#pedroispunk

[norripley]

your camera roll dating Pedro Pascal

[xbeababyx]

Pov: You are Pedro's girlfriend and this is your camera roll.

[looshelle]

Cowboy Joel!! Cowboy…Pedro? Agent Whiskey? Uh…so many to choose from!

[wiitchesterr]

ᴄʜᴀʀɪᴛʏ ᴄᴀꜱᴇ

pedro pascal x younger!fem!reader one-shot

insta smau

or just being pedro’s secret controversially young gf . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

a chance raffle win leads to unexpected texts, slow-burning chemistry, and stolen moments with pedro pascal. she’s younger, balancing school and real life. he’s careful, charming, and maybe a little too into her for his own good. what starts off light turns tender, and one cozy night might just change everything.

masterlist | 9k words | all fiction, pedro is 45-50 and fem!reader is 23 (I don't rlly gaf if you're annoyed with age-gaps if you don't like it fucking scroll), flirting, YEARNING (you’ll never stop me), kissing, celebrity things like that paparazzi, fingering, oral f!recieving, pussy job, unprotected piv sexxx

You hadn’t even meant to enter.

Your best friend, Kelsey, had texted you in the middle of a script revision meltdown with a link and three question marks.

“A Pedro Pascal charity meet & greet raffle. $25 to enter. Winner gets a private lunch.”

It was for some children’s literacy nonprofit, and you’d clicked it half-delirious, half-joking, adding one entry just to say you did.

Two weeks later, you got the email.

You thought it was a scam. Then your phone rang—an actual event coordinator from the organization, confirming details, verifying your ID, telling you a car service would be provided, that Pedro’s team had already cleared the date.

You stared at your phone long after the call ended. You were twenty-three, in college for a degree in screenwriting, juggling a bookstore job and unpaid pitch work. Pedro Pascal had been your comfort actor since your late teens—long before the mainstream hype. You’d watched his indie films, not just the blockbusters. You knew lines of dialogue he probably didn’t even remember.

Now you were going to sit across from him. At lunch. For an hour.

You didn't even have anything to wear that didn't look like it came off a Goodwill clearance rack.

The restaurant was tucked away in Laurel Canyon, low lighting, all exposed brick and polished glass.

You checked your reflection four times in the car window. A blouse that didn't cling too tight. Mascara you applied with shaking hands. You told yourself he probably did dozens of these. He wouldn’t even remember your name.

When you arrived at the restaurant the host said, “Right this way,” and there he was.

Pedro Pascal. In a dark blue button-up, sleeves rolled to the forearms. Sunglasses pushed up in his hair. Beard trimmed. Brown eyes soft.

He stood when you walked up.

“Hey, you must be the donor,” he said warmly. “Thanks for donating.”

You managed a smile. “Thanks for being the prize.”

He laughed. A real one.

You thought it would be awkward. Stilted. But he was funny, sharp, easy to talk to. You ended up rambling about how much his performance in The Bubble meant to you—how you watched it on your laptop in your dark bedroom during a bad depressive episode, how it got you through that awful year.

He looked surprised. Touched.

“I forget anyone actually saw that movie,” he said with a lopsided smile.

“I watched it five times. At least.”

He blinked. “Wait, are you messing with me?”

“Nope.” You grinned. “I even wrote a paper on it for a class on satire. You play a man who's aware he’s a fraud but keeps smiling through it—like, that’s the whole metaphor.”

Pedro blinked again—then gave you a slow, stunned laugh, mouth slightly open.

You weren’t flirting. You were just being honest. And maybe that’s what caught him off guard.

He walked you out after. His hand hovered at the small of your back but never touched.

“Seriously,” he said, “this was the best version of one of these I’ve ever done. I usually feel like a trained monkey. This felt like…” he paused. “A real conversation.”

You tried to play it cool. “That’s the goal. I’m supposed to be a screenwriter, right?”

He smiled, wider this time. “If you ever finish something, I’d love to read it.”

You stared at him, then snorted. “That sounded like a line.”

You were standing on the curb with him now, your rideshare still a few minutes out.

Pedro leaned against the building’s side wall, sunglasses back on, arms folded. The California sun caught the edges of his hair, bringing out the warm gray in his curls. You tried not to stare.

 You were failing.

“Do you ever get tired of people telling you they’ve been obsessed with you since they were sixteen?” you asked, mostly teasing.

He laughed under his breath. “Depends on how they say it.”

You glanced up at him. “And how did I say it?”

His mouth curled. “Like someone who isn’t obsessed anymore. Just curious.”

That made you blush, which only made it worse. “Right. I’m too grown for fangirling.”

He tilted his head a little. “How grown are we talking?”

You gave him a look. “Grown enough to know that question is a trap.”

He grinned. “Smart.”

The pause that followed wasn’t awkward—it was warm, almost private. Like something unsaid had passed between you, and he was waiting to see if you’d name it.

You didn’t. You weren’t that bold. But you did say, “So, are you always this charming at these things? Or did I just catch you on a good hair day?”

He chuckled, then looked at you fully, one eyebrow raised. “Can I be honest?”

“Please.”

“I thought this would be fifteen minutes of smiling, nodding, and trying to avoid weird questions about The Mandalorian. I didn’t expect to actually…” He stopped, glanced away for a second, then back at you. “...like someone.”

Your stomach fluttered. “Someone?”

“You,” he said plainly.

Oh.

You blinked. “I—um. Okay. That’s… wow.”

Pedro rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “Sorry. That might’ve been too much.”

“No—no, it’s okay,” you said quickly, too quickly. “Just wasn’t expecting it.”

He smiled again, softer now. “That’s fair.”

Then, casually—almost like it was nothing—he said, “Would it be weird if I asked for your number?”

You stared at him. “Wait—seriously?”

He shrugged, smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Yeah. I mean, if you’re comfortable. If not, that’s okay. I just—” he hesitated, then said, “I think I’d like to talk to you again. Not in front of cameras. Or PR people.”

You swallowed. He was looking at you like he meant it. Like he wasn’t in a rush, like he could wait forever.

“…Okay,” you said. “Yeah. I’ll give it to you.”

Pedro handed you his phone. No hesitation.

You typed it in, heart pounding a little harder than it should’ve. Saved ___(from lunch) and handed it back.

He glanced down at it, then nodded. “I’ll text you. So you have mine.”

“Cool.” You tried to act normal. “Cool, cool, cool.”

Pedro smirked. “You’re very cool, yeah.”

Your rideshare pulled up just then. Saved by the bell. He opened the car door for you, gentlemanly as ever.

Before you got in, he said, voice low: “I’m really glad it was you.”

You didn’t even know what to say to that. So you smiled, and got in the car, and tried not to immediately check your phone.

But when it buzzed two minutes later, your breath caught.

Unknown Number: Glad I made it through lunch without embarrassing myself. – Pedro

You didn’t text back right away.

Mostly because you didn’t want to seem eager. But also because you were still staring at your phone like it had just whispered your name out loud.

You waited ten minutes.

Then typed:

You: I think we both made it out with our dignity intact.

But that’s a pending review once I replay the whole thing in my head at 2am.

The dots appeared instantly.

Pedro: Damn, you’re already funnier over text. I’m scared. Should I be worried about my performance?

You smiled, flopping back on your bed.

You: You were decent. You only said “like” twelve times in that one story about Oscar Isaac. Pedro: You counted?? You: I’m a writer. I observe. Pedro: Dangerous. Pedro: Remind me never to lie to you.

He kept texting over the next few days. Nothing crazy. Nothing that could get him in trouble.

But his messages were always right there—close enough to be curious. Casual enough to deny.

Sometimes it was jokes about his press schedule. Sometimes questions about your scripts. One night, it was a photo of an old movie on his TV.

Pedro: I think this director peaked with this one. Tell me I’m wrong. [screenshot from Days of Heaven] You: You want discourse at midnight? Pedro: I want you to talk to me at midnight.

You stared at that one for too long.

Typed. Erased. Typed again.

You: That sounds dangerously flirty for a man with a whole IMDb page. Pedro: That sounds dangerously flirty for a girl who called me “decent.” Pedro: …But I’m not taking it back.

By the end of the week, he was sending you voice memos.

Low, rough-voiced ones. Mostly teasing. Sometimes just quiet thoughts he didn’t want to type.

“You know, I reread your screenplay sample. You weren’t kidding when you said it was dark. That final scene? Fuck me. Also, I think I’m obsessed with the way your dialogue sounds.”

Another night:

“Couldn’t sleep. Thought about texting you something sexy but decided on this instead: Do you think people fall for potential, or do they fall for the version of themselves they think the other person sees?”

That one stayed in your phone for days.

You didn’t answer it. Not directly.

But your next message said:

You: If you’re ever back in L.A. and bored, I know a dive bar that makes the best nachos in the city.

We could talk about your IMDb shame pile.

Pedro: You tryna seduce me with nachos? You: Maybe. Pedro: Tell me when. And don’t wear that blouse again. Or do…

Four Weeks Later

The texts don’t come every day anymore.

He warned you. Said work was picking up again—press junkets, travel, long days on set. You said it was fine. You meant it. You’d gone in expecting one hour of his time, not a month of flirty messages and midnight voice memos.

But still, you missed it. The tiny buzz of your phone. His name lighting up your screen.

You missed the way he made you feel like he actually saw you—like you weren’t just some girl who lucked into a celebrity lunch but someone with ideas, talent, nerve.

The last message had been five days ago:

Pedro: Sitting in a hotel bar in Berlin. Bartender looks like he’s judging my wine choice.

You responded. He didn’t reply.

You told yourself he got busy. Maybe he’d fallen asleep. Maybe it didn’t mean anything.

Still, you reread the thread more than once.

He kept opening your chat. Typing. Erasing.

He didn’t know why you stuck in his head. Why you’d gotten under his skin like a song he couldn’t stop humming. You were so much younger, so new, but you had a sharpness he envied. You made him want to say shit he hadn’t thought to say to anyone in years.

And you hadn’t even done anything, really.

You were just... honest. No agenda. No sucking up. You looked him in the eye like he wasn’t on a billboard but sitting across from you at a tiny table, halfway real.

And now you were quiet.

Maybe you’d gotten bored. Moved on. Maybe it was better that way.

But when his plane landed in L.A., jet-lagged and strung out, the first thing he wanted—before coffee, before sleep—was to see if you were still around.

You’re watching a terrible dating show in your apartment, sipping flat wine, wearing the same hoodie three days in a row when your phone buzzes.

Pedro: Back in town. That nacho place still open?

You stare at it.

Then:

You: It closes at 2am. So yeah. Still time for questionable choices. Pedro: Are we talking about food or me? You: Don’t make me say it. Pedro: Say it in person.

Then:

Pedro: Tomorrow night?

Your stomach flips.

It’s been weeks. You thought he forgot. You thought maybe you dreamed the whole thing.

You wait ten seconds.

Then:

You: Tomorrow night.

The bar is dim and humming when you walk in. Wood-paneled walls, strings of yellow bulbs, and that warm, greasy smell that hits just right after 9 p.m.

You spot him instantly.

Pedro’s in the far booth—back against the wall, baseball cap low, beer bottle sweating in front of him. He’s dressed down: jeans and a hoodie, that you recognize from one of his press photos. 

He looks up and sees you. Smiles.

Not the friendly kind. The fuck-I-missed-you kind.

“Hey,” you say as you slide into the booth opposite him.

“Hey yourself,” he murmurs, eyes not leaving yours.

You settle your bag beside you. Try to ignore the way your heart’s fluttering like it’s your first date in high school.

He leans forward slightly. “You look…”

You raise an eyebrow. “Tired?”

He laughs. “No. Just better than I remembered.”

You smirk. “You say that to all the raffle girls?”

Pedro grins and takes a sip of his beer. “You think I’m doing a lot of raffle lunches lately?”

You don’t answer. You just meet his eyes—and hold them a second too long.

The first drink goes fast. So does the second.

Conversation’s easy again—teasing, snappy, laced with innuendos but grounded in that same curiosity he showed the first time.

“You’ve got that look again,” you say at one point.

He tips his head. “What look?”

“Like you’re thinking too much.”

Pedro taps his fingers on the table. “I am.”

“About what?”

“You.”

That shuts you up. For a beat.

“Okay,” you say carefully. “You’re officially flirting.”

“Only officially now?”

You glance at him. “Are we pretending we haven’t been doing that for weeks?”

He leans in a little, voice lower. “I haven’t been pretending, cariño.”

That word—cariño—drops right down your spine.

You sip your drink just to buy time.

Half an hour later, the nachos are cold and forgotten.

He’s shifted to your side of the booth. Close enough that his thigh brushes yours when he moves.

You can feel the heat of him—slow and steady, like a stove left on low.

“You’re braver than I thought,” he murmurs, voice near your ear.

You turn your head, pulse thrumming. “Why?”

He’s looking at your mouth when he says, “Because I think you know exactly what this is.”

You swallow.

“You think it’s a game?” you whisper.

“No.” His eyes lift to meet yours again. “I think it’s trouble.”

You let the silence stretch. Then, quietly:

“I think I want it anyway.”

Pedro exhales, almost like relief.

His hand finds your knee under the table, gentle at first—like he’s asking.

You don’t stop him.

Back at your place — 1:07 a.m.

He doesn’t kiss you right away.

He stands just inside your apartment, glancing around like he needs to ground himself. Like he’s cataloging every detail in case it’s the only time he sees it.

“Cute place,” he says.

You shrug. “It’s fine. It has a couch, at least.”

Pedro gives you a look. “So subtle.”

You smirk, toeing off your shoes. “I’m not trying to seduce you. I’m trying to sit down without my feet throbbing.”

“Oh, is that what this is?” he says, trailing behind you into the living room. “Because when you leaned over the jukebox earlier, I swear I saw—”

“—Shut up,” you laugh, swatting his arm. “I was picking a song.”

“You were bending the laws of nature, muneca.”

You plop onto the couch and toss a pillow at him.

He catches it easily, eyes dancing.

And then he sits.

Close. Closer than necessary.

Your knees touch.

And for a moment, neither of you say anything.

His hand brushes yours.

Once.

Twice.

Then it stays.

“I keep telling myself not to do this,” he murmurs, thumb tracing the back of your knuckles.

You tilt your head. “Then don’t.”

Pedro looks at you.

Long. Direct. Hungry.

And then he kisses you.

It starts slow.

His lips soft, searching. No rush. No agenda.

But your hand slides into his hair and his body shifts, just a little, and suddenly—

His other hand is on your thigh, gripping it.

You gasp into his mouth, and it makes him groan. A low, broken sound, like he’s been trying not to make it for weeks.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“You started it,” you whisper, breathless.

His tongue traces your bottom lip. “Don’t remind me.”

He pushes you back into the couch cushions, one knee slipping between yours, just enough weight to make you feel it.

You arch beneath him. Hips rising—seeking.

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

Your hair’s messy, lips kiss-swollen, pupils blown.

“You’re so goddamn pretty,” he says, voice low. “You know that?”

You blink up at him, dazed. “You’re not bad either, old man.”

He huffed a laugh—and kissed you harder.

You end up straddling him, your hands under his shirt, his teeth grazing your neck. You whisper something shameless into his ear and he freezes, groaning into your shoulder like you just ruined his life.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice thick. “You’re dangerous.”

“You like it,” you say, biting back a smile.

“Too much.”

It doesn’t go any further.

Not because he doesn’t want to.

Not because you don’t.

But because there’s something delicious about stopping here. Something about the ache. The tease.

 1:41 a.m. your apartment

You don’t get off his lap.

Even after the kissing slows. Even after his hand stills on your thigh and his breath evens out against your collarbone.

You just lean into him, cheek resting against the warm curve of his neck, and say:

“So what’s your comfort movie?”

Pedro chuckles, a low, content sound. His hands stay on you—one lightly tracing your waist, the other cradling your knee.

“You want comfort?” he murmurs. “I watched Paddington 2 three times in a row on a flight once. I cried. Full grown man. Tears.”

You sit up just enough to look at him. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I was.”

You grin, brushing your nose against his. “Mine’s Coraline. I know it’s for kids. Don’t care.”

“Oh, I respect that,” he says, nodding solemnly. “Creepy doll button eyes? That’s some formative trauma.”

You laugh into his shoulder. “Exactly.”

The conversation drifts.

From movies to music, then weird dreams, then the worst job he ever had (you make him promise never to do commercials for adult diapers), and the story of your first kiss (in a movie theater during a Marvel sequel, popcorn still in your braces).

You fall asleep like that for a while.

Wrapped around him. The TV is still on. His hoodie swallowing your frame.

It’s not a sleepover. But it’s the kind of night you only have when the flirting has already cracked open into something more dangerous—something real.

5:07 a.m. 

He kisses you again on the sidewalk, slow and tired and a little reluctant.

The Uber’s headlights bounce off the curb.

“You sure you don’t want me to stay?” he murmurs, thumb brushing your hip.

You raise your brows. “You’d behave?”

“No.”

“Then go home.”

Pedro grins, teeth sharp in the early morning haze. “I hate that you’re right.”

“You love that I’m right.”

He kisses your forehead. “Text me when you wake up, cariño.”

Then he climbs into the car and disappears into the fading dark.

Later

You you looked like a mess when you left was kind of hot

Pedro don’t start i walked into my kitchen like a teenager head against the fridge door. dramatic sigh.

You “what is she doing to meee…”

Pedro don’t mock the broken man

You it’s cute I kinda like breaking you

Pedro yeah i could tell you were smiling while you ruined me

You and you didn’t stop me

Pedro never would

Pedro (real talk though… i haven’t kissed someone like that in years) what are we doing?

You no idea but i don’t really want to stop

Pedro good i’d be pissed if you did

You also i’m watching Paddington 2 tonight thought you should know

Pedro you’re trying to make me fall in love with you

You Trying?

A Few days Later

Pedro okay serious question what’s your go-to coffee order i’m at a café and there are too many words on the menu

You iced oat latte. extra cinnamon. no reason. just vibes. why?

Pedro just wondering what i’ll need to remember when i see you again it’s been a minute you free soon?

You maybe. depends. is this a brunch date disguised as a “casual hang”?

Pedro yes. and i might wear a hat and sunglasses like a criminal

You hot I’ll see you Sunday then

Two Weeks Later

Outside a café, 2:12 p.m.

You’re holding iced coffees, your oversized hoodie tucked into the waistband of biker shorts, and Pedro’s walking beside you—cap pulled low, hoodie up, sunglasses on.

You look like…friends.

Which is the goal.

Except his hand keeps brushing yours.

And when you laugh too hard at something he says about a failed audition back in ‘99, he looks at you like he feels it. Like he wants to bottle it.

You don’t even notice the guy on the opposite sidewalk.

Phone angled low.

The shutter click barely audible.

Another car slows down. Just a beat.

Pedro notices first.

His body tenses next to yours.

You follow his gaze. A pair of figures across the street. Hoodies. Big lenses. Moving fast.

Click click click.

You suck in a breath. “Shit.”

He doesn’t grab your hand.

He can’t.

Instead, he leans in like he’s just whispering something dumb.

“Just keep walking,” he mutters. “Act like you’re annoyed with me.”

You glance up at him. “That’s not hard.”

He grins, tight-lipped. “Atta girl.”

You duck into a bookstore.He buys a random novel and keeps the receipt.

You pretend to browse while your stomach spins.

He brushes his hand against your back briefly as you walk toward the back exit.

“Your face was covered,” he says quietly. “You’re fine.”

But he doesn’t sound entirely convinced.

You slip your sunglasses on, exhaling.

“I knew this might happen,” you mutter. “Still sucks.”

Pedro looks at you for a second too long. Then, under his breath:

“If anything ever actually comes out…I’ll handle it.”

You nod.

But it hangs there. Heavy.

You’re still you. Still just 23. Still not used to this world he lives in.

But the part that makes your pulse spike isn’t fear.

It’s the way his voice dipped when he said “I’ll handle it.”

Like he already decided he would.

Like you weren’t just a girl from a raffle anymore.

Pedro they didn’t get anything you’re safe

You you sure?

Pedro i’ve done this a long time if they had something good it’d be online already trust me

You i do just didn’t expect it to feel that...real

Pedro it is real at least for me

You i know. me too.

Pedro next time no public sidewalks just you my place pizza and zero danger

You and maybe another dramatic sigh against your fridge?

Pedro oh i’m already practicing i’ll be thinking about you all week

You good maybe i’ll make you wait again

Pedro maybe i’ll let you

Few More Days Later

You i just bombed my stats exam tell my family i died doing what i hated

Pedro nooooo not stats not you :(

You i’m so tired i might actually cry in the campus parking lot like a teen drama character

Pedro you want company or silence? or pizza? or a forehead kiss?

You omg

You that last one just made my brain short circuit is that allowed???

Pedro it is if you want it to be offer still stands come over i’ll put on something dumb and hold you until your brain restarts

You you’re dangerous give me an hour

That night — 8:13 p.m. 

Pedro’s apartment.

The kitchen smells like garlic and fresh basil.

Pedro’s in front of the stove in a worn tee and joggers, barefoot, stirring pasta like this is just…normal. Like you always do this. Like he wasn’t in a galaxy far, far away a few months ago while you were still writing essays in the library, humming through AirPods.

“You ever cook for girls like this?” you tease lightly, watching from the counter stool.

Pedro smirks without turning around. “Not girls who make me nervous.”

You blink.

He glances back at you. “Just being honest.”

You open your mouth—then close it again.

Your throat’s warm. So is your chest. Your fingertips tingle against the glass of red wine in your hand.

The rest of the night unfurls gently. Like a held breath being let out.

He makes a simple pasta with veggies. You help slice strawberries for a little balsamic-glazed dessert (“This is so extra,” you laugh, and he just shrugs—“You deserve extra”).

You eat on the couch with the coffee table dragged closer, your knees brushing under the bowls.

Music plays low. Something acoustic and nostalgic.

His hand rests on your leg, casual but firm.

Yours finds his thigh a little later.

You’re sitting sideways in his lap again, back to his chest, your cheek against his jaw. He smells like citrus body wash and red wine and something inherently him.

His hands haven’t left you all night.

Thumb tracing slow lines into the top of your thigh. Fingertips under your hoodie hem.

He kisses your shoulder. Then your jaw.

You hum softly, turning your face toward his. He doesn’t hesitate.

The kiss starts easy. Then deeper.

And deeper.

You straddle him this time, your knees pressing into the couch cushions, your hands in his hair. His grip tightens around your hips—then softens again, like he’s reminding himself to slow down.

There’s heat. So much heat.

You shift against him, just slightly—and feel him underneath you.

He breathes hard into your mouth, breaking the kiss. “Wait—wait.”

Your foreheads press together.

You blink. “Did I do something—?”

Pedro shakes his head fast. “No, no. God, no. You’re perfect.”

You’re quiet. His thumb brushes your cheek.

“I just…” he swallows, “don’t want this to be fast. I want it to be right.”

You exhale, your nose brushing his. “Okay.”

He looks at you—tender, serious. “You trust me?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “You trust me?”

Pedro leans forward and kisses you again, slower this time. His hands stay on your waist. Yours trail up the back of his neck.

Then he says the most dangerous thing of all:

“Stay tonight.”

You borrow one of his tees and wash your face in his sink with the cleanser he shyly offers you.

The bed’s big and warm. You climb in beside him, and he pulls you close, one arm under your shoulders, the other across your waist.

Neither of you says much.

But when you whisper, “You smell like something familiar,” he smiles into your hair.

And when he murmurs, “I like having you here,” you smile too.

You fall asleep curled up against him. No more nerves. No more pretending this is just for fun.

It’s not the night everything happened.

But it’s the night everything changed.

The Next Morning — 9:12 a.m.

You wake up warm.

Pressed against a solid chest, one of Pedro’s hands heavy over your waist, his breath slow and deep against the back of your neck.

It takes you a second to remember where you are.

The smell of his sheets. The weight of his arm. The stretch of your legs tangled with his.

Then it hits you.

Last night. Dinner. That kiss. Him asking you to stay.

You shift slightly, careful not to wake him.

But you feel him stir behind you.

His voice is a slow, rough murmur in your ear. “Morning.”

You twist in his arms to face him. His hair’s messy. His eyes are sleepy, half-lidded. There’s a small smile on his mouth that makes your heart kick like a rabbit.

“Hi,” you whisper.

He leans in and kisses you—soft at first. Barely there.

But then he kisses you again, firmer this time. Longer.

And it doesn’t feel sleepy anymore.

It feels like wanting.

Pedro’s hand moves under your shirt, smoothing up your back, dragging his fingers up your spine. You sigh into his mouth as you press your chest against his, your body already buzzing.

He rolls gently onto his back, bringing you with him so you’re straddling his hips. His hands settle on your thighs, his thumbs tracing slow circles just beneath the hem of your borrowed sleep shirt.

“You okay?” he murmurs, looking up at you.

You nod. “Yeah.”

His eyes search yours. “We don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you say, clear and certain. “I really want to.”

That’s all he needs.

He sits up, kisses you again—this time with intent. His hands slip under your shirt fully now, dragging it up over your head and off.

Pedro pauses when he sees you.

Like he’s trying to remember every inch.

“God,” he breathes, hands sliding up your waist to cup your chest. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

You shiver as his thumbs graze your nipples. You shift forward, rolling your hips against his just a little, and feel him hard underneath you.

He groans, dropping his head to your shoulder.

“You’re gonna kill me.”

“Good,” you whisper, tugging his shirt off too.

It’s slow. He treats your body like something worth learning.

Mouth on your neck, teeth grazing your collarbone, tongue dipping below your breasts.

He lays you back and kisses down your stomach, looking up at you the whole time like he’s waiting for you to change your mind.

You don’t.

You arch for him, tug his hand between your thighs.

Pedro groans when he finds you wet.

“So ready for me,” he murmurs, kissing your inner thigh. “Jesus, baby…”

He touches you slowly, gently, working you open with his fingers until you're panting, until you're grabbing at his hair and whispering his name like it's the only word that matters.

Then he comes back up and kisses you again—deep, messy, tongue pushing into your mouth as his fingers stay between your legs, stroking you through every soft sound you make.

“You like that?” he breathes.

You nod, nails digging into his shoulder. “Yeah. God, Pedro—”

He groans, pressing his forehead to yours.

“Tell me if it’s too much, okay?”

You smile shakily. “I’ll tell you if it’s not enough.”

When he finally pushes inside you, it’s slow.

Painfully slow.

Like he wants you to feel every inch of it. Like he wants to feel you—wrapped around him, holding him, trusting him.

You gasp. He kisses your cheek, your jaw, your temple.

“You okay?”

You nod, hand fisting the sheets. “Keep going. Please.”

Pedro groans, deeper this time, and begins to move.

It’s not fast. It’s not rough.

But it’s intense.

Every roll of his hips is deliberate, slow and deep, the kind of rhythm that builds unbearable heat between your legs. He stays close, his chest brushing yours, one hand cradling your head, the other gripping your hip like he needs to anchor himself there.

You moan into his mouth. “Pedro—oh my god—”

“I know,” he pants. “I know, baby. You feel so fucking good.”

You wrap your legs around his waist, tilting your hips to take him deeper. The change makes you gasp—your whole body tightening around him.

He curses, thrusts harder once, then slows again, like he’s fighting to stay in control.

“Not gonna last,” he groans into your neck. “You’re too good—fuck—”

You cling to him, mouth at his ear. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

And he doesn’t.

He fucks you through it—slow, patient, like he’s memorizing you.

Until you come with a cry, back arching, legs trembling.

And then he lets go.

Buried deep inside you, his arms locked tight around your body, he shudders with a groan that sounds almost broken.

Pedro lies beside you, one hand still tracing circles over your bare back.

You’re tucked into his side, head on his chest, your body boneless and warm and aching in all the right ways.

He kisses the top of your head.

You murmur, “So…”

“So?” he echoes softly.

“I don’t want to leave.”

He smiles. “Then don’t.”

You lift your head, meeting his gaze.

“Okay.”

10:36 a.m.

The bedroom’s quiet, dim with late morning light.

Pedro’s hand is still on your back, fingers idly tracing slow, lazy shapes like he doesn’t want to break the silence. You’re sprawled across his chest with your leg slung over his hip, still tangled in sheets and sleep and warmth.

You murmur, “My thighs hurt.”

Pedro laughs softly under you. “That’s a good sign, right?”

You pinch his side gently, but you’re smiling. “You’re annoying.”

He kisses your hair. “You’re glowing.”

“I’m sweaty.”

“Same thing.”

You hum, turning your face into his neck. “We should get up.”

“We don’t have to.”

“We will eventually.”

He sighs dramatically. “Fine. But I’m making coffee and putting on music and not wearing pants, so. Prepare yourself.”

You brush your teeth side-by-side in front of the mirror, barefoot and rumpled. He’s wearing plaid pajama pants slung low on his hips. You’re in one of his big, soft shirts that barely covers your ass.

Pedro spits, then wipes his mouth and gestures toward your reflection. “You’re doing the ‘walk of shame’ all wrong.”

“Oh yeah?”

He steps behind you, wraps his arms around your waist, kisses your shoulder. “Yeah. You’re supposed to sneak out. Look flustered. Not stand here looking like a smug little goddess.”

You lean back into him. “I can sneak if you want.”

He brushes your hair over your shoulder, mouth at your ear. “Don’t you dare.”

You perch on the counter while Pedro makes eggs and toasts thick slices of sourdough. Coffee gurgles in the French press. Music hums low from a Bluetooth speaker—Fleetwood Mac, or maybe The Rolling Stones, something vintage and cozy and a little flirtatious.

He hands you a piece of toast like it’s a peace offering.

“You’re spoiling me,” you murmur between bites.

He shrugs. “You stayed the night. That earns you toast rights.”

“What else does it earn me?”

Pedro leans on the counter next to you, pretending to think. “More coffee. Back rubs. The good chocolate from the top shelf. Maybe a foot rub if you beg.”

You laugh.

But he watches you for a second, quiet, eyes soft.

Then, a little more serious, he says, “You’re okay? With last night?”

You nod right away. “Of course I am.”

“You don’t feel—like it was too fast?”

You pause. “No. Do you?”

He looks away for a second. Then back at you.

“No. I just… I don't want to mess this up.”

Your heart thumps.

“You’re not,” you say, and it’s true. “I like being here. With you.”

Pedro steps closer. Kisses you on the forehead.

“You make me feel lucky,” he murmurs. “Like… really lucky.”

You hide your face in his shoulder, smiling into his shirt. “Sappy.”

“You love it.”

“I kinda do.”

You end up back in bed with the window open and your coffee cups half-full on the nightstand.

You scroll through your phone lazily while Pedro reads a book beside you, one hand resting on your thigh like he just needs to be touching you, even when he’s distracted.

Eventually, he sets the book down and watches you instead.

“Next time,” he says quietly, “let me take you out properly. Like a real date.”

You glance up. “Like…in public?”

He nods, hesitating. “If you want. I can be careful. Private table. Back entrance.”

You study him for a beat.

Then smile.

“Okay.”

He exhales, slow and relieved. Pulls you toward him.

And it hits you—how easy this could be. How dangerous. How close you already feel to something you shouldn’t want this badly.

But you let him kiss you again.

Because right now?

You just want more.

Pedro 🍯 Friday night okay for our scandalous outing?

You depends will there be food? and you opening doors for me like a gentleman?

Pedro 🍯 I’d open every door in LA for you even the ones I’m not supposed to

You that’s hot okay I’m in what’s the dress code? do I need to look famous?

Pedro 🍯 You are famous. In my phone. In my bed. In my head. But no—look like yourself. That’s what I like.

You you’re lucky you’re cute I’ll give you flirty and effortless

Pedro 🍯 It’s a look that destroys me every time

 Friday Night – 8:04 PM

Private restaurant in West Hollywood

The hostess barely glances at you as she leads you down a narrow hallway to the back, where the lights are low and the table is tucked away in a cozy, dim corner.

Pedro’s already there, standing when he sees you. Black dress shirt, a little open at the collar. Trim beard. That soft smile that’s reserved for you now.

He says, “Wow,” under his breath when he sees you.

You grin. “That’s what you were waiting for?”

“No,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “But it’s a damn good bonus.”

He pulls your chair out for you, brushes his fingers down your arm as you sit. The tension’s quiet but buzzing. This isn’t like being at his apartment in sweats and bare legs. This is real.

The waiter arrives quickly—Pedro’s arranged everything. Wine’s already poured. A cheese plate. You’re grateful, because you’re nervous.

“Not what you expected?” he asks, eyes warm.

“It’s nice,” you say. “Just… kinda crazy. We’re really out.”

He leans in, voice low. “We don’t have to stay long.”

“No,” you say quickly, surprising yourself. “I want to.”

You talk about movies. About food. He asks about your classes. You ask about scripts he’s reading. It’s easy, even with the candlelight and clinking glasses and murmurs behind you.

But at one point, you feel someone glance toward the corner—just a shift, a flick of someone’s head.

You both go still.

Pedro reaches across the table and touches your hand, thumb brushing the back of your fingers.

“Don’t look,” he says gently. “They won’t get anything.”

You nod, swallowing.

“I’m okay,” you whisper.

His grip tightens slightly.

“So am I.”

Outside the restaurant

Pedro’s car pulls around to the back entrance just like he’d asked. You both slip out quietly, sunglasses on—even though it’s dark—and hoods up. The manager gave him a discreet nod on the way out, like this wasn’t his first time protecting someone.

Once you’re in the car, doors shut, windows up, and seat belts clicked… he finally exhales.

You laugh a little, heart still racing. “That was weird.”

“It was,” he agrees, starting the engine. “But not terrible, right?”

You glance at him. “I don’t think I’ve ever been watched while eating cheese.”

Pedro grins. “To be fair, you looked very hot doing it.”

You nudge his arm. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it.”

You do.

 10:05 PM – His Apartment

He lets you in first. The lights are soft. The space smells like bergamot and whatever cologne still clings to his jacket.

You take your shoes off by the door without thinking. He shrugs out of his coat, throws it on the back of the couch. His shirt’s still half-unbuttoned.

“Wine?” he asks.

You shake your head. “Just water.”

Pedro nods and heads to the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it from the fridge. You trail behind him, watching the lines of his back move beneath the dark cotton of his shirt.

When he turns, you’re sitting on top of the counter, arms crossed.

“You’re quiet,” he says gently, handing you the glass.

You take a sip. “Just thinking.”

He nods. Waits.

You hesitate. Then, “Do you worry? About people knowing?”

He pauses. Then crosses to stand in front of you, leaning back on the opposite counter, arms loosely folded.

“I do,” he says honestly. “Not because I’m ashamed. I just… I know how people talk. And I don’t want them to get it wrong.”

You nod slowly. “Yeah.”

He watches you.

“I also don’t want to stop seeing you,” he adds softly. “So I guess I’ll figure it out.”

That makes your stomach flip.

“You don’t think it’s a bad idea?” you ask. “This?”

He tilts his head, thoughtful. Then he shook it.

“No. Not when you look at me like that.”

You blink. “Like what?”

Pedro smiles a little. “Like I’m not just some actor you had a crush on once. Like I’m… real.”

You don’t say anything, but you take a step forward. So does he.

Your hand lands gently on his chest.

“I like the real you,” you say. “Even when you’re dramatic.”

“I’m not dramatic.”

“You literally made an escape plan for dinner.”

He chuckles in a low tone. “Fair.”

Your fingers hook at the collar of his shirt.

“Can I stay again?”

Pedro leans down and presses his forehead to yours.

“Please do.”

Pedro steps between your legs, his palms firm against your thighs, slowly sliding up under the hem of your dress. The fabric bunches at your hips, but neither of you cares. You’ve kissed him before, but not like this—not when everything feels like it might break open if you dare to go a little further.

“You’re killin’ me,” he mutters, lips brushing just below your ear as his hands roam.

Your breath catches. “I haven’t even done anything.”

Pedro pulls back just enough to look at you. “You wore that dress.”

You tilt your head. “You told me to.”

He smirks. “Yeah. My own damn fault.”

His mouth is on yours again—hot, unrelenting. The kiss turns hungrier. You moan into it when he presses closer, the hard line of him slotting between your thighs.

His hands are greedy now, tracing the backs of your thighs, then cupping your ass, pulling you forward against him. Your hips grind instinctively. He groans into your mouth, like he’s trying to hold back but failing.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel—Jesus—”

One of his hands slips around to your front, dragging his fingers between your legs over your panties. He feels how warm you are, how soaked the fabric is. His eyes flick up to yours, dark and full of heat.

“This all for me, baby?”

You nod, lips parted. “Been like that since dinner.”

He lets out a low, guttural sound and presses the heel of his hand right where you’re throbbing. You roll your hips against it, helpless. Your legs tighten around his waist as your back arches into him.

Pedro leans in, his voice ragged. “You want me to touch you?”

You barely manage a breathy, “Yes.”

His fingers hook into your panties, dragging them to the side. And then he touches you—slowly, carefully—like he’s trying to memorize every reaction. The pad of his middle finger slides through your slick folds, circling your clit just once.

You jerk slightly, gasping.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, watching your face. “You’re so wet already.”

You try to kiss him again, but he teases you, keeping his lips just out of reach. His fingers move lower, pressing gently at your entrance. He slips one inside, slow but sure.

Your head falls back. “Pedro—”

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, adding a second finger, curling them just right. “You feel fuckin’ incredible.”

You rock your hips in time with his rhythm, your moans filling the quiet kitchen. The counter is cool beneath your thighs, but you’re burning everywhere else—chest flushed, heart racing.

Pedro leans in and kisses the underside of your jaw, then your neck, his voice hot and gravelly against your skin. “I wanna see you come like this. Just like this.”

You grip his shoulders, legs trembling slightly as the pressure builds. He keeps his thumb on your clit, circling it in time with every curl of his fingers.

“Fuck—don’t stop—please don’t stop—”

“I won’t, baby. I’ve got you. Let go for me.”

It hits fast. Your hips stutter, mouth falling open in a whimper as you come around his fingers, clenching tight while he keeps working you through it. He watches every second of it, like he’s completely wrecked by the sight of you falling apart in his hands.

When it’s too much, you grab his wrist, panting. “Okay. Okay—”

He kisses you then, deep and messy and full of hunger. You taste yourself on his tongue, and somehow that just makes it hotter.

“Next time,” he murmurs against your lips, voice full of promise, “it’s gonna be in bed. And I’m not gonna stop until you beg.”

You smile, still breathless. “Who says I won’t beg right here?”

He laughs softly, tucks your hair behind your ear, and leans his forehead against yours. “You’re trouble.”

“You like it.”

Pedro hums, pressing one last kiss to your lips. “I really do.”

Pedro kisses you again—more urgently this time, like he’s chasing the taste of your moan. You’re still coming down from your high, but he’s nowhere near finished. His hand strokes down your thigh, then back up slowly, deliberately. His lips drag down your neck to your collarbone, tongue flicking over the skin as he murmurs, “You’re so fuckin’ pretty like this, baby.”

You squirm in his grip, panting softly. “Pedro…”

He groans when you say his name like that, like a plea. His hands slip under your thighs, and in one swift, effortless movement, he lifts you from the counter and carries you into the living room. He lays you out gently on the couch, kneeling between your legs, spreading them with his hands.

Your dress is still bunched around your hips. Your panties are crooked, barely hanging on.

Pedro looks down at you—lips swollen, legs open for him, pupils blown wide. “You want more?”

You nod, voice shaky. “I—I want your mouth.”

“Jesus Christ,” he whispers. “You’re gonna kill me.”

He leans in, dragging your panties down your legs slowly, deliberately. You watch him with wide eyes, chest rising and falling. He kisses the inside of your thigh first—soft, reverent—then bites, just a little, enough to make you whimper.

And then he licks you.

It starts slow—his tongue parting your folds, gentle strokes that make you arch your back. But he doesn’t stay soft for long. He groans into you like he’s starving, hands gripping your thighs as he locks you in place and sucks hard on your clit. Your hips jerk up, and he just tightens his grip, flattening his tongue and dragging it slowly up and down before circling your entrance.

You’re already close again.

“Pedro, fuck—oh my God—”

He looks up at you, mouth shiny, eyes wild. “Come again for me. Just like this.”

You tangle your fingers in his hair, anchoring yourself while he devours you. He slides one finger back inside you, then another, curling them just right as his tongue works your clit. You fall apart again—loud, shaking, hips grinding against his mouth as you come harder than before.

You feel him groan when you clench around his fingers. He fucking likes how wrecked you are.

When he finally pulls away, you’re breathless and trembling. He kisses your inner thigh one more time before leaning over you, lips slick with you, eyes blown wide.

You reach for him, cupping him through his sweats. He’s rock hard and twitching under your palm. “Your turn.”

He swears under his breath, grinding into your hand. “I’ve been dying since you walked in.”

You tug the waistband of his slacks down. He helps, finally freeing himself—and your mouth waters at the sight of him. He’s thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip.

Pedro watches your face as you stroke him slowly, teasing him the way he teased you.

“You gonna let me take care of you?” you ask, sweet and soft.

He groans low. “Not gonna last if you keep looking at me like that.”

But he lets you guide him on top of you, your thighs still slick and spread. You rub his tip against your folds, not letting him in—just grinding, coating him in your arousal. You both moan at the contact.

He leans down, forehead pressed to yours, hips moving in slow, desperate circles.

“Fuck, that feels good,” he mutters.

You wrap your arms around his neck, legs around his waist, your voice a whisper against his jaw. “Next time, you’re gonna fuck me for real.”

Pedro pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. “This isn’t even close to done, sweetheart.”

He ruts against you again, both of you panting now, bodies slick and sticky. He kisses you—deep and messy—as he comes against your stomach with a groan, your name falling from his lips like a prayer.

You lie there together, tangled and panting, the whole room humming with the tension that still lingers.

Pedro finally exhales a breathy laugh. “We’re in trouble, aren’t we?”

You grin, heart racing. “Big, big trouble.”

He kisses your shoulder and smiles into your skin. “Worth it.”

You’re curled up in Pedro’s bed again, half-asleep with your cheek against his chest, his hand absentmindedly tracing lazy circles on your back.

He shifts a little beneath you, reaches over with a yawn to grab his phone from the nightstand, squinting at the screen as it lights up.

Then he goes still.

You feel it before you hear it—his body tensing just enough to draw your attention.

You peek up at him. “Everything okay?”

Pedro doesn’t answer right away. He swipes through something on his phone with a sharp breath through his nose, then hands it to you silently.

Your stomach flips.

It’s Twitter.

A photo. Grainy, long-lens, obviously taken from across the street.

Pedro Pascal on a late-night coffee date?He’s walking beside you on the sidewalk. His hood is up, and yours is too. Your face is angled down, half-covered by your oversized scarf. But it’s undeniably him.

His hand is on the small of your back. Gentle. Familiar.

The photo already has over 80k likes.

“Shit,” you whisper, sitting up a little.

Pedro watches you carefully. “Your face isn’t in it. You’re okay.”

“I mean… yeah, but people are gonna figure it out, aren’t they?” You hand him the phone, heart thudding.

There are already hundreds of quote tweets. Gossip accounts, stan edits, comments like:

“whoever she is… I fear I’m her now” “idk who she is but I know she smells like vanilla and reads poetry” “Pedro Pascal out on a date???? Real man hours” “y’all think this is PR? 😭”

You fall back into the pillows, groaning into the sheets. “I literally had exams yesterday. I was studying in a hoodie like twelve hours ago.”

Pedro chuckles softly. “And now you’re an anonymous femme fatale. Wild.”

You glance over at him. “This doesn’t freak you out?”

“Not really.” He reaches out, brushing your hair back. “I’ve been through worse. You okay, though?”

“I mean…” You sit up, wrapping the sheet around yourself. “I didn’t think this was gonna get real like that. That fast.”

Pedro watches you quietly for a moment. Then he reaches for your hand.

“We don’t have to rush anything. If you want to pull back, stay private, disappear for a bit, we can do that. But I also—” He pauses, thumb brushing your knuckles. “I like this. You and me. I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen.”

You soften. “I don’t want that either.”

“Then we play it smart.” He smiles a little. “Let them talk. They don’t know anything.”

You squeeze his hand. “Okay. But if I get doxxed by a thirteen-year-old running a fan cam account…”

“I’ll delete the internet for you.”

You laugh, and he leans over to kiss your temple.

Just like that, the tension fades a little. Not gone, not really, but tucked away beside the coffee cups and slow mornings and quiet confessions in bed.

You wake up later to the smell of butter and fresh coffee.

The space in bed beside you is empty, but warm. Sunlight spills through the curtains in long strips, cutting across the crumpled sheets and your bare legs. You stretch slowly, sore in the sweetest way, your body still humming from the night before.

You find Pedro in the kitchen, barefoot in his plaid pajama pants, the ones with a little rip near the pocket. He’s focused on the skillet in front of him, brows furrowed, spatula in hand like he’s trying to win an award for best boyfriend breakfast.

You linger in the doorway, quietly watching him like you’re afraid saying his name will break the spell.

He turns at just the right moment, catching you with a sleepy smile.

“Well, good morning, mystery girl.”

You grin. “Don’t call me that.”

“What? You are a mystery.” He gestures to the open laptop on the kitchen counter. “You’re trending.”

Your stomach dips. “So it wasn’t just a bad dream?”

Pedro nods. “Hashtag 'Pedro Pascal Date Night' has entered the chat.”

You groan and pad into the room, barefoot in his T-shirt, curling your arms around his waist from behind. “This is so surreal.”

He leans back into you just enough to kiss your knuckles. “You’re still you. I’m still me. Nothing changes that.”

You rest your cheek against his back. “I know, it’s just… I wasn’t expecting it to feel this big.”

Pedro turns gently in your arms and cups your face with those warm, capable hands. “Then let’s keep it small. Just you and me in this kitchen. My bad pancakes. Your bedhead. The rest can wait.”

You nod. Let him kiss you. Let him hold you like that.

A few minutes later, you’re sitting at the little dining table while he plates the eggs, toast, and strawberries in a way that’s oddly charming and not very symmetrical. He brings you your coffee just the way you like it—too much cream, not enough sugar.

“God,” you say, taking a sip. “This is dangerously domestic.”

Pedro raises an eyebrow, settling across from you. “Dangerous?”

You smirk. “You’re lucky I’m into it.”

He lets out a low laugh. “You have no idea how into you I am.”

You pause, caught off guard by how easily he says it. How it doesn’t scare you the way you thought it would.

After a beat, you lean across the table and whisper, “So what happens next?”

Pedro reaches for your hand, his thumb brushing the back of it like it’s second nature.

“Whatever you want,” he says. “We will figure it out. Together.”

And there it is again—that quiet thrum of something honest. Something with roots.

Hope.

divider by @/cursed-carmine 🏷️ @zevrra @xodilfluvr @annulmaelae @millersdoll @inbred-eater @thezatannaprint @stvrl1ghtt123 @umadirectioner @aj0elap0l0gist @heather81 @subconsciouscollapse @catch1ngmoths @littlemillersbaby @lizziesfirstwife @amyispxnk

[shadowqueen2024]

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Word Count: 2.8k

Content Warnings: Explict, 18+ MDNI, p with minimal plot, unprotected pinv (wrap it before you use it), creampie, dirty talk (love some filthy talk Joel), baby fever, multiple orgasms, mentions of pregnancy, breeding kink, oral (f! receiving), fluff tone in the beginning (I'm sorry, I couldn't help myself🤣), aftercare, let me know if I miss any!

Summary: When Joel sees you taking care of Benji, he couldn't help but think what it was like having your own kids. And once he knew it's what you've wanted, he was going to make sure it happens.

A/n: Guess who finished her fic early?? This is my first attempt at something kinky, probably not the best, but I figured I'd give it a try. As part of @time-for-my-weekly-spanking's 2026 kinky Challenge found here, I hope this is good, and thank you for letting me join 💖 Any feedback for improvement is always welcome!

AO3 | Main Masterlist

When you and Joel started your relationship, the subject of kids was a tough one to get through, given how it had ended with Sarah.

But when Benjamin was around - when you'd babysit, he grew to love you. Joel couldn't deny the effect that the sight had on him. Seeing you take care of his nephew and get along with the kid, it made his thoughts trail to places where he wasn't expecting.

How your body would change - how your stomach would adjust and change to make room for his child growing inside of you.

The child he put there...

It did something to him that he wasn’t going to admit out loud.

Today, the family was gathered for a meal with one another as a way to catch up with each other, and with what’s been going on around Jackson. Family dinners in Jackson were normally loud in a way you learned to love. They weren’t the kind of loud that came from chaos or fear - not anymore - but from a place of pure joy that the others were alive and together. From overlapping voices, the clinking of cutlery, and laughter bouncing off the walls, the house was livelier the more the family spent time together.

Joel sat beside you at the table, shoulder warm where it pressed against yours. He looked relaxed, at ease in a way that still sometimes surprised you to see. You had grown used to the gruff and serious look that was practically glued onto his face - that seeing him calm and not tense under the weight of keeping everything around safe… it was a pleasant change. The lines of his face were softened when he laughed at something his brother said, head tipping back slightly.

And then there was Benji. The little boy had made his way over to you, his small hand tugging at your sleeve, his eyes bright and smile wide, like you were the most interesting person in the room. And right now, you were.

“Can you read this with me?” He asks, holding up the picture book he has in his free hand.

You couldn’t help but smile at his adorable question. He could’ve gone to his mother, his father, or even his uncle. But he chose you, and how were you going to say no to him? “Of course, bud,” you say, making space for him on the couch, which he hopped on and made himself at home on your lap, and all you could do was laugh at his quiet insistence to sit on your lap before you began reading to him.

While you read to him, Joel was just admiring you. The way you weren’t tense around the boy, and how your lips moved as you pronounced each word from the pages of the book. Occasionally, your gaze would flick up to him, and you caught him in his staring trance. You saw the look of pure affection, and maybe a hint of something else. Longing? But not in like you were used to.

“You okay?” you asked softly, gently nudging his knee with your elbow.

He blinked slowly, like he was being pulled out of his wandering thoughts, before nodding, “‘m fine, darlin’.”

You could tell he wasn’t being fully truthful with you, but you didn’t push the subject much. Not with his brother, young nephew, and Maria in the room.

Once the book was finished, Benji was already falling asleep against you, and that’s when Maria and Tommy got up to take him back to their house for his bedtime.

“Goodnight,” he muttered to you as Tommy picked him up from your lap, his head resting against Tommy’s shoulder. “Night uncle Grumpy,” he says to Joel, and none of you could hold back the smile that made its way on your faces. And Joel just gave a playful eyeroll and a single nod, “Night kiddo.”

Maria and Tommy exchanged goodnights with the two of you before you closed the door behind them and turned to Joel, leaning against the doorframe, “You’ve been awfully quiet tonight. More than normal.”

“Just been thinkin’,” he mutters, looking down at his chipped coffee mug, giving a small shrug.

“About?” you pressed, tilting your head to the side as you watched how his shoulders tensed ever so slightly with the questions.

“You’re good with him,” he admits, bringing his gaze up to yours, and you can see the hint of uncertainty that settles in them. Like he was debating whether to bring it up or not. “I tried not thinkin’ ‘bout it, but it’s just gettin’ harder.”

“Thinking about what?” you asked softly, slowly making your way back to the couch before sitting down on the cushion beside him. “About kids?”

His breath slightly hitches as you hit the nail on the head. He reluctantly nodded, “Yeah.”

You studied him for a moment, really looking at him. The man you loved never let his vulnerability get the best of him. The subject of kids has been a touchy one. The two of you had briefly talked about it when your relationship was getting serious, and he never said he’d never want to have kids. You understood he was just hesitant about it all - understood that, though he’d deny it as much as he could - he was scared of losing another kid he loved.

You felt it too. The strange pull when you saw families together through the community. With how your body reacted when you thought of a mini replica of you and Joel running around.

“You wanna have a kid?” you asked, a small smile on your lips at the thought that he did, in fact, want to have a baby with you. “You’re sure about this, hon?”

He took your hands into his, giving them a soft squeeze, his gaze finally meeting yours, “‘m sure, darlin’. I wanna watch you grow our baby. I wanna start the rest of our life with you.” He brings a hand to your cheek, gently cupping it, “Do you want that?”

You placed your hand over his that was against your cheek before shifting onto his lap, your legs on either side of his, and your hands cup his cheeks, “I’d love to have your kids, Joel. I want all of your babies.”

Joel exhaled heavily, like he’d been holding his breath for years, as he leaned his head into your palms, his hands going to your hips. He then kissed you - gentle at first, like he was testing the waters. But as soon as you lightly pressed your chest against his, a hand gently gripping the hair at the bottom of his neck, his hesitance instantly melted away as he gently tugged your hip closer to his.

When he finally pulled back, he exhales heavily through his nose, his head dropping to your shoulder as he muttered, “Damn.”

“That bad?” you asked teasingly, lowering your head to place brief pecks against the side of his neck.

He quickly shakes his head, his lips moving to your collarbone to place a kiss before he grumbles, “That damn dangerous.”

You giggled at the grumble, and before you could protest, he shifted to the edge of the couch, wrapping his arms around your waist as he got up. You squealed softly at the sudden movement, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist and your arms going around his neck.

When you and Joel reached the bedroom, his lips were instantly back on yours, your breaths heavy as he gently lowered you onto your back on the bed. You undressed each other slowly, your hands running along each other’s bodies in a familiar pattern.

“Lay down, baby,” Joel whispered once he was down to his black boxers and you were bare. He placed a kiss against your forehead, temple and then your lips, “Wanna taste you.”

He gently guided you to lie back before he settled between your thighs - his broad shoulders pushing your legs wider. The rough calluses on his hands contrasted sharply with the gentle way he traced the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. His beard scratched deliciously against your skin as he lowered his head, the sensation alone sending shivers through your body. And Joel caught on.

“I know, baby. You’re getting all worked up for me,” he muttered with a chuckle, lowering his head down between your legs and closer to your core. He pressed his lips against your folds, a soft closed-mouth kiss against your most sensitive skin, and your body immediately trembled.

Then his tongue swept out, a broad, flat stroke that parted you slowly. He took his time as his tongue traced your outer lips before dipping inside to taste your slick heat.

“Christ,” he murmured, voice muffled against your core. “Already so wet for me. So fuckin’ perfect.” You let out a soft moan as your hand instinctively went to run through the strands of his hair, not guiding, but as a form of stability. He pulls back just enough to look up at you, the evidence of your arousal glistening on his lips, “This all for me, darlin’?”

You couldn’t help but nod, your breath hitching, and he blew a cool stream of air against your heated center. “All for you,” You muttered, and Joel returned his mouth to your center. He let out a low groan at your taste, one of his hands leaves your hips to rest against your stomach – fingers spreading across your lower stomach, holding you to him as his mouth worked on your core.

His other hand slid from your thigh to between your legs, where Joel’s mouth was residing. He slowly slid two of his thick fingers inside you, curling them just right to make you cry out as his mouth began focusing on your clit. You feel the heat pooling even further in your lower stomach, and you know you couldn’t handle much more. The dual sensations had you arching your back and your fingers tangled in his hair as you ground your hips against his face, searching for more of that devilish tongue of his.

“Joel…” you panted, your voice barely recognizable. “‘m close.”

He responded with a soft groan, increasing the pressure of his suck on your clit, his tongue working relentlessly as his fingers pumped in and out of you. “C’mon sweetheart,” he grunts, pulling his head back just enough to look up at you from between your legs, “Wanna feel you come on my tongue.”

His words were your undoing as your body tensed, waves of pleasure washing over you. Your thighs clamped around his head as you cried out his name, and Joel didn’t stop, working through your orgasm until you were slumped down on the mattress, panting and spent.

When he finally lifted his head, his mouth and chin were glistening with your arousal, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips, “I could die a happy man between those legs.”

You huffed out a laugh before taking his hand into yours, tugging him up to meet you before pressing a kiss against his lips, tasting yourself on his tongue, and you couldn’t help but moan. You slide your hands down Joel's body before reaching his boxers. The hard length of his cock straining against the fabric couldn’t be more obvious than it is right now. Reaching inside, you wrapped your hand around his length, giving it a few slow strokes before focusing your palm on the head. He groaned at the contact, attempting to keep his hips still, but failed as it shifted closer to your hand regardless.

He slides the boxers off and tosses them aside. He was long and thick, and his tip was an angry red, curving up toward his stomach. “Fuck me, baby,” you whispered out, “I need your cock inside me. Filling me up.”

“Damn it, woman,” he grunts out, shifting down your body before settling between your legs, this time with his cock between your folds, gathering the combination of your release with the mess his mouth made. “Got a fuckin’ dangerous mouth on you.”

“Please…” you whimpered, shifting your hips in an attempt to take him inside of you.

“Not yet,” he says gruffly, running a hand along your breasts, rubbing the sensitive nipples, drawing out a whine from you. “Been thinkin’ ‘bout this for so long. ‘bout makin’ you a momma, watchin’ you grow with my seed inside you.”

He positioned the tip of his cock against your entrance, applying a small amount of pressure before he breached your entrance. He lowers his head against the crook of your neck as he slides in deeper and slowly, inch by agonizing inch. The stretch was incredible, and both of you moaned at the sensation. The aching fullness was familiar. When he is buried to the hilt, his hips flush with yours, he rests his forehead against yours.

“Fuck…” he chokes out, his voice strained with an effort of remaining still to allow you to adjust. “Always feel so damn tight. Like you were made for my cock to stretch.”

You wrapped your legs around his waist, inviting him deeper inside you once you adjusted, and Joel began moving - his strokes deep and measured. Each thrust sent waves of pleasure through you, building slowly but steadily toward another orgasm. "You like that?" he growled, his pace quickening. "You like how I fuck this tight little pussy?"

"God, yes," you moaned, your nails digging into his back. "Harder, Joel. Fuck me harder."

He obliged, his thrusts becoming more forceful. His hips snapped against yours, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the room, followed by your moans, his heavy grunts, and the bed creaking under the exertion.

"Gonna fill you up," he panted, his voice strained. "Gonna make sure it sticks so you'll be all round 'n full with my baby. Tits fillin’ up to feed our lil’ one. God darlin’.”

Your body is humming, alive with sensation. Every nerve ending is on fire. Joel knew you were getting close; he could feel how you were tightening around his cock. And you could feel he was close just by how his cock was throbbing and twitching inside you, followed by the frantic pace he began taking

“I’m close,” you murmured, one of your hands running through his hair, and he buries his head against your neck.

“Let me feel it,” he pants against your neck, a grunt escaping his lips, “’m close too. Gonna come inside you. Gonna make you a momma.”

“Fill me up baby.”

He reaches between you, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing it in tight and quick circles. And that was all that it took to throw you over the edge. Your orgasm took over you, a tidal wave of pleasure that ripples through your entire body in powerful waves, leaving your body limp and shaky.

Joel follows just moments longer, letting out a long moan of your name, his body shuddering against yours as he finds his release. You could feel the warmth of him spilling inside you before he collapses against you, his weight steadied on his forearms, his face still deeply buried against your neck.

Both of you were a panting and boneless mess, but neither of you made the effort to move. For a long moment, you just lie there, tangled together with your bodies slick with sweat, and your breathing slowly returning to normal. After a minute, he shifts; he hadn’t pulled out just yet, keeping the two of you connected. He brushes a stray strand of hair from your forehead, his touch impossibly gentle. “You alright?”

“More than alright,” you respond, a smile on your face that you were able to contain, and he huffs a soft laugh. “Couldn’t think of a better way to practice.”

He places a kiss on your lips, then your forehead, before he slowly pulls out of you, your body protesting the loss. He gets up from the bed, walking to the bathroom. You hear the tap running, and he returns with a rag in hand.

“Open for me,” he says, and you open your legs. He gently wipes the rag over your entrance and thighs, cleaning you before setting the rag aside and lying back down beside you, pulling you against his chest with the blanket wrapped around the two of you.

“We’ll be doin’ this ‘till it sticks, sweetheart,” Joel suddenly says, and you tilt your head up to him. “You better prepare your throat for a lot more moanin’.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle at his words, wrapping your arms around his neck as you settled against him. “Practice makes perfect.”

Taglist: @kokoluwie, @cozymochaa, @picketniffler, @christinamadsen, @harriedandharassed, @rosharanfiction, @xfanficluvrx, @isabellaboo2025, @kirsteng42, @missadangel, @bishtrouille, @death-in-a-tar0t-card, @mystickittytaco, @missladym1981,

Tags WIP Wednesday post: @aurorawritestoescape, @ess-evo, @time-for-my-weekly-spanking

Divider credit: @/bonnieknowsbest

[hollyseb]

SPITTIN’ TEETH

summary: joel overhears men talking about you at the tipsy bison

warnings: violence, hints at sex

wc: 1.1k

an: hey yalll. just a short fic as i’m trying to get back into writing more consistently!! <3 so if this maybe isn’t as good as my other writing or u notice any typos… yes it is and no you didn’t muhahhaa. ALSO, i wrote another half to this but hated it lol. maybe ill do a p2 if anyone knows where i can take it.

Joel was trained in the art of restraint.

From keeping his mouth shut when being held hostage, to holding himself back from killing someone who’d crossed him.

He knew how to bite his tongue, crude comments fizzling away on the back of his throat. And how to curl his fists into tight, silent promises, instead of slamming them into somebody’s jaw.

That control, that cold, deliberate stillness, had kept him alive.

And in a way, it had brought him to you.

You never had to see the searing, rotten parts of him.

Rough hands that had suffocated others, carefully brush escaped strands of hair behind your ears. Lips that have ordered the murder of others, pepper kisses across your hairline.

You don’t see the parts of Joel he buried. He made damn sure of it.

Until now.

Tommy had dragged you both to the Tipsy Bison, insisting that you “oughta be part of the community.”

You’d laughed when Joel groaned, a low, involuntary sound. He gave you that look, half exasperation and half surrender.

The bar was loud, thick with whiskey and laughter. Lantern light bounced across the walls. You could feel the warmth of the room seeping into your skin, flushing your cheeks a deep red.

Tommy had already found a table in the corner, an easy grin spread across his face as he called you both over.

You raised your hand in return, giving him a small wave as you made your way through the sea of tables and chairs. Joel followed slowly, hand pressed to the small of your back.

You slid into a chair Joel had pulled out for you, shrugging off your coat as the old wood creaked beneath you. As you pushed your hair back from your face, you felt his eyes on you, slow and heavy. You gave a small, wry smile.

You loved Joel like this. Times like these made you feel like the only two people in the world.

“Hey,” Tommy’s voice cut through, pulling Joel’s gaze away. He was leaning forward on his elbows, a single brow lifted. “You listenin’ or just gawking?”

Joel huffed, the sound low and unimpressed, before dragging his attention back to his brother. “I’m listenin’.”

Conversation flowed between the two of them, familiar and easy. Tommy ranted about a botched patrol and Joel gave gruff replies that wound Tommy up more.

You half-listened, the words washing over you as your eyes drifted to Joel. How his shoulders relaxed with each sip of whiskey. The way the corner of his eyes wrinkled as he tried not to smile at some stupid thing Tommy said.

You swirled the last of your drink absentmindedly, the amber catching the light. You leaned into Joel’s shoulder, “I’m gonna grab another,” you said, pushing your chair back.

Joel’s eyes shifted to meet yours. “You want me to get it?”

You shook your head, smiling. “I got it.”

He hesitated, just for a second, before nodding once. “Alright, sweetheart.”

You smiled and slid off the chair, your hand trailing from his leg as you rose.

You turned toward the bar, weaving through the crowd. Joel’s gaze followed, a quiet reflex he couldn’t fight. The sound of Tommy’s voice faded somewhere behind his ears as he focused on you.

You leaned against the counter, elbows folded lazily against the bar as you tapped your glass, waiting for the bartenders attention.

Joel’s eyes trailed down your silhouette. The soft fall of your hair down your back, illuminated by the low light. The fabric of your shirt shifted as you moved, pulling snug at your waist before loosening again when you exhaled.

It wasn’t intentional. Nothing about you was. But god, it made his blood rush. He felt like a love-sick teenager.

He knew he was staring like a damn fool, with an incriminating smile across his face, and that some sarcastic remark was already forming on Tommy’s lips.

But then he heard it.

Some sloppy, dirty remark. Not from Tommy. But from the table to the left.

It was quiet, rough and perverted. Only meant to be heard by those believed to be in earshot.

“Real fuckin’ sweet thing, that one,” the man drawled, words sticky and careless.

Joel felt it like a strike to the back of the neck. A specific sort of heat that crawled up the skin and settled behind his eyes. He knew, without turning, that the words were aimed at you.

He tilted his head. His tight jaw catching the light of the lanterns. He saw three men, half-buried by shadow, faces flushed with drink. They were staring at you. Eyes lingering over the curve of your ass, lips curled into smirks.

He could feel the side of him he tries to control become hot. The feeling spreading through his chest and clawing at his throat.

He tried to breathe through it. One breath. Two.

Another man laughed, an ugly, leering sound. Unaware of the storm brewing. “You wanna know the things I’d do to her?,” he said, voice thick with confidence.

Joel had been trained to keep control. To think before reacting. To stifle any desires deep inside.

The man continued, “God, I’d push her dow-”

Restraint had its limits.

Joel’s chair scraped back before he even knew what he was doing. His blood was pounding in his ears, jaw set so tight his chest ached. The sound was sharp enough to cut through the noise of the bar. Heads turned. The laughter died.

He moved, fast but deliberate, each movement steeped in threat. He stood at the other end of the table to the men, towering over them. Shoulders taut and chest rising rapidly. His gaze dragged over all of them, slowly, as if sizing them all up individually.

It was silent briefly. Joel letting them squirm before leaning in closer.

His voice was low and rough. “You talkin’ bout her?” Joel asked. He cocked his head to you but kept his gaze on the men.

The first man’s voice faltered as he tried to respond. He dropped his gaze to the table and cleared his throat. “Just talkin’.”

Joel let out a clipped exhale through his nose, his jaw set and mouth pressed into a line. His hands balled into fists against the table. He leaned forward more, closing in.

“Keep talkin’ and you’ll be spittin’ out your goddamn teeth.”

The second man started to stammer something, but Joel’s stare cut him off. There was something about the vacancy behind his blown pupils. The charge behind his posture. It was primal.

Tommy was already up, muttering curses as he tried to diffuse it. “Joel. Hey. Not here. Not tonight.”

Joel’s eyes stayed locked on the man’s face a second longer, then finally, he straightened.

He exhaled, long and hard, and stepped back.

The men didn’t breathe until he turned away.

Joel turned and through the sea of people staring at him, he saw you. Eyes wide, hand trembling round your glass.

Fuck.

[emilydowney]

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME🦮

[hsispunk]

Boyfriend’s Dad! Joel Miller x Female Reader

warnings: 18+ smut. daddy kink, oral m receiving, p in v, nipple play, blow job, size kink, praise kink, anal play.

summary: your boyfriend calls you upset while your out with friends. you need a ride home and the only person who answered your desperate calls was your boyfriends dad.

wc: 3.3k

A/N: just want to say thank you so much for all the support on my other fics! shld i start a tag list???? also i think once you write smut, you never go back😭 i feel like i can’t ever write without it leading to smut. next one shot will be steve harrington so be on the look out for it!

It was a Friday night in Jackson.

You were out with your girlfriends on your monthly girls' night out. It made sure you guys always stayed in touch.

Maneater by Nelly Furtado blasted throughout the club while you danced with your friends.

You had about 2 vodka crans and a couple of shots. The alcohol was definitely flowing in your system, but not enough that you couldn’t observe your surroundings.

It was around 3 am, when your friends had decided it was time to leave.

“Y/N, you're one hundred percent sure that Jesse is going to pick you up? Why don’t you just ride with us?” Stacy asked.

“Guys, I’m sure! Go on without me. I’m about to call him to see where he’s at. I’ll text you the second he picks me up.” You told the girls while they were about to get in their Uber.

They were nervous about leaving you by yourself, but they agreed with you texting them once you were in Jesse’s car.

As the Uber drove off, you called Jesse.

“Babe? Where are you? I’m outside the club, it’s fucking freezing.” You shiver into the phone.

“Fuck off, Y/N. You’re crazy if you think I’m picking you up after I saw what you’re wearing on Stacy’s story.”

You look down at your dress. It was a yellow body con dress that you had paired with your electric blue heels. The neckline of the dress does accentuate your boobs, and it’s short enough to show off your long legs, but you can’t help it.

“Jesse? What are you talking about? It’s just a dress and heels.” You explain. “Please, can we talk about this at your place? Just come get me.” It’s so cold, and you don’t want to be alone, drunk on the streets this late.

“Your tits are out, practically begging for another man’s eyes to be on them. Find another way home, slut.” And with that, he hangs up the phone.

“Fuck,” you say while going down your call list. You don’t want to call any of the girls who were out tonight, because they already don’t approve of your boyfriend. You don’t want to add fuel to the fire. You try to call your mom, but she doesn’t pick up. Not sure what help she would be since she doesn’t live anywhere near here. You call Jesse one more time, in hopes he’d pick up, but it goes straight to voicemail.

You scroll and scroll until your finger hovers over a name.

Joel Miller, Jesse’s dad.

You know he lives in the area, and would most likely come to your rescue, so you press his name and it rings.

“Y/N? Watcha doin' calling me this late? Is everything alright?” It sounds like you woke him up. You feel so guilty, but hearing his voice just makes you want to cry.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Miller,” you sniffle. “I went out with my friends tonight, and Jesse was supposed to pick me up, but we got into an argument over the phone, and he told me to find a ride. I didn’t know who else to call. I’m scared.” You finally break and start full-on crying. You hear him shuffling around.

“Send me the location, I’ll be right there. No need to worry, honey.”

About five minutes later, Joel pulls up in front of the club in his truck. He puts the car in park and runs out to you.

“I have a fuckin’ loser of a kid.” He says as he takes his flannel off and wraps it around you. “He’s gonna hear about this from me, don’t you worry."

Your eyes are filled with tears, and you still feel a bit tipsy, so you don’t even remember getting into the car.

Joel drives you to his house and decides that you’ll stay in his guest bedroom.

“Alright, let’s get you inside, honey.” He walks to the other side of the truck and picks you up bridal style.

While in his arms, you get a good look at him. He looks so pretty under the moonlight. You’ve always thought Jesse’s dad was hot, but you would never tell him that.

He carries you to the guest bedroom and sets you down on the bed. “I’m gonna get you a change of clothes, I’ll be right back.”

He leaves the room and comes back with one of his shirts and a pair of boxers.

You go to stand up, but immediately feel a wave of dizziness hit you.

“Woah there honey, not too fast now.” He says while you sit back down on the bed.

“I can’t, Mr. Miller. The room is spinning.” You tell him. “Can you do it for me?” He doesn’t know what to say. His son’s girlfriend is in his guest room, drunk, asking him to change her out of her clothes. “Please?”

He looks over your face, mascara running, and eyes red from crying. He just can't say no to you.

He starts by unzipping your dress and pulling it from underneath your body. He tries his hardest to not look at you, not wanting to make you feel uncomfortable.

You notice his eyes focusing on your bright blue heels, the alcohol giving you some confidence. “You can look, Mr. Miller.”

He looks up at you, into your eyes. “It’s Joel. You don’t have to keep calling me that.” His eyes rake down your body. You had worn a white lace set tonight underneath your dress for Jesse. But his eyes weren’t the ones seeing it tonight.

Joel had always thought you were way out of Jesse’s league, since the day he brought you home. A beautiful girl doing charity work.

“I wore it for Jesse. We’ve been going through a rough patch in our relationship. Thought that maybe we could fix it with make-up sex.” You cringed a little at the alcohol giving you the confidence to overshare with your boyfriend’s father.

Joel gets his knees in front of you to take off your heels. “He doesn’t deserve you, Y/N.” His rough hands massage your calf for a brief second before he realizes what he was doing. Seeing him down on his knees made heat rush straight to your core.

“I think I’ll just sleep in this.” You say as you get under the covers. The alcohol really made you bold tonight.

Joel gets up and shuts the light off before heading to the door. “I’m just down the hall.” He says and shuts the door.

“Oh, Joel! That feels so good!” you whimper while your boyfriend's dad is tongue deep inside of you.

His big hands wrap around your thighs keeping them from closing shut.

You feel your release coming, your about to come on his face when-

You shoot up in bed, waking up from a noise you heard. Your hand is to your chest, and sweat is covering your forehead.

You look around the room, realizing this isn’t yours.

Everything hits you at once, and you remember all that has led you to sleeping in Joel’s guest bedroom.

You’re in your white lace lingerie set, sleeping just down the hall from your boyfriend’s dad.

On top of that, you just had a wet dream about him.

You check the clock on the nightstand, and the red numbers stare back at you. 6:33am. You only got about three hours of sleep.

An ache throbs between your legs. It's early enough in the morning that Joel is probably still asleep, so you decide to slip your hand between the lace to try to relieve yourself.

Wetness coats your fingers when you hear that noise again. And again.

You hear the noise once more, so you decide to pull over the t-shirt that Joel had set on the bed for you and find out where the hell that noise is coming from.

You walk out into the hall, “Y/N” You hear your name coming from behind Joel’s bedroom door. Does he need you?

With his door being slightly ajar, you peek your head in.

“Shit, baby girl,” Joel’s eyebrows are scrunched while his eyes are hooded. You look down to see his hand wrapped around his cock, moving up and down.

You step back in shock, and a creak in the floor makes Joel’s eyes shoot open.

He grabs the top sheet to cover his naked body, “Fuck, Y/N, I thought you were asleep,” He’s worried that he made you uncomfortable with what you just caught him doing. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

This could go one or two ways. You could go back to the bedroom and act like this never happened, or you can see what unfolds if you stay.

The shots from earlier in the night are still in your system, and they decide for you cause your walking through the door to the edge of his bed.

“Were you thinking of me?” You ask.

He looks at you, mouth open, not sure how to answer that question.

Because yes, he was thinking of you. Joel was thinking of his son’s girlfriend while getting off.

“Uh. I don’t-,”

“It’s okay, Mr Miller. Seriously. I just wish you had invited me to help you out rather than do this all on your own.”

You get up on top of the bed and slowly crawl to him. You peel off the top sheet to see what he was hiding from you.

His cock springs up. His tip is bright red, pre-come dripping down the side of it. He twitches just from your eyes on him.

“Y/N, I-I don’t know if we should be doing this. Jesse’s my son.” You wrap your hand around his cock and move up and down.

“You said it yourself, he doesn’t deserve me. But you know who I think does? You, Mr. Miller. My boyfriend’s daddy.” His cock twitches against your hand.

“Oh, you like that? You want me to call you daddy, Mr. Miller?” He moans at that word rolling off your tongue. One of his biggest kinks was having a girl call him daddy, but no one he's been with liked it.

You move to lie on your stomach in between his legs. His cock is still in your hand. He finally gives in.

“Fuck, baby girl, you’re killing me here.” Joel could die happy right here with you in front of him, his cock in your hand, all while in his t-shirt.

“I’m going to suck you off now, daddy.” You slap his tip on your tongue a couple of times before spitting down on it. “You’re so big, I don’t know if I can fit this all in my mouth.”

You take him into your mouth, pleasure flowing through Joel’s body. He can’t even believe this is happening right now. He takes your hair in his fist to make a makeshift ponytail while you get to work.

You bob your head up and down as far as you can go. His cock is too big for you to take him all the way, so you wrap your hands around the rest.

“Oh my god, baby girl, just like that, take what you can.” He praises you.

His hip jerks up into your mouth, making you gag. It only makes you work harder to get him to his end.

You swirl your tongue around the tip, but he rips you off of him, and your back hits the bed. He hovers over you. “Way too close, honey. I’m not done with you yet.”

His mouth meets yours in a hot kiss. Drool is covering your mouth as he sucks your tongue into his. He can taste himself on you.

The kiss is cut short when he brings his hands to the t-shirt you’re wearing.

“My shirt looks good on you, baby.” His fingers reach the hem of the shirt. “I wanna get a better look at what’s underneath it.”

Your shirt is off in seconds, his eyes gaze over the dainty white lace that somewhat covers your most special parts.

“Fuck, doll.” He kisses down from your neck, “Jesse should've taken better care of you. He could’ve had all this.” His tongue teases your nipples over the fabric.

You moan at the feeling of his teeth biting down on your breast, and a jolt of pleasure rushes through your body.

His hands reach underneath your back, and unclips your bra. Your breasts break free, rosy pink nipples hard.

He immediately cups one boob, massaging it in his hand before pinching the sweet spot.

“Shit,” Jesse never paid attention to your tits. He only cared about them, they were on display during your nights out.

“I know, baby girl, it must feel uncomfortable down there, huh? Let daddy have a look.” Joel kisses down from your boobs to right above your lace panties.

He could see your pretty pussy on display right through the dampened lace.

“Oh, baby.” His fingers rub over your clothed slit. “You’re soaked right through.”

“Take them off, daddy. I want you inside of me.” You start humping the air, trying to get him to touch you where it hurts. “I’m so wet for you.” He looks down at you, tears in your eyes, a whining mess.

“I’m gonna take care of you, baby, no need to worry.” His fingers grab the sides of your panties and peel them down your legs.

He grabs your ankles and puts them on his shoulders, your legs completely in the air.

His looks in between the two of you, his cock so close to your pussy. He taps your clit a couple of times with his tip, making you jerk.

“Stop teasing me, Joel.” He slides the head through your folds. “I’ve been such a good girl for you.” the view below makes him almost pass out.

Your pretty pink pussy is so wet that the second he pushes in, he slides right through your hole.

“Oh, Fuck!” He gave you no warning before he started pounding into you; the headboard slams into the wall with every thrust.

“Take it, baby girl, take every last inch of my cock.”

It’s so thick inside you, it feels like he’s splitting you in half. This angle is making him reach places so deep inside you that your legs start to shake.

He wraps his hand around your calves and places a soft kiss on your ankle. “You feel so good, Y/N. You’re doing so well.”

You can’t say much with his cock inside you. It’s an overwhelming feeling; all you can do is moan and play with your nipples.

He brings his hand down to your pussy and starts rubbing his thumb across your clit in circular motions.

It’s exactly what you needed to feel your release.

“I’m coming! Oh my god!”

“Fuck yeah, baby, come all over daddy’s cock.” He fucks you through the after shocks of your orgasm. You gasp when he pulls out of you and places your legs back down on the mattress.

He's face-to-face with you when he places a kiss on your lips.

You smile against the kiss and take his cock in your hand to rub it.

“Flip over for me, I want your ass in the air.” You get excited at the thought of him being back inside you. You don’t think you could ever get enough of it.

You do as he says, and it gives him the perfect view of your other side. He was most definitely an ass man. He loved to smack them, lick them, and fuck them. He knew that wouldn't happen tonight, but he wanted to see what you were comfortable with.

“Anyone ever touch you here, baby?” He says as he spreads your cheeks open and spits down on your hole.

No one has ever touched there besides yourself. Sometimes, when masturbating, you like to tease your other hole while having your vibrator on your clit. It made for an amazing orgasm.

The feeling of Joel’s spit, dripping down your ass to your pussy, could’ve made you come right on the spot.

“No, but if you want to play with it, you can.” You gave him permission.

Joel’s cock perked up at your answer. Tonight, he would just tease you a bit, nothing too crazy. He would save other things for another day.

His fingers collected some wetness from your pussy to mix in with his spit and be skimmed over your tight hole.

You pushed your ass back on him,“Fuck me, daddy. You look at him over your shoulder.

You didn't have to tell him twice. He grabs his cock and pumps himself a few times before slipping back into your sweet pussy.

You didn’t realize how empty you felt until he was back inside of you.

He pounds into you all while he focuses on that perfect little ass that has yet to be played with.

You feel saliva drip down again, and his thumb rims around your tightest hole.

“I feel you squeezing my cock every time I tease your ass.” He does it again. “You like me playing with your other hole, baby?”

“Yes, daddy, fuck!” You start to move your hips to meet his thrusts.

He slowly eases his finger into you, his hips stop thrusting, and you both freeze. Spit hits where his finger is as he tries to lube you up to stretch you out.

The feeling is overwhelming. You feel so full from having his big cock inside your pussy, and a finger easing its way into your asshole. Your body breaks out into goosebumps.

You move your hips so his finger and cock move in and out of you.

“Holy shit. Oh my god, Joel.” Words just pile out of your mouth.

“I know, baby, just breathe, you’re doing so good for daddy.” He takes his other hand and rubs your back, a way to calm you down.

He picks up his thrusts into your pussy while slowly moving his finger in and out of you.

You know you can’t come with just him doing this, so you start to play with your clit.

Pornographic moans fill the room. He can feel that you’re going to come soon, and so is he.

“Where do you want me to come, baby? Tell me,” He says, between moans.

“On my ass. Please. Daddy come all over my ass.” You cry out.

With the sounds that come from the bedroom, you should be worried about Joel getting a noise complaint.

It feels like the world stops. You both are finally reaching your ends, and reality is hitting you for a second on what just happened.

You just fucked your boyfriend’s dad. He just had his finger in your ass, something no one else has done.

The biggest problem is, is that you would do it all over again if you could.

You feel Joel’s hands come down on your ass, using the sheets to wipe his come off of you.

What a sight, he thinks to himself.

He pulls you into his side, before reaching over and shutting off the lamp on the bedside table.

“Do you regret it?” He asks, worry in his voice.

“No, Joel, I don’t.” You nuzzle into his side. “I could never regret that.”

You both drift off into sleep, pretending that it’s just the two of you in the world. No one else.

Just Joel and Y/N.

It's not until the afternoon that you are woken up by Joel's phone ringing. You cuddle closer against his body and hear him talking to someone, but you're half asleep and can't make out what he's saying.

"Baby, wake up." He says once he's off the phone. You open your eyes and see you are both still naked.

"Jesse just called, freaking out cause he couldn't find you. Your friends told him they never got a text from you, so I told him you called me last night and that you're asleep in the guest bedroom. He's on his way over now."

Fuck.