jenniquinn

[jenniquinn]

serenade for you - pedro pascal ── .✦

requested! thank you. ♡ content: singer!reader, married!reader, domestic fluff, secret love song, late-night inspiration, serenade surprise, Pedro being soft and silly, love-filled dialogue.

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It was 2:47 a.m.

The house was quiet, wrapped in the kind of late-night stillness that felt sacred. Pedro had gone to bed hours ago, but you... you were wide awake. Cross-legged on the floor of your home office, fingers gently plucking your guitar, notebook open beside you.

You hummed softly, barely above a whisper. There was a melody stuck in your head – one that wouldn’t let you sleep until you gave it shape. The page in your lap was messy, scribbled with chord changes and half-finished lyrics. At the very top, one word was scrawled in pencil:

P.

"Damn it," you mumbled to yourself, strumming again and adjusting the key. "Almost there."

The creak of a door made you freeze.

Then:

"Sorry... Did I wake you?"

Pedro’s voice was soft, still rough from sleep. He stood in the doorway in nothing but a t-shirt and boxers, curls messy, eyes heavy with that beautiful half-awake glow.

You blinked. "No, amor... I’m the one who can’t sleep. I’ve had this melody in my head all night."

He walked in, barefoot and quiet, settling next to you on the floor with a sleepy sigh. "Figures," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Even your insomnia sounds beautiful."

You smiled, but quickly flipped your journal shut as he glanced down at the open page.

He raised an eyebrow. "What’s that? The thing with the 'P'?"

"Oh, that? It’s… nothing," you said too quickly, hugging the journal to your chest. "Just an idea. Not ready yet."

Pedro grinned knowingly but didn’t push.

Two weeks later.

The house was quiet again. Only this time, it was intentional.

Pedro had just come back from a long shoot day. He kicked off his shoes, expecting to find you curled up with tea or dozing on the couch. Instead, he found fairy lights glowing in the living room and you standing barefoot with your guitar in hand.

"You okay?" he asked, immediately stepping toward you.

You nodded, cheeks pink. "Better than okay. I have something for you. But you have to sit." You pointed to the couch.

He obeyed, half-suspicious, half-in-love. "If this is a setup to make me cry, I swear to God..."

You smiled shyly. "I finished the song. The one I was working on that night. The one you saw in my journal."

His eyes widened. "The 'P' one?"

You nodded.

"You're gonna make me cry, aren't you."

You didn’t answer. You just played.

It was soft. Honest. A little imperfect in the way all real things are. Your voice trembled at first, but then found its strength as you sang about steady love, midnight coffees, shared silences, sleepy kisses. About a man who made the world feel safer just by being in it.

When you finished, the room stayed still.

Pedro stared at you like he was seeing the stars for the first time.

Then, in a breathless voice: "Come here."

You crossed the room, and he pulled you into a kiss. Not rushed. Not dramatic. Just… true. Like the music.

When he pulled back, his eyes were glassy. "You’re telling me I’m on your next album?"

"Front and center," you whispered.

He laughed, wiping his eyes. "God, I’m the luckiest man alive."

Then, more smugly: "So I guess that makes me your muse, huh?"

You grinned. "Don't let it go to your head, Pascal."

"Too late."

He kissed you again.

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

---

taglist: @sarahhxx03 @lloydmustache @lolareadsimagines @greenwitchfromthewoods @silksepia @pascalswiftie @itstokyo-cos @mani-pedro @llsister @authorbriannarae13 @introvrtedjellyfish @aj0elap0l0gist @spencercmlover @cixrosie @cherrqbaby @cup-half-full-of-anxiety @joelmillerpascal @freakbobcult @sunlightpleasure@barnes70stark @mooniscrying @ohnaurshayla @croissantbakerylws @nellispunk @kasienka @taylorswiftsrep-blog @emerencedaily @byzyz @noovaarq @kristend512 @alltounwell @libbyaller @beaagiannelli @broad-shouldrs @oceanmcu @kysosa @melloispunk @jollycupcakeblizzard @angvlicsoulll @needz1nk @daddypascal17 @agustdpeach @mrsbilicablog @k4t13ispunk @hotdadlvr95 @lnnysnts @pedropascalfan221 @queenofklonnie22 @christinamadsen @ilovecheriies @stvr-bloom

[jenniquinn]

Fissure

pairing: Jackson!Joel x F!Reader

summary: Joel didn’t die but you almost did. And the aftermath of violence is silence.

warnings: mention of violence and torture, nothing too explicit

a/n: this is a part 1 of 3, still works as a stand alone.

The house creaks with the sound of settling—wood expanding, contracting, like lungs breathing shallow against the cold—and he finds he’s counting each groan like it’s a clock ticking, holding the hours between dusk and morning. The kettle’s long gone cold. His mug of tea sits untouched on the table, steeped too dark to drink. There’s dust on the rim that he should wipe off, but his hands are busy being still.

He’s been sitting on the same chair since after dinner, legs wide, elbows resting on thighs, spine curled slightly forward like he’s bracing for impact. Not reading. Not working. Not thinking, exactly. Just listening.

To you moving around upstairs. To the way your footsteps hesitate outside your own bedroom door. To the silence that followed—the wrong kind of silence—before the soft sound of a door creaking open, and then again, closed. That pause. Like even your choices are tired.

There’s a quilt on the couch he could bring you. There’s chamomile in the cupboard, dried and jarred, the kind Maria insists works better than pills. He could bring you that too. He could do a lot of things. But instead, he does nothing. That’s safer. Cleaner. Less like a lie.

You hadn’t been sleeping—he knows that. He’s seen the aftermath in the way you hold your spine like a broken trellis, the way your eyes don’t blink unless forced. Ellie had started sharing the couch with you some afternoons. A pillow tucked under her chin, one hand always accidentally left touching yours. Joel had stood in doorways and watched it—his own absence like a shadow on the wall behind you both. He helped in ways you didn’t see: keeping the porch light on when the generator blinked, replacing the blown fuse in the heater, fixing the door latch that clicked too loud in the night. You never thanked him. He didn’t want you to. He just wanted to be useful without being seen. That was the bargain he’d made with himself.

But now you’re here, downstairs, padding across the floor barefoot, moving like a ghost with purpose

And then—

“Can we put aside all the complexities?”

It doesn’t come out dramatic. You’re not begging. You never beg. But it lands in him like a goddamn arrow. Not because it’s desperate, but because it’s real. Low, steady, almost defiant in how fragile it is. He turns. Slowly. You’re in the doorway, holding the frame like it’s holding you up, shirt thin enough he can see the outline of your collarbones, the slight hollow at your throat that rises and falls, fast. Your arms are crossed, not for warmth, but out of habit. A defense even now.

“I need to sleep tonight,” you say, and then you pause—not just for breath but for something else, something internal. Like this next part’s going to cost you. “And I need you. Not just your presence. I need you, with me. To keep the void from me.”

He looks at you, really looks, and it’s like seeing a photograph where someone’s almost smiling but not quite. A flicker of something alive under all the exhaustion. But also—he sees the unraveling. The thread pulled too long, too tight. The grief coming back through the seams.

And something inside him recoils.

“Don’t,” he says. Quiet, but fast, as if saying it quickly will undo the whole request. “When you needed me—when we were up there…”

He can’t even say it outright. The ski lodge. The snow in your hair. The blood.

“I wasn’t there then. How’m I supposed to be here now?”

He’d been there. That’s the thing that doesn’t leave him, not even now—not the guilt of not being there, but the deeper rot: that he was. Not far, not lost, not too late. He was there. Shot through the thigh, leg gone useless beneath him like rotted timber. Restrained. Dragged. His body nothing but a sack of pain and age against their young arms, their trained grips, their merciless efficiency. Held down. Forced still. Made to watch. That girl—Abby, he remembers the name the way you remember a snake bite, not by the shape but by the venom—taking her revenge on him, through you. Through your body. Through the one thing in the world he would’ve torn the world apart to protect. And he couldn’t. Couldn’t lift a hand. Couldn’t reach you. Couldn’t move. Not even to scream.

You weren’t supposed to be there. You hadn’t even wanted to go to the ski lodge. You’d said no, it’s too far, let’s wait till the storm clears, and he’d insisted—like a fool—like a man who still believed that time was on his side.

He’d seen it happen in slow motion. That swing—her arm cocked back, the gleam of metal—and the sound your body made, dull and wet, like a sack of meat hitting the dirt. He’d watched you fold, limp, twitching, your breath gone, your eyes rolling back into nothing. And he couldn’t reach you. Couldn’t reach you.

And the worst part��the part that comes back in dreams like rot in the walls—is that for a second, just one, you both knew. He saw it in your eyes when they found his, wide with disbelief and then something else. Acceptance. There wasn’t time to speak, not even to cry. Just your gaze locking with his, and in that glance: I’m sorry. I love you. Goodbye. Everything said without sound. Eyes screaming in the quiet room.

You died. You died. For less than a second. Just long enough for the soul to leave and hesitate. And then Ellie—Christ, Ellie, like the end of a parable—crashed through that door like divine rage, like the miracle she’d always been, pulling you back into your body before the second blow could land. Just in time. But not in time enough.

Because you’d already been gone.

And that—that’s what broke something in him. Not the blood, not the helplessness, not even the pain of being too weak. It was the knowing. The seeing. That moment you both died in the same breath and came back strangers. Something shattered between your hearts, like glass underfoot, impossible to unbreak.

He doesn’t tell you this. Doesn’t tell anyone. He holds it in the way he holds everything: quiet, aching, unspeakable. A ruin built inside his chest. Something no one sees, but that never stops burning.

But you don’t flinch. You don’t scold him for guilt, or let him off the hook, or look away.

“I don’t care, Joel,” you say, and his name on your lips sounds like something worn smooth over years of use. “I can’t—not right now. I need you right now. I need to sleep and not die for once.”

That word—die—makes the room colder. Or maybe it’s the way your hands are shaking. Not visibly. But he sees it in your knuckles. In the tension riding your jaw.

“The meds aren’t working?” he asks, still clinging to the technical side of things like a coward, like that’s safer than meeting the emotional weight of the thing you’re actually saying.

“They do,” you say, and now your voice breaks a little, finally. “They just… I can’t do them all the time. I shouldn’t.”

And there it is. The truth he’s known but hasn’t been brave enough to ask for. That you’ve been white-knuckling it through sleep. Through grief. Through whatever form of afterlife you came back into when you didn’t die. That maybe staying alive was the wrong verb. That maybe you don’t feel alive at all unless Ellie’s hand is on yours, unless someone’s breathing nearby to anchor you to the bed. And tonight—there’s no Ellie. Just him.

“I don’t know what it means to you anymore…” he says, swallowing down the storm behind his teeth, his voice rusted. “Me. What I am to you. If I’m still…”

He trails off.

But you don’t let him stay there.

“It’s everything.”

You say it plainly. Not a declaration. Not dramatic. Not soft. Just the raw truth scraped down to the nerve.

And that—God—that undoes him.

Because if it’s everything, then what right does he have to refuse you?

He follows you up the stairs, slow, like the wood might reject his weight. Like if he goes too fast the whole thing will collapse. The bedroom’s dim. The light from the hallway casts a long yellow wedge across the floor. Your bed’s unmade, the quilt tangled like you’ve been wrestling it. He doesn’t know where to stand.

You lie down without looking at him again. You don’t ask for anything more. Just curl your body inward, your back to him. Vulnerable in a way that makes him ache.

He moves toward the bed. Sits.

Not close.

Not yet.

Just enough that you can hear the mattress shift under his weight. Just enough that the room registers presence.

You don’t say thank you. He doesn’t want you to.

The wind brushes the windowpane. Something creaks in the wall. He watches the curve of your spine under the blanket. Watches the slow rise and fall. He waits for your breathing to even out, to settle.

And when it does, he lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

You’re sleeping. Finally.

And maybe he doesn’t deserve to be the one who got you there.

But he stays anyway. Because if this is what you need, if this is what it means to be here now—then this time, he’ll stay.

——————————————————————————

a/n: writing emotional suppression and restraint is my favorite thing! i’ll write some fluff in the second part, i don’t like them suffering too much. thanks for reading, see you next time.

[jenniquinn]

Can you write something about reader getting badly injured during patrol with Joel (they're in a relationship) and he has to patch her up. He's scared shitless of losing her, and he keeps talking and talking trying to keep her awake. Doing the whole "I know, I know, sweet girl, you're okay, you're gonna be just fine baby" soothing her. She also thinks she's not gonna make it and try to comfort him "please go back to Jackson, get safe. You know how much I love you, right?" But he's having none of it. He carries her and they find shelter and he patches her up, having to stay there for a few days until she's strong enough to move and he's by her side at all times. Happy ending please!!!!

Through hell

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader Summary: Joel risks everything to rescue you from raiders, then stays by your side as you both fight to heal—together. Warnings: established relationship, angst, kidnapping, violence, blood, caring Joel, happy ending

You can still remember the way the wind felt on your face that morning. Crisp and cold, like something out of a different life. You rode beside Joel through the snowy forest trail just west of Jackson, boots in stirrups, fingers tingling through worn gloves. He glanced over at you every now and then like he always did—like he couldn't help it, like your presence settled something in him that nothing else could.

“Let’s take the west ridge,” he said, voice low and rough. “Tommy said there’s been tracks out that way. Maybe just deer, but I don’t like how close it was to the lookout post.”

You nodded, shifting slightly in your saddle. The rifle on your back felt heavier than usual. Maybe it was the cloud cover, or the way the woods were too quiet, no birdsong, no wind through the evergreens—just the crunch of hooves on frostbitten ground.

Joel kept his horse close to yours, occasionally brushing your knee with his. Just a little touch. Just enough. Always enough.

“You warm enough?” he asked after a while.

You smirked, biting back a shiver. “You offering to warm me up, Miller?”

He grunted. “Damn right I am.”

You wanted to kiss him then and there, but you were almost to the ridge, and that part of the trail narrowed between thick pines. You had to ride single file. He went ahead.

That’s when everything started to unravel.

The crack of a gunshot rang out like thunder. Your horse reared and whinnied, startled. You barely had time to grab the reins before someone slammed into you from behind, knocking you clean out of the saddle.

Your body hit the ground hard. The air shot from your lungs. Boots stomped in the snow all around you, hands dragging you through the brush. You kicked and twisted, but the back of someone’s rifle slammed into your temple. Everything turned to white noise. Then black.

——

Joel didn’t see it happen. One moment, you were behind him—he heard the easy rhythm of hooves, trusted it like he trusted his own heartbeat. The next, your silence was too quiet. Wrong.

He pulled up on his reins.

“Sweetheart?” he called.

No answer.

He turned, only to find the trail behind him empty. Your horse, skittish and alone, was running off toward the trees.

“Shit.” His voice cracked.

He rode hard back down the trail, dismounted before the horse had even stopped. Snow was churned up where your body had fallen. Boot prints. Scuffle marks. Drag lines leading into the woods.

Panic rose in him like floodwater.

“Baby,” he whispered, barely breathing. “No—no, no, no…”

He dropped to his knees, fingers brushing over the snow where he found the tiniest smear of blood.

——

You came to in a dim, frozen cellar.

The air stank of mold and sweat, and your head throbbed so hard it made your stomach twist. You tried to sit up, only to find your wrists bound behind you with coarse rope, your ankles tied just as tight.

“Fuck,” you rasped. Your lip was split. You could taste blood in the back of your throat.

A man crouched in front of you—filthy beard, sunken eyes. One of the raiders. You could smell the rot on him.

“You’re awake,” he said, smiling like he liked the sight of your bruised face. “Good. We’re gonna have a little chat.”

You didn’t speak. Not at first.

“You from that settlement up north, ain’t ya?” he continued. “Jackson. That’s what they call it.”

You stayed silent. Bit down hard on the inside of your cheek. Joel had taught you well.

The raider’s grin slipped. He slapped you. Not hard at first. Then harder.

You barely flinched.

——

Joel didn’t sleep that night.

He tracked them through the woods like a man possessed. Every broken branch, every speck of blood—they were his lifeline. He could feel time slipping through his fingers like sand, and all he could see was your face. The way you looked that morning. The way you’d smiled at him through frost.

His chest felt hollow. Like if he breathed too deep, the pain would split him in two.

He found a glove of yours snagged on a bush just after dawn. The left one. You’d told him it always fit a little loose. He dropped to his knees again, pressing it to his mouth.

“Please,” he whispered, eyes shut. “Please hold on, baby.”

——

By the time the raiders realized Joel was close, it was already too late.

One of them had left the cellar door cracked open to smoke a cigarette. Joel saw the faint flicker through the trees, and that was all he needed.

He crept in under the cover of the storm rolling in overhead, knife already in hand. The first man didn’t even have time to scream.

The next two were too busy arguing over rations to notice their friend’s body cooling in the snow.

Joel’s hands didn’t shake. Not once.

They made you bleed. They hurt you. They took you from him. And he didn’t see red. He saw you—the way you sleep curled against his chest, the way you laugh with your whole body, the way you whisper his name like it means something holy.

He would’ve burned the whole fucking world down for you.

——

You heard the gunshots upstairs, then the screaming. Your heart thudded hard and fast. You tried to twist away from the wall, but your body was too weak, your vision doubling.

Then the door creaked open.

For a second, you thought maybe it was the end. That they’d come to finish what they started. Your heart slowed, ready for it.

But then you heard his voice. His voice.

“Sweetheart?” It cracked. Broke wide open. “Jesus—baby—oh my god—”

You couldn’t even lift your head. “Joel,” you whispered. “I—I knew you’d come…”

You barely registered the way he ran to you, how he dropped to his knees in the filthy straw, hands cupping your face like you were something fragile, precious, bleeding all over the place but still here.

“I got you,” he breathed, kissing your forehead. “I got you, baby. I got you. I know, I know—fuck—I’m here now.”

Your eyes rolled back.

“Hey—hey, no. Don’t do that.” His hand pressed firm against your ribs where they’d broken something deep inside. “Stay awake, babygirl. You’re gonna be just fine, y’hear me? You’re gonna be okay.”

You shook your head faintly, lips trembling. “You need to go. Get safe. Don’t—don’t stay out here. You know how much I love you, right?”

He made a sound that nearly broke you—a rough, wounded thing. “No. Don’t you dare say goodbye to me. You hear me? You’re gonna make it. I’m gonna carry you outta here, patch you up. We’ll find shelter. You just gotta stay with me, sweetheart. Please—please stay.”

Your head lolled weakly into his shoulder as he sliced the ropes around your wrists. Every movement sent fire through your body.

But he was there. His hands were on you, steady and sure. His scent—leather, snow, pine—filled your lungs.

Joel lifted you into his arms, holding you like something irreplaceable.

“I’m right here,” he whispered, over and over. “I got you. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

——

Snow is falling thick by the time Joel gets you outside. Heavy, wet flakes cling to your lashes, soak into your torn jacket. Your blood is warm on his hands, and that terrifies him more than the blood itself.

He cradles you tight against his chest, stumbling through the trees like a man drunk with grief, murmuring broken things into your hair.

“I got you, I got you—please, baby, don’t close your eyes.”

Your skin is cold. You’re shivering against him, twitching with pain every time he takes a step. He can feel the way your breaths stutter, shallow and rapid, like you’re trying to stay conscious through sheer will.

You whisper something into his collar. He can’t make it out at first.

“Say it again, sweetheart. I got you. I’m here.”

“Hurts…” Your voice is so faint it’s almost a breath. “It hurts real bad…”

“I know, babygirl. I know it does.” He presses a kiss into your hair, his lips trembling against your scalp. “You’re gonna be just fine, I promise. Just stay with me, alright?”

There’s a small hunting shack maybe half a mile out. He saw it once before, marked it in his head in case of emergencies. He’s never been more grateful for that steel trap of a mind.

He doesn’t let go of you the whole way there.

——

The shack is dark and empty, long abandoned. Joel kicks the door open with his boot, then shoulders it shut behind him. The place is barely more than four walls and a stove, but it’s shelter. It’s something.

He lowers you onto the cot as gently as he can, but you still cry out when your back hits the mattress. The sound slices through him like a hot knife.

“Oh god, baby—fuck, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I got you now, alright? Just hold on.”

He pulls a lantern from the shelf, sparks it to life, and sets it near the bed. Light spills over you, and Joel sees the full damage for the first time.

Your face is swollen, lip busted open. There’s blood dried around your temple from where they struck you. Bruises already forming across your ribs. Scrapes along your wrists where the rope had dug into your skin. And the worst of it—a deep, ragged wound in your side, stained dark through the torn fabric of your jacket.

Joel sways for a moment, steadying himself on the table.

“Jesus,” he chokes out. “Fuck.”

You’re still awake, barely. “It’s okay,” you whisper, trying to blink up at him. “You came. That’s all I—”

“No,” he snaps, dropping to his knees beside you, grabbing your hand. “Don’t you do that. Don’t you talk like it’s over. I’m not lettin’ you go, baby. You understand me?”

Your hand twitches in his, weak and shaking. “You don’t have to stay…”

He leans forward, forehead to yours. “I do. I will. You’re mine. I ain’t leavin’ you. Not now, not ever.”

He strips your coat off with shaking hands, cuts the fabric around the wound in your side, trying to see how bad it is. Blood wells up immediately. He curses under his breath, grabs his backpack, and tears it open.

“You gotta stay with me, babygirl,” he says, louder now, trying to keep your eyes on his. “You hear me? Keep talkin’. Say my name.”

“Joel…”

“That’s it. That’s my girl.” He pulls a bottle of alcohol from the bag, then stops. “This is gonna hurt, baby. I’m sorry.”

You nod faintly.

He pours the alcohol over the wound. You scream.

Joel almost screams with you. He grabs your hand and presses it to his chest, trying to anchor you to him.

“I know, I know, I know,” he chants, his voice cracking. “You’re doin’ so good, baby. Just a little more. Stay with me. Please stay with me.”

You’re crying now. Soft, quiet tears that slide down the side of your face.

“I don’t wanna die,” you whisper.

Joel goes still for a moment. Then he leans down and kisses your forehead, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

“You’re not gonna die. You hear me? I didn’t go through all that just to lose you now.”

“I feel cold…”

He yanks the blankets from the foot of the cot, bundles them around you, climbs halfway into bed with you so he can hold you close. You’re limp against him, breathing shallow.

“I love you,” you murmur, barely audible now. “Joel, I love you…”

His jaw clenches. “Don’t you say that like it’s the last time.”

You laugh, a tiny broken sound. “Bossy…”

He lets out a breath that might be a sob. “Yeah. That’s right. I’m bossy. And I’m tellin’ you—you’re not goin’ anywhere.”

He stitches the wound as best he can with what he has. It’s messy and brutal. But you’re still breathing when he finishes, and that’s all that matters.

He lays with you the rest of the night, wrapped around your trembling body, murmuring to you over and over.

“I love you. I love you so damn much. You stay with me, babygirl. You got a home to get back to. We got a life. You’re not done yet.”

——

Hours pass. Then a full day.

He doesn’t leave your side. Not to eat. Not to sleep. Not to piss.

He cleans the blood from your skin with melted snow water, dabs ointment on your bruises. Keeps a hand on your chest just to feel it rise and fall.

You fade in and out, whispering his name each time you surface. And every time you do, he’s there.

“I’m here,” he tells you. “Ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

——

The days pass slowly.

You drift in and out of consciousness at first, your body too battered to keep you awake for long. Each time your eyes open, Joel is right there—kneeling beside the cot, crouched by the stove, sitting with his elbows on his knees and his gaze fixed on you like if he looks away, you might disappear again.

His voice is always the first thing you hear when you wake.

“Hey, babygirl,” he whispers, soft and relieved. “There you are.”

It’s never louder than a hush. He’s calm now, calmer than he was when he found you, but the fear is still there—coiled in his voice, in the way he checks your pulse every hour, in how he sleeps sitting up with a hand resting gently over your ribs, like he needs to feel you breathing just to survive the night.

You try to talk sometimes, but it takes effort. Your throat’s raw, your ribs ache with every breath, and your sideburns where the stitches pull your skin tight.

He always shushes you.

“Don’t push it, sweetheart. You rest. I got you.”

And he does.

Joel keeps the fire going even when it smokes up the place. He feeds you water by the spoonful, holds a cup to your lips when you’re too weak to lift your head. He tears old clothes into rags and uses them to clean your wounds, dabbing with a tenderness that makes your eyes sting.

You cry once—not from the pain, but from the sheer way he looks at you. Like you matter more than anything else in this world. Like the fact that you’re alive is something sacred.

He wipes the tears from your cheeks with the edge of his sleeve.

“No more of that now,” he murmurs. “You made it, babygirl. You hear me? You fuckin’ made it.”

——

By the third day, you can sit up, leaning against his chest while he holds a hand pressed gently to your back. Your breath hitches when you move too fast, and Joel instantly tightens his grip.

“Easy,” he soothes, voice close to your ear. “Ain’t in no rush. You just take your time.”

You tip your head against his shoulder, breathing him in. He smells like wood smoke and worn leather and the comfort of home. His beard scrapes lightly against your temple as he presses a kiss there.

“I thought I was gonna die,” you whisper.

He shakes his head. “Don’t you say that.”

“I did. I thought—I thought I’d never see you again.”

Joel swallows hard. You feel the way it locks his throat.

“You know how much I love you, right?” you whisper.

“I know,” he says, voice thick. Then again, firmer: “I know. But you don’t get to say goodbye. Not ever.”

You nod faintly against his chest. He holds you tighter, cradles you like something fragile. Like something he almost lost and will never take for granted again.

“I should’ve been faster,” he mutters. “I should’ve known sooner. Should’ve—”

“Joel,” you interrupt, reaching for his hand. Your fingers are weak, but you manage to squeeze his. “You saved me.”

He stares at your joined hands for a long time.

“Damn right I did.”

——

The fourth day, you eat real food again—a half-burnt can of soup he found tucked in a cupboard. He feeds you from a spoon, making sure it cools enough before each bite, watching you like a hawk for any sign of discomfort.

“You don’t have to keep doing this,” you mumble when he wipes your chin with a cloth.

His brow furrows, and he gives you a look—that look, the one he uses when you say something he refuses to even entertain.

“I’m takin’ care of my girl. Ain’t nobody else gonna do it.”

You smile, weak but real. “You’re a good nurse.”

“Don’t let Tommy hear that,” he says, smoothing your hair back. “I’ll never hear the end of it.”

You laugh a little, and it makes you wince, one hand flying to your ribs. Joel’s expression instantly shifts, guilt blooming across his face.

“Hey—hey, easy now.” He’s already reaching for the water, the pain meds, anything. “I’m sorry, baby. You alright?”

You nod, still smiling through the ache. “Worth it.”

He shakes his head and leans in, pressing his forehead to yours.

“You scare the hell outta me,” he whispers.

You whisper back, “I know.”

——

By the end of the week, you’re strong enough to walk a few steps, gripping Joel’s arm like a lifeline. He keeps an arm tight around your waist, supporting your weight as you shuffle to the stove and back. Each step is painful, but his praise makes it bearable.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, kissing the side of your head. “Look at you. Tough as hell.”

You grin. “Taught me that.”

——

When you’re finally strong enough to make the trip back to Jackson, he doesn’t stop touching you the whole way. His hand is always on you—your back, your arm, your fingers curled into his coat. Every few minutes, he checks you over like you might vanish again if he doesn’t.

And when the walls of Jackson come into view, when you both walk through the gates with your steps slow and your body held close to his side, people stare.

They see the bruises. The bandages. The way Joel looks like he hasn’t slept in days.

But they also see the way he holds you—like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

Tommy meets you at the gates. Maria’s there too, already calling for someone to prep the infirmary. But Joel doesn’t let them take you until he’s kissed your temple one last time.

“I’ll be right there,” he promises, brushing your cheek with the backs of his fingers. “I ain’t leavin’ your side. Not now. Not ever.”

And you believe him.

Because even in the dark, even in the blood and snow and fear, he never let go.

[jenniquinn]

keep it professional -pedro pascal── .✦

requested! thank you. ♡ content: slow burn chemistry, press tour tension, actress!reader, mutual obsession, managers trying and failing to keep them apart, eye contact that means something, age gap undertones, playful flirting under the radar.

---

The table was long. Too long.

You’d hoped—just a little—that you’d be seated next to Pedro. Not because you needed to be. You were perfectly capable of being professional. Mature. Focused. But when the PR team placed name cards and yours wasn’t beside his, you felt something sink in your chest.

You didn’t look at him as you sat down. Didn’t dare.

Your manager had pulled you aside that morning: “No distractions today. You're brilliant in the film. Keep the spotlight on the work, not whatever... spark-thing you've got going on with Pascal.”

Pedro, apparently, got the same speech. Because when he walked in and caught sight of you already seated at the other end of the table, he paused—just slightly. Enough for anyone paying attention to notice. And then he smiled. Wide and quiet.

And thought: Screw the rules.

---

Fifteen minutes into the press conference, it was already obvious.

You were trying your best. Giving clear, thoughtful answers. Smiling politely. Staying in your lane.

But Pedro? Pedro was not helping.

“Honestly,” he said, leaning toward the mic, “I think her performance carried most of us.”

A few heads turned. You flushed. “That’s kind, but—”

“No, no. I’m serious.” He gestured toward you across the table. “She’s terrifyingly talented. I kept forgetting my lines whenever we shared a scene.”

“Because you were always improvising,” you shot back, smiling despite yourself.

He winked. “Only to impress you.”

The room laughed. Your manager did not.

---

Throughout the event, he kept stealing glances.

Little things.

Like when a journalist asked about emotional intimacy on set, and Pedro didn’t say your name—but his eyes flicked toward you for half a second too long.

Or when someone asked about behind-the-scenes bonding, and he said, “We all got close—but there’s something about working with someone who just gets you without even speaking, you know?”

Your throat went dry.

You refused to look up.

He knew you were doing it on purpose.

---

When the conference wrapped, there were flashes. Photos. Quick interviews. You gave your answers like a pro. Posed like a statue. Smiled like nothing was burning beneath your skin.

But Pedro?

He crossed the distance between you.

Leaned in with his hand barely brushing your lower back, lips near your ear.

“You looked beautiful today.”

“Pedro—”

“I know,” he said softly. “I’m behaving badly.”

You turned your head, eyes meeting his.

Neither of you smiled.

But your heart pounded.

Because he wasn’t sorry.

And you didn’t want him to be.

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

---

taglist: @sarahhxx03 @lloydmustache @lolareadsimagines @greenwitchfromthewoods @silksepia @pascalswiftie @itstokyo-cos @mani-pedro @llsister @authorbriannarae13 @introvrtedjellyfish @aj0elap0l0gist @spencercmlover @cixrosie @cherrqbaby @cup-half-full-of-anxiety @kellyxo1 @freakbobcult @sunlightpleasure @barnes70stark @mooniscrying @ohnaurshayla @croissantbakerylws @nellispunk @kasienka @taylorswiftsrep-blog @emerencedaily @byzyz @noovaarq @kristend512 @alltounwell @libbyaller @beaagiannelli @broad-shouldrs @oceanmcu @kysosa @melloispunk @jollycupcakeblizzard @angvlicsoulll @needz1nk @daddypascal17 @agustdpeach @mrsbilicablog @k4t13ispunk

[jenniquinn]

just one more. - pedro pascal. ── .✦

requested! thank you. ♡ content: Pedro x vet!reader, soft domestic chaos, cat hoarding in the name of love, fake complaints, real affection, Pedro being so whipped it hurts (in a good way).

---

Pedro was woken up by a paw to the face.

Not an unusual occurrence in your house.

He groaned, squinting against the morning sun as Luna (Cat #2) made herself comfortable on his pillow, batting at his hair like it was prey.

“Baby,” he called sleepily toward the bathroom, “how many cats do we have again?”

Your voice floated back: “Four. Why?”

He sighed, rubbing his eyes as another feline (Martini, Cat #3) hopped onto his chest like a stone-faced dictator. “Because I think we’ve officially lost control of our own home.”

You emerged in scrubs, ponytail bouncing, absolutely radiant despite the fact that you’d already been up for two hours and smelled vaguely of kitten shampoo. “Oh, please. You love them.”

Pedro sat up, cat and all. “I love you. The cats are just how I get to see you happy.”

You walked over and kissed him on the forehead. “Exactly. So don’t complain.”

He gave you a long look. “You can’t keep bringing them in here, babe. I’m serious. We’re one kitten away from being on a documentary.”

You saluted him with your coffee mug. “Got it. No more cats.”

That night, he heard the door open around 8 p.m. He muted the TV, listening.

“Baaaby?” you called sweetly. Too sweetly.

His brow arched. “Yes?”

Silence.

Then—your footsteps. Light. Guilty.

You peeked around the corner, hands hidden behind your back.

Pedro groaned. “No.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You’re holding something. I can feel it.”

“I found him—”

“Of course you did.”

“He was under a car, Pedro. In the rain.”

Pedro stood, arms crossed, expression tired but amused. “Babe…”

You slowly revealed the tiniest orange fluff ball he’d ever seen. Soaked. Shivering. Wrapped in your hoodie like a crime.

He opened his mouth.

Closed it again.

You looked at him, wide-eyed. “Just to foster.”

He sighed, walking toward you, already reaching for a towel. “That’s what you said about the last two.”

“He has extra toes, Pedro. He’s special.”

“Jesus Christ.”

But he took the kitten from you anyway, towel in hand, already whispering, “Hey, buddy… it’s okay now.”

You grinned. “So we’re keeping him?”

He looked at you. Then at the kitten. Then at the sea of cats watching judgmentally from the couch.

“…We’re naming him Ringo.”

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

---

taglist: @sarahhxx03 @lloydmustache @lolareadsimagines @greenwitchfromthewoods @silksepia @pascalswiftie @itstokyo-cos @mani-pedro @llsister @authorbriannarae13 @introvrtedjellyfish @aj0elap0l0gist @spencercmlover @cixrosie @cherrqbaby @cup-half-full-of-anxiety @kellyxo1 @freakbobcult @sunlightpleasure @barnes70stark @mooniscrying @ohnaurshayla @croissantbakerylws @nellispunk @kasienka @taylorswiftsrep-blog @emerencedaily @byzyz @noovaarq @kristend512 @alltounwell @libbyaller @beaagiannelli @broad-shouldrs @oceanmcu @kysosa @melloispunk @jollycupcakeblizzard @angvlicsoulll @needz1nk @daddypascal17 @agustdpeach @mrsbilicablog @k4t13ispunk

[jenniquinn]

you don't have to pretend. - pedro pascal. ── .✦

requested! thank you. ♡content: Pedro x reader, depression comfort, mental health support, soft domestic care, gentle encouragement, lots of love, he does everything just to see you smile again.

---

Pedro noticed it before you even realized you were doing it.

Your texts had changed. Shorter. Less emojis. Less you. Where there were once paragraphs and dumb memes and little voice notes filled with sleepy laughter — now there were just “yeah”s and “idk”s.

He called. You let it ring once or twice before picking up, voice distant. Said you were tired. Busy. Fine.

He knew you weren’t. So he used his key.

---

The apartment was dark when he got there. Not pitch black, but dim. Curtains drawn. Dishes in the sink. Your shoes still by the door from three days ago.

He found you in bed, curled under your comforter in the same pajamas he’d last seen you in — the ones with the little faded stars. You didn’t stir when he opened the door.

“Hey, baby,” he said gently, sitting on the edge of the bed.

You blinked slowly. “Pedro?”

“Yeah. I brought groceries.”

You stared at him. Confused. Guilty.

“I didn’t text you back,” you murmured, voice raspy.

“I know.”

“I didn’t mean to ignore you.”

“I know that too.” He brushed the hair from your forehead. “You’ve been hurting, haven’t you?”

Your throat closed. Eyes welled. But you nodded.

Pedro didn’t say cheer up or it’ll pass or you’re gonna be okay. He just leaned down and kissed your cheek. “Let me take care of things today, okay?”

You didn’t have the energy to say yes. But you didn’t stop him either.

---

He opened the windows. Let the breeze in. Put on your favorite record — soft and low, enough to make the room feel like a person was breathing in it again.

He made tea. Did the dishes. Cooked a simple soup and made you take three bites, even if you didn’t want to. “You don’t have to finish it, baby,” he said, “but you need something in your system.”

He folded your laundry.

He made you shower.

He sat outside the door just in case.

And then — he crawled into bed beside you, clean and warm and holding a lavender-scented heating pad like it was a teddy bear.

“I don’t know how to make this go away,” you whispered against his chest.

“You don’t have to,” he whispered back. “You just have to let me love you through it.”

You sniffled. “You’re too good to me.”

He kissed your hair. “Not possible.”

That night, with your head on his chest and your hand holding his shirt tight like a lifeline, he whispered stories to you until you finally fell asleep.

And when you woke up the next morning — not healed, not fixed, but held — he was still there.

He always would be.

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

---

taglist: @sarahhxx03 @lloydmustache @lolareadsimagines @greenwitchfromthewoods @silksepia @pascalswiftie @itstokyo-cos @mani-pedro @llsister @authorbriannarae13 @introvrtedjellyfish @aj0elap0l0gist @spencercmlover @cixrosie @cherrqbaby @cup-half-full-of-anxiety @kellyxo1 @freakbobcult @sunlightpleasure @barnes70stark @mooniscrying @ohnaurshayla @croissantbakerylws @nellispunk @kasienka @taylorswiftsrep-blog @emerencedaily @byzyz @noovaarq @kristend512 @alltounwell @libbyaller @beaagiannelli @broad-shouldrs @oceanmcu @kysosa @melloispunk @jollycupcakeblizzard @angvlicsoulll @needz1nk @daddypascal17 @agustdpeach @mrsbilicablog @k4t13ispunk

---

[jenniquinn]

I'd like to request a smut fic where Joel and reader have been extra busy lately and that means no alone time for too long. When they finally get to it Joel ends up finishing unexpectedly too soon hahaha. He's embarrassed and downright mad at him himself for it, but reader finds it endearing really, that he's so into her and missed her so much that he couldn't help it but bust too soon lol. She reassures him it's okay and he ends up making up to her anyway, either with his fingers or his mouth 😏😏

All that want

Pairing: jackson!Joel Miller x f!reader Summary: A rare night alone ends faster than Joel hoped—but he makes sure you feel every bit of how much he missed you. Warnings: established relationship, explicit smut (+18), unprotected sex, p in v sex, premature ejaculation, embarrassment, reassurence, oral (f receiving), praises, gentle aftercare

The clink of dishware is the only sound in the kitchen, save for the slow hush of the wind outside. The sun is starting to set, brushing the wooden cabinets in warm gold. You’re standing at the sink, hands in hot soapy water, half-focused on cleaning the last of the dinner plates. The town’s quieting down for the night, and it’s the first time in a long while you’ve had even a breath to yourself.

Your back aches from work. You’ve been covering extra shifts at the nursery and helping in the community garden—planting, pruning, hauling sacks of soil that left your shoulders sore. Joel’s been on patrol more days than not lately, long routes that keep him away until late. Sometimes overnight. When he does come home, he’s tired. Bone-tired. Limps straight to the couch, boots half-off, rubbing at his knee with a wince.

And you—you haven’t had him to yourself in what feels like forever.

Not really.

There’ve been tired kisses before bed, half-conscious hands grazing each other’s backs in the dark. One shared bath where he leaned his head against your shoulder and barely spoke a word. A few mornings where you caught his eyes lingering on you before he laced his boots and went out the door—but that was it.

No touches. No tension relieved. No time.

Until now.

You feel him before you hear him—his solid warmth behind you, the weight of his presence like gravity pulling you backward. Then a hand finds your hip, slow and sure, and you don’t flinch. You lean into it, let out a long, quiet breath.

“Didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” Joel murmurs, his voice gravel and honey.

You smile faintly. “I knew it was you.”

His hand drifts, thumb sweeping across the swell of your waist. “You always this sure about armed men comin’ up behind you?”

“With you?” you say softly. “Always.”

A beat of silence. You can feel him watching the side of your face, and when you turn, your eyes catch his and hold.

Joel looks tired. Lines around his mouth deeper than usual. His hair’s a little wind-mussed, curls flattened from a too-long day under a patrol cap. His eyes, though—dark and unreadable—those are what make your stomach tighten.

Something’s burning behind them. Need. Frustration. That low hum of wanting that neither of you have had the time or space to give in to. Not until this moment.

You set the dish towel aside and turn fully toward him, drying your damp hands on the front of your shirt as you look him over.

“You okay?” you ask.

Joel’s hand slides from your hip to the small of your back. He pulls you close, eyes still locked on yours. “Been thinkin’ about you all damn day,” he murmurs.

Your breath catches.

“Didn’t help that they paired me up with Seth. Man don’t shut up. Think he asked me how long you and I been together four different times like he forgot.”

You laugh softly. “What’d you tell him?”

“That it ain’t his business.”

He leans down, mouth brushing yours in a slow, barely-there kiss. You rise up on your toes to meet him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, and for a few seconds it’s gentle—reverent.

But then something cracks open.

Joel kisses you again, harder. Mouth hungrier. His hands flatten on your lower back, pressing your body into his as his tongue finds yours with a groan that rumbles deep in his chest. You moan into it, clutching the back of his shirt, feeling the rise of his breath and the hard press of his body against yours.

His beard scrapes your chin. His scent—leather, cedar, something wind-blown and warm—floods your senses.

You pull back just enough to speak. “Ellie’s out with Dina, right?”

Joel nods, his lips already on your jaw. “Won’t be back ‘til late.”

You exhale sharply. “Good.”

That’s all it takes.

He grabs your hand and leads you out of the kitchen, footsteps heavy on the wood floor, urgency building between you. His fingers lace tight with yours—like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. You glance at the hallway mirror as you pass, catching the flushed look on your face and the way Joel’s towering behind you, eyes locked on your every move.

The bedroom door clicks shut behind you.

Then it’s just the two of you again. Quiet and breath and the golden dusk sliding across the bed.

Joel stops, chest heaving. Looks at you like he’s not sure if he should apologize or fall to his knees.

“We’ve gone too long,” he says hoarsely. “I’m sorry.”

You step toward him and take his face in your hands, fingers brushing the scruff of his beard. “Don’t be. I get it. Life’s been a lot lately.”

His eyes fall shut under your touch. “Still. Ain’t right, me not touchin’ you for this long. I shoulda made time.”

You shake your head. “You’re here now. That’s all I need.”

His hands move—slowly, reverently—finding the hem of your shirt, lifting it inch by inch until you raise your arms to help him pull it over your head. He lets it fall to the floor like it’s nothing, but when he looks back at you, it’s like he’s seeing heaven.

His rough fingers trace along your ribcage, skimming up your sides.

“Goddamn,” he breathes. “I missed you.”

You reach for his shirt next, unbuttoning slowly, watching as the tan fabric parts to reveal the strong line of his chest. That familiar scar on his stomach. The softness at his sides, earned from age and time, and the hardness beneath it that’s pure Joel. Always him.

He shrugs the shirt off and kisses you again, slower this time. Hands finding your waist, your spine, your ass. Your body slots to his like you never left each other at all.

But he pulls back, breath shaky.

“Tell me if you’re too tired,” he rasps. “We can just lie down. I just—I needed to touch you.”

You press your mouth to his ear. “I don’t want to lie down.”

You feel him shudder, feel the tension that’s been building for days finally ripple loose in his shoulders. His hands are already working the button on your jeans before you’ve even finished your sentence, and the look in his eyes—

It’s not just lust.

It’s relief. It’s hunger. It’s that wild, desperate love you see in him only when he thinks no one else is looking.

You kiss him again—longer, deeper—and start to pull him toward the bed.

And Joel follows.

The mattress shifts under your knees as Joel follows you onto the bed, shedding what’s left of his clothes in slow, sure movements. You watch from your back, your body already bare to him, skin flushed with anticipation and the ache of weeks gone without his touch. His eyes never leave yours, not even as he tugs his jeans down his hips and kicks them aside. He’s already half-hard, thick and heavy, twitching when your eyes land on him.

But his face—his face is what makes your breath catch.

That look again. Raw. Unfiltered. A little desperate.

Joel climbs over you, settling between your thighs like he belongs there—because he does—and braces himself with a forearm beside your head. The other hand moves to your cheek, thumb stroking gently as he leans down to kiss you. It starts soft, like he’s trying to remember how your mouth tastes, but within seconds it deepens—urgent, searching. His tongue sweeps against yours, groaning when your hands slide down his ribs and your knees part a little wider.

You can feel how tightly wound he is. His body strung up like wire, muscles tense with restraint. He’s trying to be slow, you can tell. Trying to savor it, to draw it out.

But the moment his cock brushes between your folds, slick and hot and aching to be inside you, Joel falters.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your mouth. “You’re so wet, baby…”

You nod, panting already. “It’s been too long.”

He presses his forehead to yours, trying to gather himself. His hips twitch forward, barely grinding against your core, and his breath stutters.

“Joel,” you whisper, hands sliding down to his lower back. “You don’t have to wait.”

He lifts his head, eyes dark, jaw tight. “I ain’t gonna last.”

You kiss the corner of his mouth. “I don’t care.”

He closes his eyes, groaning low like he’s angry at himself. “No, darlin’, I—shit, I wanted this to be slow, I wanted to take my time with you—”

“You will,” you promise, sliding a hand between your bodies. You curl your fingers around the base of him, and he hisses through his teeth. “But right now? I just want you. Inside me.”

That does it.

Joel’s hips lurch forward, guided by your hand, and the blunt tip of his cock pushes into you with a stretch that makes you gasp. It’s tight—your body unused to him after all this time—but so good. So deep. You feel him tense as he sinks in, groaning loud and unrestrained as he fills you to the hilt.

“Oh, fuck,” he pants, bracing himself on both arms now, head hanging low. “Fuck, sweetheart—Jesus—”

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. “I missed you, Joel. Missed how you feel.”

He’s shaking above you. Physically trembling.

“Goddamn it,” he grits out, hips stuttering once, twice. “You’re so fuckin’ tight, so warm—I can’t—”

His voice breaks as he thrusts again, just once, and you feel it—his whole body stiffening, his breath locking up as a strangled noise slips past his lips. He buries his face in your neck, groaning loud against your skin, and you realize—

He’s already coming.

Hot, pulsing warmth floods into you, and Joel groans like he’s ashamed of it, like he’s fighting it even as it overtakes him.

“No,” he mutters, almost angry. “No, no, I didn’t—fuck, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—”

You’re still beneath him, stunned but somehow smiling, your hands stroking up and down his back as he collapses slowly against you.

“Joel,” you whisper, your voice breathy with surprise and affection. “Hey… hey. Look at me.”

He doesn’t move at first, still buried in your neck, cursing himself under his breath. His whole body feels tight with tension, guilt crawling over his skin like fire.

“Joel,” you say again, firmer now, fingers threading through his hair. “It’s okay.”

He finally lifts his head, and the look in his eyes is pure embarrassment. He looks younger like this—unguarded, vulnerable in a way he never lets anyone else see. You can feel how much he’s beating himself up over it.

“Shit,” he mutters. “That’s not how I wanted it to go. I wanted to make you feel good. Not—fuckin’ finish like a goddamn teenager before I even—”

“Joel.” You slide your hand along his cheek, eyes locked on his. “It’s okay. Really.”

He shakes his head. “It ain’t. You didn’t even—baby, I didn’t even touch you properly yet.”

Your smile softens. “You missed me. That’s what that was. You were so into it, so into me, you couldn’t help it. That’s… that’s kind of sweet.”

He stares at you like you’ve lost your mind. “Sweet?”

You nod, laughing softly, cupping his face with both hands now. “I’m serious. It’s sexy, Joel. You’ve been aching for me, haven’t you?”

His throat bobs. He doesn’t answer, but his eyes say enough.

You run a hand down his back, soothing. “You don’t need to be perfect. Just honest. And this?” You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Was honest.”

Joel groans, low and rough, and leans in again—this time kissing you with something different. Not hunger. Not frustration.

Devotion.

“I owe you,” he murmurs against your lips. “Gonna make it up to you. Lay you out and take my damn time.”

Your stomach flips.

“Promise?” you whisper.

“Promise.”

He starts moving downward then, sliding down your body, pressing kisses to your skin as he goes. Your breath catches as his mouth drags over your stomach, and you feel his hands gently urging your legs apart again, even as his softening cock brushes your inner thigh.

“Let me do it right,” he says, voice gravelly, thick with need and remorse and a deep, aching love. “Let me take care of you now.”

And you do.

You let him.

Because Joel Miller might’ve come too fast—but he’s not done.

Not by a long shot.

——

The room is still and quiet, save for the soft rasp of Joel’s breath against your skin. His body is warm and heavy where he’s slumped partially over you, chest rising and falling with the remnants of that release he hadn’t planned on. His hand rests low on your waist, like he’s afraid to let go just yet. Like if he moves too quickly, the moment might slip away and take you with it.

He hasn’t said much since the words let me take care of you left his mouth, but he doesn’t have to. You can feel the shift in him—his guilt softening under the weight of your acceptance, your touch, your quiet affection. There’s no disappointment in you, no tension left in your limbs. Just heat, need, and love simmering under your skin, waiting.

Joel kisses the inside of your thigh like an apology.

“You still with me?” he murmurs, voice low and thick, a little rough around the edges.

You nod, brushing a hand through his hair, dark and mussed from your fingers. “Still here.”

He presses another kiss, higher this time, just along the crease where your thigh meets your hip. “I hate that I couldn’t wait. I ain’t… I ain’t proud of that.”

“You should be,” you whisper. “It’s proof. How much you wanted me.”

Joel groans quietly, like he still can’t quite believe you’re not mad at him. He shifts lower, nestling himself between your legs with a kind of reverence that makes your breath hitch. His hands smooth up your thighs, warm and wide and steady now, coaxing your knees open just a little more.

“You said I could make it up to you,” he says, his voice a promise now. “So let me. Let me really take my time this time.”

And then he lowers his mouth.

The first brush of his tongue is slow. Deliberate. Not teasing—no, he’s past teasing. This is worship.

He drags the flat of it through your folds, humming low in his chest as he tastes you. The sound goes straight through you, sparks racing up your spine. You gasp softly, hips lifting off the bed, and Joel wraps his arms under your thighs to anchor you down.

“Easy,” he murmurs against you. “Ain’t goin’ anywhere. I’m gonna be here a while.”

You feel it—the truth of that.

Joel eats you out like a man starved, not with urgency but with intention. Every movement of his tongue is slow, sure, patient. He licks and kisses and sucks at you like he’s making up for every missed night, every morning you woke up tangled together but too rushed to indulge.

He knows your body better than anyone, and it shows. He takes his time circling your clit, not too soft, not too fast, just enough to make your toes curl and your hands reach blindly for the sheets. When he slips a finger inside, it’s like your body was already waiting for him—wet and ready, clenching around him instantly.

“You feel so fuckin’ good,” Joel mutters, his voice husky against your core. “Goddamn, baby, you’re squeezin’ me so tight.”

You whimper, hips rising to meet his touch, needing more. He gives it to you—another finger, thicker, curling just right inside as his mouth returns to your clit. The combined sensation is overwhelming. Your back arches, eyes squeezed shut, breath breaking apart in shallow gasps.

Joel hums again, low and proud this time, and the vibration makes you tremble.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “Let me feel it, sweetheart. Let me feel you come.”

Your hand finds his hair, holding him there, hips rolling desperately against his mouth as the pressure builds and builds. He doesn’t let up—his fingers, his tongue, all of him focused on you, like nothing else exists but this. But your pleasure. Your sounds. Your taste.

When it hits, it’s like a wave breaking clean over your body.

You cry out, legs shaking around him, your whole body clenching around his fingers as the orgasm rolls through you. Joel keeps working you through it, tongue softening into gentle strokes, fingers slowing but staying inside until your grip on him loosens and your back sinks into the mattress.

He doesn’t rise right away. He just rests his cheek against your thigh, breathing deep, like you are what steadies him.

“You okay?” he asks after a moment, voice rasping.

You nod, barely able to speak, one hand sliding down to cup his jaw. “Yeah. More than okay.”

He kisses your thigh again, then slowly moves up your body, leaving a trail of kisses in his wake—your belly, the curve of your breast, the space between your ribs where he always lingers like he knows it makes your heart race.

By the time he’s face to face with you again, he looks calmer. Softer. Still Joel—but not the same man who’d tensed with guilt minutes ago. This one’s loose-limbed and warm-eyed, his forehead resting against yours.

“Feel better?” he asks gently.

You smile, fingers stroking his back. “You always make me feel better.”

His hand slides up to cradle your cheek. “I love you.”

You blink at the quiet certainty of it. “I love you too.”

Joel leans in to kiss you—slow and deep and languid. His tongue slides against yours, tasting your own release on his lips, and you melt into it, every muscle in your body humming with satisfaction.

When the kiss breaks, you speak softly. “You’re not allowed to beat yourself up next time that happens.”

His eyebrows rise. “Next time?”

You grin, teasing now. “You keep missing me like that, it might happen again.”

Joel chuckles—really laughs—and it’s the best sound you’ve heard in days. He buries his face in your neck, his body warm and solid over yours, and you hold him there, tangled up and sated and whole.

[jenniquinn]

Hii love. Can you write something about Joel getting you pregnant.

Maybe at first he didn't want kids (but because of his age, he thought he wasn't gonna be the best dad for them). He always knew you wanted, and one day he saw how good you are with them, and desire in your eyes. Maybe some smut thaanks

Makin’ you a mama

Pairing: Old!joel miller x f!reader

Warnings: 18+, BREEDING KINK, praise, pet names, soft!joel, talking about pregnancy, pinv, unprotected sex (obviously), age gap! (62 x 26), one time joel calling himself ‚daddy‘

A/N: thank you anon for making me write this. I‘ve always wanted to write something like this but never had the balls lmao

It‘s been two years since you and Joel came to Jackson. And you couldn’t believe how well everything was going. After surviving hordes and hordes of clickers, runners and raiders, having to put up with the temperature that keeps on changing, searching for a place to rest and the fear of losing Joel even tho at that time, you two weren‘t even together. He was a grumpy, mad, annoyed man who never let his feelings out. Surviving with him meant also surviving him.

In all kinds that was just the past and a story to tell whenever you were invited to gatherings. Joel and your relationship was strong, you were scared that people would get shy away from the age gap, but apparently they have seen worse in the apocalypse. Whenever you two were together, people looked at you with admiration, asking themselves why their relationship wasn‘t going that well. Joel was overprotective, always made sure you were well taken care of, always listened to you, never argued. Other men had none of that in them. You were happy, content but there was one thing swimming around in the back of your head that you—no matter what, couldn‘t forget.

„You really think I would fit into the father role with my 62 years once again, baby?“ his eyes were gentle, looking at you, searching for enclosure in your expressions.

„Yea, why not? You make me feel taken care of, you are a great man, I know that you would very well fit into that role.“ your voice was just above a whisper. There was a sigh leaving his lips and then he took his glasses of, running trough his hair at the same time.

„I—I don‘t think I can do that. Just give me some time to think about that okey?“

Yet, the answer never came. And you never wanted to push him. So you let it rest. He lost his child once, he once had all of that and went trough a traumatic event, you knew that he was still scared.

And if you were honest with yourself, did you really want to have a baby in this god forsaken place? You really want to have that baby go trough the same traumatic things you two went trough? It wasn‘t easy living here. It wasn‘t easy living else where.

Maybe it was the end of the world. You didn‘t know that.

So you forgot that idea. Out of your mind.

You concentrated on your job. Daycare. Not really the best way to let that thought out of your mind, huh? But you loved it, you loved the kids, the pretty toys that were scattered everywhere, the colourful rooms and the sweet parents that came in and picked their kids up. It was a great way to forget the outside world, to really come close with the humanity that was forgotten for some many years.

Joel was going to pick you up, like he always does after doing his construction work around Jackson. When he came to your workplace tho, he had to stop and was completely lost in his thoughts.

It was you. Having a toddler on your hip, while swinging from left to right, singing to him. Your eyes were full of love, the toddler was laughing with you. His small hands gripping your shirt, tangled in your hair, feeling comfortable with you. Joel subconsciously started to smile, standing there and really thinking about how you would look like as a mother. There was something so effortless about the way you moved, how you instinctively cradled that child with your warmth and certainty. As if motherhood always lived within you, waiting to be embraced.

What if it was your kid in your arms? What if your house was filled with the laughter of having a child. Joel stood there and pictured you, soft glow in your cheeks, carrying the baby beneath your heart. How perfect you would look with a belly, how perfect you would fit into that role.

Joel longed for that feeling. He would do everything in this world to make you happy, to make you comfortable. He would not let you work, he would be there and raise that child with you. He would love you two unconditionally. And suddenly— there it was. The longing to become a father and make you a mother.

„J-joel—what the hell has gotten into you.“ you muttered out, out of breath as joel abruptly pulled you to him, kissing you, just seconds after going inside the house. He didn‘t answer, too hungry to think straight. You yelped as he threw you into the coach, going on top of you and spreading your legs.

„Joel.“ you whined, his hands quickly unbuttoning your shirt, then your bra, his fingers landing on your nipples, gently pinching the nub. You whimpered, too lost in the sudden pleasure, your hips starting to move up against his crotch.

„Pretty breasts are gonna filled with milk.“ he groaned out, your eyes widening. What was he talking about?

„Joel, what the hell are you even talking about?“ his hands stopped on your tits, gently moving to your belly, stroking around, smiling to himself.

„gonna make you a mama, baby.“

„Wait, really?“ you weren‘t sure if you heard that right. The man who was just scared of being a father again, was telling you that he was going to make you a mother. Joel chuckled at your reaction, unzipping his pants, taking his cock out. It was all red, his tip pulsing as he started to jerk off, squeezing it and releasing a moan from his lips.

„Mhm. Ain‘t that what you wanted? C‘mon now, open up.“

„Joel, are you sure? Look I don‘t want to pressure you—”

„I‘m sure. Now don‘t make me wait or I ain‘t giving you anything.“ he teased, your face lighting up as you giggled. Quickly, unbuttoning your jeans, while joel focused on pumping his cock and kissing and biting down your neck line. You spread your legs further, pulling your soaked panties down and running your hands trough your mans hair.

„That‘s right. Look at you, already so soaked. Gonna let me give you a baby, hm?“

His cock rubbed along your slit, your breath coming to a stop as you looked into his lust filled eyes. He slowly fed his cock into your cunt, your mouth falling open at the stretch and fullness you were feeling. His thumb coming at your little clit, slowly rubbing, making you whimper into the silent room.

„shh, I know, I know. That‘s it. Look at you letting me in. Little cunt needs this, baby. Needs me to fill her.“

And you can do nothing but moan and whimper around him as joel sets a rhythm with his thrusts. His cock going in and out of your pussy, the squelching sounds filling the room. Your tits moving up and down, his thumb never letting up on rubbing your clit. His gaze never left you. Concentrated on your fucked out expression, while also focusing on the hard but gentle thrusts he was giving you. Your knees trembling, thighs quivering—he was fucking you with all he had.

Your heels dug into the couch under you, your hips going closer to him, wanting to feel him just a little bit deeper. His cock meets your spot this way, making you cry out.

„That‘s the spot, yea?“ he groans out.

„Mhm.“ you whimper as an answer, too lost in the pleasure to even look into his eyes. You squeezed them, putting your hands on your tits playing with them.

„Gonna be a gorgeous mother, I know it, angel.“

Joel knows you are close as he sees your tummy clenching, your thighs shaking. He feels himself coming closer too, so he pulls you just closer into him, his thrusts concentrating on that spot in you, his hands holding your back so he stays as deep as possible in you.

„Daddy‘s gonna fill you up, but I want you to cum with me. C‘mon.“

He whispers into your ear, your toes curling as you feel the orgasm coming closer to you in your tummy.

„Doing so so well f‘me aren‘t you?“

His thrusts were growing sloppy as he breathlessly whispered praises into your ear.

„Belly gonna swell, tits gonna be full of milk. Letting that old man fill her up to the brim. Yea, my good girl, baby.“ And that what it all took for you to snap. You cried out, gripping his shoulder, feeling his cock twitch in your cunt, releasing rope after rope of cum into you. You clench, squeezing him for all of his worth, while biting into his shoulder and coming down from your orgasm.

While catching his breath, he gently lays you down again, caressing your tummy but doesn‘t pull out. Without a word he suddenly grabs you, his cock still in you, he carries you to the bedroom.

„Need it to take, baby.“

And you know that it‘s going to be a long night.

Taglist: @vickie5446 @a-goose-on-mars @thatgirlmendo @ihearttdilfs @pickyeater13 @sweetiegirl16 @keseqna @shivispunk @kyloispunk @meetmeatyourworst @joelmillerswife9 @iveseenstrangerthings50 @idrkman @vanishintoyoubby @dlwrish @brittmb115 @xcallmetaniax @umadirectioner

[jenniquinn]

welcome home! - pedro pascal. ── .✦

requested! thank you. ♡ content: Pedro Pascal x reader, meeting the parents, flirty wholesome domesticity, garden labor, ogling, soft smutty tension, reader losing her mind over hot boyfriend energy, light teasing, spicy ending.

—

The visit started normal enough.

You’d warned him. “They’re gonna be nosy. My mom will talk your ear off. My dad might pretend not to like you at first.”

Pedro only smiled. “I’m charming. They’ll love me.”

They did. Too much.

Especially after your mom found out he’d “happily help with anything around the house.”

You caught the look she gave your dad. A silent, “we got one.”

—

By 11 a.m., Pedro was in the backyard — sleeves rolled up, dirt under his fingernails, moving heavy pots like it was nothing. Your dad directed from the porch with a lemonade in hand.

Pedro just grinned and nodded. “Yes, sir. Got it.”

You watched from the kitchen window, a glass of water clutched in your hand, brain short-circuiting.

Sweat clung to his neck, hair pushed back. He wiped his forehead with the back of his arm and adjusted his shirt, which was clinging in all the right places.

“Wow,” your mom said beside you, not even trying to be subtle. “He’s strong.”

You choked on your water.

—

By late afternoon, Pedro was carrying bags of mulch over his shoulder, cracking jokes with your dad like they were old friends. He glanced up and caught you watching — again — and winked.

You blushed like a teenager.

“Need anything, baby?” he asked, tugging off his gloves, voice rough from the heat.

Just you, you almost said.

“No,” you squeaked. “You’re good.”

He chuckled and went back to work. You clenched your thighs.

—

Bedtime came fast — your parents tucked in early, exhausted from the excitement. You and Pedro were staying in your childhood bedroom, where everything was a little too small and your bed creaked if you breathed too hard.

Which was unfortunate.

Because the second the door closed behind you, you turned around and launched yourself into his arms.

“Jesus—!” he laughed, catching you easily. “You okay?”

“No.”

He kissed you, amused. “Wanna talk about it?”

“You were sweaty, Pedro. And helpful. And polite. And sexy. And you just winked at me like I was supposed to survive that.”

He pressed you against the door, grin turning dark. “I did notice you staring.”

“Couldn’t stop.”

“You gonna thank me for making your parents fall in love with me?”

You nodded, breathless. “With my mouth.”

Pedro’s breath caught, hands finding your waist. “You sure?”

“Lay down.”

He did — slowly, carefully, like he was already dizzy from the way you looked at him. You straddled his thighs and kissed him once, deep and slow, before slipping down between his legs.

He watched you from above, eyes heavy-lidded, jaw slack, arms flung back as you dragged his pants down just enough to get what you needed.

When you licked a stripe up the base of him, he moaned — low and wrecked.

“Shit—baby…”

You took your time. Let him feel every slow, adoring second. Your hands firm around the base, your tongue soft, wet, teasing. He was already cursing under his breath, hips twitching despite himself.

And when you finally took him fully, eyes on his, lips flushed and wet, he looked like he could cry.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “Look at you. Taking care of me. God, I love your mouth…”

You hummed around him, letting the vibration pull another groan from his throat. One of his hands found your hair — not to push, not to guide, just to anchor. His thumb brushed your temple like a prayer.

“Y-you’re gonna make me—”

You didn’t stop.

And when he fell apart, eyes locked on yours, breath stuttering out in your name? He looked at you like you were divine.

—

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

—

taglist: @sarahhxx03 @lloydmustache @lolareadsimagines @greenwitchfromthewoods @silksepia @pascalswiftie @itstokyo-cos @mani-pedro @llsister @authorbriannarae13 @introvrtedjellyfish @aj0elap0l0gist @spencercmlover @cixrosie @cherrqbaby @cup-half-full-of-anxiety @kellyxo1 @freakbobcult @sunlightpleasure @barnes70stark @mooniscrying @ohnaurshayla @croissantbakerylws @nellispunk @kasienka @taylorswiftsrep-blog @emerencedaily @byzyz @noovaarq @kristend512

[jenniquinn]

Could we have a Y/n whose like selectively mute? Nobody knows why they are like this, but it's nothing that's stopping them from communicating if they have to, like they write down on paper, phone, and uses ASL if anybody knows it. And because of that, people just assumes they are mute, but Pedro whose known them the longest, knows that isn't the case. After like a decade, they finally say something in a whisper to him.

The voice of you

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x selectively mute!reader Summary: Pedro is the only one who truly understands you—until one day, you finally speak, just for him. Warnings: established relationship, supportive Pedro, happy tears, basically just tooth rotting fluff and cuteness

You’ve lost count of how many times people have asked him, “Is she mute?”

Pedro never answers right away. His eyes usually slide to you first, searching your expression like it’s a language all its own—because for him, it is. Sometimes your brow lifts just a little, a subtle quirk he knows means you’re amused. Sometimes your fingers twitch like you’re itching to reach for your phone or notepad, but other times you just stare back at them, not with defiance, not quite, but with something unyielding. Like a wall they were never invited to climb.

“She doesn’t talk,” he says, if he says anything at all. But never “She can’t.” Never “She’s mute.”

Because you’re not.

You just… don’t.

And he’s the only person who’s ever truly accepted that without trying to fix it. Without treating you like a mystery to solve or a tragedy to pity. From the beginning—ten years ago now—Pedro was the one who let your silence be.

He never tried to pull words out of you like threads from a frayed sleeve. He just learned the rhythms of your communication. The way your thumbs dance across your phone. The little notebook you always carry, worn soft with time. The raised brow or pointed glance that says more than most people manage in a full speech. And the moment he realized you knew ASL, he lit up like a sunrise.

It was a bar in Los Angeles. Loud. Crowded. And someone spilled tequila down your shirt, muttering an apology that barely qualified as one. You’d signed something under your breath—a habit, maybe—just fuck off, and Pedro had blinked at you with that wide-eyed, crinkled-brow softness he gets when he’s surprised.

“You sign?” he’d asked. You nodded, and from then on, he insisted on learning, even when his fingers stumbled and his expressions got in the way. “I want to talk with my hands like you do,” he told you once, grinning.

It’s like that with him. Always learning you. Always listening, even when there’s nothing spoken out loud.

——

The first time you met, you were working wardrobe on a short film no one remembers. Pedro had been a guest star, back when that was still a novelty. You were twenty-five. He was almost forty. And somehow, that didn’t matter.

You offered him a dry shirt and a safety pin when he tore his collar on set, scribbled a quick joke on a Post-it, and walked away.

He followed you around for the rest of the day.

“Didn’t catch your name,” he said later, nudging your elbow, holding out a coffee like a peace offering.

You wrote it down and underlined it twice.

Pedro, you added after a beat. You spill everything you wear?

He laughed so loud people turned.

You don’t know when the friendship became more. It was never defined in a single moment, but a gradual shift. Like gravity tipping toward him until you couldn’t tell where friendship ended and something else began.

He never rushed it. Never even hinted at wanting more until you were the one to reach for his hand in a quiet movie theatre three years ago.

That was the first time he kissed you. He pressed his lips to your temple like it was sacred, his breath shaky as he whispered, “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Still, you never said a word.

He never asked you to.

——

Tonight, the two of you are holed up in his apartment, the windows open and letting in the smell of jasmine and the low, rhythmic sound of the city. You’re curled up against him on the couch, your bare legs across his lap, fingers lazily playing with the edge of the soft throw blanket tucked around you both. The movie on screen plays quietly in the background, something French and black-and-white, but you’re not really watching.

Pedro’s hand rests on your ankle, thumb stroking back and forth in absent thought.

“Y’know,” he murmurs after a while, voice husky from wine and closeness, “I read this article once—about how sometimes people stop talking not because they can’t, but because the world’s just too loud to be heard in the way they need.”

You glance at him, your head tilted slightly.

He’s looking down at your legs, but he’s not really seeing them. His gaze is somewhere inward. “I used to think silence meant something was missing. But I don’t feel like that with you. It’s just…” He shrugs. “Different.”

You shift, sit up a little, and he immediately adjusts to make room, pulling you half into his lap like it’s instinct.

Your fingers find his, twist gently, and then you sign, What do you hear when I don’t speak?

He smiles, slow and soft. “Everything.”

——

You’ve never told him why you stopped speaking. You’ve never told anyone.

There are memories you don’t open, not even to yourself. Moments that closed your throat so tightly one day, it just didn’t reopen. You got by. Wrote. Texted. Signed. People moved on, or away. The people who needed a reason left. The ones who stayed didn’t ask.

Only Pedro has been close enough, patient enough, long enough to see the way silence settles over you like a weighted blanket instead of a prison.

And still, sometimes—like tonight—he watches you with that same quiet wonder he always has, like he’s waiting, not expecting, but ready, if the moment ever comes.

——

It’s almost midnight when the movie ends and the city falls quieter outside. You’re both in bed, the lamp casting a gold halo on his face. Pedro’s bare chest rises and falls in slow rhythm, his hand drawing aimless patterns on your hip beneath the sheets.

You’ve kissed him a dozen times tonight. Little ones, drawn-out ones. Your lips against his neck. Your nose against his cheek. But something feels different now.

You’re watching him.

His mouth. His throat. The soft lines at the edge of his eyes that only show when he’s too tired to hide anything.

Your throat tightens—not with fear, but with possibility. Like the edge of a cliff that isn’t made of stone, but something warmer. Something that calls.

You don’t even know why it happens. Maybe it’s the safety. The years. The knowing that if you don’t say it tonight, he’ll still be here tomorrow.

But still. Your lips part.

And your voice—a fragile, tiny thing unused for over a decade—slips out in the softest whisper he’s ever heard.

“Pedro…”

It’s barely air. Barely sound.

But it’s enough.

His whole body stills.

Eyes wide. Disbelieving. His hand freezes where it rests, like he’s afraid moving might undo it. Then, slowly, his eyes meet yours.

“…Baby,” he breathes. “Say that again.”

You swallow, your throat aching like an old wound reopening, but not painfully. More like a scar softening.

His hand lifts to your face, trembling slightly. “Please.”

Your lips tremble, and this time, you breathe it just for him. “Pedro.”

It breaks him.

A choked sound leaves him and he gathers you close, arms crushing you to his chest, face buried in your neck. He’s not crying—not quite—but you feel the way he shakes, like something inside him has come loose.

“I love your voice,” he says into your skin, hoarse, reverent. “You sound like sunlight.”

You don’t know how else to answer, so you whisper it again, barely louder than the breath between you.

“Pedro…”

This time, he kisses you like he’s worshipping something holy. Your voice. Your name on his lips. The moment he’s waited ten years to hear without ever asking for it.

And when he finally pulls back, both your faces damp with quiet tears, he presses his forehead to yours and says,

“You don’t have to ever say another word, cariño. But if you do—I’ll hear all of them.”

You nod, heart thudding so hard you feel dizzy.

And then, just once more, because you can—

You say, “I love you.”

And Pedro Pascal, the man who waited without ever needing, looks at you like the sky opened up just for him.

——

The morning light doesn’t come all at once.

It seeps in, gently. A pale gold that kisses the edge of the curtains and paints soft lines across Pedro’s back where he sleeps beside you, his arm still wrapped around your waist like he’s afraid you might float away if he lets go.

You haven’t moved for a long time. You’ve been awake for longer. Awake and still, heart thudding quietly against his chest, head tucked beneath his chin like the world hasn’t shifted completely.

But it has.

Because you said his name.

And he heard it.

The memory of it makes your throat ache again, not like pain but pressure—something warm and full, as if your voice has been sleeping just beneath your skin all these years, waiting for the right moment to bloom.

Your fingers move first. You trace the space between his ribs with the tip of your finger, feel his breath catch in his sleep, then settle again.

You smile, though you’re not sure what to do with it. It’s been a long time since a word has come out of your mouth, and though last night was real—he was real—you don’t know if you’ll ever be able to do it again. It felt like flying and falling at the same time. Like standing barefoot on the edge of a bridge with your arms open.

And maybe that’s enough.

You shift slightly, trying to sit up without waking him. But the moment your weight changes, Pedro stirs. He tightens his hold, snuffling into your collarbone, muttering something half-dreamed.

“…Mmh, no—don’t go,” he mumbles, voice deep and raw. “You’re here…”

You stay. Because of course you do.

His eyes flutter open slowly, lashes sticky from sleep, and when he sees your face, he goes still. Something moves in his expression—a softness, awe, something more than memory.

“Hi,” he says, voice still hoarse.

You smile and lift your hand to his cheek, brushing a thumb over the scruff there.

He watches you like he did last night—like he’s not sure if he dreamed it.

You lean in, kiss the corner of his mouth, then press your forehead to his and stay like that for a long breath.

“Say something,” he whispers, barely audible.

You huff a quiet laugh. Not mocking. Just… shy.

So you reach for the little notepad by the bedside table instead, flipping past scribbles and quiet thoughts until you find a blank page.

You’re really greedy, you know that? you write, underlining it once.

Pedro groans dramatically, burying his face in the pillow. “¡Dios mío! She's back and already talking shit.”

You nudge him with your elbow, grinning, then turn the page and write something slower.

I don’t know if I can do it again. Not always.

He lifts his head.

“Hey. Look at me.”

You do.

His eyes are still heavy with sleep, but there’s nothing sleepy in the way he’s looking at you now. “You never have to explain that to me. Not once. Last night was… It was a gift, baby. A miracle. But you don’t owe it to me. You don’t owe anything.”

You nod, then scribble again.

I wanted to.

Pedro’s lips part. He swallows, staring at the words like they’re holy scripture.

You add something smaller beneath it: I wanted you to hear me. Just once.

His throat bobs, and he moves closer again, cupping your face in both hands like you might dissolve if he isn’t careful.

“I’ve heard you every day,” he says, forehead pressed to yours. “Every fucking day for ten years. In your notes, your hands, your eyes. That wasn’t the first time I heard you, mi amor. It was just the first time you let the world in on our secret.”

That makes your eyes sting.

You kiss him again. Slower this time. Grateful. Deep.

And when he pulls back, breathless, he asks the question like a tease, but it’s laced with awe:

“Do you know how beautiful your voice is?”

You cover your face with your hands.

Pedro laughs, pulling them gently away and pressing a kiss to each knuckle. “Fine, fine. I’ll stop. I’m just…” He sighs. “God, I’m still overwhelmed.”

You scribble again: You cried last night.

He scoffs. “Okay, you’re gonna bring that up?”

You underline it. Twice.

“I wasn’t crying. I was—sweating. From my eyes.”

Soft.

“Yeah,” he admits. “For you? Always.”

—

Later, he makes you coffee.

You’re wrapped in his shirt, legs curled under you on the kitchen stool while he putters around barefoot in grey sweatpants, hair still wild from sleep. He hums under his breath as he moves, one of those offbeat, old Chilean folk tunes he never remembers the name of, but always finds his way back to.

“Did you sleep at all?” he asks, glancing back at you.

You shake your head, sipping from your mug.

He raises a brow. “Why not?”

You don’t write it. You just tap your chest once, then point at him.

Because of him.

Because your heart won’t calm down. Because you said his name out loud and he held it like a fragile thing in his hands.

Pedro’s face goes soft again.

He crosses the room and kisses your forehead, your nose, your mouth. One, two, three.

“I love you,” he says into your hair.

And though your voice stays quiet this morning, your fingers say it back.

I love you.

—

When his phone buzzes later that morning—his sister, asking if he’s coming to brunch—you hear him pause in the hallway.

“Yeah, I’ll come. But I’m bringing someone,” he says, then glances at you, still curled up on the couch, your eyes sleepy but full. “Yeah. Her. She’s still here. She’s always here.”

You smirk.

He adds, quietly: “She said my name last night.”

There’s a pause on the other end, something muffled and surprised. You can hear it in his sister’s voice even from across the room.

Pedro’s eyes are still on you, wide and disbelieving.

“Yeah. For the first time in ten years,” he murmurs. “She said Pedro.”

And then, because he’s Pedro, he grins.

“She has the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard.”

——

It’s raining tonight.

The kind of rain that hushes the world—soft, persistent, steady. A rhythm that’s not loud enough to be thunderous, but constant enough to soak through your bones. It paints the windows with slow rivers and makes the city lights blur outside, as if the whole world has melted just a little.

Pedro lights candles, not because the power’s out—just because he wants to. He moves around the apartment with a lazy, practiced ease, barefoot in old jeans and a navy sweater that hangs off his frame like it belongs to you now.

It kind of does.

You’re on the couch, curled beneath a blanket he draped over your shoulders earlier. He set your tea down on the table with that small, habitual kind of care he’s always had with you—like every little thing he does is a love letter he doesn't know how to write out loud.

He always has been better at showing you than telling you.

And lately, you’ve begun to wonder if maybe… maybe you’re the same.

The notepad rests beside you. Your phone’s nearby too, but you haven’t touched either in a while. The silence between you isn’t uncomfortable—it never is. But tonight, there’s something else in the air. Something thick and warm, like the moment before lightning strikes. Not danger—just charge.

Pedro settles beside you, one arm draped over the back of the couch. He’s watching the rain more than he’s watching you, but his hand finds yours without even looking.

You shift closer until your head rests on his chest. You can hear the slow, steady beat of his heart through the cotton of his sweater.

It calms you.

“Want me to read?” he asks after a while, voice quiet, breaking just enough to match the hush of the room. “We never finished that book you picked.”

You don’t answer right away.

Instead, you slide your fingers under the hem of his sweater, just enough to feel the warmth of his skin. He exhales softly, almost like he’s not sure he should move. You feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek.

Your lips are right over his heartbeat.

You say his name again.

Soft. Fragile. A whisper like the rain.

“Pedro…”

He freezes.

You feel the way his entire body goes still, like time itself just paused. Then, slowly, his arms tighten around you—careful, reverent, like you’re something holy.

He doesn’t ask for more. He doesn’t even speak right away.

He just breathes, and you feel the way it shakes.

You pull back just far enough to look up at him. His eyes are wet, but he’s smiling.

“God, you have no idea what that does to me,” he says.

You do. You know.

That’s why you say it again.

“Pedro.”

Your voice is barely more than air, a delicate exhale wrapped in syllables, but it’s yours. You gave it to him again. Chose to.

His hands cradle your face like it’s the most precious thing he’s ever held.

“You don’t have to,” he whispers, leaning in, pressing his forehead to yours. “You never have to speak. I know you. I’ve always known you. But hearing it…”

You nod, lashes brushing his skin.

You mouth the words against his lips before saying them again, even quieter.

“Love you.”

This time, he breaks.

Not in a dramatic way. Not sobbing or falling apart. Just a single sound in the back of his throat as he closes the last inches between you and kisses you like he’ll never get another chance.

Like the words coming out of your mouth are magic.

Like you are.

The kiss is deep, slow, and heavy with meaning. No rush. No fire. Just warmth, curling between your ribs like smoke.

When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t open his eyes. He just rests his forehead against yours again and whispers, “Say it one more time?”

You almost laugh, but it sticks in your throat.

So you give it to him again. A breathless whisper.

“Pedro.”

He exhales, eyes finally opening, and in them you see it all—love, grief, gratitude, awe.

“You don’t know how long I’ve waited,” he says. “Not just for your voice. For this. For you to feel safe enough to let it out.”

You nod.

You do feel safe. Not because the world stopped being terrifying. Not because your past vanished or the silence became any easier to explain.

But because he never asked you to be anything other than what you are.

And somehow, that gave you room to change.

Pedro leans back against the couch, tugging you gently until you’re tucked beneath his arm again. His fingers stroke lazy circles against your arm under the blanket.

You whisper once more, just to feel it on your tongue. His name.

And for the first time in a decade, the silence doesn’t feel like a shield anymore.

It feels like home.

——

The cabin isn’t much.

Just two rooms and a kitchen with crooked cabinets, nestled deep in the pine-covered hills above Ojai. The floor creaks, the water takes forever to heat up, and the bed is old enough that it sings under every shift of weight.

But it’s quiet.

And it’s just the two of you.

Pedro hadn’t even asked, really. One night, weeks after you first said his name—curled together on the couch, wrapped in flickering candlelight and unspoken things—he’d just pressed a kiss to your shoulder and said, “What if we got away? Just us. Somewhere quiet.”

You’d nodded before he could even finish.

And now here you are. Miles away from the city, surrounded by nothing but birdsong and breeze.

It’s late afternoon and the windows are open, letting the golden light spill across the hardwood floors. You’re sitting on the porch with your knees tucked up to your chest, wearing one of Pedro’s flannels that smells like cedar and home. He’s barefoot in the grass, tossing small sticks into the fire pit he’s been determined to use since you arrived.

He keeps glancing back at you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

You smile—just a little—and his shoulders relax.

You don’t need to write anything down. He already knows what you’re saying.

That’s always been true. But somehow, here—under a sky that stretches wide and soft above you—you believe it too.

And it’s not just his understanding. It’s the quiet around you. The way the world has slowed down enough for your breath to catch up to it. The way the silence doesn’t feel like pressure anymore. It feels like permission.

You haven’t said anything since the night you whispered love you into the space between his lips.

Not because you didn’t want to—but because the words live deeper in you than that. Like roots under the earth, slowly reaching upward, waiting for the right light.

Now… now they’re stirring.

When Pedro finally gives up on the fire and comes back to the porch, you shift your legs to let him sit behind you. He wraps himself around your back like he’s always meant to be there, his chin resting on your shoulder, his hands over your knees.

“I think the birds are mocking me,” he murmurs into your skin. “Even they know how to build a better fire.”

You exhale—a tiny, silent laugh.

Then you tilt your head.

And whisper, “It’ll catch.”

You feel him freeze.

It’s not the same stillness as the first time he heard you. It’s gentler now. Not shock. Just awe.

His arms tighten slowly around you.

“Say that again?” he asks, voice low, so low.

You shift so you’re facing him. Knees bumping his. Eyes on his. The air smells like sun-warmed pine and woodsmoke, and for once, you don’t hesitate.

“It’ll catch,” you whisper again. “Give it time.”

Pedro’s eyes fill, the way they always do when you speak—but this time, he doesn’t cry. He just watches you like the sky cracked open and poured gold straight into his lap.

He touches your cheek. Just once. Then he leans in and kisses you slow, like the moment deserves to last.

“You feel different here,” he murmurs when he pulls back. “Lighter.”

You nod.

So do you.

That night, the fire does catch.

And you sit wrapped in a blanket, legs over his lap, as the sparks float upward into the dark.

You don’t say much.

Just a word here and there.

“More wood,” when the flames dip low. “Hot,” when the cocoa he made is too full and spills against your fingers. “Close,” when he shifts just slightly too far away and you want him near again.

And he never asks for more than you give.

He just smiles every time your voice brushes the air.

As if hearing you is a kind of miracle.

Maybe it is.

The next morning, you wake before him. The sun hasn’t crested the trees yet, but light is already curling through the window like soft fingers.

Pedro is curled around you, face buried in your hair.

You don’t want to wake him.

So you press a kiss to his chest, just over his heart.

And you whisper, “I love you.”

He stirs, but doesn’t open his eyes.

“Mmm,” he hums. “Say that again.”

You do.

Twice.

He smiles without even opening his eyes.

“Keep saying it,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep and wonder. “Every day. Forever. Just like that.”

You rest your cheek against his chest again.

And for once, you think—maybe you will.

[jenniquinn]

harry castillo and wife!reader where they’re both successful and rich and hot! 🔥

Only ours

Pairing: Harry Castillo x wife!reader Summary: The world sees power and perfection—but behind closed doors, it’s just you and him. Raw, private, and everything you crave. Warnings: established relationship, explicit smut (+18), voyeurism, oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, p in v sex, alcohol cunsuming, soft intimacy, aftercare, family talk

The elevator doors opened with a low chime, and silence followed. The kind of silence you could only afford when you lived thirty-seven stories above the world. The lights of the city spilled in through the wall of windows, casting gold and deep navy across polished obsidian floors and modern, sculptural furniture — every inch designed, every corner intentional.

You didn’t turn when you heard his steps.

Your back was to him, silk robe just barely tied at the waist, the fabric clinging to the curve of your hips, your spine lit faintly by the glow of the skyline. You took a slow sip of your wine, red and full-bodied, tongue tracing the rim of the crystal glass before you turned your head slightly over your shoulder.

Harry Castillo. Fresh off a flight from Berlin, still in a slate grey suit that looked like it had been tailored to fit the exact shift of his breath. His tie hung loose around his neck, shirt unbuttoned just enough to see the smooth olive skin at the base of his throat.

His eyes dropped — from the sharp fall of your shoulder, to the way your silk robe dipped and clung, to your bare feet on cool marble. The corners of his mouth curled, but slow, dark.

“You’re trying to kill me,” he said, voice thick from travel and tension, a little hoarse. His bag slid from his shoulder to the floor with a quiet thud. “That’s what this is.”

“I just missed you,” you said innocently, though there was nothing innocent about the way you faced the window and let your robe fall open just slightly — a flash of your bare thigh, the suggestion of nothing beneath.

He let out a sound, low and fond. “You’re worse than a boardroom full of sharks. At least they don’t pretend to be gentle.”

You turned toward him then, stepping into the room with deliberate ease, glass still in hand. “I’m always gentle with you,” you murmured. “Unless you ask me not to be.”

Harry swallowed hard — you saw his throat move, the way he stood absolutely still. That was your power. You could command a man used to commanding empires.

He stepped forward slowly, methodically, until he stood directly in front of you, his hands finding your waist like he’d needed the contact all day. “How long do I have before you break my brain?”

“About ten seconds.”

You kissed him — not a greeting, not a welcome home. It was heat, slow and deep. You opened your mouth to him, sucked on his bottom lip just to hear him groan. His hands slid under the silk at your waist, gripping your hips as he pushed you gently toward the edge of the black velvet chaise behind you.

He kissed you again — filthier this time, his teeth dragging along your jaw. “I haven’t touched you in ten days.”

You slid a hand between you, cupping him over his trousers. He was already hard — not surprising. Harry never did have much patience when it came to you.

“Fix that,” you whispered.

He did.

He kissed down your throat, slowly untying your robe, his hands reverent as the silk slid from your shoulders to the floor like water. He let his gaze trail over your body — the soft lines of your breasts, your bare stomach, the way your thighs parted slightly as you sank into the chaise.

“Jesus,” he muttered, kneeling in front of you, voice thick with hunger and disbelief. “I could build a kingdom between your legs.”

You smiled lazily, eyes hooded. “You already did.”

His mouth was on you before you could tease him again — hot, open-mouthed kisses against your inner thigh, then higher, higher still. His tongue was slow at first, one long stroke from your entrance to your clit, then back again. You inhaled sharply, your fingers threading into his dark hair, anchoring yourself as he buried his face between your legs like a man starved.

He groaned when you gasped, when your hips bucked against him. He loved this. The control. The surrender. The intimacy of it.

“Harry,” you breathed, your voice unsteady. “Don’t stop—”

He didn’t. He moaned against you, tongue flicking, dragging in slow, devastating circles around your clit while two fingers slid inside you — careful, deep, curling just right. You clenched around him, your legs trembling, the orgasm building fast, hot, needy.

“I’ve got you, baby,” he whispered, voice slick with lust, “Give it to me. Come on.”

You shattered — sharp and sudden, your back arching off the chaise as you came around his fingers, his mouth, your thighs trembling as he didn’t let up. He worked you through it, one hand on your stomach to hold you down gently, mouth still moving until you whined and tugged on his hair.

When he finally pulled back, lips wet, eyes wild — he looked undone. Like he’d just consumed something holy.

“Get up here,” you murmured, tugging at his tie. “I want all of you.”

He didn’t hesitate. He stripped like a man in a trance — jacket, shirt, pants, all tossed with less grace than usual. When he stood in front of you again, fully naked and hard, he looked like sin incarnate.

You dragged your nails down his chest, then kissed him — slow and filthy, tasting yourself on his tongue, moaning into his mouth.

Then you turned, facing the window again, your palms braced on the cold glass. “Fuck me here,” you whispered. “Let the city watch.”

He growled, hands sliding over your hips. “You want them to see who you belong to?”

“No,” you said, glancing back at him with a dangerous smile. “I want you to remember it.”

He didn’t need more encouragement. He slid inside you with one long thrust, both of you groaning — the stretch, the slide, the full-body contact of his chest pressing against your back as he bottomed out.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You’re so wet for me.”

You pressed your ass back against him. “Harder.”

He obeyed.

He set a brutal, perfect rhythm — hips slapping into yours, one hand gripping your breast, the other on your throat, holding you steady as he fucked you against the glass. The cold of it shocked your skin, made the heat of him even more overwhelming.

Your second orgasm hit hard — all breath and broken sounds and fingernails scraping against the window.

He came moments later, with your name groaned into your neck, hips stuttering, one arm wrapped around you like he needed to keep you tethered to him.

Afterward, he didn’t let go.

Not for a long time.

——

The steam curled through the marble bathroom like a whisper.

You leaned your head back against the edge of the oversized soaking tub, eyes half-closed, body still humming in the aftermath. Your skin was flushed, stretched over languid muscles, your legs floating lazily beneath the surface. Warm water, foamed with soft white bubbles and scented with neroli and amber, lapped against your collarbone.

Harry stepped in behind you, his movements slower now, no longer frantic with desire but weighted with something quieter — indulgence. Love, if he’d let himself say it so freely. Possession, if you asked him on the right night.

His knees bracketed your hips, arms wrapping around your waist as he sank into the hot water, pulling you back against his chest. The heat soaked into both of you, melting the ache from your muscles, easing the tension still coiled in his shoulders from travel, meetings, and the carefully curated war zone of global business.

He pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “You always do that to me,” he murmured.

You tilted your head toward him with a lazy smile. “Fuck with you in front of a window?”

“Ruin me completely,” he said, voice deep, rasped by wine and want. “Make me forget what I was mad about. Make me forget I was tired.”

Your hand came up to trace his jaw, thumb brushing the faintest stubble along his cheek. “You were mad?”

“Boardroom shit. Nothing important anymore.”

You smiled wider, then reached for your wine glass resting on the tray beside the tub. He took it from you before you could sip, bringing it to your lips himself, slow and teasing.

He watched you drink — the way your lips wrapped around the glass, the delicate swallow of your throat. When you finished, he leaned forward and kissed the wine from your mouth, slower this time, savoring.

“Tomorrow’s clear,” he murmured against your lips. “I canceled Madrid.”

Your brows lifted. “You never cancel Madrid.”

“I do when I haven’t seen my wife naked in ten days.”

You hummed, pleased, and let your head rest against his shoulder. “You really couldn’t go without me, huh?”

“I didn’t want to sleep in another cold hotel bed and pretend I didn’t care you weren’t next to me.”

That made you pause.

It wasn’t like Harry to admit things like that — not without the armor of a joke, or the distraction of sex, or the cut-glass confidence he wore in public. But here, now, with steam thick in the air and your skin still damp from his mouth, he let it slip.

You twisted slightly in his arms, just enough to see his face.

“Was it really that bad?” you asked softly.

He nodded, eyes unreadable but honest. “The bed was too big. The pillows smelled like paper. There was no soap in the shower that smelled like you.”

You cupped his face, thumbs brushing the edges of his hairline, and kissed him slow — not teasing, not hungry, but something that reached lower in the chest.

“I missed you, too.”

The words didn’t need to be dressed up. They just were.

You settled against him again, and for a while, you both stayed quiet — the soft sounds of water, the faint crackle of a fire in the bedroom beyond, the low hum of the city through soundproof glass. One of your feet slid up along his shin, absently stroking, just to feel him close. His hand caressed your stomach in slow, idle circles.

Then, from nowhere: “Do you ever think about kids?”

Your breath caught — not in shock, but in the sudden shift of tone.

You glanced back at him. “Now?”

“Not now,” he said softly. “Just… eventually. Someday. A future version of us where there’s more noise in the house. Little footsteps. A toy left on the stairs. Something messy. Human.”

It wasn’t like him to be unsure. But there was something different in his voice now. Like the idea scared him, but not as much as it mattered to him.

You reached down and laced your fingers with his beneath the water.

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “I think about it.”

He exhaled, slow, relieved. “Would you want that? With me?”

You looked over your shoulder again, heart warm and aching at once. “There’s no one else I’d even consider it with, Harry.”

He leaned in and kissed your temple, his voice lower now, rough with emotion.

“I want everything with you.”

You closed your eyes.

That was the thing about him — about you two. Power meant nothing if you couldn’t share it. Money meant nothing if the bed stayed cold. Beauty faded, but love like this — molten, sharpened by respect, craving, understanding — it didn’t go anywhere. It got deeper. It got better.

You turned in the water, straddling him now, the bubbles between you slowly slipping away. His hands cradled your hips. Your wet skin slid against his, soft and slow.

“I love you,” you whispered.

He tilted his head, brown eyes dark and open. “You have me. All of me.”

And he meant it.

Even here — in the quiet — Harry Castillo knew how to surrender.

[jenniquinn]

First Time

a/n: It's been a while since I have used Tumblr and this work originally was going to be smut and it turned into a way to plot a long fic if I wanted too.

Warnings: Plot, Fluff, Smut with heavy feelings, P in V, Unprotected... I'm pretty sure there are more so tread carefully. Use of Y/N because apparently writers don't do that anymore?

Parining: Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

It was the first time in.. God, he couldn’t remember. It has been over 20 years and time was getting more difficult to tell, yet Joel only continued to get older. Currently, he had his head buried in the shoulder of the woman who laid beneath him. Jackson had become home a few months back after the tedious trip from Boston to Wyoming, Ellie was dating a girl named Dina, and Joel had found a woman of his own. She began traveling with him and Ellie after they arrived at Bill’s only to find nothing left. She made it to Jackson with them after a couple of close encounters and multiple injuries. She was teaching Ellie the things she needed to know when Joel was shot. They always made it back to him in one piece.

Yet, when push came to shove out on the open road. Joel always shoved. There were moments when (Y/N) would go ahead with Ellie and speak to her about things or help her with her aim after Joel showed off to them both. “Cheater” they both claimed. It was hard not to see them as a makeshift family especially when, despite how much he attempted to deny the claims, Joel was staring at her when she thought she wasn’t looking and (Y/N) did the exact same back and the two of them remained friends despite Ellie’s best efforts. Her best efforts were teasing the two adults “Joel, were you staring at her or were those Clickers?” she once asked bluntly, “It's obvious you two like each other.. There’s a building over there, go work it out.” and when those didn’t work she resorted to truth or dare games. Ellie took an interest in how oblivious the both of them seemed and constantly facepalmed in second hand embarrassment.

Arriving at Jackson changed everything. Joel was safe, Ellie was safe, and most importantly (Y/N) was safe, despite the occasional disagreements and arguments they were enough of a family as Tommy and Maria. It was only a few weeks ago that Joel’s barriers were finally broken by (Y/N), he finally let them down. Joel had a nightmare and when asked he couldn’t remember what it was about but he knew his brain enjoyed testing him, making him relive some of the lowest points of his life since the outbreak. Joel woke up panting and desperately needing something to ground him. Originally, he planned on using alcohol and drugs to numb the pain but the way (Y/N) woke up to the near nonexistent sound of Joel Miller sneaking was something that caught him by surprise. Instead of alcohol that night, he took comfort in her, albeit reluctantly and eventually unintentionally.

Now? He had his head buried in the crevice of (Y/N)’s shoulder and neck. His lips moving of their own accord as he mumbled swears between praises and soft noises while gently rocking his hips. His eyes were screwed shut as he was slightly overwhelmed by the sensations. He had lost count of just how many sensations he felt as holding on to his train of thought caused him to disconnect from the moment and disconnection meant missing every tiny noise (Y/N) made. Sex was a far from new concept to Joel but sex with someone he loved with every goddamn fiber of his being, someone who was safe enough to not have to constantly worry about if an infected or a FEDRA agent would kill them. For the first time in a long time he felt safe. He wasn’t living in chaos thanks to Jackson and Tommy for taking the three of them in. He could focus on fixing guitars, carving little sculptures out of wood, or the woman he would one day make his wife and his adopted daughter. 

“God, Joel.” The hand in his hair tightened slightly and in turn he let out a groan as his teeth grazed her shoulder gently taking the skin between his teeth and giving it back just as easily. His pace picked up slightly at the sound of his name in such an intimate way as he kissed the area of skin. 

“I love you.” He mumbled against her skin. The words were honest and from the heart despite the circumstances. (Y/N) processed for a moment. The three words she knew he felt but was unsure he was ever going to utter came out so simply. 

“I love you too, Joel. I have for a while now.” That’s all he needed. The simple reassurance that she felt the same, that she thought the same. He pulled back not too long after looking down at her before pressing a soft kiss to the side of her jaw and then her lips. 

“Don’t you need to finish?” She asked looking between them at just how taut he was. He looked up at her and chuckled through his nose softly. 

“I did.” He assured her before getting off the couch and walking to their shared bedroom for a cloth then headed to the kitchen to wet the cloth and wipe her off. He placed a gentle kiss to the inside of her thigh and pulled her on top of him to cuddle, quickly bringing the blanket down with her.

“I love you.” He spoke quietly, pressing a soft kiss to her head. His southern drawl was more obvious than usual. 

“I love you too, Joel.” She spoke before closing her eyes as she listened to Joel’s raised yet steady and calm heartbeat. He was her safe place and more importantly, she was Joel’s.

[jenniquinn]

lockscreen. - pedro pascal.

requested! thank you. ♡ content: Pedro Pascal x reader, soft domestic reveal, internet discovering his lockscreen, fluff overload, public/private love, soft Pedro worshiping his girl energy.

---

You didn’t even know.

Which was wild, considering you lived with the man, kissed him daily, and had seen his phone a million times.

But somehow, Pedro had managed to keep his lock screen a secret from you. Until the internet found it first.

It happened during a blurry paparazzi video at LAX — him pulling out his phone at security, trying to scan his boarding pass. It was fast. One second, tops. But the girlies online were faster.

Within the hour, Twitter had exploded.

“wait. is that HIS GIRL on the lock screen???”

“stopppp pedro pascal having his gf as his wallpaper???”

“the way he’s obsessed with her like we are.”

“look at the way he smiles when he opens his phone. i’m gonna cry.”

“no bc imagine being someone’s safe space like that.”

You opened your phone that morning to eight missed texts, two missed calls from Lux, and a trending tag: #PedroPascalLockscreen

You scrolled, heart thumping — until you found it.

It was you.

Candid. Laughing. Wind in your hair, sunglasses pushed up, wearing his sweater. You’d forgotten that day completely, but apparently he hadn’t.

You were his background.

Pedro Pascal, international sweetheart, had you on his screen like a teenage boy in love.

You stared at the post, blinking hard, then heard his footsteps behind you.

“Morning, baby,” he mumbled, sleep-heavy and scratchy. “What’s got you up so early?”

You turned around slowly, phone raised. “You have me as your lockscreen?”

He paused. Froze.

“…Oh.”

“Oh?”

“I was gonna tell you, I just—kept it for me. That picture’s my favorite. You look happy.”

Your heart melted.

“You’re literally trending for being in love with me,” you whispered, stepping closer. “You realize that, right?”

He grinned sleepily, tugging you into his chest. “Good. Let them know.”

You giggled, face buried in his hoodie. “You’re such a simp.”

“Guilty,” he said, kissing the top of your head. “You’re my favorite view.”

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

---

taglist: @sarahhxx03 @lloydmustache @lolareadsimagines @greenwitchfromthewoods @silksepia @pascalswiftie @itstokyo-cos @mani-pedro @llsister @authorbriannarae13 @introvrtedjellyfish @aj0elap0l0gist @spencercmlover @cixrosie @cherrqbaby @cup-half-full-of-anxiety @kellyxo1 @freakbobcult @sunlightpleasure @barnes70stark @mooniscrying @ohnaurshayla @croissantbakerylws @nellispunk @kasienka @taylorswiftsrep-blog @emerencedaily @byzyz @noovaarq @kristend512

[jenniquinn]

memorial day

Content: Dbf!Joel x Reader

Synop: What was supposed to be a quiet Memorial Day at the lake turns into something far more complicated when long-held tension finally snaps. In the stillness of the woods, boundaries blur and secrets take root—ones that can’t be easily forgotten once the sun rises.

Warnings: No!Outbreak Joel, No use of y/n, degradtion kink, pet names (babygirl, little girl, sweer heart), Mean joel (kinda, calls reader a slut), Joel tries make you feel guilty kink?, Creampie, No protectipn pnv, fingering, honestly just kind of disgusting in a sexy way? Public (kinda but no one’s around), in front of your daddy but he’s sleeping (so sorry for this)

Word Count: 10k

(dividers by: @strangergraphics)

Memorial Day in Texas feels less like a holiday and more like a dare — how long can you stand the heat before it breaks you? The sun comes up early and mean, baking the pavement by 9 a.m., turning leather car seats into griddles and the air into something thick enough to choke on. That’s why you escape to the lake every year, just far enough outside Austin that the water feels cleaner, cooler, like a secret. You pack light: cutoff denim shorts, a thin knit sweater, and the one bikini you know will get noticed — black, high-cut, a little more grown than anyone at the lake last saw you in. Joel shows up in his usual: a faded black tank that hugs his shoulders and clings in all the wrong places once it’s soaked through, swim shorts, and that same damn baseball cap he’s had for years, sweat-stained and stubborn. He looks like summer and trouble, and maybe that’s why you hate the heat a little less when he’s around.

Joel and your dad go way back — not college buddies or some childhood thing, but the kind of friendship that forms in real life, under pressure. They met working construction in their twenties, two guys figuring it out as they went, both with young families, both struggling to make ends meet but still finding a way to laugh at the end of the day. Joel had Sarah, just a baby then. Your dad had you, and your mom — back when life was loud and full, and holidays meant cookouts, not silence.

Every memory you have of childhood, Joel’s somewhere in the background. Fixing the AC in the middle of a heatwave. Bringing over brisket and cheap beer. Holding a sleeping Sarah while your mom made peach cobbler. The two families blurred into one, easy and natural — until your mom got sick. And after she passed, it wasn’t your dad who held things together. It was Joel.

He never made a big show of it. Just… showed up. For you, for your dad. Quiet help — rides to school when your dad forgot, groceries in the fridge, fixed leaky sinks without asking. Never stepped into your mother’s space, but never let either of you fall too far, either. And when your dad was too broken to be fully present, Joel was the one who kept you grounded.

Sarah’s grown now — lives a couple states away, working, in love, building her own life. Joel’s divorced. Has been for years. It wasn’t messy, just one of those things that runs its course. He stayed in Texas. Stayed close. And you? You never really stopped orbiting him, even when you left for school, even when life moved on.

Now you’re older. Old enough to see Joel not just as the man who helped raise you, but as a man. Strong, steady, familiar in a way that feels dangerous now. Your dad still calls him his best friend. Still trusts him more than anyone. And that’s the line you know you’re not supposed to cross.

But sometimes Joel looks at you like he’s not sure if you already have.

Memorial Day at the lake was tradition — not something anyone ever questioned, just something that happened, like clockwork. Every year, the same plan: your dad would pack the truck with coolers full of beer and whatever meat he felt like over-seasoning, Joel would bring the boat and the old rusted grill that somehow still worked, and you'd toss in towels, sunscreen, and the too-small duffel bag that always carried your swimsuit and a second pair of dry clothes you never ended up needing. The three of you had been doing it for as long as you could remember — back when Sarah was still small enough to cling to Joel’s back in the water and you were too shy to take off your shirt in front of anyone. Back when your mom would make cold pasta salad in a giant plastic bowl and yell at your dad for forgetting the ice. Even after she passed, even when Sarah got older and stopped coming, the tradition didn’t break. It shifted. Tightened. Became something quieter and more sacred. Just the three of you — a long weekend of sunburns and smoky air, Joel manning the grill with a beer in hand, your dad blasting classic rock from a busted speaker, and you stretched out on the dock, toes in the water, pretending not to notice the way Joel’s voice dipped when he talked to you. It wasn’t about the holiday. It was about the ritual. About holding on to something that still felt right, even when everything else had changed.

The drive to the lake always felt longer than it was, but maybe that was just the heat — or maybe it was because you were crammed into the backseat of Joel's truck, half-napping against the window, pretending not to listen to the familiar back-and-forth between your dad and him. They talked like they always did — like no time had passed. About work, traffic on I-35, the price of gas, whether the water level at the lake would be high or low this year.

You kept your sunglasses on and didn’t say much, letting their voices hum in the background like static. The sun was already hot, even before noon, and the AC in Joel's truck gave up halfway into the drive. You were sweating through your sweater and silently cursing the denim shorts that now felt painted on. Still, you didn’t regret what you’d packed — especially the black bikini tucked under your clothes. It was a little bold, sure, but after last year’s Memorial Day trip, when Joel didn’t even look twice at you, you’d decided this year you weren’t going to fade into the background. Not again.

The truck finally turned down the familiar gravel road, and the air changed — lighter, full of cedar and lakewater and something nostalgic. The trees parted to reveal the same sagging dock, and that wide, glinting stretch of water that made it all worth it.

You were the first one out of the truck.

Joel didn’t say anything as he grabbed the rope from the bed and headed toward the water. You watched from the edge of the dock as he worked — pulling the cover off the boat, checking the fuel, tying off lines with practiced ease. He hadn’t changed much, at least not in ways that made him any easier to look away from. His tank top was sun-bleached and clinging just enough to show the shape of him — broad shoulders, strong arms, tan skin gone golden under the sun. His hat shaded his face, but you still caught glimpses of his eyes when he glanced up, squinting toward the glare.

He hadn’t even taken his sunglasses off yet, and still you felt like he could see right through you.

There was something hypnotic about watching him work — the steadiness in his hands, the little grunt he made when something stuck, the way he wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his arm, unaware or just unaffected by the fact that you were staring. He’d always had this calm, capable energy that made you feel safe without even trying. But now, older, clearer-eyed, it hit different. It settled low in your stomach. Pulled at you.

Your dad was still fiddling with the cooler in the truck bed, grumbling about forgetting charcoal, oblivious. But Joel? Joel caught your eye for just a second as he stepped onto the boat. He smirked — subtle, knowing.

“Water’s perfect,” he called out. “You bring that swimsuit or just plan on lookin’ hot and sweaty all day?”

You blinked, then laughed, heart kicking.

He turned away before you could answer, already back to work. But that one line sat with you. Because he said it so easy. Like he didn’t even realize what it sounded like.

Or maybe he did.

It didn’t take Joel long to finish up with the boat. He moved with that quiet focus he always had — checking the motor, untangling ropes, kicking open the storage compartments to toss in life vests and the warped foam noodles your dad refused to throw away. Once everything looked good, your dad finally hauled the first cooler down from the truck, grunting like it weighed more than it did, and Joel stepped in without a word to help. The two of them moved in sync, loading up the boat with bags of chips, beer, and the pre-wrapped burgers your dad insisted on grilling even though it was already 90 degrees.

You lingered on the dock, pretending to scroll through your phone, but really just watching. Waiting.

Joel hopped back onto the boat and opened a beer with the edge of the cooler, leaning against the railing like it was second nature. His tank top stuck to his chest now, damp with sweat, and his skin had already started to flush from the sun. He wasn’t looking at you — not directly. But you caught the shift in his stance when you stood up. The way his body stilled. The flick of his eyes under the brim of that damn hat.

Time to make it worth it.

You peeled off your clothes slow — first the sweater, then the shorts — and folded them with deliberate care, placing them neatly at the edge of the dock. The air hit your skin all at once, and the black bikini felt suddenly bolder than it had in your bedroom mirror. High-cut, low-backed, with just enough give to make you feel dangerous.

You didn’t look at him right away. You just walked over to the lounge chair and grabbed your tanning oil from your bag, unscrewing the cap with one hand while the other smoothed your hair back off your shoulders. Then, you started to apply it — slow, intentional, dragging your palms over your arms, then down your legs, gliding over your stomach like you had all the time in the world.

Only then did you glance up.

Joel was mid-sip of his beer, but it had stalled halfway to his mouth. His gaze was locked — not openly, not in a way anyone else would notice — but you saw it. The way his eyes trailed down the curve of your body and then quickly darted back to the boat like he hadn’t just undressed you all over again with one look.

You smiled to yourself.

This swimsuit was a good choice.

He tried to play it off, mumbling something to your dad and rummaging through a bag that definitely didn’t need rummaging. But you caught it again — the second glance, lower this time. And when you lifted one leg to rub oil into your calf, his jaw flexed hard enough to make your chest flutter.

You leaned back on your elbows, soaking up the sun. Letting him look. Letting him want.

For the first time, you weren’t the one being watched like a kid. And Joel? He wasn’t hiding it nearly as well as he thought.

The boat eased away from the dock with a low hum, the water shimmering under the sun like molten glass. Joel was at the front, one hand on the throttle, the other resting on the wheel like he’d been born to drive this thing. He wore those same dark sunglasses, and the breeze whipped his shirt against his chest as the boat picked up speed, slicing through the lake with smooth confidence.

You laid back across one of the cushioned benches, sunglasses on, letting the sun kiss every inch of your oiled skin. Your dad was futzing around with a Bluetooth speaker that kept cutting in and out, alternating between classic rock and static. Occasionally, he’d call out to Joel to steer left or point out a cove they’d used to fish in, but mostly, it was quiet — lazy and warm, the kind of afternoon that felt suspended in time.

Eventually, Joel cut the engine. The boat bobbed gently in the middle of the lake, surrounded by nothing but water, hills, and heat. He stood up and stretched, back arching just enough to make your mouth go a little dry, then kicked off his shoes.

Without a word, he jumped.

The splash was loud, and when he surfaced a few feet from the boat, his hair was pushed back and dripping, face slick with lake water and sun, his grin wide and boyish in a way you hadn’t seen in a long time. The wet tank clung to his chest for a second before he pulled it off and tossed it onto the deck behind him.

You didn’t even try to pretend you weren’t looking.

His shoulders, tanned and cut, gleamed in the light, droplets racing down the planes of his chest. His laugh was low and easy as he treaded water.

“C’mon,” he called out. “Water’s perfect.”

“Don’t pressure her,” your dad said — right before cannonballing in beside him, creating a second wave of water that sloshed against the side of the boat.

You groaned and pushed your sunglasses up. “I’m good right here.”

They both resurfaced, grinning, ganging up like clockwork.

“Aw, come on,” your dad called. “You used to be the first one in!”

“Used to,” you shot back, stretching out further, crossing one oiled leg over the other. “Now I’m grown and civilized.”

Joel smirked, running a hand back through his wet hair. “Grown, huh? That why you’re afraid to get your hair wet now?”

You narrowed your eyes behind your sunglasses. “Not afraid. Just not stupid.”

Joel floated closer, arms lazily pushing through the water. “Yeah, yeah. You’re just scared we’ll splash you.”

“You will splash me.”

“We will,” he agreed, grinning. “That’s half the fun.”

You shook your head and leaned back with a sigh of exaggerated contentment. “I’m on beer duty. Go play.”

Your dad laughed and turned away, swimming toward the back of the boat.

Joel just lingered there, watching you.

“I give up,” he finally said with a dramatic sigh. “Toss me a beer, will ya?”

“Fine.” You sat up, grabbing a cold one from the cooler, condensation already sliding down the side of the can. You shuffled over to the edge of the boat where Joel was floating and leaned over the railing to hand it to him, the sun warming your back.

And that’s when he struck.

His hand shot up, wrapping around your wrist, and before you could even yelp, he tugged — hard.

You gasped, tried to pull back, but the slippery deck offered no grip. The world tilted for a split second — sun, sky, Joel’s smirk — and then you hit the water with a splash that stole the breath right out of you.

Cold and shocking, but somehow still perfect.

You surfaced with a sputter, pushing your wet hair out of your face, eyes wide as Joel laughed loud and unrepentant. He backed away in the water, arms raised like he was innocent.

“Joel!” you shouted, splashing water at him furiously.

He just grinned. “Told you it was perfect.”

Your dad howled with laughter in the distance.

You blinked the water from your lashes, glaring — but it was hard to stay mad when Joel was right there, water dripping from his jaw, that same damn smirk on his face, and your heart beating just a little too fast in your chest.

Maybe falling in wasn’t so bad after all.

After Joel yanked you into the water, it was full-on war.

You splashed him until your arms ached, trying to keep up with how fast he moved in the water. Your dad jumped in to “defend” you, which really just turned into him dunking Joel under like they were ten years old again. The lake echoed with laughter — yours louder than it had been in a long time — and the heat of the afternoon felt less suffocating when you were weightless, drifting in cool water, surrounded by two people who’d known you your whole life.

You forgot about the sunburn slowly forming across your shoulders. Forgot about time.

At some point, Joel disappeared under the surface, only to pop up right behind you and lift you up out of the water in one strong motion, tossing you with a triumphant shout. You hit the water laughing, kicking toward him, yelling his name like a threat, even though you weren’t really mad.

Eventually, the chaos quieted. You all settled into the stillness that always came after the burst of play — muscles heavy, voices softer, the heat stretching out like molasses.

Joel pulled a pool noodle under his arms, head tilted back, eyes closed behind his sunglasses. You found a floatie — one of those half-deflated recliner ones — and climbed on, letting your legs hang over the sides. Your dad drifted between you, occasionally humming along to the music still playing faintly from the boat’s speaker.

The water rocked everyone gently. It was the kind of peace that didn’t need words.

After a while, your dad cleared his throat. “Alright,” he said, paddling toward the boat. “Time to get the grill set up before I pass out from hunger.”

You cracked one eye open.

Joel just grunted a lazy, “Mmm.”

Your dad laughed and climbed back aboard, the boat tilting slightly under his weight. He moved around the deck, opening the cooler again, mumbling about lighter fluid and forgetting to bring the damn tongs.

You stayed where you were — drifting, warm, weightless.

Joel floated a few feet away, arms still hooked over the noodle, chest rising and falling slow. He glanced your way, and for a second, it felt like the sun paused in the sky.

The water between you shimmered. Quiet. Charged.

And your dad was just close enough to feel like a buffer, but far enough not to hear a word.

The water lapped gently around you, lazy and warm now in the late afternoon heat. Your float rocked with each soft ripple, and somewhere behind you, your dad moved around the boat, metal clinking as he got the grill ready. The smell of charcoal drifted faintly on the breeze, mixing with cedar, sunscreen, and the soft churn of lakewater.

Joel was still there — a few feet away, noodle tucked under his arms, sunglasses low on his nose. He hadn’t said anything in a while. Just floated. Watched.

You tried not to look at him. You really did. But the way the sun hit his skin, all bronze and wet, his hair slicked back from the water, neck beading with droplets—it wasn’t easy. He looked like something out of a dream you didn’t even know you had permission to have.

“You’re quiet,” you said finally, your voice soft, breaking the thick silence between you.

Joel’s lips quirked just a little. “So are you.”

You shrugged. “It’s peaceful out here.”

He hummed in agreement, eyes scanning the sky, the tree line, the lazy ripple of the water before finally settling on you again.

“You always liked it out here,” he said. “Even when you were little. You’d float around like you were made of water. Never wanted to get out.”

You smiled at the memory. “That hasn’t changed much.”

Joel let out a quiet chuckle, deep and low in his chest. “No. Guess it hasn’t.”

A beat passed. Then two. The space between your float and his noodle shrank slightly with the movement of the water, just enough to feel noticeable. Intentional.

“You surprised me today,” he said, not quite looking at you. “With that suit.”

You turned your head toward him slowly, heartbeat ticking up.

“Why’s that?”

He finally looked you dead-on, and even through the sunglasses, you could feel the weight of his gaze. He didn’t smile this time. His voice dropped, lower than before.

“Because you’re you're getting older.”

The words hung in the air, heavier than they should’ve been. You swallowed, throat tight.

“Yeah,” you said, barely above a whisper. “I guess I am.”

The water between you stilled.

Joel ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back again, the movement slow — almost nervous. You’d never seen him like that. Not around you. He cleared his throat and looked away, but not before you caught the flicker of something in his expression. Hunger. Conflict. Restraint.

Your float drifted a little closer.

“Joel,” you said, voice soft. “You don’t have to pretend you didn’t look.”

That got his attention. He looked at you again, this time with something raw in his eyes.

“I didn’t mean to—” he started, then stopped. “Well. Maybe I did.”

Your stomach flipped.

Behind you, your dad cursed loudly about the propane tank, and the spell broke. Joel sat up straighter, turned toward the boat, jaw tight again like he’d reeled himself back in.

You let the silence take over again, but it felt different now — full of everything that had just passed between you. Everything that had almost happened.

And maybe still could.

The quiet between you stretched out, heavy but magnetic. Joel hadn’t moved much — just floated close, close enough that the water brushing your leg might’ve been him. You didn’t know for sure until you felt it again — firmer this time, deliberate. A hand, slipping beneath the surface, fingers grazing the curve of your hip where the waterline met your bikini.

Your breath caught in your throat.

He didn’t look at you. Just kept his face turned toward the boat, the sun glinting off the water between you. His fingers moved slowly, barely there — a slow stroke of skin just under the surface, hidden from view. He wasn’t grabbing, wasn’t pushing, just touching. Like he was testing if he could. If you’d let him.

You didn’t stop him.

You didn’t say a word.

Your pulse fluttered in your throat, and the rest of the world faded down to water, skin, and the electricity building in that sliver of space between your float and his.

And then—

“Alright, you two, let’s go,” your dad called, loud and casual, from the boat.

The hand vanished instantly, like it had never been there at all. You jerked upright a little too fast, water splashing against your float. Joel cleared his throat and turned, swimming a couple strokes toward the boat.

Your heart thudded hard, heat crawling up your neck — not from the sun this time.

You glanced at your dad, trying to read his expression, but he didn’t look suspicious. If he’d seen anything, he didn’t let on. He was leaning against the railing, grinning like always, waving you in.

“Got the coals lit. We’re losing daylight,” he called. “Come on before Joel drinks all the beer.”

Joel climbed aboard first, grabbing your hand to help you up like nothing had happened. His grip was firm, steady, but when your eyes met, there was a flash of something there — something unspoken and sharp. He let go a beat too late.

You dried off quickly and pulled your sweater back on, trying to steady your breath while your dad moved around the grill, humming off-key to the music now coming in clear from the speaker. Joel cracked open another beer and stood beside him, the two of them falling back into their usual rhythm — arguing about burger doneness, who forgot to pack the cheese, and whether it was too late to drive into town for firewood. Then Joel drove everyone back to land.

You busied yourself spreading the picnic blanket across the little patch of shaded grass just off the dock once the boat was tied. You laid out the paper plates, napkins, the tub of potato salad your dad insisted on bringing every year even though it always got warm too fast. Your skin was still damp, hair clinging to the back of your neck, but your hands moved automatically. Anything to give you something to do. Anything to keep from glancing at Joel too much.

Dinner was easy. The way it always was — plates balanced on laps, beer bottles sweating in the grass, food that tasted better because it had been earned by sun and laughter and a long day on the water. The three of you sat in a triangle on the blanket, your dad telling a story you’d already heard twice before about the time he and Joel got stranded in the middle of the highway with a flat tire and a cooler full of melted ice.

You laughed. You always did. Joel added the same sarcastic commentary he always did, flicking a bottlecap at your dad’s arm mid-story.

But every now and then, you felt his eyes on you.

Quick glances over his bottle. A flash of tongue licking grease off his thumb. His knee brushing yours and staying just a moment too long before shifting away again.

The food disappeared fast. Your dad leaned back with a satisfied sigh, his plate empty, beer in hand, already talking about grilling breakfast tomorrow. But you weren’t listening to the words.

You were listening to the tension. To the silence pulsing just under the surface — not between all three of you, but between you and Joel.

Something had shifted.

And even if no one said it out loud… it was there now.

Undeniable.

The sun had started to dip behind the lake by the time you were clearing the last of the paper plates, the sky washed in deep orange and fading gold. The lake glimmered in the distance, still and endless now, and the heat had finally loosened its grip, replaced by a breeze that whispered through the trees and lifted strands of your damp hair off your shoulders.

Joel had already gotten a fire going, the crackle of burning wood filling the space where conversation had died down. They had made the drive into town for firewood, and he’d stacked it just right—tight and efficient, like he did everything. He stood nearby now, feeding another log into the flames, face lit up in flickering amber, a cigarette tucked between two fingers and a beer balanced in the other.

Your dad was off to the side, tying the last corner of the old camping hammock he swore by. It hung between two trees just a little ways back from the fire pit, swaying gently in the breeze. He always staked that spot for himself come nighttime—said it was the best seat in the house for stargazing and s’mores.

You tossed the last bag of trash into the bin and wiped your hands on your shorts, making your way back toward the fire just as Joel lowered himself into one of the folding chairs with a groan and a muttered, “My knees weren’t built for this much swimming.”

You grinned and sat in the chair next to him, close enough that your knees brushed his for a moment before you tucked them up under yourself.

Your dad had finally settled in his hammock, beer in one hand, bag of marshmallows resting on his chest. He’d already started humming to himself, eyes barely open, the kind of blissed-out contentment only someone who’d grilled three burgers and floated in the sun for hours could feel.

Joel passed you the cigarette without a word. You took it between your fingers and inhaled, the smoke curling warm in your chest as you exhaled into the fading light. He lit another for himself and leaned back in his chair, his free hand lazily strumming the strings of the battered old acoustic guitar he kept in the truck. He hadn’t played all day, but now, as the sun gave way to dusk, he let the music slip out like muscle memory.

It was low and slow — something old and familiar, something that melted into the firelight like it belonged there.

You sipped your beer and watched him, your legs stretched out toward the warmth of the flames. His fingers moved with casual grace, the melody floating softly into the night. The guitar glowed in the light, the wood darkened from years of playing, his hand resting easily on the neck like it was part of him.

Your dad let out a soft snore, the marshmallows rolling off his chest and into the hammock with a rustle. Neither of you moved to wake him.

You just sat there, under a sky turning dark, with the lake at your back and the fire between you and Joel. The smoke, the heat, the music — it all felt thick and quiet and close.

Joel didn’t say anything, but he looked at you once through the smoke, the firelight catching in his eyes. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a statement.

It was just there.

Whatever this was between you — it was burning too.

The fire had burned down to a slow, steady glow, casting everything in warm gold and flickering shadows. Crickets chirped lazily in the brush, and the trees creaked quietly in the breeze. Your dad was fully asleep now, gently rocking in his hammock with a soft snore escaping every few breaths, a beer bottle still clutched loosely to his chest like a trophy.

You and Joel hadn’t spoken in a while. You didn’t need to.

He kept playing — quieter now, slower — until even that faded into silence. His hand stilled on the strings, and the only sounds left were the crackle of wood and the distant lap of water against the dock.

He set the guitar down beside his chair and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, cigarette burning low between two fingers. For a moment, you just watched the smoke curl up into the night sky, your heart beating slow but loud in your chest.

Then his voice, low and rough, cut through the quiet.

“You ever think about how different everything would’ve been if life had gone the way we planned?”

You turned your head, eyes catching the way the firelight touched his face — carving out every line, every shadow. He looked older here. Softer, in the dark. Like he didn’t have to hold up the weight of everything for once.

“I try not to,” you admitted, tucking your knees closer to your chest. “Doesn’t do much good.”

He nodded slowly, like he already knew what you were going to say.

“I used to think there was only one way to be a good man,” he said after a pause. “And I followed that as best I could. Worked hard. Stayed in my lane. Kept my hands clean.”

You tilted your head, watching him carefully.

“But then life starts rewriting all your rules,” he murmured, flicking ash into the fire. “And suddenly… there’s this person you shouldn’t want. Someone you can’t want.”

The words hung there between you. Unsaid, but completely understood.

Your breath hitched. You didn’t look away from him.

“You didn’t stop yourself earlier,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

“No,” he said, eyes meeting yours now, steady and heavy and raw. “Didn’t want to.”

Neither of you moved. The night was a living thing between you, breathing and buzzing and watching. Your heartbeat was in your throat. In your fingertips. You wondered if he could hear it.

His voice dropped, barely more than a rasp. “You didn’t stop me either.”

“I didn’t want to,” you echoed back, just as quiet.

Joel’s hand shifted slightly, resting on his knee. Close to yours. Not touching, but close. You could feel the heat of him there, even in the night air.

He leaned in, just a little.

“I think about you more than I should,” he said. “Been tryin’ not to. But it’s gettin’ harder.”

The admission landed like a weight in your chest. A tremble ran through your limbs — not fear, not nerves. Just want.

You looked at him — really looked. His face was lit by fire and memory. His eyes weren’t guarded now. They were open. Vulnerable. Honest.

“I think about you too,” you whispered.

Neither of you moved right away.

But the shift had already happened.

And nothing was going to be the same after tonight.

The fire crackled, shifting slightly as a log split open with a soft pop, sending a shower of embers drifting into the dark like fireflies. Joel watched them float up, his hand still near yours, his knee brushing against you when he shifted, like he didn’t even realize he was reaching for closeness—or maybe he did.

You didn’t pull away.

He exhaled slow, like he was choosing his next words with care.

“I notice things about you now,” he said quietly. “Things I didn’t let myself see before.”

You turned toward him, pulse picking up. “Like what?”

His jaw flexed, and for a second he didn’t answer. Then he looked at you — really looked. Like you were something fragile and dangerous all at once.

“The way you look when you think no one’s watching,” he said. “How quiet you get when you’re trying not to say what you’re feeling. The way you walk around like you don’t know how beautiful you are.”

You swallowed hard, throat tight. Your fingers twitched in your lap.

“And it’s wrong,” he added, softer now. “You’re—”

“Don’t say it,” you cut in, your voice just above a whisper. “Don’t pull that card.”

Joel stared at you, something stormy in his eyes. “He’s my best friend.”

“And I’m not a child,” you said firmly, but not harshly. “You know I’m not.”

He didn’t argue.

The silence that followed was louder than the fire.

You leaned back slightly, heart thudding, the space between you sparking like it had its own pulse.

“I used to think you didn’t see me at all,” you admitted. “Like I was invisible to you.”

Joel turned his head slowly, regret written clear in the lines around his mouth.

“I saw you,” he said. “I saw everything. That was the problem.”

Your breath caught. You felt it, then — how much he meant it. How long he’d been holding this in. The restraint hadn’t just been recent. It had roots.

“I used to convince myself it was just a crush,” you said. “That it would go away. But it didn’t. It got worse.”

Joel’s lips parted like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t. He just looked at you—like he was trying to memorize you. Like maybe if he held your gaze long enough, he’d find the strength to walk away… or the excuse not to.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he said finally, voice rough. “Don’t want to be a mistake you regret.”

You reached for his hand then, slowly, your fingertips brushing his knuckles.

“Then don’t be,” you said softly. “But don’t pretend this isn’t real either.”

Joel didn’t move at first. Just stared at your hand against his like it might burn him.

Then—finally—his fingers turned, lacing with yours.

The touch was simple. No rush.

But it meant everything.

The line had been crossed, not with a kiss, but with the truth.

And there was no going back now.

Joel’s hand stayed wrapped around yours, warm and steady, the callouses on his fingers rough against your skin in a way that made your chest ache.

He looked down at your joined hands like he didn’t quite believe it was real. Like part of him still expected you to pull away.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you gave his hand the faintest squeeze.

That was all it took.

He stood without a word, still holding your hand, and gave a subtle nod toward the tree line just past the fire. You understood him without needing to ask. Not here. Not with your dad half-snoring in the hammock just ten feet away.

You rose and followed him, the fire casting long shadows behind you as you stepped off the blanket, your bare feet brushing over dry grass and soft pine needles. Joel led you just far enough away that the firelight flickered at your backs, barely kissing the edge of your shoulders now — just far enough for the dark to feel like privacy.

The air was cooler in the trees. Quieter.

He stopped near the base of a tall cedar, the branches low and swaying gently above. He dropped your hand slowly, like it hurt to let it go, but didn’t step away.

You were standing close now. Closer than you’d dared all day.

The silence between you was no longer awkward or tentative — it was expectant.

Joel looked at you for a long moment, something stormy and unreadable behind his eyes.

“You’re sure?” he asked, voice rough, low.

“I’ve never been more sure,” you whispered.

That was it.

Whatever thread had been holding him back finally snapped.

He stepped forward and reached up, his fingers brushing your jaw, then settling along the curve of your neck. His hand was warm, steady. Your breath hitched as his thumb dragged slowly beneath your ear, the gentleness of the touch at complete odds with the fire in his eyes.

He leaned in.

Not fast. Not greedy.

Like he was memorizing every second before it finally happened.

And then, with a low breath that barely touched your skin—

His lips met yours.

It was careful at first. Tentative. A test.

But the moment you exhaled against him — the moment your mouth parted and your hands found his chest — Joel deepened the kiss with a quiet, broken sound in his throat, like he’d been holding it in for years.

His hand slid down, resting at your waist, the other cupping the side of your face. The pressure of his mouth grew more certain, more hungry, and your body tilted into his instinctively, drawn to his warmth like gravity.

The kiss wasn’t rushed, but it was full — of everything you hadn’t said, everything you hadn’t dared to let yourself want until now.

And as the fire crackled behind you and the stars blinked into the dark sky above, Joel kissed you like he’d wanted to for a long, long time.

And now that he finally had you, he wasn’t letting go.

The kiss deepened, his lip biting your bottom one for an invitation inside. You parted your mouth wider, allowing his tongue to slip through, tasting every inch of your hot, wet mouth. Meeting his tongue with yours in a war of dominance that he, of course, won.

His hands trailed down from your waist to the front of your shorts, unbuttoning the silver stud that glowed in the fading firelight. The zipper was loud in the quiet of the night, and you instinctively turned your head around the trees to look back at your dad — make sure he was still sound asleep.

"Don’t worry about him, babygirl," Joel said, his voice low and rough as his hand came up and gripped your cheek with just enough force to make you gasp. He turned your face back to his, eyes dark. "He’s too deep in the beer to know what year it is.”

His hands continued fumbling with your shorts, dragging them down your thighs and revealing the black swimsuit underneath — still damp from the earlier swim. His hands grab at the revealing skin of your ass, pulling you closer until your rubbing against the hard outline of him.

You drop your mouth in a moan — feeling how big he is just underneath the polyester material of his shorts. His hands slip under your bottoms now, giving him full access to the plump skin. He harshly grabs and pulls at your ass, grinding you against himself — sucking in sharp breaths everytime you meet his already wet tip soaking through his shorts.

His hands, now feeling like fire against your skin, trail up your stomach, tracing the thread of shadow on your skin. He pulls your shirt off, exposing just how tiny your bikini really is.

“You did this for me, didn’t you?” He smirks, letting a small laugh escape.

You try to shake your head no, but he can see right through it.

“No, you did. Can’t lie to me, sweetheart.” He assures, as his fingers trace the outline of your hardening nipple through the material of your swimsuit.

“God, Joel, just fuck me.” You beg, bucking your hips to meet his. You want to rip off your swimsuit—and his—and reveal the naked bodies hidden underneath. You want to see him, all of him. And you want him to see all of you too.

But he only shakes his head, a slow, deliberate smirk tugging at his lips. “So desperate for me, aren’t you?” he murmurs, voice low and rough with want. His fingers trail just shy of where you need them, deliberate in their torment. “I’m not rushing a damn thing. I’ve waited a whole year for this—ever since last Memorial Day, I haven’t stopped thinking about you. Dreaming about this.”

The confession catches you off guard—your breath stutters, heart skipping a beat—because last Memorial Day, he’d barely looked at you, all cool glances and casual distance, while you’d spent the whole day trying not to stare. You had no idea he’d been thinking the same things, wanting the same things, all that time.

He pulls down the black material, your tits bouncing out—begging for his attention, stealing the show. Your nipples are perked so painfully, needing his touch, his mouth. But he just watches them, gaze slow and heavy, like he’s memorizing the way they look—like the sight alone is something he means to savor.

Finally, his fingers brush over the nubs, sending an electric sensation down your spine, all the way to the wetting of your bottoms.

“Fuck, look at you. Beggin' for me.” He growls, never meeting your eyes. “Want my mouth? Huh, babygirl?”

You nod, too quickly to be graceful, too eager to hide—and maybe it would’ve been embarrassing, how desperate you are, if not for the heat curling low in your belly, if not for the way the air between you feels too thick to breathe. There’s no room for shame, not with this kind of need.

The desperation is enough for his head to dip down, mouth meeting your nipple—sucking ever so slowly but harsh enough to cause your back to arch into him. His fingers grab at your free breast, twirling and pulling.

You want to moan so badly, to allow him to hear exactly what he’s doing to you, but with your dad only yards away, you can’t risk the moment. So you let the harsh breaths spill from your lips, unrestrained and deliberate—each one a quiet plea, a wordless invitation. Loud enough for him to hear your want, raw enough to show you crave more.

His mouth pulls away from your hardened nub with a loud pop, causing you to shake at the loss. But the feeling doesn’t last long when he slides his hand down your bikini bottom, feeling your slick between your folds.

“So wet for me.” He groans, rubbing your clit in slow, deliberate motions—a gasp leaving you. “Fuck, is this what I do to you, baby girl?” he murmurs, voice thick with awe and heat, like he can’t quite believe the way you’re falling apart for him.

His mouth finds the tender hollow beneath your neck, lips claiming the skin with bruising intent, each mark a promise that will bloom dark and visible by morning. But he doesn’t care—can’t. His tongue follows in slow, soothing strokes, tracing over the wounds he’s made like an afterthought of kindness, like a quiet act of worship for the damage he’s left behind.

His fingers trial slowly down from your aching clit, throbbing at the loss, and to your entrance. He pauses when he meets just where you need him most, fingers slick with your need and want.

You grind down on his fingers, needing him—desperation overcoming you, making you look like a complete mess under his gaze. His eyes lock with yours, molten with desire, thick with unspoken want—and yet, behind the burn, there’s a glint of playful cruelty, like he’s savoring every second of your unraveling.

“Beg for it.” He demands, fingers still hovering under your entrance.

“Wh– What?” you manage, thrown off balance by the weight of his voice. But his expression doesn't waver—there’s no joke in him, only something deep and commanding, something that leaves no room for doubt.

“I said,” he breathes, leaning in so close his lips nearly brush your ear, his heated breath stirring a trail of tingling fire down your neck. “Fucking beg for it.”

You freeze for a moment, caught off guard by the change—the gentle words vanished, leaving only a teasing edge behind. Somewhere deep down, you know he won’t call you “sweetheart” again tonight. Not now. Not while this game is just beginning. You know you’re going to like this, what with you now dripping all over his hovering hand.

“Joel…” you whisper, breath trembling with a mix of nerves and anticipation. You’ve never dared to cross this line before, but the unfamiliar thrill pulls at you—electric and intoxicating. “Please…”

“Please… what?” He growls, fingers trailing ever so slightly between you. You almost got him…almost.

“Please…please put your fingers inside me. Please, Joel, I can’t stand how empty I feel. I need you.” You finally beg.

His eyes darken as a smirk displays across his face. “All you had to do was ask.” His fingers finally enter you, your mouth shaping into an Oh at the feeling. “Now, are you going to be a good girl for me?”

You nod fervently, every fiber of you aching to please him, to offer exactly what he desires—an unspoken promise carried in your desperate submission. Two of his thick fingers enter easily inside your soaked walls. You can feel this stretch around his fingers, the fiery burning that sends chills down your spine.

“Please, faster. I want you to go faster.” You plead, riding his fingers and gripping at his biceps with your nails.

“Such a slut. Riding your daddy's best friend's finger when he’s right there sleeping. Begging him to fuck you.” He rasps, shaking his head in a lingering but teasing disappointment.

That should’ve stirred something in you—a warning, a flicker of regret for the path you were on. But instead, it fanned the flames inside you, setting your blood ablaze, a fierce heat boiling low in your belly.

He grabs your torso, pushing you against the back of the tree—stopping you from grinding against him. He holds you tight, leaving a red mark beneath his hold as you try to wiggle free. He pushes deeper inside of you, fingers curling in the perfect spot that dares the heat pooling in your belly to spill over.

His arms finally move, fingers going faster and faster—just as you had requested. Pulling completely out just to bury himself knuckles deep inside over and over again. A wet squelch fills the night air, just under the fading, cracking, uncared-for fire that’s daring to put itself out.

You writhe under his clutch, you know his hand will be bruised against your hip. Your legs start to shake as you feel an undeniable closeness threatening to spill into Joel's hand.

His pace starts to slow, the feeling leaving just as quickly as it came. A groan escapes your lips.

Joel’s hand, impossibly large and fierce, sweeps over your mouth, silencing you with a roughness that feels both unforgiving and utterly possessive.

“You’re not going to come till I fuckin' tell you to.” He seethes. You might be afraid—if desire didn’t drown out every shred of fear burning inside you.

His fingers exit your body, and emptiness overcomes you. He brings them to your mouth, giving a look daring you to open, to taste yourself.

You gulp, the weight of the moment pressing down—can you truly go this far? But with Joel, distance and limits dissolve. Whatever he wants, you’ll offer willingly, as if your very soul depends on it.

Your mouth parts, inviting him in with an innocent look fading across your eyes. A look that makes Joel quiver, fucking quiver. You could come with that sound alone.

You wrap your tongue around his fingers—slowly, intentionally—before pulling them inside. Tasting yourself coated on his digits. You suck them clean, swallowing, letting him know you’re not afraid of what he has to offer. He drags his fingers out—curling around your bottom teeth and pulling your mouth open before his lips meet yours.

He can taste you in your own mouth, and that alone could make him crumble into you, if he allowed it. He sinks his teeth into your bottom lip, pulling away at it with a pop. Blood immediately forms around the wound left before he wipes it away with this fingers that just fucked your mouth.

“Look at you,” he mutters, voice rough and laced with something dangerous. “Such a disappointment to your daddy, aren’t you? … if only he knew what you’re up to right now.”

“Joel, please.” You whimper, need overcoming you. Submission ready to give in.

“What does my little girl need?” he murmurs, mock-sweet and laced with heat, each word a thread of temptation pulling you further under.

“I- I need you to fuck me. Right now, Joel. I- I need to feel you inside of me.”

With that, Joel pulls your bikini to the side—pulling his own shorts low enough to reveal his glistening tip. How big he is shocks you, you’re not sure if you’re prepared for this, but you know you want it, need it.

He lines himself up with your entrance, tugging your hips closer to him. Your back now leaning against the tree, scratches etching into your skin from the bark. Your hips bent to meet his, legs spread and ready. The sight of you—ready to be fucked, dripping down your own thighs—Joel cant wait any longer.

He grabs the hem of his tank top, aggressively pulling it into his mouth so that he can see him fuck into you better. This movement exposes his belly. How dark hair runs down his navel and meets into his now revealed shaft. His abs are shadowed by his shirt, but you still get a good look. The way his teeth clench around the bottom of his shirt drives you crazy, saliva darkening the edges.

He pushes himself slowly inside of you, stretching your hot walls around him. He can feel you clench as you get used to the size.

“So fuckin' tight.” He groans, words muffled by his shirt in his mouth. “Don’t worry, gonna open ya up real nice.”

You whimper at the words, the sight, the feeling of his thick shaft stretching you endlessly. He doesn’t stop until he’s buried deep inside of you, pushing against your cervix. You look down and realize he’s all the way in —you can't see him anymore, just croch to croch. Clit brushing against the hair just above him.

“Look at her, takin' me all in like a good girl.” He looks up, meeting your eyes. “She’s a good girl, ain’t she?”

You nod, realize he’s talking about your aching cunt. You can feel him throb inside of you. You need him to move, now. But you remember, he wants you to beg. He won’t do anything without you asking him for it.

“Fuck me Joel.” You groan. “Fuck me hard. Ma-make me scream.”

He finally pulls himself out, your walls clenching and begging him to stay.

“Such a dirty girl.” He huffs, slamming himself into you in one harsh movement. Making you scream just like you asked. “Your daddy know his little girl has such a filthy mouth?”

You shake your head, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the sting—but this is what you asked for. What you begged for. And now, you’re unraveling beneath the weight of it.

He pulls and slams into you faster now. The sound of skin slapping fills the air, the fire now dead, bodies only lit by the moonlight. Joel pulls himself into you, your bare breast now rubbing against his ruffled-up tank top. His teeth now focused on biting at the sweet, soft skin of your neck.

He can hear the way his moans sound, gruff and airy as if he’s trying to keep quiet—trying to keep in control. The sound opens you up, invites him in deeper.

His hand reaches down in between your legs, rubbing harsh circles on your clit. You shake violently as his free hand pulls at your hair—your back arching into him at an impossible position. You’re going to be so sore tomorrow.

“I can feel how close you are.” He breaths into your ear, hands still circling around your aching, swollen clit. “Wanna come on my dick?”

A whisper escapes your lips. You try to nod, but his hand his gripped so tightly into your hair it makes it impossible to move.

“Use your fuckin' words.” He growls, biting the lobe of your ear in punishment. His hands let go of your hair, your neck thankful for the loss, and he pinches your nipples harshly.

“Yes…”

“Yes…what?” He commands. His teeth now biting the skin around breast before sucking it soothingly. He’s being so rough with you, something you weren’t expecting, but you can't deny the way your body reacts.

“Yes. I want to come on your big dick. I want you buried deep inside of me while I do it.” You cry.

He lifts up from you. Hands gripping both hips harshly, you know this is to keep you upright for what's about to come. “Fuck, such a dirty mouth on my girl.”

And then he slams inside you at an impossible pace. His tip slamming into your cervix—that’s definitely going to bruise. Screams leave your mouth; you'd cover your mouth to muffle them if your nails weren’t digging into Joel's wrist for support.

The tree’s bark bites into your back, jagged and unforgiving, the sting blooming with every shift—warm and raw, a quiet confirmation that it’s tearing you open. Just like Joel.

The boiling sensation returns deep in your belly as Joel slams into you unforgivingly, moans escaping his lips as well. This time he doesn’t stop, doesn’t pull out before you can finish. You clench hard around him, causing him to twitch inside of you.

“Yea? Ya like that? Like me buryin’ myself inside you pussy?” He says—a low grovel in his voice, almost like he’s about to lose himself too. “That’s right. Come on your daddy's friend's dick. Nasty fucking girl.”

That’s enough for you to spill over. You collapse into his grip, legs shaking mercifully, as your juices soak him, escaping out the sides and dripping down your legs, into the grass underneath your feet.

White, slick thread now connect Joels shaft and your cunt, bubbling each time your slide back down into him. A disgusting, sticky sound now entering the night air. You come down from your high, stomach cramping at the sensation—but Joel isn’t finished with you yet.

He lifts you up, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, and pushes you pully against the tree. His hands that were once wrapped brutally around your waist now grip violently into he bark of the tree. Some of the bark lifting and falling by the trunk.

His thrust start to falter, he’s getting close now, as he ruthlessly burries himself deep inside your aching cunt, white heat pooling low inside once again.

“Fuck.” He groans, teeth grazing your collarbone. “You’re ruinin' me, babygirl.”

“Joel… please, cum inside me.”

“God. You’re such a slut, aren’t you?” He smirks, but never denies your request. “How badly you want me to cum inside you, huh?”

“So bad. Ple-please. I-I’ve been imagining it for so long. Want it to come true.”

“You been dreamin’ about your daddy's best friend? Been dreamin’ about him cuming deep inside your begging pussy? Now, now… that’s not how a good girl’s supposed to behave.” He mocks, thrusting, getting deeper and harder. “That how you behave for me?”

“Only you, Joel. I- I’m about to come.”

“Come for me, babygirl. Wanna finish at the same time.”

Your nails dig violently into his back, drawing blood that will definitely stain under your nails. His movements start to falter as he throbs deep inside of you. It’s only when you start grinding your hips to meet his movements that he finally falls apart.

White, hot ropes shoot deep into your hot—swollen walls. You finish at the same time, come mixing while creamy slick leaves you and pools at the base of Joel's shaft.

The two of you collapse to the forest floor in a tangle of limbs, the cool earth pressing against your skin. Loud, ragged gasps fill the air, mingling with the distant hum of the woods as you both struggle to catch your breath. Your chest heaves, heart still pounding in the aftermath, the silence between you thick with everything unspoken—raw, breathless, and electric.

Joel finally pulls out of you, removing his shirt and cleaning the sticky come off of himself—before he turns to focus his attention on you. He slowly drags his shirt up the sides of your legs, cleaning the forgotten slick from just minutes ago, before he makes his way to your swollen, fucked out cunt. He cleans the mess, making sure to not miss anything.

Your swim bottoms are ruined and stained. He tears them off before fetching your shorts, shaking them off in case any bugs tried to make them their home on the grassy floor. The mean Joel disappeared—bringing back the sweet one as he dresses you, readjusting your swim top to cover you, and pulling your sweater back over your head.

After he redresses you with an unexpected tenderness, his rough hands gentle as he helps you back into your clothes, straightening the hem with deliberate care. There’s a softness in his gaze you hadn’t seen earlier, something quiet and real beneath the hunger that had just devoured you. When he’s done, he leans in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“Enjoyed every damn minute of that,” he murmurs, voice low, still thick with the weight of everything that had just passed between you. “Never had anything like that before. Not ever.”

The words land heavy, full of meaning that tightens something in your chest. You nod, cheeks flushed, lips parted as if to speak—but there’s nothing to say that could match the gravity of it. Instead, you follow him in silence, legs still unsteady as he leads you back through the trees, the scent of pine and summer and sex clinging to your skin. The embers of the dying campfire come into view, and relief floods through you when you see your dad still slumped in his hammock, snoring softly, blissfully unaware.

Joel moves with practiced ease, beginning to pack up the remnants of the night—folding chairs, dousing the fire, the clink of metal and the rustle of canvas loud in the quiet. Eventually, he shakes your dad awake with a muttered, “Time to head home,” and the older man grumbles, groggy but compliant, stumbling toward the truck.

The drive back is uneventful, quiet except for the low hum of the engine and the occasional snore from your father in the passenger seat. You steal glances at Joel from the backseat, and though he doesn’t look at you, his hand tightens on the wheel every time your eyes linger too long.

When the truck finally pulls into your driveway, your dad mumbles something half-asleep before stumbling into the house without a backward glance. You start to follow, but Joel’s hand catches your wrist, firm and unyielding. He pulls you back just enough to press you against the side of the truck, eyes locked on yours.

“Can’t wait till next Memorial Day,” he says, voice quiet but rough with promise. And before you can respond, he leans in and kisses you—slow, claiming, and utterly certain. The world fades for a moment, everything else falling away under the press of his mouth against yours.

As he pulls back and you finally turn to head inside, legs still trembling from more than just the walk through the woods, one thing is undeniably clear.

Memorial Day is your favorite holiday now.

a/n: Happy memorial day! (:

[jenniquinn]

after midnight in cannes - pedro pascal.

requested! thank you. ♡ content: Pedro Pascal x reader, Cannes afterparty setting, Lux Pascal is your glamorous bestie-in-law, flirty vibes, power couple energy, soft affection in a glamorous world.

---

The music was soft and strange — French disco meets ambient strings — but the drinks were perfect, the terrace smelled like sea salt and perfume, and Pedro had his hand on the back of your bare waist like he was afraid you’d disappear into the crowd of sequins and smoke.

Cannes at night felt like a dream.

Lux was a vision — sleek black dress, wet-look hair, red lips. She clinked her champagne glass with yours as you both leaned against the railing, laughing about someone’s terrible tux choice.

“He looks like a waiter at an alien wedding,” she whispered, and you snorted.

Pedro turned around from his conversation and locked eyes with you, immediately smiling like he hadn’t just been talking about industry things. Like you were the only person worth turning back to.

“There she is,” he murmured, wrapping his arm around your waist, chin hooking over your shoulder. “What are we laughing about?”

“Just fashion crimes,” you said, tilting your head to kiss his jaw. “Nothing that concerns you, Mr. Pascal.”

“Good,” he chuckled, eyes half-lidded with wine and affection. “Because I’m far too busy being the luckiest man here.”

Lux fake-gagged. “Okay, lovebirds. Don’t make me third-wheel and sober tonight.”

Pedro lifted an eyebrow. “We said we’d get you a tequila. Don’t play the martyr.”

Lux pointed her manicured finger. “I want the fancy French one. None of that American crap.”

You raised your glass. “To French tequila, then.”

“To French tequila,” they echoed, and all three of you toasted, laughing under the twinkle lights.

Later in the night, you and Pedro were sitting on a velvet couch, his blazer draped over your legs, your heels kicked off. You were tipsy, glowing, resting your head on his shoulder while he ran soft fingers through your hair.

“I like seeing you like this,” he murmured.

“Like what?”

“Confident. Sparkling. Untouchable.”

You smiled. “You’re the one who brought me here.”

“Correction: you belong here. I just get to orbit around you.”

You laughed softly, kissing the inside of his wrist. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m in love,” he corrected. “Lux agrees.”

“She does have good taste.”

Pedro kissed your temple. “Let’s stay like this a little longer.”

You nodded, closing your eyes, the sound of waves and music folding around you. Pedro’s hand found yours.

Cannes could sparkle all it wanted — but the soft, steady heat of him beside you outshone it all.

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

---

taglist: @sarahhxx03 @lloydmustache @lolareadsimagines @greenwitchfromthewoods @silksepia @pascalswiftie @itstokyo-cos @mani-pedro @llsister @authorbriannarae13 @introvrtedjellyfish @aj0elap0l0gist @spencercmlover @cixrosie @cherrqbaby @cup-half-full-of-anxiety @kellyxo1 @freakbobcult @sunlightpleasure @barnes70stark @mooniscrying @ohnaurshayla @croissantbakerylws @nellispunk @kasienka @taylorswiftsrep-blog @emerencedaily @byzyz @noovaarq @kristend512

[jenniquinn]

This request feels a lil bit like a crack fic but here it goes anyway: can you write something about Joel and reader accidentally breaking the bed while ~doing the deed 👀👀

And they just kinda pause, look at eachother, laugh and then keep going, broken bed or not lol

Built to break

Pairing: jackson!Joel Miller x f!reader Summary: A bed breaks, but Joel doesn’t stop — not the filth, not the laughter, not the love. Warnings: established relationship, explicit smut (+18), oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, p in v sex, dirty talk, pure filth

The moment you close the door behind you, the air between you and Joel snaps electric. The tension that’s been simmering all evening finally boils over. He doesn’t say a word — his eyes darken, flickering over every inch of you like he’s memorizing your skin, your curves, the way your chest rises and falls with steady breaths. His hands twitch at his sides, muscles taut beneath the worn flannel shirt.

You’re burning up from the inside out, heart pounding like a war drum. Slowly, deliberately, you step closer. Your fingers curl around the collar of his shirt, tugging him down until your lips brush his, teasing, light, the ghost of a kiss.

Joel’s breath hitches. Then his mouth crashes onto yours with a hunger that’s almost desperate. His lips are rough — calloused from years of hard work and harder battles — but so goddamn gentle where it matters. Your tongue meets his, and it’s like a wildfire, scorching every nerve ending awake.

His hands go to your hips, gripping hard enough to leave bruises, pulling you flush against his thick body. You press back eagerly, every inch of you craving him, craving the raw, unfiltered need that burns in his gaze.

The buttons on your shirt come undone one by one as his hands roam your body, sliding underneath fabric, skin burning beneath his touch. He traces the curve of your ribs, the swell of your breasts, teasing, tasting. You arch into his hands, a soft moan escaping your lips as his mouth leaves yours to trail down your neck — teeth grazing, lips sucking bruises into your soft skin.

His fingers slip under your jeans, slick and warm from your arousal. You tremble as he palms you through the thin cotton panties you’re wearing, his touch both commanding and reverent.

“Goddamn, you’re so wet,” he murmurs, voice low and rough like gravel. “I’m gonna fuck you so hard you won’t remember your own name.”

Your breath catches. You want that. You want every filthy, brutal second of it.

Joel steps back just enough to shed his shirt, broad chest rising and falling, scars and muscles glistening faintly with sweat. Then, with a quick snap of his belt and a tug of his jeans, he’s bare from the waist down, thick length already hard and glistening.

Your fingers reach out, trembling as you stroke him, feeling his cock pulsing beneath your touch. He groans, hips shifting forward.

Joel doesn’t waste a second — he lifts you up effortlessly, hands firm on your thighs, and carries you backward to the bed with a growl of desire. You wrap your arms around his neck, legs locking around his waist, skin pressing flush against skin.

The mattress dips under your weight, the sheets rustling as he settles you down. His mouth finds your breasts, lips suckling and biting, teeth grazing nipples taut with want. Your fingers dig into the thick hair at the nape of his neck, nails scratching lightly.

Then, he’s pushing your jeans and panties down your legs in one smooth motion, exposing your slick, aching centre to the cool air and his hungry gaze. Joel’s breath fans across your wetness, making your knees tremble.

He licks a slow, teasing path over your folds, tongue flicking over your clit with expert precision. You cry out, hips bucking, fingers tangling in his hair. His hands spread your thighs wide, fingers slipping inside you with ease, curling to hit that perfect spot. You’re drowning in sensation — every lick, every stroke a promise of the madness to come.

When Joel pulls back, you’re gasping, dripping and desperate.

He lines himself up with your entrance, head dipping to kiss your lips once more before he slides in, slow and deep, filling you completely. The stretch is delicious, the burn sweet as he bottoms out inside you.

You wrap your arms around him, holding on tight as he begins to move — slow at first, savoring the feel of you. But soon, his hips start to thrust harder, deeper, each movement a thunderous pulse that sets your whole body on fire.

His hands grip your waist, fingers digging in as he drives into you with relentless hunger.

The sounds you make — gasps, moans, his low groans — fill the room like a storm. Your nails rake down his back, your body arching to meet his thrusts. Every inch of you aches with pleasure, the heat between your legs pooling and spilling over.

Joel’s mouth finds your neck again, biting, sucking, marking. His breath is ragged, mixing with yours in a chaotic symphony of need.

The bed creaks and groans beneath you, springs protesting under the weight and wildness of your passion. You barely notice, caught up in the frenzy of skin against skin, muscle flexing and clenching, the endless rhythm of his cock fucking you harder.

Then — suddenly — a loud, splintering crack shatters the moment.

The bedframe gives way with a violent snap, the mattress tilting and sagging beneath you as wood splinters and bolts fly loose.

You both freeze, chests heaving, eyes wide and locked in stunned silence.

And then — Joel bursts out laughing, deep and rich and utterly contagious.

“Jesus,” he pants, breath still hot on your skin. “We broke the goddamn bed.”

The ruined bed groans one last time beneath you both as Joel pulls out, chest heaving, his hands braced on either side of your head as if he’s still trying to process what just happened. A piece of splintered wood juts sideways from the frame, one of the legs hanging on by a thread. You can’t stop laughing, breathless and flushed, your thighs still slick with him.

Joel chuckles low, a dangerous rumble in his throat. “Guess we got a little carried away.”

You’re still gasping when he leans in, catching your bottom lip between his teeth in a kiss that drowns the laughter right out of you.

“But I ain’t done with you, darlin’,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice dark with promise. “Not even close.”

He grabs your thighs and lifts you in one swift motion, like you weigh nothing, like carrying you through this storm of desire is the easiest thing he’s ever done. Your arms wrap around his shoulders automatically, your mouth on his throat, tasting sweat and salt and the rasp of his low groan when you press your lips there.

Then — he pins you against the wall.

Your bare back meets the cool, painted wood with a quiet thud. Joel shifts his stance, thick thighs anchoring you in place, strong hands gripping beneath your ass. His cock is hot and hard, pressing against your slick folds, teasing you, dragging through the wet mess between your legs.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he grits out. “Look at you. Already ruined and beggin’ for more.”

Your head drops back with a gasp as he rolls his hips forward, cock sliding against your swollen clit, dragging out a sharp cry from your throat. He watches you with those dark, feral eyes, drinking it in — every tremble, every breathless plea.

“Please,” you whisper, and your voice is hoarse from moaning, from screaming his name against the mattress minutes ago. “Joel, please…”

He doesn’t tease you this time.

With a low growl, he sinks back into you, thick and heavy, stretching you wide again as your legs clamp around his waist. The angle is new, deeper, the wall giving him leverage. You cry out, your fingers digging into the broad muscles of his back, as he presses you into the plaster and starts to fuck you like he means it.

Hard. Unrelenting.

Every thrust slams your body into the wall with a faint, rhythmic thud. His grip tightens under your thighs, anchoring you in place as he pistons his hips into yours, cock hitting deeper than before, angled just right to make stars explode behind your eyes.

The room is full of sound — your soaked, obscene noises each time he thrusts into you, the slick slap of skin, his low groans and your ragged moans.

You can barely catch your breath.

“Take it,” he pants, forehead resting against yours, his voice wrecked and filthy. “Take it all, baby. This what you wanted?”

You nod helplessly, thighs trembling, pussy clenching around him with every punishing stroke.

He adjusts slightly, grinding deep inside you, his pubic bone pressing against your clit. You sob against his mouth, your second orgasm building fast and mean, right at the edge of unbearable.

“That’s it,” he breathes, hips slamming into you again. “Come on. I wanna feel you fall apart on my cock again.”

Your mouth opens in a silent cry as your climax rips through you, raw and searing. Your walls flutter and pulse around him, drawing a strangled moan from deep in his chest. Joel doesn’t slow — he fucks you right through it, hips slapping into yours, sweat dripping from his temple onto your chest.

You cling to him, lost in the rhythm, the power of him, the unrelenting heat.

“Fuck, I’m close,” he snarls, voice gone ragged. “You feel that? How tight you are? Jesus, girl…”

He buries himself deep with a final, brutal thrust, and his entire body shudders.

You feel him pulse inside you, thick spurts of heat filling you up as his head drops to your shoulder. His breath fans over your skin, erratic, mouth parted against the curve of your neck as he moans into you — low, needy, spent.

The room goes quiet.

Your heart pounds against his. His grip on you softens, though he still holds you up, forehead pressed to yours as your breathing slowly steadies.

He chuckles again, breathless this time. “Wall held up better than the bed.”

You smile through the haze. “Let’s not test the kitchen table.”

Joel groans. “You say that like it ain’t a challenge.”

You both laugh, tangled together, your body still trembling from everything he just did to you — and everything he still might.

And then his hands tighten on your thighs again.

“Round two?” he murmurs, already hardening against your thigh. “Told you I wasn’t done.”

——

The wall’s still warm where your back had been pressed. Your thighs ache — a deep, satisfying soreness — and Joel finally sets you down, your knees almost giving out as they touch the floor. He catches you, grinning, chest still heaving as he draws you into a messy kiss. It’s lazy now, slow, full of lingering want and heavy breaths. His lips are soft, but his hands still grip you like he doesn’t want to let go.

And when you stumble together back toward the bed — or what’s left of it — you both freeze and burst into laughter again.

The mattress is half-sunken, the wooden frame splintered and canted sideways like a wounded animal. The bedsheet is hanging off one corner like it’s trying to escape the scene entirely.

Joel raises a brow, lips twitching. “We really did a number on it.”

You flop onto the uneven mattress anyway, groaning as your limbs sink into the dip, your body boneless and wrung out. “Bed died doing what it loved.”

Joel snorts and climbs in beside you, careful to avoid the broken frame. He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you in until your back is pressed to his chest, his skin still hot and slick. His thigh slides between yours, possessive even now, like he needs to anchor you after everything he just did to you.

“Jesus,” he mutters against your shoulder, voice low and lazy, “you’re gonna kill me one day.”

You hum, smiling. “Think you’ll die happy?”

“Mm. Real happy.”

His palm finds your belly, then drifts lower. Not for more — not this time — just resting there, warm and solid. He kisses your shoulder, slow and lazy, then noses at the side of your neck like he’s half-asleep and still trying to crawl inside your skin.

You let your hand drift over his arm. “Gonna have to explain this to Tommy.”

Joel groans. “Don’t remind me.”

“We’ll have to explain why the bed looking like a damn bear tore through it.”

“Hm,” Joel grumbles, nuzzling against your neck. “Man’s been givin’ me shit for months about how quiet I’ve been. Maybe now he’ll shut up.”

You giggle, then turn slightly to face him, your cheek resting against his chest. His skin is warm, dusted with sweat, heartbeat steady under your ear. You trace lazy circles there, grounding yourself in the thump of it.

Joel sighs through his nose, hand smoothing over your hip, his voice a little softer now. “You alright, baby?”

“Mhm. Just sore.” You glance up at him, teasing. “Might need you to carry me around tomorrow.”

He smirks, eyes half-lidded. “Fine by me. You’ll owe me, though.”

“Oh yeah?” you murmur. “And what exactly would I owe you?”

Joel’s grin fades a little, and something tender flickers in his eyes as he looks at you.

“Just this,” he says quietly. “You. Here. With me.”

The smile fades from your mouth, replaced by something deeper. You lean in and kiss him — not hungry, not wild, just soft. Slow. Grateful.

He holds you tighter as you lie there in the half-broken bed, the scent of sex thick in the air, your bodies tangled and warm.

Outside, Jackson is quiet. Snow falls soft against the window, and for now, there’s nothing but the hush of the town and Joel’s breathing in your ear.

You shift slightly, the mattress creaking beneath you, and he groans.

“Alright,” he mumbles. “Tomorrow I'll start to build a new frame.”

You smile. “Something reinforced?”

Joel’s lips brush your temple. “Steel frame. Maybe chains. You know — just in case.”

You laugh into his chest, heart full, body sore, and every part of you content.

[jenniquinn]

overstimulating joel until he cums. again.

content: oral (m receiving), joel is 61 and has a hard time keeping up with his much younger girlfriends sex drive, use of daddy, slight dubcon

a/n: this is how im choosing to cope with this scene, okay? i can’t help that he looks hot as fuck.

joel was too worn out to move.

chest heaving, mouth quivering, all he could do was lay there and watch you take from him.

you were such a greedy lil’ thing, one round was never enough. so eager and needy. always wanting more, like you wouldn’t last a day without his cock.

he kept up with you as best as he could for a man his age, making sure to stay in shape so he that maintained his stamina, but it only got him so far.

it was a guilty reminder— he was old. you were young. nothin’ he could change about that. he already ran through the small supply of viagra he was able to get ahold of weeks ago, which left him at your mercy.

even after a long day of patrol he came home and fucked you every night, just like you wanted. what was left of his energy he thrusted deep into your cunt with his seed to prove it, giving you a kiss on the cheek before pulling out and turning onto his back to go to sleep.

it had been a while since you went down on him. he didn’t have much control on when or how often he got hard, so when he was he used those moments inside of you.

except joel didn’t realize how much you missed him in your mouth, so badly that you needed it.

as he rolled off of you to his side of the bed, you noticed how his cock was flushed— coated with your juices and his cum. he was softening but stayed big, thick in girth with graying hairs at the base.

he didn’t have the chance to recover before you had his cock in your hand, sitting on your knees and holding him straight as you licked the shaft.

“baby… what’re y’doin?” he asked timidly, still attempting to control his breaths from cumming just a minute or two prior. you simply responded with a hum, looking up at him through your lashes as you swirled your tongue— tasting yourself on him.

you placed a kiss on his tip, his cock reacting with a throb that pulsed in your grasp. “alright, that’s enough.” he spoke low, a quavering warning for you to stop— but his tone lacked in confidence.

“let me have this, daddy.” as if he had a choice.

you took him into your mouth, lips curling around his cock as you watched his face twist from the sensation.

fucking hell, you were going to be the death of him.

he clenched his jaw, teeth grinding while he tried to hold himself back— hold you back. he pushed at your head, attempting to shove you with what little control he had left, but you didn’t budge. you only went further, inching his cock deeper down your throat. he was forced into submission.

joel was so sensitive that he whined from the mix of pain and pleasure, the line blurring the more you swallowed him. “i don’t have anythin’ left in me, honey... gave you of it already.” he told you slow, his voice trembling.

you moaned in defiance, mouth stuffed full of his length. you brought a free hand to his balls, giving them a gentle squeeze which made him nearly whimper. you pull away, spit dribbling from the corners of your lip. “can feel that you still got some in here, just gotta get it out, daddy. it’ll feel so much better.”

he clenched his jaw, teeth grinding together as you continued to suck him— bobbing at a teasing speed while you massaged the rest of his length at the same time. he twitched his hips, his body defying his words.

it felt so good that it was hurting him. your throat was beginning to burn due to lack of recent experience, but you were determined for it.

“just couldn’t wait, huh? so cock drunk that y’had to use your old man like this, knowin’ im vulnerable?” you nodded, that familiar ache in your core returning.

he was thinking of all the ways to punish you once you were done— ready to spank you until you cried, maybe edge you if he was feeling mean. he would find a way to make you pay.

joel was determined to give you one more load since you went through all of this to get it. he couldn’t disappoint his girl.

he was so numb that he couldn’t even feel himself getting ready to cum, his eyes glossy and in a state of haze at the sight of you drooling on his thighs.

the warm, soft flesh of your cheeks hollowing in on him brought him to his release, spilling hot, creamy ropes on the pad of your tongue. whenever you thought he was done it didn’t stop— drops still leaking out after you finished.

“better lick me dry honey. since you wanted it so damn bad.”