#pedro pascal simp

[worlds-we-write]

Sweet on You

Chapter 1: Bread and Butter

pairing: Jackson!joel miller x baker!reader

Summary: You spend most of your days elbow-deep in dough, trying to stay invisible in a town that’s only ever half-safe. But when a snowstorm traps you inside the bakery — and Joel Miller comes back to check on you — the walls you’ve built start to crack. And Joel? He’s more than willing to crawl through them.

WC: 7.4K

Rating: Explicit (18+) MDNI

Tags: Joel Miller x Reader, Jackson Era, Age Gap, Bakery AU, Snowed-In, Protective Joel, Abusive Ex, First Time, Oral (f receiving), Praise Kink, Dirty Talk, Aftercare, Soft Dom Joel, Emotional Tension, Smut & Comfort

Series Masterlist

The first light of morning bleeds through the frosted bakery windows, casting long shadows across the flour-dusted countertops. You’re already elbow-deep in dough by the time most of Jackson is still stirring under blankets. Your hands move on instinct — knead, fold, turn, press — the motions steady, repetitive, almost comforting. Almost.

The radio in the corner crackles with the latest weather warning. Snow’s rolling in faster than expected. Maria’s voice, stern and clipped, advises nonessential workers to stay inside.

You keep working.

The heat from the ovens hasn’t fully kicked in yet, and your fingers are stiff with cold. You blow into your palms, flexing them as pain stabs through the joints. The skin on your knuckles is raw — half from the dry air, half from where your ex’s grip had been a little too tight last night when you tried to walk away.

You’d brushed it off. Said something about catching your hand on a doorframe. You lie easier than you used to.

You glance toward the window, hoping no one will come by this early. Hoping he won’t come by. He’s unpredictable that way. But even thinking about it makes your stomach churn.

Instead, you focus on the one thing that helps: work. Baking. The soft resistance of dough, the smell of rising yeast, the way cinnamon sticks to your fingertips like sugar-slick sin. It’s your rhythm. Your armor.

The door jingles at 7:32 a.m. sharp.

Your heart skips. You freeze, hands full of dough.

But then—

“Morning.”

His voice. Warm gravel. Low and rough like coffee at sunrise.

Joel Miller.

You don’t even have to look up to know it’s him. He always comes in at this time on Thursdays. Like clockwork. Orders the same loaf of sourdough. Pays in full. Sometimes talks. Sometimes doesn’t. Always looks at you just a little too long.

You wipe your hands on your apron, trying not to notice how your pulse jumps. “Hey. You’re early.”

He tilts his head slightly, mouth twitching. “You’re open early.”

“Some of us don’t like to sleep in,” you mutter, reaching for the wrapped loaf already waiting for him. You’d made it automatically. Without thinking. That part makes your cheeks burn.

Joel steps up to the counter, wearing that damn brown jacket that clings to his shoulders too well. Snow dusts his hair. His glasses are fogged slightly, and you swear he lowers them to peer at you over the rim — just to mess with your head.

“Cold in here,” he murmurs. “You alright?”

You hesitate.

You could say yes. That you’re fine. That the cut on your wrist is from the oven. That you’re not shaking because of him. That Joel’s eyes on you don’t make it worse and better all at once.

But instead, you just nod. “Yeah. Cold front’s coming in fast.”

Joel takes the loaf, but his gaze lingers. Like he knows there’s something unsaid. His hand brushes yours when he takes the bread. It’s nothing. Barely a second.

But it sets your nerves on fire.

You avoid his eyes. He doesn’t push.

“Be careful out there,” he says.

You don’t reply. Just watch him go.

As the door swings shut behind him, you whisper it too late:

“You too.”

You think that’s it — just another Thursday morning, another few seconds of Joel Miller brushing against the edge of your world before disappearing back into his.

But fifteen minutes later, the bell above the bakery door jingles again.

Your brows pull together. It’s too early for your regulars. And Joel? He never comes back the same day.

You wipe your hands on your apron again — a nervous habit you haven’t been able to kick — and turn toward the counter just in time to see him step back inside.

His hair is a little more damp than before, snow melting against the curve of his collar. His jacket’s still zipped up, and he’s carrying… what looks like a small crate of canned goods.

You blink. “Did you… forget something?”

He shrugs, but his eyes scan the room, lingering on the prep table behind you, the woodpile beside the stove, your thermos of half-drunk coffee. He takes his time.

“Figured you might need this,” he says casually, setting the crate on the edge of the counter.

You glance down — it’s stacked with preserved fruit, two bags of flour, and a few canned items you’ve been out of since last week’s trading haul. It’s the kind of stuff you usually have to beg Tommy to scrounge up for you.

“I—Joel, I didn’t ask for this.”

“I know.” He slides his hands into his jacket pockets, eyes never leaving your face. “Heard you mention last week you were running low.”

Your lips part, but no sound comes out. No one ever listens that closely. Not unless they want something.

Joel doesn’t say anything else. Just watches you, waiting.

You force a smile. “Thanks. Really. That’s… sweet of you.”

His brow ticks up. “You don’t gotta call it that.”

“What? Sweet?”

“Yeah.” He looks down, almost self-conscious. “Ain’t a word most folks use for me.”

You stare at him. At the way his jaw tightens slightly. At the soft crease in his brow. He really doesn’t know how he sounds when he says these things, does he?

Your fingers twitch at your sides. You want to ask him why he came back. Why he’s really here.

But instead, your mouth betrays you. “You didn’t need to bring this.”

“Didn’t need to,” Joel agrees. “Wanted to.”

Your throat goes dry.

The silence stretches for a second too long. You reach to move the crate off the counter, but when you do, the cuff of your sleeve pushes back just far enough for the healing bruise on your wrist to show.

Joel notices.

You see it the moment his eyes drop to it — the way his expression stills. Sharpens.

You yank the sleeve back down quickly. “Banged it on the oven door.”

His voice is quiet. Careful. “That so?”

You nod, too fast.

Joel doesn’t press. Doesn’t call you out.

But he lingers.

“You staying here through the storm?”

“Yeah,” you say quickly. “I usually do when it’s bad. Easier than trying to haul everything back and forth in the snow.”

He’s still watching you like he’s trying to read between the lines. Like he knows there’s more to it. Maybe he does.

“I’ll come by later. Check in,” he says finally. Not a question. Not an offer. Just a fact.

Your heart flutters in your chest. “You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

And just like that, he turns and walks out again — boots heavy against the wooden floor, the door closing behind him with a gust of cold air that feels far too empty once he’s gone.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

Your fingers graze your wrist, brushing over the dark mark that’s just starting to fade.

You’re not sure which man scares you more.

The one who bruises you in the dark. Or the one who looks at you like he already knows — and gives a damn anyway.

The bakery is quiet again after Joel leaves, but the warmth he brought with him lingers in the space. You can still feel it in your chest — the way he looked at you, the way his voice softened when he asked if you were okay. He doesn’t ask like other people do. He actually wants the answer.

You try to shake it off.

There’s dough to shape, pastries to glaze, loaves to prep for the lunch crowd that may or may not come with the snow already starting to fall. Your hands get back to work, but your head is still replaying that moment — how close he stood. How easily your wrist fit in his hand. How badly you wanted him to pull you in and stay.

The bell over the door rings again.

You freeze.

That’s not his walk. Joel’s heavy but measured. This is lighter. Quicker. Familiar in a way that makes your stomach twist.

You don’t turn around until you have to.

“Morning, sweetheart.”

His voice is low and syrupy. The pet name lands like a punch.

You force yourself to look at him — your ex. Smiling like he owns the room. Like he still owns you.

“Didn’t realize you were open this early,” he says, stepping up to the counter, hands stuffed in his coat pockets like he’s just passing through. “Thought maybe I’d stop in. Say hi.”

You grip the edge of the counter tighter than you mean to. “I’m busy.”

He leans in slightly. “I can see that. Must be a lot of work keeping this place going all by yourself.”

You nod once. Don’t give him anything more.

There’s a long pause. He doesn’t leave.

You know this game. He’s waiting for you to break the silence. To give him space to wedge something sharp between the cracks. You focus on the cinnamon rolls instead — brushing them with egg wash, pretending he’s not watching the way your hands move.

Then he does it.

“You and Joel Miller seem real friendly lately.”

Your body stiffens.

He notices.

“Saw him bring in some supplies earlier. Thought that was sweet.” He cocks his head. “You baking him something special?”

You don’t answer.

“I mean, I get it,” he says, voice dipping lower, a sneer barely hidden under the sweetness. “Big strong guy like that. Bet he knows just how to handle a woman like you.”

Your chest tightens. “You need to go.”

He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Relax. I’m just saying — wouldn’t want anyone getting the wrong idea. People talk.”

You finally look up. Your voice is calm, but shaking underneath. “Leave.”

Something flashes behind his eyes — something darker.

And then, too fast to stop, he moves around the counter.

Your heart kicks into overdrive. You step back, but he grabs your arm, fingers digging in too tight, his breath hot and sour against your cheek.

“You really think a man like Joel wants someone like you?” he snarls. “With those thick thighs and soft arms? C’mon. You think he’s not just playing the long game, waiting for something younger, tighter?”

You wrench your arm away, voice low and panicked. “Get out.”

He doesn’t budge. “You don’t belong with someone like him. You belong with someone who knows how to handle you.”

Your blood runs cold.

He leans closer, his voice a whisper now, just for you. “You’re lucky I still care enough to keep you in line.”

You shove him — hard. He stumbles back a step, startled.

“Touch me again and I’ll scream.”

He looks at you for a beat, and something in your eyes must finally register — that you mean it this time.

He straightens his coat. Smiles like it’s all been a joke.

“See you around, sweetheart.”

And then he’s gone.

The door closes softly behind him, but the tension stays — soaked into the floorboards, the walls, your skin.

You lean against the prep table, shaking. Your wrist aches where he grabbed it, and you rub it with trembling fingers.

You stare at the cinnamon rolls, now cold and glossy, untouched.

Your appetite’s gone. But your rage is just starting to simmer.

The snow starts falling harder by midafternoon.

It comes in slow at first — thick, drifting flakes that cling to the bakery windows like static, soft and silent and deceptively gentle. But you know better. Jackson winters aren’t subtle. When the storm hits, it hits hard.

You hear Maria’s voice come through the town radio again, clear even through the walls: “All residents are advised to head home and stay in for the night. Scout patrols will halt after sundown. We’re expecting a full whiteout.”

You don’t respond. Don’t call in. Don’t leave.

You pull the blinds instead. Turn off the storefront lights. Lock the front door even though it’s hours before closing.

The kitchen stays lit, oven humming quietly behind you. You move through your routine like a ghost — stacking trays, folding dish towels, setting out a cot in the corner you keep hidden behind the supply shelves. It’s not the first time you’ve stayed here overnight. Probably won’t be the last.

You tell yourself it’s the storm.

Not the bruise on your wrist. Not the echo of his voice in your head. Not the fact that the apartment you live in is only two doors down from his, and you haven’t slept soundly there in weeks.

You pour yourself a mug of chamomile tea and sit at the tiny prep table, trying to ground yourself. The cup trembles faintly in your hand, and you stare at it like it might give you something solid to hold onto.

He touched you today.

He grabbed you.

You swallow around the lump in your throat.

The bruise is blooming slowly — deeper than the last one. You know how this goes. He pushes until you flinch, then smiles like you’re the one who started it.

You could tell someone. You could tell Maria. You could… tell Joel.

Your stomach flips at the thought.

Joel saw it. The bruise. You could see the tension in his jaw. The way his gaze dropped to your wrist and lingered. The way he didn’t believe you when you brushed it off.

But he didn’t push.

God, you wanted him to.

You finish your tea. Try to distract yourself with prep work — organizing supplies, checking your limited pantry. The crate Joel brought sits near the corner of the kitchen like a quiet promise. You glance at it more than once.

He came back for you today.

No one does that. Not for you.

The wind picks up outside. The walls groan softly. Somewhere far off, a patrol dog howls and the sound is swallowed up by the snow.

You light a few candles when the power flickers — just in case. There’s a thick blanket tucked under the cot, and you pull it around your shoulders, huddling on the small bench by the fire oven.

You don’t expect company.

You definitely don’t expect him to come back.

So when the knock comes — three quick raps against the bakery door — your heart lurches in your chest.

You’re halfway across the kitchen before your body even catches up with your brain, pulse racing, feet bare against the cold wood floor.

You unlock the door, pull it open a crack.

And there he is.

Joel Miller. Covered in snow. Brow furrowed. Eyes locked on you like he’s been waiting to see your face again.

Joel stands just beyond the threshold, snow clinging to his hair, his shoulders, the folds of his coat. His scarf is half-soaked, pushed down around his neck, and his gloved hands are tucked into his jacket pockets like he had to stop himself from knocking again.

You blink at him in the cold air spilling into the bakery.

“You came back.”

His brows lift, like he’s surprised you’re surprised. “Told you I would.”

You step aside silently, letting him in. The moment the door shuts behind him, the sound of the wind fades, replaced by the warm hush of the bakery — the soft crackle of the fire oven, the faint clink of mugs on the drying rack, and the flutter in your chest that just won’t stop.

He stands in the center of the kitchen like he’s unsure where to go, snow melting off him and pooling beneath his boots.

“I was just… checking supplies.” You gesture vaguely toward the pantry shelves, your voice quiet. “Didn’t want to risk walking home.”

Joel’s eyes trail over you — not in a leering way, but like he’s taking inventory. Making sure you’re whole. Untouched.

His gaze drops to your wrist for half a second. You feel it like a spark.

“You didn’t call in,” he says finally. “Maria’s been tellin’ folks to stay in.”

“I’m in,” you say simply.

He hums low in his throat. Removes his gloves, tucks them into his pocket. “You eaten?”

You shake your head. “Didn’t feel like it.”

Joel looks around the kitchen, then back at you. “Mind if I sit?”

You gesture to the bench near the prep table. “Go ahead. Want some tea?”

He nods once. “Yeah. If it’s not too much trouble.”

You busy yourself with the kettle, grateful for something to do. Something to stop your hands from shaking now that he’s sitting barely six feet away, his big frame hunched slightly from the cold, elbows on his knees. Watching you.

You pour the water slowly, grab two mismatched mugs, and hand one to him.

“Thanks,” he mutters, fingers wrapping around the cup like he hasn’t felt warmth all day.

You sit across from him in silence, both of you nursing your tea. The bakery glows softly in candlelight, the fire casting long shadows on the flour-dusted walls. You can hear the wind howling again just beyond the windows, but in here it feels quiet. Tucked away. Like a snow globe, sealed off from the rest of Jackson.

Joel shifts, finally breaking the silence.

“You ever stay here before?”

You nod. “Couple of times. Storms like this, I’d rather not risk the walk. The apartment’s drafty anyway.”

He eyes you for a moment. You wonder if he knows the truth — that it’s not the cold you’re avoiding, but the man who waits two doors down.

He doesn’t ask. But something in his expression hardens just slightly.

“Wasn’t sure you’d want company,” he says.

“I didn’t,” you admit. Then, softer: “But I’m glad it’s you.”

That gets his attention.

His head lifts, and for the first time since he walked in, his eyes meet yours fully. There’s no heat behind the stare — not yet — just a deep, quiet focus. Like he’s listening to more than your words.

“Earlier today,” he says, voice low. “When I came in. You looked... shaken.”

You go still.

“I’m fine.”

“You keep sayin’ that.”

Your breath hitches.

He sets his mug down carefully. Leans forward. “You want me to leave, I will. But if you’re scared of somethin’, someone—”

“I can handle it.”

His jaw ticks. “Didn’t say you couldn’t. Just don’t think you should have to.”

The words land heavy.

You look away. Down at your hands. “He was here today. After you left.”

Joel doesn’t ask who. Doesn’t need to.

“He grabbed me,” you whisper. “Said some shit. About you. About me. Made it real clear he’s still watching.”

Joel is quiet. Too quiet.

Then: “He touch you again, I’ll break his fuckin’ hands.”

You look up sharply.

He’s deadly still. Not posturing. Not trying to be dramatic. Just stating a fact — calm, final, and terrifying in how much he means it.

Your chest tightens. Something behind your ribs begins to unravel.

“I don’t want you to get involved,” you say, but it sounds weak, even to you.

“Too late for that.”

He stands, slow and deliberate, walking around the table until he’s standing in front of you. Not crowding. Not threatening. Just there — solid and steady and burning at the edges.

His voice softens. “You don’t gotta tell me everything. But if you’re gonna stay here tonight… you shouldn’t have to stay alone.”

Your breath catches.

He reaches down, fingers brushing your blanket-covered arm. “Can I stay?”

The wind howls again outside, but in here — it’s warm. And for the first time all day, you feel like maybe you’re allowed to exhale.

You nod.

Joel doesn’t smile. But something in his shoulders eases.

He pulls up a chair beside you, and the silence returns — but now, it feels like safety.

Like something’s shifting.

Like tonight might change everything.

The heat of the tea fades, but neither of you reach for more. The mugs sit forgotten on the table, half full, as you and Joel fall into a heavy quiet. Not uncomfortable — just charged. Like static building in the air before lightning strikes.

Joel sits beside you now, not across from you, close enough that his knee brushes yours every time he shifts. He’s peeled off his coat and scarf, now just in a henley and worn jeans, both still clinging to the chill he brought in with him. You can feel the warmth starting to return to his skin — slow and steady, like everything else he does.

You glance over, catch him watching you from the corner of his eye. Not in a hungry way. Not yet. Just… studying. Like he’s learning something he’s never been allowed to look at this long.

You feel his eyes trace the curve of your cheek, down to your collarbone, then flick quickly away. You swallow.

“You always show up like that?” you murmur. “Right when I need someone?”

Joel huffs softly — almost a laugh, but not quite. “Wasn’t tryin’ to time it.”

“But you did.”

He looks at you now, fully. There’s something behind his eyes — something heavy and unspoken, just waiting to be said.

You press your lips together, turning your mug in slow circles between your palms. “You don’t have to keep checking in on me.”

“I know.”

“You barely know me.”

He shifts in his seat. His voice is low, thoughtful. “I know you get here before sunrise every damn day, even when there’s snow on the ground and half the town’s still in bed. I know you’re polite to everybody, but you don’t really talk to most of ‘em. I know your favorite apron’s the one with the little burn hole on the hem. And I know you flinch when you hear a certain man’s voice outside the window.”

You blink. The air leaves your lungs like he knocked it out of you.

“I know enough,” he says, quiet but firm.

You set the mug down. Slowly. Your hands have started shaking again, and you hate that he can see it.

Joel leans forward, forearms resting on his knees, his voice gentler now. “You ever talk to Maria?”

You shake your head. “I can’t. I mean, I could. But if I do, then it becomes real. On paper. Everyone will know. And he’ll know I told.”

Joel watches you. Not pushing. Just there.

“I don’t want to be a problem,” you whisper.

“You’re not.”

“But if you’re seen with me more…”

“I don’t care.”

You blink up at him.

“I don’t care what anyone says. I don’t care what he thinks. He lays a hand on you again and I won’t be talkin’ about it — I’ll be dealin’ with it.”

Your throat tightens.

You look down at your lap. Your voice barely makes it out. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

Joel doesn’t answer right away.

Then: “Because I’ve been where you are.”

That surprises you. You glance sideways, catch the shadow in his expression — the weariness in his shoulders. Like he’s carrying things he never let anyone see.

“And because,” he adds, clearing his throat, “I look at you, and I don’t want to look away.”

The silence thickens.

You exhale shakily. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ll start believing you mean it.”

Joel shifts closer. Just enough that you feel the heat radiating off him now. His knee brushes yours and this time he doesn’t pull away.

“Maybe I do.”

You look up, eyes locking with his.

The moment stretches — long and loaded, heartbeats rising, breaths catching in the quiet between you. You can smell him now: woodsmoke, clean cotton, snow and earth. His hands are resting on his thighs, strong and calloused and so close. You wonder what they’d feel like on your hips. On your waist. Between your—

You stop yourself, but the thought lingers.

Joel’s voice drops, deep and low. “You cold?”

You shake your head slowly. “No. I’m—fine.”

But your voice betrays you.

And Joel? He hears it. All of it.

His eyes drop to your mouth.

The tension turns molten.

He leans in, just a little.

And you don’t move.

Not away.

The space between you shrinks by the second.

Joel’s gaze is on your mouth — heavy, deliberate, and hungry. He hasn’t moved more than a few inches, but it feels like gravity is tilting the entire room, pulling you into his orbit. And you… you don’t want to stop it. You don’t even try.

“Joel,” you whisper, unsure if it’s a warning or a plea.

His voice is rough when he answers. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

You don’t.

Your breath catches as he reaches up — slow, like he’s afraid you’ll spook — and brushes his knuckles along your cheek. They’re warm now, calloused, trembling just slightly.

“You’ve been on my mind,” he murmurs, “every goddamn time I walk past this place.”

You swallow hard, heart hammering so loud you’re sure he can hear it. “Why?”

He huffs out something close to a laugh. “Why?” he echoes. “You really don’t know what you do to me, do you?”

You can’t answer.

Because the truth is: you’ve felt it too. Every lingering look. Every “just checking in.” Every time his voice dipped a little lower when he said your name. You just never let yourself believe it meant anything.

Not when he’s him — older, guarded, heavy with grief you don’t have the right to touch — and you’re… you.

“You don’t want me,” you say, voice small. “Not really.”

Joel goes still.

His hand drops from your cheek, only to settle at your waist instead — big and warm and grounding.

“Don’t say that.”

“I mean—look at me.” You gesture weakly at your body, your soft curves wrapped in a worn sweater and flour-dusted leggings. “I’m not like the women here. I’m not— lean. Or… easy.”

Joel’s expression darkens, but not with anger. With something else. Something possessive.

He leans in slowly, until your noses nearly brush. His breath ghosts over your lips, and his hand on your waist tightens just enough to make you shiver.

“Baby,” he growls, “you think I don’t notice you? You think I don’t lay awake some nights wonderin’ what you taste like?”

Your breath stutters.

“You think I don’t look at those pretty thighs and imagine ‘em wrapped around my head?”

A sound escapes you — half gasp, half whimper.

Joel smirks. Barely. But it’s there.

“You think I haven’t fucked my hand thinkin’ about how sweet you’d sound moanin’ my name?”

You feel heat rush to your core, thighs clenching instinctively.

“Still think I don’t want you?” he murmurs.

And then he kisses you.

It’s not gentle.

Not rough, either — but there’s no hesitation. No uncertainty. His mouth crashes into yours like he’s starved for it, like he’s been waiting far too long and won’t waste another second. His hand slips to the back of your neck, holding you still while he devours you slowly, thoroughly, like he’s memorizing the shape of your lips.

You moan into him — soft, needy — and he groans in return, pressing you back against the prep table without breaking contact. You don’t even remember moving, but suddenly you’re sitting on the edge of it, legs parting instinctively as Joel steps between them.

His hands settle on your hips, warm and possessive.

“You feel this?” he mutters between kisses. “How fuckin’ hard I get just touchin’ you?”

You do.

God, you do — the ridge of his cock straining against his jeans, pressing right where your body is beginning to ache for friction.

You whimper. Joel swears.

“Tell me if I need to stop,” he rasps, voice raw. “Tell me now.”

You grab his shirt and tug him closer.

“Don’t you dare.”

The kiss leaves you breathless.

Joel pulls back just enough to look at you, his chest rising and falling like he’s holding back everything — every word, every groan, every instinct that’s telling him to lay you down on the prep table and wreck you.

His thumb brushes your cheek. “You okay?”

You nod, lips swollen, head spinning, heart doing somersaults.

But then it hits you — hard and cold, like a bucket of ice to the chest.

The kiss. The way he touched you. The look in his eyes.

It felt real.

And that’s what scares you.

Your hands slide to his chest, lightly pressing — not to push him away, but to breathe, to make space, to speak.

“Joel,” you whisper. “This is probably… a mistake.”

His brow furrows. “Why?”

You look down, suddenly unable to meet his eyes.

“Because you’re—you’re you. And I’m…” You gesture vaguely at yourself. “I’m not what you want. I’m not what makes sense.”

“Sweetheart.”

“I’m younger—way younger. And not in a fun way, in a why-is-he-looking-at-her kind of way. People in this town already talk about me. You really want to give them something else to whisper about?”

Joel says nothing, but the air around him shifts — sharpens.

You press on before you lose your nerve.

“And it’s not just the age. I’m not… easy to love. I’m not quiet. I’m soft and curvy and I overthink everything. I cry too much and I shut down when things get hard. And you—”

Joel cuts you off with a hand on your jaw, gently forcing you to look at him.

“Stop.”

You blink up at him, stunned into silence.

“I don’t give a single fuck what anyone in this town thinks,” he says, voice low and deliberate. “You hear me?”

Your throat tightens. He continues.

“I’ve had enough years and too much loss to waste time worryin’ about gossip. I don’t want some perfect little thing with nothin’ to say. I want you.”

Your lip trembles.

“I want your messy feelings and your soft thighs and your smart fuckin’ mouth. I want the way you light up when you’re talking about bread and the way you shake when you’re scared and still get the job done.”

You let out a shaky breath, and Joel steps in closer, crowding into your space with purpose.

“You think I look at you and wish you were someone else?” he growls. “Fuck no. You walk around this bakery like you don’t know what you do to me.”

His hand slides to your hip, squeezing gently.

“You got no idea how many times I’ve had to walk out of here before I said somethin’ I couldn’t take back. But tonight? I’m not walkin’ away.”

Your heart is beating out of your chest.

He leans in, mouth brushing your ear. “You don’t need a boy who flirts with you. You need a man who knows how to make you feel.”

Your thighs clench. You can’t help it.

He pulls back just far enough to look you in the eyes.

“I’m not gonna ask again,” he says, voice ragged. “Do you want this?”

You don’t speak — you grab him, dragging him back into a kiss that’s messier this time, desperate, all teeth and tongue and years of longing collapsing into one breathless collision.

Joel groans into your mouth, like he’s finally letting himself feel it.

You barely register it when he lifts you off the floor, your legs wrapping around his waist, the prep table bumping against your lower back.

“I’ll show you how wanted you are,” he mutters against your throat. “Every goddamn inch.”

And you believe him.

God help you, you believe every word.

Joel lays you back on the prep table with careful hands, like you’re made of something breakable — but his eyes say otherwise. His eyes say he’s wanted this. Planned for this. His pupils are blown wide, jaw tight with restraint, and his voice is already dropping into something darker, deeper.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty when you’re flustered,” he murmurs, hands coasting down your sides, fingers squeezing just a little too firmly at your hips. “And you don’t even know it, do you?”

You try to sit up, but his hand on your sternum stops you — firm, grounding.

“Stay there,” he growls. “Wanna look at you.”

Your breath catches.

He starts slow — tugging your sweater up over your head with practiced ease, tossing it aside like he’s done this a thousand times. But his eyes stay locked on your skin like it’s the first time he’s seen anything worth touching.

“Jesus,” he mutters, voice low and reverent. His palms skim the curve of your belly, not rushing. “Soft everywhere.”

You flinch slightly — out of habit. Out of shame.

Joel notices.

“Uh-uh,” he says, firm. His hand comes up to cradle your jaw. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” you whisper.

“Shrink.” He leans in, brushing his lips against your ear. “Not when I’m about to show you how fuckin’ perfect you are.”

Your pulse stutters. His words — slow and deliberate — feel like a weight settling between your legs.

He kisses down your neck, unhurried, dragging his scruff along your skin until you’re squirming. Until your thighs are rubbing together on instinct.

“Joel—”

“Shhh.” He kisses along your collarbone, nips at the skin just hard enough to make you gasp. “I’m takin’ my time. You’re gonna lie there and let me enjoy what’s mine.”

You whimper, and he smirks against your skin.

“That’s it. That’s what I like.”

He pops the clasp on your bra like he’s done it blindfolded before — pulls the straps down your arms slowly, watching your chest rise and fall.

“Fuck,” he murmurs. “Look at you.”

His palms slide over your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples until they’re peaked and aching, the heat in your core building to something unbearable. But still — he doesn’t go lower.

“You ever been taken care of properly?” he asks, not unkind, but rough with intention. “Or just used and left?”

You can’t answer. Not out loud.

But your silence is telling.

Joel’s jaw tightens. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

Then his hand dips — finally — to the waistband of your leggings, and his tone shifts.

“Gonna ruin every memory he left behind.”

He peels your leggings down, slow and steady, eyes locked on your thighs as they spread for him — unthinking, eager.

“Mm,” he hums. “Just like I fuckin’ dreamed. Thick little thighs I can sink my teeth into.”

You whine.

“Joel—”

“Oh, now you’re impatient?” He grins, leaning over you, one hand still gripping your thigh. “You wanted a man, baby girl. Not some boy who comes in two minutes and apologizes for touchin’ you too hard.”

His fingers slip under your panties. You arch.

“And this?” he rasps, rubbing gently over your soaked core. “This is mine now.”

You can’t breathe. Can’t think.

“Say it.”

You shake your head, too shy, too overwhelmed.

“Say it,” he demands again, voice low and commanding. “Say it’s mine or I’ll take my sweet time and leave you beggin’.”

You bite your lip. Whimper.

“Yours,” you whisper. “It’s yours, Joel.”

He groans.

“Good fuckin’ girl.”

And then he drops to his knees.

As Joel peels your leggings the rest of the way down, his breath hitches — not in lust, but something sharper.

His hand stills against your hip.

You follow his gaze and feel your stomach drop.

Bruises.

The ones you thought were fading. The ones you tried to cover. But in the warm glow of the bakery light, there’s no hiding them. Faint finger-shaped marks blooming along your upper thighs. A deeper one on your hip. And the fresh, angry purple smear still curling around your wrist.

Joel’s whole body shifts — tightens, coils.

“Who did this?” he says, voice low and dangerous.

You open your mouth. Close it.

His fingers ghost over the mark on your thigh, gentle, reverent, as if afraid he’ll hurt you further just by looking.

His other hand curls into a fist on your knee.

“Tell me.”

You swallow, throat dry. “You already know.”

Joel exhales slowly through his nose. His jaw flexes so hard it looks painful.

He stands, just enough to lean over you, one hand still braced on the table beside your head.

“You listen to me,” he says, voice barely a rasp. “That man ever touches you again, I don’t care who he is in this town. I’ll put him in the fuckin’ ground.”

You don’t answer — you can’t — but something in you cracks open. Not in fear. In relief.

Because finally, someone’s seeing it. All of it.

Joel lowers his forehead to yours, breathing hard, shaking with the effort it’s taking not to act on what he just saw.

“I wish I could go back,” he whispers. “Wish I could’ve stopped it before it ever touched you.”

Your lips tremble.

“You didn’t know.”

He pulls back just far enough to cup your face in both hands. His thumbs brush away tears you hadn’t realized had started to fall.

“I know now,” he murmurs. “And I’m gonna take care of you, baby. However you need.”

You nod, barely.

“I want you,” you breathe. “I want this.”

Joel’s eyes darken again — the hunger returns, but now it’s laced with something deeper. Something devotional.

He kisses your inner thigh — right above the bruise — soft as a secret.

“Then let me show you,” he whispers, sinking slowly to his knees, eyes never leaving yours.

“Let me make it better.”

Joel settles between your thighs like he’s meant to be there. Like the space was carved out for him and no one else.

He kisses the inside of your knee first, then lower — dragging his scruff over sensitive skin and watching the goosebumps rise in his wake.

“You’re already shaking,” he murmurs, voice thick with pride and hunger. “Ain’t even started yet.”

Your breath hitches as he hooks two fingers under your panties and pulls them down — slow, deliberate, savoring the way you squirm and bite your lip. When the fabric slips past your knees, he tosses them aside and stares down at you like he’s been starved for years.

“Look at this,” he growls, eyes locked on your soaked core. “Drippin’ for me already. So fuckin’ sweet.”

You try to close your legs, overwhelmed — but Joel grabs your thighs and holds them open with both hands, firm but gentle.

“Don’t you dare,” he says, voice gone ragged. “You let me see you. All of you.”

Your body obeys him before your brain does.

Joel leans in and presses a soft kiss to your inner thigh, just above a bruise, then another — and another. His hands trail up, warm and rough, one settling on your belly, the other resting possessively over your hip.

And then his mouth finds your cunt.

You gasp.

His tongue parts your folds like he’s memorizing every line, every texture, every breath you take. He moans into you, low and deep, like you taste better than anything he's had in years — and maybe you do.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans against you. “You’re better than I ever imagined.”

You whimper, hips twitching, but he holds you still.

“Stay right there,” he murmurs, voice a little hoarse. “Let me take my fuckin’ time.”

He licks a slow, deliberate stripe from your entrance up to your clit, then flattens his tongue and drags it again. Each pass is slower. Wetter. More intentional.

Then he starts talking.

“Gonna eat this pussy ‘til you can’t remember your own name.”

You cry out, grabbing a fistful of his hair — not to pull him away, but to ground yourself. To remind yourself this is real.

“Joel—”

“That’s it,” he growls. “Say my name while you soak my fuckin’ face.”

He sucks your clit into his mouth, tongue flicking just right, and your hips lift off the table. He growls again — this time into you — and you nearly scream.

He pushes two fingers into you without warning — thick, slow, curling deep.

Your back arches.

“Oh my god—”

Joel laughs softly. “Ain’t even close to god, sweetheart. But you keep makin’ those noises and I’ll do my best.”

His fingers fuck you slow while his tongue circles your clit, every movement precise — like he’s listening to your moans, cataloging them, using them as a map.

“Y’taste so fuckin’ good,” he groans. “Could spend the rest of the storm right here. Let you ride my tongue ‘til you’re cryin’.”

You already are.

Your body’s trembling, vision blurring, muscles tightening around his fingers.

Joel lifts his head just long enough to rasp, “C’mon, baby. Let go for me. Show me what a real man can make you do.”

Your whole body locks — and then breaks apart.

You cum with a sob, thighs clamping around his head, back arching off the table.

Joel doesn’t stop.

He keeps going — licking you through it, fucking you slow with his fingers until your legs are shaking and you can’t breathe.

You whimper something close to “too much,” and he finally slows, easing you back down, licking you gently until your thighs fall open again and your body goes slack.

Then he kisses the inside of your thigh, right where the bruise blooms.

He looks up at you — flushed, chest heaving, eyes wide.

“Next time?” he says, voice wrecked. “I want you on my face. Gonna make you cum so hard you forget you ever let that piece of shit touch you.”

Your throat works as you try to speak. You can’t. You just nod.

Joel stands slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He kisses your cheek, your temple, your shoulder — everywhere healed.

You’re still trembling.

He kisses your lips and whispers: “You did so good for me, baby.”

The storm rages outside, but inside the bakery, it’s quiet. Soft.

Safe.

Your body feels like it’s floating — half air, half jelly, skin still buzzing with the ghost of Joel’s mouth, his voice, his hands. You’re vaguely aware of him moving, but you don’t open your eyes. Not yet. You’re still too overwhelmed, too raw.

And he seems to understand that.

There’s no rush. No awkwardness.

Just the sound of running water.

You blink your eyes open slowly to find Joel back by the sink, damp towel in one hand, the other wiping down the prep table like it matters to him — like cleaning up the space where he touched you is part of how he honors it.

He glances over when he sees you stir.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Still with me?”

You nod, cheeks flushed, voice barely a whisper. “Yeah. Just… floatin’.”

A flicker of a smile ghosts across his face. “Good.”

He walks back over, towel now warm and wet in his hands. He pauses, waiting — not assuming. Always waiting for your yes.

You sit up slowly, and Joel eases between your knees, lifting your chin with two fingers. “Can I?”

You nod.

He starts gently — wiping between your thighs with slow, careful passes, his touch clinical but tender. Like this isn’t about sex anymore. Like it’s about you — your comfort, your body, your trust.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he murmurs, eyes searching yours.

“No,” you breathe. “God, no. You were…” You trail off, biting your lip. “Perfect.”

That look in his eyes — soft and unreadable and so full — it makes your chest ache.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, then gently lifts your sweater from the floor and helps guide your arms back into it. He helps you off the prep table like he’s afraid you’ll break, one arm wrapping around your waist to steady you.

You don’t let him go.

He hesitates — like he doesn’t want to move too fast — but then you lean into his chest and he exhales like he’s been holding his breath all night.

Joel wraps his arms around you, holding you to his chest.

“You did real good for me,” he says quietly, voice thick. “I hope you know that.”

You nod into his shirt. “I do.”

He strokes your back for a while, slow and steady, like you’re something worth calming, worth keeping. You don’t realize how tense you still are until the shaking in your limbs finally starts to ease.

“I don’t usually let anyone see me like that,” you admit, voice small.

“I know.”

“And I’ve never…” You pull back just enough to look up at him. “No one’s ever touched me like that. Not like I mattered.”

Joel’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t say anything at first.

Then: “They didn’t deserve you.”

You look at him, searching his face.

His voice softens. “But I ain’t makin’ that mistake. Not once.”

You exhale shakily, leaning forward to rest your forehead against his.

Outside, the wind howls, rattling the windows.

Inside, Joel holds you like he isn’t going anywhere.

And for the first time in a long time… you believe him.

AN: this was supposed to be a slow burn and then joel said “you don’t need a boy, baby—you need a man” and suddenly we’re feral in the bakery 💀

Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist so you don't miss future updates! 💌

[slater-baby]

Credit: @/ellenispunk on TikTok

[fallenbratfiction]

birthday gift

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

my masterlist faq

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

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

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

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

“Shit!” you cursed from the kitchen. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you make a wish?” you asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You grinned. “Different kind of real.”

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

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

“That’s the whole point.”

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

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

_____________________

Later…

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

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

He grinned. “Deal.”

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

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

“God, that feels good.”

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

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

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

“It was. Now it’s a preview.”

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

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

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

He kissed you softly. “Appetizer, remember?”

________________________

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

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

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

_________________________

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

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

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

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

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

He opened the box slowly… and paused. Blinked.

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

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

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

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

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

“Holy fuck,” he whispered.

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

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

“You’re evil.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Feel free to leave your opinion!

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

[puchosdementa]

[babsiereblogs]

need to share whatever this is

[swiftisapunk]

happy pride month 🩷🩷🩷

[dimlylittorch]

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

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

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

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

[fiatluxillustration-portfolio]

Drawlloween 2023 Day 2 - Pedrotober 1

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

[viraltrendsspot]

Pedro Pascal's Unexpected Journey to Stardom

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

[worlds-we-write]

Sweet on You - Masterlist

pairing: Jackson!joel miller x baker!reader

summary: In the quiet routine of Jackson, you bake bread and try to keep your distance—from your past, from attention, from him. But Joel Miller keeps showing up, and when a snowstorm leaves you alone together one night, the line between safety and temptation begins to blur.

Tags: Joel Miller x Reader, Age Gap, curvy/plus-size reader, Jackson Era, Bakery AU, Slow Burn, Emotional Tension, Abusive Ex, Protective Joel, Snowed-In, First Time, Heavy Smut, Praise Kink, Dirty Talk, Aftercare, Angst & Comfort, Possessive Joel (will be updated as chapter progress)

Chapter 1: Bread and Butter

Chapter 2: Kneaded You

Chapter 3: Burned at the Edges

Chapter 4: Sweet Enough

Chapter 5

Updated 04/19/25

Series Playlist <3

[fallenbratfiction]

ch.4 - fences and cities - dbf! joel miller &f!reader

series masterlist

previous chapter

A/N: I know you've been waiting a while for this chapter, so here it is!! we are nearing the sweet sweet spot of the story and I am loving every second of this. I went back and forth about how I wanted this chapter to play out and I think I ended it perfectly and you know where its heading next 🔥😉

mentions: it gets steamy, hot heavy tension, joel being so fucking hot and possessive, teasing and also alcohol consumption, throwing up (not described though) if there's any mentions you think are missing, let me know!

Minors stay out or read at your own risk! I'm not responsible for your consumption!

Do not copy, translate or claim this story as your own. Thanks!

He’s just finished mucking out a stall, sweat clinging to his neck, shirt slightly clinging to his back—rough hands, tired eyes. He turns a corner and stops short.

You’re laying on the hay-strewn ground, arms soft at your sides, legs relaxed. One of the more temperamental horses—usually wary—has its massive head nestled in your lap. You’re absently stroking its mane, speaking quietly, rhythmically.

It’s such a tender image. Quiet. Peaceful. And for a second, it breaks something in him.

He says, kind of stupidly, kind of under his breath, “Horses are... they’re sensitive. They pick up on people. You’ve got good energy.”

You glance up, smiling softly, still stroking the horse.

“They like you,” he adds, voice lower now, something unreadable swimming in it. Then, like a fool: “I do too.”

And immediately regrets how it came out.

Cue a small beat of silence—your heart’s doing something weird in your chest. But you don’t make it awkward. You say something that keeps the moment soft. Maybe:

“Yeah? I thought you just liked how I shovel hay.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. The tension breaks—but it lingers too.

He left a minute ago—said something like “Don’t stay too long, alright? We got work to do” before walking off.

The horse lets out a soft huff, nuzzling into your hand, and you sigh like you’re finally letting something out.

“I know. I know he’s off limits,” you murmur, half to the horse, half to the universe. “But he’s so…” You trail off. A pause. Then, “Have you seen his hands?”

The horse shifts its weight but stays pressed to you like it’s listening. It's like it gets it.

You keep going, just letting it spill.

“He looks at me like he knows things he shouldn’t. And when he says I’m a good girl—Jesus, like my bones forget how to work.”

You laugh, embarrassed at yourself. “I sound like an idiot. He probably just thinks I’m some kid playing pretend out here.”

You’ve just finished with the horse. You gave it one last stroke, whispered a little “thanks for listening” into its neck like a secret. Now you’re stepping out into the cool evening air, brushing hay off your clothes, cheeks still warm from your little emotional monologue.

You’re not expecting to see him.

But Joel’s there. Leaning against the side of the barn like he’s been waiting.

You freeze. He doesn’t speak right away—just watches you with that unreadable expression of his. Then:

“You talk to them often like that?”

You blink, startled. “What?”

“Horses. Or were you talkin’ to me?”

Your throat tightens. You try to laugh it off.

“Didn’t know I had an audience.”

He pushes off the wall, steps closer. Not threatening—just intentional. There’s something in the air now, sharp and heavy.

“Wasn’t trying to eavesdrop,” he murmurs, low. “But I heard enough.”

You go quiet. Heat rushes to your face. You look down.

He stops in front of you—close enough to smell the leather on his gloves and the pine on his shirt. He lifts your chin with two fingers, slow and careful.

“You think I don’t see you?”

Then it happens.

He leans in—and kisses you.

Soft, but intense. It's like he’s been thinking about it for days or like he’s finally letting the thing unravel. Your hands find his jacket, his thumb brushes your jaw.

When he pulls back, both of you are breathing harder. He looks at you like he’s just crossed a line—and liked it.

“This ain’t smart,” he mutters, more to himself than you.

But his hand’s still on your face.

“I don’t care.” You say quietly.

And neither does he.

________

You went home straight after the barn. Showered. Changed.

But nothing helped. Not the water, not the coffee, not even the nap you tried to take. His face wouldn’t leave you. His voice.

You told your dad you were going to see a friend. You needed air. Needed to feel normal again—shake off the way his lips felt against yours, how you’d replayed that kiss twenty times and imagined twenty more.

You’re sitting at the bar now, glass in hand, staring blankly ahead. Guilt swims under your skin, warm and tight.

Then you see him.

Joel.

Your stomach drops.

He’s not alone.

There’s a woman with him. Laughing at something he said, hand brushing his arm. She leans in too easily, too familiar. And he’s smiling—not like he smiled at you, no—but still.

Your blood turns to fire.

You turn back to the bartender.

“Something strong. Surprise me.”

The glass hits the bar. You down it too fast, throat burning. You don’t even flinch.

But you keep watching him. You can’t stop. Rage and confusion brewing in your chest like a storm. How dare he. How fucking dare he.

And then—he notices you.

His eyes find yours across the room. You don’t look away. You want him to see you angry. You want him to feel it.

He shifts, says something quiet to the woman, then gets up and walks toward you.

Each step makes your pulse spike.

He stops beside your stool, jaw clenched, voice low.

“What are you doing here?”

You scoff, shaking your head.

“Oh, fuck you, Joel.”

His brow furrows. “What?”

“You kissed me. You told me—” Your voice catches. “And now you’re out here with some woman like that didn’t mean anything to you?”

He leans in, angry too now—but not at you.

“You think that meant nothing?” His voice is quiet, gutted. “I haven’t stopped thinking about it since it happened.”

You stare at him, stunned, fire still dancing behind your ribs.

“Then what the hell is she doing here?”

He runs a hand down his face. “She’s just—she’s no one. Christ, I wasn’t even— I didn’t know you’d be here.”

A beat of silence.

You slide off the stool, push past him, headed toward the back door. You don’t want to cry in the middle of the goddamn bar—and besides, you don’t want to make a scene in a place where surely a lot of people know your dad.

But he follows

You push through the door, the night air hitting you like a slap. Cool, biting. You pace a little, trying to breathe, trying to calm the mess in your chest.

Then the door swings again.

Joel.

His steps are hard, sure. Voice rough with urgency.

Joel catches up, grabs your wrist—not hard, but firm enough to stop you.

“Don’t walk away from me like that.”

You whirl around, fire in your chest.

“Why?” Your voice cuts like a whip. “So you can go back to your little date and pretend you’re not fucking around with your best friend’s daughter behind his back?”

He flinches. Actually flinches.

“She’s not—It’s not what you think.”

You laugh—sharp, bitter, broken.

“Really? Because it looked like flirting from where I was sitting.”

A pause. Tense. His hands are clenched at his sides. He steps closer.

“You think this is easy for me?”

His voice is low, taut with emotion. “You think I’m not fighting this every damn second?”

Your voice breaks.

“Then why’d you kiss me?”

He breathes like he’s been holding something in for months.

“Because I couldn’t not.”

The alley goes still. Everything else fades, people walking around, the music that blasts from the inside of the bar. All you can focus on is him.

“I tried,” he says. “God, I fucking tried. But then you looked at me with those eyes. And that mouth. And I—” He takes another step. His voice drops lower. “I wanted to ruin you.”

Your throat tightens. Your stomach flips.

“Say it, Joel.” It’s soft. Pleading.

He stares at you like you’re the edge of a cliff and he’s already falling.

“I want you. Not just the kiss. Not just your hands on me.” He exhales like it hurts. “I want you. Every goddamn inch of you.”

“Then stop treating me like a child! I’m not a child!” Your voice cracks—quieter now, trembling at the edges. “I don’t want to be your child. I want to be…” You trail off. You can’t even say it.

And then—you don’t have to.

Because you crash into each other like gravity demands it.

His mouth finds yours, bruising and hot and desperate. Your back hits the wall with a soft thud, and his thigh slides between yours—firm, possessive, grounding. One big, calloused hand slips under your skirt, the other fists in your hair, tugging just enough to make your knees buckle.

You gasp into his mouth, breathless, wrecked, gone.

Then his lips hover over yours, his breath ragged against your cheek.

“You want to be what, sweetheart?”

Your eyes lift to his, wide and wet and dizzy with want.

And you whisper it.

The truth that’s been choking you for days.

“I want to be yours.”

The words leave your mouth like a confession—soft and broken.

And Joel groans.

Like he’s been starving for it.

He surges forward, kissing you again—hotter, deeper, hungrier. His hand pushes further under your skirt, rough palm sliding up the back of your thigh, fingertips grazing the edge of your underwear. You moan into his mouth, your hips rolling into him instinctively, the tension unraveling in messy gasps and the sharp pull of need.

His thigh presses tighter between yours. His hand in your hair tilts your head just how he wants it, exposing your throat as his mouth trails lower, biting softly at your jaw.

“Say it again,” he growls against your skin. “Say it, baby.”

You do.

“I want to be yours.”

But then—

It hits.

The flip in your stomach. That sudden lurch.

The alcohol. The adrenaline. The emotion.

Your breath stutters. The world spins.

Joel feels you falter.

You shake your head, pushing past him with a stumbling step.

You take two shaky steps to the side and double over the bushes behind the bar, the night spinning as your stomach violently turns.

You throw up.

Joel’s there in seconds.

Hand on your back. The other pulling your hair away. Kneeling beside you, murmuring your name like it might keep you steady.

He stays quiet while you heave—humiliated, tears stinging your eyes, from the alcohol, the choking heat, and the words you just said out loud.

The worst part? He doesn’t leave.

He doesn’t move away like it’s too much.

Instead, his hand rubs gentle, slow circles on your back.

“Okay, okay,” he says softly. “You’re alright. Let it out.”

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, your whole body trembling.

He takes off his flannel and offers it like a shield against the cold air and your shame.

You don’t look at him.

Not yet.

“Don’t look at me.”

“Too late,” he says gently. “Already do. Can’t not.”

You sit down on the curb, head in your hands.

He crouches beside you, quiet for a long beat. 

“You don’t even know what you’re askin’ for, do you?”

You lift your head, glassy-eyed.

“Maybe not. But I know I want you. Isn’t that enough?”

He doesn’t answer. Just stares at you like he wants to both hold you and run from you.

Then he stands, offers you his hand.

“Come on. I’m takin’ you home.”

He presses a kiss to your temple, voice low and calm now, everything about him shifting to gentle.

“Let’s get you home, alright? Come on. I’ve got you.”

You nod, weakly. Eyes wet. Chest still shaking.

But his arm stays around you the whole walk back to the truck.

And even when the burn of the kiss fades, the weight of what you said—I want to be yours—doesn’t.

Not for either of you.

You’re slumped in the passenger seat, cheek against the cold window, wrapped in his flannel. The engine hums low. Neither of you speaks.

The silence isn’t awkward. It’s heavy.

His knuckles tighten on the wheel every time he glances over at you.

You’re pale. Your eyes are half-lidded, fighting sleep. But he can see the tears that dried on your cheeks.

And he still hears it.

I want to be yours.

He doesn't say anything. But he doesn't stop thinking it, either.

He pulls into the driveway, cuts the engine.

Inside, the living room lights are on. Your dad’s passed out on the couch, half a beer still in his hand, the football game blasting. The sound of roaring crowds filters through the open door.

Joel slips in with you in his arms. You’re warm and boneless, your cheek tucked against his shoulder, breath soft against his neck.

He carries you through the hallway quietly, like it’s sacred ground.

Your bedroom door creaks open. It’s modest. Familiar. Yours.

He lays you down gently, brushing hair from your face. You stir a little, lashes fluttering.

“Joel…?”

“Shh. You’re home now.”

You smile, dazed. Your hand finds his wrist and holds it weakly.

“Don’t leave.” It nearly breaks him.

He sits on the edge of the bed and watches you. His heart’s a fucking mess.

“You’re gonna feel this in the morning,” he says, voice low. “And I’ll hate myself if I stay.”

You don’t respond. Already half asleep again.

He brushes his thumb over your cheek. Then, after a long pause, he leans down and kisses your forehead. Gentle. Almost reverent.

“Sweet girl,” he murmurs. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me.”

He can’t stay.

He wants to—but he knows if your dad wakes up and finds Joel in your bedroom at dawn? That’s it. Game over. Dead man walking. No amount of apologies or "I swear nothing happened" will save him.

He stares at you like he’s memorizing the moment.

Then he slips out the door.

Quiet as a ghost.

By the time the sun comes up, he’s gone.

I am so excited about where this is heading, and I hope you are too!!

Reblogs, likes and comments help this story grow! ✨✨✨I'm grateful for each one of them!

taglist: @burningnerdchild @mortallydarktragedy @yesjazzywazzylove-blog

If you are interested in being added to my tag list let me know.

[babsiereblogs]

Rue when was this 😭

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

Watch the full interview with Vanity Fair here

[panakinthedisco]

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

and PEDRO PASCAL AS COLONEL BRANDON 😭

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

[cuppajoel]

me all day: 🙂‍↕️😅😗😚

[swiftisapunk]

MY COWBOY 🤠🤠🤠🤠🤠💛💛

[senorabond]

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

Can we talk about Pedro for a moment

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

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

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

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

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

HOW?

I mean seriously.

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

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

None of these three characters are the same. NONE.

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

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