#ficreq

requested! thank you. ♡ content: breeding kink, raw sex, possessive!pedro, praise, filthy talk, established relationship

His hand is gripping your thigh so tight it might bruise — not that you care. You’re too far gone, too drunk on him. Your legs are wrapped around his waist, back arched, moaning into his mouth like you need him to breathe.

And god, Pedro’s so deep.

He’s fucking you slow but hard, like he knows exactly how to keep you on that edge. Every thrust is thick and steady, driving into you with purpose. The bed creaks, your body burns, and he’s staring down at you like you’re the only thing in the world.

“F-fuck,” you whimper, hands clawing at his shoulders. “You’re gonna make me—god, Pedro—”

“Yeah?” he pants, breath hot against your ear. “Gonna come on my cock, baby? Let me feel you. Let me fuck you through it.”

Your brain’s melting, barely holding on, and before you even mean to say it—

“Want you to fill me up.”

He freezes.

Your body jerks against him, desperate for friction, but he just stays there — buried inside you, eyes blown wide and jaw slack. And then he growls. Low, rough, primal.

“Say that again.”

You blink up at him, lips parted. “Wh-what?”

“Say it again,” he hisses, starting to move again, hips rolling harder, deeper, sloppier. “Tell me you want it.”

You’re gasping now, head tipped back, fingernails digging into his skin. “I want you to come inside. I want—shit—want you to fill me up, Pedro.”

His thrusts go brutal then, reckless. “Fuck, baby. You want me to put a baby in you? Yeah? Get you pregnant right here with my cock still inside?”

You moan so loud it echoes off the walls. “Yes, yes, yes—”

“You’d look so fucking perfect,” he groans. “All full and glowing, dripping with me, mine. Fuck, I’m gonna come. Gonna come so deep you’ll feel it for days.”

Your body’s shaking, back arching off the bed as you scream his name. He follows a second later, crushing you into the mattress, spilling inside you with a moan so filthy it makes your whole body clench again.

He doesn’t pull out.

Just stays there, panting against your throat, whispering, “Fuck… you drive me insane.”

And you? You’re already smiling.

“Maybe you should try knocking me up more often.”

He laughs, breathless. “Don’t tempt me.”

Haha, yeah I am - thanks for the request. I’m a bit rusty with the fluffs but hope you like :)

El struggles the night Hopper brings her to fit her cast. Evenwith her two favourite people sitting her through it, the company is a poorconsolation - the consultation is stiff and awkward, and the sterile environmentmakes her want to scream. There’s anger radiating off her tense shoulders, and thenurses flit about her in nervous energy, unsure of how to take her. She’s huffyand uncooperative, and seeing the understanding shine from beneath Max’s auburnlashes only makes her feel worse by compounding her sense of guilt.

It’s so hard to move in the cast, to do anything at all. Shewalks so slow, now, stumbling forwards with the sticks (crutches, new word)they prescribed her, unbalanced and shaky. She just doesn’t like it – the processof hurt and healing and awkward tension, feeling utterly helpless. Sheremembers how it was before, how white-suits would stare on in pitiful tension,as if they weren’t the indirect source of her wounds. All the way back on thecar ride, she stews in it. Hopper tries to get her to cheer up with her favouritetracks by turning on the FM channel but she just wants quiet. Without a word,she glares at the radio and it falls silent with a staticky whine. She hates itmore that Hopper doesn’t shout at her like he usually would.

Max links her hand in hers, and El looks down at them. Herown nails are bitten ragged and Max’s are shiny with orange polish. She doesn’tquell the urge to reach over with her other hand to fiddle with the colourful rubberbracelets on her wrist – neon green and yellow tubes.

“You know,” Max says, a little abrupt, a little breathless, “castsare kinda tubular.”

People laugh at Max when she uses the word, but El likes theway she says it, the exaggerated syllables as if she’s afraid to get the pronunciationwrong. She looks up at Max, a tentative smile on her lips, “how?”

“I got hurt in Cali,” Max starts, rubbing over El’s knuckleswith her thumb – she has El’s full attention now, “I slipped at the pool andgot a fracture here,” she raises her other arm slightly.

“A fracture?” Her brows furrow.

“Like…” she rubs her chin in thought before snapping herfingers, “half-broken.”

“Oh,” El says, staring at the arm. It looks completely healed,like the hurt was never there. And then, feeling a hampered by her lackof verbosity, clumsily tags on, “I’m sorry.”

“That’s not my point,” Max rolls her eyes, smiling, “myfriends back in Cali used to draw on my cast. It was pretty dope. I bet can doeven more with this.” She taps her fingers lightly over the blank plaster, andEl wishes she could feel it.

“That sounds totally kickass,” El breathes out, the grincoming easier, “I want drawings of the whole party.”

“Schweet,” Max cackles, “dibs on getting to draw first. I’mgonna take up all the space on your cast for sure.”

“Hey, watch your language,” Hopper glares through the rear-viewmirror, but his moustache is doing a weird tremble and El knows his lips arequavering underneath it. El smiles benignly at him, and he drops it.

She waits until the road has Hopper’s undivided attention beforeleaning into Max. Her side is warm and her frizzy hair tickles at her nose.

“Thanks,” she whispers, an admission for Max’s ears alone.

I’ll admit, not my finest work:

 It wasn’t rare that Bruce had to leave the house for business, quite common in fact, what was rare was both Bruce, Alfred and Dick were unable to come to the manor for three days. Bruce was forced to travel to Los Angeles with Lucius for a W.E. business deal, Alfred was in London visiting family, and Dick was caught up in Bludhaven. What did that leave? Jason and Tim as the demon-sitters, because Bruce apparently didn’t trust just one of them.

Less painful if they suffered together, Jason supposed.

The first day had gone alright, send the brat to school while Timmy goes to work-disappear for a while. They had gotten by simply by ignoring each other. The second day they weren’t as lucky. The brat had to go and contract a head cold from his sardine can of a school. Tim, being as helpful as ever with his missing spleen, fled back to the safety of his apartment.

What did that leave? Jason with a sick child.

Terrific.

“This blanket has holes, Todd.” Said child whined, chucking the blanket back at his older brothers face. Jason caught it and scowled.

“Yeah, brat, because it’s a knitted blanket.” He said. It was true, the blanket had been knit by Bruce’s mom, Martha Wayne not long before she was killed.

“Well it’s not keeping me warm.” The kids nose was stuffed and his voice thick. Jason cringed at the snot beginning to appear on the boys upper lip.

“You have a head cold, not the plague.” Jason snapped. “Get your own damn blanket.” He spread out the one that had recently been thrown at his head and tucked it over himself.

“Tt, useless as always.” Damian mumbled, nuzzling himself impossibly further into the cushions of the couch.

“You can just shut up, you little Prince.” Said Jason. He would have thought that Damian-I am Godly- Wayne would have denied sickness to the very end, but no, the kid was playing it up. Whining about the littlest things and asking Jason to do everything for him. Yet, again, that was Damian’s normal attitude, the sickness probably wasn’t to blame for any of Jason’s suffering.

Someone came through the front door as the next episode of Brooklyn Ninety-Nine started up. They had been in silence for a few moments, Damian sucking in disgusting, snotty snorts of air. He shifted for the millionth time, trying to press himself even farther into the cushions.

“Clear that out would you?” Said Jason, eyes focused on the show.

“Then get me another tissue!” Ordered Damian, voice raspy from the dripping in his throat.

“Damn, your irritating.” Jason snipped. “Wonder where you got that whining from. Don’t think Bruce would let himself look that weak, and it sure as hell ain’t from Talia.” That got Damian’s attention, so Jason let himself continue: “You know, your lucky she’s not here. You’d probably get a lashing for all that complaining.” Damian stiffened.

Then he continued, muttering under his breath. “Heck, maybe she was onto something, maybe that’s what it will take to get you to shut up.” But it was too loud, and of course the kid had heard it, that’s how he was taught to survive. Jason waiting for a retort, a classic Damian response filled with so much snark that it would be hard to believe it had come from such a young mouth.

The fact that all he heard was silence, either meant the kid had miraculously fallen asleep, or, Jason’s words had done major damage. Looking up proved the ladder of the two to be true.

“ Hey, kid, look. I didn’t mean that okay?” If he didn’t mean it he shouldn’t have said it, shouldn’t have been so inconsiderate to say such a terrible thing when that terrible thing had probably been true. They had all seen the scars, all hated how marks from such awful things were on someone as young as ten. Damian still didn’t respond, just looked at his lap like it was the most interesting thing that he had ever seen.

“Dames, you hear me, right? I would never hurt you, no one here would ever hurt you.” Jason stood up, bringing the knitted blanket over and moving to lay it over the boy. He tried to pretend like he hadn’t seen the flinch.

“Come on kid, I know you can hear me.” Jason stooped to his knee, getting lower so he could be eye level with Damian. There was still no response, not even a glance up. It was a reaction Jason had never seen from Damian, never thought he would ever see.

“Yell, scream, cry, please say anything.” Jason found himself begging. “Anything.” Damian stayed quiet, Jason glanced at where Tim lingered in the doorway, bag of takeout hanging from his hand.

“Dami, please.”

Damian made a noise, a large and disgusting sniff that made Jason want to run in the other direction, but it was a noise nonetheless.

“You know I was kidding, right?” Jason asked, risking the loss of his hand to stroke the boys cheek.

“Don’t tell father.” Damian said quietly. “Please.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t.” Jason promised, then adding: “But even if Bruce found out, he wouldn’t be mad. Sick kids are whiny. Hell, non-sick kids are whiny.”

“I’m not a kid.”

“There you are!” Jason said, ruffling his younger brother’s hair and plopping on the couch next to the boy. He pulled a stiff and slightly resistant Damian into his side. “Now Timmy, what grub did you bring us?” Damian sniffed loudly.

requested! thank you. | pt. ii content: fluff, girlfriend/wife!reader, domestic comfort, Pedro yapping, supportive!reader, fans noticing.

Pedro had always been a talker. You learned that on your very first date—he’d gone on for fifteen minutes straight about an old Chilean movie you’d never heard of, hands flying, eyes sparkling, his glass of wine untouched as he rambled himself into a frenzy. You’d just sat there, chin propped on your hand, smiling like an idiot.

It hadn’t changed in all the years since.

He was a certified yapper. A man with thoughts, and so many of them. On the couch at home he could fill an entire evening telling you about a new recipe he wanted to try, the behind-the-scenes gossip from his last set, or the ten best Nicolas Cage performances ranked (a list he revised at least monthly). In the mornings, he read the news out loud while you brewed coffee, muttering commentary that made you laugh into your mug.

And you loved every second.

You loved the way his voice lilted when he got excited, the way his hands moved almost as fast as his words, the way his eyes searched yours to make sure you were keeping up with his train of thought. Most of all, you loved how much he trusted you with his yapping—how safe he felt pouring everything out, unfiltered, knowing you’d listen.

So you did. Always.

There were entire compilations online now—videos of the two of you at restaurants, red carpets, even waiting outside airports. Pedro, animated and grinning, talking a mile a minute. You, leaning into him, brushing your fingers through his curls or fixing the collar of his jacket, nodding along like his every word was the most fascinating thing you’d ever heard.

The captions were endless: “he’s yapping and she’s just LOOKING at him like he hung the moon 😭” “not her playing with his hair while he rambles about tomatoes… wife behavior actually” “pedro pascal finally has someone who loves his yapping and i couldn’t be happier”

One clip in particular had gone viral: Pedro going off about a 70s vinyl reissue he’d found, hands gesturing wildly as you sat beside him at a café, your cheek resting on your palm, smiling like it was the greatest lecture in the world. Every once in a while, you’d interject with a thoughtful question—just enough to send him into another tangent. The comments section had melted down.

At home later that night, curled against him on the couch while he yapped about some obscure documentary he wanted to show you, you teased him gently: “You know you’re the internet’s favorite yapper, right?”

He groaned, hiding his face in your shoulder. “Oh, God. Don’t call me that.”

You laughed, threading your fingers into his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp until he peeked up at you again. “I love listening to you,” you said simply.

And the way he looked at you then—quiet, soft, like you’d just given him the whole world—made you realize that was all he’d ever really wanted. Someone to hear him. Someone to love him enough to listen.

content: explicit (18+), shower sex, established relationship, mutual obsession, possessive!Pedro, gentle praise + filthy rhythm, sensory overload, he's big and broad and wet, you're ruined and loving it.

You were supposed to stay in bed.

You meant to — warm sheets, Pedro’s scent on your pillow, the soft promise of sleeping in. He even whispered it before kissing your temple: "Just a quick shower, baby. Stay cozy. I’ll come back to you."

But the moment you opened your eyes and noticed he wasn’t beside you, your body already missed him.

And when you walked into the bathroom and saw him through the fogged glass — all that steam that back, that thick stretch of his shoulder flexing as he braced one hand on the tile, head tilted slightly under the spray — you were done for.

You didn’t even think.

requested! thank you. ♡ content: dad!pedro, baby’s first word, fluff, pure sweetness, soft tears

It’s a quiet morning. The kind where the light comes in soft and the world hasn’t really started yet.

Pedro’s still in his pajamas — grey sweats and a threadbare t-shirt you’ve been trying to sneak into the donation pile for a year. His curls are messy, smile soft, hands full of your daughter as she sits in his lap, babbling nonsense in that way babies do when they’ve got a lot to say.

You’re standing at the stove, flipping pancakes, half-listening to the adorable one-sided conversation happening behind you.

He’s holding her like she’s made of light. Swaying gently as he hums some old Chilean lullaby under his breath.

“Yeah?” he murmurs. “You’ve got so many opinions this morning. Anything you wanna tell me?”

She babbles again, slapping his chest with both hands.

“Exactly,” he nods, playing along. “Honestly, I feel the same way about that giraffe book. Bit overrated.”

You giggle softly and shake your head. “You two are ridiculous.”

And then— A small voice. Clear. Intentional. “Papa.”

You freeze.

Pedro stills beneath her.

You turn around slowly.

She says it again.

“Papa.”

And that’s when it hits him.

His breath catches. Eyes go wide. Mouth falls open just slightly — like maybe he’s not sure if he imagined it. If the walls heard it too. If the word is real.

“You just—” He looks up at you, eyes already shining. “Did you hear that?”

You nod, grinning. “I heard it.”

“Say it again,” he whispers, turning back to her like she’s some kind of miracle. “Come on, baby. One more time.”

She beams. Reaches for his face. “Papa!”

He breaks.

Like really breaks — pulls her against his chest, nose buried in her tiny curls, a few silent tears slipping down his cheek as he laughs.

You walk over, still holding the spatula like you forgot you were mid-flip. “You okay?”

He kisses her head, voice thick. “I’m not. I’m ruined forever. This is it for me.”

You smile and wrap an arm around them both.

“Papa,” she says again, proud now. Over and over. Like it’s her favorite new sound.

Pedro just holds her tighter.

“She said papa,” he whispers, still stunned. “She said me.”

requested! thank you. content: fluff, implied spice, celebrity couple, romantic chaos, social media explosion, humor, public thirsting, extremely cute married vibes.

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The romcom was already a cultural reset.

But the photoshoot? That’s what broke the damn internet.

You and Pedro, golden couple of the year, had been everywhere lately — talk shows, red carpets, interviews. The chemistry on screen was enough to melt steel beams, but the real fun? That lived in the moments behind the camera. And the photoshoot to promote the movie? Yeah. That was the cherry on top of the frenzy.

A chaotic, horny, and unhinged cherry.

The second the studio released the official images plus the BTS video plus the outtakes (because your PR team is genius and a little evil), the internet collectively lost its mind. It was like someone pulled the fire alarm in the middle of a Pedro Pascal convention. Twitter crashed. TikTok flooded. Instagram became a shrine.

The photos were... a journey.

Some were so soft they made people cry — you in Pedro’s lap, both in cozy knits, smiling into each other’s mouths like no one else existed. His hand tangled in your hair. Your fingers tracing his jaw like you couldn’t help yourself. The caption read: “love, actually.”

Others were chaotic — both of you in matching suits, dancing like idiots mid-frame, tongues out, eyes crossed. Pedro lifting you bridal style and pretending to run away. You sitting on his shoulders while he did jazz hands.

And then there were those ones. The ones people could not handle. The ones that came with warnings.

Pedro shirtless, your legs over his thighs, your hands in his curls, both of you looking like you just finished something illegal. You biting your lip. Pedro with that look — heavy-lidded, sinful, like he knew exactly what he was doing to people. Spoiler: he did.

The behind-the-scenes video was even worse (better).

— Pedro tripping over a light cable and you yelling “he’s fragile, he’s fifty!!” — Him calling you “mi esposa” every five minutes like it was a game. — You smacking his ass between takes and him giggling like a schoolboy. — Both of you arguing over who kissed who first in the movie. — The makeup artist having to fix Pedro’s lipstick smudges after a steamy take. — “Don’t look at me like that,” you whispering, and Pedro going: “How am I looking at you?” and the photographer going “GOD, CAN YOU TWO STOP BEING PERFECT FOR ONE SECOND.”

And the comments?

Absolutely feral.

“WHY ARE THEY LOOKING AT EACH OTHER LIKE THAT. THEY’RE MARRIED BUT I’M STILL JEALOUS.” “the soft smiles, the matching rings, the giggles, THE HANDS. they are what love should be.” “these pics healed my childhood trauma and gave me new kinks.” “petition to let them do every romcom from now on. every. single. one.” “i don’t want a relationship unless it looks like pedro letting her sit on his lap in every frame like she belongs there.” “they look like they fuck and do sudoku together. i want that.”

Pedro reposted one of the more provocative pictures on his Instagram story, adding a casual “whoops 😇” and you replied with “you knew exactly what you were doing.”

And yes — the movie is breaking box office records. But you two? You’re breaking hearts, ovaries, and the space-time continuum.

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✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

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