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[sin-djarin]

Tysm! So many amazing writers on this list! 🤍

another week, another round of fic recs :)

as always, if you read any of these and enjoy them, please remember to show the writers some love with comments or reblogs!

for a list of all my recs ever, go here!

i'll sort the fics by character and add emojis to indicate the contents a little. still, please look at the tags/warnings and decide for yourself if something might not be your cup of tea.

💘= fluff • ❤️‍🔥= smut • 🤍= angst • 🖤= dark

dave york

unveiled by @punkshort ❤️‍🔥🤍

riddles by @yxtkiwiyxt 💘❤️‍🔥🤍

dave york & marcus pike

playdate by @daddy-dins-girl 💘❤️‍🔥🤍

dieter bravo

fruiton drabble (don’t ask lmao) by @ozarkthedog 💘

din djarin

take me to church by @frannyzooey 💘❤️‍🔥

frankie morales

date night by @artsy-girl-76 💘

do me yourself by @undercoverpena 💘❤️‍🔥

joel miller

what matters by @pedroshotwifey ❤️‍🔥

soil in the lines of their palms by @5oh5 💘❤️‍🔥

whatever you want by @ace-turned-confused ❤️‍🔥

not in rivers, but in drops by @sin-djarin 💘🤍

high infidelity by @dancingtotuyo 💘❤️‍🔥🤍

woman by @dancingtotuyo 💘❤️‍🔥🤍

like real people do by @mrsmando 💘❤️‍🔥🤍

you’re gonna go far by @mrsmando 💘

chokehold by @hellishjoel ❤️‍🔥

july by @psychedelic-ink (featuring tess) ❤️‍🔥

flesh and metal by @swiftispunk ❤️‍🔥

ruined! by @gutsby ❤️‍🔥

daddy’s girl by @fungal-rot 💘

helen by @kiwisbell 💘❤️‍🔥🤍🖤

marcus pike

raining in baltimore by @schnarfer 💘🤍

my own writing

delicate - modern!oberyn martell x f!reader 💘❤️‍🔥

[sin-djarin]

PEDRO PASCAL as JAVI GUTIERREZ The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent (2022) dir. Tom Gormican

[sin-djarin]

Pedro Pascal in the Equalizer 2

FBW

[sin-djarin]

GIDEON.

Yes to all of the above. Just…yes.

just a touch

Dieter Bravo (x afab!reader)

980 words

warnings: m masturbation, afab!reader mentioned, writer Dieter being horny af, unedited.

Does anyone else ever spend all their day thinking about...

Dieter Bravo jerking off.

About how he draws it out for hours because he loves to be teased, even if he's teasing himself. He'll watch something filthy (he's got a great selection of porn, some homemade) or look at those nudes you sent him. But he refuses to touch himself the whole time, as he gets harder and more desperate for it.

He likes the luxury of getting off in bed, on his expensive soft sheets, or in the shower with the warm water running all over his body. He gets really sensitive the longer he holds off, so he'll give it as long as he possibly can. If he really wants to drive himself crazy, he'll force himself to go do something else after getting all turned on from whatever he chose to watch - something super mundane like read his many emails, or tidy up whatever mess was left out last night.

Usually though, he'll go to the big full length mirror in his bedroom, slowly take his clothes off, appreciate his own body. He spent a long time struggling with his body image, but nowadays he loves what he sees. His broad chest, the softness of his tummy, and then the bulge in his pants before he slowly peels them off. He's never been anything but proud of his dick. As far as cocks go he's got a pretty one, everyone always says it. He's still not touching it, not now as he appreciates the view of it in the mirror. His hands might come close, as his fingers softly feel their way around his own body, mapping paths you've taken as you've explored him yourself. He'll play with his nipples, pinch at the sensitive parts of his torso and grasp his stomach, appreciate the soft feel of it. He wishes you were there right now, but he'll make do with what he's got. Himself.

Finally...oh finally he makes his way on to his bed, sat with his back against the headboard with his legs spread wide. The mirror is angled just right, so he has a good view of himself from there. He's a little flushed, cheeks reddened. He's leaking precum, made himself so fucking desperate for his own hand. He looks really good, and he knows it.

He'll use whatever is closest, spit or lube or lotion. He isn't picky. Sometimes he'll use a toy too, depending on what he wants to feel and how quick he wants to get off. He loves playing with things that vibrate but they tend to make him come quicker than he likes so he doesn't use them too often - better when you're trying to overstimulate him to tears. Usually he'll use a butt plug when he's on his own, he likes his ass nice and full as often as it can be.

Now he takes himself in his hand, and the moan he makes at that first touch is sinful. He starts off painfully slow, teeth gritted in concentration as he tries to zone in on every single thing he's feeling as his fists glides up and down his cock. He'll think of you now the most, of the drag of your cunt up his dick. Or the warmth of your mouth on him. He'll bring up every memory he has of you and him together, the way you look when he's in you. The way you cry out as he thrusts into you for the first time. God, he can't take it this slow anymore.

As he quickens his pace, the noises he makes would make anyone blush. Dieter is never quiet like this. He loves to be heard, even if it's only him who can hear it right now. More, and more, and more. His free hand is playing with his balls, gentle tugs and squeeze that makes him tense dangerously and groan in pleasure.

Will he slow down now, calm himself down before he starts up again? Well, he'll try but at this point he's possessed by the need to come. He tries to be good, he really does. The way you like it, every last drop teased out of him but holding off for as long as he possibly can You tell him to be good, but you're not here right now and he can't quite bring himself to be that good.

He'll confess later, you can punish him if you want.

He's gasping out, a needy thing, beautiful noises of absolute heady pleasure. Eyes zoning back in just enough to watch as he brings himself to the edge. His favourite part to watch, as his movements falter and his balls tighten and with a loud cry he's spilling ropes of his cum onto his lower belly, onto his fingers, wherever it goes. Messy, he loves it that way. He pulls out every last drop he can, until its too much.

His head falls back against the headboard, eyes squeezing shut as he heaves out heavy breaths while his body trembles slightly from the climax. After a moment or two, he'll bring his hand up to his mouth and lick it clean. Dip his fingers into the mess he made and taste himself. It makes him groan, he tastes so fucking good. You always tell him the same, and he knows you're not lying.

In the time it takes him to regain his thoughts, he's laid himself down on the bed properly, sprawled out and a little dozy. He gets sleepy after he's come, but not enough to actually fall asleep. He just likes to bask in the feeling for a little while while he recovers. He bury his face in the pillow that still smells of you, and close his eyes and just enjoy the moment.

And if he really needs it today...he'll make it all happen again in a couple hours.

[sin-djarin]

+ you.

[sin-djarin]

The person I reblogged this from deserves to be happy

I tried to scroll past this. I really did

[sin-djarin]

Marcus Pike is perfect.

CORRECT. And representation matters and you captured it all. The love is THERE.

I think this is one of my fav Marcus fics. It absolutely is. So much intimacy felt throughout.

Amazing. Thanks for sharing 🤍

Your Ride, Best Trip

Summary: You sleep with your boyfriend Marcus for the first time Word Count: 9,001 Pairing: Marcus Pike x f! afab! reader Rating: 18+ Explicit Warnings: 18+ mdni, first time, vaginal fingering, oral (m! and f! receiving), unprotected PIV, squirting, creampie, dirty talk, so much fluff, so much kissing Betas: @for-a-longlongtime and @perotovar as ALWAYS. Love you homies I'm kissing u both <3 A/N: I have nothing to say for myself this time

Marcus Pike is perfect. 

He’s your dream man. 

He’s sweet. He brings you flowers just because, and he’s remembered your go-to coffee order, and he never goes to bed without texting you goodnight.

He’s effortlessly kind. He offers to walk your dog for you when you aren’t feeling well enough to get out of bed, and he always does the dishes when you cook for him, and he makes sure his bathroom is stocked with all the personal products you use at your own place. 

He’s fucking handsome. His smile is straight and pearly white, and his big brown eyes warm you up, and the way his broad shoulders fill out those suits he wears to work never fails to make you weak in the knees. 

He’s so smart, and he’s so funny, and he’s all yours… finally. 

See, when he hadn’t so much as kissed you by your third date, you wigged out a bit. 

How could you not? He’d been so thoughtful and caring and all you wanted was to feel those pillowy, soft lips against your own. 

So you asked him what was up, and he told you.

Divorced. Broken engagement. A whole year of therapy to pinpoint what went wrong, what he could change, and how he could do better, how he could feel better. And then, he said, he found you— like fate— when he wasn’t even looking, when he least expected it. 

You had no problem taking it slow. You’re still convinced you’d wait forever for him, as perfect as he is.

After too many little dates to count, he told you he wanted to be your boyfriend, if you’d have him.

You told him you’d love for him to be your boyfriend, of course. You’d be crazy not too. 

And then he finally kissed you.

It was slow and hesitant, but it still made your heart race, made your stomach do flips. He cut it off before it could become anything more than chaste, and left your front door with a sheepish goodnight. 

You’ve kissed a lot since then. You never really enjoyed kissing that much, before. It always just seemed like a means to and end, a formality before moving on to other things. 

But now it’s one of your favorite ways to pass the time with him. Waiting for an Uber to take you downtown, finally getting to his place on Friday after a long work week, cuddling in bed together with an old movie playing.

You haven’t made out with anyone this much since high school. And you enjoy it, you do, but Jesus Christ, he’s been your boyfriend for three weeks now and you need him. 

It doesn’t help that he touches you like you’re the last person on earth. His hands are so big and they’re gentle and electric when they find the bit of skin just under the hem of your shirt. 

You think it’s going to happen, this time. Friday night takeout has long been abandoned in the living room. You’re in his bed, in his clothes, and his pinky is teasing at the waistband of his sweats that you’re wearing. 

His tongue in your mouth is making you dizzy, and there’s no more blood in your brain with all of it rushing between your legs. You whimper, and you arch against him, and you want him so bad but you can’t say it. You’d feel bad, making him rush when he’s made it clear he wants to take things slow. 

When his lips leave yours, you open your eyes, and find his pupils obstructing all the deep, dark brown you adore. 

You have to squeeze your thighs together for a miniscule amount of relief. He notices. Of course he does. Damn that Quantico training. 

“Sweetheart—”

His eyes flicker down to your lips. You’re sure they look obscene, red and slick from nearly an hour of him sucking and nibbling on them. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. 

You don’t know why you say it, but you are sorry. You feel so bad for wanting him like this, desperate and aching in his bed, over eager. 

“Don’t be,” he shakes his head and gives you a reluctant smile, a smile that tells you you’re going to fall asleep extremely sexually frustrated. 

But it’s fine. He’s so worth it. 

You give him a soft smile back, and lean in to peck his lips. But he pulls away with his brow furrowed. 

“What do you want?” 

His voice is gentle when he asks. So is his hand on your back, under his shirt you’ve claimed. But it doesn’t stop that fight or flight response from kicking in. 

“Nothing! Nothing, Marcus, I’m okay— I’m great. Just wanna cuddle.” 

But the creases in his forehead don’t smooth out, and his hand ceases the soothing circles across your spine. 

“You’re lying.” 

You sigh and close your eyes. 

“I’m not lying, I’m just— I don’t want to push you to move too fast.” 

You expect him to be angry. But when you open your eyes again, his own have taken on that puppy-like quality you usually love. Right now, it just makes you feel guilty. 

“I’ve been lying, too,” Marcus whispers. 

It’s your turn to scrunch your face up. Your blood runs cold, waiting for him to elaborate. A million scenarios run through your head at lighting speed— all worse and worse until your breathing picks up and you beg him with your eyes to just get on with it—

“I have a small dick.” 

His face is so flushed. He can’t meet your gaze.

He’s staring at the bedsheets between you, and you’re both just silent for a long, awkward moment. 

“I mean— the divorce and all that, it’s all true. And I did want to keep from moving too fast. But— the last few weeks I guess I’ve just been… stalling?” 

He finally looks up from the threads to gauge your reaction. 

“Marcus…”

“I get it, okay? If you wanna go. I know I lied, and you didn’t sign up for—“

“Marcus.”

You watch his shoulders raise and his mouth snap shut, and he looks terrified.

“I don’t want to leave. You didn’t lie. It’s just— you really think that would bother me?” 

He lets out a big breath, and the tension in his body eases up a little. 

“I don’t know. Most people were… bothered. I guess,” he shrugs. 

You cradle his jaw in your hand, let the day-old stubble tickle the pad of your thumb as you think about how to best navigate this conversation. 

Because saying ‘I don’t care’ seems too dismissive. But you don’t. You couldn’t possibly care less about what’s in his pants, when everything else about him has made you fall so, so deep already. But you don’t want to make it sound like it’s something you have to even bargain with, like the pros outweigh the cons, like it even is a con. Because it’s not. 

“I’m not bothered,” you finally tell him. 

He still doesn’t meet your eyes, in fact, he rolls his. 

“You don’t have to lie to me. It’s okay, I’ve heard it all. I know I’ve lead you on—”

“Jesus,” you cut him off, “what did— who made you feel this way?” 

He finally looks at you. His eyes are wide and he looks vulnerable and hesitant. You swipe away some hair that’s fallen flat across his scrunched forehead. 

“Everyone?” 

You sigh his name, and you’re tentative when you lean forward to kiss him, softly, when he lets you. 

He looks less terrified when you pull back. You try to smile, but this whole interaction has left such a bad taste in your mouth that it feels more like a grimace when your lips turn up. 

“That’s— Fucking awful, to be frank. Pardon my French.”

He chuckles, but his gaze falls away from your face again. His sheets are not that interesting to look at. 

“Really, Marcus. I mean— maybe if someone’s just looking for a hookup, then I get it. You want something specific, whatever. But why would you ever think you were leading me on?

All you’ve done is be sweet to me, and shown interest in me, and taken care of me. Unless you’re like, secretly an ax murderer, or committing some kind of major tax fraud, you haven’t led me on at all.”

He’s still not looking at you. Why won’t he look at you, and believe you? 

“I don’t want to sound dismissive. I understand you’re insecure about it. I’m insecure about some things too. I don’t want to invalidate that. But I need you to know that the last thing I care about is how big your dick is.” 

There. He’s looking at you. He looks a little mortified, but he’s finally meeting your gaze. 

“Really?”

You scoff. 

“Really really.”

A reluctant smile tugs on the corner of his pretty mouth. 

“Why?”

“Because— now, don’t go getting a big head about this— you’re perfect. Like, everything about you. You’re sweet and you make me laugh and you’re gorgeous.”

His face flushes, but he lets you continue.

“And I’m in this, with you. I want this to go somewhere. And I think we’re super compatible.”

“Me too,” he whispers.

“Good, so… we’re on the same page then.”

You watch him lick his lips, and his hand that’s been loosely draped over your waist finally starts back up, drawing little circles across the base of your spine. 

“And… There’s other reasons,” you mumble, voice low with a hint of mischief.

“Oh yeah?” 

“Yeah… For one, your hands.”

“My hands?”

He emphasizes his question with a squeeze of your hip, and you giggle at the way it tickles, and also with a bit of embarrassment. 

“Yeah… They’re uh… big. I look at them a lot. Honestly surprised you haven’t noticed.”

He huffs, lets his big hand travel further up the shirt on your back. 

“Your nails are always trimmed, and— your fingers are long and thick. I’ve thought about them a lot.”

He breathes your name, and now you realize you’re the one avoiding eye contact. When you look back, his pupils are all blown out again, and it spurs you on.

“And I love to give head.”

“Jesus.”

“And the bigger it is, the quicker I get tired. I could stay down there all night, if my jaw didn’t get sore.” 

“Sweetheart—”

“Really, it’s one of my favorite things, making someone fall apart under my mouth. But I hate gagging and choking my way through it. It’s tedious.”

He says your name again, this time with a warning tone. 

You bite your lip to keep anything from tumbling from your mouth unwarranted. 

“You’re not lying.”

His eyes dart back and forth across your face, and you shake your head in lieu of opening your mouth again. 

“Fuck.”

It’s the first time Marcus has cursed in front of you. Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and your clit throbs. 

“I’ve thought about you so much. Your lips, you have to know, right? How plump and full they are… I think about them at night, when I’m touching myself.” 

That’s convincing enough, apparently. Before you can embarrass yourself any further with your confessions, he surges forward to press those plush lips against yours and groans into your mouth. 

His hand flattens against your back and pulls, manhandling you closer to him. Your fingers find his silky hair and tangle in the strands, holding on for dear life at this shift between the two of you. 

You can’t muster up an ounce of shame. Finally, you have Marcus where you want him, pressed against you. You hike a leg over one of his, getting it between your thighs for even the smallest amount of friction. 

You feel him gasp, chest inflating to press even closer against yours. It’s a rush, finally getting this after waiting so long. 

Your hands scramble to get under his white t-shirt. His skin is hot, even against your sweaty palms. There’s so much to feel, the slight swell of his stomach, and the muscle of his flank, the soft but firm pecs. 

You whine when he pulls away from your lips. He shushes you gently, and you open your eyes to watch his slick lips and his hooded eyes and flushed face disappear briefly, just quick enough to shed his shirt. 

Smooth, is the first thing that comes to mind. His tan skin has no hair above his belly button, just the errant freckle here and there. His nipples are peaked, and you reach out to press your thumb against one before your mind catches up to the action, before you realize you’re gawking. 

But when your hand stutters against his skin and you look up at him, he’s smirking, amused and turned on. You falter a bit, mouth open while you search for something to say, some sort of excuse as to why you’re devouring him like you’re starved. 

He saves you though, with his low, grumbled voice. 

“I think about you, too. All the time.” 

You dig your nails into his soft skin at his admission, scraping against his chest. 

“You know that? You think I haven’t had you a million different ways in my head?” 

Your heart stops beating, and you stop breathing, and the heat between your legs only gets heavier and wetter. 

“You want me to show you, sweetheart?”

Your heartbeat comes back as a rush in your ears, and you squeeze the meat of his pec as you nod. 

He kisses you again, licks at your lips until you suck his tongue into your mouth, and now it’s just filthy. No more pretense, it’s been months of pretense, and neither of you have any more patience. 

His fingers seek out your own nipple, a tight bud protruding through cloth, and he rolls it between his fingers gently over the material of his shirt. 

“You come over and wear my clothes like this, and you think you don’t drive me crazy?” 

The words are grumbled into your mouth, against your cheek, then your jaw and your neck as he seeks out more of you to kiss. 

“I don’t wash them when you leave. I wear them and I smell you all day and it makes me feel insane.”

You mewl at his admission. Everything he says now is so fucking raw, now that you’ve broken down his walls. He shushes you again, grabs the hem of his shirt to help you pull it over your head. 

He curses when he sees you. It’s the first time. You’ve both been toeing this line of modesty, and maybe you’d be more nervous if you weren’t careening toward the pleasure he’s promised you. 

He coaxes you to lie on your back beside him, and his mouth works a slow trail down the side of your neck, nipping and suckling until he finally gets your nipple in his mouth. You arch into it, encouraging him with a hand tangled in his thick hair. You feel his groan reverberating around your rib cage when you scrape your nails back and forth across his scalp. You need him, like nothing you’ve ever craved before. 

“Marcus—”

“I know, I know.”

His syrupy voice isn’t as soothing as his lips, though, when he cranes his neck back up to kiss you again. He nips there, a sneaky distraction from the way his fingers trail down to circle your navel, and then even farther, teasing the hem of his sweatpants you’re wearing. His featherlight touch makes you jolt when it finally registers, your stomach jumping under his fingers. 

“Can I?”

You’re nodding against his lips, into the kiss, and then whining when his hand breaches the waistband. Those thick, long fingers flutter across your mound. Your breath catches on every wiggle. But when his fingers splay out, half on one side of your slit and half on the other, teasing your lips, you exhale hard and press up into his touch. 

“Oh, are you that sensitive?”

His voice is half-teasing, half-shocked, as he mumbles into the tingling skin of your neck. 

“It’s just you.” 

And it’s true. There’s no ego-stroking here. You’ve waited too long to get this and now you’re fiending, any touch is a relief. 

And he’s huffing into that skin under your ear, like you’re playing it up too much, but he bites down on the skin anyway and groans. 

“So sweet, huh?”

You make a disgruntled noise but there’s not enough blood in your brain to get your point across. Instead, you wrap your hand around his meaty forearm and force his fingers lower, where you know your underwear is a soaking, sticky mess. 

He curses and pulls away from his assault on your neck to look at you. You’re certain you know what he sees, blown out pupils and sweat-slick forehead and bitten, shiny lips. 

“That’s all for me?” 

There’s a sly smile tugging at one side of his mouth, just barely there, but you see it in the way one dimple grows more than the other. You nod in answer, scrape your nails up the hair on his arm and watch him shudder.

But he retreats from between your legs, and chuckles when you squeeze his forearm tighter in protest. The sound makes you shiver, all low and gruff and teasing. But he softens the blow with another one of his kisses, heated and sloppy and needy. His hands, always so gentle and careful and big, find the creases between your hips and thighs. It makes you arch up into the touch and whimper again, and you wonder briefly if you’ll ever not be desperate for him again. 

He watches your face twist up when he pulls away from you, watches the way your breasts move with every heave of your lungs. His dark eyes travel lower, where his thumbs sear circles into your hips, and his tongue swipes across his lower lip. 

“Can I take these off, sweetheart?” 

The tenderness in his voice fills you with a completely different warmth, white hot flames simmering into a blaze of feelings you aren’t sure you’ve ever truly experienced before. You let it consume you. 

“Yes, please.”

He hums a satisfied little noise as his fingers hook under the waistband. He takes his time, making sure to catch your underwear as well. It’s a sight, his huge hands working your only remaining cover down, down, until you’re bare to him and he’s gently cradling each of your calves to fully remove the last of your clothes. 

Those hands work their way back up, attentive, memorizing the valleys and peaks of your flesh, the nuances of your skin, the way it bends over your joints. Before you know it, he’s propped himself up beside you once again, one arm supporting his weight so his other hand can work its way between your thighs. 

You drag your eyes away from his fingers to look at him, only to find him focused on your face. 

It’s a few long moments before either of you move or speak or breathe. It’s you who breaks the spell, only because you know you’re at the very edge of control. 

“You sure you’re ready?”

You reach up to cradle his neck in your hand. It’s hot to the touch, and so are his ears, the tips of them burning a cute pink where your thumb grazes them. His eyes get softer and crinkle even more around the edges.

“I’m positive… can’t believe I psyched myself out for so long.”

He huffs and shakes his head at himself. You’re ready to kiss that apprehension away again, but his hand on your thigh pulls, as gentle as everything else he’s done, to spread yourself open for him. 

The cool air makes your breath catch in your throat. Or maybe it’s the anticipation. So close to what you’ve thought about every single night for weeks. Months– since the day you first met, if you’re being honest. 

He keeps his eyes on you, and you hold his gaze even though it burns. But only until his fingers brush you. Your eyelids flutter shut at the feeling, mouth open wide in shock at how electric just one simple touch feels. 

His finger glides so easily around your opening, and you hear him gasp as he explores all the slick.

“You’re soaked.” 

His voice is thick with awe, as another finger joins in on the fun, gathering up your arousal. But they don’t breach, and you feel like he’s teasing, readying a whine in protest. 

The noise gets stuck in your throat when they trail up, gliding through your swollen folds. They find your clit, full and begging for attention, and circle with hardly any pressure. 

Oh, he’s fucking good at this. 

There’s no apprehension in his movements. It’s like he’s read a fucking manual on how to press all your buttons. The light, slick touches are building up that heat in your gut quicker than you can ever remember with anyone else. 

You’re stunned silent, eyes pinched shut and your head tilted back into the mattress, digging in for even an ounce of grounding. 

“That feel good, sweetheart?”

Your vocal chords come back to life, finally, as you whimper from the gentle drag of his fingers. 

“You have no idea.”

He chuckles, and you open your eyes to see his own still trained on your face. 

“I think I do,” he mumbles.

He shifts, presses his hips into you, and the hard line of him digs into your side. 

You clench around nothing, and your clit pulses under the pads of his fingers. He curses and responds to the needy little bud, applying more pressure and speeding up those little circles. 

All the while he grinds his hips into you, soft little movements that sync up with his hand, and you want him so bad. You’re losing patience by the second, the only thing keeping you from pouncing is the way his fingers work you over so perfectly it’s like you’re touching yourself. 

You’re not, though, and that becomes perfectly clear when one thick, long finger presses lower and slips into you. It slides so easily, despite how much girth it has on one of your own. You both make stuttered noises at the feeling, and Marcus’ lips capture your own to let them mingle together. 

Your hips egg him on, lifting and shifting, but he is teasing now. It’s a slow drag in and out, his finger pin straight, and if he hadn’t been so diligent this entire time you’d think he didn’t know what he was doing. 

But you whine, a soft plea of his name into his mouth, and he obliges. That thick finger crooks up, just as the heel of his hand flattens against your clit, and stars bloom behind your eyelids. 

You groan, and he laps it up before his lips leave yours. 

“That’s it. This what you needed?”

A pathetic whimper comes out in response as you nod your head. His finger presses harder into that perfect spot, and his palm slides over your wet clit. You’re clenching around him, savoring the feeling of being filled by him, working your hips down and back to meet his motions. It grows and grows, that feeling in your gut, so close that you can’t be bothered to worry about what needy noises you’re making.

He mutters another frantic curse, and his hips jump to press his cock into you harder. 

“I gotta taste you, sweetheart. Can I? Will you let me?” 

You nod so fast you’re surprised your head doesn’t detach from your neck. He soothes that frenzied part of your brain with another kiss, slips his finger out of you, and moves to get between your legs. 

You thread your fingers through his hair to keep him still, even if it’s just for a moment. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, and the drag of his sweatpants across your sensitive center makes you arch up into him for more, to seek out more friction. 

He just huffs a laugh against your lips and angles his hips away, denying you the simple pleasure of grinding against the tent in his pants. 

“Not yet. Let me take my time with you. You’ve waited so long, right? I’ll make it up to you, you just gotta let me.” 

You huff. 

You should’ve known Marcus would be just as much of an infuriating tease in the bedroom as he is outside of it. The trivia dates and the cocky smirk he always sported when he won, the little bets he’d make on how a movie’s plot was going to twist, the refusal to ever let you pay for dinner— it’s all adding up now, and you can’t believe you didn’t expect it. 

Marcus Pike is a smug little prick underneath the humble, sheepish grins, and it’s hot and it’s yours. 

“Put your money where your mouth is,” you breathe. 

He chuckles and trails said mouth down the length of your naked body. You watch his plump lips explore your skin and leave wet patches littered in their wake, shiny little stakes claiming you. His five o’clock shadow is just long enough to abrade your skin a bit, delightful little pricks that make your muscles jump involuntarily.

He makes it to your mound before looking up at you. His brown eyes are mostly obstructed by his pupils, but they shine all glassy in the dim lamplight of his bedroom. His shitty grin has faded and he looks determined, and it steals the breath from your lungs. 

He teases some more, of course he does. His lips peck and tickle the creases of your thighs, the skin of your outer lips, and the very tip of your hood before you finally see his pink tongue slip out. 

All of a sudden you can’t watch, can only let your head fall back and close your eyes and drown in the anticipation. 

The pointed tip of his tongue just barely grazes you, tracing a razor-thin line from your dripping hole all the way to your mound. It tickles, and your breath comes in faster as he does it again, and again, and again. 

Just before you can beg for more, he flattens his tongue and drags it up your slit. He laps at your folds, slow and calculated, and the satisfied noises tumble out of you as you feel his taste buds glide against you. 

All you can think to do is find his hair and use it to hang on. Your legs spread wider, and he takes the encouragement. His tongue finds your clit, so swollen and sensitive with need by now. He circles it, then wiggles his tongue back and forth, playing with it, playing with you. He shakes his head from side to side to give you more, presses even more firmly, and the heavy feeling in your gut tightens tenfold. 

Your hips start to move on their own, rocking up into his face, helping his motions along. He groans with it, muffled and wet between your legs. 

A delirious thought gets stuck in your horny brain. You don’t know how you’ll ever let him leave this spot between your legs now that you’ve finally got him here. It’s so wet and warm and incredible, and your nails dig into his scalp to drive the point home, to try and lock him here forever. 

His voice snaps you from your reverent thoughts, thick and deep. 

“Fuck, sweetheart. You taste so good, looks so fucking pretty.” 

You brave a glance down at him, his red soaked mouth and his dark eyes that are boring holes into your pussy. One of his hands releases its grip on your thigh to glide across the dripping mess of your center. He toys with you, spreading you open with splayed fingers, watching the way your folds bend to his whim. With it exposed and protruding and aching for his touch, he leans down to wrap his plush lips around your clit and suckle. Curses fly from your lips at the concentrated attention, and it’s so so so fucking good you’re sure you’re going combust. 

His hand slips lower, and his mouth doesn’t stop, and you’re dangerously close to tipping over the edge. And then two thick fingers slip easily into you, immediately seeking out that spot inside you and tapping there. 

It’s blinding pressure overwhelming the two places you need him most. He drums up a rhythm that would remind you of a dance, maybe, if your brain were cognitive enough to form a coherent thought. Down with his head, engulfing your clit, and up with his fingers, squeezing that spongy spot inside you. Over and over, he works you with soft grunts against your cunt until your fingers lock up in his hair and your hips start to shake. 

“Please don’t stop,” you pant, “I’m so close.” 

To his credit, and this is more than you can say for the majority of men you’ve been with, he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t slow down, nor does he speed up. He keeps at you exactly how you need it, moaning strung-out little noises into your center until you’re dropping. 

All the wind is knocked out of you. Your hips jolt into his face and he takes it in stride, lapping at your clit when the seal of his lips is broken from your erratic movements. You tremble through it, clench around his fingers, and squeeze his head between your thighs as you ride it out on his tongue. 

As the shivers roll through you, Marcus’ fingers slow, and though he can’t remove his tongue from you because of how your legs have him in a headlock, he stills his tongue so you can take the last bit of what you need from him. 

His breathing is just as heavy as yours, wheezing out moans and muffled words of encouragement. When you feel yourself slipping down from your peak, you let go of the death grip on his hair, and open your legs, and grant yourself a few deep breaths before you dare to look down at him. 

He carefully, cautiously pulls his fingers out of you. A comforting ‘shhh’ is cooed into the sweaty skin of your thigh when you make a strangled sound. Both of his hands splay out on either hip, a light and grounding touch accompanied by the kisses he’s dropping all over the skin he can reach. 

Finally, you grant yourself a peek down at him. The first thing you notice is how his broad shoulders are, heaving with baited breath. Then, his normally pristine hair, sticking out every which way and then some from your frantic fingers. 

His face is red, you guess from exertion. Or maybe you really did restrict some blood flow. Christ. That’s what he gets, being so goddamn good at that. 

And then his lips. His lips. Those lips that up until now you’ve only ever kissed or dreamed of. They’re even more plump, swollen and slick with you, shining just like his chin is. 

You don’t know what to say. You know you want to kiss him. Funny, considering that’s how all this started, but you’re dying to see what you taste like on him. 

Luckily, he breaks the silence, after licking those delectable lips and clearing his throat. 

“So… How’d it compare?” 

Your face contorts on its own, surprised at the sudden and intrusive question. 

“Pardon?”

But then he laughs, pressing those wet dimples into your heated skin to hide them. 

“To all those thoughts you told me about. How’d I do?” 

You laugh too then, a weary huff of breath as you sit up. 

“Don’t go fishing for compliments,” you tease, though there’s not much heat behind it with how out of breath you still are. 

He goes to respond, but you get a hand in his hair again and coax him up. You meet him halfway, swallowing his surprised noise when you finally get those pillowy lips against yours and lick at them, his tongue, his teeth, until you aren’t sure what taste is you and what is him. Until you realize you’re flat on your back again as he hovers over you, still between your thighs. 

You both hum when the kiss breaks, and you rest your forehead against his, nuzzle his nose and sigh at the floaty feeling in your limbs. 

“Better,” you whisper. 

You feel his grin bump into your own. You nip at it, playful and languid as you finally begin to get some of your bearings back. 

And then you’re shocked back into the realization that there’s all this smooth skin right in front of you, this hunk of a man hovering above, the one who just melted your brain into a fuzzy little mold of itself. You grab his hips as he licks into your mouth and scrape your nails up his flanks, unhurried, while the touch makes him shiver. 

You feel out the strength in his pecs, those broad shoulders you often daydream about, and then you push. Catching him off guard, he gasps as he loses his balance and tumbles to the side, and then laughs when you press him into the mattress and straddle his hips. 

You laugh along with him, but it slowly tapers off as his hands find your naked skin— your stomach and hips and back and then your ass, where it hovers just above that bulge in his sweatpants. 

He’s looking up at you with what you can only describe as horny apprehension. 

His eyelids droop over his dilated pupils, but his brow is all pinched up in the middle. His mouth hangs open, like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out. 

So you kiss him, soft and gentle, as gentle as he’s been with you all night. His sigh washes heat across your cheeks, and you feel him relax under you just a little. 

But then you shift in his grasp, lower your ass, and press your soaking center to his crotch. You whimper at the feeling of his sweatpants dragging across your sensitive, wet cunt. He moans and bites at your bottom lip maybe a little too hard. 

But it’s okay. He pulls away and pants your name and you settle there, your weight pressed down on his cock. Your lips find that smooth patch in his stubble, biting that chiseled jaw, licking down the curve of his neck, his shoulder, up to his ear. You delight in every goosebump you draw, and breathe in his scent before you speak up. 

“Will you let me suck it?” 

All his breath rushes out in a big gust. His fingertips dig into your naked sides, and he nods. 

“Please.” 

It’s a barely-there whisper. You pull away from that silky soft skin where his pulse is hammering to check his reaction. 

He’s begging with his eyes. It makes you smirk, sitting up straighter, trailing your fingers down the front of his body until you reach the drawstring of his sweatpants. 

You’re still sitting on his groin, though. You give a little playful wiggle, and his hips rock up to grind harder. But you don’t want to tease any more. Every moment spent teasing him, you’re also denying yourself, and you’ve been patient for long enough. 

So you shift down the bed, nestled between his legs, and get to work on the tie of his pants. Every time your fingertips brush the hair below his belly button, he sucks in a breath. You finally get the thing untied, and look up one last time for permission before you start to drag the material down, grabbing his boxers as you go. 

Your eyes stay trained on his face instead of staring at his crotch, especially as he wiggles a bit and lifts his legs to remove his pants. You don’t want to stare, and you also don’t want to not look, you don’t want him to be uncomfortable at all with you. 

You want it to be perfect. You want to make him feel the way he makes you feel. 

He nods his head, and you cease averting your eyes to trail down his body, the bushy happy trail and the neatly trimmed hair above his cock and his cock. 

His little cock. 

It is, indeed, on the smaller side. Probably one of the smallest you’ve seen in real life. Three and half or four inches long, if you had to guess. 

And it’s so pretty, cut and on the thicker side, the slightest upward curve that makes your pussy tighten around nothing. 

You dive right in, press your nose to all the hair while you kiss at the base of him, humming when his cock twitches against the side of your face. He smells so good and clean, like always, but down here there’s even more of that Marcus smell that always lingers beneath his soap and cologne, salty and warm.

When you drag your eyes up to him, his head’s thrown back against the pillows, not looking at you. You want him to look, you want him to see how much you’re going to enjoy this. 

You’ll make him look, one way or another. 

For now, you just lathe your tongue up the underside of him, then back down to tickle his balls, all the while enjoying how his prick jerks under the attention. 

He’s making little noises, mostly puffs of breath and gasps, and his hands twist up in the sheets beside you. You grab one of them, slow and steady, and lead it to the back of your head. 

And then, you finally get your lips wrapped around the head of his dick, and you slowly sink down until he’s entirely in your mouth. 

It’s not until your nose presses against the flatness above his cock do you hear him release a strangled groan. That’s when you look back up at him and find him staring down, mouth agape, locked on your mouthful of him. 

You pull back up, wiggling your tongue as you go, memorizing the ridges and hairs and veins. Your eyes are locked on his, and his are locked on your lips, so you try to give him a show. 

You open your mouth and stick out your tongue, nod your head up and down to let his cockhead tickle your tastebuds. A gruff noise leaves him, hearty and hoarse, and you want to smile but you’re not in a position to. 

Instead, you flick your tongue against that little band of tissue just under his slit, and his hips stutter as his grip on the back of your head tightens. 

“Fuck, sweetheart.”

Now you do smile, your lips upturned against the head of his cock, and it jerks against your mouth while you kiss it, until you envelop it once more. 

You hum around him, at the weighted feeling of him occupying your mouth, how smooth it feels against your tongue and how nice it is to take him all the way in and not gag or choke or drool. 

It makes your cunt ache, makes you crave him even more, makes you want to be full of him everywhere. 

You reach a hand down to touch yourself. You’re still dripping, can feel it all slipping from your entrance and cooling your skin in the air conditioning. You’ve had just enough time to recover from the mess Marcus made of you. You’re sensitive but not too sensitive, when you trace your clit with your fingertips and moan around the mouthful of cock. 

“Oh fuck, are you touching yourself?”

Your eyes flicker open and look up to him. He’s clenching his jaw, grinding his teeth as his nostrils flare. You hum and nod your head to answer, his cock slipping back and forth through the ring of your lips. He whimpers, and his head tips back against the mattress again, and it makes you speed up the efforts on both him and yourself. 

He curses, soft little chants, kneading the back of your neck in his big hand as you suck him in over and over. You close your eyes and lose yourself in it for a bit, the way he slips so easily in and out, the way his hips move just a little, like he’s trying not to but he can’t help it. The sounds, his grunts and your sloppy mouth and your fingers working over your slick folds. 

He says your name. 

You hum, use your free hand to play with the fuzzy skin of his balls. 

He says your name again, and this time it’s urgent, almost panicked. 

“Sweetheart, stop, please.”

You do, immediately. You open your mouth wide and let him fall from your lips and unhand him while you look at his exerted face. 

“Are you okay?”

He huffs, and his cock bobs beside your face. 

“I’m so okay. I just— did you want me to…? It’s okay if you don’t, I just didn’t want it to be over—”

“Marcus.” 

His heated babbling stops as he clamps his mouth shut. His broad shoulders lift and drop with his heading breath.

“Do you want to fuck me?” 

You smooth your hands across the scattered hair on his thighs when you ask. His prick twitches again at your question. 

“I— Yeah. Yes. I do.”

He looks almost guilty about it, with his wide eyes and the bashful expression spreading across his face. 

“I want you to fuck me so bad,” you tell him, “I’ve wanted it for way too long.”

His breath leaves him in a shuddery exhale, something like relief or awe. 

“Yeah? You still want it?” 

His hand skates from the back of your neck to your jaw, his thumb brushing the apple of your cheek. 

“Please, Marcus. Give it to me.” 

You turn your head to kiss his thumb, a sloppy little peck before you take it into your mouth. You smile around it when he groans, and bite it before it slips away. 

“Can you get on the edge of the bed for me?” 

You can, but not without throwing a cheeky ‘yes sir’ his way. You’re not sure if the noise he makes is from arousal or a lack of  amusement, but there will be plenty of time to explore that later. 

For now, you do as he says. You scoot so your ass is just about to fall off the side of his bed. The wooden bed frame is the perfect height to rest your heels on, and as Marcus slips a pillow under your head, you’re as comfortable as ever.

The mattress dips when he gets up to stand in front of you. The lamplight from the nightstand is really doing things for him. The slight sheen of sweat on his chest glistens, as does the wetness at his temples where his hair is starting to curl up. All those lean muscles have never been more apparent than they are now, the golden glow creating beautiful shadows across his naked body. 

He’s so hot. 

It doesn’t help that his big, warm hands snake up your bare thighs as he gets between them. His small dick stands at attention, pointing toward the ceiling, and you feel your pussy spasm with anticipation. 

“Please,” you whisper. 

He nods, steps closer as you spread your legs wider and wiggle even further off the bed. 

“Perfect, sweetheart.”

He leans over you with one hand on the bed to brace himself. The other is wrapped firmly around the base of his cock, and he looks down to watch it as he glides it through your slit. 

“Are you ready?”

You nod and hum your affirmative. He takes the go-ahead and his cockhead slides across your clit, down, so slowly, until it catches on the rim of your hole and you both gasp at the feeling. 

You look down to watch too, lifting up on your elbows to see the moment your pussy lets him sink inside, fluttering around him, engulfing his prick one inch at a time. 

You knew it. You fucking knew his cock was perfect but still you’re shocked at the way the curve makes him drag across your upper wall. And when his hips are flush with yours, all that pressure is concentrated at that bundle of nerve endings inside of you, and you’re going to lose your mind if he doesn’t move.

“Oh fuck.”

You let yourself flop back in the bed, but reach for his hand that’s supporting his weight. Your nails scrabble for purchase against the skin of his wrist as you curse again, your walls contracting around him as you tense. 

“Fuck, Marcus, please.”

You’re so far past caring about how desperate you sound. You need him, the textbook definition of it; it’s an absolute necessity that he fucks you. 

He curses, and you realize you’ve closed your eyes. When you open them, his jaw is hanging and he’s looking at you, your face, like it’s something he’s never seen before. Like he’s shocked you’re here in front of him. 

But his hips are still, and you’re helpless to the way your own cant up to urge him, and finally he’s pulling back out. The slow drag against the most tender spot inside you rips a noise from your throat, involuntary. He pulls almost all the way out, until the head of his dick is kissing your opening and you can feel how he stretches the tight ring of muscles. 

And then in again, almost as slowly, and you’re already out of breath. The feeling steals all the wind from your lungs. It’s setting you on fire, perfect friction against just the right spot, the one that’s still tender and alight from your previous orgasm. 

“It’s so fucking good,” you manage to choke out. 

Marcus moans above you, and his hips snap into you, and his free hand finds your waist so he can dig his nails into your flesh. 

“It is, fuck, sweetheart, you’re so fucking good.”

A bead of sweat drips from his nose and lands on your belly, and that seems to make you snap out of it. 

“Fuck me. Fuck me hard, please, make me come.”

You watch his mouth quirk up into a pretty smirk, dimples on full display. 

“Yes ma’am.”

Your giggles only last for a moment, dissolving into a high whine when he slides out of you and back in, a harsh thrust of his hips that doesn’t let up. 

He fucks you. You try to watch; it’s too hot not to. His biceps flex respectively, one with his effort to hold himself above you, and the other where he holds you in place by your waist. 

His neck, the one vein there that’s protruding as he bares his teeth. The way his chest is rapidly rising and falling as he drives into you. His big brown eyes, even darker now as he succumbs to the feeling of you. 

But you just can’t keep your eyes open for long. It feels too good, you’re too close to the edge. Your insides are so tender and alight from the first time you came. Every single thrust inside you is taking you apart and building your second so quickly. Your eyelids droop closed and there’s already stars blooming behind them. 

His little noises are louder, like this. Grunts and gasps and moans, falling over you, all for you. 

“Fuck, I’m so close,” you warn him.

Your back arches to encourage his pace. His skin slaps into yours faster as he groans.

“Thank god, me too. What do you need, sweetheart?” 

Without a verbal answer to his strained question, you slip your hand down to press against your throbbing clit. 

“Shit, yeah, play with your pussy for me. I wanna— fuck— let me see you come. Looks so gorgeous.”

His voice is thick in his throat, and you work your fingers over yourself faster. You’re clenching wildly around him, you can’t help it. Every thrust in sets your nerves on fire, almost too much, but not quite. His grunts are turning into growls, uninhibited and primal. You feel the mattress shift and open your eyes to find him standing up straight. 

Both hands grab your hips now, and that little angle change makes him grind even harder into your g-spot, and you’re tumbling over the edge. It’s been building under the surface for so long that when it hits, it’s blinding. There’s static in your toes that washes over you, up, up, dragging a fiery heat with it that consumes your center and makes your head fuzzy. 

There’s screaming. 

You’re screaming. Your eyes are clenched so tight, as are your fingers, all your joints, your pussy, around Marcus as he fucks you through it with sloppy thrusts. 

“That’s it, oh my god, sweetheart, you— fuck. I’m gonna come, I’m— where?”

“In me.”

Your throat is scratchy when you answer, and you don’t have any time to elaborate on why that’s not a bad idea. You’re still coming, wave after wave of warmth rolling across your body, and you’re vaguely aware of how wet everything is, the sound of him fucking you even more obscene. 

His shout doesn’t quite rival yours, but you feel it when he empties inside of you. His cock jerks and and twitches, wringing out every little bit of pleasure from you, and you think you’re still coming, the pinpricks of pleasure are still too intense to be aftershocks. 

He stays pressed as deep as he can be as his stomach convulses and his thighs shake, just like yours do where they’ve somehow wrapped around him. Your eyes open again, and the lamplight is so bright now, his breathing is so loud. He grunts and pulls out a bit, then presses back in, and again, until it falters and his whole body slumps. 

His top half collapses onto you, his little breaths huff and tickle the tingling skin of your belly. Your own breath comes out in a weak moan, and it takes all the strength you can muster just to run your fingers through his sweaty hair. 

“Jesus,” he says.

Your name cascading off his lips in such a strung out voice that it makes you clench around him again. 

“Huh?” 

God, how are you ever going to move again? 

“You uh… Is that a common occurrence?”

Christ, why is he using such big words? 

“What are you talking about?” 

He clears his throat. 

“You like— You squirted?”

You laugh, one delirious huff. It makes his head rock on your jiggling belly. 

“I what?”

You gather the will to look down at him. His mouth is open, surprised and amused, and his eyes are shiny and bright. 

“Yeah, like, a lot.”

He’s still inside you but softening, and his own chuckles make him slip out. 

You lift up on your elbows as he stands up straight and the evidence is clear. The hair above his dick and high on his thighs is all dark and soaked. 

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”

The sheets on the edge of the bed are absolutely ruined, and you pray he’s one of those men that has a mattress protector. You’re more than a little mortified, and the way he’s staring at you, silent, is beginning to make you squirmy.

“What?” 

“Why do you seem so surprised?”

His fingertips are feather-light across your thighs, and you shiver. 

“I’ve never actually… done that? I would have warned you.”

He makes a pained sound, and those fingertips turn into a tight grip just above your knees. 

He doesn’t speak up. Instead, he lies on the bed beside you. He holds himself by his elbow, but that hand strokes your scalp while the other traces up and down your thigh, your hips, your breasts, anything he can reach. You avoid the topic at hand to relax into it, and you think you’re finally coming down as that boneless feeling washes over you. 

You’re vaguely aware of his cum dripping out of you, but the sheets are a lost cause anyway. You just watch his lax face, the way the wrinkles in his brow are all smoothed out, the way his eyes follow the patterns he’s drawing on your body. 

He catches you staring. His gaze meets yours and he smiles and it’s sunny. It warms you through, despite all the sweat that’s cooling on your body. 

“Hi,” he whispers. 

You giggle, and he does too. He tries to hold it in by biting his lip, but it’s no use. You will your exhausted bones to shift and face him, and he presses his lips to yours and they meld together.

It’s languid, unhurried, just reacquainting after too long apart. It feels a little goofy, with how you’re both smiling so wide, but it calms you into settling down after such a high. 

Both of your breathing seems even, when you part. 

“That was—”

“It’s never—”

You both chuckle. 

“Ladies first.”

You feel shy now. You can’t imagine why, but a fluttery feeling overtakes your stomach. 

“I was just gonna say… That was better than all those times I imagined it.”

You didn’t think it was possible, but his smile grows even wider. His eyes flicker from yours to the sheets between you, and you think maybe he feels as bashful as you do. 

“It’s never been that good.”

A sigh escapes him when he speaks, and his nervous gaze lands on you when his face falls into something more earnest. 

It takes your breath away. Because it’s never been that good for you either, and isn’t that such a perfect coincidence?

You tug him to you by the back of his neck, eat up the surprised little sound he makes against your mouth. 

“When can we go again?”

[sin-djarin]

Something about vinyl that soothes the soul.

[sin-djarin]

I’ll get there I promise! 😘

ΒTS by Molly Allen

[sin-djarin]

uhm, I hear you have some Tim x Dave x reader hiding about. please may I have a snippet? a crumb? a morsel? anything? pls.

The what now?

“What do you think she’s gonna look like when she comes, Dave?” Tim asks him again, sounding a little less in control of himself but just as curious.

[sin-djarin]

@magpiepills I have no idea what you mean 👀

ΒTS by Molly Allen

[sin-djarin]

You’re too kind! Thank you for reading and sharing! 🤍

not in rivers, but in drops

Pairing: Joel Miller x gn!reader

Rating: M. MDNI. This blog and its contents are 18+.

Word Count: 1.1k

Summary: Joel comes home.

Warnings: Post outbreak, established relationship, mentions of canon typical violence and experiences, mentions of anxiety, no physical description of reader, no dialogue, no use of y/n.

A/N: I don't know what to tell you, apparently I wrote this in May and have no recollection of it! Enjoy!

The rain pelts against the panes of glass, washing the day’s dust that had settled away. The full moon that beams into your bedroom is the only light source. You hadn’t bothered to close the curtains. Instead, you chose to curl up into the fetal position under the blanket to stare at the droplets making their way down to the window. It’s grounding - a reminder that the earth was still spinning on its axis even with runners and clickers feasting on its crust. And its inhabitants.

You’re not sure how long you watch for, but it’s long enough that the moon has moved from one side of the pane to the other. A key turns in the lock and the heavy front door opens and slams shut. It’s soon followed by the twisting of the multiple locks on the inside. You hear the familiar noise of a backpack being shrugged off and placed by the stairs. A heavy jacket bound to be made heavier by the rain that battered it gets hung at the bottom of the banister and the bang of boots hitting the skirting come after. One. And then the other.

You know what stage of his journey he’s on as he makes his way up the carpeted stairs by the difference in the pitch of the creak each wooden step makes under his footing. All of them stop screeching when he reaches the top and heads for the bathroom.

The hinge of the bedroom door screams for oil as it opens and closes behind him. Still tucked up into yourself looking at the rain, you’ve come to know his routine so well that you don’t need to watch to know exactly what he’s doing and a smile creeps across your lips.

The click of the light in the bathroom is next, followed by the first splash of water from the faucet hitting the white ceramic sink. Joel never allows himself to cross the threshold of the bedroom covered in the day’s grit, refuses to taint a sacred space you've created.

A wall divides you both, but you know he’ll drench his cold, scarred hands in warm water and soap, scrubbing off the dirt, grease, and gunpowder. The patter of the running water stops and the tap squeaks as it’s turned to close. A moment passes before the light switch clicks again in the opposite direction.

Feet pad towards the bed you’re in and then stop. One by one, thick fingers push the plastic buttons of his shirt through the holes and the worn material drops to the floor. He grunts at the everlasting ache that plagues his shoulders as they squeeze together for him to pull his undershirt over his head. There had been some nights that if you listened close enough, you could hear the fibres of it snapping from the strength in his arms. But tonight he's gentle with it as he removes it from his torso.

He continues his undressing, tugging at the end of his leather belt, popping open the clasp and snaking it from around his hips, over the curling waistband of his dark jeans that will get swept down his weary legs next. The tarnished metal buckle clinks when it hits the ground, accompanying the rest of his clothes.

The edge of the mattress dips under his weight when he finally sits on the edge. A heavy sigh leaves his lungs and escapes through cold, puffed out cheeks. His fingernails scratch his scalp and the bones in his neck crack as he rotates his head to try and shirk off the day.

Eventually he falls backwards to lay beside you with a groan as individual vertebrae adjusts themselves to being horizontal for the first time since early morning.

The tension he’s carried around in his muscles begins to leave, though the movements he makes in an effort to get comfortable reverberate from the pillow underneath his head over to yours and into your ears. He never expects you to be awake. He never wants you to be awake. Some evenings you stay in whatever position you were lying in in an attempt to fool him that you don’t worry yourself until he comes home.

There are nights when he’s not here that you’re held captive by your mind and memories, when it’s hard to remember when it wasn’t so dark. Having been in constant fear of what might lie around the next corner for so long, they’re feelings that you can’t just abandon. Things you thought beautiful are now ripe with decay and desolation. The sun you once basked under is now covered by a shade. One wrong move and you could find yourself beneath the mire of fields that were green and golden.

When his breathing evens out, you unravel yourself from the sheets he lays on top of to look at him and his brown eyes meet yours. They’re tired but warm despite the chill outside. Neither of you were sure how you this began. Two lonely people in a lonely place. Two unexpecting people that now, always had to expect the unexpected. But he was the one that put a hand over yours in a time when you had no one else left to ask.

You prop yourself up on an elbow to get a better view because one day can change everything - one day had changed everything.

His curls are still damp from the rain he walked home in, and moonlight bounces off the silver that streaks through them. His eyelids are heavy and begging for rest. Droplets of water still cling to his neck from the washcloth he ran over it after washing his hands.

Your other hand reaches up to touch his stubbled cheek that was still warming up from the elements. A sigh leaves his nose and his brow relaxes under your touch. It continues to travel down over his neck, wiping away the last of the water, to brush over the small patches of hair then over the skin that bore the scars, scrapes and scratches of all of this.

He brings his hand up that had rested on his stomach up and it finds the nape of your neck to cradle. His thumb traces over your jawline. Its skin is rough and calloused but welcome. His eyes soften but you know he’s battling between being thrilled you’re awake and being furious you’re not on your second dream.

Regardless, he mirrors back the smile that's widening across your face from his return home. His hand on your neck coaxes you down to him for a kiss on his bitten lips while your palm remains on his chest absorbing the rhythm of his slowing heartbeat.

For all the nights you both endured, shivering and lost, alone and terrified, it’s a small miracle to be granted these tiny moments of salvation together. And they come not in rivers, but in drops.

[sin-djarin]

Joel Miller’s neck.

[sin-djarin]

Thanks, Gideon! Appreciate your kind words! 🤍

not in rivers, but in drops

Pairing: Joel Miller x gn!reader

Rating: M. MDNI. This blog and its contents are 18+.

Word Count: 1.1k

Summary: Joel comes home.

Warnings: Post outbreak, established relationship, mentions of canon typical violence and experiences, mentions of anxiety, no physical description of reader, no dialogue, no use of y/n.

A/N: I don't know what to tell you, apparently I wrote this in May and have no recollection of it! Enjoy!

The rain pelts against the panes of glass, washing the day’s dust that had settled away. The full moon that beams into your bedroom is the only light source. You hadn’t bothered to close the curtains. Instead, you chose to curl up into the fetal position under the blanket to stare at the droplets making their way down to the window. It’s grounding - a reminder that the earth was still spinning on its axis even with runners and clickers feasting on its crust. And its inhabitants.

You’re not sure how long you watch for, but it’s long enough that the moon has moved from one side of the pane to the other. A key turns in the lock and the heavy front door opens and slams shut. It’s soon followed by the twisting of the multiple locks on the inside. You hear the familiar noise of a backpack being shrugged off and placed by the stairs. A heavy jacket bound to be made heavier by the rain that battered it gets hung at the bottom of the banister and the bang of boots hitting the skirting come after. One. And then the other.

You know what stage of his journey he’s on as he makes his way up the carpeted stairs by the difference in the pitch of the creak each wooden step makes under his footing. All of them stop screeching when he reaches the top and heads for the bathroom.

The hinge of the bedroom door screams for oil as it opens and closes behind him. Still tucked up into yourself looking at the rain, you’ve come to know his routine so well that you don’t need to watch to know exactly what he’s doing and a smile creeps across your lips.

The click of the light in the bathroom is next, followed by the first splash of water from the faucet hitting the white ceramic sink. Joel never allows himself to cross the threshold of the bedroom covered in the day’s grit, refuses to taint a sacred space you've created.

A wall divides you both, but you know he’ll drench his cold, scarred hands in warm water and soap, scrubbing off the dirt, grease, and gunpowder. The patter of the running water stops and the tap squeaks as it’s turned to close. A moment passes before the light switch clicks again in the opposite direction.

Feet pad towards the bed you’re in and then stop. One by one, thick fingers push the plastic buttons of his shirt through the holes and the worn material drops to the floor. He grunts at the everlasting ache that plagues his shoulders as they squeeze together for him to pull his undershirt over his head. There had been some nights that if you listened close enough, you could hear the fibres of it snapping from the strength in his arms. But tonight he's gentle with it as he removes it from his torso.

He continues his undressing, tugging at the end of his leather belt, popping open the clasp and snaking it from around his hips, over the curling waistband of his dark jeans that will get swept down his weary legs next. The tarnished metal buckle clinks when it hits the ground, accompanying the rest of his clothes.

The edge of the mattress dips under his weight when he finally sits on the edge. A heavy sigh leaves his lungs and escapes through cold, puffed out cheeks. His fingernails scratch his scalp and the bones in his neck crack as he rotates his head to try and shirk off the day.

Eventually he falls backwards to lay beside you with a groan as individual vertebrae adjusts themselves to being horizontal for the first time since early morning.

The tension he’s carried around in his muscles begins to leave, though the movements he makes in an effort to get comfortable reverberate from the pillow underneath his head over to yours and into your ears. He never expects you to be awake. He never wants you to be awake. Some evenings you stay in whatever position you were lying in in an attempt to fool him that you don’t worry yourself until he comes home.

There are nights when he’s not here that you’re held captive by your mind and memories, when it’s hard to remember when it wasn’t so dark. Having been in constant fear of what might lie around the next corner for so long, they’re feelings that you can’t just abandon. Things you thought beautiful are now ripe with decay and desolation. The sun you once basked under is now covered by a shade. One wrong move and you could find yourself beneath the mire of fields that were green and golden.

When his breathing evens out, you unravel yourself from the sheets he lays on top of to look at him and his brown eyes meet yours. They’re tired but warm despite the chill outside. Neither of you were sure how you this began. Two lonely people in a lonely place. Two unexpecting people that now, always had to expect the unexpected. But he was the one that put a hand over yours in a time when you had no one else left to ask.

You prop yourself up on an elbow to get a better view because one day can change everything - one day had changed everything.

His curls are still damp from the rain he walked home in, and moonlight bounces off the silver that streaks through them. His eyelids are heavy and begging for rest. Droplets of water still cling to his neck from the washcloth he ran over it after washing his hands.

Your other hand reaches up to touch his stubbled cheek that was still warming up from the elements. A sigh leaves his nose and his brow relaxes under your touch. It continues to travel down over his neck, wiping away the last of the water, to brush over the small patches of hair then over the skin that bore the scars, scrapes and scratches of all of this.

He brings his hand up that had rested on his stomach up and it finds the nape of your neck to cradle. His thumb traces over your jawline. Its skin is rough and calloused but welcome. His eyes soften but you know he’s battling between being thrilled you’re awake and being furious you’re not on your second dream.

Regardless, he mirrors back the smile that's widening across your face from his return home. His hand on your neck coaxes you down to him for a kiss on his bitten lips while your palm remains on his chest absorbing the rhythm of his slowing heartbeat.

For all the nights you both endured, shivering and lost, alone and terrified, it’s a small miracle to be granted these tiny moments of salvation together. And they come not in rivers, but in drops.

[sin-djarin]

Loves, I have ended up with 14 meetings in my calendar for this week so apologies for any perceived quietness!

[sin-djarin]

You’ve heard of one shots, now get ready for none shots! It’s when you think of an idea for a fic and then don’t write it

[sin-djarin]

I’m grinning so hard.

Unfortunately, I lose all reason in stationery shops. What is it about them, I don’t know. So I suppose I’m glad I don’t live near Marcus’s one or I’d become unhinged.

I can’t wait to see where you take us with this one. I really enjoyed a glimpse into his past too.

Actual footage of me rereading the line to double check if you did in fact put him in a leather apron 💀 you did.

Series masterlist | main masterlist | chapter moodboard

Afterword

Series summary: A story about hope and new chapters.

Pairing: Marcus Moreno x f!reader

Word count: 2.4k

Rating: 18+

See the series masterlist for more information and for tropes/warnings.

Chapter 1

Marcus takes the final bite of his sandwich, turkey slices and salad leaves which he doesn't want but thinks he should eat, and scrunches up the aluminium foil into a ball before stuffing it in the pocket of his leather jacket. He brushes a few crumbs off his jeans, glances at his watch, and decides it’s probably time to head back to work.

He has a good viewpoint from this spot at the top of the hill. He can see the slate grey lake at the bottom and the neat park behind it. The last of the summer flowers still shine from the flowerbeds, and he can hear the distant rusty squeak of the swings.

A symphony of squawks overhead pulls his attention upwards towards the V-shaped formation of a flock of geese as they begin their annual migration towards somewhere warmer.

Ten summers. That’s how many he’s watched slide into autumn from here. He’s seen the tree behind him grow from a sapling to a teenager and watched the plaque underneath it become tarnished and weathered. He notices how it’s covered in watermarks today from the rain that fell last night and buffs it to a shine with his sleeve. He’s used to this now, seeing her name written there, Eve Moreno. The pain is no longer sharp but dull and cloudy.

His knees protest as he pulls himself up off the ground and folds up the tartan picnic blanket he’d been sitting on, holding it under one arm. He follows the winding path back towards the small parking lot, past other trees with other names and dates, and reaches his car just as yet more fat raindrops begin to fall from the sky.

He shucks off his jacket, lays it flat on the passenger seat, and flexes his hands on the steering wheel. It’s always hard to leave this place, to step back into the noise of ‘real life.’ Whatever that means.

He flicks through the radio channels and lands on the local talk radio station. He doesn’t quite catch who they’re interviewing, but the pleasant tone of the conversation washes over him. The discussion is evidently being done over the phone, and the line keeps breaking up. He thinks he hears the warm, cheery female voice name his neighbourhood as a place she’s moving to, and perhaps something about a book. It’s hard to hear over the rain and the creak of the wiper blades.

He swings the car onto the busy road and sets off back towards town, hoping today’s long lunch break sees him through to closing.

---

You hop out of the removal truck cabin, landing on the wet pavement with a less than graceful thud. You fiddle with the straps of your dungarees and regret choosing them as your moving day outfit. The aesthetic was cute, but peeling them off in the rest stop bathroom on your journey here was less so.

You take the front door key out of the envelope in your pocket. It has a little card tag attached with No.14 written on it in neat cursive.

You unlock your new front door and push it open, a small stack of mail and take-out menus, making it resist slightly as they drag across the mat. Dust motes glitter in the empty hallway as you step inside, and you're relieved to get that homely feeling again that you’d had when you originally viewed this place.

The removal guys roll up the back door of the truck with a metallic slam, and you hear them begin their well rehearsed routine of emptying a home into a house.

The older one, Ernie, trudges through to the kitchen with your coffee machine, drops it onto the counter, and plugs it in. “Priorities.” He winks.

You let them get on with their work and try not to get under their feet too much. The upstairs is soon filled with boxes and furniture, and the younger man, Stan, even fixes the runner on your dresser drawer, which had been broken for longer than you care to remember.

The rain, which began as a fine drizzle, is now pouring, and you’re glad for all your sakes that the truck is nearly empty.

Ernie lifts a box (which you know you overfilled) and stumbles on the uneven damp pavement. The box slips from his hand and lands in a deep puddle in the gutter, its contents spilling out.

It looks like junk. You know it does, but those were what you might generously call your ‘writing materials’.

For as long as you could remember, you’d feared the blank page. But worse than that, any new page. You only let yourself write on ‘old’ paper, scraps of things, the backs of old letters or even pieces of cardboard packets, until you felt like the idea was good enough to type up onto a screen. You envied people who had the confidence to open up a fresh notepad and let themself mark it with their ideas.

You pick up the sodden, sad remnants and dump them straight into the trash can in the kitchen. It had taken you forever to amass all that old paper, and you are about to start planning your next book.

Your hands are drenched from the rain and the wet paper, and as you shake them dry, your wedding ring slips from your finger. You hear the metallic ping of it against the floor, see it bounce, then roll and almost in slow motion slide between a crack in the wooden slats and out of sight.

You crouch down onto your knees and peer into the gap. You can’t see anything, and you’re not about to start pulling up the beautiful antique oak floorboards, which had pretty much sold the house to you.

You sit back on your heels and look upwards, rubbing your palms against your thighs.

“Well, thanks, Alex.” You say to a crack on the ceiling. “People keep asking me when I’m going to take it off, and I guess you’ve made the decision for me.”

You sigh out a laugh, small but it bounces off the empty walls, and it hits you that he isn’t here. It catches in your throat, and you wipe your eyes with the back of your hand before giving yourself a firm “No” under your breath.

“Now if anyone asks, I’m telling them my husband is under the floorboards.”

---

You're disorientated for a moment when you wake up the next morning. The frenetic traffic noise from your old place is replaced with a welcome quiet.

You still sleep perched right on the edge of the bed, all those years of sharing the space with a starfish shaped man are seemingly a habit you can’t break.

You lean over and pick up your phone from your nightstand. You’d passed out exhausted after yesterday’s long day and had a fair few messages to reply to from people wanting to know if the move had gone smoothly.

Today was Saturday, and you needed to pick up a few things in town, which was a pleasant short walk away.

Remembering poor Ernie and his mishap with your box of 'treasure', you open up google and type in ‘stationery stores near me’.

---

You walk down the town high street, pop the last piece of a croissant from your inaugural bakery trip into your mouth, and take a look at the scribbled shopping list clutched in your other hand.

Curtain rings

Toilet roll holder

Light bulbs….

The list goes on and on, and it doesn’t get much more interesting. You curse the previous owners for taking anything that wasn’t nailed down with them, revenge for your below offer asking price perhaps.

You round a corner and look up from the list to see a pretty row of shops. The storefronts are all a little crooked and weather beaten, a far cry from the gleaming glass and chrome of the street they neighboured.

There’s a tiny florist, an archway of foliage and flowers curves over its door, and the paving slabs outside are crowded with a hodgepodge of buckets filled with seasonal blooms in oranges, pinks and reds.

Next to it, a jewellery store stands proudly, with a wooden door painted in a deep forest green and golden hand-painted lettering above the window. A woman steps out and admires the watch on her wrist, turning it this way and that and smiling to herself as the metal strap catches the light.

The final store is the one you’re looking for. The pencil silhouette etched on the brown framed curved window tells you you’re in the right place and you step inside.

The bell tinkles above your head, and you’re surprised by how far back this unimposing place stretches and how full of people it is, even for a Saturday.

You pick up a small wire basket from beside the door and take a measured walk around, dodging the other patrons. This feels like a big step, as silly as it seems, letting yourself try something new. You run through the list in your head, you’ll need notebooks, highlighters, post-its, and maybe some pens.

No, pencils. Pencils are more forgiving.

This place is like an Aladdin’s cave. The wooden shelving units are stacked almost to the ceiling with art materials, calligraphy supplies, reams of paper, piles, and piles of notebooks in every shape and size imaginable. You notice a wooden ladder attached to a rail that looks as though it can slide the whole length of the shelves and wonder how much fun it would be to sail along on it.

You pick up a rainbow of assorted items and hook the now heaving basket over your elbow. The writing supplies are towards the cash register at the front of the store and you’re charmed by the array of pencils on offer. It looks like a wall of Pic ‘n Mix sweets, all brightly coloured in their clear Perspex boxes. You run your hand through a pile on instinct and feel the cool wood roll over your fingertips. You pick up pretty much one of every type, not knowing which will feel right for your book two scribbles, and head to the counter to pay.

The queue is several people deep and moving slowly. Everyone seems to be catching up with the store assistant, and you can hear a steady stream of laughs and gentle enquiries up ahead. You pull your phone out of your pocket and respond to a few more messages asking how you’re getting on, and try to put people off from visiting until you’ve at least got your bearings.

You shuffle forwards with your eyes down on the screen until the toe of your shoe bumps into the counter.

You haul the basket up and slide it over to the man behind it, half expecting to be greeted by a surly teenager at this time on a Saturday.

The man who is actually there looks familiar somehow, like he was on a TV show or the news or something. He throws you a friendly “Hello” and your eyes flick quickly from his face to his grey t-shirt clad shoulders and to the practical, yet distracting, sight of his tan coloured leather apron and the way it frames him.

Apparently you're noticing handsome men again now. This is new.

“Stocking up?” The corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles, and you’re not sure why you notice this small detail, but you're glad that you do. You want to keep looking at him.

“Something like that. I’m a writer. Well, sort of. I’m not writing at the minute, but I’m hoping all this stuff,” you gesture to the large pile between you both, “will help get me started again.”

He probably didn’t need your life story, but the words just keep flowing.

He scans the items, your conversation punctuated by the pip of the barcode scanner. “A writer, huh? Haven’t seen you around at our artistic waifs and strays events.”

“I just moved here, actually. Just yesterday.” You drum your fingers against the lacquered wood. “Only from an hour away, but it might as well be the other side of the country for how many people I know here.”

He reaches out his right hand and shakes yours. “Then let me welcome you to the area, and to The Stationery Stop.”

You feel a tingle across your palm, something like a static shock but gentler, like a buzz.

“That’s two stops.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Sorry?”

“Stationery….Stop…it means the same. Although they are spelt differently, I never remember which is which.” You shrug and turn your credit card over and over in your hands.

“Do you know you’re the first person to ever make that joke, and I’ve been waiting two years for it?” He smiles and scans the last of your notebooks before picking up your array of pencils. “And you’ve chosen all my favourite things.”

The deep brown eyes partially hidden behind his thick, dark-rimmed glasses are kind and soft. You can see why the line ahead of you was so long. He feels like a friend you've known for a long time.

He passes you your items, wrapped carefully in tissue paper and string, piled inside a pale green paper carrier bag, and hands you a flyer from a tidy pile on the counter.  “You’d be welcome to join us, by the way. We meet on Thursday nights.”

You speed read the glossy paper. “Pencils and Pals?” You laugh.

“I know.” He rolls his eyes. “I’m not good at that type of thing, but it’s better than Artists Anonymous, which was my first idea.”

You bid him goodbye and barely register how freely you’re swinging the bag in your hand as you walk back down the street and finish reading through the flyer.

His phone number is listed on the bottom, and a name; Marcus Moreno.

Next chapter

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