Pedro Pascal Fan

“You know how I know?” you sing-song, and he looks up to watch you step closer, until the tips of your toes meet his. His eyes drop down the length of your body and glide back up again, an action that you don’t even think he’s aware of. 

“Because I was her,” you confess, your voice dropping low. You rest your hands on his broad chest, and he unfolds his arms, settling his grip on your hips. “I looked at you that way once.”

“Once?” He lifts his eyebrows. “As in not anymore?” he teases. 

You blow out a breath, giving a halfhearted swat against his t-shirt. He catches your hand, guiding it up to his lips for a kiss. 

“You probably think I’m stupid.”

“Hey.” His tone is suddenly serious, a deep frown pulling between his brows. “I would never think that.”

“I know, I just mean…” you trail off. You don’t know what you mean. Or, you do, but it’s hard to put it into words. You were joking, but now it doesn’t feel so funny, and maybe it was never a joke in the first place. Maybe the joke was just to mask the insecurity you felt at the obvious heart-eyes the babysitter had for your husband. You’re his wife, and you know he loves you, but…weren’t you just the babysitter at one point too?

“Hey now” he soothes, interrupting your spiraling thoughts. His finger nudges under your chin, lifting your eyes to his. “You’re not stupid. I know…I know she has a crush on me. It’s uncomfortable,” he grimaces. “Shit, she’s just a kid.”

“She’s in her twenties, that’s not –”

His stern look cuts you off. “She’s just a kid.”

You know. You know she’s just a kid and you’re his wife and yet…and yet. 

His eyes turn into pleading, earnest things, his demeanor shifting. “Baby. I would never –”

You cut him off with a shake of your head. “No. No, I know you wouldn’t. It’s not about that,” you struggle to articulate. “It’s more of a….me thing.” Your smile is rueful, apologetic, and his face softens. You rest your cheek against his chest, breathing in his solid comfort. Closing your eyes, you listen to the rhythmic beating of his heart. 

“Just an insecurity thing,” you admit quietly. “She’s so young and pretty and I’m…”

He stiffens. “And you’re what?”

When you don’t answer, you can tell he doesn’t like it. 

“You’re what, baby?” he asks. His hands cradle your jaw, and when you look up at him this time, you’re already forming apologies for even saying anything when his expression silences you. 

“You think she’s prettier than you?” he asks, incredulous. You look away, ashamed. “You think I’m looking at her because she’s younger?”

Ten years and three kids have you wincing at the words “prettier” and “younger”. She is younger than you, that’s just a fact. And while you are constantly reassured by your husband that you are everything he wants, just seeing her obvious crush on him reminds you of how handsome he’s gotten in his older age. Not unnoticed by you…but also noticed by everyone else. 

“Listen.” He steps closer, caging you in. His chin tips down, his voice lowers. “She can look at me all she wants.” He glides the bridge of his nose along your jaw, breathing across the sensitive skin of your neck. You relax, letting your head tip back, your fingers threading up through his curls. “I don’t give a shit,” he continues. “I don’t even see it,” he breathes, drawing the lobe of your ear into his hot mouth. “Because I’ve got you.”

His hungry mouth latches onto your neck with a kiss, and you palm the back of his head, holding him in place. He drags the open-mouthed kiss up to the hinge of your jaw, his tongue gliding over the bottom of your ear with a groan, and you’re completely molded against his body when his mouth finds yours. 

His hands shift to cradle your face, his mouth devouring yours as if he could convey the meaning and weight of his words through the warm, wet connection between you. He tastes, and he takes, and his fingers grip harder and you stumble forward when he pulls you back towards the bed. 

Your bed, the one you share with him every night. The one he fucks you in, the one where he makes you his. 

Frantic, the clothes you picked out with care for date night are tossed carelessly onto the floor next to the bed. The shirt that you’d been admiring on him all night, the jeans, the belt, the black briefs – everything is tugged open and down and thrown on the ground. 

His mouth leaves yours just long enough to push you backwards on the bed, rejoining when he crawls up to cover you. He coaxes your mouth open, his hips doing the same between your thighs. 

“You think I’m thinking about fucking anyone else when you look the way you do?” The words are strained, his deep voice in near pain. “When I’ve got the best girl right here?”

You shake your head, and he grinds his hips down into yours, relishing the whine that crawls out of your throat. His head dips to taste the stiff peaks of your breasts, worshiping them one at a time. He sucks them hard, drawing them into his mouth, palming them with possessive squeeze. He pulls back, so hard, so thick, and heavy, and stiff, and you watch together as his cock glides through your slick seam; over and over. 

“Maybe she wishes she could have this,” he breathes heavily, referring to his cock, pushing up on his arms to put more weight behind his hips. They push forward, rocking into yours and you hitch your knees higher, hoping that he’ll slip in with how wet you are. He groans, his neck straining with the effort. “I bet she wishes she was you,” he growls. “Cause only you get this.”

On the last word, he reaches down to line himself up and shoves forward to fill you with a singular, hard stroke. 

“Fuck.” 

Every moan laced with a whine, your eyes rove over his body while he fucks you in earnest. Hard, punishing strokes that have his shoulders and arms flexing as he holds you open, that have the muscles along his sides rippling under his golden skin, that have his broad hands gripping you underneath your knees to spread you wider, pushing you down deeper into the comforter. His skin is flushed and pink, his lush mouth open, his curls - usually tamed under his hat – now covering his forehead, moving with every punch of his hips. 

He’s fucking gorgeous, and he’s all yours. 

He sits back on his heels, tugging your ass onto his lap. His thumb finds your clit with a steady, slick drag back and forth, back and forth and your ankles dig into his lower back, keeping him in place. 

“Too bad for her I’ve already got the tightest pussy in my bed.” His thumb works faster, and you suck him deeper, a pull that has him falling forward to brace himself on one arm above you while his other hand keeps working. “Too bad – fuck,” he groans, a rapid beat of his hips pushing you up underneath him. “Too bad I’ve already got the wettest cunt.”

More vulgar than he usually is, his words push you closer and closer to the edge. A tinge of pride sweeps through you as you watch him try to keep his composure long enough to make sure you come first. A frown between those heavy brows, rough grunts with every thrust. His groans are filthy, his eyes near black and you want to feel his weight, so you pull him down on top of you. 

You wind your legs around his waist, and tugging on the hair at the nape of his neck, you pull him in for a kiss. It’s messy and disjointed, heavy and humid, your lips brushing against each others until he sucks your bottom lip in with a groan and a scrape of his teeth. On the edge of release, you glide your hands down his strong back and down over the swell of his ass, digging your grip into the firm flesh. 

The need between you drips in intimacy: skin to skin, mouth to mouth, your bodies entwined. You’ve done this a hundred times with this man, in this bed, had the weight of his body covering yours until you begged underneath him for release – and yet, every time, he makes you feel cherished. Every time, he makes you feel like it’s the first time he’s breaking you open, discovering your body with his. Every time, he leaves you with no doubt in your mind that you are everything he fantasizes about and more. 

His for the taking, his to claim and own. 

He devours your release when you come, drinking down the keening moans that pour out of your throat. Partially to keep you quiet because the kids are sleeping, and partially because he can’t help himself, he feasts on your mouth until your sounds get softer, quieter, more needy. 

Truly soaked with how hard you’ve come, his cock slips in to the hilt and then some, stuffing you full. The weight of his need to come builds along his tailbone, spreading through his hips and between his firm thighs, his heavy balls tightening. The babysitter is the furthest thing from his mind. 

Right now, it’s only you. You with your wet mouth and your wet pussy and your perfect tits and your soft skin and your sweet breath. You, with your ample thighs and your little belly that gave him children. You, and your gorgeous face. You, you, you. 

He comes above you, his body locking rigid as he shoves himself as deep as he can get into your slick, soaked tightness. You squeeze him, the edges around his vision creeping with black, and he comes, and comes, his arms shoving under you to band you tight against him, his face tucked into the sweet smelling crook of your neck. 

Shifting to lay next to you, he pulls you with him and he feels your smile against his skin, your cheek pressed against the dip in his shoulder. 

“What?” he asks, winded, satisfied. Happy. 

“Just the way the lights are still on. And our clothes are all over the place.” You start giggling, and he grins. “Just the way we went from zero to ten thousand,” you finish, the words sliding into a full laugh. 

Your leg is draped over his, your arm resting around his torso, and he turns to face you, encouraging you to stay in place. His thigh slips between your legs, his arm tugs you close. 

“You’re gonna wake the kids up if you don’t quiet down,” he teases, and there is something about the way he says it that has you laughing even harder, a sound he covers with his hand over your mouth. 

“I mean it, baby. Stop,” he grins, the lines around his eyes deepening with affection.

You tug at his hand, trying to get some air. “I can’t,” you laugh. “I mean, what are we? Animals?”

“Jesus Christ.” He starts laughing too, a lower version of yours that blends together just right and you hide your face in the bedding, trying to stop. 

His hand skims down your smooth back, his fingers splaying with a grip when he gets to your ass. He grabs the lush flesh, then gives it a harsh swat. 

“Frankie!” you gasp, your head jolting up. You’re still laughing, so he does it again, and the shocked look on your face makes him grin like a fool. 

This is what he pictures when you say the word “younger”. The feeling of youth, the aching eagerness you make him feel. Like a couple of teenagers who are trying to be quiet so the world doesn’t find them, you wrestle together on the bed for a moment, your pealing laughs breaking through your hushed giggles.