#narcos

It was for some children’s literacy nonprofit, and you’d clicked it half-delirious, half-joking, adding one entry just to say you did.

Two weeks later, you got the email.

You thought it was a scam. Then your phone rang—an actual event coordinator from the organization, confirming details, verifying your ID, telling you a car service would be provided, that Pedro’s team had already cleared the date.

You stared at your phone long after the call ended. You were twenty-three, in college for a degree in screenwriting, juggling a bookstore job and unpaid pitch work. Pedro Pascal had been your comfort actor since your late teens—long before the mainstream hype. You’d watched his indie films, not just the blockbusters. You knew lines of dialogue he probably didn’t even remember.

Now you were going to sit across from him. At lunch. For an hour.

You didn't even have anything to wear that didn't look like it came off a Goodwill clearance rack.

The restaurant was tucked away in Laurel Canyon, low lighting, all exposed brick and polished glass.

You checked your reflection four times in the car window. A blouse that didn't cling too tight. Mascara you applied with shaking hands. You told yourself he probably did dozens of these. He wouldn’t even remember your name.

When you arrived at the restaurant the host said, “Right this way,” and there he was.

Pedro Pascal. In a dark blue button-up, sleeves rolled to the forearms. Sunglasses pushed up in his hair. Beard trimmed. Brown eyes soft.

He stood when you walked up.

“Hey, you must be the donor,” he said warmly. “Thanks for donating.”

You managed a smile. “Thanks for being the prize.”

He laughed. A real one.

You thought it would be awkward. Stilted. But he was funny, sharp, easy to talk to. You ended up rambling about how much his performance in The Bubble meant to you—how you watched it on your laptop in your dark bedroom during a bad depressive episode, how it got you through that awful year.

He looked surprised. Touched.

“I forget anyone actually saw that movie,” he said with a lopsided smile.

“I watched it five times. At least.”

He blinked. “Wait, are you messing with me?”

“Nope.” You grinned. “I even wrote a paper on it for a class on satire. You play a man who's aware he’s a fraud but keeps smiling through it—like, that’s the whole metaphor.”

Pedro blinked again—then gave you a slow, stunned laugh, mouth slightly open.

You weren’t flirting. You were just being honest. And maybe that’s what caught him off guard.

He walked you out after. His hand hovered at the small of your back but never touched.

“Seriously,” he said, “this was the best version of one of these I’ve ever done. I usually feel like a trained monkey. This felt like…” he paused. “A real conversation.”

You tried to play it cool. “That’s the goal. I’m supposed to be a screenwriter, right?”

He smiled, wider this time. “If you ever finish something, I’d love to read it.”

You stared at him, then snorted. “That sounded like a line.”

You were standing on the curb with him now, your rideshare still a few minutes out.

Pedro leaned against the building’s side wall, sunglasses back on, arms folded. The California sun caught the edges of his hair, bringing out the warm gray in his curls. You tried not to stare.

 You were failing.

“Do you ever get tired of people telling you they’ve been obsessed with you since they were sixteen?” you asked, mostly teasing.

He laughed under his breath. “Depends on how they say it.”

You glanced up at him. “And how did I say it?”

His mouth curled. “Like someone who isn’t obsessed anymore. Just curious.”

That made you blush, which only made it worse. “Right. I’m too grown for fangirling.”

He tilted his head a little. “How grown are we talking?”

You gave him a look. “Grown enough to know that question is a trap.”

He grinned. “Smart.”

The pause that followed wasn’t awkward—it was warm, almost private. Like something unsaid had passed between you, and he was waiting to see if you’d name it.

You didn’t. You weren’t that bold. But you did say, “So, are you always this charming at these things? Or did I just catch you on a good hair day?”

He chuckled, then looked at you fully, one eyebrow raised. “Can I be honest?”

“Please.”

“I thought this would be fifteen minutes of smiling, nodding, and trying to avoid weird questions about The Mandalorian. I didn’t expect to actually…” He stopped, glanced away for a second, then back at you. “...like someone.”

Your stomach fluttered. “Someone?”

“You,” he said plainly.

Oh.

You blinked. “I—um. Okay. That’s… wow.”

Pedro rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “Sorry. That might’ve been too much.”

“No—no, it’s okay,” you said quickly, too quickly. “Just wasn’t expecting it.”

He smiled again, softer now. “That’s fair.”

Then, casually—almost like it was nothing—he said, “Would it be weird if I asked for your number?”

You stared at him. “Wait—seriously?”

He shrugged, smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Yeah. I mean, if you’re comfortable. If not, that’s okay. I just—” he hesitated, then said, “I think I’d like to talk to you again. Not in front of cameras. Or PR people.”

You swallowed. He was looking at you like he meant it. Like he wasn’t in a rush, like he could wait forever.

“…Okay,” you said. “Yeah. I’ll give it to you.”

Pedro handed you his phone. No hesitation.

You typed it in, heart pounding a little harder than it should’ve. Saved ___(from lunch) and handed it back.

He glanced down at it, then nodded. “I’ll text you. So you have mine.”

“Cool.” You tried to act normal. “Cool, cool, cool.”

Pedro smirked. “You’re very cool, yeah.”

Your rideshare pulled up just then. Saved by the bell. He opened the car door for you, gentlemanly as ever.

Before you got in, he said, voice low: “I’m really glad it was you.”

You didn’t even know what to say to that. So you smiled, and got in the car, and tried not to immediately check your phone.

But when it buzzed two minutes later, your breath caught.

Unknown Number: Glad I made it through lunch without embarrassing myself. – Pedro

You didn’t text back right away.

Mostly because you didn’t want to seem eager. But also because you were still staring at your phone like it had just whispered your name out loud.

You waited ten minutes.

Then typed:

You: I think we both made it out with our dignity intact.

But that’s a pending review once I replay the whole thing in my head at 2am.

The dots appeared instantly.

Pedro: Damn, you’re already funnier over text. I’m scared. Should I be worried about my performance?

You smiled, flopping back on your bed.

You: You were decent. You only said “like” twelve times in that one story about Oscar Isaac. Pedro: You counted?? You: I’m a writer. I observe. Pedro: Dangerous. Pedro: Remind me never to lie to you.

He kept texting over the next few days. Nothing crazy. Nothing that could get him in trouble.

But his messages were always right there—close enough to be curious. Casual enough to deny.

Sometimes it was jokes about his press schedule. Sometimes questions about your scripts. One night, it was a photo of an old movie on his TV.

Pedro: I think this director peaked with this one. Tell me I’m wrong. [screenshot from Days of Heaven] You: You want discourse at midnight? Pedro: I want you to talk to me at midnight.

You stared at that one for too long.

Typed. Erased. Typed again.

You: That sounds dangerously flirty for a man with a whole IMDb page. Pedro: That sounds dangerously flirty for a girl who called me “decent.” Pedro: …But I’m not taking it back.

By the end of the week, he was sending you voice memos.

Low, rough-voiced ones. Mostly teasing. Sometimes just quiet thoughts he didn’t want to type.

“You know, I reread your screenplay sample. You weren’t kidding when you said it was dark. That final scene? Fuck me. Also, I think I’m obsessed with the way your dialogue sounds.”

Another night:

“Couldn’t sleep. Thought about texting you something sexy but decided on this instead: Do you think people fall for potential, or do they fall for the version of themselves they think the other person sees?”

That one stayed in your phone for days.

You didn’t answer it. Not directly.

But your next message said:

You: If you’re ever back in L.A. and bored, I know a dive bar that makes the best nachos in the city.

We could talk about your IMDb shame pile.

Pedro: You tryna seduce me with nachos? You: Maybe. Pedro: Tell me when. And don’t wear that blouse again. Or do…

Four Weeks Later

The texts don’t come every day anymore.

He warned you. Said work was picking up again—press junkets, travel, long days on set. You said it was fine. You meant it. You’d gone in expecting one hour of his time, not a month of flirty messages and midnight voice memos.

But still, you missed it. The tiny buzz of your phone. His name lighting up your screen.

You missed the way he made you feel like he actually saw you—like you weren’t just some girl who lucked into a celebrity lunch but someone with ideas, talent, nerve.

The last message had been five days ago:

Pedro: Sitting in a hotel bar in Berlin. Bartender looks like he’s judging my wine choice.

You responded. He didn’t reply.

You told yourself he got busy. Maybe he’d fallen asleep. Maybe it didn’t mean anything.

Still, you reread the thread more than once.

He kept opening your chat. Typing. Erasing.

He didn’t know why you stuck in his head. Why you’d gotten under his skin like a song he couldn’t stop humming. You were so much younger, so new, but you had a sharpness he envied. You made him want to say shit he hadn’t thought to say to anyone in years.

And you hadn’t even done anything, really.

You were just... honest. No agenda. No sucking up. You looked him in the eye like he wasn’t on a billboard but sitting across from you at a tiny table, halfway real.

And now you were quiet.

Maybe you’d gotten bored. Moved on. Maybe it was better that way.

But when his plane landed in L.A., jet-lagged and strung out, the first thing he wanted—before coffee, before sleep—was to see if you were still around.

You’re watching a terrible dating show in your apartment, sipping flat wine, wearing the same hoodie three days in a row when your phone buzzes.

Pedro: Back in town. That nacho place still open?

You stare at it.

Then:

You: It closes at 2am. So yeah. Still time for questionable choices. Pedro: Are we talking about food or me? You: Don’t make me say it. Pedro: Say it in person.

Then:

Pedro: Tomorrow night?

Your stomach flips.

It’s been weeks. You thought he forgot. You thought maybe you dreamed the whole thing.

You wait ten seconds.

Then:

You: Tomorrow night.

The bar is dim and humming when you walk in. Wood-paneled walls, strings of yellow bulbs, and that warm, greasy smell that hits just right after 9 p.m.

You spot him instantly.

Pedro’s in the far booth—back against the wall, baseball cap low, beer bottle sweating in front of him. He’s dressed down: jeans and a hoodie, that you recognize from one of his press photos. 

He looks up and sees you. Smiles.

Not the friendly kind. The fuck-I-missed-you kind.

“Hey,” you say as you slide into the booth opposite him.

“Hey yourself,” he murmurs, eyes not leaving yours.

You settle your bag beside you. Try to ignore the way your heart’s fluttering like it’s your first date in high school.

He leans forward slightly. “You look…”

You raise an eyebrow. “Tired?”

He laughs. “No. Just better than I remembered.”

You smirk. “You say that to all the raffle girls?”

Pedro grins and takes a sip of his beer. “You think I’m doing a lot of raffle lunches lately?”

You don’t answer. You just meet his eyes—and hold them a second too long.

The first drink goes fast. So does the second.

Conversation’s easy again—teasing, snappy, laced with innuendos but grounded in that same curiosity he showed the first time.

“You’ve got that look again,” you say at one point.

He tips his head. “What look?”

“Like you’re thinking too much.”

Pedro taps his fingers on the table. “I am.”

“About what?”

“You.”

That shuts you up. For a beat.

“Okay,” you say carefully. “You’re officially flirting.”

“Only officially now?”

You glance at him. “Are we pretending we haven’t been doing that for weeks?”

He leans in a little, voice lower. “I haven’t been pretending, cariño.”

That word—cariño—drops right down your spine.

You sip your drink just to buy time.

Half an hour later, the nachos are cold and forgotten.

He’s shifted to your side of the booth. Close enough that his thigh brushes yours when he moves.

You can feel the heat of him—slow and steady, like a stove left on low.

“You’re braver than I thought,” he murmurs, voice near your ear.

You turn your head, pulse thrumming. “Why?”

He’s looking at your mouth when he says, “Because I think you know exactly what this is.”

You swallow.

“You think it’s a game?” you whisper.

“No.” His eyes lift to meet yours again. “I think it’s trouble.”

You let the silence stretch. Then, quietly:

“I think I want it anyway.”

Pedro exhales, almost like relief.

His hand finds your knee under the table, gentle at first—like he’s asking.

You don’t stop him.

Back at your place — 1:07 a.m.

He doesn’t kiss you right away.

He stands just inside your apartment, glancing around like he needs to ground himself. Like he’s cataloging every detail in case it’s the only time he sees it.

“Cute place,” he says.

You shrug. “It’s fine. It has a couch, at least.”

Pedro gives you a look. “So subtle.”

You smirk, toeing off your shoes. “I’m not trying to seduce you. I’m trying to sit down without my feet throbbing.”

“Oh, is that what this is?” he says, trailing behind you into the living room. “Because when you leaned over the jukebox earlier, I swear I saw—”

“—Shut up,” you laugh, swatting his arm. “I was picking a song.”

“You were bending the laws of nature, muneca.”

You plop onto the couch and toss a pillow at him.

He catches it easily, eyes dancing.

And then he sits.

Close. Closer than necessary.

Your knees touch.

And for a moment, neither of you say anything.

His hand brushes yours.

Once.

Twice.

Then it stays.

“I keep telling myself not to do this,” he murmurs, thumb tracing the back of your knuckles.

You tilt your head. “Then don’t.”

Pedro looks at you.

Long. Direct. Hungry.

And then he kisses you.

It starts slow.

His lips soft, searching. No rush. No agenda.

But your hand slides into his hair and his body shifts, just a little, and suddenly—

His other hand is on your thigh, gripping it.

You gasp into his mouth, and it makes him groan. A low, broken sound, like he’s been trying not to make it for weeks.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“You started it,” you whisper, breathless.

His tongue traces your bottom lip. “Don’t remind me.”

He pushes you back into the couch cushions, one knee slipping between yours, just enough weight to make you feel it.

You arch beneath him. Hips rising—seeking.

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

Your hair’s messy, lips kiss-swollen, pupils blown.

“You’re so goddamn pretty,” he says, voice low. “You know that?”

You blink up at him, dazed. “You’re not bad either, old man.”

He huffed a laugh—and kissed you harder.

You end up straddling him, your hands under his shirt, his teeth grazing your neck. You whisper something shameless into his ear and he freezes, groaning into your shoulder like you just ruined his life.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice thick. “You’re dangerous.”

“You like it,” you say, biting back a smile.

“Too much.”

It doesn’t go any further.

Not because he doesn’t want to.

Not because you don’t.

But because there’s something delicious about stopping here. Something about the ache. The tease.

 1:41 a.m. your apartment

You don’t get off his lap.

Even after the kissing slows. Even after his hand stills on your thigh and his breath evens out against your collarbone.

You just lean into him, cheek resting against the warm curve of his neck, and say:

“So what’s your comfort movie?”

Pedro chuckles, a low, content sound. His hands stay on you—one lightly tracing your waist, the other cradling your knee.

“You want comfort?” he murmurs. “I watched Paddington 2 three times in a row on a flight once. I cried. Full grown man. Tears.”

You sit up just enough to look at him. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I was.”

You grin, brushing your nose against his. “Mine’s Coraline. I know it’s for kids. Don’t care.”

“Oh, I respect that,” he says, nodding solemnly. “Creepy doll button eyes? That’s some formative trauma.”

You laugh into his shoulder. “Exactly.”

The conversation drifts.

From movies to music, then weird dreams, then the worst job he ever had (you make him promise never to do commercials for adult diapers), and the story of your first kiss (in a movie theater during a Marvel sequel, popcorn still in your braces).

You fall asleep like that for a while.

Wrapped around him. The TV is still on. His hoodie swallowing your frame.

It’s not a sleepover. But it’s the kind of night you only have when the flirting has already cracked open into something more dangerous—something real.

5:07 a.m. 

He kisses you again on the sidewalk, slow and tired and a little reluctant.

The Uber’s headlights bounce off the curb.

“You sure you don’t want me to stay?” he murmurs, thumb brushing your hip.

You raise your brows. “You’d behave?”

“No.”

“Then go home.”

Pedro grins, teeth sharp in the early morning haze. “I hate that you’re right.”

“You love that I’m right.”

He kisses your forehead. “Text me when you wake up, cariño.”

Then he climbs into the car and disappears into the fading dark.

Later

You you looked like a mess when you left was kind of hot

Pedro don’t start i walked into my kitchen like a teenager head against the fridge door. dramatic sigh.

You “what is she doing to meee…”

Pedro don’t mock the broken man

You it’s cute I kinda like breaking you

Pedro yeah i could tell you were smiling while you ruined me

You and you didn’t stop me

Pedro never would

Pedro (real talk though… i haven’t kissed someone like that in years) what are we doing?

You no idea but i don’t really want to stop

Pedro good i’d be pissed if you did

You also i’m watching Paddington 2 tonight thought you should know

Pedro you’re trying to make me fall in love with you

You Trying?

A Few days Later

Pedro okay serious question what’s your go-to coffee order i’m at a café and there are too many words on the menu

You iced oat latte. extra cinnamon. no reason. just vibes. why?

Pedro just wondering what i’ll need to remember when i see you again it’s been a minute you free soon?

You maybe. depends. is this a brunch date disguised as a “casual hang”?

Pedro yes. and i might wear a hat and sunglasses like a criminal

You hot I’ll see you Sunday then

Two Weeks Later

Outside a café, 2:12 p.m.

You’re holding iced coffees, your oversized hoodie tucked into the waistband of biker shorts, and Pedro’s walking beside you—cap pulled low, hoodie up, sunglasses on.

You look like…friends.

Which is the goal.

Except his hand keeps brushing yours.

And when you laugh too hard at something he says about a failed audition back in ‘99, he looks at you like he feels it. Like he wants to bottle it.

You don’t even notice the guy on the opposite sidewalk.

Phone angled low.

The shutter click barely audible.

Another car slows down. Just a beat.

Pedro notices first.

His body tenses next to yours.

You follow his gaze. A pair of figures across the street. Hoodies. Big lenses. Moving fast.

Click click click.

You suck in a breath. “Shit.”

He doesn’t grab your hand.

He can’t.

Instead, he leans in like he’s just whispering something dumb.

“Just keep walking,” he mutters. “Act like you’re annoyed with me.”

You glance up at him. “That’s not hard.”

He grins, tight-lipped. “Atta girl.”

You duck into a bookstore.He buys a random novel and keeps the receipt.

You pretend to browse while your stomach spins.

He brushes his hand against your back briefly as you walk toward the back exit.

“Your face was covered,” he says quietly. “You’re fine.”

But he doesn’t sound entirely convinced.

You slip your sunglasses on, exhaling.

“I knew this might happen,” you mutter. “Still sucks.”

Pedro looks at you for a second too long. Then, under his breath:

“If anything ever actually comes out…I’ll handle it.”

You nod.

But it hangs there. Heavy.

You’re still you. Still just 23. Still not used to this world he lives in.

But the part that makes your pulse spike isn’t fear.

It’s the way his voice dipped when he said “I’ll handle it.”

Like he already decided he would.

Like you weren’t just a girl from a raffle anymore.

Pedro they didn’t get anything you’re safe

You you sure?

Pedro i’ve done this a long time if they had something good it’d be online already trust me

You i do just didn’t expect it to feel that...real

Pedro it is real at least for me

You i know. me too.

Pedro next time no public sidewalks just you my place pizza and zero danger

You and maybe another dramatic sigh against your fridge?

Pedro oh i’m already practicing i’ll be thinking about you all week

You good maybe i’ll make you wait again

Pedro maybe i’ll let you

Few More Days Later

You i just bombed my stats exam tell my family i died doing what i hated

Pedro nooooo not stats not you :(

You i’m so tired i might actually cry in the campus parking lot like a teen drama character

Pedro you want company or silence? or pizza? or a forehead kiss?

You omg

You that last one just made my brain short circuit is that allowed???

Pedro it is if you want it to be offer still stands come over i’ll put on something dumb and hold you until your brain restarts

You you’re dangerous give me an hour

That night — 8:13 p.m. 

Pedro’s apartment.

The kitchen smells like garlic and fresh basil.

Pedro’s in front of the stove in a worn tee and joggers, barefoot, stirring pasta like this is just…normal. Like you always do this. Like he wasn’t in a galaxy far, far away a few months ago while you were still writing essays in the library, humming through AirPods.

“You ever cook for girls like this?” you tease lightly, watching from the counter stool.

Pedro smirks without turning around. “Not girls who make me nervous.”

You blink.

He glances back at you. “Just being honest.”

You open your mouth—then close it again.

Your throat’s warm. So is your chest. Your fingertips tingle against the glass of red wine in your hand.

The rest of the night unfurls gently. Like a held breath being let out.

He makes a simple pasta with veggies. You help slice strawberries for a little balsamic-glazed dessert (“This is so extra,” you laugh, and he just shrugs—“You deserve extra”).

You eat on the couch with the coffee table dragged closer, your knees brushing under the bowls.

Music plays low. Something acoustic and nostalgic.

His hand rests on your leg, casual but firm.

Yours finds his thigh a little later.

You’re sitting sideways in his lap again, back to his chest, your cheek against his jaw. He smells like citrus body wash and red wine and something inherently him.

His hands haven’t left you all night.

Thumb tracing slow lines into the top of your thigh. Fingertips under your hoodie hem.

He kisses your shoulder. Then your jaw.

You hum softly, turning your face toward his. He doesn’t hesitate.

The kiss starts easy. Then deeper.

And deeper.

You straddle him this time, your knees pressing into the couch cushions, your hands in his hair. His grip tightens around your hips—then softens again, like he’s reminding himself to slow down.

There’s heat. So much heat.

You shift against him, just slightly—and feel him underneath you.

He breathes hard into your mouth, breaking the kiss. “Wait—wait.”

Your foreheads press together.

You blink. “Did I do something—?”

Pedro shakes his head fast. “No, no. God, no. You’re perfect.”

You’re quiet. His thumb brushes your cheek.

“I just…” he swallows, “don’t want this to be fast. I want it to be right.”

You exhale, your nose brushing his. “Okay.”

He looks at you—tender, serious. “You trust me?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “You trust me?”

Pedro leans forward and kisses you again, slower this time. His hands stay on your waist. Yours trail up the back of his neck.

Then he says the most dangerous thing of all:

“Stay tonight.”

You borrow one of his tees and wash your face in his sink with the cleanser he shyly offers you.

The bed’s big and warm. You climb in beside him, and he pulls you close, one arm under your shoulders, the other across your waist.

Neither of you says much.

But when you whisper, “You smell like something familiar,” he smiles into your hair.

And when he murmurs, “I like having you here,” you smile too.

You fall asleep curled up against him. No more nerves. No more pretending this is just for fun.

It’s not the night everything happened.

But it’s the night everything changed.

The Next Morning — 9:12 a.m.

You wake up warm.

Pressed against a solid chest, one of Pedro’s hands heavy over your waist, his breath slow and deep against the back of your neck.

It takes you a second to remember where you are.

The smell of his sheets. The weight of his arm. The stretch of your legs tangled with his.

Then it hits you.

Last night. Dinner. That kiss. Him asking you to stay.

You shift slightly, careful not to wake him.

But you feel him stir behind you.

His voice is a slow, rough murmur in your ear. “Morning.”

You twist in his arms to face him. His hair’s messy. His eyes are sleepy, half-lidded. There’s a small smile on his mouth that makes your heart kick like a rabbit.

“Hi,” you whisper.

He leans in and kisses you—soft at first. Barely there.

But then he kisses you again, firmer this time. Longer.

And it doesn’t feel sleepy anymore.

It feels like wanting.

Pedro’s hand moves under your shirt, smoothing up your back, dragging his fingers up your spine. You sigh into his mouth as you press your chest against his, your body already buzzing.

He rolls gently onto his back, bringing you with him so you’re straddling his hips. His hands settle on your thighs, his thumbs tracing slow circles just beneath the hem of your borrowed sleep shirt.

“You okay?” he murmurs, looking up at you.

You nod. “Yeah.”

His eyes search yours. “We don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you say, clear and certain. “I really want to.”

That’s all he needs.

He sits up, kisses you again—this time with intent. His hands slip under your shirt fully now, dragging it up over your head and off.

Pedro pauses when he sees you.

Like he’s trying to remember every inch.

“God,” he breathes, hands sliding up your waist to cup your chest. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

You shiver as his thumbs graze your nipples. You shift forward, rolling your hips against his just a little, and feel him hard underneath you.

He groans, dropping his head to your shoulder.

“You’re gonna kill me.”

“Good,” you whisper, tugging his shirt off too.

It’s slow. He treats your body like something worth learning.

Mouth on your neck, teeth grazing your collarbone, tongue dipping below your breasts.

He lays you back and kisses down your stomach, looking up at you the whole time like he’s waiting for you to change your mind.

You don’t.

You arch for him, tug his hand between your thighs.

Pedro groans when he finds you wet.

“So ready for me,” he murmurs, kissing your inner thigh. “Jesus, baby…”

He touches you slowly, gently, working you open with his fingers until you're panting, until you're grabbing at his hair and whispering his name like it's the only word that matters.

Then he comes back up and kisses you again—deep, messy, tongue pushing into your mouth as his fingers stay between your legs, stroking you through every soft sound you make.

“You like that?” he breathes.

You nod, nails digging into his shoulder. “Yeah. God, Pedro—”

He groans, pressing his forehead to yours.

“Tell me if it’s too much, okay?”

You smile shakily. “I’ll tell you if it’s not enough.”

When he finally pushes inside you, it’s slow.

Painfully slow.

Like he wants you to feel every inch of it. Like he wants to feel you—wrapped around him, holding him, trusting him.

You gasp. He kisses your cheek, your jaw, your temple.

“You okay?”

You nod, hand fisting the sheets. “Keep going. Please.”

Pedro groans, deeper this time, and begins to move.

It’s not fast. It’s not rough.

But it’s intense.

Every roll of his hips is deliberate, slow and deep, the kind of rhythm that builds unbearable heat between your legs. He stays close, his chest brushing yours, one hand cradling your head, the other gripping your hip like he needs to anchor himself there.

You moan into his mouth. “Pedro—oh my god—”

“I know,” he pants. “I know, baby. You feel so fucking good.”

You wrap your legs around his waist, tilting your hips to take him deeper. The change makes you gasp—your whole body tightening around him.

He curses, thrusts harder once, then slows again, like he’s fighting to stay in control.

“Not gonna last,” he groans into your neck. “You’re too good—fuck—”

You cling to him, mouth at his ear. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

And he doesn’t.

He fucks you through it—slow, patient, like he’s memorizing you.

Until you come with a cry, back arching, legs trembling.

And then he lets go.

Buried deep inside you, his arms locked tight around your body, he shudders with a groan that sounds almost broken.

Pedro lies beside you, one hand still tracing circles over your bare back.

You’re tucked into his side, head on his chest, your body boneless and warm and aching in all the right ways.

He kisses the top of your head.

You murmur, “So…”

“So?” he echoes softly.

“I don’t want to leave.”

He smiles. “Then don’t.”

You lift your head, meeting his gaze.

“Okay.”

10:36 a.m.

The bedroom’s quiet, dim with late morning light.

Pedro’s hand is still on your back, fingers idly tracing slow, lazy shapes like he doesn’t want to break the silence. You’re sprawled across his chest with your leg slung over his hip, still tangled in sheets and sleep and warmth.

You murmur, “My thighs hurt.”

Pedro laughs softly under you. “That’s a good sign, right?”

You pinch his side gently, but you’re smiling. “You’re annoying.”

He kisses your hair. “You’re glowing.”

“I’m sweaty.”

“Same thing.”

You hum, turning your face into his neck. “We should get up.”

“We don’t have to.”

“We will eventually.”

He sighs dramatically. “Fine. But I’m making coffee and putting on music and not wearing pants, so. Prepare yourself.”

You brush your teeth side-by-side in front of the mirror, barefoot and rumpled. He’s wearing plaid pajama pants slung low on his hips. You’re in one of his big, soft shirts that barely covers your ass.

Pedro spits, then wipes his mouth and gestures toward your reflection. “You’re doing the ‘walk of shame’ all wrong.”

“Oh yeah?”

He steps behind you, wraps his arms around your waist, kisses your shoulder. “Yeah. You’re supposed to sneak out. Look flustered. Not stand here looking like a smug little goddess.”

You lean back into him. “I can sneak if you want.”

He brushes your hair over your shoulder, mouth at your ear. “Don’t you dare.”

You perch on the counter while Pedro makes eggs and toasts thick slices of sourdough. Coffee gurgles in the French press. Music hums low from a Bluetooth speaker—Fleetwood Mac, or maybe The Rolling Stones, something vintage and cozy and a little flirtatious.

He hands you a piece of toast like it’s a peace offering.

“You’re spoiling me,” you murmur between bites.

He shrugs. “You stayed the night. That earns you toast rights.”

“What else does it earn me?”

Pedro leans on the counter next to you, pretending to think. “More coffee. Back rubs. The good chocolate from the top shelf. Maybe a foot rub if you beg.”

You laugh.

But he watches you for a second, quiet, eyes soft.

Then, a little more serious, he says, “You’re okay? With last night?”

You nod right away. “Of course I am.”

“You don’t feel—like it was too fast?”

You pause. “No. Do you?”

He looks away for a second. Then back at you.

“No. I just… I don't want to mess this up.”

Your heart thumps.

“You’re not,” you say, and it’s true. “I like being here. With you.”

Pedro steps closer. Kisses you on the forehead.

“You make me feel lucky,” he murmurs. “Like… really lucky.”

You hide your face in his shoulder, smiling into his shirt. “Sappy.”

“You love it.”

“I kinda do.”

You end up back in bed with the window open and your coffee cups half-full on the nightstand.

You scroll through your phone lazily while Pedro reads a book beside you, one hand resting on your thigh like he just needs to be touching you, even when he’s distracted.

Eventually, he sets the book down and watches you instead.

“Next time,” he says quietly, “let me take you out properly. Like a real date.”

You glance up. “Like…in public?”

He nods, hesitating. “If you want. I can be careful. Private table. Back entrance.”

You study him for a beat.

Then smile.

“Okay.”

He exhales, slow and relieved. Pulls you toward him.

And it hits you—how easy this could be. How dangerous. How close you already feel to something you shouldn’t want this badly.

But you let him kiss you again.

Because right now?

You just want more.

Pedro 🍯 Friday night okay for our scandalous outing?

You depends will there be food? and you opening doors for me like a gentleman?

Pedro 🍯 I’d open every door in LA for you even the ones I’m not supposed to

You that’s hot okay I’m in what’s the dress code? do I need to look famous?

Pedro 🍯 You are famous. In my phone. In my bed. In my head. But no—look like yourself. That’s what I like.

You you’re lucky you’re cute I’ll give you flirty and effortless

Pedro 🍯 It’s a look that destroys me every time

 Friday Night – 8:04 PM

Private restaurant in West Hollywood

The hostess barely glances at you as she leads you down a narrow hallway to the back, where the lights are low and the table is tucked away in a cozy, dim corner.

Pedro’s already there, standing when he sees you. Black dress shirt, a little open at the collar. Trim beard. That soft smile that’s reserved for you now.

He says, “Wow,” under his breath when he sees you.

You grin. “That’s what you were waiting for?”

“No,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “But it’s a damn good bonus.”

He pulls your chair out for you, brushes his fingers down your arm as you sit. The tension’s quiet but buzzing. This isn’t like being at his apartment in sweats and bare legs. This is real.

The waiter arrives quickly—Pedro’s arranged everything. Wine’s already poured. A cheese plate. You’re grateful, because you’re nervous.

“Not what you expected?” he asks, eyes warm.

“It’s nice,” you say. “Just… kinda crazy. We’re really out.”

He leans in, voice low. “We don’t have to stay long.”

“No,” you say quickly, surprising yourself. “I want to.”

You talk about movies. About food. He asks about your classes. You ask about scripts he’s reading. It’s easy, even with the candlelight and clinking glasses and murmurs behind you.

But at one point, you feel someone glance toward the corner—just a shift, a flick of someone’s head.

You both go still.

Pedro reaches across the table and touches your hand, thumb brushing the back of your fingers.

“Don’t look,” he says gently. “They won’t get anything.”

You nod, swallowing.

“I’m okay,” you whisper.

His grip tightens slightly.

“So am I.”

Outside the restaurant

Pedro’s car pulls around to the back entrance just like he’d asked. You both slip out quietly, sunglasses on—even though it’s dark—and hoods up. The manager gave him a discreet nod on the way out, like this wasn’t his first time protecting someone.

Once you’re in the car, doors shut, windows up, and seat belts clicked… he finally exhales.

You laugh a little, heart still racing. “That was weird.”

“It was,” he agrees, starting the engine. “But not terrible, right?”

You glance at him. “I don’t think I’ve ever been watched while eating cheese.”

Pedro grins. “To be fair, you looked very hot doing it.”

You nudge his arm. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it.”

You do.

 10:05 PM – His Apartment

He lets you in first. The lights are soft. The space smells like bergamot and whatever cologne still clings to his jacket.

You take your shoes off by the door without thinking. He shrugs out of his coat, throws it on the back of the couch. His shirt’s still half-unbuttoned.

“Wine?” he asks.

You shake your head. “Just water.”

Pedro nods and heads to the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it from the fridge. You trail behind him, watching the lines of his back move beneath the dark cotton of his shirt.

When he turns, you’re sitting on top of the counter, arms crossed.

“You’re quiet,” he says gently, handing you the glass.

You take a sip. “Just thinking.”

He nods. Waits.

You hesitate. Then, “Do you worry? About people knowing?”

He pauses. Then crosses to stand in front of you, leaning back on the opposite counter, arms loosely folded.

“I do,” he says honestly. “Not because I’m ashamed. I just… I know how people talk. And I don’t want them to get it wrong.”

You nod slowly. “Yeah.”

He watches you.

“I also don’t want to stop seeing you,” he adds softly. “So I guess I’ll figure it out.”

That makes your stomach flip.

“You don’t think it’s a bad idea?” you ask. “This?”

He tilts his head, thoughtful. Then he shook it.

“No. Not when you look at me like that.”

You blink. “Like what?”

Pedro smiles a little. “Like I’m not just some actor you had a crush on once. Like I’m… real.”

You don’t say anything, but you take a step forward. So does he.

Your hand lands gently on his chest.

“I like the real you,” you say. “Even when you’re dramatic.”

“I’m not dramatic.”

“You literally made an escape plan for dinner.”

He chuckles in a low tone. “Fair.”

Your fingers hook at the collar of his shirt.

“Can I stay again?”

Pedro leans down and presses his forehead to yours.

“Please do.”

Pedro steps between your legs, his palms firm against your thighs, slowly sliding up under the hem of your dress. The fabric bunches at your hips, but neither of you cares. You’ve kissed him before, but not like this—not when everything feels like it might break open if you dare to go a little further.

“You’re killin’ me,” he mutters, lips brushing just below your ear as his hands roam.

Your breath catches. “I haven’t even done anything.”

Pedro pulls back just enough to look at you. “You wore that dress.”

You tilt your head. “You told me to.”

He smirks. “Yeah. My own damn fault.”

His mouth is on yours again—hot, unrelenting. The kiss turns hungrier. You moan into it when he presses closer, the hard line of him slotting between your thighs.

His hands are greedy now, tracing the backs of your thighs, then cupping your ass, pulling you forward against him. Your hips grind instinctively. He groans into your mouth, like he’s trying to hold back but failing.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel—Jesus—”

One of his hands slips around to your front, dragging his fingers between your legs over your panties. He feels how warm you are, how soaked the fabric is. His eyes flick up to yours, dark and full of heat.

“This all for me, baby?”

You nod, lips parted. “Been like that since dinner.”

He lets out a low, guttural sound and presses the heel of his hand right where you’re throbbing. You roll your hips against it, helpless. Your legs tighten around his waist as your back arches into him.

Pedro leans in, his voice ragged. “You want me to touch you?”

You barely manage a breathy, “Yes.”

His fingers hook into your panties, dragging them to the side. And then he touches you—slowly, carefully—like he’s trying to memorize every reaction. The pad of his middle finger slides through your slick folds, circling your clit just once.

You jerk slightly, gasping.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, watching your face. “You’re so wet already.”

You try to kiss him again, but he teases you, keeping his lips just out of reach. His fingers move lower, pressing gently at your entrance. He slips one inside, slow but sure.

Your head falls back. “Pedro—”

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, adding a second finger, curling them just right. “You feel fuckin’ incredible.”

You rock your hips in time with his rhythm, your moans filling the quiet kitchen. The counter is cool beneath your thighs, but you’re burning everywhere else—chest flushed, heart racing.

Pedro leans in and kisses the underside of your jaw, then your neck, his voice hot and gravelly against your skin. “I wanna see you come like this. Just like this.”

You grip his shoulders, legs trembling slightly as the pressure builds. He keeps his thumb on your clit, circling it in time with every curl of his fingers.

“Fuck—don’t stop—please don’t stop—”

“I won’t, baby. I’ve got you. Let go for me.”

It hits fast. Your hips stutter, mouth falling open in a whimper as you come around his fingers, clenching tight while he keeps working you through it. He watches every second of it, like he’s completely wrecked by the sight of you falling apart in his hands.

When it’s too much, you grab his wrist, panting. “Okay. Okay—”

He kisses you then, deep and messy and full of hunger. You taste yourself on his tongue, and somehow that just makes it hotter.

“Next time,” he murmurs against your lips, voice full of promise, “it’s gonna be in bed. And I’m not gonna stop until you beg.”

You smile, still breathless. “Who says I won’t beg right here?”

He laughs softly, tucks your hair behind your ear, and leans his forehead against yours. “You’re trouble.”

“You like it.”

Pedro hums, pressing one last kiss to your lips. “I really do.”

Pedro kisses you again—more urgently this time, like he’s chasing the taste of your moan. You’re still coming down from your high, but he’s nowhere near finished. His hand strokes down your thigh, then back up slowly, deliberately. His lips drag down your neck to your collarbone, tongue flicking over the skin as he murmurs, “You’re so fuckin’ pretty like this, baby.”

You squirm in his grip, panting softly. “Pedro…”

He groans when you say his name like that, like a plea. His hands slip under your thighs, and in one swift, effortless movement, he lifts you from the counter and carries you into the living room. He lays you out gently on the couch, kneeling between your legs, spreading them with his hands.

Your dress is still bunched around your hips. Your panties are crooked, barely hanging on.

Pedro looks down at you—lips swollen, legs open for him, pupils blown wide. “You want more?”

You nod, voice shaky. “I—I want your mouth.”

“Jesus Christ,” he whispers. “You’re gonna kill me.”

He leans in, dragging your panties down your legs slowly, deliberately. You watch him with wide eyes, chest rising and falling. He kisses the inside of your thigh first—soft, reverent—then bites, just a little, enough to make you whimper.

And then he licks you.

It starts slow—his tongue parting your folds, gentle strokes that make you arch your back. But he doesn’t stay soft for long. He groans into you like he’s starving, hands gripping your thighs as he locks you in place and sucks hard on your clit. Your hips jerk up, and he just tightens his grip, flattening his tongue and dragging it slowly up and down before circling your entrance.

You’re already close again.

“Pedro, fuck—oh my God—”

He looks up at you, mouth shiny, eyes wild. “Come again for me. Just like this.”

You tangle your fingers in his hair, anchoring yourself while he devours you. He slides one finger back inside you, then another, curling them just right as his tongue works your clit. You fall apart again—loud, shaking, hips grinding against his mouth as you come harder than before.

You feel him groan when you clench around his fingers. He fucking likes how wrecked you are.

When he finally pulls away, you’re breathless and trembling. He kisses your inner thigh one more time before leaning over you, lips slick with you, eyes blown wide.

You reach for him, cupping him through his sweats. He’s rock hard and twitching under your palm. “Your turn.”

He swears under his breath, grinding into your hand. “I’ve been dying since you walked in.”

You tug the waistband of his slacks down. He helps, finally freeing himself—and your mouth waters at the sight of him. He’s thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip.

Pedro watches your face as you stroke him slowly, teasing him the way he teased you.

“You gonna let me take care of you?” you ask, sweet and soft.

He groans low. “Not gonna last if you keep looking at me like that.”

But he lets you guide him on top of you, your thighs still slick and spread. You rub his tip against your folds, not letting him in—just grinding, coating him in your arousal. You both moan at the contact.

He leans down, forehead pressed to yours, hips moving in slow, desperate circles.

“Fuck, that feels good,” he mutters.

You wrap your arms around his neck, legs around his waist, your voice a whisper against his jaw. “Next time, you’re gonna fuck me for real.”

Pedro pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. “This isn’t even close to done, sweetheart.”

He ruts against you again, both of you panting now, bodies slick and sticky. He kisses you—deep and messy—as he comes against your stomach with a groan, your name falling from his lips like a prayer.

You lie there together, tangled and panting, the whole room humming with the tension that still lingers.

Pedro finally exhales a breathy laugh. “We’re in trouble, aren’t we?”

You grin, heart racing. “Big, big trouble.”

He kisses your shoulder and smiles into your skin. “Worth it.”

You’re curled up in Pedro’s bed again, half-asleep with your cheek against his chest, his hand absentmindedly tracing lazy circles on your back.

He shifts a little beneath you, reaches over with a yawn to grab his phone from the nightstand, squinting at the screen as it lights up.

Then he goes still.

You feel it before you hear it—his body tensing just enough to draw your attention.

You peek up at him. “Everything okay?”

Pedro doesn’t answer right away. He swipes through something on his phone with a sharp breath through his nose, then hands it to you silently.

Your stomach flips.

It’s Twitter.

A photo. Grainy, long-lens, obviously taken from across the street.

Pedro Pascal on a late-night coffee date?He’s walking beside you on the sidewalk. His hood is up, and yours is too. Your face is angled down, half-covered by your oversized scarf. But it’s undeniably him.

His hand is on the small of your back. Gentle. Familiar.

The photo already has over 80k likes.

“Shit,” you whisper, sitting up a little.

Pedro watches you carefully. “Your face isn’t in it. You’re okay.”

“I mean… yeah, but people are gonna figure it out, aren’t they?” You hand him the phone, heart thudding.

There are already hundreds of quote tweets. Gossip accounts, stan edits, comments like:

“whoever she is… I fear I’m her now” “idk who she is but I know she smells like vanilla and reads poetry” “Pedro Pascal out on a date???? Real man hours” “y’all think this is PR? 😭”

You fall back into the pillows, groaning into the sheets. “I literally had exams yesterday. I was studying in a hoodie like twelve hours ago.”

Pedro chuckles softly. “And now you’re an anonymous femme fatale. Wild.”

You glance over at him. “This doesn’t freak you out?”

“Not really.” He reaches out, brushing your hair back. “I’ve been through worse. You okay, though?”

“I mean…” You sit up, wrapping the sheet around yourself. “I didn’t think this was gonna get real like that. That fast.”

Pedro watches you quietly for a moment. Then he reaches for your hand.

“We don’t have to rush anything. If you want to pull back, stay private, disappear for a bit, we can do that. But I also—” He pauses, thumb brushing your knuckles. “I like this. You and me. I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen.”

You soften. “I don’t want that either.”

“Then we play it smart.” He smiles a little. “Let them talk. They don’t know anything.”

You squeeze his hand. “Okay. But if I get doxxed by a thirteen-year-old running a fan cam account…”

“I’ll delete the internet for you.”

You laugh, and he leans over to kiss your temple.

Just like that, the tension fades a little. Not gone, not really, but tucked away beside the coffee cups and slow mornings and quiet confessions in bed.

You wake up later to the smell of butter and fresh coffee.

The space in bed beside you is empty, but warm. Sunlight spills through the curtains in long strips, cutting across the crumpled sheets and your bare legs. You stretch slowly, sore in the sweetest way, your body still humming from the night before.

You find Pedro in the kitchen, barefoot in his plaid pajama pants, the ones with a little rip near the pocket. He’s focused on the skillet in front of him, brows furrowed, spatula in hand like he’s trying to win an award for best boyfriend breakfast.

You linger in the doorway, quietly watching him like you’re afraid saying his name will break the spell.

He turns at just the right moment, catching you with a sleepy smile.

“Well, good morning, mystery girl.”

You grin. “Don’t call me that.”

“What? You are a mystery.” He gestures to the open laptop on the kitchen counter. “You’re trending.”

Your stomach dips. “So it wasn’t just a bad dream?”

Pedro nods. “Hashtag 'Pedro Pascal Date Night' has entered the chat.”

You groan and pad into the room, barefoot in his T-shirt, curling your arms around his waist from behind. “This is so surreal.”

He leans back into you just enough to kiss your knuckles. “You’re still you. I’m still me. Nothing changes that.”

You rest your cheek against his back. “I know, it’s just… I wasn’t expecting it to feel this big.”

Pedro turns gently in your arms and cups your face with those warm, capable hands. “Then let’s keep it small. Just you and me in this kitchen. My bad pancakes. Your bedhead. The rest can wait.”

You nod. Let him kiss you. Let him hold you like that.

A few minutes later, you’re sitting at the little dining table while he plates the eggs, toast, and strawberries in a way that’s oddly charming and not very symmetrical. He brings you your coffee just the way you like it—too much cream, not enough sugar.

“God,” you say, taking a sip. “This is dangerously domestic.”

Pedro raises an eyebrow, settling across from you. “Dangerous?”

You smirk. “You’re lucky I’m into it.”

He lets out a low laugh. “You have no idea how into you I am.”

You pause, caught off guard by how easily he says it. How it doesn’t scare you the way you thought it would.

After a beat, you lean across the table and whisper, “So what happens next?”

Pedro reaches for your hand, his thumb brushing the back of it like it’s second nature.

“Whatever you want,” he says. “We will figure it out. Together.”

And there it is again—that quiet thrum of something honest. Something with roots.

Hope.

“Ah — javi! You’re gonna drop me!” You shriek as your husband of eight hours tossed you over his shoulder as if you weighed nothing, your legs dangling down his front and your white heel-clad feet lightly kicking at his stomach, your head dangling around his ass and if you were being honest, you weren’t complaining about the view. Your hands scramble around his lower back for some kind of stability as Javier marches down the hallway of your hotel until he meets the door of the Wedding Suite.

A smirk plays on his lips, one of his large arms wrapped around the backs of your thighs while the other assists on landing a sharp, playful smack on your butt. “Not gonna drop you. This is tradition baby — the groom carryin’ his wife to bed. Can’t argue with traditions.” He says, reaching into his slack pocket and removing the key card from it.

This was the first time the two of you were actually seeing your wedding suite considering you had to get ready apart. You swat his back lightly. “I can argue about you dropping me on my face though.” You giggle.

Javier lets out a low grunt as the door unlocks with a click. He quickly pulls the handle down and pushes the heavy door open with his hip, successfully making it inside without anybody falling. “There,” he concludes, pulling you from over his shoulder until your feet were back on the ground, stabilising you with a hand on your waist when you wobbled on your heels. “Would you look at that? Didn’t fall. Now C’mere and give me a kiss. Been waiting to feel those pretty fuckin’ lips on me properly all day.” He demands, his voice that rough growl that you now recognised as his bedroom voice from being in a relationship with him for the past two years. His hair was slightly dishevelled from the day of first dances and I-do’s — a black tendril of hair falling — from the rest of the strands that were slicked back — over his forehead, his brown eyes warm with love and something else a little deeper — a little dirtier.

This was the night you’d been dreaming of ever since you were eleven years old using your pillow case as a vail and forcing your stuffed animals to be your wedding guests. You wouldn’t have ever thought that the cocky, slightly intimidating DEA agent you worked with in the Embassy would ever become more than an office crush, let alone your husband. It felt surreal in this incredibly exciting, terrifying way.

And as beautiful as the ceremony was, how emotional your vows were and how breathtaking Javier looked as he watched in awe of you walking down the aisle, the part that continued to play in your mind throughout the day of mingling with family in your home state and dancing with Javier’s incredibly sweet dad, was what tonight would bring. How it would feel getting brought back to the hotel room and having your dress practically torn off you. How large Javi’s cock would feel in all the different positions the two of you would experience together. How mouth watering his voice would sound in your ear as he pounded your cunt from behind or the groans from him as you sucked and stroked his cock.

You could only imagine his reaction when he saw the special white, lace, bridal lingerie you were wearing for him underneath your dress. You grin at the desperation in his words and slowly lean in to capture his lips in a kiss that started off slow but quickly developed into something hungrier. Both of Javi’s hands come to your waist, his fingers digging into the fabric of your dress as he spun you around and pinned you up against the wall next to the door, a low growl escaping his chest as he bit down on your lower lip — a silent plea for you to part your lips for him.

You do so with delight — more than happy to feel the warmth of his tongue slip between your lips. When he does, you moan around it, lavishing in the drool worthy sensation. One hand stays firmly on your waist, keeping you pinned against the wall as he brings his other up along your jaw, his thumb rubbing the soft skin of your cheek before trailing up behind your neck.

Your hands tangle in the fabric of his black suit jacket, eventually pulling the item off of his shoulders until it was a forgotten pile on the floor. Javier’s fingers tangle in your hair, wrapping the long strands around his hand until it were secure enough for him to tug.

You break the kiss, pulling away as you gasp for breath. The taste of his saliva and the smell of his cologne is intoxicating to you — making your brain feel disoriented and your hands sweaty. “Fuck,” you breath, a surprised giggle escaping your lips. “Not even gonna let me check out the room properly?”

Javi smiles humorously, dropping his hand from your now, slightly tangled, hair and cupping your face with both his hands. “Just need you, hermosa. Looking so beautiful in this dress,” his voice enticing and seductive as he steps closer, his body flush with yours as he raises his knee towards your thighs, pressing it directly between them. The action makes you whimper, your pupils dilating with lust. “Making me think about that pretty pussy. How it’d feel to get on my knees right here and just.. fuckin’ taste it.”

Your breath catches, your fingers loosening in his jacket as his words wash over you. Your cunt is now pulsing rapidly beneath your underwear, your clit feeling stiff and swollen. “You wanna taste my pussy?” You ask dumbly — flushed and lightheaded.

Javi chuckles at your flustered state, his hand slipping down from your face until it could squeeze a handful of your breast. “Mm,” he confirms, his head tilting to the side as his thumb brushes your nipple through your dress. “Will you give me that, Mr’s Peña?”

The name slides off his tongue so easily and it makes your stomach flutter, a grin decorating your lips. “Yes, Mr Peña.”

“Yeah,” he nods cockily, leaning back into your lips to brush them lazily. “That’s what I thought.” He drops to his knees at that, the toes of his shoes digging into the hotel room carpet. His hands come up to lift the fabric of your dress, but you beat him to it by slipping the straps of it down, the dress easily sliding off your body and to your feet with one tug from Javier.

You were then left with just the infamous bridal wedding lingerie set and heels and for a second, Javi just stares in complete awe. The set was beautiful, one that you’d nervously shopped for in a small lingerie store back in Bogotá one evening while feeling brave. The main piece was a white lace bustier that sat like a corset and a bra combined. The lace is sheer and floral, meaning that your perked nipples were visible through the thin fabric — the cool air hitting them a little suddenly. The panties matched, same colour and same fabric. They sat low on your hips and the thin straps at the side created a slightly strappy, cut-out look, echoing the delicate, ornamental style of the top.

But surprisingly — not underwhelmingly — his hand comes up to your thigh, about three inches above your knee where your garter sat. It was a pale blue satin ribbon gathered into gentle ruffles that sat beautifully against your skin. His voice comes out a little low, a little strangled. “Was wonderin’ what your something blue was.”

And it was true, that was your something blue. Something you’d borrowed last minute from Connie — Steve’s wife who you had formed quite a close relationship with considering you and Javi both work with her husband. It wasn’t even something you’d thought about much but he seemed to like it.

You smile behind your bit lip, dropping your head back against the wall behind you. You couldn’t conjure a response — not when he was so close to your cunt which had now — undoubtedly — created a dark spot onto your panties, one likely visible to Javi. He takes your lack of response as a sign to get cracking, so he lifts one of your feet up, removing your foot from your heel — the freedom from the shoe feeling satisfying — especially so when Javier presses a kiss to the bridge of your foot before repeating the action with the other until you were barefoot.

He moves his face up toward your covered pussy, pulling one of your legs over his shoulder for easier access. He starts to plant slow, teasing, wet kisses over the lace, the contact making you gasp and send your hand shooting down to fist his short hair. “God — please, Javi. You know i need it.”

“Yeah,” he coos, his other hand that wasn’t holding your waist steady coming down to rub a circle into your clit over your panties. “I know you do, amorcito. And I’m gonna give it to you. Just gotta have some patience.” And then, slowly guiding your leg that was hanging over his back to the floor again, he tugs the tight fitting panties down your thighs and legs until they are left at your feet. He assists you in stepping out of them, the air hitting your cunt. You had shaved completely for the occasion and it was a nice change for both you and javi, although Javier couldn’t care less about the baldness of your pubic area. Same pussy, same woman.

He manoeuvres your leg back to its previous position, his mouth now overwhelmingly close to your core that his breath was ghosting over your folds. “Fuck,” he curses to himself, leaning in and pressing a kiss directly over your swollen clit. You wince at the sensitivity of your nerves, his mouth, even in the brief contact, it sends a surge of electricity through your veins. “Just making a fuckin’ mess of yourself, baby. Pussy’s fuckin’ dripping for me.”

You’re about to open your mouth to chide him over his stalling, but your mind is quickly put at ease when he delves straight between your legs, pulling you closer with his hand on your waist greedily as his tongue laps at your folds before bringing his tongue upwards to your clit, finding the little bud easily and sucking it between his lips.

A sharp shriek is forced from you, your hand tightening in your husbands hair as the other slams back behind you to find some kind of steadiness on the wall. Your knees buckle slightly but with Javier’s hands holding you so firmly, there’s no doubt that he’d keep you upright. “Oh, fuck — gimme your fingers, need your fingers.” You beseech shakily, your finger nails undoubtedly leaving tiny crescent moons in the skin of his scalp, likely something you will have to dote over the next morning when you see the scarring.

Javi immediately complies with your request, pulling back momentarily from your pussy with a flushed, wet face and bringing his hand up to your mouth, holding his middle and ring finger to your lips. “Suck for me.” He orders, his voice firm yet still carrying that gentle fondness for you.

You, of course, do not hesitate in taking the digits between your lips avidly, bobbing your hand as your drool coats them. When he’s satisfied with the lubrication of them, he pulls them out, appreciating the pruney sight of his slick fingers and the red smear coated on them from your lipstick. “Atta’girl,” he praises, taking them back down to your core and gently circling your entrance with them. You sigh in satisfaction as he sinks them in inch by inch until they are fully sheathed within your cunt, your wet, velvety walls hugging him appreciatively.

You groan at the fullness, your head slamming back against the wall once again quite painfully. Javi looks up once, checking you were okay before diving back in to continue his sucking on your collection of nerves. “No need to hurt yourself, baby girl. I know it’s a lot.” He murmurs patronisingly into your clit, the vibrations of his voice against your flesh making you keen in pleasure.

“Please just fuck me, Javi. It’s all I can think about.” You beg, eyes squeezing shut from the heaviness of them, courtesy of the way Javi’s fingers curled upward to that spongy spot and the way he applied just the right pressure on your clit. It was intoxicating, leaving you desperate for more. It just wasn’t enough and you were feeling greedy, greedy for more of him, whatever he was willing to provide you with.

He pulls back from between your thighs, looking up at you smugly. It was as if he knew exactly what he was doing — like he was intentionally making you crave more. His fingers stay buried inside of your cunt, folding up and down more rapidly now, making it harder to force your eyes open. “What’s all you can think about?” He questions, cocking one of his eyebrows as he feigns oblivion to what you wanted.

You groan exasperatedly, gritting your teeth in frustration. He knew exactly what you wanted, but Javier being Javier meant that he would push and push until you described in detail what you wanted. And from an outsiders perspective, it doesn’t look too challenging, but when you’re pinned against a wall, your juices coating your thighs while you tried to contain your desire, it was easier thought than done. “God — want.. want your cock Javi, need it inside of me.” You say at last, the words feeling rattled coming out of your mouth

Javi didn’t need any more than that. See, he liked to act as if he were the one in control — which ultimately, he was in this case — but the truth was, that pussy of yours got him more fucked up than he would like to admit. And right now, which the way his cock was throbbing in his pants, his balls pulled tight and full of cum, he couldn’t really resist.

He pulls himself up off his knees and in one swift movement, he pulls your body up into his arms. You were facing him with your legs wrapped around his waist and your arms looping around his head as he carried you in through to the room properly, tossing you down on the bed and making you squeal at the harsh yet soft landing while he climbed over you.

You giggle when his body covers yours, one of his hands gripping your cheek while the other got to work on unbuttoning his slacks and wriggling out of them and his boxers, his erect, weeping length slapping down against your inner thigh. You both moan in almost perfect unison when Javi brings his lips down to yours, smiling into the kiss at your giddiness. The proximity of his cock and your core felt agonising as both your lips moved against one another, your hands coming up to fist the fabric of his dress shirt.

He pulls back with a gasp, his lips slightly pinker from your lipstick as he looked down at you in awe. He takes a second to just admire you, your hair flowing beautifully around your shoulders, slightly messed up from his own desperation, how flushed your skin looked, how you panted at him, pupils blown wide with desire and love for the man above you.

His thumb delicately brushes over your lips, your mouth, almost on instinct, puckering up to press an absentminded kiss to the digit. And the smile on his face is one that you’ve only recently noticed is one reserved for you. Not a tight, because-I-have-to one, but a real, genuine one that made your chest tighten every time you seen it.

“You look so beautiful like this, y’know that?” He says more as a statement than a question, the hand that was on your cheek now trailing down to the babydoll/bra that you were wearing. He could see your pretty, peaked nipples through the thin embroidery and the sight of them, so stiff and swollen made his cock strain even harder. “My pretty wife. Tell me how you want it, sweetheart. You wanna lay on your back?” He asks pensively, squeezing one of your breasts in his hand and rubbing a circle into your covered nipple.

“Hmm,” you ponder, reaching up cupping the side of his face, delicately running your nails over his jawline in the way he liked. “Wanna be on my belly,” you decide, starting to sit up, forcing Javi to do the same. Your voice drops to that low, sensual tone — the one you always had when you were turned on.

Both of Javi hands come down to your hips, his fingers assisting his hands in squeezing the soft flesh before flipping you over onto your stomach rather harshly, your body bouncing slightly on the mattress with the impact. You moan at the sudden roughness, enjoying the way he manhandled you.

He positions himself behind you, his hand reaching for your upper back and quickly undoing the back clasp of your babydoll top and watching as the supple flesh of your breasts spill free from the confines of the cups. Javi leans over you so his front is flush with your back, his arms dropping down beneath you to fondle your soft tits.

You moan softly when he tweaks one of your nipples, the stimulation feeling satisfying. You arch your back prettily for him, leaning back until your ass was flush with his cock and subtly grinding into it. Javier growls at the sensation, the bouncy, soft flesh feeling unreal on his swollen cock head. He smirks, one hand coming down hard on your cheek to watch it ripple and heat under his touch. “You wanna grind now?” He asks sneeringly. “Weren’t you just begging for my cock a second ago? And now you wanna stall?”

You whimper meekly, laying the side of your face down into the soft, white comforter as a pout washes over your face. “Well fuck me then, Javi. What’s stopping you?”

He chuckles at your neediness, using both hands to spread your asscheeks before grabbing his cock and giving it a few strokes. He positions himself between your legs, running his head up and down your folds teasingly before settling on notching it inside of your hole. The slight, initial stretch takes you back a little — like it always does. The feeling of his wide tip pushing past those nerves even the tiniest bit making you gasp and fist the sheets.

“Oh believe me,” he starts, both his hands gripping your hips as he slams inside of you aggressively until he’s buried to the hilt, his large cock pushing through your walls intrusively until they had no other choice but to adjust. Even with how wet your cunt was, his thick cock never failed to bring tears to your eyes. “Nothing is stopping me.” He finishes through gritted teeth, letting out a loud moan as he smacks your asscheek once again, his head falling forward in ecstasy with how tight you were squeezing him.

A sudden cry is forced from your throat — it now feeling hoarse with how sharp it was — from how agonisingly good it felt. Javier starts to pump his cock in and out of you now at a steady pace, a fucked out smile crossing your lips as your body shook from his thrusts. He could get so goddamn deep from this angle and it felt so overwhelming yet so pleasurable at the same time. His soft lower stomach smacks against your ass with every movement of his hips, both of his hands coming off your body to urgently rip the buttons open on his waist coat and dress shirt, the two of them hanging mindlessly off of his shoulders as his hands resume their spot on your hips, his finger tips likely indenting your fragile body with how hard he was holding you.

“Just wanna get fucked hard, huh? Just greedy for cock, ain’t that right?” He taunts through his teeth, his chest going red with pleasure and the heat of being so domineering. Your moans turn pornographic as you try to scramble for words, anything to respond with.

You let out several whimpering gasps as you try and form a sentence, the way Javier’s cock curved up into your g-spot getting the better of you. Tears spill from your eyes, heavy and hot streaming down your cheeks as you get used like a rag doll. “Dick’s so fucking good, Javi,” you manage to sob out, your voice a quivering wreck as you let the pleasure in your stomach over take you. “Gonna cum already.”

And you were — going to cum already. With the way his balls slapped against your sore, puffed clit and how his dick just brushed that sensitive spot so perfectly, you were already feeling your orgasm bubble to the surface — one that you knew would be overwhelming with how fast it was arriving.

“Yeah? That dick just so fucking good that you’re gonna soak my cock already?” Javi chokes, his tone of voice almost like he didn’t believe you. He brings his hands back down to your ass and spreads your cheeks once again, wanting to get a view of that pussy sucking in his cock. The sight makes him groan and you nod in response to his question.

But before your walls even have a chance to clamp down on his length, he’s pulling his dick from within you — the skin of it now slick and shiny from your arousal. Your hands drop their grasp in the sheets, your pussy pulsing around nothing as you desperately pull yourself backwards — chasing his touch.

“J-Javi! What the — fuck? I was right there!” You exclaim in confusion, sitting up slightly to roll over onto your back with the assistance of your husband. Your met with a flushed face, multiple sweaty tendrils falling over his forehead. His chest is now bare, those strong arms and biceps looking even more inviting than usual with how tense he was, likely because he had just deprived himself of an orgasm too.

Javier wets his bottom lip, helping you up onto your knees as you stare at him in confusion. “Yeah, I know you were. Want you facin’ me when you cum on my cock, baby. Don’t worry, you’ll get what you want. But first..” he starts, holding his cock between two fingers as your eyes dart down to the thick length bobbing between his thighs. “First I want you to suck this dick. Show me how much you wanna cum, hermosa.”

His breaths were harsh, almost aggressive like it was taking everything within in him not to just pounce on you and fuck you stupid. Clearly, he wanted to drag this out and apparently, make you work for that climax your craved so deeply. You bit down on your lip, looking down at his cock. A pearly ring had been created at the base with a mix of his precum but the majority being how slick you were. It made your core clench with embarrassment and arousal.

Without responding, you drop to your belly and shuffle towards Javier, opening your mouth welcomingly to invite his dick. Javi grins — delighted that his plan was being accomplished as he places his swollen tip between your pink lips, the sensation of your warm mouth enveloping him nearly sending him over the edge. “That’s my girl,” he grunts, his hand dropping into your hair as you sink down on his length, sputtering as you attempt to make it down to root of his cock which contained that pretty residue from your cunt — the thought of tasting yourself on him making your vision blurry with tears.

You garble a moan around him as your tongue finally reaches far enough to lap at the liquid, the tangy, unfamiliar taste of yourself making your eyes roll back prettily as you start to bob your head up and down on his length, fucking his cock into your throat again and again.

Javier looks down at you in a mix of pride, pleasure and arrogance. The glimmer in his eyes accompanying the mischievous smirk tracing up his lips. You force your eyes to open, keeping them on his while you try and control your gag reflex.

You give your sensitive throat a break as you glide your lips back up to his tip, swirling your tongue around it knowing just how enjoyable that was for him. The heavy feeling of the hot, wet muscle on his sensitive cock head was overwhelming to say the least, despite Javi’s attempts at keeping his composure. His smirk falters as the hand that wasn’t gripping your hair falls down to brace on the mattress, a deep groan following.

He exhaled shakily at how teasing and delicate you were being to those cluster of glands, his lips parting ever so slightly in satisfaction. This fills you with gratification and prompts you to sever eye contact and pull back from his dick, bringing one of your hands up to stroke him while you took a break to talk. A string of saliva attaches you to his length, the sight probably messy and dirty but not phasing you in the moment.

“You wanna fuck my mouth, Javi? You seem to be having a real good time.” You ask alluringly, spitting a glob of saliva onto his dick to sever the connection of your spit and his manhood.

Javi just about falls to the floor at your question. The way you ask it in a such a sultry manner — a way that is so unlike you in real life, it fills him with something that made it uneasy to breath properly through his nose. You were so confident about it too, something that always made him weak in the bedroom. “Fuck, baby. Are you sure?” He asks genuinely, not wanting you to feel obligated into doing something out of your comfort zone just for his benefit.

Your heart melts a little at his check in, but with how turned on you were feeling, you didn’t feel the need to prove that you wanted this. So instead of replying, you place both of your hands beneath your body, looking up at him kneeling above you with a smug expression.

Javier can’t contain himself anymore. Taking his cock in his fist, he slots it between your lips and thrusts his hips forward harshly, filling your throat and making you gag a little uncontrollably around him. He pauses to let you get used to the intrusion, allowing your throat to relax and for your gag reflex to calm down.

When you nod up at him with readiness, he starts to rock his hips back and forth, not roughly, but with enough fire behind his eyes to make you whimper. Your saliva drips down onto your chin, spilling onto your chest lewdly and the sight makes Javier snarl, his teeth clenched hard enough to break one.

“Qué chica más sucia, ¿eh? Just suckin’ and spitting on my cock and now you’re letting me fuck this pretty face? Fuuuck.” Javier grunts through his teeth, reaching down and cupping his heavy balls, a sharp hiss coming through his teeth when your tongue slides around his shaft when he thrusts inside your mouth once again. The feeling was unlike anything Javi had ever felt and no coloured contacts could cover the fact that his eyes were darkening significantly into a black rather than their natural brown.

It was taking over him — that mouth of yours, how you looked up at him with such ballsiness yet submission. It made him feel significant, like he was actually worth pleasing. That sensation in his balls made his pink tip swell in your mouth with every thrust. He felt so fucking sensitive down there, his gut clenching as the point of no return approached him. He couldn’t leave you hanging, not on your wedding night now matter how badly he wanted to explode in that perfect mouth of yours.

Mid thrust, just when you are expecting Javier to push back into your mouth fully, he pulls away from you, forcing his cock out of your mouth with a heave for breath, a bead of sweat dropping from his forehead. You make a sound of confusion but he quickly quiets you by laying down and signalling you to straddle him urgently. “Need that pussy. Was gonna cum if I didn’t stop you.” He confesses breathlessly, assisting you with a hand on your waist to straddle him, his slippery tip prodding your gooey, soaked entrance — the smell of sex thick and intoxicating in the air.

You breath out shakily, clutching his bare shoulders as you sink down on his length slowly, the stretch feeling a little less intense in this position. “You want me to ride you?” You ask quietly, your forehead bumping his, your sweaty chests colliding with one another as your cunt completely envelopes him.

You don’t move — not yet at least. You stay sitting on his cock until his eyes flick up to yours, a little less lust filled and a little more emotional now as he gazes back into yours. He nods, both hands gripping your hips gently as he leans in to brush your lips. You reciprocate the kiss immediately, moving against his mouth slowly and unhurried as you slowly ground your hips to move his dick inside of you, feeling him brush against that special spot perfectly at this angle. You didn’t bounce dramatically, you just simply allowed yourself to live in the moment after all the roughness from before. Just two bodies moving together to make the other feel good.

When you pull back, you smile bashfully, leaning your forehead against his fully as a giggle passes your lips. “I can’t believe we’re married.” You whisper, moaning softly when he moves his own hips to assist you and ensure that you weren’t doing all of the work yourself. Your clit rubs up against the collection of half-neatly trimmed hairs on his pubic area — the friction feeling electrifying.

Javi smiles a little crookedly, one of his hands leaving your hips and coming up to hold the back of your neck delicately. His voice dips a little lower — not serious, just genuine. “Are you happy?” He asks, his cock twitching inside of you as he spoke. “Like — really happy?” And you can’t help but notice the hint of insecurity in his tone, like he’s afraid of the answer. Sometimes you got the impression that Javier didn’t understand your love for him — that sometimes he found it hard to believe that a woman could actually be so in love with a man like him with his line of work, the brutality that came along with it and sometimes influenced himself.

You frown a little, not halting your movements but slowing down a little. You take your hands from his shoulders and bring them up to cup his cheeks, your thumb running over his bottom lip gently. “Of course i am, baby,” you say like it’s obvious but not in a condescending way. “I’ve never been happier.”

And for a second he just stares back at you, trying to let your reassurance wash over him. He suddenly gets a burst of energy — love or lust, he wasn’t sure. But he did know, was that it was overwhelming enough to force him to pull you in with both his hands, encouraging you to speed up your grinds, a sound of surprise escaping you.

A low, almost-ashamed whimper leaves Javi as his eyes lock on the look on your face — the small twitches in your features and the way your mouth dropped open slightly, the slight roll of your eyes. “Jav — god,” you groan, dropping your face down into the crook of his shoulder and letting him take over on pleasuring you. The subtle slap of his balls on your asshole makes you clench around him, that release that was cut short earlier starting to bubble in your stomach once again.

“I love you — love you so much, baby,” he moans into your ear, one hand travelling up your back and caressing the soft, smooth skin there. “Gonna show you how much I love you.”

A mix of emotions wash around your stomach as Javi starts to pound you steadily now, refraining from anything harsh, just showing you how desperate he was. Suddenly, in a blurry second, your head hits the pillow before you even know what’s happening. Javier had flipped you over onto your back now, kneeling between your thighs as he took your feet and placed them atop of his shoulders, spreading you wide for him. The movement was so sudden that it caught you off guard, even more so when his cock was buried inside you once again in this angle.

“Fu-ck — ohh, Javi. That’s so deep, just like that.” You moan, feeling his dick reach spots inside of you that you weren’t even aware existed. The rouge warmth blooming on his chest was getting darker by the minute, breath puffing from between his clenched teeth rapidly.

“Gonna fill you up, baby. Need you to cum for me so I can do that. Fill you with my babies, hm? Make you a mama.” He grunts, his voice almost a plea as the lewd noise of your skins slapping together filled the room. Your breath came out in short pants, your climax nearing rapidly until it was too strenuous to hold it back. You can’t speak anymore — can’t call out in desperation and warn him that you are about to cum. All you can think about is his cock hitting all the right spots and the notion of him filling you with his hot, creamy cum — shooting his load into your womb and filling you with his baby.

You and Javi had always talked about having kids in the future tense — never had a date set in stone, but with how you felt right now? You don’t think you would be all that annoyed about it happening this way.

The build hits it’s brink as you feel the explosion of pleasure wash over you like a cold shower, gasping out in mercy, your hands scramble the sheets, every muscle in your body going tense. “Yes, yes, yes,” you cry softly to yourself, your hips twitching upward when you feel Javi’s restraint snap, his dick spurting copious amounts of seed to cover your creamy walls in, the sticky, messy feeling uncomfortable and satisfying at the same time.

Javier had finished inside of you multiple times but those times he was always wearing a condom or you were on the pill — but this time, this time it felt different — it felt meaningful. Like maybe, just maybe a beautiful baby could be the outcome of all this.

Javier whimpers deeply through his teeth as his hips buck out the remainder of his load until the friction is simply too much for the both of you and he has to pull out. When he does, he gently eases your feet down from his shoulders, your thighs trembling slightly from the aftershocks of your climax and with the way the hot substance dribbled out of your quivering hole.

Javi’s quick to reach down and push it back in — partially because it would refrain the bedsheets from getting messy and also because the thought of even a drop of his cum being wasted on the mattress stressed him out enough.

You whimper slightly when his fingers make contact with your cunt, but your discomfort is quickly reduced when your husband rolls you over and lays down next to you, pulling you in to lay your face onto his chest — the sound of his heartbeat underneath your ear lulling you into relaxation.

And for a while, neither of you speak, and really, you didn’t have to. Not when the silence washing over the two of you felt this peaceful. The sensation of your sweaty skin pressed together feeling comforting.

You take your eyes away from Javi’s stomach, twisting your body enough until you were able to look up at him. A giddy smile crosses your lips at the sight of him — hair all messy, eyes tired and lips still a little red from your lipstick rubbing off on them. You bring your hand up to run through his sweaty yet slightly crunchy— from the gel — hair, letting your fingers tangle in the dark brown locks.

“That was really hot.” You whisper, giggling at your own, obvious choice of words.

Javier chuckles in response. “You think so?” He teases, manoeuvring the two of you until he were able to roll you onto your back and lay above you, one arm supporting his weight while his other leaned down, using his hand to cup your cheek. “You wanna do it again?”

And now, grinning as Javi climbs down your body, you have a feeling it will be a long night.

This took me WAY too long, holy shit. I really worked very hard on this fic so comments, reblogs and likes are hugely appreciated. I would love to hear your thoughts on this🤍 love this pairing 🥹

All information regarding my tag list is here and if you would like to see some more of my writing for Javi or some other characters, click here :)

taglist: @rawnoldersupremacist @mytearsricochetm @joelsarchive @axshadows @sage-babydoll @cloudyemsky @amyispxnk @fxckingjo

Little pic of my writing buddy toward the end of finishing this🥹⬇️