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mando-abs · 17 hours

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Summary: It's not easy being a single mom in Jackson but help can come from the most unlikely of places.

Word count: 4.7k

Story warnings: 18+ MDNI, Jackson!Joel, soft!Joel, platonic relationship, fluff, references to loss of a parent and loss of a child, no use of y/n, no description of Reader she's a blank state (she's in her 20s but there's nothing remotely romantic between her and Joel so it's pretty much irrelevant to the plot), Ellie and Joel are all right.

A/N: This is written as part of @mothandpidgeon and @ezrasbirdie 's Mother's Day challenge and beta'd by the wonderful @nerdieforpedro because I never know if I'm doing a good job with Joel's accent. Thank you, babe. I had this idea while drying my hair on Monday and it has been everything I've been able to think about this week. I hope you'll enjoy it as much as I do. I'm not a native speaker, I've never watched nor played TLOU but I have a wonderful specialist, love you @avastrasposts

Baby cries float through the open window. A breeze of sorts as there is no wind at all tonight. How long has it been since they've awoken Joel from his light slumber, he has no idea. Lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling. The moonlight on the corner of his bedroom in what would otherwise be a silent, dark night.

Hours or long, long minutes, he can't tell, except that they don't stop, the cries. Sometimes they quieten to the point he can almost hear his own breathing, eyelids relaxing. Before they pick up again.

And sure, he could try to muffle them. He's tried already. To sleep on his good ear but those cries, they've stirred ghost feelings in his old bones. Faded memories from decades ago that make it impossible to ignore them.

He could close the window but it's so humid. So hot this summer night –this whole summer actually– and doing so would make the air inside even more unbreathable. Oppressive. And there's not much more he can do about that, except hope some breeze will indeed pick up, gently move through the curtains.

He's already lying on top of the sheets in nothing but his underwear. Back clammy with perspiration and hair matted on the pillow and somehow he supposes that's what's keeping the baby awake.

Upset and not understanding why, despite being tired, Joel can recognize the cries for what they are, his fist gripping the sheet at the jostling memory. Hot and bothered that the little boy must be and probably not wearing much more than Joel is.

Poor baby, he can't help but think, head turning towards the window. So tiny and new in the world and no other way to express his discontent to the town. To his mother.

Poor mother, too, Joel realizes, much more awake than he'd like to be. Alone that she is to take care of her son. Trying to soothe and settle him and obviously failing.

Another piercing cry erupts in the dark and Joel sighs, naked chest rising against the rugged yet sweaty palm he's pressed there. Even more when he drags it down his face, collects beads of sweat from his forehead to his cheeks.

One longer sigh and then a grunt at how his entire body cracks and aches as he sits up and swings his legs to the side. Springs in the mattress do nothing for his back and creaks once he stands up.

The same clothes as yesterday on his back, his boots pulled on and left unlaced and he's so careful going down the stairs and out of the house so he doesn't wake Ellie up. Blessed actually that the racket doesn't seem to bother her.

A short walk to her house next door, long strides through the gate and up the wooden steps. Towards the front porch, the windows as opened as his and some lights on inside. The shadow of someone pacing and among the cries, the shushing sounds he couldn't make out earlier.

How it all stops once he knocks on the front door. Softly. He thinks.

This, you weren't expecting. Or maybe you were. That it was only a matter of time.

It feels like it's been a couple of hours since Byron woke up with a soiled diaper and you haven't been able to put him back to sleep. It's too hot and teeth are starting to appear and your baby is hurting. Nothing seems to comfort him, less your soft singing, and it's no wonder the neighbors are upset. With all the work that has to be done in Jackson, they need all the sleep they can get. They don't deserve to be kept up all night.

So your shoulders tense more than they already were at the nightly visitor. Your hand stills on Byron's back, your mouth closes in his hair as you ready yourself for a confrontation you wish you could solve with the flick of a hand.

“Joel.” Your voice shakes when you pull the door open and he's standing there, shirt untucked and hardly buttoned up, hands on his hips and forever scowling. “He woke you up, didn't he? I'm so sorry, I've been trying to make him stop but I can't? I know you're mad but please I –”

“Oh, hey, now, sweetheart, I ain't mad.”

He holds his hands up in surrender, takes in your wild, dreadful state. The crusted milk by the hollow of your throat and some on your black top. The tremors in your voice. The scared and rapid blinking, eyes red and bags under them. The death grip on the upset little boy which seems to even tighten as you brace yourself for his reprimand and how Byron's wiggles in your arms, little fists balled all over the place and you're too tired to avoid the one that hits your chin.

“I ain't here to yell at ya or anythin’. I was wonderin’ if ya might want some help actually.”

“Help?”

“Yeah. To give ya a break?”

Arms outstretched towards your son, the scowl gone from his face and replaced by as kind a look as Joel Miller can muster, you suppose. One step inside your house even if you haven't invited him in yet but you could actually cry yourself from his unexpected blessing dropped on your doorstep. The last thing you imagined but truly a gift from above.

Spikes of ache flash down your arms when you pass Byron to Joel, sharp pain from having him held close to you for so long. You shake them down a couple of times, catch Joel surveying your small living room.

“No luck rockin’ him?”

“Rocking him?”

“Give your feet some rest.” He jerks his chin down to your bare feet and it takes your exhausted brain a handful of seconds to understand what he means.

“I don't –I don't have a rocking chair, Joel.”

“What d'ya mean–” He frowns, rubs and soothes and mutters a it ain't right under his breath before he shakes his head. Resumes the pacing you were doing before he showed up.

Top sticking to your skin, dirty and smelly but it doesn't matter right now and you rub your forehead once you see the expert way Joel is holding your son. No need to worry about that apparently.

Muscle memory. How to bounce and rub a hand on a clammy little back. Baby hair soft against Joel's palm when he cradles the back of his head and tiny fingers that grasp his shirt and refuse to let go. A lip that still quivers but with each soothing whisper and humming, each step that Joel takes, back and forth, back and forth on a different rhythm than yours, angry cries seem to lessen.

Fat, ugly tears still roll down tiny cheeks, there's one that Joel collects on the pad of his thumb. The smoothest skin he's touched in ages. Different skin color than the last time he's done this and a shot of electricity straight through his chest at the recollection.

Foreign arms and foreign voice and foreign smell, a person Byron doesn't recognize but rumbling reassurances and a steady heartbeat against the baby's head and you gape, properly gape at Joel when after some time, it is indeed quiet in your house.

“There ya go, big guy, that feels nice, right? Give those lungs a break. And your Mama, will ya?”

“I don't believe it,” you mumble, sagging on the couch, body heaving from relief and yet almost upset that he's managed to accomplish what you, as his mother, couldn't. “I've been at it for hours and it took you what? Five minutes? I–I–”

Your words wobble from frustration, hands thrown into the air and Joel feels a bit at a loss now that he's accomplished his first intended mission. He would sit down but that might upset Byron again and his ears may still be ringing with the baby's cries, the silence which settles around him, around you three, it's nice.

Except now it's you who's on the verge of crying.

“It's nothin' against ya, Mama. You're doin' a great job with him but it ain't easy, doin' this on your own.”

You can’t be much older than what he was when he became a dad himself, so he should know. He remembers. Long nights worrying, juggling everything. Easier and easier as she grew up but when she was so small, the hours when he could actually sleep weren't even resting. Mind restless and anxious and he wasn't even completely alone, thank God, Tommy was around most of the time to help.

“Ya know sometimes they pick up on our stress and it's impossible to settle ‘em then. Always nice to have some help, ain't it? But you're doin' great. You're a good mom,” he repeats, watching your shoulders heave, your tiny nod. Before he’s distracted by drool on his fingers, the one the little boy is now munching on. “Hey now, that ain't clean, darlin’, don't…don't do that.”

“It's all right, he does it all the time.”

“Teethin’, uh? How old are ya, big guy?”

“7 months old last week,” you sniffle.

“Look at ya!” A brighter tone of voice you would have never matched with what you know about your next door neighbor and Byron looks at him with big eyes. “Ya'll be crawlin’ all over the place soon enough. Make your Mama jog.”

You catch the surprising twinkle on Joel's eye and you can't help but chuckle, tears rolling down your face when you blink.

There's been a gaping hole in your heart for longer than your son has been alive that you're having all the pains in the world to fill. Even with how precious Byron is, how thankful you are to have found Jackson. To both be healthy. To have a roof and food and running water. A fridge and a bed and even a crib.

But not his father. The missing piece of the family you never would have dreamed of having but the one you'd dared start to imagine when you got pregnant. Unplanned and dangerous. But that settlement you'd heard of, that could be your chance to bring this child to life in a somewhat decent and safe place.

Only for Emmett to be snatched from you on the road and it's been so hard since he's died, to go through the motions of life without him by your side. Holding your hand and making jokes, even in the apocalypse. Laughing and smiling. There's some of him in his son and you do try to find peace and hope in how his legacy will go through Byron.

That little boy working his gums on Joel Miller's index and it suddenly hits you that you may not care if he munches on your fingers, your neighbor probably does.

He remembers the toys he used, three decades or so ago, to alleviate the pain. The plastic ones he used to stick in the fridge before they made their way into tiny hands and a tiny mouth. There’s probably none of these around for your son so really, Joel doesn’t quite mind.

Too busy scanning his surroundings, completely awake now, the bundle in his arms much quieter, breathing evenly by the hollow of his throat, almost tickling scarred skin.

“I hope ya won’t take offense, Mama, but ya look tired as heck,” he mutters, gaze snapping back to you and the honesty, the apologetic tone nonetheless, it makes you chuckle.

“Can hardly be offended by the truth.”

“I’ll watch him a while for ya,” Joel decides, his mouth and his heart making the decision before his brain has fully processed it but when he hears the words ring in the silence, he doesn’t even want to try to take them back. Doesn’t regret them. “Let ya get some rest too.”

“What about you? You must be tired too.”

“When ya get to my age, there’s not that much need for sleep, ya’ll see.”

He shrugs in the face of your disbelief and you can hardly believe your luck this time either. The turn that a terrible night is taking. How the prospect of a couple of hours of uninterrupted sleep makes you yearn for your bed all of a sudden.

“If ya trust me with him, that is.”

It’s the foundation the community is built on, to try and create a better life for all its inhabitants and there can be no going forward without it. The safe haven you were looking for when you set out on the road a year or so ago, weeks and days tend to blend, on the other side of the end of the world, you truly believe you’ve finally found it in Jackson.

And sure, this is probably the longest conversation you’ve ever had with Joel Miller since he’s come back with the teenager in his care and Tommy introduced them to you as your new neighbors. Polite whenever he sees you in town or when he’s sitting on his porch and you happen to come back home. Helpful, even in the little time he’s been living next door.

Besides, even with how little you do know about him, there’s no mistaking how at ease your baby is in his arms and that’s pretty much all that your maternal instincts need.

“Even if I didn’t already, after what I’ve just witnessed, I’d be a fool not to. But, uh, are you sure?”

“Positive. Wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t. Go on. We’ll be ok.”

“I – I don’t know what to say, Joel. I – thank you.”

“Anytime, Mama.”

Your eyes stay on Byron, walking backwards to your bedroom, making sure he’s okay. Bumping into the wall and the doorknob digging into side, painful for a second and when you catch Joel’s eye once more, there’s a flash of him meaning business, silently urging you to think about yourself for a little while.

But it’s hard. Easier, though, when you hear his voice float through the door you can’t help but leave open. A crack in it and there’s the rumbling sound of his words and nothing more than babbles which sometimes answer him, the evidence that your son doesn’t quite mind that you’re not with him anymore and rather quite enjoys his newfound babysitter.

“Just us, men, for now, what d’ya say, big guy?... Feel like takin’ a nap of your own?.... Nah?.... We’ll turn that light off, yeah?...”

A click and less light flooding the floor of your bedroom, the pillow soaked with sweat still but eyelids heavy when you sigh into worn-out cotton, pushing your dirty feet under the quilt at the bottom of the bed. Only the little light on what you use as a coffee table on, you suppose. Those vintage lampshades that Joel remembers from when he was a kid and that he found horrendous. Still does.

“...Where are your toys, darlin’? Ya got any book we could read? But quietly, so we don’t wake your mom. She needs all her strength and wits to take care of ya…”

His voice turns into a whisper, making it hard for you to hear everything, or maybe it’s just because you can feel your body relaxing at the babbles and slowly drifting back to the sleep you were denied earlier. For so long.

Joel can’t find any book, though. Only wooden cubes. Nothing soft like what he remembers. A makeshift doll, bright colors, probably sewn from someone in town. Nothing with little bells or those toys making music, those tunes that used to drive him mad but right now, he wouldn’t mind. He doesn’t think he would.

No book but it’s all right, he keeps on walking, hoping, in his delusions, that the motions will tire the little boy. Wide awake that he is now, hanging on to his every word and making his heart clench fondly.

“...What’s that?...Ah, that’s a deer. They live in the forest. When you’re older, we’ll get your mom to take ya there…Got any more of those photos?...Ah, see, that’s a bear. There’s a story with three bears, I think but I – I don’t remember it right now, my bad. Maybe it’ll come back…”

You don’t know the story he’s talking about, you make a mental note to go check at the school if they have it, or maybe you should ask people in town what stories they used to read when they were younger. And you hope you’ll remember to do that when you wake up.

“...I’m just gonna sit, okay?...No?...All right, no sittin’, you the boss. You’ve got places to go, uh?... Hey, now, no, not the hair, ow!”

A hiss and more babbles followed by more mumbling, urging Byron to maybe try to sleep and you can’t say if it’s a figment of your imagination or if you’ve been truly blessed by the gods, when the talking seems to stop to be replaced by gentle humming. A melody to it and maybe actual words that you can’t make out but a soothing lullaby nonetheless to carry you to calm dreams of your own.

You wake up to a different tune. Slowly. Bird songs from the window left open and a little bit of a breeze which finally makes the curtains flutter and cool off how hot it’s been inside. Bright sunshine in your face, your cheek warm when you purse your lips and try to cling to the last drops of peaceful sleep you’d been enjoying. Wiggling your toes, free from the quilt which has slid off the bed.

Flipping on your back and stretching. Relishing in the silence cocooning you. Only nature wishing you a good morning. No human activity, no human interference for now.

And that’s this realization which makes your blood freeze, your heart seize and your stomach clench painfully. At the same time, you feel an ache in your breasts, the need to nurse your son soon.

But where is he?

No sound at all in the house except your groan at how quick you stand up. Brain awake and in override. Survival mode already kicking in and looking for the closest weapon, the most efficient one. Also shoes.

Heart thudding in your chest and in your ears, blood pumping with adrenaline, yanking the bedroom door wide open to face an empty living room. No sign of your son, no sign of your visitor and you feel it rise with a force you haven’t experienced in long, long months, those hints of panic that could threaten to overwhelm you and crunch your spirit.

But no. Not now. Not until you’ve found him and rescued him.

Frantic in how you try to assess what you know, you have to do a double-take to notice the piece of paper on the chair, right in the middle of your house. On the path to the front door. Impossible to miss.

Words scribbled on pencil and black spots obstructing your vision as you scan it quickly. You gasp for air and hold on to the chair, hearing the paper crinkle as you clutch it. Exhaling loudly. Hand shaking and then against your heart, willing it to calm down. Replaying Joel’s words that everyone is okay. Everyone is next door.

It’d almost feel ridiculous, how fast you’ve assumed the worst but he’s the apple of your eye and somehow, you don’t think you’ll ever shake off how dangerous it was, living in the wild before settling down here. Especially now with someone so precious depending on you.

So you replace the note with your shotgun, no need for it now, shaky legs leading you out of your house, out the front yard which could use some tending, maybe next year. To the smells of summer that settle you even more. The life around you, pretty late in the morning, judging by the position of the sun.

Out the gate and through your neighbor’s. To the activity on Joel’s front porch and the ecstatic squeals once he’s noticed you and points to you with a There’s your mama. Your cheeks ache with relief and joy at the sight of the happy little boy he finally hands back to you.

“Hi, baby! Hi, how are you?” Kisses on his cheeks and his forehead and he laughs, the brightest sound in the world. “Thank you so much, Joel. And sorry.”

“For?” He frowns, looks up at you from the rocking chair he slowly lets come to a stop.

“Probably taking up all your morning? I’ve got no idea what time it is but I didn’t think I’d sleep for so long.”

“Looks like ya needed the sleep. It’s all right. He slept some too.”

Not much but really, rocking chairs are marvelous things and once Byron started fussing again, and there was no way Joel was going to wake you up so soon, that’s when he decided to relocate to his own house. To watch the colors of the sky change in the dawn. To doze off a bit himself as well. A warm little body pressed up close to his skin. The smell of innocence he’d actually forgotten.

To the chair he’s still sitting on. After he’d had to trek back to your house because the diaper had leaked all over his shirt and that makes you bite your cheek to hide your grin at how he scowls, looks down at himself and the tee-shirt on his back now. The little one he’s found dried on the line by your stairs and that Byron is wearing now, even if it’s gearing up to be a warm summer day again.

Joel’s aware, as you inspect your son, that he hasn’t done a really good job putting a new diaper on him. Cleaning was easy. Securing the pins on the cloth, not so much. He remembers elastic bands and fastening straps and those were sometimes tricky already with a wiggling baby. So sharp pins so close to baby skin? He may have been ruthless to survive in the past, he was not about to face a motherly wrath if he scratched your baby. So it’s a bit loose, you do notice, but you’re so grateful. For everything.

“I thought we’d wake ya up, getting changed.”

“Didn’t hear a thing.” You shake your head, kiss baby hair, and bounce him a little against your chest. You can’t see the smile he gives Joel, but you hear the giggle.

“Out cold, ya were. I got him somethin’ to eat too. Had to go through your fridge.”

There’s a little bowl set on the railing, a dirty spoon and the remains of the puréed apple you were going to feed Byron for lunch. Some below his chin right now and even behind his ear and just like the diaper, you don’t care. You’re more curious to find out how food may have made its way to these particular parts.

Because in spite of the bath he’ll need before the evening, he got fed and changed and looked after and he got some sleep and now he’s back with you and they’re not from exhaustion anymore, the tears that well up in your eyes.

They’re from gratitude and appreciation for the man squinting from the sun shining bright before a cloud rolls in front of it.

“Thank you so much, Joel.”

He nods to acknowledge you.

“Any time, like I said. May feel like you’re on your own but you ain’t, Mama. I mean that.” Then a second of hesitation, of chewing on his lip and of avoiding your gaze. “I know how hard it can be. Just you and him. I’ve been through it so I do, mean it. Truly.”

“Oh, with Ellie?”

He clears his throat.

“No.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Point is, if ya ever need help, ya know where to find me. Matter of fact, we’re gonna haul that chair to your place once someone will decide they’re done with breakfast!”

He speaks up louder, neck stretched towards the house and the open front door, glad for something else to think about, someone to scold rather than reminisce about tragic times. They never leave him alone anyway and somehow, he’s rather grateful your son kept him up last night. It’s brought back better memories. Bittersweet perhaps, but better.

“Or we can just wait for Tommy to come back and do it instead! Hi!” Your name gets butchered in the piece of apple Ellie is chewing on, a loud interruption in the doorway she leans against, swallowing loudly. “He came by earlier coz Joel here didn’t show up at the house they’re building,” she goes on, explaining what you’ve missed. “Joel just told him he had a bigger job to do today.”

“Will you get in trouble?”

“With my brother?” Joel scoffs. “I’d like to see him try.”

“Ok, good. What do you mean, though, getting that chair to my house?”

“Every mom should’ve a rockin’ chair.” Every parent, really. He spent some long nights in his. Him and Sarah. “It ain’t right you don’t. Go on, Mama, try it out.”

The wood creaks as he stands up from a cushion which has seen better days. Chipped white paint but it does the job. A soothing rhythm that has Byron’s eyelids drop when you settle in the warm spot Joel offers you. Hot breaths. Surprise choking you up, wide eyes as he leans against the railing, arms crossed on his chest.

There’s something that digs into your back and chubby fingers reach for the little figurine of the animal after you’ve retrieved it. Carved dark wood. A dog you think. Maybe a wolf. Not some smooth work but in the baby’s eyes, that’s irrelevant. He’s reaching for it regardless, bringing it to his mouth.

“He can have that too. I’ll make others.”

“You made that?”

“Yeah. Tell me what he’d like and I’ll make it. I noticed he didn’t have that many toys and that – that ain’t right either. Kids should’ve toys.”

Bright ones everywhere in the house. With wheels and flashing lights and some to play house and cartoons on TV. Fat luck finding any of these in Jackson. He’s been to Tommy and Maria’s house quite often and he hasn’t seen any of those for their kid either. So his little figurines, they may not be state of the art, they get him out of his head and the little boy, he seems to appreciate them.

“Grandpa Miller.”

Ellie sniggers behind you and Joel clicks his tongue, scowls but his dark look doesn’t make her budge.

“I told ya to quit that already.”

She chortles even more, chewing her apple, not deterred by the scolding at all.

It was annoying the first time, but the more Joel has been thinking about it, while taking care of the little boy, the more he’s starting to think that there might be some truth to it. Maybe.

The role that was snatched from him in the dark and dirt and blood, all those years ago, that maybe, in some way, he could get a taste of. And as he catches how you try not to join in Ellie’s laughter, out of respect or perhaps because you’re not there yet with them, there’s a glint in your eye. Fresher cheeks somehow, less weight on your shoulder, and a lightness to the morning Joel didn’t believe could happen for him anymore. A reminder of easier times. Chaos and kids and a family of sorts. A bigger one. A sense of community.

And you know, deep in your bones, rested and feeling safe again and with more wind picking up between the blades of grass and the leaves up high, more clouds, bigger even, the promise of rain perhaps, you know that you’ll welcome it all. Joel Miller being that for your son. The found family you never imagined you could have and you think, on this summer morning, with your son dozing off with his mouth open, drooling on your clothes, that life really might be worth living in Jackson.

Thank you @saradika-graphics for the divider!

I hope you enjoyed this slice of soft and happy Joel, I'm always very nervous writing for him so I'd truly love to hear what you think about this story

Main masterlist | Joel Masterlist

#🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺#he’s so gentle #ugh my heart #joel miller #joel miller x reader #yet again more amazing fanfics #not my fanfic #not my writing

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mando-abs · 18 hours

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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?”

#this????#this is that good shit #I mean it just feels so…real???#like yeah it’s fiction and we wanna get to the sexy part #but like the giggles and the 3 and half inches not really being a problem at all #especially when they love each other and giggle and smile #it’s just really nice #🥹🥹🥹🥹#gotta love Marcus #marcus pike #marcus pike x reader #yet again more amazing fanfics #not my fanfic #not my writing #nsft.#18+ only

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