Star Wars Cocktail Masterlist

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Merry Chaos!

It helps more than lexapro (no it doesn’t take your meds)

When the Bad Batch first shows up in The Clone Wars, Kix and Jesse are discussing their success rate, and one of them says “it’s not that they win, it’s how they win that concerns me.”

At first I remember thinking he meant they did things that were morally questionable. Very shortly we find out that he actually means they’re fucking crazy

this man right here does not get enough love and i’m tired of it

pedro pascal doesn’t owe you shit.

it is absolutely fine to be disappointed by his absence at cannes. i am too. but he does not have to be there.

for whatever reason he’s pulling away from the attention. the esquire article talked about how guarded he is and his socials have really slowed down. maybe he’s unprepared or overwhelmed by all the tlou hype. i mean his follower count went up by the tens of thousands the day after the premiere. that’s insane.

but some of you have lost the plot. the ones wearing d*ddy’s little girl shirts in fucking public and yelling d*ddy at him at events and trying to convince everyone whether he’s queer or not and complaining there isn’t an explicit scene of him fucking in the strange way of life. it’s not a gay porn made for your fetish. ‘oh but narcos!!’ that’s called characterization. read literally any article from almodovar and understand why sex isn’t the point.

interacting with paparazzi content and making cute little edits - jfc. that’s creating demand and supply and paparazzi know no fucking boundaries. man’s got anxiety and no doubt the paps and fans watching his every move are probably making that worse.

let him make movies and rotate through his four shirts in peace. pedro pascal doesn’t owe anyone shit.

ch.4 - fences and cities - dbf! joel miller &f!reader

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A/N: I know you've been waiting a while for this chapter, so here it is!! we are nearing the sweet sweet spot of the story and I am loving every second of this. I went back and forth about how I wanted this chapter to play out and I think I ended it perfectly and you know where its heading next 🔥😉

mentions: it gets steamy, hot heavy tension, joel being so fucking hot and possessive, teasing and also alcohol consumption, throwing up (not described though) if there's any mentions you think are missing, let me know!

Minors stay out or read at your own risk! I'm not responsible for your consumption!

Do not copy, translate or claim this story as your own. Thanks!

He’s just finished mucking out a stall, sweat clinging to his neck, shirt slightly clinging to his back—rough hands, tired eyes. He turns a corner and stops short.

You’re laying on the hay-strewn ground, arms soft at your sides, legs relaxed. One of the more temperamental horses—usually wary—has its massive head nestled in your lap. You’re absently stroking its mane, speaking quietly, rhythmically.

It’s such a tender image. Quiet. Peaceful. And for a second, it breaks something in him.

He says, kind of stupidly, kind of under his breath, “Horses are... they’re sensitive. They pick up on people. You’ve got good energy.”

You glance up, smiling softly, still stroking the horse.

“They like you,” he adds, voice lower now, something unreadable swimming in it. Then, like a fool: “I do too.”

And immediately regrets how it came out.

Cue a small beat of silence—your heart’s doing something weird in your chest. But you don’t make it awkward. You say something that keeps the moment soft. Maybe:

“Yeah? I thought you just liked how I shovel hay.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. The tension breaks—but it lingers too.

He left a minute ago—said something like “Don’t stay too long, alright? We got work to do” before walking off.

The horse lets out a soft huff, nuzzling into your hand, and you sigh like you’re finally letting something out.

“I know. I know he’s off limits,” you murmur, half to the horse, half to the universe. “But he’s so…” You trail off. A pause. Then, “Have you seen his hands?”

The horse shifts its weight but stays pressed to you like it’s listening. It's like it gets it.

You keep going, just letting it spill.

“He looks at me like he knows things he shouldn’t. And when he says I’m a good girl—Jesus, like my bones forget how to work.”

You laugh, embarrassed at yourself. “I sound like an idiot. He probably just thinks I’m some kid playing pretend out here.”

You’ve just finished with the horse. You gave it one last stroke, whispered a little “thanks for listening” into its neck like a secret. Now you’re stepping out into the cool evening air, brushing hay off your clothes, cheeks still warm from your little emotional monologue.

You’re not expecting to see him.

But Joel’s there. Leaning against the side of the barn like he’s been waiting.

You freeze. He doesn’t speak right away—just watches you with that unreadable expression of his. Then:

“You talk to them often like that?”

You blink, startled. “What?”

“Horses. Or were you talkin’ to me?”

Your throat tightens. You try to laugh it off.

“Didn’t know I had an audience.”

He pushes off the wall, steps closer. Not threatening—just intentional. There’s something in the air now, sharp and heavy.

“Wasn’t trying to eavesdrop,” he murmurs, low. “But I heard enough.”

You go quiet. Heat rushes to your face. You look down.

He stops in front of you—close enough to smell the leather on his gloves and the pine on his shirt. He lifts your chin with two fingers, slow and careful.

“You think I don’t see you?”

Then it happens.

He leans in—and kisses you.

Soft, but intense. It's like he’s been thinking about it for days or like he’s finally letting the thing unravel. Your hands find his jacket, his thumb brushes your jaw.

When he pulls back, both of you are breathing harder. He looks at you like he’s just crossed a line—and liked it.

“This ain’t smart,” he mutters, more to himself than you.

But his hand’s still on your face.

“I don’t care.” You say quietly.

And neither does he.

________

You went home straight after the barn. Showered. Changed.

But nothing helped. Not the water, not the coffee, not even the nap you tried to take. His face wouldn’t leave you. His voice.

You told your dad you were going to see a friend. You needed air. Needed to feel normal again—shake off the way his lips felt against yours, how you’d replayed that kiss twenty times and imagined twenty more.

You’re sitting at the bar now, glass in hand, staring blankly ahead. Guilt swims under your skin, warm and tight.

Then you see him.

Joel.

Your stomach drops.

He’s not alone.

There’s a woman with him. Laughing at something he said, hand brushing his arm. She leans in too easily, too familiar. And he’s smiling—not like he smiled at you, no—but still.

Your blood turns to fire.

You turn back to the bartender.

“Something strong. Surprise me.”

The glass hits the bar. You down it too fast, throat burning. You don’t even flinch.

But you keep watching him. You can’t stop. Rage and confusion brewing in your chest like a storm. How dare he. How fucking dare he.

And then—he notices you.

His eyes find yours across the room. You don’t look away. You want him to see you angry. You want him to feel it.

He shifts, says something quiet to the woman, then gets up and walks toward you.

Each step makes your pulse spike.

He stops beside your stool, jaw clenched, voice low.

“What are you doing here?”

You scoff, shaking your head.

“Oh, fuck you, Joel.”

His brow furrows. “What?”

“You kissed me. You told me—” Your voice catches. “And now you’re out here with some woman like that didn’t mean anything to you?”

He leans in, angry too now—but not at you.

“You think that meant nothing?” His voice is quiet, gutted. “I haven’t stopped thinking about it since it happened.”

You stare at him, stunned, fire still dancing behind your ribs.

“Then what the hell is she doing here?”

He runs a hand down his face. “She’s just—she’s no one. Christ, I wasn’t even— I didn’t know you’d be here.”

A beat of silence.

You slide off the stool, push past him, headed toward the back door. You don’t want to cry in the middle of the goddamn bar—and besides, you don’t want to make a scene in a place where surely a lot of people know your dad.

But he follows

You push through the door, the night air hitting you like a slap. Cool, biting. You pace a little, trying to breathe, trying to calm the mess in your chest.

Then the door swings again.

Joel.

His steps are hard, sure. Voice rough with urgency.

Joel catches up, grabs your wrist—not hard, but firm enough to stop you.

“Don’t walk away from me like that.”

You whirl around, fire in your chest.

“Why?” Your voice cuts like a whip. “So you can go back to your little date and pretend you’re not fucking around with your best friend’s daughter behind his back?”

He flinches. Actually flinches.

“She’s not—It’s not what you think.”

You laugh—sharp, bitter, broken.

“Really? Because it looked like flirting from where I was sitting.”

A pause. Tense. His hands are clenched at his sides. He steps closer.

“You think this is easy for me?”

His voice is low, taut with emotion. “You think I’m not fighting this every damn second?”

Your voice breaks.

“Then why’d you kiss me?”

He breathes like he’s been holding something in for months.

“Because I couldn’t not.”

The alley goes still. Everything else fades, people walking around, the music that blasts from the inside of the bar. All you can focus on is him.

“I tried,” he says. “God, I fucking tried. But then you looked at me with those eyes. And that mouth. And I—” He takes another step. His voice drops lower. “I wanted to ruin you.”

Your throat tightens. Your stomach flips.

“Say it, Joel.” It’s soft. Pleading.

He stares at you like you’re the edge of a cliff and he’s already falling.

“I want you. Not just the kiss. Not just your hands on me.” He exhales like it hurts. “I want you. Every goddamn inch of you.”

“Then stop treating me like a child! I’m not a child!” Your voice cracks—quieter now, trembling at the edges. “I don’t want to be your child. I want to be…” You trail off. You can’t even say it.

And then—you don’t have to.

Because you crash into each other like gravity demands it.

His mouth finds yours, bruising and hot and desperate. Your back hits the wall with a soft thud, and his thigh slides between yours—firm, possessive, grounding. One big, calloused hand slips under your skirt, the other fists in your hair, tugging just enough to make your knees buckle.

You gasp into his mouth, breathless, wrecked, gone.

Then his lips hover over yours, his breath ragged against your cheek.

“You want to be what, sweetheart?”

Your eyes lift to his, wide and wet and dizzy with want.

And you whisper it.

The truth that’s been choking you for days.

“I want to be yours.”

The words leave your mouth like a confession—soft and broken.

And Joel groans.

Like he’s been starving for it.

He surges forward, kissing you again—hotter, deeper, hungrier. His hand pushes further under your skirt, rough palm sliding up the back of your thigh, fingertips grazing the edge of your underwear. You moan into his mouth, your hips rolling into him instinctively, the tension unraveling in messy gasps and the sharp pull of need.

His thigh presses tighter between yours. His hand in your hair tilts your head just how he wants it, exposing your throat as his mouth trails lower, biting softly at your jaw.

“Say it again,” he growls against your skin. “Say it, baby.”

You do.

“I want to be yours.”

But then—

It hits.

The flip in your stomach. That sudden lurch.

The alcohol. The adrenaline. The emotion.

Your breath stutters. The world spins.

Joel feels you falter.

You shake your head, pushing past him with a stumbling step.

You take two shaky steps to the side and double over the bushes behind the bar, the night spinning as your stomach violently turns.

You throw up.

Joel’s there in seconds.

Hand on your back. The other pulling your hair away. Kneeling beside you, murmuring your name like it might keep you steady.

He stays quiet while you heave—humiliated, tears stinging your eyes, from the alcohol, the choking heat, and the words you just said out loud.

The worst part? He doesn’t leave.

He doesn’t move away like it’s too much.

Instead, his hand rubs gentle, slow circles on your back.

“Okay, okay,” he says softly. “You’re alright. Let it out.”

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, your whole body trembling.

He takes off his flannel and offers it like a shield against the cold air and your shame.

You don’t look at him.

Not yet.

“Don’t look at me.”

“Too late,” he says gently. “Already do. Can’t not.”

You sit down on the curb, head in your hands.

He crouches beside you, quiet for a long beat. 

“You don’t even know what you’re askin’ for, do you?”

You lift your head, glassy-eyed.

“Maybe not. But I know I want you. Isn’t that enough?”

He doesn’t answer. Just stares at you like he wants to both hold you and run from you.

Then he stands, offers you his hand.

“Come on. I’m takin’ you home.”

He presses a kiss to your temple, voice low and calm now, everything about him shifting to gentle.

“Let’s get you home, alright? Come on. I’ve got you.”

You nod, weakly. Eyes wet. Chest still shaking.

But his arm stays around you the whole walk back to the truck.

And even when the burn of the kiss fades, the weight of what you said—I want to be yours—doesn’t.

Not for either of you.

You’re slumped in the passenger seat, cheek against the cold window, wrapped in his flannel. The engine hums low. Neither of you speaks.

The silence isn’t awkward. It’s heavy.

His knuckles tighten on the wheel every time he glances over at you.

You’re pale. Your eyes are half-lidded, fighting sleep. But he can see the tears that dried on your cheeks.

And he still hears it.

I want to be yours.

He doesn't say anything. But he doesn't stop thinking it, either.

You’re slumped in the passenger seat, cheek against the cold window, wrapped in his flannel. The engine hums low. Neither of you speaks.

The silence isn’t awkward. It’s heavy.

His knuckles tighten on the wheel every time he glances over at you.

You’re pale. Your eyes are half-lidded, fighting sleep. But he can see the tears that dried on your cheeks.

And he still hears it.

I want to be yours.

He doesn't say anything. But he doesn't stop thinking it, either.

He pulls into the driveway, cuts the engine.

Inside, the living room lights are on. Your dad’s passed out on the couch, half a beer still in his hand, the football game blasting. The sound of roaring crowds filters through the open door.

Joel slips in with you in his arms. You’re warm and boneless, your cheek tucked against his shoulder, breath soft against his neck.

He carries you through the hallway quietly, like it’s sacred ground.

Your bedroom door creaks open. It’s modest. Familiar. Yours.

He lays you down gently, brushing hair from your face. You stir a little, lashes fluttering.

“Joel…?”

“Shh. You’re home now.”

You smile, dazed. Your hand finds his wrist and holds it weakly.

“Don’t leave.” It nearly breaks him.

He sits on the edge of the bed and watches you. His heart’s a fucking mess.

“You’re gonna feel this in the morning,” he says, voice low. “And I’ll hate myself if I stay.”

You don’t respond. Already half asleep again.

He brushes his thumb over your cheek. Then, after a long pause, he leans down and kisses your forehead. Gentle. Almost reverent.

“Sweet girl,” he murmurs. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me.”

He can’t stay.

He wants to—but he knows if your dad wakes up and finds Joel in your bedroom at dawn? That’s it. Game over. Dead man walking. No amount of apologies or "I swear nothing happened" will save him.

He stares at you like he’s memorizing the moment.

Then he slips out the door.

Quiet as a ghost.

By the time the sun comes up, he’s gone.

I am so excited about where this is heading, and I hope you are too!!

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Smoking, side profile + wedding ring, lethal combination.

#hunterhunterhunterhunter

After all that running around, Hunter loves to take a good old fashioned shower.

This was a comission I loved doing :D

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