Archive of Our Own

You sigh as you shuffle forward, in line at the food truck miraculously stationed near the concert venue you exited. You just had an amazing time rocking out to That One Band you pledged to see no matter when they’re in the area. And now you’re starving.

Your head is pounding a bit from the earlier music; you forgot your earplugs at home, and now you are dealing with the consequences of your actions.

It’s not late yet. Not by LA standards. But you’re tired and now you’d very much like your headache to go away.

You look around as the line continues forward. You smell chorizo and peppers and cumin. There is no greater joy that will come to you than a burrito wrapped in foil.

But … where the hell are your friends?

You came with them. You rocked. And then you somehow got lost upon exit. One of them is your ride. You don’t drive in LA. You hate it. And you make enough money at your job to deal with rideshares. But sometimes that means being at the mercy of folks who had licenses and different social priorities.

Your phone buzzes and vibrates. Repeatedly. Just as it’s your turn to order.

“Hola,” you greet, “un burrito con papas fritas. Bistec. Y dame…” You scan the menu quickly. Some items have been crossed out. “Mango smoothie,” you add in English.

After you tap your card and tip, waiving the receipt, you finally check your phone.

“What the fuck?” You stare at the screen in your palm. You scroll back a few messages, re-reading. “You're joking.”

You’re not going anywhere.

You allow yourself a moment of letting the sizzling carnitas on the griddle nearby serve as white noise.

You wish you had a cigarette.

You wish you had a driver’s license.

You wish you had the patience for—

“You alright?”

You blink and glance over at someone. It’s a guy. Taller than you. Dressed in leather and dark denim. Sunglasses resting on a mop of brown hair. The sidewalk where you’re waiting for your burrito is cast in orange from a single street lamp. Concertgoers and Saturday night wanderers chatter nearby, lingering and smoking.

You don't like talking to strangers.

“Uh, yeah. My friends just—really suck,” you reply, shaking your head, turning back to the pick-up counter.

“Eighty-seven! Ochenta y siete!”

You say thanks in Spanish and grab your burrito and drink. The food smells amazing.

“What happened?” the man asks. You’re snatching brown napkins from the dispenser, trying to get going.

You notice he doesn’t step closer to you or farther away. Just stands there, patient.

You take a sip of your mango smoothie and the ice is a welcome reprieve from the hot LA night. You shut your eyes.

“Lost my ride.”

“Shit. That sucks,” he says. “Sorry.”

You nod and proceed to check Uber. In a few taps you discover there’s awful surge pricing. He notices you wince at the cost of a ride home.

“I could drive you to a metro stop,” he offers.

You laugh. “No, that’s alright,” you say, rolling your eyes. “I don’t want to get murdered tonight, thanks.”

“I’m not going to murder you,” he assures, laughing. “Don't blame you though. But seriously, my agent wouldn’t like it if I did. Murder you, I mean.”

You roll your eyes again. Of course. Classic LA. Someone poking around for a connection when you just want to get a goddamn burrito.

“Gee, you're an actor?”

And you finally look up to get a better look at the man talking to you.

Pedro Pascal is standing across from you, smiling softly, and you can somehow make out his bright brown eyes despite the dimly lit surroundings of a busy LA sidewalk.

His IMDb credits flash through your brain as you try to process who you’re looking at. Well—gazing at now. You stammer for a moment.

“Oh, my God,” you say, clutching your bag of food. “You're—you’re Pedro Pascal.”

Indeed, he is Pedro Pascal, the Zaddy of the moment, all handsome scruff and leather and kindness. He waves a hand, gently dismissing your awe.

“I know,” he says, “don’t worry about it. What about you? What’s your name?”

“Uh, that does not matter," you say with a laugh. Despite living in LA for years, you never had a celebrity encounter this up close.

Pedro frowns, shrugging slightly. “Come on. I’m just a person. What’s your name?”

You stare as he awaits your answer, taking a sip of his own beverage from the nearby food truck. Horchata.

You tell him your name. “But … you’re not really offering me a ride, are you? Where are the hidden cameras?” You glance around for indications of a prank.

“No cameras,” he says with a grin. “And sure I am. You’re having a shitty night. Let me help.”

“I’m not having a shitty night,” you say, a little defensive. “I have a delicious burrito to eat and I ran into one of my favorite actors. That’s not too bad, no?”

He laughs. “Only one of? Not your favorite-favorite?”

“Alright, fine. Favorite feral actor.”

“Now we’re talkin’.” His eyes crinkle as he smiles. “Your night’s not too terrible at all. So. You up for a lift?”

You remember The Secret and all the manifesting you’ve done at night, listening to those 880 mHz tracks on Spotify before sleeping. Why shouldn’t you let Pedro Pascal drive you to a bus stop? You deserve it.

🌯🌯🌯

“This is nice,” you offer as you click your passenger seatbelt in his Audi. It smells new. You realize you will not be able to eat your burrito in his car.

“Nice night,” Pedro acknowledges. “Thanks for trusting me. Let’s get you home.”

Traffic had other ideas. The gridlock before you is a storm of brake lights. You’ve never seen so many shades of red on the road.

You check Uber again. “Christ.”

“You should eat your food,” Pedro says, nodding to your bag. “Don’t want it to get cold.” Before you can protest, he rolls his eyes. “Hey, knock it off—you wanna know how many quarter-pounders I’ve eaten in this car? You’re fine. Eat.”

He watches you, amused, as you somehow carefully eat your late-night dinner. You treat the burrito as if you’re disarming a bomb. 

After a few minutes of chewing in silence, Pedro asks, “You really don’t drive? In Los Angeles?” His eyes stare ahead at the traffic.

“I really don't,” you reply, mouth full of steak and french fries and cheese.

He chuckles. “I have an idea,” he says, glancing over at you, “but you’ll either love it or hate it.”

“Excellent. Love an extreme.”

Pedro puts the car into park. He turns his body to face yours, resting his cheek against his knuckles. His arm is curled and propped against his seat.

You watch him as you gently suck the grease off your fingers. You clear your throat and wipe your hands against your shirt. “Ahem. Sorry.”

“No worries. That was hot.”

“Shut up.”

“So, do you wanna wait it out?”

“Wait what out?” You look around the Audi, at the surrounding vehicles waiting to move.

“The traffic,” he clarifies.

“Where? What, like at a McDonald’s?”

“No! At my place.”

You stare.

“You're Pedro Pascal.”

He checks to see if traffic has moved. It hasn’t. His eyes return to yours.

“Yeah? So?”

“So I’m—no, I’m not going to your house.”

Pedro stays quiet for a moment. He sighs.

“Listen. You were ditched. I wanna make sure you get home safe. I don’t even know what time it is. But I can tell you by the time the traffic lets up, the buses are gonna stop running by then.”

You shrug. “So I’ll just take a cab.”

He gives you a look.

“Or I can walk.”

“Walk where?” he asks, as if you’re telling a joke.

“Koreatown.”

“Koreatown?” Pedro’s face morphs into a mixture of horror and delight. “Fuck no, you’re not walking to Koreatown!”

“Koreatown is FINE!”

“Yeah, it’s fine, but that’s not the point. Will you just let me be a gentleman, please?”

“You're Pedro Pascal!” 

Right, so you’re shouting now. Your eyes widen as your hands flail toward him. “Do you—not remember that?”

He glances up to the roof of his car. “Dios mío, por favor, dame la paciencia—”

“Oye, no empieces!”

Pedro raises an eyebrow.

“Ah! Well. So you speak the mother tongue? What else are you holding out on me?”

You can't help but smile. You may not be Chilean but you’re glad to connect with him besides being his random passenger. “Ah, you know. Enough.” You adjust your seatbelt. You clear your throat again.

“Yeah, I get it,” Pedro says, smiling a little. Surprised. “So you know that Abuela isn’t going to let you be on the streets this time of night.”

There’s not much you can do now; can’t exactly tuck and roll, you’re wearing a seatbelt, and it’s Pedro Pascal’s upbringing against your own anxiety. No contest.

“Do you feel safe?” he asks, gaze softening. His posture is relaxed. His back is almost pressed against his window, as if he’s trying to give you more space.

You smile softly.

“Yes.” The words are automatic. “I am. I’m okay.”

“Good,” Pedro says, putting the Audi back in drive. “Then let’s get out of here.”

🌯🌯🌯

You hear him drop his keys onto a surface near the door. The house is large but it’s far from ostentatious. You think of his character from Materialists—Harry, the handsome as-fuck finance guy with a New York City brownstone—and you wonder for a moment how rich he might actually be. 

Don’t be tacky, you think.

“Nice place,” you say, trying to relax.

“Come check out the kitchen,” Pedro calls.

You leave the foyer and wander toward his voice. You walk across the Spanish terracotta tile and accept a glass of water from Pedro, fresh from the tap. You take a sip. You notice a miniature potted cactus on the windowsill. 

“Thank you for the ride.”

Pedro shrugs, looking mildly disappointed. “I haven’t taken you anywhere you needed to go.”

“Maybe I’m in the right place.”

He looks at you, and you wish you can take the words back. You can’t read his face.

“Fuck. Um. That was forward.”

He smiles. “Go on.”

You wince from embarrassment. “I’m not going to lie. I’ve fantasized about this.”

“About you standing in my kitchen, drinking Los Angeles tap water?”

“You can say thirst was involved.”

Pedro grins. “And how does the fantasy compare to real life?”

“Your kitchen was bigger.”

He lets out a sharp laugh and immediately crosses over to you, rounding the island. You’re grinning. You don’t know what else to do as Pedro walks toward you with intent.

“I like you,” he says, and he gently grips your chin and moves your head as if examining you at a doctor’s office. Soft, careful. You catch a glimpse of his dark bullseye tattoo on his hand, hovering above his thumb. Your hand comes up to rest on his, and the tattoo disappears beneath your palm. 

“I don’t usually—do this,” Pedro sighs, shutting his eyes for a second.

“Neither do I. Look at how much we have in common,” you suggest with a smirk. Pedro smirks back.

“Shocked,” Pedro says, nodding. “Looks like I don’t need that Raya subscription after all.”

His lips are as soft as his kiss.

🌯🌯🌯

I’m a… pleaser.

Your kisses don’t stay soft.

You try to focus on being good at whatever is happening between the two of you.

Pedro, Pedro, Pedro, it’s Pedro—

You are grateful he’s leading. You hear his jacket drop to the bedroom floor as he brings arms around your waist, one hand pressing into your back to draw you closer to his body. You expected the scruff on his face to itch, but it’s gentle and soft instead. You break away for a moment, lips parting with a smack, and you stare at him as you catch your breath.

“Beard oil,” he says simply.

You blink. “…Ah.”

Your mouths collide again now that your pursuit of logic has been fulfilled. Your hands hold his face, his warm and kind face with the square jaw and the soft scruff and the bright teeth when he grins—a smile that’s bright enough to light up a room but not enough to blind you and feel alone.

You think of all those moments you watched him on Disney+ followed by a quick stop to your bedroom after checking for batteries, and you channel all that desire and desperation into your kissing because you never know when you’ll wake up. Maybe you fell asleep in an Uber. Maybe you’re almost at your destination and your burrito is cold.

(Well, it’s like, lukewarm, actually; you forgot it in Pedro’s car.)

“Fuck,” he breathes, pulling your top over your head with ease. Oh, those are his shoulders, okay—

“Uh huh, yeah, ditto—”

And soon enough his wrists flank either side of your head before he attacks your neck with his hot mouth.

Your eyes roll backward. Yes, that’s your kryptonite spot. Au revoir.

You scratch at his chest and oh dear Christ there’s more hair and he is very muscular and you are very grateful to all his personal trainers and dieticians and exercise regimens provided to him by the Marvel Company—

You let out a strangled moan as you feel his erection press against you.

His hands are everywhere. One moment, they’re on your chest, the next they brush up and down your sides; one slides down your stomach and you feel an ecstasy pending between your legs.

You buck upward, violently. You whine. 

Pedro lets out a shhh and he pinches a nipple. Which was very, so not fair.

He tugs your jeans off roughly, nails grazing your hips, which sends electricity up your spine. Pedro takes in the sight of you, heaving, hungry, wanting. His mouth is open. He wants to devour you.

You think he’s coming in for a kiss but instead he swoops downward—ducking—

“Oh, FUCK—”

To your shock, Pedro encourages you to drape your legs over his shoulders. You fist his hair as he laps against you, into you, and your ankles eventually cross as you buck hard against his mouth. Your thoughts flutter like confetti as you try to focus on a point above you, his ceiling, his glorious ceiling. 

“Shit—shit—”

“Mmhmm,” he agrees, and you cry out as his delicious hum vibrates from his throat and through your most sensitive flesh.

You moan as his tongue swims against you, head gently bobbing to his own rhythm. He presses his hands against your thighs to hold you still.

“Pedro!” you scream.

You curse and scream and his tongue relentlessly works you toward a summit of pleasure. You suddenly think

Fuck, fuck, fuck does he even remember my name?

And when Pedro murmurs it against your core, voice husky and hungry, you grab at his black cotton sheets and yell out his.

🌯🌯🌯

I’m not always gentle.

Pedro kisses his way up your body—your thighs, your stomach, your chest—before flipping you over with surprising ease.

You ignore the ache in your knees as Pedro pummels into you from behind. 

Your sweat mingles with his; he’s been working you for at least thirty minutes. Every thrust forces a burst of pleasure that seems to crest at the base of your skull. 

Pedro is big, stretching you deliciously while groaning your name again and again with every snap of his hips.

Pedro curses in English, Spanish. All you can do is demand and beg for him to fuck you into oblivion.

(Look up how to say ‘oblivion’ in Spanish later.)

You’re suddenly pulled flush against him as he sits back, hauling you upright into his lap, your back pressed to his chest. His hands find your nipples, squeezing and tugging, and he’s now thrusting upward while you bounce onto his rock-hard cock.

“Harder?” he pants.

You don’t know how that is possible.

You nod desperately.

You discover it is possible, and of course it’d be Pedro Pascal doing it, doing it hard and right and fuck you can feel him tense—

“No,” he pants, and he pulls out suddenly, guiding you down onto your side. You cry out at the loss of the fullness. He kneels beside you and grips your thigh, lifting your leg until your calf barely rests on his shoulder, and he shoves forward, and you scream again.

Pedro shifts his cock and thrusts at an agonizing pace. The angle is sweet and it fills you like nothing else you’ve ever felt. Ecstasy.

“Pedro, don’t—stop—don’t stop—”

He groans, guttural, and his thrusts quicken at the same time the grip on your leg grows firmer. “You’re incredible,” he manages as he swivels his hips, hitting your fiery insides in a literal swirl. You cry out.

“I’m going to come,” you whine, rocking your hips. The additional friction, at such an angle where Pedro has unfettered access—you’re ready to explode, like he is.

“Come, fuck, come right here, right here, right here, right here—”

And you’re both moaning like animals while your orgasm sears through you, hot and blinding and electric and sizzling, and you pound your fist against his mattress as you sob his name. He holds his cock deep inside you as he spills, his shaking fingers digging into your thigh as he fills you, eyes shut against everything but the high he spent so long chasing in his bed.

You quickly collapse and everything is spinning, but you can smell Pedro and his cum and the cotton and you try to hear his breath slowly, slowly coming back down to a resting pace. Instead, you just hear your own quiet whimpers against his ceiling fan.

“You okay?” Pedro asks, still panting. “That. I—that—”

You whimper again, trying to return from a submissive space. Without any hesitation he props himself up and scoops you into his arms. His back rests against his headboard while he hugs you tightly to his chest.

“Okay?” you say dizzily.

“What? What’s okay?” he asks you, voice urgent.

“Was that … was I okay?”

Pedro scoffs, shaking his head. “So much for being forward,” he says, kissing your forehead. “Just breathe, baby. You’re not going anywhere.”

The fuzziness around your eyes fades as you recognize the framed art and furniture of Pedro’s bedroom. You can hear his heartbeat.

“No,” you murmur, hand against his chest, fingers stroking his hair. “I’m not.”