#pedro pascal simp

[worlds-we-write]

The Weight of It All

pairing: Jackson!Joel Miller x Reader

summary: You’ve been hiding your sickness—and the truth—from Joel for weeks. But when a pregnancy test confirms your fears, the weight of it becomes too much to bear. Telling him risks reopening old wounds… but keeping it secret might break you both.

WC: 3.8K

tags: Age gap (60s Joel x 30s reader), pregnancy reveal, anxiety, crying, panic, mentions of past child loss (Sarah), emotional vulnerability, soft Joel, comfort, domestic tenderness, happy ending

My Masterlist

You’ve been sick for days. Maybe longer.

It started as something small—dull headaches, a little nausea in the mornings, that tight ache behind your ribs when you stood too fast. Nothing worth bringing up. Not with Joel. Not when he already worries too much.

You’d blamed it on stress. On the cold. On whatever dried meat Maria had handed you from the trade post. But it hasn’t gone away. It’s gotten worse.

Today, it hits harder than usual. Your stomach twists before your eyes even open. You lie in bed, curled on your side, one hand pressed to your mouth, breathing shallowly through your nose.

Joel’s already up. You hear him in the kitchen—footsteps creaking across the floorboards, the soft clink of silverware, the low grumble of the stove catching. You try to move, but the moment you sit up, your body rebels.

You make it to the bathroom just in time.

You vomit hard, clutching the edge of the sink like it might keep you tethered. Cold sweat beads on your neck, your spine prickling with heat and nausea and panic.

It’s not the first time this week.

And still, you haven’t told him.

By the time you pull yourself together, Joel’s voice is already calling down the hallway.

“Breakfast’s ready. You up?”

You splash water on your face and don’t answer right away. You can’t. Your reflection in the mirror looks pale, your lips chapped. You stare at yourself a moment too long.

Then you step into the hallway like nothing’s wrong.

He doesn’t question you.

He never does at first.

Joel’s at the stove, dividing up the food onto two plates. It’s not much—just scrambled eggs and a toasted slice of bread—but he’s humming under his breath like he’s proud of it. You try to sit down without making a face. The smell turns your stomach.

“Didn’t hear you get up,” he says, voice low and easy. “Sleep okay?”

You nod. Lie.

He sets the plate in front of you. You force yourself to eat a few bites, chewing carefully, swallowing around the nausea.

“You sure you’re not gettin’ sick?” he asks after a while, studying you. “You’ve been lookin’ a little… off.”

You shake your head too quickly. “No, just tired. Stomach’s been weird. Probably a bug or something.”

He doesn’t push. Just narrows his eyes, then reaches over to squeeze your thigh under the table. A quiet gesture. Comforting. You wish it didn’t make your chest ache.

You don’t talk much after that. Joel launches into something about a new gate they’re reinforcing on the east wall, and you nod along, trying not to gag every time you lift your fork. You excuse yourself early and claim a headache. He offers to make tea. You say no.

By the time you crawl back into bed, you’re already crying.

The test isn’t something you went looking for. Not really.

It’s tucked in the back of your dresser, hidden beneath a pair of old gloves and a cracked mirror you meant to throw away. You remember Maria handing it to you months ago, half-joking—“Just in case.” You’d laughed then. Said something sarcastic. Stuffed it in the drawer and forgot.

But you find it now.

Hands shaking.

Heart pounding.

You stare at the little plastic thing like it’s a weapon.

You haven’t had your period in… shit. You count on your fingers. At least two months. Maybe more. You try to remember when the last time was and come up blank. Just nausea and headaches and crying over stupid things like burnt toast and Joel leaving his damn flannel on the floor again.

You sit on the edge of the bed and peel the wrapper back slowly.

The directions are smeared but readable. You follow them. You take the test.

You wait.

Two minutes feels like an hour.

You pace the room, bare feet cold against the floor, every breath too shallow, too loud. You’re not ready for this. You can’t be. You’ve been careful. Joel’s older. You thought…

You glance at the stick.

Two pink lines.

Clear as day.

No denying it. No maybes. No confusion.

You’re pregnant.

You sink to the floor and cry so hard your throat burns.

It’s not that you don’t want a baby.

It’s that you don’t know how to have one. Not here. Not in this world. And not with Joel, not after everything he’s been through. After everything he’s lost.

You think about Sarah. The photo he keeps in his coat pocket. The way he still gets quiet when kids are nearby. The way he looks at you sometimes—like he’s waiting for you to vanish, too.

He hasn’t said her name in months.

But you see it in his eyes.

You press your hands to your stomach. Try to imagine what’s inside. Try to make it feel real.

And it does.

Terrifyingly real.

But you don’t tell him.

Not that night. Not the next. Not the week after.

You keep pretending.

Keep hiding.

Keep waking up sick and saying it’s nothing.

Because you love him too much to ruin this.

And you’re afraid—so afraid—that this will be the thing that finally breaks him.

You don’t remember when it stopped being something you could ignore.

Maybe it was when your nausea turned into full-blown vomiting every other morning. Maybe it was the way your body started to ache differently—heavier, tender in places it hadn’t been before. Or maybe it was the way Joel kept watching you when he thought you weren’t looking.

You try to keep up the act. Try to smile when he brushes your hair behind your ear. Try to laugh when he mutters something sarcastic about Jackson politics or how damn cold it still is. You sit with him by the fire at night, listening to the quiet crackle of the wood, letting him rest his hand on your thigh like nothing’s changed.

But everything’s changed.

You’ve got a secret growing inside you. One you didn’t ask for. One you still don’t know how to feel about.

And it’s eating you alive.

You start waking up before Joel does, slipping quietly out of bed to vomit or dry heave into the toilet, chewing your lip to keep from crying out. You brush your teeth in silence. Splash cold water on your face. Sit on the edge of the tub until the spinning stops.

By the time he’s awake, you’re already wrapped in a blanket on the couch, pretending to read a book you haven’t turned the page on in three days.

“You sure you’re not comin’ down with somethin’?” Joel asks again that morning, a mug of tea in his hand instead of coffee. “You’ve been… quiet.”

“I’m just tired.”

He gives you a look.

You try to change the subject. “What time you heading out with Tommy today?”

Joel doesn’t answer right away. Just hands you the mug. It’s chamomile. Your favorite. He’s trying. It makes your heart ache.

“I could stay,” he says slowly, sitting down beside you. “Ain’t nothin’ urgent. We were just gonna check the perimeter out past the ridge.”

“No, it’s okay,” you say too quickly. “I’m fine. Go.”

His jaw tightens a little. Not in frustration—more like… uncertainty. Like he doesn’t quite believe you but doesn’t know how to press without making things worse.

He kisses your forehead before he leaves.

You cry as soon as the door shuts.

You wander out later, needing air, even though the snow’s still packed in frozen ridges along the path outside the cabin. The sky is overcast, the wind sharp enough to sting your cheeks. You wrap Joel’s flannel tighter around you—he left it behind again this morning—and follow the half-trodden trail into the woods behind the cabin.

No one follows.

No one knows.

You find the edge of the treeline, the big flat rock you sometimes sit on in warmer months. You stand there now, breath puffing out in clouds, staring down at your gloved hands like they might hold an answer.

You fish the test out of your coat pocket.

You’ve been carrying it with you. You don’t know why.

Two pink lines, clear as ever.

You could throw it into the snow. You think about it—feel the urge in your fingers, the burst of anger that’s starting to rise like bile. You want to throw it, scream, crush it beneath your boot, pretend this isn’t happening.

But you don’t.

You sit.

And you hold it.

And you cry again.

That night, Joel makes soup. He tries not to burn it this time. You sit at the table and pretend to eat, smiling when he cracks a joke about the carrots being too soft. You’re exhausted, not just physically but from the weight of pretending.

“Was Maria askin’ about you today?” Joel says casually, handing you a piece of crusty bread. “Said she hadn’t seen you in a while.”

“Just been tired.”

“She said you should stop by.”

“I will.”

You won’t.

Joel leans back in his chair, watching you. “You know you can tell me if somethin’s wrong, right?”

You freeze.

He says it so gently, it almost breaks you. No suspicion in his voice, just quiet concern. The kind he only shows when he thinks you’re about to run—or when he is.

You want to tell him. You do.

But fear clamps down hard on your throat.

What if he looks at you and sees a mistake?

What if he looks at you and sees Sarah?

What if this is the thing that makes him leave?

You force a smile. “I know.”

Joel looks like he wants to say more. But he doesn’t.

He just reaches for your hand across the table and holds it in his calloused palm.

And you grip it like it’s the only solid thing keeping you from unraveling.

-

The nightmares come next.

You dream of blood. Of silence. Of holding something small and helpless and watching it disappear. You wake up gasping, clutching your stomach. Joel stirs beside you but doesn’t wake, and you’re glad. You don’t want him to see you like this.

You start wearing looser clothes. You start avoiding the mirror. You start skipping dinner.

Joel notices. Of course he does. He’s not stupid.

“Did I do somethin’?” he asks one night, voice quiet against your shoulder.

You’re in bed, turned away from him, pretending to be asleep. His fingers brush your arm.

“You’ve been distant.”

You say nothing. Your throat tightens.

“I ain’t mad,” he adds. “Just worried.”

You bite your lip so hard you taste blood.

“I love you, y’know,” Joel murmurs. “Even when you shut down like this.”

That’s the moment your heart breaks.

Because you realize what you’re doing isn’t fair. Not to him. Not to yourself. Not to the tiny life you’re carrying inside you.

But you’re still not ready.

Not yet.

You nod into the pillow, blinking tears onto the fabric.

“Love you too.”

A week passes.

Maybe more.

You lose track of time, counting your life in nausea and guilt and half-eaten meals. Joel never says it out loud, but you can see it in the way he watches you—like he’s trying to solve a puzzle without all the pieces.

You think about telling him every night.

You rehearse the words. I’m pregnant. I didn’t know how to tell you. I’m scared.

But when you open your mouth, nothing comes.

Until finally… it does.

You don’t plan to tell him that night.

It’s the same as every other evening lately. Joel gets back late from patrol, shedding his coat and boots at the door with a tired grunt. You’re already in the kitchen, stirring soup that smells better than it tastes. You’re still too nauseous to eat more than a few bites, but you pretend for his sake.

He doesn’t notice.

Or maybe he does. Maybe he’s just waiting.

The table is quiet as you both eat. Joel hums under his breath between spoonfuls, something familiar—an old Johnny Cash tune, maybe. He thanks you like always. Tells you it’s good even though it’s barely seasoned.

After dinner, he offers to wash up, and you let him. Your hands won’t stop shaking anyway.

You find him in bed later, shirtless and reading something he borrowed from Tommy—a survival manual someone dug up from the library. He doesn’t look up when you enter. Just shifts a little to make room for you under the quilt, reaching out to rest a warm hand on your hip when you slide in beside him.

You lie there stiffly.

Heart pounding.

Stomach twisting.

“You’re awful quiet,” he murmurs after a while, voice rough from sleep already creeping in.

You swallow. “Just tired.”

“Mm.” He turns slightly, fingers idly stroking the hem of your shirt. “You been sayin’ that a lot lately.”

You tense.

“I—” Your voice cracks. “Yeah.”

Joel doesn’t push. Not right away. He just keeps tracing slow circles on your skin, quiet and patient, like he’s waiting for something you’re not sure you know how to give.

And then—

“Been thinkin’…” he says slowly. “Maybe you oughta see that doctor Maria keeps fussin’ about. Just in case.”

You flinch. He feels it.

“I’m fine,” you say quickly, too quickly.

Joel rolls onto his side to face you, propping himself up on one elbow. His brow furrows, and the concern there nearly guts you.

“You’ve been sick almost every damn day,” he says gently. “You ain’t eatin’. You’re pale. You cry at soup commercials.”

You bark a laugh that dissolves into a sob before you can stop it.

Joel’s expression shifts. Alarmed now. He sits up fully, cupping your face in both hands. “Hey—hey. What’s wrong?”

You shake your head, curling into yourself. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“What—? Sweetheart, talk to me. What’s goin’ on?”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

And finally—finally—you say it.

“I’m pregnant.”

Silence.

Not shocked. Not gasped or cursed.

Just… silence.

You feel him go still, like every muscle has locked up at once. His hands fall from your face.

You don’t look at him.

“I found the test a couple weeks ago,” you say, words tumbling now, rushed and raw. “I thought it was a stomach bug, or something I ate, but then it didn’t stop. And I remembered Maria gave me that test a while back and I just—fuck, I didn’t mean for this to happen, Joel. I didn’t mean to do this to you.”

“To me?”

Your breath catches.

Joel’s voice is low. Barely above a whisper. You finally glance at him.

He looks shell-shocked. Not angry. Not even upset. Just… wrecked. His eyes are wide, jaw tight, like he’s trying to keep something inside from breaking loose.

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” you whisper. “After everything. After Sarah. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

Joel doesn’t answer right away. He just stares at the blanket bunched around his waist, like it might offer an explanation he can’t find in your words.

“I thought you’d leave,” you admit softly. “Or worse—I thought you’d stay, but you’d hate me for it.”

Joel blinks slowly. “You really think that little of me?”

“No.” You wipe your eyes. “No, I just—I know what this means for you. I know what it could bring back.”

Joel’s breath hitches. He leans back against the headboard, one hand dragging over his face. The silence stretches between you like a rope pulled taut.

“I ain’t mad,” he says finally.

You flinch.

“I ain’t,” he repeats, quieter this time. “Just… I need a second.”

You nod. Curl your knees to your chest. You try not to cry again, but your chest won’t stop heaving, your hands won’t stop trembling.

Joel stays where he is for a long time. Not speaking. Not touching you.

But he doesn’t leave.

And somehow, that’s what breaks you the most.

Ten minutes pass. Maybe twenty.

Then Joel shifts.

He reaches for you slowly, hesitantly, and when you don’t pull away, he pulls you into his arms.

You bury your face in his chest and let yourself fall apart.

He holds you through all of it. Lets you sob until your voice goes hoarse, rubbing your back and whispering nothing-words you barely register.

When you finally quiet, he kisses the top of your head.

“You should’ve told me,” he says, not angry. Just aching.

“I was scared.”

“I know.” He sighs against your temple. “So was I.”

You blink. “You?”

Joel nods, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes are wet, rimmed with red.

“I knew somethin’ was off. Knew it wasn’t just the weather or the food. I kept thinkin’ about what it could be, and I… I think I knew. I just didn’t wanna be the one to say it.”

“Why?”

He swallows hard. “Because if I said it, it’d be real. And if it’s real, it can be lost.”

Your breath catches.

He cups your face again, thumb brushing your cheek.

“But I’m not walkin’ away,” he says, voice rough but certain. “Not from you. Not from this.”

You close your eyes.

“Joel—”

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admits, whisper soft. “But I want to try. If you want this… I want it too.”

You nod, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“I do. I really do.”

He pulls you into his chest again and kisses your hair like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

“You’re not alone,” he says.

And this time, you believe him.

You wake to the sound of rain tapping against the window.

It’s still dark, the kind of blue-black quiet that only settles in just before dawn. Joel’s arm is wrapped around your middle, his chest pressed warm and steady to your back, one hand splayed low over your stomach like he already knows what’s growing there.

Maybe he does.

He hasn’t moved all night.

You lie still for a while, not quite ready to break the spell. The room is quiet, the fire low in the hearth, the storm outside soft but persistent. You can hear his breathing behind you—slow, even, calmer than you’ve heard it in days.

It’s the first time you’ve really slept in weeks. The first time you haven’t woken up sick with dread curling through your spine. There’s fear, still. Of course there is. But it’s quieter now. Outweighed by something else.

Something that feels a little like hope.

Joel stirs not long after, mumbling sleep-drunk nonsense against your neck.

You hum softly, shifting to face him. His eyes crack open, still heavy with sleep. You expect him to look tense. Uncertain. But he doesn’t.

He looks soft.

His thumb brushes your hip. “Mornin’.”

“Hi,” you whisper.

His gaze drifts to your stomach, then back to your face. “You feelin’ okay?”

“Better.”

He studies you a beat longer. “You sure?”

You nod. “Yeah. Still tired. A little queasy. But… it’s different now.”

Joel’s fingers flex against your side. “Yeah. It is.”

There’s a quiet pause. Neither of you says it, but it’s there in the air between you. Real. Alive.

“I kept thinkin’ about what I’d say,” you admit quietly. “When I finally told you.”

Joel smiles faintly. “What’d you come up with?”

You shrug. “I didn’t think I’d get that far.”

He reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his hand lingering at your cheek.

“You were right to be scared,” he says. “I was scared, too.”

You nod.

“But I want this,” he adds. “I want you. I want this baby.”

You blink fast. “You sure?”

“Sweetheart.” His hand moves back to your belly, resting there like it belongs. “I ain’t been sure about much in my life, but this?” He leans in, voice low and raspy. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

Your eyes sting again.

He kisses you softly—slow, lingering, like he’s not in a rush anymore. And for once, neither are you.

Later, when the sky lightens and the rain slows, Joel gets up and pads to the fire to stoke it back to life. You sit on the edge of the bed, wrapped in one of his flannels, watching him move around the cabin like he’s already settled into this new chapter.

He talks as he works.

“Might need to reinforce that back door soon. Wind keeps slippin’ through the cracks.”

“Mmhm.”

“And we’ll need more blankets. If you’re gonna get cold easier, can’t have you freezin’ all night.”

You smile, resting a hand on your stomach.

“Could build a new shelf for the pantry,” he adds, glancing at you. “Start settin’ aside things for winter. For… y’know.”

He gestures vaguely at your stomach, the faintest blush creeping into his cheeks.

You can’t help it—you laugh.

“What?”

“You’re nesting.”

He frowns. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

Joel mutters under his breath, but you catch the corner of his mouth twitching.

He crosses the room a moment later and crouches in front of you, palms resting on your knees.

“I’m serious, though,” he says. “We’ll figure it out. Whatever we need. You just gotta tell me what’s goin’ on, alright?”

You nod.

“No more secrets,” you whisper.

“No more secrets,” he echoes.

He leans forward, presses a kiss to your thigh, then rests his forehead there for a long moment. When he looks up again, his eyes are glassy.

“You ever think about names?”

Your heart lurches.

“I haven’t gotten that far.”

“Well,” he says softly, “maybe we should.”

You stare at him.

“I know it’s early,” he continues. “But I keep thinkin’ about it. The kind of name we’d give. What kind of person they’ll be.”

You reach for his hand. “You really want this?”

“I already do,” he says.

You smile, brushing your thumb over his knuckles. “What if it’s a girl?”

Joel swallows hard. “Then I guess I’ll have two reasons to keep this world safe.”

You press your forehead to his.

And you both sit there in the early morning quiet, breathing together, dreaming of something you never thought you’d have again.

A future.

That evening, Joel pulls you into his lap while the fire crackles, his hand absentminded on your stomach, thumb stroking slow circles over the curve that isn’t there yet but will be.

He talks to the baby like he’s already met them.

Tells them how much he’s looking forward to teaching them to fish, to play guitar, to run without looking back. He jokes about how stubborn they’re probably gonna be, how it’s definitely your fault, and how he’s not gonna let them out of his sight until they’re at least twenty-five.

You laugh, and cry, and laugh again.

And when you fall asleep in his arms, it’s the first time in weeks that your dreams aren’t full of fear.

They’re full of names.

And tiny hands.

And sunlight.

tags: @lowrisemiller @pedrito-is-punk7 here ya go from a post a couple weeks ago

[slater-baby]

Credit: @/ellenispunk on TikTok

[fallenbratfiction]

birthday gift

A/N: Me? No I don’t have to study why do you say that? Shut up and enjoy! Happy birthday pedro pascal, you handsome puta. I know this is two days later but a girl's been working hard day and night.

my masterlist faq

warnings: oral sex (m! receiver detailed), oral sex (f! receiver implied), sex toy use ( remote control vibe), shower sex, birthday gift kinky, soft aftercare, fluff, swearing

minors dni with this post or my blog. you are responsible for what you consume.

do not copy, translate or claim this story as your own.

The clatter of something in the kitchen awoke Pedro. His brows furrowed as he stirred, pushing the sheets aside. The other half of the bed was empty.

“Shit!” you cursed from the kitchen. 

He blinked sleepily, the warm comfort of sleep still lingering, but curiosity got the best of him. Swinging his legs over the edge, he padded barefoot toward the source of the noise.

As he entered the kitchen, the sight before him made him smile—your back was to him, your hair tousled from sleep, wearing nothing but one of his shirts, which barely covered the curve of your thighs. The counter was a mess of flour and sugar, and a small, lopsided cake sat cooling in front of you.

From the corner of your eye, you caught sight of him.

“No! You’re not supposed to see this!” You spun around, arms outstretched as if you could physically block his view. “Go back to bed! Shoo!”

Pedro chuckled, amused by your attempt to usher him away. He barely had time to react before you were pushing him by the shoulders, backing him out of the kitchen.

"Go!" You demanded, standing in the doorway with flour on your cheek and determination in your eyes.

He held his hands up in surrender, still grinning. "Alright, alright," he conceded, retreating to bed, though the muffled sounds of your chaos kept him thoroughly entertained.

Sometime later, you reappeared, carrying a tray with a steaming cup of coffee and a small cake, now adorned with a few colorful candles. The shirt—his shirt—hung loosely over your frame, brushing just above your thighs.

Pedro propped himself up against the headboard, watching you with soft, fond eyes as you set the tray on his lap and perched beside him.

“Que los cumplas Pedrito, que los cumplas feliz,” you sang softly, your voice warm with affection.

His smile deepened as he blew out the candles, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

“Did you make a wish?” you asked.

“Oh, I surely did,” he murmured, setting the tray aside. His voice had dipped lower, rougher, a hint of something mischievous curling at the edges. “And I can’t believe how fast they come true.”

Before you could react, he was shifting forward, pressing you back into the mattress. His lips met yours in a slow, lingering kiss, the kind that sent warmth curling through your stomach. His hands, warm and eager, slipped beneath the hem of the shirt, fingertips skimming along your bare thighs.

A soft gasp left your lips as he deepened the kiss, his weight pressing deliciously into you.

"Is it alright if I get my gift now?" he whispered against your skin, lips brushing the sensitive spot just below your ear. A shiver ran down your spine as his mouth trailed lower, his warm breath sending goosebumps across your skin.

You smiled, fingers threading through his hair, giving a soft tug. "Mmm," you hummed, nodding.

But instead of letting him take control, you pushed him back, making him land against the pillows with a surprised chuckle. His hands settled on your waist as you straddled him, tilting your head in amusement.

"Impatient, aren’t you?" he teased, eyes dark with anticipation.

"You have no idea," you murmured, leaning down to kiss along his jaw, then lower, your lips and tongue tracing a slow, teasing path down his chest.

His breath hitched as you reached the waistband of his briefs, your fingers slipping beneath the fabric, nails dragging lightly against his skin. He watched your every movement, pupils blown wide with want.

You smirked, loving the way his eyes locked onto you—dark, ravenous, desperate. A deep groan slipped from his throat as your tongue flicked over his tip, slow and deliberate.

“Keep going, baby. Don’t you fucking stop,” he growled, fingers tangling in your hair as he held you in place.

You moaned around him, the vibration making him twitch. Your lips moved lower, suckling on his balls while your hand stroked his length—slick, firm, merciless. You played with his rhythm, building him up just to bring him back down, watching him squirm.

“Shit—now that’s just cruel,” he panted. “I thought this was supposed to be a birthday gift.” You glanced up at him, lips glistening, breath hot. “Oh, it is,” you whispered, stroking him slower. “But I like watching you beg first.” “Fuck… you’re killing me,” he groaned, hips bucking as you took him back into your mouth, eager to finish what you started.

You smiled wickedly, then sank down, taking all of him into your mouth. The weight of him made your throat tighten, a soft gag escaping as you adjusted, the stretch making your eyes flutter. But once you settled, you began to move—slow, deep pulls that had him cursing under his breath.

You hollowed your cheeks, tongue working him skillfully, greedily, until you felt the telltale twitch and the way his thighs tensed beneath your hands. He was close—so fucking close—and you weren't planning on letting up.

You didn’t stop—not when he moaned your name, not when his grip tightened in your hair, not even when his hips began to twitch with every desperate thrust into your mouth. You wanted all of it—his sounds, his surrender, the way he unraveled just for you.

“Fuck, baby—shit, I’m gonna—” he warned, voice ragged, chest heaving.

You moaned around him, taking him deeper, your hand wrapping around the base to match your rhythm, coaxing every ounce of tension from his body. He cursed loudly as he spilled into your mouth, his whole body jerking, muscles tight and breath stuttering.

Your tongue eagerly lapped up every drop, slurping up all he had to give—messy, hungry, insatiable.

You swallowed without breaking eye contact, slow and deliberate, licking your lips as you pulled back. “Happy birthday,” you whispered, voice low and smug, wiping the corner of your mouth with your thumb. He looked utterly wrecked—chest still rising and falling, eyes glassy. “Holy fuck,” he muttered. “Best. Gift. Ever.”

He couldn’t stop cumming—wave after wave spilling into your mouth, his body trembling with each pulse. When he was finally spent, you let out a soft exhale and rested your head against his lower stomach, your breath warm on his skin. His fingers, still shaky, drifted into your hair, stroking gently.

“You okay, baby?” he asked, voice rough, eyes half-lidded with bliss.

“Mmmhmm,” you hummed, eyes closed. “Just woke up super early to make the cake…”

He chuckled, still catching his breath. “You’re unreal.”

“Come here,” he murmured, tugging you up gently until you were lying against his chest. He kissed your temple, thumb tracing lazy circles along your back.

You nuzzled into him, feeling the rise and fall of his chest, the scent of sweat and sex still lingering between you.

You stayed curled against him for a while, the air still thick with heat, both of you quiet, catching your breath. His fingers drifted through your hair gently, grounding you.

After a few minutes, he spoke, voice low. “So… what else is planned for today?”

You hummed, stretching a little. “Mm. A surprise or two. Dinner with your friends and Lux later. And a real gift.”

“Oh?” He tilted his head. “More real than what just happened?”

You grinned. “Different kind of real.”

Without warning, he shifted, strong arms wrapping around you as he pulled you into his lap. You gasped softly, laughing, your legs straddling him again.

He looked up at you with that boyish smile, hands resting on your hips. “You spoil me.”

“That’s the whole point.”

His thumbs rubbed slow circles against your skin. “Then let me take care of you for a second.”

He kissed you softly, hands never rushing, just holding you there—close, cherished. It wasn’t about getting worked up again (not yet). It was about savoring the moment. The calm after the storm, before the next wave.

_____________________

Later…

After a few minutes tangled in lazy kisses and slow breathing, he brushed his lips against your ear. “Come shower with me.”

You looked up, pretending to think. “Only if I get to use your fancy products.”

He grinned. “Deal.”

The water was already running by the time he led you into the bathroom, steam curling into the air like a tease. He stepped in first, pulling you gently under the spray with him. The warmth hit instantly, soothing and intimate. His hands slid over your back, slick with soap and affection.

You took the bottle of shampoo, lathering it into his hair, nails grazing his scalp in slow, massaging circles. He let out a low hum, eyes fluttering closed.

“God, that feels good.”

“Shh, I’m working,” you teased, fingers moving through his curls like you were sculpting something holy.

When it was your turn, he repaid the favor—only with less restraint. His hands roamed lower, over your shoulders, then down to your waist, slipping between your thighs while the water poured over both of you.

“Thought this was just a shower,” you murmured, biting your lip.

“It was. Now it’s a preview.”

You leaned back against the tile, letting him explore you under the cascade, bodies slipping and pressing, heat building again despite the water washing everything else away. But just as things were about to tip over, he pulled back, breathing heavily.

“We should save the rest for after dinner,” he said, smug.

You blinked at him, half-wrecked. “Teasing me on your birthday?”

He kissed you softly. “Appetizer, remember?”

________________________

 You shared the shower, laughter and steam swirling as bodies slid together, skin still hungry but slower now. Gentle touches. Teasing tongues. The scent of his cologne and your body wash mixing like something sacred.

When you finally left the apartment, he looked flushed and glowing, hair damp, shirt half-wrinkle, but so happy.

Dinner with friends was lively—lots of toasts, jokes, hands slipping under the table again when no one was looking. He kept stealing glances at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

_________________________

Back home, the city is quiet outside your window and the night stretches before you like a secret.

“You still up for your gift?” you asked, slipping your shoes off, your voice sweet and slow.

He turned to you, smiling lazily. “Always.”

He settled on the couch, loosening his shirt collar, totally relaxed—but his eyes lit up when you walked over with a black velvet box in your hands.

“This is for you,” you said, voice soft but teasing. You placed it in his hands, then sat on the armrest beside him, your fingers brushing his shoulder.

He opened the box slowly… and paused. Blinked.

Inside, nestled against the velvet, was a small, sleek remote.

He swallowed hard, already tensing under your touch. “You’re serious?”

You smiled innocently, kissing just under his jaw. “Oh, very.”

He picked up the remote like it was sacred. “Can I…?”

Before he even finished the question, a soft hum pulsed between your legs—and your breath hitched, hips shifting instinctively. His jaw dropped just slightly, delighted.

“Holy fuck,” he whispered.

You gave him that look. “I wore your gift to dinner. You just didn’t notice.”

He clicked it again, watching the way your thighs twitched, your breath going shallow.

“You’re evil.”

“And you’re the one in control now,” you murmured, sliding off the armrest and onto his lap, the thin fabric of your dress bunching around your hips. “So go on, baby. Play with your present.”

The remote pulsed again in his hand, and your whole body responded—hips twitching, breath catching as the vibration hit just right.

“Fuck,” he muttered, watching your face, eyes hooded and lips parted. ““You’re gonna be the death of me.””

You let your hands rest on his chest, riding the rhythm he gave you—deep, slow pulses followed by sharp little bursts that had your thighs clenching. He was obsessed—watching how the tiniest change in setting made you melt.

“Still think your gift was just a toy?” you whispered, lips grazing his.

He shook his head, mesmerized. “No. My gift is you.”

And then he finally pulled you close, lifted you, and carried you to the bedroom like you weighed nothing—like he needed you right now, no more teasing.

Clothes were torn off, skin hot and desperate, the toy forgotten on the nightstand as he replaced it with his mouth, his hands, his everything.

Later, when you were sprawled out across his chest, the toy buzzing softly somewhere in the sheets, he kissed your forehead, then stared into your eyes—his gaze full of love and desire.

“This is the best birthday I’ve ever had.” He whispered.

You smiled sleepily. “Just wait until next year.”

Thought of this before going to bed so I had to turn it into a story for his birthday! I hope you enjoyed reading!!

Feel free to leave your opinion!

Reblogs, likes and comments are encouraged as they help this story grow! ✨✨✨

[wdcln4]

need to share whatever this is

[swiftisapunk]

happy pride month 🩷🩷🩷

[dimlylittorch]

🌿omg i forgot to tell you guys!! last night i had a dream i met Pedro Pascal in a restaurant :3

he was walking out of the door with a group of friends and he glanced back and i waved a little and he said ‘Hi darling!’ and waved before leaving WODJDNFJSKDK literally the best dream i’ve ever had. as i was leaving i saw him by his car so i said hi and shook his hand and then i woke up :(

i never have dreams involving my favorite celebs/fictional characters so this was so awesome😭

i need him in the most carnal yet respectful way possible🧎‍♂️‍➡️

[fiatluxillustration-portfolio]

Drawlloween 2023 Day 2 - Pedrotober 1

Created with Procreate using the 6B Charcoal brush exclusively. [x]

[viraltrendsspot]

Pedro Pascal's Unexpected Journey to Stardom

From guest spots on "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" to becoming the Internet's favorite dad, Pedro Pascal's rise to fame is the ultimate slow-burn success story.

[worlds-we-write]

Not So Funny Now, Huh?

pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader

summary: Patrol gets messy when a friend teases you about "your man" and Joel overhears. Back home, jealous and possessive Joel makes sure you remember exactly who you belong to.

tags: dom!Joel, jealous/possessive behavior, rough sex, heavy dirty talk, hair pulling, choking (light), marking, unprotected sex, overstimulation, praise/degradation mix, possessiveness, aftercare.

AN: jealous + filthy Joel is always the mood 🔥 thank you @/stankyedits27 on TikTok for inspiring this nasty little one. enjoy xoxo

My Masterlist

The patrol was supposed to be quiet.

Just routine—south perimeter check, little chit chat, nothing serious. But of course, Lila couldn’t help herself. She kept glancing between you and Joel like she was watching the start of some soap opera.

"So… how’s your man these days?" she asked with a knowing smirk, nudging your arm as you both walked a little ahead of Joel.

You laughed it off, waving her off quickly. “Shut up. He’s not my man.”

“Uh huh,” Lila singsonged. “You sure don’t sound like someone who isn’t head over heels. I see how you look at him.”

Your face flushed hot, but you couldn’t stop the grin that tugged at your lips. “Drop it. Seriously.”

But Joel was behind you. Joel was listening.

His boots scraped harshly against the gravel. His jaw ticked, heavy silence radiating off him like heat from the summer pavement. You didn’t realize he’d even been paying attention. You didn’t realize just how closely he’d been listening.

By the time patrol ended and the sun dipped low, Joel hadn’t said a word.

Not until you were back at your place. Alone.

You barely locked the door before he was right there, crowding into your space, hands braced on the wall beside your head. You blinked up at him in confusion.

“‘Your man,’ huh?” His voice was a low growl, soft and dangerous. “That who you were talkin’ about out there? Someone else?”

You swallowed. “Joel—what?”

“Answer me.” His palm wrapped around your throat, not tight, just firm enough to make you feel small and trapped against him. His eyes were wild with something dark and simmering.

“Of course I was talking about you,” you whispered, breath catching.

He huffed a sharp breath through his nose, like he wasn’t sure if that satisfied him or pissed him off more.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he muttered. “Laughin’ it up, blushin’ like a fuckin’ teenager. You like gettin’ people talkin’, baby? Like makin’ ‘em wonder who’s fuckin’ you?”

His words hit you like lightning. You felt them between your legs more than you should have.

“Joel, no—”

“No?” His free hand slid down, gripping your hips so tight it hurt. He hauled you against him, letting you feel the hard, thick press of him through his jeans. “Don’t lie. You want me like this, don’t you? All worked up. Jealous. You know what that does to me.”

Your knees went weak. You whimpered as he shoved you back toward the bedroom.

Once you hit the bed, he didn’t waste time. Pulled your pants down roughly, threw them somewhere across the room. Fingers dragged down your soaked panties like he expected you to deny how wet you were—but you couldn’t.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” Joel hissed, running his fingers through your arousal. “You’re so fuckin’ wet already. From just me bein’ mad at you, huh? You like pokin’ the fuckin’ bear, girl. Like knowin’ you’re mine.”

“Yours,” you gasped, arching up as two fingers pushed deep inside you.

“Yeah,” he grunted, leaning down so his mouth was right by your ear, lips brushing your skin. “Say it again.”

“Yours. I’m yours.”

“That’s right. No more gigglin’ with your little friends. No more wonderin’.”

His fingers fucked into you relentlessly until you were crying out, hands scrambling for something—anything—to hold onto.

“Joel—oh my God—Joel—”

“Not good enough. Tell me whose pussy this is.”

“Yours, yours, it’s yours—please—”

He groaned, pulling his fingers free and shoving his pants down just enough to free himself. The head of his cock nudged against your soaked entrance and without waiting, he pushed in deep, all at once. You cried out, body jerking.

“Fuckin’ hell, baby. So fuckin’ tight. Like you were made for me.”

He set a brutal pace, hips slamming into yours as his hand tangled in your hair, tugging your head back so you had no choice but to look at him.

“Look at me. You wanna act like I’m not your man? Huh? Then why’s your pussy squeezin’ me like this?”

You could barely breathe, the mixture of pain and pleasure making your head spin.

“I—Joel—can’t—”

“Yes you can. Gonna take every fuckin’ inch. Gonna let me ruin you.”

He was relentless. Filthy. Every word pouring from his mouth more possessive than the last. He owned you in every sense—his cock driving you toward oblivion, his hand gripping your throat again, his voice branding you.

When your orgasm hit, it shattered through you. You screamed his name as your body arched off the bed, clenching and fluttering around him.

Joel groaned deep in his chest, letting go and fucking you through it, chasing his own release.

“Mine,” he snarled as he spilled deep inside you, hips grinding down as if he could bury himself even deeper. “You’re fuckin’ mine. Say it.”

“Yours,” you sobbed, overwhelmed and trembling.

Joel collapsed over you, breath ragged. But even as he kissed your temple and whispered soft praises now, his hips still lazily rocked against you, keeping you filled, keeping you marked.

“You ever even think about sayin’ otherwise again, I’ll fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk for a week,” he murmured against your skin.

And somehow… that didn’t sound like a punishment at all.

Your legs were jelly by the time Joel finally let you go. He could see it too — the way you slumped back against the mattress, boneless and dazed.

“Shit, baby,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “Wore you out, huh?”

You could only nod weakly, eyes fluttering shut as his hands caressed your sides. The rough, jealous edge was long gone now. In its place was something far softer — careful, protective Joel, whose fingers traced the marks he’d left with visible regret.

“Didn’t mean to be that fuckin’ rough,” he whispered, voice thick with guilt. He kissed the faint red lines on your throat, then your collarbone. “You alright? Talk to me, honey.”

“M’okay,” you mumbled, sleepy but floating. “Was good. Really good, Joel.”

That seemed to ease something in him. He gave a low hum, kissed you again — this time slow and unhurried — and then stood.

“Stay right there,” he ordered gently. “Ain’t done takin’ care of you.”

You barely registered him moving around the room, but minutes later he was back with a warm, damp cloth. He cleaned you up with slow, tender strokes, murmuring sweet praises the whole time. Took me so good, baby… fuck, I love you like this.

When he was finished, he pulled you into his arms effortlessly, carrying you bridal style toward the small bathroom.

“Joel,” you mumbled, half-asleep against his shoulder.

“Shhh,” he soothed, “gonna run you a bath. Just relax.”

He didn’t let you lift a finger. He set you down carefully on the closed toilet seat as he filled the tub, making sure the water was just right before helping you in. His hands stayed on you the whole time — washing your hair, massaging your scalp, running soft cloths over your skin.

By the time he pulled you out, wrapped you up in his flannel, and carried you back to bed, you were nothing but pliant warmth in his hold.

Once tucked under the covers, he slid in behind you, pressing his chest to your back and hooking a heavy arm possessively around your waist.

“No more jokin’ about ‘your man,’” he murmured sleepily, voice rough but fond as his nose nuzzled into your hair. “Ain’t no fuckin’ joke. You’re mine. You hear me?”

You smiled, drowsy and warm and safe.

“Yours,” you whispered back.

Joel hummed, satisfied, pulling you closer as he drifted off with you in his arms — wrapped up in the sweetest kind of aftermath.

[fallenbratfiction]

ch.5 - fences and cities - dbf! joel miller &f!reader

series masterlist

previous chapter

A/N: Has it been that long?? It feels like ages but i have no concept of time to be honest. You know what they say, save a horse ride a cowboy...well

warnings: dad best friend! trope, large age gap (reader is early 20's and Joel is around late 40s, p & v, unprotected sex it wasn't planned but wrap it before tapping don't be like them, cockwarming, finishing inside, angst. I can't think of any more warnings but if you think I'm missing any let me know.

mdni. i am not responsible for what you choose to consume.

do not copy, translate or claim any of my works as your own.

You wake up with a headache pounding behind your eyes like someone’s playing drums on your skull. The kind of hangover that tastes like regret and tequila. You sit up slow, tongue dry, the memory of last night fuzzed around the edges.

Bar.

Shots.

Joel.

Joel’s hands on someone else—her laugh too loud, her nails tracing his arm. Your throat still burns from the jealousy that bubbled up like acid.

And then… fuck.

You told him. You confessed. Somewhere in the haze of liquor and impulse, you cornered Joel like a damn idiot and told him everything. That you wanted him. That you’d been wanting him.

And he kissed you.

Pushed you up against the wall, his thigh wedged between yours, your hand—

You shove it away, your own hand sliding down your stomach instinctively before you catch yourself. Nope. Not going there. Not while your head’s pounding and you’re still unsure if it was real or a hallucination courtesy of one too many whiskey shots and a decade of repressed tension.

But you remember one thing clearly.

Joel wanted it too. You felt it. Saw it. It wasn’t one-sided.

You spend the day pretending to be fine.

You show up at the stables, waiting to see him, maybe talk it through like two emotionally responsible adults. But he’s not there. You ask around and one of the older guys, Mark, says Joel called in sick.

“Sick, huh?” you mutter. “Yeah, sure.”

So you do his list anyway. Feed the horses. Clean the stalls. Sweep the damn barn even though no one’s asked you to. You think if you just stay busy, maybe you’ll stop thinking about the weight of Joel’s hands. Maybe.

You don’t.

By the time you’re done, the sun’s slipping down and your shirt smells like hay and sweat. You don’t care. You hop on your bike and make the ride to Joel’s house with more determination than logic.

You knock on the front door. No answer.

You try the back.

And then—

“Jesus, you tryna break into my house now?”

You scream. Spin around like a startled cat. Joel stands behind you, a brow raised, a smirk twitching on his face.

Without thinking, you throw a punch.

“Shit—OW!” he yelps, jerking back as your fist connects with his cheekbone.

“Oh my god! Oh my god, I’m sorry—fuck—Joel, are you okay?”

He’s scowling, hand on his face, wincing like a man betrayed. “You just clocked me.”

“I thought you were someone else! That was like—a New York reflex!”

“Damn, remind me not to sneak up on you again,” he mutters.

Inside, you sit him down on the couch and press a half-frozen bag of peas against his cheek. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“Stop apologizing, doll. I’m fine. Not the first time I’ve been hit in the head.”

“Still,” you say, not meeting his eyes. “You didn’t show up to work. I got worried. Thought you were… avoiding me.”

He doesn’t answer at first. Just watches you, unreadable.

“You were worried about me, doll?” he asks, teasing it out like it’s nothing.

“I guess,” you mumble. “I thought maybe you were ignoring me after… last night.”

There it is. The silence thickens. You’re about to take it back, joke it off, but Joel reaches out and takes your hands—gently, like you’re something precious.

“Listen,” he says, voice low. “Last night was…”

He pauses. Searching for the word. You see it flash across his face—mistake—and panic flares in your chest.

But then he shakes his head.

“...intense,” he finishes. “Unexpected. Not a mistake.”

You look up at him.

“Not a mistake?” you echo, barely breathing.

“No,” he says, thumb brushing your knuckles. “Not even close.”

His thumb brushes your knuckles, warm and rough, and the way he looks at you—it’s not friendly. It’s not even safe. It’s the kind of look you should never get from a man like him.

Especially not Joel.

Especially not your dad’s best friend.

“Not a mistake,” he repeats, holding your gaze like it’s something he’s waited years to say. “But maybe... something we should slow down on.”

You freeze.

That’s it. The out. The safe path. The “this-can’t-happen” speech you were half-expecting since the second your lips touched his. You nod, even though your stomach twists into knots.

“Right,” you murmur. “Because... it’s wrong.”

Joel exhales, but doesn’t let go of your hands.

“Not wrong,” he says. “Just complicated. You think I haven’t thought about this? About you? For longer than I should’ve?”

Your heart stutters in your chest.

“But you’re... you’re my dad’s friend,” you say, voice a little more broken than you’d like.

He nods. “Yeah. I am. Which is exactly why this scares the shit outta me.”

He leans back, breaking the touch. You feel the absence like a slap.

“I was there when you were just a kid,” he continues. “Watched you grow up. Watched you leave and come back with that New York mouth and attitude.” He smirks, then softens again. “And then I saw you. Really saw you. And it was like something shifted. I can’t pretend it didn’t.”

You sit with that. Let it echo.

“I don’t want to sneak around,” he says. “I don’t want this to be dirty. I want it to mean something. But if we’re gonna do anything, it has to be when I can look your dad in the eye and not feel like a bastard.”

You nod slowly.

“Okay,” you say. “So what do we do?”

Joel stands, runs a hand through his hair. “We take a step back. Cool off. You keep working at the stable. I keep my distance. And we try—really try—not to make this harder than it already is.”

You nod, even though every cell in your body is screaming no.

He walks you to the door.

And just before you leave, you turn.

“Joel?”

“Yeah?”

“If we’re stepping back… does that mean you’re not gonna kiss me again?”

He looks at you like he’s seconds from cracking.

Then he opens the door.

“Go,” he says, voice thick. “Before I do.”

You turn to leave, his words still lingering heavy in the air. Go, before I do.

And maybe you would’ve.

If he hadn’t said it like that. If he hadn’t looked at you like he was barely holding himself together. If the silence between you wasn’t so loud.

But then—he moves.

One step. A breath. And his hand wraps around your wrist, pulling you back, pulling you in. And when he kisses you, it’s not soft. It’s not thoughtful. It’s hungry.

You gasp against his mouth as he pushes you back inside, slamming the door shut with his foot. His hands are on your waist, your face, your hips, everywhere, like he’s trying to memorize you with his palms.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” he mutters, dragging kisses along your jaw. “You knew what this would do to me.”

“Then stop,” you whisper, breathless, eyes wild. “Tell me to leave.”

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he lifts you effortlessly—strong arms under your thighs as he sets you down onto a wooden table near the entry, something solid and forgotten under the chaos. It creaks under your weight, but neither of you care. His hands slide up your shirt, calloused fingers brushing over your ribs, and your hips move without thinking, grinding down against him.

You’re still in your work clothes, smelling faintly of hay and sweat, and he’s still in those worn jeans that somehow make your mouth dry—but none of that matters.

You rock against each other, friction and frustration and years of “no” turning into a very loud, messy yes. His forehead rests against yours, his breath ragged.

“Goddamn,” he whispers. “You feel—fuck, I don’t even have words for it.”

But then, like someone flipped a switch, he stills. Hands tightening around your hips. Head turned like he’s listening to something only he can hear.

“Joel—”

“I think it’s best we slow down,” he says, voice hoarse, like dragging each word out of him hurts.

You blink, lips swollen. “No.”

He looks up at you, stunned.

“I don’t want to slow down,” you say, shaking your head. “I’m sorry, but no. I don’t want that.”

His jaw tenses. “Don’t be stubborn. I’m telling you—it’s what’s best.”

“For who?!” you snap. “You? My dad? Because it’s not for me. I’m not some clueless teenager, Joel. I’m twenty-four. Jesus fuck.”

He steps back, dragging a hand over his face.

“I’m not treating you like a child, for god’s sake,” he growls. “I’m just trying to be the responsible one here. Older, wiser—”

“Oh, fuck you,” you breathe, grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him back in.

And that’s it.

Something in him snaps.

He kisses you again, this time rough, bruising, like the idea of not having you is unbearable. You’re tugging at his belt, his hand is under your shirt again, and it’s desperate, filthy, real. You knock something off the table and neither of you even glance down.

The table creaks with every movement.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers against your neck, even as his hand slips lower.

You don’t.

You bite his shoulder instead.

You’re both panting, lips swollen, your shirt halfway up your chest. The table beneath you groans like it's about to collapse, and Joel—god, Joel is everywhere—his hands gripping your hips, his thigh still pressed between your legs, his mouth moving along your collarbone like he’s starving.

But then he pulls back just long enough to mutter, “Not here.”

You barely have time to whine in protest before he’s lifting you off the table, strong hands under your thighs again, carrying you like you weigh nothing. You cling to his neck, noses brushing, and you’re both half-laughing, half-breathless.

The moment your back hits the couch cushions, the air shifts again. Less frantic. More focused.

He hovers over you for a second—hands braced on either side of your head, breathing hard, trying to hold onto the last shreds of whatever control he thinks he has left.

But your fingers are already tugging at his belt.

And he’s done pretending.

He sinks down onto the couch between your legs, his jeans rough against your thighs as you wrap yourself around him again. You rock together, slow and heavy, friction hot enough to burn. The layers between you are too much and not enough, and Joel’s eyes are locked on yours like you’re some goddamn miracle.

“You drive me crazy,” he murmurs against your lips.

“Good,” you whisper. “I want to.”

He grins, crooked and wild, and his hand slips under the waistband of your pants, dragging a moan out of you before you can stop it.

“Joel,” you gasp, arching into him.

“Shhh, I got you, baby,” he says, voice low and wrecked.

Your hips grinding up to meet his, his mouth at your neck, your fingers clawing at his back. He’s rutting against you like a man possessed, one arm behind your back to keep you pressed tight to him. Every little breath, every gasp, feels like a confession neither of you can take back.

The couch creaks. The same couch your dad has fallen asleep on a hundred times. Joel’s hand curls under your jaw, forcing your eyes on him.

“This what you want?” he rasps. “Me? Here?”

“Yes,” you breathe, voice wrecked. “You. All of you.”

He groans like that undoes him.

And it does.

He buries his face in your neck and you feel him press into you, slow, desperate, still fully clothed, still somehow more intimate than anything you’ve ever felt.

You don’t stop.

Not when the phone lights up with your dad’s name.

Not when Joel hesitates, staring at it like it’s a loaded gun.

And especially not when he answers it.

“Hey, man,” he says, voice tight, hoarse, one hand gripping your hip, the other holding the phone to his ear.

You’re already grinding down onto him, slow. So slow it’s cruel. You bite your lip to keep from moaning, every inch of him stretching you, pulsing inside you, and he’s trying to pretend like you’re not there—like he’s not inside you.

You kiss his neck. Drag your teeth along his jaw.

His free hand tightens on your hip, the other squeezing the phone until it creaks.

“Yeah, I’m good,” he says, voice strained, like he’s holding back a groan. “Just needed the day off.”

You roll your hips again, and this time he bucks up without meaning to. You both freeze.

He clears his throat.

You cover your mouth to stifle a laugh.

He shoots you a glare that makes your stomach flip.

“Uh-huh,” he says, listening, nodding like this is any normal conversation and not his best friend’s daughter riding his cock in his living room.

Your fingers slip under his shirt, nails dragging down his chest. You tighten around him, deliberately, and he chokes on his next breath.

You mouth, say it’s bad reception.

Joel blinks at you like he can’t believe you exist.

Then finally, mercifully, he coughs and says, “Shit—sorry, bad signal. I’ll call you later.”

Click.

He hangs up.

The silence that follows is heavy.

You’re still straddling him, still full of him, your fingers splayed on his chest. He’s breathing hard, his pupils blown wide, a flush crawling up his neck.

“What is wrong with you?” he growls. “You some kind of freak, fucking me while I’m on the phone with your dad?”

You freeze.

Eyes wide. Breath caught.

You can’t tell if he’s angry—or if this is just more of that Joel Miller brand of losing-control-in-real-time.

And then—

He grabs the back of your neck and pulls you in, kissing you hard.

Not angry.

Just wild.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he mutters against your mouth. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

You moan into his lips, grinding again.

“I want to,” you breathe, rocking deeper. “Let me.”

And then it’s chaos again—his hands on your ass, your legs tightening around him, mouths and skin and the slap of hips and heavy breathing as he fucks up into you like he’s desperate. Like he can’t help it. Like you’re his last goddamn chance at feeling alive.

The couch is rocking under you. His hands are everywhere. You’re close, both of you.

“Say it,” he growls into your ear, dragging you down harder. “Say who’s got you like this.”

“You, Joel,” you gasp. “You.”

He groans, like that’s the last thing holding him back—and then he’s gone, and you’re gone with him.

Joel’s head drops back, a groan ripped from his throat—deep, raw, wrecked—as he finds his release, clutching your hips tight enough to bruise. Ropes of cum fill your insides as you follow seconds later, your body arching into his, a trembling cry breaking from your lips, overwhelmed by the sheer feel of him, Joel feels the wetness before he sees it.

Joel pulls you closer, doesn’t pull out, doesn’t speak. He just rests his forehead against yours, eyes shut, as if anything more might shatter him.

“Christ,” he breathes. “You—”

But he doesn’t finish the sentence. Maybe he can’t.

You kiss his jaw, gently. And he holds you there, full of him, full of everything you both shouldn’t be feeling.

You’re both boneless and breathless, tangled up in silence on that cursed couch, he looks up at the ceiling and mutters, “I am so fucking dead.”

You laugh weakly, head against his shoulder.

“But at least you’ll die happy,” you whisper.

And he nods.

“Yeah. Real fuckin’ happy.”

You stay there.

Not moving. Not saying a word.

Your chest rises and falls slowly against his, your forehead resting near the hollow of his throat, where his pulse is still racing. You listen to it. Let it calm you down.

Joel’s hand is in your hair, fingers tangled and gentle now, like he’s afraid he’ll break you. Or maybe himself.

You press your nose to his skin, taking in the scent of him—woodsmoke and leather and sweat and something warm beneath it all that makes your eyes sting a little.

“How’s your face?” you ask softly.

He huffs a quiet laugh, the kind that rumbles in his chest.

“Well,” he says, rubbing his jaw, “you’ve got a strong arm, that’s for damn sure. Let’s hope I don’t bruise.”

You lift your head, frowning. “Joel.”

“I’m teasing, darlin’. Just caught me off guard.”

“I was trying to check the back door,” you mumble, cheeks hot. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“I know, I know. I shouldn’t’a snuck up on you.”

He tips your chin up and looks at you, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. His thumb brushes your cheek, then traces down the side of your neck. He’s memorizing you—like if he does it slow enough, he can convince himself this is allowed.

“This is bad,” he mutters.

“Yeah,” you agree quietly. “Real bad.”

Neither of you move.

You’re still full of each other. Still too warm. Still buzzing.

But his hand doesn’t leave your skin. And your body doesn’t leave his.

You trace small shapes on his chest with your finger.

“Do you regret it?” you ask.

Joel doesn’t answer right away. He swallows, jaw tense, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it’ll hand him a better answer than the truth.

“I regret not being stronger,” he finally says. “But I don’t regret you.”

You close your eyes.

That’s enough. For now.

You stay like that a little longer, hearts beating in sync, sweat cooling on your skin, neither of you daring to move—because moving means it’s over. Moving means decisions.

The sun’s already started dipping when you finally drag yourself off him, reluctantly pulling your clothes back on. Joel stays seated on the couch, shirt half-buttoned, watching you like he doesn’t quite believe you’re real.

You smooth your shirt down, run fingers through your hair in front of the mirror, trying to look like you didn’t just commit a felony-level sin with your dad’s best friend on his living room couch.

Joel stands, moving slow like he’s sore—maybe he is. Maybe you both are.

He grabs his keys from the table. “I’ll walk you out.”

You nod, too quietly, pulling on your jacket. The silence between you is heavier than it was inside.

Outside, the air is cooler. Your bike leans against his porch rail. You walk toward it together, and he’s got that look on his face again—troubled. Careful. Too many things unsaid behind his eyes.

You grip the handlebars, but you don’t get on just yet.

“Are we gonna talk about this?” you ask, not looking at him.

“We should,” Joel says. Then adds, more quietly, “But I don’t think I can. Not tonight.”

You nod. Bite your lip. “Okay.”

He steps closer. Close enough that your arms brush. Close enough to smell him again. That same warm mix that clung to your skin earlier.

“You really gonna ride home lookin’ like that?” he asks, voice rough. “All flushed and fuckin’ glowing?”

You turn to him slowly, heart skipping a beat.

“You’re the one who made me look like this.”

“I know,” he murmurs, and there’s something like a growl beneath it.

His hand slips behind your neck again, fingers threading into your hair, pulling you in like he needs it—and this kiss is different. It’s not lusty or frenzied or greedy.

It’s aching.

Your fingers clutch his shirt, knuckles white.

He pulls away first. Barely.

“You need to go,” he whispers, breath hitching. “Before I drag you back in and we make worse mistakes.”

“I’d let you,” you whisper back, forehead pressed to his.

“I know.”

He kisses your cheek. Then your jaw. Then one last brush against your lips like a secret.

“Go.”

You swing your leg over the bike slowly, eyes never leaving his. You push off, start pedaling, heart pounding—and you don’t look back.

But you feel it.

His eyes on you the whole ride down the street.

Like he’s already regretting letting you go.

How are we feeling lads? I have to say I died midway when he's like who's got you like this. FUCK ME.

taglist: @burningnerdchild @mortallydarktragedy @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @anoverwhelmingdin @spideypxgirl

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[wdcln4]

Rue when was this 😭

No lies detected! Lady Gaga on Paul Mescal and Pedro Pascal

Watch the full interview with Vanity Fair here

[panakinthedisco]

i haven’t updated anything in here coz irl BUT just coming back that people should stop remaking pride and prejudice when sense and sensibility is right there (tho i’m a big fan of ang lee’s S&S)…..

and PEDRO PASCAL AS COLONEL BRANDON 😭

we got the material LIKE SERIOUSLY. GIVE HIM A REGENCY ERA ROLE PLEASE

[cuppajoel]

me all day: 🙂‍↕️😅😗😚

[swiftisapunk]

MY COWBOY 🤠🤠🤠🤠🤠💛💛

[senorabond]

Blessed are the gif makers, that we may appreciate this man's craft and genius!! 🙌🙌🙌

Can we talk about Pedro for a moment

Because we have to. See, @arcanefox207 made a gorgeous new gif set with pictures of the Casillero del Diablo Thief.

One thing in particular stands out to me - let me use this specific gif as example.

The Casillero Del Diablo ads were shot in April 2021, right after The Bubble. Compared to Merge Mansion, little under 2 years later, however - his physique is pretty similar, his facial grooming is very close, his hair length even is (tho a tad longer).

He's leaning down on a desk, body posture even very similar....

But there is not a SINGLE OUNCE of Tim Rockford in The Thief.

HOW?

I mean seriously.

Maybe before anything - when I look at these gifs/commercials, I don't see Pedro. I just don't, because none of his mannerisms or way of speaking or intonation is really apart of these characters.

But then just also, despite of the similarities between the characters --- they just completely register differently with me for so many reasons. Actually, here, let me also throw in Dieter - again, because The Thief was shot right after he had finished recording The Bubble.

None of these three characters are the same. NONE.

As another mini comparison, I'll throw in a side by side of Joel and Silva - Strange Way of Life was recorded in Fall 2022, and I think the left scene of TLOU earlier in 2022 (or at the most end of 2021). Just. Not the same men. Not even close.

In conclusion; goddamn Pedro, you are so fucking good at your craft. Also, blesseth are the gif makers.

[softiedingo]

men with dimples will always be my type 🗣