#(for the caption quote mostly)

[zaahvi]

"I am Elgar'nan — First of the Firstborn, Last of the Evanuris."

[headcanonthings]

steve has a singular way of making (boy)friends

[thecrenellations]

“There was no need to speak. Lymond’s blue eyes, narrowed and filled with a kind of weary distaste, stared back into Jerott’s, and Jerott, his fingers and thumb closing on skin and bone, blood and muscle and vein like a tourniquet, harder and harder, admitted to his understanding at last what his heart had already guessed.”

two out of three terrible garden scene participants 💖💜💙

(Pawn in Frankincense, ch. 11)

[yellow-artz]

Happy accident

[teaah-art]

Girlbossing in silks by the ocean

[tsunaso]

hiii ur red hood fic really opened my third eye like it was scrumptious !! but may i request tim drake with a bimbo/himbo reader (gn or whatever u prefer !!) who is tired of people thinking that they're the submissive one in the relationship by the media (doesn't help that tim likes to be a brat and feed into the rumors) so they take it upon themselves to put him in his place ! yummy brat taming mmm

“LIGHTS, CAMERA, ACTION!”

pairing. Sub!brat!Tim Drake x Top!himbo!male reader

synopsis. Tim Drake has the internet fooled—he’s got everyone thinking he’s the one in charge, And you? The soft, golden retriever boyfriend who carries his bags. It’s cute. Until Tim starts leaning into the act just a little too hard. Now it’s time to remind your baby boy exactly who’s in charge—and shut that bratty little mouth the only way he’ll learn. — 4.6k

warnings. mdni, nsfw, amab reader, brat taming, blow-job, soft dom, hair pulling, power play, dumbification, overstimulation, choking, light degradation, spanking, praise kink, subspace, name-calling (slut, baby boy, etc.), aftercare, Tim is a little menace <3

Tim Drake had been smirking all damn day.

It started small—barely-there glances during the morning interview, the casual way he leaned into your side when the camera panned your way. But it escalated. Fast.

By the time lunch hit, the internet was already eating it up. A now-viral clip of Tim sitting in your lap at last night’s gala, fingers twirling lazily through your hair while he whispered something into your ear. The caption? "tim got that man wrapped around his finger 😂😍"

You weren’t mad.

You knew what you looked like next to him—six foot something, soft-voiced, sweet to a fault. The golden retriever boyfriend. And Tim? Sharp suit. Sharp eyes. Sharper mouth.

Of course they thought he was the one in charge.

But Tim knew better.

“You’re really gonna let them think that?” you asked, sometime after dinner, when he curled up on the couch beside you, phone in hand and that same smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Think what?” he asked, too innocently.

You narrowed your eyes. “That you call the shots.”

Tim didn’t even look up. Just shrugged, thumbs still tapping the screen. “Well. I mean. Have you ever said otherwise?”

You stared at him.

He smirked wider.

“I’m joking,” he added, too quickly, slipping the phone into the pocket of his hoodie. “Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

Tim climbed into your lap again, just like he had in the video. He settled in like he belonged there—like you were his throne—and looked up at you, all lashes and mischief.

“I mean,” he said, voice low, “you don’t exactly correct people when they say I keep you in check.”

You arched a brow. “Because I think it’s funny. You, keeping me in check? Baby, you cry when I change the Netflix password.”

“Okay, that was one time. And I was stressed.”

You leaned in. “You pouted for three days.”

“I missed my show!”

Your hands found his waist, big and warm and just a little firmer than before.

“And now you’re feeding into it,” you murmured, tone dipping, breath ghosting over the shell of his ear. “Retweeting the edits. Dropping quotes in interviews. Looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” he asked, too fast.

“Like you want me to prove you wrong.”

That shut him up.

His breath hitched.

And when he met your gaze again, the smirk faltered just enough to tell you everything you needed.

You pressed a kiss to the side of his jaw, light and sweet.

Then you whispered, “Upstairs. Now.”

Tim didn’t move right away. He blinked up at you like he hadn’t expected you to actually say it out loud.

You arched a brow. “Did I stutter?”

He swallowed. “No, sir.”

God, he was such a fucking brat. You loved him.

You stood, tugging him up by the hand. “Then go.”

He turned, smirking again—but quieter this time—as he walked. And you let your eyes drag over the way his hoodie hung too loose around his waist, the curve of his ass in those smug little tailored pants.

You followed him up the stairs. Watched him slow at the bedroom door, as if debating whether to keep the act going or not.

He stopped just inside the room and turned. “You sure this isn’t about your ego?”

You tilted your head. “You sure you want to test me?”

Tim stepped back, slow, walking toward the bed. “I’m just saying… all those edits aren’t wrong.”

You stalked in after him.

“You mean the ones where I’m apparently your soft little boyfriend who gets flustered when you hold my hand in public?”

“Mm.” He sat on the edge of the bed, looking up at you. “I mean, you do blush kind of easy.”

You stepped between his knees. Let your hand curl into the collar of his hoodie and tugged him up, just a little.

“I blush because you’re cute,” you said, lips brushing his. “And also because I’m thinking about shoving my dick so far down your throat you forget how to spell your own name.”

That broke something.

Tim’s smirk cracked.

You pushed him back onto the bed, gentle but firm. He landed with a little oof, arms spread, eyes wide.

You pulled the hoodie off. Tossed it to the floor.

Then crawled over him, bracing your arms on either side of his head.

“You think you’re in charge?” you murmured, voice low. “You think you can keep running that mouth, posting those captions, letting people think I’m the one getting fucked?”

Tim swallowed. “I mean, technically—”

Your hand closed around his jaw.

Not hard. But enough.

His words cut off with a sharp inhale.

“You’re real bold for someone whose knees shake when I say ‘good boy.’”

Tim exhaled shakily. “...You haven’t said that yet.”

You smiled.

“Oh, baby. You’ll earn it.”

　　　　　　　　　　　✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

You dragged him upright by the wrist and sat down at the edge of the bed, spreading your thighs wide as you pulled him between them. He blinked at you, confused for half a second, until you patted your lap.

Tim’s eyes widened. “You’re not serious.”

“Oh,” you said, gripping his hips and manhandling him across your legs, “I am very serious.”

He squirmed. “You can’t be—this is childish.”

You leaned down, lips brushing the shell of his ear as your palm settled against the curve of his ass.

“You wanna act like a brat, baby? Then you’re gonna get treated like one.”

Tim went very still.

His breath hitched when your fingers hooked into his waistband and tugged both his pants and briefs down to his thighs in one smooth motion.

“You should be grateful,” you murmured, smoothing your hand over his skin. “Most people don’t get punished this pretty.”

He made a sound—half protest, half flustered noise—but you didn’t give him time to think.

The first spank landed with a sharp snap of skin.

Tim jolted. “F—fuck—!”

You rubbed the spot you’d just struck, fingers tracing the flush rising there.

“Language,” you said calmly. “Now count.”

Tim hesitated. Then, sullenly: “One.”

You nodded. “Good boy.”

And brought your hand down again.

Harder.

Tim gasped. “T-Two.”

“Louder.”

“Two!”

Another slap. Sharp. Deliberate.

He arched off your lap with a hiss. “Three.”

You kept going. Not fast. Not cruel. But hard enough that each strike landed with purpose.

“Four… Fuck, five—!”

You raised an eyebrow. “What was that?”

Tim froze. “...Five.”

You hummed. “That’s not what I heard.”

He groaned into his arm. “C’mon—”

“No. Start over.”

His breath caught. “You’re kidding.”

“Do I sound like I’m kidding?”

You smoothed your hand over his burning skin again, slow and warm.

“Don’t make me add more.”

Tim growled softly under his breath, but said nothing.

He took a breath.

And started again.

“One.”

Smack.

“Two.”

Smack.

He was breathing hard now. Not from pain—but from the pressure of it. The control. The way you wouldn’t let him wriggle out with sass or sarcasm.

You felt him twitch every time your palm landed, felt the slight tremble in his thighs. His hips had started to subtly shift with each strike.

And his cock—trapped between his stomach and your thigh—was getting hard.

You grinned.

By the time he reached “Eight,” his voice was cracking.

“...Nine,” he whimpered, burying his face in the sheets.

You held still. Let your palm rest on the warmth of his ass.

“You sure about that number, sweetheart?”

He sniffled.

“Yes—Nine, I swear.”

“Mm.” You gave it a moment. Let him breathe. Let him sweat.

Then delivered the final blow—firm, with your hand curled slightly to catch the same spot as before.

“Ten.”

Tim’s voice was raw. “T-Ten.”

You hummed in approval. Ran your hand down his back.

“Good boy.”

He shuddered.

The words hit harder than the spanks.

You leaned over him, letting your mouth graze his shoulder.

“Now,” you murmured, “maybe you’re ready to earn a little more.”

Tim stayed there a moment too long after the tenth strike. His head was down, cheek pressed to the sheets, hips lifted like he wasn’t quite ready to move—like the weight of you across his back had melted him into something obedient.

You rested your hand on the curve of his ass again, rubbing gentle circles into the pink skin.

“Look at that,” you said softly, fingers dragging down the side of his thigh. “Didn’t even need to tie you down.”

Tim made a sound—something caught between a scoff and a sigh. “You’re acting like this was your idea of mercy.”

You chuckled and leaned in, letting your chest press to his back, breath warm against his neck. “Sweetheart, if I wanted to be mean, you’d still be on the first round.”

He shivered. You felt it beneath you—the slight tightening of his core, the way his hips shifted just enough to let his hardening cock drag against your thigh again.

“I see the little show’s over,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to the nape of his neck. “Where’s all that confidence now, huh?”

Tim groaned quietly. “I hate you.”

You smiled, wide and full of teeth, and kissed his shoulder again.

“No, you don’t.”

You let your hand trail forward, brushing down his stomach, just barely ghosting the underside of his cock—enough to make him jolt, but not enough to give him what he wanted.

His hips jerked forward instinctively, but you pulled your hand away before he could grind against your palm.

“Nuh-uh,” you said, clicking your tongue. “Not until you ask.”

Tim twisted just enough to look at you over his shoulder. His hair was a mess, cheeks red, lashes wet. His glare didn’t have half the heat it usually did.

“You really want me to beg?”

You tilted your head and let your thumb drag over his lower lip, pressing just enough to part it.

“I want you to be honest. With me. With yourself.”

He sucked in a breath and held it. You waited, still stroking lazy circles on the side of his hip, letting the silence stretch like silk between you.

Then, softer than you expected:

“I want your mouth.”

You didn’t move.

You didn’t answer.

You just kept looking at him—slow, patient, adoring.

Tim swallowed. His voice was hoarse when he spoke again.

“Please.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Please what?”

Tim’s lashes fluttered. His hips flexed again, like his body was begging faster than his mouth could keep up.

“Please use your mouth. I—I want you to suck me off.”

You could see the tension in his jaw as he forced the words out, how much it cost him to say them without a smart-ass smile. No games. Just need.

You kissed his spine, slow and reverent.

“There he is.”

Then you flipped him.

Strong hands under his thighs, you lifted and shifted him effortlessly onto his back, laying him out like a gift on the bed. His legs dropped open on instinct. His cock twitched against his stomach, red and leaking.

You settled between his thighs and looked up at him with a grin.

“You want my mouth, baby?”

Tim nodded quickly. “Yes—please, just—”

You cut him off with a kiss to the head of his cock.

“Then you better keep still,” you whispered. “Or I’m starting from one again.”

He whined.

And you licked the drop of pre from his slit like it was honey.

Tim tried not to squirm.

Tried being the key word.

You hadn’t even taken him into your mouth yet—just kissed the tip, licked him slow, let your tongue tease the slit until he was gasping—and he was already trembling. His fingers twisted in the sheets, tight-knuckled and white, like he was holding onto something just to keep from falling apart.

You looked up from between his thighs, chin resting lazily on his hip. “You’re shaking already?”

Tim glared down at you. “You’re teasing me.”

You smiled. “I’m preparing you.”

His breath hitched.

“For what?” he asked, voice breaking on the second word.

You leaned forward, dragging your tongue from base to tip, slow and deliberate.

“To get fucking ruined.”

He groaned—loud and raw—and let his head drop back to the bed.

You took your time.

You let your lips part just around the head of his cock, letting it rest warm and heavy on your tongue, your hands bracing his hips down to keep him from bucking. He gasped the moment your mouth closed around him.

“Oh—fuck—”

You didn’t stop.

You went deeper, slow at first, letting the weight of him stretch your lips open until your jaw ached in the best way. Your tongue flattened beneath him, tracing the underside with every pass. You could feel every twitch, every pulse.

He tried to lift his hips again. You pressed down harder, holding him still.

“Stay. Still.”

His voice cracked. “C-can’t—fuck, you’re so—”

You took him deeper.

Tim’s breath choked off halfway through the word.

You swallowed around him, gagged once—deliberately—and moaned around his dick like he was the best thing you’d ever tasted.

He whimpered. “Oh my god—”

You pulled off just enough to speak, spit clinging between your lips and his shaft. You smiled, voice hoarse and low.

“You wanted my mouth, right?”

Tim nodded frantically, his pupils blown wide.

You licked a slow stripe up the side, fingers tightening around the base of his shaft.

“Then fucking take it.”

You dropped your mouth back down—and this time, you didn’t stop.

You pushed deep, let his cock slide past your tongue, past the gag reflex, until your nose was buried in the soft skin of his lower stomach. Your throat clenched around him instinctively. You heard the breath rush out of him like he’d been punched.

“F-Fuck—M/n—!”

You didn’t let up.

You pulled back only halfway, spit bubbling around your lips, and sank down again with more force—deliberately.

Tim was moaning now—long, drawn-out, helpless sounds that echoed off the walls.

You kept choking on him, mouth slick and hot, eyes locked on his face the whole time.

He looked wrecked.

Beautiful.

Totally undone.

“I can’t—I can’t—gonna—gonna—”

You squeezed the base of his dick and pulled off just in time.

Tim sobbed.

His hands reached for you on instinct, desperate, grabbing for your shoulders, your hair, your face. You caught his wrist mid-reach and kissed the inside of it.

“You don’t get to cum yet.”

He looked like you’d just killed him.

“You’re evil.”

You grinned.

“I’m thorough.”

　　　　　　　　　　　✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

You sat back on your heels, wiping the spit from your mouth with the back of your hand. Tim was panting, chest rising and falling like he’d just run ten miles. His thighs were still trembling.

You tilted your head, dragging your gaze down his flushed body.

“You’re shaking.”

His eyes fluttered. “That’s your fault.”

You laughed, rich and low, and ran your palms up his thighs—thumbs circling the twitching muscles, moving closer to where his cock still throbbed against his stomach.

“No, baby,” you murmured. “That’s yours. You’ve been like this all day, haven’t you?”

Tim didn’t answer.

So you leaned in closer. Let your mouth hover just above his navel.

“You were hard in the car. Hard when I told you to get upstairs. And I bet,” you whispered, dragging your fingers lower, toward his inner thighs, “I bet if I spread your legs right now...”

You paused.

Then pushed.

Tim’s knees dropped open without resistance.

And there—between his cheeks, slick already shining against his hole—you saw it.

You went very still.

“…Timothy Jackson Drake,” you said slowly, voice edged with something between amusement and hunger. “Did you prep yourself before I got home?”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just turned his head to the side, cheeks flushing deeper, the tips of his ears bright red.

You grabbed his chin gently and turned him back to face you.

“Answer me.”

Tim’s voice was hoarse. “...Yes.”

Your cock twitched.

You exhaled hard through your nose, trying not to let the groan slip free. But fuck—he really had. He’d done all this knowing how it would end. He’d spent the day riling you up, waiting for you to crack, knowing that when you did, you’d fuck him hard enough to shut that smart little mouth for hours.

“You’re such a fucking tease,” you muttered.

His lips curled into a small smile. “Takes one to—mmph!”

You kissed him—filthy, fast, full of spit and the taste of his pre. He moaned into it, open-mouthed, greedy. You pulled back only to let your voice sink into his throat again.

“You really want it that bad, huh? Couldn’t wait? Walked around all day with your hole fucking ready?”

Tim nodded fast, desperate. “I wanted you to make me wait.”

You blinked.

“Yeah?” Your voice dropped. “You like it that much? Laying there, open, knowing I wouldn’t touch you until you earned it?”

He bit his lip and looked up at you from under his lashes.

“I like being your problem.”

You groaned and kissed him again, hand sliding down between his legs, fingers slipping easily through the slick gathered around his entrance.

“You’re not a problem,” you whispered, sinking two fingers into him with no resistance, “You’re a fucking addiction.”

His voice came out wrecked—quiet, needy, breathless.

“Then don’t stop until I forget my own name.”

　　　　　　　　　　　✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

“F-fuck, M/n—too much, too much—”

Tim moaned like he’d lost his mind.

It wasn’t cute. It wasn’t contained. It was loud, cracked, real—the kind of sound that only came out when everything else had already broken down.

You had just pushed into him—slow at first, just enough to stretch him—but the moment your hips met his ass, flush, heavy, full?

He sobbed.

You gripped his thighs harder, pinning them to your sides. He was already shaking, the insides of his knees clenching around your waist like he was trying to keep you close and push you away all at once.

“You’re the one who got ready for this,” you said through clenched teeth, sweat already rolling down your neck. “You did this to yourself.”

Tim was barely listening. His hands were in your hair, on your shoulders, grabbing at your arms like he didn’t know what to hold onto.

“You’re so fucking deep—”

You leaned down until your forehead pressed against his, panting into his mouth as you rolled your hips once, slow and hard. He whined like a kicked dog.

“I’m not even moving yet.”

His whole body jolted when you pulled back and thrust again—harder this time. Sloppy. Loud.

There was no rhythm. No grace. Just slick skin, the sound of your cock sliding into his soaked hole, and the wet slap of your hips hitting his ass, again and again.

Tim gasped, voice high. “Don’t—don’t stop—just like that, just like that—”

“You sound so fucking needy,” you growled, hands sliding under his back to lift him, to pull him in tighter. “Is this what you wanted all day? Getting stuffed so deep you can’t even lie to yourself about who owns this pretty little ass?”

Tim couldn’t form words. His head tipped back, mouth open, voice caught in his throat.

You slammed in again, dragging a scream out of him. “Say it.”

His lips moved, but nothing came out.

So you stopped moving entirely—just kept yourself buried, cock twitching inside him, chest heaving. “Say it, Tim.”

His eyes snapped open. Desperate. Wrecked.

“You,” he croaked. “It’s yours, it’s all fucking yours—please, don’t stop—”

“Good fucking boy.”

You grabbed his legs, shoved them higher, nearly folding him in half, and pounded back in without mercy.

The moan that ripped out of him didn’t sound human.

You drove into him like you’d lost patience—like he needed to feel it in his ribs—and you knew the angle was hitting him dead-on because he kept clenching around you like he couldn’t take it.

His cock was leaking all over his stomach, untouched.

You didn’t reach for it. You didn’t need to.

Not when he was already babbling.

“Fuck—oh my god—yes, yes, right there—M/n, I’m gonna—”

You snarled and leaned down, biting at his neck just hard enough to make him jolt. “You better not cum without permission.”

Tim whimpered.

You could feel it—his whole body was right on the edge. His toes curled. His legs shook. He was crying, soft little gasps mixing with broken moans, eyes rolled halfway back.

“You wanna cum?”

He nodded frantically, face flushed and wet.

You slowed your thrusts, just enough to grind.

“Beg for it.”

His voice cracked. “Please—please, let me—let me cum, I can’t—I can’t hold it—please, sir—”

You slammed into him one last time, rough and deep, and held there, grinding into his prostate with punishing pressure.

“Cum for me, baby.”

Tim screamed.

His cock jumped against his stomach, ropes of hot cum shooting up his chest as he seized in your arms, whole body spasming from the force of it. His hole clamped down around your cock so tight it dragged your own release right out of you.

You didn’t even pull out.

You just buried yourself deeper, groaning as you emptied into him, your fingers digging into his hips, holding him still as you spilled everything inside him.

You stayed there—buried deep, panting against his throat, still twitching inside him as your cm warmed his already-slick hole. He was limp beneath you, chest rising in shallow pulls, lips parted in that dazed little O-shape that always told you you’d wrecked him just right.

But you didn’t move.

Didn’t pull out. Didn’t let go.

Instead, you kissed his cheek, soft and slow, and murmured, “You still with me, baby?”

Tim made a sound. Not a word—just a breathy little whimper that cracked at the edges.

You smiled.

“That’s a yes,” you said gently, brushing your nose against his temple. “Color?”

He nodded once against the pillow. “Green.”

His voice was small. Floaty. Like his brain had drifted somewhere far, and he was only now swimming back toward you.

“Good boy,” you whispered.

You pulled back just enough to look at him—his flushed cheeks, tear-slick lashes, and mouth still a little open like he hadn’t remembered how to close it.

“You look so dumb right now, sweetheart.”

Tim blinked at you slowly, like the words were getting stuck on the way to his brain.

You cupped his cheek, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth.

“You like getting used like that, huh?” you asked, voice soft and low, like you were telling him a secret. “Letting me fuck you stupid? Letting me fill you up ‘til you can’t even talk?”

He moaned again—soft, almost shy.

But you could feel his cock twitch against your stomach.

You hummed and rocked your hips forward, just enough to grind. Not thrust. Just let him feel the weight of you still inside him.

His body jolted like a live wire.

“Sensitive,” you said, smiling as he whimpered. “Poor baby.”

“I—I can’t—” Tim’s words stuttered out. “Too much, I already—”

“I know,” you cooed. “You already came so hard, baby. Made such a mess for me.”

You pressed a kiss to his collarbone, one hand sliding down to his thigh. You traced lazy circles on his skin with your thumb.

“But your pretty little hole is still so greedy,” you murmured, giving a slow, shallow thrust that made his eyes roll. “Look how it’s holding onto me. Like it doesn’t wanna let go.”

Tim keened. His fingers scrabbled at your shoulders, his whole body arching without control.

You kissed the underside of his jaw. “You can take one more.”

He shook his head—but his legs were already spreading wider.

You smiled against his throat.

“I’ll go slow,” you promised, voice velvet. “Won’t hurt you. I’ll make it so good, baby, you won’t even have to think.”

You started to move—deep, slow grinds that made him feel every inch. His walls fluttered around you, overstimulated, raw, and dripping, but he didn’t say stop.

He never did.

“Look at you,” you whispered, lips ghosting over his ear. “My sweet little thing. All open. All mine. Can’t even form a sentence.”

“C-can,” Tim gasped, but it was a lie and he knew it.

You chuckled low and deep. “Okay. What’s your name?”

He blinked.

His mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

You grinned. “That’s what I thought.”

Your next thrust was harder. Not punishing. Just firm. Measured. Intentional.

His whole body jerked.

You kept your voice soft. Sweet.

“You love when I talk to you like this, don’t you?”

Tim was crying again. Quiet, overwhelmed tears slipping from the corners of his eyes.

You kissed one. “You’re doing so good, baby. So fucking good for me.”

You shifted your angle, pulled one of his legs higher, and aimed a thrust directly into that sweet little spot inside him that made him scream.

His voice cracked.

His cock jumped, untouched.

“You gonna cum again just from this?” you murmured, breath warm against his lips. “Gonna let me fuck your brains out till there’s nothing left in that pretty little head?”

Tim nodded frantically. He was gone. Gone.

“I wanna—wanna cum, I wanna—”

“You need permission, baby.”

“I—I—please—please, let me—”

You slammed in one more time and held there.

“Do it.”

Tim shattered.

He came untouched—again—cock spurting weakly between you, body twitching under yours like he didn’t know how to stop.

You rocked through it, slow and careful, riding out his orgasm until he went limp again, arms wrapped around your shoulders, breathing soft and uneven.

And this time?

You pulled out.

He whimpered when you did.

But you kissed his lips, slow and sweet.

Then you cleaned him—gently, warm cloth and whispered praise, your fingers rubbing soft circles into his hips and arms while he blinked up at the ceiling, too blissed out to speak.

You crawled into bed with him afterward, pulling the covers over both of you, letting him curl into your chest like always.

He pressed his face into your neck and mumbled something soft you couldn’t quite make out.

You smiled and kissed the crown of his head.

“Love you too, baby.”

　　　　　　　　　　　✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

You were half-asleep.

Tim was curled into your chest, breath soft against your skin, legs tangled with yours under the blanket. He hadn’t moved in twenty minutes. Still twitchy, still sensitive. But content.

You were just about to drift off when the tablet on the nightstand lit up.

You didn’t even flinch at the ringtone—Wayne comms had a specific ping. One that usually meant: “Gear up.”

Tim groaned into your collarbone.

“Don’t answer it.”

You reached blindly for the device, not bothering to sit up. “It’s probably just an update.”

The moment you tapped accept, Dick Grayson’s face filled the screen. He looked sweaty, in uniform, leaning half-out of a fire escape window somewhere across the city.

“Hey, sorry, quick one—Tim are you doing Uptown or should I grab it?”

You blinked blearily, still squinting against the screen glare. “Tim isn’t scheduled for tonight.”

Dick frowned. “Really? I thought Tim was on the rota for North End—”

Then he paused.

And tilted his head.

“…Are you naked?”

You didn’t answer.

Dick’s eyes flicked to the side, squinting.

“Is that—oh my god, Tim?”

You turned the tablet slightly.

Just enough to show the very flushed, very shirtless, and very recently-ruined boy sprawled half across your chest, lips kiss-bruised, neck marked, hair destroyed. His eyes were open but barely.

He blinked once.

Then groaned into your shoulder, trying to hide.

Dick lost it.

“Oh my god. I’m hanging up. I am hanging up right now.”

“You could’ve just called,” you said calmly.

“I thought this was urgent!” he snapped, already fumbling for the end call. “I didn’t know I was about to see my little brother looking like—fuck, Tim, are you drooling?”

“I hate you,” Tim mumbled.

Dick’s cackle echoed even as the screen cut to black.

You tossed the tablet face-down on the nightstand.

Tim didn’t move.

You kissed his hair once and pulled him closer.

“I’ll cover your shift.”

He groaned again. “You better. He’s never gonna let me live that down.”

You grinned against his temple.

“That’s what you get for being a little shit.”

[dolcecherub]

off the record ‧͙⁺˚*･☾

♡ pairing: oscar piastri x media manager!reader

♡ tags: social media manager reader, lowkey tension, deadpan oscar, pining oscar, frustrated reader lol, happy ending, fluff

♡ yap: this was inspired by this fic here by the lovely @papayainsectorone, they wrote this dynamic so well and the smut is *chefs kiss* i was craving more build up so here's my take on it :) honestly wasn't expecting to have another fic out so soon but i'm in the writing mood, so expect maybe some smut soon lol

♡ word count: 4.6k

Being Oscar Piastri’s social media manager sounded a hell of a lot cooler on paper.

The reality? A full-time position in pure damage control and editing. 

It wasn’t that Oscar was a bad guy, quite the opposite actually. He was annoyingly likable. But in an industry of personalities so polished you could see your reflections in them, Oscar was… well, Oscar. Dry-humoured, mostly straight-faced, foreign with emojis aside from the simple smiley face. Not even a golden retriever puppy in a McLaren hoodie could crack a big smile from the man.

You had tried everything and it was quite easy to say that the last few months had been hell. 

You wrote him fun captions, you scheduled posts, and briefed him before interviews. And yet he would still deadpan his way through as many interactions as he possibly could, switching up your pre-written captions for three-word ones. If you were lucky, maybe he’d add a song to it. 

Once, in a fatal attempt, you had practically begged Oscar to do a TikTok trend. His response?

“I’d rather crash into a barrier and get stuck in a gravel trap.”

Still, you kept at it. You filtered photos, crafted witty tweets and captions, and edited videos for TikTok, so he at least looked 20% more charming and 100% engaged. But Oscar remained the same, calm, collected, and chronically unbothered. 

It drove you crazy, and some part of you was convinced Oscar found joy in riling you up, the tension spiralling between you two. 

Until one day, you just…stopped.

It was after an interview in which Oscar said, “Yeah, the car was good,” followed by a few simple remarks about the overall race and the car, even though you had specifically coached him on how to highlight the team’s efforts and the new upgrades. You sat there, watching the video on your laptop, the PR director sending you questioning looks. Something in you just gave up.

If Oscar didn’t care, why should you?

This time, instead of doubling down and trying harder to fix it, you shifted gears. 

You kept running the socials, kept building out the calendar, kept coordinating cross-posts with sponsors. You threw yourself into season promos for some rookies, drafted killer captions for Lando (who did, in fact, appreciate them, often adding his own flair as well). Hell, you even helped restructure the entire engagement strategy for McLaren’s YouTube account. Your inbox was still flooded, deadlines still to be met. You were still good at your job, just focusing your attention elsewhere rather than bending over backwards for Oscar. 

You still gave him the essentials. Posted his podium shots with a simple caption fit for him, uploaded interview clips without the usual fun editing. You stopped chasing him for quotes and thoughts, and generally stopped fighting for moments he didn’t want to give.

And weirdly enough, it all kept going. 

Oscar didn’t change, of course, the fans still adored him, his dry wit, his blank expressions, the accidental charisma of someone who didn’t try at all, or didn’t have to. People enjoyed his slightly sarcastic comments post-race, and so what if his metrics slightly dipped? It’s not like he necessarily noticed it. 

You still saw him every day, still worked around him, still made space for him on the schedule, but not in your head. Not in that quiet, careful way you used to. Perhaps you had gotten too close, you reeled. No more last-minute efforts to make him sound polished, no more staying late to re-edit his posts, not when you had better things to do for people who truly cared. 

And if he noticed the shift, the quiet space you left where your effort used to live, he didn’t say a word. Which, somehow, was more than enough. 

✧༺♥༻∞

It was a Thursday morning, and everything had been off.

You were running late, which, truthfully, rarely happened. A sponsor call had run longer than it should’ve, your usual transportation route taking a detour you were unaware of, and your badge wouldn’t scan at the main paddock gate. By the time you finally walked through the McLaren hospitality, your hair had been haphazardly clipped up, your phone was at 3%, and your brain was somewhere between caffeine withdrawal and a full-on system crash. 

You exhaled sharply, finally getting a moment to catch your breath. You pulled open the media schedule to hopefully catch up before the day truly began, your head slightly spinning as you barely noticed the figure leaning against the wall. 

Oscar.

He was dressed in team gear, the orange always sitting well with his skin tone as he had a basic black ball cap on and some shorts, his bag slung over his shoulder with a hand in his pocket. He looked casual, calm. 

As per usual. 

His other hand held out something to you as he walked closer. A coffee cup.

You looked up at him curiously, head tilting slightly as you lowered your tablet. “What’s this?” 

“Coffee,” he said simply. “Obviously.” 

You eyed it, seeing your name written on the side as your jaw twitched at his tone.

“...What kind of coffee?” You asked, his eyes roaming your face.

“Extra hot. Two sugars. Oat milk and a shot of caramel.” He said like it was nothing, as if he hadn’t just recited your exact order back to you, heart stammering against your chest. 

You brought your hand up, taking it from him, fingers brushing his slightly. Your jaw nearly dropped with shock. Why hadn’t he listened like this during pre-interview briefings? 

It was still warm to hold, still fresh. The lid was secured the way you always preferred, double cups, the lid pressed down tight with no drips at the seam.

You searched his face for expressions, “You got this for me?” You asked, albeit a silly question.

Oscar shrugged, arms crossing against his chest, his biceps stretching the sleeves of his shirt, his eyes straying from yours. “You’re usually here earlier. Figured you didn’t have time to stop for one.” He said as if it meant nothing.

A beat passed, your heart skipping that exact beat. 

You swallowed. “I didn’t.”

Another pause, your face flushing slightly. 

“Thank you,” You said finally, voice far quieter than before. 

He nodded, not smug, just acknowledging, as if that was the end of it. As if he hadn’t just undone a week’s worth of you convincing yourself that he didn’t notice you slipping away. 

He adjusted the strap on his shoulder and added, “I wasn’t sure if it was oat or almond. Figured it was oat, you seem like it.”

You blinked, brows furrowing slightly in confusion. “Why?”

He gave you the faintest smirk, “Almond milk people always have something to prove.” He joked. 

You huffed, surprised by the small, shaky breath of laughter it pulled out of you. Perhaps you did understand the population’s obsession with him. 

Oscar turned to leave, no further acknowledgement, no comment on your attire or the lack of polish to your appearance this morning, no follow-up. Just the quietest moment between you two, the coffee in your hand warming your palm cozily, his smirk setting your pulse to quicken. 

He didn’t look back. 

Although it didn’t matter, because you were already watching him go, heart quietly pounding.

So he did notice. 

Even when you thought he didn’t. 

✧༺♥༻∞

A few weeks had passed, and you were getting yourself ready for the following race weekend. The past few weeks had been the same, doing more for others to keep yourself while keeping Oscar entertained with the bare minimum. 

Now, it started with a headache.

Then came the chills, the sore throat, the kind of fatigue that sank into your bones like wet cement, weighing you down impossibly. You told yourself it was nothing, stress maybe, but by the time the race weekend rolled around, you couldn’t even sit up without your head spinning. 

You did what you had to. You called in sick, feeling bad, although you had not done so before while working with the team.

Just one day, you told yourself. Just one race day. The team could surely handle it, you had pre-scheduled most of the posts anyway, as well as sending over any notes and ideas you had to the rest of the team to follow. And it wasn’t like Oscar would notice. He barely spoke to you when you were there anyway. 

So you stayed in your hotel room, curtains drawn, laptop closed, and haphazardly thrown onto the armchair next to the bed. You had wrapped yourself in two blankets, your body settled with a chill that wouldn’t leave. You drifted in and out of sleep, vaguely aware of your phone buzzing a few times, your body far too sleepy to pay attention, let alone respond. 

Around 6 p.m., there was a knock on the door. 

You blinked, trying to figure out if it was in your room or a distant noise in the hall. You felt your stomach clench, mostly empty aside from a few pieces of toast from earlier in the afternoon and water. 

Another knock sounded on the door. Firmer this time, followed by silence. 

You dragged yourself up, wincing as the floor spun. You brushed your hair down slightly and wiped away any sleep from your eyes, your body shivering from the sudden chill after emerging from your blankets. You cracked the door open slowly, expecting the hotel staff, perhaps with a message from the team or even room service. 

It was neither.

Oscar stood in front of you, simply dressed in a quarter zip and some jeans, his hair slightly tousled. He still looked calm, a medium sized brown paper bag in one hand and a plastic container in the other. You froze, so did he, though only for a second, just enough to make you think he hadn’t expected you to actually open the door. 

“Hi,” you croaked, your throat aching and sore, raw from not speaking all day. 

“You’ve sure seen better days, hm?,” he asked rhetorically, face deadpan.

You raised a brow, now feeling slightly embarrassed at the state he was seeing you in as you shamefully brushed your messy hair down as well as possible. “Thanks…”

“I meant it in a supportive way.”

You rolled your eyes, leaning against the doorway, suddenly feeling fairly light headed again, simply too tired to question what the hell was going on. “Why are you here?”

He shifted the bag in his hand, fixing his grip, eyes not meeting yours. “You didn’t show up today. You don’t not show up.”

You swallowed sorely, “I texted the team, told them I was sick.”

“Yeah,” he said, tone quiet, “but you didn’t text me.” 

That shut you up.

Oscar cleared his throat, holding out the plastic container filled with soup. “It’s the one you always get when it’s cold, the one from the random organic store down the street. You know, the one with the weird green logo.” 

Your chest tightened, his eyes trailing back up to yours. 

“And I brought some ginger tea bags. And the gummy vitamins you always hoard in the media van.” 

You stared at the bag in his hand, and then back up at him, his eyes dark, cheeks slightly pink, surely from being in the sun all day. “You walked across the paddock to get those?” 

“They deliver. I’m not that heroic.” He joked. You knew as a matter of fact that they didn’t deliver, you had most definitely asked more than once before, but you supposed Oscar didn’t want to admit that he had done that for you.

You exhaled a half-laugh, quiet, slightly painful and unsteady. 

Oscar looked at you, no smirk, no blank stare. Just something softer, eyes relaxed, something he could barely hold back. 

“Can I come in?” he asked after a pause, “Just to make sure you don’t choke on soup or something.” He teased.

You stepped aside, far too tired to joke and too tired to pretend like you didn’t want to be taken care of. 

He stepped in, toeing off his shoes, then settling the soup and the bag on the table tucked in the hotel corner. You crawled back into bed, body immediately collapsing into the fluffed sheets as you sniffled. 

He walked around filling the room’s small kettle with some water before putting it to boil and opening up the soup container before bringing it and a spoon to the bedside table. You sleepily watched him quietly move around the room with a sense of ease, your heart aching at his actions. Hearing the kettle click, he grabbed a mug, opened up the tea bag case and popped one in before pouring in some water. Settling that beside you on the table, too, he finally glanced at you. 

“Come on, sit up. At least eat some of the soup before you fall asleep,” Oscar spoke, voice soft and convincing as he settled down into the armchair next to the bed, making sure to move your laptop before sitting. 

Pushing yourself up, you sat against the headboard, head spinning again. He passed you the soup, simply watching you eat as much as you could without feeling sick. Neither of you said anything, Oscar simply ensuring you were okay, passing you a napkin whenever you needed it.

Placing the empty container down on the bedside table, you wiped your sleeve across your mouth before sliding back down into bed. Oscar stood up, adjusting the blanket around your shoulders when you shifted with a wince as your eyes fluttered shut. His fingers brushed over your arm as he did, then simply brushing a few hairs off your forehead, your body shivering, not from the chill this time but rather from his touch. 

“I’m fine,” you spoke, voice extremely rough but quiet. 

He didn’t say anything. Just sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, hands now folded in his lap, his eyes flickering between you and the headboard as if he was doing anything to stop himself from looking at you for too long. 

You were the one to break the silence, eyes still shut. “You didn’t have to come.”

“I know,” he said. You felt your breath catch for a second, mind drifting slowly to sleep.

“Thank you, Osc.” You mumbled quietly, words slurring from fatigue. 

He hadn’t said anything after that. And so what if his gaze lingered a bit too long before he left that night? You would be none the wiser, head misty with sleep.

✧༺♥༻∞

Weeks later, at the start of a triple header, everything felt back to normal. Too normal. It grated your nerves more than ever.

Oscar was back to his usual self, low-effort captions, brushing off most interview questions with short answers, and ignoring half of your content ideas. After you had thought you’d made at least some progress, you found yourself rubbing your temple in frustration after he refused to film a “Pre-race ritual” TikTok a few sponsors had requested. 

You found him in the garage, talking to a mechanic, most likely about race strats. If only he spoke to the media with such enthusiasm. You walked towards him angrily, your tablet hanging at your fingertips, face flushed with anger. 

“Oscar, may I speak with you, please?” You asked, tone stern and straight to the point. 

His brows knitted together with confusion, the mechanic patting his arm twice before walking away. He tilted his head, following behind you as you led him to a meeting room. You closed the door, setting the tablet down on the desk before turning back to face Oscar, arms crossing angrily against your chest. You leaned back against the desk, staring him down momentarily before speaking.

“Why do you make this so hard?” You huffed, voice cracking slightly. You hate that it cracked.

“Make what hard?” He asked, mirroring your body language.

“This!” You said waving your arms around for emphasis. “Your image, your career. I bust my ass trying to make you look even remotely engaged in sponsorships and media day, and yet you act like you’re allergic to enthusiasm.” You ramble exasperatedly, catching your breath before you continue. “And then- then you go and do these little things, like buying me coffee or taking care of me when I’m sick. I’m not stupid Oscar, I know you’re not oblivious. You notice things, you care. But you pretend like you don’t and it’s… infuriating.”

He was quiet, not blinking, eyes still holding your gaze. He walked closer, rubbing a frustrated hand over his face before returning to his crossed-arm position, just now closer to you. Your heart pounded at his proximity. 

The silence between you was heavy, suffocating almost. 

“I don’t let people see it because once they do, they expect more. They expect a reaction every time a little blip happens. And I’m not good at more.”

You stared up at him, lips parted slightly. 

“I didn’t grow up under the impression of needing to be liked.” He spoke, eyes searching yours. “I wanted to drive. I wanted to win. But now, I’ve got people picking apart every expression, every quote, hell everything I don’t say. And you-you come into my life like this force to be reckoned with. You clean up my messes, making me look far better than I am. And it terrifies me.” He admitted truthfully.

He exhaled as though he hadn’t meant to say that last part, but it was too late now. 

“You make me want to try. Even though I don’t know how. And I hate that I let you do everything alone, I’m sorry I don’t cooperate more. I hate that I don’t say thank you when I should. I hate that I barely show what I feel because I’m scared that once I do, it’ll matter too much. That people will always want that, and I won’t be able to deliver.” Oscar spoke frantically.

Your breath caught, heart aching for being mean to him originally. “Oscar…” 

He continued, “I noticed when you stopped trying so hard,” He admitted, voice softer as he took a step closer. “And it scared the shit out of me because I thought that meant you were done. That I had pushed you too far. And if I lost you…I don’t know what I’d do.” 

And for the first time, you felt as though Oscar hadn’t just meant in terms of work. 

You stood still, heart hammering against your ribs. 

He stepped forward once more, practically caging you against the desk and himself. 

“I brought you coffee because I know you can barely function without it in the morning. I remember your order because you complained about the barista using a shot of vanilla instead of caramel once. I remember you like it extra hot because it keeps your hands warm while you’re out. I brought you soup because I know you hate being alone when you’re sick. I pay attention, even if I don’t always know what to say, but I do care, okay? Far more than I’ve let on.” He expressed, eyes fluttering across your face. “Maybe more than I should.” He confessed quietly, cheeks lightly flushing.

You stared at him, awestruck. The boy who never flinched on track, now looking completely exposed. 

You reached a hand towards him, pulling them away from his chest and placing them next to you on the desk, his body leaning slightly forward. 

And in a quiet, breaking voice, you said, “Then say it, tell me.” You plead.

His eyes didn’t leave yours. 

“I care about you,” his voice hoarse with emotion. “Not just because you make my life easier, even if I don’t make yours any easier,” he joked with a sarcastic huff before continuing. “Not just because you’re brilliant at your job. Because I care about you. And I think I’ve been falling for you since the day you yelled at me for skipping media day.” 

The silence returned, your body flushing at the confession and your breath hitched slightly. 

“You make me want to be better. Not just for the press. For you. Because when you’re around, I don’t feel like some machine for the media to chew up and spit out. I feel like maybe I’m someone worth showing up for.” He confessed, arms encaging you against the desk as his head leaned down slightly. 

Then quieter, “I know I’ve been difficult. I don’t say enough, but I’m saying it now. I care, I care about you. I want you here. Not because you fix things, but because I love having you around.” He reiterated, you felt as though you hadn’t spoken in ages, none of the right words coming to mind.

Your throat tightened. 

And suddenly, the frustration, the exhaustion, the weeks worth of wondering if he even noticed you slipping away, all cracked away and spilled into something else. 

A knock on the door interrupted your moment as you broke away. He took a step back, head whipping towards the door as your breath caught up to you. 

Work awaited you. 

✧༺♥༻∞

Days had passed, the paddock was winding down for the night.

You had migrated from your desk to one of the couches in the corner of the hospitality unit, half-heartedly editing clips from Oscar’s earlier media rounds to hopefully post the following morning. Your headphones sat around your neck, untouched. The screen glowed, but your eyes glazed over somewhere between the third and fourth timestamp. 

You hadn’t talked about the confession since it happened, but your mind kept drifting back to him. The look on his face and the way his voice sounded. 

You’d both gone back to work like professionals. He gave more thoughtful answers during interviews. You polished his media presence like always, job slightly easier nowadays. But under every interaction with him sat this new charged silence, one that said something happened and neither of you had figured out what it meant yet. 

Then came a quiet knock from the doorframe. 

Oscar.

He wasn’t in race gear anymore, not even team gear, just a hoodie, slightly damp at the sleeves, his hair tousled from his post-session shower. He looked…normal, cozy if you would. Not a headline, or a race statistic, or a social media puzzle for people to pick apart.

Just him. 

“You busy?” He asked, walking closer anyway.

“A little,” you blinked, watching him intently. 

He stepped closer, sitting on the couch across from you, silent for a moment, before wordlessly placing a bag on the table between you, sliding it towards you.

Your brows furrowed curiously, “What is this?”

“Some takeout, I figured you hadn’t eaten in a while since most places on the track are closed by now. It’s the fried rice you like and some of those weird seaweed chips you eat when you’re stressed.” He explained, cheeks flushing slightly pink.

You paused, still in awe of the fact that he noticed. “You remembered.” you spoke, leaning forward to untie the bag and pulling out the bag of chips, a soft smile crossing your face.

He didn’t look at you, eyes wandering the room. “It wasn’t hard.” 

Your chest tightened. 

You pushed your laptop aside, slowly looking at him. There was something in the way his shoulders tensed, the slight crease in his brow. As though he was trying to say something without saying it too fast, or too wrong. 

“Oscar-”

“I keep thinking about what you said. About how you care and how I didn’t give you anything back.” He swallowed thickly. Your breath caught but you stayed quiet. 

He looked up at you then, and for once he didn’t look guarded or sarcastic. He looked nervous. 

“I kept thinking if I acted like I didn’t need anyone, I couldn’t lose anything. But I think maybe I lost a little bit of you already, and fuck, I don’t want to keep doing that.” 

You felt your eyes sting unexpectedly as you blinked quickly. 

“I don’t expect you to fix me up or stay just because I suddenly decided to show up. But I meant it all. I care. About all of it, about you. I was worried if I said the wrong thing, I’d ruin the only good thing I actually gave a shit about.” 

“I’ve been trying to show it,” he went on, voice tighter now. “In the ways I can, but I don’t know if it’s enough. And it’s driving me fucking insane wondering if I’ve missed my chance” 

Your heart beat a little too loudly in your chest.

He ran a stressed hand through his hair, “I keep thinking about how close I could’ve been to losing you. It’s not just about work, it never has been.” His eyes met yours, raw and serious. “It’s you. I don’t want to go through another race weekend without knowing if you’re mine. If this thing between us is real or if I’ve just been imagining it.”

The room went still.

You stood slowly, every nerve in your body on fire, the air between you wound so tight it could snap. 

“You didn’t miss your chance,” you said, your voice barely a breath. You walked towards him, now standing next to him sat on the couch, within arm’s reach.

A pause, his jaw clenching as though something had finally broken. 

He reached for you, pulling you closer with a hand on your waist as he stood up. Oscar towered over you now, arms snaking around you comfortably as your hands came up to rest on his chest.

He leaned down, breath fanning your face as his nose nudged yours. Then, he kissed you. Lips landing on yours like they had waited months. 

Tension bled out of both of you like a flood. His mouth was warm and searching, far too much restraint pent up as his teeth gnashed teasingly against your bottom lip. You stood slightly on your tiptoes to reach him better, a hand sliding up from his chest into his hair, tugging lightly as he groaned. 

It was far from perfect, you stumbled slightly unbalanced as his hands shook against your hip, but it was real. Honest and a little desperate. You slid your tongue against Oscar’s lip, his own poking out to meet yours. He licked into your mouth, hand tightening against your hip as you whined. 

You pulled back slightly, nose still pressed against his breathlessly, his forehead resting against yours. 

“I’ve wanted to do that since my second week on the job,” You admitted, lips curling into a smile. 

He huffed a soft laugh. “Took me that long to stop pretending I didn’t”

You smiled, brushing your fingers along the curve of his neck, lightly scratching the hair at the nape of his neck as he shivered. “So what now?”

“Now I stop pretending, full stop.” He spoke, no hesitation. “And I get to flirt with my media manager.” He joked, a small smirk settling on his face. 

You giggled softly, feeling the weight of that promise, simple and sincere, You leaned into him, body warming at his words. 

“Let me take you home,” He spoke softly, mouth near your ear as he whispered as if trying to keep it a secret between you two. 

You shuddered at his words, biting your lip before facing him again. You nodded slowly at him, eyes lighting with excitement. He smiled at you sweetly, placing another small kiss on your lips before letting you go to pack up. 

Everything seemed to be exactly where it was meant to be, and you felt your heart settle happily at how the night turned out.

✧༺♥༻∞

[lazysoulwriter]

the president of your fan club - pedro pascal.

requested! thank you. ♡content: Pedro Pascal x actress!wife!reader, chaotic couple energy, lots of mutual hyping, Pedro being a literal simp in interviews and on social media, flirty banter, very fluffy, very unserious, everyone is obsessed with them.

---

If there was one universal truth on the internet, it was this: Pedro Pascal is the president, CEO, and full-time moderator of the Y/N Protection Squad.

And frankly, he was shameless about it.

Exhibit A: his Instagram.

A grid that alternated between film stills, chaotic memes, thirst traps where he clearly forgot to button half his shirt, and then—his favorite subject—you.

Photos of you at premieres. You mid-laugh, candid, radiant. You on set, exhausted but still beautiful. You in his arms, selfies with captions like: “Can’t believe I tricked her into marrying me.”“Everyone say thank you to the universe for Y/N.”“This is my wife. You may look respectfully.”

Exhibit B: any press junket within the last two years.

“Pedro, let’s talk about your role in the film—”

“Absolutely. But first, have you seen my wife’s last movie? Cinema. Literal cinema. Oscar-worthy. I’m not biased.”

Every interviewer just knew at this point. Mention you, and Pedro’s whole face lights up like someone plugged him into a socket.

On one particularly viral clip from The Graham Norton Show, Graham jokingly said, “Pedro, you do realize every time we try to talk about your projects, you pivot to talking about your wife.”

Pedro, without missing a beat, leaned back, crossed his arms and said, “Yeah. What about it?” with the smuggest grin alive.

Cue audience screaming. Cue the internet losing its collective mind.

But the real danger was TikTok.

Pedro’s TikTok presence (which, to be fair, was mostly managed by his team and occasionally by you when you stole his phone) was a chaotic shrine to your relationship.

Videos like: Pedro zooming into your face while you’re trying to read. “POV: I married the prettiest human alive.” A clip of you cooking while wearing his t-shirt, with Pedro whispering, “How am I supposed to survive this woman??” Or the absolute internet-breaker — a thirst trap set to “Let’s Get It On”, with rapid shots of him shirtless and you in his hoodie, ending with, “Married life? 10/10. Highly recommend.”

The comments were unhinged. “They’re my Roman Empire.”“Pedro being the ultimate wife guy is my comfort genre.”“This is what true love looks like, your honor.”

And if anyone ever, ever, even thought about saying something sideways about you online?

Pedro would casually quote-tweet with, “Touch grass, sweetheart. 💋” or “Imagine being this wrong publicly.”

It was… honestly? A cultural reset.

But the best moments weren’t for the cameras.

It was the way his hands always found yours under the table during interviews. The way he whispered “I love you” when you passed each other backstage. How he snapped candids of you when you weren’t looking — not for posting, just for himself.

At the end of the day, every comment, every post, every chaotic simp moment boiled down to one simple fact:

Pedro Pascal was obsessed with his wife. Loudly. Proudly. Shamelessly.

And you were just as obsessed right back.

---

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

---

taglist: @sarahhxx03 @lloydmustache @lolareadsimagines @greenwitchfromthewoods @silksepia @pascalswiftie @itstokyo-cos @mani-pedro @llsister @authorbriannarae13 @introvrtedjellyfish @aj0elap0l0gist @spencercmlover @cixrosie @cherrqbaby @cup-half-full-of-anxiety @kellyxo1 @freakbobcult @sunlightpleasure @barnes70stark @mooniscrying @ohnaurshayla @croissantbakerylws @nellispunk @kasienka @taylorswiftsrep-blog @emerencedaily @byzyz ♡ if u wanna be tagged, send me here

[httpsleely]

HQ BOYS AS YOUR S/O—WHAT I IMAGINE THEIR INSTAGRAM WOULD BE LIKE

synopsis. hq! boys using instagram but they're down bad for you

ft. hinata shoyo, tsukishima kei, suna rintarou, kenma kozume

others. character! is aged up, hq timeskip! era

notes. idk i feel like this could be better but I'm too lazy to be bothered. this is just a silly little thought while i was drinking tea 😌

[ masterlist ]

HINATA SHOYO would post you a lot. He definitely has you on his profile picture; either it's your solo picture or a picture of you and him. His posts would only consist of four things: you, volleyball, his friend's, and himself (occasionally)—but there's more pictures of you in it than the three mentioned. His fans teases him and says that his account basically turned into a fan page of you. His bio would be in between something so sweet or so cheesy. He'll probably have a corny quote.

“Romance is icing, but the love is the cake—@your_username”

“my love: @your_username”

“My sunshine forever & always @your_username”

TSUKISHIMA KEI rarely posts you. It's not that he doesn't want to, it's just that. . . He likes having his privacy with you. but when he does post you, his fans go berserk. It's a rare opportunity for him to post you (I strongly believe he'd post you in special occasions; like anniversaries, special holidays (if you celebrate), or winning his games), so of course, everyone will have a field day about it. And when he posts you it's not just a simple picture, he'd have a full on note for you.

“Thank you @your_username for everything you do for me—for all the support you give me whether it may be coming to my games, cooking me good food, saying the exact words I need to hear, or even simply just your presence by my side. Thank you for being with me through everything. This 3rd year anniversary won't definitely be the last anniversary we'll celebrate—so here's to more love that I'll give you, pipsqueak. I love you always.”

SUNA RINTAROU post you way too much. He'd have at least five highlights about you; one for his favorite pictures of you, one for him and you, one for your unflattering pictures, one for very special occasions that he's with you, and one for videos he took of you. And he doesn't just post you on his stories, he also has tons of pictures of you on his main post. If hinata has three things he post, well, suna only has you on his instagram. People often mistake his account for your account because of how much pictures you have in it.

“Café hopping with @your_username”

“She said that I should post this picture of her @your_username”

“Idk who this person is, do you? @your_username?” (*but his post is literally you)

KENMA KOZUME posts (sometimes) whenever he feels like it. he just generally doesn't post a lot. But he posts about you on random occasions. mostly post dumps about you, like what he did in a month with you. Or simply just random pictures of you (some unflattering and some aesthetically pleasing). And he posts with no caption, just you and your @. his fans are basically dehydrated from pictures of the two of you, so they also have a field day whenever he post about you. I'm pretty sure it'd even go trending on twt (x) at least once or twice.

“🤍 @your_username”

“out & about w/ @your_username”

“ily @your_username”

© httpsleely | reposting, modificating, stealing, plagiarizing, and translating my works on any platform are strictly prohibited.

[ovrgrwnivy]

JUNO : spencer reid

synopsis ; a slow day in the bullpen leaves the team recreating the viral sabrina carpenter tiktok trend in a fit of boredom.

includes ; spencer reid x fem!reader, the team ( mostly derek let’s be real ) teasing spencer, suggestive language, flustered boy genius.

“sweetness, if you don’t turn that damn phone down,”

derek scolded from across the bullpen, the tiktok audio on your phone distracting him from procrastinating.

“sabrina carpenter, right?”

emily spoke up, nodding your direction once she’d taken in the sound.

“that’s the ‘have you ever tried this one’ thing, right?”

you nodded, turning your screen towards her. it was a funny take on the trend, a girl making a fist with the caption ‘when my boyfriend pisses me off’ with the iconic line in the back.

apparently that’s all it took to get derek on side.

“hold on now, ever tried what exactly?”

“it’s a line in her song juno, it’s a sex joke.” you clarify, locking your phone and abandoning it back on the desk.

from the corner of your eye you see spencer squint in confusion “i don’t get it..”

derek lets out a loud laugh, earning a glare from both you and emily “of course you don’t, pretty boy.”

“the singer says the line and does a . . . pose.” emily explains vaguely, obviously expecting spencer to catch on.

he doesn’t.

“yo, reid,” derek calls with a grin “you ever try this one?” he sends a wink in the others direction, acting like he was twirling a lasso as part of the bit.

both you and emily laugh, understanding exactly what morgan meant. however, your resident genius is still left none the wiser.

“..that doesn’t really clarify anything..” spencers tone is apprehensive, like he’s really trying to get the joke but it’s falling flat.

“prentiss, we all know about your little sin to win weekends,” derek teases, nodding toward spencer “maybe a real life girl will help him get it.”

emily scoffs “god no.” you think her rejection is going to be as straight forward as that, but you could practically see the lightbulb above her head when her eyes land on you “how about a real life girl his own age?”

derek speaks up before you get a chance to protest, seeing your reaction and anticipating your response “c’mon, princess, i’ll even do half your files”

that’s all the persuasion you need, besides, it was all in good fun. no harm, no foul. right?

you thought for a minute, trying to decide what would be the least inappropriate thing to do before standing, taking a little over half your case load and dropping it onto dereks desk.

trying, and failing, to keep your giggles to yourself, you looked across the bullpen at spencer who had been watching your every move.

“have you ever tried this one?” as you quoted the song, you leant over your desk and sent a wink your coworkers way, trying your best to not join in on emily and dereks laughing.

finally, it clicked, and spencers face turned a bright shade of red. his eyes flicked around the bullpen in an attempt to stop his mind wandering, but it wasn’t really working.

“pretty boy, i never seen you speechless” derek taunts, finding great amusement in his friends flustered state.

there’s a beat of silence from spencers side of the office before he clears his throat and shuffles awkwardly in his seat. looking anywhere but at the rest of you.

“yeah, i get it now.”

“oh, we know.” emily teases, flicking a rubber band his direction.

you’re still leant over your desk, only now your face is buried in your hands in an attempt to dampen your fit of laughter.

“do i even want to know?”

hotch’s voice from his office door snaps you all back into serious work mode, you stumble over yourself to get back into your seat.

“don’t worry about it, sir.”

[orellazalonia]

Certified Genius, Unlicensed Moron

Summary: Exploring more of your relationship and dynamics with the rest of the Avengers, they are well-acquainted with how much whiplash and how many headaches you give them on a daily. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Word Count: 1.2k+

A/N: The other going on dates fic didn’t have enough unhinged questionable reader for me. And to be honest….I didn’t like it as much as the prequel. So! I wrote this to cheer me up and feed my need for dumb & genius reader. Purely self-indulgent but hopefully you like it too. Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist

Being an Avenger came with certain expectations. Tactical prowess. Cool one-liners. Teamwork. A mild-to-moderate understanding of physics.

You had exactly none of that. And yet, you were thriving.

You had taken on aliens, mercenaries, HYDRA agents, and that one time, an actual raccoon with a vendetta. You once guessed the password to a SHIELD vault on the first try by inputting “boob69.” It worked. Nobody ever explained why. You were untouchable.

But nothing broke the team more than the group chat.

It had been a standard team communication channel at first: briefings, updates, emergency alerts. Then you joined and everything fell apart.

-

GROUP CHAT: “Earth’s Mightiest Dumbasses”

Tony: Meeting in the conference room at 9 A.M. sharp.

You: what’s 9 AM in frog time

Natasha: What does that mean?

You: like if a frog wears a watch is the time upside down

Tony: Please, I’m begging you to just answer the question like a normal person.

You: normal is a strong word

-

You once sent a photo of a pigeon wearing a hat with the caption “me when I infiltrate enemy lines.” No one questioned it. Mostly because they couldn’t.

After all, you’re the same person who confidently gave a TED Talk about the strategic history of medieval siege warfare mid-mission while wearing Crocs. The same person who once said, “Vibranium tastes like disappointment,” and then refused to elaborate. You somehow manage to both ace every debrief but also once asked if Wi-Fi is just helpful air soup.

Thor called you “small thunder” after you electrocuted yourself trying to microwave aluminum “as a science experiment.” You did not have lightning powers. It was just dumb luck. And you’d do it again.

-

GROUP CHAT:

Clint: who the hell labeled all the fridge items in latin?

You: idk man maybe someone wants you to be cultured

Bucky: You labeled the eggs, “Future ankle peckers, do not anger them”

You: ...and have you been attacked? no? you’re welcome.

-

Bucky still doesn't understand you. Not even a little.

And a lot of times, that haunts him.

He watches you eat hot sauce straight from the bottle like it's a health tonic, quote Shakespeare when you’re tired, and wear mismatched crocs into certain battles because "they're my war shoes." One has a tiny sword glued to it.

You once looked him dead in the eye and said, “I wasn’t born. I was assembled in a Target parking lot during a thunderstorm.”

And then walked away.

He’s been thinking about it for months.

Another time you brought him a bag of gummy worms, patted his head, and said, “For when the depression demons attack.”

Despite all your nonsense, he can’t stop looking at you like you hung the moon with glitter glue and then ate half of it because that brand “smelled like frosting.”

He had tried to pretend you’re a nuisance at first, shaking his head and sighing at some of your antics. But it’s all morphed to reluctant acceptance of the fact that he’ll have to live with so many unanswered questions. That doesn’t stop him from taking care of you though.

He brings you hot chocolate after missions. He makes sure you’re behind him when it gets dangerous. He drags you out of fountains you jump into because you wanted to know what the regals birds like about it. He even downloaded TikTok just to understand your references.

One time you disappeared in the Tower. For five hours.

He found you in the broom closet, sitting cross-legged with three Roombas, wearing a crown made of forks.

“They know secrets,” You whispered. “I’m learning their ways.”

Bucky blinked.

“…I brought you pizza.”

You gasped. “I knew the prophecy would come true.”

-

GROUP CHAT:

Steve: Can someone explain what this is?

Image attached: You in a vent near the ceiling wearing a bad ghost outfit like a cursed Halloween decoration, eating Cheez-Its.

You: surveillance

Steve: Why…

You: i wanted to know what Bucky does when I’m not looking

Bucky: They’ve been up there for 6 hours. I offered help. They hissed at me.

-

Despite it all, you were deadly in the field.

You’d spout off the periodic table in the middle of a fistfight, pull off gravity-defying stunts “because I saw it in a cartoon once,” and solve encrypted Hydra codes in 30 seconds, all while questioning if Mickey Mouse and his friends ever had to pay rent to live in the Mickey Mouse clubhouse.

Bucky, your begrudgingly loving boyfriend, no longer reacts when you do things like wear medieval armor to a stealth op for morale reasons or quote Shrek during hostage negotiations. He just quietly takes your hand and steers you away before you lick anything radioactive.

Steve once asked why you were on a mission wearing roller skates. You said, “Speed and style, Cap,” then crashed directly into a vending machine and pulled out a single uncrushed Twix with solemn reverence.

Tony called you “the human embodiment of a broken Google search.” Wanda called you “a mystery I’ve chosen not to solve.” Natasha just called you “terrifying.”

Because for every baffling thing you did, like calling her “Mom” during a sniper stakeout because “you give off stern PTA energy”, you turned around and cracked encrypted intel before Bruce finished making coffee.

Once, in a mission briefing, Rhodey asked, “Wait, wasn’t the Hindenburg caused by a gas explosion?” and you, dead serious, replied, “Who’s the Hindenburg? That sounds like a guy who collects teeth.”

Everyone went dead silent.

Sam just nodded slowly and said, “Right, okay. Yeah, cool. This is the part where I stop paying attention.”

Nobody could figure you out.

Bruce once ran 14 psychological profiles on you. None of them matched. One came back as possibly a goat in human form.

Clint swears you once explained string theory using sock puppets and a waffle. And it made sense.

-

GROUP CHAT:

Tony: I’m updating the security protocol. Everyone needs to re-register their biosignatures.

You: what if I am a security risk

Tony: You are. Absolutely. Every day. In every way.

You: then I win

Natasha: What did you win?

You: You’ll see 😈

Tony: I have forgotten what peace feels like anymore.

-

You called yourself “The Distractinator” in combat.

Enemies didn’t know what to do with you. Were you a genius? Crazy? Feral? Was that a printer you just threw at their face while quoting Pride and Prejudice?

Yes. To all of it.

And somehow, impossibly, you were everyone’s favorite. Because while you were a chaos gremlin of untold magnitude, you cared.

You noticed when Clint seemed tired and unorthodoxically left snacks in his quiver.

You taught Steve how to use TikTok but made sure to curate only dog videos and motivational frog memes.

You convinced Bucky he could wear purple and look amazing. He does now. Regularly.

You helped Tony fix a faulty AI loop by accident while trying to build “a blender that screams.”

You’re not just a part of the team. You’re the emotional support cryptid.

And no matter how many explosions you cause with your “experiments,” or how many philosophical debates you start about whether lasagna is a cake, the Avengers wouldn’t trade you for the world.

…Though Tony did try to sell you to the X-Men once.

It didn’t work.

They sent you back with a fruit basket and a strongly worded letter.

[bitchslapblastoids]

This might make me a fake fan but what is the lore / significance of the orange heart?

orange heart my beloved!! when dan released WAD on youtube, phil retweeted it with a lovely message, and dan responded to phil's tweet with just a simple orange heart emoji:

THEN in case that wasn't enough of a dagger through the chest, dan screenshotted the interaction and posted it to his youtube community tab (????) with just the caption "gay" (it's still the most recent post on there lol) (also to quote @bassband: “The chaos of using the world’s worst social media function for their gayest moment yet” — so real)

everyone imploded, some people shouted hard launch. mostly i just think the heart tweet was such a painfully sweet, vulnerable move on dan's part. he is historically sardonic and blasé towards phil on his socials, he historically can't take a compliment, and he historically hedges any earnestness with lots and lots of words and overtalking. so to respond to phil's very earnest message with such an equally earnest, simple heart that can only be interpreted as a message of love, appreciation, gratitude.... idk, it felt really big and really loud, partly because it is so unlike him. they hadn't publicly sent a heart or anything so straightforwardly affectionate to one another since '09, really.

it still gets to me... their mutual undying support and straightforward love for one another captured in a simple, brave emoji. and then dan making sure everyone saw it. and yeah the 'gay' caption added a bit of the typical sarcasm/self-awareness we're more used to from him and softened the blow of it all a little, but mostly it was just like, oh. he categorically wants to make sure his whole following sees this exchange. okay.

when I made this blog, i knew immediately it was what I wanted to use for my icon, and I was just so relieved that no one else had claimed it. It makes me feel so warm and just feels perfect for the ethos of this blog. #notthatdeep i know I know but I feel a weird amount of like…. Humble gratitude for getting to have an association with it? And I’m weirdly picky about when I use the emoji myself because it feels…special. idk lol.

(There was also the weird subliminal messaging moment in one of Phil’s vids where the orange heart flashed for like a millisecond which did feel like some weird psychological warfare on his part)

[airybcby]

It's Nice to Have a 'Friend'

( soft launching with the haikyuu boys )

a / n — these are fun to make so i thought i'd do one for my favorite boys. find the blue lock version here !!

content — haikyuu characters x gn! reader, takes place during timeskip, fluff, tried to make it as gn! as possible, but the photos have women, lmk if i missed anything!

synopsis — soft launching with the haikyuu boys <3

✿.｡. “ sun sinks down, no curfew, ” .｡.✿

has a great following for being 'aesthetic' even though they rarely try. most things they post have photos of things they've done in the week like pictures of their food or them working.

their followers are used to aesthetic photo dumps with 10 photos each that have no rhyme or reason to them, so when they get online and see a post from their favorite account with only 3 photos and the caption

" my love " with the song 'my love mine all mine' by mitski attached? there was immediate reactions, some trying to find out who this mystery person is while others seemed to be happy with just these little snippets of the relationship.

theyluvmeee: OMG?? anyone know who this is??

↳ anon2001: it's a soft launch for a reason. that's like- common sense i fear.

they don't think of themselves as a 'content creator', they just like posting their photos. however, they did like how much strangers on the internet would stand up for them and your relationship.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ AKAASHI KEIJI, ennoshita chikara, ARAN OJIRO, daichi sawamura

has a decent amount of followers, mostly just people they'd known in high school and family, but there were a few hundred people who followed for the cute quotes that they would post before one of their chaotic photo dumps.

their usual feed was filled with the first picture being a quote that really made you think and then the craziest pictures. them face down in a puddle after a night out? yep it's there. pictures of them at a scenic dog park? also there

people began following them for the stark contrast that showed in every post they made, but when they posted something with no quote and it was a soft launch? their fans had immediately blown up the comments.

volleyballfreak: A SOFT LAUNCH? with who? omg.

and they had replied to almost every comment asking just who you were with...

' my lover <3 '

oh he was down bad.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ YAMAGUCHI TADASHI, aone takanobu, SUGAWARA KOSHI, osamu miya, NISHINOYA YUU, kita shinsuke, TANAKA RYUNOSUKE

so so so sooo many followers (that came with being a professional volleyball player you supposed) many people who didn't even enjoy volleyball followed them because of the silly stuff they posted.

their fans watched their stories where they would post memes and such, something that many pros didn't do on the daily...because they had a reputation to upkeep. to be fair, all of their followers never knew them to be the brightest, so nothing they posted caused up a stir.

until they posted photos they took with, what was supposed to be, some mystery person with the caption ' a soft launch on MY minecraft server ? '

and it would have been an AMAZING soft launch...if they didn't tag your PERSONAL ACCOUNT on every. single. picture.

you weren't a pro volleyball player, you weren't an actor, you weren't even a manager, nope! you were just some normal person who lives an everyday normal life.

they had the spirit, just not the execution, but that's why their fans (and you) loved them <3

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･BOKUTO KOTARO, atsumu miya, HINATA SHOYO, KANJI KOGANEGAWA

didn't get a chance to soft launch you before the paparazzi put out the tabloids of the both of you. the titles always saying something like "STAR VOLLEYBALL PLAYER WITH MYSTERY LOVER??"

the article was posted ten times over on every single social media platform there was, with many people with many different reactions replying to it

MSBYmomma: ur joking. he's literally mine

goofgoob: thank god one person on this team is in a loyal relationship.

the two of you hadn't even gotten the chance to open your own social medias before hundreds of texts invaded both of your phones. only from the people who knew of your relationship and were worried about the both of you.

so what did they do? reposted the photo on their story with two simple emojis...

"👍❤️"

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ USHIJIMA WAKATOSHI, kageyama tobio, OIKAWA TORU, sakusa kiyoomi

✿.｡. “ twenty questions, we tell the truth. ” .｡.✿

i love soft launches and haikyuu <3

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!

[theghostavocadoe]

social media headcanons? social media headcanons.

Zack's username is i.cast.gongaga and it is filled to the brim with shitposts. blurry 0.5 shots. the occasional gym photo. and of course an endless amount of selfies. all the captions are cheesy motivational quotes that end with 🔥🔥🔥💯💯💪💪💪💪. everyone in soldier follows him

Angeal's username is soldiers_dad (Zack chose it for him) and his photos are mostly plants and cooking. He also has a tradition of posting the "guilty soldier of the week" where he posts an almost comical mugshot of a soldier (usually Zack) who pulled some kind of troublesome act that week. Another habit of his is reposting as many fundraisers as he can.

Genesis' username is literally just genesis.rhapsodos and he's the only First to have a Verified symbol next to his username. He posts selfies, travel videos, the occasional loveless reading ASMR, and every red carpet picture he can get a hold of that has him in it. He has one picture posted of himself lounging on a beach, shirtless, wearing sunglasses. it's his most liked post.

Sephiroth has two accounts. One that Shinra owns that spews nothing but Shinra propaganda, and one fittingly named "thorihpes" that sephiroth actually owns. What does he post? Vague images of scenery or just the floor with little diary entries in the captions. maybe even poems. sometimes, very rarely, he writes love letters that have no named recipient. the account is public, but it doesn't have many followers, since not many people realize that it's actually sephiroth.

Cloud doesn't believe in social media and refuses to touch it with a 10 foot pole.

[inlovewithfionaapple]

let it breathe

warnings: nothing, i had zero clue what to write for the ending so its a lot shorter

wc: 359

an: final part! i really enjoyed this series!

part three

the photo wasn’t planned. not really.

it was a saturday. the sun was out. leah had laced her fingers with y/n’s as they strolled through primrose hill like any other couple in love, like the world hadn’t nearly fallen apart two weeks earlier. their steps were slow, unhurried. they laughed about old inside jokes. y/n stole chips off leah’s plate at lunch. leah didn’t mind. she never did.

the photo came from a girl walking her dog. not paparazzi. not press. just a stranger who happened to glance over and recognize england’s golden girl sitting on a park bench, leaning against another girl with her head on her shoulder.

the tweet went up with no caption. just the image: leah smiling, eyes crinkled. y/n's lips pressed to her temple. fingers intertwined like the simplest, most complicated truth in the world.

it took five minutes to go viral.

leah’s phone buzzed with mentions, messages, texts from teammates and old friends.

she looked at y/n, who looked at her.

“do we delete it?” y/n asked, voice quiet.

leah didn’t even hesitate. “no. we let it breathe.”

y/n's brows lifted. “you sure?”

“i’ve never been more sure about anything.”

so they let it stay.

by evening, leah posted the same photo herself. no filters. no caption. just a small white heart in the corner.

comments flooded in—some shocked, some supportive, a few cruel, but mostly: love.

beth replied with three heart emojis. keira quote-tweeted with “about bloody time.” the lionesses' official account liked it.

leah turned off her notifications, tossed the phone aside, and pulled y/n into her lap.

“how do you feel?” y/n asked.

leah exhaled against her collarbone. “light.”

they curled up together, tucked under a shared hoodie, and watched the sky darken outside leah’s flat.

outside, the world was loud. online, the headlines wrote themselves.

but in here, in this quiet space carved out just for them, there was only truth. only them.

finally, leah whispered, “we’re not a secret anymore.”

y/n kissed her forehead. “we never were. not really.”

and maybe they were still scared—but now, they weren’t hiding.

[clumsydolly]

Can you write obey me!brothers x Cater Diamond!reader?

Obey me! brothers x Cater Diamond!Reader

3 elder brothers!

Warnings⚠️Vulgar language, violence, obnoxious internet terms!

Sorry this took so long I hope it's what you wanted!

Lucifer

Lucifer had always thought he’d seen it all. The House of Lamentation had hosted every brand of chaos imaginable, courtesy of his brothers, mostly, but nothing quite prepared him for the whirlwind that was you.

The first time he laid eyes on you, you were trying to convince Mammon to pose for a Magicam selfie with a glitter filter so aggressive it could’ve blinded a lesser demon. Lucifer, naturally, interrupted the moment with a pointed glare and a very firm, "Absolutely not."

Your response? A dramatic sigh, followed by, "Ugh, you really need to work on your candid game, Luci! How am I supposed to capture your good side when you keep scowling like that?"

He raised an eyebrow at the nickname, nobody called him Luci and lived comfortably afterward. But you just grinned, flicking your phone back into your coat pocket and tossing your pastel scarf over your shoulder like some sort of magical pop idol.

Lucifer had immediately pegged you as insufferable. Attention-seeking. A walking social media addiction. And perhaps most infuriating of all, you refused to be intimidated by him. Every threat, every lecture, every time he’d say “That’s not appropriate behavior for a guest in this house,” you’d nod sweetly… and then immediately go do it again.

What baffled him most, however, wasn’t your blatant disregard for protocol. It was how absurdly good you were at reading a room. You knew when to tone down the glitter and when to add more. You could mediate arguments between Mammon and Satan with a laugh and a cheeky, “Let’s save the claws for a better lighting setup, yeah?” You comforted Levi after a tough game loss with a silly meme edit of his avatar, complete with sparkly eyes and a sarcastic motivational quote.

Lucifer caught on fast. Your cheeriness was a mask. Not unlike his own perfectly polished control, yours was all filters and emojis and peace signs. The way you avoided deep topics with a swift joke, the way you steered conversations away from anything personal, it was calculated, carefully curated, and very, very familiar.

He began watching you more closely. Not in a creepy way (he told himself), just… attentively. You weren’t top of your classes, but you weren’t failing either. You submitted assignments just barely on time, unless it was for one of the professors you actually liked, then you overdelivered with extra flair. When it came to exams, you’d panic study, but only after trying every shortcut possible.

Lucifer saw how you adapted your behavior depending on who you were with. Around Asmo, you became extra bubbly. With Beel, you dialed things back to a calm, affectionate energy. With Satan, you let your sharp wit shine, occasionally dropping surprisingly insightful lines about social dynamics or manipulation tactics that made even him pause.

And then there was the homesickness thing, or rather, the lack of it. Everyone missed home at some point, but not you. Not really. When Simeon brought up holiday traditions and asked what yours were, you shrugged it off with a breezy, "Oh, my sisters would throw a whole pink sparkle fest just because I sneezed. I'm better off here with y’all."

You said it like a joke, but the tightness around your eyes lingered.

Lucifer didn’t pry. Instead, he quietly began making space. A place at the tea table. A schedule shift here and there so you weren’t overwhelmed. He even adjusted the dorm curfew rules slightly when he caught you sneaking out to take photos of the moonlit Devildom skyline, something about the "aesthetic." You never thanked him directly, but the next morning there was a photo of the House of Lamentation on Magicam, captioned: "Home’s what you make it ✨ #GrumpyButGolden #ThanksForNotBanningMe #MoodLightingIsEverything"

Lucifer groaned at the hashtag.

Then he saved the photo to his private gallery.

He didn’t mean to get attached. Truly. But the more he tried to brush you off as shallow, the more he realized how intentional you were with your actions. You noticed when someone was down. You remembered everyone’s birthdays (with themed edits and fanfare, of course). You learned how to balance Lucifer’s tea exactly how he liked it, and you’d hand it to him with a wink and a “Here ya go, grumpy. Don’t say I never do anything for you.”

You weren’t afraid of his pride, either. You teased him. Challenged him. You even got him to participate in a dance trend once, he still blames that on demonic influence, and your clever trickery with music magic, but he’d be lying if he said the video didn’t make him smirk.

What truly sealed it, though, was when Diavolo asked during a meeting if you were proving to be a handful.

Lucifer opened his mouth to say yes.

Then paused.

"They’re… spirited," he said instead. "But insightful. They have a unique understanding of social mechanics."

Diavolo chuckled. “You mean they’re good at handling your brothers.”

Lucifer sighed. “That too.”

Later that week, you burst into his office with a Magicam filter over your face that made you look like a demon goat. “Lucifer. Behold. The true Avatar of Pride.”

He glared. You cackled.

Then, quietly, he gestured to the empty seat across from him and said, “Tea?”

You blinked. Then smiled. “Don’t mind if I do, grumpy.”

Lucifer told himself you were just another unpredictable variable in his schedule.

But he watched you sip your tea, laughing to yourself as you showed him the next dumb trend he didn’t understand, and he felt something ease.

He could handle unpredictable.

Especially when it came with sparkles and a sharp wit.

Mammon

Mammon was used to being flashy. The most stylish, the most confident, the Great Mammon himself. But then you came along, you, with your glittery charm, perfectly styled hair, D.D.D. camera always at the ready, and a smile that made demons stop and double-take. It drove him crazy.

Not because he didn’t like it. Oh, no. He loved it. He just didn’t know what to do about it.

You, Y/N, were like a comet through the Devildom. Loud, flirty, sparkly in every possible way. You had a Magicam following that rivaled Asmo’s, and Mammon would be lying if he said he didn’t check your feed before bed every night, pretending he was just keeping an eye on the "new human exchange student."

You called everyone "babe," posed dramatically in the hallway, and never passed up the chance for a perfectly framed selfie with Beel mid-bite or Lucifer scowling in the background. You made Devilgram your turf by storm, dragging Mammon into your content whether he liked it or not. (Spoiler: he totally did.)

"Say cheese, Mammon!" you'd grin, wrapping an arm around him and holding your camera out. "Or should I say 'Greed!' C'mon, give me your best 'I just saw a sale at Hell's Designer Outlet' face!"

"H-Hey! I ain't just some mascot, ya know!" Mammon would complain, even as he struck the exact pose you asked for.

He wasn’t sure what to make of you at first. You were too smooth, too good at reading people, too good at hiding behind a smile. He recognized the energy, a mix of real and fake, high-key charm and low-key avoidance. It was *familiar*. You had his kind of hustle, his kind of instincts. You could talk anyone into anything while secretly sizing up your exit strategy. Mammon respected that. It also terrified him.

And maybe that’s why he kept trailing behind you like a kicked puppy. Not that he was one. He was Mammon. Cool. Powerful. Debonair.

And yet, when you looked at him with those mischievous eyes and flashed your peace sign, he forgot how to breathe.

One day, the two of you ended up paired for a Devildom culture project. Lucifer arranged it. Mammon swore it was a form of torture.

"Okay, so we need to make a presentation," you said, plopping down beside him, already typing on your D.D.D. "I'm thinking vintage Devildom fashion through the eras. It’ll be gorgeous. You’re gonna wear so many different outfits."

Mammon choked on his soda. "Me?! Why me?!"

"C'mon, Mammon, you’re model material! You’re practically a walking magazine ad."

He turned pink. That... that wasn't not true.

"Y-Yeah, well, I *do* got good bone structure. But don’t think ya can boss me around just 'cause I look good on camera!"

"Pff, please. I already boss you around. And you love it."

He did. He absolutely did.

What started as a project turned into hours of trying on outfits, of posing with you in wild settings across the Devildom, of you fixing his collar while giggling and teasing him, your fingers brushing his neck.

"Ugh," you sighed dramatically once, snapping another photo. "You're way too photogenic. It's unfair."

"I-It ain't like I asked to be born perfect," Mammon muttered, glancing away.

You caught the way he avoided eye contact, the faint vulnerability under all that bravado. You knew that kind of armor. You wore it too.

"You know," you said one evening, after a long day of prep, sitting with your feet in the fountain outside R.A.D., "my sisters used to rate everything I did based on how 'cute' it was. If it wasn’t cute, I had to redo it. Even my homework. It made me kinda hate being home."

Mammon blinked, surprised. You never really talked about personal stuff. You joked and flirted and dodged.

"I know the feeling," he said after a moment. "My bros always look down on me. Like I ain't responsible enough, or good enough to do anything right. But I try, y'know? I really do."

You leaned your head on his shoulder.

"We're a mess, huh?"

Mammon turned bright red. "Y-Yeah. But a good lookin mess."

The project was a hit. Everyone loved it. Even Lucifer said it was "surprisingly polished."

Mammon tried to play it cool. You were off basking in the Magicam likes, joking about which house demon should have their own fashion line.

"You know," he said quietly, when you caught up with him later that night. "I really liked workin' with you."

You smiled. Not your usual camera smile. A real one. "Yeah. Me too."

Mammon rubbed the back of his neck. "So, uh. Maybe next time, we do somethin' that ain’t for a grade. Like... hang out. Just us."

"Mammon. Are you asking me out?"

"NO. I mean. YES. I mean—SHUT UP!"

You grinned. The good kind. The kind that made Mammon feel like maybe, just maybe, you smiled that way just for him.

"You’re lucky you’re cute."

"Tch. I know I’m cute." And he definitely wasn't blushing!!! ....(He totally was!)

And just like that, the two of you wandered off into the Devildom night. Still bickering, still sparkling, still absolutely a mess. But a mess together.

Levithan

Leviathan didn’t know what to do with you.

Like, not in the dramatic "you've ruined everything" way he was used to screaming at normies online, but in the kind of way where every time you entered the room he lost two IQ points and gained a heartbeat. You were a chaos combo of glitter, slang he didn't understand, and camera filters that gave him nosebleeds.

"Y/N, why are you livestreaming in the middle of our TSL rerun?"

"Because, babe, this lighting is SLAYING right now, and I gotta give the fans what they want! Oh—Levi, scoot in, let’s do a lil fishy face selfie! #AnimeGamerGoals."

You snapped a photo while he was mid-blink, and he nearly fainted from the double whammy of accidental physical contact and the speed with which you uploaded it to Magicam.

"I-I wasn't ready! You didn't even use the TSL-themed sticker pack of Henry and The Third Lord I showed you last night!"

But he still saved the picture. And stared at it later. A lot.

You were nothing like him. Where Levi clung to order and fandom routine, you thrived in noise and spontaneity. He liked hiding in his room and watching his favorite streams. You were out there being the stream. Half the time he thought you were just teasing him, but then you'd actually sit through hours of his rants about obscure gacha game lore or start quoting episode 107 of "My Tentacle Prince's Diary" out of nowhere.

You didn't just humor him. You saw him. And Leviathan, in all his anxiety-soaked, envy-ridden, self-deprecating existence, had no idea what to do with that.

He kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. That you'd get bored. That you'd laugh. That you'd vanish.

Instead, you showed up in cosplay.

"Surprise~! I'm doing Tentacle Prince for the convention tomorrow. Help me fix the wig? Pretty please?"

He stared at you like you'd just proposed. (Honestly, that was kinda what it felt like.)

"Y-You're really doing that cosplay? You’re not just mocking me?"

You pouted dramatically. "Mock you? Baby, I’d never disrespect you or your husbando or waifu. Also, I’m gonna need you to help me glue the suckers onto my gloves. You’re the only one I trust with hot glue and my fingers."

He nearly passed out.

Spending time with you was like living in an anime. You used so many sparkles and filters, he swore your real-life presence was brighter than any screen. And yet, under all the flashy hashtags and killer selfies, there was a quiet kind of loneliness Levi understood all too well.

You didn’t talk about your family much. Just tossed off weird little comments like, "Ugh, my sisters would literally murder me if I didn't bring them souvenirs," or, "My mom once made me eat 87 cupcakes in a day, and I haven't trusted sweets since."

You laughed when you said it, but it always felt... a little too practiced. A little too light.

And Levi got that. Deeply.

One night, after a long gaming session where you'd both totally lost track of time, you stayed slumped next to him on the floor, scrolling through your Magicam page. Your face softened a bit. Less sparkle, more sigh.

"Ever think about how none of these pics really show the whole picture? Like, everyone's always smiling or posing, but it's not real-real."

Levi blinked. That was extremely real for 3 AM.

"Y-Yeah. I mean, I guess. But maybe that's what makes it comforting? It's like... the world you want, even if it's not the one you've got."

You leaned your head on his shoulder.

"That’s the smartest thing anyone’s said to me in months. Dang, Levi. No wonder you’re my fav."

He short-circuited. Actually made a wheezing noise like a tea kettle. But you didn’t tease him.

You just stayed there a while.

Thank you all so much for reading! 🩷 I hope you enjoyed! As usual Reblogs are encouraged and appreciated!