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josephquinnswhore · 1 year

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Hi! I'm not sure if you're taking requests but i wanted to ask if you could write one with Pedro where they're dating but reader is not famous, she is actually a young artist that runs a small business on Instagram. And everyone is shocked that he's with her, but he is so proud of being her boyfriend and is VERY supportive of her both in private and in public. That's, thank you 😊💕

The Actor and The Artist

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x female reader.

Summary: you’re hosting your first ever art show and the paparazzi make you wonder if you’re good enough.

Word Count: 1.4K

Content Warning: age gap relationship, insecure reader.

Note: I fking love this request @rosaliedepp *kisses your forehead* I hope you love it. 🫶🏼💜

You remember where you first started, selling your artwork on Etsy, your prices were so cheap they undermined the hours of hard work, pain, sweat and tears that went into them, still you only managed to sell 3 works in about 12 months, you were stumped. Feeling like you should just give up, like it was a lost cause and your art wasn’t really as good as you originally thought it was. Until it happened.

You thought it was a scam at first, these scammers were getting crafty these days and the Pedro Pascal, messaging you on Etsy wanting a custom piece? Come on, didn’t seem likely and you weren’t stupid. You remember asking him to DM you on Instagram, his offical page, giving the email your username on Insta and within minutes receiving a direct message from the Pedro Pascal’s offical Instagram page that at the time, had 2.4 million followers, the white tick surrounded by the blue circle was confirmation it was really him and not some bot, or scammer.

He had been generous in his compliments on your works, even suggested making a business Instagram account to gain more traction, within the hour of messaging he had placed an order and left a very generous tip, he had even followed you and kept in contact regularly upon the arrival of his artwork, you figured it was because he didn’t trust you after he had sent that much money.

It was the opposite of what you thought that kept him talking with you, he thought you were sweet, talented and had real potential and knew he could help you where you needed it; not lacking in talent but recognition. If people actually saw your artwork, people would buy them. And they did, once they saw that Pedro had uploaded an image of your artwork in his house, that he followed you, your page blew up overnight, and you had Pedro to thank for it.

Which leads you to the present, two years later and 12 months of you two officially being a couple, even though things were fairly ‘new’ for the two of you, people had suspected things had been going on for longer. People of course had said their two cents online and you opted to ignore it.

Here you were in the cold evening of New York City, in a gallery room that was cleared just for your artwork, which would be showcased then auctioned, you had heard some big names were invited, ones in which you were terrified to see, let alone meet.

“You doing okay sweetheart?” Pedro’s voice scared you, pulling you back to reality as the room was half filled with people, something you’d failed to notice in your dissociative state. You offer him a smile as he hands you a glass filled with champagne.

“A bit nervous, hoping this will help.” You take a sip, your red lipstick that matches your ruby red silk, spaghetti strap dress, smears on the rim of the glass, you clutch your purse as a last resort for stress relief, feeling the tension build as more people arrive.

“I’m shitting myself, what if they don’t sell, what if they don’t like it? What if they don’t like me?” Your rambling makes Pedro chuckle, he steps towards you, his matching burgundy suit presses against your dress clad skin. His free hand caresses your hand and your hair tickles his fingers as you lean into him.

“They’ll be stupid not to love you, or your artwork. You’ve got this sweetheart.” You look at the genuine look on his face and can’t help but fall in love all over again, this man was truly a blessing in your life.

“You’re right, I’m powerful and wonderful and a fucking great artist. To us baby.” You clink your glasses together before throwing your head back, swallowing the liquid for courage before walking to the stage that had a microphone and your most iconic artwork on the wall behind you.

You’re standing in front of dozens of well known celebrities, but the champagne gives you the courage to smile at them as they watch you with wondering eyes. “Thank you all so much for joint us this evening. It’s truly an honour to host this event and to have you all here. Just a reminder that 35% of all purchases goes to the highest sellers choice of charity.”

The group cheer as you welcome them, pleased by your selflessness to give away money to donate to charity, Pedro is standing by himself off to the left of the stage and you give him a sweet smile.

“I wouldn’t be here without my biggest supporter, he’s changed my life for the better. This is the biggest moment of my life and thank you all for joining me along on this journey. The auction begins in 15 minutes so please don’t go anywhere. Stay and enjoy as long as you like, have a wonderful evening everyone.”

The applause goes straight to your head, people clapping and cheering for you as you walk off the stage, meeting Pedro at his side and giving him a kiss on the cheek, he doesn’t mind that you leave a lip shaped lipstick stain on his skin.

The auction is intense, your latest piece was the biggest success, it was sold for $360,000. That to you, was insane, you had earned that much money on one artwork. The years of hardworking was finally coming to pay off, not to mention one charity of a buyers choice was going to have received a very hefty donation.

“I can’t fucking believe it, that was insane. Thank you so much for coming with me, I couldn’t have done it without you.” You muse as you’re locking up the store, Pedro blushes at your compliment. “You did this all yourself sweetheart, money can’t buy talent.”

You shiver as the cold air hits your bare shoulders, the skin forming goosebumps immediately, your teeth are chatting at the freezing temperatures, curing yourself for not bringing a jacket. Pedro takes off his suit jacket, leaving him in his long sleeve-white button up dress shirt as he wraps the jacket around you, the smell and warmth of him bring you back to reality. The warmth holds you in its grasp.

“You didn’t have to do that, thank you.” You look up at him, thankful for the kind gesture. “Of course I did sweetheart, let’s get you home.” The perfect moment between you was spoiled as you see and hear paparazzi come swarming and shouting in your direction, probably after seeing the event posted online.

“Hey Pedro Pascal! What’s it like dating someone not talented on your level? Is it because you want a normal life?” The man snaps pictures of you and Pedro together, holding hands and Pedro shielding you from the cameras as the flash is blinding you.

“She is more talented than me. She’s an incredible artist, not that I have to justify it. Please leave us alone we’re very tired.” Pedro takes your hand and you try to walk away to get to his car which was parked right outside of the gallery, was it a good idea, no. Was it convenient, yes.

“What’s it like dating someone significantly younger, do you think she’s dating you for the money?” Pedro opens your door and puts your seatbelt on for you, before shutting the door and turning to the men following him.

“She’s the most genuine person I’ve ever met, not that it’s any of your business. Goodnight.”

He turns and makes his way to the car, starting it and driving off away from the flashes that blinded his eyes only moments ago. He notices you’re quiet, too quiet.

“Are you okay?” He seemed to be asking that a lot lately.

“I don’t know. They’re just mean, I love you Pedro, I do. I just don’t know how you deal with that- it’s so invasive and just horrible the things they’re saying about me, about us.”

His hand rubs your bare knee as he drives, his eyes not leaving the road until he comes to a red light mere streets from your shared apartment, “don’t listen to a word they say. They’re just looking for a reaction. If you’re happy then we’re good. I know I’m the happiest I’ve ever been with you.”

“You always know the right things to say Pedro.”

“I gotta keep my girl happy, don’t I?” You can’t help but smile at the comment, he truly was a blessing.

#pedro pascal #pedropascal #pedro pascal rpf #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x fem reader #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x artist reader #pedro pascal age gap fic #daddy Pedro pascal

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kenobiwanx · 4 months

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Dear Santa,

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theywhowriteandknowthings · 6 months

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You can call me Din.

Inspired by this BEAUTIFUL piece of work by @immarocketman

The hand on your head isn’t possessive, nor cruel. But it’s always there.

Every time he comes to you with that look on his face.

Every time he refuses to speak.

Every time, he takes the helmet off.

You love him, he burns a hole in your chest with the way he makes you feel after years of only allowing yourself to survive. You don’t know if he loves you, you doubt he’s even allowed to love someone like you.

But you know he’s not supposed to remove the helmet.

Something about that makes you feel special, but then again, he might take it off for all the sex workers he lets suck his dick when things get to be too much.

He’s especially quiet tonight, even when you feel his balls pull taught under your touch, even when he’s spilling down your throat. You’re met with an uncharacteristic, deafening, silence. Something happened, he’s lost something, or someone, important.

But as always you never ask, never pry into your client’s lives unprompted.

“I’ll see you around Mando,”

You breathe as you collect the pouch of credits on the nightstand before making to leave.

“Din.”

His voice catches you unawares, his silence something of a shroud the whole evening.

“You can call me Din.”

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psychedelic-ink · 7 months

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𝐁𝐋𝐔𝐄 𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐄𝐓.

DAY TEN OF HAUNTED HOEDOWN

prompt: inspired by your favorite lana del rey song + artist au + “don't you know how sick with love i am for you?”

pairing: artist!marcus pike x f!reader

genre: explicit smut, minors dni

summary: marcus is in desperate need for a muse.

word count: 3.7k

warnings: body painting, artist/muse, obsessed artist marcus pike, mutual oral s.ex/69 but marcus is on top, cum play, spit play, dirty talk, affectionate whore calling, in a very Marcus fashion things escalate very quickly

In the dim living room, the scent of oil paints hung heavy in the air, mingling with the undertones of desperation and need. An artist needs a muse, Marcus thinks, the crease between his brows deep. He placed his hands beneath his chin, fingers meeting, in a contemplative pose. He sat on the couch; right across from a blank canvas. In front of it his paints were angrily scattered, his want to paint clouding his judgment and angering him. It’s been months since he last painted. Nothing inspired him to paint. Not the books he read, not his perfectly decorated studio speaking to his particular tastes, not his friends—

Nothing.

And now he has to leave and he has to leave right now. He has no time to shower and scrub the scent of paint off his skin, no time to tidy his living room. Slowly, he lifts himself off the couch and walks up to the canvas. He places his palm flat in the middle. The grease of his hand seeps into the woven white fabric. Bits of paint adding shards of color and tainting the pure.

He sighs, pulling his hand away, he stares at the faint shine of grease. Still nothing.

Maybe going out will help him think of something to paint.

He has his doubts but he’s willing to try.

Going out tonight you weren��t expecting much. Maybe some laughter—a lot of drinking, but that was pretty much it. You certainly weren’t expecting to meet a charming artist with brown eyes and dark brown hair who had a smile that turned your insides into absolute mush.

He opens the door for you and you go in. It’s a clean apartment, which you appreciate. The scent of paint and hints of soft vanilla tickles your nose, you step instead with a smile and Marcus follows, closing the door with a soft click.

“Sorry for the mess,” he says a bit bashfully. You turn with a raised eyebrow, prompting him to explain. He points towards the canvas, then down to the ground, your gaze follows. “The paints.”

You shrug, “You’re an artist. I’d figured there’d be some paint.” you add shortly after. “In fact, I expected more.”

Marcus leads you to the couch, hand gentle as it presses against the small of your back. A shudder crawls up your spine, a flame awakening between your legs. You swallow thickly.

“I’ve been having a bit of a dry spell,” his grin widens as you give him a look. “I was talking about my art but honestly haven’t been the most fortunate in that apartment either.”

“Tortured artist,” you murmur, eyes flitting across his face. “Classic.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he purrs. His other hand slides to your waist, the other moving up from the middle of your stomach and gliding up between your breasts until he tucks his fingers under your chin, holding you with a thumb and a forefinger. The chocolate of his eyes is gone, leaving you to stare into complete darkness. He smiles hungrily—stares at you as if he’s been waiting for you since the end of times and not that he’s found you, he’s never letting you go. “I’m everything but classic.”

His thumb pulls at your bottom lip, exposing hard teeth. Your heart flutters and you smile. It should frighten you. The obsession in his eyes. Your stomach jumps, the skin over bone growing taut. Your breathing goes heavy, your gaze dropping to his lips multiple times within the silence. He knows. He knows how badly you want him and that only turns you on. You’ve never been anyone’s first choice before, never caught the eye of a stranger at a bar. People felt relaxed around you but that didn’t entice them enough to actually want you or be with you. Obsession was like kryptonite for a lonely person. A drug.

And man did you want your fill of it.

Your pulse raises, “Why haven’t you been able to paint?” you ask.

His plush lips part with a soft, slow sight. A rumble follows his breath as it ghosts your cheeks. Marcus slides his fingers around your throat, the thin cheap chain of your necklace burning your skin as he presses forward.

“I haven’t been feeling inspired,” he says. “Lost my muse.”

Your breath hitches and he cocks his head to the side, his smile softening around the edges. “I’m feeling quite inspired now, though.”

“You don’t say,” You’re surprised at how sultry your voice is, how hoarse it became in mere seconds. “You think you found your muse?”

He tightens his grip and arousal gathers at the seam of your underwear, you feel the brush of his lips against yours.

“I believe I have.”

You’ve always had an obsession with the color blue. It soothes you. And you often associate it with life itself. Water, the sky. All the most important things in human life are blue, but the color of the water isn’t real, it comes from the sky. A mirage. After learning about it, you only grew fonder of the color, relating to it.

Marcus’s lips taste like that. Something that you see but surely couldn’t be real, a mirage of your darkest desires perhaps? He tastes like heaven and hell and you want more and more and more—

He slips his tongue between your lips, licking himself deep into your mouth. You mimic him, flattening your tongue over his and allowing him to suck the tender muscle into his mouth. You feel his hands everywhere; on your ass, hip, breasts. He squeezes them, rubs his thumb enough so peeks form despite your bra and dress. You moan into his mouth, eyes nearly rolling back from how hot it suddenly is.

Then suddenly you’re being pulled back, all you ever wanted taken from you.

“Let me paint you,” he suddenly gasps. He rubs himself against yours, the length of him hard against your stomach. You let out a shuddering breath.

“Wouldn’t that take long?” you whine. His eyes lit up with amusement. “I mean. . .I would love that but I’d rather. . . be with you.”

“Is my sweet muse suddenly shy?” he teases, nudging your nose together. “When I say paint you I don’t mean paint a portrait of you—I mean I. Want. To. Paint. You.”

“Oh,” you hear the blood rushing to your ears, your cheeks starting to warm under his gaze. “No one’s ever done that before.”

“Good,” he says and fully pulls away, turning his gaze to the blank canvas. Your eyes follow. He seems to be staring directly into the middle of it, you don’t know why, you wish you could see what he sees.

Then his head suddenly snaps back to you, almost making you jump, “I’m thinking blue.”

You hope to disguise your surprise, but from the way he smiles, you know he sees something on your face to prompt the expression. “Yes,” he says nonchalantly. “Blue.”

It seems that not much preparation is needed for him to paint you. To turn you into his personalized canvas to use. After laying down a rather large white fabric on the floor, he places various colored paints and brushes. Marcus gets behind you, fingers playing with the fabrics of your dress. You shiver at the brush of his fingers. He kisses your neck, the wet of his tongue tasting your skin.

“Will you strip for me?” he asks.

Your answer is ready on your lips, “Yes.”

And he pushes down the straps, lowers your zipper. The dress pools at your ankles and you step out of the waves of fabric. You want to give him a show.

Turning to him, you unclasp your bra. His eyes follow the curves of them immediately, taking in the sight of your peeked nipples, the way they sag in their natural beauty when the bra is removed. You would normally be embarrassed but the feeling escapes you entirely, no matter how longingly he observes your details.

“Beautiful,” he whispers, eyes meeting yours. “Show me the rest of you.”

Slowly leaning forward you hook your thumbs under the pretty lace and pull it down, it drops to your ankles. A chill settles at the base of your spine when the cool air hits your wet, warm pussy. Marcus licks his lips, eyes eating you hungrily before meeting your gaze once more. He takes a step forward and cups your mound with the entirety of his palm. A soft moan trembles within the confinements of your throat as he begins to stroke between your folds with two thick fingers.

“So wet already,” he murmurs, breath tickling your heated cheeks. “You must feel it too, this pull between us. The crimson ropes of faith telling you that you’re mine.”

You don’t miss the way his soft cadence shifts into something of a silent growl, he presses the heel of his palm against your clit and you gasp, the tender nub throbs. “Lay down,” he orders, hand slipping to your waist, you feel the wet streaks he leaves on your skin.

“Tell me why you wanted to go out tonight,” Marcus says while you’re lying down, from the corner of your eyes you see him reaching for brushes and blue paint. “I want to know how your mind works.”

“Well, it’s not that interesting really,” a nervous laughter escapes you. You stare at the ceiling, it makes you feel oddly relaxed even though you’re stark naked. “I’m just tired of being alone. I wanted to have fun, and see if I could. . . find someone that’d wanna spend time with me.”

“I guess you hit the jackpot then,” he answers, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “Because I certainly want to spend time with you.”

Your breath hitches. You want to argue, tell him that he barely knows you yet and that he should give it time before he tucks his tail between his legs and runs. But you have an inkling that he does, in fact, know you. You feel that invisible thread holding you together and even though your feelings had let you astray before, you want to believe the bond this time.

The cool, wet end of the brush hovers an inch above your body, a subtle chill bursting across your skin, “I’m telling you the truth you know,” he murmurs as if reading your mind. “I’ll never get sick of this feeling. Never.”

Then you feel it. The cold paint swirling around your breast, tickling your skin, shortening your breath. Marcus smiles at the way your back curves, pushing yourself further into the brush despite the way it makes you shiver. Arousal blossoms between your legs, forcing your legs together, Marcus tuts with the click of his tongue and pushes himself between them so they stay spread for him to witness your glimmering core.

He moves the brush over your nipple, you feel the paint slowly drying around your breast, the swirl of the bristles makes your nipples harden and skin grow taut.

“You look good in blue,” he mutters, rolling his hips. The outline of his cock brushes over your throbbing clit and with your lips parting, you push yourself down, following him. “When was the last time you’ve been with someone?” Marcus asks suddenly, taking you by surprise.

“It’s been a while,” you answer, averting your gaze. “Have I made it that obvious?”

His brows furrow with regret, “Sweetheart no, I was just curious. And I have to admit, I also asked due to some selfishness on my part. Would have to fuck you hard if you’d told me you’ve been with someone else yesterday.”

The words go straight to your cunt, the tender flesh bottoming out as a wanton moan escapes your lips. The brush moves down to your navel, dipping to your belly button. “So possessive already,” you tease, pressing your legs against his hips.

Marcus leans low enough that your lips nearly touch, you hold your breath, your pulse loud in your ears. His smile is dangerous and dark when he whispers.

“So you’re telling me you’d be completely fine if I told you I fucked someone raw over the same floor you’re sprawled out for me now?” Your eyes go wide, anger and jealousy burrowing itself deep in your stomach. His smile grows but he’s not done, he licks the curve of your bottom lip. “Would you be okay if I said I came inside some random woman only yesterday because I was lonely, telling her how good her pussy made me feel? What about if I told you how I bit into her neck? How I ruined her for anyone else that’s gonna come after me—”

You cut his words by pushing a hand over his mouth. You watch wide-eyed as you smear blue paint over his lips and cheeks that you’d gathered by brushing your palm over your stomach. You feel his smile on your skin branding you. “Did you?” you ask, your voice gone hoarse.

His eyes become soft, the cruel teasing from earlier melting away, he shakes his head. You let out a breath, lungs caving in. “Okay,” you whisper, dropping your hand. “S-Sorry.”

Marcus holds your wrist and presses his lips into the curve of your palm, a blue lip mark forming on your skin, “Don’t be,” he says. “This wouldn’t be as fun if we didn’t behave the same way.”

Marcus leaves the brush somewhere near your head and dips his fingers into a shade of red that reminds you of blood. The marks he leaves on you look like claws. As if you’ve been ripped apart by some vicious creature. He doesn’t stop and continues to pain. He draws various shapes with wet fingers, murmuring praise, kissing you where he wishes, leaving blue lips across your bare skin.

You’re quivering by the time he finally slides down and pushes your thighs up his broad shoulders. The sheet underneath you is damp with arousal, your clit aching with the need to be touched.

Marcus blows a teasing puff of hair and your entire body clenches, your toes curling into the thin fabric. “Please,” you beg. “Give me your mouth, fingers, anything—”

Something dark crosses his face but he seems to decide against it and gives you what you want. His lips are soft as he kisses your pussy, slow and sensual. He dips the tip of his tongue between the tender folds and moans at the taste of you. Your brain short circuits when he wraps his devilish lips around your clit, sucking hard on the bundle of nerves, your hips stutter up, meeting the fat strokes of his tongue.

He grips your hips and pins them down, pushing his tongue deeper inside of you. Your breath catches in your throat. When you look down you see red hand prints all over the outside of your thighs, the sight alone forcing a fresh gush of wetness to coat his tongue. Marcus ground and swirls his tongue around your clit as he looks up.

“You taste amazing,” he mumbles, pupils blown wide. “I can spend every hour between these gorgeous thighs.”

Before you can answer he purses his lips, your eyes go wide and your body burns, you watch intently as a drop of saliva stretches from between his lips and lands on your cunt. You shudder.

“You like that?” he rasps, rubbing two fingers over your clit, smearing the spit all around. Your insides clench. “You want me to make a mess of you, sweetheart? Answer me.”

“Yes,” you whimper. “I want it all—I want to be your dirty little whore that you make a mess of.”

“Fuck—” he hisses, this time when he purses his lips, he spits more violently and presses his mouth immediately after. He flattens his tongue and moves his jaw as he sucks, licks and bites. “My dirty whore?” he repeats your words, his tone unbelieving. “God, you’re so fucking perfect. My perfect little whore, all you want to do is come on my face and let me pull you apart with my cock, isn’t it?”

You nod helplessly, the coil in your stomach tightening, you cradle his head and grind yourself against him. This time Marcus doesn’t stop you, allows you to smear your wetness all over his smooth skin. You hear the words ‘perfect’ and ‘whore’ repeated over and over again, the sounds of each word reverberating against your clit.

Instead of white, you see bright blue and shards of red.

He sucks on your clit—hard. You scream his name. Your hips gyrating and stuttering into his wanting mouth. Marcus groans loudly, slurping as his tongue laps at your core, swallowing every drop. Your lungs burn. Your eyes throbbing from rolling so deep into their sockets. Never—Never in your life had you come so hard. Especially not with a man. It would be the toys that pushed you off the edge and your vivid imagination.

“Fuck, baby, that was amazing—” he says wetly. You tremble. “Can you do it again?”

You nod but just as he’s about to dive back in, you tug on his hair, drawing his attention back to you. Your chest heaves helplessly, your cunt fluttering to feel his tortuous mouth on you once more. “Want to taste you too,” you slur. “Use me.”

He pushes himself back so he’s sitting on his heels, you’d forgotten that Marcus was still fully clothed. You eye him hungrily. His cock strains painfully against the fabric of his pants and all you want to do is wrap your mouth around the width of him.

Marcus robs himself through the fabric, smiling, “You want me to fuck that pretty mouth?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay then, lay back down.”

You frown but do what he says anyway. You had expected him to ask you to get on your knees instead, your mouth watering at the thought of struggling to take him whole. The scent of paint is thick in the air and once again you’re staring at the ceiling. You hear the faint sound of fabric falling to the hardwood floors. Soon enough he’s standing near your head, fingers wrapped around his cock, stroking himself lazily while looking down at you.

Before he can say anything, you reach out. He holds your hand with a slight surprise and finally takes a step closer. “How did I get so lucky tonight?” he mutters, both his thighs bracketing your head as he sinks down.

Marcus doesn’t sit fully, his body hovering enough so your mouth can reach his pretty cock. You follow the path of the throbbing vein with the tip of your tongue and a drop of precome oozes down from the slit, landing on your chin. You grin widely at the way he shudders, enjoying that he is breaking down just as easily. His breath comes in short pants, the puffs of hot air stimulating your clit deliciously. He kisses your mound and lowers his hips, you dutifully suck on the head, swirling your tongue, your heart leaps at the way he moans into you.

He twitches on your tongue, “Can I fuck your mouth, sweetheart?” he asks, his voice hoarse and thick. “I can’t take it.”

Instead of using your words, you press your palms on his ass and push him down until he’s halfway in and you’re choking. His sigh of relief echoes across the living room. He thrusts again, pulling back until the tip is touching your lips before snapping them back down again. Your throat seizes around him as he goes down inch by inch. You love the way he has surrounded you compelled. His body like a weighted blanket while his tongue delves deeper into you.

Marcus groans loudly, and you feel his hips start to buck faster and more erratically. You try to relax your throat as much as possible, letting him take control of the pace. He pulls back, then he plunges back in all the way to the hilt, making spit and come trickle down the corners of your stretched-out lips.

“Fuck, you’re good at this,” he praises, his voice strangled with pleasure. “My sweet little whore, such a perfect hole for me.”

He closes his lips around your clit and draws various shapes around the tender flesh. You moan around him in response, the vibrations sending shivers through his body.

His hips jerk with each movement. You can feel his cock swelling in your mouth, and you know he’s close to coming. You take him as deep as you can, wanting to feel him pulse and release inside you. You can barely breathe, your own release right around the corner and he knows it—he knows it and presses his lips even harder, moves his tongue with more vigor until he tears your orgasm from you.

You cry our around his cock and that only spurs him on, fucking into your mouth deeper, harder.

With one final thrust, Marcus moans and buries himself deep between your lips. His hot release shoots down your throat, some of it dribbling onto your chin and chest.

“Don’t swallow,” he suddenly says, his voice riddled with authority that makes you throb. He pulls out of your mouth with a soft groan, and you wait until his face comes back into view. “Open your mouth, baby,” he mutters. You do and he shoves two fingers inside, smearing his seed all around your lips and down your body, he mixes it with the blue and red paint that marks you as his own. “You look stunning,” he murmurs, his eyes glued to your body.

Then he leans down and kisses you fiercely, his tongue seeking out the sweet taste of his own release. Those same lips slide down to your throat, biting and licking, as he lays down next to you, pulling you into a tight embrace.

Your body seeks his own. Your face burrowing into the solace of his neck, the dried paint leaving flakes of color across his skin while his come leaves shiny stains. The taste of him is now tainted with hints of fear and uncertainty.

“I’m afraid,” you sniffle into the crook of his neck, and he holds you tighter. “I don’t want this to end. For it to become another memory that is out of reach.”

“It won’t,” he murmurs, lips moving along your forehead. “Don't you already know how sick with love I am for you?”

#marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x you #marcus pike x fem!reader #marcus pike x f!reader #artist!marcus pike #marcus pike au #the mentalist fanfic #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfic #hauntedhoedown #haunted hoedown

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wasnevernew · 1 year

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A quick ✨pedro concept✨ for your consideration:

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stealyourblorbos · 1 year

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Why Joel wears a suit and what he’s up to - read here (18+). You’re welcome ♡

#i will color it one beautiful day #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #tlou #hbo tlou #the last of us #hbo the last of us #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #wip #sketch #lineart #fanart by poison #Illustration #artists on tumblr

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babyispunk · 6 months

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Coffee dates with Agente Peña ☕️

Artwork inspired by Las Mañanas by @kiwisbell - Pls go read, you will not regret 🫶🏽

(This is my own version of reader)

#pedro pascal #javierpena #javier pena x reader #pedro pascal fanart #artists on tumblr #javierpenaart #procreate art #procreate

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noovacorps · 1 year

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din and joel !!

#january is pedro pascal's month #pedro pascal #din djarin #joel miller #the mandalorian #the last of us #ellie the last of us #joel the last of us #star wars #fanart #art #artists on tumblr #x reader

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ariundercovers · 8 months

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I made these wallpapers for your amusement and your phone screens!

Please feel free to use and share but I ask that you don’t remove my watermark. 💋

#pedro pascal #prince oberyn #frankie morales #wallpaper #digital artist #frankie morales x reader #oberyn x reader #oberyn martell #frankie catfish morales #oberyn nymeros martell #game of thrones

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bellenotthebeast · 2 months

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Don’t ask me why, I just did. Enjoy.

No light version below cut because I need to work on lighting tbh.

13/3/24

#107 layers this took me #and ten hours #no pen just fingers- I hate pens😅#din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian #grogu djarin #din grogu #grogu #fanart #star wars #<3 #artwork #my art #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal x reader #artists on tumblr

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kenobiwanx · 9 months

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my beloved din djarin 🧡

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theywhowriteandknowthings · 7 months

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Prologue: Twisting the Knife [MDKT2023 Day 7 what happens in x stays in x] Walk Away Series A Silva x transmasc Reader fic A Strange way of Life

This blog is a 18+ space, Minors, do not engage. If you are under the age of 18 you are not welcome here. Please heed these warnings and the warnings put in place on each individual fic and chapter. Your reading and consumption of my work is your responsibility but I will endeavour to mitigate any discomfort for you, the reader, as possible. Once again, this is a 18+ space and minors should not interact. Specific Warnings: body dysphoria, breast binding, self harm(maybe?), alcohol abuse, self-hatred, self-depreciating thoughts, trauma, trans trauma, mentions of being pregnant/child-bearing, pigs? Let me know if I missed anything

1177 words. Twisting the Knife

You’re drunk. Too fucking drunk to be safe. The binding wraps on your chest have been on too long and you know your chest is going to suffer for it tomorrow. You should go back to your room, sleep off the whiskey and regret. But you don’t, when have you ever been sensible in your life?

If you made the habit of being sensible, you’d be knocked up with a fifth or sixth kid, waiting hand and foot on a man you despise, as you pretended to be the good wife. Pretended to be something you aren’t. Something you never were, nor ever want to be.

“Hey there handsome, you drinking alone tonight?” A husky, accented voice draws your eyes up from the depths of the amber liquor in your glass. Your head swims as you take in the scruffy man before you, his large hand gripping the empty seat next to you.

He’s broad, his flannel shirt straining to contain his rippling muscles as he leans over to size you up. His salt and pepper hair is somehow dishevelled and graceful at the same time. His eyes are warm chocolate pools of compassion and the patchy facial hair smattered across his jaw makes you want to know what it feels like on your skin.

“Handsome, that’s a funny joke man, move along.” You grunt, your voice coaching somehow still keeping up as you’re wasted, the affected masculine edge holding up as you try and push the handsome stranger away.

“Modesty ain’t a flattering colour on you,” The stranger chuckles as he sits next to you, “What’s your story?”

“Seriously,” You grunt as you pick up your hat and replace it on your cropped brow. You wobble as you stand and give the handsome stranger a stern look, “Leave me the fuck alone.”

You snatch the cheap bottle of whiskey up from the table and stumble out of the saloon. You don’t know where you’re going, but you’re running away. As always. Always running from the hand you’ve been dealt.

Distorted imeages of drunkards, whores, and other wayward souls such as yourself fill your mind as you find a suitable alley to piss in. You unbuckle your belt and take one last cursory look around to check that no-one else is around. As soon as you’re sure the coast is clear you squat down and piss. You finish up with a grunt as you lean back against the wooden structure behind you.

The night is cool, Fall is fast approaching and you’re running out of reasons to keep going for yet another cold, lonely Winter. You swig from your whiskey bottle and weep to yourself as you let the pain wash over you. The self-hatred, the refusal to let anyone in.

Would it have been so bad to suck that strangers dick? Make him feel good just so you could proxy some pleasure through him?

Your whole body aches, from far within the cavernous depths of your chest, to the backs of your tired eyes. You just want it to stop, the hatred, the fear, the anguish that every breath rips from your mouth.

You stumble about for some time before you fall into a hole of your own self-hatred.

Self-hatred, it turns out, smells like a pigsty.

~*~

You wake with a dry mouth, tasting cheap liquor on your tongue as your head pounds incessantly, like you’ve been kicked in the head by a horse. You slowly open your eyes, grateful for the storm raging outside as your eyes adjust to the low lamplight of your room above the saloon. You look down to see your clothes from the night before still clinging to you body. You try to remember how you got here, the last thing you remember was the grunting of pigs as their soft snouts roamed over your body.

A soft snort from the corner of the room startles you and you look over to see the older man from the saloon, snoring away in the threadbare armchair near the door. You curse yourself silently as you pull the wool blanket up to your chin.

Has he looked? Does he know?

You ask yourself as you gently feel over your aching chest, your bindings are still in place and your long johns are still covering the rest of your body. You take a steady breath and try to formulate a plan, but your head throbs and you need water.

“So, you’re awake.”

The sultry drawl of the older cowboy catches your attention as he gives you a soft smile.

“Stubborn bastard, I told you to leave me alone.” You spit, fuming impotently as you don’t want to get out of the bed, for fear of him discovering your shame.

“Then I found you in a pigsty, you were making quite fast friends with the hogs too.”

“Fuck, I didn’t ask for your help, why’d you even bother?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose as your voice cracks, the feminine lilt making you want to vomit more than your hangover.

“Because I know that look,” He says as he gets up from the chair with a grunt, a sharp series of pops emanating from his spine as he goes, “I know the pain simmering under thew surface of your tough guy act.”

“You don’t know shit old man,” You hiss as he sits at the edge of your bed, a meaty paw resting on your shin as you flinch away from him, “Get the fuck out of my room.”

There’s a pain behind the stranger’s eyes, something deep and familiar that you don’t want to confront. He smiles softly at you as he nods slowly. You yearn for his touch, for if it were even a pale shadow of his kind voice, you know you’d never let him go.

But people like you don’t deserve kindness, love. You’re a broken doll, useless

“Alright, I’m not so much of a masochist to keep listenin’ to your abuse, but if you ever change your mind, I’ve got a ranch out west, just shy of a day’s ride, if you want the details ask Manuel at the bar.”

“Whatever.” You grunt as you roll over onto your side, staring at the peeling floral wallpaper with venom enough to kill a horse.

“See you around, guapo.”

The moment the door shuts behind him you launch out of bed to secure the lock and prop a chair against the handle. You strip with fervour as your chest aches and your ribs whine in protest against the binding.

You sob to yourself as your breasts spill free, traitorous globes of tissue and fat that make you sick to behold. You throw on a clean flannel to cover your shameful body before crawling back into bed, cocooning yourself with wool blankets and the loose shirt.

Your body shakes as you weep into the abyss, you long to have been stronger, to have welcomed the kind stranger into your bed. But, as always, you flee.

Because it’s all you know how.

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