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dilf-docs · 16 days ago

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My Baby's Fit Like A Daydream

husband!pedro pascal x younger!reader

summary: your relationship is finally out to the world. now, pedro and you will explore what it feels like to have your love out in the open.

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap, smut, FLUFF, the empire of bad humor strikes again, hurt/comfort bc all roads lead back to angst, a brief mention of bodyshaming, this is lowkey pwp my bad, dirty talk, fingering, p. in v., bathroom sex ijbol, exhibition kink (they be fucking everywhere but in a bed), degradation kink (he calls her a slut twice), the one and only creampie (twice), so naturally: breeding kink, ALSO pls stop the husband!pedro reqs, i beg. a delulu girl can only take so much 💔

word count: 10,991 words

side note: not one but two requests to be fullfilled! this is as a sequel to call it what you want. also, spam time: i happen to write in wattpad as well, and i have a pedro pascal social media fic going on :) but it's on spanish tho. if u speak the language and would like to tune in, read it here AND spam again but speaking of the ptwt dynamic, why don't we become moots? check my (new) stan twitter account here (i had one in 2022 that i had since 2016 but entered a crisis and deleted it lol)

part: prev | masterlist | next

The news had spread like wildfire.

As soon as you hit the red carpet, hand on hand, rings finally on display―shining under the spotlight, your phone had been blowing up nonstop: every show, podcast, tabloid, news outlet and social media had been talking about it. California had turn into an easter egg playground; everyone was eager to know it all.

(They had found the church where you married, the dress boutique, jewelry shop where Pedro bought the rings―the employees ratted him out, even sharing pictures of the moment, your husband posing with them without knowing of the future treason. They too had found the place where the reception took place, and even the name of the priest who had married you, but he refused to give the hungry press any details. God Bless)

In short, it had been a hell of a week. You figured dissapearing for a while was for the best, but with some interviews still left, that option had been discarded. Still, doesn't mean you couldn't retreat for a couple of days to the tranquility of your home while it was time to show up again. Well, as peaceful as it could get, since reporters were camping near your house and roaming around Hollywood Hills like vultures; the neighbour's nagging was just another layer of problems in your shit cake.

"I'm sorry, Louis. Walks will be postponed for a while" you talk to your cat, but the lazy bastard just stretches and lays down again. "Yeah, I can see you're affected. Don't cry"

"It's not the cat's fault" Pedro emerges from behind, "don't take it out on him"

He takes a sit next to you, two mugs in hand. He gives you the one with a chocolate steam, a souvenir he bought when you visited your home country last summer. You wonder if that's a trip you'll ever be able to make again.

"I'm not. Just- It's horrible that I can't even go outside my own house and walk the same roads I've walked in four years because the press is hidden with cameras in, I don't know, bushes!" you exclaim, quiet rage carried within your words. "It's unfair, really. All I want is to walk my damn cat without a flash up my ass"

Pedro nestles his face in your neck, nose carressing the skin. Giggles leave your lips, the sensation ticklish.

"It'll pass. It always does" he says, voice assuring, probably because he's used to the violation of privacy, but you're not. Getting bigger, is this the price to pay for making a name for yourself and claiming out loud who you love?

"I hope so" you murmur above the quietness of your home, a sound as eerie as fake, devoid of it's tranquil nature as a world of invasion awaits outside.

"Do you trust me?" Pedro speaks, voice unwavering. He holds your gaze, steady brown challening your shaky orbs.

"I do" you speak up, yet you wish you could believe it. You believe in him, there's no question to that, but do you believe in yourself? That the love you'd put out to the world would be treated with the same care and respect you have treated it in secret? For a fleating moment, you miss the secrecy.

"Then trust me this will be over sooner than expected" he presses a kiss to your lips, soft and sweet, feeling remanents of chocolate he licks away, as you mockingly yell ¡Qué sucio! but it's devoid of malice. "In time, this will become another anecdote we'll share with our kids, and laugh with our grandkids when we get older"

You smile, feeling tears in the corner of your eyes. Oh, doesn't he turn you into a pathetic sappy wife?

"Well" you sniffle, giggling to push back the tears away. "About the old part..."

He playfully kicks your side. "Uno ya no puede ser romántico, que le salen con estas cosas. Your generation could use some respect, you know?" (one can't simply be romantic anymore)

Pedro gets up, picking the mug from your hands as both rings brush together, the gold shinning under the morning Californian sun.

"And your generation could take a joke" you quip, lips curled up like you hadn't in weeks.

"Very funny, y/n. Thought you loved me" but then he's pressing a kiss to your temple like kissing you once isn't enough, promising to return after washing down the mugs.

"I do!" you shout to his dissapearing broad frame as he enters the kitchen, and he playfully makes a dissmissing move with his palm.

The laughing dies when your phone chimes next to you.

You shouldn't really, but the curiosity that draws you in is as intense as a magnet. The phone burns on its position, screaming for you to open it, despite being told by your husband that the best was choice was to ignore it until the buzz had died down, but you're afraid the turmoil isn't nowhere to be finished. Comments can be mean, he'd said, they can hurt you. Pedro said he'd learn with time to ignore it, but he was experienced. You weren't, so naturally, as your husband and protector, he wanted to shield you from the pain.

Although, both of your fandoms had been pretty supportive of your relationship, some user even claiming to suspect it, making threads full of easter eggs and connections that validated the theory which was now a reality. I've connected the dots, followed by pictures of you sharing wardrobe, slips on interviews, similar backgrounds in your posts across social media, and of course, the two Gladiator Ii interviews. Many resorted to making edits or screaming over your pictures in the premiere, demanding for more content you had yet caved in to share (there was a gigantic carpet of evidence sitting heavy in your cloud).

So, in a way, this support made it hard for you to truly dimension the hate Pedro warned you about: all you saw was fans being happy and showering you with love, making paparazzi to be the only problem as for now.

That's it.

You cave in, turning the phone on as you bite your lip, searching first your Instagram: a bunch of new followers, many with variations of ispunk on their usernames, as well as a swarm of comments on your recent posts. There's a small voice in your head telling you to turn away, but your thumb moves without thinking, clicking on pictures of the red carpet―a carrousel of you and then a picture of you both at the end, one fans had been gushing about the last couple of days, rings on display, practically up their noses. You were smiling, and Pedro was looking at you fondly, his other hand holding Lux but his gaze never leaving yours; he was too perfect to be real―yours.

You unconsciously smile at the captured moment, love obvious on your faces, so you open the comments, thinking it would be the same support or love radiating of the comment.

But boy, weren't you wrong?

It was all the same, support lost between waves of hate. Variations of bodyshaming, age shaming and even gold digger claims were on full display across the comment section. "She's ugly" "In it for the money, am I right?" "I thought Pedro had better taste, lol" "She got the role in Gladiator II because of nepotism. Or cocksucking" and then a cruel answer that read "Right, threesome with Ridley. Ew, what a whore!"

Worst of it all, some even had Pedro profile pictures, or usernames and accounts dedicated to him.

Your heart was beating like crazy, chest heavy and hollow, face red with emotions you couldn't quite place (embarrasment? fear? rage? sadness?) as you kept searching across Twitter*, doing a quick skim of the trendings that included you. The same hate speech pattern was all over the timeline, some betting for divorce in a couple of years (even months!), while others took their time dissecting your looks and relationship. As if they knew. Long gone were the edits and harmless threads: the hate wave was here to stay. Some where even being a bit racist, the irony of it all, being Pedro himself was latino and didn't shy away from it, rather proud as he didn't miss an opportunity to shot out his dear Chile. Or any social issue, as a matter of fact, very vocal on his political beliefs.

This was fucking ridiculous, and if the cameras were an issue, this swarm of negativity is what really took a toll on you, the flashes as you went grocery shopping now barely a scratch. No, this was worst. All you wanted to do was cuddle in a blanket while wearing one of Pedro's shirts and dissappear. Too much noise. Too much hate. You can feel it creeping up your body, tainting your soft curves, wrinkles, acne scars and face. It's like rough hands, tugging harsh, ripping your vocals because you can't scream; no words to express this pain.

You knew one day it would come, but never imagined the hurt and to what extent people were capable of. Cruelty. Dissecting your life and body like it was a show for them to be entertained: your marriage was a circus and your body a joke.

It hurt their condescending dismiss of your love, questioning as if the gap were only numbers and not a pillar of your relationship that made you and Pedro closer, despite the bridge in age. You were reduced to a middle-age crisis, and he to a filthy man pinning for a younger girl. Your body was turn apart, despite no real flaws existing. Humans are meant to be so, not perfect, but real, and that was the problem: you had turn into an object―a target for their dards to pierce through.

Your body shakes violently with cries, deafening your ears that you don't hear when Pedro walks in.

"Why are you crying?" he rushes to your side, panic on his voice. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

You barely manage to shake your head, and then his eyes scan all over your features, until they land on the phone on your hands. The worry turns to anger as he asks:

"You looked at them, didn't you?"

He isn't yelling, but it would be better if he did. This contained fury, fading into dissapointment, as if you were a naive child scolded by their parents makes you feels small and stupid, as if you knew no better.

"I'm sorry-" you manage to choke out among tears, "I know you told me-"

"I told you" he interrupts, words laced with wrath, "so this wouldn't happen. See what happens?"

"Why are you talking to me like it's my fault?" you yell, and Pedro sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in irritation. "I didn't ask to receive all this! Do I deserve the death threats, shame and hate?"

He walks past you, and it's like a slap to your face. Was he going to behave like this? Didn't it matter how you felt, or was it something childish that could be brush to the side like nothing? Insecurities you hadn't even think of come crashing down on you, doubts creeping up and attacking you from all sides. It's horrible. You try to hold onto the good memories, praying you don't loose him. You can't. You just can't.

"Answer!" you demand, tears spilling like a broke dam.

"I was just closing the windows. Or do you want to fuel the talk, huh? Give the hungry hoard more to bite?" Pedro then stands to hold your gaze, and you hate that you can't place his emotions. Anxiety corrodes your brain: was this really the beginning of the end?

"Do I?" you dare to speak up, and even if its loud, it comes out drowned, the exhaustion from the emotional turmoil taking its toll on you. "Do I deserve it?"

"No, you don't, carajo!" Pedro bursts. "You don't deserve any of that, which is why I didn't want you looking at those things!"

He sighs, realizing the anger is misdirected.

"I'm sorry"

Your broken wails are the only thing to be heard. He hates himself for being a part of it, even if not the biggest.

"No, I'm sorry for being so stupid" you sob. "I-I just wanted for people to be as happy for us as I am with you"

"Come here" but he's the one cutting the space to embrace you.

His scent calms a part of you, body still rocking with violent shakes.

"You're not stupid. Nor ugly, or any of those things people are calling you. No, mi amor. You're beautiful, smart and talent. They fail to realize I'm the lucky one. So please, don't be hard on yourself, yeah? I can't bear to see it. Less if I know it's not true. You didn't ask for it; you don't deserve all that bullshit"

He presses a kiss to your temple, arms that hug you tighter holding you close close up to the point his heartbeat melts within your own.

I won't let you go. You won't fall as long as I got you.

"We'll get through this, yeah? Think of the future, and what's to come. It's hard, that I know, but let us enjoy the moment. Life is too precious to waste it away" he brushes stray tears with his thumb, softly and full of love that words aren't enough to express. "I'm here" the out loud, "and I'm not going anywhere. That's a promise"

Later that day, Pedro posts a carrousel of unseens, even one of your wedding (a video of your first dance), telling people to leave you alone. That he loves you, and that no malicious news, fans or comments will ever change that―suck it energy laced within his rageful statement.

Safe to say, in the next weeks, hate is barely a small voice whispering in the back of your neck, one that hushes down with each kiss and/or words uttered by your one and only devoted husband.

mandoshoney: y/n protection squad pull up, we ride at dawn starlightt180: unhing3dprincess WHERE ARE U??? PTWT IS IN SHAMBLES AND NEEDS U MY SHAYLAAAAAAAAAA elysyannemimi: i feel like a kid scolded by their dad. pedro has achieved the ultimate daddy status bobgirlll: is no one going to talk about how rageful/protective pedro sounded in that story????? NEED MORE FERAL PEDRO RN GRRrrrr ps. photos so cute, wish that was me lol pyramiidsf: i hope y/n is okay, ppl can be so cruel sometimes but at least she's got pedro on her side <3 he's such a perfect man :,)

It had been days since your fight.

In an sweet attempt to cheer you up, Pedro had taken you out for dinner to a fancy restaurant you can't remember the name of. If they'll snap pictures of my wife without my permission, I might as well show you off. So, per his petition, you had wore a little black dress that hugged every curve of your body perfectly and pushed your tits to the top. Stunning, he had growled, and it had been hard to push him off as he devoured your mouth in your house's doorstep.

"Let's give them talk" you had agreed.

So now you sat at the restaurant, Pedro filling your cup of wine for the third time in a row, talking about all and nothing: about politics, the weather, your siblings, Louis the cat, upcoming gigs around your home you wanted to go to, how support had risen and the hate had dwindled, the numerous calls of job offers and interviews to keep on milking your relationship... life had never been more hectic.

"You know, maybe the dress was a bad idea" he takes a bite of his meat, tone nonchalant.

"Yeah?" you challenge, cheeks flushed with alcohol, "why's that? I thought I had to look good. What changed your mind?"

"Turns out" he looks at you, gaze piercing through your body, brown warm eyes darkening, "I figured something"

You know your husband. It's still fresh in your mind the first day you took a notice of it: jaw clenching, gaze fixated at nothing and white fists balled up on to the sides, arms swinging while fingers itched. A vein on his forehead would pop, and brows would melt together in a furrow. It happened when you got recognized by a fan, on your early days, and he had taken a picture of you, uploading it to social media. Dating Pedro had been going on for little to five months, and the way this guy hugged you from behind, hand resting above your ass, had made your then-boyfriend see red. His posture stiffened, demeanor changed and face adquired all the characteristics above. There was only one correct answer: Pedro was jealous, so fucking jealous.

So here he is now, jealous to the bone, alcohol increasing the rage.

"And that is?" you push his buttons, something you normally wouldn't do, but you're drunk and God, so sex-starved. His possesive side was always hot, yet now? It had a layer of allure it didn't have before, the idea of calming him down long lost.

"You know what it is" he answers, but you tilt your head to the side, acting confused. Pedro growls, clenching the glass a bit too tight; you fear it'll break.

"No, I don't" you serve more wine in your glass, savouring the liquid. Some spills into your mouth, and you lick it while not breaking eye contact. "Enlighten me"

"Turns out" the words come out strained, a whirlwind of emotions burning in the tip of his tongue, "that I wanted people to look at my wife, but I looked their looks and realized I don't like how they look at her"

He rambles the words out, speech pattern slurred and ideas clashing into one another, clearly drunk.

"I see" you draw out, demeanor calm, but your panties have started to get wet.

"No" he hits the table, making your eyes go wide and people turn to your table. You should be embarrased, but you're only aroused. "You don't see what I see. And I hate it, I fucking hate it" he seethes, words spit out over your unfinished meal.

"Dessert?" the waiter appears from seemingly nowhere, menu on hand.

Pedro doesn't even look when he answers, "Sure. Bring your best"

"The chef's suggestion is Soufflé, a classic dessert from his country"

"That'll do" Pedro looks at you, but his brain seems to be somewhere else. Like he's thinking. "How long will it take?"

The waiter ponders the answer, yet doesn't think any weird of it.

"About twenty to thirty minutes. Would that be alright? Or would you prefer to switch to one of our quick-fixes? They're as delicious as our fresh and-"

"No" your husband interrupts, eyes shinning with something akin to dangerous. "We'll take the soufflé. Just want my wife to eat the very best"

The waiter smiles. "Sure, will be back in a few. More wine?"

Pedro stops the action, removing the bottle's neck from pouring more red liquid in your glass.

"Won't be needed"

They excuse themselves, leaving both of you alone. The restaurant bubbles with chat and instrumental music from a band playing on a corner, but all you hear is his heavy breathing and your heart.

"I wanted more wine" you pout, not even knowing why you said it.

He smiles devilishly. "I'll give you something better than that"

How does it happen, you have no idea, but then Pedro gets up with a brash move, chair making a sound that draws attention. He smirks, his auburn reflecting on the candle glowing in the center with a light that's menacing.

"I'm going to the bathroom" an announcement that feels like a threat that runs through the newfound tension; it could be cut with even a butterknife.

You sit there in silence, too stunned to speak. Your phone chimes in what feels like an hour (it's been a few minutes, probably three). You open the notification, a single text from Pedro.

I'm waiting.

So this was his plan all along, huh? Maybe he's gotten bored of sex on a bed and room like normal couples, because ever since that time you sucked his dick in his trailer, Pedro has shown an appetite for public sex. Well, more like just shown but never done. Guess that changes as of tonight.

I'm coming.

Truth is, after the reveal and fight, you hadn't had sex since that time before the London premiere. Press tour hadn't finished, and the movie was still playing in theathers, but it feels much longer the time you had gone without having his dick rearranging your insides. That changes as of tonight.

You practically leap out of your sit, rushing to the restroom, which is too fancy for your liking. You're unsure how to proceed, and it should be because you realized how stupid and reckless this is, but it's more because you don't know which door Pedro is behind: men or women.

You knock softly on the ladies room first. "I'm here" you speak, voice small.

After a few seconds, a muffled voice from behind replies: "Me too"

You giggle as he pulls you inside, mouth devouring yours in a hot kiss.

"The lock!" you squeal, yet Pedro is busy buring his face between your breasts, pulling the dress down until he's nipping at the skin before licking the spot with his tongue. Your back is pressed against the tiled white wall, cold meeting your now heating skin.

"Mmm, missed this" he mumbles in a drunken state. "Needed my girls so bad"

His words elicit a moan out of you, a way to comunicate that your body too had been aching for this.

"Please, Pedro-" you whimper, trying to get rid of the pretty dress. He doesn't say it, but his movements command for power, big hands dragging your dress down until the black cloth falls to the floor in a sound filled with grace, it feels merciful.

"Black panties? But I thought I was a man with a plan" he groans, calloused digits ghosting over the wet patch in the middle. He smells your arousal off his fingers, and this is so nasty but you're so into it.

"Two can play" is all you answer, eager fingers unbuckling his belt as you unbutton the formal pants and pull them down to his knees, so with his underwear.

"Sure thing" he chuckles darkly. "Just look at you, baby. So loud, but you gotta be quiet. ¿Quieres que alguien entre y te vea así? Fucking slut, begging for my cock" (do you want someone to come in and see you like this?)

He's always been sweet-talking you through sex, and you know he doesn't mean it aside from being lewd words, but you also didn't know you could be aroused by it. Change is welcome, to say the least.

His hard dick is immediately stroking at the apex of your thighs, like he's got no time to loose, kissing you roughly like he hasn't eat and your mouth is his meal.

"Twenty minutes" he grumbles, groaning.

"Or thirty" you add, whining when his cock brushes dangerously close to your dripping folds.

"Can't believe you're this wet already" he chuckles, but it sounds more like a breathy sigh, lost in the inside of your mouth.

"I've been wet since before we left the house and you kissed me"

"And I kissed you" he adds. "No sé ni por qué putas te traje si sólo quería quedarme en casa y comerte" (i don't know why the fuck i took you out if all i wanted was to stay at home and eat you out)

You moan at his dirty mouth, clicking your tongue as a way to say so.

"You dirty old man-" it dies in your throat when he glides inside your folds with ease, a finger slipping in, then two, as he curls them. Your head rolls back, landing against the door with a hollow thud.

"Dirty? But you enjoy this, don't you?" his fingers buried up your hilt. Your eyelids flutter, whimpering drowned by your lips, bitten so deep you think you start to taste blood. "Bad news, mami. You're as dirty as me"

You choke in your words. "No-"

"No what?" Pedro mocks, sliding his digits out of you and shoving them inside his mouth, sucking on them while looking at you. You whine at the display and loss of them, knowing he's tauting you for fun. "Don't tell me you don't want someone to come in here and see you acting like a dirty slut? To see you almost coming here and now with just two of my fingers"

"Fine. What if I want to, huh? Just give me your damn cock already and quit teasing"

Words were lewd, but Pedro smiles with adoration.

"That's my girl"

His length springing free to slap against his now smooth stomach, your mouth drooling.

"Sit"

He glares back, "in the toilet?"

"Well, do you happen to see a couch or bed?" you quip. "That's right: you were the one who chose the bathroom, desperate old man. So needy, aren't you?"

You see your husband turning around, ashamed, and you laugh. "I didn't think it through" and you avoid to add a that's quite obvious snarky type of reply.

"Want me as much as I do?" Pedro doesn't protest anymore, grunting some spanish curses before sitting on the cold surface. "Good. Then comply"

You swing a leg over his lap, not afraid if the thing breaks, dragging your wet folds against his cock. He moans, gripping your thighs hard, biting at your lower lip to hide a growl that seems to erupt from deep within his chest.

"Gonna ride you, baby. Is that okay?" you take the lead, and Pedro gets frustrated that you're taking up a plan that was originally his. Despite such, he just finds himself nodding wordlessly like a fool.

You line up, desperate to have him inside of you. But you go slowly down, taking his size, maybe because you're drunk or because you'd never fucked in a bathroom before. Because, really, how will you even try to explain your PR team a broken bathroom?

You gasp as he bottoms out, struggling to catch your breath with the relentless push. His strong arm cages your waist, as he moans in your ear, bodies going up and down in sync. His slides are smooth across his length, helping you find your pace.

"Fuck" you whimper, legs starting to shake. "I think I-"

"I know" he interrupts you, a quick kiss to your earlobe. "It's okay; I've got you, linda"

He thrusts upwards, toilet creaking as Pedro keeps you in place.

You bury your teeth into his shoulder to muffle your moans, skin slapping against skin loudly, his movements becoming faster. The pressure keeps on adding, until the tightness on your walls is too much, and you're collapsing over his chest, folds spasming as he empties his load inside of you, seed deep in your walls, dripping down your legs.

"Oh, shit" you gasp, "Pedro!"

"Perdón!" he shouts, then covers his mouth. "Mierda, no quise ser tan ruidoso. Ay, carajo. Didn't want to spill all over you-" (sorry! didn't mean to be so loud. oh, fuck)

"There's a sink" you start, "and toilet paper. We'll manage"

"Right" he looks at his watch, "we got about ten minutes"

You smile, cheek resting against the warm skin of his neck. "If the chef took the whole thirty"

"There's only one way to find out" he gasps for air. "Pero, ¿no estás llena? Still up for dessert?" his big hand finds it's way to your tummy, you still contentedly stuffed full of him. It lingers, and when you look into his eyes, he averts his gaze, ashamed of whatever he thought. (but, aren't you full?)

"After this, I need some sugar to make it home" your eyelids drop. "I'm starving"

He presses a loud kiss to your head, "that's my girl"

"Yours" you pull back to rest your forehead against his. "Just yours"

He jolts forward, capturing your mouth in a hot kiss, and you smile into it.

"Good. Now, I'll give my good girl what she deserves" he takes some toilet paper to clean his spilling load out of you, kisses running from your face to neck. Then, gently so, lets you dress in again, exiting the bathroom first to give you some cleaning up space. When you come back to your table, the Soufflé is there.

"Eat" he commands, voice thick and rough. You smirk, giving it a bite as you look into his eyes: hair disheveled, puffy lips and droopy eyes. The bite mark seems to shine, or maybe you need to lay down for a while. "Y no mires atrás, ¿sí? We got ourselves a crowd" (don't look back, yeah?)

That night, you upload a story with a picture of the dessert with a caption that reads: best meal I've ever had. The context is lost until news of your bathroom affairs hit headlines next morning, but you don't notice: your phone happens to be dead, and you're too busy getting railed in what could count as round two to charge it.

pompeiianbollockr: hello just woke up and saw the pictures WTF TMZ??? did they really do #that 😭 bring back public shaming unhing3dprincess: i bet my grandma they fucked in that fancy ass restroom ㅤㅤmostannoyingbillioner: unhing3dprincess QUEEN U ARE BACK 😭 BETTING UR GRANDMA AGAIN? OH IKTR WE WERE LOOSING THE ANCIENT TEXTS poppysplayground: ohhhhh they're so nasty (do u want a third) ㅤㅤann-gell: poppysplayground fr like INVITEN

The interview for Entertainment Weekly's behind the cover for Gladiator II was supposed to just include Paul and Pedro, but taking advantage of the free publicity and buzz your announcement made, they added you. Especially after the news about your restroom affair had hit, courtesy of TMZ; the rumor wasn't taken into account in the beginning, but now added gasoline to the gossip fire. Just what the movie needed: free promo.

You're sat in the middle of the two men, dressed in white as well, to match their attires with a flowy dress that loosely resembles that of Rome's. Then, Paul begins to speak.

"I saw the film for the first time when I was about 13 with my dad" he talks about the original movie.

"I saw it in the movie theater when it came out" you imagine a young Pedro lined up to see Russell Crowe's magnetic performance and let out a small smile. "I saw it twice, because of how emotional the movie was. Obviously it's incredibly visceral, and epic and the kind of movie you rarely get to see made, uh, these days"

You look at him, elbow resting on the arm chair as your body is all turned to his side. Truth is, you love listening to him, especially when he seems so invested, love for the subject rooted in each word.

Pedrito, you'd affectionally call. Ésto es una conversación, no un monólogo. And he'd blush embarrased, only for you to laugh it off, saying you would turn mute if that meant for him to continue speaking. (this is a conversation, not a monologue)

"It had an impact emotionally. I remember that, I guess, sadistically I was drawn to a second time go back again because, weirdly, it was very comforting. I remember it perfectly came out in year 2000. Right?" he asks, and Paul and you agree with a yeah. "I can remember what theater I was in and everything-"

"What theater was it?" Paul interrupts his passionate talking.

Pedro stops, "It, uh-" he rambles, before you all laugh.

"What about you, y/n? Were you even born?" Paul jokes, making you roll your eyes at his antics and deliberate desire to keep nagging you like some older annoying brother.

"I was like, born a year after you, Paul. But I didn't watch the movie until I was fifteen" you feel the gaze of both men fall upon you. "The first Ridley Scott movie I watched was Thelma and Louise, as you all know. Then my dad insisted I should watch it, and finally, at fifteen, when I had given up on my dreams to go on one last epic trip to the Grand Canyon, he played it. My eyes, they were, like, glued to the screen. I couldn't stop thinking about it for a while" you leave a small lingering touch on Pedro's arm, "just like he said: epic and emotional. Also, I had a huge fat crush in Joaquin Phoenix that lasted until I was twenty"

"That was like, seven years ago!" Pedro yells, making Paul snorts. "I feel deceived"

"Qué dramático. We're both married, you big baby!" you laugh, then make a joke before the next conversation starts: "You wouldn't think he plays an epic Roman General, would you?" (how dramatic)

They film some shots of you and the boys before moving to the next talk.

"I was doing a play in London at the time. I'd met with Doug and Lucy who are the producers of the film in LA, and then a zoom was set up and I spoke to Ridley for about 5 minutes about what Gladiator was going to be about. And then we spoke for the next 25 minutes about like, gaic football and dogs, and then I thought we'd do like camera tests and- but no, he just-" he shrugs. "I found out about two weeks later"

Now it's Pedro's turn.

"I knew that the project existed. I knew that Paul was doing it. I think it started with an actual like meeting with Ridley to go and sit down with him and I, whether or not the movie was going to happen for me or not, I was like I'm going to go meet Ridley Scott" he jokes, making you both chuckle. "It wasn't even about getting the job, it was like I'm going to go and sit down maybe five minutes, ten, twenty, as many minutes as I can"

"It was in LA" you speak up, "in his offices"

"Yeah, and thankfully he was willing to talk about all the things I wanted to know about, in terms of other movies, and that's what it really turned into"

"He's a wonderful Storyteller" Mescal compliments. "You could sit down with Ridley for-"

Pedro makes a joke, speaking over him. "Give me another one, give me another one-"

You still kind of hate the guy after his supposed comments on your husband's weight, but won't talk bad about a man who gave you work and your biggest role to the date yet, so you explain how it happened to you.

"I wasn't even planned to appear on the movie. As a matter of fact, my character was squeezed in last minute. Ridley is, just as they said, indeed, a storyteller" you smile. "The truth is, I worked with Cuba, his granddaughter, on a proyect together, a photography one. I was in London at the time, auditioning for a movie, when we met"

"London?" Paul asks.

"Yes" you laugh, ashamed. "I traveled to London with some of my savings, because you know what they say about not doing and then regretting. But I do regret it; I cried for my money to be back!"

"You didn't get the part" Pedro adds, barely containing a snicker.

"I didn't" you sigh, "Cuba saw me sitting alone on a café, eyes red with tears of failure and talked me into capturing such vulnerable moment. She didn't know me but made my day better, and she took some of the most beautiful pictures I've seen of myself. So, in a way, I won. I mean, she's the reason I got the role: my name came up on a phone call with Scott, as I had already made a name for myself, and showed him the pictures. He got in contact with my agent and I got the role after auditioning. Call that friendship nepotism"

"Didn't Pedro tell you about it? I find it funny that he was in the movie and didn't get you in" Paul comments, curiously.

"We were supposed to remain a secret, and the sudden connection when we had barely interacted according to the public, would've been weird. So no, Pedro rubbed his role on my face and then I came home with the new script as he received his. We both won our roles separately, and until we got it both, we realized just what it would mean"

"But now we're here" Pedro speaks fondly, taking your hand. "Rome conquers it all"

You can only hold his and stare back lovingly.

"Oh" the Irish man feigns disgust, "don't get all lovey dovey on me!"

The topic changes again, as Paul speaks.

"We meet early in the film, and this is again kind of Ridley's genius. He shoots it in a way that it feels plausible, but in like- the real action of that there's no way-"

They start talking ovwe each other excitedly about the process of filmaking, Pedro listing all the settings were the epic action takes place.

"We lock eyes" Pedro jests, "we lock eyes"

"All right" Paul plays along. "Three, two, one"

"i'm right here" you say, pushing your body to the front. "You got me third wheeling in my own marriage"

Paul laughs, breaking contact.

"Time for you to get a taste of your own medicine. You've made the rest of this press tour unbearable!" he protests, but his tone is devoid of complain.

"Marcus Acacius represents like-" Mescal then speaks about your husband's character, "he's a Roman general"

"No, he is the general of Rome" you correct, smirking.

"Be careful, princess. Don't let the emperor see you all over his General" the blue-eyed man next to you mocks, and you roll your eyes again.

"Will you ever let me live?"

Paul then talks about his character. "I'm like a lieutenant in the numidian Army. I kind of see Acacius as this, he- he represents everything that I hate about, uh, the Roman Empire"

"Well, the Roman Empire is expanding and expanding" Pedro takes the word, "and invading Numidia just to gain more and more power, and we realize that there really is kind of no ceiling to the lust of that power"

"And that's to do with the Emperors, right? Like, played by Joe and Fred who are wonderful" Paul adds, complimenting both actors in the process. "And let's not forget our Empress too"

You make a face at that, feeling in the need to defend your character.

"Empress Alba is tragedy. I think she embodies well the feelings of helpnessless all women felt during that time. She's an object, another shiny possesion subjected to her husband's amusement, so she drowns in all pleasure available to forget her existence. Lucius hates her because he sees all the filth of Rome in her, like, this whole debauchery and squandering while the people beg for scraps. But it's a pattern seen across history, isn't it?" you pause. "I think it's interesting to compare her to Lucilla, because she's loved by the people, seen as human- despite being noble. It's sad because it's until too late that Lucius realizes she's a victim of the system he hates"

Pedro smiles at your little intervention, loving the way you explain a character you'd play so graciously. One of your favorite movies is Marie Antoinette, by Sofia Coppola, so probably it felt personal to you in some level. God, hadn't you made him watch it at least ten times?

"It unravels through the film that I've kind of miscalculated who I think Acacius is, just as with Alba" Paul comments.

"His character misunderstands my character just like Paul misunderstands us" Pedro quips, making both of you laugh.

"Then it kind of culminates in a big fight that we have in the-"

"Doesn't it always?" you add. "Wouldn't be an epic without it"

"Do you want to talk about it?" Paul dares, jokingly.

"No we're not talking about it" he cuts him off.

"Who's the better fighter'" Paul asks after some silence. Pedro dares him with a go on.

"I would say I'm better the better share. What you think?"

"I would say Lucius is the better fighter"

"Lucius is the better fighter" Pedro repeats slowly, incredulous. "Do you want us to fight? Lucius is a better fighter than the general of Rome, who survived decades and conquered" Paul tries to defend himself but Pedro doesn't let him. "I fight four men before I get you, and I call it off!"

"Yeah, but I think if you hadn't called it off -"

"You don't think I would have do some sort of mature aged learning-"

They end up discussing a bit more until you clear your throat.

"Why don't you ask for a third party to break your tie?" and you point towards yourself, mouthing a cute me with your painted pink lips.

"No!" Paul immediatly opposes, "It would be biased, silence her!"

"Have you seen Acacius' arms?" you gauge Pedro's arms, biceps flexing under the white attire. "It definitely isn't biased, at all"

The conversation carries on after some more shots. In some, you pose seriously, but in between such, you laugh along with them, Pedro even hugging you and Paul from behind in one of both. No kisses yet, but you know fans will be rabid just with the lingering touches and flirty undertones in your interactions.

"We began together in Morocco, and I think seeing that set and the scale of the production so quickly, desensitized me to the scale of the of what- Malta was in the Coliseum, and Ridley moves at such a pace, which I actually think really helped me because you don't have time to kind of sit there and and kind of bask in the wonder of it" Paul talks. "Because you're shooting three or four scenes, build your expectations of how to meet the size of, it or anything 'cuz 'cause it's impossible" Paul looks at Pedro and asks: "and I think Ridley; did I tell you what Ridley said first day of shooting to me? He came out to the tent while they were dressing the set, thousands of extras, everything fire, camels and he comes in, and he's- he's smoking a cigar, and we're all stood around and he's like Are you nervous? and we're all like No and he slaps me on the back and goes Your nerves are no good to me, before we filmed anything. But I think it was like- it's funny, but it's this idea that this is your playground, and you have to kind of step into it and own it. So, I-I don't actually really remember my first walking into the Coliseum, 'cause I feel like I lived in the Coliseum for about three or four weeks"

"You lived in the Coliseum of your mind" Pedro quips, making Paul laugh.

"I do remember, you know, when I first walked into the Coliseum, you know. It- it gave me chills. Like, literally chills. Look! I still get the goosebumps" you point your arm. "Honestly, all of it felt just too real, and I couldn't help but for a moment, think I actually was in Rome- that I belonged to nobility"

Pedro takes your hand and kisses it gently. "That's because you do, princesa"

"One of the things that I have never experienced on a movie before, is that there was so little left to the imagination" Pedro expresses. "Me and the rest of the ensemble are together in the emperor's box, and there's this enormous battle that's taking place, and Ridley composed all of the off camera for us in the emperor's box, with Paul leaping from one ship to another taking two men down what would you call that?"

"A cloth line flying" Paul answers.

"Clothes line?" you try.

"A flying- a flying clothes line" Pedro decides, carrying on "just so that we could know what we were looking at. I couldn't f*****g believe it"

"That's true" you remark. "The result goes so hard- I mean, it looks amazing" you sheepily laugh. "The action, the violence, the epic... it all shines through. It just- it makes sense"

The conversation shifts again.

"The legacy of the first film is so profound, and has such a strong place in so many people's, like, hearts and minds, it's inescapable, but I was looking at it- and I was like" Paul shares. "The screenplay does a lot of that work for you in terms of like, the rubbing the dirt between the hands. the kind of DNA and the genetics that Lucius inherits. I remember reading the script and there's like, a moment in the script where it's Lucius puts on the breastplate and it's written like Lucius now becomes Maximus"

"But Lucius, despite being a son, is also a man" you counter. "He isn't Maximus"

Paul agrees.

"I kind of tried to park that to one side, because ultimately, where Lucius is coming from at the start of the film, he has a very different journey than Maximus does, and I was hoping that whatever DNA- and even just the physical gestures, was going to be one part of- a kind of small part of the performance" he explains. "What I tried to do is figure out exactly who Lucius was and where those differences lay between Lucius and Maximus"

"One of the things that I loved most about my character is that he's introduced in the beginning of the movie, in this very epic battle sequence, that I think in its own way homages the first film" Pedro shares. "But even better, because we follow him back to Rome and discover his direct connection to one of the only characters that is living and with us from the first movie, and I loved being a a kind of thread, an invitation, into what we know from the first movie by being Connie Nielsen's man"

Paul looks at you silently, before poking your side: "Someone is real quiet with that comment"

You narrow your eyes. "I have no idea what you're talking about"

"I am Connie Nielsen's man as Marcus Acacius, but as Pedro Pascal, I'm all y/n's"

Your face goes red at how easily you are to be understood, your husband answering just what you wanted to listen.

"Ha! Look at your face, I was right!" Paul ridiculises you.

But after such an embarrasing moment, he shifts the conversation again.

"There's a moment where Pedro has this, uh- it's so clever from a- from an acting standpoint, but also in the in the script like, you see this brutalizing Force come into Numidia, and there's this section where there's the burning of the bodies, and that it's one of my favorite shots in the film" Paul muses. "It's this closeup on Pedro, when he says Vae Victis to the conquered, and you feel like it's a really difficult thing to communicate in one line, that you see: Oh, this General is, kind of wearing this responsibility with great difficulty and shame"

"I wasn't doing that at all" your husband deadpans. You stiffle a giggle.

"You were very good in it" Paul argues back with a smile.

"That wasn't what I was playing" he insists, serious but Paul asks What were you playing? and you all laugh.

"If I had a favorite scene, I'd say it'd be naval fight" you mention. "The colliseum is filled with water, and it's this- it feels like a thing that has never been done before, and with the people cheering and the buzz, and the announcement and echo of the drumming, it's as if you were there, in the crowd. The tension is palpable, the violence is thrown at your face but the scariest one, is the one that lies underneath. Uh, Lucius character tries to attack the General while we, you know, the royals and especial guests, are sitting at our box, and he gets so close, it serves, I think the bottom climbing the ladder to bite the ankles of the top. Obviously, that before we know who Lucius actually is, but I think it's kind of cool"

The interview is ending, the last of your twelve-minute conversation being filmed now.

"I am really excited for everyone to see Paul" Pedro beams, making the younger one laugh. "I'm sorry but it has to be said. You are sensational in the movie" then adds, "and pretty easy on the eyes"

"Everyone in this movie is easy in the eyes" you quip, looking at your side. Pedro coughs a bit before speaking again, even if a faint blush is coating his cheeks.

"-And he worked so hard, and I got to see that happen like, in front of me, and on the day and just lead with Ridley, this enormous crew and this enormous cast... To get to see that, on the big screen, is really exciting and I think people are going to- they're going to love it"

"That's very kind" you exclaim softly with a smile, then add. "I'm sure of it, especially if you were a fan of the first. Both are very interwined, although each film is its own thing" you comment.

"For a lot of us, the actors, we haven't worked on a film on that scale" you violently shake your head "and I think, there's a little bit of trauma bonding that went on with, kind of having to- kind of feel like, total impostor syndrome within it all. But to see your friends operate at that level on a film of that scale, doing like incredible work. I think, across the board, I haven't seen a film on this scale for a long long time rhat's rooted it has the scale and the performances, and I personally think it's one of Ridley's greatest pieces of work"

senhoritamayblog: y/n was SO REAL holding pedro's arm and talking abt how he'd beat paul bc he's beefy ME WHEN moltisantiii: you know what i think ridley's greatest piece of work is? giving us this trio youlooklike-clarabow: y/n is truly a princess 🥹 i don't know if i want to be y/n to be with pedro or pedro to be with y/n ㅤㅤann-gell: youlooklike-clarabow well, she's the people's princess after all!

You haven't even left the room when Pedro is all over you, kissing your neck on that sweet spot of yours that elates a little breathy whine. Doesn't he know you well?

"What are you doing?" you manage to squeak out as his needy big hands grope your body, flesh soft under the flowy white dress. He grunts when he catches your panties, embarrasingly wet already at just a few sloppy kisses and eager touches.

"What do you think?" he whispers against your ear as you both try to walk away from where voices can be heard, and then Pedro is guiding you to a room, closing the door behind him. If he was able to walk to the room while kissing you, he must've seen it in a passing. Had your husband plan this all along? Greedy needy old man.

"What I think, baby, is you're forgetting something" you push him off, giggling. He makes a little pout, making it hard to keep your ground. "Now that everyone knows we're married and we suddenly both go misteriously missing at the same time, they'll just put two and two together. I mean, does it really take a smart person to figure it out?"

Pedro doesn't back down, still caging your frame against the locked door.

"So?" his annoyed and tense voice only makes you laugh more. That turned on was he? Pedro seems annoyed at your fit of laughter, his pants tight.

"What do you mean so? We almost got caught by Paul last time!" you chuckle amused. "And, are you seriously going to pretend TMZ didn't air our bussiness just about last week?"

"Well, maybe you should've thought about it before" he goes back at the task of attacking your mouth, words spewing in between hungry kisses. You mouth a little taunting innocent looking Before what? and then Pedro is talking while his gaze is glued to yours, tightening his arms around you, and the answer is just about that. "You should've thought about it before getting all flirty with me, grabbing my arm in front of the camera like the naughty girl you are. So fucking needy you can't hide it for a few hours, can't even go through an interview without touching me, looking at me, being possesive at a fictional marriage even" your face burns hot with embarrasment at that. Oh, was he being nasty on purpose? Why bring that up? "Haven't I taught you manners?"

It's hard to force yourself to hold his gaze while standing still. Taunting. Defiant.

"José Pedro Balmaceda Pascal" you chastise, "do you want people to know we are raw dogging in the dressing room? That's the manners you so badly talk about"

His face goes red, his demostrations stopping for a bit as he studies your now serious face.

"Wait, do you want to raw dog in the dressing room?" he gasps at the boldness in your words, which, to be fair, is kind of exaggerated, as you both have said worst stuff before. "That's not what I had in mind"

"That's not?" you arch an eyebrow. "Oh, no. Absolutely not. You can't just kiss my neck greedily and touch my body eagerly like a goddamn starved horny idiot, and then expect me to not act up on it, you old man"

There's silence before he speaks up again. "Y/n, you talked about manners"

You take a deep breath in, making sure the door is actually locked.

"Well, fuck them manners"

You capture his lips on a hungry kiss, same kind of force you had made fun of him, just minutes ago. He's pushing his tongue inside of you, as his hands move up to your shoulders and back down to your waist. You rub yourself against him, looking for some kind of friction, and his big calloused hands pulls your waist closer in an attempt to do the same.

"Manners maketh man" he's reciting, and such stupid proverb and line from one of his old works shouldn't turn you this much. Pedro lifts up the dress until your body is devoid of the cotton, murmuring about how unfair it was for you to taunt him with translucent cloth, tender flesh hiding under the white. So hard to focus on interviews, mami, when you're close to me or something like that, as you're too lost in the fire. No bra? Fuck, baby. Do you want to kill me?

"Sofa" you command, eyes darting to the furniture so you can show him where. "Now"

You take off your panties in a go, revealing the slick that's just a few seconds from running down your legs.

"I see, my legs won't be the only thing drooling" you mock his agape mouth. He takes off the blazer with shaking hands, sitting as you get on top of him. Pedro kisses his way down your neck, sucking on the skin. How will you get out of here without comfirming suspicions? Surely, there must be something inside here that could be of help.

"Well, I've wanted to do this for a while" he mumbles against the now red patches of before honey-ed skin. Again? you think.

"Have me or fuck again in public?" you ask out loud, and even if you're laughing, there's a layer of fondness in your voice. "I'm starting to wonder if you have an exhibition kink, papi"

He breathes a little no before biting right above your collarbones, his tongue then releaving the pain with a wet slick move over the flesh as you let out a whine.

"Busy schedule, mami. A husband's gotta find a way to make time for his pretty wife, even if it means fucking her in the goddamn dressing room" he says into your ear. Pedro had done more interviews than you, and between that and filming for his other projects, he's right. "So what if they find out? Need them to know who you belong to. I'm just a devoted husband, will you punish me for that?"

You caress his face, pristine hair now disheveled, the gel succumbing to the heat and sweat trapped in the room.

"Look at you, naughty boy. El burro hablando de orejas" you laugh, "but of course I won't. Need you too so bad" (look who's talking)

His finger wanders down to your pussy, big hand roaming around the area. His middle and ring finger run over it, the golden band starting to shine with your arousal. Fuck, that just made you wetter.

"Shit, baby. You're so eager... wasn't lying when you talked before"

"Needed you since you kissed me today, when you woke up" your teeth grit at his lingering digits. "Your dick rubbed against my bare thigh, fucking hard"

Truth is, you're always horny; being married to Pedro Pascal does that to you. But mornings? Waking up to that handsome face and girthy dick? You really be testing yourself sometimes.

"Jesus, mami" he whistles. "So fucking dirty, thinking about me all the interview because my morning wood grazed your skin, you dirty naughty girl"

Pedro finally slides his fingers inside of you, making you squirm under his gaze as your back archs. "So fucking beautiful, can't believe you're all mine" he moans and you squeeze his shoulders, nails digging and bruising his skin under the shirt that sticks to his skin, body heating up like a furnace.

"Please, Pedro" you plead, lip biting your under to supress a whimper. "Please curl your fingers, need to have you- feel you inside. Fuck-"

Your words cut off as he moves his fingers with learned ease, his thumb rubbing your clit as a treat.

"Mmm" you murmur with pleasure, back arched again, your tits too dangerously close to his face. Without much thought, he licks your nipple and then devours the whole breast with his mouth. All while looking at you, this absolute horndog. Your nails dig in deeper as you pronounce his name in a shaky exhale. Wanting more. Begging for more.

"Mmm? That's right" his palm on your waist squeezes lightly, more pressure on his grip. "Can't speak 'cause I'm making you feel so good, huh?"

You don't answer, instead throwing your head back, nails digging deep to the point he winces, making a face by the pain. You mouth an apology, but then he licks your nipple again, and teeth move to your nibble your earlobe―you're not sorry anymore.

"S-stop" you choke out, body shivering.

"What? Can't take what you asked for? No muerdas más de lo que puedes masticar, niña mala. Bad girl" (don't bite off more than you can chew, bad girl)

His lewd words elicit another moan out of you.

"I-I can. In fact, I want- no, need more. I don't want to cum on your fingers" you whisper in his ear, hot breath probably why he shivers. "Pull down your pants, pretty boy, because I want to cum on your dick"

"Fuck, mami. What a dirty mouth" he moans.

Eager hands try to lower his pants as your fiddle with the same feel, the borrowed wardrobe struggling to get off in the current position. His underwear goes next, and you squirm as he aligns his tip with your dripping entrance.

You moan and he grunts, as his dick enters your tight folds, sounds clashing onto each other as so do your bodies, fitting perfectly. His hands travel from your waist to ass, his head against the back of the sofa, your hands that were before on his shoulders now on his chest.

"Such a pretty view you're giving me, wifey" he tries to laugh, but the sound comes out strained along each powerful stride of his cock that buries inside of you, each bouncing harder, his hands pathethically running over your ass, back, hips, and legs, as his eyes devour the way your tits jiggle with each thrust, tongue burning with desire to suck on the skin again. "So beautiful, and all mine. Only mine. Mía"

His words drip with devotion and wordship; all the love in the world. Pedro calls you beautiful, goddess, and a string of spanish words crossed with adoration. Mami. Linda. Princesa. Diosa. Hermosa. It has your orgasm looming over, head spinning and pussy stretched, walls tightening.

"I'm close" you whisper, riding him with soft-paced movements as his turn sloppy.

You see stars, walls almost kicking his dick out as you coat it in your slick, arousal dripping down until it's coated his balls and smeared the white attire. Fuck. Now Pedro's moving his waist, hunting for his own orgasm.

"Me too" he breathes out, "stay with me"

His hands travel sloppily to your waist, lazily holding you still with his calloused digits.

"Quick, baby" you breath out, "I'm sensitive"

"I'm almost there. Just hold on a little longer" then a whine before shakily pleading. "Please, please, just wait for me"

You move your hips slowly, aroused by his needy pleads, robbing a moan out of him. "Cute" you praise, making his cheeks redden with sweat and blush.

He is cute: hair messed up, mouth red and puffy, and brown puppy eyes.

"I love you so much" Pedro let's out, and it sounds like a confession, despite being married for so long.

"I know, baby, I know" you reach for his face, removing some sweat beads from his forehead, and he leans on the touch, closing his eyes as another gutural growl erupts from his chest. "I love you too"

You keep on riding until you feel his dick twitch inside of your walls.

"We need to stop doing this" you pant out.

"Too late for that, bonita. At least no one found out this time" Pedro laughs. "But you like the talk, don't you? Gonna give 'em something to talk about" he pants, "will fill you up so good you won't be able to walk without my seed spilling from you" sweat beads from your face fall onto his. He obscenely licks the salty drops. "Te voy a dar tantos hijos, que no cabrán en la casa. That way they will know you're mine" (will give you so many kids, they won't fit in the house)

You moan loufly, folds now coated on thick ropes of hot cum, as his movements come to a stop, slowing down until all that can be heard is your uneven breaths trying to recover.

And on cue, there's a knock at the door. Shit. You both remain silent, as if it would stop, but the knocking turns persistent.

"Pedro, I know you're in there"

It's Paul freaking Mescal, again. You might just have to invite him next time if he keeps showing up like that.

"Should I go?" Pedro whispers, and you shrug, stating it would be weirder to pretend he wasn't if Paul knew he was. "How do I look?"

You eye him up and down, eye glistening with dissaproval, red cheeks giving away your thoughts as if the furrowed eyebrows and ashamed gaze didn't already.

"We are fucked"

"No" he giggles, "we just fucked"

"That's not funny!" you roll your eyes, playfully smacking his chest. "Please, look into the mirror and try to fix yourself a bit. If not, we're doomed to be remembered as a horny couple. Oh, we were going so well! Fans will make fun of us and the press will call us horndogs" you lament, exaggerating your voice.

"Oh, shush. We wanted to be able to be in public. This is what it feels like"

You blush. "Maybe we can reduce the public aspect a bit..."

Pedro snorts before doing a quick fix to his appearance, walking to the door where Mescal patiently waits behind. Oh, of course; that little fucker. After the TMZ news dropped, he connected the dots and know that whatever happened in that trailer when Pedro told him to fuck off, wasn't holy at all. Now, he's probably laughing or scheming.

"Paul!" Pedro opens the door. "W-what's up?"

The younger man does a quick scan of his friend, barely able to hide a laugh.

"Looking radiant, my friend" he answers with a shit-eating grin. "They need to do some re-shootings. Have you happen to seen y/n? She just keeps dissappearing when you- oh, when you do!" he mocks. "Well, if you ever happen to find y/n, tell her you both need to get a good fix unless y'all want to show up on TMZ again. I'm pretty sure you can find something in this dressing room to cover those marks, yeah?"

He finally breaks down laughing in front of Pedro's shocked face.

"Ah, you guys are the absolute worst" he folds in a fit of laughter, "so fucking horny you end up fucking in bathrooms and dressing rooms!"

Your voice can be heard from inside as you growl, face red with fury and shame:

"Hijo de puta" (son of a bitch!), "don't make me bring Daisy Edgar-Jones into this!"

l-u-n-a-m: they're just milking their relationship atp for promo but i'm not complaining need more pictures of the photoshoot NOW vnightx: istg if they don't stop flirting in front of my single ass face. i need a gun at0michips: have i gone insane or does pedro have love bites ㅤㅤmybritishstyle: MI HIJO DOES NOT HAVE LOVE BITES. HE JUST FELL DOWN THE STAIRS

*i'm never gonna call twitter as X. it's still twitter, and will always be. fuck that ugly bigot filthy billionaire hoe called elon-trump-cocksucker-musk.

#dilfistwrites #gladiator II #gladiator ii #gladiator 2 #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal x you #pedro x reader #pedro pascal fluff #taylor swift #reputation #call it what you want #paul mescal #call it what you want series

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sandsorghum · 2 months ago

Text

IT'S FINALLY HERE

Thrilled to be putting up this behemoth of a fic I've been working on for two entire months at last! as part of @tsukimefuku's Spookinky event. Yes, I'm aware Halloween was also 2 months ago (sorry Fuku, and thanks so much again for helping beta read it!) Anyway, do check out the other works, they're incredible.

+18, DARK CONTENT AHEAD. You've been warned. See end of story for further author's notes.

abstract. It was a fairy tale, wasn’t it? Or a cautionary one, as most of them turned out to be. wc. 9.4k (strap in with a beverage folks)

Jim knew that he was awake and asleep at the same time, dreaming of the war and yet dreamed of by the war…

Your eyelids droop, heavier and heavier with every pass you make at the sentences. You’re fighting against the font even, dripping off the page into the pitch black pit of your mind, those once thick and bold serifs ooze into obfuscation, molten as the afternoon congealing into dusk. Your focus has been wavering for hours in this stifling summer air, the dense miasma of words shimmering into a mirage of meaning.

You sigh, scrubbing a hand over your face as you let Empire of the Sun flop into your lap. You should have known; J.G. Bellard didn’t exactly stake his reputation on breezy prose. You have a suspicion the book’s about a week or two overdue, though Nanami hadn’t said anything. Well, it was his library card getting charged. You hadn’t renewed yours in years.

You rifle through your current slog; 300 pages give or take. Perhaps you should have been less ambitious, started with the short stories. Long ago, you’d read The Garden of Time. You had enjoyed it, you think. Your eyes slip shut, trying to remember how that story ended, but the details are fuzzy.

It was a fairy tale, wasn’t it? Or a cautionary one, as most of them turned out to be.

These days, you were living with your own Count Axel too.

You open your eyes, gaze instinctively flitting towards the clock whirring with its tick-tock mick-mockery, matching the taunting your ears had already gotten accustomed to. The second hand quivers a sliver past the hour, as exacting as an anorexic’s indulgence of a fractional slice of cake; and promising as much sustenance.

Where was Nanami? When would he come back?

Your stomach growls. The shadows have grown, black slats cast by the window grilles lengthening and slithering stark against the bleached gold of the walls. You hate this time of day the most, this inevitable boredom numbing your mind into mulch, too sluggish to tolerate even the most insipid of dating reality show reruns, which was all that was on TV. As for your once carefully curated stash of true crime podcasts, the thought of listening to them now was unbearable.

Something burbles in your belly, a strange gastric shriek acidifying into a yowl. You shut it out, closing your eyes.

Your present circumstances might make for a pretty good biopic, a thriller perhaps. Or a psychodrama. Grim amusement filters through your mind as you imagine actors you’d cast in the lead roles…who was that Danish fellow, who had played a Bond villain? He’d had a similar sort of malevolent charisma as the titular protagonist in that show about eating people…

A little too fixated on trying to recall the actor’s name, you don’t hear the key turn in the first lock. But the second schlick sends a jolt straight to your spine, muscle memory triggering you to leap to your feet. By the time the third and fourth bolts have slotted out of the way, you’ve sprinted to the front step, your exuberant chirrup eclipsing the hinges’ creak.

“Welcome home, Kento!”

He grabs you mid-lunge, as usual, chuckling as you fling your arms around his neck. He’s a little off balance today, with the bags dangling off his thick forearms but they still manage to curl, boa constrictor snug around your waist, the weight of their contents pressing you further against him.

“Hello darling,” he murmurs.

You let him bury his nose against your nape, feeling the burdens of the world slough off him as he inhales your scent, ever familiar, ever constant. Never changing.

Staring past the summit of his shoulders, you see dust motes drifting unencumbered in the scorched-tangerine shaft of the setting sun, the pavement glowing white, the bright brilliance of its incandescence and resistance petering into the imminence of night; all this, a few tantalising inches beyond the door.

You blink, the dark spots perform their pirouette, and the temptation passes. You put on a smile as you feel Nanami’s question rumble low along your throat, peeling you away from his chest as he carefully shuts the door behind him, zipping chains one through four back into place.

“I said, how was your day?”

“Oh, good. Pretty good. You’ll be proud of me.”

“Yes?”

“I got through a whole 4 pages in your absence,” you grin at Nanami, waggling the book at him.

“Am I proving such a distraction?” His tone is bone-dry, but you catch the glimmer in his eye, polished as fragments beneath flesh desiccated by a desert.

“You mean providing?” you hum, smoothing a palm across his pectorals as Nanami shrugs out of his coat.

Nanami tuts, catching your fingers and greeting them with a kiss,“You ought to know by now, your flattery has its consequences.”

“Seems like an acceptable risk.”

Nanami tuts and you feel his lips twitch over your knuckles at the belligerence lilting your tone.

“Well, I’m sorry sweetheart but I was picking up a few extra things for dinner.”

Nanami finally relinquishes your hand to set the bags down on the dining table. You gape as he proceeds to carefully uncover the biggest bundle of blue hydrangeas and pale yellow daffodils you’ve ever laid eyes upon, all exquisitely wrapped with an embroidered silk ribbon. Nanami holds the flowers out to you, savouring your little gasp as the full size of his generosity blossoms into view.

“It was a bit of an impulse buy,” he confesses, to fill your stunned silence.

“You expect me to believe this was a snap decision?”

“Well, no, I was intending to get a bouquet from the start but they’d run out of roses. The florist suggested these instead, plus they seemed particularly fresh.”

“They’re gorgeous, Ken. Thank you, and I think I like their scent much better.” You press your nose to the delicate petals for a moment before you go to fetch a vase, submerging the stems in a few inches of water.

“These make me wish I’d paid more attention to my ikebana classes in elementary school,” you comment, caressing one of the butter bright coronas. “Or maybe I could enrol in one of those community courses now.”

“Leave it to the shops’ experts, they know the optimal aesthetic arrangement.”

“Oh, of course. It’s just, it’d be fun to learn something trivial and new.”

Nanami’s smile at you is soft and relaxed. “I’ll buy you more flowers, you can learn through trial and error, Miss Independent.”

“That seems a little lavish. What if I just consult our neighbours across the road, I’ve seen them growing-“

“You can figure it out on your own I’m sure,” Nanami interjects, patting your cheek and you have to remind yourself not to flinch, letting your face go taut with a perfected smile instead. “Or with a book. It could even be a nice hobby for us both, right?”

“Sure, Kento. Sounds fun.” You sigh, separating out some of the stalks. “So this is why you were delayed by half an hour today?”

“Yes, I’m sorry dear.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

It’s quiet for a few moments as Nanami observes you carefully thumbing through the floral clusters.

“I was...just a little worried. I wish you could tell me in advance. Maybe a text?”

Nanami lifts a brow, barely perceptibly. “And you’d receive it with what phone?”

Swiftly, you recalibrate, your tone shifting into a playful inflection. “Or we can resort to pagers. Like it’s the 1980s.”

It was one of the ironies of this living situation; a tradeoff, Nanami would have termed it. Although you dwelled under the same roof, you communicated less than ever before with him.

Nanami shakes his head ruefully, plaintively remarking, “I didn’t think you missed doomscrolling more than me.”

“Oh, don’t be so melodramatic,” you huff, setting aside the vase to place a peck on Nanami’s nose. Apparently random acts of affection usually worked to disrupt his morose musings.

You start to bustle with the groceries. “Don’t get me wrong, Bruckner’s 7th symphony on vinyl is exquisite,” you continue, “And I’ll be eternally grateful to you for making a cultured woman out of me…”

Nanami practically pouts at your exaggeration, indignation pulling the corners of his mouth down. You give a lopsided smile, pushing your luck.

“But…I’m just a little bit curious about the Top 40 stuff. Like what’s Ed Sheeran been up to?”

“That’s what the radio is for, dear. I’m not depriving you of pop hits.”

No, just music videos. And remixes. Plus you’ll never set foot inside another club or karaoke bar. Or attend a live gig. Hell, you’d pay dearly to hear an off-key sidewalk busker. Even a drunkard caterwauling in a subway.

Sounds from a lifetime ago. Better not to dwell on them.

You pull out carrots, a few stalks of celery, some onions. “You’re right. I doubt Square Roots or whatever mathematical function his latest album is titled after is a seminal turning point in his discography. I’m not missing anything.”

You survey the ingredients, feeling Nanami’s mild concern descend upon you as you ramble through your unexpectedly eloquent tirade.

You glance back up at him. “Anyway, dinner tonight involves a mirepoix?”

Nanami nods. You pass a hand hesitantly over the vegetables.

“It’s a lot of prepwork for a…a weekday, right?”

“It’s a Thursday,” Nanami offers to your unarticulated question. “And trust me, it’s worth it.”

This time the kiss he presses to your temple is a shade too tender.

“You’re always worth it.”

Your eyes flutter shut for a moment, letting Nanami’s words lodge deep between your ribs. Then, you carve a smile against his cheek.

“Who’s the one hoping for consequences now, mister?”

Nanami gives a light squeeze around your hips. “The meal will be ready in about 40 minutes.”

“Can I help?”

Nanami considers you for a moment, looking at your open face.

You skate your thumb across his knuckles, your voice becoming demure, saccharine in its wheedling. “I’ll just wash the vegetables? You’re welcome to do all the dicing and slicing.”

Nanami chuckles and you feel the tension ebb from his hands at your suggestion. He fishes out his phone and taps on Spotify. “What are you in the mood to listen to, darling?”

Walking on a dream How can I explain? Talking to myself Will I see again?

The upbeat 80s inspired synths pulse through the kitchen, a backdrop to Nanami’s knife working its hypnotic rhythm against the chopping board. You run the cucumbers under the tap while he slides the last of the cubed carrots into a bowl alongside the onions and celery, also cut into similar sized pieces.

“What are you thinking for the salad?”

“Yuzu-wafu for the dressing?” Nanami checks his blade, noting its dulled edge.

“Maybe some kind of vinaigrette? Would pair well since this variety is a little more tart.”

Nanami hums thoughtfully, setting down the knife. He strolls over to a drawer where the cleaver, scissors and matches are stored and after making discrete adjustments to its built-in number padlock, retrieves a whetstone.

“Good call, there’s some EVOO we need to finish up-” Nanami turns around and goes rigid, seeing the knife clasped in both your hands, poised just under your chin.

Thought I'd never see The love you found in me Now it's changing all the time Living in a rhythm where the minute's working overtime

You’re swaying back and forth to the melody, a distant look in your eyes.

“Dear?”

His voice is gentle, even gentler than usual. Which is plenty gentle already.

Your gaze slides towards Nanami, how he’s tracking the most minute shifts of the gleaming point hovering inches away from your skin. He’s perfectly still, not a tendon twitching, not a nostril flared; the air doesn’t leave his body, you see how it’s gripped between his lungs, as if the oxygen has become cement pooling in his valves. Nanami locks eyes with you, ochre irises shimmering tourmaline, exuding perfect calm. Waiting on you for his next heartbeat.

We are always running for the thrill of it, thrill of it Always pushing up the hill, searching for the thrill of it On and on and on we are calling out, out again Never looking down, I'm just in awe of what's in front of me

You grin at Nanami on the other side of the kitchen island, your captive audience as you belt out the chorus.

Is it real now? Two people become one I can feel it Two people become one

Nanami purses his lips, taking a step towards you. “Dear…why don’t you get the olive oil?”

Your grip tightens on the knife’s handle. You shut your eyes.

Is it real now? Two people become one I can feel it Two people become-

You don’t immediately feel his iron grip manacled around your pulse; instead what first alerts you to his presence back by your side are his lips brushing against your temple. And that’s worse somehow, than his touch molding over your whitened knuckles, and the sinews of your wrist gilded with their jagged deltas of silver.

“I love you,” Nanami states, one hand heavily dwarfing your fists. You release the knife into his grip without another word. He swipes a brisk kiss across your jugular and you feel the maniacal desperation bleed from you, receding into the whirlpool of your subconscious. What had come over you?

“You’re kinda pitchy, but I love you anyway.”

With that cavalier comment, Nanami starts on the cucumbers.

A joke. He's making a joke. Had he seen right through you?

Hasn’t he always? Another voice, almost perfectly resembling your own, whispers within your mind. And he always will. You’re a glass wall to him, utterly transparent, easily shattered.

And Nanami’s the only one who’s been patient enough to put you back together, the only one who can make you whole.

He knows all your fractures, enough to refract and reframe the truth. This was your choice to live as a one-way mirror, to reflect his desires; to orient to the prism without realising it was a prison.

You watch Nanami quickly and quietly julienne the verdant oblongs, the knife’s swift staccato the only sound for a while. You pinch a slender, perfect matchstick from the mound of green, holding it between your fingers.

“Is there a point to such precision?”

“It’s so everything cooks evenly. It’s the standard for mise en place cooking.”

“Miso what?”

“It’s another French technique.” Nanami puts down the knife on the far side of the chopping board before plucking the sliver of cucumber from you and returning it to the pile.

“Literally translated, it means ‘putting in place’.”

“I see, I didn’t know that before.”

You fold your empty palms in your lap, eyes downcast.

One hand still on the blade, Nanami settles the other over your fingers, his heated grip squeezing just tightly enough for you to feel your metacarpals briefly grate against each other.

“Now you do.”

As Nanami turns back to prepping the ingredients, he tells you, “Go set the table, dear. And open up the bottle, so the wine breathes.” At least one thing in this house can, you think, walking away from him.

“Taste familiar?”

The burgundy swirls in your glass, glinting like fluid rubies as you dip your nose over the rim.

“You know I don't have your refined palette, Ken. Just tell me already.”

Nanami shakes his head, nudging the ceramic dish towards you.

“Pair it with the cassoulet, then try again.”

You follow your spoonful of the hearty stew with a sip of the red, and this time notes of Pinot noir and brambleberries are more pronounced, as the tannins press their lingering tingle on your tongue, coaxing forth a vaguely familiar association from the recesses of your mind.

“I’ve had this before?”

“It was a fusion restaurant, Japanese-French. We had our first date there,” Nanami prompts.

“Oh! Jonquilla’s?”

Nanami smiles as his clues finally click together for you.

“I visited them before their evening service started, on one of my days off. Had a chat with their chef to recreate the recipe for the cassoulet, though I don’t know if the proportion of spice blends is identical-“

“Never mind accuracy, it was absolutely delicious, Ken. You’ve really outdone yourself.” You hum in satisfaction and satiation around the last mouthful of his culinary achievement.

“But what’s the occasion?”

Nanami’s brow arches, almost imperceptibly. “Today’s March 7th.”

You blink owlishly at him for an extended second, then abruptly recoil, stiffening with your realisation.

“Oh crap- I mean, sorry! I-I didn’t know.”

Nanami gestures placatingly, sliding his hand over yours. You stare sheepishly as he laces his fingers through yours. “It’s all right, love. I should have left a note in the morning.”

Timidly, you glance up at him. The mortification only churns with more turbulence seeing Nanami’s gaze brimming with affection and mild amusement.

“Umm...well, happy fourth anniversary Kento.”

For the first time this evening his smile falters.

“Fifth,” he corrects you, with the slightest suggestion of a sigh ghosting over the single syllable.

Your gaze plummets back to your hand underneath his. “Right, fifth. Five years.”

Five entire years...everything had changed; now none of your days did. All of them spent waiting, then waiting for him. The past three years had been an eternity, dwelling with a man you’d once been keen to spend forever with. The prospect had been a privilege, a certainty back then. When you’d been free to choose it.

Now, like death, it was nothing more than an inevitability.

The redundancy of your statement lurches heavily into the air; you and Nanami sit in silence for several epochs, its weight creeping into the room like a mastodon carcass emerging from permafrost. He splinters it first.

“You didn’t check the calendar?”

What would have been the point, etching out eternity by the day as if that would stall the lobotomy of this monotony? Every flick of a page would have been another papercut embedded in your epidermis, your spine chipped away ever quicker, just one more reminder of your sinews and synapses and wits atrophying, triggering an avalanche of spiraling, depressive thoughts and an even swifter, simultaneous erosion of your sense of self, your will to survive.

You can no more resist the scalpel than the cudgel, it’s an insidious chiselling of your core, to be remade in someone else’s image. Beatific as Helen of Troy, argumentative as an effigy.

“I forgot today and well, you know the saying, time flies.”

You pull your hand away from Nanami’s to examine the wine bottle, brushing a thumb over the label.

“It really is the exact same isn’t it?” you murmur, looking up at him with a wider smile. The Ice Age passes, and both Nanami’s tone and gaze thaws.

“I figured I’d speak to their sommelier at the same time, since I was there. Not many places import this so it took some convincing for them to part with one from their cellar.”

You raise a brow. “Please don’t tell me you spent more than-“

“It was complimentary in fact. Turns out the sommelier was a rather romantic fellow.”

“Sounds like he was giving someone a run for their money.” You lean forward, topping off Nanami’s glass.

With an appreciative chuckle, he responds, “He said it was the least he could do, bringing Provence to you if you couldn’t go.”

Provence, hah. If he only knew, the furthest place you’d been dreaming of was the konbini that had been a five minutes stroll from your old apartment. It was cramped, and the rent had been exorbitant despite being in a dodgy part of town - sort of a shithole if you were honest, but it’d been your shithole.

What colour had you painted the walls? Turquoise? Cerulean? No, aquamarine maybe,to match the canal you could just about glimpse from your balcony in summer-

“They really do a good job, highlighting the seasonal and regional specialties.”

You snap your attention back to the conversation, before the man opposite you can notice anything amiss. Perfunctory participation and trite observations were necessary to shield your most private thoughts from Nanami.

“Yeah, incredible menu. I loved the ambience of the place too.”

“The ambience?”

“Well, everything. The art, the lighting, that live violinist. It all adds to the dining experience, you know.” You let your gaze drift into the scarlet liquid swishing around in your glass, the garnet sparkles enticing in their reminiscence of sweeter, simpler times, when you and Nanami were just getting to know each other.

“Perhaps. I’ve never really noticed those things. That’s just decor.”

Now of course you know him all too well.

“Oh obviously the food should be the focus. And it definitely stood out. Your tarte tatin really took me back there.”

“Hmm, you know I suspect they used caster not muscovado after all,” Nanami remarks, scrutinizing the remnant fleck of pastry balanced delicately on a single tine.

“Sweetheart, tonight was a success,” you coo, patting his hand. “Trust me.”

Nanami relents, putting the fork down. “Even in the absence of a live violinist?”

You roll your eyes. “Yes, even without that.”

Nanami raises the stem of his glass, trying to hide how pleased he is. You copy him, gaze catching his as the both of you drain your drinking vessels. It is good wine, after all.

You hum, idly letting your fingers skate up Nanami’s forearms.

“Still, there’s lots of French fusion places around Tokyo. Why’d you pick that particular one?”

Nanami shrugs. “I went there with a client once, back when I was a salary man, so I knew it was good. I’d checked the more recent reviews too. Based off those I was convinced the 4.8 average rating it retained was warranted.”

You incline your head to the side, expectant. There were sure to be other factors, with this pinnacle of logic. Nanami pushes his spectacles up the strong bridge of his nose and sighs.

“And it was, well...equidistant from both our houses.”

You let out a mock gasp, voice fruity with an affectation of being scandalised. “Mr Nanami, I did not take you for such a schemer.”

Perhaps it’s the burgundy, but you can’t help but think the pink tinting Nanami’s cheeks is rather endearing.

He clears his throat, sitting up straight. “That’s not what I meant. Quite the opposite in fact. We both had assignments early the next day. I wasn’t...making any assumptions.”

You purse your lips together, withholding a smirk as Nanami stumbles through more of his rationalisations.

“I mean, it could have gone poorly too, you could have wanted to cut the date short. So I considered your cab fare wouldn’t amount to more than-“

“Well, our first date didn’t end early, did it, Kento?” you interject. You don’t know why, but it delights you to see a rush of poppies blossom downwards, beneath his collar.

“I suppose not.”

You relax back into your chair with a chuckle, feeling Nanami’s significantly warmer gaze on you.

“Actually, I do have a gift for you.”

Nanami reaches into his satchel and for a moment you’re worried a velvet box will materialise from it. To your relief, he instead withdraws a simple paper envelope, too slim and understated for any expensive jewellery.

“Here you go,” he says, sliding the envelope over to you.

“Takashimaya vouchers? Oh Kento, how romantic-“ You stop short of delivering the jibe when you see what his gift actually is - a library card.

Your library card, to be exact.

It’s your turn to be baffled now.

“You were racking up too many fines on mine,” Nanami’s expression is strait-laced, but his gaze is affectionate .“So I renewed yours.”

“Is there, um, some kind of new demerit system?”

“No, the length of the penalty period is the same as the overdue one. Basically I was barred from loaning out more books till you were done, Miss four pages per day.”

“It’s not my fault if the plot drags on,” you protest.

“Pick a more compelling read then,” Nanami smirks, “Or know when to give up.”

You examine the laminated rectangle, and the photo of yourself from five years ago stares back at you, her expression bright and clear-eyed, the set of her jaw resolute. Virtually unrecognisable.

“I can...pick up my own books?” you mumble, eyes still locked on your picture.

Nanami’s sigh is heavy and you hear him remove his lenses, setting them down on the table. You look up when he addresses you, and his gaze is tinged with the same slight weariness wrung from your name.

“Your residence needed to be updated, that’s all.” Nanami speaks patiently - no, patronisingly. “You can continue to give me the list of titles you want to check out.”

So, you wouldn’t be able to borrow the books in person, let alone browse the shelves in a public space, without him.

“I should...probably pay my late fees myself though, right?”

Nanami shrugs, “They don’t add up to that much. I usually take care of it with the petty cash.”

Money he wouldn’t miss. Transactions without a bank statement. Untraceable.

You’d never have to pay for anything ever again. And it had only cost you your freedom.

You slip the card carefully back into the envelope, face down.

Some unthinking machine would scan its barcode, would log your details, your preferences in novels and fiction, the imaginations you escaped into. On some arbitrary database, you’d exist.

Somewhere outside these four walls, you’d live.

“Thank you, Ken. It’s a lovely...gesture.”

You don’t think Nanami registers the pause, neutrally watching you empty the wine bottle equally into his glass and yours.

“Shame that’s the last of it,” you sigh, setting the bottle down. Nanami hums contemplatively as you drink up.

“It was... a nice restaurant. Would you want to visit it again?”

You stare at Nanami, not quite believing your ears at the sentimentality that has seeped into his tone, let alone his offer.

“Visit it?”

That would involve going back into the world. Strangers would see you. Might even interact with you. That would be too much, surely?

Nanami takes a long sip of wine before continuing.

“I could get candles and cushions and white linen tablecloths, or put a Poulenc record on...but I know it’s not the same.The environment does make a difference.”

You nod slowly, twisting the stem of your glass between your fingers. He reaches for your hand and you let him hold it.

“You could do your hair, nails, get dolled up and all, just like old times. There’s this dress in a corner boutique I go past every day, that I think you’ll like-“

“That I’ll like or you’ll like?”

He chuckles, “My dear, if you want to wear a burlap sack there you’re welcome to. I’ll insist to the maître d’ I have the most beautiful woman in the world on my arm, regardless.”

A blush unfurls across your face, looking into Nanami’s eyes and seeing the absolute sincerity and conviction there.

“I just want you to feel as special as you are to me, when we go.”

Nanami brings your hand to his mouth, eyes closed, taking his time to plant a kiss on each of your knuckles. Something constricts in your chest, watching the reverence and regret of his lips each time they have to lift a tiny fraction away from your rapidly warming skin.

“It’s where we started to make so many memories.” Nanami says softly, opening his eyes to stare deeply into yours. You sink into the rich russet warmth of those irises, mesmerised by the familiar tawny flecks shining bronze with pure adoration for you.

“If we were going to celebrate, it would be worth commemorating it there, yes?”

He almost whispers the question, with both his hands now clasping yours. Nanami brushes a thumb across your hand and you barely notice how it strokes slow, tender circles on your fourth finger.

Barely.

You know what he is truly asking. What he’s really after.

Would it be a celebration or a sentencing?

Even after all this time, it isn’t clear if there’s just the one answer.

You shut your eyes, taking a breath. You lean forward in the darkness, finding and anchoring your lips to Nanami’s, parting them to reel his soft exhalation into your mouth, feeling the tidal surge of his ache in his tongue tracing the very edges of your mouth, desperation lapping at your own control.

You haven’t permitted him this little in so long. You haven’t permitted yourself this much for even longer.

You break away just as his canines start to graze your trembling lower lip, whispering the truth through your teeth. “I’ve been utterly smitten by you, Nanami Kento. Too often, you know me better than I do myself. But I know you too.”

“And?”

You let the panted word hang in the air, savouring the way his anticipation swells through his button-up shirt, his chest rising and falling with each second that passes, that you hold out on.

You imbibe a heavy gulp of composure, some of the burgundy spilling past your lips.

Your glass chimes against the table with a definitive clink as you reply, “And I know how much of a hassle you find washing cast iron skillets to be. Restaurants would take care of that, right?”

Nanami’s face crumples into confusion, his consternation finding physical manifestations in the crease of his brows and down turned lips.

Maybe you’d gone too far, even if it wasn’t an outright rejection. He might interpret it as a stalling tactic.

“That was a joke, Kento. Of course I’d love to revisit Jonquilla’s with you. Or even a Mcdonalds drive-thru.”

“My dear, you deserve so much better than that sodium saturated crap.”

Your laugh quivers, rippling with the pronounced vehemence with which Nanami had spat the expletive. He pins you with a stern glare, but you will mischief to glaze over your face, like a visor.

“Y’know, I’ve kinda been craving their fries.”

Nanami wrinkles his nose, and you breathe a little easier. “How your standards haven’t improved, after years of living together with home cooked meals, is beyond me.”

“You’re such a snob sometimes,” you dismiss his disdain with a giggle, “You gotta realise there are just some things you can’t exert influence over.”

Nanami’s eyes narrow. “I’m not going to give up.”

“Suit yourself,” you lick the last traces of a sauce off the back of a spoon with deliberation, feeling his gaze track your movements. “I see no downsides for me, if that means more yummy replications.”

Nanami’s exhale through his nose is short and sharp; what passes for a laugh these days. He regards you silently for a minute, exasperation mingling and melting into fondness, ever so gradually.

It seems you’re out of the woods. Still, it doesn't hurt to keep him in a good mood.

You reach out to caress Nanami’s cheek lightly, and his eyes drift close against your touch. “You can take me anywhere you want.”

Everywhere and nowhere.

“How about we start with the shower?”

Nanami stands a few feet away from you as vines of steam coil around his granite cheekbones, wilting his collar, leaching translucence into the whites of his Oxford top. You see the fibres strain with every rise and fall of his chest, the vapours of his mouth melding with the swelling humidity of the bath, amidst fluctuations of hunger and hesitation.

“Are you sure about this?” Nanami murmurs, he braces his arms behind him, pressing his back against the tiles, breath expanding underneath his shirt. You gaze upon Nanami, a centurion sculpted by Rodin, a cornered animal.

You take a step towards him, feeling his heart hammer as you enclose your palm over it.

“It’s nothing we haven’t done before,” you whisper, reaching for his first button.

It wasn’t quite the same of course, as on the other nights. Usually your positions were reversed; Nanami, fully clothed, would strip you and usher you into the shower, only a sponge between you and him as he cleansed every inch of your skin. His own bath would be brisk, but he’d thank you for your patience every evening as you shuddered in the corner, eyes tightly shut. He didn’t seem to care if you stared at him with revulsion or resignation, the way a leopard would disregard a sparrow.

That was all your bodies had been to each other for the longest time, mere objects co-existing in space, empty vessels requiring maintenance.

It’s hard to remember that now, as a more carnal need pumps through your veins, as the fabric peels away from his skin, sleeves rippling slow in their remorse of being parted from his swollen biceps. You replace them with your palms, gliding over arms corded with sinews like steel cables. All this strength he’s never used on you, keeping you in his grasp by some other power.

No, it was exactly this restraint that restrained you; shackled to the myth that it couldn’t get worse, torture earning your tolerance, tolerance reaping your torture.

You thread your fingers through Nanami’s locks, barley sheaves darkening into rye beneath the spray and the circular motion of your hands, massaging shampoo into his silken roots. The cascade of water catches his lashes just right, fronds fluttering like the gold-gilded ruffled edges of ginkgo leaves at the terminus of autumn; yet, as you sink your fingers into the joints where Nanami’s nape connects to the base of his cranium, you doubt it’s the scattered droplets which are responsible for his eyes closing, or the guttural groan dragged from his throat, the octaves dripping much lower than you’ve heard in months, sending simultaneous sensations of heat dribbling down your spine and a lush insistence of warmth tugging through your gut.

Suds slip their foamy trail over the corded tendons in his neck, iridescence slathering over his chest and arms. Your fingers follow them, naturally. Nanami holds himself very still as you scratch your nails lightly over his pectorals and abdominals, tracing a path of your own design and desires, forgotten yet familiar. The terrain prickles beneath your wandering palms, goosebumps sprouting at your touch. But then, you reach a swathe of blue mottling into violet, and your hand hovers over it, a sickle sized smudge wrapped around his upper ribs. You can’t control the flood that suddenly surges to your waterline, blurring your vision.

All the violence, and all the silence. The endless chaos. This was the truth out there, and here was the evidence he kept from you.

The bruise spreads beneath your fingers, wider than your hand.

And what was the truth in here? Where was the danger? Long ago you’d confronted that same savagery, the senseless cruelty, those injustices he used to justify keeping you safe now.

You sink your thumb against the wound, dragging your anguish through it. You feel the breath juddering through Nanami, as he winces. But he doesn’t stop you.

You can hurt him too.

“It’s all right,” he whispers, leaning into your touch.

Monsters creating monsters, curses birthing more curses. Perhaps misery didn’t love company, as much as it feared and loathed enduring its own misanthropy alone.

There were worse things to lose than freedom.

You lift your hand away, to cup Nanami’s face instead.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, pressing the apology over his closed eyes. You feel them flickering beneath your lips.

“I’m sorry for all of this.” His gaze, when it returns to you, wavers wearily between guilt and grief. It’s dimmed and misty, there are no calculations, no charting these choppy waters; he sways towards you, a man (as before, as ever) seeking safe harbour, adrift in your arms.

You coax his calloused hands around your hips, and you’re uncertain for a few moments if the trembling from his fingertips has summoned the same across your skin, or if it’s your own nerves rippling outwards to his touch, all too tentative.

“Do you…not want to-”

You feel the answer in his immediate indentations upon your waist, squeezing your doubts into silence. But his gaze remains obscured behind his fringe, plastered to his forehead. You brace against the silence by sliding your arms over his, thumb circling the taut knot at the crease of his elbow. Gently you lay your cheek against his chest, savouring the solidness that has been so absent, and its underlying thump-thump-thump, far less steady.

You feel the breath rising through his lungs as he tilts your chin up towards him, voice rasping with frayed restraint.

“I want to. Of course I want you.”

Nanami drags his thumb from the corner of your lips to its plush centre, feeling it furl and yield without very much pressure.

“What if I want too much?”

For him to ask this now is a kindness you can’t afford. You don’t owe him this, he has reassured you of that much, tonight and many other nights. Perhaps it’s time that has taken its toll instead, so that with your last shred of autonomy, you choose to give, or at least give in.

“Just let me be selfish, this once.”

You angle your face towards him, lips parted and watch the light in his eyes shrink to pinpricks; firelight flickering out as bipedal silhouettes slink and morph back into the shadows of beasts -

coherence, logic, caution all consumed by more primal instincts.

And so, you anticipate his devouring, his half-snarl, his clash of teeth when he claims your mouth again for the first time in ages but it’s worse, so much worse. And divine.

His kiss is slow but no less forceful, the pressure gradually mounting, lapping at your lips then teasingly receding so you have to push up into him, deepening the kiss so quickly without you realising, only vaguely aware of your shortness of breath, of the most mild discomfort; the same dissonance of someone witnessing a revealed shore and wading further and further onto it, clueless that the waves are pulling back because of the tsunami surging towards them.

It’s too late by then, caught in Nanami’s undertow when your head rolls to the side, hardly far enough before it’s cradled by one of his large hands. The warmth from his palms pools across your nape, dripping down down down your spinal column, an erosion of stalactites as your weight melts against Nanami when he pulls your waist flush to his. He drinks in your whimpered surprise as you feel a smear, thick and wet, between your legs and prodding at your gusset.

Nanami finally lets you part for air but you cling to him, limpet-limbed. Your gaze and hand drifts down to where he’s stiff, scarlet and sobbing from his slit, globs of fat white pearls that remind you of the dryness in your mouth.

“So much…you’ve been holding back this much?”

Nanami had never responded this way when conducting your evening rituals of hygiene, had swept his eyes over your breasts and buttocks as efficiently as he’d inspected your scalp, elbows, knees. His touch had been mechanical, clinical to the point of brusque. You came to the conclusion then, over the years, that he was inoculated against arousal, that the sight of your bare flesh no longer titillated him, that on some level even, he was completely apathetic to your nudity. It’s impossible to argue such a stance now with the copious amount of evidence painting your thighs, the head bobbing heavily as it brushes against your skin.

“Sometimes at work…” Nanami croaks and you finally tear your stare away from his glistening length, to be sucked into the brine-dark whirlpools of lust churning in his eyes. “I’d…I’d take the edge off.”

“How?” you whisper. The crimson rush crests high on his cheeks and you reach out to caress his face, residual heat sweeping from your fingers down your wrist.

“J-just in a cubicle,” he confesses, averting his eyes. “Not often.”

During lunch breaks. In between meetings. Just before commuting. You hadn’t been able to keep your hands off each other, in those early days. So many late nights, and later mornings. Beds were irrelevant. Desks, couches, corridors, stairwells - the two of you didn’t need much to improvise intimacy, the sparse surroundings testimony to the inspiration you found endlessly in each other.

It must have been difficult, to forget and forego all that. It was, for you.

“Made it worse…I tried to stop.”

Nanami Kento, with his crisp collars, perfectly ironed jackets, shiny brogues - in a sterile bathroom hunched over fisting his cock with frantic, feverish tugs, struggling to sputter to a paltry climax, the spit in his palms a poor substitute for what he refused himself every evening,

so close, so easily within reach that he couldn’t take it.

Temporarily vanquishing his visceral ache for you, while heightening his hankering, compounding his cravings, haunted by his half-measures for months and months.

Diminishing returns, returning with a vengeance.

“Why not here, at home?”

You see the anguish flash across his face, feel the tremor in his hands as he clutches at your waist.

“I…didn’t want you to ever - ever - remotely consider that risk, with m-”

You crush your mouth to Nanami’s, pillow-soft lips pummeling his doubts into nothing more than the air that escapes with his choked grunt of surprise, tongue spearing deep past his lips to wrestle with his, an excavation of the remnants of his uncertainty.

“Kento…” And he hears his name panted, twisted through with such longing he has no choice but to look at you.

“You don’t have to stop yourself anymore.”

Coals glow in Nanami’s irises, you witness in an instant the incineration of his final vestiges of control. But even if you hadn’t caught the change, you feel it as your body is engulfed in flames for the remainder of the night.

Nanami grabs you, pins you to the wall as he nips kisses all across your nape, sucks bruises down the column of your throat, carnality swelling carnelian across your clavicle, as you claw ruby rivulets down his spine. He buries his pleasured growls between your breasts, stuffing his mouth with your mounds and moans and the stiffened peaks of your nubs, while his hands waste no time, grasping at every inch of you, your curves, the plush of your thighs, the fat of your bum, years of denial striking the flint of desperation, skin singeing against each other, ragged sighs breathing life into him, coaxing the inferno higher and higher.

And then his knuckles graze the lake of slick between your legs and when did he get on his knees and Nanami hisses your name, whiskey-smoked gaze drilling into yours, demanding not your permission, but your focus when he finally sinks his tongue into you, and the sob rips from your throat at his impatience, his insistence, lapping ravenously at your folds, retracing every crease and crevasse of you, tip curving into spots you forgot you had to chase and catch every drop drooling from your niche, greed driving him deeper to get closer to the mouth of the river, your lust already streaming down his face. He grinds your weight further on his face, disregarding your garbled protests, you cry out as the high bridge of his nose brushes your clit and almost immediately you regret it as he switches his attentions and abuse there, to that tiny bundle of nerves, tongue now stroking ruthlessly fast, alternating between flicking and wrapping tight circles around it.

A particularly vicious suck has your climax shattering over you, your wails of his name bouncing off the tiles and to your fascinated horror, falling on deaf ears. It takes you a few moments, with every synapse scorched beyond function, to realise that your jerking and spasms aren’t from your first orgasm, but an impending second. Because Nanami hasn’t slowed down for a fraction of a moment, your cunt still sealed around the cavern of his mouth, the beast within writhing its way back into its reclaimed burrow; you squeal and whine and squirm, but it’s no use, Nanami slaps a hand against your thigh, angling it to hook high over his broad shoulders to keep you splayed, the iridescence you’re spraying across his cheeks no match for the gleam in his eyes as he feasts and slurps and sucks.

His moans reverberating through your pussy seem to crawl their way up through your own throat, writhing into your garbled pleas for amnesty, for release. You’re convinced your pleasure is mere collateral, not the priority, to Nanami now, that he’s punishing you in some sadistic, delightful way - until you feel the swipes of his tongue soften and his smirk stretching you, in time with the tips of his fingers spreading across your swollen lips.

“One more darling,” he promises, pressing a tender kiss to your inner thigh. You brace against the wall, whimpers tapering into relieved little mewls of his name as Nanami’s index glides inside you, pussy readily receiving every ridge and joint, liquid-smooth, as your resistance dribbles down his wrist.

“Gotta prep you, it’s been a while mmh?” he mumbles against your sodden core, starting to pump his digits in and out of you steadily, before he latches back onto your clit like an addict, picking up his pace and pressing into the soft spongy spots that have you erupting into your next climax.

But Nanami’s far from finished.

He withdraws his fingers, luminescent with your essence and sucks them…clean hardly seemed an appropriate word, but it had to suffice in your severely diminished mental state, as the aftershocks scoured every nerve ending south of your tummy, satiation severing any attempt by your neurons to connect.

Brain mushy and muscles gelatinous, you slump forward into Nanami’s solid embrace, his baritone rumbling sweet nothings to reinforce the trembling in your knees. In a single fluid motion, he sweeps you into his arms, bundling you up bridal style out of the bathroom, not bothering with a towel.

“Ken! I’ll get the bed soaked,” you complain, clutching at his biceps.

“That’s the plan, dearest,” he rasps, the menace in his voice somehow simultaneously melodious. Nanami tosses you down on the mattress, lips chasing the blush rushing down your bosom, mouth puckering around the pertness of your buds, alternating between his tongue’s gentle flicks and how he rolls them roughly between his fingers.

But Nanami’s only got one hand occupied by your tits. With the other you distantly hear him rummaging through the nightstand, sounding increasingly agitated. He cusses against your cleavage, and you hear a hollow cardboard box clatter off in the corner as he hurls it across the room.

Of course, neither of you had considered replenishing contraceptives in a long time.

Nanami sits back on his haunches, hands clenched on his knees. His erection juts tantalisingly between them, in a proud upwards sweep of roseate to vermillion, milky droplets already beading again from the heavy head.

Later, you’ll blame the flowers, the wine. Even that damned library card, for the next words that spill from your mouth.

But something possesses you, and you whisper in a voice you barely recognise as your own, “I don’t care, Nanami.” You feel his gaze snap from the offending emptiness of the bedside drawer to your hooded eyes, which are decidedly not directed at his face.

Your statement sinks into the silence taut between your bodies, and you feel the bed dip, as Nanami cautiously (but eagerly) shuffles forward on one knee, the hard silhouette of his length brushing against his belly. Errant pearls drip wastefully into the sheets, and you have to hold back a sob.

“Repeat it.”

“I…I don’t care, I j-just want…” your voice falters as Nanami looms over you, caging you in beneath his arms. His broad mushroom head glides along your slit, rivulets of your slick running from his tip down the rest of his cock. In all your years together, you’ve never felt him this way, with such intimacy, such bristling urgency.

“What do you want, love?”

“You, all of you.” The conviction crackles from your lungs at last and something snaps when Nanami suddenly sinks partially inside you, hips stuttering at your confession, gasps eclipsing each other’s at the sudden surge and squelch of wet and heat and clinging.

It’s too much and not enough all at once and it has your hips jerking up involuntarily, your body remembering there was more, that it was made for much more - but Nanami clamps down on them, shushing your indignant whines even as you try to draw more of him in.

“There’ll be time for you to regret your greed later, my girl,” Nanami chuckles his hoarse assurance, and there’s something about the specific blend of his tone; the sardonicism, the delirium, the absolute warmth under it all that is completely familiar to you. You slip into surrender, relaxing entirely into the kiss you drag him down for.

Nanami is slow to sleeve himself fully within you, savouring how your expressions flicker between frustration and pleasure, a reticence resonant with the way your pussy flutters around his girth, beguiling in its struggle as Nanami feeds you his meat, inch by throbbing inch. You feel him wrestle with the dilemma too in the aberrant twitches of his cockhead, leaking pre-cum, as if your passage weren’t satin-slick enough already and arduous with your ardour.

It’s a surreptitious, viscous cycle; you get more sodden and sensitive with every incremental shimmy Nanami presses into you, the teasingly measured secretion of his slimy trail inside you mingles with your own wet wantonness, the excesses of this elixir dribbling down the remainder of his length and coating your already considerably saturated walls, making it harder and harder for him to resist slamming the rest of his way inside you.

He knows you could take it, that you crave such treatment even, but he wants even more to commit this eternity to memory, not simply the glorious, torturous novel sensation of fucking you raw but the way your face shifts from arousal to adoration, back and forth, again and again, as he seeds a new addiction inside you, gradually stretching you past your former limits; physical, emotional, moral.

Nanami presses a stilted groan into your nape when he bottoms out inside you at last, laving his tongue over the film of perspiration clinging to your collarbones, as if there were some secret adhesive he could absorb to keep himself together, to prevent himself from falling apart with every rippling contraction of your cunt, as your being is molded once more around his pulsing length.

“Ke~nnnhg…” you moan, and he twitches hard inside your gluey, velvet-vice to hear his name so stretched out, like gum, like rubber, like the dearth thereof, of any barrier between your bodies when you squeeze around him, deliberately this time. There’s an abundance of obviousness that it’s your action, not a reaction, by how your voice tremors with the effort.

“Already told ya,” you huff, “You don’t have to stop yourself anymore.”

And perhaps it’s your petulance, how you’re pouting this reminder of your mutual needs to be devastated, that sets Nanami off, that has his hips snapping forward, callous and careless at last, his thrusts initially sharp and shallow building quickly into an erratic rhythm that you can barely keep up with, letting yourself be jostled and pounded and shaken like a ragdoll, like Nanami’s exclusive fucktoy for him to drain his desires into.

“Fuck, angel, so fucking perfect. Gonna fill you up, make you so swollen with me, mmh?”

Your keen peels from your ribs, pitching high into the air, as Nanami continues to whisper filth and praise and promises you can’t quite comprehend, the only sounds, barely intelligible, is his slurring of your name, the syllables stringing stickily together like the messy ropes of cum swaying with every plunge of his cock back into your cunt, relentlessly bruising those spots that make meteors flash across your screwed shut eyes.

“Ken, K-Kento! Ah, ah- missed this so much, m-missed you!”

It’s your last attempt at coherence before your climax crashes over you and you clench around Nanami’s spurting cock, his broken bellows echoing through your bones and veins as he cums shortly after, flooding you, tethering you. You arch into him, receiving each pump, pulses blending with tongues tangling, till there is no distinction between tributaries and alluvium, between river and ravine, only the abundance of silt from his slit, nestled snugly against your cervix.

Nanami shifts to settle you in his arms, some of his spend seeping from the apex of your thighs.Will there be a price to pay? The potential of a gynecologist’s scrutiny, doula appointments, consultations and consolations, complications and consequences, another presence at last in this house…you push these questions far from your mind.

Because the night doesn’t end there of course, you don’t recall if it ends at all. It’s a haze of hormonal hedonism, hours lost in the fog of damp breaths and senses swamped by desire. It is as if you dreamed it all, drifting off with Nanami inside you, waking to find his hunger unabated. Any concerns the morning might bring are cloudy, what is crystalline instead - what you choose to curate - are the sparse intermissions of his syrupy kisses over the words you exchange, that he demands to hear with your will languishing, effervescent as the vow he pulls from you, but will hold you to, lingering in the long shadows of your subconscious: I’m yours and you are mine, I need nothing else.

Seraphim, succubus, sorceress...all these accusations and adorations Kento lays at your feet, worshipping at the altar of your thighs, whether you were astride or under him. Calling you his cornerstone, a becoming like cinder blocks around your ankles.

Drunk off of him, kisses spilling kerosene and casks of Amontillado, your kindness your kindling, immolated by indulgence. You’d yearned for this too, his hunger feeding yours, an Ouroborous of obsession wrapping around your arms, chest, eyes so you couldn’t see how symbiosis ceded to the parasitic, the pleasure paralytic, ambrosia abused into anaesthetic until it cemented your ruin. Your comfort and his catharsis was a drug, yet you do not stop to wonder if this love had never been medicinal, if it had been narcotics lavished against necrosis.

It was too late for either of you to realise he’d never healed, amidst the eternity of nights spent with your lips sealed to Nanami’s like an oath. He never cared or dared to question destiny, yet never been so sure he’s meant to share his with anyone except you. But Fate has always been cruel to the best people he’s known and known too late just how much he needed in his life.

And he couldn’t possibly be crueler than Fate, could he, if it meant protecting you?

Sworn and bound to this, but it unleashed an ancient anguish that had festered for far too long in his heart, aches that should have stayed buried, instincts that should have gone extinct; His salvation now only in the mutation of satiation into starvation. Every love bite and bruise stacking upon each other’s skin like bricks in a citadel for two. You were his fortress, his hearth.

You didn’t know he was building you a pedestal, a pyre, a pyramid.

All to serve a goddess in name, in invention not intervention. Does it matter? Nanami strips you of your mortality, your humanity. You are a being of infinite benevolence and eternal beauty, a deity who deigned to age alongside him. He would grow old with you. Even if it meant dooming you to dwell within a sarcophagus.

Nanami looks upon you, you are enshrined, entombed. He engulfs you in amber; Your life preserved, your love petrified.

thanks for reading!

a/n:also wanted to say I owe a debt of inspiration to @saintshigaraki's fic which has one of the most realistic, seductive portrayals of a Yandere Nanami I've read. Mise En Place would not exist without it.

@houseofsolisoccasum

#nanami kento #nanami x reader #nanami x you #nanami kento x y/n #nanami kento x you #nanami kento x reader #kento x reader #nanami kento smut #spookinky2024 #sandsorghum

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