Summary: Pedro is all yours after the Super Bowl ends.
Pairing: Pedro Pascal x F!Reader
Tags: bf!pedro; drabble; established relationship; oneshot
Warnings: +18 content; MDNI; smut; cum; nudity; inappropriate language
A/n: first of all: LATINO POWER! second: I LOVE MY BOYFRIEND, HE LOOKED SO HANDSOME AND HOT IN THAT WHITE OUTFIT. Im happy that Pedro participated in this show that's so important for the Latino people, it means so much to us! I'm so proud of my roots and it's so good to have someone like Bad Bunny and Pedro using their influence to speak out in such dark times as this. I couldn't be more proud and grateful for the greatest halftime show ever! I love you Benito and I fucking love you Pedro! About this little fanfic, it's just a passionate rambling of mine. This man deserves all the love in the world and as long as I'm alive he will be loved and desired in all my stories! And last but not least: ICE OUT! AND FUCK YOU TRUMP!
Word count: 689
Bad Bunny’s Super Bowl performance had been historic, featuring some of the biggest Latin celebrities of the moment.
And of course, Pedro Pascal was there.
Your man looks radiant: his curls loose and moisturized by Coco, his eyes shining with emotion, the first buttons of his shirt undone, revealing the skin you had left flushed the night before. Pedro is so shy that you can tell exactly how nervous he is, and at the same time how happy he is to be there. He films and takes pictures of everything, thinking about how much you’ll love seeing it all once he gets home. And when he does arrive, he’s still buzzing with adrenaline from having taken part in something so important.
You wrap your arms tightly around him and scatter kisses across his face, so proud of the man you chose to spend the rest of your life with. He is one of a kind in every sense: the most loving, the kindest, the most empathetic. You met at a political protest, and from that day on, you never let go of each other.
It felt like a meeting of souls.
Even though he is famous and you are just an anonymous person, Pedro has never made you feel less important. There was nothing you didn’t know, nothing that ever made you feel absent from his life. Even when you couldn’t be with him in moments like that, he always made a point of returning to you as soon as possible. Like now, in his bedroom, city lights reflecting over his bare chest. You trace invisible lines with your fingers along the small marks on his neck left by time.
He is entirely beautiful from head to toe.
His hands rest slowly on your hips, a crooked smile forming the familiar dimples on his lightly shaved skin. You smile back and brush a curl away from his forehead before he leans down to kiss you. His kiss is unhurried, his warm tongue exploring your mouth as the two of you roll naked across the bed, him leaving you on top. His slightly calloused hands slide along your back as you straddle him and feel him fit inside you.
Bracing yourself against his chest, you take control, moving exactly the way he likes. Pedro is completely submissive to you, letting you do whatever you want and placing your pleasure above everything else. Watching your body overtaken by desire is his greatest pleasure, listening to your breaths, your moans, the furrow of your brow when you’re getting close. His loving gaze admires your body, sculpted perfectly for him, your hips moving in a constant rhythm, your long hair—his favorite—falling in layers down your back.
He loves the rosy hue that spreads across the apples of your cheeks and your lips, left damp from their shared kisses, as the sexual act goes on.
When you open your eyes, he knows, telepathically, that you’re close, and sensing your exhaustion, he switches positions.
Pedro sinks into you, gripping your hips firmly with one hand while the other cups your cheek, keeping your eyes locked on his. He likes fucking you while looking into your eyes, diving into the deep glow of your dilated irises. It excites him even more; his cock feels heavier between his legs, and he nearly cries out when you wrap your legs around his hips and tighten around him in response to his movements.
That’s enough for him. Pedro rushes to kiss you, and you both cum at the same time, the kiss breaking as a rough moan spills from his mouth against yours. You smile, breathing hard, your fingers tangling in the curls at the nape of his neck while he drags his nose along your cheek and buries his face in your neck.
Pedro feels undone and lets out a nasal laugh. He wishes he had lasted longer, if it weren’t for how overstimulated he was.
He breathes hot and heavy against your skin, then lifts his face again, meeting your satisfied smile.
“I got you.” you murmur. He smiles and presses a languid kiss to your mouth.
Things I absolutely despise, is when the fic says x reader, but then it describes what you look like and what you’re wearing, like…what the actual fuck?
For crying out loud, it’s about the reader, not the writer! If they start describing the reader in ANY way, I’m out of it, because it’s no longer an x reader fic, it’s an OC monstrosity.
Clothes people, CLOTHES! I understand, under SOME circumstances, clothes must be described but instead of saying the colors and so on, instead they can say the shirt and pants, the top and skirt, shirt and shorts or short dress, formal dress, formal suit and so on-you had picked out yesterday, then the reader can still imagine their own version of that piece of clothing.
Or when they write in first person.
Spelling mistakes is understandable, we are all human and people do speak different languages, but if your sentence is so messy or so unreadable to the point where you have to guess and decipher what the writer wrote, then damn, just fix it, PLEASE!
Also when they describe or repeat the same sentence over and over again just so the fic can be longer….
But the worst of all, is when they make the reader stutter for no reason….if it was maybe for not being able to form words from shock or perhaps being caught off guard, like for example, you were caught off guard, momentarily unable to speak correctly “W-what? That is insane.” or in a joking manner, but if the reader is constantly like “O-oh I-I d-d-didn’t-“ Get Out!
x super hero Reader. Do not get me started on that damn plant power shit, I read fanfics all day, does it look like I would touch grass? I wanna be fucking Catwoman and jump around all day while riding a motorcycle with a thong. Stop making me an angel, I ain’t seeing the pearly gates!
summary: Reed Richards thinks best when he's got his dick inside you, and saving the world takes a whole lot of thinking.
tags: cockwarming but make it romantic? and kinda intellectual? very fluffy smut. dirty talk. they figure out a science problem together, so we got some plot. these two are head over heels in love. reed calls you "sweetheart". you call him "darling". his superpowers apply to his dick god help me.
wordcount: 4.1K
main masterlist
Reed Richards is frustrated.
He always gets this way when his projects go wrong, when the physical world won’t cooperate with the one inside his head. Most of the time you find it adorable. Then again, most of the time, Reed is willing to ask for your help.
Today isn’t one of those times. And you’d normally just go on and help him anyway, but Reed owes you an apology first. Because you’ve been warning him for days about the error in his calculation, and every single time, he’s ignored you.
It isn’t out of disrespect – you know your husband too well to jump to that conclusion. Reed just gets so caught up in that beautiful mind of his that he can’t bear to stomach a single outside thought. You understand. Your brain works the same way. But the two of you have always made exceptions for each other. He’s never treated you like an outsider before.
Reed huffs behind you, and you know he’s being loud on purpose, so you’ll hear him over the whir of the centrifuge. The digital readout blinks down slowly. Another ten minutes until your samples are sedimented. More than enough time to give Reed what he wants, but he’s going to have to ask for it first.
He’s fiddling with the oscilloscope now, toying with the threshold, like that’s going to change the waveform. You almost turn around to correct him, until you realize that he’s baiting you on purpose. That gorgeous, pain-in-the-ass husband of yours knows just how to push your buttons.
It’s impressive, really, how far Reed will go to avoid admitting he was wrong. How hard is it to simply say, “Darling, do you know why my force field won’t stabilize?”.
When Reed’s gambit with the oscilloscope doesn’t get a reaction, he devolves into pacing. His shoes clack with every one of his fast, long steps. You feel a pang of uncertainty. On the Reed crisis scale, pacing indicates at least a seven out of ten. Maybe you should just help him out.
No. You have to let him come to you. You steel yourself and turn your attention to these new asteroid samples.
By all but one of your measurements, the vials each weigh ten micrograms. The microbalance and mass-spectrometer both agree. But the gamma scanner, the one that looks for matter, reported only 1.1 micrograms. It could be an error, but would a mistake really be this consistent? You feel a rush of excitement. Could it be…?
You’re getting ahead of yourself. The centrifuge will show results soon. You can hold out for another nine minutes.
With a start, you realize that the room has gone silent. Reed isn’t pacing, or huffing, or manhandling the electronics. You spin around. For a concerned instant, you don’t see him. And then you spot his long, trouser-clad legs. You circle around the bench, and your husband comes into view.
He’s sitting on the floor with his back to the bench. His hair sticks out where he’s tugged his fingers through it, and his tie dangles loose around his neck.
This is so much worse than you thought.
Reed looks up as you approach, his dark eyes despondent.
“Sweetheart,” he says, extending his arm long to take your hand. “Do you have any insight into what’s limiting the stability of my forcefield?”
Your heart melts.
“I do,” you say. “But I’m not sure how to fix it.”
Reed nonetheless gives you a disheveled smile, the one that you always feel deep in your stomach. He contracts his arm slowly, pulling you toward him. You sink to the floor and settle in his lap, your knees on either side of his hips. He brings your hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to your fingers.
“You’ve been trying to tell me something for days,” he says. “Haven’t you?”
You nod, smoothing a spike of hair at his temple.
“I have, darling.”
Reed sighs. His hands settle on your thighs, bunching the thin nylon of your skirt.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I should have paid attention earlier, when you told me… um…”
You smile in spite of yourself. “You really weren’t listening at all, were you?”
“I wasn’t,” he admits, his eyes full of remorse. “But not because I doubted you. There’s a comet heading for us, sweetheart, and it will hit Earth on Friday, and if you were right – ”
“If?”
“Okay,” Reed says. “If I acknowledged you were right, it would’ve meant admitting that we can’t get ready in time. Which we can’t, now that I’ve gone and ruined the force field.”
“Hey,” you say, running your hands over his chest. “You haven’t ruined anything.”
“Yes,” he says. “I have. How are we supposed to develop an entire shield system from scratch in less than two days?”
You can feel the tension in Reed’s body. He might be the only man in the world who doesn’t trust Mr. Fantastic to succeed.
You slide your hands down past his stomach, to the place where you know he needs you most. Reed sighs, and his head tilts back. The collar of his shirt is unbuttoned for once, and the starched cotton parts around his throat.
“There isn’t time,” he says, even as his cock swells beneath your touch.
You lift your hand away. At once, he groans in protest.
“I’m getting some mixed messages here, Richards.”
Reed’s features twist into a shape you know all too well. It’s the face he makes when his thoughts won’t line up, when he can’t organize himself into a perfect solution.
You lean forward and kiss him.
“Let me help, darling.”
Reed closes his eyes. He guides your hand back to his length.
“Please,” he whispers.
He slips his hands beneath the hem of your skirt, and his fingers trace the insides of your thighs. He touches you slowly, like you’re a miracle and he needs to drink you in.
Desire flows over you like rivulets of gold, gathering in a molten pool between your legs.
You bring your hand back to Reed’s lap and unclasp his belt. You lower his zipper, then the waistband of his briefs. His cock springs free, and you wrap your hand around him.
His bare skin is warm, and he throbs beneath your touch. You move your hand in long, slow strokes, teasing his tip with your thumb in the way that always drives him wild.
Reed sighs again, heavy. Tension ripples from his shoulders.
His fingers draw circles on your legs, sweeping higher each time, drawing close to the ache at your core.
Then Reed’s thumbs brush fabric. His eyes snap open, and his hand covers yours, halting its rhythm on his cock.
“You’re wearing underwear?” he asks.
He stares at you in abject betrayal.
Oh, right. You forgot. You raise your shoulders apologetically.
“I was angry at you, Reed.”
“You had a right to be,” he says. “But I didn’t think you’d be this petty.”
“Darling. You tuned me out for two days when I told you that you dropped a constant. And now you’re saying I’m the one who’s petty?”
“That’s different,” Reed says. “It wasn’t malicious. I wasn’t trying to shut you out.”
“Well, you did.”
Reed’s eyes soften. He lifts his hand to your face, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
“I really am sorry,” he says. “And for what it’s worth, I hated feeling like we were apart.”
“So did I,” you say, and Reed pulls you in for a kiss.
It starts out slow. You orbit one another, Reed’s lips brushing yours. Your hand slips inside the collar of his shirt. Then Reed sighs, and his tongue slides over yours. His fingers tangle in your hair, and he teases your mouth open, kissing you roughly now, like he can sear away the line between you with the white-hot blaze of his desire.
He brings his hand once more to the apex of your legs, tracing the damp gusset of your panties. His thumb finds the outline of your clit. With a single practiced stroke, he coaxes a moan from your lips.
“Sweetheart,” Reed murmurs, his mouth moving against yours. “I can feel you dripping for me. You soaked right through these panties you wanted to wear so badly.”
His forefinger slips under the gusset of your underwear. His knuckle grazes the outside of your slit, and you shiver. And then he pulls the fabric away, denying you his touch, tracing instead the sticky patch you’ve left on the fabric.
“God,” he says. “You should feel the mess you made.”
“Reed…” you whisper. “Please.”
You rock your hips down, chasing his touch, but he slips his hand out from between your legs. He brings his slick fingers to your lips and pushes them inside your mouth. You slide your tongue over them, tasting your own arousal.
“That’s right,” Reed says. “That’s how bad you need me. You’re not any less mine, just because you covered up.”
He pulls his fingers from your mouth and brings them to your dress, to the long line of buttons that keeps you decent. One by one, Reed works them open, revealing your braless chest. Your breasts spill free, your nipples aching, and you expect Reed to touch them, but he only looks. His eyes are dark, and his hands settle on your ribs.
Your body is simmering with need, heady as starlight and sure as gravity. You tighten your grip on his cock and begin to stroke him again. He’s leaking now, precum smearing over his tip. You’re desperate to feel him inside you.
“Reed…”
He lifts his eyes to yours. “You broke the rules, sweetheart.”
“I’m sorry,” you say. You position him between your legs, so his tip pushes against your covered center.
Reed twitches in your hand.
“Please,” you say. “Can’t you feel how sorry I am?”
Reed’s chest rises and falls.
“Show me,” he says.
You nudge aside your panties and guide Reed’s cock to the slick between your legs.
“There you are,” he murmurs. He rocks his hips, and his length pushes over your entrance.
“Darling,” you whisper. “Can please we just call it even?”
Reed nods rapidly.
“Yes,” he says. “I would like that.”
He lifts a hand from your waist and extends his arm long, toward the alphabetized toolchest on the other side of the lab. He fumbles in the “S-W” drawer, then retrieves a steel pair of scissors. He makes short work of your soaked-through underwear, rendering the garment useless with two quick cuts. Then he tosses the ruined fabric over his shoulder and brings his hands to your hips.
You line yourself up, your bare entrance leaking on Reed’s cock. He drags his eyes over your rucked-up skirt, your bare thighs, your breasts. Then his gaze meets yours, and he mirrors back to you the clarity of your own desire.
“Please,” he whispers.
You sink down and take him inside you. Reed tightens his arms and pulls you all the way into his lap. He bottoms out, and the both of you groan.
Reed takes a shuddering breath.
“Better?” you ask.
He nods.
“I needed you,” he murmurs.
“I know,” you say. “I’m here.”
His lips press against your temple. God, you missed him.
Reed’s mind always works best like this, when he has you wrapped around him. You stroke the soft hair at the nape of his neck, giving him time for his thoughts to settle.
“The force field,” he says. “I need to know what’s wrong with it.”
You shift back far enough to see his face. The storm behind his eyes has finally cleared, and he looks back at you with his familiar determined curiosity. Your heart blooms inside your chest.
“It’s Planck’s constant” you say. “Your prediction is off by a factor of it.”
“Which prediction?”
You don’t answer right away, and Reed rolls his hips beneath you, rutting against your clit.
“Come on,” he says. “I need to know.”
He repeats the motion, and you gasp at the bright shock of pleasure.
“The force field – God, darling – is made of positronium,” you say. “Right?”
Reed nods. “An equal mix of electrons and anti-electrons. I collimated the beams myself.”
“So the particles are two versions of the same thing,” you say. “With an incredibly strong attraction.”
“Yes,” Reed says. “But I can fight the attraction if I accelerate them to a high enough momentum. They’ll get stuck in an orbit, instead of colliding.”
“So you’re trying to store energy like water in a dam. It wants to fall, but it can’t.”
“Precisely,” Reed says. “Until the comet crashes into the field.”
“It will break the dam,” you say. “Perturbing the orbits. The particles will collide, all at once. And you think this will trigger a shockwave?”
“I do,” Reed says, looking at you earnestly.
“I do too,” you say. “It’s a good idea.”
Reed’s cock twitches, and you grind on him, savoring the rising tide inside you. There’s nothing you love more than this, than being impossibly close to this beautiful man, your body and mind both tangled with his.
“If my idea is so good,” Reed says. “Then why isn’t it working?”
“The physics is sound,” you say. “If you can make the positronium, it will work the way you think. But the values are off in your momentum calculation. I told you –”
“If you’re about to say ‘Planck’s constant’ – ”
“I am, Reed. You forgot to divide by it. The attraction between the particles is too strong to be contained by your field. You’re off by – ”
“I’m off by thirty-four powers of ten?”
“Yes, darling.”
Reed looks at you with wide eyes.
“I’m trying to stop a waterfall,” he says, “and my dam is made of tissue paper.”
“Pretty much. And making the dam strong enough would take – ”
“All of the energy in the solar system,” Reed says. He drops his head back against the wall. “Why didn’t you say something?”
You look at him, incredulous.
“You don’t think I tried? It would have taken the energy of two solar systems to get you to listen.”
Reed groans. “We’re doomed. I’ve doomed us.”
“Don’t be silly.” You smooth your forefinger over the crease in his brow. “Now that you know what’s wrong, you can actually fix it.”
“How?” Reed says. “The field will annihilate the instant I put it up. It won’t stick around long enough to stop the comet.”
“Can you send it out the second before the comet hits? You only really need it right then.”
Reed’s gaze turns inward. God, he’s hot when he’s thinking. You resume the motion of your hips. Reed’s cock swells in response. He makes a noise of approval, and his hands slide up to palm your breasts.
“Finally,” you mutter. “To think the world is about to end, and you weren’t touching me.”
Reed laughs. He’s looking at you with affection, the shock of his miscalculation already fading beneath the thrill of this new challenge.
“We would have to time the field perfectly,” he says. “And if the comet scatters at all when it hits the atmosphere, we would misfire.”
Absently, he rolls your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. You sigh.
“That’s good, Reed.”
“Misfiring?” he asks, raising a smug eyebrow. “Sweetheart. The planet would be destroyed.”
You roll your eyes at him.
“We could predict the deformations in the atmosphere,” you say. “Narrow down – oh – narrow down the window for the arrival.”
Reed hums, considering.
He begins to roll his hips in time with yours, fucking you in slow, rich thrusts. You brace your hands on his shoulders and grind on him harder.
“That’s it,” Reed murmurs. “Take what you need.”
And then he grows, pushing on your walls, lighting up that sensitive place inside you.
Oh, God. You’re so blindingly full of him.
“Reed,” you gasp. “You know I can’t think when... darling…when…”
“When, what, sweetheart?” Reed asks. “When I stuff you nice and full of my cock?”
A fuse blows somewhere in your brain. It wrecks you, always, Reed’s precise delivery of filthy words. You open your mouth to respond, but all that comes out is a kittenlike whine.
Reed lowers his head to your breast and takes your nipple in his mouth. He thrusts into you with a slow, inevitable rhythm, harder now, his cock stretching more each time he bottoms out.
Then Reed tenses. Your nipple slips from his mouth with a wet popping sound, and he lifts his head to look at you.
“Do you think we could use particles in the atmosphere to stabilize the field?” he asks, fucking you faster in his excitement. “At the altitude I originally planned, muons should be abundant. We could easily trap them with the positronium.”
“Positronium…” you echo.
Reed is so pretty when he’s lit up with passion. He really is the perfect man. His brilliant mind. His expert fingers – when did they go to your clit? – not to mention his surreally huge cock. He’s going to split you in two if he keeps this up. God, you hope he does. If anyone knows how to use their powers for good, it’s your husband.
He’s raising his eyebrows at you. Oh. Did he ask you something? Did you answer? You must have figured it out, or why else would you feel so perfect right now?
“Poor girl,” Reed says. “Too drunk on my cock to think, are you?”
“Nnngh,” you agree. “Electrons.”
Reed leans down and gives you a soft, deep kiss. His lips pull into a smile.
“All fucked out for me, huh?”
Whatever Reed is doing with his fingers, he must have learned it in superhero school, because it defies the laws of physics that you’re this alive with passion and your skin isn’t physically on fire. Your body starts to quake in tight little shocks, contracting with every one of Reed’s thrusts.
“Muons wouldn’t work,” he mutters. “They’d just decay, and we’d have even more electrons to hold down.”
You assume he’s talking to himself, because he has to know you’re long past the words-forming era of your life.
He frustratedly pistons his hips, so fast you can’t find a moment to breathe.
“Damn it,” he says. “And we couldn’t use plasma, either. We need something massive that won’t interact. Sweetheart?”
You whimper. Reed kisses you again.
“I’m going to make you come, okay? I need you in your right mind.”
You give him a hazy nod and wrap your arms tight around his neck.
Reed’s fingers pick up speed on your clit, and he alters the angle of his thrusts, so each one drags over the bundle of nerves inside you.
You let out a sob in the shape of his name, and he kisses you, hot and open-mouthed. Then his thumb sweeps over you in just the right place, and oh, fuck. He really is the expert on shockwaves.
Your climax sears through you, and you cling to Reed, clenching your legs around him, tangling your fingers in his hair. You feel so blissfully close to him, wrung-out and wrapped around his cock, that it’s hard to tell where you end and he begins.
The tremors die down, and for a heartbeat, you drift in silence. Your mind is a pool of sweet clear water. And then something floats across it.
“Reed,” you say, leaning back to look at him. “Darling. My love.”
He smiles at you. “Are you back?”
His hair looks like a tornado ripped through it. Did you do that?
You blink aside the thought. It doesn’t matter.
“I’m back,” you say. “And I think I have the answer.”
Reed’s cock twitches inside you. He lets out an agonized groan.
“What?” you say, bracing your hand on his chest.
He shakes his head.
“You saying that, sweetheart, when you just came all over my cock…”
He pulls in a breath and gazes at you, wrecked. “It’s just about the hottest thing I could imagine.”
You grin. “I haven’t even told you the best part. But it might not work.”
“It’s going to work. I know you.” Reed tightens his arms around your waist. “Tell me.”
“Okay,” you say. “Do you remember the asteroid we collected from on our last expedition? The one that had – ”
“Oddly strong gravity,” Reed says. “Yes. Did you figure out what it’s made of?”
“Well, that’s the thing. I refined the samples. All the instruments that measure gravitational mass report ten micrograms. But the gamma scanner, which measures –”
“Matter, sweetheart. I know.” Reed’s eyes are bright. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
“Maybe.” His energy is too infectious. You’re getting excited in spite of yourself. “The gamma scanner only reported 1.1 micrograms. Which means the rest of the sample might be – ”
Reed kisses you. His heart thuds beneath your palm.
“Darling,” he says, his eyes full of wonder. “Are you telling me you found dark matter? And you sat here without mentioning it to me?”
“It could be an instrumentation error,” you say, but Reed already has that look he gets when his thoughts are flat out sprinting. He hasn’t heard a word you’ve said.
“This would be the perfect stabilizing agent for the force field,” he says. “Totally inert to light-interacting matter, like the positronium, so it wouldn’t budge.”
“Unless it was pushed by something huge,” you say. “Like the comet.”
“We mix our tissue paper dam with cement,” Reed says. “It will work.”
“It will,” you say. “If this actually is dark matter. I centrifuged the samples to check. If it’s an instrumentation error, we should get one single sediment. But if there’s a second type of matter in the mix – ”
“The machine will show two separate populations,” Reed says. “It’s the perfect cross-validation.”
He kisses you again, warm and giddy, his hands roaming your body in restless excitement.
“Darling,” you say, resting your forehead to his. “We shouldn’t get our hopes up.”
“I disagree,” he says quietly. “Even if this isn’t the answer, we’ll figure something out. The atmosphere map you suggested…”
“Is insane.”
“That doesn’t mean we can’t pull it off,” he says, and you laugh.
Your mouth finds his, and caution be damned, you let yourself hope. Reed’s hands splay on your back, and he presses you flush against his chest, joining you together in every way he can. He kisses you like there’s never been any other choice, like you’re two galaxies fated to merge into one.
“Don’t ever stop,” he whispers, and you know he’s talking about something more than hope.
“I won’t,” you say.
It’s the only way to love Reed, this lifelong quest you’re on to understand his every idea, to bring the world in his mind to life and mix it with your own. You won’t ever strand him to live all alone in his thoughts. Even if the world really is about to end.
Reed’s length twitches inside you.
And then the room goes quiet. The centrifuge is done.
Reed freezes, and his gaze locks on yours. The lid unlocks with a click. The printer whirs to life. And then in slow, beeping stripes, it spits out the results.
Reed’s arm stretches behind him, and he tears the slip free.
“Here, sweetheart.” He holds it out with ink-stained fingers. “It’s your discovery. You have to be the one to read it.”
You take the paper from his hand. Your heart pounds against your breastbone.
It’s fine. Either way, it’s fine. At the very least, you’ll learn you need to calibrate your instruments.
You scan through the smeared copy ink for the line that says “sedimented populations”. The number beside it is unmistakable.
“Well?” Reed says.
You look up, and it’s hard to see through the blur of tears in your eyes.
“Darling,” you say, blinking your vision clear.
Reed’s brow furrows.
“Sweetheart,” he says. “I told you, we’ll figure – ”
“No,” you say. You spin the paper around. “Two.”
Reed’s face breaks into a brilliant grin. He brings his hands to your face and kisses you, laughing. He looks once more at the receipt.
“Two,” he says. “That’s a two!”
And then the world tilts, and suddenly you’re on your back, Reed’s hands on either side of your head.
“Darling,” you say, breathless and wet-cheeked. “What are you – ”
Reed kisses you again. His dark eyes shine with reckless joy.
“You and I are going to save the world,” he says. “But first, my love, I need to fuck you senseless.”
end notes: phew do i love me a hot smart man. for all i write about joel, reed is hands down the pedro boy i would irl marry. if sue didn't get to him first.
let me know what you think! especially curious about:
if you'd read more oneshots about these guys
if the science was fun or boring or what. i want to learn how to write about this sort of thing better!
tagging folks who liked my post gauging interest, no pressure to read! <3
Summary: You find yourself sharing a hotel suite with Pedro Pascal while working on the set of Fantastic Four: First Steps. Despite your different roles—he’s the star, and you’re behind the scenes. Nothing could ever happen between you two… right?
Pairing: Pedro Pascal x F!Reader
Warnings: Age-Gap Romance (Not Specified), Eventual SMUT, Crush, FLUFF, Slight Angst, Trope(s), Swearing, Anxiety, Lots of Cliches, Cheesy Dialogue, Romance, Kissing, Real People Fiction, Cameras, Paparazzi, Social Media, Swoonworthy, One-Room Trope, They were roommates, Strangers-to-Lovers, Actors, Hallmark Tropes, the reader can sing and play guitar, the reader is shorter than Pedro, the reader has hair, Alternate Universe, Awkward!Reader, Shy!Reader, Fan Girl!Reader, Cringe, Embarrassment, Celebrities, Starstruck,
Main Song: It Could Happen To You by Laufey
CONTENTS:
Chapter 1: Hide Your Heart From Sight
Chapter 2: God, I’m Actually Invested
Chapter 3: The Air Buzzes Whenever You're Near
Chapter 4: Everybody Wonders What It Would Be Like To Love You
Chapter 5: As If The Street Lights Pointed In An Arrowhead Leading Us Home
Chapter 6: I Keep These Longings Locked In Lowercase Inside A Vault
Chapter 7: What Are You Doing To Me Now?
Chapter 8: He Got My Heartbeat Skipping Down 16th Avenue
Chapter 9: The Silver Lining's I'll Be There With You
Chapter 10: You Should Be Mine For Life
Chapter 11: Coming Soon
Chapter 12: Coming Soon
Chapter 13: Coming Soon
Pedro had seen you in all kinds of outfits before—your oversized shirts, the tiny little shorts you wore around his house, the elegant dresses you chose for events. He had seen you in nothing at all, had memorized the way your body felt against his, knew every dip, every curve, every inch of your skin.
And yet.
Yet.
He was utterly unprepared for this.
You emerged from the bedroom wearing the new bikini you’d been excited about, adjusting the straps as you walked toward him. The tiny scraps of fabric barely covered anything, hugging your body in a way that made his mouth go dry.
Pedro had been sprawled lazily on the couch, phone in hand, fully intending to hype you up, tell you how hot you looked. But now?
Now, he was just… dumb.
You stopped a few feet away, tilting your head when you noticed his expression. His phone was slipping from his fingers, his jaw slightly open, eyes glued to you like he was seeing you for the first time.
"Well?" You prompted, spinning slowly to give him a full view.
Pedro blinked once. Twice. Then cleared his throat and looked up at the ceiling like it held the answers to all his problems. "Jesus fucking Christ," he muttered under his breath, rubbing a hand over his face.
You bit back a smile, stepping closer. "That bad?"
"That—" His voice cracked, and he tried again. "That good."
You placed your hands on your hips, looking down at him. "Then why are you sitting there like you just had an out-of-body experience?"
Pedro dragged his gaze back to you, his fingers flexing as if he physically had to stop himself from reaching out. He shifted slightly in his seat, jaw tightening.
And then you saw it. The reason he was frozen in place, why he hadn’t stood up yet.
You smirked. "Oh," you said, eyes flicking down for half a second before meeting his again. "Something wrong, baby?"
Pedro exhaled sharply, shaking his head as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "I can't—" He gestured vaguely. "I can't go anywhere right now."
Laughter bubbled up in your chest. "Why not?"
His eyes snapped to yours, dark and filled with frustration. "You know why."
You walked over to him, placing your hands on his shoulders and straddling his lap. "Maybe I don't," you teased, lowering yourself just enough to brush against him.
Pedro groaned, hands finding your waist, grip firm. "Dios mío, cariño," he muttered, tilting his head back, squeezing his eyes shut. "You're gonna kill me."
"Mm," you hummed, lips grazing his jaw. "Not before you take me to the pool."
Pedro let out a strangled laugh, hands tightening on you. "I need… five minutes. At least."
You giggled, kissing his cheek before slipping off his lap, giving him another slow spin before heading for the door.
"Take your time, amor," you called over your shoulder. "I'll be waiting."
Pedro watched you leave, exhaling through his nose.
Summary: On Valentine’s Day, you and Pedro finally give in to months of flirting and unresolved tension when he flies in to see you. The night quickly turns passionate and intimate, bringing you closer than ever, and by morning you both admit you have real feelings for each other, ending the night wrapped up together and hopeful about starting something serious.
Warning/Rating: 18+; explicit, graphic sexual activity (manual/oral stimulation, penetration, orgasm described in detail), protected sex, language.
Word Count: 4.9 K
The February rain pelted against the windows of your Los Angeles apartment as you stared at your phone, reading the text message for a third time.
Pedro: Flying back tonight. Should land around 8. Still want company for Valentine’s day, or have you found someone better? 😏
You smiled to yourself, feeling the butterflies you always got when his name appeared on your screen. You and Pedro had been dancing around each other for months now - ever since you met at a mutual friend’s dinner party and spent the entire evening talking in the corner, ignoring everyone else. There had been stolen kisses, late-night phone calls from wherever he was filming, and an undeniable chemistry. But between his filming schedule and your own demanding career, you had never quite managed to take things further. Until now.
You: My calendar is mysteriously clear. Think you can handle a whole evening with me?
Pedro: I've been thinking about nothing else for weeks. Wear something I can take off easily.
Heat flooded through you as you read his response. God, this man knew exactly what to say.
Pedro: you have no idea what you’re in for, cariño
By seven-thirty, you were a bundle of nerves. You had changed three times before settling on a deep red silk dress that hugged your curves and fell to mid-thigh. The neckline was modest enough to be classy, but low enough to be interesting. Underneath, you wore matching red lace lingerie - just in case.
Your apartment was ready: candles on every surface, a bottle of wine breathing on the counter, and a playlist of sultry music humming softly through the speakers. You had ordered ingredients for dinner, but hadn’t started cooking yet, wanting to wait for him.
When the knock came at eight-thirty, your stomach flipped.
You opened the door to find Pedro standing there in dark jeans and a fitted black button-down, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms. His hair was slightly damp from the rain, curling at the ends, and his brown eyes darkened at the sight of you. In his hands, he held a bouquet of deep red roses and a small gift bag.
“Hi,” he said, his voice that low rumble that always made you feel weak at the knees.
“Hi yourself,” you managed, stepping to the side to let him in.
He stepped into your apartment, setting the flowers and gift bag on the entry table, then turned to face you fully. His eyes traveled slowly down your body and back up, lingering on the curves of your hips, the swell of your breasts beneath the silk.
“Fuck, you look incredible,” he murmured, clearing his throat.
Before you could respond, he closed the space between you, one hand sliding around the waist while the other cupped your jaw. His thumb brushed along your lower lip, and the heat of his body radiated through the thin material, and you could already feel your nipples hardening in response to his proximity.
“I’ve been thinking about kissing you for three months,” he said softly, his breath ghosting across your lips, smelling faintly of mint. “Thinking about how you would taste, how you would feel pressed against me.”
“Then stop thinking,” you whispered, your own hands coming up to rest on his chest.
His mouth crashed against yours, and it was like a dam breaking. The kiss was hungry, desperate, months of tension finally finding release. His lips moved against yours with skill, alternating between soft and demanding. His tongue swept against yours, exploring, tasting, claiming. The hand on your waist tightened, his fingers dipping into the silk as he pulled you flush against him. You could feel every hard plan of his body - the solid wall of his chest, the firmness of his thighs, and most prominently, the growing hardness pressing against your hip.
You moaned into his mouth, the sound swallowed by his kiss, and your fingers threaded through his hair. The curls wrapped around your fingers as you tugged gently. He groaned in response, a deep, primal sound that sent liquid pooling between your thighs. His hand slid from your waist to your ass, gripping it firmly as he walked you back until your back hit the wall with a soft thud.
His hips pressed against yours, grinding slowly, and you could feel how hard he was through the layers of clothing between you. The friction against you, even through your dress and panties, made you gasp. Your pussy was clenching around nothing, already wet and aching for him.
“Pedro,” you moaned as his mouth moved to your neck, lips hot and wet against your skin. He sucked hard at the spot just below your ear, causing goosebumps to appear on your skin. Your hips bucked against his involuntarily when he bit down gently on the skin, crying out.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured against your throat, his voice rough with need. His hand slid down to grip your thigh, fingers pressing into the soft flesh as he hitched your leg up around his hip. The new angle allowed him to press more directly against your center, and you could feel the hardness of him even more through his jeans. “Tell me to slow down.”
“Don’t you dare,” you breathed, grinding against him with no inhibition. You could feel how wet you were, your panties already soaked through, and you knew he could probably feel it too. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes wild, pupils blown. His lips were swollen from kissing, his hair messy from your fingers, and he’d never looked more handsome. “I wanted to take you to dinner. Be a gentleman. Court you properly.”
You smiled, running your hands down his chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the heat of his skin through the thin cotton shirt. Your fingers found his belt buckle, and began working it open. “You can court me tomorrow. Tonight, I want you to fuck me.”
Something primal flashed in his eyes - raw desire. “Jesus Christ, the things you do to me.”
He kissed you again, harder this time. His tongue dominated yours, his teeth catching your lower lip and tugging. His hands roamed your body with increasing urgency, one sliding up to cup your breast through the silk, his thumb rubbing over your nipple until it was a hard peak. The other hand gripped you ass again, pulling you tighter against him as he ground his cock against you in a rhythm that mimicked fucking.
You fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, fingers fumbling with need. He helped you, practically ripping it off and tossing it aside. Your hands immediately returned to his chest, running over the defined muscles, the soft hair. You traced the lines of his shoulders, collarbones, then moved lower to the softness of his stomach, following the trail of dark hair that disappeared into his jeans. When your fingers brushed the waistband, his stomach clenched, and his cock twitched against you.
“Bedroom?” he asked, his voice rough with need.
“Down the hall, last door,” you managed, your voice breathy with arousal.
He lifted you with ease, hands on your ass as your legs wrapped around his waist. The movement had your center pressed directly against the hard ridge of his cock, and you both groaned at the contact. As he carried you through the apartment, you couldn’t help but rock against him, seeking friction, grinding your aching clit against the thick bulge of his cock. His fingers dug harder into your flesh, spreading your ass cheeks as he gripped you tighter.
You kissed his neck, tasting the salf of his skin, feeling his pulse racing beneath your lips. You moved to his jaw, scraping your teeth along the stubble. He started walking faster towards the room, his breathing ragged.
By the time he laid you on the bed, you were both breathing hard, your bodies trembling with need. Your dress had ridden up around your hips, exposing your red lace panties, and you could see his eyes darken once when he noticed the soaked fabric. He reached for his belt, and you could see the prominent bulge in his jeans, straining against the zipper, a small wet spot visible where the head of his cock was leaking precum.
He stood at the edge of the bed, looking down at you with desire. Slowly, he unbuckled his belt, the sound of the leather sliding through the loops loud in the quiet room. “Do you have any idea how many times I've imagined this?” he asked, popping the button of his jeans. The zipper came down slowly, revealing the waistband of his black boxer briefs and the thick outline of his cock straining against the fabric. “How many nights I've laid awake thinking about what you’d look like spread out beneath me? How’s you taste? How tight you’d feel wrapped around my cock?”
“Show me,” you said, your voice husky with desire. You let your thighs fall open wider, inviting him, and watched his eyes track the movement. “Show me what you imagined.”
He climbed onto the bed, settling between your thighs, his weight pressing you into the mattress. You could feel the thickness of his cock through the layers of fabric separating you, and your hips rolled up, seeking more contact. His mouth found yours again, hand sliding up your sides and bringing the silk dress with them. He slowly pulled the dress higher, exposing your stomach, your ribs, and finally your breasts still covered in the matching red lace bra. You sat up just enough to help him remove it, and then you were lying beneath him in nothing but the lingerie.
“Fuck,” he breathed, sitting back on his heels to look down at you. His eyes roamed over every inch of exposed skin, lingering on your breasts, the curve of your waist, the apex of your thighs where the soaked lace clung to your pussy. “You’re so damn beautiful. Look at you, so wet for me already. I can see it through your panites.”
His hands traced the curves of your body, his fingers brushed over your nipples through the lace, and you arched into his touch. A soft moan escaped your lips as he cirlced them with his thumbs, feeling how hard they were, how they strained against the delicate fabric.
“Sensitive?” he asked, a wicked smile playing on his lips.
“Very,” You admitted.
He leaned down, taking a nipple in his mouth through the lace, sucking hard. Your fingers threaded through his hair, crying out as the sensation traveled though you. His tongue flicked over the peak, then his teeth scraped against it, and you cried out in pleasure. He sucked harder, pulling the nipple deeper into his mouth, and you could feel the pleasure all the way down to your clit.
“Pedro, please,” you whimpered, your hips rolling upwards seeking friction.
“Please what, cariño?” he murmured, releasing your nipping before moving to give the other breast the same attention.. He pushed the lace cup down, exposing your bare breast, and groaned at the sight. “Tell me what you need. I want to hear you say it.”
He took your now bare nipple into his mouth, and the sensation was even more intense without the barrier of fabric. His tongue twirled around the hard peak, then he sucked hard, hollowing his cheeks. His hand came up to palm your other breast, squeezing and kneading, his thumb rubbing over the wet lace covering your nipple.
“Touch me,” you begged. “I nede you to touch my pussy. Please, i’m so wet, i need -”
His hand traveled down your stomach, over the soft skin, and you trembled in anticipation. When his fingers reached the lace of your panties, he presed down adn you both groaned. The fabric was completely soaked, clinging to your skin, and he could feel your heat even through the lace. “All this for me?” he asked, his fingers stroking you through the lace, tracing the outline of your pussy lips, pressing the wet fabric between them. “Fuck, you’re drenched. I can feel how swollen you are, how ready.”
“Yes,” you moaned, your hips bucking up into his hand. “God, yes. I’ve been wet since you kissed me. Since before that. I’ve wanted this for so long.”
He hooked his fingers in the waistband of your pantines and slowly dragged them down your legs, his eyes fixed between your thighs. The fabric peeled away from your pussy, sticky with arousal, and when you were finally bare before him, he groaned deep in his throat. “Fuck,” he breathed, his eyes dark with lust. “Look at you. Your pussy is so pretty and so fucking wet.”
Then his hand was between your thighs, his fingers sliding through your wetness, and you moaned out at the contact. His fingers slowly explored you, gliding through your folds, spreading your arousal. He circled your clit with his thumb, and your whole body jerked at the sensation.
“So wet,” he mumbled slowly, watching his fingers move through your slickness. “So ready for me.” he gathered your wetness on his fingers, then brought them up to show you. “See how much you want this?” he slid one finger inside you, and you moaned at the intrusion, at finally having something inside your aching pussy. But you ndded more.
“More,” you begged. “Please, more.”
He added a second finger, stretching you, and you moaned at the fullness. His fingers were thick and long, reaching deeper than yours ever could. He pumped them in and out slowly at first, letting you adjust, and you could hear the wet sounds of your arousal as he moved. “You’re so tight,” he said, his voice strained. “So hot and tight around my fingers. I can’t wait to feel you around my cock.” he curled his fingers, searching, and when he found that sweet spot inside you, you cried out, your back arching off the bed.
“There it is,” he said with satisfaction, stroking that spot over and over again while thumb worked your clit in circles. “That’s it, cariño. Let me see you come apart.”
He increased his pace, fingers pumping faster, harder, the wet sounds becoming more obscene. The dual sensation of his thumb on your clit and his fingers pumping in and out of you was making your orgasm build, coiling tighter and tighter in your core. “That’s it,” he encouraged, watching your face as pleasure built inside you. “You’re getting tighter, squeezing my fingers so hard. Come for me. I want to feel you come.”
Your orgasm crashes over you with such force, you cry out his name and toss your head back. Your pussy clenches around his fingers, pulsing, and he worked you through it, his fingers never stopping, prolonging your pleasure until you were trembling underneath him. When you finally came down, he slowly withdrew his fingers, and brought them to his mouth, maintaining eye contact as he sucked them clean, his tongue licking between them to get every drop of your taste.
“Delicious,” he said. “But I need to taste you properly. I need my mouth on your pussy.”
“Please,” you breathed, the thought alone already making your thighs clench together as a new wave of arousal washed through you.
He kissed his way down your body, taking his time as he sucked marks into the soft skin of your breasts, your ribs, your stomach. When he reached your hip, he bit down gently, then soothed the sting with his tongue. He finally settled between your thighs, his broad shoulders forcing your legs wider. His breath was hot against your sensitive flesh. “You’re still so wet,” he murmured, using his thumbs to spread your pussy open, exposing you completely to his gaze. “Your clit is so swollen. And look at this -” he cirlced your entrance with one finger, and you could feel more wetness leaking out. “You’re dripping for me.”
The first stroke of his tongue made you cry out, your hands fisting into the sheets. He licked a long stripe from your entrance to your clit, groaning as the taste of you coated his tongue. It was hot and wet and perfect, and he was thorough, learning what made you gasp and moan, waht made your thighs tremble. He alternated between broad strokes and focused attention on your clit, occasionally dipping his tongue inside you, fucking you with it. The feeling was incredible, his tongue thick and strong, you couldn’t help but rock your hips against his face, seeking more.
“That’s it,” he murmured against you. “Fuck my face. Take what you need.”
He sealed his lips around your clit and sucked, and you nearly came off the bed. His tongue flicked over the bundle rapidly, then he sucked again, harder this time. He reached up and slid two fingers back inside you, pumping them in time with his tongue on your clit, and it wasn’t long before you were climbing towards another orgasm.
“Pedro, i’m going to -” you wanred, but just just doubled his efforts, curling his fingers while his tongue worked your clit relentlessly. He added a third finger now, stretching you wider, and the fullness combined with the attention to your clit was too much. You shattered, your second orgasm even more intense than the first. Your pussy clenched around his fingers, pulsing, and you could feel yourself gushing, your release coating his fingers and dripping down his chin. He didn’t stop, licking and sucking you through it, drinking down everything you gave him until you were pushing at his head from oversensitivity.
He kissed his way back up your body, and when his mouth found yours again, you could taste yourself on his lips. You moaned into the kiss, your tongue sliding against his. You reached between your bodies, palming his erection through the thin material of his boxers, and he groaned into your mouth. He was hard, his cock thick and hot even through the fabric, and you could feel the wet spot from his precum.
“Take them off. They need to come off,” you said, working your hand inside the waistband to wrap around his bare cock. You stroked him from base to tip and he shuddered.
“Fuck,” he groaned, his hips jerking into your touch.
He helped by kicking off his jeans and briefs, and then he was finally naked above you. His cock was thick and hard, jutting up towards his stomach, the tip flushed dark and glistening with precum. It was bigger than you had imagined, thick enough that you wondered if you would be able to take him, and long enough that you knew he would reach deep inside you. You wrapped your hand around him again, stroking slowly, and he was so hard, his cock pulsing in your grip.
“You’re so big,” you whispered, stroking him from base to tip, your thumb swiping over the head to spread the precum. “I can’t wait to feel you inside me.”
“Condom?” he asked, his voice strained, hips rocking into your hand.
“Nightstand,” you managed. “Top drawer.”
He reached over, fumbling in the drawer until he found one. You watched as he tore the packet open with his teeth and rolled it on, your mouth going dry at the sight of his hand on himself, the way his cock looked even bigger. Then he was settling between your thighs again, the head of his cock nudging at your entrance. Even though you were soaking wet, you could feel the stretch as he pressed forward. He paused, looking down at you. “You’re sure?” he asked softly, his arms trembling with the effort of holding back.
“I've never been more sure of anything,” you said, cupping his face and pulling him down for a kiss.
He pushed inside slowly, giving you time to adjust to his size. The stretch was intense, almost too much, and you gasped against his mouth. He was stretching you wider than you’d ever been stretched before, and you could feel every inch as he sank deeper.
“Breathe,” he murmured, holding still when he was halfway in. “You're so tight. So fucking tight. Am I hurting you?”
“No,” you gasped, shaking your head. “Just so big - I need a second.”
He kissed you softly, his tongue sliding against yours, distracting you from the stretch. When you were finally able to relax around him, he pushed in further, inch by inch, until finally he was fully seated inside you, his hips flush against yours. You both paused, breathing hard, savoring the moment. You felt impossibly full, stretched around his thick cock, and you could feel him pulsing inside you.
“You feel incredible,” he mumbled against your lips. “So perfect. Like you were made for my cock.”
“Move,” you urged, wrapping your legs around his waist, your heels digging into his ass. “Please, Pedro, I need you to move. I need you to fuck me.”
He started slowly, long, deep strokes that had you moaning with each thrust. He pulled almost all the way out, until just the tip remained inside you, then pushed back in slowly, letting you feel every inch. The drag of his cock against your walls was amazing, and you could feel yourself getting more wet, your arousal coating his cock and making the slide easier.
“God, you feel so good,” he groaned, his forehead pressed against yours. “So wet, so tight. I can feel you squeezing me. Your pussy is gripping my cock so perfectly.”
“Faster,” you begged, your nails raking down his back. “I need more. I need you to fuck me harder.”
His pace increaed, hips snapping against yours with more force. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mixed with your moans and his grunts of pleasure. Each thrust drove him deeper, hitting spots inside you that made your eyes clenched tightly shut. Your breasts bounced with the force of his thrusts, and he leaned down to capture one nipple in his mouth, sucking hard while he fucked you.
“Yes, yes, just like that,” you cried out, your back arching off of the bed. The combination of his cock filling you and his mouth on your breast was overwhelming. You could feel your orgasm growing, knowing your arousal was soaking the sheets beneath you.
His hips shifted, changing the angle when he hooked your leg over his shoulder, and suddenly he was hitting that sweet spot with every single thrust. The new position allowed him to go even deeper, and you could feel him everywhere, stretching you, filling you completely. “Right there,” you gasped, your hands tangling in the sheets of the bed. “Don’t stop, right there. Fuck, you’re so deep.”
“I can feel you getting tighter,” he panted, his rhythm becoming more erratic. “Are you going to come for me again? I want to feel you come around my cock. I want to feel your pussy squeeze me when you come.”
His hand slipped between your bodies to rub your clit, and the added stimulation was exactly what you needed. He circled your swollen clit with his thumb while continuing to pound into you, your orgasm building rapidly.
“Pedro, I'm so close,” you whimpered. “Dont stop, please don’t stop.”
“Come for me,” he commanded, his voice thick with his own approaching release. “Let me feel it. Come all over my cock.”
His words and the combination of his movements, pushed you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed over you with such intensity, you screamed his name as your pussy clenched tightly around him.
“Fuck, yes,” he groaned, feeling your walls pulsing around him. “That’s it, baby. You’re squeezing me so tight. You feel so fucking good when you come.” he fucked you through your orgasm, prolonging your pleasure until you were trembling. When your body finally relaxed, he pulled out, and you whimpered at the loss.
“Turn over,” he said, his voice commanding. “I want to fuck you from behind. I want to see your ass while I'm inside you.”
You obeyed eagerly, rolling onto your stomach and getting on your hands and knees. You arched your back, presenting yourself to him, and heard him groan behind you.
“Jesus Christ, loot at you.” he said, his hands gripping your ass cheeks and spreading them. “Your pussy is so swollen. I can see how wet you are, dripping down your thighs. And this ass-” he squeezed your cheeks, then delivered a sharp slap that made you gasp. “Fucking perfect.” he positioned himself at your entrance and thrust in hard, burying himself to the hild in one stroke. The new angle made him feel even bigger, and you cried out at the sudden fullness.
“Too much?” he asked, holding still.
“No,” you gasped. “It’s perfect. Fuck me, Pedro. Fuck me hard.”
He didn’t need to be told twice. He gripped your hips and started pounding into you from behind, the force of his thrusts pushing you forward on the bed. The sound of his hips slapping against your ass echoed through the room, and you could feel his balls hitting your clit with each thrust. “You take my cock so well,” he groaned, watching himself disappear inside you over and over. “You love being fucked like this, don’t you?”
“Yes,” you moaned, pushing back to meet his thrusts. “I love it. I love feeling your cock so deep inside me. Harder, please, fuck me harder.”
His pace quickened, fucking you with brutal intensity. One hand left your hip to tangle in your hair, pulling your head back, and the slight pain mixed with the pleasure in the most delicious way. His other hand came down on your ass again, the sharp sting making you clench around him. “You like that?” he asked, spanking you again. “You like that, baby?”
“Yes,” you cried out. “God, yes. Again.”
He delivered several more sharp slaps to your ass, alternating cheeks, and you could feel the heat blooming across your skin. Each slap made you clench around his cock. “I’m not going to last much longer,” he warned, his movements becoming more erratic. “You feel too good. Your pussy is too perfect.”
“I want you to come,” you panted. “I want to feel you come inside me. Fill me up, Pedro.”
He released your hair and both hands gripped your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh as he pounded into your with abandon. You could feel his cock swelling inside you, getting even harder, and you knew he was close.
“Touch yourself,” he commanded. “I want you to come with me. I want to feel your pussy milking my cock when I come.”
You reached between your legs, your fingers finding your clit, and started rubbing in fast circles. You were so sensitive, and it only took a few strokes before you were climbing toward another orgasm.
“That’s it,” he groaned, feeling you tighten around him. “I can feel you getting close. Come for me, baby. Come on my cock.”
Your fourth orgasm hit you like a freight train, and you buried your face in the pillow to muffle your screams. You clenched around him in waves, and the sensation set off his own release. He thrust deep one final time and held himself there, groaning your name as he came. You could feel his cock pulsing inside you, throbbing with each spurt, and even through the condom you could feel the heat of his release.
He collapsed on top of you, both of you breathing hard, your bodies slick with sweat. After a moment, he carefully pulled out and disposed of the condom, then gathered you in his arms, pulling you against his chest.
“That was…” he started, then shook his head, unable to find the words.
“Yea,” you agreed, your voice hoarse from screaming. Your body was still trembling, your pussy still pulsing with the schoes of your orgasms.
He kissed your forehead, your cheeks, your lips - soft, tender kisses that were such a contract to the intensity of before. His hands stroked your back soothingly. “I need a minute,” he said with a breathless laugh. “And then I want to do that again. And again. I want to spend all night learning every way to make you come.”
“I’m going to hold you to that,” you murmured, already feeling your desire stirring again despite your exhaustion.
And he did. Over the course of the night, he made love to you in every position imaginable - with you on top, riding him while he watched your breats bounce; with you pressed against the wall, your legs wrapped around his waist; with you on your side, his chest pressed against your back as he fucked you slowly. Each time was different, each orgasm more intense than the last, until you were both exhausted and sated, your bodies wrung out from pleasure.
As dawn broke through the windows, you lay tangled together, your head on his chest, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back. “I should probably tell you,” he said after a moment, “that I'm completely crazy about you.”
You smiled against his skin. “Good. Because I'm completely crazy about you too.”
As you drifted off to sleep in his arms, the rain still pattering against the windows, you thought that this was exactly how Valentine's Day should be—not about grand gestures or expensive gifts, but about connection, intimacy, and the promise of something real.
Summary: You, as always, didn't do your homework, so you got detention. But, what starts as a punishment turns into a secret, obsessive game of power and lust, that you will not forget.
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, teacher/student relationship (both characters are adults), dominant/submissive dynamics, nicknames (slut, sweetheart, …), fingering, multiple orgasms, oral sex (male receiving), praise kink, unprotected sex (piv), creampie, school-setting tension, little angst!Joel
A/N: Hii! I hope you'll like this story/smut! If you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3
Masterlist
It’s just another school morning.
You’re walking down the hallway with your best friend Maya. She’s grinning like an idiot, nudging you with her elbow as she sips iced coffee from a reusable cup.
“Try not to cum the second he walks in, okay?” she teases, half-whispered, half-laughing.
You roll your eyes with a snort, cheeks warming instantly. “You’re so dumb,” you mumble, but the corner of your mouth can’t help twitching into a smile. Because yeah… she’s not exactly wrong.
Joel Miller.
Your new literature teacher. Only two months in, and you’re already a mess. He teaches with that deep, Southern drawl, his voice rough like gravel and honey, and God help you, the man reads poetry like it’s a sin.
Every class with him feels like you’re being edged intellectually and emotionally. And maybe a little physically too. You walk into the classroom, and it’s all downhill from there.
You drop your bag by your desk and sit down, already distracted before class even starts. The room is buzzing with chatter, people rustling papers, unzipping backpacks, getting ready. You? You’re just staring at the door, waiting.
And then it happens. The bell rings and the door opens. There he is.
He steps inside with that signature calmness, a worn leather messenger bag slung across one shoulder, sleeves rolled just past his elbows, revealing strong, veined forearms dusted with dark hair. The cotton of his shirt clings to his chest in all the right places, and the way he adjusts his glasses as he looks around the room? Unholy.
Your core pulses. Just from looking.
He walks slowly to the desk, every step like a magnetic pull. His boots hit the floor with a muted thud, his posture relaxed but confident. That salt-and-pepper beard is trimmed perfectly, shadowing the line of his jaw you’ve stared at one too many times during his lectures.
You don’t hear a single thing he says. Because you’re not listening.
You’re watching his fingers. Those thick, skilled fingers, uncap a pen and jot something down on the board. You wonder what they’d feel like tugging your hair or gripping your thighs or—
You blink, cheeks burning.
“Okay, folks. Take out your homework,” Joel says, his voice a velvet command.
Only when zippers and rustling bags start echoing around the room, you snap, blinking back to reality. Shit.
You turn toward Maya, panic flashing in your eyes.
“You did the homework, right?” she whispers, pulling her sheet from her folder.
“I—” You hesitate. You had every intention of doing it. You thought about it, you really wanted to impress him, wanted to do well in his class. But something came up and then it slipped out of your mind.
You’re fucked.
Your fingers fidget. You chew the edge of your nail. Your leg bounces nervously beneath the desk. He’s making his way around the room, collecting the papers one by one. And then he’s at your desk, right in front of you.
He reaches for Maya’s assignment without a word, his body angled slightly toward you, and you can smell him—woodsy cologne, leather, coffee. Something warm and addictive. He leans closer.
“Y’got yours?”
You look up at him, eyes wide, your mouth suddenly dry. He’s so close. Close enough that your skin prickles, close enough that the heat of his body almost brushes your cheek. His gaze stays neutral, unreadable, but his jaw’s tense.
“I… I’m sorry. I meant to do it but something came up and I forgot.”
He exhales through his nose, gaze flicking toward the classroom window like he needs a second not to react. His voice is calm, but tight.
“That’s not the first time, is it?”
You flinch a little. It’s true, you've forgotten a few homeworks lately, too caught up in him to function properly.
“You’ll stay after. Detention.”
Your jaw drops slightly. “W-What? I’ll do it tonight—I’ll hand it in tomorrow, I swear, just—please, I have plans after school—”
He’s already moving on to the next desk without reaction, without argument, just: “Detention.”
You slump back in your seat, humiliated. Maya covers her mouth, trying not to laugh.
“Someone’s gonna be suckin’ Miller’s cock,” she teases under her breath. You elbow her, cheeks burning. “Shut up.”
But even through the sting of frustration and embarrassment, a little part of you, the part currently wondering how he’ll look at you when the classroom is empty and quiet and the lights are low, kind of… doesn’t mind.
Time alone with the hottest, most captivating teacher in the whole damn school? Doesn’t sound so bad.
You didn’t hear a single word for the rest of the class.
Not because the room was quiet—Joel’s voice still echoed, low and steady, through the lecture hall—but because your focus was completely consumed by him.
Every movement he made felt deliberate, magnetic. The way his broad shoulders moved beneath the fabric of his shirt. The subtle flex of his fingers as he turned a page or tapped chalk against the board. Even the faint lines at the corners of his mouth as he spoke, as if every sentence was backed with some deeper thought he wasn’t sharing.
Your thighs pressed tightly together beneath your white summer dress, a subconscious attempt to anchor yourself, to not let the heat building between your legs take over your mind completely.
The fabric of the dress, light and barely grazing your skin, didn’t help. It clung in places it shouldn’t, and the warmth of the room—or was it just him—had your skin tingling, oversensitive, alert.
You shifted in your seat, squeezing your legs together again when you saw him adjust the cuff of his sleeve, revealing more of his forearm.
Something about that simple act made your breath catch. It wasn’t just attraction. It was need, raw, irrational, impossible to ignore. Your chest rose and fell in shallow waves, your core pulsing with every stolen glance you dared to take. There was something primal about the way he commanded space. And you felt it everywhere.
When the bell finally rang, it startled you back to the present like a sudden jolt. The rest of the students began to gather their things, rustling bags and murmuring to each other. You blinked, hands reaching for your notebook in slow, distracted motion. Your pulse was still racing.
You and Maya were halfway to the door when his voice cut through the air like velvet wrapped in iron.
“Don’t forget—detention.”
You stopped dead in your tracks.
His tone wasn’t raised, but it held an edge. Stern, direct, laced with authority. But it didn’t scare you. Quite the opposite. It hit something deep inside you, something that made your knees go weak and your breath hitch in your throat. The heat that had been simmering all class long flared suddenly, dangerously. You could barely look at him, not with the way his eyes brushed over you, steady, unreadable, as if he already knew what kind of thoughts were spinning in your head.
Beside you, Maya let out a soft laugh and nudged your side. “Girl, get your face under control.”
“I’m fine,” you muttered, but you weren’t. Not even close.
Later, at lunch, Maya sat across from you at your usual table, smirking into her salad.
“You’re gonna combust,” she said, pointing her fork at you. “I swear, you looked like you were about to pass out when he said ‘detention.’ You okay?”
“No,” you groaned, burying your face in your hands. “I’m not. I’m—”
“Thirsty,” she offered helpfully.
You peeked at her through your fingers. “Do you think… if I actually had a shot—like, a real one—to blow him, should I take it?”
Maya choked on her water.
“Oh my god,” she coughed, laughing. “You did not just say that.”
You leaned back in your chair, flushed and breathless. “I mean, I wouldn’t actually do it. Probably. Maybe…I don’t know! It’s just, he’s Joel Miller. Have you seen his hands? The way he talks?”
“Yeah, and the way he gives you detention,” Maya teased. “Which, by the way, I think you’re secretly looking forward to.”
You stared down at your tray, heart still fluttering like it hadn’t quite caught up with the rest of you. Because truth be told… she wasn’t quite wrong.
The rest of the day passed in a blur. Every class felt like static noise in the background—your mind already stuck on what awaited you at the end. Detention. With him.
By the time the halls emptied and the last bell rang, your heart was racing like you were heading into something forbidden. You walked slowly, deliberately, each step echoing down the corridor, your palms slightly clammy as you pushed open the classroom door.
Joel was already there, seated at his desk with a few papers in front of him. He was reading something, brow furrowed, his fingers absently rubbing against his lower lip—a gesture so casual and yet so… distracting.
The door creaked as it closed behind you, and his head lifted. His eyes found yours in an instant, dark and unreadable, and he gave a slight nod toward the desk closest to the front. “Sit,” he said simply, and you obeyed.
You didn’t say a word as you settled into the chair, trying not to let your dress ride up too high. It was hot today. It wasn’t your fault that the short summer dress made your skin feel electric, or that your thighs kept brushing when you crossed your legs.
Joel stood up, approached slowly, and stopped at the edge of your desk. He looked down at you, voice calm but firm. “Do you even know what the assignment was?”
You hesitated, already knowing the answer was no. Your mouth parted to form something, anything—but he exhaled, frustrated, and slapped a sheet of paper onto your desk.
“The prompt,” he said, “was to write about your greatest desire. In poetic form. Minimum of two hundred and fifty words. You’ll sit here until it’s finished… and until I think it’s good enough.”
You blinked, startled. “What?”
He arched a brow. “You heard me.”
Then he turned and returned to his desk, sitting back down with a controlled calm that made your stomach clench.
You stared at the blank page for a while, your mind swimming—not with words, but with him. Then you looked up at him and thought about his voice. His scent. The way his forearms looked with those sleeves rolled up. The veins in his hands. The line of his throat when he tipped his head back.
And then it hit you.
Words started flowing faster than you could think. Line after line, vivid and raw, filled the page. You didn’t filter. You couldn’t. It was as if something had broken loose in you—this quiet, desperate longing you’d been carrying for weeks, now shaping itself into metaphor and pulse-heavy confession.
Every so often, you looked up, and sometimes his eyes were already on you. Not for long. Just fleeting moments, but they ignited sparks all the way down your spine. And when your eyes locked, you had to squeeze your thighs together beneath the desk, trying to contain the wave of warmth rushing through you.
Finally, when you’d scrawled the last word and your hand trembled from how fast you’d written, you stood up, gripping the paper tightly. Every cell in your body screamed that this is insane, and yet… you were already crossing the room.
Little did he know, that you wrote about your sexual desire for him. You described it in detail, poetically, what would you like to do to him and how, as well as what would you like him to do to you.
He looked up as your shadow passed over his desk. His brow arched again. “That was quick.”
You didn’t answer. You just handed it to him.
Joel leaned back slightly, eyes shifting down to the paper in his hand. He lifted it slowly, his fingers brushing over the edges, and brought it closer to his face. He didn’t read aloud. But you watched, his expression change with every line. The tightening of his jaw. The flicker in his eyes. The stillness that suddenly overtook him.
Then… his gaze lifted to yours.
And it was different now. Heavy. Tense. You felt the weight of his stare everywhere—on your skin, in your breath, between your legs. It was first time he saw your outfit and he really scan you.
“This,” he said lowly, voice edged with something he was trying hard to suppress, “is inappropriate.”
You swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean to cross a line…”
He stood up. Slowly. The scrape of the chair against the floor made your whole body flinch. He took a step toward you—close, but not quite touching.
“Stand there,” he said.
His voice had dropped an octave. Controlled. Commanding. You moved around the desk to stand where he’d pointed—his spot. Joel placed your paper on the desk, smoothing it with his palm.
He didn’t say anything for a moment. And neither did you. The air between you was charged, electric, so heavy it felt like gravity had doubled.
His expression was stern, serious, eyes narrowed with a fire that made your knees feel weak. He set a pen down on the desk next to your writing and said in a low, firm voice, “Cross out anything inappropriate.”
You nodded, swallowing hard, and leaned over the desk. Your white dress brushed softly against your thighs as you bent forward, exposing just enough of yourself to feel the shift in the air behind you. You knew he was still standing close—too close. You could feel the weight of his gaze pressing into your back, burning through the thin fabric like sunlight.
You feel him before you even hear him—his hand brushing against the back of your thigh, slow and deliberate. Goosebumps rise instantly, your spine tensing as heat coils low in your stomach. The pen trembles slightly in your hand.
“C'mon, keep going” Joel mutters, voice low, rough, but there’s something else in it, something darker. Teasing. Dangerous.
His fingers trail higher, grazing the hem of your dress, then slipping just beneath it. Your breath catches, and you grip the edge of the table harder.
Your eyes locked on the ink-stained paper in front of you, even though the words blur under your gaze. His hand slides between your thighs, calloused fingertips moving up your inner thigh slowly, torturously. “You’re too distracted. Maybe I should teach you how to really pay attention.”
You bite your lip hard as his fingers press gently against your underwear—just enough to make your hips twitch, not enough to satisfy anything. You can feel the smirk in his voice without even turning to look.
He leans in close, his breath warm against your ear. “You gonna cross that out or keep pretending you’re some innocent little thing?”
Your hand moves shakily, red pen dragging a line across the paper, but your mind isn’t on the words anymore. It’s on his fingers, teasing at the edge of the fabric, sliding it to the side—just enough for him to slip between.
When he finally slides your panties aside, the first brush of his fingertips against your bare heat pulls a sharp breath from your lungs. You tense, the sensation electric—like a jolt low in your belly that travels down to your thighs. His touch is light at first, teasing, as if he wants to savor every second of this new power he holds over you.
“Already wet for me,” Joel murmurs, almost to himself, but loud enough that you hear it—and feel your face burn with heat. You don’t move, don’t speak. You’re completely frozen, except for the way your hips shift back just slightly, begging without words.
His index finger slides on the surface of your folds, slow and deliberate. He traces you from bottom to top, gathering your slick, then circling your clit with just enough pressure to make your knees tremble. He doesn’t rush. He wants to feel every twitch, every reaction—wants you to know you’re under his control.
You whimper when he presses down more firmly, rubbing slow, torturous circles. Your hands grip the table harder, knuckles white, breath shaky. He watches the way your body responds—the way you arch into his hand without even realizing it.
Then he slides a finger inside you.
The stretch makes you gasp. He moves it carefully, deliberately curling it just enough to brush against that sensitive spot deep inside. Your legs shake as he sets a rhythm—steady, unrelenting. Then comes the second finger, thicker, deeper. You moan, softly, head dropping as your body clenches around him.
“Fuck, baby,” he growls, his free hand gripping your hip to hold you steady. “You’re squeezin’ me so tight.”
Each thrust of his fingers is slow but deep, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. The wet sounds between your legs grow louder, obscene, echoing through the quiet room. His thumb finds your clit again, rubbing tight circles in sync with the rhythm of his fingers plunging in and out of you.
Your body is fire—hips jerking, thighs quivering, mouth open with desperate little gasps you can’t hold back.
“You close?” he mutters, leaning in so his voice rumbles right against your ear. “Gonna come all over my fingers, sweetheart?”
You nod helplessly, barely able to form words.
And then he speeds up, fingers moving faster, thumb harder, and it’s too much. The pressure bursts all at once. You cry out as the orgasm rips through you, your muscles tightening around his fingers, your body shaking uncontrollably. Joel doesn’t stop, not until you’re whimpering, oversensitive and breathless, collapsing against the table, legs barely holding you up.
He finally pulls his fingers out, slow and dripping, and brings them to his mouth—sucking them clean with a low groan.
“You taste even better than I imagined.”
You’re still trembling when he steps back, his belt already undone, jeans pushed down just enough to free his cock—thick, flushed, already hard from watching you fall apart under his touch. He’s looking at you like you’re a feast, like you were made just for this.
You straighten slowly, legs shaky, and turn to face him. Your eyes drop to the way he strokes himself lazily, precum glistening at the tip. You swallow hard. He raises an eyebrow at you, that familiar smirk tugging at his lips.
“You starin’, sweetheart,” he mutters, voice thick with arousal. “You want it?”
You nod, stepping closer, sinking to your knees without breaking eye contact. Joel hisses through his teeth when you do.
“Good girl,” he says lowly. “Knew you’d look perfect down there.”
Your fingers wrap around the base of him, and he’s so hot and heavy in your hand that it makes your core clench again, already aching for more. You run your tongue along the underside, slow and teasing, tasting the salt of his skin. He groans, hand falling to your hair, not pushing—yet—but guiding.
You swirl your tongue around the tip, licking up the precum, and then you take him in—just the head at first, letting your lips stretch around him. He growls softly, head tipping back.
“Fuck, feel so good.”
The praise makes your thighs press together instinctively. You take him deeper, slow but hungry, feeling him stretch your throat. He’s big—almost too much—but you want it. You need it. His hand tightens in your hair when you hollow your cheeks and start to bob your head, setting a steady rhythm.
“Atta girl,” he grunts. “Doin’ so fuckin’ good for me.”
You hum around him, sending vibrations down his shaft, and he groans, bucking his hips forward just slightly. Your eyes water, but you don’t stop—you want him to use you. His breathing turns ragged as you take him deeper, faster, spit dripping down your chin, your hand stroking what your mouth can’t reach.
“Look at you,” he growls, gaze locked on yours. “On your knees, takin’ my cock like a good little slut.”
That makes you moan—so much so that your eyes flutter closed, overwhelmed by the need to please him. He twitches in your mouth, and his grip tightens.
“Shit—keep goin’. I’m close,” he breathes. “Gonna come down your throat. You want that?”
You nod with him still inside you, eyes wide, desperate.
“Then take it,” he snarls. “Take every fuckin’ drop.”
With a final thrust of his hips and a broken groan, he comes—hot and thick, spilling onto your tongue. You swallow quickly, not wanting to waste a single bit, your lips still wrapped tightly around him until he jerks from the overstimulation.
When you finally pull back, breathless and flushed, he’s staring down at you with a mix of hunger and admiration.
Before you can even wipe your mouth, Joel grabs you by the waist and hauls you up like you weigh nothing. You gasp, caught off guard, hands flying to his shoulders as he turns and slams you down onto the table. Papers scatter everywhere.
“You think you can just sit there in that little dress,” he growls, pushing your knees apart with rough, determined hands, “actin’ like a tease, not do your goddamn homework properly—”
He yanks your panties down your thighs and tosses them aside.
“—and not get fucked for it?”
You don’t get a chance to answer.
He lines himself up and pushes in with one hard thrust, burying himself to the hilt. The stretch makes you cry out, your nails digging into the wood of the table as your body adjusts to his size. He doesn’t give you time. His grip on your hips tightens as he pulls back and slams into you again, the force jolting the table beneath you.
“This what you needed, huh?” he grunts, voice sharp with control. “A hard fuck to teach you how to focus?”
“Mr. Miller—fuck!” you moan, your words barely coherent, back arching as he pounds into you, fast and brutal, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing through the room.
“Yeah,” he breathes, leaning over you, his mouth at your ear. “You take my cock like a goddamn champ, baby. So tight—so fuckin’ wet for me.”
Every thrust hits deep, dragging against that sensitive spot inside you, making your thighs tremble, your breath coming out in frantic, broken gasps. He grabs your wrists and pins them above your head against the table, fully owning every inch of you.
“You gonna be a good girl next time?” he growls. “Do your fuckin’ homework when I tell you?”
You whimper, nodding, barely able to speak. He smirks, slamming into you harder.
“Say it.”
“I—I’ll be good,” you gasp. “I’ll do it, I swear—”
“That’s more like it.”
He releases your wrists and lifts one of your legs higher over his shoulder, changing the angle—and suddenly he’s even deeper, hitting spots that make your vision blur. You cry out, eyes rolling back, fingers clawing at the table’s edge as he keeps going, unrelenting.
“You feel that?” he hisses. “That’s me teachin’ you a lesson.”
You can feel your orgasm building again—hot and fast and uncontrollable. Joel sees it in your face, in the way your body clenches around him, and he grins darkly.
“Gonna come again, aren’t you?” he mutters. “Such a desperate little thing. Come on, baby. Come all over my cock.”
And just like that, you shatter—legs shaking, mouth open in a silent scream, your body pulsing around him. Joel groans low and guttural as you tighten around him, and a few rough thrusts later, he’s coming too—filling you with a hot rush of release, staying deep inside as your bodies collapse together on the desk.
He rests his forehead against yours, both of you breathless, sweaty, completely spent.
“Now that,” he mutters with a smirk, “is how you learn.”
The next morning, your thighs are still sore.
You try not to limp into class, but Maya clocks you the second you slide into the seat next to her. She leans in, eyes narrowing.
“So…” she hums, “how was detention?”
You glance at her, trying for casual—but the moment your lips twitch into a smile, it’s over. Maya gasps so loudly that a few people in the rows ahead of you turn their heads.
“Oh my god. YOU FUCKED JOEL MILL-”
You lunge across the desk, clapping a hand over her mouth.
“Are you crazy?” you hiss, eyes wide. “Do you wanna shout it louder, maybe let the principal know too?”
Maya yanks your hand away, but her eyes are dancing, her voice lowered now to a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t you dare lie to me. I saw your face. You’re glowing. Like post-orgasm, wrecked-for-life glowing.”
You roll your eyes, biting back a grin. “Shut up.”
She gasps again, this time softer, leaning even closer. “You fucked him! You totally—oh my God. You and Professor Tall, Dark, and Growly?”
You’re already blushing. She fans herself dramatically.
“Okay, details. I want everything. Was it hot? Was he rough? Does he growl the way he does in class?”
Your cheeks burn hotter. “Maya—”
“He totally does, doesn’t he? God, I knew it. That man is sex personified. Did he make you come with just his—”
“Jesus Christ, Maya!”
She stifles a laugh. “Sorry, sorry! I’m just… I’m happy for you. That’s like… forbidden fantasy dreams fulfilled. You’ve had a crush on him since the first lecture, babe.”
You look down at your desk, smiling like an idiot. “Yeah. And now I can’t stop thinking about it. About him.”
Before Maya can reply, the classroom door opens. And there he is.
Joel Miller. Same flannel, same boots, same deep, intimidating presence—but now all you can see is yesterday. His fingers buried inside you, your knees on the table, the weight of him pounding into you like he owned your body. Your thighs press together involuntarily.
He strides to the front of the room, placing his notes on the desk. Your eyes trail over his hands, remembering how rough they felt on your skin. You’re so deep in the memory that you barely hear him start to speak.
“Alright. Let’s get started.”
But then, then he looks at you.
Just a flicker. A glance that lasts a half second too long. And the corner of his mouth twitches.
It’s not a smile. It’s something darker. Wicked.
Maya turns toward you, oblivious, scribbling something in her notebook. But you’re frozen, breath caught in your throat.
Did he just wink?
You can’t be sure. It was so fast, so subtle—but that little spark in his eye… it wasn’t nothing. It was intentional. And it was meant only for you.
He turns back to the board like nothing happened, like he didn’t fuck you senseless on his desk the night before. But your heart is racing, and your whole body feels like it’s on fire.
And now you have to survive the next hour trying not to squirm every time he says your name.
Hii! Thank you so much for reading!
I hope you guys enjoyed it! If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’d also be super happy for any feedback; whether it’s a reblog, comment, like, or even a follow.
Hi, I hope you have a great vacation! I had an idea of a premise where reader is an interviewer and she has to interview Pedro Pascal. However, it’s obvious that Pedro has a thing for her and it blows up on the internet. Then when they run into each other again they talk about it and laugh and Pedro admits that everyone was right about him having a thing for her. I just thought this was a cute idea and I’m glad that you’re able to take a break and relax :)!
Off the Record
PAIRING: Pedro Pascalx reader
WORD COUNT: 954| requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)
Pedro Pascal Masterlist | Pedro Pascal Masterlist II
Joel Miller Masterlist
You’d been nervous about this one , but you’d told yourself that was ridiculous. You’d done dozens of interviews before. A-listers, Oscar winners, infamous directors, chaotic press junkets with cast members bouncing off each other like kids on a sugar high.
But Pedro Pascal is different.
Maybe it’s the way he greets everyone on the crew by name, or the fact that he compliments your earrings before you’ve even settled into your seat, or the way he laughs when you ask your first question , that full-body laugh that makes his shoulders shake and his eyes crinkle like he’s telling you a secret instead of a story.
Whatever it is, it makes you just a little reckless. A little softer than usual, leaning closer, your laugh mixing with his until the whole room feels smaller, more private somehow.
The interview goes viral within hours.
There’s a clip someone posts on TikTok , just the two of you, knees bumping under the tiny studio table, Pedro looking at you like you’ve just hung the damn moon.
Pedro Pascal looking at his interviewer like THAT?? the caption says.
He’s in love, your honor. It’s so over for us. She’s giggling like they’re on a date. WHO IS SHE??
The comments spiral out from there. Your phone pings nonstop for days. Your boss sends you a link with a “well done” and a wink emoji. Your best friend calls you at midnight to scream-laugh into the phone , tell me you’re at least gonna fuck him, please.
You ignore it as best you can. Kind of. You watch the clip too many times, replay the moment he’d brushed his knee against yours and hadn’t moved it away. The way he’d looked at you when you thanked him for coming , warm and easy, like he’d wanted to say something else but didn’t.
Weeks pass. The internet moves on , mostly. But every now and then you still see edits pop up on your feed: your laugh, his soft eyes, the tiny smile he’d given you when you’d told him you hoped he got a break soon.
And then you see him again.
You’re covering a small premiere , nothing huge, a new indie film that Pedro’s rumored to be attached to as a producer. You’re half-focused on your notes when you hear him before you see him , that laugh, again, a little lower than the last time, and when you glance up he’s already looking at you.
“Hey,” he says, warm and a little smug, like you’re an inside joke he can’t wait to tell. “Look who it is.”
“Pedro,” you say, trying for professional but you know your grin gives you away. “Long time no see.”
“You’re everywhere I want to be, apparently.” He gestures to your mic, the backdrop behind you, the bright lights. “You gonna interview me again?”
“Not tonight.” You step closer before you can think better of it, lowering your voice just a little. “I think you broke the internet enough last time.”
He huffs a laugh. “That wasn’t me. That was you.”
“Yeah?” You tilt your head, teasing. “Pretty sure it was the way you were looking at me.”
Pedro’s mouth twitches , that soft, crooked grin that makes your stomach flip. “So you saw that, huh?”
“Oh, everyone saw that, Pedro.” You laugh when he rubs the back of his neck, sheepish but still grinning. “It’s a whole meme now, you know.”
“I know.” He lowers his hand, slipping one thumb into his pocket as he looks at you , softer now, the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Everyone was right, you know.”
“About what?” You shouldn’t ask , you shouldn’t , but you do anyway, because you’re only human and he’s looking at you like that again.
“About me having a thing for you.” His voice is so casual, so impossibly gentle it makes your breath catch. “They weren’t wrong.”
You blink. Open your mouth. Close it again. “Is this, are you,”
“I’m asking if you’d let me buy you dinner, off the record.” His grin softens into something real, something that makes your skin flush warm under the studio lights. “Somewhere with bad lighting and good food, where I can look at you like that all night and nobody gets to film it.”
You shouldn’t say yes. You should think about your job, about the rules. About the fact that you’ve never really crossed this line before.
But he’s standing there with that sweet, crooked smile, hands tucked into his pockets like he’s trying not to touch you in front of all these people , and you know, deep down, you were gone for him the second he brushed your knee under that table.
So you smile back. Shrug, casual, though your heart is pounding like you’re still live on camera.
“Off the record?” you echo, grinning when his eyes light up.
“Off the record,” he promises, stepping just close enough that his arm brushes yours.
“Then I’d love to.”
Later, when the photos come out , the two of you leaving the tiny late-night taco place at midnight, Pedro’s hand at your lower back, your laugh half-hidden behind your hand , you don’t care what the internet says.
You care about his hand warm on your hip in the back of the car, his soft thank you murmured into your hair when you kiss him first, and the way he smiles when he pulls back just enough to look you in the eye.
“Next time,” he whispers, mouth brushing yours, “we’ll give them something really worth talking about.”
And when you laugh, you know this time it won’t just be for the cameras.
