#pedro pascal fics

[inklore]

code breaker

premise: there’s always been something there, between the two of you. unspoken and filling in the cracks of those moments where joel is helping you out of a tough situation and your offering up a thank you and sweet smile. if only it didn’t take bloody knuckles and some band-aids to finally crack the code of that something.

pairing: joel miller x (f)reader

word count: 6.2k

warnings: eighteen+ content, unprotected p in v, smut with feelings really, fem receiving oral, friends to lovers, mutual pining, fluff, mentions of violence and blood, alcohol mention, toxic exes and relationships discussed, dirty talk, biting and love marks mention, lots of banter, au (preoutbreak).

note: i meant for this to be darker but it turned out wayyy more fluffy and i’m actually really happy about it. i hella edited this but it still feels choppy so if it is i’m sorry ya girl has bad eyes lmao. gif made by me so don’t be an ass and steal it tysm <3

There’s words you should be saying right now. Expressing. Spilling from your mouth in a heap of thank you, I appreciate you, what would I do without you always being there for me…

But they just can’t seem to come out. The speech part of your brain—and your heart—aching and prompting you to speak. To show courtesy, your vocal cords refuse to let you get out. Like your mouth has forgotten its purpose, your throat hoarse from screaming Joel’s name in the chaos of thrown fists, people shouting, men trying and failing to haul Joel’s weight off of the bloodied body below it.

The blood on his knuckles pulls your eyes in like a neon sign: caked, dark, and drying the longer the air gets to it. If it hurts Joel doesn’t state it—show it as he grips the steering wheel. You’ve never thrown a punch before, have never seen something like this up close and personal. You excelled at resolving conflicts before they arose. Never let arguments get past the phase of unfair yelling. But you would assume his knuckles must be aching, even if only a dull pounding.

You know for certain your ex's face is.

Good. 

You hadn’t expected him to show up at the bar, your job. Hadn’t expected him to start in on the possessive act—coincidently the local patrons were less than surprised at the all-too-cliché behavior. The town having labeled him as bad news ages ago. Something you had to learn the hard way, when you finally took off those rose colored glasses. 

Joel had been staring at you for the duration of the exchange. Even after your ex left to hang out with a group of his buddies in the corner, his gaze lingered on you.

"You alright?" He asked as he slid his glass towards you, his forearm leaning against the bar. A wordless nod letting you know he wanted another. 

"Yeah, he’s not the first creep I've had to deal with. It's in our DNA as women to deal with the lesser species of the male population."

"Can’t tell if that makes me feel better or worse as a father."

"Oh," you send him a sweet smile. Setting his refilled whiskey in front of him, "no creep dare mess with Sarah. I’ve seen her make jocks cry."

"That’s my girl, taught her well." The grin he wraps around the rim of the glass makes something girlish—and foolish—spark in your stomach. 

Maybe if you had a man like Joel in your life, you would be less likely to keep making the same mistakes with no-good assholes who are good for a week and bad for the rest of the 358 days. 

A girl can dream. 

And she has. Embarrassingly. 

The two of you had continued to talk, your hip pressed against the bar as you cleaned a glass; perhaps you had been smiling and laughing too hard at what Joel was saying because your ex was back and grabbing you from across the bar in an instant.

An action that quickly landed him passed out and bloodied on the bar floor, and your boss trying to make sure Joel hadn’t taught him too good of a lesson to have him see God. 

And while the adrenaline of shock had been bruising your heart against your rib cage, your lungs devoid of air—when Joel had put his non-bloody hand against your arm, calling your name (the white noise of the commotion in the bar creating an impenetrable barrier to your ear drums), a warm thumb under your chin pulling your attention away from the limp body on the floor and up into his eyes—that adrenaline melted and turned into serendipity. 

Gratefulness. 

Those girlish sparks turning into an entire flame that quickly engulfed you as he asked if you were okay. As he comforted you with a barely there touch on your arm and chin, concern in his dark eyes. Concern for what? Frightening you? 

When your gaze is drawn to his knuckles, his body language responds with a grimace. When you see the gashes only bone against bone brings. 

He’s worried he’s upset you. As if he's done something wrong.

When he insists on driving you home you don’t argue. Wouldn’t dream of it even if the circumstances were different. It wouldn't be the first time he drove you home because your beat-up car wouldn't start or because the weather was bad and your anxiety was high.

That’s the thing about Joel. 

He was always there. 

If you needed help, he always seemed to find time. 

Because of this, and the aforementioned beating your toxic ex to a pulp, you shouldn't be allowing the silence to spread between the two of you like strangers. Like something in the air was making everything awkward, like you hadn’t sat in his truck a dozen times before. Like he hasn’t gotten you out of a pinch (minus the blood) before. 

And after he’s pulled into your driveway, engine turned off, the cicadas and crickets filling the silence, it’s Joel who finally speaks. 

Who cracks that barrier you have mentally been trying so hard to climb over. 

"I’m sorry if I," he clears his throat, flexes his fingers against the steering wheel. "If I overstepped." 

And the ridiculousness of him even apologizing has your mouth finally moving into action. "Joel, no, oh my gosh, no." Your palm presses against your chest as you look at him apologetically; you should be the only one saying sorry, thanking him, worshiping at his feet for this. "I should be the one saying that. I should have handled it myself or-"

"Or what?" He looks almost angry, shocked at your words. "He had a hold of you, and no disrespect, but I ain’t ever seen you kill a fly, let alone throw a punch at someone." 

"Hey! I could punch someone." 

"Could and would are two different things." 

"You sayin I couldn’t?" 

"I’m sayin' you wouldn’t." 

"Not tough enough?" 

"Your heart's too big." 

"If you knew how hard I was holding back the urge to prove you wrong by bruising that bicep of yours, Joel Miller, you’d think differently." Your scowl and threat only seem to amuse him because he’s grinning at you. "You’re lucky you’re injured." 

"I’m shaking in my boots." 

"As you should be." The laugh the two of you share makes your cheeks burn.  On the outside, many could and have labeled Joel as a complicated man. A man who takes a lot of nudging and persistence to get to know past that surface-level workaholic grump he sometimes displays. But he’s a man who would lend a hand at the drop of a hat. A man with honor embedded in his very DNA.

There’s a list you’ve kept in the back of your mind that has every bullet point filled out and doodled hearts around the edges of all the reasons Joel is a good man. A man you trust. A man you adore.

"Thank you, Joel." He starts to shake his head, but you stop him with your palm resting on his forearm, "thank you. "You're right, I don't think I even know how to make a proper fist, let alone connect it." Your soft laugh makes the corners of his lips tick up. "You didn’t hesitate to help me. You never do. It means a lot to me, I hope you know that."

He nods, his eyes only on your face. Listening. Taking in every word you’re saying, even if you know he hates the fact that you’re thanking him for this. But he deserves to know how much you appreciate him.

Your hand moves to his wrist, gently yanking it away from his vice-like grip on the wheel. Your index finger runs along a vein at the top of his hand—the one spot the blood didn’t cake on to. "Does it hurt?" 

"No. Between the callouses and the whiskey, it’s nothing more than a cat scratch." 

"You should still get it looked at."

"You’re looking at it, aren’t ya?" 

Your eyes roll. "I’m not a doctor, Joel." 

"All a doctors gonna tell me is to be more careful, hand me a band-aid, and charge me three hundred dollars."

"Well, in that case," you drop his hand and grab for the door. The dry summer air ineffective to your already burning skin from the man whose raising his brows at you, "I got band aids in the house, and I didn’t get to finish my shift, which means you owe me three hundred in tips alone sooo."

"There's barely three hundred people in this town, and you’re tellin me you make that in tips?" 

"Joel, just get in the damn house." You order, slamming the door of his truck and walking up the path to your front door. Smiling when you hear him huff and grumble under his breath as he gets out. 

A hiss—and a scowl so deadly it could scare away even the biggest and badest of grown men—has Joel’s hand twitching in your hold as you run a wet cloth along the tops of his knuckles. The fabric pulling up the caked on flecks of dried blood, the surface of the cuts along the bone already starting the healing process from being clotted with red. 

"I thought you said it didn’t hurt?" You smirk playfully. 

"Whiskey’s wearin' off," he grunts. 

"Or," you dab the cloth in the small cap of saline solution you’ve pulled from your first aid kit under the sink. Bringing it back to his skin to press gently across his cuts, his body tensing. "You’re human after all," his eyes roll. 

"Don’t alert the press." 

"Oh, they’ve already been informed." 

His hand rests on your thigh as you ball up some tissues to dry the area around his knuckles. Enough to keep the band-aids—the only thing he would allow you to use because gauze would just get in the way at work, he informed you when you insisted—from falling off. The heat from his palm burns through your jeans, and it's a blessing in and of itself that you're ignoring how it makes your insides feel; how your body's warmth is no match for how hot he feels. His legs are spread, body slouched against your couch, his knee against yours. A closeness he’s never been before. A casual touch and directness between friends that shouldn’t be making you feel feverish and cheeky. 

When he flexes his fingers a couple times and his fingertips run along the top of your thigh, you find yourself wishing you’d worn a dress to work. A skirt. Anything to have been able to feel him do that against your bare skin. A thought you chide yourself for. A thought you hope isn’t written all over your face when you look over at Joel and he’s staring at you. Eyes darker, expression unreadable and stoic, in that way you can never tell what emotion he’s feeling at that exact moment. He gives nothing away but still sends your stomach plummeting. 

After the band-aids have been stuck and you’ve cleaned up the mess on your coffee table you offer him a drink. 

"Unless you have to get back to Sarah, then I understand."

"She’s with a friend tonight." 

"You gonna tell her how you saved the day, all knight and shining armor style?" You tease as you walk back to the living room with two beers in hand, putting one in Joel’s outstretched one and the other to your lips. Taking a sip as you take your place beside him once again, this time a leg pulled under you as you face him. 

He snorts, "don’t know about all that."

"I’m sure word has already gotten around. Her friends are probably gabbing about how heroic Mr. Miller is, a real prince charming." You laugh when you see his grin. 

"Or," he says, swallowing the sip he's just taken. "She’ll give me that death glare that all teenagers possess after puberty, you know the one?"

"Oh, I know the one. Mine was so fierce my mother banned it from our house."

"It’s deadly."

"Truly."

"I’m sure prince charming will be the last thing connected to my actions. Rage and jackass sound more on the money." 

You frown. Watch as he stares down at the result of the rage he thinks will now be accompanied with his name. Tarnishing it that now people will forget the kindness that was once there, the man whose hardworking now turned into something vile all because of an act of heroism some might find obscene; with how much blood and possible damage it has caused to one mans face, you could understand why such an act would be. 

But to you—and those who knew how horrible your ex had been, how he had deserved every bone crunching punch, every spit of blood and teeth choked on—you knew that what Joel did was right. And maybe, somewhere deep down in those morals against violence everyone gets handed out to them at birth, you knew that Joel could be sitting in a jail cell instead of on your couch if those punches had been any worse. If it had been pure untamed rage like some will say. 

"You’re a good man, Joel. So you potentially hospitalized an asshole, who hasn’t?" Your heart leaps in your chest when he laughs, and you thank God that your joke landed. Thank him that this man with his disheveled hair that's begging to have a hand run through it, work shirt and jeans looking like they’ve seen better days—is in your life. Not every girl has someone willing to bruise another man's face while destroying the hand that's needed to do their job properly.

No one had acted as quick as Joel had. 

Joel Miller was a good man. 

"What did you see in him anyway?" Joel asks, taking another sip of his beer. His gaze is drawn to you from the hole he was burning into his hand. 

And if you were being honest with yourself, you didn’t know. 

Couldn’t answer that question with the full truth because you didn’t know why you always went for the assholes. The guys who liked to scream instead of talk it out. Who liked to steal money from your wallet for booze or a habit they couldn’t kick. The ones who never remembered your birthday but made sure didn't forget theirs.

Your father had been a great man. Your mother an amazing woman. You couldn’t take the easy way out and blame it on family trauma. 

So you answered with the only viable reason that came to mind. 

"Loneliness makes you ignore all the bad stuff." You take a sip, swallow it down (washing away the pinpricks of potential embarrassment for being so brutally honest with Joel). "It makes you talk yourself out of throwing all their stuff to the curb or burning it in your backyard, because it’s not always bad. Some days are good. Some of them wait to be assholes before the novelty wears off; others wait until you're two years in and they’ve already slept with half the town behind your back. And some will bring you flowers every time they mess up, until one day you look around and realize you don't have any room to put this new vase and there's dried flower petals all over your floors. But hey, at least you’re not lonely, and your house smells really good." 

The smile on your lips fades when you see the look on Joel’s face. See that he’s finding no humor in this story. And the gulp that swallows down the beer in your hands burns your throat the entire way down. Your cheeks are burning, and you have to look away from him. Distract yourself by picking at the label on the bottle. 

"Or maybe it’s as cliché as saying I haven’t found the right one yet." You try to save, nervously chuckling under your breath. In hopes that he forgets everything you’ve just said and clings to this one shitty joke. 

"Look at me."

You do, and you wish you hadn’t. The roughness of his voice makes your stomach swoop and fall like a rollercoaster of emotions you did not prepare yourself for. Hadn’t imagined this being in your future when you’d walked into work. But you’re looking at him. Meeting his eyes. Seeing the stern glower in them before he speaks. 

There’s a million things you imagine him saying. Telling you how much better you are than that, than all of those meaningless assholes. How you deserve better, and you’ll find it someday. Hell, you expect him to scold you with how low his brows are.

What you don’t expect is to feel his lips on yours. His fingers digging into the skin at the back of your neck, his chest inches from your now-heaving one. And it renders you speechless. Still. Your brain not computing with the signals your nerves are giving off right now. 

When he pulls away and looks at you, it takes you several blinks to meet his gaze. The air in your lungs weighing your chest down. You shouldn’t speak. Should allow yourself to get your bearings in order. To catch your breath and sort through everything you’re feeling right now. "Was that a pity kiss?" 

"A what—pity kiss?" 

"Cause of the," you swallow, lick your lips, "of the aforementioned assholes?" 

Joel’s breath fans across your face when he chuckles, "anyone who’d pity kiss you deserves to be added to that list of assholes. And I might be on many asshole lists, but hopefully not on yours." The fingers on your neck skate forward to your cheek, thumb pressed gently along your jawline. His features grow serious again. "I didn’t just knock that asshole out because he had it comin'. And if you haven't noticed, I’m either working or at home with Sarah. Both keepin' me more than busy."

"Too busy to be making house calls for leaky faucets and tarnishing your good name with your fists?" 

"Exactly." 

There's a long pause between you two, as if you're both waiting for the other to say something, anything, to put these unspoken mutual feelings out there.

"Joel, are you saying you coming over to fix my faucet and staying for the occasional beer was you…flirting?" The grin he gives you makes you laugh, "who taught you how to flirt? And please don’t say Tommy."

"No. If I had listened to him we’d be–" he doesn’t finish. Just shakes his head and chuckles under his breath. 

And maybe affirmative action with your hands wasn’t your forte, maybe you couldn’t do what needed to be done when it came in the form of actions. But when it came to words, to saying what you wanted, needed, craved when it was right here in front of you being hinted and teased at, you didn’t hesitate. 

"Maybe you should have listened to Tommy." Your hand mirrors his own, resting on his cheek. You already knew he ran hot from his palm alone. But his cheek feels just as warm as you do, burning right through to your bones. His gaze falls to your parted lips, and a decision is made in the seconds it takes him to return his gaze to yours.

An agreement. 

"C'mere." His lips collide with yours in a heated kiss of nicks of teeth and tongue that taste like whiskey and beer and something that your brain will forever recognize as Joel. A taste you know you’ll be wanting to swallow down again and again. To feel the burn of his beard against your chin until your skin is raw and blotchy from how hard his mouth is devouring yours. An arm wrapped around your waist pulls you into his lap, and your forgotten beers spill and stain the cushions of your couch. "Shit, sorry, let me," Joel starts, but you stop him with your hands on his cheeks. 

"Leave it, just come here." You insist, lips returning to his. 

"Yes, ma’am." His smirk molds to your mouth, wipes away as his tongue runs along your bottom lip to press against yours. A hand on your ass squeezes and presses you forward so you’re grinding against his lap. The seam of your jeans rubs up against the wet patch that's quickly forming on the fabric of your underwear, becoming sticky and clinging to your pussy. Joel's other hand runs down the column of your neck, gripping and pulling you away from his mouth so that his lips can latch onto your sensitive skin. A gasp leaving your lungs, teeth and tongue making you shudder and cling to his shoulders. 

Shoulders you don't let go of until your back hits the mattress and you're both pulling your shirts above your heads, your fingers quickly working the clip of your bra, joining the discarded pile of shirts and shoes on your bedroom floor.

Your heart feels as if it’s beating a hole through your chest, like it’ll fall into Joel’s hands as he leans over your body, knees between your open legs, as his palms run down your chest, between your breasts. Over the globes of them, calloused thumb circling around your nipple. Your breath caught in your throat as you press yourself up into his touch. He’s taking you in, letting his eyes trail every dip, possible mole, scar, and marking on your skin. How your chest heaves in response to his hand. How your breasts fit in his palm. How you gasp and cry into the air when he leans down and swirls his tongue around one of your nipples before sucking it into his mouth, teeth lightly scraping against the sensitive flesh when he pulls off and does the same to the other one. 

His mouth finding its way back to yours again. His hips canting against yours; you can feel his cock digging into your thigh. And when you let your hand skate between the two of you to give him more friction. A dizzying desire to feel more of his heat and need for you burning through your skin and to your core, where you truly crave him. 

The deep grunt that falls from his mouth and onto your waiting tongue sends a shockwave of arousal through your entire body. Being. You want to hear it again, want to pull every noise from this man with your body and mouth until you are both drained and cursing yourselves for not doing this sooner. And you know he wants to do the same. Wants to catalog every pressure point and sensitive bit of your flesh so he can draw this out, can rile you up with a simple touch, scrape of teeth, run of his tongue along your jugular. Until you tell him how badly you can’t stand not having him inside of you. 

He's leaving a trail of kisses down your stomach, his fingers digging into the skin above your jeans, holding your hips still. Preventing you from moving them the way you want to from each press and prickle from his mouth and beard—scalding the nerves of your skin and making your insides whirl. 

"Lift your hips for me, sweetheart." Joel murmurs into your skin as his fingers curl into the waistband of your jeans. Your body feels barren and cool away from his heat as he sits back on his knees, your hips lifting as he frees your legs from their confines. His thumb runs along the lace of your underwear, dipping lower and lower until it’s pressing into that wet spot. A silent, smug praise tugs at the corner of his lopsided smile as his eyes look up to yours.

If your mind was working coherently and not filled with Joel Joel Joel (the way he smells woodsy and rugged, the way something deep and gruff reverberates in his chest when your teeth sink into the skin of his neck, and how he keeps looking at you like a fine art piece hung in the Louvre. Movements quick and gentle as he pulls your underwear down your thighs, making quick work to push your legs apart, fingers digging into the back of your thigh as he lets himself take his time adorning you fully on display for him) there'd be a sassy remark aimed at him.

The callus of his thumb nicks your swollen clit, eliciting a whimper from your lips, your hips following the descent of his finger as it spreads you apart. Trailing a line from your clit to dip into your entrance, gathering your arousal on the pad of his finger, his eyes on yours as he presses it against his tongue. A burning hunger in his eyes as he sucks your wetness from his fingers. 

You're a panting mess by the time Joel positions his head between your legs, arms wrapped behind your thighs, lips, teeth, and tongue trailing up your inner thigh. Your fingers clench the blanket in anticipation, need, and want. The closer his mouth gets to your center, the more you can feel his hot breath moving in, the potential love bites and marks he’s leaving on your inner thigh—all a certain type of torture you don’t think you’re strong enough to put up with right now. 

You lift your head to start begging, to plead with your torturer, but he’s speaking before you can. 

"Wanna take my time, sweetheart." His tongue swirls at the joint of your inner thigh. And just as earlier, the words you mean to get out, to speak from the storm cloud of lust in your head, die in the back of your throat when Joel runs the flat of his tongue up the seam of your pussy. The torturous muscle wraps you around his tongue, following the slowest path to your clit, until the tip of his tongue flicks, making a pattern of strokes and licks, until his lips wrap around the swollen nerve, making you feel delirious. Keeps pulling gasps, moans, and pants of pleasure and ecstasy from your parted mouth; head thrown back on pillows; legs trembling around his head from the blazing fire that grows and grows the more he consumes you.

The more his nose nicks your clit when he fucks you with his tongue, the more his fingers dig into your quivering legs to keep you anchored to the bed and his mouth. 

It feels like hours with how slowly he goes. Keeps you dangling from the ledge with every stroke and suck. Every soothing indent his fingers are leaving in your thigh. Your skin slicked with sweat, knuckles cramped from its grip in the blanket. When your moans go up in pitch he goes slower in that motion, that spot that has you seeing stars. Then he lets your breath come back to you with slow strokes of his tongue at your entrance, giving attention to the other parts of you that you didn’t think could elicit such erotic noises from your lungs. 

Your fingers find their way into those disheveled strands you’ve been waiting a lifetime to thread through. To pull and keep yourself from the feeling of floating away from the intensity of the pleasure. From your orgasm coming closer and closer until you’re panting his name, "Joel, Joel, Joel–fuck," your body shaking, the cries pulled out from this man burning your throat as you finally fall from the ledge and into him; his tongue coated in you, his chin wet with your essence. 

Your body sensitive and heavy as you come down, a sweaty heat making you feel sticky. Joel’s fingers seem to bypass every sensitive part though, as his palm caresses the tops of your thighs, your hips, your curves, the side of your breast. Until he’s reached your burning cheeks, mouth pressing the gentlest of kisses to your lips. The kiss was slow and gentle. Your arousal coats your taste buds when his tongue meets yours.

The kiss feeling more intimate than before, more heady. Knocking you right back on that loop you just got off of. That ache and throb he just sedated starting again in your belly, moving to where your thighs are soaked. 

"You’re overdressed," you murmur against his lips. Joel kisses you again, your open mouths exchanging a breathy chuckle.

"Do you wanna change that?" 

The question holds more than just the surface level of a joke and an answer of "yeah, obviously."  There’s a seriousness to it that makes you pull back from his lips and stare up at him. His thumb traces a soothing pattern into the bottom of your chin, his eyes holding an unspoken reassurance that he’s fine with it ending right here. With him just pleasing you, getting to take you apart and reassemble you with tender touches and a torturous mouth.

It can be all about you.

It is all about you.

You deserve nothing less.

His eyes and soft grin speak unspoken. 

Your nod is slow and reassuring. Your fingertips copy the motions of his thumb against the patches of skin in his damp beard. "Unless you’d rather help me get the stain out of my couch that you caused."

"I caused?" His brows shoot up. 

"It's to be expected when you can't keep your hands off of me," you say before shrieking as he pinches your side. His lips kissing your scowl away—a problem you foresee in the near future.

The kiss lasts for minutes (centuries you wish). Your fingertips never lift from the other's face, moving along jawlines, chins, and cheek bones. His chest comfortably against yours, giving you that heat you missed so dearly. His cock still stiff and hot in his jeans, grinding slowly against your pelvis. 

Is this how it’s supposed to feel? When feelings haven't even been discussed yet, but you just know? Already know what each touch, kiss, and caress holds behind it. Telling a wordless story in the way he had wanted to give you pleasure first—to taste—and take his time making you feel everything his mouth could do. Everything he wanted to do to you.

He wasn’t thinking about himself after the fact. Wasn’t rushing to put you in a position that made it all about his pleasure. Giving you little to no space to cool down, regain your bearings, and have that fire slowly relight and become more tantalizing, as he is right now.

You really did date assholes. 

Your fingers move to his chest, splaying your palm along his body until you’ve reached where he’s hard and pressing against you. Your fingers curl around the outline of him. Stroking, massaging. 

"I want you, Joel." You breathe into his mouth. 

He growls against your lips in something akin to frustration and agony. It makes something inside of you sink, overthink that maybe he doesn’t actually want to push it past the points you’ve already reached. Maybe it’s too much, all too soon, for this new territory of your friendship—even if it already seemed a little too late with the couch confessions and his saliva still coating your center. 

He must see the thoughts volleying in your head because he’s scolding himself under his breath and shaking his head. A soothing touch placed on your skin. "I feel like I’m some horny teenager again, with how bad I want you." His chuckle soothes your heart, "I don’t have-"

And you can't help but laugh at his waving hand towards his pockets and the sentence he's about to finish.

"Jesus, Joel. Bless anyone who's ever thought you were the ungentlemanly type." Here you were worrying about whether or not he wanted you, the proof being clearer than just his dick against your fingers. While the only thing on his mind was protection. 

"Glad I’m amusin’ to you." 

Cupping his cheeks, you pull him back to your lips. "All a girl wants is a decent man to make her laugh, not break her heart, and be able to make her come. And so far you’ve done all three." You let your tongue slip between your mouths and run along his bottom lip, "I’m good if you are." 

I’m clean.

I take a little pill every day because life is chaotic enough and I don’t want any surprises. 

We’re protected.

Now take me already.

The drag of your tongue, the roll of your hips against him, the little whimper you let out when he bites your lip—speaks for you.

It’s all either of you needs to rid Joel of his jeans: hands tangled in belt loops, tugs, pulls, pushing until he’s completely bare in front of you. Your breath hitches when you feel the underside of his cock spreading you and running along your clit slowly and languidly. The heat of him feels nothing compared to your own, the throb and ache of requisite in every roll and drag. 

And when neither of you can stand it anymore, when he’s grunting and you’re begging, he leans up on an elbow, hand wrapped around his cock, lining himself up to your entrance. Your breath leaves your lungs, stomach falling falling down to where he’s pushing into you. Stretching you, filling you until there’s no telling where either of you ends or begins. Attached by that intangible string of pleasure and bliss of only being able to feel each other.

"Fuck," Joel groans. Mouth finding your shoulder, breath hot and heavy. His thrusts start leisurely, taking his time in that way you’re learning he loves to do. Loves to compartmentalize up what you need—more, faster, harder. Going off of the moans panted into his neck, nails digging into his back. 

There's a hand gripped in the pillow beside your head, another at your breast, his mouth connected to your neck, your jaw, your chin, your lips. His hips slamming against your open thighs, thrusts deep, sharp. His cock hitting places that make your back arch, his name strung together with pleas for more. The slapping of skin and wet squelching of bodily fluids between the two of you making a symphony of lewd delight. 

When the hand at your breast hikes up one of your legs, the cry you let out is swallowed by his mouth. The deeper he fucks into you, the more your body shakes, the more you feel him completely consuming you. turning you into someone who will never get enough of this. Of him. Of how good he's making you feel. 

"Sound s’pretty," his tongue brushes against the underside of your chin, teeth nipping at the bone. A trail of him brought down to the shell of your ear. Where his heavy breaths and grunts fill you just as his cock does. Fills you to the brink of pain turned satisfying pleasure, as each stroke brings you closer to a precipice he’s already pushed you from. "Can’t believe I held myself back from you."

"Joel."

"I should knock out every asshole who thought to hurt you, t’not love you the way you deserve. Put you first," he slips his hand between your slick bodies, palm hot against your pelvis as his thumb rubs fast tight circles around your clit. His words getting filthier, ragged. Becoming heaving breaths against your ear as he fucks you faster. As his thumb matches the pace, as you grow closer and closer. Led by his words and pushed over by his cock. 

"That’s it, sweetheart." He’s encourages as you come. As he fucks you through it, as that white-hot heat makes your body contort against his. Cling and squeeze around him. The string of groans and curses, your name mixed with something incoherent but soft and deep, makes your chest swish—bit into your skin as Joel comes not long after. 

And after the two of you have cleaned up enough to call it satisfactory, two new beers condensing on your night stand. Your cheek pressed into his chest as your bodies lay pressed together under your sheet. His chin resting atop your forehead, a soft brush of fingertips at your spine—there’s cheesy grins on your faces, "Tommy’s going to have a heyday."

"He owes me fifty bucks."

There’s faux shock on your face when you turn and lean on your elbow to look at him, "excuse me?"

"He didn't think I'd ever tell ya," Joel shrugs as his hand caresses your shoulder. A fondness in his eyes, "I never do anything for myself." You press a kiss to his thumb, "I think we both deserve something good for once though." 

"I guess I solved the mystery of how to get Joel Miller to be soft," you joke. Nip at the skin of his thumb playfully. 

"I ain’t soft." He grumbles.

"Postcoitous Joel disagrees with that statement," you say. The dramatic roll his eyes do makes you laugh. Your teeth nipping his thumb harder, a bite this time, you shift so you’re on top of him. Sitting up on your knees. "Since this bet is half at my expense.."

"Expense, huh?" His palm grabs a handful of your ass and squeezes, causing you to rock in his lap. His cock already twitching to life again.

"I think we should get you your money's worth," you smirk.

"That's the smartest thing you've said all night," his fingers tangled in your back hair, pulling your mouth down to his in a hard kiss, before you get the chance to at least pretend to be offended.

#joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller one shot #joel miller x y/n #joel miller imagine #joel miller x you #pedro pascal smut #joel miller fluff #the last of us smut #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfic #the last of us fic #pedro pascal fics #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction

[morallyinept]

H I M - A Marcus Pike One Shot

Summary: A lazy day spent making love and sexing it up in the sheets with your partner, Marcus Pike. That's it. There's no plot.

Pairing: Marcus Pike x F!Reader (No name or physical description of reader. It’s you, bub.)

Word Count: 2.9k

Scoville Smut Rating: 🌶️🌶 "It's the emergence, of."

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here

Waenings/Triggers: Unprotected PIV (wrap up, folks!) /love making/sex/oral M & F receiving/fingering/romance/desire/fluff/soft/Marcus just being the best sweet doof ever.

NSFW. MINORS DNI! OVER 18’s ONLY. YOU ARE SOLELY RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOU READ. ☝🏻Don't come at me; you've been plenty warned.

I write for me, and I share with you. If this story isn't to your taste, that's fine. Just slip quietly out the back door. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.

Author’s Note: Schmaltzy love fest in the sheets with Special Agent Pike, anyone?? Hell to the yes. My contribution to the Pike Puddle. 🫠

Enjoy! 🖤

MASTERLIST | MARCUS PIKE MASTERLIST

It’s a lazy kind of day.

One of those that are just written off completely. For nothing other than to chill and do absolutely nothing else.

You lay in bed, stretching, as you watch the silhouette of him linger on the balcony under the glare of the morning sun in just his boxers.

You can hear him murmuring on the phone and the occasional sound of his melodic chuckling flows from his mouth obscenely.

It leaves tingles to barb on your skin as you lay there watching him, thinking about him, in the softness of the sheets.

Thinking about how much you’ve missed him whilst he’s been invested in the case. Lots of late nights, and you’d seen the exhaustion settle in under his eyes each day, puffing them out a little. Endure him falling asleep on your shoulder halfway through a movie with his supper half eaten, balanced precariously in his lap.

Thinking about how, now it’s all solved and the perp behind bars, he seems back to himself again. The old, cheery Marcus whose smile lights up his whole face.

Thinking about how much you want him again as you spy his shapely behind in his underwear as he paces gently.

He flashes you a glimpse of his soft bulge as he turns mid-conversation. You bite your lips feeling that wanton heat lick at your skin.

His eyes glance in and he smiles at you; those light crinkles around his eyes lighting them up further somehow, before wandering towards the balcony edge again to speak a little more animatedly.

You stare like a letch at his butt pushed out as he leans on his elbow.

You sink into the comfort of the mattress and stretch, enjoying the tingly pulse between your legs, wondering what to do today, when Marcus walks back in. He pulls the balcony door behind him, leaving it open with a small gap and a pleasantly warm breeze follows him for company.

His warm cocoa eyes meet yours and you smile knowing instantly what you want to do today.

Him. I’ll do him all day.

Marcus tosses his phone on the bedside table and swings his long legs back into the bed. His skin feels snug from the outside heat already in the air and so smooth as he envelopes you from behind.

“Who was that?” You murmur to him, dreamily.

“Cho. He has some files he wants me to look at for a new case.” He replies in that enigmatic tincture of his voice. Soft, yet heavy. “Told him I’ll take a look when I get back. I’m having my vacation time.” He nestles his nose against the back of your neck and hums out contentedly.

“Good,” you say with a smile as you feel his arms pull you closer into his body. “I’m not letting you leave this bed all week, Agent.”

“Is that so?” Marcus questions; his voice strangled by the little kisses he plants down the back of your neck and trails them all over the globe of your shoulder. Planting daisies as he roots them and watches them bloom.

"Mmhm. I'll cuff you here if I have to."

"Promises, promises..." He snickers through his nose.

You shuffle around and meet his entrancing lips with a giggle. His tongue, slipping gently into your mouth, swirls around your own slowly, teasing you with tender smooches on the end of it as his hand scoops around the nape of your neck and crushes you closer to him.

Marcus could kiss you forever like this, passionately and deep and never surface for air. He could die in your arms and be contagiously happy.

Your noses brush together as you look into his molten brown eyes and wonder how the fuck you got so lucky.

"What are you looking at?" You tease, biting your lip.

"You," he says, leaning in to plant more gluttonous smooches over your face.

Your fingers traverse his chin and you can feel the slight graze of stubble wanting to grow through his usually smooth pores. He shuffles his hips forward, hooking his leg around you and finds comfort in getting closer to you still.

“You’re so beautiful,” Marcus breathes out as he trails his thick fingers across your skin and feels you shudder in response.

"You're so full of it," you grin and he snorts, laughing and it's fucking glorious. The way his eyes crinkle like a Shar-Pei's folds, and his smile blinds the room with a solar flare.

But when he says it, you really feel it as he looks at you with a sincere awe and splendour rooted inside of his coffee roast peepers.

You kiss him again, silencing his guffaws and he replaces them with little yearning moans.

You can hear his breathing change; deep inhalations through his nose and out through his plush mouth into you as they intensify in speed and depth as you touch and map his body.

Your hands run across his broad shoulders and down his muscular arms; your safe place inside of his strong, protective grip, and he’ll always hold you in them and keep you secure.

"So perfect," he croons through more gleaming smiles at you. More kisses are peppered on your cheeks, your neck, your lips.

You smile at his words, warming and feeling like goo as he makes you utterly melt with his devoted passion. You can feel his large, swamping hands stroke and caress your skin gently, leaving goose bumps wherever they go. Sweeping across your arms, down your back and cupping your ass cheeks fondly.

He's so fucking beautiful; a handsome dream come true. Lost inside his mouth, like falling into a Marcus soaked candy land, as your kissing intensifies, you can feel him becoming more excited.

Feel him stiffen, pressed against your inner thigh, and it has a wonderful effect on your own sex organs too. He ruts gently into your hips with his; rubbing himself against you as you swallow small feral grunts from him down into your stomach.

You roll, your limbs entwined, and lie on top of him now. You’re on your knees but draped across his bare chest and kiss him furthermore. You want to make him feel loved and wanted, because he absolutely is.

Marcus touches your face, his thumbs sweeping across your cheeks and his fingers winding inside your hair as he groans.

He reaches down and grabs a firm hold of your ass, squeezing those meaty cheeks and you gasp, giggling as he slaps it gently.

You bite your lip as his eyes blaze into yours. He knows you love it when he swats you playfully like this.

“Love this ass,” Marcus smirks through puckered lips.

“Oh yeah?” You giggle as you feel him rubbing your cheeks lavishly.

“Mhm...” He says reaching up and kissing you again.

"Want you to have it," you say, smirking. A hot wave creeping over your skin at the thought if it. At the thought of him claiming the one piece of you no-one else has.

"Fuck," he grunts. "Oh, I'm going to, one day. But we'll work up to that, baby." He smiles reassuringly. "There's no rush."

"I know," you smile.

"Whenever you're ready, okay?"

You nod, and slowly, he begins to undress you, pulling up your camisole you’ve slept in and admiring your skin with strangled gasps as it’s revealed to him.

Warm, puffy nipples nestled inside your swollen areolas greet him, and he can’t help but want to taste them. Planting kisses over them and swirling his tongue around them until they come out of hiding, becoming hard buds suckled on between his teeth.

“Mmm...” You groan as he sucks and licks all over them, squeezing them together in his big hands.

“You like that?” Marcus asks you as he nips again and makes you squeal out.

"Love it," you whine.

"Me too," he agrees with a rouge sparkle in his eyes.

You rub yourself against him; you can feel how hard he is even through his boxers. A tight, binding constriction inside them, poking out as you tease and play and feel every inch of him as you run your aching cunt against him.

You can feel it fizzing on your clit already; the rising tides of a dreamy orgasm already swelling behind your core muscles and eyelids alike. It feels so good, he feels so good.

He senses it building and grips onto your hips, pulling you into your rhythms.

"Marcus," you whine, "mmm, baby." You keep moving. Keep grinding. Keep working your hips as your clit aches and buzzes.

"You feel so good grinding on me. Keep going, you're almost there." Marcus encourages as you tense and gasp.

Your hands slap down onto his chest as you grind harder, quicker. You're panting and groaning as you can feel it shoot through your bloodstream down into your toes.

"That's it, come on... " he urges you with a catch in the back of his throat. "Fuck, baby, look at you."

"God, yes. Yes!" You moan, your eyes rolling back into your head as you're crushed by that wave of tingles and shivers as your clit massages against the length of his cock that's so hard as you come in your panties against him.

You squeal and shudder and tense up. You sit upright smiling and licking your lips, with a breathy giggle.

Marcus is just mesmerised by you; his eyes taking you in like he's taken a hit of heroin and he's seeing you everywhere he looks with blown out pupils.

"Was that a little one?" Marcus asks with a smile and you fall into him and kiss him again.

You nod, "little, but still really good."

"It felt good. I want to give you a few big ones too." He smiles.

"You will, we've got all day."

"All day?" Marcus' eyes widen playfully.

"Mmhm." You confirm dragging your lips over his skin.

"I best limber up," he chuckles. "Don't wanna get a cramp."

You giggle as you kiss slowly down his neck and towards his bronzed chest delicately, looking at him as you inch lower and lower down his taut torso and abs. Your hand slides up his thigh and towards his balls.

"Oh, like that, is it?" He croons, biting down on his lip through hooded eyes as you give them a gentle squeeze over his underwear.

"Ssh." You smirk, tasting the fragrances of his skin and circling his belly button with your tongue, making him hiss in as you draw closer to his waistband.

You drag your lips furthermore, leaving trails of your desire and affection. Your other hand grips the outside of him through his boxers; that hard muscle waiting to be released that you feel throbbing around your fingers. It's damp in patches on the cotton from your slick.

You smile up at him and he’s always so pleased and in awe that you do this to him. You make him so hard and fat with blood that it aches.

You make him want to fuck you so bad. Bury himself deep into you and lose himself to any and all thought.

To make love to you until his heart gives out. Because that's the only way he'd ever stop; only if he was dead.

He lives you, breathes you. You're the fire in his blood, the hunger in his belly.

You position yourself between Marcus’ long legs as he shuffles up the bed a little more, his arm behind his head and watching you with a blissed out smile.

You can smell him through his boxers; smell that inviting musk of his thick meat. You run your lips across the fabric of his underwear, grazing your bottom lip across him and nip him gently through it.

His breathing kicks it up a gear each time he feels your warm and wet mouth trail over the material of his boxers and venture closer to getting him fully out to have a taste.

You pull them down, revealing that swollen, pink and fleshy cock that thunks up against his abdomen gently. A glassy string of pre-cum dangles off of it and coats the fines dark hairs in his happy trail.

You lick it up and the noise that comes out of Marcus' mouth sounds like he's just died.

His dick rises and swells against you as you run your tongue up the length of him, flexing and pulsing, with firm balls as plump as his bottom lip and brimming full, just for you as you stroke them gently.

"Shit…" He whines as you look at him whilst you run your tongue up and down his cock. "So beautiful, baby. Just like that with my cock in your mouth."

Marcus tastes divine, how a man should taste. He's so smooth, firm and weighty. You tease and tongue his length; running it around under his frenum and hearing him gasp and pant as you do so.

A slight ripple in his thigh catches your attention, so you run your tongue under it again, watching him twitch loosely each time.

"Mmm, yeah." He sighs deliciously.

You can see the muscles in his lower abdomen tighten in anticipation. You pick him up so he’s standing upright, gripping a hold of him around the base.

That tall, thick cock greeting you with a reddening head, and you roll your lips down around him. Sucking him up and down slowly, taking him further inside your mouth each time.

“Mmm, baby...” Marcus groans out in a grizzly satisfaction. He fills your mouth, he’s so thick and girthy, but you want him right there; you want to choke on him and feel him pack you out.

You suckle delicately around his oozing head like your favourite popsicle dripping down your wrist in the summer heat.

Hollowing your cheeks, you take him deep and hear the rumble of his voice escape him through his moans each time you do.

His hands are soon on the back of your head pushing ever so gently; he wants you taking him deeper still. But he never forces, never takes. Gentle and submissive to your needs and desires.

They're his needs and desires too.

“Yeah, like that,” he croons with a pantless breath. "Fuck, baby. You're so good at that. Oh fuck..."

Hearing Marcus curse surges through your body, you feel it pull tight on your clit and nipples alike. Always so polite and well-mannered, but if you flick your tongue just right, he rolls in the filth with you.

"Fuck, fuck..." he whispers, he hisses.

You swallow him whole, your lips are touching his balls and you hold him there inside your throat, pause and keep still as he whines out and the sound makes your pussy tingle deliciously.

You can feel your slick drenching your panties, heat emanating from your core. It's too irresistable to not reach down into them and tease your clit. Your thighs shudder as soon as you do; your fingers slipping as you're utterly soaking.

He bucks his hips up gently, rousing you to continue as he prods the back of your throat.

You slide your mouth back up his length and take a deep breath as you kiss the head. Then swallow him deep again, massaging him with your tongue, up and down. A process that repeats and makes his head swim and dizzy with the delight of it all.

“Oh fuck!” Marcus grunts. “You’re killing me.” He's puffing and panting as he stuggles to contain himself a she nitices your hand stuffed in your panties. "You touching yourself, gorgeous?"

"Mmhmm," you whine with your mouth full of him. It feels divine as your pussy contracts and tightens as you flick across your clit quicker and harder as you suck him deeper.

"Oh God!" He croons.

You could do this forever; make him feel so fucking good. Listen endlessly to the noises of him finding his pleasure at your mercy; just fucking him slowly and intensely with your keen mouth all day.

His head relaxes back into the pillows, eyes closed and a smile blooming around his mouth in satisfaction at the feel of you.

You whine and hum around his cock as you come again, bokeh glitter bursting behind your eyelids and you shudder keenly, back arching like a cat.

"Baby," he moans, hearing you come undone; your fingers wet and sticky from your pleasure as you wrap them around his cock.

You then lick around his balls, sucking and nipping on them gently as you jerk him with your come-soaked hand. His head whips up and looks down at you nestled between his legs.

“Yes,” Marcus sings with intense brown eyes fixed on you. “Oh, that’s so good!”

You slurp around them and back up his shaft before popping him back in your mouth for a few more sucks, and then he’s pulling you up to meet his gorgeous face and slack jaw, unable to deny himself from you.

Marcus wiggles his tongue inside your lips, tempting you to sample the fruits of him. You catch his bottom lip inside your teeth nipping on it gently and making him gasp as you stroke his wet cock with your hand, gripping around him and pumping him with gentle vigour.

"God, you're so fucking gorgeous, you know that?" He gasps. He glances down watching as you twist and flex your wrist in a steady pace. "Oh fuck. Just like that. I fucking love that..."

"You've got a mouth on you, Pike." You smirk as he gasps.

"Can't help it when you... ah shit! God, baby, you keep doing that and I'm gonna come already!"

You smile at him, beaming. You never want to stop touching him, never want to stop making him feel so fucking good like this. Never want to stop marvelling at how his mouth parts, how he stares at you as though he can't believe you're making him feel like this.

"I'm not ready to come yet." He grins.

Marcus sits up and lifts you into his lap. He rubs his cock against your slit over your panties, up and down slowly against it, and he can feel that hard bump of your clit protruding as he makes tracks through the outline of your wet, swollen lips.

Your nipples harden as he tongues around them. Then he takes one inside his mouth and sucks it whilst looking at you as you fall under his hypnotic spell.

"Mmm," you whine, throwing your head back, his mouth doing a complete number on you.

He lays you back on the bed and kisses down your body like you did with him, pelting you with his love. Once nestled in between your legs, he places your hand onto your pussy, over your panties, and watches as you start to rub.

“Mmmmmah,” you whine.

“I love watching you touch yourself.” Marcus encourages.

Your fingers press against your slit and you can feel how soaked you are. It feels so good, so wet.

He licks over your knuckles, kisses them, as you touch yourself there, moaning. He smooches your digits and soon you feel his tongue dart in between them and lick over your sticky, cottony mound.

Marcus pulls your panties off and down your legs, and you spread them for him.

"So wet, baby. Look at that." He keens. "All for me?"

He plays with you; toys with you, thinking that he’ll go right for you, but he grazes his mouth barely past your wet cunt lips and bites you gently on the inside of your thigh instead as your pussy is throbbing and stinging for him.

“Marcus,” you whine, fisting in his hair, and he chuckles. He knows how much you need it, need him.

"You don't want me to tease you today?"

You pout, smirking.

"You just want my cock, is that it?"

His tongue makes tracks around your outer lips and you can feel his breath warm against your clit.

"Want my cock fucking into this gorgeous pussy, hmm?"

"Oh God," you groan, fisting through his hair. "That damn mouth on you..."

He grins. Then, he sucks on that swollen hub of aching nerves, ending your agony and sending your voice ribbing into the air.

“Oooh yes!” You wail as you feel his tongue cause carnage within you.

Marcus takes his time tasting you, drinking from you; savouring every last drop of you as you flood his mouth. Your head winds back into the pillows, eyes closed and drunk on heady bliss. He tongues your hole, flicking it in and out in quick darts and watching as you lose your shit.

“Fuck, Marcus! Don’t stop...” You coo as your body shudders. He slides his middle finger in, twisting as he does so. He pulls it out and slides back in. He kisses and sucks your clit as he pushes another finger inside with it, beside himself and groaning into your pussy.

He strokes you, finding your spot and applying the right pressure as he makes come hither motions with his fingers.

The pressure mounts deep inside you. Your thighs buck, vibrating tensely, and all you can see is the sun.

"Fuck, I'm gonna come, Marcus! Fuck! Yes!" You rile.

"I know," he smiles. "Come for me."

Marcus loves it when you come in his mouth; tasting your juices as they pool and froth. He makes delicious groaning noises in satisfaction as he licks up and down your pussy, tasting your lips around his.

"Come for me, baby" he urges again as he tongues your clit faster, his fingers stroking deeper and harder inside you as you clench and tighten before releasing with a strangled groan into the air and fingers twisted in the sheets.

“God, I need to be inside of you,” Marcus groans and kneels up, coming to you and lowering himself down on your body. You kiss him like it’s the end of days and you’ll never see him again.

"I need to feel you, Marcus." You pant.

"Need me?"

"Yeah, I need you. Always need you." You groan.

When he enters you, it’s like the world has imploded around you both - there is no-one else here.

Just you and him, existing purely in this moment together where you become connected in mind, body and soul instantaneously. It'a unspoken, but you can see it in his eyes. Feel it in his touch. Hear it in his groans.

You gasp every time he slides in; filling you wholly and bottoming out with a heady, lusty grunt.

Time slows down; you can hear him breathe like it’s a loud echo all around you, like the ocean crashing into the shore, and it vibrates inside the air.

It’s just Marcus. Just him.

No-one else as he holds your attention and you feel every inch of him sliding deeper into you. His strokes are slow and intentional to get you to feel all of him, and he watches as you contort underneath him; feels your hands pressing bruises into his arms and shoulders. Your chimes filling his ears; your cunt so wet and tight for him.

Him. Him.

Fuck, it's always been him.

You both behold one another around parted lips and dilated pupils. His pace increases as you both heighten your pleasure from one another, feeding off of one another’s energy and love.

Heavy, thick slaps of your flesh pounding upon one another resonate as you go harder on each other. Both climbing together.

Marcus feels it when you come again; your forehead pressing up onto his, and breathing deeply into his face, gasping - calling out his name.

Clawing at his skin, falling apart around him as he scoops you up and pieces you back together before doing it again. An endless repeat of his affection and adoration for you.

Coming so hard for him as he pushes his hips into you relentlessly.

He fucks you hard, deep. He keeps on coming at you, devouring you and smothering you.

You’re his goddess, his woman. What a woman! The one he gets to live inside, to feel you from the inside. The one he can taste, the one he can cradle in his arms as he feeds you every piece of him.

The one he can love.

“M-Marcus!” You call as you release and let go.

"Fuck, baby. Look at you," he swoons. "Coming for me. So gorgeous when you come for me like this... fuck."

You roll him onto his back, straddling him and riding on top of his cock and owning every part of him now.

His hands are all over you, pulling at your ass cheeks and winding you back and forth on top of him, feeling you contract inside as you tighten around him again.

Marcus stops thrusting up into you to just watch you come; marvelling and just stunned at how beautiful you are shaking on the end of his cock and rasping for him.

For a second, it stops all coherent thought. It stops time.

It stops his heart, you utterly kill him.

He then ploughs right on in again as you gasp and tremble, starting the hazy wind of building you up all over again and starting the chase after his own release.

He needs to fill you up with him so badly.

You falter and weaken; your body is a jangled mess and groaning; it’s so sensitive and tingly still. You collapse on him and once more he gets you back underneath him.

“You make me feel so good,” you whisper to him and he smiles knowing that he does. It's his raison d'être.

It's all you. You, you, you...

Marcus pushes back in slowly, watching as he pulls out almost the whole way; his cock greased up with your sopping slit coating him. He slides back in quickly, feels as you rib and squeeze around him each time.

“Fuck, I’m gunna come in this gorgeous pussy,” Marcus puffs, his eyes rolling back into his head as he does it each time. “Right now, right inside of you.” He pants.

"Fill me up," you plead, grabbing a hold of his ass and pushing him deeper into you. "Come for me."

And after a few more deep strokes, you feel him burst; the thick vein that runs the length of his cock pulsing and twitching as he releases inside you, warm and plentiful.

"Fuuh..." The hot expletive loses its way as he empties.

His whole body shudders, crawling up from the base of his spine right into his shoulders as he comes and pumps out. He groans out on a deep, laboured breath.

He falters, weak and unsteady, supporting his own shaky weight and collapses on top of you this time; his hair sticking to his forehead as you brush it away and kiss all over his salty face as he puffs and smiles contentedly, wrapped up in your arms and body alike.

You hold onto his face and look at him, look into him. His cheeks are a flush, matching the scarlet of his lips now as he catches his breath. Those chocolate eyes so warm and sleepy in satisfaction. Hair a tugged on mess, shoulders clammy with sweat.

“I love you,” you say to him in absolute awe.

Marcus smirks and kisses you; a big, plumpy smooch that you still feel on your lips even when he pulls away from them slightly. Never too far away.

“I love you, gorgeous.” He replies earnestly, and smiling with glistening eyes.

He nestles into you further humming in contentment as you stroke through his damp hair.

"I should definitely take more vacation." He beams, chuckling into your neck.

Yeah. It's always been him.

Thank you so, so much for reading. I really hope you enjoyed this Marcus Pike story of mine. If you did, please consider re-blogging and leaving a comment to let me know your thoughts. Thank you 🖤

MASTERLIST | MARCUS PIKE MASTERLIST

#marcus pike #marcus pike smut #marcus pike fluff #marcus pike the mentalist #marcus pike fanfiction #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x fem!reader #marcus pike x f!reader #marcus pike x you #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fics #marcus pike fic #jett's writing #jett's pedro boys

[bits-and-babs]

𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐎𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐕𝐈𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐒 — 𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 ‘𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐊𝐄𝐘’ 𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐄𝐋𝐒

↳ summary: sick of sharing your lover, you pull out a master plan to convince him to stop 'seducing' his targets.

↳ pairing: jack 'whiskey' daniels x f!reader

↳ [2.1k words] content:18+ MDNI, jealous reader, soft!domme/sub dynamics, tying wrists, sex toys (m receiving), orgasm denial (m receiving), cum eating. This is a @beskarbabs remaster -- original post date 2021.

jack masterlist I| main masterlist |I join taglist

The last thing Agent Jack 'Whiskey' Daniels expected to see when he returned home from his essential field mission was indisputably what he walked into as soon as he came in through the front door of your shared apartment in New York. 

You had been distressed by Jack's mission plan from the get-go, given the precariousness of him going undercover, but even more so when you were informed that he would need to... liaise with one of his targets. You'd told Champagne that he needed to get rid of those shitty "condom trackers" immediately after seeing the multiple disputes it had caused between other agents and their partners. Still, Champ had insisted that it was the most efficient way of tracking targets and that this was a matter of national security; you'd simply have to put your faith in Jack. 

And you did have faith in Jack. You had complete assurance in his devotion to your relationship. However, that didn't mean you had to agree to share him with a target. He was a lady's man, a charmer. You knew he could flirt anyone, man or woman, into bed if he tried hard enough. But given he had no choice, and he always came home to you rather than running away with another woman, you didn't allow your jealousy to seep through until AFTER he came home. 

Your distinct lack of clothing results in Jack's frankly amusing expression as he walks in from work, lips parted and eyebrows raised with shock as he looks you over. You wear nothing but the lacy lingerie set that Jack bought as a gift for your anniversary a few weeks ago. Bare, bar for the lace, you stand patiently in the middle of the hall, looking Jack over from head to toe with an expression of indigence. 

"Well, well, Sugar. To what do I owe the pleasure?" He breaks out in that signature smirk of his, walking forward to wrap his arm around your waist. You put up your index finger, stopping the brash and self-assured agent in his tracks. He glanced down, noting the lasso in your hand. 

"Darlin'-" You reach up, taking the knot of his tie in your hand and pulling it down and off, the fabric making a soft 'wooshing' sound as it slipped from his linen button-down. You then push your hands under the lapels of his blazer jacket, pushing it off his shoulders and onto the floor. He holds your gaze, his normally earthy-hued eyes dilated almost totally black. 

You lean on your tiptoes, and Jack closes his eyes, expecting a kiss. Instead, you move your lips to his ear and whisper one word. 

"Upstairs." It's not a request, it's a demand, and Agent Daniels looks like you'd just given him whiplash. Gawking at you, it takes him a minute to register precisely what you were telling him. He blinks in an attempt to shake himself from his bewilderment. 

"Yes, Ma'am..." He finally responds, in somewhat of a daze, as he makes his way up the stairs. You knew your plan would catch him off guard, but his reaction had been priceless! He glances over his shoulder, ensuring you're following behind before he makes it up the stairs. 

"Go sit on the bed," you command him. He does exactly as he's told with no argument, a rare occurrence for Jack, who could never seem to keep his smug and blustering mouth shut. You put it down to him being so shocked by your little surprise that he couldn't form a sentence. He sits pretty on the bed, palms awkwardly placed on his thighs as he watches you. He's not used to you taking control. You were always the one to do as you were told. 

"Wrists together," You adjure. He does that, too, eyebrow arched slightly. 

"Sugar, what are you up t-" You just give him a look, one that silently orders him to shut up. He presses his lips into a thin line, not saying anything more as you loop his lasso around his wrists. His eyes follow your movements, glad to see that you had, in fact, picked up a standard rope rather than his spare Statesman weapons. 

You knot the rope tightly, pulling at his forearms to ensure he can't break free from his binds. The agent arches his brow in yet another querying gaze, and you respond by simply putting your palm to his chest, pushing him backwards so his back hits the bed and knocking his hat off in the process. You smirk at his obvious shock, trying to wiggle from his bonds. 

"You gonna ride your cowboy?" He teases you, but finds himself speechless once again as you move onto your hands and knees, crawling up the bed until you're straddling his hips. He hadn't expected you to actually do it! You take his chin roughly in your hand, forcing him to look you in the eye. 

"I don't like sharing you, Jack," you whisper. You're turned on by the level of power you now hold over him, and he can hear it in your voice, see it in your dilated eyes. He stumbles over his words, and you feel his cock stir in his jeans. 

"Darlin', I was just doin' my job," he finally splutters as you pull open his button-down shirt, the clattering of those buttons hitting the floor making his eyes wide in utter shock. You smirk at his expression, noting the way his adam's-apple bobs. Have you made him nervous? 

"You were," you agree, musing as you trail the tip of your index finger down from between his collarbones, tracing his sternum and finally slowing when you reached his belt, "But that doesn't mean I like it, Whiskey." His eyes flick to your hand, now in the process of unbuckling his belt. He's once again uncharacteristically bereft of speech, utterly dumbstruck. 

"I need to remind you who you belong to, Jack." Your honeyed tone has his hands curling into fists in their confines. You've never been like this with him; it's such a pleasant surprise. You slip his belt out of the loops of his jeans and unbutton them in quick succession. 

You shuck his jeans from his hips, taking his boxers with them. His breath hitches in surprise, muscles tense and assuming you would take him into your mouth. He closes his eyes slowly, tilting his head back into the pillows as he waits to feel your lips around his already throbbing cock- so when he feels the pressure of your weight on the mattress shift away from him, he snaps his eyes open in confusion, looking to see where those lips had gone. 

He finds you leaning over the end of the bed, searching in the bedside cabinet for something. 

"Whatcha up to, BabyGirl?" He queries, eyes following your hand as you dig around. A self-satisfied smirk stretches across your lips as you find what you are looking for. You feel Whiskey stiffen at the sight of the pink bullet vibrator in your hand. You had been sure to charge it fully when Jack left a few days ago, and it had sat in the cabinet waiting to be used. 

"I'm going to teach you a lesson, Mr Daniels," you hum, holding the button down until it starts buzzing in your hand. You can see Jack begin to panic a little, realising how much control you have over the situation. 

"What d'ya mean, a les-" Jack breaks off into a broken moan as you place the vibrator against the head of his leaking cock. It's red and angry already, throbbing with the intensity of the vibrations. He pushes his hips backwards into the bed in a futile attempt to escape the torture you inflict upon him, giving him a delicious arch in his back that has the crown of his head pushing back into the pillows. 

"F-Fuck!" He chokes out as you trace the vibrator down his dick achingly slow. His entire body shudders at the warmth that spreads like tendrils in his lower abdomen. You smirk, watching his composure melt away. 

"What is it, Jack? You speechless? I highly doubt that," you mock him, enjoying this display of dominance over your egocentric lover. But, funnily enough, he is indeed speechless. His moans had caught in his throat, arching his back further as you ran the tip of the vibrator over his balls before making its way back up to the end of his throbbing cock. 

"You know I won't share you anymore, right?" You coo, watching as he tries to struggle against the lasso's bindings. It's fruitless, you both know, but his mind is so hazy with desire that he just can't think straight. He just nods desperately in response to your question, trying to form words. 

"Fuck- I'm-" He chokes out another strangled groan as you circle the tip of his head, making his hips sloppily buck upwards into thin air, "I'm sorry." 

You have to swallow your own moans; Jack wholly lost in this hedonism causing a subtle warmth to settle in your lower tummy. He convulses with a gasp as you lean forward, collecting the precum on the tip of his dick on your tongue. "Nghhh fuck!"

You can feel his thick thighs trembling already, and he starts babbling mindless garbage as he hurtles closer and closer to his climax. 

"I wo-won't touch anyone again! Fuck-! Fuck Champ, fuck those st- shit!" He gasps out, body jerking as you trace his balls with your tongue, "fuck those stupid trackers!" You smirk, noting the deterioration in his self-control. 

"You gonna only touch me, Agent Whiskey? Fuck me when you come back from your missions instead?" You murmur before brushing your tongue from base to tip. He shudders, barely able to hold it together. 

"F-Fuck Darlin', I-I'm gonna-" He's cut off by a desperate and uncharacteristic wail as you pull away from him altogether, the vibrator still buzzing in your hand. Jack looks wounded, balls drawn up tight, and a pained expression cast across his face. You just give him a flirty smirk, eyebrow arched. 

"Answer the question, Agent," You purr, watching his eyes roll back slightly into his skull. He seems to take a few shaky breaths, deep enough that you can see his ribcage expand on the inhale. You assume he's trying to gather his thoughts, so you press the vibrator's button again, turning it up to a higher setting before pushing it to the tip of his cock again. 

If he hadn't had his arms tied in front of him, Jack practically would have folded in half with the way the upper half of his body jumped up from the bed. His whine is almost pained, knuckles white with the fists he'd made. 

"I'm waiting," you drawl as he grits his teeth, trying to combine words into something like a sentence. 

"I- Jesus!" He growls out, forcing his words out in that deep vibrato that sends chills up your spine, "I promise!" You coo gently, running the vibrator up and down the shaft of his angry red, veiny cock at a brutally slow pace. He's so close to cumming; you can see it in the way his abdomen muscles tense and his cock bobs. 

"Good. You're mine. No one else's," You clarify, pressing the button to its highest setting and watching as Jack threw his head back with a ragged gasp as he came. Hard. 

Ropes of cum coat his stomach and chest, dribbling down onto your fingertips as he bucks his hips into thin air again. The customarily composed Jack can barely breathe, coming undone at the eviscerating orgasm ripping through him. The moan that once again caught in his throat slips into something akin to a whine, all the muscles in his body tight and cramped. 

As he finally comes down from his blinding high, Jack pants heavily, trying to stop the dizzying feeling in his head from the inability to inhale for a solid minute. Not ready to stop playing with this sexy, confident alter ego, you dip your fingers in the cum on his stomach, lifting them to your lips and tracing your tongue over it, moaning at the salty taste. 

"Fuck, Sugar..." Jack pants, struggling against his binds again, "Let me out of these so I can kiss you." But much to his surprise, you don't answer him. Instead, you just shimmy your way up his body. He blinks, still in a daze. 

"Darlin'-" He begins to question, but you just press your index finger to his lips as you straddle his pelvis, smirking. 

"I'm not done with you yet. I still need to ride my cowboy." 

join the taglist here

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[jksprincess10]

Are we out of the woods Masterlist

Summary : Your father is a dangerous man who has a lot of enemies. One day, you’re taken from your home by force to go to a safe cabin in the woods to be protected from an unknown danger by three of his men: Ironhead, Pope and Catfish. You’re not really a nature enjoyer, but in your boredom, you discover a new love for nature. You also get to know the men working for your dad and interest sparks between you and the mysterious and silent Francisco. CW: canon-like violence, explicit smut, reader is kind of a princess at first, talks of divorce, drugs & alcohol, talks of addiction, slight age gap (reader in her mid 20s, frankie in his late 30s), jealousy, tension, frankie is a mess.

The cabin

Passenger side

Camping

I can't hide from you like I hide from myself *

It was a bad idea

Open up my chest, take everything I've got

I think he wants to be gentle with me*

& more

Chapters with a * contains smut.

#frankie morales #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales fan fiction #frankie morales fics #triple frontier fic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fics #triple frontier #frankie friday #awootw

[thepaperpanda]

The Zone Of Comfort || Joel Miller x fem!reader

Summary: As soon as Joel gets home, he has some concrete plans for what he'll do with you in his spare time

Warnings: SMUT

Word count: 1904

Authors: Cass & Fenrir

There was no way he could take his eyes off you, that was the truth. 

Upon returning home, he dropped his bag on the floor and locked the door; he didn't even think about getting refreshed.

The day had been filled with scummy, dirty work, and he was not only exhausted, but wanted to get relaxed first and foremost. He started considering other ways of dealing with his condition after realizing that the pills mixed with the old whiskey he had kept in a secret stash under the wardrobe were no longer effective.

Then there you were, bustling in the kitchen, in his kitchen, looking goddamn fine.

The world was hard to find yourself in, everything you knew one day crumbled to dust, leaving nothing behind, forcing you to leave in every way you could. Joel's side wasn't always easy, but it didn't change your love for him.

As soon as you heard his backpack hit the ground, you perked up. Finally, he was home. "Joel, you're back! I got some good food, so let's have a nice meal together."

"No rats' meat today, huh?" He laughed slightly darker than he intended to, while he approached you and wrapped his strong arms around your waist from behind. "Missed me?" As he shifted your hair aside to kiss the crook of your neck, his breath was a blend of cigarette scent and warmth. "Because I certainly missed you, Y/N."

The thought of it turned your face into disgust, but you soon smiled as he kissed you. Your hand moved into his hair. "That's what I always do, you know." Suddenly, you turned in his arms, wrapping your arms around his neck. "I always miss you and I’m worried every time you're out."

With a smug smirk, he buried his face in your neck's crook, still kissing you there, grazing his rough lips across your soft skin. "Oh, did you miss me?"

"I missed you so much," you giggled, stroking his hair. "I think you missed me too."

You were picked up and placed on the kitchen counter by Joel as easily as if you were a leaf. His hands began to stroke your legs through your jeans instantly. "Prove it then, little one," he dared.

It's not that you were surprised, just that you didn't expect this right now. You gasped and rested your hands on his shoulders. ”You missed me that much?”

The man did not reply, instead he drew his head back and looked at you, his eyebrows cocked, a cocky smirk dancing across his lips. "As you can see."

A smile spread across your face as you gently touched his chest. "I bet you missed my moans when you fucked me," you teased and slowly removed your shirt. "I bet that's all you come back for."

As you took off your shirt, he watched your boobs bouncing a little without saying anything. "What do we have here?" He murmured, cupping one of your breasts and gently squeezing it, strongly but lightly enough to not hurt you in any way.

"Something you really like." When he touched you, you couldn't help but moan. "Dinner can wait. Since you're back, you deserve dessert." Following those words, you tossed your pants aside. There was nothing else on you except your panties as you sat before him.

After stroking your waist with calloused hands, he slipped one of his palms onto your thigh to massage the flesh there. "The little one is so eager today. Are you already wet for me, hmm? Are you getting aroused thinking of me taking you on a dinner table?" Asked Joel, once again kissing your neck, he applied his thumb to your clit and rubbed you there through your panties. "Oh, yes. You are fucking wet," he grinned at you, gently biting the flesh on your neck, leaving a hickey there, and slipping his index finger beneath the fabric of your undies.

A quiet gasp escaped your lips as you shuddered. "Yes, I was eagerly anticipating your return. I couldn't wait for your touch and love. I imagined you touching me each night before sleep and each morning when I awoke."

Taking a step back, Joel started to unbutton his flannel shirt and removed it soon, not breaking eye contact with you for a moment.

"And you said I'm eager," you teased, swinging your legs innocently while watching him with the same innocent smile.

Having tossed his shirt on the floor, he returned to you, wrapped one hand around your waist and helped your legs wrap around his waist before picking you up, grunting deeply.

"Am I getting too heavy for you?" You raised an eyebrow, wrapping your arms around his neck. "Or are you getting too old for this?"

He placed you hardly on the top of the kitchen table and pushed the papers off before he stared into your eyes. "Just the smell of your wet pussy makes me crazy, baby."

Angrily, you huffed at the papers spilling on the floor, turning your attention back to him. "Then prove it, not just talk about it and ignore my work."

As soon as he unclasped your bra, he took it off. As soon as he finished, his lips locked around one of your erected nipples while his hand pinched the other.

"Fuck," you groaned, pulling his hair carefully with your hands. "I missed this so much, and I needed it so badly."

The hand that pinched your nipple slowly moved down your body, soon reaching your panties' fabric. As his lips continued working on your nipple, he slipped his hand beneath your panties and viciously rubbed your clit.

In an effort to get closer to him, you moaned and arched your back. After being away for so long, you craved his touch more than ever. "Joel! Please, I need you."

In an instant, he moved and started kissing your lips hungrily, slowly sliding his middle finger into your pussy, moving it back and forth while making out with you. His free hand unzipped his fly and unbuckled his belt.

You moved your hands to help him, while kissing him back just as eagerly. You weren't going to let him dominate the kiss so easily now that he was back.

It made Joel grunt loudly, as your tiny hands were helping him with his jeans. Having slipped his finger out of you, he brought his hand to his lips, licking and tasting your wetness while gazing at you, almost naked on the kitchen table, with your best deer-eyes fixed on him. By pushing your panties aside, he uncovered your dripping pussy, already glistening with the wetness he spread all over your clit with his hand moments earlier. With his eyes traveling back to your face, Joel smirked. "Who's a good girl, huh? Who's already dripping for me?"

While biting your lip, you replied, "I'm a good girl. I'm always waiting for you and thinking about you."

Joel spat on his open palm and jerked his already erected cock several times before spreading your legs wide. After sliding his tip past your pussy lips gently, he pushed hard enough to bury his shaft deeply inside your wet core, grunting at the long missed tightness. "Fuck."

As he filled you up and stretched your walls, you hissed in delight. You wrapped your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist. As you kissed him, you murmured, "Fuck indeed."

As he kissed your lips briefly, he grabbed your waist, and quickly began fucking you, grunting and groaning at various times, looking at the place where your bodies were connected to see the bulge forming within your abdomen whenever he was pushing his cock in. "I'm so impressed with you, little one, taking me so well. You're a fine young lady, aren't you?"

As you pressed your hand against the bulge, you let out a loud moan at the pleasure feeling that sent shivers down your spine. "I always take your cock so well whenever you need it. Fuck, I love it."

As he increased his pace a little, he picked up one of your legs and rested it against his broad shoulder, massaging your calf a little while squeezing one of your breasts. "So tight, I love it," he praised within a husky tone. Soon, he pulled out of you, pulled you off the table, turned you around and pressed hard on your back, so you had to lay face down on the table. "Stick your sweet ass up, sweetheart."

As a good girl, you nodded and raised your butt in appreciation. Obviously, you didn't stop yourself from rolling your hips for Joel just to tease him.

He spanked you a few times, leaving red marks on your buttocks. He snarled, grabbing his cock and rubbing its tip against your slick folds. He grunted, "Did I tell you I love your fucking ass?"

Nodding, you grabbed the edge of the table. "You did. Many, many times."

Joel wrapped an arm around your waist, holding you close as he slowly entered you once more. "Oh, fuck, I love it when you got so fucking tight." His other hand grabbed your left hip as he was slowly bucking his hips into you.

Your moaning became louder as you said, "And I am all yours to fuck however you want! I love this thick cock abusing my pussy.”

The hand slipped under your belly, holding you there, moved to rub on your clitoris as he fucked you in the steady pace.

It was impossible not to whimper in pleasure as he made endless promises and praises for how good you made him feel as you moaned his name so sweetly.

Your warmness mixed with wetness, and your pussy's tightness sent him on edge. Soon, his pushes turned sloppy, and he started grunting more and more. As Joel pulled out his throbbing dick from you, he turned you around and jerked his shaft several times before cumming on your belly. "Fuck, Y/N."

You sat up and used your finger to taste some of his cum while moaning sadly at the feeling of emptiness. Your arm encircled his hand as you hummed. "Feeling better, sweetie?”

He wiped the last drops of cum from the tip of his cock with his thumb and sucked it clean, glaring at your body, still shivering from the pleasure you both shared. As he rearranged his boxers and jeans and zipped his fly, he casually replied, "Yeah, of course, that's what I missed." It wasn't long before he touched your swollen pussy again, eliciting another groan from you. "I love you so much. You're my only source of comfort."

After getting off the table, you walked to the kitchen and found a rug there. Before returning to him, you cleaned yourself up and put on your clothes. Wrapping your arms around him, you looked up at his face. "I love you too, and I'm glad I can help you feel better."

One of his brows cocked up. "What the fuck are you doing getting dressed?"

You blinked, whispering, "Uhm... As I'm planning to finish the food now, I'd like to dress appropriately."

A smirk spread across his face as he touched your cheek and stared deeply into your eyes. "Food can wait," he told you. "There is still a lot to make up, and I am not done pledging you yet."

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x reader smut #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x you #joel miller #tlou fanfiction #joel tlou #joel the last of us #pedro pascal fanfiction #tlou #joel miller one shot #joel miller x y/n #joel miller imagine #joel miller smut #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfic #the last of us fic #pedro pascal fics #joel miller fanfiction #tlou hbo fic #writers on tumblr #tlou smut

[deadhumourist]

I'll take care of you

Pairing: Frankie Morales x GN!Reader

Summary: You're sick and an unexpected source of help shows up.

Word count: ~2400

Rating: M, but there's no spice. This is a strictly 18+ blog, no minors.

Warnings: No pronouns used, no physical description of reader or mention of age. Nicknames used - Sweetheart and baby, self-indulgent fluff, fainting, mention of painkillers, let me know if I missed something.

A/N: I originally wrote this for my bestie when she was sick, and she kindly allowed me to adapt this into a fic. Love you @just-here-for-the-moment

------

You knew when you woke up with a pounding headache and a stuffy nose that your day was going to go downhill. Fast. 

Not being someone who got sick often, this sensation of your head weighing twenty pounds felt overwhelming. As if that wasn’t bad enough, you had been woken up by a loud banging noise during the night - loud enough to make you jolt awake - from neighbours who had been out late and were now returning with a raucous group of friends. The shot of adrenaline from the fright didn’t leave your system for a long time and you tossed and turned until you heard birds twittering in the trees outside. 

Now awake and groggy, you rolled over and grabbed your phone. You were supposed to have brunch with your friend later that morning but at this rate you couldn’t even breathe through your nose. Blearily you unlocked the phone and shot her a text. 

“Hey, I’m down this morning, could I please take a raincheck? ” 

A few minutes later your phone beeped. “Yeah hon, no problem. I hope you feel better. Can I bring you anything?” 

You sent her back the green-faced emoji. “I would kill for a Netipot and some painkillers”

She sent you back a thumbs up emoji. 

Slipping the phone back on the table, you laid back. Your eyes felt like they were going to drop out of your head every time you moved. 

You dozed off for the better part of an hour, and was then awoken by a sharp rap on the door. "Coming!" you called weakly from your spot on the bed. Throwing on a robe, you shuffled to the front door, thankful that your friend (and painkillers) were here.

The door swung open and your eyes widened in shock…In front of you stood Frankie, armed with a bag of things and his phone in his hand, earphones hooked into the neck of his t-shirt along with his sunglasses.

Frankie was a friend who you knew through other friends. Specifically the one you spoke to this morning. Who you had told about your crush on him. The one who knew, in no uncertain terms, that you felt he was out of your league and that there was a big, unromantic DNI slapped to his forehead in your mind. 

You instinctively closed up your robe further and shrugged into yourself. 

"Oh, hi Frankie. I…uh..I was expecting someone else."

You immediately cringed at how unfriendly that came out.

He seemingly ignored it, a frown forming on his forehead as he took you in.

"You look terrible."

Sighing deeply, you failed to stop a little cough from skittering out of your throat. 

"Yeah, thanks. I feel that way. Good morning to you too, by the way.” 

Frankie had been told you were sick but when he saw you standing in the doorway…it was so much worse than he imagined. You didn’t have your usual spark or smile, and the way you shrunk into your bathrobe like an injured little bird made his heart squeeze painfully. He was originally only meant to drop off the supplies, but seeing your tired, worn-out frame changed his plans immediately. He didn’t even think about it, the words just seemed to leave his lips of their own accord and all he could do was keep up. 

With the corner of his mouth lifting at your quip, he invited himself in, gently ushering you back inside and closing the door behind him. 

“Uhm…at the risk of sounding ungrateful, what are you doing here?” You eyed him as he walked into your living room. 

“A little bird told me you were sick so I brought supplies over. I’m going to take care of you.” he replied matter-of-factly, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

"I don't know about this" you wheezed.

Ignoring your protest, he busied himself unpacking the items from the bag before turning around and quipping. "You want me to get a nurse's outfit? Will that make you feel better?"  His smug little grin did nothing to dispel the idea of him in scrubs that you could peel off. 

Before you could fantasize any further you went into a coughing fit, which doubled you over. Frankie sped over and took your hand to help you back upright, little cough aftershocks still shaking your ribs. 

He was suddenly very close, concerned eyes looking into yours. His hand traveled up your arm and squeezed your shoulder gently. 

In a low voice, he murmured "Get on the bed, Sweetheart."

In a slight daze you went, obeying him. He’s never used that particular nickname with you before, but you would be lying if you said it didn’t make something delicious preen inside of you. You wanted more of it. Frankie had always just been kind and sweet but something in his voice made your skin flame. 

He switched the kettle on and prepared some herbal tea. Then he extracted the thermometer from its packaging and set it by the bedside table. You watched with wide eyes as he went about his business in your space like he was at home there. 

Finishing the tea, he set it down and took a seat by your side on the bed, one leg casually slung over the other. He seemed to slide into the role of carer effortlessly and you would have been amused were you not feeling like you were on the brink of death. Taking the thermometer, he flicked it a few times before bringing it to your lips. 

"Open for me" he asked softly. 

When the thermometer beeped, he slid it from your lips and looked at the reading. 

"Mierda, it's high”. He never cussed in front of you, but the distinct tone of worry bled through the words as they hung in the air between you.  

"We need to cool you down, otherwise you're going to feel worse. We gotta break this fever, okay?"

“We?” you asked, aiming for a teasing tone but failing miserably short due to the weakness in your voice. He continued as if he didn’t hear you. 

He got up and motioned to you. "The robe's gotta go. You need to cool down."

"But" you started to protest but his plush lips settled into a disapproving line and you knew it would be pointless to argue. Frankie wasn’t one to argue but you knew when he had drawn a line and would not be moved from it. 

You shrugged it off, revealing your favourite pajamas underneath - it was mismatched and well-worn but comfy . He took the robe and hung it on a nearby hook, then proceeded to take his shoes and cap off. It gave you some time to swallow two painkillers with your tea.

Then you just laid back and watched him, too tired and wrung out to argue. He rummaged in the bag then walked to the bathroom where you heard the water splash in the basin. 

The cool air on your heated skin was nice but your lungs were becoming sore from the constant coughing. “What are you doing now?” you grumped at him from your nest of blankets. 

He smiled to himself over the basin; you were a grumpy patient and instead of irritating him, it just made him soft. But being soft with you wouldn’t necessarily get you better, especially not if you kept resisting his help. 

So when he spoke to you next, he was a little more stern. 

"C’mon, stop arguing with me and scoot down."

Your fever-addled brain didn't immediately comprehend.

He repeated the request, clarifying.

"Scoot down so I can sit behind you."

"Whuu…why?"

"Please, just trust me."

You did as he asked and he slid in behind you, framing your torso with his knees so that you rested back onto his chest, your head nestled close to his neck so he could easily reach down to talk to you. 

He produced the cool washcloth and gently held it to your forehead and cheeks, pressing it to you a little firmer to tilt your head back onto his collarbone. 

"See how good it feels when you don't fight me on everything?" he murmured lowly, close to your ear. The way his stubble barely skimmed the shell of your ear made goosebumps erupt down your arm. 

Worrying the sudden goosebumps were a reaction from the fever, he resolved to finish up quickly and get you closer to cool water.

If only he knew what was really causing it. 

“Okay, new plan, we need to get you to cool water. You’re still burning up.” 

“You sayin’ I’m hot?” you grumbled.

“I’m saying you have a fever and if we don’t get it down, things will go south.” 

He moved off the bed and helped you up. Carefully, he kept his hand on your lower back as you shuffled to the bathroom, where he opened the faucet and positioned you in front of the basin. You splashed your face and then suddenly felt a wave of nausea wash over you. 

"I feel a bit dizzy" you murmured, hand coming up to your face. 

Frankie uttered a worried "hmmm". Perhaps it was a mistake getting you out of bed, but he desperately needed to get your temperature down. A split second decision made him run the shower cold, and shedding his t-shirt and socks, grabbed you by the waist and dragged you under the spray with him just as you started to lose consciousness. 

He hugged you close to him, your back pressed to his front. In an urgent, fervent whisper he rocked you under the cold water, counting down the seconds.

"Sweetheart, stay with me. Come on, baby, I've got you. I've got you, you're okay, I'll take care of you. C'mon baby."

Anxiety squeezed the lungs in his chest until it felt like they would burst. He tilted your head back slightly to allow the cool water to run down your neck and chest. 

Frankie could feel his pulse rabbit as the seconds ticked by. In the shower cubicle, the steady stream of water and whispers against your skin slowly pulled you back from the edge. 

You felt a chaste kiss being gently pressed to your temple, followed by another whisper. 

"Stay with me, please."

And then barely audible over the spray.

"Please be okay."

He sighed into the small space where every second felt minutes too long. 

You felt yourself coming back from the brink of the fevered dark quicker now, shivering at the pelting spray on your heat-sensitized body. 

Frankie noticed the small movement in his arms and he could have wept right then. 

He grabbed your hand from thankfulness, threading his fingers though yours and bringing it up to press a kiss to your knuckles. Slowly you also became aware of his bare chest pressed to your back, evidently not caring about cold shower tiles. 

"I thought I lost you for a minute there" he scoffed, relief bleeding through the words. 

With one hand feeling around above him, he managed to turn the shower off, and helped you into a towel. Wrapping the fluffy white towel around you, he rubbed gently, making sure to wick as much water as possible. He lead you back to the bed, and helped you sit down on the edge of it.

You slumped once you were sat, with Frankie kneeling in front of you. 

"You can't sleep in wet clothes. Let's get you changed." he intoned gently. 

"I don't have the energy, Frankie. Please." you whined, hanging your head low. You felt vulnerable after almost fainting in his arms and didn't want to repeat the performance. 

He placed a hand gently on your knee. 

"Sweetheart. Let me help.”

You looked at him, your frown lines forming like thunderclouds on a sunny horizon. He tried to make you smile. 

"Think of me as Doctor Frankie just helping a patient." he said with a lop-sided grin.

Your frown line softened and you prodded. 

"Did you just promote yourself? You were Nurse Frankie when you came in.

He squeezed your knee and smiled boyishly. “I’ll go so you can change.” 

A few minutes later, he came back into the room, pleased to see you in bed and under the covers. Sheepishly he stood around until you piped up with a small voice. 

“Will you lie with me until I fall asleep?”

He grinned at you, and without a word, went to hang his wet jeans over the bath tub. You realised that Frankie, having been in the shower with you, would have no dry clothes of his own here. You threw him a lifeline.

“Uhm…Frankie, there are some old swimming trunks from my brother on the second shelf. They were left here months ago, they’re washed, so…” you trailed off. 

You heard more shuffling and then he appeared in the doorway. From your cosy place in bed you tried really hard not to look at his broad chest and the dusting of dark hair that trailed down under his navel. 

As the bed dipped under his weight, he swung his legs inside the covers and laid back into the large pillow. He looked over at you, his focus soft, a few curls air-dried  falling over his forehead. 

"Come here, beautiful." He husked, and lifted his arm up. 

You looked at him for a moment, incredulous at the offer. A small part of you was still grumping inside and needed comfort so you gingerly moved closer to him. As you shifted, you laid your head on his chest, snuggling into the corner of his arm and shoulder. 

You wriggled a little to get comfortable, and once you settled, his scent was right by your nose; the fresh, cinnamon-like cologne he had applied hours before. Something really sexy but comforting emanated from him, something uniquely male and you nuzzled a little further into him, swinging a leg between his own two.

He made room for you. 

Then he reached over with his other hand and gently cupped the back of your head, holding you close. It made you want to purr. This wasn't just comfort, it was heaven. 

Frankie felt content for the first time that day. He had always skirted around you to avoid facing what he already suspected he felt.

He would nurse you back to health before he asked you out, he resolved as his eyes slipped closed. 

#frankie morales fluff #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales fanfiction #triple frontier imagine #frankie morales fic #pedro pascal fan fiction #pedro pascal fics #pedro pascal character fanfic

[wannab-urs]

I've Shattered Now

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x f!reader

Summary: Continuation of A Ghost of You (but can be read separately). Dieter dies and you have to learn to live without him. Word count: 3.6k

Warnings: Strictly 18+ | MDNI | Drug abuse, mild violence, yelling, Dieter is not alive, mentions of intentional overdose, grief, so much angst. Dieter and Reader's ages aren't mentioned at all, so dealer's choice on that.

a/n: This was a hard fic for me to write, emotionally, but the words themselves came easy. I'm pulling from a lot of real life shit here. Please enjoy this little piece of my soul. And thank you to @beskarandblasters and @mishasminion360 for encouraging me and reading it over for me.

Series Masterlist | Dieter Bravo Masterlist | Main Masterlist | AO3 | Kofi

I’ve Shattered Now

The hardwood floor is biting into your hip bones, your knees, your elbows. A sharp, pulsing in your lower back is sending waves of pain down your left leg. The space between your shoulder blades feels as though you have a knife buried to the hilt there. Your head is fuzzy, face swollen with tears and snot and ears full of a never-ending dull buzz. Your face is buried in a tattered green bathrobe that smells like weed, lavender incense, and Dieter.

 It still smells like Dieter. Oh god. Dieter. 

You scrunch the robe in your hands, pulling it impossibly closer to your face, and inhale deeply. Maybe if you breathe it in hard enough his scent will bury itself inside your skin, inside your bloodstream. Maybe it can live in you forever. Maybe he can live in you forever. 

Dieter. Dieter. Dieter. DIETER--”AGGGH”

A horrible, mangled scream rips itself from your throat. You slam your fists into the ground and kick your legs, flailing, yelling, begging. 

“Diiiiieter! Fu-fuck…Dieter!” you scream into the stale air of your apartment. Come back D. Come back….

You force your aching body to its knees, spluttering on your own snot. Half blind with tears, you draw a shaky breath and crawl across your living room floor to kneel beside your couch. You lay your head down on the worn green cushion and nuzzle your cheek into the last place that Dieter had been when he was alive. 

First Day of My Life

It’s a Wednesday, the first time you see Dieter Bravo. You don’t usually go out on Wednesdays, but this didn’t really count as going out. Your friend… kind of… Nissa was having a party to celebrate getting fired from her job. Considering your history with holding down jobs and your tenuous relationship with your current stint as a barista, you felt it fitting to make an appearance. 

Your usual scene — music wafting through the air from a record player carried by soft curls of pot smoke, friends giggling and leaning into each other on couches and floor cushions — this was not. You felt the bass pounding in your chest, vibrating your teeth, before you even reached the door. Inside the apartment, you were greeted with strobe lights… fucking strobe lights… flashing through a thick haze of smoke. There had to be 50 people in this tiny ass apartment. You consider turning around and going the fuck home because, seriously, fuck this shit, but before you can leave someone grabs your wrist. 

A man with wild, curly hair and a patchy beard. He’s wearing sunglasses even though it’s 11 at night and his broad shoulders are draped in a very threadbare t-shirt.

 “Can you help me with something?” he yells over the music. You give him a very confused look. What could you possibly help him with? Why the fuck is he asking you? He doesn’t wait for you to answer before asking “Would you like to have sex with me?” 

That is… not what you were expecting. It’s not wildly out of pocket considering you’ve apparently decided to attend a rave on a Wednesday night, but it’s certainly not what you thought you’d hear two seconds after walking inside. You lean close so he can hear you and shout “Maybe later? I’m not even high.” 

He nods sharply and pulls you by the wrist he’s still grasping firmly toward a doorway across the room. You follow him, bewildered, for a few steps before wrenching your wrist out of his grasp and shouting, “What are you doing? I said no!” 

“You said ‘Maybe later,’ technically. Follow me.” He pulls a baggie from his pocket and waggles it back and forth.

Understanding dawns on your face and you follow him. You step through the doorway with him and find yourself in the bathroom. He drops a pill on the countertop as you push the door closed. In the light of the bathroom you can see that he’s devastatingly gorgeous in a disheveled kind of way. His hair is curly and standing up in every direction. Your eyes travel down his body. He’s wearing pajamas, but his chest and shoulders are broad and look strong. You look back at his face.

“Molly,” he says simply, peering at you over the top of his sunglasses. His eyes are so dark they’re almost black, pupils blown out completely from whatever he’s already taken. There’s a ring of warm brown surrounding the giant pupils and his eyes have a downturned shape… Goddamn this man has actual puppy dog eyes. 

You nod and grab the pill, popping it into your mouth and swallowing it dry. “Thanks,” you say in response. “Do you always start conversations that way? Asking to fuck?” 

“Pretty much.”

“And does that work for you?”

“Sometimes,” he gives you a pointed look over his sunglasses. You roll your eyes at the insinuation it had worked on you. 

“Just because I took your drugs doesn’t mean I’m going to fuck you.” 

“Okay.” He says simply before moving to open the door. You follow him back into the party, taking note of the way your fingers are starting to tingle. 

Some amount of time later— you’ve lost track— your body is pressed against his at the center of the dance floor. Your whole body is thrumming with the music, vibrating with an undercurrent of electricity. The strobe lights illuminate everything in bright flashes. 

Your hands in his hair, tongues tangled together, chests heaving in time with each other. 

His forehead pressed to yours and his hands on your cheeks as you roll your bodies together in time to the music. 

Your hands laced together above your heads, your back pressed to his chest, your ass grinding into his hips. 

He brings his hands to your waist and turns you to face him. You move to kiss him but suddenly he’s holding a joint in the tiny space between your faces. His head flicks in the direction of the bathroom and you’re once again following him to the small room. 

Once inside, you close the door and sink to the floor, leaning your back against the bathtub and stretching your feet out toward the vanity. The man you’ve been dancing with all night perches on the countertop. He doesn’t look fully real right now, sitting above you, the wall light glowing an orangey yellow behind him. 

“You’re pretty.” you breathe up at him.

He chuckles and lights the joint. After 2 deep inhales, he passes the joint down to you. “Dieter,” he says. 

You tell him your name between hits, then pass it back to him. You scoot forward on the bathroom floor and lay your head on his calf. He’s wearing sweatpants, you note. Weirdo. There’s an inexplicable feeling settling in your chest as you kneel at his feet.

“Dieter,” you whisper. “Why does it feel like I’ve known you my whole life?” It’s the molly talking, you’re sure. You’ve barely said anything to each other. But it also felt kind of true. 

“Maybe you have.”

It’s Over Now, I’m Cold, Alone

The ceiling of your apartment is spinning, warping closer and farther away from your face. You are… so fucking high. Is this how D felt? Did he feel like the whole world was threatening to collapse on top of him? You hope he felt like he was floating instead. You hope the voices in his head were finally quiet. You hope he wasn’t scared. 

You take a deep, shaky breath in and hold it for as long as you can. You cough as you breathe out, choking on a sob. 

“Dieter. D. Dieter. Are you there?” He's always here. He’s never not been here with you. “Di-” you sob again, unable to force the words out of your mouth. A few ragged breaths.

“D… I can’t. I can’t do this without you. Come back. Please.” You think you’re praying. You haven’t prayed since you were a child. You hope Dieter hears you. 

You throw your hand out in the direction of the coffee table. Your fingers skim over the surface until they connect with a bottle. You dump the contents into your palm and swallow another pill, hoping it will finally be enough. 

You pull Dieter’s robe tighter around your shoulders, curling into a ball on the couch, and drifting off into a restless sleep.

Paranoid Delusions, They Haunt You

Dieter refused to use wireless earbuds. He wouldn’t put his fingerprint or face into the system, insisting on using a passcode, but he had a phone he used mainly for texting his dealer. He swore up and down that bluetooth fucked with his brainwaves. That putting his biometric information into the phone would lead them right to him. 

Two months after you moved in with him, he tossed his phone out, insisting it was tapped. He hadn’t made too much of a fuss over you keeping yours until now. Now your iPhone was shattered, a blade piercing through it and pinning it to the wall in the kitchen. 

You felt… defeated. You’d spent a lot of money on that thing. You needed it to talk to your friends, who you didn’t see often anymore. You needed it to text your boss and to get your schedule for work. 

Admittedly, you threw a fit. Was it childish? Could you be mad at him when he didn’t know what was real anymore?

It felt justified. He had destroyed your property. It was likely you’d be fired if you didn’t show up for work in the morning or at least tell your boss you’d be skipping your shift. 

But as angry as you were, you knew Dieter needed you. So you took care of him. You always took care of him. This broken man was rocking back and forth on the floor of your shared kitchen, crying and muttering and convinced for all the world that you were going to be taken from him. 

So you wrapped him in your arms and you promised him you’d stay. You helped him shower for the first time in days. You held him in your arms in the bed you shared and you kissed his forehead and whispered reassurances to him all night. 

You’d always been together, really, and you were never going to be apart again. 

Everyone I Know Goes Away, In The End

His funeral is today. You’re sitting in the park near your apartment, the place you and D used to sit for hours. You’ve read countless novels under this tree, his head in your lap as he sketched the people walking by. You’ve fed him french fries like Dionysus eating grapes, licked the salt off his lips. 

You’ve wrapped him in your arms, whispering reassurances in his ear that no one was watching him. No one was going to take him from you. Run your hands through those gorgeous unruly curls and peppered his face with kisses. You’ve read to him. He’d hated Wuthering Heights and he’d loved The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo and he’d asked if you ever read happy books.

You’ve dropped acid and stared up at the sky, finding shapes in the clouds and meaning in the rustling of the leaves. Smoked joint after joint and talked about the stars and where we go when we die and what the point of being alive is and if there’s a god. 

You walk to the coffee shop down the street where you had your first real date. You had agreed to meet him here two days after the rave at Nissa’s house.

You hadn’t remembered giving him your phone number, but you had remembered a godlike figure passing you a joint on the bathroom floor. You had remembered his soft lips pressed behind the shell of your ear as he fucked you against Nissa’s sink, your legs wrapped around his hips, your hands clutching his hair like it was the only thing keeping you tethered to Earth. You had remembered the way he whispered that your souls were intertwined from the start of the universe and it had culminated in you, here, now. Bodies folded together. Breath mingling in a smoke-hazy bathroom.

You slide into your booth. The one you’d sat in for hours, telling him your tragic backstory. A mother who loved herself more than you. A father who loved drugs more than being alive. He had told you his own story. How he’d been in and out of state care facilities, trying to silence the voices he never really stopped hearing. How he tried to drown them out with weed and pills and coke and whiskey. How they were quieter with you, but they never really went away. You barely knew him, really, but you’d spilled some of your darkest secrets to each other mere minutes into your first real conversation. 

You knew then you’d never get the imprint of his heart off of yours. You’d never existed before him and you’d never exist again without him.

You sat there, in the booth you so frequently shared with him, and you stared at the place he should have been. Dieter Bravo did not belong six feet under the ground. He belonged here. With you.

I Will Let You Down

You unlock your apartment door and take a step inside. The scene that greets you is, truly, more than you can fucking handle today. 

The couch, usually seated directly across from the entryway, is flipped upside down. The cushions are scattered across the floor. Your coffee table is leaned against the window. There are papers scattered across the floor, drawings of strangers and landscapes and you litter every surface. A canvas depicting what you’ve called Dieter Devouring his Son has a gash in it. There’s a hole in the wall by the entryway to the kitchen. 

In the center of the chaos is Dieter. He’s sitting on the floor with his back to you. He doesn’t have a shirt on and his feet are bare. He’s muttering to himself, hands tearing at his hair, and rocking slowly back and forth. He doesn’t react at all to you coming in. Your heart leaps into your throat. This is bad. This is bad. You’ve never seen him quite this gone. 

“Dieter?” He keeps rocking at the same steady space, his muttering growing slightly louder. You walk up behind him and reach out, hoping to soothe him with a hand on his back. 

He jumps away from your touch and yells, “Get the FUCK away from me!” You stagger backward, shocked. Breaking down isn’t new, in your experience with Dieter. But yelling at you is. 

“Dieter it’s just me, baby,” you speak just above a whisper, trying to calm him. 

“Get away! Get away. Get away. from. me,” his eyes are wild. Unfocused. He’s not really seeing you, you realize. 

“Dieter. Go to bed. I really don’t have the energy for this right now.” You’d had such a long day at work and now your lover had destroyed your apartment and was acting as if you were out to get him too, joining the rest of the world in the conspiracy to end Dieter Bravo. 

“Fuck you. Get out! Get away from me! Get out Get out Get out Get out.” He stands up and crosses his arms in front of himself, as if to ward you off.

You move to grab his arms, wanting to pin them to his sides and shush him. He shoves you, hard, in the chest and you fall to the floor. “Don’t. Fucking. Touch me!” He bellows at you. 

You look up at him from the floor, tears welling up and pouring down your face. He’s been out of it before, but he’s never hurt you. You scramble off the floor and dart out the door, slamming it behind you, but you don’t make it far. You can’t leave him like this. Not really. So you resolve to sit with your back against the door to your apartment all night.

A few hours later, you’re curled in a ball on the hallway floor, shivering and sore from being on hard concrete for so long, when the door opens. You rush to your feet and back away from the man in the doorway. 

Dieter looks at you with his giant brown puppy dog eyes, face streaked with tears, hair damp from sweat and hanging in his face. His hands are clenching and unclenching over and over as he slowly reaches out to you. “I’m so sorry…” He chokes out, his voice creaking. 

You press your back against the wall, as far away as you can reasonably get without running away completely. “You pushed me, D. And you- you screamed at me. You can’t yell at me, you know that, Dieter, you know that.” 

“I’m so fucking sorry, baby, you have to believe me… I-” he cuts himself off and looks down at the floor, folding his arms up by his head and tugging on his own hair. “I couldn’t tell. I thought it was real. I thought…”

You move toward him, slowly, like you’re approaching a potentially rabid animal. You reach out your hand and he flinches, “Shhh, D. It’s okay. It’s me. I’m here.” You reach both hands up and wrap them around his wrists, stopping his assault on his scalp. You press his hands into your chest and lay your palms over the top of his curled and twitching fingers, rubbing back and forth slowly in an attempt to calm him. 

“Didn’t know it was you… not really,” he mumbles in the direction of the floor. You press a kiss to his sweaty forehead.

“I know, baby. Let’s go inside.”

Wishin' I Were Gone

There was a short period of time last year that Dieter was on meds. Like real ones. Anti-psychotics. For the few months he took those pills, Dieter held down a job and cooked you dinner sometimes and cleaned up after himself. He showered regularly. You discovered that his paintings could be beautiful in a beautiful way and not in a scary way. 

He’d painted you and him, a sort of abstract smudging of oil paint creating the image of his body wrapped around yours. Your hands, arms, legs, completely entangled. The sunlight from your bedroom windows filtering down on your naked bodies and making you glow. The painting sits in the window sill, now. You’re staring at it from your spot on the couch. 

Your back is to the doorway of your bedroom. The room you haven’t entered since he died. The room with a dresser haphazardly stuffed with ratty t-shirts and sweatpants. The room where he stacked baubles and trinkets and rocks and gemstones on every surface. The room with the big bed you’d spent countless hours in with him, kissing and touching and taking and giving. You were usually so wrapped up in him in that bed that the outside world didn’t exist to you. You faded from reality there, with him. Joining him on some plane of existence where you were both safe. You want to go there again. 

You push yourself off the couch and stagger into the bedroom. 

A ray of sunlight is streaming through the window, falling directly on the unmade bed. You collapse into the center and wrap the blanket around you. It doesn’t smell like Dieter. You close your eyes and feel the sun warming your face. You feel yourself sinking deeper into the mattress. Your face is going numb, now. Your lips have lost feeling and it’s hard to open your eyes. You feel like you’re under a weighted blanket. Like you’re underwater and the waves are crashing above your head and you’re just watching. See you on the other side. You drag in one last shaky breath and succumb to the crushing heaviness surrounding you. 

I Miss My Lover

Dieter fucking Bravo was the love of your life. You never believed in soulmates, never believed someone could be made for you, souls two jagged pieces waiting to find each other and be made whole. And maybe you still don’t. Maybe you weren’t right for each other. 

Maybe Dieter was never meant to be here on this earth. Maybe he burned a little too hot and a little too bright to exist any longer than he had. 

Maybe for all your trying to save him, you only succeeded in destroying yourself. 

But, fuck! He wrote you poetry and painted you beautiful pictures and kissed you with his mouth full of french fries. He wrapped you in his arms and sang Etta James in your ear while you made Hamburger Helper. He kissed and held and loved every single part of you, even the jagged edges. 

Dieter Bravo’s soul was intertwined with yours. You think it still is. You think it always will be.

You’ll never be able to see the night sky again without remembering his lips on your neck and his hands on your waist and his voice in your ear telling you that you are more breathtaking than anything in the galaxy. 

You’ll never sit outside and read a novel on a warm spring day without hearing charcoal scratching the surface of a sketchbook. 

Every time you bring a joint to your lips, you are in that bathroom at Nissa’s house, looking up at his hooked nose and dark brown eyes and pouty lips and thinking he can’t be real.

There are some things, people, we come into contact with and they never stop touching you again. The imprint of them is forever pressed into your skin like little fingertip shaped bruises. 

Dieter Bravo grabbed your wrist one night, a few years ago, and he’s never let go since.

---

Series Masterlist

#dieter bravo #dieter bravo x f!reader #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x you #pedro pascal fics #pedro fics #pedro pascal x reader #dieter bravo fics #dieter bravo angst #angst #dieter bravo x female reader #the bubble fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction

[bluebeary-jay]

bluebeary-jay's 1k party celebration fics 💕

Finally I got around to create a post with all the fics I wrote based on your wonderful requests for my 1k celebration!! ❤️

THANK YOU once again to everyone who participated and sent in requests!!! Thank you for being here and for reading my stories and for encouraging me to write more <333 I love you all 🥰🥰🥰

(btw i'm not done with the requests so I'll continue writing and then adding them here but for now I wanted to have a place to gather them up 😊)

"Fine, keep acting like you hate me." (Javier Peña, 1.4K, fluff)

"Why is it whenever we see each other, you're covered in blood?" (Joel Miller, 1.8K, hurt/comfort)

"How is it you always know what I need, huh?" (Joel Miller, 1.3K, fluff)

"May I have this dance?" (Joel Miller, 3.3K, fluff)

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were jealous." (Oberyn Martell, 2.2K, fluff & a bit of suggestive themes)

"Promise me you'll still be here when I wake up." + "Come back to bed." (Javier Peña, xK, angst & hurt/comfort)

"Ah, so you aren't heartless after all." (Joel Miller, xK, angst & fluff)

"Clean yourself up. You're getting blood all over the place." (Oberyn Martell, xK, fluff & probably suggestive themes hehe)

"How long has it been since you've slept?" (Javier Peña, xK, hurt/comfort)

surprise prompt (cause anon said I can choose 🤭) (Joel Miller, xK, hurt/comfort)

#bluebeary-jay's 1k party #masterlist #as you can see there's A LOT #but i added everything so you know what to look forward to <3 #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal fics #i am SO slow with writing but it cant be helped

[pedroversereads]

Under Construction

Posting & Suggestion Guidelines

Character Masterlists

Tag List

Author Masterlist

•••••

Bear with us here.

Goal is a page for sharing of stories (no focus on any specific authors, though a Masterlist will be kept) which are exceptionally well crafted in prose, characterization, and plot. Smut too, but that's a bonus.

Plot rules here and notes mean nothing.

There will also be a SFW page (@pedroversereads-sfw) specifically - allowing anyone interested in stories without smut or romantic relationships to find them without having to wade through anything else. You can find stories on that blog, or under #pedroversereads-sfw here.

Can't read everything under the sun ourselves so suggestions are also welcome, though never guaranteed to be posted. Send us a message or submit an ask; asks with links won't be publicly posted unless we post the story. Might have some votes. Let's see where we get.

This page will not in any way be an exhaustive collection of fiction! It's a curated library of stuff we enjoy the most so biases will be present. If your taste somewhat matches ours though, we hope you find some under appreciated goodies!

Been far too long since we've done more than just read on here, so, bit of time to get this organized!

#housekeeping #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro characters #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fic recs #pedro pascal fics

[pascalssbabyy]

Warning: The following fics are 18+ MDNI 🔞

Birthday Interruptions ~ Word Count 2.9k ~ Summary: You’re Javi’s assistant and organise a party to celebrate his birthday. However, amongst all the music and entertainment, Javi’s too focused on unwrapping his birthday present early, which of course, happens to be you.

#pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal one shot #pedro pascal fics #pedro pascal masterlist #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal drabble #javi gutierrez drabble #javi gutierrez fanfiction #javi gutierrez #javi gutierrez smut #javi gutierrez masterlist #javi gutierrez fic

[afictionaladventure16]

I don't know, what do you guys prefer? Car Crash angst or being held at gun point angst?? Asking for a friend...

#Pedro pascal fics #wips

[inklore]

No thoughts just Joel thots…particularly pre-breakout Joel waking up to toe curling birthday day sex 🥴

gift (giving)

pairing: joel miller x (f)reader

word count: 881

warnings: eighteen+ content, unprotected piv, dry humping, dirty talk, creampie, come eating, unmentioned age gap.

note: i know you said pre-outbreak but i couldn’t stop picturing the greying daddy era he has going on so imagine this as an au where the outbreak isn’t even a thing but he’s still a silver daddy!

"You’re going to be late," you sigh. A sleepy smile spreads across your lips as you feel his fingers skate against your stomach as he pushes his hand up and under your night shirt—his shirt. His touch turns greedy and rough when his palm cups your boob. Grips. Kneads. A finger teasing at your nipple makes your breath hitch. 

Hips instinctively push back into him. 

The grunt breathed against the back of your neck when your ass presses against his hardened cock, indicator enough that he was waiting for the contact. For you to meet him halfway at the place of need he’s been since he’s rolled over and turned off his alarm. The trail of sleepy kisses against your neck just the warm up to that need being sedated. 

"Tommy can handle things," he murmurs against your skin. Rolls his hips up against your ass, the fabric of his sweatpants and your underwear causing just enough friction to rile you up in the same hand, it frustrates you from not feeling the hot drag of him bare against your ass.

"Hell must have frozen over," you tease. Reach your arm back to run your fingers through his hair. "Joel Miller, take a day off? It’s insanity." 

"Who said anything bout a day off?" He corrects, clarifies that the thought alone is the true insanity. "Just need a couple hours to be inside you," his tongue runs along your jugular. Teeth nipping at the vein, making you preen against him. 

You nod, give no argument because there is none when he’s working you up like this. When his mouth is edging you with both words and tongue. Fingers toying with your breasts, cock grinding into your ass—your core throbbing. 

You turn your head to meet his mouth, pulling him from your neck to breathe a whimper into his mouth, when you feel fingers move along the front of your clothed pussy. 

"Whatever the birthday boy wants."

Joel hums against your mouth. Hooks two fingers into the side of your underwear, yanking the wet fabric to the side and exposing you to the heat of the room; to his cock that he shimmies out of his sweats. The tip hot and searing when it spreads your wet lips; the sound vulgar and dirty. The underside of his cock catching on your clit and making your hips jerk. 

"The only thing I want right now is t'fuck this pretty pussy till my come is leaking from it," he groans into your mouth as he lines himself at your entrance and slowly pushes inside. You don’t need him to work you open with your fingers; don’t need that extra stretch to ease himself inside. Your walls accommodate him perfectly, given how wet he’s made you. 

His thrusts start out slow, dragging his cock almost all the way out of you. The tip the only thing fucked into you until you’re begging, and he’s pumping every inch into you with a slow push of his hips. 

His hand around your throat keeps your mouth fixed on his. Keeps your back arched and ass right where he needs it, so he can keep using your pussy, slamming his hips against your ass, dragging his cock against your walls, hitting spots he couldn't if you were in a different position. The heady torment heightened by his beard burning your cheek and chin from his lips, tongue, and teeth.

Your nails dig into his arm, "fuck, Joel." 

"I know, baby. It’s good. S’good." His thrusts pick up. Turn hard and fast, your body pushed and pulled back onto him—onto his cock. Your shared noises of ecstasy swallowed by the other's tongue, filling the room in a lewd show of desire and pleasure. "Can you beg for it–fuck–beg for my come. Your pussy's grippin’ me so tight." Hot breath brushes against your ear, his voice all you can hear; his grunts, groans, begging, and need. Completely absorbing himself into your very being. 

Joel Joel Joel. 

"Know you want it. Can feel how bad you need it," his teeth nip at your lobe. "Beg me." 

And you do. 

Beg him as you come. 

Beg him as you grip onto his arm, eyes screwed shut. A scorching heat taking over your body. Rendering you stiff and limp in his grasp. Your head feels hazy, dazed, and blissful. 

Joel grunts a string of curses and "that’s my girl, that’s it, that’s it, just like that." As you grip and tighten, and plead, around him until he’s spilling into your aching pussy. 

After he’s pulled out of you, your body still hot and sweaty against his; his fingers move through your wetness. Smearing the evidence of both your arousals along your core, coating your clit with the rotation of quick fingers that makes you hiss and jolt from oversensitivity. His fingers dip inside of you—to gather more, to follow the pattern he just followed, you expect.

The coated pads find your mouth instead. A wordless demand tapped against your lips obeyed as they press against your tongue. Lathering your taste buds with the bitter taste as you suck and lick the mixture of you and Joel off of his fingers. Of what you begged for. 

What he needed. 

"Happy birthday to me," he grins. 

#joel miller smut #joel miller x you #joel miller imagine #joel miller x reader #joel miller x y/n #joel miller one shot #the last of us smut #joel miller fanfic #the last of us fic #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal fics #joel miller drabble #tlou fanfiction #thots !

[morallyinept]

Welcome to my Pedro Pascal Character Writing Masterlist.

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[bits-and-babs]

𝐊𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐌 — 𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐘𝐍 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐋

summary: With the Great Hall empty, you take an opportunity to gaze upon the Iron Throne without its ruler. You can't help but wonder what kind of monarch Oberyn would make. The King is dead, long live The King.

pairing: Oberyn Martell x f!reader

word count: 3k

content: 18+ MDNI. SPOILERS FOR GOT, (In order) Reference to death and vague mentions of gore, celebration of said death (Nasty character go bye bye), fingering, PIV sex. This is a @beskarbabs remaster — original post date 2021.

➛ oberyn masterlist | main masterlist | taglist

Summer sunshine bathes the throne room in a golden glow yet does nothing to dispel the cold, unnerving energy that reverberates inside the stone walls. Red refractions from the stained glass sun at the window at the head of the room leak across the floor. You can’t help but consider the stone flags are often streaked with that colour. That those who have paced the stone flags, their footsteps ringing out in the Great Hall, have given the order to paint the Seven Kingdoms that same crimson shade. 

Standing before the steps, you consider the Iron Throne seated upon them, its bleak colours contrasting the warm hues in which the sunlight drowns the room. The Throne surprisingly does not live up to your expectations. You had heard so many stories, forged of a thousand surrendered swords at the conquest of Aegon The Conqueror. Now it stands before you; you can hazard a guess that there are less than two hundred. 

Its symbolism is not lost on you. It had seated some of the evilest men, who had brought terror and despair across the Seven Kingdoms and its people. When you had arrived at King’s Landing and entered the Red Keep before the wedding, you had expected to see arguably the worst of them all, King Joffrey, stare back at you.

Now it was empty.

The crimson that daubs the floor in splotches reminds you of the events just hours before. Reminds you of the lifeblood that leaked from the young king’s nose and slipped down his pale, blotched cheeks, dripping into the golden collar of his robes at his neck. Reminds you of the bloodshot colour of the whites of his blue eyes and the way they seemed to almost threaten to bulge out of his sockets. A gruesome death for a gruesome king. 

You hoped that his mother’s screams, ex-queen regent Cercei Lannister, mirrored those of the countless he had killed in these halls so brutally. Hoped it would bring those dead some peace. That it please the Old Gods and the New so that the kingdom could find peace and crown a more considerate, less destructive sovereign. 

The Great Hall was quiet. With no king to keep the Iron Throne warm, there was no requirement for anyone to be here. With this knowledge, you slowly make your way up the steps, the sound of your soles scuffing the stone floor ringing out in the vacant room. This close, you could regard the details. The ridges of the sword handles catch your eye, and the hilts of the weapons all ensigned with symbols that represented their owners long gone. While it didn’t meet your expectations, it was undoubtedly a throne for a king. 

You cast your eyes over the armrests, reaching out to touch them. They seemed so uncomforta-

“It’s underwhelming, is it not?” 

You snatch your hand back from the Throne with a gasp, like it had scalded you, eyes wide as your head whips around to look at the source of the sound. 

Oberyn smirks, standing in the centre of the large floor before you. His warm energy radiates despite the distance between you, and the golden robes he wears provide some much-needed colour to your bleak, almost desolate surroundings. You had asked him to wear those patterns for the ceremony, confessing they reminded you of the sun-kissed beaches of home. Oberyn agreed, delighted to represent Dorne this way. 

“You startled me, my prince!” You exclaim, pressing your palm to your chest in an effort to steady yourself. Your Viper had always been stealthy. 

“Apologies, My Sun, but you were so lost in thought that I fear I would have startled you regardless,” he muses, slowly crossing the floor. He looks so at ease in these four walls, sauntering as though he owns them. In honesty, this is how Oberyn always acts, but he is expected to uphold respect in the Red Keep and appear humble. He certainly didn’t seem to care much for that expectation now. 

Despite this, he regards you with a whisper of concern. 

“Are you well? What you saw back there… It wasn’t pleasant,” he treads carefully, uncertain how you had handled the events of the wedding, given he had sent you away from the gruesome scene. But, much to your surprise, the only thing that you happened to find grim were Cercei’s pitiful cries of “take him!” You swore they still rang in your ears like the screams of squealing pigs. 

“Just fine, my prince,” you promise him, dropping your hand to your side. You were fine, honestly. While you weren’t often exposed to atrocities in Dorne, you had certainly seen your fair share of them. Choking to death paled in comparison. 

Finally, he steps upwards, making his way slowly up the levels to stand before you. You’re taller than him on the top step, so he cranes his neck to look into your eyes. There is a glimmer in the blackness of his pupils - vindication. 

“And so the boy dies,” he says, voice quiet as he reaches for your waist. He slowly brushes his palm up the curve of your waist. 

“He was a Baratheon, Oberyn,” you remind him, watching how his eyes trace the neckline of your dress. A knowing smirk flickers across Oberyn’s usually measured expression. He knows something you don’t. 

“So they say,” he appears to pick his words carefully, despite your isolation. The walls of the Red Keep have ears, and unsavoury words often come back to haunt the utterer. “I fear his pedigree has come into question.”

A frown pulls at your eyebrows, searching Oberyn’s guileful countenance for an answer to your unspoken query of ‘why?’

“You saw how that wretched boy acted. Are you to tell me he isn’t a Lannister?” He questions you, holding your gaze. His usually warm brown eyes have that very same intense look he aimed at Cercei and Tywin at the dinner. Abhorrence. How were you to deny what he saw, what you saw? Joffrey was a monster, the kind of cruelty he dealt only shared with one family- lion’s jaws would easily maul a stag. Regardless of whose blood had pumped his heart, he deserved every moment he suffered. 

“Well,” you sigh softly, agreeing with your lover, “I suppose if the shoe were to fit….” 

“It does,” he speaks, dismissing any question of the legitimacy of his opinion, “This is a triumph.” You nod firmly, the two of you acquiescing unanimously to this fact. It was of no consequence who Joffrey truly was. The most imperative truth was that his death had devastated the Lannister family, precisely what Oberyn had set out to do. While he couldn’t claim responsibility, it certainly didn’t diminish his appreciation in seeing the panic amongst the blonde-headed savages - the infighting. 

Oberyn’s hand creeps from your waist and down the small of your back, taking hold of your ass and gently squeezing it. His eyes are hooded as you look down at him, iris’ hidden as he gazes down the neckline of your dress. 

“This could be your chance to become king,” you muse, smiling playfully as his eyes snap up to your face, disgust evident if only briefly. 

“Live here in King’s Landing? As sovereign? I would rather be abstinent,” he muses with his own knowing smirk, “not even your bewitching looks could implore me to rule the Seven Kingdoms.” 

You huff, acting disappointed as you cross your arms across your chest in apparent dismay. Oberyn simply arches an eyebrow, the edges of his lips lifting up in intrigue at your little display of audaciousness.

“What is it, My Sun?” He asks you, clearly amused. You purse your lips slightly, playing coy as you reach for the collar of his golden robes and brush your fingertips over the silk, moving them down slowly until you hook them into the leather belt that sits loosely on his waist. You tug harshly, catching him off-guard and forcing him to move up onto the top step beside you. 

“Oberyn, play the game with me. We’re celebrating, remember?” You whisper, looking deep into his eyes. They always reminded you of the bark of the blood orange trees that grew in the orchards in Dorne, the wood a deep brown colour that lightened with flecks of gold in the light. His tan reminds you of the sunshine, his sigil, the very name he affectionately calls you. Everything about him reminds you of home. 

He regards you for a moment, knowing exactly what you want. You want him to imagine what it would be like if he was king- just for a moment. 

“Anything for you,” he murmurs, allowing you this happiness. You grin, launching into questions as you smooth your hands down his chest again, ignoring how his voice dips an octave.  

“What would you wear, My King?” You ask, smiling wide as he places his large hands on your hips. His palms practically eclipse you, which always makes you feel safe, even in King’s Landing. 

“I would wear golden silk,” he muses, turning you ever so slowly until he stands between you and the Iron Throne, his back to it. You watch him for a moment, the deviant look in his eyes, “I would wear velvet, and I would ensure you were to dress just as remarkably.” 

You allow yourself to imagine that for the two of you, always matching to ensure everyone knew you both belonged to each other. 

“And what would you eat?” You ask him, finding yourself lost for words just seconds later when Oberyn takes the initiative to sit himself upon the Iron Throne. He sits back, legs spread wide, looking up at you. Your blood runs cold, and you glance around quickly for a King’s Guard. There’s still no one around. 

“What would I eat?” He repeats your question, smirking as he retakes hold of your hips, “I would order that all the best foods of Dorne be delivered periodically, blood orange, pomegranates.” His palms work their way behind you as he talks, resting on your ass and pulling you forward. 

“Oberyn-” 

“We’d gorge upon the finest venison, the boar from the woods and wash it down with our wine,” he continues, pulling you forward until you were forced to straddle his lap, bracing yourself with your hand against the ‘head’ of the Throne, “We would want for nothing, the finest food always available to me upon my request….” 

Oberyn’s hands pull your hips down gently, rolling your hips against his. He’s stiff in his tight brown pants, his body disclosing his need for you. 

“And I would eat you,” he ponders cheekily, a smirk crossing his lips as he sees your surprise at his readiness to take you here, in the Grand Hall, upon the Iron Throne. You have barely a moment to snap out of your shocked stupor before he’s working at shucking your skirts upwards, fingertips grazing the inside of your thighs. 

Heat sparks up your spine at the realisation- he actually wants to do this. He wants to fuck you now, here. You spring into action almost immediately, working hastily on the belt that encompasses his waist. 

“As for activities, we would have magnificent feasts, drinking the night away. We’d fuck-” he punctuates with a spank to the bare skin of your inner thigh, causing you to gasp, “into the early mornings, with as many whores as you desire….” He trails off with a smirk as you slip the belt open and pull open his eggshell-coloured long coat, adorned with golden patterning to expose his bare chest under his low-cut tunic. 

As you work on the ties of his pants, fingers trembling with anticipation, he slips a finger into your exposed core, causing your back to arch into his touch. Your jaw slackens, the sensation electrified when accompanied by the possibility that anyone could just walk in. The two of you could be put to death for this, as it certainly constituted a charge of treason. 

“So wet for me, My Sun. Does the prospect of fucking me here excite you?” He teases unrelentingly, gazing at the needy expression on your face. You can feel him search for that spot inside you, the one he knows will have you positively dripping with anticipation. 

“I-I’m the one asking questions,” you say, wanting to sound assured and confident, but you find yourself rushing the words so as to not get cut off by a moan. It made you sound ingenuine. Your lover just smirks knowingly, slowly working in a second finger. You’re already so aroused that it doesn’t take much effort. 

“You are?” He murmurs, watching the way you keen for his touch, feeling your hips rock forward in search of contact with that sweet spot inside of you. If Oberyn put his mind to it, he could make you cum in seconds, but he liked to draw it out. Wants to torture you with pleasure. “Ask away.”

You let out a soft moan as his knuckle brushed your clit, fingers buried deep inside your cunt. Drunk on the building pleasure between your thighs, you allow yourself to consider for a moment what kind of king Oberyn would be. With a broken train of thought, as he focused on building your arousal, you find a half-answer of ‘compassionate and just’. 

“How would you wish for your crown to look?” You finally find the strength to ask of him. You work him out of his pants slowly, easing his cock out and brushing the swollen head with your thumb. Even through your lustful haze, you could imagine all kinds of styles he would wear, but always gold. 

Oberyn, though still moving his fingers, seemed to pause to contemplate this. His eyes searched your face, almost as though looking for inspiration. The silence of the Great Hall is cut only by your laboured breathing, the soft sounds of the fabric of your clothes rustling, and the wet sound of Oberyn pleasuring you.

The quiet is almost too much, and you find yourself growing anxious. Only as you turn your head over your shoulder to check for people does the Prince of Dorne take your chin in his free hand, forcing you to look back at him. He always did ask for your undivided attention.

“I ask they do not place a crown on my head,” he finally drawls in that pretty accent you had come to adore, removing his fingers from you and taking hold of the curve of your ass to lift your hips upwards and align you with him, “Just you on my cock.”

Before the words can settle into your bones, he’s sinking himself into you, using his hold on you to bring you down slowly. You both exhale shakily, the sound teetering on a moan and a whine as he stretches you out around him. He grits his teeth together, the muscles holding his jaw pulled tight as your warmth and tightness overwhelm him. 

You begin to circle your hips, grinding them against him as he leans back into the Throne, gliding his hands from your knees and up your thighs, smirking at the obscenely wet sounds that come from where he fills you. 

“Lift your skirts,” he murmurs, gazing up at you with hooded eyes. They are practically black, the pupils having swallowed the brown of his iris’ with need, “I want to watch myself fuck you, My Sun.” You whine softly, not in complaint but in contentment, as you bunch your skirts around your waist higher, exposing the sight to your lover. 

Oberyn doesn’t allow you to put in all the work, grinding his hips upwards to meet yours each time you sink onto his cock. Your head lolls back, enjoying the trail of tingling skin he leaves as his hands brush over the skin of your waist under your dress. You always claimed that Oberyn had sunshine in his fingertips, his touch leaving a trail of warmth as it brushed your skin. You can feel it now, the gentle heat that swirls under your skin as he drags his hand over your abdomen. 

And Oberyn just gazes up at you, dragging his eyes over every inch of you. He loves how your eyes roll back into your skull as he rolls his hips and hits something deep inside you that makes your toes curl. He feels the way the muscles in your thighs twitch at the sensation, and that’s how he knows he’s found it. 

“Right there?” He murmurs, voice so low and smoky that it creeps down your spine and settles deep inside your cunt. You can’t manage words, your voice stolen by the throbbing in your clit, so you just nod in agreement. 

Typically, he would begin to thrust harder, chase his high. But half of the reason this feels so good is the anticipation of being caught. He wants to drag it out as long as possible, so he uses the grip on your hips to slowly rock them back and forth on his cock, ensuring that each time he pushes into that spot inside you. 

You’re clamping down on him, wailing quietly as he teases you. Oberyn was brutal, never settling for anything other than blinding pleasure. But this is almost acute, so strong that you could cry- you do, tears welling in your eyes as he circles your hips slowly, his tongue brushing his lower lip as he watches his dick slide in and out of you. 

The sopping sounds of Oberyn’s cock continually slipping in and out of you ricochets off the ancient stone walls of the Red Keep. Your whines of bliss appear to spur him on, lighting something ablaze in him that had sparked with King Joffrey’s last breath. He’s almost delirious when he speaks but utterly sincere.

“I want you to conceive a child - here on the Iron Throne. I want you full of my seed, knowing he was born for the Throne itself.”

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#oberyn nymeros martell #oberyn martell #oberyn martell x you #oberyn martell x reader #oberyn martell x y/n #oberyn martell x female reader #oberyn martell smut #oberyn martell fanfiction #oberyn martell fic #oberyn martell imagine #game of thrones #game of thrones smut #game of thrones fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal cinematic universe #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal fics #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x reader

[jksprincess10]

Are we out of the woods 4. I can't hide from you like I hide from myself

Summary : Your father is a dangerous man who has a lot of enemies. One day, you’re taken from your home by force to go to a safe cabin in the woods to be protected from an unknown danger by three of his men: Ironhead, Pope and Catfish. You’re not really a nature enjoyer, but in your boredom, you discover a new love for nature. You also get to know the men working for your dad and interest sparks between you and the mysterious and silent Francisco.

CW: canon-like violence, explicit smut, reader is kind of a princess at first, talks of divorce, drugs & alcohol, talks of addiction, slight age gap (reader in her mid 20s, frankie in his late 30s), jealousy, tension, frankie is a mess.

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You asked for a party to celebrate your victory. After all, the fridge was overflowing with unopened beer bottles. You felt like the boys were finally respecting you and not seeing you only as an unbearable princess. So, after a well-earned nap, you got ready for the, everyone excited like teenagers hosting a secret house party.

You wear a low-cut shirt with a cardigan over it and comfortable, stretchy jeans that molds your ass. You don’t know why you feel the need to dress to impress. Well, you knew, but you were in denial. You couldn’t help but to be drawn to Francisco, even more so that he wanted to push you away so badly. Wanting something you couldn’t have has always been more exciting.

You roam around the cabin, trying to find the boys. You guess they’re all hiding in their shared bedroom. So, you knock on their door and open it when they don’t immediately respond.

“What are you guys – ”

Santiago comes up to you in a hurry, tan hands trying to cover your eyes.

“Everything here is very legal and there’s nothing to see.”

“Oh, come on.”

You take his hands in yours to bring them down. They feel rough and dry. You wonder if Frankie’s feel the same. When you’re finally free from Santi’s hands, you observe the scene before your eyes: the boys are on the carpet and are visibly rolling joints meticulously, distributing the green dried-up herb evenly on paper before rolling it up expertly. It seems like they have done this their whole life. You sit down on the carpet with them, your legs under you.

“I thought you guys were doing crack or something.”

They all laugh. Except Frankie, who clears his throat and passes his hand under his cap to tame his hair; something he often did when he was nervous.

“We didn’t know if you’d be up for it, and we didn’t want to scare you.” Will explains.

“Never smoked, but I’m up for a new experience.” You shrug.

Your dad watched you way too close for you to do one thing out of line. But he wasn’t there. And for once, there were no cameras. Well… probably. You could never be sure with him.

When your eyes go from the messy room to the men around you, your eyes lock with Frankie’s for a second. He still looks stoic; his broad shoulders under his light blue shirt visibly tense, legs covered in dark washed jeans, straight like a soldier’s. Only his fingers are indicating the slight hint of movement as he plays with the slim leather bracelet around his wrist.

“Well, this is your party.” Frankie finally says after clearing his throat and looking away.

“Perfect, so let’s do whatever the lady wants.” Pope agrees, slapping his best friend on the shoulder in a friendly manner.

“I’m thinking we could light the fireplace and take the party there when you’re ready.” You suggest.

After you have all eaten, you start drinking. You really didn’t like the taste of beer, but you knew you’d get shit for it if you complained. When you hit the bottom of a few drinks, your personal bodyguards decided to take out the weed. You were feeling pretty relaxed already, so you took only a hit, while the others shared a few. You remember vaguely your high school friends telling you about what it smelled like. You didn’t really like it. But you’d like to smell it on Frankie’s clothes.

 While you smoked, you talked about their code names. The boys shared the stories behind them. There were all sorts of heroic stories. It’s like they lived a whole lifetime before getting stuck here with you.

“I want a code name too.” You whine.

“We’ll think of one.” Will promises. He seemed to be the least affected one by the mixture of drugs and beer.

Minutes later, everything was funnier and a bit more blurry than usual.

“Okay so Frankie, please take off that ugly ass cap.” You say with a giggle, trying to make him laugh. You crawl to him and try to take it off his head. When he protests, you add: “It’s my party. I won the bet.” You extend your arm and steal it from him, hiding it under your ass. You like how messy Frankie’s hair looks; brown curls untamed around his head. You wanted to run your fingers through them, but you still had some self-control left.

You talk of random stuff with the boys, until they suggest a game. You have a brilliant idea. You put one of the empty bottles inside the circle formed by your bodies.

“Fuck no, we’re all men and you’re alone.” Santiago rolls his eyes. “I’m not kissing you, pendejo.” He says to Frankie.

“Isn’t that the most fun thing about it? Let’s see who I get to kiss, huh.”

It spins and spins until it the tip stops in front of Santi.

“Come on Santi, rules are rules.” You giggle as you invite him to get closer with a movement of your index finger.

You almost miss how Frankie looks away and sips on his beer quietly as Santiago crawls to you. Your hands grab him by the collar, and you press your lips on his. He’s not a bad kisser, but you don’t like the way his stubble scrapes your skin. When you two separate, you see that Frankie has left the room entirely.

“He’s not fun.”

“Maybe this isn’t the most responsible thing to do when you’re fucked out of your mind.” Will shrugs. “You should go lay down.”

Santiago looks disappointed, but Will shoots him a reprobating look.

You get up with some difficulty, holding on to furniture to help. You find your way through the halls and see that the men’s bedroom is open, and Frankie is nursing his beer, sitting on one of the bunk beds.

“Hey, party pooper.”

Francisco sighs dramatically and pinches the bridge of his nose in annoyance. He really tries to ignore you, but you sit beside him. Too close. You flood his mind with your floral perfume hidden under the strong scent of weed and wood.

“Please leave.”

“What’s wrong, Francisco? Tell me.” You slur.

“Nothing. Nothing is wrong.” He says abruptly, cheeks red.

“Hmmmm.” You lay your head on his shoulder and look up at his face. “Your hair looks nice. I wanna touch it. Please.” You don’t wait for approval as you lift your hand and almost get to your target, but he stops you by wrapping his hand around your wrist. It’s softer than Santi’s, you notice. His warm brown eyes are on you.

“Can you stop trying to get into everyone’s pants?”

“You don’t understand anything, Fish.” You respond with annoyance. You clumsily put your legs over his, straddling his thighs. “M’not trying to get into Santi’s pants.”

He sets his beer down and hesitantly wraps his arm around you to keep you steady. You feel goosebumps even though you have many layers of clothing separating you from his skin.

“Then, what was that earlier?” You can’t put your finger on it, but he sounds… heartbroken and miserable.

“Was trying to kiss you, asshole. But you don’t let me in. You don’t – you don’t talk to me, Frankie.”  Your cheeks heat up. You hate how everything seems to be coming out of your mouth at once without you being able to stop them, like blood coming out of a fresh wound.

You suddenly feel hot, and your arms fight with your cardigan to rip it off, all while Frankie still holds you so you don’t hit your head on the ground.  

“I don’t want you to see what’s inside, cariño. It’s broken and put together with tape.”

“Please.” You press your forehead against his.

Your proximity makes it hard for him to push you away. He caves in, a soft palm coming up to cup your cheek as he pulls to let you get a taste of him. His lips are chapped, his beard soft and he tastes like beer and leftover weed. His mouth moves softly against yours, following the rhythm you set. You feel like your body is exploding in fireworks, sparks of you and him mixing in the night sky. You deepen the kiss, tongue exploring his mouth and lips sucking around his tongue as you push him down on the bed. You already feel how hard he is beneath you, and your mind is blurred with want. You moan his name, and he swallows the sound.

“Shh…” He never sounded so soft, and you wanted to bottle the sound for the next time he was grumpy and telling you to fuck off.

The door was still slightly open, and you could hear the laughs and animated conversations between Santi and Will. They probably thought you were asleep and frankly, you did not care. Your mind was chanting at you to keep Frankie close. Your fingers tangle in his hair, caressing and pulling. You see the way his eyes roll in his skull when you pull.

“You like that, Frankie baby?” The pet name falls out of your lips like a known song. 

“Yes.” He breathes.

On their own accord, your hips start moving, desperate to get any friction. The rough fabric of your jeans gives you some relief, but it’s not enough. You want him and you’re consumed by the thought. His hands move from your waist to your tits, and he massages your sensitive breasts through your bra. You camouflage your sighs of pleasure with kisses along his throat. He smells so fucking good, like the forest on a fresh and sunny morning. He thrusts his hips into yours roughly, and you realize he’s also desperate.

“Fuck, I could come just like that.” He whispers.

You smirk against his skin as your hips move against his, the inseam of your pants mixed with his hardness rubbing deliciously against your pussy. He feels so fucking big, and you want to take him everywhere, but you’re too consumed by your body chasing its pleasure to think about undressing.

The snap of his hips is enough after a while to send your body to a new peak, with his hands grabbing your tits.

“You’re so beautiful.” He groans like it pains him before trapping your mouth with his, tongues mixing as he chases his own high. You help him through it, until you feel his hips stutter while he comes. Hard.

You get off him and let your body fall beside his. You barely have time to relax and register what you just did when he says:

“Fuck, go.” Frankie pushes you as you hear footsteps. He hides the wet front of his pants with his blanket.

You get out of the bed as fast as you can and get out of the room without looking back, stumbling and holding the walls that were spinning, trying to look as natural as possible.

Thankfully, the boys are too high to see how weird you act as you uncoordinatedly walk to your room, grinning from ear to ear.

#frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales fan fiction #frankie morales fics #triple frontier fic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fics #triple frontier #awootw

[thepaperpanda]

The Only Source of Light || Joel Miller x fem!reader

Summary: As you return home from the job you were involved in, you realize how much Joel feared losing you

Warnings: none

Word count: 1207

Authors: Cass & Fenrir

After throwing your backpack on the ground and closing the door, you sighed loudly. It was nice to be back home, but you felt like crap. You had dirty clothes stuck to your body. There were a number of problems with the job. The only thing you dreamed of was taking a shower. Announcing your successful return, you shouted, "I'm back... Still alive!"

Joel's exhausted state made him appear limp like wet laundry on a cold, still day. Every muscle in his body seemed to be giving way to gravity. The man wanted to sleep, to be warm in his bed, and to have a good night's sleep. Rather, he had chaos both outside and inside the shared space. 

He nodded briefly at you, his bearded face displaying a look of tiredness. His politeness began to wane. "What the fuck, Y/N? Where have you been?" The stain on the leg of your jeans caught his eye. "What's that?"

"It's nothing," you said, shook your head, and went to the bathroom to wash yourself and remove dirty clothes.

There was no doubt that Joel would not give up and follow you there. "What happened?"

You groaned before removing your shirt and tossing it to the side. "Jesus, some privacy, please! The job got messy, so I had to shoot. Nothing bad happened."

Leaning casually against the door frame as you changed, he paraphrased, "Job got messy, I got shot. I've seen all that before, so don't be prude. Mind if I check this wound?"

"Mind if I change and clean myself up a little before we start?"

With an eye roll, Joel turned on his heel and hurried to the kitchen to retrieve the whiskey glass he had started before your return.

"Thank you!" You yelled after him, and you began to wash yourself as much as you could. You changed into more comfortable pants and Joel's flannel.

Leaning one hand against the counter, he glanced at you as you entered the kitchen. "Y/N, I am very particular with my words, aren't I? I warned you to be careful."

"I was careful. Things can get messy, you should know this." As you spoke, you hopped onto the counter and stared at him. "I am fine. Really."

As he approached you, he shifted another glass filled with alcohol along the counter for you to take. "The fact that things get messy is not an excuse for getting hurt so easily," Joel snarled a little, downing his glass.

"Do not treat me like a child. You get hurt too, and I do not lecture you." Accepting the glass with a smile, you took a sip while grimacing. The taste of alcohol was never appealing to you.

He didn't say anything more, just stared at you for quite a while before putting the glass into the sink. "Did you sell everything?"

Before taking another sip, you answered, "Everything, somehow. After being away for so long, I couldn't wait to get home."

Joel reached into one of the cabinets and pulled out a small plastic bag. "I think we still have some painkillers here," he said, pulling two pills out and handing them to you. "I want to see that leg, too."

You took the pills before showing him your leg, joking, "I think you saw it plenty of time." The wound wasn't serious, and you patched it up right away.

His brow cocked as he inspected the wound carefully. "Just a little graze, isn't it?" As it turned out, it was not deep, but rather superficial, so Joel reluctantly agreed with you.

"It was patched as soon as I could. You don't have to worry. I am a big girl."

Joel decided not to argue with you, so he only nodded. "It's going to be a long and hard day for us tomorrow, so come rest."

"Wait?" You asked, raising an eyebrow. "Why will it be difficult?"

"There is something we need to do on behalf of Marlene."

Then you shook your head, groaning. "No. C'mon, Joel! I just came back. All I need is rest," you sighed. "And her? Really?"

He picked you up and carried you to the bedroom saying, "I trust her. Sort of."

Surprised, you grabbed onto him. "Well, sort of doesn't really make it better, does it?"

"You need to trust me, Y/N."

"Well, I can try, but I need to know what I'm getting into right after returning."

You were placed on the bed and the pillow was improved for you by him. "We're going to smuggle something outside of Boston."

"Oh, I see. So? It's business as usual," you nodded, getting comfortable on the pillow. "But you've always done it alone. Why do you need me this time?"

"I've got a feeling it won't be any of the usual goods. It's going to be a girl."

Girl? A child? He's never tried smuggling people before, so that's something new for him. "You've never done anything like this before."

"Marlene can only trust us in this urgent and unusual situation," he explained quickly.

You couldn't resist chuckling. "Well, then I guess I can tag along, just to make sure you don't get yourself into trouble."

"Don't worry about me. I am more worried about you."

You patted the mattress as you said, "Get your ass into bed or I'll pull you here myself." you said. "You know how worried I am about you, so as we see it works both ways."

As he lay down in front of you, he improved his own pillow, letting your arms wrap around his waist.

In a quiet voice, you looked at him and asked, "Did you miss me while I was away? I sure did."

"Yes. You know I always miss you."

As you stared at him, your head rested on his chest. Soon, your hand rested on his nape as you moved it through his hair. "That's why you were angry about the leg? You thought I wouldn't return this time, didn't you?"

A long moment passed without him saying a word. He stared intently at the dilapidated ceiling with his brown eyes. "I was afraid I had lost you forever.

"Oh, Joel!" Your voice was no more than a whisper as you hugged him tightly. "As far as I'm concerned, I'm not going anywhere."

"The only thing my life has taught me is to be uncertain of what the future holds," he replied emotionlessly. "The reason I got angry was because you were involved in something I was powerless to control. I hate such moments.”

As you played with his hair, you whispered, "I know. You know I didn't mean to worry or anger you. I always try to get back to you as soon as possible."

His hand was soon slipping into your hair as he massaged your scalp and stroked the curve of your spine underneath your shirt with his other hand. "I love you. "I love you too." As you cupped his cheek to pull him closer, you whispered a quiet, come here. The kiss you offered was gentle, as if you were afraid you might hurt him. “For me, you are the only source of light in this dark world of mine.”

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