#dave york/reader | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cosmicaura7 · 2 months ago

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EATING YOU OUT

Pairings : pedro pascal characters x reader

Genre : f/m, smut, oral (female receiving), overstimulation, edging

Synopsis : He is a devoted husband in every sense of the word. But when it comes to you, his pretty wife, there’s one thing he simply can’t get enough of.

Clint Flood (Freaky Tales)

Clint had always been a man of few words. He never needed them, not when his actions spoke louder, not when he could show you exactly how much he adored you with the way he touched you, worshiped you. And God, did he worship you.

You barely had time to register the way he pulled you into bed, hands gripping your thighs, parting them with a desperation that made your breath hitch. Clint had that look in his eyes, the one that said he was about to ruin you and the one that made your body tremble before he even laid a finger on you.

"Been thinkin’ about this all damn day." He muttered, voice rough with hunger as he pressed kisses up your inner thigh. His scruff scratched against your skin, sending shivers up your spine.

Your fingers threaded through his messy hair as he settled between your legs, inhaling deeply, like the scent of you alone was enough to drive him mad. His large hands gripped your hips, pulling you closer to his mouth and before you could say anything, his tongue was on you, slow, deliberate and savoring. "Clint…" You gasped but he only groaned in response, the vibrations making your thighs twitch around his head.

"You know better than to talk, sweetheart." He murmured against you, his tongue flicking over your clit in a way that made your breath stutter. "Just let me take care of you."

And he did.

Clint was relentless, devouring you with an obsession that left you weak. He licked, sucked and nipped, memorized every little sound you made, every little movement of your hips. He wanted you shaking, coming undone on his tongue, over and over, until you were too blissed-out to do anything but whimper his name. His grip on your thighs tightened when you tried to move away, too overwhelmed by the pleasure but he wasn’t letting you go, not yet. "Stay still, baby." He murmured, voice thick with need. "Ain't done with you."

Your back arched as his tongue worked you over again, teasing, torturing, until you were gasping, pulling at his hair, your body trembling under him. He ate you like a man starved, like he’d never get enough of you because he wouldn’t. And when you finally shattered, thighs clamping around his head, your body shaking with the force of your release, Clint only groaned in satisfaction, licking up every last drop of you like it was his lifeline.

As you lay there, boneless, breathless, he kissed his way back up your body, his lips brushing over your heated skin, smirking against your cheek. "Still with me, pretty girl?" He teased, his voice full of pride. You could barely form words, still floating in the haze he’d left you in. But Clint? He was already thinking about the next time because once would never be enough. Not when it came to you.

Dave York (The Equalizer 2)

Dave York had many obsessions, precision, control and more. The satisfaction of a perfectly executed plan. But none of them compared to you. And more specifically, the way you tasted. It was the one thing that shattered his discipline, made him reckless and made him a goddamn fiend.

Tonight was no different.

You barely had time to process before Dave had you spread out on the bed, your silk nightgown pushed up to your waist, his broad shoulders wedged between your thighs. He wasn’t even pretending to take his time, he needed this, needed you.

The first swipe of his tongue was slow, deliberate, a groan rumbling deep in his chest as he tasted you. “Fuck.” He muttered against your skin, his grip tightening on your thighs. “How do you get sweeter every time?”

Your fingers tangled in his hair as he devoured you, licking into you like a man starved. The heat of his mouth, the flick of his tongue, the way his scruff rubbed against your sensitive skin, it was too much. “D-Dave.” Your voice was already shaking, your thighs trembling around his head but that only seemed to spur him on.

He growled, a deep, needy sound, and wrapped his arms around your thighs, locking you in place. “Not done yet, sweetheart.” As if you had any say in the matter. He feasted on you, tongue circling your clit before sucking it into his mouth, making your back arch off the bed. You whimpered, thighs trying to snap shut but his grip was bruising, his strength impossible to fight.

“That’s it.” He murmured, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your swollen cunt. “Give me everything, baby.”

Your body obeyed, hips rolling against his face, chasing the high he always pulled from you. And when you finally broke, when pleasure crashed over you so violently your entire body trembled, Dave didn’t stop, didn’t let you go.

You tried to push at his shoulders, whimpering from overstimulation but he just laughed, pressing his tongue flat against your clit again. “Who told you we were done?” He murmured against your soaked heat. “I’ll stop when I’m finished.” And you knew, there was no stopping him now. You were his and he was going to ruin you.

Dieter Bravo (The Bubble)

Dieter had many vices.

Drugs? Sure. Booze? Of course. Attention? Absolutely.

But nothing compared to his addiction to you. Specifically, your pussy.

It was almost ridiculous how often he had his face between your legs. You could be doing anything, reading, scrolling through your phone, even talking to him about something completely mundane and suddenly, Dieter would get that look in his eyes. That lazy hungry gaze.

Like now.

You were sitting on the couch, dressed in nothing but one of his old t-shirts, scrolling through your emails. You barely noticed Dieter shifting beside you, draping himself over your lap, nuzzling against your thighs like a cat begging for attention. It was when he pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh that you finally glanced down.

“D…” You sighed, already knowing where this was going. “I’m busy.”

Dieter hummed, completely ignoring you, nosing the fabric of your shirt up so he could kiss higher, closer. “You can’t really be that busy.” He murmured against your skin. “Not too busy for me, right, sweetheart?”

“You literally ate me out this morning.” You arched a brow.

“And? That was hours ago.” Dieter grinned, nipping at your thigh. You sighed but the anticipation was already pooling low in your stomach. Because you knew Dieter wasn’t going to give up. He never did.

With a content hum, he hooked his arms around your thighs and pulled, dragging you down until you were half-sprawled against the couch. You let out a soft yelp as he pushed your legs apart, settling between them like a man ready to worship at the altar of his favorite religion. “I love this pretty little pussy.” He murmured, eyes dark as he ran his fingers along your already damp folds. “I swear baby, I could die between these thighs and be the happiest man alive.”

“You’re insane.” You let out a breathless laugh.

Dieter smirked. “I’m just a man who knows what he likes.” And with that, he dove in. His mouth was hot, tongue slow and deliberate as he licked a long, teasing stripe up your slit before wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking.

“Fuck, Dieter…” Your head fell back against the couch. He groaned against you, like he was savoring the taste, like he’d been starving for this. Because he was. He never rushed. Never got bored. Never stopped until you were a shaking, whimpering mess underneath him.

And tonight? He was taking his time.

Din Djarin (The Mandalorian)

It was late aboard the Razor Crest, the hum of hyperspace a soft backdrop to the warmth cocooning you within your shared bunk. The dim glow of the overhead lights bathed the cramped space in shadows but none of it mattered, not when you were beneath him.

Din had you sprawled out on the thin mattress, his beskar discarded, his helmet resting on the shelf beside him. His dark eyes were fixed on you, hungry and full of devotion, as he pressed kisses along the inside of your thigh. His gravelly voice, thick with need, sent shivers through your already trembling body. "You're shaking, cyar’ika." He murmured, lips ghosting over your sensitive skin. "And I haven't even started yet."

Your fingers curled into the sheets as you whimpered, your body betraying you. The sheer intensity of his gaze, like you were the only thing in the galaxy that mattered, left you breathless. "Din, please." You whispered, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart.

A low chuckle vibrated against your thigh. "So needy." He murmured, dragging his tongue over your skin, slow and teasing. "You know I love it when you beg."

You gasped as his hands gripped your hips, pulling you closer, trapping you beneath his unyielding strength. And then he devoured you. His mouth was hot and relentless, tongue swirling, lips sealing over you with an insatiable hunger that left you writhing beneath him. You cried out, arching against him but his grip tightened, holding you down and forcing you to take it.

"You taste so fucking good, my riduur." He groaned against you, the vibrations sending shockwaves through your body. Your fingers flew to his hair, tugging, desperate for something to ground yourself. But Din only growled, doubling down, lapping you up like a man starved. His obsession with this, with you, bordered on madness. And you were helpless against it. Utterly and completely at his mercy.

Ezra (The Prospect)

Ezra has always been an indulgent man. The kind to savor his pleasures, to take his time. And when it comes to you? He’s downright ravenous.

It starts with a kiss.

It always does.

A slow, lazy thing, Ezra’s lips pressing soft and warm against yours as he pulls you into his lap. His hands, calloused and sure, trace the curve of your spine, skimming lower, gripping just enough to make you sigh against his mouth. "You’re too good to me, sugar." He murmurs, his breath ghosting over your jaw as his lips move lower. "Ain’t right, how lucky I got."

"And what did I do to deserve such praise?" You smile, threading your fingers through his hair.

Ezra hums, dragging his lips down the column of your throat. "Exist." And then he’s gone. Down, down, lower, his hands gripping your hips as he lays you back against the bed. The mattress dips beneath his weight, his broad shoulders parting your thighs as he settles between them.

And God help you, because you know what’s coming. Ezra is obsessed with your pussy. And he’s about to prove it.

He starts slow. Dragging his mouth along the inside of your thigh, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses to the soft skin there. Savoring, worshiping and teasing. "You’re soft everywhere, sugar." He murmurs, voice thick with hunger. "But this? Right here?" His thumb presses against your slick heat, parting you, and he groans. "This is my favorite part."

Your breath catches as he dips his head, his tongue flicking out to taste.

And then Ezra moans like he’s the one being pleasured, like he’s just been given the most decadent meal in the universe. His good hand grips your thigh, holding you open, keeping you spread and vulnerable for his mouth. He licks deep, dragging his tongue through your folds before wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking.

You jolt, your hands flying to his hair, thighs trembling around his head.

"Ezra!"

"That’s it." He rasps, pulling back just enough to press a wet kiss against your swollen bud. "Say my name, sugar." He licks again, slower this time, his tongue curling just right and you keen.

"God, Ezra!"

He groans against you, the vibrations sparking pleasure up your spine. His grip tightens, fingers digging into your flesh as he devours you, his mouth moving in slow, deliberate strokes, building you up, winding you tight. And then he flicks his tongue, fast and sharp, before sucking hard.

And you break. Pleasure crashes over you in waves, your body arching, thighs clamping around his head as you cry out his name. But Ezra doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down. He keeps going, keeps licking, keeps sucking, dragging out every last tremor, every last pulse of pleasure until you’re shaking beneath him, gasping, whimpering. Only then does he finally pull away, his lips glistening, his eyes dark and blown with hunger.

"You taste like heaven, sugar." He murmurs, pressing a kiss to your trembling thigh. "Think I might need another bite."

And then he dives back in.

And you?

You’re gone.

Francisco Morales (Triple Frontier)

Frankie wasn’t ashamed of it. Hell, he’d scream it from the rooftops if he could. He was obsessed with his wife’s pussy. It was his, after all.

And right now, he was devouring it like a man starved. His broad shoulders were wedged between your thighs, his scruffy beard scratching against your inner thighs as his tongue worked you over, slow and deliberate, savoring the way you squirmed beneath him. Your back was arched, your fingers tugging at his curls, your breath ragged as you tried and failed to keep up with his relentless pace.

“F-Frankie!” Your voice hitched as his tongue flicked against your clit, his arms tightening around your thighs, locking you in place.

“That’s it, baby.” He groaned, his voice gravelly, deep, vibrating against your soaked cunt. “Let me hear you.” You whimpered, legs trembling around his head, but he just held you tighter, lapped at you harder, his tongue dipping deep, tasting everything you had to give him.

“Always so sweet, honey. Always so perfect.” You shuddered, your body tensing, that familiar heat building, rising, coiling tight.

And then Frankie sucked your clit between his lips, his tongue swirling, flicking, pushing you over the edge. Your cry filled the room as you came undone, your thighs clamping around his head, your entire body shaking beneath him.

But Frankie wasn’t done, not yet. “One more, baby.” His voice was thick with hunger, his hands spreading you open again, his tongue diving back in before you could even catch your breath.

And the only thing you could do was take it like a good little girl.

Harry Castillo (The Materialists)

The penthouse was dimly lit, the glow from the city skyline casting soft shadows across the bedroom. Outside, the world was still alive, cars honking, sirens wailing, people laughing in distant bars but here, none of that mattered.

Here, it was just you and Harry.

And Harry was hungry. His hands were possessive, large palms gliding over your bare thighs as he spread you open beneath him. The warmth of his breath tickled your skin, sending a delicious shiver up your spine. “Look at you.” He murmured, eyes dark with need as he settled between your legs. “My perfect little wife.” His lips pressed to the inside of your knee, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses up your inner thigh. Every inch he covered made your heartbeat hammer against your ribs, your breath catching when his nose brushed against where you needed him most.

“Harry…” You whispered, already trembling beneath his touch.

His lips curved against your skin. He loved this, loved how eager, needy and utterly wrecked you became under his hands. He had barely touched you and yet you were already coming undone for him. “You know I can’t help myself.” He murmured, pressing a kiss to the softest part of your thigh. “Not when you taste so fucking sweet.”

And then, he devoured you. His tongue was hot, skilled, and utterly merciless as he dragged it through your slick heat. You arched off the bed, a cry spilling from your lips as your fingers shot down to grip his hair, holding on as he took his time tasting you.

Harry groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your core. He loved this. Loved the way your thighs tried to clamp around his head, the way you whimpered and gasped his name with every flick of his tongue. His strong arms wrapped around your thighs, keeping you spread for him as he feasted. Every slow, deliberate lap of his tongue had you trembling, your body coiling tighter and tighter with unbearable pleasure.

“Oh, god! Harry…” You gasped, hips bucking against his mouth. “I…I'm gonna…”

“Go on.” He growled against you, tongue pressing deep, voice husky with obsession. “Give it to me.”

And you did. Your body shattered, pleasure ripping through you so violently that you couldn’t even scream, just a silent, breathless cry as your vision whited out. But Harry wasn’t done. Even as you trembled beneath him, legs twitching, breath shaky, he kept going.

“Too much…” You whimpered, trying to pull away, but his grip tightened on your thighs, pinning you down.

“Uh-uh, sweetheart.” He rasped, looking up at you with hungry, darkened eyes. “I’m not done yet.” And then he dove back in, tongue relentless, dragging you into another devastating wave of pleasure.

You were his. His beautiful, perfect little wife. And he was going to worship you all night long.

Jack “Whiskey” Daniels (Kingsman)

Jack “Whiskey” Daniels prided himself on many things, his skill as an agent, his precision with a lasso, his ability to hold his liquor better than most men. But above all else, there was one thing he cherished, one thing he could never get enough of: you.

More specifically, the sweet little prize between your thighs.

And tonight? Tonight was no different.

You were sprawled across the bed, your body trembling beneath him, your breath coming in ragged little gasps. The silk sheets beneath you were already wrinkled, your fingers tangled in them as you tried to keep yourself together. But Jack had other plans. “Oh, honey.” He drawled against your soaked folds, his voice thick with amusement and hunger. “Ain’t no use runnin’ from me.” Your thighs jerked as his tongue dragged through your slick folds, his hands gripping the plush flesh to keep you still. He’d been down here for what felt like hours, working you over with that devastating mouth of his, taking his time like he had nowhere else in the world to be.

And for Jack, that was true. He had you all to himself, and he wasn’t going anywhere.

“J-Jack…” You whimpered, your voice wrecked and needy, barely a breath.

His cock throbbed at the sound, at the way you begged so prettily for him without even realizing it. He nuzzled against your swollen clit, letting his scruff drag against the sensitive skin before wrapping his lips around it and sucking.

You cried out, arching off the bed, your hands flying to his hair as your thighs instinctively tried to clamp around his head. But he was stronger and faster, he pinned your legs open with ease, spreading you wide for him. “Uh-uh, darlin’.” He murmured, looking up at you with dark, hazy eyes. “You know better than that. Let me see you.”

Your chest heaved as you met his gaze, your body quaking beneath him. He looked downright ravenous, his mouth and chin glistening with your slick, his pupils blown wide with hunger. “Prettiest damn thing I ever laid eyes on.” He muttered before diving right back in. His tongue worked you over, alternating between slow, teasing licks and deep, relentless strokes that had you seeing stars. He devoured you, like he was a man starved and you were the only meal he ever needed.

Your stomach tightened, pleasure coiling low, your muscles locking up as you felt yourself hurtling toward the edge. “Come on, sugar.” Jack murmured against you, his voice vibrating through your core. “Give me another one. Know you got it in ya.”

And oh, you did.

With one last flick of his tongue, you shattered. Your body seized, pleasure ripping through you as you sobbed his name, your vision going white-hot as waves of ecstasy crashed over you. Jack groaned against you, his grip tightening, holding you steady as he licked you through every last aftershock, determined to prolong your bliss for as long as he could. Only when your body finally sagged against the bed, spent and trembling, did he pull away. His lips were wet, his beard glistening, but that smirk was firmly in place as he crawled up your body, pressing his hard, aching length against your thigh.

“Think you got another one in ya, sweet thing?” He murmured, nipping at your jaw as one of his hands trailed between your legs, his fingers teasing your overstimulated clit. You whimpered, your entire body shuddering as a fresh wave of need coursed through you.

Jack grinned.

“That’s my girl.”

Javi Guttierez (The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent)

Javi Gutierrez had always been a devoted man. To his work, to his friends, to the things he loved. But nothing held his devotion quite like you did. Especially when he had you like this. Sprawled out on the bed, limbs trembling, thighs spread wide for him as he buried his face between them like a man starved.

He wasn’t even pretending to pace himself tonight. From the moment he laid you down, he had been relentless, tongue hot and wet as it flicked over your clit, his lips sealing around the swollen bud just to suck, pulling desperate whimpers from your throat. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you still even as your body tried to escape the pleasure he forced upon you. You were shaking. Shaking beneath him, body writhing against the sheets, fingers tangled in his thick curls, tugging, pulling, pushing. Not that he ever listened to your weak attempts to get away. If anything, your resistance only spurred him on.

He groaned into your soaked heat, the vibration sending another shockwave through your already overstimulated body. “Tan dulce, mi amor.” He murmured, voice muffled as he licked a long, slow stripe up your slit before sealing his lips around you once more. “I could stay here forever.”

“Javi…” You whined, thighs trembling in his grasp.

But the plea was cut off by a sharp gasp as he slid two fingers inside you, curling them just right, his mouth never ceasing its delicious assault. His free hand splayed over your stomach, feeling the way your muscles tensed beneath his touch. “Give me one more.” He coaxed, voice thick with arousal, tongue circling your clit in slow, deliberate movements. “One more, cariño, I know you can.”

You didn’t stand a chance against him. Against his tongue, his fingers, the overwhelming hunger he had for you. And when you finally shattered, crying out his name, Javi moaned like he was the one coming undone, lapping up every bit of your pleasure as if he could drink you in. Even as you lay there, panting, skin glistening with sweat, body too spent to move, he still wasn’t satisfied. Because you were his favorite meal.

And Javi Gutierrez never left a plate unfinished.

Javier Peña (Narcos)

Nights with your husband had always felt like a dream, heavy with warmth, golden with affection. But tonight, something different simmered beneath the surface. Javier had been watching you all day. From the way your sundress clung to your curves as you folded laundry, to the delicate stretch of your legs on the couch as you flipped through a magazine, lost in your world. He looked at you like a starving man, slow, focused and reverent.

And now you were lying in bed, bathed in the soft lamplight of your shared room. A breath caught in your throat as he hovered above you, still fully clothed, yet somehow already unraveled by you. “Javi…” You whispered, fingers curling around the front of his shirt.

“Shh, baby.” He murmured, kissing the center of your chest with quiet, burning reverence. “Let me take care of you.”

You swallowed, heart racing, as he trailed kisses lower, slow and deliberate, fingertips skimming down your sides as if he were learning your body all over again. “You’re always so good to me.” He whispered, his voice rough and low. “Always so damn beautiful. You have no idea what you do to me.”

Your breath hitched as he settled between your thighs, warm palms spreading them gently but firmly, like he couldn’t wait another second to worship you properly. And when his mouth met your skin, it wasn’t rushed. No, it was worshipful, slow, focused and obsessed. You gripped the sheets, legs trembling as he groaned into you like he was the one being undone. As if the taste of you was the only thing he ever wanted, the only thing he craved.

“Javi, oh my god!” You gasped, your voice catching as your body arched beneath him.

He didn’t stop. Not when your fingers tangled in his hair. Not when your legs threatened to close around his shoulders. And especially not when you were trembling beneath him, so sensitive you could barely breathe. He pulled back just long enough to kiss your inner thigh and look up at you with that devilish proud smirk of his. “You shaking, baby?” He teased, breath hot against your skin. “I’m not done with you yet.”

And when he kissed you again, slow and deep, you realized Javier Peña wasn’t just obsessed with you. He was starving for you. And he wasn’t stopping until you melted completely in his hands.

Joel Miller (The Last of Us)

Even after all these years, after all the ash, blood and grief the world had dumped at your feet, Joel Miller still looked at you like you were the last good thing left on Earth.

And tonight, he touched you like it too.

The house in Jackson was quiet, the walls still and the fireplace crackling low in the distance. Joel had returned home from patrol just hours earlier, his hands rough and cold from the snow, his body tense, his eyes tired. But the second he walked through the door and saw you curled up on the couch in nothing but one of his old flannels, your thighs peeking out and lips glossy from your nightly tea, something shifted in him. That dark intensity in his gaze sharpened, zeroing in on you like you were a meal he hadn’t had in days.

And truthfully?

He hadn’t. Not the way he needed to.

Which is exactly how you ended up like this, legs trembling around his broad shoulders, your fingers tangled in his salt-and-pepper curls as he buried his face between your thighs like a starving man at his last supper. “J-Joel…” You gasped, back arching off the bed as he moaned against your soaked heat, his tongue lapping up everything you gave him like it was nectar, his hands gripping your thighs tight, holding you open and in place.

“Shhh, darlin’.” He murmured against your skin, voice rough and low, vibrating right through your core. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere ‘til you’re shakin’ for me. You know that.”

He always said that. Every damn time.

And you always did.

Joel was obsessive in the way he worshiped you, taking his time, learning every inch of your body, every twitch, every gasp, every whispered plea. His beard scraped against the tender skin of your inner thighs and you felt it when he smiled, smug and greedy, like he could feel your pleasure in his own chest. He shifted slightly, dragging his tongue slow and deliberate, before sucking that sensitive spot in a way that made your whole body jolt.

“I-I can’t!” Your breath hitched.

“You can, baby.” He growled, tightening his grip, his voice wrecked with hunger. “Gonna come for me. Gonna soak my fuckin’ face like a good girl, huh?” You cried out, the coil inside you snapping, unraveling as your body shook beneath him, just like he wanted. Just like he always wanted.

Joel didn’t let up. He never did. He kept going until your thighs trembled and your lungs burned from how hard you were panting. It was only when your legs started to twitch from overstimulation that he finally pulled back, mouth wet and beard slick with you, eyes dark and blown wide. He looked like a man possessed. And you looked like a goddess completely wrecked. He kissed your inner thigh reverently, gently now, almost as if apologizing for how fiercely he’d devoured you.

Then he crawled up your body, slow and deliberate until his face was hovering above yours, eyes searching yours with that same intense affection that always managed to shatter you a little. “Don’t ever get tired of that.” He rasped, pressing his lips to yours, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. “Could do that every damn day ‘til the day I die.”

“You say that like you haven’t already been trying.” You let out a soft, breathless laugh, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.

“Damn right I am.” Joel grinned against your neck, pressing a kiss to your pulse.

Marcus Acacius (Gladiator II)

To the empire, you were his sweet delicate wife. A vision of beauty, grace and modesty, always draped in soft linen, eyes lowered in public and your voice rarely raised above a gentle whisper. The senators adored you and the noblewomen envied you.

But Marcus Acacius, Rome’s most brutal and revered general, knew the truth. He knew how you trembled in your shared bed. He knew how your soft moans sounded at midnight. He knew how you tasted when you were soaked and aching just for him.

And gods, he was addicted.

The lanterns burned low. The white marble walls of your bedchamber glowed gold in the candlelight, casting shadows that danced across their silken sheets. You sat at your vanity, brushing your hair, clad only in a thin white shift that clung to every curve. Marcus stood behind you, freshly bathed from the private spring, his broad body wrapped in a loose robe. His eyes devoured you through the mirror.

So soft. So sweet. So his.

You caught his gaze and smiled, shy and knowing. He stepped closer, large hands landing gently on your shoulders. You stilled as his lips brushed the shell of your ear.

“Lie down.”

Your breath hitched and obeyed. Marcus was slow with you. Reverent, like a man kneeling before his goddess. He pulled the thin shift over your head, letting it slip to the floor. You lay back on the cool linen sheets, your body already warm from anticipation.

He knelt between your thighs, his hands parting them with care but no hesitation. His eyes were dark with hunger. His voice, low and rough. “You don’t know what you do to me, carissima.”

You whimpered softly as his thumbs stroked your inner thighs, lips ghosting lower, breath hot on your already wet folds. Marcus kissed the inside of your knee. Then lower. Then lower still. Until his mouth found your aching dripping cunt. You cried out softly, hips jerking. But his arms wrapped around your thighs, keeping you in place as his tongue slid through your folds with slow, deliberate strokes. Your fingers gripped the sheets.

“Marcus…”

“Shhh.” His voice was muffled, buried between your legs. “Let me taste my wife.” He licked you like a man starved, like you were the only thing he ever wanted. And maybe you were. He didn’t rush. He worshiped. He kissed, sucked and flicked his tongue over your clit until your moans filled the room, your legs trembling against his shoulders.

“You’re shaking.” He murmured against you, voice dripping with satisfaction. “You feel how wet you are for me?”

You nodded frantically, hips lifting and chasing his mouth.

“Tell me.” He growled.

“You… you make me feel so good, Marcus. I…gods, I can’t!”

“Oh, but you will.”

He grinned, lips slick with you and dove back in with even more hunger. His tongue flicked faster now, fingers spreading you open, licking deep until you were writhing, panting, with tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. Your thighs shook violently and then you finally broke. You came hard, gasping his name like a sacred vow.

But Marcus didn’t stop. He lapped up every drop, sucking your clit until you sobbed from the pleasure, your voice hoarse from moaning out his name. “I love how you taste.” He whispered, dragging his tongue up slowly. “I’ll never get enough of you.”

And in that moment, as you lay boneless and quivering beneath your general, your husband, you knew the truth: Marcus Acacius may have conquered nations. But you were the only thing he would ever worship. And he worshipped you well into the night.

Marcus Moreno (We Can Be Heroes)

Marcus Moreno is a patient man. A disciplined man. A man of control. But when it comes to you? All that restraint shatters. Because he’s obsessed with you. With the way you fall apart beneath him. With the way your breath hitches when his lips graze your skin.

But most of all?

With the way you taste. It always starts the same way. A simple kiss, slow and lingering. Then another. And another. Until he’s got you spread out beneath him, his mouth trailing lower and lower. Until he’s right where he wants to be.

You whimper when he kisses the inside of your thigh, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine. “Marcus.” You sigh, fingers threading through his dark curls. “Please…”

He shushes you, eyes dark with hunger. “Patience, sweetheart.” Then, with a slow sinful smirk, he devours you. He loves this, loves how your thighs tremble around his head and loves how your back arches, how you cry out his name like a prayer. He lives for this. For the way you come undone, legs shaking, body writhing, completely at his mercy. And he’s not stopping. Not until you’re gasping. Not until you’re clenching your fingers in his hair, babbling, pleading and begging. Not until you’re so overstimulated that you have tears in your eyes.

Only then when you’re thoroughly wrecked and limp beneath him, does he finally lift his head, his lips glistening, his expression utterly feral. And when he leans up, pressing a slow, deep kiss to your lips, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

He grins against your mouth. “Such a good girl.” He murmurs, voice thick with satisfaction. “Think you can give me another?” And despite the way your body still trembles you still nod.

Because Marcus Moreno?

He’s not done with you yet.

Marcus Pike (The Mentalist)

The soft glow of golden evening light spilled through the bedroom windows, casting warm lazy rays across the sheets that were still tousled from your earlier nap. The quiet hum of the city below faded into the background as your husband, Marcus Pike, leaned in the doorway, watching you stretch slowly across the bed like you were the most beautiful piece of art he’d ever laid eyes on.

His tie was already loosened, jacket tossed over the back of a chair, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. And that look on his face, soft and reverent, made your breath hitch.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” You asked with a small, teasing smile.

“Like what?” Marcus stepped forward, slow and deliberate, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Like I’m about to be worshipped.”

He leaned down, bracing one knee on the edge of the bed as he brushed his knuckles gently along your cheek. “Maybe because you are.”

Your heart thudded at the low, husky tone of his voice, full of something tender, something hungry, something devoted. He kissed you then, slowly and deeply, like he had all the time in the world. The kind of kiss that melted your bones, made your skin tingle and reminded you just how safe and loved you were in his arms.

“Marcus…” You whispered, fingers curling into his shirt.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes serious but warm. “You know I could spend the rest of my life just appreciating you. Every inch. Every sigh. Every little sound you make when I touch you.” You’d been married long enough to know he meant every word. Marcus didn’t rush through intimacy, he savored it, savored you.

He was gentle but firm as he coaxed you to lie back against the pillows, his hands skimming down your sides as he took his time, memorizing every reaction you gave him. He kissed a trail down your body, murmuring soft words of praise, of adoration. His lips were warm, his stubble brushing over sensitive skin and every motion felt like worship. You gasped when he kissed your inner thigh, his breath warm and slow as he rested there, holding you like you were the center of his world.

“You always take care of me.” He murmured, pressing a reverent kiss just below your navel. “Let me take care of you tonight.” And you let him. You let him pour his love into you, every kiss and touch whispering the truth, that Marcus Pike loved his wife with every fiber of his being and that there was nowhere else he’d rather be than wrapped around you, worshiping you like you were his whole world.

And to him, you were.

Max Philips (Bloodsucking Bastards)

Marriage can change a man. At least, that’s what everyone told Max. He heard the horror stories, how the passion faded, how the excitement dulled, how men started avoiding their wives instead of worshiping them.

What a joke.

Because Max?

Max Phillips was obsessed with his wife. You were his pretty little thing, his perfect girl, his everything. And there was one part of you he loved the most.

It started like every other morning. You were barely awake, your body soft and warm against the sheets, wearing one of Max’s old t-shirts and nothing else.

Perfect.

His favorite way to wake up.

Max slid beneath the covers before you even registered what was happening. His hands pried your thighs apart, his breath hot against your skin.

"Max." You mumbled sleepily, shifting slightly. "What are you…?"

And then his tongue was on you. You gasped, your fingers clenching in the sheets as pleasure rocked through your half-asleep body. Max groaned against your heat, lapping at you like a man starving. He never got tired of this. The taste of you, the scent of you, the way your thighs tremble every time he sucked on that perfect little clit. It was everything. And Max was never satisfied.

By the time he was done with you, you were wrecked. Your body was trembling, your thighs still twitching from the aftershocks. You lay there, panting, eyes dazed as you tried to process what just happened. Max wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning down at you like the smug bastard he was. "Morning, sweetheart." He murmured, voice dripping with satisfaction.

"You’re insane." You groaned, throwing an arm over your face.

Max chuckled, leaning down to press a kiss against your still-sensitive core, just to watch you jerk from overstimulation. "You married me, baby." He reminded you, voice husky.

And as he slid two fingers inside you, grinning at your whimper. "You knew what you were getting into."

Maxwell Lord (Wonder Woman 1984)

Maxwell Lord was a man obsessed. To the world, he was a tycoon, a businessman, a man who commanded respect and wielded power like a weapon. But behind the closed doors of his penthouse, stripped of the expensive suits and the cutthroat deals, he was just a man desperate for you. And he had no shame in showing it. His mouth was already on you, hot and eager, his grip firm on your thighs as he spread you apart. The silk sheets crumpled beneath your trembling hands, your back arching at the first slow, deliberate drag of his tongue.

"Max…"

He groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your core. "You know better than to say my name like that, mi amor." He murmured, his voice a dark promise against your heat. "Not unless you want me to keep you here all night." His tongue flicked again, teasing, coaxing, tasting.

You did want that. You always wanted it. Your husband was relentless, worshiping you with a devotion that bordered on madness. It wasn’t enough for him to simply touch you, to make love to you, no, he had to devour you, to drown himself in you until he couldn’t breathe. And right now, he was starving. His hands tightened on your thighs, holding you in place as his mouth worked you over, slow and indulgent, like he had all the time in the world. He loved doing this to you. Loved feeling you unravel beneath him, loved the way you gasped and writhed and whimpered his name like a prayer.

"You taste so sweet, cariño." He groaned, his voice thick with need. "So perfect for me." Your fingers tangled in his golden hair, hips lifting, desperate for more. But Max was in control and he wasn’t going to let you rush him. Not when he could keep you on the edge for as long as he wanted. Not when making you fall apart was his favorite thing in the world.

Lucien De Leon (The Uninvited)

The estate was quiet now. The party had ended hours ago, leaving only the soft hum of cicadas and the occasional creak of floorboards beneath your bare feet. Moonlight spilled through the wide windows of your bedroom, casting silver shadows across the expensive linen sheets, catching in your hair like a halo. You were already in bed, curled beneath the silk covers, a book forgotten on your lap. But your mind wasn’t on the pages.

It was on him.

You heard him before you saw him, his measured steps down the hallway, the soft clink of his belt being undone, the rustle of his jacket as he shrugged it off. When the door opened, your eyes lifted and there he was.

Lucien.

His shirt was half-unbuttoned, his dark hair tousled from his hands, always tugging when he was stressed or when he was thinking about you, which lately, seemed like all the time. "Still awake?" He murmured, voice low and rough with something darker.

"Couldn’t sleep." You shifted onto your back, watching as he stepped into the moonlight, eyes raking over your form like you were a goddamn miracle.

Lucien crossed the room in slow, measured strides. You could feel the heat radiating off his body before he even touched you. “I saw you tonight.” He murmured as he knelt beside the bed, his hand reaching to slowly push the sheets down. “The way you looked in that dress, smiling, talking to everyone, pretending like I wasn’t five seconds from dragging you out of that ballroom.”

“You didn’t say much at the party.” You shivered under his stare, the heat in his voice licking over your skin.

He tilted his head, his hands already trailing up your thighs, gentle and reverent. “Didn’t trust myself to.” His fingers curled beneath the hem of your nightgown, pushing it up. “You drive me fucking insane, mi amor. All night, I could barely think. All I wanted was to get you alone.”

“Lucien…” You gasped as his mouth brushed against your inner thigh, soft slow kisses that made your toes curl.

His eyes flicked up, wild and tender all at once. “I married the most beautiful woman in this world.” He whispered. “And I will never stop worshipping her.” And with that, he buried his face between your thighs. The first stroke of his tongue was slow precise, like he was savoring you, like this wasn’t something rushed or expected. It was an offering. A ritual.

Your fingers tangled into his hair instinctively, back arching as he sucked gently on your clit, tongue circling with maddening patience. Lucien groaned against you, like he was starving, like this was what he craved most in the world.

He loved this. Loved how your thighs trembled around his face, how your hips bucked helplessly, how you whimpered his name like a prayer. He gripped your thighs tighter, pressing you down as you started to squirm, overwhelmed by the waves of heat crashing through your belly. "You always taste so fucking sweet.” He growled, voice muffled. “My pretty little wife… this is mine."

“Lucien…” Your voice was breathless, shaking, your body already close.

But he didn’t stop. If anything, he doubled down, flicking his tongue faster, rougher, his hands locking you in place as he devoured you like a man possessed. You were shaking now, legs trembling uncontrollably, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes from the intensity of it. You came with a cry, your entire body clenching as the world shattered into stars.

But Lucien didn’t stop. Even as you begged, soft stuttering, “too much” falling from your lips, he kept licking, moaning like he was the one being pleasured, like your shaking body beneath him only fueled his obsession.

“I’ll stop when I’ve had enough.” He murmured darkly, kissing your overstimulated folds, then licking slow and deep again. “But I’ll never get enough of you.” And you believed him. Because Lucien De Leon didn’t just love you, he worshipped you. Every inch. Every tremble. Every shattered breath.

And tonight, like always, he would ruin you, slowly, thoroughly and completely. And you’d let him.

Every. Damn. Time.

Oberyn Martell (Game of Throne)

The warm Dornish night wrapped around the palace of Sunspear like a silken embrace, the air thick with the scent of citrus and salt from the nearby sea. The moon hung high, casting silver light through the open balcony doors, the soft billowing of sheer curtains whispering against the stone. But inside the grand bedchamber, there was only heat.

Oberyn Martell lay between your thighs, eyes dark with hunger, lips curled into a lazy, sinful smile as he pressed a teasing kiss to the inside of your knee. His large hands held your legs open with ease, fingers tracing idle patterns against your flushed skin. "Look at you." He murmured, his voice like honeyed wine, deep and thick with desire. "So beautiful like this, my love. Spread out before me like a feast meant only for my lips."

You shivered beneath his touch, your breath hitching as he pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss against your thigh, dangerously close to where you needed him most. Your fingers tangled in the silk sheets, a desperate whimper escaping your lips as he deliberately avoided the place where you ached for him. "Oberyn." You gasped, hips shifting in silent pleas.

He hummed in amusement, his nose brushing against your inner thigh as he nipped at the sensitive skin, dragging his teeth along it before soothing the mark with his tongue. "Patience, sweet wife." He chided, though his own restraint was hanging by a thread. "I plan to savor you tonight."

And savor you he did.

His mouth descended upon you, his tongue flicking against your most sensitive spot with slow, deliberate strokes. The first contact sent a jolt of pleasure through your spine, your back arching off the bed as a breathless cry fell from your lips.

Oberyn groaned at the taste of you, gripping your thighs tighter as he buried himself deeper, drinking in every sound you made as if it were the sweetest melody. He licked, kissed, and sucked with expert precision, his tongue swirling in lazy circles before dipping lower, teasing, devouring.

Your fingers found their way into his dark curls, tugging desperately as the coil of pleasure within you tightened with every stroke of his tongue. He moaned against you, the vibrations sending another wave of pleasure crashing through your body.

"Oberyn, gods, please!" Your plea was met with a low chuckle but he didn't stop. If anything, he doubled his efforts, his hands pressing your hips down to keep you from writhing away from the overwhelming pleasure. He wanted you shaking beneath him, wanted to hear his name fall from your lips like a prayer, wanted to ruin you with nothing but his mouth.

And when you finally shattered, when your body trembled and arched and you cried out his name like it was the only thing you knew, Oberyn didn’t stop. He licked you through it, drawing out every last tremor until you were boneless beneath him, your body twitching with aftershocks.

Only then did he pull away, his lips glistening with evidence of his devotion as he crawled up your body, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. "Perfect." He murmured, voice thick with pride and desire. "But I am not yet done with you, my love." And with that, the night stretched on, filled with whispered praises, gasping breaths, and the relentless worship of a man utterly devoted to his beautiful wife.

Pero Tovar (The Great Wall)

The evening crept in quietly, the golden light fading behind the hills and casting a soft glow through the cabin windows. The fire crackled gently in the hearth, and the cozy warmth of their little home wrapped around them like a thick quilt. Pero had been watching you for a while, admiring the way your hair spilled over your shoulders as you finished the last few rows of his sweater. His heart, often guarded and rough around the edges, softened completely in your presence.

And now, he couldn’t resist you any longer. He set the knitted sweater aside carefully, eyes smoldering with a kind of hunger that only you could inspire. "Lie back for me, cariño." He murmured, voice low and deep with promise.

“Now?” You blinked up at him, lips parting slightly as a soft, knowing smile played on your mouth.

He leaned in, brushing his nose against yours. “Now…” He repeated, his fingers already slipping under the hem of your dress, coaxing you gently to lie back across your bed.

You complied as you sank into the pillows. Pero wasted no time, kissing a path down your stomach, worshipping your body with every press of his lips. He loved how soft you were, how you trembled when his stubble grazed your inner thighs, how you sighed his name like a prayer. “Relax, mi vida.” He whispered, spreading your legs with reverent care. “Let me take care of you.” And he did, thoroughly.

His strong arms wrapped around your thighs, holding you steady as he indulged in the sweet taste of the woman who made a hardened soldier like him feel utterly undone. Every flick of his tongue was precise, every kiss intentional and it wasn’t long before your breathing grew shallow, your hips subtly lifting to meet his mouth.

“Pero, oh gods…Pero, I… I can’t…” You tangled your fingers in his hair, gasping as waves of pleasure built and rolled through you.

But he didn’t stop. He was lost in you. Obsessed with how you responded to his touch, the way your thighs trembled against his cheeks, how your voice shook when you whimpered his name. He was a man on a mission. And his mission was to worship every inch of his pretty wife until you were trembling beneath him, completely undone and thoroughly loved.

And when you finally reached that peak, body quivering, hand clamped over your mouth to muffle your cries, Pero held you gently through every wave, his own name echoing in your voice like a song. When you collapsed back into the pillows, boneless and breathless, Pero kissed the inside of your knee, then your hip, then your belly before crawling up beside you and wrapping you tightly in his arms.

You were still catching your breath when you turned to him, flushed and glowing. “You’re insatiable.” You whispered with a sleepy smile.

“Only for you, mi amor. Always for you.” Pero chuckled, brushing a damp strand of your from your face.

Reed Richards (Fantastic 4)

Reed had always been a man of intellect, of science, of logic. But when it came to you? All reason was lost. It wasn’t just love, it was obsession. An insatiable hunger that had nothing to do with food and everything to do with the way your body trembled beneath him when he had his head buried between your thighs.

Tonight was no different. Your fingers tangled into his salt and pepper curls, back arching as his wicked mouth latched onto the sensitive bundle of nerves that had you gasping out his name.

“Reed, fuck!”

He groaned against you, his large hands pinning down your trembling thighs, refusing to let you squirm away from his torturous pace. “You taste so fucking sweet.” He murmured, dragging his tongue in a slow languid motion, savoring you like you were the finest thing he had ever had.

And to him? You were.

His brilliant mind, capable of unraveling the universe’s deepest mysteries, was reduced to one singular thought, his neverending devotion to you. His pretty little wife. His obsession. His addiction. “More.” His voice was hoarse, desperate, his grip tightening around your hips. “Give me more, sweetheart.”

As if you had any choice. He devoured you whole, until your body shuddered, until your breath hitched and your nails raked against his scalp. And yet, even as you came undone beneath him, he wasn’t done with you. Not even close.

Reed pulled back only for a moment, darkened eyes drinking in the sight of you, flushed and wrecked, completely at his mercy. “I hope you don’t think I’m finished, darling.” His lips curled into a smirk, glossy with your slick. “We’ve barely even started.” And with that, he dove right back in.

Tim Rockford (Merge Mansion)

Tim Rockford had a problem. A serious, all-consuming, mind-numbing problem and it was you. More specifically, your pussy. He couldn’t help it, couldn’t get enough. It didn’t matter how many times he had you, he was always aching for more. Always desperate to taste you, to bury himself between your thighs and ruin you in ways that made you sob his name.

And tonight was no different.

You had barely crawled into bed when Tim was already reaching for you, big hands sliding up your thighs, warm and insistent. "Tim." You murmured, blinking sleepily as he pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses along your inner thigh. "What are you…"

"You know what, sweetheart." He muttered against your skin.

A small gasp left your lips when he nipped at the soft flesh, dragging his mouth higher, closer to where you were already warm and aching for him. "You don’t have to." You breathed, even as your legs parted without hesitation.

"Yeah, I do." Tim huffed a low, wicked laugh. Because it wasn’t a choice, not anymore. Not when you were already so soft, so wet for him, just from a few teasing kisses. Not when the scent of you had him damn near losing his mind. He didn’t waste time, didn’t tease and didn’t make you beg for it. No, he devoured you, spreading you open with his fingers and dragging his tongue through your slick folds like a man starved.

"Oh, my God!" Your hands flew to his hair, fingers curling against his scalp as your back arched off the bed.

Tim groaned into you, lapping at your swollen, sensitive clit, slow and purposeful. He could feel you trembling already, thighs twitching against his shoulders, but he wasn’t stopping. Not until he had you sobbing for him. Not until you were shaking and soaking his face, pulling at his hair, begging him for something you couldn’t even put into words.

"You taste so fucking sweet, baby." He murmured, his voice thick with hunger. "Could stay here all night." And he meant it because Tim Rockford had a problem. And he had no fucking plans to fix it.

747 notes · View notes

missyorkswhore · 9 days ago

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Alright… headphones on, volume max. Nighty night ✨❤️

#pedro pascal #pedrohub #din djarin #the mandalorian #joel miller #javier pena x reader #joel miller x reader #javi gutierrez x reader #frankie catfish morales #agent whiskey fic #dave york x f!reader #dbf joel miller

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javierpena-inatacvest · 4 months ago

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BIPOC Authors and Fics Masterlist!

Thank you to everyone who submitted so many recommendations to celebrate all the fantastic works of BIPOC writers in the Pedro fandom! Please read, share, and enjoy all of these incredible authors and fics! 🥹 If you have any other writers or fics you want to share, inbox or DM me, so I can keep this as up to date as possible!! Thanks for helping to spread some love 💛

Authors (listed in alphabetical order):

@80ssong A03 masterlist (Joel Miller, Javi G, Frankie Morales)

@artemiseamoon masterlist for PPCU (all Pedro characters)

@cxrsed-angel masterlist for PPCU (Joel Miller, Marcus Acacius, Reed Richards)

@damneddamsy masterlist for Joel Miller series

@flawssy-227 masterlist for all writing (Joel Miller)

@flightlessangelwings masterlist for all writing (All Pedro characters)

@flordeamatista one-shot: A Sweeter Place (Joel Miller)

@gothcsz materlist for all writing (Javier Peña, Marcus Acacius)

@inclusivepedro-oscarlibrary another source for POC authors!

@joeloverture masterlist for all writing (Joel Miller)

@kedsandtubesocks masterlist for all writing (all Pedro characters)

@kilamonster one-shot: Lola (Javier Peña)

@letsgobarbs one-shot: Joel Miller x Logan Howlett

@liltangerineart masterlist for all writing (Din Djarin, Javier Peña, Joel Miller)

@lovesbiggerthanpride masterlist for all writing (Javier Peña, Frankie Morales, Dave York, Dieter Bravo, Javi G, Joel Miller)

@megamindsecretlair one-shot: Break My Heart (Javier Peña)

@mostclevermiss one-shot: Sic Simper Tyrannus (Marcus Acacius)

@nerdieforpedro masterlist for all writing (All Pedro characters)

@ovaryacted masterlist for all writing (Joel Miller, Javier Peña, Marcus Acacius, Dieter Bravo)

@pedroscurls masterlist for all writing (Joel Miller, Frankie Morales, Javier Peña, Marcus Acacius, Marcus Pike)

@pedrospatch masterlist for all writing (Joel Miller, Javier Peña)

@penvisions masterlist for all writing (Joel Miller, Frankie Morales, Din Djarin, Jack 'Whiskey' Daniels, Javi G, Ted Garcia)

@superhoeva masterlist for Frankie Morales series

@stargirlfics masterlist for Joel Miller

@thundermartini masterlist for all writing (Joel Miller, Javier Peña)

@yxtkiwiyxt masterlist for all writing (Javier Peña, Joel Miller, Dave York, Dieter Bravo)

Specific Fic Recs (By Character):

Joel Miller

A Sweeter Place by @flordeamatista

Loopholes (series) by @yxtkiwiyxt

Stages of Devotion (series) by @penvisions

Deadfall by @joeloverture

Falling by @damneddamsy

All I Do by @flawssy-227

Butterfly by @stargirlfics

So Much Goddamn Talk by @stargirlfics

Let's Go by @thundermartini

Let Me Show You by @pedroscurls

Javier Peña

Unscripted Desire (series) by @gothcsz

Neighbors (series) by @gothcsz

Lola by @kilamonster

Complicated by @ovaryacted

Lap Dance by @yxtkiwiyxt

Break My Heart by @megamindsecretlair

Touch Tank by @thundermartini

Frankie Morales

Game Changer by @kedsandtubesocks

The Margay (series) by @ohforficsake

Take me Home Tonight by @80ssong

The Realm of Love by @80ssong

Marcus Acacius

Sic Simper Tyrannus by @mostclevermiss

III by @gothcsz

Din Djarin

Healing Pains by @liltangerineart

Dieter Bravo

Fire Starter by @kedsandtubesocks

Dave York

Homecoming by @letsgobarbs

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nerdieforpedro · 2 years ago

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Well shit Dave 🥵🥵

Yours

summary: You stopped by Dave’s for an important reason, but now you’re naked, and his dick is inside you.

rating: E (18+!! This is smut with a little plot. No y/n, Possessive AND Soft Dave York (he can be both), unprotected p in v (wrap it up!), sex against a window, creampie, dirty talk, praise kink, hair pulling, spanking, light d/s tones (it’s Dave), possessiveness, infidelity (kinda?), marking, age gap (reader is of age, gap not specified), feelings, marriage problems/talk of divorce)

pairing: Dave York/f!reader

word count: 2.3k+

a/n: I saw a spicy gif that sent me in a spiral, and this is the result. Come along on this horny ride with me. This one's for @pedropascalsx, who's just so lovely and who I can't thank enough for always coming through when I need a gif. Thank you so much, and I hope you like this! Shoutout to my beta @invisibleismyname. I adore you.

Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs are appreciated!

Masterlist

You should feel bad about fucking a married man, or have some kind of remorse. You know it’s wrong; you know it’s fucked up sleeping with another woman’s husband, and yet as you bounce in his lap—his thick cock sliding in and out of you, filling you over and over again, nudging against that one spot that has every nerve in your body lighting up—you can’t find it in yourself to care about Dave’s relationship status.

Technically, they’re separated, Carol keeping the house and kids, while Dave is living in this nice hotel room downtown.

The Egyptian cotton sheets are soft beneath your shins; Dave sitting on the edge of the bed, your legs folded beneath you as you straddle his thighs—moving in earnest as you slam your ass down, gasping moans spilling from your mouth, while your nails dig into the skin of his shoulder blades.

Your mind is a haze of pleasure, the muscles tightening in your belly, winding yourself up with each crash of your body onto him, his big hands having a bruising grip on your hips, helping to lift you up and bring you back down on his hard cock, rough grunts coming out of his throat.

Slick has been seeping out around him, the wet sounds between your legs loud as you ride him.

“Such a tight fucking pussy—soaking my lap,” he says the words in a sinfully deep and raspy tone. His face is flush, a furrow on his brow making him look almost angry, with his mouth slightly open. His dark gaze moves from staring at your bouncing tits back up to your eyes. “Who owns this pussy?”

He’s so deep inside you, you're feeling so fucking full, and like electricity was just under your skin. You’re having trouble thinking, only able to focus on how fucking good you feel, each deep kiss of his cock inside you rocketing you towards your orgasm.

A hard smack of his big palm against your ass has you clenching around him, moaning as you worry your bottom lip between your teeth.

“Have I made you so cockdumb you can’t answer?” He sounds amused. Another slap to your ass, another moan from your lips, a rush of arousal spilling from you. “Who owns this pussy?” The question comes out sharper.

“You do!” You gasp. “It’s yours.”

Your thighs are burning, heated pressure building at the base of your spine, and you know you’re close to coming—you can practically taste it.

“That’s right,” he grunts. His hand moves up into your hair, fist wrapping around a handful to tug your head to the side. You whimper as his mouth lands on your neck, sucking hard, feeling his teeth, knowing he is leaving a mark. He comes off you to look at your face, his gaze intense, burning, the dark pools showing promise, reverence. “Mine,” the word is said in a deeper, rougher tone, making you moan, your rhythm stuttering as your pussy clenches. His grip loosens in your hair to allow your head to move, nodding.

“Yours, David,” you moan. “All yours.”

You see his lips curl up in the slightest smile; your muscles wound so tightly you are on the edge, his mouth crashing against yours in a searing kiss, swallowing your moans. You’re still moving, working yourself on his cock, while his tongue tangles with your own.

He pulls back. “Good fucking girl,” he says, the hand in your hair moving to push his thumb into your mouth. “Suck,” he orders, and you do, him pulling it back out a second later with a ‘pop.’

The rough pad of his thumb makes contact with your clit, wetly rubbing in harsh circles, and that, combined with his thick length pressing inside you, is your undoing, sending you over the cliff with a loud moan of his name—back arching, your body seizing up, clenching so hard around him, you're sitting still, flush against his thighs as euphoria rushes through your veins.

“There we go,” he rasps. “That’s my good girl, coming on my cock. Ride it out, baby.”

He helps you through your aftershocks before he wraps your arms around his neck.

“Keep them here,” he commands.

Your brain is a muddled mess, but you register what he says.

“Okay,” you answer softly, tightening your hold.

His hands grip your hips as he starts fucking you on him, grunting with the effort, doing all the work to chase his high. One minute your legs are on the bed, and the next, Dave is standing, grabbing onto your ass as he holds you against him, walking a few strides to the floor-to-ceiling window, pushing your back up against it, making you hiss when you feel the coldness.

Your legs wrap around his waist, ankles locked at the small of his back as he starts moving his hips, deep, hard thrusts that have your body moving against the glass, jolting you so hard you have to put your hand on it to steady yourself, your other held tightly at the nape of his neck. He’s fucking up into you with abandon, his rhythm steady, cock spearing into you and dragging perfectly against every delicious spot, making your head spin—your breathy moans stuttered from the onslaught, the hardness of his strokes pushing the air from your lungs.

His mouth finds yours, messily kissing you, breathing heavily, as you relish the push and pull of him moving in and out of you, how his dick has carved out space inside you, stretching you to your limit. He’s invading all of your senses, your brain empty, aside from taking in all he’s doing to you. You were tingling all over, nerves alight, feeling that familiar build deep in your core.

You can hear the wet slap of his hips against yours and your body being pressed into the window pane, soft noises being pulled from your throat as you take what's being given to you. Your body is beginning to tense, feeling the knots twisting inside you, pushing you closer and closer once more.

His tongue is in your mouth, and he adjusts his angle slightly, hitting something that has your eyes rolling back in your head, gasping into his mouth. He focuses on that spot, pounding into it over and over again, pleasure wracking through your body, toes curling, and suddenly your eyes are squeezing tight, moaning loudly as you’re awash in ecstasy.

Dave keeps going, fucking you through it to find his own end, his pace speeding up, lips leaving yours to press his face into the crook of your neck, feeling his panted breaths as rough sounds rip from his throat. You know he’s close—can feel him thickening, his rhythm getting jerky.

He pushes into you hard, pinning you to the pane of glass, a low groan bubbling from his chest that sends a shiver down your spine, feeling the warmth as he comes deep in your depths. He shallowly thrusts, fucking himself deeper and hissing through his teeth until he finally stills.

Your bodies are coated in sweat, both breathing heavily. Your fingers rub through the sweat-soaked hair at the back of his head, his hands stroking along your sides, his body against yours, grounding you.

Once he’s calmed down, his breaths evening out, he leans back to look at you.

“This was a nice surprise. I wasn’t expecting you to come by until tomorrow.” He kisses you tenderly, you humming in the back of your throat, breaking it after a moment.

You had plans to spend the weekend with him, Carol not needing you to nanny because she was taking the girls out of town.

“There’s a reason I’m here,” you say.

“Sex?” He smirks.

You snort.

“No,” you frown. “Um, promise you won’t get mad?”

His smile disappears, a deep furrow in his brow.

“What’s going on? Are you okay?”

His eyes glance over you like he’s looking for any visual signs you’re hurt, making you melt a little.

“I’m fine, Dave—I promise. I was, kinda, sorta, sent here by Carol,” you grimace.

He frowns. She wasn’t aware of your relationship, which had developed months ago after they’d separated.

“Why did she send you?”

You take a deep breath.

“To serve your divorce papers.”

You wait with bated breath, his lips thinning, watching his jaw tick, grinding his teeth, seeing the seething anger in his gaze.

“Mark proposed?” He asks lowly.

Mark is the man Carol’s been having an affair with for the past three years, that Dave hadn’t been aware of. The long hours she was working at the office were her fucking her co-worker, Dave being naive enough to think he could trust her, busy with his own work, and the thought of her cheating never crossing his mind.

“Last weekend, when they went to that winery. Carol kept it a secret until she had the paperwork—I didn’t even know she was in contact with a lawyer.”

He sighs.

“I believe you. Carol likes her secrets,” he murmurs, looking away.

His hands tap your legs, and you unwind them from his body, gasping when he pulls out of you as you stand, feeling him beginning to drip down your inner thighs.

Dave runs a hand through his short-cropped hair, and you think he looks a little nervous, which makes you frown.

He looks at you, eyes meeting, and there’s something there you can’t quite name in his gaze, his hands reaching up to cup your cheeks as he leans in to kiss you softly, pressing his lips against yours before his tongue slips out to swipe your top lip, kissing you a little harder, and nibbling on your bottom lip. He pulls back once he’s gotten his fill.

“Let me clean you up. Then we need to talk.”

Your stomach drops, thinking the worst.

“Are you ending this?” You whisper. “Whatever's going on between us?”

His eyes widen.

“What? No, baby,” he kisses you quickly. He has a serious look on his face, shaking his head. “Not that, never that. Only if you want to end things, like I said when we started, you’re the one in control—you want this to stop, it stops.” You see him gulp, his eyes showing slight unease.

“I don’t want this to stop.”

“I don’t either,” he sighs, looking away for a second. His eyes meet yours, his hands resting on your arms, rubbing them gently. “I wanted to have this conversation without my come dripping out of you—Carol’s divorcing me,” he states.

“I’m aware,” you reply.

“The separation was her idea, even though I wanted out of the marriage the moment I found out about the affair,” he elaborated. “She told me it would be better for the girls; we’d stay married, continue co-parenting until they’re a little older, and then we’d pull the trigger. I understand divorce is hard on children their age and I agreed. She stipulated that in order not to cause instability, we wouldn’t openly date, not bring anyone around the kids, but obviously, she’s not following her own fucking rule if she’s marrying that prick.” He takes in a big breath. “In hindsight, I know we rushed into marriage. We started seeing each other right before my partner died on a job, and afterward, she was there for me, we barely knew each other—not even a handful of months before we wed. Married for ten years, and I was faithful for every fucking one of them—sacrificed things to give her and the girls a good life. And she just….” He sighs. His face softens as he continues, his hands moving up to cup your cheeks, feeling the warmth of his broad palms. “Honestly, I’m thankful we separated—that she gave me an out because with meeting you, we weren’t going to make it past ten years. Took all of my fucking self-control even to hold out the year you’d been around before the separation. Carol’s divorcing me,” he says again like it’s the answer to everything.

Your brows furrow.

“Carol’s divorcing you?” You say slowly, it coming out as a question as you try to figure out why he’s repeating it.

He smiles subtly, but you can tell he’s happy.

“I can openly date.”

“You can openly date?” You hear the confusion in your voice.

“I can openly date you.”

“Oh,” your mouth falls open, eyes widening. You need some seconds to process before speaking again. “You want to date me?” You ask.

“I want to live with you.”

That surprised look was back on your face.

“In your bougie hotel room?” You ask.

He chuckles.

“No,” he shakes his head. “Remember a couple of weeks ago when we toured those condos around town?”

How could you forget? He drove you around DC in his Chevy Malibu and fingered you in a walk-in closet while the realtor took a call in the living room.

“Yes,” you nod.

“The one you liked with the private terrace?”

“And the big soaking tub I said I’d like to fuck in. Yes, it was lovely.”

“I bought it. I move in next week. Live with me.”

You heard what he said, but you were having trouble comprehending.

“David, we’re not even dating,” you finally say.

His eyebrow rises.

“We’ve been doing this for almost a year. You’re the only woman I’m seeing, you’re the only woman I’m fucking, you’re the only one,” his voice went lower, his gaze intense. “You’re mine.”

You suck in a breath, a hot spike of arousal shooting to your core.

“I’m yours,” you nod. “You’ve been it for me.”

He pulls you closer to him, your naked bodies pressing together, feeling the warmth of his skin.

“We’ve been together for a while,” he leans in, nudging the tip of his nose with yours. “Be with me publicly,” he rasps. He ghosts his lips over your own. “Move in with me.”

“Okay.”

His mouth crashes into yours, kissing the breath from your lungs.

Married, separated, divorced, it didn’t matter because you belonged to Dave York, and he belonged to you.

Masterlist

Thank you for reading! If you’d like to be tagged in my fics, please fill out the form in my bio, on my masterlist, or just let me know!

Tagging: @daddydindjarin @absurdthirst @kirsteng42 @littlemisspascal @athalien @thevoiceinyourheadx @elegantduckturtle @harriedandharassed @girlofchaos @mswarriorbabe80 @spanishmossmagnolia @star017 @javier-penas-wife @artsymaddie @hansolosleftbuttcheek @deadhumourist @pretty-brown-eyess @hotchlover@eternallyvenus @allfoolsinluv @eppy816 @katareyoudrilling @babykangaemoji @punkerthanpascal @breezythesimp @grimeysociety @bruxasolta @peachyaeger @din-jarhead @lovesbiggerthanpride @loonymagizoologist @pinebeam @spacenerdpascal @padbrookcottage @karlawithacapitalk @trickstersp8 @that-friend-in-the-corner @iamskyereads @beskarprincessjenny @manuymesut @alexxavicry @leithatnight @trinkets01 @boiistfu @kulicny @xoxabs88xox@enjoyourlattebitch @mrsparknuts @totallynotastanacc @nik2blog

#pedro pascal #dave york #dave york/reader #dave york x you #dave york fanfic #wheresarizona writes #pedro pascal characters #fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfiction

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xbeababyx · 1 month ago

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I love this man in every shape.

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aurorawritestoescape · 3 months ago

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STOLEN LUNCH

Dave York x f!reader || 800 words

Summary: Dave steals your lunch.

Tw: 18+ mdni, smut, lil bit of fluff, enemies to lovers with possible history, mean but sweet Dave idk, spitting?, pussy pronouns ofc, public but not caught, rough sex, unprotected piv, creampie.

a/n: I got inspired by this poll by @sin-djarin and @sizzlingcloudmentality ‘s thoughts about Dave and wrote this little naughty thing. Thank you, Becca and Daphne!💞 barely edited, kisses to @milla-frenchy for looking it over😘 I hope you’ll enjoy this drabble <3 dividers by @/saradika-graphics

MASTERLIST

“Not again!” You growl and shut the lunchroom fridge with a loud thump, making the poor thing shake and clank.

You turn around on your heels and stare at the culprit of your anger.

Dave is leaning against the counter, holding YOUR turkey sandwich in his giant hand and chewing, his clean-shaved jaw shifting languidly.

“What’s your fucking problem?” You hiss, stomping closer to him, an image of fury and rage- your brows furrowed, your fists clenched.

Dave seems to give zero fucks. He looks relaxed, pleased even, as he’s destroying your lunch. The lunch he’s stolen from you. Again.

“The turkey’s dry. ‘s disgusting.”

“You don’t look disgusted,” you spit back at the man, hyperventilating from anger.

“‘s cause I’m looking at you, kitten. It helps.”

Your breath hitches but you try to fight the way your heart flutters and your pussy clenches at his flirting.

Instead you roll your eyes and step closer to him, lowering your voice as you speak,

“What if I told you that I spat in the middle of this damn sandwich as I was making it, huh?”

You sneer at him, thinking that you might have won this one.

Dave’s brows shoot up and he looks at the half eaten sandwich in his giant paw and then at you.

You widen your eyes and nod a few times, signaling him that you’re not joking.

Dave’s dark eyes are set on yours, they’re challenging you, as he brings the sandwich to his lips and takes a huge bite. He starts chewing and then moans. The fucker moans.

Your face softens, your anger evaporates and something warm and wet fills your core. A bite of your lip and your heart eyes are clear signs of your surrender. You’ve lost. Again.

His thick fingers grab the back of your neck and he pushes you forward, bending you over the copier.

“Dave,” you whine, as he pulls your skirt up and your tights and panties down. “Someone might come in.”

“So?”

You hear his nonchalant voice behind you, the clanking of his belt, the rustling of his clothes, and then his hot cock lands heavy on your asscheek.

”Keep still, kitten, or it’ll hurt.”

You mewl and relax your muscles, knowing that it’s coming. He pushes his length in without hesitation, taking and stretching you in one go, and you bite your palm that’s covering your whimpering mouth, when his tip hits your cervix.

“Yeahhh, that’s it. You suck at cooking but this cunt…Fuck, she’s the best.”

“Fuck youuu…” Your groan turns into a moan as Dave starts fucking you raw, his thrusts slow at first, but he picks up the pace fast, and the sounds of skin-on-skin slapping fill the little room.

For a few moments it’s nothing but lustful growls and moans, until he grabs your shoulders and pulls you to his firm chest, his hot palm around your neck, his fingers bruising your soft hip.

Dave groans in your ear, fanning your cheek with his wet breath,

“How’s that feel, kitten? I took your lunch, now I’m taking your pussy. What else are you gonna give me on a silver platter, huh? What if I steal that big client of yours?”

“I hate you,” you croak, wiggling in his arms, but both of you know it’s just a play. You wouldn’t want to be anywhere else but here, pierced by his stiff cock, in the tiny room that smells like sex and desire. Dave tightens his grip on your body and whispers against your temple,

“I won’t if you kiss me right now.”

You hear softness in his voice and you turn your head to gawk at him.

His eyes are blown out, shiny with lust and want, but there’s something else behind them. Something vulnerable and real.

“Turn me around.” Your voice is barely audible, unsure, but he hears you.

He pulls out and you hiss but then moan, as he spins you around and his lips crash against yours, his eager tongue sliding into your mouth.

Not breaking the kiss, Dave lifts you up, and you grab onto him for dear life, as he pushes his length back into your pussy.

He makes you come, moving you up and down his thumping cock, bruising your lips with kisses, leaving hickeys on your delicate skin, and then spills his hot load inside you, his face buried in your neck.

You’re fixing your clothes, both breathing heavily, when he asks,

“How about I steal your dessert at a restaurant tonight?”

“You’re such an asshole,” you throw at him with a smile and walk out of the door.

You can’t wait for the evening to come.

Thank you for reading! Please comment and reblog if you enjoyed the fic!

MASTERLIST

Tag list: @milla-frenchy @harriedandharassed @iamasaddie @nervousmumbling @bbyanarchist @stevie75 @puduvallee @auteurdelabre @mountainsandmayhem @senoratess @flamingochick55 @theoraekenslover @schnarfer @mermaidgirl30 @staywildflowahchild @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @evolnoomym @keylimebeag @joelmillerisapunk @pascaltesaye @fruityreads @itwasntimethatdidit40 @meetmeatyourworst @callmebyyournick-name

Tagging @bergamote-catsandbooks bc of their comment 🌸

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #dave york #dave york x reader #dave york smut #dave york x you #dave york fanfiction #dave york fic #the equalizer #dave york x f!reader #fanfiction #stolen lunch fic

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flightlessangelwings · 9 months ago

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Since we’re in Latino heritage month now I want to bring something up again that’s worth talking about when it comes to reader insert fic:

Can we as writers please be aware that latine people are present in fandom and not make the assumption that the reader does not speak Spanish?

Especially when writing for Latino characters, latine people look to them for representation and it feels very exclusionary to assume the reader doesn’t know Spanish. Latine representation is hugely important for us. Actors like Pedro Pascal, Oscar Isaac, Diego Luna, Gabriel Luna, and more are so important for that representation and they all understand that importance. With the lack of latine and poc characters, it’s always very meaningful when we are represented. And it’s very hurtful that people can assume that their audience is only white.

Some ways to work around and be inclusive: You could use italics to indicate Spanish, say “you didn’t hear” instead of “you didn’t understand” so that way it’s more open to interpretation, provide an immediate translation in or out of the context and let readers decide for themselves if they understood it or not. Very simple things make a huge difference in inclusivity and don’t change your story at all!

And another note too: please be respectful when writing Latino characters and actively work to avoid getting into fetishization territory. Be aware of harmful tropes and stereotypes that exist while writing Latino characters. I.e. the Latin lover trope, the whole papi thing, “spicy Latino” etc. The characters aren’t real but the impact it can have does affect real people and it can make latine people uncomfortable to see it in fic.

Remember that inclusivity is a kindness and people of all walks of life read fics to let’s work to make everyone feel welcome and loved and seen in our reader insert fic!

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labyrinthofheartagrams · 2 years ago

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I have an unhealthy absolute love of Dave York. Something about him is magnetic 😍💀🔪

You and Cris, I swear to god you guys. I CAN’T like Dave, this can’t be happening. I cannot like that stinky murder man. You can’t just make him seem like a more likeable, hot asshole with intern and make me like him, you guys. Please, I can’t just like him now

megan

join the pit, megan

@filthybookworm has sent me so many dave x intern asks — the goal of them was to satiate our own thirst for this man, but now the goal is to make you fall in love with him

that man? looking up at you in disbelief as you ride him, his calloused hands guiding your hips, his cock enveloped in your slick warmth and when you tell him how good he feels, how much you needed him between business trips he can’t help but feel so wanted

you know what he does and who he is, know the anger he carries within him, know the hurt he still feels about being betrayed by his own country and when you found him, he had resigned himself to a life of lies but now

now he can be honest and open and you still want him, still ache for him and the two of you are a perfect match — both at work and in your preferences in the bedroom — and thinking about how you like it like that, his hands span the inside of your thighs to push them open wider, his cock a heavy fullness deeper than anyone has ever got

you can’t stop and neither can he, not when he’s spent so much time hiding everything from everyone and when you tip your head back and cry out his name, he smiles; pride, at how good he’s making you feel and happiness, at how much you do the same for him

#Dave York #fanfic #dave york/you #dave york/reader #fic rec

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pedgito · 28 days ago

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may was a very hectic month for me, but for good reason! i did a ton of reading and writing this month and oh boy, these fics —they're amazing. i'm actively trying to take a day or two and just plow through my tbrs every month and i've found that helps! please give these authors some love, they deserve it!

this key will help you figure out which fics are more your vibe, or if you’re just curious of the contents before you dive in:

smut = 🌶️, fluff = ☁️ angst = ☄️

total fics listed below: 26

✎ — 𝐉𝐎𝐄𝐋 𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐑

↝ honey, honey series by @beardedjoel — ☁️, ☄️, 🌶️

You've always had more money than you knew what to do with. what happens if that all threatens to go away when you don't sacrifice what you really want out of life for your fathers wishes? And what happens if his oldest friend just happens to be the solution?

↝ fix it by @daryltwdixon

Joel was a bad man. Perverted, dirty-minded, and old. He couldn’t keep you out of his thoughts no matter how hard he tried. You were the new neighbor across the way, though he’d made sure you’d never spoken. He kept his distance, kept to himself. Until Dina nearly dragged you into his dining area, forcing you to sit with him as he averted his gaze. And just like that, she got up and left—leaving you to whatever quiet little plan she'd already set in motion.

↝ locket by @/toxicanonymity — 🌶️ (DDDNE, Dubcon)

You’re tired of her hot Dad playing hard-to-get, and you’re going to put an end to it tonight.

↝ ain't no grave series by @pandapetals — ☁️, 🌶️

A clicker bite should’ve ended your life. Instead, Joel made a brutal choice to save you. Now, one hand gone and your place in Jackson hanging by a thread, you're left to battle grief, survivor’s guilt, and the town’s growing fear.

↝ presentiment by @slowdivinqs — 🌶️ (DDDNE)

No one is truly alone in the world, especially not you.

↝ swept away series by @punkshort — ☁️, ☄️, 🌶️

Detached, closed off, and hardened by failed relationships (romantic and otherwise), hotel mogul Joel Miller is looking to expand his empire to an exclusive tropical island off the coast of Fiji. The problem is, he's not the only one looking to stake his claim in the tropics. The owner of the island, a family man first and foremost, invites all the bidders to the island for a month long retreat to help him decide which mogul will be crowned the winner. And to make himself look more appealing, Joel hires you to accompany him as his significant other. But it's strictly business... right?

↝ catfish series by @iamasaddie — 🌶️ (DDDNE, Dubcon elements)

Swiping left and right on tinder, you think you match with Joel Miller, a handsome single dad in his late 30s. Feeling enamored and horny you decide to meet in person, only to be met with an almost completely different person.

↝ trapped (ft. Tommy Miller) by @aurorawritestoescape & @milla-frenchy — 🌶️ (DDDNE, Noncon)

You run out of gas in the middle of nowhere at night. A stranger comes to help

↝ gibson girl by @/daryltwdixon — 🌶️

During the day, the Boston Quarantine Zone buzzed with life. People worked, slaving away under the military grip that kept order. But at night, deep in the underbelly of a crumbling hotel, was an entirely different ecosystem that thrived in the dark. One that was draped in lace and velvet, thick with smoke, sweat and secrets. And Joel Miller could always be found in the same room at the same time every night, though he never touched and he barely spoke. But he made sure that he was the only man you ever saw.

✎ — 𝐃𝐈𝐍 𝐃𝐉𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐍

↝ chrysalis heart by @kedsandtubesocks — ☁️, ☄️, 🌶️

As queen you can handle many things (like the assassination attempts threatening your life) but the alluring Mandalorian hired to protect you might be your heart’s biggest threat

✎ — 𝐃𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐑𝐊

↝ hard to love by @kiwisbell — 🌶️

Two negatives make a positive. Or, two people, both alike in loneliness, fall in love where they shouldn’t.

✎ — 𝐉𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐄 (𝐓𝐋𝐎𝐔)

↝ lunch break by @aureatelys — 🌶️, ☁️

You've been distracted by your boyfriend all morning. Jesse knows you better than you expected.

↝ strangers by @/aureatelys — ☁️

You wake up in a hospital with your head hurting and no memory of what happened the day before. Jesse helps you remember.

↝ can i be yours? by @/aureatelys — 🌶️

You've been living in Jackson for almost a year, you think you're in love with your best friend, and you're a virgin. Dina meddles.

✎ — 𝐄𝐃𝐃𝐈𝐄 𝐌𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐎𝐍

↝ extra credit by @mediocredreams — 🌶️

When your mother invites Starcourt College’s mysterious new professor over for dinner, he offers you a very personal in-home tutoring session.

↝ lessons in art history by @gracieheartspedro — ☁️, 🌶️

Eddie needs to graduate. A stupid summer art class is getting in his way. Luckily for him, his neighbor and childhood crush is an art history major. And you're ready to make a deal.

✎ — 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐑 𝐑𝐄𝐈𝐃

↝ interrogations on uneven footing by @trampleddoves — 🌶️ (DDDNE, Noncon)

Spencer Reid needs information on a confidential case. He is not above using unconventional methods to get you to spill.

↝ bad idea right by @/trampleddoves — 🌶️ (DDDNE, pseudo-incest)

Holiday break with your new stepfamily gets more interesting when you catch your stepbrother's lingering glances.

✎ — 𝐓𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐑

↝ power nap by @toxicanonymity — 🌶️

↝ cupid's chokehold by @pearlessance — 🌶️

Tommy meets Joel's new girlfriend and takes a twisted liking to her live-in daughter.

↝ push, push by @/iamasaddie — 🌶️

You've been pushing Tommy's buttons too long for him to ignore, it was time he gave you a piece of his mind.

↝ no mercy in seattle by @alexispunkkk — 🌶️ (DDDNE, Dubcon)

On Tommy’s rampage in Seattle after the death of his brother, he needs a way to get his anger out. he uses you as his outlet, taking his emotions out in the best way he knows—sex.

✎ — 𝐂𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃

↝ after hours by @jolapeno — 🌶️

Clint had no idea a video store would change his life, again. Now he’s in too deep, wrapped around a woman who sees through the scars—and waits for him in a motel room.

✎ — 𝐁𝐎𝐁 𝐑𝐄𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐒

↝ untitled by @skeltnwrites

Bob learns how to stitch a wound.

✎ — 𝐁𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐘 𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐒

↝ we'll be alright by @hauntedhowlett — 🌶️, ☁️, ☄️

Two truths and a lie: 1. You swiped right on the Tinder profile of JB, 33, only to discover that it was the profile of Bucky Barnes. 2. Bucky Barnes stole your heart then ghosted you all in the span of a single year. 3. You are totally and completely over him.

✎ — 𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐇𝐌𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐄𝐋𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐄

↝ fog lake by @/toxicanonymity — 🌶️ (DDDNE, Dubcon)

You left your life for a secluded cabin, then it began to feel like you weren't alone...

#joel miller x reader #tommy miller x reader #dave york x reader #bucky barnes x reader #spencer reid x reader #bob reynolds x reader #brahms heelshire x reader #monthlyrec #fic recs

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cosmicaura7 · 1 month ago

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BREEDING KINK

Pairings : pedro pascal characters x reader

Genre : f/m, smut, breeding kink, unprotected sex, creampie, overstimulation, dirty talk,

Synopsis : He has been thinking about it for a while now, having a baby with you. The thought consumes him and he can't keep it to himself any longer.

Author's Note : Enjoy this in the meantime since I'm on my period hehe😜

Clint Flood (Freaky Tales)

Clint Flood isn’t a man of flowery words. He doesn’t have to be.

He speaks with his hands, with the way he stands in front of you in the doorway like a wall, shielding and solid, eyes burning like headlights through storm fog. When you wear his shirt around the house? He growls under his breath. When you curl into his lap after a long day, kissing his neck while he runs his calloused hands down your back? He always ends up whispering it.

“Gonna put a baby in you.”

You never laugh. Because when he says it, he means it like a promise.

Tonight, it’s no different. The moment he walks in, sweat on his brow, bruises on his knuckles and streaks of dried blood on his arms and hands, he looks at you like you’re the only thing he’s ever needed. You’re already waiting in the bedroom, sprawled out in nothing but soft cotton underwear. You don’t say a word, you just spread your legs and tilt your chin, daring him.

His chest rises hard. His boots are off in seconds. He crawls over you like a man starved, kissing you rough, deep and worshipful. His hands slide over your hips, gripping them with reverence and hunger. “You know what this does to me, baby?” He grinds out, voice thick with need. “Lookin’ at you like this. Waitin’ to be filled.” You moan as he pushes inside you, slow and deep. His thrusts are powerful from the start, steady, possessive and built to last.

“You feel that?” He breathes into your neck, hips meeting yours again and again. “That’s how I know you’re made for me. Your body, hell, this womb, it’s all mine.” You gasp his name, clutching his back. He doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t let you drift too far.

He keeps you grounded with his weight, his words. “Gonna fill you up so good.” He murmurs, voice breaking. “So deep you won’t stop thinking about it. Walkin’ around with my baby in you, that’s all I want.” He starts to tremble as you tighten around him. You feel the change, the urgency, the desperation that hits when he’s close.

“You want it, sweetheart?” He pants, forehead pressed to yours. “Wanna be mine like that?”

You whisper yes over and over until he groans, thrusting deep and finally lets go. The warmth floods through you. Clint shudders hard, his arms wrapped tight around you, breath hitching in your ear. “Take it…” He rasps. “Take all of me.” He stays inside you even after it’s over, holding you as if letting go would break the spell. His lips press softly to your temple.

“Gonna keep you full.” He whispers. “Make you round with me.”

“You already have.” You cup his cheek, smiling into the hush of your shared heat.

Dave York (The Equalizer 2)

There’s something in Dave’s eyes tonight. He’s been tense all day, something about the way he walked through the front door, jaw tight and shoulders rolling like he was shaking off bloodlust. The kind of energy that made your heart race for two reasons, danger and desire.

You didn’t ask questions.

You just waited in the bedroom, lights low, legs bare and wearing that lace he always fingers like he might tear it off. When he finally walks in, the air thickens. He says nothing at first.

Just stares.

Then slowly, like a storm rolling in, he approaches, boots heavy, gaze locked. His voice is low when he speaks. “You been thinkin’ about it too?”

“About what?” You blink, heartbeat jumping.

He leans down until his lips brush your ear. “About me filling you up. Finally making you mine.” Your body jolts at the heat in his voice, hungry, possessive and needy. That calm control he usually wears is cracking and what’s underneath it is feral. He undresses you in silence. There’s a kind of reverence to it, like he’s peeling away everything that doesn’t belong between the two of you. And when he pushes you back onto the bed and lines himself up, his voice is thick with restraint.

“I’m not pulling out.”

You already knew. He’s been hinting for weeks, hands low on your belly after sex, muttering “It’d be so easy, baby. So fucking easy to knock you up.” And now he’s shaking as he slides into you, one arm braced by your head, the other gripping your thigh hard enough to bruise.

“This pussy was made for me.” He grits, moving in long deep strokes. “All soft and wet, begging to be filled.” You moan his name, lost in the heat, in how full he makes you feel. “That’s it.” He pants. “Take me. Every inch. Gonna breed you so good, sweetheart. Gonna fuck a baby into you so deep you’ll feel me every time you move.”

The words hit you like lightning. You wrap your legs around him, pulling him deeper. He groans, raw and broken, and his rhythm falters. You know he’s close, you can feel it in the way his body trembles. “Gonna give you all of it.” He whispers. “Every last drop. So you’ll carry me. So no one ever questions who you belong to.” When he finally comes, he does it with a deep primal growl of your name. You feel the warmth flood inside you, hear the ragged way he breathes as he stays buried to the hilt as if his body won’t let him leave you. You kiss his cheek, chest heaving.

He strokes your stomach, hand spread wide and possessive. “We start tonight.” He says softly. “You're gonna take. I know you will.”

And somehow, you believe him.

Dieter Bravo (The Bubble)

It always starts with a look.

That Dieter look, smoldering and theatrical, as if he’s the lead in a tragic romance and you’re his co-star, the one woman who will destroy or save him. Tonight, he’s pacing the bedroom barefoot in a silk robe, ranting in half-curses and half-whispers, until he finally turns to you. “I’ve thought about this all day.” He says, eyes wild and sincere. “You. Pregnant. With my baby.”

Your pulse skips. He’s been like this lately, dramatic and obsessed. Every time he touches you, he groans about how “fertile” you look, how “his seed should live in you like holy fire.” It's unhinged. It’s so Dieter. And it turns you on more than you can admit.

“So why haven’t you done anything about it?” You sit on the edge of the bed, head tilted.

That’s all it takes.

He immediately pounces. Clothes are gone in a blur of motion, his hands fumbling and shaking as he drags your underwear down. “You don’t understand.” He groans, kissing your thighs and your stomach. “You belong to me. And if I don’t come inside you soon, I’ll die. I will literally collapse and perish.”

“Then do it.” You whisper. “Fill me.”

He shudders. And when he slides inside you, it's with reverence, like he’s praying. His hips move deep and slow at first but his words? Those come fast and desperate. “You’re so warm… your body wants this, wants to keep me in. God, baby, I need to breed you.” You cry out, his rhythm getting rougher and more frantic. He cups your jaw and stares down into your eyes like he wants to memorize your face at the moment he claims you. “I want you round.” He moans. “Glowing. So when people look at you, they know that’s Dieter Bravo’s fucking baby in there.”

His name sounds like a plea in your throat as he drives deeper, faster and loses rhythm in his obsession. His hand slides down to your belly, holding it possessively. “I want to watch you grow.” He breathes. “Want to paint paintings about how gorgeous you look carrying my baby. Want to make a documentary about it, hell, a trilogy.”

You’re breathless and slowly getting overstimulated, but you don’t want him to stop. And he doesn’t, not until his body tenses and he groans into your mouth, pressing deep, giving you everything. You feel him release, his whole body trembling as he stays locked inside. “Don’t move.” He begs. “Keep me in. Let me give you a baby.” When it’s over, he collapses dramatically on top of you, panting. “If that didn’t do it, I swear to God I’m buying a fertility clinic.” You laugh weakly. But when he gently strokes your belly and kisses it again and again, you know he’s dead serious.

Din Djarin (The Mandalorian)

There’s something different about him tonight. He’s already stripped out of the beskar by the time you return from bathing, his gloves folded and helmet placed carefully beside the bed. The air is still thick with anticipation and heavy with purpose.

You meet his gaze. He’s seated on the edge of the bed, forearms braced on his thighs, breathing slow and deep. “You said you wanted a family.” He says simply. “I’m ready.”

Your heart stutters. You knew he thought about it, knew how carefully Din Djarin considers every step, every word. He never promises lightly. But now he’s looking at you like you’re his path forward, his home. The one vessel he trusts to carry his blood, his future and his legacy. You come to him silently, straddling his lap. His hands grip your hips, reverent and rough, as if grounding himself.

“Are you sure?” You whisper, nose brushing his.

He nods once. “I want to see you full with me. Want to know you're carrying what we made.” His voice shakes, controlled and low, like a storm held back by sheer force of will. And then he lifts you, gently laying you back on the bed like something sacred, worships every inch of you with his mouth and hands before finally pushing inside. The stretch, the heat and the sheer weight of him has your legs trembling. But it’s his words that undo you.

“So perfect like this. Taking me so well.”

“You were made for this, made to carry our ads.”

“No one else gets this. No one touches this. Only me.”

His pace is deep, slow and claiming. Not rushed but intentional. Every thrust feels like a vow. Your nails drag down his back as he presses a hand to your stomach, breathing harder and rougher. “Right here…” He groans. “Gonna fill you up. Watch your body take it, keep it.”

You gasp his name as he buries himself fully, over and over, grinding in so deep you swear you can feel it in your bones. “Say it…” He pants. “Say you want me to breed you.”

“I want it!” You cry. “Want you to fill me, Din. Want to carry your child.” His rhythm falters, body shuddering. And then with a deep guttural moan, he comes. You feel the heat of it spill inside as he holds himself there unmoving, forehead pressed to yours, panting hard.

“Don’t move.” He whispers. “I need it to take. Need to know I gave you everything.” You nod, blinking away tears. Because this is how Din Djarin loves, with purpose, with power and with a future in mind. And wrapped in his arms, filled to the brim, you believe him when he says.

“This is the way.”

Ezra (The Prospect)

He watches you like he’s starved, not for food, not for air but for you. Something deeper and something primal. It’s always been in his eyes when he looks at you like he’s survived hell and you’re the only thing worth living for now. You lie back in the narrow bed of your shared dwelling on this godforsaken moon, atmosphere humid, faint hum of the old purifier rattling in the corner. Ezra stands at the foot, shirt half-open, scarred hands on his belt.

There’s a tension in the air that goes beyond lust. It’s been building for weeks, ever since you told him you wanted to stop using the meds and that you wanted to try to have children. He climbs over you like a man crossing a ravine, careful, reverent and trembling with need. “You sure?” He rasps, voice raw with hope and warning.

You reach up, cupping his jaw. “Put a baby in me, Ezra.” Something in him breaks at that. He kisses you hard, desperate and consuming, and then he's inside you in a single thick thrust. You gasp, nails digging into his back as he sets a slow, grinding rhythm, burying himself to the hilt with every thrust.

Ezra’s breath shakes as he lowers his forehead to yours. “Gonna take.” He whispers. “You’re gonna take, sweetheart. Know you are.” You moan, wrapping your legs around him, forcing him deeper. He groans, low and pained, like the pleasure’s almost too much. His hand slides between your bodies to splay over your belly. “Wanna see you round with me.” He says, eyes wild now. “Heavy, glowing, want you walking slow 'cause you’re so full.”

“Ezra…” Your voice cracks, wrecked and dizzy.

“I've been in the dirt too long.” He murmurs. “Time I plant something that grows, something real.” His rhythm stutters. He grips your hips harder and panting like a dog in heat. “This body’s mine. Gonna leave you full of me. Breed you properly. Let this place know who you belong to.” You clench around him, and he shudders, head falling to your shoulder with a ragged cry. And then he spills into you, thick and hot and endless. He stays buried, pulsing, his arms caging you in like he’s trying to keep every drop inside. His voice is soft now, broken in your ear.

“We make a new life.” He whispers. “Right here, in this soil.” You kiss his temple. Because you know he means it. And in the silence of this lonely moon, Ezra holds you like he’s finally found his home, growing deep inside you.

Francisco Morales (Triple Frontier)

You don’t realize how tightly you’ve been held until he’s inside you again.

Francisco is the kind of man who carries everything on his shoulders, the mission, the danger and the never ending guilt. But when he comes home, when he’s with you, he softens only in one place, the way he touches your body like it’s holy, like it’s the only safe ground he’s ever known.

And tonight, he’s different. His hands tremble as they slide down your hips. His mouth lingers on your stomach longer than usual. And when he pulls back to look at you, eyes dark and steady, you know what’s coming before he says it. “Let me do this.” He murmurs. “Let me put a baby in you.”

Your breath catches. He’s never said it aloud before but you’ve seen it in the way he always presses a hand to your lower belly after you make love, the way his eyes linger on the curve of your body, possessive and almost… aching.

“I want something that’s mine.” He says, forehead pressed to yours. “Ours. Something real. Permanent.” You nod, heart racing and that’s all the permission he needs. He spreads you open slowly, reverently. His hands are strong, sure but careful like he’s preparing a place to bury something deep, something that will grow. And when he finally pushes inside, it’s not rushed or rough.

It’s purposeful. Each thrust is deep and anchoring. He keeps eye contact the whole time, jaw clenched, brow furrowed in focus. Like he’s thinking about every movement, every drop he plans to leave inside. “You’re gonna take all of it.” He grits out. “Gonna keep it all in until it takes.” You moan, body clenching and he groans low in response, that sound he only makes when he’s close to losing control.

“You don’t even know what you do to me.” He mutters. “You open up so perfectly. So ready to be filled.” He wraps an arm beneath your lower back, angling your hips to take him deeper until he’s hitting that spot that has you gasping his name like a prayer. And when your body starts to tremble around him, he snaps. “Gonna breed you.” He growls. “Fuck, I’m gonna fill you so deep it takes. You’re gonna be carrying me, every time someone looks at you, they’ll know you’re mine.”

You cry out, and with a strained, guttural moan, he spills into you, hard and hot pulses that have him twitching and shaking above you. He stays inside, pressed close, panting against your neck. Neither of you move. Then you feel his hand slide between your bodies, cupping your belly again, like he’s willing the future into existence.

“We’re gonna build something.” He whispers. “Right here. Starting tonight.” And you believe him because Francisco never says things he doesn’t mean.

Not in the field.

Not in your bed.

And definitely not with your body under his, soaked in sweat and filled with his seed.

Harry Castillo (The Materialists)

There’s nothing casual about the way he touches you. Not when the rest of his life is a performance, smooth suits, sharper smiles and perfectly-timed handshakes. But not here, not when you're beneath him, silk sheets tangled around your thighs, wearing only the diamond necklace he bought you last anniversary.

Here, Harry Castillo is all hunger.

"You know what I want." He murmurs against your skin, lips dragging from your collarbone to your breast. "You’ve known." His voice is thick like honey and bourbon but there’s an edge to it now. A need he no longer bothers hiding, especially not tonight.

You thread your fingers through his dark curls and whisper. “Then take it.” And he does. He slides down between your thighs, hands gripping like he owns every inch. There’s always a finesse to Harry but when he’s inside you, all control blurs into desperation.

“Been thinking about it for weeks.” He groans, pushing in slow and deep, making you feel full. “You, heavy with me and absolutely glowing. Want to watch you swell, watch the world know I filled you.” Your breath stutters. He starts moving with long grounding strokes that keep you teetering right on the edge. He pins your wrists above your head with one hand, the other bracing your hip, making you take him all with each roll of his hips.

“You’re gonna take every drop, baby.” He growls. “And you’re gonna keep it. No excuses. No pills. No getting out of it.”

You moan beneath him, back arching. “Want it. Want to be full of you.” That breaks whatever control he had left.

He kisses you roughly, moaning into your mouth as he fucks you harder, faster and deeper, like he’s trying to brand his name inside you. “Gonna watch you waddle through the penthouse.” He pants. “In your little heels, showing off what I did to you.”

You shudder, crying out as you tighten around him and he loses it. Harry spills inside you with a sharp groan, staying deep, hips grinding as he rides the high. He twitches, still inside, and lets out a raw exhale that sounds almost reverent. “Mine…” He breathes, kissing your shoulder. “You’re mine. And now everyone’s gonna see it.” He doesn’t pull out.

Instead, he lowers your legs gently and lays on top of you, keeping himself buried as long as possible. His hand slides across your stomach, as if imagining the future already taking root. "You want luxury?" He murmurs. "Let me give you the rarest one, a legacy." And in the soft glow of gold lamps and city lights, you know he doesn’t mean money.

He means you.

Jack “Whiskey” Daniels (Kingsman)

The door shuts behind him with a quiet click and you barely have time to turn around before your back’s pressed to it, his broad frame towering over yours. “Been thinkin’ about this all day, sugar.” Jack drawls low in your ear, his voice thick as molasses. “You, all spread out… waitin’ for me to fill you up.”

You gasp as he grinds his hips into yours, the buckle of his belt pressing into your stomach. “You serious?” You whisper, heart racing.

Jack leans back just enough to meet your eyes, tilting his cowboy hat up with two fingers. His gaze burns through you, hazel eyes dark with intent. “I ain’t jokin’.” He says, slow and deliberate. “Wanna put a baby in you real bad. Want you swollen with me. Want the whole damn world to see what we did.”

You shiver because this isn’t one of his usual flirt-and-smirk games. There’s something real behind it, something hungry. You nod in desperation. He smiles, slow, wide and wolfish. Next thing you know, he’s got you on the bed, boots kicked off, shirt unbuttoned, suspenders hanging at his sides. He kisses you like he owns you, tongue hot and eager, hands rough on your waist.

“Gonna fuck you proper.” He mutters as he slides inside, thick and pulsing. “Gonna knock you up the way God intended.” Your head falls back as he sets a steady rhythm, hips grinding deep, every thrust designed to hit exactly where it counts. You can feel it, his need and the way he holds back from going feral.

“Y’feel that?” He pants, resting a hand low on your belly. “That’s where I’m gonna leave it. Right there and deep.” You moan his name, gripping his arms as he thrusts harder. “Gonna make you a mama.” He growls. “Gonna keep you in pretty dresses and rub your feet while you're carryin’ my kid. No more missions. No more pills. Just you, barefoot in my kitchen with a baby in that belly.” The way he says it like it’s the most sacred erotic thing in the world sends you over the edge.

And that’s all it takes.

Jack lets out a broken groan, burying himself as deep as he can go. He twitches and jerks before spilling into you with raw unfiltered need. He doesn’t stop. He grinds in slow circles, coaxing every drop deeper while whispering filth in your ear. “Gonna make sure it takes, sugar. Know it will. You’re made for this, made for me.” He stays there, heavy on top of you, chest rising and falling against yours. His palm lingers over your belly like he’s already imagining the bump, the glow, the baby booties on your shared ranch porch.

And then he smirks.

“Reckon we better start thinkin’ of names.”

Javi Guttierez (The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent)

He worships you like a collector worships his rarest piece.

Javi Gutierrez may have once obsessed over movie memorabilia but ever since he put a ring on your finger, all his attention shifted fully and forever to you. His hands know every line of your body like a poem, like the script of a film he’s memorized frame by frame. But lately, there’s a different kind of need in his eyes. Something deeper and more possessive.

“You don’t know…” He whispers one night, lips pressed to your stomach. “How badly I want to see you full, round and carrying our child.” You freeze, heart stuttering. He lifts his gaze to meet yours, eyes soft and voice low. “Would you let me? Make something real with you?”

You nod. You don’t even think, you just feel. The answer’s always been yes. That’s all he needs. He climbs over you with careful reverence, like you’re breakable porcelain and holy at once. When he enters you, he moans like he’s been starving, slow and deep, filling you until he’s flush against your thighs.

“You take me so well.” He murmurs. “It’s like you were made to.” You gasp as he begins to move, rocking into you with controlled desperation. His hands tremble slightly as they cradle your hips, like he’s holding onto something sacred. “I’ve imagined it.” He breathes. “You, glowing. The way you’ll look in the morning sun. My child inside you. Ours.”

You whimper, clutching his back. And he groans in response, hips thrusting harder now, deeper. “That’s it, cariño.” He whispers, teeth grazing your shoulder. “Let me fill you. Let me plant it inside. I’ll worship the life I put there.” Your whole body tenses and his rhythm falters, because he can feel you getting close. “You want this too.” He says, more statement than question. “Want me to breed you. Leave you dripping, aching and all mine.”

You shatter around him with a cry and that’s all it takes. Javi buries himself to the hilt with a low ragged moan, his whole body shuddering as he spills into you. He whispers your name like a prayer, forehead pressed to yours, hands never leaving your skin. He stays inside you, even after the heat fades. One hand drifts to your belly, gentle and awed.

“It’ll be my masterpiece.” He says. “But not as perfect as the real thing.” He smiles, cupping your face.

Javier Peña (Narcos)

He doesn’t say it out loud the first few times. But you feel it in the way he lingers inside you after he’s come, slow, grinding, deep and refusing to pull out. You feel it in the way he rests his hand on your belly afterward, silent and still, like he's imagining something. And then one night, after a particularly rough case, after too much whiskey and not enough sleep, he breaks. He comes home at midnight. Tired, bruised and reeking of smoke and Bogotá rain. You’re already in bed but when he crawls in behind you, kisses the back of your neck and slides his hand between your thighs, you know he needs more than comfort.

“Wanna see you pregnant.” He mutters, voice hoarse. “Wanna see you round and full with my baby.”

“Javi…” Your breath catches because it’s not just dirty talk, there’s a hidden ache within it.

He flips you gently, settling between your thighs. His fingers push in deep, testing, spreading and preparing you with practiced care. “Let me do this.” He says. “Let me leave somethin’ behind. Just one good thing.” Then he’s inside you, deep and hard, with a pace that screams need. His forehead presses to yours, his hand cradling your hip, keeping you still as he rolls into you over and over, desperate to stay buried.

“I fuckin’ need this.” He groans. “Need to know you’ll carry a piece of me. After all this shit...”

You cup his face, arching into him. “I want it too.” You whisper. “I want all of you.” That’s when he loses it. He grabs your thighs and fucks you deeper and rougher, grinding into your sweet spot until you’re shaking, until you’re clinging to him and crying out. He watches you fall apart beneath him, then follows with a strangled moan, spilling inside you so hard he shudders.

He doesn’t move for a long time. Just stays there, breathing hard, forehead pressed to your shoulder, arms locked around you like you’re his last tether to this world. Finally, he murmurs. “If I died tomorrow... I’d want to know you were carrying somethin’ that mattered.”

You stroke his back, heart aching. “You’re not going anywhere.” You whisper. But part of you knows, if anything ever did happen to him, you’d still carry him forever. Maybe even literally.

Joel Miller (The Last of Us)

The world outside is broken.

But inside these four walls, inside this tiny cabin with its creaking floors and warmth that smells like pine, Joel loves you like the world never ended. It starts soft, always does with him. A brush of his calloused thumb along your cheekbone, a kiss to your temple, a murmur of “Hey, darlin’.” spoken low and tired after a long day on patrol. But tonight, something’s different in the way he touches you. He’s reverent and slow, as if he’s bracing for something bigger than just pleasure.

When he finally presses his body over yours in bed, his voice cracks near your ear. “Been thinkin’ ‘bout it.” He murmurs, breath hot against your skin. “You… carryin’ my baby.”

Your breath catches. “Joel…”

He hushes you with a kiss, slow and grounding. “I know the world’s gone to shit.” He says. “But if there’s one thing worth keepin’ alive… it’s us. You. Me. What we could make.” You wrap your arms around his shoulders and nod, heart pounding.

And then he loses himself in you. The thrust of his hips is deliberate and deep. His weight pins you down, like he needs you still while he gives you every part of him. His hands cradle your thighs, keeping you open for him, spreading you wide so he can press as deep as your body allows. “Gonna fill you up.” He growls softly. “Real deep and make sure it takes.”

You moan and he groans in answer, kissing down your jaw, your throat. “Wanna see you round, baby. Full of me. Belly tight with somethin’ we made.” Each thrust is possessive, each word gritted out between clenched teeth. His rough fingers drift to your lower belly, pressing gently like he’s already imagining it, already claiming it. Your climax hits fast, his voice, his body, his need, it’s too much. You cry out, body trembling.

Joel follows with a low growl, burying himself to the hilt, shuddering hard as he spills inside you. He doesn’t pull out. Not for a long, long time. “Just stay like this.” He breathes. “Wanna keep it in. Let it settle. Let it stick.” Later, when you lie tangled together beneath a wool blanket, he traces slow circles on your belly with his calloused palm.

“You’d be a good mama.” He whispers. “Strong and soft. Everything this world needs.”

You blink at him, heart breaking open all over again. “And you’d be a good dad like always.” He swallows hard, nodding once. And then he holds you tighter, like you’re the only thing left that matters.

Marcus Acacius (Gladiator II)

He returns from the battlefield still wrapped in blood and glory. The roar of Rome follows him but when he steps into your chambers, he softens. For no one else would Marcus Acacius remove his armor with such aching slowness, for no one else would he kneel unless it was for his dear wife.

“Come here.” He murmurs, voice low and gruff from shouting commands all day. “Let me look at you, wife.” You cross the marble floor barefoot, silk brushing your thighs. He reaches for you like a starving man, pulling you into his lap on the edge of the bed. His hands are rough and calloused from sword and shield but they tremble slightly where they cup your hips. “I dream of it.” He says into your neck. “You, swollen with my child. My seed in your womb. My heir in your body.”

You gasp softly, fingers curling into his thick curls as he lifts your shift and parts your thighs. He lays you down like you’re sacred. “Do you want it?” He asks, gaze burning. “To carry my name, my line and my legacy in you?”

Your answer is breathless. “Yes.” That’s all he needs. Marcus covers your body with his own, worshipping you with lips and tongue and hands. He spreads you wide, not just to take you, but to mark you, to claim you.

His thrusts are deep and purposeful, each one a silent vow. “You’ll look divine with my child inside you.” He groans, hand splayed possessively over your belly. “I’ll give you twins. Sons or a daughter, fierce as you.” You moan under him, body arching into every stroke. “I’ll fill you again and again.” He growls. “Until it takes, until the gods themselves look down in envy at what we’ve made.”

You fall apart with a cry and he follows, burying himself to the hilt as he spills into you with a guttural groan, strong hands gripping your thighs, holding you still, locked against him. Even after, he doesn’t pull away. He stays sheathed deep, his weight heavy, warm and protective.

“You will be my legacy.” He whispers into your hair. “And I will protect you and what grows inside you with my life.”

Marcus Moreno (We Can Be Heroes)

He’s never rough with you. Even when his desire runs hot and fast, when his breath shudders and his hands tremble from holding back, Marcus touches you like he’s afraid you’ll break. Even though he knows you won’t. Even though you’ve shown him time and again that you can take everything he gives and still reach for more.

Tonight, it’s quiet.

Just the two of you. Dim light, soft sheets and the sound of his voice low in your ear. “You know what I want?” His fingers trail slowly along your bare stomach, reverent and slow, as if the idea alone deserves to be worshipped. “I want to see you carrying our baby. Our future.”

“I want that too.” You swallow, already aching for him.

Something changes in his expression. The way he kisses you becomes more intense, deeper and more needy. His body covers yours, not to dominate but to cocoon, to shield you, even in intimacy. “I think about it all the time.” He admits. “How you’d look glowing and heavy with my kid. Something of ours.” A breathless chuckle. “A little brother or sister for Missy.” You moan softly as he slides into you, his movements slow, controlled and deep. He holds your hips still, angling just right, like he’s memorized every inch of your body, like he knows how to make you take him in completely.

“Gonna fill you up.” He whispers. “Make sure it sticks.” The words aren’t crude, they’re sacred and said with aching devotion. Every roll of his hips is steady, measured and intentional. Not just to give you pleasure but to plant something in you. A hopeful future with him and his daughter, and soon enough another baby or two.

“I want to leave part of myself with you.” He breathes, voice thick with emotion. “I want you to carry it.” Your breath hitches, hands digging into his back. He feels your body tighten around him and it’s too much, he gasps your name and comes deep, staying pressed to the hilt as he empties into you. And then he stays there, doesn’t pull away. Just holds you close, his hand resting over your lower belly.

“I’ll take care of you.” He murmurs. “You, Missy and our baby. Always.”

Marcus Pike (The Mentalist)

He’s always been the kind of man who thinks before he speaks, thoughtful, measured and kind. Marcus never rushes anything, not when he’s planning, not when he’s kissing you with that slow patient passion that leaves your knees weak. But tonight, there’s a different kind of urgency in him.

The kind he’s been quietly hiding until now. “I’ve been thinking.” He says, hands resting low on your hips as he looks at you beneath the glow of the bedside lamp. “About us. About the future.” You know that look, the way his eyes flicker down to your belly, his fingers flexing slightly. He swallows, then he finally says it. “I want to put a baby in you.”

Your breath catches. He sees the way your lips part, the way your thighs shift. He leans in close, voice dipping low. “Let me make you mine in the most permanent way.” He whispers. “Let me give you everything.” His mouth finds yours, soft but desperate, as he lays you back on the sheets. He takes his time undressing you, kissing the skin he reveals inch by inch. You feel treasured and worshipped.

And then he’s inside you, not fast, not hard but deep and purposeful. His hands cradle your hips, your waist, then splay across your belly like he’s imagining it, what it would look like rounded, full with his child. “You’d look so beautiful pregnant.” He groans. “You’re already perfect but… like that? Carrying my baby?” You moan his name and he leans in to kiss you again, slow and open-mouthed. “Want to fill you up.” He breathes. “Want it to take. Want to see you glowing.”

Every thrust now is deliberate and careful, like he’s afraid to spill a single drop outside of you. You feel it in the way he presses deeper, groaning into your ear as your body tightens around him. You fall first, gasping his name as you shudder beneath him. He follows seconds later, pulsing inside you with a broken sound, holding still as deep as he can while his seed spills.

Marcus doesn’t move and doesn’t pull out. Just wraps his arms around you and buries his face in your neck, whispering promises that sound like vows. “I love you. I want this life with you. All of it.” And you know he means it.

Max Philips (Bloodsucking Bastards)

“You know, sweetheart…” Max says, loosening his tie with a flourish as he shuts the bedroom door. “For a guy with eternal youth, you’d think I’d be patient.” He’s not, especially not tonight, when you’re sprawled on the bed in nothing but his oversized dress shirt and that wicked little smile he can never resist. It’s enough to bring out the predator behind his sharp grin. His hunger isn’t just for blood, it’s for you, for your body and for what he wants from your body.

And tonight? He’s decided.

“I want to knock you up.” You blink at him, heat prickling in your cheeks but you don’t look away. And that alone makes him growl. “I mean it.” He says, climbing over you, bracing his hands on either side of your head. “I want you so full of me, you feel it for days, weeks and maybe even months.”

His fangs flash as he smirks, but the look in his eyes is real, almost reverent. “I want to see this gorgeous body round and soft and slow. With my kid inside you. Half vampire, half you.” He leans down, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Beautiful and dangerous.”

You gasp as he slides into you, thick, hard and hot. He doesn’t give you time to adjust, doesn’t even ask. Because you want it, he knows you do. His thrusts are deep, deliberate and claiming. Max kisses you with biting intensity, sharp teeth grazing your bottom lip as he groans into your mouth. “Gonna fuck it into you, sweetheart.” He pants. “Breed you like I own you. Because I do, every inch of you.”

You wrap your legs around his waist and he loses it. One hand grips your hip, the other sneaks between your bodies to rub circles against you, coaxing you closer, begging your body to take everything he gives. He wants it to stick, wants it to grow. When you cum around him, he nearly unravels, shuddering above you, swearing under his breath as he spills deep, pressing his hips flush to make sure nothing escapes. He stays inside you, panting.

Then, with a small smile, he kisses your forehead and whispers.

“Next time? I’ll keep going until your legs give out.”

Maxwell Lord (Wonder Woman 1984)

Max has always been a man driven by dreams. Some of them may be greedy. Some of them are mostly dangerous. But you are the only one he’s ever held like a prayer. Now, after the chaos, the regrets, the redemption… you’re all he wants to build his life around. And tonight, he’s done pretending.

You see it in his eyes when he watches you undress, slow and deliberate, his gaze reverent like you’re made of something sacred. His fingers trace your hip bone, gentle but trembling slightly. “I want to give you everything I have.” He whispers. “Everything I am.”

You lean in, lips brushing his, voice low. “You already have.” But that’s not enough for Max.

“No, cariño…” He murmurs, hands sliding down to your waist. “I want it to stay. Inside you. I want to put a child in you. My child. Our child.” Your breath hitches. And then he’s kissing you, hard, deep and desperate, like he’s sealing a promise with every touch. When he lays you back on the bed, he worships every inch of you. He doesn't just want your body, he wants your future, to help build your legacy. Something that will live on long after the world stops spinning.

“Gonna fill you up.” He growls softly, pushing into you, slow and thick and deep. “Gonna make sure it takes.” His rhythm is steady at first but his control is fraying. His hand grips the curve of your belly possessively, like he’s already imagining the swell.

“You’ll look so beautiful.” He pants with such need and hunger. “Glowing, full and carrying the future I thought I ruined.” You wrap your legs around him, grounding him in your heat, your need. You tug him deeper, until your hips meet and his composure shatters. He groans your name, his thrusts growing rougher and more frantic, as he fucks you with purpose. Not just to feel good. Not just to chase pleasure. But to breed.

“I need you pregnant.” He rasps. “Need to see you grow with what we made. Need it more than I’ve ever needed anything.” And when you finally cum hard, crying out his name, he follows with a broken reverent sound, spilling deep inside you. Holding himself there, grinding slow and low until he’s sure it’s all buried where it belongs.

When it’s over, Max doesn’t move. He just stays inside you, arms around you, voice rough with awe. “I want our child to have your heart.” He whispers. “They’d be the most precious treasure I’ll ever have next to you.”

Lucien De Leon (The Uninvited)

The moonlight spills through the window, casting long shadows across the room where only you and Lucien exist. The old manor is silent now, save for the soft crackle of the fireplace and the sound of Lucien’s breathing, slightly uneven as his eyes drink you in. You’re splayed out on the plush velvet sheets, your silk nightgown hiked high on your thighs, the delicate straps slipping down your shoulders. He’s kneeling between your legs, still partially dressed, shirt undone and hanging off his shoulders, chest rising and falling with quiet restraint. His dark curls are tousled from your fingers, his lips flushed, pupils dilated as he looks at you like you’re something holy.

“Lucien…” You whisper, breathless already. “What’s going through that mind of yours?”

His voice is a gravelly murmur, rich and low. “You already know.” You do. You’ve seen it in his eyes every time he finishes inside you, how he holds your hips down, how he groans your name like a man lost in a prayer, how his hands linger on your lower belly like he’s claiming it.

But tonight, it’s different. He’s been more intense and more deliberate. You gasp softly when he leans forward, pressing slow kisses along your inner thighs then up your stomach, pausing to rest his lips just beneath your navel. “I want to see you full with my child.” He says, voice trembling with hunger and devotion. “Want to look at you and know I’ve put something inside you that can never be undone.”

Your fingers thread through his hair as his mouth returns to your skin, worshipping every inch. “Lucien…” He groans at how you say his name, like you’re giving him permission to lose control.

“You were made to carry me.” He whispers, kissing higher, his hand splayed possessively over your abdomen. “My wife. My everything. You don’t know what it does to me, thinking about you swollen and glowing, knowing it was me who did it to you.” You arch beneath him, your body already aching for him. He hooks your thighs over his arms as he lines himself up, pausing, always asking with his eyes before he takes.

“Tell me you want it too.” He says, voice ragged. “Tell me you want to be mine like this.”

“I’m already yours.” You breathe. “Give me everything, Lucien.” He sinks into you slowly and fully with a groan that sounds half pained and half desperate. His eyes squeeze shut like he’s overwhelmed by the feeling of you wrapped around him. But it’s not just about pleasure, it’s always more. It’s about belonging, bonding and possession.

He moves with deliberate control, slow and deep, his hands cradling your hips as he thrusts into you like he’s trying to etch himself into your very bones. Every stroke is filled with purpose, with need and with love. “Gonna fill you.” He pants, forehead pressed to yours. “So deep you’ll feel me for days. Gonna make you mine in every way.” Your nails dig into his back as your pleasure rises. You’ve never felt more wanted, more cherished and completely his.

And when he finally spills inside you, he doesn’t just groan, he whimpers, breath hitching, trembling as if the act of giving you his seed is a sacred offering. He doesn’t pull away, instead, he stays pressed to you, deep inside, kissing your damp temple and whispering broken words into your hair. “You’ll take me, won’t you?” He murmurs, thumb brushing your belly again. “Let me give you a piece of me. A future.”

You nod against his neck, already lost in the idea of having his child. “I want it too…” You whisper. “I want all of you.” And Lucien, for all his darkness, his scars and haunted past, glows like a man redeemed by love, by need and by the family you’re about to make.

Oberyn Martell (Game of Throne)

You wake to silk sheets and the weight of his arm draped lazily across your waist, the Dornish heat wrapped around your bodies like a second skin. But even in sleep, Oberyn clings to you, palm splayed over your belly, thumb absentmindedly stroking just below your navel.

As if it’s already begun.

He murmurs something in Dornish into your skin, lips brushing your shoulder. His voice is low, smooth and drowsy with lust and longing. “You feel so soft this morning.” He purrs. “Like you’re ready to be filled again.” You turn to meet his molten gaze and notice he’s already watching you.

He always is.

“I already have eight wonderful daughters and as much I love each and every one of them…” He says, trailing kisses down your collarbone. “I want more with you. I want them born out of love and passion, made purposefully.” The words send heat curling through your belly. He rolls atop you, pressing your thighs apart with one hand, the other cradling your jaw as if he fears you’ll vanish if he doesn’t anchor you there.

“I want to see you swollen with my child.” He whispers against your lips, voice thick. “I want the entire court to see who you belong to. To see you glowing, ripe and sacred.” His thrust is slow, but deep and claiming, like every movement is meant to ensure that you take.

“You’re already perfect.” He groans, grinding his hips in tight circles. “But gods, the thought of you heavy with my seed… carrying the next Sun of Dorne.” His control snaps. He sets a punishing rhythm, his hands gripping your hips as he drives into you again and again, chanting your name like prayer between curses in Dornish.

“You’ll take all of me.” He growls, voice shaking. “Every drop, I’ll spill into you until there’s no room left. Until you’re made to carry me.” Your moans blend with his, the sounds of skin meeting skin filling the room like music.

When you come, he holds you down, lets you flutter around him and then thrusts deep, hips locked tight to yours as he pours into you, moaning against your mouth. He stays there, panting and body trembling, his release warm and endless. Then he pulls back just far enough to press his forehead to yours, his hand gently spreading over your belly again. “I hope it took.” He whispers.

Pero Tovar (The Great Wall)

The wind howls outside your tent, thick with desert dust and the quiet hush of a distant, dying battlefield. But inside, there’s only firelight and the weight of him. Pero towers over you, chest heaving, hair clinging to his damp forehead. The moment your armor came off, the moment you let your soft hands ghost over his bruised cheek, he snapped. “You ride into war beside me.” He growls, fingers sinking into your hips. “Fight like a soldier but you’re still mine and I want the world to see it.”

You tilt your head, breath hitching, watching him through hooded eyes. “Then claim me.” That’s all it takes. He surges forward and kisses you like he’s starved, like the only way to make the ache stop is to ruin you with need. Clothes scatter as your back hits the furs and then he’s there, thick and hot between your thighs, dragging the head of his cock against your slick folds, slow and deliberate.

“I’ve been thinking about this for days.” He murmurs, low and rough. “Burying myself so deep inside you you won’t be able to walk without remembering I own you.”

“Do it…” You whisper. “Put a baby in me, Pero.” He shudders, a full-body tremor, and then drives into you, a savage moan ripping from his throat.

“I’m going to breed you.” He snarls, fucking you hard and deep. “Gonna keep you stuffed full of my seed until you take. Until I can see it and feel it growing inside you.” You cry out, each thrust rocking you into the bed, your nails clawing into his shoulders. He lifts your legs, presses your knees back to your chest, getting deeper, rutting into you like it’s the only thing he was ever meant to do.

“You think you’re done after this?” He growls, eyes wild. “No, hermosa. I’ll fill you again and again. I’ll breed you until you beg me to stop.” You come undone around him, trembling, calling his name like a plea and he follows with a broken animalistic groan, spilling himself inside you in wave after wave.

When he collapses over you, still inside and still throbbing, he doesn’t move. He just cradles your face, his voice hoarse. “You’re mine. And soon, you’ll carry proof of it.”

Reed Richards (Fantastic 4)

You’re seated on his lap in the couch inside his lab, surrounded by the hum of machines and half-drawn schematics but Reed isn’t thinking about equations, not at the moment. His hands splay across your bare stomach, thumbs brushing side to side. He’s been quiet for minutes, just content with feeling you.

“What are you thinking about, genius?” You kiss the corner of his mouth.

His eyes flick up to meet yours, soft and dark with intent. “You…” That’s not surprising. He shifts beneath you, pressing up against your core. “Specifically…” He says, voice husky and low. “About how perfectly your body is calibrated to carry mine.” Your breath catches as he leans in closer, brushing his lips over your jaw.

“I’ve run the numbers.” He murmurs. “Mapped out the ideal conditions for conception. Your cycle, my genetic markers, even optimal positioning. But there’s something even better than science.” He lifts you gently, guiding you down onto his length, slowly and reverently.

“It’s this.” He groans, bottoming out inside you. “The way you take me. The way your body pulls me in. Like it wants to keep me.” You moan, hips rocking instinctively. Reed’s hands grip your waist tightly. “I think about it all the time.” He confesses, voice unraveling. “You, full of me. Your belly round with our child. I’d document every stage. Not because I’m obsessed with data…” He thrusts hard, making you gasp. “But because I’m obsessed with you.”

You bury your hands in his hair, breath stuttering as he thrusts again, precise and deep. “I want to watch you grow.” He whispers. “Want to chart how your heartbeat syncs with theirs. Want to hold you while you carry the future.”

“Reed…” You whimper, your body trembling around him.

His arms wrap around you as he grinds up with a strained groan, burying himself in one long final thrust. “I’m coming.” He growls. “Gonna fill you up. Let it take. Let you carry my brilliance and your beauty in one perfect form.” He pulses deep inside you, holding you tight as he spills into you, a soft gasp catching in his throat. His body quivers beneath you, overwhelmed and undone. And when he finally speaks again, it’s barely more than a whisper against your throat. “We’re going to make something extraordinary.”

Tim Rockford (Merge Mansion)

You were supposed to be helping him sort through another stack of case files. That’s how this started, papers spread across the oak desk, a storm flickering outside the stained-glass windows of the mansion. Tim had removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and got that concentrated furrow between his brows. You’d only meant to walk behind him, gently kiss his cheek. But the moment you whispered. “You’ve been working too hard, baby.” something in him snapped.

Now you’re bent over that very desk, the cool wood against your stomach a shocking contrast to the molten heat of Tim’s hands gripping your hips. His belt hangs loose from one of the brass handles. Papers are fluttering off the desk, forgotten because he’s not thinking about murder or mystery, or Maddie’s grandmother anymore.

He’s thinking about you. His voice is low, gravelly, thick with something darker than usual, it was filled with desperation and need. “Look at you.” He groans behind you, dragging his fingers down your spine before gripping your waist with both hands. “God, sweetheart. You were made for this.”

“For what?” You pant, already shaking.

“For me…” He growls. “To take me. To carry my child.” You gasp at his words, you’ve heard him whisper fantasies like this before, late at night, in bed with your legs trembling around his waist. But tonight he sounds different, he was serious and completely feral. He thrusts into you again, deeper this time, groaning like the pleasure is almost too much. His chest is pressed to your back, his lips brushing your ear. “You like when I say that, don’t you? When I tell you I’m gonna fill you up so good, you’ll have no choice but to take.”

You moan, head falling forward as your hands scramble to hold onto the edge of the desk. Tim’s hand slides from your hip to your belly, palm splayed protectively over your lower stomach. “Want to see you swollen with my baby.” He says, almost reverent. “Want people to look at you and know you’re mine.”

Your whole body pulses at his words. His voice is hot and possessive but there’s love underneath it, filled with worship and devotion. He’s not just claiming you for the sake of control, he’s building a future in his mind. One where you’re barefoot in the kitchen of that damned mansion, glowing with life, your hands resting on a bump that he put there. He’s breathing harder now, thrusts becoming erratic. “I’m close, sweetheart. You’re gonna take every drop. You’ll be dripping with me.”

“Do it.” You whimper, rocking back into him. “I want it, Tim. I want you to put a baby in me.” The way he groans your name in that moment is primal and almost beautiful. He spills into you with a ragged cry, his arms tightening around your waist as if he could anchor you to him forever. You can feel the warmth of him deep inside you, the weight of his body still trembling behind you as he rides the aftershocks.

Neither of you speak for a moment. Then, softly, so softly you almost miss it, Tim presses a kiss to your shoulder and murmurs. “I hope it takes.”

You twist around just enough to meet his eyes, which are wet and glowing with something raw and real. “So do I.” You whisper. And when he kisses you, desperate and slow, full of promise, you know this isn’t just a fantasy anymore. He means it.

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missyorkswhore · 4 months ago

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Me all day today

#pedro pascal #pedrohub #pedropascaledit #Joel Miller #lucien flores #lucien fanfic #dbf joel miller #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #dave york x f!reader #pascalispunk #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #pedro pascal fandom #pedro x reader

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almostfoxglove · 10 months ago

Text

HOLD STILL

written for @punkshort's AU August Challenge

RATING: Explicit (18+) PAIRING: Bodyguard!Dave York x f!Reader WORD COUNT: 3.4k CW: Dave's filthy mouth, pwp, smut (cockwarming, unprotected piv, creampie, sorta soft-dom!dave but really he's just bossy, sorta praise kink, a couple pussy pronouns don’t look at me), and one nonsense tense switch just for the hell of it I guess.

SUMMARY: On your last night together, Dave agrees to compromise.

read on ao3 | main masterlist | get notifs

You want him, but he won’t fuck you. Not once, not even quickly, not even with just his hands. Dave York—ever stoic, unflinching—insists on doing his job and his job alone. And you, as he so enjoys reiterating, are not his job. Protecting you is.

For three weeks you’ve smothered the calendar hung on the kitchen wall with another red X each morning, whittling the days until you give your polished testimony and say goodbye to him for good. Now the court date looms heavy on the horizon—it’ll rise tomorrow with the sun.

In the meantime—these last, dwindling hours—you roam the grand rooms of an apartment rented for your protection, your anonymity, at the very skirt of the city where you’d surely have lost your mind if not for him. Stationed diligently at your side, hand never more than a twitch from the grip of his gun. So many hours spent alone you've memorized his form: how he looks scanning the curtained windows for any whisper of danger. How he's never complained when you choose cheesy reality shows from the TV guide. Teaching you how to play Spades with a deck of cards soft and worn—from his home, maybe, though you never ask—and letting you win the first hand, lips quirked when you call him out on it, then unapologetically wiping the floor with you for the rest of your isolation.

Yes, you know him, though only in image. Broad and sturdy, shirts each neatly ironed and squarely tucked. The hard line of his jaw and the fullness of his bottom lip. His hair always swept neatly from his face, even when you know he’s recently woken up. Never scruffy, never stubbled. Clean shaven and the smell of nice hotel shampoo.

It’s wrong, how you try to prod him to no avail. No matter your efforts, he says nothing of the way you adorn your body: lacy slips and satin sets at night, hugging silhouettes during the day, hair always done, lipstick never out of place even though you can’t leave the apartment or stand too near the windows. Dave is the only one who sees you, save for the days or hours when he leaves you his clumsy understudy to step down from his post.

He must know you do it for him.

It’s wrong, but you asked once, early on. Tonight?

And Dave’s mouth pinched into a flat, polite line. Unreadable, his face drained of its emotion. His declination drawled deep and heady, a voice that curled your toes and more than once kept you panting alone in your bed that’s not yours at all, just two doors away from his, fingers needy and swirling. No, honey. Not tonight.

Repeated in your mind until it warped like an overplayed tape.

No, honey.

Honey.

Not tonight.

Tonight.

Tonight, he is gone—your last together before the trial—leaving you in the hollow apartment with his proxy, stung. Same dark clothes, same holstered gun, same little piece nestled in his ear, but not half of what you want. You want Dave: a man as solid as he is driven, immutable as he is tempting. Assigned to protect you until you deliver the account that’ll send a monster away.

Perhaps you’ve liked the game—how he watches you, but never gives in—but now it’s lost its shimmer.

Lights dimmed for the evening, all black curtains drawn, the vaulted ceilings of the kitchen feel miles high as you perch on a barstool at the breakfast counter to stare at the calendar taunting you across the quiet room. Beyond the pristine halls you’ve lapped all day like an anxious dog, the city serenades you. Traffic squealing through streets, sirens singing in the distance, the occasional shout of someone walking by outside, eight floors below.

You are not, at night, permitted to part the curtains, lest someone get a glimpse of your illuminated face, but you long to open one now, see if Dave is out there, returning to your little castle turret one final time. Because it’s possible he won’t come back at all—that his coworker will escort you between lobby and truck, between truck and courthouse, between courthouse and whatever comes next. Maybe home. That you’ll never see Dave again, let alone throw caution to the wind and ask once more, tonight?

And then, just then, as your stomach begins to sink with disappointment, you hear the sudden crack of the front door unlocking and the creak of its surrender. You’ve conjured him, somehow, past the stroke of midnight. Then low, rumbled whispers, the unmistakable tone of Dave’s voice mumbling to his understudy. Your heart speeds as the door closes again and his stand-in retreats into the hall. How dizzying, the sound of locks settling into their rightful places, turned by Dave’s unerring hands.

When he appears in the dining room behind you, bomber jacket hanging from one arm, he tucks a tiny apology into the twitch of his lips—or maybe it’s meant to be a smile. “It’s late,” he says, as your eyes drink him in. Polished as ever, despite the hour, not a stitch out of place. “Should be in bed.”

You shrug, hoping you might appear indifferent. “Couldn’t sleep,” you say, aware of how the satin of your robe slopes off your shoulder with no intention of righting it.

Does something darken in his face then, or do you imagine it? You can’t be sure, not in this umbra, at this time of night. Jaw ticking, Dave strides cautiously toward the dining table, drapes his jacket over the back of one glossy chair, and sinks into the seat at the head of the sleek table, same as usual. A quiet kind of reign, his claiming this position, always, for every meal. He scratches his cheek, slips the gun from the holster at his belt to rest on the table, and as he leans back you indulge yourself—how can you not—in the slight buck of his hips as he shifts to stretch out his legs.

“Need your rest,” Dave chides softly. No edge to his tone.

Sighing before you can stop yourself, disappointed all over again as his gaze draws off you to the windows and drapes. On duty, still. On duty, always. Not you. Not tonight. “S’the last night,” you reply, staring at the calendar again. One little red X to go. “You weren’t here.”

Behind you, his deep and measured breath. The shiver of that unflappable restraint, you hope, but you don’t yet dare to look back. He might spook.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

You don’t budge. Don’t move.

“You hear me?” Voice a little harder now, solidifying. When he speaks to you, you always look him in the eye—or you always have before.

Electric, your heart. Revving just a breath faster, just a hair harder, at the sound of him huffing in frustration. Your lips tick up in one corner, hidden, a secret meant only for you. When Dave says your name, your whole body purrs and you at last turn your head enough to let him glimpse your profile, still withholding your gaze.

“Pouting,” he scolds, this time meaning it. “That what this is?”

“Avoiding me,” you counter. “That where you were?”

Dave hmphs, darkness fading and softness returning to his tone. “Course not, honey.”

You look at him now, properly. Barstool spinning as you push off the counter to face him. Under the dusk of dimmed pendant lights over the dining table, Dave glows. In the time you’ve looked away, he’s unbuttoned his shirt one button lower than it’d been when he walked in.

One button lower than you’ve ever seen him wear before.

“Said I’m sorry,” he says again, head tilted. His foot comes out to nudge the leg of the chair beside his, angling it in your direction. “Come here.”

He means for you to sit, maybe play a hand of Spades, but as you slink off the barstool you have no intention of taking the seat. Warmth flushing in your chest, cool, conditioned air greeting your bare legs and collarbones, all the skin not covered by your sleekest sleep set. You swear he drinks the sight of you, for once, as you cross the kitchen toward him. Eyes dark not only from shadows, from the time. Or else you hope, as you come to a stop between Dave’s knees, that the way he’s not yet blinked means what you want it to.

Lips parting, a breath from speaking when you beat him to the punch and ask, “Tonight?” Your chin lowered and eyes searching his. It’s the last night. Might as well show your hand while you still can, before he slinks back into the underbelly of a city where you know he’s lived for years but you’ve never once glimpsed him, and not just because it’s busy.

Because invisible is what he’s paid to be, what he’s good at. Unseen until the fist of him is needed, the gun.

Pink striping his bottom lip, a swipe of his tongue, eyes boring into you. The slightest shake of his head, clean-shaven cheeks sharked in the shadow and golden light. “Honey.” Not a no, honey. Not a not tonight. Just honey, like you’ve imagined.

Emboldened, you caress of your fingertips across his shoulder, tracing the seam of his crisp, pale blue dress shirt. So handsome, always so handsome. A man who takes care of himself, who tidies and cleans without your needing to ask. Spotless, always. Reserved, always. Killing you, always, with every brush of his gaze.

You draw your fingers towards his shirt collar.

“Can’t,” says Dave, softer still. Breathy, almost. You pet the knife-cut of his pressed collar, the button just below it, and his Adam’s apple bobs slowly in his throat. Again, he shakes his head so slightly it looks more like a twitch. A reflex to say no. Not a desire to. “Can’t fuck you, honey. Wouldn’t be right.”

You bite your lip, brows drawing together, not lifting your hand from the button placket of his shirt. “Just tonight,” you breathe, and bat your eyes a little.

At last Dave’s dark eyes drop from yours, scanning the length of you above him with searing precision. Consideration. You slant your head to one side as his gaze slides back up, hesitating on your silk-draped chest, and you suck a sharper breath before it returns to meet yours. He cuffs your wrist with his hand to halt your teasing as he shakes his head once more, licking his bottom lip again with greater meaning. A glint in his eyes, lust finally flaring.

Pride swirls in your stomach, honeyed and wanting. Then he tugs you by the hips with such reflexes you hardly register the movement of his hands before you’re on him, straddling him in the chair, your thighs framing his hips. Held. Your robe fanning behind you, over his knees. Heart pounding dangerously close to a cardiac event.

Dave tsks softly, smirking when you whimper, trying to roll your hips over the heat of his crotch. Those careful, deadly hands lock them in a vice as he clicks his tongue. “Not gonna fuck you,” he murmurs, and you lean in to kiss him but he pulls his head away. “Not gonna kiss you either. Not right.”

You don’t care about right. Now you pout for real, forehead wrinkling, staring at his upturned lips. You feel the unmistakable twitch of him growing hard against you and your cunt throbs in reply, needy and slick. You try to wiggle again but Dave pinches your hips in warning. “Look at me,” he repeats, that edge to his voice that curls your toes, and your eyes snap to his.

“Good girl.”

You moan quietly, made liquid by the tender swipe of his thumb over the satin of your sleep shorts. Your eyes fluttering at such a tiny stroke, not even the meeting of skin.

“You can’t move, okay? Only allowed to sit.” When you don’t answer, too lost to the throb of his cock against your begging core, Dave pinches you again, voice gravelly in a way you’ve not heard before. “You hear me?”

Nodding, you hum. Can’t quite get out the word.

“Need to hear you, honey. Gonna hold still for me?”

“Mhm,” you whine, fighting your every instinct to grind down against him as you meet his lust-blown eyes. “Yes. Only allowed to sit.”

Dave puffs a hot breath out that sends a wake of goosebumps across your chest. “Good girl,” he coos, and your brows pinch at the praise. “Soaking me already, honey. Can’t sleep like this, can you? Just need to turn your brain off, hm?” The movement of his hips below yours is so slight you might imagine it, that tiny grind as his cock grows. You nod, whine softly, and both his thumbs stroke your hips gently before stilling again.

“Show me, honey.” So quiet. So little air between you, and yet too much.

You scan his face until he offers a small nod. Those brown eyes hooded by dark lashes, devouring you without need for the press of his mouth. It’d be soft, you’re certain. The caress of his lips. Maybe the rest of him is hard and deadly, but those would be tender, careful—they’d take you apart, breath by breath. With the same precision with which he darts between shadows and cleans his gun and beats you at cards and tucks your hair behind your ear when you’re falling asleep on the couch, he’d dissolve you kiss by kiss with a kind of grace.

It’s his lips on which you pin your gaze as you let one hand drift between your legs, dipping easily between silk and skin—your body made jelly so quickly and by so little contact, already wet. You pray you don’t imagine the sharpness of his breath when your knuckles accidentally graze against his slacks as you slip your fingers between dewy folds. Then: your hand rising in the dim light, shining, honeyed. Dave watching them, the corner of his mouth cracking just a little. Tensing into his cheek.

He grunts, good girl, and then he’s lifting you just enough to peel down the zip of his slacks, flick open the button, but when your eyes fall hopeful for a glimpse of him he tsks, hooks one finger beneath your chin to tilt your face up, whispers a soft eyes on me, honey as he pulls himself out where you can’t see.

As his knuckles brush against the wet gusset of your shorts, nudging them to the side. Finding no panties to move.

As the head of his cock—plush, warm, weeping—nudges against the ache of you, the thrum of your longing.

He grins, wicked.

Then pressure, a moan lost to the air you’re hardly conscious of and the stretch of him, the slow press in and the ache of your cunt swallowing his girth inch by inch. You whimper, eyelids shuddering like old film, catching only still frames of Dave’s expression as he lowers you gently, burying himself in your drooling heat until you come to rest at his base, flush and full.

So full. Light-headed, sparkling. Your hips must rock because he squeezes your waist. “Hold still, honey,” he coos. “Remember?”

The terms of his touch sounded alright just a breath ago, but now you can’t imagine how you ever agreed. How you’re supposed to stay still with him throbbing inside you like this, heavy and sweet, exactly what you need. A flicker in his eyes like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you, how he’s scrubbing out every thought in your head. Cocky, yes. But earning it.

“Dave,” you sigh, breathy and desperate. Your cunt clenching and squeezing and pushing out slick, probably ruining his slacks but he won’t let you look down, just tilts your head up gently every time it hangs slack. “Please.”

His breathing catches for a beat, then it’s steady again. “I know, I know,” he murmurs, keeping his finger under your chin to keep your eyes on him—but he hardly needs to. You’d swear the whole world drained away the second he slid into you. There’s nothing else past your bodies, past this one dining room chair. Everything else disappears like magic. The trial, the dread, the drone of city noise. The slow leak of your heart knowing this is goodbye—all of it. Gone.

You’d have sworn it impossible to come like this, with no movement at all, but you will. You do. And months from now—safe in the swaddle of your actual apartment that for weeks has stood hollow and dusty, plants withering sadly on their windowsills—you’ll lie in bed longing, missing, remembering. Trying to recreate the swipe of his thick thumb on your clit as you replay this moment in your head. How you whined, wanna take care of you when Dave still wouldn’t let you move, even when you were close, just swiped and swiped his thumb until you were something more than alive, transcending.

How his pupils had set ablaze with your whispered plea. How you’d realized that was the point, for him. The begging and the not giving in.

How he’d growled, “Taking care of you is taking care of me. You don’t think I’m gonna come the second this pussy strangles my cock? ‘Cause I am. S’all I need, honey, just give it to me—”

His voice the thunder to your body’s crackle and lightning.

“Let her take care of me, that’a girl, that’s it, just like that honey, she’s so tight—fuck—so fuckin’ tight around me, just squeezin’ me, gonna come when you do, pretty girl, let me have it.”

How it hit you like a white bolt of heat and light, every cell in you tense and flaming, then melting, boneless on his lap as he murmured sweetly, grunted, tried to lift you off him just in time and you’d finally, finally touched him—lucid in an instant, hands slammed down on the muscle of his shoulders. Mumbling amidst your aftershocks, inside, inside, inside. Eyelids stuttering again, back to picture frames as your cunt seized and begged in tandem.

The snarl of his upper lip.

His knotted jaw.

Tongue sucked against his front teeth, resolve crumbling.

The allowance granted to your hands to stay right there, fisting his shirt collar as his locked your waist in a bruising vice. His hips bucking only once, grinding the head of his cock deeper, deliciously, almost too good to take.

“Fuck, fuckfuck—yeah, that what she needs, honey? Needs me to fill her up?”

You’ll remember your own reply as you near a second-rate heaven in the nest of your duvet at home, all frantic hands and thrusting digits and eyes slammed shut, repainting him in your head. Golden in that gloomy light, hair straying out of position across his misted forehead for the first time. Yes. Please. Dave. Yes. Inside. Please—and his grunt, dark and sweet as caramel, as burnt brown sugar. That tiny grin dragging at his soft lips, pleased. You’d pleased him, surprised him maybe.

That can make you sparkle now, to remember.

“Okay, honey. Okay—shit—gonna give it to you, hm? Gonna give you all of it, baby—she’s squeezing me so goddamn tight, fuck, wanna stay here all night—”

Then the granting of a wish, the heat of him spilling into your cunt, the unmistakable slide of slick leaking between your thighs and onto his; you didn’t have to look to know. You could feel it, that wholeness overflowing. You can almost feel it now; three fingers might be a poor attempt at recreation, but you fall off the cliff all the same, his name on your tongue, a cry in the night, all the curtains dark and drawn as you come down breathless and drowsy, your whole body limp and spent as it’d been that night with him—when he’d tucked himself away and petted your hair back from your face, so gentle with you, cooing that you did so good, honey. Such a good girl. Gonna get you into bed now, hm? Need your sleep, honey. Come on.

Carrying you into your not-real bedroom, tucking you in so tenderly, like he hadn’t just taken you apart at the molecules. And Dave’s lips were just as plush as you’d imagined when they grazed your forehead, his big hand petting your cheek once more, then turning out the lights. That deep timbre whispering from the doorway, goodnight. The door clicking shut. All of it perfect. How you’d known you mattered more than a job for just one moment in time.

dividers by @saradika-graphics

#dave york fanfiction #dave york x reader #dave york #dave york smut #pedro pascal #dave york x you #the equalizer 2 #dave york fanfic #au august #shortieswritingchallenge #punkshort #myfics #almostfoxglove #smut #one shot #fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #fic: holdstill #do not perceive me for 3-6 business days

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