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Pairing: Pedro Pascal x fem!reader x Gabriel Luna
Summary: move your feet, lose your seat.
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You're wearing the thong filled with his semen between your legs.
For the past half hour, you’ve been playing with its strings, locked in the cramped bathroom on set while the whole crew has gathered to eat.
It’s completely stupid, but you can’t get that tension between you and Pedro out of your head—and that chemistry he keeps squandering.
Yet you can clearly see that there really is something between the two of you, right? I mean, it’s very clear. Clearer than crystal, even.
He’s put it into words, but he refuses to live up to what he’s said. You don’t want to understand this situation, much less accept it.
And that’s exactly why you’re waiting there like an idiot, your ass glued to the toilet seat and your thong between your tights.
Knowing that his fluids are mixing with yours drives you wild with desire.
It’s as if you were holding out the stick to be beaten with, and Pedro kept offering you the carrot to keep you from flogging yourself—yet you still want more.
You crave this punishment if it’s the only way to be with him, to experience that tension that knots your stomach and yet makes you come at the slightest touch of his skin against yours.
And apparently, it makes him come, too.
It’s at that exact moment that the idea strikes you.
It’s completely absurd, irresponsible, and goes against every principle—but so be it. To hell with all principles, rules, and courtesy.
You want Pedro—and more than that, you want him to give in to the attraction that still exists between the two of you.
With the thong clenched in your fist, you rest your forehead against it. Just a few moments to get your thoughts in order. Or rather, to cloud your actions.
You might ask yourself—and rightly so—if it’s worth it, if this isn’t going too far, if you’re overstepping, or if all of this isn’t simply turning into an obsession, but you’ve never been very good at taking a step back, and acting impulsively has always allowed you to get what you want.
You run through the plan one last time in your head before pulling your pants back up . As you spring to your feet, you glance at the time on your phone’s screen and quietly open the bathroom door, pretending to flush the toilet.
No one is waiting outside; no one is around. You tell yourself it’s a little strange, considering that a set is usually packed with people, crammed into every nook and cranny.
But on the other hand, it’s just as well if everyone’s crowded together eating—that gives you more room to maneuver, more possibilities.
You try to remember how to retrace your steps and get back outside, where the dressing rooms are located. You manage to find your way by ending up in one of the set pieces from the shoot.
It’s so funny to see all of this—all these smoke screens that will make up 90% of the series’ environments once it’s edited together. You could spend hours looking at everything meticulously, but you don’t have time, and you absolutely have to refocus.
You find your way to the dressing rooms—not without some difficulty, though you’re not rushing—and there are more people outside: some standing around in various spots, others taking their cigarette breaks in the sun. And you don’t know if it’s your paranoia or reality, but you get the feeling that people are watching you wander near the dressing rooms.
So, to avoid arousing suspicion—or worse, coming across as crazy—you try to mimic the behavior of those around you by rolling a cigarette and walking slowly, your eyes feigning focus on your phone.
You’ve actually made it to the right place, but you don’t know where the dressing room you’re looking for is—not to mention that you don’t really have time to read the signs hanging on them.
So you continue walking listlessly—or rather, shuffling your feet—while taking the gentlest puffs possible on your cigarette. It’s like being in a Lana Del Rey music video.
You glance around here and there. Gabriel’s name pops up, then Bella’s, Nico’s, Anna’s… But there’s no way to find Pedro’s.
If the world is conspiring against you, well, it’s working.
Yet, when you reach the end of the row of lodges, you finally see the one you were looking for, off to the side, almost hidden behind all the others. The plastic sign is clear: you’re definitely standing in front of his lodge.
You glance around you—innocently at first—then reach out and knock on the door. The sound of plastic echoes inside the booth; several seconds pass without anything happening, and when you turn around yet again, you see that the coast is clear to try turning the handle.
When it finally opens—with great difficulty—you let out a little gasp of surprise, almost jumping out of your skin. As if you were expecting that… Without a moment’s hesitation, you hurry into it and just as quickly close the door behind you.
While the scent is definitely the first thing that makes you smile, it’s the way the room is organized—especially Pedro’s things—that really sweeps you off your feet. Everything is so perfectly tidy, with each item in its place and each place in its own compartment.
His dressing room smells of citrus and the sea—you never would have imagined such a scent, but you think it suits him well. You wrap yourself in his scent as if it were a second skin, breathing it in deeply.
The shutters are half-closed, so you’re not afraid anyone might see you—anyone other than Pedro, anyway.
You want to touch everything, to feel everything under your nose, under your fingers, against your face and skin, but you hold back because you still don’t know how much time you have left.
You spot the bed right away, and you smile even more when you see the quality of the sheets and how soft the pillows are.
You’d love to slip into it, masturbate, and come all over every nook and cranny of his space to leave your pheromones behind. Pedro makes you feel animalistic, and it’s as exhilarating as it is frightening.
Without wasting another minute, you undressing completely, carefully laying your clothes on the bed and place your thong under his pillow. Then, you head toward the couch in the other section of the lodge and settle in, striking the most lascivious pose possible.
You’re twisting this way and that to show off your breasts, your butt, your pussy, and your face, but the more you stretch, the less natural it looks. And since there’s no way Pedro is going to open the door to find you looking like you’re playing Twister by yourself, you sit back down normally, with your legs crossed and your arms stretched out along the couch.
And you wait. Patiently. Your heart pounding wildly in your chest, the blood draining from your face every time you hear a voice that might be his.
You tell yourself you could have maybe grabbed your phone to pass the time, to see if he or Gabriel had posted any stories, but you left it in your pants pocket, and you’re far too afraid he’ll suddenly show up to go get it.
And as you lose yourself in your thoughts, you finally hear him. You can even see his face and a few strands of hair through the window with its shutters closed. He’s gorgeous, wonderful—so handsome that your heart skips a beat and your pussy gets wet against the fabric of the couch. He’s talking to a woman—probably his manager or his hairstylist; you don’t know—but you hope she doesn’t go inside with him, or you’ll risk experiencing something deeply embarrassing.
Pedro starts to laugh softly, and you can hear that he’s holding the doorknob between his fingers. In a few seconds, he’ll open it and walk right into you.
“I’ll grab my cigarettes and be right there.”
“Okay, so we’ll meet you there then?”
And when the woman finally leaves, dragging her feet across the dusty floor, Pedro opens the door, closes it behind him, and as he turns to hang his jacket on the dressing table, your eyes meet and a heavy silence settles over the room.
“Hi,” you say to him as you slowly uncross your legs.
Pedro’s mouth forms a straight line, his eyes are dark, his face is impassive, yet you can tell from the movements of his fingers that he’s tense.
Although his gaze never leaves your face, you see that his eyes wander from time to time to sneak a peek at your breasts and, above all, your pussy. You spread your legs a little wider still, your feet pointed, so he can get a better view of the scene.
All by yourself, you recreate Courbet’s censored painting, The Origin of the World. As your pubic hair glistens with wet arousal, your labia part further as your wetness spreads against your thighs.
And then, your own eyes get lost on his face, his body, and the bulge that’s gradually straining against the fly of his pants. This reaction turns you on even more, but you have to admit, above all, it reassures you. You devour with your eyes that erection that just keeps growing in his pants, but Pedro remains motionless.
Clearly, you have to do everything on your own, but that’s okay—you’re more than capable of satisfying your own arousal and passing it on to him.
As you lock eyes with him, you slip your middle and ring fingers into your mouth, wrapping your tongue around them to get them nice and wet. Then, you pull them out from between your lips with a slurping sound, letting them slide down your throat, over your chest, across your stomach, and finally to your pussy.
A trickle of saliva has pooled on your chin; you lick it off with the tip of your tongue while looking at Pedro.
Your fingers find their way to your clit ; you moan softly, very softly, your eyes almost closed and your mouth forming a heart shape. It feels so good, but you want more—your body craves what it can’t have, even though you have something to tide you over in the meantime.
You massage your labia between your fingers, with a gentle, tender motion, as if to show Pedro what you love and what you desire. You then part your cunt before pushing your fingers as deeply and as slowly as possible inside yourself. You moan louder as you begin to finger yourself right in front of him.
Even though Pedro is trying to stay still, you can clearly see that his facial features are changing slightly as your body trembles with pleasure and frustration. His mouth is slightly parted and his eyes glisten faintly. His cock is still standing at attention in his pants; you could swear it hasn’t stopped growing since a little while ago and that the seams of his pants are stretched to the point of bursting.
Since he doesn't seem to want to come to you, you stop fingering yourself and stick your fingers in your mouth, licking your own wetness.
“I taste good... But it would taste even better with your own flavor.”
Pedro exhales, rubbing his fingers across his forehead. As you pull your fingers out of your mouth, you take a moment to close your legs and then slowly sit up.
You move closer to him, step by step, as if waiting for even the slightest reaction from him—a word, a gesture, anything—but Pedro seems paralyzed, and his inaction scares you, even if it doesn’t discourage you.
You find yourself face to face with him. Your toes brush against the tips of his shoes, your fingers brush against his, and your pussy is just a few centimeters from his hands. You have to tilt your head up slightly to look him straight in the eye since he’s taller than you, and even though he’s particularly imposing, you don’t look away. You hold your ground.
“I want to taste you. To have you in my mouth. To taste your cum and swallow it. I want you to fill me up, Pedro.”
Then you lower yourself onto your knees, your face now just a few centimeters from his erection. You resist the urge to press your face right up against him, to lick him through his pants, or simply to grab his cock with your fingers. No, instead, you wait and lock eyes with him again. From this angle, he’s even more impressive.
“And I know you want to, too...”
As you move your hands toward his thighs, he places his hands on your shoulders, pressing lightly against your skin.
You act without thinking, and you find yourselves face to face. You try to hold your head high, to smile slightly, to let the excitement coursing through your body run wild, but he remains motionless, staring into the whites of your eyes as if trying to figure something out.
“Wait.” He turns around, picks up the jacket he'd left on the table, and drapes it over your shoulders. It's big and thick enough to reach mid-thigh.
Then, when he pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers, you realize that despite his excitement, his irritation is greater.
You try to pull the jacket off, but Pedro holds it in place on your shoulders by placing his hands on it.
“But I don’t want to hide. I want you to see me,” you retort.
His face is stern; he exhales in displeasure as he looks at you. Nevertheless, he is stronger, and Pedro presses his jacket against your skin.
"What the hell are you playing at?”
“What the hell are you doing naked in my lodge?”
Your smile fades; you realize that Pedro isn't joking and that he's genuinely upset.
“Please, don't make me repeat myself.”
“I thought you'd like it, that it would make you happy.”
“Oh, really? Did you really think I was going to enjoy that?”
“Well, that's really... I don't even have the words.”
He eases the pressure on your shoulders and steps away from you. He shifts from one foot to the other, running his hand over his face as he raises his voice slightly.
“It's the same thing, Pedro. I want you. You want me. I just wanted to take the initiative.”
“Take the initiative? But don't you think you've already done that enough? Do you think I'm so stupid that I didn't realize you wanted us to fuck together?”
“Apparently not, since you keep turning me down.” You let his jacket fall to the floor, finding yourself naked in front of him once again. “Even though you clearly want to. Your dick, anyway.”
“Put that damn jacket back on, please!” Her tone suddenly turns sharp.
"What's your problem, Pedro? You make me come, you tell me you want me, you jerk off into my thong, and then you give it back to me while giving me a goodbye kiss. What the hell is your problem? What do you want, anyway? I’m offering myself to you on a silver platter because I’m dying to, but you keep stringing me along.”
Pedro looks at you, confused.
“You give me your desire bit by bit without ever owning up to it, and when I finally give you the opportunity—or rather, WE give ourselves the opportunity—you chicken out. What do you think? That I’m going to put up with your back-and-forth, your ‘no’s’ that mean ‘maybe’ without actually doing anything?”
“My ‘no's’ that mean ‘maybe’?”
"Yes, exactly! You're the first to bring up consent, but you're also the first to tell me you want to fuck me. You won’t own up to wanting it by going on and on about the age gap, but damn it, I’m almost 30, Pedro, and you’re 50—what’s the damn problem? We’re not getting married, we’re not getting into a relationship—it’s just sex. Fucking sex!"
You cross your arms over your chest as you catch your breath. You hadn’t realized just how much you’d raised your voice too, or just how much you’d been bottling it all up inside. Being naked might seem uncomfortable, but you barely notice the difference.
You simply don’t give a damn.
“It's not just about sex for me—I've told you that before, and here we go again! And even if it weren't just about sex, did you really think I'd be the kind of guy to just take you in my dressing room like that—at my fucking workplace, and yours, for that matter?”
“The first night, you told me, ‘If I had no respect for you, I would use my position to fuck you right here, right now, in front of everyone. But I do have respect.’”
“So what? What's that got to do with anything?!”
“I don't want you to respect me. I want your dick, not your brain.”
Pedro lets out a nervous laugh as he pinches the bridge of his nose again. At this point, you don’t know what to do anymore; you never could have imagined this reaction, and as if that weren’t enough, anger is now taking over.
“Do you even hear yourself talking for just a moment?” he asks.
“Yeah, and I know what I want, unlike—”
“I don't want to fuck you!”He said, almost screaming.
His voice echoes through the car; its tone fills every nook and cranny of the space, and you freeze in your tracks, as if frightened by the way his words reverberate through your body.
“I don't want to fuck you! I've never wanted to!”
“You don't want me to respect you, is that it? Well, great—that'll save me from having to be polite. I. DON'T. WANT. TO. FUCK. YOU.”
Your mouth falls open and you stare at him in shock. You feel like you’re dreaming, as if the physical reality of the room no longer existed, as if everything around you were blurring together.
“I’ll never touch you because I don’t love you, okay? To have sex with women, I need to have at least some respect for them, and I don’t feel anything for you. Nothing at all! Not a thing! Is that clear now? I’ve been nice, patient—I even jerked off into your thong, thinking you’d leave me alone for a bit. But no, far from it—you always wanted more."
“Of course I lied to you—you're a fucking insatiable crazy woman!”
And all of a sudden, it’s as if the world is crumbling beneath you with nothing to hold on to. Not even your dignity. Your nakedness now seems obscene to you, and you have only one desire left: to flee, to get out of there as fast as possible, and never run into him again.
“I could get you fired for that. Better yet, I could even file a complaint, but I’m not going to, because it would just create unnecessary problems.”
Tears start welling up in your eyes, so you bite the inside of your cheeks to compensate, to hold it all back, hoping that will be enough.
"When I think that you could have been content with the hope I gave you, but no, you had to take it further. The worst part is that you could have spared yourself all of this.”
“So you don’t feel anything for me, then?”
“Is that all you care about? How I feel about you?"
"Let me tell you one thing: the only thing I feel for you is pity.”
No matter how hard you try to hold them back, you can still feel a few tears welling up in your eyes. Not from sadness, but from anger—even rage—at everything you’ve just had thrown right in your face. Pedro has been incredibly violent, and your whole body aches from the blows he’s just dealt you.
With all the rage in the world, you pick up his jacket from the floor and throw it at him. Then you head to your room to get dressed as fast as you can before he starts hurling those horrible words at you again.
You don’t take the time to think, or to check that you have everything. You slip on your T-shirt inside out, slide on your shoes without tying your laces—all while breathing heavily to keep more tears from falling.
Pedro hasn’t moved a muscle; he’s sitting in a chair, his head in one of his hands. Just as you’re about to walk out the door, he grabs you by the wrist, mumbling your name, but you’re quicker than he is, and the palm of your hand slaps his cheek in a swift motion.
He lets go of you immediately. Neither shocked nor sad, his face is impassive, as if he understood your reaction but preferred to say nothing.
You glance at him one last time as you go, before opening the door and slamming it shut behind you. If anyone saw you, you couldn't care less. You hurry with your head down toward the first door you see—the arts building—and rush inside.
Once the door closes behind you, you bend forward, knees bent and hands resting on them. You feel dizzy, and your eyes are blurred with tears.
“Oh, it’s you! I was looking for you—what a coincidence.”
You recognize that voice; it’s John Paino, your director. He strides toward you, but you can’t quite manage to straighten up right away.
But it's when you see his feet in your field of vision that you force yourself to sit up straight to at least pretend you're okay.
“Whoa, are you okay? You look a little pale.”
And then you throw up on him.
You're curled up on the bed in your hotel room.
The TV is on, playing in the background.
People are laughing, but you’re in no mood to laugh. You keep replaying your exchange with Pedro and the vomit you spilled on your boss’s shirt over and over in your head.
You’re definitely going to get fired tomorrow, and it won’t take them long to replace you, since everyone would kill to be in your shoes.
After you threw up on John—even though he assured you it was really no big deal, that he had kids and was used to people throwing up—he called you a taxi so you could go back to the hotel to rest.
When you arrived at the front desk, you realized you didn’t have any of your belongings with you—not even your phone. Just your shoes with their laces undone and your T-shirt on backward.
Luckily—you don’t know if it was because the guy at the front desk recognized you or because he felt sorry for you—but just saying your name was enough for him to give you another key.
Once in the room, you walked mechanically into the bathroom without thinking, turned on the water, and slipped into the bathtub fully clothed, crying out all the tears your body had been holding back.
And here you are now, lying in the fetal position in your bed in a bathrobe. At least the bathrobe is comfortable.
But your thoughts are anything but. You can't help but go over Pedro's words and phrases in your head over and over again, as if he were still speaking to you right now.
It gets to the point where you sometimes have to cover your ears to drown out the words echoing over and over in your ears.
You feel like crap. And the worst part of it all isn't so much that you got yourself into a downright stupid situation, but rather that Pedro humiliated you.
That's probably the most painful thing that's happened to you so far.
You feel tears welling up when you hear someone knocking on your door.
You freeze in place; the hope that it might be Pedro makes your heart leap out of your chest, even though you’re not really sure if you actually want to see him.
There’s another knock on the door, a little louder this time, and you slowly get to your feet. You tiptoe very quietly over to see who it is through the peephole in your door.
You recognize his curls and freckles. It’s Gabriel. He’s holding a bag in one hand and a phone in the other.
You smile half-heartedly, not sure if you want to let him in. He probably knows—or maybe not. But you don’t have the strength to confront him.
“I know you're in there. Don't worry, it's okay if you don't want to open the door.” You keep watching him through the peephole. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay and bring you your things.”
You don't say anything and just keep watching him.
“Well, I'll leave your things on the doorstep. If you need anything, give me a call. I'm on the floor above yours, room 82.”
You’re deeply touched by his gesture and by his desire to make sure you’re okay. And when you really think about it, you don’t want him to leave—you’d actually like him to keep you company for a little while.
So, just as Gabriel is about to leave, you gently open the door and call his name.
“Oh, hey. There you are.” He turns around, both hands in his pockets, and walks toward you step by step. “How are you?”
You shrug with a smile, your eyes filled with tears.
“Thanks for bringing my things back... That's really—that's really nice of you.”
“It's the least I can do.”
You look at each other in silence. You get the feeling that he knows why you're acting this way, but maybe it's just your paranoia or your fear that he knows something like that about you.
“I just wanted to make sure you hadn't drowned in your own vomit, but I'm glad to know you didn't.”
“It's a long night; nothing has been decided yet.”
You both burst out laughing.
“Do you want to come inside?” you ask him.
“Oh, I don't want to bother you.”
“I wouldn't have asked if that were the case.”
“Come on, come inside before I change my mind.”
He takes your things in his hands and goes into your room.
“Where should I put your bag?”
You sit back down on the edge of the bed, looking at Gabriel. And then, out of the blue, you rush to ask him the question that’s been burning on your lips.
“About the vomit? Yeah, I know about it—like half the people, I guess.”
“Great. I'm going to get fired anyway, so at least this will spare me the stares.”
“Fired? Are you kidding me? John would never fire you over some stupid vomit.”
“But if you're talking about something else—like Pedro, for example—I think so, yes.”
All your senses are on high alert at the mere mention of his name.
"I wasn't born yesterday. It's obvious there's something going on between the two of you."
"Then you must be the only one who believes that."
“Is it because of him that you're in this state?”
“It's entirely my own fault that I'm like this.”
“I don't think that's entirely true.”
“I don't want to talk about it.”
“He warned me about you, you know.”
“Oh, really? And what did he say?”
“That you liked me, and that you wouldn't be opposed to the possibility of something happening between us.” Gabriel looks at you intently, his arms crossed over his chest. “But that you were married and that I shouldn’t expect anything long-term.”
“He's not entirely wrong.”
“About the fact that I'm attracted to you.”
At those words, you feel your body relax, a light sheen of sweat break out on your skin, and your heart rate quicken. You look at each other from a few meters away, not moving a muscle. You spread your legs slightly, forgetting for a moment that you’re wearing a bathrobe and are naked underneath.
“Smaranda and I have an agreement: when we're apart, we can indulge in any kind of sexual pleasure with other people. But when we're together, she's mine and I'm hers.”
“Are you an open couple?”
“If you want to call it that, yes.”
You start to sweat a little more as you feel a new tension rising in the room. It’s as if the young guy you thought was shy and a little clumsy had suddenly transformed into a different man. But maybe you’d simply misjudged him, too preoccupied with winning Pedro’s attention and approval.
“What do you mean, your age?”
“There's a 15-year age difference between us—does that bother you?”
“No. I knew you were in your thirties, so I figured I could let you know that I was attracted to you. And even though you can't choose who you're attracted to, I have my own limits. If you were 20, I wouldn't have made a move.”
“So you're wiser than I am, then.”
“Oh, really? Why's that?” he said with a laugh.
“Because I've always liked people older than me.”
And it’s as if the tension had turned into a sexual steam that was causing condensation to form on every surface in the room.
You see an excitement in his eyes that makes you melt from the inside out. You can already feel the wetness spreading down your thighs and your lips swelling in anticipation of a cock finally rubbing against them.
You’re both breathing heavily, your bodies tense.
That familiar tension that comes with every new attraction that’s put into words. You’ve always loved this moment.
Is it okay to do this? Is it okay to sleep with him when you wanted—and still want—Pedro? You don't know. You don't want to answer. You don't want to think about it anymore.
If he wants you, if he shows it, if he tells you clearly, and if he's ready to give himself to both of you, why on earth would you refuse, after all?
Damn, you really have no limits.
“Listen, I'm not Pedro, that's true, but I can give you what you want.”
Gabriel moves closer to you; you spread your legs, exposing your pussy, as he nestles his hips between your thighs. You’re sitting, and he’s standing. He smells of a wood fire and cologne, and his hand gently cups your cheek.
“And what do I want?” you manage to say.
“You want an old guy like me to fuck you with all my experience.”
You moan in response, looking him straight in the eyes. His hand gently releases your cheek, and you hurry to untie the knot in your robe so he can see you.
And Gabriel sees you. He sees you with all the hunger in the world.
Then he drops to his knees, nestling his head between your thighs.
His tongue slowly penetrates your soaking wet pussy.
