msxjennipascal

[msxjennipascal]

PEDRO PASCAL as JAVIER PEÑA Narcos (2015-2017) 1.06 "Explosivos"

[msxjennipascal]

Hey ! Could I request Harry Castillo and 3.A.M. ? Just waking up and cuddling together ?

3.00 AM | HARRY CASTILLO

"Why are you awake?" Harry whispers against your shoulder. He presses a good kiss on your skin after, pulling you closer to his chest as you rub your cheek on the pillow.

"Had a bad dream," you answer with an equally soft voice. "Couldn't sleep after that."

He helps you turn around, you face him. His big brown eyes are faintly glowing under dim lights, midnight and sleep mixed up in his pupils. He looks the softest like that, chest bare and legs curled up around yours like he'll never let you go. You put your head on his shoulder, Harry drags a big hand on your spine to rub a few circles on your back.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" he asks gently. You shake your head. You can only remember bits and pieces of the dream, they don't come together in a coherent image anyway. His fingertips draw starry shapes on your back as you snuggle into him. That's what he likes the most, having you curled up into him like you can't put any distance between your bodies in his gigantic bed.

"Relax, sweetheart," he whispers. Your pretty face is covered in worry wrinkles, he can't have that. He's actually quite obsessive over your sleep, full eight hours, or something doesn't feel right.

"Kiss?" you ask him, all wide eyes and a slight pout. He smiles into the night, his hand cupping your cheek to adjust your head just right for a good kiss. You're tense at first, starting to relax after a few seconds. He's trying to get you to melt under his hands, and he's mostly successful after the tiny kisses he puts generously on your jawline.

There's a spot below your ear, you tilt your neck up and he sucks a tiny bruise right there. It never fails to make you let out a tiny whimper. He holds the back of your neck, his thumb circles the bruise, and it's definitely something to give yourself into. You forget about the broken pieces of the dream. Harry feels warm and safe.

Sleep comes back to you eventually. You throw your leg over his legs to secure your position, you really want to wake up like this in the morning. Sometimes you move in your sleep and Harry likes turning to his side, it puts an inevitable distance between you. He brings one hand to your waist to help you stay still. You close your eyes.

"Come on," he whispers with a rough voice. It's delicious, almost scratchy against your skin. "Give me another kiss before you fall asleep."

He murmurs his love and you silence him with a kiss. You're almost asleep and it's hard to move your lips, but Harry helps. By the time he pulls his face away from yours, you've already sleeping.

He spends a good five minutes on watching your relaxed face before closing his eyes.

lucky girl sleepover ♡

[msxjennipascal]

Don’t push it

Summary : What happens when someone who hates sugar fall for the one person who practically is it ? Harry Castillo doesn’t do small talk, doesn’t sit down, doesn’t stay. But then there’s you, the barista with the mismatched mugs, and a way of turning his carefully managed silence into something as warm as his boring black coffee.

Harry Castillo x f!reader/barista!reader

Warnings : a bit of angst but fluff, grumpy and closed off Harry, romcom café, bit of jealousy, no y/n

Words : 7,5K

A/N : 600 CELEBRATION !!! Thank you so much 🫶🏻. Here's a Harry one shot to pass the time while waiting for "The Deal" ! (I loved the paring so much I thought of so many cute little drabbles). Sorry I didn’t edited I was too lazyyy

⋆˚࿔⋆. 𝓗𝓒 .⋆𝜗𝜚˚⋆

New York is a city built on friction—tire treads against slick pavement, the scrape of heels on subway stairs, the hush of breath before the walk sign flips, the shrill cries of cabs trying to find a place in the daily traffic. At 7:23 a.m., it hums with purpose. Precision. People know where they’re going. And so does Harry Castillo.

Or—usually, he does.

His shoes hit the pavement with the sharp, measured cadence of someone who’s always on time and never interested in small talk. His coat is pressed, dark, and expensive in a way that whispers rather than shouts. His inbox has already been cleared and his assistant is already texting updates.

Everything was running on schedule.

Until the gleaming façade of his café—the ultra-minimalist one with black steel beams, cold brew on tap, and coffee that comes in identical matte cups without names or smiles—was closed.

Not “opening soon” or “back in five.”

Closed.

A crooked paper taped to the glass reads: 

PLUMBING INSPECTION. BACK SOON.

sorry, blame the city

Harry stared at the sign like it was personally betraying him.

His jaw ticked once.

The man had built entire mergers on controlling chaos, on making unknown variables bend to clean structure. But this ? This was something sloppier. His morning—his perfectly orchestrated, caffeine-anchored ritual—had been hijacked by a leaky pipe and a sharpie apology.

He could wait. Or walk back. Even delay. But instead, he turned. The city pressed around him: the smell of roasted peanuts from a cart already open on the corner, a woman in heels arguing with someone on Bluetooth, a man skateboarding past with a golden retriever in tow.

He walked south without a destination, checking his watch once, then again. At this hour, options were endless and uninspiring. The first place he passed had chalkboard specials with misspelled words. The second was a Starbucks—hell no. The third smelled aggressively like vanilla-sugar candle and regret.

He nearly ditched the hunt entirely when his phone buzzed—Meeting at 7:45, conference room 19A—and the time on his watch reminded him he won’t make it if he keeps wandering. So, against his better judgment, he headed straight to the office. Without coffee. The betrayal stinged.

By 8:32, Harry was seated stiffly across from a client in a Midtown conference room that smelled like stale carpet and fluorescent lighting. The man—a VP of something Harry didn’t particularly care about—was droning on about quarterly projections and engagement metrics with the passion of soggy toast, waving his hands just enough to occasionally slosh foam precariously over the lip of his expensive-looking paper cup.

Harry stared at the drink like it had personally wronged him. His own hands were empty. No coffee. No mercy. Now, caffeine-deprived and watching foam art bob like a middle finger in a paper cup, he could feel the headache forming just behind his temples.

“Where’d you get that ?” He asked finally, cutting in.

The man grinned like he found Harry’s suffering vaguely amusing. “Oh, around the corner from here. Cozy little place with tons of plants. Great coffee. And,” he added with a smirk, “the barista’s really hot. Which doesn’t hurt.”

Harry blinked slowly. “Right.”

“I’m serious,” the man said, tipping his cup toward him. “Try it. It’s good. Real cozy vibe.”

Harry exhaled sharply through his nose; the kind of noise that makes interns brace themselves. “I just need caffeine.”

“Then go there. You’ll like it. Plus, the coffee’s legit.”

Harry didn’t dignify it with a response. But later, when he found himself retracing those steps, it was not the compliment that swayed him, it was the promise of legit coffee. Everything else, he told himself, was irrelevant.

The café was wedged between a florist and an ancient-looking dry cleaner. Brick walls. A slightly fogged-up window. Plants lined on the sill, pressed like people trying to get a look. The door was open just enough to let out the low thrum of music. The sign outside read, in looping chalk script: Weird coffee, warm people. 

Harry huffed.

The place looked like it was decorated by someone who never heard the word “branding,” and yet he stepped inside anyway. The door jingled softly behind him and immediately, the lights changed as the city noise faded like someone turned the dial.

From the moment he walked in, it felt like stepping into someone’s living room—if that someone was impossibly cool, wildly creative, and had a thing for color palettes that shouldn’t work but absolutely do in a way that made Harry grimace.

The walls were a soft, sun-washed pink on one side and sage green on the other, both gently faded from the light streaming through tall, slightly crooked windows. Plants—hanging, potted, climbing—were everywhere: above the door, trailing from bookshelves, hugging the edges of mismatched tables. Some were leafy and oversized, some were little trailing tendrils tucked in old ceramic mugs, their names written on popsicle sticks.

Furniture didn’t match neither, not even close. There was a velvet couch in a warm pink tone with slightly wonky legs, a pale yellow armchair with floral embroidery on the back, wire-frame café chairs painted a weird shade of green beside a vintage table scuffed just enough to be charming. One stool was an old piano bench. Another looked like it was swiped from a kid’s art class.

The mugs were all different, too. Some were speckled pottery. Some were pastel and chipped in a lovable way. A few were stolen from old diners or thrifted and printed with things like ‘World’s Okayest Dad’ or ‘I’d Rather Be Sleeping’. 

There was also a corner with books—paperbacks with cracked spines, a few old travel guides, a coffee table book about mushrooms, and one on cosmic horror that has been mysteriously bookmarked on chapter six for months.

Above that, a small record player sat on a low shelf, spinning old jazz or indie vinyl, depending on the mood. A handwritten sign read: Records played at barista’s whim. No skips. No regrets.

Photos and Polaroids covered the wall behind the counter—customers smiling, dogs in sunbeams, latte art disasters, staff birthday parties. And there was a sticky note that said “We once found a frog in the sink. He was very polite.” 

Harry didn’t belong here, and it was deadly obvious. The café wasn’t busy at all, but he was already two steps in when he realized he was still holding tension in his shoulders. The counter was short, hand-painted, and probably repainted a dozen times. A tip jar labeled "Caffeine Bribes & Bad Decisions" sat near the register.

You glanced up from behind the counter, eyeing the newcomer like you were already making guesses. You saw the coat first. Then the shoes. The precise haircut. The tension in his shoulders. Everything about him screamed Wall Street, or something near it.

You offered a smile anyway—just enough to be polite. Not enough to pretend he was kind of special. “Morning. What can I get you ?” Your tone was casual. A little rough-edged from talking too early. Not performative.

Harry stepped forward and scanned the chalkboard menu, expression unreadable as his eyes skim past rose cardamom cold brew and maple thyme cortado. He exhaled, already skeptical. Then he looked up and paused.

Fuck. You are really hot.

Not in the obvious, magazine-cover way. It was something quieter. The rolled sleeves, the sharp eyes, the way you were effortlessly moving between the espresso machine and register like you had already outpaced the morning. There was confidence in how you didn’t try too hard or try at all.

He straightened slightly, clearing his throat. “Lavender-honey oat latte ?” He dared to ask.

 “A favorite !” You said, unfazed.

His brows furrowed, “I just need a black coffee. No flavors. No—” he gestured vaguely, “—foam. Just coffee.”

You nodded once and he got the sense you were holding back a smirk. “Bold move in a place like this.”

You turned to make it, pulling beans from a tin marked “Bold AF”. You moved with practiced ease—not rushed, not showy. Just efficient. You grinded the beans by hand, pulled the espresso with a vintage machine that hissed like it had opinions. 

Harry didn’t notice you glancing back at him—just briefly. His suit was sharp, his tie perfect but his jaw looked tight, and there was something just slightly disheveled about the way his hair was falling today. Like he rushed. Like something messed with his rhythm.

And when you handed the coffee over two minutes later—strong, dark and very intentionally not in a plain takeaway cup. You added a small cinnamon heart on the lid. Nothing big, just a tiny shape tucked into the corner.

He stared at it for a good minute, then at you. “What’s… this ?”

“Flair,” you replied simply with a chuckle. “First-timers get a little something.”

He didn’t reply. Just paid, took the cup and walked outside, back into the city’s sharper air. He stopped after a few paces, just near the corner. Took a sip. And stilled.

It was good. Like, really good. Annoyingly good. The kind of good that made him suspicious. Rich, dark, the perfect balance of bitter and smooth—and he hated that it made his usual place feel clinical in comparison.

He looked back once through the window. You were already helping someone else, pulling a shot one-handed and nodding along to whatever they were saying.

You didn’t glance at him again.

And so, Harry took another sip.

Then, against his better judgment, he made a mental note of the address. Because Harry Castillo—who does not deviate, who does not get distracted, who absolutely does not return to coffee shops because of strangers—already knows he’ll be back tomorrow.

⋆˚࿔⋆. 𝓗𝓒 .⋆𝜗𝜚˚⋆

The next morning, the bell jingled at 7:48.

You glanced up from where you were restocking the pastry case—expecting a regular, maybe one of the grad students who camps out in the corner with oat milk and a thesis. Instead, you saw the same man from yesterday. Suit, coat, furrowed brow. Just slightly less tightly wound.

Harry walked in like he didn’t spend ten minutes outside debating it. You didn’t greet him right away, just finished lining up the muffins, slow and deliberate. And when you finally met his gaze, you tilted your head.

“Back for more boring coffee ?”

“You were open. That’s all.”

“Mmhm.”

His mouth twitched like he might smile if you pushed. He ordered the same thing. Black. No fluff. And you made it quickly, no cinnamon this time, but you did hand it over with your fingers brushing just a little closer to his than necessary. Not dramatically. Just... enough.

“Here you go, Mr. Boring-Black-Coffee.”

“I didn’t give you my name.”

“Don’t need it. You’re a type.”

That earned you a pause. His brow lifted, ever so slightly. “And what type is that ?”

You shrugged, like it was not worth saying out loud. Maybe it was not. Maybe it was more fun leaving it in the air like that, unfinished. He paid in cash, leaved with a nod. And you watched the back of him through the window, just for a second. Then you shook your head, half-smiling to yourself, and turned back to your espresso machine.

⋆˚࿔⋆. 𝓗𝓒 .⋆𝜗𝜚˚⋆

By the end of the second week, you didn’t need to look up when the door jingled at 8:12.

He was starting to come in just late enough to miss the crush of early commuters, no line, no noise, just you and the quiet of the café in its softest hour. Some days, he even beats you to the register.

 “Missed the morning rush,” you noted once, setting down your mug.

 “Lucky me.” He replied, dry.

 “You say that like you didn’t plan it.”

He didn’t respond, which was a response in his own way.

Since the end of the first week, you’d stopped asking for his order. It was always the same after all. But that didn’t mean things were predictable. Sometimes you threw in a cookie with his coffee and pretended it was a mistake. He never returned it. Sometimes he dropped an extra buck in the tip jar, folded neatly in thirds, and you pretended not to notice.

One morning, you glanced at the name on his metal card as he taped to pay.

“Harry ?”

He didn’t looked up. “It’s on the card.”

“Wow. So formal. You don’t do introductions ?”

 “Not usually in places with chalkboard menus.”

You grin. “We contain multitudes, Harry.”

That day, he made a sound that might be a scoff, or might be the start of a laugh.

The banter became a kind of punctuation to your mornings. He was always slightly impatient, always a little clipped, but he never skipped a day. And you never forgot the way his eyes linger just a second longer each time he leaves—like he’s about to say something and thinks better of it.

One morning, you caught him smiling after one of your usual teasing comments. A real one. Brief. Crooked. Gone in a blink. He looked away so fast it almost didn’t count. But it did, for you at least.

But what made your heart beating a little faster was last Thursday. It was raining faintly, the kind that slicks the pavement without the drama of thunder. Just enough to make the city quieter, and everyone a little sleepier.

Harry stepped into the café right at 8:10, brushing a raindrop from his collar. He didn’t say anything as the bell jingled—he never does—but he didn’t need to. You were already pulling a cup for his usual, your hand reaching without looking.

“The weather makes people polite,” You said casually, sliding his drink across the counter. “Or slow. Either way, I’m winning.”

“Is this what winning looks like ?” He asked, nodding toward his boring order.

“A win is a win.” You shrugged, fingers brushing the espresso machine’s worn brass.

He didn’t smile again, but he did stay at the counter a little longer than usual. He lingered like he sometimes did, standing with that quiet tension in his shoulders, like he was waiting for a reason to stay longer.

And then someone behind him spoke.

“Harry ?”

He turned, mid-sip. You watched the slight shift in his expression—a flicker of something immediately guarded. Derek something. Loud. Marketing guy. The kind of man who thought a wink could replace a personality.

“Didn’t peg you for this kind of place,” Derek said, adjusting his tie that didn’t match his sneakers. “Bit artsy for you, isn’t it ?”

“It’s close.” Harry replied flatly.

But Derek’s gaze had already moved—to you. “Ohhh,” he grinned, eyes gleaming with implication. “Now I get it.”

You raised an eyebrow, already bracing. He stepped closer to the counter, all teeth and confidence. “Hey,” he said smoothly, “what do you recommend for someone who doesn’t know what he wants, but knows it has to be good ?”

You blinked at him. Smirked. “Therapy.” You deadpanned. “But I can start you with a maple latte.”

Derek laughed too loudly, like he thought it scored him points. But you weren’t looking at him anymore. You were looking at Harry. He hadn’t moved. Not really. Just stepped a little to the side, his jaw set slightly tighter than before. Still sipping his coffee. Still silent. But present. Watching. And now that you were paying attention—tense. Not annoyed. Not jealous, not exactly. But something. Possessive, maybe. Protective. Or simply... not indifferent.

Your heart beat a little harder as you turned back to Derek with a forced smile. “To-go, right ?”

“Yeah,” Derek said with a grin, clearly mistaking the tension for an opening. 

You gave him a tight smile, already turning to the machine. The motion was smooth, practiced, but your jaw clenched slightly as you reached for the syrup. You didn’t answer. Let the steam do the talking.

Derek laughed like he thought he was charming and leaned in just a little too close when he gave you his name for the cup. You wrote it without reacting, keeping your expression neutral, but Harry noticed the slight twitch at the corner of your mouth. The glance you cast past Derek, not toward the drink, but toward him.

And yes—he was still watching.

“So,” Derek began, shifting his weight like he was planning to stick around, “how long have you two...?”

“We haven’t.” Harry cut in. Crisp. Immediate.

The silence that followed wasn’t loud, but it was sharp. You blinked, surprised—your gaze catching his. A flicker of amusement. But underneath it... something else. You weren’t the only one who noticed the edge in his voice.

Derek laughed again, oblivious and smug. “Alright, alright. Touchy subject.”

You handed him the cup with a smile so polished it could cut glass. “Here you go, Derek. Something good. Can’t guarantee it’ll help your judgment, though.”

You didn’t look back at Harry right away. You felt the shift, the energy in the air as he turned, coffee in hand, jaw set like stone. “Harry,” you called, casual but just enough to stop him. “Everything alright ?”

He paused mid-step. Didn’t turn fully, just tilted enough for you to see the line of tension in his shoulders. “Fine,” he said. “You’re busy.”

“Wasn’t. You could’ve stayed.”

And there it was, the flicker you couldn’t name. His hand curled a little tighter around the cup. For a moment, it seemed like he might say something real. “Next time,” he muttered, leaving without looking back.

You watched him go, your heart tapping just a little faster while erek was already at the corner table, feet up, completely unaware he was background noise to something much more interesting. You glanced down at the screen near the register, Harry’s name was still open on the tab. Unpaid. Unfinished. Still there.

⋆˚࿔⋆. 𝓗𝓒 .⋆𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Harry walked in, same time as always—except something was off.

The music was different. Too upbeat. The tip jar was missing its usual sarcastic sign. And the barista behind the counter—a tall guy with a septum ring and a “Don’t talk to me before noon” t-shirt—didn’t even blink when he walked in.

No cinnamon in the air. No dry joke waiting at the register. But he ordered anyway. The usual. The guy made it fast, handed it off with a vague, “Here you go, man” leaving in front of him a blue mug with clouds on it. Then, he turned away before Harry could say a word about his order.

But strangely Harry decided to sat, accepting the mistake. He never sat before. Not once. Always in and out—efficient, upright, suited. A sharp line in a soft room. But now, he was in the corner by the window, elbow on the table, coffee in hand. The chair was a little too low, the cushion a little too floral. Still, he sat. Maybe out of stubbornness. Maybe out of something he doesn’t want to name. Perhaps for once he should take the time to sit down.

So, he took his first sip and frowned. It was technically the same drink. The same beans. The same method even. But it was not yours. And Harry felt like it was missing... something. It didn’t taste like a moment. It just tasted like a boring black coffee.

Halfway through the mug, he’d barely tasted any of it. His jaw was tight, leg bouncing beneath the mismatched table like he was waiting for someone to argue with him. Or maybe for the taste to change.

And then the door opened.

You step inside—no apron, no clipboard, just jeans and an oversized hoodie with the sleeves pushed up. You got got rain in your hair and a box of something under your arm, but the second you saw him, you stopped.

Your brow lifted, slow, skeptical. A soft grin tugging at your mouth. “Seriously ?” You called across the room, your voice teasing but edged with genuine surprise. “You sit down for the first time when I’m not here ?”

Harry blinked as you watched the faint flicker of guilt cross his face before he masked it with deadpan calm. “Felt like a safe window.”

You cross the room slowly, hands tucked into the pouch of your hoodie, the laces of your sneakers squeaking faintly on the scuffed wood floor. “So what I’m hearing is, I’m the problem ?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you didn’t not say it either.” You were grinning now—wide, easy, amused—and the corner of Harry’s mouth did that thing it sometimes did when he was not fast enough to hide it. A smile, halfway there.

“Coffee okay today ?” You asked, tilting your head.

He hesitated. Briefly glanced down at the cup like it might help him lie better.  “It’s fine.”

“Wow. Glowing review.”

“It’s different.”

“Well yeah,” you shrugged, gesturing toward the barista behind the counter. “I didn’t make it.”

“That explains the joyless undertones.”

“Tom’s great,” you replied with a mock whisper, “but he thinks smiling is capitalism.”

“Isn’t a café already a product of capitalism ?”

You blinked, then snorted. “Sure. But mine has better music and mismatched chair, so it’s practically a revolution.”

A faint smile tugged at his mouth, almost like he forgot how it worked. He didn’t follow it with a quip, didn’t deflect. Just… lingered.

There was a soft pause as your gaze lingered on him, a little more curious now. The air between you held something heavier than the usual teasing, like it wanted to shift but hadn’t decided which way yet.

“You always rush out,” you said quietly. “What changed today ?”

Harry’s eyes drifted to the cup in front of him, his fingers brushing its rim once like it might hold the answer. “Just didn’t have a reason to leave yet.”

You almost answered. Almost let that sit and settled into something braver. “I had a thing this morning by the way. Didn’t want to let you down, so you know.”

The beat hung, and so you tapped your index finger once on the edge of his table as you shoot him a quick, tilted smile. “Next time I’m not working,” you added, shooting him a smirk, ‘maybe you’ll even talk to someone.”

“Doubtful.”

“But not impossible.”

“Don’t push it.”

You laughed—really laughed this time, not the small ones you throw over your shoulder—and it softened something in him. Just a little. Just enough. Then you pivoted, heading behind the counter to grab something from the back, your hoodie swinging lightly with each step.

Harry watched you go, and there was that look again—that flicker of something unspoken, stitched right into the crease between his brows. You reappeared a few minutes later, now clutching a drink that looked like it was conjured by a chaotic fairy. It was iced, topped with a pillowy layer of foam, and glittering with crushed lavender and edible shimmer that catches the light every time it moved. Something purple swirled near the bottom, alchemizing slowly.

Harry stared at it like it might sprout wings and fly off.

“Don’t look at it like that,” you said, sliding into the seat across from him. “It’s harmless.”

“It looks like a Pinterest board had a nervous breakdown.”

“High praise from a man whose entire personality is black coffee.”

He didn’t argue. Just lifted a brow, eyes still suspicious of whatever’s floating in your cup. You both sipped—your drink with an audible crunch of ice, his still piping hot. The café hummed around you, the usual cocktail of vinyl crackle and quiet voices, wooden chairs scraping lazily, a milk frother sighing in the distance. The space felt folded in: soft edges and warm light, like time outside has slowed without telling anyone in here.

“So,” you said eventually, leaning back like you’d been meaning to ask this for weeks, “what do you do, Harry-with-no-introductions ?”

“Finance.”

You rolled your eyes, “Of course you do.” 

“And you’re judging me.”

“A little. You give off big spreadsheet energy. Like you use Excel for your grocery lists.”

He raised an eyebrow—again, not denying it. You swirled your drink and narrowed your eyes in mock scrutiny. “What does that mean, exactly ?”

“It means you’ve never spilled anything in your life,” you say, “and if someone moved your desk organizer by half an inch, you’d call building security.”

“...I’ve considered it.” He admitted, deadpan.

You laughed—a quick, full sound, like the punchline was better than expected. And something in Harry clicked, or maybe loosened. It was not the first time he’d heard you laugh, but now it hit differently. Now he hears how completely it contrasts him—how light and unguarded it is. You were a tangle of color and instinct, while he was posture and rules and plans carved into calendars.

And yet here you were. Sitting across from him like it made perfect sense. He watched you—really watched you—for a moment too long, and you caught it. 

“What ?”

He cleared his throat as his eyes dropped to his coffee like it suddenly needed studying.

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring like you’ve never talked to a human before.”

“I don’t usually talk to baristas.” He said—too fast, too flat.

Your expression flickered—surprised, maybe, but more amused than insulted. You tilted your head. “Well, this one talks back. So get used to it.”

And there it was—his smirk. Barely there, but real. He didn’t even try to hide it this time. The silence that follows didn’t rush to fill itself. His eyes drifted again to the way you cradled your cup like it was a conversation, the scuff on your sneaker, the ink stain blooming near the base of your thumb. He noticed a mismatched ring on your finger, and a tiny scar just beneath your left ear.

Suddenly he realizes he doesn’t know your name. And realizes—more quietly—that he wants to.

You swirled your drink a little, watching the foam dissolve slowly into lavender-specked chaos, the shimmer catching the light like it was trying to distract you from the silence between questions.

“So what do you do when you’re not... finance ?” You asked, chin resting in your palm. “Like, do you have hobbies ? Or is being emotionally repressed a full-time job ?”

He exhaled, sharp, dry, but amused. The corner of his mouth twitched. “You think you’re funny.”

“I know I’m funny. You just have a slow sense of humor.”

“I work a lot,” he said eventually. “Travel sometimes. Read.”

“Anything good ?”

“Mostly nonfiction. Strategy. Business.”

You groaned like he just told you he eats plain rice for every meal. “God. Do you sleep in a spreadsheet too ?”

“Why are you asking if you’re going to mock every answer ?”

“Because watching you react is my favorite part.”

That got something—the ghost of a smile, almost reluctant, tugging at the edge of his mouth like it was being dragged there against protocol. There was a pause. Then you glanced at him over the rim of your cup, your tone light, but with a small thread of genuine curiosity stitched through it:

“So what about your girlfriend ? Does she help color-code your bookshelves ?”

It landed like a pin dropped in a quiet room. Harry stilled—not obviously, nor dramaticly—just a blink that lasted half a beat too long. A tightness in his jaw. Like you nudged something he keeps locked too carefully to laugh off. You notices the flicker in his eyes, he was not used to being asked that. And especially not like this.

It was not a trap, he knew that. You asked it like someone who had slow afternoons behind the counter to wonder about everything. The question hung between you, and for a second, he didn’t answer.

“I—” he hesitated, that quiet stammer betrayed him. You tilted your head, curious as he shut it down fast.

You didn’t ask more—didn’t poke or pry—but the shift was there, hanging in the space between your mugs. His hand curled around the handle of his cup like it needed something to do. His eyes flicked to the door. You saw it happen—that moment when he pulled back inside himself.

“I should go.” He said suddenly, rising from the chair with almost surgical precision. 

“Harry ?” You called for him but he avoided your gaze, looking at the still half-full coffee on the table. 

“Thanks for the coffee.” His words were stiff, polite, wrong.

“Did I—”

“No.” He cut you off harshly, “I just... have work.” The words sounded like an old habit. Practiced. Easy to reach for when anything else might slip. The chair scraped back across the floor and he shrugged on his coat like armor, still avoiding your eyes.

You stared at him confused and quite lost, because for the first time since he walked into your café, Harry Castillo didn’t finished his drink. The bell above the door jingled, a little too cheerful for the mood he leaved behind. And just like that—he was gone.

⋆˚࿔⋆. 𝓗𝓒 .⋆𝜗𝜚˚⋆

 

It’s been four days. You didn’t count—you totally counted. No Harry in a suit gliding in just after the rush. No black coffee, no clipped sarcasm, no polite refusal of the free cookie you always sneaked into the bag anyway. Just... nothing.

You didn’t asked yourself why you noticed. You just did. And then—Wednesday.

The bell above the café door jingled at 10:07. You looked up, and there he was. Harry Castillo. Tie slightly crooked. Tension woven into his shoulders like it never left. You almost said something—almost made a comment about how the air quality improved in his absence—but the look on his face stopped you.

He walked up to the counter like it was any other day. No hesitation. No small talk. “Black coffee. To go.”

His voice was even. Professional. But quieter than usual—like he was playing a part he hadn’t rehearsed in a while. You nodded. Said nothing. Turned to make the order.

He watched, eyes scanning the familiar space—the same chairs, the same playlist humming low in the background, the same chalkboard menu. You could feel it: he didn’t want to be seen, not really. He just wanted to exist here, in the familiar warmth of something he might’ve started to like too much.

You slid the cup toward him once it was ready. “It’s hot.” You warned.

It was the only thing you let yourself say. He nodded once. Didn’t touch the cup right away. Just stood there like he might say something else, but whatever it was, he swallowed it down with the silence.

Then finally: “Thanks.”

Not thank you. Not hey, sorry I ghosted your entire café after getting weird about a girlfriend I don’t have.

Just “thanks.”

And just like that, he was gone again: coffee in hand, door jingling behind him, the scent of espresso and something unsaid still lingering in his place. You blinked. Exhaled. Looked at the empty spot where he stood.

“Seriously ?” You muttered to yourself, letting out a frustrated sigh. You reached under the counter and pull out the little cookie you would’ve slipped into his bag, and took a bite.

⋆˚࿔⋆. 𝓗𝓒 .⋆𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Tonight, the restaurant was loud. Too loud. Laughter ricocheted off the tile floors and polished glass, all of it too bright, too crowded. Harry couldn’t remember how he’d been talked into this—probably something Lila arranged behind his back. She’d been making quiet comments lately about how pale he looked. How quiet he’d become.

He sat at the far end of the table, a glass of wine untouched in front of him, posture straight, jacket still on. He nodded occasionally, eyes flicking toward the speakers but never really listening. The noise washed over him like static—familiar, meaningless.

It was fine. Manageable. Forgettable.

But he was still counting the minutes.

“Harry,” someone called. Jackson. Of course. Too perceptive for his own good.

Harry’s eyes lifted lazily. “What ?”

Jackson grinned, elbow on the table. “You seeing anyone ?”

There was the briefest hitch—a pause so small no one else might have noticed. But the answer still came too quickly. “No.”

He reached for his wine, finally, but didn’t drink.

Across the table, Lila raised an eyebrow. “Still ?”

Harry didn’t answer. Just looked past her, toward the bar, like something more interesting might be happening over there.

“Jesus,” she muttered. “Are you seriously still not over Lucy ?”

The name landed hard, sharp against the table’s surface. Not a crash—just a clean, cold edge.

“I’m not hung up on Lucy.” He said evenly.

Jackson leaned in slightly. “You haven’t dated since.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“You’ve been avoiding,” Lila countered. “Not the same thing.”

Harry stared at the glass in his hand, watching the slow run of condensation against the stem. Someone at the far end of the table was telling a story that got a laugh. He didn’t catch the punchline. Didn’t care.

But no one was changing the subject.

“Look,” Jackson said, tone softening. “We’re not trying to make this weird. It’s just—you’ve been... stuck. And it’s been, what ? Two years ?”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “One and a half.”

“Still counts,” Lila said gently.

He didn’t respond. Didn’t need to. His silence was answer enough.

A silence settled at the table—not tense, exactly, but weighted. Harry stared past the rim of his glass, jaw set. He hated how well they knew him. Hated that they weren’t wrong. Lucy was gone—clean exit, no fireworks, no begging. Just quiet disapproval, packed in neat boxes and left behind like unpaid bills.

But the residue lingered. Not grief, exactly. Just the memory of who he had to be when she looked at him. Like wallpaper he never bothered to rip down.

“I don’t need to throw myself into something just to prove I’ve moved on.” He said eventually.

“No one’s asking you to prove anything,” Lila replied, her voice softer now. “We’re saying maybe it wouldn’t kill you to let someone surprise you.”

Harry didn’t respond. But his hand flexed once on the stem of his glass. And his mind—without permission—went to the café. To crooked shelves and chipped mugs. To the smell of cardamom and the smudge of chalk menus. To you. Too many plants. Too many questions. And that look. That unsettling, gentle way of seeing him—like he wasn’t some brick wall of routine and control.

He drained the rest of his wine in one swallow. “Anyone want dessert ?” He asked flatly, like they hadn’t just dissected his love life on a white tablecloth.

A few minutes later, someone was poking at a crème brûlée. Jackson was checking his phone. The table had relaxed, the way groups do when the worst of the conversation has passed.

“By the way,” Jackson said, half-turned. “Heard your regular coffee place closed for a bit. What happened, plumbing ?”

Harry nodded, keeping his tone casual. “Something like that.”

Lila’s eyes lit up. “So where’ve you been getting your overpriced caffeine now, huh ?”

He hesitated just long enough to make it noticeable. “I found a new spot. Small place. Kinda weird.”

“Weird how ?” Jackson asked, smirking.

Harry gave a half-shrug. “Lots of plants. Some vinyl records. They serve stuff with rose foam.”

Lila leaned in, eyes narrowing. “Oh my god, is it that place ? On Hill Street ?”

“Yeah.”

“With the cute barista ?”

Harry blinked. Too slow to dodge it. “What ? No. I mean—she’s not—” he stopped, cleared his throat. “It’s not like that.”

“Sounds exactly like that.” Jackson said, nudging his glass toward him.

Harry didn’t look up. He was staring at the water ring on the table, brow furrowed like it had something to say. “She’s just... different.” He said, quieter this time.

And even though he didn’t mean to say more, even though he wanted to shut it all down and change the subject, the way he said different lingered.

Lila grinned. “You like her.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t deny it. Just reached for the last piece of dark chocolate on the plate and broke it in half like that might distract them. It didn’t.

“Different how ? Cute ? Feisty ? Does she make your coffee with extra sass ?” Jackson grinned trying to catch more informations, elbow on the table like he was settling in for a story.

Harry rolled his eyes but didn’t correct him. A reluctant smirk flickered as he swirled the wine in his glass. “She’s not what I expected.”

Lila leaned in, brow raised. “Yeah ?”

He paused like he might stop there, but then he shrugged, words coming a little slower now—carefully, like they might give too much away if he wasn’t precise. “She’s... the opposite of me. Has this thing with weird coffee flavors I’d never touch. And she doesn’t care that I don’t talk much.”

Jackson snorted. “Sounds exhausting.”

“It’s not,” Harry corrected, surprising even himself with how fast it came out.

Lila’s eyes lit up. “Oh, she’s definitely hitting on you.”

“She’s just being nice.” Harry muttered, trying to escape this tricky situation, even though he knew he was damned.

“No one’s that nice unless they want something,” Jackson said, grinning. “Even more so with someone like you.”

“What does that mean ?” Harry asked, squinting his eyes but Jackson brushed it off.

“Maybe she just enjoys the challenge.” Lila teased.

“She wouldn’t be the first.” Jackson added with mock gravity.

Harry gave a dry laugh and shook his head, trying not to smile. But the corner of his mouth betrayed him anyway. “She’s just a barista.” He said, too flat to be convincing.

“Lila hummed, swirling her glass. “A very interested barista.”

The table laughed, loud and teasing—but Harry stayed quiet, eyes on the rim of his glass, that same smile playing like a secret at the edge of his mouth. “Maybe,” he murmured, so soft he wasn’t sure they heard it.

But Lila did. And she didn’t say anything else—just sipped her wine with a knowing little grin.

⋆˚࿔⋆. 𝓗𝓒 .⋆𝜗𝜚˚⋆

The next morning, Harry groaned as the sunlight hit his face—sharp and uninvited—but he didn’t argue when Lila all but dragged him across the street. Her grip on his arm was more metaphorical than physical, but he followed, the reluctant companion to whatever mission she’d decided they were on.

“Come on,” she said over her shoulder, clearly enjoying herself. 

“I’m not here for small talk.” Harry muttered, tugging his coat tighter.

“No one said you had to talk,” Lila replied breezily. “Just sit. Drink coffee. Pretend you’re normal.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t stop. The walk wasn’t long, just across the street, but every step made his nerves feel a little louder. Inside the café, you were behind the counter wiping down the espresso machine, the quiet hum of the grinder filling the space in the way conversation usually would. The morning rush had slowed. Everything smelled like cinnamon and espresso and steam.

The bell above the door jingled, you glanced up automatically—and froze.

Harry.

And next to him, a woman. Tall, confident, with bold lipstick and a smirk like she knew exactly where she was going. She walked with the kind of ease that made people look. Your eyes snapped back down to the rag in your hand.

“Great.” You muttered, lips tight. 

Lila clocked you instantly. Her eyes widened. “Oh my god,” she whispered under her breath, nudging Harry with a grin. “She’s there !”

“Don’t.” Harry said, jaw tightening.

But the blush on his face gave him away. Lila smirked wider. Seriously,” she murmured, glancing toward you again. “I get why you’re smitten.”

He didn’t respond. Just shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets. And after a few moments of scanning the pastry case and inspecting the menu with exaggerated interest, Lila excused herself—something about needing a smoke—telling him to order for her, but it was clearly just an excuse. The bell jingled behind her as she stepped outside.

Harry lingered.

Then, as if gathering momentum from somewhere low in his spine, he walked to the counter.

You straightened slightly as he approached, heart thudding in that irritating way it did whenever he was around. You didn’t meet his eyes at first. Just kept wiping a nonexistent smudge off the steel surface.

“Hey,” you said, a little too casual. Then, softer, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be nosy last time. I just thought—” You paused, swallowed. “I didn’t know you had a girlfriend, I wouldn’t have tried to hit on you then.”

Harry blinked. A long second passed. Then he shook his head, mouth pulling into a dry, almost sheepish smile. “Don’t apologize it’s not your fault. And… uhm… She’s—she��s not my girlfriend.”

Your eyes lifted to meet his, surprised and suddenly embarrassed, realizing what you had just said before. “Oh.”

He shrugged, like it didn’t matter but his voice came low and careful. “Just a friend. Old friend. She drags me places when she thinks I’m... stuck.”

You nodded, something easing in your chest even if you didn’t want it to Harry’s eyes flicked around the café—at the crooked art, the messy chalkboard menu, the potted plant in the corner that was definitely dying.

A beat passed between you—thick with unspoken things. The clink of a spoon somewhere behind the bar, the hiss of steamed milk, the faint sound of a car passing outside. But here, at the counter, it was quiet.

Then Harry leaned in slightly, not enough to crowd you—just enough to make the air shift. “So…” he said, voice low, almost teasing. “You were hitting on me ?”

You blinked, caught, your hand pausing mid-wipe on the counter. “What ? No. I mean—maybe.”

He raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth tugging into something smug. “Maybe ?”

You sighed, cheeks warm, but you couldn’t help the reluctant smile. The tension cracked, just a hairline fracture.

“Alright,” you admitted, “maybe a little.”

Harry huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head like he couldn’t quite believe any of this. His eyes flicked briefly to the window, where Lila stood outside with her cigarette, a curl of smoke trailing lazily above her. Then, more gently this time, he turned back to you.

“Hey… about last time. And, uh, the time before that.” He rubbed the back of his neck, gaze dropping for a moment before meeting yours again. “Sorry if I was... off. I’m not great at—well. That kind of thing.”

You shook your head, your voice softening with him. “It’s okay. Really. I probably shouldn’t have asked about your personal life without a warning.”

He smiled, just slightly, just for a second. “Still. I could’ve handled it better.”

You tilted your head, amused now. “You’re not doing too bad now.”

He exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh. Then, carefully: “We could call it even. Over a meal, maybe. Something not covered in foam or paper sleeves.”

Your brow lifted. “You mean... like a date ?”

Harry’s eyes didn’t waver this time. Just a quiet, nervous smile there. “Yeah. If you’re not too busy psychoanalyzing your other customers.”

You snorted. “Depends. Will there be matching chairs ?”

“I’ll do my best to ensure that this is not the case.” He said.

You reached under the counter for a napkin, grabbed a pen, and scrawled your number—quick, tidy, no hearts or flourishes. Just real. Sliding it across the counter, you watched him take it in, the surprise that flickered in his eyes before settling into something calmer. Steadier.

“Here,” you said. “Just in case you actually mean it.”

He picked it up like it might vanish. Then he looked at you—really looked—and nodded once. “I do.”

And then he turned, coffee in hand, stepping back out into the morning light. The bell jingled softly above the door as it closed behind him.

Outside, Lila looked him up and down. “Where’s my coffee ? And why are you smiling like that ?” She asked, eyes narrowing with amused suspicion.

Harry didn’t say anything right away. Just glanced down at the napkin in his hand.

Then: “Because for once,” he said, almost to himself, “I’m actually kind of excited.”

Lila raised an eyebrow. “About a barista ?”

Harry smiled.

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”

[msxjennipascal]

I have an idea…I’m too lazy to write it. Maybe you’d like that? Frankie is sitting alone at a coffee shop when a random girl sits down and asks him to play along like he knows her because she’s being followed by a creep and pretends to be her boyfriend which basically starts their love story and they fall in love but the whole story is being told from Frankie’s perspective because he’s telling the story of how they met with his wife to their kids

OMG!!! I LOVE this idea. Thank you so much for this, enjoy the silly little thing I created with it :')

The Day I Met Your Mom

pairing: Frankie Morales x f! reader

tags: fluff, meet cute, no physical description of reader apart from having hair, domestic bliss, dad! Frankie, falling in love, pilot! Frankie (he didn't get busted here, okay?), warnings? none, it's tooth rotting sweet

word count: 1,3 k

It had been a long day at the hangar. Frankie sat in the café close to his workplace, flight suit still half on, only his faded pale blue shirt peeking through—a shirt that had gone soft over years of wear. His standard oil cap sat low on his unruly curls. If he’d known today would change the trajectory of his life forever, he might’ve tamed them a little. Shaved better. Worn real cologne instead of the cheap aftershave and dollar store deo he only ever bought when it was on sale.

But he didn’t know.

So there he was, in this tiny café with scuffed floors and chipped mugs, the smell of freshly brewed coffee lingering heavy in the air. He read an actual newspaper like it was 1975 and not the 21st century —because sometimes, Frankie liked things that stayed the same.

The news was bleak as ever. Climate collapse, wars, missing cats, and painfully unfunny comics.

The first thing he noticed wasn’t you. It was the shift of air—humid, thick Florida heat wafting in from the open door behind you. He didn’t look up, just reread the same damn sentence about melting ice caps for the third time.

Then came the scent. Vanilla and frangipani—something he’d later learn was your favorite perfume. It was soft and sudden.

He glanced up.

You stood there, breathing like you’d been running, hair slightly tousled, a lock stuck to your temple. Your eyes darted to the café door like you were waiting for something. Or someone. Bad news in a tailored shirt, maybe.

Frankie cleared his throat, and your gaze snapped to his, wide and startled.

“Oh gosh. Sorry,” you said, your voice trembling slightly but still warm as you sat down next to him.

“Sorry for what?” he asked, folding the newspaper and setting it down between you both.

“For barging in. Invading your space. I’m not usually like this. It’s just—”

You stopped mid-sentence.

Frankie saw the change before he even turned. The man who walked in wore a crisp plaid shirt tucked into expensive jeans, sunglasses still perched in his hair like he owned the air around him. Definitely an ego too big for the small man he was.

“I know this is absolutely insane,” you whispered, still watching the man, “but can you pretend you're my boyfriend? Just for a minute?”

Frankie blinked, hesitating only a second before instinct took over. “I’m gonna put my arm around you now, okay?”

You nodded.

His arm slid around your shoulders, warm and protective, fingers steady against your shirt as his thumb traced soothing circles.

“Hey baby,” he said loud enough for the stranger to hear. “I already ordered coffee. Didn’t know what you wanted, so I waited.”

He smiled at you, soft and real.

You blinked, but your lips tugged into a shy little smile. “Oh, babe, you know I’m not the biggest coffee fan. I’d rather have an iced matcha. Will you be a darling and get one for me?”

“Sure thing, hermosa. Vanilla syrup and normal milk? Or any of that fancy vegan stuff?”

“Normal milk,” you said with a nod.

He got up, still watching you even as he ordered. The man by the door didn’t miss the exchange, but Frankie made sure to stand between him and you on the way back, iced matcha in hand, arm finding its place around your shoulders like it belonged there. It felt strangely familiar, even though he’d just met you minutes ago.

You took the drink with a quiet “thank you,” sipping slowly, stealing one last glance toward the man—who finally stood and walked out the door. Only then did your shoulders relax.

“Thank God,” you whispered.

Frankie moved his arm off your shoulder, gave you a little space again, watching as your gaze lingered on the closed door. He lifted his coffee to his lips and waited, frowning a little, eyes still on you.

“So…” he said after a moment, voice gentle, “you gonna tell me what that was about? Or do I have to guess?”

You let out a breath. “It’s a long story,” you said. “And maybe not one for the first time you meet someone. But thank you, really.”

He nodded, didn’t press but after a moment, curiosity won out.

“So, you come here often to recruit strangers into fake relationships, or is this just my lucky day?”

You laughed at that. Soft, unguarded. And it shifted something in his chest.

“Usually only on Fridays, but I figured, why not Tuesdays too?”

Frankie nodded, smiling into his cup. “So, today is my lucky day after all. Frankie, by the way—you should know the name of your fake boyfriend, don’t you think?”

You shifted a little, leaning toward him now. “Oh yeah, absolutely.” You told him your name in return, and he mulled it over in his head, tasting it on his tongue and deciding quickly that he liked it. It fit you.

Something in him hummed after that. Some feeling that had been dulled by war and loss and long flights and even longer nights was suddenly wide awake again.

And he didn’t know it then but something had changed in him the moment you walked in. Even more so when you sat there and talked for hours like you’d known each other forever. It was easy. Natural.

And something permanent shifted, something like fate.

—

Now. Present Day.

Frankie’s voice is softer now, worn smooth with time and memory. The golden light of late afternoon spills through the living room window, catching dust motes in the air, glinting off the toy helicopter wedged under the couch. One of the kids is halfway climbing up the arm of his chair like it’s a jungle gym, while the other is sprawled on the floor, a crayon tucked behind one ear.

“…and that’s how I met your mom,” he finishes, smiling into his coffee cup—though the coffee’s long since gone cold.

“But what if she hadn’t picked your table?” your daughter asks, sharp-eyed and clever. She’s all you—same mouth, same fire, same way of catching people off guard with the truth.

Frankie chuckles, ruffling his son’s hair—his own little carbon copy, right down to the curls and mule-headed stubbornness.

“Then I would've offered her mine anyway,” he says with a shrug. “Some things you're just not meant to miss.”

“EWWWWWW,” both kids cry, burying their faces in the throw pillows.

“You say that every time,” he laughs.

“Still true,” your daughter fires back, giggling into the couch.

Before he can respond, you step into the room, barefoot and smiling, leaning against the doorframe like you’ve always belonged there. And every damn time, it still hits him square in the chest. You're older now, you both are. Still just as beautiful—maybe even more now, though he’d admit he’s probably a little biased.

“You’re telling the coffee shop story again?” you ask, that teasing lilt in your voice as you cross over to him.

Frankie beams, unapologetic. “They asked.”

You press a kiss to his forehead, then his lips, and before you can pull away, he curls an arm around your waist and hauls you gently into his lap.

“EWWWW!” the kids howl, dramatic and gleeful.

But Frankie just buries his nose in your neck with a soft, content sigh. Holds your waist a second longer than necessary. And thinks—not for the first time, not for the thousandth time either. 

Dios, I’m the luckiest man alive.

thanks for reading 💌

main masterlist

tags (if you don't wanna be tagged anymore, let me know!): @speaktothehandpeasants @god-is-an-astronaut @mandaloriankait @harriedandharassed @kungfucapslock @bergamote-catsandbooks @kakiki3 @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @whirlwindrider29 @cuteanimalmama @thesassyteacher91 @christinamadsen @sheepdogchick3 @brittmb115 @greenwitchfromthewoods @diabaroxa @glycerinrivers @carmillahepburn @buckyandlokirunmylife @thepilatesprincess @axshadows @letsjustgowiththeflow @kirsteng42 @holbrk @ellenmunn @matchalov3 @canadianfangirl-95 @picketniffler @hotforpedro @noovaarq @warmdragonfly @theanothersherlockian @76bookworm76 @inept-the-magnificent @confusedpuffin @rav3n-pascal22 @misstokyo7love @pasc4lfuzz @cheekychaos28 @perodjarin @enchantedreader @beezusvreeland @lillaydee @underneath-the-sky-again @zooty-and-fruity @angiewatson @lillaydee @chasingthepoguelife

[msxjennipascal]

Midnight Miles

pairing: Frankie Morales x f! reader

tags: phone sex, dirty talk, male masturbation, praise (Frankie deserves that too), semi established relationship, pwp and little bit of feelings

summary: A late-night phone call turns into something hotter and far more intimate than expected, leaving Frankie aching for you in more ways than one.

notes: Maybe it's becoming a tradition that I write some filth for Frankie Friday at this point 😉

word count: 1,5 k

Nights away from home stretch endlessly without you. Frankie used to think he was fine on his own—used to fall asleep in silence without missing a thing. But then you came along, and now he feels half-alive without the weight of you beside him. It hadn’t been that long, really. Just a few months. But somehow, you’d carved yourself into him like you'd always been there. Whether he's up in the air or stuck in another shitty layover motel, you're all he thinks about.

Tonight, the bed is too small, the springs too loud, the walls too thin. He groans as he sinks into the mattress, feeling like some lovesick teenager again—his body restless, already aching in all the familiar ways.

He rubs the heels of his palms into his eyes until color blooms behind his lids, and then—like you could feel it across the distance—his phone buzzes.

Your name lights up the screen and he answers immediately.

“Hey, baby,” you purr, voice thick with mischief and warmth. All honey and God, it hits him right in the gut.

“How’s the motel? Haunted yet?”

He chuckles, eyes drifting over the ugly wallpaper, the flickering lamp. “Nah, not this one. But I wouldn’t mind if it was. At least then I wouldn’t be alone.”

You go soft for a second, just long enough for it to squeeze at his chest. “You okay?”

He should lie. He should play it cool. But all he can think about is the way you sound when you’re under him—breathless, whimpering his name as you hook your legs around his waist, begging for more, taking him deeper. Don’t stop, Frankie—

He runs a hand down his face, guilt and desire tangling together as the heat in him rises.

“I just… miss you,” he says, voice low.

You hum, a quiet laugh curling at the edges. “Me or my pussy?”

He huffs a breath, the corner of his mouth tipping into that lopsided smile you always say makes your knees weak. “Both. But right now?” He shifts against the mattress, already too hard to hide it. “Probably more the second.”

“Oh?” you say sweetly. “That’s good. I’m not wearing panties.”

He freezes. Swallows hard. “What?”

“Just your shirt you left here. No panties,” you add, like it’s the most casual thing in the world. 

“Fuck…” he exhales, his cock already straining against the thin cotton of his boxers.

You wait, letting the tension settle, then ask in a near-whisper, “Tell me, Morales… what would you do if I were there right now?”

He drags in a breath, eyes fluttering shut.

“I’d start with your neck,” he murmurs, voice thick. “Kiss you soft. Slow. All the way down to those perfect tits—palming them, sucking your nipples until you're whining for more. Then down over that soft belly. I’d kiss your hips, make you wait just a second longer before I finally spread those pretty legs and taste you. Kissing your silky thighs, take my time until my mouth’s on your cunt.”

He pauses, breath catching.

“You already wet for me, aren’t you?”

“Mhm-hm,” you hum, breathless and teasing.

“Tell me, mi amor,” he urges, voice strained.

“I’m so wet, Frankie,” you purr, like a temptation.

He can’t take it anymore. Shoves his boxers down, his cock already flushed and leaking.

“You touching yourself?” he rasps.

“Yes,” you breathe and it nearly undoes him.

He wraps a hand around himself, slow at first, just to feel the weight, the burn, the pressure. His chest rises and falls like he’s running. And still, your voice echoes in his ear, the only thing grounding him. His hand moves slowly at first, thumb dragging through the slick bead of pre-cum already glistening at the tip. He spreads it around the head with a low, broken sound in his throat that almost sounds like a sob but rougher, guttural.

"Shit…" he whispers, eyes fluttering shut as his thumb sweeps again, teasing himself like he imagines you would. It’s too much and not enough. His cock twitches in his grip, and he hisses when it sends a jolt of pleasure straight through his spine.

"You’re so sensitive tonight, baby," you murmur, voice thick and coaxing, like you know exactly what he’s doing. “Is that for me?”

“All for you,” he moans. “Only ever you.”

“Let me hear you stroke it, Frankie,” you whisper. “Slow, yeah? Grip it tight. Just like I would.”

He lets out a shaky breath and does what you say as his hand tightens, dragging along the length of him slow and steady, up and down. The slick sounds echo too loud in the quiet motel room, his breath catching with each pass over the flushed, weeping head.

“Fuck, I miss your mouth,” he says hoarsely. “Miss the way you look at me all innocent while you’re takin’ me in… God, the way you moan with your lips wrapped around me…”

You hum, wicked and warm. “You whimper for me like that in person, too. You remember?”

A sound tears from his throat—high, needy, half gasp, half fuck yes—and his hips jerk into his hand before he can stop himself. His mind’s working overtime now, filling in the blanks with memories of you on your knees, eyes wide and greedy.

“God—don’t say that,” he pleads, but it’s all for show. You know better.

“You sounded so pretty last time I sucked you off, baby,” you purr, breath catching like you’re just as worked up. “All those little noises you tried to hold back. And then when you begged me not to stop…”

You pause, inhale slow and shaky, like you’re playing it back in your head.

“My favorite sound in the world.”

Frankie whimpers—honest to God whimpers—and bites down on his knuckle to keep the motel walls from hearing just how badly you’ve unraveled him.

“Fuck, mi amor… please…”

“Please what, Frankie?” you whisper, voice all silk and sin. “Say it. What do you need?”

“I—” He grips his cock tighter, stroking faster now, chasing the high that’s already breathing down his neck. “Need you to keep talkin’. Tell me what to do. I need your voice—I need you.”

You fall quiet for just a second, and he can hear your breath catch—just once

“Stroke it faster, baby,” you murmur. “Imagine I’m sitting on top of you, dragging my hips against yours. You’d be so deep inside me. I’d ride you slowly, just how you like it. Make you watch me fall apart on your cock.”

He groans, raw and guttural, his neck flushed, his chest rising in quick, shallow breaths. “I’m gonna—mierda, I’m close.”

“I know,” you whisper, breathless now. “I can hear it. You gonna come for me, Frankie?”

“Yes, yes—I’m gonna—shit, baby, I’m gonna—” His voice fractures, sharp and unguarded, and then he moans deep, drawn-out and filthy, your name tangled into it like a prayer. 

The orgasm hits hard, crashing over him and stealing the air from his lungs. He spills into his hand, hot and messy, hips stuttering, his whole body trembling like he’s been struck by lightning and left gasping in the aftermath.

You’re quiet, still catching your breath on the other end—soft, sated, and real.

“Good boy,” you whisper, tender and smug and all his.

Frankie groans, dragging a hand through his hair, chest still rising and falling. “Made a mess of myself,” he mutters, voice thick. “In every sense of the word.”

You snicker breathless but not cruel. “Wish I could see it, you’re so pretty when you come,” you say softly, voice all velvet.

“Jesus,” he laughs, half in awe, half in disbelief. “Didn’t think anyone would ever say that to me.”

“What a shame,” you murmur. “Because it’s true.”

He reaches for tissues from the nightstand, cleaning himself up with a quiet sigh, eyes still pink around the edges. Everything feels raw, but in that good way. The kind that makes you feel alive.

“You good ?” you ask gently. It’s usually his line, he’s the one checking in.

“Yeah,” he says, honest. “Better than I was a few minutes ago.”

“Only a few more days,” you whisper. “And then you’re home. And I swear, we’re not leaving my bed for three days straight.”

He laughs, low and warm. “Don’t threaten me with a good time,” he says, tossing the tissue into the bin across the room without even looking—and landing it.

You go quiet for a moment, and when you speak again, your voice is softer, almost uncertain. Like you're afraid to say too much. “I miss you too.”

It lands in his chest like an arrow, but not a painful one. Just deep.

He exhales slowly, eyes tracing the cracked motel ceiling. “Counting down the hours. Be good for me, yeah? I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Okay,” you say, and he can hear the faint creak of your bed as you settle in deeper. He’d give anything to be beside you, pulling you close, bury his face against your neck and breathe you in until the world stops spinning.

“Goodnight, beautiful,” he murmurs, voice soft and gravelly, the one he saves just for you.

“Goodnight, handsome. Dream of me,” you yawn.

“Always.”

He ends the call, sets the phone down beside him, and stares above.

The ache’s still there but it’s quieter now. More like a low hum under his skin.

Like love, or something dangerously close to it.

thanks for reading 💌

main masterlist

tags: @speaktothehandpeasants @sxnnimoon @harriedandharassed @kungfucapslock @felix-enthusiast @bergamote-catsandbooks @kakiki3 @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @whirlwindrider29 @cuteanimalmama @christinamadsen @sheepdogchick3 @brittmb115 @greenwitchfromthewoods @diabaroxa @glycerinrivers @carmillahepburn @copperhalfcent @beaniebailey @thepilatesprincess @axshadows @kirsteng42 @joelsgoodgirl @ellenmunn @matchalov3 @canadianfangirl-95 @picketniffler @hotforpedro @noovaarq @theanothersherlockian @littleluc @76bookworm76 @inept-the-magnificent @confusedpuffin @wheatmaze @rav3n-pascal22 @picketniffler @lostinmyownmaze @misstokyo7love @pasc4lfuzz @cheekychaos28 @perodjarin

[msxjennipascal]

Here's one for the lactose intolerant (GN) girlies

[msxjennipascal]

Some “Frankie in a fight” headcanons I wrote a while ago 💭 Just my take, of course. Totally okay if you see him differently! 🥰

╰┈➤ Frankie doesn’t yell. Not unless he’s really at his limit. His anger is quiet, clenched-jaw, too-controlled. It’s dangerously calm, until he breaks.

╰┈➤ He walks away when he feels it bubbling—closes his fists, breathes hard through his nose. He’s seen too much in his past. He will never let himself be the guy who slams doors or breaks things. But if you walk away first? That hits different. His voice shakes when he calls after you.

╰┈➤ If the fight gets bad, he loses words. Can’t explain himself fast enough. Ends up saying shit like: “Forget it. It doesn’t matter.” “You always think the worst of me.” And those words sting, because you know he doesn’t mean them.

╰┈➤ If you cry? Game over. His entire body stills. His face crumples. He stammers, reaching for you like he just realized he’s underwater. “No—wait, wait, please—don’t cry, I didn’t mean it like that—m’just tired, I’m sorry, fuck, I’m so sorry—”

╰┈➤ He always comes to you first. Even when he thinks he’s right. He hates being apart. He hates that he hurt you.

╰┈➤ Will sit on the floor outside the bedroom door if he has to, mumbling: “Please come out. I miss you. I hate sleeping without you. I hate myself when we fight.”

╰┈➤ When you finally curl up with him again, his voice cracks: “You scare me, sometimes. Not because of what you do, but because of what you mean. You could destroy me if you wanted to.”

[msxjennipascal]

Something worth remembering

Pairing: old man! joel miller x single mom!reader

Summary: Joel goes to the zoo for Sarah's birthday every year since she passed away. Today was supposed to be another one of his visits. He didn't expect meeting you, a single mom with a daughter who had a very particular name.

Word count: 1.5k

Warnings: mentions of Sarah, grief, slight comfort

A/N: i had this idea in my head for a while, i might make a part two but idk

It was routine already.

Every year since his daugther passed away, Joel would go to the zoo for her birthday. Everyone thought he'd stop at some point. But even now, at sixty one years old and twenty three years after sarah's death, he was still there every year.

He didn't like going to the cemetery. He didn't like how final it felt. It was like accepting she was gone and never coming back. So he came here, to the place sarah used to call the best in the world.

He always did the same things, he walked around for a little bit, ate a pretzel (because she always begged him to buy her one) and before going back home, he'd go see the otters. Her favorite animal.

It allowed him to remember her the way he wanted to. How warm her hands were as she dragged him to see all the animals and how excited she got. He always ended up exhausted and now he'd give anything to feel that exhaustion again.

Today there weren't that many people around,it was a school day after all. He prefered it like that. Less people meant more silence, more silence meant he could think better. And there were no strange looks for being the older man who walked around the zoo without a kid there.

He thought today would be the same as every year. He'd follow his little routine, go home, play some music while he drank something and then finally go to sleep.

---

You knew it was a school day and you were supposed to drop your daughter off but she'd been feeling sad lately. It broke your heart. So you made a decision.

You called the school and told them she wouldnt go in today. And you took her to the zoo.

She had wanted to go for a while. Her dad promised to take her, but after three times of him bailing on her, you did what you always did. You took matters into your own hands.

So now here you were walking around the almost empty zoo. Your daughter was talking happily about giraffes and telling you she wanted to see the otters next.

A few minutes later there you were, the otters habitat. You noticed a man with mostly salt-colores hair and a beard that sitting on a bench a few meters away. But he didn't even seem to notice you two, he was lost in thought while he stared at the otters.

You looked away for a second, just enough to answer a text from work.

That was all it took.

Your daughter, who was as social and chatty as they come, wandered off towards the man on the bench.

"Are you crying?" Joel looked up at the sound of a tiny childlike voice. The girl couldn't be older than six and he immediately started looking around for a parent while the little girl continued talking. "My mom says it's okay to cry. I cry sometimes, like when my daddy forgets about-."

"I'm so sorry, sir." Your voice cut off her chatter as you took her hand and gently tugged her close to you again.

"She just ran off and–God she has no filter-" Your words came out rushed, your cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

"No worries, i know what it's like." His voice was deep but full of emotion. His eyes were slightly red like he was trying to keep it together and failing. "What's your name, little one?" He asked, and looked down at your daughter who smiled before reaching out her tiny hand towards him.

"I'm Sarah!" She exclained happily.

He felt like he'd been slapped across the face. You noticed it immediately, how his expression shifted and sadness flashed behind his eyes. Still, he smiled through it and shook the little girl's hand.

"It's a beautiful name." He said to you, his voice a little strained.

You smiled, already sensing that there was a heartbreaking story behind his reaction. You offered your name, he gave you his and then he stood up so he could shake your hand. His hand was shaking slightly now but you didn't comment on it.

"I'm sorry we interrupted you. You probably wanted to be alone."

"You made me a favor. I was getting too lost in my head." He looked down for a second, placing his hands on his knees as sat down again. His eyes focused on your daughter daughter who was now watching the otters intently while she whispered stuff to herself.

Then he looked back at you, a sad smile on his face.

He didn't know what came over him or why he felt the need to share this with you but he did it anyway. "I come here every year to remember my Sarah. She'd be thirty-five today."

His words made your heart ache. Suddenly it made sense- the way he reacted and why you felt like a cloud of grief was hovering over him. You couldn't imagine losing a child.

You paused for a second, unsure of what to say since you knew nothing could ease the man's pain. You sat down on the edge of the bench, careful to give him space.

"I'm so sorry. I'm sure she was amazing." You said softly, and you meant it.

"She was." His voice faltered for a second as he smiled faintly. "She used to tug my hand and drag me to see every animal. But she loved the otters the most."

Something told you not to leave him alone. No one should be alone on a day like this.

"We still have some animals left to see..." You offered gently. "You're free to come with us but no pressure. Say the world and we'll get out of your hair."

Joel thought about it for a few seconds before nodding and standing up again. "I guess i could use some company."

You three walked together for a while after that. He learned that you were a single mother who just turned 30, that Sarah's father wasn't really in the picture.

He told you he was a single parent as well. And that he used to think he'd have grandkids by now.

Meanwhile your daughter skipped a step or two ahead of you, ocassionally turning around to share an animal fact before going back to her own little world.

Somewhere along the lines you didn't feel like Joel was a stranger. And he didn't feel you were one either.

When Sarah yawned and asked you to carry her, you knew it was time to go even though a part of you didn't want to.

Joel walked you to your car, a comfortable silence settling between you as Sarah rested her face on your shoulder and closed her eyes.

When he noticed you were about to shift Sarah to one arm so you could open the car door, he opened it for you without a second thought. The least he could do for the woman who offered him company and made his day a little better.

After you buckled her in you turned to him once more. "I'm glad she came up to you. I liked talking to you."

"I liked talking to you too." He smiled, probably the first real smile you'd seen from him today.

Before you could overthink it, you pulled out an old recipt and fished for a pen in your purse. You wrote down your number and handed it to him.

"If you ever wanna talk... Or i don't know, anything. Call me, no pressure."

He took the small paper, inspected it for a few seconds like he couldnt believe it before folding it and putting it into his wallet like it was something precious. He didn't say much. He just nodded and mumbled. "Thanks."

You waved before turning around and getting into your car. Sarah already asleep on the backseat.

He watched your car pull out from the parking lot and he spent a few minutes just standing there and watching you drive away. He thought about how you didn't give him your number out of pity. You looked like it was what you really wanted to do, like you wanted to keep getting to know him.

For the first time in twenty three years, he didn't leave the zoo with a sinking feeling on his chest.

Instead, he felt something he hadn't felt in a while- hope.

And he knew in that moment, he'd definelty call.

Thanks for reading. Please reblog and/or comment if you liked it. Requests are open 🩷

[msxjennipascal]

Hmmm knew this felt familiar🫠

gif cred: @xbeababyx & @a7estrellas

[msxjennipascal]

Daddy Richards

Summary: After several nights of fun in the lab, Reed ends up getting you pregnant.

Pairing: Reed Richards x F!Reader

Warnings: Mention of explicit sex and inappropriate language

Note: I just saw Pedro's hot arms and wished Reed would get me pregnant. 💀

tags: Sex, Office Sex/Lab Sex, Pregnancy Reveal, Accidental Pregnancy, Soft Moments, Romance, Fluffy, Drabble Fic.

Word count: 655

Reed was frozen for a long moment, staring at the pregnancy test. You'd only been dating for a short time; getting involved with a scientist and hero wasn't in your plans, but you couldn't resist spending all those hours alone with him in the lab. He was your doctoral thesis advisor; your relationship was a mistake that could jeopardize Professor Richards' entire academic career.

It all started when you became lab partners and spent nights studying particles under microscopes. On one of those nights, you found yourself on top of the table with your panties around your ankles and his cock buried deep inside you.

Scenes like that became so common they became a habit. You couldn't imagine yourself without those strong biceps holding you down while he fucked you against his desk. The way his hair was always impeccably styled and the white streaks at the sides added a unique touch to his beauty.

It was easy to fall in love; you were madly in love with him. Even though he warned you every time that the relationship wasn't right for countless reasons, you surrendered even more.

Reed had faced many fears in his life, but he didn't know he would feel them so deeply until he got involved with you, with the possibility of his enemies kidnapping you and torturing you to get to him. But the fear he felt now was different. Seeing those two blue lines on the test was enough for him to imagine all the risks you would face.

"You…" he finally looks up.

"I…" you try to find your voice. "Yes, I'm pregnant."

His eyes shine, his expression serious but gentle. A crease of worry appeared on his forehead.

"Reed… I'm so sorry."

"Baby… no." He walks over to you and cups your face. "It happened."

"But we've only been together a short time, we don't have anything, and…"

"I'll take care of it, okay? Don't worry." He fixes his tender gaze on your eyes, which are already forming tears.

"Y-you" blinking a few times, you think you didn't quite understand "Do you want me to take it off?"

"No!" He steps forward, his eyes wide. "I mean, no, I don't want to... but that's for you to decide."

You swallow hard, parting your lips, your gaze wandering somewhere other than those eager, gentle eyes.

"You... want him?"

"Him?"

"I don't know," he shrugs with a small smile. "Maybe it's her."

Laughing a little, you stare at your own fingers.

"Because if you want, I'll schedule our wedding today.”

"What?" He looks up, your heart nearly leaping into your throat.

You try to find a hint of playfulness on his face, but all you find is a calm look and a sweet smile.

"Our wedding." He seemed very sincere.

"Reed, you've got to be kidding…"

"I'm not." He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Listen, I don't want you to marry me because I'm pregnant."

"You haven't told me yet if you want to have the baby."

"I…" Your eyes close for a moment. You didn't feel ready, but deep down you'd always wanted to be a mother, and having a child with the man you were madly in love with encouraged you to face that situation. Maybe it was fate telling you it was the right time to be a mother.

"If you don't want to, know that I want you to be my wife just the same."

His smile teases you to do the same, a pang hits your stomach at his words, and you jump onto his neck to kiss him.

"I want to," you murmur against his lips. "I want anything with you."

Exchanging smiles, he pushes your body forward and takes you in his arms. Letting out a little scream, he carries you to the bed and carefully lays you down on the mattress, finding your lips again.

[msxjennipascal]

pedro pascal is definitely boyfriend material

[msxjennipascal]

three scenes that changed my life.

[msxjennipascal]

I need him

please please PLEASE more hyperspermia with joel. maybe a longer fic where he just keeps filling reader over and over and over and talking sooo filthy. maybe sprinkle in some mean joel… 😔

(need this man #raw)

One more

Parings: mean!joel miller x fem!reader

Content warnings: explicit content 18+, overstimulation, breeding kink, hyperspermia, degradation (calling reader 'milkslut', 'cumdump'), praise kink, cock bulge/belly bulge, cum inflation/swollen belly, hair pulling and slapping, possessive and mean!joel, choking (consensual), dirty talk, use of pet names 'babygirl' and 'sweetheart, excessive cum play, potential physical exhaustion/weakness of reader.

Word count: 1000

Your body's already trembling neath him, the sheets ruined, soaked with sweat and slick and cum, but dosent stop.

He can't.

He needs it.

Needs you. Like this.

He mutters something under his breath, something low and filthy and before gripping your hip, hauling you up onto your side. You're pliant, twitching, a gasp trapped in your throat as he rolls you, presses his chest to your back and sinks back inside your slick, aching cunt.

Slow. Deep. Possessive.

"Fuck- joel-"

"Shh. Shh, baby. I know."

His voice is all gravel and heat, right at your ear as he presses his palmdown over your belly. "Just one. Just need one."

But it's never just one with him.

He drives in again. And again.

Thick and hard and dripping wet, dragging the mess of himself lit of you, only to bury it back in with a bruising slap of skin. You're so full, streched wide and trembling as he fucks his cum deeper and deeper inside. "So fuckin' tight," Joel grits out, sweat dripping from his jaw onto your shouler. "You feel that, sweetheart? That's all me. All that mess dripping down your thighs. Fuckin- look at you." He fists your hair and makes you lift your head just enough to see the bulge in your stomach, his cock, thick and swollen, pushing up against the swell in your belly as he pistons inside you.

"Milkslut," He growls.

"That what you wanted? That why you were beggin' earlier, grindin' all needy on meoke some dumb little bitch in heat?"

You whimper, tears spilling. It's too much- but you crave every second of it. "Uh-huh," He smirks, breathing hot filth into your skin.

"You like being red, don't you? Like gettin' filled up, leaking all over the fuckin' sheets like a messy little whore." His voice drops, darker now. The pace is brutal. The sound of your soaked pussy clapping against his hips is loud in the room,arched only by your stuttering moans.

"Mine"

A hard thrust.

"Mine"

Another.

"Say it."

You can't even form the word, not when he's gripping your throat, not when your brain's short circuited from the pleasure, your cunt spasming around him from the fourth orgasm he's wrung our of you in the last hour.

He doesn't care.

"Say it."

"Y-Yours, Joel- oh fuck, I'm yours-"

"That's right, baby."

He slaps your ass, watching it jiggle. Watching you take it.

"Good fuckin' girl, such a good little cum dump for me. Gonna fuck a baby into you, keep you swollen all the fuckin' time."

You clench.

That breaks him.

His thrusts go sloppy as he empties into you again, groaning loud, hips grinding into the mess between your thighs, making sure mome of it leaks out. "Goddamn - take it, sweetheart. Don't spill a drop. You hear me?" Your thighs are shaking. His seed is leaking. And Joel just laughs, low and mean.

"Better get used to this, darlin'. 'Cause I ain't pullin' out ever again."

~~~

You've already lost count.

Maybe it was the third time he came- maybe the fifth. It's impossible to know anymore with how long he's kept you pinned, stuffed full of his cock, held there like a ragdoll while he fucks you into the mattress. His chest is slick with sweat, body heavy and burning against your back as he thrusts up into you, rutting slow and deep. Every movement makes your cunt squelch loud, messy, soaked in his cum and slick and spit and who the fuck knows what else.

"You hear that?"

Joel bites your earlobe as he pushes in to the hilt.

"You fucking hear that, baby? That's me pourin' into you again"

And he is.

You feel it.

Another thick gush floods you as he groans, hips grinding in tight, desperate circles, pumping rope after rope of heat so deep it makes your eyes flutter back. The pressure builds in your belly, a warmth that spreads slow, growing fuller, heavier, deeper.

"Shit- fuck," You whimper, voice shaking. "Its- joel- it's too much, I can't-"

"You can, sweetheart. You will."

He smirks into your neck, teeth grazing skin. "This cunt's made to take it. My messy little milkslut."

Your belly's swollen now, soft and rounded where his cock bulges up through your skin. His hand spreads wide over it, pressing down just enough to feel himself from the inside. "Fuckin' look at this," Be growls, voice dropping filth.

"Can feel my cock through your tummy. You're so fuckin' full, babygirl. Stuffed to the brim and still takin' it. "

He pulls back just an inch only to ram in again.

A squirt of cum spills from between your thighs. It's not the first time. Wont be the last.

"There it is. Can't even hold it anymore."

He watches it leak down your ass, pooling beneath you on the sheets.

"Made my own little cumdump. Look at that mess. So greedy for it. "

Another thrust. You sob into the pillow, overstimulated and burning. Your thighs are shaking, soaked with slick and sweat and his endless release.

"Gotta keep fuckin' it back in"

He shoves deeper, groaning.

"I ain't done. Not 'till I plug you ful. 'till there's no room left in that little pussy of yours."

You're whimpering, clawing weakly at the sheets.

"Say it," He grits out, slapping your plump red ass.

"Say what you are."

"I'm- I'm your- your milkslut," You gasp, breath hitching.

"Fuck Joel- I'm your filthy little milkslut-"

"Good fuckin' girl."

Another load floods you. Thick, hot, endless. Your belly streches a little more beneath his hand and Joel moans sl deep it rumbles against your back. "That's it. Take it. Take every last fuckin' drop." When he finally stops moving, cock still twitching inside you, you feel it. The sheer weight of him isndid. How soaked you are, how ruined.

But Joel just keeps you there. Plugged full, your cunt fluttering weakly around him.

You're shaking.

He laughs softly and strokes your belly.

"Gonna knock you up real good this time, babygirl."

[msxjennipascal]

nose nose nose nose nose nose nose nose 😵‍💫💕

[msxjennipascal]

"No they're your streets, Sheriff. They're your streets to keep safe and where is your mask?" - Ted Garcia played by Pedro Pascal (Eddington)

[msxjennipascal]

never wanted a minion to put me in a headlock before

[msxjennipascal]

wake up babe new version of 'scared and horny' just dropped