#narcos cast

[ashlingnarcos]

[ellies-enrichment]

[alpineshepherdbadboy]

it’s been lovely to be on instagram today to see all of the heartwarming stories about mark margolis shared by brba and bcs actors, but my favorite has got to be from vincent fuentes (arturo), who shared some texts that mark sent him:

bonus:

[twobellsilence]

Watched Emilia Pérez to see what all the fuss was about. I might drop an essay at some point, or maybe I will write it before angrily deleting it and trying not to think about this crap ever again, but just know that I am absolutely LIVID.

The people praising this are so hypocritical I hope that when this pompous piece of SHIT of a director decides to make a film "exploring usamerican society" where a school shooter transitions and becomes an anti-school-shooting advocate that helps locate the bodies of missing school shooting victims with the help of other school shooters and they die and become a national hero, and also all the actors are like Russian or some shit and don't even know how to speak English for more than two sentences and also the director refuses to record in the US because "it didn't fit his image of the country" despite it literally being the same fucking country he's "inspired" by, y'all praise him once again for his bold narrative and unashamedly "real" representation. Fuck you

[sigelfire]

Diego Luna and José María Yazpik with Architect Agustín Pizá at WGC Mexico Championship, 2018 (x)

Here's a video with Chema, Diego and Michael Peña:

[lokiiied]

if i had a nickel for every time boyd holbrook played himself a southern to the bone closet made of glass queer looks like he could kill you could actually kill you serving cunt who’s in love with his dark haired shorter partner in crime i’d have two nickels. which isn’t a lot but it’s weird it’s happened twice.

[polymolly]

Can I just introduce you to my intrusive thoughts?

Please and thank you.

[hausofmamadas]

| A DANCE WITH DINARRÓN: Narcos Mexico/Tax Collector AU Crossover |

… aka an exercise in pure OTP self-indulgence but I don’t care cuz I don’t even care

═

Mira, let’s get this out the way, right quick.

If ever you think a Dinarrón post is my last, you’ve probly underestimating my ability to test everyone’s patience by hyperfocusing on one thing and taking to the interwebs to scream about it. Te lo juro I can and will be going for miles with this shit sksjsjsjsj. Having said that, I don’t have thaaat much to scream in all caps about? Like shits kinda speaks for itself.

✷

Howmever I do hereby submit to the official record: David Ayer’s the greatest gift to this earth not stiff competition aksksks bc so sorry Mr. Ayer but most of your movies are hot!garbage pero fun hot!garbage so (☞ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)☞ Ayer’s actual #1, capital T, Top contribution to history is not the movie Tax Collector but is this scene from the movie Tax Collector

…. of not our David Barron but still a Bobby-Soto-looking Eme gangster named David Barrón Cuevas … FUCKING 💃🏻SALSA💃🏻 DANCING LIKE ARE YOU FORREAL TRYING TO HAVE ME KILLED

✷

And with this gift, Ayer basically fueled the fire for this mind-meld of Dinarrón dancing, aaand it’s basically the sole reason for me waking up in the morning, it basically maaade the Dinarrón Blue Jeans vid bc I basically only decided to add TC clips after seeing the uncanny similarities to Dina’s wedding.

✷

It’s like Ayer actually Freddy Kruegered me, plucked the scene straight from my Dinarrón dreams bc the way it fits so well with the scenes of her lil dance routine have me Lebron-tear-ing to the goddamn moon.

✷

And since I first saw this hot!garbage movie, can conservatively say that I think about this mmm like twice a day. Like they’re not even from the same movie/show, but in my mind, they’re irrevocably fused together like this did just happen. It is canon wedding instead of what actually happened aka Min yelling at Barrón for drinking agua mineral and calling him Pancha’s “gente”

✷

OH AND how weird is it to see our boy smile ?? Barrón barely speaks a word sksks so like smile!??!!?! Pffft pls. Mans is a sicario, no tiene tiempo para eso curling-the-corners-of-his-mouth-to-express-joy mamadas. He’s too busy smoldering for no goddamn reason and white-lady-math-meme-ing his surroundings for threats both of which look remarkably similar re: what his face is doing.

Also this/ks:’kskamb mf hip swivel Dina doin in that last one🥴 sending me into full fucking heart palpitations. Like her booty alone, Jesus that booty does not get the gotdamn recognition it deserves in this fandom.

*slams hands on table like overzealous cop during an interrogation, stands up too forcefully knocks over own chair*

And YOU KNOW WHAT? I’m here before the court today, your honor, to atone for that sin. And since you’re dying to know, yes, being a martyr for The Cause is indeed a thankless job with no 401K or health benefits but I hear they’re gonna paint some real nice pictures of me after I’m dead, so clearly a fair trade.

═

taglist (for the free gifs): @narcolini @narcos-narcosmx @ashlingnarcos @drabbles-mc @rerorero-my-cherry @criatividad-e @cositapreciosa @cherixrosa-archived @artemiseamoon @purplesong1028 @mandaloria314 @tinylittleobsessions @narcosmx @thesolotomyhan

[dgct2]

I'm really tempted to write a crossover between Javier Peña from Narcos and Kristin Gaines from FBI Most Wanted. Both of them have a past fighting the Columbian cartels. Maybe Kristin knew Javier before she came to New York. I also just love the idea of Pedro and Alexa sharing a scene together because look at them ❤️🔥

[lotusbxtch]

He’s so pretty 🥹

[dilf-docs]

All Roads Lead To Rome

pedro pascal x younger!reader

summary: your boyfriend swears he isn't annoyed at your little surprise visit on the set of gladiator II; you might have to help him release his anger, one way... or another.

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap (BARK BARK BARK), smut, p. in v., bit of exhibition kink cause they fuck on his trailer, he swears he's mad but he just wants head, oral (m. receiving), he also uses his armor and skirt while at it bc its hot and not bc i totally want that to happen to me or smth!!!, brat taming, orgasm denial, breeding and daddy kink lowkey, i'm so down bad for him so there's fluff!!! + pedro being whipped cause that's exactly what i want in my men, the cast makes cameos bc i love them!!! use of spanish (i'm latina so don't even try me), pedro wearing a skirt tehee

word count: 3,519 words

side note: i'm about as FERAL and horny as much as one could be!!! damn u pedro, making me walk out in the middle of class and walk on foot to the nearest theather for an early gladiator II screening (bc they're cheaper and i'm a jobless broke student lmao) that mind u it's my first solo trip to the movies but it's okay!!!! nobody interrupt me on my horny dilf hours amirite I TELL U that cinema was almost empty: just me, pedro and hey there's a spot if u wanna join mescal (look at my blog banner IYKYK) so yeah!!!! enjoy this porn lovechild that steemed from it; my pedro renaissance that'd been asleep since tlou dropped AWAKES (u don't get it, i literally watched narcos just for him) i'm so fr i need this man BIBLICALLY!!

"Lemme guess, that's her, right?"

Pedro looks up from his phone, slightly red and embarrassed. He would blame the color on the sun, and as an actor, fake his way out.

"No idea what you're talking about, Paul"

The young man chuckles.

"I mean, every break we get, you take your chair, sit the farthest and pull your phone with the most ridiculous grin I've ever seen. I'm afraid to tell you, friend, you aren't as slick as you think"

He leans back against the chair, covering his face with his large palm.

"At least I tried" he finds no point in lying anymore, "seems like I'm addicted, but if it wasn't for y/n, I wouldn't touch it"

"I'm curious, though" Paul scoots his chair closer, "who texts who? You or her?"

"Me" he answers, but then corrects himself quickly, a bit ashamed of how that makes him sound, "but it's mostly her first".

"Right" he doesn't sound convinced, rather curious and annoyed, something he's too old and tired for, "I don't believe you"

He's about to lock his phone, but the wallpaper (a selfie with you) would probably earn him another mock from Mescal.

"Too bad I don't need you to"

Before he can do so, the irish man yanks his phone away.

"Give it back!" he shouts, earning a few glances from the crew around them, "what are you, ten?"

"No, twenty-eight" they look like kids bickering. "No need to fight me, Mr. Pascal, they haven't taught us the new fighting choreography yet" he mocks, before the phone chimes; they both stop at the sound.

"What does this mean?" Paul asks. "Malta's nice" he reads out loud, "were you talking about possible future vacations? I might have to tag along"

He doesn't follow the man's joke, instead, looking at the message on your chat. Malta's nice, says the little cryptic message, and yes―it is cryptic, because you were just talking about missing each other and some other corny stuff he'd take to his grave. Not vacations, and certainly, not about the european island, which happens to also be the place were he's filming his latest movie.

"No, we weren't" he replies confused, "what do you think it means?"

"Well, obviously, you boys don't know anything" May pops up from behind, laughing.

"Were you eavesdropping?" he asks playfully, albeit, a little offended.

"No, you guys are just too loud" she replies nonchalant. "Besides, you aren't very good at hiding it, either"

"That's what I said!" Paul backs, laughing on his face.

"Stop being misterious and just drop it"

"It means" she pauses―laughing at her own little dramatic effect, "that you're getting a visit soon"

When you met Pedro, you were working in The Last Of Us. Nothing fancy, just part of the technical cast of the show: helping with the filming and stuff.

During those months, it was easy to find yourself falling for the main star (alongside Bella Ramsey), especially when you spent months behind a camera, capturing all of his perfect features; learning them by memory until you could draw them without seeing his face.

Yes, you had fallen for the older man, because it was as natural as breathing; easy as being alive―the fall so gentle and so easy, it was hard to know when the feelings started. You just woke up one day, feeling different.

You liked to act up―always had what you wanted, and times had changed (so it's not like he had to ask first): why not? Which is why during your last day of shooting you took some liquid courage on your veins and went up his way. It was at a little gathering the crew you've grown to call family organized, while wearing your favorite and tightest dress, that you approached him.

It surprised you that he even recognized you, but that's who he was: warm, welcoming and caring.

To augment the surprise, turns out he had eyed you already, but was too shy to do anything. Yes, the worlds most famous Chilean man. It did stroke your ego, and maybe that's why you feel like most of the time, you've got the upper hand on your relationship, despite the years in between.

Still, you feel like the last message you just sent was a bit too blunt. Now you sit at the tiny airport, pondering your next move.

You know your boyfriend isn't exactly the type to scold or get mad―despite his strong figure, but going against the only thing he asked you might test him. Which is why you feel nervous, despite the happiness around you, everyone in the airport looking straight out of a picture perfect summer edition magazine.

And your theory is proven exactly right when you arrive impromptu at the Gladiator II set: making heads turn and guards almost kick you out, thinking you're a fan.

"You don't get it!" you protest, "he's my boyfriend".

"Sure", they laugh on your face. "you're not the first to say that".

"She's not lying" oh, how you love that gravely voice. But not today: not when he sounds like a parent scolding a naive child. Not when his eyes bore into you, slightly irritated.

So now he's dragging you among the set, right to were his trailer is.

"Aren't you going to introduce me?" you ask, puffing your cheeks out in annoyance. He keeps dragging you by the arm, without sparing a glance in your way. Who does he think he is? "I wanted to tell Paul he made me cry―twice. You know I don't play about Normal People and Aftersun"

"But you do seem to play about my orders" he grunts out, opening the door to his trailer. The sunlight reflects against the white, slightly bothering your eyes with its shine, contrary to your boyfriend's gloomy behaviour.

"Are you being serious right now? You're not my dad to scold me. I just wanted to surprise you" you stand still, refusing to get inside. Pedro knows your character tends to be stubborn, and thought he finds it hot to reel you up sometimes, there are other times where he can't just stand that juvenile spirit of rage you tend to have when things don't go the way you want them to. "What's gotten into you?"

"I could ask you the same" he mocks. "Get inside. Now"

"Rude" you scoff, but obey regardless, and he breathes out relieved you didn't do a scene like last time; he still can't show his face on that restaurant to this day.

"I thought you'd be happy to see me" you say a tad bit dissapointed, and Pascal feels the pissed off feelings clouding his brain start to dissipate.

"I do, amor" he sighs, "just hate to see you do things I tell you not to; waltzing in here like you own the place".

You don't see the mistake, though. What's wrong with wanting to do a little surprise? It's not like you were a stalker or something; just a very clingy girlfriend who happens to miss her boyfriend.

"So, you're not mad?" you venture, "tell me you're not embarrassed"

He looks at you, the fondness of his gaze betraying him.

"I'm not the one wearing a skirt while trying to sound intimidating" you joke while caressing the crook of his nose, knowing you always get on his good side. Being mad isn't something that lasts, "if anyone should be embarrassed, that's you"

"Are you saying I shouldn't wear one because I'm a man?" your boyfriend looks offended, "Have you forgotten the movie I'm starring in? People feared the skirt-wearing Roman army"

"Well, I'm not intimidated" you stand defiant, and something dark tints his brown eyes. You can feel the excitement begin pooling in your stomach.

"You're not?" he grips your wrists and yanks you to him, then holds your chin, tilting your head between his calloused fingers. "Well, cariño, you should be"

Your body slams against one of the trailers walls, and you have to suppress a whine.

"You must be punished for what you did today"

You give him a doe-eye look, pretending to be all innocent, as if you weren't enjoying the punishment.

"I don't know what you're talking about. I've been a good girl"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about" he clicks his tongue, "don't play dumb with me"

"I just came to visit you" you murmur, voice husky against his ear. He grunts, and with the proximity, his hard-on rasps against your bare legs, only partly covered by the flowy summer dress you're wearing, "is that so bad?"

"It is. Has sido mala, cariño" his hand travels down under your dress, carresing with his large palm the silhoutte of your ass. The rings on his fingers create a shock, cold metal against your warm sun-bathed skin. "Naughty girl"

"I promise I'll be good, papi" you purr, using that honeyed voice of yours that makes it hard: hard to say no and hard between his pants.

Pedro sits on a small couch he has inside the trailer, guiding you with his hand enveloped around yours, motioning you to follow with a care so soft, you'd doubt he's about to do to you what he is about to do to you. He pulls you across his lap, smiling (God, you love his smile) as your stomach presses against his tights.

"Don't worry" he breathes low, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'll make you a good girl. Tell me, aren't you?"

You swallow, "I am"

He moves the panties easily to the side, rubbing your pussy a little. He then spanks it softly, making you mewl at the sting.

Pedro continues to trace over it, "Are you sure about that?"

"N-no" you shiver in delight, resolve dissolving as quick as it came. "I'm naughty"

"It's good to be aware" he murmurs, "Dilo otra vez"

"I'm a naughty girl"

He lifts your head by your hair. "Tell me what you did"

"Disobeyed your orders, coming to the set" you whisper. He lets go of your hair, his hands traveling down again, slowly teasingly rubbing your pussy while he humms.

"You were a little brat, amor"

You whimpered and mewled in delight. "I was a very naughty brat"

He pushed his fingers inside you, plunging his fingers into your pussy.

"Look at you. You're soaking wet" he pumped his fingers in you, making you moan, "Is that why you came to see me? Couldn't wait any longer for daddy to be inside of you?"

You bucked a little, making him stop. He drags his fingers out, causing you to beg for him to go back.

"Answer my question you greedy thing" He leaned closer to your ear. "Did you need my cock this much?"

You whimper, "I do! Missed you so much"

He pushed his fingers back into you, provoking a moan out of you.

"You're always so needy for me" your core tenses, making you shiver. "How badly do you want me? Tell me"

You whimpered "Badly, papi"

"Say it" his face contorts in satisfaction at your pathethic display; crying little mess, "Who's cock, fingers and mouth make you feel good?"

You can't think at this point, your brain fuzzy and pussy hot, leaking. You kiss his lips, moaning against them, "you!"

"Just me, yes? Nobody else can make you feel this good?"

"No one!"

You involuntarily roll your hips to aid you in pleasure, yet Pedro stops you just before you can reach your orgasm.

"Little brat." he tuts, making you groan. "Did you think I'd let you? You were naughty today, baby"

You huff in annoyance, used to having your way.

"That's your punishment"

"But I'll behave" you mewl against his ear, "I promise"

“Good, because I'm planning on fucking your brains out” his hot breathe whispers in your ear seductively, trying his best not to slur the words at the drunken haze that your arousal provokes in him, "but you have to help me first"

You get on your knees, looking at the garment he's wearing. The skirt and general costume makes this all the more hot, mouth watering at the sight. You raise the skirt, glancing at the briefs; just seeing his dick strained against the fabric makes you wet in anticipation.

He sees the pleasure bore into your orbs, and before you do any dirty idea of yours, he's already warning:

"You have to take this off, what if we-"

"Alright" you cut him off, "but the skirt stays"

"Sigue, pues" he growls, voice low yet demanding, following you in your little game.

As you pull the briefs down, his erection springs out enthusiastically, slapping up against his lower abdomen. You shifted your gaze up to meet his, his eyelids heavy and his proud smirk driving you absolutely wild.

"That's right" he chokes out, "show me how much you missed it"

You give him a proud lick, and Pedro hisses at the moment his preseminal fluid goes in between your hungry lips.

Your tongue darts to the head of his cock, running over it several times before bobbing your head down, taking most of him in your mouth. He keeps praising as you pump the base of his cock with your hand. Your head bobs, yet you peek up to hear Pascal's little sounds and facial expression, a motivation so intimate in the way his brows furrow and eyes roll, mouth agape at your movements while his lip suck on those pretty lips of his. It makes you keep going. With every bob you take as much of him in your mouth as you can, before slowly moving your way back up to the tip, increasing your suction the closer to his head you got. A throaty moan escapes the man above you when you now focus on the final lick, making him closer to coming, all while maintaining eye contact the entire way through.

"Don't do that" he rasps, yanking you by the hair again, as of punishment, but he knows you enjoy it, "you promised you'd be good"

You can't answer, so instead, you reach the head of his cock again, and now his eyes roll back, mumbling profanities that sound like heaven.

"Do you want them to hear us, brat? Qué necia eres" he manages to chastise while moaning.

You feel his dick stuck in your throat, and the way he's about to come; you think that after some time dating, you know him well enough.

You're about to leave with your mouth when he stops you.

"No" your eyes open in shock, "what? Did you think your punishment is over?" Pedro laughs, "don't look at me like that. Like you have never done it before"

He keeps you in place by the hair, the rings prickling against your scalp. You feel his muscles tense up, and before you can think anything else thick and hot shots of cum invade your mouth, making it sticky and warm.

"Don't pretend you don't like it" his voice goes dark, husky. "Swallow it all. Te han enseñado a no desperdiciar nada, ¿verdad? Show me your good manners, then"

When you pull out, your throat feels raspy.

"You gotta reward me" you cough out.

"I promised, didn't I?" his fingers trace your face delicately, with adoration.

"It's all about duty, General Acacius" you purr, and the dick springs out again. Hard.

"Princess..." he warns.

"For the glory of Rome" you joke and laugh, then cough, as your throat is still sore.

"Have you been reading my script?" as you avoid to answer, he just chuckles, "ay, nena"

"C'mere" he motions, and you sit on his lap again. Pedro lifts your dress, exploring the curve of your ass. There's anticipation as he hooks his finger around the waistband of your panties, pulling them down to access your core.

"Fuck" you squirm at his touch, grinding your freed cunt against his hard cock. He grabs you by the hip, adjusting you right on his lap.

"You taste so good" he kisses down your throat, ending at the chest were your tits peak.

"Want them?" you offer, pulling your dress down. He kisses them, gently nipping at your perked up nipples.

A wave of pleasure courses through you, and with whines and moans, you show how desperate you are, the hunger making the meal taste better. After all those weeks missing him, you just want him to fuck you senseless.

His lips are rosy and swollen against yours, mouths clashing; starved of the yearned contact. Truth is, no matter how much you know how to touch yourself, it'll never be the same as having his hard cock tear through your tight folds.

Pedro easily aligns his leaking cock with your uncovered pussy, all while mantaining the kiss. He pushes down on you, your dripping cunt taking all of his rock-hard cock, fingers holding onto the soft brown grey sprinkled locs.

"Pedro" you cry out his name, full of ecstasy as the stretch burns so sweetly. His low grunts only fuel your desire.

You trace with your eyes his body, now bare without the upper part of the costume: his pecs and abs, flexing with every pump. With now free hands, your fingers travel to softly caress his stomach, even if your tits are jiggling and the pace is rather frenetic.

"I missed you so much" you pout.

"Missed how you look" you clash your lips onto his, the adoration translating through the smile you press against, a trail of saliva that symbolizes how interwined you are, "you always look so fucking good"

"I missed you too" he whispers out, getting tired.

He's reminded of his old age, forgetting about it as soon as you two kiss, because you bring out a stamina he thinks he doesn't have anymore; almost animalistic. His bones creak and adding the tiring filming day under the hot sun, he feels his body start to give up, the orgams closer and closer.

He blushes, feeling like a stupid school boy with a crush. What did he even do to deserve you? Never thought a pretty young wild thing like you would even spare a glance on his way, but now you're taking all of his cock inside with such greed yet loom into his eyes with a love he's only dreamed of.

You're real, and his.

As soon as those words leave your mouth your orgasm spills over him, some of it dripping onto the skirt, making him curse. You can't stop, still meeting his thrusts halfway, despite your trembling body after reaching your high.

"Mierda" he groans against your mouth,

You feel yourself collapsing on top of him, the weight of the jet lag catching up.

"Getting tired, baby?" he coos. "Shit, and I thought I was old"

"You are" you reply back; you can never not have the last word. And he lets you, because, God, doesn't he love you? He pretends to look offended by it, but the way your eyes shine tell him you didn't mean it that way. "You and your white hairs" tracing over his moustache, a soft hand combing through his locks, "These wrinkles... don't you know how much I love them? how much I love you?"

"And you have no idea how much I love you" he squeezes his eyes shut, feeling it coming through. "God, wanna make you mine. Sólo mía" his pace slows. It's coming, and yes, you will take it all. "Wanna make you a baby, mami. Want you to take it all like the good girl you are"

When he comes, filling you with burning hot cum until you feel like you might burst, you're numb. But there's a feeling so content that pools warmth in your chest, that you can't say anything else, resting your head against his bare chest, both covered in sticky sweat.

"No sé cómo voy a explicar esto" he speaks through ragged breathes, and you can only smirk, "a squirted and cummed roman skirt".

"That isn't my problem" he scoffs, and you feel your head rise against the movement, earning a laugh out of you, "I'm not part of the movie"

"You'd sure think so, with the way you walked in here"

You roll your eyes, face hidden against his chest, "can you let that go?"

"You're right" he pulls you closer to him, hand enveloping you behind your bare back. The quiet doesn't bother you as you lie closer to his chest, his heartbeat the only thing you need to be at peace, "I think punishment time is over. Think you've learned your lesson"

"Then, how about we go out? I've heard Malta's beaches are pretty"

"Relájate, cariño. Seems you've gotten your energy back" he quips, then kisses your forehead. "We need to wait for everyone to get out"

"That embarrased you are of me?" you joke.

"No" he can already imagine his fellow cast members making fun of him, starting with Paul and Joseph when they see you and Connie who will totally notice the fun sticky stains on the costume, "but embarrased of the explanation I'll have to give"

[ashlingnarcos]

[nemo-writes]

𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖿 141 + 𝗏𝖺𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗋𝗈𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗆𝖼𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗌 ; 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗏𝖾 ── .✦

masterlist

── .✦ 𝖺𝗅𝖾𝗃𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗋𝗈 & 𝗋𝗎𝖽𝗒 ; "𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾" (?)

the midday sun hovered over the rolling hills of querétaro, casting a warm, golden light over the sprawling hacienda. whitewashed walls and red-tiled roofs contrasted with the lush greenery of the fields, while a gentle breeze carried the scent of horses, fresh grass, and dust through the wide courtyard. your father’s people moved quietly along the perimeter, keeping watch. there was a sense of tension underlying the easy warmth of the ranch—after all, the threat of narco activity loomed over every proud landowner’s domain.

you stood at the grand entrance, arms folded over your crisp cotton blouse, listening to the muted giggles and shushing behind you. your younger sisters hovered nearby, peeking around the heavy wooden doorframe, their eyes sparkling with curiosity. they’d been this way for ever since your father mentioned he’d invited two seasoned soldiers from up north—a colonel and a sergeant apparently. your sisters were practically bouncing on their toes, smothering their laughter behind cupped hands.

exasperated, you turned to glare at them. “¡ya, cállense! (shut up!) go find something else to do,” you hissed, stamping your boot on the polished stone floor. startled, they squeaked and darted back into the depths of the house, giggles following them down the hall.

a low hum drew your attention out to the courtyard. up ahead, a cloud of dust rose in the distance on the winding gravel road. moments later, a jeep rumbled into view and parked beneath the shade of an old mesquite tree. two men stepped out. the one you instantly recognized as colonel alejandro vargas moved first, pulling off his sunglasses and taking in the hacienda with a confident, knowing gaze. his partner and by elimination, sergeant rodolfo parra, followed more quietly, though with equal attentiveness.

as you took a few steps forward to greet them, alejandro turned his attention fully on you. his eyes roamed over you unabashedly—starting at your boots, lingering on the curve of your hips, then up along the line of your blouse before settling on your face. if he was subtle, it was only in the smoothness of his expression. rodolfo noticed immediately and elbowed him sharply in the ribs, giving a pointed tilt of his head that said behave.

you’d grown up around men confident enough to speak their minds and bold enough to never hide their appreciation. still, you weren’t about to let his lingering look rattle you. you met alejandro’s gaze evenly, head held high.

“bienvenidos (welcome),” you greeted, voice clear and steady. “my father is expecting you. he’ll be pleased you arrived safely.”

alejandro dipped his head, a slow, respectful gesture. “gracias (thank you), señorita (young lady),” he replied, his tone rich and warm. rudy nodded politely as well, his eyes kind behind that assessing soldier’s look.

you led the two men through the airy corridors of the main house, past patterned tiles and paintings that lined the walls, until you reached your father’s study—a room dominated by a heavy wooden desk and windows that overlooked the endless green fields. the scent of leather and old paper surrounded you, crisp and familiar.

your father rose from behind the desk as you entered, his weathered face breaking into a proud smile. he was a man of few words and firm handshakes, and he took each man’s hand in turn, greeting them in low, steady tones. “señores (gentlemen),” he said. “it’s good you’re here. we have much to discuss.”

he gestured for them to sit, then glanced at you, eyebrows raised. “will you join us, mija (daughter)?” the invitation was genuine; your father respected your intellect and knew your eyes were sharp, your ears keen. he always liked having you at his side for serious matters.

but you only shook your head, a polite smile on your lips. “gracias papá (thank you dad), but the hacienda doesn’t run itself.” you turned to your guests, inclining your head graciously. “señores, (gentlemen)" they both nodded in response, alejandro’s eyes lingering a beat longer before dropping politely.

before you could slip away, your father’s voice turned wry. “and by the way—” he said, his tone filled with easy authority. “if your eyes wander too far, you have my permission to charm my younger daughters if they fancy it. they giggle enough and might just play you around. but this one—” he jerked his chin toward you, his eldest. “—is off-limits. understood?”

a teasing sparkle glinted in his gaze, but beneath it lay iron. there would be no nonsense here, not with his pride and joy. alejandro and rodolfo exchanged quick looks, and the former cleared his throat, nodding respectfully. alejandro offered a lazy, good-natured shrug, as if to say he understood the message loud and clear. neither dared offer protest.

you felt heat bloom in your cheeks at your father’s frankness but kept your shoulders straight and your expression calm. you were no blushing girl to be mortified by your father’s protectiveness. instead, you owned it, giving your father a small, knowing smile and the soldiers one last quiet farewell.

then, lifting your skirts just enough to maneuver gracefully over the threshold, you left them to their meeting. the sound of low conversation and chairs scraping the floor followed you as you stepped back into the sunlit corridor.

. . .

dinner that night was more than just a meal; it was a celebration of community. your father had extended the invitation not just to the two visiting soldiers, but to his foremen, the ranch hands, and the domestic staff. the broad tables in the main hall were lined end-to-end, covered in embroidered tablecloths, clay plates, and woven baskets of bread. lanterns hung from wooden beams, casting a warm glow on familiar faces.

your mother and sisters sat among the men and their families, relieved of their usual hostess duties for the evening. at your insistence, they relaxed, laughing and joking as they enjoyed the spread of various guisados, salsas, and freshly made tortillas.

you took on the role of hostess in their stead, gliding around the room with calm efficiency. you refreshed drinks, made sure the children had a place to sit, and settled small disagreements with a few whispered words and a gentle hand on a shoulder.

in the center of it all, alejandro and rodolfo, or rudy as he had offered to the eager crowd, were holding court. your sisters and a gaggle of ranch girls hung on their every word as they recounted carefully edited tales of las almas—stories of tense nights, narrow escapes, and clever outmaneuvering of the cartels. rudy spoke with modest restraint, while alejandro painted pictures of their exploits with a mischievous grin. he embellished here and there, but who would know the difference? everyone loved it.

you slipped out at one point to fetch more pulque, disappearing into a back room where the large clay jug rested. you poured the thick, pale liquid into a smaller pitcher, careful not to spill a drop. when you returned to the edge of the hall and prepared to weave through the crowd, you collided—again—into something solid and warm.

alejandro.

he caught you easily, steadying the pulque jug before it could slosh onto the floor. despite the amount you'd seen him drink tonight, he remained steady on his feet, his movements sure and controlled.

up close, you could smell the faint trace of cologne and woodsmoke on him, and see the amusement dancing in his dark eyes. he looked at you unabashedly, as he had before, making no secret of his admiration.

“you’re a pretty little thing, aren’t you?” he said, his voice low enough that no one else could overhear. “your father’s something else,” he added, leaning in just a fraction, his breath warm against your face, “but i’m not scared…not that much at least.”

you tried to maintain your composure, tried to give him a cool, measured look. instead, you managed a cross between a flustered smile and a skeptical glare. the mixture of emotions danced across your face, and he seemed delighted by the display.

your heart fluttered, caught off guard by his brazen compliment and teasing. still, you lifted your chin, reminding yourself who you were and where you stood. “you should be careful,” you managed quietly. “this is my family’s home, and my father’s word is law.”

alejandro’s grin only widened. “noted, preciosa (precious).”

he took the jug from you then, hefting its weight in one hand as though it were nothing. with the other, he lightly guided you back toward the main hall, his touch warm against the small of your back and insistent through the fabric of your dress. your pulse thrummed at his closeness, but you made certain not to yield more than you wished. if he was testing your boundaries, he’d find them well-guarded—yet not altogether impenetrable.

and it was clear alejandro liked that very much. he guided you both to the laughter and music, as if nothing unusual had happened, but the secret between you now shimmered under the lamplight, a new thread woven into the tapestry of the evening.

the morning after the festivities, the hacienda seemed suspended in a rare, gentle calm. your father had declared that everyone could wake up late, allowing weary heads to clear and heavy eyes to rest. even so, you weren’t one to linger too long in bed. when you finally rose, you found the main hall deserted but for a few maids quietly sweeping and wiping down tables. you helped them for a time, gathering empty cups and smoothing tablecloths into neat folds.

by late morning, the house had begun to feel settled again. the lingering smell of last night’s food and cigars had faded, replaced with the familiar scent of your home—fresh bread baking somewhere, straw hats and well-worn leather boots resting by the door. once the chores were done, you stepped into the courtyard and followed the familiar path toward the stables.

there, warm sunlight filtered in through the open doors, dust motes dancing in the beams. the horses whickered softly, shifting their weight on the straw-covered floor. you approached your favorite mare, reaching out to run a hand along her neck.

a rustling sound drew your attention to the far end of the stable. you craned your neck, expecting one of the ranch hands, but were surprised to see rudy instead. he leaned against a nearby stall door, one hand lightly resting on the wooden beam while the other gently offered a bit of carrot to a curious stallion. he looked a bit worse for wear—his eyes were heavy-lidded, and his neat hair was slightly out of place. hungover, no doubt. yet there was a contented calm about him, a man at ease in this quieter moment.

he noticed you and stood straighter, though still cradling his head as if it pounded. “buenos días (good morning),” he greeted quietly, his voice softer than the night before. “i woke up late—i guess your father was merciful,” he added with a small, rueful smile.

you returned his smile, leaning against the stall door next to him. the horse nuzzled your arm, searching for more attention. “he usually is after celebrations like last night,” you said, feeling the peaceful hush of the stable settle over you both.

rudy’s gaze moved from you to the horses, the lines around his eyes gentle. “in las almas,” he began, words slow and thoughtful, “we used to have many horses.” he reached out to stroke the stallion’s muzzle. “good stock, strong animals. but things changed. the narcos, the violence… it became harder to keep them, harder to protect them. many people who had horses lost them or sold them off.” his voice carried a note of regret, of something once beautiful gone sour with time.

“i’m sorry,” you murmured, your hand moving to scratch behind your mare’s ear. “horses are… a part of the soul of a place like this, i think.”

rudy inclined his head, agreeing. “they are. your father—he wanted our advice, our experiences. we told him what we could. maybe it’ll help him keep the threats away. not just from the people of this municipio, but from creatures like these.” he patted the stallion’s neck. “they deserve a peaceful life, too.”

the warmth in the stable and the quiet companionship of the animals made it feel as if the world outside didn’t exist. you studied rudy’s profile—he lacked alejandro’s overt boldness, his compliments and staring eyes. yet there was a gentleness in the way he looked at you, a sincerity that didn’t need words to be understood.

“thank you,” you said softly, “for helping my father. for caring about this place, about our people, our horses. it means a lot.”

he gave a small shrug, something modest in the gesture. “we do what we can. there’s no guarantee it’ll be enough, but…” he looked at you then, meeting your eyes in the quiet light. “your family deserves a chance to hold onto what it has.”

the silence that followed was comfortable, tinged with unspoken things. rudy wasn’t shy about his appreciation—he’d shown it in the way he listened last night, in how he respected your home this morning—but he spoke no compliments aloud. he didn’t need to. you sensed it in his steady gaze, the way his voice gentled around you, how he lingered here instead of heading back to rest off his headache.

you stood there for a few moments longer, side by side with rudy and the horses, letting the quiet speak for you both.

. . .

they left before dawn, slipping away as the sky blushed pink and the hacienda’s rooster welcomed the sun. you’d risen early enough to catch a glimpse—alejandro and rudy loading their things, exchanging respectful farewells with your father, their voices low and earnest. neither looked your way as they climbed into their vehicle, yet the memory of their gazes lingered in the empty space they left behind.

all day, a strange hollowness followed you. it wasn’t as though your life revolved around them—of course not. you were your father’s eldest, you had duties and responsibilities that needed no outside approval. but you couldn’t deny something had shifted. attention like theirs didn’t come your way often, and now that it was gone, you felt its absence like a missed heartbeat.

you went about your life as usual. the days folded into weeks, and weeks into months. you saw to the cattle and the horses, managed ranchhands’ wages, delivered instructions from your father, arranged supplies, and oversaw the kitchens. everything ran smoothly, just as it always had. yet, at odd moments—trimming roses in the courtyard, dusting off saddles in the tack room, sitting down at dinner—you’d remember alejandro’s lazy grin, rudy’s gentle eyes, and a flutter of warmth would stir inside you, quickly buried by work.

three months later, you’d all but convinced yourself it had been a passing fancy. so it caught you utterly off guard when word came that they were arriving again, and this time to stay for a full week.

the news lit the household into hushed speculation. your sisters exchanged delighted whispers and your mother raised an eyebrow at you, amused by your quiet composure. your father only nodded thoughtfully, no doubt recalling the advice they’d given and the respect they’d earned. you tried to remain unruffled, telling yourself that this was just another business trip. but the tightness in your chest told a different story.

when the men arrived, you noted the change in their eyes immediately. alejandro stepped out of the jeep with that same confident stride, but there was a new gleam there, a focused warmth that made your stomach flip. rudy’s glance lingered a fraction longer when he greeted you, a subtle softness that felt almost intimate.

they were more blatant this time—cornering you at every turn, though never rudely. after dinner, when you disappeared into the kitchens to help tidy up, alejandro would appear in the doorway, leaning against the frame with arms folded and that charming half-smile on his face. he asked about the local traditions, the foods you liked best, the history of the carved saints that stood around your home. his voice was low and flirtatious, but sincere. he wanted to know you, piece by piece, and he made no secret that he enjoyed every moment you gave him.

rudy was different, quieter, but just as present. he didn’t ply you with sweet nothings—he was too careful, too mindful of scaring you off. instead, he caught you alone in the stables, commenting softly on your horses, their bloodlines and strengths, how he admired your careful breeding and training. he listened when you talked of their temperaments, asked which one was your favorite and why. he made you feel heard, respected, as if everything about your life and work mattered deeply.

between the two of them, you found no safe harbor. alone in the courtyard at dusk, or carrying fresh linens down a hallway, or even pausing in the cool of the cellar to check on wine casks—you’d feel a presence behind you, turn, and find one of them. alejandro’s playful grin or rudy’s gentle curiosity waiting to catch you off guard.

they were back, and this time they weren’t content to fade quietly into memory. they pressed closer, yet carefully—testing boundaries, showing respect, and taking delight in your every reaction. you couldn’t deny the thrill of it, even as you worked to maintain your composure.

one night, you were tidying up the kitchen, thinking everyone had turned in, when rudy appeared quietly at your elbow. without a word, he took your hand, his calloused palm warm and reassuring against yours. he guided you out into the moonlit courtyard and over to the stables, where the scent of hay and horse and distant bougainvillea filled the cool air.

you barely had time to question what was going on before alejandro emerged from the shadows inside. with a low chuckle, he claimed your other hand. together, they ushered you deeper into the stable, past rows of slumbering horses, their breathing peaceful and steady. at the very back, they’d cleared a small space—nothing grand, just a few thick blankets, some pillows, and a lantern casting a gentle glow over weathered beams and hay bales.

your eyes widened, and you started to sputter, words tangling in your throat at the implication of this hidden little nook. but alejandro silenced your protests with a soft brush of his knuckles along your jaw, and rudy pressed close behind, fingers gently smoothing over your shoulder. their voices were quiet murmurs, warm and coaxing, as they confessed what had been simmering between you for months.

they spoke of how they admired you: the way you carried yourself, the way you took responsibility without complaint, the way you looked after your family’s land and people with fierce pride and steady grace. it had drawn them like moths to a flame, they said, and neither minded sharing that flame if it meant feeling your warmth.

before you could form a proper argument—or even a question—alejandro tilted your chin and kissed you, slow and certain, while rudy’s hand slipped around your waist and under your shirt. there was no hesitation in the way they crowded close, gentle but insistent. their tenderness and attention washed over you, leaving no room for doubts or second thoughts.

they lowered you to the makeshift bed, one at each side, whispers and soft laughter blending with the rustle of straw. outside, a horse snorted softly, and beyond the stable doors, the world slept on, unaware of the quiet seduction unfolding within. the night stretched sweet and secret around you, their shared affection a balm that eased your surprise and embarrassment until all that remained was warmth, comfort, and the lingering promise of something beautifully unorthodox and undeniably your own.

banner credit

[henrycangelbaby]

In which: “It's not that the amount of love I had changed, but I feel so proud about it now, like that I want to shout from the rooftops and tell everyone of my loved ones how much I love my wife, MY wife, ya know?”

Or

An interview gives unique insight into Pedro Pascal and his vast amount of love for his wife

I make my way through meeting the cast of HBO's unexpected hit “The Last Of Us” rather easily.

Bella Ramsey lives in a far nicer apartment in London than anything I would have been able to afford at the same age. Despite their fame and talent, they remain settled and down to earth, dressed in an outfit a little too cool for me to understand and eager to show me around their lovely apartment that is decorated in a way that I quite liked but I'm sure my baby boomer father would find offensive. I even end up meeting Ramsey's girlfriend, a fellow actor (who I admittedly had never heard of) who is equally as young and pretty as Ramsey is. They are both lovely and down to earth, a sentiment I don't often find relatable working with celebrities.

Kaitlin Denver is in her late 20s and still looks like she could be in high school. She lives in a shared house with her sister, whom she also shares a music career with. Despite the controversy surrounding her character in the show, she seems to remain completely unfazed by the backlash and threats that surround Abby Anderson. Denver merley shrugs when I ask her how she deals with it, leaving me to assume her vices when it comes to dealing with unprecedented hate.

I meet other stars of the show too. Gabriel Luna has all the southern charm of Tommy Miller and more, making me question whether he really does any acting when playing the sweeter, younger Texan brother. Isabela Merced is very beautiful in person and is also far shorter than I had imagined. What she lacks in height she makes up for in personality and charm.

Of course, when you think of the stars of The Last Of Us, there is probably someone else that comes to mind. Securing an interview with Pedro Pascal is probably one of the harder things I have had to do in recent years. It's not that Pacal is hard to come by; in fact, in recent years we haven't been able to escape him. I originally doubted that I would even be able to secure an interview with the internet's "daddy." Pascal has had a busy few years, and this one is no different. With multiple projects coming out this year, including the new season of The Last Of Us and his highly anticipated entry into the MCU as the iconic Richard Reed, it seems that everyone wants a piece of him. While all the other actors on this list do have notable careers outside of the show, the point of this interview series was to be able to interview the main cast members of the show in anticipation for the new season; however, I found that same sentiment hard to carry across when interviewing Pascal. I don't want to spoil the show for anyone, but I will just say that he won't be back next season. Whether that's due to internal conflicts or simply being too booked, we’ll never know.

I was rather ecstatic to receive a phone call from someone on his team letting me know the time and date for our interview. Like normal, I'm given an NDA to sign before receiving any personal information, such as his address (which I did require for the purpose of the interview). But everything else seems to go off without a hitch. 

I was admittedly nervous to meet him. In the best way possible, his reputation definitely proceeds him. Pascal is only ever described as kind, loving, funny, and any other positive synonyms for a massive sweetheart that you can think of. I personally have been a big fan of his work since he played forever thirsted over narcos agent Javier Paner. I know they say you shouldn't meet your idols (and trust me, I've had my fair share of heartbreaking realizations that someone I once admired is actually a piece of shit), but I had high hopes for meeting Pedro. And I am happy to report that it did not disappoint. 

I arrived at his home in Los Angeles ten minutes earlier than I should have. Not that I'm kept waiting, as before I can get a second knock in on the door, a young woman flings it open, smiling at me tightly. She quickly lets me in, introducing herself as Pascal's assistant, offering me tea or coffee, and ushering me to sit down on the comfy-looking couch while I wait for her boss to arrive (which she insists should not be too long). I take a moment to look around the room while I'm waiting. The room is sweet and welcoming, much like the rest of the home, which feels very well... homely (like stepping into your best friend's house and chatting with their parents at the dinner table). It's a hard feeling to describe, such a sense of nostalgia from a place that I had never been in before. It feels fitting though that a man so beloved as Pedro Pascal should have a home that feels so nice. I snoop to get a closer look at the photos that hang up on the walls and sit on cabinets. Most of them seem normal. There are a few faces I recognize within the photos; Oscar Iscac can be spotted alongside a younger-looking Pascal in one of the photos on the wall. I spot John Favro amongst a few people in a photo that looks to have been taken on the set of The Mandelorian, but apart from that, the photos seem normal. They depict family and friends in various places over various years; it appears that Pascal cherishes his relationships with loved ones above all else. 

I'm stopped in my snooping by another face in one of the photos, a face I recognize instantly, a face that has been all over the internet and tabloids for some time now. Pedro's wife. The photo is the first one in which she features prominently, sitting alongside what I can only assume to be one of her husband's sisters. It's a sweet photo, one that I can imagine Pedro was on the other side of, grinning wildly while taking. Y/N Pascal is an elusive figure that the media and her husband's fans have been trying to know better for a few years now. She is what is best described as a "normie," that is to say that she is just like you and me; that is perhaps what makes her so interesting to fans. She doesn't appear to have any ties to the industry; she isn't some big-wig producer's daughter; in fact, despite their insistence, fans have been unable to find anything on her. She has no public social media accounts, no company profiles online, and no one she went to high school with has come forward with a tik tok horror story (yet!). The couple are shrouded in mystery; no one seems to know how they met, where Y/N is from, or even the highly shrouded question of her age. She certainly appears younger than Pascal by a good few years, and I'm sure that I could find thousands of posts online speculating (or being downright nasty) about how young she is. But out of respect for the happy couple, I leave it a mystery. 

The sharp heels of the sensible shoes that Pascal's assistant is wearing suddenly come back into earshot. She warns me to be ready with my stuff as “they” will be home soon. I don't think twice about her words before hauling ass back to the couch and trying to pull myself together. It's not long before I hear the front door open. Amy (Pascal's assistant that I had only just remembered the name of) runs to the door. I walk slower behind awkwardly, not wanting to intrude (despite the fact that I had spent the last ten minutes snooping around what was essentially a stranger's house). I peek round the corner to be greeted with Pascal's broad back. He is facing away from me, talking to his assistant lowly. His assistant finishes speaking and moves past me, wishing me luck in passing. Pascal doesn't turn around to greet me yet; in fact, he drops down onto one knee to reveal to my utmost shock his wife. Neither of them pay me any mind as he begins untying her shoes for her, ever the gentleman everyone believes he is. 

It's not a second later that the man of the hour turns around to greet me. He smiles widely at me, and I find myself blushing slightly at his unwavering eye contact as he introduces himself. He only introduces himself by his first name, not something I find often when meeting famous people; they are often eager to give me the name that everyone knows and loves them by. It seems a bit of a strange phenomenon in Hollywood that has missed Pascal. His wife then steps forward to introduce herself. I hate to be the bearer of bad news to the millions of jealous fans, but Y/N Pascal is strikingly beautiful; even as I meet her in her own home with no makeup, she glows ethereally with a striking smile that looks like it belongs on the cover of a magazine. In that moment meeting her I quickly see why Pascal holds her in such admiration.

Much to my disappointment, that is the first and last time I see her during the interview. Pedro ushers her away somewhere out of sight with a protective arm around her shoulder. I can hear him mutter to her lowly, promising to be quick. Before kissing her goodbye with an "I love you." It makes my heart ache with a longing. Much like the rest of the internet, I wish I had a man like Pedro Pascal. We chat for a while, while exploring his house, he speaks passionately about his career, which he clearly loves. He has a flame behind his eyes as he speaks about his long-winded love for the cinema. He tells me stories of his famous friends that are featured on his walls. We laugh together, and he very much reminds me of an old friend. Even though I should be interviewing him, I let him talk, rambling on about things that I didn't find important enough to put in this interview, but they certainly put a smile on my face. 

The house is beautiful; it's decorated nicely and feels authentic and homely. It's not massive, not overly obnoxious in the way many celebrity houses are; it's still big, the kind of size that screams loving family. I don't mean to make assumptions, but it almost feels like it's been brought with the idea of a growing family in mind. I complement the house easily. Pedro smiles at me. For the first time in the interview, he refers to his wife. He tells me that he hadn't cared where they lived; “anywhere is home when you are with someone that you love,” but insists that she had loved the house the moment they first saw it. "She has better taste than me,” he tells me with a loving glint in his eye. "She did a good job.” I compliment, he nods and smiles, "always thought I was biased 'cause I’m married to her, but glad to know it's not just me." I feel awfully privileged to get an insight into Pedro's fondness of his wife. It's not often that he speaks about her publicly; she gets mentioned in passing during interviews and is often spotted at events with him, safely away from the cameras, but it's clear to the general public that his marriage is a part of his life that he wishes to keep away from public scrutiny. 

Its towards the end of the interview that I do ask him about his marriage. We walk past a wedding photo that depicts him and his lovely bride squashed together on one seat, smiling widely at the camera. He doesn't say anything when he notices me peering at the photo. I ask him carefully if he thinks being a married man has changed him. He ponders for a second. "Probably,” he answers me carefully. It's not the response I had expected from him, so I quickly encourage him to go on. "I suppose it has in a way,” he continues. “It's not that the amount of love I had changed, but I feel so proud about it now, like that I want to shout from the rooftops and tell everyone of my loved ones how much I love my wife, MY wife, ya know?” I smile and nod at his explanation. I understand what he is saying—such a sweet sentiment that it makes my heart warm. 

We don't speak for much longer after that; he briefly mentions a few upcoming projects, which he seems excited for. I ask him what he has planned next, after his next few big projects are done. He hesitates for a second. “Truthfully,” he says, “I plan on taking a step away for a bit.” I ask if he wants to settle down more. “Yeah, that's part of it; I mean, I’m not getting any younger.” He tells me, “Things are changing soon, and I just want to be settled with my family.” He finishes. I wonder for a moment what he is referring to when he mentions these soon changes; I don't ponder on it too long; much like a crazed fan, I have a few theories floating around in my head. 

We wrap up the interview from there; he is as polite and gracious as he has been the entire time, shaking my hand and thanking me for my time. I try to thank him for the interview and for letting me into his house, but he simply shakes his head at me, insisting it was his pleasure. He disappears soon after that, saying he has something to attend to (and speed walking in the direction that his wife disappeared to). I'm left to see myself out; I don’t snoop too much after I’m left alone. I make my way back to the front of the house, peering around as I go. I peek inside one room that appears to be in the middle of some kind of renovation or do-over. There are multiple pieces of yet-to-be put together furniture on the ground as the walls look to be in the middle of being painted a pastel purple color. 

I’m about to leave when something catches my eye—on the table by the front door, which has various bits and bobs scattered over it, but none of these catch my eye. I step closer to get a clearer view of what appears to be a small black and white photo. I quickly realize what it is: tucked beneath the wallet I had seen Pedro place down before our interview began is an ultrasound. I smile knowingly as my theory is proven correct; the Pascal family is about to be adding another member. 

Congratulations to Pedro as his wife on the upcoming addition to their family.

[sigelfire]

Finally found a good sized picture of the first photo! Never seen the last one before (LOL). The rest are promo photos of Diego in Narcos Mexico

Bonus: An animated gif ♥️

Source

[maxdibert]

Feelings around Snape now are so, so different to how they were in 2007 when the final book was released (though there was a fair amount of infuriating sexual assault apologia on LiveJournal back then too). I do think that the predominant factor in the baffling online discourse around Snape over the last decade is the American cultural disconnect with Britain. Anglophone countries, but totally different societies. Current American dominance wins out on the internet platforms used for fandom. The unwillingness to consider the nuances in a ostracised boy who flirts with a fascist cult while looking for purpose definitely seems rooted in America’s extraordinarily polarised political environment. The ‘incel’ label incorrectly applied to Snape is based entirely on American archetypes of the male school shooter who couldn’t get a girlfriend.

I saw infinite dismayed reactions to the rumoured casting along the lines of ‘but if they cast Snape as a black man I’ll have to sympathise with him!’ which basically sums the disconnect up. The industrial history of 1970s Britain isn’t on mainstream fandom’s radar, everything is seen through the prism of America’s particular flavour of identity politics.

I completely agree, and in fact, this is something I’ve been thinking about for a while. It’s not at all a coincidence that the most fervent Snape haters I encounter online—or at least those who fail to understand how class dynamics work—are primarily from the States. And I say from the States because this doesn’t seem to be the case with people from Latin America, whose societies were colonized under a strong framework of social classes and strata due to the influence of Spanish imperialism at the time, in addition to being victims of multiple dictatorships, authoritarian regimes, and narco-governments. This gives people in Latin America a broader social perspective.

The States' people ones (because United States is not America, America is a whole continent and as a spanish person with a lot of Latin American friends i find quite disrespectful to call United States people Americans as if they where the only americans in the world lol) operate under a neoliberal worldview that is very different from this and also very different from Europe’s perspective on class struggle. Europe experienced fascism, and it’s Europeans who understand how fascism rose to power—not as something driven purely by economic elites suddenly deciding to start killing people, but as deeply populist political movements widely accepted by the social majority and even by much of the working class. These movements used propaganda to push rhetoric that fed into people’s needs and promised to address their economic and social problems.

This provides an objective perspective on how voting for Hitler or joining the Hitler Youth didn’t automatically make someone an inhuman monster. It was something that regular people, everyday individuals, did—people who didn’t necessarily have a vile or ruthless intent toward anyone but believed in a particular discourse and rhetoric. Understanding this is crucial for grasping how a character like Snape could end up joining the Death Eaters. But if you’re, I don’t know, living in a small town in Wisconsin and all you know is that it���s trendy to call any Trump supporter a Nazi and that everything is “Nazi” without having the slightest idea of what a Nazi really is, then you end up buying into a ridiculously simplistic narrative without any critical thinking or thorough analysis of the social and economic contexts that drive a society toward far-right ideologies.

I’m sorry, but they’re living in parallel realities. At the end of the day, the Harry Potter series, no matter how politically clueless Rowling is or how much her worldview is utterly bourgeois and biased, is still British. Britain is in Europe, and fascism was experienced in Britain just as it was in the rest of Europe. Similarly, Britain remains a parliamentary monarchy with a class system that isn’t based solely on economics and where a person’s value isn’t measured solely by their wealth but also by their lineage. It’s an aristocratic society, and aristocracy will always rank above the bourgeoisie. These people truly don’t understand this, nor do they make the slightest effort to try. And if they don’t do their homework, honestly, their opinions are worthless garbage.