bronzepascal - Tumblr blog

bronzepascal · 3 days ago

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word count - 2.6k trigger warnings - smut minors DNI, gay panic, athletic tape You've just been subbed off in the game against Sweden, when you spot Lucy wrapping her thigh with tape, and suddenly your gay panic is louder than the stadium crowd.

It started with a big screen.

You'd only just sat down on the bench, water bottle in hand, heart still pounding from your shift on the pitch. The quarterfinals against Sweden had been brutal, your legs ached, your chest was still heaving, but nothing, absolutely nothing, could have prepared you for what you saw on the pitch.

Lucy Bronze.

By the goalpost.

Strapping her own thigh.

The physio was off patching up Hannah Hampton's bleeding nose after a collision, leaving Lucy to fend for herself. She was lying down, one leg bent up allowing access to her thighs, tape gripped between her hands as she wrapped it tightly around her upper thigh. Deliberate. Focused. Toned muscle flexing with every pull.

You took a sip of your drink. A big one. Then, right on cue, the cameraman gave the nation (and every lesbian watching) the gift of a lifetime: a slow, indulgent zoom straight onto Lucy. Or more specifically, her taped, glistening thigh. You choked violently mid-sip, coughing so hard you nearly sprayed water over the bench.

"Jesus Christ," you wheezed, coughing into your sleeve.

Lauren Hemp smacked your back, snorting. "You alright there? Swallowed it wrong?"

You nodded frantically, trying to hide the pink blooming across your cheeks. Your eyes flickered back to the pitch.

Lucy was still going, oblivious to the havoc she was causing. She shifted slightly, muscles rippling under her taped thigh, and you squeezed your legs together on instinct trying to cause any type of friction.

Then Leah leaned in beside you, the devil herself in disguise.

"Why don't you take a picture?" she whispered, voice wicked and far too smug. "It'll last longer."

You glared at her, but she just grinned, turning back to the match like she hadn't just outed you with a single sentence. No one else knew. Just Leah. And now she was having the time of her life watching you try not to spontaneously combust on the bench.

The game wore on. England won.

The moment the final penalty was missed, you shot off the bench like everyone else, arms flung around Lauren as you both ran screaming onto the pitch trying to find Niamh, the last member of your little group. Euphoria buzzed through every nerve ending, the rush of victory pumping adrenaline through your system.

Until, of course, you saw her again.

Lucy. Water bottle in hand, pouring it slowly over her head. Her shirt clung to her abs, drenched. Her hair slicked back, mouth parted slightly as she caught her breath. She looked like she'd stepped out of a goddamn commercial.

And you. You were still malfunctioning.

You stopped running, just for a second, brain going blank. Heat rushed down your spine. Your thighs squeezed together on instinct.

"You good?" Niamh asked, laughing breathlessly as she walked towards you both.

"Yeah," you managed. "Fine. Great. Just… water. Victory. Everything."

You powered through, trying desperately to forget the way Lucy's sports bra had clung to her like a second skin.

Later, on the coach back to the hotel, you collapsed into your seat next to Lauren Hemp, heart still racing and body aching in the best way. Around you, the team buzzed with energy, singing loudly, laughter echoing through the bus. You tried your best to act like you weren't completely losing your mind.

Then Lucy walked down the aisle.

She was freshly showered, damp curls pulled into a loose bun, hoodie hanging off one shoulder, and that same smug composure she always had after a win. As she passed, her fingers brushed your thigh lightly (so quick you could've convinced yourself you'd imagined it) and something soft fluttered into your lap.

A folded note.

You froze. Lauren was too busy swiping through different Lego sets to notice. You kept your hands steady as you slipped the note under your hoodie and unfolded it with practiced ease.

Caught you looking.

Your throat closed up, heat crawling up your neck. You bit down on a noise that was definitely not a yelp and looked up sharply, scanning the seats. Lucy was already settled two rows ahead, earphones in, head resting on the window. She didn’t even glance back.

Like she hadn’t just set your entire body on fire with two words and a smirk. You could feel how wet you were getting, and it was maddening. You tried to focus on the scenery outside the window, but all you could think about was her.

You had just gotten into bed, hair still damp from a cold shower, when your phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Lucy: You awake?

You stared at the message for a moment before replying.

You: Barely. Why?

The typing bubble popped up, disappeared, popped up again.

Lucy: Come open your door.

You blinked, then scrambled up, heart skipping.

When you opened the door, Lucy stood there in her england issued hoodie and shorts, a grin on her face and two water bottles in her hands.

"Peace offering," she said, holding one out. "For making you short circuit earlier."

You stepped aside automatically, brain short circuiting, words catching in your throat. "H...how? What, why? How are you here?"

She brushed past you into the room, casual and smug, like she belonged there.

"The water bottle's to make up for you choking on the last one," she said with a grin.

You froze. "Wait. How do you know about that?"

Lucy didn’t answer, just raised an eyebrow.

"Oh my god," you muttered. "Leah. It was Leah, wasn't it? She told you. Unbelievable. She's dead to me. She’s so…"

You turned to grab your phone, probably to send Leah a series of unhinged threats, but before you could even unlock it, Lucy was in front of you kissing you. Firm. Certain. No warning and it shut you up instantly. Your fingers twitched against your phone. Your brain? Empty.

When she finally pulled back, Lucy was still grinning, but softer now. "You talk too much."

You blinked up at her, dazed. "You kiss too well."

She took the phone out of your hand and tossed it gently onto the bed. "Now that that's done," she said, leaning in with a glint in her eye, "what do you say we move on to the part where I do you?"

You snorted, laughing. "That might be the corniest shit I’ve ever heard."

Lucy shrugged, utterly unbothered. "You didn’t say no."

Before you could say anything else, Lucy kissed you again.

Harder this time. Filthier. Her hands roamed with purpose, sliding down your sides until they found your ass and gripped tight. You gasped into her mouth just as she hoisted you up like you weighed nothing - as if she hadn’t just played a full match, plus extra time. Your legs wrapped around her waist instinctively, clinging to her like she was the only solid thing in the world.

She carried you to the bed and threw you onto it with casual force, watching you bounce slightly on impact as she stood over you, breath shallow and eyes dark. You propped yourself up on your elbows, gaze locked on her as she slowly peeled off her clothes; first the hoodie, then the tank top, each movement deliberate. Her shorts slid down her legs, followed by her underwear, and by the time she was completely bare in front of you, your brain had short circuited for what felt like the hundredth time that day.

She said something (a question, maybe) but you didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Words had left the building. Lucy tilted her head and smirked at the empty, stunned look on your face. "Like what you see, huh?"

You could only nod, dumbly and she was absolutely loving it.

Lucy’s smirk deepened as she climbed onto the bed, crawling up your body with a deliberate slowness that made every nerve in you buzz. Her hands were everywhere (thighs, waist, ribs) tracing the shape of you like she was memorizing it.

“You gonna just stare all night,” she murmured, voice low and husky, “or are you gonna do something about it?”

You reached up and tangled your fingers in her damp curls, pulling her down into another kiss, this one messier, hungrier. She groaned softly against your lips, shifting her hips against yours.

Her hands were hot against your skin, her mouth hungrier with every kiss. You arched into her, desperate for more contact, more friction, more everything. Lucy’s lips trailed kisses along your throat, teeth grazing your collarbone. Each touch sent shivers racing through you.

“Lucy,” you breathed, fingers digging into her shoulders as she shifted lower, her tongue tracing a path between your breasts.

Her hands slid beneath you, pulling off your top in one fluid motion. The cool air hit your skin but you barely noticed; her mouth was already on your stomach, nipping at the soft flesh there. Her hands found the waistband of your shorts and she tugged them down impatiently, leaving you bare before her.

“Fuck,” Lucy muttered under her breath as her eyes raked over you. She leaned in, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, then another higher up. You squirmed, gasping as her breath ghosted over your clit. “Stay still,” she commanded, her voice low and rough.

You tried to obey but it was impossible when her tongue finally dipped inside you. You cried out, hips jerking instinctively toward her mouth. Lucy gripped your thighs, holding them apart firmly.

Her tongue explored every inch of you (circling your clit) until pleasure coiled tight in your belly like a spring ready to snap. Lucy moaned against you, the vibration making stars burst behind your eyelids.

“Right there” you whimpered helplessly when she sucked hard on just the right spot. Your body tensed as those familiar waves began crashing over you; sharp pulses of ecstasy radiating from where Lucy’s mouth worked tirelessly against you.

Your back arched off the bed, a cry tearing from your throat as the pressure broke. A rush of heat surged through you, and then you felt it, a wave of release so intense it left you breathless. You shuddered uncontrollably, your hips jerking as pleasure exploded in sharp, liquid pulses. Lucy moaned against you, her tongue lapping eagerly as you trembled beneath her.

“Oh god,” you whimpered, your voice shaking almost as much as your body. Lucy didn’t stop, her fingers still moving inside you, gently encouraging the last waves of ecstasy from your spent body. When she finally pulled away, her chin was glistening and she wore that stupid stupid trademarked smirk on her face.

You were still catching your breath, skin flushed and limbs loose, when Lucy slid off the bed. You watched her move across the room, bare and unbothered, like she hadn’t just completely wrecked you.

She crouched beside a backpack you hadn’t even noticed her bring into your room. Typical Lucy - always sneaky, always a step ahead. You figured she might pull out a pair of pyjamas for her to spend the night.

Instead, she pulled out something entirely different.

Your brain short circuited. “Wait, is that…”

Lucy just looked over her shoulder with a cocky little smirk. “I always come prepared.”

You sat up, eyes wide, mouth suddenly dry. “You brought that here?”

She shrugged, fastening it on with practiced ease, her voice casual but smug. “Do I hear you complaining?”

Your brain couldn’t decide whether to be scandalized or even more turned on (probably both) but your body already knew the answer.

Lucy straightened, turning toward you fully now, eyes dark. “Still speechless?”

You swallowed hard, nodding hesitantly.

She grinned. “Good girl, now lay back.”

Lucy’s hips moved with a fluid, unhurried rhythm. Each measured thrust coaxing your body open without the sharpness of before. Her free hand drifted down your side, fingertips tracing idle patterns on your sweat-damp skin before settling on your hipbone, thumb pressing in just enough to make you gasp.

“Better like this?” she murmured, her lips brushing the shell of your ear.

The words weren’t teasing (just warm, curious). The toy inside you shifted, filling you deep before retreating slowly. You shuddered, and Lucy’s grip tightened, not with restraint but reassurance.

“I’ve got you,” she promised, bending to kiss the tense line of your shoulder.

Your breath hitched slightly as she pressed in again, deeper this time, her body molding against your back. The harness’s base rubbed firm against your clit, but the pressure wasn’t relentless anymore, just steady and deliberate letting the pleasure build instead of forcing it. Her palm slid down your stomach, fingers splaying possessively over your lower belly like she could feel every inch of the toy inside you.

“So good,” she breathed. “Taking me like this.”

A moan slipped from your lips, and Lucy answered with a low hum, her hips rolling in a slow, undulating grind. No urgency, no demand just the slow, sweet drag of her moving in you, her body a solid weight against your back, her mouth tracing lazy kisses along your spine. When your thighs began to tremble, she didn’t speed up. Just leaned closer, her voice a husky whisper against your skin.

“Let go when you’re ready” she murmured, words dripping with quiet promise.

Around 5 minutes later and Lucy had collapsed to the empty space next to you but not before shifting slightly, brushing a few strands of damp hair away from your face. Her touch was surprisingly gentle (especially after everything) and she looked at you with that warm, post win gleam in her eyes.

“You alright?” she murmured, voice low, a little smug but laced with something softer underneath. “How’re you feeling?”

You tried to speak (tried to form any kind of coherent thought) but your lips parted and nothing came out. Your brain was still fogged, your body boneless, wrecked in the best possible way.

Lucy sat back on her heels, breathing steady, flushed with satisfaction as she looked you over. Her grin grew when she saw the dazed, wordless expression on your face.

“No comeback?” she teased, tilting her head, eyes glinting. “That good huh?”

Still nothing. Just the rise and fall of your chest and the helpless, wide eyed stare you gave her.

Lucy chuckled, smug and triumphant. “God, I’m good.”

She leaned over you, brushing a kiss over your temple and you groaned softly, covering your face with one hand, and Lucy just laughed harder.

“Admit it,” she whispered smugly, pressing close to your ear. “You’ll never look at athletic tape the same way again.”

Later, when everything had quieted down and the only sound was the soft rustle of sheets and your shared breathing, you lay curled against her, skin warm and limbs tangled. Your chest rose and fell in sync with hers, the adrenaline slowly bleeding out of your system.

Then, out of nowhere, Lucy started giggling.

At first, it was soft, a quiet shake of her shoulders and a muffled snort against your neck. But it grew, bubbling up into full blown laughter that made her body shake beside you.

You turned your head to look at her, eyebrows drawn. "What? What is it?"

She tried to speak, failed, and kept laughing. When she finally caught her breath, she managed to get out, between breathless giggles, "It... it took me strapping my leg up just to end up strapping you up."

You groaned and shoved her playfully. "That is so bad. You’re disgusting."

She doubled over with laughter. "You’re laughing too!"

You tried to hold it in, but a quiet snort slipped out. "I hate that I am."

Lucy grinned wide, absolutely triumphant, and flopped dramatically onto her back. "Worth it."

You rolled your eyes, biting your lip to keep from grinning harder. But inside, you were already lost to her all over again.

#18+#read

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bronzepascal · 3 days ago

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The Softest Surprise♡ ⋆｡˚ ꕤ

Content: Fem presenting ✦ Fluff & emotional vulnerability ✦ Pedro Pascal being husband material ✦ Reader might cry. Pedro definitely will ✦ Domestic sweetness overload ✦ Pregnancy reveal ✦

The familiar sound of Pedro's keys jiggling the lock never got old to you. Even after you moved in and got married, you still looked forward to seeing his sweet face appear from the doorway. But today was special. When you saw those two pink lines on those tests a few hours ago, you felt your heart may burst with joy.

Having children was a topic that you had talked about, but for it to happen so suddenly is a possibility that hadn't even crossed your mind. Over the last two weeks, you had been feeling under the weather, which you had just chalked up to the flu. But a voice in the back of your mind told you to buy a test.

You took one. Then a second. Third. And even a fourth. Each result made it more tangible and real than the last.

You started to think about how you could surprise him. Whether through a dramatic reveal and some balloons, or baking him his favorite cake and putting some clever pun on it. But all you truly wanted was for him to just know. Something small. Intimate. Just you and him.

So now you were standing there, box on the counter with the pregnancy tests meticulously placed as you waited for him.

When Pedro walked in, you could see he was tired. His hoodie was wrinkled. His hair was disheveled. His eyes, which are usually bright and warm, are now filled with exhaustion. The kind where you feel you could hibernate for years on end. But the moment he spots you, it's as if it all floated away.

"Mi Amor," Pedro murmured, walking up to hug you and placing his head on your chest. "I missed you so much."

His favorite place was in your arms after a long day on set. Massaging his shoulders, trailing kisses along the top of his back—which usually led to your breathing becoming heavier, him pulling you onto his lap and losing yourselves in each other's touch.

"You know just how to make me feel better," he added, as he nuzzled his nose in the crook of your neck.

You relished the feeling of domesticated bliss. Pedro made you feel just as he did the day you met in the cafe. He was a customer and you were his server, and the moment you walked up, it was like those slow-motion moments in rom coms. He was charming and sweet, and at the end, when you went to clean the table, you noticed he left his receipt behind with a generous tip and his number written on it.

"Baby, as much as I would love to continue this," you said, voice low and warm. "I do have a surprise to show you."

He perked up, eyes narrowing in his usual playful manner. "Surprise? What kind of surprise?"

You smiled. "Yes, a surprise. One i hope you'll love."

"Baby, you know no matter what it is, I'll love it."

Pedro's words of encouragement pushed away any nervousness or thoughts that he may suddenly doubt his decision to have kids. You picked up the box next to you on the counter, holding it out for him to take. His brow quirks in curiosity as you stand watching him open the box. The moment Pedro spotted the tests, recognition hit him like a bolt of lightning to a metal pole.

Those long, torturous seconds waiting for him to say something. Anything. But before you could take another breath, Pedro's arms wrapped around your waist, picking you up and spinning in a circle like a Disney princess. Relief flooded through you at his reaction, and seeing the smile on his face just sold it.

"Are you serious, cariño?" Pedro grinned. "A baby?" He places a hand on your stomach, caressing it as he imagines your child growing safely within.

"Yes, Pedro," you whispered, heart fluttering. "We are going to be parents."

Tears of joy flowed from your eyes as he looked at the tests again, like he was making sure they were truly real. Pedro puts down the box, kissing you like his life depended on it. You felt every ounce of love he had for you being poured into the kiss, holding you with such fervor that it made your heart skip a beat.

Finally, he pulls away, pressing his forehead to yours—the two of you swaying to the sound of the TV in the background, playing some nonsensical ad. Pedro's hands framed your face as if he were holding a work of art that he gets to admire for the rest of his life.

"You are my world," he said softly, full of awe. "I love you so much. And now you are bringing something so precious into our lives. And for that, I will thank you for as long as my heart continues beating."

"You would still love me even when I get swollen ankles and can't get up from the couch by myself?" you teased, raising a brow.

“Mi amor,” he said firmly but not harshly, “Whatever changes, whatever seasons you go through, I’ll still love you. That heart of yours? It stopped mine the moment we met.”

You smiled, the warmth of his words wrapping around you like a cozy blanket. You knew everything would be ok. Through every ache and pain, every moment of frustration when you can't tie your shoes yourself—Pedro would be there.

"We in this together?" you asked, voice warm, already knowing the answer but needing to hear it.

Pedro nodded, eyes shining. "Always. From swollen ankles, to midnight cravings, to every beautiful chaos in between."

He pressed his forehead against yours once more, humming a song. And there with your husband and the future growing inside you, you felt complete. Whole. And irrevocably at peace.

#read

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bronzepascal · 4 days ago

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THEY DONE IT AGAIN!

#lionesses #engwnt

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bronzepascal · 5 days ago

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hi there lovely, so sorry in advance if this is a long request! could you pretty please write about pedro x plus size fem reader (plus size here like where the beautiful female doesn't have a flat stomach and is considered an obese but she is very intelligent and highly educated, has master of arts degree let's say) and some of p's fans are not really "enjoying" the pov of p dating such a "big" female although she works for eu parliament or something and then she has the upper hand of silencing those fans down and it pretty much makes pedro quite horny as he loves seeing his wife/girlfriend/partner being so confident and not letting stupid fans shit on her head and also there are fans who absolutely love her and show massive support on social media channels. e.g the reader & pedro go to a red carpet or some very important event that the reader has to take part and she is slaying the house down (if you know what i mean haha)! you are more than welcome to change the storyline/prompt :) have a great day!

Confident in Every Curve

PAIRING: Pedro Pascalx reader

WORD COUNT: 652| requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist | Pedro Pascal Masterlist II

Joel Miller Masterlist

The flashbulbs exploded like fireworks the moment you and Pedro reached the top of the red‑carpet steps. You paused, heart hammering, and adjusted the fold of your emerald-green gown,its ruching artfully hiding exactly nothing, because you’d chosen it to celebrate your body, not mask it. The dress’s deep V‑neck showed off the pearl pendant that rested just above your cleavage, a gift from Pedro on your first anniversary.

Pedro caught your hand, squeezed it, and whispered in your ear, “You look…incredible.” His voice dropped to that low, intimate register reserved just for you, and you felt your cheeks burn with pride.

Behind you, a handful of fans,lined up in that roped-off section,murmured to one another, their phones trained on you. A few tweets earlier that day had branded you “too big” or “out of place” beside Hollywood’s famously groomed stars. But as you swept forward, chin high, you met their eyes with unwavering calm.

“Good evening,” you called to them, voice steady and warm. “I’m so happy to be here.”

A surprised hush fell over the group. One fan, red-faced, stammered, “I,I,didn’t expect you to, um, speak to us.”

You laughed softly, the kind of laugh that melts tension. “Of course. We’re all here to celebrate art and ideas.” You leaned closer, lowering your voice so that only they could hear. “And I happen to love every inch of skin I’m in,perfect for discussing policy in Brussels by day, and standing next to my husband on a red carpet by night.”

Pedro’s chest swelled with pride as he watched you command that moment. The fans exchanged guilty glances. Some began cheering, “We love you!” Others whipped out their phones to post supportive messages:

“She is a QUEEN.” “Pedro, you’re lucky.” “Finally someone shuts those trolls down.”

Satisfied that you’d disarmed the negativity, you turned back to Pedro, who pulled you close. “You handled that so well,” he murmured, one hand at your waist, the other smoothing a stray lock of hair from your face. “My brilliant, unstoppable partner.”

You blushed at the compliment,and at the way his gaze raked over your curves, lingering with undisguised desire. You could feel how heated he was, even through the slick fabric of his tuxedo jacket.

He bent his head to your ear. “Can’t wait until we get home,” he teased, breath hot against your neck. “You shutting down idiots in Brussels today, shutting down trolls tonight…you make me so damn proud. And so damn hard.”

A small gasp escaped you,and just like that,,

Pedro pressed a heated kiss to your jaw, then trailed one hand over your hip, down to the curve of your thigh.

,flashbulbs popped again, capturing you in that daring moment.

The rest of the night was a blur of posing for photographers, fielding compliments from fellow dignitaries (many of whom slipped you business cards, saying they’d love to get your insight on arts funding), and savoring every second of being Pedro’s equal partner,intellectually, emotionally, and passionately.

Later, once the gallery lights dimmed and the valet pulled up your car, Pedro slipped his arm around your waist. You could feel him responding to your confidence, your mastery of both the diplomatic world and the world of glamour.

“You are absolutely,undeniably,extraordinary,” he said, voice husky. “I’m going to celebrate you all weekend.”

You laughed, brushing your hand over his stubbled jaw. “How so?”

He smirked, eyes darkening with promise. “You’ll see.”

As the car pulled away, you leaned into his warmth, knowing that every snipe from a keyboard warrior only made you stronger,and made Pedro love you more fiercely. After all, nothing suited him better than a woman who knew her worth and wasn’t afraid to show it, both on the world stage and in the privacy of your shared bed.

And tonight, with him beside you,worshipful, proud, and oh so ready to prove it,you felt unstoppable in every sense of the word.

#read

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bronzepascal · 10 days ago

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Another request 🤭… this one is about Javier Peña x gf/reader in which they’re both DEA agents and she’s goes to investigate something along with other policemen but the cartel ambushes them and when Javi finds out he thinks she’s dead and feels aghast until they reunite and make up for the time they went apart.

Only You Make It Home

PAIRING:Javier Pena x reader

WORD COUNT: 1275| requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist | Pedro Pascal Masterlist II

Joel Miller Masterlist

You’d told him not to wait up. Just another routine sweep , intel about a stash house on the outskirts of Medellín, a couple of local cops to back you up, an easy in and out.

But Javi knows better than to trust easy.

He’d watched you shrug into your Kevlar, tucking your hair under your cap, the stubborn set of your mouth when he’d told you to be careful. Always am, Peña, you’d tossed back at him with a grin that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Now it’s been four hours past when you said you’d be back. Four hours of him pacing the embassy floor, chain-smoking on the balcony, radio static fizzing in and out with chatter that never says your name.

When the call finally comes, it’s worse than he expected.

Ambush. Cartel got wind of it. Bodies down. No confirmation. Stay put.

The words buzz in his ear like hornets. He barely hears Messina barking at him to stand down as he’s shoving his gun into his holster, grabbing the keys off the table.

He drives like he’s chasing the devil himself through the dirt roads, gravel spitting under the tires, the headlights cutting through the thick, wet dark.

The house is still smoking when he gets there. Flashing blue and red lights flicker against the jungle edge. Police radios crackle, men with rifles stand in knots by the burnt-out shell of a truck. He doesn’t see you. He doesn’t see you anywhere.

A local cop tries to stop him at the tape , Javi shoves him aside with a snarl, ignoring the shouts behind him. He steps over shattered glass, scorched papers, bullet casings glinting under his boots. His heart slams against his ribs so hard it makes him sick.

God, please. Not you. Not you.

They tell him what they know , not much. It happened fast. Automatic fire out of nowhere. A truck on fire. Two officers dead. The others scattered. Nobody saw you go down, but nobody’s seen you come out either.

He feels like he’s floating outside his body when he kicks through the wreckage, calling your name over the hush of the jungle. Nothing. He calls again. Louder. Then softer. Like maybe if he whispers it you’ll answer him back.

He’s halfway to dropping to his knees in the mud when a voice behind him croaks his name.

“Javi?”

He spins so fast it makes him dizzy. And there you are , half-limping, half-dragging yourself out of the trees, hair stuck to your forehead with sweat and blood. Your vest is hanging crooked, one shoulder strap blown open, your lips cracked and trembling.

For a second, he thinks he’s hallucinating.

Then you’re stumbling forward, and he’s running, catching you in his arms so hard it knocks the wind out of both of you.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he rasps, burying his face in your hair, his hands skimming your arms, your ribs, your neck like he doesn’t know where to touch first. “Fuck , I thought , baby, I thought,”

“I know,” you breathe into his neck, voice raw. “I know. I’m here. I’m here, Javi.”

You’re shaking so hard you can’t stand on your own. He sinks with you into the mud, holding you in his lap, rocking you against his chest while the sirens flicker and someone calls your name over a radio.

Back at the safe house, the adrenaline wears off like a slap. You let him peel your filthy clothes off, his big hands gentle on your bruised arms, your scraped knees. He patches you up in the yellow kitchen light , disinfectant stinging, your soft hiss swallowed by the way he kisses your shoulder, your hairline, the shell of your ear.

“You could’ve been dead,” he mutters, voice hoarse as his thumbs brush ointment onto a shallow cut on your temple. “Fuckin’ Christ, baby, you could’ve,”

“But I’m not.” You catch his wrist, pressing his hand to your cheek. “I’m not, Javi. I’m right here.”

He leans in, forehead to yours, eyes closed like he’s praying. Or cursing. Or both.

“You don’t get to leave me like that. You hear me?” he growls against your mouth. “You don’t ever get to fuckin’ leave me.”

You end up on the bed before either of you really decides to. One minute you’re wiping tears off his jaw with your thumbs, the next he’s kissing you like he’s furious you’re alive but more furious you ever almost weren’t.

Your back hits the mattress, his big hands pinning your wrists above your head. His mouth is all teeth and heat, the scrape of his mustache making you shiver when he licks into your mouth.

“Javi,” you gasp when his knee nudges your thighs apart, his hips pressing down heavy, solid, safe.

“You don’t know,” he pants into your throat, his voice cracking on the edges. “You don’t fuckin’ know what that did to me. Thinking you were, gone, fuck,”

“I’m here,” you breathe, wrapping your legs around him, pulling him down harder. “I’m right here. Take it, baby. Take what you need.”

He curses, tearing his shirt over his head, dragging yours up until you’re bare under him. He kisses you everywhere , your collarbone, your ribs, the bruises blooming purple on your hip where you hit the ground.

“Should kill you for scaring me like that,” he rasps, licking a tear off your cheek, his hand sliding between your thighs.

“You’d miss me too much,” you tease, gasping when his fingers find you wet and aching.

“Damn right,” he growls, slipping two thick fingers inside you, thumb brushing your clit until you’re arching off the bed, the sound of your slick filling the room. “Gonna remind you who you fuckin’ belong to.”

“Always you,” you gasp, your hips bucking into his hand. “Always you, Javi,”

He hushes you with his mouth , biting your lower lip, sucking your tongue into his mouth like he can’t stand to let you say anything else that doesn’t start and end with his name.

When he sinks inside you it’s deep , punishing but sweet, every thrust driving that panic and fear right out of both of you until there’s nothing left but you and him and the soft creak of the bed.

You come first , a sharp, bitten-off cry muffled by his lips. He fucks you through it, chasing his own high like a man starved for it, for you, for the feel of your heat wrapped tight around him.

When he groans your name against your throat and spills inside you, it’s not rough , it’s relief. It’s worship. It’s I thought I’d lost you, but I didn’t. You’re here. You’re mine.

After, you lie tangled in sweat-damp sheets, his chest warm under your cheek, his hand spread wide over your back like he’s holding you to the earth.

“You know I’d tear the whole fuckin’ jungle apart if I had to,” he murmurs into your hair, his voice softer now, raw around the edges. “Bring you back. Every time.”

You smile, pressing a kiss to his chest, right over the steady thud of his heart.

“I know,” you whisper. “And I’d crawl through hell just to come home to you.”

He laughs, low and tired and warm. His hand slides to your jaw, tilting your face up so he can kiss you soft, slow , nothing to prove, nothing left unsaid.

“Good,” he murmurs against your lips. “Then we’re fuckin’ clear.”

And you are. You always will be , so long as he comes for you, so long as you come home to him.

#18+#read

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bronzepascal · 13 days ago

Text

The Wine

Pedro Pascal x Reader 2.9k words Author: completely inspired by this TikTok, just pure Pedro admiration with a dash of smut bc my writers brain had a mind of its own, not proof read pls forgive me

Pedro looks...different under the light of your friend's kitchen. Or maybe it's the effects of the white wine that dances on your tongue, swirls in your glass. He's dressed simply, casually even. A long sleeve cream henley rolled up to his elbows and a medium wash jean. It perfectly fits the occasion, so why does it feel all too much when his forearm braces himself on the counter and flexes under his weight?

You push yourself off of the wall you've been leaning on, walking the short distance over to him. It's a simple get together, just you and friends. Only six of you all together, laughing and drinking, yet you still find your way to his side. A move that surprises no one but yourself. Everyone is still talking, crowded around the kitchen island. You put your now empty glass on the counter, and he pulls out of the conversation like you tugged a rope.

His voice is a low, heavy timbre, cheeks pink from his glasses of wine or maybe the beer he shared with some of the guys earlier. "Red or white?"

Your eyes meet his, deep, brown, endless. If the light catches it just right, you see things you shouldn't in them. Things that involve you and him and a lifetime that has yet to exist. Your eyebrow arches, a teasing smile across your lips. "Do you have to ask?"

He laughs, "Guess not." His firm hands grip the neck of the expensive white wine he had brought (you tell yourself it was for you). He holds it properly, like a server in a high end restaurant, bottle resting on his bare forearm as the liquid pours into your glass. Your eyes travel up the waterfall of wine, up his strong arms and firm shoulders, up the veins of his neck and the scruff of his chin. He looks special in this light--holy, even. Maybe it's the wine, but the light behind him casts a halo over his head. You hear things that aren't there. A harp, violins, songbirds and the morning breeze. "Madame," he bows his head and offers you the wine glass with both hands like he's making an offering to a goddess.

Your hands touch when you take it. "Thank you. Glad to see there's still faithful servants these days."

His smile is infectious. You hide yours behind the glass. "Anything for you, my liege." He tips his head, and you find yourself distracted by the curls that seem just a little lighter than before. It's times like this when you know this can't be your first life together. There had to have been hundreds where you've loved him just as much as now. Only when you're this drunk, can you admit it to yourself that you're in love with him. And you think he knows. In fact, you don't think he minds.

You look over to your friend who calls your name and begs you to tell the story of that guy in the bar last weekend because you just tell it so much better than I can! And when you talk, you can feel his eyes on you. Maybe you imagined it, but you can feel the heavy weight scan your face, the way you animatedly talk with your arms before spilling a bit of wine and putting it down with a laugh, the white slip dress that drapes over your frame, your bare legs.

Pedro laughs loudly, face balking in surprise at the joke you'd made about this poor guy in the bar who would always be a source of entertainment for your friend group. He laughs so hard that he lightly grabs your waist and tries to muffle himself in your hair as you fondly glare at him and swat his shoulder for interrupting your story. But when the laughing subsides, he's still there. He's behind you now, big, warm arms wrapped around your frame as the conversation switches to his latest press release. You can feel the vibrations of his chest against your back as he talks, head rested on top of yours. You take a rather large gulp of wine at his proximity, the sweetness coating your mouth and clouding your vision. Your dress is so thin, and he's just so warm. You feel a strange sense of satisfaction. Pedro Pascal, with his fan girls and interviews, is pressed against you. He chose to be here with you. And maybe it doesn't mean anything.

But then again, maybe it does.

Eventually the group disperses, some grab one of the wine bottles and slump on your couch with the promise of a card game, one begs for directions to the bathroom, you and Pedro make your way out to the terrace. It's a cool night, the wind blows lightly enough to raise goosebumps but you’re not sober enough to feel it.

“Guess what I grabbed?” He looks at you with a thinly concealed smirk. His hands are behind his back, the veins from his arms travel down—or up, you suppose.

You laugh lightly, leaning against the railing, the city and stars behind you, moonlight casting down. The wine glass in your hand sparkles under this light. “I don’t know.”

He reveals a bottle of wine. “The last of the white. I hid it under the counter.” He places the bottle down on the metal table with a soft clink and sits down on the chair next to it.

“I expected nothing less,” You’re already over to him, standing in front of his spread legs, and examining the label on the bottle. From the corner of your eye, you examine him. His large, muscular thighs are spread apart, hips shifting every so often. His hair ruffles in the breeze with the end of your dress. A shiver runs up your spine.

“Cold, baby?” His voice is almost gravelly, rough with words that get caught in his throat. You’re not sure if your shiver was the result of the wind or him, but still you nod. His large hands hold your waist lightly. “Well, c’mre then.”

You allow him to pull you closer, perching you on one of his legs. You can feel his warmth through your clothes. His thigh feels muscular under you, and you lean back—head and back pressing against his chest. You take another mouthful of wine and say simply, "I missed you when you were gone." It’s not a big deal. Just a fact. Just a friend to a friend. You offer the glass back to him. He takes a sip and holds it on his other thigh. Everything feels entirely too romantic. Maybe it’s the wine.

His hand that had been resting on your thigh draws lazy shapes that make you see things that have never happened. “I missed you too. Always do. I think of you a lot when I'm gone."

The glass is passed back to you. The message is simple. A wine glass in your hand. A ball in your court. Your turn. "I'm glad. I feel like," you pause as if searching for the right wording, "I can feel when you're gone. It's like a hole or something. Does that make sense?" He hums in a way that lets you know that absent feeling is mutual. You clear your throat, because this is uncharted territory with him in so many ways, and hand the glass back. "How was it really? Press tours seem…a lot.”

Pedro sighs, curls tickling his forehead, “They are. It was fine, really. Just somedays I get sick of the constant questions and professionalism. Some days I just wanted to be Pedro, not Pedro Pascal. Does that make sense?”

You nod like you understand what it’s like to have so many people asking so much of you. “It makes sense. Suppose it just comes with the movie star terf,” you jest, poking at him. “Doesn’t mean you can’t be sick of it.”

He hums again in response. He hands you the glass and, just because you can, you place your lips exactly where his seems to have been. It's still warm. You hold the glass now, gazing out at the stars. It’s hard to see them in the city, with all its busyness and light pollution, but eventually your eyes adjust. And for a moment, it’s almost like you’re back home.

“What do you see up there, baby?” He asks, fingers playing with the end of your dress and dancing over your thighs. He looks down at you over his strong nose with an expression you don't see but probably couldn't decipher anyway.

“Orion’s Belt,” you reply, pointing at the three stars that create a line. You feel his head cock to the side, eyes following the line your arm makes.

“I don’t see anything. C’mon, show me.” He gently takes the glass out of your hand and sets it near the unopened bottle of wine. His hands tenderly lift your hips up, bringing you to a tipsy stand. He rises behind you, hand on your lower back as you approach the railing.

Your stomach presses against the railing as you point again, doing your best to describe the positioning of the stars.

“Ahh, I see it now. It’s those three, right? With the bright one in the middle?”

You turn to face him, entirely pleased. “Yeah,” you begin, put your breath catches on your throat at the way he’s looking down at you. The moon is behind him, casting him in shadows but you in perfect light. His eyes slowly dance down your face, across your chest, and to your shoulder where the strap of your dress has fallen down your arm—displaying more of your chest than he’s ever really seen.

His breath is warm against your fingers as he steps closer and slowly slips his finger under your strap. And for one sick, incredibly fucked up second, you hope that he’ll pull it down. But, ever the gentleman—though you desperately wish him not to be—, he brings it back over your shoulder. His finger slides out but doesn’t pull away. It lightly travels dangerously close to the top hem of your neckline, and wanders down your arm. Goosebumps rise in the wake of his finger, cutting through you like a ship through the sea. Parting for him without a real choice.

“Cold, baby?” This time it’s lithe, almost teasing.

This time you don’t nod. You look up into his coffee eyes, energizing you with just a glance. And maybe it’s the wine. But you say, “No.”

His hand has made it down to yours. He searches your eyes, imploringly, questioning. He’s giving you a chance, you realize. To pull away. To walk away. To forget this happened. To act like he isn’t staring at you with such emotion and softness.

He’s holding your hand now, staring intently until something changes. It’s minuscule, but you notice. He tugs your hand, bringing you impossibly closer. His other hand cups your jaw and cheek. And he pulls your lips to his. You react immediately because this is all you’ve really wanted for a long time.

His heat. His breath. His mouth. Him. Him. Him. That’s all the really matters. The years of waiting. The years of wondering. The years between you. None of it matters. It all makes it worth it.

His lips are soft, imperceptibly soft. They ensnare your senses. You thread your fingers through his hair, pulling at the soft root and—god, he groans into your mouth. Pedro’s other hand wanders up to your face, both hands cradling it so passionately. And maybe it’s the wine, but he kisses you like he’s in love. Like he has been for a while.

You’re not sure which one of you pulls back first, but your foreheads are pressing together. His deep, forest eyes are staring into yours like he’s scared you might disappear. But when he finds what he seems to be searching for in them, he pulls you even closer than before. His lips find your neck, immediately finding that spot that makes you squirm under him like he’d studied it. Pedro looks up at you with hooded eyes. The moonlight paints your face like a spotlight as you throw your head back at his movements. A moan rumbles through his chest and suddenly you’re pressed against the railing, pulling his mouth to yours feverishly. His hands slips down and down, tracing the outline of your breasts and the expanse of your stomach before dragging down your side and gripping firmly on your dress. He hikes it up just enough to pull back and stare at your smooth thigh. He grips it tightly, holding it at his waist as you moan out at the contact.

You and Pedro have been close in many ways, but never like this. This had always been reserved for dreams in late, lonely nights or perhaps nights like these with a bit of alcohol and someone with a similar demeanor.

The door to the terrace opens. He pauses and it’s all you can do to look over his shoulder. Your friend is staring at you, the last of the red wine in hand, mouth wide open but an even bigger satisfied expression takes hold. She takes in your hiked up dress, the red spots already forming on your neck, the leg wrapped around Pedro. “Holy shit! Finally!”

You groan, burying your face into his chest as he gently sets your leg down. “Please, don’t-”

But she’s already begun, words she doesn’t have control over tumbling out. “Holy shit! You’ve wanted to fuck him for like ever, but I didn’t think you’d actually do it!”

A laugh rumbled through Pedro and you feel your face becoming hot. “Oh no-”

“And you-and he! Holy shit! I totally interrupted didn’t I? I am so sorry! I’ll leave! Just, god please continue doing what you’re doing I can’t take this tension anymore! We can’t take the tension anymore!”

You lift your head just enough to resister everyone else staring through the windows with knowing smirks and an occasional thumbs up.

“You know what, we’ll just go! We were um, we had something that we were doing on the other end of the house right guys?” Everyone immediately shouts affirmatives and tries to scramble away. “Just uh, have fun! There’s an extra bedroom if you guys wanna-”

“Stop it!” You shout, as Pedro laughs so hard it shakes you.

“Right, sorry!” The door slams shut and you hear several sets of feet scurrying away.

Pedro smirks down at you, all handsome features, seductive eyes, and a mocking tone. “So, you’ve wanted to fuck me for like ever?”

You pinch your eyes shut and groan in embarrassment as you shove past him to the table and drink straight out of the wine bottle. "This is quite possibly the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to me, so I would appreciate it if-"

"Me too." You go speechless, borderline dumb. What..? "I've been thinking about it for years." Oh. You open your mouth but only gape at him like a fish, stumbling into the chair behind you. But he knows, because he knows you in ways nobody else ever could or ever cared to. He kneels before you like a man at the altar, gently taking the wine bottle out of your hand before taking a rather large swig himself. "Might need a little more liquid courage for this."

You laugh, loudly. It's still him, still Pedro, and his stupid joke in the most stressful situation you've ever been in just proves that. The bottle clinks on the floor, and you're still laughing not really comprehending just what he could need the liquid courage for. You don't know until he gently cradles the back of your shin and brings it to his lips. He kisses the constellations up, up, and up. His facial hair brushes your inner thigh and you tense at the sensation. He looks up at you from between your legs with those big, doe eyes. "I'll stop if you want me to, baby. Just say the words."

"God, don't stop." He smirks against your skin like he knows you wouldn't say no and is entirely pleased.

"I won't, baby. I won't," Pedro assures voice thick with something heavier than lust yet somehow lighter. He continues pressing soft kisses up until he's just under the hem of your dress. You feel his hot breath between the apex of your thighs. He pushes the end of your dress up and you lift your hips obediently to make it easier for him to get closer to you in any way possible. "I've wanted to taste you for so long. I know she's sweet, please? Will you let me?"

"Yes," you reply, breathless.

His hands run up the length of your legs and softly grip your hips. He hooks his fingers under the waistband of your underwear. The cool air hits you immediately, but then his mouth is on you. You gasp out as he nearly buries himself in you. His groan vibrates your pussy and you grab onto the metal table. "Fuck, baby. Even better than I imagined."

And even though there's so many words left to be said and so many things to straighten out and clarify, when he looks up at you through hooded eyes something tells you that everything will work out exactly how you dreamed it would.

#read #18+

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