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adelliet · 3 days ago

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Joel Miller x f!reader

NEW THERAPIST II.

Part 1 | Part 2

Summary: After your incident with Joel, born out of a moment of weakness, you both silently agreed to pretend like it never happened and continue with the therapy sessions. But it’s not that simple, not for either of you.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, age gap (Joel in his 50s, youre age is not mentioned, but it's legal!), masturbation,, unprotected sex (piv), nickname ( first time being called baby ), strong language, getting caught

A/n: Hi! You wanted next part, so here it is! I hope you like it, I'll maybe think about writing another part🤭 , anyways if you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3

Masterlist

You see him every day now. Just like you agreed.

Joel shows up without fail — every single workday, without exception. He never misses a session, never cancels, never even shows up late. And somehow that should feel like progress. Like he still wants to see you. Like he still wants you. But the moment he sits down and you begin the session, the illusion breaks.

He barely speaks. One sentence per hour, if you’re lucky. Otherwise it’s grunts, shrugs, subtle nods, all taking you back to the very beginning. To when he first stepped into your house with arms folded and walls higher than Jackson’s outer gates.

It’s like nothing ever happened between you. Like that night was a glitch in the timeline. Like you dreamed it, and now you’re awake.

And maybe it’s your fault. No, it is your fault. If you hadn’t invited him in, hadn’t handed him the joint, hadn’t let your hands wander… maybe you two could’ve actually been friends by now. Close. Laughing. Maybe he’d trust you. Maybe you wouldn’t sit across from him now, counting how many times his jaw clenches, wondering what it would feel like to touch it again.

But you did sleep with him. And the worst part? You fucking liked it.

There isn’t a single day that passes without the memory clawing its way back to the front of your mind. Joel — his hands, his voice, his breath against your neck, the way he whispered your name like it was a prayer he didn’t believe in. The way he fucked you like he was angry about it.

You’re wet the second you think about him. Every. Damn. Time.

You know it’s wrong, in a thousand different ways. He’s your client. You’re his therapist. He’s so much older than you. And while it’s not illegal, it’s morally a fucking disaster. If anyone in Jackson found out, you’d both be drowning in whispers for the rest of your lives. He’d be torn apart. You’d be discredited, outcasted.

So why do you keep wishing he’d shove you against a wall and fuck you like tomorrow doesn’t exist? Why does your desire scream louder than your conscience?

Joel’s no better.

He thinks about that night constantly, sometimes in fragments, sometimes in full color, detail by aching detail. He’s zoning out more than usual. Tommy catches him doing it, asks him what’s wrong. So does Ellie. Maria. Everyone. Joel just mutters something and brushes them off. But he’s not here, not fully. Because his mind’s still with you.

The way you moaned beneath him. The look in your eyes right before he lost control. The sound you made when he came. And more than anything, the thing that plays over and over in his head, is what you said right before you left:

“I wasn’t that high.”

You knew what you were doing. That morning, when you got dressed in silence and slipped out the door, he didn’t know what to think. He still doesn’t. Did you regret it? Did you hate it? Were you ashamed of him? Of yourself? Because he sure as hell doesn’t regret a fucking second of it.

You hear the knock just after noon. Right on time. Like always.

You open the door, and there he is — same worn flannel, same unreadable stare, same posture that’s somewhere between exhausted and closed-off. Joel steps inside with a quiet grunt of acknowledgment. No smile. No words. Just routine. Just him.

You try not to look at the space between his fingers as he shoves his hands in his pockets. You try not to remember what those hands looked like gripping your thighs. You try, but you fail.

He sits down on the couch across from you without waiting to be asked. Like he always does. You follow, notebook in hand, heart in your throat.

“How’s your sleep been?”

No answer. He shifts. His eyes flick to the side.

“Any more fights with Ellie?”

A shrug.

“Have the headaches gotten worse?”

Silence.

You press your lips together and glance down at your notes, but you’re not seeing the page. You’re seeing him. The way he looked that night. That moment his voice broke into a groan, face twisted in something between pleasure and guilt, whispering your name like it burned.

You want to ask. God, you want to ask so badly. What are we doing? Are we pretending it didn’t happen or are you just pretending for my sake? But you can’t.

This is his session. He decides what you talk about, not you. And clearly, he doesn’t want to talk about it. You don’t push. You just sit in silence with him, again.

The minutes crawl by. The clock ticks too loud. Joel’s eyes barely meet yours. You think about how different it felt that night — when his gaze locked with yours like he was drowning and you were the only air. Now, you’re back to being strangers who know each other’s skin.

When the session ends, you close your notebook slowly, half-expecting him to leave without a word and throw something he would pay with onto the table right in front of you.

But instead, he reaches into his coat. And pulls out a small bag, of weed.

He hands it to you, no explanation, no preamble. His fingers brush yours for a second too long. That same electric sting, that same unspeakable tension hums between your skin. You take the bag automatically before you can stop yourself.

“Seriously?” you ask, eyebrows raised, trying to make it light. Trying. Joel doesn’t say a word.

You give a breathy, nervous laugh. “Last time this shit got us in a mess, remember?”

It’s out before you can stop it. Before you can think. Joel’s jaw tightens.

That was the first time either of you ever acknowledged it out loud. The sex. That night. Even just referring to it as a mess was enough to stir the air into something thick and unbearable.

You instantly regret it. His expression doesn’t change, but something shifts in his eyes. You can’t tell if he’s angry, or ashamed, or maybe just tired.

There’s a long, aching pause. Your stomach twists. He finally speaks, voice low. “You want it or not?”

You nod, clearing your throat. “Yeah. Thanks.”

You hate how small you sound. Joel nods back, once, then walks to the door without looking at you again. He leaves without another word. The door clicks shut. You’re left holding the bag. Not just the literal one. God, why the fuck can’t you just shut up sometimes?

The evening sky is full of stars, a light breeze is blowing outside and your house is quiet. Too quiet.

You sit curled up on the worn couch in nothing but a loose t-shirt and underwear, your legs folded beneath you, a cup of lukewarm coffee cupped in your hands.

A single lamp casts a soft amber glow across the room, painting golden edges onto everything , your book, the edges of your thigh, the faint lines under your tired eyes. The town outside is asleep, and the world feels so still it almost hurts.

You’re reading, or trying to. But your eyes have scanned the same sentence for the fourth time now, and none of the words are sticking. Your mind drifts. Again.

You don’t mean to let it happen. You never do.

But there he is — Joel. In the dark corners of your thoughts, in the way your chest tightens, in the way your thighs press just a little closer together. He’s always there now. He has been since that night.

The book slips from your lap without a sound.

You don’t even hear it fall. All you hear is your heartbeat, thudding dully in your ears like a warning, or a promise.

You’re stretched out across the couch now, one leg bent lazily, the other draped over the edge, toes curling slightly against the fabric. The mug rests abandoned on the table beside you, half-full, forgotten. Your skin feels too tight for your body, as if every inch is strung with tension.

It starts slowly. Hesitant. You let your fingers skim over your lower belly through the thin cotton of your t-shirt. The hem has ridden up, exposing the curve of your hipbone, the faint trail of hair leading downward. You trace that line gently, barely brushing your skin, as though testing your own restraint. But there’s none left.

You push your hand beneath the waistband of your underwear.

The fabric is already damp. That warm, sticky kind of damp that makes your breath catch, even if no one else is there to notice. Your fingers slide against your folds — swollen, sensitive, aching — and a sharp gasp escapes your lips before you can catch it. He did this to you.

You imagine it’s his hand instead of yours, large and rough, the pads of his fingers pressing where you need it most. He wouldn’t be careful. Not now. Not after the way you left. Not after the things you said.

Your fingertips circle slowly at first, barely pressing, just enough to make your hips twitch. You close your eyes and let your head fall back against the cushion, breathing heavier now, the heat curling low in your belly like smoke.

You can feel your arousal gathering, thick and wet, coating your fingers as you push deeper. The pressure is delicious — enough to make your thighs tense, enough to make you whimper. You imagine his voice again, rough and low, whispering filth in your ear. “You gonna come for me again, sweetheart?” The phantom sound of it makes your whole body jerk.

You bring your other hand up, slide it under your shirt, palm your breast, thumb grazing the hardened nipple. You moan softly, helplessly. You can’t stop. Don’t want to.

You fuck yourself harder.

Not fast — not yet — but deeper. One finger becomes two, and the stretch makes your breath stutter. You twist them just enough to make your back arch, hips lifting from the couch. Your slick walls clench around the intrusion and the tension inside you starts to burn.

Your thoughts blur.

You see him, above you, inside you, all over you, his mouth on your neck, your breasts, between your legs. You imagine his weight pinning you down, the gruff sounds he’d make when you clenched around him, the way he’d look at you like he was both furious and starved.

Tears prick your eyes. You hate that you want him like this. That your body remembers him more clearly than your mind ever could. That your release is building faster now, helpless and hot and overwhelming.

Your thumb circles your clit in messy, frantic motions, and your body trembles, thighs shuddering, breath shallow.

You cry out when it hits you.

Not loudly — the sound is broken, strangled — like you’re trying to keep it in, like if you make too much noise someone will know. Your body curls around the sensation as waves of heat crash through your core, and your fingers don’t stop until it starts to fade, until you’re shaking and overstimulated and aching with the weight of what just happened.

You lie there afterward, hand still tucked between your thighs, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts.

And all you can feel… is empty. No warmth. No comfort. No Joel. Just the ghost of him. And the terrible silence he left behind.

You have the day off, and it should feel like a gift. But instead, it feels like a sentence.

No obligations, no appointments, no expectations — nothing but time. Time to sit with yourself, with your thoughts, and the longer you’re alone, the louder they become. They crowd into your mind like smoke under a door. And no matter how hard you try to distract yourself, with coffee, with reading, with cleaning, even with music, it’s no use.

Everything leads back to him. Back to Joel.

The silence of your home is saturated with the memory of his voice, his hands, his mouth. Your body seems to pulse with the echo of what he did to you. Of what you let happen. Your core aches around nothing, emptiness pressing against the very place you want him most.

It’s unbearable.

You drag yourself to the bedroom and start to get dressed, throwing on a pair of jeans and a loose shirt. You’re not going anywhere specific — not yet — but you know you need to go. Anywhere. Out into the woods, into the town, maybe even into the little bar Maria runs near the edge of Jackson. It doesn’t matter where, as long as it’s not here.

You need space from your own head. You’re pulling your hair up when the knock comes. Three firm raps at the door. Confident. Familiar. You freeze.

For a second, your mind scrambles through names, possibilities. Maybe a client forgot your schedule. Maybe it’s Kate with a surprise visit. You already feel yourself preparing a polite excuse “Sorry, I’m off today,” when you move toward the door.

But when you open it… Joel’s standing there. Your heart stutters so violently it feels like your whole chest trembles.

He’s in that worn flannel again, the one with the tear near the elbow, and his hair is still damp from a recent shower. His face is unreadable — maybe just the hint of tension in his jaw, maybe not. His eyes find yours and you swear they hold every sin you’ve tried to forget.

“Joel,” you say, your voice tighter than you meant it to be. “Hey.”

He gives a short nod, like it costs him something. “Hey.”

Silence swells between you like smoke in the lungs.

You grip the door just a little tighter, unsure what to say. You weren’t ready for this — you hadn’t planned this scene, hadn’t run through the dialogue in your head a dozen times like usual.

Then Joel speaks first. His voice low, like gravel dragged across concrete.

“I came by last night.”

Your breath catches. He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t fidget. Just says it plain, like a fact.

“I knocked. Waited a while.” A pause. “You didn’t open.”

Your stomach twists.

You force a soft breath and give a strained smile. “I was already asleep,” you lie.

Were you asleep? No. You were wide awake, wrist-deep in thoughts of him, biting your own knuckles so you wouldn’t say his name out loud.

Joel nods slowly, like he doesn’t quite believe you, but doesn’t push. You blink, trying to re-anchor yourself. “What are you doing here?” you ask. “Everything okay?”

There’s a beat. And then he shrugs. Casual. Too casual.

“Just figured I’d let you know they’re talkin’ about openin’ up a flower shop over near the old mill,” he says. “Could be good for Jackson. Maybe you’d wanna see it sometime.”

A flower shop.

You stare at him, stunned by the absurdity of it. “Oh,” you manage. “Thanks… that’s nice of you.”

Another beat of silence. You’re both standing there like statues — two people who’ve done things they can’t take back, pretending to be normal on a quiet morning.

He nods again, then finally steps back.

“I’ll… see you around,” he mutters, voice lower now. Almost hoarse.

And then he turns, walks off your porch, hands in his pockets like it’s just another morning. Like he didn’t drive himself crazy last night, standing in the cold outside your door, trying to work up the nerve to ask what the hell you both were.

You close the door gently, then lean your back against it. Your fingers grip the wood behind you, nails digging in, trying to ground yourself.

What was that?!

You didn’t notice right away. You’d been going through your things casually — restocking your small cabinet of items you keep for sessions: herbal supplements, teas, oils, pain relievers, and the occasional light sedative for especially anxious clients.

Your fingers move automatically through the jars and boxes… until they stop.

The tiny glass bottle with the white label — the one that holds your low-dose headache relief capsules — is empty. Fucking empty.

You stare at it in disbelief for a moment, then double-check. Then triple-check. You even crouch down and look behind the shelf, like the bottle could’ve magically rolled out of view. But it’s gone. And so are the backups. You’re completely out.

You mutter a curse and stand up quickly, grabbing your bag.

The pharmacy in Jackson isn’t far, and you make the walk briskly, hoping it’s just a quick fix. A refill. Nothing serious. But when you step inside and ask, the answer you get is exactly what you didn’t want to hear.

“Sorry,” the pharmacist says, not even looking that sorry. “We’ve been wiped clean since last week. Next shipment’s delayed. Could be a few more days.”

You press your lips together, managing a tight nod before stepping back out into the street. Days. You don’t have days.

You can’t treat people without being properly stocked — not when so many of them come to you barely hanging on. You need your tools. Your basics. This isn’t optional.

So your mind goes straight to the only possible solution. You’ll have to go to the next town over. But that means driving, and you don’t drive. Which means you need someone who does.

There weren’t many people in Jackson with working vehicles. And fewer still you knew personally. You considered asking one of the women from the community board, or maybe Maria, but you quickly scratched that idea.

You weren’t exactly “close” with anyone here. Not yet.

Which leaves you with Joel. Goddamn it.

Half of you sparks at the idea. The other half wants to slam your head into a wall.

The last thing you need right now is to sit next to him for hours — in a confined space, the air thick with unspoken tension and memories you can’t scrub out of your brain. And yet… part of you wants it. Craves it. Needs to see him, to be around him, even if it hurts.

Before you can think your way out of it, you’re already walking.

His place isn’t far. And with each step closer, your pulse climbs higher, fluttering like wings under your ribs. When you reach his door, you pause, press your hand to your chest, and take a deep breath.

Then you knock. You hear the familiar shuffle of footsteps, the sound of a door unlocking. And then — there he is.

Joel.

He looks like he always does, which is to say, fucking unfair. Fitted jeans, a plain gray shirt that hugs his shoulders just enough to make your stomach clench, and his usual scruff that you know feels exactly as rough as it looks. You blink and force your throat to work.

“Hey,” you say softly.

“Hey,” he echoes, brows raising just slightly in curiosity.

“I, uh…” You glance down briefly, regroup. “I need a favor.”

His expression doesn’t change, but something behind his eyes shifts. He stays quiet.

“I need to get to the next town. The pharmacy here’s out of something I use in sessions and… I can’t really go without it.”

You stop, letting the weight of your request land. Then continue, quieter now.

“And I know you drive. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important, but I don’t have another option.”

Joel doesn’t say anything at first.

He looks at you, really looks, and for a moment it’s impossible to read what’s going on behind that dark gaze. It’s not that he’s debating whether or not to help. You can tell that part of him already decided before you even knocked.

What he’s weighing… is something else. Something heavier.

But in the end, he just gives a small nod. “Alright,” he says. “Lemme grab my keys.”

You watch him disappear into the house, and a strange mix of relief and dread spreads in your chest. Your body feels hot. Anticipatory. Like you just stepped into something dangerous and didn’t have time to check the water’s depth.

When Joel returns, keys in hand, he doesn’t say much. Just jerks his head toward the road. You fall into step beside him. And together, you start walking toward the truck.

Silence stretches like a taut thread between you and Joel. Outside, the world is still. Inside, the air feels heavy, thick with everything unsaid, everything you’ve both been pretending not to carry. There’s something hanging between you, undeniable and tense, and it’s begging to be addressed.

You shift slightly in your seat. Even though you’ve made a life out of understanding human minds, of listening and guiding, this… this is something different. Something raw. Something far too personal. You don’t know whether speaking up will mend it, or ruin everything.

Joel seems just as conflicted.

His hands tighten around the steering wheel, knuckles pale in the low light. He breathes in slow, calculated. His mind is circling too. He doesn’t want to fuck this up. God, the last thing he wants is to fuck this up with you. But this thing between you—the tension, the distance—it’s driving him insane. You shared the most intimate night, and now you’re sitting like strangers.

So he speaks first. Careful. Low. His voice thick.

“I keep thinkin’ about that night.”

You look at him. He keeps his eyes on the road, but you can see it—how much it costs him to say it aloud.

“I keep thinkin’ about you.” He exhales sharply through his nose. “Doesn’t matter what I do. Can’t stop.”

You don’t say anything. You just watch him. Watch his jaw flex, his lips tighten. Your heart is hammering so loud you can’t tell if it’s yours or his. There’s hope fluttering inside your chest, rising like smoke.

Then Joel glances at you, quick but intense.

“I was at your place yesterday. Lights were on. I—I heard you.”

Your breath catches.

You blink. “You… what?”

But before you can ask more, he veers gently to the side and pulls the truck over by the trees, killing the engine. Quiet wraps around you both like a second skin. He turns to face you. And then it all spills.

“I’ve been losin’ my goddamn mind. I hear your name and my chest tightens. I see your house and my legs go numb. Every night, it’s the same. I close my eyes and it’s you. Always you. That night—what you looked like, the sounds you made, the way you touched me…”

His voice lowers. Gravel, but soft.

“My body remembers. Even when I wish it didn’t. Even when I know I probably shouldn’t… I can’t stop.”

Your mouth is parted, stunned. Everything in you stills.

This wasn’t just lust. He felt it. He’s been feeling it—drowning in it just like you.

You want to say something. Anything. But he keeps going.

“I know I was scared. I didn’t know how to deal with it. You’re my goddamn therapist.” He laughs, bitter and breathless.

“But I can’t ignore it. You’re not just some woman. You’re the woman I think about before I sleep. When I wake up. When I breathe.”

He looks wrecked. And beautiful. His lips, soft and cracked. His hands, strong but trembling slightly. His jeans, creased tight against his thighs. His hair, mussed from his hand running through it too many times. His eyes, like an open wound, filled with you. And his beard, messy, perfect, framing the mouth that ruined you and made you all at once.

You can’t hold it back anymore. You reach for him—grab his jaw with both hands, your fingers curling along the scruff of his cheeks, your thumbs brushing the edge of his lips. You pull him toward you. Hard.

Your mouth crashes against his in a kiss that’s been waiting far too long. It’s deep, desperate, a little messy. His breath hitches against your lips. Then he groans low and melts into it.

His hands grab your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. His tongue meets yours like he’s trying to taste every ounce of pain and need that’s lived in him since that night. Your teeth graze his bottom lip and he growls.

But then he pulls away. Just slightly. Breathing ragged.

“This ain’t right,” he whispers. “We said it was a mistake. It was the weed. We—we can stop now. Do it different.”

“I don’t want different,” you breathe out, already leaning in again.

“I want this. You.”

And before he can answer, your lips are back on his. His tongue swept inside—slow, thick, possessive. You whimpered, clutching the front of his shirt in both hands, your knuckles white. His hands were everywhere: cupping your jaw, sliding behind your neck, running down your spine with a firm, greedy touch. Each graze of his calloused skin against yours made your entire body light up.

There’s no guilt, no hesitation, no logic, just heat. Raw, blistering heat. Your fingers dig into his hair, fisting the strands while his hands roam over your body with a kind of urgency that makes your skin burn.

Joel growls low against your lips. It’s a deep, primal sound that goes straight to your core. You feel it throb through you, pulse between your legs.

“Fuck,” he mutters into your mouth, breathless. “I need you.”

He pulls you over the console, desperate hands sliding under your shirt. You gasped when his palms touched your bare stomach. Your muscles twitched. He noticed, smirked against your lips, and then yanked the fabric up, over your head, tossing it somewhere behind you.

Your bra followed. You didn’t even remember him undoing it, but it was gone, and so was any sense of shame. His mouth was on your collarbone, then your chest, trailing kisses along the top of your breast, murmuring filthy praise in between breaths.

“Been thinking ‘bout these,” he rasped. “Since the fuckin’ second I saw ‘em.”

His lips closed around your nipple and you nearly cried out. His tongue swirled, flicked, sucked, while one of his hands kneaded the other breast—rough, reverent, aching with need. You arched your back, grinding down into his lap, and that’s when you felt it—all of him. Hard. Thick. Pulsing through his jeans.

“Oh, fuck—Joel…”

Your voice broke, hoarse with lust. He bit down gently, then released you, panting, eyes dark and molten.

“You feel that?” he growled, thrusting his hips up against you. “That’s what you do to me.”

You couldn’t think. You couldn’t breathe. All you could do was kiss him again, deeper this time, messier. You needed to feel more—all of him. Your hands fumbled for his jacket, his shirt, pushing layer after layer away until he was bare from the waist up. His skin was hot. Taut. Scarred and strong, and utterly beautiful.

Your palms slid across his chest, over his shoulders, down the ridges of his stomach. He shivered under your touch. And then his hands were on your jeans.

“You want this?” he asked, voice rough like gravel.

“Fuck yes I want this,” you gasped.

He unbuttoned your jeans with practiced urgency, tugging them down along with your panties in one fluid motion. The cold air made you shudder. So did the way his eyes dragged over every inch of your now bare skin. Slow and heavy, like he was memorizing you.

“Christ…” he breathed. “You’re fuckin’ perfect.”

You reached for him next, your fingers trembling as you undid his belt. His cock sprang free the moment you got his jeans open—thick, flushed, already leaking. You swallowed hard.

He groaned the second your hand wrapped around him.

“Jesus—fuck.”

You stroked him slowly, teasingly, watching his eyes flutter shut, his jaw clench, his hips jerk forward with every pump. His precum smeared across your thumb. You spread it, tightened your grip, made him hiss.

But it wasn’t enough.

He pulled your hand away, grabbed your thighs, and lifted you into his lap again. His tip brushed against your entrance—hot, heavy, throbbing—and you both froze, trembling.

“Please,” you whispered. “Joel. Please.”

He didn’t need more. With one hand guiding himself, he pushed inside you—inch by inch, stretching you wide, filling you to the point of breaking. Your head dropped back. His mouth fell open.

“F-fuck—you’re so—tight—”

You whimpered at the stretch, at the burn, at the overwhelming fullness. He didn’t move, not yet, just held you there, buried deep, chest heaving.

“Look at me,” he said, breathless. You did. And in that second, the whole world disappeared.

Then he started to move.

Slow at first—pulling almost all the way out, then slamming back in with a force that made your body jolt. The car creaked. The windows fogged. You clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders, thighs shaking with every sharp thrust.

“Fuck—fuck—Joel—”

His name was a prayer on your tongue. A desperate, broken sound.

You rode him hard, grinding your hips against his, panting into his mouth, chasing the high you knew was coming. Every thrust made your stomach tighten. Every slap of skin against skin pushed you closer to the edge.

He held you tight, one hand on your ass, the other on your back, growling curses and your name like they were one and the same.

It’s not just sex. It’s release. A collapse into each other. A confession spoken through sweat and heat and skin. Every time you moan, his name slips out like a prayer. Every time he curses, it sounds like worship.

Your bodies moved in rhythm, tangled and burning with need, every breath a gasp, every touch a spark.

The inside of the truck was sweltering now, heat coiling around you both like a fever, the creak of the leather seats became a steady soundtrack to the way your hips met his, desperate and relentless.

His hands were everywhere—gripping your waist, dragging you down harder against him, fingers spreading across the curve of your back as if anchoring himself to reality through your skin. His breath was ragged, hot against your ear, each groan vibrating straight through your spine.

“Fuck…” he muttered, voice thick, low, strained. “You feel so goddamn good.”

Your thighs trembled as he thrust deeper, harder. The car rocked with each movement, soft creaks and thuds echoing off the frame like a chorus to your desperation.

You dug your fingers into his shoulders, sweat slick under your palms, your nails dragging lines down his back through the cotton of his shirt.

The pressure inside you built with every grind, every sound that left his lips—gritty, breathless, hungry. He was chasing it, just like you, both of you straining toward that breaking point.

The slap of skin, the warmth of his chest pressed to yours, the way his mouth found your neck, open-mouthed and fervent, only added fuel to the fire in your belly.

And then he wrapped his arms around you tighter—one strong, grounding embrace. A quiet, guttural noise tore from his throat as he buried his face into the crook of your neck. You could feel the shift in him—deeper, slower at first, then faster again, his body determined and burning.

“Don’t stop,” you whispered, your voice trembling, your hips rolling down to meet every push of his.

“I’m not,” he growled. “I’m right there with you, baby…”

Your bodies met in a frantic pace, sweat dripping down your spine, the muscles in his arms flexing as he held you close, locked you to him like the world could fall away and he’d still keep you safe—keep you his.

Your moans turned breathless, rhythmic, until you were both caught in it.

Eyes squeezed shut, nerves alight, lungs gasping for air. And then it hit you both at once, like a crashing wave, your bodies seizing, clinging, shaking in each other’s arms, a quiet cry leaving your throat as Joel’s hand fisted in your hair and his mouth caught yours in a trembling, open-mouthed kiss.

He came with a broken moan, gripping you tight, spilling deep inside, trembling as he collapsed against you. You came with a loud cry against his mouth, legs shaking, core clenching until you released on him.

You stayed like that for a long moment—pressed together, drenched in heat and breath, hearts pounding in sync.

Your breath was still uneven, but the chaos had ebbed. The sweat cooling on your skin mingled with Joel’s as he stayed wrapped around you, his arms strong and secure, one large hand splayed gently across your spine. His other traced slow, soothing circles along the curve of your hip, grounding you, steadying your racing heart.

The rhythm of his touch shifted, no longer frantic, but tender. Worshipful. The kind of touch that said I’ve got you. I’m not letting go. And you felt it, every muscle in your body slowly unwinding under his fingertips, like knots being untied one by one.

You breathed in the scent of him, salt and pine and something undeniably Joel. You’d never felt safer. Never felt more seen.

And when you finally lifted yourself from his lap, pulling away just enough to catch your breath, you found him staring at you with eyes so soft it nearly knocked the wind from your lungs.

Big, brown, puppy eyes. Vulnerable. Full of unspoken questions: Are you okay? Did I go too far? Do you regret this?

You smiled, gently, warmly, and leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his lips. Not hungry this time. Not desperate, but quiet and loving. The kind of kiss that answered every silent worry in his gaze.

Joel exhaled through his nose, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from your cheek. He let out a small, breathy chuckle.

“We should… probably get dressed and get movin’,” he murmured, his voice husky, still soft from what you’d shared.

You laughed lightly, nodding. “Yeah… probably a good idea.”

The two of you began putting yourselves back together. You slowly started pulling out of him, both of you growling through clenched teeth, Joel squeezing your bare hips. You glanced sideways, becuase you wanted to. Maybe it was intuition, or you just had the urge to look towards the forest, but something caught your eye.

Out the window. Beyond the fogged-up glass, two small figures. On horseback. Emerging from the trees.

You squinted. One of them—a girl—looked young. Both did, actually, but the one in front… her face. There was something so familiar about it. She stared straight at you.

Her expression wasn’t just surprise. It was disbelief. Fear. And maybe, just maybe, even disappointment. Your breath caught and your heart skipped a beat.

“Joel…” you said, voice suddenly tight.

He followed your gaze, turned to the woods, and the second his eyes landed on her, his whole body locked up, his face went pale and his breath stopped.

“Ellie,” he whispered, the name leaving him like a punch to the gut.

You snapped your head toward Joel, panic wide in your eyes, your chest tightening as a thousand thoughts crashed into each other.

What did she see? How long was she watching?

Joel turned to you, his eyes just as shocked, just as lost, then flicked back to the woods where the girl still sat on her horse, motionless. You didn’t speak and neither did he.

You didn’t need to, because you both knew, that you were fucked. Badly.

HEYY! Thank you so much for reading!

If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’d also be super happy for any feedback; whether it’s a reblog, comment, like, or even a follow.

Have a beautiful day!

LOVE YA!🥭🍂

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theetherealbloom · 3 months ago

Text

Your Love Feels Like A Sunday When You Got Nowhere To Go

Summary: You are Pedro’s date to the SNL 50 celebration as his newly engaged fiancée.

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x F!Reader

Warnings: Established Relationship, TOOTH-ROTTING FLUFF, Suggestive Content, little SMUT, PiV, Dirty Talk, Short but sweet smut, Slight Angst, Swearing, Anxiety, Surrounded by A-Listers, Dancing, Cheesy Dialogue, Romance, Kissing, Real People Fiction, Red Carpet, Cameras, Paparazzi, Long Distance, Timezone Difference, Social Media, Interviews, I’m not a Spanish speaker, I might be wrong with the terms, please don’t come after me T^T,

Word Count: 5.8k

A/N: Hi! Yes, I am still working on It Could Happen To You. School is being a bitch and I’m just in a weird headspace rn lol. Anyway, since this is basically a series now… I’ll make a series masterlist for this soon tehe.

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: Your Love by JISOO

PEDRO PASCAL MAIN MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST |

THE BOWERY HOTEL — DAY

You arrived a day before the taping of the SNL 50th anniversary show, the energy of New York buzzing all around you. But inside the hotel suite, it was just you and Pedro, wrapped up in a world of your own.

Sweet, romantic Pedro. The man who hadn’t stopped calling you wife since he slid that engagement ring onto your finger.

You twirled the sparkling diamond under the dim lighting, still not quite believing it was real. It had been just over a month since Pedro had proposed, and somehow, you were still catching yourself staring at it in disbelief.

From across the room, Pedro watched you, his lips curling into a smirk as he leaned against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest.

“Caught you staring again,” he teased, voice warm with amusement.

You rolled your eyes playfully. “It’s new. Let me have my moment.”

He pushed off the doorway, crossing the room in a few strides before wrapping his arms around your waist. “It’s not new to me,” he murmured against your temple. “I’ve known you were mine for a long time.”

You sighed dramatically, tilting your head back to look at him. “I’m not your wife yet, Pascal.”

Pedro hummed, his nose brushing against your cheek as he whispered, “Hmm… nah. You are.”

You swatted at his chest, but the way his eyes twinkled made your heart melt.

“You’re impossible.”

He grinned. “And yet, you love me.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever,” you muttered, but the smile on your face betrayed you.

Pedro chuckled at your faux annoyance, his warm breath ghosting against your lips as he leaned in. “You’re so cute when you pretend to be mad at me,” he murmured, tilting your chin up with his fingers before capturing your lips in a deep, slow kiss.

You melted instantly, hands threading into his hair as his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him. The kiss grew hungrier, his lips moving against yours with a languid sort of urgency, like he was savoring every second.

His hands roamed—one resting on the small of your back, the other slipping beneath the hem of your robe, fingertips teasing against your bare skin. A soft hum escaped you as his mouth trailed along your jaw, down the curve of your neck.

And then it hit you.

“Wait—” You gasped, breathless, gently pushing at his chest. “We have lunch with Javiera.”

Pedro groaned dramatically, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. “Mierda.”

You giggled as he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his expression somewhere between frustration and mischief. “Did I forget to mention I invited her to watch you perform?”

“You did,” he huffed, pouting slightly. “And I love that she’s coming. I do. But do we have to be on time?”

You gave him a pointed look.

Pedro sighed, rolling his eyes playfully. “Fine. Fine.” He took a step back, raking a hand through his already tousled hair. “But just so you know, you owe me later.”

You raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “Owe you?”

“Oh, cariño.” His voice dropped to a sinful murmur as he trailed a slow finger down your arm. “Later tonight, I’m going to have my way with you.”

A shiver ran down your spine, but you smirked, smoothing your robe as if unaffected. “We’ll see about that, Pascal.”

His grin was full of promise. “Oh, we will.”

THE BOWERY HOTEL — AFTERNOON

Lunch with Javiera was set at a quiet corner table in the hotel's restaurant, a space that offered just enough privacy for a family catch-up without feeling too closed off. The scent of fresh bread and herbs lingered in the air as you sipped on a glass of chilled wine, the engagement ring on your finger catching the soft afternoon light.

Javiera beamed as she reached for your hand, examining the ring for what was probably the fifth time since you sat down. “It looks even better in person,” she said, her voice warm with affection. “I still can’t believe you two are finally engaged.”

Pedro, seated beside you, chuckled as he reached for a piece of bread. “Finally? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Javiera gave him a knowing look. “Oh, come on. Everyone saw this coming except you.”

You laughed, nudging Pedro playfully. “See? Told you.”

He huffed dramatically. “Unbelievable. My own sister conspiring against me.”

Javiera grinned, sipping her drink. “I’m just saying, I’ve seen the way you look at her. The way you talk about her when she’s not around. You’ve been a goner for a long time, hermano.”

Pedro didn’t even try to deny it. Instead, he turned to you, a soft smirk playing on his lips. “Guilty as charged.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart melted at the way he was looking at you. Before you could say anything, the waiter arrived with your meals, setting down plates of fresh seafood and warm pasta.

Javiera leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. “So, have you two started thinking about the wedding?”

Pedro answered before you could. “She keeps saying she’s not my wife yet, but I don’t know… feels pretty official to me.”

You groaned. “Pedro.”

Javiera laughed, shaking her head. “He’s never going to let that go.”

Pedro grinned, cutting into his food. “Nope.”

You sighed dramatically, but you couldn’t hide your smile. “We haven’t talked about it too much yet. Everything’s been moving so fast. But we will.”

Javiera nodded in understanding. “Well, no matter what you decide, just know the entire family is already planning in their heads. Mom is probably dreaming up wedding decorations as we speak.”

Pedro groaned, running a hand through his hair. “Dios mío.”

You giggled, squeezing his hand under the table. “At least we know it’ll be a party.”

Javiera smirked. “A very loud one.”

As the lunch carried on, the conversation flowed effortlessly, filled with teasing, reminiscing, and warmth. The afternoon sun streamed in through the windows, casting a golden glow over the table, and you found yourself stealing glances at Pedro every now and then—marveling at the fact that this was your life now.

Engaged. In love. Surrounded by family.

And if Pedro had his way, he’d be calling you his wife a lot sooner than you expected.

THE BOWERY HOTEL — EVENING

After a long, exciting day, you and Pedro decided to call it an early night, opting for the comfort of your hotel room over any glamorous outings. Room service had just arrived, and the two of you sat on the plush bed, plates of warm pasta and glasses of wine spread out between you. The room was dimly lit, the soft golden glow of the bedside lamps casting a cozy warmth over everything.

Pedro swirled his wine glass lazily, leaning back against the headboard with a contented sigh. “This is perfect,” he murmured, glancing at you with the softest eyes. “No loud crowds, no cameras—just us.”

You grinned, taking a bite of your pasta before setting your fork down. “I still can’t believe you’re going to be on SNL again. It feels like just yesterday we were watching your first episode from our couch.”

Pedro chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, and I was nervous as hell back then.”

“You were incredible, though,” you said earnestly, reaching out to squeeze his hand. “And you’ll be even better this time. I’m so proud of you, Pedro. Not just for this, but for everything. For who you are.”

His ears tinged pink, and he let out a bashful laugh, shaking his head. “Stop, you’re gonna make me all emotional.”

“I mean it,” you insisted, scooting closer. “You work so hard, and you never let the pressure change who you are. That’s why people love you. That’s why I love you.”

Pedro set his wine glass aside and turned to face you fully, his expression melting into something unbearably tender. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he murmured, brushing his knuckles along your cheek. “But I thank whatever force in the universe brought you into my life every damn day.”

You smiled, warmth blooming in your chest. “You’re just saying that because I let you steal half my food.”

Pedro smirked, feigning innocence. “Who, me? Never.”

Before you could protest, his fingers darted to your waist, tickling you mercilessly. A shriek escaped your lips as you collapsed onto the bed, writhing in laughter. “Pedro! No—stop! I’m gonna spill the wine!”

He was laughing just as hard, his face split into the most joyful grin as he kept at it. “Not until you take back that accusation!”

Through uncontrollable giggles, you tried to escape, but he was relentless, his hands finding every ticklish spot. “Okay, okay! You’re innocent! You’re a saint!” you gasped between bursts of laughter.

Pedro finally relented, collapsing beside you, both of you breathless from laughing. You turned to face him, your eyes still shining with amusement, but the moment shifted as his gaze softened, darkening with something deeper. His hand brushed over your cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of your jawline.

“You really do mean the world to me,” he murmured, his voice hushed and full of emotion.

Your breath hitched as his lips met yours, slow and deliberate, the laughter between you fading into something softer, needier. His hand slid to the back of your neck, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, and you melted into him, sighing against his mouth. His body pressed against yours, the warmth of him seeping into your skin as he kissed you like he had all the time in the world.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging gently, and he groaned into your mouth, his hands roaming down your back, pulling you closer until there wasn’t an inch of space between you. The air grew thick, charged with heat and unspoken promises. Pedro’s lips trailed down your jaw to your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse point just enough to make you shiver.

“You drive me crazy, you know that?” he murmured against your skin, his voice low and rough.

You exhaled shakily, tilting your head back as his hands explored, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, tracing slow circles over your bare skin. “Then maybe we should do something about it,” you whispered, your own hands sliding under his shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin.

Pedro didn’t need to be told twice.

The moment your lips met, any remaining restraint melted away. His hands gripped your hips, fingers pressing into your skin like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. The heat between you was intoxicating, a slow burn that built with every kiss, every teasing graze of his fingertips over your exposed skin.

His mouth was hungry, insatiable, devouring you with a passion that made your breath hitch. He kissed you like he’d been starving for you, like he was trying to drown himself in the taste of you. His tongue swept against yours, deep and slow, coaxing a soft whimper from your lips that only spurred him on.

“Fuck,” he groaned against your mouth, his voice thick with desire. “You have no idea what you do to me, cariño.”

You gasped as he rolled his hips against yours, the hard press of him igniting something primal deep within you. Your fingers fisted in the fabric of his shirt, desperate to feel more—more of him, more of his warmth, more of the intoxicating way he made your body feel like it was on fire.

“Then show me,” you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper, but Pedro heard it loud and clear.

His answering smirk was sinful. “Oh, I plan to.”

In one swift motion, he flipped you onto your back, settling between your legs. The weight of him pressed you into the mattress in the most delicious way, making you arch into him instinctively. His hands wandered, sliding beneath your shirt, fingertips skimming over your stomach before tracing a slow, teasing path upward.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin just beneath your jaw. “I’ll never get tired of looking at you. Touching you.”

You shivered under his touch as he pushed your shirt up higher, his fingers grazing over your bare skin with a maddening slowness. His lips followed, trailing soft, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, across your collarbone, lower and lower, until he reached the edge of your bra. He paused, glancing up at you with hooded eyes, silently asking for permission even now.

“Pedro,” you whined, your body arching toward him, desperate for more. “Please.”

That single word sent a visible shudder through him, his control hanging by a thread. “Fuck, baby,” he muttered before finally peeling your shirt off, his eyes darkening at the sight of you beneath him.

His lips were everywhere—on your throat, your shoulders, the swell of your breasts. He took his time worshipping you, his hands and mouth exploring every inch of exposed skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. The contrast of his rough stubble against your soft skin made you gasp, sending a delicious ache straight to your core.

“You’re killing me,” you murmured, your nails digging into his back as he teased you, his lips hovering just above where you needed him most.

Pedro chuckled, his breath hot against your skin. “Patience, mi amor.” But the way his voice wavered, the way his own body trembled against yours, told you he was just as desperate.

And then—finally—his mouth was on you, his kisses turning scorching, his hands gripping your thighs as he moved lower.

The next moments were a blur of pleasure, his name falling from your lips like a prayer, his touch unraveling you until you were nothing but gasps and moans beneath him. Every flick of his tongue, every slow grind of his hips against yours sent you spiraling higher and higher, until you shattered beneath him, trembling, breathless, completely undone.

Pedro didn’t stop. Not yet. He guided you through the aftershocks, whispering sweet praises against your flushed skin, his voice raw with love and desire. “That’s my girl,” he murmured. “So fucking perfect for me.”

When you finally opened your eyes, dazed and blissed out, Pedro was hovering above you, his gaze soft but filled with something deeper—something more than just desire.

“I love you,” he whispered, brushing damp hair away from your face. “Always.”

Your heart swelled, your body still humming with pleasure as you reached up to cup his cheek, running your thumb over the stubble there. “I love you too,” you murmured, pulling him down for a slow, languid kiss.

And as he wrapped you up in his arms, bodies tangled beneath the sheets, you knew—there was no place in the world you’d rather be.

THE NEXT DAY…

THE BOWERY HOTEL — AFTERNOON

The hotel room buzzed with energy, a symphony of laughter, light conversation, and the occasional pop of a hairspray bottle. Your glam team moved around you in a carefully choreographed dance, curling strands of hair, blending makeup, and adjusting the final touches of your red-carpet look. The air smelled of floral-scented powders and expensive serums, mixing with the faint, crisp scent of fresh linens from the open balcony door.

It was a beautiful afternoon in New York, golden sunlight pouring through the sheer curtains, casting a warm glow over everything. The excitement in the room was palpable—not just for the event, but for you.

“So,” one of the hairstylists, Bella, said with a teasing grin as she ran a brush through your hair, “how does it feel to be engaged to Hollywood’s most beloved man?”

You let out a soft laugh, glancing at yourself in the mirror as the makeup artist dusted a final touch of highlighter on your cheekbones. “Surreal, honestly. I keep waiting for someone to shake me awake and tell me it’s all a dream.”

Another stylist, Marie, chimed in, hands on her hips as she admired your nearly finished look. “Well, if it is a dream, you’re living in the most romantic one ever. That ring? Stunning. And the way he looks at you? Girl, you won.”

Your heart squeezed at her words, warmth blooming in your chest. You knew exactly what she meant—Pedro had a way of looking at you like you were his entire world, like nothing else mattered when you were in the same room. Even after all this time, it still made you breathless.

As if on cue, the door creaked open, and in walked Pedro, freshly showered, the scent of his cologne—a mix of cedar, citrus, and something undeniably him—filling the room. His tousled curls were still damp, his beard neatly trimmed, and he wore a fitted brown V-neck shirt that clung to him in all the right ways, paired with black dress pants that hugged his hips perfectly. A blazer hung over his arm, though from the easy smirk on his lips, he didn’t seem in any hurry to put it on.

And, of course, he was grinning.

“Talking about me?” he mused, his voice carrying that familiar playful lilt as he sauntered in, hands casually slipping into his pockets.

Your stylists all exchanged knowing looks before Bella smirked. “Oh, always.”

Pedro chuckled, then placed his hands on the back of your chair, leaning down so his face appeared beside yours in the mirror. His deep brown eyes flickered over your reflection, admiration evident in his gaze. “Damn, Hermosa…” His voice dropped lower, more reverent. “I might have to fight off every person at this event just to keep their eyes off you.”

Your stomach flipped at the intensity in his tone.

You rolled your eyes, trying to suppress the giddy smile tugging at your lips. “Smooth.”

“I’m serious,” he murmured, pressing a lingering kiss to your bare shoulder. The heat of his lips against your skin sent a shiver down your spine, your breath catching in your throat.

Marie let out a dreamy sigh. “Ugh. The romance.”

Pedro straightened, clapping his hands together with a playful grin. “Alright, alright. I’ll leave you all to it. Just needed to see my girl before we head out.”

But as he turned to leave, he caught your gaze in the mirror again, his expression softening into something deeper, something unspoken. And then—he winked.

A flutter of warmth spread through your chest, and you realized something.

No matter how many times you saw him, no matter how many times he looked at you like you were the only person in the world—you would never get used to it.

As the final touches were made, you finally stepped into your dress—a breathtaking gown that made you feel like a dream. It was an elegant yet modern off-the-shoulder number, the fabric a deep, rich shade that complemented your skin tone perfectly. The fitted bodice flattered your curves, while the flowing skirt trailed behind you like a soft cascade of silk.

You took a steadying breath, smoothing your hands down the fabric before turning toward the door—where Pedro was waiting.

He was already dressed in his full look, a classic black suit tailored to perfection, the crisp white dress shirt beneath unbuttoned at the collar just enough to drive you a little insane. His salt-and-pepper curls were styled just so, his beard neatly trimmed, and his warm brown eyes—those eyes that always made you feel like the only person in the room—were already locked on you.

And when you stepped into his view, his breath audibly hitched.

"Dios mío…" His voice was barely above a whisper, but you heard it, felt the weight of it settle deep in your chest.

A slow, smitten smile tugged at your lips. “You clean up pretty well yourself, Pascal.”

Pedro exhaled a dramatic sigh, placing a hand over his heart as he took a step closer. “Mi amor, if I wasn’t already planning to marry you, I’d be proposing again right now.”

You let out a breathless laugh, warmth blooming in your chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m serious.” His hands found your waist, his fingers brushing lightly over the fabric as he shook his head in disbelief. “I’ve never seen anyone more beautiful in my life. And I mean that. Completely. No exaggeration.”

Your throat tightened, emotions swelling too fast, too much, because—God, how did he do this to you? How did he make you feel so seen, so loved, so entirely his without even trying?

You swallowed hard, blinking up at him. “Pedro, you can’t say things like that.”

He frowned slightly, tilting his head. “Why not?”

“Because…” Your voice wavered, and you let out a soft, almost disbelieving laugh. “Because you’re going to make me cry.”

Pedro’s expression melted into something impossibly tender. “Oh, baby…” He cupped your face instantly, his thumb tracing along your cheek as he studied you, his own eyes glassy now. “Then let’s cry together. Because fuck, I love you so much, I don’t know what to do with it sometimes.”

Your breath hitched, a tear slipping free before you could stop it. Pedro caught it with his thumb, brushing it away before leaning in, pressing the gentlest kiss to your lips—like he was sealing in everything he couldn’t say.

You clutched his lapels, pulling him closer. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

Pedro huffed out a soft laugh, resting his forehead against yours. “You existed, mi amor. That’s all you ever had to do.”

A choked laugh left your lips as you shook your head. “You’re the most sickeningly romantic man alive.”

“And you love it,” he teased, his nose nudging against yours.

“I love you,” you corrected, voice barely above a whisper.

Pedro pulled back just enough to look at you fully, his expression so full of love, so full of everything that it made your chest ache. He took your hand in his, bringing it to his lips and kissing your engagement ring before intertwining your fingers.

“You ready?” you murmured, voice still thick with emotion.

He squeezed your hand, his gaze never leaving yours. “With you?” He smiled, soft and certain. “Always.”

And with that, you stepped out into the night, hand in hand, heart in heart, ready to take on the world—together.

ROCKEFELLER CENTER, STUDIO 8H — EARLY EVENING

The moment you stepped out of the car, camera flashes erupted like fireworks.

Pedro’s hand was warm in yours as you both made your way down the red carpet, stopping every few feet to pose for photos. Reporters called out his name, some calling yours, and you couldn’t help but feel a wave of nerves crash over you.

Pedro must have sensed it, because he squeezed your hand, leaning down to whisper, “Breathe, baby. I got you.”

And just like that, the tension melted away.

You reached the interview section, and almost immediately, Entertainment Tonight flagged you both down.

“Pedro! Congratulations on SNL’s 50th! And—oh my gosh, congratulations to both of you on the engagement!”

Pedro beamed, pulling you a little closer. “Thank you. Yeah, it’s been a hell of a year.”

The reporter turned to you. “How does it feel to be engaged to the Pedro Pascal?”

You laughed. “Honestly? Like dating a golden retriever with a credit card.”

Pedro clutched his chest dramatically. “Wow. Wow. Betrayed on live television.”

The reporter laughed. “Well, it’s clear you two are head over heels. Pedro, can we expect wedding bells soon?”

Pedro turned to you, his smile softening. “Whenever she’s ready. No rush. I just know she’s it for me.”

Your heart stuttered.

You turned back to the reporter, your own smile matching his. “Yeah. He’s it for me, too.”

And as the night went on, with the lights, the cameras, and the sea of Hollywood’s biggest stars surrounding you both, you knew—Pedro was right. You were already his.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

STUDIO 8H – SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE 50TH ANNIVERSARY SPECIAL

You loved watching Pedro perform on stage. It was one of your absolute favorite things. The way he commanded the room with effortless charisma, the way he delivered every line with that perfect balance of humor and sincerity, the way he owned the stage—he was a natural. An absolute force.

And really fucking funny.

Sitting in the audience, you could barely keep it together. The energy in the studio was electric, but nothing compared to the way your heart pounded watching him up there, in his element, making an entire room—hell, millions of people—laugh like it was the easiest thing in the world.

And then it happened.

The skit with Sabrina Carpenter had already been hilarious—Pedro leaning into his role, playing it up with exaggerated expressions and that perfect comedic timing that had everyone in stitches. But when the music kicked in and he suddenly started hip-thrusting into the air, fully committing to the bit with zero hesitation, your jaw unhinged.

“Oh. My. God,” you breathed, your entire body stiffening as your brain tried to process what you were seeing.

Javiera, sitting beside you, didn’t miss a thing.

“Are you—oh my God,” she cackled, smacking your arm. “You’re so done for.”

You barely registered her words because your entire world had narrowed down to him—Pedro, on stage, grinding the air like it was his job, all while belting out the ridiculous lyrics to the skit’s song.

Your face was on fire.

“Shut up,” you hissed, pressing your hands to your face in a weak attempt to cover how absolutely hot and bothered you were.

Javiera just laughed louder, fully reveling in your suffering. “No, no, no—don’t go all shy now! Own it, babe. That’s your fiancé up there.” She leaned in closer, lowering her voice just enough so only you could hear. “And let’s be real… if he’s that good at hip-thrusting in public—”

“Javiera!” you choked, shoving her while she doubled over in laughter.

You turned back to the stage just in time to catch Pedro glance toward the audience, his eyes scanning the crowd before they found you. And oh, the moment he locked onto your completely flustered, scandalized expression, his lips twitched into the smuggest smirk you’d ever seen in your life.

That bastard knew exactly what he was doing.

He winked.

You swore your soul left your body.

Javiera grabbed your arm, wheezing with laughter. “Oh, you’re in trouble tonight.”

And yeah. She was absolutely right.

You were in so much trouble.

But before you could even fully recover from the absolute chaos of Pedro’s hip-thrusting performance, the next skit rolled in—and it wrecked you all over again.

Pedro walked onto the stage, transformed.

His usual effortless charm was nowhere to be seen, replaced by a full-blown, committed hillbilly persona. He wore the most ridiculous wig, long and messy, nearly covering his eyes, and a graphic shirt that looked like it had seen better days. The second he opened his mouth, putting on that exaggerated twang and delivering his lines with painstakingly perfect comedic timing, you lost it.

Javiera was right there with you, grabbing your arm as she wheezed through her laughter. “Oh my God—look at him! I can’t—”

You could barely breathe. “Stop, I’m actually about to die.”

Onstage, Woody Harrelson and Kate McKinnon were trying—and failing—to keep straight faces as Pedro went all in on the character, telling some completely unhinged story about how the aliens had abducted him and taken a very inappropriate interest in his “hillbilly butt.”

And then came the moment—

Meryl Streep, Meryl fucking Streep, turned to Pedro, trying to deliver her line with composure, but Pedro—your Pedro—gave her this completely deadpan look, blinking beneath that ridiculous wig before delivering a line so absurdly timed, in that perfect hillbilly drawl, that Meryl Streep—the queen of acting herself—broke.

Her head dipped forward as she cracked up, covering her face, shaking her shoulders, and the entire audience erupted.

You lost your mind.

“Oh my God he just made Meryl Streep break character,” you gasped, gripping Javiera’s arm as you struggled to stay upright in your seat. “That’s it. That’s the peak. That’s the moment.”

Javiera shrieked through her laughter. “Your fiancé just made one of the greatest actors alive break on live TV. Babe, you won.”

Tears streamed down your face as you tried to pull yourself together, but Pedro kept going, doubling down on his character’s antics, sending the entire studio into absolute hysterics. The audience was howling, and you? You were on the verge of falling out of your damn seat.

To say you were proud of Pedro was the understatement of the century.

He was killing it.

And when the skit finally ended, the camera catching Pedro barely holding it together as Woody clapped him on the back and Meryl wiped away her tears of laughter, you saw it—that look he gave, that quick flicker of his eyes searching the audience, finding you.

And when he did?

He grinned.

That big, beautiful, unbelievably smug grin.

And you knew.

You were so in trouble tonight.

STUDIO 8H – LATER THAT NIGHT

After his skit, he’d barely disappeared backstage before returning to you, his face still slightly flushed from all the laughter and adrenaline. And just when you thought he couldn’t get any more irresistible, there he was—dressed in a plain white henley, the soft fabric stretching just right across his chest, his sleeves pushed up enough to show off those strong forearms.

And those glasses.

The square-framed ones that made him look ridiculously handsome, the ones that had your brain short-circuiting every time he wore them.

Oh, you were so done for.

Pedro slid back into his seat between you and Javiera, flashing you a small, knowing smile. His hand automatically found your thigh, squeezing lightly—just a touch, nothing inappropriate, but enough to send heat flooding through your body. You swore the bastard knew exactly what he was doing.

So you did what you knew would drive him crazy.

You turned to him, grabbed his face, and kissed him dizzy.

Pedro inhaled sharply through his nose, but he barely hesitated, responding immediately—his hand sliding up to your waist, fingers pressing in just enough to claim you, as if he wanted to pull you into his lap right then and there. His lips were warm, soft, and eager as they moved against yours, deepening the kiss just slightly. His thumb brushed over your ribs, and you felt the way his breath hitched, like he was fighting the urge to take things further.

Your fingers curled in the fabric of his henley as he kissed you like he needed you—slow, lingering, with an almost teasing edge.

Javiera groaned beside you. “Alright, you two, I am still here.”

You pulled away with a breathless laugh, Pedro’s lips still chasing yours even as you separated. His forehead rested against yours for a lingering second, and when he finally pulled back, he gave you that devastatingly soft look—the one that made your heart flip inside your chest.

“You keep kissing me like that, mi amor,” he murmured, his voice low and full of promise, “and I’m not gonna make it to the after-party.”

You smirked, letting your fingers trace along his jawline. “Who said we’re going to the after-party?”

Pedro’s eyes darkened ever so slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was holding back a smirk. He gave your thigh another squeeze, this time lingering a little longer.

But before he could say anything—

Paul fucking McCartney took the stage.

The first notes of Golden Slumbers filled the room, the familiar melody wrapping around you like something magic.

Pedro’s entire body shifted as if on instinct. His fingers laced through yours, squeezing tight, before pulling you up with him.

“You’re dancing with me,” he murmured, voice low and full of emotion, his breath brushing against your ear as he wrapped an arm around your waist.

“You act like I’d ever say no.”

Pedro chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against your skin as he held you close. His other hand settled at the small of your back, guiding you effortlessly as he swayed you in slow, easy circles.

His touch was everywhere—warm, solid, grounding. You let yourself melt against him, your cheek resting against his chest as the music carried you both away.

“Once there was a way… to get back homeward…”

Pedro hummed softly against your temple, his voice low, affectionate. You felt the way his arms tightened around you, the way his fingers traced lazy circles against your spine.

“You have no idea how much I love you,” he murmured, voice thick with emotion.

Your throat tightened. “I think I do.”

His lips brushed your forehead. “You’re everything to me.”

You closed your eyes, letting the moment sink in, letting his words settle in your heart like something precious.

As Carry That Weight began, the crowd’s energy shifted—cheers, laughter, voices singing along. Pedro lifted your hand, spinning you gently before pulling you right back into his arms.

You laughed, breathless, the warmth in his eyes making you weak. “You’re gonna make me cry.”

Pedro’s hands cupped your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones with so much tenderness. “I love you,” he whispered. “More than I know how to say.”

And that was it.

You surged forward, pressing your lips to his, letting the kiss speak for you. It was soft, full of love and something deeper—something that felt like forever. Pedro kissed you back just as sweetly, his fingers threading into your hair, holding you close as if he never wanted to let go.

As The End played, the final notes echoing through the studio, you held onto Pedro like he was your whole world.

Because he was.

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fic-girlie · 16 hours ago

Text

Say It Louder

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x f!reader

Summary: You met Pedro through work, never expecting to fall in love. Years later, insecurity drives you apart—until SNL50, where he finds you again, confesses everything, and proposes. That night, in a quiet hotel room, he shows you just how deeply he loves you.

Warnings: fluff and angst, emotional insecurity, self-worth struggles, miscommunication, breakup, protective Pedro, proposal, mild alcohol use, explicit smut (18+), oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, p in v sex, established relationship

A/N: Huge thanks to @kellyxo1 for giving me these amazing ideas! And also huge thanks for the support and positive feedbacks!

!made by request!

You’d always found solace in the quiet hum of the archives.

Three floors below the bustling exhibits and curated glamour of the museum’s public face, the lower wing was its opposite—unadorned, institutional, a sanctuary of cold concrete and locked humidity controls. Down here, the scent of old paper hung heavy in the air, earthy and delicate, like time itself had soaked into the walls.

You liked the solitude. Loved it, even. It was a kind of sacred hush that belonged only to the forgotten—the unseen parts of the world most people never noticed. In that stillness, among shelves crammed with labelled boxes and forgotten correspondence, you felt most like yourself. Clear-headed. Invisible. Steady.

You were balancing on a stool, arms stretching overhead as you carefully wrestled a carton labelled 1912-1915 fromthe highest shelf. Your gloves itched slightly under the fluorescent lights, but you didn’t mind. They were the only layer between your skin and someone else’s past—a thin cotton promise to preserve the stories that time tried to erase.

You didn’t hear the footsteps at first. Just the gentle click of the heavy door creaking open, followed by a hesitant voice breaking the silence like a dropped glass.

“Uh… hi? Excuse me—I might be really lost.”

Your fingers froze around the edge of the box.

You turned slowly, stepping off the stool with care, the carton still cradled against your chest. The man in the doorway blinked at you, equally frozen, framed by the sterile hallway light behind him.

He looked… bewildered. Not panicked, not demanding. Just like someone who’d taken one wrong turn too many times and realized he was no longer anywhere near the gift shop.

“I was supposed to meet someone,” he said, a little sheepish now, his voice low and rough in a way that didn’t seem forced. “Dr. Koenig? He told me to check out some old historical stuff but… I think I might’ve gone too far.”

You adjusted your grip on the box, eyeing him with a touch of amusement. “You’re about two staircases and a hallway past where you should be. This is the archives department.”

His brows lifted. “And I’ve clearly entered the sacred chamber.”

“That’s one way to put it,” you said, and despite yourself, a smile tugged at your mouth. “Most people don’t make it this far. It’s usually just me, a space heater, and a few hundred boxes of old letters.”

He stepped into the room cautiously, as though expecting some trapdoor to open beneath him. The movement allowed the light to catch his face more clearly—warm brown eyes, an unruly scatter of dark curls, a slightly crooked nose that somehow made him look more familiar, not less. There was something in the way he carried himself, like he wasn’t trying to be noticed, but you couldn’t help noticing anyway.

“This place is…” he turned in a slow circle, eyes skimming the endless rows of shelves, “kind of magical, in a dusty, paper-cut kind of way.”

You let out a quiet laugh. “that’s one of out taglines. Right behind ‘where sunlight fears to thread.’”

He looked back at you, smiling like you’d just shared a secret. There was something warm in that gaze. Curious. Unpretentious.

“I’m Pedro,” he offered, extending a hand before glancing at your gloved ones. “Or, uh… I guess shaking hands is against protocol here?”

“Only if you’re handling materials,” you said, setting the box gently on the nearest table. You pulled off one glove before accepting his handshake, his palm warm against yours, firm but not forced.

You told him your name, and he repeated it back under his breath, like he wanted to remember it.

“I swear, Koenig just said to ‘go down to the lower level.’ He didn’t mention the librarian guardian of time and mystery.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Guardian?”

“Definitely,” he said with a mock-serious nod. “You look like someone who knows the weight of centuries.”

You huffed a small breath of laughter, not quite used to people talking to you like this—like you were fascinating instead of just useful.

“You’re lucky I’m not more territorial,” you said dryly. “Or I’d demand a toll.”

He tilted his head. “What kind of toll?”

“Historical appreciation. Maybe some decent questions. Bonus points if you can name a labour movement from before 1920.”

He squinted, mock-pained. “That sounds a little academic. Got anything easier?”

“I could show you something,” you said before you even fully thought it through. “Something most people never see.”

His eyebrows raised. “Is that another trap?”

“No,” you said with a smirk. “That comes later.”

You gestured to a nearby table, carefully untying the cotton ribbon around a faded folder. The paper inside was fragile, yellowed but not crumbling—handwritten letters in dark ink that curled like ivy. You slid one out and placed it beneath the protective sleeve.

“This is from 1914,” you murmured, your voice softer now. “He wrote to her every week for four years. She was engaged to someone else. Said she couldn’t love him back. But he kept writing.”

Pedro leaned in, his breath hitching slightly as he read over your shoulder without touching anything.

“She ever wrote back?”

“Eventually. Right before the war ended.” You looked up at him, your chest tighter than it had been moments ago. “They got married in 1920. Lived to their nineties. She kept every letter.”

Pedro exhaled. “Jesus.”

You didn’t respond. The silence between you wasn’t awkward—it was reverent. Still. Like the old words on the paper had pulled something still-beating into the room with you.

He looked at you then, more intently. “You really love this, don’t you?”

You nodded slowly. “It’s like listening to people whisper across time. Like proof that something mattered, even if nobody else remembers it now.”

He looked away for a moment. Like he was trying to find the rights words to say. “That’s… really beautiful.”

No one had ever looked at the archives that way with you. Not even your coworkers. And something about the way he lingered—not for show, not out of politeness—made something deep in your chest shift slightly off-centre.

“Let me walk you to Koenig,” you said eventually, gently closing the folder. “Before you end up in the preservation lab and get chased out by Gwen.”

He chuckled and followed, still casting glances over his shoulder at the rows of secrets behind you.

“Hey,” he said as you reached the elevator. “If I wanted to see more… would that be okay?”

You looked at him—this stranger who’d wandered in from the wrong hallway, who listened like every word mattered.

“Maybe,” you said softly. “But only if you stop calling me a guardian.”

He grinned. “No promises.”

——

It started innocently enough.

Pedro came back the following week—not with an entourage or anything remotely flashy, just with a takeaway coffee cupped in both hands and a hopeful look in his eyes. He paused at your desk like he wasn’t sure he’d be welcome, but there was something about the way he leaned in, casual and tentative all at once, that told you he’d hoped to find you here again. You raised an eyebrow when he gently slid the cup across the desk toward you.

“Got anything sad and beautiful today?” he asked, his voice as soft as the faded paper between your gloved hands.

The corner of your mouth tugged upward. “Bribing archivists now?”

“Only the best ones,” he said with that crooked smile, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes just a little.

You studied him for a second—longer than you meant to—and nodded toward the empty chair across from you. “Fine.”

That was the beginning of something neither of you had a name for.

Over the next several weeks, Pedro started sowing up during his downtime—always respectful, never assuming too much. Sometimes he brought coffee, sometimes pastries from bakeries he said had charmed him that morning. Other times he came empty-handed, just genuinely curious and quiet, content to sit across from you and ask questions that weren’t about your personal life, but somehow still made you feel seen.

He asked about the paper—why it felt so soft in some letters, so brittle in others. He asked about handwriting styles, about the way ink bled on wartimes parchment. He asked what story had stuck with you the most, and when you hesitated, uncertain whether to answer or deflect, he simply waited, as if silence didn’t make him nervous.

You didn’t tell him much at first. You weren’t in the habit of sharing. But something about the way he listened made you want to fill the space between words. You told him about a letter from 1916, how the writer had drawn tiny hearts in the margins and sealed it with dried violets. He asked what happened to her. You told him the war took her husband before the letter ever arrived.

He looked down for a long time and said quietly, “Feels like holding someone’s heart in your hands.”

The way he said it made you ache a little. Not because it was dramatic—but because it was honest.

And that’s what he was. Always.

He never mentioned who he was, not even once. Not in the way that people with notoriety often do, quietly slipping their resumes into conversation. You wouldn’t have known he was famous if not for the way people sometimes stared when you passed him in the little café in the corner of the library. Or the hushed murmurs you started to notice after a while, the quick, whispered mentions of his name.

But Pedro never acted like someone who needed attention. If anything, he looked almost relieved when you treated him like he was just another curious soul fascinated by the lives left behind on paper.

Then one afternoon, when he was thumbing carefully through a fragile bound ledger of Depression-era depts, he went very still. His eyes softened at the worn ink and tired, shaky handwriting, and his voice, when he spoke, was quiet and laced with something old and personal.

“My Abuela used to write like this,” he said, almost to himself. “Not ledgers. She kept notebooks—full of stories, prayers, bits of poems. Her pen would skip in this same kind of rhythm. I haven’t seen it in years.”

You glanced over at him, unsure whether to say anything, but you turned the page gently, letting the silence wrap around the moment. There was something reverent about how he looked at the page—like the paper itself might carry her voice if he listened hard enough.

He exhaled and looked at you, eyes flickering with something unreadable. “You remind me of her.”

You blinked. “Because I hoard forgotten things and whisper to ghosts?”

He laughed under his breath, then shook his head. “Because she never spoke unless she meant it. But when she did, it was always something worth remembering.”

Your chest tightened in a way you didn’t expect. You didn’t know how to respond to that, so you simply let the quiet stretch between you, warm and unspoken. It wasn’t awkward. It was easy. Familiar.

And maybe that’s what scared you a little.

Pedro started waiting for you after work on the steps of the building sometimes, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, a hopeful smile tugging at his lips. He never pushed, never sked for more than you were ready to give. Sometimes you’d go for walks through the quieter parts of the city, and he’d listen as you talked about forgotten writers or the smell of old glue in t1930s bindings. Other times he’d tell you about the places he’d travelled—his description rich and textured, filled with colour and warmth.

One rainy evening, when you were both tucked into the back corner of a tiny, hidden wine bar he’d found, you realized you hadn’t looked at your watch once. He was talking about the way Madrid smelled after a summer storm, how the rain clung to the orange trees, and you found yourself staring at his hands as he gestured, warm and expressive, then at his mouth as he smiled, and for a moment the realization hit you like a shiver down your spine.

You liked him.

Not just like—you felt something for him. And it terrified you.

You tried to pretend it wasn’t real. That he was just a friend. A comforting presence who felt too good to be true. But the truth unravelled quietly.

The day it all clicked was when you were walking down a quiet street, sipping coffee from mismatched cups he’d convinced the barista to let you take just this once. He’d said something absurd—something about how you probably secretly trained pigeons to deliver forgotten letters to you like a historical Batman—and you laughed so hard you had to lean against a streetlamp to catch your breath. When you looked up, he was already watching you with this soft, almost reverent smile. And he said, “I love seeing you like this.”

Your heart stuttered.

He realized he’d said it out loud a second too late, eyes widening just slightly, his mouth opening to soften the words—but you didn’t let him.”

Right there on the sidewalk, the wind threading through your coat and the sound of distant traffic humming behind you, you kissed him like the last page of a story that had been building chapter by chapter.

His hand rose to your jaw, gentle but certain, like he’d imagined this a thousand times and still couldn’t believe it. When you pulled back, your lips trembling and breath shallow, he looked at you like the world had just tilted on its axis.

“I’ve wanted that for so long,” he whispered. “I just didn’t want to rush it. Not with you.”

And just like that, something inside you gave way.

The quiet turned into something intimate. The waiting became a shared rhythm. And the distance you’d both carefully kept dissolved like mist between your hands.

From that night on, everything changed—but not in a way that disrupted what you had. It just deepened. Solidified. Like the slow layering of paint on a masterpiece, stroke by patient stroke.

You didn’t rush into titles or declarations. You didn’t need to. What you had was steady and slow and honest, like the work you’d built your life around.

He kept coming back. He stayed.

And little by little, you let yourself believe that maybe—just maybe—you were enough for someone like him.

——

Three years didn’t rush by. They unfolded—soft, deliberate, and rich with the kind of comfort that never needed to announce itself.

The early days of being together felt like slipping into a song you’d somehow always known the words to. You didn’t have to explain much to Pedro; he just seemed to know when silence was needed, when a look said more than words, and when to reach for your hand without making a show of it. He didn’t flood your life with grandeur or spectacle—he wove himself into it, piece by piece, like he was stitching something permanent, something sacred.

He learned your routines like second nature. He knew that Sunday mornings were your time—tea, blankets, the soft hum of something classical playing in the background as you read or worked on research for no one but yourself. And instead of disrupting it, he found his way in quietly. He’d come by with something warm from the little bakery two blocks away, curl up next to you without needing to speak, and read a dog-eared paperback he kept forgetting to finish. He was content just to be near you, to exist in the quiet alongside you.

You grew used to finding notes in your jacket pockets—little things, scribbled on old receipts or the backs of museum flyers. You’re the best part of my day. Can’t stop thinking about the way you said “phonograph” today, you absolute nerd. Home smells like your shampoo now. Never leave. They made you laugh, blush, ache in the sweetest way.

And then came the nights.

Not always perfect. But soft. Full of unspoken tenderness. The first time he cooked for you, he burned the rice and cursed in a mix of English and Spanish until you doubled over laughing at how seriously he took it. He swore to redeem himself, and when he did—slow, roasted comfort food he said his mother used to make—you kissed his cheek and whispered that he didn’t have to prove anything. Not to you.

Eventually, you started travelling with him when you could. Just small visits—set weekends here and there, when your work allowed. You told yourself it wasn’t a big deal. That you were just being supportive. But there was something different about those trips. A strange tension that curled low in your stomach, quiet and persistent.

He was still Pedro—the same man who laughed at your sleepy mumbling, who carried your bag without asking, who called you mi corazón like it was just part of breathing—but the moment you stepped into his world, something shifted.

You’d arrive on set, and the air around him changed.

It wasn’t him, not really. He was still kind. Attentive. He kept glancing over his shoulder to make sure you were okay, that you’d eaten, that you weren’t too cold or bored or tired. But he was surrounded by people who looked like they lived in magazines. Effortless beauty. Confident charm. Charisma that dripped from every angle.

The women on set were striking—graceful and poised, wearing casual tank tops that still looked designer, laughing too loudly at things he said. Some of them had known him for years. You saw the way they touched his arm when they talked to him, leaned against him as they laughed. It wasn’t his fault. He was friendly. He didn’t notice. But you did.

You weren’t jealous of them—not really. It wasn’t about them. It was about the way you started to feel smaller in those spaces. Like you were out of place. Like you were the quiet shadow in the corner with nothing in common with the world around him. You weren’t glamorous. You didn’t have a personal trainer or stylist or a face that people stopped to recognize. You were just… you.

Pedro never made you feel unworthy. Not once. But the longer you stood next to him in those glittering places—on red carpets where you clung to his arm and smiled politely as cameras flashed in your eyes—the more the voice in your head began to whisper: You’re holding him back.

You buried it. For as long as you could, you buried it.

He took you to premieres. You wore dresses you were never sure looked right. He told you they were perfect, that you were breathtaking. He held your hand like it grounded him, and when he looked at you in his interviews, his eyes never strayed. But still—there were moments. Quiet ones. You’d catch your reflection in the mirror beside him, in the corner of some behind-the-scenes photo, and your heart would falter.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t want to make it about you. He had enough pressure on him without your fears spilling into the mix. So you smiled. You stayed quiet. And the weight of that silence began to grow, pressing in at the edges.

Then came the night of the latest premiere.

You had arrived separately, He’d had press duties earlier in the day, and by the time you entered the venue, the room was already buzzing. The energy was thick with champagne and nerves and smiles that didn’t quiet reach the eyes. You found him near the back, flanked by a group of castmates, all mid-conversation.

That’s when you saw her.

She was stunning in that almost untouchable way—eyes lined sharp, hair cascading down in perfect waves. An actress from the film. She was standing far too close, laughing just a beat too long, touching his arm every time she made a point. Pedro, to his credit, was nodding, smiling politely, completely unaware of the attention curling around him like perfume.

You stood still for a long moment, watching. Telling yourself it didn’t matter. That it didn’t mean anything.

But something in your chest cracked a little.

You didn’t bring it up. Not that night. Not the day after. Instead, you carried it with you like a stone tucked in your pocket. He noticed something was off—of course he did—but you waved it off. Said you were tired. Said work was stressful.

And then, days later, he showed up at your little kingdom—his familiar knock against the frame, hopeful smile curling at the edges of his mouth—and everything in you gave out.

You looked at him, standing there like he always had, coffee in hand, gentle and warm and yours, and something splintered. Before you could stop yourself, the words tumbled out—sharp, breathless, final.

“I don’t love you anymore, Pedro.”

His face froze. The smile fell. The silence that followed was heavy, stunned.

You wanted to take it back. The second it passed your lips, you wanted to scream. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Because if you said what you really felt—that you were scared, that you felt like you were standing in the wrong life, that you didn’t know how to be enough for someone like him—you were afraid you’d fall apart completely.

So you let him believe it.

You let him leave.

And then you collapsed into yourself, wondering if you’d just made the biggest mistake of your life.

——

The days after the breakup unfold like pages soaked in water—warped, unreadable, dragging time through a haze of quiet misery.

Each morning starts the same: you wake up before your alarm, still tangled in the sheets you used to share with him, the impression of his body in the mattress long gone but still imagined. The room is silent in a way that doesn’t feel peaceful—it feels abandoned. You lie still, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the grief to crest like a wave. Sometimes it does. Sometimes it just hovers beneath your ribs, thick and unspoken.

You still go to work. Still carry yourself like a person who isn’t unravelling. Your coworkers don’t ask questions, and you’re grateful for that. They only know the version of you who was dating a celebrity. They don’t know about the quiet mornings, the shared coffee cups, the way he would press a kiss to the back of your neck before leaving for set. They don’t know how he would whisper stupid jokes just to make you laugh when you couldn’t sleep. They didn’t see how gently he held you when you were anxious, how fiercely he loved.

They don’t know what you lost.

And you try not to think about what he must be doing now. Whether he’s back in L.A., or in New York already, preparing for SNL. Whether he’s sleeping. Eating. Laughing.

Whether he’s thinking about you.

You’ve left everything of his untouched. His toothbrush still sits in the bathroom drawer, tucked behind yours. His favourite sweater—the one you always teased him for because it was hideous but soft—lies draped over the back of the chair in your bedroom, exactly where he left it the last time he stayed over. You should put it away. Or throw it out. But you can’t. Your body won’t let you. It’s like every cell is still trying to hold onto him.

You check your phone too often. Not because you expect him to text. But because a part of you wants to imagine that he’s on the other side of the silence, typing and deleting. Feeling the same ache in his chest.

When your phone finally buzzes, you’re curled on the couch in a hoodie two sizes too big, eating cereal from the box because you can’t be bothered to make anything real. You wipe your hand on a napkin, reach for the phone, and nearly drop it when you see the name:

Javiera.

It’s like a stone in your stomach. You stare at it, heartbeat slowing to a crawl. For a second, you’re too stunned to react.

You haven’t spoken to her since… well, since you ended it. Since you tore everything down with a lie you still taste on your tongue.

When you finally accept the call, your voice is a whisper.

“Hello?”

“Hola, cariño,” comes the familiar warmth of Javiera’s voice, soft and rich, like a cup of something hot pressed into cold hands. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“No, not at all,” you say to quickly, sitting up straighter on the couch like she can somehow see you.

There’s a pause. You hear the city faintly behind her—traffic, wind, maybe the sound of her keys jingling in her purse.

“I wasn’t sure if I should call,” she admits. “But I’ve been thinking about you. And I just… I wanted to reach out. Not to pry. Bot to get in the middle. Just… to talk.”

You close your eyes. A lump forms in your throat.

“I appreciate that,” you say, your voice thick. “Really.”

She hesitates for only a second before saying. “I have an extra ticket to SNL50. Pedro has been rehearsing all week. It’s going to be a big night. I’d like you to come with me.”

You blink. “Wait, what?”

“You heard me.”

“I—Javi, I don’t think that’s—”

“You don’t have to talk to him,” she says gently but firmly. “I won’t push. I know you’re hurting. I know you needed space. But I also know you still love him. And I don’t want you to wake up one day wishing you had gone. Even if it’s just to see him shine.”

Her words strike somewhere deep inside you, cutting through the armour you’ve built over the past week.

“I don’t think I could handle seeing him,” you murmur. “Not when it’s still like this.”

“I understand,” she says. “But cariño, you don’t have to stay invisible just because you’re in pain. Come with me. If it’s too much, we leave early. No pressure. No expectations.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. A part of you screams no. But another part—a quieter, trembling part that hasn’t stopped loving him for even one second—whispers yes.

And that voice is the only one you listen to.

“Okay,” you whisper. “I’ll come.”

There’s a soft smile in Javiera’s voice. “Good. I’ll send you the details. And I’ll be right beside you the whole night. Promise.”

You nod, swallowing the emotion that’s started to rise. “Thank you.”

“Of course, mi amor. I’ll see you soon.”

She hangs up, and the apartment goes quiet again. Only this time, it doesn’t feel quite so cold.

——

The city vibrates with its usual frenetic energy as you’re escorted by Javiera in a sleek black car, making your way to the venue for SNL50. Every passing block blurs into the next, the lights from the streets creating an almost surreal atmosphere. Your stomach twists with anticipation, a knot of unease lodged deep in your gut. The air outside is crisp, the night carrying a bite of winter, but your nerves simmer beneath the surface, warmer than they should be. You’ve barely said anything in the car, lost in your own mind, and Javiera seems to sense it, occasionally glancing at you with a soft, understanding smile.

“You’re going to be fine,” she says, her voice light, but you can hear the concern in it. “It’ll just be us. We’ll enjoy it together. No pressure.”

You nod faintly, though the truth is, your mind races with worries you haven’t voiced. That aching, nagging feeling is still there, lurking just beneath the surface. You’ve been holding it in foe day now—weeks, even—and tonight is no different.

Once you arrive, the energy shifts. The bright lights and the excitement of the crowd surrounding the entrance to the studio give the whole evening a sense of overwhelming, so larger than life. You feel a tightness in your chest that you can’t shake. The photographers and assistants rush about, and even though you’ve been to similar events with Pedro before, tonight it feels different. The hum of the crowd feels louder, the whispers and flashes more intense.

Javiera walks with you through the back entrance, leading you past a sea of dressed-up stars, all impeccably groomed, their smiles perfect, their laughter like music, but it doesn’t ease the weight on your chest. Your mind circles in the same direction it always does.

What am I doing here?

You don’t belong. The realization stabs at you like a bitter truth you’ve known all along. You don’t belong in this world, where every face is brighter, more polished. But then you see him.

Pedro.

He’s standing at the bar, chatting with someone, but your eyes lock instantly. The familiar warmth of his smile spreads across his face as he laughs, his eyes crinkling, the softness of him radiating across the room like a magnet. It almost feels like time slows as you watch him. His effortless charm, the way he’s so at ease, his body language welcoming to everyone around him—it all reminds you of everything you’ve lost.

God, I miss him.

You’ve avoided him for weeks, kept your distance, but now he’s here, so real, so tangible, in a place full of people. His presence fills the space in ways that make everything else fade into background noise.

The weight in your chest grows, and you feel yourself retreating back into the shadows of the room. It’s not just that you feel lost in this overwhelming environment—it’s that now, in this moment, standing in front of him again, you feel like nothing. Not in a self-loathing way, but in the sense that you don’t fit. You don’t measure up. He’s in his element, surrounded by people who adore him. And you, well… you’re just the one who loved him. The one who couldn’t handle it.

Javiera’s gentle hand touches your arm, grounding you for a moment. “Hey, you’re okay,” she murmurs, her voice soft but firm. “You’re not invisible. You’re not nothing. He’ll be happy to see you.”

But you’re not sure you can handle it. Not sure you can handle him being surrounded by all of this—by his world.

You take a breath and try to steady yourself.

“We should get a drink,” you offer, your voice sounding strange even to your own ears. You need to find something to hold onto before you break under the weight of everything.

Javiera leads you to a quieter corner of the room. The low murmur of conversations around you, the clink of glasses, and the rhythmic hum of music helps you calm the rapid beat of your heart, but only slightly. She orders something light, and you sip slowly, trying to focus on the citrusy tang of your drink, trying to convince yourself that you’re okay, that it’s all fine.

But then, like fate itself is out to make things harder for you, you feel a gaze settling on you. A presence too close, too lingering.

You look up, and there is a man you don’t know, but who’s clearly been eyeing you for longer than you’d like. His smile is charming, though it feels a little too practiced, his eyes far too intense. His gaze travels over you in a way that feels invasive.

“Hey,” he says, his voice low, a little too smooth for comfort. “Is this seat taken?”

You blink in surprise. “Um, yes, actually,” you reply, hoping to get rid of him without confrontation.

But he’s insistent, sliding into the seat beside you before you can protest. “You sure? Because I don’t see anyone else with you.” He leans just a little too close, his presence crowding you like a heavy fog.

“I’m waiting for my friend,” you say, your tone firm, trying to assert yourself without being rude.

The man only laughs, a soft chuckle that you can’t quite place. “She’s taking her time, huh? I don’t mind keeping you company.”

You shift uncomfortably in your seat, but before you can speak up again, he places his arm on the back of your chair. The walls inside you go up immediately.

“Look, I’m not interested,” you say, your voice clipped. But it’s not enough. His smile only widens.

You look desperately over at Javiera, but she’s still by the bar, talking with someone you don’t know. You’re alone with this man, and it makes your skin crawl.

“Come on, don’t be shy,” he persists. “Just let me—”

Before he can finish you hear it.

“Hey.”

The sharpness in his voice cuts through the noise, freezing you in place.

Pedro.

You almost don’t believe it. You turn your head slowly, and there he is, standing in front of you, his face tight, his brow furrowed as he looks at the man who’s still too close for comfort.

“I think she said she’s fine,” Pedro says, his tone controlled, but there’s something fierce beneath it.

The man immediately stiffens, looking up at Pedro with wide eyes. Recognition flashes across his face, the pieces clicking into place.

Pedro doesn’t flinch. His gaze doesn’t waver, and his posture remains firm, protective.

The man stammers a half-hearted apology, too embarrassed to even try anymore. “Sorry, I didn’t know…”

Pedro doesn’t say anything else. He just steps forward, his presence creating an invisible barrier between you and the stranger, effectively sending him on his way with nothing but a few muttered words.

And just like that, only the two of you remain.

Pedro doesn’t look at you right away. He watches the man disappear into the crowd, jaw tight, his chest rising and falling with the remnants of his barely restrained anger. You’re still holding your breath when his eyes finally turn to you, softer now, but still heavy with emotion.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice gentler this time. But you can hear what’s layered beneath the question. I’m sorry. I’m here. I shouldn’t have let things get this far.

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Yeah. I just… didn’t expect that.”

Pedro hesitates for half a second, then takes a step closer, his voice low enough now that only you can hear it. “He shouldn’t have touched you. Shouldn’t even looked at you like that.”

His protectiveness catches you off guard. It always has. Even now, after everything, it tugs at your chest in ways you’re not ready to face.

“I handled it,” you say, trying to sound steady. “But thank you.”

The words hang awkwardly between you, too formal for everything that’s happened in the last few weeks. You look down at your glass, fingers tightening around the stem. You can feel him watching you, feel the heat of his presence, so close and yet so far from where you used to be.

Pedro shifts slightly, like he’s unsure if he should stay or give you space. “Can we talk?” he asks after a beat. “Somewhere quiet?”

Your heart twists again, but you nod.

He leads you away from the noise, the buzz of the party fading as you walk down a side hallway. It’s quieter here. The lighting is dim, warm, soft enough that it almost feels like you’ve stepped outside of time. He pauses beside a closed dressing room door and gently pushes it open. It’s empty. A private space with a couch, a low coffee table, a few scattered scripts and makeup brushes—quiet and far enough away from the laughter and lights.

You step inside first, and Pedro closes the door behind you, sealing the room in a thick, aching silence. You don’t sit. Neither does he.

For a moment, the air is filled only with the low hum of distant soundproofed music and your breath catching just slightly in your chest.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he says softly, breaking the silence. His hands are in his pockets, his shoulders tense. “I was hoping, but I didn’t think—after what happened…”

He trails off, leaving the rest unspoken. You know what he means. You’ve lived it every single day since.

“I didn’t think I could come,” you admit, voice quiet and raw. “I almost didn’t. But… something told me I had to. That I’d regret it if I didn’t.”

Pedro nods slowly, taking a step toward you. “I thought about you every single day,” he says, his voice tight. “I wanted to call. I wanted to ask you what I did wrong, where I went wrong.”

“I’m sorry,” you blurt suddenly, the words sharp and raw and unfiltered. Pedro’s brows furrow slightly, surprised. “For how I ended things. For not telling you how I really felt. I thought… I thought I was doing the right things. I thought I was protecting both of us.”

His expression shifts, softens, but his body stays still.

“I was scared,” you admit, your voice trembling. “Scared that I wasn’t enough. That one day, you’d realize you wanted someone who could be more for you. Someone who wasn’t scared every time a camera turned her way. Someone who could glide through all of it beside you, instead of clinging to the edges. Someone who fit better into your world. And when I saw how easily she flirted with you, how effortless it seemed… I panicked. I convinced myself I was holding you back. That letting you go would give you a chance to be happy.”

Pedro takes a slow step forward, his eyes never leaving yours. “And you thought I’d be happy without you?”

Your chest tightens. “I didn’t want to think that. But I kept hearing it in my own head. All the doubts I tried to bury for the past three years. They just got louder. I didn’t want to break up with you, Pedro. I just… didn’t know how to stay when I felt so small.”

He looks at you like his heart is breaking all over again.

“I never wanted someone to glide beside me. I wanted someone real. Someone who tells me when I’m being and idiot, who doesn’t care about cameras or premieres or any other bullshit—someone who looks at me like I’m still the guy who spills coffee on his scripts and loses his keys three times a week.” he says, voice low and thick with emotion. Your lip trembles, and he reaches for your hands. His grip warm, grounding.

“I don’t need someone polished and perfect. I need you. The woman who reads in bed with one leg out of the covers. The one who leaves me voice messages during the day about stray cats she saw. The one who makes everything feel like home—even the worst hotel room, even the loneliest night.”

He steps back a little, just enough to reach into the inner pocket of his jacket. Your heart stops. You watch his fingers wrap around something.

“I’ve had this with me for months. I was hoping you’d come tonight,” he admits, voice quiet but steady. “I kept telling myself I was waiting for the right moment. Some perfect backdrop. But the truth is, every time I thought about asking, I got scared.”

“Scared?” you repeat, stunned.

He nods slowly. “Scared you’d say no. Not because you didn’t love me. But because I hadn’t done enough to make you feel like you were safe with me. Like you belonged, not just beside me—but inside this whole messy world of mine.”

He drops to one knee, not dramatically, but with a kind of reverent softness. He pulls a velvet box out of the little pocket and opens it with a quiet snap. The ring inside is timeless—delicate, graceful, the kind of beauty that doesn’t shout, just shines.

“I love you,” Pedro says, voice trembling now. “I love you so damn much it knocks the wind out of me some days. And I never want to go another morning without hearing your voice first thing. I never want to walk into a room and not know whether you’ll be waiting for me at the end of the day.”

Your eyes fill with tears. He looks up at you, and there’s no glitz, no performance. Just love—raw and endless and unfiltered.

“I want to build a life with you that isn’t built on red carpets or scripts or premieres. I want late Sunday mornings and burnt pancakes and quiet walks where no one sees us. I want laughter in the kitchen, arguments about what to watch, lazy evenings tangled up on the couch. I want you. All of you.”

Your breath shudders out.

“I know I’m not perfect,” he continues, barely holding it together, “but I swear to you—I will spend the rest of my life trying to be the man who deserves to stand next to you. The one who lifts you when you’re falling. Who sees you when the world forgets. Who reminds you every day that you are never, ever a shadow. You’re my sun.”

His eyes are glossy now, a trembling smile on his lips as he raises the ring slightly.

“So,” he finishes, his voice barely above a whisper, “will you marry me? Will you let me spend the rest of my life proving to you that you were never holding me back—that you were the one carrying me forward all along?”

You’re already crying, knees giving out beneath you as you sink down to meet him. Your hands wrap around his face, your forehead pressed to his, your voice thick with emotion.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Yes. A thousand times, yes.”

Pedro pulls you into his arms, laughter and relief escaping his chest as he buries his face in your neck. The ring is forgotten for a moment still nestled in the box on the floor beside you, because right now nothing matters more than the way you’re holding each other like the world had just started over.

——

The hallway hums softly behind you as you and Pedro step out of the quiet dressing room, the door gently clicking shut in your wake. Your hand is still wrapped tightly in his, the warmth of his skin grounding you even as your heart floats several inches off the ground. The diamond on your finger catches the light with every step, a small, breathtaking promise nestled against your skin. You glance down at it, then up at Pedro—and he’s already looking at you, eyes wide with awe and love and something unspoken that glows like starlight in his expression.

Neither of you speak. You just walk slowly, the sounds of the party growing louder as you approach the main area again, laughter and music swelling like a heartbeat.

That’s when you hear her voice.

“There you two are.”

Javiera stands just a few feet away, a half-full glass of white wine in her hand, her dark eyes sharp as she looks between the two of you. The curve of her smile is suspicious, her gaze flicking from Pedro’s flushed face to the way his hand clutches yours like it’s a lifeline. And then she sees it—the ring.

Her wine glass lowers. Her mouth parts.

“Wait…” she says, blinking once, then again. “What’s… what’s going on?”

Pedro doesn’t answer her with words. Instead, he lifts your intertwined hands, palm up, and lets her see it clearly: the quiet shimmer of the ring nestled against your skin, the unmistakable intimacy of it. You don’t say anything either, your breath caught in your throat, a small, stunned smile blooming helplessly on your face.

And then Javiera gasps. Loudly.

“You didn’t,” she breathes, eyes going wide.

“She did,” Pedro replies, his voice warm and steady. “She said yes.”

Javiera’s response is instant. She lets out a sound that’s halfway between a squeal and a laugh and sets her wine down blindly on the edge of a nearby console table. Then she launches toward you, her arms wrapping tightly around your shoulders, pulling you into a hug that’s so fierce and joyful it nearly knocks you off balance.

“Oh my God,” she whispers against your ear, voice shaking. “You guys—oh my God. You really did it.”

You’re laughing, a little breathless, your eyes prickling. “We really did.”

She pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes, cupping your cheeks with both hands. “You made him so happy. You make him so, so happy, do you know that?”

You nod, heart swelling with something that tastes like gratitude and disbelief all at once. She turns then and gives Pedro a light smack on the chest. “And you—you didn’t even tell me you were gonna do it tonight!”

“I wasn’t sure I was going to,” Pedro admits with a sheepish half-smile. “I’ve had the ring for months. It was just… something about tonight felt right. I saw her waiting for me, and I thought, why am I waiting?”

Javiera gives a small huff, but it’s fond. “You dramatic bastard. Of course you would propose at the SNL 50th.”

“Gotta keep things memorable,” he says with a grin. You laugh and hook your arm around his waist, leaning into the solid warmth of him. Javiera’s eyes soften again, and she shakes her head with a gentle, overwhelmed expression.

“I’m so happy for you two,” she says sincerely. “You already feel like family, but now it’s official.”

Pedro clears his throat. “You think we can skip the afterparty and celebrate somewhere quiet? Just us?”

Javiera arches an eyebrow. “Already reading my mind. Come on—I saw a quiet corner near a dressing room upstairs. We can raid the minibar and drink champagne off the network’s dime.”

Pedro snorts and mutters something about that being that real dream, and the three of you sneak away like teenagers skipping curfew.

——

The room is warm and quiet when you arrive, tucked high above the noise of the afterparty. Javiera kicks off her heels and flops dramatically onto the velvet sofa. Pedro follows behind with a bottle of champagne he charmed off a staff member and three mismatched glasses he dug up from the cabinet.

“No fancy toast?” you tease, settling beside him.

He grins, popping the cork and catching the foam like it’s second nature. “Only this: to love, to surviving premieres, and to you agreeing to marry my dumb ass.”

“Cheers,” Javiera chimes, clinking her glass against yours then Pedro’s before sipping. “Seriously though, I’ve never seen him this happy. Like, ever.”

Pedro leans back, stretching his arm behind you on the couch, pulling you in closer until your head rests against his shoulder. “That’s because I wasn’t.”

You glance up at him. His eyes are on you, deep and fond and full of things you don’t have words for. But his hand squeezes your shoulders, and it’s enough. You know.

For the next hour, you talk and laugh and let the world fall away. Javiera tells stories about Pedro when they were teenagers—how moody he got when he went to high school, how dramatic he was in college theatre when he called her up on the phone. Pedro groans and groans, but he doesn’t stop her. He just keeps sneaking glances at you. Like you’re a secret he still can’t believe he gets to keep.

Eventually, Javiera tops off her wine, toasts the air, and says, “I always knew it would be you.”

You blink, a little flushed from the champagne. “Me?”

She nods. “You anchored him. Not in the way that held him back. In the way that reminded him where home is.”

Your throat tightens. Pedro reaches for your hand again. You let your fingers thread through his without a second thought.

“Well,” Javiera says, standing and stretching, “I should probably leave the lovebirds alone before Pedro starts making out with his fiancée in front of me.”

You laugh. “You mean again?”

She points at you with a grin. “See? She gets me.”

Pedro just throws his head back and groans, but you can see the light in his eyes—soft, safe, proud. The second the door clicks shut behind his sister, he turns toward you, both hands now cradling your face.

“You sure this is real?” he whispers, brushing your cheek with his thumb. “You sure you want all of it—me, the chaos, the cameras, the weird hours?”

“I don’t want all of it,” you murmur. “I want you. And that just happens to come with the rest.”

His lips part like he’s about to say something—then closes them again. Instead, he kisses you slow and long, and when he pulls away, you’re both breathless and smiling.

“Then let’s go back to the hotel.”

——

The city had quieted, its pulse dimmed to a slow, golden heartbeat. New York at night was always full of chatter and laughter, but here—on this particularly little street—it felt like the whole world had paused just for the two of you.

Your heels tapped softly on the pavement, your arm tucked securely into Pedro’s. The scent of rain lingered on the breeze. The streets still shimmered faintly from earlier rainfall, reflecting the haloed glow of streetlamps and the soft lights from windows overhead. Everything around you felt suspended in amber, dreamlike and impossibly still, except for the warmth radiating from the man beside you.

Pedro swayed ever so slightly with each step, not drunk, but warm and light in that way that only a couple glasses of champagne, good company, and the high of love can make a man. His fingers brushed against yours over and over until he finally laced them tightly, like he couldn’t stand the space between you even for a breath.

You caught yourself glancing again—at your hand in his, at the ring that glinted beneath the streetlight with every tiny movement. Your chest fluttered every time your gaze landed on it, like it was still sinking in. That it was real. That it happened. That he happened.

Pedro noticed your silence and slowed slightly. “You okay?” he asked softly, tugging your joined hands toward his chest.

You nodded, lips curling into a stunned, dazed smile. “Yeah. Just… it still doesn’t feel real.”

Pedro stopped walking entirely.

The sudden stillness made your pulse skip, and you looked up at him, curious. He was watching you with that soft, unreadable expression—like you were some incredible piece of art that he’d stumbled upon and was trying to memorize before it disappeared.

“You keep saying that,” he murmured. “That it doesn’t feel real.”

You swallowed, heart thudding. “Because I’ve never felt like this before. Like—like someone actually chose me. Wants me.”

Pedro reached for your other hand and held them both between his. “I didn’t just choose you. I found you. The realest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You felt the prickle of tears press against the corners of your eyes, but Pedro leaned in, kissed your knuckles, and said, “But you know what? I get it. Sometimes when something feels that big, that good… it’s hard to believe it’s really yours.”

He smiled, crooked and conspiratorial. “So I think we need to do something about that.”

“Like what?” you asked, blinking back emotion.

Pedro looked around, then—without warning—stepped out into the middle of the street, planting his feet right beneath the glowing streetlamp. You froze on the sidewalk, watching him in stunned disbelief.

“Pedro… no,” you warned, already sensing what was coming.

“Yes,” he said, with a gleam in his eyes. “Absolutely, yes.”

He the raised both arms wide to the sky and shouted from the top of his lungs with unabashed joy, “Hey, New York! She said yes!”

The words echoed through the street, bouncing off brick walls, slipping into alleyways, startling a bird from a nearby tree.

You covered your mouth, heart leaping in your throat.

“I’m gonna marry her!” he yelled again, spinning once in the street with outstretched arms. “She said yes to me!”

You half-ran to him, trying to grab his coat sleeve. “Pedro! Stop!”

But he was grinning too hard, his voice still ringing with giddy disbelief. “I’m gonna marry the love of my life and I want the whole world to know!”

Your laugh escaped before you could supress it, bright and surprised and full of love.

He turned toward you, his voice dropping into something warmer and quieter. “You’ve been wondering if it’s real?” he asked. “Well, now the entire city knows. The whole damn world, if I have anything to say about it.”

You looked up at him, heart nearly bursting. “You’re impossible.”

Pedro stepped closer, cupped your face in both hands, and whispered, “I’m yours.”

Then, from above, the creak of a window made you both glance up.

An elderly woman with a crown of silver curls appeared in a second-story window, bundled in a pale blue robe, peering out into the street with a sleepy but intrigued expression.

“What on earth’s going on down there?” she asked, squinting slightly.

Pedro waved up at her like a kid caught sneaking cookies. “Sorry, ma’am! I proposed to the love of my life and she said yes. I got a little too excited.”

Her face slowly broke into a wide, toothy grin. “Is that right?”

Pedro nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

The woman chuckled and leaned out just a bit further. “Well then—congratulations to you both. That’s a beautiful thing.”

“Thank you,” you called up with flushed cheeks.

“But maybe…” she added with a soft twinkle in her eyes, “…save the yelling for the honeymoon, alright?”

Pedro threw his head back and laughed, genuine and unashamed. “You got it.”

She gave a playful little salute before pulling back inside, and the window eased shut once again. The warm glow behind the glass flickered off, leaving you both in the quiet golden hush of the streetlight once more.

Pedro turned back to you, hands out. “See? Even she thinks it’s a beautiful thing.”

You walked into his arms without hesitation, your face burying into the space between his shoulder and neck. He held you tightly, rocking slightly on the balls of his feet.

“I love you,” you whispered.

“I love you more,” he murmured. “You’re it for me. Always have been.”

You leaned back, hands curling into the lapels of his coat. “I was really scared, you know. When we weren’t… when I thought I lost you.”

Pedro’s thumb brushed your cheek. “I was scared too. But I’d lose everything before I lost you again. I won’t ever stop showing you how much I love you.”

Your throat felt thick again, voice catching. “Then don’t stop.”

He kissed you softly, slowly, reverently—beneath the soft glow of the city, as a new chapter began with nothing but love, the night, and the echo of joy in your joined hands.

——

The door to the suite whispered shut behind you, the soft click echoing in the quiet like the final note of a song. Stillness settled around you like a silk sheet, thick with anticipation and warmth. Pedro didn’t let go of your hand. His fingers, strong and a little rough from years of training and working out, curled tightly around yours—like letting go even for a moment wasn’t an option.

The light from the streetlamp slipped into the room through the open curtains, soft shadows dancing on the walls, but Pedro’s eyes never left your face.

He studied you as though you were the only thing in the world worth looking at. As if the whole night had led to this moment—just the two of you, no red carpets, no camera flashes, no careful interviews or tailored suits. Just him, in his slightly wrinkled brown long sleeves under his brown jacket, and you, now barefoot on the hotel carpet with your heart thudding like a second heartbeat in your throat.

“You’re still shaking,” he murmured, lifting your joined hands and brushing his lips across your knuckles.

“From what?” you whispered.

He smiled, barely, a quiet tug at the corner of his mouth. “From everything. From me asking you to be mine forever. From you saying yes.”

Your breath caught at the sound of it again—yes. That word had never felt like enough before, but tonight, it had cracked your world wide open.

Pedro stepped forward, one hand reaching to cup the side of your face, the pad of his thumb brushing lightly across your cheek. His touch was reverent, feather-light, as if you might vanish if he pressed too hard.

“Can I take care of you tonight?” he asked, voice deep and low, a little hoarse with emotion. “Not just touch you… but love you. Slowly. Fully. The way I’ve been wanting to all night.”

You could only nod. You were already melting from the look in his eyes alone.

His kiss was soft at first—just a meeting of lips, a shared breath, a question. But when your arms slid up around his neck and your fingers aliped into the curls at the nape of his neck, he deepened it, tilting your head, kissing you like he had nowhere else to be for the rest of his life.

The kiss turned unhurried and tender, his lips moving with purpose, coaxing yours open with a slow, aching sweetness. His hands moved—over your back, your waist, your hips—tracing familiar paths with new intensity. Every brush of his skin against yours sent heat coiling low in your belly.

When he stepped back to unzip your dress, it wasn’t rushed. He held your gaze the entire time, dragging the zipper down slowly, like each inch was a revelation. The fabric slipped off your shoulders and pooled at your feet, and Pedro’s breath caught audibly in his throat.

His eyes trailed down your body, hungry but awed—like he was taking in a painting he could never quite believe was real.

“You’re unreal,” he whispered, brushing his hands along your sides, as though grounding himself in your warmth.

You helped him out of his jacket, his long sleeves, his pants with his belt—each layer discarded with purpose, not urgency. When your hands met his skin, he shivered. His body was warm and solid beneath your touch, and you traced every plane and dip with slow curiosity, like you were memorizing him all over again.

When he finally lowered you on the bed, it wasn’t with dominance or urgency, but with something softer. He followed you down, his body hovering over yours, his gaze locked on your face.

“I don’t want to go fast,” he whispered against your lips. “I just want to feel you. Every single part of you.”

You nodded, voice lost. Your legs parted to cradle him, and he settled between them, his chest pressing to yours, skin on skin. The heat of him made you stutter, your body already aching for more.

His kisses trailed down your neck, your collarbone, the soft rise of your breasts. He took his time—kissing, stroking, murmuring soft words of love against your skin. Each touch was like a promise. Every kiss felt like it carried years of devotion behind it.

When he took one of your nipples into his mouth, his tongue slow and warm, your back arched instinctively, a moan spilling from your lips. Then he soothed it with his hand, worshipping you with the kind of patience that made you ache.

“Let me take my time with you,” he whispered. “You don’t have to hold anything back. Not tonight.”

When his mouth moved lower, pausing at your navel, your thighs trembled underneath his touch. With a questioning look he held his hands on your hips, not going further without your permission. When you gave him a slow nod, he pulled your underwear down with careful movements, and as the piece of garment fell on the floor next to the bed, he was already between your legs again. He kissed the inside of one thigh, then the other, his beard brushing sensitive skin and making your whole body shiver.

Then his tongue met you—gentle, slow, savouring. He moved like he knew every sound you’d make before you did, every place to kiss and lick and flip to bring you closer, then pull you back, only to start again. His arms wrapped around your thighs, holding you open, holding you steady, as he coaxed you to the edge with infinite care.

When you came, it was with a cry of his name and your fingers tightening in his curls. He didn’t stop until the tremors passed, until your breath started to even again. He kissed his way back up your body, the taste of you still on his lips, and you met him with a kiss that was more desperate now, full of need and gratitude and love.

“Please,” you whispered against his mouth. “I need you inside me.”

Pedro reached between you, aligning himself slowly, and when he pushed in, your whole body curved into him. The stretch was delicious, the pressure grounding, and the groan he let out as he sank into you made your head spin. He stayed still for a long minute, just holding you, your foreheads pressed together, both of you breathing hard.

“You feel like everything I’ve ever wanted,” he whispered.

Then he began to move—slow, deliberate thrusts that made your body hum. He kissed you between every roll of his hips, told you how much he loved you with every stroke.

The build was slow. Deep. He never lost eye contact. His hand stayed laced with yours, his body cradling yours as if he needed you as much as he needed air.

When your second high came, you felt it rise like a tide, sweeping over you as you clung to him. Pedro buried himself deep, his movements growing a little more urgent, his voice shaking as he whispered your name into your neck.

He followed you seconds late, pulsing inside you with a low, shuddering moan, his body trembling with the force of it. When he collapsed against you, it was with his arms wrapped tightly around your waist, like he couldn’t let go. His breath warmed your skin as he kissed your shoulder, your collarbone, the curve of your jaw.

“You’re going to be my wife,” he murmured softly, reverently. “God, I’m so lucky. I love you so damn much.”

You turned your face to his, pressed a kiss to his temple. “Forever,” you whispered. “I’m yours.”

And wrapped in his arms, you believed it. Down to your bones, you believed it.

#pedro pascal #pedropascal #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x f!reader #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal fluff

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talaok · 1 year ago

Note

Okay so I’m thinking Pedro x Actress!reader where another famous guy/actor says in an interview that he has a crush on us which makes Pedro a bit jealous and then we all end up at the same event - maybe Pedro gets abit angsty with him but he’s super loving and affectionate toward us…

warnings: jelousy

a/n: it goes without saying that i apologize for the wait babe, i really loved this request

It wasn't that he hated him, it was just that if anything were to happen to him he wouldn't be the one to cry, that's all...

and maybe he'd thought about punching that smug look off his face once... or twice... or every time the thought of him came up.

But it still wasn't hate

Hate is a strong word, and Pedro wasn't not one to throw it around easily, he was all for peace and love and everything but this guy... this guy was really pushing the limits

And what the actual fuck was he even doing here tonight?

"You're staring"

Your soft, amused voice pulled him out of his own thoughts, his eyes sliding to you

"I just don't get why he's here"

You stifled a laugh as you answered "The same reason why we are baby"

"he's not even nominated" he grumbled,

"neither am I" You smiled, placing your hand on his cheek, feeling his soft scruff graze your palm "It's not a big deal babe, he probably said my name just because it was the first one that popped into his mind" you shook your head "I bet it's not even true"

Yeah right

He would have believed that if you were anybody else, but you... fuck- it didn't take him even a second to fall in love and you expected him to believe that that guy didn't have a crush on you? He would have sooner begun believing that Mark Zuckerberg was one of those lizard guys.

You were everything anyone could have ever dreamed of, you were funny, so incredibly smart it made him feel like a fifth grader in comparison, and god you were the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen

he knew what you did to men, he knew what you did to men because that's exactly what you did to him,

and he didn't even mind that much, he'd never been the jealous type, but the problem with Shawn wasn't that he liked you (because he clearly did), but it was that he had the audacity, the smugness to fucking say it out loud, to admit it in front of a camera for anyone to see, like the woman he was talking about didn't have a husband, like he wasn't her fucking husband.

"I saw him look at you before"

This time, you did let out a little snort

"what, how dares he?" you mocked him, laughing again as his face remained completely unamused "It's your big night babe, don't let this silly little thing ruin it, please"

But just then, just when he was finally starting to let go a little, the focus of all of his loathing appeared beside you

"I'm sorry to interrupt-"

Then fucking don't

"I just wanted to introduce myself"

Shawn's eyes were only on you, as if he didn't even exist, as if your hands hadn't been on his cheeks but a moment prior

"I'm Shawn," he said, offering his hand to you "I'm... well, I'm a really big fan" he ended with a soft laugh, smiling in that charming way that surely made women all woozy

"Hi Shawn, it's a pleasure to meet you-"

As you shook his hand, Pedro was closing his into fists

This fucking guy-

"Hi pal"

Pedro's voice didn't sound even a little bit not completely pissed off

"I'm Pedro," he said "her husband"

The flicker of amusement that sparked behind his eyes made Pedro seriously ponder whether or not a little punch was that bad of an idea

"Oh, I didn't know you were married"

Andrew's eyes were back to you, and god it was taking all of Pedro not to grab him and throw him to the other side of the room

Just the fact that he was looking your way seemed too much,

How dare he look at you, at his beautiful wife, at the love of his life?

It felt wrong, it was wrong, and it was making him furious

"I'm sure you didn't" Pedro grunted, taking a slow step closer to him "Shawn right?" he asked, even though he knew much too well who he was "What exactly are you doing here?" Pedro's eyes narrowed, his head tilting "I didn't notice your name in any of the nominations"

"baby" your soft warning was met with a soft smile from him, one that faded into a stoic/murderous gaze as soon as your husband's eyes were back on the man before him

"I'm just asking a question sweetheart, that's all"

Shawn seemed to accept Pedro's challenge in the blink of an eye

"I'm here with a friend, he's the one that got the nom"

Pedro nodded slowly, "ah. Right," he said, his hand going to your back and drawing gentle circles on it

He didn't miss the way Shawn followed the movement

"And why exactly are you talking to my wife Shawn?"

Now that, that seemed to take him aback a little, but he recovered quickly

"What?" he laughed "is no one allowed to talk to your wife without your permission or something?"

"Oh absolutely not, my wife can talk to whomever she wishes," Pedro spoke "I'm just not very fond of her talking to men that have openly admitted to liking her" he shrugged as if his eyes and voice weren't yelling murder

You, in the meantime, were busy looking for the fastest way out of this place

"You've seen the video," Shawn said more like a statement

"I sure did" Your husband nodded "I especially liked the part where you described her as your "dream woman""

Shawn sighed loudly, shaking his head

"listen, man-"

"No, you listen, man" Pedro interrupted him "How 'bout you get the fuck away from me and my wife, mh?" he said more like a threat "How bout that?"

Shawn let out a loud breath before responding

"whatever man" he sighed, his eyes moving to you "It was nice to meet you y/n, maybe we can meet another time..." he glanced to the man on your right "when the guard dog isn't around"

"yeah" Pedro scoffed "Go fuck yourself, buddy"

You both stared at his back as he walked away, but after no more than two seconds, you couldn't help but let your lips pull into the smile you'd been holding this whole time

"that was a bit harsh"

Pedro only grinned as he brought you flash against him with his hands on your waist

"Like you haven't done worse" he smirked

Yeah... while Pedro wasn't usually jealous, you were... let's just say you were not exactly on the same wavelength

"you looked ready to kill him" you chuckled, wrapping your arms behind his neck

"mh" he hummed, ghosting your mouth "Who says I wasn't" he teased, his lips crashing with yours in a long, deep kiss that Pedro absolutely didn't wish for Shawn to be witnessing

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fallenbratfiction · 2 months ago

Text

does your mother know - pedro pascal x f!reader

A/N: You knew it was coming, i mean come on!! Also added some tweaks as I've been non stop watching The White Lotus so it's sort of an AU. Both you and Pedro happen to be at the white lotus. AAAAAAAA!!!! Honestly this went on for longer than I had planned but I loved how it ended!

Post that inspired this fic

warnings: girthy age gap (reader is early 20's and he is around 50),, eating out (f! Receiving) protected sex (wrap it before you tap it!) use of word daddy and baby, alcohol consumption, if I missed any warnings let me know!

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

🔞minors dni, I don’t take responsibility for what you choose to consume.

I hope you enjoy this just as much as I enjoyed writing for y’all!

🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊

The sun was just beginning its slow descent over the ocean, painting the sky in streaks of pink and gold. A warm breeze carried the scent of salt and sunscreen through the resort’s private beach, where guests lounged with cocktails in hand, the hum of music and laughter blending into the rolling waves.

The White Lotus was everything it promised—luxurious, indulgent, and filled with people who had far too much money and not enough problems. You were here with your mother who had little interest in where you went or who you were with, too preoccupied with spa treatments, resort gossip, and work. It made slipping away easy, effortless even.

And it made your latest interest all the more enticing.

Pedro.

He was here alone, lingering around the resort like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be enjoying it or just enduring it. He didn’t seem to belong, yet somehow, he did—like an outsider who had mastered the art of observing the privileged up close. And he intrigued you.

You spotted him now, stretched out under a white beach umbrella, aviator sunglasses perched on his nose, an unread book resting on his stomach. The drink beside him was sweating more than he was, untouched, while he lazily observed the crowd.

Sliding your sunglasses down the bridge of your nose, you approached with an effortless sway, your bare feet sinking into the warm sand. "This seat taken?" Your voice was smooth, just a hint of playfulness lacing the edges.

Pedro tilted his head, barely moving, but you felt his gaze shift to you. He smirked, that slow, lazy kind of smirk that made something flutter in your stomach. "Looks like it is now."

You eased onto the lounger beside him, close but not too close, stretching out your sun-kissed legs. After a moment, you reached into your beach bag, pulling out a bottle of sunscreen. With an exaggerated sigh, you turned to him, holding it out. "Would you mind? It's such a hassle doing my back alone."

Pedro raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Is that so?"

You tilted your head, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. "Oh, don’t act so surprised. I’m sure you've done this before." You twisted slightly, exposing the smooth expanse of your back. "Besides, it’s a shame to let a burn ruin such a nice vacation."

Pedro exhaled, shaking his head, but he took the bottle nonetheless. "You're trouble, aren’t you?"

"Only if you want me to be."

He chuckled, squeezing the lotion into his palm before pressing his hands to your shoulders. His touch was firm, warm, and just slow enough to make you shiver. You hummed in approval, tilting your head slightly. "You’re good at this. Almost suspiciously so."

"Don’t overthink it," he muttered, working the sunscreen over your soft skin. "Or do you flirt with every man who helps you avoid sunburn?"

You twisted your head to glance at him over your shoulder, eyes glinting. "Only the ones worth my time." You let a few beats of silence linger, pretending to focus on the waves, but you knew he was watching.

"You’ve been here all week," you said eventually, glancing at him over the rim of your sunglasses. "I would’ve thought someone like you would have been snatched up by now."

He chuckled, deep and warm, finally sitting up. "Someone like me? And what’s that supposed to mean?"

"Mature. Brooding. Handsome." You listed the words off as if they were obvious, twirling a finger idly through your hair. "But I suppose you already know that."

Pedro huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "You think flattery works on an old man like me?"

"Oh, I think it works very well." You tilted your head, eyes glinting. "I mean, you haven’t told me to leave yet."

He exhaled through his nose, amused, lifting his drink to take a slow sip. "How old are you?"

You pursed your lips, considering. "Old enough to know what I want."

His brows lifted just slightly, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward. "And what is it that you want?"

You reached for his sunglasses, slipping them off his face without permission. His eyes met yours—warm, dark, assessing. You hummed in approval.

"Wouldn’t you like to find out?" You leaned in slightly, watching the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed. "Or are you afraid you might like it too much?"

Pedro let out a long breath, shaking his head as he leaned back again, arms stretching over the back of his chair. "Does your mother know you flirt like this?"

You laughed, a rich, melodic sound, tossing his sunglasses back onto his lap before standing. "I’ll tell you what," you mused, running a finger along the rim of his abandoned drink. "Why don’t you come find me later? I’ll buy you one that isn’t watered down."

You turned before he could respond, knowing full well that his eyes were following you as you walked back toward the bar, hips swaying just enough to tease.

And, just as you expected, when you reached the bar, you heard the scrape of his chair against the wood of the deck.

---------------------------

Later that night, the resort shimmered under the glow of hanging lanterns and tiki torches, the open-air bar humming with soft music and drunken laughter. You were leaning against the bar, stirring the ice in your drink with a slow, deliberate motion, when you felt the presence before you saw him.

"You owe me a drink, remember?" Pedro’s voice was smooth, teasing, as he slid onto the stool beside you.

You smirked, lifting your glass in mock salute. "I always pay my debts. What are you having?"

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Surprise me."

You flagged down the bartender, ordering something strong but smooth, something that lingered. When the drink arrived, Pedro took a sip, eyes flicking to you in silent approval.

"You really don’t scare easy, do you?" he mused, tilting his head.

"Should I?" You propped your elbow on the bar, resting your chin in your hand. "Are you dangerous?"

He scoffed, shaking his head. "Not to you."

You leaned in slightly, his cologne mixing with the salt air. "Shame. I like a little danger."

Pedro exhaled a laugh, watching you with something unreadable in his gaze. "You keep playing like this, and you might get more than you bargained for."

"I’m counting on it."

The music shifted, something slow and sultry, and you reached for his hand before he could protest. "Dance with me."

He hesitated, just for a second, before exhaling through his nose, amused and defeated all at once. "You’re relentless."

"You have no idea."

------------------

The next morning, the resort’s breakfast terrace was bustling with early risers and those nursing hangovers from the previous night. You sat at a shaded table overlooking the water, sipping fresh orange juice when you spotted him.

Pedro was at the coffee station, brows furrowed as he poured himself a strong black coffee, clearly not a morning person. You smiled to yourself before calling out, "You look like you need something to wake you up."

He glanced up, weary yet amused. "Not all of us have your energy first thing in the morning."

You tilted your head, watching him as he approached your table. "Maybe you just need the right kind of breakfast."

He scoffed, setting his coffee down as he slid into the seat opposite yours. "Yeah? And what’s the ‘right kind’?"

You lifted a forkful of food from your plate, eyes glinting with mischief. "Well, I always go for something... satisfying. Something that keeps me full for a long time."

Pedro’s gaze darkened slightly, his fingers tightening around his mug. "That so?"

You hummed, pretending to consider. "Mmm-hmm. Like a good, thick sausage."

His jaw clenched, and you had to bite back a smirk. "You—"

"What?" You popped the bite into your mouth, chewing slowly, letting the silence stretch. "I just like my breakfast hearty."

Pedro exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "You’re gonna kill me, aren’t you?"

You leaned forward, lowering your voice just enough to be suggestive. "Depends. Do you want to go out with a bang?"

Pedro groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. "Jesus."

You simply grinned, sipping your juice like you hadn’t just wrecked his morning in the best way possible.

It wasn’t until later, when the sun had begun its slow descent and the air had turned thick with humidity, that he found you again. You were stepping into the elevator, still in your blue bikini from an afternoon at the pool, a thin cover-up doing little to conceal how the damp fabric clung to your skin.

Pedro hesitated for only a second before following you in.

The doors slid shut, trapping you in a space far too small and intimate for the heat simmering between the two of you. You glanced up at him, all bright eyes and knowing smirks, leaning against the railing as you tapped a manicured finger against your lip. "You look like a man with something on his mind."

He huffed out a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "You’re gonna get me in trouble, aren’t you?"

You tilted your head, stepping closer. "Would that be such a bad thing?"

His hand flexed at his side, jaw tightening as you reached out, trailing a single finger down the front of his shirt. "I don’t think you realize what you’re doing."

"Oh, I do." You pressed in just enough that he could feel the heat of your body against his. "I just think you’re afraid to admit how much you like it."

The elevator dinged, doors sliding open to an empty hallway. You stepped back, offering a coy smile before walking ahead, your bare feet silent against the plush carpet. Pedro exhaled through his nose, shaking his head before following your lead.

When you reached his door, you turned to face him, waiting as he hesitated. His fingers hovered over the keycard reader, his resolve hanging by a thread. "Tell me to stop," he muttered, more to himself than to you.

You didn’t. Instead, you leaned in, close enough that your breath ghosted over his jaw. "Pedro," you murmured, lips just barely brushing his skin. "Are you really going to leave me standing out here?"

With a quiet curse, he slid the keycard through the reader. The lock clicked open, and you grinned, stepping past him into the dimly lit room. He followed, letting the door shut behind you before finally, finally closing the distance.

Before you could make another teasing comment, Pedro caged you against the wall with his arms, his hands pulling yours above your head as his mouth crushed against yours. Every doubt, every hesitation about what they were doing or the trouble it might bring him, burned away the second he tasted you. You whined against his lips, and the sound sent something primal rushing through him.

He deepened the kiss, swallowing every gasp, every teasing remark you might have thrown at him. His grip on your wrists tightened, holding you there as his other hand slid down, gripping the curve of your hip. "This is what you wanted, isn’t it?" he muttered against your mouth, his voice rough, strained.

You arched into him, breathless, your smirk barely visible between kisses. "Took you long enough."

Pedro groaned, dropping his forehead to yours for just a second before lifting you off the ground, carrying you the short distance to his bed. The last thing he saw before pressing you into the mattress was your wicked little grin—the one that told him you had him exactly where you wanted him to be.

Pedro didn’t waste time. His lips found your neck, trailing heat down to your collarbone, his fingers already working at the thin straps of your bikini top. You sighed, arching into him, your hands threading through his hair as he moved lower, tasting salt on your skin.

Your fingers trailed down his torso, slow and teasing, brushing over the waistband of his pants. He sucked in a sharp breath, pausing just enough to glance up at you with a warning look. "Eager much?"

You only smirked, pressing your palm flat against his stomach. "You’ve been making me wait all day. I think I’ve been patient enough."

His laugh was dark, a rough chuckle against your skin before he kissed down the curve of your waist. "You’re trouble, you know that?"

"Mmm," you hummed, tilting your head. "And yet, you haven’t stopped me."

Pedro groaned, his grip tightening on your hips before he pulled you fully beneath him, his mouth finding yours again.

His lips trail down all the way to your bikini bottom before undoing the laces that rest on your sides. He tosses it somewhere in the room and you watch him with amusement as he parts your legs, immersing himself in your cunt.

"Fuck" he curses at the sight of your bareness before diving in, hungrily kissing your cunt. Your hand traveled down to his hair, tugging as you felt his tongue graze your clit, drawing circles on it, lapping and teasing your entrance.

"Oh god yes!" You whined as he ate you out, his tongue making its way deeper, licking all over the place and suckling on your clit and kissing it, causing you to roll your eyes with pleasure.

He doesn't seem to get enough from you and truly he could just be there all day eating you out but his cock was threatening and pulsing inside his shorts. It urged him to get inside you that instant.

His face separated from your glistening cunt, his mustache and beard covered in your arousal, a scent that would follow him for the rest of the day or even longer.

You tugged at his shirt, pulling him to you so you could kiss his mouth, taste yourself in his tongue in a filthy kiss while your hands worked to pull his shirt off.

He removed his shorts and threw them across the room, took his shirt from your hands and threw it aside on the bed. The both of you were now completely bare. Your eyes traveled his body and you licked your mouth. This is exactly what you had been hoping for all week and finally it was now in front of you.

He stood on his knees, pulling your legs up and apart. He opened a condom with his teeth and wrapped up before he tapped his cock on your entrance and watched as it went all the way in stretching you out, he let out a groan feeling your tight walls around him and he let out another curse.

"Fuck me Daddy" you whimpered,

"What's that now? Say it again"

"Fuck me Daddy" you repeated but he remained still inside of you. You tried to move your hips but his hands gripped your hips stopping you from any movement.

"You young people and manners" He tsked playfully teasing.

"Please! Fuck me Daddy, please!" you begged, and finally he moved. His thrusts were intense and your hiccuped moans only cheered him to go harder.

"You're doing so well baby" He groaned hitting your cervix repeatedly with every thrust, balls slapping against your ass as he buried himself deeper. "Taking this so well, being so good for Daddy"

Soon your walls tightened even more around him and he cheekily smiled, looking at you who were lost in lust, whimpering and moaning with every movement and the tense feeling growing in your core.

"Are you gonna cum for me, hmm baby? Gonna make a mess for me?"

"Yes Daddy, I'm so close!"

You whined nodding your head looking at him. He smiled amused and his hand moved from your hip to your clit, adding pressure to your beaming bud as you tensed even more. He watched you as your voice became louder and his other hand moved to cover your mouth so no one would call about disturbance noises.

Pedro wanted this moment to last forever, and he tried for the longest time to think of anything that crossed his mind other than you, your face or your voice. However soon stilled himself inside you, just as you arched your back, a scream muffled by his hand as you both came at the same time.

Pedro groaned, his grip tightening on your hips before he pulled you fully beneath him, his mouth finding yours again.

He caught himself before falling on top of you, not wanting to crush you, and rolled off, his chest rising and falling as he recovered his breath. You, however, were already on for another round. Before he could react, you moved swiftly, straddling him, your hands roaming over his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat beneath your palm.

He let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. "You trying to kill me, baby?"

You only smirked, dragging your nails lightly down his torso. "What, too much for you?"

Pedro exhaled through his nose, gripping your thighs. "You’re insatiable. Didn’t I just fuck your brain out?"

You leaned down, lips ghosting over his ear. "And yet, you’re still hard. Interesting."

He groaned, tilting his head back against the pillow. "You're going to be the death of me."

The room was quiet except for the distant murmur of the ocean and the slow, steady rhythm of their breathing. You lay sprawled against him, your fingers tracing idle patterns along his chest, his skin still warm beneath your touch. Pedro had one arm tucked behind his head, the other draped lazily over your back, his fingers grazing your spine.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then you hummed, pressing a slow, teasing kiss to his jaw. "Took you long enough."

Pedro let out a breathy chuckle, his fingers tightening slightly on your hip. "I should’ve known you wouldn’t let that go."

You propped yourself up on one elbow, watching him. His usual brooding expression was softened, his lips parted, eyes half-lidded as he looked up at you. But there was something else there—something quieter, more thoughtful.

"No regrets?" you asked, tilting your head, though there was a playful lilt to your voice like you already knew the answer.

Pedro exhaled through his nose, smirking faintly. "If I did, I wouldn’t still be here."

You grinned, dragging your fingers down his chest. "Good answer."

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head, but you could feel the weight behind it—like maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t something he could just brush off. Maybe you had gotten under his skin more than he wanted to admit.

You didn’t press. Not yet. Instead, you rolled onto your back beside him, sighing dramatically. "Guess I’ll have to figure out how to keep myself entertained tomorrow."

Pedro turned his head to look at you, amusement flickering in his eyes. "That supposed to be a hint?"

You smirked, stretching your arms above your head. "Just saying… it’d be a shame if this was a one-time thing."

He didn’t respond right away, but when he did, his voice was quieter, rougher. "Yeah. It would."

You felt something settle in your chest at that—not a promise, but not nothing either. You turned to him, met his gaze, and for a second, the playful teasing between you two gave way to something heavier, something unspoken.

Then, just as quickly, you smirked, breaking the moment. "You’re staring, Pascal."

Pedro let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. "Go to sleep, troublemaker."

You grinned, snuggling deeper into the sheets. "Only if you stay."

He didn’t answer, but the way his arm tightened around you was enough.

🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊

Hope you enjoyed your read! I'd love to hear what you think about it!

Reblogs, likes and comments help this story grow! ✨✨

#pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fics #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x f!reader #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x y/n #pedro pascal #iael writes #pedro pascal fandom #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #pedro x reader

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xmissrogersx · 2 days ago

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Hello, again | Pedro Pascal

tags: fangirl journalist, pedro being sweet, argentina language.

my writing is entirely my own. Any adaptation and/or copy is forbidden.

i hope you are enjoying my stories! U help me a lot if you give me a ♡! All the love.

The comic-con was booming when we arrived. Thousands of characters passed by walking around us.

-I’ve never seen so many spidermans in my life.

-I think they agreed this year -I said looking for my pass.

-You don't think we should have dressed like that, do you? -asked another guy from the set.

-We are press, I don't know if it was ideal.

-Personally, I would have put on my Darth Vader suit -he said proudly, to which we laughed under our breath.-What is funny?

-Oh, nothing, it's just that it's very... basic? -my partner replied, to which they started a discussion from which I quickly escaped.

I saw the Star Wars stand, where the merchandise was simply amazing. A little Grogu stuffed animal caught my attention.

-Can I see it?

-Of course! -the seller exclaimed. I smiled to take it in my hands, stepping back to let other buyers look.

Suddenly, my right foot slipped slightly, making me lose my balance. But out of nowhere I felt a hard surface against my back, making me collide with something, or rather with someone.

-Sorry, I didn't see...

-Calm down, don't worry. Are you okay? -exclaimed a somewhat strange voice, to which he looked up to notice the helmet on.

-Yes, I'm fine, thank you Mando -I answered obviously, to which he laughed.

-I'm flattered to know that you know me, miss...

-Priscilla.

-Priscilla -hearing my name with his modified voice sent an electric shock through my spine.-Are you coming for work?

-Oh, yes. I came with a group of colleagues, whom I have already completely lost. I must make a report to someone from the convention.

-You can do it to me, no problem.

-Excuse me? -mierda, i’m an idiot. How would I react if the greatest of my fantasies in my head were starred by the man who was supposedly in front of me.

-That you can make me the report, I will gladly help you.

-Really? Thank you very much...

-Din, Din Djarin -he exclaimed, to which I laughed, nodding with an obvious head.

He looked at his wrist, reading the time on his watch.

-I have a presentation in 20 minutes, in the main room, in case you want to go.

-I would love to -I nodded and smiled again.

-Your smile is beautiful -he blurted out, leaving me static and sending the electricity again, and then leaving.

I went to the main room, which was already full. I only managed to stand at the bottom. Instantly, all those who were going to show up came out, to which everyone began to applaud effusively.

-Wow, it's incredible that cosplay generates this.

-This is not the cosplay presentation -my partner Honey turned to me, to which I arched an eyebrow.

-I don't understand, they're playing...

-They don't play them, they are the cast of The Mandalorian, they are promoting the movie. Remember you show me the photos of the promo last week. You are the biggest fan of Din Djarin, and doesn’t know it?

-Then...

It was him. Her dark brown hair, which combined with her brown eyes. Television didn't do him justice. And only a moment ago he had been in front of me.

-Pris, are you okay? -she shook my arm, taking me out of my trance.

-Yes, yes... I think -I stammered.

I spend the conference between applause and laughter. Every time he answered a question from the audience, he smiled genuinely. Holy God, his smile already provoked in me too much, but in person it upset me.

Miss, come with me, please -someone spoke to my right.

-Excuse me? -I frowned.

-Come with me, he requested your presence behind -the man pointed out, to what accompanies him.

We crossed a curtain, and then reached a corridor with several doors.

-It's here, come in and wait -he finished and then withdrew. I entered doubtfully, not understanding why I was there.

After 10 minutes, the door handle moved, causing me to paralyze. His figure entered the room. He was wearing the helmet again.

-Sorry for the delay.

-No, don't worry, they brought me a few minutes ago -I nodded, closing my eyes a little in shame, already feeling the blush on my face.-In my head that sounded different, I swear.

He laughed, denying slightly. He raised his hands to the helmet to take it off. I think I've never felt in my life to hold my breath for so long.

-Hello again -he said, raising his right lip up.

-Hi... -I replied stupidly because of my trance, which I didn't want him to notice.

-I have a proposal to make you. I help you with your report, only if you agree to be my guide to show me the city -my expression detonated in amazement instantly.

-Is this your first time in Buenos Aires?

-Something like that, but I would like to see it through you.

la puta madre.

He extended his right hand towards me, to which I replied the greeting even repeating his words in my mind.

-Pedro.

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lazysoulwriter · 2 months ago

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guilty pleasure. - pedro pascal.

----

You had a guilty pleasure.

Well, it wasn’t exactly guilty, but you weren’t about to announce it to the world either. You read fanfiction. Specifically, fanfiction about him. Pedro. Your boyfriend. The man who, at this very moment, was in the kitchen making himself a snack, completely unaware that you were consuming questionable content about him on the internet.

It wasn’t your fault. People were creative, and some of them had a talent for capturing that irresistible mix of charm, warmth, and—let’s be honest—daddy energy he exuded. And maybe, just maybe, some of those fics were a little spicy.

You were in the middle of a particularly... intense paragraph when you heard footsteps approaching. Before your brain could catch up, Pedro walked into the room.

You panicked.

With lightning speed, you slammed your laptop shut, as if that alone could erase all evidence of your activities. But the sudden movement caught his attention immediately.

Pedro raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering in his deep brown eyes. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” you blurted, voice an octave too high.

“Oh, nothing, huh?” He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, smirking like he already knew you were hiding something. “That was the most suspicious ‘nothing’ I’ve ever seen.”

You tried to play it cool. “Just... work stuff.”

He scoffed. “Uh-huh. Work stuff that makes you blush like that?”

Damn it. Your cheeks were burning.

He walked over, placing his hands on the back of your chair and leaning down until his face was right beside yours. “Come on, let me see,” he coaxed, voice smooth and teasing.

You shook your head rapidly. “Nope.”

“Please?”

“Nope.”

He grinned, lowering his voice into that dangerous tone. “Baby, please?”

Damn him and his irresistible charm.

With a dramatic sigh, you opened the laptop and handed it over. Pedro took one look at the screen and immediately started laughing. Like, full-body, shaking laughter.

“Oh my God,” he wheezed. “You’re reading fanfiction about me?”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “Just give it back.”

But he wasn’t done. His eyes scanned the words quickly, and then—oh no.

His smirk turned downright wicked.

“Wait, wait—this is a smut fic?” His grin widened as he kept reading. “Oh-ho-ho, this is explicit. Dios mío—is this what you think about when I’m not home?”

“Pedro—”

“Oh, wow. So you want me to do this to you tonight?” He glanced at you with faux innocence, tapping the screen. “Because I can make that happen, sweetheart.”

“Pedro, I swear—”

“Actually,” he mused, rubbing his chin. “This part? Right here? I could do better.”

Your soul left your body. “I hate you.”

“No, you love me.” He handed the laptop back, still smirking. “And apparently, you love reading about all the ways I could absolutely ruin you.”

You buried your face in a pillow as he laughed, obviously enjoying your suffering.

Then, after a moment, he leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“Just so you know,” he murmured, voice dripping with promise, “you don’t have to read about it. You could always just ask.”

Your breath hitched.

Damn it.

You were never reading fanfiction around him again.

----

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andy-15-07 · 3 months ago

Note

It's SNL night tonight!! How 'bout reader sitting in the audience with his family supporting Pedro on SNL

His Biggest Fan

PAIRING:Pedro Pascal x reader

WORD COUNT: 628 | requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist

The energy in the SNL studio was electric, the kind of buzz that only came with a live show night. Y/N sat in the audience, surrounded by Pedro’s family, his sister and cousins chatting animatedly while they waited for the show to begin. The excitement was palpable, and Y/N couldn’t help but grin as she took it all in. Pedro had been nervous all week, rehearsing skits and perfecting his monologue, but she knew he would be incredible.

His sister nudged her playfully. "You ready to see your man kill it tonight?"

Y/N laughed, feeling warmth spread through her chest. "Absolutely. He’s been practicing his lines in the mirror like a lunatic. I caught him doing different voices at breakfast."

They all chuckled, knowing exactly how seriously Pedro took his work. The lights dimmed slightly, signaling the show was about to start, and the iconic opening music filled the studio. The crowd erupted in cheers as the announcer boomed, "Live from New York, it’s Saturday Night!"

When Pedro finally walked onto the stage for his monologue, looking effortlessly charming in a perfectly tailored suit, Y/N felt a swell of pride. He smiled at the audience, a mixture of excitement and nerves in his eyes.

"Wow," he started, looking around the studio. "This is insane. I can’t believe I’m here… hosting SNL!"

The audience roared with applause, and Pedro chuckled, running a hand through his hair. Y/N could tell he was settling into his rhythm. He glanced toward where they were seated, his eyes locking with hers for the briefest moment, a small, almost imperceptible wink sent in her direction.

His monologue was a perfect mix of humor and sincerity, poking fun at himself, his roles, and even his newfound internet heartthrob status. The crowd ate it up, laughing and cheering at every punchline. Y/N found herself laughing the loudest, feeling a surge of affection for him.

As the show progressed, Pedro nailed every skit, seamlessly blending into the absurd world of SNL. Whether he was playing a medieval warrior in an over-the-top soap opera parody or an exhausted dad in a grocery store meltdown skit, his comedic timing was flawless. Between takes, Y/N would glance at his family, all of them beaming with pride.

During a quick break, Pedro’s sister leaned in. "He’s having the time of his life. You can see it."

Y/N nodded, watching him from afar as he laughed with the cast members, the stress of the week melting away. "He really is."

The highlight of the night came during the last skit—a surprise cameo that had the audience screaming. As the final applause rang through the studio, Pedro bowed dramatically, his wide smile visible even from where Y/N sat.

When the show wrapped, the cast and crew took their bows, and Pedro made his way over to them, still buzzing with adrenaline.

"You were amazing!" Y/N said as she wrapped her arms around him, feeling his chest rise and fall with exhilaration.

Pedro squeezed her tightly. "Did you see me almost break in that last skit? I swear, I was seconds away from losing it."

His sister laughed. "We saw, and we loved it. You killed it tonight."

Pedro let out a breath of relief, his smile softening as he looked at Y/N. "You think so?"

She cupped his face gently. "I know so."

He leaned in, pressing a quick, grateful kiss to her lips before pulling back with a grin. "Alright, let’s go celebrate. I need food, drinks, and at least five hours of sleep."

As they left the studio together, Y/N tucked herself under his arm, the warmth of the night’s success surrounding them. There was no better feeling than seeing someone she loved shine, and tonight, Pedro had done just that.

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umadosedepascal · 2 months ago

Text

WHAT CAN I SAY? Please help me… 🤤

#pedro pascal #pedrohub #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal x f!reader #frankie catfish morales #joel miller #pedro pascal imagine #frankie morales #dieter bravo #dbf joel miller #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #marcus acacius #pedropascaledit #joel miller x reader #pascalispunk #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal x reader #pedro x reader

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meet-me-backstage · 24 days ago

Text

༺ 🐑 ༻

𝐎𝐟 𝐃𝐮𝐬𝐭, 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐨

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 ☼ Rancher!Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

𝑇𝑤𝑜 𝑠𝑡𝑢𝑏𝑏𝑜𝑟𝑛 𝑖𝑑𝑖𝑜𝑡𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑠！

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

𝑭𝒍𝒖𝒇𝒇, 𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒔𝒕, 𝒔𝒎𝒖𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂 𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒚 𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈!

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

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 (𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬!) ↯

𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐎𝐧𝐞

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐓𝐰𝐨

𝐶𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑏𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 (???)

𝐄𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞

𝑇𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑣𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑒𝑛𝑗𝑜𝑦!

𝐋𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐉𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐫 ‘𝐎𝐟 𝐃𝐮𝐬𝐭, 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬 & 𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐨’ 𝐭𝐚𝐠-𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭! 🫶

༺ 🐑 ༻

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ilikemenolderthanmyfather · 2 months ago

Text

———————————————————————————————————

AN OLD TOY

———————————————————————————————————

Joel Miller x F!Reader

18+ !!MDNI!!

Warning:insecurities(Joel is getting old), rough sex, dubious consent, pet names, strong language and violence, male receiving, female receiving, bondage, cowgirl style, overstimulating, multiple orgasms, unprotected p in v, Joel is a whimperer, kidnapping(twice in the same day), forced marriage? Joel belly mentioned, enemies to lovers ish? Reader’s appearance, age and name is not mentioned or specified. Joel is a dildo. Joel is a survivor!

Summary: Joel gets kidnapped and used like a toy, and best of all, he gets the save a hoarse ride a cowboy treatment.

Words: 3K

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He was surrounded by seven men, all pointing their guns in his direction. Joel knew better than to try and fight back, he’d get a punch in, only to get shot down. That’s not what he needs right now, he needs to get back to Jackson and back to Ellie.

One of the men asked for his name, a common courtesy, too courtesy for this situation if you asked Joel, but he entertained the idea, why not? If he was gonna go out, or take them out, they’ll know to leave him the hell alone next time.

Two others stepped out of the way slightly and you walked past them, now standing only a couple of feet away from Joel.

He looked you up down, a slight glare on his face as he spoke “I don’t want trouble.”

You chuckled at that, “Oh but I do.”

He raised a brow at your words and was about to question you when he was suddenly grabbed by two of the men, holding Joel tightly as a grunt left him.

“Then what the hell do you want lady?!”, Joel questioned you with a bit more anger than intended and a sly smile spread across your face.

“A toy”

Joel stopped struggling as he looked up at you with wide yet concerned eyes. In his knowledge that could either mean a test subject where he’d get cut open or a damn slave, neither being good in this world.

He scoffed and struggling slightly against the two, “Well in that case ya can just shoot me, I ain’t becoming some damn lab rat!”

You stared at him and smirked “Oh you think you have a choice, mister Miller?”

You look at the men holding him “Drag him back to base, and don’t speak to my father about this, this is just between us and then I’ll make sure you’ll all get double your salary.”

They immediately pulled Joel along as he struggled against them, an accessional jab from a barrel of the rifle, putting him in his place.

After walking through the woods for what felt like an hour to Joel, they arrived at a very small base, the fences were high, a few houses could be seen.

You all walk in and the men holding Joel looked at you expectedly. Your eyes met Joel’s uncertain eyes for a second before looking at the men holding him.

“Take him to my room.” was all you said before walking away.

Meanwhile Joel was staring to rethink on those options that he had made, maybe he was wrong as he was pushed into a somewhat a building and finally into your bedroom.

In his shock and daze he was pushed to the ground and left there before the men walked out with mocking laughter.

Joel looked at the now locked door, his hands searching for any weapons, knives, anything that could help him out but it was already confiscated from him.

He stood there in silence as he looked closely at the bed and saw handcuffs on the headboard, his eyes wide with suspicion and questions.

Joel walked closer and in his distracted state did not hear or see you walk in the room.

He slowly turned around with a scowl before two hands pushed against his chest as the back of his legs gave in against the bed. Before he could push back, his wrists were cuffed against the headboard.

He looked up at you with a wide eyes “The fuc-?!”

You shushed him, “Don’t worry I’m not gonna go rough on you…..too much, you’re old.”

Joel scoffed a bit, "Hm, what are you gonna do with me? Whatever you do, can't be any worse than some of the stuff I've been through."

You chuckled, “Well eh, I’m pretty sure you’ve never been through this before.”

He looked back at his cuffed wrists before glaring back at you, awaiting an explanation.

You sighed and sat back onto his thighs, “You see, I’m very needy and like I said, I need a toy and I’m not gonna stop until you either give out or your dick falls off.”

You traced your finger along his jacket as his eyes went wide at your crude words, with slight horror and something else he wasn’t gonna admit out loud, arousal but especially concern.

Joel wasn’t your standard young man anymore, even he came to accept it. He wasn’t gonna complain about it. He can’t even remember the last time he had taken the time to touch himself, maybe once or twice if he wasn’t on edge from almost getting killed but this was way out of his range and capabilities, as embarrassing as it was to admit.

Joel gathered his thoughts, “Wait wait wait wait-" He tugged at the cuffs a bit, trying to struggle against them, but the cuffs were on pretty tightly. “I-I don’t think I can, sweetheart.”

You smiled “Oh come on, you’re a man with experience!”

He shook his head, “Not to mention, old. I can’t even…get it up right” , he admitted with embarrassment.

You laughed as he looked away “Just take what I give, mister Miller, can I call you Joel? I’m gonna call you Joel, mister Miller seems too formal for what I’m gonna do to you.”

He laid his head back into the pillow with concern. You immediately undid his belt that was pushing against his belly before pulling down his pants and underwear, his shoes going down with em.

A gasp left him as the air hit his bare lower body. You slowly spread his legs and Joel immediately closed them with a small glare. You glared back “Be good Joel or I’ll shoot your dick off instead, take a pick.”

He grew slightly worried and spread his thighs reluctantly. You smiled and gave his inner thigh a kiss “See that wasn’t so hard”

His cock stirred up slightly from your attention, cursing to himself. Your hand slowly wrapped around him, slowly moving up and down as short breaths left him.

Joel’s eyes shot wide open as a loud gasp left his mouth when you suddenly took him in all the way, your lips pressing against the hair at the base of his cock. Your mouth sucked him hard and his cock quickly grew stiff with the new found attention.

He could only watch with wide eyes as you sucked him like a damn straw, little whines of protest leaving his mouth, too much and too fast.

You smiled and started moving your head up and down, drool dripping past your lips and onto his hairs as filthy sounds of your slurping, filled the room.

His eyes watched your every move, he’s never felt this hot and filthy at the same time. You kept your focus on your mouth, hollowing your cheeks as you’re wetting his dick as much as possible.

Joel couldn’t even remember the last time he got head, yes he had a few sucks here and there from ex’s but that was it. They always expected him to do the work, not that he minded it, he liked being in control and controlling the pace.

His ex wife wouldn’t even suck him off though, unless he ask and begged her nicely, only getting a few tugs at his dick before he had to do all the work. Thats how it’s always been, doing all the work and then being ungrateful for it, leaving him on the edge like that as he quietly tugs at himself to relieve some of the pressure.

But he wasn’t that young champ anymore. For crying out loud he can’t even last more than one round anymore when he’s by himself. If his younger self was here, he’d probably laugh at how easy he has become.

A tight suck around his tip, made him snap out of his thoughts and threw his head back while his hips thrusted up to get more of your sweet lips.

You glared at his distracted gaze, hollowing around his sensitive tip as another gasp left his trembling body “O-Oh shit!”

You groaned around him, the vibrations tingling his lower belly before you pulled away “You focus on me, only me, Joel”

He looked at you with slight disappointment and arousal, not saying anything as he breathed heavily.

You scoffed before taking off your clothes, if Joel wasn’t hard before, then he’s definitely hard now. He could only ogle at your form before looking away in shame, truly pathetic what a perverted old man he’s become.

Your fingers quickly unzipped his jacket and opened it “I should have probably taken your clothes off before hand, meh, doesn’t matter now.”

Slowly you pulled his shirt up, making sure to drag your hand over Joel’s soft belly and chest as he shivered. As soon as his shirt was rolled up to his neck, you leaned down and kissed his lower stomach, slowly making your way up as your other hand pulled on his dick.

He could only watch with half lidded eyes, his insecurities taking over as you gently kissed him, small breaths leaving his lips as Joel closed his eyes, his hips jerking against your tugging.

You lined yourself up with him, your dripping pussy swallowing him in with ease. Joel watched as you slowly lowered yourself down on him, a deep groan leaving his lips.

A satisfied sigh leaves your lips as you take him all the way, your clit rubbing against his hairs “So good~mmm” your eyebrows pulled together in concentration as you focused on his cock, pushing against every spongy part inside of you, just right.

Joel watched you closely, his hips rocking slightly, trying hard not to just give in and fuck up into you.

You slowly dragged your hips back and forth, trying to catch a pace. Soon enough your slow grinding turned into a full on bounce of desperation for some relief as you moaned out softly “Joel!~”

Joel on the other hand was clenching his teeth and pulling on his restraints as groans fell from his lips, his eyes shut tightly as your slick walls sucked him in deep. “S-shit sweetheart! Oh, Oh wait~! Oh!”

He threw his head back and planted his feet into the sheets as his hips started thrusting up into your clenching pussy.

A surprised gasp left your throat as the thrusting from his hips and the grinding of your clit, quickly made you reach your peak. Your body shuddered as you clenched around him.

Joel groaned softly as he pumped his warm cum into you, a breathless sigh leaving his lips as his legs gave out and laid flat against the bed.

His eyes were shut tightly and breathed softly as tiredness started creeping into his old body.

Suddenly a continuous rise and fall of your hips made his eyes snap open and a whine of protest left his lips. You shushed him and gave him a displeased look before going back to ridding him.

Joel breathed heavily as your walks worked his now sensitive cock, his tip twitching in pleasure as you continue to use him like a toy.

“Fuck sweetheart! I can’t! I-Oh~oh” Joel could only lay there and take it as you moaned out his name.

Your ass grinds against his tightening balls as his tip pushes against your womb and a white ring forming at the base of his cock. He looked at you with concern and pleasure, feeling his lower belly tightening up again, sweat falling from the crook of his eyebrow.

He moaned out softly as he shot out another warm load. You whine softly as you grind against him at a new angle, working him through his orgasm as his started tugging on the cuffs in protest, overstimulation taking over slowly.

You however ignored him and continued to bounce on him continuously, his limp cock twitching in protest as Joel whined out, “Please have mercy!”

You quickened your pace, head thrown back “Joel~oh yes, one more, give me one more!~” your swollen clit being rubbed by his hair perfectly as your lower stomach tightened up, Joel could only shake his head in protest as his cock hardened again.

His tip splurged small drops of what he had left and looked at you with a begging expression. You groaned and slammed your hips tightly against him, his hairs tickling your clit as his balls tighten up against his wishes, his frame trembling at the stimulation.

Your grinding became more harsh as you neared your orgasm once more, soft moans of his name falling from your lips as his cock is pushing in deeper, a breathless moan falls from his lip as his balls emptied out and shot thick warm cum into you once more.

You work him through his orgasm as you threw your head back in bless before tightening around him harshly, a whine falling from his lips as you work yourself through your orgasm.

The roll of your hips came to an agonizingly slow stop as you looked down at him.

You both started at each other in silence, a tired, half lidded look on his face. You leaned down and kissed him gently, a kiss he desperately returned as his hips twitched against you.

You took that as a sign to continue and started bouncing your hips again, Joel shook his head in protest “Fuck! No no please, ah~ no wait! Use my face but fuck! Please I can’t it hurts” he admitted with a small pleading look.

You stared at him for a moment before pulling off him, a groan leaving his lips. You place your thighs on either side of his head before lowering onto his mouth that gladly started sucking on your puffy clit.

You let out a shaky breath and held his hair with your hands, his facial hair tickling against you.

His tongue quickly made its way into you, slurping and curling against all the right places. He looked up at you with focus and determination as you neared your peak again, your walls tightened around his tongue that seemed to have suddenly sped up and curled against that sweet spot inside you.

His nose pushed against your puffy nub continuously as your legs started shaking “O-oh yes, Yes Joel!~”

His groan only added to the pressure before you curled up and rode out your orgasm. He worked you through it slowly before you pulled away.

Joel watched you get off the bed with slightly shaky legs, you walked into the bathroom and started filling up the tub. Joel only laid there in utter shock and bless as tiredness started creeping in.

Suddenly you walked back out and took something out of the drawer before walking towards him. He looked at you with tired eyes as you suddenly start to open the cuffs.

“No sneaky shit” you gave him a warning before he sat up with a grunt, rubbing his wrists slightly as he looked up at you with those innocent puppy brown eyes.

You sighed and walked into the bathroom, a slight signal for him to follow. He took off his shirt and jacket, following after you with a slight limp in his walk.

His eyes fell on you sitting in a bathtub, he suddenly became a little self conscious when you looked at him.

You voiced cut through the silence, “Well get in while the water is still warm.”

Joel just gave a nod and got in and sat between your thighs. You stare at his back for a second and he leaned back slowly but suddenly stopped, you glared “Don’t you dare-“ before you could finish, Joel suddenly knocked out you with the back of his head.

Joel quickly bathed and felt bad and quickly washed you before draining the water. He hurriedly dried himself off and got dressed.

He stared at you, still very much knocked out and sighed softly. Maybe it won’t be too bad having company when he gets back to Jackson. Besides Ellie has been bothering him for years about getting a girlfriend, “Teenagers” he scoffed softly with a smile before it turned into a smirk.

You slowly woke up on a bed far more softer than the one you’ve grown use to. A grunt left your lips and placed your hands on your head where Joel had head budded you.

Your eyes snap open “That son of a-where the fuck am I?” You looked around the cozy yet unfamiliar room. You quickly got up from the bed and stumbled towards a window, your eyes going wide when you read the sign [Welcome to Jackson].

Your eyes snapped open in horror “Fucking Jackson?!” Suddenly a familiar voice could be heard as Joel walked into the room “Nice huh?”

You glared at his smirking face “I’m gonna-“ Joel shushed her “Now now, you ain’t back home and unfortunately for you I got many…..I have friends here in Jackson and they’ll shoot without needing to be asked, so be nice sweetheart.”

You scoffed and clenched your fists onto the jacket that you woke up in, your eyes glanced down at it, realizing it was his.

Your body turned to look out the window with a look of disbelief and crossed your arms. Joel walked closer and wrapped an arm around your middle gently. You sighed softly “You are such an ass, so what now?”

Joel smiled “Says you” you looked at him and he just shrugged and stared out the window “Well I kinda told everyone you’re my girlfriend…and that we’re getting married soon so if ye try and run away, they’ll think you’re ill and will bring ya back to me”

You slowly turned your head to look at him, he looked at you and gave you a smile.

“YOU SON OF A B-!”

Meanwhile Ellie and Dina looked at Joel and you through the window. Dina smiled with a concerned look “I’m happy that Joel finally found someone, but eh, if you ask me that’s a lot of slapping coming from her.” Ellie shrugged “Well from the magazines I’ve found in his closet, he might just be into that.”

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adelliet · 21 hours ago

Text

Joel Miller x f!reader

TEACHER'S PET

Summary: You, as always, didn't do your homework, so you got detention. But, what starts as a punishment turns into a secret, obsessive game of power and lust, that you will not forget.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, teacher/student relationship (both characters are adults), dominant/submissive dynamics, nicknames (slut, sweetheart, …), fingering, multiple orgasms, oral sex (male receiving), praise kink, unprotected sex (piv), creampie, school-setting tension, little angst!Joel

A/N: Hii! I hope you'll like this story/smut! If you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3

Masterlist

It’s just another school morning.

You’re walking down the hallway with your best friend Maya. She’s grinning like an idiot, nudging you with her elbow as she sips iced coffee from a reusable cup.

“Try not to cum the second he walks in, okay?” she teases, half-whispered, half-laughing.

You roll your eyes with a snort, cheeks warming instantly. “You’re so dumb,” you mumble, but the corner of your mouth can’t help twitching into a smile. Because yeah… she’s not exactly wrong.

Joel Miller.

Your new literature teacher. Only two months in, and you’re already a mess. He teaches with that deep, Southern drawl, his voice rough like gravel and honey, and God help you, the man reads poetry like it’s a sin.

Every class with him feels like you’re being edged intellectually and emotionally. And maybe a little physically too. You walk into the classroom, and it’s all downhill from there.

You drop your bag by your desk and sit down, already distracted before class even starts. The room is buzzing with chatter, people rustling papers, unzipping backpacks, getting ready. You? You’re just staring at the door, waiting.

And then it happens. The bell rings and the door opens. There he is.

He steps inside with that signature calmness, a worn leather messenger bag slung across one shoulder, sleeves rolled just past his elbows, revealing strong, veined forearms dusted with dark hair. The cotton of his shirt clings to his chest in all the right places, and the way he adjusts his glasses as he looks around the room? Unholy.

Your core pulses. Just from looking.

He walks slowly to the desk, every step like a magnetic pull. His boots hit the floor with a muted thud, his posture relaxed but confident. That salt-and-pepper beard is trimmed perfectly, shadowing the line of his jaw you’ve stared at one too many times during his lectures.

You don’t hear a single thing he says. Because you’re not listening.

You’re watching his fingers. Those thick, skilled fingers, uncap a pen and jot something down on the board. You wonder what they’d feel like tugging your hair or gripping your thighs or—

You blink, cheeks burning.

“Okay, folks. Take out your homework,” Joel says, his voice a velvet command.

Only when zippers and rustling bags start echoing around the room, you snap, blinking back to reality. Shit.

You turn toward Maya, panic flashing in your eyes.

“You did the homework, right?” she whispers, pulling her sheet from her folder.

“I—” You hesitate. You had every intention of doing it. You thought about it, you really wanted to impress him, wanted to do well in his class. But something came up and then it slipped out of your mind.

You’re fucked.

Your fingers fidget. You chew the edge of your nail. Your leg bounces nervously beneath the desk. He’s making his way around the room, collecting the papers one by one. And then he’s at your desk, right in front of you.

He reaches for Maya’s assignment without a word, his body angled slightly toward you, and you can smell him—woodsy cologne, leather, coffee. Something warm and addictive. He leans closer.

“Y’got yours?”

You look up at him, eyes wide, your mouth suddenly dry. He’s so close. Close enough that your skin prickles, close enough that the heat of his body almost brushes your cheek. His gaze stays neutral, unreadable, but his jaw’s tense.

“I… I’m sorry. I meant to do it but something came up and I forgot.”

He exhales through his nose, gaze flicking toward the classroom window like he needs a second not to react. His voice is calm, but tight.

“That’s not the first time, is it?”

You flinch a little. It’s true, you've forgotten a few homeworks lately, too caught up in him to function properly.

“You’ll stay after. Detention.”

Your jaw drops slightly. “W-What? I’ll do it tonight—I’ll hand it in tomorrow, I swear, just—please, I have plans after school—”

He’s already moving on to the next desk without reaction, without argument, just: “Detention.”

You slump back in your seat, humiliated. Maya covers her mouth, trying not to laugh.

“Someone’s gonna be suckin’ Miller’s cock,” she teases under her breath. You elbow her, cheeks burning. “Shut up.”

But even through the sting of frustration and embarrassment, a little part of you, the part currently wondering how he’ll look at you when the classroom is empty and quiet and the lights are low, kind of… doesn’t mind.

Time alone with the hottest, most captivating teacher in the whole damn school? Doesn’t sound so bad.

You didn’t hear a single word for the rest of the class.

Not because the room was quiet—Joel’s voice still echoed, low and steady, through the lecture hall—but because your focus was completely consumed by him.

Every movement he made felt deliberate, magnetic. The way his broad shoulders moved beneath the fabric of his shirt. The subtle flex of his fingers as he turned a page or tapped chalk against the board. Even the faint lines at the corners of his mouth as he spoke, as if every sentence was backed with some deeper thought he wasn’t sharing.

Your thighs pressed tightly together beneath your white summer dress, a subconscious attempt to anchor yourself, to not let the heat building between your legs take over your mind completely.

The fabric of the dress, light and barely grazing your skin, didn’t help. It clung in places it shouldn’t, and the warmth of the room—or was it just him—had your skin tingling, oversensitive, alert.

You shifted in your seat, squeezing your legs together again when you saw him adjust the cuff of his sleeve, revealing more of his forearm.

Something about that simple act made your breath catch. It wasn’t just attraction. It was need, raw, irrational, impossible to ignore. Your chest rose and fell in shallow waves, your core pulsing with every stolen glance you dared to take. There was something primal about the way he commanded space. And you felt it everywhere.

When the bell finally rang, it startled you back to the present like a sudden jolt. The rest of the students began to gather their things, rustling bags and murmuring to each other. You blinked, hands reaching for your notebook in slow, distracted motion. Your pulse was still racing.

You and Maya were halfway to the door when his voice cut through the air like velvet wrapped in iron.

“Don’t forget—detention.”

You stopped dead in your tracks.

His tone wasn’t raised, but it held an edge. Stern, direct, laced with authority. But it didn’t scare you. Quite the opposite. It hit something deep inside you, something that made your knees go weak and your breath hitch in your throat. The heat that had been simmering all class long flared suddenly, dangerously. You could barely look at him, not with the way his eyes brushed over you, steady, unreadable, as if he already knew what kind of thoughts were spinning in your head.

Beside you, Maya let out a soft laugh and nudged your side. “Girl, get your face under control.”

“I’m fine,” you muttered, but you weren’t. Not even close.

Later, at lunch, Maya sat across from you at your usual table, smirking into her salad.

“You’re gonna combust,” she said, pointing her fork at you. “I swear, you looked like you were about to pass out when he said ‘detention.’ You okay?”

“No,” you groaned, burying your face in your hands. “I’m not. I’m—”

“Thirsty,” she offered helpfully.

You peeked at her through your fingers. “Do you think… if I actually had a shot—like, a real one—to blow him, should I take it?”

Maya choked on her water.

“Oh my god,” she coughed, laughing. “You did not just say that.”

You leaned back in your chair, flushed and breathless. “I mean, I wouldn’t actually do it. Probably. Maybe…I don’t know! It’s just, he’s Joel Miller. Have you seen his hands? The way he talks?”

“Yeah, and the way he gives you detention,” Maya teased. “Which, by the way, I think you’re secretly looking forward to.”

You stared down at your tray, heart still fluttering like it hadn’t quite caught up with the rest of you. Because truth be told… she wasn’t quite wrong.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Every class felt like static noise in the background—your mind already stuck on what awaited you at the end. Detention. With him.

By the time the halls emptied and the last bell rang, your heart was racing like you were heading into something forbidden. You walked slowly, deliberately, each step echoing down the corridor, your palms slightly clammy as you pushed open the classroom door.

Joel was already there, seated at his desk with a few papers in front of him. He was reading something, brow furrowed, his fingers absently rubbing against his lower lip—a gesture so casual and yet so… distracting.

The door creaked as it closed behind you, and his head lifted. His eyes found yours in an instant, dark and unreadable, and he gave a slight nod toward the desk closest to the front. “Sit,” he said simply, and you obeyed.

You didn’t say a word as you settled into the chair, trying not to let your dress ride up too high. It was hot today. It wasn’t your fault that the short summer dress made your skin feel electric, or that your thighs kept brushing when you crossed your legs.

Joel stood up, approached slowly, and stopped at the edge of your desk. He looked down at you, voice calm but firm. “Do you even know what the assignment was?”

You hesitated, already knowing the answer was no. Your mouth parted to form something, anything—but he exhaled, frustrated, and slapped a sheet of paper onto your desk.

“The prompt,” he said, “was to write about your greatest desire. In poetic form. Minimum of two hundred and fifty words. You’ll sit here until it’s finished… and until I think it’s good enough.”

You blinked, startled. “What?”

He arched a brow. “You heard me.”

Then he turned and returned to his desk, sitting back down with a controlled calm that made your stomach clench.

You stared at the blank page for a while, your mind swimming—not with words, but with him. Then you looked up at him and thought about his voice. His scent. The way his forearms looked with those sleeves rolled up. The veins in his hands. The line of his throat when he tipped his head back.

And then it hit you.

Words started flowing faster than you could think. Line after line, vivid and raw, filled the page. You didn’t filter. You couldn’t. It was as if something had broken loose in you—this quiet, desperate longing you’d been carrying for weeks, now shaping itself into metaphor and pulse-heavy confession.

Every so often, you looked up, and sometimes his eyes were already on you. Not for long. Just fleeting moments, but they ignited sparks all the way down your spine. And when your eyes locked, you had to squeeze your thighs together beneath the desk, trying to contain the wave of warmth rushing through you.

Finally, when you’d scrawled the last word and your hand trembled from how fast you’d written, you stood up, gripping the paper tightly. Every cell in your body screamed that this is insane, and yet… you were already crossing the room.

Little did he know, that you wrote about your sexual desire for him. You described it in detail, poetically, what would you like to do to him and how, as well as what would you like him to do to you.

He looked up as your shadow passed over his desk. His brow arched again. “That was quick.”

You didn’t answer. You just handed it to him.

Joel leaned back slightly, eyes shifting down to the paper in his hand. He lifted it slowly, his fingers brushing over the edges, and brought it closer to his face. He didn’t read aloud. But you watched, his expression change with every line. The tightening of his jaw. The flicker in his eyes. The stillness that suddenly overtook him.

Then… his gaze lifted to yours.

And it was different now. Heavy. Tense. You felt the weight of his stare everywhere—on your skin, in your breath, between your legs. It was first time he saw your outfit and he really scan you.

“This,” he said lowly, voice edged with something he was trying hard to suppress, “is inappropriate.”

You swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean to cross a line…”

He stood up. Slowly. The scrape of the chair against the floor made your whole body flinch. He took a step toward you—close, but not quite touching.

“Stand there,” he said.

His voice had dropped an octave. Controlled. Commanding. You moved around the desk to stand where he’d pointed—his spot. Joel placed your paper on the desk, smoothing it with his palm.

He didn’t say anything for a moment. And neither did you. The air between you was charged, electric, so heavy it felt like gravity had doubled.

His expression was stern, serious, eyes narrowed with a fire that made your knees feel weak. He set a pen down on the desk next to your writing and said in a low, firm voice, “Cross out anything inappropriate.”

You nodded, swallowing hard, and leaned over the desk. Your white dress brushed softly against your thighs as you bent forward, exposing just enough of yourself to feel the shift in the air behind you. You knew he was still standing close—too close. You could feel the weight of his gaze pressing into your back, burning through the thin fabric like sunlight.

You feel him before you even hear him—his hand brushing against the back of your thigh, slow and deliberate. Goosebumps rise instantly, your spine tensing as heat coils low in your stomach. The pen trembles slightly in your hand.

“C'mon, keep going” Joel mutters, voice low, rough, but there’s something else in it, something darker. Teasing. Dangerous.

His fingers trail higher, grazing the hem of your dress, then slipping just beneath it. Your breath catches, and you grip the edge of the table harder.

Your eyes locked on the ink-stained paper in front of you, even though the words blur under your gaze. His hand slides between your thighs, calloused fingertips moving up your inner thigh slowly, torturously. “You’re too distracted. Maybe I should teach you how to really pay attention.”

You bite your lip hard as his fingers press gently against your underwear—just enough to make your hips twitch, not enough to satisfy anything. You can feel the smirk in his voice without even turning to look.

He leans in close, his breath warm against your ear. “You gonna cross that out or keep pretending you’re some innocent little thing?”

Your hand moves shakily, red pen dragging a line across the paper, but your mind isn’t on the words anymore. It’s on his fingers, teasing at the edge of the fabric, sliding it to the side—just enough for him to slip between.

When he finally slides your panties aside, the first brush of his fingertips against your bare heat pulls a sharp breath from your lungs. You tense, the sensation electric—like a jolt low in your belly that travels down to your thighs. His touch is light at first, teasing, as if he wants to savor every second of this new power he holds over you.

“Already wet for me,” Joel murmurs, almost to himself, but loud enough that you hear it—and feel your face burn with heat. You don’t move, don’t speak. You’re completely frozen, except for the way your hips shift back just slightly, begging without words.

His index finger slides on the surface of your folds, slow and deliberate. He traces you from bottom to top, gathering your slick, then circling your clit with just enough pressure to make your knees tremble. He doesn’t rush. He wants to feel every twitch, every reaction—wants you to know you’re under his control.

You whimper when he presses down more firmly, rubbing slow, torturous circles. Your hands grip the table harder, knuckles white, breath shaky. He watches the way your body responds—the way you arch into his hand without even realizing it.

Then he slides a finger inside you.

The stretch makes you gasp. He moves it carefully, deliberately curling it just enough to brush against that sensitive spot deep inside. Your legs shake as he sets a rhythm—steady, unrelenting. Then comes the second finger, thicker, deeper. You moan, softly, head dropping as your body clenches around him.

“Fuck, baby,” he growls, his free hand gripping your hip to hold you steady. “You’re squeezin’ me so tight.”

Each thrust of his fingers is slow but deep, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. The wet sounds between your legs grow louder, obscene, echoing through the quiet room. His thumb finds your clit again, rubbing tight circles in sync with the rhythm of his fingers plunging in and out of you.

Your body is fire—hips jerking, thighs quivering, mouth open with desperate little gasps you can’t hold back.

“You close?” he mutters, leaning in so his voice rumbles right against your ear. “Gonna come all over my fingers, sweetheart?”

You nod helplessly, barely able to form words.

And then he speeds up, fingers moving faster, thumb harder, and it’s too much. The pressure bursts all at once. You cry out as the orgasm rips through you, your muscles tightening around his fingers, your body shaking uncontrollably. Joel doesn’t stop, not until you’re whimpering, oversensitive and breathless, collapsing against the table, legs barely holding you up.

He finally pulls his fingers out, slow and dripping, and brings them to his mouth—sucking them clean with a low groan.

“You taste even better than I imagined.”

You’re still trembling when he steps back, his belt already undone, jeans pushed down just enough to free his cock—thick, flushed, already hard from watching you fall apart under his touch. He’s looking at you like you’re a feast, like you were made just for this.

You straighten slowly, legs shaky, and turn to face him. Your eyes drop to the way he strokes himself lazily, precum glistening at the tip. You swallow hard. He raises an eyebrow at you, that familiar smirk tugging at his lips.

“You starin’, sweetheart,” he mutters, voice thick with arousal. “You want it?”

You nod, stepping closer, sinking to your knees without breaking eye contact. Joel hisses through his teeth when you do.

“Good girl,” he says lowly. “Knew you’d look perfect down there.”

Your fingers wrap around the base of him, and he’s so hot and heavy in your hand that it makes your core clench again, already aching for more. You run your tongue along the underside, slow and teasing, tasting the salt of his skin. He groans, hand falling to your hair, not pushing—yet—but guiding.

You swirl your tongue around the tip, licking up the precum, and then you take him in—just the head at first, letting your lips stretch around him. He growls softly, head tipping back.

“Fuck, feel so good.”

The praise makes your thighs press together instinctively. You take him deeper, slow but hungry, feeling him stretch your throat. He’s big—almost too much—but you want it. You need it. His hand tightens in your hair when you hollow your cheeks and start to bob your head, setting a steady rhythm.

“Atta girl,” he grunts. “Doin’ so fuckin’ good for me.”

You hum around him, sending vibrations down his shaft, and he groans, bucking his hips forward just slightly. Your eyes water, but you don’t stop—you want him to use you. His breathing turns ragged as you take him deeper, faster, spit dripping down your chin, your hand stroking what your mouth can’t reach.

“Look at you,” he growls, gaze locked on yours. “On your knees, takin’ my cock like a good little slut.”

That makes you moan—so much so that your eyes flutter closed, overwhelmed by the need to please him. He twitches in your mouth, and his grip tightens.

“Shit—keep goin’. I’m close,” he breathes. “Gonna come down your throat. You want that?”

You nod with him still inside you, eyes wide, desperate.

“Then take it,” he snarls. “Take every fuckin’ drop.”

With a final thrust of his hips and a broken groan, he comes—hot and thick, spilling onto your tongue. You swallow quickly, not wanting to waste a single bit, your lips still wrapped tightly around him until he jerks from the overstimulation.

When you finally pull back, breathless and flushed, he’s staring down at you with a mix of hunger and admiration.

Before you can even wipe your mouth, Joel grabs you by the waist and hauls you up like you weigh nothing. You gasp, caught off guard, hands flying to his shoulders as he turns and slams you down onto the table. Papers scatter everywhere.

“You think you can just sit there in that little dress,” he growls, pushing your knees apart with rough, determined hands, “actin’ like a tease, not do your goddamn homework properly—”

He yanks your panties down your thighs and tosses them aside.

“—and not get fucked for it?”

You don’t get a chance to answer.

He lines himself up and pushes in with one hard thrust, burying himself to the hilt. The stretch makes you cry out, your nails digging into the wood of the table as your body adjusts to his size. He doesn’t give you time. His grip on your hips tightens as he pulls back and slams into you again, the force jolting the table beneath you.

“This what you needed, huh?” he grunts, voice sharp with control. “A hard fuck to teach you how to focus?”

“Mr. Miller—fuck!” you moan, your words barely coherent, back arching as he pounds into you, fast and brutal, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing through the room.

“Yeah,” he breathes, leaning over you, his mouth at your ear. “You take my cock like a goddamn champ, baby. So tight—so fuckin’ wet for me.”

Every thrust hits deep, dragging against that sensitive spot inside you, making your thighs tremble, your breath coming out in frantic, broken gasps. He grabs your wrists and pins them above your head against the table, fully owning every inch of you.

“You gonna be a good girl next time?” he growls. “Do your fuckin’ homework when I tell you?”

You whimper, nodding, barely able to speak. He smirks, slamming into you harder.

“Say it.”

“I—I’ll be good,” you gasp. “I’ll do it, I swear—”

“That’s more like it.”

He releases your wrists and lifts one of your legs higher over his shoulder, changing the angle—and suddenly he’s even deeper, hitting spots that make your vision blur. You cry out, eyes rolling back, fingers clawing at the table’s edge as he keeps going, unrelenting.

“You feel that?” he hisses. “That’s me teachin’ you a lesson.”

You can feel your orgasm building again—hot and fast and uncontrollable. Joel sees it in your face, in the way your body clenches around him, and he grins darkly.

“Gonna come again, aren’t you?” he mutters. “Such a desperate little thing. Come on, baby. Come all over my cock.”

And just like that, you shatter—legs shaking, mouth open in a silent scream, your body pulsing around him. Joel groans low and guttural as you tighten around him, and a few rough thrusts later, he’s coming too—filling you with a hot rush of release, staying deep inside as your bodies collapse together on the desk.

He rests his forehead against yours, both of you breathless, sweaty, completely spent.

“Now that,” he mutters with a smirk, “is how you learn.”

The next morning, your thighs are still sore.

You try not to limp into class, but Maya clocks you the second you slide into the seat next to her. She leans in, eyes narrowing.

“So…” she hums, “how was detention?”

You glance at her, trying for casual—but the moment your lips twitch into a smile, it’s over. Maya gasps so loudly that a few people in the rows ahead of you turn their heads.

“Oh my god. YOU FUCKED JOEL MILL-”

You lunge across the desk, clapping a hand over her mouth.

“Are you crazy?” you hiss, eyes wide. “Do you wanna shout it louder, maybe let the principal know too?”

Maya yanks your hand away, but her eyes are dancing, her voice lowered now to a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t you dare lie to me. I saw your face. You’re glowing. Like post-orgasm, wrecked-for-life glowing.”

You roll your eyes, biting back a grin. “Shut up.”

She gasps again, this time softer, leaning even closer. “You fucked him! You totally—oh my God. You and Professor Tall, Dark, and Growly?”

You’re already blushing. She fans herself dramatically.

“Okay, details. I want everything. Was it hot? Was he rough? Does he growl the way he does in class?”

Your cheeks burn hotter. “Maya—”

“He totally does, doesn’t he? God, I knew it. That man is sex personified. Did he make you come with just his—”

“Jesus Christ, Maya!”

She stifles a laugh. “Sorry, sorry! I’m just… I’m happy for you. That’s like… forbidden fantasy dreams fulfilled. You’ve had a crush on him since the first lecture, babe.”

You look down at your desk, smiling like an idiot. “Yeah. And now I can’t stop thinking about it. About him.”

Before Maya can reply, the classroom door opens. And there he is.

Joel Miller. Same flannel, same boots, same deep, intimidating presence—but now all you can see is yesterday. His fingers buried inside you, your knees on the table, the weight of him pounding into you like he owned your body. Your thighs press together involuntarily.

He strides to the front of the room, placing his notes on the desk. Your eyes trail over his hands, remembering how rough they felt on your skin. You’re so deep in the memory that you barely hear him start to speak.

“Alright. Let’s get started.”

But then, then he looks at you.

Just a flicker. A glance that lasts a half second too long. And the corner of his mouth twitches.

It’s not a smile. It’s something darker. Wicked.

Maya turns toward you, oblivious, scribbling something in her notebook. But you’re frozen, breath caught in your throat.

Did he just wink?

You can’t be sure. It was so fast, so subtle—but that little spark in his eye… it wasn’t nothing. It was intentional. And it was meant only for you.

He turns back to the board like nothing happened, like he didn’t fuck you senseless on his desk the night before. But your heart is racing, and your whole body feels like it’s on fire.

And now you have to survive the next hour trying not to squirm every time he says your name.

Hii! Thank you so much for reading!

I hope you guys enjoyed it! If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’d also be super happy for any feedback; whether it’s a reblog, comment, like, or even a follow.

Have a lovely day!

BYEE!!! 🎀🌷

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theetherealbloom · 3 months ago

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IT COULD HAPPEN TO YOU - SERIES MASTERLIST

Summary: You find yourself sharing a hotel suite with Pedro Pascal while working on the set of Fantastic Four: First Steps. Despite your different roles—he’s the star, and you’re behind the scenes. Nothing could ever happen between you two… right?

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x F!Reader

Warnings: Age-Gap Romance (Not Specified), Eventual SMUT, Crush, FLUFF, Slight Angst, Trope(s), Swearing, Anxiety, Lots of Cliches, Cheesy Dialogue, Romance, Kissing, Real People Fiction, Cameras, Paparazzi, Social Media, Swoonworthy, One-Room Trope, They were roommates, Strangers-to-Lovers, Actors, Hallmark Tropes, the reader can sing and play guitar, the reader is shorter than Pedro, the reader has hair, Alternate Universe, Awkward!Reader, Shy!Reader, Fan Girl!Reader, Cringe, Embarrassment, Celebrities, Starstruck,

Main Song: It Could Happen To You by Laufey

CONTENTS:

Chapter 1: Hide Your Heart From Sight Chapter 2: God, I’m Actually Invested Chapter 3: The Air Buzzes Whenever You're Near Chapter 4: Everybody Wonders What It Would Be Like To Love You Chapter 5: As If The Street Lights Pointed In An Arrowhead Leading Us Home Chapter 6: I Keep These Longings Locked In Lowercase Inside A Vault Chapter 7: What Are You Doing To Me Now? Chapter 8: He Got My Heartbeat Skipping Down 16th Avenue Chapter 9: The Silver Lining's I'll Be There With You Chapter 10: Coming Soon Chapter 11: Coming Soon

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fic-girlie · 15 days ago

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Coffee and Quiet Things

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x f!reader

Summary: You spend a slow, cozy day with Pedro Pascal, your sweet boyfriend—sharing coffee, walking the dog, cooking dinner, and dancing in the kitchen. Amid soft laughter and quiet confessions, the comfort between you deepens into something lasting: love that feels like home.

Warnings: pure fluff, soft smut (but not that detailed)

You weren’t sure when Pedro’s house started to feel more like home than your own apartment. It wasn’t a dramatic moment, no sudden realization, just a quiet accumulation of little things. Like how your favourite mug had somehow migrated to his kitchen, or how your shampoo was now a permanent resident in his shower. Or the way he left the porch light on every evening, even if he wasn’t home first. Maybe it was the way that his old record player (which he got from his family for one of his birthdays) crackled in the mornings, the scent of that cedarwood candle he always forgot to blow out, earning a stern look from you every time, or how the light hit just right at sunrise in the kitchen, casting honey-coloured lines across the floorboards. It was slow, the way you settled into each other in such a short time. But it was steady. Certain.

It was Saturday morning when the warmth of the sunlight woke you, slanting in through the gauzy curtains Pedro never remembered to close all the way. The scent of fresh linen and cedarwood filled the whole bedroom—his scent, comforting and familiar. He was still asleep beside you, sprawled on his stomach with one arm under the pillow and his face buried in the crook of his elbow, hair mussed into curls from the night. You smiled at the sight of him, gently pulled up the blanket to his shoulders, and slipped out of bed as quietly as you could, trying not to wake him up.

You padded barefoot into his kitchen, the hem of his t-shirt—too big for you—brushing your thighs. The faded cotton smelled just like him—cologne, laundry softener, and something deeper you couldn’t quite place. You’d stolen it months ago, sneaking it out of his closet. He always said it was “accidental theft,” but you knew he loved seeing you in it. And you’d never admit it out loud, but it had become your favourite things to sleep in.

The whole house was quiet except for the subtle hum of the city outside and the occasional creak of wood adjusting to the warmth of the sun. You moved on instinct: kettle filled, beans ground, coffee steeping in the French press. Humming softly, you reached for your mug from his shelf—one Pedro had once said looked like a grandma’s teacup but had a chip in the handle you liked.

Behind you, you heard the gentle creak of the bedroom door.

Pedro emerged, still soft and blurry with sleep, wearing a plain black t-shirt and a pair of flannel pyjama pants that sat low on his hips. His hair stuck out at unruly angles, the kind of bedhead only he could pull off and no one else. He rubbed a hand over his face as he made his way into the kitchen, stopping only when he was close enough to nudge his nose into your neck.

“You’re up early,” he murmured, voice low and gravelly from sleep.

You tilted your head toward him, smiling as you poured his coffee. “It’s nearly noon.”

“Still too early,” he mumbled, but accepted the mug when you offered it, fingers brushing yours in a quiet good morning.

His free arm wrapped around your waist and tugged you in close until your back was flush to his chest. You leaned into him easily, the way you always did, like your body already knew the shape of his.

“I made your favourite,” you whispered, tilting your head up to look at him.

Pedro hummed, sipping from the mug. “Of course you did. Because you love me.”

You turned in his arms to face him, your fingers looping lightly through the collar of his shirt. “Obviously.”

His smile was lazy, eyes crinkling in the corners, warm and soft just for you. “What did I do to deserve this?”

You leaned up on your toes, brushing a kiss over his jaw. “I’m pretty sure you offered me your croissant that one morning on set.”

He just blinked at you with confusion. “Strange. I remember you stealing my croissant.”

“It was warm. And flaky. And I was weak.”

“And irresistible,” he smirked.

“Mr. Pascal, are we still talking about the croissant?” Pedro kissed you then—slow and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world. You melted into him easily, your hands sliding up to rest on his shoulders. The world outside faded into a quiet hum.

——

The morning drifted lazily into early afternoon. You ended up curled on the couch, legs tangled with his, Edgar, his scruffy rescue dog was snoozing on the back of the couch, curled into Pedro’s neck, occasionally twitching in his sleep. Your head rested on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart beneath soft cotton. The TV was on, something forgettable, but neither of you paid any attention to it.

His fingers traced patterns on your arm—nonsense shapes and gentle spirals. “We should take Edgar for a walk,” he said eventually, voice still wrapped in sleep.

“He seems perfectly content right where he is,” you murmured.

Pedro slowly turned his head to the side to take a glance at the dog, who was now staring with soulful, imploring eyes. “He’s playing the long game. He’ll start guilt-tripping us is three… two…”

Edgar gave a dramatic sigh, shifting with a pitiful flop of his head, hitting Pedro in the eye with his big ears.

“You see this manipulation?”

You leaned over to scratch behind Edgar’s ear, earning a satisfied sigh from him. “He knows who the real softie is.”

Pedro glanced at you with warm eyes and his mouth slowly turned up into a smile. “He likes you better than me.”

“Obviously.”

——

You hadn’t planned to spend the afternoon out, but the sky was too blue, the breeze too soft, and Pedro’s hand too warm in yours to say no when he asked, “Wanna walk with me a bit?” Edgar’s leash was already in his other hand, the pup trotting ahead with his tail high and his nose to the ground like he was on a mission.

So you wandered through sunlit streets, letting the city hum quietly around you. Pedro wore his usual weekend uniform—sunglasses, soft tee, denim jacket—and every now and then, he’d glance over at you like he still couldn’t believe this was real. Edgar stopped to sniff nearly every tree and lamppost, which Pedro narrated with over-the-top commentary.

“He’s writing his novel,” Pedro said seriously, crouching beside the dog. “Chapter seventy-four. Plot twist: the neighbour’s cat is back.”

You laughed, nudging him with your hip. “I can’t believe this is the man whose voice makes people cry in interviews.”

He stood, grinning. “I’m a man of layers.”

Eventually, you stumbled across a quiet corner café tucked behind ivy-covered brick. You'd never been there before, but it looked like something out of a movie—warm wood, soft lighting, the scent of coffee and cinnamon drifting out the door. The outdoor seating was shaded and half-empty, with little metal tables and bowls of water already set out for dogs.

Pedro looked at you, hopeful. “Coffee?”

You nodded. “Only if we let Edgar pick the table.”

Edgar sniffed three of them before flopping down beside one in the far corner, tail thumping. Decision made.

Pedro went inside to order while you sat with Edgar, gently running your hand down his back as he panted happily, head on your foot. The breeze lifted the ends of your hair, and everything felt still. Not boring—just... content.

When Pedro returned with your drinks and pastries, he sat beside you instead of across from you, thigh pressed against yours as he passed you your latte. “The barista gave Edgar a biscuit,” he said, slipping it into the pup’s mouth. “Said he was a regular.”

You raised a brow. “How often do you come here without me?”

Pedro grinned, not even pretending to be sorry. “Gotta keep some mystery alive in the relationship.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder. “You're lucky you're cute.”

He kissed the top of your head, lips lingering for just a second longer than necessary. “I know.”

The three of you stayed there for a long time—Pedro sipping his coffee, you nibbling your pastry, Edgar lying across both of your feet like a sleepy bridge. Sometimes you talked, sometimes you didn’t. It didn’t matter. The kind of silence you shared was never awkward. It felt like language without words.

At one point, Pedro reached for your hand and laced your fingers with his on the table. “I like this,” he said quietly. “You. Me. Edgar. Coffee. It’s simple. Feels like something that lasts.”

You looked at him, heart full, and gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Feels like home.”

And maybe it was. A sun-warmed afternoon, a lazy dog at your feet, and a man who looked at you like every little moment was something worth remembering.

——

The afternoon sunlight poured through the tall windows in lazy streaks, warming the hardwood floors and casting a golden haze across the living room. The house was quiet except for the occasional creak of wood or Edgar’s soft panting from his nap spot near the balcony doors.

You were curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, flipping absentmindedly through a worn book Pedro had left on the coffee table. You weren’t even sure what you were reading—something with soft edges and lyrical sentences—but the words felt like background music to the moment more than anything.

Pedro returned from the kitchen with two mugs of tea, handing you yours with a soft smile before settling beside you. He didn’t sit on the other end of the couch, though. He turned sideways, shoulder against the armrest, one knee bent up, the other leg stretched out just long enough to brush against yours.

“What are you reading?” he asked, his voice low, still a little raspy from the late morning.

You tilted the book to show him the cover. “I think this used to be yours.”

He smiled as he took a sip of tea. “Yeah, that one got me through a lonely season.”

“Feels like a book for soft days,” you said. “Like this one.”

Pedro didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you, his eyes thoughtful and full of something quiet and affectionate. Then he set his tea down and reached for a blanket draped over the back of the couch.

“Come here,” he said gently, opening his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You slid toward him, your body curling into his like a puzzle piece falling into place. The blanket wrapped around both of you, warm and heavy, and you settled with your back against his chest, your head tucked under his chin. His arms looped around you easily, one hand holding the book, the other resting against your stomach, thumb brushing absent patterns into the fabric of your shirt.

“I’ll read,” he offered.

You didn’t even respond. You just nodded, eyes fluttering shut as he started reading aloud—quietly, without pretense, like it was something he did every Sunday.

His voice was a slow, soothing current, the kind of sound that you didn’t just listen to but felt—in your ribs, in your spine, in the way your breathing synced with his. Every so often, he’d pause and whisper something that wasn’t on the page.

“That part reminds me of you.”

Or, “I used to underline this line. Didn’t know why then, but I think I do now.”

Sometimes he’d get distracted and trail off mid-sentence, his lips pressing softly to the top of your head like punctuation. And when he eventually closed the book, setting it aside on the armrest, neither of you moved to fill the silence. There was no need.

You turned your head slightly, just enough to feel the stubble of his jaw against your temple. “This is nice,” you murmured.

Pedro smiled against your skin. “Yeah. It’s everything.”

And it was. Just sunlight, a shared blanket, his voice, your heartbeat. A moment so quiet it might’ve been missed—if it hadn’t felt like the whole world.

——

Evening settled inquietly, like a soft exhale after a long, beautiful day. Outside, the city began to hush, the sun casting a golden-orange glow across the skyline before dipping beneath it. In the house everything felt suspended in warmth—the kind that lingers not just in the air, but under your skin.

The kitchen glowed with soft light, the overhead bulbs dimmed and two tall candles flickering steadily on the island counter. Pedro insisted on them—not for the aesthetic, he claimed, but because he liked how everything looked softer in candlelight. You knew better. He liked you in candlelight. He said so once with a look that made your whole body buzz.

He was standing in front of the stove now, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, wearing that ridiculous apron you’d gotten him as a joke months ago—black with white script: “Kiss the Cook (He’s Sensitive).” The way he wore it, you almost forgot it was meant to be funny.

You leaned against the counter, watching him stir the pan with quiet concentration. “You’re actually kind of hot when you cook.”

“Kind of?” he asked without looking up.

You smirked. “Fine. You’re full-on domestic daddy right now.”

Pedro chuckled, shaking his head as he reached for the fresh basil. “You’re lucky I’m in love with you.”

You blinked, startled by the ease of the words—how they slipped out like he said them every day. Maybe he would, after this.

He noticed you pause and turned towards you, eyes searching. “That didn’t freak you out, did it?”

“No,” you said quickly, a small smile forming. “Just… you beat me to it.”

Pedro tilted his head, stepping closer, wiping his hands on a towel before cupping your cheek with his palm. His thumb brushed your skin as he whispered, “Say it anyway.”

You looked up at him, heart full and steady. “I love you.”

Something about the way his face softened in that exact moment—like he’d been waiting to hear those words from you without even realizing it—made your breath catch. He kissed you then. Not rushed. Not hungry. Just slow. Reverent. His lips moved against yours like a promise.

Dinner turned out better than expected—simple, fresh pasta tossed with tomatoes, garlic, olive oil, and a sprinkle of Parmesan. You sat close at the table, knees brushing, sharing bites from each other’s plates like neither of you wanted to miss a thing. The conversation was quiet, easy, full of smiles and glances that lingered a little too long to be casual.

After the dishes were cleaned and Edgar was fed, you both stayed in the kitchen. Pedro dimmed the lights until it was just candlelight and soft jazz coming from the old record player in the corner of the living room. He held out his hand towards you.

“Dance with me.”

You raised a brow at him. “Now?”

“Always.”

You slid your hand into his bigger ones and let him pull you into his arms. There, in the middle of the kitchen, surrounded by glowing light and the scent of garlic and wine and candle wax, he held you close, swaying gently to the music. One hand rested on your lower back, the other clasped your hand against his chest. You tucked your face against his shoulder, and he pressed a kiss into your hair. Neither of you spoke for a while. You didn’t need to. Everything was being said in the way your bodies moved together, in the quiet sighs and soft breaths shared between you.”

“You know,” he said after a long moment, his voice just above a whisper, “this is the part in the movies I never used to believe in.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face. “What part?”

“This. The kitchen. The dancing. The… peace. I always thought it was made up. Something people wrote into scripts because it sounded pretty.”

You brushed your thumb across his cheek. “And now?”

He smiled, eyes boring into yours. “Now I never want it to end.”

You kissed him again, arms wrapping around his neck, and he kissed you back like he meant it—like he was anchoring himself to that moment. To you.

When the record ended, you both stayed there for a beat longer. Then Pedro whispered, “Come to bed with me.”

You didn’t answer. You just took his hand and let him lead you.

——

The rain had started sometime after dinner, soft and steady against the windows, a gentle rhythm that matched the quiet between you and Pedro. The city outside had blurred into a dreamscape—streetlights glowing through raindrops, casting shifting shadows on the bedroom walls. Inside, everything was still.

You were curled up in bed, half-tangled together in the lazy sprawl that only happened after a long, good day. Pedro’s bare chest was warm beneath your cheek, his hand slow and deliberate as it traced lines along your back, trailing up beneath the hem of your shirt just to feel your skin.

“You ever think about how we ended up here?” he murmured, his voice a soft rasp, thick with affection and a hint of sleep.

You tilted your head just enough to look up at him. “Here in bed, or here in general?”

A sleepy smile tugged at his lips. “Both.”

You smiled too, resting your chin on his chest. “Yeah. Sometimes it feels like a dream.”

His hand moved to your hair, brushing it back behind your ear, then cupping your jaw. His thumb traced the line of your cheekbone like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. “You feel real to me,” he whispered. “You feel like everything.”

The words landed heavy in the most beautiful way, your heart fluttering like soft wings inside your chest. You leaned up to kiss him, slow and searching, letting yourself sink into him completely. He kissed you back with the kind of gentleness that said I love you without needing the words. His hand slid down your back, fingers skimming over the curve of your waist, until he pulled you over him, your thighs cradling his hips. You moved easily, like you belonged there—because you did.

“You sure?” he asked, voice low and a little shaky now, even though you were already pressed so close.

“I want you,” you said simply. “Like this. Slow.”

Pedro exhaled like he’d been holding his breath. He sat up just enough to help you pull your shirt over your head, then leaned in, pressing kisses across your collarbone, your shoulder, the hollow of your throat. His hands traced every inch of your skin as if he was learning you all over again, fingertips reverent, lips following like a prayer.

“You’re everything I never thought I’d have,” he murmured, voice trembling just a little. “And I don’t want to miss a second of it.”

Your fingers tangled in his curls as you kissed him again, deeper this time. You rolled your hips over his slowly, and the way he gasped into your mouth made your whole body ache with need. When he slid your underwear down and you reached for the waistband of his briefs, his hand caught yours for a moment. Not to stop you—just to look at you. Like he needed to make sure you were still there, still his.

“I love you,” he said, rough and unguarded.

You leaned in, pressing your forehead to his. “I love you too.”

He helped guide you down over him, breath hitching as he filled you—slow and steady, with a hand braced at your waist and the other holding your cheek like he couldn’t bear to let go. You settled into a rhythm together, bodies moving in a quiet, perfect sync, gasps and sighs filling the room like a song only you two could hear.

His hands never left you—stroking, grounding, worshiping.

Your name fell from his lips again and again, half-whispered, like a mantra. And when you came, you clung to him, mouth open against his shoulder, heart pounding like it might break apart from how full it was. He followed seconds later, burying his face in your neck with a broken sound, his whole body shuddering beneath you as he wrapped his arms tight around you.

Neither of you spoke for a long time.

You just stayed wrapped in each other, the rain still tapping at the window, the sheets warm around you, the world outside fading away. Eventually, he kissed your shoulder—soft and slow—and murmured, “You make everything feel quieter. Better. Like I don’t have to run anymore.”

You ran your fingers through his hair and kissed his temple. “You don’t. You’re home now.”

The room was warm. Your bodies were flushed and tired in that perfect way that came from being truly, deeply close. You were just starting to drift off when you heard the soft, familiar click of nails on hardwood.

Then a quiet huff and a very determined thump onto the foot of the bed.

You both looked down to see Edgar wiggling his way onto the mattress like it was his turn now to snuggle with you two. He turned twice in a circle, flopped with all the grace of a bowling ball in a blanket fort, and stared up at you with a grumpy little blink.

Pedro chuckled, voice still hoarse from earlier. “Jealous, buddy?”

Edgar gave one more theatrical sigh and shoved his cold nose against Pedro’s thigh—making him jump slightly—before settling down between your ankles like a stubborn child demanding attention.

You laughed, curling back into Pedro’s chest. “He just wants his spot. We messed up the routine.”

Pedro kissed your temple, pulling the blanket over all three of you. “Fine. He can have his corner. But this”—he pulled you tighter to him— “this is mine.”

You smiled sleepily as Edgar let out one last grunt and settled in with a snore.

The rain had stopped outside. And between Pedro’s arms and Edgar’s soft weight at your feet, everything felt right.

#pedropascal #pedro pascal #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x f!reader #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal fluff #pedro pascal smut (kinda)#pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal fanfic

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millers-girl · 1 month ago

Text

things worth saving

chapter 3 of willow & whiskey

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

summary: you and Joel come together, and fall apart, all within the confines of Bill's town.

warnings/tags: age gap, adult language, blood and violence, death

word count: 4.8k

series masterlist

The next morning, the sun pulled you from sleep, though it did little to fight the exhaustion weighing on your body. You’d gotten little sleep last night – waking every so often to check on Ellie to make sure she was okay… and maybe every once in a while, your eyes drifted to where Joel sat on watch. Your empathic heart couldn’t help but bleed for his.

While Joel didn’t give anything away, Ellie was quieter than usual, and you could tell she was lost in her thoughts. Instead of pressing her to talk, you simply laid beside her, staring up at the sky. You pointed out constellations, whispering their stories, letting the sound of your voice fill the silence between you. You saved Orion––her favorite––for last.

Eventually, her breathing evened out, body relaxing against the makeshift pillow of her pack. You stayed up, watching the stars blink in and out of focus. What you didn’t notice was Joel, sitting a few yards away, listening. Watching.

His weary gaze settled on you, ears tuned in to every word you spoke. He’d caught the way you shifted restlessly in your spot, rolling onto your side and then back, your body shivering against the cold. You had draped your jacket over Ellie without hesitation, leaving you to suffer the chill now.

When you woke, Joel's jacket was over you.

The warmth of it, the smell of earthy leather, lingered as you pulled it tighter around you. For a moment, a flicker of something unfamiliar twisted in your chest. This small gesture could’ve been softness, kindness. But, in the short amount of time you’d known Joel, you could whatever compelled him to do it was more complicated. Guilt, maybe. Responsibility.

Your eyes moved across the dirt, to where he sat when you saw him last before drifting off to sleep. The spot was empty.

You sat up, blinking the sleep from your eyes, and found him by the stream a few yards away. He was flexing his injured hand under the cool rush of water, knuckles cracked and raw from his fight with the guard.

You moved quietly, grabbing the small first aid kit from your pack and walking over. He didn’t react as you sat beside him, the early morning air still and thick between you two. Silently, you held a hand out.

Joel hesitated, gaze flickering between your face and outstretched palm. Then, slowly, he placed his hand in yours.

The contrast struck him immediately. His skin was rough, calloused, lined with age and hardship – completely different from the softness of your own fingers.

He didn’t flinch when you brushed over the bruising, but you felt the tension in his muscles, the way his fingers curled involuntarily at your touch.

"Does it hurt?" You asked, voice barely above a whisper so as not to disturb the fragile quiet of the dawn.

He shook his head, dismissive. But when you applied a bit of pressure, his jaw tightened, a slight flinch betraying him.

Without reacting—he was sure you were doing it for his sake—you applied some ointment on his wounds before wrapping them in gauze, gently trying to avoid the sensitive area.

When you were done, you pulled out a small bottle of anti-inflammatories, shaking two pills into your palm. He stared at them, then took only one, swallowing it dry.

You let him have that without argument. If this was his way of keeping control over something, you’d let him have it.

By the time you both returned to camp, Ellie was awake, sitting up against a tree. The moment you saw her, you made a beeline, kneeling to wrap your arms around her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

"Hey, you sleep okay?" you asked, brushing the hair out of her face.

She nodded, but when she turned to Joel, her expression was tense. "Look, I've been thinking about – "

Joel cut her off. "I don't want your sorries."

"I wasn't gonna say sorry," Ellie snapped back, her voice unwavering. "I was gonna say I've been thinking about what happened. Nobody made you or Tess take us. Nobody made you go along with this plan – "

"Ellie," you warned softly, shaking your head. Now wasn't the time for this.

"No,” she insisted, “he made a choice. He doesn't get to blame us for something that isn't our fault."

Joel waited, looking to see if you would talk her down. But, you didn't. Instead, you turned to him then, waiting. Would he deny it? Confirm? If you were him, you’d surely blame yourself – if you and Ellie hadn’t shown up, Tess would still be alive.

And even though Ellie was right—he did this of his own free will—you still felt guilty about it. Guilty about being the reason she was in the State House in the first place, guilty about ending whatever it was between them, guilty for playing a part in her death.

You looked up just in time to see Joel nod once at Ellie, quiet and sharp, coming to an agreement.

And that was that.

The five hour trek to Bill and Frank's was spent mostly with Ellie peppering you with questions to pass the time and fill the silence.

“What’s the first thing you’d do if the world wasn’t all fucked?”

You thought for a second. “Disneyworld. I’d go to Disneyworld.”

Ellie scrunched her nose. “What’s Disneyworld?” Even Joel’s head turned slightly at that. “What?”

You shook your head, feigning a sigh. “I’ve failed at raising you.”

Ellie waved it off, moving on to her next question.

“What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever used as a weapon?” Once, you’d killed an Infected with a broken spatula handle; that was something.

"Would you rather kiss an Infected or eat rat jerky?”

To that, you truly had no answer.

When she ran out of questions for you, she turned to Joel.

“Have you gone this way a lot?” To which he’d shrugged and said sometimes.

“Are there any Infected we should be looking out for?” No.

“Are Bill and Frank nice?” Frank was.

"How'd you get that scar on your head?"

That caught your attention. You glanced at Joel as he sighed.

Ellie continued. "What? Is it something lame, like you fell down the stairs or something?"

"Someone shot at me and missed."

"See, that's cool. You shoot back?"

"Yeah."

"You get him?"

"No, I missed, too." Ellie scoffed. "It happens more often than you think."

"Cause you suck at shooting, or like, in general?"

You snorted a laugh, disguising it as a cough when Joel shot a look your way.

His expression remained flat as he answered, "In general."

Before she could think up another question, the three of you happened upon a gas station where Joel had mentioned he stashed some supplies for when he ran low.

Inside, you watched Joel look around for a minute, eyes unsure.

“You forgot where you put your stuff,” you teased, watching his eyes scan the floor.

“No,” Joel argued. “I’m just zeroing in on it.”

You nudged Ellie, mimicking his tone. “Zeroing in on it.”

When Joel finally unearthed his stash––and Ellie had wandered into the back to see if she could find anything good––you hopped atop the counter where the cash register sat and swung your feet.

As he dug through the dusty green duffel, you took a nosy glimpse inside and suddenly screeched in joy.“Are those tampons?!” You asked, hopping off the counter and reaching your greedy fingers out. Joel handed the blue box over, giving you a look. “What?”

“Nothin’. Just don’t think I’ve ever seen someone get so excited about feminine hygiene.”

“Yeah, you try living on pads as long as I have. It fucking sucks.”

Joel cleared his throat. “Didn’t need to know that.”

You quirked a brow. “Joel, when you bleed from your vagina for four days every month––get cramps, cravings for chocolate, and have to use the sandpaper they call ‘pads’ in the QZ––then you’ll get an opinion on this.”

“Wonderful,” he huffed under his breath, going back to rummaging through the duffle.

You stuffed the box of tampons in your pack before hopping back onto the countertop, eyes wandering around the store which was mostly picked over. As your brain wandered through different thoughts, you let out a scoff, the sound of your own amusement surprising you.

Joel glanced up at you. “Sorry,” you apologized, “It’s just – before everything, did you ever just go to the store just for one dumb thing? Like, you realize you’re out of milk, so you drive to the store, hand over a couple bucks, and that was it. No ration cards, no guards, no ‘hope no one stabs me on the way home.’ Just… milk.”

Joel didn’t answer right away. His brow furrowed slightly as if he was sorting through distant memories. Finally, he nodded. “Yeah. Used to do it all the time.”

Something about the way he said it––low, almost reluctant––made your chest tighten. The normalcy of that past life was such a foreign thing now.

You hesitated before speaking again, fingers tracing the dust on the counter. “One of the only memories I have from before the outbreak happened in a gas station. My mom and I were going on a road trip. She stopped somewhere to fill up the gas, and I – ” You let out a soft laugh. “I had been in the car for so long, I just took off running up and down the aisles of this convenience store on the side of the road with my mom chasing me. It made the attendant laugh so hard, he let me pick out a lollipop for free.”

You glanced at Joel, his gaze heavy on you. It made your stomach twist – he wasn’t just listening, he was seeing you, maybe for the first time.

You cleared your throat, shifting under the weight of his gaze. “You ever take a kid shopping?”

It was meant to be a throwaway question, something to deflect from the sudden intimacy of the moment. But Joel immediately stiffened at it. His jaw ticked as he turned back to his pack, shoving supplies into it with a little too much force.

Oh.

The realization settled uncomfortably in your chest. You hadn’t really thought about it before, but now… Maybe Joel hadn’t always been alone. Maybe there had been someone else, before the outbreak – a kid.

The air felt heavier between you.

“You don’t have to answer that,” you finally said, softly. “I just – I think this is the first time in a long time I’ve had a real conversation with someone who isn’t Ellie.”

After a pause, Joel asked, “And… verdict?”

Half-smiling, you answered, “I’ve had worse conversation and worse company.”

Joel didn’t respond, but something in his expression shifted just slightly, like he understood the sentiment. He didn’t mind your company either. And when it came to conversation – Hell, he couldn’t even remember the last time he and Tess had even had a real one, one that wasn’t about survival.

You could feel the moment lingering between the two of you until Ellie returned to the front room.

When Joel was done restocking, you three were on the move again. The road to central Massachusetts stretched empty ahead, nothing but cracked asphalt and the occasional rusted car. Woods and fields flanked both sides. Then, up ahead, the landscape changed.

A plane crash.

The wreckage was half-buried in the dirt, its charred remains a stark reminder of the chaos that had unfolded in those first days. Your stomach twisted at the sight.

“Jesus,” you muttered under your breath.

Ellie turned to Joel, eyes wide, seemingly unaffected by the gore of it. You didn’t know how she did that, or who she got it from – it certainly wasn’t you. “You ever fly in one of those?”

“A few times.”

“Lucky,” she grumbled.

You looked at him, trying to distract yourself from the sight before you. “What was it like?”

“Sure as hell didn’t feel lucky. Got shoved into a middle seat, paid twelve bucks for a sandwich.”

Ellie scoffed. “Dude, you got to go up in the sky!”

He just shrugged, glancing back at the wreckage. “Yeah, well, so did they.” Grim.

Silence fell as you kept walking. Ellie wandered ahead, kicking at a stray rock, leaving you and Joel a few paces behind. After a moment, he glanced over. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You ever go on a plane?” You shook your head. “Shame.”

You huffed a small laugh. “What happened to ‘shoved into a middle seat and overpaid for a sandwich’?”

He shrugged. “Still… think you would’a liked it.”

Something about that––him saying that––made your chest warm.

“When you went – did you see stars? Was it at night?”

Joel shook his head. “Didn’t get a chance to look out the window.”

You whistled lowly. “I would’ve saved the twelve bucks you spent on that sandwich and upgraded to a window seat.”

That actually made him breathe out a single laugh. A real one. And you… you liked the sound of it. It was rare, something buried beneath all that gruffness and exhaustion. He looked like he could use more of them.

But then, just as quickly as it had appeared, the frown was back. Joel scanned the surroundings, posture tightening. He called Ellie back. “We’ll cut across the woods here.”

Your brows furrowed. “Why wouldn’t we just keep going straight? Didn’t you say this road would basically take us most of the way there?”

“Yeah, it’s just – there’s stuff up there neither of you should see.”

Something about the way he said it made your skin prickle. The weight in his voice, the way his shoulders tensed.

Ellie, of course, saw it as a challenge. “Well, now I have to see.”

“I don’t want you to,” Joel replied, voice firm.

“Ellie, you heard him,” you supported, watching the girl begin to make her way down the road. “Seriously, Ellie!”

She turned, walking backwards. “Can it hurt me?” She asked Joel.

The moment “No” slipped past his lips, you whipped a hand up to cover his mouth, trying to stop it. He should’ve lied – it would’ve at least been more convincing at getting Ellie to follow him through the woods. You sighed, having heard his answer before turning to Ellie.

Ellie smirked. “You’re too honest, man.” She nudged her head toward you. “Gotta learn from the best.”

“It’s okay,” you tried reassuring him. “She’s a tricky one. There’s a learning curve to parenting her.”

“I wasn’t trying to – ”

He stopped himself when he saw Ellie sharply stop at the edge of the road, eyes staring down into the valley ahead.

Your stomach dropped at the look on her face.

“What is it?” You asked, brows furrowed in worry as you rushed up to her. You gasped at what she was staring at – a mass grave. Hundreds of skeletons lay tangled together, bones bleached by the sun, scattered across the valley like discarded remains of remnants past. The sight made your breath hitch, nausea curling deep in your gut.

You turned to Joel, needing an explanation.

With a soft sigh, he said, “About a week after Outbreak Day, soldiers went through the countryside evacuating the smalltowns. Told you you were goin’ to a QZ, and you were… if there was room. If there wasn’t…”

Your stomach twisted violently. The world blurred for a moment as you stepped back, to the other side of the road, before doubling over and emptying the meager contents of your stomach onto the grass.

A warm, calloused hand smoothed over your back, steadying you. Joel.

He didn’t say anything, just kept rubbing slow, grounding circles up and down your back.

For a man who rarely offered comfort, who kept his distance from anything too close, too raw… it meant something.

Only, you were a bit preoccupied to realize it at the time.

Bill’s town was like something out of a doomsday prepper’s handbook – a high voltage fence surrounding the entire thing, surveillance cameras everywhere, and an eerie silence blanketed over the desolate town.

Joel punched a code into the keypad beside the fence, and the click of the lock sounded before he pushed the gate open and let you and Ellie inside the town.

The houses were vacant, but they felt occupied, as if the people who lived here had just stepped out. Bill’s place, though, stood out. It was a fortress, marked by a slightly overgrown lawn and potted flowers lining the walk up to the porch.

Looking back, you think you knew it before you ever even entered the house. The flowers on the porch had wilted – the first sign.

Inside the foyer, the silence was thick. You tucked Ellie near your side as you stayed behind Joel, eyes gazing over the house.

“Bill,” Joel’s voice broke the silence, waiting to hear a reply. “Frank?”

No response.

Stepping further in the house, Ellie found an envelope and a key sat by the piano in the dining room. Addressed ‘To whomever, but probably Joel.’

She opened up the note inside, stating, “It’s from Bill.” She quickly read it to herself in silence.

Joel sighed, probably knowing what was coming, and shrugged his backpack off, grasping the key.

He glanced down the hall, at the bedroom on the far right.

“So they’re dead?” he asked.

Ellie nodded, gently humming in affirmation.

Joel paced slowly around the room, the weight of the loss pressing down on him. Another friend––another two friends––lost in the span of a few days.

Your heart ached for him, but you didn’t know what to say. What could you say that would make this any better?

“What does the note say?” you softly asked Ellie.

“August 29, 2023. If you find this, please do not come into the bedroom. We left a window open so the house wouldn’t smell. But it will probably be a sight. I’m guessing you found this, Joel, because anyone else would’ve been electrocuted or blown up by one of my traps. Hehehehe. Take anything you need. The bunker code is the same as the gate code, but in reverse.

“Anyway, I never liked you, but still, it’s like we’re friends… almost. And I respect you. So, I’m gonna tell you something because you’re probably the only person who will understand.

“I used to hate the world, and I was happy when everyone died. But I was wrong because there was one person worth saving…”

Without meaning to, your gaze drifted toward Joel. His eyes had found Ellie, then slowly turned to you. That soft, warm brown met yours, something flickering in it. It was the same look he’d given you back at the gas station – but now, you were giving it back.

You were finally seeing him, too.

You were starting to understand exactly what kind of person Joel Miller was, and you weren’t shying away from it. Instead, you held his gaze, trying to offer him what comfort you could as Ellie continued to read in her oblivious innocence.

“That’s what I did. I saved him, then I protected him. That’s why men like you and me are here. We have a job to do. And God help any motherfuckers who stand in our way.”

The corners of your lips quirked up into a small, almost imperceptible smile. Yeah, you were beginning to understand Joel more than you would admit aloud.

“I leave you all of my weapons and equipment. Use them to keep – “

The moment her voice caught, both you and Joel turned to look at her. The tension in the room shifted. And, just like that, Joel was moving, snatching the letter from Ellie’s hand in a single, swift motion. He finished the sentence.

“Stay here,” he ordered, his voice low and hard. Without waiting for a response, he stormed out of the house.

You looked at Ellie, who explained, “It said ‘use them to keep Tess safe.’”

You closed your eyes and let out a deep sigh before following him out the door. You found him in the garage, making a car battery.

The noise of the tools around him was the only sound in the room, filling the space with a mechanical rhythm that felt out of place amidst the tension. You stepped closer, but he barely spared you a glance.

Softly, you began, “You know, I had someone once too.”

Without looking up from the wire he was tightening, he coldly replied, “That so?”

Every cell in your body told you to leave him alone, but the look he’d given you back in the dining room while Ellie was reading the letter – you couldn’t let it go.

“Yeah. We were in the QZ together. Didn’t have much, but we made it work. Looked out for each other, kept each other safe – he kept Ellie safe.” A lump lodged itself into your throat and you forced it down before continuing, “He used to say it was enough… that even in a world like this, it was enough.”

Joel finally looked up, his expression unreadable. He didn’t ask but there was something in his eyes that told you he understood exactly what you meant.

“I wish it had been,” you said, voice barely above a whisper before you cleared your throat.

Joel’s jaw tightened and he turned back to the battery, working faster now, as if trying to outrun the conversation. “What’s your point?” He asked gruffly, clearly irritated now.

“That you’re not the only one who had someone worth saving… that you’re not the only one who knows what it’s like to lose them.”

You’d meant it as a comfort – that he didn’t have to do this alone. Instead, he took it as a criticism – you’re not the only one who's lost someone so get over it.

“At least I’m doing something with my loss,” he snapped, hands gripping the worktable.

Your head dropped, understanding what he was saying between the lines. He’d lost Tess and he was shifting that energy to do something about it – to build this car battery and finally get to his brother.

You, on the other hand, were wallowing in your misery. Letting it be a part of you but never harnessing it for anything. Your grief was useless.

“Right,” you said finally, accepting his chastisement. Without another word, you turned on your heel and walked out of the garage, back into the house. You sat with Ellie, who could tell something was wrong, until Joel came back inside – he made a point to look mainly at Ellie.

“I just finished making a truck battery. It’s charging right now.”

“Okay,” Ellie said.

“I have a brother, out in Wyoming. He’s in some kinda trouble and I’m heading out there to find him. He used to be a Firefly. And my guess is, he knows where some of ‘em are out there. Maybe they can get you to wherever this lab is.”

“Alright… uh – listen… about Tess – “

Joel held a hand up, cutting her off. His voice was hard, distant. “If I’m takin’ you with me, there’s some rules you gotta follow. Rule one: you don’t bring up Tess. Ever.” He glanced back at you before continuing, “Matter of fact, we can just keep our histories to ourselves.”

You bit your lip, trying to process what he was saying. The distance between you stretched, maybe further than it ever had before, and it made your stomach twist.

“Rule two: you don’t tell anyone about your… condition. They see that bite mark, they won’t think it through. They’ll just shoot you.” Ellie nodded. “Rule three: you do what I say when I say it. We clear?”

“Yes.”

“Repeat it.”

“She gets it,” you growled, stepping up to Ellie and crossing your arms over your chest, clearly not able to let the moment go. “What you say goes.”

Joel let out a deep sigh, accepting it. “Okay. Let’s go grab what we can. Anything useful.”

The house was full of supplies you three stuffed into your packs – food, clothes, even toilet paper.

After you were done, and had found the wonderful shock that the house had hot water, you raced Ellie to the bathroom, eventually letting her win and shower first.

When it was your turn, you stood under the warm spray, letting it soothe your muscles, your mind. Here, in the confines of the bathtub, you didn’t have to worry about Ellie, didn’t have to think ten moves ahead or keep an eye out for danger.

Here, you could just be.

Thirty minutes later, the water had washed away the exhaustion and you felt lighter, refreshed.

You stepped out of the bathroom––the soft warmth of the towel wrapped around you, wet hair dripping onto the wooden floor––and froze when you saw Joel standing there.

You met his gaze, not wanting to let him see how much he had rattled you. “What?”

He hesitated then shook his head. “Nothin’. You done with the shower?”

You nodded and slipped past him without another word, your pulse quickening.

After you dressed, you found yourself wandering through the house, until you ended up in what you guessed was Frank’s art studio. There was a half-finished portrait of Bill on the easel. In fact, there were pictures of Bill everywhere – it was clear Frank had poured everything into those canvases. You could tell how much he loved him.

You felt a lump form in your throat as you traced your fingers over the easels, the paints, the brushes. You knew it sounded silly but you could feel Frank in the room.

A person you’d never met but you immediately knew you’d like, based on this room alone. You stepped in front of a pot of lilies you assumed he was going to use for the painting of Bill, and plucked one by the stem, staring at it.

You rummaged through your pack until you opened up your journal, softly pressing the flower between the pages.

It was small but it would remind you of this place. Of the people who lived here and the love they shared. Of the love you once shared, in the confines of your cramped apartment in the QZ, with your blonde-haired sweet boy.

The creak of a floorboard behind you had you snapping your head back, caught off guard. Joel stood in the doorway, freshly showered, eyes locked on the tears you hadn’t realized were falling.

“They’re not for you,” you said, your voice tight, though you wiped them away quickly, embarrassed.

Joel said nothing for a long beat. Then, he motioned to the flower you’d pressed. “Ain’t much use in keepin’ dead things.”

You swallowed hard, the ache in your chest growing. You looked at the flower, the petals delicate on the page. “Not everything has to have a use. You can just appreciate things because they’re beautiful.”

The silence between you thickened, and Joel didn’t take the moment to apologize for earlier. You hadn’t expected him to. Still, for some reason, it stung more than it should’ve.

Finally, he said, “The battery’s charged. You ready to go?”

You nodded, your words caught in your throat, and walked past him, out the door, into the cold, open world once again.

Ellie was already sitting in the back, mesmerized by the newness of being inside a car.

“It’s like a spaceship,” she dreamily said.

You turned to look at her as Joel settled into the driver’s seat. “Put your seatbelt on, love.” She turned to look at you, clueless.

It made you smile, reaching back to buckle her seatbelt for her before pressing a loving kiss to her cheek and returning to your seat.

As Joel began driving out of the neighborhood, your eyes caught sight of a blue tote bag by your feet.

“Packed it for you,” Joel merely said, watching you open the bag from his periphery.

Inside were a stack of books, with the second installment of the Lord of the Rings trilogy neatly placed on top. You couldn’t believe that he’d remembered you telling him you were reading the first book back at his apartment, before you’d ever left for the State House.

You placed the second book onto your lap, fingers grazing the spine.

“It’s a long drive,” he added. I got you something so you wouldn’t get bored, was what was left unsaid. But it didn’t need to be said aloud. You heard it loud and clear, in the silence.

It wasn’t a big gesture but it did enough. You found the sting in your heart lessening.

This wasn’t an apology, and you opening it up to page one to begin reading, wasn’t an acceptance. But it was a middle ground, and that was something.

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