#pedro pascal white tee

[millers-girl555]

officially beekeeping age 🐝

[andy-15-07]

hello! Love your fics! Would you be willing to write a fluffy/smutty story on Pedro meeting a girl in London who’s doing her masters (maybe in business or fashion) at a bar/HiFi. He’s there with friends she’s there with friends and they catch each others eyes he sends a drink over and is adamant to go speak with her and introduce himself and he’s being charming and witty and funny and they end up talking for hours about nothing and everything and he asks her to see her again or take her out and they start going date after date from picnics in Hampstead heath to dancing at KOKO she even takes him to a private members club called LP and they get high and wasted and they start getting handsy and stuff and maybe even make out but then he just takes her home and they both crash and sleep together cuddling (very innocently) and next day they’re laughing about the night but he still remembers what it was like to kiss her, and nothing happens because even when he’s high he wants to be sober enough to properly make love to her and he’s been in London for now over a week and she finds out he’s extended his trip for her and she’s slowly falling for him and one day after like a full day together they go back to her place and unwind and have some wine and talk the night away (maybe his 10-14th night and his last) and then maybe smut? But he confesses that he really genuinely likes her and that he just feels seen and safe and himself with her and he hasn’t expected to feel that in so long. Alas he leaves London and they stay in touch as friends but she’s always on his mind and he just counts the days until he can see her again (just truly admires her for her character and charm and intelligence) she likes him just as much but keeps things as respectable cause of the age difference but every now and then there’s a flirty comment or lingering gaze or a touch here and there and he just falls for her soul you know like the age stops even mattering and he loves to brush the hair out of her face and get lost in her curls and it’s just pure admiration and once he’s back to his life and routine he finds himself calling her often just to see her face and hear her voice on FaceTime and they continue with this murky in between they’re in not fully understanding or knowing the extent of their mutual feelings for each other thanks

Between Two Cities

PAIRING: Pedro Pascal x reader

WORD COUNT: 1972 | requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist | Pedro Pascal Masterlist II

The low hum of soul and funk pulsed through HiFi London’s darkened lounge, splashes of neon tracing the edges of leather banquettes. You tucked a loose curl behind your ear, adjusting the strap of your designer bag as you laughed with your friends over the clink of their cocktails. Finishing your master’s in Fashion Management at the London College of Fashion meant you’d spent most of your term buried in spreadsheets and trend reports,tonight, you were determined to let go.

Across the room, Pedro Pascal leaned against the bar with a few friends, leather jacket thrown over a crisp white tee. You caught his eye the instant he glanced your way,your bright red dress against the smoky blue light,and for a heartbeat, the dance floor stilled. He raised his eyebrows, amused, and your cheeks flushed.

Moments later, the bartender delivered a small coupe to your table. The cocktail was an amethyst swirl of gin, lavender, and a hint of violet. You blinked at your friend, Mia, who shrugged. You lifted the glass to your lips,delicious,when you noticed Pedro weaving through the crowd, purposeful steps.

He stopped at your table, hand extended. “Hi, I’m Pedro,” he said, voice low and warm enough that you felt it in your chest. “I hope you like lavender.”

You froze a moment, then laughed. “I do. Very much. Thank you.” You took his hand, and he shook it gently. “I’m Y/N.”

He flashed that movie‑star grin. “Y/N… May I sit?”

You scooted over, and he slid onto the bench beside you, smooth as silk. “So,” he said, glancing at your empty coupe, “I take it I got your attention?”

You blushed. “You could say that.”

He waved to the bartender. “Two more lavenders, please.” Then he turned back to you. “Tell me about yourself,other than mastering the art of spreadsheets.”

“Oh, is it that obvious?” you teased. “I’m doing my Master’s in Fashion Management. Portfolio, forecasting, brand strategy…” You smiled, warming to the conversation. “I’ve always loved clothes, but the business side is my brain’s happy place.”

Pedro nodded, genuinely interested. “That’s amazing. I have a terrible sense of style,except this jacket,and no business acumen, but I do have a soft spot for a well‑cut suit.” He gestured to his leather jacket. “Which I paid way too much for, ironically.”

You laughed, and the ice broke. The cocktails arrived, and you clinked glasses.

Two hours later…

You sank into the banquette, leg curled under you, while Pedro leaned forward, elbows on his knees. You’d traded stories about traveling to Chile, your family’s roots in London’s fashion districts, and his fond memories of your favorite designers. The shimmer of city lights outside the window felt distant compared to the glow between you.

At one point, Pedro’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it, then powered off the screen. “I want to focus on this,” he said, and you felt a rush of warmth,he was choosing you, here, now.

When the DJ slid into “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough,” he extended his hand. “Dance?”

You stood without hesitation. On the small dance floor, you matched his easy rhythm. His arm curved around your waist, yours rested on his shoulder, and your laughter merged with the music. He twirled you once, you dipped underneath his arm, and the world slid into slow motion.

When the song ended, you both laughed breathlessly. “I haven’t danced like that in ages,” he admitted, brushing hair from his forehead.

“Me neither,” you replied softly.

He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Can I see you again?”

Your heart thudded. “I’d like that.”

The next afternoon, you piled blankets under a sprawling oak overlooking the grassy hills. Pedro arrived with a wicker basket filled with pastries from Gail’s, strawberries, and two paper cups of coffee. You’d brought sandwiches and a small bottle of rosé.

Together, you set out a feast: croissants dusted in sugar, creamy brie, tomato‑basil tarts. He poured the rosé, and you toasted to “new friends,” though your eyes told a deeper truth.

You spent hours strolling the heath, barefoot in the grass, sharing childhood tales,his of running wild on his grandparents’ ranch in Chile; yours of scouring vintage markets with your mother in Notting Hill. When you reached the hilltop, he picked you up and spun you around; you howled in delight.

As the sun dipped, you sat close, shoulders brushing. He offered you his jacket when a cool breeze swept across the heath. You sighed, leaning into him. “Thank you,” you whispered.

“For what?”

“For being here.”

He kissed your temple. “I’m glad I extended my trip.”

You glanced up, surprise mixing with pleasure. “You did?”

He nodded, chin resting on your shoulder. “Just for you.”

That Saturday, KOKO in Camden was throbbing with indie rock and neon visuals. You pressed together on the crowded dance floor, arms flailing, voices hoarse from singing along. Pedro’s hand gripped yours as you weaved between dancers, and when the band launched into a cover of “Heroes,” he spun you around, his grin jubilant.

During a break, you perched on a low wall outside, neon signs painting your faces pink and purple. He pressed a hand to your cheek. “You’re unstoppable.”

You laughed, breathless. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

He leaned in and kissed you, soft at first, then deeper when you answered with equal eagerness. The music pounded inside you both, but the world narrowed to that single moment.

The Private Members’ Club (LP) Monday night, you led Pedro to LP,a discreet townhouse in Marylebone with an unassuming façade. Inside, plush velvet seating, low lanterns, and the hush of exclusivity. You ordered cocktails laced with saffron and absinthe, and then slipped a small joint from your lipstick case.

“Ever tried this?” you asked, raising it to his lips.

He grinned. “Lead the way.”

A few tokes later, you were both giggling over the surreal paintings on the walls. His hand found yours on the velvet banquette, thumbs stroking your palm. You leaned into him.

He kissed your temple, then your neck, and soon your lips collided again. This time the kiss was unhurried, urgent, electric. You wrapped your arms around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair.

Between breathy laughs he whispered, “You’re incredible.”

You shivered, the world tilting deliciously. When your head felt light and your eyes heavy, Pedro flagged down a taxi. You both collapsed into the backseat, giggling. The ride to your flat felt like a dream,lights blurring past, his hand on your thigh.

At your door, he paused. “Can I come in?”

You nodded against his chest. Inside, you kicked off your heels and guided him to your bed,still covered in fresh sheets and a handful of blankets. You both melted into the pillows, limbs entwined.

He draped an arm over your waist, and you rested your head on his chest. “You okay?”

You nodded, breathing in his warmth. “Never been better.”

You talked quietly until sleep claimed you, heads resting on each other’s shoulders, fingers still intertwined. No expectations, just the soft comfort of proximity.

Morning After You woke to sunlight dancing on the curtains and Pedro’s steady breathing beside you. The scent of his cologne mixed with the sheets. He stirred and blinked awake, face lighting up when he saw you.

“Morning,” he whispered.

You curled against him. “Morning.”

He brushed the hair from your face and smiled. “Last night…”

“Was amazing,” you said.

He laughed softly. “Tell me every detail.”

You snuggled closer, giggling. “I remember how you said I was a hero at KOKO.”

He kissed your temple. “You are, to me.”

You reached up to tickle his side. “You’re so sweet.”

He scooped you into his arms. “Promise me something?”

“What?”

“Even when I’m not high…” he winked, “I still want to be sober enough to love you right.”

Your heart melted. “I promise.”

A Week Later Pedro had arrived in London for a film premiere,but after you, he’d extended his stay. You learned from his assistant that he’d booked two extra weeks “just in case.” Your chest squeezed with happiness.

One evening, after a full day exploring Southbank’s markets and then trying on looks at a pop-up vintage shop, Pedro suggested dinner at your flat. You cooked together,pasta with seasonal veggies,then settled on the couch with a bottle of red wine.

Hours passed in laughter and confessions. You spoke about your dreams,at Vogue, at your own label. He revealed fears,getting lost in work, missing home. You held each other close as darker topics came and went, always finding comfort in shared honesty.

As midnight approached, he drew you into his lap. “Y/N,” he began, voice earnest, “this trip… it’s been unexpected in every way.”

Your breath caught. “Pedro,”

He silenced you with a kiss, tender and deep. Then he pulled back, looking into your eyes. “I’ve felt more… seen with you than I have in years. You make me feel safe. You make me feel like me.”

Tears welled. “I feel the same.”

He traced your jawline. “I wasn’t looking for any of this.”

You shook your head. “Neither was I.”

He smiled, a little shy. “Can I stay another week?”

You laughed through tears. “Of course.”

He kissed you again, and this time the kiss carried all the desire you’d both held back. You followed him to your bedroom, where clothes fell away in a trail from the living room.

He paused at the threshold. “Y/N… are you sure?”

Your lips curved. “Yes.”

He closed the distance, kissing you with a passion that made your toes curl. His hands explored every inch of you,gentle at first, then more urgent as you guided him closer.

When you finally lay together, skin against skin, the world faded. No cameras, no schedule,just breath and heartbeat, moans and whispered names.

He moved inside you with reverent care, eyes locked on yours. You rode each wave with him, voices merging in intimate chorus, until every barrier fell away and you came together in a rush of light.

Afterward, you curled against his chest, palpitations lingering. He kissed your forehead. “You’re extraordinary.”

You rested your cheek on his heart. “So are you.” His last morning in London came too soon. You walked him to the tube station, luggage in hand. Over steaming cups of coffee, you held his face.

“Will I see you again?” you asked, voice trembling.

He cupped your cheek. “Soon. I’ll come back for you.”

You smiled bravely. “I’ll be counting the days.”

He kissed you, slow and certain. “Me too.”

The train arrived, and he waved until you turned away.

In-Between Back in his world of film sets and premieres, Pedro found himself dialing your number on Facetime more often than not. Your face,bright even on a tiny screen,became his comfort.

“Good morning, gorgeous,” he’d say, voice rough with sleep.

“Morning,” you’d reply, hair mussed, smile genuine.

He’d tell you the small triumphs and failures of his days. You’d share snapshots of your sketches and market finds. Every conversation left you both buoyed.

Sometimes you flirted,lingering glances through the camera, playful banter, promise of more. The age difference loomed politely but never defined you. You were two souls who’d found resonance. Months later, at a rooftop bar overlooking the Thames, Pedro slipped an arm around you. He looked at the city lights, then back to your face,so full of warmth and ambition.

“I love this city,” he said softly.

You leaned into him. “Not as much as I love you.”

He smiled, pressing a kiss to your temple. “And I love you,my brilliant, fearless, beautiful Y/N.”

As Funkadelic’s bass thrummed from the bar below, you two shared a knowing look. The distance between your worlds had narrowed into something precious and real.

And together, you danced,two souls, one rhythm, hearts beating in perfect time.

[unsuperingyournatural]

let yours find mine - part ii

Pedro Pascal x Actress!Reader / Jensen Ackles x Actress!Reader

implied hookup, comfort, light angst

dividers @saradika-graphics

A sharp knock rattled the trailer door, followed by a slightly impatient voice.

"Pedro? They’re waiting for you on set. You’re up."

Pedro's head lifted from where he was still half-draped over you, his chest rising and falling just a little quicker than normal, breath not yet fully settled. His hair was a tousled mess, sticking up in places where your fingers had raked through it. For a moment, he blinked like he wasn’t entirely sure if the knock had been real or just in his head, but then it came again—sharper this time—and his body jolted into motion.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath, already scrambling to his feet. His hands moved fast, zipping his pants and fumbling with his belt as he called back, "Be out in a minute!"

You jolted into motion too, your fingers flying to the side buttons of your costume dress. The fabric had twisted and bunched from where it had been tugged in haste, rumpled from how your bodies had shifted and pressed against each other, the aftermath of hurried movements and too-long kisses written into every crease. Pedro looked over and, without a word, moved to help, his fingers quickly and carefully smoothing the dress and fastening what your shaking hands couldn’t.

You glanced up to thank him—but stopped short, eyes widening as they landed on the mess of his shirt. The fabric was still damp in places, streaked with dried makeup, wrinkled beyond saving.

"Your shirt," you whispered, eyes fixed on the evidence of your grief—and something more.

Pedro followed your gaze. He looked down, sighed, and muttered another curse. After a second of consideration, he tugged it off, revealing the clean white tee underneath. He balled the shirt up and tossed it toward the back of the trailer with casual precision.

You arched a brow.

He gave a half shrug, then returned to fussing with the sleeves of your dress, smoothing them out with gentle, practiced care.

"I’ll just tell them I don’t know where it is," he murmured. "They’ll have a backup."

When he finished, he looked up—and this time, it was you watching him.

There was something in your eyes that made him pause. Made him breathe a little slower. He reached out, one hand lifting to your face, his palm warm against your cheek. His lips brushed against yours, soft and tender.

"You okay?" he whispered, not moving when your fingers curled into the sides of his T-shirt.

You nodded, voice quiet. "Yeah. You?"

He chuckled, the sound low and rough from what had passed between you, a thread of disbelief laced beneath the warmth. "I’m more than okay."

He kissed you again. Longer this time, until another series of loud knocks made you both flinch.

"Pedro! Let’s go, man!"

He let out a groan and muttered, "Joder," under his breath, gave your lips one more quick peck, then turned toward the door—only to whirl back around.

"How’re you getting to the airport once we wrap?" he asked.

You blinked, caught off guard. "Probably just an Uber."

He nodded. "I’ll ride with you, if you want."

Your heart stuttered at the offer. A strange, quiet kind of ache settled behind your ribs—the kind that told you you wanted him there, maybe more than you should. You didn’t know what this was, what it meant, or even what came next. But you knew one thing with a surprising, stubborn clarity: you weren’t ready for the moment to be over just yet. Still, your brain kicked in, reminding you what this looked like. What it wasn’t. You weren’t suddenly in a relationship. You weren’t dating.

So you tried to play it cool. "Are you sure? If you have plans, I don’t want to make you cancel."

Pedro gave you that crooked smile—the one that already knew what you were thinking. He stepped in again, cupped your face, and kissed you gently before brushing your hair back behind your ears.

"I don’t have plans. Just a ride to the airport. With you, hermosa."

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling too hard. Instead, you busied your hands by combing through his hair, trying to tame the one strand that refused to cooperate. He stood still for you, eyes watching you intently.

Finally, he reached up, gently encircling your wrists and lowering your hands.

"You sure you’re up for this last scene?" he asked, his voice softer now. "It’s not going to be easy."

You hesitated. You both knew what the script demanded—grief, longing, a mess of emotion.

You exhaled slowly and gave him a weak smile. "Yeah. I think so."

His thumb brushed along your cheek, and his gaze softened as he leaned in and kissed you one more time.

Another knock. Louder.

"Pedro! Come on, man!"

He pulled back with a reluctant sigh. "I better get out there before they break the door down."

You let out a quiet laugh, and he squeezed your hand before turning toward the door. As it opened, you could hear someone outside already talking.

"Seriously? You’re running behind. We’ve got to—what happened to your shirt?"

"I can’t find it," Pedro replied evenly, already moving. "It’s gone. Vanished."

"Wardrobe. Now," the voice grumbled, the door shutting behind him.

You waited a few beats, ears tuned to the sound of retreating voices, then eased out of the trailer. The coast was clear.

You made your way quickly toward the makeup and hair trailer, trying not to rush but very aware of the clock. If you were lucky, they’d have a miracle in a brush. If not, you were prepared to beg.

Today’s final scene was with Pedro and Jensen.

A love triangle. How fitting.

The irony wasn’t lost on you. But even as your mind briefly flicked to Jensen—his marriage, the tension that once existed, that one moment you both nearly crossed a line—you couldn’t quite say what you felt. Whatever it was, it sat quietly beside you, not screaming for attention just now.

Whatever had just happened with Pedro, though? That also wasn’t nothing.

It hadn’t been casual, even if it wasn’t planned. And it wasn’t just a heat-of-the-moment lapse, either. There had been too much care in the way he touched you, too much gentleness after.

It felt like something new trying to take shape—unformed, unspoken, but real. Not defined. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But still there, quietly pulsing beneath the surface.

And right now, in the midst of your grief, the bone-deep fatigue, and the heavy scene still ahead of you, it was all you could ask for—this moment of calm, of quiet connection, of not having to carry it all alone.

You drew a deep breath as you reached for the trailer door.

Time to pull it together.

Time to ask your makeup team to perform miracles in under ten minutes.

You were late.

Not dramatically so, but just enough to earn the tight-lipped glance from the first AD and a barely concealed sigh from the director, who was already pacing near the monitors.

Your makeup team had worked their usual magic—flushed cheeks subtly muted, under-eyes dabbed and brightened. Hair and wardrobe had done their part too, smoothing out the worst of the wrinkles in your dress after you mumbled something about falling asleep on the couch between scenes. A white lie. Close enough to the truth.

As you stepped onto set, the soundstage humming with quiet tension, Jensen’s brow arched in question the second he caught sight of you. You were never late to set. He was already in place, waiting. You didn’t say anything. Just gave the crew a tight nod and avoided his eyes, hoping it would pass unnoticed. But you knew Jensen better than that.

Pedro was already there too. Clean backup shirt. Calm as ever. He looked up as you arrived, offering you a discreet smile and a wink—small, but loaded with memory.

You quickly looked away, heart giving a traitorous thud. You didn’t need Jensen seeing that. You didn’t need anyone seeing that.

The director didn’t waste time. "Let’s get locked in, people. Positions."

You exhaled, slow and steady, and moved to your mark.

The cameras rolled. You summoned what you needed to. Because the scene—emotional, heavy, full of things left unsaid—demanded your focus.

And compared to what you were going to have to face later, alone, this was the easy part.

In between takes, while lighting was adjusted for Jensen’s coverage, you stepped aside with a cup of coffee in hand, trying to gather yourself. You should have been expecting it when Jensen walked over.

"Hey," Jensen said, his voice casual but with that familiar, knowing undercurrent that always made it hard to lie to him. He strolled over with his usual unhurried confidence, the way he did when he was feeling things out before committing to a read on someone. "I went to your trailer earlier. You weren’t there."

You hesitated only a beat before forcing a shrug, keeping your focus on the lid of your cup. "Yeah, I—I stepped out. Had to deal with something."

His eyes stayed on you. You felt it. Studying.

"Something urgent?"

You nodded faintly, not looking up. "Just needed a second."

He seemed to chew on that. Then, mercifully, let it go—for now.

"Well," he continued, "we’re doing a thing later. Second AC’s birthday. Fancy steakhouse. You coming?"

You shook your head. "Can’t. I have a flight."

His brows pulled together slightly. "Oh. Work thing or personal?"

Before you could come up with something convincing, Pedro materialized behind you both, sliding between you and the snack table to grab a small packet of almonds.

"Hey," Pedro said, his voice low and unbothered, like he’d just wandered over to grab a snack and not to rescue you from a tightening corner. There was a lazy charm in the way he said it, like he knew exactly what he was doing—and maybe he did.

You tensed as his arm brushed yours—barely—but your body reacted before your brain had the chance. Heat prickled along your skin. You didn’t need to look to know he was hiding a smirk.

"Jensen," Pedro added, nodding to him as he stepped back.

Jensen tilted his head. "You coming to dinner tonight?"

Pedro shook his head as he popped an almond into his mouth, the corner of his mouth curving with the faintest hint of amusement. "Nah, can't—I've got plans. Rain check though. Tell ‘em I said feliz cumpleaños and not to drink the cheap tequila this time."

His gaze flicked to you briefly—one beat, two—and then he turned, walking back across set.

Jensen watched him walk off, shaking his head with a faint, dry laugh. "Unreal. Guy turns down a steak dinner like he’s being knighted for it. I swear—he could say he’s canceling to fold laundry and people would still thank him for showing up."

You forced a thin smile and took another sip of your now lukewarm coffee, eyes trained ahead.

"Where you flying to?" Jensen asked after a pause.

You hesitated. Part of you wanted to tell him. About your grandfather. The call. The weight sitting in your chest. But another part—the part that had already started locking those feelings down again—refused.

Because if you said it aloud, it would be real.

And if Jensen looked at you the way you knew he would—concerned, serious, all-in—it might undo you.

So you lied.

"Home. Just for the weekend. I’ll be back next week."

He nodded slowly. "Any reason or…?"

You tossed the rest of your cold coffee into a nearby trash bin and murmured, "Nope. No reason."

And you walked away before he could ask anything else, returning to the shadows of the set and the safety of the story you were still trying to tell.

Less than two hours later, you were back at your apartment suite, moving quickly but without much coordination, tossing items into a weekend bag with the robotic efficiency of someone who didn’t want to think too hard.

Jensen had hugged you before you left set. Tightly. Too tightly.

He hadn’t asked again. Hadn’t pressed. But something in his eyes told you he knew anyway. Somehow, he always did.

"Call me if you need anything, alright?" he said softly, his voice barely above the ambient noise of the crew striking down.

You nodded against his shoulder. Normally, you’d welcome his hugs, lean into them. But tonight, it had felt suffocating. Too much.

Because part of you wanted to stay right there. Let him keep holding you. Let yourself be weak. And another part knew just how wrong that would be. How selfish. He wasn’t yours. And even if he were free, you didn’t know if you were ready for that kind of comfort anyway.

Pedro had texted you once the day was wrapped, letting you know he was ordering the Uber and would meet you at your door. His suite was two floors above yours. Close, but not too close.

When you opened the door, he was standing there with that soft, steady look he wore so well—glasses perched on his nose, hair slightly mussed, dressed down in a black hoodie and jeans. No teasing. No smirking. Just quiet understanding.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Pedro simply extended a hand, his expression gentle and unreadable, silently offering to take the bag from your shoulder. There was no pressure in the gesture, only quiet kindness. You hesitated for a beat before letting it go, not because it was heavy, but because right then, you weren’t entirely sure what to do with yourself.

It was a small thing, but it steadied you in a way you hadn’t expected.

He carried the bag like it weighed nothing, falling into step beside you as if this was routine, as if this kind of shared silence was something you both knew how to exist within. When you reached the Uber idling at the curb, he opened the door for you with unthinking ease, like it was second nature. You slipped into the backseat, and he followed, pulling the door shut with a soft click behind him.

You leaned forward to give the driver your terminal and flight details, your voice low. The car eased into motion, pulling away from the curb and out into the city traffic, the world moving steadily forward even if your thoughts weren’t quite ready to follow.

Pedro reached for your hand, the gesture so seamless it felt less like a decision and more like instinct. His fingers slid through yours, slow and careful, grounding you with the steady pressure of his palm. His thumb moved in soft, unhurried circles over the back of your hand—reassuring without asking anything in return.

He kept the conversation light for the driver’s sake, throwing in the occasional story or dry quip when prompted, charming in that way he often was when he didn’t even seem to notice he was being charming. The man behind the wheel turned out to be a fan of Narcos, and a full-blown superfan of The Last of Us, cycling through compliments and questions with the kind of eager energy that made you grateful Pedro knew how to manage people gently.

You only caught pieces of it. Words blurred together, drifting past you like radio static from a distant room. Joked once or twice. But mostly, you watched the city roll by out your window.

The grief was back again, low and sharp, tucked under your ribs. It hadn’t left. It had just waited.

Pedro didn’t interrupt your silence. He didn’t try to fix it. He just kept holding your hand, steady as ever.

About halfway into the drive, you felt a gentle tug on your hand.

You turned your head and found him already watching you.

His eyes held the question before he asked it. Nothing forceful. Nothing loud.

Just that quiet concern again. That quiet presence.

And it was enough to make you breathe a little deeper.

Pedro glanced toward the front seat, then leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "Are you going straight to the hospital when you land?"

You nodded, eyes drifting down to where his hand still held yours. The quiet, steady contact helped more than you wanted to admit.

He took that in with a small nod, and his brow knit ever so slightly as he asked, "Which hotel are you staying at?"

You hesitated. Then shook your head. "I didn’t book one."

Pedro was already pulling out his phone, thumb poised mid-air, ready to open an app or call in a favor.

Before he could do anything, you gently added, "I’m going to stay at the hospital—they’ve got cots they bring out for overnight family. Thanks, though."

He studied you for a second longer. "What hospital?"

You told him without thinking, still caught in the fog of everything else. But as the words left your mouth, a weight seemed to settle over your chest. Saying it aloud made it all feel more real. More imminent.

Pedro must have sensed it. He lifted your hand slowly, turning your palm in his, and pressed a soft kiss to the back of it. The contact sent a faint shiver through your body, a warm ripple that traveled farther than it should have. But you said nothing.

If Pedro noticed, he didn’t show it.

You stared down at your lap, then whispered, "Thank you. For coming with me. I don’t know how I would’ve fared alone."

You nodded ever so slightly toward the driver, a subtle reference Pedro caught without comment.

He smiled faintly and leaned a little closer, murmuring, "Please. I couldn’t let you be stuck with someone who thinks Joel’s last name is ‘Miller Time.’"

A huff of laughter escaped you, soft and watery.

The smile stayed for only a moment before your eyes began to glisten. You blinked quickly, but the emotion was creeping up again, fragile and sharp.

"Seriously, thank you," you said again, quieter this time. "For earlier when I lost it. For this. For everything."

Pedro slipped an arm around you, gently drawing you into his side. His lips brushed your temple, then lingered at your ear as he murmured, "This isn’t going to be easy. It’ll probably be one of the toughest things you ever do. But you’ll get through it, hermosa. I know you will."

Your eyes scrunched shut at the tenderness in his voice. A tear broke free, sliding down your cheek.

You turned toward him without thinking, burying your face into his chest.

Pedro adjusted, arms coming around you fully, holding you with the kind of quiet strength that said nothing had to be spoken. Unlike earlier, the embrace didn’t make you feel trapped.

It held you together.

And for now, it was what you needed most—a moment of stillness, of silent comfort, where everything else could blur and the ache inside you didn’t feel quite so sharp.

At the airport drop-off, Pedro leaned forward and asked the Uber driver to wait a moment, then stepped out with you, grabbing your bag before you could protest. The lights above the terminal cast a low, soft glow, the curb humming with the usual chorus of rolling wheels and boarding calls. Pedro handed you the bag, and you murmured a quiet thank you as you hoisted it over your shoulder.

"Text me when you land?" he asked, and his voice was gentle but certain, leaving no room for you to brush it off.

You nodded. "I will."

You glanced at him, the weight of everything you wanted to say pressing just behind your ribs. You gave him a small, tired smile. "Thanks again for the ride. I owe you one. When I get back, I’m treating you to an Uber ride where the driver is a superfan of mine—someone who won’t stop talking about how brilliant I am so you can sit back and relax for once. That’s fair, right? Assuming this driver doesn’t kidnap you first and make you cosplay Narcos season one, starring him as Steve Murphy and you sweating it out in the backseat."

Pedro chuckled, that warm, gravel-edged sound rolling out of him like it couldn’t be helped. He gave a small shake of his head, like the image was far too plausible. "You joke, but give it twenty minutes and I’ll be in a cardboard flak vest, holding a Nerf gun, acting out my own tragic monologue while Steve here live-streams it to his six followers." His eyes sparkled under the terminal lights, humor worn like a shield but never insincere.

You let out a quiet laugh—soft, sudden, and surprisingly natural—like your body had remembered how before your brain caught up.

But then his grin faded into something softer. He watched you for a beat longer, eyes steady, kind. You studied him right back.

Just that morning, he’d been nothing more than a co-worker—a kind, professional presence you barely spoke to if you could help it. Now? Now he’d been there when it counted. Held you when you broke. Sat in silence when you needed it. Showed up when he didn’t have to, and asked for nothing in return.

He never took control, never tried to fix what couldn’t be fixed. He just stayed. Let you take the lead. Let you decide how close he came, what you needed in every moment.

And now here you were—standing under harsh airport lighting with your bag on your shoulder and your heart not quite knowing what to do.

You didn’t want to linger. Didn’t want to give the impression that you expected anything. So you gave him a small, polite smile, thin-lipped and tight. "I’ll see you."

You turned to go, but a gentle hand touched your elbow.

"Hey," he said softly.

You turned back—and Pedro pulled you into a hug. No urgency. No hesitation. Just arms around you, steady and sure.

He pressed a kiss to your cheek, the barest brush of lips that somehow held more comfort than any words could. It wasn’t a kiss meant to linger, or to say anything it shouldn’t. Not here, not now—not with all eyes around you. You understood that. Knew instinctively that this, the quiet press of his lips to your cheek, was the closest thing he could give you in this moment to something more, something that would have said what neither of you was ready to voice aloud.

"If you need anything," he murmured at your ear, "call me."

You nodded into his shoulder. Hugged him back for a long breath. Let your eyes close and your body remember this—his arms, his warmth, the solid quiet of him holding you together one last time.

Then you stepped back. Gave him another faint smile and a squeeze of his hand.

And walked into the terminal.

By the time you passed through security, you were running on fumes. You boarded early thanks to your upgrade, grateful for the solitude of a first-class window seat. You stowed your bag, settled in, buckled up—and then you finally breathed.

When you checked your phone, there was a new message.

Jensen.

He’d sent a few photos from the dinner. One of the AC with a candle in his dessert, grinning ear to ear. One of the group at the table—Jensen near the center, raising his glass. And another: a plated dish you recognized immediately. Your favorite.

He used to tease you about ordering it every time.

Wish you were here. Fly safe. Let me know when you land. And don’t leave Wolverine impressions on the armrests this time, will ya?

You smiled, a quiet flicker of warmth catching you off guard. He remembered everything. Including your fear of flying—something you never talked about anymore, not openly. But Jensen had flown with you before. He’d seen it for himself: the white-knuckled grip on the armrest, the nervous tapping of your foot, the subtle way your jaw tensed before takeoff. He knew how much you hated flying—especially flying alone.

And then—another ping.

Pedro.

It was a photo, taken in the dark. You recognized the glowing display to be the dashboard of the Uber you had just been in... along with the back of the driver’s head.

Sending this in case I disappear. He just asked me if I’ve ever seen The Last of Us cosplay.

You stifled a laugh behind your hand and typed back quickly.

If he makes you wear Joel’s jacket and call him Ellie, I want pictures.

Pedro replied almost immediately.

Too late. We’re halfway to a Comic Con panel. Save yourself.

And just like that, you were smiling. Really smiling. As the plane taxied down the runway, your thumb hovered over the keyboard, texting him again.

Your chest felt just a little lighter.

Even if it only lasted until the seatbelt sign dimmed and the cabin lights flickered off, it was a moment of weightlessness you hadn’t expected to feel. Not with where you were heading and what you were about to deal with.

hermosa - beautiful

Joder - fuck

[defnot-svnshine]

@cafekitsune for dividers.ᐟ

feel free to talk to me on here or on my other socials linked on my pinned post whenever.ᐟ judgment free always.ᐟ :]

𓂃  𖦹 ˖    𝄞 ࣪   ｡⭒˚⋆ 🔆

🔆 hi hello, im riley.ᐟ ⋆˚✮  sunny / sunshine work too.ᐟ

𖦹 ˖  * ｡⭒˚⋆ 🔆   she / they. italian/american.   nineteen.   white.   bisexual.   SHORTYY.   brunette.   adhd.   grunge.   band tees.   dog lover.   dinosaurs.   music blaring always.   rainy weather with sunny skies.   chronically online.   notes app addict.

✮˚⋆ sagittarius sun☀️.ᐟ pisces moon🌙.ᐟ leo rising.ᐟ ⋆  ˚ 🔆

🔆 📷 a few of my people.ᐟ : @wendichester @bruisedfig @honeyyxxbee @wvyik @diner-girl .ᐟ go check ‘em out.ᐟ 

🔆 🎶 my music taste.ᐟ : classic rock, grunge, ( also occasionally ) indie, etc. ( it changes often, but i always come back to these genres )

my current favorite artists.ᐟ  ( including but not limited to.ᐟ ) : 

✮˚⋆ radiohead ✮˚⋆ bon jovi ✮˚⋆ deftones ✮˚⋆ nirvana ✮˚⋆ KISS ✮˚⋆ the cure ✮˚⋆ queen ✮˚⋆ led zeppelin ✮˚⋆ van halen ✮˚⋆ blue öyster cult ✮˚⋆ mötley crüe ✮˚⋆ sublime ✮˚⋆ arctic monkeys ✮˚⋆chase atlantic ✮˚⋆ the weeknd ✮˚⋆ tate mcrae ✮˚⋆ billie eilish ✮˚⋆ and more.ᐟ always love recommendations & talking about music in general.ᐟ

𓂃  𖦹 ˖    𝄞 ࣪   ｡⭒˚⋆ 🔆

my favorite films & series’s i like.ᐟ : 

🔆 🎬 films : 

✮˚⋆ the notebook✮˚⋆ la la land ✮˚⋆ mama mia.ᐟ ✮˚⋆ the scream movies.ᐟ ✮˚⋆ black swan ✮˚⋆ gremlins.ᐟ ✮˚⋆ coraline.ᐟ ✮˚⋆ anything star wars ✮˚⋆ anything marvel ✮˚⋆ top gun & top gun maverick ✮˚⋆ and more.ᐟ

🔆 🎬 series’s : 

✮˚⋆ supernatural.ᐟ ✮˚⋆ dark angel ✮˚⋆ most star wars and marvel series’s ✮˚⋆ gilmore girls.ᐟ ✮˚⋆ the boys ✮˚⋆ the rookie ✮˚⋆ criminal minds.ᐟ ✮˚⋆ and more.ᐟ

🔆📸 favorite actors / characters.ᐟ    ( including but not limited to.ᐟ ) :

jensen ackles ✮˚⋆ jared padalecki ✮˚⋆ keegan p. russ ✮˚⋆ pedro pascal ✮˚⋆ beau arlen ✮˚⋆ mads mikkelsen ✮˚⋆ dean winchester ✮˚⋆ simon ‘ghost’ riley ✮˚⋆ alec mcdowell ✮˚⋆ archangel gabriel ✮˚⋆ sam winchester ✮˚⋆ chris evans ✮˚⋆ archangel balthazar ✮˚⋆ soldier boy ✮˚⋆ dean forester ✮˚⋆ bucky barnes ✮˚⋆

[houseofdissension]

mw fcs?

Walton  Goggins,  Tony  Dalton,  Tati  Gabrielle,  Adeline  Rudolph,  Anna  Sawai,  Zendaya,  Mahershala  Ali,  Rachael  Taylor,  Katheryn  Winnick,  Jesse  James  Keitel,  Penn  Badgley,  Cailee  Spaeny,  Pedro  Pascal,  Isabela  Merced,  MJ  Rodriguez,  David  Jonsson,  Ariela Barer, Micheal  B  Jordan,  Elizabeth  Debicki,  Wunmi  Mosaku,  Jack  O'Connell,  Indira  Varma,  Patricia Arquette, Anna Torv, Hunter  Schafer,  Idris  Elba,  Jennifer  Cheon  Garcia,  Elliot  Page,  Rosario Dawson, Helen Mirren, Mike  Faist,  Bella Ramsey, Keanu  Reeves,  Laysla  De  Oliveira,  Genesis  Rodriguez,  Nicole  Kidman,  Salma  Hayek,  Gemma  Chan,  Tom Holland, Young Mazino, Bill  Skarsgård,  Richard  Madden,  Brian  Tyree  Henry,  Elliot  Fletcher,  Dewanda  Wise,  Keke  Palmer,  Daniel  Kaluuya,  Steven  Yeun,  Dev  Patel,  Yamazaki  Kento,  Eva  Green,  Oscar  Isaac,  Andrew Koji, Sophie  Thatcher,  Florence  Pugh,  Rebecca  Ferguson,  Charlie Cox, Gina  Torres,  Emma  D'arcy,  Jeffrey  Dean  Morgan,  Michelle  Yeoh,  Greta  Lee,  Benjamin  Bratt,  Diane  Lane,  Storm Reid, David  Corenswet,  Skyler  Gisondo,  Melanie  Lynskey,  Christina  Ricci,  Sophie  Nélisse,  Alexa  Barajas,  Pierce Brosnan, Adria  Arjona,  Jon Bernthal, Taylor  Russell,  Ayo  Edebiri,  Kaitlyn Dever, Jeffrey Wright, Brian Tee, Joe Taslim, Gabriel  Luna,  Jeremy  Allen  White,  Monica Bellucci, Damson  Idris,  T'Nia  MIller,  Sam  Reid,  Josha  Stradowski,  Alan Ritchson, Assad  Zaman,  Tom  Hardy,  Eric  Bogosian,  Delainey  Hayles,  Evan  Mock,  Lashana  Lynch,  Peter  Gadiot,  Deborah Ann Woll, Zoe Saldaña, Shanola  Hampton.  Eva  Mendes, Murray Bartlett, Ryan  Gosling,  Aimee Lou Wood, Issa  Rae,  Lee  Pace,  Zahn  McClarnon,  Natasha  O'Keeffe, D’Pharaoh  Woon-A-Tai,  Jessica  Matten,  Julia  Jones,  Shelley  Hennig  and  I'm  just  going  to  stop  myself  there  before  I  get  further  out  of  control.

[teemoonley]

Pedro Pascal Materialists Girl T-Shirt

The Materialists Girl Shirt is where high fashion, pop culture, and meta-humor collide. Famously worn by Pedro Pascal in a viral selfie, this crisp white tee features the phrase “Materialists Girl” in soft powder-blue serif font — a direct nod to the upcoming 2025 A24 film Materialists. Pascal, who stars alongside Dakota Johnson and Chris Evans, wasn’t just dressing casually — he was extending the film’s narrative into the real world.

With typography that mimics the film’s promotional aesthetics, this shirt feels like both a clever inside joke and a bold marketing statement. For fans of Pascal, A24, or subtly referential merch, it’s an instant must-have. It’s self-aware, effortlessly stylish, and dripping with that signature indie-film cool. When you wear the Materialists Girl Shirt, you're not just wearing a tee — you’re part of a cinematic moment that blurs the line between on-screen storytelling and off-screen charisma.

👇 Click here to see it in action: TeeMoonley

[generalcollection00]

Materialists Girl T-Shirt

✨ Why Everyone Is Obsessed with the “Materialists Girl” T-Shirt (And You Should Be Too)

Let’s be honest — we live in a world where your T-shirt says just as much about you as your playlist or your pinned mood board. And if you’ve been on Tumblr lately, or basically anywhere on the internet, you’ve probably seen it: the Materialists Girl T-Shirt.

It’s bold, ironic, minimalist, meme-friendly, and absolutely blowing up across TikTok, Twitter, Tumblr, and Instagram. If you’re not already wearing it, you're at least thinking about it.

But what is this shirt, and why is it everywhere? Let's unpack the vibe, the meaning, and why it’s a must-have in 2025.

💬 What Does “Materialists Girl” Even Mean?

First things first — the phrase “Pedro Pascal Materialists Girl Shirt” isn’t about wealth or shopping addictions (though we see you, retail therapy fans 👀). It’s about embracing the irony of living in a hyper-capitalist, aesthetic-driven world, while still thriving in it.

It’s a wink at the idea that while we all love talking about minimalism, “quiet luxury,” or soft-living, deep down — we still kinda want to be That Girl™ with the iced latte and statement wardrobe.

Think of it as:

A fashion version of posting “girl dinner” with irony

A subtweet you wear

A meme you can style with your black boots and over-accessorized outfit

In short, it’s Tumblr-core. It’s self-aware. And it’s kind of iconic.

🧠 Tumblr Aesthetic Meets Real Life

Let’s be real: Tumblr has always been ahead of the curve when it comes to merging fashion, satire, and emotion.

Whether it was:

The grunge era of oversized flannels and Docs

The “I hate everyone” pastel sweater phase

Or the recent revival of early 2000s irony mixed with emotional vulnerability...

Tumblr users love clothes that mean something — or at least look like they do. That’s where the Materialists Girl T-Shirt fits in.

It checks all the boxes: ✔️ Ironic but not cringe ✔️ Minimalist but says a lot ✔️ Trendy but not mainstream (yet) ✔️ Gender-neutral, Tumblr-friendly, and 100% rebloggable

🛍️ Where to Buy It?

You can get the Materialists Girl T-Shirt on Viralstyle.com, a trusted print-on-demand platform that lets artists and brands create limited-edition apparel without waste.

Each shirt is made just for you — no mass production, no landfill piles, just a high-quality cotton tee that fits your feed and your feelings.

🎨 What Makes It So Aesthetic?

Let’s talk design.

The Materialists Girl Shirt features:

Bold sans-serif typography

Centered placement, minimalist layout

Printed on a neutral base (usually white or soft cream)

No clipart, no glitter, just attitude

It fits every aesthetic:

📸 Clean girl

🖤 Grunge revival

🎀 Coquette-core

🧃 Indie sad girl

🛸 Weird-core, ironically

Pair it with plaid skirts, cargo pants, oversized cardigans, or that one pair of jeans you thrifted in 2019 and still gatekeep.

🔥 Why Is It Going Viral?

Let’s be clear — this tee didn’t blow up by accident. The internet is a wild place, and fashion trends now live and die on social media platforms faster than ever.

Here’s why this shirt actually went viral:

A celebrity (you know who) wore it. The internet noticed.

Meme culture took over. People made jokes, edits, and “if this shirt could talk” posts.

It resonated. Because deep down, we all love things — and that doesn’t make us less smart, less woke, or less worthy.

So yeah, you can wear your consumerist irony on your chest — and look hot doing it.

📦 T-Shirt Details (Because Function Matters Too)

This isn’t just a “for-the-meme” shirt. It’s actually wearable and comfy.

Product Specs:

100% ring-spun cotton

Soft, breathable fabric for year-round layering

Unisex fit from Small to 3XL

DTG (Direct-to-Garment) printing — so your slogan won’t peel

Made in the USA and shipped within days

Yes, it’s cute. Yes, it’s comfy. Yes, you can wear it to therapy, brunch, or just while reblogging existential poetry at 2AM.

💡 How to Style the Materialists Girl Shirt (Tumblr Edition)

Need outfit ideas? Tumblr's got you:

🖤 The Dark Academia Fit:

Black maxi skirt

Oversized blazer

The shirt tucked in + layered chains

Beret optional, but encouraged

🎀 The Soft Grunge Combo:

Ripped tights

Pleated skirt

Platform boots

Oversized hoodie + the shirt peeking out

🧃 The Indie Internet Girl:

High-waisted jeans

Baby pink scrunchie

Disposable camera (just for the aesthetic)

👯‍♀️ Who’s Wearing It?

Let’s not name-drop (Meta would hate that), but this shirt is all over:

Alt TikTok moodboards

Tumblr outfit flat-lays

Instagram meme carousels

Reblogs with the tag #materialistsgirl

Pinterest under “minimalist quote shirt”

Basically, people who get the joke are already in on it — and you should be too.

🛒 Where to Cop It (Before It Sells Out Again)

You can buy the Materialists Girl T-Shirt now exclusively on:

👉 Viralstyle.com

Since it’s print-on-demand, there’s limited inventory, and viral trends don’t last forever. Whether you’re wearing it to make a statement, a meme, or a mood — don’t miss out.

🎯 Final Thoughts

In 2025, trends come and go — but the Materialists Girl Shirt hits that sweet spot between fashion and internet culture. It's not just a T-shirt. It's commentary. It's aesthetic. It's Tumblr-core with a sense of humor.

So if you:

Like irony but hate looking like everyone else

Appreciate clean design and bold statements

Want to laugh at capitalism while also participating in it (with style)...

Then this shirt is literally made for you.

Wear it. Own it. Reblog it. Make it yours.

[pascals-doll]

corrupt bunny

ೀ happy birthday to our daddy dearest josè pedro balmaceda pascal 💝

ೀ a lil dbf!joel smut 4 celebration i hope u babies enjoy i was so tired from work but baby daddy deserved dis!!!

ೀ DBF!JOEL MY MAN 4EVA

ೀ description: FILTH LITERALLY FILTH HELLO, SMUT, DBF!joel, (pre-outbreak!joel kind inspired)early40s!joel, dom!joel, sub!reader, early20s!reader, heavy heavy daddy kink (MHM), choking (r receiving), cowgirl momentarily 👅, doggystyle, slight hair pulling (r receiving), breeding kink (☺️), no use of y/n, use of pet names (darlin, sweetheart/girl, babydoll), reader gets rammed in childhood bedroom.

you came home from college for summer break, you were feeling severely homesick—and sick for something else.

your dad’s bestfriend Joel. he was a burly, scruffed, and damn-right sexy; not only that but he was a man, a real man.

you couldn’t find yourself standing a second talking to a college boy after the last night you had 5 months ago before you left spring break.

now here you were, in your childhood bedroom; getting completely fucked out of your mind by that exact man, Joel.

when you came home, you expected to be greeted by your parents once you arrived at your childhood house.

your grandma had picked you up from your university and dropping you off with all your luggage; just to be greeted by Joel Miller.

he was sitting on one of the many wooden chairs on your porch, beer in hand as he leaned his back against the rest of the chair.

“welcome back, darlin’” his southern accent drawls so sweetly, your heart pooled straight to your cunt. you took in the husky man.

he was laid-back, wearing tight jeans with his old brown belt shining with that thick silver buckle holding his jeans tightly as white tee hugged his roughed-up muscles perfectly. especially, the way his brown rough of hair curled around and framed him perfectly. you were gawking as you kissed you grandma goodbye. slight shameful but fuck, he was so fine.

you forced your way up the three-steps, you could feel his eyes burn through you. the heat of summer sun wasn’t the only thing making you sweat; his gaze feeling hotter than anything else on this planet.

“hi—hiya’ Joel! —my folks?” your throat raked out—cheeks flushing in embarrassment, clearing it before continuing. you were a complete mess under the chocolate galaxy he carried in his husked eyes.

“they left for a cruise?” he answered, looking at you questionably as your memory begins to jog-back to you.

“fuck right! —you were going to greet me today—i completely forgot.” it had completely slipped your mind through your rushed packing that Joel was going to be with you for their last night of their cruise; to watch over you, take care of you.

“oughta’right babydoll—y’just gon’ stand there gawking?—or y’gon c’mere?” his tone was low as his drawl foretold.

there were no words, just actions.

you could feel the sweat trickle down your neck into the dips of your clavicle as you walked through your front door, taking in the aroma of your childhood home.

the place you grew up with your dad and Joel handling grill-outs on summers like these, the place whereas you got older, the infatuation you had for your dad’s bestfriend only turned into a undying crush.

you would do anything for Joel, anything he asked.

that’s exactly how you ended up in the salacious position you were in now; position he put you.

“better have not been fuckin’ around with those dirty ol’boys” his hot breath glazed your ear with his growl.

you took in the view of your childhood bedroom, taking in the white walls that were decorated with the cutest posters and fashion magazine rip-outs. your ceiling fan even had a pink monkey dangling from it that has been collecting the dust up there for the past decade.

your bed was completely by a full satin-ruffled bunny printed set from when you were younger, scattered with all types of stuffed animals; a couple of different colored teddy bears and hello kitties—almost all had been gifted to you by Joel himself.

this was a disgustingly heavenly-sent tainted picture-perfect moment.

he laid perfectly in between all your teddies and plushies as you hopped on him like a corrupt bunny.

“never daddy!—pussy s’yours! s’yours!” you cried as his rutting vigorous hips met yours. your titties were pushed against his broad hairy chest as his hand had a grip through your hair, keeping your heads connected.

all you could feel was the way he engulfed your insides was a flame hotter than the rays of the sun, a burn you craved more and more.

the only thing you could pay attention to be the sound of his balls slapping against your lower ass as your hips recoiled against each pistol of his own—feeling his cock brush against your cervix with each fuck-up from his cock.

the room that Joel used to once come check-in on you everytime he visited your home throughout the years, watching you become the woman you are today, so full of life and intelligent. yes, your father would kill him—go out first thing he was to find out to purchase a gun and wouldn’t hesitate to use it on him.

Joel knew this was wrong, but lord didn’t give him enough strength. it was you; how could he resist you.

it all made it more sickingly beautiful to him.

“who’s your daddy, babydoll?” Joel flipped you over. your faces embarrassingly smushed in between all your cute little plush babies.

“gah—fuck—you!you daddy! you!” it wasn’t even a second that he was outside of your cunt before slamming himself back into you.

“oh my—fuck! daddy s’big!” your cock-drunken self slurs out as you drool onto of the hello kitty’s Joel gifted you; completely dumbed out on his cock. he was biggest you’ve ever seen and taken.

you never failed to remember the way his cock stood girthy and tall, almost taking up the size of your face as one hand wasn’t even enough to pump him correctly.

Joel showed no mercy to your sweet little cunt as you were now on all fours for him, exposing him to all your perfect curves and dips; his hand running up and through your back as his hips slapped harshly against the recoil of your ass.

you felt his big callous hands hold the back of your neck, not caring for the sweat that glistened off the both of you before moving it over to grip your throat, cutting the air from you blissfully.

from now on, the only thing planted into your brain was Joel.

the way he had you in pure erotic dismay for him in your childhood bedroom, the bedroom he watched you grow up in. you loved this, you lived for this.

“such a dirty girl—likin’bein’ choked” Joel’s groan graveled, sending a shiver through your spine as you felt your vision blur from the loss of circulation. you felt like you were at the gates of heaven.

“only f’you!—only f’ya-daddydaddy please!”

your pleasantly ardenous moans and sobs echoed through your little girly walls, bouncing off just like your plush ass against his thick cock as your cunt slid him like it was molded for him and him only.

you felt his grip on your neck loosen slightly as it went to massage through the locks of your hair, roughening it up as he pulled on it slightly with each impassioned thrust into your squelching cunt.

“such a good girl fa’me—you always been, haven’t you? —gah fuck! —always wantin’ to do good by me, hm sweet girl?” the tone that carried through his deep accent was ravenous as his groans stuttered him out.

Joel could feel himself growing closer as he twitched inside of you. “yesyes! always good f’you, daddy! m’close—so close!” you moan out as you feel your legs shake as his other hand that never left your hip turned red by how deep his hand dug into your flesh.

you could feel his hips stutter as you reach your hand behind you to feel him, desperate to hold him in some form. he immediately grabs your hand and places it on his heart.

“feel this babydoll? this whatcha’ do t’me—ougah fuck! you drive m’crazy!” Joel didn’t hold back as he made his last rough and haste thrusts count.

you could feel the way his heartbeat was beating fast, beyond rapid. you were sure you loved this man “yes daddy! s’good—love yo—ah! ah! daddy!” you were so cock-drunk, you didn’t stop the confession from coming out.

“say it, sweetheart—please!” the husked groan was a beg.

“im cumming!—fuck! —i love you, i love you daddydaddy!—fuck!” the confession was carnal, but you looked back, pouring your eyes into his fucked-out ones completely matching his hungry gaze. you meant it.

“i love you more—fuck me! wanna make me a daddy? drive y’old man crazy, hm?” Joel was a menace, such a sick hot menace.

“Joel—but—but!—”

“whassa’ matter, sweet girl? y’don’t-fucking he—hell! —wanna get this young little pussy full of my kids?” you watched the sick smirk smear across his beautifully rugged lips.

“hmph fuck it-yes! yes yes! daddy daddy please—fill me up—oh my!” you blabbered out in pure bliss; you loved the idea of having his kid in such a twisted way. your dad would lose it, but right now, there wasn’t a single care in the world for the both of you.

just like that, you could feel his hot load shoot and seep into your cunt, coating your wall with his thick white cum; hoping to reach into your beautiful fertile self to bless you with a bump of his own.

the room was filled with breathless pants as your chests heaved, pulling you in once he collapsed onto your angelic frilly little bed.

you shared hot and love-drunk, wet open-mouth kisses, making both of your membranes fuzzy.

your kisses slowly went from his lips to the gruffness of the hairs on his beard, getting lost on the way the small greyish brown hair tickled your lips. then, down to his neck, leaving the softest pecks—feather-like as a deep sigh erupts through his lips.

you felt him pull you up, grabbing your chin to look at him.

there was that dark hungry gaze again.

the chocolate abyss in his eyes that lulled you in every single fucking time.

“im gon’ fill this fucking pussy t’ill i got a mini us runnin’ around.”

dolls-taglist: ̗̀➛ @yondaimekazzy @alyzae13 @elliewilliamsgirl3

to join taglist click here !

[dailypascal]

arm,,,

[millers-girl555]

this is so boyfriend coded 😭

[mando-abs]

Red carpet outfit? Did you mean my look for the entirety of the colder months???

Coziest king 🥹

[evermore-fashion]

Met Gala 2023: My Top 5 Men’s Looks

I’ve had a few messages asking for my favourite men’s look from the Met Gala 2023, despite the fact I wasn’t overly enamoured by what I saw from the men this year. So I thought I’d share with you all my top 5 men’s looks as there were a few that I did like even though I feel like the women shined a lot brighter when it came to their outfits. 

Like before this post is just my opinions on fashion, it’s not absolute and you’re all welcome to either agree or disagree with me.

1. Conan Gray wearing Balmain I won’t lie. I roasted Conan for his 2022 Met Gala look so I was really surprised to see he had stepped it up with this amazing outfit from Balmain. Every time I look at it I fall more in love with it because it’s both masculine and feminine from head to toe. Plus I love how the pearls are placed throughout his outfit as well the fan that just adds that touch of flamboyance thats needed for an outstanding Met Gala look.

2. Brian Tyree Henry wearing Karl Largerfield Just like Conan, Brian nailed his look which was obviously helped by the fact he was wearing an outfit from the late designer. Regardless though, I felt it suited Brian to tee even with the large ruffle coat that oddly didn’t overwhelm him nor did it detract from twist on an the classic men’s suit thats become a trend in recent years.

3. Eddie Redmayne wearing Alexander McQueen Eddie seems to be a spokesperson for the McQueen brand these days as I don’t think I’ve ever seen him wear another designer when it comes to public events. The suit itself is a classic suit but I love the silver broaches and how they are placed from shoulder to shoulder with a drop on his chest and connected by chains. It looks like expensive raindrops and I love it. Also I love Hannah's classic McQueen gown, they compliment each other perfectly.

4. Sean ‘Diddy’ Combs wearing Sean John Whilst I’m not a fan of Sean ‘Diddy’ Combs I can’t help but love his look, even if it’s from his own fashion house. The look compliments the theme perfectly whilst still being a haute couture look that you can tell is more about Sean than Karl Lagerfield. Overall it screams modern vampire who’s there to steal the limelight (and probably your blood) and I’m honestly here for it. 

5. Pedro Pascal wearing Valentino I don’t know why but I really love the whole look on Pedro. Perhaps it’s the vibrant red that just like Salma Hayek’s gown, was actually palette cleanser from all the black & white that graced the stairs of the Met Gala. Or perhaps it’s because Pedro is killing it in The Last of Us as well as The Mandalorian and is the internet’s heartthrob. All in all I can’t not love this look and it just goes to show that he can wear anything and still look handsome. 

[picturepowderinabottle]

someone pls stop me from making a fashion with Pedro Pascal serie. because i’m getting some ideas already...

[mulberry-truffle]

Hey besties, sooo... Idk if y'all remember me from that last post 🙄💅

MINORS DNI

BUT! I would like to write more fics, this is actually a nice coping skill and I've been writing a few in my notes (tee hee🤭). I think my therapist would appreciate me having a new coping skill, plus I can cater to y'all FREAKS 🥴

So, please write some suggestions for me to write more! I can do more than Jason Voorhees & would like to expand my skillz as a lil low-key writer 👉👈

Btw I can also write for not just F!Reader I can do AFAB/AMAB, any pronouns, non-binary/gender neutral (ik they're different but all my non-binary pals are likeee only reading gender neutral), gay, lesbian, WLW, MLM, BI/PAN (like a three-way typa deal or whatevs btw I'm pan so like hiii besties), & also fics for people who are a specific ethnicity/race! Black, Asian, Latina, Mexican, ECT. (no white ppl though because there are so many other writers that only cater to white people so go to them for that content plz 💜). I can also do specific body types/parts but I usually make sure the body is never described and I use (B/T) which means body type. I made that shit up so you're welcome. I probably didn't make that shit up but it's an original thought (I think idk everything we do isn't original). Nowww... Onto the next topic hoes!

💕What I can write for💕

Star Wars (🔫 pew pew)

— Literally any of The Bad Batch cuz they're FOIN specimens

— Clones. Which Clones? Yes.

— Daddy-Wan Kenobi

— Whiny ass Anakin Skywalker 🙄

— Kit Fisto

— Darth Maul

— Savage Opress (for my size kink besties🤞)

— The Mandalorian (or Pedro Pascal in general, he's our daddy 💦)

— Boba Fett (young or not idc I'mma still smash)

— Ventress

— Sideous (SIKE if you actually like him I'm simpshaming you. Shame; Go see a fuckin therapist, or you could probably come see mine and we can work it out in group therapy)

— Thrawn

— Cad Babe 😘

— Plo Koon 💜

— Poe

— Lando 🤤

— Han Solo

— Kylo Ren I guess

— Rey

— Leia

— Luke Skywalker

— Hondo Ohnana (hear me out— clone wars Hondo 🤤)

There's probably like a lot more but just any ON SCREEN SW character because I can't afford to read the comics & I don't have a separate device to read them illegally

Slashers (slash splash 🔪)

— the bitches from House Of Wax, especially the masked one 🥵

— Jason Voorhees (obvi)

— Michael Myers

— Those bitches from Scream

Idk these are like the main ones & I'm uncultured, plus Texas chainsaw traumatized me as a kid (AS IT SHOULD). Also idk if the creepypasta homies count but I'll only be doing ones that AREN'T MINORS because SOME OF Y'ALL DON'T REALIZE YOU'RE WRITING CP

Marvel/DC (*superhero sounds??(

Literally everyone, except for da kids. No CP writing here.

I will also write Rick Sanchez shit (yeah idc he's hawt)

Literally I can write a lot, I'll add more if y'all suggest some shiz I forgot about. Plus, it also helps to get into more fandoms if you recommend some hotties 😜💅

All kinks are welcomed, so please be specific with what you want! Non-seggsy fics welcomed too like angst & fluff or both~! Whatever you want 💜

Btw other writers, I can really use some tips on how to use this damn app! I forgot how to make words colorful and I wanna do that thing where it says "continue reading" after I say the whole minors DNI stuff. My DMs are also open if you don't wanna comment 💕

[lawlessfm]

mwm by members?

i would simply pass out on the floor right in front of you if i got a karl urban or daniel kaluuya application.     i would love to see     chiwetel ejiofor,    shah rukh khan,   bill skarsgard,     metin  akdügler,   laurence fishburne,     rahul  kohli,   ricky whittle,    glen  powell,   shemar moore,    miles teller,   dwayne johnson,     jung  wooseok,   mahershala ali,    lewis pullman,   jesse williams,    keith powers,    michael b jordan,    harvey guillen,     logan lerman,     isiah mustafa,     yahya abdul mateen,    viggo mortensen,     rami malek,    andrew garfield,    andrew koji,    ilhan şen,    jake gyllanhaal,    alexander skarsgard,    hyun bin,    sen mitsuji,    kento yamazaki,     simu liu,    remy hii,    lewis tan,    danny pino,    charles melton,    aldis hodge,    kayvan novak,    john david washington,    colin farrell,    michael pena,    paul rudd,   edward norton,    terrence howard,    sterling k brown,    daniel henney,    nattawin wattanagitiphat,    mark consuelos,    chris pine,    goran visnjic,    david castañeda,    fukushi sota,   jesse lee soffer,   takeru satoh,    hayden christensen,    gerardo taracena,   benjamin  wadsworth,    clayton cardenas,   tommy flanagan,  �� garrett hedlund,    edgar ramirez,    max thieriot,    boyd holbrook,    lorenzo james henrie,    phakphum romsaithong,    justin hartley,    idris elba,    pablo schreiber,     zane holtz,    robert pattinson,    angus cloud,    ji jin hee,   luke grimes,    kevin costner,    benicio del toro,    ryan gosling,    kang tae oh,   dylan o’brien,    mads mikkelsen,    chace crawford,   regé jean page,    javier bardem,    jimmy smits,     brian tee,    timothy olyphant,    frank dillane,    bradley cooper,    harry styles,    ethan hawke,     kasamatsu sho,     eric bane,    raymond ablack,   matthias schoenaerts,   miles teller,    alexander draymon,    jeremy allen white,    michael trevino,    peter gadiot,    barry keoghan,    antony starr,    aron piper,    david tennant,    theo james,    fujioka dean,    chris evans,    taylor kitsch,    wagner moura,    arnas fedaravičius,    hiroshi tamaki,    leo suter,    ludi lin,    lee soo hyuk,    nikolaj coster waldu,    tom holland,    denzel washington,    finn wittrock,    manny jacinto,    dylan minnette,    daniel craig,    dacre montgomery,    steven yeun,    ben hardy,     gong yoo,    charles michael davis,    lee dong wook,    michael malarkey,     kwak dong yeun,    jacob elordi,    gil birmingham,    tom wlaschiha,    cillian murphy,    alperen duymaz,    joe cole,    nathan parsons,    finn cole,     sean bean,    martin sensmeier,    blair redford,    diego luna,    pedro pascal,    oliver jackson cohen,    avan jogia,    and austin butler. 

[tiffdawg]

Just Another Mission | An Agent Whiskey x Reader Fic

Gif: @javier-pena​

Pairing: Jack Daniels/Agent Whiskey x Reader (fem; no y/n)

Word Count: 3.1K

Rating: T | Warnings: None. This is literally all fluff. Fake marriage and sharing-the-only-bed tropes included!

A/N: Hi! Please enjoy this trope-ridden, cliché-filled Agent Whiskey x reader story that popped into my head at 2am the other night and demanded to be written. I blame everything on Pedro Pascal.

Read on AO3

My Masterlist

... . ...

Just Another Mission

Since taking on the mantel of Agent Rosé at Statesman, you’d been partnered with Agent Whiskey on numerous missions over the years. On paper, this was just another mission. It really shouldn’t have been any different from the rest. The two of you were tasked with infiltrating an insider trading ring on Wall Street that was doing enough damage to the stock market for Statesman to take notice. It was certainly nothing out of your ordinary purview.

As such, you and Agent Whiskey were going undercover as the heads of an up-and-coming southern investment firm looking to expand up north. In order to give your assumed identities a bit more depth and secure invitations to the criminal group’s private social events, your handler back at HQ thought it would be helpful if the two of you went undercover as a married couple. A regular twenty-first century power couple, if you will. The men and women involved in the insider trading ring, for all of their faults, seemed to be family-oriented people. Or, at the very least, beach parties for the kids in the Hamptons and private dinners at the Upper East Side’s finest restaurants with spouses served as the perfect pretext to meet to trade secrets, negotiate deals under the table, and discuss illicit plans for the future.

It almost seems odd that after all of your shared missions, the two of you have never pretended to be married as part your cover story before. But, as you stand in the doorway of your luxurious Manhattan hotel room, you were starting to see the benefit of not posing as a couple. You were also beginning to suspect your handler might be playing some sort of cruel joke on you.

Of course, in order to maintain your cover, she only booked one hotel room for the pair of you. It bolstered your cover story with the hotel staff and in the likely instance you were followed back to your hotel, it would help you keep up appearances. And, of course, there’s only one bed.

“Well, Agent Rosé, we are supposed to be married,” Whiskey quips with a wink as he moves past you into the lush, gilded room. Clearly, your displeasure is written all over your face.

You roll your eyes at your hotshot partner’s receding figure before following after him. You do your best to shake yourself out of it because you really don’t have any time to worry about something as trivial as an unexpected, slightly inconvenient sleeping situation. Instead, you refocus on the mission, hoisting your overpacked suitcase onto the downy, king-sized bed. You dig out the dress keeper and peruse your options for a moment before selecting an elegant black gown with matching evening gloves for the gala you were attending that night. It would be your first appearance as Mr. and Mrs. Castillo and the perfect opportunity to charm your way into the inner circle of the one percent. That is your priority.

… . …

Hours later, after an evening of drinking the best champagne, dancing with your fake husband, and successfully socializing with your targets, you’ve finally returned to your lavish Midtown hotel for the night. With your gloved hand still resting on the crook of Whiskey’s elbow, he leads you from the elevator to the door of your shared suite. He’s recounting a story about a time he talked his way out of a rather precarious standoff involving international arms dealers, a former US ambassador, and the disgraced prince of a small European country. You’re so absolutely enthralled by his story and the silky southern accent that drips off of his every word that for a split second you forget that you’re not actually married to the man on your arm. The thought startles you and you quickly remove yourself from your fellow agent, brushing past him when he eventually swings open the door to your shared room.

Aside from the occasional question about something that was said at the gala, things are quiet as you both type up your mission reports for the day. He finishes first, which is surprising for someone who’s known to be a bit long-winded, and disappears into the ensuite. Perhaps you would’ve completed yours by now if you didn’t steal glances at your fellow agent in between every sentence. Your eyes are practically crossing when you finally submit your report. It’d been a productive day, but you are more than ready to sleep for the next eight hours.

 .

“What are you doing?” you inquire with a light laugh. You’d just finished your nightly routine in the bathroom and emerged to find Whiskey attempting to stretch out his long form on the loveseat sofa.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” he retorts back. “I’m going to sleep so I can be well rested for our champagne brunch with the Montgomery’s at the grand old Plaza tomorrow morning.” After a quick glance at the clock on the nightstand he amended with a sigh, “Or rather, later today.”

“On the couch?” you ask, playing with a loose string on the hem of your much-too-short sleep shorts.

“Well, where else would you like me to sleep, darlin’?” he asks in response. You don’t even flinch at the pet names anymore and instead the moniker pulls at something in your chest. Part of you thinks it’d be best for both of you to just leave it at that. He’s trying to be the gentleman and if he sleeps on the couch, all of your problems would be solved. Another part of you…well, you don’t want your partner running on fumes with a stiff neck while you’re in the middle of a mission, do you? Your eyes flick over to the bed and their movement doesn’t go unnoticed by the attentive agent. “Now, I know I may push my luck flirting with you, sweetheart, but I never want to make you uncomfortable. I’m fine spending the night here on the sofa.”

“Who said I would be uncomfortable, Jack?” Your words come out quieter than you intended, but you know he heard you. Rather than wait for him to reply, you crawl into bed, leaving plenty of space for him to join you. After a long moment of consideration, and a forlorn look back at the stiff, overstuffed sofa, he relents. 

Unsure how to position yourself with your fellow agent in bed with you, you toss for quite a bit. When you roll over for the fifth time, finally deciding that facing away from him would be the best option, he reaches out and pulls you securely into his chest. You gasp, surprised at his bold move, but find that he feels warm and solid against you. You’re so close you can feel his heartbeat behind you, drumming a steady, spellbinding rhythm. His arm stays wrapped around your waist, almost reassuringly, and your body relaxes into his.

“You settled now?” he asks, and you can just about hear his grin.

“Yes, I am,” you whisper back. 

“And you’re still comfortable with this arrangement?” His voice is lower, little more than a breath against the shell of your ear but he’s not flirting with you now. His usual confidence is gone, replaced by the slightest hint of nervousness.

“Very much so. I promise,” you answer genuinely, resting a light hand over his  where it sits against your abdomen in the soft space below your ribs. His only response is a slight squeeze around your waist.

With that, your eyes close and you let yourself drift off with the sound of his steady breathing behind you to lull you to sleep.

… . …

Much of your second day in the city was spent wining and dining a pair of your targets, another husband and wife duo. She was the CEO of a Fortune 500 company and he was the sole heir to an old New England fortune. You and the Mrs. stole away for a bit in the afternoon to do some shopping on Fifth Avenue. While Statesman had allotted you quite the budget to keep up the appearance of a certain lifestyle, you weren’t sure how Champ was going to feel about your new Chanel pocketbook. It might not have been a strictly necessary purchase, but it was an excellent way to bond with one of your main targets.

“You and your husband make quite the pair,” she says while running her painted fingers over a stack of silk scarves at Saint Laurent. “He’s so obviously smitten with you.”

You preoccupy yourself with the rows of oversized sunglasses, hoping to hide your uneasiness at her comment. At least you and Whiskey were selling the married couple bit.

“I got lucky,” you reply with a lighthearted laugh.

  .

That night, he’s already in bed when you come out of the bathroom. You can’t help but watch him for a minute from the threshold. He’s sitting up against the headboard wearing a white tee shirt that only accentuates his broad figure and, you presume, he’s reading over mission files on his tablet as his eyes scan the screen from behind thick rimmed glasses. You’d learned over the years that his swagger, while not entirely unwarranted, often covered Jack’s studious, serious side. He is an effective agent because of his hard work, diligent research, and careful planning. It isn’t a side of himself he showed many people, but you are among the privileged few. 

After a moment, he meets your gaze from across the room. His eyes trail over your body, taking in your sleep shorts and oversized shirt, and a soft smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. You were well accustomed to his appreciative looks, but this was different, almost intimate.

“Well, darlin’, are you about ready for bed?” he asks. The question, while perfectly valid, struck you as something so wholesomely domestic.

You nod and offer him a small smile before slipping into bed next to him. He considers you for a moment longer then sighs to himself and tosses his tablet and glasses on the nightstand before switching off the light.

Cloaked in darkness, the two of you lie silently next to each other for a moment. Only the quiet hum of the air conditioning fills the room. But it’s anything but peaceful, and the longer you stir in silence, the worse this tension coiling between you and Whiskey gets.

“Jack?” you finally call out to him, “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” he responds. The sheets rustle as he turns to face you. You seek out his eyes in the darkness with only a sliver of moonlight peeking through the drawn curtains to help you.

“Will you hold me like last night?” you ask tentatively.

“Baby girl, I thought you’d never ask.”

You meet in the middle of the bed. His arms wrap around you as you lay you head on his chest, fisting the fabric of his shirt with one hand in a vain attempt to pull him closer as if your bodies aren’t already perfectly flush. You breathe in his familiar scent, something deep and rich and completely Jack Daniels, and you nearly sob at the relief of finally feeling him against you again. You’re almost ashamed to say you’d been craving it ever since you untangled yourself from his grasp this morning. You don’t know how this happened; how this man, your coworker and partner, cast this spell over you so quickly. But as he strokes your back with a gentle hand, you start to accept that it was there for a long time. And you hope that he feels it, too.

… . …

With everyone presumably at work on a Monday in New York City, you and Agent Whiskey decide that’s the perfect time to do some investigative work at your targets’ private homes. It’s no easy task considering they all live in the best (and most secure) penthouse apartments and spacious townhomes money can buy in Manhattan, but things went surprisingly well with only a few minor hitches throughout the day. At least things were going well until you discovered your final mark had recently upgraded the security system for their Park Avenue townhome and then things went south. Fast.

You’d passed most of the evening arguing with your partner, albeit in hushed tones so as not to alert the other hotel guests. While you and Whiskey had your fair share of disagreements in the past, you both have a bit of a stubborn streak in you, this fight is particularly ugly. 

Eventually, you decide you’ve had enough of him and so you lock yourself in the ensuite, hoping to drown your frustrations in a piping hot forty-five-minute shower. You spend most of your shower doing little more than standing directly under the stream of water and counting to ten repeatedly while attempting breathing exercises Ginger Ale had taught you in an effort to reign in your anger. 

He’s gone when you exit the steamy bathroom and for a minute you worry. Then you quickly decide it’s not your place to worry about the man and you throw yourself dramatically onto the bed with the intention of forcing yourself to fall asleep before he returns.

 .

When he finally slips back into the dark room an hour later, you’re still wide awake. Out of spite and stubbornness, you give him no indication of that fact. You are, however, surprised when he climbs into bed next to you. You figured tonight he really would opt for the uncomfortable couch rather than sleep next to you. After some time, you fall asleep with your backs turned to each other. You can’t help but think that the distance between the two of you has never felt greater. 

It couldn’t have been more than a couple hours later when you wake from a fitful sleep with the disheartening realization that you were both a little right and a little wrong. It leaves a horrible, sinking feeling in your stomach until you just can’t take it anymore. It’s the middle of the night, but you have to apologize right now. You reach across him to turn on the light and your light movements jostle the bed enough to wake him. Although, from the look on his face, you suspect he wasn’t sleeping well either.

Jack sits up so that he’s facing you fully and eyes you with an arched brow, patiently waiting for you to speak. Meanwhile, you’re chewing at your bottom lip and struggling to find the right words to express yourself now that you’ve got his attention.

“Do you know why I like working with you?” you finally ask, measuring each word carefully. “You’ve never doubted my abilities as an agent. Not because I’m a woman or because of any other stupid reason. You’ve always made me feel like your equal. Until today.”

“I’m sorry, darlin’. Truly, I am,” he answers seriously. His accent lacks the usual playful tone. “For a moment there I was sure I was going to lose you and I panicked, and I know now I should’ve listened to you. But please believe me when I say that I’ve never doubted you. Not once. The only thing I doubted today was my ability to keep you safe.”

“That’s not your job,” you assert. 

“Like hell it isn’t,” Jack responds sternly. “You’re my partner.” 

You nod, acquiescing. You couldn’t argue with that even if you wanted to; his safety is just as important to you. You take a deep breath before continuing. This is always the hardest part. “I’m sorry, too. For the way I reacted today. I was frustrated and it could’ve cost us this mission.” 

“All is forgiven. You know that.” You sigh in relief when he hits you with one of his beaming smiles. The kind that makes his eyes crinkle in the corners. “You gonna let me hold you now?” he asks as he relaxes back into the plush pillows, gesturing to the space beside him. “I don’t know if I can sleep without you anymore.”

“After two nights?” you ask teasingly with a soft laugh.

“Best sleep I’ve gotten in a long time,” he says with a wicked grin. You can’t help but return the smile, knowing exactly what he means.

“Not yet,” you say coyly, summoning every ounce of courage you have before tentatively brushing your lips against his. You try to pull back so you can gauge his response, but there’s no need as he cups your face in his hands and brings your lips right back to his. This time the kiss is eager, hungry, and you return his enthusiasm with equal fervor. Your lips meld together perfectly and when his tongue slides into your mouth, you can’t help the little moan that escapes you. 

When you finally pull apart, gasping for air, you both break out into a fit of laughter. This was probably a long time coming and yet it managed to catch you both by surprise. He places a few imperfect kisses, warped only by his smile, across your face and you fall back into bed with him. 

The word love imprints itself into your mind as you hold his gaze, but you don’t speak it into existence. Not yet. Even though the look in his eyes tells you he’s thinking the exact same thing. You just know he is because after all these years together you can read Jack Daniels like a book. But this thing between you is new, precious even. Maybe it’s been there for a while, but you’re only just now ready to accept it and there’s no need to rush things. Better to let it mature in its own time because you know it’s going to age well, just like fine whiskey.

“Goodnight, Jack,” you whisper instead. You plant a light kiss on his soft lips, smiling as his mustache tickles you, before snuggling into the crook of his neck.

“I’m definitely going to sleep well now, my sweet girl,” He murmurs as he hugs you against him. In that moment you feel so safe, so cherished, so incredibly happy. Until- “Even if you do snore.”

“I do not!” you gasp and try to wriggle free so you can glare at him. He only laughs and holds you tighter, his arms wrapping firmly around you.

“Yeah, you do. Soft, little snores,” he says, pressing a kiss to your temple, “Don’t worry, sweetheart, it’s cute.”

... . ...

Thanks for reading! 

Edit: find part two here!