—salut d’amour, op. 12
summary: your boyfriend is taking his next role a little too seriously.
or
he’s committed and you’re slightly jealous of a musical instrument.
pairing: pedro pascal x f!reader
words: 3.3k
tags: 18+. minors dni. explicit sexual content, established relationship, domestic fluff, teasing, foreplay, penetrative sex, p in v, handplay, female orgasm, physical dominance in a romantic context. if i missed something please let me know.
masterlist
notes: hi my lovely besties! i hope you’re all doing wonderfully. i’m so excited to see pedro stepping into the world of a cellist and composer in his upcoming movie behemoth! production is supposed to start soon, and in honor of that, here’s a little something that’s been swirling in my head. as always, i hope you enjoy it and happy reading!
You were starting to suspect Pedro might actually be turning into a cellist.
What had begun as an endearing bit of method preparation; a gorgeous, oversized instrument following him around like a misplaced prop, had turned into something closer to a lifestyle. The cello was no longer just an accessory for the role—it was a living, breathing presence in your life.
It came along everywhere now: to the gym, to his morning meetings, to the quiet little Italian place where you liked to have dinner on Thursdays. You’d learned, with some resignation and a lot of affection, to make room for it: in the backseat, at the table, sometimes between you on the couch. The way one learns to accommodate a beloved pet, or an eccentric but well-meaning friend. And maybe it was ridiculous. Maybe it was absolutely insane. But it was also—undeniably—adorable.
•••
The cello rested awkwardly beside the table, its curved body gleaming softly under the restaurant’s golden light. You had to hand it to Pedro, most people brought flowers to dinner; he brought a full-sized string instrument.
He was halfway through telling you about the day’s training, something about bow control and posture, when the waiter stopped by to refill your glasses. Pedro paused mid-sentence, thanked him with that disarming warmth that made people linger a second too long, and then looked back at you.
You swirl your wine, grinning. “You do realize you’ve taken that thing everywhere this week, right?”
He glanced at the cello, pretending to think. “It was per the director’s request,” he said, with mock seriousness. “I’m just following orders.”
“Wow,” you said, leaning in, your tone teasing. “You’ve gone method. Who would’ve thought?”
He lifted his brows, lips curving into a sly smirk. “What can I say? I’m a man of depth and dedication. Next week, I’ll probably start speaking in musical notation. You’ll ask how my day was and I’ll answer in D minor.”
You burst out laughing, your laugh bouncing off the wine glasses and soft jazz floating through the restaurant. “That’s… honestly terrifying.”
“Romantic,” he countered, grinning.
“I think it’s cute,” you said simply, watching his reaction over the rim of your glass as you took a slow sip. His face flushed, just faintly, that soft pink you adored, that was creeping up his neck to the tips of his ears. You loved when that happened, when the confident, charming man the world saw gave way to this version of him: bashful, human, and entirely yours.
He shifted in his seat, pretending to adjust the napkin in his lap. “You’re dangerous when you say things like that.”
“I know,” you said, your smile lazy and satisfied. “It’s my superpower.”
The two of you lingered like that, caught in the comfortable rhythm of each other’s company, your knees brushing under the table, the cello case quietly beside you like the uninvited but tolerated third wheel.
About a month later, it was late morning when you heard his voice drift through the house: deep, unhurried, unmistakably his.
“Babe?”
You were in the bathroom, toothbrush in your mouth, foam and mint swirling as you leaned over the sink. “Bathroom!” you called back, mouth full, voice slightly muffled. His footsteps approached, that soft thud of his sneakers on the wooden floor, until he appeared in the doorway.
His curls were damp, clinging to his temples; the dark fabric of his t-shirt underneath darkened from sweat. The sight of him like that—flushed from exertion, skin glistening, eyes still heavy with morning warmth.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he said, voice still husky from his workout.
You spat out your toothpaste, rinsing quickly, the mint sharp on your tongue. “Hi, handsome,” you replied, catching his reflection in the mirror as you wiped your mouth with a towel.
“Got any plans tonight?” he asked, still leaning against the doorframe, one eyebrow raised.
You turned to face him fully, towel pressed to your lips. “Not really. Where are you taking me?”
“The orchestra,” he said, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
You said softly, “Again?”
“Again?” he repeated, feigning shock, hand over his chest like you’d wounded him.
You laughed, shaking your head. “I don’t mean it like that, baby. It’s just—we’ve been to so many lately, it’s like some kind of record.”
He smiled and pushed himself off the frame, taking a step closer. “If it’s a record, I’d better make it count. You’ll thank me when you can recognize Shostakóvich blindfolded.”
You laughed into your towel. “I’m running out of fancy things to wear.”
“Not an issue,” he said easily, now standing close enough for you to smell the faint trace of his cologne under the salt of his skin. “I can buy you whatever you want. Matter of fact—” He reached for you, pulling you effortlessly against him. Your arms looped around his neck out of instinct, the towel falling to the floor. “Let’s have breakfast,” he murmured, brushing his thumb along your jaw, “and then head out shopping.”
“Right. Sometimes I forget I have a handsome, disgustingly rich boyfriend,” you teased, your lips curving.
He chuckled, his voice low. “And all yours.”
He kissed you then, soft and unhurried, the kind of kiss that left your skin humming long after it ended.
“I’ll take a quick shower,” he said as he pulled away, tugging his T-shirt off and tossing it onto the counter. His skin gleamed under the light, muscles relaxing now that he’d cooled down. “See you downstairs?”
“Want me to put on some coffee?” you asked, turning toward the door.
“Yes, please,” he said, running a hand through his curls.
“You got it, handsome.”
•••
Hours later, you sat beside him in the concert hall. It was a cathedral of sound and light. The chandeliers glimmered above, their golden reflections rippling across the sea of black tuxedos and glittering gowns. The faint scent of perfume mingled with polished wood and champagne.
Pedro looked devastating in his suit. His hand rested lightly on your thigh, fingers tracing idle circles through the fabric of your dress as the orchestra tuned, strings sighing in unison. When the first notes filled the air, his entire body seemed to change. His posture straightened, eyes narrowing in concentration. The joking man from breakfast was gone; this was someone else—quiet, reverent, as if the music had unlocked a secret chamber inside him.
You turned slightly, watching the way his face softened, the gentle movements of his head following the tempo. His Roman profile was cut against the stage light, the silver threads in his hair catching like frost.
You loved him like this. Focused, alive, his heart open in ways words could never reach.
Midway through, you glanced again. He was completely absorbed, lips parted slightly, eyes shining. You leaned back in your seat, content just to watch him be moved.
Later, in the car ride home, the city lights flickered across his face. Your head rested on his shoulder, your hands still intertwined, and he wouldn't shut up.
“Did you hear that variation on the theme in the second movement?” he said, eyes still bright with excitement.
You hummed a sleepy yes, even though you had no idea what he just said, your cheek pressed to the fabric of his jacket. His voice filling the space, filling your heart.
“Oh my god, it was beautiful—the way they modulated from G major into E minor,” he said, his voice hushed, almost reverent. “It felt like… like the sound of a confession. Just so intimate, so fragile. It’s wild how something can ache and heal you at the same time.”
You smiled, eyes half-lidded. “I liked when they played The Swan,” you said softly.
He turned to look at you, laughing quietly. “Of course you did. You always like the touching, pretty ones.”
“Because they remind me of you,” you murmured.
That shut him up. For a moment, he didn’t know whether to laugh or kiss you. So he did the only thing he could: squeezed your hand tighter and whispered your name like it was a melody only he could hear.
It was one of those Sundays that almost felt like a dream. The sunlight spilling through gauzy curtains, warmth settling into the bones of the house, the faint hum of the city just beyond the quiet. The air smelled like coffee and something citrusy from the candle you’d lit the night before. Somewhere in the background, Yo-Yo Ma’s cello moved through the room, soft and patient, filling every corner with that recognizable ache of beauty.
Most mornings now began with Yo-Yo Ma. You heard his cello more than you heard your own thoughts.
Pedro’s head rested on your lap, curls loose and soft, his stubble brushing lightly against the fabric of your pajama pants. He looked half-awake, half-dreaming, one hand tucked under his chin, the other loosely holding the edge of a book he’d given up on reading an hour ago. You were scrolling through your Kindle, not really taking in the words, absently running your fingers through his hair.
“You gotta stop doing that, mi amor,” he mumbled, voice heavy with sleep. “Or I’ll fall asleep.”
“Sorry,” you said, smiling, but didn’t move right away. You liked the weight of him there—solid and warm and entirely too human for how unreal your life sometimes felt. He sighed, eyes still closed, then lazily reached for his bookmark, the leather one you’d bought for him in that tiny shop in Notting Hill months ago, the one with the faint gold embossing, and slid it into his novel. Then he looked up at you, eyes soft, a little glassy in the sunlight.
“I’ve got a meeting with Ludwig this afternoon,” he said, voice rough from sleep.
You gasped dramatically. “Oh my god.”
His brow furrowed. “What?”
“Pedro,” you said, wide-eyed. “You’re going too far with this. I can’t believe you’ve resurrected Beethoven.”
He threw his head back into your lap, laughing. It was that deep, throaty, warm laugh that you loved. Your favorite of all of its variations.
“You’re funny,” he said, still smiling, his voice half-muffled against your stomach.
“I try,” you said, feigning modesty.
“It’s Ludwig Göransson,” he clarified, sitting up now and rubbing at his eyes. “I’ve been trying to shadow him for months. He finally said yes.”
You blinked. “Is there any chance I can come?”
He gave you that look—eyebrows raised, playful suspicion.
“I loved his Oppenheimer score,” you said quickly, leaning forward. “And The Mandalorian. Probably my favorite thing about the show.”
He gasped, mock-offended. “I thought I was your favorite thing about the show.”
“Debatable,” you said, unable to hide your grin.
He pressed a hand to his heart. “You’re mean.”
“And funny,” you countered, leaning towards him until your faces were close enough for him to steal a kiss—but you beat him to it.
The cello swelled softly behind you, those familiar notes folding around the moment like a soundtrack written just for the two of you. He rested his forehead against your shoulder, and you felt him smile against your skin.
“Let's stay like this for a bit,” he murmured. So you did. You stayed—sunlight moving across the floor, the house breathing around you, Yo-Yo Ma tracing invisible patterns through the air. It felt ordinary and extraordinary at once.
He’d become obsessed with the cello.
You would hear him play from the other side of the house, the notes sneaking through the walls like a secret you weren’t supposed to know. Pedro was adamant about learning as much as he could before filming started, even though he’s going to have a double for the playing scenes. He’d gone from screeching, unbearable sound to actually coaxing music from that damn cello. The same damn cello that now seems to consume most of his time, and you can’t help feeling a little jealous of it.
It was admirable how dedicated he was to the whole thing, but he would never let you see him play. At least, not for now; it's what he had said.
He had claimed one of the empty rooms in the house, turning it into his private sanctuary. One day you walk in, sunlight spills across a wooden table crowded with music sheets, dust motes floating lazily in the air. In the center of the room stands the cello on its stand, majestic and almost intimidating. A large, wooden chair sits beside it.
You approach, fingers brushing along the smooth neck, marveling at the craftsmanship. “Hey there,” he says, appearing in the doorway like a shadow stepping into sunlight. “What are you doing here?” he asks, his voice amused, dressed in all black, impossibly dashing, and dangerous.
You turn, caught, like a child sneaking candy. “I was just curious… I wanted to see who you replaced me for.”
He chuckles, soft and knowing. “Are you jealous of her?” His smirk was mischievous, almost wicked.
You scoff, a half-smile playing on your lips. “Unbelievable. Her?”
He just nods, as if the idea were perfectly normal. “I actually named her after you,” he says casually.
Your eyes meet, and your stomach flips. “You’re such a romantic, dude.”
“Well… yeah,” he shrugs. “And I figured, since she goes between my legs, it was… fitting.”
You grin, stomach tingling. Cheeky, charming, infuriating man. Your eyes drift to the cello again.
“Do you want to play her?” he asks, stepping closer.
You freeze. “Me? No—God, no.”
“C’mon, baby,” he coaxed, undeterred, moving toward the chair.
“I’d be terrible at it. No way,” you laugh nervously.
“I’ll guide you. Don’t be scared.”
“Um… alright,” you murmur, uncertainty clinging to you like a second skin.
He gestures for you to sit. Your knees wobble as you perch on the very edge of the chair. When he hands you the bow, your fingers brush, and sparks run straight through you.
“Okay, baby, here’s how it goes,” he murmurs, taking the cello in his hands. “It needs to rest at a comfortable 45-degree angle between your knees, against your chest. Pegs behind your neck, bout tips near your kneecaps.” He demonstrates, delicate but commanding.
His hands guide yours, parting your knees with a careful, intimate touch. “Don’t squeeze. Just steady it,” his voice low, deep, vibrating against your ear.
Your bare feet pressed against the cold floor. He moves behind you, sliding between your back and the chair, thighs bracketing yours. His hands rest on your arms, soothing and patient. You are stiff, unsure what you’re more afraid of: your lack of skill or how much your body responds to him.
He trailed a hand along your back, lifting you, straightening your spine. “You gotta sit properly. Make the cello hug you.” His breath brushes your neck, and you curse yourself silently for the shiver it draws from you.
You feel his chest press against your back. You exhale, adjusting as he guides you. “Perfect,” he whispers, voice low and intimate.
You bite the inside of your cheek, realizing he definitely knows what he’s doing.
“Now, we have four positions,” he murmurs, hands resting lightly on your waist, explaining each with precision. You remember in that instant one of the reasons you love him. Always gentle, soft-spoken, and patient. Even when your own anxiety threatens to pull you under, he is steady, unflinching.
“You don’t have to be so tense, baby,” he says, fingers kneading a knot in your back. Your skin prickles with goosebumps. “Relax.”
You let go a little, and he murmurs, “Good girl.” Your throat constricts, heat pooling in your chest and cheeks.
“Okay. Place your fingers here,” he guides, showing you exactly where. “Other hand, bow goes here.”
You follow his instructions, trembling slightly.
“First position: D, A, E, B. Drag the bow,” he instructs.
You do, and the sound is scratchy and jarring—but you had expected nothing less.
“That was terrible,” you groan.
“Hey, hey, none of that. We’re just starting.” He adjusts you, patient as ever, correcting your posture, hand on hand.
Again, you drag the bow. Again, you falter. And again. But slowly, clumsily, you find a rhythm, enough to make the notes recognizable.
“I knew you could do it, mi amor,” he breathes, and you blush, heat pooling in your chest and cheeks.
“How about,” he murmurs, “we do it together now? I’ll guide you.”
“Okay,” you whisper.
His hands cover yours, calloused and firm, brushing bruises of practice against the soft pads of your fingers.
“We’re playing Salut d’amour,” he says, voice deep, reverberating through you. “Originally written for violin and piano by Edward Elgar. He wrote it for his wife as an engagement gift. One of my favorites.”
You want to turn and kiss him, but he’s already moving your hands over the strings, the notes filling the room. Your eyes follow his left hand, the bullseye tattoo between his thumb and index, and your body hums with awareness.
“Yes,” he breathes against your ear. “Good.”
You melt into him. If possible, he moves closer, nudging your body forward, then back, rolling together.
“Keep going, baby. Just like that,” he whispers.
Your body surrenders: to him, to the music, to the intimacy. His mouth finds your neck, placing feather-light kisses, and you moan, hips pressing involuntarily against him. You feel him hard against your back, and heat pools lower, your body responding without permission. Your cunt is wet and squeezing around nothing.
“See? You just have to feel it,” he murmurs, every word dripping with sensuality. The piece slows, the final notes lingering. His hands release yours, landing on your shoulders, head dipping toward your neck. Your body is flushed, slightly trembling.
“How was that?” he asks.
“So good,” you admit, breathless.
“I told you,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin, sloppy, hot kisses. “Should we continue practicing… somewhere more comfortable?”
“Yes, please,” you whisper, warmth pooling through you, utterly undone and at his mercy.
•••
You straddle him on the bed, perched between his thighs like the cello had been in your hands, but this time it’s you in his arms, weight grounding and electrifying all at once. Every subtle press of his hips into yours sends shivers through your body.
“God, look at you,” he murmurs, hands firm on your hips, thumbs brushing your sides. “So perfect.”
You bite your lip, eyes fluttering shut as he slides deep inside you, filling you, stretching you in a way that makes your back arch. A moan slips out, and he chuckles low, nose grazing your neck.
“You like that, baby? All of me?”
“Yes… yes,” you gasp, tugging him closer, hands in his hair.
His hand circles your clit with maddening precision, slow, teasing, and you cry out, hips moving instinctively. “Feel that?”
You grind down, rocking against him, and he guides you, holding you steady, every thrust, every tilt deliberate. “God, you feel incredible… so tight, so wet… mine,” he growls, teeth grazing your shoulder. You press your lips to his, moaning against him, rocking perfectly in sync with his thrusts.
“Harder… yes, just like that,” you gasp, nails digging into his back.
His other hand traces your clit in perfect rhythm, driving heat through you. “You like that, huh? You like me making you feel this good?”
“Yes… oh, fuck, yes,” you cry, chest flushing, dizzy with pleasure.
He groans darkly, adjusting your hips, lifting slightly, thrusting deeper. “Keep going… that’s it, baby. So good, so perfect.”
Moans, gasps, and slick friction fill the room, every word, every brush of his lips, and every tilt of his hips pushing you higher.
“Pedro… I… I’m so close."
“Let go, baby,” he growls, circling your clit harder, thrusting deep.
You shatter, waves of heat and pleasure crashing through you, muscles trembling, utterly undone in his arms. He holds you close, chest pressed to yours, moving in slow, lingering thrusts as you ride the aftershocks together, bodies slick and trembling. A thrill surges through him. Every shudder, every gasp, every little moan that escapes your lips—it's beautiful, like music, like an orchestra composed just for him. Every sound, every little tremor of your body, is a note, a melody he wants to memorize, replay, and drown in forever.
note: sooo, what do we think? would love to hear your thoughts! thank you so much for reading, and don’t forget to like, reblog, or comment.
