a/n: same vague universe as “marked,“ per usual, yada yada.
happy belated labor day, y'all! tip your servers and thank your union reps.
(my union is on strike rn and, while it is ass, I'm very grateful for the people who are working hard to secure a better future for all of us. wga strong!)
summary: a totally normal labor day cookout with no big announcements whatsoever.
—————————————————————————
"Hey!" Pedro is slightly out of breath, flushed from the cocktail and the dry heat. Sometime in the fifteen minutes he's been gone inside the house, a tiny sombrero-on-a-headband has made its way onto his head.
He plants a kiss on your temple, slinging an arm over your shoulder; the man gets a little possessive, after a couple drinks, but not in an unpleasant way. There's a pitcher of pre-mixed margaritas on the picnic table, and only a thin finger of the same drink left in his plastic cup. You squeeze the hand that now rests on your right shoulder.
"Are you having fun?"
Truthfully, yes. Parties usually aren't your vibe, and you'd been nervous about this one, for some reason. Had expressed as much to him, beforehand.
Oscar and Elvira usually host in the summer, the little patio attached to their apartment far surpassing anyone else’s outdoor space in the city. No reason at all to be nervous— you were just here, for the 4th of July, alone, kindly invited while Pedro was still filming in Morocco. (And oh, how the summer had changed.) Had been here almost every weekend since then, while things were shut down.
But, this was the first party since… well. Since you’d put a ring on it, so-to-speak.
The social etiquette of the whole thing has you flummoxed. Are you supposed to tell people? Is that annoying? Do you just not say anything? Wait for them to notice? Take the rings off and break up so you don’t have to do this at all?
Ultimately, these are Pedro’s friends, so it’s been Pedro’s call. Not that you communicated that to him. Which might have been a mistake. Regardless, you’re deferring to him, despite the pit of stupid anxiety it left in your stomach leading up to the party.
Not that you’re not proud of the ring, either. You couldn’t be fucking happier. Social anxiety is a tricky thing, apparently. (You might have way, way overthought all of this.)
“Yeah,” you smile at Pedro, shaking cobwebs of shitty thoughts from your brain. “Yeah, this is lovely.”
Another kiss, this one soft on your lips. He tastes a little fruity, some kinda flavored syrup in the margaritas. You’d accidentally opted for an IPA that tastes like ass, so you’re just carrying around the can as a prop. His fingers are sticky from something, you discover, as he licks them clean.
The arm around your shoulder steers you towards the long picnic table, around which most of the party is gathered: the hosts, and a few extended family members you’ve definitely been introduced to, before. Sarah is here, with Holland, which is a nice surprise. The kids are deep into a game of corn hole, in the small grassy area.
You settle at the table, folding chair pulled flush against Pedro’s. A large hand palms above your knee, exposed below the inseam of your shorts. The sun is warm on your skin, fingers wet from the condensation of the can you’re pretending to nurse.
“— the AMPTP doesn’t know what they’re talking about,” Holland is saying, from where you’ve entered the conversation.
Oscar’s brother, whose name you should know by now, laughs. “Been four months now, though,” he shrugs. “You think someone would’ve budged by now, but—“
"Woah, woah." From his perch on his wife's lap, Oscar points, looking scandalized. “What the fuck is that!"
Pointing, unexpectedly, at the ring on your finger.
"Uh." Pedro's looks sheepish.
"You're joking!" A hand dramatically clutches his heart, while Oscar swoons against Elvira. "I'm wounded. Sarah, did you know about this?"
Across the table, she raises a glass, mockingly. "I picked out the ring."
"That's not true—" Pedro begins to protest.
"—Sorry, I forced him to make a fucking decision because he'd been agonizing over three options for like a month."
Pedro shrugs. "I wanted it to be perfect," he says sheepishly, "sue me!"
"No, no, backup," Oscar says. "I don't care about the rings. I can't believe you didn't tell me!"
"I can," Elvira offers, "you've got a big mouth."
He groans. "It's not like it was a secret!"
Loud interruptions from across the table. "It was absolutely a secret, that's the whole point!"
Oscar throws a hand up. "You already act like you're married, is anyone surprised about this?"
"You were surprised."
"I was surprised you didn't tell me! Wounded, frankly. Irredeemably. To the core."
"Are you done?" Sarah rolls her eyes, squeezing Pedro's shoulder affectionately. "About damn time, but we're happy for you."
She gestures at Oscar. “Yeah, yeah, we’re happy for you.”
“With feeling this time.”
“Guys,” Pedro interjects, “I wasn’t keeping anything from you. It happened two days ago!”
He launches into the tale, eggplants and double-rings and all. The hand stays planted on your knee, and you take advantage, laying yours on top to thumb over the band on his ring finger. Someone tops Pedro off, and you reach for a sip— strawberry, you determine, is the marg syrup. You’re not really listening, but you lean back, content to watch him retell the story.
The next time he kisses you, as the sun sets into the Brooklyn skyline, you taste like strawberries, too.
I just had the worst and saddest possible day ever and all I wished was someone here, just to hug me under my cold covers. Can you please make something up with pedro and reader please?
I'm so sorry you are going through this?? I hope things have improved since you submitted this. Sending love your way.
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okay (pedro pascal x gn/m!reader)
a/n: same vague universe as “marked,“ per usual.
a little, plotless shorty for your troubles.
thanks, as always, for everything.
TW: a very brief mention of disordered eating
summary: sometimes, you just need to be held.
—————————————————————————
"I'm okay," you whisper. "It's okay, really. I just need a little bit."
Less than convincing.
There is a dip in the mattress behind you. Even with your eyes closed, covers pulled over your head, turned away from him entirely, you can tell he is settling against the headboard, atop the duvet.
Pedro doesn't speak. Doesn't touch you, either, but you're not really sure if you're grateful for that; sometimes, being touched when you're like this feels so intolerable, it takes your breath away. Other times, a soft touch feels like the only thing that can hold you together. Trial and error, involving a lot of shitty and unfair antagonisms, has taught Pedro to give you space before he gives you love.
This is why you suck, your brain supplies. Nothing more— your mind is too fucking tired to even dissect your insecurities properly. You just feel bad.
Not without reason; at least, not today. Three missed calls from your mother, with whom you are barely speaking to, anyways. (It turns out being engaged to Oberyn Martell is about the only thing that could cure her passive aggressive homophobia. A bit too late to be water under the bridge, at any rate.)
Three missed calls, and some really shit news.
So, you're in bed. Under the covers, hiding, as if 8:30 is a totally normal bedtime.
And things are decidedly not good.
The tears come, silent and steady.
A warm press of lips to the back of your neck startles you; hot puffs of breath where his nose is buries into the hair curled at your nape, just a moment, before pulling back. It does not feel as bad as you'd feared.
"Sorry," you croak, blindly reaching behind you; squeeze what feels like his knee, in what you hope is a marginally reassuring gesture. "I'm fine, baby, you don't have to sit here with me." Pedro is early to bed— neither of you are really night owls— but not this early.
He makes no effort to move. "Can I..." A tentative hand, between your shoulder blades.
You can't help the thin whine that accompanies your shaky exhale. Fucking pathetic. But you turn, slowly, rolling over to face him. You'd assumed he was up against the headboard, but he's shifted down now, head on the pillow beside you.
Smiling, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes.
Wordlessly, he tucks an arm over your waist. He's always been strong, biceps as thick and sturdy as tree limbs, but the Gladiator training has added a layer of muscle just about everywhere. (Including his stomach. Abs are slowly stealing the small belly there, and while you're proud of the work he's putting in, you secretly miss the softness.)
"I don't know what you're thinking," Pedro whispers, mouth brushing against the top of your head. "But I'm so sorry, honey." He rubs the length of your spine, brow furrowing at the feeling of unfamiliar protrusions. Stress and an irregular schedule has sent good eating habits by the wayside; your body is shrinking, while his grows.
It's been the shittiest fucking month. He's been gone, you've been busy, and neither of you have gotten enough of the other. Back in New York three days now, but this is the first night you've been able to stay in together— and, of course, you've ruined it.
"Just happy to be with you," Pedro says, as if reading your mind. "Maybe this strike'll last forever, and I'll never need to go back to Morocco. Sorry, Paul Mescal."
You laugh, despite yourself, thick with tears. "I'm gonna miss the fan selfies, I think. What're they calling you? Pee-paw?"
Pedro groans, punishing you by pulling you tighter against him. Your face is squashed against his chest. Not a hardship. He smells clean, spiced. Familiar. Comfortably, and safe.
"You're engaged to the oldest man on the internet," he laments. "In Twitter years, I'm dead."
The squished hug is short-lived, breaking as he rolls back, gently, to get a better look at you. Cups your face, puffy and wet and gross; brushes twin thumbs over your cheeks, with a fond smile.
"There you are," Pedro whispers.
"I'm okay." Another sniff, but the threat of tears seems to have subsided. Today was shit, but it's over now; you're here, together, with nothing but time and sleep ahead of you.
God I just thought about an idea for pedro and reader, reading your last post...
They are in a relationship and live together. The reader is also an actress. She asks pedro to practice her lines with her. In the play, she is having a really long line, breaking up with the person ans leaving them... pedro can't continue... at night in bed they are cuddling and pedro talks about how he hated the feeling or the thought of the reader ever leaving
(changed this slightly, hope that is OK...)
bad acting (pedro pascal x gn/m!reader)
a/n: same vague universe as “marked,“ per usual.
thanks, as always, for everything.
(also I did that thing where I didn't save this on drafts fast enough and the whole fucking thing deleted so you could say im LIVID sorry if this rewrite felt rushed.)
summary: things get a little... too real.
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"You can't laugh."
"I'm not gonna laugh!"
Pedro hands you his iPad, script loaded on the screen. "I'm serious," you warn him, "you had to stop last time, the acting was so bad."
"Just read the sides, baby."
You know he isn't nervous about the audition— if he was, he sure as shit wouldn't be practicing with you. Those rehearsals are reserved for his coach, or someone who can actually talk him through the scene. This was just a formality, a quick read-through for some anthological TV show about people in failing marriages. Season 2 of Oscar's old Amazon thing. With the audition being on Zoom tomorrow, the whole process feels fairly relaxed.
"Should I read it in a lady voice? Will that set the scene?"
"Please don't."
"Scottish accent?"
"Babe."
"Hmm." You clear your throat loudly, for dramatic effect. Across the room, feet propped on the desk, Pedro rolls his eyes. He's got his cheaters on, but no script— the audition's supposed to be off-book. "From the first page?"
"You're stalling."
"Ugh. Ok. Here we go." Leaning forward, you scroll to the highlighted text on the iPad. "Stop, David. You don't know what you're talking about."
Pedro's posture straightens; ever the professional, it's like watching a switch flip. The humored lines beside his eyes, little crows feet that crinkle when he looks at you, disappear completely. His brow furrows, gaze darkens.
"Of course I do, dammit. I'm done with this, all of this. It's like living in a mausoleum, Emma. I'd rather. Do you remember what love even feels like? Because I look at you, and I just... don't, anymore."
"You don't mean that."
"I do! I'm so tired of this. Life with you is joyless. Every day, I come home from work and just sit in the goddamn driveway because I don't want to come in the house. It's hard to be in the same room as you. I can't bring her back, Emma, and I miss her and I'm sorry she's dead. But it isn't my fucking fault and I wish you'd stop pretending it was."
His voice cracks, just a little. You frown as he grabs the glass of water beside him, pausing to wait, but he motions for you to continue.
"That's cruel," you read, "and you know it. That's not fair."
"None of this is fair!" Pedro exclaims. "That's the whole point. It's not fair that our daughter is dead while the girl who was driving got to walk away clean. Life isn't fucking fair. But it's life. And you've sucked all the light out of mine. I can't stand you, anymore, I'm sorry. I just can't. It's not that we can't make it work, it's that I don't want to make it work. If I never see you again, it'll be too soon. Jesus christ, I hate every part of this."
"Are you done? Have you gotten it all off your chest?"
"Don't placate me! This isn't one of your stupid therapy sessions, Emma, you can't fix this with a breathing worksheet and a roleplaying exercise. Be fucking serious. Every day I wake up and I wish I'd never met you. At least then, she wouldn't be dead, because she'd never have existed. And maybe I'd known some goddamn peace."
The page ends there, and you glance up. Pedro has his head in his hands, eyes closed.
"That was good," you offer tentatively, searching for some kind of sign as to what his next move is. He's gracious about work stuff, but you're always a little afraid of mucking up his process.
When he looks up, his eyes are glossy. "Yeah," Pedro says, croakily, clearing his throat quietly before rising from the chair. He takes the iPad back, wordlessly, shuttering the case over the screen.
"Wanna do it again? You were spot-on, Pedge, but we can go over it again if you want to."
"No," he says quickly. "No, I'm good. I'm fine. It's on Zoom, it'll be easy. I'm fine."
Weird. Just a little. Before you can dwell on his sudden cageyness, he's up, headed for the door.
"I'm gonna walk the dogs. We can catch up on Bake-Off, when I get back?"
Pedro leaves before you can answer.
— — —
No sooner have the leashes been hung back by the door, than Pedro is beside you on the couch, all hands and light touches. It's as if he can't bear to lost contact. You allow him to reposition you, reaching a hand around your waist as you reach for the remote.
"Good walk?"
He hums, tugging you against him. Settles, finally, once you're half-reclined, back against his chest, arm around your middle. You fiddle with the edge of his sleeve as the bakers fumble their way through the signature challenge.
It's not that the clinginess bothers you— he's like this sometimes, when he's just returned home, or you've arrived in LA, or met somewhere in the middle. Every separation leaves him want for touch. It's the one thing you can't give him, while you're apart.
But he's been home a couple weeks now, in between reshoots for a new project. Been home all day, in fact, in an orbit around you while you attempted to work from home. (A little too close, frankly, but you can't really complain.)
"You okay?" You whisper, as the timer runs down on the technical bake.
No answer. Just a tightened grip on your waist, and a firm kiss to the top of your head.
— — —
It isn't until later, in bed and half-asleep, that you pinpoint the source of the tension.
You'd have thought he was already asleep, save for the soft carding of his fingers through the baby hairs at the nape of your neck. Deep, even breaths tickle your forehead; he's curled around you, arm draped over your back. Had positioned himself this way silently, looking a little silly brooding in his Muppet-patterned pj pants.
"We're never reading lines again," Pedro whispers into the darkness.
"Was the acting that bad?"
Your attempt for levity falls flat. He is quiet, long enough for you roll backwards slightly, to get a better look at his face. A deep-set frown has taken root.
"No, it..." He tugs you closer again, tucking your head beneath his chin. If he weren't so sad, you'd call uncle for claustrophobia; your nose is squished into his jugular. But you lay still, waiting for him to continue.
"It felt too real," Pedro concedes. He inhales sharply, and you can feel it against your own chest.
The kiss you press to the hollow of his throat, doesn't feel good enough. You wiggle, tilting your head to press one against his toothpaste-tasting lips. Whiskers tickle the corner of your mouth.
"Baby, I know you were... pretending." A thin line between placating him and treading on his professionalism. "If our pretend daughter died in a car crash, I know you wouldn't divorce me for being too sad."
"It's not funny." With a groan, he kisses you again, resting his forehead against yours. "I hated saying that stuff to you. Felt too real."
The bone-crushing spooning is making a little more sense, now.
"I love you, but you're a sap."
"Hmph."
You smile into the next kiss. "A very sweet sap, though."
They making dinner together and things get hot and heavy in the between
normal night (pedro pascal x gn/m!reader)
a/n: same vague universe as “marked,“ per usual.
thanks, as always, for everything.
obligatory warning: light smut, allusions to romance
summary: no such thing as a "normal night," apparently.
—————————————————————————
Normalcy is such a fucking privilege.
It's all you can think about, salting thin strips of eggplant over a colander in the sink. Something about bitterness, or moisture. There'd been a whole article about it in the Sunday Times a while back, and Pedro had sworn its effectiveness since.
Your excitement was almost comical. Here you were, practically vibrating in anticipation of something that most people experience nightly: a home cooked meal with your partner. Eggplant parm, a side salad, and a bottle of red wine. That's all.
It's a rarity, though. Pedro in New York while you're off work and neither of you have any meetings or appointments past 5pm. He'd had a late-afternoon coffee with an old NYU classmate, but based on FindMyFriends, he was already headed back. You'd been looking forward to it all day— the kind of normal evening that most people take for granted.
You've got the radio on, albeit playing from the speakers of your laptop. Email up, but minimized— 5pm was a strict deadline tonight. No work. Just salting eggplant and stirring the simmering pot of tomato sauce on the burner.
The jangle of keys in the lock has you grinning.
"Hey!" Pedro calls. It's a little silly, how your heart still flutters, all this time later.
Arms wrap around your middle from behind. Squeeze tight for a moment, just the way you like, ribs compressed by the strong swell of his biceps. A scruffy cheek tickles the base of your neck as he hooks his chin over your shoulder, placing a kiss over the fabric of your sweater.
"Hi baby," you hum, leaning back into the embrace. There is coffee on his breath, and traces of citrusy cologne on his collar. "Have a good afternoon?"
"Mhmm." The affirmative rumbles from his chest, against your back. "Smells good in here," he offers, kissing your cheek before pulling away. "What can I do?"
There is a light blush to his cheeks; a tad too much sun today. He refuses to wear sunscreen, claims Chilean blood and four decades in tropical climates, and often pays the price for his confidence.
"Open the wine," you instruct, replacing the lid on the sauce pot. Turning the tap on, over the colander, you make quick work of rinsing the eggplant.
You don't dance, but the way that you navigate the kitchen around each other feels choreographed. He hands you a bowl without looking, for the breadcrumbs, as you pass the bottle of wine. The music has him swinging his hips, just a little.
It didn't use to feel this comfortable. In the early weeks of your mark-match, Pedro's house felt more like a museum; you sat stiffly on the couch, afraid to so much as muss the pillows, or use the wrong water glass. Afraid any little thing would break the illusion of bliss that had enveloped you both. It is easy now, to look back and laugh.
Pedro winks at you, pulling the last of the cork from the bottle with his teeth. A new little trick. You can't help the rush of warmth that spreads through you.
"What next?" He passes you a glass, which you tap lightly against his.
A glance at the timer on the oven. At the stairs, through the back doorway to the kitchen. At the hollow of his throat, flushed with the warmth of the kitchen, unblemished. His two sweatshirts are two too many.
"I think everything's good in here," you manage, closing the distance between you. Worm a hand beneath the layers to splay across the hot skin of his stomach. "We've got some time."
— — —
Dinner does not burn, thank god, though the side salad had to be abandoned for time. The sleeves of Pedro's pajama shirt are soaked with pasta water, and your flannel bottoms have somehow caught a streak of tomato sauce, but the choice to change into comfy clothes was ultimately a win.
You settle at the table, pleasantly warm from the wine. If your jaw is a little sore from the pre-dinner palate cleanser, well, the eggplant won't be tough to chew.
Though the evening has been nothing but relaxing, something has Pedro agitated. He'd been fine, earlier, but now he can hardly sit still. There's a nervous downturn to the corner of his mouth; mustache twitching slightly while he fiddles with the silverware.
"You can say no," he starts, which is never a good sign. You can say no typically precludes +1 invitations to stuffy industry events, or equally unpleasant obligations at which he wants company. (Of course, you don't usually say no. But, still...)
The distinct lack of eye contact is making you sweat. He's staring at his plate like the eggplant owes him a grave debt.
"Pedge." You reach to still his hand, gently squeezing until he looks up. "Whatever it is, you know I'll say yes."
"I want you to mean it, though." A pause, as Pedro pulls your hand to his lips, placing a kiss to the center of your palm. "I don't want you to say yes for the sake of saying yes."
"I won't. You're scaring me a bit, though. Are we hiding a body? "
His laugh is strained. "No, no. Sorry. Sorry, this is— I didn't want it to— ugh," he shakes his head. "Can we start over?"
Before you can respond, he pushes back in his chair, rising from the table. Pats himself down, fumbles to find something in his back pocket. Takes a deep breath, and—
Oh.
Beside you, right at the kitchen table, between the dog bowls and the sink full of dirty pots and pans, Pedro drops to one knee.
"Pedro—"
"I said I was gonna prepare a whole thing," he mumbles, "but I don't think I can wait any longer. Also figured you'd kill me if it became a spectacle."
It is your turn to laugh, wetly, choked on the lump that has formed in the back of your throat.
"I know we're marked, and we live together, and have two dumb little dogs, and more or less already act like an old married couple. I just thought maybe filing joint taxes could be cool, too."
Pedro sniffs, swiping once at under his eye with the hand that also holds a small velvet pouch. "Waited a long, long time to meet you. Kinda gave up on the mark altogether. But it was worth it, all the waiting. I would very, very much like to spend the rest of my life with you. And then some."
You're on the floor before you feel yourself move, kneeling before him. Cup his face in your hands. Brush away another errant tear that's spilled from the corner of his eye. This sweet fucking man.
"I love you," Pedro says quietly. "More than I ever thought possible."
"I love you, too." His lips are dry and warm when you press a chaste kiss against them. "Thank you for waiting for me."
You move to stand up. "Come on, your knees must be killing you."
"I need to ask the question!" He pouts.
"Oops, sorry. Please continue, Mr. Pascal."
"Balmaceda Pascal, thank you."
"I don't think we can hyphenate, babe, it's gonna be too long. They'll run out of room on the certificate."
"We can't get the certificate if you don't let me ask you this damn question!"
Finally, carefully, a gold band is extracted from the velvet bag. Simple, but stunning. Two stones are pressed to the center, small, side-by-side. "They're, uh, our birthstones," he says quietly. "But we can change it if you don't like it, it's OK."
You shake your head, unable to form a coherent word around the swell of your heart, threatening to choke you.
"The parm's gonna get cold," Pedro exhales shakily, locking eyes. "So I was wondering if you would do me the honor of marrying me?"
It takes a moment for your brain to catch up with your stupid heart. But when it does, you're already moving from the kitchen, to the back doorway. Pedro, rising from the floor, looks fucking confused.
"One sec, one sec," you call, taking the stairs two at a time.
After a moment, you return, box in hand. "I've been carrying this around since May. Sit down."
Stunned, Pedro obliges.
"To answer your question," you start, lowering to replicate his kneeling position, "I have a proposition. I'll marry you if you marry me."
Inside the box, another gold ring. You remove it with a shockingly steady hand.
Pedro pauses, eyes catching on something: a familiar date, engraved on the inside of the ring. Without his cheaters, he is forced to hold the ring away from his face, squinting at the numbers.
tumblr took this down for sexual content, so naturally, I added more before I re-uploaded.
thanks, as always, for everything.
obligatory warning: light smut, allusions to oral
summary: you bear witness to the annual trip, and... are witnessed bare.
——————————————————————————
The first year, you don’t go. You’ve only been dating four months— trip was already half-planned, and you don’t feel established enough to intrude. Afraid to insert yourself, though P offered several times.
You forget about it, til the planning starts up again. Get a little shy about it, dodge schedule questions at a group dinner. Think on it, overthink it, think maybe he’ll forget it even came up. He asks you again, looking up from his kindle in bed, reading glasses pushed low on his nose.
So you find yourself on an island, in a villa, by the water.
It's not as awkward as you were worried it'd be— you know these people better than you think you do. More the concept of traveling with friends, as a Capital-A Adult, that had you worried. There is a social etiquette that you only kinda understand.
The villa is really a series of small, vaguely connected little cabins. Private rooms with sandy-stone walkways in-between, a kitchen and lounge-type space at the center. Pool and hot tub outside, private beach access.
Travel had stolen most of the day; JFK to Nassau first thing, only slightly hampered by post-holiday congestion, and then a skipper to the more secluded island. (Not private, but you'd yet to see another person around.)
And now, here you are— laying face down on possibly the crispest, cleanest white sheets you've ever seen. In your underwear, lest you touch the bed with the clothes that also touched the terminal seats of JFK.
Pedro is still moving around, passing between the bedroom and bathroom, setting things out from his suitcase. He is methodical about travel and hotel rooms, which makes sense for a man who spends a generous amount of time on the road.
(You are ignoring, at present, the difference in sizes between your suitcases: yours a carry-on, his a checked. Yours with a return ticked to JFK, his to LAX. It has left a bitter pit in your stomach, as the holidays have wound down— the inevitability of your separation, despite the promise of this trip beforehand. On the morning of the 2nd, you will separate for a full three months.)
Hands on your shoulders pulls you out of your brief misery. You are flipped— quite ruthlessly, you think— over onto your back. Above you, Pedro grins. Leans down, giving you only a chaste peck.
"Do you want your toiletries in the bathroom?" He is all business, though he still hovers.
"I want you to take off your nasty airport pants and come here," you gripe. He kisses you again, warmer this time, and you seize your opportunity to latch an arm around his middle, pulling him onto you. (You groan, dramatically, though you always enjoy the firm weight of him. Like a heated, weighted blanket.)
It is hot, late into the afternoon. Even in your underwear, you feel kinda sticky in the humidity. The salt air hangs thick around you.
Pedro slowly shucks off his shirt, and shimmies out of the jeans he insisted on flying in. Only then does he fully commit, rolling backwards into the middle of the bed. He's still rocking a light farmers tan from LA last month, golden biceps attached to pale shoulders.
The urge overtakes you before you can fully process what you're doing. You sink your teeth lightly into the arm closest to you.
"Hey!"
"Mm." A kiss is pressed to the little indent, before you pillow your cheek against it. "Wanna take a little piece of you with me."
The separation— that was the urge. The distant feeling of impending sadness, clashing behind your collarbone against a deep swell of affection.
"Baby," he whispers. Warm lips and bristled whispers brush your forehead.
"Sorry. No sad vacation vibes."
He reaches over, tipping your chin until your lips meet. Holds you there, locked together, and breathes you in for a few long beats before the kiss deepens.
Your turn to be on top; breaking the kiss to prop up on one elbow, splaying your other hand on his waist as you lay kisses to his exposed side. It is languid, easy. Pedro uses your hip to pull you up, closer, so he can redirect your mouth to his for another kiss. You keep shifting, bracing your hands on either side to fully rest on top of him, lightly, joined at the stomach and the mouth.
Mindlessly, rote motion, you roll your hips down. Boxer-on-brief friction. The skin of his chest is salty with sweat and ocean air as you begin to kiss a trail from the corner of his mouth. Spend a moment at the heart-shaped patch in his beard you've grown fond of. A low moan rumbles from Pedro's chest as you bite gently at the hollow of his throat.
"This a thing now?" He says, breathlessly. His hands brace your chest, palms spread across the top of your ribcage. Brush your sides, lightly, where he knows you are sensitive. You exhale sharply into a kiss on his stomach. Move downwards, still. Brush your nose against the faint trail of hair below his navel, lick a small stripe on his belly.
Fingers lace themselves into your hair as you position yourself downwards. Pedro's leg shifts until you are bracketed between his knees, which are splayed open. Just for you.
The moment you tug on the elastic waistband, the moment is shattered.
"Y'all better be decent." Sarah enters abruptly from the glass doors that face the beach, without knocking. You hardly have time to feel embarrassed, sitting up and off of him as fast as possible; hands and lips burning with the sudden loss of contact.
"You've seen me in less," Pedro points out, chest heaving slightly. No effort is made to conceal the evident tent in his boxers.
"Fair point. We started drinking a half hour ago. Be horny later." He flips her the bird, and she flips it back.
Tipping backwards, you land back beside Pedro on the bed. Stare at the ceiling— or rather, thatched roofing— while your mind slowly buffers. Too hot and bothered to register the inevitable shame of being caught like a pair of teenagers.
"Do you..."
A large hand reaches over, palming gently between your thighs.
Fic request: Pedro or reader has an intense panic attack in a public. Reader has to talk him through it and calm him down enough so they can leave the event. Holding each other in bed.
clean up, aisle 4 (pedro pascal x gn/m!reader)
a/n: same vague universe as “marked," per usual.
thanks, as always, for everything.
summary: sometimes, you deal with the downsides.
——————————————————————————
"I feel like we tried this and didn't like it."
Pedro inspects the back label on the box— some kinda chickpea flour protein pasta 'alternative' that came less-than-highly recommended by his personal trainer— before re-shelving it alongside the other sad, fake noodles.
The grocery store has become a little bit of a minefield. Gladiator 2 prep was exciting, until the rigorous hours in the gym started requiring a specialized diet. He can't eat carbs, you don't eat meat, both of you love frozen pizza, and neither of you really want to participate in the whole classic disordered Hollywood eating thing. And yet, here you are.
Home-cooked meals have consisted mostly of roasted vegetables and dry, baked proteins. You're attempting to eat "clean" in solidarity with him, but...
"We don't need pasta," Pedro laments, turning away from the shelving altogether. "What's left?"
You pull the notes-app list back up. "Whatever kind of frozen fruit you want for smoothies, plus pitted dates. I'd love those wasabi almonds from last month, but I dunno if they have them again. We could get Skinny Pop, if you want it?"
A grimace. "That's fine."
"We don't have to get it, Pedge."
"It's fine, really. We need something for the movie tonight, right?"
His shoulders slump as he pushes the cart onwards. The back right wheel is making a little squeaking sound, sharp and grating on your last damn nerve. This grocery store feels more and more like a minefield with every aisle turn. The balance between supporting Pedro in his training, and wanting him to just say fuck it and be happy, feels entirely precarious.
"Almonds," Pedro mutters, veering right, around an obnoxiously large Goldfish display and the toddler sobbing loudly in front of it. An obstacle course of bright lights and loud sounds. "Almonds, almonds—"
"Ohmygod, Pedro Pascal."
Immediately, no. Two college-aged, tri delta-looking, fresh-from-the-salon type girls, grinning like they'd won the damn lottery. Fans— no one he actually knows says "Pay-drow."
The wheel squeaks again as they grind to a forceful halt; the girls are standing directly in the path of the cart.
"Should we ask for a picture?" They speak at full volume, to each other, as if he isn't standing right in front of them.
"We have to, for the gram. Oh my god."
"Maybe Deuxmoi will pick it up."
Pedro grimaces as they start rummaging for their phones. He's always generous with his time— sometimes a little too generous, so concerned with hurting peoples' feelings that he'll take selfies through the drive-thru window, or walking the dogs. Even one memorable time, pumping gas.
Only at night, lights off, tucked away, does he ever confess his frustrations. As though he should not want privacy; as though being grateful was more important than being safe. Guilt eats him in ways that you alone cannot heal. All you can do is hold him a little tighter.
A phone is thrust towards you. "Can you take a picture of us?"
Before either of you can react, one girl has her arm over Pedro's shoulder. The other, on his waist. He's never been one to shy away from affection— had been pushing the cart single-handedly, with the other on the small of your back, since the dairy section— but that intimacy does not extend to strangers.
They are laughing, chattering— something about Game of Thrones. You distinctly make out so sexy and slay.
But you hardly register them, instead frowning at your partner as you snap a couple pics without looking. He is frozen, eyes fixed somewhere past you, though he offers a wan smile for the camera. Answers a question you can't hear with a half-hearted laugh, before gesturing to the next aisle. A polite gesture, too far from the fuck off on the tip of your tongue.
Pedro attempts to move away, but the girl's arm is still snaked around his waist. Trapped. She reaches to wrap the other around, attempting to encircle him in a teddy bear-style hug. This, here, is the limit.
With a rough, jerky motion, he forces her off of him. "Sorry, sorry," he says quickly. "We need to go."
"But—"
If you push the cart, and it happens to roll over a perfectly manicured foot, well...
Pedro is a few paces ahead of you, stalking towards the almonds like they owe him a grave debt. His fists clench and unclench at his side.
Not good.
His tells for a panic attack are well-catalogued in your brain. You push the cart to one side, mouthing an apology to the man you almost plow down, before approaching Pedro with caution. His chest heaves as he frowns at the Blue Diamond display, breaths noticeably shallow.
"Pedro." Fighting muscle memory, you don't touch him. Don't want to startle him, though concern burns a hole in your own diaphragm.
"Mm."
"Baby, look at me."
His eyes squeeze shut, instead. "I'm good. I'm good."
"Why don't you go to the car, I'll finish up quick."
"I'm good," he insists, voice cracking.
"It's OK if you're not good."
A hitch in his breath, and Pedro's face crumbles. "Just startled me, is all," he whispers, brown eyes pooling remorsefully. "So stupid. Can't even make it through the fucking supermarket to get my fucking fruits and veggies."
You reach for his hand, lithe fingers prying his clench fist apart. Soothe the red-crescent divots in his palm with the pad of your thumb. Wait for him to continue, as if you're not both standing in the middle of the nuts-candy-and-coffee section.
"Everything is just a lot right now," Pedro says, dragging in a shaky but deeper inhale. His other hand swipes across his cheek.
Mentally, you catalogue how difficult it would be to return the items in your cart; how fast you could retrace your steps, and rush the man home.
You bring his palm to your lips, instead. "Go take a smoke," you suggest. "And then we can get the fuck outta here."
"Someone's gonna post it online again. Everyone's talking about how I reek of cigarettes."
"You have reeked of cigarettes as long as I've known you. They are late to this." Tugging playfully on the hand you still hold, you wait for him to crack the barest, thinest of smiles.
"You still love me, though."
"Enough to fight off anyone else who tries to dry-hump you in this Whole Foods."
Slowly, you both retreat to the abandoned cart. "Can we—" Pedro stops himself, unsure of how to ask.
"Whatever it is, babe, yes."
He pushes forward. "What if I was asking if we could get naked right now and run through the supermarket parking lot so people would think we were crazy and leave us alone forever?"
"Then I'd start untying my shoes. It'd be hard to pull my jeans over 'em."
The wasabi almonds are, finally, pulled from the shelf. You proceed to the freezers. "That's not what I was gonna ask," he admits, grabbing a bag of chunked mango.
"Bummer."
"Can we just get some normal fucking popcorn? If one night's worth of fake butter is what does me in, someone else can be the Gladiator, I give up."
a/n: same vague universe as “marked," as always. this one skews a little more m! and a little less gn!, apologies if that puts anyone off.
thanks, as always, for everything.
summary: 5 weeks is a long, long time.
——————————————————————————
Your leg won’t stop bouncing. It’s not your fault, really— it’s the Edmonton Airport’s, for having such a conveniently located Tim Hortons, right outside the baggage claim. After the 7-hour red eye from JFK, with the connection through Toronto, the coffee was necessary.
The caffeine isn’t entirely to blame, though. If the taxi wouldn’t stop going so fucking slow, maybe you’d settle down. But the traffic is unyielding, so the 20 minute drive to your heartfelt reunion is looking more like 45. Apparently, shutting part of the city down to film a TV show really screws up peoples’ commutes. You’d waited long enough (a month and six days, but who’s counting?), surely an extra half-hour won’t kill you. But in the taxi, the minutes seem to stretch into years.
The filming schedule for The Last of Us has been brutal. From what Pedro has told you, there was apparently a strain to film both the first and second episode back-to-back; something about using the same locations and exterior shots. For him, it has meant a marathon of shooting… the only downside to being the star of the show.
SNL’s new season was in full swing anyways, so you’d had plenty to keep you busy. Spent enough late nights at 30 Rock, after many a panicked call to the dog walker, that you barely had to inhabit his otherwise vacant condo. You talked every night, usually Facetiming before bed, but the distance was wearing on you both.
Now, the only thing in between you and your man is this fucking traffic jam.
Though this wasn’t a surprise visit— you’d booked the flight as soon as you’d realized the SNL hiatus week lined up with The Last of Us breaking to change locations for the next episode— you did have one trick up your sleeve. Or, more accurately, under your mask.
You’d been attempting to grow facial hair well before meeting Pedro, but it had been a sparse and largely unsuccessful endeavor until very recently. Your jawline had filled in between your sideburn and chin, albeit slightly patchy. You’d been hiding it over Facetime, opting for regular calls a bit more and hoping he wouldn’t notice. Not the craziest surprise, but still, your heart thrums at the prospect of finally sharing it with him.
Of course, once you arrive to set, the obstacles multiply.
Some college kid in a neon yellow vest stops you before you’ve even managed to remove your duffle from the trunk of the cab.
“Covid testing is this way, please follow me,” he insists tersely. Self-consciously, you adjust the KN95 strap around your ear.
The kid leads you to a tent, where two people in full white hazmat suits, complete with gloves and face shields, ask your name and instruct you to pull down your mask. (There’s a joke in there somewhere, about infection at a show about infected, but you get the sense it might be inappropriate to fool around here.)
Once swabbed and registered, you move to leave, scanning the exit for anyone who might be able to help you navigate onto set. But you are immediately blocked by a hazmat woman.
“You need to wait for the rapid to clear,” she insists, pointing to a row of folding chairs. “Fifteen minutes.”
Fifteen minutes, after 5 weeks. Just fifteen minutes. You resign yourself to a seat by the door.
It’s 4pm. You were supposed to have arrived during a stop down between shots— timed so that Pedro would be in his trailer, and accessible, when you arrived. It feels like that window is physically, tangibly closing as you watch the second-hand tick slowly.
Initially, you’d been hesitant to join him on set at all, but he’d insisted you come meet his “second family.” You’d met several of his colleagues via Facetime, when he’d called you from his trailer. Bella, in particular, you’ve taken a liking to— they pepper you with whispered questions about transitioning and gripes about the gender binary when Pedro has been forced to hand over the phone.
You check your phone. Nothing from Pedro, although his little blue dot looks stationary when you pull up FindMyFriends. The clock ticks. There is a burning sting each time you blink— that third cup of coffee is wearing off, and the 5am wake-up this morning is starting to catch up to you. Really, all you want to do is go back to your partner’s hotel room, said partner in tow, curl up on the king-sized and fall asleep watching some West Wing rerun. (Maybe also shower together, and then some. You can keep yourself awake for that.)
Finally, finally, finally, the hazmat woman returns. “You’re clear,” she announces, handing you a green sticker to adhere on your jacket. You make it through the tent flap, heart in your throat with anticipation—
But you have no fucking idea where to go.
A sea of white tents lays before you, stations with people doing things of varying levels of importance. A neon slip of paper points you towards set, but that’s not where you’re headed. Finally, past a corralled group of extras in some really disgusting mushroom prosthetics, and a tent full of picked-over lunch offerings, you spot some trailers in the distance.
And apparently, a stranger with a duffle bag walking quickly towards actors’ trailers, yields a quick security intervention.
In their defense, you definitely look like a crazy person.
“Do you have a clearance list, or anything?” You beg, discretely craning your neck to see over the guard’s neck. The trailers are right there. There are only a few, it shouldn’t take any time at all to find Pedro. He’s within arm’s reach and yet he couldn’t possibly feel further away as the guard talks code into a very official-looking walkie talkie.
“Roger.” He looks down at you. “Listen, you gotta go man. It’s a clearance-only set, and they’ve got strict covid rules, so—”
The green sticker may or may not get shoved in the man’s face. There may or may not be angry tears threatening to ruin your cool. “I got covid tested! I’m clean, they let me through. They had me on their list. I’m—”
From behind you, a familiar voice cuts you off. “With me, Robbie.”
You whip around.
Jaw? On the floor.
Pedro looks… really fucking old. His hair has been sprayed gray, wily and wind-swept; the beard, too, is much grayer than normal. It’s all part of a dirty-looking, artificially stained, mostly denim-based costume. You file away for later, how attracted you are to seeing him like this. Jesus Christ.
He looks old, but he is here, and he is grinning at you, and he’s here.
“Aw, shit.” The guard talks into the radio again. “86. Sorry about that.”
Easy to ignore him, though, as you’re preoccupied with staring at your man.
Before you can move to pounce on him, close the final four feet of distance between you, a well-manicure hand splays menacingly out at you.
“Don’t even think about it,” Coco warns. “We have fifteen minutes for touch-ups and I do not have time to fix everything.”
Pedro’s nose twitches, frowning at you. You reach down to hold his hand, but it is… apparently also covered in make-up, looking red, nasty and broken.
Sorry, he mouths dejectedly.
The inside of his trailer is familiar, though it looks a little smaller in-person than it appears on Facetime. A mirror and counter, a decently sized couch, a bathroom, a desk in the corner. Pedro settles in the make-up chair, smiling backwards at you in the mirror.
“Drop your stuff,” he insists.
Little touches of your life together pepper the room in a way that grips your heart a little. A framed picture on the desk, which you recognize from last summer; a particularly nice day in Prospect Park with the dogs, captured in a Polaroid snapped candid by a total stranger. You’d declined it, at first, assuming it was a weird fan thing. But they had insisted, leaving the picture behind and walking away. It was too lovely to leave.
The sweatshirt draped over the arm of the sofa is yours— an old NYU hoodie Pedro usually travels with. He claims it’s a ‘security blanket,’ and honestly, he might only be half-joking. A note you’d recently sent in a package (he’d accidentally left his whole box of contacts at home), taped up on the mirror, alongside a photo strip with Sarah from some gala a couple years back.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” Pedro says quietly, watching you look around. “Take your mask off, baby, I’m assuming you cleared testing if you made it through the front.”
In your excitement to reunite, you almost forgot the little surprise. His jaw drops, into an awed smile. With the un-fake-injured hand, he reaches up to palm your cheek. Runs a hand up and down your jaw, scratching lightly along the new hair.
You turn enough to plant a kiss on the pulse point of Pedro’s wrist. Capture his hand with yours, against your face, to feel him for the first time in over a month.
“Oh! The oil is working,” Coco has paused, midway through spraying something silvery and chemical-smelling to Pedro’s temples. She had suggested it surreptitiously a few months back, off-handedly, and you’d been religiously using it since. The woman knows her shit.
Pedro continues to thumb at the new scruff, transfixed. His jaw muscle twitches.
“I’ve uh—” He stalls out. “Uh. Sorry. Dinner. Craig—”
You step backwards, pulling your hand down to hold in his lap, instead. He huffs.
“Craig wants to go to dinner tonight, since we’re wrapping in Edmonton. I guess there’s this restaurant he is insisting we have to try, it’s a whole thing. Big group. I didn’t give him an answer, in case you’re tired and wanna just head back to the hotel? But we can go, either way it’s fine, I figured…”
“Pedge,” you interrupt. “It’s all good. I’d be happy to go, it sounds fun.”
He exhales. “Thank god, because it’s like a spouse-thing, Neil and Craig’s wives are here.”
Your eyebrow quirks. “Spouse?”
Just to get a blush out of the man. You’d discussed it, of course, but had yet to make moves. Being marked soothed any sense of urgency— you were committed by flesh and blood, and that was ultimately more binding than a ring or ceremony. But, still.
“Joking, love." Despite the coffee, a yawn sneaks up on you. "I might crash on the couch for a bit, when you go back."
He glances at his phone. "We only have one more shot to get alts on. Neil swears we have a hard-out in an hour. Close your eyes, and I'll be right back."
— — —
You didn't mean to actually fall asleep. Just lay there on your phone and zone out for a bit. But suddenly, you're waking up, to the feeling of a mouth on your own.
A familiar mouth. Warm, scruffy around the edges, a little pepperminty.
"We're done," Pedro whispers. "Coco says I can fuck up my makeup now."
When you open your eyes, he is hovering above you, grinning like a wolf. He's still in costume, though the denim overshirt is already half-unbuttoned.
"Are you done being gross?"
Sitting up, you find Bella in the doorway. They waste no time flinging themselves at the couch.
"In the flesh!" You both laugh.
"Shorter in person, huh?" Pedro is rewarded by a hearty shove from his costar, as he scrubs a makeup wipe across his face.
Wiping sleep from your eyes, you can tell it's gotten dark outside in the time that you've been asleep. "Craig still insisting on dinner?"
"Mm. It's like fancy Mediterranean, I think."
"Fetaaaaa," Bella pumps the air. "Nice."
The evening stretches out before you— a few more obstacles between you and the hotel bed. But Pedro is here, in the flesh, and he's smiling at you in a way that forms the little crinkles beside his eyes, and you think maybe you can sit through a few hours of fancy dinner and small talk.
I hadn't planned on it, but... this has been arranged.
accident p. 2 (pedro pascal x gn/m!reader)
a/n: same vague universe as “marked," as always.
summary: you let him fuss.
It's well past midnight as you key into the apartment. Pedro busies himself by getting you settled, although his movements are almost as sluggish and haggard as your own. Six hours in the ER had taken its toll.
"Why don't you head up?"
You'd sat on the chair by the door, intent on untying your shoes, but had apparently been staring at them for the last few moments. Without a second thought, Pedro kneeled before you. "I'm gonna take the dogs around the block, and then I'll close up down here."
You are struck, not for the first time this evening, by an overwhelming wave of gratitude. How did you get so lucky?
He jingles the leashes, pausing to kiss your forehead before heading out.
It takes you way too long to get up. Some combination of exhaustion and low-dose Vicodin have you zoning out, effectively sleepwalking without Pedro to move you along. There is a pharmacy baggy on the counter, but by the sluggishness of your thoughts, the remainder of the prescription might need to go untouched.
Eventually, you drag yourself upstairs.
Everything feels dirty. The loaned scrub pants come off easily, shed in the doorway of the ensuite, to be dealt with later. (Thrown away, burned, ripped to shreds... Dealer's choice. Anything to be rid of them and put the whole evening behind you.)
You want to take the hottest shower possible, and scrub off the invisible hospital residue until your skin is raw. But the prospect of standing for long enough to get clean is... logistically impossible.
At least your dominant hand is uninjured. You reach around, fumbling with the buckle on the back of the sling. For a broken bone, it wasn't very high tech— just a few pieces of fabric holding the two halves of your left clavicle in place. But the damn thing may as well have been a rubik's cube, for how impossible it was to unstrap.
That's about where Pedro finds you: back down to your underwear, hunched on the closed lid of the toilet, frustrated to tears.
"This is so stupid."
"Baby," he starts softly. His dinner attire has been pared down to slacks and an undershirt. "Please let me do this for you."
A brown paper bag is set on the counter, so he can gently remove the sling, followed by the scrub top. Eyes closed, you wilt on the lid. Pedro reaches to plug the tub, without asking, though you nod slowly as he looks back.
The man busies himself as you watch on: changes into a well-loved pair of flannel pajama bottoms, tosses some lavender epsom salt into the slowly-filling water, swears a blue streak doing something suspiciously loud in the other room.
When he returns, slightly red in the face, the bath has been filled.
A not-insignificant part of you had hoped he'd be joining, but Pedro chooses instead to perch on the side, running a hand through your hair as you settle against the porcelain. From within the paper bag, a bag of mini Reeses cups are presented.
"I'm okay," you whisper, though you're not talking about the peanut butter, at all.
"But you almost weren't," he says hoarsely. "I keep replaying that phone call over and over again in my mind. I think my heart stopped for a second. I just..."
You can only nod, mutely. The feverish, borderline frantic look in his eyes traps any response in your throat. (Honestly, he'd been looking at you like that all night. Hasn't really taken his eyes off you since he found you in the hospital hallway.)
So, you let him fuss.
Out of the tub, you lightly dread bedtime, though you've been fantasizing about sleep now for hours. The doctor had specifically warned against sleeping on either your side or back, instead sending you home with a diagram of how to sleep sitting up. Which sounds worse than a car accident, frankly.
But, upon entering, you discover the bedroom has... transformed? Your bed, normally centered, has been pushed into the corner. One nightstand has been abandoned in the middle of the room.
"I'll move that later," Pedro says sheepishly.
All the pillows on the bed, and from the chaise in the opposite corner of the room, have been gathered in a clumsy pile. The dogs have already assumed their positions against the footer.
Pedro shucks off his undershirt, and crawls into the makeshift nest. With pillows to support his often-fragile back, he reclines against the wall corner. Pats the mattress.
"You can't lay down," he warns, as you shift onto the bed. "The doctor was really particular about that."
"Sitting up," you echo. Although, at this point, you'd crash standing up if it meant you could finally fucking sleep.
Pedro splays his legs. "Come here."
Carefully, one-handed, you maneuver yourself according to his gesturing. Settling, back-to-chest, against him; legs between his legs. Propped up like a rag doll. As if on autopilot, Pedro's arm comes up to wrap across your stomach.
"This can't possibly be comfortable for you," you protest.
His lips brush your temple. "I promise." His grip tightens; you are a human teddy bear, which feels appropriate, since your brain is full of stuffing.
Each rise and fall of Pedro's chest presses warmly against you. There is nothing to wake up for tomorrow, no alarm to set— you'd cancelled your Sunday Brunch plans sometime between the IV and the x-ray.
"Hey." You loll your head against his shoulder. Can't meet his eyes, from this angle, but in the darkness of the bedroom, it doesn't really matter.
"Hey."
Your fingers lace with his, where they clutch around your side. "I love you."
"Mm." His chin hooks over the top of your head. "You have no idea, sweetheart."
poll winner! eat up, 54.5% of you. (and, thank you!) if you wanna influence the next thing too… my asks are open…
a/n: same vague universe as “marked," as always.
summary: he can’t lose you.
——————————————————————————
You're kind of a sight.
Hunched in the hospital hallway, in your Calvins and socks and nothing more. The Emergency Room of New York Presbyterian is dangerously overcrowded, people streaming in and out of curtained-off rooms emitting beeping alarms and low moans.
Some nurse had fixed a sling across your shoulder, tucked an industrial icepack against the pulsing swell of your collarbone, wiped some blood from your face and side and hands, and then left you on the bed. Your phone is gone— laying somewhere on the Brooklyn Bridge, probably.
It hurts. Really hurts, now that shock and adrenaline have given way to a bone-weary exhaustion. No drugs yet, haven’t even been seen by a fucking doctor— the pile-up was extensive, whole ER crowded with bloodied and bruised passengers.
Seems like it's just your collarbone that's broken. At least, it feels broken. The nurse touched it, hissed, and muttered something about an x-ray before he was off running towards an urgent-sounding beeping down the hall. Pain radiates up and down your left arm.
Over an hour now, just sitting on a cot in the hallway. The dinner should be half over by now. You wonder, halfheartedly, how mad Pedro is. How long he waited outside the Museum of Natural History before giving up and going into the charity benefit by himself. Oscar and Elvira were supposed to be there, so at least he wouldn't be completely alone. But, still. You couldn't give him a heads-up without a phone.
Eyes closed against the bright fluorescents, you attempt some deep breaths, concentrating on the bite of the plastic ice against your bare skin. No idea when they’ll let you leave, but you’re fantasizing about going the fuck home. Seems like maybe a lot of things need to happen between now and then.
“— there, fuck.” A familiar voice, close.
Blinking, you wonder for a second if you are hallucinating. A familiar head of brown-and-grey curls is bobbing and weaving down the hallway. You catch flashes of the emerald suit that was hanging on the closet door this morning, fresh from the dry cleaners.
Pedro may as well be floating, with the speed he reaches you. How the hell?
You barely have time to register his presence before there are warm hands on your cheek, your neck, the back of your head.
"Oh, thank god. Jesus christ." Pedro is looking you up and down frantically. You realize you don’t really know what you look like right now. Covered in goosebumps, cold and a little numb and very exposed. Possibly a little bloodier than the last time you saw him.
“What are you doing here?” It is the only question you can think to ask, though it feels like a really stupid thing to say.
He busies himself with kissing your face. Panic-stricken, feather-light things, all along your brow line and the bridge of your nose. Your cheeks are still cradled in his large palms.
When he pulls back, Pedro's eyes are glossy. His mouth opens and closes, like he doesn't quite trust himself to speak, dragging in a shaky inhale. "Baby I’m your next of kin. The police called and said you'd been in an accident. Said you were at Presbyterian, couldn't tell me how serious it was, if you were still—" Voice cracking, he squeezes his eyes shut, slow tears trailing from the corners of his eyes.
Your cheeks are suddenly cold as he pulls back to scrub at his own. "Sorry," Pedro whispered. "I was really fucking scared. Jesus. The Uber was driving so slow, and I was worried that we would get here and it would be too late. Or that it was already too late, and I didn't even know."
It is your hand to cup his cheek, with the hand not currently strapped and elevated. "It's okay. I'm okay, we're okay. Everything is okay." You brush a thumb across his cheekbone.
"You're not okay," he sniffs mournfully. Suddenly, Pedro pulls back, looking you over again. "What's the damage?" There is a frantic quality to his examination, eyes wide, brow furrowed.
“I think my collarbone’s broken, otherwise just cuts and bruises. Seatbelt did it." He hisses, inspecting the sling without daring touch it. "I don't really know what's going on— it seems like some people got really hurt."
You remember, at the last second, to act 27 though you very much feel 17. Square your throbbing shoulders, alert. It’s something you are maybe a little too conscious of: the jailbait soulmate.
It lasts all of ten seconds— a replaced hand in your hair tips you forward, gently, until your forehead is pressed against his starch-shirted stomach. Warm fingers rub the nape of your neck, migrate down the length of your bare spine.
Involuntarily, you shiver. "Baby, where are your clothes?"
"I don't even know, at this point. The nurse was supposed to bring back like a gown or something, but that was over an hour ago." Before you've finished speaking, he is shrugging off his suit jacket, careful as he drapes it over your slung shoulder.
Your brain is slowly catching up to the absurdity of the circumstances. "Pedge, did you leave the dinner?"
He gapes at you. "Of course I left the dinner, are you insane?"
"You were supposed to be speaking!"
"You are in the hospital. There is nothing more important to me, sweetheart, and no way in hell I would stay at that stupid dinner knowing you were here." You pull yourself away, reluctantly and slow, to sit up. Pedro thumbs your jawline, tilting your head up slightly, so that you meet his eyes.
"I love you," he says softly. "I don't know what I would do if I lost you. I don’t want to know.”
Chaos continues around you. Other patients are waiting for other nurses, crowded on other cots, with other broken extremities. But none of them could possibly be as lucky.
At your insistence, Pedro gingerly takes a seat beside you on the bed. Your legs bump where they hang off the side. Pressing your uninjured side against his, you sit, and wait.
Still half-naked and exposed, unmedicated, exhausted, but at peace.
i just love your account oml thanks again rereading marked uni fics and I just can’t gejeneveii
-thankful anon 🥬
Maybe I'm corny but this shit makes my day fr, thank you!!
Also feels like a good time to clarify what the "marked" universe is:
The very first pedro x reader fic I wrote, the very first post on this blog, is called "marked." Premise being, everyone is born with a matching tattoo-like marking to their soulmate— same icon, same location. The reader and Pedro shared the bullseye on the webbing of his left thumb.
(I do want to get more into the lore of this, sometime. If this were real, I imagine that the social culture around marks and mates would be so interesting. For these stories, though, it is important to me that it to feel as realistic/non-fantastical as possible.)
"Marked" was more of a jumping off point, but I like to use it for context on my other imagines. Just gives them all a common-denominator backstory.
Timeline-wise, Pedro and the reader discover their matching marks in Fall 2019. All the other fics fall within that timeframe. And they bounce between New York and LA, because he has roots in both. (As do I, and ultimately, what is a rpf x reader fic without some personal inserts?)
Anyways, thanks again, for everything. All of you! Much obliged.
it's not that kind of cold shower (pedro x gn/m!reader)
a/n: POLL RESULTS ARE IN... and this was the result! would y'all still be interested in a "pedro takes care of sick reader" fic, too?
(this story specifically comes at the request of two anons, who requested bathing/showering while sick, and emetophobia. I don't have much experience on the latter, so I apologize if it's incorrect??)
you knowwwwww it had to be the Dieter pic, tho.
as always, same vague universe as “marked.” drop a line if you have a sug.
summary: 2am on the bathroom floor.
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You wake up alone.
This doesn’t register, at first. You roll over, running a hand over your face as you blearily open your eyes. You’ve gotten used to having a bed to yourself, with Pedro’s current production schedule. (Although the dogs always end up migrating from the foot of the bed in the middle of the night.)
Except, the bed beside you is still a little warm. Pedro is home— has been home, for two days now. He took a car straight from the Disney lot to LAX, and was on a flight to JFK about three hours after the voice work for Mando wrapped. Something about “needing to see his boy,” which he swore was Edgar, with a wink and a kiss blown over Facetime.
The room is dark, still, and quiet. But as you sit up, a sliver of light becomes noticeable under the crack of the bathroom door. You blink the last dredges of sleep away, waiting for him to finish his middle-of-the-night pee. It’s nice, having him here. Waking up beside him always kinda feels like a luxury; you savor it while you have it. His next job— some stupid commercial for a game on an app? He explained it twice but neither of you really understand it— doesn’t start until the end of the month. If you fall asleep before he finishes peeing, you’ll miss an opportunity to fall asleep wrapped around him. These are sacred in their scarcity, at the moment.
Except, the toilet never flushes. After a few long moments, you swing your legs over the side of the bed.
A quiet knock yields nothing. Frowning, you gently push the door open.
Knees to his chest, head propped backwards on the edge of the tub, Pedro is lying on the bathroom floor. His eyes are squeezed shut against the fluorescents.
“Baby,” you whisper, “Pedge, what’s going on?” You kneel down, rubbing a gentle thumb over his kneecap. He’s just in a t-shirt and boxers, the cold tile leaving his exposed calves littered with pinprick goosebumps.
Without opening his eyes, Pedro grimaces. “I dunno,” he says quietly, in a rasp that makes you wince. “Woke up feeling like this.”
“Nauseous?”
The muscle of his jaw twitches. “Hate throwing up.”
“I know, love, I’m sorry.” You bring your hand upwards, carding a few fingers through his hair before palming his forehead. Alarmed, you brush it with the back of your hand, as well. “You’re really burning up, Pedro, Jesus.”
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows reflexively, but says nothing. Then swallows again.
You reach for the closed lid of the toilet, before returning to your feet. “If you need to throw up, throw up. You’ll feel better afterwards.”
Busying yourself with filling a glass by the sink, you purposefully don’t look, attempting to give him some privacy. But he doesn’t move. Barely lifts his head up, when you offer the water. A sheen of sweat glistens on hollow of his throat, and the collar of his sleep shirt (yours, actually— some soft old 5k thing he always reaches for) is damp.
“Fuck,” he whispers. “Thought I escaped the curse this time.”
The curse, of course, being your nickname for the way his body absolutely freaks out at the panic of having downtime. Without fail, every time he gets a break, he’s down with something— at best a cold, at worst, what was eventually dubbed the “shittiest Christmas present ever” last year. It’s like his immune system decides it’s on vacation, as well. You’ve started planning around it, blocking off the first few days he’s home just in case. After two days, though, it really seemed like he was in the clear.
Your train of thought is interrupted by the sounds of a grown man gagging. All you can do is kneel behind him, rubbing a hand softly down the length of his back. The muscles flex and tremble beneath as Pedro coughs and coughs. Any part of you that might have been grossed out, is eclipsed by concern. You can feel the heat of the fever through the thin cotton of his t-shirt.
When he finishes, you flush without looking while he reassumes his position against the tub. “M’sorry,” he says, after a sip of water. “Go back to sleep, I’m good.”
“Don’t apologize, and don’t be dumb.” You press a kiss to his shoulder before resting your cheek there for a moment. “You gonna puke again?”
His jaw clenches again. “I don’t think so?”
Abruptly, Pedro sits up, and you tense in anticipation of another round of heaving. Instead he reaches back, grabbing the collar of his shirt to tug it over his head. Lacking his usual gusto, he tosses it towards the hamper in the opposite corner of the bathroom, and misses spectacularly.
“I won’t tell the Lakers,” you tease, “if they call to offer a job.”
Pedro huffs a quiet laugh. “Snitches get stitches.”
“Real tough threat from the man on the bathroom floor.”
He pouts. “You have to nice to me, I puked. I could be on my death bed.”
You press another kiss to his shoulder; the skin is clammy. “America’s Peepaw Pedro Pascal Found Dead at 47, In Bathroom Like Elvis But Way Less Cool. Turn to A7 for story.”
“Now who sounds old! Who reads celebrity death announcements in tabloid magazines anymore?” The joking puts you at ease, a little. He is less green in the gills than he was when you found him, although the tops of his cheeks are still flushed with fever. It seems like he has to convince himself to reopen his eyes after every blink; his eyelids rest at half-mast.
“Mm. You got me there, I guess. Do you feel okay enough to go back to bed?”
Pedro runs a hand across his chest. “Think I might need to rinse off first.”
He braces himself on the edge of the tub, and you reach out a hand to steady him as he slowly rises to his feet. If his knees audibly crack, well, you didn’t hear anything.
Pulling off your own sleep shirt (his, also stolen; some old Fleetwood Mac shirt that hangs to your fingertips), you tuck it into the towel rack, and move to turn the shower on.
“What are you doing?” The invalid has paused changing with his boxers halfway down, in a way that would be so fucking funny if it wasn’t equally, achingly endearing.
“You are leaning on the counter to stand up right now. I’m not gonna let you slip and fall to your actual death in the shower.”
He looks down at his own hand in betrayal as you adjust the water to an acceptable lukewarm— not so cold as to be unbearable, but cool enough that it might take the edge off the fever. Pedro frowns mournfully as you step out of your own boxers.
You roll your eyes. “We will do this again when you can enjoy it.”
The shower is plenty big enough for the two of you, and you position yourself behind him, legs splayed, arms wrapped around his waist. Cheek smushed between his shoulder blades, close enough to let the warmth of his skin deflect the chill of the water.
It’s not really a shower for washing. Moreso a “stand under the water until you feel human again” type of rinse. But you twist anyways for the body wash Pedro likes, when you are sure he isn’t about to faint into the glass door. He sighs as you rub the gel across his shoulders, reaching around to wash the sweat from his chest and stomach. It does something to you, having him here— within arm’s reach, pliable, soft with sleep. Comfortable beside you.
You stay there awhile, letting the water wash over you, until you feel him sway, ever so slightly.
“Love,” you say softly.
“Mm?”
“Are you falling asleep?”
Pedro reaches blindly for the handle, twisting until the spray subsides. You place a kiss to the wet center of his back. Revel, one last time, in the feeling of his body against yours, before you hand him his towel.
There is a coordinated, albeit wearily measured, return to bed. Pedro foregoes a new shirt, choosing instead to fall face-first on top of the rumpled duvet. You track down some Tylenol PM, with fingers crossed that maybe this is just a 12-hour thing. But, just in case, the bathroom waste basket is also placed beside the bed.
Finally, you slip beneath the comforter, maneuvering your patient until he is at least partially covered as well. And then, in turn, allow him to manipulate you into precisely the position he wants to be held: your face tucks into the damp, curling hair at the base of his neck, arm wrapped snug around the middle of his torso, legs entangled.
In the morning, you’ll deal with the next hurdle. Hopefully not the next hurl. But for now, you sleep.
Pedro is totally a victim of "leisure sickness"; every time a project wraps, his immune system crashes. It's gotten to the point where you schedule around this, accounting for at least three days for him to lay out.
He's not a total baby when he's sick, but he definitely needs a little extra love. You stay close, bringing your work to bed or the couch so he can lay beside you.
He is as easy to take care of, as he is to love.
Physical affection is important to him. This seems to soothe him as much as any over-the-counter medicine. His default position involves laying with his head in your lap, arm across your legs. He likes it when you play with his hair, rub his shoulders, trace the lines of his forehead and cheeks.
Somehow always manages to lose his voice but refuses to stop talking.
This man insists that yellow Gatorade has healing properties.
Same applies to Judge Judy.
Fevers leave him sweaty and restless. You usually employ what he refers to as the "Little House on the Prairie" treatment, which involves a wash cloth and a cool bowl of water on the nightstand. Despite the teasing, he always sighs in contentment the moment the wet cloth brushes his flushed skin.
Solidly a little spoon when sick. Hot or cold, Pedro doesn't care— he won't settle until the full length of your body rests against his. Fully uses your arm as a teddy. You rub a hand up and down the length of his collarbone until he drifts off.
Snores but totally denies it.
CARETAKER PEDRO
You have always been more of a "suffer in silence" type of patient, but Pedro finds this unacceptable.
Before Pedro, you had never taken a sick day— always insisted on going to school, or work, and powering through. He finds this completely unacceptable. (Despite the fact that he, himself, never takes time to fucking rest.) There are many threats to handcuff you to the headboard, and not in a playful way.
You always try to quarantine, because he really can't afford to get sick with his filming schedule. This lasts all of an hour before he proclaims "kamikaze" and just kisses you on the mouth for good measure.
He can't cook for shit, but he is very good at ordering and reheating soup from the deli around the corner.
This man definitely sets alarms on his phone so you take the next dose of medication on the fucking DOT.
(He is borderline neurotic about taking care of you.)
You have never been into baths; Pedro is slowly trying to turn you around on this. When you are not sick, this involves epsom salt, a few glasses of wine, and some lit candles. When you are sick, though, he always insists on drawing you a bath. Has some kinda special essential oil for it that he swears by. He sits by the tub under the guise of "making sure you don't fall asleep and drown"... but it's a thin excuse to wash your hair and help you relax, without you shying away.
He doesn't own a thermometer so he is just constantly palming your forehead and cheeks.
You come around, eventually, to the idea of being taken care of. Let him tuck a blanket around you, reclined against him on the couch. If he puts something on, you never make it past the opening scene, but he lets you sleep on him until the credits roll.
