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dilf-docs · 5 months ago

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Call It What You Want

husband!pedro pascal x younger!reader

summary: you and pedro are married, but you've kept it a secret up to the point you sometimes forget there's supposed to be a golden band on your finger. but then you both get cast in your first movie together. the chemistry is off the charts, and it starts to catch upon you: will the lines between shipping and reality finally blur?

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap (ñom), smut, dry humping, oral (m. receiving) while pedro wears the skirt™️ (welcome to another episode of the writer's barely disguised fetish), p. in v., teeny bit of angst because i malfunction if i don't bring sad vibes to the function, the worst ever attempt of comedy witnessed by human kind, they're so down bad it hurts, jealous!reader, possesive!pedro, reader speaks spanish and may or may not have direct/indirect latino blood somewhere, use of spanglish but no translations ☹️ (boo go do your homework, citizens. that's what u get for making my dieter bravo fic flop BYE), i transcripted two real interviews for this so keep those likes, reblogs and comments up in the air where i can see 'em 🪓🪓

word count: 11,706 words

side note: hello! this is me, sliding my cv to become president of the pedro pascal fics. i'm kidding, just on duty to fulfill another request 🫡 believe it or not, i envisioned something like this but for myself IJBOL we have to keep the delusional levels UP!! i hope this meets ur expectations, it was fun to write :)

part: prev | masterlist | next

"Please welcome, the internet's newest darling, Y/n L/n!"

You walk into the set, cameras flashing bright and the band playing on the back. You hug Jimmy Fallon, and when he notices your body trembling he tells you everything will be alright. So did your manager before you stepped inside, but you can't help the nerves. You've never been this big before, and now it's all coming down together without letting you breath.

You take your seat and so does Jimmy.

"Hello, Y/n. This is your first time here, right?"

"Am I being too obvious?" you snort. The crowd laughs with you.

"Don't worry. It happens, especially when you're so young"

"Oh, please" you blush. "I can promise you there are kid actors who could handle this better than I am right now"

"Kid stars?" he lets out one of his famous cackles. "No need to be humble. You are great! Let's just talk about the year you've had: big breakout roles, ascend to fame, you're rocking it!" the crowd cheers, and you again turn into a flustered mess.

"Yeah, I suppose. It's hard to dimension when you've started as an extra for popular shows, to now being, you know, the main face of projects. But I could get used to it" you smile, "it's been a dream. I still can't believe it sometimes, look- I'm shaking"

The camera pans closer to the hand you're showing to Jimmy.

"Oh my God, even big stars like you get nervous"

"Big star? I wish I could feel like a constellation. I'm feeling more like a red dwarf star, baby"

The whole place bubbles in laughter. You feel better, your manager even giving you a thumbs up from behind the cameras.

"So, Y/n" Jimmy says once the laughter dies. "You just got casted in the upcoming Gladiator II movie, directed by Ridley Scott. How does it feel to be on your first big movie, alongside names like Paul Mescal, Denzel Washington and Pedro Pascal?"

You try to steady your heartbeat. "First of all, I have to say, it's such an honor to work with Scott. I grew up watching his movies. Like, Thelma and Louis is definitely my go-to movie. So, like, getting paired with such a talented cast is as awesome as terrifying" you answer with a laugh.

"Talking about that, you see" he leans closer, like he'll tell a secret. "I've heard things about you and a certain future co-star of yours"

You shift your position on the couch, your ring(less) finger itching. You have to avoid breathing in relief when Jimmy pulls out a picture.

"Oh. My. God"

He stiffles a laugh. No way. Has the room's temperature suddenly gotten hotter? Why is your face burning?

"Will you tell us the story behind this?" he asks, the camera focusing on the picture in question. The audience laughs, and you pray to God this is a nightmare, because it's too much embarrasment for a human to bear.

"Okay" you clear your throat, coughing awkwardly. "For my 25th birthday, I uploaded a bunch of pictures on Instagram, including ones where I was a teenager" you begin to giggle, "So. Um, there was this one, you see, that's, me, in my childhood home's bedroom, and my fans were quick to notice the poster above my bed"

"You mean, this one?" and Jimmy points it out. You cover your face with your palms. "It's a... Narcos poster" the audience laughs as you get redder. "A Pedro Pascal's Narcos poster"

"I know" you groan. "Picture this: me 18, and while my friends had posters of their favorite bands and artists, I was so different because I had a whole ass poster of a crime drama show about the world's most famous drug dealer on my bedroom" you recall with a laugh. "It was hard to explain to my mom. I believe she thought I wanted to sign for the DEA or something. When I told her I was going to be an actress, she was so relieved! She said: Oh, well. You'll die, but of hunger! Not a bullet in your head, at least"

"Oh. I'm so sorry. You proved her wrong though!"

"I did! Don't worry, Jimmy. She's my biggest fan now" you look at a specific camera before saying, "Te amo mami!"

"I see you speak spanish. I sometimes forget" he comments. "You've got one thing in common with Pedro, it seems. Think that'll make working with him less awkward?"

"I just hope he forgives me or I'm capable of moving out of the country and changing names" you giggle. "Pedro, lo siento!"

"Well, that's Y/n L/n, everyone! Pedro Pascal's number one fan" you burst out laughing in shame. "More on her lastest movie after the break"

mandoshoney: tell me i'm not the only one who started shipping pedro pascal and y/n l/n PLEASE can't wait to get content of them interacting ㅤㅤann-gell: mandoshoney y/n's pedro pascal's controversially young gf era starts now! i wonder how the press tour for #gladiatorII will go 🤔 unhing3dprincess: i bet my grandma they are dating ㅤㅤstarlightt180: unhing3dprincess ptwt can never tweet like normal ppl…wdym you're betting your grandma?!!!?

You were never a fan of secrets.

But then Pedro waltzed into your life with his charming smile and iconic mustache, and before you knew it, you had married him off in some church in California one random sunday morning ("I love you so much, can't wait to marry you, cariño" "If you can't wait any longer, why not now?")

Flash forward, four years later, and you'd think such event would be plastered all over the internet. But there is a reason why only you, family, a selected number of friends and your agents knew: you kept it a secret.

To the world, he was Chile's most elegible bachelor and you were a young rising star. The public loved both of you for the same reasons: charming persona and acting skills. Yet inside the privacy of your home, he was Pedro and you were y/n, wife and husband; he was yours as you were his.

And of course, no marriage is perfect, and your first real challenge is rather funny: you both get casted in your first movie together.

It shouldn't be hard, but it is. Being inside the Gladiator II set during seven months, so far away yet so close at the same time, was torture. You were Rome's empress and he's Marcus Acacius, yet behind the scenes, the actual married couple were you both.

It was hard to pretend you didn't know what he looked like without clothes when he wore his bathing suit, or that you didn't know his favorite food when Paul asked, or acting like you weren't interested in dating when a local in Malta during your trip at the beach asked you out (he didn't know who you were. You were flattered when he called you pretty in such a hot European accent, but then Pedro appeared from seemingly "nowhere" and you remembered what your real favorite accent was. He immediately called you bonita after that)

It was so hard to keep hands to yourself when he walked by you, covered in fake blood. To not think about licking it all over and under his armour. So was to pretend the thought of dry humping him with his Roman skirt on wasn't tempting. Or that the urge to kiss him got harder and harder to fight each passing day, even getting to a point where you would envy Connie for being able to kiss your husband in the open more, a privilege you didn't have.

You were loosing your mental health here. But Pedro was no better.

It was so hard to see you, the Moroccan sun shining over your features like you were an angel. Otherworldly. That he'd see red when you'd finish filming a scene with Joseph, forcing himself to interrupt the small chat you'd engage in after. He too couldn't keep pretending he didn't want to tear off those silk dresses out of your body, and kiss you out in the open like Joseph did.

He almost failed once, cornering you in the hallway of the hotel you were staying. His hot breath lingered on your neck. I miss you, he had said. You felt his hard brush the inner of your thigh. We can't, you whispered in a dragged out voice.

It was hard.

So you gave him your used panties, and you swear you could hear him jacking off in the bathroom of his room, next to yours. He'd screamed your name, and your hand had found it's way to your dripping cunt, doing what he was supposed to do; touching you the way he did. And you came, drowned out moans against your pillow. But it wasn't like when he did it.

But God has heard your prayers.

For the first time in weeks, you're lucky. You find Pedro sitting alone in the cafeteria, his phone in hand. He's still wearing his armour and skirt, not bothering to change for the break. You aren't God's strongest soldier, but you're trying not to go down on him so badly right here and now.

"Hey" he raises his head when he hears your voice, smile adoringly. It only grows wider when he notices you alone. "Thought you'd never get rid of Paul. He's like, stitched to you"

"Same can be said about you and Joseph" you sit across him, and despite most of his tone being playful, there are still hints of jealousy behind. It arouses you deeply, and with this hot summer day above you, your skin isn't the only thing that's getting sticky.

"In case you haven't read the script, I'm his wife" you wink. "Sorry this is how you find out"

He laughs loudly, and God, how have you missed that laugh. Sure, it's been there when you've been out with the cast together, but it doesn't tingle your chest as when you're the cause of it; it feels like it's for you only, and that's what makes it special.

"I miss you so much" he whispers, his hand sliding across the table, finding yours. His thumb carresses your soft palm, and you melt under Pedro's tender touch.

"I do too" you sigh, but it's instantly replaced by what could only be described as a smug face. You lean closer, whispering on his ear, the warm meeting cold. He shivers. "Wanna know something?"

"I'm all ears"

"I just came back from walking. Guess what?No one is 'round here" you lean back against your chair, shit-eating grin on your face as all his body tenses up. "Made sure of it. The trailer zone is empty too"

Pedro gulps, his adam's apple bobbing as his eyes look at you.

"Y/n" calling your name as a warning.

"What? Can't a girl find ways to have her husband all for herself?" you snort. "Please say yes" you let go of his hand, but the free fingers now travel across his broad chest, taunting him. "C'mon, we both deserve a break"

He can't say deny you anything, can he? You know it, he knows it.

Before you register, his big hand engulfs yours as you run across the set. You giggle at his rushed steps, even more when you stand before his trailer and he's fumbling his slippery hands with the doorknob, sloppy movements erratic.

"But you told me to stop" you tease, and he doesn't even let you add more because he's pushing you inside, forcing you with rough calloused hands to a chair and then you to sit over his lap.

"Fuck, babygirl. I've spoiled you way too much" he groans against your lips. "Lo sabes, ¿verdad? Just can't say no to you"

Your eyes darken dangerously, the hunger on them mirroring his own.

"How could you ever say no to this?"

You press your chest against his broad one as your lip bites into his lower one, teasing. Pedro feels his underwear getting tighter when your tongue finds its way inside his mouth, even getting a glimpse of the taste of the strawberries you had earlier before.

He deepens the kiss, and when you pull away to catch your breath, he doesn't waste his lonely mouth and busies himself with the task of kissing your sun-kissed neck, licking and pressing his lips under your jaw. Pedro goes even lower, down until he's reached your collarbone, making you groan a bit under his wet sloppy needy mouth. He's enjoying how putty you are under his intense kissing, fingers in his curls, that have begun to damp under the ablaze of the small space and pleasure that fills the air.

"Kiss me again in my lips" you whine after a while of him teasing you with kisses that get only rougher. "Pretty please, papi"

You cup his face in your hands, and Pedro's back to kissing you in the mouth, tasting all of your insides as he hasn't had in what feels like a lifetime.

"Of course, baby. Missed this pretty mouth" he mumbles in between hot kisses, his now growing boner pressing into you.

"Baby" you giggle. The skirt he's got on may hide it, but your fingers refused to wait, pulling it up. His bulge presses against the shorts he's got under the skirt, and you can feel your pussy and mouth drool. "We have to do something about this big boy" your hands pull down the short, leaving just his underwear on. He's about to remove the skirt, but your demanding hands stops him. "This stays"

His brown concerned eyes make you laugh, but you don't give him time to think about it, rather grinding against his erection. Pedro's breath hitches when he feels your daring movements, bucking his hips against yours.

The friction is addicting, and he captures your lips once again to make you feel what he can't with words: how fucking good this feels.

You keep moving over his aching dick. Your husband throws his head back, groaning in pleasure at the way your hips move against him, knowingly. His hands find their way to your ass under the flowy almost translucent skirt you chose to change in, gripping the rosy skin tightly, hands almost covering all of it.

"You wore this for me, right, cariño? Knew I couldn't say no" he groans, firm hands on your cheeks, the grinding meeting his hips now harsher. "Less with you walking around with this slutty skirt of yours"

You make little sounds he's obssesed with, dripping out of your filthy mouth.

"Fuck" Pedro groans after a while, "I need to have you, mami. Missed you so much" eager fingers make it to your top. He growls, deep within him―guttural, ready to pull it off as he mumbles naughty wife when he realizes you got no bra on, chastising you for a "rushed" plan that seemed planned all along, when a sound cuts through the air.

You both stop.

The sound gets clearer.

It's a knock. A knock at his door.

A knock in Pedro's trailer.

And you are inside. Both.

While you're grinding him.

With his skirt on.

(It's time to build a bomb and kill yourselves off and whoever is stading behind that door)

"Pedro!" a familiar accent calls. Peudrou. It's Paul. "Hey, man. Just wondering if you are here"

He's debating on speaking up when he sees your red face and rising-falling chest before him.

"Answer" you whisper breathlessly. He tries not to groan when he fills you slip out of the spot in his middle while also trying not to think about murdering Paul as soon as he gets out.

Aside from the order, you're unexpectedly quiet, and Pedro quirks an eyebrow at you. He knows you better―you're his wife after all, and if there's something he's aware of, is your inability to loose.

"I'm here" tone clipped and annoyed. But no footsteps backtracking are heard: the Irish man is still there.

You bite your lip, watching the skirt with his legs spread, a sight too tempting. Also, he was still hard, as hard as the task to not go and keep doing your job.

Oh, fuck this shit.

Your devilish hand equals the grin in your face, fingers making their way toward his unattended bulge.

"What are you doing here?" Paul asks, but Pedro's attention has completely deviated, now focused on how they land right over his clothed dick, skirt pulled up by your other hand. "I thought you were at the cafeteria"

"Yeah?" but it comes out strained, yet the younger man doesn't notice or comment.

His hips raise when your fingers press his member, massaging it.

"Yeah" he uses a tone that equals a duh. "You texted me yourself"

Pedro rolls his eyes, wishing desperately he would go away, annoying him just as much as a fly hovering above fresh food. Talking about food, fuck, weren't you hungry? He tried to warn you, holding your wrist, but all resolve was lost the moment you looked in his eyes: he immediately pulled down his briefs, dick sprouting hard.

"Well, changed my mind" his tone falters in between words, member now free from the confines of his tight underwear.

"Are you tired, man? You sound tired" Paul comments on his tone. "Came to rest?"

You spit on your hand, and he gulps.

"Somethin' like that"

You start to jerk him off, leaving little wet kisses and licks just above his dick. Pedro's eyes are hypnotized, glued to every lick of yours across his girth, the spit making your movements smoother. Sexier. Fuck.

"Well, sorry to break it to you but rest time is over. They want us back on set now"

Your tight needy lips are wrapped around his his length and it's so hard to keep the talk normal when he justs wants to yell at Paul to fuck off. Your hand is there too; you are as of help as much as you aren't.

"I'll be there, Paul, just―Fuck!"

But his attempt to cover a moan doesn't go unnoticed.

"Are you alright in there?" he tries to enter, but Pedro locked the door. He's yelling he's fine, but Mescal doesn't sound convinced. "I can't go inside; it's locked. Are you sure you are okay, mate?"

"Didn't want you to take a picture of me drooling on my sleep" he manages to get out in a monotone voice. A real win if you take into account you've gotten to a point where you squeeze under his cock, massaging his balls.

"Smart move!" he chuckles from outside. "I guess I'll see you there"

Pedro covers a moan with his palm as he's throwing his head back in pleasure. He can feel his orgams looming over, minstrations growing sloppier around his pulsating cock, the need to fill your greedy evil mouth with his seed making him sick. He's a simple man: he just wants his pretty wife to fuck his cock silly and come in her mouth in peace. Is that so hard to get this days?

Paul seems to be finally gone as Pedro can't keep containing his grunts anymore, steps moving: until said steps sound closer again.

"Oh, I almost forgot, have you seen Y/n? I can't find her anywhere" it's coming. His orgasm is coming in the absolute worst moment. He can feel you gagging at his hard rock cock, hitting the back of your throat now. Still, your hands don't loose their grip on his cock and skirt, determination filling that sexy little body of yours. It was rather admirable the effort you were putting in this. "Think she went to the beach? She said she loved it. God, that little rebel. Anyway, if you see her, tell her-"

He leans his head back once again, seeing stars. No one knows him like his wife, truly.

The sight of you drooling from your chin, the wet sounds of him fucking himself onto your mouth as your spit-coated fingers pump his girth, you gulping down the precum from his tip, his fingers holding your face roughly by the cheeks...

"Yes, Paul, yes!" Pedro barks, barely hiding the moan that erupts from his ribcage, thick shots of his hot cum hitting your tongue and deep of the throath. "Fuck off and let me get ready"

"Jesus, mate, chill. I'm sorry. See you there"

And Paul Mescal's hovering fly ass is finally gone.

"Poor Paul" you say as soon as you pull off his length, voice raspy as you huff for air. Pedro lovingly cleans rests of your saliva and his cum from your chin as he chuckles at how much audacity, courage and horniness could fit in such a small young body. "You've ruined the friendship"

"You think?" he licks off some as you sit on his lap again, tongue directly on your face. You feel aroused again, but time's up. "It's your fault. That and this"

He points down.

"Just as you used that pretty head of yours to think of the trouble you just made, think of an excuse for Mr. Ridley about the skirt"

at0michips: wait wdym paul is sick??? ㅤㅤl-u-n-a-m: at0michips he's died vnightx: i'm wondering who'll do now the do you even know me interview with pedro now :( i was so excited!!! hope they don't cancel it :( ㅤㅤunhing3dprincess: vnightx i bet my grandma it's y/n ㅤㅤat0michips: unhing3dprincess why do u keep betting ur grandma omg 😭😭😭

"You know what I think would be fun?" Pedro comments while you wait for the interview's set to be prepared.

Tour press has finally begun. That meant you could go home for a while after the filming wrapped, just to be back for the promotion of the film. You were excited of course, the experience new and thrilling. After much needed battery recharging and husband/wife time, you were ready to take over the world.

But then Paul got sick.

Today's interview was scheduled to be him and Pedro, but since he was unavailable, they paired him with you, since you both spoke Spanish (which felt slightly racist in your opinion), and because Fred and Joseph were already paired up for the other.

You leave your coffee, knowing he's about to say something stupid or endearing, perhaps both, brown liquid probably spilling out of your mouth. Or worst, nostrils.

"Tell me"

"What if we left little hints that we're together?" his smile is one of mischief. "Like you could wear my cap, or I could wear a chain with your initial around my neck, like Ryan Gosling did at the Barbie premiere"

"Or as Taylor Swift sang" you counter. "But Pedro, dear, you're underestimating our fans. You don't think they'll match it sooner than we think?"

"Maybe" he agrees. That's just what I want. "What's funny is we're about to do a type of interview where we could blow our cover"

"Maybe" you repeat, "or maybe you don't know all about me as much as you think, Mr. Pascal"

He fake gasps, feigning hurt. "Is this a dare, Mrs. Pascal?"

"No" you try to be mature for once, cutting the banter as much as you'd like to go on and kiss him right there. "Also, remember to answer incorrectly sometimes, you know..."

"There's no way I'm letting you win though"

"Pedro, no seas necio!"

The producers arrive just in time to let you know it's ready.

"After M'lady" he's back to being charming as he is, not as husband charming but just Pedro Pascal charming. The nerve of this guy to do it in front of the LADbible crew.

"Whatever" you grumble, the nerves getting the best of you as you realize this interview may or may not give away more than you've been allowed before.

"Hello, I am Y/n L/n" you present yourself. Wow, the camera is really close. This isn't going to end well.

"And I'm Pedro Pascal"

Hearing his voice soothes you. It's okay, y/n, you got this. "And this is Do You Really Know Me- No wait, it's do you even know me. Okay, let's start again: Hello, I'm Y/n and this is-"

"I don't even know anymore" Pedro jokes, making you laugh. "Do you even know me?" he asks while looking forward, now making the crew laugh.

"This is Pedro Pascal, that'll do" you sigh.

"This is gonna be sad, she's not going to know any of these" he says, but in reality, he's mocking you, the mischief in his eyes glowing as he only looks at you tauntingly.

"Same can be said about you" you tease, "we're like a million years away"

"That's not true!" he gasps, "I watch your every move" punctuating each word. God, you try not to make a face. "I have Google alerts on you"

If he was gonna play, so were you.

"Glad to know I have you alerted" with the sweetest voice ever, seeing how his friendly façade falters for a bit at the tone you've used. You laugh, and Pedro takes the chance to laugh it off too.

After the introduction, they ask one of you to keep score, and you offer yourself because, well, you don't trust Pedro.

"I'll go first" you say. "Which was my first ever role in the industry? As an extra during an episode of Stranger Things, as a voice actor in A dog's purpose" you can't help but laugh, "or as a back-up dancer in Hustlers?"

"In Hustlers?" Pedro inquires in disbelief. "You're telling me you were in Hustlers?! I didn't even know you could dance!"

Lies. You and Pedro sometimes put some bachata and dance in the kitchen. God bless Juan Luis Guerra.

"Jennifer Lopez and I are practically besties" you answer nonchalant.

You know the answer. He does too. But he chooses the last one for comedic purposes.

"I'll go with Hustlers. Now that I'm looking at you, you do have a... dancer face"

"It's okay, you can say the forbidden word. I'll take it as a compliment" you laugh, "you're wrong, though. The answer is Stranger Things"

"No way!" and it sounds as if he genuinely didn't know. Good lying son of a bitch; Jim Carrey on Liar, Liar would've been proud.

"Yes. If you look in the background of season two, on this one episode where Nancy and Steve appear to have broken up during a halloween party, you can see me drinking from a cup on a corner"

"That's so crazy"

"Yeah, I was twenty already, yet playing a highschooler" you giggle. "Wow, time flies by. Anyway, we're both at zero. Your turn"

"What film did my dad not let me see at the cinema when I was, uh, ten years old?" Pedro reads from his card. "Rambo: first blood, The Breakfast Club, Day of The Dead"

"I'm going to base this in the year you were born. Okay, so 1975. Let's see" one of the things Pedro loves about you is that you're like a film encyclopedia, but right now, that'll cost him a point. "They all came out the same year, and they were also R rated. Hmmh, I'll choose The Breakfast Club"

Your analysis was just mindless bragging really. You knew the answer the moment he started reading the question, because the anecdote came during a time he heard you listening to the movie's soundtrack ("Did you know that my dad...")

"You complain about Paul all the time, but you're just the same" he comments. "She's a real competitor, people!"

You flush in embarrasment. "Okay, that's one for me. Next question" you read the card in your hands. "What pet do I own? An orange cat named Louis after my favorite singer, a fish, or a Shih Tzu named after my brother"

The orange cat lives with you both. You're curious as to how he'll answer.

"You aren't naming a Shih Tzu frickin' Fernando" he laughs, so loud, it ends up catching up to you and the crew. "I'll go with the cat"

"That's correct" you lament. "How would you know?"

As if the damn cat doesn't love him more than he loves you.

"I follow you on Instagram" he defends himself. Clever. "We are, um, what do you call it-"

"Oomfs"

"I'm not gonna try to pronounce your made up language. Okay, my turn. Which of these characters I've played in Saturday Night Live? Naughty daddy, protective mom, or weird uncle who has a creepy sneeze" he reads out loud in a confused tone.

This is easy. It was all over your timeline.

"Protective mom" you answer on a beat.

"This isn't fair, that was really popular!" he complains.

"It's still two for me and one for you" you mock. "Now, what is the nickname the internet has given me? I won't give you clues because it's an easy one"

"Easy? You said we were million of years apart and now I'm supposed to know?"

"Well, you seem to manage Instagram so I think you'll be just fine" you tease, and Pedro just wants to rip that smirk off of you. So he caves in first.

"It's people's princess"

"What?!" your eyes grow comically large, shimmering with betrayal as you shout with an incredulous tone. "I can't believe you know" more like can't believe you said it.

"You're royalty! How am I supposed to not know that, internet darling? Besides, told you: I keep my eye on you" and he winks.

This motherfucker. Oh, he's totally sleeping on the couch tonight.

"Talk about internet darlings" your snarky tone comes out, and Pedro knows he's pissed his competitive wife off. "I guess we have a tie. Your turn"

"What are the initials of my full name?" his brows furrow. "I forget. JBPP, JPBP, JBPP"

"José Pedro Balmaceda Pascal" you recite. "B, of course"

"But that's too easy, everyone with Google knows it!" but then he's leaning into your ear, whispering in a very low voice to make sure only you hear. "I'll let it pass, though. Love hearing you pronounce my name, mami"

Your face grows obscenely red. "I'm back ahead. Let's see if you can keep up. Okay, here it goes" you read the card, "what is the director I've stated I want to work with? Greta Gerwig, Pedro Almodóvar, or Quentin Tarantino"

"Pedro Almodóvar, no? You said you were jealous I had already worked with him" he playfully nudges you. Too much contact, face hot again. Maybe in group interviews you'll do better, because right now, you're doing a rather poor job at controlling yourself, even as an actor; you can already picture your agent pulling her hair behind the cameras.

"It's Greta Gerwig, actually"

"What?! No way, you told me this!" he grumbles. "This game is rigged"

"Don't get me wrong, I'm still jealous. I just think working with Greta Gerwig is peak womanhood, and I gotta live that. So, Greta, if for some reason this silly video gets to you, call me. I promise I'm not that childish"

"She is" Pedro slips in, "don't call her. So unprofessional" in a mocking exaggerated tone.

"Whatever, you sore looser. Me three, you two. Next!"

"Fine. Which of these songs would I have played at my funeral? My Heart Will Go On, Purple Rain, Nothing Compares To You"

He looks at you, silently pleading you to not answer correctly. Your competitive side screams in agony.

"I have no idea. Why do I feel you've already said it somewhere, though? I'll go with Nothing Compares To You, because the first its too corny for you and the second too epic"

He scoffs, amused at the fact that you did obey, but at what cost? Pedro's well aware his princess can get as competitive, if not worse, than Paul.

"You're saying I'm not epic enough for Purple Rain? Too bad, because that's the answer" you grunt, crossing your arms. "That's right, I am cool enough to have it played. I guess we're tied again!"

"No, you don't loose a point. It's still three to two. This just gives you the opportunity to tie"

"W-wait a minute"

"Settle down" you pat his thigh, "you can still try, handsome"

He gulps when your hand meets his skin, despite the layer of clothes. It's still something that gets him on edge, no matter the years you've known each other. And handsome? You came here for blood.

"Okay, here's your chance: what image of me became trending topic on twitter? An image of me eating a typical dish from my country, an image of me watching Deadpool and Wolverine with glasses while Hugh Jackman's shirtless scene reflects on them or C, me meeting Taylor Swift at the backstage of the Eras Tour"

"The typical dish is tempting" he muses out loud, "but I'll go with the Taylor Swift one because that sounds like something that'd trend"

"You're right" you throw your card. "I'm not complaining though. Best day of my life"

"Does this mean I'm winning?" he beams excitedly. "Oh, in your face Paul! I will finally win something!"

"Slow down, cowboy. There's still some left"

He purses his lips. "Let me have this one thing, would you? Guess not. Here it comes" he starts to read his card, "At school I competed in state competitions, in which sport? Soccer, lacrosse, swimming"

"Swimming" you answer hastily, trying not to think on Pedro wearing tight little swimsuits, as you've only seen him wearing swim trunks.

"Okay, that's dissapointing. Please continue"

"I participated in which play while I was in highschool? Hamlet, The Iliad or Much Ado About Nothing"

You doubt he remembers. The only time it ever came up, was when you visited your parent's house and a photography of you during said play was showed to him by your dad.

"The Iliad, right?" you laugh. The answer is wrong: It's Hamlet. "What? I swear it was that one! It's just you have very..." beautiful is at the tip of his tongue but he refrains himself, "...very greek features"

You can't help but laugh.

"Why of course! This is a face people go to war for"

"I agree" your heart skips a beat, "but I don't think I'll make it that far, if we talk about a war"

"You big fat liar!" you slap his arm playfully. "You've played all sort of characters, from soldiers of all nationalities and places, and like, superheroes, f*****g Joel Miller, even a DEA agent. You at least learned something!"

"Wow, slow down, this isn't a filmography recount" he jokes. Liar, you mouth to the cameras. "Okay, last one: I became a viral sensation for eating what type of sandwhich in LADbible's snack wars: BLT, PB&J, grilled cheese"

You remember the video fondly. Even your brother had sent it to you, along a text that said: Isn´t this your husband?

"PB&J, I win!" you cheer, instantly getting off the chair to do a celebratory dance. Pedro doesn't say anything, just throwing the cards away while the fondness of his eyes betrays him.

pyramiidsf: i want someone to look at me the way pedro looks at y/n mybritishstyle: guys they're just friends 😭 he's like that with all his female co-stars ㅤㅤann-gell: mybritishstyle me when i'm delusional af mandoshoney: where's that girl that's always betting her grandma??? SHE WAS RIGHTFLKRGJ

"Hello, I'm Paul Mescal. I'm here with my friends from the cast of Gladiator II" Connie and you both raise your palms to greet the camera, laughing when you realize you'd done it at the same time, "and we are going to play a game about how well we know each other for Vanity Fair" the irish man introduces the interview you're filming today.

"Did they prompt you?" Pedro speaks up, "or did you just make that up on the fly?"

You laugh a bit too loud, hoping they cut it off in the editing process.

Paul goes first, taking up a card with the first question written on it.

"Okay. Question: What's my least favorite day of the week?"

"Tuesday" answers Joseph once Paul is done reading. "Oh, you're writing it down?"

"Yeah" he answers.

"You just wrote Tuesday" Connie points out, Paul's card on his legs. You laugh along the rest.

"Yeah" he repeats laughing. "I actually, when you said Tuesday" Yeah, he said Tuesday Pedro adds on the background of laughter. "I was like...I'm gonna give everybody a point for that"

"I think I deserve a point for being observant" Connie complains.

Everyone gets a point and Paul moves towards the next question.

"What was the name of my character in Normal People?"

"Connell" both you and Joseph answer, looking at each other before squinting your eyes playfully.

"Callum" Pedro answers out loud at the same time, and you laugh. He clearly had slept when you played it for a re-watch last summer.

"No, you're out" Paul pokes Pedro next to him.

"Connel" Joseph repeats, and Fred agrees to the same answer.

Paul then asks Connie what's hers after he confirms you three.

"Connor?" she asks, confused.

"Incorrect. Three points" while pointing you three.

"You got wrong" he tells Pedro, "Callum's a different character"

"See? You just don't pay attention when you watch things" you blurt out, stopping yourself before adding the with me. It would be harder to come back from that, but so is this as everyone looks at you, even your husband, subtle panic in his eyes. Where the cameras this close? How long had you been silent?

"It's just, quick funny story" you improvise. "Pedro didn't know much about Paul's career, and as I am a fan, I took the time to show him and recommend him your stuff" Paul smiles. "Clearly, my fanatism didn't rub on Pedro but a girl can try"

He laughs, before saying "So the answer is Connell" and you try so hard to remain normal like the energy hasn't shifted.

"He only plays characters with the letter C in the name" Pedro jokes, chewing on a toothstick he seemingly pulled out of nowhere. More laughs follow, and you are so grateful for how he's handling your little metida de patada.

"What's number one on my bucket list?" he asks next, "and don't look at my answer"

The marker is the only sound to be heard, and then Pedro jokingly tries to take a peek.

"No peeking" Connie berates as Pedro laughs.

"You're not gonna be able to see that" Paul replies in an anyways tone.

You repeat the same joke, before Fred blocks you. "Not you too!"

Paul finishes after a while, Connie commenting it was long. Joseph raises his hand.

"Yes, Joseph"

"Is it to see the Great Wall of China?" he asks.

"No, but it's in that-"

"It's close, isn't it?" you interrupt.

"...family of thought" he finishes.

"It's to go and see something" Pedro points out.

"Okay. Rajasthan" tries Connie. "Go to Rajasthan, for a tour"

"Travel to South America" Paul interrupts with the correct answer, "I've never been to South America"

"I'm from South America" Pedro comments, never missing a chance to shout out his dear Chile.

Paul jokes about him getting three points while the rest of you laugh.

"I was born in South America. 17 points for Pedro"

"I want points too" you jump on the joke. "I know Spanish, so I can take you there and avoid you getting lost, mi querido amigo"

"But who was born there?" Pedro counters, "you get no points"

"I think Joseph is the only person who gets a point there" Paul adds, "because everybody just jumped on the bandwagon"

"He said to visit the Great Wall of China" Pedro protests, "which is nowhere near South America"

"It really is not" Connie agrees.

"Qué gente tan tramposa" you complain. "That's unfair. I remove my offer"

"Think about bucket list, and he came up with travel to bit" he tries to reason Joseph's point.

"And by the way, where in South America?" Pedro questions.

"Don't fight, don't fight" pleads Joseph, the calm one. Fred just sits there, enjoying the chaos.

"I want, any, I want to do a big tour of everywhere" Mescal defends himself.

Pedro doesn't back down. "'Cause it's very different"

Paul starts to get angry too. Jesus, men. Competitive men of it all.

"I know it's very different" making an annoyed face.

"Well, different is nice" you intervene, a hand placing in Pedro's left shoulder. "If you stop giving points for free, I'll come with you to the big everywhere tour"

"Alright" Paul agrees. "When's my birthday?" is the next question.

"February" all of you say.

Joseph struggles with the date first, saying seventh, then fourth. Fred tries with ninth, Pedro with eight, and then Joseph starts counting from one to two. Fred counts from eleven to twelve.

"Second" Mescal reveals. "Point to Joseph"

"Oh my God, you guys are good" Connie mentions.

"That's all my questions" and it's time to move on the next one: which happens to be your dear husband, Pedro.

"Paul is like" he brings up while the toothpick dances on his teeth, "Paul is motivated to catch up on points. He's coming for you" to pick on his competitive side as Mescal looks deep in thought.

"He's coming. He's coming" Joseph repeats as Fred laughs.

"What is my full name?"

"Oh! Pedro-" Paul tries in a blink. "Something, J? Jose? Juan?"

"Pedro Pascal, something, something" says Joseph.

"Nope"

"No?"

"Pedro Maria, Jose Maria Pascal" Paul struggles.

Pedro is about to answer when your voice cuts through the air.

"It's José Pedro Balmaceda Pascal" you recite.

"It indeed is!" he says, smiling a bit too much. "She gets a point"

"Jose Pedro Balmaceda Pascal" your husband repeats in a more english-friendly pronunciation, looking at the camera while toying with his toothpick.

"I said Jose, I said Jose" Paul protests.

Pedro shakes his head. "You said Jose, but then you put it-"

Connie takes Paul's side. "You did say Jose"

"But then you put it behind Pedro which eliminate- which disqualified you" he replies.

Paul gets angry. That sore looser.

"That's absolute bullshit"

"Don't worry mate, the game has just begun" you joke, making the man more irritated. "Think you can get ahead of me?"

"Joseph is still ahead, y/n" Paul counters, still irritated. "Besides, wouldn't it be cheating? You can speak Spanish!"

"So? Not like speaking a language allows you to know every person's name Paul" you mock. He just snorts, despite still being half angry. Pedro is allowed to continue, trying not to make a face at yours and Paul's banter.

"The question is, who is my favorite actor?" he reads. As the cast members laugh, he uncaps the marker with his mouth, and now you have to try not to make a face, thinking about those teeth sinking into your flesh.

Quinn raises his hand. "It's me"

"That you're my favorite actor?"

"Yeah. You said that to me once" the bald man sounds sure of it.

Paul tries to think in the background. So do you. How can you not know this? he must've brought it up at least once.

"Do you remember?" Joseph insists.

Pedro finally remembers. "I said you were- I said I thought you were special"

"Oh" he sounds rather dissapointed.

"And special can mean a lot of things" he jokes, laughing by himself. Fred laughs with you as Joseph makes a face, your laughter turning even louder when you notice Paul all moody, trying to get this point.

"Who's your favorite actor?" Paul asks, "I think we just have to shoot from the hip here guys"

"Marlon Brando?" Connie guesses.

"Is it Harrison Ford?" Fred guesses.

"Let's go with Harrison Ford just because he's my favorite actor..."

You can't believe you didn't know this. You've re-watched and watched so many Star Wars content together. He gives you a brief look, knowing you're embarrased at your lack of answer.

"As a kid?"

"He's most influent, yeah" Pedro agrees.

"What job did I have before I became a full-time actor?" is next.

"Dancer. You were a great dancer" Paul aswers. Both Fred and Joseph repeat it, adding he was specifically a go-go dancer.

"Oh, he is" you add. "Videos of you dancing are lovely. Ever thought of getting back in the bussiness?"

He laughs, what appears to be a light blush creeping up his cheeks.

"Sure, darling. When you ask me to dance, I'll be there"

Nobody comments on this, too busy waiting for Pedro to say yes or no to the answer they believe to be right. But he isn't saying it is. Now you remember why.

"Come on, come on, come on" Paul begs.

"Can any of you guys remember?" Pedro pleads.

They insist that he danced in Spain, then New York, then settle with Spain again, even Pedro confirming so. But it still isn't the answer written on the card, no matter how much the boys insist.

"Connie?" he tries. She just looks confused.

"The answer in the card is-"

"Waiter" you answer. "You were a waiter"

Now you have three points under your belt.

"Why do you always say the answer at last?!" Paul grumbles. "You are cheating!"

"I'm not" you laugh the accusation off. "You just can't accept I'm better"

"Si que lo eres" Pedro agrees. "Es divertido hacer que se enoje Paul"

"What did you say about me? It's not fair, you're probably sharing the answers!" he's still adamant on insisting with the supposed cheating issue, making you laugh.

Now it's Connie's turn, who starts with: "How many languages do I speak?"

You put a puzzled look.

"You speak seven, eight maybe" Joseph guesses. Pauls says she speaks french, "but most likely seven"

Pedro points his finger at him. "Once he gets going, he's on a roll"

"Joe's got it" Connie agrees.

"Paul, end this reign" Pedro jokes. He looks rather frustrated.

"And the bonus points" Connie offers. "Okay, bonus, what are they?"

"This is an emperor's reign" your husband adds.

Joseph answers: Italian. Danish. English. Swedish. French. Spanish. Norwegian.

Connie agrees she speaks Spanish, making you jump in excitement.

"Oh, I didn't know that!" you beam. "Wait, does that mean you did get what Pedro and I gossiped about you?"

"What?" Joseph asks.

"Nada" you quickly correct yourself. "Yo no dije nada"

"Not that much. I just speak a bit of Spanish. I mostly dominate my own language, German and English"

"You blew our cover!" Pedro nags, hitting your bare leg, yet its devoid of anger.

"He needs a bonus" comments Connie, surprised at Joseph.

"This is horrifying" Pedro says when Joseph gets another point and a fricking bonus on top of that. "This is a slaughter"

"Oh, for which film did I have a gym built in my garage?"

Both Joseph and Paul answer the question correctly, saying Wonder Woman. The latter is quick to state they both get that point.

"That's one for me" Paul says, then looks at you. "And none for you"

You stick out your tongue at him as Connie reads the next card.

"If I were to take this cast on a vacation where would I take you?"

"Ibiza" answers Joseph. Connie agrees in Spanish, with a cute and excited correcto.

Your husband feels the need to crack a joke at Quinn's expense.

"Somebody was paying attention to Connie Nielsen very closely during the shooting of this movie"

"Okay. What is my favorite curse word in Danish?"

"Fuck" Pedro tries.

"No"

"Nobody is going to get that, Connie" Paul bickers.

"Oh, I don't know any Danish" you lament.

"At least now you know how it feels" Mescal drops, making you snort. You playfully kick him on the ribs with your shoe.

"It's very simple" Connie gives as a clue. "It's the same word in every language"

"Shit" Paul tries.

"Satan" she reveals.

Everybody is laughing in confusion at that, saying there's no way you could use that.

"Vos Satan!" Connie curses.

Now it's Fred's turn.

"What is my weirdest on-set habit?"

"I haven't noticed you do anything weird on set" Paul tells.

"I have" Pedro interrupts.

They all get on a small briefing about what could it possibly be, that it was weird, and wasn't part of his character, as you ponder. It was funny before, but now Paul is behind you by a point. So think fast.

"Yeah. I would say being yourself" Pedro jokes, but surprisingly, it works.

"Me! Five points for Pedro" he celebrates as you all laugh. "Love Fred. Oh, Fred"

"Oh, oh, okay" he moves to the next question. "What is my favorite reality TV show?"

Joseph tries with Survivor and Paul with Alone. Truth is, you don't watch any show of said kind, only vagely hearing about Love Island.

"You and I have talked about reality TV" Pedro reveals, "It's just that we never identified one"

They keep guessing shows that sound like a foreign language to you.

"You know what's offensive? That I'm the second youngest of this cast and I have no idea what are you all talking about"

"She's not to be trusted" Pascal quips, "can't trust someone who doesn't appreciate the art of reality TV"

You huff, annoyed.

"Is it A&E stuff?" Pedro asks.

"Yeah, it's the competitive cheapskates" Fred answers. "It's people that really save money on everything"

Pedro gets the point because he mentioned the A&E bit.

"There's like this amazing guy that made a stew out of fish bones, and I just thought it was incredible" he shares. Then, moves to the next question. "What is my go-to crafty snack?"

Nobody remembers eating snacks on set, and Fred gives the clue that it's a drink. Joseph says it's a smoothie, and he does remember it but it isn't the answser.

"I'm thinking of something specific. That Emerge-C that you put in the water"

"Oh, that's very good" you agree, so does the rest, even discussing the best colors

"Who in the cast would I ask to bail me out of jail?"

Everyone even Pedro agree its him. Everyone gets a point, yet Joseph remains ahead.

It's Joseph's turn. "What is my favorite sport?"

"Skateboarding" Paul is so quick to answer, earning him two points for both being correct and time.

"What celebrity do I get mistaken for?"

"Daisy Edgar-Jones sometimes" says Mescal. Of course he had to bring her up.

"No, she gets mistaken for me" Joseph jokes. "Yeah, poor Daisy. But I'm writing it down"

"That was the two letters?" Pedro notices. Still, no one gets it.

It's fucking Justin Timberlake. You'd never guess that.

"What is my favorite film franchise?"

You've probaly named all the existing franchises to no avail. You think fo your dad, a huge geek, trying to remember if there is one missing.

"Oh- Lord of the Rings!" you both answer with Paul at the same time.

"C'mon!" his celebration is short lived when he realizes you tied to him.

"What is my favorite British slang word?"

Pedro says it can't be said, but Quinn insists they can, even adding it's his favorite one too.

"We can say bad words? We can say-?" but the camera beeps over it.

The answer is Bellend. What even is that? Joseph feigns sadness and Pedro keeps apologizing, even as you sit on the chair.

"Okay. I'm last"you wiggle your eyebrows with interest. "Let's see. Okay, first question: what did I take from the Gladiator II set?"

"You took something?" Joseph asks on disbelief.

"Why wouldn't I take something?"

"Is it like an item or memorabilia?" asks Connie.

"It's an item" you uncap the marker, scribbling down the answer.

"It's a short word" Fred points out, but still can't provide a guess.

"You took the rings home" Pedro answers. You snap your had on his way, probably obvious. "What? You told me" he says.

Of course Paul complains. "Hey, that isn't fair! He knew the answer before!"

"Well, if you payed more attention to me, you'd know it"

Lies. Pedro knows because it's sitting in the jewelry box inside your house.

"See? I do pay attention" Pedro playfully hits Mescal.

"I could pay you more attention" he looks at you.

"Alright, then do. Ready? Next question: what is my go-to movie? Oh, this is a good one. I'm always changing it, but most of the time I end up choosing the same one"

They all give you a puzzled look as you scribble.

"C'mon, guys! I've said it on interviews before too. Paul?" the man shrugs. "Thought you said you'd pay me more attention. Heads up, you're doing a terrible job so far!"

"Hey!" he protests. "It's not fair if the answer's changing. Give us a clue"

"You didn't give any clues to yours!" you giggle. "Besides, I don't want you to win"

"Hey, that's against the rules!"

"I'd say it depends on the season" Pedro speaks up. You quirk an eyebrow. "Like, if it's changing, I don't think your Christmas go-to movie is the same as your summer one"

"Actually" you smile fondly, "that is true. On summer, it's Mamma Mia. So I suppose, if you can't guess the one, that'll do"

"No" he smiles, cheeky. "I know it too"

"Yeah?" you challenge, "what is it, then?"

"It's Thelma and Louise" he answers, and your heart beats fast.

"How do you know?" Paul inquires. "Somebody was paying attention to Y/n L/n very closely during the shooting of this movie"

Ah, his joke from earlier. Joseph giggles behind him. Karma, he supposes.

"She said it on an interview, guys. C'mon, learn your sources!"

"Okay" you clear your throat. "What movie got me into acting?"

"Thelma and Louise" Joseph tries.

"No" you laugh, "you're just recycling the answer"

"Is it an old or modern movie?" Connie asks.

"Hmh, old" you pause, "just not... I don't know if you'll ever guess it"

"Is it a Pedro Almodóvar film?" you shake your head. "What? You're always mentioning him!"

Pedro looks into your eyes amid the others' discussion, and you can tell he remembers the conversation.

"There isn't one"

You smile, chest pounding at his soft tone.

"That's correct"

"A trick question?!" Paul yells. "I quit"

"When there's just one left?" you tease.

"Yes, because you've been hiding it all the time but no more" he counters, pointing both you and Pedro. You feel the space getting smaller, breaths going from even to noticeable. "You are sharing answers"

You try to make your breath of relief pass as a chuckle.

"I'm not even gonna win, relax. And drop the charges, please. Loose like a man"

"You didn't explain it though" Connie speaks. "What did Pedro mean?"

"While I have many movies that are inspiration to me, they aren't the reason I chose this path. I did it because I saw an Oscar's ceremony when I was 11" you explain fondly, feeling warm at the memories. "I still remember when they handed the award to Diablo Cody for best original screenplay. I don't know, man, it moved me. What it meant for young artists who came from nothing. I guess I wanted, one day, to be the one standing there, for other dreamers to see it's possible"

"Wow, that's beautiful" Connie says.

"Thank you" you get flustered. "Suppose it was worth it, you know, to do interviews about not really knowing my cast mates" and laugh.

"How does Pedro know, though?" Joseph asks.

"We talk a lot" you clear your throat. "Last one: what indie horror movie did I make a small appearence in? I'm feeling generous because it's the last so I'll give you a clue. It's a Stephen King adaptation"

Paul is the first to speak. "You where in a-"

"Yeah but it wasn't such a huge role. Don't make yourself any ideas"

"I have no idea" Connie surrenders. "Other clue, as in how many words?"

"It doesn't even have any words" you laugh. "You give up? It's 1922. Was an extra as well. Made me think Netflix had my name highlighted in the extra call sheet, because I did so many minor and background roles during that year. Grateful, though, because now I get to be Rome's empress and not fortune teller or highschool #6"

The interview ends, and the camera may or may have not captured the last seconds, Pedro's gaze fixated with you the entire time.

elysyannemimi: we all saw that right? GET PEDRO AND Y/N IN A ROMCOM ❗THEIR CHEMISTRY IS INSANE❗ at0michips: love paul and y/n so much 😭😭 gimme enemies to lovers RN ㅤㅤbobgirllll: at0michips wait what if paul and y/n are secretly dating 😳 ㅤㅤann-gell: bobgirllll quick question are u dumb unhing3dprincess: i bet my grandma they're married. it has to be. trust me ㅤㅤstarlightt180: unhing3dprincess BESTIE U ARE BACK

You arrived in London today. The premiere will be in a few days, and things have been, well, hectic.

Lux couldn't stop talking all the plane ride, but your mind kept going back at the email your manager had sent you before you had boarded the plane.

It's catching upon you, read the haunting message. Attached below, a TMZ article that claimed a regular church attendee had seen you both getting married. It also used a lot of the noise fans had been making on social media, connecting dots or just hyping up the undeniable chemistry. It ended with a little paragraph saying it was obvios, and they're just hoping you'd confirmed it.

You came to realize you didn't care about it anymore. Sure, the pushing around annoyed you, but the thought of still keeping your marriage under wraps feels pointless now. Why wouldn't you shout to the world how in love with your husband you are?

Yet, when you arrive at the hotel, you keep the same protocol of arriving after Pedro, who has already checked in with two keys, claiming its for him and his sister, while you ask for the key to Lux's actual room. After you swipe cards with her, you head over the room you'd be sharing with your husband.

His face appears in your frame, everything happening quickly.

"Get inside. Now"

Your body is dragged inside the hotel room, not even giving you time to swipe the key for yourself.

"Pedro!" you exclaim, between surprised and confused. "What the hell is your problem?"

"Did you read it?"

"What? The article?" your tone is filled with annoyance. "Yes, I did. Why?"

"What do you mean why?" he snaps, voice raising higher. "Don't play dumb with me. You know fans have fuelled the rumors, and tabloids have started digging every corner in fucking California"

"So, what? You're acting as if people finding out is the worst thing in the world" you roll your eyes.

"It is, yes!" Pedro bursts out, caving in to the stress.

It feels like you've been hit across your face.

"Excuse me?" you seethe, hurt etched all across your features. "Would it be the worst thing in the world to admit you're married to the person you supposedly love the most?"

"I love you, y/n. It's just-"

His voice softens, trying to reach for you, yet you pull back, his hand falling to his side in an akward manner. He sighs in frustration, running a hand through his hair as he sits on the edge of the bed.

"I love you" he repeats, sounding much more sure this time.

Your frame seems smaller as your voice comes out hoarse, filled with emotion, appearing to be in the brink of tears:

"Then why do you act like you're embarrassed of me?"

He hates himself for making you feel this way, making you think things that aren't true.

"I don't. Never" he emphasizes. Then, tries to reach once again when you move a little bit closer to him, recognizing that's your way of letting him know you're ready. "You're the most precious thing in the world to me, don't ever think the opposite" then he sighs, heavy. "I'm just scared"

You silently ask him to explain, rubbing his thumb soothingly across his tattoo.

"You're so young, and I'm, well- I know we're aware of it, but people are cruel and the press is ruthless. I don't want to see your name dragged across the mud because you decided to marry me. Your career is starting, and I'd never forgive myself is something happened to you because of me. Not trying to make this about me, yeah? But this industry is fucked up. You've work hard to get to where you are, and it'll be unfair if you'd loose it. I'm scared because us..." he wavers, words trailing off. "I want us to be. I wouldn't want to live in a world without you, i-it would kill me not to have you be my wife"

You desperately want to kiss off the worry on his face, but let him finish.

"N-not saying our love is weak, or anything! That a couple of opinions or tabloids will- you know? Just, I-I don't want them to break us apart. Mi vida, you're the light of my life. Please, forgive me, I-"

He feels his throat closing up, words failing to come out. You sense the grip on your hand to be stronger, immediately letting loose of it.

"Hey. C'mere" your voice is tender, allowing him to bury his face in your stomach as you comb his messy curls with your fingers. "It's okay, I'm here. I'm not going anywhere"

He lets himself melt under your touch, his mind loosing itself in the soft of your digits and your perfume up his nostrils. He's again breathing normaly, hands now hugging your waist.

"There you go. Better?" Pedro nods, still not being able to talk. "That's okay, take all the time you need. We have all day"

"Do we?" he raises his view, his eyes soft yet there is something else to the brown shade.

You hum as to nod. "We agreed to join Lux for dinner. It's barely 1pm"

"Tell me you're thinking it too" his voice cuts throughout the air, boucing off the tapestry on the walls.

You laugh, nervously. "I don't think I do"

"Hmmh, I see" he stands up, towering over you. "You sure you don't?"

"You sure you want this?"

Before you know it, his lips capture yours in a passionate kiss, cutting off all words to be said. What a waste of air, anyway. You are quick to reciprocate, whimpering against his lips.

Pedro picks you up like you're as light as a feather, his arms flexing as he carries you and places you on the bed, frame hovering over yours. He breaks the kiss to breath, but you're pulling him back in, his hold on your hips tighter and the wet spot in your panties wetter.

"Look at you, pretty baby. So needy" he whispers against your face, hot breath lingering above your lips. "And mine. Mía. Only mine"

"I am, yes. Yours only. Need you so bad right now, papi" you answer in a rush. "Now shut up and fuck me"

"Con gusto" he chuckles darkly, "gotta keep the wife happy"

"Happy wife, happy life" you recite, stripping him off of his plain shirt, revealing his toned torso, bulging biceps defined by the movements. You gulp. "Fuck, papi. Gotta thank Marvel for this. I love all of your versions, but I can work with this too" you dreamily stare at him, your hands cupping his face.

He strips the rest of his clothing, but a cute blush adorns his cheeks.

"Yeah, well, it's Scott's fault too"

Your impatient fingers reach the middle of your panties to rub your clothed pussy, letting out a sound that darkens his hazel orbs.

"Fuck that guy" you mutter. Pedro laughs.

"Thought you said you loved the guy"

"Until I learned what he said about your body" you groan, still rubbing. "Connie told me"

His hands now travel to remove your clothes, almost ripping them off.

"Who cares? I just want to fuck you now" he breathes out, practically drooling at the sight of your damp panties. "Lemme take this off too"

He unhooks your bra, seeing the hard nipples. The urge to lick them is so bad, but his desire to fill you silly to the brim is stronger.

You see his hesitation, which is why you grab him by the neck to pull him in for a kiss. He kisses back fiercely, labored breaths as he struggles to focus on your lips, his wet mouth darting to your jaw, neck and collarbones. His hands roam all over your body, needy.

"Gotta be inside of you, mami. Can't wait any longer"

"Then stop waiting" you plead, tugging at his boxers with urgency.

Seeing you so cockhungry, lips parted and pupils blown wide makes his hard dick twitch with anticipation.

He mutters a labored fuck, aligning himself to enter your sticky folds. Pedro enters your tight pussy with a low groan, burying himself deep inside of you, used to his length by now. You're basically begging for it, nails digging and eyes supplicating.

He can't deny you anything, can he?

A messy whine leaves your widened mouth as you adjust, pleasure mixed with pain.

"Mhmm" you moan.

"Mhmm what?" he mocks. "You asked for it. Now take it, cariño"

He thrusts deeper into you, watching in awe how his dick enters your pussy; it was always perfectly, your pussy made for him.

"You're drippin' baby" his rough voice caresses your cheek. He kisses the are, giving a lick to the sweat starting to form. "S'fucking tight too"

You move your hips towards him, trying to augment the friction. The overstimulation starts to cloud your sense, reducing you to a whiny mess as you grip his steady arms.

"I can't think of anything but you, baby" he confesses between grunts, "filling up your pussy to the brim, you dripping with my seed for days"

You moan at the filthy words.

"Love how you take my dick, amor" stretching you as Pedro moves in and out. "S'made for me"

"Yes" you moan, skin slapping sounds bouncing off the walls. "Fuck, I love your dick..."

His pace picks up, and it comes to a point where he's just fucking you silly, his grip on your hips surely to leave a bruise as you keep spilling obscene sounds of pleasure from your lips.

"Your pussy's mine, yeah? No one else gets to have you like this"

"N-no, just you, Pedro. My h-husband" you manage to squeeze, more moans vocalizing the pleasure you felt with each thrust, his big dick inside of you moving in a a steady rhythm, making your eyes roll back further and orgasm closer.

Your breasts bounce with each thrust, and he finds impossible to resist the urge anymore, licking the sensible skin and hard nipples, your hands moving to his back, scratching him harshly, both chasing your release.

"Please!" you whine out loud, not caring how desperate you sound.

Harder. Faster. Rougher.

But your husband knows you, so he indeed starts to fuck you harder, heavy breaths and slippy kiss noises hanging in the spaces between each thrusts. He pants with every motion of his dick, a knot forming on his belly.

"Shit, baby. I think I'm gonna cum. Gonna come so hard"

"Do it. I'm on birth control, remember?" you groan, feeling your high approach as well. "Fill me up, please. Give me all your cum"

Your bodies move as one, precise thrusts hitting exactly that sweet spot of yours repeatedly, chasing your orgasm. For a brief moment, your eyes lock with his and then he's saying:

"I love you, y/n. So much"

Your heart skips a bit, his dick twitching inside as his gaze glimmers with adoration and possesiveness, teeth grazing your skin with marks for him to call you his.

"I love you too, Pedro. More than you know"

A final thrust is delivered. Fuck, feels so good you think you hear him say. Just like promised, he fills you with his release, shots of his thick, warm cum inside your sticky walls. You follow soon, back arching, toes curling, and both head and eyes rolling back. Pedro falls on top of you, his broad body collapsing over yours, as you both pant hard, trying to steady your pulse and breath. He then removes himself and positions you to be the one on top now, lazily throwing the covers over your bare bodies. We need to shower, you said, but he argued you'd do it later before going out.

"I needed that" and you happily hum in agreement at your husband's dragged out words.

Your head falls and rises, with the movement of his chest, silence settling on the previously filled with sex noises room. That until he speaks up:

"One day, I'm gonna fill you up so good until you have my babies, mami" he murmurs, just then realizing what he said. But you snuggle closer, hand and legs drapped over his bare body. You look at him closely, seeing nothing but certainty on his eyes.

I choose you. I'll always choose you.

"Whatever it is with you" your nose brushes his, a small sweet kiss on his lips, "I want"

His eyes shine, probably with tears or the glow of affection.

"Let's do it"

"What?" you look into his eyes for any sign of doubt, bull all you see is love. "Pedro, are you serious?"

He nods. "Wouldn't you want that?"

You feel the corner of your lips pull up.

"Never have I wanted anything more"

poppysplayground: Y/N AND PEDRO RED CARPET DEBUT AT THE LONDON PREMIER OF GLADIATOR II WTF I JUST WOKE UP ptwt is in SHAMBLES mostannoyingbillioner: UM HELLO pedro showing up with two hot women on his arms LUX GIMME A CHANCE pompeiianbollockr: WAIT WDYM THEY ARE MARRIED?!??! ALL THIS TIME?@?#? HOW???! NEED BIGGER CAPS TO SCREAM I'M GOING INSANE at0michips: that article better come out now or i'll burn the TMZ building ann-gell: not me thirsting for a married man 😭😭😭 how they kept this a secret for so long?? we should've noticed ㅤㅤunhing3dprincess: ann-gell i did. knew betting my grandma was the way all along ㅤㅤpyramiidsf: i'm gonna start betting my grandma too

cr: divider @kodaswrld / gif @trashcora

#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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drsamahfouad · 1 year ago

Link

#what will the temperature in car for dogs chart be?

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spudart · 1 year ago

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When will the cicadas come out?

Cicadas emerge when the soil temperature is 65 degrees at 8 inches deep.

A handful of tools can tell you the current soil temperature and forecast the upcoming soil temperature.

#chicago #cicadas #cicada #maps #soil temperature #cicada forecast #cicada map #charts #graphs

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homecleaning909 · 1 year ago

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(via Best dog walking temperature chart)

A dog walk temperature chart serves as a valuable tool, providing pet owners with a clear guideline on the safest and most comfortable temperatures for walking their dogs. By consulting this chart, you can ensure that your dog enjoys their walks without the risk of weather-related health issues

#dog walking #dog walk temperature chart winter #dog weather chart

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kaiser1ns · 3 days ago

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#. 매니저님, 감사합니다 ! PART 2

featuring 𝘀𝗮𝗷𝗮 𝗯𝗼𝘆𝘀 𝘅 𝗳𝗲𝗺!𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿

fluff. being the babysitter manager of five grown men who act like toddlers with microphones. it's fun being the team’s mvp, therapist, emergency contact, fashion consultant, personal chef, and part-time hostage.

CHECK OUT THE SERIES MASTERLIST

PRINCE CHARMING IS A JERK everyone is falling for jinu, and it's not even surprising. he is the charismatic leader, the golden boy, the idol with perfect visuals, vocals, and vibes.

yeah, prince charming, he is perfect. perfect at being the bane of your existence.

because behind that angelic smile is a certified jerk who’s been messing with you all week. and what does he decide to do now? he has the audacity to ask you, wait no, demand you to dance with the group.

“let's welcome our amazing manager, (name)-ssi!”

oh, he’s evil. pure demonic evil. on national tv, during a variety show in front of actual cameras. as if your career hasn’t suffered enough.

first, it was your outfit. he looked you up and down and went,

“really? you’re wearing that in the 21st century?”

excuse you, king of fashion from the joseon dynasty. who are you to judge? it’s not like he time-traveled from a palace to start critiquing your finds from a sale.

second, he kept putting your things out of reach. your phone? suddenly on the top shelf. your clipboard? behind the couch. your pencil? under his chair, on purpose. you swear he's testing your limits, or plotting your downfall.

then came the tripping. oh, you needed to walk across the room? not on his watch. his legs are everywhere, strategically stretched out like some runway trap. you tripped so many times you started checking for banana peels, ghosts, lasers. nope, just jinu, smirking like the devil.

but the fourth incident? that was the final straw, cherry on top, icing on the cake.

lunch time with the boys, as you sat down, thinking today would be normal. wrong. a food war broke out like it was a birthday party for feral children. you tried your best to restore peace, to be the mature one.

what did jinu do? used you as a human shield.

abby hurled a chunk of chocolate cake aimed at jinu’s face and…it landed squarely on yours. full facial coverage, no need for foundation or setting powder. you were cake, you became cake.

the room fell silent, dead silent and suddenly the temperature dropped drastically.

“uh-oh…” “uh-oh? i’ll show you uh-oh.”

scolding them so hard, they cleaned the room faster than soda pop climbed the charts. but not before you casually wiped a thick streak of icing off your cheek… and smeared it across jinu’s expensive jacket.

revenge is really best served sweet.

ABS, LIPSTICK AND YOUR SOUL so today it was just you and abby, because he had a solo photoshoot scheduled for a magazine. and since you’re technically his manager, also part-time stylist and personal chef, you had to tag along in case anything went wrong.

what actually went wrong was the photographer taking one look at you and deciding:

"yes, her. she’s a star, i want her too."

the man went full runway visionary on the spot, saying things like “match made in heaven”, “too hot to handle”, “this is a renaissance in the modeling world”.

you blinked, abby blinked, and before you knew it, boom, he was unbuttoning his see through white shirt like he did every day.

he didn’t even hesitate. just popped it open, revealing his abs like a smooth criminal. the makeup artists, who you swear were too excited, rushed in to dust glitter on his stomach for more angelic effect. meanwhile, someone shoved you into a beautiful white dress that honestly made you feel like a fairy about to get tricked into marriage.

lights, camera, action!

the first pose was quite intimate. abby’s sitting on the floor, legs bent, slightly leaning back and you’re straddling one of his legs, sitting upright, facing him. your hand’s on his shoulder. it’s giving soft launch, but also someone help me, i didn’t sign up for this.

for pose two the photographer himself wanted you to wrap an arm around his neck. okay, sure. your other hand rests on his chest. he’s standing beside you now, arm around your waist like it belongs there.

then the final shot. one word: scandalous.

you lean in with a bright red lipstick, pressing a kiss to his cheek. abby’s standing shirtless, tie loosened, covered in lipstick marks you just left, like a walking crime scene. he’s smirking, you’re literally dying.

after the last shutter clicks, you finally exhale. it’s over. it’s finally over. you glance at abby, and—oh no.

he’s already looking at you. soft, playful, with daring eyes glowing just a little too golden under the lights.

you look away, cheeks heating up like someone turned the studio into a hot sauna. this was not on your job description, but if viral couple shoots boost popularity, so be it.

“do i… have something on my face?” “no, you’re just pretty.”

manager-nim.exe has stopped working. please restart the system.

and then, oh god no, he brushes his thumb over your lip, gentle, casual, almost like a husband to a bride on their honeymoon. your stomach does an olympic-level backflip. why is he like this? why are his eyes so shiny? why do you feel like you’re being hypnotized?

but just like that, everything goes back to normal.

“can you move, princess?” “abby, you’re the one who wrapped your hands around my waist.” “yeah, but i want to change now.”

spoiler alert: he does not change. he just wanted to see if you’d let go first, which you didn't.

PINK SWEATER HEART MOUNTAIN you have gone through every circle of hell at this point, and it’s only monday. just because you’re technically responsible for them doesn’t mean you’re responsible for everything. or so you told yourself, before you ended up in the middle of someone’s personal closet apocalypse.

how did you get here? good question, you want to know as well.

one moment you were helping sort outfits in romance’s room, like the helpful little assistant you are, and the next, you were buried alive under a landslide of pastel cardigans, suspiciously sparkly pants, and a very aggressive pink sweater with a heart knitted on the front.

you tried to fight for survival, you really did. you kicked, but flailed. screamed once and eventually accepted your fate. your body now belonged to the great pink void. you would be remembered only by the faint echo of your last sigh and the perfume cloud left behind.

what’s the point of living anyway? you were gone. this was it. this was how it ends. goodbye cruel world. goodbye daylight. goodbye life outside of knitwear. merging with the universe, consumed by fashion.

until, hallelujah, a light shone upon your face.

“angel? where did you go?”

a voice. a very sweet voice. could it be... heaven? have you become an angel already? yes, that must be it. the light was warm, comforting, like a divine flame. this was surely heaven’s gate, or maybe it was just romance standing above you like some celestial being sent by the coco chanel gods.

“oh, there you are! you really got yourself buried under sweater mountain, huh?”

he was grinning down at you, you blink at him slowly. is he real? is this a hallucination?

to test this, he leans down and pinches your cheeks. not hard, just soft enough to make you mildly regret ever helping him organize his closet.

then, he offered you a hand. you took it, obviously, because one, he was literally your only way out, and two, you’re not immune to how annoyingly pretty he is.

“i think you’ve suffered enough for one day.”

you mumble something, still spiritually disoriented, because after all, you just came back from the dead.

“we’re going out,” “is it a date?” “depends. are you paying?” “no?” “then yeah, it’s a date. my treat.”

you opened your mouth to argue, but he was already leading you toward the door like some prince rescuing a very confused damsel. you’re still not totally sure what’s happening, but you’re upright, and he’s holding your hand, and that’s a win in your book.

also, he smells really nice. like strawberries and vanilla. honestly, you might let the sweaters bury you again if it means he’ll save you like that.

GOSSIP, CUDDLES AND NAP TIME secretly, mystery was your favorite of the saja boys. not that you’d ever admit it out loud. but it’s just with him, you could finally have a moment of peace and quiet. no screaming, no cake aimed at your face, no wardrobe meltdowns, or someone trying to turn your life into a k-drama.

no abs, no jinu. especially no jinu.

“i swear, if jinu makes one more comment about my outfit, i’m going to wear a potato sack to the next shoot on purpose,”

pacing back and forth across the room like a lawyer waiting for the final verdict awarded to the criminals that are your boys.

“like, i'm sorry, not all of us wake up with perfect hair and tons of designer clothes.”

mystery is sitting quietly on the couch, half-focused on a random magazine that was on the small table, when he was about to say something supportive. maybe something wise, or one of his usual gentle one-liners—

“and don’t even get me started on abby! my lips are still tinted red from that photoshoot. my soul is sparkling from glitter clothes. i sneezed and it looked like a unicorn and a fairy vomited on me.”

he closes his mouth. okay, not the right time.

“romance buried me in sweaters this morning! i almost didn’t make it back alive…also i’m officially traumatized from the color pink.”

you keep pacing. mystery's not surprised, because you do this often when you're overwhelmed. but today’s energy is especially chaotic and exhausting.

finally, you collapse next to him with a dramatic sigh, like the weight of everyone's ridiculousness has finally drained you to the max.

“why are they like this? why am i like this? why are you not like this? actually, don’t answer that.”

mumbling, leaning back and looking at the ceiling like it holds answers to what causes your spiritual pain. the long haired boy just smiles a little, that soft, curve of his lip reassuring you that everything is okay.

you start talking again, softer now. still half-ranting, half-reflecting. something about shoes, cake fights, and jinu’s long legs. then, the words start to come out slowly from you, the energy dips. your voice fades into soft hums and sleepy murmurs. eventually, there’s nothing at all.

he glances down and sees your head gently resting on his shoulder.

oh, you’ve fallen asleep mid-rant again.

he shifts slightly, careful not to wake you, and reaches for the thin blanket draped over the side of the couch. he lays it over your body, tucking it just enough to keep you warm.

mystery leans back, magazine forgotten, letting you rest. peace and quiet, just the two of you. honestly, it’s kind of perfect.

“sleep well, (name)-ssi…”

THE TIKTOK INCIDENT messing around after hours in the practice room with the camera propped on a chair, shirt falling off your shoulder, no makeup, and doing the soda pop choreo like some broke university student who’s had 3 hours of sleep and 5 iced coffees. you weren't even trying to look good for the video, just wanted to test the lighting and have fun like a normal human being. it was meant to stay in your drafts.

except, someone got a hold of your phone because you accidentally left it unlocked.

you should’ve known something was up when baby was too quiet for too long and then started giggling in the corner like a gremlin. you didn’t think much of it until a few hours later when your phone blew up with notifications, mentions, edits, even fanpages. and a trending hashtag.

#SodaPop_Challenge

#SajaPrincess_Challenge

“you did what?” “oops~” “baby i'm going to—” “love and spoil me? I know.”

the video went viral with people starting to learn your version of the choreo. performing it with the boys on live stages as not part of the plans on your schedule. fans said you danced better than half the idols debuting this year.

but the maknae didn’t stop there. no, no. he dug deeper and went through all your drafts.

and there it was, one video that caught his eye. you in a fitted dress, heels, makeup, hair done. looking drop-dead stunning, like a princess.

he blinked, stared, panicked. who was this goddess and what did she do with his manager?

so naturally, he did what he does best: tell lies.

“jinu said you need to dress formally for an event tomorrow.” “why didn’t jinu tell me himself?” “he's busy. something about…non-functional soda pop from the vending machine” “okay…”

so imagine the chaos when you walk into the practice room in heels and a short dress, looking like you’re about to attend the met gala red carpet.

saja boys turned into frozen boys.

romance drops his water bottle, abby walks into a wall, jinu nearly chokes, mystery mutters under his breath, and baby is smug. mission accomplished.

“wait… why aren’t you dressed up?” “dress up for what?”

the anger you had inside you when you looked at baby and he immediately hid behind abby. he was very lucky that he was cute.

taglist: @seneon @y2kuromi @maruflix @napbatata

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theorist-fox · 1 month ago

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Gemstones

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

18+

CW: angst, hurt/comfort, pregnancy, childbirth (mentions), the good ending to this (if only he behaved), simon is a good husband and a good dad

Masterlist 🦊

Simon had promised himself that if he ever lived long enough to be satisfied with his life, he'd go and piss on his father's grave.

He thought about giving up, thought about ending it sooner rather than later—easier to expect life to deal another bad hand, considering what he'd been given in the past. The whisper of a blade along his wrists, or, better yet, a ripe bullet fuming in his head.

Prevent the cunt from sliding more poor draws as birthday surprises.

Still, the thought of desecrating the bastard's grave gave him something to look forward to. And when you have a source of anticipation, life tends to slide by in a bearable manner.

The only thing he had to do now was find a reason to go there, to the cemetery where he was buried. He wouldn't show up with nothing to shove down the man's throat, no matter how dead it was. No, Simon would go there with a trophy in his hand, rub it nicely where the Riley name was just about to fade, and then piss on it.

Medals didn't do the trick in his own eyes—never fond of chest candy, he couldn't imagine the ghost of his father being impressed either. His survival mattered little, too. Hell, he could go there to tell him that he had made it out of a grave, at least, while he stayed buried and dead, killed by the same things he once worshipped: alcohol, drugs, and a fat fucking liver.

Nothing quite fit the plan.

Simon drifted past his thirties with nothing meaningful in his cards — the same shitty hand life had dealt him from the start.

The only thing he could've bragged about was that he never found it hard to juggle work, relationships, and life.

Mostly because he lacked the latter two. What a brag, aye?

Easy as anything, though: go to work, get the job done, and go back home. Crack open a beer, maybe. Pass out on the couch.

He knows what it looks like. He knows and reluctantly admits it, too. Doesn't need a reminder from his psyche, doesn't need to hear the derisive laugh of his old man echo in his head.

He shuts it all off and drinks on it—paradoxical as it may be.

And as life gets dull and duller, rankled with boredom and self-loathing. With the same beers and the same shows on the telly. With the same silence haunting his flat and the same dreadful black hole swallowing his chest—

A spark. A light.

Out of the blue, during the hottest day of summer. Something that makes the hair on the nape of his neck stand on end, like a cat sensing danger—though this is no threat at all. It's the unusual of it, the novelty leaving his stomach knotted and heavy.

A pair of jeans, a light blue shirt left unbuttoned at the top. Just two, nothing too revealing. Open enough to stave off the warmth of HQ, yet still hiding the right amount of skin for a professional setting.

Makes his imagination run wild. Didn't even know he still had it in him, to fantasise.

A necklace you mindlessly toy with between nimble fingers, pretty blue gemstone mounted in gold, as you point at numbers and charts on the whiteboard behind you.

He's heard fuck all.

"Alright then." You snap him out of it. "Any questions?"

It takes him one well-placed elbow in the ribs, surreptitious as the owner, Garrick, for him to notice that he's been gawking at you to the point of discomfort. You're staring back with tightened brows and steeled shoulders, lips furled in either a pensive frown or a disgusted one.

Simon opts for the latter.

Of course he had to go and act like an animal the day he forgoes the balaclava. Not even his need for anonymity could force him to wrap his face in fabric when the temperature is just shy of 35 degrees. And while this has protected him from melting against the chair of the conference room, it has also left him completely vulnerable to bystanders' eyes.

Including yours. Sharper than a blade, cutting him into thin slices until there's nothing left for him to hide.

John asks something. The focus shifts. God fucking bless him alright.

You answer smoothly, crystalline voice that tinkers with his eardrums like they're made of glass.

He takes the ball and brings a hand to his jaw to massage its hinges. It aches. His mouth is dry. Pulse climbing up, palms clammy as they go for his face. If he didn't know any better, he'd think he's on the verge of having a stroke.

But not even Simon, clueless as he may be when it comes to feelings, is that unfathomably stupid. His cock straining in his trousers is a big, fat hint anyway.

You collect your things. Tap your papers neatly into place. Peel off a post-it note and scribble something on it. He follows the curve of your hand, the sharpness of each knuckle.

Simon blinks, and you're right beside him, sticking that yellow paper on the table in front of him.

Your number penned on it. Your name right below.

Simon has fucked plenty of people without remembering much of it. There are those who care if he comes, and those who fuck him even if he isn't hard at all.

It's a very straightforward way to force his body to feel something that isn't agony. Though he wouldn't describe himself to be a sad person—he doesn't think what he feels is sadness. It's more than that, less fickle than simple heartache.

He's accepted that life could either be this or the complete opposite. Between those two states of being, however, there is a whole ocean to cross, and he's utterly alone on a pitiful raft and with a single oar. At that point, he starts realising that he can either row day and night, hoping to reach a place that only seems to get farther and farther, or he can try his bloody hardest to make the journey more pleasurable.

He's tried drugs. Good for a tick. The aftermath is atrocious, though, worse than whatever has been festering in his guts.

Alcohol knocks him out. That's good. Less frowned upon. Easier to hide. His mouth waters when he pops open his beer and listens to the telltale fizz as the bubbles rise to the top. Foam spills on his knuckles, and he lets it crust. And when the beers are over, he switches to whiskey. It burns so good he wishes he could bathe in it—let it corrode at his skin the same way it's corroding his liver.

Sex is a good, perfect balance.

It can't kill him, for one. Another addiction to add to the list, sure, but at least this one won't have him rotting any time soon.

Whoever lands in his bed is game, to be honest. Doesn't care if he's horny, doesn't care if he can't get it up right away. It's the feeling of it—to be used, to be needed. He'll switch to whatever their hearts desire, as long as they fuck him until the knot in his stomach uncoils and he can somewhat breathe again.

But with you, it feels just slightly different. Or maybe a lot different, and he's not ready to face it yet.

He's not letting himself be used, be needed. Simon is reluctantly accepting that he's wanted, and that he can want too. He can want and he can take, if that's what he fancies.

He takes you. Takes you for all that you are: your sense of humour, your quirks, your wit, how your teeth bite into your cheek when you're thinking, the way your hair sways when you talk excitedly.

The way you fuck him, how you look when he fucks you. How your mouth parts when you cum, the weight of your hands on his chest as you ride him. The gentle breaths in the crook of his neck.

The I love you you whisper that first time.

His stomach gets heavier the longer you stay. It's not an unpleasant feeling, but it's new and unpredictable, and Simon doesn't like unpredictability. However, he forces himself to digest it because it feels like something in his belly is finally full.

Something in his heart, too.

Life gets harder, though—practically speaking. The scale tips to where the air smells of citrus and steeping teas instead of rotting flesh and cheap kentucky.

Now he has to go to work, get the job done, and return home. And if he gets home earlier than you, he has to prep dinner and all. Something nice to treat you right. Has to actually do laundry, the way you like it. Clean the house, much bigger than the studio apartment he used to inhabit.

Can't even brag about being able to juggle his life correctly—the visit to his father's grave has got to wait.

It's alright, he reckons. What's one more year, after all.

He stops enjoying lonely Stellas at night, because he found he doesn't really like to kiss you when his breath smells so heavy. Masks your taste, makes him curl his nose in disappointment.

He fancies wine now, like the posh fuckers he's always despised—pop open a bottle and nurse it from one of the two glasses you set on the coffee table at his feet. Bourbon, if he's got nothing to do the next day, and you're off as well. Pepsi, if you're both too tired to digest alcohol that night.

Liquor tastes different now. He doesn't find himself drawn to the bottle if you're not home—at least, not as often as before. He still loves his bourbon, but only after the clink of his glass with yours. A big lad like him can handle a beer or two—still, it tastes better if he can pet your head propped on his thighs as he gulps one down.

Every night, he's got you cuddled in his side, hence passing out on the couch is not an option anymore. The bed it is, then. Better sleep, much more space—hell, better sex for when you're both up for it.

Plus, sunlight hits you just right when he first wakes up and you're asleep, splayed on his chest. He likes the way golden ribbons curl around your shape, threads on your fingers like you're wearing jewels.

Doesn't take him long to actually put a golden band where it belongs, against all fucking odds. When the thought popped in his head, he prepared himself for the devastation that would follow your no.

However, you nod your head when he takes out his mum's ring from his pocket. You nod your head vigorously, he'd like to add. You say a yes so genuine it cracks him open, leaves him bare for you to see the confusion festering inside. The elation.

The unmistakable joy.

No one believes him when you say yes—though truthfully, his mates do. Still, he's the first among the sceptics. A loud minority in his own head.

Johnny claps his shoulder as he stands there, clad in a suit and sweating bullets. Clammy hands pulling at his tie. However, none of it matters when you come to stand before him. Wedding gown on, and the most gorgeous of smiles. Pearls on your neck and tears in your eyes—gemstones, as precious as can be.

A hand on his cheek, a kiss on the lips.

The last as his fiancée, the first as his wife.

Sure, life becomes harder than his previous one. Responsibilities double, but loneliness halves. And halves. And halves. Until he forgets what it's like to live in a house and not in a home.

Briefly, the thought of finally having something to rub in his father's face crosses his mind. But when you take his hand and bring it to your lips, golden wedding ring catching the sunlight, he thinks it can wait a bit more.

What's a couple more years to add to his thirties, after all.

It's a foggy day when you abruptly wake up, lamenting a stomach ache that won't leave you alone.

"I'm so fucking sure it's yesterday's dinner," you mumble, unable to peel the frown off your face. "Fucking take out—I knew we should've cooked."

He's fixing you a cuppa in the kitchen to help with your nausea when he hears you retch from the bathroom. Simon sprints your way, leaving the tea bag to steep in the hot water for longer than needed.

He kneels beside you, running his hand up and down your back. Hooks his arm under the crook of your knees after you've brushed your teeth and takes you to bed.

You murmur that he's the best husband in the entire world as you nuzzle his chest. He chuckles at that. Thinks you proper insane but never voices it.

Perhaps because he likes to hear it. Perhaps because you're making him accept it too.

It's hard to digest, to metabolise that he is not… rotten. Or at least, not as wasted as life made him believe. Fear rankles his bones—to disappoint you, to disappoint himself. But you hold him like you'd rather be nowhere else, and that makes it easier for him to swallow it all. Have his stomach break it down into pieces and feed it to his soul.

It's worth it—fucking hell, really worth it.

Worth more than anything, especially when you both peek through the gaps of your fingers as you shield each other's eyes. The buzzing of the cold bathroom lights is the only background noise, silence as the companion of your bated breaths.

The ping of your phone signals time's up, and his focus finally lands on that stick. His eyes meet two little lines instead of one.

Pure horror and delight. His father's cruel eyes flash like lightning in his head, ice cold and terribly real, awfully tangible. Thunder cracks. He can't breathe right, not as calmly as he should.

You look into his eyes with gemstones in yours. A smile so bright the clouds part to favour it. It's not sunless anymore.

And it's worth it again.

Worth it, worth it, worth it.

Worth every back-breaking job he takes next. Worth every solitary mission he goes on, and every particularly dangerous one he rejects. Worth every extra stack of paperwork tossed on his desk. Worth every bit of overtime he spends in HQ.

Worth it, worth it, worth it.

Worth seeing you grow, worth seeing you healthy. Worth seeing you hungry and devouring the food he makes, drink from the cups he washes.

Worth hearing your chuckle when he brings home that questionable concoction you crave. Worth holding your hair out of the way first thing in the morning.

Worth making love to you again, and again, and again, knowing that's what being home is supposed to feel like. Knowing that he has it, just right there, in the spaces you inhabit. In the pillow under your head, in the green mug next to his blue, in your hair tangled with his clothes.

Worth it.

Worth it, to hear her heartbeat.

Worth seeing her move around in black and grey.

Worth feeling her hand pressing up. Her feet kicking at her ma.

"Like a little alien," you murmur tenderly, pressing his fingers to your belly.

She answers every time.

He kisses your skin. "My little bug."

Worth it, to watch you hold her when she first sees the world. To leave you that space, reserved for you two and not another soul. Even if his fingers itch to touch her, lurching to hold her as well—beating crazed, pulse climbing up, as if his heart could break the bones in his chest and reach out to her. To you.

Angel in your gentleness, goddess in your strength. Heavenly, overall, even drenched in blood and sweat.

Worth the fear for your safety, the fear for hers.

Worth the apprehension, the anxiety. He's not fit to be a dad, is he? Not fit for this life, where all is tender where he's hard, where all is comfort where he's pure unease. His hands have dealt more punches than caresses. They've taken the brunt of so much anger, it must have transferred to his bones somehow.

But if rage truly is his inheritance, it must not have taken root in him. Or at least, not as deeply as he thought. Not as invasive.

There's no space for it, no space for a hollow heart or withering anger. No space at all, because everything inside of him is full of you.

And it's so, so worth it.

Worth it all—just to hold her that first time.

Tiny, tiny thing. He could fit her in a hand if he wanted to, have her little legs hang off his forearm.

He could, surely.

He doesn't.

No, Simon becomes a cradle instead. Both arms curl around her as he sits down, afraid his knees might give out. He speaks to her words he never thought he'd get the chance to say, never thought they'd fit the mould life forced him into.

"Hey bug," he whispers. "I'm your dad."

Tears in your eyes. Gemstones.

In his, too.

Managing life is tenfold harder, especially when his little bug starts crawling.

Now he has to go to work, get the job done, get home—no, scratch that.

Now he has to wake up earlier so he can get breakfast ready for you. Feed his daughter so you can sleep in. Kiss you goodbye.

Go to work. Check the baby monitor connected to his phone so he can watch her sleep for a minute, or see her play in the cradle.

Good for his heart.

Get the job d—call you, to see if you're alright, how you're hanging on. He hates with all his guts that he can't stay home longer, but money doesn't grow on trees, and it's not only about him anymore.

Again, back on track: get the job done. Try to. Check the monitor. Send you a text.

His life would be so fucking bleak without you in it.

Might as well play along.

Back to his plans.

Get the job done early, precisely, so he can get home earlier and see you. Help you. Shed the soldier's armour and wear his dad clothes. Give you time to rest as he takes care of everything, until his baby falls asleep, so he can take care of you too. Be your husband again.

His days are harder. Balancing life and job is not as easy as it was when he used to come back to an empty house and a cold heart. It doesn't go nearly as smoothly as when he came home to you only, to warm arms and gentle eyes.

He knows it's not easy for you either.

Still, now he comes back to the smell of milk and baby powder. To changing nappies and sleepless nights, only to wake up at the crack of dawn the next day.

He comes home to your beautiful, tired eyes. Happy, happy as can be, like you've always been. Like he is—unbelievable to even think about it.

Home to the sound of innocent laughter or piercing cries, to tender babbling and chubby hands grabbing at his hair.

He still has to piss on his father's grave. But that's a thought for another day. You're waiting for him to come home, for him to be the man you know. The man you love.

The man he is.

Life's harder, but his heart's regrown. Spread its roots, symbiotic with you.

His little bug is a troublemaker. Curious. Brilliant.

Like her mum, he reckons.

She crawls everywhere, touches things she shouldn't. Not a soul on Earth has baby-proofed the house like Simon has, and still she finds ways to give her dad a chain of consequent heart attacks that leave him floored for the next couple of hours.

Hell, he wouldn't change a thing.

A dinner at home is how Simon properly introduces his daughter to the team.

Kyle can't stop baby talking to her and she giggles loudly every time. John promotes her to Sergeant Riley with a velcro SAS patch attached to her onesie. Johnny juggles her on his knees, but it's the third time she reaches out with those chubby hands to grab the goddamn knife.

Makes sense, to Simon, to just put her on the playing mat and have her handle things she can actually play with.

And as chatter ensues, Simon's hand drawing circles on your thigh under the table, you gasp.

It's a moment of frigid horror. Fear travels like shards of ice through his bloodstream, tips at his skull. But when he follows the line of your eyes, his body freezes in awe.

There she is, standing on her own two feet.

Sage green socks wobbling on the mat. Tiny arms spread out for balance, chubby fingers wiggling in the air as if it could help her keep still.

Gummy smile pushing at her cheeks, tiny dimples pressing in. She looks at her dad with innocent pride.

Simon's mind travels back. Breath lodged in his throat.

He sees you frowning at him in the conference room. Sees your number scribbled on a post-it note, your half-buttoned shirt and the gemstone in between your fingers.

Sees the pearls like dewdrops around your neck. Those eyes charged with gorgeous tears. The gold around your finger, hand clutching his own to your heart.

He sees those same tiny feet, now touching the floor and holding her up, hidden in your belly. Her tireless kicks to meet his hand through you.

Sees her eyes squinting in a piercing cry. His lips to your forehead, coated in sweat and fear and relief. Feels her weight in his arms like that first time, like he's holding her again—small fists bumping around, eyes adjusting to the first light she's ever seen.

"Hey bug," he whispers. "I'm your dad."

He stands slowly, holding your hand. You follow his movements, eyes locked on your child. The silence in the room is palpable, but it's not a dreadful one—it's anticipation, it's a joy that thrives quietly, bathing each person in the loveliest of lights.

You both crouch a few feet in front of her. Simon opens his arms.

"C'mere bug." His voice trembles, doesn't even sound like his.

You sniffle next to him. "C'mere baby, go to daddy."

There. There she does it. Her babble fades into a giggle. A tiny, tiny step—a tumble. You react automatically, reaching forward with your arms, but his girl's stubborn, resilient.

Like her dad, he reckons.

She stands up again, regaining her balance. And steps forward, and forward, and forward, until the tips of Simon's fingers find hers—solace in her daddy's hold, small hands curled around his bigger thumbs.

Joy explodes. Golden fireworks. His mates laugh brightly, the air is pure delight, and as he picks his daughter in his arms, he holds one out for you.

You scoot inside. Press a kiss wet with lovely tears to your child's cheek. She giggles. It's clueless and light.

It has Simon's heart in a clutch.

He doesn't remember hearing his baby brother laugh like this. Doesn't think he's ever laughed like this either, when he still couldn't even speak.

His baby girl's happy. Loved. You are, too.

His chest tightens when he realizes he is part of the reason why.

"Good job, little bug," you whisper tirelessly, as if no force could stop you from showing how proud you are. How radiant. "Good job my love."

Simon's ears are cottoned. A bubble around you three, impenetrable because Simon has vowed so. His lips on his baby's forehead, then on yours.

His carbon copy looks up at him. Chocolate eyes meet his twin—smaller, fragile, and yet as strong as man can be. His pride, his love, packed inside a mess of curls and dimpled cheeks and pure, gorgeous sunlight.

A small sticky hand lands on his cheek, as if she's trying to make her daddy smile. Simon turns to kiss his daughter's palm and looks into your eyes, glossy with joy—aquamarine tears, glowing from within.

His little bug might look like him, but she's just like you—eyes like gemstones. His treasure trove. Most coveted one, most precious.

"I love you," he mouths to you.

Your smile is wet with tears, chock-full of joy.

You say it back.

His father is buried six feet under. There he'll stay. Drowning under cold, barren soil. Food for bugs, corroded by time.

Not his problem. Not anymore.

You kiss him. A quiet peck in front of guests, but still so charged with love it gives his heart whiplash. He transfers it to his daughter's forehead.

Johnny lifts his glass with a loud Cheers. A happy cacophony follows suit, clinking glasses and a small chorus of congratulations to "wee Sergeant Riley".

Life is hard. It's gonna be harder, and harder, and harder.

But Simon doesn't think it's ever been this bright.

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