shirks-all-responsibilities - Tumblr blog

shirks-all-responsibilities · 19 days

Note

Saw this on my dash and started reading, and the moment I got to the part with Frankie struggling with the doorknob I was INSTA-TRANSPORTED to a memory of reading this a looooong time back when I first found pedro boy fics, and the JOY I tell you, the JOYYYY in re-discovering this??? This creme de la creme piece about Frankie at his MOST NEEDY AND FERAL, awash with SO much loving established-relationship goodness and softness that I am just a mess after reading it??

I love his progression at the start--the aggression of that car door slam and that fiesty lock fumbling, and then how the second he hears her voice he shifts into much more subdued defeat, that "catch of tearful frustration in his voice," poooor bbbbyyy!!

And then you proceed to write a fkn masterpiece--the 😺👅👑 with such desperation and genuine need for praise and reassurance, in such a loving relationship? WHAT A COMBINATION!!!

"'Baby,' he murmurs, lips dragging against your clit. It’s pitched up and plaintive like he’s begging, but he can’t find the words to fit what he needs." PITCHED UP AND PLAINTIVE????? This detail???

"'Querida.' The epithet leaves him in a whine." - The EPITHET. I am obsessed with this, pondered it. Love it.

AND THENNNNN, THERE IS THISSSS: "His shout is almost as loud as yours, and he muffles his cries against your still-twitching cunt." Total jaw drop. Licherally jaw dropping allllll the way to the floor. Is there a more perfect Needy!Frankie way of describing this moment, what he can't help but do? I think NOTTTTT. Jesus...

And you sprinkle little details throughout that are just enough to convey the scene and sensory info that add so much with so little…like those breaths through his nose "like an agitated bull," his hair "rough with the salt of dried sweat as your work your fingers into it," the description of his signature scent after a hard day?

This is just...perfect. ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

not to come yell at you or anything but i saw those frankie tags 👀 and i am in *need*

Lord, that is a whole-ass mood. Needy!Frankie lives rent-free in my brain 24/7. Like this exact scenario has been in my head for w e e k s and I just haven’t had the braincells to get it down. But hey, no time like the present, right? *cracks knuckles*

1.5k of unbeta’d and unedited Needy!Frankie smut, f!receiving oral, with a side of frankie x floor (I kid, mostly).

-----------------

As soon as Frankie pulls in the drive, you know something’s wrong. He takes the turn just a little too sharp, engine running too hot and too loud before he kills it. There’s a long beat of silence, long enough that you begin to think that maybe you were just overthinking things. But then there’s the unmistakable sound of the driver side door slamming shut, and your feet are already carrying you towards the front door.

You’re halfway down the hall when you hear his keys rattling in the door – and they keep rattling, the doorknob twisting as far as the lock will allow before releasing back. Either he can’t get the key in the lock, or he can’t quite make it catch. The mechanism clicks, straining, and for a second you’re afraid he’ll break the thing out of pure frustration.

“Ease up, Frankie,” you call through the door. “I’m here, baby, I got it.”

The rattling ceases, and you hear the unmistakable thump of Frankie’s head coming to rest against the wood.

“Querida,” he says. “I can’t...I can’t get the fucking door.” It’s muffled through the wood, but there is a catch of tearful frustration in his voice that makes your heart beat a little faster as you undo the locks.

When the door swings open you’ve only got a second to take in the look of him – his eyes strained under the shadow of his crooked ball cap – before he’s pushing against you, crowding you back into the hall. He catches the door with a heel and kicks it shut so hard the windows rattle in their frames.

“Hey, hey,” you try to soothe, pushing his hat off to smooth his hair back. “What is it, what’s wrong?”

He only shakes his head, breathing hard and quick through his nose like an agitated bull. His throat works, fighting to swallow or to speak, you’re not sure. His hands fall heavy against your hips, fingers curling into the waistband of your jeans and tugging. “Please, baby,” he mutters in a voice so strained it’s on the verge of breaking. His fingers slide around until his thumb rests on the button of your fly. “I need it. I need you. I–”

You nod, stroking your thumbs over the overgrown stubble on his jaw. This isn’t the first time you’ve been here. Something's gone wrong today. It might be something big, it might be nothing, but whatever it was was enough to shake him down and leave him feeling like he can’t do anything right. He’ll explain it to you later when he can breathe again, when his shoulders aren’t pulled up in one solid knot and his jaw has finally unclenched. He always does. But right now, more than anything else, he needs to prove that he can do something right.

And that’s you.

“I’m right here, Frankie,” you tell him with a willing nod. “You got me.”

Frankie makes a soft, desperate little noise in the back of his throat and carries you wordlessly to the floor, unable or unwilling to wait long enough to get you into bed. His mouth is on yours only for a moment, just long enough for a hard, grateful kiss before he moves down your body. He’s too needy to be gentle, too desperate. You’re sure you hear stitches ripping as he yanks your fly open and drags your jeans and underwear both down to your ankles. They bunch up around your sneakers, but Frankie's normally dexterous hands are too unsteady for that, clumsy with need and agitation, so he just pushes your legs up and ducks under them, settling on the floor between your bared thighs.

When his mouth finds you, you sigh and he groans. The sound resonates through his whole body and into you, buzzing against your thighs and the closed seam of your cunt. His hair is rough with the salt of dried sweat as you work your fingers into it, tipping your hips up as you press his head down. His hands slide up between your thighs, pushing them aside, and it takes a little effort to keep your ankles from knocking into the back of his head as he opens you wider.

On a good day Frankie Morales is one of the most patient men you’ve ever met, in bed or out of it. He’ll coax you open slowly, work you over with his hands and mouth – and always his whole mouth, none of that timid tongue-flicking bullshit – until you’re wet and open and ready for whatever he wants to give you. Even if it’s just more of his graciously worshipful mouth.

But this is not a good day, and in place of that gentle patience there is an almost feral hunger. Frankie parts you with his fingers, opening you up to drag the flat of his tongue up from your entrance to your clit over and over in hard, aggressive strokes.

You keep your fingers moving through his hair, breath turning ragged as he fits his mouth to you, lapping and sucking eagerly at your sex.

“Baby,” he murmurs, lips dragging against your clit. It’s pitched up and plaintive like he’s begging, but he can’t find the words to fit what he needs.

“Yes, Frankie,” you answer, shuddering as his teeth press briefly against your tender flesh. “God yes, baby. You’re always so good.”

And there’s that desperate little sound at the back of his throat again as his broad hands grip the soft flesh of your thighs tight. His shoulders shift under you, your legs rocking up and back, and you look down to find him rutting his hips shamelessly against the floor.

There. That’s what he needs. And that’s easy enough to give, praises flowing out of you steadily as you roll your hips against his voracious mouth. “So good, Frankie,” you breathe. “You’re getting me so wet, baby, I can feel it.”

Instantly his tongue trails down, delving into you with a strength that always takes your breath away. He moans deliriously, the taste of your arousal only serving to whet his appetite further. Two thick fingers curl into you, pressing up and drumming insistently as he devours you like a man possessed.

The praises dissolve on your tongue like sugar, your voice gone tight and ragged as he lights you up, the words harder and harder to focus on. And that’s even better. Your broken gasps leave him lurching, grinding down into the floor and moaning against you. It’s good, it’s so good and he can tell how good it is for you, his shoulders rocking into you faster as you begin to quiver and jerk under the assault.

“Querida.” The epithet leaves him in a whine. “Baby, please. I need you to come.”

“Close,” you rasp out, grabbing fistfuls of his hair and guiding him, holding him still while you rock your clit against the wet, yielding heat of his mouth. “Frankie, baby...f-fuck– ”

The motion of his body falters as you use him, the sound of his belt buckle knocking against the floorboards now a hard, syncopated beat. The pressure of his fingers inside you reaches a fever pitch and you shatter, shouting his name and pounding a fist on the floor as you come, shaking and rocking with the spasm.

And that, blessedly, means you get to watch him come right after, his body rigid, feet digging in for purchase as his hips knock stiltedly against the floor. His shout is almost as loud as yours, and he muffles his cries against your still-twitching cunt. You fall back on your elbow, head swimming, and you can feel the hard line of Frankie’s shoulders finally relax under you.

You unclench the fist in his hair, stroke down to cup the back of his neck. “Come up, baby. C’mere.”

Panting, Frankie nods dumbly, and pushes himself forward on his elbows. He kisses you, gentle once more, his heart still beating hard enough to make his breathing falter.

“Hey. I love you,” you breathe into his mouth.

He knocks his forehead into yours, closing his eyes. “Love you, too, baby.”

And then he curls into you, tucking his head into the side of your neck and pressing himself down. His belt buckle digs into your stomach, and you can feel a broad stripe of wet warmth soaking through the front of his jeans under the slowly softening bulge of his cock.

With a contented hum you wrap your arms around him, holding him tight. He smells of hot sun and dried sweat and the lingering sharpness of engine oil. You cradle the back of his head with one hand, rub slowly up and down his back with the other.

“Bad day?” you ask, kissing the corner of his jaw next to his ear.

He nods, scruff scraping along your shoulder. “Yeah. Bad day,” he agrees. You feel the warm press of his lips against the side of your neck, slow and sweet, before he draws in a long, shuddering breath. He holds it for a beat and then releases it slowly; a bone-deep sigh of utter relief. “Better now.”

#frankie morales x f!reader #thanks softanon #for seeing this on my dash #their dynamicccc #so needy and feral and SOFT #all at once #ficrec #god tier

568 notes · View notes

shirks-all-responsibilities · 20 days

Text

So I don't go here, but I will read anything you write because it's *always* *excellent* and when I saw those tags I couldn't click "keep reading" fast enough and HOT DAYYYUUMM I think this would fix me...

"That he was a bad man. But never to you." 😌😌😌 Here we gooooo....

“Oh,” He sighs, with that grin. Pulling back to let his nose brush against yours, seeing how gone you are, “You’re not thinking about anything at all, are you?” ASDKLFHALSDIOFAHSAJS;DOFISJLD the way I flatlined at this. This whole piece is just soft!dom-esque catnip for me...I am always, ALWAYS dying to find more of this certain flavor of it, that effortless command and self control he has, that loving tease, that praiiiiise, the syrupy slow controlled pace, the way you convey how it FEEEEELS to be under his weight, under all THAT, I...

And that way her legs slowly open, first from her own want, then from himmmmmm, the way this piece slowly unfurls until I'm almost delirious, like...

And as if that wasn't enough, then you throw in lines like these:

"The word become disconnected between your thoughts and your lips. Half gasped and half sighed, lost in the muted buzz of the city awakening outside." This descriptiveness, the way it puts me right there in that room as if I can hear it...

"Past a strong jaw, the stubble darkening his cheekbones, to be scraped clean when he rises." What a line! There's just something about "scraped clean"...

Mah-ve-lous.

— fold into me

ulysses klaue x f!reader

rated e - 2k

tags: sleepy morning sex, nightmares, pinning down / body restraint, light d/s, fucking the thoughts from reader, teasing, edging, sort-of v. light degradation, PiV, vibrating appendages, oral fixation, implied creampie(s)

a/n: inspired by this post, I read it and had crush me thoughts

Klaue doesn’t want you to worry. In fact - when you’re in his bed, he doesn’t want you thinking at all.

Klaue can hear you worry.

It settles over him, a silent weight as heavy as the gaze that drags over his profile in the soft, early morning.

You shouldn’t be awake. Not yet.

A rare day off, the promises of a day spent together. A nightmare waking you in the early hours instead - leaving you crying out as he’s ripped away by hands that clawed at him. Twining around his legs, threatening to pull him under - into the black depths, while you still reached for him.

They always seem to the come in the days just before he leaves. You can’t help the pit of worry that forms in your stomach - the fingers that rest against his ribs curling into fists, as you resist the urge to reach out and touch.

Craving the reassurance. To confirm that he is still here. That it was just a dream.

You were aware what you were getting into when you first started seeing him. There were secrets of course, but never about what he was. Your world orbited his, never fully joining, but you knew.

The stories and the whispered weight of his name. The deals and the fights and the danger. A twist of tattoos that dip beneath his clothes. The fresh and faded scars, and an arm made from metal.

That he was a bad man.

But never to you.

Your eyes drag over the angle of his nose. Past a strong jaw, the stubble darkening his cheekbones, to be scraped clean when he rises. To the thick fan of dark eyelashes against his cheeks.

And then a sharp glint of blue, as one eye cracks open.

“Should be sleeping,” He rumbles - the thunder before a storm.

Your reply is on the tip of your tongue before he is striking - quick, in spite of the breadth of his chest and shoulders. All you manage is a little squeak before he’s rolling you beneath him.

His weight presses into you - chest, hips, thighs. Pinning you to the bed as you squirm, an arm shoving under the curve of your spine. The other tucking under the pillow, as his cheek scrubs against yours.

“Klaue,” You protest, “I was just-”

“Don’t want you thinking,” His voice is low and rasping with sleep.

You huff, still shifting. But the weight - you have to admit it is nice. Crushing you into the mattress, a silent command to slow down and stop, for just a moment.

And so, you go still.

Taking in the moment. Seeing if sleep will tug at you again. Your hands slipping from beneath to slide up on either side of his ribs. Fingers folding together on his back in an embrace, the slow cadence of his breath warm against your ear.

It is soothing, but you’re too wound up. A skittering beneath your skin. Eyes fixed on the ceiling above - afraid that if they close, if you do sleep, you might dream again.

Your fingers eventually start to trace against skin, and he sighs at your touch. Nails dragging down his spine, the tips working into stiff muscles.

Only to freeze when you press too-hard into something tender - a hidden, half-healed wound - hearing the sharp intake of air through teeth.

The worry slips right back in.

He clucks his tongue at you. Don’t, you’re sure he’s saying. There’s a drag of his face against yours, bristle over soft skin, before it dips lower.

Warm lips press against the pulse point of your throat, the cant of his hips downward. It is now that you feel him - the thick curve pressed into the hinge of your bare thigh - that you squirm for another reason.

It’s difficult, with your legs pinned together, trapped between his parted ones. The hand between his shoulder slipping down and beneath sheets - flattening in the dip of his spine. The weight of his hard cock increasing, where it digs into bare skin, leaving a wet smear behind.

“Klaue.” You sigh his name this time, trying to lift your body against his. Hips to hip, the curves of your skin matching his. Gripping on now, instead of trying to slip free.

You crave him, and he rewards you. Splitting your thighs, his own working between them. Twining his ankles with yours, so much like the grasping hands from your dreams.

Theres another troubled flicker in your mind, before his legs are shifting. Slowly spreading them wide, taking yours along with them.

Opening you up, baring where you’re sticky and slick from the night before. From now - the press of his mouth and his words and his weight, as the need blooms in your belly again.

Your nose brushes his temple, in your search for him. Fingers twisting into thick, greying curls, trying to draw his face to yours.

A low hum of amusement, before he meets you. It’s hungry, your hands moving to wrap around his shoulder. Whining into his mouth when his hips lift and roll, his cock slipping down to press snugly against your cunt.

You swear you can feel every inch and ridge of him, as you clench in anticipation. Eyes closed as you concentrate on the sparks that arc up your spine with each needy buck of your hips.

How each time makes the velvet skin more slick, until he’s glistening with you. Nudging against your clit, teasing at your opening.

“This what you want?” Klaue’s lips brush yours. His voice still slow and smooth, content to wait. Letting you rut against him, as your teeth nip at his jaw.

You moan your assent, breathless. The weight of him presses against your ribs, leaving you dizzy. Another low laugh as he reaches between you, a fist wrapping around the base. Holding himself steady, the flushed head just nudging at where you need him.

“Come on, then.” He rasps.

And then, he goes still.

Leaving you wanting. Squirming again, as your eyes flip up to his. Seeing the darkened amusement, the careful way Klaue watches you. Fully awake now, but still keeping you pinned so carefully.

A living sculpture carved from flesh and muscle. Undeterred by the promise of your warm cunt, by the needy press of your lips against his skin and the thick weight of anticipation.

He wants you to do it.

You realize that, as he waits. It’s hard to move, with the spread pull of your thighs, pinned as you are. Hands bracing on his shoulders - trying to push yourself down, to impale yourself on him.

It makes you take him slow. Nails digging into his skin as he nudges a little deeper with each rock of your hips.

Leaving it impossible to think of anything else but him, as he splits you open. As you ache to be filled, already clenching down around him, trying to draw him deeper.

His breathing is harsh through his nose. Warm against your skin, the brush of his knuckles across your belly and breasts and tight peaks of your nipples on their way back up. Elbows and forearms planting in the mattress on either side of you, just barely adjusting his weight.

Each thrust of your hips is shallow. He’s not fully seated in you, only what you’ve managed to work inside so far.

It teases at what you want. What you need. Your initial spike pleasure quickly plateauing with the minutes that pass - the grind of your hips not nearly enough.

Leaving you teetering on the edge - your desperation dripping down his cock, sticky on your inner thighs.

“Please,” You try to whine, your face pressed into his neck. Mouthing at the brand, teeth scraping where shoulder meets neck.

The word become disconnected between your thoughts and your lips. Half gasped and half sighed, lost in the muted buzz of the city awakening outside.

“Are you still worrying?” He asks, his pulse fluttering against your lips. Betraying him, revealing that he’s not nearly as unaffected as he’s been pretending.

Hitching his hips forward, sinking deeper. Again your answer is more sound than words, drawn from deep in your chest.

“Oh,” He sighs, with that grin. Pulling back to let his nose brush against yours, seeing how gone you are, “You’re not thinking about anything at all, are you?”

Your thighs flex, brow pinching as he suddenly hilts himself. A gasp ripping from you at the way he fills you, your pussy making room for his thick girth. The heavy weight of his sack resting against the curve of your ass, coarse hairs already sticky.

“Oh, fuck. Good girl.” Klaue’s teeth clench, feeling how you wrap so perfectly around him. How you arch against his chest, panting as you adjust.

His voice dropping lower, with a smooth roll of his hips, “You listened so well, so I’ll give you what you need.”

And he does, the shallow thrusts you’ve managed turning into the rutting of his hips. Skin slapping against skin as the curves of his cock drag along your inner walls.

Pushing himself higher on his arms until you’re chanting his name, the fat head stroking against the soft, spongey spot that brings in the night again, making you see stars.

Your groan is guttural, eyes slipping shut again. No longer tethered to the bed, now somewhere far beyond - solely focused on the snap of his hips, the burn of pleasure with each plunge of his cock. Muscles already stringing tight, toes curling in blissful anticipation.

Missing his sharp smile in the early light, all white and shining gold. How he moves then, bracing himself again on a tattooed arm as the other slips downward.

The tips of his fingers whir - just barely activating the mechanisms inside. Pressing them cruelly against your clit, pinching the tight bud between two of them.

It’s too much - steady pulse of the vibration, the sharp punch of his cock. All-encompassing, until your mind is truly blank. The mindless grinding of your hips against his, chasing his fingers, the high that you can almost reach. Each breath shorter, everything winding tighter and tighter, and then -

With a ragged cry, you feel yourself shatter in his arms.

Your vision goes white and hazy as the edges, his name broken as you sob it. A different kind of wave crashes over you, the ripples flowing down your limbs, from your molten core.

His words muted, but you collect what you can. Growled endearments that slip between bared teeth.

“That’s it, sweetheart.”

“Look at you, so fucking good for me.”

It’s bliss, this frozen moment in time.

You’re boneless, when he finally slips his legs free, hitching your thighs around his hips. Pleasure-drunk on the ambrosia that glitters in your veins, his hand lifting from between your thighs to pinch at your chin.

His thumb smearing across your bottom lip, eyes darkening as you part them automatically. Tongue dipping out to taste yourself, a sweet tang against his skin.

“There you go.” Klaue coos, seeing the dazed look as your lips close around and suck.

His own end not far off, with the warm grip of your cunt and mouth - the broken echo of his name ringing in his ears.

Knowing for certain that he has you thoroughly distracted. Starting a slow pace as he grins, an idea forming. Your eyes fluttering - threatening to roll shut again when his hand slips free, your lips parting with a sigh.

His hips pulling back - easing his cock out just enough to circle his thumb and finger around the base.

The vibrations start again as he drives himself deep, traveling down his shaft. Pulsing inside you, nudging against that spot again, as your eyes snap open with a sharp cry.

If he can hold off just a little bit longer - he thinks - he’s certain to coax out another.

Because when it comes to you, he’s nothing if not thorough.

This time, when he relaxes - his weight settling over you, a warm and welcome blanket - you find that your mind has gone blissfully silent.

Content to fold yourself into him. Arms wrapping around, head tilting to rest against his. Mimicking without thought the easy rise and all of his breaths, your quickened pulse slowly following.

He murmurs something soft and low, though you’re already gone.

Off to a sleep that, for both of you, comes easy.

He vibrated the glass, and it vibrated my - *gunshot*

#WEIGHTED BLANKET MAN WHENNN #CRUSH MEEEEE PLS #not a pedro boy #doesn't fkn matter #when the writing is this good #ficrec #smut my beloved #“vibrating appendages” 😆#loving soft!dom #my beloved #this has joel miller alllll over it for me

77 notes · View notes

shirks-all-responsibilities · 21 days

Text

Cosmos Persona Tag Game

Oooooooh thanks for the tag @davnittbraes, that was indeed the most "strange and absurd and absolutely delightful" personality quiz I have ever taken 😆. Started a new thread with my results here and it had me giggling--mostly accurate 🤭 with a couple WTFs 😆. Here's the MBTI comparisons--I'm usually INFJ and "Nebula" is INTJ, so not bad 🥳:

Booping Tagging some people who might be interested in taking this whimsical quiz, if ya haven't already (or if you have, BOOOOP):

@iamskyereads, @imtryingmybeskar, @galactic-basic, @the-scandalorian, @julesonrecord, @fuckyeahdindjarin, @love-the-abyss, @femmefacetious, @skyshipper, @whataperfectwasteoftime, @just-here-for-the-moment, @theewokingdead, @deadhumourist, @sp00kymulderr

#personal #tag game #cosmos persona #AaaaAAAaah #lollllll #“can't stand illogical argument”#not me researching #the methodology behind this #after taking it #davnitt lookit my strongest attraction #🐙🥰#def awkward #not so much genius

5 notes · View notes

shirks-all-responsibilities · 27 days

Text

replace one word in your username with boop tell me in the tags what it is

#boops-all-responsibilities #👉👃-♾️-💰🛒🧼🚽✉️🏛️🕗#😆😆😆

11K notes · View notes

shirks-all-responsibilities · 27 days

Photo

Narcos | 3.10 “Going Back To Cali”

#TOP LEFT #toppp lefttttt #lookit that micromoment #his expression shifts into #🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺#just wanna #take his face in my hands #more than anythinggggft #javier peña #bless the gifs #bless the gifmaker #i cant stop watching #helpppp

2K notes · View notes

shirks-all-responsibilities · 1 month

Note

You have some of the best, sweetest, most earnest comments on all of your fic recs and I love getting to hear your thoughts not just on the things I’ve written but what other people have written too 🥰🥰 You really brighten my day and I’m happy to have you on my dash. Thank you so much for everything you do 💕

Oh my goodness, thank you for taking a moment to share this with me 🥹🥹?? You've returned the earnestness, and I really appreciate that. Let's be the earnestness we wanna see in the world ok💖!?! Yesterday was a DAY and seeing this made everything better, instantly, you don't even know--thank you SO much! 🥰🥰🥰

#baby's first ask #so THIS is what it feels like?#my hearttt #imma send way more of these #than i have #pay it forward #cuz 🥹🥹🥹#tysm #that anon #got me guessing!!

5 notes · View notes

shirks-all-responsibilities · 1 month

Text

Read the summary and tags and was instantly twirling my hair and kicking my existential feet because OHHH how I love thinking about Serious Tim Rockford contemplating Serious Things with that Serious Sad Look on his face…

And then you went and gave him this BEAUTIFUL piece of writing that's honest and contemplative about the most Serious topic there is, that's intensely somber and peaceful all at once, that gives the most mature Pedro boy something worthy of him to chew on, and I AM OBSESSSSEEEEDDDDD.

I just sat here and let this piece settle and soothe the corners of my mind. And PINE after this man. That last paragraph sent me into a spiral of longing, musing on extending and expanding on that moment forever (can I live there? pls?).

"He stays long after the others leave, until the sky darkens behind the clouds and the ghosts of the forest and of the cottage sweep their fingers along the back of his neck and threaten to pull him under." The way this piece is so comforting to me, but also has these passages that flirt with the edge of horror in a delicious way that's pitch perfect.

I can't articulate anything else other than to say I ADORE this so fkng much. Well dooooneeee!!

moss

requested by @chloeangelic as part of the 1k fairy circle

pairing: tim rockford x afab!reader rating: explicit (18+ mdni) summary: after witnessing an unusual death, tim needs reminded what it is to be alive. wc: 1.3k tags: angst (meditations on life and death and humanity and nature and moss), descriptions of a dead body, smut buried under a shit ton of nature metaphors [oral (f!rec), non-graphic unprotected piv], reader has no real physical descriptions that aren’t also shrouded in metaphor, liv starting to scare you all away probably, is this even a tim fic? what even is this? I don't know but I love it a/n: this is heavily inspired by the book moss by klaus modick, and a bit by the overstory by richard powers. I read moss recently and it’s one of those books that will stick with me forever and has changed the way i look at the world. I wholeheartedly recommend it if you like meditations on nature, science, life, and death. the overstory is my favorite book of all time and i’ll never shut up about it. this one’s weird, so if it’s not your thing that’s okay!!

1k request masterlist | main masterlist | read on AO3 | @5oh5-notifs for fic updates!

Tim has never seen anything like it.

He’s not on this case, if you could even call it a case. A call from a friend, an officer, a crackled “you have to see it to believe it,” moved his hands for him as he turned the key in the ignition. He sped down the country roads, a blur of fences and homes, of wet pavement and powerlines. Steady rain pattered on the windshield, droplets chasing each other down the length of his car.

He’s not entirely sure what he was expecting to see, even after the officer’s description, but it wasn’t quite this. Sometimes no words can prepare you. When he pulls up to the house, gravel crunching under his tires, the waiting police car looks alarmingly out of place. This cottage is wild, as if the forest itself is swallowing it up, reabsorbing it into itself, digesting it. Ivy creeps up the house, moss grows on the roof and overflows over the paving stones of the front walk. The windows are open, and a breeze ruffles the curtains. The landscaping is leggy, untamed, but it looks as if it was once perfectly manicured, even nestled within the surrounding woods. Tim could easily believe that no one had stepped foot inside this house for years, except he knew that someone had, in fact, lived there…up until the man’s death approximately four days ago.

The trees seem to be peering down at him as he steps out of his car, and he swears he’s hearing them whisper through the shaking of their leaves. You are the ones that don’t belong. This cottage, the greenness of it, seems to prove their point. Death still makes Tim’s soul feel strange in his body, always making him suddenly aware of the wispy consciousness that hollows out his bones and blows through all the bloody caverns of his body. It’s just the wind, he thinks, though he steps carefully over the gravel driveway anyway, as if the unnatural crunching will offend the gods that watch him.

He stands in the cottage now, the humid air making the curls at the back of his neck stick to his skin despite the cool breeze through the open windows. The rain makes the room feel heavy and wet. His body is warm but his fingers are cold, his palms clammy.

There is moss everywhere. In the corners of the windows, creeping over the carpet, growing through the cracks in the wooden floorboards. Mold darkens the walls. Lichen watches him cross the hallway to the living room. When Tim lays eyes on the dead man, slumped over his desk, a fresh chill skitters down his spine, goosebumps erupt down his arms. The botanist’s body is laid atop a mess of papers, all covered in scrawls of green ink. The ink, he sees, has spilled from the glass bottle and has pooled around the man’s hand - the fountain pen lays just out of his reach. He died writing.

That, however, is not the most remarkable thing. The moss covers him too. There are patches of green in his hair, in his beard, as if cushioning the man’s fall as he pitched forward. As if returning him to the Earth already, as if saying we’ve got you, don’t be afraid. You’re one of us now; we’ll take care of you.

“We’re still waiting on the coroner,” the officer says, standing in the middle of the room with his hands on his hips, and Tim wants to shush him. Speaking in any voice that isn’t the whistle of the wind through the house, the silent sprouting of sporophytes, or the creaking of bark seems like an affront, a violation.

This wasn’t a murder. The culprit, of course, was just time. Time, the damp, and the creeping of all living things.

Tim merely nods at the officer’s words.

He stays until the body is removed, and he swipes a cigarette between his lips as he stands on the mossy paving stones and watches them do it. He thinks the body wrapped in plastic looks so wrong, another violation. Was the moss not already accomplishing the same goal? He lights the cigarette, the flame a vigil. It’s now something he only does after witnessing death, and as he watches the fire catch, he hopes the trees forgive them, that the moss forgives them. That the dead botanist, the dead writer, forgives them. Humans are silly, he explains silently in a cloud of smoke, as if the trees and the moss and the grass and the ferns need any such explanation. He watches his words dissolve into the rain. His shoe presses into the cushions of moss under his foot, and the moss presses back. He stays long after the others leave, until the sky darkens behind the clouds and the ghosts of the forest and of the cottage sweep their fingers along the back of his neck and threaten to pull him under.

On the drive home, he doesn’t turn on the radio. The only sound is that of the rain hitting his windows. He sees every green thing on the way back, even in the dim and hazy light of a rainy dusk. Every tree, every fern, every bunch of overgrown grass on every median and in every ditch. He sees the hawk perched on top of the speed limit sign, sees the asters that grow up along someone’s mailbox. You are the ones that don’t belong.

When he unlocks the front door and pushes his way inside, he feels moss in his shoes, moss in his beard.

“Hi baby, are you okay?” you ask him, seeing the way his eyes have become holes in lava rock, the way his shoulders tense under the weight of life, the weight of death. Like an oak he is hardened and woody, but there are cracks in the bark around him now.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, barely above a whisper, still feeling that his own voice is somehow foreign to this world. Ivy grows up the length of his leg and extends a tendril around his hip.

He needs to feel. He needs to remind himself of the beauty of the living, of still having breath in his lungs and blood in his veins. He is not yet lost to the dirt. He kisses you and tastes relief. You’re still here, and so is he. He kisses down the peaks and valleys of your body, skin as soft as tulips in spring as you unfurl yourself for him, until he buries his nose in the curls between your legs. Biting you, kissing you, licking you into his mouth, he thinks maybe we do belong. What could initiate him into the world of the trees, the wild, more than this?

Soft moss, waterfalls, the lace of fern leaflets, the blooming of flowers in the night. The hair on your body, the gush of your cum, the patterns on your skin, the folds of your cunt. The meandering river, the roll of the hills, the veins of your hand, the plush of your thighs. The leaves falling to Earth, the clouds enveloping the moon. You knot your fingers through his hair and he thinks that nature commands you, as it commands him. Nature is a woman, it must be, and if God isn’t, his is.

He buries himself down to his roots, loses his mind for a while, leaves it for you to hold deep in your body. Butterflies, birds, moths, and flies carry pollen on their bodies. He can do it himself just fine. Milky white moonlight spills all over your belly. A million lives, or perhaps just one.

He thinks of life, your life, his, as he draws lazy flowers on the skin of your back, damp with the salt of the sea, the salt of your body. We must belong, he thinks, for if we didn’t, why would the moss ever welcome us home?

#Tim Rockford x afab!reader #ficrec #catnip for the existential soul #brb just gonna #meditate on the #humid curls #on the nape of Tim's neck #inject this piece into my SOUL PLS #i desire him #in all ways that one can desire #goddddddd #tw death #tw angst #but so BEAUTIFUL #helpppp

87 notes · View notes

shirks-all-responsibilities · 1 month

Text

I love all kinds of Joel, and OH how you packed so much sad undeserving Joel feels into this!

"The same way you’d spoke it last night while he’d had you on his lap, when he’d told you to come and you had like he should have any say in anything you did." OKKKKKK, now look, this sentence DID THINGS to me--there's something about the combination of him commanding reader while being in this state of complete humbled worshipful reverence?? This state of awe at even being able to command at all? The juxtaposition of it??? Joel being the one doing it?? OBSESSED. I don't even know how to explain it? One of those lines that you read and you just have to STOP for a minute.

More writing I loved:

"softness of your fingers paving the way for a needy grip on him" - The way this is so indirect, so inexplicit, but SO HOT. That "grip" has me 🥵🥵.

"the silken whisper of your moans and pleas" - Lovely.

"The rise and fall of your breath breathes fresh air in to the staleness of his home." I love this take on musing on this living, breathing being in front of you, the way it's both literal and figurative...

And oh my heart, Joel is just SO completely convinced he doesn't deserve anything good or lovely and can't see things any other way. Poor bbbbyyyy.

And look at that MOODBOARD! All the dark shades of gray and black, that view of Joel from the back, cropped so perfect for the sad lonely old man vibes, love it!!

Rise

Joel Miller x afab!reader

Warnings/Tags: 18+. Jackson Joel, Touch starved Joel, Lonely old man Joel. Too much religious imagery. Feelings, feelings, feelings. References to sex. Unedited.

Words: 700~

Summary: You are a brightness, Joel is the undeserving dark.

He hadn’t meant to stare, he really hadn’t.

The thing is, you were just so mesmerizing. The way you laughed and the way you danced and the way you could shine so bright in a world he had rarely known to be anything but cruel.

Jackson brought that out of people, Joel recognised that. The ability to let go finally, to live for more than survival. You had been half the bright star you are now when you first arrived; wary and traumatised. He knew those feelings well. Why had he held on to them for so much longer than anyone else?

You were like the antithesis to him: easy to know, easy to love, creating something out of the nothing your life had once been. You were well liked. Joel liked you more, he thought, but people saw you as someone they could talk to.

Tommy often told Joel he was respected in Jackson, appreciated. But it was never the same. He doesn’t have that glow, that brilliance. People know him. No one knows him. Not since Ellie had started to grow away from him, started to doubt him more…

No, not now. Those thoughts aren’t for now.

Right now, this moment, is for reverence. How had this happened? He had been staring more than he should last night at The Tipsy Bison. How had that lead you to be in his bed this morning? He could barely remember; the night a blur of things he didn’t think he should have been allowed to see. He had bought you a drink, you had given him a dance. And then more, and more. You had given him so much more.

Joel is staring again, your resting form so resplendent in the early morning light. So…divine…there’s no other word for it. You were made to be worshiped, he’s sure of it. Being of blazing light brought down to shine on his dimmed world.

When was the last time he had been touched before you? God, he truly doesn’t remember. Certainly not the way you touch; softness of your fingers paving the way for a needy grip on him, he wouldn’t forget that touch. He had been craving it for too long, imagining. Thought upon thought of what a thing your touch could be but he was never prepared for the reality of it.

Joels own hands find their way to you, fingers skimming the bare skin of your lower back. Unworthy. So defiant that his unworthy hands - so rough from years of wear - should get to lay a place on your body.

The word repeats again and again. Unworthy. Unworthy. Unworthy.

And yet last night you had told him in the silken whisper of your moans and pleas. Worthy. Worthy. Worthy.

His calloused hand travels its way slowly up the path of your back. A pilgrimage across a body meant for more than him. The rise and fall of your breath breathes fresh air in to the staleness of his home.

Of his heart.

What did he do to deserve this? What mistake did you make to let him have this?

Grey and alone and aching in ways that go beyond physical. But you were the one who kissed him first. You were the first to touch, to feel where he had not been felt in longer than he knew.

Joel leans slowly across to you. Those harsh fingers of his trailing down the curve of your waist. He dares to plant a pious kiss to your shoulder. Surely soon you’ll wake and realise the mistake?

“Joel” You moan. A soft little thing that makes his heart jump. The same way you’d spoke it last night while he’d had you on his lap, when he’d told you to come and you had like he should have any say in anything you did.

Fuck. He is undeserving of all of this but his greedy heart wants more. Hungry mouth wants to take you apart on it over and over again. Eager fingers itching to feel their way around every beautiful, delicate crook of your body.

He breathes your name back. You turn to him. Surely now is the time you tell him it was wrong. Now…

Joel’s breath catches as you turn to face him, pull him to you. He practically trembles as your lips meet again.

This can’t last forever. He doesn’t deserve it.

It means too much.

He means too little.

You kiss him again. He feels the glow of you everywhere.

This can’t last forever, he reminds himself.

#joel miller x reader #the FEELS #sad old man joel #Joel feeling unworthy x 100 #i wanna praise this man #til he's blushing for weeks #and believes it #ficrec

880 notes · View notes

shirks-all-responsibilities · 1 month

Text

So, red is my FAVORITE color, and I was in absolute awe of the way your beautiful descriptions and musings and attention given to all things red were such an essential and evocative part of this chapter.

Your writing! From that first paragraph about the hints of light in his painted form, to that gorgeous section early on about the the way running out of red becomes almost an obsession of sensory attention--I was transfixed right outta the gate.

So many wonderful lines that create such a VIBE in that room? So poetically evoke the way this color has, well, colored all aspects of her attention?

"His wordless appreciation colors and stains the very air as he steps closer and bends to inspect the paints. Close enough his breath skates across the lacquered colors." I just had to pause and APPRECIATE these two lines, it's so delicate, so on brand, gahhhh, the way you weave hue and the painting process into everything!

"When he lifts his chin, he is magnificent, all dark beauty in utter ruination. You long to paint him like this, lit from within, face naked with carnal want. All pinned on you." My god, writing that practically pushes me back in my seat.

I love that after discovering her naked in the bath, the first thing he wants is to see her paintings, the output of her mind and creativity and passion. And his lil teasing, SO him. And that "It is me"? I love him sm. 🥰

Aaaand I love that conversational bit between them where he talks about what he knows from the outside--and she from the inside, the domestic, the oft-overlooked--and how her knowledge from that is JUST as valuable as his? I adore this so much.

And mkay so once I realized the significance RED had in this chapter, it wasn't long before I was dying to know if Pero's cock would get its own description to match (and be of an appropriate shade) and I was *not* disappointed 😌😌😌.

Incarnadine

Pero Tovar x Fem Reader

summary: This time, Pero finds you in the bath. Follows Watercolor and Repose.

warnings: MINORS BEGONE. 18+ content. Literally just smut. Reader is a blank slate.

word count: 6k.

A/N: to my queen beta @ezrasbirdie and @pedrorascal my fellow Pero lover.

MASTERLIST // AO3

incarnadine: (n.) a bright crimson or pinkish-red color; (v.) to color (something) a bright crimson or pinkish-red.

It has been too long since you’ve had time to steal away for yourself. You spend it by taking a long-overdue bath.

With the dryness of the season, the bathgirl suggests pouring a cup and a half of oatmeal into the tub to keep your skin smooth. The two of you gossip while she helps you bring the water pails to your room.

On her final trip, she appears with a wooden chalice of red wine. There are some barrels she and the cook have squirreled away for such an occasion, and so she skips off with a childish giggle, leaving you to your bath.

The steam and the wine make you sleepy, and so your mind wanders.

It is a blessing to be off your feet, and to simply soak.

The oatmeal makes the water milky, and you play your hands through it, making it ripple and swell with waves. Your skin practically sighs at the lubrication of the oatmeal in the water, and your hands especially, which have become dry and cracked with all your painting and multiple washings.

Across the room, your eyes fall upon a sheet hanging on the wall. It hides a very precious treasure underneath—a fresco-secco.

The mural is a recreation of the tavern and inn, complete with the local characters who pass through, a few regulars sprinkled in, the cook, the innkeeper, but most importantly you are adding the one they call the Spaniard.

Having practiced his profile for many moons in charcoals, you have rendered Pero Tovar exactly in your mural. Though he is painted mostly in dark colorings, there are hints of light—the shine of silver fastenings on his armor, a russet that makes his eyes opaque, and the daintiest touches of yellow tawny have been applied to the color of his skin where the sun strikes him.

But the portrait is incomplete.

You have run out of red.

It consumes you.

Blood. Muscle. Sinew and clay.

Roses, amaryllis, carnations, and poinsettia. Poppies in springtime. Radishes plucked from the earth.

A ripe tomato just before it is cut up and dropped into stew. Beets that stain your hand and the knife. Meat before it is cooked on the stove.

Mother used to mix madder and woad to dye wool a shade of dark red; you can make a similar mixture but you have no way to procure supplies without taking a half-a-day’s walk to the neighboring town’s market.

Hematite would be better—a mineral compound that when mixed with lead white, a subtle pink is born.

The rarefied pink of a scab from a wound, long healed.

The blush of a lover.

A light rapping at your bedroom door has your thoughts thinning as smoke. Assuming it to be the bothersome bathgirl, back again with more wine, you call out—“Enter!”

Without turning your head, you hold your cup aloft in a silent directive for her to refill it, and a warm hand wraps loosely around your wrist. You hear the wine being poured, but it is a rough voice that speaks to you:

“You feel good, huh?”

With a gasp that slices the air as thin and piercing as a knife, you wrench your arm away, sending the wine cup to the floor, sloshing into a red, red puddle upon the floor.

A smiling pair of eyes greets you. Brown. Deep and dark and true. Not a hint of light escapes them. The very molten brown ones of the very man you’d been daydreaming about.

Pero Tovar.

It has been far too long since your last meeting with him—you took great pleasure in that one—but his visits are too short to your liking. He never spends more than one night, and he leaves before the sun comes up.

“What are you—?”

You do not finish it, falling off into a mouse-like squeak because he stands in his lightweight chainmail tunic, the dark gray linen shirt beneath it, and outfitted in his usual array of weapons strapped to his back, smelling of the horse stables and human musk.

He is thoroughly dirty.

You’ve never found him more attractive. Your body spikes with heat, all too aware how vulnerable and naked you are in front of this man.

In another twist, you notice that his arm sling is now gone. His shoulder has healed in the time since his last visit.

“Ángel, what a waste of wine,” he remarks to the spillage on the floor.

The burgundy liquid has melted into the wooden floors, creating a stain that irks like a blood clot.

“You are here!”

“I am.” Those eyes, they gleam with silent laughter. His lips crook upward into his telltale smirk, but then seem to pause, reconsidering, and he sobers.

“I was eating supper in the tavern and you were not at your station, I feared something was amiss, and you were ill,” he says stonily. “So imagine my surprise to find you are merely in the bath.”

He squints, pointedly, at the milky water, and the metal tub taking up residence in your otherwise small quarters.

“The innkeeper has gone to see his mother and the cook gave me the day off,” you tell him, adding, warily: “You shouldn’t be here.”

Unworried, he sets the wine jug upon the table and takes stock of your private room. He sifts through the jars of pigments on the table, sees the workstation where you have your easel and brushes drying. There are sticks of charcoal idling, and he rifles through the blank stacks of that cheap parchment for sketching, peeks into the jugs of water and a basket of chicken eggs to assist in making tempura. Disappointment sears across his features, marking double lines between his brows as he finds no trace of what he seeks.

“But where are your paintings?” he asks. “I wish to see them.”

You betray yourself. For your eyes glance hurriedly over to the mock-up of the sheet on the far wall underneath the window.

Hunter-like Pero tracks it and points at the sheet with one of his dirty fingers before making his way over.

“N-no, wait!” You declare, embarrassed, but you are unable to physically restrain him in your state. “It is not done. Pero! Wait!”

He does not care for your protestations. His hand is already forming a fist around the cloth.

“What is behind this?” he asks, eyes full with trouble.

“Don’t, Pero! It is not what you think,” you say, pressing against the side of the tub and reaching your arms long out in front of you as if you could try to grab him.

Too late. With a rough yank, he pulls the sheet down to uncover what lies beneath.

There it stands, in all its glory—your work of art. The fresco shines upon the wall. There are the familiar silhouettes from the tavern, and, featured prominently, is the Spaniard himself, with his own lovingly drawn visage front and center.

Speechless, he stares. You shrink further into the tub’s warm waters with a meek groan of humiliation.

“It is me,” he merely states.

His shoulders are slackened, his hands hang limply at his sides. The dark hair you washed a few weeks ago is growing quickly, already forming small curls that float around his ears, and it is with the large paw of his hand that he scratches the base of his neck. He is dirty, but you witness splotches of a carnal bloom creeping upwards on the vulnerable skin peeking between the collar of his armor and his hairline, and the bit of neck behind his ears.

You are prepared to sink your head under the water fully should he give you an answer you do not want to hear.

“I—” Pero pauses, with a shy turn to you, beholding you in the bath.

His wordless appreciation colors and stains the very air as he steps closer and bends to inspect the paints. Close enough his breath skates across the lacquered colors.

“You are good,” he says, awed. “Very good. But where is the rest?”

For the portrait bleeds off, his painted figure stops short of the torso. His shoulders end with no arms. There is no scar but a thin line you drew with pencil to designate its placement, and his lips are rendered far too pale and flat to your liking.

“I have not finished it.” Your lack of courage keeps your voice hardly more than a whisper. Makes your grip on the tub rim all the more firmly. “I have no more red.”

Pero takes slow, measured steps towards you. His is an intimidating, striking figure—all his chainmail, the thick leather bracers on his forearms, the long suffering grimace.

A predator slowly approaching his prey.

It stirs something ancient and primal in you. A crimson-heart beating, red blood coursing through you.

But before he gets closer, and with great deliberation, he unbuckles the leather strap around his torso, drops the strap at his hip and loosens two more on his back. The weapons, sharp and deadly, are lowered to lie inert upon the ground, and though you are sure he could wreck violence in many ways without the need of them, you do not fear he dare hurt you.

Pero perches, the metal and armor clicks as he sits on the rim of the linen-lined tub, and his fingers dip into the waters of your bath. Testing it. When his gaze meets yours though, it is with a touch of whimsy.

“I think,” he begins, “you have been playing coy with me, no? You have missed me?”

You do not deign that with a reply, though your face is on fire.

His lips upend into a pout and he clicks his tongue at you, as if punishing a pet or a child for misbehaving while his fingers swirl in an idle pattern in the water.

“Admit it, ángel.”

Growing modest, you hike your knees as close as you can to your chest, wrapping your arms around your legs. The bath water covers you, but not nearly enough. Pero can easily take in the outline of your form floating underneath.

“I am not a virtuous man,” he professes with all seriousness.

“How so,” you counter.

“I have been a thief in my time, did you know that?”

This you did not, and it surprises you. Looking closer, there are remnants of the scarring on his wrists from whatever chains bound him, they burn scarlet to your discerning eye. A common punishment for thievery is to cut off entire hands, you are grateful he has been spared even that.

It cannot be that his are the same hands—a thief’s hand—that swirls in the bath now, so close to you, coaxing little waves to splash delicately around your timorous form.

Pero regards you closely. It is palpable, the heat of his stare—the way it lingers on the slope of your shoulders, dances over the contours of your face, takes in the way your skin glistens in the soft light.

Your lips part, opening in anticipation of what he is going to say next, because he fascinates you further, and your focus holds firm to him.

“That is the true face of the man you paint on your walls,” he says with some finality. Hurt creases the corner of his eyes, his greatest shame under the full light of day.

“Not the way I see it,” you reply. “Not the way I see you.”

Pero is not one to absorb compliments, preferring to brush them off him like oil over water. They do not sit easily with him. With you, he is a gentler creature, allowing himself a crack of vulnerability. Not be one who is so guarded, so defensive.

Whatever torments in his past molest him, they dive quickly back into slumber. The facade breaks and he lets forth a small chuckle, wholly enamored.

“Should we ask the bathgirl to haul a second tub in here?” he asks, half-joking. His brows furrow as he considers it. Then, he stands, a decision made up in his mind. “Or we can save her the trip,” he adds.

One by one his clothing comes off. The arm bracers are dropped unceremoniously. He unclasps the belts at his weight and lefts the chainmail over his head in one cleanly-rendered show of agility.

If he’s trying to make you laugh, he is only halfway successful. The laugh that hums through your nose is stopped short. “What are you doing?” you huff.

Pero already has one boot off and is tugging the other one, and his linen shirt is slinking over his scruffy head. Two clunks are his boots falling over, a hush as the shirt joins it. Partway naked, he stands upright, tugging at the laces to his breeches.

There is a certain hunger to him when he catches you looking.

“Since I am already here,” he remarks with a shrug.

A tug and the breeches loosen, falling down his thighs, helped by his hands, and before you can utter a yelp, he scrambles to join you in the hot water, fully dunking himself under the opalish waters beside you.

It sloshes over the rim, wetting up your floors and you cannot contain your shrieks of laughter. His dark hair floats at the surface. A strange halo at the top of the water before he re-emerges, shaking out the water from his locks. A wet dog, soapy and happy.

“Look what you have done,” you cry out.

The round tub is big enough for the both of you, but it is still a tight fit. Your limbs keep knocking against each other.

Pero scrubs his dirt-riddled face with his hands, mussing up his hair in the process, and with a sigh he spreads his arms and relaxes back against the circular rim, looking at you down the length of his eyelashes as he stretches his neck backwards.

“Tranquilo, ángel.”

“You made me lose the soap,” you chide flicking water droplets at him. Before you can continue with a riposte about men making a mess of things, large hands grab at your hips, and weightless as you are in the water, you are dragged towards him.

“This is better,” he says when you are settled between his parted knees. His hands trail up your sides, pulling you closer and enticing you to sit with your legs around his torso.

Your lips twist. Somewhere decorum has abandoned you, drowned into the depths of the tub; it lies beside the bar of soap.

“Much better,” he purrs.

You are now front-to-front. Less than an arm’s length between you.

His thighs frame your form, and there is definitely heat in the air between you both, but you flick more water at his smirking face.

Something floats past your leg under the water, and your hands latch around. Triumphant, you pick it up.

At last, the bar of soap is discovered.

“Come,” Pero gestures for it, “I will wash you, ángel.”

So you spin, offering the man your back and Pero lathers the soap between his hands, being sure to make them all clean before he sets them upon your back. He applies with some pressure, enough to coax your muscles into relaxation as he washes you. With gentleness, he does your shoulders, rubbing in smooth circular patterns from your neck to your mid back, getting all those hard to reach places.

Folding your arms loosely over your chest, you let him touch you in places you’ve only dreamed of. There must be some sin in it.

Yet, how can there be?

The ritual feels sacred, treasured. A series of locked doors having opened between you both, showing your true colors to each other.

As he bathes you, Pero talks about any and all—his days of heavy travel, the temperament of the men he lives and works beside, including his master. He speaks, his tone clipped, answering in short and direct when you pepper him with questions of the outside world, the one beyond this village and the walls of this tavern. In turn, you share village gossip, the movements of the King’s troops moving to the frontlines, the threat of more war on the horizon, the many languages you have heard spoken in the tavern suggests a vast movement of people through these parts, fleeing wars, disease, and famine.

It’s all so far away from the tranquil room with its bath and rosewater soap.

Pero retrieves the pail of fresh water at the foot of the tub and the soap lathered into your skin washes easily off you. The sensation of fresh water tipping over your shoulders and down your back and breasts makes you gasp and tiny hairs on your body stand on end. A shiver travels, wickedly, down lower than your hips, tickles along your backside.

“What do you need to finish it?” His breath washes over you, making you drown all over again. Scarlet in the air.

Your painting, he means.

“Oh, something to make you red,” you say with a sigh, teasing him with a not so virginal glance over your shoulder.

“I am not red.”

The twisted expression he makes sends you into laughter. He is so, dumbfoundedly, serious. Offended even.

Pero pouts further at you. “What did I say? What!”

You laugh harder.

“I am not red,” he rebuffs. “You would paint me that way?”

The bath water slips higher as you sink underneath it more. Pero—poor confused Pero—grabs your waist, thinking you will slip all the way under and swallow half the bathwater, and gathers you, laughing still, into his arms.

“Mi ángel, what did I say, eh?” A small chuckle sputters past his lips, and he glows with a kind of ruby affection as he stares at you, collecting yourself from your giggles.

“Ah, but let me show you,” you tell him, smiling impishly and crowding into his lap in the tub. The first passing brush of your naked breasts to his chest brings the two of you to patient stillness, limbs entangled, nearly breathless, with little space between you now.

“But I see red here.” You trace the line of his scar down his roguish face. “And these.” Your fingers drag down the scruffy patch of his cheek to touch the arch of his lips.

“You have a little red here,” you say, and witness the hollow of his throat, bobbing when he swallows at the gentle caress your fingers make upon it.

“There is red under here,” you say, drawing your palms over the planes of his chest, bringing attention to the gallop of his beating heart.

For, Pero is delighted when he picks up on the flirtatious game you are playing. “Where else?” he purrs, letting your hands wander lower and lower. His gaze grows more heated and something, something eager and red, nudges the underside of your fleshy thigh where it is draped over his lap.

“I need a special pigment,” you tell him. “To make this color I desire.”

“And you cannot make red otherwise?”

A shake of your head.

“Ah, sí, ángel. Let us say, I will assist you, no? To find this special red for you,” says Pero, a promising arch to the point of his brow.

That piques you. “Oh?”

The fingers of your right hand dance along his belly, very slowly you stretch them out, downwards, until they graze over the scruff of his pubic hair. You rake your nails through it, sending a hiss to eke through Pero’s clenched jaw.

His cock would grow to greet the swell of his lower belly if it wasn't trapped by the press of your thigh. So your nails abrade through his pubic hair, teasing, not quite touching where he wants you the most.

“Would you help me?” You flutter your lashes at him.

It really is too easy. Pero’s breathing has grown heavier. “Sí, sí. But what do I get in return?”

“Mhm,” you pretend to mull it over. Your hands moving away from his body; Pero leans towards you, hurt that your advances have stopped far too soon. “My eternal gratitude,” you finally say.

With that, you take hold of his clean hand and bring it between your legs. With slackened jaws and stuttered breaths, you draw the tips of his fingers through your folds, letting him feel the magic of how they slide so easily open at the faintest of touches. You hold him to your warm center, teasing around the entrance of your cunt, letting him part your folds, and show him where you are already slick with want.

“Feel that?” you breathe.

He nods, in a trance. All cocky pretense is banished and those rosy lips part, caught in the spell of a promise of your velvet walls clutching him. You nearly keen at the soft caress of his calloused fingers at your most sensitive parts, and have to bite down on your bottom lip.

“My gratitude.” You let your mouth hang close to his, daring him to seek forth a kiss. “Is this what you want?”

The tip of his finger penetrates you, just to his first knuckle, sending both of you gasping. The water, grown tepid, trembles around you. Pero’s other hand is at your hip—a stiff claw digging into your flesh.

“You want this, no?” You allow him to ease his finger deeper, feeling how your cunt gives around him. “Do you?”

Pero nods frantically. “Sí—yes, ángel. I do,” he says, when he remembers he can speak, letting his finger shallowly thrust in and out of you.

“Then take it. And have me.”

He slides his finger out fully, only to reenter you with two. They sink all the way to the knuckle.

Your eyes clamp shut at the suddenness of his intrusion and, thus, must temper your breathing. He stills them, lets you adjust though you have given him free rein to continue. With a sigh you lean back, arching to give him a peek of your breasts. At the sight of your nipples breaching the water’s opalescent surface, Pero silently snarls possessively. He’s practically drooling, eyes sparkling, with his arm snaking between your legs.

His fingers move deftly, plunging and curving inside you to fit his palm over your mound. He grinds it into you, letting you seek relief in sweet friction.

You’re too flustered to make noise, biting down on your lip instead, and Pero watches. Always watches.

“Let me hear you, let me hear how sweet you sound,” he cajoles you.

A small soft moan escapes then, and then another. A light gasp, a shuddering breath. Pero pulls entirely new languages out of you.

It’s not a lot for you to be taken apart like this. You’ve desired this man for so long and to have him, where he’s all yours, letting those artful fingers work their magic and reach places inside you you’ve only dreamed about, stolen away in rushed moments on dark nights.

His other hand lightly touches your knee, urging you to spread your legs further until the confines of the tub prevent you. He lifts himself, towers over you, bracing himself on the rim and watching you writhe under him. Droplets fell from his hair, his shoulders glistening with his skin dewy like a fresh spring morn. Broad and strong. More filled out than the last time you saw him, suggesting a more steady flow of meals and exercise.

Your hand falls to his chest, your fingers gliding between his rib, over his heart.

Softly, you moan his name, and his thumb makes a circle around the swollen nub between your folds.

His cock leaks, bright red, it peeks above the water, his chest rising and falling in time with yours.

“Pero,” you whisper again. His gaze lifts from your heaving bosom to find your eyes and you are surprised by the marks of tenderness. Watching you is decadent to him, he cannot quite believe he has you, under him, inside you.

“Say it again,” he tells you.

His name.

So you do, again and again, and his fingers corkscrew, brushing upon your most sensitive parts. A rush of blood through your ears blocks out any noise and your head falls back as your body is seized with splendor.

When you come to, you are facing the ceiling, your neck resting on the rim of the tub, and Pero cuts into your vision. Cradling your head and bringing you, supple and boneless, surging into his lap. His lips find yours, swallowing down your breath. You cling to him, your mercenary, your former thief. This grumpy man, handy with a sword, and even handier with your body.

His kiss is not wasted. You know how much he longs for you with every caress of his lips, the brushing of his tongue. He intends to make good on many things, though hardly one to savor what is presented before him, he takes exception with you.

You are his crown jewel. Far holier than anything he ever claimed to steal.

His hands caress down your back, and he holds your buttocks firmly.

His.

When you both catch your breath, you do not stray from each other. Foreheads resting, noses grazing.

“We should get out of this tub,” he suggests. Amusement colors his tone, and you can tell he smiles—that crooked one that holds such a tender place in your heart.

“Mhm, my bed will be more forgiving,” you say.

Neither of you move.

Your body feels heavy and light at the same time. Lightheaded, you are grateful for the way he holds you close to him, fearing you shall slip completely under the waters if it were not for him. Warmth seeps through every pore, a strange indulgence with mystical origins.

Pero’s shaggy hair cards easily through your fingers. The bridge of his nose bumps playfully at your chin. For a man of such shadowy depth, he is endearing. It brings an unbidden smile to your lips.

His cock is trapped once more under your thigh, and you feel it twitch so eagerly. With one more final passionate kiss, a marriage of your lips that ends too quickly, you rise out of the tub, and Pero in tow.

There is only one towel with which to dry off, and you make quick use of it before Pero is snapping it out of your hands to dry his hair with it. So while Pero makes his rumpled hair all the more rumpled, you take hold of the base of his cock. As if it were a lead rope, you take him to your bed.

If the man was hungry for you before, he is all the more famished now. He is all bright, jewel-toned color, eye-catching and gut-stirring.

Neither of you seem to mind how much water drips onto the floor from your bodies.

The mattress is a welcome comfort for your back as you fall upon it, with Pero once more, hungrily, atop you. Taking hold of your wrists, he guides them over your head, kissing your mouth, your jaw, the arch of your neck. He inhales you deeply—soap, rosewater, oatmeal, wine, and you.

Your legs are already parting around him and as Pero presses his weight into you his cock finds the soft landing of your belly.

“I cannot wait anymore,” you whine.

You think you shall die if he is not inside you.

“I want to know your taste first, ángel.” He nips at your jaw, under your ear.

You buck into him, your hands useless as fists above you, held by his grip. A small squeeze upon them—a wordless stay. Then, he is slinking down your body. Your breasts hold his attention for some time. He can cup them easily and mouths between them, as two fruits for him to devour. He sucks on your nipples, plays and kneads your breasts in his large hands, and buries his face between them.

You are clenching around nothing, desperate to be filled once more by this man, and while you enjoy the affection he openly lathers on you, you have other concerns.

“Pero, don’t make me beg,” you say.

His mouth is too full of your breast for him to answer.

You wiggle up against him, your bodies are not quite dry, so slip and slide. If you could, you’d flip him onto his back, but when you move your hips, it is futile.

“Pero.” It’s embarrassing how much he makes you howl.

There’s the lightest touch of his teeth on your breast, a remark about patience and your lack of it. Then Pero’s dark head rises from your chest and his hands roam down your body.

“If I were to take you now, I would not last long, so let me enjoy you,” he admonishes. His broad shoulders make room between your thighs, he lets your legs drape over him, and he stares at your cunt, slick and swollen with want.

He licks each thumbpad, then gently parts your folds. You could cry, and nearly do, sobbing at the way his breath ghosts over your center. Pero makes a rich, desirous noise of appreciation. It makes you shudder and clamp a hand over your mouth.

“None of that, ángel,” Pero says, planting a chaste kiss on your mound. “I want to hear you, yes? So all who pass by your door will know you have a man in your bed.”

The taunt burns, and you fist your bedsheets.

“I want to remember you like this,” he says, pressing his lips to your core. “Spread out for me—” another kiss along your folds and his mustache tickles “—so when I see you in my dreams, you are like this.”

It is still a shock, though you have been anticipating it for so long already, when his mouth is on you fully.

You have never had a man down on you like this before. Though you have heard the whores from the brothel talk of this kind of pleasure, of how easy it is to teach men how to lick and suck and eat cunt, of how good it feels once it is complete, and how the man’s chins shine with woman’s juices.

Pero is already a man fixated on what he puts in his mouth, and with your cunt he is no stranger. The hair on his chin and cheeks scrape at your inner thighs as his tongue delves into your hole. You gasp and shout, keening little noises of encouragement that make Pero growl into your cunt and grind into the bedsheets. He is an avid lover, and an even quicker student of your body, knowing where to put his lips to get you to make more noise.

The sound of your slick makes your ears burn, as wet and wanting for his greedy mouth. You are going to come again, your toes are already twisting, your legs trembling around his ears.

Just when you think you are going to tip over the edge, Pero sits up. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and crawls up to you.

“Take me,” you say to him, breathless and agitated, “take me already.”

His kiss tastes of you, and you cradle his face, rubbing the grainy sandpaper hair on his jaw under your thumbs. He aligns his cock to be notched at your entrance. He holds the base of his cock, neck angled to watch the bulbous head slip through your folds, gathering slick.

The first breach of his velvety smooth cock into your cunt has Pero cursing up a tempest. His resolve cracks further and he spears himself into you, letting his head fall forward until the hair at the crown of his head brushes your chest.

You are split open for him. It leaves you frozen even as your walls flutter around his cock and your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth.

Pero rocks his body, cleaving you in two. His cock drags through your tight walls, clinging to him. You can see your own essence leaving marks on him, before his cock disappears again inside you with a thrust that makes you both jerk up the bedsheets.

Your hands fall to his shoulders, his skin, a blend of red and gold and pink, and he kisses your breasts, uttering small reminders for you to breathe. When he lifts his chin, he is magnificent, all dark beauty in utter ruination.

You long to paint him like this, lit from within, face naked with carnal want. All pinned on you.

When your hand sweeps past his cheek to tuck a dark curl of hair behind his ear, he kisses your passing palm, his neck muscles straining.

Your bodies find a rhythm in a dance that only lovers know.

He speaks to you in a low soft voice with his lips hovering over yours. You catch snatches of phrases in his native tongue, of beauty and art, prayers and praise alike.

You are drawn so tightly, body so coiled, hanging on like a droplet waiting to fall. His cock drags along a spot inside you that has you seeing stars, and he angles his thrusts to hit upon there with every stroke. You feel down your body, warm with sweat and touch the spot where Pero’s lips were previously upon you.

It hits you in a way that catches you off guard. You go rigid, arching upwards, back nearly breaking at the sudden sharp angle. A guttural groan is lost in your throat and Pero swallows it, covering your open mouth with his to claim your noises for himself.

Your walls squeeze tighter around him even as you float back into your body.

“She does not want to let me go,” says Pero against your lips, and you are too dazed to reply.

He means your cunt, for every drag of his cock has her clutching him, luring him back into you.

Having wanted you for so long, Pero won’t last. At every meeting of his hips into the back of your thighs, he grows rougher, fucking you faster. The slap of skin-on-skin drowns out everything else and he grabs your hip to anchor himself, holding himself off your chest with the other. He watches your tits bounce, your flesh moving.

“Say my name,” he blurts out. “Say it.”

“Pero,” you say. “Pero, Pero—” Over and over, louder as he fucks you. “You have me, Pero.”

He falters, moving swiftly to draw his cock out at the last possible second because as soon as he leaves you empty, he finishes with a drawn out grunt. His seed lands on your mound, drips down your lips and splashes onto your navel. More drips down his fist as he jerks himself empty.

Exhausted, Pero falls into you, not caring that he smears his cum on your belly.

You stare at the ceiling, warmth and contentment blooming all over your body, spreading thoroughly outwards. Pero’s messy, damp hair is in your periphery and you idly weave your fingers through it, petting the wayward curls into some semblance of tidiness. His weight atop you is comforting, soon it will be too heavy to bear, but you are happy to have him so close for even a little longer.

His lips leave little kisses on your shoulder, lazy and languid, and you swear you hear his stomach grumble.

“Fall asleep, did you?” you ask, teasing your lips over the shell of his ear.

Pero makes an unintelligible grumble in reply, and you smile, a little smugly to yourself.

The flesh on his upper arm is blotchy from where you gripped him. Little indents made red by your nails pressing into him. Still, he makes no complaints about it.

Later, you will sneak into the kitchens and find a suitable meal for you both, find that indolent bathgirl, and you will tell her to send more buckets of fresh, hot water to your quarters.

Afterall, you and Pero will be needing yet another bath.

#pero tovar x f!reader #gorgeous writing #look at that moodboard!#RED my beloved #fresco-secco #vocab corner with Skye #ficrec #obsessed with the #effortless way #skye infuses color into this chapter #so grounded #and concrete #and so gorgeous #all at the same time

234 notes · View notes

shirks-all-responsibilities · 1 month

Text

Goddddd this is so TACTILE and there is so much WANT in this...

"The air is steamy and humid, braided with the rich scents of cardamom and argan oil..." BRAIDED? Obsessed with that word here, and I can just FEEL that paragraph.

I can't decide what I like best in everything that follows until the end? It's just SO intimate, so bursting with sensory richness, and so HOT with all the restraint and restrictions.

THIS?? "His denial is so soft, so warm—so regretful—that you ask every time just to hear him want it." I had to stop and give myself a minute. TO HEAR HIM WANT IT??? This writing, I...

All that descriptiveness of Mando's vocal reactions was like, somehow hotter than fucking? What magic have you woven?

And then how do I even explain how hot everything that follows that is? That moment where he's WATCHING HIMSELF, I...

WELL DONE.

Pairing: Din Djarin x female sex worker!reader Rating: E, 18+ Word Count: 3.1k Content Warnings: touch-starved Din; reader is blindfolded; smut Summary: Mando makes regular visits to the healing baths. Note: A big thank you to @frannyzooey for always enabling my depravity and finding the dope ass images for my header ❤︎

He always waits for you inside the door.

“It’s the least I can do,” he says, when you’re surprised by the unexpected touch the first time. A light hand cups your elbow, guiding you to the middle of the room, until you can feel the smooth tiles that mark the edge of the sunken pool with your bare toes.

The marble is slick with condensation, heated by the same geothermal source that warms the spring water. The air is steamy and humid, braided with the rich scents of cardamom and argan oil, of rose from the petals you know are strewn across the surface of the bath. Candles flicker languidly in the shadowy corners of the room, but you can’t detect any of their light.

When you lower yourself to the floor—carefully, blindly—he checks the tightness of the black silk wrapped around your eyes with gentle fingers. He reassures himself it’s secure, that you can’t see a thing through the fabric in the dark, hazy room. A reassurance he needs every time.

You come to expect it. To expect him.

He’s consistent. He’s hesitant.

It takes dozens of visits before he lets you join him in the bath. You always offer; he always refuses—politely, always so politely: a no, thank you, eventually paired with a fleeting touch. A warm hand placed over yours. Two fingers stroked down the red silk of your dress. If you’re lucky, a squeeze to the thick of your thigh or a graze of your cheek. His denial is so soft, so warm—so regretful—that you ask every time just to hear him want it.

When he inevitably says no, you sit behind him on a velvet cushion on the edge of the pool instead, swathed in the inky blackness of your blindfold, your feet dangling in the warm water, and work scented oils into his skin and tension out of his shoulders, his neck, his arms, his back, his chest. Your existence is reduced to tactile information, your world narrowed to the sensations in your hands—the textures at the tips of your fingers. The taut muscles of his shoulders, the raised scars that litter his arms and chest, the hair dusted over his pectorals, the callouses on his palms. All slick with water, slippery with massage oil.

The helmet stays on for the first handful of visits. You know by the modulated sound of his voice, by the brush of beskar against your wrist when you work a knuckle into the base of his stiff neck. It disappears somewhere around the tenth visit. When he meets you at the door, your name sounds markedly different. You don’t mention it, don’t draw attention to it, but you do enjoy the unfiltered, raw quality of his voice from then on.

The noises he makes when you touch him are always better than you remember. Their tone and cadence mark a gradual progression from high strung and uneasy to mellow and sedate as the tension coiled in his muscles dissipates under your hands. The harsh exhales devolve into low groans, quiet grunts. Sounds of pleasure waited too long to be had, of physical release so desperately needed. Every once in a while, when you work out a particularly stubborn knot, he murmurs a hushed, rumbling oh, fuck.

Once, when you earn a delicious moan paired with a strained, needy fuck, just like that, he bites off the last word so harshly that you know it was involuntary.

It turns you on more than the touch of any client ever has.

Even with the blindfold, you can feel the burn of his eyes on your skin. Its weight is familiar from the start, when you meet him at the entrance to the baths, the echoing stone entry hall with its gilded fixtures and branches of guttering candles. A balled fist rested on the counter, he nods at you in all his armored glory, a cordial gesture that seems to gain gravity and intimacy each time he offers it. The black visor follows your walk down the long hallway to your rooms, dips to your hips when he thinks you’re not looking. Heavy, substantial. Pressure that could be measured, harsh enough to leave an imprint in its wake.

It stays on you until you shut the door between you, leaving you in the antechamber to tie on your blindfold and him in the main room to undress.

When you knock and enter, you can still track his gaze despite the layers of black silk—the feeling of it like a searing brand. Settled on your face when you smile up at him. Dragged over the curves of your breasts when you shamelessly tip forward to trail fingers through the water and they just barely begin to spill over the low cut of your dress. Trained on the movement of your tongue when you part your lips and lick a slow, gratuitous line over the bottom one. Riveted to the dark space between your legs when you spread your knees unnecessarily wide and the fabric of your thin, short dress rides up your thighs.

You tell yourself not to hope for more.

Then one day he shows up, and you can tell something is off. His usual steady, controlled energy has been replaced with a pent-up buzz. He’s worked up. You can hear it in his clipped words, feel it in the extra touches. The hand on your lower back guides you to the pool almost hurriedly.

His shoulders are even tighter than usual when you get your hands on them, his back a series of stony knots. He groans when you work at the tension in his neck, your thumbs digging into the tautness at the base of his skull. And when you offer yourself this time, feeling optimistic that you’ll get your most reluctant no yet, a strong hand guides you slowly and wordlessly down the smooth stone steps to join him in the water.

Reflexively, you pull your dress up and over your head, tossing it behind you before the hem can catch in the water. You lose his touch in the process, but a path of goosebumps down your body echoes the course of his gaze as it pulls along your curves. You can feel his attention, his captivation at your nakedness in the fervent tension that snaps taut between you.

His invitation is so unexpected, though, that once you’re standing in the hot, waist-deep water, you’re stunned motionless. Disoriented. You don’t know where he is for a moment; you feel his hot gaze everywhere, all at once. You never actually thought you’d get this far with him, and now it feels daunting—the darkness of blindfold, the ever-changing line of his limits and preferences. You feel untethered.

Until the water shifts and he touches you.

“Beautiful,” he says, damp fingers following the curve of your cheek so lightly you can only just feel them.

You take his hand in both of yours and kiss his palm, soft lips brushing over rough skin. He catches you under your chin, and one fingertip traces your lips, his other hand settling on your waist, flexing.

You don’t want to push him too fast, and you also want to take full advantage of this opportunity while you finally have it.

You part your lips, and his fingers still.

You let your tongue peek out to circle the pad of one finger, inviting. To your delight, he responds by carefully pushing two fingers into your mouth. When you close your lips around them and suck, he lets out a broken, pained sound, pressing down on your tongue lightly before he eases them back out and drags a wet line down your chin to settle his hand around your throat.

You smile up at him, unseeing, as you trail fingers down his chest, the soft give of his stomach, dipping below the water as you reach the ridge of his hipbone. Moving slowly, always slowly, so he can stop you if he wants to.

Sure enough, his hand finds yours, trapping it against his skin. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to," you interrupt. "I want to touch you.”

It’s an understatement. There isn’t enough time to share all the myriad ways you’ve fantasized about touching him.

“I’ve thought about this since the first time I saw you walk in here in your armor,” you say, letting your voice pitch low. “What you’d feel like under all that metal.”

His hand disappears, and yours slips further down the v of his hips to wrap around the base of his cock. Hard, thick, big like you knew it would be.

“I think about it every time I work my way down your chest. How easy it would be to slip my hands lower...to see if you enjoy having my hands on your body as much as I do.”

He breathes out slowly, but his whole body is rigid as you drag your other hand over his shoulder, down his chest, a granite statue under your touch even as you start to work him over in long, luxurious strokes.

“I’ve been dying to know, Mando.”

His cock twitches in your hand, his skin hot and slick as it pulls over his hard length. He isn’t relaxing into your touch like he usually does, and this white-knuckled, shallow-breath, penitent version of pleasure is not at all what you’d intended for him, what he deserves.

You tip your face up toward his. “I need you to relax for me. Can you do that?”

A rough exhalation. Noncommittal, a little wry.

You step closer, gingerly moving into his space. He lets you. The water shifts around you as you move into him, close enough that your breasts brush his warm body and you can place a soft kiss on his chest. His ribs expand in a rapid, deep inhale, a rough hitching breath, and his hand comes up to cup the back of your neck.

You press him backward with a palm to his sternum, and he resists reflexively, his feet planted firmly. A man not so easily moved. Who is used to doing the telling, not being told.

“Sit for me?”

He relents with a hum, going pliant for you as you back him up to sit on the submerged marble bench. He helps you climb up, strong hands guiding your movements, settling you onto your knees in a straddle over his lap.

You dip your head to find the crook of his neck and lavish open-mouthed kisses on his throat, below his ear, automatically respecting the limits of where his helmet would be, as you move your hand between your bodies. You’ve never touched above his neck and won’t change that now, even though you’re dying to trace the contours of his face, to fit your lips to his.

Perched over him, you can feel his body gradually relax under your attention, his posture softening, his breath dropping into a more natural cadence. His hands find your hips, your thighs, slide back to grip your ass, as you begin to increase the pace of your stroke.

“Have you, Mando? Have you thought about this?”

You feel him nod once against the side of your head. Jerky, frantic.

“Good,” you purr into his skin, letting your teeth drag over his collarbone.

He groans, his hips lifting off the bench to push himself into your grip harder. The heat that always simmers in your core when you’re around him grows and spreads. It’s overwhelming—so much of his bare skin on your bare skin, after so long with so little. Almost feverish as you move together in the hot water.

Your hand pauses mid-stroke; his hands tighten in protest, sliding you a tiny bit closer on his tense thighs. “Do you think about me?”

His ragged breathing stalls. He nods again. “All the time.”

You hum, pleased, and resume the tight pull of your fist. Your own arousal is approaching a blistering point, so hot and bright, and he’s barely touching you—one hand on your ass, the other dragged up your body to palm your breast, his strong thighs pressed to the inside of yours. He rolls your nipple between two fingers, and you gasp.

“Feel so good,” he rasps, the heavy weight of his hands reverent as they catalog the slopes and rises of your body. “Just like I imagined.”

You can’t help but think about how easily you could sit on his cock right now. All it would take is a slight shift and tilt of your hips and you could catch the blunt head at your entrance. He’d stretch you so deliciously—that girth and length—but your wetness would let you work yourself down onto his lap until he was filling you completely. You’d fuck an orgasm out of him, riding him until he found his release in the tight clutch of your body, milking his cock until he shuddered from the oversensitivity.

One day. Maybe.

He’s close—you can tell by the strain in his voice, by his ragged breath, by the way his hands tighten on your ass. By the way he wraps one large hand around yours on his cock, tightening your grip.

“Just like that.”

You’d give anything to see his face when you feel the urgent flex of his hips as he fucks into your joined hands, the jerk and shudder of his large frame as it curves over you, his forehead dropping to rest heavily on your shoulder as he moans brokenly through the pleasure. It’s the most intimate part of all of this—so human, so trusting. So tempting to reach up and touch his face, to put detail to what you’ve imagined so many times.

You regret that your hand is submerged in water, that you can’t feel his hot release slide over the dips and swells of your knuckles. That you won't be able to lick it off your fingers—to taste it, for your own pleasure and for his. To listen to the sounds he’d make as he watched you eat his come.

Instead, when it’s over, when he’s finished, the weight of his forehead lifts from your shoulder and his touch abandons your body. You resist the urge to search it out, to ask for it back.

You imagine how he looks unwound underneath you, his head tipped back against the edge of the pool, muscles slack. His body finally truly relaxed.

Your part is done.

He’s never spent this long here, and you imagine he’s hyperaware of that. Always on a timeline. Some small part of you thought maybe—hoped—this time would be different, that maybe he’d linger, that maybe he’d want to touch you. You slide backward off his lap to take your leave reluctantly, but when you reach blindly for the edge of the pool, there’s the sound of quick movement through the water and he closes a hand around your wrist.

Relief courses through your veins.

He doesn’t say anything, just guides you. You can’t tell what his aim is until he arranges your body over his just so—just the way he wants you. He has you straddle his lap backwards this time, your back flush to his chest, your knees opened wide by the spread of his legs between yours.

You think about what he does for work, the command and skill it requires. Those capable hands and sure grip have wrestled so many bounties into submission—into handcuffs, into rope bindings, into his carbonite chamber—and here they are exerting their power and ability for the sake of your pleasure. Blunt instrument, suddenly fine.

His breath is hot by your ear, his heavy hand settling meaningfully on your inner thigh. “Can I—?”

“Yes. Fuck, please—”

You guide his hand between your legs, desperate, and his mouth finds the back of your neck. His mouth. Stubble scrapes across your skin, soft lips molding to the contour of your shoulder. The heat that’s been building in your body, that started as a low smolder in your core, has been growing to a rolling boil the whole time you were touching him. And his mouth on your body? Like striking a match to gasoline.

The reality of the situation, the surprise of this touch, ratchets your arousal to a precipitous height. It’s the sheer brazenness of it—the unflinching way he’s taking such a huge step. In the name of your pleasure, of his desire to taste you.

The offering of such intimacy, a secret shared.

A warm tongue blazes a lazy trail from the notch of your vertebra to your nape as two fingers slip into the slit of your sex, beginning a slow massage of your clit. Your mind goes blank.

It’s almost embarrassing how easily he makes you come, how little time it takes with his hand between your legs and his lips on your skin. He fucks you with two thick fingers, another swirling over your clit, and you wonder vaguely how he knows how to curl the two inside you just right against your g-spot.

You reach behind you to grip the back of his neck as you arch, your hips circling. He hooks his chin over your shoulder and you go molten at the thought that he’s watching himself finger-fuck you to climax.

“Are you going to—?”

“Yeah,” you breathe.

“Good.”

It's said through clenched teeth, a gritted jaw. He’s deriving so much pleasure from your pleasure, it's dizzying.

Teeth close over your shoulder and he bites down as you begin shudder and shake, as you clench and spasm around the thrust of his fingers—as you listen to his voice break on a groan as he feels it and draws it out—until the pleasure wanes and you melt back against him, boneless and sated, his strong body an anchor underneath you in the water.

You pant together, your head tipped back to rest on his shoulder, and all you can think about is how fucking close his lips are to yours. You could turn your face and kiss his jaw. He could angle your head and push his tongue into your mouth so easily. You’re so pliant; you want it so badly.

You consider asking. And then you consider the fact that he’s likely thinking about the same thing—your closeness is palpable, the tension a live, shivering thing—and he isn’t doing anything about it. He isn’t fitting a hand to your cheek to maneuver you just so.

You won’t ask for something he isn’t ready to offer.

When he finally does let you go, this visit that was so different from the others ends the same. He guides you back to the exit and hands you the robe that hangs by the door. As he helps you shoulder it on, he murmurs a sincere thank you, accompanied by a rumble of your name.

There’s one notable difference: as you're walking through the doorway, he catches your hand and squeezes it fleetingly before letting it drop.

The door shuts behind you with a click.

As always, a stack of credits far too high will be left in the room for you, and just like every other time, you’ll wait impatiently for his return.

#din djarin x f!reader #this man deserves it allll #give it to himmmm #and meeeeee #sensory delights here #ficrec #i hath arisen

502 notes · View notes

shirks-all-responsibilities · 2 months

Text

Just drowning in Marcus angst on my lunch break, gosh I loved this, all the little details and atmosphere, that call at the end and what he's learned, that line from the song there just HITS oof my heart 🥺. This gives me everything I want when thinking about poor baby Marcus at this point in his life, someone give him a hugggggg 🥺. Love how you weaved in the song, and seeing its name and title was a TRIP for me...I suddenly remembered loving that song in college, especially the instrumental part, but I haven't heard it in 20 years! Thanks for the nostalgia trip and the Marcus FEELS. 🥰🥰

The District Sleeps Alone Tonight - A Songfic

Pairing: None

Rating: General, although my blog is, as always, 18+ only

Word Count: 1.6k

Warnings: angst, breakups, mentions of Teresa x Patrick Jane

Summary: I am a visitor here. I am not permanent.

A/N: @whatsnewalycat said that The District Sleeps Alone Tonight by the Postal Service was a Marcus Pike song and then I listened to it during a thunderstorm and imagined a whole scene based on it. I’m not sure whether or not to call this a songfic, but there are several direct quotations from the lyrics and the “plot” of this follows the song pretty closely. For best results, listen to this song while you read. The lyrics are posted at the end of the fic <3

Masterlist

A lone figure cuts through the wet fog, his collar turned up and shoulders hunched forward in a futile attempt to ward off the elements. The faded leather jacket may have been sufficient enough for even the coldest winter days in Austin, but against the drizzle and wind in this new climate, it only succeeds at keeping him dry. Mostly. The notion that he may not be as well-prepared as he had originally thought himself to be grates on him, shame niggling at the back of his spine at the realization that he doesn’t even know where to go to purchase a winter coat.

A gust of wind sends thousands of miniscule, stinging droplets of water into his face, making him grimace, and Marcus wonders to himself how it could possibly still be raining with temperatures so close to freezing.

It seems as though he’s stopped at every street crossing, because of course he is, and he squints against the endless line of headlights and brake lights extending in either direction, blurring and distorting in the soggy weather, as he waits for the traffic lights to turn.

It gets dark so early here.

His phone buzzes against fingers shoved in his pockets, and he fishes it out to read the text message that flashes on the screen.

Sorry, I think you might still have my spare key? If so can you mail it back? Thx.

The cavity of his chest feels empty and raw as his vision seems to darken around the words, twisting and warping them much like the rain and the headlights. Marcus pockets the phone again without responding and stares blankly at the ground. He thinks about the endless, pitch-black tunnels stretching out in every direction beneath him, wondering how many feet of asphalt and concrete there are between the bottoms of his feet and the top of the cavernous expanse of the DC underground. He imagines the sidewalk crumbling, sending him down into the unknown depths.

In reality, he takes the escalator across the street.

The station is buzzing with life–as it always seems to be, no matter the hour–and Marcus watches vibrant humanity swirl around him. Two teenagers sharing the same pair of headphones. A tired-looking mother with two young children. A woman in a business suit, eyes glued to her phone. A disheveled old man, smelling of booze, that everyone subconsciously steps around without even a look in his direction.

Marcus fishes in his pocket for his metro card, his fingers bumping against the badge he had immediately unclipped from his lapel upon leaving work–the one that spells out a single word with big block letters, just another indignity upon all of the other indignities he’s suffered this week.

When he had asked why his regular badge–the one he’s clipped on his lapel every morning for over a decade–wasn’t sufficient, the bored door attendant tried to explain about building access being tied to his network credentials, which were tied to something called “Active Directory,” and it couldn’t be done right now because they were experiencing downtime after a backup server failed, and Marcus didn’t really understand what any of this meant or why this hadn’t all been set up beforehand, but there was hardly a point in trying to get answers to his questions because none of it would speed up the activation of his new credentials, nor the delivery of his new laptop, which wasn’t arriving until Monday.

None of this was done with malicious intent, of course; nor is he the only new employee affected, going by the line of badged Agents standing in line every morning this week to get the day’s temporary access, but Marcus still feels like a marked man. Separate. Apart. Singled-out.

I am a visitor here. I am not permanent.

It only compounds upon that same feeling inside of him: that feeling that he’s on some sort of strange vacation, and that soon he’ll be able to return home. Home. To his little duplex in Austin, where he shared one wall with Mrs. Ruth Galloway, the eighty-five year-old widow he had a cup of tea with every Sunday at two pm. To the city he knows, the field office where he’d spent most of his career, with familiar rooms and familiar faces… where she walks through the familiar halls. With him.

Marcus swallows thickly, shoving the painful lump down into his stomach.

No, he can’t go home.

The spacious condo certainly doesn’t feel like home when he opens the door to find the large living room dark and cold and foreboding, although that’s probably mostly his fault–the walls are still lined with moving boxes, most of them still half-full with his belongings, messy and unkempt after rummaging through them to find the essentials and leaving the rest.

When he had toured the building, two weeks before the move, the large residence felt full of dreams, of possibilities, rather than empty and sterile. Marcus remembers going from room to room, his head filled with images of an idealistic future: a king-sized bed, his and hers towels in the pristine bathroom, a bookshelf large enough to fit all of their books in the first spare room, and, in the second spare room… a crib.

Now, they’re just two empty rooms.

The fridge is empty too, Marcus suddenly remembers, having not had a chance to find a grocery store yet. He’s been living out of takeaway containers, not even bothering to open the box of dishes and silverware. He takes out two styrofoam boxes–one half-filled with leftover Pad Thai, the other with chicken Tikka Masala, and dumps them side-by-side into the same container with a half-grimace.

Beats going back out into the weather.

There are two beers left in a six-pack bought three days ago, so he opens one and takes a long sip while the microwave heats his food. He thumbs through the mail he left on the kitchen counter absentmindedly, finding mostly junk advertisements and coupons, but a takeout menu for a Sushi restaurant catches his eye. As he sets it on top of several other menus he’d accumulated over the last couple of days, the microwave beeps, alerting him to the fact that his dinner is ready.

Marcus sits at the kitchen table and flicks on the TV in the living room, setting the channel to some random rerun of a syndicated sitcom that he doesn’t recognize, mostly for background noise. He pulls a somewhat-soggy copy of the Washington Post he snagged from the breakroom from his messenger bag and flips through the pages without really reading any of the headlines until he finds the crossword. He halfheartedly fills out the clues as he eats, the canned laugh track from the show filtering in and out of his awareness. The clue ‘strips in geography class (6 letters)’ finally causes him to rub at his temples, setting down the pen as he rises to his feet to toss the empty container and bottle in the trash.

The other beer is popped open, and Marcus settles down on the couch, flipping through channels. He pauses briefly on a black and white film–Roman Holiday, he recognizes after a minute or two of watching–but when Ann and Joe kiss on the riverbank, he quickly switches to a basketball game instead. Keeping the volume low, he lets his mind wander as he blankly watches the teams run back and forth on the court, not all that interested in the score.

He needs to buy food. He needs to find somewhere he can get a winter coat. He needs to find a post office, he suddenly remembers, thinking of the text message from earlier. He checks the time–late, probably too late. Wait, no–it’s two hours earlier in Austin. Two beers is hardly enough to even feel the alcohol, but apparently it’s enough to dull his sense of judgment, because he finds himself pulling out his phone. The call goes straight to voicemail, and he tries not to think about the possibility that she’s screening her calls because of him.

“Hi, uh… Hi. I’m sure you’re busy, but I got your message earlier about the key, and… I think I do have one, yeah, but I’m not sure… where, exactly. I’m still in the process of unpacking, got a couple more boxes to go through,” Marcus says, looking at the large pile of boxes in front of him and knowing he’s got many more throughout the house. “I’ll make it a priority to find it and send it off this weekend.

“It’s really nice here,” he continues, seemingly not able to stop the flow of words once they’ve started. “There’s a Thai place down the street that you’d like, but the spring rolls are so-so. Not like that one place we found in Ridgetop, remember that one?” Marcus chuckles softly to himself, hardly recognizing the sound of his own laughter, and it sends a pang down into his chest. “I–” he stutters, blinking rapidly. “I know things weren’t perfect between us. The–the timing wasn’t right, and there were a lot of… of uh, obstacles in our way, but I’ve been doing–” he huffs humorlessly, “–a lot of thinking over the past couple of days, and I think I understand now. I saw a life that I wanted, and… I pushed for it. I pushed too hard, without–without thinking about how you felt about it, about whether you were ready, whether you even wanted a life with me. You were… you were trying to tell me, that whole time… and I didn’t listen. But I… I think I finally see it–why I was the one worth leaving. It was never going to be me, it couldn’t have been. I ignored all the signs that I was pushing too hard, not listening, pressuring you…” He takes a shaky breath, and lets it out slowly. “I’m sorry. You were right to leave. I–I wish you the best, Teresa.”

The District Sleeps Alone Tonight

The Postal Service

Smeared black ink

Your palms are sweaty

And I'm barely listening

To last demands

I'm staring at the asphalt wondering

What's buried underneath

I'll wear my badge

A vinyl sticker with big block letters

Adhering to my chest

That tells your new friends