#dave york from the equalizer 2 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cosmicaura7 · 2 months ago

Text

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.

907 notes · View notes

laligraves · 10 months ago

Text

decisions

dave york x fem!reader

[18+] | wc: ~1.4k summary: Dave tries to end things. dave york masterlist | AO3

warnings: mean!dave, infidelity (dave is cheating on his wife with reader), Equalizer 2 AU, NSFW, some proofreading, no use of y/n or too many details on reader's appearance (reader has hair dave can pull), degradation, oral, unprotected sex, creampie, cum eating

a/n: i wasn't originally going to write for dave york but he's actually my favorite pedro boy 💖 i think he would be so mean and passionate and romantic and and and-

“I’m not here for that,” Dave snaps in anger. “We’re done, I can’t keep doing this anymore.”

You sit on the edge of the hotel bed, a pretty pout on your face at Dave’s words. Your fingers trace up your thigh and you slowly lift the bottom of your nightie.

Dave’s eyes flicker from your silky thighs to your tits that are dangerously close from spilling out of the thin fabric. His jaw clenches but he resumes his pacing and drags a hand through his hair.

“I think–I think my wife knows. She can’t–she’ll take the kids–”

His wife, Carol. He never says her name, only ever says wife. You assume it’s to remind himself of the oath he made to her. Maybe it’s shame and guilt, a way to keep himself grounded. Even if he doesn’t wear his ring when he comes to see you.

With a small smirk on your lips, you stand from the bed and make your way to Dave. He tilts his head back to look up at the ceiling just as you stand on your tippy toes and place your hands behind his neck.

“Don’t,” he whispers.

He closes his eyes and you see his throat move with a harsh swallow.

You run the tip of your nose along his jawline and breathe in his cologne. It’s the same one you bought him on your joint trip to Paris a few months ago.

“If that’s what you want,” you whisper, hovering your lips right over his, “then we’ll stop.”

You take a step back and turn to walk towards your dress and heels that sit on the chair by the bed. Before you can even take two steps, Dave’s hand slides through your hair.

He presses his front to your back and pulls your hair, forcing you to look at him. Dave’s other hand reaches up to your neck to tilt your head backward.

His lips land on yours in a bruising kiss, all teeth and tongue with a taste of possessiveness. Dave squeezes your neck in warning, you assume because of the smile plastered on your face as you kiss him back.

You know he won’t ever end this. He’s in too deep, too infatuated and crazed by you to actually leave.

You grind back on his bulge and elicit a moan from him. Just as quickly as the kiss started, it ends with Dave pushing you face first into the mattress.

“You have no fucking respect for what’s sacred,” he hisses.

Dave yanks your hips back and flips up your nightgown. He lands a harsh slap to your naked asscheek, switching from one to the other, uncaring of your yelps of discomfort.

You gasp for air, whimpering at the swipe of his fingers through your folds.

“I was a good husband before I met you,” Dave says in anger.

“Then go back to your wife,” you snap.

Dave removes his fingers and spanks you again, landing one right between your legs.

“Fucking brat.”

He stays fully clothed, only taking a few seconds to unbuckle his belt and unzip his pants. You feel him notch the tip of his cock at your entrance and in one smooth thrust, he’s fully inside of you.

“Oh fuck,” you moan, twisting the comforter in your hands.

"Nothing to say?" he laughs, relishing in the way you twist and turn on the bed.

His fingers sink into your hips and he begins to fuck you in hard, punishing thrusts. The sarcastic remarks you had ready, waiting on the tip of your tongue, are now gone–fucked out of your head by Dave.

His cock stretches your sensitive walls, bumps that sweet spot inside of you, but it’s all a little too much. He’s large, not just in length but a man so much stronger than you, that can manhandle and move you in any way he wants.

The anticipation of seeing Dave, having him snap at you in anger–of course it made your pussy slick with need. But you’re so used to him being needy, licking your pussy until you cry or making you dry hump him while he kisses your lips swollen.

There are random moments like these, where he’ll focus on his own pleasure. Missions go wrong, he loses funding for his projects, and he’s left with a sense of failure and rage.

Carol is too soft for his tastes. A perfect, catholic wife who doesn’t see the need for sex outside of procreation.

Then came you, temptation and sin all wrapped up in red silk and stilettos.

You were the first to lead his hands around your neck and moan “tighter, please.” He wore his wedding ring that first night, imprinting the warm metal on your skin, and yet you still left purple bruises and bite marks on his chest, hoping his wife would find them.

“Hurts, baby?” Dave coos, sliding a hand down your arched back.

A stuttered “y–yes” falls from your lips, cheek pressed to the mattress and mouth open in a perfect o.

With each of his thrusts, his heavy balls slap over your wet folds. You pussy swallows his length, tightens and flutters, fights through the discomfort of his size. His groans echo throughout the hotel room and his hands only grip you tighter to him.

“Good,” Dave mutters, “you deserve it.”

“Yes, yes,” you moan, shuddering as he spanks you again.

“Such a fucking slut, yeah? Sleeping with married men,” Dave groans, pistoning his hips faster, “ruining good–shit–good marriages.”

His hand reaches to swipe at your swollen clit in harsh circles and you push back, turning your head to scream into a pillow.

“You think that because–” he groans, shuddering as you tighten around him, “you have such a perfect, little cunt, you can ruin my life?”

You’re hanging on by a thread. His tip kisses your cervix, reaching the end of you while you bounce your ass back onto his hips. Your pussy ripples over his cock, finally reaching that point where it’s unimaginably slick and sticky.

You want to respond. Remind him that yes, your pussy is a perfect little hole for him to fuck and destroy. Instead, you whimper and grip the comforter while a full body shudder courses through you and your belly tightens.

“Dirty fucking whore,” Dave hisses, “you fuck other married men like this?”

You’re so close, with heat flooding your belly and your brain becoming numb. Dave removes his fingers from your clit, and spanks you again in three successive slaps.

“Answer me when I–fuck–ask you a question.”

“No, no, no,” you chant, reaching for his hand and placing it right back. “J–just you, Dave. Only you.”

“That’s right,” he murmurs, swirling your clit with your juices, “this pussy is just for me.”

His movements become sloppy, pounding you harder than before. Dave’s cock fills every centimeter of your cunt and suddenly you're cumming, shuddering on the bed and screaming into the pillow from the force of your orgasm.

His groan echoes through the room and he presses his hips onto yours, pumping you so full of his length that your whole body jostles with each thrust.

“I’m gonna cum in this slut pussy,” he mutters, giving you barely any warning before the flood of warm liquid inside of you. “Remind this cunt,” he moans, too far gone to understand what he’s saying, “who owns her.”

You’re sure at this point you’ll be sore tomorrow, from your pussy and the vice grip he has on your hips.

Dave throbs, slams his cock into you until you’ve milked him dry. He collapses on the bed next to you, sweaty and still fully clothed with only his wet cock now resting on his belly.

His hands reach for your head and pushes. You immediately understand what he wants and with trembling limbs, you move down to his stomach and swallow as much of his cock as you can.

It’s covered in your combined mess, sticky and salty and only for you. His fingers thread through your hair while you suck and lick away the evidence. Your eyes flutter closed and you let him gently fuck your mouth with his now softened cock.

“Pretty whore,” he grunts, trembling from exhaustion, “look at how well she cleans up my big cock.”

He eventually strips out of his clothes and drapes your body over his. The both of you lay there, letting the hotel AC cool your sweaty skin while he drags his fingers down your spine.

“What am I going to do about you?” he asks, watching as you slip into a deep sleep.

#dave york #dave york x reader #dave york x female reader #dave york fanfiction #mean dave york #dave york x you

165 notes · View notes

jeewrites · 9 months ago

Text

🌈 Sunshine & Rainbows 🌈

Pairing: Dave York x f!reader Equalizer 2 AU: What if Dave survives the fall from the watchtower?

WC: 10.1k (whoopsies) Rated: Explicit, minors do not interact

Content/Warnings: Dave is divorced from Carol (no kids), reference to previous smut, Dave gets a few nicknames, reader is also an assassin but sassy, reader has a nickname and hair that can be pulled, mention of traumatic injuries to Dave, medical jargon, discussion of physical therapy, stalking/murder/torture not described, please remember I had to google “How to preserve an eyeball” for this fic, is murder a love language?, arson, treadmill hate, use of daddy just once, no y/n

A/N: My first Dave fic and my first fic challenge! I got ‘amnesia’ to pair with Dave for @burntheedges's Roll-A-Trope Challenge! I had so much fun trying to wrap my head around Dave as someone who leans towards fluff and feels, so I hope you enjoy my take on our favorite murder daddy. Thank you to @bloviating-vy for being the best beta-reader and encouraging me to write fics in the first place. Dividers by @saradika-graphics. Roll a Trope Masterlist

It’s the pain that wakes him. Every part of his body screams. The tight stretch of skin, itchy and hot. Bruises to the bone. Bones shattered. The sun shines too bright despite the curtains. The increasing beep of the monitor is too loud. How is it possible to hurt like this?

He hears the shuffle of footsteps and the murmur of voices just above the screaming of his body before a shadowy figure appears. He can sense them to his left, but not see them. Is this how he dies? Drowsiness steamrolls him and he slips back to a blissful drug-induced unconsciousness.

It’s been 48 and a half hours and no check-in from Dave. You stare at the burner phone, willing it to beep or ring. Anything. But there is no text. No call. Just the flick and snap as you flip the phone open and close.

Dave has never, ever missed a check-in. Has he come close to the 48-hour deadline after an op? Sure. But never late. And never this late.

You’re not exactly in panic mode yet because it’s Dave, one of the most ruthless and effective killers you know. But you can’t help the anxiety starting to build in your belly and another feeling you can’t quite pin down. It’s not like you love him. But god isn’t he a good fuck, perfect for blowing off steam between covert ops.

And he understands what you do. He understands you and you understand him. Plus, he was the only one who ever almost got a jump on you when a client hired both of you without telling one about the other. That was almost a clusterfuck that ended up being the best fuck of your life.

The burner phone stares back at you, silent. Fuck it. Now it’s time for you to do what you do best. Find people. Find Dave.

The doctor keeps calling him John — as in John Doe. While he can’t for the life of him recall his name, he knows definitively, John is not his fucking name. He’s also tired of talking. He doesn’t have any answers, just more questions piling on top of the questions the doc, a psychiatrist, keeps lobbing at him. Everything still hurts, a dull, perpetual throb throughout his brain and body punctuated by acute pain if he happens to breathe wrong.

He’s in a different building since the last time he awoke in crippling pain. This place seems like a public-run long-term health care facility out in the boonies instead of the large hospital downtown he was in before. The doctors and other health care professionals seem harried and perpetually understaffed. While his room is relatively clean, the decor is dated, all the walls a sickly yellow or green. And everything smells strongly of disinfectant. It could be worse, he supposes, at least it’s clean here.

The psychiatrist leans forward towards him, “Let’s call it a day and let you rest. We’ll try again tomorrow.”

He grunts in response.

Something in his gut tells him to be wary of this doctor, of sharing too much if he ever remembers a goddamn thing. He knows he can trust his gut when it comes to reading people. Watching a steady flow of doctors, nurses, aides, social workers, and janitorial staff in his room, he doesn’t know how he knows, but he knows when someone is trustworthy or a threat. He can read body language at the most minute level with startling clarity.

The head nurse Kathleen is no nonsense and won’t tolerate any bullshit. Nurse Sally does the bare minimum and has sticky fingers. Gotta keep an eye on that one. He likes the neurologist who doesn’t sugar coat things. He’s pretty sure his physical therapist, Ryan, is secretly a sadist.

The night nurse, Brian, is a steadying comfort, always checking on him, “Doing all right, boss?” in the quiet loneliness of the evening. Brian alleviates the pressing annoyance of not knowing his own name by constantly switching up nicknames for him. Calling him buddy, champ, or hot stuff much to his amusement.

He also knows someone tried their damndest to kill him and make it hurt in the process. Gouged out left eye, stabbed between the ribs, sliced tendons, broken bones, internal bleeding, wrapped in a myriad of bruises and tossed from a significant height. He’s been told repeatedly what a miracle it is that he survived at all, washed up on the beach on the brink of death before being found.

For now he bides his time, giving his body the opportunity to heal and recover. He knows he won’t get far in the current condition he’s in after the multiple surgeries and months and months in the ICU. In physical therapy he can barely manage to walk a few steps without assistance, and he’s still adjusting to the eye patch and the use of his remaining eye. He’s relatively safe for now, he thinks, identity a mystery and off the beaten path. Although a small part of him wonders why no one has come to find him. Did he not have family, friends, or anyone who missed him?

Dave doesn’t make it easy on you to find him. Of course he doesn’t. Before he went private, or over to the dark side he liked to say, he made sure to replace all of his biometrics in various government databases with false ones. You have to go old school and retrace his steps from the sparest details he did share with you. Brant Rock the text message had read.

You find Resnik, Ari, and Kovac in the local morgue shortly after the hurricane blew through. Kovac and Ari are identifiable easily enough, but Resnik takes a moment, having most of his face blown off. It’s a shame about Kovac and Ari, they were good enough guys and you didn’t mind working with them on occasion.

But that bastard Resnik had once joked, thinking you were out of earshot, what a good fuck you’d be and you were so vulnerable with only the four of them around for miles and miles. You had slid the safety off your weapon at the same time you heard Dave threaten to rip his balls off through his throat if Resnick dared to try anything with you. You were planning to do worse, but hey, it was the thought that counts, right? That was when you knew you could really trust Dave. Resnik, not so much.

As you approach the next cold locker, for a moment you can’t breathe, suffocating in the thought that the next body you pull is going to be Dave. But to your immense relief, it’s not Dave. Dave isn’t in any of them. It’s not until you slip out of the morgue into your car a few blocks away that you realize you’ve been holding your breath. You allow yourself to sob, forehead against your steering wheel. Crying, such an unfamiliar sensation. Where was he?

It takes you nearly two weeks to find Dave. Listed as a John Doe at the big trauma center downtown, you disguise yourself as a nurse and sneak into his ICU hospital room late one night. Nothing prepared you for his condition.

“Did Mac do this to you, Yorkie?” you whisper as you trace your fingertips along the ashen skin of his forearm. It seems like the only part of him that is uninjured. The only sound in the room is the hiss of the ventilator and soft beeping of the heart rate monitor reminding you he’s actually alive. Barely. He’s unnaturally still for a man always on the move. You gasp softly when you take in his face, his beautiful face marred with wounds and a patch covering his left eye. Your chest tightens as you turn away to collect yourself.

Refocusing, you pull up his chart. The more you scroll, the more your rage builds at Mac or whoever did this to Dave. Your Dave. Severed tendons and ligaments, shattered ribs, crushed vertebra, multiple stab wounds, ruptured spleen, so much internal bleeding it’s a miracle he’s even alive. What the fuck happened?

He is in no condition to be moved. No matter, you think. While he heals, you are going to hunt down who did this to him and exact revenge. Excruciating revenge. Before logging out of the system you program it to send you any alerts to changes in his condition or if he’s moved to another facility.

Before you leave, you take one last look at Dave, gently run your fingers through his soft brown hair, marveling at how peaceful he looks despite the myriad of tubes plugged into him. You almost make it out of the room without shedding a tear until you really see his nose. Broken, shattered, scarred. Even if you don’t love Dave, you love his beautiful, strong aquiline nose. The way he’d nuzzle it into your neck in rare, soft moments. Press it against your mound when he pulled pleasure from you over and over. The quiet moments after you were both sated and sleepy, and he’d let you trace his brow, the strong curve of his nose, his plush lips, as he anchored you against him.

You are going to fucking destroy whoever did this to him.

The doorbell footage at Dave’s apartment confirms that Mac is the culprit behind Dave’s injuries.

The Robert McCall visit. The tense conversation outside with Dave and his guys and Robert. The false cheerfulness, the underlying tension bubbling underneath in the clench of Dave’s jaw, the threat from McCall to Dave and the guys, “The only disappointment in it for me is that I only get to kill you each once.” You bristle with barely contained rage at his words.

Good thing you know enough about the human body to resuscitate it. Looks like you’ll just have to give Mac a lesson on how to kill someone over and over. How unfortunate for him.

The most popular bets to his previous profession are linguistics professor or foreign service.

He discovered his fluency in Farsi when he overheard family members of another patient speaking it in the hallway outside of his room. It took him a moment to realize he understood what they were saying. Shortly after, he overheard several nurses conversing in Spanish and realized to his amazement he understood them too.

“Wonder what else you can speak, professor,” Brian the night nurse muses as he pulls out an assortment of chocolates in a gift tin. That’s a new nickname. “Here, have some French chocolate. Someone gifted them to me when they were discharged.”

He reaches for one gingerly, focusing on the pincer grip to pick a chocolate up. It has been a struggle learn how to use his entire body again once it healed enough to be subjected to OT, PT, talk therapy, and other forms of torture.

He frowns at the sweetness of the truffle as he takes a bite.

“No good?” Bri asks.

“Too sweet,” he mumbles. “But thanks.”

Belgian is better, he thinks to himself before pausing. How does he know that?

Brian grins at him before setting down the tin and checking his chart, “That just means more for me, champ.”

Glancing at the tin, Dave stifles a sharp inhale when he realizes he can read the French printed across the lid.

Discovering or rediscovering who he is has been… interesting. Some of the discoveries raised his spirits, like discovering his impressive ability to guess who was walking into his room based on the sound of their gait or how much a person weighed within a few pounds. Some discoveries though left him questioning what kind of person he really was. An emotional rollercoaster he’s ready to get off of immediately. If only he could just fucking remember!

Aside from being able to read people insanely well, he’s put together that he’s a bit of a control freak and likes things neat and orderly. The bullseye tattoo on his left hand had one nurse guessing that he was an olympic sharpshooter, but no olympian in recent memory remotely looked like him. He knew he had been found in a camo pullover and cargo pants, or what remained of it. Another nurse guessed that perhaps he liked hunting for sport. After all the speculation around the bullseye tattoo, Brian started only referring to him as killer. Curiously, he didn’t seem to mind that nickname. The wedding band tanline made him wonder if he is recently divorced or actually married, but took his ring off for more nefarious reasons. Was he a cheater? Did he have kids? What kind of man was he?

The strangest discovery came the first time orange slices appeared on his lunch tray. He found himself comforted by the smell of citrus as he ate them. Relaxed even, for the first time since he woke up. And also inexplicably aroused. His body had been so broken it had been months since he felt any tingle or whisp of desire, the feeling so unfamiliar it shocks him. What kind of kinky shit was he into?

That night he dreams of rain forests and citrus, relaxing in a familiar embrace he can not name. He wakes up the most refreshed he’s felt since he woke up in the ICU, body screaming in pain. And yet still he can’t explain why.

Sweat pours off of him as he grips the side rails of the treadmill. The PT room is absurdly bright and cheerful for the types of torture it routinely sees.

“You did great, man,” Ryan, his favorite physical therapist, praises. “Going to be running marathons in no time.”

He just grunts in response. He hates running. This he knows in his bones. Hates it. But he has come a long way from barely managing a step with assistance to walking on the treadmill for the first time. A stupid long painful way.

A sudden frustrated yell across the room jerks his attention to one of the newer patients across the room just as an exercise ball is flung in his direction. He reacts before can think, ducking and moving, assessing in a split second the source of the danger and prioritizing three different options in subduing the threat. He misjudges the distance of a table corner, bruising his hip as he dashes by. Damn his depth perception issues, he thinks. Just another thing to work on.

He surprises himself when he finds himself expertly pulling the patient off balance into a chokehold until security arrives. His body knows exactly how much pressure to put to neutralize the threat without killing him. Why does his body know this? Christ.

“Holy shit, man!” Ryan exclaims, helping to pull him up from the ground. “Where’d you learn to do that!”

“Can’t remember,” he groans as he feels his body protest the sudden intense movement. “Think I set myself back with that stunt.” He slumps over in a chair as sharp pain shoots up both his arms. He allows Ryan to fuss over him before one of the aides brings him back up to his room in a wheelchair. One step forward, three steps back it feels like.

It’s not until he’s settled into the privacy of his own room with a healthy dose of painkillers does he start to tally all of his mysterious abilities. He rubs the itchy scruff growing on his face with irritation. He hasn’t had a proper shave since he got here. And he probably won’t, at least not until his fine motor skills get better to do it himself. The staff are just too overworked here. He huffs to himself. He’s probably more of a danger to himself than anyone else right now.

With all his language skills, keen sense of observation, and now apparently mad jiu jitsu skills, what did it add up to? Who the fuck was he?

In the weeks following your visit to see your Dave in the ICU, knowing he has a long road to recovery gives you the time and space to track and hunt Mac. In true Dave fashion, he didn’t give you much to work with, just one single conversation about Robert McCall, but that is all you need.

Shortly before Dave missed his check in, he let you wrap yourself around him as the big spoon after having his way with you. He was uncharacteristically spooked, he told you, after running into his former team leader while out on a run. Robert McCall, Mac, was presumed dead. Dave swore he saw him die that day over seven years ago, setting off a chain of events leading to Dave going private with his guys. The impact of Mac’s death, the grief and the disillusionment that followed after leaving the service.

You knew about the job in Brussels—Susan—and the difficulty Dave was having tying up loose ends. Especially now with Mac resurrected from the dead and digging into Susan’s murder. He briefly mentioned Mac showing up at his apartment and confronting him and the guys a few days after the unexpected reunion. The doorbell footage you found confirmed this conversation.

You asked him if Mac was now a loose end.

Turning to face you, his eyes darkened with affirmation, “But I have a bad feeling about it, Sunshine.”

Mentally you beat yourself up for not pressing Dave more about this bad feeling at the time because you were too busy preening at the pet name. It marked the first time Dave ever met you at your place, raising an eyebrow at your maximalist design choices. It’s like a rainbow and unicorn threw up in here, he had grumbled. Too bright, so sunshine-y. You’re just jealous your place looks like it was decorated by someone allergic to color, you had quipped before he hauled you over his shoulders into the bedroom with a growled I’ll show you jealous, Sunshine.

You tried to smooth the furrows between his eyes. “Can I help?” you whispered before pressing a kiss to the curve of his nose.

He tensed before pulling back to look at you, “No. Don’t want you anywhere near him, baby. Mac’s a killer. He — he taught me everything I know.”

You protested but the look he leveled you with ended the discussion even if you wanted to push back and insist.

“You’re helping right now,” Dave consoled you, laying you back and slotting himself between your legs. “Reminding me I have this to come home to.”

The brief realization he had referred to you as home, quickly disintegrated at the pace he set, burying himself in you, sliding deep into the place only he could reach— the place you think of as his. He left early the next morning, pulling a black beanie over his head before kissing you goodbye. “See you in 48, Sunshine.”

You believe Dave when he said Mac was a killer, the best he knew. So you are meticulous in your tracking. In rare form, you make sure your contingency plans have contingency plans, even if you prefer flying by the seat of your pants. You only allow yourself to feel the quiet thrill of the hunt in order to keep the raging fury that threatens to make you slip up at bay. You summon patience you didn’t know you possessed as you slowly lay your trap and draw Mac in.

Robert McCall has a weakness for damsels in distress. And for extracting his own sense of justice in situations he came across, serving as sole judge, jury, and executioner. It rankles you to see him decide the fate of others, to right a wrong according to him and him alone.

But who are you to judge him when you decided to be his judge, jury, and executioner? So you lure him in and give him exactly what he always looked for. In the end, he is just like any other man really. A talented man, a ruthless killer sure, but he could never match your cunning combined with your wrath, your fury at what he did to Dave.

You keep the feelings at bay as you set the trap in motion until he is soundly in your snare. And even then, you don’t let the rage get out of control because you know your weakness in close combat. You won’t give him an opening to escape or kill you because you can’t stay cool and collected.

By the time you’d laid your trap for Mac, you got a ping from the hospital notifying you of Dave’s transfer to a long-term rehab facility. You pat yourself on the back for the perfect timing. Execute the target and then go check on Dave.

In the end, Mac isn’t that much different from any other kill you executed on the job. Just more satisfying in the end. You did it for Dave, afterall. Your Dave.

He decides that even if he doesn’t like the colorful scrubs the new nurse aide wears, she seems trustworthy enough, even if he struggles to get a more accurate read on her. It’s the first time he’s had trouble reading anyone since he woke up. So he sets aside the puzzlement as Brian introduces him to her. Maybe it’s because of how pretty she is, beautiful really, and how attracted he is to her, a pull that takes him off guard.

“Hey Killer, want to introduce you to our new nurse aide,” Brian says, gesturing to her as she stands a bit shyly next to him. “She’s gonna be helping me out so I don’t feel like a vampire all the time with these night shifts.”

“Killer?” she blurts out making an incomprehensible face before hiding behind a small smile.

“Gives me a reputation. I don’t mind.” He shrugs, smirking at the nickname. “At least until I figure out my real name, no one’s going mess with me. Nice to meet you…?”

The aide makes a funny noise in her throat as he extends his hand to shake hers. She recovers quickly as she takes his hand in hers. Something flickers behind her eyes, something warm, familiar before it fades away as she murmurs her name, Sunny, and tells him to let her know if he needs anything. The pull towards her strengthens as soon as his hands envelope hers, so soft and warm, that he doesn’t want to let go. Something feels so right at her touch. He murmurs her name before she pulls away to make the rounds with Brian.

You aren’t prepared to see Dave. You thought you were. You mentally talked yourself through it before you made your way up to his room with your new supervisor, Nurse Brian. You memorized everything from his chart, and know that he still has severe amnesia, still struggling with remembering anything at all, but nothing prepares you to be in the same room as him and not have a flicker of recognition across his face. His remaining deep brown eye levels a coolness at you that you haven’t seen since the first time you met and tried to kill each other.

This is bad. After everything, the missed check-in, the frantic searching, the revenge-ing to avenge him, the utter lack of recognition across his beautiful face cracks something in you. You barely recover enough to shake his hand and leave his room upright, telling Brian you have to go to the restroom before meeting any other patients.

Tears prick your eyes and you try to calm your breathing, not wanting to face the tsunami of feelings crashing down on you. When did these feelings for Dave get so out of hand?

You haven’t needed anyone since you cut off your abusive family and left home to find your way in the world. You learned to be alone, thrived at working alone in a corner you carved out for yourself. You filled your home with art and color and brightness after you realized you had the power to make your own sunshine. Who else would? Definitely not your shitty family.

And plants. So many plants, your bedroom painted a shade of deep, lush green. Filled with plants. It was like your own personal rainforest. So what if you worked in the dark, creeping in the shadows, a killer for hire? It didn’t mean you had to make it your whole damn personality.

Oh, but Dave. He was the unexpected cherry on top, a force of nature who brought more exciting ops to your life, along with mind-numbing pleasure. Intermittently at first, then regularly. You liked the control you’d cede to him after months of dancing around each other, building trust, moving from fucking in seedy motels after ops to his place or yours. The way he could fuck your worries and stress straight out of your pretty head. Apparently something had shifted without you realizing. Pesky feelings.

Fuck. You care. More than you were willing to admit before Dave almost died. You were too full of rage to feel anything else. You convinced yourself that the revenge you sought when you hunted down Mac was exactly that. Revenge. But now that the rage and fury had ebbed, you face down the why behind your need for revenge, realizing you did what you did because you cared. About Dave. Maybe you lo — lov — Fuck. What if he never remembers what you had together? What exactly did you have with him before, anyway?

He looks good though, even with the patchy scruff and fading scars across his face. The slightly lost expression on his face. Even if you can sense his discomfort in his body, in the way he sits by the window pretending to read a book. He looks so different, skin warm and golden, so alive, from the last time you saw him in the ICU. And his nose, the nose you love healed after all, healing back into its original strong curve.

As much as you want to run back into his room, yelling his name and shaking him until he recognizes you, telling him everything, you know you have to steel yourself for this next part, to allow him to heal and remember at his own pace. Wasn’t that what the doctor had written in his chart? Pushing him too hard will have less-than-ideal outcomes.

You sigh as you wash your face and take a deep breath. This part of the journey is going to be infinitely harder than finding Dave and killing Mac. But at least now he has you to help him jog his memory and watch his back. You lift your head up to walk out of the restroom, refusing to acknowledge the question prickling down your spine. What if he never remembers you’re his Sunshine?

It storms the first night of your shift, winds howling as you make your rounds and tend to the patients assigned to you. You do most of your menial work with one eye watching Dave, learning his routine and keeping tabs on him. It comforts you to know that he has a genuine rapport with nurse Brian, and has been making significant progress in his physical therapy. You get a sense he doesn’t trust the psych doc very much and has been frustrated at recovering his fine motor skills from the nerve damage in his arms. Must be why he doesn’t shave much, you think to yourself. The facility he’s in is fine for a publicly funded place, but you can tell the staff is overworked and underpaid. Your hourly wage is laughable. And everything is painted in this drab yellow that is an insult to the color. You’d read in his chart that the local precinct had put out feelers trying to identify the resident John Doe without much luck. You hope the luck holds out long enough for Dave to heal sufficiently so you can break him out of here before someone who shouldn’t find him does.

The bright flashes of lightning and roaring thunder keep you awake in the wee hours of your shift, strong winds whipping tree branches against the building, even as the patter of rain threatens to lull you to sleep. As you walk the sterile corridors, passing by Dave’s room you hear him yell out in panic, in fear.

It’s all you can do to stop yourself from sprinting into his room, ready to take out whoever is attacking him. You realize in the darkness of his room, illuminated only by a small night light, Dave is alone in his room, still asleep.

You realize he’s having a nightmare as you watch his eye work beneath his eyelid as he mutters, “Show yourself. Show — Show yourself Mac…” before trailing off. His face winces in pain as he jerks under the covers, panting to catch his breath before flinging his arms around like he’s trying to throw a punch.

For a moment you’re frozen, unsure of what to do as you realize he’s likely reliving his last encounter with Mac in real time. Careful not to use his real name, you put a firm hand on his arm to calm him, hey hey hey, to wake him up before he strangles himself in his sheets. As you make shushing noises he jerks the arm out from your grip, grabbing a hold of your throat before gasping awake, right eye wide in terror.

He apologizes profusely once he really wakes up and gets his bearings. It’s the same dream that haunts him every time it storms outside. Bubbling up from his subconscious every time it storms. He’s up high on a tower or lighthouse by some body of water. Rain whips across his face as the waves crash against the shore. He’s impatient, livid, but also… scared? Somehow he knows the before version of him would never admit the last thing.

He’s waiting for someone who is a danger, a threat. What’s taking so long? He remembers yelling, calling a name, Mac, — who is Mac?— before the dream shifts and he’s in indescribable pain. The most pain his body has ever felt slashes through him, punches into his ribs before he’s falling, falling, falling. It’s the icy cold that wakes him every time, shocking him back to consciousness. But this time he wakes up looking into the eyes of the pretty new aide with one of his hands clutched around her throat.

Well, this isn't the first time he’s had his hands around your throat. The dirty thought skitters across your mind, although that situation is preferable to this one. The thought amuses you, even as you start to feel the oxygen deprivation. It is a nice memory though, you think, being bent over your sink while Dave took you from behind. Arching you up with the tug of your hair to watch him in the mirror. It was after the one time you were almost late for a check-in and he was punishing you for it. For making him worry. If you’re early, you’re on time. If you’re on time, you’re late, Sunshine. Simpler times, you think.

You inwardly sigh and try to figure out how to get out of his chokehold without hurting either one of you. You settle for anchoring one hand to the one on your throat and twisting out of his grip while leveraging his elbow as gently as you can manage to avoid setting him back in his recovery.

He’s still gasping for breath as you try to soothe him with your voice, now scratchy from his grip. “You’re okay, you’re okay,” you comfort as you pat his back.

He starts apologizing immediately, a litany of shit, I’m so sorrys, until you level him with your best stare and quip, “I see where you get your nickname from, Killer.”

He stops long enough to bark out a laugh, before asking again if you really are okay.

“I should be asking you that,” you respond. “Seems like a hell of a dream.” You see him retreat back into himself, at whatever horrors had surfaced in his mind.

“Do you want to talk about it?” you venture, sliding a hand over his. It’s clammy and cold. You feel him start to pull away before stopping.

“I think it’s what happened… before,” he finally answers with a thick swallow, looking away. “No one needs to hear that shit.”

You squeeze his hand for encouragement. “Try me.”

To your surprise he does. After Dave recaps his nightmare as best he can, his hand still in yours, you begin to think that you let Mac off way too easily. Shoulda tortured him more before pulling the plug, you frown internally. Because holy shit, that man really put Dave through the ringer.

“Thanks for — for listening, I think it helped,” Dave squeezes your hand and looks at you with a surprisingly soft expression. Soft Dave, you never thought you’d see the day.

“Of course, Killer,” you squeeze his hand back before offering to get him some water. He accepts and hesitates as if he wanted to ask you something else. You stand but linger by his bedside giving him a moment.

“Will you — will you stay? Just for a bit, until I fall asleep?”

After you get him some water, you stay — your hand in his — until he drifts off into an uneasy sleep.

He decides he likes Sunny, not just because she’s pretty, but because she keeps him on his toes with her quick wit and dark sense of humor — to match his own he learns — that makes the days go by faster. Just another thing he learns about himself that just brings more questions than answers.

He can’t help smiling as she checks in with him for the day, wanting to know if he needs anything. “Brought you a present,” she smiles at him so brightly it leaves his brain stuttering to respond. “Your room is so boring, figured you could use a plant.”

She places it by the window before turning with a look to see if he approves. He does. He doesn’t know why but the little green thing feels familiar, a comfort like home. He scratches at the irritating scruff on his cheek before finding his words to thank her.

“I have some extra time today, do you need a shave?” she asks, like she can read his mind. “Looks itchy.”

“Yes. Please.” The look of relief on his face must be palpable because she immediately leaves to grab a razor and shaving cream.

The thought that she could read him so well, as if his mind is an open book screams to the front of his mind. His stomach twists at the thought. A creeping suspicion fills him as she approaches with the razor. What if she actually knows who he is, but he just doesn’t remember her? It would explain the inexplicable familiarity that came whenever she visited his room. What if the sunny personality is all an act and she’s actually a cold blooded killer sent to finish him off? Perhaps he should be more suspicious of her. He’d only known her for a week and she is the only person he couldn’t get an accurate read on.

His chest constricts at the recurring fear that someone had wanted him to hurt badly before trying to kill him. It really was only a miracle he survived. And now he was willingly allowing this stranger into his personal space with a sharp object. Could you kill someone with a disposable razor? Not ideal, he thinks, but possible.

“Everything okay?” she asks him as she sets up the side table with shaving accessories.

He hesitates, conflicted with his most recent revelations as she moves closer to him.

“Look, if I was going to sever your jugular a disposable razor wouldn’t be my first choice,” she dramatically rolls her eyes at him before looking at him for consent to start.

He lets out a nervous giggle, a sound he’s pretty sure he’s never made in his entire life.

“Not my second, third, or fourth choice either, okay?” she continues. “You have nothing to worry about. I’m not the one with the nickname ‘Killer.’”

She has a point. And she did just bring him a plant. And comfort him after one of his ridiculous nightmares the very first night she was here. If there was a moment when he was most vulnerable, that was her chance. He pushes away the feelings of suspicion and nods, allowing her to get started.

He couldn’t help leaning into her touch as she gently washes his face and smoothes on the shaving cream. The way the fading light from the window caught the flecks of colors in her eyes as she focused on the task at hand. He couldn’t help but think how cute she looks with her furrowed brows, all her attention on him. He decides the odds are low she was there to kill him considering how careful and gentle she is. He closes his good eye and allows himself to enjoy himself. Who knew getting a shave was such an intimate experience? He could feel himself relaxing under the warmth of her touch and the delicate scent of her citrus-y shampoo wafting across his nose at this close proximity. Something tugs on his mind at the scent, but she interrupts the thought.

“So what do you think, Killer?” she asks.

As he cracks open his eye, he realizes she’s holding up a small mirror. Time slows down at the same time his heart rate speeds up as he takes in his clean-shaven reflection. It’s like he suddenly remembered why he walked into a room after forgetting all this time.

His name is Dave. Dave motherfucking York.

When he says his name out loud, you let out an audible gasp you tried to cover as true surprise.

“This is huge! Dave, do you — do you remember anything else? Last Name?” You blurt out.

His lips briefly purse before his face flickers just for a moment, his tell, before he shakes his head no.

Liar. You immediately know he’s lying to you. He fucking remembers. You can see the cogs whirring in his brain, assembling all of the new information he unlocked when he looked at his reflection.You busy yourself tidying up the shaving accessories, watching him from the corner of your eye, hoping that he recognizes you.

It’s coming back to him, you can just tell from the way he’s holding himself up now, even just sitting in the chair, his posture is different. The lost expression is gone. The calculated, commanding presence of the Dave York you know is emerging right before your eyes.

Dave York is remembering.

He startles you when he speaks to you again, low and almost menacing, “Don’t tell anyone else. I’m not… ready to share yet.” His expression flashes dark at you.

Ah yes, the patented Dave I’m-telling-you-not-asking-you York.

“Of— of course. Take all the time you need,” you respond.

The next time you glance at him, he has that expression on his face where he’s assessing someone, assessing you, deciding if they are a threat or not. Great, the last thing you need is Dave trying to off you before he remembers who the fuck you are.

“I promise. I’m not going to say a word,” you try and reassure him.

He offers a nod, a dismissal really, before turning to look out the window, back to whatever memories may be emerging from the abyss of his mind.

You’d think that Dave remembering would be a good thing, but unfortunately the feds figure out who he is at the same time. You’re on shift, loitering by the nurses’ station when you see two nearly identical government looking guys turn the corner into the wing of the facility just after dinner. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, you think. And they reek of federal agents. FBI, specifically. Shit.

Dave has been more withdrawn since remembering his name. Brooding by the window. Typical Dave. You keep up your act, checking on him and chatting with him, hoping really for any glimpse of recognition, but still none so far. You can tell he’s still assessing you, trying to decide if you really are just a peppy aide or dangerous foe waiting to strike.

You busy yourself nearby as the feds chat with Brian, eavesdropping on the conversation.

“Wait, that guy’s wanted for murder AND treason??” Brian exclaims. “But he’s so… docile.” You quietly snort to yourself at that word being used to describe Dave York.

“And a whole list of other things, but those are the big ‘uns,” one of the feds responds.

They continue to chat with Brian, trying to determine how much Dave remembers and what condition he’s in in order to transport him.

“Psych notes still say he doesn’t remember very much. But physically he’s actually almost ready for out-patient rehab,” Brian scans the electronic chart.

“Gotta put in the transfer ’n get him to our medical facility,” Tweedle Dee nods to Tweedle Dum. “We’re going to post someone on the floor to make sure he doesn’t go anywhere.”

Shit, shit, shit.

“Well, as long as they’re discreet,” Brian warns. “Don’t want to disturb the other patients on the floor.”

“Roger that,” Tweedle Dum responds before pulling out his phone to make a call.

The agents nod at Brian before walking back down the hallway. You see them briefly stop outside of Dave’s room before continuing on their way.

Well, it looks like you’re breaking Dave out of here whether he remembers you or not. This should be fun. Hopefully he doesn’t try to kill you in the process.

Dave senses something is off before he even sees the two feds walk by his room on the way to the nurses station. He knows they’re there for him. By their gait and posture, they don’t seem like they’re in a particular rush to storm his room, so he bides his time, even as he slips a scalpel up his sleeve. He can’t run. All he can manage is a quick walk with a limp. There’s no way he can run fast enough or long enough to evade two federal agents, even if they look like Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. Fuck, he thinks. He should have pushed harder in PT.

He resumes sitting by the window, angling himself into a better position to attack if they decide to take him in today and waits. Hopefully, it won’t come to that.

He holds his breath when the agents walk by his door again, pausing for just a moment. He makes sure to observe them so he’ll be able to identify them again if, when, they return. Fuck, he needs to come up with an escape plan.

He lets out a sigh of relief as they walk away. What the fuck is he going to do? Where is he even going to go? He’s sure he doesn’t have much time, a day at most. Of everything that has returned to him, he still cannot remember any of the safe houses or stashes of money/fake IDs he’s sure he has… somewhere.

Remembering has been… more bitter than sweet. His rough childhood and divorced parents both deceased, his own divorce from Carol, the stint in the military, black ops, the DIA, before going private. Then it all gets hazy. Were the dreams about Mac real? But how could they be if Mac was dead? Was Mac actually still alive? Remembering all of the heavy stuff was like grieving it all over again, all at once. It was fucking depressing.

As he shuffles to the bathroom to splash water on his face to help him think more clearly, he hears someone walk into his room. By the sound of the light stride, it’s the pretty aide that still talks to him even if he almost strangled her in his sleep. What if she’s making the move to kill him now, after all this time, because she saw the feds coming to take him away? As she rounds the corner, he moves out of instinct, pinning her against the wall with a forearm to her neck, scalpel out and ready.

She lets out a squeak as he expects, before he cuts off her airway. What he doesn’t expect is her to roll her eyes at him as he presses a scalpel to her jugular.

You aren’t sure when Dave got a hold of a freaking scalpel, but it doesn’t surprise you in the least. Of course he found something sharp to play with.

“Why the fuck aren’t you scared?” he demands. “You got a death wish or something??”

He eases his forearm off of your throat, but still holds you pinned against the wall. You inwardly sigh. In another time and place, this would just be foreplay, but right now the scalpel is still just a little too close to comfort. Probably shouldn’t push it with him, not too much anyway.

“That’s what you want to ask me, Yorkie?” you croak. You decide on no sudden movements though, in case it spooks his hand to twitch in the wrong direction.

He frowns at the pet name. Right, he never told you he remembered his last name. Oopsies.

“You’d never hurt me,” you whisper. “At least, the Dave I remember wouldn’t. Not — not unless I liked it.”

Your eyes search his brown one, for anything, any recognition, but still none comes. Why are you tearing up? It’s not like he’s crushing your windpipe anymore.

“How do I know you’re not the one trying to kill me?” he growls. Well, at least he sounds like the Dave you love. Love? Wait, what??

“Don’t you think if I wanted to kill you, I woulda done it the first night?” You roll your eyes again. You’re getting impatient now, if anything just to have the pointy blade removed from the vicinity of your neck. Maybe you could have done without the eye roll though.

His brows are still furrowed and you are so tempted to raise your hand and smooth the double crease away with your thumbs. You miss the way he’d melt under your touch, even if he’d never admit to liking it. He stares you down for a handful of breaths before you see the moment he makes a decision that reflects across his face.

The moment he shifts the blade an inch away, you pounce, leveraging the blade away from him and reversing your positions. Shoving him up against the wall, you flinch when you hear his head smack the wall a little harder than you prefer, even if you know you’re not strong enough to hold him there very long. You press the dull side of the blade against his inner thigh, right at his femoral artery.

“This bring back any memories, Yorkie?”

He blinks hard a few times, as if he is surprised to find himself pinned against the wall by you. He glances down at where you have the scalpel pressed against his inner thigh before looking back up again and you brace yourself because you think he’s about to fight you off. Then you realize he’s looking at the plant you left on his window sill and then back at you, really looking at you like he’s seeing you for the first time.

His eye widens as he softly inhaless, “Sunshine?”

The citrus bodywash, the plants, all the fucking plants, the too colorful scrubs. His Sunshine. Unlike all his other memories that came back gradually in waves, with you it was like a switch was flipped and he went from not knowing you to now remembering everything. He feels a surge of emotion — relief, excitement, desire — but the most prominent is trust. He has someone he can truly trust, who knows him, again.

All it took was a scalpel to his femoral artery. Figures. How he met you is a core memory after all.

He feels you lessen your hold on him, tucking the scalpel away, eyes wide as you pull away from him in disbelief. But he doesn’t want you to be further away from him, he wants to keep you close. And so he tugs you flush against him.

“Say my name again,” you ask, eyes still wide.

He brushes a thumb across your soft cheek and takes in your bright, discerning eyes. “My Sunshine.”

“You really remember,” you whisper, pressing your face into his chest for a deep inhale, before looking back up at him. “I missed you so much, Yorkie.”

He just looks at you, takes you in, tracing the outline of your lips before pressing his mouth to yours.

You and Dave don’t get much of a reunion, a single kiss, before you hear footsteps approaching. By the sound of the gait heavily favoring the right side, it’s your supervisor Nurse Brian. You immediately move, pretending to prop Dave up over one of your shoulders like you’re helping him to walk before Brian turns the corner.

“Everything okay here, Sunny?” Brian calls out as he approaches.

“Yep, all good. Just helping Killer here back from the bathroom. Looks like he… tweaked his knee pretty bad in PT,” you respond, trying to hide how breathless you are from one kiss. Dave gives you the most dubious expression before you elbow him in the side and give him a look that says just go with it okay?

Dave has never been a fan of improvisation like you, preferring his contingency plans having contingency plans, all neatly laid out in his cute little spreadsheets. Which… you can appreciate. You love a good spreadsheet, but sometimes flying by the seat of your pants is just so much more… fun and exciting. Maybe this is why the two of you make such a good team, a bit of intense control and structure and, well, a lot of whatever it is you feel like doing in the moment.

You can tell the moment Dave decides to play along when he drops a chunk of his weight on you and you nearly stumble trying to keep the both of you upright. You keep up a rambling monologue at Brian as you settle Dave back into his bed while Brian shuffles awkwardly around the room, obviously trying to herd you out of the room. Your spidey senses tingle — something is about to happen. Before you leave the room, you surreptitiously slip the scalpel back to Dave and give him the most reassuring look you can manage.

Just outside Dave’s room Brian finally spills the news that the feds got approval to transfer him later tonight. Perfect, you think. Just enough time for a bit more improvisation to break Dave out of this place. And get you out of here too. If you have to give another sponge bath or assist with another bowel evacuation you might start killing people.

“Turns out Killer is actually a killer,” Brian whispers, shaking his head. “I’ll be damned. Just make sure you don’t go into his room by yourself anymore.”

Boy, do you have news for your supervisor.

During your next break, you comb the facility looking for something to create a distraction. A big one. As you pass by the PT room, the small row of treadmills call to you and a burst of inspiration hits you. Yorkie will be so pleased. He hates running.

The fire is a lot bigger than you expected. Apparently all the foam roller things in the PT room are also highly, highly flammable. Piled together by the treadmills you rigged to spark, you didn’t expect it to make quite the towering inferno it did. But you know what? Mission accomplished.

In the chaos of the fire alarm and subsequent evacuation, you sneak Dave off in a wheelchair (and the plant you brought him, gotta save the little guy too!) and into a car you had borrowed before you started your very brief career in healthcare. Parked in an alleyway cleared of cameras, you almost giggle at the getaway going so well. The only person you had to kill was the fed left to watch Dave’s floor. Yorkie, on the other hand, is still tense with apprehension apparently.

“We’re not clear yet,” he growls as you flip on the radio and peel out of the alleyway.

“Don’t make me tranq you,” you threaten with a smile. “Raining on my brilliant plan.”

He grumbles something unintelligible while pinching the bridge of his nose, but keeps quiet as he looks out the window as Tracy Chapman’s Fast Car comes on over the radio. As the miles roll by, it occurs to you that it’s the first time he’s been outside of a hospital or facility in almost a year and the uncertainty of the future, now on the run, sobers you up a bit for the rest of the drive.

It takes a subway, a bus, and a boat, and another borrowed car, before you make it back to your place. You didn’t want to give the feds a chance at tracking either of you, so you took the extra long, long way home. You’re both quiet most of the journey, only communicating when necessary when switching modes of transportation.

The only time he asks you anything is when it starts to rain, water streaming along the wide windows of the bus. He whole body jerks when he remembers something he wanted to ask you, “Mac. Was he the one who… Is he — is he alive? Or dead?” You can hear the absolute terror in his whispered confusion.

You slide a hand over his to calm him, “He was alive. He didn’t die all those years ago.” You can feel his entire body tense even more. “He’s gone now though, Yorkie. Can’t come after you anymore.”

He stares at you, stiff as a corpse.

“I took care of him for you, baby.” You pat his hand, willing him to take a breath and relax.

He continues to look at you, wanting an explanation, but you’re not about to confess to murder and torture on a bus, even if it is mostly empty.

“Later, Yorkie,” you murmur as you snuggle up next to him, hoping he will finally relax. There’s still a way to go before you both get home.

He crashes immediately after getting to your place. You can tell he’s overexerted himself and is likely in more pain than he’s letting on. Still too wired from being on high alert and making sure Dave was okay on the long trek home, you curl up in an armchair by the bed and just watch him sleep. Perhaps you’re afraid if you take your eyes off of him for a moment, he’ll vanish again.

There’s a warm shaft of light emanating from the bathroom, casting soft shadows around the room, highlighting the outline of his form, those broad fucking shoulders and soft brown hair. He’s so still you’d rush to check for a pulse save for the slow steady rise and fall of his chest.

Even with all the progress he’d made in physical therapy, he still has a ways to go. You push aside the concern and anxieties of tomorrow to appreciate that he’s warm and safe in your bed right now. Your eyes trace his face, those plush lips you’ve only gotten to kiss once since he remembered you. Following the arch of that nose you love to the two deep furrows between his brows. How does someone look so grumpy even in their sleep? It delights you.

When you can’t take the distance, however short, from Dave, you slide into bed as slowly as you can. He’s usually such a light sleeper, but he doesn’t move an inch. You gently smooth a thumb between his brows until you feel him melt. You close your eyes and allow his steady breathing to lull you to sleep.

“You’re going to cook? Breakfast?” you almost fall out of bed as you try and untangle yourself from the sheets, still half asleep. Who is this man and what has he done with Dave York?

He grumbles something before raising his voice, “I miss real eggs. That place only ever made the powdered shit.”

You shrug and gesture at him to knock himself out, while you busy yourself with making coffee. Coffee always first. Then food. This is the correct order of things. As you hear the fridge door swing open, you feel Dave freeze, standing stock still while letting all the cold air out. Ugh, Dave.

“Sunshine…” he seems to be at a loss for words. “Why the fuck do you have an eyeball in your fridge?”

“Oh, I forgot!” you exclaim. “It’s your welcome home present, Yorkie.”

His head pokes out from behind the door and he frowns, “You know it can’t replace the eye I lost right?”

“Oh, I know. It’s what’s left of Mac,” you explain as you slide by him to grab the oatmilk for your coffee. The eyeball stares down at you, suspended in formalin, from its clear jar on the top fridge shelf. “Eye for an eye right?”

He just looks at you and then at the jarred eyeball in the fridge, and then back at you, speechless.

“Well, except he’s dead and you’re not.” You smile and shrug as you finish stirring the milk into your coffee and take the first blessed sip, extra pleased with yourself. “You’re welcome, Yorkie.”

“Fuck baby, sometimes you scare me you know that?”

You just smile at him, looking so at home in your colorful kitchen with his tousled hair and grumpy expression before you go to sit on one of the kitchen island stools. “I think that’s exactly why you love me.”

He rounds the island counter and cages you in with his arms. You take in his handsome face, so handsome it’s sometimes hard to breathe, as he just takes you in. He finally rumbles, “Yeah, I guess that’s why I do.”

“Yeah?” you look at the floor at the admission, swiveling back and forth on the stool, not quite ready to look at him again.

He tilts your chin up with one hand, “You really take care of Mac for me? All by yourself?”

You consider reminding him that you offered to help in the first place, but somehow an I told you so felt like it would ruin the moment. You just bite your lower lip instead.

“Mmh hmm.”

“Why, baby? I — I almost died,” he presses. “He coulda killed you! You didn’t know then if I was even going to make it or not.”

You frown at this. Did he not understand?

“And I’m still so — so broken. Never going to fully recover and be who I was. Not worth anything to anyone anymore.”

He definitely does not understand. And you haven’t had enough coffee for this conversation. You quell the urge to roll your eyes as you grasp the front of his shirt and pull his face down level with yours.

“Yorkie, that’s exactly why I killed him.” Your words are firm even if you feel yourself shaking at what you’re about to admit. “He doesn’t get to try to kill the person I love and get away with it.”

His eyebrows shoot up at your disclosure, that pesky L-word. Should it really be a surprise at this point though? After everything? Even if it terrifies you to admit out loud. You did all of this because you love him. Your Dave.

“After I — I saw you in the hospital, everything Mac did, there wasn’t another option,” you murmur. “You mean everything to me, Yorkie.”

Dave forgets about the stupid eggs as he drags you back to bed and reminds you exactly why you love his nose so much. Fuck, you missed this.

You suppose from one assassin to another, there’s no declaration of love like getting all murder-y and revenge-y for them. It might as well have been a proposal of marriage. Even with so much uncertainty about your futures and how much rehab Dave still has to go, you figure as long as he doesn’t start trying to back seat assassinate, you’ll both be fine. You’ll take care of your Yorkie until he can be Murdah Daddy again.

#dave york fanfiction #dave york x you #dave york x reader #murder dave #roll a trope challenge #the equalizer 2 fanfic #the equalizer #robert mccall #pedro pascal characters

116 notes · View notes

javier-pena · 9 months ago

Text

back in july, i started a little monthly fic rec project and then immediately life got in the way of me reading fics and i had to skip august and september. so this list isn't just fics i read in october but also fics i read during the other two months.

that being said, i sure read some absolutely life-changing stories these past few months and i'm so so excited for more people to discover these fics! please check the warnings on the stories before reading them and please please let the authors know that you loved their work!!

i’m also always looking for fic recommendations, so feel free to send me your favorites!

billy butcher (the boys)

fucking diabolical by @macfrog

you move in across the street. butcher notices.

logan howlett/wolverine (x2)

all's fair in love and viscera... by @sceletaflores

logan wants to spar...

oberyn martell + dave york (game of thrones/the equalizer 2)

gold rush by @guiltyasdave

“you like him, princess?” oberyn asks, a grin obvious in his tone. you nod silently, your eyes still trained on the man behind the boat’s steering wheel. “so do I.”

joel miller (the last of us)

a helping hand by @toomanystoriessolittletime

Living in your best friends house while yours is getting renovated leaves you getting to know her husband Joel better. After finding out your husband is cheating on you, and learning Joel is about to serve his wife with the divorce papers, a drunk midnight phone sex call from your husband leaves you and Joel to finally give in to your growing feelings for each other.

a minute from home by @agentmarcuspike

a mysterious man with a motorcycle saves you from a terrible date.

bad habit by @strang3lov3

After Joel catches you smoking, he gives you something else to put between your lips.

brat! by @shellshocklove

joel is having a brat summer.

decode by @tonysopranosrobe

joel really loves doing favours for you. like hiring you as a babysitter and teaching you how to suck dick.

do your worst, little dove by @mountainsandmayhem

joel lets you take charge for once.

heavenly bound by @ozarkthedog

the world crumbled before you could experience the touch of another. Joel does his best to keep you innocent for as long as he can.

inhale, exhale by @sp00kymulderr

this world is not made for intimacy and both of you know it.

my kink is karma by @alltheirdamn

your boyfriend breaks up with you, so you decide to get revenge ...

shhh...just a little bit more, part three by @mountainsandmayhem

joel miller caught you working where you shouldn’t be after you promised to quit. now he’s taking matters into his own hands.

frankie morales (triple frontier)

sit back, baby by @almostfoxglove

you’ve got a crush on your neighbor across the hall and finally get the chance to show him you care.

take you to the hilltop, and tell you you're pretty by @jolapeno

you book a guided hike tour for one when on your trip, not at all expecting your guide to be so damn hot.

frankie morales + santiago garcia + benny miller (triple frontier)

in the woods by @tonysopranosrobe

a camping trip with your boyfriend frankie and his friends takes a turn when you stumble upon a mysterious substance in the woods.

javier peña (narcos)

like a fever by @pedgito

there’s sweaty javi p and office sex, that’s all you need to know.

the man who has returned home by @jolapeno

this week’s sex diary - the man who has returned home

unscripted desire by @gothcsz

you’re a camerawoman that shoots pornos. javier peña is the pornstar you can’t stand. why is it that you’re always so affected by him?

dave york (the equalizer 2)

a long time coming by @guiltyasdave

you were supposed to go to a concert with your best friend. you end up going with her dad instead.

my own fic from october :)

three's a crowd (frankie morales + joel miller)

you’re in love with frankie and he is in love with you, but you both have no idea how to act on it. until joel miller comes along.

#fic rec #pedro pascal character fanfiction #billy butcher x reader #logan howlett x reader #wolverine x reader #oberyn martell x reader #dave york x reader #joel miller x reader #frankie morales x reader #javier peña x reader

90 notes · View notes

missladym1981 · 11 months ago

Text

Ok let’s try this again shall we? Marcus Pike kept getting cut out of my damn photo but I finally got him to stay . Again, sorry. Here once again is the damn ledger.

Top row from left to right

1. King Lear- Edmund

2. Lobby Hero- Jeff

3. Much Ado About Nothing- Don John

4. Maple and Vine - Roger

5. Sand- Ahmed

6. Hamlet- Horatio

7. Trolius and Cressida- Thersites

8. Lorenzaccio-Piero Strozzi

9. Orphans - Phillip

10. Graceland - Juan Badillo

11. Nikita- Liam

12. Red Window- Jay Castillo

13. The Sixth Gun- Special Agent Ortega

14. CSI - Kyle Hartley

15. Old Comedy from Aristophanes Frogs- Diony

16. Body of Proof - Zach Goffman

Second row Left to Right

17. The Mentalist - Marcus Pike

18. Burn Notice : the fall of Sam Ace- Comendante Veracruz

19. Wonder Woman - Ed Indelicato

20. Law and Order SVU- Special Agent Greer

21. Charlie’s Angels- Fredrick Mercer

22. Brothers and Sisters - Zach Wellison

23. Lights Out- Assyrian

24. The Good Wife - Nathan Landry

25. Law and Order- Tito Cabassa

26. Without a Trace- Kyle Wilson

27. Law and Order CI- Reggie Luckman

28. NYPD Blue- Shane “ Dio “ Morrisey

29. Touched by an Angel - Ricky Hauck

30. undressed- Greg

31. Buffy the Vampire Slayer - Eddie

‘Third row Left to Right

32. TWMT- Javi Gutierrez

33. If Beal Street Could Talk- Pietro Alvarez

34. The Great Wall - Pedro Tovar

35. We Can Be Heros - Marcus Moreno

36. WW84- Maxwell Lord

37. Bloodsucking Bastards- Max Phillips

38. Kingsman : The Golden Circle- Agent Whiskey

39. The Equalizer- Dave York

40. Prospect- Ezra

41. Triple Frontier- Frankie Morales

‘Row 4 left to right

42. The Bubble- Dieter Bravo

43. House Comes With A Bird - Nico

44. Strange Way of Life- Silva

45. Freaky Tales- Clint

46. Drive-Away Dolls- Santos

47. The Uninvited- Lucien Flores

48. The Mandalorian - Din Djarin

49.Game of Thrones- Oberyn Mother Fuckin Martell

Final row of epicnessssssss left to right

50. The Materialist- TBA

51. Narcos- Javier Peña

52. The Last of Us- Joel Miller

53. Gladiator ll- General Marcus Acacius

54. Merge Mansion- Tim Rockford

55. SNL- Mr. Ben

56. Fantastic Four- Reed Richards

57. The Wild Robot- Fink

58. Housebroken- Claude

Sorry again for the fuck up. Sometimes shit happens but they are fixed now. Thank you have a good night

113 notes · View notes

wildemaven · 2 years ago

Text

you, me & john mcclane | dave york

→ pairing: dave york x f!reader

→ word count: 4342

→ content warning: 18+ blog; friends/idiots to lovers, mentions of food and alcohol consumption, blind dates, mentions of bad dating history, miscommunication, soft dave, carol and dave are divorced but rockstar co-parents, fluff, pining, reader is wearing a dress, no descriptive features of reader, die hard is a Christmas movie, equalizer 2 au, I think that's it but let me know if I missed anything

→ notes: im really hoping this reads well because i struggled getting it finished. words became rough to work with. part of the holi-dave universe, but can be read as a holiday one shot too. big thank you to @gnpwdrnwhiskey for listening to me ramble about these two!!! somewhat beta'd, but not entirely.

→ masterlist / holi-dave masterlist

5 minutes late. Not that you’re keeping track. Although, it’s hard not to when the hostess keeps checking in to see if your date has arrived because they can’t hold your table all night, as you wait in the front lobby of the restaurant. Actively trying your best to convince her your date should be arriving any minute— nearing 10 minutes late now.

You want to be annoyed. You want to call it a night, order your meal to-go, make the trek back home so you can slip back into something less revealing with more layers to fight off the almost freezing temperatures that you hadn’t accounted for when you got dressed earlier. Then once you’ve cocooned yourself in a blanket on the couch, you’ll call your friend and laugh at what a horrible matchmaker she is.

Blind dates have never been your thing. Sure, you have heard plenty of success stories from friends and family about meeting their partners on a blind date, falling in love and getting that happily ever after kind of romance that you’ve always wanted. But that's never been the case for you. You weren’t convinced blind dating would ever produce any sort of cosmic connection like you’ve always heard about. You could barely get a second date from the ones you’ve been on.

You decide to stay, give this whole thing a chance and see what happens— that is if he ever shows up.

The frigid air billows in at the opening of the restaurant door. The cold biting at the exposed skin your dress isn’t covering, as you curl into yourself, turning away to shield your body from the air that’s spilling through the entranceway.

You scan the restaurant for what seems like the hundredth time now. All the couples and families seated comfortably as they enjoyed their warm meals. Probably discussing their upcoming holiday plans and their excitement for the new year ahead.

Glancing down at your phone, it’s approaching 15 minutes late now. Sadness begins to settle in the pit of your stomach. Clearly this date isn’t happening tonight and it’s time to call it like it is, you got stood up— also not a first for you. You tuck your phone back into your purse and make your way over to let the hostess know that she can give your table away.

“Oh my gosh! Dave?” Recognizing a familiar face standing next to the ‘wait to be seat sign’.

“Hey— Hey! How are you?” He says with a smile, instantly moving in to give you a warm friendly hug. His cologne, all masculine and refreshing, wafts about as you lean into him— you envy whoever gets to revel in it tonight.

“I’m good, thanks.” You tell him, as you step out of the way of the couple who just walked in to check in for their reservation. “What are you doing all the way over on this side of town? You picking up dinner for you and the girls? They would love their chicken tenders, super crispy. Molly would love the garlic aoli, it’s really good.”

“Uh, yeah— I mean no, sorry. The girls are with Carol tonight. Things ran late at the office and I’m supposed to be meeting someone for dinner.” He doesn’t mean to be rude, his attention focused on glancing at the seated guests.

“Oh! Same. Except I’m not the one running late, my date is.” You glance back over your shoulder to the restaurant door, still no sign of your date.

“Oh yeah? Maybe he’ll have a good excuse when he shows up.” Dave says, giving the restaurant one last look before setting back against the wall to give you his full attention.

“I hope so, I’m starting to get hungry. Do you know what they look like? Maybe they’re somewhere else in the restaurant? I think there’s a back room through those doors.” You point towards the back of the restaurant. You’re in no rush to leave and start your sulking, so you might as well help a friend out.

“No. It’s a blind date. Literally don’t know a single thing about them. Was just told to be here at 5pm.” The opening of the front door grabs his attention, another well dressed couple enters. He breathes out a sigh, head falling back against the wall, wishing he was anywhere else but here waiting to have dinner and forced conversation with a stranger.

“Then how are you going to know if they’re here or not?” You laugh, situating yourself next to Dave on the wall.

“The dress. That was the only thing I told to look out for— that she would be wearing a brown dress.” He says casually as he checks the watch on his left hand.

A brown dress should be easy enough to spot. Taking a look around to see if you might have better luck spotting his brown-dress-wearing date. It’s nothing but bold reds, soft whites and classic black scattered through the room of guests— no brown dress in sight.

When the hostess glances over to you with her annoyed look, you decide to call it a night. Straightening up off the wall, you prepare to bid Dave a goodbye and make your way home to see what can be done to save the rest of your evening. You adjust your purse strap on your shoulder and start pulling at where the silky fabric of your dress had ridden up. Smoothing over the wrinkles to make sure it’s laying right. You freeze the second your brain registers exactly you’re wearing tonight.

You look up to where Dave is still standing, focused on the ground, hands folded together in front of him. Suddenly becoming keenly aware of every detail about him. Ones that you hadn’t bothered to notice or pay attention to when you said hello only minutes ago.

“Dave… you’re wearing a gray t-shirt and leather jacket.” Your voice barely above a whisper as you try to convey the realization that you’re starting to come to.

“Yeah. Carol told me to wear it. Said it made me look less CIA or whatever.” He pulls open the jacket front, revealing more of his shirt underneath, very much gray and definitely less CIA. He lets the jacket fall back into place, checking his watch for the second time.

“Dave…” Attempting to get his attention again. Your eyes widen once all the dots have been fully connected.

“Yeah?” Dave looks up from his watch, taking in your shocked expression.

“Dave, I’m wearing the brown dress Carol picked out for me— I’m your date, Dave.” His eyes trail down your body— brown silk dress. The same brown silk dress that Carol said his date would be wearing when he arrived at the restaurant tonight.

“Carol set us up?” You both say in unison.

Staring at each other, you’re both completely dumbfounded at the thought of being set up.

You met Carol by chance one morning 3 years ago at a local coffee shop you stop in everyday before work. It was unusually busy in the small coffee shop, which led to your orders being mixed up.

A 10 minute chat while you both waited for the kind baristas to remake your drinks quickly turned into a budding friendship between you. Purposefully arriving for coffee in the mornings so you could catch up on the latest news and tv shows you both loved before jetting off to work.

Before you knew it you were meeting up for dinner and drinks regularly, booking girls trips and attending concerts during the summer, but your favorite was joining Carol and her girls for movies and pampering.

When you met Carol, she had already been divorced for almost 3 years. You admired how well she was juggling life and work as a single mom. She attributed it to having a great co-parenting relationship with her ex-husband.

It was months later when Dave and you had officially met at a summer barbecue Carol and him were throwing for the girls and their friends. Inviting all the families to come enjoy the warm weather and grilled food. Carol had invited, forced, you come and hang out for a few hours. She insisted Molly and Alice had begged for you to be there, learning early on it was hard to tell either of them no.

Carol had warned you Dave was quiet. Reserved felt like a better description. Because with you, he was anything but quiet.

After helping Carol set out food and drinks, both of you retreated to a quiet spot on the porch as the chaos of tiny screaming girls took over the backyard. A comfortable silence between you once hello’s and brief pleasantries were shared.

Dave liked that about you, not forcing a conversation with someone just because you were in close proximity. He found that annoying with Carol’s other friends, always wanting to talk to him and never picking up on his lack of interest. He found you both had a similar aversion to groups of people you didn’t know. Watching the barbecue activities unfold from a distance and only making yourselves known when needed.

Silence was soon exchanged for friendly banter and bouts of laughter. The space between you had become nonexistent as you both shared bits of your lives. Walls began to fall. A sudden eagerness to know more about the worlds you both existed in. A full fledged friendship formed in a matter of hours.

From that day on, you were invited to all gatherings whether it took place at Carol’s or Dave’s homes. It became a song and dance of sorts. Always seeking each other out once things were in order. Finding a quiet place on the sidelines to avoid unwanted attention and small talk with literally everyone else.

Unbeknownst to Dave and you, Carol had been keeping tabs on you both over the years. She wasn’t blind to the bond that had quickly developed between you two. The small touches to Dave’s arm when you were deep in conversation. When you would lose yourself in laughter and lean into him when he said something funny. The way Dave’s hand settled against your lower back when he introduced you to someone you hadn’t met before. Carol’s favorite was how, aside from her and the girls, you were able to make him genuinely smile like no one had done in a long time.

It was after a recent failed date you had gone on, mentioning how hard it was to find someone decent enough to be in a relationship with, that Carol decided to take matters into her own hands. Conjuring up a plan to set you, her closest friend, and Dave, her ex-husband. A little nudge both of you seemed to need.

“Look, Dave. I completely understand if you’re not into it and want to leave. No hard feelings at all. But we’re already here and have a table waiting for us to enjoy ourselves— which I’m sure the hostess would love for us to either sit at sooner than later. So, maybe we just do that. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?” You find it hard to read his blank expression, hoping it’s just pure shock and not that he is repulsed by the fact that he was set up with you.

Are you even his type? Could he see something beyond just a friendship with you? Not things you had ever really worried about until just now. The thought of being rejected by not just someone, but by Dave had you distracted with embarrassment and worry.

A smile begins to form on his face, the tension he’d been wearing when he first arrived no longer evident now that he won’t be having dinner with just anyone, but with you— something the two of you have never done alone before tonight.

“I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be, now. Let’s go enjoy ourselves.” Sensing your internal panic he attempts to calm your nerves, reassuring you that he fully wants to be here. He takes a step closer to you, his hands curled around your shoulders, thumbs gently sweeping in over your bare skin in a back and forth motion. Worry melting from your face instantly.

“Okay.” Your head tilts to the side as you smile sweetly at him, taking in the softness in his eyes. There’s a part of you that’s sure nothing will come of this evening, just two friends merely entertaining the fact that they were set up. But you’d be lying if you said there wasn't a small part of you that bears hope for the possibility of something flourishing from this evening. Whichever outcome, you’re relieved it is Dave.

It’s not long until you’re seated at a small table for two, draped in white soft linens. The overhead lights set to a low muted level, allowing the tabletop candles to elevate the restaurant's evening ambiance. A musician sits at a small piano in the corner, playing a rendition of some holiday song, its nostalgic tune mingling with the hushed voices conversing about.

Drinks and warm appetizers placed among the candles, festive florals and white porcelain tableware. Your meals were discussed and deliberated then placed with the waiter, leaving you both alone in a hushed nervous state. Neither of you quite sure what to say, unsure whether or not you address the elephant in the room— Carol’s secretive matchmaking tactics.

“How are the girls?” You decide to stick to the safety of topics you both know. Hoping the ease of familiarity will lead to a more relaxed dialogue as the night passes.

“Good. They’re good.” He says, in a very to the point Dave response. The waiter breaks the stagnant bubble surrounding you to refill his water, Dave giving a nod of gratitude before directing his attention back to you.

“That’s good.” You quietly release a shaky breath.

“How’s work?” Dave asks after taking a sip from his glass of aged whiskey. He sets it back on the table, before relaxing back into the chair. His arm propped up by the armrest, chin resting between his thumb and forefinger and his eyes focused on you.

You briefly fixate on the flickering light that dances across his ambered irises, the glow of the candle’s flame reflecting in his eyes. A golden brilliance that’s so vividly captivating, you can’t help but feel the warmth that gleams from them— how have you never noticed their allurement before?

“Good. Great, actually. I got that promotion I was telling you about last month.” You don’t miss the way he immediately smiles at your answer.

“I knew you would get it. Congrats!” Dave is proud of you.

He had hoped he hadn’t overstepped when he encouraged you to apply for the position. Agonizing over it with him during a potluck dinner Carol had put together a month ago. You weren’t so convinced you had it in you, but Dave knew otherwise. He knew how hard it had been for you, working tirelessly to prove your worth in a male dominated field. But he also knew how well you held your own against the pressure of being scrutinized doing your job just because you were female. You just needed a little encouragement to make it happen, and Dave was more than happy to give it to you.

“Thank you.” You say gratefully. He raises his glass up to you, grabbing for your white wine, your glass meets his in a clinking celebration.

A rich note strikes from the piano. The warm cadence of a new song catches your attention, drawing you to look over at where the musician's hands move effortlessly over the keys. After a few chorus plays through the second half, you redirect your attention back to the table. Your heart flutters with vibrancy at the way Dave is already looking at you. A reverent gaze that gives you the idea that his eyes have been drawn to you the entire time.

“What?” You ask. Your playful confusion has Dave chuckling, his fingers rub steadily over his bottom lip.

“Nothing. Just—“ Dave knows the moment he says it, there’s no turning back. He’s been silently gauging your demeanor. Noting how you fiddle with the silverware when you’re talking. Or the way you look at him with a subdued intensity, not allowing yourself to truly express your feelings to him— or for him.

With a deep breath and burning confidence, Dave’s willing to take a leap of faith to break the nervous tension that is strung tightly between you both.

“Just what?” Encouraging him to continue. Your fingers twisting your napkin in your lap, each revolution pulling it tighter and tighter in your grip.

“Just admiring how beautiful you look right now. Something I never fully allowed myself to do before this evening.” He sees the way you react to his words. Relief or a validation of your own feelings.

“How come?” You have a feeling you already know, but you want to hear him say it.

“You’re Carol’s friend. I didn’t want to ever make you uncomfortable.”

“You’ve never made me feel anything but comfortable, Dave.” It’s the truth. You don’t think you’ve ever felt so comfortable or safe with anyone. “But I get what you mean. With you being Carol’s ex-husband and that unspoken understanding of respecting her boundaries as her friend. I guess I’ve always been happy with being just your friend, too. But clearly she has a very strong opinion about us though.”

You both laugh, knowing how determined Carol gets when she has a feeling about something.

You both take a moment. No words needed or spoken. Neither of you are willing to wipe the absurd smiles off of your faces, while you stare at each other with an unbridled sense of fondness. The rest of dinner carries on with a better sense of purpose and understanding between you both. Endless conversation exchanged well into dessert. An eagerness to know more about each other before the evening’s end.

It’s a velvety darkness that welcomes you the moment you both step out onto the sidewalk outside the restaurant. White tuffs of clouds drift through the sky, shrouding the moon and stars' usual intense glow for diffused lambency.

The town’s streets are filled with an abundance of Christmas lights hung from store fronts and wrapped around tree bases, providing a perfect backdrop for an after dinner stroll.

“Do you want to take a walk? Look at the lights before we call it a night?” Not really wanting to rush home any time soon, hoping to rack up more time with Dave as possible.

“Sure. Here, take my jacket though, you’re gonna freeze out here.” He could tell you were trying to bravely endure the cold air nipping at your bare skin, but the goosebumps covering your arms and the slight shivering would have you freezing in no time.

He doesn’t really give you an option, draping the leather jacket over your shoulders. The warmth is welcomed as you pull it tightly against you, grateful the moment a brisk breeze picks up and sweeps through the air.

“Thank you.” You say as you both begin to walk in step together down the festively lit sidewalk.

“Of course. Any time.” Dave says with a soft smile. His hands tucked securely into his jeans as he does his best to keep the chilly air at bay.

A group of carolers offer a special serenade of Christmas classics, Dave and you both stopping to enjoy the merriment their harmonies add to the atmosphere. Dave tosses a few generous bills into their tip jar before you both continue your stroll.

“What are your plans for Christmas?” You know him and Carol have a great system for the girls, always making sure they both get equal time with them.

“I get to have the girls Christmas Eve this year. Well open gifts Christmas morning and do our tradition of pancakes for breakfast before Carol picks them up.” You love that he has a special tradition with the girls, there isn’t anything he wouldn’t do for them.

“Carol said they’re asking for a dog this year?” Remembering how Carol had mentioned the girls had been begging for a dog for the better part of the year. So it was no surprise when you had heard they were forgoing Barbie’s and clothes in hopes to add a new furry companion to the family.

“Yeah. They sat us down last week with a full blown presentation on why they think we should get them one.”

“What was one of their reasons?” Knowing full well Molly and Alice probably had a decent list of all the reasons for getting one.

“I think the top reason was that a dog would make me less grumpy.” His brows pinch together with his signature grumpy expression, the reason seemingly obvious at this moment.

“Oh my god, Dave! They deserve a dog just for their efforts alone!” You bite back a snicker, loving how the girls didn’t hold back one bit. Although, you do find his grumpy expressions cute and charming.

“Go on, laugh it up.” He shakes his head at your teasing. “What about you? Do you have any plans for Christmas?” Dave asks. His shoulder lightly bumps against you as you continue to walk in a close proximity to him.

“If you call feasting on a rotisserie chicken straight out of the container while rewatching Die Hard an unhealthy amount of times, plans— then yes, I have plans.” You try to say with a straight face, but fall into a fit of laughter when you see the empathetic look on Dave’s face. “I’m kidding, mostly. I usually spend Christmas with my parents, but they’re out of town this year. So it’s just me— and John McClane.”

“Hey.” Dave grabs your hand, pulling you to a stop with him. His eyes flitting over your face, his thumb brushing over the top of your hand he’s still holding. “Why don’t you come over once Carol gets the girls. I can make dinner and we watch Die Hard a healthy amount of times together, if you want?”

There’s a warmth that radiates through you at his offer. You feel giddy at the thought of spending Christmas, alone, with Dave. You don’t know quite yet what this thing that’s blooming between you is, but you trust that Dave will catch you— especially with how you’re thoroughly falling for him.

“I’d love that— oh shit! Dave, come here!” Your hand now wrapped around his as you try to pull him from where he’s standing. His stubborn body is rooted in place, not moving as you continue to hold him while looking at something overhead that caught your attention.

Dave catches your line of sight. Looking up to see a bundle of mistletoe hanging from the shop sight you both were standing under. He looks back to you, panic stricken by the sight of the green foliage dangling above. He steps closer to you, his lopsided grin slowly becoming a more pronounced smile.

“Dave, you don’t have to if you don’t want to. It’s just silly mistletoe.”

“Isn’t there some sort of thing about bad luck if we don’t?” He slowly starts to lean in towards you, his eyes searching for any kind of hesitation in yours.

“I don’t think that’s a thing.” You murmur. Your stomach flips with anticipation.

“I guess there’s only one way to find out.”

His lips are softer than you could ever have imagined. For even the briefest of kisses, it feels electric and warm.

Dave pulls back slightly, his gaze oscillating between your lips and your eyes, taking in the blissed out look you have. Silent confirmation that you were craving it as much as he was.

It’s dizzying passion when Dave’s lips crash into yours. One of his hands cradles the back of your head as the other snakes around your lower back, pulling you flush against him. Taking advantage of the way your mouth opens for him, his tongue moving over yours with a fiery fierceness.

It feels right and perfect as you continue to revel in the way he deepens the kiss with each passing breath. His jacket falling from your shoulders to the ground as your hands clutch firmly at the front of Dave’s t-shirt. Your mind is a fuzzy mess of thoughts, swirling about, all focused on Dave and this monumental release.

A whine escapes when Dave pulls away for the second time. His forehead resting on yours. Mouths hanging open, vapor puffs hitting the cold air as you both try to catch your breath.

“Dave York. Great conversationalist, devoted father, devastatingly handsome and exceptional kisser— checks all my boxes.” You purr at him.

“Hmm. The first two seem like a given. Handsome?” Asks as he continues to hold you close to him.

“Mmhmm.”

“And what was it? Exceptional kisser?” Cradling the side of your face, recalling exactly how you described the kiss.

“No complaints from me. At all.” Your teeth catching your bottom lip, arms wrapping around his neck, fingers tangling in his soft chestnut hair.

“Not a single one?” His nose gently nudges against yours.

“Well— maybe one. My only complaint would be if you never kissed me again.” You shake your head. The thought of never feeling his lips against yours again would be soul crushing.

“I guess it’s a good thing I look forward to doing it again.” He assures you.

“That so?”

His fingers lightly grip your chin, bringing your lips closer to his. This time the kiss is slower, gentle, still conveying just as much affection and intentness as before.

“I definitely could get used to more of that.” You say breathlessly.

“Yeah? How about we take things slow? You promise me another date. I’ll promise to keep kissing you— exceptionally well.” A promise he’s more than willing to keep.

“I like the sound of that.” Pulling him back for another kiss.

#dave york #dave york x reader #dave york x you #dave york x female reader #dave york x f!reader #pedro pascal #wildemaven holi-dave #wildemaven writes #pedrostories

234 notes · View notes

suzdin · 5 months ago

Text

Welcome to the shit sh— uhh, I mean my tumblr!

I’m Susan, but most call me Suz. I was born in the 80s. Native Texan. Bi. Married. No kids, just a couple of dogs and some reptiles.

You’ll find Pedro Pascal content here, including fanfic and shared posts, with an odd post thrown in here and there of various other actors and/or things I enjoy.

Favorite Pedro characters: Dave, Joel, Frankie, Max P, Ezra, Din, Dieter and Javi G. In that order but it changes sometimes depending on my mood.

I love animals, creepy things, severe weather (tornadoes specifically), writing, and making fan edits. Also smut. Lots of smut.

I’m pretty boring otherwise.

Don’t be afraid to DM me. I’m normal, I swear. Mostly. Mostly normal.

Not a space for hate or bigotry ever ✌️

dividers: @saradika-graphics

other places to find me:

tiktok: suz_din | IG: suzispunk | xiaohongshu: suz_din

MASTERLIST UNDER CUT

⬇️⬇️

Summary: You move from Texas to Boston to live with your boyfriend, but he dumps you soon after the move, and you’re forced to find your own place and get a job. You meet two men a few months later, Max Phillips, a regular at the coffee shop you work at, and Dave York, your neighbor. Things begin to heat up soon after.

(tw/cw will be posted with each individual chapter)

Dave York

The Equalizer 2

Belly of the Beast [ 1 ] x [ 2 ] currently ongoing

Mission Debriefing

Neighborly Affairs

Datura (+ Joel)

Joel Miller

The Last of Us

Jackson [ 1 ] x [ 2 ] complete

[no name]

Datura (+ Dave)

Home Is Wherever I’m With You

Max Phillips

Bloodsucking Bastards

Mad Max Phillips

Lucien DeLeon

The Uninvited

The Apartment

Cognition of Despair

Tim Rockford

Merge Mansion

One Day

[no name]

Javier Peña

Narcos

[no name]

Dieter Bravo

The Bubble

Washed-Up Has Been

(more will be posted asap)

#pedro pascal #fanfic #intro post #update #suz life updates #suz din

34 notes · View notes

happypedrohours · 1 year ago

Text

Good morning, fellow Happy Pedro Hours partakers! We hope you had a great night and we're looking forward to the next one aka tonight, June 22nd!

The first pit stop after a night of fun with friends is definitely some hot drink to wake up and face the day, so we asked some of our writer friends what they think Pedro Boys would drink and they came up with some brilliant ideas that you will find under the cut.

Jack has neat black coffee because he doesn't see why you should add anything else. Except whiskey, of course.

Shane doesn't like coffee but he's been known to sneak a white mocha frappucino when nobody is watching.

Javi G, being very European, would do a cappucino in the morning but if he wakes up later in the day, he'd switch to an espresso with a bit of sugar in it.

Or Javi G would drink a cortado.

Pietro Alvarez will do a double espresso with almost an equal ratio of sugar.

Maxwell Lord skips the coffee because he's already way too wound up on a regular day, so maybe he'd go for a decaf or just some tea.

Marcus Moreno doesn't drink too much coffee in a day because it doesn't always agree with his stomach. He'll have a plain cup in the morning at time, but if he stops at a coffee house, he'll try a cappucino because Missy always raves about it.

Tim will drink black at the police station because the coffee isn't any good so leyt's not even consider that powdery creamer, but if he orders at a coffee shop, he'll sometimes go for some cream in it.

Joel Miller (pre-outbreak) drinks Folgers because it was on sale. He adds his cream and 2-4 spoons of sugar (depending of it he had to bail Tommy out of jail or back him up in a fight or threaten to fight a kid because they gave Sarah a weird look). Joel is that dad, we love him for it.

Joel Miller (post-oubreak) drinks any coffee he can find, even beans are welcome. He stays awake and doesn't have to deal with his nightmares.

Or Joel would drink weak American coffee in like a tub

Din might drink caf if Grogu has kept him up when he was trying to sleep while the ship was in hyperdrive, otherwise he sticks to water. Very practical.

Dave York is a man who "closes deals" so to speak. He has some fancy Italian blend that he tells his secretary to get him and he hides it from Carol and the kids because he wants to be the only one who has it. Also too expensive to share.

Or Dave York is a coffee snob, interested in different roasts and beans.

Ezra is happy to have anything that will keep him awake so he can keep an eye on his pod. Taste doesn't matter. If he's ever able to relax, he might like some caramel. It's not too fancy but not too basiceither.

Frankie drinks Lifer juice (black coffee). Dark roast, though, he needs to be wide awake. Benny was making taco jokes all night and he dozed on the couch and has a crick in his neck. We're taking volunteer applications to give him a massage.

Strong coffee for Frankie, I can actually see him going for like a triple or quadrupple espresso when given the chance.

Or Frankie takes his coffee just black and strong.

Oberyn would go for some tea or herbal infusion instead.

Dieter drinks any and every sweet thing you can put in six shots of expresso to keep him awake and with a grin for this next scene with the actor he left with one of his monogrammed butt plugs up their ass and did not call the next day.

Or Dieter drinks "extra everything, cream, sugar, any of those coffee syrups if you have them."

Lucien has Cuban coffee with his cigarette in the morning and the afternoon.

Javier Pena drinks it black with a spoon of sugar or two because the Senora says he needs some sweet. He's a sucker for pleasing ladies, old and young.

Or Javi P obviously drinks Colombian coffee.

Thanks to @avastrasposts, @nerdieforpedro, @lady-bess, @for-a-longlongtime for their thoughts!

Do you have other coffee order headcanons for Pedro Boys? If so, we'd love to hear them! Drop us a comment to share them!

#happypedrohours #joel miller #din djarin #pedro pascal #frankie morales #javier pena #dieter bravo #lucien flores #shane #pietro alvarez #oberyn martell #dave york #tim rockford #maxwell lord #ezra prospect #jack whiskey daniels

61 notes · View notes

cosmicaura7 · 2 months ago

Text

SUCKING HIM OFF

Pairings : pedro pascal characters x reader

Genre : f/m, smut, oral (male receiving), overstimulation, men whimpering and moaning, cum swallowing, dirty talk,

Synopsis : You are the best wife he could ever ask for, especially when you’re on your knees just for him.

Clint Flood (Freaky Tales)

You’d know Clint Flood when he was just a hot-headed, leather-clad punk with a permanent scowl and knuckles always split open from fights he never started but always finished. Back then, people warned you he’d burn out fast, yet you didn’t listen.

Now years later, your last name matches his. And he still burns, and only for you.

The bedroom hums with the sound of flickering street lights outside. Cigarette smoke curls in the air, but Clint's not paying attention to anything but the way you're easing his jeans down, slow and deliberate. He's propped up on the creaky bed, shirt half-unbuttoned, hair disheveled like he's been running his hands through it for hours. He probably has and anticipation does that to him.

"Fuck, baby…" He breathes, voice rough and already wrecked, like you’ve only got to look at him the right way to bring him to his knees.

You smile, he doesn’t see it, not with your lips brushing against the base of him, not with your fingers wrapping around his length like it’s something sacred. He’s thick, heavy and already twitching against your palm, and when you kiss the tip, he jerks like you’ve struck a nerve.

"Keep your eyes on me." You whisper against his aching length. "Wanna see you fall apart."

And he does.

Clint tries to keep it together, the way he always does. Tough guy, scrappy survivor and too stubborn to break. But your mouth is warm and wet, your tongue tracing along the underside of his cock with precision that only years of knowing him could grant. You know what he likes, what makes him grunt low in his throat, and what makes him whimper, just a little, barely there when your lips sink down and your throat tightens around him.

“Jesus, sweetheart, goddamn…” His fingers tangle in your hair, not to pull but to anchor himself. His thighs are trembling now, the kind of tremble that starts deep in the gut and spreads outward like aftershocks. You hollow your cheeks and his hips buck despite himself.

“You gonna fall apart for me, baby? Gonna let me hear you beg?” You ease off just enough to speak.

The sound he makes isn’t a word, it’s a broken gasp, his pride splitting at the seams. And you love it, love him. Love the way your husband, who once stared down death with a grin, becomes nothing but needy in your hands, your mouth and your voice. He tries to answer but all that escapes him is a desperate whimper of your name.

He’s yours.

And you’re not stopping until he remembers that with every trembling breath.

Dave York (The Equalizer 2)

You know your husband’s body like you know your own. Every scar, every muscle carved from years of training, every place where he holds tension, shoulders, neck and thighs. Dave York moves like a ghost in the field, quiet and precise. A weapon with a wedding ring.

But here, in your bedroom, he’s anything but untouchable.

The room is dark, save for the amber spill of the bedside lamp. You’re on your knees between his legs, fingers curled into the waistband of his boxers, tugging them down as he leans back against the headboard. He watches you, eyes low-lidded and glassy, the weight of the day falling off him in slow, heavy waves.

“I missed you today.” You murmur as you wrap your hand around his cock, already hard, flushed, and pulsing in your grip. “Did you miss me?”

“Always.” Dave swallows thickly.

You smile up at him. There’s something so thrilling in how he says it, like he means it with every inch of his soul. But actions speak louder, don’t they? You lean forward, lips brushing over the sensitive head, tongue teasing the slit until he hisses and his legs twitch on either side of you.

“Baby…” He warns, voice low and hoarse.

“Mmhmm?” You hum innocently, then slowly and torturously take him into your mouth. You feel him tense, always so in control even now but that control starts to slip as your lips stretch around him, sliding lower as your hand stroking what your mouth doesn’t yet reach.

Dave lets out a soft, strangled noise.

You live for that sound.

He always starts off so composed. Even now, his hands grip the sheets instead of your hair, like he’s holding on to the last thread of his restraint. You set a rhythm, slow, wet and relentless, tongue working with practiced ease. His hips jerk once, then again, and the curse he mutters is half-broken.

“F-fuck, baby... please...” There it is. That rasping breathless edge. You feel his thighs shaking now, muscles tight, his whole body caught between tension and surrender.

“Please what?” You pull off with a pop, eyes gleaming.

He looks down at you like a man torn in half. You’ve unraveled assassins like him before but only with bullets. But with him, you merely use your mouth, your body, and your love to slowly break him down into pieces.

“Don’t stop.” He murmurs, completely wrecked underneath your touch.

You obey because you love watching him fall apart. He trembles when you go deeper. He whimpers your name when your tongue swirls just right. You take your time. This isn’t about getting him off, it’s about watching him give in. Because only you get this version of Dave York. The real one, the one who comes undone not from fear or pain, but from love from you. And when he finally lets go, hips stuttering, mouth open in a silent groan and hands fisting in the sheets like he’s drowning, you take it all, moaning softly around him.

You stay there, stroking his thighs gently as he catches his breath, legs still trembling, eyes heavy with adoration and disbelief. “Goddamn.” He whispers, reaching for you.

“I love watching you fall apart.” You crawl up into his lap, straddling him, pressing your forehead to his as you couldn’t help but pepper small kisses all over his face.

“You always do it like you’re trying to kill me.” He then passionately kisses you like he means to marry you all over again.

“You know I’ll only kill for you, Dave.” You smirk as you bite down onto his bottom lip, making him groan. And you know that he’d die for you too.

Dieter Bravo (The Bubble)

There are two versions of Dieter Bravo.

The one the world knows, chaotic, mouthy and beautiful in a way that makes people stop and stare. He’s wild and unpredictable, with that swagger that’s part actor, part man-child and entirely him. He lives in the spotlight like it was made just for him.

And then there’s your Dieter. The one who melts under your hands and crumbles under your mouth. The one who turns breathless and wrecked when he’s beneath you, not above the world.

That’s the version you’re staring at now.

He’s flat on his back, sprawled across the hotel mattress with that lazy stoned grin faltering as you settle between his thighs. His curls are a mess, pillow-mussed and falling into his eyes, and the tattered hem of his oversized vintage tee just barely covers his belly. “Babe…” He murmurs, like a warning and a plea all at once. “You’re not playing fair.”

“I never do.” You smirk, trailing your fingers up his thigh.

He shudders when your touch brushes over his cock, hard, aching and already leaking for you. He always gets like this when you tease him, when you let your voice dip into something low and sweet and filthy. And when you wrap your hand around him, he actually gasps, eyes fluttering closed, lips parting like he’s trying to remember how to breathe.

“Holy shit…” He whispers and it’s adoring, like he can’t believe he gets to be loved by you this way.

You lower your head and take him into your mouth slowly and deliberately. You feel the tension coil through his body immediately, his legs twitching, his hands flying to grip the sheets rather than your hair. Because he knows the rules. He’s not allowed to rush this, not when you’re the one taking control.

“Baby…” He whines, breathless and high, and you moan around him just to feel the reaction ripple through his spine. It’s a full-body surrender.

Dieter Bravo, Hollywood’s favorite disaster, reduced to trembling under your touch. You know exactly what you’re doing, tongue flicking just right, cheeks hollowing as you take him deeper. And when you glance up, his head is thrown back, mouth open, curls clinging to damp skin.

“You’re so f-fucking good at that.” He groans, voice cracking. “Like evil, genius-level good, are you…oh my God…!”

“You’re shaking.” You pull off just long enough to catch your breath, lips swollen and slick.

“I can’t feel my kneecaps.” He says in a helpless little breath, blinking down at you. “I…I love you. I think you might be killing me and I’m totally okay with it.”

You smile and wrap your lips around him again. This time, he whimpers. Hands gripping the sheets, thighs twitching under your touch, hips stuttering despite himself. You keep going, keep worshipping him, until he’s begging, until his voice goes hoarse and wrecked with your name and pleading for mercy. He finishes with a desperate moan, back arching off the bed, everything trembling. And when you finally crawl up to curl against his chest, he wraps his arms around you with a shaky laugh.

“I love being married to you.” He breathes, still dazed.

“I know.” You grin against his neck.

Din Djarin (The Mandalorian)

The metal clatters softly as you set his helmet aside. No ceremony. No hesitation. Just your fingers and his breath, both trembling with need. Because this moment? It’s sacred. You’re the only one who gets this. The only one allowed to see the man beneath the beskar, the raw edges, the soft underbelly of the Mandalorian. And tonight, you plan to remind him exactly what that means.

His armor is gone. His voice is bare. And you’re on your knees in front of him, nestled between his legs in the dim golden light of the Razor Crest’s cabin, your hands slowly parting his thighs.

Din watches you like he’s trying to commit every second to memory. His hair’s messy from your fingers, his brown eyes dark and wide, blinking like he still can’t believe this is real. “You don’t have to…” He rasps, voice strained.

“I want to.” You tilt your head, smiling. That breaks something in him. You see it in the way he exhales and leans back slightly, bracing himself with his hands behind him. Trusting you completely. You can feel his thighs already trembling beneath your palms as you press a kiss just above the waistband of his trousers.

“You work so hard.” You murmur, breath warm against his skin. “Let me take care of you.” When you free him, he’s already hard, thick, flushed and twitching with anticipation. You wrap your hand around him first, slow and steady, watching his jaw flex as he tries to stay composed. But when you lick a long stripe from base to tip, his composure shatters.

“Cyar’ika…” He whispers, voice like sandpaper. “Please…” You take him into your mouth and his head falls back immediately. He’s quiet at first, he always is. But not from lack of feeling. No, Din Djarin feels deeply. You feel it in the way his fingers twitch against the bedding, in the slight helpless jerk of his hips when your tongue circles the tip just so.

But then comes the sound. That sweet, low whimper in the back of his throat. It makes your thighs clench, makes you moan around him and that vibration pulls another broken groan from his lips. “You’re shaking.” You whisper when you pull off briefly, saliva connecting you to him in a glistening thread.

His brows pinch together, eyes blown wide. “I…I can’t help it. You’re…” He trails off as you take him back in, deeper this time. One hand on his thigh, the other working in tandem with your mouth. He starts to fall apart fast, all that control melting like ice under twin suns.

The whimpers grow louder and more desperate. His thighs tremble uncontrollably beneath your touch and when he reaches for you, it’s not to stop, it’s to ground himself. To feel you while you undo him completely. “Mesh’la…” He groans. “I’m close, I’m…please…”

You don’t stop. You never do. Not until he’s gasping, falling apart with a low, broken cry of your name. He spills into your mouth with a shudder so intense his whole body tenses and jerks, and you hold him through it, swallowing everything, slow and soft and loving.

When you finally rise, Din pulls you into his lap, arms wrapping tightly around you like he’s terrified you’ll vanish. “You ruin me.” He whispers against your temple.

“You’re mine to ruin.” You smile into his neck. And in that quiet space, skin to skin and hearts still pounding, he lets himself believe it.

Ezra (The Prospect)

Out here, the air always tastes like dust and danger. The stars above don’t shine so much as stare and the only thing keeping you tethered is the man currently trembling beneath your hands.

Ezra, your husband, your ghost in the green, your last tether to something warm in this brutal system, has long since shed the layers of his armor. His suit lies half-unzipped around his waist, chest bare, breathing ragged. His eyes are wide and glassy, pupils blown as he watches you settle between his legs in the cramped little corner of your ship’s sleeping berth. “I fear, darling.” He says, voice breathy and tense. “You intend to destroy me.”

“I do.” You smile, leaning in to press a kiss just above his hip bone.

He huffs a laugh but it falters halfway out as your hand wraps around his cock. He’s already hard, flushed and thick tip glistening with need. Ezra’s always so careful with you, his voice, his touch, his words measured with precision. But down here, beneath your hands, he’s undone.

You stroke him slowly and deliberately, feeling the tension coil in his abdomen as his thighs twitch beneath you. He’s trying to stay still. You can see it in the way his knuckles grip the edge of the mattress, white and shaking. “Please…” He murmurs. “Don’t tease me tonight, my love.”

“But you’re so pretty when you whimper.” You tilt your head, your voice soft and playful.

That does something to him. His breath catches, hips jerking forward involuntarily as your tongue flicks over the tip. You lap up the salt, humming low in your throat and the sound pulls a broken noise from him, half-moan and half-begging. “Stars, gods above.” He gasps. “You…ah!”

You take him deeper, sinking your mouth over him slowly, lips stretching around his length. One hand cradles his thigh as the other wraps around his base, moving in tandem with the swirl of your tongue. He’s falling apart fast, as he always does with you.

Ezra has survived gunfights, betrayals and poison in his lungs, but it’s this, your mouth, your love and your relentless focus, that truly unravels him. The way your tongue flattens along the underside of his cock, the wet heat of your mouth, the deliberate pace of it all. It's not just lust, it’s devotion and worship. He’s trembling now, hips stuttering, soft whimpers breaking free with every breath. He’s too far gone to stop the sounds and you love it. Love the way his voice goes high and desperate. Love that the universe only sees the floater, but you’re the only one who gets this side of him behind closed doors.

“My stars, please…” He groans. “You’re going to, fuck! I can’t…”

You moan around him in response and he breaks. He spills into your mouth with a strangled gasp, thighs locking around you as his hands claw at the sheets, chasing the end with all the grace of a man utterly ruined. You take every drop, never pulling away, not until he’s fully spent, breathing ragged and dazed. When you finally rise to curl beside him, he wraps an arm around you, pulling you close like he’s afraid the world might steal you away.

“You are a cruel and wondrous woman.” He whispers, voice shaky with the aftermath.

“And you’re mine.” You smile into his skin. And in the silence that follows, as the ship drifts on through alien stars, Ezra presses a kiss to your temple and murmurs the only truth he’s ever believed in anymore.

“Yes. Always.”

Francisco Morales (Triple Frontier)

Your husband’s built like a fortress. Calm under fire and solid under pressure.

Francisco “Catfish” Morales has always been the guy others count on, reliable, grounded and dangerous in all the ways that matter. But here, in the quiet of your bedroom with the door shut and the world kept out, he doesn’t have to be any of that.

Because here with you, Francisco lets go.

He’s sitting back against the headboard, shirt off, sweatpants pushed low on his hips. His broad chest rises and falls a little too fast, and his eyes, dark, warm and heavy with love, track every movement as you crawl onto the bed, settling between his legs.

“You’re staring.” You tease, fingers brushing up his strong thighs.

“You’re beautiful.” He says without hesitation, voice already fraying at the edges.

“You’re nervous.” You smile, slow and knowing.

He exhales a shaky laugh. “You’re too good at this. Every damn time.” You don’t answer. You kiss the inside of his knee, soft and slow, and watch the way his abs tighten when your hands slide up to his waistband. He’s already hard, straining against the fabric. You ease his cock free, and he lets out a low needy groan when your fingers wrap around him.

“Relax…” You murmur. “Let me take care of you.”

And gods, does he try.

You lick the head first, just a teasing flick of your tongue, and he jolts. His hand flies to the sheets, gripping tight. You press open-mouth kisses down his shaft before taking him in slowly, your mouth warm and wet and loving.

Francisco chokes on a breath, thighs tightening around you. He always starts off quiet, trying to keep control but you know how to undo him. Your tongue swirls, your rhythm builds, your hand strokes what your mouth doesn’t reach. And then he makes that sound. A low soft whimper that escapes his throat before he can stop it. You glance up, eyes meeting his, and he looks so wrecked. Head tipped back, lips parted, a flush creeping up his chest. His hand hovers, torn between grabbing your hair or just holding on.

“Baby…” He pants. “I…I’m not gonna last.”

You moan around him in answer, hollowing your cheeks and dragging a groan from his chest so raw it makes your whole body ache with pride.

He trembles under you now. His composure is shot, hips twitching, thighs shaking and voice dissolving into little broken gasps of your name. You love this version of him. Not the soldier, not the man behind a wheel but the man who trusts you enough to fall apart.

“Fuck, please! Don’t stop…” He begs, feeling completely wrecked, and that’s all it takes. He comes hard, with a stuttering moan that dissolves into a whimper. You don’t stop until he’s finished, twitching in your mouth, gripping the sheets like they’re the only thing anchoring him to earth. You finally pull away, wiping the corner of your mouth and crawl up to kiss his shoulder. He wraps you in his arms instantly, body still trembling.

“Jesus.” He whispers hoarsely. “You always…God, baby…”

“I love making you lose control.” You nuzzle into his chest.

He chuckles, voice thick with afterglow. “I’d let you ruin me any day.” And in that quiet moment, wrapped in his arms with the world outside forgotten, you know that no matter what else comes, Francisco Morales is yours entirely.

Harry Castillo (The Materialists)

The city glittered beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, Manhattan was draped in diamonds and light. The penthouse you shared with Harry was all cool stone and warm shadows, the quiet buzz of night muffled by wealth and glass. But inside, the only sound was your husband’s breath, shaky, shallow and growing more desperate by the second. He was sitting on the velvet chaise at the foot of your bed, shirt unbuttoned, trousers undone. The usual sharp edges of his persona, the tailored suit, the smirking control and the unreadable poker face, had already begun to crack.

Because you were on your knees between his thighs and he knew what you were about to do. He looked down at you like he couldn’t believe it. That after the champagne galas, the art auctions, the millions signed away with a flick of his pen… this was still his favorite luxury.

You.

“You’re dangerous.” He murmured, voice low and words already coming out breathless.

“Then stop me.” You tilted your head, lips grazing the inside of his thigh.

He swallowed hard, eyes fluttering shut as your fingers wrapped around his cock. Already hard for you, always aching for you, his chest hitched with the first slow stroke. But when your mouth followed, lips parting as you took him in with a practiced ease, that control, the tight grip he kept on everything, slowly began to slip.

“Shit!” Harry gasped, one hand flying to your hair, not pushing, just anchoring, like he needed the touch to survive. “Baby, you…God, your mouth…”

You hummed around him, dragging your tongue along the underside of his cock. He whimpered at the sensation, that sharp gasp of his breaking into something soft and needy, utterly unlike the man he was in public. He trembled as you took him deeper, one hand sliding up his abdomen as his head tipped back against the velvet. He always looked expensive, even like this, his tan skin flushed, tie hanging loose, chest rising with shaky breaths. But you? You made him wrecked, completely unguarded and utterly yours.

“Please.” He whispered, voice cracking. “I can’t! I’m gonna…”

You didn't let up. If anything, you sucked harder and slower, teasing him right on the edge. His thighs began to shake beneath your palms, muscles twitching as you bobbed your head, hand stroking in rhythm. His moans spilled freely now, soft, broken and delicious.

Then came that sound. Your absolute favorite. A helpless trembling whimper from your husband’s lips as he finally surrendered to you. He came with a groan that dissolved into your name, thighs locking around your sides as he spilled into your mouth. You held him through it, taking everything he gave you, your fingers digging into his hips to ground him. When it was over, he slumped back, chest heaving. His hand slipped from your hair to cradle your cheek.

“You…” He rasped, voice ruined. “You are the death of me.”

“No, darling. I’m the reason you’re still breathing.” You wiped the corner of your mouth and smiled. And as you crawled into his lap and curled against his chest, Harry Castillo held you like he never wanted to let go, trembling still, undone by love dressed as sin.

Jack “Whiskey” Daniels (Kingsman)

The soft creak of the wooden floor beneath your feet echoes as you slowly make your way across the bedroom, your silky nightgown brushing your thighs like whispered promises. Jack’s eyes follow your every move from where he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, hat off, hair slightly messy, white dress shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal the dusting of chest hair you love to nuzzle.

“Darlin’...” He drawls lowly, voice thick with affection and heat. “What are you up to with that look on your face?”

You don’t answer right away. Instead you slide between his knees, your palms gliding up his strong thighs, feeling the tension already building under your touch. His breath hitches, and he swallows hard, the tip of his tongue wetting his lips. “I just want to take care of my husband.” You purr, fingers teasing the belt buckle he hadn’t even gotten the chance to undo yet. “You’ve had a long day. Let me make it better.”

Jack’s hands instinctively move to your shoulders but you bat them away gently, giving him that commanding look he secretly loves so much. He leans back slightly, giving you the room you need while you work, opening his jeans and pulling them down just enough to free him. He’s already half-hard but the moment your tongue flicks along the underside of his shaft, he stiffens fully in your hand. “Shit…” He groans, eyes fluttering closed.

You hum around the tip, savoring the way his body reacts instantly, his thighs clenching, breath catching. You take him deeper, inch by inch, keeping your pace slow and steady, your eyes never leaving his.

Jack looks like he’s trying so hard to keep his composure but you can see it slipping with every pass of your tongue, every deep pull that has his hips twitching toward your mouth. “God, baby… You’re too good at that.” He whimpers, his Southern accent thickening as his grip on the bed sheets tightens.

You moan around him, feeling the subtle tremors that start in his thighs and work their way upward. His muscles are taut, like a bull rider trying not to be thrown, but you’ve tamed him long ago. “Please…” He gasps, voice wrecked now, head tipped back. “I-I can’t take much more, sugar…”

But that only spurs you on. You love watching him come undone, Agent Whiskey, the charmer with a gun and a grin, reduced to a shaking mess beneath your mouth. It’s intoxicating. You increase your pace slightly, one hand stroking what your mouth can’t take while the other massages his thigh, grounding him. He’s trembling now, hips jerking despite himself, soft broken moans spilling past those perfect lips.

“I’m…fuck! I’m gonna…”

You don’t let up. You want it all. You want to feel the exact moment he falls apart for you. And then it happens, his entire body goes taut for a split second and he cries out your name like a prayer, one hand fisting in your hair, the other gripping the sheets like a lifeline. You swallow everything he gives you, only pulling back once he’s gasping and twitching from overstimulation. You sit back on your heels, licking your lips slowly, just to tease him.

Jack’s chest heaves, sweat glistening on his brow, his shirt open now and clinging to his damp skin. He looks at you with glassy eyes, a shaky smile tugging at his lips. “Jesus Christ, woman.” he breathes, reaching down to pull you up into his arms. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

“Only the sweetest death there is.” You laugh softly, settling into his lap and pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“You better be ready to be repaid in full, darlin’. ‘Cause I ain’t letting you get away with that.” He chuckles, low and warm.

“I’m counting on it.” Your grin widens as you wrap your arms around his neck.

Javi Guttierez (The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent)

Your husband is a man of passion. He loves big, talks fast and feels everything. Javi Gutierrez is made of velvet emotion and fire-drenched sincerity, and in the privacy of your sunlit villa, behind golden curtains and marble walls, he gives every ounce of it to you.

But tonight, you’re the one who wants to give.

He sits at the edge of your bed, long curls still damp from a shower, his linen shirt hanging open, the soft light from your chandelier bathing his skin in gold. Javi’s eyes are wide as you sink to your knees before him, your hands on his thighs, your gaze locked with his.

“Mi amor…” He breathes, chest rising fast. “What are you…?”

“Let me worship you tonight.” You lean forward, kissing along the soft lines of his stomach.

That’s all it takes.

Javi’s voice catches in his throat. His hands hover awkwardly and reverently, like he’s afraid to break the spell. His cock is already half-hard in his pants and you make quick work of freeing him, palming him gently, marveling at the weight and heat of him in your hand. He watches you with that same awe he reserves for perfect film endings and rare collectibles like you’re a dream he hasn’t yet earned. But he has, he always has. You take your time. Your mouth is soft, your tongue deliberate, and he falls apart almost immediately. One hand fists in the sheets behind him, the other gripping your wrist as if to steady himself.

“Dios mío…” Javi moans, hips twitching under your touch. “You’re going to kill me.”

You hum around him, lips stretching into a smile, and he whimpers, actually whimpers, like he’s helpless against you. That sound sparks something hot and pleased in your chest. He’s a man who talks poetry, who commands respect, who lives in luxury and leads with kindness. But when he’s in your mouth, trembling and flushed, all he can do is feel.

“Please…please, cariño.” He gasps, his Spanish spilling between moans. “No pares. No pares, por favor…” Your hand strokes in tandem with your mouth, your lips moving wetly over him, savoring every twitch and shake of his body. Javi’s thighs tremble, his chest heaves and his voice, it’s ruined, barely coherent and calling your name like a prayer.

“I’m…ah, I’m going to…!”

You moan again, sending vibrations down his cock, and that’s it. Javi spills into your mouth with a strangled gasp, thighs tightening, hands fumbling to cradle your head as if to hold you in place through the pleasure. His cries are raw and broken, his usually lyrical voice reduced to ragged breaths and overwhelmed whimpers. You swallow every drop, slow and reverent, and only pull away once he’s fully spent. He collapses back on the bed, eyes wide and glassy, curls sticking to his flushed forehead. You crawl up beside him and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“That was…holy. You are holy, my love.” Javi stares at you like he’s still falling in love all over again.

“You say that every time.” You laugh, brushing his hair back.

“Because it’s true.” He whispers, pulling you close. “And every time, it’s more true than before.” And when he kisses you slowly and thankful, tasting himself on your lips, there’s no doubt that in his eyes, you are not just his wife.

You are everything.

Javier Peña (Narcos)

You know the weight he carries. The long nights, the empty bottles and the lies that crawl under his skin and make a home in his bones. Out there, he’s a man with a badge and a gun, sharp eyes and a faster mouth, always walking the line between justice and rage.

But here, in your bedroom, he’s just Javi.

And tonight, you want him to feel something good and something real. He’s already undone a few buttons of his shirt by the time you settle on your knees between his legs, your hands gliding up his thighs. His breath catches like it always does when you touch him there, just above the buckle of his belt, fingers warm and teasing.

“Baby…” His voice is hoarse and warning, but weak.

“Let me.” You glance up, eyes locking with his.

He swallows, jaw tight, like he wants to say no, like he wants to act in control but his hands fall to his sides, fists clenching the sheets instead. That’s all the permission you need. You unbuckle his belt, pull his slacks open. He’s already getting hard and you haven't even kissed him yet. The pride that swells in your chest is molten and possessive. This man belongs to you and you’re going to remind him. You wrap your fingers around him first, stroking slowly, watching his breath stutter. He’s always so warm in your hand, heavy, pulsing and achingly responsive. Then your mouth follows. The moment your lips close around the head of his cock, Javier groans, low and broken. His hips jerk slightly, legs tensing beneath you and one hand slips into your hair but he doesn’t push, not yet, for now he just holds, as if grounding himself.

“Fuck…” He mutters. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

You hum in response, swirling your tongue and taking him deeper. Every sound that slips from his throat spurs you on, the hitched breaths, the quiet curses and the soft gasp when you moan around him. Then he whimpers. It’s faint, almost swallowed by the sound of your mouth on him but it’s real. You glance up again and he looks so wrecked. Dark eyes glazed, his jaw slack, chest rising like he’s trying not to cry. His thighs tremble beneath your touch.

“You’re so fuckin’ good at this.” He breathes, voice shaking. “Too good.”

You pull back for a moment, just to whisper, “That’s the point.” Then you suck him deep, hollowing your cheeks, stroking him with your hand in tandem. Javier groans like he’s falling apart, his fingers tightening in your hair. And when he comes, he practically shakes. Hips jerking, thighs quaking, head thrown back as a raw cry breaks from his chest. You take it all, not stopping until he’s twitching, completely spent, and softly panting your name like a prayer. You pull off gently, licking the corner of your mouth and crawl up into his lap. He immediately wraps his arms around you, burying his face in your neck.

“Jesus…” He whispers, voice still wrecked. “You’re gonna kill me one day.”

“Not kill you, Javi. Just keep you alive.” You smile, running your fingers through his hair. And for once, he doesn’t have a smart reply. He just holds you closer, trembling still and lets you love him.

Joel Miller (The Last of Us)

The world’s quiet tonight.

The fire in your safehouse crackles low, shadows dancing along the walls. Joel sits on the edge of the mattress with his back to you, elbows on his knees, shirt sticking to his back from the long day’s heat. He’s tired. You can see it in the way his shoulders slump, the way his hands hang loose between his legs. But you also see the tension. That wired stillness in him. He’s always carrying something too heavy for one man, guilt, pain and survival. And even with you, it never quite leaves his bones.

So you cross the floor, kneel behind him, and press your hands to his thighs. Joel flinches, just slightly, but he doesn’t stop you. You trail your hands up, around to the button of his jeans and he lets out a low breath. “What’re you doin’, baby?”

“Let me take care of you.” You whisper.

He doesn't answer. Just leans back a little, enough for you to slide between his legs, enough for his body to say what words won’t, yes, God fucking yes. You work his jeans open slowly, feeling the way his breath shifts when you graze over him. He’s already hardening beneath your touch, already aching for the softness he only lets you see. You pull him free, thick and heavy in your hand, and look up at him. His jaw is clenched tight, eyes shut like he’s trying to hold something in. You give him one slow stroke and his thighs tense on either side of you.

“Damn…” He mutters under his breath, barely audible. “You gonna make me beg?”

You just smile. Then you take him into your mouth. Joel grunts, low and gravelly, hand flying to your hair out of reflex. Not to push, not to guide bust to hold. Anchor himself as your mouth sinks lower, your lips warm and wet around him, your tongue teasing every inch.

“Shit!” He rasps. “That mouth…” You work him slow at first, bobbing your head with a rhythm that builds, steady and hungry. His hips shift with you, not thrusting, but twitching when you suck him harder, your hand stroking what you can’t take yet. Joel’s breathing grows ragged. His free hand clenches the sheet beneath him. The muscles in his thighs start to tremble.

Then you hear it, his voice cracking. A whimper pulled from deep in his chest, like it slipped past his defenses before he could choke it down. You moan around him in response and he shudders. His grip in your hair tightens, his whole body going taut. “Fuck, baby…please.” He groans. “I can’t…‘m close…”

You don’t let up. You suck him deeper, sloppier now, stroking him in time with your mouth. And Joel falls apart. He comes with a broken moan, hips stuttering, thighs shaking around you, a low whimper tearing from his throat as he spills into your mouth. You take it all, every last drop. When you finally pull back, Joel looks like a man undone. Hair damp, chest heaving, sweat clinging to his temple. You crawl into his lap and rest your head on his shoulder and he wraps both arms around you without a word.

Just breathless whispers. Just comforting heartbeats. Just him and you.

After a long silence, he whispers. “You’re the only thing in this world that still feels good.” And you hold him tighter, knowing you’ll keep giving him that, again and again, until the world ends or he’s finally free.

Marcus Acacius (Gladiator II)

The armor always comes off slow. Piece by piece, you help him shed the weight of war. The heavy cuirass first, the thick leather straps, the shoulder guards smudged with the dust of the Colosseum. It’s a quiet ritual by now, your hands sure, his eyes always watching you like he can’t quite believe you’re real.

“Hard day?” You ask softly.

Marcus exhales through his nose. “Victorious.” He mutters. “But I feel no lighter.” That’s all he says. That’s all he ever needs to say.

You guide him to sit, still shirtless and flushed from the heat of battle. The moonlight slips through the balcony curtains and washes over him in silver. He looks like something sculpted by the heavens, beautiful but tense and tired. But you know how to undo him. You drop to your knees before him, your hands gliding over his strong thighs. He stiffens, slightly startled. “You don’t need to…”

“I want to.” You interrupt, voice low and sure. “Let me have this, Marcus.”

His jaw clenches. Always so composed. Even now, his war-hardened body is strung tight like a bow. But he gives a small nod, a sign of surrendering himself to you. That’s all the permission you need. You unlatch the leather waistband of his under-tunic, eyes never leaving his. He’s already getting hard, and you stroke him slowly and deliberately, watching his breath hitch as your hand wraps around him. He tries not to react at first. The stoic soldier in him holds the line.

Until your mouth replaces your hand.

Marcus shudders. “Gods…” He groans, one large hand flexing at his side, the other twitching like it wants to bury itself in your hair but can’t quite dare. “You’re… wicked.” You hum around him and he jerks, hips jolting forward as a broken sound slips past his lips. It starts quiet. A low growl. But with every stroke of your tongue, every wet glide of your lips around him, Marcus’ composure begins to crack. His thighs tremble under your palms. He tries to brace himself, feet planted, spine straight but his breaths come faster and shorter. You suck him deeper, easing him slowly to the back of your throat and that’s when it happens.

A soft wrecked whimper leaves him, not loud but real. Your strong towering husband, the scourge of Gaul and Rome’s favored son, whimpers for you. You glance up and see him undone, flushed face, wide eyes and jaw slack as if he doesn’t recognize the sound he just made. “Don’t stop.” He pants. “Please…”

You don’t. You take him in again, deeper this time, hand stroking what you can’t reach. He’s losing it now, gripping the edge of the carved wooden bench, knuckles white, muttering curses in Latin between hitched breaths. “Dulcis deorum.” He gasps. “I…I'm going to…ah!” He comes hard, trembling with it, thighs shaking as he spills down your throat with a cry that borders on a sob. You don’t pull back until he’s spent, until his body finally slackens, overcome by the pleasure you dragged out of him like a blade from its sheath.

When you rise and crawl into his lap, Marcus clutches you like a man who barely survived. He buries his face in your neck, his voice hoarse against your skin. “You undo me. More than any enemy ever could.”

“Good. That’s how I like you.” You smile into his hair. And he laughs, quiet, breathless and grateful, as you cradle your war-god husband in the arms of peace.

Marcus Moreno (We Can Be Heroes)

The house is quiet tonight. Missy’s with her cousins having a sleepover. The city’s at peace for once. And Marcus, your dear husband, is home for the night, not just physically but fully present, all the weight of his armor and his responsibilities finally set aside. You find him in the bedroom, fresh from the shower, towel hanging loose around his hips, dark curls still damp. He looks at you the way he always does when the world fades, like you’re his grounding point, his true north.

“Hey, sweetheart.” He smiles, soft and tired.

You don’t answer, not right away. You cross the room, letting your fingertips graze down his chest, slow and silent. You feel the way his breath catches when you dip lower, nails gently teasing down his stomach. Marcus watches you, his expression already shifting into a curious one and albeit a little flustered as well.

“Sit.” You whisper. He obeys without question, lowering himself to the edge of the bed. You kneel before him. His eyes widened slightly, his body stiffening. “You sure? We don’t have to…”

“I want to.” Your voice is firm and certain. “Let me take care of you, Marcus.”

His throat bobs with a swallow. “Okay.” You tug the towel from his waist slowly and reverently, exposing him. He’s already half-hard from just your attention, so responsive as always. You stroke him gently, feeling him thicken under your hand, watching the muscles in his thighs twitch.

You lean in and kiss the tip of him, and Marcus groans quietly. “God, babe…” You take him into your mouth slowly, inch by inch. You use your hand at the base, matching the rhythm of your lips. He gasps when you swirl your tongue along the underside of him.

“Fuck…” He mutters, already unraveling. You look up at him and what you see makes your heart thrum. His head is tipped back slightly, brows drawn together, breath stuttering. You keep going, slow and focused, letting the room fill with wet, quiet sounds and the softest little noises from him.

Then comes the first whimper. It’s small and raw. He tries to bite it back but it breaks out of him anyway, half-lost in a shaky moan. Your husband, the brave, calm and ever-gentle Marcus, whimpers under your mouth.

“Baby…” He gasps, hand finding your hair but not guiding, just holding, holding like he’ll lose himself if he doesn’t. You hum around him, suck him deeper, and his thighs begin to shake. His whole body is quivering now, his composure slipping with every pass of your lips. “Please, I…God, I’m gonna…” He chokes out.

You don’t stop. You want this, want him to let go, to fall apart in your care. And when he comes, it’s with a desperate cry, trembling beneath your hands, moaning your name like he can’t hold anything back anymore. You stay with him through every pulse, every broken breath until he’s spent and shivering in the best way. You pull back, licking your lips and crawl up into his lap. He clutches you instantly, arms wrapping around your waist, burying his face in your neck.

He breathes you in like you’re oxygen. “Every time…” He whispers, voice still rough. “You make me feel so damn safe.”

You kiss his temple and smile. “That’s because you are.” And he holds you tighter, trembling still, your name a soft chant on his tongue.

Marcus Pike (The Mentalist)

Your husband is always a gentleman. He opens doors, brushes your hair back from your face, brings you flowers even after the longest days. Marcus Pike, art crimes agent, hopeless romantic, doting spouse, always composed and always in control.

But tonight… tonight you want to take that from him.

He’s home late, tie loosened, jacket tossed carelessly on the armchair. His shirt half-unbuttoned already, revealing that smooth chest you know so well. He looks tired, yes, but when he sees you, waiting on your knees at the foot of the bed, something shifts in his expression.

“Sweetheart? What are you…” His voice trails off.

You smile, slow and wicked. “Sit.” Marcus’s throat bobs, yet doesn’t say anything and merely obeys. You rise just long enough to undo his belt, his button, his zipper, deliberate, patient and dragging it out. You can feel the tension roll through him but he doesn’t stop you. His breath stutters when you tug his pants and briefs down, freeing him, already hard and already flushed.

“You don’t have to…”

“I want to.” You murmur, stroking him once and slowly, watching his hips twitch. “Let me take care of you, Marcus.”

His eyes flutter shut at your touch. “God, I love you.” Then your mouth replaces your hand. Marcus lets out a sound halfway between a gasp and a moan, his hand flying to your hair, not to push, just to anchor himself. His breath comes fast and unsteady, as you swirl your tongue along his shaft and suck him in deeper.

“Shit, baby…” He pants.

You hum around him, slow and steady, building a rhythm. He’s falling apart already, trying to stay composed, trying to be your sweet calm husband. But it’s slipping. You feel it in the way his thighs tighten under your hands, in the way his hips shift forward without meaning to. When you take him deeper, your throat relaxes to accommodate him, that’s when it happens. A sharp whimper escapes him. Your name tumbles out of his mouth right after, broken and needy. You glance up, his head’s tipped back, flushed face lit by the warm glow of the bedroom lamp, lips parted in helpless surrender. You press one hand to his stomach, keeping him grounded and work him harder, your mouth, your hand, your tongue driving him to the edge.

“I’m close.” He gasps. “I…oh, please, I’m…!”

Marcus comes with a deep, wrecked moan, his whole body trembling, thighs shaking as you swallow him down. His voice cracks around your name, and for a moment, all he can do is hold on. You ease him through it gently, until he’s panting and pliant, fingers still buried in your hair. When you crawl up into his lap, he wraps his arms around you like he never wants to let go.

“You make me lose my mind.” His voice is hoarse when he speaks.

You smile against his jaw. “That’s the point.” And he laughs, soft and breathless, kissing your forehead like you’re the greatest thing he’s ever known.

Max Philips (Bloodsucking Bastards)

You always know when he’s had a long night. Max saunters in, lips still red from feeding, suit crisp as ever. He acts like the king of every room he walks into, even when it’s just your living room, low-lit and humming with quiet anticipation. You’re curled on the couch, waiting with a silk robe draped over your shoulders like a second skin.

“Miss me, sweetheart?” He grins with that wicked sharp smile.

“Maybe.” You arch a brow.

He’s beside you in a blink, using that vampire speed of his but you don’t flinch, you never do. He might tower over everyone else but with you? Max softens, just a little, that cocky confidence wavers under your gaze.

“You look like you need to relax.” You murmur, fingers already brushing along his belt.

He huffed a laugh. “You offering to rub my shoulders, babe? Or…?”

“Not exactly.” Your fingers undo his belt with a practiced flick.

Max stills, eyes beginning to burn with lust and desire. “Oh.”

You rise, guide him backward until he sits, sprawled out on the couch like some smug executive on a throne. But even he can’t hide the hitch in his breath when you sink to your knees between his legs, hands on his thighs, mouth tilted in a sinful smile. “Let me take care of you tonight.” You say, voice honey-slick and low.

Max watches you, something hungry and reverent in his eyes. He starts cocky because he’s always cocky. “You know, I usually like to be in charge…” You trail your nails up his thighs. He groans softly and less smug now. You make him wait. You kiss his inner thigh, his hip bone, teasing him until he’s squirming beneath your touch. His hand curls into the couch cushion, trying to stay cool.

But you see the twitch in his jaw, the flicker in his eyes and the way his fangs slightly descend when he exhales hard through his nose. “Still in charge?” You whisper, voice feather-light.

He swallows hard. “You’re playing dirty.”

“You like it.”

You finally give him what he wants but on your terms, your pace and your rhythm. You drag it out until he’s trembling, his cock throbbing under your touch, his breath stuttering with every slow wicked pass of your mouth. The bravado slips first. Then the smirk. Then the whimper, quiet, and bitten off but real.

“God, please…” He rasps. “You’re… killing me here.”

You glance up at him, lips slick, eyes sharp. “You’re already dead, Max.”

He laughs, choked and breathless, and then moans again when you swallow him down deeper. He’s trembling now, every part of him was. The vampire who usually has people begging him? Was now begging for you, whimpering your name like a prayer and hands fisting helplessly at his sides. And when he finally lets go, it’s like the world shatters. He spills into your mouth with a cry, a broken desperate sound you know he’d never make for anyone else. When it’s over, you crawl into his lap, straddling him while he recovers.

“That was… you’re insane.” Max’s voice is hoarse.

You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You married me.”

“Best bad decision I’ve ever made.” His fangs flash and he kisses you like he’s starving.

Maxwell Lord (Wonder Woman 1984)

The world always sees Maxwell Lord in control, slick, polished and commanding. The business mogul who bends empires to his will with charm and sheer ambition. But that’s not the man who stumbles into your shared penthouse tonight, tie crooked, energy drained and gold cufflinks still gleaming despite the weight in his shoulders. His eyes soften the moment they meet yours, exhaustion giving way to something more tender, a longing only you get to see.

You meet him at the door, cup his jaw in your hand and kiss him slowly and unhurried, letting your touch pull him back to earth. “Rough day?” You murmur.

“You could say that.” He chuckles low.

You trail your fingers down the front of his shirt, loosening the last buttons one by one. He lets you, he always does. That’s part of the magic, how he hands you the reins without a word. “You work so hard.” You say, voice barely a whisper, lips brushing his throat. “Let me take care of you tonight.”

His breath hitches. “Sweetheart…” But he doesn’t stop you, he never does.

You guide him to the edge of the bed, sit him down. He watches as you kneel between his legs, wide-eyed now, hands twitching with restraint. It’s not every day the king kneels before the queen but he looks at you like you are his goddess. “Relax.” You whisper, working open his belt. “Let go for me.”

“You know I can't say no to you.” Max swallows thickly.

You smirk. “I’m counting on that.” You take your time. He’s always been a man of theatrics and spectacle but here, like this, it’s the quiet that breaks him. The soft sounds of your breath, the glide of your hands, your mouth wrapping around him with slow devastating precision. He groans, head falling back. You suck gently then deeper, letting your tongue drag along his length, your pace maddeningly slow and controlled. He’s the one who usually negotiates, commands and most of the time wins, but now he’s gasping, trembling under your touch, undone by nothing but your mouth and the soft scrape of your nails along his thighs.

“God, baby…please…” He doesn’t even know what he’s begging for but he knows he just wants more, more from just you. Your name spills from his lips in a whimper, helpless and reverent. That control he wields in boardrooms and on live TV? Gone. You watch him break beautifully. Every shaky exhale, every desperate buck of his hips, every whispered plea just for you. You hold his gaze when he comes apart, trembling violently, spilling with a cry into your mouth. His hands grab at the sheets, at the air, anywhere but you, because touching you might shatter him completely.

You only pull away when he’s too spent to breathe. He collapses backward and feeling completely boneless, hair damp with sweat, chest rising and falling in rapid uneven waves. You climb into his lap and he holds you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish, his anchor, his peace and his undoing. “Who’s in charge now?” You tease, kissing the corner of his mouth.

“I’d give you the whole world if you asked.” He huffs a weak laugh.

You smile. “I only ever wanted you.” And for once, Maxwell Lord is speechless.

Lucien De Leon (The Uninvited)

You can always tell when Lucien’s been fighting his ghosts. He slips in through the side door like he’s still half-lost in shadow, shirt soaked from rain, curls clinging to his forehead. His eyes are distant and hollow, almost, but they soften when they find you. You're the only thing in this world he believes might be real, might be good.

You take his hand without a word. Guide him through the darkened halls of your estate. You say nothing as you peel off his wet coat, undo the buttons of his shirt, kiss the bruises on his soul he refuses to name. He doesn’t resist, never with you.

Lucien De Leon, the same man the town gossips and whispers about, becomes something else in your presence, something quieter and fragile almost. You push him gently to sit on the edge of your bed. The storm outside throws shadows across his face, thunder rumbling in the distance. “Let me make you feel something else.” You whisper, fingers already working at his belt.

He opens his mouth to protest but no sound comes out, he just nods. You kneel between his knees, ghosting your lips over his stomach as you free him from the last layers of fabric. His breath catches, chest rising and falling in tight, shallow pulls. You can feel the tension wound through him, grief, rage and fear, and you want to unravel it, unravelling him. Your mouth wraps around him slowly and purposefully.

Lucien curses under his breath. He doesn’t make loud noises, he never has. He withholds but with you, that control frays. You work him with your lips and your tongue, dragging soft moans from him like secrets. His fingers twitch in the sheets, clenching when you suck harder, flick your tongue just right. His thighs tremble and his breath stutters. He whimpers your name like he’s praying with it.

“You’re safe.” You murmur between kisses along his length. “You’re mine.”

“Y-Yes…” He breathes, voice cracking. “Always.” You take him deeper and he gasps, sharp and broken. You see the tears shining at the corners of his eyes, not from pain but release. He’s not used to gentleness. He’s not used to this, being worshipped, cherished and made to feel. His whole body trembles as he spills, clutching at your wrist like a lifeline. You don’t move, you merely hold him through it, kiss him through it.

When you finally climb up beside him, he pulls you to his chest like he might fall apart otherwise. “Tell me I’m still here.” He whispers.

“You’re here.” You kiss his lips, his temple and his scars. “You’re mine. And I’ll always bring you back.” You say. Lucien closes his eyes, trembling still, but now it’s not fear, it’s surrender.

Oberyn Martell (Game of Throne)

The candlelight paints his skin gold. Oberyn lounges on silken cushions, robe half-undone, one leg lazily draped over the side of the bed. The warm breeze from the Dornish night carries the scent of sun-warmed citrus and sandalwood through the open windows but your eyes are only on him. Your husband. Your prince. Your ruin, if he had his way.

“You’re staring, my love.” He smirks when he catches you watching.

“I always do.” You murmur, stepping forward. “You like to be looked at.”

“Of course. I’m beautiful.” He says, shameless and grinning. But that smile falters, just slightly, when you kneel at the foot of the bed.

You part his robe with slow, reverent hands. He watches you with those dark molten eyes, like he’s daring you to continue. Testing the edges of your boldness. “You’ve been hunting all day.” You say, your fingers brushing his thighs. “But I think it’s time I hunted you.”

“Careful, my sweet. You may find more than you bargained for.” He raises a brow, his voice already rougher.

“I always do.” You whisper, lips ghosting along the sensitive skin of his hip. “And I always conquer it.” You begin slowly, too slowly for him. Your lips trace every inch of him that isn’t already kissed by the sun. Every breath he takes grows shallower and his hand tightens in the sheets, not in command but restraint. He is usually the one who takes lovers apart piece by piece, smiling as they unravel.

But this?

This is different.

You wrap your mouth around him, warm and slick and unhurried. Oberyn hisses between his teeth, hips twitching before he clamps down on the urge to move. His control is legendary, on the battlefield, in politics, in bed. But you know him. You know just how to undo him. You hum around him, slow and sensual, tongue teasing in maddening circles. His head tips back against the cushions.

“Gods…” He breathes. “You…”

You don’t let him finish. You deepen the rhythm, watching him unravel. The Red Viper trembles beneath your hands, knees slightly shaking as his composure slips. A groan escapes him, rich, needy and vulnerable. “Look at you.” You purr between strokes. “So powerful. So desperate for me.”

Oberyn whimpers, a sound that would never escape his lips for anyone else. “You’ll be the death of me.” His voice is raw.

You glance up, lips slick, smiling. “Then die slowly, my love.” He moans again, deeper now, as his body tenses, shaking with the edge of release. His thighs flex, his hands grasp the bedclothes like a drowning man reaching for shore. You hold him there, trembling, breathless, whispering praises against his skin until he finally lets go with a cry, a sound ripped from his throat like confession.

When it’s over, he collapses back, dazed, eyes glazed and chest rising fast. You kiss his thigh, then his stomach and crawl up beside him. He pulls you close, flushed and breathless, eyes still wide with wonder. “Seven hells…” He whispers into your hair. “Remind me never to anger you.”

“Oh, but I want you trembling.” You laugh softly against his skin.

And Oberyn, wild and untamable to the world, whispers into your ear.

“Only for you.”

Pero Tovar (The Great Wall)

They call your husband a brute behind his back.

A killer.

A sword arm.

A grumbling wall of muscle and scars.

And he is to them. But to you? Pero Tovar is something else entirely. That’s why he says your name so quietly when he returns from the battlefield, armor dusted in ash and sweat. That’s why his hands fall to his sides when you approach, letting you take the blade from his belt, the weight from his shoulders. That’s why he doesn’t flinch when you push him gently into a chair, eyes burning into his, your touch firm and loving.

“You’re safe now.” You whisper, fingers sliding under the layers of his armor, tugging each strap loose. “Let me take care of you.” He watches you with the wary awe of a man who’s never known softness, never been allowed to need. But he nods, always for you.

You kneel before him slowly. His breath hitches at the sight. “Mi amor…” His voice is gravel, either a warning or a plea, you can’t tell.

You smile, kiss the scarred skin at his hip as you work to open his trousers. “Let me worship you.” Your mouth is hot, soft and reverent. You take him slowly and deliberately, letting your tongue drag with practiced intent. His hands clench on the armrests, shoulders tightening.

“You don’t have to be strong here.” You murmur against his length causing him to shudder. You deepen the rhythm, taking him farther, letting him feel everything, the wet heat of your mouth, the tenderness behind every movement. He’s panting now, breath broken, gaze locked to you like he doesn’t know whether to beg for mercy or more. You hollow your cheeks and suck harder.

And your husband whimpers. The sound is raw, torn from somewhere deep, the kind of sound no one has ever heard from him but you. His thighs shake and his hands tremble. He whispers your name like a vow, like it’s the only thing tethering him to this world. “Please…” He gasps, not even sure what he’s asking for.

You don’t stop. You want him to fall apart. You want this hardened warrior to break for you and he does. His whole body arches forward as he spills, jaw slack as a moan half-choked in his throat. You don’t pull away until he’s utterly undone, ruined at your feet, breathless and wide-eyed.

When you rise and cup his flushed face, he leans into your touch like a man starved. “I don’t deserve you.” He murmurs in a ragged breath.

You kiss his lips, slow and deep. “You deserve to be loved, Pero. Even the strongest men fall.” He buries his face against your shoulder, arms wrapping around you tightly, trembling, vulnerable and utterly yours.

Always.

Reed Richards (Fantastic 4)

Reed’s mind is always elsewhere. Equations trail behind his eyes even when he’s beside you in bed. His thoughts stretch as far as his fingers, reaching through time, gravity and theoretical dimensions. He’s a genius, yes. But more often than not, he forgets he has a body, that he too has needs as well.

That’s where you come in.

He’s distracted tonight, brow furrowed as he pours over holographic data screens in the lab, fingers tapping out calculations so fast they blur. But when you step in barefoot, in nothing but one of his shirts and a look he can’t quite decode, you see the way he stalls. You feel the change. “Reed.” You say, soft and steady, walking toward him. “You're thinking too loud again.”

“I’m just finishing one last model…” His mouth quirks.

You slide between his legs where he sits on the bench stool. “No, you’re not.” He blinks. And when you press your palm to his chest, warm and grounding, you watch his whole system short-circuit. You kiss him, slow and sweet. He sighs into your mouth, fingers twitching like he wants to reach for something but doesn’t know what.

So you kneel. He exhales a shaky breath. “Darling…”

You look up, your hands already easing his waistband open. “Let me take care of you.” He groans, not just from pleasure but from surrender. Because when your mouth wraps around him, Reed’s brilliant mind goes blank. He braces his hands on the table behind him, knuckles white. His breath catches and you feel it, the tension, the vulnerability he keeps locked away with science and logic. You stroke him slowly, lips tight, tongue circling just right until his legs begin to tremble beneath you.

“You’re incredible…” He murmurs, voice already cracking.

You hum around him, watching the flush bloom across his cheeks, the way his hips jerk despite his best efforts. He's falling apart for you, Mr. Fantastic, greatest mind in the galaxy, reduced to gasps and moans under your tongue.

“Please…” He breathes, voice thin and high. “I c-can’t…” He whimpers when you don’t stop. That’s what you want, not just his body but his surrender. When he finally comes, it hits him like a wave. You feel the quake of it through his thighs, the ragged groan pulled from his throat, the raw need in how he says your name.

Afterward, he pulls you into his lap, arms wrapping tightly around you. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.” He whispers into your neck.

You smile, brushing his hair back. “You don’t need to solve that one.” And for once, Reed Richards doesn’t have an answer. Just soft kisses and gratitude.

Tim Rockford (Merge Mansion)

It always fascinated you, how Tim could stay so calm and so controlled, even when the world was crumbling around him. The headlines, the secrets, the ever-present mystery of that damned mansion he’s been assigned to investigate.

But not here and certainly not with you.

Here, in your quiet bedroom, beneath warm lamplight and linen sheets, he isn’t Detective Rockford. He’s just Tim, your dear lovely husband. And when you step between his knees, eyes focused, fingers gently brushing his collar, you see the walls start to crack.

“You’ve been too tense lately.” You whisper, brushing your lips against his. “Let me help you forget.”

“You always see right through me.” He exhales shakily, already affected.

You smile. “I always see you.” You kiss him again, slow and deliberate as your hands glide down his chest. He starts to speak but the words catch when you sink slowly to your knees in front of him. Your hands find his belt and he makes a sound low in his throat, fingers twitching against the edge of the bed.

“You don’t have to do this.” He murmurs, though his voice is already fraying.

You look up through your lashes. “I want to.” And then your mouth wraps around him, warm and tender, taking him in with slow reverence. His breath punches out in a gasp, head falling back against the headboard. He’s so used to controlling, to orchestrating the chaos but now, he’s unraveling in your hands.

You suck gently, tongue flicking in delicate circles. His thighs tense as his hands fist the sheets. “God…” He chokes out, voice already trembling. “Sweetheart…” You hum around him, loving the way his legs begin to shake, how his chest rises in ragged bursts. Tim Rockford, whose face could lie to the world, now moans brokenly just for you.

“Please.” He whispers, barely audible. “I c-can’t…!” He whimpers, sharp and desperate, and that’s when you know you’ve taken him to the edge. You don’t stop until his whole body tenses, hips jerking forward with a deep, shuddering cry of your name. You hold him there, letting him fall apart in your mouth, your hands, your care. When it’s over, he collapses back, completely silent except for the shaky breaths and the soft, awed whisper. “You ruin me…”

You climb into his lap, kissing the corner of his damp temple. “I put you back together too.” You whisper.

And he nods, resting his forehead against yours, trembling arms wrapped tightly around your waist. “I know.” He says. “You always do.”