#pedro Pascal

[chappellsroans]

PEDRO PASCAL

Sundance Film Festival 2024 // "Freaky Tales" premiere in Oakland, California, 2025

[millers-angel]

okay I don’t know if you take requests or not.. but imagine this okay:

reader lowkey losing an argument with Joel so she flashes her tits (his weakness) at him and she immediately wins bc he folds and fks her on the kitchen counter

(okay sorry im feral rn)

flashing joel joel miller x f!reader nsfw

“you said you were gonna do the dishes,” joel calls out from the kitchen, his voice sharp and already irritated. “you always do this.”

you appear in the doorway, arms folded. “you said you were gonna do them. last night. i remember.”

joel turns to face you, dish towel in hand, brow furrowed like he's been holding this in. “no. i said someone had to do them. and you said, ‘i’ll do it later.’ you said it in that little voice. the one you use when you know damn well you’re not gonna do a damn thing.”

“you’re making stuff up,” you say, though there’s the smallest twitch at the corner of your mouth.

“i’m done making excuses for you,” he says, tossing the towel onto the counter. “not this time. i’m not doing them. you need to take some responsibility.”

you look at him—his arms crossed, his jaw set, that stupidly sexy ‘i’m mad and i mean it’ look—and you tilt your head just slightly. your eyes soften, grow wide, warm, playful.

joel narrows his gaze immediately. “no. don’t give me that look.”

“what look?” you ask sweetly, taking a slow step forward.

“that look like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing,” he says, not budging. “it’s not working. not this time.”

you lift the hem of your shirt, just a little. barely enough to tease, to test. it usually works.

“i’m serious,” joel says, arms still crossed tighter now. “i’m not falling for it.”

you raise it a little higher, smile curling at your lips. “i’m not wearing a bra.”

his jaw flexes. “i don’t care.”

“don’t you?” you murmur, now just a breath away from him, your shirt hanging loose above your hips. “because it kinda looks like you do.”

you hold his gaze. then, with one smooth motion, you pull your shirt over your head and drop it to the floor.

joel stares at it.

then stares at you.

and says nothing.

just stands there, jaw clenched, eyes locked on yours like he’s trying to remember why he was mad in the first place.

you take a step closer, slow, deliberate. your chest brushes lightly against his crossed arms, warm skin against fabric.

“still don’t care?” you ask, soft and dangerous, like you know he’s seconds away from folding.

joel exhales through his nose. “you think this is cute?”

you nod, eyes wide, pretending innocence. “a little.”

“you think you can flash your way outta consequences?”

“it’s worked before.”

he shakes his head, eyes drifting—just for a second—down your bare skin, then snapping right back up like it didn’t happen. but it did. you saw it. and he knows you saw it.

you lean up on your toes, lips almost at his ear. “you’re staring.”

“no, i’m not,” he mutters.

“yes, you are.”

joel’s hands twitch at his sides, like he wants to touch but refuses to move. “put your shirt back on.”

you hum, dragging your fingers slowly down his forearm. “make me.”

his jaw tightens again. “you’re not gonna win this time.”

“mm,” you breathe, lips brushing his neck now, barely there. “we’ll see.”

he closes his eyes. just for a second. like he’s praying. or surrendering.

or both.

“fine,” you say suddenly, stepping back from him, your tone all sweet surrender. “if it bothers you that much, i’ll do the damn dishes.”

joel blinks, caught off guard by your sudden shift. you grab the dish towel off the counter and head toward the sink like it’s no big deal, like you’re being the mature one now.

he watches. arms still crossed. lips pressed into a flat, suspicious line.

but you’re no stupid. you know exactly what you’re doing. you rinse a plate under the warm water, then slowly start scrubbing. your hips shift a little more than necessary, the curve of your back dipping just right.

joel’s still staring. of course he is.

you reach for the tall glass from earlier—the one you used to make that chocolate milkshake just a few hours ago, and when you tilt it, a thick streak of leftover chocolate dribbles out—straight to the top of your breast, slow and sticky, drpping over the nipple.

“shit,” you murmur, looking down at it like it’s some kind of surprise. but it’s not. you know exactly what you did.

you glance over your shoulder, lips tugging at the corner in the faintest smirk. joel’s eyes are locked on you, completely still.

“you just gonna stare, or you gonna help me clean up?” you ask, voice low, teasing.

his jaw moves, but no words come out. he’s losing. badly.

and you know it.

“you know what you’re doing,” he says finally, voice low and rough.

you smile without turning around. “i’m doing the dishes. just like you wanted.”

he lets out a heavy breath, like he’s trying to hold something in. “you’re dangerous.”

you hum, reaching up to grab another glass from the drying rack, letting your body stretch, letting your back arch just enough. “no, i’m helpful.”

“you’re playin’ with fire,” he mutters.

and that’s when you do it. you turn around slowly, hips leaning into the counter, hands still wet and dripping slightly. chocolate still sticky on your breasts.

joel doesn’t hesitate this time.

he’s on you in seconds—his hands gripping your waist, your back pressing into the counter. his mouth just barely brushes the corner of your lips before he pulls back like he’s still trying to fight it. still trying to hold on to whatever thread of self-control he thinks he has left.

“last chance to walk away,” he says, voice thick, eyes locked on your mouth.

“i’m not going anywhere,” you breathe.

and neither is he.

he doesn't move slowly this time. there's no warning, no hesitation—just the rough sound of his breath as he closes the distance and kisses you hard.

it’s not sweet. it’s not gentle. it’s everything he’s been holding back.

his hands slide up your sides, warm and strong, fingertips brushing the sticky path the chocolate left behind. he groans low against your mouth when he feels it under his touch.

“goddamn it,” he mutters, like he’s mad at himself, like kissing you is some kind of sin he’s giving into. “you drive me insane.”

you grin against his lips, breathless. “then stop fighting me.”

he lifts you without warning, sets you on the counter, stepping between your legs like he belongs there—he does. your bare skin against the cool kitchen tile sends a chill through you, but he’s all heat—his hands gripping your thighs, thumbs brushing slow circles into your skin.

“you think everything is a game,” he says against your neck, kissing along your collarbone, tasting the faint chocolate he finds there.

“maybe,” you whisper, fingers threading through his hair. “maybe i just like watching you lose.”

“i’m not losin’,” he growls, pulling back just enough to look at you. “i’m givin’ in.”

and it feels like falling—slow, dizzy, inevitable. like this was where you were always heading, since the first dish left in the sink.

he went down to your breasts, meanwhile his hands already worked unbuttoning your shorts.

his lips found the tip of your breast. he lost himself in it, he sucked, licked the chocolate. you were holding him close to your breast... you love when he plays with them, you love the feeling of his tongue sucking from your nipple as if he's trying to get something. you bite your lip and lean your head back, moaning softly.

joel's lips move to your other breast, his tongue swirling around your nipple before sucking it into his mouth again. you can see how swollen and drooled your breast is... but most importantly, it's clean from chocolate.

"i love the way you taste," he murmurs between kisses, looking up to you.

you chuckle when you spot a stain of chocolate on his jaw. "i can tell,"

his hands slide down to your thighs, squeezing and caressing them as he continues to pleasure you with his mouth. he sucks hard, his teeth gently grazing the sensitive flesh as he teases you with his mouth. he nibbled your nipple, hard enough to make you whine. hearing you was a reward for him.

“that’s for not doing the dishes,” he growled.

“oh, i can do it.” you said playfully, trying to hop off the counter.

he dragged your shorts off. “the hell you’re not. you’re not going anywhere.”

joel grabs your hips again, holding you in place on the counter as he moves between your legs, his body pressed against yours. he leans in, nibbling on your earlobe as he speaks.

"and right now, i want you to be a good girl and stay still for me."

joel reaches down, grabbing his cock and stroking it a few times before pressing it against your entrance.

"you're such a brat," he mutters, his voice filled with both irritation and desire. "never do any chores."

he pushes forward, slowly entering you, his eyes locked on yours the entire time.

"you never let me,"

he thrusts into you hard. he wasn't being soft or slow. he was setting a rentless pace.

joel continues to thrust into you, his pace growing faster and more intense with each movement. he moves his mouth to your neck, biting and sucking at the sensitive skin there as he drives into you over and over again.

"you're damn tight," he groans. "and so damn stubborn."

he lifts one of your legs, wrapping it around his waist, giving him even more access to you. his hips snaps against yours.

"gentle," you say softly between breathy moans.

"you don't like it gentle."

he lifts your other leg, pinning them both against the counter, seizing the moment to pound into you. you twirl your fingers on his hair, tugging just enough, whimpering and repeating his name, over and over, asking for more.

"see? you're a damn brat,"

"no more doing the dishes?" you pouted, faking innocence.

"i'll do them,"

and just like that, you won. again.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

[userparamore]

HAPPY 50TH BIRTHDAY PEDRO PASCAL! 2nd of April 1975

[missyorkswhore]

HEAR ME FUCKING OUT

[pascalisthepunkest]

HAPPY 50th BIRTHDAY, PEDRO!

[pascalland]

Welcome back Javier Peña

[ransomflanagan]

"I am such a 'True Detective' fan. I was anticipating it each Sunday as it came. I'm kind of a sci-fi fan. I was really hooked on the 'Battlestar Galactica' series. I think I owned every box set of 'Battlestar Galactica.' I also really love 'Bob's Burgers.'"

[joelsrose]

Messy

saw someone request @gothcsz for a javi version and I had to write it with joel

warnings - smut !!!!

You’d stopped trying to talk to him three orgasms ago.

Joel hadn’t looked up at your face in over twenty minutes—hadn’t asked how you were doing, hadn’t kissed your mouth, hadn’t said your name once. Because he wasn’t talking to you. Not really.

He was talking to her.

And right now, his broad shoulders were wedged between your trembling thighs, his palms holding your hips down firm, and his mouth—his goddamn mouth—was buried between your legs like he was making up for lost time. You’d lost track of how many times he’d made you come. Everything was slick now—your thighs, your stomach, his beard—and you were so overstimulated your legs shook violently every time his tongue slid up your soaked center again.

Joel’s voice was rough and gravelled as he pulled back for half a breath, looking down at your swollen, glistening pussy with something like adoration in his eyes.

“Fuckin’ look at you,” he muttered, not to you—to your cunt, like she was the one answering his prayers. “So goddamn pretty like this. All messy ‘n’ twitchy for me, drippin’ like you need me down here.”

You whined something—his name, maybe—but he didn’t hear it. Or didn’t care.

“Nah, not talkin’ to you, babygirl,” he rasped, dragging two thick fingers through your folds, watching the slick stretch between them. “M’ talkin’ to her. She’s the one beggin’. Look at this mess—fuckin’ soaked.”

He groaned like it pained him to look away, then leaned in again, licking a fat, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit, moaning against you like he was tasting something forbidden.

“You make me fuckin’ crazy, you know that?” he murmured against your folds, lips dragging over your inner thigh, beard scratchy and wet. “Pussy this sweet should be illegal. What am I supposed to do, huh? Ignore her when she cries for me?”

You reached down, tried to tug on his hair, tried to pull him up toward your mouth—but he just growled and shoved your hand away.

“Uh-uh. You don’t get my mouth, baby. She does.”

And with that, he dove back in, tongue circling your clit with maddening precision, fingers thrusting into you with wet, obscene sounds, your body arching off the bed as the next orgasm built too fast, too sharp—

“She wants it,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “I can feel her. Clenchin’ around me like she knows she belongs to me.”

You were crying now—shaking, begging, and he still wasn’t looking at you.

“Goddamn,” he muttered again, almost reverent. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty, baby. So fuckin’ messy. And all mine.”

[pedgito]

never beating the i like my men bloody allegations

[adam-scott]

Pedro Pascal shares this picture for Oscar Isaac's birthday (March 9, 2025)

[chappellsroans]

#Please, I have missed them so much

[pinklemonadesociety]

Smoking, side profile + wedding ring, lethal combination.

[lazysoulwriter]

husband!Pedro ♡

♡ husband!Pedro that holds your hand around the house like he’s scared to lose you between the kitchen and the couch.

♡ husband!Pedro that kisses your temple every morning before you open your eyes, whispering “good morning, baby” in the softest voice.

♡ husband!Pedro that keeps one hand on your thigh during every drive, his thumb stroking lazy circles over your skin.

♡ husband!Pedro that watches you get ready like you’re magic, constantly murmuring “how the hell did I get you?”

♡ husband!Pedro that texts you “come home soon” and includes way too many heart emojis for a man his age.

♡ husband!Pedro that insists on carrying all the groceries because “my wife doesn’t lift anything heavier than her skincare.”

♡ husband!Pedro that lets you steal all the covers and just pulls you closer when he’s cold.

♡ husband!Pedro that gets drunk and rambles about how you saved his life, how young you are, and how much he loves being yours.

♡ husband!Pedro that groans like a sinner when you kiss his neck, and swears you’re going to be the death of him.

♡ husband!Pedro that grabs your chin mid-argument just to kiss you rough and shut you up because he can’t stand seeing your mouth move without tasting it.

♡ husband!Pedro that pulls you onto his lap at dinner parties and pretends it’s casual while his fingers slip just under your dress.

♡ husband!Pedro that can’t keep his hands off you when you wear anything tight, muttering “you’re trying to kill me, baby” as he palms your ass.

♡ husband!Pedro that takes his time undressing you like you’re the most expensive gift he’s ever been given.

♡ husband!Pedro that fucks you slow just to watch you beg for more, praising you with every thrust like you’re his religion.

♡ husband!Pedro that bites your shoulder to keep quiet when you ride him, because the neighbors already know your name.

♡ husband!Pedro that looks at you after sex like he just conquered something holy, whispering “mine” over and over against your neck.

♡ husband!Pedro that makes love to you like a promise and fucks you like a threat.

♡ husband!Pedro that wraps a hand around your throat and says “be a good girl and open your mouth” like it’s just another form of saying I love you

♡ husband!Pedro that keeps a photo of you naked in his wallet, not for the thrill, but because he swears it's his luck.

✎ (❁ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈) ༉‧ ♡*.✧

[clubsoft]

[thewaythisis]

Freaky Tales

theoaklandside and cdglocal892