Rpf - Blog Posts
Chapters: 2/3 Fandom: jschlatt - Fandom Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: jschlatt/reader Characters: Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF) Additional Tags: jschlatt/reader - Freeform, Schlatt/reader - Freeform, RPF, Angst, scrapped from tumblr oops, Rekindled Flame, Catholicism mentioned, Doomed Lovers - Freeform, based on a fob song, Mentioned Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), the nickname ‘johnny’ is used Summary:
it’s been nearly six years since the two of you abruptly ending your fling that blossomed through your freshman year of college. you got married, he became big on the internet. so what was really lying behind the two of you? maybe even insinuating it wasn’t just a fling, maybe fate.
DISCLAIMER & MASTERLIST
‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹
This is an RPF-Account
As you can see from the heading, my account is and will feature real-person-fiction. If you have a problem with that then please leave my blog.
I will not tolerate any hate toward my work or that of others simply because they write RPF but I do want to set a couple important boundaries of what I think is acceptable with RPF and what I think is not:
PLEASE DO NOT:
Do not treat the people that are being written about like they are objects, specifically sexual objects. That means that I don't want someone to express their carnal desire to do X-Sexual-Action with X-Person. Please keep that to yourself.
Please do not engage in stalker-like behaviour with real people. Too often I see low quality zoomed in pictures of someone who didn't want to be filmed with comments that are often similar to my first point.
These people are still real people like you and me and I know, because my wattpad days have taught me, that sometimes it is easy to get lost in a crush on someone. Especially when they are actively responding to fans and putting out content.
That being said; Yes. I do plan on writing smut but I will be respectful and put warnings on NSFW chapters. I hope I do not need to explain that writing smut and objectification of someone is not the same.
‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹
Masterlist
{ ♡ = smut; ☆ = suggestive; ❀ = fluff; ☾ = angst; 🕯 = slow burn; }
‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹
ONESHOTS
Ryan Magee x Reader {Supermega}
❀ Red Lipstick
☆ Officer?
❀ You made me a poet
The Witcher {The Witcher/ all media)
☾ Your Voice Remains
{Kaer Morons} Brother Love
OneyPlays Crew x Reader {OneyPlays}
❀; ☆ The Most Wonderful Time of The Year
Zach Hadel x Reader {OneyPlays}
☾; ❀ A Quarter to Something
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MULTICHAPTER
Zach Hadel x Reader {OneyPlays}
🕯 A Heartstruck Collision
🩷 OPTION 1: people can openly ship whoever they want to and write RPF about anyone, no matter of shipped ones age, relativeness, relationships or consent
🩷 OPTION 2: people can openly ship whoever they want to and write RPF about anyone with no consent asked, as long as shipped ones are not underaged, relatives or in abusive relationships
🩷 OPTION 3: people can ship whoever they want to and write RPF about anyone, no matter of shipped ones age, relativeness, relationships or consent, as long as this ship has little to no publicity and content is only posted privately
🩷 OPTION 4: people can ship and write RPF only with those who have consented to being shipped before
🩷 OPTION 5: people shouldn't ship real people and write RPF
I personally have really mixed thoughts about this so... Yeah I wanted to ask what do you think
I'd also like to know what exactly you think either in the comments or reblogs if you're okay with sharing this
The Croaker's Revenge
The Croaker will be present at Dashcon 2, and will guard the ballpit, after a fashion… but nobody will notice or recognize them. Many cosplayers will attend as the Croaker, but none will be @the-muppet-joker, not even the one in full purple-leisure-suit Joker cosplay, with a Kermit puppet fastened to his fly like a codpiece.
@strange-aeons will be there, in full Ebony Dark'ness Dementia Raven-Way cosplay, guarding the ballpit and posing for mock battle photos with Brotherhood cosplayers, but nobody will claim to be the actual Muppet Joker. Things will be whispered into Master Strange's ear, but they will mostly be along the line of what a lovely couple she and her wife make. Perhaps Master Strange will lean down to hear one person whisper, "I think he's here," and she will turn around, but she will not be able to tell who she was leaning down to listen to.
The ballpit will be a hit. Not as big as the raccoon talk given by @raccoonmilf, but the organizers, @dashcon-two, knew that if they were going to have a ballpit, they'd have to go big and make it as nice as possible, and the party supply company will deliver the perfect thing. Among other activities, getting selfies with Homestuck cosplayers reenacting their time in the original Dashcon ballpit will be popular.
Nobody will urinate in the ballpit.
Nobody will think very hard about how the laconic, sullen young person in a polo shirt and work slacks, who set up the ballpit alone and unassisted, had bright green hair.
Nobody will think very hard about how this green-haired young person spent every day of the convention posted up against a wall in view of the ballpit, scrolling on their phone, not interacting with anyone.
Nobody will realize until after the con, that the party supply company did not contract to set the ballpit up for the organizers, or to provide a maintenance person for it.
Nobody at the party supply company will care, when the Dashcon 2 organizers tell them that whoever initially signed for the ballpit wasn't event staff. Nor will they have any idea who actually did sign for it.
After the con, everyone will assume that the young green-haired nonbinary person, who set up the ballpit and spent the entire con leaning on the wall in view of it, scrolling on their phone, will pack up the ballpit and load it into the party supply company's truck, but in fact, the ballpit will still be standing, quite abandoned, and the green-haired one will have vanished without a trace. Eventually, the organizers will find badge details matching the green-haired one in their records: a standard visitor pass with no special privileges, under the name of "John Smith."
After the con, over the next few weeks, the repercussions will start to become apparent. Bit by bit, the Croaker's devious, twisted, insane, magnificent, hilarious plan will come to fruition before the eyes of an astonished and terrified Tumblr community, and the Croaker will have revenge upon all of us.
this is home
Jensen Ackles x Actress!Reader / Pedro Pascal x Actress!Reader <platonic>
not saying anything about anyone. this idea materialized and went with it.
dividers by @saradika-graphics
Jensen had barely stepped into the terminal before the chaos began.
Flashes. Voices. Pens. Phones.
“Jensen! Over here!”
“Jensen! Just one shot, man!”
“Can you sign this, Jensen?”
He gave his trademark half-grin, the one that made crowds light up, and started signing with an ease that only came from years of practice. Photos, posters, a few weird objects. He didn't ask questions. Just kept it moving, just like always.
TMZ was in the mix, too, and so were a few of those guys with binders full of photos they’d resell online. Jensen didn’t love it, but he handled them the same way he handled everything else in public — smooth and unbothered. Or at least, looking that way.
“Where’s Y/N today?” someone called.
He didn’t look up, just said, “She’s across the country shooting right now.”
“Oh, that’s with Pedro Pascal, right?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Jensen chuckled as he handed back a marker. “Lucky bastard gets to hang with her all day.”
Laughter rippled around him. He leaned into the joke, let it deflect any of the sting. He was cool with Pedro. Friendly, even. It wasn’t weird.
Mostly.
Then someone from the crowd — guy with a beard, phone out — pushed closer.
“Hey Jensen, you seen the new photos from set?”
Still signing, Jensen blinked. “What photos?”
The guy turned his phone around.
Three photos.
The first: you and Pedro laughing with the director, looking like a couple of kids in the best kind of trouble.
The second: Pedro saying something that had you smiling so wide Jensen could practically hear the laugh that went with it.
The third one hit a little lower. You, tucked under Pedro’s arm, head resting comfortably on his shoulder, the two of you watching something off-screen like you’d done it a hundred times before. Like it was natural. Like it belonged.
Jensen’s jaw ticked.
Barely.
He gave the phone back.
The guy raised an eyebrow. “What’s up with that, man?”
“Uh, nothing, man.” Jensen shrugged, light as air. “That’s common on set when two lead actors are playing each other’s love interest and they’re close friends like they are.”
Another signature. Another fake smile.
“You just have fun with it all and enjoy the ride. I know how much she likes working with the guy and how much fun she’s having on set. And that’s important, you know? Because other than the director, they’re the leaders on set — they set the tone for the rest of the cast and crew.”
He was answering without thinking now, defaulting to PR mode as the weight of the third photo stuck with him. How natural it looked. How comfortable you were in Pedro’s arms. How Jensen had never seen that particular smile when you were with him.
He wrapped things up quickly after that, making excuses about catching his flight, shaking hands, thanking the fans. Cool. Calm. Collected.
He stayed that way all the way to the gate.
All the way to his seat in first class.
All the way until the plane door sealed shut and he finally exhaled, jaw unclenching as he pulled out his phone.
He typed, erased, typed again.
Finally, he sent the message:
Need you to call me ASAP. Saw the new set pics.
He stared out the window.
Trying — and failing — not to replay the way your head rested on Pedro’s shoulder like it had every right to be there.
You were sitting in your trailer with your makeup half-done and your feet kicked up on the little sofa when your phone buzzed.
Jensen 💚: Need you to call me ASAP. Saw the new set pics.
Your stomach dropped.
You stared at the message for a second too long, rereading it like the words might change if you blinked hard enough.
You pulled up Instagram. Nothing on your feed yet. No tags. Then you checked Twitter — and there it was. A trending post. Your name. Pedro's. Someone had zoomed in on a few candid shots from set.
First one: You and Pedro laughing your asses off as the director waved her hands around. You remembered that moment — she’d made a joke about Pedro's "hero stance" being too dramatic, and Pedro had played it up even more. You’d doubled over laughing.
Second one: Pedro standing in front of you, making faces while the hair stylist adjusted your wig. You were grinning, wide and unfiltered.
Third one: …oh.
Oh.
You were leaning into him. Your head on his shoulder, his arms loose around you, like it was the most normal thing in the world. You looked calm. At peace. Comfortable. Too comfortable.
You swallowed hard.
Because yeah, it was normal on set. You’d spent weeks rehearsing together, shooting long days, figuring out the chemistry of your characters. You and Pedro got along — scarily well. He made you laugh when you needed it, offered you his coat between takes, always remembered to bring your favorite snack from the craft table.
But that photo. It didn’t look like friends. Not in the context of a trending topic. Not in the context of—
You clicked back to your messages.
No follow-up text.
You dialed him immediately, chewing at your thumbnail as it rang.
Once. Twice. Voicemail.
You hung up and called again.
No answer.
You hated this feeling — this wedge that had dropped between you from one image, one that wasn’t even about anything. But to him… it probably looked like something else. Something intimate.
Your trailer door creaked open and Pedro popped his head in. “Hey, we’re being called back in like, five—”
You must’ve looked pale or something, because he stopped short. “You okay?”
You nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Just… give me a minute?”
He hesitated. “Alright.” He lingered. “If this is about the photo stuff—”
You looked up sharply.
Pedro sighed, scratching the back of his neck. “Someone showed me on set. I didn’t think it’d blow up like this. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” you said quietly.
He gave you a small smile. “If he saw that third one, I get it. He’s probably just—y’know. Human.”
You nodded. “Yeah. He is.”
Pedro gave you one last look before closing the door behind him.
You stared at your phone again. The silence from Jensen felt louder than anything else.
You hated that one still frame — one unintentional, unguarded moment — could undo so much. Or make someone you love doubt what’s real.
You tried calling again.
Voicemail.
This time, you left one.
“Hey, babe. I just saw the photos. I know how that last one must’ve looked, and I’m sorry if it hurt you. It wasn’t anything, I swear. Pedro and I were waiting to shoot a scene, and I was freezing — I didn’t even realize someone took a picture. I should’ve texted you more from set, I know things have been hectic. But please don’t think for one second that you have anything to worry about. Okay? You’re it for me.”
You hesitated before hanging up.
Then, softer: “I miss you.”
Jensen had just leveled out in the air when he finally put his headphones in.
He didn’t open a movie. Didn’t scroll through music.
He played your voicemail.
It was quiet at first — your voice hushed, gentle. He closed his eyes.
“Hey, babe. I just saw the photos. I know how that last one must’ve looked, and I’m sorry if it hurt you…”
His jaw clenched. It didn’t hurt. I’m fine, he told himself, which was the first lie of the day.
It had hurt. Not in a full-on betrayal way — he trusted you. Of course he did. But that photo had snagged something in his chest and refused to let go. The way you looked with Pedro... relaxed, safe, like he was your home.
It was his shoulder you were supposed to lean on like that. Not someone else's.
“Pedro and I were waiting to shoot a scene, and I was freezing — I didn’t even realize someone took a picture…”
He knew. He knew. He’d been in this industry long enough to recognize what was real and what was camera bait. But still — your head on Pedro’s shoulder, his arms around you — it was too real-looking. It felt like something private, even if it wasn’t.
“I should’ve texted you more from set…”
Yeah, maybe. But he hadn’t exactly been blowing up your phone either. You’d both been busy, missing each other in that quiet, painful way people do when life gets loud.
“Please don’t think for one second that you have anything to worry about. Okay? You’re it for me.”
His throat tightened.
God, he missed you. Missed your laugh, your late-night ramblings, the way your hand always found his knee when you were curled up next to him. Missed your presence, like something about the world clicked into place when you were near.
“I miss you.”
He pulled out one earbud, let the quiet hum of the plane fill the silence. His eyes stayed on the seat in front of him, unfocused. He didn’t replay the message again — didn’t need to. Your voice was already echoing in his head.
He tapped out a reply before he could overthink it:
I miss you too. Let’s talk when I land, okay? We’ll talk.
He picked up the call on the first ring.
“Hey,” your voice came through, soft but steady.
“Hey,” he said back, eyes shut as he leaned against the seat. His voice was lower than usual, gravelly from holding too much in.
“I didn't want to wait.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.”
A pause.
“You okay?” you asked.
He let out a quiet breath, one hand scrubbing down his face. “Yeah. I mean, I wasn’t. But I’m better now.”
“That photo—”
“I know,” he cut in gently. “I know it’s nothing. I know how sets work. Hell, I’ve probably looked that cozy with co-stars more times than I can count.”
“Still… I hate that you saw it that way.”
“I didn’t want to,” he admitted, voice raw around the edges. “Didn’t want to feel that flash of… I don’t even know what it was. Just hit me out of nowhere.”
“It was cold. Pedro offered his jacket. I leaned. That was it.”
Jensen gave a humorless huff. “Pedro’s a good guy. I know that. I like him.”
“I know you do.”
“But seeing you in his arms like that—” he stopped, forcing his words to even out. “It looked like I’d been replaced.”
“You haven’t been,” you said, firm now. “Not even close.”
He stayed quiet, letting the weight of that truth settle between you.
“I’m sorry I didn’t check in more,” you continued. “We’ve both been running non-stop. And I know how much that messes with things.”
“I should’ve called too,” he said. “Should’ve made time. We’re both guilty.”
“You didn’t ask for pictures like that to be taken.”
“You didn’t ask to go viral for existing on a film set.”
That made you laugh — just a little — and he felt something in his chest loosen.
“I meant what I said in the voicemail,” you added. “You’re it for me, Jensen. Okay? Even when it’s cold. Even when I’m tired. Even when I’m a thousand miles away.”
He swallowed the lump forming in his throat.
“I needed to hear that,” he said quietly. “Because when I saw that photo… I didn’t feel like ‘it.’ I felt like the guy who got left behind.”
“You didn’t. You won’t be.”
He leaned forward in his seat, resting his elbows on his knees, voice almost a whisper now. “Can we be better about this? You and me. Even when it’s crazy. Even when the press starts making shit up. Just… keep each other close?”
“I want that,” you said instantly. “I want us solid, no matter where we are.”
“Okay,” he said. Then softer: “Then we’ll do it.”
Another pause. A gentler one this time.
“Are you headed to the hotel?” you asked.
“Yeah. I’ll call you when I get there. Maybe FaceTime. I wanna see your face.”
“You’re not gonna make me show you I’m not cuddled up to Pedro again, are you?” you teased lightly.
He chuckled, finally — a real one. “Nah. But I’ll make you prove you still smile bigger when you see me.”
“You better believe I do.”
He leaned back in his seat again, a quiet smile on his lips as the overhead chime announced arrival.
“I love you,” he said.
“I love you too,” you answered.
This time, it didn’t just feel like words.
It felt like coming home.
The hotel room was dim, lit mostly by the warm amber glow of the bedside lamp. Jensen tossed his duffel on the floor, kicked off his boots, and let out a groan as he flopped back onto the mattress.
He didn’t even bother with the TV. All he wanted to do was see your face.
He hit FaceTime, thumb hovering for just a second before he pressed “Call.”
It rang once. Twice.
Then you answered.
“Hi,” you said, appearing on his screen, wrapped in a hoodie — his hoodie, he realized — hair pulled back, eyes tired but warm.
He exhaled, a sound like something uncoiling inside him.
“There you are,” he murmured.
You smiled. A real one this time. “Here I am.”
He angled the phone so you could see him too, stretched out on the bed, shirt wrinkled from travel, hair a little messy from the flight.
“You look good,” you said quietly.
He huffed a small laugh. “I look like I just went twelve rounds with airport security.”
“Still,” you said. “You look like home.”
That did something to him. His chest ached in that gentle way it always did when you cut straight through his walls without even trying.
“I hated that we fought without actually fighting,” you said, voice softer now.
“We didn’t fight,” he replied. “We… stumbled.”
You nodded. “Well. Let’s not do that again.”
“Agreed.”
You were quiet for a moment, studying him through the screen like you were trying to memorize every detail. He could see the exhaustion in your eyes — long day, long week, maybe just missing him more than you’d let yourself admit until now.
“Hey,” he said gently. “You okay?”
“I am now.”
He swallowed. “I know that photo caught me off guard. But I trust you. Even when it stings. Even when I hate sharing you with the world.”
“You’re not sharing me,” you said. “Not really. The world gets pieces. You get all of me.”
His throat tightened. “That better not just be the sleep talking.”
“It’s not,” you whispered.
You just watched each other for a moment — no talking, no pressure. Just two people staring through a screen and wishing it were a window.
“You wanna stay on the call while you crash?” he asked eventually. “I’ll just leave you propped up. We don’t have to talk.”
You blinked. “Like fall asleep on FaceTime?”
“Yeah. Old school teen romance style.”
You smiled, curling deeper under your blanket. “That sounds perfect.”
He angled his phone against a pillow so you had a good view — just his face and that soft, sleepy look in his eyes. You did the same.
“Goodnight, sweetheart,” he said quietly.
“Goodnight, baby.”
He didn’t care how cheesy it was. Didn’t care about time zones or bad lighting or how far away you were.
Right now, he could see your face.
And for the first time in days, Jensen felt like everything might just be okay.
The soundstage was quiet for a rare moment — reset lights buzzing, crew shuffling softly, the buzz of production dulled under the weight of fatigue and late-afternoon haze. You stood near video village, holding a paper cup of now-cold coffee, eyes skimming the script pages you already knew by heart.
But your mind was somewhere else.
Back in that hotel room with Jensen’s face on your phone. Back in his voice, low and tired, but honest. Back in the look in his eyes when you told him, You’re not sharing me. The world gets pieces. You get all of me.
You knew what that had meant to him — how much it had taken for him to believe it. And still… how hard he was working to keep believing it.
Because Jensen had been burned. One too many times.
People didn’t always love him. They loved the version of him that opened doors. The famous name. The charming face. The connections. The spotlight. The screaming fans. His impeccable good looks.
But when the lights dimmed? When the camera stopped? That’s when the cracks formed. That’s when the sniping started. The cold shoulders. The slow unraveling of something that had never been sewn with kindness in the first place.
He’d told you about it one night, half a bottle of whiskey deep, voice rough and eyes downcast. How he stayed too long. How he kept trying to fix things, even when the only thing breaking was himself.
She made him feel small. Over time, piece by piece. Until he forgot what it was like to be seen with softness.
He didn’t realize it at the time — how much damage that kind of love could do. How deeply it could root itself in the way he saw the world.
He still caught himself, sometimes. When you fought — which wasn’t often — he’d sometimes shoot too fast. A sharp word. A subtle jab. His shoulders would go rigid like he was bracing for a war that wasn’t coming.
And you’d told him. Calm, clear, unmoving.
I love you, but I won’t let you treat me like that. That’s not love. That’s defense. And if you want to be in this with me, then that pattern ends now.
He’d listened. He’d heard you.
And he was trying. You saw it every time he paused to rethink his words. Every time he caught himself and took a breath instead of a verbal swing. Every time he looked at you like he was scared — not of you, but of losing you — and chose to trust instead.
You knew he was trying to be the kind of man who didn’t carry the weight of his past into the room with him.
You knew that meant more than any trending photo or paparazzi buzz ever could.
“Hey,” a familiar voice said gently.
You blinked out of your thoughts to see Pedro beside you, his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, expression warm and easy.
“Hey,” you replied, offering a small smile.
He gave you a look. That subtle, careful kind — the kind only good friends know how to give.
“Everything good?” he asked, keeping his voice low. “After… y’know. All the TMZ drama?”
You let out a breath. “Yeah. We talked. He’s good. We’re good.”
Pedro nodded once. “I figured. He seemed like the type to pull it together once he had the facts.”
You glanced at him. “He’s trying. It’s not always easy for him.”
Pedro gave a soft, understanding smile. “No, I get that. People don’t always realize how much shit someone’s carrying until it spills out all over the place.”
You nodded slowly. “He’s been through a lot. Stuff he doesn’t always talk about. And when he does, it’s… heavy.”
Pedro leaned against the edge of the cart beside you, casual but attentive. “He’s lucky to have you.”
You tilted your head. “You think so?”
“I know so,” he said, with a small grin. “Because you love him in a way that makes him want to be better. I see it in the way you talk about him — and in the way you look over your shoulder every time your phone buzzes.”
You laughed under your breath, cheeks warming.
Pedro bumped your shoulder lightly. “He’s not the only lucky one, though. You’ve got someone who’s trying to unlearn the shit that broke him. That’s not nothing.”
You swallowed. “Yeah. It’s not.”
He nodded once more, then added, “And hey — for what it’s worth, if he ever forgets what he’s got in you… I’m right here with a very long speech about how dumb he’d be to mess it up.”
You grinned. “Thanks, Pascal. I’ll keep you on standby.”
“Always,” he said with a wink.
You didn’t hear the knock so much as feel it — a jolt of electricity straight through your chest.
You crossed the hotel room in three seconds flat, yanking open the door like something in you had been waiting for this moment all week.
And there he was.
Jensen.
Ball cap, hoodie, boots. Tired eyes and soft smile. You didn’t even say hello — just grabbed the front of his sweatshirt and pulled him in.
He dropped his bag somewhere behind him as the door closed, his hands already finding your waist, your back, your face. His touch was everywhere at once — not desperate, just sure.
You kissed him like you hadn’t seen him in years. Like this was the only language you remembered.
He kissed you back just the same.
When you finally pulled apart, breathless and slightly dizzy, Jensen rested his forehead against yours, voice low and rough.
“God, I missed you.”
You nodded, eyes still closed. “You feel like home.”
He huffed a soft laugh. “I feel like hell. That flight was brutal.”
“You still smell like your cologne,” you whispered, pressing your nose to his collar. “And a little like airplane.”
“You always this affectionate with guys who smell like recycled air?”
“Only the ones I love.”
He smiled into your hair, arms tightening around you. “That’s good. ‘Cause I was planning on staying.”
You tilted your head back to look at him. “For the night or for the week?”
He met your gaze. “As long as you’ll let me.”
The answer settled into your chest like sunlight.
You led him toward the bed, fingers laced with his, neither of you needing words to know what this meant. It wasn’t about sex. It was about presence. About closeness. About curling into each other like the answer to a question that’s lingered too long.
Later, after the clothes had been shed and the lights dimmed and the room had gone quiet except for the slow, even rhythm of breath, he pressed a kiss to your shoulder.
“I hate being apart from you,” he murmured.
You turned slightly, meeting his eyes in the dark. “Me too.”
“I don’t care where you are, what time it is — I just want you close.”
“You’ve got me,” you whispered, tracing your fingers along his jaw. “You always do.”
And when he kissed you again, it wasn’t just to prove a point. It was a promise.
The sun was starting to dip behind the soundstage, casting long shadows over the parking lot where the crew trucks sat humming, their sides splattered with dust and sunlight.
Pedro was leaning against one of them, sipping a bottle of water, still in costume — the desert wind teasing the edges of his scarf. He looked calm, unbothered. But his eyes tracked everything. They always did.
Jensen saw him before he said a word.
“Hey,” he called, jogging up the last few steps from the studio lot.
Pedro lifted his brows, amused. “Well look who actually exists in daylight.”
Jensen smirked. “Thought I’d swing by before you wrap up. Figured I owed you a face-to-face.”
Pedro nodded, uncapping his water again. “For what? You’re not about to punch me over a publicity still, are you?”
Jensen chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Nah. We got past all that. She and I talked. It’s good now.”
Pedro gave him a look — not skeptical, just curious. “You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
There was a beat. One of those heavy, unspoken pauses that says we’re about to get real, aren’t we?
Jensen crossed his arms and leaned against the truck beside Pedro, letting the silence settle before breaking it.
“I know you and she got close,” he said, not accusing — just honest. “I know how this kind of set brings people together. Long hours. Long scenes. Shared trailers and inside jokes.”
Pedro stayed quiet. Letting him talk.
“And I know,” Jensen continued, voice quieter now, “that you’ve never given me a reason not to trust you.”
Pedro tilted his head. “But?”
“No ‘but.’” Jensen looked at him. “Just wanted you to know I appreciate that. That line you never crossed? It means something.”
Pedro nodded once. “She made it easy. She never gave me a reason to question it either.”
“I know.”
Another quiet beat.
Then Pedro glanced over at him, tone lighter but sincere. “She’s good at making people feel like they matter. It’s… kinda her superpower.”
Jensen exhaled a small laugh. “Yeah. Tell me about it.”
Pedro took another sip, then added, “You’re good for her, too. I see it. She’s been lighter since you got here. Softer.”
“She softens me too,” Jensen admitted.
They stood like that for a moment — two men connected by proximity, friendship, and the same fierce care for one extraordinary woman.
Pedro gave a small smile. “No offense, but I’m glad it’s you.”
Jensen raised a brow. “Yeah?”
“I’ve seen her look at you,” Pedro said. “You’re her safe place. That’s rare. Don’t fuck it up.”
Jensen laughed, low and dry. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, man.”
Pedro shrugged with a grin. “Anytime.”
Jensen reached out, clapped his shoulder. “You ever need a beer and someone to complain to about LA traffic, I’m your guy.”
“Deal,” Pedro said, and the smile he gave was real.
They didn’t hug — neither of them were quite built for that level of mutual sentimentality — but something settled between them all the same. A kind of unspoken pact.
The woman they both cared about was safe. Loved. Understood.
And that was enough.
The car was warm and still.
Just highway lights flickering past, casting gold across the dash, the soft hum of tires on asphalt, and Jensen’s hand resting against your thigh — thumb brushing back and forth like it was muscle memory now.
You leaned your head against the window, eyes half-lidded from exhaustion, your body finally starting to unclench from the weeks of long shoots, late nights, and emotional tightropes. There wasn’t much left to say.
And you didn’t need there to be.
Jensen glanced over at you, his hat tipped back, the corner of his mouth tugging upward in that soft, private smile he only ever gave you when he thought no one else was looking.
“You falling asleep on me?”
“Mm. Just resting my eyes.”
He squeezed your thigh gently, his hand warm and grounding. “You’ve earned it.”
You smiled, tilting your head toward him. “So have you.”
He gave a low hum of agreement but kept his eyes on the road. “You good? Really?”
“I’m good,” you said, voice quiet. “Feels like everything’s settled. For now.”
Jensen nodded once. “I like ‘for now.’ ‘For now’ got me here with you.”
You reached over, letting your fingers thread with his. “You were always gonna end up here with me.”
He brought your joined hands to his lips, kissed the back of yours without breaking focus on the road.
Silence fell again — but the good kind. The kind filled with weightless comfort. With the sound of trust. Of belonging. Of us.
You watched him drive, your heart soft and slow in your chest.
His shoulders had relaxed since he got to set. His voice, less guarded. You could tell he’d let go of something. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was doubt. Maybe it was just that quiet ache of missing someone and finally getting to reach for them again.
Whatever it was, he was here now.
And so were you.
Home wasn’t a place. Not tonight. Home was this drive. His hand in yours. The hush between songs on the radio. The weight of his love, steady and sure, in the space between your heartbeats.
You turned your face toward the windshield, eyes slipping shut.
And you let him carry you the rest of the way home.
The sun was already too bright when you shuffled into the kitchen, hair a mess, wearing nothing but one of Jensen’s ancient shirts from a tour he couldn’t even remember doing. You found him exactly where you expected — leaned over the counter with a mug in one hand, and a suspiciously crumb-covered phone in the other.
“Is that my cinnamon muffin?” you asked, eyeing the demolished pastry on the plate beside him.
He didn’t look up. “Define yours.”
You blinked. “The one I wrote my name on. In Sharpie. With hearts.”
“Oh,” he said, finally glancing up. “That muffin.”
“Yeah, that muffin.”
Jensen took a very slow, very exaggerated bite. “Never saw it.”
You narrowed your eyes, crossing your arms. “You’re lucky I like you.”
He grinned, unapologetic. “You love me. It’s different.”
You stalked over and plucked the last bite out of his hand, popping it into your mouth before he could protest. His jaw dropped in playful betrayal.
“Hey!”
You smirked. “Shared property. That’s how love works, right?”
“Not when it comes to pastries,” he muttered, but he was smiling again — that crooked grin that made your stomach flutter even now.
You moved in closer, sliding your arms around his waist, pressing your forehead to his chest. “We’re really home.”
His hands settled on your hips, warm and steady. “Yeah. Finally.”
You looked up at him. “Do I have to go back to work next week?”
He leaned down, nose brushing yours. “I can call in a fake scandal if you want. Something juicy. Keep you off the hook for a while.”
You laughed. “What, like you broke up with me because I ate your muffin?”
“Or I’m cheating with the craft services girl,” he said dramatically. “We bonded over croissants. It’s been very emotional.”
“Tragic,” you said, fake-pouting. “Guess I’ll have to make you jealous by flirting with Pedro again.”
Jensen raised an eyebrow. “That man could charm a potted plant. You wouldn’t even have to try.”
You grinned. “Might make you appreciate my Sharpie muffins more.”
He shook his head, pulling you closer. “You could eat all my muffins and I’d still pick you every time.”
“Even the blueberry ones?”
He leaned down and kissed you slow. “Especially the blueberry ones.”
You melted into it, laughter catching between your lips.
Home wasn’t always quiet. Sometimes it was teasing and crumbs and half-drunk coffee.
Sometimes it was just this — his arms, your laughter, and a life you’d built one stolen muffin at a time.
Send me NSFW MIW Requests?
I'm in the mood to write some kinky MIW drabbles!
Send me a pairing (or poly configuration) of any of the current MIW guys plus a kink, and I'll write you 300-1000 words of smut :)
I love writing D/s, breathplay, humiliation/degradation, trampling, painal, CBT, impact play, piss, desperation, worship, bondage gear and sex toys (my day job is in the adult toy industry lol), ruined orgasms, dacryphilia, smoking/ashtray/burns, forced fem, chastity cages, free use, DP, branding, size difference, foot/armpit/thigh/etc fetish, begging, fear play, predicament bondage, face slapping, just like kinda any sex torture in general? :p All my fics are RACK-based, I like to write grounded smut as opposed to purely fantasy scenarios (ie ricky gets sold to one direction.) My writing squicks are noncon (including stuff like necro), age play, gore (but I'm cool with flesh breaking like corset piercings or light stabbing lol), and scat (minus, like, the ever-present risk of 'dirty' anal because who tf is on an anal-friendly diet and bm routine on tour?) So, anything else (including stuff I didn't list as loving) is fair game! So, basically, send me something like 'Chris/Vinny humiliation' or 'top Ryan x bottom Justin piss drinking' or 'PolyMIW CBTing Ricky' or whatever. :)
the duality of the beatles...
spent over an hour looking for this post of which i only remembered the phrase "stuff that actually happened". god free me
the point of rpf isn’t to concoct scenarios that are thinly veiled attempts to fuck the celebrities you like yourself. the point of rpf is to learn as much lore as is possible about the celebrities you like by whatever means necessary and use that information to craft scenarios that are wildly implausible but Technically could have happened. and then to chuckle about it. by the way
Best RPF Ship - FINAL!
For real tho, McLennon feels more like RPNF
this is my friends fic!!! personally as like the one person other than them who has read any of it you should ALL say yes!!! thumbs up emoji hope this helps!!! 🫶🏼👍🏼✨👉🏼👈🏼
when it’s done (which it almost is) should i post the first chapter of my drag fic on here to see how it’ll do? it’s still gonna be a bit before i post on ao3 yet bc i want to be a decent amount of chapters ahead, but i think it will be a good test run where i’m searching for pheedback :3
ok gimme a run down of your love (jeffery)!!!! i have No Idea who he is!!!/gen
Hii !! And oki and thank you very much for sending me this, I have an excuse to yap about him ((o(^∇^)o))
Though I genuinely apologize if you find this weird or creepy /gen
Also I'm truly sorry for the late reply!!
And I'm obsessed with him /srs
˗ˏˋʚ JeffreyDeanMorgan info ɞˎˊ˗
He is an American Actor(who has Italian, Scottish and french ancestry), who is most known for playing 'Negan Smith'(whom I love very much) from 'the walking dead', who is the first introduction I have had with him, then my 2nd introduction of him is in 'Supernatural' as 'John Winchester' which he is also mostly known for !!
But he also plays in 'the boys' as 'Joe Kessler' and more shows and movies !!
His latest movie he has been in Bloody Axe Wound as Butch Slater which he made the movie and planned it, he was the producer !!(which I am planning on watching)
And hes gonna be in a movie Nowhere Men as Ed Deerman but it's post production
He was born April 22nd 1966 and was born on a Friday and hes a taurus to sandy Washington and Richard Dean Morgan
(he's 58 but about to be 59/ he's old but idc(/lh) and I hope that doesn't deter people away from me or him!!)
He's married to hilarie burton(I hate her) and he got married october 5th 2019 and had two kids Augustus(gus) and George(I will not bring kids into my hatred or parasocialness because their kids)
He married Anya Longwell in 1992 and got divorced in 2003
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More random facts about him:
He's dyslexic
He's 6'2
He lives on a 100 acre farm in the Hudson valley in the town of Rhinebeck in dutchess county, New yorkh
He has a donkey name jack who he loves dearly
He wanted to be a basketball player but then that didn't work out(partly because he got stabbed)
He has a shared candy shop too
He started to act in 1991 his first character he has played wad Sharkie in the movie uncaged
Our age gap: 42 yrs, 8 m, & 17 d (which is big but oh well)
I have more, I have a whole note apps with paragraphs and I memorized a lot of him and have 324 things of him in my gallery who is dedicated to him, 289 images and 35 videos and technically more because not all of it is in the dedicated gallery album to him but yeah !! I also have a whole pinterest board dedicated to him !!
︶ִֶָ⏝︶ִֶָ⏝˖ ࣪ ୨ ♰ ୧ ࣪ ˖⏝ִֶָ︶⏝ִֶָ︶
˗ˏˋʚ My fav photos of him/His characters ɞˎˊ˗
I have more but tumblrs pic limit is stopping me I swear /srs
︶ִֶָ⏝︶ִֶָ⏝˖ ࣪ ୨ ♰ ୧ ࣪ ˖⏝ִֶָ︶⏝ִֶָ︶