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.Â
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.Â
"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.Â
"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.Â
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.Â
"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,Â
"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.Â
"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.Â
"Isn't that what I'm doing?"Â
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.Â
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.Â
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. Thatâs 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 werenât looking back at him.
A groan escapes Marcâs mouth before he can stop it, wrecked and torn from his throat, but you donât 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 heâs gotten carried away. Youâre fucking close; he can tell by the quiver of your thighs around his hand, the jerk in your hips.
âNot yet, baby, hold on,â Marc murmurs, voice rough as he eases his fingers out of you, soothing you even though heâs 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.Â
Heâd 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.
âMarc, Marc, baby, please, just - I want - I need to, Marc-âÂ
Youâre 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.Â
Fuck fuck, he loves you. Canât get enough of you. Pulls off your breast to say, âI know, I know, honey.â He keeps his voice low, gravelly and thick with want. âI know you need to come, donât you? Need to come all over me?â
âFuck,â you gasp, âplease, please-â
âItâs okay, you did good, such a good girl for me,â Marc continues, kisses your collarbones, your jaw, bites your bottom lip. âI always give you what you need, right? My good girl. Donât I give you what you need? Câmon, tell me.â
Your eyes blink open, lashes damp, eyes wide and blown out. You say, âAlways give me what I need, Marc.â And your voice breaks, and so does Marcâs resolve.
âYeah I do,â Marc growls, and pats your hip. âNow turn over, baby. Iâll give you what you need.â
You move, half rolling over on your own power, limbs clumsy, half Marc maneuvering you where he wants you, until youâre 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 parentsâ 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.
âThere you go,â 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 doesnât 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 heâs half inside the blisteringly hot clutch of your cunt before shoving himself the rest of the way.
Itâs 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.
âMarc, Marc, Marc-â 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 canât take a full breath. Your hand comes up, clasping his wrist, squeezing and holding on like itâs 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 youâre close, that it wonât take much to get you there, and by God, heâll get you there.Â
Marc lets go of your hip, belatedly realizing just how hard heâd 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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
"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.Â
helloooo đ i come offering a prompt, if you feel so inspired:
âYou flirt in the most awkward situations.â âYou know you love it.â i was thinking Poe for this, but if you think it fits better or want to try it with someone else, please feel free.
Thank you! đđ
please I love it dkfjsjhd
rated t for danger | poe dameron x gn!force-sensitive!reader
In their defense, the First Order wasn't supposed to be here yet. They were. Stormtroopers had their blasters aimed at you and Poe before you could even take three steps, had the pair of you in cuffs and tossed in the back of a transport without delay.
"Well this is just wonderful," you mutter, eyeing the troopers across from you as you pull at your binders.
"Yeah, so much for an alliance with us," Poe agrees, a tone of bitterness creeping into his voice. You know he is more disappointed than most; their mission to meet with the monarch of this little world had been Poe's pet project from the beginning.
"Think it was a trap the whole time?" Poe asks, leaning towards you.
"Shut up," one of the two troopers snaps, modulated voice unable to disguise their annoyance.
"Scum," you offer.
You bite back a grin as the air turns a little frigid.
"What did you say?" the second trooper asks.
"It's shut up, scum," you explain, raising your eyebrows. "Or did you feel like passing up a chance to insult Resistance fighters?"
Poe murmurs your name, concerned, as the first trooper rises to their feet and steps closer. Whatever they were planning on doing to you, they don't get a chance.
You kick your leg out, sweeping their feet out from under them, plastoid helmet making a horrendous clack on the durasteel flooring, and you lunge, bound hands outstretched towards the second trooper. You manage to knock his blaster out of his hands, and slam his head back against the wall.
Stumbling back to Poe, you hold your hand over his binders and focus and - the binders come loose with a click. Poe's eyes are wide and full of wonder and awe, like they always are after you use the Force. He opens his mouth, but he doesn't get a chance to speak, because you shove him to the side, and dive in the opposite direction, having sensed a blaster bolt that slammed into the wall where Poe's head was.
You can hear shouting coming from the cockpit, and, leaving the other two troopers to Poe's capable and dangerous hands, you slip up closer to the barred window separating the two sections of the transport.
"What-! What's going on?" the driver is yelling, but you take a breath, center yourself, and reach with your hand again.
"Everything is just fine," you tell him, voice eerily calm.
"Everything is fine, it's good," the driver repeats, instantly calming.
"You don't have to stop driving."
"We don't have to stop. Don't have the time to."
Satisfied that the driver isn't going to cause anymore problems, you turn back to see Poe tying the two, now unconscious stormtroopers together. You step closer and he reaches for your hands, undoing your binders, and you give him a smile once your freed.
"We can either ride this to the end, or this is our stop," you say, and Poe tilts his head, thoughtful.
"Well, we need to know what the First Order is doing here."
"We could follow?" you offer, and Poe nods. Before you can step away to open the back door, Poe clears his throat to draw your attention.
"That was very attractive, by the way," Poe says, still holding your hands in his, and caressing your knuckles. You roll your eyes.
"You flirt in the most awkward situations," you tell him, mildly exasperated, and pull away, reaching with your hand and the Force for the inner locking mechanisms of the door.
Poe slides up next to you, shoulder to shoulder.
"You know you love it," he mutters, eyes crinkling when you glance back at him. You can't help smiling, or leaning in to kiss him quickly.
"I know I love you, there's a difference, flyboy," you say, grinning, and shove the door open before he can play at being offended. There is still work to be done.
hey everyone! I keep seeing notifications for this blog (which I appreciate so much, thank you for taking the time to go through it!) and I thought I'd give a quick reminder that you can find my new fics (and more recent fic recs!) over at my main blog @userpoe!
I just finished reading The Feelings We Hide and Iâm ahhhhhh itâs so good. Literally my new comfort fic, Poe is so cute and the tension is just *chefâs kiss* wonderful. Thank u for providing us with this MASTERPIECE. <3
Oh gosh I wasn't expecting to get a message like this this morning, I'm so happy you enjoyed the fic and that it's become a comfort fic for you??? That's the highest compliment oh my gosh. Thank you for making my day, Nonnie ily đđ
Obliviously I am reading far too much recently as this is the third month in a row Iâve had to split these lists into two but I canât say Iâm complaining ahah As always, I wanna thank the incredible creators on this site for everything you have shared with us. You are wonders and you do not get enough credit for the effort you give.Â
If you do want to share your love for a creator, donât forget my weekly Friday Recs. You can get more information about that here! Or, boost your own work on Monday too!
As always, please fell free to tag me in your own writing so I can read and share! I track #nicolasfam and boost everything in the tag on Monday recs too :D Have a good one!
Key: ^^ angst, ** fluff, !! smut, ++ personal favourite
hi tegan, how are you? i hope you're doing okay. i saw your requests are open and i was wondering if you'd mind writing something about poe taking a quiet recruit that just joined the resistance under his wing. i don't really have an idea for the reason, that'll be up to you, but i know for a fact you like these found family tropes and i think it fits perfectly.
Sorry for taking so long on this one, love! Iâm so touched you thought of my love for the found family trope. I kind of cheated and went with a tiny drabble of these goofballs...goofing around, but I could definitely see myself writing more drabbles of their friendship in the future if youâre interested in reading them!
I hope you donât mind me jumping in with a autism question as well. Iâve read that itâs a very common thing for autistic people to be kind of uncomfortable with their bikini bottom area. Now I donât know if youâre like tact too, but I am for sure and I was wondering if I was the only one who finds the idea of sex kind of unappealing because of that? It makes me so uncomfortable when Iâm thinking about actually doing so in real life
Hey there, buddy! I donât mind at all. Iâm not sure how much of an objective answer I can give here: obviously, experiences are different for all autistics. For me, Iâm not terribly comfy with it (getting a little better recently) but Iâm also genderqueer and asexual, so by nature, that kind of thing naturally makes me uncomfortable!
Iâm sure there are plenty of other people who feel the same way as you do, though - for various reasons!
hey everyone! A big shout out for all the love and appreciation youâve given me since i started this blog! A quick heads up that from here on out, Iâll be posting my fics + reblogging recommended posts over on my main account, @zoriis!Â
I hope itâs okay to ask for some advice since youâre autistic too! I write as well and am pretty bad at keeping concentrated. Itâs such a big issue and itâs really getting on my nerve. There can be a bird outside and suddenly Iâm all concentrated on it while itâs so hard to keep concentrated on the words I write. Do you have this too?
Hey buddy! Of course itâs alright to ask for advice, my inbox is always open! <3Â
For me, the most difficult part of focusing on getting writing done is getting my brain to accept that I can write during the day, BUT one thing that I need in order to write and be able to focus is music. I tend to try and find somewhere where I canât be distracted too much by outside visual stims (kitchen table facing away from the windows, for example!) and I put my headphones on and put my music on full blast.Â
I have a tonnnnnnnnnnn of playlists, too, for various characters and moods Iâm trying to write for, and listening to them also help me be able to concentrate!
If you can, maybe try writing closer to the evening hours? I find thereâs a lot less distractions that time of day for me.
Could you write 29 and 30 from the kissing prompt for Santiago?
29)Â Staring at each otherâs lips for a moment before moving closer, as if drawn together by some unseen force.
30)Â Weak, sweaty kisses because itâs unbearably hot.
âNext time you need help with a mission in the jungle... forget you have my fuckinâ number,â you grumble, hacking at a low-hanging vine a little more viciously than completely necessary. âIâm serious. If I see one more banana spider, Iâm going to freak the fuck out. And no oneâs going to like it considering the fact that Iâm holding a machete right now.â
âYou didnât have to come,â Santi huffs in return. Still, he wears a soft smile. âYou donât owe me. If anything, I owe you.â
Heâs rightâyou didnât have to come.The amount of times heâs dragged you halfway around the world certainly dictates that you donât owe him any debt.
But itâs Santi. Heâs your teammate. Youâve low-key been crushing on him for something like five years.
âJust... fuck. This sucks so much,â you whine as you step over a fallen log. âItâs hot. I miss AC.â
âYou and me both,â he chuckles quietly. âYou get used to it. You wanna stop and set up camp?â
âMore than anything.â Youâre no baby, but itâs hot and you feel like youâre about to turn into a puddle.
Santi graciously does most of the work while the two of you set up the tentâyouâre sharing because you had to pack light and itâs not like youâve never bunked together before.
But as youâre unfolding your bedroll, you lock eyes with Santi and the mood entirely shifts.
âI havenât thanked you yet,â he mutters, pink tongue darting out to wet his lips. âFor cominâ all the way out here.â
You wave your hand dismissively, trying your hardest not to reveal anything as you maintain eye contact. âYou donât have to thank me for anything. You know Iâve got your back.â
âYeah, and I feel like I should thank you for that, too.â
His dark eyes flicker down to your mouth, and you canât help unconsciously sinking your teeth into your lip.
And then heâs moving, so drawn-out that it nearly feels like time has slowed down. He takes your hips in his big hands and presses his chest to yours, his eyes searching yours for any hint of hesitance.
You take the initiative and surge upwards, fingers tangling into his dense curls as your lips meet his.
His tongue sweeps languidly over your bottom lip, tentatively asking for entrance, and you grant him his wish without hesitance. Itâs all slow and gentle, exploratory and sweaty because of the unbearable jungle heat.Â
And then he pulls back and cups your face in his warm hands, and you canât help relishing in the heat of his body despite the ungodly temperature permeating the tent.
âSorry,â he mumbles, his thumb swiping over your lip like he wants to dive back in even as he apologizes.
âDonât apologize,â you whisper. âJust kiss me again.â
Okay so for soft Saturday: I have been told I have a very sittable lap. Like have been straight up been told by friends 10/10 would sit on again. So I have this idea of sitting up working and Poe just comes in exhausted. He flashes a sleepy smile and comes over. He stands for a moment before just lowering himself onto your lap, wrapping his arms around your waist, nuzzling his head into your neck. Then you just get to sit there finishing up tasks with the best pilot in the resistance melting into your lap as you run a hand through his hair.
This made me so soft I had to write a blurb đ„ș
If anyone were to walk in, they would have laughed at the sight before them.
You and Poe were squeezed into your desk chair, him sitting sideways across your lap with his legs dangling over the arm of the chair. He had one arm around your shoulders and one around your waist, both out of affection for you and as a matter of necessity to avoid falling to the floor. His head was a welcome weight on your shoulder, tilted just enough for him to nuzzle sleepily into your neck.
It had been a busy day for both of you. Poe had been running drills with new recruits and you had been labouring over mission reports that you had fallen behind on. That was how he had found you when he returned to your quarters, exhausted but always with a smile for you; hunched over your datapad at your desk, in much the same condition as him.
He had considered going straight to bed and waiting for you to finish working and join him, but then he had been struck with an overwhelming urge to just be close to you. That was how he had ended up in your lap.
You had giggled at first, teasing him that the chair couldnât take your combined weight and shoving him playfully, but then he had settled into a comfortable position and his weight on your legs became just that: a comfort. He was so warm, and his hair was soft where it tickled your cheek, and when you closed your eyes briefly all your senses were full of him.
You were definitely working at a slower pace, typing with one hand and stroking your husbandâs hair with the other, but for the first time all day there was a smile on your lips.
Poe Dameron, son of one of the most influential movie directors and rising star has suddenly decided to call it quits in the movie industry, opting to pursue his life long dream of becoming a pilot.
Navigating life under the scrutiny of many watchful eyes is never easy. But with friends watching your back, it doesnât seem so impossible. But the last thing he needs right now is another secret to bear.
your tags summoned me đ Santi with âsleepâ?
You woke abruptly, heart drumming a tattoo against your ribcage as the last fragments of the nightmare that'd disturbed your rest slowly ebbed away; you sat up straight, the duvet bunching around your hips as you buried your face into your hands, a deep sigh falling from your lips.
Immediately, the figure beside you stirred - he always was a light sleeper, a habit you guessed he'd had to pick up in his time in the service - mumbling your name in question; when you didn't respond beyond a low grunt, Santiago sat up straight, scooting closer to you as he ran his hand down the span of your back soothingly.
You both stayed like that for awhile; he didn't question you further, knew you sometimes had nightmares just like did, but when he noticed you stifling another yawn, Santiago gently poked you in the side where he knew you were ticklish, and murmured, "C'mere, you to need to sleep.â
You acquiesced, snuggling into his arms as you both fell back against the pillows: he didn't promise to keep the nightmares away, because you both knew that was an empty promise, but having his arms around you was enough, and you fell asleep to the sound of his heartbeat, and his lips pressed gently against your forehead.
Send me a character and a word and I'll write a 3-sentence blurb for them!
BB-8 spun in place, flickering their lights to red to show their displeasure. âWill you please watch your language? That is my Friend you are speaking of.â
K-0 rocked in place, tilting their sensor array. âYour friend is an ass.â
If BB-8 had lungs they would have sighed at that. They vastly preferred when K-0 communicated in Basic. With the language filters on, it was much easier to ignore the Binary and focus on the words. That way they didnât have to listen to the little droid call Poe things such as âassâ or 'motherfuckerâ. Instead, it was simply 'Bad manâ which was simpler and also no where near as insulting.
BB-8 could see Poe and Kina talking to each other across the bay. Even to the droidâs sensors it was clear the two still had feelings for each other. If they could only get K-0 onboard they were sure they could fix whatever it was that had driven their two friends apart.
âFriend Poe cares for Friend Kina,â BB-8 tried again. âSo do I. I believe they were confused before but are not any longer.â
K-0 dipped sideways. âKina likes him, for what reason I cannot fucking imagine. But I will not let that bantha-shitter hurt her again.â
Flashing a set of mocking indicators BB-8 said, âDid I not see you let Friend Poe pet you?â
âI did not,â K-0 replied vehemently. âI was simply testing his response times to see if he was truly better.â
Excerpt: âDarkness is a time of peace for you. A time to crawl into soft sheets, to curl up against your pilot. Some nights, to feel him lazily press a soft kiss to your forehead before his breath levels out in sleep. Others, to feel his hands roaming your body, feel him inside you.â
Summary: A short talk to Poe is always enough to cure a case of loneliness.
Warnings: Some sexual references
A/N: This is for @autumnleaves1991-blog Writer Wednesday. I actually originally meant for this to be a perhaps 500 word-ish Drabble but it ended up way longer obviously. But Iâm really proud of it and love the concept of Writer Wednesday, so hope you guys enjoy! (Also, weâre just gonna pretend that phones and phone booths exist in the Star Wars universeâŠ).
