the Groom

warnings - smut (as always lmao) virgin reader, cheating, spanking, unprotected sex, family dynamics, creampie ..(??!)

🕊♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

You reached for another glass of champagne, your fingers trembling just enough to make the bubbles shimmer against the rim. The suite was quiet now, too quiet, after the flurry of brushes and curling irons, after the hum of music and the soft laughter of your stylist and makeup artist who had only just packed up and left. The air still held the faint scent of hair spray and roses, mixed with the deeper perfume clinging to your skin — warm, floral, soft like summer.

Your hair had been curled into delicate waves, the top pinned back with a cluster of tiny pearls that glimmered every time you moved. Your makeup was bridal perfection — a gentle glow across your cheeks, soft pink lips, lashes long and curled like whispers. You looked like a dream. You felt… like a trembling one. Nerves tangled tightly in your belly, fluttering like ribbons caught in wind. You were getting married today. Today.

The weight of it settled behind your ribs. Excitement, yes — that warm, hopeful kind — but threaded through with something sharper, more restless. The kind of nerves that made your hands fidget, that made you question if you’d eaten too much, if you should’ve worn a different shade of blush, if the weight in your chest was love or fear or… something else entirely.

You were just about to raise the flute to your lips when a knock echoed at the door — soft, deliberate.

Your heart gave a little stutter.

“Luke, I swear,” you muttered under your breath with a nervous smile, setting the glass down, “you know you’re not supposed to see me until the ceremony…”

You padded toward the door in nothing but your white silk robe — the one you’d saved for today, smooth as water and tied loosely at your waist. You pulled it tighter on instinct, fingers curling around the fabric as you turned the handle and opened the door—

—and there he was.

Joel.

Mr. Miller.

Your fiancé’s father.

🕊♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

Joel Miller stood in the doorway like he’d stepped out of another world and into this one just to see you — tall and broad in his dark suit, the tailored jacket pulling across his shoulders in a way that made your breath hitch for reasons you didn’t want to examine.

His tie was a muted navy, slightly loosened at the collar like he hadn’t bothered to finish getting ready yet, and in the neat fold of his jacket pocket sat a single white rose — likely chosen to match your bouquet, the detail not missed by you. His hair had been swept back, soft curls glinting silver under the room’s warm light. He looked handsome — devastatingly so — in that older, quiet kind of way that made you want to look at him just a second too long.

“Joel,” you smiled gently, surprised, your fingers tightening slightly on the robe’s sash as you leaned your shoulder to the doorframe, “I thought you were Luke.”

His brow ticked up, but the smile he gave you was warm, touched with something that felt just a little too fond. “Well… look at you, sweetheart.” He stepped closer, eyes scanning you with a reverence that made your skin burn beneath the silk. He leaned in and kissed both of your cheeks — the roughness of his stubble grazing your skin, the warmth of his hands settling lightly on your arms. “You look like a damn dream.”

A quiet breath left you as you backed up slightly to let him in, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Thanks, Joel,” you murmured, turning toward the side table where the champagne and spirits were arranged, the glasses catching soft golden light. “Would you like a drink? There’s whiskey.”

He chuckled — low, gravelly, like it lived deep in his chest. “You know me well.”

You didn’t see the way his eyes dropped to your legs, how they lingered on the smooth line of your thigh revealed by the shift of your robe as you reached forward, silk sliding up just enough to test the limits of modesty. You didn’t catch the subtle way his jaw shifted or how his thumb dragged once over his palm before reaching for the glass you passed him.

“How’s your morning been?” he asked, voice smooth, conversational, but his gaze wandered — over the room, yes, but always returning to you.

You motioned for him to sit, and when he did, he chose the armchair closest to you — close enough that his knee nearly brushed yours. You sat down again, smoothing the robe over your legs as you sipped the last of your champagne, trying to ignore the sudden flutter of nerves in your chest that had nothing to do with wedding-day jitters.

“It’s been busy,” you admitted softly, your voice lighter now. “Hair and makeup only just left. Luke and I are getting photos done soon… in—” you glanced at your phone, “less than an hour, actually.”

Joel nodded slowly, the motion almost absentminded, though his eyes hadn’t left you once — eyes that held something too heavy to be casual, too soft to be paternal. There was reverence in them, yes, but also a flicker of something else, something deep and unspoken, as if he was trying to memorize every angle of you in that moment — the slope of your cheekbone catching the morning light, the gentle way your bottom lip stayed tucked beneath your teeth when you were nervous, the way you kept fidgeting with the edge of your silk robe like you didn’t quite know what to do with your hands now that he was sitting so close.

“You nervous?” he asked at last, his voice quieter than before — lower, almost thoughtful, like it wasn’t just a question but something weightier, an offering.

You smiled softly, almost bashful, eyes dropping to your lap where your fingers twisted the belt of your robe into a little knot. “A little.”

When you looked up again, his gaze was still locked on yours — unwavering, steady, and laced with something warm enough to make your skin prickle.

“Ain’t nothin’ to be nervous about, darlin’,” he murmured, his voice slow and syrupy, rich with something comforting and southern and familiar. “If anything, my damn son oughta be nervous. He’ll get a whoopin’ if he ain’t takin’ care of you proper.”

That made you laugh — the kind of laugh Joel always pulled out of you with so little effort, the kind that spilled out like a secret, the kind that reminded you of every dinner at their family home, of the way he always made sure your wine glass was full, how he always offered you the best slice of roast first, the way he always called you “sweetheart” like it meant something more. Holidays, birthdays, Sunday brunches — Joel was the kind of man who made you feel seen, held, steady in a world that sometimes spun too fast.

And now, as your laughter died down to a gentle smile, he was watching you again — like you were something fragile and golden and borrowed just for a moment. His hand moved slowly, resting gently on your knee, warm and solid where your skin peeked from beneath the silk. His palm was broad, roughened from years of work, but the way he touched you was soft, reverent, fingers still against your skin like he didn’t dare move.

You kept your eyes trained on his, breath catching faintly, though it wasn’t fear that fluttered in your chest. He smelled good — a mix of something woodsy and clean, a little cologne maybe, but mostly Joel — that distinct, masculine scent that always lingered when he hugged you goodbye.

He smiled a little, eyes soft, almost nostalgic. “You remind me of Tess on our wedding day,” he said quietly, and you felt that compliment bloom somewhere deep in your belly, warm and sharp. “She had this look in her eyes — somethin’ soft. Somethin’ like you got now. Though I don’t think she ever wore a robe like that 'round me before the vows.”

The last part slipped out lower, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud, and you blushed instantly, lowering your eyes with a shy smile, your fingers tightening just slightly around the edge of your robe.

“Thank you,” you murmured, voice almost too quiet to hear.

Joel smiled again, tilting his head just a little, and then leaned forward, the hand on your knee giving the gentlest squeeze. “Now come on,” he said, voice teasing but kind, “stand up and give me a twirl. I wanna see my future daughter-in-law in all her glory.”

You let out a little giggle — partly from the champagne dancing in your bloodstream, partly from the way his voice held that proud affection, but mostly from the way he was looking at you. Like you were beautiful. Like he knew you were.

You gave a playful little twirl, champagne dancing in your veins and nerves making your limbs feel feather-light. The hem of your silk robe fluttered around your thighs, and you struck a mock pose at the end, one hand on your hip, the other lifting just enough of the fabric to wink at the lace garter snug around your upper thigh — delicate ivory and barely-there sheer, the one your maid of honor had slipped to you that morning with a wink and a giggle.

Joel chuckled low under his breath, the sound rough and warm and unmistakably male, like it was caught in the back of his throat. He leaned forward slightly in the armchair, elbow resting on one knee, fingers loosely wrapped around his glass of whiskey. But it wasn’t the drink he was looking at.

Your movements had swayed just enough for him to catch a flash of lace — and his eyes tracked it like they had a mind of their own.

“Hold up,” Joel said suddenly, his voice casual but the glint in his eyes not quite matching the lazy ease in his tone. He leaned forward in the chair just slightly, resting his glass on the side table as his gaze settled somewhere lower — somewhere that made heat crawl beneath your skin. “C’mere for a sec, sweetheart.”

You blinked, your breath catching as you stepped toward him with a small, hesitant smile, eyes soft with concern. “What’s wrong?” you asked, your brows furrowed as your mind spun — Did I drop something? Do I have something on my face? Did my lipstick smudge already?

But Joel didn’t answer you right away. Instead, he reached out with one hand, slow and deliberate, his fingers warm as they brushed against the outside of your thigh — the place where the hem of your robe had shifted just enough during your little twirl to reveal a sliver of ivory lace. His touch was gentle, almost absentminded, but his movements were precise. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“This,” he murmured, dragging his finger beneath the silk as he shifted the fabric slightly to the side, revealing more of the garter cinched high on your thigh — delicate and bridal and not meant to be seen by him. “Thought I saw somethin’. Damn near missed it.”

He was smiling — that sweet, fatherly smile he always gave you — but there was something else there too, something in the way his eyes lingered, in the way his thumb brushed the edge of the lace like he was admiring it for more than just tradition’s sake.

You froze, a flush blooming across your cheeks, your chest tightening beneath the satin as you struggled to find words. How were you supposed to explain to your future father-in-law that you were wearing a garter? That it was supposed to be seen by someone else — his son, no less. That it was part of some ancient wedding tradition meant to feel cheeky, fun, maybe even a little flirtatious, but now felt scandalous, intimate, exposed in front of the man who should’ve looked away the second he noticed.

Your voice caught in your throat, lodged somewhere between your chest and your lips, and all you could manage was a breathy, flustered, “It’s…” You swallowed hard, cheeks burning as you reached absently for the belt of your robe, needing something to do with your hands, anything to ground you beneath the weight of his gaze. “Tradition, apparently,” you mumbled. “My maid of honour gave it to me this morning.”

Joel didn’t say anything right away. His fingers — the same ones that had just ghosted over the soft skin of your thigh — trailed off with an infuriating slowness, leaving behind a trail of heat like a brand. He let go of the silk as if he hadn’t just touched something sacred, as if his hand hadn’t rested somewhere it most certainly should not have been — like the act itself hadn’t tilted the axis of the room just a fraction. Like it wasn’t so unbearably wrong you felt dizzy with it.

He leaned back in the armchair, the movement languid and unhurried, like he was stretching into the moment instead of trying to escape it. One arm draped along the back of the seat, the other resting on his thigh, fingers idly brushing his whiskey glass. His gaze moved slowly — dragging unapologetically from your legs, up the length of your body, pausing at the dip of your waist where the robe clung, the soft curve of your chest, the flutter of your pulse at the base of your throat — before finally, finally settling on your face again.

“Well,” he said, his voice warm and low, that Southern drawl folding over you like velvet, smooth but weighted, “it’s a real pretty little thing.”

He paused, his smile curling at the edge with something far too knowing, too intimate.

“Just like you.”

Your breath hitched. You blinked, eyes wide, the blush rising higher on your cheeks as you stood frozen in place, unsure what to say, unsure what could be said. You felt suddenly very young, very exposed — like a girl playing dress-up in a woman’s world, standing in a silk robe that felt too thin, with lace too intimate, in front of a man who should have looked away by now. A man who should have been like a father. A man who wasn’t.

You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, your fingers trembling slightly, your gaze darting away in a poor attempt to gather composure. But you could still feel his eyes on you — the weight of them. Gentle. Heavy. Wanting.

You sat down again, your legs folding delicately beneath you, hyperaware now of the space between you — or rather, the lack of it. His knee brushed yours when you shifted slightly, and the silk of your robe clung a little too close to your skin, made you feel a little too seen. Your skin still tingled where his hand had rested moments before.

“What are the boys doing?” you asked, your voice soft, trying to ease the thrum in your chest by returning to something normal — something safe — but even as you said it, your voice betrayed you, just a little too airy, a little too unsure.

Joel chuckled, low and warm, that rich gravel sound that lived somewhere deep in his chest. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass with idle ease. “Luke and the boys?” he said, eyes still fixed on you like you were more interesting than anything happening elsewhere. “They’re just gettin’ ready in the suite down the hall. Arguin’ over whose tie’s crooked, takin’ shots behind your mama’s back.”

You smiled, shoulders relaxing a touch, but then — then Joel shifted his wrist as he brought the glass to his lips, and just as his arm brushed yours, he fumbled.

It was subtle. Believable. Performed so naturally you would’ve sworn it was real.

The glass tilted — just enough — and a slow, honeyed trickle of whiskey spilled over the rim, slipping down the side of the tumbler and landing squarely on your thigh.

Your gasp was soft, surprised, as the warm liquid soaked into the silk, darkening it in a bloom that made the fabric cling scandalously to your skin. It rolled down your leg in a slow, sinful line.

“Shit,” Joel muttered, deep and throaty, setting the glass aside instantly. His hand followed the spill without hesitation, brushing the fabric with the back of his knuckles, trying — pretending — to help. “Damn, m’sorry, sweetheart. Wasn’t lookin’. Didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay,” you said quickly, your voice thin, fluttering from your lips like it had to push through the tightness in your chest. Your breath hitched as Joel’s fingers lingered, just for a second too long, his knuckles grazing the edge of your thigh as though he couldn’t quite bring himself to stop touching you. “It’s just—just the robe.”

He pulled back, but not far, reaching behind him for the box of tissues on the table with a low chuckle, his voice roughened by something that felt deeper than amusement. “Sorry, darlin’,” he muttered as he shook his head, pulling a few tissues loose. “Old man like me can’t do nothin’ right with these damn hands anymore. Slippery glass, nerves shot, eyesight probably goin’.”

You laughed softly, unsure whether it was the champagne or the way your heart felt like it had climbed into your throat. “You’re not old,” you murmured, looking down at your lap to avoid his gaze.

Joel didn’t respond to that — not directly. Instead, he leaned forward again, pressing the tissue to your thigh with a gentleness that made the breath stall in your lungs. His hand was warm, firm but careful, like he was scared he might hurt you, or maybe scared of something entirely different.

He dabbed at the silk uselessly, the fabric already soaked through, transparent now and clinging like a second skin.

“Damn,” he muttered again, more to himself this time as his eyes followed the trail of amber staining the pale ivory. “I’m makin’ it worse, ain’t I?”

You didn’t answer, your mouth dry, because he wasn’t really asking.

Joel looked up, his eyes meeting yours with a quiet intensity, and then back down at the fabric. “This ain’t gonna come clean like this,” he said after a moment, holding the tissue up like proof. “You’ll catch a chill sittin’ in it all wet like that.”

You hesitated, blinking. “It’s fine, really—”

“Nah,” he said gently, his voice taking on that soft but insistent tone, the one that always made people listen. “You’re gonna wrinkle that beautiful dress if this soaks through. Here—” his fingers moved to the sash at your waist before you even realized, pausing just long enough for your eyes to go wide.

“May I?” he asked, and the way he said it — quiet, kind, not pushy but so utterly deliberate — made your stomach twist with something sharp and hot, something that curled behind your ribs and settled low, where your thoughts shouldn’t be wandering.

“I—” you exhaled a shaky breath, a breathy, nervous laugh tumbling out of you. “I’m not sure—”

Joel’s smile was warm, sweet even, but his hands were already ready — positioned at your waist like he was just waiting for permission he already knew you’d give. “We gotta get you cleaned up, baby,” he said gently, glancing at the watch on his wrist like this was all just time-sensitive logistics and not a private, forbidden unraveling. “You got what… twenty minutes till the photographer shows up? Tess, Lord, she dropped every damn thing on her dress back on our day. Nerves’ll do that to ya. But this?” His hand brushed the stained silk. “This’s before the ceremony. Can’t have your wedding robe lookin’ like this in the photos, sugar. People’ll talk.”

He chuckled, soft and low, like he’d just said something harmless, like this wasn’t the most dangerous thing he’d ever done. And your voice — so small and unsure and trembling in a way you couldn’t seem to stop — came out as little more than a breath: “Okay.”

Before you even realized what was happening, his fingers worked the sash loose, slow and careful like he was handling something breakable. The robe slid off your shoulders with the softest whisper of silk and warmth, pooling at your waist before slipping down your hips entirely. Joel caught it in one hand like it was something sacred, something fragile that deserved care — but his eyes…

His eyes didn’t stay on the robe.

He pretended to examine the stained fabric, muttering something under his breath about the fibers and how whiskey sets, holding it like he was doing you a favor — but his gaze lifted a second later, and when it did, it hit you like heat.

Because now you were standing in front of him in nothing but your wedding-day lingerie.

Lace and satin hugged your body, delicate and white and unforgiving, sheer in places where it shouldn’t have been, the garter still snug on your thigh, the tops of your stockings barely visible beneath the hem of the lace. You felt bare. Exposed. Like you’d been unwrapped and laid open just for him.

And Joel — your fiancé’s father, the man who’d kissed your cheek over birthday cake, who’d fixed the broken lock on your apartment door, who’d always called you sweetheart like it was your name — looked up at you then.

His eyes trailed up the length of your legs, slowly, reverently, over your hips, your stomach, the soft line of your chest rising and falling far too quickly.

He didn’t smile.

He just looked.

And in that still, humming silence — where the only sound was the soft rustle of lace against skin and the distant echo of footsteps in some far-off hallway that no longer felt real — you realized with a throb in your chest that Joel had never looked at you like this before.

But he wasn’t stopping.

Not this time.

His eyes dragged over you slowly, reverently, so intensely it made your skin feel too tight, like you were glowing from the inside out, flushed and trembling in nothing but that thin veil of bridal lace that barely counted as clothing. His mouth parted, just slightly, like the words were trying to catch up with the way his thoughts had already unraveled.

“Well,” he drawled at last, voice low and breathless with disbelief, a wry edge of admiration curling around every syllable, “hell, darlin’... I didn’t even know they made underwear like that.”

You gasped — soft, startled — and instinctively crossed your arms over your chest, trying to shield yourself with trembling hands, but there was barely anything to cover. The silk and lace clung to you like a whisper, translucent in places it shouldn’t be, tight across curves he was now seeing for the very first time, and the heat in his eyes made your knees threaten to give out.

Joel dropped the robe without looking, the silk puddling soundlessly at his feet, forgotten, like it was meaningless compared to the vision standing before him. His voice dipped deeper, reverent but laced with something unholy, something so filthy it made your pulse stutter.

“Shit, honey…” he whispered, gaze flicking down again, breath catching as he took you in from head to toe, “…this lace don’t even cover your pussy, does it?”

You froze, stunned, lips parted in a silent gasp, your body prickling with heat that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with how the words hit you — low and wicked, like something molten pooling behind your ribs.

He shook his head slowly, as though trying to make sense of what he was seeing, as though the sight of you — flushed and trembling and wrapped in lace that did nothing to hide the soft, sacred shape of your body — was more than his tired, aging heart could bear. His voice, when it came, was hushed and aching, like it had to claw its way up from somewhere deep in his chest. “You look like heaven on earth,” he murmured, almost broken by it, like saying the words out loud wounded him in some unspeakable way. “Like somethin’ God himself made just to fuck with me.”

You couldn’t speak.

Could barely breathe.

Your arms were still crossed tightly over your chest, but your hands had slackened, your fingers curled uselessly against your skin as if even they had surrendered to the weight of his gaze. Your lips were parted in shock, your mouth dry, and your heart was pounding so hard you swore he could see it in the way your collarbone trembled beneath the thin thread of satin. You didn’t know if you should run — throw on the robe, end this before it went any further — or reach for him, admit what your body had already betrayed.

Joel stood then, slowly, without a word, and took the few steps toward you with the calm, deliberate steadiness of a man who had made up his mind.

You didn’t move when he reached you.

Didn’t protest when his rough, warm hands slid gently over your wrists, guiding your arms down and away from your chest, until they hung limply at your sides and you were bare before him in a way you had never been before.

His gaze dropped immediately, and there was nothing coy about it now, nothing shy or hesitant in the way his eyes devoured the sight of you. His breath hitched audibly when he saw your chest, and his voice, when it came, was low and ragged and thick with hunger.

“Jesus, baby…” he muttered, his voice strained and reverent like he was confessing a sin, “I can see your fuckin’ nipples through that lace.”

The way he said it — not vulgar, not joking, but stunned, ruined, like it was a miracle he didn’t deserve to witness — sent a ripple of heat straight through your spine. You felt like you were on fire, like your skin was glowing beneath his gaze, like you were something holy being blasphemed.

“Joel,” you warned, or tried to, though your voice cracked under the weight of your own trembling.

Your brows furrowed, your breath shallow, but you didn’t pull away. You couldn’t. Because his eyes were still fixed on your breasts, on the way the sheer lace hugged the swell of them, your nipples peaked and visible through the delicate floral embroidery, the faint rise and fall of your chest growing sharper with each second his gaze remained. And Joel — your future father-in-law, the man who’d always carried himself with the kind of unshakable dignity only age could bring — just looked.

He didn’t blink. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t say sorry.

He just kept looking at you like he’d never seen anything so goddamn beautiful in his life — like the sight of you, soft and trembling in white lace that barely clung to your skin, had cracked something open in him so deep and buried he no longer remembered how to pretend it wasn’t there.

And then, in a voice so calm and so casual it could’ve been mistaken for small talk, he murmured, “Now you can’t blame an old man for admirin’, can you?”

The way he said it — low, warm, with the faintest flicker of amusement curling in his chest — made your stomach flip. Like this was the most natural thing in the world. Like you were the one being silly for acting like he hadn’t just devoured you with his eyes.

His hand rose, slow and unhurried, and settled against your hip — broad and warm, his thumb brushing bare skin where the lace ended. The contact was electric, your breath catching in your throat as you gasped softly, your eyes snapping up to his.

“You wear this for him?” he asked, tilting his head slightly, gaze trailing from your mouth to your breasts again like he couldn’t help himself. “This pretty little set?”

You couldn’t answer. Couldn’t even think. Not with his hand on you, not with his voice all low and close like that, like a secret being whispered in a confessional.

“Bet he can’t even fuck ya right,” Joel muttered, more to himself than to you, like the words had slipped out from somewhere dark and unchecked.

“Joel,” you said, eyes wide, voice trembling, every part of your body pulsing with heat and something dangerously close to arousal.

But he didn’t back away. Didn’t apologize. Just looked at you harder, darker, like he wanted to pull every secret from your lips one by one.

“Am I right?” he asked, his thumb pressing slightly into your hip, his voice rough now, frayed around the edges. “Answer me.”

“He’s—” you stuttered, struggling to find breath, to find balance. “We—”

Joel leaned closer, close enough that you could feel his breath on your cheek, close enough that your body instinctively tilted toward his like gravity itself wanted to betray you.

“What?” he asked again, quieter this time, more intimate. “Tell me, baby.”

You swallowed hard, lashes fluttering, unable to meet his gaze. “We’re waiting,” you whispered, cheeks burning. “I… I’m waiting for marriage.”

Joel stilled completely, his hand still on your hip, the silence stretching like a rubber band between you, pulled taut with something unspeakable.

“Is that right?” he said, his voice rasping out of him now — not mocking, not surprised, but so deep and low it made your thighs press together without thought.

And then, with a smirk so slow and sinful it felt like a hand dragging down your spine, he murmured—

“Wearin’ nothin’ but that little lace set… nipples hard and pussy barely covered… waitin’ for marriage?” He laughed under his breath, eyes glinting with heat as his thumb stroked over your hipbone again. “Sugar, you don’t look like you’re waitin’ for anything at all.”

You swallowed, the words catching in your throat before you could push them out, your body so tense it ached. “It’s true,” you whispered finally, barely able to look at him, your eyes darting toward the door, the hallway, the window — anywhere but the furnace of his gaze — “Joel… you should go. You have to leave.”

The reality of it struck you all at once — how easily someone could walk in, a bridesmaid, your mother, Luke, God forbid — how they’d see you like this, half-naked in white lace with your robe discarded, flushed and trembling in front of a man who wasn’t your groom but your fiancé’s father — and yet your feet didn’t move, your body didn’t pull away, your hands still resting lightly against his chest, clutching the fabric of his shirt like he was the only thing tethering you to the ground.

“Ain’t no one been in here?” Joel asked as the pad of his finger tapped once against the thin lace stretched over your cunt — then again, firmer this time — and your knees nearly gave out, a soft gasp escaping your lips as your entire body shuddered, the contact so sharp, so intimate, so forbidden you couldn’t breathe.

Your arms flew up, instinctive, desperate for balance, and gripped his shoulders for support, fingers digging into the fabric as your forehead dropped forward against his chest, your body swaying against his like it was trying to find safety in the very place it should’ve run from.

“No,” you said shakily, head turning slightly against him, your voice catching somewhere between shame and pleading. “I’m—Joel, I’m—no one’s.”

He stilled.

Everything in him seemed to go quiet, like your words had struck something sacred.

“Christ,” he breathed, low and reverent, his hand still cupping you through the lace, fingers twitching against the heat of you, “you mean to tell me…”

You felt his chest rise and fall beneath your cheek, could hear the raw edge of restraint unraveling in his voice.

“And you’re gonna let Luke be the first?”

You flinched, eyes fluttering shut as guilt and desire tangled painfully in your chest. “He’s my fiancé,” you said softly, almost defensively, even though you couldn’t lift your head from Joel’s chest, even though your body was pressing closer to his with each heartbeat. “We’re… we’re getting married.”

Joel exhaled, slow and heavy, his fingers dragging gently over the soaked lace between your legs, not quite touching, just tracing, feeling, memorizing.

His voice came softer now, but no less devastating.

“And still… he ain’t the one you’re tremblin’ for, is he?”

“I—” you tried to speak, to form a protest, a thought, anything — but your words were swallowed before they ever had the chance to live, devoured by the press of Joel’s mouth crashing down onto yours.

Warm, demanding, his lips slanted over yours with the kind of hunger that had clearly been simmering just beneath the surface, patient and quiet until now. His tongue swept into your mouth before you could process the heat of it, before you could decide whether to stop him, and his hands — large, calloused, far too steady — came to cradle either side of your face as though this were something sacred, something earned.

You gasped into him, the kiss knocking the breath from your lungs, your palms pressed flat against his chest at first as though you might push him away, but the moment was already slipping too far beyond your control. You were drowning in the taste of him, in the scent of whiskey and cologne and Joel, in the feel of his body against yours — broad, solid, unwavering — and before you could stop yourself, your lips parted further beneath his, soft and needy, a quiet sound escaping your throat as your hands curled into the front of his shirt and you kissed him back.

Joel groaned into your mouth, a deep, wrecked sound that came from somewhere low in his gut, and when he pulled back just an inch, just long enough to drag in a breath, his eyes were black with something feral.

“Fuckin’ knew it,” he muttered, almost to himself, voice rough with triumph, like he’d just uncovered a truth he’d been aching to confirm. “Little virgin with a mouth like sin… wearin’ lace for your weddin’, but kissin’ me like you’re starvin’ for it.”

His hands dropped then, feverish and impatient, fumbling with the buckle of his belt as you stood frozen, breathless, dazed beneath him, your lips still tingling, heart slamming against your ribs like it wanted to escape your body.

“A virgin,” he rasped, eyes dragging down the length of you like a man unwrapping a forbidden gift, “but still a fuckin’ whore for me.”

You whimpered — barely audible — but you didn’t deny it. Couldn’t. Because every inch of your body was betraying you, soaked and trembling and swaying toward him like gravity itself had changed direction.

Joel moved fast, years of control finally unraveling as he gripped your waist and guided you backwards, turning you effortlessly, and before you could register what was happening, you felt the soft brush of velvet behind your knees.

You bent instinctively, breath catching in your throat, and he pressed you down onto the couch — the same pale satin loveseat where your robe had been draped just minutes before — your spine arching as your knees folded beneath you, your chest bracing against the cushions.

Everything moved too quickly and yet not quick enough, your thoughts spinning, your skin burning, the cool air kissing your bare thighs as your position shifted, hips raised, your lace-covered ass now exposed, tilted up toward him like an offering.

You heard the clink of his belt dropping open.

And Joel — standing behind you now, belt unfastened — stared down at you with an expression so dark, so wrecked with lust and disbelief, you could feel the weight of it without even turning around. His breath came heavier now, the air between you thick and humid with something that felt like sin and smelled like cologne and sex, and when he finally spoke, it was little more than a gravel-coated whisper, ruined and reverent.

“Look at that fuckin’ view…”

The words made your spine arch involuntarily, heat crawling up your neck and pooling between your thighs, the lace of your panties so damp it clung to you like a second skin. You turned your head, looking back over your shoulder, your voice small and trembling, barely able to make its way past the knot forming in your throat.

“Joel… what are you doing?”

He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t blink. Just stepped forward, one hand settling heavy and possessive on the curve of your ass, his voice low and casual, like this was the most natural thing in the world.

“Gonna fuck you, sweetie.”

Your mouth fell open, a breath escaping so sharp it felt like a wound.

“Joel,” you gasped, your voice cracking from the inside out, but you didn’t move — didn’t pull away, didn’t protest, didn’t stop him — and that alone told him everything he needed to know.

His palm came down fast.

The crack echoed softly against the suite walls, sharp and sudden, your body jolting from the contact as you yelped in surprise, eyes fluttering shut from the sting that bloomed across your skin.

Joel’s hand returned immediately, smoothing over the flesh he’d just struck, warm and steady, grounding you through the burn.

“Gotta be quiet, angel,” he murmured, his voice rich and amused, thick with the kind of heat that made your toes curl. “Don’t wanna spook the wedding planner. She’ll come knockin’ if she hears you squealin’ like that.”

And then, with a patience so unholy it made your head spin, he lifted his hand again — and brought it down once more.

The second smack was firmer, more confident, and this time, he watched with a hunger so intense it bordered on reverence as a soft red bloom appeared across the curve of your ass, glowing beneath the sheer lace.

He exhaled like a man in prayer.

“Fuck…” he whispered, dragging his thumb along the edge of the mark, watching the skin warm and swell beneath his touch. “Look how pretty you blush for me.”

You whimpered, your cheek pressed against the cushion, fingers curling into the fabric as your body burned with shame and need, trembling under his hands, soaked through and aching for more.

“Should be sweet,” he murmured, almost to himself now, like he couldn’t believe what he was about to do, like it hurt him in all the wrong, delicious ways. “It’s your first time, ain’t it? Should be slow. Should be gentle…”

He paused above you, the solid weight of his chest hovering just shy of your back, his breath warm and steady against your ear as he whispered like he had all the time in the world, like this wasn’t happening in the bridal suite moments before your wedding. “…But you bent over so easy for me, angel,” he murmured, the heat of his words seeping into your skin like smoke, “didn’t even need to be asked — now I’m thinkin’ maybe you don’t want it sweet.”

You whimpered his name, the sound spilling from your lips before you could stop it, trembling with the need clawing its way through your chest. “Please, Joel,” you whispered, voice raw and soaked in shame and longing.

His lips brushed your ear, low and indulgent. “Please what, baby?”

You hesitated only for a breath, the humiliation of the words curling in your throat, but it was overtaken by need, by the aching, throbbing emptiness that only he could fill. “I want you to fuck me,” you said finally, your voice cracking under the weight of it, tears slipping down your cheeks now, mascara probably smeared, dignity long gone, “please, I—I need it so bad.”

Your hand moved before your thoughts could catch up, fingers reaching between your thighs to drag the drenched lace of your panties to the side, desperate to give him access, to offer yourself up in the most obscene, pleading way.

But Joel moved faster.

He stepped in, growling something low in his throat, and pushed your hand away like you were doing it all wrong. His fingers slipped beneath the waistband of the soaked panties and yanked them down with deliberate slowness, dragging the sticky fabric over your thighs, your knees, until it slipped free completely and left your bare pussy exposed, glistening and trembling beneath his gaze.

“No,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to you, his voice gravel-edged with hunger and reverence, “not to the side, baby — I wanna see all of it. Want nothin’ in the way of this sweet little pussy. S’too fuckin’ pretty to be hidden.”

You heard the soft rustle of fabric as he folded the panties once, then again, and without ceremony — like it was the most casual act in the world — he shoved them into the breast pocket of his suit jacket.

“Fuck,” he breathed, stepping back to take in the sight of you, bent over for him, lace bra hugging your chest, your ass bare and soft, and your pussy so slick it shone in the low light of the room. “She’s leakin’, baby. Soakin’ the fuckin’ air.”

You looked over your shoulder at him, your cheeks burning, your lip trembling, and when your eyes met his, you saw something wild and dark, something feral that had been buried under years of restraint and was finally, violently free.

Joel’s eyes dropped again to your cunt — pink, swollen, dripping — and he let out a low whistle, shaking his head like he was seeing something too good for this world. “Look at that,” he whispered, his thumb brushing along the curve of your ass, just shy of where you needed him most. “She’s just beggin’ to be filled, ain’t she? Never been touched, never been fucked, and already actin’ like she knows who she belongs to.”

His hand moved then, slow and reverent, fingers grazing your folds with barely-there pressure, teasing the slick mess between your legs. “You hear that?” he murmured, almost in awe as your body answered him with a wet, needy sound. “She’s talkin’ to me, baby. Cryin’ for it. She wants me bad — this pussy knows who she wants first.”

His fingers pressed deeper between your thighs now, soaked and shameless, and the way he touched you wasn’t rushed or careless, but slow and possessive — like he’d already decided that this part of you belonged to him, no matter who was waiting outside with a ring. He leaned in again, his mouth grazing the side of your jaw as he murmured low against your skin, every syllable thick with heat and power, “Tell me, sweetheart… did he ever taste you?”

Your lips parted, breath trembling, and it took you a moment to respond, because even now, as you knelt there in nothing but lace and sin, your body already given over, the shame still clung to your voice like it didn’t want to be spoken. “Yes,” you whispered finally, eyes fluttering closed, “he has.”

Joel’s hum was deep and thoughtful, his hand never stopping its slow rhythm as he circled your entrance with one thick finger, teasing you without mercy. He didn’t sound jealous, but rather contemplative — like he was trying to figure out how to rewrite every memory your body had ever known. And then, after another breathless pause, his voice dropped even lower, almost gentle now, as he asked, “And you ever suck him off, baby? Ever get that pretty little mouth of yours wrapped around his cock?”

Your cheeks burned, throat tightening, and you nodded once, eyes already glassy, tears hot beneath your lashes. “Yes,” you squeaked out, barely audible.

Joel exhaled slowly, like the sound of your voice had settled deep in his chest. And when he spoke again, it was with a reverence that made your stomach flip. “Then I reckon this tight little cunt’s still untouched,” he said, fingers spreading you open now, deliberately exposing the soft, slick heat he hadn’t even begun to take. “You’re gonna be tight, angel. Might hurt a little when I stretch you open.”

You shook your head hard, hips pushing back against his hand without even meaning to, your voice breaking apart on a moan. “I don’t care,” you gasped, the words dissolving into desperation, “please, Joel… I need it, I need you.”

The moment you said it — the moment that last piece of resistance crumbled — he moved like something primal had been set loose in him. His belt hit the floor with a low clink, and then you heard it — the sound of fabric shifting, his breath catching, the soft curse under his breath — and you turned your head, just barely, to see it.

Joel’s cock — thick, flushed, the tip already leaking — was heavy in his hand, larger than anything you'd ever taken, long and wide and veined in a way that made your knees shake. He looked down at you, still kneeling, still trembling, and the expression on his face was unlike anything you'd ever seen on him before — not protective, not amused, not even hungry — but possessive, like the sight of you below him, spread and waiting, had finally answered something inside him that had been restless for years.

Your eyes went wide, lips parting, and before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out — honest and stunned and burning hot. “You’re… you’re so much bigger than him.”

Joel’s brows lifted, his expression faltering for a moment like your soft little confession had caught him off-guard, and then his mouth curved into something dark and triumphant, a grin that held no humor, only heat. “Yeah?” he asked, voice soft but curling with something almost cruel. “That right, angel? My shy little girl just saw my cock and realized she’s been settlin’ for less all this time?”

Your face flushed deeper, but you nodded, thighs pressing together with need, your body already aching for the stretch.

Joel’s hand wrapped tight around the base of his cock, dragging the thick head through your folds, collecting your wetness and coating himself in it like it was something sacred. He let out a low groan, deep and reverent, as he whispered against your spine, “You’re about to learn what it means to be filled proper, baby — gonna ruin you so good, you won’t remember how he ever made you feel, and you’re gonna thank me for it.”

With one hand wrapped tight around the base of his cock, guiding himself with a precision that bordered on reverence, and the other braced firmly on your hip, his fingers digging into the soft swell of your flesh, Joel positioned himself behind you like a man about to sin so deeply he didn’t expect to walk away clean. He dragged the thick, leaking head through your folds one last time, gathering the wetness that clung to your skin like honey, before lining himself up at your entrance, pressing forward with a slow, relentless roll of his hips that knocked the breath straight from your lungs.

The moment his cock breached you — that first, unbearable stretch of thick muscle forcing you open for the first time — your mouth dropped open in a silent scream before the sound tore free of your throat, a strangled cry that buried itself in the pillow beneath your face as your fingers clawed at the cushions like you were trying to anchor yourself to something, anything.

Joel groaned above you, loud and ragged, like your cunt had knocked the air straight out of his chest, his breath hitching as he sank deeper into you, inch by devastating inch, until the full weight of his cock was buried inside your trembling body. “That’s it, baby,” he rasped, voice ruined and low, “that’s my good girl, takin’ it like she was fuckin’ made for it — Jesus Christ, this tight little pussy’s grippin’ me like she don’t wanna let go.”

Your thighs trembled, your toes curling, your eyes filling again with tears as you sobbed into the pillow, the fullness so sharp it hurt, a stretch so wide and foreign it felt like your body couldn’t possibly take it — and yet, the heat, the pressure, the weight of him made your entire body burn with something dangerously close to bliss.

He gave you barely a second, just enough to gasp for breath, before his hips drew back and slammed forward again, not with violence, but with intent — each thrust deep and punishing, like he’d waited long enough and now he needed all of you, needed to fuck you through the pain and into something filthy and perfect and his.

You screamed again, voice shaking, body arching up to meet him as he fucked into you, deep and fast and so much.

“Fuck,” you cried, the sound punched out of you, every word breaking on a moan as your body fought to keep up with the brutal stretch.

Joel leaned over you then, one arm bracing beside your head, his chest pressed flush to your back, his mouth at your ear as he growled, “That good, angel? You cryin’ on my cock ‘cause it feels that fuckin’ good?”

You could barely speak, could barely breathe, but you nodded helplessly, tears streaking your cheeks, your makeup a ruined mess, your pussy stretched around the thickest cock you’d ever felt in your life — and Joel, old enough to know better, too far gone to care, only fucked you harder.

Joel was relentless now, driving into you with a force that knocked the air from your lungs, each thrust impossibly deep, thick, and brutal, the sound of his hips slapping against your soaked flesh echoing through the bridal suite like a hymn made of sin. You were sobbing by then, not from pain but from the overwhelming stretch, the brutal pleasure that had overtaken your body like wildfire, every nerve lit up, every breath punched out of you, your throat raw from crying his name like it was the only thing you knew.

And then, without warning, he pulled you back — hard — one strong arm wrapping around your waist to wrench you upright until your back collided with his chest, your spine arched against the heat of him, your ass pressed flush to his groin, his cock still buried to the hilt inside your fluttering cunt.

He was still fully dressed — the open front of his suit brushing your bare skin, the crisp fabric harsh against your softness — and the contrast only made it filthier, more obscene, like you were some trembling little bride mounted by a man who hadn’t even bothered to take off his jacket before ruining you.

His hand slid up, slow and steady, until it wrapped around your throat, not squeezing, just holding — possessive and firm, a collar of ownership as he leaned down to growl in your ear, his voice thick with the sound of his own unraveling.

“Gonna cream all over this virgin fuckin’ pussy, baby,” he groaned, his cock throbbing inside you, twitching against your walls with every brutal thrust. “Gonna fill you up so deep, you’ll be walkin’ down that aisle with my cum drippin’ outta you.”

The new angle was dizzying — every stroke hitting something deeper, rougher, worse, dragging cries from your throat that didn’t even sound like words anymore. Your legs trembled violently, muscles going slack as the pleasure coiled tight in your belly, white-hot and blinding.

“I—I think I’m gonna—Joel—” you gasped, voice choked, your head falling back against his shoulder as your thighs began to shake uncontrollably.

“That’s it,” he rasped, fucking into you harder now, his grip on your throat tightening just enough to make your toes curl. “Come on, baby, give it to me — wanna feel this sweet little cunt clench when she lets go — fuckin’ knew you’d come all over my cock.”

And you did — with a scream so loud it barely sounded human, your pussy clamping down around him in waves, your entire body convulsing as the orgasm ripped through you, soaking him in heat and slick and something filthy and pure all at once.

Joel cursed behind you, a deep, raw sound of something breaking loose inside him, and his rhythm faltered as his hands gripped you tight, dragging you down hard on his cock one final time.

“Fuck—Jesus, I’m gonna—shit—” he growled, voice splintering as he shoved himself impossibly deeper, grinding his hips against you as his cock pulsed violently inside your pussy.

And then he came — hot and thick and overwhelming — spilling deep inside you in heavy, pulsing waves, each thrust slower now but just as deep, his breath hot and ragged against the side of your neck as he held you still, as if your trembling body could take any more. His hand remained wrapped around your throat, not squeezing now but resting there like a vow, like he couldn’t bear to let go of the place he’d claimed. Your insides fluttered around him, spasming weakly as his cock throbbed within you, every thick drop of his cum flooding your aching cunt, the sensation so warm, so full, so all-consuming, it felt like your body wasn’t your own anymore — like it belonged to him now, marked and filled and known.

You couldn’t speak.

Could barely breathe.

The heat curled through your chest like smoke, leaving you dizzy and dazed, your limbs too heavy to move as the wet, messy slickness dripped slowly from between your thighs.

Joel panted behind you, his mouth still close to your ear, his free hand still groping greedily at your breasts like he wasn’t finished, like he needed every last inch of you under his palms even after emptying himself inside you. And then, without warning, his mouth descended to your neck, kissing along your pulse point, soft and slow, then dragging lower — your shoulder, the curve of your back, the lace strap clinging to your flushed skin — every kiss a brand, every press of his lips a silent admission.

“Fucking perfect for me,” he rasped, the words spoken so quietly it felt like a confession, not meant for anyone but your skin.

Your legs gave out the moment he loosened his hold, and you collapsed onto the couch in a daze, your breathing shallow, mascara smudged, hair clinging to the sweat on your face, the inside of your thighs still trembling from the aftershocks. Joel stood, finally withdrawing from your soaked body with a low groan, his cock wet with your slick and his cum, and for a long, quiet second, he just looked down at you — completely undone, flushed and leaking, back arched against the velvet couch cushions like a vision he’d spend the rest of his life remembering.

He tucked himself back into his slacks with slow, practiced movements, the suit wrinkled now, his shirt untucked and his belt hanging loosely from the loops, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t thinking about his appearance. He was thinking about you — about what he’d just done — about the way your body still shook for him.

Then he bent down, breath still uneven, and slid one arm beneath your back, the other beneath your knees, pulling you gently until your hips were right at the edge of the couch and your legs were dangling over the side, parted just slightly from how loose and ruined you were. His large hands cradled your thighs as he looked between them, his expression dark and reverent, and he used both thumbs to part your folds, exposing your swollen, slick cunt — raw, red, flushed from the stretch — and the thick, creamy mess of his cum already beginning to spill from you.

“Shit,” he whispered, his voice cracking with awe and filth in equal measure, “look at that... she’s still full of me, baby. Still fuckin’ leakin’.”

He didn’t blink. He didn’t smile.

He just stared.

Joel leaned in again, no longer rough or wild, but slow, calm, tender, and pressed his mouth to yours with a softness so at odds with the filth he’d just whispered into your ear that it made your stomach turn with something dizzying. You whimpered into the kiss before you could stop yourself, lips parting beneath his without hesitation, and your fingers reached up to find the soft waves of his curls, threading through them like you needed him closer — like you needed him inside you again.

But just as his tongue swept into your mouth and your thighs shifted instinctively to pull him back between them, there was a knock on the door.

Sharp. Semi-urgent. A voice just outside that made your entire body lock up.

You gasped, eyes going wide, body tensing under his hands, panic flashing across your face as you turned to him in alarm, your mouth already open with a breathless, what do we do?

But Joel — calm, unbothered, still warm from the high of fucking you — only smiled, kissed your cheek once more, and moved like a man who had nothing to hide. He reached down, smoothing your sweat-slicked hair away from your face with one broad palm, and then reached for the discarded robe on the arm of the couch, holding it out with practiced ease.

“Put this on, baby,” he murmured, his voice so quiet and so casual that you almost forgot to be afraid. “C’mon now, just like that.”

Your hands trembled as you slipped the robe over your shoulders, the silk clinging to your still-damp skin, the warmth of his cum still sticky between your thighs, seeping down slowly as you stood there dazed and wide-eyed, heart hammering as Joel calmly walked to the door.

He opened it with a quiet click.

You couldn’t see much — just his body blocking most of the entrance — but you could hear the voice that followed, light and affectionate.

“Hey, honey,” Joel said, his tone so casual it made your head spin, “I was just checkin’ on her.”

And then Tess walked in.

Your future mother-in-law.

She entered the room smiling, holding a small clutch and wearing heels that clicked softly against the tile. But her smile faltered the moment she saw your face — the smudged makeup, the dampness still clinging to your flushed cheeks, the robe wrapped haphazardly over your trembling frame.

“Oh, honey,” she said, brows knitting together as she crossed the room, her voice full of concern, “your makeup’s a mess… what happened?”

You froze. You couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t speak. Could only look at Joel.

He let out a soft sigh, the kind that sounded burdened and weary, and stepped beside you like he’d been coaching you through a meltdown. His voice was soft, warm, careful — the voice of a father figure handling a delicate girl on the verge of collapse.

“Poor thing started cryin’ while we were talkin’,” he said gently, his hand brushing your shoulder like he’d been comforting you this whole time. “Think the day’s just gotten to her a bit. I was tryin’ to calm her down, but it’s all hittin’ her at once.”

Tess was already moving toward you, one hand reaching to grab a tissue, the other pulling her compact from her clutch.

“Oh, Joel,” she said with a little laugh, smacking his arm as she passed, “you always get her so emotional. You really gotta stop with all your big speeches before the ceremony, honestly.”

She was smiling, teasing, already wiping gently under your eyes, fussing with your hair, smoothing the fabric of the robe over your bare shoulders — and she didn’t suspect a thing.

But you could still feel Joel’s hand ghosting against your back.

Still feel the ache deep inside you.

Still feel the slow, hot trickle of his cum leaking from your pussy and onto the inside of your thigh.

And when he caught your gaze from across the room — his expression unreadable, calm, smug, and maybe even a little proud — you realized something awful.

You were still his.

And he wasn’t done.

🕊♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

maybe i am deranged and disgusting but i am free xx hope yall enjoyed

[lazysoulwriter]

wearing her heart. - pedro pascal.

requested! thank you for sending. ♡ - requests are open. ✎

summary: Pedro Pascal is dating you — the most celebrated fashion designer at the moment — and he never shuts up about it. Whether it’s on a red carpet or in a talk show chair, he’s always in something you made, and he always makes sure the world knows it. It’s more than fashion. It’s devotion.

---

Pedro never liked talking about himself in interviews — not really. But ask what he’s wearing, and suddenly, he’s grinning.

Tonight, he’s in a custom black-on-black number: an open-collared shirt with sharp red buttons, tucked into tailored trousers that hug just right. Understated, but devastating. Every inch of it designed by you.

“Pedro, you’re killing it tonight. Who are you wearing?”

And there it is — the smile. Soft at first, then curling into something deeper, full of affection.

“I’m wearing her,” he says, hand brushing the open collar lightly, like he can still feel you adjusting it. “She did all of this.”

He doesn’t say your name. He doesn’t need to. Everyone already knows who you are.

You're the genius behind the look — the one reinventing silhouettes, the one whose touch has turned every red carpet into a love letter. And Pedro? He’s your most devoted reader.

He wears your designs like he’s wrapped in you. Every stitch, every hem — your care woven in.

“She picked the buttons,” he says later in an interview. “Red, so they’d pop under the lights. She always thinks of everything.”

He tells that story on Jimmy Kimmel Live too. “She was pacing around the studio, barefoot, holding fabric up to the light like she was choosing magic spells. I didn’t even know she was designing for me — I thought she was just being her brilliant self.”

Kimmel laughs. “You’re obsessed.”

Pedro just shrugs, not even pretending to hide it. “Wouldn’t you be?”

And he means it.

He talks about you like you're more than a muse. Like you're the masterpiece. Like wearing your work is the closest thing to touching your heart in public.

You watch the interviews from your apartment, a sketchbook in your lap, half-finished. Pedro on screen, fingers brushing the red buttons on his chest, smiling softly like he’s thinking of you.

You are. Always.

---

[andy-15-07]

A Family Beyond War

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x female reader Word Count: 2616 Pedro Pascal Masterlist

The sun burned high in the sky over Rome, its rays reflecting off the golden armor of General Marcus Acacius as he stood on the training field. His two sons, Cassius and Tiberius, mirrored his stance, their youthful faces determined as they wielded wooden practice swords. Marcus’ wife, Y/N, watched from a shaded pergola nearby, her youngest daughter, Aurelia, seated beside her with a scroll of poetry in her lap. The warm air was filled with the clanging of swords and the occasional barked correction from Marcus.

Cassius, the eldest at 18, struck forward with precision, his blade aiming for Tiberius’ midsection. Tiberius, 17, blocked, his movements slightly more hesitant but determined nonetheless. Marcus stepped forward, his commanding presence evident as he corrected Tiberius’ stance.

“Keep your guard high, Tiberius,” Marcus instructed. “A single mistake in the field could cost you your life.”

“Yes, Father,” Tiberius replied, adjusting his posture under his father’s watchful gaze.

Aurelia looked up from her scroll, her brow furrowed. “Must they always fight? There is more to life than swords and shields.”

Y/N chuckled softly, brushing a strand of Aurelia’s dark hair back. “Your brothers wish to follow in your father’s footsteps. It is their way of honoring him.”

“But I do not wish to honor bloodshed,” Aurelia replied, her voice tinged with disapproval. “What glory is there in taking a life?”

Before Y/N could respond, Marcus’ voice rang out. “Enough for today! Cassius, Tiberius, well done. Your skill improves daily.”

The boys beamed under their father’s praise, their faces flushed from exertion. As they approached, Marcus’ eyes softened as they fell upon Y/N and Aurelia. “And how are my ladies?” he asked, his tone gentle.

“Aurelia was just lamenting the barbarity of your craft,” Y/N teased, a playful smile on her lips.

Marcus knelt beside Aurelia, his hand resting on her shoulder. “You disapprove of our training, little one?”

Aurelia hesitated, then nodded. “It is violent and cruel. Surely there is a better way to resolve conflict.”

Marcus’ expression grew thoughtful. “Perhaps you are right, Aurelia. But until the world embraces peace, men like your brothers and I must be prepared to defend our home and our family.”

Aurelia sighed, her gaze falling to her scroll. “I wish the world could see the beauty in words instead of war.”

Later that evening, the family dressed in their finest attire and made their way to the Colosseum. The massive structure loomed ahead, its arches and columns illuminated by the setting sun. The roar of the crowd grew louder as they entered, the scent of sweat and anticipation thick in the air.

Y/N took her seat beside Marcus in the reserved section, their children flanking them. Aurelia sat stiffly, her discomfort evident as the first fight began. She flinched at the clash of swords and the cheers of the crowd as a gladiator fell to his knees.

“Barbaric,” Aurelia muttered under her breath.

Marcus glanced at her, his brow furrowing. “Aurelia, come with me.”

Surprised, she followed her father out of the stands and into the quieter corridors of the Colosseum. Marcus stopped in a shaded alcove, turning to face her. “Speak your mind, daughter.”

Aurelia took a deep breath, her hands trembling slightly. “I hate it, Father. The blood, the violence, the cheers for death. It’s monstrous. How can you support this?”

Marcus’ jaw tightened, and for a moment, he said nothing. Then, he knelt to her level, his eyes filled with a rare vulnerability. “I do not enjoy it, Aurelia. But it is a part of the world we live in. The Colosseum is not just a place of death; it is a reminder of Rome’s power, of the discipline and strength that built our empire.”

Aurelia’s eyes welled with tears. “Must strength always come at such a cost?”

“No,” Marcus admitted. “Strength can also be found in compassion, in wisdom, in the courage to speak against what you believe is wrong. You have that strength, Aurelia. Do not let the ugliness of this world dim your light.”

She threw her arms around his neck, her voice muffled against his shoulder. “I love you, Father. I just wish things could be different.”

Marcus held her tightly, his heart heavy with the weight of her words. “So do I, my little poet. So do I.”

The weeks that followed saw a shift in the family dynamics. Marcus encouraged Aurelia’s passion for poetry, often asking her to recite verses during family meals. Cassius and Tiberius, inspired by their sister’s bravery in confronting their father, began to view their training with a new perspective, seeking to emulate not just their father’s strength but also his wisdom and compassion.

One evening, as the family sat together in their garden, Aurelia stood and cleared her throat. “I have written something,” she announced, her cheeks pink with nervousness.

Marcus gestured for her to continue, pride evident in his eyes. “Let us hear it, Aurelia.”

She unfolded a parchment and began to read, her voice steady and filled with emotion. Her words painted a picture of a world where swords were beaten into plowshares, where the cries of battle were replaced by songs of peace. As she finished, the family sat in awed silence.

“Beautiful,” Y/N whispered, wiping a tear from her cheek.

Marcus rose and embraced his daughter. “You have a gift, Aurelia. Never stop sharing it.”

In that moment, the general and his poet found common ground, their love for each other bridging the divide between war and peace.

As the seasons passed, Aurelia’s poetry began to gain attention beyond their household. Word of her talent spread, and soon she was invited to recite her work at gatherings and festivals. Marcus and Y/N attended every event, their pride in their daughter evident to all who saw them.

One day, Aurelia returned home with a scroll in hand, her eyes alight with excitement. “Father, Mother, I have been invited to present my work at the Forum!”

Marcus smiled, his heart swelling with pride. “The Forum is a place of great importance. You will be speaking to some of Rome’s most influential minds. Are you ready for such an audience?”

Aurelia nodded confidently. “I am ready. My words will speak of peace and understanding. Perhaps they will inspire change.”

On the day of the event, the family arrived at the Forum, where a large crowd had gathered. Aurelia stood on the raised platform, her presence commanding despite her young age. She began to speak, her voice clear and passionate. Her words wove a tapestry of hope, challenging the audience to envision a Rome where wisdom and compassion reigned supreme.

As she concluded, the crowd erupted into applause. Marcus watched with a mixture of pride and awe as his daughter descended the platform and was surrounded by admirers. He saw in her the potential to shape a better future, one that transcended the violence and bloodshed that had defined his own life.

That evening, as the family gathered in their garden once more, Marcus raised a cup in a toast. “To Aurelia, whose words have the power to change the world. May her light guide us all.”

The family joined in the toast, their bond stronger than ever. In that moment, they were not just a family of warriors and poets but a beacon of hope for a better Rome.

As Aurelia’s influence grew, she began to attract the attention of Rome’s elite. Senators and scholars sought her counsel, and even the emperor himself invited her to speak at the palace. Marcus, though wary of the political implications, supported his daughter’s endeavors, knowing that her voice was a force for good.

Cassius and Tiberius, inspired by their sister’s courage, began to explore their own paths beyond the training field. Cassius developed an interest in engineering, designing structures that could benefit Rome’s citizens. Tiberius, meanwhile, turned his focus to diplomacy, using his father’s teachings to mediate disputes and foster alliances.

One evening, as the family dined together, Tiberius spoke up. “Father, I have been invited to accompany a delegation to Gaul. They believe my skills as a mediator could be of use.”

Marcus regarded his son with a mixture of pride and concern. “Gaul is a land of uncertainty. Are you prepared for the challenges you may face?”

Tiberius nodded. “I am, Father. You have taught me well.”

Marcus placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Then go with my blessing. Make me proud.”

As the family’s influence continued to grow, they became a symbol of hope and unity in a fractured empire. Marcus, once known solely as a warrior, found his legacy evolving through the achievements of his children. Together, they forged a new path for Rome, one that balanced strength with compassion, and tradition with progress.

And through it all, Aurelia’s words remained a guiding light, reminding them of the power of hope, love, and understanding in a world often overshadowed by darkness.

As Aurelia’s influence spread, the delicate balance between her poetic pursuits and her family’s military legacy continued to shift. Her poetry, infused with visions of peace and a world beyond war, struck a chord with many in the elite circles of Rome. It wasn't long before high-ranking senators, philosophers, and even foreign dignitaries sought her counsel. Her words, once confined to the walls of their home, were now finding an audience in the halls of power.

Marcus, despite his initial hesitation, couldn't help but feel immense pride in his daughter’s growing stature. He had long been known as the great general, a man of iron and blood, his legacy tied to the battles he fought and the empire he helped to build. But as Aurelia’s influence grew, he realized that his legacy was evolving, shifting into something more than just strength and conquest.

Cassius and Tiberius, too, found their paths diverging from the training fields and the weight of their father’s expectations. Cassius, with his keen mind and inventive spirit, took an interest in engineering. Inspired by the growing need for infrastructure in Rome, he set about designing new aqueducts to carry water to the farthest reaches of the city, improving life for the common people.

Tiberius, always more thoughtful and diplomatic than his brothers, began to consider a future in statecraft. His natural ability to mediate disputes, honed in the small lessons his father had given him over the years, became a vital tool as he began traveling with the diplomatic corps. He was frequently tasked with negotiating with foreign dignitaries, ensuring that Rome’s alliances remained strong, even as the empire stretched its borders farther than ever before.

One day, while Marcus and Y/N enjoyed a quiet evening together, their conversation turned to their children’s futures. Y/N, ever the pragmatic one, voiced her concerns.

“Do you ever wonder, Marcus,” she began, her eyes filled with a mixture of hope and worry, “how our children will fare in the world? Our sons, particularly, are stepping into roles that will shape Rome’s future. I fear the weight of their legacy may be too much for them to bear.”

Marcus, who had always been a man of action rather than reflection, looked at his wife with a rare softness in his eyes. “I fear the same,” he admitted, his voice low. “But they are their own men now. I can only guide them, not live their lives for them.”

Y/N smiled, her hand finding his across the table. “And Aurelia? She is unlike any of us, and yet she is perhaps the most important of all.”

Marcus chuckled softly. “She has a power in her words that no sword can match. I believe she will do more for Rome than any general ever could.”

Weeks passed, and Aurelia’s name became a familiar one in the highest circles of Roman society. One evening, after a particularly well-received performance at the Senate House, Aurelia returned to the family home to find her brothers waiting for her.

“Well, well,” Cassius said with a teasing grin. “The poet returns from conquering the hearts of the Senate.”

Aurelia rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide her smile. “They don’t know what to make of me, but they’re intrigued. It’s a step forward.”

Tiberius, his brow furrowed in thought, placed a hand on her shoulder. “You’ve done more than step forward, Aurelia. You’ve made them listen. Do you realize how many people are talking about you?”

“I don’t want them to talk about me,” Aurelia said, her voice soft but firm. “I want them to hear the message in my words.”

Cassius gave her an appraising look. “You’ve always been the brave one, haven’t you?”

“Bravery has nothing to do with it,” Aurelia replied, her eyes meeting his with quiet intensity. “It’s about doing what’s right, even when it’s difficult.”

Tiberius nodded. “I think you’re right. Maybe there’s something to your vision of a different Rome—a Rome that isn’t built on conquest, but on understanding and strength in other forms.”

Marcus, who had overheard the conversation from the doorway, stepped into the room with a proud smile. “And what would you know of that, Tiberius?” he asked, his voice warm yet teasing.

Tiberius met his father’s gaze with newfound confidence. “I know that Rome cannot grow only through the sword. There must be other ways—ways that preserve the essence of our strength while also allowing for compassion and diplomacy.”

Marcus nodded slowly, impressed by his son’s resolve. “You have learned much, Tiberius. Perhaps the time will come when your role in Rome will be as important as any general’s.”

Cassius chuckled. “Don’t get too comfortable, Father. We still need you in the field. No one can fill your boots just yet.”

Marcus laughed heartily, the sound filling the room with warmth. “Perhaps not, Cassius. But there may come a day when it is you who steps into them.”

One evening, when the family gathered for dinner, the conversation turned to an unexpected subject. A letter had arrived that morning from a foreign delegation in Gaul, requesting Tiberius’ presence for an important negotiation regarding Rome’s borders.

“Father,” Tiberius began, looking up from his plate, “I’ve been invited to represent Rome at the negotiations. It’s a significant step for me.”

Marcus studied his son for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he spoke. “It is a dangerous path, Tiberius. The politics of Gaul are volatile. But I trust you. If you believe you are ready, then go.”

Tiberius’ eyes shone with a mixture of pride and fear. “I will, Father. I will make you proud.”

Aurelia, always the most thoughtful of the family, placed a hand on his. “You don’t have to prove anything, Tiberius. Just do what you know is right.”

As the family shared a quiet moment of reflection, Aurelia felt the weight of the changes around her. Cassius, Tiberius, and even their father were finding their own paths—paths that had once seemed unimaginable in the shadow of their military heritage. They were forging a new Rome, one that blended the strength of warriors with the wisdom of poets, engineers, and diplomats.

In the days that followed, Tiberius prepared for his journey to Gaul, while Aurelia continued to write and speak of peace. Marcus, ever the watchful father, took pride in the direction his children were taking, knowing that the empire was in capable hands—hands that understood the power of strength and the importance of compassion.

And so, as the seasons changed and the world continued to turn, the Acacius family stood at the crossroads of tradition and progress. Together, they carried the legacy of Rome forward, not with swords and shields alone, but with wisdom, courage, and the power of words.