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sexxyasia · 1 year ago

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capture the flag (LUKE CASTELLAN X !FEM! READER

ABOUT: after luke hears about you being a little too nice to some of the other boys in his cabin, luke starts becoming over protective, and jealous since everyone says you're the most beautiful girl at camp...

warnings: told in 3rd person, pet names (reader & luke), cursing, p in v, jealousy, teasing, overstim (reader), kinda noncon, luke being a little jealous BITCH, use of y/n, rough sex, squirting, sex in crazy places, unprotected sex, creampies, y/n being very childish and humorus whilst luke isnt even smiling, an instigating ass friend. a few ocs that arent too important and the reader can be any race (no shit) but i intended for her to be black :P...

MDNI :P (bruh cmon js wait until ur 17+... if u dont wanna u will be blocked. sorry not sorry pooks. :O)

(dont mind the fuck ass banners i used, they're fucking terrible. i was too lazy to actually look for something... but ig it KINDA matches my vibe 😭)

"woohoo" you cheered while having the opposite teams flag in hand.

"you were so fucking amazing y/n..." your teammate ezra says to you with a bright smile on his face.

you give him a warm smile back and embrace him in a tight hug. his hands wander to your ass, but you ignore it thinking he meant nothing of it.

your team had been kicking ass all day, you'd been playing capture the flag since 9:00 this morning, you were fucking tired.

you threw the flag to ezra and waved goodbye to your other teammates before walking back to the aphrodite cabin.

when you arrived you told your siblings about everything. even the hug with ezra. you were so excited to practice for the next game tomorrow with ezra and his friends.

��𓇼🪩𓇼༄𓇼🪩𓇼༄

ezra arrived back at the hermes cabin with his siblings and friends and saw luke sitting on his bed reading a book when all of a sudden some of the boys from the aphrodite cabin rudely interrupted.

"hey man, you'll never believe what ezra did to your girl... or my sister? i dunno!" luke quickly looks up in shock "what happened..." "they were like huggin' and shit like all day. they might be doin something on the low..." one of your brothers; pedro said in a whispered tone.

"like a lot?" luke asked with a furrowed brow.

"hell fucking yeah a lot, he like touched her ass and everything. i think they, like each other, man..." pedro instigated.

luke stood up and stormed out of his cabin, making his way to the aprodite cabin.

when he arrived he knocked on the door and then let himself when no one answered.

"y/n, come here, i need to talk to you..." luke yelled out.

"hey baby, whatchu doin here?" you asked playing with his necklace.

"you were touching all over ezra and thought i wouldn't know. do you like him?" luke said in a hushed tone.

"honey, you know i'd never like any other guy... and besides, i was only touching him to hug him because we'd won the game this morning..." you said while rubbing up and down his torso.

some of your siblings in the cabin giggled as you two talked back and forth.

"come with me y/n, i'm not joking with you anymore. i seriously have to talk with you." luke grabbed you by your wrist and took you to your favorite spot; the middle of the woods.

the woods were your favorite because you two could hook up there when your cabins were full and the bathrooms were occupied.

why did luke take you here just to talk?

༄𓇼🪩𓇼༄𓇼🪩𓇼༄

"just take it off baby, you know you wanna..." luke whined

you slowly nodded, not being sure if you even wanted to, but it was luke so you definitely wanted to.

while you worked to take your shirt and bra off luke squeezed his cock through his shorts and boxers to relieve some of the tension thats built from seeing you in a thin tank top and booty shorts all day.

luke pulled your shorts clean off and rubbed your clit through your panties on the wet ground making you moan lightly.

"i bet ezra doesn't even know what a clit is..." luke mutters to himself.

while you lie on your back luke pulls his shirt and shorts off too.

left in nothing but his light grey boxers that read calvin klein on, his shoes, and his necklace.

he pulled his boxers down just under his cock to reveal his raging hard on that he's been harboring for quite some time.

luke kneels over you, lining his throbbing cock up with your pulsating hole before shoving it in without warning.

he quickly fucks your dripping hole, making you a whimpering mess.

"do you think ezra could fuck you this good?

your creamy cunt left a ring around the base of his girthy, and veiny cock. he squished your cheeks while you looked up into his eyes to guarantee your eye contact

"answer me." he said whilst hitting all your spots with his leaky, red tip making you tremble and squirm.

"no baby... no." you whisper while you moan out in pure pleasure.

his hand quickly rubs circles on your puffy pink clit. he kisses and licks all the glittery gloss off your lips. your back arched off the ground and your legs shook under his touch.

his deep orgasmic groans fill your ears making you dig your long fingernails into his back, causing his to fuck into you faster and harder.

"does my pretty girl like that?" luke says in a cocky tone.

"yes... harder baby, harder." you moan into his ear.

his big girthy cock stretched your walls to an almost painful point. making you wrap your legs around him as thighs clench around his toned waist.

the way his thrust perfectly filled you up made your stomach tighten and your heart race.

he pulled his throbbing cock out and rubbed it all over your dripping clit.

"you're such a good girl for taking me so well." luke said while he lightly stroked his cock over your pussy.

"am i?" you said bucking your hips upward in need of friction again.

"yes you are mama, yes you are..." he moaned out.

he pushed himself all the way in making you gasp as his heavy balls smacked right under your pussy. his hand wandered to your clit and he slapped it a few times getting a few praises from you.

all of a sudden your body convulsed upwards and liquids sprayed out of your abused cunt. you tightened around his thick cock and squirted all over his torso while he mindlessly fucked you and attacked your clit.

"honey, slow down fuck!" you say pushing his torso forward.

"give me one second baby... one second." he said while his head was thrown back and his tip lightly brushed your cervix, causing you to be on the verge of pain and pleasure.

all of a sudden his thrusts got slower, but deeper. his cock slammed against your cervix causing you immense pain, that was somehow still pleasureable.

"fuck baby, thank you!" he moaned out while his balls emptied in hot sexy spurts of cum, filling you to the brim and making you squirm.

"what if i get pregnant, you should've pulled out!" you whine

"trust me, you won't." luke says standing up and brushing off his knees.

he helped you stand up, legs wobbly and your heart still racing. he handed you your clothes and kissed you up and down your body while you got redressed.

"we should go back, huh?" luke suggested.

"yeah..." you said breathlessly

(i wanna make a taglist, but i dont have anyone to put on it, plz tell me if u wanna be on it :P)

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harryandpedro · 2 months ago

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uppercut - three

summary: Masiy and Pedro have an unfiltered drunken conversation.

parings: boxer/singledad!pedro x nanny!fem oc

warnings: alcohol consumption, talk of feeling lost post-graduation

wc: 2.3k

series masterlist here.

Maisy

I've been watching Oliver for the past week and it seems all three of us have acclimated to this new normal.

Usually, Pedro wakes with Oliver, changes and feeds him. I let them have their uninterrupted father-and-son time before taking over when he leaves to train. He sometimes comes back home to have his lunch but the majority of the time he's too busy with business calls and sponsorship deals and spends his whole day out.

When he gets in, he's exhausted. Next week, he has his first match of the season and I'm flying with him to Miami to look after Oliver.

He's less hurried to check on his son, now greeting me before he peeks his head into the nursery to make sure Oliver is still breathing. I take that as a sign that I've earned his trust around his son.

Over the span of the past week, I too have learnt to trust myself around Oliver. Though I must admit, he's making it easy by being a mellow fourteen-month-old. He makes me feel like I have a knack for kids. I was even debating taking him on a coffee date, but I wanted to ask his dad before I did so.

We spend our days working on broadening his vocabulary and on his balance. While he takes his naps, I tinker with my resume and send in a few job applications before losing all my willpower to exist. When that happens, I entertain myself by going through Pedro's book collection, flipping through the well-thumbed pages of his paperbacks.

I didn't anticipate that taking care of a fourteen-month-old would tire me out the way it does, but by Oliver's bedtime, I'm ready to hit the sack.

I wait until Pedro gets home with the baby monitor. We exchange a few words—I ask how his training was and he inquires how Oliver's and I's day went. Mainly our conversations revolve around his son.

Tonight, however, he shows more interest in getting to know me.

I'm lounging on the couch, scrolling on my phone when he walks through the front door. He texted me late afternoon, informing me that he had an emergency meeting with one of his sponsorship partners.

I hear him in the foyer, putting his shoes away and the soft thud of his duffle bag as he drops it. Instead of checking on his son, this time he goes in search of me. He strolls over to me, hands in his pockets.

My gaze rises over his tall body. On the bottom, he's wearing a pair of black pressed pants, and the material hugs his corded thighs. A faded green chenille button-down graces his upper body. The first three buttons are undone, displaying his pectorals. If I squint I make out the freckles dotting his tanned skin.

"Hi."

"Hi," he parrots, his rich, velvety voice is like a caress. "Is Oliver sleeping?"

I pass him the baby monitor. "Out like a log."

His eyes fill with overt fondness as he watches his son through the screen. "He didn't give you trouble?"

I shake my head. "He was easy, as always."

He sets the device on the coffee table. "You're really good with him. He likes you."

"I'm glad. I like him too. He's the sweetest." I busy my hands with redoing my bun. "And while I got you, I wanted to ask if it would be okay with you if I took him out on a little outing, like for a stroll around the neighbourhood or to the bookstore? Just to stimulate him."

His face brightens. "Yeah, sure. I bet he'd enjoy that." He makes his way into the kitchen. The first floor of his house is open plan so I can follow him with my eyes. "I have a stroller in the foyer's wardrobe. But if you don't want to push him around I have a sling you can use to carry him on your body. That's in the bottom drawer of his dresser."

"Cool, I'll test it out."

He begins to open cabinets, my cue to leave. I stand, starting for the stairs.

"Hey," he stops me, "You don't have to lock yourself up in your room once I get home, you know that right?"

I freeze on the bottom step. "I know. I just don't want to get in your hair."

He chuckles at that. "You're not getting in my hair." He bends to open the built-in wine cooler and grabs a bottle of red. "Now, I don't normally encourage alcoholism," he starts, rummaging through his cupboards. "But would you want a glass of red?" He must see hesitation in my eyes because he adds, "You've been taking care of my boy for a week now and I don't even know what's your favourite colour." He flashes one of his debonair smiles and the cannibalistic butterflies in my stomach start flapping their wings. "Soo... can I get you to tell me about yourself over a bottle of wine?"

I feel myself preen under his soft gaze. "Fine, but you're not going to get me talking with the most dreaded job interview question." I retake my seat on the couch.

He laughs, pours us a glass each. "Fair point. A little too unoriginal." He carries our glasses to the couch where he plops down next to me. "You lost your mom, right? Rick hinted at it a couple of times," he asks, handing me my glass.

"Yeah, when I was seventeen. She had a heart attack."

"What was she like?"

I let out a slow breath. "Fun... and too kind for this world. She was my best friend in a way. She worked as a nurse, met my dad in the ER, but you probably know that already," I tell him. The memories of my mom bring a fond smile to my face. "What's your family like?"

He grins and puffs air from his cheeks. "Let's see. I'm one out of thirty-four cousins. I was nine months old when we left Chile to seek political asylum."

"Political asylum?" I frown, taking a sip of my wine.

"Yeah. My parents were liberal socialists and they had family members very involved with the opposition movement against the military regime at the time. So we fled to Denmark, spent a bit of time there and then we settled in San Antonio for a bit before moving to Orange County."

"And now you're a New Yorker. That's a lot of moving," I observe. "I've only ever lived in New York besides my college years. And what about your parents?"

"My mom died too, actually. She passed away in my early twenties, when my boxing career was taking off. That was a fucking hard time for me." He looks away briefly before our gazes lash together once more. "She was sort of the love of my life. I use her maiden name, Pascal, as my stage name."

He relives these intimate memories for me; I see it in his eyes. Him revealing such personal details of himself twists something in me I can't identify. I just know it holds significance.

"She must've been wonderful," I offer.

"She really was." He takes a sip of his wine. "Do you have any siblings?"

I shake my head. "Only child."

We continue to swap stories from our childhood. He tells me about his siblings and how he found boxing. I confess how I didn't have that romanticized college experience and how lost I feel now that I graduated.

Then he starts asking me questions and, while I talk, he sits, unmoving, and listens to my answers.

We get sucked into the conversation and as we do, we both relax into the couch. I curl my legs underneath me and he props one leg on the edge of the couch so he can turn towards me. He leans his side against the back of it, his head propped up by his hand as he studies me.

He asks if I have a boyfriend. I tell him I don't. He doesn't react, his face unreadable.

"On the topic of love," I take a sip before continuing, "I've always had this silly, romantic notion of falling in love organically—like meeting someone on the subway or in a coffee shop," I divulge, surprising myself with my admission. "But the chances of that are growing slimmer by the day. God, twenty-one is a harrowing age," I mumble, staring into my glass ruefully.

Pedro takes a slow, thoughtful sip of his wine. "I think that thought is sort of beautiful. And it's definitely not silly."

A little smile tugs at the corners of my lips. "I appreciate you saying that, but that's not how the dating pool works. And I hate going out and clubbing, so I don't foresee myself a bright future in the love department." I let out a sigh. "I'm aware I should put myself out there, but a part of me is like, if it doesn't happen naturally, I'm not sure I want it."

"Which part? The meet-cute or the falling in love?" He tops up our glasses.

"I guess I want us to meet without it feeling forced, if that makes sense. Like, I don't want to chase love, I want it to find me."

His facial expression softens and something warm floods his eyes, making them gleam. Our gazes slot together like puzzle pieces and I'm forever hypnotized.

This doesn't feel forced, my heart screams at me.

He doesn't seem to notice my silence and goes on talking.

For a moment my brain goes blank and I have to ask him to repeat himself. He chuckles at me and the deep, mellifluous sound rolls through me. My whole body buzzes.

As I continue to overshare, he grants me his undivided attention. His focus is like he's shining a light in my eyes. I feel seen.

He gets me talking, and I'm rarely the talker. With most people, I'm the listener, the shoulder to lean on. Alongside the very few—nowadays my dad and grandma—he's able to create a space where I can unburden myself. He doesn't judge when I reveal that I don't have many, if any friends—the closest connection to friendship I have is with Lindsey, my roommate from college, but I wouldn't categorize the two of us as anything above friendly acquaintances. I leave out the part that even though I'm turning twenty-two in a few months, I'm yet to have a boyfriend. Hell, I haven't even been kissed before.

Up until recently, my lack of experience in love and relationships didn't bother me that much. But now that I've graduated, the empty cavern I've masterfully ignored all my college years feels more substantial. Now I just feel embarrassed for myself.

All while staying unjudgemental, Pedro is asking the best follow-up questions and as our conversation reaches a natural conclusion, I'm left as if I just had a vulnerable but productive therapy session.

He's now telling me about a road trip he went on a few years ago, and I try to listen, I do, but his bulging biceps captivate my attention. They're like suspension cables. Every time he makes the tiniest of moment, the muscles in his arm ripple. I must be seriously touch-starved because I want to reach out and wrap my fingers around his biceps, which my fingers probably couldn't encircle.

His other hand that's not supporting his head holds his glass, balancing it on his thigh. I've never in my life been this severely mesmerized by thighs.

I hum a few times and say "That's so cool" to show that I'm listening before my stare leaves his face and dips to his hand once again.

His forefinger is tracing the lip of the wine glass. The longer I stare, the sexier his hand becomes. He has a little doodle tattoo between his thumb and forefinger and I find myself wanting to sink my teeth into the flesh.

This is so inappropriate, I scold myself. I really shouldn't be mapping his body.

I try my best to tidy up my head but the two glasses I drowned have made me loose and floaty.

"You alright there?" he probes, tilting his head to the side. My cheeks crimson. He must've clocked I was drooling over him. The corner of his beautiful, moustache-topped mouth lifts in an amused smirk.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm great," I cover up and a laugh slips me.

I clumsily place my now empty glass down and he reaches out to steady me by the elbow. My breathing turns shallow and rushed with the knowledge of his proximity.

"What is it?" he presses, chuckling lightly, clearly entertained by my tipsiness.

I groan, hiding my flushed face in my hands, cursing myself and the wine for making me more candid than I intended to be. "Nothing," I hiccup.

"Now you've got to tell me," he urges, cupping one of my elbows in his massive palm.

His touch is warm, his callouses scrap my skin. It feels like a parade of fire ants are crawling out of the area he's touching into every direction.

I move my hand from my face, dropping it onto my lap as his fingers trail up my forearm, which he squeezes lightly before letting go.

"It's stupid really," I mumble.

"Come on, you can tell me," he assures me, his eyes crinkling with a smile.

I shake my head at myself. "It's just that—oh my God, I can't believe I'm saying this—, it's just that you have nice hands and arms, okay?"

His cheeks blush visibly at my compliment, but he immediately turns it into a joke. "These?" He pulls back the sleeve of his t-shirt and flexes his bicep.

"Yeah," I admit sheepishly, letting out a nervous laugh.

"Can touch them if you want," he teases in a low murmur, a crooked smile spreading across his perfectly smooth lips.

"No, Pedro, I shouldn't have said what I said," I stammer coyly.

"Alright, alright," he drops it and fixes his sleeve. "Didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

I swallow, whising away the redness colouring my face. Silence lapses for a beat and I notice the tops of his ears have turned red.

He leans over to grab the bottle of wine. "More?"

I shake my head. "I'd rather not further embarrass myself."

His smile fading, he chugs the rest of his wine and stands up. He gathers our glasses and the bottle, carrying them over to the sink where he rinses them. "I should get some sleep," he says with a sigh.

"I should too," I agree, sleepiness crashing down on me. "I'll—, I'll see you in the morning," I mumble and flee to my room, my heart soaring.

#pedropascal!au #pedro pascal fanfiction #soft!pedro #softdom!pedro #alternate universe #boxer!pedro #dbf!pedro #inexperienced!femoc #singledad!pedro #dad!pedro #pedropascalau #boxer!pedro x fem!oc

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harryandpedro · 8 days ago

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uppercut - nine

summary: Oliver gets sick, making Maisy doubt her caretaker abilities. Pedro's trust in Maisy strengthens. Maisy and Pedro make an arrangement

parings: boxer/dbf/single-dad!pedro x fem oc

warnings: twelve-year age gap, talks of being groomed/corrupted, implied power-inbalance, inexperienced fem oc (don't judge her), kissing and making out (finally!), a hard-on, male masturbation

wc: 4.3k

series masterlist here.

Maisy

The elevator's door slides open with a ding and I'm greeted by the organized chaos that is the pediatrics ward. The waiting area is bright with blues and greens on the walls and paintings of sea animals moving between the colors. It's whimsical, and yet, it is still a hospital.

I wipe my clammy hand on my jeans and walk up to the nurses station, Oliver slung over my hip.

He's been fighting a sickness over the past few days, and his temperature hasn't gone down.

He was fussy and uncomfortable all morning. His throat is swollen and his nose has been running non-stop. I tried everything to alleviate some of his discomfort; shushing him, giving him a lukewarm bath, offering plenty of fluids, using the air humidifier, all to no avail. By midday, I was so worried I called Pedro.

He was panting when he picked up. "Yes?" he spoke into the receiver, his tone curt.

We've both gone three nights without getting a full night of sleep, taking turns taking care of Oliver.

And now I was disrupting his workouts because I couldn't do my job of caring for his son.

"I think I should take Oliver to the doctor's," I said.

We agreed to meet at the hospital and hang up.

Now in the hospital's pediatrics ward, I sign Oliver in, handing the nurse a hardcopy of the authorization form that allows me to be present during Oliver's treatment, which Pedro signed in advance should a case like this arise.

Oliver and I take a seat on one of the teal chairs that faces a television that plays cartoons. I bounce him a little in hopes of soothing him.

I'm trying to comfort him, but from what I've learned over the last few days, the only person he wants when he doesn't feel well is his dad.

"You're okay, Oliver. Shh." I run a hand over his back before lightly pressing his head into my shoulder, hoping it'll force him to rest.

It doesn't. He wails his little lungs, his cry deafening next to my ear.

"Dadda," he sobs, his innocent eyes rimmed in red as he frantically looks around the busy waiting room. "I want Dadda!"

"I know. I know. He'll be here soon."

He doesn't stop, somehow finding the lung capacity to scream even louder.

I can almost feel all the other moms and dads' eyes on me, judging me.

I know how to entertain Oliver, how to figure out what he needs, whether that's food, sleep, or a diaper change. But I have no idea how to help him when he's this sick or upset.

I stand and start pacing with Oliver in my arms. The bouncing doesn't seem to settle him as he wails louder. "I know, Bug. I'm sorry. A doctor will see us soon and you'll be better."

What feels like hours but is probably just minutes, a nurse approaches us. "A doctor will see Oliver now."

I grab Oliver's diaper bag and follow the nurse.

We're rounding a corner when a deep voice calls my name. "Maisy! Wait!"

I turn to see Pedro rushing toward us, wearing his gym clothes. "Hey, hi," he says when he reaches us. "Sorry I took so long. I got here as fast as I could."

Pedro strokes his son's cheek with the back of his fingers. The boy's wail softens to a sniffling cry and he melts into my arms now that his dad is here.

Pedro doesn't take Oliver from me as we're escorted to an exam room, but hovers over the two of us protectively, a warm hand resting on my lower back as I carry his son.

I try not to pay much attention to the fact that I am too much more at ease now that Perdo is near.

Pedro

Thankfully Oliver didn't need to be kept in for overnight observation. After a doctor examined him, he got a round of fluids via an IV drip and was prescribed some medication to help lower his fever.

The whole time, Maisy was fidgeting with her necklace as she looked on. She didn't stray from my son's bedside while he got his treatment, letting him clutch onto her pointer finger.

By the time we get to the front door of my brownstone, the baby Tylenol has finally kicked in and Oliver is contently laying on my shoulder.

We order in, neither Maisy or I in the mood to cook dinner, and we cuddle up on my couch, a sitcom playing in the background.

It's still a bit early for Oliver's bedtime so he hangs out with us, walking lapses of the coffee table but not daring to let go of the edge as he balances himself.

He allows us to scarf down our Indian takeaway in peace before the bedtime fussiness gets the best of him.

I pick him up, cradling his head as I bop around the living room. Maisy offers a sympathetic smile as she stands to gather our empty plates.

Oliver works himself into a burbling mess, and as much as it pains me, I'm not who he wants right now.

My son is making grabby hands at the pretty girl teetering on her feet under the archway leading into the living room.

"What's that, Buddy?"

He points at Maisy again. "Mmm."

"Are you trying to say Maisy?" My chest wells with emotion.

"Mmm."

"Yeah, that's Maisy over there."

My gaze meets with Maisy's and a pout stretches her naturally raspberry-pink lips.

"Want me to try?" she offers softly.

I nod, wordlessly handing over my son.

"Come here." She takes Oliver from me, situating his head on her shoulder. "You're okay," she croons. "You're all right, Bug. I've got you."

I sink with relief watching Maisy comfort my son. She supports Oliver's head and starts to sway around the house as she tries to settle him.

The softest singing voice echoes throughout the space as she sings into Oliver's ear. She soothes him tirelessly, placing soft kisses on his head between lyrics and within a minute or two my boy is fully content, snuggled into the crook of Maisy's neck.

She continues singing lullabies as she carries Oliver up to his nursery. I trail after them, my chest swelling with a foreign tenderness.

I make myself useful and close the blinds and turn on the air humidifier while she rocks my son to sleep.

In a matter of minutes, he dozes off. She tucks him in, gently placing his current favourite plushie by his head.

We stand there for a moment, peering down into my son's crib as his chest rises and falls with even breaths.

She then turns to me with a sweet little smile and leans her head on my shoulder.

I don't find it in me to reject her, to tell her that this—her head on my shoulder—is crossing a line.

I don't want to reject her.

But fuck does she have my whole belief system at war.

I close my eyes, blow the air in my lungs through my nose.

How have I gotten myself into this situation? Falling for an off-limits woman. Because that's exactly what I've done in the last two weeks, I've fallen, hard. I should've been more careful, spent less time with her, pushed away my fantasies. But I couldn't, even as I felt myself tumbling down this rabbit hole, I couldn't stop myself.

And what scares me the most is that I didn't even want to.

I open my eyes and gaze down at my son.

I think today was the day he realized that he has a support system outside of me. I know he did because I did so too.

Oliver loves her. It's evident in the way he looks at her, in the way he reaches for her when she's near. She brings him a sense of comfort he was missing, and she equally brings me the same knowing how well they get along.

Overwhelmed with gratitude for Maisy, I slide my hand into hers and jerk my head in the general direction of downstairs.

Maisy

Pedro leads me downstairs, into the kitchen.

When we get to the kitchen island, he lets go of me, rakes a hand through his lush curls, and leans against the counter.

I eye him curiously. He's slouching, clearly tired both physically and emotionally. The past few days have drained us.

He scratches his stubbled jaw. His movement draws my attention to the heart-shaped patch in his rakish beard. I wonder how ticklish his stubble would feel against my palm, on my stomach or on my inner thigh.

No, not going to go there, I scold myself.

I bite the inside of my cheek to bring myself back to reality.

We're remarkedly quiet, not a single word has been spoken between us since I lulled Oliver to sleep.

Hesitant and sheepish, characteristics that are so unlike him, Pedro moves closer just an inch. I wouldn't notice his subtle approach if I weren't acutely aware of his body heat.

His nearness fills me with warmth and comfort. I want to reach out and touch him to make myself believe he's actually here.

His hand is on the counter right next to me as he leans back on his palms, and tentatively, I cover it with my own.

He doesn't stop me. He uses his thumb to trap my fingers, softly stroking the supple skin between my thumb and pointer finger.

I don't dare to brave eye contact and instead drag my gaze across the dimly lit kitchen.

There are endless dishes in the sink that I remind myself to tackle tomorrow. Piles of laundry he needs to fold. Knowing him, he's going to try to get it all done on his one day off this week, but I'll pick up the slack when he's back in the ring tomorrow, and I'm sure he'll be annoyed that I helped. He's prideful like that, wanting to do it all on his own.

"I just wanted to say thank you." He breaks our silence. "For taking care of Oliver." He pauses, his voice softer. "We're lucky to have you."

A beaming smile slowly lifts the corners of my mouth. "Well, the feeling is mutual."

"I'm beyond grateful that you treat him with uttermost gentleness. I don't think you know just how much happiness you bring to him." He sighs, says above a whisper, "He appreciates you, and I do too. Tremendously. And I'm not sure I can repay you for the love you give to my boy."

My heart cracks at that, opening in a way I don't want it to. He's too good, too sweet, emotionally mature. Too goddamn hot for his own good.

He keeps stroking my hand.

We both follow his languid movement with our eyes, an electric frisson leaping from him to me each time he smoothes the pad of his thumb over my flesh.

My heart thumps, quick and sharp, at the way his dark eyes take me in, the way the corner of his mouth tips up in a private smile.

Our gazes lash together and I get the same drugging rush of excitement when I'm at a concert and the bassist starts to play the buildup to the bridge of the song.

Pedro's intense eyes pinion me to the spot. My blood pulsates in the tops of my ears.

As we stare into each other's eyes, the moment feels like a soap bubble, something that's bound to burst one way or another.

And then it does.

"I'm gonna kiss you," he tells me huskily, perhaps to acknowledge what we're doing or perhaps he's sensed I might need to be forewarned.

His mouth crashes down on mine then and I'm compliant, letting him take what he wants.

He cups my jaw with one warm hand, his other hand pulling me into his body by the gentle hold he has on my waist.

I still don't know what to do with myself when it comes to kissing so I simply grasp onto his impossibly broad shoulders, bracing myself.

He licks into me and I gasp, fisting his shirt.

"Taste so sweet," he groans, turning to kiss me the other way.

I'm disintegrating on the spot. This is all too much yet nowhere near enough.

For a moment we break apart. To catch our breath, or maybe to end whatever this has turned into. But as soon as I find his bottomless eyes I'm hit with a revelation so earth-shattering, it spins me off my axis.

I don't want to end it. Whatever this is, I want more of it.

He must feel it too because our gaze lasts no longer than a second before our lips connect again and he's devouring me.

"Why am I unable to stop myself with you?" He murmurs the words against my lips, his voice strained. My heart is beating so hard that I get a little dizzy. "You are going to wreck my world, and I'm going to let you."

He closes back in for a hungry kiss, nibbling on my bottom lip before flinching. "What the fuck are we doing?" he asks raggedly, still holding me, his chocolate brown eyes filled with torment.

"I don't know," I say.

A low, frustrated sound dies in the back of his throat, and he stills, his mouth ghosting mine. "This is a bad idea, Maisy," he says hoarsely, but he doesn't step back. "We can't be together."

"I know that," I say, choking on my words.

And I do. So why does hearing it feel like rubbing salt into an open wound?

"Maisy." His voice cracks, and I will not let him say it. I refuse. I will not let him say how we can't do this. How this is wrong. How he's wrong for me.

"Please. I'm okay with this," I whimper, unabashedly desperate, "I want you," I hiccup. "Please, Pedro, I want you so bad."

"We—I—, this is messy," he reasons, his forehead resting against mine. "I don't want Oliver to get hurt because I can't keep my dick in my pants." His eyes are pinched and his brows are knitted, he looks as if in agony.

"It doesn't have to be messy," I say.

He gives a low, scraping laugh, but he stays serious. "It already is," he says, "When you override all rational thought."

I swallow a thorny knot and blurt. "I—I have a proposition. I think I know how we can work."

He opens his mouth to interject but I go on. "We think of it as an arrangement. You teach me about bedroom stuff and I can be you're good time."

He regards me expressionlessly as he grinds his molars. "So it's purely transactional?"

"Yes, if that's what you want too," I say, not letting my emotions bleed through.

Now is not the time to tell him I want him to eat my soul. To take down my walls and build me up again.

I can fake it. I can pretend. I can deny my feelings for him. This can work.

"I want some rules put in place to make sure we are both clear about what this little arrangement is."

I nod eagerly, ready to agree to any of his terms. I know I'm being naively willing and accommodating but at the same time I want this, he is not forcing himself on me.

"No PDA unless we are hooking up," he begins. "And no sleepovers."

I nod again.

"And most importantly," he says, all serious. "There needs to be constant communication. It's either consensual or I'm not touching you."

"I understand," I say in a heartbeat.

A wry smile graces his plush and moustached lips before he turns solemn once again.

"I need to hear you say something for me. And I need you to be honest now," he says, his eyes boring into me. "Before we agree on any of this, I need you to tell me this is consensual. That you want this too. The last thing I want is for you to get hurt. I don't want you to ever feel like I'm grooming you. Or that I'm corrupting you or anything like that."

"You don't make me feel like that. This arrangement doesn't make me feel like that. I want this. I feel safe with you. I trust you," I divulge truthfully.

"And you're absolutely sure you're not weirded out by our age gap?"

Yes, we have a twelve-year age gap but I'm an adult too. It's not like I'm underaged. I can consent to our arrangement in my right conscience.

"I'm absolutely sure." I cement then say, "One more thing... my dad can never find out about this. It'd be way too awkward."

"Yes, that, no telling your dad."

All the things I told myself, all the reasons this is a bad idea, seem inconsequential. All that seems to matter is him and the bone-deep desire I have for this man. We can work. Sure, he's the dad whose kid I nanny, but only until I leave to go back to work. Yes, he works with my dad, but if we keep this between us, then my father will never have to know.

Pedro's nose moves against mine, causing a shiver to run through me. His hands mount my neck and then cradle my face.

I rest one of my hands on his abdomen, his muscles contracting under my touch, and nudge my nose against his. "Aren't you gonna kiss me now?" I tease but my shaky voice gives away my nerves.

Just because I want him, it doesn't mean I'm not nervous.

"You're endearing," he tells me with a low chuckle, then kisses me square on the mouth, hard, like a stamp, and walks me over to the couch. "First lesson: French kissing."

×××

Heavenly. Pedro's lap is one of the most heavenly places on earth, as it turns out.

He's warm and solid, like a giant teddy bear you can win at funfairs, and he doesn't seem to mind having me draped over him.

I'm straddling his hips on his couch and he's kissing me deliberately.

Our kisses are little more than pecks—his lips pressing against mine and his hand on my waist steady me. It's all sweetheart innocence yet something warm and liquid collects at the bottom of my belly.

The sensation is not unpleasant, but confusing and a bit scary.

"Still with me?" Pedro probes between kisses.

"Hmm," I squeak. If being okay means I've forgotten my name twice in the last few minutes, yeah, I'm perfect.

"Good," he rasps. One of his oversized hands travels the length of my side and settles on my ribcage, his thumb stroking me just under my bra.

The way he is kissing me now is different from the way he was kissing me in my bedroom that first time. He was reluctant, almost unwilling to kiss me, and now he is...insisting.

Maybe I'm being fanciful. What do I know about different types of kisses, anyway?

When his tongue slips between my lips, I go stock-still. His tongue is in my mouth. I can't stop myself from cringing.

It's far too personal and unhygienic.

"This okay?" I must have lingered too long inside my head, because he is looking at me with a concerned frown, his thumb sweeping back and forth on my hip bone. "You're tense." His voice is hoarse.

"It's just—, it's weird?" I mumble.

His eyes soften and he regards me with tenderness as he thinks up some sorcery to make me feel better. "Think of it like a caress," he proposes. "Do you want me to try it again?"

I swallow dryly. My stomach is in knots.

"Don't look so nervous, sweetheart," he chuckles lightly. "We don't have to if you don't want to. Not trying to pressure you into anything."

"I know," I tell him. His reassurance that I'm the one in charge settles me. "Okay. Let's give it a try."

"Alright," he murmurs softly and bends toward my mouth again.

I fist his shirt and brace myself.

Instead of pushing his tongue between my lips, he kisses me like he had before, sponging closed-mouthed kisses onto my mouth.

These I can do.

He's easing me into it, I realize, because he keeps kissing me in an unhurried procession. His tactic is working, some of my stress drains away, and I unclench.

The very tip of his tongue sneaks out and traces my lower lip then. I part my lips for him and he slides in for long enough to touch my own before retracting and kissing me.

Over and over again, he gives me a brief taste of salt and heat, and then retreats. He brushes at my lips with maddening strokes, dips inside for the merest second, before he withdraws.

I'm growing frustrated. The closed-mouth kisses I liked so much in the beginning are no longer enough.

He sucks on my bottom lip and laves the sensitized skin before taking my mouth again. I feel the still foreign wet heat of his tongue slips in, tasting me. I don't know quite what to do so I follow his lead, allowing him to continue his little ministrations while I try to get a small taste of him as well.

His arm moves under my shirt, circling my waist. His other hand keeps cupping my jaw, angling my head.

My hands tour his wide chest. I can make out every tendon of muscle flexing and contracting as he moves against me. I throw my arms around his neck then, and I have the strangest urge to plunge my fingers into his hair.

"You can touch me however you want," he rasps against my kiss-slicked lips, as if reading my mind.

God, I hope he can't.

He closes back in, deepening our kiss, and I glide my hands up into his chestnut brown curls, feeling the smooth strands fall through my fingers.

He twins his tongue with mine and we find a rhythm. His incredibly high stamina surpasses mine, and he has to stop kissing me every now and then to let me catch my breath.

"You need to learn how to breathe through your nose," he says, touching his mouth before returning his hands to my midsection.

"Okay," I croak, awkwardly smoothing out the wrinkles in his shirt I've caused.

"God, you're adorable," he croons, his smile widening.

I blush, and feel as if a dose of endorphins has just been injected into my bloodstream.

He tips my chin up then and crushes his lips down on mine.

He guides me through the growing familiarity of the contact. He couples my bottom lip between his two and uses his thumb on the hinge of my jaw to coax it open. My mouth yields to his and as he deepens our kiss, I involuntarily rock into him.

He moans at that and I swallow the sound.

He grants me small breaks to catch my breath before diving back in, and asks for reassurance that I'm doing alright every now and then.

My hands roam with appreciation while his stay stationary.

His palm pressing into my lower back feels like it could singe a handprint onto my skin. He brushes against the base of my spine, setting my heart aflutter.

I feel hot, heavy and there's a bubbly pit in my belly.

Is this what being turned on feels like?

Coming up for air, I say, "Oh my God, you're a great kisser."

For a millisecond, he stares at my mouth like I took something that he wants back. He blinks then, focusing on me.

He sweeps his thumb across my lower lip. "You're a quick learner," he drawls. "Doing so good, sweetheart."

I preen at his compliment. Nestling closer to him, something stiff prods the apex of my thighs, and I draw my head back to look down between our bodies. He has a prominent hard-on.

"Ignore that," he coos, hooking his pointer finger under my chin, the gentle pressure coaxing me to face him. "We'll cover that another time," he says with a boyish grin.

Then we kiss until all our jaw muscles are numb.

Pedro

It's one am. when we declare our first session a success and head upstairs to sleep in our separate beds.

"See you around, coach," Maisy teases after a moment of consideration, fidgeting on her doorstep, before she retreats to her bedroom.

In my room, I slump against the door, burying my face into my hands with a heavy sigh and replay the past few hours.

I shut my eyes and the image of her, on top of me, and those wide brown eyes that are fixed on me, excited and eager to learn, but tinged with a hint of something uncertain, appears in my mind.

My lips are still tingling from the feel of hers. My hair is unruly from her persistent tugging.

And I still have a boner.

She wants to learn and I'm just enjoying myself, that's all that was on the couch and it's all that ever be. A transactional relationship.

But, fuck, I'd be a lying son of a bitch if I said that the thought of being her first, of being the one to teach her didn't turn me on.

I smack myself on the back of the head, locking away my Maisy-infused fantasies.

I push off the door and stride into the en-suite, shedding my clothes and turning on the faucet.

I need to release some tension.

And I one-hundred percent will not do so while thinking about Miasy.

Or so I tell myself. But the moment I step into the shower my throbbing cock is in my fist, and I pump myself long and slow until the tension coiled inside me rips through me like an electric current.

And I picture a brunette beauty with the curves of Aphrodite on her knees for me, those warm brown eyes watching as I milk every last drop on her chest.

#pedro pascal fanfiction #alternate universe #boxer!pedro #soft!pedro #dbf!pedro #dad!pedro #inexperienced!femoc #boxer!pedro x fem!oc #softdom!pedro #pedropascalau

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harryandpedro · 16 days ago

Text

uppercut - eight

summary: Maisy and Pedro deal with the aftermath of their kiss

parings: boxer/singledad!pedro x nanny!fem oc

warnings: twelve-year age gap, yearning, internal conflicts

wc: 1.6k

series masterlist here

Pedro

“Is there a particular reason your’re here this early?” Rick asks.

I hadn’t even noticed he’d come in. All I keep thinking about is how bad I fucked up by kissing Maisy last night.

We managed to avoid each other this morning, which probably had a lot to do with my leaving at six in the morning. Not a chance in hell I was going to try for small talk. I worked out for three hours at the gym, sweating and pushing myself to the limit.

“Couldn’t sleep,” I shrug and turn my focus back to the sandbag.

At home the same day, Maisy tries for small talk.

“How was training?” She asks in a small voice, trying to gauge the mood between us.

She isn’t the only one who can’t tell where we stand now. I don’t want to ruin our developing friendship because I can’t control myself.

She’s drying her hands on a dish towel, averting her eyes as she stands in my kitchen, all pretty in a tank top and denim shorts that display her thick thighs.

She doesn’t grant me eye contact and that alone cracks my heart into two.

She is hurt.

And so am I.

My session went disastrously. And it's all because I couldn't stop thinking of what might have happened if I knocked on her bedroom door last night instead of wallowing in self-pity.

I’m sure in hindsight I’ll think I did the right thing by not barging in on her and crushing my lips down hers. I did the responsible thing and went back to my own bedroom, back to my own shower and I took care of myself.

“It was fine,” I lie.

Maisy

Pedro and I pass the next week without so much as any meaningful interaction. We avoid one another like the other has a contagious disease. We’re back in the territory of polite nods, separate dinners, and conversation only concerning Oliver.

Neither of us broaches the kiss, and it’s like he hasn’t even had a single thought about it since.

I, on the contrary, replay it religiously in my mind before falling asleep. Even the mere sight of his perfectly plush and pink lips plunges me back wholesale into the memory of our kiss.

I am completely smitten by him and we’ve only shared a kiss. It’s actually pathetic.

“Maisy, can you hurry up a bit? I’m running late,” he calls upstairs.

“Be there in a second,” I shout, rubbing sleep from my eyes.

I overslept. Groggily rising from bed, I slip on a sweater and stagger sleepily down the stairs. I straighten the sweater and pull my hair from the neckline, letting it drape my shoulders.

Pedro is on his way out the door when I get downstairs, aggressively chewing a piece of gum, and his keys, phone, and water bottle are all clutched in one—very pornographic—hand.

“Sorry, I slept through my alarm,” I say.

Oliver is sitting on his diapered bum by his dad's feet, gnawing on his knuckle.

“It’s fine. But I really gotta go.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure. I have it from here.” I hoist the little boy up as he reaches for me, and place him on my hip. “Hey, Buddy,” I coo, tickling his side. He shrieks in delight. A smile warms my face.

Pedro stands there in the foyer, unmoving, watching our interactions.

“You said you were running late,” I point out, flustered under his diligent eyes.

He nods slowly, blinking. “I am. I’ll go now.” And he does, leaving me with a toddler to entertain and my head overflowing with the idea of having him.

Pedro

I lie in my bed, checking my calendar, filling in as I go with match dates, fundraising events I plan on supporting and Oliver’s pediatric check-ups that monitor his development.

As I tinker with my phone’s calendar app, I realize today marks one week since Maisy’s and I’s kiss.

The reminder catapults me head-straight into the memory of her sweet lips coupled between mine.

Her kissing technique betrayed her inexperience. She was putty in my arms, leaving all the work to me—which I wasn’t opposed to, I found it endearing actually.

Despite our kiss being hardly more than a sloppy upper lip peck with a testing lick on my part, it was a divine sensation.

A soft knock on my door pulls me from my jumbled mind. I answer it to find Maisy standing at my door.

“Can you, uhm, come to my room?” she asks, her eyes flitting around me.

“You’re not going to seduce me if that’s your goal here,” I huff, trying to lighten the tension-heavy mood.

“Stop it. There’s a spider. I need you to kill it.” She bounces nervously. “Please? Before it disappears and I have to turn the room upside down.”

I shake my head at her before pulling a few tissues from the box on my nightstand. “Show me to it,” I mumble.

When we get to her room, she stops like there’s an invisible force field, and I almost bump into her back. “Well, where is it?”

She points to the wall on the other side of her bed. It’s a decent-sized spider, I can see why she was distressed.

I haven’t gotten the chance to take in the room she’s moved into almost five weeks ago when I was here last time. I was too busy doting on her to notice how lived-in she’s made the once bland guest bedroom.

She bought some throw pillows and draped a soft-looking blanket over the footboard of the bed. String lights decorate her windowsill. A stack of books with cheesy titles towers on her nightstand. And as I delve deeper into her space, my senses are overwhelmed with the smell of hers in the best possible way. Gardenia and almond.

The brown spider scurries a few inches, making Maisy shriek and bury her face in my chest. I’ve never liked spiders more in my life.

“I’ve got it, sweetheart,” I assure her as I put my hands on her shoulders and delicately move her out of my way. I press the tissues to the wall firmly, ending the siege. “There,” I say and walk the dead spider to the guest bathroom and flush the tissues.

She looks around me to the toilet to make sure it actually went down. A shiver racks her body and squeaks a “Thank you.”

I nod and we both just stand there. Neither one of us makes a move to go, even though it’s late.

“Were you getting ready for bed?”

Even if I shouldn’t I like the glint in her eyes as she peers up at me through her lashes. I have no intention of ending this night if she doesn’t want to, no matter how tired I am. And besides, there’s nothing wrong with being friends. “No.”

“Do you wanna watch a movie with me?”

I try to suppress the giddy smile that’s tugging on the corners of my lips with little success.

Five minutes later and we’ve parked ourselves in front of the TV. She picks out a sappy enemies-to-lovers romcom. I hold back any preconceptions I have about the genre and just watch.

As she strictly keeps her eyes on the screen, I stare down at her hands, noting the contrast of her milky skin against my own. The size difference is comical—her hand could easily fit in the palm of my hand.

I ache to intertwine our fingers.

With great force, a peculiar feeling rises up in me. I try to squish it down but it nestles into my bowels.

I’m truly fucked if the imagery of our interlaced hands sends me spiralling.

Casting away my unholy thoughts, I return my focus to the movie.

As the week progresses, it’s easier to be normal. My pining remains intense but we settle into a casual camaraderie that I greatly appreciate. We’re friendly towards one another and can banter with each other.

I stifle any inappropriate urge and behave myself.

We restore our movie night tradition. We’re making our way through romcoms Glen Powell has starred in and my list of cultic action movies.

Most nights, when we have the time and mental energy, I cook Chilean food while she pretends to be my sus chef.

Every time she looks at me, it’s like the sun peeking out from behind a cloud, and I do my best to feel content, to be just another person at the edge of her glow.

The more time goes on living in close quarters, the clearer I see Maisy for who she is. She’s a hopeful romantic creature with a tendency towards solitude.

Apart from her college roommate, whom I occasionally catch her texting with, she doesn’t seek social interactions. If we don’t count her horrible date with Tinder Nathan, she hasn’t once gone out since she’s been taking care of Oliver.

In her off time, she chooses activities that are done on your lonesome—browsing bookstores, people-watching on sunny cafe terraces, or contemplating the meaning of life on my couch.

One stormy afternoon she tells me love can be found in commonplace—in how mugs hold tea, in how the flooring receives the landing of our feet. As she shares her musings, I get the urge to praise her, to stroke the back of her head and tell her how special and bright and wonderful her brain is. During our conversation, I feel my liking for her expanding.

#boxer!pedro #pedro pascal fanfiction #dad!pedro #dbf!pedro #inexperienced!femoc #boxer!pedro x fem!oc #pedropascalau #alternate universe #soft!pedro

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harryandpedro · 21 days ago

Text

uppercut - seven (Pedro's POV)

summary: Pedro comforts a fragile Maisy, a kiss is shared between them.

parings: boxer/singledad!pedro x nanny!fem oc

warnings: Pedro is extremely soft and sweet, but also self-sabotaging, fem!mc is in a rough mental state, use of pet names (sweetheart, flower, sweet girl, babygirl(!!))

wc: 2k

series masterlist here

Pedro

The house is deadly silent when I get in at eight pm. I kick off my shoes and discard my gym bag in the foyer. All lights are off downstairs.

My feet take me to my son's nursery first where I find him sleeping deeply. I kiss his forehead tenderly and go in search of Maisy.

I knock on her door once, then twice. No answer. I check my notification centre on my phone for any texts from her. None. I knock once more, calling on her before pushing open the door with my palm spread flat on it.

She's in the centre of her room, Airpods in her ears and she sways along to the music. She's dressed in grey sweatpants and a tight-fitting black crop top that accentuates her trim waist. Her eyes are closed, her head is back, and she's just letting it out, her cherry lips mouthing the lyrics.

My thoughts about her are smack dab in my face. She is tragically beautiful.

She slow dances and reaches up with a hand to stroke her cheek. The movement makes her shirt rise up an inch, revealing a stripe of her milky skin and her belly button.

For a split second, I think I see her without any filter. In that moment she's totally unguarded and the outside reflects the in, her inner torment. She's raw and woundable, I realize.

I stand there, my hand on the doorknob, unmoving. I should back out of her room, give her her space and not invade it like I'm doing now.

She must feel my eyes on her because her eyes flutter then snap wide open. She jumps a little, clutching at her chest. "Jesus Christ, you scared me," she gasps.

"Shit, sorry, didn't mean to pry," I rush out.

I don't miss the tremble in her hands as she takes out her Airpods, and the desolate look in her big brown eyes grips my heart.

"Hey," I rasp. "Everything okay?"

"I—I, yeah. Everything's okay," she lies and I can tell.

"Are you sure?" I probe, edging closer. "It doesn't seem to me everything's okay."

"No, please, don't," she chokes on her words, her bottom lip quivering. "Just—just don't care about me, okay?"

For a second I get worried that something is wrong, really wrong, wondering if she's gotten bad news.

"What's going on?" I urge, anxious now.

She pinches her eyes shut, shaking her head at me.

As much as I don't want to, it bothers me that she's hurting. I wish she would talk to me.

She begins snapping the rubber band encircling her wrist. It's enough to redden her skin. I've noticed it before, it's one of her nervous mannerisms, the same as when she fiddles with her necklace.

Watching the impulsive way she pulses the band against her skin, a flash of unease courses through me.

"Sweetheart?" I keep my voice low and calm.

She tries to sidestep me, but I catch her wrists. I rub my thumbs on the inseam of her wrist.

"Hey," I croon, "You can be vulnerable with me, you know?" I let go of one of her wrists and tip up her chin with my index finger, forcing eye contact.

The usual shine is gone from her beautiful doe-like eyes. They look troubled as if covered by some thin, translucent membrane.

I ache to take some of her pain away.

"I can tell something is bothering you. Now, if you want to talk about whatever it is, then we'll do that," I propose in a low murmur. "And if you don't, then we'll talk about something else. Let me help you slow it down, flower."

A deep frown marrs her forehead. I reach up to flatten it with my thumb. Her eyes drift closed for a second. "Sounds like a plan?"

"Y-yes," she stutters, going putty in my hold.

"So, what's it's gonna be?" I ask, smiling at her softly.

"It's just that...I—I'm shameful of my lacking life. It feels like I've been left behind. It's like I've missed my train, like there went my chances to feel how exhilarating and blind first love is," she reveals, rushing her words. "All my peers are in relationships, planning their weddings and thinking about when they'll start trying for babies, while I'm stuck in this cycle, not meeting people and with no prospect in life," she hiccups. "I'm getting older but not achieving any milestones I thought I would by now."

I absorb her words, my focus lasered in on her.

"And I know I've got all the time so why do I feel rushed?" She pouts, her cherry lips trembling. She shrugs deflatedly. "A part of me just wants to finally experience what I'm missing."

"I've never had a boyfriend, have never been kissed, have never held hands romantically. Nathan aside, no one has asked me out on a date." Her waterline threatens to spill over. "I can't help but wonder if it's me. If I'm an uninstresting ugly prude who’s unlovable." She chokes back a sniffle and bolts tighten in my chest.

Witnessing her at her rawest, my protective instincts rouse. I want to fight off her demons.

"Stop," I say, wincing at her words, "Don’t talk about yourself like that."

I can tell by her rapid blinking that she's withholding her tears. My chest pangs.

"It's okay. You can cry. There's no shame in crying," I assure her in a whisper. "You can fall apart and I'll hold you."

That's when she dissolves into tears. I take her in my arms and press her to me. She starts apologizing for how she's acting, making me bleed.

"You're fine, sweet girl," I murmur reassuringly.

I cup the back of her skull and gently lay her head on my chest, shushing her. She fits my body perfectly, her fragile form in my hands makes me think I'm holding fine china.

"Listen to me Maisy," I say to her, low and serious. "Where you are in life right now is exactly where you should be at. Everyone has their own trajectory. Just because you're at a different stage than what you think your peers are, doesn't mean you're falling behind. Don't compare yours to others," I murmur slowly, letting her savour my sentiments.

"And you are loved and worthy of love. If only I could show you," I add, the words whispered into her hair.

I keep her exactly where she is, resting her head on my chest, and start rocking us in a slow sway and uttering sweet nothings at her.

When she calms, she lifts her head, peering up at me through her lush lashes.

"I'm sorry, I shoudn't have dumped all of that on you. I—I—," she burbles.

"Stop. Don't apologize," I coo at her. I cup her jaw tenderly and sweep my thumb underneath her eyes, wiping away her teardrops. "You can always unburden yourself with me," I say, bringing her head to lay on my chest once again.

My words of consolation make her break down crying once more.

"Oh, now you're crying again," I remark in undertones. "You're okay, babygirl. You're okay." I assure her in a tender voice, smoothing down her hair.

Sobs wrack her body. I gather her into my arms, rocking us to and fro. Apparently, this method not only works on little kids but on adults too. Deep, mellifluous sounds and slow movements soothe her.

I allow her the time she needs to recompose herself.

She presses closer and hides her face in the warm folds of my t-shirt. My arms wrap tighter around her.

She inhales against me, her body going lax in my cradle. "I like your scent," she says, her voice partially muffled by my clothed chest. "Sorry, that's weird to say."

A chuckle rises in me, and a small smile stretches my lips. "I showered after the gym."

She peels back her head to look up at me. Her eyes are red-rimmed and oh so tired.

We hold each other's gaze for a moment. A long, lingering moment. And then, just for a second, for a split second, her eyes dip to my lips.

That's all it takes. In that moment, I know she was thinking about kissing me just then. It isn't just one-sided. She is interested in me, even if only a tiny bit.

Encouraged, my heart kicks into high gear as I start debating my options. My restraint is evaporating and I decide I'm going to make my move. The question is how. Should I just kiss her? Would she tell me to go fuck myself? Probably. What if I kiss the back of her hand? Would she yank it away? She would, I know she would.

I need something less, more subtle to test the waters.

Her hands, starting from my forearms, mount my arms languidly, memorizing every dip and curve of my upper body.

Her throat works with a gulp.

"Maisy," I breathe, low and raspy.

She drapes her arms around my neck and my body takes over, ducking down, my mouth mere inches from hers.

Before I can come up with a game plan, she beats me to it by placing a close-mouthed kiss on my lips.

My resolves break and I take the lead, showing her how it's done, drawing the kiss out.

"This is bad," I mutter against her lips. "We—I shouldn't . . .want this. I shouldn't want you."

I close back in, coupling her lips. Her body responds by arching her back, our fronts pressing together.

"Fuck," I moan, revelling in the sweet taste of hers.

Her hands bracket my face, all timid and shy. Her tentativeness makes me weak.

I'm also painfully aware of my hard-on straining against my fly.

My arms that have been slithered around her in our embrace loosen, one hand following the curve of her spine to settle on the nape of her neck, angling her just so. My other arm winds around her waist, anchoring her to me as I slip my tongue past hers testingly before retracting.

"Pedro," she sighs my name, a breathless plea.

I turn to kiss her the other way around, our noses brushing, when my son's wail brings us abruptly back down to earth.

We separate and she touches her lips as if they're burning. Her gaze turns watery as she meets mine. I think I'm going to be sick.

This was a horrible mistake.

"I'll go," I say, needing to remove myself from the situation.

I find Oliver standing in his crib, streaks of tears leaking down his chubby cheeks as he holds onto the rails. "You're okay, Bug. I'm here, I'm here," I coo as he launches himself at me, hiding his face in the crook of my neck. I hold him, feeling the tremors run through his body.

Slowly, his breathing calms down, and my rioting emotions do as well. He sniffs a few more times and then pulls back. "It's all right, kid," I mumble. I kiss his forehead and tap his little nose.

I rock him for a minute or two then tuck him in, and thankfully he's out like a log.

I close his door and head straight to my bedroom, like a coward.

Just as I reach my door, Maisy steps into the hallway and her voice washes over me like a tsunami.

"Pedro?" She asks tentatively.

I scrub my hand across my face. "What happened...it was wrong."

I keep my back to her, incapable of bearing the look of disgust that's certainly written all over her face.

I can tell she's about to say something, most likely she wants to get an explanation for my unjustifiable behaviour. I cut in before she could utter a single word.

"It was wrong and it shouldn't have happened. Your father is my coach, and you're Oliver's nanny, goddamnit!" I drop my head to the door. "If that alarm didn't..." I pause, taking a cleansing breath. "It won't happen again."

If I say it enough, maybe I'll believe it.

She doesn't say anything but I feel her eyes on my back.

I turn the handle, opening my door. "We both know it was a mistake." I step inside and close the door, crushing my hopes that this—us—could go anywhere.

#pedro pascal fanfiction #soft!pedro #softdom!pedro #alternate universe #boxer!pedro #dad!pedro #pedropascalau #dbf!pedro #inexperienced!femoc #boxer!pedro x fem!oc #emotional hurt/comfort

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harryandpedro · 22 days ago

Text

uppercut - seven (Maisy's POV)

summary: Pedro comforts a fragile Maisy, a kiss is shared between them.

parings: boxer/singledad!pedro x nanny!fem oc

warnings: twelve-year age gap, Pedro is extremely soft and sweet, fem!mc is in a rough mental state (self-loathing/self-deprecating), use of pet names (sweetheart, flower, sweet girl, babygirl(!!))

wc: 3.1k

series masterlist here

Maisy

A week passes and every night before bed, I recall the low timbre of Pedro's voice as he put Nathan on the spot in the bar.

It appealed to me how protective he was of me and the jealous glint in his eyes when he saw Nathan touching me. It appealed to me entirely too much.

His—perhaps overbearing—behaviour at the bar last Saturday lit a fuse that's shortening by the day, and I'm not sure what happens when it burns to the end.

Each time he's within arms reach, he sends my brain into a sea of nothingness. I have to ward off every thought that features me wanting to climb him like a child would a tree.

I still get phantom sensations of his leather jacket around my shoulders and can still recall the pressure of his calloused palm holding mine.

He's messed up my brain chemistry to the point sometimes I think he is too attracted to me. Randomly, I think I catch him staring at me with those warm, deep-set brown eyes. Much of the time, he appears as if he's fighting an internal battle; it feels like he wants to touch me but decides against it at the last second.

It's stupid, really, because Pedro means nothing to me. I'm supposed to tell myself that he's the intimidating boxer who is trained by my dad or the untouchable father of the boy I look after.

But as I wake today, I'm done lying to myself.

Over the last week, I've come to terms with the fact that I am attracted to a man twelve years my senior. And there's nothing I or anybody else can do about that.

I've come to like him a lot. How he is with Oliver, all gentle and warm. How he is in the ring, all lethal and dominating. And I like how he is with me. I've searched for red flags so I could stop myself from harbouring these feelings but I've come up short.

I like him so much so that I'm starting to think it's not just a fleeting crush.

×××

I should've been smarter, thinking that sitting in on Pedro's training session wouldn't affect me.

I'm exceptionally good at self-sabotage.

Oliver and I set up camp in a lesser frequented corner of the gym from where we have a clear view of Pedro exhausting his body.

His workout is a mix of conditioning and strength training.

Right now, I'm watching him bench-press two times my bodyweight, and he reps it.

When he finishes with his set, he reracks the bar and sits up.

A cutoff t-shirt and basketball shorts grace his body. He pulls at the hem of his shirt, tugging it up and wiping his face with the fabric.

Oliver squeals, handing me one of the wooden building blocks he's playing with. I tear my eyes away from his—very hot—dad and help him stack the pieces on top of each other.

Halfway through his session, Pedro takes off his shirt.

Rick is demonstrating for him, moving back and forth in a fighting stance to avoid the swinging of the punching bag and Pedro's eyes move to me before promptly focusing back on my dad.

Heat radiates off my body. I feel like I'm on fire.

Now my dad's wearing mitts and coaches Pedro to punch his palms in a series of reaction drills.

Sweat drips down Pedro, cascading in ripples until it falls prey to the crevices of his taut ab muscles.

When he fixes his gaze on me once more, he catches my eyes drifting across his torso.

I guiltily jerk my gaze back to his face. He's smirking impishly.

He keeps my eyes captivated. I chew on the inside of my cheeks. His smile lingers, and his gaze falls over me like a blanket.

I'm reading way too into this.

He's just trying not to make it awkward for me by being nice. He probably thinks of me as a child anyway.

×××

My Pedro-infused fantasies aside, Oliver and I have grown closer. On Wednesday we took the subway and explored the market stalls on Union Square. On Friday we spent the forenoon in Central Park, playing in the shade and he fell asleep on me on the way back home. An older woman smiled at us on the subway, said to me what a sweet boy I've got. I didn't correct her.

In such a short time, I have gotten attached to this little boy. He's so smart and vibrant. I enjoy spending time with him, and the more time that passes, the more I hope Pedro doesn't find a replacement nanny. I want to be Oliver's friend, and being his nanny has given me this one thing that I seem to be good at.

On Monday of the next week, while he's in his play area, I open my laptop and go through my emails. I delete a ton of junk mail, a reminder to pay my credit card bill, and then find a response from a recruiter. Dread gurgles through my gut. The dread of being rejected intertwines with the dread of being hired.

It's a rejection letter.

A part of me wants to make dad happy by landing a good-paying big-girl job. Another part of me wants to leave the corporate world behind, and learn another profession, maybe nursing, or go fully academic. And for the life of me, I cannot decide which voice to obey.

I descend into my head over it.

The internal battle takes me out of it for the remainder of the afternoon and by nighttime, it occupies most of my headspace.

Bedtime goes smoothly. We read two chapters of Oliver's current favourite picture book and he dozes off in my arms.

I tuck him in, turn on the baby monitor and his white noise machine before tiptoeing out of the nursery.

In the safety of my room now, I plug my earphones in, put on a playlist that's intended to make me cry and surrender to the heaviness that's been nagging away at me all afternoon.

×××

I rarely let my inhibitions fall and this is one of those rare occasions.

I sway my body while Guilty as Sin? by Taylor Swiftblasts in my ears. I let the music tune out all my self-destructive thoughts and close my eyes.

As the song fades out, I blink away the beginnings of tears.

As my eyes accustom to the dimly lit conditions of my bedroom—the lone source of light is the syrupy lamp on my nightstand—I spot a looming, shadowed figure in my doorway. I recoil in horror.

I do a double take and I'm relieved to find Pedro standing there.

"Jesus Christ, you scared me," I whisper-shriek.

"Shit, sorry, didn't mean to pry," he says apologetically.

I work against the tremble in my hands and unplug my earphones.

He seems to read my mood as he slowly edges into the room. "Hey," he drawls. "Everything okay?"

"I—I, yeah. Everything's okay," I say past the lump in my throat, trying to smile.

"Are you sure?" he probes, approaching me. "It doesn't seem to me everything's okay." His eyes are as warm as the summer sun as he wanders my face.

I can't cope with his attentiveness. "No, please, don't," I beg, my bottom lip quivering. "Just—just don't care about me, okay?"

His brows furrow in concern. "What's going on?"

I squeeze my eyes shut, not bearing his intense gaze, and shake my head at him.

I feel him there, standing over me like a giant question mark.

"Sweetheart?" he calls on me in that honeyed voice, using the same endearment he used in the bar.

Instead of analyzing the effect the petname has on me, I zero in on the stinging pain I inflict on myself by snapping the hair tie on my wrist.

I go to sidestep him, but he catches my wrists in light, loose circles. His thumb moves back and forth over the inseam of my wrists. I get the sense he's trying to soothe me. It's working.

"Hey," he croons, "You can be vulnerable with me, you know?" He lets go of one of my wrists and lifts my chin with his index finger hooked under it, making me look at him.

He studies me, his gaze raw, diligent, unwavering.

"I can tell something is bothering you. Now, if you want to talk about whatever it is, then we'll do that," he coos, maintaining eye contact. "And if you don't, then we'll talk about something else. Let me help you slow it down, flower."

He smoothes my frown and the tenderness of his touch makes the world fall away. "Sounds like a plan?"

"Y-yes," I stutter, incapable of not melting into his touch.

"So, what's it gonna be?" he prompts, gifting me with a placating smile.

I shrug, not planning on saying anything, but suddenly finding myself pouring out words, the comforting warmth of his presence making me say things I wouldn't normally admit aloud to anyone.

"It's just that...I—I'm shameful of my lacking life," I blurt. "I feel like I've been left behind. It's like I've missed the train, like there went my chances to feel how exhilarating and blind first love is." The tightness in my throat threatens to turn into crying. "All my peers are in relationships, planning their weddings and thinking about when they'll start trying for babies, while I'm stuck in this cycle, not meeting people and with no prospect in life." I choke on a swallow. "I'm getting older but not achieving any milestones I thought I would by now."

His stare wanders my face as he listens intently, not a hint of judgment in his expression. Despite the tightness in my throat, I continue.

"And I know I've got all the time so why do I feel rushed?" I ask no one in particular. My shoulders lift then sag. "A part of me just wants to finally experience what I'm missing."

"I've never had a boyfriend, have never been kissed, have never held hands romantically. Nathan aside, no one has asked me out on a date." The beginnings of tears tickle the back of my throat. "I can't help but wonder if it's me. If I'm an uninstresting ugly prude who’s unlovable," I say, choked up.

Saying these thoughts that have sat on my chest for quite some time now feels overwhelming. Facing my feelings isn't liberating, it's crushing.

"Stop," he grumbles, his face grimacing, "Don’t talk about yourself like that."

I blink rapidly to try to withhold the unshed tears. I refuse to cry in front of him. I refuse to.

"It's okay. You can cry. There's no shame in crying," he tells me consolingly then. "You can fall apart and I'll hold you."

A wrenching sob surges into my throat then. As I begin to crumble, I try to apologize to him, but my words come out jumbled and incoherent. And then he speaks into my darkness and the tears spill down my cheeks.

"You're fine, sweet girl," he murmurs.

It's spoken in a way he might say those words to his son if he fell and bumped his head. It's gentle and steady, and works far too well on my chaotic brain.

I don't stop the onslaught of emotion this time. I break, and just like Pedro promised, he's there to catch my pieces, holding them together and keeping them safe until I can piece myself back together.

"Listen to me Maisy," he murmurs, low and serious. "Where you are in life right now is exactly where you should be at. Everyone has their own trajectory. Just because you're at a different stage than what you think your peers are, doesn't mean you're falling behind. Don't compare yours to others," he tells me slowly, allowing me time to take it in.

"And you are loved and worthy of love. If only I could show you," he whispers into my hair.

Hearing his words is like bear-hugging the sun.

I let my pretence fall and just cry.

It's uncanny how comfortable it feels to let myself lean against him in one of only a handful of touches to pass between us in the weeks we've lived together.

He's holding me like he's mastered the art of hugging long ago.

One of his hands cradles the back of my head, applying the right amount of pressure, and brings it to rest against his chest. His other arm slithers around my midsection, and his squish grounds me.

I breathe in the scent of his cologne, and cling to him. He keeps cooing sweet nothings at me, and the deep timbre of his voice accompanied by his stable hold lulls me into a soft stupor.

I peel back a little once I feel semi-normal, trying to apologize for oversharing. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have dumped all of that on you. I—I—."

"Stop. Don't apologize," he drawls. He sweeps the tip of his finger underneath my eyes, wiping away my dried tears. "You can always unburden yourself with me," he says, bringing my head to lay on his chest once more.

The tears start anew. I cannot place his unconditional kindness. I'm not sure why he is the way he is with me.

"Oh, now you're crying again," he observes quietly. "You're okay, babygirl. You're okay." he croons in a tender voice, petting my hair.

The endearment makes me sob harder.

I cry until I'm a rag doll in his arms.

He supports my weight and holds me upright as we stand there, him rocking us side to side. The predictable rhythm sedates me.

There are no sounds around us, only our inhalations and exhalations. He nuzzles his lips against my temple. I ball up my fists in his chest.

Periodically, headlights pass the window pane. An ambulance whooses past. We listen to its wail.

I inhale against his t-shirt. It's a weathered yellow Lakers top. "I like your scent," I tell him, the afterthought slipping me. "Sorry, that's weird to say."

His chest vibrates with a chuckle against my cheek. "I showered after the gym."

I draw back enough to look at him. And the achingly soft expression on his face makes me pout.

Without consciously deciding to do it, my eyes dip to his smooth, raspberry-pink lips and the moustache atop them.

He's Pedro, the way-too-old man whose son I nanny. I need to let go of him. I repeat these sentences in my head.

Instead of obeying my morals, my hands scrape up his arms. They feel amazing. My fingers instinctively follow the ridges of his protruding bicep veins. His muscles flex under my touch. I follow the curve of his shoulders and the breadth of him makes me swallow thickly.

"Maisy," he says warningly.

When I reach the back of his neck, he folds over me, slowly, one of his hands coming to press lightly on my waist. There's a moment of hesitation as our mouths hover close.

I should break this tension that's been building.

But at the same time, I want him to make me feel warm.

I do the bad thing, tip my chin up and press a close-mouthed kiss to his lips.

It's fleeting and feather-light. Our lips barely brush.

My first ever (almost) kiss.

I draw away then, suddenly embarrassed and panicked.

He's going to tell me to pack up my stuff and leave.

To my absolute surprise, he chases me with his mouth and gives me another peck.

My knees buckle.

I fall back on my toes and he follows me, bending to keep our mouths touching.

My body involuntarily lifts towards him.

"This is bad," he grunts against my lips. "We—I shouldn't...want this. I shouldn't want you."

That's when he takes my mouth.

My hands hold his face, loving the way the scruff pricks at my skin. He moans into our kiss, and then his tongue slides against mine. He kisses me deeper, one of his hands curving around my throat to bracket the back of my neck as the other finds purchase on my hip.

"Fuck," he cusses between pulls of my lips. The word, its delivery sends a shock through my spine. I get full-body chills.

His imposing touch makes me feel small and the deliciously domineering way in which he kisses me makes me feel entirely out of control.

"Pedro," I breathe, feeling so much. The heat of desire, the fear of regret, the need for more of this—of him. All of it wages within me, knowing we shouldn't do this and not caring enough to stop. And then, like cold water on a burning fire, a noise stops us both— Oliver's cry pierces the charged space between us.

We separate, my hand automatically touching my kiss-slicked lips. I still feel his mouth on me.

"I'll go," he coughs, his eyes filling with a pang of sadness I don't quite understand.

And then he storms off.

I just stand there, trying to link what just went down with my head.

All my life I've been anticipating the consequences. Whatever just happened, it was new and fun and exciting. I want to give casual Maisy a turn at the wheel.

In a few short minutes, I hear him trudging up the stairs. I steel myself and step out into the hallway. "Pedro?"

He freezes in his doorway, his back to me. "What happened... it was wrong," he sighs, his voice tired.

I feel my courage building, the words rising. Right as I open my mouth to tell him I don't think it was wrong, or even if it was, I might like a break from smart decisions, he exhales heavily and goes on: "It was wrong and it shouldn't have happened. Your father is my coach, and you're Oliver's nanny, goddamnit!" He groans, leaning his head against his door. "If that alarm didn't..." he trails off before adding, "It won't happen again."

I should disagree with him, tell him that I want this—him, us.

I lack the courage.

"We both know it was a mistake," he says definitively, disappearing into his bedroom and taking a shard of my heart with him.

What a perfect timing for my identity crisis; he wants to abide by properties while I want him to do unspeakable things with me.

I shut myself into my bedroom and let the full-body embarrassment consume me.

#pedro pascal fanfiction #softdom!pedro #soft!pedro #alternate universe #dad!pedro #boxer!pedro #dbf!pedro #inexperienced!femoc #boxer!pedro x fem!oc #pedropascalau #emotional hurt/comfort

4 notes · View notes

harryandpedro · 29 days ago

Text

uppercut - six

summary: Pedro teaches Maisy how to throw a mean punch in his home gym, later he saves her from a handsy Tinder date.

parings: boxer/dbf/single-dad!pedro x fem oc

warnings: Pedro pining, brooding and being overprotective, fem!mc is called names by a pushy Tinder date, mild violence (not towards fem!mc)

wc: 3.7k

series masterlist here.

Pedro

"Am I going up against you?" Maisy quizzes, inching closer, wringing her hands.

We got back from Miami yesterday, and since I had a free afternoon and Oliver went down for his nap, I proposed we have our first boxing lesson. We're now in my home gym, a room with a treadmill, equipment for recovery work, a speed bag on a reflex stand and a suspended punching bag.

I chuckle, shake my head at her. "Maybe next time. First, you need to learn the basics."

"Basics," she echos, nodding once. "Right."

She comes closer, taking in the room. As she passes by the punching bag over to me, she reaches out, running her fingertips along the black leather and gives it a gentle push. The bag swings outward before returning back to her. I observe her, studying the gentle crease between her brows and the twitching half-smile on her cherry lips.

Clearing my throat, I ask, "Do you know how to punch?"

Maisy purses her lips, looking unsure of herself. "I think so."

"Show me, then."

The blow that she delivers to the bag is weak at best. I immediately notice a handful of things that she's doing wrong. When she pulls her arm back and peers up at me, I'm trying my hardest to hold back a smirk.

"What?" she frowns.

"Nothing." I suppress a smile. "It's just...that was cute."

"Cute?" she parrots, narrowing her eyes. She steps back and holds her arm out in invitation. "You do it, then."

"Gladly."

The chain hanging from the ceiling rattles when my fist makes contact with the leather. The punching bag swings forward in an arc before hurtling back in my direction. I stop it with my palms. There's a small smile playing on my lips as I turn to face her.

She crosses her arms over her chest, which enunciates her tits, pushing them up and together. And if I don't go half-hard. I get the idea that wearing a pair of basketball shorts might've been a bad decision.

"Fine," she grumbles. "Tell me what to do."

I have her stand in front of the punching bag, and I stand beside her, studying her posture. "First of all," I start, "you need to make sure that the position of your feet matches the position of your arms."

"What do you mean?" she asks, shooting me a confused pout.

I want to make a joke about her dad owning a boxing academy and how he has a daughter who doesn't know the basics but decide against it. "Like this—," I reach for her shoulders before pausing, my fingers only inches away from her skin. "Is it alright if I touch you?"

She nods wordlessly. I correct her form, slanting her torso to the side before reaching for her arms and bending them at the elbow so that her fingers—now curled into loose fists—are suspended in front of her face.

"If you're angling yourself this way," I say, mimicking her stance, "you need to make sure that your right foot is leading you. But if you stand in the opposite direction—," I change sides, adopting a mirror image of my previous position, "—then it has to be your left foot. Got it?"

"Got it," she says confidently. In her deep concentration that same crease is digging into the space between her eyebrows, and I itch to reach out and flatten it with the pad of my thumb.

"Also," I continue, wrapping my fingers around her delicate wrists, "when you punch, you can't drop your other hand. Keep it up at all times—you need to guard your face."

"Guard my face," she mumbles, mostly to herself. "Okay, cool."

She throws an experimental punch at the bag, and I don't miss the shadow of pain that flashes across her features. My eyes trail down the length of her arm, lingering on her fist. Before she can deliver another jab, I stop her, catching her knuckles in the calloused valley of my palm and halting her movements.

"Keep your thumb on the outside," I instruct, peeling her fingers open and freeing her thumb from beneath them. "You'll break it otherwise. And always strike with your first two knuckles," I tell her, demonstrating. I then step back, jerking my chin toward the bag and encouraging her to take another swing. "Try it, now."

The third blow is better than the first two. She beams at me when a promising smack echoes through the air. I gift her with an approving smile. "Good. That's a start."

"Put me in, Coach," she teases, bringing her fists up to her face and bouncing playfully on the balls of her feet. Her eyes shimmer as she peeks at me from behind her knuckles.

I press my lips together to keep myself composed, but fail and a chuckle escapes. She laughs cheerfully, dropping her arms back to your sides.

"Okay, so I know how to punch," she says. "What's next?"

"Eager much, huh? There are four main punches in boxing," I reply. I take up position in front of the punching bag. "The jab—" I jab with my left fist, pointed and forceful. "—the cross—" I strike with my right hand, driving the weight of my body into the blow. "—the hook—" I curve my left arm, angling it accordingly so that I can deliver a hit to the side of the bag. "—and finally, the uppercut." I bend my elbow, scooping upward so that my fist makes contact with the bottom of the bag.

When I turn to look at her, she's watching me with wide eyes. If I didn't know any better, I'd think that she seemed a bit turned on.

"You alright?"

"Yes," she says immediately. She uses both of her hands to tighten her ponytail. "You're just very—," she pauses, searching for a word. "...dedicated. That's all."

"I've got to be," I shrug. "This is how I make a living." I feel the corners of my mouth quirk up involuntarily with the hint of a smile. "We can't all go to college and become intellectuals."

"I have a bachelor's degree, not a doctorate," she reminds me.

I tusk. "You don't have to downplay your brilliance. You don't give yourself enough credit."

She blushes and I melt. "I—thank you, Pedro. That's really nice of you to say."

"I'm just telling you what I think." I snatch up a pair of padded boxing gloves lying on the floor. "Let's put these on," I say, approaching her. She peeks up at me coyly as I guide her left hand into the glove. I keep my gaze trained downward, avoiding her curious eyes.

One of my hands cups her elbow while the other tugs the Velcro strap tight around her wrist. I do the same with her other hand then back away a little.

"Show me your stance," I order and she takes up position. "Keep your core tight, your elbows tucked in." I correct her form. "We're gonna start off with a simple drill." I show her the moves as I explain. "You have a jab followed by a cross, then into your shuffle before repeating."

We do a few synchronized before I step out of the way and study her execution.

Without my demonstration, she messes it up. "I'm totally helpless." The frustration in her voice makes me smile.

"You're not helpless. This is your first time trying a new sport," I tell her comfortingly. "If I can offer some feedback," I trail off and she urges me on with a nod. "Your punches need to be a little more aggressive. And pick someone your own size, don't let your hands drop. Here." I move behind her, wrap my arms around her, and cover her hands with my own. "Adjust your grip. Fist right up to your chin, palms facing you, elbows tucked in. Perfect."

I tell myself to let her go, to find another way to instruct her, but I don't move, can't.

"Now, we want our punches to sting. Visualize you have a rubber band attached to your wrist, so it's snapping back each time you throw a punch." I move our arms over her shoulder as we throw a practice punch. "Remember to lead with your first two knuckles."

We do another punch together. She looks up at me from the corner of her eye. "Like this?"

"Yes, just like this."

Neither of us makes a move and we stand there, our bodies touching. My breathing fans the supple skin of her neck. She shivers in my arms and then turns her head slightly, looking up at me through her lashes. "What's next?"

I stare down at her and blink when I see desire swimming in her warm eyes. Desire that shouldn't be there. Desire that is absolutely mirrored in mine.

Horrified, I step back and clear my throat.

I can't do this, I reason with myself. I can't lust after her. She's much too young. She's my son's nanny and my boss's daughter.

I hate that the loss of her feels as though ice has been dumped over my head. "Let's work on your stance. You need to be light on your feet."

×××

Maisy

No matter the circumstances, it's inadvisable to start lusting after your dad's friend/client, and still here I am.

I try to push any Pedro's mouth-shaped curiosity to the back of my brain, but it's not easy. Especially when I have to see him every single day for a summer.

I need to gain some emotional composure before I make a complete fool out of myself. I need someone who can make me feel the way he does but without the complications. That was my thought process when I downloaded Tinder last night on a whim.

I matched with twenty-four-year-old Nathan an hour later. It wasn't long into our conversation when he asked if I wanted to go for a drink. He seemed likeable over text so I agreed.

I'm coiling my hair into a slicked-back low chignon when Pedro knocks on my open door.

"Hey." He beams, his eyes flickering down my body and back up. I curse my heart for pattering in response.

"What's up?" I ask as I secure my bun into place with bobby pins. I hate that my innate reaction to him checking me out is baby deer knees.

"I—I was going to put on a movie. Wanted to see if you would join me, but it—it looks like you're going somewhere?"

"I um, I have a date," I mumble, keeping my eyes trained on the collar of his shirt.

"Oh." He stands up straighter, "Wh—where? With whom?"

"A bar on the Lower East Side, and some guy I met on Tinder."

"Tinder?" His brows furrow.

"It's a dating app."

"I know what Tinder is. I just didn't take you as a girl who uses dating apps," he shrugs. He forces a smile, then scratches his stubbled chin. "Well, um have fun."

I nod, "I'm about to be late, so I've got to go." I grab my purse off my chair, scamper past him and begin down the stairs.

"Be safe," he calls from the top of the stairs.

The implication in his words makes me go red. I ignore the knot in my stomach and set off, determined to make myself forget about Pedro with Nathan.

Pedro

I'm brooding on the couch.

There's nothing wrong with her going out and enjoying herself. She's entitled to that. So why do I feel bumped that she went out when I was the one who encouraged her since I didn't have an afternoon session and could watch my son for the night?

I open the fridge, aimlessly rummaging through the contents. I have three boxes of blueberries because she mentioned in passing how those are her favourite berries. Her preferred selection of Italian cuts. I even ordered Ethiopian coffee beans purely because she likes the acidic taste better.

Goddamnit. I'm an absolute simp, adjusting my taste and preferences to hers. I fucking hope she didn't take it the wrong way, didn't think I was trying to accommodate her.

Because I wasn't. Isn't.

Really.

At least, that's what I'm supposed to tell myself.

I just want the fridge to be stocked with things she likes. I want her to feel at home here because it's her home too—even if just for the summer.

The realization rams into my chest.

I want her to want to be here.

×××

I nod off on the couch and wake in a panic to my phone's ringtone.

I check the ID caller before answering. "Maisy?"

"Pedro," she breathes my name, her voice shaky and anxiety-ridden.

That causes me to sit up. "What's wrong?"

"I didn't know who else to call, sorry," she mumbles, sniffling.

"Don't apologize, flower," I tell her, the endearment falling naturally from my lips. I comb a hand through my hair. "Take a breath for me and tell me what's going on."

"It's not a big deal, but ... can you—can you come and pick me up? Nathan, my date, he's a bit pushy."

My mouth goes dry as rage seeps through every pore of my body. If he so much as laid a fucking finger on her without her consent, I may as well text my agent to mentally prepare to bail me out of custody tonight.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and take a cleansing breath. I swallow, lubricating my parched mouth so I can speak. "Where are you?" I'm already off the couch, dashing up the stairs to get Oliver and heading to the door, "Send me your location, sweetheart, and I'll be there as quick as I can."

"Will you stay on the line with me?" she pleads tentatively and my heart twinges.

A ping lets me know she sent me her pinned location. I open it and pull up directions as I settle my sleeping son into his car seat.

"Of course, flower," I croon. I lower into the driver's seat. "Are you somewhere safe? Can he see you?"

"No, I'm—I'm in the ladies room."

"Okay, good. Stay there while I get there." I say, pulling out from the parking space.

During the fifteen-minute drive it takes me to get to the bar she's at, I keep her company, telling her how smart and brave it was from her to ask for help. Judging by her slowing breathing, my words of consolation calm her down.

People are milling in and out of the bar, holding bottles of beer and smoking. I'm itching to smoke a cig too to regulate my emotions. Instead, I take a centring breath.

"I'm pulling up now. I'll hang up and meet you at the front of the bar, alright?" I ask, slowing to a stop by the curb.

"Okay," she says, her tone fragile.

"You're gonna be fine," I coo. "Walk with purpose. And if he tries anything, I'll handle him."

I lower the driver's window to let some air in, kill the engine and get out of the car. I spot the bouncer and walk up to him. "Hey, I need you to watch my son while I get my girl, yeah?" He opens his mouth to respond but I pat him on the back "Thanks, man."

I stride in, surveying my surroundings. The bar is packed with mostly twenty-somethings who are swinging shots before continuing to throw shapes to the deafening music.

My eyes scan the scene before they come to a landing on Maisy, standing awkwardly by the end of the bar. A burnt orange spaghetti-strapped top accentuates her bosom and reveals a strip of her tummy's milky skin. Cut off black jeans hug her hips and she wears a pair of white rubber-soled Adidas sneakers.

I try not to stare but her backside looks absolutely fire in those jeans.

My strides are big and commanding, parting the crowd as I bulldoze my way to her.

"Hey," I say over the music, grabbing her attention. I rub the back of my hand over the back of her arm in hopes of comforting her.

"You came." She swallows thickly and her eyes gloss over, her lips quivering.

"Of course I did." I smile at her, my hand trailing down her forearm before falling away. She reaches for me then, interlocking our fingers.

My heart spasms.

I give her a reassuring squeeze. "Let's get you out of here."

She nods and I pull her with me, creating a path for us when she slows, prompting me to look back over my shoulder.

"Dude," her date stops us. "What do you think you're doing? She's here with me."

He's slung his arm around Maisy's shoulders. "Get your fucking hands off her," I bark out.

"Whoa, man. Who are you? Her keeper?" Maisy's date laughs like the unaware man that he is.

I blow out a breath through my nose, reining in my anger before picking up his sleeve with my thumb and forefinger, as if he might have a disease, and moving him off her. I then step around Maisy so that my body is between them two.

I square my shoulders and the height and body composition difference is obvious. He's skinny with barely any muscles on him and is maybe a few years older than Maisy. The Patagonia vest he's wearing tells me he probably works in finance.

"Trust me, dude, I'm not the guy you want to piss off." I husk, invading his personal space.

We face off, and I can almost see the words on the tip of his tongue. He wants to say something but doesn't, and I let the silent anger radiating off my body do the talking for me.

He tries to play it cool. "Alright, whatever, she's not worth the hustle anyway, she's prude as fuck. Good luck tryna fuck her."

As the words leave his mouth all I see is red. He tries to back away but I fist his collar. "What the fuck did you just say?" I seethe through gritted teeth.

He holds his hands up in surrender like the coward he is. "Nothing. I didn't mean it, I swear," he blurts.

I give his collar a tug and he goes wide-eyed. "Come on now, at least own your shit." I tower over him. "What did you call her now, huh?" I challenge.

The quick flash of a camera phone reminds me who I am. Whatever I decide to do in these next moments has the potential to end up on the front pages of gossip magazines tomorrow.

I feel a gentle tugging on the back of my jacket. "He's not worth it, Pedro. Let's go home. I want to go home," Maisy pleads.

I pin her date with a dismissing look before—begrudgingly so because if it were up to me I'd surely give the guy a black eye—releasing my grip on him but not without giving his chest a push. He stumbles a little, white as a ghost. I smirk.

Turning, I face Maisy. I slide a hand to her lower back, ushering her to walk ahead of me. Maisy latches onto my other hand, her palm significantly smaller than mine, and we make our way to the exit.

Outside, she lets go of me and rushes towards my blacked-out Audi which is parked illegally in front of the bar.

I tuck a fifty-dollar bill into the breast pocket of the bouncer's polo shirt and catch up to her.

Maisy

I tug on the door handle but the car is locked. Pedro's massive hand lands on his car's roof as he reaches me. "Wait, M, look at me a second," he says softly. Cupping my face with his free palm, he checks me up and down. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine. I promise. Take me home." I tell him, avoiding his probing eyes and instead catalogue his outfit.

He's sporting a gorgeously broken-in leather bomber jacket, a simple black t-shirt and blue jeans paired with his usual New Balance sneakers.

Me on the other hand, I'm scantily clad and in the still of the night, I'm cold. I rub heat into my arms.

Taking notice of my shivering, Pedro sheds his leather jacket and drapes it around my shoulders in a halo of his cologne. I draw the jacket around my shoulders, burrowing into the neck. It's warm from his body like it's his body around mine.

"There, that's better," he croons, chucking me under the chin.

He unlocks the car and opens the passenger's door for me.

For a second I want to ask him if I can hug him but that would cross a line.

"Thank you for saving me," I whisper. "And I'm sorry if I woke you with my call."

"I'm glad you called," he tells me, his eyes a world of tenderness. "Don't want to imagine what would've happened if you didn't."

I press my lips into a thin line, nodding. "No more Tider dates for me. Nathan convinced me of that."

"I'm sorry your date didn't go as you planned," he says, but I get the impression he isn't all that sad about my date's culmination.

I get in the car and he closes the door. In the rearview mirror, I see Oliver drooling in his sleep. I nibble on the inside of my cheek, feeling increasingly bad for waking them in the middle of the night.

Pedro lowers into the driver's seat and turns the ignition on.

"I didn't mean to give you any trouble." He follows my eyes in the rearview mirror to Oliver.

"Your safety was more important than disturbing his sleeping schedule," he says quietly, reversing the car out of its illegal parking slot.

taglist: @biapascal

#pedro pascal fanfiction #soft!pedro #softdom!pedro #alternate universe #boxer!pedro #dad!pedro #dbf!pedro #inexperienced!femoc #boxer!pedro x fem!oc #pedropascalau

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harryandpedro · 1 month ago

Text

uppercut - five

summary: Maisy witnesses Pedro's first victory of the boxing season

parings: boxer/singledad!pedro x nanny!fem oc

warnings: talks of sexual orientation, fem!mc being pathetic and self-sabotaging, mild description of violence (in the form of boxing)

wc: 3k+

series masterlist here.

Maisy

The next morning, we meet up with Pedro's team which includes a physiotherapist, my dad and a second coach at the airport. We get through check-in and security fairly quickly and hunker down in the business lounge while we wait for our flight to Miami to be called.

After a tactical bathroom break before gate info, I return to the spot we claimed as ours in the lounge. On my way back I grab a fruit salad from the buffet and pop a piece of mango into my mouth.

The four other men I'm travelling with are standing in a circle, using a tablet to go over film of Pedro's opponent for tomorrow's match.

Oliver is perched on his dad's left hip, his head pillowed on Pedro's sculpted shoulder, and as soon as I'm close enough, the boy hurls himself at me. I take him but not before Pedro kisses the top of his son's head and murmurs a thank you to me.

Oliver and I sit down on the couch we deposited our cabin bags on. I situate him on my lap, one of my arms going around his back to prevent him from falling down. I feel Pedro's gaze following my movements and as I look over at him, he gifts me with a smile then turns to face my dad and the other trainers accompanying us.

Oliver makes a humming sound, restoring my attention. "What's up, Bug?" I ask, eating a piece of strawberry. His eyes go all big and he smacks his lips together. "Want a bite?" I fork a slice of banana and he eagerly starts at it.

While we wait for boarding, Oliver and I share the fruit salad. He drools all over himself and I pull a cloth from his diaper bag to clean him. As I do, I catch Pedro stealing glances at the two of us. A silent conversation passes us: Hi and Hi back, and You're watching me and No, you're watching me.

A light giggle bubbles out of me.

At that, a debonair smile spreads slowly across his stubbled face. He tucks his tongue into the side of his cheek and winks.

The fluttery warmth in my stomach curdles.

I curse at him inwardly for the way he makes me feel.

When they announce our gate, he strolls over to us, hands in his pockets. He's wearing a baseball cap, a plain grey T-shirt, black joggers and his usual New Balances. Even in a simple outfit he manages to look spruce and otherworldly handsome.

We merge into the line that's forming around the gate. Perdo wordlessly takes my tote bag from my shoulder, sliding it down my arm and carrying it for me alongside his personal bag while I carry his son.

"This is us," he says on the plane now, slowing to a stop. We've got a whole row to ourselves at business class. All six cubicles with reclining cushioned chairs, one with a special seat for Oliver strapped into it. Pedro's personnel take their respective seats. I put Oliver in his seat and take the aisle seat directly next to it, presuming Pedro would need my help with his son during the flight.

He puts our bags in the overhead luggage compartment. "I thought you wanted to spend some time with your dad," he says. "Don't feel like you need to hang out with Oliver on the plane. I'll be with him and if I need to go over film or something he can be with me for that."

"But I like watching him."

Pedro's eyes dart to me. "Okay. I just don't want to burn you out on him."

"It's fine, really," I assure him with a placating smile. "I like spending time with him."

He looks at me with a softness I've only ever seen him wear with his son. "I know. He likes spending time with you too."

The flight and the rest of the day ensues without a hitch. We check in at our hotel and everyone disperses to freshen up. My dad then invites me out for dinner and after Pedro reassures me he doesn't need help with Oliver, we go out into the city and explore for the remainder of the night.

After my mom passed away, I became even closer to my dad. He's always been a role model for me and I heavily rely on his guidance. I consider him a wise, well-mannered, both street and book-smart guy. He gave me the most wonderful childhood—he never missed birthdays or school recitals, read me bedtime stories when I was still little, and gave me permission to follow my dreams.

I couldn't have asked for a better man to raise me. I'm eternally grateful for him.

While I was in another State to get my education, we stayed close. We Facetimed regularly and he pretty much advised me through college.

I had quite the unconventional college experience; I didn't party, didn't join societies nor did I put myself out there. Instead, I focused on my classes, did all my readings, and passed my exams with flying numbers.

I remember dad asking me after I finished my junior year and still nothing panned out romantically if I were into girls. I told him the truth, that no, I was not into girls and he didn't pry about it ever since. I guess he thought I wasn't ready to date yet, which wasn't entirely a misconception but I also knew that it couldn't be just my reserved exterior that warded off boys. I wasn't getting approached, not ever, and no one had ever invited me out on a date.

For a long time, I genuinely believed something was horribly wrong with me. I even debated with myself that I might be asexual. Those thoughts were fueled by the fact that even though I played with myself, I didn't make myself orgasm, still haven't, and nobody truly has aroused me—at least not how Pedro has in the past two weeks.

By my last year of college, I considered my lack of romantic—and sexual—partners as a byproduct of my asexual tendencies (I can count on one hand how many times I found a guy handsome) and my introversion-induced self-isolation. Instead of pursuing those few boys I've found remotely attractive, I retreated into my fantasies: I read romance and daydreamed about my book-boyfriends. Rather than searching for real connections with other human beings, I dreamt up enough to keep my desires and urges satisfied; a habit I still default to.

To this day I often catch myself imagining alternative lives where I chose to be a doctor and now I live with my blue-eyed boyfriend who rock-climbs, or a sugar daddy took me under his wings and now I owe my own pottery studio, selling my craft. When I'm teleported back into reality from one of these trances, I faintly feel sorry for myself but not enough to offset any kind of action that would put me out of my self-inflicted misery.

Apart from my parents and other family members, nobody has ever loved me unconditionally. And lately, despite reconciling myself to the fact that apparently, I'm not most guys' type, at twenty-one I find myself carving affection, both physical and emotional.

God, I feel pathetic, asking someone to love me when all I ever do is beg to be alone.

After my dad and I get back to the hotel, I lie awake in bed, staring at the adjoining door that opens to Pedro's and Oliver's suite, and feel very homesick for arms that have never held me.

×××

The next morning I join Pedro and his personnel for breakfast then fifth-wheel with Oliver in the corner of Pedro's hotel room while they huddle on the match's game plan. Following lunch me and Oliver move to my room to let Pedro get on with his pre-match rituals, and we spend our afternoon watching cartoons on YouTube and reading picture books.

Originally, Oliver and I would've stayed in but when I get a text from my dad saying that he managed to get us a pass for Pedro's match, I jump on the offer.

This will be my first time going to one of his matches and just the mere thought of seeing him in the ring, in his element awakens a horde of butterflies in my stomach.

When he wakes from his afternoon nap, I get Oliver dressed in a pair of forest green trousers and a white polo shirt. I decide on a white and muted pink, tiered ruffle sundress, accessorizing it with my everyday jewleries; my silver droplet necklace and four dainty rings.

At the venue, a hostess shows us to a private box above the bleachers and tells me that later on Jason, Pedro's physio and Sam, his second coach will be coming up here to watch the fight.

We arrive just in time because a few minutes later, they dim the light and the crowd roars in anticipation. I stand right before the window overlooking the arena with Oliver slung over my hip as the boxers get their introduction.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is the main event of the evening. Twelve three-minute rounds for the WBO cruiserweight championship of the world," the speaker hollers. "Miami, I need you to get out of your seats, raise your drinks high and get wild. Let us meet the fighters."

Pedro's opponent walks out first. "Fighting out of the blue corner, wearing blue and red trunks is Cole Wayne." He's the same build as Pedro but appears less agile. "From last season, he holds a record of fifteen victories with nine of those wins coming by way of knockout." The man cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders with a smug expression.

"That's your daddy's opponent," I tell Oliver. "He seems like a brat, don't you agree?"

He makes a jumbled sound and I take it as his version of yes.

"And now, his opponent, fighting out of the red corner, wearing black and green." The crowd erupts as Pedro makes his walkout in his robe. He's focused and in his head, I can tell solely by his posture. The speaker goes on, "He holds an undefeated professional record of twenty victories versus no defeats with sixteen of those wins coming by way of knockout." He climbs into the ring, slipping under the ropes, and like that, he sets my heart aflutter. "Introducing the former WBA InterContiental Cruiserweight Campion. Ladies and gentlemen, Pedro 'The Viper' Pascal."

He lowers the hood of his robe, revealing his perfect brown hair and the most tender brown eyes I've ever looked into. His features and his personality are a stark contrast to his robust, mesomorphic body.

My dad slips the robe from his form, and I see Pedro shirtless for the first time. Hard, defined muscles cover his upper body, with visible obliques. His trunks cut mid-thigh, and his legs are thick and cut.

He bounces on the spot, shaking off his arms. His muscles ripple and my stomach pulls taut.

The referee calls the two boxers over. Cole invades his personal space but Pedro remains stoic and collected. "Okay boys," the referee says, "At call break I expect you to stop punching and take a step back. Don't deliberately throw punches on the back of the head. Protect yourselves at all times. Any questions?" The two of them eye each other. "Alright. Touch gloves." They do so before returning to their respective corners of the ring.

"That there," I point at Pedro, "Is your daddy."

Oliver claps and squeals, his precious eyes wide with excitement.

"Is your dad the best boxer in the world, huh, buddy?"

He nods his head eagerly, though I know he doesn't have any idea what I'm asking.

Jason and Sam join us in the box then. They greet me with polite smiles and wave at Oliver before taking their seats to my right where a couch is positioned in front of the window.

In the ring, my dad feeds Pedro his mouthpiece before leaving the platform to take his spot at the ringside.

I fix the noise-cancelling headphones on Oliver—they look comically big on him—and zero in on the elevated platform.

The bell sounds and the fight begins.

Pedro is quick and light on his feet, slipping and ducking any incoming punch. In the first two rounds, Cole is the initiator, trying to force the pace but Pedro doesn't let him.

In the third round, he takes over and by the fourth one, it's clear as the sky he's got the experience going for him. He lends a few stinging jabs and crosses, throwing Cole off balance. He tries with an uppercut but Pedro guards his face with his gloved hands, then delivers a quick right hook in the ribs.

I watch with batted breaths as the match unfolds.

Another punch disorients Cole and Pedro lets loose a torrent of hard-landing jabs.

His punches are precise and lethal, and the way he conducts himself in the ring has got me handing in my feminism card for the night.

He wins in round five with a vicious right uppercut that has Cole toppling. The referee raises his hand high into the air, declaring him as the victor.

Pedro's eyes scan the faces in the crowds, his chest heaving with heavy breaths, and as his gaze rises, he finds me and pins me with a look, a glint in his eyes and his lips curled into a devilish smirk.

I feel a zing of awareness between my thighs.

"What do you say, Maisy? He's a hell of a boxer, isn't he?" Sam speaks from beside me.

I clear my throat. "Yeah, he really is," I whisper, not daring to take my eyes off Pedro. "He's a knockout."

The speaker asks him for an interview and he begrudgingly breaks eye contact.

I deflate and can only hope Sam and Jason didn't notice the physical effect their boxer has on me.

Surely this is my cue to get a therapist because something is terribly wrong with me if I think we stand a chance.

×××

Pedro enters his hotel suite stealthily. Oliver is fast asleep in the portable crib provided by the hotel, and I've already showered and changed into my nightwear.

He knocks on my door which I've left ajar. I hum in acknowledgement and he steps inside, closing the door behind him so that we can have a conversation and not have to whisper.

"Congrats on your win," I say, climbing out of bed.

He's in the same joggers he wore for the flight yesterday and a simple white t-shirt. His hair is still wet from his post-match shower.

"Thanks," he murmurs. "I liked having the two of you in the crowd."

I hand him the baby monitor. "Oliver liked being there for you."

"And what about you?" he asks in undertones, tentatively. His fingers brush against mine as he takes the device from me.

"Uhum, I—, it was a great match," I mumble, refusing to meet his stare. I touch my necklace to do something with my hands.

"Okay, well, as per usual, thanks for taking care of Oliver," he says, smiling softly. He turns to leave but I stop him.

"Pedro?"

"Yeah?" He faces me.

"I actually—," I pause, unsure how to continue, "I was wondering if I could ask you something."

"Sure," he says, rubbing his hands on his joggers. "Go ahead."

"It might be kind of weird," I warn. "Please don't laugh at me."

He shakes his head, granting me with his softest eyes yet. "I won't."

"Would you—," I begin, nibbling on my bottom lip, "—teach me how to box?"

"I—," he recoils slightly, taken aback by the question. "What?"

"Would you teach me how to box?" I repeat, though my voice is significantly smaller and much more hesitant. "I want to learn how to defend myself."

"Against what?" he asks, his brows knitting together in concern. "Is everything alright?"

My insides warm at his unreasonable protectiveness. "Everything's fine." I wave away his worries with an inattentive flick of my hand. "It's just that, when we, Oliver and I go on our daily adventures, I want to feel safe. And I think knowing how to throw a punch would help ease some of that anxiety."

"Did something happen while you were out? Did someone try to hurt you or Oliver?" he urges, voice low and serious.

"No, no one has hurt or tried to," I tell him calmly. "But I want to know how to react if someone did try something."

Pedro's eyes narrow as he studies my face. "You come to me if they do." I nod firmly. "What do you want to learn?" he asks.

"Anything," I answer breathlessly. "Everything."

The corner of his mouth quirks up a little, a small chuckle rumbling in his chest. "How about I teach you the basics first?"

I nod in agreement. "And please don't tell my dad I want to learn self-defence, he'd freak out." I rush to add.

His smile falls again. "Maisy," he rasps my name lowly, warningly. "Are you sure there's no reason for me to worry?"

"No, nobody is harassing me I promise. Just—," I let out a breath. "It's just Rick doesn't have to know, alright?"

There's a pause and he uses his X-ray eyes on me. "Alright," he echoes finally.

"Alright," I parrot and avert my eyes.

A moment of tension-laden silence descends on the room. "I—we should get some sleep, we've got a flight to catch tomorrow." I remind him quietly, tossing my thumb over my shoulder towards the bed.

"You're right." He touches his lips, scratches his bearded jaw. "I'll, uhm, see you in the morning," he drawls and goes back to his room, closing the adjoining door.

taglist: @biapascal

#boxer!pedro #pedro pascal fanfiction #soft!pedro #dad!pedro #dbf!pedro #inexperienced!femoc #softdom!pedro #alternate universe #boxer!pedro x fem!oc #pedropascalau

4 notes · View notes

harryandpedro · 2 months ago

Text

uppercut - four

summary: As Maisy settles in and slowly becomes an integral part of Pedro's and Oliver's everyday life, Pedro wages an internal battle over his budding feelings for his coach's daughter.

parings: boxer/singledad!pedro x nanny!fem oc

warnings: mentions of a twelve year age gap

wc: 2.8k

series masterlist here.

Pedro

After our heart-to-heart conversation over a bottle of red two days ago, Maisy's been occupying the forefront of my thoughts.

Scrubbing a hand across my face, I make my way downstairs to get my morning cup of coffee. I move around stealthily, a skill I mastered the moment Oliver came into my life. I unload the dishwasher and draw the curtains while the coffee machine powers up. I go into the living room to let the morning light in when I spot Maisy. I'm surprised to find her already out of bed, she usually wakes an hour behind me.

I haven't seen her from the kitchen because the back of the couch hid her petite form. She's in her typical sleepwear attire—a pair of shorts that reveal her slender legs and a cosy hoodie to ward of the morning chill. She lies on the couch, curled up on her side, clutching a hand to her lower belly. "Are you okay?" I speak softly in hopes of not startling her.

"I'm fine," she answers with her eyes closed.

She doesn't look fine. She looks like she's having the period of hell. She winces.

"Have you taken anything yet?" I tread carefully.

"I took two Aspirins at five am." Even her words sound painful.

Having a period must seriously suck.

I check the time on my phone. "You can alternate with Motrin. I have some in my gym bag," I offer.

She just nods, rubbing her thumb across the expanse of her stomach. I grab two pills and bring them back with a glass of water and hand it to her. She takes them gratefully.

"Thanks," she mumbles, flopping back against the cushions, closing her eyes once more. "How do you know all these things?"

"I'm thirty-four. I've been with enough women to know the drill. Also, have you seen any box match? My body is constantly in pain." I say and a little smile tugs on the corners of her perfectly pink lips.

After my forenoon training session, I stop off at a bodega and grab her some feminine hygiene products, just in case. My kindness certainly doesn't have anything to do with my dislike of seeing her in discomfort, I lie to myself.

When I arrive home, I locate her in Oliver's play area. She's camping on the floor with my son as they play with building blocks. I drop the bag of tampons and pads by her feet. "Didn't know what you preferred so I got a selection," I mutter.

Frowning, she peers into the top of the bag. I watch as her expression morphs with emotion. "You didn't have to. Let me get my wallet."

She moves to stand but I wave her off. "It's okay. Don't worry about that."

She gives me a bashful smile. She already seems to be feeling better. The Motrin must be working. "Have you had anything for lunch?" She shakes her head. "How does a grilled cheese sound?"

"No, Pedro, you really don't have to do all that," she protests but I'm already halfway to the kitchen.

"I have to throw something together for lunch anyways, so you want a grilled cheese or not?"

She groans. "Ugh! Fine. Make me one."

I'm aware that what I'm doing isn't slick, and that my curiosity towards her is entirely wrong. Taking care of her on her period and buying her feminine hygiene products sound far too boyfriend-y to me.

I am not attracted to Maisy. Not even a little. I tell myself but my dick doesn't seem to care.

×××

The next day, she goes on a coffee run with Oliver. I know because she comes by the gym to tell me about it with a proud smile on her face.

It's the first time she's come to the gym since I hired her to nanny Oliver. She burst through the door, radiating eternal sunshine. My son is strapped to her chest in a baby sling, his head resting on her chest, his arms and legs slathered in sun cream.

She greets Magda at the front desk, turning her body so the receptionist can better see Oliver who squeals in greeting.

Maisy is heading towards me now and my heart starts working overtime. I stop the swinging of the sandbag with my hands, discard my boxing gloves and comb my fingers through my curls.

She's wearing a floral print sundress paired with white tennis shoes and her hair is styled in a dutch braid. A few whips of baby hair have come loose, I feel myself wanting to reach up and tuck them behind her delicate ear. Instead, I rub my thumb and forefinger together.

"We got you coffee," she chimes, holding a small takeaway cup. "It's a double shot, no sugar, no milk." I open my mouth to protest, but she beats me as she adds, "A thank you for the other day."

"Thanks." I take it from her, giving it a swirl before swiging it. "What did you guys do today?"

Maisy toys with Oliver's hands that are dangling at his sides. "We went to a quaint little coffee shop, sat on the terrace and people-watched," she says. "We were brave around strangers, didn't we, Bug?"

"Oh, you were?" I ask, petting my son's head lovingly. He perks up at the sound of my voice.

"Dadda," he exclaims.

I chuckle. "That's right, buddy, I'm your daddy."

"Do you, uhm," she swallows thickly, heat colouring the apples of her cheeks. Have me uttering the word daddy made her blush? "Do you want me to get him out of this thing so you can hold him?" Her hands fiddle with the straps of the sling.

"No, that's alright," I assure her. I let my son clutch onto my thumb and we stay quiet for a moment. From the corner of my eyes, I see her take in the space around us.

Sandbags of various sizes and shapes hang from the ceiling, behind us two boxing rings stand on elevated platforms with ropes squaring them.

In one of the rings, two shirtless twenty-something guys fight against one another. I wonder briefly if she finds either of them attractive. She probably does; they're her age, childless and universally good-looking.

To our right, there's a handful of rowing machines and assault bikes and a mobility area. There's a hallway to our left leading to the locker rooms and coaches' offices.

"I'm done for today. I've gotta take a shower and change but if you guys wait, we can drive back together." I speak up, letting go of my son's tiny hand.

"Sure," Maisy agrees with a beaming smile, smoothing a hand down Oliver's hair.

"Okay, I'll be quick," I say, shoving my workout gear into my duffle bag. "Your dad's still here if you want to say hi to him," I tell her, walking backwards to the locker rooms.

Once outside, I walk her to the private parking lot behind the gym. I've got Oliver perched on my forearm and my gym bag dangling from my other shoulder.

"Do you need help with that?" Maisy offers.

"No, it's alright, I got it."

We get to my car and I open the passenger door for her. She lowers into the seat with a sweet, coy smile I don't miss playing on her kissable mouth.

Shooing away my controversial desires, I put my duffle bag in the trunk before situating Oliver in his car seat.

"I'd imagine you rich people drive more lavish cars," she says and our eyes meet in the rearview mirror.

I laugh. "Well, first of all, my car is on the lavish side of the spectrum." I drive a sleek, black Audi A8. "And second of all, I'd say your dad is pretty well off too, don't you agree?"

"Okay, you got me there, but an Audi? Come on, man."

I give the straps of my son's car seat a gentle tug to make sure they're tight but not too tight around his body.

"Hey, I love my car. Plus, I don't need a flashier one." I tell her, getting behind the wheel. "I don't blow my money on things for the sake of having them. That's just not who I am. I have like ten shirts in my wardrobe."

"Then what do you do with your money?"

I slow to a stop at a red light. "I donate half of my income to charity."

"Really? Where to?"

I glance over at her with an impish grin. "Well, currently I'm housing this unemployed college graduate. Total charity case. Tragic story, really."

She lightly swats at my arm, laughing. "Shut up."

The traffic light turns green and I start driving again. "I donate to lesser-known nonprofits that serve impoverished schoolchildren," I divulge, taking on a more serious tone. "My main goal is making sure kids have the textbooks they need for class and food for lunch. And part of my sponsorships is that every year my sponsors have to match my donation in gifting sportwear to kids who need something to wear in order to be active," I elaborate. "There's so much more that could be done but I have no idea how. It feels overwhelming."

Later that night, once I tucked Oliver in, I knock on her door.

She invites me in. I push the door open but decide to linger in the doorway. "I'm gonna put on Gladiator II. Wanna join?" I propose, leaning my forearm on the doorframe.

She's pottering around the room, storing away folded clothes. "I would love to, but I haven't even seen part one."

"Then let's watch part one first."

She chuckles lightly, sweetly. I curse at myself and my obvious desperation to spend more time with her.

"When's showtime?"

"Whenever you want."

"Alright. I'll be downstairs in a minute," she says, and as she breezes past me to the guest bathroom, her flowery scent heads me.

As inconspicuous as I can be, I inhale every note of her smell.

Then a wave of guilt washes over me.

This isn't right. Me lusting after my coach's daughter, after the girl who looks after my son, it couldn't get any more morally grey than this.

I should shut down my developing feelings for her because she's way too young for me and even if age wasn't a problem, there's no way in hell she thinks of me as I think of her.

I hate myself for not being strong enough to close the door on my selfish feelings.

×××

The next day I only have my morning gym session since two days from now I'll be in the ring. To prepare I'm tapering which means less time in the gym and more time resting.

When I get home, the house is loud with cackles of glee. The sounds guide me into the kitchen where Oliver and the girl who is rapidly climbing the ranks to be my second favourite person are baking.

Maisy's nose is covered in flour as is Oliver up to his elbows. He's displaying a toothy grin and is clapping enthusiastically, making dust clouds.

Maisy's got my son situated on her left hip and as he wiggles in her arms, her sundress inches up. I give the bare skin an appreciative glance. She sees me do it. Wearing a bashful expression, she tugs the fabric down.

"We—well, I made cookies." She slides a plate in front of me across the kitchen island.

"Chocolate chip?" I ask with a smirk playing on my mouth, my gaze lifting to meet hers.

She lets Oliver down and leans on her elbows. "Mhm. Whoever bakes them with raisins needs to be locked up."

I chuckle and grab one. "Agreed," I say through a mouthful and as it dissolves on my tongue, I let out an obnoxious moan. "Maisy, these are ridiculously good." I take another bite.

My compliment makes her beam. "Thank you," she mumbles softly.

We share a cookie in companionable silence while watching Oliver crawl across the floor. Then I suggest we go out for coffee and she obliges me with it, even lets me pay for her iced latte.

We take our coffees to go and drink it in the nearby park. We lounge in the grass, Oliver squirming on his back between our bodies. She asks me about my training strategy and how I feel about my upcoming match. I tell her that I'll be getting the jitters the morning of but as for now, I feel confident about it. Then I inquire about her job-hunting. She gives a terse answer and I spare her my many follow-up questions. Instead, I get her talking about her degree. Her eyes shine as she explains Wallerstein's world system theory and how that changed herperception of international relations. What she's saying is so complicated for me that I lose track after the first couple of sentences but still nod along to make her feel like she isn't boring me because she truly isn't.

At home that night, I give Oliver a bath and I shower while Maisy watches him. Then I take over once more and get my son bed-ready in a pair of snug pj's. We work on his walk a bit before I read him a story and put him down.

He's out in a matter of minutes, giving me plenty of time to pack both his and my suitcases for our flight tomorrow.

As I pack, I fall into a meditative trance. By now I do this on autopilot. I no longer stress or give too much significance to my upcoming match, knowing I put in the work. I have enough seasons behind me to feel calm about it.

I used to get anxious many days prior to my matches and that took a toll on me mentally. Over the years, Rick and I worked on building up my confidence and figuring out a system that removes some of the unproductive stress from my training.

Boxing often is a mind game rather than a physical one so my strategy adapted. Training in my thirties is less about my physique and technique and more about maintaining it while strengthening my mental health. I think my mental clarity is what differentiates me from the other boxers. I throw a solid punch and have great footwork but being there mentally when we're on the umpteenth round is what matters.

I zip up the suitcases and carry them downstairs.

"Can we watch Gladiator II when you're done?" Maisy calls from the living room.

I stop under the archway leading into the space. "Did you pack your bags?" I quiz, hands on my hips.

"All packed and ready to go," she promises.

We're maybe one-fourth of a way into the film when she tells me offhandedly I'm the real-life version of Marcus Acacius but younger, and since she spends all one hundred and fifty-six minutes of the movie drooling over the Roman General I take it as a compliment.

I try my best to concentrate on the plot happening on-screen but it all feels domestic—cosying up on opposite ends of the couch and enjoying a movie together—almost too comforting. On second thought, this whole day felt too domestic, too family-day like.

The realization scares the shit out of me but as we let the credits roll, a part of me—a self-sabotaging part of me— secretly hopes our movie nights become a tradition.

taglist: @biapascal

#boxer!pedro #softdom!pedro #soft!pedro #pedro pascal fanfiction #alternate universe #dad!pedro #boxer!pedro x fem!oc #pedropascalau #dbf!pedro #inexperienced!femoc #coming of age

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harryandpedro · 2 months ago

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uppercut - two

summary: Maisy moves in with Pedro to care for his son. An irrationalizable infatuation with the thirty-four years old boxer puts roots in her heart.

parings: boxer/singledad!pedro x nanny!fem oc

warnings: none

wc: 3k

series masterlist here.

Maisy

From the gym, I head home to pack up my wardrobe and essentials.

I try not to overthink this whole situation. I'm just helping this handsome-looking man, nothing else. And besides, this is my opportunity to be spontaneous for once in my life.

I fill two suitcases then take an Uber over to Pedro's.

The car pulls up by the curb of a three-story renovated brownstone in Tribeca. I pay the driver and climb out, spotting Pedro sitting on the steps holding what I presume is a baby monitor.

When he sees me, he leaps to his feet. I struggle with my suitcases and he comes over to help. "Thanks," I mumble sheepishly.

"No worries." He shoots me a warm smile over his shoulder as he leads the way inside. He holds the heavy mahogany door open and ushers me inside. "Go ahead."

I enter and notice how tidy everything is. Peeking past the foyer, his home is spacious but not empty. Sure, there are telltale signs of a toddler living here—a play mat here and a stack of building blocks there—but for the most part, he keeps his space neat.

I take off my shoes and place them by the end of a row of sneakers, mostly New Balances. Footwear he can easily put on. Dad shoes. A smile lifts on my lips at my conclusion.

"Thank you, Maisy. You're really saving my ass by watching my son," he says, and he sounds genuinely grateful. "As soon as the agency finds a replacement, you can go back to your big plans," he promises.

My big plans of wallowing in bed and regretting my life choices? I'd rather not.

"That's okay," I give him a smile. "Think this will be better for me than doom-scrolling and bed-rotting all summer."

"One piece of advice; enjoy those summers while you still can," he tells me, winking. "Let me show you around."

I hum and he rounds me and leads me further into his home. He faces me, walking backwards. "Oliver's room is on the second floor. I'll let you explore on your own when he wakes from his nap, but the main part of the house is this way." Hands in the pockets of his jeans—he changed out of his workout clothes, he nods towards the opposite side of the house.

I trail after him as he gives me a tour of the first floor. We pad barefoot across the hardwood flooring. "Living room, dining room, kitchen," he rattles off the open spaces as we pass them. The interior follows the same colour scheme—white, charcoal grey, navy blue and a pop of burnt orange on textiles. His kitchen is pine green with stainless steel appliances. The living room has a pillowy L-shaped couch and a nook for Oliver to play with a playpen and a basket of toys. A monstrous flatscreen television is built into a custom-made bookshelf system that takes up the entire wall.

"Why the big screen?" I tease him.

A deep chuckle rumbles in his chest. "I like to make it an occasion when I watch a movie."

I scoff. "What movie do you watch that requires this many pixels?"

"Nothing mature-themed, if that's what you're getting at. More like The Big Lebowski. Blade Runner. The Gladiator, to name a few," he shrugs.

"Never seen them."

"Well, I have them on DVD so you can give them a watch when Oliver's sleeping." A beat of silence mushrooms us, and I use it to scan his book collection. He has a vast array, spanning from Dostoevsky to Daphne du Maurier.

"Let's go upstairs." We take the stairs to the third floor. "My room's up here," he motions to a closed door. "As is the guest bedroom. I got it all set up for you."

I follow him and he shows me to my room for the next ten or so weeks. I immediately notice how much direct sunlight it gets because of the south-facing window. The floors are the same hardwood as the rest of the house. The furniture is all white—a desk, a dresser and a built-in closet—except for the double bed that has an anthracite curved headboard.

I leave my spot and opt to explore and while I do, I hear him walk away and come back, placing down my suitcases by the door. I turn to face him.

"There's a binder on the desk for you with everything listed about Oliver in there. His routines and daily schedules. What his gibberish is supposed to mean, that kind of stuff. Also emergency contacts. You got my number right?"

I thumb through the pages. "Yeah, I have it saved in my phone."

"Good. That's good."

"You're really organized," I say more like an afterthought.

"I got to be. My son's relying on and I'm not about to let him down." He scratches his chin. "All right, I'll let you get comfortable. Oli's gonna wake up soon from his nap, come find us when you're ready to meet him."

He backs out of the room, leaving the door ajar. I don't bother to close it. I quickly change out of my jeans and into some shorts that go with the basic white tee I have on before unpacking. First, I put my clothes in the drawers and the wardrobe, then I move on to stacking my summer reads on the nightstand—all romance because if I don't have romance in my life then at least I can fantasize about it. I didn't bring much clutter, only a scented candle and a framed drawing of New York's skyline from when I was big into creative stuff. They find their new home on the desktop. I fluff the pillows and inspect the sheets Pedro got me. They're white and ironed, like in hotels. I smell them, and they smell fresh and something musky.

I store away my toiletries in the bathroom across my room and as I walk the two steps it takes back to my quarters I pick up on the babble of voices coming from the living room downstairs.

Anxiety rises in me as I contemplate the what-ifs, my biggest concern being what if Oliver doesn't like me. I take a cleansing breath to get over myself and make my way over to them.

Pedro

Oliver and I are in the living room, practising our walk when Maisy appears in the archway. She's wringing her hands so I shoot her an encouraging smile, prompting her to come closer.

"Look, Bug, someone's here to meet you," I say in a baby voice. I'm hunched over and I let him use me for balance as he clutches onto my hands and takes wobbly steps ahead of me. We stop and I lift him into my arms. "This is Oliver." I nod my head towards him, shifting my hip so Maisy can see him better.

"Hi, Oliver," Maisy coos, her eyes melting.

My son blushes, burrowing his head into the crook of my neck. He's being shy, but he's not afraid of her the way he is with most strangers. I think he's simply aware of her attention, and even though he's acting like he doesn't, he likes it.

"He's being shy."

"That's okay. We all get shy sometimes." She tells my son in a soft voice.

At that, he picks his little head up and peers at her curiously.

"Should we show Maisy all your stuff?" I ask my son. He makes a gibberish sound.

"He's not walking on his own yet?" Maisy asks.

My head snaps to her, looking for a judgmental glare to accompany her statement, but there isn't one. In fact, nothing in her tone was judgmental either.

It's a me thing, thinking others are judging my parenting skills or my son's progression. He's fourteen months old. Maybe he should be walking. Maybe he should have more words in his vocabulary. I don't fucking know. To be honest, I don't want to know because I'm doing my best.

"Not yet. It'll happen any day now, though." I shift my attention back to Oliver, not letting her see the concern on my face that I'm screwing up this whole "dad" thing.

"That's kind of a relief. I'm glad I don't have to worry about him running away on me," she chuckles.

Looking at her, I catch her watching my son with a fond smile. She's not judging us, not judging me.

"He's a hell of a crawler though." We make it to the second floor where Oliver's nursery is located. I close the stairs gate and then place him down and he immediately starts crawling. "The house is baby-proofed so you can let him crawl as much as he wants, just make sure the stairs gate is shut."

I steer her in the direction of Oliver's nursery. She enters first and I stop in the doorway, watching her take in the room.

"We're at the stage where he naps two times during the day and he's sleeping through the night. If he gives you trouble when you put him down, you can give him a bottle."

She nods along as she inspects Oliver's crib.

I push off the doorway and meet her by the dresser. Pulling drawers, I go over with her what where to find.

We make our way back to the kitchen. "We're doing baby-lead weaning. I try to introduce a new food every four days but basically, he sets the pace." I point to the fridge. "I have an ongoing list of foods he has tried. Please don't give him anything allergenic if I'm not here."

"Noted," she says before finding Oliver sitting at her feet, staring up at her with big eyes.

She gets down on her haunches, making herself as eye level as she can. "Hi, buddy."

Oliver gives her a giddy, toothy grin and I lean against the kitchen counter, watching their interaction.

There's something about this image of her standing in my kitchen with her big, beautiful brown eyes and the thick lashes framing them, that makes me forget she is the nanny and my coach's daughter and not one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen. For just one second.

I erase the inappropriate thoughts.

"What do you say? Wanna hang out with me while your dad is working?" Maisy pokes my son's belly playfully.

Oliver makes grabby hands at her, his way of telling her he wants to be held. "Up, up," he babbles, smacking his lips together.

She picks him up with ease, positioning him on her hip, an arm securely wound around him. My son lies his head on her shoulder with a sweet sigh, his little palm settling on her collarbone. She gazes down at him, fondness glistening in her eyes.

Oliver has never been this keen on being held by a stranger before, least of all a random woman. I blame his general shyness around women on the fact that the one who gave birth to him left him to be raised by a single dad and a team of boxers.

Witnessing how quickly Maisy has gained his liking eases away a small amount of my hesitation about this situation.

Maisy

My nerves wake me before my alarm. I lie in bed for some time, listening to the soft sounds of Pedro getting his day started. I hear the coffee maker, him unloading the dishwasher, Oliver's sweet little squeals.

"Whoa, Bug. Let's try to keep the volume down. We don't want to wake Maisy, do we?" I hear him say and my insides go all warm and fuzzy.

I press down this foreign tender feeling and throw off my covers. I pull on a hoodie, hiding my bedhead with the hood and set out to find them. They're in the kitchen, Oliver in his highchair, elbow deep into some kind of puree while his dad watches him like a hawk over the rim of his mug of coffee.

"Morning," he rasps in a bourbon-backed voice, "Did we wake you?"

His morning rasp has my tummy doing cartwheels. I try to ignore the sensation but it spreads through my body.

I've never had sex but I do know what it feels to be drawn to someone. And this funny feeling his voice just wrought out of me is so wrong on many levels. For starters, he's my dad's client and friend. Secondly, I'm nannying his kid. And perhaps most importantly, he's twelve years my senior. I shouldn't be attracted to him.

"No, you didn't," I say, swallowing past a lump in my throat.

He does a casual peruse of my get-up but his gaze doesn't make me feel objectified. It's not predatory, it's curious. His eyes linger on my bare legs before lifting to meet mine. "Coffee?" he offers.

"Yeah, thanks." The grinder of his coffee machine gets to work.

"Black or—?"

"With milk, if you have some."

"Sure. Suit yourself."

He cleans up Oliver while I fix up my coffee. "We're gonna get ready. You can join us if you feel up for it," he prompts. Effortlessly, he holds his son up with a single forearm and the two of them wait for my answer.

Naturally, I agree and, as he has taken me through Oliver's nighttime ritual last night, I shadow him as he performs their morning routine.

An hour later, I come to the conclusion that Pedro is a bit helicopter-y. All morning he refuses to put Oliver down. Though he's needy, I can sympathise with him; he's probably trying to soak up every minute he gets with him because he's leaving his boy for the rest of the day and Oliver won't be awake when he gets home.

"You should go or you'll be late to your session," I remind him. He ignores me and continues to blow raspberries on his son's tummy and cheeks. I try to respect him but he's been saying his goodbyes for the last five minutes. "Seriously, Pedro, just go. I promise I can handle this."

He reluctantly hands Oliver over. "Call with anything," he says to me, boring into my eyes.

"We will be fine," I assure him.

With one final kiss to his son's forehead, he slings his duffle bag over his shoulder and heads for the front door. "I'll be back around seven," he tells me and finally heads out.

I shut the door behind him and peer down at Oliver. "Looks like it's just you and me for a bit." I bounce on the balls of my feet, rooting to keep him from getting fussy now that his dad is gone. "What should we do now, huh, buddy?"

Our day ensues without a hitch. I follow his daily schedule—eat, play, sleep and repeat. I play peekaboo with him but we both get bored of it quickly so when he's down for his afternoon nap, I consult Google about more engaging activities we can do together.

He gets clingy when I'm putting him down for the night—obviously missing his dad's comfort—but rocking him seems to do the trick and he eventually succumbs to sleep.

It's almost eight when Pedro gets in, and I've done the dishes, folded the baby clothes in the dryer and emptied the diaper pail.

Without as much as greeting me or bothering to take his sneakers off, he takes the steps in twos before breaking into a light jog on the second floor. I don't take it personally, I'd most likely be the same. It must be hard to leave your child in the care of someone else.

I watch on the baby monitor as he enters the darkened space of the nursery and hurries over to the crib. Oliver is soundly sleeping in a set of comfy pyjamas. Pedro's posture visibly relaxes. He tucks the edges of the blanket around his son's little body before kissing his forehead and slipping out of the room.

I hear him toeing off his shoes in the foyer. "Maisy?" he calls.

"In the kitchen," I respond, loud enough for him to hear.

I sense his presence and I turn to see him. "Hey," I say with a smile. "He's asleep?"

"He is. Did he go down okay?" He's still in his workout clothes, rocking a grey t-shirt with sweatmarks over it and a pair of basketball shorts.

"He was a bit upset but we managed. Otherwise, he was an angel." I dry my hands on a dish towel. "You hungry? I took the liberties and got groceries delivered with your emergency card."

"Thank you. I completely forgot we were out of stuff," he says. His gaze leaves mine and looks behind me. "Did you do the dishes?"

"Yeah," I mumble tentatively. "Am I overstepping here?"

"No, it's not that," he reassures me. "But you don't have to worry about that stuff. I have a cleaning lady come every three days to help with that."

"Oh, well, it wasn't that much of a hustle," I tell him.

He gives me a tight-lipped smile. "I appreciate the enthusiasm." He moves past me, heading for the fridge.

He starts pulling ingredients for an omelette and I simply stand there, observing him. "Can I ask you something?" I speak up after a beat. He hums in acknowledgement. "Where's Oliver's mom?"

There's a hint of hesitation in his eyes as he looks at me. "No idea. We were a drunken fumble. She didn't tell me she got pregnant, then she showed up one year post-partum out of nowhere and a couple of days later skipped town." He sets a pan on the stovetop. "Said didn't want any part of her kid."

That puts Pedro's overbearing protectiveness of his son into a better perspective. Oliver didn't have anyone and Pedro stepped up, ready to be his everything. My heart cracks.

"You don't need to feel sorry for us," he adds, turning on the stove. "I made peace with Oliver's mom's decision. I'm not saying that what she did was acceptable by any means, but I think Oliver is better off without her than to be loved half-heartedly by her."

I gnaw on the inside of my cheeks. It must've been a lot to take on, to fill in for two and to carry that responsibility.

"I know I've only been here for a day but I can tell that you're a wonderful dad to Oliver. He's lucky to have someone as loving as you are as their parent." I tell him earnestly.

"I do the best I can with our situation."

With that, silence descends on the room. He's in his head and I suddenly feel like I'm intruding. "Well, if you don't need me with anything else I think I'm going to turn in for tonight."

"Okay. Good night."

#pedro pascal fanfiction #soft!pedro #softdom!pedro #alternate universe #boxer!pedro #dad!pedro #dbf!pedro #inexperienced!femoc #boxer!pedro x fem!oc #pedropascalau #singledad!pedro

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harryandpedro · 2 months ago

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uppercut planned schedule

i'll be uploading the pre-written chapters of uppercut every sunday!

#uppercut #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal #boxer!pedro #dad!pedro #boxer!pedro x fem!oc #pedropascal!au #alternate universe #soft!pedro #softdom!pedro #inexperienced!femoc #dbf!pedro

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harryandpedro · 2 months ago

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uppercut - one

summary: Masiy meets her kryptonite, box champion Pedro, who's a single dad and in desperate need of a live-in nanny

parings: boxer/singledad!pedro x nanny!fem oc

warnings: none

wc: 1.4k

series masterlist here

Pedro

"Look, you don't know when you're going to get a nanny, and Maisy's summer is free and she's not doing anything," Rick, my coach says from behind his desk. "This will give her a job, and it helps you out," he reasons as I stand there with a stoic expression, hands on my hips, itching to shower after a sweaty conditioning session. "You've got some big matches coming up and you need to be at your prime. You can't do that when you're constantly stressed about childcare," he says as a reminder.

"I know," I agree him on that one, scrubbing a hand across my stubbled face.

It's a decent offer, and I'm not sure another option is even out there. After only two weeks on the job, I fired my fourteen-months old son's nanny. And the poor lady wasn't the first that I sent away. I have a problem with letting random strangers look after my son. I want the best possible care for him but it's hard to scout out a caregiver who is willing to fly with us when I have matches all over the States. I don't have much wiggle-room. It's either Rick's daughter—who at least isn't a complete stranger I have to let into my home—or bringing my son to the gym. My hands are tied here.

"Fine, but one screwup, and she's done."

A pleased smile spreads across Rick's face. "Okay, great. She'll be here soon so you two can meet right away."

I swear to god. "Really? What if I said no?" I scoff.

"You didn't," he simply brushes it off.

Maisy

I fucking hate my life.

I'm running late, my hair is a frizzy mess due to the humidity outside, and that suffocating feeling that my whole life is a failure has flared up in the past few days.

I enter the gym and greet the desk lady who's worked for my dad since the day he opened his boxing academy. "Hi Magda. I'm here to see dad. Is he in his office?"

"Yes, sweetie. Go ahead, you know where to find him," she says over the loud music, turning to hand a sweaty guy a towel.

I make a beeline for my dad's office. I rarely come here, but when I drop by, it's to talk to him. I never linger around, this place is a bit intimidating with all the muscular men punching sandbags.

"I need your help with something," is the first thing my father says as I close the door behind me.

"Hello to you too. Glad to be of service," I mock. "How can I be of help today, dad?" I ask, thinking it's something to do with laundry or kitchen duty.

At twenty-one I still live with my parents, well it's just dad and me now. I went to college to study political science and you can imagine how that ended up. With me jobless. I decided to move back in with my dad partly because I didn't find my group of people I could start a life in another State and partly because most internships—yes, after earning my degree I could only apply for internships—are in New York.

"I need you to nanny for a little boy until they find a suitable replacement," my dad tells me.

"Wow, okay," I plop down into one of the two seats facing his desk. I don't even try to cover up the confusion overtaking my features. "Of all the things you would ask, I never would've guessed it would be to nanny for someone but here we go."

"I know it might be a lot to take on but Pedro just fired his nanny and I need him to focus on his training," my father elaborates.

I know exactly who Pedro is. He's my dad's best-performing boxer with multiple titles to his name. He's considered the next Muhammad Ali in the boxing community. What I didn't know was that he had a kid.

"He's got the loveliest little boy, I'm certain you'd get along," he goes on, knowing full well how when I was choosing a major, I was also debating childcare. "Plus, it'd be just for the summer, I know you've got another internship starting in September."

I'm not as sure about that internship as my father though. My first six-month internship left me thinking that corporate America might not be it for me. But that's for me to iron out.

I don't take much convincing. This nannying thing would at least keep my mind off the fact that my life is in shambles and I'm clueless as to what to do with myself for the rest of my adult life.

As soon as I agree to do this, he hollers his boxer's nickname. "Viper!"

In anticipation, I catch myself smoothing down my hair. What on earth is going on with me? I'm going to nanny this man's kid for fuck's sake. I don't need to look desirable.

An imposing man is entering the small room that serves as an office for my dad. "Pedro, meet my daughter."

Pedro edges into the room, dominating the space. His tall body towers over me and I'm at eye level with his broad chest. He's wearing a simple black t-shirt and it looks so good on him. His broad shoulders, his tapered waist, the fabric tight over his contoured chest, his biceps pushing against the sleeves.

He ducks a little to pull my attention from the expanse of his chest, giving me a smile that I imagine must be cultivated to reassure people that he isn't going to break their hand when he shakes it.

The slow smile stretching across his lips draws my attention to his face. His coffee-brown hair is combed off his forehead, he has achingly soft brown eyes and raspberry-pink lips. Patchy stubble dots his jawline and he has a moustache. He's unfairly gorgeous but just imperfect enough to seem perfect. He has a scar on his chin and a fading black eye.

Overall he emits an older man aura and that alone is my kryptonite.

He gives my hand a gentle squeeze when he shakes it. "I'm Pedro," he drawls and I might have just fallen under its spell.

Yet another one-sided situationship here I come I guess.

"I know who you are," I blurt and I instantly want to facepalm. "My dad boasts about you constantly. I'm Maisy."

He drops my hand, placing his on his hips, his eyes ping-ponging between me and my father. "Is that so, huh? What's he telling you about me?" His easy-going demeanour wins me over immediately.

I shrug, feigning nonchalance. "Like you're the next big name in boxing."

"Tough luck. You might want to find yourself another client who still has it in them, coach, because I'm getting old," he bickers.

"You're only thirty-four," Rick gives him a deadpan look. "You still have a few good seasons in you. Anyways," he says, cutting straight to the point like the straightforward guy he is. "I called you in here because the two of you are a perfect match. Maisy here needs a summer job while you, my friend, need a nanny to look after your kid. Now, can we make it work?"

Pedro looks at me with X-ray eyes. "Can you drive?"

I nod. "I can drive."

"Do you have any experience with children?"

I shrug. "I mean I babysat for a couple of kids when I was in high school."

He's wordless as he mulls over his options.

"I guess if she's in, it's fine by me."

"Then it's a done deal," Rick concludes, clapping his hands together. He looks at the clock above the door. "Shit, I gotta go, I have a class to teach," he springs to his feet. He's pretty fit for his fifty-one years of age. "Bye, sweetheart. Pedro, see you eight in the morning for conditioning." He plants a kiss on my cheeks before hurrying off.

"Put your number in. I'll text you my address," Pedro says then, holding out his unlocked phone for me to take. "I'll have the guest bedroom ready for you in a few hours."

My dad explained that he requires a live-in nanny since he travels a lot and has a hectic schedule—I figured as much, my father too travels with him, he's his head coach after all. I agreed to his terms because I knew my dad wouldn't support this if Pedro was a creep.

My ovaries swoon when I see that his wallpaper is of his son, all baby teeth as he smiles into the camera.

I punch in my number with tingling fingertips and hand it back to him.

Oh God, he is going to spin my world off its axis, isn't he?

#pedro pascal fanfiction #alternative universe #boxer!pedro #dbf!pedro #soft!pedro #singledad!pedro #uppercut

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