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pedro pascal x younger!fem!reader one-shot
insta smau
or just being pedroâs secret controversially young gf . Ęđđ. Ęâ
a chance raffle win leads to unexpected texts, slow-burning chemistry, and stolen moments with pedro pascal. sheâs younger, balancing school and real life. heâs 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 (youâll never stop me), kissing, celebrity things like that paparazzi, fingering, oral f!recieving, pussy job, unprotected piv sexxx
You hadnât 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.
âA Pedro Pascal charity meet & greet raffle. $25 to enter. Winner gets a private lunch.â
It was for some childrenâs literacy nonprofit, and youâd 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 rangâan actual event coordinator from the organization, confirming details, verifying your ID, telling you a car service would be provided, that Pedroâs 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 teensâlong before the mainstream hype. Youâd watched his indie films, not just the blockbusters. You knew lines of dialogue he probably didnât 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 wouldnât even remember your name.
When you arrived at the restaurant the host said, âRight this way,â 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.
âHey, you must be the donor,â he said warmly. âThanks for donating.â
You managed a smile. âThanks for being the prize.â
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 youâhow 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.
âI forget anyone actually saw that movie,â he said with a lopsided smile.
âI watched it five times. At least.â
He blinked. âWait, are you messing with me?â
âNope.â You grinned. âI even wrote a paper on it for a class on satire. You play a man who's aware heâs a fraud but keeps smiling through itâlike, thatâs the whole metaphor.â
Pedro blinked againâthen gave you a slow, stunned laugh, mouth slightly open.
You werenât flirting. You were just being honest. And maybe thatâs what caught him off guard.
He walked you out after. His hand hovered at the small of your back but never touched.
âSeriously,â he said, âthis was the best version of one of these Iâve ever done. I usually feel like a trained monkey. This felt likeâŠâ he paused. âA real conversation.â
You tried to play it cool. âThatâs the goal. Iâm supposed to be a screenwriter, right?â
He smiled, wider this time. âIf you ever finish something, Iâd love to read it.â
You stared at him, then snorted. âThat sounded like a line.â
You were standing on the curb with him now, your rideshare still a few minutes out.
Pedro leaned against the buildingâs 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.
âDo you ever get tired of people telling you theyâve been obsessed with you since they were sixteen?â you asked, mostly teasing.
He laughed under his breath. âDepends on how they say it.â
You glanced up at him. âAnd how did I say it?â
His mouth curled. âLike someone who isnât obsessed anymore. Just curious.â
That made you blush, which only made it worse. âRight. Iâm too grown for fangirling.â
He tilted his head a little. âHow grown are we talking?â
You gave him a look. âGrown enough to know that question is a trap.â
He grinned. âSmart.â
The pause that followed wasnât awkwardâit was warm, almost private. Like something unsaid had passed between you, and he was waiting to see if youâd name it.
You didnât. You werenât that bold. But you did say, âSo, are you always this charming at these things? Or did I just catch you on a good hair day?â
He chuckled, then looked at you fully, one eyebrow raised. âCan I be honest?â
âPlease.â
âI thought this would be fifteen minutes of smiling, nodding, and trying to avoid weird questions about The Mandalorian. I didnât expect to actuallyâŠâ He stopped, glanced away for a second, then back at you. â...like someone.â
Your stomach fluttered. âSomeone?â
âYou,â he said plainly.
Oh.
You blinked. âIâum. Okay. Thatâs⊠wow.â
Pedro rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. âSorry. That mightâve been too much.â
âNoâno, itâs okay,â you said quickly, too quickly. âJust wasnât expecting it.â
He smiled again, softer now. âThatâs fair.â
Then, casuallyâalmost like it was nothingâhe said, âWould it be weird if I asked for your number?â
You stared at him. âWaitâseriously?â
He shrugged, smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. âYeah. I mean, if youâre comfortable. If not, thatâs okay. I justââ he hesitated, then said, âI think Iâd like to talk to you again. Not in front of cameras. Or PR people.â
You swallowed. He was looking at you like he meant it. Like he wasnât in a rush, like he could wait forever.
ââŠOkay,â you said. âYeah. Iâll give it to you.â
Pedro handed you his phone. No hesitation.
You typed it in, heart pounding a little harder than it shouldâve. Saved ___(from lunch) and handed it back.
He glanced down at it, then nodded. âIâll text you. So you have mine.â
âCool.â You tried to act normal. âCool, cool, cool.â
Pedro smirked. âYouâre very cool, yeah.â
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: âIâm really glad it was you.â
You didnât 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. â Pedro
You didnât text back right away.
Mostly because you didnât 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 thatâs a pending review once I replay the whole thing in my head at 2am.
The dots appeared instantly.
Pedro: Damn, youâre already funnier over text. Iâm scared. Should I be worried about my performance?
You smiled, flopping back on your bed.
You: You were decent. You only said âlikeâ twelve times in that one story about Oscar Isaac. Pedro: You counted?? You: Iâm 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 thereâclose 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 Iâm 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 âdecent.â Pedro: âŠBut Iâm 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 didnât want to type.
âYou know, I reread your screenplay sample. You werenât kidding when you said it was dark. That final scene? Fuck me. Also, I think Iâm obsessed with the way your dialogue sounds.â
Another night:
âCouldnât 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?â
That one stayed in your phone for days.
You didnât answer it. Not directly.
But your next message said:
You: If youâre 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 donât wear that blouse again. Or doâŠ
Four Weeks Later
The texts donât come every day anymore.
He warned you. Said work was picking up againâpress junkets, travel, long days on set. You said it was fine. You meant it. Youâd 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 youâlike you werenât 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 heâs judging my wine choice.
You responded. He didnât reply.
You told yourself he got busy. Maybe heâd fallen asleep. Maybe it didnât mean anything.
Still, you reread the thread more than once.
He kept opening your chat. Typing. Erasing.
He didnât know why you stuck in his head. Why youâd gotten under his skin like a song he couldnât stop humming. You were so much younger, so new, but you had a sharpness he envied. You made him want to say shit he hadnât thought to say to anyone in years.
And you hadnât even done anything, really.
You were just... honest. No agenda. No sucking up. You looked him in the eye like he wasnât on a billboard but sitting across from you at a tiny table, halfway real.
And now you were quiet.
Maybe youâd 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 wantedâbefore coffee, before sleepâwas to see if you were still around.
Youâre 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: Donât make me say it. Pedro: Say it in person.
Then:
Pedro: Tomorrow night?
Your stomach flips.
Itâs 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.
Pedroâs in the far boothâback against the wall, baseball cap low, beer bottle sweating in front of him. Heâs dressed down: jeans and a hoodie, that you recognize from one of his press photos.Â
He looks up and sees you. Smiles.
Not the friendly kind. The fuck-I-missed-you kind.
âHey,â you say as you slide into the booth opposite him.
âHey yourself,â he murmurs, eyes not leaving yours.
You settle your bag beside you. Try to ignore the way your heartâs fluttering like itâs your first date in high school.
He leans forward slightly. âYou lookâŠâ
You raise an eyebrow. âTired?â
He laughs. âNo. Just better than I remembered.â
You smirk. âYou say that to all the raffle girls?â
Pedro grins and takes a sip of his beer. âYou think Iâm doing a lot of raffle lunches lately?â
You donât answer. You just meet his eyesâand hold them a second too long.
The first drink goes fast. So does the second.
Conversationâs easy againâteasing, snappy, laced with innuendos but grounded in that same curiosity he showed the first time.
âYouâve got that look again,â you say at one point.
He tips his head. âWhat look?â
âLike youâre thinking too much.â
Pedro taps his fingers on the table. âI am.â
âAbout what?â
âYou.â
That shuts you up. For a beat.
âOkay,â you say carefully. âYouâre officially flirting.â
âOnly officially now?â
You glance at him. âAre we pretending we havenât been doing that for weeks?â
He leans in a little, voice lower. âI havenât been pretending, cariño.â
That wordâcariñoâdrops right down your spine.
You sip your drink just to buy time.
Half an hour later, the nachos are cold and forgotten.
Heâs shifted to your side of the booth. Close enough that his thigh brushes yours when he moves.
You can feel the heat of himâslow and steady, like a stove left on low.
âYouâre braver than I thought,â he murmurs, voice near your ear.
You turn your head, pulse thrumming. âWhy?â
Heâs looking at your mouth when he says, âBecause I think you know exactly what this is.â
You swallow.
âYou think itâs a game?â you whisper.
âNo.â His eyes lift to meet yours again. âI think itâs trouble.â
You let the silence stretch. Then, quietly:
âI think I want it anyway.â
Pedro exhales, almost like relief.
His hand finds your knee under the table, gentle at firstâlike heâs asking.
You donât stop him.
Back at your place â 1:07 a.m.
He doesnât kiss you right away.
He stands just inside your apartment, glancing around like he needs to ground himself. Like heâs cataloging every detail in case itâs the only time he sees it.
âCute place,â he says.
You shrug. âItâs fine. It has a couch, at least.â
Pedro gives you a look. âSo subtle.â
You smirk, toeing off your shoes. âIâm not trying to seduce you. Iâm trying to sit down without my feet throbbing.â
âOh, is that what this is?â he says, trailing behind you into the living room. âBecause when you leaned over the jukebox earlier, I swear I sawââ
ââShut up,â you laugh, swatting his arm. âI was picking a song.â
âYou were bending the laws of nature, muneca.â
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.
âI keep telling myself not to do this,â he murmurs, thumb tracing the back of your knuckles.
You tilt your head. âThen donât.â
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 suddenlyâ
His other hand is on your thigh, gripping it.
You gasp into his mouth, and it makes him groan. A low, broken sound, like heâs been trying not to make it for weeks.
âFuck,â he mutters. âYouâre gonna kill me.â
âYou started it,â you whisper, breathless.
His tongue traces your bottom lip. âDonât remind me.â
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 risingâseeking.
He pulls back just enough to look at you.
Your hairâs messy, lips kiss-swollen, pupils blown.
âYouâre so goddamn pretty,â he says, voice low. âYou know that?â
You blink up at him, dazed. âYouâre not bad either, old man.â
He huffed a laughâand 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.
âJesus Christ,â he mutters, voice thick. âYouâre dangerous.â
âYou like it,â you say, biting back a smile.
âToo much.â
It doesnât go any further.
Not because he doesnât want to.
Not because you donât.
But because thereâs something delicious about stopping here. Something about the ache. The tease.
 1:41 a.m. your apartment
You donât 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:
âSo whatâs your comfort movie?â
Pedro chuckles, a low, content sound. His hands stay on youâone lightly tracing your waist, the other cradling your knee.
âYou want comfort?â he murmurs. âI watched Paddington 2 three times in a row on a flight once. I cried. Full grown man. Tears.â
You sit up just enough to look at him. âYouâre joking.â
âI wish I was.â
You grin, brushing your nose against his. âMineâs Coraline. I know itâs for kids. Donât care.â
âOh, I respect that,â he says, nodding solemnly. âCreepy doll button eyes? Thatâs some formative trauma.â
You laugh into his shoulder. âExactly.â
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.
Itâs not a sleepover. But itâs the kind of night you only have when the flirting has already cracked open into something more dangerousâsomething real.
5:07 a.m.Â
He kisses you again on the sidewalk, slow and tired and a little reluctant.
The Uberâs headlights bounce off the curb.
âYou sure you donât want me to stay?â he murmurs, thumb brushing your hip.
You raise your brows. âYouâd behave?â
âNo.â
âThen go home.â
Pedro grins, teeth sharp in the early morning haze. âI hate that youâre right.â
âYou love that Iâm right.â
He kisses your forehead. âText me when you wake up, cariño.â
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 donât start i walked into my kitchen like a teenager head against the fridge door. dramatic sigh.
You âwhat is she doing to meeeâŠâ
Pedro donât mock the broken man
You itâs cute I kinda like breaking you
Pedro yeah i could tell you were smiling while you ruined me
You and you didnât stop me
Pedro never would
Pedro (real talk though⊠i havenât kissed someone like that in years) what are we doing?
You no idea but i donât really want to stop
Pedro good iâd be pissed if you did
You also iâm watching Paddington 2 tonight thought you should know
Pedro youâre trying to make me fall in love with you
You Trying?
A Few days Later
Pedro okay serious question whatâs your go-to coffee order iâm at a cafĂ© and there are too many words on the menu
You iced oat latte. extra cinnamon. no reason. just vibes. why?
Pedro just wondering what iâll need to remember when i see you again itâs been a minute you free soon?
You maybe. depends. is this a brunch date disguised as a âcasual hangâ?
Pedro yes. and i might wear a hat and sunglasses like a criminal
You hot Iâll see you Sunday then
Two Weeks Later
Outside a café, 2:12 p.m.
Youâre holding iced coffees, your oversized hoodie tucked into the waistband of biker shorts, and Pedroâs walking beside youâcap pulled low, hoodie up, sunglasses on.
You look likeâŠfriends.
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 â99, he looks at you like he feels it. Like he wants to bottle it.
You donât 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. âShit.â
He doesnât grab your hand.
He canât.
Instead, he leans in like heâs just whispering something dumb.
âJust keep walking,â he mutters. âAct like youâre annoyed with me.â
You glance up at him. âThatâs not hard.â
He grins, tight-lipped. âAtta girl.â
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.
âYour face was covered,â he says quietly. âYouâre fine.â
But he doesnât sound entirely convinced.
You slip your sunglasses on, exhaling.
âI knew this might happen,â you mutter. âStill sucks.â
Pedro looks at you for a second too long. Then, under his breath:
âIf anything ever actually comes outâŠIâll handle it.â
You nod.
But it hangs there. Heavy.
Youâre still you. Still just 23. Still not used to this world he lives in.
But the part that makes your pulse spike isnât fear.
Itâs the way his voice dipped when he said âIâll handle it.â
Like he already decided he would.
Like you werenât just a girl from a raffle anymore.
Pedro they didnât get anything youâre safe
You you sure?
Pedro iâve done this a long time if they had something good itâd be online already trust me
You i do just didnât 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 iâm already practicing iâll be thinking about you all week
You good maybe iâll make you wait again
Pedro maybe iâll 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 iâm 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 iâll put on something dumb and hold you until your brain restarts
You youâre dangerous give me an hour
That night â 8:13 p.m.Â
Pedroâs apartment.
The kitchen smells like garlic and fresh basil.
Pedroâs in front of the stove in a worn tee and joggers, barefoot, stirring pasta like this is justâŠnormal. Like you always do this. Like he wasnât in a galaxy far, far away a few months ago while you were still writing essays in the library, humming through AirPods.
âYou ever cook for girls like this?â you tease lightly, watching from the counter stool.
Pedro smirks without turning around. âNot girls who make me nervous.â
You blink.
He glances back at you. âJust being honest.â
You open your mouthâthen close it again.
Your throatâs 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 (âThis is so extra,â you laugh, and he just shrugsââYou deserve extraâ).
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.
Youâre 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 havenât 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 doesnât 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 hipsâthen softens again, like heâs reminding himself to slow down.
Thereâs heat. So much heat.
You shift against him, just slightlyâand feel him underneath you.
He breathes hard into your mouth, breaking the kiss. âWaitâwait.â
Your foreheads press together.
You blink. âDid I do somethingâ?â
Pedro shakes his head fast. âNo, no. God, no. Youâre perfect.â
Youâre quiet. His thumb brushes your cheek.
âI justâŠâ he swallows, âdonât want this to be fast. I want it to be right.â
You exhale, your nose brushing his. âOkay.â
He looks at youâtender, serious. âYou trust me?â
âYeah,â you whisper. âYou trust me?â
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:
âStay tonight.â
You borrow one of his tees and wash your face in his sink with the cleanser he shyly offers you.
The bedâs 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, âYou smell like something familiar,â he smiles into your hair.
And when he murmurs, âI like having you here,â you smile too.
You fall asleep curled up against him. No more nerves. No more pretending this is just for fun.
Itâs not the night everything happened.
But itâs the night everything changed.
The Next Morning â 9:12 a.m.
You wake up warm.
Pressed against a solid chest, one of Pedroâs 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. âMorning.â
You twist in his arms to face him. His hairâs messy. His eyes are sleepy, half-lidded. Thereâs a small smile on his mouth that makes your heart kick like a rabbit.
âHi,â you whisper.
He leans in and kisses youâsoft at first. Barely there.
But then he kisses you again, firmer this time. Longer.
And it doesnât feel sleepy anymore.
It feels like wanting.
Pedroâs 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 youâre straddling his hips. His hands settle on your thighs, his thumbs tracing slow circles just beneath the hem of your borrowed sleep shirt.
âYou okay?â he murmurs, looking up at you.
You nod. âYeah.â
His eyes search yours. âWe donât have toââ
âI want to,â you say, clear and certain. âI really want to.â
Thatâs all he needs.
He sits up, kisses you againâthis 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 heâs trying to remember every inch.
âGod,â he breathes, hands sliding up your waist to cup your chest. âYouâre so fucking beautiful.â
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.
âYouâre gonna kill me.â
âGood,â you whisper, tugging his shirt off too.
Itâs 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 heâs waiting for you to change your mind.
You donât.
You arch for him, tug his hand between your thighs.
Pedro groans when he finds you wet.
âSo ready for me,â he murmurs, kissing your inner thigh. âJesus, babyâŠâ
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 againâdeep, messy, tongue pushing into your mouth as his fingers stay between your legs, stroking you through every soft sound you make.
âYou like that?â he breathes.
You nod, nails digging into his shoulder. âYeah. God, Pedroââ
He groans, pressing his forehead to yours.
âTell me if itâs too much, okay?â
You smile shakily. âIâll tell you if itâs not enough.â
When he finally pushes inside you, itâs slow.
Painfully slow.
Like he wants you to feel every inch of it. Like he wants to feel youâwrapped around him, holding him, trusting him.
You gasp. He kisses your cheek, your jaw, your temple.
âYou okay?â
You nod, hand fisting the sheets. âKeep going. Please.â
Pedro groans, deeper this time, and begins to move.
Itâs not fast. Itâs not rough.
But itâs 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. âPedroâoh my godââ
âI know,â he pants. âI know, baby. You feel so fucking good.â
You wrap your legs around his waist, tilting your hips to take him deeper. The change makes you gaspâyour whole body tightening around him.
He curses, thrusts harder once, then slows again, like heâs fighting to stay in control.
âNot gonna last,â he groans into your neck. âYouâre too goodâfuckââ
You cling to him, mouth at his ear. âDonât stop. Please donât stop.â
And he doesnât.
He fucks you through itâslow, patient, like heâs 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.
Youâre 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, âSoâŠâ
âSo?â he echoes softly.
âI donât want to leave.â
He smiles. âThen donât.â
You lift your head, meeting his gaze.
âOkay.â
10:36 a.m.
The bedroomâs quiet, dim with late morning light.
Pedroâs hand is still on your back, fingers idly tracing slow, lazy shapes like he doesnât want to break the silence. Youâre sprawled across his chest with your leg slung over his hip, still tangled in sheets and sleep and warmth.
You murmur, âMy thighs hurt.â
Pedro laughs softly under you. âThatâs a good sign, right?â
You pinch his side gently, but youâre smiling. âYouâre annoying.â
He kisses your hair. âYouâre glowing.â
âIâm sweaty.â
âSame thing.â
You hum, turning your face into his neck. âWe should get up.â
âWe donât have to.â
âWe will eventually.â
He sighs dramatically. âFine. But Iâm making coffee and putting on music and not wearing pants, so. Prepare yourself.â
You brush your teeth side-by-side in front of the mirror, barefoot and rumpled. Heâs wearing plaid pajama pants slung low on his hips. Youâre in one of his big, soft shirts that barely covers your ass.
Pedro spits, then wipes his mouth and gestures toward your reflection. âYouâre doing the âwalk of shameâ all wrong.â
âOh yeah?â
He steps behind you, wraps his arms around your waist, kisses your shoulder. âYeah. Youâre supposed to sneak out. Look flustered. Not stand here looking like a smug little goddess.â
You lean back into him. âI can sneak if you want.â
He brushes your hair over your shoulder, mouth at your ear. âDonât you dare.â
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 speakerâFleetwood Mac, or maybe The Rolling Stones, something vintage and cozy and a little flirtatious.
He hands you a piece of toast like itâs a peace offering.
âYouâre spoiling me,â you murmur between bites.
He shrugs. âYou stayed the night. That earns you toast rights.â
âWhat else does it earn me?â
Pedro leans on the counter next to you, pretending to think. âMore coffee. Back rubs. The good chocolate from the top shelf. Maybe a foot rub if you beg.â
You laugh.
But he watches you for a second, quiet, eyes soft.
Then, a little more serious, he says, âYouâre okay? With last night?â
You nod right away. âOf course I am.â
âYou donât feelâlike it was too fast?â
You pause. âNo. Do you?â
He looks away for a second. Then back at you.
âNo. I just⊠I don't want to mess this up.â
Your heart thumps.
âYouâre not,â you say, and itâs true. âI like being here. With you.â
Pedro steps closer. Kisses you on the forehead.
âYou make me feel lucky,â he murmurs. âLike⊠really lucky.â
You hide your face in his shoulder, smiling into his shirt. âSappy.â
âYou love it.â
âI kinda do.â
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 heâs distracted.
Eventually, he sets the book down and watches you instead.
âNext time,â he says quietly, âlet me take you out properly. Like a real date.â
You glance up. âLikeâŠin public?â
He nods, hesitating. âIf you want. I can be careful. Private table. Back entrance.â
You study him for a beat.
Then smile.
âOkay.â
He exhales, slow and relieved. Pulls you toward him.
And it hits youâhow easy this could be. How dangerous. How close you already feel to something you shouldnât want this badly.
But you let him kiss you again.
Because right now?
You just want more.
Pedro đŻ Friday night okay for our scandalous outing?
You depends will there be food? and you opening doors for me like a gentleman?
Pedro đŻ Iâd open every door in LA for you even the ones Iâm not supposed to
You thatâs hot okay Iâm in whatâs the dress code? do I need to look famous?
Pedro đŻ You are famous. In my phone. In my bed. In my head. But noâlook like yourself. Thatâs what I like.
You youâre lucky youâre cute Iâll give you flirty and effortless
Pedro đŻ Itâs a look that destroys me every time
 Friday Night â 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.
Pedroâs already there, standing when he sees you. Black dress shirt, a little open at the collar. Trim beard. That soft smile thatâs reserved for you now.
He says, âWow,â under his breath when he sees you.
You grin. âThatâs what you were waiting for?â
âNo,â he murmurs, stepping closer. âBut itâs a damn good bonus.â
He pulls your chair out for you, brushes his fingers down your arm as you sit. The tensionâs quiet but buzzing. This isnât like being at his apartment in sweats and bare legs. This is real.
The waiter arrives quicklyâPedroâs arranged everything. Wineâs already poured. A cheese plate. Youâre grateful, because youâre nervous.
âNot what you expected?â he asks, eyes warm.
âItâs nice,â you say. âJust⊠kinda crazy. Weâre really out.â
He leans in, voice low. âWe donât have to stay long.â
âNo,â you say quickly, surprising yourself. âI want to.â
You talk about movies. About food. He asks about your classes. You ask about scripts heâs reading. Itâs easy, even with the candlelight and clinking glasses and murmurs behind you.
But at one point, you feel someone glance toward the cornerâjust a shift, a flick of someoneâs head.
You both go still.
Pedro reaches across the table and touches your hand, thumb brushing the back of your fingers.
âDonât look,â he says gently. âThey wonât get anything.â
You nod, swallowing.
âIâm okay,â you whisper.
His grip tightens slightly.
âSo am I.â
Outside the restaurant
Pedroâs car pulls around to the back entrance just like heâd asked. You both slip out quietly, sunglasses onâeven though itâs darkâand hoods up. The manager gave him a discreet nod on the way out, like this wasnât his first time protecting someone.
Once youâre in the car, doors shut, windows up, and seat belts clicked⊠he finally exhales.
You laugh a little, heart still racing. âThat was weird.â
âIt was,â he agrees, starting the engine. âBut not terrible, right?â
You glance at him. âI donât think Iâve ever been watched while eating cheese.â
Pedro grins. âTo be fair, you looked very hot doing it.â
You nudge his arm. âYouâre ridiculous.â
âYou love it.â
You do.
 10:05 PM â 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 shirtâs still half-unbuttoned.
âWine?â he asks.
You shake your head. âJust water.â
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, youâre sitting on top of the counter, arms crossed.
âYouâre quiet,â he says gently, handing you the glass.
You take a sip. âJust thinking.â
He nods. Waits.
You hesitate. Then, âDo you worry? About people knowing?â
He pauses. Then crosses to stand in front of you, leaning back on the opposite counter, arms loosely folded.
âI do,â he says honestly. âNot because Iâm ashamed. I just⊠I know how people talk. And I donât want them to get it wrong.â
You nod slowly. âYeah.â
He watches you.
âI also donât want to stop seeing you,â he adds softly. âSo I guess Iâll figure it out.â
That makes your stomach flip.
âYou donât think itâs a bad idea?â you ask. âThis?â
He tilts his head, thoughtful. Then he shook it.
âNo. Not when you look at me like that.â
You blink. âLike what?â
Pedro smiles a little. âLike Iâm not just some actor you had a crush on once. Like Iâm⊠real.â
You donât say anything, but you take a step forward. So does he.
Your hand lands gently on his chest.
âI like the real you,â you say. âEven when youâre dramatic.â
âIâm not dramatic.â
âYou literally made an escape plan for dinner.â
He chuckles in a low tone. âFair.â
Your fingers hook at the collar of his shirt.
âCan I stay again?â
Pedro leans down and presses his forehead to yours.
âPlease do.â
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. Youâve kissed him before, but not like thisânot when everything feels like it might break open if you dare to go a little further.
âYouâre killinâ me,â he mutters, lips brushing just below your ear as his hands roam.
Your breath catches. âI havenât even done anything.â
Pedro pulls back just enough to look at you. âYou wore that dress.â
You tilt your head. âYou told me to.â
He smirks. âYeah. My own damn fault.â
His mouth is on yours againâhot, 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 heâs trying to hold back but failing.
âFuck,â he breathes. âYou feelâJesusââ
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.
âThis all for me, baby?â
You nod, lips parted. âBeen like that since dinner.â
He lets out a low, guttural sound and presses the heel of his hand right where youâre 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. âYou want me to touch you?â
You barely manage a breathy, âYes.â
His fingers hook into your panties, dragging them to the side. And then he touches youâslowly, carefullyâlike heâs 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.
âFuck,â he murmurs, watching your face. âYouâre so wet already.â
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. âPedroââ
âIâve got you,â he murmurs, adding a second finger, curling them just right. âYou feel fuckinâ incredible.â
You rock your hips in time with his rhythm, your moans filling the quiet kitchen. The counter is cool beneath your thighs, but youâre burning everywhere elseâchest flushed, heart racing.
Pedro leans in and kisses the underside of your jaw, then your neck, his voice hot and gravelly against your skin. âI wanna see you come like this. Just like this.â
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.
âFuckâdonât stopâplease donât stopââ
âI wonât, baby. Iâve got you. Let go for me.â
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 heâs completely wrecked by the sight of you falling apart in his hands.
When itâs too much, you grab his wrist, panting. âOkay. Okayââ
He kisses you then, deep and messy and full of hunger. You taste yourself on his tongue, and somehow that just makes it hotter.
âNext time,â he murmurs against your lips, voice full of promise, âitâs gonna be in bed. And Iâm not gonna stop until you beg.â
You smile, still breathless. âWho says I wonât beg right here?â
He laughs softly, tucks your hair behind your ear, and leans his forehead against yours. âYouâre trouble.â
âYou like it.â
Pedro hums, pressing one last kiss to your lips. âI really do.â
Pedro kisses you againâmore urgently this time, like heâs chasing the taste of your moan. Youâre still coming down from your high, but heâs 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, âYouâre so fuckinâ pretty like this, baby.â
You squirm in his grip, panting softly. âPedroâŠâ
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 youâlips swollen, legs open for him, pupils blown wide. âYou want more?â
You nod, voice shaky. âIâI want your mouth.â
âJesus Christ,â he whispers. âYouâre gonna kill me.â
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 firstâsoft, reverentâthen bites, just a little, enough to make you whimper.
And then he licks you.
It starts slowâhis tongue parting your folds, gentle strokes that make you arch your back. But he doesnât stay soft for long. He groans into you like heâs 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.
Youâre already close again.
âPedro, fuckâoh my Godââ
He looks up at you, mouth shiny, eyes wild. âCome again for me. Just like this.â
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 againâloud, 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, youâre 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. Heâs rock hard and twitching under your palm. âYour turn.â
He swears under his breath, grinding into your hand. âIâve been dying since you walked in.â
You tug the waistband of his slacks down. He helps, finally freeing himselfâand your mouth waters at the sight of him. Heâs thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip.
Pedro watches your face as you stroke him slowly, teasing him the way he teased you.
âYou gonna let me take care of you?â you ask, sweet and soft.
He groans low. âNot gonna last if you keep looking at me like that.â
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 inâjust 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.
âFuck, that feels good,â he mutters.
You wrap your arms around his neck, legs around his waist, your voice a whisper against his jaw. âNext time, youâre gonna fuck me for real.â
Pedro pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. âThis isnât even close to done, sweetheart.â
He ruts against you again, both of you panting now, bodies slick and sticky. He kisses youâdeep and messyâas 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. âWeâre in trouble, arenât we?â
You grin, heart racing. âBig, big trouble.â
He kisses your shoulder and smiles into your skin. âWorth it.â
Youâre curled up in Pedroâs 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 itâhis body tensing just enough to draw your attention.
You peek up at him. âEverything okay?â
Pedro doesnât 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.
Itâs Twitter.
A photo. Grainy, long-lens, obviously taken from across the street.
Pedro Pascal on a late-night coffee date?Heâs 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 itâs undeniably him.
His hand is on the small of your back. Gentle. Familiar.
The photo already has over 80k likes.
âShit,â you whisper, sitting up a little.
Pedro watches you carefully. âYour face isnât in it. Youâre okay.â
âI mean⊠yeah, but people are gonna figure it out, arenât they?â You hand him the phone, heart thudding.
There are already hundreds of quote tweets. Gossip accounts, stan edits, comments like:
âwhoever she is⊠I fear Iâm her nowâ âidk who she is but I know she smells like vanilla and reads poetryâ âPedro Pascal out on a date???? Real man hoursâ âyâall think this is PR? đâ
You fall back into the pillows, groaning into the sheets. âI literally had exams yesterday. I was studying in a hoodie like twelve hours ago.â
Pedro chuckles softly. âAnd now youâre an anonymous femme fatale. Wild.â
You glance over at him. âThis doesnât freak you out?â
âNot really.â He reaches out, brushing your hair back. âIâve been through worse. You okay, though?â
âI meanâŠâ You sit up, wrapping the sheet around yourself. âI didnât think this was gonna get real like that. That fast.â
Pedro watches you quietly for a moment. Then he reaches for your hand.
âWe donât have to rush anything. If you want to pull back, stay private, disappear for a bit, we can do that. But I alsoââ He pauses, thumb brushing your knuckles. âI like this. You and me. I donât want to pretend it didnât happen.â
You soften. âI donât want that either.â
âThen we play it smart.â He smiles a little. âLet them talk. They donât know anything.â
You squeeze his hand. âOkay. But if I get doxxed by a thirteen-year-old running a fan cam accountâŠâ
âIâll delete the internet for you.â
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. Heâs focused on the skillet in front of him, brows furrowed, spatula in hand like heâs trying to win an award for best boyfriend breakfast.
You linger in the doorway, quietly watching him like youâre afraid saying his name will break the spell.
He turns at just the right moment, catching you with a sleepy smile.
âWell, good morning, mystery girl.â
You grin. âDonât call me that.â
âWhat? You are a mystery.â He gestures to the open laptop on the kitchen counter. âYouâre trending.â
Your stomach dips. âSo it wasnât just a bad dream?â
Pedro nods. âHashtag 'Pedro Pascal Date Night' has entered the chat.â
You groan and pad into the room, barefoot in his T-shirt, curling your arms around his waist from behind. âThis is so surreal.â
He leans back into you just enough to kiss your knuckles. âYouâre still you. Iâm still me. Nothing changes that.â
You rest your cheek against his back. âI know, itâs just⊠I wasnât expecting it to feel this big.â
Pedro turns gently in your arms and cups your face with those warm, capable hands. âThen letâs keep it small. Just you and me in this kitchen. My bad pancakes. Your bedhead. The rest can wait.â
You nod. Let him kiss you. Let him hold you like that.
A few minutes later, youâre sitting at the little dining table while he plates the eggs, toast, and strawberries in a way thatâs oddly charming and not very symmetrical. He brings you your coffee just the way you like itâtoo much cream, not enough sugar.
âGod,â you say, taking a sip. âThis is dangerously domestic.â
Pedro raises an eyebrow, settling across from you. âDangerous?â
You smirk. âYouâre lucky Iâm into it.â
He lets out a low laugh. âYou have no idea how into you I am.â
You pause, caught off guard by how easily he says it. How it doesnât scare you the way you thought it would.
After a beat, you lean across the table and whisper, âSo what happens next?â
Pedro reaches for your hand, his thumb brushing the back of it like itâs second nature.
âWhatever you want,â he says. âWe will figure it out. Together.â
And there it is againâthat quiet thrum of something honest. Something with roots.
Hope.
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