EATING YOU OUT
Pairings : pedro pascal characters x reader
Genre : f/m, smut, oral (female receiving), overstimulation, edging
Synopsis : He is a devoted husband in every sense of the word. But when it comes to you, his pretty wife, there’s one thing he simply can’t get enough of.
Clint Flood (Freaky Tales)
Clint had always been a man of few words. He never needed them, not when his actions spoke louder, not when he could show you exactly how much he adored you with the way he touched you, worshiped you. And God, did he worship you.
You barely had time to register the way he pulled you into bed, hands gripping your thighs, parting them with a desperation that made your breath hitch. Clint had that look in his eyes, the one that said he was about to ruin you and the one that made your body tremble before he even laid a finger on you.
"Been thinkin’ about this all damn day." He muttered, voice rough with hunger as he pressed kisses up your inner thigh. His scruff scratched against your skin, sending shivers up your spine.
Your fingers threaded through his messy hair as he settled between your legs, inhaling deeply, like the scent of you alone was enough to drive him mad. His large hands gripped your hips, pulling you closer to his mouth and before you could say anything, his tongue was on you, slow, deliberate and savoring. "Clint…" You gasped but he only groaned in response, the vibrations making your thighs twitch around his head.
"You know better than to talk, sweetheart." He murmured against you, his tongue flicking over your clit in a way that made your breath stutter. "Just let me take care of you."
And he did.
Clint was relentless, devouring you with an obsession that left you weak. He licked, sucked and nipped, memorized every little sound you made, every little movement of your hips. He wanted you shaking, coming undone on his tongue, over and over, until you were too blissed-out to do anything but whimper his name. His grip on your thighs tightened when you tried to move away, too overwhelmed by the pleasure but he wasn’t letting you go, not yet. "Stay still, baby." He murmured, voice thick with need. "Ain't done with you."
Your back arched as his tongue worked you over again, teasing, torturing, until you were gasping, pulling at his hair, your body trembling under him. He ate you like a man starved, like he’d never get enough of you because he wouldn’t. And when you finally shattered, thighs clamping around his head, your body shaking with the force of your release, Clint only groaned in satisfaction, licking up every last drop of you like it was his lifeline.
As you lay there, boneless, breathless, he kissed his way back up your body, his lips brushing over your heated skin, smirking against your cheek. "Still with me, pretty girl?" He teased, his voice full of pride. You could barely form words, still floating in the haze he’d left you in. But Clint? He was already thinking about the next time because once would never be enough. Not when it came to you.
Dave York (The Equalizer 2)
Dave York had many obsessions, precision, control and more. The satisfaction of a perfectly executed plan. But none of them compared to you. And more specifically, the way you tasted. It was the one thing that shattered his discipline, made him reckless and made him a goddamn fiend.
Tonight was no different.
You barely had time to process before Dave had you spread out on the bed, your silk nightgown pushed up to your waist, his broad shoulders wedged between your thighs. He wasn’t even pretending to take his time, he needed this, needed you.
The first swipe of his tongue was slow, deliberate, a groan rumbling deep in his chest as he tasted you. “Fuck.” He muttered against your skin, his grip tightening on your thighs. “How do you get sweeter every time?”
Your fingers tangled in his hair as he devoured you, licking into you like a man starved. The heat of his mouth, the flick of his tongue, the way his scruff rubbed against your sensitive skin, it was too much. “D-Dave.” Your voice was already shaking, your thighs trembling around his head but that only seemed to spur him on.
He growled, a deep, needy sound, and wrapped his arms around your thighs, locking you in place. “Not done yet, sweetheart.” As if you had any say in the matter. He feasted on you, tongue circling your clit before sucking it into his mouth, making your back arch off the bed. You whimpered, thighs trying to snap shut but his grip was bruising, his strength impossible to fight.
“That’s it.” He murmured, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your swollen cunt. “Give me everything, baby.”
Your body obeyed, hips rolling against his face, chasing the high he always pulled from you. And when you finally broke, when pleasure crashed over you so violently your entire body trembled, Dave didn’t stop, didn’t let you go.
You tried to push at his shoulders, whimpering from overstimulation but he just laughed, pressing his tongue flat against your clit again. “Who told you we were done?” He murmured against your soaked heat. “I’ll stop when I’m finished.” And you knew, there was no stopping him now. You were his and he was going to ruin you.
Dieter Bravo (The Bubble)
Dieter had many vices.
Drugs? Sure. Booze? Of course. Attention? Absolutely.
But nothing compared to his addiction to you. Specifically, your pussy.
It was almost ridiculous how often he had his face between your legs. You could be doing anything, reading, scrolling through your phone, even talking to him about something completely mundane and suddenly, Dieter would get that look in his eyes. That lazy hungry gaze.
Like now.
You were sitting on the couch, dressed in nothing but one of his old t-shirts, scrolling through your emails. You barely noticed Dieter shifting beside you, draping himself over your lap, nuzzling against your thighs like a cat begging for attention. It was when he pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh that you finally glanced down.
“D…” You sighed, already knowing where this was going. “I’m busy.”
Dieter hummed, completely ignoring you, nosing the fabric of your shirt up so he could kiss higher, closer. “You can’t really be that busy.” He murmured against your skin. “Not too busy for me, right, sweetheart?”
“You literally ate me out this morning.” You arched a brow.
“And? That was hours ago.” Dieter grinned, nipping at your thigh. You sighed but the anticipation was already pooling low in your stomach. Because you knew Dieter wasn’t going to give up. He never did.
With a content hum, he hooked his arms around your thighs and pulled, dragging you down until you were half-sprawled against the couch. You let out a soft yelp as he pushed your legs apart, settling between them like a man ready to worship at the altar of his favorite religion. “I love this pretty little pussy.” He murmured, eyes dark as he ran his fingers along your already damp folds. “I swear baby, I could die between these thighs and be the happiest man alive.”
“You’re insane.” You let out a breathless laugh.
Dieter smirked. “I’m just a man who knows what he likes.” And with that, he dove in. His mouth was hot, tongue slow and deliberate as he licked a long, teasing stripe up your slit before wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking.
“Fuck, Dieter…” Your head fell back against the couch. He groaned against you, like he was savoring the taste, like he’d been starving for this. Because he was. He never rushed. Never got bored. Never stopped until you were a shaking, whimpering mess underneath him.
And tonight? He was taking his time.
Din Djarin (The Mandalorian)
It was late aboard the Razor Crest, the hum of hyperspace a soft backdrop to the warmth cocooning you within your shared bunk. The dim glow of the overhead lights bathed the cramped space in shadows but none of it mattered, not when you were beneath him.
Din had you sprawled out on the thin mattress, his beskar discarded, his helmet resting on the shelf beside him. His dark eyes were fixed on you, hungry and full of devotion, as he pressed kisses along the inside of your thigh. His gravelly voice, thick with need, sent shivers through your already trembling body. "You're shaking, cyar’ika." He murmured, lips ghosting over your sensitive skin. "And I haven't even started yet."
Your fingers curled into the sheets as you whimpered, your body betraying you. The sheer intensity of his gaze, like you were the only thing in the galaxy that mattered, left you breathless. "Din, please." You whispered, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart.
A low chuckle vibrated against your thigh. "So needy." He murmured, dragging his tongue over your skin, slow and teasing. "You know I love it when you beg."
You gasped as his hands gripped your hips, pulling you closer, trapping you beneath his unyielding strength. And then he devoured you. His mouth was hot and relentless, tongue swirling, lips sealing over you with an insatiable hunger that left you writhing beneath him. You cried out, arching against him but his grip tightened, holding you down and forcing you to take it.
"You taste so fucking good, my riduur." He groaned against you, the vibrations sending shockwaves through your body. Your fingers flew to his hair, tugging, desperate for something to ground yourself. But Din only growled, doubling down, lapping you up like a man starved. His obsession with this, with you, bordered on madness. And you were helpless against it. Utterly and completely at his mercy.
Ezra (The Prospect)
Ezra has always been an indulgent man. The kind to savor his pleasures, to take his time. And when it comes to you? He’s downright ravenous.
It starts with a kiss.
It always does.
A slow, lazy thing, Ezra’s lips pressing soft and warm against yours as he pulls you into his lap. His hands, calloused and sure, trace the curve of your spine, skimming lower, gripping just enough to make you sigh against his mouth. "You’re too good to me, sugar." He murmurs, his breath ghosting over your jaw as his lips move lower. "Ain’t right, how lucky I got."
"And what did I do to deserve such praise?" You smile, threading your fingers through his hair.
Ezra hums, dragging his lips down the column of your throat. "Exist." And then he’s gone. Down, down, lower, his hands gripping your hips as he lays you back against the bed. The mattress dips beneath his weight, his broad shoulders parting your thighs as he settles between them.
And God help you, because you know what’s coming. Ezra is obsessed with your pussy. And he’s about to prove it.
He starts slow. Dragging his mouth along the inside of your thigh, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses to the soft skin there. Savoring, worshiping and teasing. "You’re soft everywhere, sugar." He murmurs, voice thick with hunger. "But this? Right here?" His thumb presses against your slick heat, parting you, and he groans. "This is my favorite part."
Your breath catches as he dips his head, his tongue flicking out to taste.
And then Ezra moans like he’s the one being pleasured, like he’s just been given the most decadent meal in the universe. His good hand grips your thigh, holding you open, keeping you spread and vulnerable for his mouth. He licks deep, dragging his tongue through your folds before wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking.
You jolt, your hands flying to his hair, thighs trembling around his head.
"Ezra!"
"That’s it." He rasps, pulling back just enough to press a wet kiss against your swollen bud. "Say my name, sugar." He licks again, slower this time, his tongue curling just right and you keen.
"God, Ezra!"
He groans against you, the vibrations sparking pleasure up your spine. His grip tightens, fingers digging into your flesh as he devours you, his mouth moving in slow, deliberate strokes, building you up, winding you tight. And then he flicks his tongue, fast and sharp, before sucking hard.
And you break. Pleasure crashes over you in waves, your body arching, thighs clamping around his head as you cry out his name. But Ezra doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down. He keeps going, keeps licking, keeps sucking, dragging out every last tremor, every last pulse of pleasure until you’re shaking beneath him, gasping, whimpering. Only then does he finally pull away, his lips glistening, his eyes dark and blown with hunger.
"You taste like heaven, sugar." He murmurs, pressing a kiss to your trembling thigh. "Think I might need another bite."
And then he dives back in.
And you?
You’re gone.
Francisco Morales (Triple Frontier)
Frankie wasn’t ashamed of it. Hell, he’d scream it from the rooftops if he could. He was obsessed with his wife’s pussy. It was his, after all.
And right now, he was devouring it like a man starved. His broad shoulders were wedged between your thighs, his scruffy beard scratching against your inner thighs as his tongue worked you over, slow and deliberate, savoring the way you squirmed beneath him. Your back was arched, your fingers tugging at his curls, your breath ragged as you tried and failed to keep up with his relentless pace.
“F-Frankie!” Your voice hitched as his tongue flicked against your clit, his arms tightening around your thighs, locking you in place.
“That’s it, baby.” He groaned, his voice gravelly, deep, vibrating against your soaked cunt. “Let me hear you.” You whimpered, legs trembling around his head, but he just held you tighter, lapped at you harder, his tongue dipping deep, tasting everything you had to give him.
“Always so sweet, honey. Always so perfect.” You shuddered, your body tensing, that familiar heat building, rising, coiling tight.
And then Frankie sucked your clit between his lips, his tongue swirling, flicking, pushing you over the edge. Your cry filled the room as you came undone, your thighs clamping around his head, your entire body shaking beneath him.
But Frankie wasn’t done, not yet. “One more, baby.” His voice was thick with hunger, his hands spreading you open again, his tongue diving back in before you could even catch your breath.
And the only thing you could do was take it like a good little girl.
Harry Castillo (The Materialists)
The penthouse was dimly lit, the glow from the city skyline casting soft shadows across the bedroom. Outside, the world was still alive, cars honking, sirens wailing, people laughing in distant bars but here, none of that mattered.
Here, it was just you and Harry.
And Harry was hungry. His hands were possessive, large palms gliding over your bare thighs as he spread you open beneath him. The warmth of his breath tickled your skin, sending a delicious shiver up your spine. “Look at you.” He murmured, eyes dark with need as he settled between your legs. “My perfect little wife.” His lips pressed to the inside of your knee, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses up your inner thigh. Every inch he covered made your heartbeat hammer against your ribs, your breath catching when his nose brushed against where you needed him most.
“Harry…” You whispered, already trembling beneath his touch.
His lips curved against your skin. He loved this, loved how eager, needy and utterly wrecked you became under his hands. He had barely touched you and yet you were already coming undone for him. “You know I can’t help myself.” He murmured, pressing a kiss to the softest part of your thigh. “Not when you taste so fucking sweet.”
And then, he devoured you. His tongue was hot, skilled, and utterly merciless as he dragged it through your slick heat. You arched off the bed, a cry spilling from your lips as your fingers shot down to grip his hair, holding on as he took his time tasting you.
Harry groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your core. He loved this. Loved the way your thighs tried to clamp around his head, the way you whimpered and gasped his name with every flick of his tongue. His strong arms wrapped around your thighs, keeping you spread for him as he feasted. Every slow, deliberate lap of his tongue had you trembling, your body coiling tighter and tighter with unbearable pleasure.
“Oh, god! Harry…” You gasped, hips bucking against his mouth. “I…I'm gonna…”
“Go on.” He growled against you, tongue pressing deep, voice husky with obsession. “Give it to me.”
And you did. Your body shattered, pleasure ripping through you so violently that you couldn’t even scream, just a silent, breathless cry as your vision whited out. But Harry wasn’t done. Even as you trembled beneath him, legs twitching, breath shaky, he kept going.
“Too much…” You whimpered, trying to pull away, but his grip tightened on your thighs, pinning you down.
“Uh-uh, sweetheart.” He rasped, looking up at you with hungry, darkened eyes. “I’m not done yet.” And then he dove back in, tongue relentless, dragging you into another devastating wave of pleasure.
You were his. His beautiful, perfect little wife. And he was going to worship you all night long.
Jack “Whiskey” Daniels (Kingsman)
Jack “Whiskey” Daniels prided himself on many things, his skill as an agent, his precision with a lasso, his ability to hold his liquor better than most men. But above all else, there was one thing he cherished, one thing he could never get enough of: you.
More specifically, the sweet little prize between your thighs.
And tonight? Tonight was no different.
You were sprawled across the bed, your body trembling beneath him, your breath coming in ragged little gasps. The silk sheets beneath you were already wrinkled, your fingers tangled in them as you tried to keep yourself together. But Jack had other plans. “Oh, honey.” He drawled against your soaked folds, his voice thick with amusement and hunger. “Ain’t no use runnin’ from me.” Your thighs jerked as his tongue dragged through your slick folds, his hands gripping the plush flesh to keep you still. He’d been down here for what felt like hours, working you over with that devastating mouth of his, taking his time like he had nowhere else in the world to be.
And for Jack, that was true. He had you all to himself, and he wasn’t going anywhere.
“J-Jack…” You whimpered, your voice wrecked and needy, barely a breath.
His cock throbbed at the sound, at the way you begged so prettily for him without even realizing it. He nuzzled against your swollen clit, letting his scruff drag against the sensitive skin before wrapping his lips around it and sucking.
You cried out, arching off the bed, your hands flying to his hair as your thighs instinctively tried to clamp around his head. But he was stronger and faster, he pinned your legs open with ease, spreading you wide for him. “Uh-uh, darlin’.” He murmured, looking up at you with dark, hazy eyes. “You know better than that. Let me see you.”
Your chest heaved as you met his gaze, your body quaking beneath him. He looked downright ravenous, his mouth and chin glistening with your slick, his pupils blown wide with hunger. “Prettiest damn thing I ever laid eyes on.” He muttered before diving right back in. His tongue worked you over, alternating between slow, teasing licks and deep, relentless strokes that had you seeing stars. He devoured you, like he was a man starved and you were the only meal he ever needed.
Your stomach tightened, pleasure coiling low, your muscles locking up as you felt yourself hurtling toward the edge. “Come on, sugar.” Jack murmured against you, his voice vibrating through your core. “Give me another one. Know you got it in ya.”
And oh, you did.
With one last flick of his tongue, you shattered. Your body seized, pleasure ripping through you as you sobbed his name, your vision going white-hot as waves of ecstasy crashed over you. Jack groaned against you, his grip tightening, holding you steady as he licked you through every last aftershock, determined to prolong your bliss for as long as he could. Only when your body finally sagged against the bed, spent and trembling, did he pull away. His lips were wet, his beard glistening, but that smirk was firmly in place as he crawled up your body, pressing his hard, aching length against your thigh.
“Think you got another one in ya, sweet thing?” He murmured, nipping at your jaw as one of his hands trailed between your legs, his fingers teasing your overstimulated clit. You whimpered, your entire body shuddering as a fresh wave of need coursed through you.
Jack grinned.
“That’s my girl.”
Javi Guttierez (The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent)
Javi Gutierrez had always been a devoted man. To his work, to his friends, to the things he loved. But nothing held his devotion quite like you did. Especially when he had you like this. Sprawled out on the bed, limbs trembling, thighs spread wide for him as he buried his face between them like a man starved.
He wasn’t even pretending to pace himself tonight. From the moment he laid you down, he had been relentless, tongue hot and wet as it flicked over your clit, his lips sealing around the swollen bud just to suck, pulling desperate whimpers from your throat. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you still even as your body tried to escape the pleasure he forced upon you. You were shaking. Shaking beneath him, body writhing against the sheets, fingers tangled in his thick curls, tugging, pulling, pushing. Not that he ever listened to your weak attempts to get away. If anything, your resistance only spurred him on.
He groaned into your soaked heat, the vibration sending another shockwave through your already overstimulated body. “Tan dulce, mi amor.” He murmured, voice muffled as he licked a long, slow stripe up your slit before sealing his lips around you once more. “I could stay here forever.”
“Javi…” You whined, thighs trembling in his grasp.
But the plea was cut off by a sharp gasp as he slid two fingers inside you, curling them just right, his mouth never ceasing its delicious assault. His free hand splayed over your stomach, feeling the way your muscles tensed beneath his touch. “Give me one more.” He coaxed, voice thick with arousal, tongue circling your clit in slow, deliberate movements. “One more, cariño, I know you can.”
You didn’t stand a chance against him. Against his tongue, his fingers, the overwhelming hunger he had for you. And when you finally shattered, crying out his name, Javi moaned like he was the one coming undone, lapping up every bit of your pleasure as if he could drink you in. Even as you lay there, panting, skin glistening with sweat, body too spent to move, he still wasn’t satisfied. Because you were his favorite meal.
And Javi Gutierrez never left a plate unfinished.
Javier Peña (Narcos)
Nights with your husband had always felt like a dream, heavy with warmth, golden with affection. But tonight, something different simmered beneath the surface. Javier had been watching you all day. From the way your sundress clung to your curves as you folded laundry, to the delicate stretch of your legs on the couch as you flipped through a magazine, lost in your world. He looked at you like a starving man, slow, focused and reverent.
And now you were lying in bed, bathed in the soft lamplight of your shared room. A breath caught in your throat as he hovered above you, still fully clothed, yet somehow already unraveled by you. “Javi…” You whispered, fingers curling around the front of his shirt.
“Shh, baby.” He murmured, kissing the center of your chest with quiet, burning reverence. “Let me take care of you.”
You swallowed, heart racing, as he trailed kisses lower, slow and deliberate, fingertips skimming down your sides as if he were learning your body all over again. “You’re always so good to me.” He whispered, his voice rough and low. “Always so damn beautiful. You have no idea what you do to me.”
Your breath hitched as he settled between your thighs, warm palms spreading them gently but firmly, like he couldn’t wait another second to worship you properly. And when his mouth met your skin, it wasn’t rushed. No, it was worshipful, slow, focused and obsessed. You gripped the sheets, legs trembling as he groaned into you like he was the one being undone. As if the taste of you was the only thing he ever wanted, the only thing he craved.
“Javi, oh my god!” You gasped, your voice catching as your body arched beneath him.
He didn’t stop. Not when your fingers tangled in his hair. Not when your legs threatened to close around his shoulders. And especially not when you were trembling beneath him, so sensitive you could barely breathe. He pulled back just long enough to kiss your inner thigh and look up at you with that devilish proud smirk of his. “You shaking, baby?” He teased, breath hot against your skin. “I’m not done with you yet.”
And when he kissed you again, slow and deep, you realized Javier Peña wasn’t just obsessed with you. He was starving for you. And he wasn’t stopping until you melted completely in his hands.
Joel Miller (The Last of Us)
Even after all these years, after all the ash, blood and grief the world had dumped at your feet, Joel Miller still looked at you like you were the last good thing left on Earth.
And tonight, he touched you like it too.
The house in Jackson was quiet, the walls still and the fireplace crackling low in the distance. Joel had returned home from patrol just hours earlier, his hands rough and cold from the snow, his body tense, his eyes tired. But the second he walked through the door and saw you curled up on the couch in nothing but one of his old flannels, your thighs peeking out and lips glossy from your nightly tea, something shifted in him. That dark intensity in his gaze sharpened, zeroing in on you like you were a meal he hadn’t had in days.
And truthfully?
He hadn’t. Not the way he needed to.
Which is exactly how you ended up like this, legs trembling around his broad shoulders, your fingers tangled in his salt-and-pepper curls as he buried his face between your thighs like a starving man at his last supper. “J-Joel…” You gasped, back arching off the bed as he moaned against your soaked heat, his tongue lapping up everything you gave him like it was nectar, his hands gripping your thighs tight, holding you open and in place.
“Shhh, darlin’.” He murmured against your skin, voice rough and low, vibrating right through your core. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere ‘til you’re shakin’ for me. You know that.”
He always said that. Every damn time.
And you always did.
Joel was obsessive in the way he worshiped you, taking his time, learning every inch of your body, every twitch, every gasp, every whispered plea. His beard scraped against the tender skin of your inner thighs and you felt it when he smiled, smug and greedy, like he could feel your pleasure in his own chest. He shifted slightly, dragging his tongue slow and deliberate, before sucking that sensitive spot in a way that made your whole body jolt.
“I-I can’t!” Your breath hitched.
“You can, baby.” He growled, tightening his grip, his voice wrecked with hunger. “Gonna come for me. Gonna soak my fuckin’ face like a good girl, huh?” You cried out, the coil inside you snapping, unraveling as your body shook beneath him, just like he wanted. Just like he always wanted.
Joel didn’t let up. He never did. He kept going until your thighs trembled and your lungs burned from how hard you were panting. It was only when your legs started to twitch from overstimulation that he finally pulled back, mouth wet and beard slick with you, eyes dark and blown wide. He looked like a man possessed. And you looked like a goddess completely wrecked. He kissed your inner thigh reverently, gently now, almost as if apologizing for how fiercely he’d devoured you.
Then he crawled up your body, slow and deliberate until his face was hovering above yours, eyes searching yours with that same intense affection that always managed to shatter you a little. “Don’t ever get tired of that.” He rasped, pressing his lips to yours, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. “Could do that every damn day ‘til the day I die.”
“You say that like you haven’t already been trying.” You let out a soft, breathless laugh, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.
“Damn right I am.” Joel grinned against your neck, pressing a kiss to your pulse.
Marcus Acacius (Gladiator II)
To the empire, you were his sweet delicate wife. A vision of beauty, grace and modesty, always draped in soft linen, eyes lowered in public and your voice rarely raised above a gentle whisper. The senators adored you and the noblewomen envied you.
But Marcus Acacius, Rome’s most brutal and revered general, knew the truth. He knew how you trembled in your shared bed. He knew how your soft moans sounded at midnight. He knew how you tasted when you were soaked and aching just for him.
And gods, he was addicted.
The lanterns burned low. The white marble walls of your bedchamber glowed gold in the candlelight, casting shadows that danced across their silken sheets. You sat at your vanity, brushing your hair, clad only in a thin white shift that clung to every curve. Marcus stood behind you, freshly bathed from the private spring, his broad body wrapped in a loose robe. His eyes devoured you through the mirror.
So soft. So sweet. So his.
You caught his gaze and smiled, shy and knowing. He stepped closer, large hands landing gently on your shoulders. You stilled as his lips brushed the shell of your ear.
“Lie down.”
Your breath hitched and obeyed. Marcus was slow with you. Reverent, like a man kneeling before his goddess. He pulled the thin shift over your head, letting it slip to the floor. You lay back on the cool linen sheets, your body already warm from anticipation.
He knelt between your thighs, his hands parting them with care but no hesitation. His eyes were dark with hunger. His voice, low and rough. “You don’t know what you do to me, carissima.”
You whimpered softly as his thumbs stroked your inner thighs, lips ghosting lower, breath hot on your already wet folds. Marcus kissed the inside of your knee. Then lower. Then lower still. Until his mouth found your aching dripping cunt. You cried out softly, hips jerking. But his arms wrapped around your thighs, keeping you in place as his tongue slid through your folds with slow, deliberate strokes. Your fingers gripped the sheets.
“Marcus…”
“Shhh.” His voice was muffled, buried between your legs. “Let me taste my wife.” He licked you like a man starved, like you were the only thing he ever wanted. And maybe you were. He didn’t rush. He worshiped. He kissed, sucked and flicked his tongue over your clit until your moans filled the room, your legs trembling against his shoulders.
“You’re shaking.” He murmured against you, voice dripping with satisfaction. “You feel how wet you are for me?”
You nodded frantically, hips lifting and chasing his mouth.
“Tell me.” He growled.
“You… you make me feel so good, Marcus. I…gods, I can’t!”
“Oh, but you will.”
He grinned, lips slick with you and dove back in with even more hunger. His tongue flicked faster now, fingers spreading you open, licking deep until you were writhing, panting, with tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. Your thighs shook violently and then you finally broke. You came hard, gasping his name like a sacred vow.
But Marcus didn’t stop. He lapped up every drop, sucking your clit until you sobbed from the pleasure, your voice hoarse from moaning out his name. “I love how you taste.” He whispered, dragging his tongue up slowly. “I’ll never get enough of you.”
And in that moment, as you lay boneless and quivering beneath your general, your husband, you knew the truth: Marcus Acacius may have conquered nations. But you were the only thing he would ever worship. And he worshipped you well into the night.
Marcus Moreno (We Can Be Heroes)
Marcus Moreno is a patient man. A disciplined man. A man of control. But when it comes to you? All that restraint shatters. Because he’s obsessed with you. With the way you fall apart beneath him. With the way your breath hitches when his lips graze your skin.
But most of all?
With the way you taste. It always starts the same way. A simple kiss, slow and lingering. Then another. And another. Until he’s got you spread out beneath him, his mouth trailing lower and lower. Until he’s right where he wants to be.
You whimper when he kisses the inside of your thigh, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine. “Marcus.” You sigh, fingers threading through his dark curls. “Please…”
He shushes you, eyes dark with hunger. “Patience, sweetheart.” Then, with a slow sinful smirk, he devours you. He loves this, loves how your thighs tremble around his head and loves how your back arches, how you cry out his name like a prayer. He lives for this. For the way you come undone, legs shaking, body writhing, completely at his mercy. And he’s not stopping. Not until you’re gasping. Not until you’re clenching your fingers in his hair, babbling, pleading and begging. Not until you’re so overstimulated that you have tears in your eyes.
Only then when you’re thoroughly wrecked and limp beneath him, does he finally lift his head, his lips glistening, his expression utterly feral. And when he leans up, pressing a slow, deep kiss to your lips, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.
He grins against your mouth. “Such a good girl.” He murmurs, voice thick with satisfaction. “Think you can give me another?” And despite the way your body still trembles you still nod.
Because Marcus Moreno?
He’s not done with you yet.
Marcus Pike (The Mentalist)
The soft glow of golden evening light spilled through the bedroom windows, casting warm lazy rays across the sheets that were still tousled from your earlier nap. The quiet hum of the city below faded into the background as your husband, Marcus Pike, leaned in the doorway, watching you stretch slowly across the bed like you were the most beautiful piece of art he’d ever laid eyes on.
His tie was already loosened, jacket tossed over the back of a chair, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. And that look on his face, soft and reverent, made your breath hitch.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” You asked with a small, teasing smile.
“Like what?” Marcus stepped forward, slow and deliberate, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“Like I’m about to be worshipped.”
He leaned down, bracing one knee on the edge of the bed as he brushed his knuckles gently along your cheek. “Maybe because you are.”
Your heart thudded at the low, husky tone of his voice, full of something tender, something hungry, something devoted. He kissed you then, slowly and deeply, like he had all the time in the world. The kind of kiss that melted your bones, made your skin tingle and reminded you just how safe and loved you were in his arms.
“Marcus…” You whispered, fingers curling into his shirt.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes serious but warm. “You know I could spend the rest of my life just appreciating you. Every inch. Every sigh. Every little sound you make when I touch you.” You’d been married long enough to know he meant every word. Marcus didn’t rush through intimacy, he savored it, savored you.
He was gentle but firm as he coaxed you to lie back against the pillows, his hands skimming down your sides as he took his time, memorizing every reaction you gave him. He kissed a trail down your body, murmuring soft words of praise, of adoration. His lips were warm, his stubble brushing over sensitive skin and every motion felt like worship. You gasped when he kissed your inner thigh, his breath warm and slow as he rested there, holding you like you were the center of his world.
“You always take care of me.” He murmured, pressing a reverent kiss just below your navel. “Let me take care of you tonight.” And you let him. You let him pour his love into you, every kiss and touch whispering the truth, that Marcus Pike loved his wife with every fiber of his being and that there was nowhere else he’d rather be than wrapped around you, worshiping you like you were his whole world.
And to him, you were.
Max Philips (Bloodsucking Bastards)
Marriage can change a man. At least, that’s what everyone told Max. He heard the horror stories, how the passion faded, how the excitement dulled, how men started avoiding their wives instead of worshiping them.
What a joke.
Because Max?
Max Phillips was obsessed with his wife. You were his pretty little thing, his perfect girl, his everything. And there was one part of you he loved the most.
It started like every other morning. You were barely awake, your body soft and warm against the sheets, wearing one of Max’s old t-shirts and nothing else.
Perfect.
His favorite way to wake up.
Max slid beneath the covers before you even registered what was happening. His hands pried your thighs apart, his breath hot against your skin.
"Max." You mumbled sleepily, shifting slightly. "What are you…?"
And then his tongue was on you. You gasped, your fingers clenching in the sheets as pleasure rocked through your half-asleep body. Max groaned against your heat, lapping at you like a man starving. He never got tired of this. The taste of you, the scent of you, the way your thighs tremble every time he sucked on that perfect little clit. It was everything. And Max was never satisfied.
By the time he was done with you, you were wrecked. Your body was trembling, your thighs still twitching from the aftershocks. You lay there, panting, eyes dazed as you tried to process what just happened. Max wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning down at you like the smug bastard he was. "Morning, sweetheart." He murmured, voice dripping with satisfaction.
"You’re insane." You groaned, throwing an arm over your face.
Max chuckled, leaning down to press a kiss against your still-sensitive core, just to watch you jerk from overstimulation. "You married me, baby." He reminded you, voice husky.
And as he slid two fingers inside you, grinning at your whimper. "You knew what you were getting into."
Maxwell Lord (Wonder Woman 1984)
Maxwell Lord was a man obsessed. To the world, he was a tycoon, a businessman, a man who commanded respect and wielded power like a weapon. But behind the closed doors of his penthouse, stripped of the expensive suits and the cutthroat deals, he was just a man desperate for you. And he had no shame in showing it. His mouth was already on you, hot and eager, his grip firm on your thighs as he spread you apart. The silk sheets crumpled beneath your trembling hands, your back arching at the first slow, deliberate drag of his tongue.
"Max…"
He groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your core. "You know better than to say my name like that, mi amor." He murmured, his voice a dark promise against your heat. "Not unless you want me to keep you here all night." His tongue flicked again, teasing, coaxing, tasting.
You did want that. You always wanted it. Your husband was relentless, worshiping you with a devotion that bordered on madness. It wasn’t enough for him to simply touch you, to make love to you, no, he had to devour you, to drown himself in you until he couldn’t breathe. And right now, he was starving. His hands tightened on your thighs, holding you in place as his mouth worked you over, slow and indulgent, like he had all the time in the world. He loved doing this to you. Loved feeling you unravel beneath him, loved the way you gasped and writhed and whimpered his name like a prayer.
"You taste so sweet, cariño." He groaned, his voice thick with need. "So perfect for me." Your fingers tangled in his golden hair, hips lifting, desperate for more. But Max was in control and he wasn’t going to let you rush him. Not when he could keep you on the edge for as long as he wanted. Not when making you fall apart was his favorite thing in the world.
Lucien De Leon (The Uninvited)
The estate was quiet now. The party had ended hours ago, leaving only the soft hum of cicadas and the occasional creak of floorboards beneath your bare feet. Moonlight spilled through the wide windows of your bedroom, casting silver shadows across the expensive linen sheets, catching in your hair like a halo. You were already in bed, curled beneath the silk covers, a book forgotten on your lap. But your mind wasn’t on the pages.
It was on him.
You heard him before you saw him, his measured steps down the hallway, the soft clink of his belt being undone, the rustle of his jacket as he shrugged it off. When the door opened, your eyes lifted and there he was.
Lucien.
His shirt was half-unbuttoned, his dark hair tousled from his hands, always tugging when he was stressed or when he was thinking about you, which lately, seemed like all the time. "Still awake?" He murmured, voice low and rough with something darker.
"Couldn’t sleep." You shifted onto your back, watching as he stepped into the moonlight, eyes raking over your form like you were a goddamn miracle.
Lucien crossed the room in slow, measured strides. You could feel the heat radiating off his body before he even touched you. “I saw you tonight.” He murmured as he knelt beside the bed, his hand reaching to slowly push the sheets down. “The way you looked in that dress, smiling, talking to everyone, pretending like I wasn’t five seconds from dragging you out of that ballroom.”
“You didn’t say much at the party.” You shivered under his stare, the heat in his voice licking over your skin.
He tilted his head, his hands already trailing up your thighs, gentle and reverent. “Didn’t trust myself to.” His fingers curled beneath the hem of your nightgown, pushing it up. “You drive me fucking insane, mi amor. All night, I could barely think. All I wanted was to get you alone.”
“Lucien…” You gasped as his mouth brushed against your inner thigh, soft slow kisses that made your toes curl.
His eyes flicked up, wild and tender all at once. “I married the most beautiful woman in this world.” He whispered. “And I will never stop worshipping her.” And with that, he buried his face between your thighs. The first stroke of his tongue was slow precise, like he was savoring you, like this wasn’t something rushed or expected. It was an offering. A ritual.
Your fingers tangled into his hair instinctively, back arching as he sucked gently on your clit, tongue circling with maddening patience. Lucien groaned against you, like he was starving, like this was what he craved most in the world.
He loved this. Loved how your thighs trembled around his face, how your hips bucked helplessly, how you whimpered his name like a prayer. He gripped your thighs tighter, pressing you down as you started to squirm, overwhelmed by the waves of heat crashing through your belly. "You always taste so fucking sweet.” He growled, voice muffled. “My pretty little wife… this is mine."
“Lucien…” Your voice was breathless, shaking, your body already close.
But he didn’t stop. If anything, he doubled down, flicking his tongue faster, rougher, his hands locking you in place as he devoured you like a man possessed. You were shaking now, legs trembling uncontrollably, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes from the intensity of it. You came with a cry, your entire body clenching as the world shattered into stars.
But Lucien didn’t stop. Even as you begged, soft stuttering, “too much” falling from your lips, he kept licking, moaning like he was the one being pleasured, like your shaking body beneath him only fueled his obsession.
“I’ll stop when I’ve had enough.” He murmured darkly, kissing your overstimulated folds, then licking slow and deep again. “But I’ll never get enough of you.” And you believed him. Because Lucien De Leon didn’t just love you, he worshipped you. Every inch. Every tremble. Every shattered breath.
And tonight, like always, he would ruin you, slowly, thoroughly and completely. And you’d let him.
Every. Damn. Time.
Oberyn Martell (Game of Throne)
The warm Dornish night wrapped around the palace of Sunspear like a silken embrace, the air thick with the scent of citrus and salt from the nearby sea. The moon hung high, casting silver light through the open balcony doors, the soft billowing of sheer curtains whispering against the stone. But inside the grand bedchamber, there was only heat.
Oberyn Martell lay between your thighs, eyes dark with hunger, lips curled into a lazy, sinful smile as he pressed a teasing kiss to the inside of your knee. His large hands held your legs open with ease, fingers tracing idle patterns against your flushed skin. "Look at you." He murmured, his voice like honeyed wine, deep and thick with desire. "So beautiful like this, my love. Spread out before me like a feast meant only for my lips."
You shivered beneath his touch, your breath hitching as he pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss against your thigh, dangerously close to where you needed him most. Your fingers tangled in the silk sheets, a desperate whimper escaping your lips as he deliberately avoided the place where you ached for him. "Oberyn." You gasped, hips shifting in silent pleas.
He hummed in amusement, his nose brushing against your inner thigh as he nipped at the sensitive skin, dragging his teeth along it before soothing the mark with his tongue. "Patience, sweet wife." He chided, though his own restraint was hanging by a thread. "I plan to savor you tonight."
And savor you he did.
His mouth descended upon you, his tongue flicking against your most sensitive spot with slow, deliberate strokes. The first contact sent a jolt of pleasure through your spine, your back arching off the bed as a breathless cry fell from your lips.
Oberyn groaned at the taste of you, gripping your thighs tighter as he buried himself deeper, drinking in every sound you made as if it were the sweetest melody. He licked, kissed, and sucked with expert precision, his tongue swirling in lazy circles before dipping lower, teasing, devouring.
Your fingers found their way into his dark curls, tugging desperately as the coil of pleasure within you tightened with every stroke of his tongue. He moaned against you, the vibrations sending another wave of pleasure crashing through your body.
"Oberyn, gods, please!" Your plea was met with a low chuckle but he didn't stop. If anything, he doubled his efforts, his hands pressing your hips down to keep you from writhing away from the overwhelming pleasure. He wanted you shaking beneath him, wanted to hear his name fall from your lips like a prayer, wanted to ruin you with nothing but his mouth.
And when you finally shattered, when your body trembled and arched and you cried out his name like it was the only thing you knew, Oberyn didn’t stop. He licked you through it, drawing out every last tremor until you were boneless beneath him, your body twitching with aftershocks.
Only then did he pull away, his lips glistening with evidence of his devotion as he crawled up your body, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. "Perfect." He murmured, voice thick with pride and desire. "But I am not yet done with you, my love." And with that, the night stretched on, filled with whispered praises, gasping breaths, and the relentless worship of a man utterly devoted to his beautiful wife.
Pero Tovar (The Great Wall)
The evening crept in quietly, the golden light fading behind the hills and casting a soft glow through the cabin windows. The fire crackled gently in the hearth, and the cozy warmth of their little home wrapped around them like a thick quilt. Pero had been watching you for a while, admiring the way your hair spilled over your shoulders as you finished the last few rows of his sweater. His heart, often guarded and rough around the edges, softened completely in your presence.
And now, he couldn’t resist you any longer. He set the knitted sweater aside carefully, eyes smoldering with a kind of hunger that only you could inspire. "Lie back for me, cariño." He murmured, voice low and deep with promise.
“Now?” You blinked up at him, lips parting slightly as a soft, knowing smile played on your mouth.
He leaned in, brushing his nose against yours. “Now…” He repeated, his fingers already slipping under the hem of your dress, coaxing you gently to lie back across your bed.
You complied as you sank into the pillows. Pero wasted no time, kissing a path down your stomach, worshipping your body with every press of his lips. He loved how soft you were, how you trembled when his stubble grazed your inner thighs, how you sighed his name like a prayer. “Relax, mi vida.” He whispered, spreading your legs with reverent care. “Let me take care of you.” And he did, thoroughly.
His strong arms wrapped around your thighs, holding you steady as he indulged in the sweet taste of the woman who made a hardened soldier like him feel utterly undone. Every flick of his tongue was precise, every kiss intentional and it wasn’t long before your breathing grew shallow, your hips subtly lifting to meet his mouth.
“Pero, oh gods…Pero, I… I can’t…” You tangled your fingers in his hair, gasping as waves of pleasure built and rolled through you.
But he didn’t stop. He was lost in you. Obsessed with how you responded to his touch, the way your thighs trembled against his cheeks, how your voice shook when you whimpered his name. He was a man on a mission. And his mission was to worship every inch of his pretty wife until you were trembling beneath him, completely undone and thoroughly loved.
And when you finally reached that peak, body quivering, hand clamped over your mouth to muffle your cries, Pero held you gently through every wave, his own name echoing in your voice like a song. When you collapsed back into the pillows, boneless and breathless, Pero kissed the inside of your knee, then your hip, then your belly before crawling up beside you and wrapping you tightly in his arms.
You were still catching your breath when you turned to him, flushed and glowing. “You’re insatiable.” You whispered with a sleepy smile.
“Only for you, mi amor. Always for you.” Pero chuckled, brushing a damp strand of your from your face.
Reed Richards (Fantastic 4)
Reed had always been a man of intellect, of science, of logic. But when it came to you? All reason was lost. It wasn’t just love, it was obsession. An insatiable hunger that had nothing to do with food and everything to do with the way your body trembled beneath him when he had his head buried between your thighs.
Tonight was no different. Your fingers tangled into his salt and pepper curls, back arching as his wicked mouth latched onto the sensitive bundle of nerves that had you gasping out his name.
“Reed, fuck!”
He groaned against you, his large hands pinning down your trembling thighs, refusing to let you squirm away from his torturous pace. “You taste so fucking sweet.” He murmured, dragging his tongue in a slow languid motion, savoring you like you were the finest thing he had ever had.
And to him? You were.
His brilliant mind, capable of unraveling the universe’s deepest mysteries, was reduced to one singular thought, his neverending devotion to you. His pretty little wife. His obsession. His addiction. “More.” His voice was hoarse, desperate, his grip tightening around your hips. “Give me more, sweetheart.”
As if you had any choice. He devoured you whole, until your body shuddered, until your breath hitched and your nails raked against his scalp. And yet, even as you came undone beneath him, he wasn’t done with you. Not even close.
Reed pulled back only for a moment, darkened eyes drinking in the sight of you, flushed and wrecked, completely at his mercy. “I hope you don’t think I’m finished, darling.” His lips curled into a smirk, glossy with your slick. “We’ve barely even started.” And with that, he dove right back in.
Tim Rockford (Merge Mansion)
Tim Rockford had a problem. A serious, all-consuming, mind-numbing problem and it was you. More specifically, your pussy. He couldn’t help it, couldn’t get enough. It didn’t matter how many times he had you, he was always aching for more. Always desperate to taste you, to bury himself between your thighs and ruin you in ways that made you sob his name.
And tonight was no different.
You had barely crawled into bed when Tim was already reaching for you, big hands sliding up your thighs, warm and insistent. "Tim." You murmured, blinking sleepily as he pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses along your inner thigh. "What are you…"
"You know what, sweetheart." He muttered against your skin.
A small gasp left your lips when he nipped at the soft flesh, dragging his mouth higher, closer to where you were already warm and aching for him. "You don’t have to." You breathed, even as your legs parted without hesitation.
"Yeah, I do." Tim huffed a low, wicked laugh. Because it wasn’t a choice, not anymore. Not when you were already so soft, so wet for him, just from a few teasing kisses. Not when the scent of you had him damn near losing his mind. He didn’t waste time, didn’t tease and didn’t make you beg for it. No, he devoured you, spreading you open with his fingers and dragging his tongue through your slick folds like a man starved.
"Oh, my God!" Your hands flew to his hair, fingers curling against his scalp as your back arched off the bed.
Tim groaned into you, lapping at your swollen, sensitive clit, slow and purposeful. He could feel you trembling already, thighs twitching against his shoulders, but he wasn’t stopping. Not until he had you sobbing for him. Not until you were shaking and soaking his face, pulling at his hair, begging him for something you couldn’t even put into words.
"You taste so fucking sweet, baby." He murmured, his voice thick with hunger. "Could stay here all night." And he meant it because Tim Rockford had a problem. And he had no fucking plans to fix it.
