#pedro pascal au

[meet-me-backstage]

༺ 🐑 ༻

𝐎𝐟 𝐃𝐮𝐬𝐭, 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐨

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐎𝐧𝐞

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 ☼ Rancher!Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 ☼ You, a headstrong—bubbly ranch-hand, form a close bond with the reserved ranch-owner, Joel Miller, through two seasons of hard work, warmth, and unspoken longing. You leave to chase your dream, but circumstance brings Joel back into your life. A storm rolls over your land, something between you stirs—unresolved and waiting to burst.

𝑭𝒍𝒖𝒇𝒇, 𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒔𝒕, 𝒔𝒎𝒖𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂 𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒚 𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈!

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ☼ a no outbreak au loosely inspired by Far From The Madding Crowd but it’s set in modern day/Texas, rancher!Joel (🥵), protective!Joel, grumpy x sunshine, bad language, light angst, mention of vomit & there’s blood after an incident with a hammer, age gap (reader is in her 20s & Joel is in his 50s), kinda slowburny, unresolved feelings (until they aren’t hehe), yearrrrrning and SMUUUUT so you must be 18+ to read this story‼️

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐎𝐧𝐞 ☼ 10.9K

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐎𝐧𝐞 ☼ bad language, mention of vomit & blood, ranch-owner!Joel, light angst, Joel being a little moody, smutty thoughts, allusion to female masturbation, Joel wearing glasses and unresolved feelings. I think that’s all for today folks.

𝐋𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲! 𝐈𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐮𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐈 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐚 ‘𝐎𝐟 𝐃𝐮𝐬𝐭, 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬 & 𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐨’ 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭! <𝟑

⇜ 🐑 ‘𝐎𝐟 𝐃𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬 & 𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐨’ 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 🐑

The Texas sun pours over the hills like golden syrup, unhurried, draping the open land in a haze that shines with the sprightly sounds of spring. Wind ripples through the grass — a breath of the earth itself, bending the wildflowers, stirring the cottonwood trees to whispering.

Joel Miller stands at the edge of his field, one boot heel hooked over the bottom rail of a wooden fence, calloused hands resting on top. The brim of his hat shades sharp eyes, and beside him, George — his loyal old Border Collie — panting in the heat. The sheep are quiet today, specks of white scattered across the pasture, lazy under the sun.

It was shaping up to be another uninterrupted day on the ranch — just how Joel liked it.

That is until a horse appears at the ridge.

Joel’s brows furrow.

A rider — you — sprawled back-down across the broad back of a palomino mare, arms dangling like you were half-asleep. Your boots bounce with each step the horse takes. Sunlight catches on you, wild and free as the breeze. You look… peculiar — to say the least.

Joel narrows his eyes and mutters under his breath. “What in the hell…”

The mare picks her way down the slope, nimble and sure-footed, until you come into full view. You don’t move, staying stretched out — sunbathing. Joel straightens up, arms crossing as he waits.

When you are close enough, you slide off the side of your horse — an elegant sort of flump — and you land with a gasp.

“You Joel Miller?” You ask, brushing dust off your thighs. You are wearing a button-up shirt underneath denim overalls — donning a smile full of mischief.

“Depends who’s askin’,” Joel answers, voice gravel-smooth.

“I’m your new ranch hand.” You stick out a hand. “Well. Hoping to be.”

He blinks at you. Dumbfounded. Making no effort to lift his hand to shake yours. “You’re — lookin’ for work?”

“Mhm.”

“Don’t look like you’re hurtin’ for it.”

“I’m not. I’m just goin’ where the sun takes me, and it took me here.” Joel’s eyebrow quirks up in a sort of ‘don’t give me that bullshit’ sorta way. You awkwardly clear your throat, dropping your hand down to your side. “Fine — I might’ve seen your ad at Troy’s feed store. If you’re still lookin’ for help I’m handy with sheep, and I know my way around horses. Chickens, too, but I don’t take kindly to roosters.”

Joel’s mouth twitches upwards. “That a dealbreaker?”

“I think I can make an exception — just this once.”

You can see that he’s trying to keep up his mean facade, despite his amusement, by looking you up and down. “You ride like that all the time?”

“Only when it’s hot.” You giggle. “It’s the best way to soak up the sun without gettin’ saddle sore.”

He stares a moment longer, then sighs through his nose. George comes to sniff your boots.

You crouch and ruffle the dog’s ears with delight. “Who’s this handsome boy?”

“George,” Joel responds nonchalantly.

“Well hey there, George. You’re a good boy, huh?” You look up at Joel. “So, how ‘bout it? You gonna let me earn my keep?”

Joel hesitates, then nods. “Try not to scare the livestock.” So he has got a few jokes up those worn sleeves of a shirt that had clearly seen better days. The grass stains all over it are camouflaged by the green and red tartan pattern — it’s also littered with straw that had woven itself in the material.

You give a short, meek nod, then look out over the land like it is already yours to explore. “Looks like a fine place to stay a while.”

Joel doesn’t tell you that he’d forgotten he’d even put a goddamn poster up, that he only did it on a whim of loneliness—weakness… after a fleeting thought of how much easier it’d be if he had an extra pair of hands to help with the monotonous jobs that weren’t a waste of time, no, but took up a lot of time. He was adamant that nobody would dare actually come here anyway. Everyone local knew Joel Miller to be a man of few words—tough to negotiate with. He’d convinced himself that he had been just fine on his own out here… and now you show up, laying on your horse like some desert-wild myth… he isn’t certain the ranch will ever be so quietly empty again.

༺ 🐑 ༻

Your lodgings are small — clean. A cabin that Joel offered to you without much fuss, and you settled in like you’d lived there forever — unpacked a saddlebag full of tattered notebooks, a harmonica, and a few jars of preserves you’d bartered from the last place you worked.

By your second day, George was following you around like a pup. Joel saw, bemused, as the dog would nudge your leg until you gave him a fuss. You talked the dog’s floppy ears off. Truth be told, you talked to everything as if it might talk back — the chickens, the wind, your horse, the rusted tools in the barn.

“I think this shovel’s got a mean streak,” you said one morning, examining a fresh blister on your palm. “Keeps tryin’ to teach me a lesson I don’t wanna learn.”

Joel, beside you, chuckled low under his breath and kept stacking fenceposts.

You turned at the sound. “Did you just — laugh, Mr Miller?”

“Nope.”

“You so did.”

“‘M not gonna make a habit of it — trust me,” he muttered, voice dry as cedar.

You grinned and kept talking. You talked about the constellations you used to track while sleeping under the stars near San Angelo.

“You ever just pack up and ride?” you asked him once too, while the two of you leaned against the fence at sunset, watching the light fade orange and pink over the sheep. “No plan, no map?”

“Why would I?”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

Joel shifted his weight. “Land needs keepin’. Animals need feedin’. That kind of freedom don’t come easy.”

You were quiet a second. Then you smiled, wistful. “Don’t come easy, but it comes — you just gotta let it.”

He didn’t say anything, but then the next morning, he noticed the sunlight catching in your hair when you leaned over the water trough, the way your lips curved around each word when you talked to your horse, the nurturing tone of your voice when you thought no one was listening.

Joel was though.

༺ 🐑 ༻

By the second week, Joel had learned three things about you.

One: you really did not stop talking. Not in an obnoxious way—just constant, your voice naturally one of the many sounds of the ranch. Like wind through grass, or the ‘baas’ of sheep. You filled the silence the way sunshine fills a room, uninvited but welcome.

Two: you worked like hell. Stubborn, proud, reckless at times. You’d hoist feed bags bigger than you should, would chase stray lambs clear across the pasture without thought. You cursed under your breath when a horse stepped wrong, and you sang while shoveling out the barn.

And three: you loved this place like it was yours already. Spoke to the land like an old friend. Walked it barefoot occasionally, liking the feel of the earth under your soles. “Grounds me,” you admitted, squinting at a storm cloud on the horizon. “Reminds me I’m as real as that storm approachin’.”

Joel was beginning to wonder if he was more real when you were around, too. Not just a ghost wading through his land in solemn solitude.

You still weren’t quite sure what to make of Joel Miller.

He wasn’t rude, not exactly. Just moody — the equivalent of a thunderstorm stuck behind a mountain. You were his opposite — all bubbles and chatter, full of questions and stories and observations… Joel barely answered them — keeping himself to himself, but he had sunken eyes that held so much — you could see that, but you settled for his nods, grunts, smirks — didn’t stop you from filling his silence either.

You told him about Dixie, your horse, who you’d had since she was a foal. About how your ma used to sing to you under the stars, and how your favorite color was the gold of wheat just before harvest.

Joel never asked, but he listened. He always listened.

Days on the ranch fell into rhythm.

Mornings started before the sun. You’d rise, hair loose and boots scuffed, coffee steaming in two tin mugs. George behind you as you made rounds—chickens first, then the sheep, then the slow inspection of the irrigation lines Joel had pieced together.

Together, you and Joel moved through fields, wind and dust on your horses. When the two of you rode out on the lake trail you let the land do the talking. Sometimes you’d catch him looking at you. Heat would flood your cheeks, and when that happened you had a habit of word vomiting… you rambled about your old jobs, the ones you didn’t mind and the ones you hated — then the first horse you ever broke—a gray roan named Myrtle with one blue eye and a spine of spite.

Joel never interrupted. Just let your words sink into him. He told himself it was easier to work while you talked—it kept his mind off the years creeping up on him.

Sometimes he’d catch himself listening too hard.

Like the morning you stood in the sheep pen with your boots soaked in dew, and announced, casually, as you had a sheep bundled in your arms while Joel sheared it. “One day I’ll have my own place. Not too big. Just mine. Some sheep. A few horses. Maybe a milk cow if I’m feelin’ brave.”

Joel’s stone heart jolted. He placed his spare hand over the organ to soothe the pain of your confession.

“Been savin’ for it since I was sixteen,” you added. “Every odd job, every penny tucked away. I’ve got a map, too. Marked the spots where I might buy. This land’s good, though. Yours.”

He clasped the shearers tighter. “It’s old land. Dry.”

“Dry’s not bad,” you mumble. “‘S long as you got lake Isabella.”

Joel didn’t trust his voice so he just grunted and focused on expertly removing the sheep’s fleece.

༺ 🐑 ༻

One evening, you were stacking hay, sweat slicking your neck, arms aching, when Joel came over with two homemade lemonades from lemons you’d picked from the lemon tree behind the ranch-house.

You blinked at him, surprised. “Well, look at you. Bringing gifts. That your way of sayin’ I’m doing a good job?”

He handed you a glass. “You haven’t scared the sheep off yet.”

You grinned, taking a large gulp. “My my - was that a compliment, Mr Miller?”

“You been doin’ good is all.” Joel leaned on the fence, looking out over the field where George was keeping a watchful eye on the sheep. The sky had turned that deepening blue that came just before stars began to poke through.

“Pretty night,” you stated absentmindedly.

Joel nodded.

You looked at him, sideways. “You ever dream of leavin’ this place?”

He thought for a while. Then: “Used to. Not so much now.”

You tilted your head in the manner of a curious puppy. “Why not?”

“I gotta keep this place goin’ for my pa — he put so much’o his time into it, wouldn’t want it all to go to waste — ‘s what he wanted too, f’me to take over after he passed. B’sides, I always liked this life for myself.” Joel looked at you — really looked — and then to the neon sky. “‘Nd — some things are worth stayin’ for.”

Your heart thudded. He didn’t say anything more, and you didn’t press. But you sat there with him, the glass of lemonade slipping due to the sweat forming in your palms.

༺ 🐑 ༻

As the months rolled by, summer deepened. The heat got lazier, the work no easier. But Joel changed. Slowly.

He started talking more.

Not a lot — never a lot. But you’d hear more of that voice, steady and warm like the crackle of a campfire — and you could never get enough of it. He told you about Sarah, his daughter, who was long gone. The ranch was no place for her big dreams — she got herself a job in the city and she was way too busy to give her dad a visit (he never complained about it though, he was too proud of her to ever do that, and figured it was no surprise that she didn’t make more time to travel over for days filled with tumbleweed and chores with her grumpy old man when she could be galavanting about the thriving streets and flashing lights with her friends).

You listened, and didn’t disturb. He heard you, and didn’t judge… he did tease you about how many words you managed to utter in a minute sometimes though, and you’d tease him right back for how few he uttered.

Sometimes you worked side by side in companionable silence. Sometimes he found himself asking you what you were rambling on about, just so you’d keep talking… something you thought he’d never do, not a man who appreciated the sound of silence more than anyone you’d ever crossed paths with.

༺ 🐑 ༻

You’re already in the barn by the time Joel shows up, working a brush through Dixie’s blonde mane.

“You’re early,” Joel announces his presence abruptly, stepping into the dusty light.

“You’re late,” you tease.

“Bullshit.”

You glance over your shoulder and grin toothily. “Gotta go check the lake trail - make sure it hasn’t dried out in all this heat.”

Joel pauses at that. “You goin’ alone?”

“I’ve done it alone before.”

“Not since June you ain’t. Trail might’ve — changed since then.”

Yeah, right — he internally convinces himself that his poor excuse was the truth and not because he’d rather bask in the glow of your rambling, or your humming as you rode Dixie, than to hear nothing but the melodious sounds of bird calls amidst dead silence while he worked alone.

You try not to read too much into the worry laced in his tone, like he’s afraid that if you go on your own you’ll never come back to him. You lift a brow. “You offerin’ to come with me?”

He meets your eyes for a second longer than he typically does when you’re looking at him. Then: “Saddle up Clint. I’ll get the rest o’ my gear.”

“Don’t forget the buckets!”

༺ 🐑 ༻

Clint’s steady gait set the pace, Dixie prancing beside him, hooves light and eager. Somewhere along the trail, Clint found a rhythm all on his own, and Joel let him drift ahead, leading the way through the hills and scattered trees that the stallion knew like the back of his hooves. You don’t mind. Not one bit.

Dixie snorts, flicking her ears as you lean forward, chest pressed against her neck, one hand resting easy on the reins. You start humming — low and tuneless, just something half-remembered from a childhood lullaby or maybe some old country radio song that always played in your granddaddy’s truck.

George sprints in front too, tongue lolling out, ears alert and tail wagging with contentment. Every now and then he checks you’re still following, then returns to his canine patrol up ahead, shadowing Joel’s horse like it’s his duty to protect you both from wayward jackrabbits.

Your eyes are on Joel’s back.

His denim shirt clings between his shoulder blades and he sits in his saddle like he’d been born in it — all quiet control, every movement economical, second nature. His hair catches the breeze now and then, and you gawk at the nape of his neck far longer than is proper. Not that propriety ever mattered much to you.

Your humming trails into a softer murmur, something half between singing and sighing.

Joel hears it— not just the hum, but something in it. Something that tugs at his attention. He pulls on Clint’s reins, slowing him until you come up alongside.

You straighten slightly in your saddle, but your tune doesn’t stop. Joel keeps his lips sealed. But you see his jaw relax, his eyes cutting sideways at you — just for a beat.

Maybe he doesn’t mind the noise, you wonder. In fact... maybe he likes it.

You keep humming — raising the volume a little.

The trail narrows into a small path through tall grass that sways in waves — a green-gold sea. Wildflowers paint the edges in smudges of bluebonnet and goldenrod. In the distance, the low sparkle of water waits — lake Isabella. The lake that kept Joel’s ranch thriving, the one nestled in a little valley like it didn’t want to be found.

The sun has risen higher now, drenching everything in pastel yellow. You can’t help stealing another glance at Joel — at the smooth slope of his nose from the side, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes when George barks at a bird and runs even further down the path.

He catches you looking — of course he does.

He notices everything.

“You hum like the world ain’t botherin’ you.”

“That’s ’cause it ain’t,” you answer easily, twirling your pointer finger in Dixie’s mane. “Not when I’m out here. Not when it’s quiet and I’m not being told to hush.”

He gives a small nod, feeling a little guilty for all the times he’d begrudged you in the early days for disrupting the stillness of his ranch because you say it like you’d been told to hush many times — not by him, but by others.

“You don’t like quiet,” he assumes.

“I don’t like empty,” you correct. “But quiet, with the right people... that’s different. Quiet with you? That’s not so bad — I guess.”

Joel’s brow twitches. Not quite a smile, not quite a frown — just that thoughtful crease that meant he was chewing on your words like tobacco, letting them sit under his tongue until they softened.

And the truth is — he’s realizing it too.

That your noise isn’t just noise at all. It fills things… the barn — the long stretches of vibrant greens and yellows alongside outside noises he used to think peaceful, but now just feel hollow when your mouth is closed or you’re elsewhere.

He looks at you again.

You don’t look away.

You don’t need to. There is something about being on horseback under the big sky — the land stretching endless in every direction, the lake glittering a mile in front, George barking joyfully into the wind — it made everything feel simple—truthful.

“We’re close now,” you state, tapping Dixie’s reins.

Joel nods toward the break in the trees. “Mhm — ‘s just down there,” he confirms.

You rode the rest of the way side by side, your knee grazing his every so often when your horses drew too close, your humming quiet now, like a secret between the two of you. The kind of sound that would stick in his head hours later when he’d lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to fall asleep.

༺ 🐑 ༻

Lake Isabella’s water stretched out like velvet under the sun. The surface is butter-smooth and shining, a perfect mirror of blue sky and swaying pines, dappled with the shadows of dragonflies dancing above it. A faint breeze rustles the grass, making your hair blow backward under your bandana. It smells like damp earth and wild mint.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“I thought it’d be dried up,” you murmur, sliding off Dixie with a soft grunt, boots landing in the grass.

Joel swings down beside you. He brings a hand up to block the sun from beaming into his eyes and squints toward the water. “Me too,” he sighs.

You glance back at him, raising an eyebrow. “You kinda sound disappointed.”

“I ain’t,” he murmurs. “Just relieved. Guess my mind went straight to the worst — ‘s been a while since we’ve come out this way.”

“It has,” you hum, recalling the last time you and Joel came here — how you gasped at the sight of the water, how you threw off your clothes until you were left only in your underwear and set a beeline straight for the lake. You remember running into it, the feeling of cold droplets of water splashing onto your feet, then your thighs until you were swimming in it, consumed by it while Joel just watched you floating at the surface from a distance… after he’d gotten over the initial shock at the sight of you happily frolicking about in the water half-naked instead of collecting it in the bucket he gave you (leading him to the realization that the whole reason why you came had gone through one of your ears and flown out the other)… He oozed a protectiveness that made you feel safe enough to do it, somehow you knew that if you suddenly forgot how to swim, he’d be diving in and saving you in a flash.

You also remember trying to persuade him to join you but to no avail. He seemed content enough just to vicariously enjoy it through you.

You walk towards the lake’s edge, grass tickling your legs, the air cooler near the water. The horses follow, their tails flicking lazily at flies.

“You ever swim in it?” you ask, crouching to run your fingertips through the shallows. The water is freezing cold—clear. You can see smooth pebbles lining the bottom.

“Years ago,” Joel admits. He and his little brother, Tommy used to take a dip many times before he left to set up his own contracting business. Last Joel heard from him was he’d found someplace for himself and his wife, Maria, to settle down and start a family. “Back when my bones didn’t click every five goddamn seconds.”

You glance over your shoulder. He’s standing a few feet back with his arms crossed and a wary look in his eyes, just as you suspected. You smile — slow, teasing. “You’ve still got it in you I’m sure.”

He grunts. “I ain’t twenty anymore.”

You slip off your boots, one by one, setting them neatly on a flat rock. “So?”

Joel narrows his eyes at you, but there’s no bite in it. “So what?”

You strip off your socks and your overalls, leaving you, once again, only in your bra and panties. Joel’s throat bobs up and down — awkwardly shuffling on his feet and suddenly finding his boots really interesting to look at. “Sooo are you always this uptight when there’s fun to be had in a perfectly good lake to swim in — especially when the sun is shinin’ down on us so nice?”

“You call this fun?” He mumbles, still avoiding eye contact with you — part of you wonders if he just doesn’t want to look at you, that he sees you only as his ranch-hand, a worker and nothing more.

“It is fun — clearly you thought so too once upon a time.”

He lets out a huffed laugh, shaking his head — you’d got him there.

“Georgie’ll join me then — won’t you, boy?” You glance down at the dog, as always he’s ready to be at Joel’s beck and call, but you notice his head tilting at the high pitched tone of your voice. “Won’t you, Georgie? You know you want to!” You keep beckoning the dog, bending over to pat your knees until you’ve cracked into his loyalty, his tail is wagging and he excitably barks before running in your direction, past you and catapults himself into the water. “That’s the spirit, boy!” You laugh, ignoring Joel’s grumbles under his breath about the smell of wet dog he’ll have to endure in his house later on.

“You gonna join us then or what, Miller?” You ask in a playfully serious tone, spinning on your heel to face Joel again and crossing your arms.

“Think I’m good just watchin’ from ‘ere—” his eyes subtly flicker down to your tits cupped so perfectly by your bra—your nipples poking at the thin fabric…he can’t help it, he internally curses at himself and looks elsewhere a millisecond later before his cock strains too uncomfortably in his jeans to ride back to the ranch… he’s already half-hard as it is, “if that’s er — alright with you.”

“Hm — suit yourself, scaredy cat.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re scared — duh.”

That gets him. His strong jaw ticks.

You feel the urge to soak yourself in the cool water before you melt into a puddle at Joel’s feet. You don’t wait. You step in — a sharp inhale at the cold, the bottom silty and soft beneath your feet. The lake swallows your ankles, then your calves. It jolts you awake. You go in deeper, up to your waist until… “Geronimooo!” You shout, copying Georgie’s movements and cannonballing into the lake.

The uncomfortableness of water bubbles invading your ears and the smacking sensation of water on skin becomes refreshing — addictive once you get used to the sudden drop in temperature. You kick your legs and flail your arms around at lightning speed til your head rises above the surface, causing an avalanche of water to splash not so elegantly as you’d have liked onto you and poor George (although he doesn’t seem to mind one bit). You blow raspberries and wipe the water away from your eyes to see Joel staring, “how was that?!”

He’s hardly moved a muscle — but his hands are on his hips now, the same stormy expression clouding his features — except there’s hint of something almost… fond. “Real nice, sunshine,” he answers, shaking his head and trying real hard to stop the smile pulling at his lips.

‘Sunshine’ — his sunshine — you could get used to that.

“Come on, Mr Miller!” You call.

He continues to observe you. His gaze heavy. Shy and confused even. You’re doing that thing again, having that effect on him — an unusual one that doesn’t come natural to him. He doesn’t know how to act — or what to do with the version of you in front of him: wet, laughing, alive — demanding he remember what it’s like to feel good.

“You’re gonna catch a cold.” He’s unbuttoning his shirt after that, drunk on the fumes of your lust for kicking back and enjoying the quiet life every once in a while.

You float—spreading your limbs—feigning nonchalance at how slowly his hands work down the buttons with practiced ease. You try not to stare at the way the muscles move under his skin, the hair peeking from the hem-line of his jeans and shirt-collar — or to picture those pale scars decorating his shoulders that you’d daydreamed tracing with your fingertips countless times. It’d become a habit of yours to not so discreetly ogle him as he, shirtless and soaked in sweat, worked on the fields with a pitchfork in hand… an image that also plagued your mind when you dipped your fingers in the wetness pooling between your thighs at night.

He peels off the shirt and tosses it onto the same sun-warmed rock you chucked your clothes onto. “Could you—” he clears his throat and you can’t see it from where you are but blood floods his cheeks, “could you — er — turn around f’me?” He gestures a circling motion with his pointer finger. You give him a bemused expression and a subtle side-smirk — he fights the urge to roll his eyes, “please?”

“Sure,” you shrug — saying it more to yourself than to him, swivelling so that you’re facing the tall line of trees looming at the opposite end of the large body of water. You distract yourself from the unbuckling sound of his belt and the grunt that leaves his lips when he chucks his jeans to the side.

The lake laps at his shins, then thighs, until he sinks down with a low hiss. “Christ—” he breathes, “alright — y’can turn back around now.”

When you’re face to face with him again you’re grinning from ear to ear.

He shoots you a look — one part irritation, two part proud exasperation that stems from his own disbelief that he’d actually done what you’d told him to. He runs a hand through his dark hair, slicking it back — the gray speckles in it twinkle, standing out more when it’s wet. He then shakes the water from his face with another grunt. “Bet you’re real proud o’ yourself, huh?”

“Shouldn’t I be?” You tilt your head, all innocent. “Got you to do what I said, didn’t I?”

“You didn’t get me to do nothin’. I was bein’… generous.”

“Never seen generosity look so much like defeat.”

“Don’t push it. Might start thinkin’ you enjoy bossin’ me around.”

“Who says I don’t?”

He wants nothing more than to wipe that smug smile off your lips right now. He can think of a few ways to, one being capturing your lips with his, the other being slowly — steadily feeding his thick cock into your mouth inch by inch until he’s balls deep. The latter he’s ashamed to admit to himself because he swore he wouldn’t succumb to the way his cock hardened—ached and his heart pounded, threatening to break out of his ribcage even at the faintest touch of your hand on his forearm.

Maybe his reasoning for hiring you had been selfish. Good company for a lonely man more than two decades your senior had hardly been a part of your resume but you were a quick learner, better and more dedicated than most ranch owners he’d met.

He swipes water in your direction and you dodge, laughing, spinning away. He smiles. A genuine one. Wide and crooked. It has a similar effect to the sun peeking out through clouds in fluorescent beams.

“You’ve got a pretty smile,” you confess. Breathless. Taken aback by your own boldness. You let your feet drift up behind you in the water.

“Shut up,” he chuckles, displaying his crow’s feet and dimples all the more.

You swipe some water, sending a small wave his way but, like you, he dodges and sends you an arrogant smirk. You instantly retaliate, bringing your arms out as wide as you can and sending a mega wave over him — another loud laugh leaves your lips. “Gotcha!”

“You’re gonna pay for that’,” he mumbles gruffly while he wipes at the water streaming down his face.

You meet his eyes, and it’s there — the hush, the weight of suggestion. The cheeky glint in his dark eyes is evident as his gaze drops to your mouth, then back up, trying to be discreet and failing miserably.

You’re so close now, so close that you can smell the whiskey on his breath that sat beside him last night on the porch while he strummed his acoustic guitar — you’d watched and listened from afar. The water is rocking you both toward one another. One more push and you’d be touching.

Then he swallows, clears his throat, and realization crosses his features at just how near you are to him. He examines the ripples around your body colliding with the ripples around his.

He splashes you.

You splash him.

It becomes a back and forth of crashing waves.

Both of your faces are scrunched up. Laughter bellowing from your mouths - it gets louder and more uncontrollable when George jumps inbetween you and Joel, bouncing and barking to catch mouthful after mouthful of water.

Joel wraps his arms around George, pulling the dog into his chest and messing up the black fur at the top of his head with his knuckles— he keeps going until the laughter fades into synchronized pants, coming out as rapid as the constant droplets of water falling from your chins back into the lake — back to where they belong.

“I’m gonna go — dry off. You comin’?”

You shake your head. “Think ‘m gonna stay here a little while longer.”

“Sure—” he nods, “I’ll wait.”

The moment slips as quickly as it comes. Joel turns his back to you and sheepishly glances over his shoulder, whistling for George to follow — but it’s not lost, just tucked away.

༺ 🐑 ༻

Joel peeks at you over Clint’s saddle before he pulls it off and hangs it over the stallion’s stall. You watch the roll of his shoulders as he goes to pick up his hammer.

“What’re you doin’ now?” you call after him.

He lifts a hand — a lazy wave, dismissive. “Just patchin’ that loose post by the feed pens. Won’t take five minutes.”

You frown. “You always say that.”

He glances back, mouth twitching. He tips his chin and disappears around the corner.

Five minutes, of course, becomes ten. Then fifteen.

༺ 🐑 ༻

An hour passed.

You find him fixing the eastern fence — the opposite end of where he said he’d be — his sleeves rolled up, sweat at his brow, hammer swinging with the precision of a man who’s done this kind of work for decades.

“You’re gonna wear yourself into the dirt,” you say as you approach, boots crunching through the grass — one of your favorite sounds.

Joel doesn’t look up. “Fence won’t fix itself.”

“I brought you water,” your eyes light up and Joel’s eyebrows quirk up a bit, briefly stopping his work to give you an expectant look, which you very quickly translate and add, “aaand some bacon for Georgie.”

That earns a satisfied noise from him. He sets the hammer down long enough to take the water from your hand, fingers brushing yours. Fleeting. Rough. Enough to make the area where they touched to buzz and your stomach to flip.

He drinks, then tips the bottle toward you in a silent ‘thank you’.

You lean on a fence post that Joel had already fixed after dropping the bacon strips onto the ground in front of George’s white-socked paws. You give his head a pat, to which he looks up at you with those big brown eyes — his nose twitches curiously at the treats, then he eats them all in one quick bite. Your eyes feast on the land — a visual lullaby. The sheep are grazing on the freshly cut grass in the field, a picturesque front with the perfect orangey lighting above it.

Bang!

A groan.

Another bang.

Another groan.

A call and response.

“You’re not the only one around here who can swing a hammer y’know — let me help,” You offer, your hands on your hips.

Joel grunts. Keeps hammering.

You arch a brow. “That your way of sayin’ I can help? Or your way of tellin’ me to go do one?”

He glances at you again, squinting against the light. His voice comes as dry as he likes his whiskey — although you don’t miss the amused undertone in it: “Figure if I ignore you long enough, maybe you’ll stay still for once.”

Joel’s arm raises for another swing when you stride right up to him and, without ceremony, snatch the hammer right out of his hand.

He blinks, caught off guard. “The hell are you doin’?”

“Taking over.” You flash him a challenging grin. “You’ve been at this for aaages. Those poor old arms o’ yours need a break.”

“They’re not even tired.”

“Well, mine aren’t either,” you shoot back, already turning toward the fence. “And I’m not made of glass.”

Joel exhales through his nose and takes a step back, arms folding across his broad chest, watching you with that tight-lipped look he gives when he’s debating whether or not it’s worth arguing.

“Y’ever fixed a fence before?” he asks.

“I’ve watched you fix a fence. Same thing.”

“That’s not—” He stops. Shakes his head. “Alright. Go on, then.”

You set your boot against the bottom rail and lean in, pressing a nail into the cracked board with your thumb and holding it steady.

“You’re holdin’ that nail too close.”

“I know how to hold a damn nail,” you mutter, lining up the hammer.

He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t push you any further, though you kinda want him to — he’s so hot when he’s irritated.

You start rambling as you raise your arm, your voice half teasing, half stubborn: “Back home, I fixed a chicken coop by myself with nothing but a bent screwdriver and an old tire iron. I think I can handle one busted fence board.”

The hammer swings.

Your hand slips.

WHACK!

You go still for a second, blinking down at your hand in shock.

Then: “Goddamn—SHIT!” You drop the hammer with a clatter and double over your hand. “Shit. Shit. Shit. That’s not— that’s not good — you didn’t — you didn’t see that.”

You try to hide it but Joel is already at your side.

He crouches, hands reaching for yours, but you pull away instinctively, cradling your pinky finger.

“Lemme see,” his voice calm but firm.

“I’m fine.” You insist at the same time you’re desperately sucking back the tears pooling in your eyes.

“Uh huh — sure — you know I might’ve actually believed you if you hadn’t been swearin’ loud enough to scare the sheep halfway to fuckin’ Tahiti.”

“I hit it one time. It’s just a little throbby.”

“A little — throbby?” His brow lifts. “Tell that to your little finger.” He gives you a warning glare, “let me see.”

You hesitate, biting the inside of your cheek, and reluctantly offer him your hand. Joel takes it carefully, tilting it so that it’s facing the light.

Blood wells beneath your nail, a bruise already blooming.

He whistles low. “You got one helluva swing, sunshine — I’ll give you that.”

“Oh will you shut up,” you bicker. The mixture of the pain pulsing, your blood boiling over your face and the vulnerability of being under your mentor’s scrutinizing stare frustrates you all at once.

A forced chuckle leaves Joel’s lips. “‘S rich comin’ from the girl who ain’t shut up in her whole goddamn life,” the words spill out like the punch-line of a joke. Unconscious. Harmless. He’s too busy exploring every minuscule detail of your pinky finger to notice that his joke had fallen flat.

You scowl. You’re so fired up that you’re sure there are flames in your eyes and you have to look away — anywhere but at the man whose kind touch contradicted his harsh words, sending your brain into a spiral. “You’re such an asshole,” you whisper — tutting when a tear you’d been too weak to hide trails down your cheek, following the line by your mouth.

Sweet George whines at the same time you sniffle.

Joel finally glances up at you, doing a double take when he sees your glossy eyes. “Hey—” he instinctively reaches up to wipe the tear away, but before he can you do it yourself, messily smearing it with your unharmed hand. “Was just a stupid joke — didn’t mean nothin’ by it, darlin’ — ‘m just impressed you didn’t take your whole damn hand off.”

That pulls a small, forced chuckle from you — it’s better than nothing.

It’s enough for him to resume playing doctor.

He presses lightly on your knuckle, and you instantly hiss through your teeth. “Fuck.”

Joel winces with you. “Yeah, alright. You’re officially banned from fence duty for forever. I tol—”

You shoot him a glare. “I swear I’ll stick that hammer where the sun don’t shine if you start with the ‘I told you so’ bullshit,” you do your best, most moody impression of him.

He stops himself.

At first his cheeks are puffed up, holding in a laugh, but the amused glint in his eyes fades. Instead he looks at you with that unreadable expression — the one in-between stern and soft.

“You don’t gotta prove anything to me — y’hear?” he speaks quietly, only loud enough for you to hear.

You avoid his eyes. He can see that you’re still trying to mask the pain in your finger with a nibble of your bottom lip. “Didn’t realize I was trying.”

Joel doesn’t call you out on the blatant lie.

He just sighs. “C’mon. I got a kit at the house. Let’s get you patched up before you start swingin’ at nails with your other hand.”

You roll your eyes, but when he offers you his hand, you take it.

༺ 🐑 ༻

He leads you back to his ranch-house, his grip on your hand loose but steady, thumb unconsciously brushing your palm every now and then.

You don’t speak.

You let the silence speak.

Joel’s ranch-house is simple but attractive in that weather-worn way. White siding, the paint sun-faded and chipped in spots. Blue shutters frame the windows, cracked and dulled from summers spent in relentless heat. A wide porch wraps around the front, a table and rocking chair sitting idle on one end, a coiled rope and muddy work gloves forgotten on the other.

The screen door creaks open under the hand not holding yours… but to your dismay he drops it anyway to hold the door open. You falter for half a second, then step inside.

The air shifts when you cross the threshold. You’d never stepped foot in his house — you never expected to either.

It’s cooler, darker, and stiller than outside. The scent of tobacco lingers in the walls, mingled with old leather, woodsmoke, and something distinctly Joel. Not cologne, but a combination of pine, earth and coffee beans.

The floors are hardwood, the constant tread of boots visible on them. A runner rug stretches down the hall — its edges frayed. The warm yellow walls are lined with shelves and framed photographs. Most of the furniture is handmade, solid and practical: a sturdy kitchen table with mismatched chairs, a worn leather couch in the next room with a crocheted blanket slung over one arm, and a wood-burning stove tucked into a corner, its iron belly long gone cold.

What draws your eye are the details — the kind of things Joel keeps close to his chest.

There’s an old horseshoe nailed just above the front door’s frame — a stack of old mail held down by a half-carved piece of antler and a row of boots sits to the side of it — Joel’s, a smaller pair that must’ve been Sarah’s once, and a third pair with soles holding onto the rest of the boot for dear life. In one corner, a tall shelf holds paperbacks with cracked spines: westerns, survival manuals, some old copies of Thomas Hardy novels.

On the mantle above the fireplace are family photos — Joel, younger, less gray, his arm around a girl who looks just like him. It must be Sarah. They’re smiling — love written all over Joel’s face, captured even in stillness. Another one shows the pair with Tommy — the trio sitting on a gingham blanket, plates full of barbecue and coleslaw, George as a puppy sitting between them with a floppy ear over one eye. One of Sarah sitting atop a horse with her arms spread wide. The last is of Joel with an older couple — his parents maybe — standing in front of this very ranch-house. The exterior’s walls looked to be freshly painted. It looked like a house where loud laughter was a given.

You don’t realize you’re smiling til Joel’s voice pulls you back to present time.

He’s carrying a dented green metal box in one hand and a damp cloth in the other.

“I said sit.”

You drop onto the wooden chair belonging to the dining table that Joel had already pulled out for you.

Joel is standing tall before you, staring down intensely — your breath hitches — he then kneels so that he’s almost eye level with you and pats your bare knee — your heart pounds so loud you’re sure he can hear it.

“Give your hand over.”

You lay your hand out palm-side up, settling it so that your injured pinky is rested on your kneecap. “You don’t have to make—” you gulp, “such a fuss.”

“My hammer — my problem,” he has a deadpan expression on his face when he says it.

When he takes your hand in his and turns it over again so that he has a clearer view of your injury — you brace for the sting, but he’s handling you with so much care, it never comes.

He holds your hand like it’s made of porcelain, cleaning the cut with the cloth first, wiping away the blood in slow circles. His brow furrows in concentration as he works, mouth pressed into a line like he’s angry at the wound, at the hammer, at himself. “You shouldn’t’ve grabbed it from me like that,” he mutters.

“I just wanted to help.”

“I know.” His jaw tenses. “Still.”

You flinch when he accidentally brushes a sore nerve under your fingernail a tad too quickly.

“Sorry.”

“‘S okay,” your voice small. “You’re — good at this.”

Joel snorts, “that’s ‘cause this ain’t my first rodeo — had to do stuff like this for my little brother all the time — myself too.” Part of you wishes you had been here then to nurture Joel’s wounds, to have the excuse to carefully touch his cuts and bruises. He briefly glances up at you before continuing to attentively tend to you like one of the lambs he’d helped deliver this spring. “Doubt it’ll be my last either — with you around,” he adds fondly, not minding the likely possibility at all — in fact, he welcomes it.

You don’t answer back, which is unlike you, but Joel thinks he knows why.

His spare hand blindly searches for the bandages messily in the first aid kit — it frustrates you to watch it so you grab it yourself with your spare hand, passing it to him. “Thanks.” He eyes you briefly, then works the bandage slowly, wrapping the gauze around your pinky, anchoring it in place with light tugs. When he’s done he smooths his thumb over the edge of the wrap, once, twice—then doesn’t let go right away.

You’re watching him closely — admiring the low light spilling through the curtains catching in his irises, the odd gray hair in his patchy beard, the worry lines etched deep in his brow. His lashes are thick, casting pretty shadows under his eyes. His mouth is ajar.

Joel’s in the midst of having an internal battle between two parts of himself — the part that refused to acknowledge the truth and the other, which wanted you to achieve your dreams — no matter the cost for him… losing you. “You’re gonna be real good at it, y’know.”

You blink. “At what?”

He swallows, jaw tensing before he looks up at you fully—honestly. “Runnin’ your own ranch.”

Your face breaks out into the toothiest grin he thinks you’ve ever given him, causing his heart to palpitate. “You think?”

“I know.” he states assuringly. “Ain’t just the work you put in. Though that’s plenty. ‘S the way you really live ‘nd breathe this way of livin’. The way you talk to the animals like they talk back. The way you take care in noticin’ every little thing about the land — like where the creek bends, which field dries fastest, how the clouds hang when a storm’s comin’.”

Warmth rises to your cheeks, and a pain that only Joel can heal twists in your chest.

“You ain’t ever needed to prove anythin’ to me—” He gently sets your hand back down on your thigh. “This work comes natural to you.”

You don’t even think about it before you're moving. It’s not calculated or careful. It’s just instinct. You lean forward and wrap your arms around him. Joel stiffens under your touch for all of half a second, not at all expecting it — or for him to embrace it as quickly as he does — no one’s touched him like this in a long, long time. He exhales — slow and deep — and he melts into you — blaming it on the infectious toothy grin that drew him in before you physically pulled him in.

“Thank you, Mr Mill—”

“Joel.”

“Thank you, Joel.”

His arms come up around you, folding across your back in that strong, protective way that makes you feel like the world could completely fall apart and you’d still be safe, in his arms. One hand curls around your shoulder, the other presses against the back of your ribs, his thumb sliding slowly up and down your spine like he’s memorizing the shape of you — just in case your dream comes true sooner rather than later… afraid that you’ll vanish any second.

You do the same — resting your cheek against his shoulder, breathing him in — sweat and the subtle scent of soap that had lingered from his morning shower. There’s a beat of silence where neither of you speaks. The world shrinks down to the slow rise and fall of your chests, the creak of the old floorboards under your boots and the distant hum of cicadas through the open window.

“Dinner’s on me tonight, sunshine.”

༺ 🐑 ༻

When the summer began to wane, the light changed. A richer gold — anticipating longer nights.

You started spending more time with your notebooks, sketching land plots, scribbling numbers. You showed Joel your map, interrupting his daily morning ritual consisting of coffee and reading on the porch.

“This one’s up for sale. It’s rough land. But I think I can make it work.” You peeked curiously at the man through your eyelashes, “what d’you think?”

Joel flicked his glasses down from the top of his head, the pads nestling over the tiny scar across the bridge of his nose. He squinted, studying it longer than he needed to. “It’s good dirt. Clay base, though. Think you’ll need someplace with better irrigation.”

“Hm—” you nodded in agreement. “Thought you might say that — maybe you’re right.” Or maybe you wanted to delay your search a little while longer — what was the harm in that?

He wanted to say ‘don’t go’.

He wanted to say ‘stay’.

He resorted to: “don’t worry — you’ll find somewhere that ticks all the right boxes.”

You nodded with pursed lips.

And when you walked off to feed the chickens, humming again, he realized the worst thing wasn’t that you would be leaving one day.

It was that he’d gotten used to you staying — he’d forgotten what it was like not to have you around… and he didn’t want to remember.

༺ 🐑 ༻

The first time you told Joel the land was yours, it wasn’t even yours yet.

You’d just come in from checking the south fence line, dust all up your legs, a ribbon of sweat down your spine, George following you — your second shadow. He loved you as much as he loved his owner — maybe even more, but you’d never tell Joel that. You dropped the newspaper on the porch table between you and Joel, who barely looked up from sharpening his knife.

“There,” you said, pointing. “That one. ‘S mine.”

He glanced at the listing through his glasses.

‘Twenty acres. River access. Needs clearing.’

Joel leaned back in his chair. “Bit wild, ain’t it?”

“Yeah but — that’s what makes it mine I think.”

He didn’t smile, but his eyes lingered on your face. “You’re — serious about it — this land?”

“Yup,” you pop the ‘p’ with a sure nod of your head. Determined and unwavering. “This one’s the one.”

Joel was stuck in his usual state of silence — except he didn’t want to be, he wanted to bust out of it and just tell you how he felt about you — he couldn’t though, not when he was so adamant you didn’t feel the same way. The birds sang high in the cottonwood trees. George was already snoring beside him, tail twitching — probably dreaming of herding sheep or his first litter of puppies. You were too excited — too distracted with thoughts of fence lines, soil testing and crop cycles you could try out on your land to feel the coldness radiating from Joel.

The closer your dream came, the more the silence stretched between you.

You’d still talk of course—about feed, about the horses, about the weird habits of sheep—but the quiet between words grew heavier than Joel’s Texan drawl. His hands lingered when he passed you tools. His sad eyes held yours for what felt like an eternity when the wind blew hair across your cheek.

He couldn’t say anything.

Neither could you.

༺ 🐑 ༻

The night you told him you’d be leaving before sunrise, he cooked dinner again.

You watched him move back and forth from the kitchen countertops and the porch table with bowls of food stacked on his forearms. By the time he’d finally lugged it all outside and sat himself down opposite you on his rocking chair, holding two empty plates, you were salivating, having had to endure the delicious mixture of smells invading your nostrils for way too long — you’d offered to help but he insisted you stay put on the chair he’d brought out for you. “What’s with the all you can eat?”

He handed you a plate without meeting your eyes — whether it was on purpose or not you didn’t know but you don’t question it. “‘S a special occasion, ain’t it?” The words come out cold. Distant.

“Guess it is.”

The two of you stayed on the porch afterward, your plates still balanced on your knees long after you’d finished eating — George laid on his back, his head on Joel’s feet and his tail on yours. The moon was a sliver in the sky — promising change.

“I’ll miss this,” you admit.

Joel stared out across the dark pasture. “What part?”

“All of it.” You timidly glance at him. “Mostly the lake — the animals — Clint — George… The quiet.” What you wanted to add was ‘you’.

He gave you a half-hearteded amused look, patiently waiting for you to say more… you don’t. “You’re the one who breaks it every ten minutes.”

You giggled, but then your voice softened to a mumble. “Yeah — but you don’t mind.”

“No,” he confirmed, nervously shifting in his chair — discreetly admiring the way you beautifully blend into your surroundings — into his land. “I don’t.”

You’d guessed as much, but he’d never said it. The solidarity of his words linger dangerously near your heart… you had to go before you did anything reckless.

༺ 🐑 ༻

Joel Miller’s ranch had been the closest thing to belonging that you’d known in a long time. But it was never meant to last.

Joel told himself over and over again last night as he tossed and turned in his bed, that if it was what you wanted, he had to accept it and let his dedicated ranch-hand, his companion — his sunshine — go.

He had to let you go.

What he didn’t know was that you would’ve stayed — would’ve given into your silly little crush on your boss — without a doubt — if your bones weren’t already pointed somewhere else. If you hadn’t always imagined yourself in a place of your own making, hands in your own soil, sky pressing down on your own roof.

You wake up at sunrise just as you’d told Joel you would, and make your way to the stable straight away. You pre-packed your things before you slept. You didn’t want a fuss or farewell — your eyes were already sore from crying… but the large entrance door creaks as you push through — and there he is. Joel. Slouching against Dixie’s stall with George at his heel, like he’d been waiting for you for hours.

“Didn’t think you’d try to leave without sayin’ goodbye,” he speaks, his voice raspy from sleep, or maybe a lack of it judging by his bloodshot eyes.

You look down, awkwardly bouncing on your feet. “I’ve only been here half a year — I just — didn’t think you’d — care all that much.”

“I care more than you think.”

His words freeze you, forcing you to face him.

There is a wooden crate by his feet. It shakes.

He clears his throat, sheepishly following your eyes until they land on the same wooden crate. “I er — brought somethin’ for you.”

Inside, burrowed in a gingham blanket, is a puppy. A Border Collie. All fluffiness and black and white fur, ears too big for her head, a tiny pink nose and bright brown eyes… trusting and kind. Warm too — just like honey when the sun hits them… just like Joel’s. They’re blinking sleepily up at you.

“She’s one o’ George’s,” Joel tells you. “Only female o’ the litter. She’s adventurous ‘nd stubborn as hell — already caught her runnin’ around the sheep’s pastures... reminded me o’ you in the early days.”

You’re rendered speechless. You kneel and lift the crate—she pops her head up—her paws dangling over the crate’s edge. She jumps at you—her heartbeat quick and strong against your chest. She whines, then nestles into the crook of your arm.

You’re her human and she knows it.

“I ain’t named her,” he adds. “Figured you should have that job.”

“Thank you so much, Joel,” you drag your eyes away from the cutest sight you’ve ever seen.

He shifts his weight and nods. He looks out over the fields, then back at you. “‘S nothin’ — thought you might appreciate havin’ a little company on your travels. B’sides, you really oughta have a sheepdog — can’t be ownin’ a ranch full’a sheep without one.”

“No—” You take a baby step toward him. “I mean — yes — thank you for Juno — but also for — everythin’ else.”

“Juno?” He scoffs. “Like the goddess?”

You shake your head with a soft laugh. “Nah not the goddess or the Sabrina Carpenter song. Juno was the name of this old pickup truck — which I did name after the goddess. I learned to drive back when I was fifteen. The truck belonged to a neighbor who let me run errands on his land. It always rattled like crazy and smelled like oil, but it never broke down. She was tough and went through every kind of weather without complainin’—”

“Hang on.” Joel’s blinks, his face blank — he huffs a chuckle. “You’re namin’ the puppy after a damn truck?”

You playfully roll your eyes, scratching behind the puppy’s ear — she yawns. “Not just any truck. The first thing that ever gave me a taste of freedom. Pretty fittin’ if you ask me.”

“Hm. Juno,” he repeats with an approving nod.

The silence that follows is unusually awkward. Thick with brooding tension—more unspoken words that hadn’t found their way out, no matter how long they’d sat on the tongue. You don’t try to fill it either—not with your usual chatter that Joel is craving to hear — not even with a joke to lighten the mood. It isn’t the time for it.

You turn your back to him after reaching down to pet George, bidding him a hasty farewell before he starts whining, knowing you’ll never leave if he does. You step toward Dixie, already saddled and waiting — Joel must’ve done it for you. The mare bucks her head as you approach.

You can feel Joel watching behind you.

The way your shoulders squared like armor—like if you stayed strong enough, you could ride through this and not look back. There is dust on your coat and mud on your boot heel—details so mundane, so ordinary… they gut him now.

You aren’t graceful in the way movies make women look on horseback—you are better than that. You’re the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen—known. You’re solid. Real — you move like you’ve adjusted reins and cinches a thousand times. Who’s weathered storms, heartbreak and uncharted land. Who’s clawed her way toward a future built on the backbone of sheer grit. And he’d had the privilege of seeing it—every inch of it.

You mount Dixie, settling Juno back in her crate and comfortably in your lap.

You’re ready to ride out into the horizon.

Joel isn’t, however — not quite.

“You sure this is what you want?”

“It’s not about want,” you answer, just above a whisper. “It’s about need.” You bounce in the saddle, fingers fiddling with the reins — more to steady yourself than Dixie. “I need to know I can do this. On my own.”

Joel’s teeth clenched. His eyes dropped to the dirt, then rose again, and for a moment he looked like he might say nothing at all. Like he’d let you ride off just like that.

But then—

“Any chance you’d — stay?” His voice full of hope. “Here. With me.”

The question hits you—a kick to the ribs. You stare at him, heart thundering in your ears. “Joel…”

“I know it’s selfish,” he adds, almost defensively, taking a hesitant step to Dixie’s side. “I know you’ve worked so damn hard for this dream. Hell, I watched you bleed for it. So I ain’t askin’ to take that away. I just—” He stops himself, fists balled in his jacket pockets. “Just don’t want to let you go without askin’.”

Your throat constricts. You can’t breathe — seeing him look so sure and unsure. Like he really wants to have the strength to let you go, but has crumbled and is begging you to stay. “I — I can’t.”

“But would you — if it wasn’t about needin’?”

“I’d stay.” The two words he needed to hear. You look down — away. Feeling so exposed. Vulnerable. “Please don’t hate me.”

“I could never hate you.” It damn near breaks him to hear you say something like that. It breaks you when you hear him sniffle too — but before you can start sobbing all over again — before you can shatter and scatter into pieces in front of him, Joel reaches up and encases your hands with his — holding you together.

You dreamily gaze at his thumbs caressing over your fingers—accidentally prodding Juno too, who licks his hands incessantly—causing both you and Joel to erupt in harmonious, shaky laughter.

“I’ll write you,” you promise.

He gives your hands a tender squeeze. “You better.”

You share one last look—one last moment to stash away for keeps. Then you click your tongue, nudging Dixie forward — Joel’s hands slip from yours back down to his sides at the same time a tear falls… you don’t see it.

You rode off, heart heavy but certain, leaving behind the man who has come to mean more to you than you ever intended. You don’t look back — but when the fence line and the ranch-house are shrinking with the distance put between you — only then, just once, do you turn in the saddle. Joel is frozen on the spot — watching with tears blurring his eyes as you disappear into the dust like someone who’d just watched the sun set for the last time.

“So long, sunshine.”

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐓𝐰𝐨 ⇝

𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠! 𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞, 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐬 (𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞) 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐑𝐄𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐆!!!!! 𝐈𝐭'𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐲 <𝟑

𝐒𝐨 𝐈 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 ‘𝐅𝐚𝐫 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐂𝐫𝐨𝐰����’ 𝐛𝐲 𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐬 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐲𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈’𝐦 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐬𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐉𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐬 𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥 𝐎𝐚𝐤 (𝐥𝐦𝐚𝐨)... 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐲𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐚 𝐨𝐮𝐭 — 𝐈’𝐦 𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 (𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞??? 𝐈’𝐦 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐞𝐭).

𝐈𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 ‘𝐎𝐟 𝐃𝐮𝐬𝐭, 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬 & 𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐨’ 𝐨𝐫 ‘𝐉𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫’ 𝐭𝐚𝐠-𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰!

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒 ↯

𝑂𝑓 𝐷𝑢𝑠𝑡, 𝐷𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚𝑠 ＆ 𝐽𝑢𝑛𝑜

@dugiioh @monicasblues @millennialeldar @urlivingdeadgirl @julesispunk

𝐽𝑜𝑒𝑙 𝑀𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑟

༺ 🐑 ༻

[lazysoulwriter]

pedro posting you. /smau

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

[darling-flora]

if you dare, meet me up here

pedro pascal x yn!actress - social media au

fc: bella hadid

summary — Future co-star introducing you to his former co-star, who knew what would come from it...?

note — (all manips are made by me!!) pedro is 40 in this story 😶(not set during a specific time) this was supposed to be short but i got carried away so let me know what you think!! likes, reblog's and comments are appreciated ❤

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enews

Liked by user1, user2 and 869,944 others

enews Paul Mescal introduces new co-star Y/n L/n to Gladiator 2 co-star Pedro Pascal and treats both to dinner in New York. Mescal and L/n are set to star in Rom/Com "How To Lose A Guy in 10 Days" which begins filming later this year.

The film stars L/n an advice columnist, who tries pushing the boundaries of what she can write about in her new piece about how to get a man to leave you in 10 days.

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user1 if i was her i'd challengers them 🤭

user2 oh thank you paul for introducing y/n to pedro 😌

user3 omg im so excited to see paul and y/n in a movie together

->user4 me too!! especially after the video of paul congratulating y/n winning her oscar backstage... ->user3 omg yes! them being friends is going to make the chemistry so much better 😁

user5 y/n sitting next to pedro and not paul.... i see you girl 🤫

user6 her fit is so cute

user7 waitttttt these 3 divas

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yourinstagram

Liked by pascalispunk, user2 and 4,869,944 others

yourinstagram xoxo 🌚

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user1 pretty girllll

devonleecarlson okay photogragherrrrr ate

->pascalispunk 👋🙂 ->yourinstagram im hiring 😁 ->pascalispunk Wait let me tell my agent 🏃 ->user2 guys are they being friendly or flirting...? ->user3 little bit of both 😭

user4 making nike socks fashion...? this icon 🤩

user5 pedro got your notifs on girl.. he liked this quick 😊

user6 wait paul is kinda serving pedro and y/n's kid because he's the youngest

->user7 PLEASEEEE 😭 ->user8 i always forget y/n's 32 and not like 23 😫 ->user9 me with pedro, i think he's 30 something when he's 40

user10 being bi is a blessing b/c i want all three 😝

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yourinstagram

Liked by pascalispunk, user2 and 5,581,944 others

yourinstagram 🌊💙

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user face carddd

user he's just 🧍‍♂️ liked by yourinstagram !

user y/n please 😔 he doesn't know how to handle a baddie like you

->user and you do?? 😭 ->user i don't know but i'd try ->user 😭 i respect the honesty...

user guys is this a hard launch???

->user medium launch b/c we know who it is but it's not obvious.. yk? ->user wait your right ->user girl math 😉

user okay this CONFIRMS they are dating

user y/n can we SHARE???

user waittt cutiesss

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yourinstagram

Liked by pascalispunk, user2 and 9,018,944 others

yourinstagram oscarsss ❤

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user1 oh my god marry me

yourbff hottie!!! liked by yourinstagram !

user2 THE SECOND PIC OMG????

user9 the way he's looking at her??? my heart

pascalispunk My girl ❤

->yourinstagram always 💞 ->user3 STAPHHH ->user3 so he was going to say "my girl" ohhhhh y/n you lucky girl ->user4 him having the auto caps on, he such an old man... i need him liked by yourinstagram ! ->user4 Y/N WHY DID YOU LIKE MY COMMENT???😭 ->yourinstagram cause i've made fun of him for it 🤭 ->user4 so real, men need to be humbled ->yourinstagram see you get it 😉 ->pascalispunk ???

user5 one of your best looks ohhhhhmygoooddddd

user8 i'd frame the second picture

user6 hardest launch to ever launch and i loveeee it

user7 neither of them were nominated but they are the most talked about ICONSSSS

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[dilf-docs]

Darlin', Can I Be Your Favorite?

dbf!boxer pedro pascal x younger fem!reader

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

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

word count: 5,874 words

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

You weren't new to this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Some things never change"

He snickers, "but glad some do"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Good you aren't my fucking daddy"

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

"Say it" he demands, "again"

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

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

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

"Not that it matters to you, anyway"

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

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

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

There's no going deeper than this.

"Thank God you aren't"

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

"Baby-"

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

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

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

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

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

"Pedro"

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

But to play a game, you need two.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sit"

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

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

"What were you thinking?" you whisper.

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

"I can still handle it"

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

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

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

"What-"

You hush him almost instantly. "Let me"

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

(But small, he definitely isn't)

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

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

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

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

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

He lets out a soft humorless laugh.

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

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

"I've always loved a good mystery"

Knockout.

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

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

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

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

"What-"

"Get in"

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

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

The (possible) double meaning makes his belly rumble.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And this?"

"Gloves"

"What?"

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

"I don't get it"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But real men do"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You pull out, making him groan.

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

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

"I want to hear you say it"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just like that, you're done.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink once. Twice. Then again, slower.

"What are you talking about?"

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

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

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

And for a reason, that feels like a threat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But I'm the grabby one"

He growls. "Quit talking"

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

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

His cock grinds forward, stretching you out.

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

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

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

You mewl out his name in a cry.

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

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

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

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

"I'm- I'm gonna"

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

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

"Let you what?" Pedro chuckles.

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

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

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

"Pedro-!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He lets out a hearty laugh.

"Guilty as charged"

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

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

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

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

"For good luck, daddy"

Pedro chuckles at your antics. "You fucking minx"

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

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

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

"Sit" he orders.

Oh, the irony of it all.

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

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

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

cr: divider @kodaswrld / gif @a7estrellas

[darlingsfandom]

What Happens Between Friends.

request: Could you maybe possibly write for Pedro Pascal? 🥺💜 Like he's as old as he's now and reader is younger and somehow meets him, (they already know each other from somewhere or they meet and get to know each other better) and they're friends/friendly first, (hang out casually) but reader tries to have something more with him and he's just shy and thinks the reader couldn't possibly actually want anything more with him cos he thinks he's too old :( but he wants reader too and they work things out and actually have a relationship and smuuuutttsss pls🤗🤗💜🥺

TW: age gap! Reader is over 21!, p in v, fingering, unprotected sex, nipple play, swearing and not proofread !

“Are you really falling asleep?” You asked as Pedro sat on the edge of your bed before taking your pillow and holding it while his eyes started to shut.

“What? No. Just resting my eyes.” Pedro pulled out the classic line making you shake your head.

It would be odd to most to see an older man with a younger woman but it wasn’t that big of a deal to either of you. Pedro was a family friend that has known you since you were ten. He would show up to parties, he even came to your graduation five years ago and he would admit that he watched you grow up into a lovely young lady, but what he wouldn’t admit to anyone was how once you started to show independence towards being an adult that his feelings became confused. You weren’t a little girl asking him what his favorite animal was and then go into deep detail about that animal, no you were this young lady who got into wearing short skirts, lip gloss and yet still kept a collection of stuffed animals in her room.

“Sure… that’s what you said last time and then when I got out of the shower I found you snoring in dad’s recliner with some drool.” You laughed quietly as Pedro pretended to be shocked and hurt.

“In my defense I have been working a lot.” He stretched out his arms before collapsing against your bed.

“Okay old man.” You teased him as you finished putting your laundry away. Both of you liked to hang out and just relax. Tonight was one of those nights that the two of you would order take out , watch a movie that the two of you would take turns picking out and then go to bed. The thing is that it was only five pm and he was fighting for life to stay awake.

“I’m not that old!” He threw your pillow at you making you gasp before you took it and threw it back at him only for him to get surprised when you threw yourself on the bed next to him.

“If you say so!” You stuck your tongue out at him which made him pull you close and no one could explain it but he took his chance and licked your tongue with his own. Your eyes went wide making your body freeze for a second.

Pedro was busy cursing himself for what he did but he tossed that out the window when he felt you return the favor. Neither of you needed to say it, the look on your eyes was enough for him. He held your face in his hands as he slipped his tongue into your mouth and ate up your moans. Your hands rested on his arms as the two of you swirled tongues. You pulled away slowly to see how dark his eyes had turned. His usually love filled eyes were taken by lust, dark and twisted.

Truth be told, you had a crush on Pedro since you were little, sure he was cute when you were thirteen but so was Billy the kid from next door who liked to play with lizards and do math homework for fun. When you turned eighteen you did try to date a guy that you had met with on a dating app, but he was just gross. So after focusing on yourself you found yourself still single but happy. Pedro was around more when you were home and to be fair you did try to seduce him a couple times but it never worked until now.

Pedro ran his thumb over your bottom lip before you wrapped your lips around it and slowly sucked it while he watched you carefully.

“You’re being a tease.” His words rushed to your core and made your thighs twitch as he pulled back his thumb.

“Do something about it.” You spoke up making him raise his eyebrow at you before you could even form another sentence he had you pinned down below him. Pedro leaned in slowly and kissed you. This time his kiss was soft, loving and made you wrap your legs around his waist. He had pictured this too many time to count, how beautiful you’d looked all flushed below him. The heat was pooling inside you as you felt his hands run down your sides. Neither of you could say anything as the moment between your bodies was on edge. Pedro pulled on your sleep shorts as a way to ask for permission and you wasted no time in unwrapping your legs from his waist so he could toss them aside.

“Wow.” He whispered to himself looking at the wet patch on your panties. Pedro laid flat on his tummy before he took his finger, hooked it into the side of your panties and pulled them aside. He had imagined how sweet you’d taste and now the chance was right in front of him. Pedro licked his lips before slowly licking your cunt up and down, savoring your taste.

“Fuck..” you sighed happily as he licked up your pussy. You laid there massaging your own breasts, pulling on your nipples while Pedro wrapped his hands around your soft thighs to get his tongue deeper inside of you. It was such a nice feeling. You have been ate out before but not like this. Pedro was licking every inch of your pussy making sure to savor the sweet taste of you. You laid there moaning out his name until you felt his finger slip inside of you. You gasped loudly pulling on his hair as your toes curled.

“I couldn’t help myself.” He mumbled into your cunt making you shiver. Pedro kissed along your inner thigh making sure to bite the soft flesh while fingering you faster. “I’ve wanted this for a while doll.” Pedro leaned back and wrapped his lips around your clit.

“Fuck! I’ve wanted it too.” You huffed out while crying out in pleasure. Pedro pulled out his fingers making you pout only to have the pout wiped away when you shoved his fingers into your mouth. You sucked eagerly on his fingers while he got up to take off his own pants. Your eyes wandered to see what you had imagined about.

“Do you want to continue ? We can stop here and I’ll …”

“Pedro?”

“Yes?”

“Please, fuck me.” You batted your eyelashes and he was done. He shoved his pants off along with his boxers allowing his hardened dick to be free. It wasn’t huge but it was nice in length and girth, not too big like an oversized porn stars that you’ve seen in the movies. Pedro got on his knees and sat in front of you before grabbing your thighs and spreading you open. You watched nervously while biting your bottom lip. He grabbed his dick and rubbed the head against your folds at a slow pace before inching his way into you.

“Oh fuck!” Your nails dug into the sheets. The stretch burned a little bit since it had been ages since you had been fucked.

“It’s okay, relax doll.” His voice came out in a smooth tone that made you look up at him with such innocent eyes. He held onto your hips as he slipped the last inch inside of you. Both of you laid there until you nodded your head slowly. Pedro started with a soft thrust to make you comfortable. He lifted your hips up a little higher so he could go deeper. You wrapped your legs around his waist which made him more eager and he picked up his speed.

The sound of his balls slapping against you echoed on the walls as you dug your nails down his back after you had pulled him down closer to you. Pedro licked your bottom lip before you opened your mouth just enough for him to slip his tongue into your mouth and lick your tongue. The two of you were tied together in a way that was unlike what you could’ve imagined. Pedro bit your lip before moving down to cover your neck in sloppy kisses and bite marks making sure they were nice and noticeable.

Every time he bit your neck and shoulders you would dig more into his back in different spots. His orgasm was building quickly as he pumped into harder. The way you were just taking him like a good girl, all the sweet noises you were making , it was more than he imagined. He quickly pulled out of you and looked at your face with his mouth hanging open.

“Fuck doll, I’m going to cum.” Pedro was heavily breathing as you laid there rubbing your clit while he jerked off in front of you. “Oh my sweet doll!” He squeezed his eyes shut as he came with a loud groan on your thighs. You watched as he came with a big load and it made your own orgasm hit you hard. Your back arched upwards as your thighs snapped together while his name ripped out from your chest with a loud whine.

“Good fucking girl.” Pedro panted as he looked around and grabbed a tissue to help clean your thighs up.

“What can I say, I finally got what I’ve wanted.” You smiled ear to ear as he helped you sit up a little bit. Pedro helped you off the bed and walked with you into your bathroom to get you all cleaned.

“And I got what I wanted too.” He kissed you gently while running a wet cloth over your body before he pulled away to look down at you with a smile.

“Still too tired to have our usual plans, my old man?” You giggled as he playfully rolled your eyes at him.

“If you must know, you’ve woke me up doll and I’m here for it.” Pedro gave you a wink before he pulled you in for a skin to skin hug that made you feel safe as always.

[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.

[stellatekintsugi]

Paul Mescal & Pedro Pascal

[inkeddaydream]

THE MUG, THE MYTH, THE MENACE

✦ Chapter One ✦

“Don't touch my fucking mug”

Pairing: Pedro Pascal (Writer AU) x Reader

Word Count: 4k

Warnings: Roommate tension, fluffy chaos, enemies-to-roommates-to-I-might-die-without-you, sticky notes of doom, Pedro being feral about his mug, mutual pining in soft sweaters, cinnamon-scented slow burn, feral internal monologues, emotional repression wearing flannel, and one hoodie-stealing menace with glitter on their cheeks

Summary: Pedro wasn't even looking for a roommate. You weren't even supposed to find the ad. But now you're here — singing to your plants, leaving cereal bowls in the sink, and calling him Grumpa Lumpa like it's your job. He tells himself he hates it. He tells himself not to look at you. Not to think about your laugh. Not to wonder what would happen if you ever touched his mug.

🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀

Pedro wasn't even looking for a roommate.

Not really.

He'd scribbled the ad on a napkin at a café that played too much soft jazz and charged extra for almond milk, mostly because the landlord had slipped a cheerful little note under his door that read "Friendly reminder: rent is increasing by 12% starting next month!" with a smiley face drawn beside it. Pedro had stared at the smiley face for a full thirty seconds before scrawling the words "Roommate Wanted — must not suck" on a napkin and pinning it to the community board out of pure spite.

Then he forgot about it.

Because Pedro — contrary to popular belief — did not thrive in chaos.

He was quiet. Particular. Lived in soft flannel and old corduroy pants. He wrote slowly, in longhand, in a notebook the color of stormclouds and the texture of worn leather. He was the type of man who had opinions about fountain pens and made his own soup stock on Sundays. He liked silence, good coffee, and the illusion that he was impossible to read. His friends (all three of them) often joked that Pedro was 73 in spirit and 47 in body, with the social drive of a particularly grumpy cat.

So when the knock came — three sharp raps on a Thursday morning — he assumed it was a package.

What he got instead was you.

Uninvited. Unapologetic. Unruly.

You stood in the hallway like the sun had personally endorsed you, dressed in mismatched socks and an oversized hoodie that said WITCHES DO IT BETTER across the chest. A cardboard box balanced in your arms, labeled IMPORTANT WITCH STUFF in aggressively pink Sharpie. Your hair was a mess. Your grin was brighter.

Pedro blinked like someone had thrown glitter in his eyes.

"Hi! I'm here about the roommate thing," you announced, shifting your weight as the box wobbled dangerously. "You're Pedro, right? This place is so cute. Very grumpy writer lives here alone with secrets and a dark past. Love the vibe."

Pedro stared at you. Slowly. Like maybe if he didn't blink, you'd disappear.

"You found the napkin ad," he said flatly.

"Yup," you beamed. "Also your neighbor let me in. The one with the schnauzer? Cutest dog I've ever seen. The neighbor was fine too, I guess."

And then, like it was nothing, you walked past him into his apartment like you already lived there.

Within five minutes — somehow — you did.

You moved like a storm wearing glitter. Dropped your box onto the kitchen counter, pointed to a corner of the living room, and declared it perfect for your "plant babies." You asked if he was okay with vines. You inspected the light quality by holding your palm up to the sunbeam like a tiny scientist. You opened two cupboards, sniffed once, then asked if he was a Virgo rising. (He wasn't. He didn't even know what that meant.)

"What's your sign, by the way?" you asked, flipping open your phone like you were about to run his entire astrological chart. "For roommate harmony, obviously."

"...Aries?"

"OHHH," you said ominously, like he'd just revealed he was secretly descended from Zeus. "That makes so much sense."

Pedro regretted everything.

Every decision that had led to this moment. The café. The napkin. That one time in 1994 when he didn't return a library book — it all led to this: you, now perched barefoot on the couch and asking if he had any sage to cleanse the hallway mirror.

You named the remote "the Wand of Power." You refused to acknowledge the coffee table until it was christened "The Throne of Snacks." You once set a bowl of water on the windowsill during the full moon and told him not to ask why. You wore glitter in your eyebrows on Tuesdays and brought home odd thrift store mugs with strange faces and insisted they "spoke to you."

You called him Grumpa Lumpa.

Every. Single. Day.

And Pedro hated it.

He hated your humming. Your ridiculous "morning affirmations" shouted into the bathroom mirror. He hated how your socks were never matching and your cereal bowls were never rinsed and your voice echoed through the apartment like a one-woman musical he never auditioned for.

Until — slowly, painfully — he didn't.

Until he started saving the strawberry Pop-Tarts because you liked those best. Until he caught himself waiting for your key in the lock at the end of the day. Until he found one of your sticky notes inside his notebook — a doodle of a ghost that said boo, you whore — and carried it in his wallet like a lunatic.

Until the quiet wasn't peaceful anymore.

Not without your singing. Or your snoring. Or the way you mumbled the names of your plants in your sleep like they were family.

Pedro was a writer. He was supposed to recognize when a story was becoming something else — something dangerous. He knew the signs. The shift in tone. The slow unraveling of the plot. The moment when a side character becomes the center of the page without permission.

You were the rewrite he never asked for.

But one night, he looked over at you — curled up on the couch with glitter on your cheeks, reading tarot cards for your cactus — and it hit him like a freight train:

He didn't want to write the next chapter without you.

Even if it meant his coffee mug would never be safe again.

Even if you always left the Throne of Snacks covered in crumbs.

Even if it meant one day, maybe soon...

He'd have to kiss you to shut you up.

And God help him...

He'd like it

🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀

The sticky notes started on a Tuesday.

Pedro opened the fridge with the same bleary-eyed precision he used every morning — one hand scratching the back of his neck, the other reaching blindly for his oat milk. He wasn't even awake yet, not really. Not until he saw it.

Slapped right over the carton in glittery purple ink:

This expired four days ago. I didn't want you to die. You're welcome. – Your Witchy Roommate

He blinked.

Then groaned.

Then rolled his eyes so hard it almost made his head hurt. He tossed the carton into the trash and muttered something about witches and expiration dates under his breath.

The apartment was quiet except for the soft hiss of the kettle starting to boil behind him. Through the kitchen window, the early morning sun bled pale and tired across the counter, illuminating the small constellation of herbal tea tins and potted plants you'd claimed like sacred territory. One of them had a tiny flag stuck in the soil that read: Sylvia Plath, Do Not Touch. Another had googly eyes.

He said nothing.

Just poured his coffee, grabbed a protein bar, and went to work.

The next morning, there was another.

This one was stuck to the mirror above the entryway table, crooked and confident:

Put your keys in the bowl like a normal human, Grumpa Lumpa.

Pedro stopped mid-step. He stared at it, keys still clutched in his fist. The bowl — your ridiculous, glitter-rimmed "scrying vessel" — sat patiently below the mirror, already holding your own jangly keychain, two loose safety pins, and what appeared to be a polished rock labeled EMOTIONAL SUPPORT STONE, DO NOT MOCK.

He sighed. Dropped his keys in with a clink. Didn't say a word.

On Friday, another appeared. Stuck right to the top of his closed laptop, as if daring him to open it:

If you're gonna write murder scenes at 2AM, maybe don't listen to "Murder Ballads" at full volume. My plant died of fear.

He snorted. Actually snorted.

Pedro wasn't even mad. Which was the worst part.

He'd expected to hate living with someone. Had planned on it. Had braced himself for shared spaces and clashing routines and awkward silences. But you... you were not awkward. You were the opposite of silence. You were a hurricane in fluffy pajama pants and mismatched socks who left glitter on the bathroom floor and mint tea rings on the windowsill.

You were noise and movement and colour. And for some unfathomable reason, the apartment had started to feel more alive.

You were driving him insane.

Not in the way roommates normally do. Not like the late dishes or the occasional clump of your hair in the shower drain. Not even your endless collection of crystals charging on every flat surface.

No — you were unraveling him in other ways.

The way you moved through the space like it belonged to you. The way you named things — your kettle was called Bernard. Your couch pillow? Marjorie. He found a sticky note once that simply read:

If Marjorie ends up on the floor again, we riot.

You left notes like breadcrumbs. Like spells.

And Pedro hated how much he noticed them.

You'd been living there three weeks when he realized, with a quiet kind of horror, that he knew your coffee order by heart.

Two pumps vanilla. Oat milk. No foam.

You hated bananas. You couldn't whistle. You once cried so hard during Up that he heard you hiccuping through the wall and debated offering you a tissue — but didn't. Because you always made a joke afterward, and he couldn't bring himself to interrupt that ritual.

Your plants were named after dead poets. Your laptop had a sticker that read My other ride is a broomstick. You collected mugs like other people collected parking tickets. And you always danced while you cooked, even if it was just ramen.

That same week, Pedro started writing again.

Not just outlining. Not notes. But real writing — the kind that lived in his bones and clawed at his chest at 3AM. He wasn't sure if it was you or the energy you carried with you, but the words started flowing again. Fast. Fierce. Alive.

He never told you. But he didn't need to. Because you felt it too.

Most nights, when the rest of the city was asleep, Pedro would lie awake and listen to you sing softly in the kitchen as you stirred your tea. Sometimes it was Fleetwood Mac. Sometimes Stevie Nicks. Once, it was a haunting lullaby in a language he didn't know. He never asked what it was. He just... listened.

And thought about the way your voice dipped when you said goodnight. The sleepy gravel in it. The intimacy of it. He thought about how once, you called him Pedro, soft and low, instead of Grumpa Lumpa — and it felt like someone had cracked something open in his chest.

He was in trouble.

He knew it the night he found you asleep on his side of the couch.

It was past midnight. He had come out of his room for water. The apartment was dark except for the glow of the TV — paused on some Studio Ghibli title screen. A half-eaten bowl of popcorn sat forgotten on the coffee table.

And there you were.

Curled into the cushions like a forest creature, all oversized sleeves and blanket burrito, the tip of your nose pink from the cold. You clutched a pillow like it was your last anchor on Earth. Your breathing was soft. Steady. You were wearing his hoodie.

Pedro froze.

Not because you looked ridiculous. But because you didn't.

You looked... safe. Peaceful. Like you belonged there.

And something inside him ached.

He hovered for too long. Told himself to go back to bed. But instead, he stepped forward slowly — quietly — and tugged a throw blanket over your knees. You stirred, murmured something unintelligible, and tucked your face deeper into the pillow.

He couldn't help it.

He reached out, fingers trembling, and brushed a strand of hair from your cheek. His knuckles lingered just above your skin before he pulled away like it burned.

Then he stood there. In the glow of the TV, in the hush of the apartment, just... staring. Like he didn't know how to leave.

The next morning, you found a note on your bedside lamp. It was crooked. Folded neatly. Written in his now-familiar black ink.

You left the living room light on. But you looked peaceful. Sleep well, moon girl.

You blinked at it. Smiled.

But there was another note underneath — folded twice, like it held state secrets.

You opened it, squinting in the morning light.

Don't touch my fucking coffee mug.

No smiley face. No signature. Just those six words.

You stood there, bare feet sinking into the rug, hair messy from sleep, and grinned.

Then you padded into the kitchen.

And touched it anyway.

🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀

Pedro wasn't in the kitchen when you touched it.

He'd gone out for groceries. Or maybe to escape. He hadn't said much when he left — just grabbed his jacket, mumbled something about needing oat milk, and disappeared down the stairwell with that tight line drawn across his jaw.

You knew that line well by now. It meant he was either thinking too much or trying not to think at all.

The apartment was quiet after he left. Quiet in the way that made your thoughts too loud. The kind of quiet that hung like steam after a hot shower — cloying and heavy and full of things you didn't want to name.

You were halfway through organizing your tea shelf when you spotted it.

The mug.

Matte black. Slightly chipped along the rim. The once-bold Rogue One logo now faded like a half-remembered dream. It sat on the counter like it belonged there more than you did — like it had history. Like it had witnessed things.

You knew better than to mess with it.

He'd warned you the first week — that same night you tried to rearrange the cupboard to fit your ridiculous collection of owl-shaped mugs and glitter-rimmed cauldron cups. You'd barely touched it before he'd appeared beside you, voice low and flat.

"The mug stays. You can rearrange anything else."

He said it like it was law. Like it was holy.

Which, naturally, meant that one day, you had to touch it.

Just... to see.

You weren't reckless about it. You picked it up carefully, like it might crack in your palm. Like it might whisper secrets. You turned it once, twice, letting the chipped edge catch the light. It was heavier than it looked. Warmer too, as if it had absorbed him — all his late nights and bitter coffee and quiet rage and unspoken longing.

Then, with a smirk tugging at the edge of your mouth, you set it down.

Not back in its usual spot.

No. You placed it directly beside your half-eaten strawberry Pop-Tart and your tin of moon-charged sleepy tea, just left of the selenite wand and embarrassingly close to your labeled jar of "emergency marshmallows."

Just to see what would happen.

The door opened not two minutes later.

Rain was still clinging to his shoulders when he stepped inside, hair damp and curling slightly at his temples. He had two canvas bags hanging from his fingers and a very specific kind of irritation etched across his face — the kind reserved for line-cutters and self-checkout machines.

Then his eyes flicked to the counter.

To the mug.

To you.

Back to the mug.

You froze for half a second, mid-stir of your tea. Then tilted your head, all false innocence. "What?"

Pedro's stare was volcanic.

"Did you move my mug?"

You blinked. "No."

"Liar."

"I was—uh—cleaning."

"You don't clean."

"I do clean. Sometimes. When the spirits compel me."

He took a step closer. "You moved my mug."

You mirrored the step. "What is with that mug, man? Did you win it in a duel? Does it hold your soul like a Horcrux? Did some mysterious woman give it to you on a misty Prague train platform and whisper, 'Only drink when it's real?'"

Nothing.

Not even a twitch of amusement.

Instead, Pedro looked at you with the calm precision of someone walking directly into a car crash. Slowly. Willingly. Hands in his pockets. Fire in his eyes.

"Don't touch that mug again."

You felt it. The shift. Like gravity tilting.

The distance between you shrank without either of you moving. The rain hit the window in quiet rhythms. The fridge hummed behind you, the kettle whistled faintly, and somewhere in the walls, an old pipe groaned — but all you heard was him.

All you saw was the way he looked at you like he was starving.

Like the mug wasn't what he really wanted to protect.

You swallowed and lifted your chin. "Or what?"

That's when he stepped forward.

Not with speed. Not with anger.

But with intent.

Heavy. Measured. Like he was deciding something dangerous in real time.

You didn't move. Didn't blink. Just stood there and breathed him in — soap and rain and the faintest trace of bergamot.

"Don't push me," he said, quiet and steady, like a man trying to hold onto the last thread of self-control.

You smiled, slow and wicked. "Not even a little?"

He swore. Low and sharp.

Set the grocery bags down like they were the last tether to reason. Ran a hand over his mouth. Over his jaw. Like he could physically wipe the thoughts away. Like he hadn't been imagining this — you — for days.

Weeks.

Since the first sticky note.

Since the first "Grumpa Lumpa."

Since you rearranged his apartment, his routines, and then — somehow — him.

You turned, every inch of your body singing with the tension you'd just lit like a fuse.

You made it three steps toward the hallway.

And then—

"One day," Pedro said behind you, voice low and raw and true,

"I'm gonna touch you back."

You stopped.

Dead still.

The world narrowed to a pinpoint of silence, like even the apartment was holding its breath.

You didn't turn.

Didn't say a word.

You just stood there, heart galloping beneath your ribs, a thousand tiny fires crackling behind your ribs — and you smiled.

Because finally—

Finally.

The mug had done its job.

🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀

It doesn't happen right away.

No, Pedro avoids you for three full days after the mug incident — like a goddamn coward.

He's not slick about it, either. He starts leaving the apartment suspiciously early, like the grocery store opens at dawn for men with romantic crises. He comes home late, shoulders tight, hair windblown, smelling like rain and guilt. You catch glimpses of him moving through rooms like a ghost — all heavy footsteps and unfinished thoughts. Like he's afraid of accidentally brushing against you. Like you might combust on contact.

When he does speak, it's clipped. Hollow. One-word replies that don't quite mask the way his jaw clenches every time you walk into the room in his hoodie.

You find him reorganizing the spice rack one night like it's a code he's trying to crack — as if if he just lines up the turmeric and cumin just right, he won't be tormented by the memory of your voice saying, "Not even a little?"

It's excruciating.

You pretend not to notice. You try to play it cool. You even go as far as alphabetizing your tea stash in an attempt to reclaim your own chill.

But on the fourth day, something inside you cracks.

It's raining again — because of course it is — and you're curled on the couch in a nest of blankets, Pedro's hoodie engulfing you like armor. Your knees are pulled to your chest, your spoon clinking faintly against a mixing bowl of cereal, and Atlantis: The Lost Empire plays softly from the TV in front of you.

You're on autopilot.

Emotionally adrift.

And that hoodie? That hoodie smells like cedarwood and him and whatever warmth you keep trying not to miss.

Then — the door opens.

He steps in, rain-drenched and grim-faced. Water clings to the edges of his curls. His boots thump against the wood floor with deliberate weight, like each step is trying to drown out the noise in his own head. His jacket is soaked, slung over one shoulder. He doesn't meet your gaze.

But he sees you.

He always sees you.

You don't say a word. Don't ask him where he's been. Don't point out the fact that you paused the movie after every key scene, hoping the door would open.

You just lift the remote without looking, set it on the cushion beside you, and tilt your head in silent invitation — the spot beside you, open.

Waiting.

He hesitates.

There's a flicker in his eyes — fear, maybe. Or want. Or something hungrier than both. Then he walks over.

And sits.

Close.

Not touching. But close enough that your knees nearly brush. Close enough to feel the ghost of his body heat radiating through the fabric of his jeans. Close enough that every breath you take feels somehow shared.

Neither of you speaks.

The rain drums gently on the windows. The credits roll, soft and blue-lit. You feel the hush between you stretch — not awkward, not tense. Thick. Weighted. Full of things unsaid and almost said and all the words that got caught behind clenched teeth and coffee mugs.

You take another bite of cereal.

He sighs — quiet, almost imperceptible — and leans back.

Thirty minutes pass like that.

Then an hour.

The room is a cathedral of silence.

The TV screen fades to black.

And finally, in a voice rough with disuse, like it's been buried in his chest for days, he says:

"You still think I'm grumpy?"

You blink. Look over. His gaze is already on you — warm, worn, unreadable.

You nod, casually. "Grumpa Lumpa status confirmed."

There's a breath — a pause — then the smallest curve of his mouth.

Not a smile.

Not yet.

But close.

"I didn't mean to avoid you," he murmurs. His voice is lower now, like confessional gravel. "I just... didn't trust myself not to touch you."

The spoon stops halfway to your lips.

Your heart stumbles.

The bowl lands gently on the coffee table. Your fingers flex, suddenly too aware of the space between you — that single, sharp line of distance that had once felt safe and now feels like a prison.

You shift, just slightly, and say, voice softer than you mean it to be:

"Maybe... that's not such a bad thing."

He doesn't blink.

Doesn't move.

But something in his eyes fractures — like a dam giving way.

"You touched the mug," he says, and you swear his voice is trembling.

"You said not to," you whisper back.

"I warned you."

You smile, lips dry. "And I warned you back."

A beat.

A breath.

Then — movement.

Not rushed.

Not tentative.

Just inevitable.

He shifts closer, hand brushing yours. The contact is featherlight, but it lands like lightning. His fingers trail up your arm, around the back of your neck, pulling you gently — like gravity — into his orbit.

And then, he kisses you.

It's not polite.

It's not cautious.

It's raw.

It's every withheld breath, every repressed look, every sticky note and awkward silence and mug-shaped metaphor crashing into one perfect, shattering moment.

You gasp against his mouth, hands sliding up his chest.

He pulls you in tighter, arms wrapping around your waist like he's afraid you might vanish. His mouth moves against yours like it means something — like it's an answer to every unspoken question you ever tossed his way with a wink and a half-laugh.

His breath is hot at your temple when he breaks just enough to speak.

"You have no idea..." he rasps, lips brushing your jaw, "...how long I've wanted to do this."

You exhale a laugh, eyes fluttering open. "You should've led with that. Instead of mug threats."

He chuckles — low, breathy, and full of disbelief. Like he can't believe this is real. Like he's been dreaming of you on this couch, in his arms, for weeks.

His forehead presses against yours. "I'm gonna touch you again."

It's a vow.

A declaration.

A promise whispered against the curve of your cheek.

You grin, dizzy and high on the moment.

"I'm counting on it."

And in the echoing silence of a rain-soaked apartment, two hearts finally stop waiting

🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀

[brnesblogposts]

wired autocomplete interview!

(repost)

pairing: pedro pascal x fem!reader

a/n: this is my first like irl au, i kinda rushed it just ‘cause I’ve had this idea in my head for so long and I couldn’t relax until I got it out. Also I haven’t written in AGES and it feels so good to do it! I hope you like it! I definitely plan on doing more Pedro x reader irl au’s ‘cause there definitely aren’t enough!

reblog if you enjoy it, thank you :))

—————————-

“Hey everyone, i’m Pedro Pascal” Pedro said enthusiastically. “And i’m Y/N Y/L/N” you stated with a smile. To be quite frank, you were a nervous wreck. This was, after all, your first interview of many, considering this movie was your first big role.

“We’re here to do the Wired Autocomplete Interview!” Both you and Pedro gave your best attempt at talking in unison, you were trying your best to keep your nerves at bay, trying the tip your best friend gave you and imagining everyone in the studio in their underwear. It wasn’t working. You scrapped that idea. On with the interview!

Pedro received the first board of questions, tearing away a strip of paper, “How old is Pedro Pascal?” he looked straight into the camera and deadpanned. “Pedro Pascal is ageless” you blurted out before he could cook up a response himself. He turned to you and laughed, “She’s right. I am ageless!” You both smiled at each other as he moved onto the next question.

“How did Pedro Pascal get into acting?” You listened attentively as he started to explain how his career got started. “(…) Yeah so that’s my story, there are definitely actors out there with more interesting origin stories than me” You slapped his arm lightly “Don’t sell yourself short” you sneered at him, he probably doesn’t know how much you look up to him and have since you were a teenager.

After a few more questions Pedro was done with the board, now it was your turn. You started peeling back the slip of paper, “Who is Y/N Y/L/N’s role model?” Pedro started staring at you, looking around the room and putting his finger on his chin as if he was deep in thought, you started laughing at his comedic act. “Definitely this guy called Pedro Pascal, don’t know if you’ve heard of him” you declared, “Aww, isn’t she sweet!” Pedro put his hands to his heart and pouted, “I love my fans” He said as he wiped a fake tear, you wacked him with the board.

“Who is Y/N Y/L/N dating?” Was the next question on the board, rather intrusive you thought, that’s nobodies business except your own. You struggled to find words to answer this one and it was causing your anxiety to flare up. “It’s none of your business!” Your head turned to see Pedro staring into the camera, he answered on your behalf and you appreciated it, he turned to you and smiled, reassuring you. You whispered a thank you under your breath and he nodded.

The third board was Pedro’s again, and he started peeling the slip of paper away, “Where is Pedro Pascal from?” It said. “CHILEE!!!!” He screamed “I’m from Chile.” He stated matter of factly, “As you can see he’s very proud” you responded to his antics. “I should take you to visit, you’d love it!” His offer caught you off guard but you kept your cool. “I might just take you up on that offer” and you swear you could see a smirk.

“Where did Pedro Pascal meet Y/N Y/L/N?” You had to think on this one, where did you meet Pe- “The first time we met was at an after party for a movie premier of a friend of mine, she’d just got into the industry and my friend told me he’d heard Y/N had auditioned for the movie I was gonna be in. I approached her and she freaked out” You punched him, he started laughing, “Yeah she was like obsessed with me or somethi- OW?!” You had pinched him in an attempt for him to shut up, this is not the kind of information you need to be ridiculed by for rest of your career. “Okay, okay..” he reprimanded “Yeah, so- after our initial meeting we started talking and got one really well, now she always calls me an old man so I don’t really think it was worth it” he joked. You both insulted each other, but it was in a best friend sort of way. Yes he was considerably older than you but he was a child at heart and so were you. When you were together it was dangerous.

Finally, after a few more questions you got to the last one. “Are Pedro Pascal and Y/N Y/L/N dating?” Why are people so nosy? You thought. Pedro answered professionally as not to misinform and start a whole internet drama, “We are not, we’re just best friends. Although, if anyone IS planning on dating her then you should know I’ve been going to the gym. Break her and i break you.” He said in a serious tone, in his defence he had been working out. The best he could, anyway.. bad back and all. “Yeah what he said! Except that last part- I didn’t tell him to do that, don’t let him scare you! And I’m not looking for anything right now, just focusing on my career!” You aren’t lying, you are focusing on your blossoming career, but you also couldn’t possibly date anyone considering you had a massive crush on the man sitting next to you. But that secret was for another day.

The interview ended and you took a deep breathe you’d been holding in. “You did so good!” Pedro exclaimed and hugged you, “I’m so proud of you” He knew you were dreading this interview, but you made it through it and now you could go back to your hotel room, order room service and watch Narcos with Pedro, (against his will but who cares!).

[harryleatherfit]

Downtown🥃4.8k

Javier Peña x Brat Bartender Fem! Reader

based off of this request ||

also a 50 follower milestone🍋

Working at a bar in downtown Medellín, a biker gang comes in for their usual drink, and your boss has called someone in to help you with drinks. Nico, the head of the gang doesn’t like another man around you… but little does he know that you’re little friend Javier Peña is taking care of you elsewhere.

warnings: mentions of gangs, mentions of men abducting women, SHITTY TRANSLATED SPANISH, alcohol consumption, smoking, brat, brat tamer (if you squinttt) heightened senses, fucking in public, p in v (uncovered but pulls out), oral f receiving

word count: 4.8K

authors note: i don’t know any spanish, so i really hope my translate app had my back on this one 🍀🍀 also im rewatching narcos and myyyy god i need to write more javier LIKE CMONNN

taglist: @beefrobeefcal

One Shot Playlist

Lust for Life- Lana Del Ray

Solid Liquid Gas- Eartheater

Stereo Love- Edward Maya & Vika Jigulina

🪩Main Master List🪩

Running late to your shift at the club, per usual. You didn’t know how you always managed to at least run 5 minutes late, but tonight you were making sure you looked at least somewhat presentable.

Your boss had let you know that someone else was also coming in to help you at the bar, tonight was when a motorcycle group would come in and spend the entirety of the night, drinking their lives away.

You didn’t mind any of the men, but you needed the extra help with serving them, along with any other college kids or any other people that were gonna drink the night away. The club you worked at was specifically known for its nightlife.

Working in Medellin has been the best experience of your life. The city was beautiful, and by working at the club downtown, you soaked in every bit you could get. You became a people person and your anxiety of being alone had subsided, when your boss had hired you, he saw potential, and he knew he was doing right by hiring you.

You didn’t know what other business your boss was getting into, but you figured this club was a coverup. You never asked any questions, but you figured that’s what he liked most about you. But sincerely it wasn’t your place to care. You never knew if he was rolling around with the police or the cartels, all you knew was that he was a respected man, and it didn’t really matter as long as he paid you well.

Late at night, when you had to close, your boss would tell you to leave early, as he had some ‘business to deal with’ but you never got to see with who. Maybe one day you’d get to see, but for now you had to fucking sprint into the back of the bar to clock in.

You open the door back in an alleyway, wafting a draft of club air- humid and loud. You duck into the dark staff room quickly setting your stuff down and getting your work clothes on, not caring possibly what you could look like now, as long as your hair and makeup stayed intact. Rushing past the cooks, saying hi instead asking how everyone's day was, to finally getting to the door to burst behind the bar. Immediately, he bumps into you.

“Fuck sorry.” He gasps, whiskey bottles in hand. He gets a good look at you and stops to make sure you’re okay.

You realize this isn’t just someone your boss called in, he fucking called in Javier Peña, the DEA agent. You knew who he was, you thought you were pretty out of the loop from what was happening in Columbia, but everyone knew who this man was. Face of every newspaper with his partner.

“You’re okay,” You stutter, “Sorry I’m late.”

“Javier.” He sets a bottle down to shake your hand.

“I know who you are.” You tell him your name, analyzing what the bar looks like, checking out to see how busy the club was. You didn’t think about it until now, but you had seen Javier in the bar late at night a while ago with your boss, tucked away in the corner. This is who he does business with.

“Nice to meet you, Manny just wanted me to tell you that you can leave early tonight and I’ll close.” He rasps over the loud music.

“So you’re who he does business with, didn’t think it’d be with you.” You look at him innocently, but once you mention anything about business his whole demeanor changes. You look down to his waist band and see a gun.

“And why's that?” He asks, tilting his head. He’s only known you a solid minute and he’s already feisty.

“I don’t know, he’s quite reserved.” You blink, “And Manny’s, well Manny.”

He tuts with his mouth, “I think he’s doing business with the right man, no?” His lips purse into a frown.

“Well I’m at least pleased it’s with you and not the latter, if that makes you happy.” You answer. “But I would suggest you’re not only here to help me tonight, you’re here to find someone.”

“You’re smart, we’re off to a good start then princess.” He chuckles, “These drinks won’t make themselves.” All you can do is stare at him, at least you’re in good company, he can protect you if anything potentially went wrong tonight.

You go to the line, already seeing that he had set up for you, you look out to the room and college kids are already losing their face, the looks of ecstasy filling their bodies. He must’ve made countless drinks before you had gotten there, at least he knows what he’s doing.

“Manny, tell you about that bike gang coming in tonight?” And then it dawned on you, as he shifted toward you with a different expression than before, Jaiver’s here for them, or for someone.

“Yes he did, they’ve come in before.” You look at him, “Thats what you’re looking for?”

“Possibly.” His low base refracts out, “Just have to confirm something.”

You pause, inhaling your surroundings, patching out a deep patchouli and cashmere. It was so intoxicating you could believe you were still standing, you look to your side and Javier’s grabbing his jacket to put on.

You now realize how tall he is, his smell, his leather jacket. He pulls out a lighter and pack of smokes, his low rise jeans with his boots. Who really was this man?

“What?” He smirks.

“Nothing.” You shake your head, waking you up from your daydream, going to the line to take some orders. This man was more than you expected, you only had to work with him for a couple more hours and then you could go home. It wasn’t that you didn’t dislike him immediately, but his presence was so domineering, being around him you felt no power and it scared you.

He pours a few drinks “What's someone like you doing here, don’t think you quite belong here princess..” He pulls out a cigarette, popping it in his mouth so he can work and smoke dually.

“And who says I don’t belong here? You?” You edge on. Your eyes keep wondering to his gun.

He stares at you, not knowing how to respond. Tension already filling you both.

“I don’t know sweetheart, “ He pours, “Surrounded by a world of trouble. Men that do unspeakable things to women, any moment the wrong man could come in and see you…”

“And that’s why I have you tonight.” You smile, you point at his gun, and looks at your fingers, “Please Javier, I’d do just fine without you.”

You had never thought about it that way, not in the cartel way, but you were always aware of your surroundings working in a prominent man's workplace. You were aware of everything 24/7, that was your job for Manny.

He nods his head, your short response shutting him up. The conversation ended and you both continued making drinks, serving customers, closing out tabs.

“How long have you been in Columbia? You’re Amerian no?” You ask.

“Couple years, trying to catch the son of bitch Escobar, not gonna tattle on me are you?” He puffs out.

You simmer, each word he lets out heats you up, a raving fire petrifying a forest in your lower stomach. If you had skin contact with him, you’d faint.

You laugh, “No, unless you gave me a reason to. Finish those drinks Javier.”

He huffs, the lights of the club are making his face glow, you dance around each other, grabbing more bottles of alcohol. Lining cups and cutting limes. You get closer to him, “Do you like Columbia?”

“Yes,” His voice drops closer to your ear, “Las mujeres son otra cosa.” [Women are something else]

“Just the women, nothing else?”

“Nothing else.”

“¿Por qué nada más? Not your job? ¿Ni siquiera tu pareja? Murphy right?” [Why nothing else] [Not even your partner?]

“That little shithead? Si, Murphy.”

“He’s good no, I’ve heard some of the women around here talk about how good he fucks.”

“Sweetheart, that's where you’re wrong, mistaking him for me.”

“Really? I doubt that.” You bite, anything to rile him up. Of course you’ve heard how could Javier Pena can fuck, you’ve heard it around town, from your girl friends he’s a man whore. But how good really was he? Watching the battle in his dominant head made your stomach churn.

He closes in on you behind the table, “And who have you fucked?” Such a dirty question coming from his mouth, damping your panties, staying away from any professional decency at all. If you could in front of all these people you would jump his dick immediately, but you had a job to do.

“C’mon princess, you can tell me. Who have you fucked?”

Momentarily after you hesitate your response, his body is so close to yours you could feel the buckle of his jeans rest on your stomach. You’re backed behind the pivot of the wall where little to no people could see you. “If you’re too shy, I promise I don’t bite, this can go on all night sweetheart.”

You take this moment to grind against him, taking the risk to feel his bulge, tension never feeling this good. You didn’t want to be any ordinary fuck to Javier, you wanted to fuck him up so he could never go back. All he does is stare down at you, not believing what is happening.

“I’m not shy Javier, I’m hungry.” You whisper, tip toeing to his ear. You slither the cigarette from his hands, taking a drag. The burn breaks you alive, you move toward his mouth, locking lips and blowing the smoke into his mouth. He catches on and sucks it all in, his chocolate doe eyes never letting go of yours. The smoke flows through his nostrils, not ever has smoking ever been this erotic in your life. You needed more.

In the corner of the tiny room, you see a group of men walk through the doors, instantly knowing it’s the biker men. They were all wearing leather jackets, every single one of them covered in tattoos, every single one of them snaking through the crowd to come sit at the bar. Before you leave the secretive crevice he grabs your arm

“This isn’t over sweetheart, starting something don’t think you can finish.”

“I’ll finish, Javier.”

“Mi amor, you’re here again!” Nico, the head of the group greets you. He never failed to say hi to you when they came in, engaging with you was a task for him, every time he would drag a conversation with you. Trying to lure you to go out with him after you got off. He was your best tipper so you couldn’t complain, and he wasn’t horrible looking but you truly had no interest, it was all fun and play.

“Yes Nico, I’m always here.” You shake your head, “Absinthe and ginger ale?”

“You always know.” He laughs, taking off his jacket. All of his friends join them and Javier goes to take their orders.

“Hey sugar, why don’t you introduce me to your friend over there?” He taps his fingers on the table. This catches Javi’s attention looking over, a wave of goosebumps swallows your body, based off of his look this is exactly who he was looking for.

“And what’s your name..” Nico wisps out.

“Chandler.” He lies, you look at him, his eyes enlarge, shh.

“Well Chandler, serve me and my guys, don’t make my girl too busy I wanna talk to her.”

Nothing too new, just sweet talk Nico, fill him up to the brim with alcohol, swipe his card and take the cash he gives you.

Javier locks contact with you, but you set your stuff down, batting your eyelashes at Nico, this’ll teach our pretty boy.

“How’ve you been Nico? What have you and the boys been up to since I’ve last seen you.”

“Ahora cariño no puedo decirte que.” [Now, honey, you know I can’t tell you that] He smirks. Nico never told you what he did, but all you knew was that his group drove motorcycles around town together. Putting two and two together, it would make sense why Javier had a suspicion about them, either way they may know Pablo.

You take control, “But a guy like you needs to distress, have fun, dance everything off.”

“That’s why I’m here baby, how about your little friend here takes care of everything tonight and we leave together?”

Javier had been listening the whole time, Nico’s friend telling him their orders. You can feel his energy get stronger towards you, he lightly touches you, grabbing drinks in the fridge beneath your waist. You twitched and almost yelped, but you had to stay calm. Instead, but just for Javier, you arch your back. Hunching over the counter top to get closer to Nico, whispering something in his ear and he laughs. You wanted to see what kind of reaction that would get out of him.

You wiggle your ass, knowing it’ll piss off Javier, your low waist Rock Revival jeans accentuating every curve of your ass.

You told Nico, that Chandler's new and you had to train him tonight, little boy doesn't know what he’s doing. That got a kick out of him.

“Something I’m missing?” Javi asks.

“No, Chandler.” You giggle, “But you ruined my night with my sweet sweet Nico.” You pout at him, his face pouting like a lion, hungry. You’ve passed your line with him.

“One second sweetheart, we’re out of limes.” Javier goes to the back of the kitchen, doors closing behind him, fucking take that Javier.

Nico continues to ask about your day, his friends introduce themselves and you continue to sweeten up Nico. No harm no foul, he would eventually reach over to touch your hair that was french braided, complimenting your braiding skills. You make a couple more drinks and the business of the bar dies down, everyone on the dance floor having their fill of alcohol for the night.

You were starting to wonder why getting limes was taking so long, and you look down in the fridge and realize there's a whole bucket of them, where had he gone?

Before your eyes flash, he sneaks up behind you, but not standing, he’s on his knees so no one can see him. Thankfully Nico was busy talking to his friends so he didn’t notice that your attention was elsewhere.

“What the fuck are you doing Javier? You’ve been gone for minutes.” You whisper.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said earlier, and you are gonna fucking finish.” He growls.

You gasp as he grabs your legs closer to him, as he’s leaning against the fridge, the space between you and the table encloses and you are really leaning against the table now.

He lingers his hands around the hem of your jeans, you stare at him in awe that he’s touching you right there.

“Can I touch you?”

“Right here? Javi, what if someone sees what if someone from the kitchen comes in?”

“I don’t fucking care, tell me now.”

It felt like there was no option, but he was giving you an option. His fingers were touching your zipper slipping down to your crotch, your body going rigid.

“Fuck,” You close your eyes, “Javi… fuck… do what ever you… want.. just be careful.”

Slowly he unzips your jeans, you catch your breath quickly scanning the bar to see if anyone could see you right now. At any moment if anyone lingered for too long or had the perfect eyesight of seeing Javier down below, they could see. You grab the edge of the bar, now holding on and not able to see what he’ll do next.

You don’t care what he’ll do to you, you wanted him to do this to you, you felt the fire fuel inside your stomach. The rush of him undoing you in public made your brain melt.

“Where’d your little friend go?” Nico turns to you for attention again.

“I think in the back to get more limes, he’ll… be out soon.”

You could hear Javier slightly chuckle, as he slowly pulls down your jeans. Your breath staggers, you can’t control how your body reacts to his touch.

“Oh baby, I do wish you could come home with me tonight, I could show you around and we could have a nice drink. Wouldn’t you like that?”

“Nico.. I… hmm… that would be nice,” You laugh, “But I am really tired, how about next week?” Knowing you, this would never actually happen, just to get him off for the night, you had bigger matters on your hands.

Now Javi has your jeans slipped down slightly past your ass, your panties out clear as day in front of him, you weren’t wearing anything special, but also nothing too bad.

You hear him chuckle, you can feel his fingers dance across your mound, reaching around to grab your ass, feeling his breath on your stomach.

“Sugar, we’re all leaving on a business trip to America next week, how about the next?”

“You know where to find me then.” You smirk.

After exploring your ass, Javi slips your panties to the side, stuffing his fingers beneath you. They slipped easily through your pussy lips, your wetness pulling him in. When he had you pushed against the wall, you were already a puddle for him, and now you were dripping on his fingers.

For not being able to see anything he’s doing, your senses were hyper. Making sure no one could see you, especially Nico. The thought of being caught turned you on, but possibly what could’ve happened if you were caught?

“Is that boy giving you any trouble? He seemed like a real fucker when he was making our drinks, I feel like I’ve seen him around before…”

Instantly you feel Javier tense below you, he’s had your legs held in his arms for a couple minutes now, but his fingers are rubbing back and forth through you went cunt, you’ve never done this before, but he knows exactly what he's doing. He pushes his thumb up just a little bit, to lay on top of your clit. Your throat can’t conceal your yelp, but thankfully the music was loud enough, no one would hear you.

“Chandler? Oh he’s no harm, he’s a little slow, but he’s kind.”

Kind? Javier was the opposite of kind.

“I’ll fucking show you slow.” You hear him whisper.

Not being able to see him is driving you crazy, you're tapping your fingers on the table and Nico goes to kiss your hands, you laugh it off but then you feel something wet touch you, not just his fingers on you now, it’s his tongue.

He kisses your pussy, from your mound down to your clit. He moved his thumb so he could suck your needy nub. What the hell is going through this man's mind?

“And he’s not trying to touch you now is he?”

Your heart jumped, Javier paused.

“What do you mean?” You stutter. Were you both caught?

“C’mon baby, is he trying to take what’s mine?” Nico frowns.

Whew.

“If he was, I’d tell you.” You giggle, not only at how stupid Nico was, but at Javier's tongue beginning to pick up speed on your clit after the little scare. You move your hips on his face, trying to relieve anything. You wanted to touch him, hold onto his hair to ride his face, but simply you had to stand there and act normal. His mustache was brushing against your skin, the burn making you more wet.

Breathing got ten times harder, thinking properly wasn’t a choice right now. You took a chance to look down and see him attached to your pussy, not able to say anything, undoing you in front of hundreds of people, his nose deep into your stomach.

As you watched in awe, he brought back his hand, lifting under your sidened panties, and he pushed his fingers up into you. Your jaw goes slack, not able to handle both at the same time. You really hope Nico would just stay distracted for an eternity.

Javier picks up the pace again, his fingers feeling like an automatic sex toy, never stopping. You couldn’t take the pace, his tongue dancing with your clit too, your eyes were about to roll to the back of your head.

You were close, but you were so scared you would give everything away, if you let yourself come, you would never be able to stop. Was this Javier testing you, to see how good you could be?

“Ok well sugar, we have to go now, I’m looking forward to seeing you in a couple weeks.” He winks. He ruffles through his wallet, slapping down 500$ in cash, at least 400 of it was for you to pocket.

“Here baby, some money to buy you something pretty, yeah?”

“Thank.. Thank you Nico, you're.. You’re so generous.”

“Don’t need to stutter for me baby, it’s all for you, only ever for you.” He kisses your wrist and gets up to leave. His friends follow him, and you lean your head on the bar, easing the howling in your stomach. Javier wouldn’t stop until you collapsed.

“He’s gone, Javier. They’re gone.” You shriek, trying to draw no attraction to the bar.

He slowly gets up, the light illuminating his wet mouth. You were so close to cumming all over his face, you were close to crumbling down on top of him, but you had to show him that you were strong and you couldn't break.

“You liked that huh? You liked that I was tongue fucking your pussy in front of that little cock sucker. Pussy’s a fuckin whore you know that. Could feel you soaking me up,” He wipes his mouth “Sweeter than candy, and he’ll never get a taste.”

“You don’t think I’ll let him suck my fucking pussy in front of hundreds of people?”

He takes you back to the hidden wall, slamming you against it.

“You think I'd let you? Think I’ll let a man that fucking dirty touch you? You’re wrong sweetheart, take his fucking money but I won’t let you go anywhere near him again.” He growls in your ear. He leaves you and you watch him, your jeans are still unzipped open, leaning against the wall.

He rumages for a lime in the fridge, walking back to you behind the secret wall, bringing the fruit to your mouth, “Bite.” He demands.

You shake your head, smirking. It was just a game with Javier.

Then he shoves the lime into your mouth, so citrusy but keeping you quiet. He roughly turns you around so you’re facing the wall, your jeans are still off your ass, and he starts to undo his. The metal of his belt touches your back, the hairs on your back lifting.

“Gonna be a fucking brat, or listen to me and when I tell you do to something?”

You moan, yes I’ll fucking listen you had to say. You’d always listen to Javier. Instead you shake your head for him.

“Pretty girl can’t fuckin talk, that’s what you get for being a fuckin slut. Like being a fucking little slut for me huh baby?”

You moan loud, not afraid anymore with the decibels of the music blazing through the club. Nobody in the world would give a fuck if they saw you two anymore. It was just you and Javier now. All you wanted was to whore yourself out for Javier, only his fucking whore. Let him use you how he’d like.

“Never seen such a perfect cunt like yours, mean it.” He gasps, he pulls his jeans down just enough to get his cock out of his boxers. From what you could see in your peripheral and being turned around from him, his dick looked long. Your heart sank and you didn’t know if you could take all of it.

“Don’t get shy on me now baby, it’ll be okay. You can be as loud as you want, no one will ever know.” He groans. He takes his hand off of holding you against the wall to pump himself a couple times “I wish you could see you fucking pussy right now, so pretty and glistening for me.”

You feel his cock nestle against your entrance and your body freezes up, his dick is so big, you panties have to stay on the side of your leg.

The whole night you’ve wanted this, since the moment you’ve met Javier, you needed him. He slips his dick in and you both relax at the new feeling, groaning at how full you are. He moves, you bite the lime stronger and the juices smear all over your face.

“When I first saw you sweetheart, I knew I needed to feel you, I knew deep down I needed fuck this fucking cunt.” He fucks up into hard. You shriek at the new pace. “That’s it, dirty fuckin whore for takin my cock out in the open, splitting you wide for the public.” He kisses your neck, down to your chest. You wanted to kiss him back, wanted your lips around him.

All you can do in groan and control where your arms are. He holds one leg in his hand, now slightly having you bent over the wall. He goes at you again, adjusting his stance so he can fit inside you better, but not only is he fucking you, he moved his hands around your stomach to hold you up, holding you like you’re his.

“What a fucking brat… talking to dirty men.” He seethes, “But I think you liked it… I saw your ass bent out, you knew what you were doing. Fucking whore for teasin me… knew what you wanted all along.”

Aside from the music you can hear your pussy breaking from his cock, your eyes fill with tears from how bad you want to come around his dick. His weight on you felt like the world was crashing on you, and you wanted more. You wanted to be alone to do more, but this was all was given to you.

No matter what, the thought of being caught while he was about to come, or you were made you more wet, the inability to stop what you were doing but a whole scene of people at the club seeing you get fucked like a fucking whore. You loved it, the thrill, the passion in your bodies, the feeling of no embarasement because Javier was proud to fuck you like this. All you wanted was to tease Javier, make him upset. Prolonging another punishment.

His scent and the cold of his leather jacket kept you alive, but if it wasn't for that you’d immediately fall to the floor, crumbling from the inside of his dick. When he would fuck you, cock kissing your pussy, you could feel the metal of his gun hitting your lower leg, you weren’t scared but protected.

Repeatedly thinking about being caught, you feel yourself tighten around him, not knowing where else to move or think. You moan as loud as you can, about to break every particle of the wall you’re resting on.

“Fuck… that’s it baby… come all over me… pussy’s so tight. I can feel… fuck…let go perfect girl let the whole crowd see.”

You stop thinking, you just let go. No matter where anyone in the world was, you wish they could feel this feeling, how every amount of stress flew away. Every ration of thought eased and your pussy craved more. You wanted to be fucked all night long by Javier, it’s what you were made for.

“Greedy fuckin cunt, swallowing me whole.” He whimpers. “Don’t think I can last longer baby…”

No matter what you lose all cognitive function and fall into his arms, he fucks your orgasm through and you’re unable to process how fast he was going, eventually pulling out so he wouldn’t come in you. He flips you around on the wall so you can finally see and he quickly finds a rag so he can come, before you close your eyes you sag against the wall, slipping to the floor. You can feel that your underwear is beyond stretched out, ripped partially but you don’t care. Evidence from tonight that you would remember for forever.

You watch him grunt, pumping himself until he spurts. You would do anything for that white liquid to be inside you, but it’s for the best.

Once he’s done, he throws the rag to the side, and slides against the wall next to you, he holds you tight again, compressing the aftershocks in your body to his. He takes the lime out of your mouth and you almost forgot it was there, you see your bite marks, realizing that if it was his hand you would’ve drawn blood. You slump against him still hidden in the club.

“I was.. Wrong… Javier Pena… can fuck.” You whisper.

He laughs, “I didn’t think fucking in public with a pretty girl like you would ruin me.” He kisses your temple.

You grab onto his leather jacket, “Better tell Murphy you unlocked a new kink.”

“Nu-uh, gonna keep you from Murphy, my fuckin trophy girl.”

[meet-me-backstage]

༺ 🐑 ༻

𝐎𝐟 𝐃𝐮𝐬𝐭, 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐨

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐓𝐰𝐨

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 ☼ Rancher!Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 ☼ You, a headstrong—bubbly ranch-hand, form a close bond with the reserved ranch-owner, Joel Miller, through two seasons of hard work, warmth, and unspoken longing. You leave to chase your dream, but circumstance brings Joel back into your life. A storm rolls over your land, something between you stirs—unresolved and waiting to burst.

𝑭𝒍𝒖𝒇𝒇, 𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒔𝒕, 𝒔𝒎𝒖𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂 𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒚 𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈!

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ☼ a no outbreak au loosely inspired by Far From The Madding Crowd but it’s set in modern day/Texas, rancher!Joel (🥵), protective!Joel, grumpy x sunshine, bad language, light angst, mention of vomit & there’s blood after an incident with a hammer, age gap (reader is in her 20s & Joel is in his 50s), kinda slowburny, unresolved feelings (until they aren’t hehe), yearrrrrning and SMUUUUT so you must be 18+ to read this story‼️

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐓𝐰𝐨 ☼ 7.2K

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐓𝐰𝐨 ☼ bad language, smutty thoughtssss on paper (🤭), light angst, alleged ghosting (letter edition), unresolved feelings, allusion to a pet’s death, yearning n jealousy.

A/N: The letters in this part include crossed out parts like this… they are what both reader and Joel wrote but crossed out so the other couldn’t see!!

𝐋𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲! 𝐈𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐮𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐈 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐚 ‘𝐎𝐟 𝐃𝐮𝐬𝐭, 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬 & 𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐨’ 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭! <𝟑

⇜ 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐎𝐧𝐞



‘Joel,

You’ll never believe it — I made it. The ranch is mine. Mine for real. My name’s on the papers and the land — the mailbox out front too. I know you probably figured I would, after how much I ran my mouth about it, but I still wanted to tell you. You were the first person I wanted to tell.

It’s not much — two of the greenest pastures I’ve ever seen, a beat-up old house with shutters and a wraparound porch just like yours… and a barn that leans a little too much when the wind kicks up. It’s a fixer upper but it’s all I ever dreamed of, Joel.

Juno’s already taken to the place like she was born here. She chases butterflies and herds the chickens (she thinks they’ll respond the same as sheep. Spoiler: they don’t). Makes me laugh every day. She’s exactly like her pa — too clever for her own good, and loyal as anything. Looks exactly like George when he was a pup with the one floppy ear. I think she misses you both.

Think I do too.

I hope you and George are well (and lake Isabella! Oh and Clint — the sheep too! How could I forget them!)

Anyway, the chicken coop needs fixing so I’d better stop writing and start working.

— Sunshine’

༺ 🐑 ༻

‘Sunshine (guess that name’s sticking),

Got your letter. I know you said you would write. Still — I didn’t expect it.

Thought you might have already forgotten about me.

Glad to know you made it safe, and that the land’s everything you were hoping for. Sounds like you’re keeping real busy—which don’t surprise me none.

Had to laugh a little at the image of Juno herding the chickens. I can just picture it. Bet she’s still got that same stubborn streak as you too — don’t give up easy.

Things here are alright. Same as usual. Lake Isabella’s been running lower than I’d like — think she’s missing you. But I manage. Sheep are still ornery as hell, and old George sleeps more than he works these days. Can’t say I blame him.

I won’t lie—it’s quieter around here. Bit too quiet, some days. Not used to missing the sound of someone yapping at me while I work, but here I am fixing my damn radio just to find one of them tunes you would sing to Dixie. I’ve been trying to get my pa’s old radio working — was just about to give it a go but your letter came and now I know no fucking Sabrina Carpenter or John Denver song is gonna make me miss you less finally.

Hope your land keeps thriving. You deserve that. You deserve your dream, darling — keep chasing it.

— Joel’

༺ 🐑 ༻

‘Joel,

Built the first proper fence today, all on my own. Got blisters all over my palms, and I cursed loud enough to wake the whole county. But I did it. Dixie nearly chewed through the rope post again, Juno dug up one of my tomato plants, and the hens laid eggs in the hayloft instead of the coop... I'm figuring it out.

Speaking of the coop — I fixed it. Took me the better part of a week and two splinters I'm still digging out of my fingers, but the hens are roosting proper now. There's one that reminds me of you—serious little thing, always standing off to the side like she's making sure everyone else is behaving. I named her Judith, but I'm tempted to rename her Joel.

The evenings are the hardest part. Everything goes still out here when the sun dips behind the ridge and work is done for the day. It's quiet in the way that makes you think too much. I sit on the porch with Juno at my feet (she's getting so big already), and I keep expecting to hear your boots on the porch boards.

I wonder what you’re up to all the time.

Sometimes I wonder what you're up to—whether you're still waking up before dawn, still arguing with George over who gets to herd the sheep. I hope things are good. I hope your fences are holding up better than mine.

Did you get that radio working?

I got one for my porch.

Do you turn yours on just to fill in the silence too? What about when you miss hearing my voice? If you do miss my voice. It’s what I do when I miss hearing yours.

They’re fiddly things aren’t they?

Juno sends her love (in slobber, mostly).

— your Sunshine’

༺ 🐑 ༻

‘Sunshine,

Read your letter four two times, then once more just to make sure I didn’t miss anything.

I let out a real belly laugh when I read about that hen of yours. Haven’t laughed like that in a long while. Not since you were here, trying to chase that lamb into the barn. You ended up flat on your ass in the mud and pretended it was “international land awareness”. George side-eyed me like I’d lost my damn mind. Think maybe I have.

He misses you. Whines more than usual, always wants to take the long trail past the lake like he's expecting you to be there, splashing about or sitting on that rock and tossing pebbles. He barks for you outside your cabin every morning, thinking you're needing a wake up call. Every time the mail comes, he runs out to the box — he knows it's from you — no one bothers to write me as often as you do. Don't know if that means something — if I mean something to you. I'm in my damn head too much. Clearly. He brings the envelopes to me like they’re some kind of treasure. I keep them like they are. They've gotta be some of the most precious things I own.

Radio’s working again. Took some fiddling alright, but I got it. Picks up this one station late at night — plays old country, mostly. There’s a hum it makes, right before the music kicks in. Caught me off guard the first time. Thought maybe you were there, talking soft about nothing and everything like you used to. Funny what your mind does when the silence is just… empty. Used to like it. I don’t anymore. I hate it.

Juno sounds hellbent on undoing half your work, but I can’t say I’m surprised. She really has got your stubborn streak. You’re fighting tooth and nail out there, and I got no doubt you’ll make something special of that land. You always had a way of making things grow, even when they didn’t want to.

Stay safe. Don’t forget to eat. Do you miss those dinner’s with me out on the porch? I miss making them for you.

— Joel’

༺ 🐑 ༻

‘Joel,

Damn you for reminding me of that day. I still remember how smug you looked when you wrangled that lamb in like it was no big deal while I sat there soaked and sulking — still yelling like I had any pride left to salvage.

Tell George I miss him too. Just picturing him waiting by the mailbox like that… Joel, you’re gonna make me cry and I can’t afford to cry around the livestock. They’ll start expecting gourmet meals if they sense weakness. I hope you’ve been taking him down the trail still — even if I’m not there to cannonball in the lake with him.

There’s a river that runs right through the pastures — Juno loves it. She’d love lake Isabella more.

I finally got the irrigation system working with a little help from the guy at the feed store who I think was more interested in flirting than fixing, but hey, we got water. The sheep are healthy. Juno’s learning so fast — I think she’s as good at herding as George already. When she’s working the field, I catch myself thinking how proud George would be of her... and how proud you’d be if you saw me now.

I finished fixing the entire fence line myself today. Took me nearly all day — pounding in posts, pulling wire — maybe I did cuss at the sun a few times but neither of my pinkies were harmed, I promise.

Write back as soon as you get this when you can.

(Ps. Judith is nesting in my toolbox now)

— Sunshine’

༺ 🐑 ༻

‘Sunshine,

I told George. I think he got the gist. He wagged his tail, ran three laps around the barn, and then sat by the trailhead looking ready to bolt the second I unlatched the gate. Took him down there yesterday. Water’s cold as usual, but he went in anyway. I ain’t been in the mood to swim — afraid I’ll catch myself thinking too hard about the water glinting off your skin, the sunlight on your cheeks, that pretty laugh and those perfect tits of yours that day you got me in the water. Me and Clint watched George from the shore. Didn’t help. I fell asleep after a while with my hat over my face and dreamed about you just laying right next to me anyway. Maybe spreading those thighs and getting a taste of you out in the open… right by the lake. Fuck.

Can’t say the old dog misses you any less — can’t say this old cowboy does neither — as the season’s pass. When your letter came, he carried it inside himself. Dropped it right on the porch, then stared at me as if to say: ‘well, read it, dumbass’. I did. I kept re-reading it — twenty-four times don’t know how many times, enough to make me think I already replied. That’s why it’s taken me a while to write this. Sorry, darling.

If I was standing in that pasture with you, watching Juno run and you fixing fences like it was nothing, I’d tell you plain — I’m proud as hell.

Keep writing if you’ve got the time. I’ll be waiting George’ll be waiting either way.

(Ps. Who’s this feed store guy you mentioned? Is it Troy? Please say it ain’t Troy. That boy’s way too good looking for his own good and he knows it. Way to sound like a jealous asshole Is Judith still Queen of your toolbox?)

— Joel’

༺ 🐑 ༻

‘Joel,

Just when I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me the mailman delivered your letter. Think I gave the poor man a heart attack by the way I squealed when I saw your handwriting.

Is everything okay?

Are you okay?

If George keeps bringing my letters in like that, I might have to send him a treat basket full of bacon.

I think about that day at the lake too — all the time think it’s still my favorite memory with you of last summer. It’s also still the only way I can get off at night. Remembering how you looked, sunburned and dripping wet, hands running through your hair — wonder what they’d feel like touching all over me instead. What the fuck. He doesn’t need to know that. The pebbles under the water looked like old coins — I remember making a wish. I wish you’d kissed me. Woulda topped that day off with a cherry on top if you did it came true.

Things are coming along just fine… would you believe it if I told you the house is finally finished? Took every spare hour I had, but the porch is steady, the roof doesn’t leak, and I even got all the trim painted before the snow came in. Most days I walk through the rooms barefoot just to feel the floorboards under me, to remind myself I did all this from the ground up with my own two hands (well, kinda). I ran into some trouble with the water pressure in the kitchen sink — was gonna ask you if you could help but you’re so far away, too far away… and you’re always so busy Troy turned up in the nick of time.

He’s around a lot — the feed store guy who flirted more than he fixed? Turns out he’s not so bad with a wrench. He helped with the last stretch of plumbing, and now he keeps showing up with little things he swears the place “needs” — a bird feeder, a coat hook shaped like a horse head, a pie from his aunt. I’m starting to think he might have a crush on me.

Anyway — onto the last building job on my list; the barn. Wish me luck (I’m gonna need it).

(Ps. Judith’s got her own roost now. Top shelf of the tool shed. She’s got better real estate than I do.)

— Sunshine’

༺ 🐑 ༻

‘Sunshine,

Now — don't go threatening my dog with bacon baskets unless you're ready to follow through. He's already spoiled as sin.

Your letters are about the only thing I look forward to these days. Was that too much? Fuck it. I’m leaving it in. I don’t reckon I’ll ever forget the way your handwriting looks — I’ll never forget you neither no matter how long it’s been. I sat with your last letter for a while before opening it. Just… held it. You ever get that way? With my letters maybe? Like if you open it too fast it’ll slip right through your fingers? Like when you slipped through mine the day you left.

Been a rough couple months. The Ranch is hanging on by a thread this Spring. Drought’s hitting hard, grass won’t grow right, and the fence line’s falling faster than I can patch it. Feels like I’m trying to hold the place together with both hands and nothing to show for it but blisters and another night of not sleeping. Ain’t nothing I can’t handle.

George — he’s slowing down. Took him near fifteen minutes to get up the back steps yesterday. His eyes are bright, but he don’t play like he used to. He’s slacking at herding too — lost a couple sheep just the other day cause he couldn’t hear me calling and his sight ain’t as good as it was. But he perks up when I say your name — or “bacon” (if that ain’t selective hearing I don’t know what is). Still whines at the trailhead by the lake. Still waits on your letters like a lovesick pup too.

As for me — I’m falling apart fine keeping busy. Fixed the barn door last week and got the south field tilled as best I could — my back’s begging me for mercy. You don’t gotta worry about me though.

You do gotta worry about this Troy fella. I remember him. The one with the shiny truck and the big mouth. He still got that slicked back hair? He’s a fucking asshole Can’t say I like him all that much — can’t say I blame him for being sweet on you neither. Maybe he sees what I should’ve held onto tighter. I don’t like the sound of him hanging around. A man brings gifts like that, it ain’t cause the house needs a coat hook. He’s trying to put down roots in something you built from scratch. I know I ain’t got a say but that doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about knocking on that feed store door and letting him know he oughta tread real careful. Just… don’t let someone sweet-talk you into settling for something smaller than you deserve. You built that house. You’re building that life. You don’t need someone coasting on your hard work like it’s his own. I mean it.

Keep going. That barn’s gonna stand tall, just like the rest of what you built. If you get stuck or need someone to scare off Troy… well. You know who to call (not fucking Troy. Anyone but fucking Troy). I might not have much left here, but I still got that hammer and two good hands.

(Ps. Can’t quite make out what your wish was. Next time don’t cross it out so I can make it come true… if it ain’t too late.)

(Pps. Plenty of things I wish I’d done to you that day.)

— Joel’

༺ 🐑 ༻

‘Joel,

I hope Georgie is feeling better after feasting on the bacon from the treat basket I sent. Did you get the Polaroid of me and Juno? Did you recognize her? I can’t believe she’s almost one already. Did you get the one of the house too? The land? The sheep? Dixie? Oh, and Judith in her toolshed condo? I tucked them all into the side so they wouldn’t fall out.

I didn’t write back right away. I pressed your letter flat against my chest and held it there a while — giggling like I was sixteen again. I figured I should cool off before saying something I couldn’t take back — but you and I both know I was never any good at keeping my mouth shut.

Your letter — what you wrote about Troy — I heard it loud and clear. I ain't letting him lay claim. Not now. Not ever. This place is mine. My blood's in the soil, my sweat's in every wall. And my heart... well. That’s with you That's another story.

You said you couldn’t make out what I’d written in that last letter. The part I crossed out. You always said I was braver than I gave myself credit for. So here goes I guess:

I wished you’d kissed me in the lake.

When I was wet-haired and laughing you looked at me like I was some answer you’d been waiting years to find (I wasn’t imagining it, was I?) and in that moment I needed you to do it more than I needed to buy my own land. I needed your hands on me so bad — maybe on my cheeks first, all soft and careful like the way you held my pinkie finger that same day… then maybe slipping down to my waist… maybe lower.

You should’ve kissed me, Joel.

I know we can’t go back in time. But that doesn’t stop me from replaying it like we can. Over and over. Trying to imagine what would’ve happened if you did. Maybe I wouldn’t be writing this from an empty bed.

Why did you splash me instead?

I’ve been so buried in this barn rebuild I barely know what day it is. I’m either on a ladder or carrying lumber and paint buckets these days so Troy offered to drop my letters in the post — I’m taking him up on that until I can catch my breath again. Don’t roll your eyes — it’s just postage, not a proposal.

(Ps. If you ever needed a reason to come by, the barn could sure use your hands… I could too. Just saying. You’re the only one I’d trust to help me finish it right.)

(Pps. Maybe then you could decide if it’s too late to make my wish come true.)

— your Sunshine’

༺ 🐑 ༻

‘Joel,

I keep telling myself that the ranch is keeping you up to your elbows in work — that you’re probably too tired to pick up a pen and write me by the end of the day. But I ain’t gonna lie and say it hasn’t crossed my mind that maybe it’s me… maybe it was what I wrote before. I should’ve kept that stupid little wish to myself instead of spilling it all over the stupid page like an idiot who doesn’t know when to zip it.

Maybe I crossed a line.

Maybe I scared you off.

Maybe it was too much.

Maybe I was too much.

I’m sorry if I was.

I didn’t mean to throw it at you like that. You did ask. All I did was answer. What did you want me to do? Lie? I didn’t want to lie. I couldn’t lie. You always knew when I was lying. You woulda seen straight through my writing too. I’m sure of it.

You don’t have to write nothing about it.

Forget I even wrote it.

I’d rather you forget it than stop writing altogether.

I could still do with an extra pair of hands with the barn… if you’re still offering.

— still your Sunshine’

༺ 🐑 ༻

‘Joel,

I’m not sure if you’re just real busy or if my last few letters have found their way into the bottom of a drawer somewhere — but I’ll keep writing anyway. Feels strange not to. You’ve always been the one I wanted to tell things to, even the boring stuff.

The barn’s coming along. Slowly. And stubbornly. Every beam I put up feels like an argument I’m winning. The roof’s half done, and I’ve managed not to fall off it (yet). Troy keeps showing up with his sleeves rolled and something smug on his face. There's been some talk around town lately — folks with big mouths and not much else to do, I guess it was bound to happen with the amount of time Troy spends here. I don’t know if word’s gotten all the way out to you, but he's just been helping with the barn, hanging around because I needed the hands and he's got the time… it's never been anything more than that. It's never even crossed my mind to want more than that — not when my heart's already with you at your ranch someplace else, and it's not anywhere Troy could ever reach.

It's not him I'm waiting for when the evenings get quiet and the sky turns that deep blue I know you love. He's not the one I’m awake for at ridiculous hours to write letters like this. I guess they don't really matter to you anymore (if they ever even did). Still — I needed you to read it from me, not to hear it twisted from anybody else.

— Sunshine’

༺ 🐑 ༻

‘Joel,

The mailbox is collecting nothing but dust — either way, I thought you oughta know: the barn’s built.

Finally.

There’s a couple boards that don’t sit flush, and if you look close you’ll see where I had to patch up some mistakes, but it’s standing proud and strong and somehow still here after the first big rain. Sometimes I catch myself talking to it like it’s alive, like it knows how much I gave just to see it finished. I think you’d understand that better than most.

Today I left the back door open and just sat in the middle of the floor, watching the sun pour in.

It’s funny. I thought once it was done, I’d feel… finished, too. Like maybe I could stop chasing this vision I’ve had for myself and just enjoy it. It’s all I’ve known for as long as I can remember — this dream of having land of my own. It was all I needed. But as I was sitting there, all I could think about was how wrong empty it felt without you.

Now it feels like I built this place hoping someone else might come find a home in it with me. (You.)

Would you come see it? Bring George with you?

Juno’d love it. I would too.

It’s just us, Dixie and the livestock.

Troy’s found someone new to charm, I suppose — and I’m glad for it (you’ll be glad to know too, or not… I don’t know anymore). He still takes my letters but he don’t linger no more. Feels better that way, cleaner somehow, like maybe the land itself shook off all the things that didn’t belong. Hasn’t stopped the rumors though. You probably heard the latest ones, that we’re shacked up and married with six kids, oh, and that there was a ring in the last pie Troy brought over from his aunt’s… surely you don’t believe any of it.

If you could see the way I sit out on the porch at night with Juno at my feet (she insists on taking that gingham blanket you wrapped her up in for me everywhere she goes even though she’s way too big for it now). She leaves a little space for George and I leave a space beside me for you in case the two of you might appear and watch the stars with us like we never left you both behind. Maybe then you’d know that no matter what gets spread outside our gates, our hearts are where I’m afraid they’ve always been — Juno’s with her old pa and mine with you.

You can forget I ever wrote this too… please don’t.

(Ps. The barn’s got a good corner stall. Big enough for a brute like Clint, or a man if he needed a place to lay low for a while.)

(Pps. I’m afraid Judith has moved into the spare lodging and she likes screaming real loud in the morning. She also likes pecking Troy’s boots so hard he trips and falls every time — and she’s been laying eggs like a machine… Might be the only girl on this land who’s got her shit together.)

— always your Sunshine’

༺ 🐑 ༻

‘Joel,

I've stopped waiting by the mailbox, mostly. Told myself I wouldn't keep count of the days since your last letter, but I have. It's been one hundred and eighty-two. I don't even know if you still live at the same place, if my words are just sitting in some pile you never open. If you’ve grown tired of me.

You said once you didn’t mind the sound of my voice — even when it wouldn't quit… you also said once that you cared about me but you can’t be bothered to answer any of my damn letters?

You’re so full of shit. Asshole.

It's been hard not hearing from you. I would only think about you when the work got quiet, or when I was sore at the end of a long day. But now it's all the time. Like missing you is something I do alongside breathing.

Why did you stop writing?

Was what I wrote really that bad?

Was it cause I told you I was gonna leave someday?

Was it cause you never let yourself need anything that could walk away from you?

Was it cause you don’t feel the same and didn’t have the guts to write it?

I spent so long believing you were just quiet. That maybe you couldn't find the words. That maybe the silence meant something tender. But now I'm thinking it was just silence. I’m a big girl, I can handle getting hit with rejection… but you know I can’t handle empty silence. You know how much I hate it.

All I’m asking for is a few lines from you. Just something so I know you’re still alive, that you haven’t forgotten me entirely.

(Ps. The ranch is growing. I bought another few acres to the south — orchard land. I think I'm gonna try peaches.)

— still your Sunshine’

༺ 🐑 ༻

‘Joel,

This’ll be the last letter, I think. Even a chatterbox like me can only keep talking to silence for so long before I start to feel like I’m going crazy.

My house — my barn — my land… it looks how I always dreamed it would. It’s the kind of place I used to draw in my notebooks when I was little, the kind of place I thought maybe only existed in stories. It’s everything I told you I needed. I just didn’t realize it at the time, that I needed you too. Not until now.

Juno’s keeping watch, sitting at the edge of the porch like she owns the place, ears perked and eyes sharp, even though she knows there’s nothing dangerous out here but her own loneliness. Mine too.

We can’t keep waiting on you to answer like this. She’s got sheep to herd. I’ve got land to maintain, livestock to look after, peaches and flowers to pick. I can’t even swim in the river anymore without thinking about how much I needed you to kiss me in lake Isabella. I think part of me's still floating there, waiting for you to pull me closer, a warm hand on my hip, sun in your eyes, asking if it's okay before you do it. You could’ve just done it and I would’ve let you… but you didn’t.

I’m sitting here with my pen hovering over this page, trying to find the right way to prove I’ve meant every word I’ve written you without making things worse than I already have.

I love

Fuck

Am I really gonna write this

Fuck it

You’re not gonna read it anyway

I love you, Joel Miller.

Always did.

Probably always will. But I need to stop reaching for something that doesn’t wanna hold me.

I hope you’re happy. I hope you’re safe and I hope that George is still wagging his tail for bacon strips, wherever you are.

Goodby

(Ps. If you ever do find yourself missing me… you know the way.)

— Sunshine’

༺ 🐑 ༻

The vastness of your ranch spread out before you in a way that still took your breath away. The land had tested you, challenged you, and at times, nearly broken you. But as the golden hour approached, you feel as though you're being cradled in its arms — being held steady after years of uncertainty.

The wind has teeth this evening.

Not the kind that rips or howls—but the low, gnawing kind that seeps through the seams of your coat and catches in the crooks of your bones. An early spring in Texas didn't always bring storm or rain, but it brought chill, and it hung over the land like a veil. The sun is pale in a sky the color of pewter, and the frost hadn't yet burned off the tall grass. Each blade shimmers like glass.

Juno, your constant — your loyal companion, moves through the grass beside you, her sleek black and white coat contrasting with the vibrant green earth. She's as part of the land as the other animals you'd been devoting your life to. The sheep, now grazing peacefully at the far end of the pasture, look content in their solitude.

Your work for the day had been done—crops tended to, your milk cow, Betty, given her evening grain, Dixie fed and brushed—both of them in their stalls for the night. You decide it's time to gather the sheep, to urge them into their own shelter beside the barn. You click your tongue, and Juno's ears perk up. She immediately turns her focus to the herd, running off to them with graceful precision like the prodigy she is.

“Easy, girl!” You call out, grinning. The sheep bunch together, docile under Juno's movements. You jog to keep up, the sweet scent of trampled grass and wildflowers filling your nostrils, and a laugh escapes you — loud and careless. “Good girl! That's it, Juno! Get 'em! Go 'round!” you holler, cupping your gloved hands around your mouth.

Juno barks once as she swoops around the herd. She veers left and then right, rounding up the sheep with an energy oozing pure mischief. The flock bawl and stumble in confusion, a few ewes trying to make a break for it — but Juno is faster. She flies behind them, crouched low, her body taut with excitement.

You watch her with pride swelling in your chest — she is full-grown now, all lean muscle and boundless spirit, though she still has the same spark she did as a pup. The sheep bleat in protest but Juno is persistent and you know exactly where she got that from — she's a chip off of old George's block. She races, expertly rounding them up into one bumpy mass.

“Okay now you're just showin' off, aren't you, Junebug?” you tease, hands on your hips.

She barks again, then waits.

You whistle — the command to settle.

Juno freezes, mostly, her tail sways in the grass.

“Not bad for a couple'a rookies, huh?” Juno woofs in agreement.

You saunter closer to the flock, planning to lead them through the wooden gate into their pen... but Juno's ears prick — and without warning, she snaps her head up, nose twitching furiously. The sheep shift uneasily, sensing the change in her energy.

“Juno.” You steadily step towards the sprightly dog.

She gives a soft whine, her attention drawn somewhere else.

“Juno.” You take another careful step. Your confidence falters as she continues to ignore you. It isn't the first time she's gotten distracted and you know she'll bolt if you're not cautious, but usually it doesn't take much more than one call of her name to coax her back into the task at hand. “Juno?”

Her head snaps in your direction and for a second you think you've broken her out of her trance, but she looks... uncertain. In a flash she is gone, streaking away from you and toward the far edge of the field, faster than you'd ever seen her move.

“Hey!” You shout, losing your composure instantly, “Juno, no! Get back here!”

She doesn't even glance back.

You don't hesitate to tear after her, dodging through the sheep, their wool brushing your legs. Your heart is pounding in sync with your boots hitting the ground — legs pumping with urgency. You vault the fence without thinking, boots hitting the ground with a frosty crack. The sheep are scattered behind you now, but you don't look back.

You are running blind, your scarf flying off your neck as you fly past the Bur Oak tree that Betty and Dixie like to doze under in the next pasture.

“Wait up! Juno!” Your voice echoes, lost in the expanse of the land. The dog’s shape is reduced to a small dot as she beelines for the tree line framing the wide river, toward the far edge of the ranch. She zooms past your ranch-house, the toolshed, the cabin, the coop and, lastly, where your land gives way to open country.

The main road is up ahead, the dusty gravel ribbon of it, and beyond it, the county highway — large vehicles barreling by without a care in the world.

A fear slams into you, hot and blinding — the image of a speeding truck, the sound of screeching brakes, the sickening thud of impact.

“Goddammit, Juno! STOP!” you scream, your voice raw with terror. You stumble harder, faster, reckless with the thought of her — your girl — running headlong into danger.

She skids to a halt.

Abrupt, frantic, paws digging into the dirt, throwing up a spray of dust around her.

You freeze mid-stride, nearly tripping over your own feet as you struggle to see what had made her stop so suddenly... all you're sure of is that it definitely wasn't because you'd desperately demanded for her to.

That's when you see the end of the invisible string that Juno had been nudging you to follow all along.

A flash of movement — a figure with a horse in tow walking up the path leading to the heart of the ranch from your front gate.

They're nothing more than a silhouette against the late sun, the light blinding and harsh, turning them into dark shadows cut from the sky.

Juno narrows the distance between her and them by a few yards, barking wildly — not in fear, not in warning, but in pure joy.

She throws herself at the figure, her whole body quivering, tail a white blur of motion.

The man —

He stiffly drops to one knee, the weight of his duffel bag on one shoulder and guitar case on the other had clearly been hurting him by the way he slumps them onto the ground. His hand comes up, offering it for Juno to sniff before burying it into her fur, holding onto her like a man drowning in a river would hold onto a branch.

Your lungs seize, useless in your chest.

You'd expected to see a coyote, a stray dog, a trespasser... not him.

Not Joel.

Not after two years of no written reply from him.

You'd told yourself a hundred times you were over it. Over him. That he was a chapter closed and done with. But seeing him now — clutching Juno to his chest like she's the only good thing left in the world, and her looking up at him like she'd been waiting her whole life to see him again — you realize you never stopped carrying those seasons you spent working together in your heart.

After pawing at his chest and licking his chin Juno drops back down to the ground, spinning in a tight circle before darting around him — sniffing behind his legs, then trotting to the left, nose to the wind. She lets out a quick bark, as if she'd forgotten something.

And then she whimpers. A puzzled, soft little sound. She stares up at him, then behind him again. Searching.

She's looking for George.

She circles him again, nose twitching, paws scuffing the dirt. She looks around him, examining his shadow like it's supposed to have one more set of paws beside it. She lets out another whine, even softer this time, her tail slowing. Then she sits right in front of him, head tilted, brow creased in that funny, thoughtful way dogs do when they can't quite understand where something's gone.

Joel doesn't speak. He just shakes his head.

No words. Just that tiny shake. A quiet answer.

Your throat tightens.

You feel it in your ribs — a dull ache. George had been there at the start. That cranky old Border Collie had been Joel’s second shadow, always watchful, always ready. You used to joke that George was the one in charge. That Joel was just his hands.

The idea of him gone — the space between Joel and Clint empty? You can’t fathom it.

Joel stands up with a grunt you can't quite hear and Juno noses at Joel's boot, giving one last huff before curling herself close to his leg again. She leans into him, pressing her face into the fabric of his jeans, trying to comfort him. Joel's hand comes down to rest on her head, comforting her in return.

He hasn't seen you yet. You're too far away and the brim of his cowboy hat is blocking a majority of his sight. Or maybe he has seen you and can't bring himself to look.

Slowly—so slowly—you pace forward, the frozen grass crackling underfoot, the cold biting high along your cheekbones until you're on the path Joel'd been walking up. You wrap your arms around yourself, partly for warmth, partly to stop yourself from shaking apart, panicking and running the other direction. You'd done this many times, usually to meet the postman, Troy or to check the road for deliveries.

The scrape of your boots alerts Joel and Juno as soon as you’re no more than three steps away from them.

Joel stares at you, his face blank—his mind struggling to process seeing you in the flesh.

The dog gives you a look as if to say: “it’s about time you joined us.”

Joel shifts awkwardly, lowering his eyes. He pulls his hat off and holds it to his chest, clutching it tightly in both hands. His hair is longer now, curling out at the edges, falling messily over his ears and shirt-collar —streaked with more silver. A gust of cold wind stirs it, and he doesn’t move to fix it.

He looks older.

That's the first thing that strikes you — not in a cruel way, just... truthful. The years had carved themselves into him — deliberate and unrelenting. The Joel standing at your gate isn't the same man who had handed you a puppy and asked you to stay with him four years ago. He'd been worn down — broken and weathered in that quiet, tragic way only time and loss could manage.

His frame is still broad, still unmistakably strong, but there's a leaner edge to it — a kind of hollowness at the shoulders — something vital had been carved out of him and never filled back in. His clothes are simple and dust-covered: faded jeans that cling to the muscle of his thighs, a worn green and black button-down, threadbare at the cuffs, scuffed boots that are white at the toes — creased with every step it took to get here — and a canvas jacket. You know it well. You'd stitched that shoulder, back when it had caught a nail after he'd insisted on fixing a fence post on a particularly cold night at his ranch. You sat on a stool outside your lodging with the jacket slung over your lap and a needle in hand — your fingers trembled so much — they were practically blue it was that freezing. Joel came walking down to your cabin from his ranch-house with two steaming mugs of hot cocoa, handed you one and sat on a tree stump opposite you without a word. It was unexpected. It was also the night you realized you didn't mind the quiet… as long as you shared it with Joel.

He looks like he hasn't done a single thing for the benefit of his own health, sure, but he's as ruggedly handsome as he was that night.

“Joel,” you manage to utter, your voice so small you barely hear it yourself. “What’re you—”

“Land’s somethin’ special.” His sad, sunken eyes skim past you, scanning over your ranch. “If anyone was gonna make somethin’ of it, it’d be you.”

You don’t respond. You just watch him with your mouth ajar—the way he keeps his shoulders stiff, the way he refuses to even meet your eyes.

“Always knew you deserved better than what my old shithole of a ranch was offerin’ for a life.”

Your fingers curl at your sides. You want to grab him, shake him, tell him you would’ve built this place with him if he’d only showed up. Tell him you never needed better — you needed him. “Joel—” you start, but he cuts you off, voice too casual to match the exhaustion in his facial features.

“You don’t gotta fuss over me, alright?” He finally glances your way, offering the ghost of a smile. “I ain’t here for a pity party. Just… figured I’d stop by. See it for myself.”

“Bullshit,” you scoff.

“‘Scuse me?”

“You heard me — if you wanted to see it that bad why didn’t you stop by two years ago?”

He ducks his head, ashamed, and nervously fiddles with the brim of the hat you named the “grumpy man’s crown” upon your first week of working with him, when you couldn’t get more than five words out of him… you feel like you’re back to square one all over again.

Without thinking, you reach out and grab his arm — solid under your fingers, tense with hesitation. His skin burns hot through the fabric of his jacket. He stiffens, surprised, but doesn’t pull away. You hook your spare hand around the strap of his duffel bag and grab the battered guitar case from where it’s slumped against his boot, completely ignoring his grumbled protests about doing his carrying for him. You tug at him — not gentle — dragging him toward the house with a strength you didn’t know you had.

Joel lets you, weakly whistling for Clint to follow.

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 ⇝

𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠! 𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞, 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐬 (𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞) 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐑𝐄𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐆!!!!! 𝐈𝐭'𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐲 <𝟑

𝐈𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 ‘𝐎𝐟 𝐃𝐮𝐬𝐭, 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬 & 𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐨’ 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰!

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒 ↯

𝑂𝑓 𝐷𝑢𝑠𝑡, 𝐷𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚𝑠 ＆ 𝐽𝑢𝑛𝑜

@dugiioh @monicasblues @millennialeldar @julesispunk @notyouraveragemochii @homophobicclownmoviestan

𝐽𝑜𝑒𝑙 𝑀𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑟

༺ 🐑 ༻

[lazysoulwriter]

soft proofs - pedro pascal.

📸 Spotted: Her in his jacket?

Pedro Pascal’s fandom was no stranger to wild theories about his love life. But recently, one name kept popping up across Twitter threads and Reddit discussions: hers.

It all started when a blurry fan photo surfaced from a private event. Pedro was leaving, wearing an oversized jacket—one that seemed way too warm for the mild evening. No big deal, right?

Wrong.

Because just a few days later, she was seen in what looked like the exact same jacket while out grabbing coffee. Fans quickly connected the dots, and the speculation took off.

“That’s literally his jacket, you guys. The collar stitching? The buttons?? IT’S THE SAME.”

“So what? Maybe they just have similar taste?”

“Wake up, babe. This is what we call ‘sharing clothes.’”

A Bracelet? Or Her Bracelet?

A week passed, and while some dismissed the jacket theory as a reach, things escalated when Pedro showed up to an interview wearing a delicate beaded bracelet—one that looked suspiciously handmade.

And guess what?

Fans found an old Instagram post of her wearing an almost identical one.

“Besties… this is NOT a drill.”

“It could be a coincidence.”

“If one more person says ‘coincidence’—I swear.”

Pedro, of course, remained oblivious to the chaos he had unknowingly unleashed. But the internet was already in too deep.

Matching Sunglasses. Again?

The third—and most undeniable—piece of evidence came from a paparazzi shot. Pedro, walking through New York, wearing her sunglasses. Not just similar. The same.

And she? Hours later, in an Instagram story, squinting at the sun with the caption:

“Forgot my sunglasses. Oops.”

That was it. That was all they needed.

“Okay, how much more proof do we need? Like, genuinely?”

“We’re watching a slow-burn romance unfold in real time, and I love it.”

“They’re either dating or they’re playing a really elaborate game with us.”

One thing was certain: Pedro Pascal and her were officially the internet’s favorite mystery.

requested! hope u like it.

[darling-flora]

brooklyn baby

pedro pascal x yn!stylist - social media au

fc: imaan hammam

summary — She's just his stylist, right..?

note — (manips made by me) (all pic's belong to their rightful owners) (if there are any mistakes don't mind them im finishing this at 5am lol) short little fic hope you likeee !! likes, reblog's and comments are really appreciated ❤

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yourinstagram

Liked by lewishamilton, badbunnypr and 869,944 others

yourinstagram busy busy weekend

view all comments

user1 these lookssss 😍

lewishamilton always working 🤯 liked by yourinstagram !

user2 one of the best stylist!!!!

user3 DREWWWWW 🥵

anyataylorjoy best at what you do 😘 liked by yourinstagram !

user4 laura looks so goooood

drewstarkey 😎📸 liked by yourinstagram !

user5 anya in 1996 paco rabanne 😩

->yourinstagram yupppp 😁

user6 your face cardddd

lauraharrier 💋🍸 liked by yourinstagram !

user7 ty for putting lewis in a sleeveless top

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yourinstagram

Liked by lewishamilton, pascalispunk and 879,681 others

yourinstagram Eddington in Cannes 😚 !!!

view all comments

user1 pedro looks so good 😫

pascalispunk a time to remember 🤠 liked by yourinstagram !

user2 he's serving looks in canne's!!

user3 NICOLE KIDMAN???

user4 omg ty for the pedro content 🙇‍♀️

user5 your face card is truly insane

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yourinstagram

Liked by pascalispunk, lewishamilton and 1,612,754 others

yourinstagram Feeling so honored to be awarded the Stylist Award @ the CFDA Fashion Awards 😭❤

Also thank you to all these cuties for coming tonight 😚

view all comments

user1 wait paul being there b/c she's his stylist is so cute

user2 pedrooooo 🥵

user3 im gonna throw up they look so hot

pascalispunk the most deserving ❤ liked by yourinstagram !

->yourinstagram 🥰

user4 she's got the pascal family in attendance i don't think she's just his stylist consultant...

->user5 im gonna hold your hand when i say this 🤝 ->user5 but we already figured this out bestie

user6 this is everythinggg

user7 STOPPP the last pic??? adorable

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[dilf-docs]

Okay, so I saw a similar fanfic of Pedro as a Boxer on wattpad, but there isn't more of it. I'd love to see what you could do with Pedro as a boxer, but his stage nane is The Viper. Pedro is your dads best friend, but your dad asks you to accompany Pedro in the gym to repair for his big match in his hometown of Chile. You're both another hour early. What could the Viper do within an hour... P.s. My god, I'm sorry if that doesn't make sense, I just really want another fic of Pedro as a boxer 🤭💜😁💜💕🫠🔥🤗

HI sorry for the late almost a month later reply BUT ITS OUT NOW

also sorry i modified the request a bit. instead of an hour, you have a whole ass night lol

[fangirl-life]

✨Boyfriend POV✨

Ft. Pedro Pascal

Pt. 2

[08luvmailz]

天堂之門的金色光芒 ★ ﾟ๑ INSTA UPDATE ୧ ⊹ ࣪ ❪ March 7, 2018 ❫

❪ 𝖶𝖧𝒾𝖲𝖯𝖤𝖱𝖲 ❫ ｡drinking with oscar isaac and pedro pascal, the couple ──⠀ fluff ꒰ 🧾 ꒱ when life give you tangerines , 9th member of girls generation ⸝⸝ ◜◡◝ my baby girl pedro and oscar

Liked by pascalispunk, amariidoll, and 70,257 others elvira_lind_ thank goodness im not the only one babysitting this couple - were done with you. view all comments

amariidoll i told pedrito to drink water , not beer

monniiee AHHHHHH

dollete OSCAR, PEDRO AND AMARI MY NEW BERMUDA TRIANGLE!?

pascalispunk i hate kareoke with you @amariidoll

amariidoll replying to pascalispunk sore loser