#pedro pascal rpf | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

luellalux · 2 months ago

Text

Te Amo Por Siempre - August to December 2014

Masterlist | AO3

August 2014

Brooklyn, New York

If anyone had told Pedro and Carissa at the beginning of the year that, after only a few months in their new home, they would be engaged and relocating to another country by the end of the summer, neither of them would have believed it. Not that any of it was unwelcome by any means but that it was all the evidence of the world shifting under their feet faster than they could even anticipate. Even as Pedro left for San Diego Comic Con in the last week of July, the reality of it all was still settling over them.

Yet, it didn’t matter that she was under the gun to find an interesting neighbourhood for them to live in Bogotá or that she had to rework all her flights for the duration of the Narcos shoot to originate from Columbia instead of New York or that she was carving time out of her already packed days to learn as much Spanish as she could. None of it really phased Carissa– not the laundry list of logistics that stood between them and the move or the sharp pivot their lives had taken to reshape the months ahead– not when it meant that the concept of Time was no longer working against them with every second that passed. Time wasn’t lurking over them like a spectre, reminding them that their lives would once again diverge in the pursuit of their passions. Instead, Time took a different form– a countdown before their life together in Columbia would begin.

With that heartening thought, her pragmatic mind made quick work of the logistics while Pedro went from Comic Con for Game of Thrones to Quantico with Boyd Holbrook for Narcos training. By the time he came home to Brooklyn, spent and invigorated in equal measure, he was impressed to find that Carissa had already made massive inroads in pretty much every aspect. She had gotten the house into partial hibernation mode, narrowed down their prospective rentals to just two neighborhoods in Bogotá, and even managed to learn several hundred new Spanish words and phrases.

From their living room couch they reviewed their rental options.

“...I don’t know about you, but I’m really partial to this one,” Carissa said, tilting the screen of her laptop toward him. “It’s a two-bedroom in Rosales. Decent square footage, newer building, secure entry. The layout’s good for remote work. Plus…” She glanced up at him, a little sheepishly. “There’s a pilates studio ten minutes away.”

“Gotta keep up on the pilates,” he said with a nod and a slight tease to his voice. “Looks good to me. I just want it to be functional for you since you’re gonna be the one working from there most of the time.”

“Then this is the one,” she said, beaming confidently while she shot off an email to their realtor to make arrangements for the property.

Once Carissa snapped her laptop shut, she leaned back on the couch. “That’s one more thing crossed off my list,” she murmured as she reviewed the checklist she made for herself to stay organized about the move. Pedro watched as her pen hovered over the items and she mumbled to herself about the progress of each task. He noticed one thing that wasn’t on the list.

“How did your parents take the news?” he asked, watching her carefully.

“Mmm?” Carissa looked up from the list, her gaze coming back slowly from far away as she met his eyes. “About being engaged or moving?”

Pedro raised an eyebrow at her, a wordless cue for her not to pussyfoot with him just now. She knew that look meant she wasn’t getting away with anything just then. Instead of answering right away, she got up from the couch, placing the notepad and pen down on the coffee table and began to pace.

“Why should I tell them about any of it? My dad isn’t gonna magically change his mind about us and give his blessing. And, if I tell my mom, she’s just gonna keep getting caught in the middle between me and my dad. The situation isn’t fair to her either.

“And then my dad’s reaction is just going to take away from what’s supposed to be the happiest I’ve ever been in my life.” She paused, throwing her hands up. “And he’s taken enough of that from the both of us.”

Pedro nodded slowly as Carissa’s pacing finally came to a stop and she flopped down on the rug, her arms folded over the coffee table facing him. She looked worn from the conversation– not necessarily talking to him but the subject that gave her so much grief. She sighed in resignation as she laid her forehead on her arms. When she spoke again her voice was muffled, deflated.

“I just wish there was a way we could get married without all the fuss and drama.”

For a moment Pedro didn’t say a word, his eyes tracing over her slumped form. Her inky dark hair flowing over her tiny, tension filled shoulders. Her entire body under the kind of strain that lived in silence, that turned into headaches, brittle tones and sleepless nights. She was worn thin by all of it– months of tiptoeing through grief, of trying to pretend she hadn’t lost anything by choosing him. It hurt to see and he hated that there was nothing she would let him do to fix it. All he could do was bear witness while doing his best to be enough family for her.

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Well,” he said after a beat, “we could always elope.”

Carissa gave a hollow laugh into the crook of her arm. “Sure, why not?” she said without lifting her head, voice wry. “How does the day before we leave for Bogotá sound to you?”

Pedro smiled to himself. “Yeah, I think we could swing it,” he replied easily. “Just don’t forget my NDA and that prenup you promised.”

Carissa’s hand emerged from beneath her head, reaching up blindly for a handshake, half-laughing. “Done deal,” she said, still not looking up. “I’ll call my lawyer in the morning.”

Pedro reached across the table and took her hand. But instead of shaking it, he brought it to his lips and kissed the back of it. At the unexpected touch of his lips, Carissa lifted her head. When she looked up at him, her breath hitched in realisation. He wasn’t teasing her, wasn’t playing along with the bit.

She blinked. “Wait… are you serious?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I am.”

She sat up straighter, her attention laser focused on him, like she was trying to read every line of his face at once.

“But if we do it this way, I need you to be sure,” he said. “Not just about me — I need you to be sure about why .”

She blinked at him. Confused. “Why are you asking me that now?”

“Because,” he said gently, “eloping might be what feels good now. But one day, we’re gonna have to tell them. And when we do, it’s gonna blow up. You know that.”

She didn’t answer, but she didn’t look away either.

“And then what?” he continued. “You and I are going to end up groveling and apologising for something we’re not actually sorry for. Then after your dad’s done yelling himself hoarse, he’s gonna to demand we ‘make it right’ with a proper Catholic wedding. Your mom’s gonna cry until we give in, church and all.” Pedro’s voice softened further. “I can live with that, mi vida. I can live with having to make peace down the road. But I need to know you’re choosing this because of us and not because you want to spite your dad. I need you to be sure that this isn’t running from something.”

Carissa was quiet for a long moment. When she finally answered him, she did so in that dove-like way of hers that was by no means fragile. “I’m not running from them, I’m choosing to go with you wherever your career takes you,” she said, her voice even. “They can have the big church wedding, if that’s what would make them happy. We’ll go through the whole thing and let them call the shots– the five hundred person guest list, whatever they want. We can give them that. But the marriage? That’s ours. Only ours.”

Pedro held her gaze and he knew then she was looking at their life far beyond the trappings of being engaged, beyond walking down the aisle to him or eloping. She was looking at the life they would build after the day they’d said ‘I do’, whether in a church or in a courthouse, just like he had been since the first time they made love. They were envisioning Time, years and years of it, irrespective of place, people or pressures. Time they would have together.

His throat worked around a lump he hadn’t expected. God, he loved her. Loved her not just for choosing him—but for the way she claimed that choice, unflinchingly, with both hands.

“Okay,” he whispered, his eyes never leaving hers. “Let’s get married before Bogotá then.”

-----

The weeks that followed were a countdown, not just to Bogotá but to the start of their married life. Between them and their lawyers all their documents were being finalised and their suitcases nearly packed. The house around them, with a phalanx of additional cameras and a beefed up security system, was ready for hibernation mode.

Pedro was in full Peña prep mode. Fine tuning his craft, cramming in meetings with the real Javier Peña and even the occasional bar crawl bonding with Boyd. Tonight the two were somewhere in Williamsburg while Carissa took advantage of an early night, not waiting up for Pedro. But somewhere between falling asleep and two in the morning, she woke with a start at the sound of the front door slamming shut. For a moment, she was disoriented, blinking in the glow of the bedside lamp she left on while reading in bed. Then she heard his voice, loud and slurred, echoing through their home, up to her.

“ Querida! Mi vida! Mi todo! Where are you?”

Quickly tossing her blanket aside and slipping on her robe, she made her way downstairs, and there he was, standing in the entryway, wobbling slightly as he kicked off his sneakers. His hair was a chaotic mess and he was muttering something incoherent as he tried to shrug off his half-buttoned flannel shirt.

“Babe,” she whispered admonishingly, trying not to laugh at the state of him as she padded over to him. “I’m right here. Keep it down or you’ll wake up the whole block.”

He looked up, his unfocused eyes finding her instantly. His whole face lit up. “My baby, there you are!” he exclaimed, stumbling toward her with a wide, dopey grin. Before she could say anything, his hands were on her waist, pulling her close, and he kissed her like it had been weeks, not hours, since they last saw each other. He tasted like several rounds at the bar.

“I wanted to come home to you all night,” he said as soon as he broke off, his voice full of excitement. “I wanted to tell Boyd so badly.”

“Tell Boyd what?” she asked, brow furrowed in concern.

“I wanted to say, look man, my lady is at home and all I wanna do is hang out with her,” he said, as he tried hard to focus on her. “But I didn’t ‘cause I’m a fuckin’ professional. So we drank and drank and shot the shit. And now I’m home!”

“Ahh, I see,” Carissa said, relieved. Then she began leading him up the stairs as he continued.

“I wanted to tell him–everyone, really– that we’re getting married,” he continued, leaning heavily on her as she tried her best to haul his broad frame up each step. “But I kept it a secret, don’t worry, I kept it in my heart. Promise.”

“Mmhmm, so proud of you for that,” she replied conversationally as her breathing became more and more laboured under his weight.

Then without any warning, his boisterous tone turned serious. “You’re still gonna marry me, right?”

“Of course, I am. Next week, remember?”

“Next week?” he repeated in a whisper, swaying slightly as he leaned against her. “That’s so soon. Are we moving too fast?”

She snorted softly, wrapping an arm around his waist to steady him. “Why? Is it too fast for you?”

“No,” he said emphatically, shaking his head. “I just… I can’t wait. I can’t wait to marry you.”

“Me too, babe,” she answered, her heart skipping still at the thought.

They were almost at the second floor when he stopped abruptly, gripping the banister for support.

“Baby,” he said, his voice suddenly strained his brow furrowed deeply, that familiar crease between his eyes more pronounced, and his mouth pulled into a slight frown underneath his mustache.

“What is it?” she asked patiently.

“Your dad’s right though,” he said, his words slurring broadly. “I’m not good enough for you. I’ll never be good enough for you.”

She froze, her heart aching at the rawness in his voice. Turning to face him, she reached up and cradled his flushed face in her hands. His eyes were puffy and red, his expression vulnerable in a way that tore at her heart.

“You’re so smart, too smart for me. And you’ve got your shit together and you’re always classy as fuck. I’m just… kind of pretty?” he said, his voice breaking, his eyes far too glassy for intoxication alone. “I play pretend for a living. You should be marrying someone in your league, querida, someone more like you.”

She shook her head, her expression softening. “No, no . My dad is wrong about you, about us. Okay?” She hoped with all her heart that at least some of this was getting through to him, even in his state.

“My life is loud and technicolour and alive because of you. I couldn’t get this with someone else, like me or not. You. Are. Enough. You are more than enough for me,” she said, her throat constricting. “I don’t care if I have to tell you that again tomorrow morning when you’re sober and every day after that because there is nothing my dad or anyone else can say that will ever make it untrue.”

For a moment they stood there on the stairs, Carissa a step higher than Pedro yet still shorter than him, his face in her hands, willing him to hear her through the haze. Her thumbs brushed over the crows feet around the outside corners of his eyes. Then, finally, her belief flowed into him, drop by drop, neutralizing his poisonous thoughts.

Pedro nodded silently, his eyes never leaving hers. “It makes sense when you put it like that,” he whispered, his breath shaky as he shrugged, helpless at her reasoning. Then his expression cleared, his dopey grin emerging once again as he proclaimed, “I’m gonna marry the hell outta you next week.”

“Yeah, you are,” she agreed, kissing his dimpled cheek. “Now let’s get you to bed before you hate yourself in the morning.”

“I already have enough self-loathing for both of us,” he quipped, stumbling slightly as she led him up the remaining stairs.

Once they reached their bedroom, Pedro flopped onto the bed, face-first, his arms splaying out as he mumbled into the sheets. She tugged at his jeans, managing to get them off after a small struggle.

“Oooh, querida,” he said, his teasing voice muffled as she worked. “Buy me dinner first.”

“Oh my God, Pedro,” she muttered, laughing despite herself.

Once she wrestled his flannel off and replaced it with a clean shirt, she rolled him onto his side and tucked the blanket around him. She went downstairs, grabbed Advil for the following morning and a glass of water.

“Here,” she said, nudging him until he groggily sat up enough to drink. He drained half the glass before slumping back down with a contented sigh.

As pulled her robe off her aching body and climbed into bed beside him, she said under her breath, “Jesus, you’re heavy.”

“Wanna know what else is heavy?” he mumbled, his voice thick and slurred. He suddenly rolled on top of her, pinning her beneath the length of him. His weight pressed her deep into the mattress, her small frame eclipsed beneath his, her camisole tangled between them. She could feel him, unmistakably hard against her thigh.

“Pedro,” she said, embarrassingly breathless. “Go to sleep. You’re drunk.”

“Come on, querida, you know you want some of this,” he said, grinning lazily.

“You won’t even remember this in the morning,” she tried, her voice thinner than she liked.

Pedro shook his head, leaning in to press his mouth to her throat, his mustache scraping rough and familiar over her skin. “Not a chance,” he shot back shamelessly, dragging her hand down to cup him. “So fucking hard for you, mi vida.”

Her pulse kicked, her fingers curling instinctively around him through the fabric of his boxers. He felt scorching hot even through the fabric, impossibly heavy in her palm. Heat shot up her spine, unwelcome and thrilling all at once. Before she could argue further, his mouth was on hers in a greedy, consuming kiss that stole every protest from her lips. He swallowed her breath, tugging off her camisole until her bare skin met the heat of his palms.

“Fuck, look at you,” he growled, eyes dark with hunger as he drank her in, small and flushed beneath him. “So goddamn beautiful.”

Her breath hitched as he shifted lower, dragging his mouth down the line of her neck, scattering kisses that were more fire than tenderness. He pulled her panties down her hips with a rough impatience and tossed them aside, baring her to the cool air before ducking his head between her thighs. She gasped, her hand flying to his hair, fingers curling tightly as his hands gripped her hips, holding her steady, as he licked into her like a man starved — slow at first, then deeper, more purposeful, like he knew exactly how to unravel her.

“Pedro—” her voice broke, breathless, almost scolding, but she couldn’t hold back the desperate little whimper that followed.

“Let me taste you, baby,” he rasped, voice low and raw against her. And he did — devoured her with the maddening precision of his tongue, lapping and teasing until her hips bucked helplessly against his mouth. She felt herself splintering, her breath tearing ragged from her throat as he flattened his tongue and dragged it over her, again and again.

It hit her fast — faster than she expected — a wild, unrelenting rush, a riptide pulling her under with no hope of escape. Her thighs quaked against his shoulders, her body locking tight as her climax slammed through her, fierce and consuming. He groaned against her, like her pleasure alone could sustain him, and didn’t stop — kept working her through every shuddering wave, coaxing every last tremor from her until she sagged boneless beneath him.

She barely had a moment to catch her breath before he was moving again. Pedro gathered her onto her stomach with a careful, hungry touch, his palms spanning her hips as he guided her down into the cradle of their sheets. She looked so small beneath him, her dark hair tousled across the pillow, the curve of her back tapering into her slim waist. He could see the flush across her shoulders, the delicate shiver that ran through her body as she felt the heat of him, solid and unrelenting behind her.

His hands gripped her hips hard enough to brand fingerprints there, dragging her ass up, manhandling her small frame until she was on her knees, face down in the mattress, ass up for him — flushed pink and glistening, dripping from the way he’d already ruined her mouth first.

“Jesus,” he muttered, almost to himself, his voice already wrecked, already gone. His hand spread wide over the swell of her ass, squeezing once, rough, almost reverent. “Look at you, baby. Fuck.”

He lined himself up, cock dripping against the soaked heat of her, dragging the heavy head along her slick folds just to feel her flinch and shudder at the teasing friction.

“You’re so fuckin’ wet,” he breathed, almost in awe. “You need it bad, huh?”

“Yeah… please babe,” She whimpered, writhing in his grip, hips arching back toward him

Pedro chuckled low and shoved into her with one slow, brutal stroke.

Carissa cried out — a helpless, shattered sound — the sound of her body being split open by him, forced to stretch around his thickness, the feeling overwhelming, too much, and exactly what she wanted. Pedro cursed under his breath, his hands clamping down hard on her hips to keep her steady.

He pulled out almost all the way, letting her feel the emptiness — letting her miss him — before slamming back in, a vicious, full-bodied thrust that made the bed frame creak, made Carissa sob into the sheets. He didn’t let up. He kept her pinned, kept her spread open for him, moving inside her with his consuming rhythm.

“That’s it,” he growled, setting a heavy, relentless pace, every thrust driving her forward on the mattress. “You take it, take it. ”

The sounds filling the room were obscene — fevered skin slapping against skin — and Pedro ate up every second of it, every choked little gasp that spilled from her lips. His hand slid up the curve of her spine, rough calluses catching on her smooth skin, until he gripped the back of her neck, holding her steady as he fucked into her, deeper and deeper.

“You feel so damn good, baby,” he murmured, voice breaking on a groan.

Carissa whimpered, clawing uselessly at the sheets, overwhelmed by the brutal rhythm, by the heavy, molten stretch of him inside her, by the filthy words poured hot against her skin.

Pedro could feel her getting close — could feel the way she tightened up around him, fluttering helplessly — but it wasn’t enough, he needed more. With a low, broken noise, he hauled her upright against his chest, dragging her limp, trembling body back against his chest. Never slipping free, his arm banded around her middle to keep her there — helpless, exposed, open for him, while his other hand snaked down between her thighs.

Carissa gasped, her head lolling back against his shoulder, her hair damp with sweat, her thighs trembling with effort. She arched against him instinctively, gasping at the new angle, her hands scrabbling back to clutch at his thighs, his neck, anything she could reach.

“Right there, don’t stop, don’t stop,” she sobbed, her nails digging into the skin at his thigh and the back of his neck, her body jolting with every thrust even as she ground her ass back at him.

Pedro buried his face in her neck, breathing her in like he could live on it — the salt, the heat, the clean smell of her skin — and then he bit her, sharp and hot, right where her neck met her shoulder, making her Carissa cry out high and breathless.

“That’s it,” he rasped, licking over the spot he’d bitten, soothing it. “Give it to me, baby. Come on. Come for me.” His fingers at her clit rubbed messy, ruthless circles while he pounded up into her, the headboard knocking against the wall with the force of it.

Her climax crested slowly, climbing like a tide swelling to a breaking point. And when it broke, her pussy locked around his cock, making his hips stutter as she clutched him like a vice. Her thighs trembled violently from the force of her release as moaned his name over and over again, her nails biting into his skin hard, almost enough to draw blood.

Pedro groaned deep, completely lost as his own orgasm took him over. He dipped his head down, catching her lips with his as he came, filling her so deep she whimpered at the heat of it, at the raw, possessive way he emptied himself inside her. She felt every pulse of him, felt the heat of his release flood her, and the sensation sent aftershocks rippling through her spent body.

He collapsed over her, his chest slick against her back, breath sawing in and out of his lungs. He stayed inside her as long as he could, reluctant to leave the warmth and tightness of her, but eventually, with a groan of protest, he eased back. As he did, he felt the reluctant grip of her walls, as if her body itself didn’t want to let him go. He swore softly, a breathless laugh caught in his throat as he gathered her up immediately into his arms and rolled them onto their sides. He cradled her close, chest to chest, her face tucked against the damp heat of his neck. Her breathing was still uneven, heart pounding as he held her close, skin slick and flushed. She pressed her face into his throat, trembling, breath still catching on little hiccups of aftershock.

Breathless but teasing, he rasped against her cheek, “Can’t ever say I’ve got whiskey dick, huh?”

Her breath hitched into a giggle, lazy and full of warmth. She hummed against him, her lips brushing the rapid pulse at his throat. “Sure,” she murmured, a spark of playfulness beneath her drowsy voice. “Let’s see how the rest of you feels in the morning.”

Pedro chuckled low in his chest, a rough, exhausted sound, and tilted her chin up just enough to press another kiss to her lips—gentle now, like he had all the time in the world to taste her again.

Her eyes fluttered closed, a dreamy little smile on her lips as she nestled deeper into his arms, completely boneless. She gave a contented sigh that shot straight to his heart, and he felt the last of the tension bleed out of him, as though the entire world had narrowed down to just this: her, warm and pliant in his embrace, carrying him with her even as she drifted off.

-----

The following morning Pedro woke to the blinding ache of regret pulsing behind his eyes.

A groan rumbled low in his chest as he blinked against the streaks of sunlight sneaking past the curtains. His mouth tasted like metallic shame. Even breathing hurt. He barely shifted before the throb at his temples made itself violently known.

Christ. What the hell happened last night?

The memories were a swamp of sludge — Boyd’s nasal laugh, pints of beer sweating in his palms, rounds of whiskey shots they didn’t need. But the real kicker? He could barely remember much after getting home. His mind’s eye played for him a foggy memory of Carissa coming down the stairs in her robe, concern written all over face. He remembered her guiding his dumb ass up the stairs even though he weighed almost twice as much as her. Everything after that? Blank.

Fucking hell .

He winced, dragging an arm over his face as if to block out the weight of his own stupidity. God, she was probably pissed and he couldn’t blame her one bit. He had probably been an absolute nightmare, probably even mouthed off some embarrassing declarations. If she left him to rot in this hangover purgatory and hid the aspirin from him, he’d agree that he deserved it. Just as he shifted laboriously, a noise in the hallway caught his attention — the sound of her footsteps climbing the stairs.

Shit .

He stilled, his pulse pounding in his ears, guilty as a dog caught chewing through a slipper. Instinctively, he slammed his eyes shut, feigning sleep. Better to play dead than face that cold, frosty silence she was far too good at giving when angry. But then he smelled it—the rich, savoury scent of garlic fried rice, eggs, and beef tapa wafting into the bedroom.

No fucking way…

He heard her pause a moment at the threshold of their bedroom. Then her steps continued as if she was trying not to make much noise and the bed dipped beside him, her cool hand brushing his hair off his forehead.

“Baby,” her voice gentle and coaxing. “I made your favourite.”

Pedro cracked one eye open, still half-committed to the act, and was met with a sight that nearly short-circuited his brain. Carissa, glowing and fresh as a daisy in a lilac sundress, her dark hair falling over one shoulder. Her expression was sweet as pie as she looked him over, no trace of that cold distance she adopted when hurt or irritated. She didn’t give an inkling of disappointment in him for having spent last night hauling his sorry carcass to bed.

His brow furrowed in pure bewilderment as helped him sit up, handing him a glass of water and Advil.

“You okay?” she asked, her eyes dancing with unveiled amusement.

“Yeah,” he croaked, his throat sandpaper. “Just… hungover.”

“Considering the state you were in last night,” she teased, “I don’t doubt it.”

That made him pause. Wait. So, she definitely saw the disaster he had been. But if she had seen him like that, why wasn’t she mad? Suspicion prickled at the back of his neck. Slowly, he set the glass down and glanced at her warily.

“Mi vida,” he rasped, narrowing his eyes slightly. “Why are you being so nice to me?” He gestured at the spread in front of him.

Carissa tilted her head, as if genuinely puzzled by the question. She drifted around the bed to her side to dig into her bedside drawer for her birth control. Once she found it and straightened up again, she tossed her long hair over her shoulder and a purplish mark right where her neck met her shoulder came into view. A mark that certainly hadn’t been there before he left to meet up with Boyd last night. As he scrutinized the mottled skin with confusion, she popped a pill from the blister pack and swallowed it dry, casual as anything. Then she came back to his side of the bed and sighed like she had seen this moment coming from miles away.

“I told you that you wouldn’t remember but,” she said with a self-satisfied smile she couldn’t quite hide. “I couldn’t exactly say no when you were being so… insistent.

He blinked. His stomach dropped. “I– what?”

Her smile deepened in a little victory as she cupped his cheek with featherlight affection. Her gaze sparkled as if she held a secret too delicious to share.

“You were on your A-game last night, babe.”

That’s when it hit him. Her utterly radiant glow, the mark on her neck, the way she moved, slow and easy, like her whole body was still humming from the night before. He hadn’t pissed her off… he had given her what appeared to be his best drunken dick game last night. And, if her smug-as-hell expression was anything to go by, she had thoroughly enjoyed it.

His mouth parted on a strangled sound of realisation but before he could so much as sputter a response, she leaned in, kissed his cheek and murmured, “But don’t worry, babe. I remember enough for both of us.”

Then she rose from the bed, smoothing her sundress over her hips and floated out of the room, leaving him alone with his confusion, his pounding head, and the sudden, inescapable urge to crawl after her and beg for a play-by-play.

Fuuuuck.

-----

The Montage, Laguna Beach, California

The morning of their elopement unfolded peacefully before them with the sound of the waves crashing just below their suite at the Montage, sunlight creeping through the glass doors that opened to the balcony. Having arrived at John Wayne airport late the night before, they luxuriated in a few extra minutes in bed, whispering to one another about the day until their room service arrived. It was all so unhurried. So unthinkably quiet.

After a slow breakfast they got ready and slipped into the clothes they laid out the night before– a white eyelet dress for Carissa and a moody all black dress shirt and slacks for Pedro. As she stood before the bathroom mirror, pinning her hair back, he stood slightly behind her, rolling up the sleeve of his dress shirt when she caught his reflection.

“This Peña look is really working for you,” she murmured, gesturing at his slightly longer hair, his mustache.

He grinned wolfishly back at her. “You don’t need to butter me up anymore, querida. You’re gonna be my wife in like an hour.”

Wife .

The word didn’t startle her. In fact it fit in a way that felt like it was always meant for her when it came to Pedro. Still, out of sheer habit, years of keeping her emotions far beneath the surface, Carissa fought down the blush that the word heralded and shook her head a little.

“We’re really doing this,” she said softly, almost to herself. She bit her lip as if to stay her joy, keep it from spilling over, while she put her pearl stud earrings on.

“Damn right,” Pedro said, coming up behind her, his arms encircling her waist as he kissed her neck.

She let out a faint hum as his lips grazed the slope of her neck, his mustache scraping over her skin, sending a shiver down her spine.

“Pedro,” she said warningly, though it lacked any real weight. She was already leaning into him.

He acted like he hadn’t heard a word, his lips wandering lower. One hand slid up under her dress with intention. “We’ve got time, mi vida. I’ll be ten minutes, tops.”

She turned in his arms, trying to hold firm, but he was already nosing the strap of her dress off her shoulder, his palms warm against her bare thighs. And his mouth—God, his mouth was always persuasive.

“You wanna show up late to our own wedding?” she asked, voice thinning as he kissed the hollow beneath her throat. Her fingers caught his wrist. “Looking like we just—”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”

She gave a strangled laugh, trying to nudge him off. “Our lawyers pulled strings to get us on the judge’s morning calendar. First slot. For privacy. So no one sees us coming or going.”

“I’ll come and go wherever you want, baby,” he muttered against her skin.

She pressed a small hand into his chest, trying to gain back some ground on him. “Pedro!”

He grinned wider, but her tone finally made him groan and pull back reluctantly. “You’re no fun.”

“You love that I’m no fun,” she said, straightening her dress and smoothing her hair back into place. “And you’re gonna love me even more when I make sure we show up on time, legally equipped, and unrumpled.”

“Alright, alright,” he muttered, adjusting his slacks in a way that was both futile and deeply unrepentant. “But just so we’re clear—when we come back? We’re gonna be consummating this marriage for the rest of the day.”

-----

Laguna Hills Civic Center, California

By the time they arrived, everything had already been arranged down to the last detail. Dinah Lau, Carissa’s longtime legal counsel, had chosen the venue herself—California for its confidential marriage license, Laguna Hills for the discretion. The judge, a trusted contact with an impeccable track record for discretion, had been briefed weeks in advance. Together with Pedro’s lawyer Rosario Diaz, they carefully guided them through NDAs and prenups—documents they’d signed before they even left New York.

The parking lot was nearly empty, just a few government employees trickling in, coffee in hand. Inside, the building felt like it was still rousing from sleep—fluorescent lights buzzing faintly, office doors ajar, clocks ticking louder than they should’ve.

Pedro reached for Carissa’s hand without a word, and she didn’t hesitate. Their fingers threaded together automatically, a reflex honed over years.

An elderly clerk emerged to greet them. She wore a sunflower pin and thick orthopedic shoes, and offered only a kind nod before turning to lead the way. They followed her down a narrow hallway lined with corkboards and locked doors. The room at the end wasn’t grand. No arch. No aisle. Just a nondescript chamber with pale walls and a podium where the judge stood waiting. Silver hair, simple robe. He had the expression of someone who had officiated more unions than he could count—and knew exactly how to keep them from leaving footprints.

“Good morning,” he said as they entered. “You must be Pedro and Carissa.”

They both nodded, saying little.

“Let’s start with the paperwork,” the judge continued. He stepped aside, revealing two documents laid out cleanly on the table behind him.

Pedro took the pen first. His signature was smooth, intentional. As he handed it off, their eyes met—just a flicker of something unspoken passing between them. Carissa signed beneath his name without pause, her handwriting smaller, more exact.

The judge scanned both signatures with a satisfied nod. “Now, if you have personal vows, you’re welcome to speak them before we proceed with the oath.”

Pedro turned to face her. His fingers brushed against hers, but didn’t hold. His voice, when it came, wasn’t rehearsed. It was etched into him.

“No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio

o flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego:

te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras,

secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma.

Te amo como la planta que no florece y lleva

dentro de sí, escondida, la luz de aquellas flores,

y gracias a tu amor vive oscuro en mi cuerpo

el apretado aroma que ascendió de la tierra.

Te amo sin saber cómo, ni cuándo, ni de dónde,

te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo:

así te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera,

sino así de este modo en que no soy ni eres,

tan cerca que tu mano sobre mi pecho es mía,

tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueño.”

The lyrical cadence of his words filled the space between them, soft but impossibly intimate. Carissa’s lips parted as she listened, her chest rising and falling with the weight of his emotion. She didn’t catch every word, but she didn’t need to. His voice carried the meaning, his tone trembling with devotion.

Pedro’s faint smile deepened, and he repeated the words in English, his voice quieter but no less sure.

“I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz

or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:

I love you as certain dark things are loved,

secretly, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries

hidden within itself the light of those flowers,

and thanks to your love, darkly in my body

lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,

I love you simply, without problems or pride:

I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving

but this, in which there is no I or you,

so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,

so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.”

Carissa’s throat constricted. Her lips parted like she might respond, but nothing came out right away.

Then she spoke, willing with every fibre of her being for her voice to remain steady, “ Love’s not Time’s Fool ,” she said simply.

Pedro blinked, then grinned before he laughed his wheezy tea kettle laugh, shaking his head. “Of course you’d outdo me in just four words.” Without thinking, he leaned forward, closing the space between them to press his lips to hers. The kiss was gentle, reverent—entirely unplanned but completely necessary.

“We’re not quite there yet,” the judge interjected, his tone mildly amused.

Carissa pulled back slightly, her lips still curved in a faint smile, her cheeks slightly pink as she murmured, “You’re a little early.”

Pedro let out a breath of laughter, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “Sorry, couldn’t help it,” he said, not really sorry at all..

The judge chuckled good naturedly and continued with the ceremony. The oath was brief, nearly bureaucratic in its language—but Pedro’s voice caught at the end when he said I do, like he wasn’t just answering a question, but acknowledging the years it had taken to arrive at this moment. When it was Carissa’s turn, her voice didn’t waver. She answered as if she’d already said yes a hundred times in a hundred quiet ways, and this was just the final one spoken aloud.

They didn’t exchange rings. They had agreed on that weeks ago—rings drew questions. Instead, she gave him a Santos de Cartier watch she knew he coveted for years. The back of the watchface held an inscription she’d point out later, one only he would ever see. Pedro, in turn, fastened a Cartier Love bracelet around her wrist without a word. It was very Carissa, discrete diamonds, clean lines. It wasn’t terribly flashy, but it certainly held its significance if one knew what they were looking for.

“… Then by the authority vested in me by the state of California,” he said, “I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss.”

Pedro didn’t hesitate. Not because it was time, but because it had been time for years . There was no performative pause, no dramatic lead-in. Just the light pull of his hand to her waist, the instinctive tilt of her chin, like they’d done this a thousand times before and this was simply the first time it counted.

And then he kissed her. Not with spectacle, but with history and knowing that this moment had always been waiting for them. Since that night in September 2009, when he turned at the sound of Sarah’s voice and saw Carissa for the first time—nineteen, unreadable, arresting in ways that had nothing to do with beauty. By the end of that night when she could already feel the force of gravity that Pedro was though she couldn’t quite name it. All those years that followed where they buried how they felt—him, out of guilt; her, out of fear— until the night he finally stopped hiding how he felt, and she finally let go, and they both jumped. And the years since that night, figuring each other out, learning, making mistakes, but always, always trekking towards this moment… whether they knew it or not.

When they finally pulled apart from their first kiss as husband and wife, she looked at him. Really looked—like she was trying to see every version of him at once. The man he was now. The man he’d been five years ago. The man he was still becoming. And he was seeing her too, everything she was and had ever been. All the versions she would grow into with him. Together, they saw years and years together, whatever Time would give them, wherever life would take them.

When they stepped back into the world, slipping on their sunglasses— his black Raybans, hers white heart shaped frames—the sky was bright. The pavement still damp from an earlier marine layer. They didn’t speak. There was nothing left to explain.

Pedro reached for her hand. She gave it easily. And somewhere between the courthouse door and the rest of their life, they understood: Whatever might come next, whatever it would cost—they had made it here. They had always been going to.

-----

The Montage, Laguna Beach, California

Mood Music: “Running” - No Doubt

Pedro was fully intent on keeping his earlier promise as soon as they got back to their hotel, but Carissa, tugging him towards the path that led down to the beach, had other plans.

“I have a surprise,” she said with an impish grin.

Curious, he followed her lead, including taking off his shoes as they descended toward the waterline. There was almost no one out there, just someone walking their dogs in the distance, a man with a toddler digging away on the beach, and a woman loaded with camera gear. Carissa waved to the latter as they came closer and exchanged a few words before gesturing to Pedro to leave his shoes with hers and her purse, next to the photographer’s camera gear.

The photographer introduced herself briefly to Pedro. If she recognised him at all, she didn’t show it. Then she stepped aside, giving them space. No crew. No assistant. No reflector panels. Just a camera, a long lens, and the expanse of the Pacific Ocean at their backs.

Carissa’s dress rustled in the breeze as she stepped into the surf. Her hair had come undone in the wind. Pedro followed her down.

They didn’t pose.

They didn’t need to.

They laughed when the tide caught around their legs. Pedro swept a wet strand of hair from her cheek. She reached up on her toes and kissed him without a care. He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her into his chest, forehead against hers, murmuring something that made her smile, then hide her face against his collar. They even took a few silly ones with their sunglasses as the wind tossed their hair. All the while the camera clicked in the distance.

Pedro knew Carissa didn’t usually like being photographed. But today, she let it happen. Today, she stood on the sand and reached for him, ran with him through the foam and doubled over laughing when Pedro lifted her clear off her feet, water slapping at their legs. Today, she kissed him with her eyes half-closed, sea spray on her lips and sunlight caught in her lashes. She had been so careful her whole life. So selective with what she let anyone see. And yet here she was, barefoot in the surf, radiant and unreserved.

The session didn’t last long. Maybe twenty minutes. Maybe thirty. He couldn’t tell. Time didn’t seem to move the same way down on that sand. When it was done, Carissa spoke with the photographer just out of earshot. Pedro caught the shape of a thank you. Then he watched the woman remove the memory card from her camera and hand it directly to Carissa, who tucked it into her purse without a second thought.

Of course she’d done it like this, had made sure there would be no record anywhere but in that memory card. If she could’ve taken the pictures herself, she would have. The photographer wasn’t there to make them look good—she was there because Carissa wanted them to remember. Not for anyone else. Just for them. The privacy of it moved him. The intention. How fiercely she protected what was theirs,

In that same heartbeat, he realized that she was archiving them in real time. Capturing the utter elation of the moment. Not for legacy. Not for show. But to say: This happened. We were here.

They didn’t talk about it as they made their way back up the beach. She slid her hand into his, her fingers still a little damp. Her hair was tangled. Her bracelet glinted against her wrist with each step. And he knew they would remember this morning for the rest of their lives. Through the pictures stored in that little memory card, they would look back and see just how much had been caught. Not just the sheer joy and intimate weight of the moment. But the beginning of everything. The start of a marriage and the last day before their next life began.

-----

September 2014

Rosales, Bogotá

For the second time that year, Carissa found herself setting up house. This time, they weren’t just a few blocks away from her first New York apartment, no familiar skyline in the background. Instead, they were in a brand new city, a whole new country, with her tongue curling around a completely different language. Even in the flurry of the movers and boxes, she was unfazed by all of it with the exception of her broken Spanish that she was making every effort to smooth out. Maybe it was the higher altitude or the newly wedded bliss or the fact that everything was new to her out here. Whatever it was, it agreed with her.

Pedro, meanwhile, had vanished into production almost as soon as their plane touched down. Narcos consumed him from every direction—pre-dawn call times, repeated fittings, endless camera tests. By the time she finished unpacking the last of their things, he was already fading into the role, returning in the evenings with scuffed knuckles, a frayed voice, and barely enough energy to make it through dinner. But Carissa, having lived through her own seasons of relentless pursuit, understood deeply what this role meant to him, what it could open to him. She also understood, better than most, the cost of what it would take for him to stick the landing on an opportunity like this so that others would come.

While he filmed, she kept her own rhythm. Her days filled quickly—meetings, strategy sessions, executive decisions she fielded across time zones. Her team, unaware of her recent relocation, didn’t notice the difference; Carissa had always worked at a pace that defied geography. When she closed her laptop at the end of her day, the city opened. And she explored with a voracity that was singular to her, explored until her legs ached from how far they carried her across town.

At night, when Pedro finally walked through the door, calling for her, she met him with stories, hilarious language mishaps at the panaderia, plans for date nights for his days off, and interesting historical facts she learned from whatever museum she popped into. She didn’t ask for more time than he could give. Instead, she easily filled the space he left behind with wonder, then waited for him to return.

And yet, even in the glow of their new life, Pedro couldn’t shake the unease. Even if Carissa seemed happy—curious, engaged, open to every new encounter— guilt hung over him anyway. Guilt that their wedding had been squeezed into a thirty-minute appointment, that they had to push off their honeymoon since they left for Columbia the very next day, that she spent her days alone in a city she hadn’t chosen for herself. Worse than that was the gnawing fear: that one day she’d look back and realize he hadn’t been worth the leap.

He might’ve said as much that night on the balcony as he alternated between smoking a cigarette and nursing a whiskey, but she spoke first.

“I feel bad sometimes,” Carissa murmured, pulling her feet into the seat of the chair. She twisted her hair away from her neck, then glanced sideways at him. Pedro paused mid-sip, his whiskey sloshing slightly in the glass.

“About what?” he asked, the question coming out more cautiously than he meant.

She gave a faint shrug. “That I get to enjoy myself while you’re practically falling asleep at the table every night. And still you sit out here with me like you didn’t just spend twelve hours doing take after take.”

Pedro blinked at her, thrown. The half-smoked cigarette in his hand had gone cold. “You do?”

“Sometimes,” she said, resting her chin atop her knees. Her voice wasn’t sad, just reflective. “You’re running yourself ragged, and I’m over here talking about pastries and arepas and museums. It doesn’t feel balanced.”

He leaned back in his chair and looked up at the sky, unsure how to respond.

“That’s not what I was worried about,” he said finally.

She turned to him, brow raised. “Then what were you worried about?”

Pedro exhaled slowly, the words scratching at his throat. “That you’d regret all this. That I asked too much. Dragged you here, then disappeared into work and left you to figure it out on your own. That maybe you’d get tired of it... tired of me.”

Carissa didn’t answer right away. She simply unfolded her legs, shifted to face him fully, and sat there, studying him. “I worried about stuff like that too,” she said after a moment. “Not now. Back when we first started dating, when I was the one always away or working late.”

He nodded at this, remembering how she held off for months before telling him about the fact that had returned to the tech scene.

“I was scared but I never said anything because I thought if I said it aloud, you might agree. That I was too much and you didn’t sign up for… all that,” she said, as if surprised by her own admission. “I kept thinking you’d eventually get tired of waiting or that you’d ask me to slow down.”

“I’d never want you to shrink yourself for anyone, especially not for me.”

“I know that now.” She picked at the hem of her shirt, her expression thoughtful. “You proved it over and over again. Whatever time I could give you, you took it and made the best of it.”

Pedro flicked the remains of his cigarette into the ashtray. He wanted to say something, anything, but she reached for his hand before he could find the words.

“Now I get to do that for you,” she said. “So don’t worry about me. I don’t mind it being like this.”

He inhaled, ragged and unsure. This woman—this impossibly brilliant, maddeningly generous woman—had stood at the edge of his chaos, studied the storm, and stepped into it anyway. Pedro let his thumb drag across the back of her hand.

“You’re better at this than I am,” he said, almost laughing.

“I think it’s an only child thing,” she replied with a shrug. “You get good at keeping yourself company when needed.”

He huffed out a laugh, shoulders finally relaxing as he pulled her close with his whiskey free hand. Pressing a kiss into her hair he murmured, “After this job, we’ll finally go on our honeymoon, I promise.”

“Somewhere with beaches?” Carissa asked hopefully.

“Of course,” Pedro agreed, knowing how much they both loved destinations like that. “Beaches, cabanas, and nothing but time.”

They stayed out there on the balcony for a little while longer, as the night deepened and the traffic in the street below faded away, cherishing their time. Because in the morning Carissa would wake up early with Pedro, not just to see him off for the day, but to get back on a plane for the states for the next two weeks, cementing what would become the cadence of this season in their lives.

-----

The Langham, Chicago

Carissa returned to the hotel room just past eight, dropped her bag onto the armchair, and stood in the silence. The lights of the Chicago skyline blinked across the wide windows, indifferent to the date. She didn’t feel tired, but her bones told a different story. Meetings all day. Construction delays. Suppliers falling through. Her eyes itched from screen fatigue.

She kicked off her shoes, peeled off her blazer, and sat heavily at the edge of the bed. She didn’t notice how tightly she was gripping her phone until it vibrated in her hand.

FaceTime. Mama.

She froze, holding her breath without realizing it. She hadn’t seen her mother’s face since April and had been dodging all contact since then to boot. For a moment, her thumb hovered over decline. She had every reason. Her mother had been texting for months— check-ins, family gossip, updates about Jimmy—but never once broaching what had really happened. Never acknowledging the disaster at the dinner table or even the last time she spoke to her father over the summer from this very same hotel.

But the thought of hearing her mother’s voice, just for a moment on the eve of her birthday, after so much of her life had changed without her mother having a single clue… felt like the only soothing thing she would or could welcome at the moment.

She answered and FaceTime call opened to Jimmy. He was wearing a tiny glittery party hat, already askew. A little sign beside him read ‘ Happy Birthday, ate Carissa!’ in colorful brush lettering. Emmy’s voice came from off-screen, a sweet, sing-song tune, “Jimmy wants to wish you an early happy birthday!”

Jimmy barely barked a warning that his patience was wearing thin before launching for the cupcake on the counter. In one dramatic lunge, he managed to knock over the sign and eat half the treat, frosting everywhere.

“Oh no, Jimmy,” Carissa giggled, covering her mouth.

Her mother flipped the camera with a half-hearted sigh. “He tried.”

“Hey, mama.” Her voice came out smaller, younger than she meant.

Her mother’s eyes crinkled in a smile, tears evident at the sight of her for the first time in months. “Hi, anak. I wanted to catch you before your birthday… in case you were busy tomorrow. Where are you now? Are you working today?”

She swallowed the lump in her throat with effort before answering, “Chicago, I’ve got critical meetings all week for the new shelter.”

Emmy nodded like she already knew. “So you’re gonna work through your birthday again.”

“You know me.”

“I do.” A pause as her mother gazed at her through the camera, drinking in the sight of her as if she wasn’t sure she’d get the chance to again for a long time. “I still can’t believe you’ve already become everything you ever dreamed of and more.”

Suddenly the urge to confess everything– Columbia, the elopement, how her whole life that shifted to a brand new axis– only her loyalty to Pedro stayed her tongue. She could only shrug in response, not trusting her voice to be steady.

Emmy chuckled, blinking fast. “But you’ll always be my baby.”

Something between a laugh and a sob escaped Carissa before she could stop it. “What does that make, Jimmy?”

“He’s my adopted baby,” her mother replied with a lift of her chin and a grin. “You’re the one who came from me.”

Carissa looked down at the hotel comforter, suddenly remembering the first birthday she spent away from home. MIT, age fifteen. She’d locked herself in her dorm with code on two screens and a problem set half-finished. Her mom had tried to video call, but when Carissa didn’t pick up, she got on a plane. Showed up at campus the next morning with her dad, a cake from Porto’s, and balloons. Carissa, not admitting she was homesick until the moment she opened the door to find her parents there. She cried into the frosting when they sang her happy birthday.

Another year—back in high school—her parents ambushed her in her room after she swore she had too much homework to go out for dinner. So instead they brought the party to her, complete with a birthday pancit tray, a homemade chocolate cake, and a single gift: a new tablet because her old one was glitching. She hadn’t even asked for one. Her mom just knew.

“I wish I could see you,” her mother said now, voice nearly a whisper.

“I know.”

Her mom hesitated. “Are you coming home?”

Carissa’s throat felt raw as she tried to work word through it. “I don’t think that’s a good idea right now.”

Her mom nodded, but the light dimmed in her eyes.

“But I’m glad we’re talking,” Carissa offered.

“Me too.”

The lull between them felt familiar—used to be easy. Now it was weighed down with all the things they couldn’t say.

Her mom took a breath, bracing. “Have you booked your flight for the Philippines yet? For Christmas?”

Carissa hesitated, then said gently, “I’m not going this year. Since Pedro spent Christmas with us last year, I’m going to spend it with his family this time.”

Her mother’s lips parted. She looked stunned.

“You don’t have to go that far,” Emmy said tightly. “You’ve already proved your point by not speaking to us for months.”

“I’m not trying to prove anything, mama.”

“Then why—?”

Carissa kept her voice even but not without effort. “I just told you. Last year, he was with us. This year, I’m with him. That’s fair.”

Emmy’s expression shifted to impatience. “So you’re just going to spend all your time with him now? And forget us? Forget your family?”

Carissa inhaled. “That’s not what I said.”

“But it’s what it feels like,” Emmy snapped.

Carissa’s jaw clenched. “If dad didn’t hate Pedro so much, none of this would be happening.”

There. She had finally said aloud what her mother would not. The silence that followed was swift and total. Carissa’s heart splintered. She didn’t want this. Not tonight. Not the night before her birthday. She checked the clock. Made a split-second decision.

“I should go. I have an early meeting with the city council.” Then, in a softer tone, almost soothing, “Thank you for calling. Really. I loved the sign.”

Her mother’s eyes watered. “Don’t forget your prayers. And make sure to eat something with noodles tomorrow for long life*.”

Carissa nodded. “Okay, I will.”

“I love you, anak,” her mom whispered, barely audible.

“I love you too, mama.”

After they hung up, Carissa stared at her reflection in the now-dark phone screen for a long time. Then, as her limbs stiffened from holding in too much, she curled onto her side and pulled the hotel duvet over herself. In the silence, as she remembered all the past birthdays she worked or studied through, she let herself miss her mother completely. She remembered how her mother always led the charge in celebrating, convincing her to take a small break, just to blow out her candles. Over time, her parents had learned not to pull her away from the computer but instead brought the celebration to her. A cupcake on the edge of her desk. A song hummed softly in the background. A quick kiss to the top of her head from her father.

Her phone buzzed once more. A photo from Emmy. Jimmy again, sans hat this time. Just a blurry snapshot of him licking the remains of the cupcake off his nose.

The caption read: We miss you. Happy birthday, anak.

Her vision blurred with tears as soon as she read the words. She cried quietly for the simplicity she once took for granted. For her mother with whom she could not share her joy. And her heart ached and ached with a sour longing. Not with regret for her choices but that the life she came from could not breathe alongside the life she had chosen. Because the people who taught her how to love—how to make a house a home, how to care deeply, fiercely—couldn’t bear to see who she’d chosen to give that love to.

*Note: In Filipino culture, it’s tradition to eat noodles on your birthday—usually pancit—as a symbol of long life. The idea comes from Chinese influence.

-----

October 2014

Rosales, Bogotá

Mood Music: Bakit Labis Kitang Mahal - Lea Salonga (yes as in the singing voice of Mulan and Princess Jasmine, that Lea Salonga)

Pedro arrived home early from filming, the door closing behind him, announcing his presence. He paused for a moment, ears picking up the strains of music floating down the hallway—one of the songs Carissa often played when she thought she was alone. Her voice drifted with the melody, humming along, and he followed the sound into the kitchen.

He found her standing at the countertop, a bowl of freshly cut fruit in front of her, eyes cast down thoughtfully as she hummed. Carissa didn’t immediately notice him, and Pedro took the rare moment to simply watch her. There was a thoughtful depth to her expression, an almost tender melancholy.

At last, she sensed him, glancing up with a radiant smile. “You’re home early.”

“Lucky break, lost too much light so we’re just gonna pick it back up tomorrow,” he replied, approaching to press a kiss against her temple. He tilted his head, listening to the gentle, yearning music. “You play this one a lot.”

Carissa lowered the volume slightly, suddenly a bit self-conscious. “My mom really loves Lea Salonga,” she said, referring to the singer whose voice continued through to the chorus.

Pedro paused a beat, reading what Carissa meant in mentioning her mother, how much she missed her. Then carefully he asked, “What’s it called?”

She hesitated, then offered, “‘Bakit Labis Kitang Mahal.” Then she translated for his benefit, “Why Do I Love You So Much.”

“It’s a love song, then.”

She nodded. “Yeah, this one got a lot of airtime on the weekends at home growing up.”

Pedro took it in, noting the subtle heaviness in her eyes, but respecting it. She’d tell him more if she wanted to. Instead, he focused on something simpler, something safer. “Which word means love?”

“Mahal,” Carissa said clearly, slowly, so he could hear the precise pronunciation. “Ma-hal.”

Pedro repeated it carefully, letting it sit awkwardly on his tongue. “Mahal.”

She smiled faintly at his accented attempt. “Close,” she corrected him again, her tongue light over the syllables. “Mahal.”

Pedro nodded, pleased when he finally got it right. “So mahal is a verb?”

“It can be used as a verb,” she explained, leaning back against the counter. “Or it could be used as a noun meaning darling or mahal ko meaning my love. Or even an adjective– ‘cause mahal could also mean expensive or costly.”

Pedro laughed lightly, shaking his head. “Wait, expensive? How does the same word mean love, beloved, and expensive?”

She shrugged slightly, affection warming her eyes. “Context will usually tell you.”

He considered it for a moment, rolling the word gently on his tongue again, savouring the complexity. Then teasingly, he turned toward her and said, “Why haven’t you ever called me that?”

Carissa’s brow knitted in consideration, and she paused, honestly unsure. “I...don't know,” she admitted. “I guess I never thought about it.”

Pedro tilted his head slightly, faintly playful, but with genuine curiosity beneath. “You have, like, two nicknames tops for me. Meanwhile, I have about a dozen for you. Feels a little unfair, yanno?”

She was about to wave it off, tell him it was just semantics, then it dawned on her. Where she was always economic with her words, Pedro could talk ad nauseum on any subject, rambling along endlessly. In his terms of endearment, though he had a few favourites for her, it was the same. Each word on his tongue was an expression of his love and adoration, the meaning never diluted by the volume. Suddenly she understood what it meant for him to have this word, something new, just for him. Far more unique than the easy ‘babe’ she preferred, because it came from her, from her culture, her language, her roots.

“No, it hardly seems fair, does it,” she agreed slowly, watching his expression closely. Then, testing it carefully, “Okay, mahal.”

Pedro’s smile widened, tenderness clearly evident in his eyes. “Yeah, I like that one.”

-----

November 2014

New Orleans, Louisiana

The week of Thanksgiving was usually a flurry of activity in the Bautista household, not least because of the holiday, but because it usually meant that the family was readying to leave for the Philippines for an extended period that would last until after the new year. Between basting the turkey and taste testing the sides, Carissa and Emmy would have been hurriedly packing suitcases full of things just for their less materially blessed extended relatives in Manila and Cebu while Froy would carefully weigh each bag before rolling it out to the garage bay for loading the next day.

This year, Carissa was absent from the preparations, just as she had been absent from anything having to do with her parents since earlier that year. Emmy, though she knew in her heart that her daughter could be just as stubborn as Froy, still tried up until the last minute to convince Carissa to come home, just for the holiday.

Carissa: I’m working in New Orleans this week. And there’s no flights left.

Mama: Couldn’t you just charter a jet and be here for dinner? Doesn’t matter if you’re late.

Carissa: I already cause enough emissions flying commercial as often as I do. No need to add a private jet route to it. I’m sorry, maybe next year.

Mama: Okay, be safe. Don’t forget to pray. And let me know if you want anything from the Philippines.

Carissa put her phone away just as the Bayou Classic Thanksgiving Day Parade began. From her seat behind her staff and residents, she looked on and enjoyed the cacophony of sound and sight of celebrations. Thanks to the help of the city council, they were able to secure this section on Canal street to bring the moms and babies from the local shelter who wanted to come out. The babies, kitted out in layers and noise cancelling headphones on their little ears, the moms tired but pleased for a bit of normalcy, and the staff sat in a cluster together. This was their day activity before volunteers, who came in droves, would descend on the shelter to serve Thanksgiving dinner for the staff and residents.

Had Pedro not been occupied with a multi-night shoot in Medellín, they might have been in Miami with Javiera’s family for the holiday. As it was, production for Narcos was going strong so Carissa did what she always did when left to her own devices— she worked.

With the New Orleans shelter being the newest, she knew her staff would appreciate an extra pair of hands, so that’s where she went. She spent the week doing whatever tasks— big and small— around the place. Whether it was cleaning out a room for a new resident to occupy, teaching a computer literacy class, or even just taking an evening babysitting shift so moms could attend group therapy or class at the community college, she did it just as she had been doing for years at all the other shelters.

But her favourite activity came in the very early mornings in the form of creating layette and post partum baskets for the moms who were due any day. When she sat in the supply closet, putting these together, she did so with hope that each item would not only serve its purpose but that the gesture, her heart and care, would be felt by the recipient. Because that was the whole point of these shelters, why this work, beyond anything else she did, mattered the most to her. Why it had to outlive her— that women who chose to have their babies but perhaps didn’t have the means and environment to have the resources and community they needed most at the most critical and vulnerable time in their lives.

Did she dream, especially now that she and Pedro had been married for a few months, that one day she might be putting together her own layette, creating a nursery in their home one day? How could she not? She and Pedro knew that one day they’d want a family of their own— a big one because Pedro came from one and Carissa never wanted any child of hers to experience the loneliness she did growing up without any siblings if she could help it.

But that future was firmly years away. Pedro wanted to be more settled in his career while Carissa wanted to be out of tech permanently by then. 714 was still in its infancy now with so much more to accomplish before she would say she’d had enough. Maybe by then her father would realize he was wrong about Pedro and their lives could once again intertwine, complete with the patter of little feet.

For now a girl could dream… and she did, with every fold of a onesie, she dreamed of babies born with Pedro’s mischievous smile and her eyes. Children they’d raise speaking three languages. Little girls and boys who might have a flair for the theatrics like their father or innovation like their mother or be anything they wanted, really. In those daydreams, unlike all her other more reality rooted thoughts, she didn’t give a moment's thought about the logistics of it all. She didn’t worry about keeping them safe from the public eye given who their parents would be. Because if she could keep herself, Pedro and his public persona safe as she had already begun covertly doing now and would continue to do so in the years to come, she was confident that she would be well prepared to do the same for any children they would have.

So she dreamed in those early hours, when no one could possibly know what she was thinking of, when the world around her was still, before the day got to her and brought her back to the present, to her pragmatically rooted mind. One day, years from now, when they were ready, they’d have plenty of little ones of their own.

-----

December 2014

In the weeks leading up to Christmas, Pedro spent almost all of his down time between scenes coordinating with his siblings and his dad. He was well aware that it was going to be Carissa’s first Christmas away from her family. Parental estrangement or not, he knew it wouldn’t be easy for her. Add to that the fact that they were planning on telling his immediate family that they had eloped a few months back… well, Christmas was going to be eventful to say the very least.

“She doesn’t have any food or pet allergies, right?” Javiera asked over Facetime just a few days before he and Carissa were set to depart Bogotá for Santiago.

“No, but she doesn’t like raw celery,” Pedro mused offhandedly from his trailer, adjusting his headphones in his ears.

Javiera raised an amused eyebrow. “Does anyone really like raw celery?”

“Probably not, but she says it has a weird texture that freaks her out.”

At this Javiera chortled. “Ok, well we don’t have any dishes planned with raw celery so far as I know.” Her tone turned a shade more serious. “She still not talking to her parents?”

Pedro shook his head, “No, but her mom’s trying, you know? Just keeping the peace, keeping things light. But Carissa’s not budging. I keep asking her if maybe she wants to change her plans, ‘cause it’s Christmas,” He shrugged, rubbing at his mustache thoughtfully. “She just won't hear it. Anyway, her parents are already in the Philippines. They left just after Thanksgiving. Carissa doesn’t want to join them.”

“And she didn’t go home for Thanksgiving either?”

He shook his head again. “I had a multi-night shoot in Medellín so she had Thanksgiving at her New Orleans shelter with her staff and the residents instead. She sent me a picture of her with three babies dressed up as turkeys on her lap while the moms got a break.”

“Jesus, she must really love you or be stubborn as hell for digging in her heels like that,” Javeria sighed. “Imagine choosing to spend Thanksgiving with your staff and people you hardly know instead of your parents because they don’t accept the person you love.”

“I can vouch that it’s probably both,” Pedro answered a little sheepishly. “You know she never half-asses anything. When she’s in, she’s all the way in.”

Javiera hummed in agreement. “Alright, so you guys get here on the twenty-third?”

“Yeah, Nico said he’ll pick us up so we’ll probably be at dad’s by eight or nine at night…”

They continued talking through the rest of the plans for the holidays, plans packed with Pascal and Balmaceda extended relatives. Pedro hoped that between the food, the festivities, the sheer amount of noise and the generally warm nature of his family, Carissa would feel welcome and loved enough to abate the bruising ache of not being with her own during the holidays.

-----

December 27, 2014

Santiago, Chile

Christmas had been a whirlwind—spent bouncing between the Balmaceda and Pascal sides of Pedro’s family, the kind of holiday chaos that roared with affection and lacked any concept of personal space. At no point was she ever left on the outside of things. Pedro’s brothers Lucas and Nico were constantly pulling her into games. Javiera made sure she always had something to drink in her hand. José, Pedro’s father, lingered nearby during conversations, translating anything her still-budding Spanish couldn’t keep up with.

Pedro himself was indispensable at each gathering even after Christmas, being the one that the family was most excited to see especially with his spot on Game of Thrones and his filming of Narcos . But he often reappeared at her side, saving her from a cousin who was nearly force feeding her another plate of food she couldn’t possibly keep down.

“Flaca, she’s fine,” he said, laughing as he waved off a cousin who was enthusiastically piling more food onto Carissa’s plate. “She’s been eating all day.” Then, to her—lower, only for her—“You okay?”

She gave him a bemused sort of shrug before answering. “Yeah, I just didn’t know how to say no. She was being so sweet.”

Pedro glanced around and tilted his head toward the stairs, a silent invitation to take a break from it all. Carissa took him up on it without hesitation. Once they were alone in the guest bedroom they were staying in, Pedro’s true intentions became known.

“You wanna do our anniversary gifts now?” she asked, watching him rummage behind a row of hanging jackets in the closet

“Only if you actually stuck to the limit we agreed on this year,” Pedro said, tossing a pointed look over his shoulder.

Her expression did not inspire confidence.

Pedro groaned, already bracing himself. “Carissa…”

“I didn’t really break it,” she offered quickly. “I just… custom gifts don’t really have a price tag.”

“Uh huh.” He turned fully now, arms crossed. “You know we set a cap for a reason. I didn’t want a repeat of last year.”

“I know. And I didn’t do that again. This is different. It’s thoughtful.”

“Is it within the limit?”

“Mahal, you won’t care once you know what it is,” she said confidently. “Promise.”

Pedro sighed in resignation then sat on the floor with her, handing her her gift first, a wrapped, large rectangular box.

“Ooh, heavy,” she mused, giving it an experimental shake. “Is it a puppy?”

He barked a laugh. “With our schedules? We hardly have time for each other, let alone a dog.”

Carissa grinned and peeled back the wrapping paper. Her smile faltered for a moment, not in disappointment but in reverence. Nestled in tissue paper was a black wetsuit—sleek, polished, tailored. “You didn’t.”

“Yamamoto limestone neoprene,” he said, settling back on his elbows with pride. “Only the best for my baby. Custom made.”

Her fingers ran over the details—her initials stitched in near-invisible thread at the wrist, the black-and-navy paneling, a zipper in rose gold. Then she caught the tag sewn into the lining: If found, return to Pedro.

She looked up at him, stunned. “How did you even get my measurements?”

“I sent them your purple one—the one you said gave you the least shoulder strain when you paddle out.”

Her jaw dropped. “The one I thought I lost in the move?”

“Yep,” Pedro said, smug. “I ‘found’ it. Shipped it off. You’re welcome.”

She launched herself at him, wetsuit still in hand, and kissed him soundly. “I love it, thank you,” she said, then added wistfully, “I just don’t know when I’ll get to use it.”

Pedro raised a brow, a grin already forming. “Funny you should say that…”

She pulled back to see him better. “Why?”

“Because,” he said, drawing the moment out, “the other half of your gift is a little trip down to Punta de Lobos before we leave Chile.”

Her eyes flew wide. “Wait—seriously?”

He nodded. “Thought it’d be a good place to break in the new suit.”

“But my board—”

“Jericho sent one down from your storage unit in Newport,” Pedro said, the offhand confidence man who had planned for every detail. “I had my dad stash it in the garage for now.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “Okay, now I know you blew past the budget too.”

Pedro gave her a look, smug and unrepentant. “That was just to keep you in line, querida.”

“Right, right,” she said, folding the wetsuit with care and placing it back into the box like she was tucking it in. She set it aside, then reached behind her for a flat, wrapped something, the edges neat and clean the way only she could manage.

Pedro narrowed his eyes. “This better not be another trust,” he said, eyeing it like it might contain legal documents again. The memory of last year’s 5% of 714Analytix was still fresh.

“It isn’t,” Carissa promised, her eyes shining. “This one’s all heart.”

When he peeled back the paper, Pedro found a vinyl record in a custom sleeve—so clearly designed by her. The cover photo was unmistakable: the Colombian sunset from their balcony in Bogotá, soaked in lavender and rose gold hues. At the bottom, in gold embossed serif, it read: December 2014 .

He turned it over. The back cover, more personal. A candid photo taken on a timer the morning they moved into their Brooklyn townhouse that spring—Pedro’s arm slung around her shoulders, Carissa leaning into his chest, their feet resting on the stoop like they already belonged on the block. In matching gold lettering was the tracklist.

1. Introduction 2. “You Make Loving Fun” – Fleetwood Mac 3. “Raspberry Beret” – Prince 4. “Running” – No Doubt 5. Closing

He hadn’t even noticed her pulling a record player and compact speakers out from beneath the bed, clearly prepped and stashed in secret.

“Do you wanna play it?”

Pedro nodded wordlessly. He knew the songs she picked but what else had she recorded on this vinyl?

The crackle of the needle gave way to a breath of silence… then her voice emerged—softer than he ever heard it on conference calls, lighter than the one she'd used when speaking to her parents, back when that line was still open. This one, quiet and velvet-rich, was the voice she saved just for him.

“Hi, mahal. I made you a vinyl. Because, you know—vinyl is from your generation. Ancient history. When dinosaurs roamed the earth and people still used fax machines.”

She laughed, as if she didn’t mean to but did anyway, that Carissa laugh.

“I wanted to make you something that couldn't be copied. No cloud, no streaming link, no metadata. Just one of one. Like you.

The first song is “You Make Loving Fun” by none other than Fleetwood Mac. For whatever reason, this reminds me of moving, of airports and always coming home to you at the end of everything. This year we packed up our lives twice. Once to move in together. And again when we left the country. And somehow, coming home to you has never felt disorienting.

You make it easy.

You make it fun.”

Then the song played and as it did, Carissa drew her legs up against her chest and rested her chin at the tops of her knees, watching as Pedro listened, singing along at certain parts until the song faded out.

“Now. A classic. A deeply sacred cultural artifact of our Sunday mornings or mornings when you aren’t near the top of the call sheet—your breakfast music.

I swear, every time I hear this, I smell eggs and toast. And I hear you singing off-key. And I remember that love doesn’t always have to be heavy. Sometimes it wears purple and sings about raspberry berets.

I didn’t know mornings could feel like this until you.”

The infectious tune of Prince’s “Raspberry Beret” took over and took them back to those mornings, knowing there would be hundreds, thousands more to come but that each one was precious.

When that track ended Carissa’s voice came back.

“This one… is everything I’ve felt since the day we got married.

The world keeps moving fast. Too fast, sometimes. Everything’s shifting. You’re becoming, and it’s—It’s amazing to watch. To love you while it happens.

We’re always packing, always moving to the rhythm of the moment. But even when everything around us is changing... I love our life. The time apart. The time together. The early mornings. The sound of you reading your lines in the other room while I work in our apartment in Rosales.

This song reminds me of all of it. Of us. Running together. Not away. Just forward.”

“Running” by No Doubt played, it’s dreamy, longing quality exactly the feeling of that early morning they eloped in south Orange County. From the breakfast they shared before they got ready, to the exchange of their vows, to the In-N-Out they ate later that day after they took their pictures on the beach to commemorate the occasion.

After the song faded out, her voice returned.

“Most of this year felt like ‘can we even do this?’ Now at the end of the year we get to say ‘I can’t believe we did all that’. And I’m reminded of a certainty I can’t quantify—that we are and always have been inevitable.

So no matter what happens next year and all the next Christmases and December 27ths to come, no matter how crazy our lives will get, or how insurmountable things feel at times, I know we’re going to make it to the other side every time.

I can’t wait to see what next year will bring us, can’t wait to see how high you’ll fly.

Happy Anniversary to us… Te amo por siempre, mahal.”

The record ended.

Carissa flicked the switch and the player stilled with a mechanical sigh, the arm rising and tucking itself away like it, too, understood the sanctity of what had just played. She turned back to him then, her bare feet curling against the floor, her shoulders faintly hunched in that way she carried herself when she wasn’t sure if she’d gone too far. But Pedro didn’t speak. Not yet.

He was still holding the sleeve. Still staring at the gold-lettered date. He didn’t look at her. Not right away. Just let his fingers drift over the edge of the cover, the matte finish warm from where her hands had been, where hers had held this, assembled this, planned this.

It wasn’t just the gift. It wasn’t even the songs. It was what it represented—what it reflected back to him in the echo of her voice, in her shy laugh coming through the speakers. It was the way her voice sounded between the songs. That unarmoured version of her he rarely got to hear unless she was tangled up with him under sheets or speaking into his skin.

And the thing that startled him—more than the softness, more than the intimacy, more than the fact that she had made something tactile in a year where so little had stayed still—was how much she had changed. That there were still parts of her to discover, even now. That her love for him was still changing shape, still evolving into something that surprised him.

In hindsight, Pedro felt it happening all year. The way she learned to live in the flux. The way she folded herself into the rhythms of his life abroad, how she laughed more freely when they were alone. And now this—this record, this artifact, this small, private cathedral of sound she had built just for him.

He made her a wetsuit, sure. Researched the fabric, noted the compression points, remembered the way she winced after long paddles. He had done all the practical things a man who paid attention would do. But this? This was her learning his emotional dialect and speaking it back to him fluently.

When he finally looked at her, she was already watching him—knees still tucked up to her chest, her expression unreadable but open. Patient in that way she had when she wasn’t sure how he would respond but was ready to accept whatever came.

She tipped her head, like she could sense him starting to come back into his body. “Say something.”

Pedro set the record sleeve down gently. He blinked once. Swallowed. Then huffed a breath, dry and unsteady.

“I don’t even have a joke,” he said finally. “That’s how bad you’ve got me.”

Her mouth curled at that, slow and unsure. But her eyes softened—just a flicker—and he felt it hit behind his ribs. Pedro reached for her hand and pulled it into his lap, cradling it between both of his like he was afraid to let it go. He kissed the inside of her wrist without thinking, then held it there.

“I made you a wetsuit,” he murmured. “And you made me a… fuckin’... museum exhibit.”

Her smile widened, but she didn’t interrupt.

“I thought I knew all your tricks, mi vida,” he said, shaking his head. “I thought—okay, she’s thoughtful, she’s intense, she’s always ten steps ahead. I’ve seen the full playbook.” He looked at her again, quieter now. “But I didn’t know you knew how to do this. I didn’t know you could… love me like this.”

There was no flourish to it. No metaphor. Just the fact of what she’d done. What she’d become. And she wasn’t crying. Not quite. But she blinked like it stung.

“You’re the only person who’s ever made something like this for me,” he added. “And now I don’t think I’ll ever forget what this year felt like.” Pedro let out another breath and laughed. “If you ever release this commercially, I’ll sue.”

That made her laugh for real—startled and involuntary. Then he leaned in, pressing his lips to hers before she could say anything back, before either of them could ruin it by over-explaining.

When they pulled apart, he whispered, barely audible, “Happy anniversary, baby.”

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal x ofc #pedrito #pedro pascal fandom #te amo por siempre #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #pedro pascal fic #pedropascal #Pedro pascal rpf

2 notes · View notes

joelssimp · 2 months ago

Text

MASTERLIST | STILL

STILL Pairing: Pedro Pascal x female reader.

Summary: In stillness, truth shows its face. Where others see scenes, she sees soul. Where others capture light, she captures presence.

No one on set knows her real name — not the directors, not the PAs, not even the actors. She signs her work simply as Still. Clean. Final. Like the last moment before cut.

A year in the set of such a big production like the Last of Us can change everything.

Tags: age gap (reader is 29, Pedro is 46), fluff, mentions of alcohol, mental health issues, pandemic times, no use of y/n, eventual smut MDNI. slow burn. Based on the production of the first season of the show, but it's a fanfic after all, so some stuff won't be 100% accurate. Translation of an on-going fanfic (English is not my first language, let me know if there's something to fix)

START HERE:

GRAPHICS SOUNDTRACK 01 - START 02 - BOAT TRIP 03 - PHOTOSHOOT 04 - FIRST DAY 05 - YOU LOOK LIKE SHIT 06 - CRAMP 07 - FAMILY HIKE 08 - ON THE ROAD AGAIN 09 - THE GLOBE AND A KISS 10 - TO FAKE IT 11 - THIRTIETH 12 - MATTY 13 - GLASS FRAGMENTS 14 - BABY SIS 15 - AWARD 16 - JUST FOR YOU 17 - HOLDING TIGHT 18 - SWEET SPANISH 19 - SO OBVIOUS 20 - MANDY ONGOING

#pedro pascal imagine #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #rpf #pedro pascal x you #the last of us #Production

263 notes · View notes

djotime-allthetime · 7 months ago

Text

Freaky Redheads

synopsis: interactions between you and fred hechinger at a red carpet event for gladiator ii.

wc: 2.5k+

rpf!!! don't like, don't read!!!

a/n: i love that soft, sweet, adorable man with all of my heart. my inspiration is how fred talks about sherry. the monkey. i'm down bad bro.

italics are supposed to be comments under tiktok clips of these interviews. i definitely have more in mind for these two, but we'll see how this goes. feedback is writer's fuel!

cross posted on AO3

next part>>

The flashing cameras and yelling reporters have started to become the new normal, which was so not normal for you. You couldn't believe how far you'd come.

Granted, your role in the movie was definitely more in the supporting cast territory, but you couldn't deny how massive the production was. But even as a supporting actress, you still had quite a bit of screen time as the unnamed favorite concubine to Emperor Caracalla.

The fans who knew you called out your name from behind the velvet ropes and you smiled and waved as you walked by.

"y/n! y/n! Over here!" A reporter called out. You nodded and smiled as you approached, indicating your acceptance of the carpet-side interview. Your agent had warned you that not every journalist might want to speak with you and that you should accept any interview you came by. Thankfully, as the start of your night would show, that wasn't the case.

"Hello!" You beamed, coming to a stop in front of the camera. The reporter greeted you back and handed you a microphone glued to a mini Romanesque column. "Oh, wow. I love the microphone!"

"Thank you," She smiled. With a quick glance at her blouse, you saw a name tag that said 'MTV UK: Claire'. "It was my idea, actually."

"Incredibly creative! They should give you a raise, Claire."

"If you wouldn't mind saying that directly into the camera..." Claire trailed off with a chuckle and a mischievous glint to her eye.

You shot the camera as serious a look as you could muster. "MTV, if you do not give this woman a raise, I will riot in the streets."

"Alright alright, enough of that." Claire laughed out loud with a few shakes of her head. "You look absolutely stunning!"

"Oh, this old thing?" You smiled bashfully, grabbing at your skirt to twirl it around. The styling department had made sure that all the gowns worn during press had some Roman inspiration behind them. The piece you were wearing was off white in color, representing your character's position in society. Even with your character in mind, your dress was still breathtaking. The gown was composed of yards and yards of fabric, giving it this dreamy, flowy silhouette. The neckline was so beautiful, in the cowl style and draped ever so slightly off your shoulders. To say that you loved it would be an understatement. "Thank you very much, you look amazing yourself."

"But you are on a different level!" Claire gasped, no doubt to return the topic to you. Just like you were media trained, the reporters were too. "What was the thought process behind your look tonight?"

Your eyes lit up as this was something you had wanted to talk about. "Well, the styling department and I actually workshopped this look together. Of course we wanted it to be glamorous, this is the red carpet after all. But we also wanted to show the character through the outfits, you know?" She nodded along.

"Right, your character was quite impactful even with the few lines you had." Claire added, and you smiled in thanks.

"Yeah, thank you." You felt your face heat up at the compliment. "We wanted to still be true to her, under all the glitz and glamour. So that's why we went with the understated color, to not only show her position in society but also her demeanor throughout the film."

"But your jewellery is anything but understated." She laughed.

"Yeah, I couldn't help myself." You laughed with her.

"Give us a quick tour."

You were almost dripping in gold, from your head to your toes. "We've got the hair piece." You brought a hand up to show the gold pins connected with chains littering your up-do. "Earrings upon earrings, all hoops." You pulled a strand back to show off your right ear clearly. Some were clip on earrings as you didn't have quite enough piercings to get them all. "The necklaces, of course. Some bracelets, some rings. But I think this cuff on my upper arm is my favorite."

"And these are all borrowed pieces from different brands?"

"Most of them are, yes." You confirmed with a nod. "But some are from my private collection. And some I might steal." You joked, getting a laugh out of Claire.

"Well, you really knocked it out of the park." Claire smiled, a tone of finality in her voice that showed you the interview was coming to a close. "And before we let you go, we've got one question we're asking everyone tonight. I think we can all agree that the cast of this movie is full of beautiful men." You giggled, a bit surprised at the turn in topic. "But people on the internet have separated them into two categories."

"Oh, have they now?" You asked, unaware of what she was talking about.

"Yes, they have. Gen Z has divided them into the brooding brunets and the freaky redheads." She explained, pulling up two little hand held signs. One with Paul Mescal and Pedro Pascal, the brooding brunets, and the other with Joseph Quinn and Fred Hechinger, the freaky redheads.

You couldn't contain the surprised laugh that escaped you at the sight of their little printed faces. "Oh my goodness!"

"So, as the resident Gen Z-er on the cast, who is your pick?"

"Well, I wouldn't say I'm the only representation of Gen Z here." You mused as you grabbed both the signs from Claire. You lifted up the 'freaky redheads' sign and pointed to Fred. "My friend is right there with me in the Gen Z territory."

"Alright, as the representation of Gen Z women, which team is more your style?" Claire asked as you studied the signs. "People are saying they went into the movie for the brunets and came out converted to team redheads."

"That's actually really funny," You chuckled as you looked down at both signs. "This is hard." You mumbled. A small smirk found itself on your lips as you thought of Fred seeing this clip later. Someone no doubt showing it to him, as he wouldn't find it on his own. "I feel like- yeah." You nodded with determination. "I'm gonna have to go with Fred- I'm going with team freaky redheads." You nodded. "I think it would be treacherous otherwise."

"Good choice. You'd break Emperor Caracalla's heart."

"And then he'd have my head." You laughed, stepping back. "Thank you for your great questions."

"Thank you for your time." Claire waved as you walked away. "We're gonna have a tally going throughout the night, and we'll see who wins. Team brooding brunets, or team freaky redheads." You heard her say to the camera as you moved further down the carpet.

'She looks so pretty!!'

'i love the thought process behind the outfit, you can tell she really loved her character'

'the reporter asked y/n if she prefers lucius and acacius or geta and caracalla and this girl really said FRED 💀'

'i love seeing new faces in hollywood, give young new actors a chance!!' ↳ 'right?? im so sick of them recycling the same actors for every big budget movie'

'she mentioned fred, not caracalla, twice, unprompted. i see you, y/n. you're just like us.' ↳ 'have you seen his interviews? he's literally the cutest i cant blame her 🥺'

A few steps down, another reporter flagged you down. This time, the questions were more centered around the acting itself.

"And was it difficult? In a previous interview, you've said that your character's growth was significant, but she had almost no lines in the movie."

"Yeah, I think in the final cut she only has... three lines?" You winced, looking upwards as you tried to recall what was and wasn't cut. "Though I'm not sure."

"So there were scenes where she could've said more?"

"Oh yeah, for sure! There was a lot of experimentation with my character throughout filming. Ridley's a genius and he was kind enough to truly take in my suggestions. There were times where I felt like she would actually stay quiet during a scene, whereas other times I felt like she would speak up. But yeah," You breathed in and furrowed your brows in thought as you tried to focus your answer back to the original question. "It was definitely a challenge. I had to really work on my micro-expressions. Lots of research, lots of practice. And lots of trust, too. With a character like mine, I really relied on Fr- on my fellow actors in those scenes. So yeah, definitely challenging. But who doesn’t love a good challenge?"

"And did you take any inspiration from other people's work? Any source material that helped you out as you built your character?"

"Of course!" You smiled, a hint of humor in your tone as you thought of your response. "Yeah, I did. Actually, one of the biggest inspirations for my role, believe it or not, was Ferb. From 'Phineas and Ferb'."

"The- The children's show?" The interviewer questioned with a grin.

"Yeah, Ridley thought it was brilliant!" You laughed. "We watched compilations of Ferb scenes on youtube together. And I know that Fred- Fred Hechinger, who plays Emperor Caracalla-, he also brought up Sid Vicious with Ridley, as well as other sources like that. Sir Ridley Scott has great taste, there's no denying that."

'ferb as inspiration for a movie like this,,, gen z in the film industry really are the gift that keeps on giving'

'im just imagining y/n and ridley scott curled up on the couch watching phineas and ferb reruns. that man is 86 years old. this is brilliant.'

'bro didn't even have to say anything and y/n still brought up fred 💀'

'the gen z cast members making ridley scott watch cartoons is sending me'

'not her pretending she didn't mean to say fred when she talked about trust, we all heard you y/n'

Unbeknownst to you, Fred's interviews were going much like yours, only a few feet behind you on the carpet.

"You look amazing today!" Claire, the same reporter you spoke to, told Fred during his first interview on the carpet.

"Thank you, thank you." He replied bashfully as he tried to subtly look around for you, but he couldn't see you just yet. "Everyone looks so great, everyone."

She asked him a few questions and then came time for her ending segment.

"Alright, to close off, we've got a little game here."

"A game?" Fred smiled with raised brows. "I love games." He said softly, not realizing that the microphone would pick it up.

"Yes, a quick one. You just have to choose between team brooding brunets and team freaky redheads. We've asking everyone to join."

"Woah!" Fred exclaimed as he received the signs. "That's me." He pointed out his own face in the picture of him and Joseph. "What are we basing our choice on here?"

"Well, the internet is battling on who is more attractive."

"Oh my god." Fred chortled, not expecting that answer. "Who's played the game?" He asked, still examining the hand held signs.

"As of now, we've spoken to Joseph Quinn, Connie Nielsen, and y/n l/n." Claire recounted.

Fred's eyes lit up and his cheeks reddened at the mention of your name. "And what's the- what's the consensus so far?"

"It's two to one. Can you guess who's in the lead?" Claire asked.

"Let me think... Well, Joseph -my brother-, he definitely voted for us." He pondered aloud as he counted the votes off on his fingers. "Connie... I think Connie went for team brunets. I mean, it's her husband. She's gotta." He grinned when it came to you. "y/n chose me, right? We're in the lead?"

"Yeah, you're right on all counts! You really know your cast members." Claire laughed. "y/n didn't want to anger Emperor Caracalla."

"Oh, she couldn't. I’ve got too much of a soft spot for her." Fred shook his head emphatically.

"So, are you keeping team redheads in the lead? Or will you give us a tie?"

"No, I'm going team redheads!" Fred exclaimed. "I'm not helping out my competition, no way!"

'this man has bewitched me with his beautiful eyes and calming demeanor'

'he always calls joe his brother im CRYINGGG'

'did you see his face when they mention y/n, this man can't hide his crush for the life of him 🥺' ↳ 'neither can she lol'

'what do yall know about fred hechinger 🗣️🗣️🗣️'

'fred immediately knowing that y/n chose him, kill me right now.' ↳ 'mind you the choice was caracalla. she still said 'fred' and he said 'me'. can they be more obvious?'

'the way this man said 'i love games' protect him at all costs'

‘he said ‘i’ve got a soft spot for her’ is this the year of men yearning?’ ↳ ‘it’s just the paul mescal effect’

It was during his next interview that he saw you. He was talking about his experience building the character of Emperor Caracalla with Sir Ridley Scott as well as Joseph Quinn when he finally caught sight of you. You had spent a bit longer with a specific reporter down the carpet, causing Fred to catch up to you.

“Of course, y/n was a great help as well.” He smiled, reaching over to brush against your elbow to catch your attention. At the perfect time, too, because you had just finished talking to the reporter in front of you.

“Oh, Fred!” You beamed, coming over to give him a hug.

“Look at you.” Fred spoke against your shoulder. He pulled away from the hug and brought you into his side in front of the camera, almost like he was showing you off. “Look at her, isn’t she stunning.”

“Stop it,” you rolled your eyes as you tried your best not to show how his compliment affected you. “I’m sorry for interrupting, I just had to say hello.”

“No worries,” the reporter reassured you. “Fred was actually saying how you helped with the building of his character.”

“Yeah, we worked really closely during pre-production actually.” You nodded, acutely aware of Fred’s hands on you. He had one hand casually tucked into his pocket while his other arm draped across your waist, his hand resting against your hip. “My character was almost like Caracalla’s sidekick, so the motives for all her actions are really based around him.”

“I’d argue that she was more of a mirror, actually.” You turned to look at Fred, never passing up an opportunity to hear his view on these things. “She’s the complete opposite of Caracalla, but in a way she represents who he truly is under all the pressure of being in Geta’s shadow.”

“And under all the syphilis, of course.” You added, causing Fred to giggle.

“Yeah, and under the syphilis.”

‘he seems like such a sweet guy 🥺’

‘did you see his face when he saw her??? 😫😫😫 theyre in love, your honor’

‘him showing her off like that is peak soft boyfriend behavior’

‘they just called me single in seven different languages’

‘his laugh is actually so cute, who is this man and why am i in love with him? 😍’ ↳ 'get in line' ↳'behind y/n, you mean?'

‘the way he’s touching her???? im just gonna go take a nap in front of an oncoming train’

‘im calling it, new hollywood it couple’

‘look at how he looks at her!!! may this love find me 🙏’

#fred hechinger #fred hechinger x reader #emperor caracalla #fred hechinger gladiator #gladiator ii #rpf #fred hechinger x you #emperor caracalla x reader #this fic didn't fit the vibe of my other blogs #and this blog is barren #just one rpf fic #so i guess it works here #might change the aesthetic tho #another day #thoughts comments concerns?#please feel free to share #this has been the plot for all my mal-adaptive daydreaming as of late #so i genuinely have a whole life written for these two #as well as a rewrite of the gladiator script to include y/n's character #havent been this in love with an actor in yeeeeeaaaarsss #wrote this in like 2 hours and am hitting post no lie #i usually ruminate on stuff like this for a while but i just love this man so much #anyways #if youve read all these tags send me a blueberry emoji in my ask box #paul mescal #joseph quinn #pedro pascal #connie nielsen #ridley scott #sir ridley scott

714 notes · View notes

theetherealbloom · 1 year ago

Text

NORMAL THING

Summary: It's a normal thing to fall in love with movie stars.

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Age-Gap(ish), Huge Crush, kind of Power Imbalance (cause you’re a fan but nothing absolutely weird), Hurt-to-Comfort, Infatuation, Fluff, ANGST, Dog, Older Sister, COVID-19, Pandemic Era, Cheesy, Awkward, Hallmark-ish Vibes, Whirlwind, Work,

Word Count: 3k

A/N: That mf voice note-turned-song has me sobbing and dying every time I listen to it. Then I was also listening to "Normal Thing" and was like, “ohhhh this song is for me… help.” I wrote this fic in a place of just… feeling sorry…? Like apologetic that Pedro had to go through that kind of feeling all alone for a while. Anyways, there's a few sentimental moments here inspired by poetry and things I've read and learned, hope you enjoy!

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Songs: "Normal Thing" by Gracie Abrams, "Pedro" by Omar Apollo

dividers by: @/saradika-graphics

| Main Masterlist |

You had gone to visit your sister during your last summer break before graduating. Then, the second wave of COVID struck Europe, making it uncertain when you could return home. However, since all classes had shifted to online learning, the timing wasn't as critical.

Your older sister calls your name, snapping you out of the book you were absorbed in. "Hey, I’ll be out later getting groceries… do you mind taking Hershey for a walk after dinner?”

Her chocolate brown Labrador retriever, Hershey, a retired service dog, perks up at the mention of his name. You can't help but smile at his eager expression. “Yup, I can take him out later.”

She reminds you, “Don’t forget your mask!”

You playfully roll your eyes at her. “I won’t.”

Your sister thanks you and leaves for the store, leaving you alone with Hershey. You decide to take a short break from studying and take the dog for a walk around the neighborhood.

As you make your way down the quiet streets, Hershey happily sniffing at everything in sight, your thoughts drift to Pedro Pascal. Ever since watching him in The Mandalorian, you couldn't help but develop a bit of a crush on him. His charm and charisma on screen had captured your heart, making it hard for you to focus on anything else.

But it was just a normal thing, right? To have a celebrity crush? You reassure yourself as you continue walking.

You've always been drawn to movie stars and actors. Growing up, you had posters of your favorite celebrities plastered all over your bedroom walls. It was just harmless admiration, nothing more.

But with Pedro, it felt different. You found yourself constantly daydreaming about meeting him or even just catching a glimpse of him in person. You even shamefully admit that you've watched his interviews multiple times just to hear his voice.

It's ridiculous, really. You were fully aware that it was just a fantasy and that nothing would ever come out of it. And even if by some miracle you did meet him, what then? He would never be interested in someone like you - an ordinary college student from a small town.

You sigh and shake your head, trying to push away these silly thoughts as Hershey tugs at his leash to sniff at yet another tree.

But then something catches your eye - a poster for an upcoming film starring none other than Pedro Pascal himself. Your heart flutters at the sight before reality comes crashing down on you once again.

You shake your head and continue walking with Hershey, wondering when this infatuation will finally fade away.

Your older sister had always been supportive, albeit a bit concerned about your celebrity crush. "It's sweet, really," she would say with a soft smile, "but just don't lose yourself in the fantasy, okay?"

Your friends, on the other hand, found your crush hilarious. During your video calls, they would tease you mercilessly. "Come on, you'll never meet him!" one friend would laugh. "It's just a harmless crush, right?" another would add, their tone light but the message clear.

In the privacy of your room, you sometimes found yourself talking to the mirror, practicing speeches you would never give. "Hi, I'm a huge fan… and I just wanted to say..." you'd trail off, feeling foolish. You even practiced smiling and having conversations with yourself, hoping to perfect that effortless charm you admired so much in Pedro.

Yet, your self-awareness kept you grounded. You knew it was just a fantasy, a way to escape the stress of your real life. With a sigh, you would push those daydreams aside and focus on finishing your papers and remaining projects.

You wished one day to work in production, to be a part of the magic that created the worlds you loved to escape into. As you typed away on your laptop, you allowed yourself a small smile. Maybe one day, you would be behind the scenes of a film or a series. But for now, you had work to do, and dreams to turn into reality.

The sun sets late in Switzerland, casting a warm, golden glow over the tranquil residential area. You enjoy these walks, the peacefulness a stark contrast to the bustling city life you're used to.

Right after dinner, you take a stroll with Hershey, you notice a man sitting on a park bench, his shoulders slightly shaking.

Frowning, you glance down at Hershey, who looks up at you with curious eyes. Adjusting your mask, you make your way down the sidewalk, intending to walk past the stranger. But Hershey has other ideas, pulling you towards the bench with a wagging tail.

Instinctively, the man begins to pat Hershey, his touch gentle yet shaky. “Oh, Hershey, wait—” you start to say, but then you notice the tears streaming down the man's face.

You pause, feeling a pang of sympathy. “Do you mind if I sit down?” you ask, gesturing to the far end of the bench.

He looks up, eyes red and puffy, and nods. “It’s fine.”

You sit down, giving him space but staying close enough to offer comfort. You give him your name then look over to your adorably friend-shaped labrador, “And this is Hershey.”

“Pedro,” he replies, his voice barely above a whisper.

There’s a moment of silence, broken only by the soft sounds of Hershey sniffing around. Then, gently, you ask, “So… what’s on your mind?”

Pedro hesitates, struggling to find the words. “I… I don’t even know where to start.”

“I know it might seem a bit strange, but sometimes it's easier to talk to someone you don't know. No judgment, just listening,” you say, offering a reassuring smile.

He chuckles softly, a small spark of warmth in his eyes. “Maybe you’re right.”

“Besides,” you add with a playful grin, “I promise I’m a great listener. I even have a certificate in listening from my sister's dog.”

He laughs – a genuine, heartfelt laugh that seems to lift a weight off his shoulders. Your laugh follows, a sound so infectious and bright that it makes people around you feel lighter, happier.

“Your laugh,” he says, a hint of wonder in his voice. “It’s... special.”

You smile, feeling a warmth spread throughout your face and chest. “Thanks. So, Pedro, what’s been going on? Are you visiting family or…?”

“Oh, no, no. I just… I finished a job.”

“That’s nice. What do you do if you don’t mind me asking?”

He looks a little uncomfortable admitting it but he settles, “I’m um… an actor.”

You smile, your eyes crinkling as you do, “Do you like it?”

“Like what?” He asks in confusion.

“Y’know, acting?”

He takes a deep breath and begins to talk, the words spilling out in a rush. He speaks of the pressures of fame, the loneliness that comes with it, and the crushing weight of expectations. You listen intently, offering empathy and understanding.

“You know…?” he asks, surprised. “You know who I am?”

You nod and shrug. “I… I figured it out after you mentioned some of your projects.”

“You didn’t say anything?”

“I didn’t think I had to.”

Pedro looks confused for a minute, and you offer a simple smile. “I’m not famous or anything extraordinary like you. But I can only imagine how exhausting it must be, constantly looking over your shoulder. Not wanting to mess up or upset people must make you feel like you’re always on the edge, always holding your breath.”

He nods, his expression softening. “That’s exactly it.”

“I've done my fair share of pacing and reeling,” you say with a self-deprecating chuckle. “I even thought it looked cute at times. But I know there's more to life than just this feeling of uncertainty. Even though right now, it feels like there isn't any moment past this one.”

You sigh as your eyes get misty. “In the end, if any of us are going to make it, we simply have to believe. We have to believe that we aren’t alone, that people see us for who we are and what we can be. You have to visualize it; cling to whatever fills you with courage, because the world needs you here. It needs you.”

As the night wears on, you both share stories and laughter, the conversation flowing naturally. By the time you part ways, Pedro looks visibly lighter, as if a burden has been lifted from his shoulders.

Beauty no longer has an effect on Pedro. It takes more than physical appearance to impress him. Instead, it's the ability to intrigue his mind and provoke his thoughts that truly captivates him. That is what he considers someone as magic.

“Thank you,” he says sincerely. “I didn’t realize how much I needed this.”

“Anytime,” you reply. “Had a good time, but I guess I'll see ya. Take care, Pedro.”

Years later, when the world isn’t as plagued by the pandemic, you’re working in New York, living your own life but occasionally checking in on Pedro’s career through social media. He’s become a prominent figure, his face everywhere. Yet, you can’t forget the vulnerable man you met on that bench.

One night, you’re at a bar in the Bowery Hotel with friends. The atmosphere is lively, filled with laughter and chatter. As you share a joke, your laugh rings out, catching the attention of someone across the room.

Pedro looks up, his heart skipping a beat. That laugh – he knows that laugh. His eyes scan the room until they land on you, and for a moment, everything else fades away. He feels an uncanny sense of familiarity, a powerful pull towards you that he can’t quite place.

Your friends laugh at a joke you made, but your mind is already miles away. Tomorrow, you’re heading to Glendale, California, to work as a sound engineer on an upcoming project at DreamWorks Animation. The excitement and nerves flutter in your chest as you excuse yourself to start packing.

Pedro starts to make his way towards you, determined to find out if his instincts are right. Just as he’s halfway across the room, a fan stops him, asking for a picture. He smiles warmly, grateful for the support, and agrees.

“Thank you so much, Pedro! This means the world to me!” the fan gushes, snapping a quick selfie.

“No problem at all,” he replies, his gaze drifting back to where you were sitting. He quickly wraps up the conversation, eager to see you again. But when he looks back, you’re gone, as if you vanished into thin air.

Pedro’s heart sinks. He scans the room, hoping to catch another glimpse of you, but you’re nowhere to be seen.

Meanwhile, you’re outside, heading towards the subway station and waving goodbye to your friends. “I have to pack and get some sleep. My flight is early tomorrow morning,” you explain, your excitement barely contained.

Your friends hug you, wishing you luck on your new endeavor. As you descend down the stairs and board the subway train, your thoughts drift back to all those years ago, on the little bench, and now the bar, to the man whose presence had stirred something deep within you. You shake your head, putting on your headphones, distracting yourself with your favorite songs on your playlist.

Inside the bar, Pedro stands in the exact spot where he last caught a glimpse of you. A strange mix of disappointment and determination fills him, knowing he must find you again. The connection he felt was too strong to ignore – he needs to see if it was genuine or just a fleeting moment between two strangers on a park bench all those years ago.

The next day, you arrive at the DreamWorks Animation campus in Glendale, California. The excitement and nervousness intertwine as you step into the studio, ready to start your new role as a sound engineer.

Your supervisor gives you a brief overview of the project, "The Wild Robot," an animated film in production. "We need you to record and mix the voice actors' takes for each character," he explains. "Attention to detail is crucial – the right sound can bring the characters to life."

You nod, absorbing the requirements of your new role. "Got it. I'll make sure every line is perfect."

As you glance at the cast sheet for the voice actors, you notice that a few roles are still being finalized. Your mind drifts back to the previous night, to the man in the bar who looked so familiar. Shaking off the distraction, you focus on the task at hand.

Your days are filled with recording sessions and mixing tracks, immersing yourself in the world of "The Wild Robot." The work is demanding but rewarding, and you throw yourself into it with everything you have.

Despite your busy schedule, thoughts of the bench in Lucerne and the glimpse of him at the bar keep creeping back into your mind. The way Pedro had looked at you, the sense of connection you felt—it all seems so surreal now. You can’t help but wonder if you’ll ever see him again. The story you want is the story you get. Are you special, or was this all scripted in his head?

Back in his home in LA, Pedro can't shake the feeling that he needs to find you. He starts making discreet inquiries, hoping to track you down without drawing too much attention. The memory of your laughter and the warmth in your eyes keeps him going. He knows he needs to see you again, to see if what he felt was real.

As you finish another recording session, you glance at the cast sheet again. A new name catches your eye—Pedro Pascal as Fink the fox. Your heart skips a beat. Could it be him? The thought is both thrilling and terrifying.

Taking a deep breath, you try to focus on your work, but your mind keeps drifting back to the possibility. What if it really is him? What if fate has brought you together again? The anticipation builds as you wait for the next recording session, hoping that your paths will cross once more.

When the day finally arrives, you’re setting up the recording equipment, your hands trembling slightly with nervous energy. The door opens, and you hear footsteps approaching. You look up, and there he is—Pedro Pascal, standing in the doorway, looking just as surprised to see you.

“Hi,” he says, his voice soft yet filled with emotion. “It’s you.”

You smile, trying to steady your racing heart. “Yeah, it’s me. I didn’t expect to see you here. Well, I mean,” you start to fidget with your fingers, stumbling over your words, “I read the call sheet and I—”

“I didn’t expect to find you either,” he admits, taking a step closer. “But I’m glad I did.”

There’s a moment of silence, both of you taking in the significance of this unexpected reunion. Then, with a gentle smile, Pedro says, “Do you have time to catch up after this?”

You nod, feeling a rush of warmth and excitement. “I’d like that.”

As the recording session progresses, you can’t help but steal glances at Pedro, who seems equally distracted. When it’s finally over, you pack up your equipment, your heart pounding with anticipation.

Outside the studio, the two of you find a quiet corner to talk. Pedro takes your hand, his touch warm and reassuring. “I’ve thought about you a lot,” he admits. “Ever since that night in Lucerne, and then seeing you again at the bar… I knew I had to find you.”

“I’ve thought about you too,” you confess, your voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t know if it was real or I just made it all up in my head.”

“It’s real,” Pedro says, his gaze intense and sincere. “And I want to see where this goes, if you do too.”

You smile, feeling a sense of hope and possibility. “I’d like that very much.”

The air between you and Pedro is charged with electric energy as you talk and laugh, baring your souls to each other like old friends. Time seems to stand still as you swap stories and reveal your deepest desires, the connection between you growing stronger with each passing moment. This is more than just a chance encounter; and the both of you can feel the spark of something new and thrilling forming between you.

531 notes · View notes

drunkenbagel · 10 months ago

Note

Hi *shy wave*

There’s so few people on here do Pedro pascal x reader fics 😭

Could you perhaps do one where reader is a director and dating Pedro secretly and he wants to go public but she’s worried about his fans?

Please and thank you 😊

yes of course!! i love writing of dearest pedrito hehe. thanks so much to you for reading, hope you like it <3

🎥private screenings🎥

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x f!reader Word count: 2k Content: angst but happy ending, no use of y/n, fluff ending

“Okay, take 30 to rest people! Thank you! Good work!” you shouted so everyone on set could hear.

Everyone relaxed and went to do different things, some to snack, some got lost in the set. You left your headset on your chair and hopped off. A couple of people stopped you to ask questions about the next scenes, and you tried to answer them as fast as you could while walking.

You walked outside of the studio and over to where the trailers were. While you were at the door of the trailer you were looking for, you looked at both your sides so you could make sure no one saw you there, and knocked softly three times. Almost immediately, a hand yanked you inside, making you yelp in surprise.

“About time.”

You scoffed and were going to answer, but Pedro held your face with one hand, sneaking the other around your waist, and kissed you. You closed your eyes at the contact and sighed, melting into the kiss.

“Missed you” he said in a whisper, linking your forehead with his.

“It's only been a couple of days” you said with a small laugh, caressing his face softly while kissing him again. “You can get free days off of filming, but I have to be there almost always”

“We can always make it public so I can visit you whenever I'm free, that way I could kiss you or hold your hand whenever we wanted”

You sighed, getting annoyed at his words. “We talked about this, Pedro. We can't do that”

“But why? We're both consenting adults and can make choices!”

You were growing more and more annoyed by his words, getting away from his hold. “I am a director, Pedro. It can be seen as an abuse of power, and there could be serious consequences. Not to mention your raging fanbase, who would very much hate me.”

“That's not true” he protested with a sigh. “I know the fans can be a little intense sometimes, but they'd come around. They essentially like my acting and want me to be happy, and if they don't then they're not fans.”

You walked away from him while grunting, running your hands through your hair. “No! We've discussed it a hundred times. Really, can you not respect my decision?”

“Your decision also affects me too! Haven't you thought about that? It's not only you!” he shouted. “Haven't you thought how it hurts me to keep you a secret for so long? It sucks!”

“If it sucks so much maybe we need to rethink this!” you shouted back.

The moment the words came out from your mouth, you regretted them. You didn't want to break up. Fuck no. This was the best thing you ever had, the most precious and sweetest person. You looked at him, and he was frozen with a shocked expression. His eyes were teary too, and when a tear fell down your cheek you furiously wiped it off your face.

Why did you always fuck good things up?

“I have to go.”

You started to walk to the door, and opened it, but before you could say anything, Pedro stopped you, grabbing your wrist.

“Don't do this” he whispered, and you didn't turn around, but you could feel the tears in his voice. You didn't want to start crying, not when you still had quite a few hours of filming ahead.

“My break is done soon” you said, letting go of his grasp, walking to your set. On the way there you had to stop on a bathroom to splash your face with cold water and gather your thoughts. You were sure you left Pedro crying, and that broke your heart, knowing it was your fault.

You're a fucking idiot, your mind said to yourself in the mirror. Driving away the best thing you ever had over some stupid secrecy.

When you felt less shaky, you splashed your face with cold water again and went back to your chair, resuming your work. At least you had a distraction for a few more hours.

·-·-·-·-·

When you got home you walked to your room and let yourself fall down to your bed with a grunt. You couldn't stop thinking of Pedro for the whole filming, of the sadness and hurt you saw in his eyes was consuming your mind constantly.

And it was your fault.

You hurt the most happy, adorable, harmless and loving person you could find, and you hated yourself for it. And why? Because he wanted to share you with the world. But it wasn't as simple as that and you knew it. Unfortunately as a director and a woman you could probably face a hell lot of backlash for having a relationship with a coworker. Because it had started as that, developing into the most beautiful, unique and amazing relationship you've ever had.

You were just afraid of the hate wave that would come over you, especially since Pedro was very, very loved by the public. And you loved him for it, he was the sweetest person with everyone, so down to earth even with the huge rise of his fame. He was great, and you were just average. You felt like if your relationship would come out, he would realize that he could do better and just leave. You were so, so afraid of it.

A groan left your mouth again on the pillow. You were so worried of messing up your career after everything you went through to be where you were. Unfortunately, being a woman in the industry and climbing up the ladder of success was still hard. But still, you wanted to be able to kiss Pedro any time you wanted, have him by your side without having to be wary of other people, hold his hand...

“Goddammit” you muttered, taking your phone from your back pocket and unlocking it.

You weren't going to let your fear get the worst of you this time. You opened Pedro's chat and sent a text:

“Sorry for the time, but can we talk?”

You left your phone in your nightstand and changed into a comfortable clothes for bed. He wasn't probably going to answer, it was very late. After letting out a shaky sigh and getting into bed, you turned the lights off and covered yourself with the duvet. You couldn't sleep, and ended up moving around in bed.

The sudden buzz of your phone made you jump to check it. It was him. It was a message from Pedro.

“Can I go to your place?”

Your heart skipped a beat. Now? I mean, you preferred to talk face to face, but... Ah, what the hell.

“I'll be waiting.”

A few minutes after you sent the message, you heard a couple of knocks in your door. You bolted from the bed to the entrance, and tried to tidy yourself up in the mirror by the door the best you could. With a hand on the handle, you let out a shaky breath and summoned all the courage you could before opening the door.

And there he was, with tired and sad eyes, waiting at the other side of your door.

“I... I'm sorry, I was just in a bar nearby, and-”

“No need to be sorry. Please, come in” you interrupted, stepping aside so he could come in. You both sat on the couch beside the other awkwardly, not knowing what to say.

“I want to apologize” you said looking at your fidgeting hands, in a whisper. “For my behaviour. My words. I know I was cruel and I didn't mean it. I- I need you to know that I didn't mean it and I don't want to break up, that's- That's the last thing I want.”

“I shouldn't have pushed you” he said, not looking at you either.

“That's what I wanted to talk about.”

“I got it, I won't do it again. I'm sorry.”

“No you won't, because I don't want to keep the secret anymore” you said, and as soon as the words left your mouth, he looked at you, confused. You repositioned yourself on the sofa, facing him.

“I've been so scared, so obsessive with not letting anyone infiltrate my personal life, that I haven't let myself enjoy it fully. At first the secrecy was exciting, and I guess I grew accustomed to it. But you said it yourself, by keeping our relationship private I'm just hurting you, which is the last thing I want to do. That made me realize what an idiot I've been trying to protect myself from the hate that I don't even know if it'll come! I-” you took a deep breath. “If it does happen, I'm more than willing to go though it, because you're worth it. You deserve a partner that loves you loudly and proudly and I want to be able to do that because I love you.”

Pedro's mouth twitched and you thought that maybe you went too far, or gave too much of a speech. He stayed silent for a couple of seconds, and then a big smile painted his lips, eyes a bit teary.

“You don't have to do that” he said, a hand going up to your cheek to cup it. “You don't have to come out of your comfort zone”

“I've had you in the privacy of my comfort for way too long, and I think it's time that I enhance that zone. I want to be able to hold your hand, kiss you whenever I want-”

Pedro interrupted you with a quick kiss. You let out a small laugh.

“Yeah, well, just like that. So, if it's okay by you, I won't be needing to keep the secret anymore.”

“I love you” he said again and again while peppering your face with small kisses all over. You couldn't help but laugh at the tickling. When he finished with the small attack, you linked your foreheads together.

“I have to get up in a few hours to go to the studio, but please stay? I don't want you walking around at this hours of the night.”

“Alright, I have to go too anyways.”

He took his clothes off and you both went back to bed, falling asleep in the arms of one another.

Next morning you got up earlier than him, showered and started making coffee. Taking two mugs, you carried them to the bedroom and left them in the bedside table. Pedro hummed when he heard you.

“Good morning sunshine” you said, kissing his face. He opened his eyes slowly and smiled.

“Hey” he said with a raspy voice. “Is that coffee I smell?”

“Fresh out for you” you said, reaching to the small table and giving him one cup and sipping out of the other. You both stayed in the bed until finishing your coffees, talking and laughing.

After that, Pedro got dressed with some clean clothes he had at your place and you both got into your car to go to work. Before going out of your car you had to breathe a couple of times, anxiety getting a bit high.

“It's okay” said Pedro. “We don't have to go out at the same time”

“Yeah, I know. Sorry” you apologized. You let out a breath. “Okay, let's go.”

Both of you got out of the car and he took your hand while he walked up to your set, which made you smile. “Here's my stop”

“I'll see you later?” he said looking at you, still holding your hand.

“I think I finish before you, so I'll get some lunch for us both, sound good?” you said while smiling. You could feel some stares, but you didn't tear your eyes apart from his. You got closer, leaning into him until you gave him a quick peck on the lips. “I love you. See you later”

He couldn't help but smile. “Yeah, see you later darlin'”

You watched him as he left the building, and one of your friends from filming came up to you.

“Care to explain, darlin'?” she said in a mocking tone with a smile.

“Short answer, that's my boyfriend. I'll give you the long one if you have a while” you said laughing while she locked your arms together.

#pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal imagine #pedro pascal x y/n #rpf #fanfiction #real person fanfic #real person fiction

153 notes · View notes

vasfasan · 6 months ago

Text

SOY EL FUEGO 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥

#watching narcos is so hard cuz i cant multitask cuz it got me reading captions all the damn time #no hablo espanol #narcos #not rpf #this show has me in a chokehold #im almost done w s2 #boyd holbrook #pedro pascal #steve murphy narcos #javier peña narcos #i forgot what my art tag is #something something macbook touchpad #STILL usin it btw #no drawing tablet to be found guys #save me macbook trackpad shitty drawings save me

74 notes · View notes

pedge-stuff · 2 years ago

Note

I just had the worst and saddest possible day ever and all I wished was someone here, just to hug me under my cold covers. Can you please make something up with pedro and reader please?

I'm so sorry you are going through this?? I hope things have improved since you submitted this. Sending love your way.

—————————————————————————

okay (pedro pascal x gn/m!reader)

a/n: same vague universe as “marked,“ per usual.

a little, plotless shorty for your troubles.

thanks, as always, for everything.

TW: a very brief mention of disordered eating

summary: sometimes, you just need to be held.

—————————————————————————

"I'm okay," you whisper. "It's okay, really. I just need a little bit."

Less than convincing.

There is a dip in the mattress behind you. Even with your eyes closed, covers pulled over your head, turned away from him entirely, you can tell he is settling against the headboard, atop the duvet.

Pedro doesn't speak. Doesn't touch you, either, but you're not really sure if you're grateful for that; sometimes, being touched when you're like this feels so intolerable, it takes your breath away. Other times, a soft touch feels like the only thing that can hold you together. Trial and error, involving a lot of shitty and unfair antagonisms, has taught Pedro to give you space before he gives you love.

This is why you suck, your brain supplies. Nothing more— your mind is too fucking tired to even dissect your insecurities properly. You just feel bad.

Not without reason; at least, not today. Three missed calls from your mother, with whom you are barely speaking to, anyways. (It turns out being engaged to Oberyn Martell is about the only thing that could cure her passive aggressive homophobia. A bit too late to be water under the bridge, at any rate.)

Three missed calls, and some really shit news.

So, you're in bed. Under the covers, hiding, as if 8:30 is a totally normal bedtime.

And things are decidedly not good.

The tears come, silent and steady.

A warm press of lips to the back of your neck startles you; hot puffs of breath where his nose is buries into the hair curled at your nape, just a moment, before pulling back. It does not feel as bad as you'd feared.

"Sorry," you croak, blindly reaching behind you; squeeze what feels like his knee, in what you hope is a marginally reassuring gesture. "I'm fine, baby, you don't have to sit here with me." Pedro is early to bed— neither of you are really night owls— but not this early.

He makes no effort to move. "Can I..." A tentative hand, between your shoulder blades.

You can't help the thin whine that accompanies your shaky exhale. Fucking pathetic. But you turn, slowly, rolling over to face him. You'd assumed he was up against the headboard, but he's shifted down now, head on the pillow beside you.

Smiling, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

Wordlessly, he tucks an arm over your waist. He's always been strong, biceps as thick and sturdy as tree limbs, but the Gladiator training has added a layer of muscle just about everywhere. (Including his stomach. Abs are slowly stealing the small belly there, and while you're proud of the work he's putting in, you secretly miss the softness.)

"I don't know what you're thinking," Pedro whispers, mouth brushing against the top of your head. "But I'm so sorry, honey." He rubs the length of your spine, brow furrowing at the feeling of unfamiliar protrusions. Stress and an irregular schedule has sent good eating habits by the wayside; your body is shrinking, while his grows.

It's been the shittiest fucking month. He's been gone, you've been busy, and neither of you have gotten enough of the other. Back in New York three days now, but this is the first night you've been able to stay in together— and, of course, you've ruined it.

"Just happy to be with you," Pedro says, as if reading your mind. "Maybe this strike'll last forever, and I'll never need to go back to Morocco. Sorry, Paul Mescal."

You laugh, despite yourself, thick with tears. "I'm gonna miss the fan selfies, I think. What're they calling you? Pee-paw?"

Pedro groans, punishing you by pulling you tighter against him. Your face is squashed against his chest. Not a hardship. He smells clean, spiced. Familiar. Comfortably, and safe.

"You're engaged to the oldest man on the internet," he laments. "In Twitter years, I'm dead."

The squished hug is short-lived, breaking as he rolls back, gently, to get a better look at you. Cups your face, puffy and wet and gross; brushes twin thumbs over your cheeks, with a fond smile.

"There you are," Pedro whispers.

"I'm okay." Another sniff, but the threat of tears seems to have subsided. Today was shit, but it's over now; you're here, together, with nothing but time and sleep ahead of you.

"It's okay that you're not, sweetheart."

But you are. You're with him.

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal imagine #pedro pascal one shot #pedro pascal rpf #pedro pascal x male reader #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal fluff #the last of us #din djarin #javier pena #javier pena x reader #din djarin x reader #joel miller #joel miller x reader #the mandolorian #narcos

526 notes · View notes

coffeeshades · 8 months ago

Text

—true blue ⭑ part i

summary: two strangers meet in a city of millions, only to discover they've been searching for each other all along.

pairing: pedro pascal x f!reader.

word count: 7.3k

warnings: age gap, angst, fluff, mentions of alcohol, loneliness, nostalgia. no use of y/n, if i missed something please let me know! (also this is a work of fiction, none of it reflects how i feel about the people mentioned in this. it's fiction, just relax and enjoy it, and if not, move along, friends.)

a/n: hello lovelies, i’m back with another story! hope you guys enjoy it and happy reading <3

London had a way of swallowing you whole, especially on days like this—when the sky was nothing but a massive stretch of gray, heavy and low, threatening rain but never delivering it. The city seemed to disappear into the clouds, a wash of neutral tones that made everything feel colder, quieter.

Six months in, and you still weren’t used to it. The grayness, the dampness that clung to your skin, or the way the city seemed to keep you at arm’s length, never quite welcoming you in.

You pulled your scarf tighter around your neck as you walked into the café, your breath fogging the glass for a moment before pushing the door open.

The warmth hit you immediately, the smell of roasted coffee beans filling your senses. The place was small, cozy, and comfortably worn—wooden floors scuffed by years of foot traffic, walls lined with photos of the city taken from angles only locals would recognize.

It was a great place, one you had found early on in your stay. Most of the baristas knew you by now, especially Tom, who greeted you with a nod as soon as you walked in.

You tugged at the sleeves of your sweater, slightly too big but soft and comforting, and ran a hand through your frazzled hair, still somewhat damp from the earlier drizzle. You hadn’t bothered with an umbrella; London rain was more a constant mist than a downpour, not enough to get soaked but just enough to make you feel cold in your bones. Your dark pants clung to your legs, and your worn black boots scuffed the floor as you made your way to the counter.

It was late afternoon, your favorite time to stop by. Usually, you had to battle before work-rush. But you were free today. Most people had already grabbed their coffee and gone back to their lives, leaving the café quieter, almost meditative. You liked that. It was one of the few moments in your day where you didn’t have to think about the silence that otherwise hung over life.

New York had been noisy, full of distractions, but here, the quiet was inescapable. It followed you home, lingered in the corners of your rented flat, and made you feel more alone than you ever had back in the States.

“Hey, Tom,” you said, offering him a small smile as you dropped your purse onto the counter.

He smiled back, his hands already reaching for a cup. “The usual?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

You leaned against the counter, absently scrolling through the phone. Emails. Work messages. Nothing personal, nothing to distract you from the dull rhythm of solitude you’d grown so accustomed to. A novel you’d just finished reading peeked out of your bag.

As you waited for the order, the bell above the door chimed softly, and you felt someone step up beside you. You didn’t look up, not at first. The presence was warm, close enough to feel but not close enough to intrude. You were just another person standing in line, waiting for coffee.

Then you heard the voice.

“A large iced black coffee, please,” the man beside you said, his voice deep, casual, the kind of voice that made you listen even when you weren’t paying attention.

Another barista nodded, moving quickly to prepare the drink, and you tried not to feel the man’s presence. But it was hard not to. He wasn’t looking at you, but could sense him—the quiet weight of someone standing just close enough that it made you aware of yourself.

“Blue.”

The word pulled you out of your thoughts, and you glanced sideways, confused. “Sorry?”

He was smiling now, his expression easy, as if we were in on some joke. He nodded toward your bag, where the book was still partially visible.

“The cover of your book. It’s blue.”

You blinked, your brain trying to catch up with the conversation. “Oh…yeah, it is.” You managed a half-smile, still unsure of where this was going.

“You must think I’m weird now,” he added, his tone teasing, but there was something behind his eyes—something almost vulnerable, like he was testing the waters.

“No, not really,” I said, shrugging. “I just wasn’t expecting...that.”

“It’s just…uh, lately, I’ve been reading a lot of books with blue covers,” he explained, running a hand through his hair. It was slicked back, but not perfectly—there was a curl that had escaped, hanging slightly over his forehead, giving him a disheveled charm. His brown leather jacket looked well-worn, like something he’d had for years, and his white sneakers were clean but scuffed, like they’d seen their fair share of travel.

“When I saw yours, it made me think of that. Sorry to bother you.”

“No, you’re not bothering me,” you said quickly, feeling an odd need to put him at ease. “Not at all.”

You took him in more fully now, and something clicked. There was a familiarity about him, something that tugged at the edges of recognition, but it hadn’t fully registered yet. Dark jeans, black t-shirt, the jacket slung casually over his frame, and those clear glasses that made him look both intelligent and approachable. His smooth skin seemed ready to tip into weathered, his dark hair almost shot full of gray. Solidly middle aged.

There was something unguarded about him. Something real.

Before you could figure out where you knew him from, Tom interrupted, handing you the coffee with a nod. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.” You reached for your card to pay, then paused, glancing back at the man beside you.

“Do you want it?”

He looked at you, clearly surprised. “Want what?”

“The book.”

You gestured toward the blue-covered novel still poking out of the bag. “I finished it earlier today. You can add it to your collection of blue books.”

He hesitated, his brow furrowing slightly. “Oh, no, I can’t take that from you.”

“Of course you can.”

You pulled the book out fully, holding it out to him. “I’m done with it. And you seem interested.”

For a moment, he just looked at you, like he was trying to figure out if you were serious. Then, slowly, he reached out, his large hands brushing against yours as he took the book. His fingers lingered on the cover for a moment, running over the title as he read it out loud.

“It Lasts Forever and Then It’s Over.”

You watched as he flipped the book over, his fingers tracing a small bullseye doodle inked on the back of his hand, just between his thumb and index finger. It was such a small detail, but it told you something about him. You suddenly wanted to know everything about him.

“It’s a good read,” you said, slipping the card into the reader. “It’s about mortality, grief, love… you know, the usual light fare.”

He laughed softly, shaking his head. “Sounds like my kind of book. Gut-wrenching, then?”

“Yeah,” you admitted, “I think I have a thing for devastating literature.”

“That makes two of us.”

Tom handed him his iced coffee, and he nodded gratefully, still holding the book like it was something fragile. “Thanks again,” he said, glancing at the title one last time. “I’ll make sure it’s in good company.”

“I hope you enjoy it,” you said, gathering your things. You had to go home before the rain started pouring.

As you stepped toward the door, you felt the chill from outside starting to creep back in, and just before the door closed behind you, you heard him call out, his voice soft but sure.

“I know I will.”

The cold wind hit you as you stepped out into the gray street, but this time, it felt different. Less like a wall, more like a breeze pushing you forward. Something had changed, though you weren’t sure what yet.

The rain had picked up again, tapping against the windows of your flat like impatient fingers. The days were growing shorter now, the afternoons fading into evenings before you even had time to notice. Autumn had a way of settling into your bones—the way the cold crept in through the cracks, the muted light casting long shadows across the room, the golden hues of fallen leaves scattered on the pavement outside.

You had made the flat your own in small, quiet ways. A few plants scattered along the window ledge, books stacked unevenly on shelves that were too small to hold them all, some even on the floor, and a woolen throw draped over the worn arm of the couch. The place wasn’t large, but it was enough—just one bedroom, a kitchen that overlooked the small living room, and large windows that framed the world outside in a way that almost felt intimate. It smelled like home now—a mix of coffee and the faint scent of cinnamon from the candle burning on the table.

You were halfway through folding a pile of laundry when the phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. You wiped your hands on your pajama shorts before picking it up, smiling as Olivia’s name flashed across the screen. She called at least once a week, sometimes more if she had something “urgent” to discuss—which, in her world, could range from a new recipe she'd tried to the latest celebrity drama.

You answered on the second ring. "Hey, Liv."

“Finally!” Her voice came through the speaker, bright and full of life. “I’ve been texting you all day.”

You balanced the phone between your shoulder and ear, picking up a stray sock from the couch.

“Sorry, I was at work. Just got back a little while ago.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, clearly unconvinced. “You’re always at work. You know that’s not healthy, right?”

You could rattle off a hundred reasons why being a medical resident wasn’t healthy—none of it was. It had taken you months to find your footing at the hospital. You hadn’t really made any friends outside of work, just the occasional outing with Sabrina, a fourth-year who’d taken you under her wing like the hospital’s den mother.

You rolled your eyes, tossing the sock into the laundry basket. “I know, I know, but you know how it is.”

“Whatever,” she said, clearly moving on. “So, guess what?”

You smiled, already bracing myself for whatever tangent she was about to dive into. “What?”

“I found this article about why cats are secretly plotting against us, and I swear, it’s changed my whole perspective on Peanut.”

“Peanut? Your ten-year-old tabby who sleeps all day and barely looks at you?”

“Yes! That’s exactly why it makes sense. He’s too quiet. Too calm. He’s plotting, I know it.”

You laughed as you wandered into the kitchen to grab a Coke from the fridge. “Olivia, he’s a cat. I think you’re safe.”

“Don’t you dare dismiss me, okay? I have facts. I’ll send you the article.”

“Can’t wait,” you said dryly, leaning against the counter as you sipped your drink.

There was a brief pause on her end, and then her voice softened, shifting to something more serious. “But really, how have you been?”

You glanced out the window, watching the rain streak down the glass in slow, steady lines. “Same old. The hospital, laundry, eating dinner in front of the TV. You know the drill.”

“Nothing new?” she pressed.

“Not really.”

You hesitated, a brief smile tugging at your lips as you remembered the café. “Although… I think I met Pedro Pascal the other day.”

There was a beat of silence, followed by a shriek so loud you had to pull the phone away from your ear. “What?! Shut up, shut up! You what?”

“I mean…I wasn't sure it was him when it was happening, but now I'm kinda positive.”

“Girl, how positive?” Her voice was breathless, excited in the way only Olivia could manage.

You chuckled, walking over to the couch and sinking into the cushions, curling your legs under you.

“I don't know, pretty positive?”

She let out an exasperated sigh. “Did he give you his name?”

“No, not exactly.”

“Then how do you know it was him?” She sounded like she was about to combust with impatience.

“Because I talked to the man, Liv. He looked like him; I don't know. Maybe…maybe it wasn't him."

“You talked?!” she nearly screamed. “Oh my God, what did you talk about?”

“Not much,” you said, shrugging even though she couldn’t see you. “It was about my book—the one I was reading.”

“What was he like? Was he charming? Did he look at you with those eyes?”

You could practically see her waggling her eyebrows, and you laughed, shaking your head.

“Calm down. He was just… normal. Kind of charming. We didn’t talk for long, though.”

“Normal? Pedro Pascal is not normal. People would die to have a conversation with him, and you’re over here like, ‘Oh, we just talked about a book."

You smiled, running a hand through your hair, which had dried into a messy wave. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m not! This is huge!” she insisted. “Did he ask for your number?”

“No, are you crazy? ” You snorted. “It wasn’t like that.”

“You’re killing me here.” She groaned. “How do you not make the most of a moment like that? You had a once-in-a-lifetime chance to shoot your shot, and you’re telling me you just let it go?”

“It wasn’t like that, Liv,” you said, still laughing. “It was just a casual conversation.”

She let out another exasperated sigh. “You’re hopeless. Completely hopeless.”

“Okay, well, I have to go,” you said, picking up the empty laundry basket and setting it aside. “I still have to make dinner, and it’s getting late.”

“You’re brushing me off because you don’t want to admit you missed your chance with Pedro Pascal.”

“I’m brushing you off because I’m starving,” you corrected.

“Fine, fine. But promise me this isn’t the end of the story. If you run into him again, you have to—”

“Not gonna happen."

"Don't be so pessimistic. If you run into him again, you tell me."

"Not gonna happen, but fine."

“That’s all I ask,” she said, her tone suddenly cheerful again. “Okay, go make dinner. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Bye, Liv.”

“Bye!”

You hung up, dropping the phone onto the couch as you stared outside again. The rain had softened into a steady drizzle. The flat was quiet, the only sound being the occasional hiss of the radiator and the soft ticking of the clock on the wall.

You sighed, sinking deeper into the cushions. It was a small life you had built here, simple and quiet. But there was something comforting about it too. Even if you hadn’t figured everything out yet, there was a strange sense of peace in the routine of it all.

And yet, the thought of that brief encounter at the café lingered in the back of your mind, like a spark that hadn’t quite caught fire.

A week had passed since the encounter, but you couldn’t shake him from your mind. It was ridiculous, really. You hadn’t asked for his name, hadn’t lingered long enough to let the moment stretch into something more. But the man with the deep voice and warm laugh had somehow taken up residence in your thoughts.

It was as if the quiet, unremarkable routine you’d built for yourself here had been cracked open, just a little, by that brief, unexpected meeting.

Still, you tried not to think about it too much. But every time you walked past that café, your steps slowed, as if you expected to see him again, leaning against the counter with his easy smile.

By the time you actually went in again, a full week later, the cold October air was biting at your skin, and your mind was no more settled than it had been that day.

You ordered the usual—a flat white—and lingered by the counter as Tom prepared it, his familiar movements almost soothing in their predictability. You were lost in thought, half-aware of your surroundings, when Tom placed the cup on the counter.

But this time, there was something else.

A small package, wrapped in brown paper and tied neatly with a blue ribbon.

“What’s this?” you asked, staring at it like it was some kind of puzzle.

Tom smiled, his thick accent wrapping around his words. “Someone left it for you.”

You blinked, completely baffled. “What is this, a secret admirer thing? Because I gotta say, Tom, I wasn’t prepared for that kind of drama today.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Not from me, love. But someone wanted you to have it.”

Intrigued, you grabbed the coffee and the package, thanking him before heading to your usual spot by the window. The window fogged slightly from the heat of the café, offering you a misty view of the street beyond.

You sat down and placed the package in front of you, staring at it for a few seconds as your mind raced. What the hell is this? Your fingers traced the edges of the paper, carefully undoing the small ribbon before pulling the wrapping away.

A book. Of course, it was a book.

You smiled faintly as you read the title aloud: Drive Your Plow over the Bones of the Dead.

The cover was blue—deep and rich, just like the one you’d given away the week before. The faintest blush crept up your cheeks as you realized who it must have been from.

Your heart did a weird little somersault in your chest as you ran your fingers along the cover. Before you even opened it, a folded piece of paper fell out and landed softly on the table. You unfolded it, smoothing the creases, and read the note inside:

Hi, stranger. I realized five minutes after you gave me your book that I didn’t ask for your name. How rude of me. I’m sorry. I walked out of there as soon as I realized and walked a few blocks, but you were gone.

I finished the book, by the way. It was beautiful. I loved how real and layered the main character was. I also laughed so much; I didn’t think a novel this heartbreaking would be such a joy.

Anyway, I feel like I’m rambling now. Since you gave me one, I thought I might return the favor. I think this is a long shot since I don't know if you are a regular, but I hope you are. I hope this finds you.

Enjoy.

Love, Pedro.

You stared at the note for what felt like a full minute, your mind slowly processing the words. Oh my god. Pedro. So you weren't delusional after all. It had been him. All this time, you’d been trying to convince yourself that it was some random guy with a coincidental likeness, but no—it was him.

The smile that spread across your face was involuntary, and you felt your cheeks flush with the sudden realization that you had somehow fallen into a casual book exchange with him. Your fingers traced the edge of the note, and you leaned back in the chair, exhaling a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

For the next several days, the book accompanied you everywhere—on the train, to work, in bed at night. You found yourself highlighting passages and underlining sentences that spoke to something deep inside you. The book was dark and witty, a strange blend of humor and melancholy that left you thinking long after you’d closed it each night.

You hadn’t seen Pedro again, though you hoped—each time you entered the café—that maybe he’d be there. Maybe you’d exchange a few more words; maybe this strange little connection would become something more.

But days passed, and there was no sign of him.

A week later, you finished the book. As you placed it on the nightstand, you knew what you had to do.

It was only fair to continue the game, wasn’t it?

And there was one book that immediately came to mind—Alone With You in the Ether. The cover was, of course, blue.

You spent that morning getting ready, your usual routine of sluggishness replaced by something else—anticipation, maybe. You pulled on your blue navy scrubs and your running shoes, taking a little extra care with your hair, though you weren’t quite sure why.

At the café, you ordered the usual and approached the counter with the book neatly wrapped in brown paper. When Tom handed you the coffee, you slipped the book into his hands, along with a note:

Hi, Pedro.

That’s okay, no need to apologize. To be fair, I didn’t ask for your name either, so that makes the two of us very rude people. I’m so happy you liked the book. As for the one you gave me—wow. I think it’s going to stick with me for a while.

Now, this one is really special to me. I read it earlier this year, and even though it’s kind of a drag to get through in the first few chapters, once you get the hang of it, it’s totally worth it. And yeah, it made me cry a little because it explores what it means to be unwell and how to face the fractures in yourself and still love as if you’re not broken. Really happy stuff, I know.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

Love,

You hesitated for a second before writing your name at the bottom of the note. You had to, right?

You couldn’t keep this up forever without knowing who the other person was.

As you handed the book to Tom, excitement bubbled inside you, and you felt a strange sense of giddiness that you hadn’t experienced in ages. You were exchanging books with this enigma of a man—this charismatic, famous man who somehow understood the same quiet parts of the world that you did.

As you left the café that day, the autumn air crisp and cool around you, you realized just how much had changed in these past few weeks. you’d been living in your head for so long, buried in stories and thoughts that weren’t your own, but now—now there was something tangible.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt alive.

It had been days since you’d left Pedro the book, and though a small part of you hoped to hear back, you hadn’t expected it. Surely he had better things to do than trade novels with a stranger. Yet, here you were again, standing at the counter of the café, that familiar flutter of anticipation creeping up on you.

“Just a matcha today,” you said to Tom, trying to rein in your caffeine habit. He raised an eyebrow, surprised at the switch, but didn’t say anything as he rang you up. “It’s surgery day,” you added, shrugging.

When he handed you the drink, there it was—a familiar brown-wrapped package slipped discreetly into your other hand. Your pulse quickened. You did your best to keep cool, to act as though this was just another day, but your fingers betrayed you, trembling slightly as they closed around the package.

“What now?” you asked, trying to sound casual, but the excitement was barely concealed in your voice.

Tom chuckled, shaking his head. “Another one. Same guy.”

You didn’t even sit down. You stood right there at the counter, carefully peeling away the paper. Another blue book. The Book of All Loves. A smile tugged at your lips, warm and uncontainable.

Inside, a folded note fell out—this one thicker, the creases worn, the ink smudged in places. Your hands shook slightly as you unfolded it and began to read.

Hi again, stranger—

Well, I guess I can’t really call you that anymore, now that I know your name, huh?

He had written your name at the top—three times.

The letters were neat but hurried, repeated as though he were testing how it felt to write them. The ink stuttered in places, lingering on the curves of each letter, like he had taken his time. It is such a gorgeous sight. To see your name in his handwriting awakened something in you.

There. It’s stuck in my head now. What a great name, by the way. I could probably write it out a hundred more times and still not get tired of seeing it. Is that weird? That’s probably weird. I’m rambling again.

So, the book—wow. It hit me in ways I didn’t expect. You weren’t kidding when you said it was about being unwell, but it was more than that. The characters were dancing on this fragile edge between chaos and peace, and I felt that. And that church scene...

You paused, feeling the tenderness of his words wrapping around you, pulling you in closer.

The way they held hands—it was more than just a gesture. There’s something about it that felt so raw, so intimate. In a place where you’re not supposed to be that close, it made it all the more... heartbreaking. Have you ever felt like that? Like you’re carrying all this weight but still holding onto this tiny sliver of hope that someone will see you for who you are? Without needing you to explain every scar?

His words resonated deeply, tugging at something tender within you, as if he had unknowingly plucked a string that had long been silent.

Do you get what I mean? Or am I just talking in circles again?

The next part of the note was a jumble of thoughts, ideas pouring out in bursts. He wrote about the book's characters, how they reminded him of his own isolation, even when surrounded by people. He confessed that sometimes he felt as though he wore a mask—something to hide behind—but books like this allowed him to drop it, if only for a little while.

I think I’m really good at pretending sometimes, you know? We all are, right? But in books, I don’t have to pretend. It’s like I get to be myself for a little bit, without all the noise. Does that make sense? I’m probably being too heavy, sorry. The truth is, I feel comfortable writing to you. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the books, this exchange—like it’s okay to be vulnerable. Or maybe I’m just being dramatic.

There was a little smiley face drawn beside that sentence, and you found yourself laughing softly, the sound light in the quiet café.

Anyway, thanks again for sharing this with me. It’s a gem. I thought I’d give you something in return—something that fits. Have you read The Book of All Loves? It’s about love beyond romance. I think you’ll like it.

Until next time.

Love, Pedro.

You stood there for a long time after finishing the note, his words echoing in your mind, stirring feelings you hadn’t allowed yourself to acknowledge. The way he wrote—so raw, so real—made it feel as though you weren’t just two strangers exchanging books. It felt deeper, like an unspoken understanding had passed between you, hidden in the lines of each letter, in the ink that had smudged under the weight of his thoughts.

Your heart swelled with a mixture of emotions. Just hearing from him has made you so driven, so romantic, so excited. The brief connection you had made through these letters felt real, almost tangible, as though roots had begun to take hold beneath the surface of your everyday life.

You read the note again, slower this time, savoring every word, every thought he had poured onto the page. His question lingered.

Have you ever felt like that?

Of course you had. You had spent most of your life searching for that connection, that elusive feeling of being truly seen without needing to explain every wound, every hidden corner of yourself. And now, through these letters, it felt as though Pedro saw something in you that others hadn’t.

The thought was ridiculous, you knew that. But still, there was comfort in it, in the way he opened up to you with such ease. There was something undeniably romantic about it—this quiet exchange of words and books, of thoughts and feelings that had probably never been shared aloud.

You carefully folded the note, tucking it back into the book, and cradled your matcha in your hands. A small smile played at the corners of your lips, warmth blossoming in your chest. You weren’t sure what this was—this strange, beautiful exchange—but whatever it was, it made you feel seen. It made you feel connected.

You didn’t mind being lost in the unknown.

Weeks passed, and your days fell into an easy rhythm—a rhythm that beat around the exchange of books and letters with Pedro. Each novel was chosen with care, both of you quietly mindful of keeping them short, under 300 pages, so they could be devoured quickly.

But the real reason wasn’t the books themselves now—it was what came with them.

The letters.

They weren’t just pages full of thoughts about the stories. They were windows. Each one revealed more of who he was, and in return, you found yourself offering up pieces of yourself. You couldn’t help it—the way he wrote, the way he asked questions that no one else dared to, as if he genuinely wanted to know you. And so, you let him in.

After finishing The Book of All Loves, your response was a little more vulnerable than you’d expected. You’d thanked him for the recommendation, told him it had cracked something open inside of you. “It’s strange,” you’d written, “how a book about love that exists in such quiet, unassuming forms can make you feel like you’ve been missing it your whole life. I’ve never thought much about love outside of romance—what it means to love a moment, a gesture, the way the wind feels when it hits your skin in the early morning. All I've ever known of love is how to live without it. I just can’t seem to find it. This book made me think about all the things I’ve taken for granted. The small loves. The unnoticed ones.”

Pedro’s letter back had been equally intimate. “It feels good to read this from you,” he wrote. "To know that maybe we’ve both been looking for something neither of us can really name. I guess there are certain things we stumble upon that make us feel less alone in our strangeness.

When I read your letter, I thought about a lot of things I haven’t said out loud. I thought about how it’s always felt easier to live without love, or at least to live like I didn’t need it, as if needing it would somehow make me weaker. I think of all the times I’ve skimmed over beauty just because I didn’t want to stop and notice what was missing. Reading your words made me realize that maybe I’ve always been chasing something, too, not realizing that these quiet, unassuming moments—like the way the rain sounds against the window at night or the exact shade of blue that the sky becomes before sunrise—maybe they’re as close as I’ve been to something real.

The words spilled out slowly, and you read them twice, tracing each line with your fingertip, as if trying to hold onto every word for a little longer.

When you said the book cracked something open in you, I understood. We don’t let ourselves soften often, but it sounds like, maybe, there’s been a little space for that now. Like maybe you’ve felt things so quietly, you didn’t even know they were there. You’re right, though; love is everywhere. It’s the way a good song can feel like home. It’s knowing how you take your coffee. And it’s weird to realize how much of it we let slip by, out of fear or habit or because we think love should look a certain way.

I don’t know why I’m telling you all this, but I guess I want you to know that you’re not alone in this. You’ve got someone here who gets it, at least a little bit. Someone who, honestly, feels like he’s been missing something without ever quite knowing what that something was. Maybe it’s just easier to say things like this when it’s written down. Maybe it’s easier to feel a little more when there’s distance.

But then I think of you, and I don’t want to feel that distance anymore.

Take care, alright? I’ll be here, waiting for whatever thought strikes you next. And thank you, for opening up like that. For letting me know I’m not the only one.

All the best,

Pedro

These letters had become your heartbeat, something that brought life back into you. At work, during breaks, you’d find yourself pulling out the latest book, fingers brushing the edges of the envelope tucked inside, knowing his notes and highlights were waiting for you.

Your rounds at the hospital became lighter, as if you carried a secret with you—one small, fragile thing that had started in the most unexpected of ways. How could you focus on anything when he writes you letters like this? When he spills his heart for you, a stranger?

Six days after his last letter, you sat at your kitchen counter one quiet evening, surrounded by the soft glow of a single warm light above. Outside, the evening had taken on that deep, inky blue you could get lost in, a shade that felt like a private world of its own. In front of you, a cinnamon roll sat on a small porcelain plate—the sort of indulgence you love to treat yourself to every now and then. The glaze stuck to your fingers as you leaned over a blank page, pen poised, waiting to shape your thoughts for Pedro.

Taking a deep breath, you began:

Pedro,

I’m sending you Never Let Me Go—a book that, in all its stillness and grace, moved me to tears. It’s a familiar feeling; there are so many things that make me cry. It’s not always the big, cinematic moments either, but the quiet, fleeting ones, the kind that Jane Austen might say ‘touch upon the tenderness of our sensibilities.’ Like when the last pages of a book make everything about the world seem profound, or when I see the first bloom of spring among the winter trees. I saw the movie years ago and cried so hard I could barely speak afterward. And, perhaps, I think there’s something remarkably necessary about being moved to tears—it’s like life’s way of keeping our hearts soft, open to the little aches and wonders.

So I’m sharing it with you, hoping it’ll do the same.

You paused, smiling to yourself, imagining him finding that description and wondering if he’d tease you for it. As the words settled onto the page, you felt a kind of sweet comfort, and maybe even a thrill, in knowing this note would soon be in his hands, bridging your two worlds once again.

It was four days later when Pedro's response finally arrived, tucked inside a copy of Night Sky with Exit Wounds. The book’s deep, stormy cover filled your eyes. But your day had already been a whirlwind. You’d spent the night studying for a complex surgery, barely catching three hours of sleep before sunrise. By morning, you were dashing through your routine, gulping down a few rushed sips of coffee, grabbing your coat, and flying out the door.

When you stopped by the café to find Pedro’s book and letter, your heart skipped at the sight of it waiting for you. But with your schedule pulling you in ten different directions, you could only clutch the book close, flash a half-awake smile at the barista, and promise yourself that you’d savor it later, once the day slowed.

Finally, around eight that evening, you arrived home, exhausted yet satisfied—the surgery had been a success, and you’d somehow managed to juggle the day’s relentless demands. Dropping your bag, you kicked off your shoes and sank onto the couch, barely making it past the door before you reached for the book.

His letter was tucked between the pages, Pedro’s handwriting skimming the edge of each line as though his words had been poured onto the page in a hurry, with just enough restraint to make each word count. The sight of it made you pause, drawing a deep, steadying breath as you began to read, his voice almost palpable in the air:

I know this one comes faster than you've probably expected, but the desire to write to you is all-consuming. It takes up space in every corner of my mind, like someone has rearranged the furniture in my head, and I keep bumping into things I didn’t realize were there. You should know it’s not normal for me. I’m usually good at keeping things compartmentalized, managing my thoughts, especially when I know I shouldn’t be entertaining them at all. But here I am, practically pathetic, writing you like some infatuated idiot who can’t keep his head on straight. I suppose that’s what I am.

There’s so much I want to ask you, even if it seems silly. It’s weird, I know, but I want to know everything: your favorite color, the exact shade of it, and why it sticks with you. I want to know how you take your coffee, if you’d let me make it for you, and if you’d like it bitter or sweet. Do you sleep on the right or left side of the bed? I’m trying to imagine you in those small, quiet moments—those times that people rarely share with others, the ones that make you feel like you’re finally seeing someone’s real life. Perhaps I want that with you. Hell, I’d probably just take watching you stir sugar into your coffee and feel like it’s some grand revelation.

I know I’m rambling. Some poet's probably rolling in their grave at this poor excuse of an epistolary attempt. But I feel like I could say anything to you here, let it all pour out, and you wouldn’t turn away. I guess I’m testing that, aren’t I?

This book I'm giving you is sharp but soft. It’s like Vuong’s words walk this fine line between resilience and surrender, which maybe is why they get to me. There's a line I love: “In the body, where everything has a price, I was a beggar”—I keep coming back to it. It gets under my skin, thinking of how much of my life I’ve spent doing just that: begging for something that felt like love but never fully was.

I guess that’s what makes me wonder. Is that what love is? Some beautiful, endless begging, hoping to be seen fully and held even with all the mess? I think about my past relationships, all the ways I tried to be someone I thought they’d love or, at least, understand. I don’t know if you can relate, but I always ended up feeling like I was only showing the parts I thought they’d like, and I could never quite manage to bring myself whole into it. Not that they were all bad, but…they left me feeling a bit like I was holding my breath, waiting for something I didn’t even have a name for.

I don’t feel that way with you. And it scares the hell out of me.

Have you ever loved like that? Loved in a way that left you feeling half-complete but more alone than ever? Do you think we can really know each other, or is it all just pieces we collect and hope fit together someday? Sorry, that’s bleak—I told you, I’m pathetic.

Still, writing this, I feel more real than I’ve felt in years. You’re already changing something in me, and maybe I’m a fool, but I think that’s worth every messy, flawed attempt I make to get closer to you.

Love,

Pedro

The last lines hung in the air, sinking deep like an echo through a still room.

Holy shit.

His admission felt like the thrill of stepping onto the edge of something limitless, knowing that he, too, was caught in the same current, swept into this quiet, growing bond that defied every attempt to be named. There was nowhere else you wanted to be.

For years now, you've saved all of your romanticism for your inner life, but now it seems to spill over into reality, coloring the world around you with a new intensity. It seems to spill over into your response to him.

Pedro,

I’m sitting here, pen in hand, trying to put to words what has only lived in my thoughts and quiet places inside me. It feels strange, like I’m peeling something hidden, revealing not just what I am but what I’ve long been afraid to be. But I think you’ve sensed that, haven’t you? Somehow, in these letters, it feels possible. You’ve done this to me, you know. And if you’re pathetic, then, God help me, so am I.

When I read your letter, I felt this pulse of recognition—your words so familiar, as though I’d known them before they were written. That line from Vuong—I lingered over it, too, so many times, until it felt like my own skin.

Isn’t it strange, the things that stay with us, hidden until someone else touches them? I’ve always had this…this longing to be seen in the fullness of myself, even the parts that feel a little too much or not quite enough. And yet, I’ve been equally terrified of it, of offering myself in a way that leaves me standing, raw, in front of someone who might not want what they see.

But with you, the idea doesn’t scare me as much. Even saying that feels like a confession.

You asked if I’d ever loved like that—loved in a way that left me both half-alive and lonelier than ever. I have. Not often, but enough to know the ache of it, that hollow feeling of wanting so badly to be known, only to realize I’d kept parts of myself hidden, guarded, fearing they wouldn’t understand or that I’d be asked to change. I’ve spent so many years rationing my softness, saving my sentimentalism for my own private thoughts, as though loving deeply was something to be ashamed of. But here I am, writing to you, letting it spill.

What about love, then? What do I think of it? I think of love as a kind of surrender, a rare, strange act of bravery and recklessness all at once. I think it’s choosing to step closer to someone when you know you might break your heart in the process. And maybe, sometimes, it’s a little like begging—but only if the person you’re begging to see you is also showing you something of themselves, a part they’re just as afraid to share.

Which is to say: you make me want to be that reckless. You make me want to know things I would have otherwise only dreamed of. I want to know your favorite hour of the day, the one that makes you feel alive even when you’re alone. I want to know what you’ve never dared to say aloud. If I could watch you, just once, as you sit in the quiet of the morning.

Maybe that’s the kind of love I want—one where the questions never end, where the silence says as much as the words, and where I don’t have to hide anything away.

Love,

a/n: alright! so what do you guys think about this one? i wanna know your thoughts!!! like, reblog or comment if you enjoyed it, i will gladly appreciate it <3

a second part will be posted soon!

#pedro pascal imagine #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fluff #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal rpf #my writing

311 notes · View notes

henrycangelbaby · 9 months ago

Text

In which: “It's not that the amount of love I had changed, but I feel so proud about it now, like that I want to shout from the rooftops and tell everyone of my loved ones how much I love my wife, MY wife, ya know?”

An interview gives unique insight into Pedro Pascal and his vast amount of love for his wife

I make my way through meeting the cast of HBO's unexpected hit “The Last Of Us” rather easily.

Bella Ramsey lives in a far nicer apartment in London than anything I would have been able to afford at the same age. Despite their fame and talent, they remain settled and down to earth, dressed in an outfit a little too cool for me to understand and eager to show me around their lovely apartment that is decorated in a way that I quite liked but I'm sure my baby boomer father would find offensive. I even end up meeting Ramsey's girlfriend, a fellow actor (who I admittedly had never heard of) who is equally as young and pretty as Ramsey is. They are both lovely and down to earth, a sentiment I don't often find relatable working with celebrities.

Kaitlin Denver is in her late 20s and still looks like she could be in high school. She lives in a shared house with her sister, whom she also shares a music career with. Despite the controversy surrounding her character in the show, she seems to remain completely unfazed by the backlash and threats that surround Abby Anderson. Denver merley shrugs when I ask her how she deals with it, leaving me to assume her vices when it comes to dealing with unprecedented hate.

I meet other stars of the show too. Gabriel Luna has all the southern charm of Tommy Miller and more, making me question whether he really does any acting when playing the sweeter, younger Texan brother. Isabela Merced is very beautiful in person and is also far shorter than I had imagined. What she lacks in height she makes up for in personality and charm.

Of course, when you think of the stars of The Last Of Us, there is probably someone else that comes to mind. Securing an interview with Pedro Pascal is probably one of the harder things I have had to do in recent years. It's not that Pacal is hard to come by; in fact, in recent years we haven't been able to escape him. I originally doubted that I would even be able to secure an interview with the internet's "daddy." Pascal has had a busy few years, and this one is no different. With multiple projects coming out this year, including the new season of The Last Of Us and his highly anticipated entry into the MCU as the iconic Richard Reed, it seems that everyone wants a piece of him. While all the other actors on this list do have notable careers outside of the show, the point of this interview series was to be able to interview the main cast members of the show in anticipation for the new season; however, I found that same sentiment hard to carry across when interviewing Pascal. I don't want to spoil the show for anyone, but I will just say that he won't be back next season. Whether that's due to internal conflicts or simply being too booked, we’ll never know.

I was rather ecstatic to receive a phone call from someone on his team letting me know the time and date for our interview. Like normal, I'm given an NDA to sign before receiving any personal information, such as his address (which I did require for the purpose of the interview). But everything else seems to go off without a hitch.

I was admittedly nervous to meet him. In the best way possible, his reputation definitely proceeds him. Pascal is only ever described as kind, loving, funny, and any other positive synonyms for a massive sweetheart that you can think of. I personally have been a big fan of his work since he played forever thirsted over narcos agent Javier Paner. I know they say you shouldn't meet your idols (and trust me, I've had my fair share of heartbreaking realizations that someone I once admired is actually a piece of shit), but I had high hopes for meeting Pedro. And I am happy to report that it did not disappoint.

I arrived at his home in Los Angeles ten minutes earlier than I should have. Not that I'm kept waiting, as before I can get a second knock in on the door, a young woman flings it open, smiling at me tightly. She quickly lets me in, introducing herself as Pascal's assistant, offering me tea or coffee, and ushering me to sit down on the comfy-looking couch while I wait for her boss to arrive (which she insists should not be too long). I take a moment to look around the room while I'm waiting. The room is sweet and welcoming, much like the rest of the home, which feels very well... homely (like stepping into your best friend's house and chatting with their parents at the dinner table). It's a hard feeling to describe, such a sense of nostalgia from a place that I had never been in before. It feels fitting though that a man so beloved as Pedro Pascal should have a home that feels so nice. I snoop to get a closer look at the photos that hang up on the walls and sit on cabinets. Most of them seem normal. There are a few faces I recognize within the photos; Oscar Iscac can be spotted alongside a younger-looking Pascal in one of the photos on the wall. I spot John Favro amongst a few people in a photo that looks to have been taken on the set of The Mandelorian, but apart from that, the photos seem normal. They depict family and friends in various places over various years; it appears that Pascal cherishes his relationships with loved ones above all else.

I'm stopped in my snooping by another face in one of the photos, a face I recognize instantly, a face that has been all over the internet and tabloids for some time now. Pedro's wife. The photo is the first one in which she features prominently, sitting alongside what I can only assume to be one of her husband's sisters. It's a sweet photo, one that I can imagine Pedro was on the other side of, grinning wildly while taking. Y/N Pascal is an elusive figure that the media and her husband's fans have been trying to know better for a few years now. She is what is best described as a "normie," that is to say that she is just like you and me; that is perhaps what makes her so interesting to fans. She doesn't appear to have any ties to the industry; she isn't some big-wig producer's daughter; in fact, despite their insistence, fans have been unable to find anything on her. She has no public social media accounts, no company profiles online, and no one she went to high school with has come forward with a tik tok horror story (yet!). The couple are shrouded in mystery; no one seems to know how they met, where Y/N is from, or even the highly shrouded question of her age. She certainly appears younger than Pascal by a good few years, and I'm sure that I could find thousands of posts online speculating (or being downright nasty) about how young she is. But out of respect for the happy couple, I leave it a mystery.

The sharp heels of the sensible shoes that Pascal's assistant is wearing suddenly come back into earshot. She warns me to be ready with my stuff as “they” will be home soon. I don't think twice about her words before hauling ass back to the couch and trying to pull myself together. It's not long before I hear the front door open. Amy (Pascal's assistant that I had only just remembered the name of) runs to the door. I walk slower behind awkwardly, not wanting to intrude (despite the fact that I had spent the last ten minutes snooping around what was essentially a stranger's house). I peek round the corner to be greeted with Pascal's broad back. He is facing away from me, talking to his assistant lowly. His assistant finishes speaking and moves past me, wishing me luck in passing. Pascal doesn't turn around to greet me yet; in fact, he drops down onto one knee to reveal to my utmost shock his wife. Neither of them pay me any mind as he begins untying her shoes for her, ever the gentleman everyone believes he is.

It's not a second later that the man of the hour turns around to greet me. He smiles widely at me, and I find myself blushing slightly at his unwavering eye contact as he introduces himself. He only introduces himself by his first name, not something I find often when meeting famous people; they are often eager to give me the name that everyone knows and loves them by. It seems a bit of a strange phenomenon in Hollywood that has missed Pascal. His wife then steps forward to introduce herself. I hate to be the bearer of bad news to the millions of jealous fans, but Y/N Pascal is strikingly beautiful; even as I meet her in her own home with no makeup, she glows ethereally with a striking smile that looks like it belongs on the cover of a magazine. In that moment meeting her I quickly see why Pascal holds her in such admiration.

Much to my disappointment, that is the first and last time I see her during the interview. Pedro ushers her away somewhere out of sight with a protective arm around her shoulder. I can hear him mutter to her lowly, promising to be quick. Before kissing her goodbye with an "I love you." It makes my heart ache with a longing. Much like the rest of the internet, I wish I had a man like Pedro Pascal. We chat for a while, while exploring his house, he speaks passionately about his career, which he clearly loves. He has a flame behind his eyes as he speaks about his long-winded love for the cinema. He tells me stories of his famous friends that are featured on his walls. We laugh together, and he very much reminds me of an old friend. Even though I should be interviewing him, I let him talk, rambling on about things that I didn't find important enough to put in this interview, but they certainly put a smile on my face.

The house is beautiful; it's decorated nicely and feels authentic and homely. It's not massive, not overly obnoxious in the way many celebrity houses are; it's still big, the kind of size that screams loving family. I don't mean to make assumptions, but it almost feels like it's been brought with the idea of a growing family in mind. I complement the house easily. Pedro smiles at me. For the first time in the interview, he refers to his wife. He tells me that he hadn't cared where they lived; “anywhere is home when you are with someone that you love,” but insists that she had loved the house the moment they first saw it. "She has better taste than me,” he tells me with a loving glint in his eye. "She did a good job.” I compliment, he nods and smiles, "always thought I was biased 'cause I’m married to her, but glad to know it's not just me." I feel awfully privileged to get an insight into Pedro's fondness of his wife. It's not often that he speaks about her publicly; she gets mentioned in passing during interviews and is often spotted at events with him, safely away from the cameras, but it's clear to the general public that his marriage is a part of his life that he wishes to keep away from public scrutiny.

Its towards the end of the interview that I do ask him about his marriage. We walk past a wedding photo that depicts him and his lovely bride squashed together on one seat, smiling widely at the camera. He doesn't say anything when he notices me peering at the photo. I ask him carefully if he thinks being a married man has changed him. He ponders for a second. "Probably,” he answers me carefully. It's not the response I had expected from him, so I quickly encourage him to go on. "I suppose it has in a way,” he continues. “It's not that the amount of love I had changed, but I feel so proud about it now, like that I want to shout from the rooftops and tell everyone of my loved ones how much I love my wife, MY wife, ya know?” I smile and nod at his explanation. I understand what he is saying—such a sweet sentiment that it makes my heart warm.

We don't speak for much longer after that; he briefly mentions a few upcoming projects, which he seems excited for. I ask him what he has planned next, after his next few big projects are done. He hesitates for a second. “Truthfully,” he says, “I plan on taking a step away for a bit.” I ask if he wants to settle down more. “Yeah, that's part of it; I mean, I’m not getting any younger.” He tells me, “Things are changing soon, and I just want to be settled with my family.” He finishes. I wonder for a moment what he is referring to when he mentions these soon changes; I don't ponder on it too long; much like a crazed fan, I have a few theories floating around in my head.

We wrap up the interview from there; he is as polite and gracious as he has been the entire time, shaking my hand and thanking me for my time. I try to thank him for the interview and for letting me into his house, but he simply shakes his head at me, insisting it was his pleasure. He disappears soon after that, saying he has something to attend to (and speed walking in the direction that his wife disappeared to). I'm left to see myself out; I don’t snoop too much after I’m left alone. I make my way back to the front of the house, peering around as I go. I peek inside one room that appears to be in the middle of some kind of renovation or do-over. There are multiple pieces of yet-to-be put together furniture on the ground as the walls look to be in the middle of being painted a pastel purple color.

I’m about to leave when something catches my eye—on the table by the front door, which has various bits and bobs scattered over it, but none of these catch my eye. I step closer to get a clearer view of what appears to be a small black and white photo. I quickly realize what it is: tucked beneath the wallet I had seen Pedro place down before our interview began is an ultrasound. I smile knowingly as my theory is proven correct; the Pascal family is about to be adding another member.

Congratulations to Pedro as his wife on the upcoming addition to their family.

145 notes · View notes

joels-shitty-puns · 2 years ago

Text

The Key To Your Heart - Track 10

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x Musician!Reader

Series Summary: After writing your feelings for Pedro into a song, it gains a lot more popularity than expected. Ultimately it brings both criticism and support, with new possibilities around the corner.

Series Warnings: 18+ only (MDNI). Alluding to sexual scenarios. Kissing. Panic/Anxiety Attack. Fat shaming, name calling. Mentions of food, weight loss, weight gain, dieting, weighing, potential eating disorder, food guilt. Potential for puns/dad jokes (name of my blog, and the fic) should give that away. This is my first fic which should be its own warning, lol. Also some cursing. Mentions of masturbation (f). Sadness, reader is pretty depressed. Poor body image. Rude people. Bullying-ish and just lack of support? Anxiety. Age gap! Reader is in her mid 20's, Pedro is current age (48).

Other stuff: Reader is plus sized. AFAB. Inexperienced. Also has a dog, but you can pretend it is another creature probably. Further, in case it isn't clear, italics almost always are the reader's inner thoughts!

Word Count: 6.6k

Series List: Here!

Miss Track 9? Here!

Hi!!!! Once again I want to apologize for taking so long with this. I can't seem to ever stay awake to do anything. That being said, here it is! This is the last main chapter of our little lovebirds. There will be at least one, likely two bonus tracks coming soon though :) Also there's a smidge of Spanish in here from Pedro, but the translation is included in the end of the sentence. I took some Spanish classes back in the day but I don't speak it and had to use Google translate. So if it ISN'T right and you do speak Spanish, please let me know lol. Anyway, I hope you enjoy these little cuties on their first date. There's a lot, a lot, a lot of kissing in here (sorry...) and overall they're just grossly in love lol. Please let me know what you think, and if you've seriously read this far, I LOVE YOU! This is my first series, and honestly my first fic other than the one I wrote in my diary lmao. Like the reader, I am incredibly inexperienced so writing a relationship has been a bit of a challenge and half the time I don't believe the actual words I'm writing. But I really only started writing it as a way to write down my daydreams :) So to have support means the world to me, and hearing people comment/DM me saying how much they relate has meant so much and makes me feel a lot less alone, because ultimately, it doesn't matter how fictional it is, most of reader's feelings are my own. To anyone else in the same boat, I get you! Hang in there. I think there's a Pedro out there for us all. Someday. Anywho, pardon my ramble. Thank you for reading, I hope you like it. ❤

The next morning, you woke up and stretched your limbs, rolling over in your comfortable bed as the sunshine poured in through the window. At the shuffling of your body, Skipper groaned, wiggling a little in bed, nearly shoving you off the edge. You reached for your phone, blinking through your sleep a couple times before seeing a text from Pedro. “Good morning beautiful! I can't wait for our date today. I was thinking maybe we could start around 2:30 and spend the day together, if you'd like. But if that's too much, we can just make it a dinner date. Up to you which you would prefer. I understand either way. Love you ❤️”

He wants to spend the whole day with me!? And he sent me a good morning text and called me beautiful? Then signed it with a heart and love you?!!!! How did I get this man?

Your grin eclipsed your face, making you squint. If Mr. Grumpybutt weren't sharing the bed with you, you'd probably squeal and kick your feet. Tapping your phone screen, you typed out a reply. “Morning handsome ❤️ I would love nothing more than to spend the day with you. I love you too!” You sent the message before crawling out of bed gently, receiving a dirty look from Skip.

“Alright Grump. Go back to bed. Geez,” you laughed. If looks could kill, you thought. He turned back on his side, letting out a grumble and sigh, resulting in a laugh from you. Acts like he pays rent and works 40 hours a week…

You took a relaxing shower, making sure to be all nice and fresh for your date with the man of your dreams. While brushing your teeth, you noticed he had replied. “Great, I can't wait. I'll be at your place at 2:30. :)”

“Can't wait to see you. What do you have planned? I'm wondering how to dress.”

“Wear whatever you feel good in, baby. I'm sure you'll look amazing. Probably something casual you can walk around comfortably in for the day. Maybe something a little dressier for the evening, but you don't need to carry it around. We will make a stop at your place before and you can change”

Wow he really has this planned out.

“What have you got planned, P? This sounds elaborate. You know you don't need to put in all that effort, I'm already yours ❤️”

“You deserve the world, my love.”

Dressed in a pair of leggings and a light sweater, you felt reasonably cute while still being comfortable for whatever activity Pedro had in mind. Plus, with the crisp November air, you would be nice and warm. You were just finishing tying your sneakers when your doorbell rang.

You opened the door to find your handsome boyfriend standing on your step, a bouquet of red roses in his hand. “Mi amor,” he handed you the roses, kissing your cheek and hand. “Thank you Pedro,” your cheeks heated. “Come in,” you pulled his hand across the doorway towards the living room. Skipper pushed past you to investigate, causing Pedro to drop your hand.

“Well there he is! That handsome boy!” Skipper’s tail wagged and his butt wiggled as Pedro crouched to give ear scratches. “Oh, I love you too,” Pedro answered when Skip kissed his face frantically. A fit of giggles erupted from Pedro, making your heart swell with joy. He has the cutest laugh, and the fact that your dog is causing it was surreal.

“You're just a beautiful boy! Aren't you?! Hermoso, igual que tu mamá,” he held Skipper’s face, kissing his nose. (Beautiful, just like your mama)

Your chest was filled with butterflies. Holy shit, he's charming. “Thank you, Pedro,” you said in a whisper, not even sure if he would hear. Turning his head from your dog, Pedro looked up at you, giving you a gentle smile; but the eye contact was quickly torn away when Skipper pressed a needy paw to Pedro's chest. Both of you now giggling, Pedro continued to pet Skipper, stopping to give him a hug and some more nose kisses.

“Alright. I gotta ask…” you prompted, causing Pedro to turn his head towards you again. “Are you just dating me to hang out with my dog?” You smirked.

Pedro turned back to Skipper, speaking in a low voice. “She's catching on to us buddy. We've been made.” You burst out laughing, Skipper looking over at you as if his plan really had been foiled.

Pedro gave a final pat on Skipper’s head before standing and walking over to you. “Nonsense,” he pecked a kiss to your lips. “I do love that sweet boy of yours,” he replied before turning his face to whisper in your ear. “But I'm absolutely enamored with you, Mamacita.” The hair on your neck stood as a chill rushed down your spine. You bit your lower lip, and he stared back into your eyes, leaning in for a passionate kiss.

“You look beautiful,” he tucked your hair behind your ear.

“You look rather handsome, yourself,” you replied. His hair was brushed back and to the side, his curls neatly swept and threatening to break free around his face. You wondered whether he asked for help to make his hair look extra nice for your date or if he styled it himself.

Running your fingertips over his patched salt and pepper beard, your hands found the small heart shaped patches near his chin. You brushed your thumb over his jaw before leaning in to press a kiss on the bare skin, causing his eyes to close as he let out a sigh. The whiskers tickled your cheeks as you continued kissing up his jawline, back across his cheek, and on his nose before pulling away to look into his eyes.

He opted to not wear glasses today, allowing you a closer look into his deep brown eyes which were softening under your gaze. “You ready to go, baby?” He asked you, his hand on your hip as he rubbed circles with his thumb.

“Absolutely,” you smiled. He wore a pair of dark jeans, tennis shoes, and a white button up shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearm. He looked absolutely… incredible.

While you were grabbing your bag, he grabbed Skipper's leash. “Is Skipper coming too?” You asked, confused.

Skipper was twirling now, impatient to go somewhere.

“Sure is! Couldn't leave him out. But don't worry, you and I will have the night to ourselves,” he winked.

You looked downward, feeling shy and flushed. “Okay,” you giggled, clipping Skip to his leash and heading for the door.

“Do you want to take my car? You'll get dog hair and slobber in yours,” you offer.

“I don't mind! I love dogs,” Pedro replied, opening the door for Skipper to climb in the back seat. After closing the door, he opened the passenger door for you. Such a gentleman, you thought with a sigh, getting in and thanking him.

As the car sped along, you looked over at your boyfriend driving the car. Boyfriend! That'll never get old… you thought to yourself. The air conditioning blew the few loose strands of hair on the top of his head, and his left hand gripped the wheel, making the veins on his hand prominent. With his right hand, he reached over, holding your left in his, resting on top of your thigh.

He really did look beautiful. You couldn't help but stare at him as he expertly drove the car, hand flexing as he turned the wheel. His mouth pursed and he licked his lips, his tongue slowly jutting out to wet them.

Damn, I want those lips on mine. That tongue in my mouth, you thought, feeling rather warm, despite the air conditioning swirling around the car.

“So where are we spending the day?” You asked, trying to quiet the flames of attraction licking at your pulse.

“It's a surprise! But we're almost there,” he answered, rubbing his thumb over the top of your hand.

Pedro looked in the side mirror and laughed. “Babe, look at Skipper.”

You looked to see him with his head out the window, ears and lips blown back with the wind, his tongue lolled out to the side and blowing with the speed of the vehicle.

You both chuckled before you warned him, “your car is going to be covered in slobbers, Pedro!” He gave another quick look to Skipper before replying. “That's okay. It'll help me remember this day until I wash it again,” he looked over at you and smiled. It felt so natural. So… domestic, the two of you sitting in the car, going on a date, him holding your hand while driving, and the two of you laughing at your dog in the back seat. It was just perfect. Everything you dreamed.

He wasn't joking when he said you were almost there. It was only about five more minutes until the car pulled into the parking lot of the dog-friendly beach.

Stepping out of the vehicle, you took a deep breath, inhaling the familiar smell of salty sea air and hearing the chatter of gulls. The breeze blew your hair gently, but the day was relatively warm for November.

After the three of you exited the car, Pedro opened the trunk, pulling out a large picnic basket and tote bag. “You really came prepared, didn't you? Pedro, this is really special. Thank you.” Your eyes felt teary and the smile you held was genuine. Nobody has ever put this much effort into anything for you. Other than him.

“You don't need to thank me. I want you to be happy and I want the three of us to have a nice day,” he added, pecking your lips.

“Wait.. Pedro,” you frowned. “It looks kind of crowded. Should I be nervous about paparazzi or anything?” Your stomach bubbled with nervous energy.

“Don't worry, sweetheart. Celebs come here all the time. I've come here before. If they do, they might take pictures, but usually it's pretty low-key here. Try not to worry too much. I want you to have a nice time,” he squeezed your hand affectionately.

“Okay. I trust you,” you smiled at him as the three of you walked towards the sand, finding a nice place to picnic. Pedro unpacked, laying down a large blanket before setting up the spread of sandwiches, veggies, and fruit. He offered you a cold drink from the basket and the two of you sat, using a metal stake to secure Skipper’s leash near your blanket. He flopped onto his side, content to be sunbathing with some of his favorite people.

The lunch consisted of peaceful conversations and laughter, learning more about each other despite having talked for several months now. It seemed you could never run out of conversation topics. But even in the quiet moments, it wasn't uncomfortable. It felt relaxing. You were both content being able to sit together in silence and just enjoy each other's company.

After your meal, you packed up the basket and headed for the car again to put the things away, opting for a walk unburdened by carrying items across the sand. Neither of you brought a swimsuit today, but despite the California sun, it was still November, and the Pacific ocean was never really warm, even in the middle of summer. That didn't seem to bother Skipper very much though. As the two of you walked hand in hand near the water, barefoot in the wet sand, he ran laps around Pedro holding him on the leash, occasionally splashing through the shallow water before joining close by his family again.

He would definitely need a bath later, but you didn't mind. He was happy splashing around, having a great day. You were happy walking with the man of your dreams, fingers intertwined together. Everything felt right. You weren't even nervous, despite the way Pedro looked like the most handsome man you've ever seen, or the fact that he was famous, and that you occasionally received stares from other beach goers. Instead of the usual first-date nerves people get, you just felt love.

“So,” he started excitedly, “Obviously I have most of this date planned, but I also wanted to check in with you and see if you had anything particular in mind that you wanted to do together.”

You thought for a second, letting a memory burn into your thoughts. “Well,” you began, "I don't want to sound like a total creepy fan or anything...” you added, cautiously. You kinda were, with all the photos of him you had saved on your phone (prior to deleting them before your first meeting in person). But that's not important right now, and he probably doesn't need to know that. Maybe it can be a funny story later.

Pedro laughed, that cute little wheezy laugh he does with his giant smile that makes your stomach do somersaults. Those same somersaults you've been getting since you first saw that smile on the screen and knew you were absolutely screwed until you got over this crush. Or, unexpectedly, when you walked hand-in-hand with him, like you were now.

“But…?” he pondered, looking down at you sideways, with a playful smirk and those big brown eyes that could make you lose your mind. They absolutely glittered in the sunlight right now, reflecting all the joy and love he felt for you.

“Okay maybe I'm a little creepy…” you nudged him with your side, still gripping his hand in yours as the two of you walked peacefully. The beach was crowded, but you and him, and Skipper, were the only ones here as far as either of you were concerned. There could be a loud scream and it wouldn't compare to the squealing in your mind. A firework show would simply feel like a projection of your sparks. A tornado couldn't sweep you off your feet as well as he could.

“Is this where you tell me you've been watching me sleep through my window for the past three years or something?” He raised an eyebrow, playful smile still on his face as he licked his lips.

“What?” You squeaked, laughing. “No. I mean… I did have some pictures saved of you, and have maybe read a fictional story or two about you and your characters…” or a few thousand, you thought.

You cringed. Why the fuck did I say that out loud?!

Your cheeks felt hot and you diverted your eyes away from the man beside you, a nervous grimace painted across your mouth. He barked out a laugh, pulling you into his side for a hug. “Baby, you're cute. I don't mind that you used to read those. I don't even mind if you still do. No different than a book, right? Maybe it'll give us some fun date ideas.” He rested his head on top of yours innocently.

Oh, if only he knew the things you read.

“Right. Fun date ideas,” you smirked to yourself. He pulled away to look at you, eyebrow raising playfully.

“Sweetheart,” he interrogated in the same tone you use when Skipper steals a sock from the laundry, “what kind of stories are you reading about me and my characters, huh?” He lifted your chin to meet his eyes. You'd feel nervous from his tone if he didn't flash a smug, knowing grin at you.

“Oh, you know…” you shrugged. “Just the typical romance stuff,” you turned, facing him and resting your hand on his chest, tracing a circle over his heart with your finger. You felt his pulse pick up under your touch, and saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed.

“What kind of thoughts are going through that pretty head of yours?” He asked, raising his brow while you continued tracing little hearts into his shirt with your index finger.

“Wouldn't you like to know?” You winked before removing your hand from his chest. Starting to walk away, you continued your earlier statement. “Anyway, as I was saying-”

“Oh, no you don’t,” he interrupted, laughing. “Don't think you're getting out of this conversation that easy,” he gently pulled your forearm, stopping your movement and sending you twirling into his arms once again.

“Maybe someday I'll tell you,” you giggled, booping his nose.

“Someday? Why not tell me now?” He ran his thumb over your lip, eyes drifting down quickly before returning to your eyes.

“I'll show you the fanfics I read about you when I know you're stuck with me and you aren't going to run for the hills,” you laughed nervously, only partially joking.

His playful demeanor vanished before your eyes, turning into a look of… concern? Oh no. This is it. Where he realizes what a mistake he made. Where he says he doesn't want to be together. Where he breaks my heart.

He gently held your arm, rubbing soft strokes. “Honey. What are you talking about?” His soft brown eyes searched your face. You gulped, not wanting to make eye contact, but he again pulled your chin up, forcing you to look at him. “I…” you floundered for the words. “I don't want to scare you away.”

“Why would I be scared away?” he asked in almost a whisper, concern and sadness lacing his features.

“Because I just had this huge, huge crush on you. So, I read fanfics and I saved all your photos and I watched all your movies. I spent more time on social media looking for updates on you. Just so I could see you, or imagine what being with you would feel like. Like a total crazy person. An absolute psycho creeper.”

“Baby…” he brushed his thumb over your cheek. “You aren't any of those things. I actually think that’s kind of sweet. Although, it makes me a little sad thinking about the pain you must have felt, having these strong feelings and not having found each other yet.” He brushed your hair out of your face, settling his other hand on your waist before continuing.

“Feelings make us feel a little crazy sometimes, and although I never read fanfiction about you, or had any pictures to save, I would be lying if I said I didn't take a screenshot of us that first night you showed me your face.” He rubbed his neck bashfully.

Fanfic about me? What? If that even exists, I gotta see what people are saying…

“You did?” His admission surprised you, to say the least. He sighed before answering. “Yes. I had - have,” he corrected himself, “a pretty big crush on you too, baby. But I felt like I was betraying you in a way, taking a picture of you during our video chat. I just wanted to remember your face if I never saw it again,” he sighed.

“I fell in love with you the first time I heard your song... I heard you sing about your feelings and daydreams. So… you admitting about fanfiction and pictures isn't all that surprising.” You lowered your eyes in embarrassment.

“Hey, look at me.” He stroked your cheek. You looked up and he continued. “I took that picture because I had already fallen so head-over-heels for you that the first time I saw your face, I stopped breathing. Although I knew I wouldn't be able to get the image of you out of my mind, I couldn't risk forgetting the most beautiful woman I've ever seen in my life.”

You dropped your gaze again, cheeks feeling a permanent state of warmth and butterflies dancing from your stomach to your chest. “You don't honestly mean that, Pedro.” You sighed. “I appreciate it, but there's no way. I really don't know what you could ever see in someone like me,” you whispered, barely audible. If you weren't standing so close, he would've missed it.

Instead of responding, he dropped his arms from your body. At the loss of contact, your heart sank. But when you lifted your head to meet his eyes, he was fishing around his pocket for his phone. Calling an Uber to leave? Your self-doubt pestered.

A few taps to his screen later and he held up his phone. There you were, sitting at your table in your favorite dress, with your favorite food and flowers on the table. You had the biggest smile on your face and in the bottom corner, you could see Pedro looking handsome as always, and absolutely smitten with you, the largest grin painted across his features.

At the sight of the image, your heart warmed. “See what you mean to me?” He asked, putting his phone back into his pocket. You nodded, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I love you,” you choked out, leaning forward to mold your lips to his. They fit together perfectly. Like they were made for each other. He pressed back before opening his mouth ever so slightly to lick at your lips. Matching his movements, your tongues met, dancing a waltz in exploration as he pulled you forward by your lower back, seeming as if trying to get as close as possible somehow.

As the two of you paused for air, he ran his hand further down your back, just barely grazing the dip of your spine where your torso meets your butt. He gave you a look, almost to determine your reaction, asking permission to let his hand continue. When you didn't back away, going as far as pulling him closer around his neck and leaning in for another kiss, he pressed his lips against yours in return and let his hands wander a little further down. When his hand wrapped around the cheek of your ass, you squeaked. This is new… and I like it, you thought. His whole hand fit across your cheek. His huge hands. You whimpered as he gave a squeeze, like he was claiming you as his own.

“I love you too.” He finally responded, pulling out of the kiss to search your eyes. “So tell me… what was this activity you wanted to add to our date? The one you fear makes you sound like a creepy fan?” He let out a small laugh, brushing your nose with his.

“This,” you replied, pressing another kiss.

“Kissing?” He asked, rubbing his thumb over your waist and resting his forehead to yours. “I think we've already been doing that, if I'm not mistaken.” He pecked your lips with his.

“Yes,” you kissed. “Well,” kiss. “Actually,” you pulled away enough to explain. “I read this interview you gave a few years ago about your ideal first date?”

“Yeah?”

“You said something about ‘a date that doesn't feel like a date. And

hopefully by the end, or throughout, very

good kissing.” You said, slightly cautious at your memorization, a bit nervous at the implication of what you're saying.

“Oh, is that what you want?” He flashed his eyes up to look at you, giving a devilish smirk.

“Well, as someone who hadn't been kissed yet when I read it, I sorta lost my mind over it,” you laughed. “Obviously we've kissed before, but if it were up to me your lips would never leave mine,” you pressed your lips to his again.

“I think we should be able to make that happen,” he leaned in, brushing his nose against yours before pulling you in for another kiss. “Mmmm” you sighed, pulling away from his lips. “Never gets old.” You held his hand in yours, the two of you walking again down the beach.

“So I was thinking,” he began, “since you said you deleted all your photos, and I only have the one, maybe we could make some new photos… together,” the corner of his mouth turned up into a crooked smile. You grinned and nodded excitedly. “Please!”

Pulling out his phone, the two of you took several photos together. Some just smiling, some with Skipper, and your personal favorites, the ones with him kissing you. This will make for a perfect lockscreen, you imagined.

As you approached the edge of a rocky cliffside at the end of the beach, a sea lion barked in the distance. Skipper perked up, tilting his head and letting his ears twitch before returning a “boof.” The two of you laughed, ushering your dog away from making any wild ocean friends, and headed towards the boardwalk.

After grabbing an ice cream at a candy shop, you were so deep in conversation and laughter that you didn't notice the girl off to the side looking nervous. Slowly she walked over. Skipper put up his guard, but as she approached, she gave a kind wave. “Hi… I'm sorry to bother you. I'm a big fan of you both.”

“Us… both?!” You responded, surprised. Pedro shook his head with a laugh before thanking the fan.

“Of course! Your music is amazing! I listen to it on my way home from work everyday. I relate to so many of your songs.”

“Wow, thank you so much. I never expected to be recognized. You're so kind,” you replied honestly.

She asked for a photo with you both, and after obliging, she mentioned before leaving, “by the way, I was following all the news that went down. I just want to say I think it's cute how you guys got together and you make a really cute couple. Okay bye! Thank you again!!” And with that, she scurried away, leaving you to look at Pedro in surprise. “Wow” you replied with a laugh. “I can't believe I'm getting recognized,” you spoke quietly.

“How do you feel about it?” Pedro asked cautiously.

“I feel… okay, so far. This was a nice interaction, and even though people keep looking at us… being able to be out in public with you, to show my face, kiss you, hug you, hold your hand,” you gave his hand a squeeze, “it makes it all worth it.”

“I couldn't agree more,” he looked into your eyes, giving a soft smile. You matched his expression before his face slowly faded into concern. “Do you think work will go okay for you? Now that it's out there?”

You took a deep breath, walking a few more steps with him down the boardwalk before replying. “I don't know. I guess so. Or… I hope so at least. I've had a few of my friends and coworkers message me kind words of encouragement. So at least I'll have some people on my side, even if anyone else has something to say. But really, they shouldn't. They already know me. They knew I liked you,” you leaned into him. “So they should be happy for me if anything. And if not, then… well, they didn't deserve to be my friend anyway,” you shrugged. “But I think I might take some time off to figure out everything, career wise,” you added. Still leaning into his side, Pedro unlatched his fingers from yours, opting to reach his arm around you, giving your shoulder a squeeze and rubbing soft circles into your upper arm.

“Baby,” Pedro began, his voice vibrating through your body as he leaned his head on yours, “I’m so proud of you. Have I told you how strong I think you are?” Your cheeks warmed and you grinned. “Thank you Pedro,” you wrapped your arms around his waist to hug him. “But I don't think I'm that strong. I struggle to open pickle jars just like the rest of us,” you joked.

Pedro gave a quiet snort. “You know what I mean, honey,” he laughed. “I don't mean physical strength. Though I'm sure you could hold your own in an arm wrestle, I mean your ability to handle all of this thrown at you so quickly. Your ability to adapt and stay cheerful about everything. You just keep continuing to amaze me,” he pulled his head away from yours to meet your gaze. He smiled softly and you thanked him.

“I don't feel very strong,” you mumbled, breaking away from his stare. “You are, though. You're strong, smart, beautiful. Talented. Passionate,” he kissed your lips.

“Pedro, I love you, but you always seem to use all these words I don't feel. You see me as someone completely different than the way I've always seen myself. I want to believe you, but-” you sighed. “No one else has ever shown any indication that those are true,” you pouted, trying not to tear up.

“Hey, hey, whoa. Stop,” he halted your movements, pulling your chin up to his face. “Maybe they didn't see you, but I do. I feel all those things about you, and I'll spend every single day trying to prove it. I told myself I wouldn't get involved in romance a long time ago. But you changed all that.”

His chocolate brown eyes felt like they looked directly into your soul as he attempted to unravel your self-doubt. With a deep breath, you calmed enough to reply. “I love you, and I feel all those things for you as well. I'm glad you opened yourself up to love again.” You pressed a kiss to his lips. “I'm glad I met you” you sucked his lip. “I'm glad you're mine.” You kissed him again, deepening it, letting your tongue press gently to his and tangling together in passion before pulling away.

Skipper had completely rolled into his side in wait for you both, between the conversation and the kissing. When the two of you broke away with matching grins, you looked over to see the sun had sunk down to the border between sky and ocean. In its wake was a bright orange sky, with pink, purple, and yellow streaks mixed in, as if a painter had gotten a bit too carried away with the paints. It was blindingly beautiful.

Drawn to it like moths, the three of you walked towards the shoreline once again. You started to sit, but Pedro pulled you into his chest and fished for his phone.

You gave him a confused look before he kissed you deeply and held out his arm. Unlatching his lips from yours with a pop, he held up his phone to you with a smile. In front of the vibrant ocean sunset, the silhouette of a couple shared a loving kiss. For once, it was you in this couple photo. You and the man you love.

You walked a little farther down the sand before sitting down just above the line of wet sand to admire the sunset. Pedro sat behind you, his legs on either side of you while you lay back into his chest. As you leaned into him, he hugged around your body, molding himself to you and tracing light circles into the skin on your arms, making the hairs stand on end and a shiver to run down your spine.

Skipper flopped down nearby, clearly sleepy after a long walk and plenty of new smells. You ran a gentle hand down his back until you heard soft snores, then let him sleep, leaning your head on Pedro’s arm around your shoulder. “This sunset is beautiful,” you sighed, watching as the sun descended further below the ocean. It looked as if it was sinking deep below the surface, offering its light to the deep sea anglerfish miles below.

“It is amazing,” Pedro agreed, staring at you. “But my view is even better,” he added, and you could feel his eyes on the side of your face as he kissed your shoulder. You looked over at him, meeting his eyes, now sparkling with the orange of the sky. “Mine too,” you whispered, tilting your head to press another kiss to his lips.

When the sun went down completely, you headed to the car and Pedro drove back to your place so you could get ready for dinner.

Pedro sat on the couch patiently, stroking the fur on Skip’s back while he snoozed, his head in Pedro's lap. In your bedroom, you searched for the perfect outfit to wear, finally deciding on a nice dress and sweater.

Hopefully the restaurant isn't too cold, you thought.

Walking out of the bedroom, you joined your boys in the living room, only to be greeted by Pedro’s jaw hitting the floor. “Te ves tan hermosa mi amor,” he stuttered in Spanish, flipping languages so easily when he was overcome with emotion. (You look so gorgeous my love.)

He gently stood, sliding out from below your dog, before walking over to you. His eyes scanned your body from head to toe and back up again, making you feel nervous. “You… you look… wow.” He rubbed his hand over his chin, his thumb grazing his lip. His pupils grew, making his eyes ever-so-slightly darker. You shivered under his gaze.

At your shiver, his demeanor shifted. “Shit, are you cold? Baby, you look incredible, but if you're cold -”

“I'm not cold, Pedro,” you interrupted.

“Are you sure? I saw you shiver.” He stepped towards you, touching your arm. A buzz crept under your skin like a live wire. “It wasn't from the cold…” you replied.

“It wasn't from-?” He paused, the realization hitting him as he understood your shiver wasn't from cold but frankly.. the opposite. “Oh,” he hummed, settling his hand on your hip and stepping closer.

Another chill.

“Feeling excited for our date, huh?” His voice caressed into your ear as he kissed his way down your neck, pausing to take gentle nibbles on the skin of your collarbone, neck, and chin, before pulling you in by your waist to press a deep kiss to your mouth, his tongue finding yours.

This was starting to feel natural, kissing. And you two were getting good at it together. Knowing just the way his tongue moved, finding just the spot to make you whine. You even managed to find a spot of him that made a groan slip from his lips nearly every time. Kissing him was addicting, and you had no intention of kicking the habit.

He pulled away, pulling your lip with his teeth as you let out a slight hiss. “I'd love to do this all night, but I promised you dinner, my love,” he kissed your cheek, his beard scratching your face just right. You sighed, agreeing to dinner and taking a minute step back. It felt much warmer in the room than before, and you could tell he felt the same. As your eyes drifted across his body, he nervously rubbed the back of his neck, clearing his throat. Slowly sweeping his eyes down his body, it was evident you both wanted something beyond dinner.

But the gentleman he is, Pedro stepped forward again, taking your hand and leading you toward the door.

Pulling up to the curb, Pedro opened your door for you before handing his keys to the valet. Linking his arm with yours, the two of you walked into an elegant Italian restaurant. He gave the waitress his name, and she led you back to a secluded room where a single booth sat.

The room was dimly lit, illuminated by candles and twinkling fairy lights. They lined the ceiling, mimicking the starry sky, were it not for the smog of the city. You two walked toward the only booth, settled against the nook of a window, draped with a soft, thin white curtain covering the view from outside. Only the reflection of street lights peered through the thin drapery.

Sliding into the booth, Pedro sat next to you, close enough to touch, yet due to the curve of the corner booth, you were able to converse without craning your neck awkwardly. At the center of the table was a single red rose in a vase, sat next to the glow of a candle. The table itself was rounded and draped with an elegant dark red tablecloth.

Grabbing the triangular folded napkin off your plate, you folded it across your lap, Pedro doing the same. He reached over to you, taking your hand in his. He rolled his hand over the top of yours, linking his fingers between your own and giving a gentle squeeze while offering a soft smile.

You looked into his eyes, searching for the words he might be thinking. In his eyes you only found love and appreciation, pure happiness oozing from his features. When the waitress came back, she set a basket of bread with butter on the table and took your orders.

The night went smoothly, chatter filling the empty spaces while you enjoyed your meals. “Pedro, I know this is technically our first date, but I gotta say, I think I consider our video chat for my album as the first date. It was the first time I felt like I might actually have a shot with you. You put so much effort into that night and it was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for me. I didn't know I could fall for you any harder than I was, but you proved me wrong. And even though we didn't say it was a date, and I didn't have much experience before you, it felt more like a date than anything I had ever felt before. You're a real romantic, P.”

He smiled and pressed a gentle kiss to your lips. “That felt like the first date to me too. I knew for sure that I loved you that night.” Your cheeks heated, and you leaned your head on his shoulder.

It was only when the bill arrived that you broke apart. Though you offered to pay, at least for your meal, Pedro wouldn't stand for that. After all, he told you, this date was his idea. So instead, you thanked him and left the restaurant the same way you entered, arms linked.

As Pedro pulled up outside of your home, you let out a sigh. It was already after 9 PM. You had spent nearly eight hours together and yet you dreaded the moment you'd be saying goodbye. It was almost that time already, yet it felt like only five minutes had passed.

Though the walk from Pedro’s car to your front door was rather short, you both managed to prolong it, walking as slow as possible. Clearly he wasn't ready for it to end either. Two love sick fools, just wanting to spend every moment together.

Teetering on the edge of goodbyes, you awkwardly stood by your door. There were no nerves at a first kiss, fortunately. There had been plenty of kisses shared today, and yesterday, and the day prior. In fact, if it weren't for breathing, eating, and other bodily functions, you'd be fine having your lips glued to his indefinitely.

So with that in mind, and the burning desire to spend more time together, as he said goodbye, placing a kiss to your lips and beginning to walk away, you grabbed his arm. “Wait,” you plead.

Pedro turned, looking at you as if you had something to say, or you had forgotten a sweater in the car. But instead, with your heart pounding in your ears, you quietly asked, “would you like to come in? I’m not quite ready to say goodbye.”

The question could be taken with so many potential implications, or none at all. All you knew for sure was that you wanted to spend more time with him. What happened next could be decided in the moment.

His eyes flashed surprise for a moment. He looked at you, trying to read your face for any details in your question, then stared at your front door before turning back to you and finally answering.

“I would love to,” he smiled.

And so the two of you walked through the threshold of your front door, buzzing with new possibilities just inside. But no matter how the rest of the evening takes place, you were in love, and for once, you were loved back.

The end! Thank you for reading! Stay tuned for the bonus tracks, and once again I'd love to hear what you think! Reblogs are appreciated as well :)

Taglist: (Want in? Let me know!)

@pedrotonin @starcrossed02 @lightupsketchersperson @cartoon-garbage04 @tyferbebe @maryfanson @gwendibleywrites @faithfullyyours2000 @hc-geralt-23 @jenniferpendragon @winchestergypsy90 @red-red-rogue @theendwhereibegin @lottieellz101 @oliversaurus @kyga01 @milly-louise @titabel @taz-97 @stefanibear003 @marantha @fandomoniumflurry @ilovemybrown-eyedbabygirl @leiadjarin @hmneighbors @emmalostinwonderland

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal fanfiction #a! wrote a fic #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x afab!reader #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal fluff #pedro pascal x musician!reader #pedro pascal x y/n #pedro pascal x plus sized! reader #pedro pascal rpf #rpf #key to your heart #pedro pascal smut

150 notes · View notes

luellalux · 3 months ago

Text

Te Amo Por Siempre - June to July 2014

Masterlist | AO3

June 2014

Carissa was her mother’s daughter — not just in the tilt of their eyes, the delicate point of their chins, or their slight build. It was in the way they spoke to the people they loved, with soft and careful words. In the way they made space for others. In the way they gave — generously, instinctively, endlessly. But that’s where the similarities stopped. Because where Emmy chose to paper over jagged arguments and pretend they never happened, Carissa acted.

After what Carissa could only assume was her mother’s idea of a cooling-off period, her mother’s texts started coming again. Regular, breezy updates about Jimmy’s latest adventures, little bits of family gossip and chatter, each one carefully crafted to tug at the threads still connecting Carissa to them while completely glossing over how her parents’ last visit to New York had ended. Though not a single one questioned why she emptied her room or mentioned Pedro or anything about what her father had done to cause the rift that was still very much there, for Carissa at least.

Mama: We missed you at your tito Benjie’s birthday barbeque. Do you know if Camille is pregnant? She didn’t touch the charcuterie we had out.

Not one for nosy speculation, Carissa only had to wait a few days before Angel confirmed Camille’s pregnancy in the cousins’ group chat. She immediately sent flowers and every thoughtful maternity gadget she could find—small luxuries, practical comforts, things she thought Camille would appreciate. She and Pedro signed the card together: “Love, C & P.”

A few days later, another text appeared. This time about Queenie’s dermatology boards.

Mama: Your ate Queenie got her results—she passed! First doctor in the family! She accepted an offer from a clinic in Beverly Hills too. We should send her flowers and something nice—from the three of us and Jimmy.

Proud of Queenie, just as everyone else in the family was, Carissa sent a gift fitting for the woman and the occasion—a four-figure Dior purse Queenie had been coveting, accompanied by another card carefully signed “C & P.”

Perhaps in any other family, signing the cards with Pedro wouldn’t be of note. Carissa, however, knew what it signalled to the recipient and how her family might gossip amongst themselves until it reached her parents. She was setting herself apart from her parents and, as an unmarried woman in the Bautista clan, that would not go down lightly and she knew to expect an irate phone call sooner or later.

By mid-June, no such call had yet occurred and Carissa guiltily considered that she may not have had enough faith in her cousins or maybe no one wanted to be the one to bring the cards up to her father. Either way, when a text from her mother about JR seemingly emerging from his post-breakup bender appeared, she found herself relieved in more ways than one. At the very least, the whole family had been concerned about JR for months.

Mama: You know, I think JR is finally getting over his ex. Your tita Dolly said he sometimes goes to mass with her now, and he hasn’t been smelling like alcohol anymore. Our prayers are working!

Wanting to see this improvement for herself, Carissa reached out to Jericho who was practically attached at the hip with JR, and invited both of them to New York to see Pedro’s play. Her cousins immediately agreed, thrilled to see Pedro in person after watching him get his eyes gouged out on HBO. Their visit, however, came with a caveat, as Carissa discovered when she casually offered the guest room.

“All right, here’s the plan,” Jericho said cheerfully over the phone. “We’re flying in Thursday, staying in the city—but you gotta hit up a couple rooftop bars with us. Friday’s for the play and dinner. Saturday, imma be keeping JR outta trouble in the clubs. And Sunday before we leave, we’ll have brunch. Cool?”

Carissa tucked her phone between her ear and shoulder, scanning her calendar. “Sounds great. But are you sure you don’t want to stay with us? We have a guest room with its own bathroom and everything.”

Silence. Then—“Us?” Jericho’s voice turned conspiratorial. “You mean to tell me you been shacking up with your man?”

Rustling in the background, then JR’s voice cut in, teasing, “Ohhh, I’m telling your dad!”

“Please do not tell my dad,” Carissa groaned, slapping a hand over her eyes.

Jericho wheezed. “Relax, he’s not actually gonna tell him.”

“Yeah, like I wanna be the bearer of that news—I’m not Darryl, you know,” JR said. “And we definitely can’t stay with you in your little love nest. We need plausible deniability if your dad ever interrogates us. Besides, I don’t want to be carrying around a black light just to make sure I sit on a surface you two haven’t done the nasty on. I don’t need that kind of stress in my life.”

Carissa groaned again, mortified. “JR, shut up.”

Jericho chuckled warmly. “Living with your man before marriage? Bold move,” he remarked, sounding vaguely proud.

“Why are you encouraging her?” JR protested.

Jericho sounded like he was shrugging as he said, “Because it’s her life and she’s already doing it. Might as well support her.”

JR wasn’t convinced. “She’s living in sin.”

“Dude, we’re not exactly saints ourselves,” Jericho snorted.

“Yeah, but we’re boys. Parents don’t care what we do. She’s a girl, it’s different for them,” JR said bluntly, invoking the double standard their family had always quietly accepted.

Carissa shifted gears, eager to wrap the conversation before further embarrassment. “Anyway, I’ll see you Thursday when you get in.”

“Sounds good,” Jericho said gently. “We’ll see you soon. And, bunso?”

“Yeah?”

His voice softened. “I love that you’re doing you.”

Carissa smiled, unexpectedly touched. It wasn’t often that her family acknowledged her personal choices—not like this. She cleared her throat softly. “Thanks, Jericho.”

Just as she was about to hang up, JR cut in, mischievous. “Oh yeah, one more thing—”

Carissa sighed. “What now?”

“Make sure you’re on birth control,” JR quipped.

She gasped in complete embarrassment while Jericho burst into laughter.

“Seriously! If y’all are gonna be fornicating, make sure you’re keeping your shit on lock.”

The call ended soon after, Carissa still blushing furiously as her cousins howled with laughter.

——-

JR and Jericho’s visit seemed to be just the thing Carissa needed in Pedro’s opinion. He was relieved to see Carissa relax around family members who were genuinely supportive. JR brought humor and levity, while Jericho, kind and easygoing, reminded Pedro exactly why he held the family title of “nicest cousin.”

The pair brought ease to Carissa, alleviating the tension she had been in the aftermath of her parents’ last visit to New York—her father’s icy silence, her mother’s forced cheerfulness. They shared the latest family news, showed pictures of their trip to Banff and JR dryly joked about how romantic it would have been had he been there with a woman instead of Jericho who snored loud enough to cause an avalanche. But most importantly, didn’t pressure Carissa about mending fences with her parents, even if it was clear they knew something was brewing.

Days after her cousins returned home to Orange County, Carissa’s phone buzzed incessantly, texts from various relatives lighting up her screen. At one point Pedro noticed the cascade of notifications.

“You don’t think they said anything to your parents, do you?” he asked cautiously, watching Carissa silence her phone before they walked into a movie theater for a late night showing, his arm slung over her shoulders.

She shook her head confidently. “JR and Jericho said they’d tell anyone who asked that they were in Vegas.”

In truth Carissa had a hunch it was about the cards she sent earlier that month and that the axe was about to fall. She put the thought from her mind for the night so she could enjoy a date night with Pedro. But, as she settled into her Chicago hotel room a day later—tired from scouting locations for a new shelter with her team—a single curt text arrived that made her heart stop. It came after a flurry of messages from her mother pleading for a call back:

Dad: I am going to call you in five minutes.

Carissa’s hands turned clammy. It would be the first time she’d spoken to her father since April. Ignoring her mother’s insistent tugs to come back into the fold was one thing. Facing her father was another matter entirely.

——-

The Langham, Chicago, Illinois

“…signing cards like that as if you aren’t our daughter anymore, as if you’re separate from us, like you don’t respect your parents—which I know you don’t because of how you have been ignoring your mother whenever she tries to call you. What kind of daughter does that? And more than that—-“

Froy had been railing at her for ten minutes straight. Carissa sat stiffly on the edge of the hotel bed, shoulders rigid, eyes fixed on the muted skyline visible through the sheer curtains. The gist of his argument was that she had broken an unwritten cultural rule in their family. An unmarried woman in their family, at her age, still belonged to her parents no matter what she accomplished in life. Signing cards to family members jointly with someone she wasn’t married or engaged to or even accepted by her parents was the kind of action that sent a signal to the rest of the family that Carissa was rebelling not just against her parents but against the mores that governed family dynamics.

"My brothers– your uncles– do you know what they’re asking? If I’ve lost control of you! If we are fighting! If you have turned your back on us! Do you understand what you are doing to me and your mother? You are making us look like fools! Walking around without faces—as if we have no honor left!"

He was spiralling, trying with every word to make her feel small. The old Carissa—their Carissa—would have wilted under the weight of it. Would have swallowed back the hurt and let herself be pulled back in. Instead she turned the phone’s volume down low enough to dull the sharp edges of his words. She didn’t feel the sting of shame that her father was trying in every way to make her feel. Instead, a sour dread pooled at the pit of her stomach, anticipating how this conversation would inevitably end.

Eventually he barked, “Well? What do you have to say for yourself, ha?” his accent thick and breath heaving from the effort of yelling at her.

Carissa took a deep steadying breath, keeping her cool as she spoke words that were true but would certainly light another match under him. “I understand that what I’ve done has upset you. But I’m not sorry for it.”

“You—!” Then he sounded like he was calling over his shoulder to Emmy. “Your daughter says she’s not sorry!” She heard her mother in the background frantically pleading for him to calm down before he snapped at Carissa, “Talagang salbaje ka, Carissa!”

She ignored the insult and continued speaking over her his roars of indignation. “You haven’t apologised to Pedro for what you did that night so it follows that I have changed how I have chosen to communicate with you and mama.”

“Apologise? To him?” Her father sputtered. “I have nothing to apologise for! You had a right to know who you’re involved with and as your father I did what was best.”

“In that same logic, I also have nothing to feel bad about because I did what I thought was best,” Carissa answered stoutly. “You don’t respect Pedro, you don’t respect my feelings for him or my decision to be with him. To me, that more than justifies my actions, whether you agree with them or not.”

Her father changed tactics immediately. “You think that just because you are successful and rich it means you can do whatever you want? Date who you want, even if your family tells you he’s not right for you?”

“I think that by virtue of being a human being, I can choose who to love. I can decide the terms of relationships that don’t accept all of me, including my partner,” Carissa answered in that maddeningly flat and unaffected way she knew annoyed her father. “As for whether he is right for me or not is something that isn’t up for your judgement, ever. If there’s anything I’m sorry for it’s thinking that I ever needed your approval of him in the first place.”

“This is all his fault!” Froy roared down the line, making Carissa flinch and pull the phone away from her ear. “You only started being hard-headed and disrespectful after you got involved with him. That stupid, putang ina Pedro has turned you against us!”

A sharp sting of fury cleaved at her chest and for the first time in longer than she could remember, Carissa acted on sheer impulse stoked by that emotion. “That’s enough, dad,” she snapped in a tone that felt as foreign to her as her own father did at that moment. “I don’t want to keep fighting when all you’ll do is say hurtful things you can’t take back.”

Her inflection surprised them both and for a moment, she felt like she crossed a line somehow, talking to her father like this. Before she lingered too long on the thought, she braced herself for what she would say next, what she knew she had to say.

“If you or mama need anything more than what’s already established through the trust, you’ll need to contact the trustee,” she said with a tone of hollow finality, referencing the financial structure she set up for them immediately after Heartfire. A structure that would now become a boundary and a buffer between her and her parents. “They’ll make sure I review any requests.”

The line was dead silent for the space of heartbeat as she felt her father grapple with her meaning. I am building a wall and you are on the other side.

“You would choose him over us, over your own parents?” he hissed, disbelief in every syllable, daring her to confirm what she meant.

“I never wanted it to be like this,” she answered, her voice brittle, hoping that maybe she might be getting through to him. “But, yeah, I choose him, I choose the life we have together.”

“He will ruin you, anak,” Froy stated emphatically, leaving no room for doubt where both of them stood, the chasm between father and daughter– familial duty and love– gaping grotesquely between them like a fatally wounded field animal. “You won’t see it until it’s too late. He will take everything from you and you are too blind to see–”

“I choose Pedro,” Carissa repeated, her conviction growing louder in response over her father’s warning. “At palaging ko siyang uunahin.”

She didn’t need to say it in English. She wanted him to feel it exactly as she meant it– ‘I will always put him first’ — in the language that raised her, in the words her father couldn’t mistake or dismiss. With that, she ended the call. There was nothing left to say.

Carissa stared down at the silent phone in her palm, heart still racing, the room jarringly silent. She took several steadying breaths as her father’s words rang in her ears. Part of her, the most pragmatic side, cautioned her against speaking with such finality against her parents. But her heart spoke louder, giving her courage to move to the next moment.

Translations:

talagang salbaje ka, Carissa – The word "salbaje" is derived from the Spanish salvaje, meaning wild or savage. In Filipino usage, calling someone "salbaje" carries a very strong negative connotation — it means they are rude, out of control, disobedient, lacking respect, or behaving shamefully. In this context, Froy is essentially saying: "You really are disobedient/wild, Carissa!"

putang ina - mother fucker

At palaging ko siyang uunahin – and I will always put him first.

——-

Days later, as Carissa hurried through packing up her hotel suite in Chicago. The week had been a successful one. Along with her team she had met with community leaders to ensure that the next shelter would fully meet the needs of the women in crisis in the area. They had toured various buildings, particularly in East Garfield Park, and were quickly zeroing in on a property that would soon become her foundation’s sixth maternity shelter.

Despite her jammed schedule, her phone continued to flash with incessant notifications—emails, texts, calls—all demanding immediate responses. Laptop open, she toggled effortlessly between tabs, switching her focus from the foundation to troubleshooting a priority one issue flagged by her West Coast-based 714Analytix team.

“Wait—stop,” she instructed firmly into her headset, eyes scanning the code that illuminated her screen. “Don’t revert the entire build, it’s just the authentication service.”

A pause, a faintly mumbled apology on the other end, and Carissa adjusted her tone slightly. “Mistakes happen. Just revert to the last stable build. I’ll push the corrected version myself— give me fifteen minutes.” Her fingers moved deftly, correcting the lines without hesitation. This was her code after all; each character had been deliberately placed, meticulously tested, and perfected. It was a point of personal pride and control, one she was unlikely to relinquish any time soon.

Once the update safely deployed and her team dispatched, she set down her headset as her fingers stilled over the keyboard, allowing herself exactly half a moment before the next thing required her attention. As if on cue, her phone vibrated with another incoming call. Glancing down, Carissa saw the name of her longtime PR representative who had been on retainer for years. No doubt her rep was following up on the email Carissa had skimmed just before her last call.

Carissa answered and listened, her eyes fixed on the Chicago skyline beyond her hotel suite’s window as she absorbed what the rep had already summarized in their email: a freelance photographer had taken pictures of her and Pedro entering a movie theater in Brooklyn a few nights ago—his arm casually around her shoulders.

“How much are they asking for the rights?”

The rep answered. The sum provided hardly mattered, not for something like this.

“Fine, pay it,” she instructed, her mind already halfway to the airport. “Have them sign the standard NDA we have for this type of thing. I want this gone.”

The rep replied in the affirmative and the call ended, the matter efficiently settled just like all the others before. She was always careful to only employ these strategies—acquiring exclusive rights to potentially compromising images and securing ironclad NDAs—for her own or her family’s privacy. It never bothered her if any publication commented or analysed her business or her foundation. She believed in freedom of the press after all. When it came to her personal life, however, she firmly put her foot down the moment she could afford to. With the PR team she had on retainer they had been able to suppress interest in anything about her that didn’t have to do with her professional work or philanthropy via these methods, SEO manipulation and other means.

There was a time before Pedro appeared on Game of Thrones when such incursions were few and far between. But with his rising fame drawing him into the radius of public curiosity, she knew this wouldn’t be an isolated incident. Not only would they need to be more careful, but at some point she knew she would have to tell him what she was doing, the lengths she was going to in order to ensure their privacy.

It wasn’t that she was worried that he might feel she was overstepping. When it came to them, their life together, her protective instinct was only rivaled by his. He would probably be more concerned that she was handling it on her own instead of sharing the burden with him. Though she rationalized that, with everything he was juggling, the work he had ahead of him, she didn’t want to distract him or add to his worries. He deserved to focus solely on his craft so long as she could help it.

As she finished up packing, her thoughts passed over the last call, back to Pedro and the plans they made for the coming days. Soon, she would be home, seeing him perform as Don John one last time. Then they’d have a few days to themselves before he was sucked into preparing for his next role, San Diego Comic Con, Quantico and by the end of August, off to Bogotá. She didn’t want to waste their remaining time together before his next job discussing the paparazzi pictures. She wanted to savour every moment with him– moments that would memories that needed to last her for weeks before her first visit to Columbia.

——

Brooklyn, New York

Pedro ducked his head slightly as he slipped onto the crowded subway car, wired headphones snugly in place, music softly buzzing through his head. He settled against the door, swaying gently with the rhythm of the train, eyes unfocused as he stared past his own reflection in the scratched window. He was grateful when no one immediately approached, though a few curious glances lingered longer than usual. It was happening more often—recognition, double-takes, whispered murmurs after he passed by. After years of being just another anonymous actor on the subway, it felt surreal, thrilling, and intimidating all at once.

He had dreamed of this kind of busyness for years. His phone buzzing constantly, each call or text another confirmation that yes, this was real—this was happening. Franklin checking in, Sue sending more meeting requests, another producer wanting a screen test, a callback, a photo shoot, a magazine interview, a podcast appearance. They were stacking up faster than he could respond. As he leaned back, half-listening to the muted, rhythmic clatter of wheels beneath his feet, Pedro felt the terrifying exhilaration of it all.

Despite all the work coming at him through a firehose, all validation, the one person he wanted—the one he needed most—was Carissa. But with every new obligation was one more moment away from her. He found himself constantly searching for her even if he knew she was in a completely different time zone—across rooms crowded with industry faces. Even when she traveled for work, her absence filled every corner, a reminder of just how completely she held his heart in her small, gentle hands. It was startling how much he needed her— her steadiness, her dry humor, the calm she created around him. Without her, even temporarily, everything felt just a little off-center, like a slightly blurred photograph.

In the pocket of his jacket, his hand curled reflexively around the worn MetroCard, fingertips absently tracing its frayed edge as his thoughts turned toward the next job, Narcos . He was desperate to ask her to come with him to Bogotá, especially when they talked about how hard the distance was going to be. To him the idea of having her come with him was equal parts foolish and rose-tinted romance, like asking her to run away and join the circus with him. Yet it felt like the only answer to soothe the gnawing ache that always came over him at the thought of leaving her here in Brooklyn. He debated endlessly about it and had driven Javiera mad with his vacillating between ‘fuck it, I’m gonna ask her’ and ‘it would be such as dick move to even bring it up’ .

Each time the words were on the tip of his tongue, he stopped short. He knew asking her would be impossibly selfish of him. Carissa was meant for far more than just following him around, leaving behind her responsibilities and the many people who depended on her. Before she was his, she was hers– her own person. He knew he couldn’t ask this of her, not when her dreams, her work mattered too much.

But there was another question he could ask. Another way of telling her how deeply she was loved without upending her entire life just for him. A question accompanied by a small velvet box waited hidden in the back of a drawer in his third-floor rehearsal space, patiently awaiting its moment. It was the only question that could succinctly articulate that nothing—no distance, no success, no failure—could ever alter how deeply and completely she had captured his heart.

The train slowed to his stop, doors sliding open with a soft hiss. Pedro stepped onto the bustling platform, smiling a little to himself. He would ask her to marry him this summer before he left for Colombia. True, it was sooner than either of them had initially considered. They had both pictured waiting until his career was steadier, their lives a little less chaotic. In any case, they could have a long engagement if that’s what Carissa wanted. Though what mattered the most was making sure that she knew, without question, just how fiercely he loved her.

——-

July 2014

Delacorte Theatre, New York

“When were you gonna tell us you’re friends with Oberyn Martell?” David asked excitedly as Carissa led him and his girlfriend Rachel backstage after curtain call.

“Exactly now,” Carissa answered with an amused grin. They reached a door to the dressing room that Pedro was splitting with one of his cast mates and she knocked lightly. “It’s me, are you decent?”

“Yeah, come in,” Pedro called, just as his castmate stepped out, tossing a friendly nod in Carissa’s direction as he went.

She pushed the door open wider with one hand while adjusting the strap of her purse on her shoulder. “Hey, I brought you some fans.”

Pedro stood immediately, still in partial costume, the fatigue of a long day momentarily eclipsed by the sight of her. He had just been thinking about her—of course he had. They had just missed each other at home, Pedro having left for the theatre before Carissa’s flight from Chicago touched down.

His feet moved without thinking, crossing the space between them in just a few strides, his arms sliding around her in a cosy hug. Her cheek tilted naturally toward him, and he pressed a quick kiss there—a small, warm greeting that read as purely friendly to anyone watching. A spark of something brighter flickered beneath the surface, but he smothered it down, holding the moment close but careful. Later, he told himself. Later.

Behind her, two people hovered in the doorway: a tall man with curious eyes and a woman holding his hand, both looking friendly but tentative. Pedro recognized the man immediately. He’d seen David Karp’s face in enough tech features and headlines to know him on sight.

As Carissa introduced them, Pedro’s arm slid around her waist without a second thought, his palm settling at the small of her back. His thumb stroked a slow, absent arc against the fabric of her dress, noticeable only to Carissa.

“Pedro, this is David and Rachel,” Carissa said, stepping back slightly to let them in, though Pedro’s touch lingered as if he couldn’t help himself.

Even as he pivoted to greet them, his hand trailed lightly along her back before dropping to his side, only to find its way back to her as soon as she stilled beside him. He offered David an easy handshake, warm despite the exhaustion behind his eyes. “Hey, good to finally meet you, man,” Pedro said, genuine as ever. “Carissa talks about your work together all the time.”

David and Rachel looked a little starstruck though David was first to recover. “Yeah, same, I seriously don’t know how Carissa kept it from us that she knows you, like personally.”

“Yeah,” Rachel agreed, “We’re huge Game of Thrones fans and Carissa is just casually friends with you this whole time?”

“You know her, she’ll hardly ever talk about herself unless you make her,” Pedro said, a slight teasing tone in his words.

Carissa merely shrugged in her understated way, but Pedro could feel the faintest breath of her amusement beneath his palm. She turned the focus back to their guests, smooth as ever. “You guys eaten yet?”

Pedro picked up the cue easily and added. “It’s late, but there’s this great place nearby—Jacob’s Pickles. Low-key, good food, nothing fancy. Wanna join us?”

David exchanged a quick glance with Rachel, who nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, we’d love that.”

——-

Upper West Side / Brooklyn, New York

Dinner flowed easily, with David and Rachel slipping comfortably into conversation alongside Pedro and Carissa. For Pedro, it was reassuring to watch Carissa relax, smiling softly as she leaned into discussions of work, travel, and shared interests. Over the course of the meal, he understood why, out of all the people in her tech world, David was the only one she felt worth introducing to Pedro like this. Not only did David intellectually stimulate Carissa at a level that was actually enriching for her, but he had an utter lack of ego or pretense despite his success which allowed him to be continually curious. Qualities he knew were hard to come by among Carissa’s peers.

By the time they parted ways, Pedro understood something else: David was becoming someone meaningful to her, a friend who existed distinctly beyond their regular social circle. He was proud of Carissa for that—for letting someone in on her own terms, at her own careful pace.

After dinner, the city's humidity pressed against the windows of the cab, turning the night air thick and heavy in the late hour. Even with the windows cracked open, it clung to their skin, a constant reminder of the lingering summer heat.

Carissa slid in beside him on the worn leather seat, the linen of her dress whispering against his arm as she settled close. Her dark braid, loosened by the humidity, trailed over her shoulder, stray wisps curling at her temples and nape. Pedro caught the soft tickle of them as she tipped toward him, tucking herself into his side like a fawn seeking the shelter of the tall grass. Pedro shifted, angling himself to gather her closer, his palm spanning her waist as naturally as breathing. Her body, all compact elegance, folded easily against the breadth of his torso. She fit beneath the line of his shoulder, her cheek brushing against the rise of his chest as she exhaled a breath she had been carrying over the span of days and miles.

His gaze skimmed over her, taking in her soft sun-kissed skin, the way the fabric of her clung to her knees where she curled them slightly toward him. There was a weight to her tonight — not just the weariness flights and meetings but something heavier sitting beneath her surface.

“You okay, baby?” His voice dipped low, pitched for her alone, roughened by more than fatigue.

Carissa lifted her head, eyes meeting his in the glow of passing streetlights. She offered him a soft smile, more reflex than conviction. "Just tired," she murmured.

Pedro knew better. He always did. He read it in her gaze — not exhaustion from travel or work alone, but a deeper kind of depletion. The kind that no amount of rest could truly mend. She didn’t offer more, and he didn’t press. He recognized the truth buried in her half-answer, the melancholy wisp that passed briefly in her eyes.

“Yeah,” he said, brushing his knuckles along the loose tendrils of hair framing her cheek. “Me too, querida.” His reply wasn’t an echo, but a quiet confession of his own.

They both felt it blooming like a bruise in soft flesh— the knowing ache of days slipping away. Their time together, running out grain by grain as the calendar pushed closer to his departure. Pedro felt it like a shadow at his back, and he saw it now in her eyes.

Then, without a word, she kissed him. Soft and sweet — pure Carissa. At first, it tasted like hey you, missed you — that first breath of home after a long time away. But as the cab rolled closer to Prospect Avenue, her lips lingered, and the kiss deepened.

Pedro welcomed it, answered it, his hand tightening gently at her waist. He tasted that ache in her, the fear and longing neither of them wished to give voice to. He knew it wasn’t just the fatigue of travel or work. It was everything else . The separation looming over them, like storm clouds heavy with unshed rain.

Her hand found his chest as their mouths met again, her fingers curling against the thin cotton of his shirt. The kiss deepened without effort, growing warmer, more insistent as the cab carried them through the humid night. Each press of her mouth stoked a fire just beneath his ribs, one that had been quietly waiting for her return.

Pedro responded in kind, tilting toward her, his arm tightening at her waist. He felt the line of her spine beneath his palm, delicate yet unyielding, like tempered steel beneath silk. She always had that in her — that surprising strength beneath all her quiet grace.

When the taxi finally slowed, bringing them to the familiar curb outside their home, they stepped onto the sidewalk hand-in-hand. The moment felt suspended between them, their gazes locked in quiet understanding, neither speaking. Pedro gently brushed his thumb over her knuckles, guiding her up the steps and through the front door.

As soon as the door shut behind them, the carefully maintained calm fractured. And they didn’t make it past the foyer.

Carissa surged forward, capturing his lips again, more urgently this time, hands tangling into his hair with sudden intensity. Pedro’s hands immediately found her hips, guiding her backward until her shoulders pressed firmly against the cool wall of the foyer. Their breathing quickened sharply, the kiss growing messy, desperate, filled with a longing they'd both been fighting all night.

She pulled his shirt open impatiently, palms exploring the heat of his bare chest with reverence and hunger. Pedro dragged his hands beneath her dress, fingertips skimming up her thighs, her skin warm beneath his touch. She gasped softly against his lips when his fingers slipped beneath her panties, finding her slick and warm.

“Fuck,” he murmured roughly, his forehead dropping briefly to hers. “You’re already so wet.”

Carissa whimpered softly, her hips instinctively moving to meet the slow stroke of his fingers.

Pedro didn’t rush. He circled her clit slowly, dipping lower only to gather more slick, then rubbing it gently back up. He watched her face the whole time, the way her lips parted, how her lashes fluttered, the way her breath caught when he hit just the right pressure.

And then—her hand slipped between them. Her fingers found the bulge in his jeans and cupped him, firm and deliberate. Pedro’s rhythm stuttered. She slid her palm along his length, slow and sure, pressing her cheek against his as she worked him through the denim.

“Baby—” he groaned, his voice cracking with restraint.

She didn’t answer. She popped the button of his jeans, dragged the zipper down, and slipped her hand inside. Her fingers curled around him bare, and Pedro nearly lost it right there.

Their mouths found each other again—hot, breathless, clumsy now. Her hand stroked him as his fingers mirrored the rhythm between her folds. They moved together, perfectly synced, moaning into each other like no one else existed. He felt her tightening around his fingers, her thighs beginning to tremble, and her pace on him faltered—just slightly—as she reached the edge.

And something in him snapped.

He grabbed her ass with both hands and lifted her, felt her legs wrap instinctively around his waist. His pants slipped further down his hips, her panties already pushed aside. He pressed her back against the wall, lined himself up, and in the same fluid, unstoppable motion he pushed into her, raw and unguarded. The stretch. The heat. The impossibly tight, bare slide of her around him.

They both stilled, breathing shakily, stunned by the immediacy, by the sudden intimacy of it. Pedro hesitated, heart pounding, the weight of their impulsivity briefly dawning. “Fuck. Condom—” he began, guilt-edged.

She looked at him then. Not scared. Not surprised. Just there—eyes wide and honest and open, her cheeks flushed, lips swollen, fingers still buried in his hair.

She pulled his face to hers, kissed him once, and whispered, “Please.”

That was it. That one word.

He felt it all in that whisper—her trust, her ache, her desperation. It was more than need. It was grief. She was already missing him, and he hadn’t even left yet. He looked at her—really looked—and whatever hesitation he had dissolved at the sight of her. And Pedro knew he couldn't say no to her, he didn't want to.

He kissed her back, harder now, one arm tightening around her lower back as he pushed in the rest of the way. The breath punched out of both of them at once. Pedro’s hand braced harder against the wall, the other gripping her thigh as he bottomed out inside of her—bare, deep, perfect. Carissa gasped—high and fragile—her legs tightening around him, her back arching off the wall.

Pedro cursed under his breath, low and reverent. The heat, the stretch, the feel of her completely— nothing between them —was too much, too good. He rocked his hips once, slow and deep, and her whole body clenched around him in response. Every thrust angled just right to pull more of those breathless sounds from her. Her body opened for him, wrapped around him, took him. She was so small, and still somehow held all of him like she’d been made to.

Carissa moaned, her mouth pressed against his shoulder. He could feel her pulse racing against his throat, her nails digging into his skin every time he filled her. She whispered his name, Pedro, and it made his knees go weak.

He answered with his mouth, his hands, his hips. Each movement an apology for the distance they were already mourning. She rocked against him, each movement making her gasp, making her press harder into him, like if she let go, she’d fall apart. Her head fell back, her mouth open, and he kissed the hollow of her throat as he drove into her deeper, harder, each thrust pulling a new sound from her lips. The buildup was slow, but it was relentless—Carissa climbing higher with every stroke, her thighs tightening around his hips, her whole body trembling.

Her climax washed over her so suddenly, so completely she broke with it. Her hands curled into his hair, her lips brushing his temple as she gasped his name. Her pussy pulsed and fluttered around him, and her voice caught with a sob that spilled into his neck. A single tear streaked down her cheek, and Pedro saw it, kissed it away even as her body continued to shake.

When she whispered her love into his skin, Pedro’s rhythm faltered. Her slick heat clenched around him again and again, drawing him deeper, keeping him there. He was so close. He thrust harder, rougher now, and she took it all—her mouth on his, her arms around his neck, her moans breathy and wrecked. His body tensed, his groan low and broken as he came inside of her, hips stuttering through it. He held her through it, still moving, still joined, still trying to draw it out for both of them. They stayed like that—locked together, breathless, silent but for the sound of their hearts pounding against each other.

Carissa trembled in his arms. Her face was still flushed, her eyes wet, and her fingers never stopped moving—stroking the back of his neck, smoothing over his shoulder blades, anything to to keep him close. And Pedro, still buried inside her, kissed her one more time.

She sighed into him, not because it was over, because it wasn’t. Not really. But because she was going to miss him before he even left. Because she already did.

——-

The days and nights that followed were marked by that same intensity. In the hush of their home they made the most of their remaining time together. Because after San Diego Comic Con, Pedro would go straight to Quantico, back to Brooklyn for a brief spell and off to Bogotá before the end of August.

Yet even as they clung to each other in stolen hours, making memories like scattered fragments of sunlight, Carissa felt the persistent undercurrent of unease. It waited for her in the silent spaces afterward, in the moments when Pedro drifted off to sleep beside her, his breathing steady and peaceful, while she stared quietly at the ceiling, mind restless, unable to find the same comfort.

In these private interludes, she counted the days—measuring their time in heartbeats, kisses, whispered promises. She felt the shape of his impending absence long before it arrived, a shadow stretching longer each day, robbing her of sleep and wrapping itself around her heart. No matter how fiercely she tried to hold on, she couldn't shake the feeling of something slipping away between her fingers, something fragile she couldn't protect, even with all her strength and resolve. It was this unsettled weight that lingered behind her eyes each morning, chasing her from dreams back into the quiet, uncertain dawn.

One early morning, just days before Pedro was set to leave for Comic Con, Carissa stirred slowly, drawn out of sleep by the hush of early morning and the weight of an arm snug across her waist. She blinked up at the soft light streaking through the curtains, her brain already spinning before her body had caught up. She hadn’t slept well. Her mind had been working the whole night—restless, looping, turning over the same question again and again.

What’s the difference between Brooklyn and Bogotá?

Behind her, Pedro was warm and solid, his long limbs curled loosely around her in the way they always did by instinct—his palm splayed low over her stomach, his breath stirred gently at the back of her neck. She could feel the slow rhythm of his chest rising and falling behind her.

And still her mind refused to slow. Her thoughts chased one another like restless waves, tugging her away from the stillness, away from the safety of his body wrapped around hers.

He shifted against her a moment later, his breath catching slightly as he began to wake, then his lips pressed against her bare shoulder in a kiss so soft it barely registered as touch. His voice followed, gravelly with sleep, full of affection.

“Mmm… querida, tell me you’re not already thinking about work,” he murmured, his voice still thick and velvet-rich. “It’s six am on a Sunday. Turn off that big brain of yours.”

She didn’t mean to speak. But the words tumbled out of her mouth, uninvited and urgent, “What’s the difference between Brooklyn and Bogotá?”

He let out a quiet, groggy laugh and pressed a second kiss—this one firmer, closer to her neck. “It is way too early for riddles.”

She stiffened slightly, realizing too late that she had just dropped him into the middle of her thoughts without so much as a preamble. She tried to stay still, tried not to let it show how much it meant, but the truth seemed to seep out from her very skin.

Pedro, of course, noticed. He shifted again, propping himself up on one elbow, the covers falling slightly off his chest as he leaned over her. She felt the mattress shift beneath his weight. When she didn’t turn to face him, he gently eased her onto her back with a light hand at her waist. And then he was there above her, his gaze soft and warm, fingertips brushing her temple before trailing down to cup her cheek.

“Hey,” he said, his voice lower now. Present. “What’s going on? What do you mean—Brooklyn and Bogotá?”

She swallowed hard. Her pulse skipped. Her mouth opened—but she couldn’t make the words sound casual. Not when he was looking at her like that. Like he knew something was stirring beneath the surface, even if she hadn’t said it yet.

So she gave him the safest answer she could.

“I was just thinking about the time difference,” she said softly.

Pedro’s brow furrowed. “Querida, you know it’s only an hour.” His thumb moved, sweeping slowly across her cheek. “What’s really going on, hmm?”

She almost laughed. Instead, her throat tightened.

He was still watching her. Closely. Carefully.

She took a breath and then she said the words like they had been waiting there, coiled under her tongue longer than she had even been conscious of it.

“What if I went with you?”

Pedro’s heart stuttered to a stop. His mouth opened. Closed. Nothing came out. His eyes searched hers, that tentative little crease between her brows like she wasn’t sure what he’d say next. Completely unaware that he had been holding himself back from asking her to come with him.

Carissa’s heart began to sink. Suddenly she wanted to take it back. Wanted to roll back the clock and keep it safely tucked inside her chest.

“Never mind,” she said, turning her face away, a feeling of cold mortification stealing over her. “Forget it. I don’t know why I—”

Pedro launched out of the bed like it was on fire, muttering, “Hang on, hang on, just—wait a second—” He yanked on his pajama pants inside out, nearly tripping over the rug. “Stay right here.” Then he bolted out the door, feet pounding up the stairs to the third floor.

Utterly bewildered, teetering on unbridled panic, Carissa scrambled out of bed, yanked one of his soft flannels off the back of a chair and shoved her arms through the sleeves as she went after him. She could hear him throwing the door to his rehearsal space open with a bang and instantly thought he was retreating into it because of her and that idiotic question she gave voice to.

“Babe,” she tried again as she padded barefoot into the hall, voice tight and high. “I didn’t mean to freak you out, I swear—please, just forget I said anything, it was stupid—”

She reached the third floor just in time to hear him curse, low and ragged, like he was tearing the place apart. “Don’t come in!” he yelped, almost desperate.

Too late. The door creaked open to reveal Pedro crouched by his desk, shirtless and flushed, hair sticking out in wild, sleep-ruffled tufts. One hand gripped the edge of a drawer; the other was behind his back. Carissa crossed the threshold with a pinched, anxious look on her face as she tugged his flannel across her bare breasts like it might shield her from the way this morning had turned sideways.

“I didn’t mean to make it weird, okay? I just—I was thinking, and it made sense logistically, you know, I could still work from there. But I said it without thinking, and now you’re upstairs looking like you’re searching for the emergency exit outta here.”

He straightened as she spoke, the hand behind his back slowly coming into view with a small, unmistakable velvet box in it. And his face as he crossed the room to her was soft and wild and disheveled and full of everything she hadn’t expected to see.

“The hell I want out for?” Pedro said, breathless. “I've wanted to ask you to come with me since I got that job. But I didn’t because I thought it was selfish and you deserved more than following me around while I chase my dreams.”

A pause. He smiled—helpless, lopsided. “So I was gonna do this instead, before I left for Bogotá. I had this whole trip planned for Banff ‘cause you seemed like you really wanted to go after JR and Jericho went. I was gonna do this all romantic and shit.” He gestured down at himself, with a derisive little laugh. “Not at home, like this with my pajamas inside out.”

He dropped to one knee.

“But if you’re serious about coming with me,” he said, reverent now, voice steady despite everything, “I don’t want to go to Bogotá, or anywhere else, unless I know you’re going to be with me—not just for this job. For everything.”

He opened the velvet box. The ring caught the soft morning light.

“Will you marry me?”

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal x ofc #pedrito #pedro pascal fandom #te amo por siempre #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #pedro pascal fic #pedropascal #Pedro pascal rpf

3 notes · View notes