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dameronalone · 10 months

Text

cozy night in

marc spector x f!reader

wc: 6,700

content: EXPLICIT!!!! explicit as hell. pwp, allusions to lacy underpants that idk counts as lingerie, Marc spector is a brat is its own warning

notes: thought this was gonna be a quick pwp. I was wrong. shout out to @the-force-awakens for beta-ing & leaving comments like [paraphrase] AKRJSD MARC SPECTOR TAKE ME NOW

ao3

There isn't much you like better than a quiet Friday night in. As fun as it is to go out, to dinner and a show, to this quiet little bar a few blocks away where you and Marc (or Steven or Jake) can sit cozy in a booth, unbothered and enjoying each other's company and the pleasant buzz of alcohol, nothing beat this: coming home to Marc quietly cooking dinner, the radio turned on and quiet, something acoustic and relaxed, the only music the three of them can agree on.

Nothing beats leaning to kiss Marc's jaw in greeting, relishing the quirk of his lips. Washing your face and changing out of your work clothes into comfortable leggings and a shirt, well-worn and soft and smelling of their aftershave.

It's nice to go out, tuck your hand in Jake's elbow, Marc's hand, around Steven's waist, show each other off with the subtle brag of I get this beautiful person all to myself. You like going out with them, especially with Marc who prefers to stay in, because it's such a testament to him, who he is, how much he wants to make those he loves happy.

But it's better like this.

There's the quiet tap-tap-tap of drizzling rain on the window, and you're grateful it hasn't turned into a storm. Marc doesn't like storms, and as you step up behind him, winding your arms around his waist and pressing your face to the back of his neck, you don't want his rarely-relaxed shoulders to tense again.

One of the things you like the most about Marc is his silences, how he doesn't expect you to talk constantly and doesn't pressure you to speak when you can't, and how he knows you do the same for him. Especially when it's been a long day, ending a long week at work, and you just need time to be quiet, snuggle into Marc as he cooks, moving as little as possible.

It's not until you heave a huge breath and lift your head, feeling a little more like a person, and peer over his shoulder to see what he's cooking - pan-fried salmon, oven roasted vegetables, that creamy macaroni and cheese recipe you love that takes a special brand of cheese Marc has to hunt down from across town - that he speaks.

"How was your day?" Marc asks quietly, touching his fingertips to the back of your hand at his diaphragm.

"Mm. Long," you say, kissing his shoulder, and releasing him to gather plates and pour drinks. "Glad it's over. Our internet kept going offline which only put us more behind schedule."

Marc makes a sympathetic sound as he takes the plates and serves up your dinner, and you follow him to the couch with two glasses and a new bottle of that cheap white you prefer that Marc must've picked up today as well.

"How was your day, baby?" you ask, settling next to him. He hands you your plate and clicks on the TV before answering.

"Fine. Normal. Went back to sleep after you left, got around to cleaning. I dunno how Steven lived like this," Marc grumbles, but it's good natured, and you giggle, scooting closer as you take a bite. Steven's messy tendencies never failed to grate on Marc's careful neatness.

Still, they'd come to a sort of understanding, and Marc didn't upset Steven's chaotic system of mess as long as he got to clean to his heart's content (which was often and for a long time).

The pair of you settle into companionable quiet, the TV volume quiet, subtitles on the low-stakes action movie you've seen a million time to keep you company while you eat. By the time you're finished, you're pleasantly full and mildly sleepy, ready to cuddle with Marc until bed. Marc pats your thigh and takes your plate, standing to take the dirty dishes to the sink, washing up.

You wish he'd relax, leave the dishes for later, but he likes to take care of you, and he has a thing about germs, so you leave him in peace. The quiet sounds of running water and clanking dishes are domestic, homey; you look over your shoulder to catch sight of Marc at the sink, head bowed as he meticulously scrubs the frying pan.

God, you love him. You love all three of them, but you'd met Marc first, and he'd always have a special place in your heart reserved for him.

Marc rinses the pan, grabs the towel off his shoulder, and turns to look at you as he dries it. He raises his eyebrows when he catches you staring, and even though you feel your face warm, you don't look away, raising your eyebrows back at him.

"You're missing the movie," Marc says pointedly.

"Seen it a million times," you say, shrugging and fighting back a smile. Marc looks doubtful.

"It's more interesting than watching me wash dishes."

"Is not," you frown, turning around to sit on your knees, properly facing him. "I'd rather look at you. I'd watch you do taxes."

Marc's face twists up in exasperation, turning around to put the pan up and drain the sink. You don't press the issue, because he still has problems taking blatant compliments and accepting affection like that, but you'd never lie to him, especially not about this. You give him a minute, wait until he's wiping down the counter for the third time before you talk again.

"I'd watch you do plenty of boring things. Or interesting things. I like to look at you, Marc," you say softly, smiling in an attempt to convince him.

Marc exhales, shaking his head as he sets the towel down and turns to face you, crossing his arms over his chest, which only makes him look more broad than he already is.

"I'd rather look at you," he says. He takes a few steps closer, though he's still too far away and out of reach and you suddenly want him in your arms. "I'd rather look at you when you're too busy to look at me."

"You like that, huh?" Your own voice surprises you, abruptly small and breathless. Marc takes a few more slow steps, even nearer, close enough to touch, but you don't move yet. His head dips in a nod.

"Like when?" you ask before he can say anything, hands gripping the couch cushions to hide the trembling. Fuck, you've never wanted anyone the way you want him.

Marc's mouth twitches upward, and he uncrosses his arms, tracing the line of your jaw with his fingertips before curling under your chin, and tipping your head back.

"Like when you read," he says. His voice is a quiet rumble but it's the only thing you can hear. "Or when you cook. Or when you're asleep."

His expression shifts, a little more teasing, more playful. "Or when you shower."

"Perv," you mutter, not meaning it, narrowing your eyes at him regardless. Marc starts to bend down and you hold your breath.

"You like it," he mutters, breath warm against your face.

But moments before his lips touch yours, you blurt, "Why d'you like it?"

Marc pauses, thumb stroking your chin, and you honestly don't expect him to give you an answer, already trembling in anticipation of his all-consuming kiss.

"Because it means you trust me."

The words are barely audible, and you hardly have time to process their meaning before he closes the distance, mouth firm and warm against yours. The meaning clicks belatedly, as Marc licks at the seam of your mouth until you open, and you clutch at his shirt helplessly. You want to break away, tell him that you do, you trust him with everything, love him so much, only - he's merciless, your Marc, ruthless in the way he kisses you, and he doesn't give you a second to think.

Not for the first time do you curse your need to breathe - Marc seems to sense you're at your limit, lungs beginning to burn, so he pulls away from your mouth, but you immediately miss his lips on yours. You suck in a breath, chest heaving to try and catch your breath, but it turns into a gasp - Marc has turned his attention to your jaw, the line of your neck, and scrapes his teeth along the tendon there just as you inhale.

Fuck. He had no right to be this good a kisser, no right to have you melting into his touch and still craving more seconds after he'd first kissed you with intent.

He slips his hands up your shirt, caressing your waist and drifting higher, and you know he finds the surprise when he pauses, drawing back from your neck, raising an eyebrow and giving you a look.

"Now what's this?" Marc asks, voice low and rich with desire, fingertips tracing the lacy band of your bra. Finally, the tables turn and you manage to catch your breath. You smile, sly, and look at him from under your lashes,

"Just something for you," you say, and giggle breathlessly when Marc moves to pull your shirt up and off. The sudden cool air that washes over your newly bared skin sends goosebumps rippling across your arms and chest - or maybe it's the way Marc is looking at you, and the dark blue bralette you'd changed into;, comfortable, just lace and elastic, but something for Marc to enjoy.

He hadn't so much told you how much he liked you in lace, and rich colors like the deep blue you wore now, but he didn't need to say it. Actions speak louder than words, especially when it comes to Marc Spector.

"Baby," Marc rumbles, brushing one hand across the swell of your breast so gently you might've imagined it, "You're killing me here."

"God, I hope not," you say, breaking into giggles again when Marc groans, overdramatically exasperated, and hauls you to his chest. He stands up, taking you with him, and you shriek in surprise as he takes you right over the back of the sofa, winding your legs around his hips - as if he'd ever let you fall.

Marc deposits you on the bed, and though he isn't laughing, he's smiling, shoulders twitching as he stands over you, pulling his shirt over his head in a quick yank that never fails to send a thrill down your spine - but you count it as a win, getting Marc to smile like that, laugh his private little understated laugh.

"What am I supposed to do with you?" he says, almost to himself as he undoes his belt, but you answer anyway, squirming to get more comfortable.

"I can think of a few things," you say, looking up at him from beneath your lashes as you stretch out.

"Yeah, I bet you can," Marc says, rolling his eyes fondly as he shoves his jeans down and kicks them off. And then he's standing at the foot of the bed in nothing but his underwear, and you can see the half-hard bulge of him. Your mouth waters at the sight and you half-heartedly push up onto an elbow, but Marc's hand closes around your ankle and tugs, pulling you down the bed and closer to him.

You shriek again in surprise, which fades into giggles as you knock your heels into the back of his knees, trying to urge him closer. Still, you love it when he towers over you like this, when you're flat on the bed and he's still standing. You can't figure out how he's real, the chiseled features and healthy strength on his body; you're mesmerized by the flex of muscle and tendon when he reaches for the waistband of your leggings, belatedly lifting your hips to help. When you look at his face again, his eyes are already on yours, warm and dark as he drags your pants down, but not your underwear.

Marc drops your pants to the floor, sliding his palms up your newly bared skin, hiking your knees around his waist. He leans down, palming your hips, the matching blue lace, and nudges your noses together, but doesn't kiss you. Waits until you're huffing an impatient breath and tipping back your chin and whining out, "Marc-" before he seals his mouth to yours.

He kisses you for a long moment, warm and slick, licking into your mouth, stroking your sides. All you can do his wind your arms around his shoulders, dig one hand into his hair.

"What do you want?" Marc murmurs, breaking away for a moment, pressing the words into your cheek along with a kiss. "Hm, baby? Tell me so I can give it to you."

He's hardly touched you and already you feel worked up, borderline overwhelmed and squirming - Marc knows damn well what you want (anything he'll give you) but he likes to hear you say it. Likes to draw the words from you when you're strung out and wanting.

You're not that far gone.

"Marc, c'mon-" is as far as you get before one of his hands at your hip slips down, squeezing the softness of your thigh, and then in. His thumb finds your clit through the fabric of your underwear and he presses down until you whine.

"What was that, baby?" Marc asks, amusement in his voice, and you huff, annoyed, and snap,

"I want you to touch me, Spector."

Marc chuckles, slips his thumb further down and effortlessly finds your entrance - or at least, where it's hidden and inaccessible through your underwear.

"Isn't that what I'm doing?"

Teasing asshole that he is, Marc only presses his thumb down, until your hips are bucking up, and then pulls his hand away. He pats your hip, mockingly sympathetic, then reaches to pull your hands down from around his shoulders, and rises to his full height.

You try to snap his name - Marc! - but it comes out like a whine, breathless and pleading - "Maaarc-"

Marc chuckles again, pushing the gusset of your underwear aside, staring down at where you're wet and dark.

"Want me to put something in that pussy? You want me to fill you up, make you full? That what you want, baby?"

You try to answer. Try to tell him yes, fuck yes, Marc - but you can only moan, eyes glued to his other hand that reaches into his own underwear.

Fuck you've never seen such a gorgeous cock. It's not fair, it's not fucking fair that Marc Spector and his alters are the perfect man. It can't be real that you get this. Anxious with anticipation, you fist your hands in the sheets, watching as he strokes himself languidly, still staring at your aching cunt. You think your chest might cleave in two from the strength of the want coursing through your body, and tip your head back, slamming your eyes closed.

Distantly, you hear Marc spit, hear the wet sound of him stroking his cock again. Fuck fuck you need him inside, need him inside before he changes his mind and fucks you open with one, two, three fingers and tongue before he gives you his cock, draw it out like he likes. All at once you feel the fat head of him rubbing against you, burning hot. Marc pushes - lets the fattest part of him breach you - stops moving with you stretched around him, quietly groans and you want to hear it again, stops moving even as your cunt clutches at him desperately, trying to pull him inside -

"That's all you get for now," Marc says hoarsely, pulling out, and taking your underwear with him, even as your eyes shoot open.

"Marc, oh my god," you snarl, and he resolutely ignores you as he goes to his knees on the floor, pulling one of your legs over his shoulders. He doesn't move, though you can feel his breath against you, and then - Marc fucking inhales, breathes in the smell of you.

"So fucking impatient," Marc complains, and ducks his head to taste you.

There's not a lot better than this, in Marc's opinion, not a lot better than settling on his knees with his face buried in the apex of your legs, soft thighs tensed around his head. He drags the flat of his tongue up your pussy, opening you up to him, groaning at the musky taste that he'll never get enough of. He pulls away, folding one arm under your thigh, keeping you from squirming out of his grip as he runs his palm up your other leg. You haven't shaved in awhile, and your legs are starting to grow soft and fuzzy again, and he loves it.

Marc rubs his cheek against the softness of your inner thigh, lets his hand drift up your thigh to squeeze your hip, then slip around and down, swiping through your folds to circle your clit. You make a breathless sound, jerking your hips up in search of more, but Marc holds firm, presses first his lips, then his teeth to your thigh, and ducks back to taste your cunt.

He rubs your clit with the pads of his fingers, searching for the essence of you inside with his tongue, then changes tactics, taking his slicked up fingers and pressing them deep. It pulls a kind of wheezing sound from you and Marc strains to look up at you without pulling away. You've got one arm thrown over your face, the other hand desperately grabbing the sheets, chest heaving.

(It makes him think of a few nights ago: he'd gotten home late to find you sleepy but awake, laying in bed waiting for him. He likes fucking you when you're sleepy because you're so much more responsive and he can draw words out of you with every stroke of his things between your legs. He'd cradled you close, pressed up against your side, fucked you slow and deep with his fingers and he'll never forget the way you gasped, "Full, feels full," when he'd asked you what it felt like.)

"Fuck," Marc groans, tucking his face back down between your legs. "Fuck, that's it. Good girl." His words are muffled even to himself, and he has no idea if you can understand him or not, but you moan regardless, and he doesn't really care.

He can tell you're getting close, from the aborted, jumpy little thrusts your hips keep giving, from the way you start to hold your breath. Marc pushes you right up to the edge.

And then stops, removing his fingers, turning his head away. Distantly, you're cursing his name, writhing and trying to get him back where you want him, but as much as you try to play at being demanding, Marc knows you like submitting too much to actually be upset.

The dim lighting catches on the thin sheen of sweat on your skin, the dampness collecting in the folds of you, in the crease where your thigh joins your hip, and Marc ducks his head, licking away the salt of you.

"Marc," you say, sounding far away, and when he lifts his head to look at you - take in your expression, needy and pleading - he thinks he falls just a little more in love with you. "Marc," you say again, hands reaching for him clumsily, caressing his shoulders, carding through his curls.

"What is it, baby," he murmurs, lifting his hand that had been curled around your thigh to catch your wrist, kissing your palm, the pounding of your pulse. "What do you need?"

"You know what I need," you complain, practically growling as you tug on his hair harshly. Marc just chuckles, not bothering to remove your hand from his hair even though the pressure on his scalp almost hurts - but it's good. Keeps him right here with you.

"What do you want then," Marc asks, pressing deceptively gentle kisses to your hips, your belly beneath your navel. Your stomach jumps and dips as the wash of his breath, and he can just make out the faint whine that falls from your mouth.

"Want you to kiss me again," you admit, lifting your bashful gaze to meet his. And fuck - he'll give you anything you want. He doesn't know how you haven't figured it out yet.

"I can do that," Marc tells you, moving until he was level with you, hand still slick with your wetness curving around your hip as he cups your cheek with the other.He doesn't make you wait this time, dips down to kiss you, languid.

One of Marc's favorite things about this - sex - was how it immerses every sense. Not just touch, though he could never get enough, your hands on his, gripping his shoulders and waist, grabbing hair, his hands on your skin, anywhere and everywhere, but the rest of them. The way you look when you moan and arch your back and your eyes flutter. The way you sound, the hitch of your breaths, the slick sound of his tongue in your mouth. The way you taste, fuck, the way you smell.

But fuck he loves the little sounds. Loves being this close to you when he dips his middle two fingers inside your dripping cunt. When he's this close, Marc can catch the breathless whines and moans before they have a chance to escape. This close, Marc can watch your face screw up as he adds his pointer finger, fucking you with three now.

"There you go," Marc mutters when your hips start to roll against his hand, grinding against his palm and clenching around his fingers, "fuck, just like that."

His name escapes you mouth in a little puff of air, your hand in his hair slowly relaxing until you slide your hand down to clutch the back of his neck. Your eyes flutter back and - that right there. That’s one of his favorite expressions on you, focused yet a million miles away, too caught up in the pleasure coursing through your body to pay attention to him, to watch him watch you. This is what he meant earlier, when he told you - confessed to you that he liked it when you weren’t looking back at him.

A groan escapes Marc’s mouth before he can stop it, wrecked and torn from his throat, but you don’t seem to notice, or at least acknowledge it. He ducks his head, suddenly frantic with the need to taste your skin, dig his teeth into your neck, sharp points of pain to counter the warming bliss between your legs. As always, the touch of his teeth to your skin has you gasping, then moaning, unashamed and loud. Marc gets lost in it, marking up the long line of your throat, realizing almost too late that he’s gotten carried away. You’re fucking close; he can tell by the quiver of your thighs around his hand, the jerk in your hips.

“Not yet, baby, hold on,” Marc murmurs, voice rough as he eases his fingers out of you, soothing you even though he’s the one that has you whining and squirming and calling his name -

Fuck, Marc had to admit this was one of his favorite things, when he holds you at the edge, has you stripped down bare and aching - when he dangles you in front of your release, just to hear you call his name, plead with him to let you come. Marc liked to deny you, and deny you again, but more than that, he loved to give it all to you, give you everything and more until all you can do is cling to him, and him alone. He didn't keep your release, or anything from you because he didn't want you to have it. To the contrary, there was nothing Marc wanted more than to give you everything you have ever wanted.

He’d admit it to himself, and only himself - Marc liked when you were desperate, but only when you needed him to give you what you want, what you need.

He always would.

“Marc, Marc, baby, please, just - I want - I need to, Marc-”

You’re babbling, nearly past coherency, bravado peeled back with your bra, and dropped to the floor. You must've been more tired than usual tonight, or this is what you wanted the whole time, to already be this far gone. Marc shushes you again as he slips down your body, burying his face between your breasts, just for a moment, before turning his head to suck a mark on the swell. You keen when he takes the nipple in his mouth, when he carefully covers the other with his palm, and squirm against his thigh parting your legs. Abruptly, Marc is very aware of his own nakedness, his cock hard and aching and leaking near your hip. He closes his eyes, groaning, and allows himself to grind back against you, just once.

Fuck fuck, he loves you. Can’t get enough of you. Pulls off your breast to say, “I know, I know, honey.” He keeps his voice low, gravelly and thick with want. “I know you need to come, don’t you? Need to come all over me?”

“Fuck,” you gasp, “please, please-”

“It’s okay, you did good, such a good girl for me,” Marc continues, kisses your collarbones, your jaw, bites your bottom lip. “I always give you what you need, right? My good girl. Don’t I give you what you need? C’mon, tell me.”

Your eyes blink open, lashes damp, eyes wide and blown out. You say, “Always give me what I need, Marc.” And your voice breaks, and so does Marc’s resolve.

“Yeah I do,” Marc growls, and pats your hip. “Now turn over, baby. I’ll give you what you need.”

You move, half rolling over on your own power, limbs clumsy, half Marc maneuvering you where he wants you, until you’re on your belly, hands trembling as they curl in the blankets. You peer over your shoulder at him, eyes half lidded, as he runs his hands down your spine, strokes your sides. He likes the way your skin feels, soft and unmarred as much as his is. Sure, you have scares here and there, a few on your forearm that had worried him until you assured him it was from your parents’ cat, but all in all - you are warm, soft, supple under his own calloused and scarred hands. He curls his hands around your hips, squeezing, and then pulls you back towards him, onto your knees, and palms the round of your ass.

“There you go,” Marc mutters, needlessly wetting his fingers before sliding them back between your legs, where you are dripping, soaking wet. A choking sound slips from your mouth as you jerk back against him, and Marc hisses when the motion brings your ass in contact with his dick.

He doesn’t need to open you up - not when he can feel the seeking clench of your pussy when he brushes against your entrance.

Marc pulls his hand away, absently petting your hip, shushing you softly to counter the needy sounds that spill from your mouth. He slides his hand around from your hip to part your folds, taking himself in hand with the other, and eases inside. You gasp, arching your back, muscles bunching when you try to grind back, force him all the way in, but Marc grasps your hip, keeps it slow. Waits until he’s half inside the blisteringly hot clutch of your cunt before shoving himself the rest of the way.

It’s almost too much for him, nearly too much for you as well if the wail you let out is anything to go by, and Marc lurches forward, groin shoved up against your ass. He plants a fist in the mattress near your head, the only thing keeping him from collapsing on top of you and rutting helplessly to his climax. Even still, his own panting chest is pressed along the length of your back and he can feel every shift of your body, of the muscle under your skin.

“Marc, Marc, Marc-” you chant, words cutting off into a low moan when Marc pulls out and shoves back in. And again. And again. And again, until you sound like you can’t take a full breath. Your hand comes up, clasping his wrist, squeezing and holding on like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. And then your forehead is pressing against his inner wrist, and your eyes are slammed shut, and Marc thinks he can feel the throb of your pulse around his dick.

Fuck - the idea has his hips stuttering, briefly losing his rhythm as he grinds into you for a second longer. He can tell you’re close, that it won’t take much to get you there, and by God, he’ll get you there.

Marc lets go of your hip, belatedly realizing just how hard he’d been grabbing it, winding his arm around your waist and holding you tight, fitting his chin over your shoulder to first nip your jaw, and then talk you the rest of the way.

It doesn't take a lot, especially when you're this close, when you can hardly pay attention to what he's saying but that's never stopped him before. Marc opens his mouth and lets words spill out, lets them out the way he so rarely ever does - just like that baby, I know I know, you're close, so good, pussy so tight taking all of me like this and just a little more baby, you can take more, take me deeper, lemme in, lemme fuck you open, lemme fill you up and taste it after and fuckfuck c'mon, come for me baby I know you want it, been so good waiting, come on my cock baby, c'mon c'mon -

Somewhere between taking a breath and the spill of words, you lock up beneath him, back arching impossibly further, nails digging into his wrist as your mouth drops open and your eyes roll back and you wail as you come around him.

And it feels so fucking good, Marc almost blows his load right then and then, hissing and swearing, his hips stuttering against yours as he tries not to think about the way you're clenching and squeezing around him and the way he can feel you start to drip down his balls. Fuckfuckfuck.

Marc sits back, petting your spine, your waist and hip. He slides his fingers through the sweat pools in the dip of your back, licks the salt of it off his fingertips, then carefully pulls out. When he rolls you onto your back, you're still blissed out, chest heaving as you catch your breath, eyes glazed and half lidded as you distantly stare up at him.

His lips twitch, something like fondness filling his chest like a balloon, and he crawls back over you, covering you with his body as he dips down to kiss your slack mouth. It takes you a moment to reboot enough to kiss him back, soft and pliant and rendered loose-limbed from your climax.

Marc pulls back, barely-there smile gracing his lips, and whispers, "There you are. Think you have another one for me?"

He's going to be the death of you. It's not even the most orgasms he's coaxed from your body before, not even close, but it was a long day and you were already sleepy before this - Marc Spector is gonna kill you during sex one day and you just hope he's not so smug about it that he forgets to miss you.

But he's smiling softly, stroking your hips and waist, the swell of your breasts, and it's not like you could ever turn him down, not really.

"Okay," you murmur, slowly bringing up your arms that feel like lead to curl around his shoulders. "Like this though. Wanna kiss you during."

"Yeah, okay," Marc agrees softly, sliding his hand down your leg, nudging until you curl your leg around his hip. "Like this," he says, brow furrowing as he carefully pushes back in.

It feels good to have him inside you again, and you'd be perfectly content to enjoy the pleasant friction that sparked through your body of Marc chasing his own release, but he'd never allow that, not if you were okay with coming again. You think he thinks if he makes you come enough times, it somehow makes it okay for him to let go, like he has to make it worth it for you in order for him to be vulnerable.

Yeah, it's a depressing thought. You're working on it with him. Just not right now.

His cock hits something up in your guts that sends pleasure sparking through your nerves, from the pit of your stomach and through your back, all the way to your fingertips, and your sigh turns into a breathy moan. You know Marc prefers to have you bent over, to take you from behind, knows that's when he feels closest to you, but you prefer it like this.

Marc, braced over you, muscles shifting and flexing with every thrust, the dim lighting catching on his skin, the sweat that's gathered there, making him glow golden. His face bent close to yours, furrowed with concentration, eyes occasionally slipping shut, then wide open again as he looks at you, the familiar warm brown of his eyes blown dark.

You like it like this, like having his face in easy reach. You slide your hands down, press your palms to the sides of his face, drawing his attention back to you, and his mouth. His lips meet yours as he snaps his hips, and you gasp, surprised, and you think you can taste a smile before he dips his tongue inside your mouth.

Something shifts in the mood, the atmosphere, and all at once Marc is just a little more intense, panting as he fucks into you, punched out sounds bursting from his mouth before he can swallow them. You clutch at his face, keeping him close, though you're hardly kissing, more open mouths pressed together and exchanging breaths.

"Fuck," Marc chokes, voice low and rough. He's gone to his elbows, nearly pinning you to the bed as he snaps his hips against yours, quicker than you think should be possible. "Fuck, gimme another."

"Marc," you say, clutching his face, his neck, shoulders. "Marc." It's all you can say, pressing your bent knee to his hip and thigh.

Marc moans your name in return, worming his forearm under your shoulders, then leans his weight on that elbow, and slides his other hand down your body, between your legs. His hair is damp with sweat, curling and hanging loosely over his forehead. He looks so good. He looks like how you imagine a Roman god would look, brought to life. Mars, Pluto, Neptune. It's not fair.

It's not fucking fair, is the thought running through your mind when Marc presses the pads of his fingers to your swollen clit, and you come again with a jolt. This time, you're nearly silent, and it feels like losing track of time, like reality fades away and it's just you and the warm bliss coursing through your veins.

Slowly, you realize Marc hasn't stopped thrusting, if anything, increasing his pace, marginally. It draws out your own orgasm, but there's nothing you want more than for Marc to come, to watch him reach his climax, feel his body tense and feel him spill into you, listen to his breath hitch, hear him choking on a gasping moan that sounds like a sob.

You want it, you want it so badly, so you clutch at his face, and moan his name, "Marc, Marc, come for me, please come, Marc, I want it, wanna feel you come in me, pleasepleaseplease-"

He breaks as soon as you start to beg, throwing his head back as his hips stuttering against yours as his control snaps, and he comes. Just like you'd imagined, hoped, Marc makes that choking sound, ripped from deep in his chest, as he fills you.

Arm buckling, Marc nearly collapses on top of you, just managing to avoid crushing you under his weight, shifting himself to the side so he was more on the bed than you. Still, you like it when he covers you, enjoy the warmth and weight of him.

Right now, you do the same, shifting your arms to wrap around his waist loosely as you try to catch your breath, as Marc does the same. He still hasn't pulled out, and you hope he stays in for as long as he can, because this had to be the best part of sex - when you are both finished, sated and too tired to move, when you are curled together and still joined. One.

You don't move even when Marc shifts his weight, adjusting your hips to stay connected. You can feel his gaze but you don't look back just yet, still staring up at the ceiling under guise of catching your breath still. You don't look when Marc starts to pet your hip in soothing, repetitive stokes. You don't look when that hand slips between your legs, to touch the slick folds parted around his cock, and feel his seed leaking slowly out.

Only when Marc palms your thigh, holding you open, carefully pulling out, do you look at him. His gaze is focused between you, at his softened dick and the mess he's made of your pussy.

"Probably shouldn't have done that," Marc rumbles, voice slightly hoarse. You raise your eyebrows at him meaningfully. He glances at you, huffing when he sees your expression, and winds his arm around your waist, tugging you onto your side, flush against him. "I know you're on the pill, but still."

You just smile, snuggling close. Marc curls his hands around the back of your neck, sliding up to cup your head, and it makes you feel precious, cared for, when he touches you so gently, so thoughtfully. Even when he tilts your head back to kiss you, soft and meandering at first, before slipping his tongue against yours again. It doesn't last long, though you lick at the spit connecting your mouths when he pulls away, just to watch his eyes darken.

"Let's get you cleaned up," Marc murmurs, cupping your cheek. He swipes his thumb over the swell of your cheek. "You need to sleep. You look wore out."

As he pulls away and rises to get a towel or washcloths, you speak: "Gee, I wonder why that could be."

Your voice is rough, and Marc just shoots you a look over his shoulder as he stands, and you hum, settling back against the pillows, content with his reaction. You watch him bustle around for a moment, soaking up the sight of him perfectly naked and comfortable, and feel just as comfortable in your own nudity at the moment, though your eyes drift lower and lower.

"I'd watch you like this too," you say slowly, sleepily, and so quietly, you don't know if Marc hears you.

You don't realize you'd closed your eyes until you feel Marc's hand on your forehead, at your scalp, hear the murmur of his voice.

"Brought you some water, baby. You need to drink some."

You whine, sleepy, and crack your eyes open. Your legs feel less sticky, and he must have wiped you off while you dozed. You don't want to move, you think, looking up at him, leaning over you, looking so concerned.

"Come on," he coaxes again, tugging at your arm, and you go this time, sitting up just enough to get a few sips of water down. When Marc is satisfied with your intake, he puts the glass on the nightstand and crawls in beside you, tucking you in under the sheets and next to him.

Sighing, content to have him against you again, you snuggle into his chest. What an excellent start to your weekend. You will sleep soundly tonight, pleasantly worn out, sleep in without a care in the world for your alarm, and undoubtedly be woken by one of the boys between your legs, either Jake or Steven wanting their turn, or Marc wanting seconds, but for now, you'll sleep, and so will Marc.

#dameronalone reader fic #18+#Marc spector x reader #marc spector x f!reader #marc spector smut #marc spector x you #moon knight x reader #moon knight smut #pls rb + comment if you've read this far <3

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stylesloveclub · 1 year

Text

Pleasing (jealous blurb)

In which another waiter flirts with y/n, and Harry gets really jealous.

* 。˚ ˛ • 。* 。° 。 * 。 • ˚ ˛ 。* 。• ° 。* 。 • ˚

Y/n stands in front of Harry, dressed in an oversized apron and a silly little chef's hat that she’d found discarded in his pantry.

“Tonight,” Harry announces, “we’re going to make a simple honey-garlic glazed salmon, served on white rice with a side of roasted vegetables. Do you have all your ingredients prepared?”

His kitchen island is covered with all the necessary materials that she might need for the cooking session that Harry’s planned for them. “Yes, chef!” she salutes.

Considering how he’s one of the world’s best chefs and she’s a college student who only ever goes into her kitchen to boil water for her cup of noodles… he thought it’d be cute if he planned a little cooking lesson for her. He’s chosen a meal on the rather simple side – fish is quick to cook and takes very little prepping, and rice is a food that even a child could make. Paired with a healthy variety of vegetables, this is the perfect meal that he thinks y/n should learn to cook for herself so that she wouldn’t be living off of frozen meals anymore.

He rolls his eyes at her silly behavior. “This isn’t Hell’s Kitchen, puppy.”

“I dunno,” she contemplates. “You’re giving Gordon Ramsey vibes right now.”

“Except m’not gonna yell at you and make you cry.” He steps forward and cups her face tenderly, looking into her pretty eyes, his gaze filled with adoration and care. “Just want you to be able to make yourself something other than a frozen pizza.”

She smiles cutely, leaning up on her tiptoes to kiss him sweetly. His eyes flutter shut momentarily, reveling in her soft kiss. “You’re so sweet,” she murmurs against his lips. “M’ready to learn. Tell me what to do.”

He pulls away. “Preheat the oven to 425. Do you know how to do it, or do you want me to show you?”

She rolls her eyes. “I know how to turn on an oven.”

“Hey miss sassy, just asking!” He steps back in surrender. “I’ll get the vegetables ready while you do that, then.” He grabs their carrots, cauliflower, zucchini, and sweet potatoes (all veggies that y/n had picked out when they’d gone grocery shopping together), and runs them under the water to rinse them clean.

Meanwhile, y/n stands in front of his oven, a furrow between her brows. In her shitty little kitchen at her apartment, the oven just has one panel where you enter the temperature you want, and then a single button to “Start.” Harry, however, has two ovens stacked on top of each other, with a bunch of complicated settings. Did it matter if they used the top oven or the bottom oven? Were they baking or broiling? Convection on or off?

“Um, Harry…” She looks at him helplessly, tail between her legs. “I don’t know how to work this.”

He shakes his head and chuckles, drying the rinsed vegetables off. “I thought you knew how to turn an oven on?”

“Okay well your oven is stupid and fancy,” she gripes, crossing her arms as he saunters towards her cockily.

He stands behind her, leaning over her shoulder so that his front presses against her back as he adjusts the settings. One of his hands rests gently on her shoulder as he murmurs in her ear, “Press top oven, then bake. Then you press start once and put in 425, then press it again and it’ll start heating up.”

She grumbles once more, Harry hovering behind her with a satisfied smirk. “What next?”

“Need to cut the vegetables.”

“Okay, I can do that!”

“No, no…” Harry stops her as she reaches for the huge knife that he’d set out on the cutting board. This knife is meant for professionals, sharp enough to cut through a piece of paper in midair. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

She pouts at him. “Harryyy,” she whines. “Let me help!”

“You are helping! You can make the sauce right now, baby, that’s the most important part,” he coos reassuringly, “Let me do the cutting though, don’t want you to cut your fingers or anything. The knife is just a bit too big for you.” He presses a soft kiss to her fingertips as he says it, re-emphasizing how delicate and precious she is to him. “Okay?”

“Okay,” she agrees softly. She can’t help but melt into a puddle when he takes that soft tone with her, talking down to her sweetly and making her feel all fuzzy inside. Of course she’ll listen to him! Especially when he kisses her fingertips so softly like that!

“Good girl,” he praises. “Can you get the honey and mix it with some lemon juice?”

She nods, mixing the ingredients into one bowl and whisking them until the honey is no longer as thick and sticky as it initially was, watered down by the acidic lemon juice. She looks at Harry expectantly, who’s cutting the carrots into bite sized pieces at the cutting board, waiting for the next instructions. “I put some butter to melt in the microwave,” he says, “could you take it out and add it to your sauce?”

She does that as well, then adds some garlic and pepper flakes as instructed by Harry, whisking it together until she has a rich sauce sitting in front of her.

“That’s gonna be for the salmon, so you can set it to the side for now.” He brings a big bowl of chopped vegetables and sets it in front of y/n. “Now we’ve got to toss these with some oil so it doesn’t burn in the oven. And some seasoning, obviously.” He lets y/n add the salt and pepper, and adds a generous drizzle of oil, before showing y/n how to toss it all together so that each piece gets evenly coated. Then, together they spread the veggies out on the baking tray. By this point the oven has preheated all the way, and is ready for the veggies to go in.

“Let me do it,” y/n says when Harry opens the oven.

He looks at her hesitantly, but she pouts up at him with her cute, puppy dog face. The one that gets her whatever she wants, the one Harry can’t say no to. “Fine. But wear some oven mitts.”

After the veggies go in the oven, Harry does most of the remaining work. He massages their salmon fillets with the sauce that y/n made (which he makes sure to compliment, tasting a bit of the sauce and telling her how yummy it is and how nicely she made it), then puts them on a baking pan right underneath the veggies. “We put the vegetables in first because they need 40 minutes in the oven, more or less. The fish, however, needs to come out of the oven in exactly 15 minutes, or else it’ll be dry. Got it?”

She nods from where she’s positioned herself on his kitchen counter, watching him wash his hands. He slots himself to stand between her legs, hands resting on her spread thighs. “What do you think?” he asks, “Easy enough to make on your own?”

She wraps her arms around his neck. “Yeah, I think I could do it. Don’t think it’ll be as good as when you make it though,” she pouts.

He kisses her cheek. “I’ll always cook for you when we’re together. This is only for when I’m away. What did you eat when I was in Milan?”

“Um… a lot of bagels. And dino nuggets.”

He holds in his gag, imagining the sad, soggy nuggets that she must’ve been having for dinner when he wasn’t there to make her gourmet meals. “Exactly. You need to be able to make yourself some nutritious meals for when I’m not here to cook for you.”

Her fingers curl into the hair at the back of his head, staring up at him sweetly. She can’t believe she somehow snagged a guy who cared this much about her, who would spend his weekend teaching her how to cook vegetables so that she had something healthy to eat when he wasn’t with her.

She’s just about to lean in for a kiss when her phone rings, interrupting their little moment. Harry steps away from his spot between her legs, letting her hop down from the counter and rush to her phone.

“Hi!!,” she says to whoever’s on the other side of the phone, one of her friends from college from what he can tell. Her voice is sweet and sugary, like always.

Harry leans on the counter, crossing his arms across his chest as he watches her with a fond smile. She bites mindlessly at her cuticles as she listens to what her friend is telling her, and he stops himself from walking over to pull her hand away from her mouth. Her nail biting habit is one that he’s trying to break, not a fan of the way she sometimes makes her pretty hands bleed from how often she bites at them.

“When are you going?” y/n asks on the phone, pacing from one side of the kitchen to the other. “Today? Oh… no, I don’t think I can come. I’m…um, I’m at my friend's house.” She stutters over her words as she tries to figure out how to word it, very clearly avoiding name dropping Harry, or even hinting that she’s at a guy’s house.

It makes Harry’s brows furrow. She’s at her friend’s house? Friend? He doubts she gets on her hands and knees and begs to get fucked by her other friends.

In his head, they were in a relationship. She was his, and he was hers. No questions asked.

He cares for her quite deeply, if it wasn’t obvious, and for the most part believed that she felt the same way. So he wonders… why would she avoid calling him more than just a friend? Did her friends even know that she was seeing someone, or did she not even want to call whatever they have going on as “seeing each other?”

The oven timer goes off before he can question her about it.

A conversation for later, he supposes.

* 。˚ ˛ • 。* 。° 。 * 。 • ˚ ˛ 。* 。• ° 。* 。 • ˚

“Hey, y/n!”

Harry’s ears perk up when he hears her name, being called from down the hallway.

“What’s up, Jason?” she responds, bright and bubbly. She’s always like that at work, no matter how dragging her shift may be. He thinks that’s why the staff like her so much – she’s a drop of sunshine right in the middle of their restaurant.

“How are you doing?” he asks, smiling down at her and crossing his arms in a way that he hopes makes his biceps bulge attractively. Jason is another one of the waiters at Pleasing, a college student just like y/n. They’d once bonded over the fact that they go to the same university, but he majors in business, which is completely unrelated to what she studies.

“Oh, good! Same old, same old,” she huffs cheerily, waving her hand in the air as if she were waving away her troubles. “V’got a huge party coming in at 8, you know how that is.” Having a table of seven people is always a struggle… larger parties tend to stay at the restaurant for up to 4 hours, ordering a bunch of extra drinks and sweets until they’re practically kicked out of the restaurant. Y/n dreads the thought of how much she’ll be running around, trying to keep up with seven people’s orders, and how late she’ll be stuck here. If they’re coming in at 8… christ she might not get home until 1 in the morning. She wonders if Harry’ll be willing to wait for her so that they could still drive home together.

“Damn, that sucks,” Jason hisses sympathetically. “You know… how about I talk to Alfredo and see if we could switch tables?”

“Oh, don’t be silly Jason! You’re basically done for tonight, didn’t you just get the bill for your last table?”

“I mean– yeah, but I insist.” He smiles down at her charmingly, “you work so hard, I think you deserve to go home early tonight, yeah? Let me take care of your tables.”

Harry decides he’s heard enough. He stands from his desk, brows furrowed and steps out into the hallway, where he sees his y/n, smiling up at this silly college boy. It grinds his gears, jaw clenching and fingers fisting at his sides.

“Jason. Y/n.” he snaps. Their smiles are instantly ripped off their faces, the two employees straightening up as soon as they hear Harry’s stern voice. “What are we standing around for? Don’t you have tables to attend to?”

“Apologies, chef,” Jason says, at the same time y/n murmurs out a soft, “Sorry Mr. Styles.” She looks at him sadly, seemingly wounded by the harsh tone of his voice, and it takes everything in him not to melt at the sight of her sad puppy eyes.

“Get back to work,” he grits out harshly, turning on his heel.

He steps into his office, and slams the door behind him.

“What a miserable old prick, am I right?” Jason murmurs to y/n to lighten the moment, when he thinks Mr. Styles can no longer hear them. She doesn’t respond.

Harry doesn’t know how to interpret her silence.

* 。˚ ˛ • 。* 。° 。 * 。 • ˚ ˛ 。* 。• ° 。* 。 • ˚

There’s a quiet, timid knock at Harry’s office door.

“Mr. Styles?” Y/n steps in nervously, shutting the door behind her.

Harry looks up momentarily, then back down at his paperwork. He ignores her.

“Harry?” she tries again. Again, he says nothing. His brows are furrowed as harshly scribbles something out on his paper, but it’s not his usual concentrated furrow. He seems upset.

“What’s wrong?” she pries, stepping closer to his desk. When he once again doesn't even glance up at her, she huffs. “Why are you ignoring me?”

He stops writing, his blue pen halting mid-word on his paper, before speaking slowly. “How do you think I feel, when I see you entertain that stupid boy’s flirting?”

She pouts, looking up at him with wide, innocent eyes. “Flirting? I… I haven’t been flirting with anyone?” she says quizzically, confused by this random accusation.

He scoffs, finally looking up at her. “I know you’re not that stupid, puppy.”

She blinks at him, still confused.

“That boy– Jason.” he grumbles. “He’s so clearly flirting with you.”

“Jason?” she asks again.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed it.”

“I– well… he’s just being nice,” y/n explains, as if Harry’s a child throwing a tantrum. “You’re overreacting.”

He blinks at her, processing her words. Overreacting. As if everyone in the kitchen hasn't noticed the way Jason stares at y/n's ass whenever she bends down, or how he's always falling behind on his tables trying to talk to her! Could she really not have noticed?

He shakes his head in disbelief. “Fine, whatever.” He looks back down at his paperwork.

The audacity of this man, she thinks to herself, to ignore her like a fucking five year old. “He offered to cover my tables, that’s it–” she continues to explain, but he cuts her off.

He holds in the urge to explode. “I dropped it,” he grits out instead. “I suggest you do the same.”

In his head, he's envisioning every single way that Jason's ever looked at y/n weirdly, all the instances in which Jason's flirted with her, asked her if she has a boyfriend. But, if she’s going to ignore the way Jason was smiling at her, standing so close to her, offering to do favors for her... then there’s no point in him trying to fight it.

He’s just a friend to her, anyways.

“Leave me. I have work to finish,” he mutters coldly.

He starts writing, and she feels her heart break a little bit.

“Yes sir,” she murmurs, voice thick as she steps out of his office.

* 。˚ ˛ • 。* 。° 。 * 。 • ˚ ˛ 。* 。• ° 。* 。 • ˚

The rest of her shift is dull.

Jason doesn’t end up taking her table, since Mr. Styles had yelled at them and scared him off, so she’s up on her feet, constantly buzzing from the dining room to the kitchen, heart heavy with every step.

Every time she goes down the hallway, past Harry’s office door, she feels resentment building up in her chest. How dare he? Accuse her of flirting with someone else, when she was literally just doing her job, then ignoring her and kicking her out of his office like she’s some stray puppy annoying him for some food.

God, the fucking nerve! Was she supposed to just stop being nice to people to appease Harry’s jealousy? How could anyone in their right mind think offering to cover someone’s tables is a method of flirting?

“Psst.” She’s snapped out of her rage by Grace poking at her shoulder. “Jason wanted me to give you this.”

She looks down at the small piece of paper Grace holds out to her. “What is it?” She opens it up, and finds 10 digits written down in scrawny, boyish handwriting. A phone number.

Grace smiles at her teasingly. “He asked me if you’re single. He’s super into you, said he’s been trying to drop hints ever since you got hired but you’re always too busy to notice.”

Oh, she realizes, heart dropping. Harry was right.

* 。˚ ˛ • 。* 。° 。 * 。 • ˚ ˛ 。* 。• ° 。* 。 • ˚

She stays behind after the restaurant closes, hoping to get a moment alone with Harry. He hasn’t left his office at all tonight, not even to check on the chefs when one of them burnt some bread in the toaster. As everyone packs up their stuff, closes up their stations, and leaves, y/n stays in the staff room.

Only once everyone has left does she head to his office.

The light from under his door is the only thing lighting up the dark hallway. She knocks softly, but enters without waiting for him to say “come in.”

He looks up, slightly startled. He thought he was the only one left in the building. His tense shoulders relax when he realizes it’s just y/n.

His hair is mussed, curly tendrils sticking every which way as if he’d been raking his fingers through it every five minutes, tugging at his roots frustratedly. “What is it?” he asks. His eyes are red and stressed too… he’s never looked this tired.

“Jason asked me out,” she says, fingers wringing behind her back nervously. Harry freezes. His shoulders tense and his heart stops.

“Oh.” He puts his pen down and looks up at her. “Are you going to say yes?” he asks lightly, no indication of the turmoil in his stomach.

“Jesus Harry,” she breathes, confused and shocked by his words. “No, why would I? Why would you even think that?”

He shrugs. “Makes more sense for you to be dating a college kid. Someone who goes to school with you, who you can tell your friends about.” His words slowly reveal his insecurities, that he’s older than her, boring and something that she might be ashamed of. “Better than dating some miserable old prick, isn’t it?”

“Harry…” she trails off softly. “I’m– I’m not the slightest bit interested in Jason. Or anyone else.” She looks up at him with round eyes, her voice growing shy, “only… only you.”

“Well then, why–” he cuts himself off, trying to formulate his words in his head. He shakes his head at himself, frustrated, and stares at the table. ““The other day, when you were at mine… you told your buddies that you were at a ‘friends’ house.” He looks up at her sadly, “It was like you were trying to keep us a secret. Like you didn’t want them to know you were… seeing someone.”

Her breath hitches in her throat as he continues, “If you don’t want t’tell your friends, then how am I supposed to know that we’re… exclusive? It made me feel like– like you didn’t think this was as serious as I did.”

“No,” she breathes, “no, you’ve got it all wrong.”

She walks around his desk to stand in front of him. He rolls his chair back, and she situates herself on his lap, straddling him and holding onto his face. “I didn’t tell them because… well we just haven’t talked about it, have we?” Her eyes flicker with insecurity as she rubs her delicate fingers over his cheekbones, his stubble rough against the skin of her pretty hands. “Because… well what if I went around telling people that I’m your girlfriend, and you didn’t want that? What if I’m just some clingy kid who just self-proclaimed myself as your girlfriend?”

He holds her wrist gently, keeping her hands pressed against his cheek. “Baby...” he murmurs delicately.

“I was worried that maybe you didn’t want to call it the same thing I did,” she continues sadly. “I– I didn’t want to scare you off.”

“Puppy… I thought you knew,” he cups her jaw and looks into her eyes so earnestly that she feels her heart swell. “Thought you knew that you’re mine, that m’obsessed with you.” He nudges his nose against hers softly, “Don’t care what you call it, as long as you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” she whispers back with a smile. “Nobody else’s.”

“I… I got so sad when I saw him flirting with you,” he admits shyly. “Thought he was gonna steal you away.”

“I’m sorry, I should’ve–”

“S’not your fault, puppy. You’re too sweet to even notice it, always wanna see the best in people.” He chuckles to himself warmly, caressing her cheek softly, “precious little thing.”

“Well, if it helps,” she says, leaning her face towards his touch, “I texted him and said I’m not interested. Told him that I’m seeing someone,” her eyes glimmer happily, “and that it’s pretty serious.”

His eyes grow warm and a grin spreads on his face, “good… yeah, that’s good.” With one hand cupping her jaw and another on her waist to hold her steady on his lap, he leans in for a kiss, slotting their lips together and fluttering his eyes shut.

* 。˚ ˛ • 。* 。° 。 * 。 • ˚ ˛ 。* 。• ° 。* 。 • ˚

When they get home, it’s all soft touches and warm words.

He’s so happy, a warm feeling bubbling in his stomach at the idea that y/n is his… that she’s his girlfriend, or whatever you want to call it. It’d been so long since he felt like this, so long since he’d been in a serious, real relationship. It made him giddy. He felt like he was 12 years old, kissing a girl for the first time all over again.

He pulls her into his bedroom before she even has the chance to put her stuff down, taking her bag from her and stripping her of her clothes. He unbuttons her blouse slowly, kissing her softly as he fiddles with each button, and unzips her skirt, letting it fall to the floor. He guides her hands up to his shirt, so that she could do the same– undress him, kiss him, run her hands up and down his bare chest the way he’s doing to the soft skin of her back.

He places her on his bed gently, hovers over her and kisses all over her, just worshiping her. He kisses her face, her cheeks, her lips, down her neck, over her breasts, and along her stomach. He kisses her core, licks and sucks somehow romantically, until she’s cumming on his tongue, whimpering his name softly and arching her back towards him. Her hands touch all over his body, skimming over his muscular back and gripping his shoulders as he comes back up to kiss her.

He lines himself up with her, and pushes in one smooth, gentle stroke. Her legs wrap around his hips, and he rocks into her, moaning into her mouth and breathing heavily against her neck.

“Fuck baby,” he whispers, “You’re mine. Mine to touch, mine to fuck, mine to look at.” She moans delicately, opening her eyes and staring up at him with rose-clouded vision. “Say it– tell me you’re mine,” he whimpers.

“Yours,” she whines, “all yours.”

When he cums, he cums inside of her, spurting into her in long, thick streaks that fill her to the brim. He moans softly into her neck, shuddering on top of her, and she caresses her fingers through his hair, kissing all over his face until he pulls out. They lie next to each other, and in her sleepy haze, she whispers out his name.

“If I’m yours, does that mean you’re mine too?” she asks, eyes wide.

He turns towards her and brushes her hair out of her face, “That’s exactly what that means sweetheart.” He kisses her sweetly. “M’all yours."

+++

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