bonkhrnyjail

[bonkhrnyjail]

bright lights - part iv [dieter bravo x neurodivergent!f!reader]

chapter summary: Everyone has an opinion about you and Dieter these days. ratings/warnings: E [age gap (reader is 32, Dieter is 47), dual/alternating POV, boss/employee relationship, flirting, overt criticisms of Twitter stan behavior, overt fatphobia, insecurity of the new romantic relationship variety, Pix has a conversation with her mother that goes poorly, ableism, some overt fatphobia because the internet is a garbage land, a little angst, SMUT, oral sex f receiving, difficulty orgasming, face riding, coming untouched, dry-humping (i'm going through a phase i fear), they're both switches but Dieter is very submissive this chapter, semi-public fooling around, they are extremely horny for each other, Dieter goes to therapy, Dieter has commitment issues, they are both trying their best] wc: 6.4k a/n: please go to @ezrasbirdie-updates to be notified of updates! Pretty sure life is conspiring against me lately, but I finally got this finished and I REALLY hope it's as fun to read as it was to write. I am asking y'all to bear with me (and Dieter--and Pix, too, tbh) and trust the process. that fear of commitment can be a bitch. all my love to @mothandpidgeon for giving me all the bonks I could ever ask for every time i start to doubt myself and for being a wonderful beta. i love you endlessly.

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The morning after is, in your experience, a delicate affair. Maybe if you were a different person, a chill girl with no need for answers to any of the questions swirling around the whirlpool of your mind, you could approach with a heavier hand. 

But you are not a chill girl. 

Maybe it’s lucky for you that Dieter Bravo is not a chill guy, either. His affection is not the usual type of cool, collected kiss on the forehead. There is no knowing smirk, no barely-there acknowledgment of what happened the night before. Instead, he clings to you like a needy sloth, pressing sloppy little kisses on every inch of bare skin he can find. 

He’s even more beautiful right now, haloed by all this golden sunlight with cherry blossom pink cheeks and pupils blown so wide and dark you can barely make out the dark brown irises. His tongue massages the column of your throat, hungry and pleading, but his hand hovers politely at the hem of your shirt. 

“What is it?” 

“Can I see you?” He rubs the seams between his thumb and forefinger. You frown at him, your sleepy, over-literal brain too slow to work out his question.

“Can you not see me now?” You ask, only understanding what he’s meant just as the last word of your question leaves your mouth. He buries a smile into your collarbone, waiting for you to catch up. “Oh. You mean…yes. Yeah.”

“You sure?” He asks, sensing your hesitation.  

“Well, just, um.”

Maybe there is some delicacy to this morning, after all. You try to phrase it in your brain, reordering sentences until you've been quiet too long. Dieter says nothing, though, just occupies himself by kissing all your fingers.

He likes you, doesn’t he?

Fuck it. 

“It’s just that my tits are like…real tits. Like they’re not perky, they’re just big, thirty-two year old tits, so if you’re thinking—”

But he’s already hiked your shirt up, groaning as he cups the aforementioned big, thirty-two year old tits his hands and massages them. “Fuck yeah, they are.” He wastes no time latching onto your nipple and letting out a garbled fuck as he swirls his tongue around the hardening bud.

“Fuck, Dee,” you whine. 

It’s embarrassing how desperate you are, how wet you’ve gotten already. You can feel him, too, though, hard and throbbing against your hip. 

He unlatches, gazing at you with big puppy eyes to ask, “Can I eat your pussy?”

“Yeah, Dieter, please,” you breathe.

You’re definitely not the only desperate one. He’s crawled down between your legs to pull your panties off before you can even finish saying yeah. 

You prop yourself up on your elbows to watch him. His fluffy hair sticks up over the curve of your belly as he positions your legs over his shoulders. He noses your thighs, kissing and nipping his way to your core as you squirm against him.

“Tease,” you murmur.

“Just wanna taste all of you,” he says, settling himself in front of your pussy. “Jesus Christ. You’re so wet, sweetheart.”

“Better do something about that, Bravo,” you order. “Before I do it—”

You jump at the sudden contact, his tongue pressing firmly against your clit. No curious kitten licks—he gets right to work. Most of the men you’ve been with need a moment to orient themselves, but Dieter knows exactly where he’s going. 

He listens well, too. All that talk about him being difficult to work with on set and here he is, taking direction perfectly. 

“Firmer,” you sigh, and he presses the flat of his tongue against your clit as he moves his head in circles. “Like that, yes, fuck—”

Dieter lets out a soft little whine at your praise, bringing his hand down to his cock and squeezing. You gaze at him with heavy-lidded eyes. He likes it when you praise him. 

A lot. 

It shouldn’t surprise you, really; the man lives off praise. But this is different. You’ve seen him shrug off criticism of his performances, but it feels like it would ruin him if he failed to please you. 

His fingers twitch against your thigh and your mouth waters at the thought of them inside of you. You really need something inside of you.

You clear your throat. “Dee—can I—your fingers—” 

Eloquence is not your friend right now.

“You want my finger, baby?” He asks, not looking up, barely taking his mouth off your pussy.

“Yeah,” you whine. “Yes. Fuck, please.”

Despite spending the last six months staring at those thick, steady fingers, but that hasn’t prepared you at all for the way just one stretches you out as he sinks it into your cunt. He growls at the sob you let out, curling his finger up and caressing something that has you seeing stars.

“Dee—”

“I know, baby,” he coos. “Can you take a second?”

“Please, fuck, please,” you beg, all breathy and girlish. 

He slides in a second finger and groans at the way you take it for him. It’s even more of a stretch, but he’s gentle with you, rubbing and massaging until you open up completely for him. It’s easier, you think, with all your arousal and his saliva and how relaxed he’s made you. 

“Look at her,” he says, pulling back for a breath. He’s not talking to you. “She’s so wet.”

He says it like he hasn’t been drooling on your pussy for the last twenty minutes, like he’s shocked he’s made you feel this good. 

A sudden dread pushes through your haze of pleasure and you glance back at the digital clock next to the bed. Twenty minutes? 

This is not the best realization, especially now that there’s been a realization. Now you’re in your head. This happens sometimes—sometimes, no matter how good it feels, you just need more pressure than that sweet little tongue of his can provide. 

Dieter doesn’t seem concerned, and he doesn’t seem to have noticed how much time has passed. You try to get out of your head; try not to worry about how easily he bruises even when it’s something silly. 

Of course it would happen the first time he’s eating you out.  

You could always fake it, but you don’t like lying to him. He’s always so open with you, it feels like more of a betrayal than a little lie. 

“C’mon, baby,” he urges. “Wanna feel you come all over my tongue.”

Shit.

His tone isn’t even impatient. If anything, he’s just trying to be sexy, but now you’re in your head and you’re not getting out of it. 

You stiffen as you throw your head back and squeeze your eyes shut, deciding to just go with the truth. “Sorry, I know it’s taking a while, it—sometimes that just happens, I guess, it feels really good, it’s okay if I don’t come.”

He stops and gazes up at you with those soft eyes, the bottom half of his face shiny with your arousal.

“It’s okay if it takes a while, baby. I’ll stay down here all day. What do you need from me?” He asks, pulling his fingers carefully from you and waiting for you to answer. “Faster, slower?”

Heat rushes up the back of your neck. They usually just stop.

“Um…it’s not really that. It’s usually, like, more pressure. Friction, I guess.”

He flashes a devilish little grin. “Mmm, okay. So you need something to rub up against, yeah? Like last night, huh? She just needs a little something more?”

“Jesus Christ, Dee,” you mutter, suddenly aware of how naked you are in more ways than. This is not usually something you discuss.

“C’mere,” he says, climbing up and laying back on the pillows. The fluffy robe has fallen open, and you can see his pretty skin shiny with perspiration. Your eyes wander down, biting your lip as your gaze lands on his cock. 

You’ve never seen it before, not even by accident, despite being warned. You make a mental note to ask—why’d he stay so dressed in front of you all this time? For now, though, you’re busy staring at it. 

It’s fucking pretty. Thick and long, his head bulging from his foreskin and leaking with arousal. You swallow harshly—you were in the middle of something, but now it’s all you can do not to sink down on it, even if it splits you in half. 

“Nuh uh,” he murmurs, wrapping his hand around the base. “You’re not near ready for that, sweetheart. Could barely take my fingers. Need more time.”

Your mouth rounds—you hadn’t even considered that he’d be worried about that. Guilt twinges in your gut—you’d assumed he’d be more selfish. 

He’s smirking when you meet his eyes, your face hot with desire, and that doesn’t surprise you in the slightest. You’re still not entirely sure what he wants you to do, though.

“What…”

You trail off.

“Come sit on my face,” he says.

Oh.

There is no denying that you’ve gotten off to the thought of riding that nose. The fact that he’s offering it so freely just to get you off makes your head spin.

“Okay,” you murmur. 

You straddle him first, pressing a kiss to his lips and sliding your hands through his hair. You haven’t gotten to touch him very much, and all you want is to feel him under your fingertips. 

Dieter licks into your mouth, wrapping his arms around your waist with a little delighted noise. You can feel his cock, hard and pulsing underneath you, slick with both your arousal. You spend some time kissing him; feeling him. Everything is wet and sloppy and smooth, and you like the way his soft belly meets yours. He whimpers when you cradle his jaw in your hands and pull on his hair, and again when you scratch your nails down his chest, leaving long, pink marks on his pecs. 

“Good noises?” You ask, just to make sure. 

“You have no idea,” he murmurs. “Now if you don’t fuck my face right now, I’m gonna lose my mind.”

He looks almost as excited as you feel when your thighs bracket his head.

“Baby,” he groans. “Please, sit on it, don’t make me beg.”

You kind of like making him beg, though.

“What if I want you to beg?”

“Then I’ll fucking do it.” His big, earnest eyes send a ripple of power through your chest.

“Then beg.”

“Please, Pix. Please put your pretty little pussy on my face,” he whines, sticking his tongue out of his mouth like he’s trying to taste you in the air. “Please, please, baby, please—”

You don’t have it in you to make him wait for long.

He makes an incoherent noise underneath you, sinking his fingers into your thighs to help you move back and forth. His tongue finds your hole quickly, fucking it as you find the perfect pressure for your clit on his nose.

“Oh,” you moan, grabbing the headboard to stabilize yourself. “Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck it’s—”

He growls, fingers digging harsh enough that there’ll be little marks on you, too. 

Your release sneaks up on you, clamping your thighs around his head and clenching around his tongue as stars burst behind your eyelids. You can hear yourself crying out, but it doesn’t feel like it’s coming from you. Dieter stills, moaning underneath you and holding the small of your back, like he’s trying to keep you upright.

Collapsing backward, you giggle with endorphins. Dieter’s climbing over you in seconds, kissing you with all your arousal sliding against your lips. “Fuck, you are so sexy, holy fuck,” he mutters.

“Do you need to, um…?”

His cheeks turn pink at the question. “I kinda, uh. When you were on my face.”

“Like, you jerked—”

“No.”

“Oh. Oh, Dee, that’s so—”

“I know, I’m sorry, you’re just—”

“Fucking hot,” you finish, running your fingers through his sweaty hair. “You taste like pussy.”

“Mmhmm. I’d fucking live in there if you let me. Curl up in a little ball and just—”

“You’re so fucking weird,” you tease, and he grins. He balances himself on his forearm, his other hand wandering down your body until he finds your soaked core. Two fingers slide in with ease, pulling a gasp from you. 

“You love it, though,” he murmurs, pumping slowly. 

He looks you in the eye, and you let him.

On Tuesday morning, your mother calls. This is not surprising—the surprising part is that she’d waited this long. 

“Did you see Twitter?” She asks. You haven’t, and anyone who knows you well knows not to inform you of anything like this unless you ask. Your mother, unfortunately, does not know you very well at all. 

You pinch the bridge of your nose and sigh. 

“Like…the app? The whole thing? What are you talking about?”

“You’re on it,” she says, elaborating on absolutely nothing. 

“Mom—”

“Just look at the link I sent!” 

“All right, all right.” With an apprehensive tap of your index finger, the link pops open to reveal a thumbnail zoomed into a mane of curls you’d recognize anywhere. 

And oh, for God’s sake, it’s trending, too.

“What’s going on there?” Your mother demands, as though you’ve betrayed her somehow.

“My boss is helping me up—”

“Did you fall?”

“Mother,” you sigh. “I just bent down to pick up some broken glass. He helped. That’s all.”

“That’s not what everyone’s saying,” she presses.

“Who the hell is everyone? I’m telling you what happened.”

You go around in circles with her, and after a while she seems to believe you. For now. “Imagine if you were dating Dieter Bravo,” she chuckles.

“I could pull Dieter Bravo,” you argue. She laughs some more, and you try to ignore it, but something about talking to her always turns you into a petulant fifteen-year-old.

“What’s so funny about that?” 

“Well, nothing, dear. You’re just—well, you’re different, you know. It’s not a bad thing.” 

“I know it’s not a bad thing.” But it feels like a bad thing right now. “Look, I gotta go. My boss who could never possibly be into me needs me to go fold his laundry. Love you.”

“Honey—”

Guilt creeps up on you the moment you end the call without letting her say goodbye. It’s just not fair. She can be as careless as she wants with her words and you’re the one who ends up feeling bad about it all. It’s so unfair that she’s never really gotten past the whole autistic daughter thing. 

You wipe your eyes, refusing to get so upset over something so stupid. And anyway, she’s wrong. You absolutely can pull Dieter Bravo. He’s been all over you since Sunday, even after the nerve-wracking “What are we?” conversation you couldn’t help but initiate last night in the middle of The Truman Show. 

“So…what, um, what is this?” You’d asked, just after Truman Burbank started falling, unscripted, for an extra. “Like, us?”

You’d barely gotten the words out and already you wished you could take them back. Why did you need to know that second? Why do you need to know everything, immediately, why can’t you ever just be cool?

You’d be a very different person then, you think.

Dieter had put his arm around you and set his chin on top of your head as a surge of hope spread through your chest. Your imagination had run wild—maybe he’d profess a love so big and beautiful he couldn’t stand to keep his mouth shut about it; that he’d been into you since the very second you walked into his life; that he wanted to be with you forever and ever.

“Well,” he’d sighed.

It hadn’t sounded like the start of any profession of love you’d ever heard.

“We should probably just…keep it casual for now. See where it goes. All this stuff going on, you know, might be a little much to start a whole thing in the middle of it.”

A little much.

You’d tried to quell the disappointed ache. No grand love profession for now, then. He’d tipped your chin to meet his gaze, and you’d rearrange your face into something passably placid.

“That okay?” He’d asked. You’d had to keep yourself from laughing, imagining his face if you’d said it wasn’t okay; that you didn’t want casual. That you wanted to be his. 

But you knew well enough what “That okay?” meant. It was like when someone asked how you were doing—you weren’t ever supposed to actually tell them how you were doing. 

You didn’t want to create problems for him now, either. He was stressed out enough.

“Totally,” you’d said. 

It wasn’t a lie, exactly, but it felt sticky and sour on your tongue. 

But it’d been fine then, and fine after, and you’d both fallen asleep on his big couch, and you really should stop thinking about how nice it is to wake up with him wrapped around you.

You wonder what your mom would think about that.

The thing about wanting to know things is that curiosity will always get the better of you, dead cats be damned. What’s so special about this interaction between the two of you that it’s trending? 

And so, during some interview for Vanity Fair’s Youtube channel (you think, at least, you don’t keep up quite as well as Christina on these long press days), you spend a few minutes in his luxurious, if rather small, changing room investigating just what’s so interesting about him helping you stand up.

The video is thirty seconds long, but you’re sure it was at least a few minutes. The camera pulls away from Dieter’s curls as he whips his head around like there’s been a commotion. And there has, of course, with you dropping to the ground to scrounge for pieces of broken glass that, somehow, hadn’t cut your fingers to shreds. It finally irks you that the man who bumped you so hard didn’t even turn to look. 

Dieter moves quickly, kneeling with you in that outrageously expensive outfit, a literal knight in glittering armor, and tries to block you from the cameras. There’s only so much he could do from the side, you suppose. 

It’s a ridiculously romantic shot, one of his hands clasped over yours, the other cradling your elbow as he lifts you from the ground. His eyes sweep over you, squeezing your shoulders when he’s certain you’re steady and talking softly before turning back to the line of interviewers. And you, for your part, actually look great in that black department store suit. 

The moment looks so intimate, and despite having had this man between your legs, covered in your arousal, this is what makes your heart stutter and your cheeks burn. And it’s not just you projecting, either—the commenters are quick to confirm exactly what it looks like, for better or worse.

Who the fuck is that? Have we seen her before?

lol didn’t know he was into fat chicks

omg he’s into big girls??!!

he’s like in love with her

who IS that

She’s pretty, is she an actress?

Ugh he’ll fuck anything won’t he

“He’s not fucking you,” you mutter, happily recalling the way his tongue felt on your clit, the sharp hitch in his breath when you rubbed against his cock before climbing on his face. 

There are an alarming number of comments expressing excitement about him liking fat chicks—which, like, sure, but do they have to say it like that?

Morbid curiosity finds you digging deeper. Just who are Dieter Bravo’s most devoted fans? What do they know about him? And more importantly, what do they think they know about him? 

They’ve been busy, it seems, digging up blurry pictures of you leaving his house and carrying groceries and giggling as you accompany him to some fitting or another.

You give yourself a quick kudos for dressing as professionally as possible on your outings with him, despite his insistence that you be comfortable. He can wear all the dirty pajama pants and be as comfortable as he wants—that is not a luxury you can afford.

The speculation is endless—you’re his girlfriend, his cousin, his friend from college, his hair stylist, his personal chef, his secret wife. A part of you wants to participate and suggest the most ridiculous thing connection you can think of—salt lamp specialist comes to mind.

“Whatcha doin’?” Dieter bursts through the dressing room door, prompting you to snap the laptop shut, looking at him with much wider eyes than necessary.

“Nothing,” you say, straightening up.

He crosses his arms and leans against the door frame, unconvinced. “You watching porn?”

You laugh. “Here? No.”

“Then what is it? Tell me,” Dieter whines, closing the door. He drags the ‘e’ out and flops onto the little loveseat, settling his head in your lap. “I needed a break and came to see you.”

“Fine,” you sigh, handing him the laptop. Sometimes it’s impossible to say no to him. “It looks like your fans have figured some things out.”

You watch him for a reaction as he balances it on his little belly and squints. “Where are your glasses?” 

He waves you off.

As he reads through the comments, you chew your nails as quietly as you can. Is it weird that you’d gone looking? Would he be upset that you did?

He’s too quiet.

Your imagination starts running wild again. Maybe he’s considering their points. Maybe you’re really not good enough for him, you need to go back to just being his assistant. Actually, you’re fired, and he’ll just pay to break your contract.

“What’s wrong?” You ask as he sits up.

“They’re so mean to you,” he says, and you meet his gaze. It catches you off guard how softly it comes out, how round his eyes are.

“I mean, yeah,” you say. “Of course they are. Is this the first time you’ve read internet comments before?”

“No,” he says defensively. “I just don’t like how they’re talking about you. Like, fuck them, you know? They’re supposed to be my fans? Maybe I need to get some real security. I don’t like them fuckin’ poking around, looking for more pictures of you and shit.”

You can’t help the slow smile creeping across your face.

“What?” He asks, but he starts smiling, too.

“You’re protecting me,” you tease, rising from the couch and poking him in the chest.

“So what if I am?” He gesticulates wildly, your MacBook bouncing up and down as he flails his arms.

“You like me,” you accuse.

“Yeah, and?” He sets the MacBook down and closes the gap of space between the two of you. “That a problem?”

You swallow as he gets closer, his cologne giving you a headrush. He brings his hands to your face, cupping your jaw and brushing his thumbs over your cheeks.

“Hm?” He asks. You shake your head, suddenly lacking any teasing words at all. He turns your head to the side and nuzzles you. “You think I’d let anything happen to you?”

“No,” you whisper, your stomach doing flips as he presses a wet kiss to your cheek and trailing his lips down to your neck.

“You know I think you’re so fucking sexy, right? Wearing these little low cut shirts all the time?”

“Shit, Dee,” you gasp, giggling as his hand slips under your shirt and resting on your belly.

“Bossing me around,” he breathes. You let out a soft moan when he cups your breast, squeezing lightly.

“This is so inappropriate—”

“I’ll stop if you want me to stop,” he grins, rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. You can feel his smile on your cheek.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” you sigh, eyes darting to the locked door.

“Oh, fuck yeah, baby, is that what you need right now? You need a little distraction? You want me to make you come?”

Your work phone rings, of course. At the same time, there’s a heavy knock at the door. “Mr. Bravo, we need you back in two minutes!”

You take a deep breath—it’s for sure the stylist trying to work out a time for tomorrow. He whines as you grasp his wrist and gently pull his hand from under your shirt.

“Goddammit,” he grunts. “Let me finger you while you’re on the phone.”

There is an absolutely ludicrous moment where you consider this, but you eventually shake your head and come to your senses. “Go finish up,” you order. He relents, but not before he gives you one of those sloppy, desperate little kisses he’s so fond of.

You are in far, far too deep.

Life might be overwhelming right now, but he can’t put therapy on hold, unfortunately.

Dieter started coming to Kristopher (“With a K,” he’d emphasized at their first meeting) a few months before Anika finally had enough. Kristopher’s office was sparsely decorated with just a few plants and couches and soft lighting. He usually did house calls, but ever since you’d started living in the guesthouse, Dieter came here instead. He doesn’t know why—you know he’s in therapy. You pay Kristopher out of Dieter’s account like every other bill he has. He just doesn’t want you to see him like this. 

He hasn’t unpacked that with Kristopher yet.  

Dieter pokes at the salt lamp on the side table while he waits for Kristopher. You would have some horribly un-fun fact about why it doesn’t do anything. He makes a mental note to ask.

Kristopher, he thinks, will either be very proud of him or very disappointed. He wipes his sweaty palms on his gray linen pants as the door opens.

“Good afternoon, Dieter,” Kristopher says brightly.

Kristopher is forty-two and married to a man named Derek. He wears silver wired-rimmed glasses and tight khaki pants, teetering on the line between professional and elder millennial hipster with his Chuck Taylors and the top two buttons of his dark green shirt undone.

He is also a frequent star of Dieter’s fantasies, talking him through some trauma or another while Dieter slowly jerks off. Dieter doesn’t know what that means, and it’s not really something he wants to examine. He should find a therapist he doesn’t want to jerk off to, but Kristopher is the only one he’s found who isn’t openly impressed by his star status. Like you, now that he thinks of it.

There must be something there, but he doesn’t want to talk about that, either.

Dieter looks away as Kristopher bends over to set something on his desk. “Hey,” Dieter says.

“How are we?”

Kristopher uses “we” when he means “you” or “I”. It makes Dieter itch. “Good,” he says. Kristopher sits and crosses his legs, peering at Dieter like he’s assessing him extra hard today.

“Even after Sunday?” Kristopher asks, and Dieter huffs a laugh.

“Even after Sunday,” he says.

“You were worried about that,” Kristopher points out. “About being upset. What changed?”

Kristopher has his opinions on Dieter’s “fascination” with you. If you knew how often he brings you up in therapy. 

“I…had some support,” Dieter says, acting cagey. He doesn’t want Kristopher to tell him this is a bad idea.

The other man doesn’t say anything. Instead, he scribbles something in a notebook and lets Dieter stew in his discomfort. He does this, and it always works.

Fuck.

“My assistant. Or temporary assistant. She’s my assistant’s assistant,” he explains unnecessarily. Kristopher says your name, his lips quirked upward. Dieter nods, feeling like he’s about to get chewed out.

“Well?” Kristopher prompts. He’s not getting out of this.

The damn breaks, and Dieter spills everything.

“It was really…great,” he finishes with a sigh.

Kristopher finishes scribbling and sets his notebook down. “So you’ve already had that ‘What are we’ conversation?”

“Yeah. Yeah, she brought it up. She’s…direct,” he says, smiling.

“And is that a positive thing for you, do you think?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

Kristopher picks up the notebook and rifles through it, flipping back a dozen or so pages. “‘She’s a little mean sometimes’,” he quotes. “You said that in July. So is she mean or direct?”

“Direct,” Dieter asserts. “I just didn’t know her well enough.”

“Why do you think you took her directness as her being mean at first?” He asks. Dieter leans back and digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. They’re about to get into something, he can feel it, and he doesn’t know if he has the strength.

“Probably because no one talks to me the way she does. Like they want to, not because they’re being paid to. I know she is, technically, but I don’t…she’s different. I’ve never met anyone like her.”

“What about Anika?” He asks softly. “She was direct.”

Dieter shrugs. “And I made her life hell.”

“But you won’t do that this time?”

Sometimes Dieter wants to get up in the middle of these sessions and leave. No, he won’t do that this time. He’ll be better this time. He is better this time.

“It’s not…it’s not the same,” Dieter insists.

“It doesn’t sound very casual to me, Dieter,” Kristopher says. “You told her that, right? To keep it casual for now?”

“Well, yeah,” Dieter says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I figured…I figured she’d tell me if there was a problem with that.”

“Because she’s direct,” he says. Dieter hates it when he does this, too. Kristopher is the opposite of direct, leading him around like a dog on a leash and not in a fun way. He has no idea what conclusion he’s supposed to be getting to here and it’s starting to infuriate him.

“You just have to come out and say it, man.”

Kristopher leans back and folds his hands over his flat stomach, squinting at the clock above Dieter’s head. “All right, well. In the interest of time. You don’t talk about this person in a casual way. You never have, not in any of the six months she’s been in your life. You mention her more than you do your family. You came in here three months ago distraught that you’d hurt her feelings. You didn’t get that upset when your wife left you. Not once. So I guess what I’m asking is, is casual the word you wanted to use? And does that mean the same thing to both of you?”

Dieter blinks a few times, trying to come up with any words at all. He swallows harshly. “I…guess it’s not the word I’d use.”

Kristopher’s alarm goes off—time’s up.

He walks Dieter to the door and squeezes his shoulder. “People don’t always tell us exactly what they want when they think they’ll lose something if they do. I just don’t want you to miss out on something that might be good for you.”

It’s late when he gets back. All the lights are off except for the dim glow of your little house in the backyard. He bites his lip, wondering if you’d be too mad at him for disturbing you.

Would you think it’s a hook up? That he’s just using you?

Are you okay with this whole thing?

Kristopher’s words stick in his head—does casual mean the same thing to you?

It’s so late. He just wants to see you.

It’s unseasonably warm, even for Los Angeles. This might explain why he finds you in a lounge chair, looking up at the clear sky.

“Hey, Dee.” You don’t look away from the sky.

“What if I was a murderer?” He asks.

“Then I’d be dead, I guess. How was your evening?”

“Mmhmm,” he says. “What’d you do?”

“Me and Ada had dinner together and watched When Harry Met Sally. She said she was missing Carrie Fisher. They were good friends. Can you imagine?”

“I worked with Carrie,” Dieter says.

“Of course you did,” you laugh. “C’mere.” You open your arms and he climbs between your legs. He likes when you hold him like this-there’s safety here he hasn’t felt with anyone in years.

“Did you get more Skittles?” He asks and you hum an affirmative, looking at the sky.

“Did you know that Skittles have titanium dioxide on the coating to keep them shiny?”

“They have what?”

“Titanium dioxide. It’s banned in Europe even though there’s not really a link to any risk, but isn’t that weird? And some of it just doesn’t break down in your body.”

Dieter looks at you, bumping your nose with his. “Why do you know that?”

You grin at him. “Don’t know, actually. Just do.”

Dieter kisses your forehead. “What else is in that big brain?”

“Memorizing facts doesn’t make you smart,” you say matter-of-factly.

“Kinda does,” he says. “What about salt lamps?”

“What about them?”

“What’s their deal?” He noses your neck and settles there, waiting for you to tell him everything you know.

“Nothing. They’re just pretty. But they don’t do anything.”

“No asbestos?” 

“I dunno. I’m no salt lamp expert. I just know it’s garbage.”

He presses his lips to yours—innocently, at first, he swears, he’d just missed you. But you make this noise—this soft little moan—and his cock springs to attention. He slides his tongue across the seam of your lips, but you’re already opening your mouth.

You lift your hips and press into him, and it’s over. No more innocent little kiss now. He slots his knee between your legs and presses his thigh to your cunt, precome already leaking from him.

There’s something forbidden about this, the two of you rubbing against each other like breathless, desperate teenagers.

“Dee,” you breathe. “You’re so hard already.”

“Doesn’t take a lot with you, sweetheart. Make me fuckin’ crazy,” he grunts, rutting against you. The fabric of his pants gives a pleasant friction he’d forgotten about. “Fuck. You wanna—fuck—you wanna go fool around? Let me eat your pussy? Oh, fuck, please let me eat your pussy.”

“Um, I might’ve just finished touching myself,” you giggle. You seem a little shy about it. “I didn’t know you when you’d be back.”

“Fuck me,” he breathes, grinding against your leg. “I’ll make you come again, c’mon.”

“No,” you say sharply. “I want you to come.”

He shudders at your request. “Jesus Christ, baby. Tell me what you thought about when you were touching yourself. Please.”

Dieter buries his face into your neck, desperate to breathe you in. He runs his teeth over the column of your throat—he wants to mark you, to sink his incisors into your skin and watch tiny bruises bloom.

He thinks you’d like it rough.

“Thought about you being a good boy for me,” you whisper into his ear, tugging on his hair and sending goosebumps down his spine. “Thought about you putting your big fucking cock inside of me and letting me ride you until I’m screaming—”

Sweat gathers on his brow, his hips moving faster at the tremor in your voice, like you’re so drunk on power and lust it’s hard to keep your own hips from grinding into his. “Holy fuck,” he groans.

“Thought about you doing exactly what I say. About pulling this pretty hair.” You tug again, harder this time, your fingers twisted into his curls and bringing tears to the corners of his eyes. “Thought about sucking that pretty dick, letting you come all over my face.”

He can’t speak, he can barely breathe; he wants it so, so bad.

“You’re a good boy, you know. Doing what I tell you, humping my leg outside all desperate.”

“I’d do more—I’d do whatever you want. I’d get naked, I don’t care.”

“Hmmm,” you tease. “Maybe next time. This still feel good?”

His pants, drenched with precome, press firmly against your bare leg. He wants to feel your skin, but he doesn’t say anything. “Yeah,” he croaks, because it still feels good. But you see right through him.

“You sure? You don’t want anything? Good boys don’t lie.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—I want—can I feel you? Can I fuck your thigh this time?”

“Ohh,” you coo. “That’s my sweet boy, asking for what he wants. Take it out.”

He wastes no time pulling his cock out.

“Let me see,” you request. He sits back on his knees and holds it at the base, the bulbous tip red and throbbing and drooling precome. It takes all his strength not to stroke himself. “Oh, baby, look at you. Come on, honey, finish.”

Dieter falls forward, groaning when his cock meets your soft warm thigh. He hides his face in your neck again, whimpering and wishing he could feel you, too.

He asks, because you’d told him to.

“Can I touch your pussy? Please, sweetheart?”

You don’t say a word as you take his hand and slide it under your sleep shorts. You’re not wearing panties and you’re fucking soaked. You keen as he sinks his fingers into you, your heat clenching around him.

It’s over so much sooner than he wants it to be. 

He tries to warn you about his sudden release, but you don’t seem to mind the surprise, cooing softly as he bucks against you. “My good boy, oh, fuck—that’s it, come on, baby, you’re so—fucking—good—”

He lays there for only a moment, sticky spend cooling between his belly and yours, because he has work to do. He can still feel you clenching around him, and he thinks he could do it. You deserve it. He hasn’t even caught his breath when he presses his palm against your clit, fingers seeking curling up and finding something that makes your eyes roll back. 

“C’mon, baby,” he groans. “You come for me now. I got you now, honey, don’t worry about a thing. I know you can, know you want to, you’re so fucking tight—”

“Dee,” you moan, pressing into his palm, and goddammit, he’s never gonna get tired of that.

“That’s my girl. Just let it happen.”

Your mouth falls open, quiet as you spasm around his fingers. He’s never seen anything so beautiful. He wants to paint you like this, the furrow of your brow, your slack jaw, the glow of the pool lights bouncing from your skin. 

He’ll take to you bed with him, curl himself around you, and tomorrow he’ll talk to you. He’ll tell you everything. 

He won’t fuck this up—he won’t, he won’t, he won’t.

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dividers/support banner by @saradika-graphics

[bonkhrnyjail]

like real people do (joel miller x f!reader)

i will not ask you where you came from. i will not ask, and neither should you. honey, just put your sweet lips on my lips; we should just kiss, like real people do.

summary: a temporary arrangement leads to permanent feelings that joel can’t seem to shake — for you. but do you feel the same?

warnings: post-outbreak, jackson!joel, age gap (28/56), smutty thoughts & happenings, jealous!joel, angst, pining, reader has curves & wears joel’s jacket, masturbation (m), typical canon violence & weapons, graphic description of wounds, cursing, blood, food, alcohol, unprotected piv, 18+ minors dni.

notes: this is my contribution to @undercoverpena’s april showers challenge 💛 jo, you are such a light. thank you for organising this, i had the best time!

as ever, i am indebted to my flawless beta @macfrog - max, i can’t ever thank you enough for the way you transform my work. i love you. big love to @frannyzooey & @swiftispunk for the encouragement and reassurances. you both rock my world.

Joel shakes his head like a wet dog, wipes his brow so he can see past the droplets clinging to his lashes. He can just about make out the gates of Jackson in the heavy rain, the reins slipping between his hands. No matter, really. Blue knows his way; the horse’s damp ears pricking at the sight of home.

His only concern is you.

Joel twists in the saddle, ignoring the protesting muscles in his spine as the wind screams in his ears.

You’re behind him, just like he needs you to be.

You’re soaked, bleeding through his hasty bandaging, wincing in obvious pain. But you’re there. Upright, still breathing. He can heave a sigh of relief.

Today was a close call. Too fuckin’ close.

It’s not like Joel didn’t know you were going to be trouble.

He did. From the moment you showed up on his doorstep, his brother’s arm over your shoulder.

He knew.

Joel stirs to the sound of incessant knocking on his front door. Sunlight spills into his bedroom, a pool of honey over his sheets. He’s not due on patrol today; a rare twenty-four hours of freedom lay ahead of him. And he’d planned to spend a good portion of those in bed, or sat with his guitar.

Clearly, someone has other ideas.

“‘m comin’!” he shouts, cricking his neck and reaching for his jeans, discarded on the floor beside him. He figures he best pull on a shirt, too - he has no idea who’s pounding at his door, but at seven in the morning, on his day off?

Surely can’t be a sign of anything good.

Joel grumbles as he heads down the stairs, pulling at his zipper and shaking his head. This better be fuckin’ important. He reaches for the door none too gently, ready to reprimand whoever’s stood the other side.

He opens it to his brother.

Joel’s readying himself to launch into a tirade borne out of week-long exhaustion. He doesn’t expect to see Tommy’s arm round the shoulder of a terrified-looking young woman.

You.

You’re covered in grime, sneakers falling apart at the seams, shirt splattered with blood.

“Mornin’, Joel,” Tommy starts, his voice soft and pleading. Joel stares into eyes so like his own, waiting for an explanation.

“I’m needin’ a favour,” he continues. Joel’s gaze flits to you for a beat, and he swallows.

“I guess it couldn’t wait till after breakfast?”

Tommy’s laugh is strained, false grin tight across his cheeks as he squeezes your shoulder. “Don’t take no notice, darlin’. Bark’s worse’n his bite, I promise.”

“This young lady here arrived late last night,” he says as Joel folds his arms across his chest. “We found her up on the ridge, nobody else with her. As you know, the Pattersons took the last available house we got, and Harley’s nursery took up our spare room,” Tommy jerks his chin over the street, and Joel has a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Now that Ellie’s moved out ‘n all, Maria was — we — were wonderin’ if we could put her up here, with…With you,” he finishes, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. Joel desperately wants to ask him if he’s lost his goddamn mind, but you’re looking at him with the same haunted gaze he’s become so familiar with in the past two decades.

Joel isn’t a monster. Those live outside the very walls that now keep him safe. He has no desire to ask how you made it past them, though; he knows you’ve seen things you never want to talk about again.

There’s something inside him: buried and dormant. It’s not your fault. You’re not asking Joel to house you, to spend his day off getting acquainted with you. You just look like you need a shower, and a week’s worth of sleep.

It’s not your fault.

“Temporarily?” he asks, clearing his throat as you stare at the ground. “Yes, Joel,” Tommy grimaces at his bluntness. “Temporarily.”

Tommy tells you to come find him and Maria when you’re settled, that they’ll fix you up with some more new clothes, give you some time to adjust. He hands you a backpack, and you step over the threshold. Tommy heads off with a curt glance towards his big brother, leaving the two of you alone.

You still haven’t said a word.

“‘m Joel,” he says as he closes the door, more gruffly than he means to. You nod, offering your name quietly in return. You look so fucking afraid of him, and he hates that. He holds out a hand to shake, and you take it.

Soft.

Your hands are so fucking soft. Your fingernails are caked with dirt, knuckles scarred, but your palms feel like warm velvet. Joel clears his throat, drops your hand like it’s burned him.

“This way, ma’am,” Joel instructs, a distant memory of his mama telling him to mind his manners. You follow him up the stairs, and he ushers you into the room that used to belong to Ellie. It’s empty now; Ellie having relocated her collection of belongings to the outhouse in the backyard.

“My, uh, kid used to stay here. She’s moved out, now,” Joel tells you, thumb pointing behind him. You’re nodding again; he can tell you’re exhausted, the way you’re moving like you’re carrying the weight of a thousand people on your shoulders. He knows that feeling, wouldn’t wish it on his worst enemy.

“I’ll leave ya to it, then. Shower’s just down the hall, so feel free to use whatever’s in there. Won’t be anythin’ fancy, mind,” he shrugs, and is surprised when you smile at him in return. It opens up your whole face, lifts your eyes, a ray of sunlight carving a path between you both.

You study him for a second; Joel feeling your eyes assess him, straightening his back instinctively. “Here I was, expecting five stars,” you comment, and Joel’s taken aback by your gentle teasing, your quiet confidence.

For one strange moment, it’s like you’ve claimed the space already. Like this room has always been waiting for you, somehow.

“Don’t know what my baby brother’s been fillin’ your head with,” Joel smirks, “but I’ll try my best.”

You look at him one final time before he leaves the room.

“Counting on it.”

Joel learns that you’re twenty-eight, the only survivor from a group who broke away from the Kansas City QZ. He recognises the shadow that falls across your face when you tell him about it, knows all too well the living hell it became.

You compare stories with him one morning over a breakfast he prepares for you both, before you silently agree not to discuss it again. Jackson is a new start: a place all about reclaiming that sliver of human decency that’s left on the Earth, the one thread of connection and community that binds the residents together.

Joel wants you to know that.

Weeks turn into months, and before he knows it, Joel’s memorised your gait, your scent, the way you always forget the creak in the stop stair. He watches you with Ellie, how you understand their relationship with a slow nod of your head, no further questions asked.

You and Joel gossip with one another, leave notes scribbled in broken pencil. You bake for him, and in return he builds you a chair to join him on the porch. Joel remembers the jolt when you’d hugged him for it, kissed his whiskered cheek. So goddamn soft.

He begins to feel a creeping shame over the way he’d treated you on that first day; broken and worn down on his steps. Joel had no idea how peacefully you’d co-exist: sharing meals and laundry loads like two normal housemates would, if the world wasn’t so fucked.

The fact that you’re so beautiful is neither here nor there.

Joel’s tried not to notice it.

Your smooth skin, the curves of your body beneath the shapeless clothes Maria’s given you. Unfortunately, he knows just what you’ve got on under them. He almost felt lightheaded one day watching you hang your panties out to dry: delicate, wispy things; items he has no idea how you got your hands on.

Before long, Tommy’s prepping you to start patrol, and Joel makes time one evening to reassure you about it. He can tell you’re nervous, the way your hands are twisting, rubbing at your forehead frantically.

“If you really don’t want to do it, you don’t have to,” Joel offers, and you sigh.

“Nah. It’s about time I started pulling my weight around here.”

Joel smiles at your tenacity, the way your mouth sets firmly. “Alright, then. Want to go over the routes one last time?”

Your eyes are wide in thanks, staring up at him from the couch, blinking through your lashes. Everything about the situation is innocent, besides every single thought running through Joel’s mind.

Tommy put this girl with you in good faith, asshole.

Woman.

Not a girl.

He reminds himself of that when he’s in the shower that night; tugging frantically at himself, thinking about the tight curve of your ass in the jeans you’d traded for.

Yeah. You were fucking trouble alright.

“I always wanted to be a teacher, back when I was a kid,” you tell him one night, as Joel clears the soup bowls away. “Miss Macy, she was my favourite, kinda inspired me in a way. I loved English; reading, writing, all these imaginary worlds I’d create. I’d still like to do it, if I can.”

Joel loves the way you laugh when you share stories of your childhood. It’s the same kind delight he sees on your face watching Jackson’s children giggling as they chase each other round the streets, playing tag and missing dinner time.

“Teach?”

You nod, and Joel’s suddenly back in Texas, Sarah tugging on his hand across the parking lot as they head towards her parent-teacher conference. Sarah’s a hard worker, and fantastically talented when she applies herself. Unfortunately, she lets herself be distracted by other pupils, and I’ve had to separate the group several times.

He smiles. “Scary bunch, teachers.”

He watches your eyes roll, chin resting on your hands. The light outside is fading, both of you full with a warm dinner. Your movements are languid; the way your fingers dance across your collarbone, the way your shirt rides up a little when you stretch your arms out above you.

Again, Joel tries not to notice it: the sliver of bare skin above your waistband, gentle fingertips he’s found himself thinking about more often than he really should.

“Big, bad Joel Miller? Afraid of me?”

Now it’s his turn to roll his eyes, throwing a rag in your direction so you can help him with the drying up. “Maybe in your dreams, darlin’.”

You smirk, taking your place beside him as he hands you the cutlery. With difficulty, he pushes all thoughts of your soft body and kind eyes from his mind.

Joel bears witness to you thriving in Jackson, unfurling like a butterfly born in the spring. You make friends, tell him all about them each evening as you trade stories about your day. Soon, you’re invited to gatherings that he isn’t, and you tell him stories about people he’s never met. He hears you come in late, starts to notice that you don’t rise to join him at breakfast.

Still, he doesn’t ask Tommy just when this temporary agreement might come to an end. For some reason, he just can’t find it in him.

Joel figures you won’t want to spend all your precious free time with a man pushing sixty, so he’s not mad about it. You’re not family, but he thinks you’re starting, maybe, to become a friend.

He makes the most of Ellie when he can, watches her glow when she talks about Dina. Tommy’s the same: content with his life with Maria and Harley, Joel’s nephew. He can hardly believe - even after two years in Jackson - how life just goes on. Despite it all, people found a way.

Joel finds himself thinking about Sarah a little more than usual. He can’t bring himself to process the fact his baby would be thirty-four now; maybe married, career of her own. She’ll forever be fourteen to him: curls bouncing, soccer trophy under her arm, innocence in her heart.

Joel tells you about her one day; tells you how, for the first time in twenty years, he’s been able to just stop and give time to his thoughts. To sit with them, feel the ache bloom in his heart. No need to fight for his life every day, to make sure he sees another sunrise. He’s not sure if it’s a good or bad thing.

“It can be both, Joel,” you say, wrapped in a blanket he brought out to you. You’re sat on the front porch together, chairs side by side, watching fireflies dancing in the late afternoon light.

“Yeah?”

You nod, and move to take his hand. Something stops you, letting it fall into your lap. There’s something in your gaze that tells him you’ve felt the same pain, bled the way he has. Joel clears his throat, asking if you want another drink.

“No, thanks. Especially if it’s that fucking whiskey,” you grimace, and he chuckles, rolling the tumbler in his hand. Your profanities make him smile; he’s let you spend too much time with Ellie.

“You really hate it that much?”

“Uhuh,” you mutter, getting to your feet. “Hey, Ryan is having a few of us over for a card game evening. I’ll be back late, so don’t wait up,” you inform him, with that grin he’s become so fond of.

Joel tells you to have a great night, watching your retreating figure head into the dusk. He collapses into sleep on the couch not long after, book resting on his belly when he wakes to the sound of the front door opening.

“You really didn’t need to walk me back,” you giggle, and Joel stays frozen in the dark. He shouldn’t. It’s rude to eavesdrop, to listen in to your private conversations.

Still. He doesn’t move.

“S’okay. Still sharing a place with Miller, then?” he hears Ryan ask, and he assumes you nod in lieu of a reply. “Heard he can be a pain in the ass,” he adds, and Joel listens to your tinkling laugh. “He’s alright.”

“Hopefully you’ll get a house of your own soon, though, without an some old guy hanging around. You can start hosting me instead,” Ryan continues, and Joel fails to miss the suggestive undercurrent in his tone; the way it makes his jaw tick.

He doesn’t hear your response, and the door shuts with a click. You switch the lamp on, gasping in surprise to see Joel sat there. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you,” you say softly, and Joel just shrugs, frowning.

He watches you move around the kitchen - his kitchen - with a familiar ease, seeking a glass to pour some water, searching for a hunk of cheese to nibble on. Again, Joel’s hit with that feeling he had on that first day he took you to your room: this house has always been waiting for you, the lock aching for the slide of your key.

Which is why the notion of you leaving causes him so much pain.

“Guess you won’t have to worry about wakin’ anyone when you get your own place.”

He hates how petulant he sounds, but he can’t help it. Joel hasn’t been that short with you in a long time; he can see on your face how taken aback you are.

“You heard that, huh?” you ask, watching him over the rim of your glass.

“Yeah. Y’can always speak to Tommy, see if there’s anything goin’. If you feel trapped here, that is.”

You sigh, hands flat on the dining table. Joel built it himself: not his finest work, a little rough around the edges.

A direct reflection of how he feels right now.

“You don’t want me here anymore?” you ask, face half shrouded in darkness, half lit in an orange glow.

Joel chews his lip, watching you blink at him.

“Just sayin’. This wasn’t ever meant to be permanent, anyway,” he mutters, scratching the back of his head. You fold your arms across your chest; eyes narrowing. You look.. You look hurt.

By him.

“Ryan seems like a good kid. ‘m sure he’d treat you right.”

Joel knows he’s projecting his own insecurities onto you. He’s fucking afraid: he’s come to care for you so much more than he realised, and every time Joel cares about someone, he loses them.

A bite. A bullet. A new family.

But this? For some reason, this cuts just as deep. Joel won’t let it happen again. No matter how bad he wants you.

“Where’s all this coming from?” you ask. You’re quiet, voice flat with disappointment. It makes Joel’s heart ache; he’d rather you told him to fuck off, call him out for being a dick, tell him you’ll pack your stuff and go.

You don’t.

Your shoulders just slump when he doesn’t respond, staring at him imploringly.

“Well?”

Joel should tell you he doesn’t want you to leave, not in the slightest. All he wants to do is kiss you, crush your lips to his, run his tongue over every inch of your flesh, slide inside you and make you scream his name. Tell you he’s better for you than anyone else in Jackson; that he can take care of you, keep your bed warm every night, better than any fucker half his age.

But he doesn’t.

He just lets you go, watching as you shake your head and turn on your heel, leaving him alone in the dark.

Breakfast the next morning is a solemn affair.

You’re already gone - which isn’t unusual - but there’s no note from you, no sandwiches wrapped in paper to take out for patrol. Joel feels a little disgruntled: it’s your turn to prep them today, as per the agreement you have when you’re both scheduled for a shift.

You must be really pissed at him.

He wolfs down his bacon, throws on his jacket. It needs patching up, almost worn through at both the elbows. Joel recalls you telling him you’re nifty with a needle and thread, that you’ll do it for him at the weekend.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never learned how to sew,” you smirk, sizing up his jacket, throwing it over your shoulders. Joel can’t help but admit how good it looks on you; the fact you’re wearing his clothes doing something inexplicable to his groin.

“Just like you never learned how to drink?” he teases you, and you hold up your hands in defeat. “And don’t be forgettin’ I made you a whole goddamn chair.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you sing, admiring yourself in the cracked mirror. Joel shakes his head; eyes lingering on the tilt of your hips, the way your breasts push at the fabric.

“Guess I owe you.”

He supposes he’s better off taking it to the seamstress on Main Street, now.

The sky outside is grey to match his mood, brewing ominously with the threat of rain. Nothin’ worse than patrol in the rain. Boggy trails and limited visibility never work in anyone’s favour, and he prays for an uneventful shift.

Blue’s tacked up and ready for him; Joel slips the horse an apple from his pocket, pulling at his forelock gently as he says hello.

“Gotta stay outta trouble today, boy. We’ll be home soon enough.”

He hears his sister-in-law’s voice from outside the stable, calling his name.

“Mornin’, Maria.”

She smiles, hands on her hips as Joel leans against the stable door. “Your brother has done an irresponsible thing and gotten sick,” she sighs, eyebrows raised.

“Y’sure he ain’t just had some bad eggs?” Joel chuckles, and Maria shakes her head.

“Judging by the way he’s shivering, I think it’s the real deal. In any case, we need you to take his partner today,” she tells Joel, thumb over her shoulder.

She moves aside, and he freezes.

Fuck.

Of course: it’s you.

You’re adjusting Shimmer’s stirrups, unaware Joel’s even there. Those goddamn jeans sticking to your thighs like glue, eyes rimmed red like you haven’t slept.

Maria continues, tapping her foot. “I’m assuming that won’t be a problem? She’s still settling into it, as you well know, and we haven’t had her go up —”

“S’fine. Not a problem.”

Maria raises her eyebrows at Joel’s brusqueness, turning on her heel and leaving the stables.

You look up, watching her go. Joel swallows as your gaze tracks upwards, locking with his.

“Hey.”

He nods, clearing his throat. “Look, I know this ain’t ideal, but we’ll talk when we’re back. Yeah?”

You roll your eyes, laugh sarcastically. You brush past him, knocking into his shoulder as you go.

“Counting on it.”

Joel scrawls both your names in the log book, heaves his rucksack back onto his shoulders. They’re aching, as per usual. Almost as stiff and awkward as the whole morning with you has been.

“We all good to go home?”

It’s the first sentence you’ve uttered since you both left Jackson, your tone still clipped, not leaving much room for any forgiveness.

Home.

Joel wonders if that looks different to you now; wonders how soon he can expect your possessions in boxes by the front door, to see the disappointment in his brother’s face when he hears how unreasonable he was towards you.

All because he doesn’t know how to fucking tell you.

The descent back to Jackson from the ski lodge is slow, clouds low and threatening in the sky. Thunder echoes atop the mountain ridges, lightening flashing across the jagged peaks.

Then, the rain comes.

It starts as a drizzle, just enough to dampen the leaves on the trees, for Joel to hear you sigh disdainfully behind him. “Stay close,” he calls, and you tell him you will.

Soon, the rain falls in a barrage, hammering down on you both as your charges slide in the dirt. Joel’s soaked to the bone, the storm moving directly overhead as the sky flickers and crackles above.

He doesn’t like this. Not one fuckin’ bit.

He feels exposed, vulnerable, the hairs on the back of his neck raised; an ancient warning sign —

“Joel!”

Your scream is agonised, drawn-out, hurtling past him in the swirling wind. He wheels Blue around, startled.

Three men. Two guns, from what he can see. A machete.

Shimmer rears high on her hind legs in panic, one of the fuckers dragging you from the saddle. Another has his gun aimed at your head; the third is advancing towards Joel, silver weapon brandished in his hand.

Their faces are gaunt, eyes sunken. They’ll murder you both, take anything they can find, leave your bodies to rot until you’re found by the next band of raiders, or worse.

You fall to the ground with sickening crunch, still yelling his name, body crumpling against the exposed rock.

No time to think. He needs you to survive.

One, two, three.

The shots ring out through the valley in quick succession, blood soaking through the shirts of your attackers. They fall like marionettes, slithering to their deaths amongst the grass and mud.

Joel dismounts, scrambling to get to you. You’re not unconscious, thankfully. No obvious wounds to your head, either; Joel cradles your face in his hands, asking you to tell him your name, to open your eyes.

“My back, Joel. My fucking back,” you moan, and he grits his teeth, turning you on your side as gently as he can. You cry out in pain, and he sees the laceration above your hip, your skin sliced open.

“You’re okay, baby. I’ve got you,” Joel reassures you instinctively, shrugging his rucksack off to retrieve the bandages he needs

You grip his forearm, fingernails piercing him. “Don’t leave me, Joel,” your voice breaks, tears joining the wetness on your face as Joel swipes a thumb across your cheekbone.

You’re still miles from Jackson, bleeding out onto the rock beneath you, horses loose in the valley. The rain pounds, the wind howls, and Joel makes his promise.

“Never.”

Maria puts you on bed rest for a week.

You recuperate, slowly but surely. Joel had carried you to Jackson’s version of an infirmary, watched your wound be painstakingly stitched up. Turns out, the fall had smashed two of your ribs, too.

Joel nearly chews his lip in half when he finds out.

So fucking stupid. He should’ve insisted you go in front, acted more on instinct. Joel was supposed to take care of you, keep you safe.

Hasn’t he learned?

You’re due back home today. Joel’s changed your bed linen, lit a fire in the sitting room, gathered some flowers to fill the cracked vase you covet on your nightstand. The arrangement was clumsy, but he hopes it’ll be the first step he can take on the path back into your life.

At the very least, Joel hopes they make you smile.

You arrive when he’s pouring your favourite soup into two bowls, setting them at opposite ends of the table. It hurts him to do so, considering you’d usually sit side-by-side, stealing the bread off his plate, your legs folded underneath as you caught up about your day.

Still. He has to take this slowly.

“You didn’t have to do all of this, Joel,” you say softly, and he shrugs.

“Figured we’d need to build your strength back up,” he says, pulling your chair out for you.

“And soup is the way to do that?”

“Quit arguin’,” he chides gently, setting your dinner down in front of you. Candles burn in the centre of the table, the night closing in outside. Everything is quiet for a while, spoons scraping against decades-old china as Joel sits with you — and his thoughts.

“So.”

He looks up, watches you settle back in your chair. You swallow, picking at your nails, avoiding eye contact. Joel waits, doesn’t want to interrupt whatever it is you’re finding hard to say.

“I feel like almost dying has put some things into perspective for me,” you say, and Joel can’t help but laugh at your sarcasm, and soon enough you’re giggling too, until you wince sharply.

“That bad, huh?” Joel murmurs, and you nod, hand over the bones that broke. “You mind if I go sit on the couch?” you ask, and Joel comes to help you to your feet, your hand in his.

Fuck, he’s missed it. Soft, warm and smooth.

Once you’re settled, he sits at the other end, still keen to give you space. “You know what? I think I want a whiskey,” you muse, leaning into the cushions. “Will you join me?”

Joel’s eyes narrow in confusion, but he fetches the tumblers anyway, sets them down on the coffee table. He pours you a small measure and hands it to you tentatively.

“I didn’t think you’d hit your head when you fell. Maybe I was wrong,” he comments, and you roll your eyes, swirling the amber liquid and observing it closely.

“Maybe you were.”

You toss it back, and Joel does the same.

“God, no. Definitely still tastes like shit,” you splutter, face contorted as you swallow the liquid down. Joel can’t help but grin as he watches you place the glass on the table, soft features glowing in the orange flames.

He feels the instant hit of alcohol in his bloodstream, loosening him up and relaxing his muscles. He lays back on the couch, head lolling as he turns to look at you.

“I wanted to say thank you. Y’know, for saving my life,” you tell him, staring into the fire burning in the grate. Joel can’t believe what he’s hearing; for a moment he sits stunned, unsure what to say.

“It was my fault. I was too slow, and too fuckin’ deaf to hear ‘em comin’” he admits. “I’m not who I was. Years ago, I would’ve destroyed ‘em. I’m sorry — fuck, I’m so sorry. You nearly died, because of me” Joel sighs, and you reach out to take his hand.

“Joel, I’m alive because of you. Nobody could’ve known that was going to happen - there’s been no talk of raiders for months now. Guess we both just got complacent,” you tell him, and Joel tsks under his breath.

“You’re still new to patrol. I should’ve let you go in front, brought up the rear. I can’t stop thinkin’ about it,” he whispers, and is horrified to find himself close to tears. “‘specially after the way I behaved the night before.”

You squeeze his palm gently, the firelight flickering in your eyes. “I want to leave it in the past. But if you don’t want me here, I need you to tell me.”

Joel faces you properly, holding your gaze for the first time all evening. For you to still think he doesn’t want you here breaks him: after the sleepless nights he’s had, tossing and turning, the echoes of your scream breaking him into a sweat that never dies.

“It.. It ain’t that. Hell, I love havin’ you here. I’m ashamed I ever made you feel like I don’t.”

You smile shyly, releasing his hand. “Then, why..?”

Joel breathes out, long and hard.

“You started movin’ on with your life. You didn’t need me as much, and I guess I let that hurt me. I let you down with how I reacted.”

“I appreciate you telling me,” you murmur, but your smile doesn’t reach your eyes, like it’s not what you wanted to hear. Joel’s puzzled, praying he hasn’t done anything wrong.

The atmosphere still feels tense, like you’re waiting for him to say more.

Like you know there is more.

“You look different, by the way.”

Your gaze find his as he digests your statement, and you tilt your head, lip pulled between your teeth. Joel wishes you wouldn’t fucking do that.

You’re twenty-eight, for Christ’s sake.

He’s fifty-six. He’ll go to hell for what he wants to do to you right now. You don’t want him: you want Ryan, someone your age, someone who can offer you stability and safety in the way he so clearly can’t.

“Oh, yeah?” he asks anyway, feeling his breath shorten as you lean in closer to him. Your skin is so smooth; reflected in the firelight, breasts fighting against the tank top you’re wearing.

Joel can smell vanilla, wants to taste it, too. But he can’t.

“More.. Relaxed. No frowning,” you tease, reaching out a thumb to his forehead, pretending to smooth out the crease that usually has a home there.

“Could say the same f’you, too.”

You smile, and suddenly you’re right beside him — above him, and Joel knows he’s powerless to stop you. The whiskey is warm in his veins, and he wants you. So, so badly.

You hitch a leg over his jeans, trap him beneath you.

“You know, I’ve had just about enough of you.”

Your hands are slipping from his shoulders, down the planes of his chest. Joel can’t help himself; he cants his hips up into you, relishing your gasp, the way you’re already so frantic for him.

Your lips beg for permission messily against his, thighs squeezing him tight. Joel grants it gladly; savours the taste of your tongue in his mouth, the way your breasts feel against his coarse fingertips as he ventures carefully under your flimsy shirt.

Your skin is hot beneath his touch, and he wants to tell you how good you are; letting him touch you like this, letting him pinch the pebbled flesh he finds, soothing it over with his mouth. He manages to be mindful of your sore ribs, the gauze above your hip, but it’s not without trying.

Joel’s so caught up in you: the sweet sounds you’re making as you kiss him so deeply, the way you pull at his hair, grind down onto him. He’s painfully, pathetically hard; it’s only when you come up for air that he takes a second to think.

Fuck.

“Hey — look,” he starts to withdraw, hands moving to your shoulders, holding you back. You pause, eyes narrowed, realisation dawning across your features.

You shuffle out of his lap like you’re ashamed. “I’m sorry, Joel. That was — that was too much.”

“No, don’t be,” he sighs, longing to reach out and cup your jaw in his hand, pull you back to where he so desperately wants you to be. “It’s the whiskey talkin’.”

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. You won’t look at him; gaze cast downwards, swallowing thickly.

“It’s not.”

You say it so quietly, Joel wonders if he’s imagined it.

“No?”

You shake your head, and Joel breathes out, capturing your chin with his finger. His heart is hammering in his chest; your lips are parted, sweat dewing in the column of your throat.

You’re so fucking beautiful.

“I want you, Joel. I know you think you’re not worthy, or too old, or whatever you’ve made yourself believe. I haven’t been able to do anything but lie there and think, for a whole seven days. You know what I thought about?”

Joel waits, agonised.

“You. Everything you’ve taught me, shared with me. The way you’ve let me into your life, into Ellie’s. I turned up here alone, and now I’ve never felt less lonely. I don’t want to give that up. I don’t want to give you up,” you tell him, and press your lips to his.

“If you’ll have me, Joel, I’d like to stay forever. You and I, in our chairs, eating soup.”

Joel’s grinning now, tugging you back to him gently. “You mean that, pretty girl?”

“Uhuh. And forever starts now,” you press your forehead to his, then pull him to his feet. You keep hold of his hand, traipsing through the darkness, past walls you know so well.

It’s heaven. You’re heaven.

Joel wants to take it slow, but he can’t: not with you. He takes his time, though, sliding your shirt off your head, pressing a kiss to your battered ribs.

Your jeans drop to the floor soon after, and finally, you’re bare for him. He’s salivating; you’re a vision, soft and supple as he runs his hands along your thighs, the curves of your tummy, up over your sternum.

Joel revels in the sounds you make, the way you’re so responsive to him, whimpering as his hand closes over your throat gently, tongue back inside your mouth with a renewed ferocity.

“Wanted this for too damn long,” he says gruffly, hand under the bend of your knee, your body so pliant beneath him. You arch your back wantonly as he touches you, teeth sinking into his neck, red marks from your nails down his back.

“I’m yours, Joel. Just like I said.”

Joel slides into the wet, slippery heart of you, both of you groaning at the stretch, the shared feeling of euphoria.

Home.

[bonkhrnyjail]

sweet plum | chapter six

masterlist | pinterest | spotify playlist

pairing: pedro pascal x fem!reader (plus size)

summary: the last of us wrap party is tonight, and the tension between you and pedro can no longer be ignored…

rating: mature (will become explicit in future chapters)

warnings: alcohol consumption, mild sexual content

a/n: THANK U GUYS FOR THE LOVE ON CHAPTER FIVE omg. i’m kicking myself for not posting this fic on tumblr sooner! pls enjoy chapter six and feel free to not analyze what our lovely reader’s actions might say about me as an author or my relationship to conflict <3 love y’all.

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You’ve been avoiding Pedro like the fucking plague.

Sixty missed calls. Even twenty texts, and off the top of your head you can't remember the last time he actually texted you. The calls became less frequent as the weeks passed, but he still tries at least once every day. You silence them every time.

The day you kissed him, he tried to call you ten times in a row, unbeknownst to you. You had thrown your phone across the living room the second you made it through the door and laid completely catatonic on your bed until your roommate got home.

“Babe, you’ll never guess who I saw last night— Are you good?” she inquired nonchalantly as she entered your room to find you face down in your mound of stuffed animals.

Droplets began to prickle the corners of your eyes as you let out a muffled groan in response. Your mouth wasn’t capable of words, the fat, dry lump in your throat stubborn and unyielding, forcing you to clench your teeth around nothing. A hand landed softly on your shoulder.

“Woah, hey,” she started to rub your arm up and down as a full body sob rippled through you. "Talk to me."

You looked up at her, tears rolling fast and hot down the apples of your cheeks, and threw yourself into her chest.

“I- I- I did something st-stupid,” you managed between sobs. 

“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad,” she tried to reassure you gently, smoothing down your hair. “Unless you accidentally shaved some of Pedro’s hair off or something. I’m sure he’d forgive you anyways, though.”

You tried to form words against the sobs clawing their way out of your chest.

“Bad, Abby. Like, r-really bad.”

“Well shit. What’s the damage?” she spoke somewhat brashly, which was nothing new when it came to her attempts at being gentle. “Do I have to kill somebody? ‘Cause I will, I've been playing a lot of first person shooter, I can handle it.”

Laughter overtook your cries, although whatever sounds were coming from your throat were a horrifying mixture of both. Abby chuckled at the sound. You continued like that for a while, laughing and crying and laughing again, until the tears finally stopped.

“Can you tell me what happened?” she blurted as a soberness enveloped her tone. “I’m sure I can come up with a solution. You know I’m crafty.”

“Do you know how to erase memories?” you mumbled as you sat up straight. “That’s the only solution I can think of.”

“No… but I own a bat. Blunt force trauma is a pretty surefire solution.”

“Jesus… not to Pedro.”

“Did you, like, shit yourself or something?” she blundered, immediately biting down on her lip after the words left her mouth. “Sorry, no, this is serious. Serious time.”

You let out a gargantuan sigh as you stared fervently into your lap.

“... I kissed him.”

“You WHAT?” she grabbed your shoulders and shook you aggressively. “YOU WHAT?!”

“I—”

“WHAT? HOW? WHEN?” she shrieked, piercing the hell out of your eardrums.

“I kissed him, on the lips, on the doorstep.” 

“ON THE DOORSTEP?!” she flailed her arms, slapping your shoulders in the process. “AND I MISSED IT?!”

“You’re hurting me.”

“WAS IT GOOD? IS HE A GOOD KISSER?”

“Can we use our inside voices?”

“FUCK— ok, sorry,” she mellowed, blowing air through raspberried lips. “Why are you so upset? I thought you wanted this to happen!”

“I... I did. And didn’t. It’s complicated,” you babbled through your frustration. “I just… kissed him. I didn’t think, or ask, and I can’t take it back.”

“Well, did he kiss you back?”

“Uh… I...” you muttered hesitantly. "I think so."

Abby sprung from your bed, squealing and dancing as her fists punched awkwardly into the air. The sight alone made you cackle.

“OK- so, what happened after that? Did he confess his love to you?” 

“Jesus christ… no, that’s not what happened,” you groaned. “I sorta... ran away.”

“You WHAT?!”

“Oh god, please don’t kill me,” you whined. “I didn’t know what to do, I only realized what I had done after I had done it and I fuckin' panicked. He tried to grab my hand but I ran inside as fast as I could.”

“Dude, you have got to be kidding me,” her tone went flat, eyes laced with disappointment. “Where's your phone?”

“I don’t know, I threw it across the living room when I got up here. I was kinda freaking out.”

Abby immediately jumped off of the bed and started toward the door to your room, despite your insistent pleas to leave it be. She came storming back inside moments later.

“10 missed calls. 10 MISSED CALLS,” she pointed aggressively to your lock screen displaying the missed notifications. “Look, he even texted you.”

You snatched the phone out of her hand, shoving it under your pillow. “I can’t… I can’t right now.”

“If he didn’t want this, he wouldn’t call you that many times, and he definitely wouldn't have kissed you back," she trailed off for a moment, some sort of realization sparking behind her eyes. "Wait, did he get you those flowers on the kitchen counter?”

“I- yes. Just because I helped him out today last minute.”

“No, not because you helped him out last minute. Flowers from a man mean one of three things. Number one, congrats. Number two, condolences. And number three, please have sex with me.”

“Jesus,” you giggled. “And what does it mean if he brought me a coffee too?”

“Your usual?”

“...Yes.”

“Please have sex with me and be my wife forever and ever.”

You rolled your eyes and flopped back into your pillows, covering your face with your hands and groaning. Abby sat with you for a while, but eventually gave up, knowing damn well that you're to stubborn and you'd make your own decisions regarding the whole situation. She knew she never stood a chance to change your mind anyways.

The days passed, slowly at first, but eventually you found your way back to a steady rhythm. You went to work, saw your friends, read a lot, and spent practically zero time on your phone. Impressive how avoidance managed to cure your social media addiction. 

You'd pushed it out of your head that you’d have to see Pedro in a few weeks. Then the weeks turned to a week, then to a few days, then to a day.

You woke up this morning and it all came crashing down.

The wrap party is tonight. Then the premiere tomorrow. Everyone is going. You couldn’t get away with skipping it if you tried. Bella would probably storm into your apartment and drag you out by the hair.

You haven’t even told Bella about the kiss.

You end up lying in bed for hours, watching video after video on Youtube to silence your racing thoughts. You had set an alarm on your phone earlier to remind you when to start getting ready, and it frightens the hell out of you, jolting you from a groggy haze of half-sleep. You curse under your breath and roll lazily onto your feet, your blankets crumpling to a pathetic-looking pile on the floor. 

You power up your speaker and choose some music, an upbeat and catchy playlist to try and redirect your energy. The upside in all of this is that you can get all dolled up. It gives you an excuse for extensive self-pampering and wearing outfits that mostly collect dust in your closet. 

An everything shower is an understatement of what you have planned. You have your products lined up, various scrubs, masks, body washes, etc, and a fresh razor sitting right beside them. You crank the faucet on, just a hair below the boiling point, and step into the tub.

The steam coats your lungs as you inhale deep, the sudden sensation of the water colliding with your skin sending a stark chill down your body. As you close your eyes, leaning your head back and letting your hair fall into the steady stream, your focus slips to a corner of your mind, the pesky corner that you've tried desperately to keep locked away. Because once the thoughts start, it’s damn near impossible to wrangle them back in.

The fantasy is vivid. You can almost feel Pedro’s hands in your hair, massaging shampoo slowly and intentionally from behind you. He’s close, his bare body pressed to your back, his skin hot and pulsing against yours. He leans you back to rinse the product from your hair, pressing a small kiss to your forehead as he squeezes your shoulder softly. 

“Mmmm,” he hums, trailing languid, open-mouth kisses across your cheek and down your neck. “My sweet plum.”

A faint voice in the back of your mind is shouting wildly, trying to stop the scene from playing out in your head, but it's not enough to break through the noise.

He runs his hands down the front of your body, gently tracing your curves and valleys, finger-painting your skin with adoration. Your head falls back into him as his kisses grow deeper, longer, more desperate, him hardening against you as his gentle caresses turn to needy grasps. 

“Let me… please,” you whisper into his ear, snaking your hand behind you and running your palm against the underside of his shaft. His body presses harder into yours as he lets out a soft grunt of approval directly in your ear, the vibration of it surging straight to your core.

A jolt of cold water shocks your body, tearing you from your fantasy. You come to and find yourself leaning against the wall of the shower, your ass having knocked the knob to the coldest setting. 

“Christ,” you mutter under your breath, cranking the control back to where it was and reaching for your overpriced shampoo bottle. 

You go through the motions of the rest of your shower, losing yourself in the music and singing along as you always do. Shower concerts have been your most recent replacement for the therapy that you can't quite afford.

You paint your toes, your leg hoisted up precariously on the counter and torso bent over to reach as your fuzzy robe dangles from your hips. You choose an eggplant purple, matching the accents in your dress. The press-ons that you found are a damn-near perfect match to this color, with a swirling design decorating the tips of the almond shape. 

The dress is more of a dainty feminine than you typically go for. You generally gravitate towards sultry colors and styles, but the cut of this dress instantly drew your attention. A plunging neckline with miniscule gold buttons decorating the front. Beneath the bust, a sheer panel with corset boning outlines the waist, and the remainder of the skirt flows heavily, the hem sitting perfectly at your ankles. It reminds you of a Free People style dress, but in your size. Hallelujah.

With a feel-good playlist booming through your speaker, your makeup goes on quick and easy. A thick, black wing smoked out with a deep purple and a subtle, black cherry sheer lip. Everything else you keep fairly light and natural, letting the boldness of the eye do the talking.

You pull your hair up into a bun, making sure the dress is the center of attention. You leave a few, short pieces out and curl them, creating the sense of a haphazard version of a Victorian era updo. After donning some simple gold jewelry and your Mary Janes, the outfit is complete. You throw on an oversized brown blazer just to keep you warm, but you’ll likely take it off the moment you get to the party.

Your uber arrives moments later, somehow exactly as you descend the stairs outside your building. Your driver, an older man named Mario, gets out and shakes your hand as he introduces himself and his very nice BMW named Maria.

You've never met anyone quite this aggressively Italian.

The good-natured man even asks if you'd like to pick the music for the ride. You choose something that you hope the both of you will like: ABBA.

“This was popular when I was your age!” he gushes, the gravel and rasp in his voice more audible than the actual pitch. 

“ABBA is absolutely timeless,” you chime, adding a few more songs to the queue.

You chat the whole ride there, his jovial presence somehow working away some of the knots of anxiety in your stomach. He asks all about your work, thankfully steering clear of who you work with, and even prodding you for styling tips for his “thick and unruly” curls. 

He pulls up to the entrance, stopping near a hoard of your coworkers from the crew crowded amongst the steps to the double doors. You exchange goodbyes with Mario and slide out of the car into the brisk air, your blazer draped over your shoulders and doing a very ineffective job of retaining any of your body heat. You hear a shriek of joy emerge from the blob of people in front of you, followed by your name in the same cadence. Most of the heads you can see turn to face you, arms reaching out for hugs and smiles as far as you can see. 

You’re going to make this a good night. No matter what.

.   .   .   .   .

It’s significantly warmer inside the venue, so you decided to drop your jacket at the coat check. It’s much more crowded than you expected, but then again, everyone was invited. Some of your friends from makeup even made the trip from New York to be here. Since you’ve never been to one of these before, jokes keep getting thrown around along the lines of “Baby’s first wrap party!" and you losing your wrap party virginity. The group dynamics from the days on set settle right back into a rhythm, your place as the baby of the group still yours for the taking. You don’t mind the coddling, as it seems to help keep your mind off of the inevitable. 

There’s a slurry of waiters dipping and dodging amongst clusters of bodies, hors d'oeuvres and drinks displayed gorgeously on shiny golden platters. Someone’s arm is dragging you towards the open bar across the dance floor, where a herd has already begun to form. A slew of voices and faces pass you by as you travel swiftly through the crowd, and you’re unable to make out anything distinct amongst the clamor.

Until you hear his voice.

That familiar boom of laughter, crisp and thunderous, crystal clear amongst the hundreds of noises up against it. You immediately whip your head around to locate the source, forgetting your hand is in the grips of your friend and nearly snapping her limb off in the process. She lunges forward into you, nearly knocking your hors d’oeuvres plate from your hand and garnering the attention of several people surrounding you.

You somehow stumble back to balance and a very attentive waiter quickly swipes the mostly finished plate from your hands. The swiftness of everything is making you dizzy, sounds and sights swirling in the warm glow of the gorgeous chandelier decorating the space above you. With every turn of your head, the crowd in front of you shifts to blurry outlines of colors and shapes, like ink bleeding from the hard lines where people should begin and end. 

Suddenly you feel arms wrapping around your waist and squeezing your organs to a pulp.

“Who-” you look down to see two small hands with black painted nails. “Is that my Bellie?”

A head pops into your peripheral with a wide, toothy smile. You let out a little shriek as your arms envelop them and squeeze, lifting them off the ground a bit with the sheer force of it.

“I missed you so much—'' you pause, taking in their presence once more. “Look at you! You look amazing!”

“I look amazing?” They toy gently with the skirt of your dress. “You look amazing!”

You embrace once more, the excitement of seeing them in person completely overriding your ability to control the gleeful noises escaping your body. They pull away, your hands still gripping each other’s elbows.

“Have you seen P? I know he’s already here,” they pull their phone out of their back pocket, his location pulled up on Find My Friends. 

“Oh, uh… I— I haven’t yet,” you hear your voice quickly morph into a downbeat tone against your will. 

“Uh oh,” they blurt. “Why is your face doing that? Did something happen?”

“I- uh…” you stumble over a sad attempt at words, muttering unintelligible syllables. “Well—”

Your train of thought comes to a screeching halt as he appears through a sliver in the crowd.

And, god, he looks handsome as ever. A nice, nice white suit clings ever so perfectly to his muscular, statuesque frame. The collar is folded neatly against his strong, thick neck, a few subtle veins protruding softly from his caramel skin. His dimples are on full display as he throws his head back with laughter, the little heart-shaped patch in his beard perfectly prominent. 

Bella follows your gaze until they see him. They call out his name and wave him down on their tiptoes. He immediately clocks the voice, and you watch as the small smile on his face spreads to a wide grin. He excuses himself from his current conversation and starts towards your direction.

Your stomach drops. You quickly survey around you to find that there is no clear escape, there are clusters of people surrounding you on each side and no pockets that you could gracefully slip into to weave your way through the crowd. For better or worse, you’re trapped.

He quickly scoops Bella into a bear hug, his arms enveloping their small frame in it's entirety. He spins them around, their feet dangling, hovering just above the floor. You stand there, frozen, little bunches of your dress clumped up in your tight, fidgeting fists. The fabric rolls between your thumb and forefinger, a haphazard attempt at soothing the anxiety surging through your veins.

It takes him a minute to acknowledge your presence, and with every second that passes, your urge to bolt revs in your belly.

Once his gaze meets yours, a soft, forgiving smile paints across his lips. You force the corners of your mouth upwards, attempting to create what hopefully appears like an expression of joy. Hopefully.

“Hi.”

It comes out more like a sigh when he says it, like it’s been pounding at his chest, just waiting to be released. His hand lays flat on his abdomen as he taps his pointer finger repeatedly. The muscles in his neck flex, creating movement in the collar of his shirt.

He’s nervous. You know him well enough to know that, and you know you’re likely not hiding your true state very well either. He knows you just as well.

You try to respond.  The air you've been holding prisoner in your lungs tumbles out, catching in your throat.  A feeble, "H-hi," is all you can manage.

“You look…” his eyes wander your body, your face, your hair, his lips parted ever so slightly. “You look lovely.”

The statement reverberates in your mind until you hear a distant call of your name. A quick turn of your head finds your favorite hairstylist waving you down.

“I—” you swallow and start over. “Thank you. Thanks. I—, sorry, I gotta—” you motion toward your destination with your thumb before decidedly turning and slipping through the crowd, a copious amount of polite little statements slipping off your tongue in order to get out of sight and away from him.

.   .   .   .   .

“So… what the fuck was that?” Bella states gruffly, sitting opposite of you at a small high top table, tucked away in a quieter room off of the main ballroom. “That was, like, painful.”

You let out a small groan, knowing you’d have to tell them at some point, but dissenting the fact that the time for that confession seems to be right this very second.

“I kinda… I fucked things up between us.”

“I doubt that,” they say reassuringly.

“No, seriously, I—” you stop yourself mid-sentence to catch your breath. “I kissed him, Bel.”

They let out a satisfied chuckle.

“Well thank god. It’s about goddamn time.”

“No, no you don’t understand,” you babble. “I kissed him without thinking, realized what I did, and ran.”

“Ohhhh my g—” they blow a raspberry. “Ok. Well. When was this?”

“Like… a month ago?”

“A month?!”

“I haven’t spoken to him since.”

“Jesus christ… I’m assuming he’s tried to call you, yes?”

“Pretty much every single day since it happened,” your words come out more sigh than pitch.

Bella rubs their temples, an incomprehensible expression on their face.

“Gosh, it feels like mom and dad are fighting.”

That makes you snort laugh, to your own surprise.

“Well clearly he’s not angry at you. And you can’t avoid him forever,” they reason, their bluntness somehow comforting, unraveling the little knot sitting in your gut. “I wish you two would just put all your cards on the table. Worst comes to worst, things don’t work out.”

“I just really don’t want to lose him, Bellie,” you mumble into your drink.

“You will if you don’t talk to him,” they quip right back, eyes stern and decided.

You know they’re right. As much as you don’t want to admit it, you know.

“I’ll talk to him. Tomorrow. Tonight is supposed to be fun.”

“Fair enough. Now, come dance with me.” they hop to their feet and extend a hand.

You take it with a smile, and within a mere second they’re whisking you towards the dance floor.

.   .   .   .   .

You’ve had 3 drinks. Three strong drinks. On a stomach with only a few bite sized hors d'oeuvres to soak up the copious amount of gin in your system. 

And it’s helping, sure. Helping you forget momentarily that Pedro is probably within 100 feet of you at any given moment. Helping your breath move in and out the way it’s supposed to, without catching on threads of worry webbed inside your lungs. Helping to loosen the knots that riddled your body when you got here.

But it’s also making you dizzy. 

Dizzy enough that you’re not quite sure when you end and others begin. It’s all lights and laughter and limbs, filling your senses to the brim. The corners of your vision have a little haze to them, a haze that’s starting to grow inward.

You stumble your way out of the hoard, searching for the nearest corner to tuck yourself away in for a moment. A friend hollers after you, asking if you’re alright.

“I’m good! Just got the spins,” you reassure her. “I’ll be back.”

A little awning reveals itself to you in a narrow sightline through the crowd. You follow the slender gap without a second thought. Once you reach the end, you find a dimly lit hallway with an emergency exit sign illuminating a sturdy black door. You steady yourself on a railing and lean your weight into the wall, your head bowed slightly and shoulders rounded.

The pattern on the carpet sways in your vision as you let yourself hang for a moment, releasing tension from your upper body and pushing your feet firmly into the floor as some attempt at grounding. After a moment, you decide to take your shoes off in hopes it will inspire your body to feel more “at one with gravity”.

The sound of booming bass still accosts your ears, but more muffled now, and the sound waves flow through you, perfectly in time with the beating of your heart. It isn’t until your name is spoken the third time that you really hear it.

Your eyes shoot up to find Pedro, a worried, scrunched brow on his face and a bottle of water in his hand. 

“Oh- um…” you stammer. You continue to fight for the right words, any words, until he cuts you off.

“Drink this,” he twists the cap and gently places the bottle into your right hand. “I haven’t seen you take a sip of water the entire night. No wonder you’re dizzy.”

A moment of confusion clouds you, but you quickly remember that you shouted over the blaring music for all to hear of your current state. Your voice can be quite head-turning with a lack of inhibition. You obey his word and take a swig from the bottle, the crisp, cold water relentless against your sensitive teeth. The temperature is a visceral opposite to the flush of your face, causing you to furrow your brow slightly as it travels down your esophagus. 

He lets out a chuckle as he scans your expression.

“Cold?”

You produce an affirmative grumble and try to pass the bottle to him, but he gently pushes it back towards your chest. 

“Have some more.”

Your eyes flutter under the softness of his gaze. You try to gulp down the dry seed in you throat.

“Pedro, I—”

“We don’t have to talk about it right now.”

“Bella told me I have to talk to you,” you admit, your chin tucked and stare driving into the carpet, whispering in a way that sounded more like you were reminding yourself than telling him.

It makes him laugh, releasing that sweet, boisterous sound and it's accompanying smile you missed so dearly.

“Taking orders from Bellie now, eh?”

“They can be a bit militant when push comes to shove, to be honest,” a puff of air passes through your nose as a smirk tugs at your lips, your eyes glued to the floor. "'Specially if I'm being an idiot."

You take a few more sips of water and Pedro shifts to stand beside you, kicking his foot up with his back flat against the wall. Neither of you speak, only the sounds of your breath filling the space between you. 

You both inhale at the same time, as though you are both about to speak. 

“F—sorry, y-you go,” you gulp, though your mouth is bone dry.

He lets his exhale escape through puckered lips, and you watch as his hiked up chest deflates. His hand sits flat against the first button of his suit jacket as he thumbs at the lapel.

“I’ve spent the past month in agony, you know.”

You gaze up at his face, his eyes fixed on the glint in his freshly-shined shoes. He rolls his bottom lip through his teeth nervously, the hue of the skin shifting from an off-white to a bitten pink as it’s released from the grip.

“Missing you…” he spoke softly. “Wanting to talk to you…”

Guilt spreads like a wildfire, scalding your throat.

“Pedro, I— I am so s—”

“Wanting nothing more than to kiss you again.”

The words kick the air from your lungs, your lips parting to make way as the muscles in your jaw give out entirely. He turns to face your visage, and you find his painted with an expression of pure yearning. His eyes have a sparkle to them, but not of joy. It’s more like a heat, a burning that seems almost painful to endure. The thick, inescapable tension wraps itself hermetically around your neck.

“I— You didn’t even give me a chance to kiss you back.”

Before you can even process the words, the clinking of glasses sounds in the distance. Through the muffled shouting you hear a strained attempt at organizing a drunken group photo.

“We should probably…” you floppily gesture towards the ballroom, the alcohol seemingly turning your bones a bit soft and pliable. “Can we talk about this after the party? I'd like to be a little more sober if I can help it.”

“Right, uh—” he adjusts his tie slightly, insecurely clearing his throat. “After the party. I can do that.”

“I promise,” you assure, though you’re acutely aware that he has very little reason to trust you, considering you avoided him for almost a month straight. You reach for his hand, the one that’s still fidgeting with his jacket, hopeful your touch will convey your sincerity in a way that your words can’t.

He smiles, somewhat forcibly. and offers his arm.

“Shall we?”

You make your way back to the crowd, observing with a small chuckle as a few people with phones in hand attempt to herd people left and right, trying to create some semblance of a formation. The two of you slip into the hoard easily, gliding right into a perfect little cranny to the left of the pointed cameras.

Pedro slides his arm around your waist as you pose, and you’re certain he can feel your raging pulse thumping through every vessel beneath your skin.

“Ok, now a funny one!” says one of the photographers.

You turn to each other, smiling and searching for an idea. Drunken and foolish, you take his arm and pretend to bite it. 

He lets out a hearty laugh before leaning into the “scene”, his face mocking an expression of terror. You have to stifle your giggles with an open mouth, which results in a strange, almost strangled sound escaping you. It only encourages his laughter, which encourages yours, and droplets form at the crest of your eyes as you wait for the signal to drop the pose.

“Got it!” someone blurts across the ballroom.

“Sorry about that,” you guide his arm back to his side, giving it a gentle pat into place. “These hors d'oeuvres just made me hungrier.”

You laugh at your own joke, snorting on the inhale, and you look up to see his smile, wide and gleaming, the bounciest part of his cheeks sporting a salmon-pink hue. 

A distant voice calls for Pedro, hollering something about an actors-only picture, and he turns his head to find the source. You grab his hand before he starts towards them.

“Call me, ok? After the party,” you gently squeeze at his wrist. “I promise I’ll answer this time.”

He nods, his sickly sweet smile punctuated with picture-perfect dimples. He turns his back to you and weaves his way through the crowd. 

.   .   .   .   .

You finally made your way out of the coat check line after a grueling twenty minutes of needing to pee but not wanting to give up your spot in line. You’re standing outside the entrance now, the brisk air nipping at your bare ankles. You idly pull out your phone to find two text notifications from Pedro.

The first is an address, with a unit number. Los Angeles. You recognize the street name.

The second message reads:

I just got home. Buzz me when u get here. :) 

You almost start to skim through the unread messages he’d sent you since that night, but you’re quickly derailed by another buzz.

Pedro Pascal sent you $100. Description: for your ride.

You laugh out loud, amused by his overestimation of the price, but nevertheless stunned by his unfailing thoughtfulness. You start towards the stairs, your nerves burning and buzzing, entirely uncertain and out of control of what the evening holds.

. . . . .

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal x reader #plus size reader #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #the last of us #pedrohub

[bonkhrnyjail]

Every time I look at a pic of Frankie Morales, I insantly know that man wants his head buried between and crushed by a thick woman's thighs.

[bonkhrnyjail]

Stills from The Uninvited — ph. Robert Leitzell

#the side profile #im so close to ending it ALL #i would give 20 years off my life to be looked at by him this way

[bonkhrnyjail]

bright lights - part i [dieter bravo x neurodivergent!f!reader]

summary: Dieter Bravo is a man so complicated that his personal assistant needs her own personal assistant just to keep up with his demands, and that’s where you come in. Part time, flexible hours, and a free place to live—you can’t imagine a more perfect gig. You don’t even mind the budding crush you have on Mr. Bravo; that is, until your boss falls ill right before awards season, leaving you to pick up the slack. Making Dieter’s appointments is one thing, but being in charge of him seems like an impossible task. Especially when you think he might have a crush on you, too. chapter rating/warnings: M [some slightly lusty thoughts from both parties, dual POV, sensory issues, Dieter is a menace but he is respectful, angst-ish, descriptions of insecurity and feeling misunderstood, relationship confusion, descriptions of food in kind of a sexy way, reader has some named favorite things, I think that's it for now] wc: ~ 7.1k a/n: please go to @ezrasbirdie-updates to be notified of updates! all my love always tp @starlightmornings and @haylzcyon for reassuring me this isn't garbage and betaing. here it is! we're getting set up now, so there's quite a bit of exposition on their relationship and and how/why reader does some of the things she does. I wrote this for the neurospicy girls (gn) but I'm hoping people of all neurotypes gives this little story a chance. I've had so much fun getting to know them so far, and I hope you will, too<3

masterlist | series masterlist | dieter bravo masterlist | next

The tag on the back of your shirt scrapes the top of your spine every time your head swivels. You hate this shirt for this exact reason, yet it lives in your closet just to taunt you on laundry day when every tagless piece of clothing you own is soaking wet because you have, once again, forgotten to put the clothes in the dryer.

Every couple of weeks you tell yourself you’ll wash it and donate it; give it to someone who doesn’t hate the feel of a jagged fingernail scratching the base of their neck, but somehow it sneaks its way back into the closet to offer itself as a last resort.

It’s possessed; you’re sure of it.

Were it ugly, you might be able to get rid of it more easily, but it’s not. It flatters you, sitting perfectly at your waist with a neckline just low enough to show a work-appropriate amount of cleavage. It’s perfect for a first day at a new job where you’re not sure what clothes you can get away with yet.

Especially a job like this.

Part-time personal assistant to the full-time personal assistant of Dieter Bravo is not a job you’d ever anticipated, but your cousin’s best friend, Christina, was desperate when she’d asked and you were desperate for steady income.

You aren’t close to Christina, but she’s one of the only people you know out here, so you’d crossed your fingers and hoped she wasn’t getting you involved with a pyramid scheme or some cult. The whole thing still seems too good to be true.

She wouldn’t tell you who you’d be working for until you’d signed about a dozen NDAs and a one-year contract. As you’d signed your looping signature over and over, you thought, maybe, some of this is a red flag, but what else do you have to do for the next year? Go back home?

You’d moved out here to make movies, but quickly figured out you’re not built for this industry. The very last thing you wanted was to go back home to a bunch of I-told-you-sos from your parents. At least this gig got you a free place to live in the form of a guesthouse that’s twice as big as the apartment you’d been renting month to month.

You’re even allowed to use the pool.

Not that you will ever be using Dieter Bravo’s pool.

You know very little about the man himself, other than him being a famous actor. He won an Oscar for a movie you found to be a little on the nose, he has an ex-wife he met on the set of some dinosaur movie that was never released, he’s been to rehab twice in the last three years, and he’s infamous for being difficult to work with. Most of this, of course, is according to gossip websites and supermarket tabloid headlines.

The difficult-to-work with part, however, seems true enough.

“He needs a lot of attention,” Christina’d told you when you asked what exactly you’d be doing. “And I need help getting very basic shit done around here. You try going to the bank for the man while he’s having yet another midlife crisis.”

“It can’t be that bad, can it?” You’d laughed.

“It can and it is.”

“Why stay?”

Christina hadn’t answered at first, and you’d worried you’d gone too far—you’d always had a bad habit of asking questions out of sheer curiosity that were, sometimes, wholly inappropriate.

She’d pursed her lips and taken a sip from the to-go cup in her hand. “He pays better than anyone else in this town, and gave a stipend for my own personal assistant when I threatened to leave. And he’s…not so bad. He’s very sweet, most of the time. Just, you know, a huge baby. Sometimes he needs a bit of a firm hand to keep him on track.”

Christina was never someone you’d have described as firm. Ambitious, hard-working, organized, sure, but she’s also squishy like a lightly toasted marshmallow. You’d said nothing—you learned in your teen years people absolutely did not want to be corrected about their perceptions of themselves. If she thinks she’s a firm hand, you won’t argue.

Just as you manage to get that accursed tag laying in a direction that bothers you least, Christina arrives at your front door.

“Good morning,” you chirp, determined to be in a pleasant mood on your first day. “Watch the boxes! I’m still getting unpacked.”

“Good morning,” she replies, taking in the front room of your new living space. “Settling in? How do you like it?”

“It’s great!” You say, and she raises her eyebrow like she doesn’t believe you. “Really. It’s way bigger than where I was living. And I don’t have a roommate.”

“You had a roommate in a place smaller than this?”

“The living room was technically my bedroom. And it’s really pretty roomy when there’s no one to share it with.” You don’t hold her skepticism against her, but the guesthouse is more than enough for your needs. One bedroom, one bathroom, a kitchenette, and a living room with a view of the magnificent pool is paradise in comparison to where you’d been. The kitchenette only has a sink and microwave, but you’d made do with less in college.  

You’ll put up with a lot for zero dollars a month rent.

And it’s nice, too. No leaky faucets, no shoddily installed locks, no insane charge for parking. And best of all, it’s all yours. You’re the luckiest girl in the whole world right now.

So you absolutely cannot be in a bad mood at all, even if it’s starting to feel like someone’s driving a pocket knife into your spine.

Satisfied (if a little unsettled) with your answers regarding your previous living situation, Christina leads you into the main house for a tour.

You’d moved most of your things into the guesthouse over the weekend and have yet to see even a peek of Dieter Bravo.

As you cross the courtyard to the main house, the pristine pool water sparkles in the sun, so bright you have to squint. “Is he here?” You ask as you trail behind Christina like a baby duck.

“No,” she says, checking her watch. “He should be back sometime this morning if his flight is on time, which it was the last time I looked. He was at a wellness retreat all weekend.”

“What kind of wellness retreat?” You ask.

“Tantra,” she says, unlocking the large sliding glass door that leads into the kitchen.

“I didn’t realize he was with someone,” you say, taking in the sheer size of the place.

“He’s not,” Christina says, and you decide you don’t need to ask anymore questions related to his whereabouts.

Christina flicks on the overhead lights, despite all the sunshine pouring in the floor to ceiling windows. It takes a moment to take in the open floor plan and fifteen foot ceilings. Everything is immaculately clean, almost antiseptic with its gleaming surfaces. It’s all black or white or both, and it doesn’t go at all with the man you’ve seen splashed across magazine covers.

Color. You’d expected more color.

Christina sets her things down on the large kitchen island and motions for you to do the same. “He’s never down here,” she explains, gesturing to the room at large, and it makes more sense now. Why customize a space you don’t spend any time in?

You’re suddenly a lot more curious about this man with his enormous industrial kitchen and dark marble floors and gray oversized sectional.

Christina leads you upstairs into a long hall with tall windows on one side and half a dozen doors on the other. “All the guest rooms are the same, so don’t worry about them. Heidi comes to clean a few times a week. There’s the gym and sauna, another bathroom, and then his room is all the way at the end here.”

She either doesn’t notice you peeking into the open door, or she doesn’t care.

That’s where all the color is. You catch a glimpse of deep purples and burnt oranges and midnight blues, discarded tubes of paint and an easel in front of a big window, and a black, velvety couch that your fingers itch to reach out and touch. You control yourself, though, as Christina shows you the upstairs living room.

“This is so much for one person,” you observe, and she nods in agreement.

“That’s just how it is,” she shrugs.

“I bet the electric bill is nuts.”

Christina grins over her shoulder as you follow her back downstairs. “Lucky for you, you get to keep track of those things.”

“What does that mean?” You ask.

“One of Dieter’s peculiarities is that he doesn’t trust the automatic payment systems, so you get to handle all that! That was part of one of the NDAs, remember?”

“No,” you admit. “I didn’t look that close at most of them. I’ve just decided I’m never telling anyone about any of this, ever.”

“Fine by me,” Christina says as she hands you a list. “Start with the phone calls and work your way down. When you’re done with the list, you’re free to go unless he needs something specific from you.”

The best part of this whole gig, though, is that it’s part time. You get your work done, you get to go. You’re both technically on-call, but she assures you that Dieter is surprisingly good about not abusing that privilege.

You just need to figure out what to do with those hours. And, possibly, with the rest of your life, but you’re trying not to focus on that right now.

That first morning is full of phone calls you hope no one answers, confirming appointments and interviews and reservations. Christina doesn’t tell you what she does, but she looks very busy and very serious, so you try not to bother her unless you absolutely must.

You’re scratching at the tag again when the front door opens and Dieter Bravo is there, talking loudly on his phone and followed by a man in a suit carrying some heavy-looking bags. Dieter seems agitated, but you can barely understand what he’s saying—you’re too busy taking him in.

It’s not that you’ve never met a famous person before. This is Los Angeles. It doesn’t make it any less interesting when it happens, though. If it’s all the retinoids or massages or your own internal biases, you have no idea, but they always seem to glow a little brighter than regular people.

Maybe it’s all that tantric wellness, in his case.

Christina stands up, holding her iPad as she waits for Dieter to finish his conversation.

“Tell them whatever you have to. I want that part,” he says, handing the man with the bags a wad of cash and waving him off. “Thanks, man.”

His eyes land on you as he hangs up and he raises his eyebrow as if he’s not expecting your presence at all. A nervous smile spreads across your face, and you hope it looks more natural than it feels. Meeting new people is such a harrowing experience—you always want to make a good first impression, but it’s an exhausting task.

Christina doesn’t introduce you right away.

In fact, Christina doesn’t introduce you at all, too busy going over a checklist of to-dos and reminders that she makes him repeat back to her even as his eyes flick back to you, this awkward presence invading his home.

Eventually he gives her all of his attention and shakes his head as he does exactly as she asks, as if he finds the whole thing ridiculous and only does it to keep her happy. You swallow all of the questions you have about this dynamic, no matter how interesting you might find it.

“I had a great time, Chris,” he says to her when she’s finished. “Thanks for asking about my trip.”

She quirks her mouth and lets out a barely-audible laugh. “Sorry, Dee,” she says. “How was it?”

Dee.

“I already said,” he says airily. “It was like two hundred degrees, and you don’t like it when I talk about my di—”

“No, I do not,” she says, and you desperately want to know what the end of that sentence is. He grins at her again, twisting the gold rings on his fingers and popping his knuckles. His low, raspy voice makes the hair on your arms stand up and sends a pleasant tingle down your spine.

“And who’s this?” Dieter asks, finally acknowledging your presence.

Christina introduces you and you hold out your hand, expecting a quick handshake, but he covers yours with both of his and cradles it between them. They’re soft and warm and big, and he’s so much friendlier than you’d expected.

Maybe you should look into tantric wellness.

Eventually he heads upstairs, muttering about needing to get the plane energy off of him.

“Did that go okay?” You ask Christina when he’s safely out of earshot.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen him be that nice to anyone new,” she says, bemused. “He must be in a really good mood.”

You nod in agreement and look back down at your list, contemplating the implications of this information. You decide he’s definitely just gotten laid a lot this weekend, and who wouldn’t be in a good mood after that?

“So you don’t like when he talks about his dick?” You ask Christina, who bursts into laughter. “What? Does he do it a lot?”

 “Oh my God,” she says. “I don’t know why that was so funny, I’m sorry. Okay, yeah, Dieter is very…open.”

“So I’ve heard,” you say.

“But he’s not creepy. Or he’s never been with me. But it’s more of a ‘Don’t talk about your penis in front of the new girl’ thing, you know?”

“I can understand that. You guys seem friendly,” you tell her, and she nods.

“Even when he’s a little insane he’s still a good dude. And he’s insane a lot, you know. But if something makes you uncomfortable—”

“I don’t get uncomfortable easily,” you shrug.

Unless it’s this fucking tag, but you don’t tell her that.

But maybe you shouldn’t have spoken so soon, because when Dieter comes back down a while later still damp from the shower in a pair of linen pajama pants and no shirt, you feel like you’re going to swallow your tongue. You put your head back down and focus on your last two tasks, until you notice movement in your peripheral.

You look up and smile, and he is very, very close to you. Okay, so personal space isn’t really his thing, you guess. Noted. But he smells very nice, like cinnamon and clove cigarettes.

“Are you okay?” Dieter asks, and you try to quell your unbidden panic. What could you have possibly done already?

“Um, yes sir. I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

“You’re scratching your neck a lot,” he says.

“Am I? I’m sorry, it’s just my…this shirt has this tag that bothers me,” you explain, mortified that he’s already caught you doing something weird.

He nods and walks off, and you try not to be alarmed at the abrupt end to the conversation and turn back to your work. You’re just about to call his groomer when he shuffles behind you, pulls the tag tight, and snips it off before you can say a word about it.

“There,” Dieter says, grinning and holding the offending tag up between his thick fingers. “Better?”

You have no idea how to react to this.

More importantly, you don’t know how you’ve gone this long without just cutting the damn thing off yourself. How has it never occurred to you that you can just cut off tags?

“I…thanks?” You squeak. He beams at you, turns around, and leaves.

Christina chuckles. “There he is,” she says.

“Does he destroy people’s belongings often?”

“Less so these days,” she sighs. “But he’s not usually trying to be helpful.”

After you get back to the guesthouse that evening, you glance at yourself in the mirror. Without the scratchy tag, you really do like this shirt.

You’re the most interesting person Dieter’s met in years.

He’d prepared to be annoyed with your presence the second he walked through the door; he was already annoyed with himself for agreeing to this arrangement in the first place. But Christina keeps him on track and out of trouble, and it isn’t like he has a family to spend that money on instead.

He’d made sure of that.

It turns out that immediately marrying someone he met in a high-stress clusterfuck isn’t the best way to secure any kind of longevity, and honestly, he just hadn’t been ready.

And when Anika, just a few days after her twenty-ninth birthday, told him with tears in her eyes that she didn’t think this would work anymore, he didn’t fight it. Why would she want to stay with such a fuck-up? And why would he force his presence on her one second longer?

He knows he’s a lot—that’s why he hadn’t argued when Christina asked for some help. But it meant sharing his space with some stranger, some person he’d never met despite Christina’s suggestion.

“Just hire someone,” he’d grumbled. “I don’t care.”

But then you smiled.

It wasn’t an L.A. smile; one of those veneered things that doesn’t quite reach the eyes. It was imperfect, a little lopsided, skittish enough that his usual cool indifference toward new people melted away.

It could have been all the wellness from the retreat still buzzing in his veins, but he doesn’t think so. There’s something different about your aura that softens him.

And then there’s the fact that you are completely unfazed by him—unimpressed by him, for that matter. Even Christina was a little starstruck when they met, and she still caters to him more than is probably good or healthy for him.

What else can he do at this point? He’d made his own reputation over the last twenty years, for better or worse.

But you?

There is no reverence in the way you speak to him, no higher pitch in your voice to soothe him like he’s an angry toddler. Granted, you don’t speak to him much, only when he addresses you directly, but your short, clipped answers only intrigue him more.

Hopefully Christina doesn’t notice his sudden penchant for hanging out downstairs when he’s home. He just really likes to observe you.

He uses the word observe purposefully in his head; it’s much less creepy than “watch” or “obsess,” though if he’s honest with himself—which he is not—both could apply.

You don’t like it when there are a lot of people in the house, or when the overhead lights are on. You run your fingers over the marble countertop and chew your lip when you’re on the phone, especially if the call is taking longer than it should.

You shake your leg when you’re concentrating, or click a pen over and over and over. That one drives him a little nuts, that click-a-click-a-click, but he regrets asking you to stop the moment he does. It’s the first time your indifference to his existence vanishes, grimacing as you drop the offending pen.

“Oh my gosh, I am so sorry, Mr. Bravo. I don’t know what I was thinking. It won’t happen again,” you say in a much higher pitch, your voice so shaky he wonders if he’d been gruff without realizing.

“It’s okay, really,” he protests. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

That doesn’t seem to help. “R-right,” you stammer, smiling awkwardly. “I’m being silly, it’s—you’re right, no big deal. Okay. I’ll…get back to work.”

But you gather all your things and retreat to the guesthouse, shaking your head as you walk away, and he doesn’t know what to make of it.

The next day you don’t have a clicky pen, and you bite your nails instead.

He really hates that, but he says nothing.

It’s not till the end of the week that you approach him all on your own for the first time, just after he gets back from an interview with GQ and he’s stuck his head in the fridge searching for something to eat.

“Um, Mr. Bravo?”

 He turns, surprised to see you now right in front of him, the closest you’d been since your first day. You flash that nervous grin, and he can’t help it—he reaches out and squeezes your shoulder.

“You can call me Dieter, you know,” he says. “What’s up?”

Your eyes flicker to his hand, but you don’t pull out of his grasp. “I just wanted to say sorry for being, like, so weird about the pen thing. I was having a bad day, and it was so unprof—”

“Consider it forgotten,” he says, peering over the top of his sunglasses at you. “We’re just getting used to each other, yeah? We’re gonna annoy each other sometimes. Don’t worry so much about pleasing me, for God’s sake. Just be you.”

He squeezes your shoulder again and your nervous grin is replaced with a pleased smile he’s never seen before. “Okay,” you say brightly. “I’ll try.”

And finally, finally you relax.

You talk more, you laugh more, you join in on conversations. He even finds himself missing you when you’re not around.

This is going to very quickly become a fucking problem.

His favorite thing, he thinks, is your lack of patience for him. Sometimes, you’re almost mean.

And don’t ask him why it makes him hard. It just does.

“You always keep those in?” He asks as you help him pack, referring to the wireless earbuds you’ve worn every day since you started about a month a half ago.

“Yep. Why?” You ask, looking up from folding his clothes.“You have a nail appointment in like twenty minutes, by the way, so put some pants on.”

He looks down at the chenille robe that’s come undone and gives you a sheepish grin. “Sorry,” he says.

You just shrug, having gotten more than used to his resistance of wearing real clothing in his own home. Or anywhere, really, but he’s been very careful not to accidentally flash you.

Dieter doesn’t miss the way your eyes dart over his bare torso, though.

Maybe you’re not that unimpressed with him.

“That bluetooth shit’s terrible for you,” he says. “It’ll scramble your fucking brain.” You stop what you’re doing and turn your entire body toward him, lip curled as you assess him.

“What makes you say that?” You ask, and he…doesn’t know, really. That’s just what he’s heard. It’s just what everyone’s told him—the EMF waves, or whatever.

“The, um, EMF waves?” He says, and your expression doesn’t change.

“The EMF waves.”

“Yeah, you know, the brain-scrambling waves. The radiation.”

“That is the stupidest thing I’ve heard in a long time,” you tell him after a pause, going back to folding.

This might be the meanest you’ve been to him, and he’s torn between amused and a little hurt. As he flounders, searching for a comeback, you stop folding again.

“Um, I’m sorry,” you say, setting his favorite t-shirt into his designer luggage. “That was harsh. Filter’s not working too well today.”

“But you do think I’m stupid?” He asks, needling at you just a little until he sees the way you’re twisting your fingers and shifting back and forth on both feet.

“No! No, I meant—well, okay, I meant what you said was not correct and I should have just shut up. So I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay,” he says. “I am stupid sometimes.”

“No!” You look positively distressed. It’s the pen incident all over again. “It’s just—do you know what non-ionizing radiation is?”

“I mean…no.”

“You know how there’s, like, wi-fi and a microwave in the house and you use your cell phone all the time?”

“Yeah, but—”

“There are two types of radiation, right? So what you’re thinking of is ionizing radiation, which is produced by nuclear power and all that shit. Very bad for you, should be handled with extreme caution by professionals only. Non-ionizing radiation is in, like, everything. Electricity, bluetooth, wi-fi, UV rays, it’s in everything.”

“Uh huh,” he says.

“So there’s a difference, right?”

“What’s the exact difference?” He asks, finding himself genuinely curious. 

Maybe he should have checked.

“I don’t know, dude, I’m not a scientist. All I know is that if I keep my little bluetooth earbuds in, I don’t get nearly as overwhelmed about life, and it probably won’t give me cancer any faster than the microplastics we’re all swallowing on a daily basis. But I’m sorry I said it was stupid.”

He shakes his head. “No problem,” he says. “You’re smart.”

You shake your head, too, running your fingers over the velvet. “Not that smart.”

You’re close enough to him on the couch that if he wanted to, he could lean over and kiss you. Lucky for both of you, he’s past running off perfectly good assistants by thinking with his cock.  

“Put some pants on,” you say again. “Before Christina gets here and yells at you.”

“Yes ma’am,” he says.

Forget anything about a budding crush. This crush is in full bloom.

All those pretty petals fell off during a panic attack of how absolutely fucked you are if you didn’t get it under control fast, too, and you’d walked yourself through it, assured yourself you’d get past it, there was no problem here, it would be okay, and by the next morning? Crush crushed.

And then that asshole had the audacity to smile and say good morning and all those petals of desire bloomed even larger.   

Where was the cool, aloof movie star you’d been promised?

It would’ve been one thing if he just ignored your existence—you could’ve just resented him like you would anyone else you worked for—but no. He’s hellbent on being adorable. And maybe even being your friend.  

He’s not quite as needy as Christina’d made him out to be, either. He just really, really needs that firm hand Christina doesn’t actually have.

You have it, though. And you have no problem using it.

Lately, Dieter’s been busy shooting some romcom twelve hours a day. You’d expected more afterparties, more poolside noise, more hedonism-prepared yourself for it, actually. He’s only thrown a few ragers here and there, most of which last into the next day, and you’ve offered to call a car for more than a few barely-dressed people trying to sneak their way out of Dieter’s bedroom.

You always refrain from asking if they had a good time, but you never refrain from asking Dieter the same question when he stumbles down the stairs in one of those robes you’re so envious of. He always gives you a cheeky smirk, and you roll your eyes, and it’s cute and flirty and you have to scream into a pillow when he goes back upstairs.

But now filming’s done and he’s had a few weeks off, and after he spent a week in New York visiting a friend, he’s home a lot.

Like, a lot.

Doing yoga in his very tiny boxer briefs, watching movies in his very tiny boxer briefs, even arguing with his agent or his manager or his PR rep in very. Tiny. Boxer briefs.

He’s been doing a lot of arguing lately. You try not to eavesdrop, but it’s not your fault his voice echoes in this cavernous first floor.

“Where’s all my food?” He demands after he stomps down the stairs to find a squeaky clean refrigerator.

“Christina threw it all out because it all went bad because you never eat here,” you tell him. “She’s getting groceries now.”

“But I’m hungry,” he whines, and you loathe how endearing you find it.

“So order something,” you say.

He’s in front of you so quickly you almost topple off your seat. “Can you do it?”

“What do you mean? You don’t know how to use DoorDash?”

“I’m bad at it,” he says, and you don’t bother to hide your incredulity.

“You can’t be bad at DoorDash,” you argue, rolling your eyes.

“Please?”

You sigh at his big brown eyes and his trembling bottom lip that you want to swipe your thumb across. “Fine. But I’m getting something,” you say.

“Of course, babe.”

“I don’t love that nickname, Mr. Bravo,” you say, and he scowls at your continued insistence on formality, but boundaries like that are the only thing keeping you sane right now.

“Sorry, sorry. Sweetheart?” He asks earnestly, and you can’t find it in yourself to be annoyed.

“Sweetheart’s better than babe, I guess,” you sigh. “What do you want to eat?”

“Eggslut,” he says, and you burst into laughter.

“Do you really want that or did you just want to say the name?”

“Have you had Eggslut?” He asks as you shoot a text to Christina asking if she wants anything. She does not, thank you very much, but she will be back in about an hour. “Because if you had you would know it’s not a joke. I want the Fairfax sandwich, please.”

Why does the “please” make you shiver?

It takes a few minutes, but you find a sandwich that isn’t a textural nightmare and add it to the little cart right below Dieter’s monstrous pile of caramelized onions and scrambled eggs sandwiched in a buttery looking bun.

“It’ll be here in an hour,” you tell him.

“I’m gonna starve, sweetheart,” he exclaims with a dramatic fall to the shimmering black floor, flinging his arm over his face. His robe flops open, but he doesn’t seem to notice. You peer down at him, shamelessly taking the opportunity to run your eyes over his broad, bare torso.

“Might freeze to death, too,” you observe dryly and he chuckles, looking down at his hard nipples.

“Maybe. Ugh, there’s gotta be something to eat around here,” he whines as he gets to his feet. You turn back to your task, and he leaves you in peace to rifle through his cabinets.

Eventually, he finds a bag of Skittles and pours them into a bowl, which is very weird, but he’s a weird famous guy, so you just let him do his weird famous guy thing without comment.

“I don’t like the red ones,” he says, apparently to you. “Can you pick them out?”

He cannot be serious.

“No,” you say.

“Why not?” He demands.  

“Mr. Bravo, I want you to tell me that you, a forty-seven-year-old man, cannot pick out the red Skittles. That you not only need me to order your food, you also need me to pick the red Skittles out of your bowl.”

“Well—I mean, what are you even doing right now?” He asks, and he seems to realize it’s a mistake as your nostrils flare out and you spin in your chair to glare at him.

“I’m filling out your health insurance renewal forms. Do you like having health insurance?” You ask.

“Yes,” he says, still holding his little bowl in his ridiculously large hands.

“So you either pick out the Skittles yourself, or you finish the forms. Which one?”

“You’re mean sometimes,” he says, but there’s no real conviction behind it. You shrug—you are a little mean sometimes.

“And you’re a big baby sometimes,” you say, but he doesn’t pout. He grins at you instead, scooting close enough that you can smell yesterday’s cologne and the weed he smoked before he got out of bed.

“What’s the health insurance stuff?” He asks as he starts to pick out the red Skittles. You eat them one by one as you explain how HSAs work.

By the time the food arrives you realize you’re having fun. You move from the kitchen to the living room after he begs you to watch a movie with him, ignoring your sly suggestion of Hunger Strike.

“Well, what movie are we watching then if we can’t watch anything you’ve been in. Star Wars?”

“What’s your favorite movie?” He asks.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”  

You don’t like answering these types of questions—you’re always worried that you’ll give the wrong answer. Which, okay, it’s not a test, it’s an opinion, but sometimes when something means too much to you and the other person hates it, it feels like a judgment on you. And you are so very aware that for the most part that’s simply not true, but you can’t help the way your brain works.

“I do!” He says.

You think about lying, but you don’t think he’s lied to you even once. And you really, really don’t want to lie to him.

“Okay, but you’re gonna make fun of me.”

“Am not.”

“It’s Moulin Rouge,” you say, and you wait for him to laugh or ask “really?”

But he does neither.

“Cool. You know, Ewan and I used to party a lot together,” he says, scratching his beard. “Mine’s Back to the Future III.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmhmm,” he says, dumping hot sauce all over the scrambled eggs and sucking the excess off of his thumb.

“I’ve never seen any of them,” you tell him and he turns to you, squinting.

“What? We gotta watch them,” he says.

“I don’t think Christina—”

“I’ll handle Christina,” Dieter says confidently. “I need your assistance in watching these, okay, I don’t like watching movies alone.”

You sigh. “And if I say I don’t want to?”

He gives you the biggest, roundest eyes and sticks his lip out, pouting in a way that should be absolutely unbecoming for a man his age. And damn him, it works. “Please?”

He wins, eventually, because of course he does, wiggling with excitement. “Not now, though,” he says. “Gotta make a night of it.”

“A night of it?”

“I mean, yeah. I’m not watching all of them on a shitty little TV,” he says, gesturing to the eighty-five inch flatscreen hanging on the living room wall.

“We might have different definitions of shitty,” you say.

He shrugs and brings the sandwich to his mouth, and there is no reason for you to watch him do this, but he’s just so…interesting.

That’s what you tell yourself, anyway.

Everything he does is a little sensual, somehow, like he really wants to enjoy every single experience as much as he can. Even biting into a sandwich, he closes his eyes and moans softly at the taste, and it probably shouldn’t be sexy. People moan at how good food tastes all the time.

You don’t—not in front of people, at least, because you have been far too aware of your every move for the last thirty years of your life, but some people do.

The tendons of his neck flex as he chews, eyes rolling back, his lips shiny with butter and grease, and you try not to think of him looking exactly like that between your legs.

Jesus Christ, when’s the last time you got laid?

You shake your head and busy yourself with your own sandwich and try to eat as normally as possible, only peeking a little to watch him suck all the grease off his fingers.

About halfway through your meal, Christina comes in with the groceries, and you leave your half-finished sandwich on the table to help put them up, happy for an excuse to stop ogling a man who’s just trying to eat.

“I got your green juice, Dee,” she calls, and he waves a hand in acknowledgment. “What’s he doing down here?”

“No idea. He’s been chatty this morning. Wanted me to take the red Skittles out for him.”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you about that. He doesn’t like the red dye.”

“Figures. I mean, I didn’t do it. I told him he was a grown man and could figure it out.”

“What?” Christina asks, dropping a bag and giving you an incredulous glare as your smile falters. “Babe, I know you’re still getting used to everything, but if he tells you to do something, do it.”

“Oh, um, he seemed fine? I was filling out his health insurance forms and wanted to get them done. And I ordered his food. I didn’t think it was a big deal,” you explain, your eyes flicking over to him as he finishes the last of his food.

“Okay, well, he’s probably just being polite because you’re new, but I’m telling you not to do that again, all right? Whatever he wants, you give him. That’s the deal.”

 She doesn’t sound angry, exactly, but you want to curl in on yourself and crawl into a hole until this mortification passes. Your cheeks go hot, your throat closing up with embarrassment at being scolded.

“Yes, absolutely. Sorry about that,” you say, clearing your throat. “Won’t happen again.”

“What won’t happen again?” Dieter asks, choosing that exact moment to set his trash on the counter. Rather than telling him to throw it away, you grab it, eager to give yourself something else to do.

“Nothing, Mr. Bravo, just some paperwork stuff,” you lie, humiliated at the thought of having misread the relationship.

He frowns as you bolt past him, to pick up your half-eaten sandwich and throw it in the trash. “Thanks for lunch—uh, breakfast, sir,” you stutter. “I’ll just go get the rest of this done.”

You’re acting so weird—you know it, they both know it, and you cringe when he asks to talk to Christina as you leave through the back door with the trash bag in hand. For the rest of the day you replay the whole thing in your head from start to finish, trying to figure out why you’d felt so comfortable talking to him like that.

Later that night, all you can do is go over every interaction you’ve had with him over the last few weeks.

He would’ve told you, right?

Like with the pen? When he didn’t like the pen, he told you. But then you’d been so weird about the pen, and maybe he didn’t want to upset you again.

Sometimes you wish you could just explain yourself.

“Sorry I’m such a freak, I thought we were friends because I’m bad at judging how close I actually am to people. I forgot this was a work thing and we’re not really friends, you’re just being nice. I forgot people are just nice sometimes to get through the day. Also, I think I’m a little in love with you. It’s bad, man.”

You chuckle to yourself as you imagine what face Dieter might make. Your contract would definitely be terminated, and you’d probably be one of those stories famous people tell when they go on talk shows.

So you’ll say nothing. You’ll fish out that proverbial mask and put it back on because the last thing you want is your actual personality ruining everything. You’ll do what Christina said, give him whatever he wants, and try not to fool yourself into thinking you’re anything other than a boredom-killer for him.

He’s not your friend.

He’s not.

Dieter still doesn’t know what happened between you and Christina. He usually appreciates her assuring him that everything is fine and if it’s not fine, she’ll make it fine, but you haven’t really been the same since.

And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t asked.

“If it’s about the food, I didn’t mind getting her something to eat,” he’d said, but Christina just told him not to worry about it.

“She’s just a little odd,” Christina’d told him. “But she’s doing a good job otherwise, you know, she’s just bad with social situations sometimes.”

Dieter hadn’t understood what she meant—you hadn’t done anything wrong.

And you’re completely different now.

You don’t listen to music anymore or correct him when he’s wrong about something, and he’s checked. He’s been wrong on purpose at least four times now, and you just nod and say, “Oh, how interesting.” 

And maybe worst of all, you do everything he asks of you. Every single thing. To his shame, as little of it as he has, he takes advantage of this because it’s the only time you’ll get close to him. Lucky for him, you can tie a tie. He can also tie a tie, but you don’t need to know that.

He steps out from his room and calls your name. “Can you come help me?” He asks.

“Be right there,” you chirp.

“Can you tie my tie?” He asks, holding it in front of him with a doleful pout. He has a brand appearance tonight, some overpriced cologne deal that’ll pay Christina’s salary for the next few years, and a tie, for some reason, is required.

“Of course, Mr. Bravo,” you murmur, stepping softly into his bedroom. He can feel your nerves rolling off of you.

“Thanks for the help,” he says, standing in front of the mirror. “I never have been able to get the hang of it.”

“No problem. I went through this phase in middle school where I wore ties and tank tops and big baggy cargo shorts,” you say, and his breath hitches at your little confession.

“That’s fucking cute,” he says.

“Mmhmm,” you say, a smile playing on your lips. You seem calmer up here, away from Christina’s watchful eyes. “I was very cool.”

“Bet you listened to a lot of stuff on vinyl,” he teases.

“Who says I don’t still? I like the scratchy noise it makes,” you offer, looping the tie around his neck and standing so close he could wrap his arms around you and bury his nose in your hair.

“Very, uh, what’s that movie—the one Zooey’s in,” he says.

“Five Hundred Days of Summer? God, I forget you know all these people I just watch on TV,” you giggle.

“Yeah,” he says. “That one.”

“I like that movie,” you say, a dreamy look on you face. “I like that it turns the whole manic pixie dream girl thing on its head.”

“You’re a little manic pixie, you know,” he says.

“Yeah,” you say quietly, finishing the knot. “I know.”

“That’s what I’ll call you,” he says. “You don’t like babe or sweetheart, right? I’ll call you Pix.”

You cock your head at him. “I don’t hate that,” you say. “But you could just call me my name.”

“Nah,” he says. “Then you’d just be like everyone else I know, Pix.”

Christina yells from downstairs that their ride is there, and he smiles regretfully.

“Thanks for the help,” he says. “You’re doing great, you know. With all this.”

“Thanks, Mr. Bravo,” you murmur.

“You can call me Dieter, you know,” he says.

“Sure,” you say. “You’re late. Go.”

And he does, just because you told him to.

next

dividers and support banner by @saradika-graphics

#giggling #kicking my feet #my adhd ass weird girl ass is eating this UP

[bonkhrnyjail]

sweet plum | chapter five

series masterlist | pinterest board | spotify playlist

pairing: pedro pascal x fem!reader (plus size)

rating: mature (will become explicit in the future)

warnings: n/a in this chapter

summary: pedro needs your help in a pinch

a/n: thank u all again for the support on this story <3 AND ONCE AGAIN FUCK STARBUCKS i wrote this last year and it's ended up being a thread throughout the story but i'm planning on keeping it out of future chapters. i also made a cutie little pinterest board that follows the plot of the story and shows outfit visuals and stuff and a spotify playlist for vibes!!! they are linked if you wanna check them out. xoxoxo<3

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It’s been almost two months since you’ve seen Pedro.

Not without phone calls, of course. You talk, probably once a week minimum, ever since you met up for burgers that one time. He calls you for advice a lot, and it’s often for things that he probably doesn’t really need advice for. One time he called you to ask if he should get chicken or steak tacos. It was three in the morning.

You started working on a new show that films in town. Your clients are nice, friendly enough, but too self-centered and addicted to social media to pay you any mind. So you just work, chat with the crew, read, and try to fill the time. Most days you’re home by 6pm. Some days your roommate convinces you to go out dancing with her, some days you meet up with friends for dinner or drinks, but most nights you spend at home alone.

Pedro always seems to call at the most inopportune times. Half the time you’re sleeping, which has allowed you to perfect the skill of sounding very alert on the phone, even through your drowsiness. Work has you up at seven, so you aren’t exactly the night owl that you used to be, but Pedro sure as shit still is. And though you’ve shown up to work mid-yawn after many interrupted nights of sleep, you don’t mind. You’re just glad he thinks of you.

Because you think of him. A lot.

You’re curled up now, in the corner of your bed, a white fluffy robe draping across your curves. A mound of pillows and stuffed animals cradles you as you lazily scroll through an endless feed of Instagram stories. You eventually encounter Pedro's story, a repost of an old picture from his Javier Peña days.

Once you start thinking about Pedro it’s hard to stop. Your mind will wander and wind until you've fully immersed yourself in a daydream, completely out of touch with the reality attempting to claw its way back into your conscience.

Your eyelids flutter shut as you let a fantasy drown you. Pedro, in your chair, reaching his hand up to cradle your waist as you work to perfect the few strands of hair that are disobeying you. You gasp at his touch, your body erupting with chills as he snakes his strong, thick hands underneath your shirt and up your back. Your knees begin to buckle as you lean into him, a soft and needy whimper escaping your lips. He guides you with his palms to sit on his lap, facing away from him and towards the mirror showcasing your illuminated figure. 

Neither of you speak as Pedro caresses you beneath your shirt, his callused hands setting fire to the soft skin there. He runs a thumb over your nipple, sending a searing sensation through you, and you bite down hard on your lower lip, your legs instinctively spreading to welcome his touch there. Your heavy breaths gain pitch as he gently twists and pinches at your nipples, your head falling back and your chest hitching with shallow, needy moans. He raises your shirt and removes it with ease, tossing it to the floor and returning his touch to your desperate skin. You feel him slowly start to unbutton your jeans as his other hand gathers your hair and drapes it over one shoulder, exposing the right side of your neck. He tips your head to the side and lowers his mouth to the spot beneath your ear, as his fingers slip past the hem of your panties and works their way toward your—

bzzz bzzz…. bzzz bzzz…..

You yank your hand out of your pants as your eyes shoot open. 

Incoming call: P

“Shit,” you mutter, trying to regain some composure before you answer the phone. Of course he calls you right fucking now. A dry lump of shame forms in your throat as you slide the little green icon to the right.

“H-Hey P,” you manage, still halfway out of breath from how startled you were. 

“Plum! Hey! I’m so glad you picked up!” He exclaims, slightly winded on his delivery. “How are you?”

“I'm, uh, good! Yeah, good. How are you?” you say hesitantly, your mind reeling with nonstop guilt.

“Well, I need your help.”

He goes on to explain the situation. A photoshoot and interview, in Anaheim, tomorrow. His regular groomer, stuck at home with a sick kid. He’d pay double, he’d drive you to and from, etcetera.

"Hey, of course, I'd be happy to. I don’t have to be back to work ‘til Monday anyways. Don’t even worry about paying double,” you insist.

Aside from the obvious benefit of seeing him again, you could use the extra cash. Plus, you know his hair like the back of your hand. It’s easy money.

“Are you sure? I know it’s the weekend and all, I don’t want to steal you away from the LA nightlife,” he chuckles.

“P, my plans this weekend involved a bottle of red and a chick flick binge. I promise LA won’t even notice I’m gone,” you giggle.

“You. Are. A. Lifesaver. Seriously, I thought I was going to have to do my own hair,” he jokes, the phone line crackling as his laughter booms through the tiny speaker.

“Oh, we absolutely can’t have that now, can we?” you tease.

“Fuck offfff,” he jests. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow at 8.” 

.   .   .   .   .

Criss-cross on the stoop outside your apartment building, you wait sleepily for Pedro to arrive, two sweet plums in hand. You have your kit, stocked up with Pedro’s favorite scented hair products, and a few different pairs of shears. You’re giving the man a haircut if it’s the last thing you do today. You're absolutely certain he needs it.

Various items rustle about in your tote as you dig to find your book. You've decided to reread Pride and Prejudice, one of your favorites. You can’t even count how many times you’ve read it now, let alone watched the various movie renditions.

The 2005 version with Kiera Knightley reigns supreme as your favorite. It’s the definition of a comfort story for you, getting you through many a sleepless night and emotional breakdown. Your only qualm with the book is that it does not include your favorite moment from the movie, a fact you know is utterly ridiculous since the book is quite literally the source material.

The scene where Mr. Darcy appears, his flowing linen shirt halfway unbuttoned as he strides towards a pensive Elizabeth, who has finally realized that her feelings for Darcy have turned to those of love. Darcy speaks, overcome with adoration as he says: “You have bewitched me, body and soul and I love, I love, I love you.”

Just replaying the scene in your mind makes your toes curl.

Your train of thought is abruptly interrupted as a black sedan pulls in front of you. You lift your gaze to find a beaming Pedro, his head halfway out of the window, shaking and taunting you with a venti Starbucks cup.

“Look what I haaave,” he sings, his eyebrows wiggling up and down.

“Ah, the perfect bait,” you joke as you gather your things and load them into the back of his car. You skip around to the passenger’s side of the car and open the door to find a chocolate muffin and a bouquet of flowers placed on the seat.

You shoot him a puzzled expression.

“A thank you. The least that I can do on such short notice,” he flashes his smile as you pick up the flowers to examine them. The bouquet consisted primarily of daisies, your favorite flower.

“How... how did you know I like daisies?” you question.

“I saw you one day, out by the lot, picking some daisies that were growing along the road. You had tied them into a little bouquet and brought them back into the trailer,” he chuckled softly. “Anyways, I bought a vase too so we can put them in water later.”

You remember. Honestly, you didn’t think he noticed them, which didn’t bother you by any means. You'd put them in there for your own benefit, a little splash of something in his agonizingly plain trailer. You’d put the flowers in a mug, the only thing you could find in the little kitchenette he had. They sat on the counter where you’d place your things every morning, and, in a way, sort of “claimed” your territory in the space. Pedro never said anything about them, which you just chalked up to him and his limited attention span.

“That’s… so sweet,” you smile, a pink heat creeping across your cheeks as you take a seat beside him. His thoughtfulness never fails to surprise you. “Thank you, gosh, you really didn’t have to do all this.”

“I really did,” he leans over and gives you a cramped hug from the side, squeezing your shoulder and leaning his head of unkempt curls into your cheek. “Now, can you pick the music? You have better playlists than I do.”

“Oh ho ho, so you finally admit it!” you shout, snatching the aux cord from his hands with a devilish grin. 

“You just need to put more Prince on them. They’re seriously lacking in the Prince department,” he rebuts as he takes a massive gulp of his iced espresso.

“Listen, I love Prince as much as the next guy, but not every playlist has Prince energy. I gotta keep the vibes consistent,” you explain as you take a bite of muffin, your hands cupped awkwardly to catch any crumbs that fall from the wrapper.

Pedro quickly reaches into the compartment between you and pulls out a napkin, holding it right underneath your chin as you chew on your first bite. 

“You have a little…” his eyes dip to the left corner of your lips. “May I?”

You nod slightly as you watch his gaze, sparkling with a chestnut hue in the glow of the daylight. He gently uses his thumb to brush your lip with the napkin, catching whatever missed your mouth. He proceeds slowly, his stare focused and his touch intentional. You feel that familiar flush prickle your face as your eyes meet and he softly bites down on his lower lip.

“I got it,” he hands you the napkin as he starts on the road. “Don’t worry if you get crumbs on the floor. I snack in here all the time.”

You settle back into the chair, hopeful that your makeup is doing some heavy lifting to hide the heat you're certain is speckling your cheeks. In your haze you choose a playlist, one you made specifically for road trips, and scatter some Prince songs amongst the queue. You relax your shoulders and gaze beyond the dashboard as Pedro hums and drives you out of the city.

.   .   .   .   .

Pedro supplied you with a solid earful of his subpar vocals on the drive over. You sang along too, not really with your real voice, but more of a comical, singing at the top of your lungs with your friends kind of voice. The traffic wasn’t nearly as bad as you thought it would be, but it still took about an hour and a half to get to the location of the shoot.

Pedro walked with you to the sign-in desk and waited for you to get your badge, even with the dozens of employees trying to show him the way to his dressing room. He smiled as you draped the lanyard with your name around your neck and linked your arm with his as he led the way. 

Your hands are raking through his hair, covered in a light pomade to bring out his natural wavy-curl texture. He always hums a bit when you work products in, so you take a little extra time to give his scalp a massage. His shoulders relax at the sudden pressure and his head falls back into you, resting gently on your stomach.

“You know that’s my favorite... mmmh,” he closes his eyes as your hands travel down to the base of his skull and you start kneading with your thumbs. “I've missed that.”

“I could so easily… just…” you snake your hands down and gently wrap them around his throat. 

“Hey!” his spine shoots up straight as he yanks your hands from his neck. “Taking advantage of me at my most vulnerable… not very nice.”

“You've gotta to be more alert!” you joke as you go back to finger-curling his more defined ringlets. “Some crazed fan could seduce you with scalp massages and then try to crush your skull.

“Well I don’t let anyone else give me scalp massages, you know,” he looks up at you, tilting his head back, his gentle curls falling from his forehead.

“Oh, so you’ve been deprived these past few months, huh?” you tease, returning your hands to his scalp and deepening your pressure.

“Mmmmmhmmmmmm…” he hums.

“Well, just so you know, I don’t give scalp massages to any of my other clients,” you speak, slightly under your breath. “So, whenever you want one, all you have to do is ask.”

His eyes soften slightly at the statement and a small smile tugs at the corners of his lips. You can’t help but let a stifled grin spread across your face as well.

An easy and comfortable silence falls over you as you finish up styling his hair. The brief asked for bouncy, voluminous curls with a windswept look, and you’re curious to see what the wardrobe looks like to match. You cross your fingers, hopeful they'll let you go back with him.

Much of the time you've spent with Pedro has caused you to often completely forget that he’s famous. You’ve never really been out with him during the day, nor have you gone to any super crowded places together. The only time you've been reminded of his fame was when you went to that little diner on the outskirts of LA. But even then, it didn’t feel like he was famous exactly. It felt more like he was a regular, a familiar face, a friend.

Now this is the first time you’ve been in an environment like this with him. There’s a swarming hoard of interns popping in and out of the already cramped room every few minutes, offering various snacks and drinks and bringing handfuls of clothing to drape over the empty hangers. One of them even showed Pedro his Mandalorian tattoo.

Of course, Pedro is a fucking sweetheart to anyone who crosses his path. Flurries of his “yes please!” and “thank you so much!” flood the room as more and more people bob in and out, ready to wait on him hand and foot. You feel a bit goofy, standing awkwardly off to the side as people dart around, like you should be helping. It’s what you’re used to, after all.

After a few minutes, Pedro walks toward the door as he's called out of the room. You start to make yourself cozy on the loveseat until you hear the low bark of a clearing throat.

“Are you not coming?” Pedro turns to you with a quizzical brow. 

“I… I can?” you stumble on your words as you shove your book back into your bag and get back on your feet.

“Come. What if my curls drop?” 

“Not on my watch," you wink, gathering your things and following close behind him.

.   .   .   .   .

You manage to locate a fold out chair —wide enough to accommodate your hips and ass— and find a spot, somewhat tucked away but still in Pedro’s sightline. You pull your phone out and immediately send a picture of him to Bella, catching him just as he makes eye contact with your camera. You burst out laughing, garnering a few head turns and a middle finger from Pedro. 

Bella’s name pops up on your screen. Incoming FaceTime. You answer.

“Hi! Hold on, lemme sneak out of here,” you whisper as you speed-walk out of the room, ducking your head slightly so as not to garner any attention.

Once you escape into a hallway, you exchange equally joyous greetings, gushing with excitement to see each other.

“I miss you!” Bella exclaims. “You're with P today?”

You find a corner to sit, tucked away from the hustling bodies in the hallways surrounding the studio.

“He needed a last minute hairdresser for a shoot and I just happened to be around,” you explain, your voice slightly above a hush. “I miss you sooo much! How are things?”

Bella updates you on the important bits. Work, family, dramas, a new possible romantic prospect, they wiz through it all. You listen intently, wildly entertained and extraordinarily grateful to get to witness the musings of a British teenager.

“Anyways, I don’t know what’s gonna happen with her. I don’t think I can be with a girl who isn’t out to her own mum,” they conclude after an animated recounting. “Too… messy.”

“Agreed,” you nod. “You’ve got too much goin’ on for messy.”

“Sooo… what about you?” they question in that sing-songy, teasing tone that they frequent in your presence.

“What about me?”

“Any… romantic developments?”

Your eyes do near 360 into the back of your skull.

“Bellie, you know I don’t really date.”

“When was the last time you saw Pedro? Other than today.”

“Uh… maybe two months ago? Why?”

You hear them mumble something unintelligible under their breath, only catching the last word, “Idiot.”

You crank the volume on your phone, trying to make out what they’re saying.

“What? Who’s an idiot?”

“He doesn’t... listen… nevermind,” they cut themself off. 

“Who? Pedro?” you blurt, somewhat fervently.

“You’ve really perked up,” they tease.

“Can we use more words, instead of being purposefully elusive and mumbling?” you quip, half-teasing but with an air of genuine frustration.

Bella starts giggling as they attempt to get their words out.

“I… I know. I. know you like him."

Your jaw goes slack, your mouth falling open in surprise.

"Your face!" they cackled.

You don’t have to see yourself to know that you’re certainly a sight to behold. Your cheeks are burning up. The air is grazing past your widened eyeballs, drying them out as your lips curl inwards. Bella’s laugh is bellowing and crackling through your headphones.

“Bella! Does he know?” you whisper, the fire in your cheeks beginning to become unbearable.

“I… I don’t know! I think so? Man, I wanted to just let this run its course, but I’ve known that you guys have feelings for each other for sooo long now. It’s been seriously painful to watch.”

Your stomach somersaults as the heat spreads to your ears.

“Did… did he tell you that?”

“I can’t believe you guys are the adults in this situation,” they mutter through their stifled chuckles. “I mean, he didn’t outright tell me, but he didn’t have to.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Listen, no grown man asks for advice on how to ask his hairdresser to hang out.” they say quite matter-of-factly. "Even my gay ass knows that."

You chuckle briefly in response, until a moment of understanding silence hangs between you. You realize you have no rebuttal to the statement. They really aren't wrong.

“Well I can’t… do anything about this, right? He’s… Bella, he’s Pedro fucking Pascal for christ’s sake.”

“And? He’s still just P. And you’re still you. Fame might make things complicated, but then again, romance is always complicated. Life is complicated. But the journey is where you find the joy.”

Wise ass kid.

You go silent for a moment, the belligerent swarm of contradictory thoughts and feelings buzzing around in your head getting louder and stronger by the second.

You almost don’t want to believe it. Once you allow yourself to step into that territory, you know you won't be able to reel it back. It would change things, permanently, whether you want it to or not. 

“You’re right,” you admit, your expression softening into something more akin to defeat. “I just... I need to think about it for a little longer."

You say your goodbyes and end the call, feeling slightly breathless and a tiny bit dizzy from the gravity of it all. It’s stupid, yes, because no matter what lies you've told yourself, you know there is something more between you and Pedro. There’s been far too many moments, too many palpable signs to ignore. Actually admitting that to yourself and allowing your brain process it as a fact is something else entirely; something that simultaneously thrills and terrifies you.

It takes you a few minutes to settle yourself and muster the strength to stand up and walk back to the studio. Nothing has to change, you tell yourself.

Nothing has to change.

You re-enter and spot Pedro, mid-smoulder, working the hell out of the color block sweater they chose for him. It’s enough to garner a small chuckle from you as you make your way back to your seat.

You make yourself cozy in your folding chair and pull out your book, attempting to lose yourself in the pages to distract from the butterflies ravaging your stomach. It doesn't take long for the power of Jane Austen to transfix your attention once again.

“Is there something over there? You keep looking to your right,” you overhear the photographer saying to Pedro. You look up and immediately lock eyes with Pedro. He lets a gentle smile paint his face as he turns his attention back to the camera.

This is going to be harder than you thought. 

The group breaks for lunch about 30 minutes later, but you’re too immersed in your book to actually notice. You only snap fully back into reality when you feel a wide hand gently graze your shoulder.

“Pride and Prejudice, eh?” Pedro peers over your head. “Is this your first time reading it?”

“Oh god no. I’ve lost count at this point,” you admit. "It's probably my favorite book."

“Good girl,” he gives you a gentle pat. “I knew you had good taste.”

… Much harder than you thought.

.   .   .   .   .

The remainder of the day flew by. You ended up taking a little snooze on the loveseat in the dressing room while Pedro went to interview (not entirely on purpose, but it did help the time pass nonetheless). You and Pedro said your goodbyes to the team, and the creative director liked you so much that he even asked for your card for future projects. Score.

The traffic you’re currently sitting in is horrendous. You’ve been in stop and go for nearly 30 minutes now and the GPS estimates another 30 until you make it out of the majority of the congested zone. Fleetwood Mac lilts from the speakers on the dash as you and Pedro jabber on about whatever comes to your minds. You just pray he isn’t picking up on the incessant nervousness you’re swallowing between each sentence. 

“So what’s your favorite flower then?” you blurt, changing the subject almost entirely. “You know mine, only fair I know yours.”

“I don’t know if I have a favorite, per se, but I like purple flowers,” 

“Oh, come on, that’s cheating,” you nudge his forearm that rests on the console between you. “There’s gotta be one you really like. This is, like, vital information. How else am I gonna know what to get you when you win your first Emmy?”

“Ha!" he bellows. "Well, in that case, I’d love a bouquet of daisies. They’ll remind me of you.”

He places his hand softly over yours, his fingers falling effortlessly into the gaps between your knuckles. You inhale with surprise, your chest noticeably hitching as you draw the breath in. A tightness surges in your chest, hot and asphyxiating as his thumb traces a little circle on the back of your hand.

You can’t bring yourself to remove your gaze from your lap, but you return his touch with a gentle squeeze, a reciprocation to the best of your ability. You wait anxiously, fully expecting him to unweave his fingers from yours, but he doesn’t. The muscles in his sturdy, flexing hands soften into a state of rest and settle atop yours.

This is the kind of thing Bella was talking about.

You’ve worked so hard to convince yourself that the little moments like this mean nothing, that Pedro is just a highly affectionate person or that he speaks to his other friends this very same way. Of course you’ve held hands with friends, but never with such tenderness and intention as the way he’s touching you. Your skin never felt like it had been lit ablaze, not in the way that it does at this very moment, with any friend you’ve ever known. With anyone you’ve ever known, if you're being honest with yourself.

Curiosity and apprehension rage like a wildfire in your mind, though ultimately your desire to know what he’s thinking breaks through the clouds of smoke. You turn your head to face him and are met with his profile, the sunset kissing the outline of his skin and illuminating him divinely. Your most favorite parts of his visage are displayed like a wonder of the universe, as his dimple slowly appears and his eyes wander to meet yours.

And then he smiles, teeth and all, and you want nothing more than to lunge out of your seat and kiss him.

But you don't.

You sit there, lips parted and breaths heavy as you turn your gaze back to the road. Frozen, as he unwraps his fingers from yours. Silent, as he turns up the volume of the music. You curl your hand into a fist at the loss of his touch.

Unable to withstand another moment of tension, you offer to show Pedro a podcast you think he'll enjoy. He obliges, and you listen the rest of the way home. You laugh, add little comments here and there, argue for a brief moment about the pronunciation of an artist’s name, amiably of course. You inch your way back to normal once again.

Once you finally arrive at your apartment complex, it’s almost 7 o’clock. The sun has long since vanished, your street only lit by two warm-yellow street lamps on either side of the main doors to your building.

“Well, this is me,” you turn to him and say, your voice mimicking that of a cringey romance film. 

He laughs, the sound certainly escaping the confines of his car and down the street, as a couple jerk their heads in surprise towards your direction. 

“I’ll walk you to the door,” he offers, unbuckling his seatbelt as you do the same.

“Oh, you really don’t have to do that,” you mutter as you gather your bag and water bottle from the floor.

“I waaant to do that,” he quips, his tone jovial and his head bobbing slightly as he teasingly mocks you.

You roll your eyes with a grin and exit the car as he meets you on the other side. You point to your entrance and start towards it, and suddenly feel his hand softly rest on the small of your back as he follows by your side. 

His touch ignites something inside you, awakening a train of thought that you're incapable of slowing down. You can’t deny it anymore, he is everything you could ever ask for, everything you've ever wanted. And here he is, walking you to your door, making sure you get home safe. 

You arrive at the doorstep and Pedro swiftly pulls you into a tight hug, his hands softly squeezing at your hips as he gently presses his face into your hair. You wrap your arms clumsily around his shoulders and embrace him on your tiptoes, your chin resting perfectly in the crook of his neck as you drown in his intoxicating scent. He presses his body into you and breathes deeply, letting out a little hum with the exhale.

His hands snake across your back and land uncrossed, resting softly on each side of your waist. He pulls away to look at you, and a tender smile crinkles his eyes and tinges his words as he speaks.

“Thank you so much fo—”

His sentence stops short as your hands grasp his face, your body possessed by something buried within you.

And you kiss him.

Hard. With desperation, like you're moments from death and his lips are your saving grace. He lets out a little grunt of confusion as your mouths collide and he grasps at your skin, bunching up the fabric of your skirt with his grip. And right as you feel him start to soften into your touch, his hands pulling you in, his lips melting into yours, you pull away.

“I... I...” you stutter, your eyes blown wide and mouth agape as you scour your brain for a string of coherent words amongst the rubble inside your head. “‘I’m so sorry.”

He inhales, and before he can respond, you interject.

“I-I’m so, so s-sorry,” you fumble as you yank your keys from your purse, frantically trying to scan your key FOB to unlock the door. “God I- I’m so sorry.”

The light on the detector turns green and you scramble to get your hand on the door handle.

“Shit... cmon...”

“Wait, I—” Pedro grabs your free hand.

You swing the door open as you slip through his grip, lunging yourself into the opening and slamming it behind you. You bolt to the elevator, jamming your finger on the button repeatedly until the doors part. You can hear Pedro’s voice, calling your name from down the hallway behind the glass keeping him away from you. You turn as you enter the elevator and see him, his hand flat on the window, a desperate expression as he shouts to you. The doors close and he disappears from your sightline.

Your knees fail you as your back slides down the wall, until you thump gracelessly onto the floor.

“Shit.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

chapter six

#pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal #plus size reader #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #the last of us #pedro pascal x reader #chubby reader #fem reader #slow burn

[bonkhrnyjail]

joel miller loves big girls and you can’t tell me otherwise. pre and post outbreak, that man wants nothing more than a pair of thick thighs wrapped around his face, waist, and everywhere in between. he doesn’t want to just feel your flesh, but to be one with it; to dig his fingers into you and hold on like you’re his life source. he wants to lay his head against a soft thigh and absentmindedly play with your p*ssy after fucking you raw. he loves softness and roundness and curves and wants to devour every inch of you. and he will nibble and will suck every inch of you.

#oh im UP

[bonkhrnyjail]

sugar 'n cream

Joel Miller x f!reader

word count: 2.4k

warnings:

18+ !!! minors dni or i will rip your toenails out and feed them to you smut, messy blowjobs, f!masturbation, tooth-rotting fluff, writing soft!husband!joel has become my brand at this point, pet names (angel, baby, perfect girl), lmk if i missed anything :)

You’ve fallen into a routine of waking up to the smell of brewing coffee every sunday morning.

Today is no different. Your eyelids flutter open gently, the burnt, earthy smell climbing upstairs to your bedroom. 

You linger in it, let yourself sink deeper into the white sheets as the scent envelops you, the familiarity of it feeling like a warm embrace. 

You can’t help but smile. You know he’s downstairs, probably pouring the dark coffee into two separate mugs; one for each of you. He knows exactly how you like your coffee, but he never gets it quite right. 

You love him for that. 

Rubbing the sleep from your eyes with the back of your knuckles, you begin to get up, the sheets rustling and twisting beneath you as you do. The floor tiles are cool against your bare feet, jolting you further awake as you tiptoe downstairs, hand lightly grazing the railing.

He’s there— broad shoulders facing you, muscles moving beneath his shirt as he pours the last drops of coffee into one of two mugs on the counter. You see him eye the sugar, contemplating whether or not to attempt sweetening your drink just how you like it. It makes you smile. 

You decide to help him solve the dilemma, walking towards him. 

He’s so warm. You feel the heat he radiates before you even wrap your arms around his waist, pressing a sweet kiss between his shoulder blades before resting your forehead there. He hums, and the vibration of it sends shivers throughout your whole body, you’re sure you feel him in your bones. 

“Mornin’, Baby,” Joel says softly. You hum in acknowledgement, unmoving from your position against his body, whining in protest when he tries to change positions. He chuckles, gruff and hearty, and you give in, loosening your grip on him. He turns over in your arms as he leans his back against the counter, and you lean your chin on his chest, looking up at him. He’s smiling at you, and it’s so soft and sweet, you’re sure your heart is going to burst out of your chest. 

Joel ducks his head down and kisses you, one big hand coming up to cup your cheek. A content sigh leaves your throat, and you feel him smile against your lips as his thumb softly caresses your cheekbone. 

You miss the warmth of his mouth as soon as you break apart. You grumble, your head nestling against his chest, ear against his thrumming heart. 

“Wanted to wake you up with coffee in bed,” Joel says. “Been workin’ real hard this week, Baby. Thought you could use the extra sleep.” He’s right, of course. He always is. He knows you so well, your Joel, always attentive, listening to your constant rambling and ranting as he holds you close to him on the couch after every long day. He’s so sweet, so good to you. 

You lean up, kissing him once again, this time shorter and sweeter. 

“I love you,” You tell him, because it’s true. He smiles, tugging you a little bit closer to him. 

“Never know how much sugar to put in your coffee, Baby,” Joel tells you. You huff out a laugh, reluctantly pulling yourself away from his body to pull out a milk carton from the fridge. You feel Joel’s gaze on you, burning a hole through your head as you pour the milk into your coffee, the dark brown shade of it softening to a lighter, caramel-like color.  

Before you can reach for the drawer to pull out a spoon for the sugar, Joel’s handing you one. It’s a normal teaspoon, but it looks comically small in his large hand. You take it from him, mumbling a thank you, Baby as you sweeten your coffee. His hand, the one that was handing you a spoon a moment ago, falls to the small of your back, and you revel under his touch. The two of you take a sip of your coffee simultaneously, and you smile into the mug as both of you find the other’s eyes. 

__ __ __

Joel likes his coffee black, black, black. You don’t understand why someone would choose to drink something that tastes like charcoal and burnt shit out of their own free will, but right now, as you kiss him, your tongue against his, you think you might not mind the flavor. 

He’s got you pushed up against the counter, marble digging into your lower back as he trails open-mouthed kisses up and down the column of your throat. His hands rest on either side of your hips, thumbs drawing circles on your waist. You’re breathing him in, holding the back of his head in the palm of your hand as his mouth nips and licks at your throat, kissing every sliver of bare skin his lips can find. Lost in the moment, you let your mind go completely blank with nothing but Joel.

Your man.

Your big, strong, capable man, always so good to you, so selfless. You know for a fact that he’d give you the world— he’s just waiting for you to ask him to. 

Your body moves on instinct, sinking to your knees before you even realize what you’re doing. Worshiping Joel is muscle memory at this point. Your hands travel up and down the outsides of his thighs, the fabric of his jeans rough and dry against the palms of your hands. You had asked him once, who the hell wears Jeans on their day off? He’d just huffed out a laugh and kissed you sweetly, and that was the end of the conversation.

Your fingers work at his belt, shakily unbuckling it, pulling it loop by loop before letting it fall to the floor beside you. Joel is looking down at you, eyes wide and dark and full of love and everything else that’s unsaid. His hand cups your face and you melt into his touch, nuzzling against him like a housecat basking in the warmth of a fireplace. 

“Baby,” Joel says from where he stands above you. His voice rasps around every vowel, lust dripping from it like honey. “Y’don’t gotta do that, c’mere. I’ll make you feel real good, Darlin’. Let me make you feel good.” You smile up at him, at your man, always putting your pleasure before his own. You shake your head softly, unbuttoning his jeans.

“Wanna make you feel good, Joel.” You say as you work the zipper down. His eyes never leave yours. Not as his pants fall around his ankles, or as you plant a kiss on his tan thigh. Not even as you palm his half-hard cock through his boxers, cupping him through the fabric. 

“Always taking such good care of me,” You say as you begin to pull his boxers down, kissing the newly revealed skin of his soft tummy. “Let me return the favor.” You keep tugging his boxers off slowly, pressing your lips softly to every inch of bare skin your greedy mouth can latch onto. You smile to yourself as you feel Joel’s breath hitching, the uneven rise and fall of his stomach against your curled lips. Your own breath catches in your throat as soon as Joel’s boxers fall to his ankles, his cock standing hard and proud before you, a bead of precum on the tip. 

This isn’t anything new. You and Joel have been together for a long time now, finally tying the knot last autumn after dating for five years. He takes such good care of you, showing his love in ways that range from sending you pictures of every heart-shaped object he comes across, to fucking you deep into the mattress until you’re screaming out his name. But still, you almost never get to love on him like you wish you could. He’s always so preoccupied with making you feel good, he doesn't realize that seeing him come undone for you has your sweet cunt clenching around nothing. 

You reposition yourself on your knees, making yourself as comfortable as the cold tile will allow, before taking Joel’s cock in your hand. He groans at the contact, your warm hand closing tightly around the thick base of him. The sound spurs you on, and you lean in to press a sweet kiss to the leaking tip. Joel’s hand flies to your hair, fisting it tightly. 

“Shit, Angel,” His voice is deep and gruff. You keep pressing feather-light kisses along the length of his dick, riling him up. “Fuck, go easy on me, Baby. Don’t tease me— shit,” You take him into your mouth, lips wrapping around the tip of his cock, tongue rubbing the sweet spot right beneath the head. The groan that Joel lets out is so primal and animalistic, you’re sure it’s been brewing in his chest for a while now. His hips stutter as he holds himself back from fucking your throat, and you take him deeper, mind hazy with the need to make him feel good, craving his sweet moans and groans. 

Joel is muttering about your perfect lips, and about what a good girl you are, taking him so well. His praise spurs you on, has you moaning and humming around his cock. 

But it’s not enough. You need more of him.

You pull your lips off of his dick with a wet pop! sound, spit dripping down your chin. Joel loosens his grip on your hair, confused. 

“Want you to fuck my throat,” You blurt out bluntly. Joel’s eyes go wide at your request. 

“Fuck– R’you sure?”He asks. You nod enthusiastically. “Don’t wanna hurt you,” He says, a little softer. His hand comes to rest on your cheek, his eyes wide with affection and worry. You hum, nuzzling into his touch, a smirk gracing your lips.

“Someone’s self absorbed,” You joke. Joel snorts, rolling his eyes.

“Goddamn smartass,” He replies, and you laugh. You press a light kiss to his lower tummy, his pubic hair scratching against your skin, before looking back up to him with a soft smile.

“M’serious,” You tell him. “Want you. Want all of you.” Joel inhales deeply.

“My perfect fuckin’ girl,” He says, and you beam. And after a moment– “Shit, yeah, okay.” It’s all the confirmation you need before taking him into your mouth once more, cheeks hollowing as you relish in his bitter flavor. Joel’s hand finds the back of your head once again, pulling you closer to him until the tip of his cock hits the back of your throat. His nostrils flare as he grunts, eyes never leaving yours. You can’t help but moan at the intimacy of it, at the warm weight of him against your tongue. 

You can tell your sounds spur him on, giving him more confidence as he bucks his hips against you, making you choke around his cock. 

He looks so beautiful like this, with his tousled hair and his coffee-brown eyes watching you in awe, you can’t help but let your hand slide down beneath the waistband of your panties, fingers running through your slick folds, drawing small circles on your clit. 

He looks like an Adonis, like an ancient Greek statue carved from the finest marble. You run a hand up and down his thick thigh, your other hand still toying with your cunt. You sink a finger into your dripping hole, making you moan even more enthusiastically as you bob your head up and down Joel’s cock. He’s close and you know it, the rhythm of his hips uneven as he fucks into your mouth. His eyebrows are furrowed and his mouth slightly agape and yes, he looks so handsome like this, you feel yourself clenching around your finger before slipping another one into your tight hole. Joel’s always been better at this than you, his fingers thicker and longer, hitting all the right spots inside of you. You can’t help but wish it was him, fucking you deep and slow, thumb circling your clit while two fingers pump deep inside your pussy, making you gush and cream around him. But no, this is about him, now. You swirl your tongue around his heavy cock, pulling your head back slightly to suck at the sensitive tip. Joel lets out a broken moan before pulling you against him, your nose against his soft belly. It’s a sweet burn. He’s so big, you feel tears beginning to blur your vision as you breathe deeply through your nose. 

He finally lets you break away, and you gasp for air. You smile up at him, practically glowing, the hand that was previously buried between your plush thighs comes back up to stroke him, the mix of your spit and your juices coating his dick as your hand tugs at him. 

“Want you to come in my mouth,” You say, before pressing a soft kiss to the side of the shaft. “Wanna taste you.” Joel curses under his breath, something you can’t quite make out. You smirk, before taking him into your mouth again.

“Girl of my- fuck- girl of my fuckin’ dreams,” He says, and you hum around him. He gives two hard thrusts into your tight throat, before his hips still completely as he comes. You’re pressed against him, your eyes screwed shut as you focus on breathing through your nose, not wanting to break away before you get to taste all of him, every last drop on your tongue.

Joel’s hips jerk as his cum paints the velvet walls of your mouth. The flavor of him is bitter and salty, something you can’t quite put into words. 

Something that’s all Joel, all yours.

You slowly pull your mouth off of his softening cock, swallowing every last drop of his release, all while never breaking eye contact. Joel’s breathing is heavy and his eyes are wide, watching your every move with utter fascination and adoration. You give him a small smile as he brings his thumb to the corner of your lip, swiping up a leftover drop of his come and pushing it slowly into your mouth. It’s a welcome intrusion, and you wrap your lips around the finger immediately, tongue circling the pad of it. Joel grunts, before helping you up so that you’re standing again and kissing you deeply, has hand on the back of your head. You can’t help but smile into the kiss.

He still tastes like coffee. He tastes like coffee and Joel and a hint of you, reminding you he’s all yours.

“I love you,” You tell him, and he smiles.

“Love you too, Angel,” He replies. “Fuck, love you so goddamn much.”

__ __ __

whew! this one took a while to write cause i was sick for the longest time and couldn't really think about sucking dick...

thank you for reading!! i'd love to hear what you thought, and constructive criticism is always appreciated :)

picture I -- Spotify on Pinterest picture II -- TheLastredemption on Pinterest picture III -- вишневый котик on Pinterest

[bonkhrnyjail]

if anyone is wondering i’m still here and i will be for the foreseeable future

neck + chest appreciation post ✨️

[bonkhrnyjail]

sweet plum | chapter four

masterlist | pinterest board | spotify playlist

pairing: pedro pascal x fem!reader (plus size)

rating: mature (will become explicit in the future)

warnings: mentions of alcohol/drinking, mild mentions of weight discrimination

summary: a late night facetime turns into a midnight adventure

a/n: well shit yall. thank you for all the love on what i've posted so far. the validation is like crack for my stupid little dopamine deficiency. and strap in for a slow burn. also, i want to note, you definitely don't have to live in a bigger body to enjoy this story. give it a try if you're on the fence. <3

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“Leave me alone,” you whine at Bella, their shrill laughter crackling from your shit-quality phone speakers.

They continue to poke fun at you for watching Bridgerton for the fourth time in the past few months. Work has been painfully slow, and you have to wait until after the premiere to take on any other big projects. With your NDA, you can't exactly put the best job you've ever booked on your resume until the show is aired.

You continue to defend yourself, huffy and stern, glaring at them through your camera lens.

“I love a slow burn romance… it’s not my fault.”

“I know you do,” Bella mumbles in a somewhat accusatory tone, chuckling to themselves with a shake of their head.

“Excuse me?” you question, a palpable underlying meaning to the statement clear as day. "That felt pointed."

“Pfft, it's nothing,” they quip with a jovial eye roll.

“No, no, please. Enlighten me.” you playfully push, somewhat perplexed by their vagueness. 

“I mean… you—” 

Bella gets cut off by the familiar notification sound of someone joining the call.

Pedro’s face appears massive on the screen, his head propped up against a pillow on his green leather couch. His hair is completely disheveled, sticking straight to the heavens on the left side. He smiles, beamingly, the majority of his pearly teeth on vivid display.

“So this is what happens when I don’t see you for a few months," you jest.

“Got drunk, slept face first on the couch. I just woke up,” he explains, his voice cloaked in a thick rasp, clearly still acclimating to his consciousness. “But you’re right regardless. I am a bed-headed disaster without you.”

A fantasy floats into your head, you helping him tame his unruly mane in the morning, planting soft kisses along his forehead with every huffy groan, denying every whine and protest to return with you to the bed.

“You need to hire her as a live-in,” Bella jeers, “It’s really… really bad.”

The three of you chat for a while, weaving in and out of conversation topics with lubricious ease. Embarrassing moments, family memories, recalling inside jokes from your days in Canada, the leisure of it reminds you of how effortless it is with them. Your incessant laughter burns your stomach as tears prick the corner of your eyes.

“One time, my mum and I went to a dairy farm and the baby calves would not stop sucking on my fingers,” Bella recounts, wiping the tears from their eyes. “I tried to put my hands in my pockets but they started going for the pockets too. I eventually had to run away and they kept trying to chase me.”

“That sounds like a dream! I'd love to go to a dairy farm,” you exclaim, puppy-eyed with a gentle pout. “Cows are my favorite animal, you know.”

“Let's go to a dairy farm then,” Pedro blurts in.

You scoff, taken aback by his offer.

“With your schedule? Please.”

“Oh hush, I’ll always make time for you.”

Your breath hitches.

He'll always make time for you?

The call falls silent for a moment, your mouth falling open as you process the sentiment. You examine his expression, sincere and warm and ever-so-slightly bashful, and the sight of it sends blood rushing to the apples of your cheeks.

Bella’s eyes widen as their lips curl inward, cheeks blowing out to stifle a giggle.

“Alright! Well… I gotta go... early day tomorrow. I love you both!”

They blow a kiss to each of you and disconnect from the call before you can say goodbye.

An uncomfortable air of silence hangs between the two of you, still heavy and unnerving despite the miles separating you. You chuckle to yourself on instinct, just to create some sort of noise to cut through the tension.

“Are you still drunk?” you inquire.

It’s heavily rumored that Pedro is an obvious flirt under the influence. You’ve heard the stories of him, teasing and lightheartedly flirting with the cast and crew after a couple of drinks. Stupid, corny comments and lots of touching with no clear intent behind it. Maybe that's what he's doing, maybe it's just an offhand sentiment, a product of his lingering intoxication.

“I don’t know… I don’t think so. But I did drink almost an entire bottle of wine, and that was only 6 or so hours ago.” He runs a hand through his scraggly, unkempt curls. “Why?”

The compiling list of questions run circles in your head as you attempt to formulate some kind of comprehensible answer.

“I suppose… well... I was just…” you fumble, picking at your already tattered cuticles. “I guess I just want to…. Were you serious?”

“About what? Taking you to a farm?”

A half smile slowly appears on the left side of his lips, an expression of an almost amusement. Heat races to your cheeks in an instant.

“Of course I was," he responds, nonchalantly but with a genuine earnest. “I really like being with you. Farm or otherwise. Drunk or sober.”

A wave of goosebumps erupts across your skin like a forest fire. You instinctively clench your fists to bear through the surging sensation in your chest, the feeling somehow distressing and euphoric at the same time.

You decide to play along, push a little further, despite your better judgment.

“So, if you could choose anywhere to take me, where would we go?”

You lay your head back on the pillow behind you and hold the phone high above your head. The senseless part of you carefully angles a peek of cleavage in the bottom left corner, just enough to hopefully warrant a quick glance. 

And glance he does.

Not once, but twice. The first one is almost instinctual, like a natural reaction to something new and foreign coming into his line of sight. You see his eyes widen slightly and immediately dart back up to meet your gaze. He smiles, a nervous smile, and reaches a hand up to run his thumb along the wiry salt and pepper of his jaw.

Now, the second glance is definitely intentional. As his eyes lower, his smile falls into slightly parted lips. It’s akin to gawking, the way his eyebrows raise and his pupils explode. You watch as his fingers curl and press deep into his jawline as he takes a small portion of his lower lip into his teeth and bites.

Seconds pass, achingly slow, and he seems to be entirely elsewhere.

Suddenly his body jolts and his eyes return to yours once more, a flustered pink painting his cheeks. You can feel a prickly heat spreading down your neck and across your chest, a plethora of contradicting thoughts and feelings bouncing rapidly in your head.

"Well, it’s hard to pick just one," his thick fingers lay flat against his cheekbone as he ponders. "There’s quite a few I’ve thought of showing you.”

You curl your toes as another surge of anxious excitement obliterates your nervous system.

“Well, how about a top three then?"

After about ten seconds of deep pondering, his eyes light up.

“There’s this juice place that I’ve been really liking. They have a fruit juice with plum in it, it made me think of you. I bet you’d like it.”

You ball the sheet beneath your hand into your fist, your knuckles surely painted white with the sheer force of it. The thought of him… thinking about you, wanting you to be there with him, makes you ache with pure adoration. You’ve had daydreams like that hundreds of times, trips for coffee or takeout, holding hands, sharing the little things, weaving your way into each other's lives.

“I definitely want to take you to my favorite deli in New York. I still can’t believe you’ve never had a fuckin’ bagel sandwich. That’s just… just wrong.”

The memory floats into your mind; The gasp that left his mouth when you told him was damn near cartoonish. He lectured you for at least five minutes straight as you tried not to laugh, your lips pressed tightly together, tears welling at the corners of your eyes. 

“And definitely Spain. I just feel like you’d blossom there. It’d be beautiful to see. Plus, I miss it. If it weren’t for work I’d stay there forever.”

The statement hangs in the air for a bit, not in a stale and brooding way, but more like a wispy cloud passing between you. Your mind goes still and is washed clean with a warm, velvet enchantment.

All of your useless anxieties melt under the gentle heat of his unwavering gaze, his words so tender, so utterly astonishing to hear from the mouth of a man. It’s often hard to believe that he’s real, like somehow everything you’ve ever wanted in a lover and friend came wrapped up in the Adonis masterpiece that is him.

The profound worry that plagues you, incessant since the day that the already precarious line between friends and lovers have been blurred, is really just a deep-rooted fear. Fear that you’ll lose him, fear that things will change, an irrevocable leap could irreversibly damage one of the most meaningful connections you’ve ever experienced. If you could just know what he is thinking, exactly what he is thinking, maybe the violent kick in your stomach that seems to accompany every flirtatious interaction with the man would finally leave you be.

Images of Spain waltz through your mind, of sundresses and fresh fruit, music, dancing, exquisite wine and food to die for. Bare feet sinking into warm sand, Pedro trailing close behind you with a camera in hand, capturing you as you blossom.

“Those all sound really, really lovely," you gush, allowing the grin that’s been repeatedly tugging at the corners of your lips to grow wide and toothy across your face. "I’ve always wanted to go abroad. Hey, if you ever need a hairdresser overseas, you know who to call.”

You catch a glimpse of yourself on your screen, your eyes twinkling and a soft glow washed over the apples of your rounded cheeks. You look positively enamored, entirely lovestruck, and you honestly couldn't care less.

“Where do you want to go most in the world?” his voice softens further as he rests a hand on his cheek, cozying himself against the arm of the couch.

The phone is inches from his face, likely because he misplaced his glasses, as he so often does. His eyes have that slight downturn, the innermost part of his brows raised slightly upward and inward, his irises catching every glint of the headlights passing by his window. The movement of the sparkle, along with the rich chocolate hue illuminated in its presence, leaves you struggling to form a coherent sentence. 

“I... I think..." you stutter, closing your eyes for a few seconds to collect your thoughts. "I think I'd want to go to Greece. It’s a bit ridiculous, but I had a phase in my childhood where I was completely obsessed with Greek mythology. There are so many things I want to see there. And the photos I’ve seen… I just really want to experience that energy. It looks like it has a kindness to it, I can’t really explain what I mean by that... I just can feel it, you know?”

“You don’t have to explain, I know what you’re saying. Things are more gentle there," He speaks softly, his eyes decorating themselves with delicate crinkles and lines as his lips curl into an upward crescent. "The energy honestly kind of reminds me of you. Your… lightheartedness.”

“You think I’m gentle? And lighthearted?” you let out a hearty laugh, entirely spurred by your surprise.

You’ve never viewed yourself that way, at least from the outside looking in. Most of your life you've felt very coarse, gentleness not ever coming naturally to you.

When you grow up in a larger body, every single thing you do feels too big, too clumsy, too loud, every action feels like it should be followed up by an apology for simply existing. The world tries its darnedest to shrink you, to diminish your presence and lock you into a cage of shame, the only key to escape being a success in the pursuit of thinness. You’ve done endless internal work to break free from that prison, to allow yourself the freedom to be yourself unabashedly and throw a middle finger to the consequences.

But you have to admit, a part of you has always wanted to feel delicate.

It’s not that you want to shrink yourself, it’s quite the opposite. You want to be utterly yourself, and you want someone to actually see the gentleness that lives there. Through all the noise, the rowdiness, the bellowing laughter. Through the rough exterior, you want someone to find the soft woman that lives inside of you and love her delicately.

“Yes!” Pedro exclaims with wide, passionate eyes. “Well, not in a way that indicates weakness. No, you’re definitely a powerful woman."

His irises shift up, searching for words as he continues to play with his beard.

"You don’t let the world harden you. Your gentleness is resilient to… bullshit, I guess. You stay open. And not only that, but you stay playful too. Lighthearted. I admire that about you."

The words land like a grenade to the chest, the sensation coursing through your body completely unfamiliar. It’s almost agonizing, yet completely painless. Your veins must be vibrating, and you can hear the whoosh your blood flowing to and from your heart as it knocks violently about your ribcage. 

You instinctively deflect as you attempt to bear through the absolute tsunami of emotions currently drowning you.

“P! Jesus, please!" you let out a fake gag, then another, speaking between each retch. "Too... many... compliments."

His hearty laugh booms through your shitty iPhone speakers, the sound of it crackling through the phone causing you to break from your performance, your unruly cackle echoing off the walls of your room. You only egg him on as he laughs harder and harder, eventually nothing but a wheeze escaping from his lungs. Your stomach burns as tears start to roll down your cheeks, and every attempt at steadying yourself only results in you completely losing it again.

You finally catch your breath, doubled over and clutching for dear life at your abdomen. 

“I’ve missed you.” he mumbles through a heavy breath.

“I… I’ve missed you too.” you whisper back, just audible enough that you’re certain he can hear.

An inquisitive expression washes over his face, before he springs into an upright position.

“Well, we’ll have to do something about that then. Are you hungry?”

Does he mean… now?

“I mean… I could eat. Why?”

“If I come and get you, will you go get a burger with me? I’m having a craving.”

A pang of excitement explodes in your belly. Shit, of course you need to change, tame the current state of your hair, and honestly you could even use a shower. Some of the particularly heated scenes in Bridgerton caused you to break a sweat.

And, there’s no way in hell you’re going to let Pedro pick you up in his half-drunken state. 

“I’m not letting you drive wine drunk, P. I’ll come get you," you announce, surprising yourself with your sudden assertiveness. "Send me your location, I’ll see how far you are from me.”

You suppose your tendency to take care of others triumphs over your jitters in this moment.

“Um… I… don’t... think I know how to do that.” he furrows his eyebrows with confusion as he focuses diligently on his screen. 

Old man.

You’re able to walk him through it, but not without a proper teasing that he doesn’t know how to use his phone.

“Oh, ok, you’re like 25 minutes from me. I can swing that.”

You wonder if he can see through your facade, your pressed efforts at being nonchalant. Because truth be told, you’d drive for hours if he asked.

“Be ready, ok? I’ll see you soon.”

.   .   .   .   .

You’ve never gotten ready that fast in your life. You were able to assemble your hair into messy-yet-stylish fashion, apply a speedy coat of mascara and brow gel, spritz yourself with a subtle perfume and throw on an "I was just planning on sleeping in this" yet cute outfit. All in roughly… five minutes?

Now you’re dangling out of your car, throwing things about so Pedro can actually sit on the passenger’s seat. You’ve managed to wrangle up all of the various empty coffee cups and receipts floating around on the floor, and you cross your fingers that with the seat all the way back he'll have enough leg room.

He’s seen your car plenty of times, seen the mess that always seems to accumulate despite weekly clean outs, but he's never actually been inside. For some reason it feels very personal to drive him somewhere, to let him inside your car though you're sure he's used to far more luxurious modes of travel. But alas, here you are preparing to pick him up, and it makes you so nervous that your hands tremble.

You finally sink down into the velour fabric behind the wheel and select a playlist to keep you company. You choose the one with the most songs you can sing along to, anything to release an ounce the unidentifiable buzz swarming through your veins.

You can't help but chuckle at yourself, the fervid state of your mind and body absolutely laughable in its dramatics. Yes, of course you’re excited to see him in person. There are so many little things you miss. It’s been almost four months since you've heard the roar of his bellowing laugh in person. You miss the weight of his palm stabilizing himself on your shoulder as he crashes his head into you, the sounds escaping his throat akin to that of a tea kettle that's reached a boil. That was often a daily occurrence, the two of you overcome with giggles, holding on to each other for dear life, unable to catch your breath or maintain any sort of upright posture. You miss the morning coffee runs that left you scrambling for time while Pedro innocently sipped his six-shot monstrosity of a beverage, knowing full well it was his fault because he needed his espresso. You miss the feeling of his hair, how it would glide along your hands, intertwined in your fingers, yours to bend and mold in exactly the way you needed. You miss how he'd soften and slouch under your touch when you'd softly massage his scalp, how his shoulders would sink and his head would roll about like it was attached by an overcooked noodle. You miss the way his scent would fill the trailer and linger slightly after he would leave, the air laced with spice and wood and leather…

You sing to distract yourself, tapping complex rhythms on the back of the steering wheel with considerable force, trying to channel your giddy quivering out of your body through the tips of your fingers. The headlights of the cars in front of you shine and splinter in your vision like a supernova, and it soothes you just a bit, just enough to stop visibly shaking.

Somehow you arrive to the pin Pedro sent you in once piece. You haphazardly park on the dimly lit street and bounce your knee endlessly as you wait. You give yourself one more mist of perfume, the sweet scent wafting through the air in the car.

You need to just get a fucking… grip...

A loud bang jolts every bone in your body, your heart nearly leaping through the bones of your sternum and onto the black leather of the dash. Your head snaps to the left to see two flat palms and a thick pair of foggy black frames pressed up against the driver’s side window.

Idiot.

You open your door to hear his proud laughter echoing down the empty street. Before you can berate him, he pulls you into a tight hug, his strong hands grasping at the softness of your hips. The two of you spin around in the street, your arms still wrapped around each other, your legs doing something resembling a waddle back and forth. A prickly warmth spreads throughout you, radiating from the very center of your chest. 

He pulls away to examine you, his palm resting gently on your right shoulder, where it seems to fit just perfectly. His smile softens as your eyes meets his, the street lights creating a freckled glimmer in his deep brown irises.

“I should punch you for scaring me like that,” you murmur, feeling suddenly bashful under his unwavering gaze, fixed on you like you’re the only other person in the world. 

“You should, but you won’t,” he winks and gives your shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Now come on, I’m starving.”

He opens the driver’s side door for you with a satisfied grin and guides you into the car, his hand resting gently on the small of your back. His fingers shift, slipping just beneath the hem of your shirt and brushing against your bare skin.

Your knees nearly buckle.

You grip the steering wheel as you lower yourself into the seat and squeeze, straining to bear through the sudden panging need in lower belly. Jesus, you’re far too touch-starved for your own good. 

Pedro slams his body weight into the passenger’s seat, causing your car to bounce a few times from the recoil. You jokingly shoot him a look of disgust and he throws his head back, cackling and reaching over the console to smack you in the arm.

“God, just put the address in my phone you idiot!” you exclaim through your own chuckles. He snags your phone from your extending hand and begins searching on your maps app.

He has on his purple Laker’s shirt and some black athletic shorts. The shorts are the perfect length, showcasing just enough of his thigh to garner a bit of attention but not so much that you can't keep your focus elsewhere. He paired the outfit with striped socks and sneakers, an almost copy-paste of every casual outfit you've seen him in, very on-brand for his day to day. You once tried to explain the concept of being on-brand to Pedro, but he just went around telling everyone he was “serving brand” for about a week straight. You honestly regret ever teaching him about “serve” in the first place. 

You start to drive, a quiet and comfortable hum falling over the two of you. Your music is still playing, so soft that it's barely audible over the growl of the engine. Pedro reaches to crank the volume, veins protruding on the back of his hand as he turns the knob gently.

“You know how much I love Fleetwood Mac,” he speaks in his low, growling baritone, his scent filling the air and mixing with your lingering perfume, creating a fragrance intoxicating enough to give you a head rush.

You take a beat before responding, transfixed by the width and curve of his fingers and the spiral of ink at the crux of his thumb.

“I know, I picked the playlist with my passenger in mind.”

“Well I won’t subject you to any singing,” he teases. “Since you’re such a music snob.”

“I am not!” You reach over and shove his shoulder. “I have a deep appreciation for good music, that doesn’t make me a snob.”

“Sure… says the girl who was critiquing my playlists every goddamn day.” he shoves you back, this time against your thigh.

“What playlists?! Purple Rain fifteen times in a row is not a playlist,” you jab.

An offended, dramatized gasp fills his lungs before he scoffs ostentatiously, prompting an immediate eye roll from your side of the car.

It’s truly like no time has passed since you last saw each other.

.   .   .   .   .

You plop down into a slightly cramped, cherry red booth in the back corner of a slightly shoddy, time capsule of a diner. The vinyl cushions are cracked and peeling, beige crumbles of the filling erupting from the openings and spilling over. You scoot in carefully, hoping to avoid causing any further damage.

When you'd pulled in to park moments ago, your knee-jerk reaction to the sight of the place was a look of genuine concern. The lot was packed with toxically masculine trucks and seemingly refurbished vintage vehicles, and a hoard of beefy, somewhat terrifying men crowded the entrance in a haze of flickering red light and cigarette smoke.

“Just, trust me, will ya? It’ll be the best burger you’ve ever had," he insisted, shooting a subtle wink and a flash of pearly teeth, glimmering off of the sole street light illuminating the entirety of the parking lot.

He sits down opposite to you, raising his hand to greet the waitress from across the counter with a quick wave. You catch sight of her as her remarkably wrinkled, heavily kohl-lined eyes brighten at the sight of him. Her cherry red lips spread wide across her bony, slightly sullen face. She whispers something to the line cook standing next to her, and then immediately hightails it over to your table.

“S'been a while since we’ve seen you, Mister Pascal, I was startin’ to worry you’d went n' forgot 'bout us! But I know you’re a busy guy n’ all, bein' Hollywood's latest and greatest.”

Her voice is steeped overnight in a viscous southern drawl. It’s so thick that it almost makes the words move slower from her mouth, like they’re coagulating on her tongue on the way out.

“Darlene,” Pedro reaches a hand to grab hers, a tinge of Texan twang tickling the vowels in her name. “You know I can’t stay away from you for too long. And you know better than to call me anything other than Pedro.”

He gives her hand a little squeeze and you watch as the woman melts under his touch. You really can't blame her.

“Now, who is this sweet thing?” Darlene cocks her head slightly in your direction, her eyes still fixed on the cocoa irises gazing back at her.

“This is my… friend,” Pedro smiles, glancing towards you as his dimple indents beneath the bristles of his scruff. “And coworker.” 

“You n' actress, honey?” she diverts her attention to you, her head bobbing slightly with a palpable sass.

“Oh, no, a hairstylist actually,” you explain, inexplicably embarrassed by the implication. “That’s how we met. I did his hair for a more recent project.”

“She’s very talented.” he chimes in. “She managed to make me look like an old man!”

“Darlene, it was one of the easiest jobs I’ve ever had, I’ll tell you that much.”

Pedro attempts to take a jab at your shoulder from across the table, but you duck slightly at just the right moment, his hand colliding with shiny smooth cushion.

Darlene lets out a laugh, one that sounds more like a prolonged smoker’s cough than anything else. She takes down Pedro’s order, the usual, and after a solid minute of convincing from both parties, you decide to go with the same thing. 

Darlene hurries back to the kitchen and leaves you with a hungry-eyed man studying your every move.

“I promise you’re gonna like it. You’re gonna love it. It literally melts in your mouth. Hey—”

He reaches quicker than you can dodge him and his thumb and index finger grab ahold of your chin, slightly squishing your lips together.

“Quit making that face at me! I’m serious, it's really good!” 

Another waitress swings around the corner, dropping off a pot of potent smelling coffee and two mugs, medium-sized and a robin’s egg blue.

“Always good to see you, Pedro.” she speaks in a low rasp, deeper than you'd anticipated from her petite frame and soft features. Pedro shoots her a wink before immediately reaching for the coffee pot.

“I’ll get this in right away for y’all. Anything else I can getcha in the meantime?” Darlene questions.

Pedro meets your gaze as you shake your heads in unison.

“Y'all've a real cute, uh, friendship,” she speaks hesitantly, one of her pencil-thin eyebrows cocked up with suspicion and her ruby lips curled into a smirk. A soft chuckle lilts in her trail as she turns away from you and slinks back to the kitchen.

“This place feels like a fever dream,” you mouth in a hushed tone as you attempt to sip on the scalding coffee in front of you. “Is she… is Darlene real? She doesn’t seem real.”

“Like straight out of a time capsule, right?” he grins.

“How the hell did you find this place?" you question him as you glance around to people-watch, catching sight of the elderly biker couple to your right, decked head to toe in worn black leather, demolishing two double cheeseburgers with reckless abandon.

“An old agent of mine took me here a long time ago. Since I’ve been in LA so much, I just find myself drawn back here,” his disposition softens as he speaks. “Reminds me of home, I guess, I can’t put my finger on why.”

You listen intently as he chronicles stories of New York, letting your fingers unconsciously twirl through your hair, the nasty habit that always seems to return in his presence. It's easy to get lost in the way he muses on about his experiences, like his own trance pulls you along with him into his dream-like state. He speaks with effervescent detail, a syrupy adoration on his tongue with each word that leaves his mouth. You could listen to him talk for hours and hours, utterly entranced by the way he transports you into his world, the lull of his voice like a spoonful of honey.

“Jesus, I’ve been blabbing on and on," he reaches up a hand to scratch behind his ear, a nervous tick you’ve noticed he frequents. "Am I boring you?"

“No no no, hey, you're not boring me," You rest your hand gently on the table, resisting the urge to grab his fidgeting hand and steady him. “You've got a way with words, I honestly feel like I’m right there with you.”

With a brief inhale, his hand falls slowly until it rests atop yours. You silently gasp at the sudden sensation, his touch heedfully delicate as he caresses the back of your hand with his thumb. His eyes are fixed as he wraps the rest of his fingers around and settles them in the crook of your palm. The thump of his pulse echoes yours as he traces up from your knuckles and slowly back to the base of your wrist, drawing a perfect ellipse on your velvety skin, sending goosebumps to riddle every square inch of your body. As your gaze flutters, you catch a glimpse of his face, his lips parted slightly in complete transfixion. You bite down on the inside of your cheek at the sight.

“Alrighty y’all, I go-” Darlene clears her throat as you both jolt violently, your spines simultaneously snapping upright as your hands tear apart. “I… got your burgers here. Just holler if ya need anythin' else.”

She smiles sweetly, a slight smugness tugging at her expression.

An involuntary chuckle escapes you, responding unconsciously to the knotting discomfort you feel in growing in your stomach. You stare unwaveringly at the mass of burger sitting in front of you, cheddar cheese oozing down the sides of the thick patty and spilling onto the plate. The thick veil of tension lies stagnant between you as the knot pulsing in your stomach threatens to snap.

“I’m like… scared of this thing. It’s a bit of a beast.” you murmur uneasily.

“Definitely don’t eat the whole thing. I’ve made that mistake… more than once," he admits, cutting carefully through the gargantuan sandwich down the middle. "I’m honestly amazed I can still enjoy this considering what it’s done to my stomach in the past. Here—"

He reaches across the table, cutting yours into perfect halves with conscious diligence.

"S'a lot easier to eat this way."

A flush creeps across your cheeks, the same sentence repeating in your head like a skip on a broken CD.

Why does he have to be so fucking thoughtful?

.   .   .   .   .   

“I can’t… breathe properly. It hurts.” Pedro blabbers as he trudges himself from the restaurant, his hand clutching at his stomach as he groans in pain.

“Girl, I warned you to stop after you ate the half!”

After a third and some of the fries you were toast, and you by no means have a small appetite.

“Do I need to help you to the car? Have we gotten to that point?” you manage through a bout of laughter.

“Leave me alone!” he grunts, nearly doubled over at this point, shuffling toward the car with visible strain. 

You sling his arm over your shoulder despite his protests, and let him lean a decent amount of his weight into you. 

“I look like I’m drunk off of my ass,” he mumbles in your ear as you approach the passenger door. You open it for him and gesture your hand.

“Don't worry princess, I'll get you home safe.” you quip through a teasing smile, almost immediately followed by a shrill cackle.

He gives you a protesting shove as he plops down weakly into the seat. 

You don't really want to take him home. Part of you wants to just drive for hours, listen to more of his musings, keep teasing and laughing and wearing out the energy lingering from your multiple cups of coffee coursing through your system. Maybe you could park in an empty lot and watch the sun come up. You just want to be with him, stay with him, just a little while longer.

But you know him. He’s busy. Always busy. Press tours, talk shows, auditions, meetings, he's never not booked for some sort of event. And of course he's never well rested, a borderline insomniac, and you'll be damned if you keep him from the sleep you know he desperately needs.. You shove down your selfish desire and set course back to town.

“I’m takin’ you home, you poor thing,” you turn the key in the ignition and pop the headlights on, a wash of yellowish-white beaming over the vintage vehicles and motorcycles parked in front of you. "You really should be in bed anyways."

“You know I don’t need sleep,” he teases, his body slumped over and his head looming fairly close to your body. With a quick peek, you find him glancing longingly at your right shoulder, as if he is using nothing but sheer willpower to stay upright and not rest his head on your bare skin. 

“It's alright,” you whisper in a moment of understanding. You pat your shoulder twice, lightly, hoping he’ll register what you mean. “Rest.”

His head crooks up at you, clearly surprised, but with a soft and sweetened gaze. It’s almost as if his eyes are saying “thank you” and “are you sure?” in the same puppy dog expression. You nod slightly, a reassuring smile curling the corners of your lips.

He lets the top of his head settle in the crook of your neck as his cheek rests gently on your shoulder, his scruff tickling at the skin there. The tension in his body is evident, the muscles in his neck stiff and straining and his hands gripped together tightly in his lap. Quickly you fish your phone from your pocket and scroll through your music, finding your "cheaper than xanax" playlist before turning out of the parking lot. 

The two of you stay silent, but not an uncomfortable and brooding silence. It feels meditative, almost like a single word would eradicate the solace you’re sharing amongst the hum and glow of the golden street lights. Minutes pass and you feel his breathing start to slow and deepen as he finally allows the full weight of his head to sink into you. You quietly begin to hum along to the soothing song that is playing, unable to remember the last time you felt so at peace.

Because that’s the thing about Pedro. He feels like peace.

If you void all of the external factors, his hectic schedule, the blur of professionalism, the enigmatic feelings and moments of anxious uncertainty… none of it truly matters when it boils down to the core of who you are. You just fit together, inexplicably, undeniably, effortlessly. You can talk for hours, god knows, but quiet settles in just as easily, the pressure to perform completely eradicated in each other's presence. In moments like these, being with him feels like being wrapped in a warm comforter, fresh out of the dryer. You can just… be. He sees you, you see him, and you can take comfort in knowing the other is there, and no one is expected to break the silence. 

He falls asleep by the end of the first song and stays dormant on your shoulder the whole drive home. Your chest starts to ache as you turn onto his street. The last thing you want right now is to watch him leave without any idea when you’ll see him again.

You give his hand a little shake and whisper his name into his ear. He groans softly and nuzzles into your skin, the prickle of his mustache tickling the delicate skin of your shoulder. You shake a little harder this time, more of a gentle shove. He inhales deeply as his eyes flutter open.

“You're home,” you speak softly.

He sits himself upright slowly, his hair vertical on the side he was resting against you. You unconsciously reach to smooth the mess for him, a habit you fell into after doing it so often in between takes during filming. He leans into your hand, ever so slightly, his eyes droopy and blinking sluggishly.

“I missed that, you know,” he admits, his voice laced with sleep. “You, fixing my… mess.” He motions to his tousled curls.

You missed it too, the way he would always hum deeply when your fingers ran across his scalp. You missed the way he would always say “Better?” once you seemed satisfied with the adjustment. He loved to tease your perfectionism, and especially loved to try and tousle your hair back. 

You miss every minute. 

“Me too,” you reply demurely. “Now, you better go to bed once you get upstairs. I won’t have your sleep-deprived grumpiness getting blamed on me.”

“We’ll see. I haven’t fallen asleep that fast in months. Twice in a row would be a miracle," he chuckles. He unfastens his seatbelt and lets out a deep, bellowing yawn. “Now, come give me a hug.”

You oblige through your slight haze, stepping out as he meets you by the driver’s side and wraps himself around you, his arms finding their familiar spot and his hands resting perfectly on the small of your back. You allow yourself to hang gently from his shoulders as you lightly nuzzle your nose into his neck, tipsy on the intoxicating scent of him.

You stay like that, for a moment, until Pedro places a small kiss on your temple.

The warmth of it lights you up in your entirety. You manage to untether yourself from him as you stomach does a flip, and then another, and another. When you meet his gaze, he smiles gently as he unravels himself from you, your arms falling to your sides, completely limp.

“Thank you for indulging me. I promise next time I’ll only eat half,” he laughs quietly to himself as he lazily paces backwards across the pavement. “Goodnight, sweet plum.” 

“Goodnight,” you simper, your bones growing more flimsy with the passing of each second.

Every time he calls you that, sweet plum, you feel as though you could melt into his arms and he'd hold you like a puddle in his hands.

He turns away and walks towards the entrance to his building, but not without looking back to glance at you one more time. You offer a pitiful wave as he grins from ear to ear, waving again with a quick wink. You stay as he slips through the door, down the hall, and then he’s gone.

Through a sudden bout of dizziness, you manage your way back to the driver’s seat. You turn the key in the ignition, fasten your seatbelt, and start to drive away, a singular thought looping through your mind on repeat.

He kissed you. He kissed you. He kissed you.

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chapter five

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal x reader #plus size reader #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #the last of us

[bonkhrnyjail]

[bonkhrnyjail]

[bonkhrnyjail]

PEDRO PASCAL — The Hollywood Reporter (January 2024)

[bonkhrnyjail]

tender loving care | husband!joel miller x pregnant!reader

summary: pregnancy symptoms are tough. your husband finds ways to make them a bit more bearable.

warnings/tags: MDNI. established relationship. husband!joel. pregnant!reader. no outbreak. non-canon. depictions of discomfort/pain/complications due to pregnancy. brief mentioning of difficulty conceiving. fluff. sweet, domestic joel. use of “daddy,” but not in the kinky way. foul language. pet names. smut. dirty talk. boob massage! teasing. nipple play. some grinding. nipple orgasm. mastubation (m). cum play. joel loves readers stomach. pregnancy kink by default. no descriptions of age, race, or body type…except for reader being pregnant (duh), and some physical pregnancy symptoms. joel miller fucking loves his wife.

word count: 5k

a/n: i’ve never been pregnant in my life so excuse any inaccuracies bc there will be some!! big thanks to @kiwisbell for encouraging me to write this and coming up with the title bc i’m ass at that. also fun little game: take a shot every time you read ‘nipples,’ sorry bout it.

Eight months flew by in the blink of an eye. 

It felt like only yesterday your entire world had changed over two, little pink lines. You didn’t think you could ever forget the all-encompassing joy you experienced that day; tear-filled eyes and tight embraces shared with the man you loved. Years of trying dwindled to a single, perfect moment. Because after some time, you had begun to lose hope. It didn’t always happen for people; maybe, it just wasn’t meant to happen for you. 

“We ain’t gonna stop tryin’, you hear me? Not gonna give up that easily.” 

He had been your rock through the entire process. The only tangible thing keeping you grounded while the earth felt as though it was slipping right from under your feet. Your anchor. 

Your husband.

Your Joel. 

And in the following months, he was no less attentive and devoted. He read every book, took you to every class and doctor’s appointment, and dealt with every absurd craving you requested. He handled the emotional highs and lows with ease, always a beacon of stability and comfort, even when the reality of your situation began to weigh on you. He praised your rapidly changing body, especially on the days you felt less than comfortable or beautiful in it. All the while continuing to work, provide for you and the life you were growing as if it were the most innate thing in the world. 

His willingness to attend to you and your growing family became increasingly crucial during the final month of your pregnancy. Your obstetrician had strongly recommended bed rest due to high blood pressure levels, a complication she assured you could be managed with plenty of rest, water, and some dietary adjustments. You tried adamantly to not let the fear consume you, even with years of working towards your miracle in tow. So while Joel worked, and grocery shopped, and tended to the house and garden, and cooked, and cleaned, you spent most of your days in bed or on the couch trying not to go absolutely insane. 

As if you didn’t already feel useless in your life and marriage. As if you weren’t already spending every waking moment worrying about the chance of losing your baby over something entirely out of your control. Breathing exercises. Meditation. Warm baths. You followed every method to reduce stress as it was, doctor’s quote, imperative to you and the health of your baby. 

But some days were harder than others. And some symptoms weren’t as easy to bear. 

One evening, you found yourself on the couch clicking through the television channels after one of your dozen labor and delivery books had terrified you to the point of needing a break. A palate cleanser. Something to take your mind off the way your body ached in seemingly every crack and crevice, and the anxiety that resided in the pit of your stomach over your approaching due date. 

It was not for lack of excitement, of course. You couldn’t wait to hold your baby in your arms. To begin this new chapter of life with the two people you undoubtedly loved most in the world. But there was fear in the unknown; you had never given birth before, and books and educational videos could only prepare you to a certain extent. You often doubted yourself, your body, and what it was capable of. How much you could really endure. 

No, you scolded yourself. Now is not the time to spiral. 

You carefully propped your swollen feet up on the coffee table in front of you, pulling the wool blanket your mother had knitted for you as a baby shower gift over your legs. Joel was working late, which meant you were left to your own erratic devices. You settled the TV on the Hallmark channel; perhaps a rookie mistake given your emotional state, but a welcomed distraction from the way every muscle in your body seemed to throb upon any given movement. You tried to situate yourself in a single position, but found the task nearly impossible, leaving you to squirm mere centimeters every which way trying to find the perfect spot on the cushions. Either your back was sore, or your bladder was suffocated. Your neck was craned, or your legs were extending too far to reach the table comfortably. 

You let out an exasperated groan, sinking back into the cushions defeatedly, succumbing to the discomfort. Your eyes darted down to your belly, a bit of stretched skin protruding out between the hem of Joel’s t-shirt you wore and the blanket. You settled your hands on either side of your stomach. 

“Not even here yet, and already giving me a run for my money, aren’t you?” you asked. Not even a moment later, you felt a familiar churn in your gut, followed by bumps of tiny limbs against your hands. A smile lit up your face. You remembered how odd the sensation was when you felt it for the first time weeks prior; now, you looked forward to it. 

“It’s okay,” you continued, giving your stomach a few soothing rubs, knowing soon enough, you would be directing all of your comfort to something much more delicate. “You know I forgive you.” 

The sound of the door unlocking tore your focus. You didn’t trust yourself to move, somewhat satisfied in the position you were in. But you heard the familiar sound of boots being kicked off, followed by keys tossed into the bowl on the front table. 

“Hello?” Joel called, the deep timbre of his rich drawl echoing through the foyer and into the living room. 

“In here!” you yelled back, the sound of approaching footsteps following seconds later.  

Joel rounded the couch, and when his tired eyes met yours, you watched the creases in the corners deepen when he smiled down at you. You beamed back at him, a sense of relief and security washing over you at the sight of your husband. Disheveled, graying curls. Gentle, brown eyes. Full, loving lips that you couldn’t wait a moment longer to kiss. He didn’t keep you in suspense long, merely taking a moment to breathe in the sight of you, before he lowered himself onto the couch beside you with a fatigued grunt. He slung one arm across your shoulders, the other hand coming up to gently cradle your jaw. 

“Hi baby,” he said softly, leaning in and pressing his lips to yours. You savored the feeling and the musky scent of him after a hard days work. 

“Hi,” you whispered when he pulled back, nose still nudging against yours, while his thumb caressed circles over the apple of your cheek. “I’m so glad you’re home.” 

“M’glad to be home,” he admitted, filling you with adoration as he so often did. He released your jaw then, trailing his fingers down to your swollen belly and tenderly running his hand over it. “And hello to my other baby,” he mused, leaning down to press a kiss just above your belly button. The sight alone could have made you cry if you hadn’t been so used to the practice as routine now. Seldom was there a time that he did not greet the both of you; still two separate entities to him, although you were wrapped up in one. 

It was endearing, exciting to see him like this. You thought this was what made the pain, the discomfort, the waiting, all worthwhile. Even though it took far too long to reach your goal, and the finish line still looked to be miles away, Joel was a constant reward. Everything you could ask for in a man, in a partner. 

“How you feelin’?” he asked, his face still lingering close to your belly. 

But before you could even answer him, a sharp pang shot through your chest, straight into your breasts. This was your newest symptom, having snuck up on you in the last trimester. As if your boobs looking and feeling as though they could explode with how full they had gotten wasn’t enough. It was as if your body could hear your momentary thoughts of gratefulness and decided to taunt you. 

“Sore,” you hissed, grinding your teeth together. “Everywhere.” 

Joel tsked his tongue down at your stomach. “Now, you listen here little one,” he said, feigning sternness. “You know daddy loves you, but you gotta stop givin’ mama such a hard time.” 

“Why do I feel like this is only the beginning?” you groaned, throwing your head back against the couch cushions. 

Joel chuckled. “Well, if she’s anything like you, darlin’, she’s sure as hell gonna have an attitude.” 

You immediately propped your head back up. “She?” you asked, raising your brows at him. You two had decided to wait until delivery to find out the sex of the baby, something small that made the anticipation all the more exciting. 

He shrugged, a hint of embarrassment painting his cheeks pink as if he hadn’t meant to say the thought aloud. “S’just a hunch,” he mumbled, delicately rubbing his palm across the expanse of your belly again. “Be happy with anythin’, just… always picture a little girl.” 

And for a moment, the ache that lingered in your chest swelled deep down, radiating from your heart. An adoring smile broke out on your face as you watched him, eyes already back on your belly, lips casually planting little kisses on exposed skin whenever he pleased. Delicate hands that touched you with greater affection than any person you had ever known. 

God, you loved him. More than life itself. So much it hurt, wondering how you had ever become so lucky. 

“You’re gonna be such a good daddy,” you told him softly, lifting a hand to the nape of his neck and soothing the skin there with your fingers. Joel hummed contentedly in response, seemingly too enamored with your stomach to shift focus. But it wasn’t long before you were startling him to attention, another unprompted sting through your breasts making you flinch. 

“My God,” you groaned, reaching up to cup the underside of them, the pressure providing a momentary relief. This time, the pain lingered; a heaviness and fullness that bordered too tender to touch. Body in constant conflict with itself. 

Joel’s head perked up from your abdomen, brows pulled in concern. “What is it?” he asked, searching your face before following the movement of your hands that began to gently knead over the front of your shirt. 

“My boobs are fucking killing me,” you told him honestly, causing him to chuckle. Your husband was no stranger to your blunt mouth even before he got you pregnant. The vulgarity only increased upon your hormones fluctuating with the hour, but he never seemed to mind. You got the impression it may have even amused him. 

“Feel better when you rub ‘em?” he asked. 

You pouted at him, the feeling of defeat inescapable. “A little, yeah,” you said. 

“Here, let me.” 

You didn’t protest, allowing him to help your feet off the coffee table and remove the blanket from your legs so he could kneel on the floor before you. He wedged his torso between your thighs, the bump of your belly snug against his chest. His hands reached up to cover yours, dwarfing them in the way that never ceased to make you feel safe, protected. You slipped yours out from underneath, resting them on either side of your stomach as he took the whole of each breast into his hands. You exhaled deeply, letting your head fall back against the cushions as he began to gently massage the supple flesh. 

“This too hard?” he asked after a moment of silence, save for your soft sighs and the hum of the TV still running in the background. 

“No,” you breathed, basking in the reprieve of his touch. His care. His love. “No, it's perfect.” The vulnerable state of your body was compliant, trusting with every fiber of your being that he would take care of it, tend to it to the best of his ability. 

You let your eyes close briefly, focusing on the careful attention he bathed you in. He alternated between broad strokes, painting the perimeter of each breast with firm pressure, and gentle kneading that had you humming in satisfaction. There was nothing quite like Joel’s hands; reliable, strong, putting you back together piece by piece no matter where they touched you. Always knowing how to touch you, taking their time to discover the uncharted terrain and what made it blossom, what made you tick. You thought that must have been the case when his fingers went rogue, thumbs carelessly strumming over your sensitive nipples. 

You gasped at the unexpected sensation, electricity prickling your skin. You lifted your head, peering down at Joel with parted lips and wide eyes. He was already looking up at you, a slight arch to his brow while he assessed the sudden reaction. With no protest to be found, he executed the motion again, this time with a bit more pressure. 

The contact shot straight to your core, eliciting a small whine as your nipples grew taut below his thumbs. Swollen, aching, and unbearably sensitive– to anything other than your husband's touch, it seemed. A knowing grin spread over Joel’s cheeks. 

“That feel good, darlin’?” he questioned, the teasing drop to his tone just as adequate in rousing you as his hands were. Now, every time he squeezed your breasts, he circled the pad of his fingers over each hardened bud, admiring the way your hips began to jerk forward in response. The spot between your legs began to ache just as adamantly as the rest of you, only now, you knew exactly the remedy. 

“Joel,” you moaned softly after a few more tight, tantalizing flicks. Even through your t-shirt, the rough callouses on his thumbs gifted you with tiny jolts of pleasure, an invisible tremor radiating through your body, connecting his fingers to your cunt that began to clench with every stroke. 

You saw the shift in his eyes; loving, doting husband so easily replaced by the hunger he had for pleasing you. Especially when he knew you needed to be satiated. Could sense the want that erupted effortlessly under his ministrations. 

You two had stopped having sex around the seven-month mark, as engaging in the act became more of a nuisance than an enjoyable experience for you. Another irritating symptom. Joel didn’t mind stopping in the slightest. What he did mind, however, was the lack of physical attention he was able to give his wife. Something he prided himself in, providing you the pleasure he insisted you deserved. 

He got creative, nonetheless. Spending hours between your thighs, lavishing you with his tongue. Putting his deliciously thick fingers to work. Even investing in a few toys, something you widely appreciated during both your time together and when he was away. He was enraptured by the way your body responded to him nowadays, sensitive and overly reactive to each and every touch. Taking the time to discover what worked and what didn’t. 

And it appeared this occasion was to be no different. 

Wordlessly, Joel’s hands abandoned you, and you made no effort to hide your huff of frustration at the loss. This only widened his grin, the little craters you adored showing up on his cheeks. 

“So impatient,” he chastised, to which you rolled your eyes. You had half a mind to make some comment regarding your current physical state, and how it required no patience, but his hands were back on you before you had a chance. This time, fingers slipped under the hem of the t-shirt and guided it up and over your belly. You watched him carefully in anticipation. 

“Arms up,” he said when the shirt bunched below your breasts. And who were you to deny such a request? Wasting no time in lifting your arms over you while he pulled your shirt over your head. 

You weren’t wearing a bra — you gave up on those a long time ago — warm skin succumbing to the cool air, already tight nipples growing little goosebumps around the perimeter. You used to feel more self-conscious; stretch marks across your chest as it grew with the rest of you, areolas a shade or two darker than they once were, and certainly less perky. But you didn’t hold on to those ideas for long. Not when you had Joel. Ever loving, praising every inch of you no matter how drastically you changed. Such changes significantly unimportant and minuscule compared to the task of growing life inside of you. 

He never failed to find ways to remind you of your beauty. Even if you couldn’t see it, providing you with a vivid picture of life through his eyes. 

The next time he touched you, he was brushing the backs of his knuckles ever so slightly across your exposed nipples. Your hands dug into the cushions below you, sucking in a breath through clenched teeth. Little jolts of pleasure shot through each peak, hardly able to handle his teasing touch. 

“And so sensitive,” he mused, taking another pass of his knuckles over you. Rough skin caught on tender, pebbled flesh, finding a delicate rhythm; back and forth, not too fast, just enough to have you heaving for more. 

The invisible string running down your midline grew tighter until he was switching tactics, turning over his hands to take each nipple delicately between his thumb and pointer finger, tweaking them over and over again. Not too fast, or too hard, just right. 

You were starting to whine, hips jerking forward nearly uncontrollably now. You felt your clit twitch below your sweatpants with every thrust, a stream of slick arousal pooling in your panties. Joel had always been a maestro in stimulating your body, but you couldn’t recall ever feeling this turned on by something so simple. A familiar heat that usually only arose when you were near the edge of control settled in your lower stomach. 

“Oh, f-fuck,” you stammered as you watched him lean forward, resting his chin atop your belly, and guiding one of your breasts towards his hot mouth. He never broke eye contact as his lips parted, wrapping around the awaiting nipple, already hard and raw, and gingerly sucking between his teeth. His tongue began to lap lazily over the stiff bud, his free hand still preoccupied with the other— pinching, tweaking, and flicking any which way that set your body alight. 

“Like that?” he muttered into your skin, a momentary cessation just to catch his breath before he was diving back in, repeating the torment to the other side. 

You sunk your teeth into your bottom lip, nodding. “Mhm,” you breathed, unable to find the right words to tell him just how much you liked it. Perhaps even a bit embarrassed to admit it. 

Your hands abandoned the cushions, finding his head and weaving your fingers through the graying curls. Keeping him close, right where you needed him. The friction between your body intensified once you felt the unmistakable outline of his erection between your thighs; this lewd display, hardly even having to lift a finger while your husband devoted himself to pleasing you, turned him on. Made him ache, too. The idea alone could have driven you over the edge. 

Then, he was using both generous hands to push your breasts together, leaving little space between them to swivel his tongue swiftly from each peak to the other. His hooded eyes peered up at you, tongue out, drool dripping down his chin and onto your skin, appearing like a goddamn beast in heat. Desperate for his fix. 

“God, Joel,” you whined again, finding that his name was one of the only words you could muster. Your knuckles grew stiff, clutching onto his hair with a new ferocity as your pelvis began to chase the length in his jeans. The subtle grinding of your clothed cunt against him accelerated the thrilling build-up, the dull warmth in your lower tummy growing into a wildfire that descended through your core and trembling thighs. 

“Christ, you’re fuckin’ perfect,” he growled, words muffled as he refused to detach his lips from your nipples. He must have noticed the way your eyes began to roll back into your skull, the pathetic way you clung onto him, even rolling your chest to the rhythm of his tongue.  “You gonna come for me, baby? Gonna come just from me playin’ with these pretty tits, huh?” 

It was all too much, too overwhelming, overstimulating. Your body didn’t know where to bend nor break, having no choice but to give in to the momentum Joel was effortlessly building. And when the thread snapped, you had the brief feeling of falling. Unsure if what you were feeling was what he asked of you, but it swarmed like warm water. Starting deep in your gut and spreading throughout your limbs that clenched around his hips and shoulders, body seizing and lips parting in a wail of euphoria. 

Your untouched cunt clenched rapidly, leaking into your panties as you came, little bolts of lightening hot energy shot through your nipples still being lapped in Joel’s attention. Your shoulders hunched over his head, battered buds growing sore with overstimulation, but you wanted to ride the high. Feel every ounce of wave wash over you until your toes were curling and your tits were begging for a new type of relief. 

“Ahh, oh my god. Yes. Okay, okay fuck,” you heaved, hands now working to pull him away. Joel unlatched his lips from your skin obediently, releasing the fullness of your breasts from his paws. His hands found the sides of your belly again, holding your quivering body still while he left a path of sweltering hot kisses along your sternum to your pulse point. He grazed his teeth over the spot, nibbling gently. 

“Didn’t know you could do that,” he mused into your neck. You could practically hear the cheeky spread of his lips. 

You chuckled, still breathless. “Yeah, neither did I. Fuck,” you shivered, jerking back every time his chest brushed up against yours. 

Joel hummed pleasantly, pressing a final kiss below your ear before he retracted back from you. You saw him reach for the t-shirt discarded on the other side of the couch but grabbed at his wrist before he could pick it up. 

“Wait,” you said, the cloud of lust still hanging over you. You weren’t ready for the moment to end. “I wanna do something for you.” You kept your voice light, meager. Somewhat petulant. Hoping that with enough sweetness, he wouldn’t be stubborn enough to deny you. It was not as if you couldn’t feel the way he still strained against his jeans. 

Joel sighed, tilting his head at you with a knowing look. Equally scolding and sympathetic. “You know I don’t want ya movin’ around too much, the doctor said—”

“Who said I have to move?” you interrupted, arching a devious brow at him. He furrowed his in return. “Maybe… I just wanna watch.” 

A mere breath, brief and dumbfounded while the suggestion sunk in. Then, a brazen grin crept its way onto his face, and he chuckled lowly in his chest. “Oh, baby,” Joel purred, shaking his head at you, unable to mute his delight at your proposition, and you wondered why you hadn’t thought of it sooner. 

You loved this. Being so certain that, despite your current state, you could still excite your husband as diligently as he did you. That he craved you, needed you for any semblance of release. 

Slowly, Joel lifted himself from his knees to his feet. Your neck craned back to accommodate the size of him standing before you, a practiced hand undoing his belt and unzipping the front of his jeans. You watched in sheer fascination, hazy eyes and a blissed-out little smile that you tried to bite back, as he shucked his jeans a few inches down his thighs. Your mouth watered at the sight of his gray boxers tented and stained through— all from the sight of you coming undone. His eyes never left you as he hooked his thumbs into the band of his boxers, pulling them down towards his jeans, his heated cock jumping free. The reddened tip hit just below his belly button; glistening, begging for attention. 

You had half a mind to reach out, take his girth between your hands, and guide him into your mouth. You would find some way to accommodate yourself; a pillow under your knees, or perhaps on your side across his lap. But Joel wouldn’t have it. Wouldn’t put you through the effort just for his pleasure. You had tried, and failed, to argue with the logic time and time again. 

Instead, you let him come to you. He hunched forward over you, one hand stabilizing himself on the arm of the couch, while the other came first to his lips, generously spitting into his palm, and then to grip himself at the base, sighing at the contact. His balls were already taut, cock throbbing. Your lips hung open in pure starvation, encouraging him to give himself over to you. 

“Where do you want me?” he asked, voice low and hoarse as he began to slowly pump himself into his fist. You moaned a little sound of desperation at the picture. “Ain’t gonna last long, baby,” he warned you. “Where do you want me?” 

You considered his question. The twinge of power excited you, and you found that the answer came easy; perhaps raunchy to the outside eye, but it felt nothing if not natural. 

You dragged one of your hands up and over your swollen stomach; slowly, sultry as you circled it, batting devious eyes up at him. “Want you right here,” you told him, watching his shroud of control begin to falter. Written plainly, desperately across his face. The muscle in his jaw twitched where his teeth ground hard. 

“Fuck,” he groaned, fist working over his silken shaft a bit faster now, intentional. His eyes were abysmal, blown black and desperately searching yours as a sheen layer of sweat covered his brow. “S’what you want, darlin’? Want me to paint that pretty fuckin’ belly of yours?” 

You nodded at him eagerly, spurring him on. Inviting in and accepting the depravity, passion, and lust that clung to the atmosphere. You two wouldn’t be able to indulge in it as freely much longer. 

You brought your own hands back to your breasts, squeezing over his diligent work, and moaning softly when your fingers pinched your battered nipples. An added touch. Joel’s hawk eyes followed every movement, devouring you. His lower abdomen clenched and his fist pumped himself ardently until he was cursing a string of fuckfuckfucks, squeezing his eyes shut, face contorted in euphoric bliss. He closed further in on you, close enough so that the tip of his cock nudged the bare skin above your belly button while he fulfilled his promise. Painting you in thick, white release, the primal sounds resonating in his chest while he came a sweet symphony to your ears. 

Some splattered onto your boobs, even a bit on your chin. It was bizarre how long it had taken to get you pregnant considering the absolute mass of Joel’s orgasms. But the majority of his pearly cum dripped over your stomach, coating your skin in a familiar warmth; the same seed that graced you with the gift inside of you. 

His ragged breaths began to slow, but you took it upon yourself to drag out your little show just a while longer. And he watched, just as greedy, while you ran your fingers over your stomach once more, collecting his spend onto the digits. You made sure he was looking you in the eyes when you brought your fingers to your mouth, pushing them knuckles deep and wrapping your lips around them. He stared at you with what you could only decipher as awestruck pride.

“You… are an extraordinary woman,” he said, breathless. The proudest grin plastered across his face— perhaps even a bit smug. You just shook your head laughing, smacking your lips as you pulled your fingers from your mouth and savored the salty taste of him. He leaned forward, capturing your damp lips in a lingering kiss before pressing his forehead to yours. “Stay here. Gonna run us a bath.” He gave you one last peck on your cheek before straightening up, tucking his softening cock back into his jeans, and heading towards the bathroom. 

You watched him go before leaning back into the cushions, content and satisfied, albeit rather sticky and sweaty. Gone were the aches and pains of a day without Joel, replaced solely with his fondness for you. You stared up at the ceiling, breathing deeply, and attempting to picture what life would look like in just four short weeks. How the love you shared for each other could possibly grow any larger; it would fill every corner in the room, you thought. It would dominate every waking moment, and inhabit each rapturous dream. In the moments when you freed yourself of your worries and doubts, that was what you held onto. How simple yet substantial the things around you were:

A warm, sturdy house.

A fridge full of food.

Kind, helpful neighbors.  

A family who would drop anything and everything to help you. 

A husband who cherished you.

You couldn’t stop the errant tears, no matter how frivolous, from pooling at your waterline. You laughed quietly to yourself, lifting your head back up and using the backs of your hands to wipe them away as they cascaded down your cheeks. Happy tears. Excited tears. Nervous tears and tears for the sake of tears all wrapped into one. A beautiful, daunting array of emotions that you would tend to over and over if it meant having the life you were lucky enough to live with the man you were lucky enough to love. 

Your eyes fell back to your stomach, the sight of it full and large, home and life-source to your baby, only fueling your fragility. But for a moment, as brief as it may have been, you couldn’t even remember a life before all of this.  

“I can’t wait to meet you,” you whispered.  

And you were surely looking forward to the life after. 

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[bonkhrnyjail]

sweet plum | masterlist

pairing: pedro pascal x fem!reader (plus size)

rating: explicit

warnings: sexual content, light bdsm, kink, age difference, depictions of anxiety, discussion of fatphobia/weight discrimination

summary: after years of working your ass off as a hairstylist, you finally get your big break, hired to work for HBO on the show the last of us. you get assigned to work one on one with pedro pascal, the lead actor in the series. as your friendship develops over the time you spend together, there is clearly, and unexpectedly, something more lingering between you. despite your best efforts and common sense... it seems fate has other plans.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

pinterest board

spotify playlist

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

chapter four

chapter five

chapter six

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #plus size reader #pedro pascal x reader #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #the last of us

[bonkhrnyjail]

sweet plum | chapter three

masterlist | pinterest board

pairing: pedro pascal x fem!reader (plus size)

rating: mature (will become explicit in future chapters)

warnings: depictions of anxiety, drinking, nicotine use

summary: it's the final day of filming, and you go out to celebrate with your fellow cast and crew members

a/n: thank you guys for the love on the first two chapters! i honestly wasn't anticipating much of a response on here so it's been a sweet surprise. i have imposter syndrome up the fucking wazoo and this is the first creative project i have ever stuck with for more than a few months, and i think it's partially because of the kind comments i've received from people (and also because i'm fucking horny and delusional for this old man). anyways, hope you enjoy chapter three. xoxo.

You and a few of the other makeup artists and hair stylists are standing a few hundred feet away, watching as Pedro and Bella repeatedly break character on top of a magnificent hill. The roar of laughter from the distance still manages to reach your ears, Pedro doubled over with hands bracing on his knees to keep from toppling over completely.

You know your period is coming, but the emotions you’ve been experiencing today are something else entirely. You awoke this morning and immediately started to tear up, knowing today was the last full day you’d spend with everyone, the crew who's become more like family to you than anything else. You’re just so proud of everyone. Filming this show was grueling, the labor not only physical but emotional too.

Fucking hell, you’re tearing up again just thinking about it. 

“Awww, honey bun,” one of the girls pulled you into a side hug, squeezing into your hip with her resting hand. “I get it, I felt this way after my first long project too.” 

You hate crying in front of people, but you’re so exhausted from holding it in since the morning, it all just pours out.

“I just love all of you guys so much, I don’t want it to end. It’s been such an honor to do this job and to become friends with all of you," you sniffle, frantically wiping at your eyes to clear the streams of tears from your puffy cheeks. "And Pedro, he’s been such a dream to work with. Such a genuine, kind guy, I just love working with him-”

“Baby, we know.” one of the few guys in your group teases and everyone erupts with laughter.

“Wha— Why are you guys laughing?" you whine. "Did I miss something?”

Are they onto you?

You think that you’ve done an incredible job hiding your colossal, debilitating crush on your extremely attractive, kind, witty, charming client. Of course you’ve experienced work crushes before, most of the actors you’d worked with are incredibly easy on the eyes.

But with Pedro, things were different. The amount of time that you’ve spent together during this project and the way your relationship developed, you didn’t stand a god damned chance. The way he talks, listens, looking you deep in your eyes and transfixing you with his soft baritone, even in the most casual of conversations. He makes you feel like you’re the only person in the room. You barely survived some of those interactions, walking away with jello legs and a pounding chest, enough to make you a little short of breath.

“Oh, come on, kid, don’t play dumb,” another one chimes in, “We know you two have the hots for each other.”

Wait.

Each other?

The girl next to you squeezes your hip again.

“We’ve been placing bets to see which one of you would slip up first. It’s hard to watch. You guys are so, so oblivious.” 

EACH OTHER?

Your chest starts pounding hard as your breath kicks out from underneath you. You can feel the pinkish-red hue spread hot over your round cheeks, only masked by the makeup you had put on that morning.

“You guys,” you manage through slightly labored breathing, “He doesn’t… it’s not… he wouldn’t…”

“See, I told you guys, it's gone completely over her head.”

Everyone is chiming in at this point, fits of laughter erupting from either side of you.

You honestly can’t believe the implication. You, crushing on him, sure. Who wouldn’t? But him, crushing on you? This has to be some kind of joke.

It’s not that you lack confidence. You rate yourself. You’re sexy, funny, talented, kinky, a great cook and even better at cleaning, not that those last two are things that should define you in any way. You're versatile, you can go out dancing or cuddle up on the couch and have a great night either way. And as much as you’re high strung about your work, you make up for it by being fun in your personal life. Yes, you have some moderate anxiety issues, but once you feel comfortable around people you’re a pretty damn good time. As for your looks, you truly like your appearance, you feel at home in your body and love to flaunt your curves.

But you’re also realistic.

Being a bigger girl means things will always be a bit different for you. You have to watch your back, fatphobia is so rampant and completely acceptable according to society, especially in LA. You’ve been denied entry to clubs simply because of your size. You've barely dated and haven't hooked up with anyone since your big breakup, over two years ago now. But you're not an idiot, and you know if you did, it’s a whole different ball game when you’re plus size.

You’ve helped a few of your fat friends make Tinder profiles, constantly having to answer questions like 'Does this picture look like me?' 'Is this catfishy?' 'Should I put a disclaimer in my bio?'

It’s never due to lack of confidence on their part, it’s due to lack of trust in other people to not be fucking vile. It’s exhausting, constantly trying to protect and defend yourself from hatred towards your own body, a body that you've come to love so dearly.

Now, with that being said, Pedro Pascal does not strike you as the type to go after someone like you. Not because he’s a shitty person, but because he’s basically an A-list fucking celebrity who can likely pull any woman he wants. In your experience, most of the older men who have shown interest in you were simply fetishizing your body. You're absolutely certain Pedro would never do that though, his respect for women is so innate, you can’t even conjure an image in your head of him treating you that way.

But the truth is, as fucked up as it is, if men can have their pick of the bunch, most of them will go for a thin woman. Social conditioning is a bitch.

Not to mention, he’s quite a bit older than you. You're closer in age to Bella than you are to Pedro. It's not something that bothers you, you've always gone for people older than you, but you don’t know how he feels in that regard.

If you're being honest, you never even allowed yourself to entertain the thought of him returning your feelings. But now here you are, and for some reason the concept scares you utterly shitless.

You want to bolt in the other direction, get in your car, and drive until you see nothing but fields. Canada is pretty good for that, you can drive in any direction and end up somewhere with no houses or buildings for miles. You love to sing in the car and drive for hours with no destination in mind. Horrible for the planet, yes, but you have a hybrid so you cut yourself a bit of slack. It’s better than driving your quiet, elderly neighbors up the wall with your obnoxious belting. 

What if he did feel the same way about you? Then what?

First of all, he’s famous, incredibly famous. He’s a goddamn heartthrob. You’ve seen the TikTok edits that Bella saves on their phone to taunt Pedro with. People want him, bad, and you don’t think they’d appreciate him having a woman in his life. You aren’t sure you can handle an influx of cyberbullying from teenage girls with unhealthy parasocial relationships and too much time on their hands.

Secondly, there is of course the unexpected nature of you being his pick, decades younger than him and certainly curvier than most would anticipate.

And of course, your job. What would this do to your reputation? You don't want to be the girl who is known for this kind of thing, You don’t even know if this kind of thing is allowed due to the nature of your working relationship. Would you ever be allowed to work with him again? 

You can feel your breaths starting to get shorter and shorter as your internal dialogue continues to obsessively ramble.

“I have to run back to the trailer, y'all just... text me if you need me, 'kay?”

You briskly walk toward the direction of the massive white vehicles, grateful to be able to drop the act and let the panic you feel seep into your facial expression. You walk into the trailer and slump down into the chair, managing an unfortunate attempt at the breathing techniques your therapist taught you.

As your body finally begins to settle back into a healthy rhythm, you hear voices getting louder and louder. 

Shit, they’re breaking for lunch.

Without thinking, you bolt out the door with your bag and hide behind the trailer furthest from the incoming crowd of people.

You just need to calm down.

As you settle, you take some more deep breaths, your head flat against the white metal of the trailer, cooling the heat of your scalp. It helps, and you get lost in the sensation, the breathing steadying you back into your body. 

Suddenly you hear your name being called in a gravelly voice, slightly steeped in a southern twang.

“Don’t come back here, I’m infected!” you blurt.

Stupid, yes, but it’ll buy you a second to come up with an excuse as to why you’re hiding. Digging through your bag to find your phone, you suddenly see the vape your friend left with you months ago.

Perfect.

You pull it out along with your phone and quickly open Instagram to make it look like you’ve been casually scrolling this whole time. You take a quick pull from the cartridge and try to catch as much of the vapor in your mouth, trying to protect your lungs and throat so you don’t start immediately hacking. 

You exhale just as Pedro turns the corner.

“What are you doing back here? For some reason you’re never where I expect you to be.” he quips, his feet in a wide stance and arms crossed, illuminating his broad shoulders.

“Oh, it’s super embarrassing,” you flash the vape in your left hand. “My friend got me addicted to this stupid thing. I’m trying to quit but... clearly not going so well.”

He snatches it out of your hand before you can protest, studying it like it's an ancient artifact.

“What exactly is this?”

“You’ve never seen an ElfBar before?”

He looks at you, dumbfounded and a little peeved.

“Here,” you step forward and use your hand to guide his, lining up the vape with his lips. “Inhale.” 

That was a little more seductive than you intended.

He obeys, taking a much bigger hit than he probably should. A panic washes over his eyes just before he starts coughing and hacking, the mist flying out of his open mouth.

“What the fuck is that? It tastes horrible!” he starts making noises of disgust amidst his hacking.

You can’t help yourself from laughing at his excessive dramatics.

“It’s essentially flavored nicotine. I like it though, I feel like it tastes like Froot Loops.”

He attempts to gasp but chokes halfway through, his lungs still traumatized by the vapor.

“How dare you insult Froot Loops like that!” he booms, his face absolutely flabbergasted by the suggestion. 

Your hands are on your knees now, completely doubled over and barely able to manage a breath. His bellowing laughter fills the space, bouncing off of the trailer walls and waltzing with your high pitched cackles. Unable to hold himself up, he places a hand on your shoulder, and you both lose your footing.

You trip backward, back hitting the trailer hard as he stumbles into you. 

Your bodies collide for a moment, his face so close that you can feel his breath tickling your cheek. The laughter between you quickly subsides as your consciousnesses adjust to the proximity you share. You feel that familiar flush prickle your face as he places a hand on the surface behind you, pushing himself off.

You meet his gaze, gentle and sweet, eyes softly nestled in crinkled skin. Your breaths start to deepen and your lips part slightly, unconsciously, as you maintain the eye contact intensifying dangerously between you. His gaze wanders to your mouth and you draw in a sharp inhale, an image of his lips on yours flashing through your head.

Your body jolts when reality catches up to you. He quickly steps back, raises a hand to scratch his head as his eyes dart around. There’s a moment of thick, heavy silence between you, you hastily fussing with your fingernails as he continues to mess with his hair.

You can’t think of a single word in the English language to save your life right now.

“Sorry, I-I didn’t mean to—” he fumbles through the words before you cut him off.

“No! No, it’s ok. It was an accident! Don’t worry, I’m ok—”

“Good!” He continues stammering, an undertone of panic lacing his tone. “Ok, good, I really didn’t mean to—”

“Why are you kids hiding back here?” a familiar accent cracks through the tension, a wave of relief crashing through your body.

Bella. Thank fuck.

“I... got P to try my vape!” you tease. “He’s… not a fan.”

You start to walk toward Bella, hoping that Pedro will follow you back to the more crowded area, desperate to get anywhere that keeps you from being alone with him

“Listen, If I’m gonna have nicotine, I’m just gonna stick to a good old-fashioned cigarette.” he states, still clearly trying to shake the Joel from his voice. He follows behind you, back to the open field where everyone is gathered.

Your hands are visibly shaking, so you hold them behind your back to hide them from the crowd. Beads of sweat start to prickle the back of your neck, the reality of what just happened hitting you like a ton of bricks.

You feel a strong hand rest on the small of your back and you jump. Hard.

“You ok?” a deep whisper floats toward your ear.

Why does he always have to be so fucking thoughtful?

“Never better!” you blurt, flashing a toothy, gaudy smile.

You’re a good liar, but not that good.

The two of you immerse yourselves in the swarm, pulled in different directions by little clusters of people that demand your presence. You desperately fight the urge to look back at him, but accept that the further you are from him right now, the better.

.   .   .   .   .

“And that's a wrap everybody!” Craig shouts towards the crowd of people behind him.

Cheers erupt, the crew hugging and high-fiving each other, little sounds of glee coming from every which way. In the distance, you see Pedro pull Bella in for a tight squeeze, their feet hovering off the ground as he spins them around in a circle. Arms and bodies push tightly against you as you get eaten alive by a clumsy group hug.

“I love you guys so much,” escapes you as you’re squeezed harder and harder, struggling to manage a full inhale. You’re going to miss this, miss them, so much. You can’t believe how fast these months flew by.

The group slowly starts migrating towards the trailers scattered in the faraway field. You hear chatter about dinner plans, possible parties, future projects and people excited to go home to their families and pets. 

“Are you excited to go home?” The girl next to you inquires, her hand gripping yours fiercely.

“I mean, I miss my bed. And my bathtub. And kitchen. But honestly, I’m more sad to leave than anything else.”

It’s true, you miss your shitty little apartment. The AC doesn’t work half the time, the sink drains painfully slowly, and you swear you’ve heard scratching on the walls in your sleep. Staying in the pristine room you were put up in these past months has been far more luxurious than what you're used to, but it isn’t yours. You miss your posters, your record player, your stuffed animals, though you brought your most precious one with you to Canada. Just the thought of cozying up on your creaky mattress makes you feel warm inside, dissipating some of the discomfort you feel knowing this experience is over.

You sneak quietly into Pedro’s trailer and begin packing up your things. You snap a quick picture of your station, your hand in the frame making the heart symbol with your fingers that the kpop stars do.

The door creak open and you swing your head around to find Pedro standing in the doorway, hair tousled by the wind.

“Hey you!” he inches closer to you, opening his arms for a hug.

You throw your arms around his neck, standing on your tiptoes so you can rest your head on his shoulder. His arms find their way to your lower back, bunching the fabric of you shirt as he squeezes you tight.

“I’m so proud of you,” you gush, your hands unclasping from behind him and sliding off of his shoulders. “You were, you are, amazing. I can’t wait to see the final product.”

He reaches for your hand and gives it a little squeeze.

“I couldn’t have done it without you, you know. My hair could never be this gray without your magic.”

“Give it a few years,” you tease. “Next season you won’t need me at all.”

He lets out that laugh, the bellowing boom filling the space with its warmth and magic. Nothing butters you up more than that sound, a smile stretching across your face to make way for your giggles.

“So... a couple of us are going out for dinner and drinks after this, and you’re coming,” he orders, grabbing his shirt from the pile of folded clothes in the empty swiveling chair.

He begins to unbutton his flannel to reveal a white undershirt, slightly damp and sticking to his skin. Despite your straining efforts, your gaze follows his hands as they move lower… and lower… and lower…

“Whaddya' say?” he breaks your trance with the question.

Your vision goes fuzzy trying to focus solely on his face as he removes the shirt entirely.

His arms.

“U-uh, y-yeah. Sure. Yes. Where?” you stumble.

“I’m not exactly sure yet, but I’ll call you when I find out. We might be going out after, so I’m going to try to dress nice. You can if you want, too, but no pressure.”

He pulls his black t-shirt over his head, messing up his hair in the process.

You instinctively reach up to fix the bird’s nest he just created, running your fingers through to calm the frizz.

“God, what am I gonna do without you, Plum?” he grins sweetly, a soft chuckle wisping past his rosy lips.

Your stomach flutters as you press the pads of your toes into your shoes. Anything to keep you grounded.

“I have no idea. You’re pretty hopeless when it comes to that hair of yours,” you jab, using the palm of your hands to pat down the remaining flyaway curls.

He reaches a hand up to try and wrestle with your hair. You quickly duck, avoiding his touch.

“Hey! Never touch the hair man! You know better!”

As much as you'd love to feel his fingers raked through your hair, you’d be damned if he ruined your fresh blowout.

“But it’s too perfect, it’s begging to be messed with.”

He tries for it again but you manage another successful dodge.

“Enough! I’m outta' here!” you sass, grabbing your bags and head towards the door. “See you later?”

You pause in the doorway, looking back at him.

“See you later,” he winks.

.   .   .   .   .

You’re sitting at the far right end of the table, wedged in the corner awkwardly with your ankles crossed under your chair. Most of the actors are sat by each other, so it felt natural to join the crew on the other side. Only one other hairstylists showed, you aren't entirely sure what happened to everyone else, but you heard they would meet up with your group later on. Fingers crossed.

The black dress you chose for the evening tightly hugs your curves, flaring at the thigh and hemmed just above the knee. You’re wearing a sensible two-inch heel and some Dr. Scholls inserts, with the hope that there will be dancing and booze in the later hours of the evening. You stand out from the rest of the group, a bit overdressed compared to the others, except for Pedro.

He’s wearing a black button down, two buttons on the top undone, and a pair of pleated green slacks that cling to his figure in all the right places. His belt is sizable but not gaudy, and a gold band is fitted perfectly to his right ring finger.

Despite your desperate efforts not to, you've repeatedly gazed across the table to him, your prolonged gawking completely overriding your willpower.

His hands, god his hands, the veins prominent as he uses his knife to carefully cut into his steak. You know his grip is strong, you’ve been subject to many an affectionate hand squeeze. The thought of him running his thick fingers through your hair makes you white-knuckle your silverware.

The scrape of your knife jerks you back to reality, and you quickly join the conversation happening to your right. One of the guys tells an animated story about an ex-boyfriend that leaves the rest of you erupting in laughter.

Through your lingering giggles, you instinctively find yourself turning your head to sneak a glance at the handsome man across from you.

Only this time, you meet his gaze.

He’s not exactly smiling with his lips, but his eyes are, soft and crinkled along the outer corners. Your chest starts to flutter, but in the same instant, you feel the tension in your body melt, as he continues to stare back at you with a remarkable gentleness. A grin slowly takes over his face, his teeth catching the low lighting of the restaurant, and like a puppet, your lips mimic his.

“Pedro?” Bella questions in a whisper, lightly tapping his shoulder. “Merle is trying to get your attention.”

You jerk your head the other way, so violently that you know you’ll feel it tomorrow.

You can barely hear the conversation across the table, your burning desire to know if anyone witnessed the interaction impossible to soothe. You try to immerse yourself back into your group when a slight wave of dizziness washes over you, so you choose instead listen quietly, fidgeting with your phone in your hand.

A few minutes later, you feel a quick buzz against your palm, a notification from Pedro appearing on your screen. He’s never texted you before, always insistent on just calling you instead. You tuck your hands under the table as inconspicuously as you can.

P: We r going to a club after this. Want 2 come?

Of course he texts like that. 

You hold in a chuckle and glance towards him. He smiles, throwing two thumbs up eagerly with a wiggle of his brow, clearly urging you to say yes.

You: I thought you didn’t like to text?

P: Didn’t want to yell across the table. Come party?

He attaches a bitmoji, an animation of him with a confetti cannon. Your eyes roll on instinct as you stifle your laughter.

You: I’ll come, but only if you take a shot with me.

He replies with a thumbs up.

.   .   .   .   .

After dinner, a celebratory cake, and a sea of hugs, approximately half of the group you started with hikes down a few blocks to a small, underground club. Pedro is a few feet behind you, out of your sightline as you hold hands with two of your favorite coworkers. The three of you try to skip in unison but fail miserably, the rhythm of your legs too disjointed to end with you all staying upright.

The bouncer lets you in one by one as you make your way down the steep metal stairs and into the bustling room. The lighting is mostly purple and blue, spotlights swirling around the shadowy, dancing bodies in the center. You mosey over to the bar and within a few seconds, Pedro slides in right beside you.

“What’s your shot of choice?” you shout over the blaring music.

He leans in, brushing your hair to the side so he can speak directly into your ear.

“You choose. I’m not picky.”

His breath tickles the skin on your neck, sending goosebumps down your spine with an inaudible gasp. Your focus flickers, thoughts of his mouth tasting your skin, mustache grazing as he trails lower... and lower...

No.

You snap out of it as you greet the bartender.

“Can we get four shots of Patrón?”

“Hey, you said one shot.” Pedro whines.

“You drink however much you want,” you place a hand on his chest, the atmosphere of the club creating a placebo effect of tipsiness. “I’ll drink whatever’s left.”

The bartender pours the tequila haphazardly into the shot glasses, already fixed with lime wedges, and slides them over to you.

“OK, grab one and lock arms with me.” you shout.

He obeys, linking his left arm with your right.

“Now, cheers me. Don’t break eye contact or it’s 10 years of bad sex,” you exclaim through a hearty grin.

“Can’t risk that,” he winks.

God, you want him.

Your glasses clink and you throw the shots back with your arms still snaked around each other. The smooth burn coats your throat as it settles in your stomach. You pull away, biting into the lime wedge asa you place your glass down gently on the countertop.

His skin is glimmering in this light, the purple and blue dancing along the dew decorating his hairline. The curve of his nose is especially highlighted by the beams, resembling that of a ancient sculpture.

“Another?” you grab the remaining two glasses and hold one up to him inquisitively.

“Not yet. Later, or I’ll pay for it in the morning.”

You hold both glasses up to your open mouth and pour, the sting burning all the way down your esophagus and warming your tummy. You leave the limes untouched.

“More for me,” you smile.

A hand grabs you by the waist and tugs at your dress.

“You have to dance with me to this song!” one of your friends from the makeup team shouts in your ear, much louder than she needs to.

Pedro grabs the shot glasses out of your hands, mouthing his words with a smile.

"Go."

You try to wave as you’re being dragged in the direction of the dance floor. The crowd swallows you entirely and he disappears from your eyesight. 

“Everytime We Touch” by Cascada is booming through the subwoofers and rippling the floor. The bass flows through you and somehow intensifies the heat spreading in your midsection. You start to move your body to the beat, flipping your hair to one side and running your fingers through it. You close your eyes and let the music turn you into a vessel of rhythm.

.   .   .   .   .

You’re drunk. About thirty minutes ago, a few friends bought more shots, clumsily pouring them in your mouth as you continued dancing. It’s only been an hour and a half, and you’re already five shots deep.

Your inhibition is nowhere to be found.

As you’re twirling and bouncing around the dance floor, the crowd cracks open slightly, allowing you a slivered view of the bar. Pedro is there, leaning against the counter and watching you intently. He waves diffidently when your eyes meet his.

“Be right back,” you turn, shouting to the group, squeezing the hand of the girl nearest to you. 

You manage to escape the sea of bodies relatively unscathed, although you're certain your hair is absolutely fucked. You plop down carelessly on the barstool next to Pedro, raking your fingers through your mane to hopefully tame whatever the hell is going on up there.

Pedro turns to the bartender.

“Can we get some water over here?” He motions towards you with his thumb.

The bartender slides a water bottle down the bar and Pedro catches it impressively.

“God, you read my mind.” you manage, still a bit breathless.

“Who said this is for you?”

He opens the bottle, his massive hand flexing, a thick vein prominent on the top. Your eyes wander to his tattoo, barely visible in the violet light. You're transfixed for a moment, your head crooking slightly to try and study it more closely, the dizziness that tequila inevitably sparks beginning to set in.

He chuckles at your ogling, handing over the water with a cracked-open lid. 

“You were staring at me,” you blurt, any semblance of a conscience you once had completely dissolved by the amount of alcohol in your bloodstream. “I saw you.”

His eyebrow cocks.

“I could say the same thing about you at dinner earlier."

Your stomach drops at the confession, but for some reason causes you to burst with unbridled laughter.

He giggles along with you, his shoulders bouncing as his dimple slowly appears.

“You’re just really fun to watch out there. You dance very freely. And your dress-”

“What about my dress?” you jut, cutting him off with a drunken, flirty shove on the shoulder.

“It looks really nice on you. Fits you... just right.” 

He doesn’t break eye contact as he says it, his voice gentle and tinged with desire. You can feel your heartbeat in your fingertips as your ears color in red. You can sense the wide, awestruck grin plastered across your lips, too inebriated to do anything about it. Your eyes soften as you melt into the moment, Pedro looking down at you with gaze that can only be described as one of pure admiration.

He reaches up a hand and smoothes down your flyaway hairs.

“I’m helping, I promise.”

You lock your eyes on a spot on a stain in the wood floor, suddenly overcome with a giddy shyness.

“Well, you… you look pretty spiffy yourself. I like your…”

Don’t say chest. Don’t say chest.

“... shirt… buttons.”

Shirt buttons?

He booms with laughter, hard enough that he doubles over, placing a hand on your thigh to keep from toppling over completely.

You throb at the touch, the core of it pulsing between your legs.

“I’ll have to wear this one more often,” he teases, his hand unmoving.

With every second that passes, the sensation of his palm pressing into your skin starts to burn, the throb morphing into a panging need under your skirt. You bite your lip hard, bearing through the searing ache.

You have to get out of here before you do something you’ll regret.

“I-I’m gonna go dance again. You wanna come?” you spring from the barstool. holding out a hand, beckoning him to follow you into the mass of sweaty bodies behind you.

“I’ll watch, you go. Have fun.” he smiles, giving your hand a gentle squeeze.

You turn away with a stifled grin, his words echoing in your head as the crowd swallows you whole.

. . . . .

chapter four

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