By Benjamin Epstein
FAN FICTION: Pedro Pascal makes you a really awful omelet.
Summary: He makes you an omelet. It’s bad.
You get home from work, your elbows aching from all the grease. All you want to do is relax and be with your husband, Pedro Pascal, but these hopes crumble when you see your kitchen. It is covered with cheese. In the middle of this circus of kurds is Pedro Pascal, wearing a chef hat.
“What happened?” You ask.
“I…made an omelet,” Pedro Pascal mutters, his mustache quivering as he speaks. “Or, at least, I think I did.”
“Where is it?” You ask.
“In the oven.” Pedro points a trembling finger at the metal box.
You open it, only to find a live chicken, covered in cheese, pecking at the floor of the oven.
“It hasn’t laid any eggs yet.” Pedro cries.
FAN FICTION: Pedro Pascal Insults Your Socks
Summary: He insults your socks
It’s a foggy Sunday morning. You’re at The Shoe Store, the only shoe store left after all the others mysteriously burned down.
You go and try on a pair of shoes. Immediately, a feeling of pure ecstasy wafts over you. These shoes fit you perfectly. It’s like they were designed just for you. The only problem is, they’re a disgusting shade of orange.
So, you take off the shoes and go to speak to an employee of the store. You quickly spot one, his back turned to you.
“Excuse me.” You say.
He turns around, revealing the rugged face of Pedro Pascal.
You’re about to ask him if they have the shoes in a different color, but then he looks down and a smirk spreads over his face.
“Are you seriously wearing those socks?” He chortles, one of his luscious eyebrows arching like a stretching lion in mirth.
You immediately begin to break into tears. “These socks were a gift from my grandma.”
“Those aren’t even real socks, they’re just two ziploc bags.”
That’s enough. You go to punch him in his majestic mustache, but he takes out lighter. His eyes twinkle with a supernova of maniacal glee.
“Not today.” He says.
FAN FICTION: Pedro Pascal Loses The Teeth You Lent Him
Summary: He loses all of your teeth
The door feels wooden against your knocking knuckles. This is probably because it’s made of wood.
The creaking sound of the door opening is like a witch having an orgasm. Pedro Pascal’s face peaks timidly through the crack in the door.
“Yes? Who is it?” He says.
“You know who I am, Pedro,” Your voice is as cold as a kiss from a snowman. “I want my teeth.”
The deal was that Pedro would have seven of your teeth for seven days. It has now been eight days, and no teeth.
“Well, it’s a funny story,” Pedro replies, sweat pouring down his face and onto his luscious eyebrows.
“I don’t have time for your games, Pedro,” your voice is sharp, like a kiss from a sword that is sharp. “I’m having a dinner party at eight, and if seven of my teeth aren’t there, the queen of England is going to kill me.”
“Okay, I admit it,” Pedro yelps. “I lost your teeth!”
“How!?” You scream, your voice as hot as a kiss from a snowman who is made out of lava instead of snow.
Pedro’s bright brown eyes burrow into your skull like a swarm of termites that happen to look just like two pairs of eyes. “I put them under my pillow.” He mutters.
You drop the eight paper bags you were carrying in case you needed to drop something to show your surprise.
“No, no, no! How could you, Pedro!!!”
Pedro melts into a puddle of tears, and you feel like doing the same. However, your parents raised you to be strong, and it’s only nine hours till your dinner party.
You take out your samurai sword. It’s time to kill the tooth fairy.