A collection of one-shots featuring various Pedro Pascal characters. Including: Din Djarin, Javier Peña, Joel Miller, Marcus Acacius, Marcus Pike, Dave York, Javi Gutierrez, Oberyn Martell, Jack "Whiskey" Daniels, and Max Phillips. Most contain expl...
summary: When you left that morning, Javier looked so innocent tucked away in bed, passed out from working late the night before. Returning home, you're not expecting the not-so-innocent sounds of him jerking off, and with the way he's groaning your name, it's to thoughts of you.
rating: Explicit (This is smut. Established relationship, accidental voyeurism, mutual masturbation, masturbation (m & f), vibrator, vaginal fingering, dirty talk (he's helping you get off), praise kink, panty sniffing, mentions of oral sex (f receiving), Javier being a bit needy, some feelings as a treat)
word count: 1.8k+
a/n: Can be read as a standalone or part of the Learning to Live 'verse (it's canon).
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The thing about living in southern Texas is that it's warm the majority of the year, excruciatingly hot in summer, and come winter, you're going to need a jacket.
For a Saturday in spring, the weather is nice and mild—not too hot, not too cold, leaving that morning in a pair of leggings, your jean jacket, and Javier snug under the blankets, passed out.
He'd come to bed late the night before, too busy spending hours sitting on the couch with files strewn all over the coffee table in a chaotic mess that didn't seem to bother him, his reading glasses on, poring over the words on the pages with a furrow in his brow.
You're not quite sure what's going on at his job in the Sheriff's office, but you can tell something is consuming him; he's so focused, bringing work home with him for the past week, and you've only had sex a couple of times—well below average which is frustrating because he's spoiled you so much with orgasms on the regular, that you're needy and aching.
He knew you were going to breakfast with your friend, but you'd left him a note on your pillow as a reminder.
It's been a couple of hours when you return home, sliding off your shoes by the front door, hanging up your jacket, and setting your purse on the console table in the entryway, your keys going in the large bowl where Javi's were nestled on top of his wallet.
You're quiet in case he's still sleeping, stopping in your tracks when you hear a gentle groan slip through the crack in the bedroom door on your way to the kitchen. Your eyes go wide because it isn't one of Javi's back-aching-pain-groans; no, this was the sexier kind when he's feeling really fucking good.
It happens again, your feet taking you closer to the door, hearing him say in a rough shuddering plea, "Cielito," and your body heats, arousal curling in your gut, now able to make out the rhythmic wet sound of skin gliding along skin, interspersed with grunts, and muffled Cielitos.
Javi is jerking off to thoughts of you, and if it isn't the most sexily romantic thing in the entire goddamn world.
You're wet, your pussy throbbing in tune with your pounding heart, and it's really doing it for you thinking about him getting himself off, knowing he wouldn't mind you watching.
