mack/mav. 21. any pronouns. adhd/autistic. constantly low on spoons. reader x sideblog for @dameronalone. 18+ only. read the pinned post before requesting
Hey everyone! I've had this blog for several months now and I'm only just getting around to do this hahaha oops
This blog is my sideblog for posting and reblogging reader x content and it is an 18+ only blog. MINORS DNI.
I follow from @dameronalone
All the goods are below the cut ;)
Requests:
Always feel free to drop in with any of your own thoughts/headcanons/
Headcanons - OPEN FOR ANYONE
Prompt lists - OPEN as long as I've reblogged one in the past like week
Drabble requests - ONLY if we're moots
Rules:
(going to briefly mention some heavy topics in point 6)
Always check to see if requests are open. They are always open to mutual but not always to everyone else
I reserve the right to say no. If I do so, please do not repeatedly ask for something. If you send in an anonymous ask and don't get a response, do not send another ask of the same time
reader will always be autistic/adhd disabled because I am autistic/adhd disabled. Most of the characters I write for, I write as autistic/adhd disabled. This is non-negotiable
I mostly write gn!reader, with afab!gn!reader for most of the smuts I write, but I also write tranmasc, fem, and masc readers. But by default I typically write gn!reader. I also never use y/n. If the reader has a nickname I will put it in the A/N
PLEASE preface any request with tw/cw for any content that could be questionable
ABSOLUTELY preface any request with tags regarding: sui, self-harm, SA, physical, emotional, mental abuse, especially having to do with family, child abuse, and ableism.
If you send anything regarding those topics or any other heavy topic without warnings, I will block you
Do not spam ask. I see everything I get in my inbox but a lot of times it will take me a day or two to answer it if it's a request because I don't always have the spoons for it. This blog is first and foremost a way for me to have fun and I'm not going to break my back for it
The block button is my friend. Please don't take it personally if you find I've blocked you
Don't information mine. I'm not here to educate you about disability. Don't question my theories. They're my theories you don't have to agree. Do NOT come onto my posts and disagree with my headcanons. What the fuck. I will block you. Make your own post. I am not here to defend myself to strangers on the internet I am here to have fun. I have even been called fun by some people that know me
DNI with any tagged with my self-ship tag unless you're a mutual it makes me very uncomfortable and I will block you
If you have a request for a character you're not sure if I write for or would like a clarification OR want to run an idea by me before requesting it, just shoot me a dm :)
I know I sound pretty harsh up there but I'm just taking care of myself & curating my own internet experience. basically as long as you aren't a jerk to me you're welcome to be here <3
Now to the fun stuff!
Fandoms/Characters
Star Wars
Poe Dameron
Cassian Andor
Bix Caleen
Din Djarin
Jyn Erso
Moon Knight
Marc Spector
Jake Lockley
Steven Grant
Layla el-Faouly
Triple Frontier
Santiago Garcia
Frankie Morales
Benny Miller
Will Miller
Marvel
Loki
Sylvie
The list may change as my interests do but you can never go wrong with Poe Dameron (or another Oscar character)
Any characters that are italicized are my preference in each fandom. For moon knight, I like them all equally
if I decided to take prompt requests for kinktober ficlets would anyone actually send me any?
yeah
nah
idk
Voting ended onOct 2, 2023
characters i write for: poe dameron (star wars), marc spector (moon knight), jake lockley (moon knight), din djarin (star wars), miguel o'hara (spiderman), santiago garcia (triple frontier), frankie morales (triple frontier)
tagging a couple folks who might be interested. it's no worries either way ofc I'm just trying to decide if I even need to put any time into this since it's already october 1st lmfao (and I know not everyone is in the mood of smut all the time so pls be honest 🫶): @the-force-awakens @leiakenobi @softlyspector @dameronscopilot @burstanddecay @campingwiththecharmings @my-secret-shame @stormkobra-5
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.
discussion of injuries, nothing graphic. big strong men feeling FeelingsTM. plenty of feelings from reader. din djarin x gn!reader
They stagger back aboard the Razor Crest, leaning heavily against each other. Din is wheezing with every breath he takes, and the modulator only makes it sound more breathy - you're worried, and your worry and residual adrenaline staves off any concern for yourself.
The quarry had been better defended than anticipated, and had escaped. No doubt Din would go after him again with a vengeance tomorrow, but right now, Din was shaking himself free of your grip, and careening across the hold, unceremoniously collapsing on a crate.
Despite the urge to rush after him, you know he's more than capable of getting started on himself, so instead you turn and lock up. By the time you finish and reach Din, he's worked his gloves off and was fumbling with a medkit.
No matter how many times you've seen them, Din's hands without gloves always seem so naked and vulnerable, like you shouldn't look. They captivate you anyway.
You shake yourself, and take the medkit from him gently, settling on the floor on your knees between his.
"What are you doing?" Din demands, but a thread of exhaustion laces his tone, and the question is more weary than anything.
"Taking care of you," you say, simply and brooking no argument. "Can I take off your chest plate?"
His helmet is impassive as always when you look up at him, and after a moment, he dips his head in acquiescence. You lean upward, reaching for the buckles at his shoulders, and carefully pull it off, setting it gingerly aside. You'd clean it and store it properly once you had Din cares for.
Next you reach for his shirt, to pull it loose from where it is tucked in his belt. Hands resting on his knees in loose fists, you can't help but notice the way his fingers twitch, like he wants to stop you, or help you.
He'd just caught a very lucky blaster bolt to the side, below his ribs. It was more of a graze than anything, and looked worse than it was. Still. You hate to see him hurt, and quickly press a bacta patch to the damaged skin.
Din hisses, but it is one of relief, and some of the tension drains from his body.
You begin to lean back, to reach for the medkit, to begin to clean up, but Din grabs your wrist. You freeze, and look back up at him. Again, you cannot discern what he is feeling from the black T of his visor, or from the tilt of his helmet, but you think - hope - it might be concern.
(Half the time you still aren't sure where you stand with the Mandalorian. He trusts you, at least, had given you his name, but he's still hard to read sometimes, even with you.)
"Cyar'ika," he murmurs, a rough rasp - he still hasn't told you what that meant - and turns your arm over.
It's then that you realize you'd been cut, that your shirt sleeve is jagged and crusted with dirt and dry blood - your own. Din pushes your sleeve back to inspect your injury and you try to focus on the dull pain beginning to press at your mind, instead of the gentle rasp of his skin against yours.
"This shouldn't have happened," Din says slowly, haltingly. You suspect he has been thinking that exact sentence since the mission went horribly wrong.
"It's not your fault," you murmur, as Din carefully cleans the jagged wound, and applies bacta. It stings, the way healing usually does.
Din just shakes his head. He's finished with your arm, and any other injuries either of you have are easily attended to by yourselves, but - you have to admit, you like being this close to him, and don't make any move to get up. It's almost humorous, the way you've begun to develop romantic feelings towards a man you've never seen the face of. But it's true - it's where you're at.
You don't need to see his face to care about him, not when he protects you, defends you, cares for you even as you are perfectly capable. He protects and defends without behaving condescendingly. He remembers the littlest details about yourself.
And Din is still holding your forearm and wrist, cradling them carefully.
"What's cyar'ika mean?" you ask softly, gazing up at him. That helmeted face is one of the most dear faces in the galaxy to you.
helloooo 😊 i come offering a prompt, if you feel so inspired:
“You flirt in the most awkward situations.” “You know you love it.” 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! 😁💖
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.
helloooo 😊 i come offering a prompt, if you feel so inspired:
“You flirt in the most awkward situations.” “You know you love it.” 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! 😁💖
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.
summary: you find poe on the falcon after crait and take a moment together
~1.3k
a/n: posted this awhile ago on ao3 but realized I never posted it on tumblr lol so that's what I'm doing now
You find Poe in the galley, reorganizing Solo's dusty dishes with shaking hands and a blank look on his face. You approach slowly, scuffing your feet not to startle him, but he jumps anyway when you touch the back of his hand lightly, stilling them. Without a word, you take both his hands in yours, and he turns to face you automatically as you sweep your thumbs across his knuckles. When he sways on his feet, you're not sure if it was intentional or not.
Regardless, Poe goes along easy when you gently tug him backward and into the hallway.
Everyone else is spread out within the Falcon, the meager remnants of the Resistance exhausted and spread thin and finally resting after the nonstop week they'd all had. Even Leia was asleep in the copilot's chair, where Chewie kept an eye on her. Rey and Finn had fallen asleep, shoulders, heads leaned together as they sat on the floor next to Rose. Kaydel asleep with her head in D'Acy's lap. C'ai had somehow fallen asleep standing up.
Everyone is resting except Poe.
You come to a stop in the middle of the hallway, nobody else around. When you step forward into Poe's space, his arms open around you and he pulls you to his chest. Even though he's technically holding you, Poe still sags, head bowing until it could rest on your shoulder, his curly hair tickling your ear.
For awhile you say nothing, just sway slightly and smooth your palm up and down his back. Only when his shoulders begin to shake and the fabric of your shirt begins to grow damp do you say his name.
"Poe," you murmur.
He doesn't respond verbally, just squeezes his arms around your waist tighter. Press his face hard into your shoulder.
" Poe ," you say, insistent, reaching up to cup the back of his head.
When he draws back, his face is creased in grief and regret, and he clutches your shoulders as he shakes his head, dropping his gaze. It has been hard. It has been hard for everyone but especially for Poe , pushed to the sidelines and trapped there, unable to do anything to help . He could only watch - only react - couldn't be proactive like he tended to be.
Poe shakes his head again and says, "They're all gone. "
His voice is broken - hoarse and croaking. It breaks something in your chest.
"First half the fleet- with the Dreadnought. And then everyo-"
He cuts himself off, shaking his head and squeezing his eyes closed against the building sob in his throat. There's nothing to say - you'd lost friends too.
You'd been lucky. Your ship had been damaged during Starkiller - you'd been grounded when the fleet flew out to follow Poe to attack the Dreadnought. You'd heard some of the officers on the Raddus talk, heard them blame Poe for the major hits the fleet had taken during the attack run, but it hadn't been Poe giving orders. The other pilots followed him because they wanted a fight. They'd been on comms - they'd heard Leia tell Poe to fall back.
They hadn't.
But you know Poe had heard the gossip; knew he took it to heart because he already had a bleeding heart and took every blame on his own shoulders.
"Poe- baby, it's not your fault," you tell him, cupping his face. He doesn't believe you though; you see it in his face when he shakes his head, pressing his face into your palm. "Poe-"
"Everything- everything else," he says. "Holdo- Finn's plan, the mutiny - I never shoulda-"
Poe stops again, shaking his head. You know that's not the problem though. At least, you hope it's not. Poe had done the right thing. He had. You refuse to believe otherwise and you didn't care who thought he was wrong.
"What is it, Poe?" you ask softly, thumbing away the damp tear tracks on his cheeks. Poe's hands, normally so gentle, dig into your waist. He opens his eyes and looks at you.
"I used to think - I used to think Leia was already right - could never be wrong," he corrects himself. Carefully, he lifts his hands and holds your face. His eyes dart across your expression, searching for something. "What if she - I think she thinks I'm- like Holdo ."
You feel your face crease in a frown. Poe is nothing like Holdo, never will be.
"Why-?"
Poe shakes his head.
"I dunno. I think she - believes what I - what I put on. Commander Dameron ," he says, and he spits the last two words out like they are sour. "She said somethin' to me and I just-"
He shakes his head again, and then plows on before you can say anything, like he's been thinking about this but hadn't had the courage to say it.
"Y'know she - she thinks Kylo can- can come back. That he can be saved." Poe's face creases and tears build thick in his eyes. "After- after everything . She still wants him back."
This is news to you. News that makes anger rise sudden and sharp and hot in your chest and you clutch his face - fading bruises still visible, brand new scar aching on his cheek. You open your mouth but you don't say anything for awhile.
"She - what?"
Leia had seen Poe when he'd finally made it back to D'Qar - she'd held his tender head in his hands and kissed his forehead. You'd dragged Poe to medical, held his hand when he looked to you, eyes full of new fear at the sight of the medical droid, and the needles. You'd lived with the aftermath - Poe avoiding sleep to avoid the nightmares to avoid the memory of Kylo fucking Ren rooting through his mind.
The fact that Leia wants to save Kylo makes you angry; Poe's face is full of hurt and something like betrayal. After everything - after how much Poe considered Leia a mother figure, and Leia saw him as a son - in the face of it, she still chose Kylo.
You cradle Poe's face in shaking hands and wipe his tears away, then tug him back into your arms. He goes without resistance, holding you tightly to his chest like he is afraid you'll disappear. You'll never leave him. You'll fight anyone who tries to take you away.
Slowly, you sink to the floor, because Poe is honestly swaying on his feet from exhaustion, tug him down to sit next to you as you lean against the wall. He lets you, curls around you and tucks his face next to yours. When he sighs, it is one of exhaustion, and probably the first full, deep breath he's taken in days.
Briefly, you tilt your head, kissing him softly - a reassurance that you're here, that you have his back. Poe clutches at you, leans back in when you begin to pull away, and you let him, let him kiss you again and again until his tears begin to ease. He pulls away, pressing a final kiss to the corner of your mouth, then tucks his head in the curve of your neck.
"Thank you," he whispers.
You squeeze your arms around him.
"There's nothing to thank me for," you whisper back. "Of course. I love you."
Poe is already mostly asleep, but you hear the answering whisper - love you - and it warms your heart. You hate how he beats himself and takes the blame for everything. You wish he could see himself how you see him - wonderfully kind, patient with his friends, relentlessly snarky with people he dislikes, ruthless and clever and wise. A leader. A lover. Your best friend.
You know it's hard for him. But you aren't going anywhere, and you'll keep reminding him until he believes you.
Since the beginning of the year I've been playing around with the idea of moving my reader x content to my main with the rest of my fics. I've made the decision to do some spring cleaning and start the swap
things that will change
I am no longer going to be taking requests here or posting directly from this sideblog. instead I will write and post from my main, @dameronalone
my masterlist will link back to my main account as well, though the fics I post originally directly from poedameronthighs will not change
this sideblog will now only house my fics. after I publish a fic on my main I will reblog it here, for organization purposes and in lieu of a taglist. if you like my stories enough to get excited when I post, follow me here and turn on notifications
things that will not change
I'm still writing reader x fics. I like them too much to give it up, I'm just adjusting my usual process.
i will still take requests, just at my main, as previously stated. if you send me a request through this blog, I'll post it separately on my main and tag you, and if you send on anon, just keep an eye out
i still love all of my readers 🫶 I hope as I make the effort to write more consistently, y'all will send in asks and requests because I love to receive them 🧡
TLDR: still writing reader x fic but from my main account @/dameronalone. poedameronthighs will function as an archiving system and an alternative to a taglist. please send me requests because I love getting them 🫶
You have a recurring dream. It is a dream your mind conjures whenever you're anxious. Back in College it was the night before an exam, now that you're working it's before a performance review. But most frequently this dream will always rear its ugly head the last few days before Santiago is going to be leaving.
Leaving for deployment. Leaving for a private job. Leaving for the sake of leaving.
In this dream of yours, unlike the archetype of a stress dream, you're not standing naked in front of a class. Your teeth don't fall out through a hole in your cheek. Nothing much of note happens in it. You're just standing on a tarmack of an empty airstrip, waiting for a plane that never comes no matter how long you stand there. It doesn't arrive even as your feet become sore and throbs and aches with blisters. Doesn't arrive even as the clear blue sky turns dark and obsidian and stars start to dust the black canvas above.
Most of the times you're alone throughout. Sometimes a person you've never met before, with a nondescript face wearing an orange vest will walk up to you and ask you what you are doing. You'll tell them that you're waiting and when they ask you for what and who, you'll shake your head not giving an answer.
You never tell them. Because like a birthday wish, you're always worried that if you tell someone, your wish won't come true.
Lying in your bedroom now, the first of the morning sun is starting to spill through the blinds with a warm gentle glow that settles over the white sheets on the bed, dyeing it in amber.
You peer up at Santiago from where your head is resting on his chest, chin tucked into his clavicle.
He's here.
He's actually here.
Your eyes roam over Santiago's face, over the golden skin that's baby-soft without a single blemish no matter how hard you try to find one. Soft plump lips most girls would die to for. Ink-black lashes so thick and long that sometimes you find yourself staring at him and wondering if they're fake. They have to be. His lashes flutter behind his shut eyes in his sleep, as if he sensed your thoughts from his sleep and decided to rub it in your face. You press your face back into the hollow of his neck, nose pressing up against the lazy pulse you feel there.
He's here, the pulse reminds you as it beats faintly against your skin. Santiago is actually back.
You clamp down your teeth on your lip, tampering down the jolt of giddiness that rushes to your head at the thought. It's hard to stay still, excitement is vibrating inside your bones and wants to burst out of your skin. If it wasn't for Frankie's grounding weight pressed warm against your back, caging you in, you're not sure you wouldn't be floating off the mattress.
Taking a long deep breath, you try to calm so you don't wake either of them. Maybe you can even try to fall back asleep and catch a little bit more sleep.
But no, that's not happening this morning. Your brain is too wired. You haven't even had coffee, yet you feel like you've had a dozen of espresso shots injected straight into your bloodstream, ready to run a marathon with the energy dancing in your nerves.
Santiago is here... in your home... in your bed... with you and Frankie.
He was gone for two whole years and didn't come home once. The only thing that let you know he wasn't buried six feet under in a nameless desert half across the world somewhere were a handful of calls, infrequent texts that were weeks apart and hastily written postcards that arrived in the mail. In all that time, you haven't caught so much as a glimpse of his infuriating, beautiful face.
And now he's here, has been here for the last two weeks.
You don't know how you managed this. To capture Santiago Garcia, in your bed that first morning when he came to visit. Or how you managed the even more impressive feat to have him not bolt barefeet to Tampa airport that very same afternoon when the three of you'd woken up together half-naked tangled in bed.
Your fingers linger over the pulse of his throat, trying to check and make sure to yourself that he's real.
And he is. Warm and soft under your fingertips. Your lips tug into a dopey smile, and Santiago stirs from under you, voice groggy with sleep as he grunts quietly. It takes you a second to register that the garbled sound muffled against his pillow are words. You just can't make out what he's saying.
"What was that?" you ask.
His head lifts just slightly from the pillow. "Said go back to sleep." Then he drops himself back down with a soft thud. "Too early," he mumbles, with an exasperated tone in his voice. Those soft riotous curls of his spill across the pillow.
Gorgeous, ridiculously pretty bastard.
Your fingers draw down until you meet the familiar golden chain resting there. The gold glistens against the sun, and you trace the length of it from the back of his neck to his chest, until you reach the end where the pendant, the shape of half a heart cracked in half, rests.
You snort with a laugh.
It's been a hot minute since you've last seen this hideous thing. He usually tucks it inside his shirt, hidden from plain sight.
It's one of those ugly and cheap BFF necklaces that were all the rage in the 90's and 20's that one could buy from any strip mall in America. You'd know, because that's where you bought it from, the one down the road from your first apartment, some ten years ago.
Holding the half golden heart, between your thumb and index finger, you smile. It is a heinously ugly thing adorned with a gaudy pink rhinestone to boot. You'd really taken your time that day to pick the most obnoxiously offensive option you could find, hadn't you?
For all the grouching Santiago did when you had given it to him, all the griping about how "eye-gougingly ugly” it was, how much he "hates it", how he was "going to throw it into the Pacific where it can't do more harm" -- somehow all these years later, it still hangs around his neck. It just has a bit of wear and tear now, polished from use where it rubs against the collar of his shirt, to the point where the lettered inscription of 'BE FRIE' stacked on top of each other is barely legible anymore.
Older than a decade, this beaten up necklace, and he's still wearing it, on his feet and always running somewhere all this time.
"You have terrible taste you know," his sleep-rasped voice comes from above. He's got one eye cracked half open as he peers down on you, as if the room is too bright at this early hour for him.
His gaze on you is warm, and your chest flutters pleasantly, but you can't resist responding to his snarky comment with one of your own the way that you two always do.
"It was a very heartfelt gift from me to you, Santiago. Don't be an ungrateful brat."
He hums, the tone of it still marred with sleep as he speaks. "If it's such a heartfelt gift, why do I never see you wearing your half."
"Are you fucking kidding me," you snort, as you lift your head from his chest to lean up closer to his face, "I wouldn't be caught dead with that ugly thing."
Both his eyes shoot open with a pout and his put out expression, has you wheezing with laughter. You clamp your hands over your mouth and nose, trying to suppress the noise so you won't wake Frankie. But god, it's impossible. Because the more you laugh the more offended he looks, and that's even funnier and it's a self-perpetual cycle of laughter that doesn't end.
You drop your head back down to his chest, burying your face there as you shake with laughter, trying to muffle the sound.
"Are you done?" Santiago asks with that trademark sarcasm, but the fondness creeping into his tone is unmistakable.
Pressing your lips together, you breathe in a long inhale through your noise to calm your laughter before you tip your head back up. Santiago is smiling at you, eyes squinted and softly crinkling and at the sight of him, whatever remaining laughter you had dies in your throat.
Heart-stoppingly pretty, that's what he is.
His hand comes to cup the back of your neck and he pulls you down to his lips. A soft tender press that ends much too quickly, before he lets you go, smiling wider than ever up at you. It's a little bit embarrassing how dumbstruck that one barely-there kiss gets you. You have no witty retort for him, just stare back at him mouth open and speechless.
"I get to do this now, right?" he asks with that warm ever present smile.
It takes your brain more than a few seconds to re-calibrate, to take in and process his question and the full depth of the bizarre but welcomed new reality that is going to unfold for the three of you.
The three of you have stepped into unknown territory that none of you can take back. It's something you've known since that first morning at the breakfast table.
If something goes wrong, if you screw this up, if Frankie pushes him too far and Santiago cuts and runs, he's going to be gone for much longer than two years.
As well as you know Santiago after all these years, you know that if something goes wrong this time around, he's probably never going to come back again.
That should scare you. That alone should be plenty of reason to stop this. But you don't. You drop down your head again to recapture his mouth with yours. His hand comes up to cup your cheeks and it has your face tingling with heat.
His thumb smooths over your cheek, pressing gently as he tilts your face to an angle where he can kiss you deeper, and you know without an ounce of doubt in you that it's a risk worth taking, because, holy fucking shit, you're kissing Santiago.
It's messy and slow. Santiago is too sleepy at this early hour to master his usual coordination and you're brimming with too much energy jumping under your skin to follow his lead and pace, but you try.
Soft, sweet. Hard, then needy. You let him slide his tongue against yours, as you wrap your legs as best as you can around his waist while lying sideways, grinding against the warmth of his torso. It's messy, and a bit uncoordinated in the best of ways. Santiago's hands are holding you close, one hand firm on the back of your neck, the other curled around your waist.
It's still early, and everything around you is wrapped in that morning haze of soft sunlight and morning quiet. The only sound you hear is the rustle of sheets and Santiago's subdued low moan against your lips.
His hands on your neck and waist doesn't move, the firm grip, holding you steady and close to him. But you can feel a wide palm, warm and calloused slide against the slope of your stomach. It drags slowly downwards, the rough skin rasping against yours until the hand cups the apex of your thighs over your panties and presses down. White heat sparks along the length of your legs and you arch into the pleasant touch for more.
It's all the encouragement needed. You can feel those dexterous fingers slip inside the trim of the cotton fabric, coating the wetness already there, before pushing inside of you. It's blinding. Sharp electric pleasure that sears into your skin. Those curling fingers, slides deeper finding that perfect place with practiced ease and no hesitation and aching heat sparks along your entire back.
It's so fucking good. You don't understand how Santiago can do that. Know your body this intimately when he's never been with you like this before. You moan into his mouth at the sensation, pushing back with the bend of your back until you meet the insistent firm hardness pushing urgently against the small of your back.
There's a rasped groan, low and heated in your ear. Soft lips and the slight rasp of a patchy beard dragging against the back of your neck that is so familiarly pleasant.
You open your eyes to the sight of Santiago's hand bridging across your jaw and cheek; then eye his hand that is still on your waist; you follow the line of the third hand buried between your legs, before you finally connect the dots.
There's only ever been one man in your life who knows your body inside out and can make you feel this good, this fast: Your husband.
It's not Santiago's hand.
It's Frankie's.
Frankie with his thick and practiced fingers curled deep inside, that has you moaning and writhing, it's embarrassing really that you're so far gone that it took you this long to realize it.
Santiago pulls away just far enough to let out a chuckle against your lips with a smirk. "Morning, Frank, did we wake you up?"
There's a soft hum that reverberates against the skin on your throat as Frankie's presses open mouthed kisses there, the scrape of his beard making everything tingle. "Mmm," he murmurs, the soft brass reaching into the core of your chest and drips warm and molten. "You two weren't being very quiet."
His fingers curl and press, nudging that perfect blissful spot until you arch back against him. You don't know how long he's been awake. But Frankie's fully hard already. The outline of his heavy cock, push against your back like it's trying to make a permanent indentation on your spine and you can feel it twitching and jerking eagerly against you.
"Sorry 'bout that, Fish," Santiago says, but there's nothing in his expression that says he’s contrite about it at all, cocky and brash as always. His lack of remorse is pretty clear to Frankie as well, because your husband chuckles softly, the breathiness of it skittering up along the nape of your neck.
"You don't look very sorry, Pope," he presses another kiss to your skin, "don't worry about it. There are worse ways to wake up."
The heel of his broad hand presses down on your clit, and sharp electricity jolts through you as you spasm in Frankie’s arms. Your fingers dig into the firm muscles of his forearms, but he doesn't stop.
"Shit baby, you're so fucking wet already," Frankie murmurs in your ear, and leaves an indulgent kiss to your temple.
In front of you, the cocky expression in Santiago's fades, mouth dropping slightly open as he just stares at you and Frankie.
That's another achievement you have to note down in your list of unbelievable feats you never thought in a million years you'd achieve with Santiago: Making the man speechless.
"Wanna see?" Frankie asks.
At the question Santiago swallows nervously and you can see his Adam's apple bob in that graceful throat. He's more nervous than you'd thought he'd be. You've always imagined Santiago to be assured and confident in bed.
From all accounts and reports you've had from friends in common and even exes he's stayed friends with, that's always paired up with what you'd imagined and you never had reasons to believe otherwise. But your first time together, not two weeks ago as he'd watched you and Frankie together in this very bed. he'd been hesitant. Careful to not overstep with Frankie and you. He was unsure of himself in a way that through all your years of friendship he's never been.
And right now as he's staring up at you and Frankie with wide and eager eyes, that same hesitancy is etched in every line of his face. You're not sure why that is. Until two weeks ago, being naked in bed with Santiago is not a situation in all your years of friendship you've ever found yourself with Santiago before. You don't know if he's just worried about fucking things up with you or if something else. All you know is that you hate that expression on him.
You want to grab his face between your hands and kiss him hard until you can wipe it clean from his face, until there's not a trace of hesitation left on him when it comes to the three of you.
Frankie must read your mind, because even without an answer from Santiago he's already slotting his knee between your legs. Then he easily spreads them apart, "Let me show Santiago, baby."
You think he means he's going to show Santiago how easily he makes you fall apart in his hands. But instead his fingers slip out of you, leaving an aching emptiness as your pussy squeezes down and flutters at the loss.
He draws two fingers in front of yours and Santiago's face, your glistening slickness coating them to the knuckles.
"See that Santiago?" he says, with a goading tone, as he pulls his two fingers slowly apart and you see the silvery thread connecting the tip of his fingers. "See how wet you made her?"
That seems to have been the right thing to say. The hesitation in Santiago's face is replaced with a determination as he leans forward. You think he's going to kiss you again, and for the second time in less than a minute you're proven wrong again. Because Santiago's hand leaves your waist and circles around Frankie's wrist, pulling them to his mouth as he wraps his lips around those thick fingers, and sucks.
Your brain stalls out at the sight. Tongue heavy and dry in your mouth as you watch Santiago’s throat work and his tongue lap up every trace of you from your husband's fingers.
"Fuck," Frankie utters, and the only thing you can do is agree. Fuck, indeed.
Santiago barely has the chance to pull his lips from Frankie's fingers, before you're already reaching forward. Your hand grabs at the back of his neck and pull, until those gorgeous lips are back on yours and you lick your own taste from his bottom lip.
It's still messy, but it's not slow this time. You kiss Santiago deep and hungry, trying to make good on your intention to permanently wipe out any hesitation in him he might ever have. You can't be sure you've succeeded, but his hand does come to your waist, grabbing on tight as he pulls you close, angling your mouth to lick deeper into your mouth. Confident and committed, you can't taste any hesitation on him.
You grind up against him, rubbing yourself desperately against his torso, until you can feel the hardness that meets you there, pressing against your lower stomach.
"Fuck," Santiago gasps out between your lips, as he pulls back to catch his breath. "shit," he swears again, eyes darting down between your bodies to where his cock is straining against the fabric of his underwear, pulling it taut like the seams are about to rip from its stitches.
The tip of his tongue darts out to swipe at his bottom lip as he looks up hungrily at you.
You both know what he wants, because fuck you want it too.
But he doesn't say anything. Doesn't make any move to touch you. Instead, there it is again, that painful hesitation bleeding back into his face.
You know why it's there.
This would be your first time together.
Silly as it might seem, technically, that morning two weeks ago, doesn't count as sex. Frankie, your husband, fucked you. Santiago watched.
Not that a handy and fingering isn't crossing a barrier for your friendship, but this would be something else entirely. It's crossing a canyon and Santiago is peering down from the edge of the cliff and hesitating. And you don't know what to tell him to make him reach through that barrier.
"Santiago," Frankie's voice breaks through the stalemate.
From behind you, his arm reaches out, wedging between your bodies, to push down Santiago's underwear with an impatience and aggression that's entirely uncharacteristic of your patient husband.
But you know why. He wants Santiago to cross the damn canyon already, because part of Frankie's still scared that Santiago is going to get cold feet and run away again.
And Frankie is tired of waiting.
So Frankie is pushing, and goading and leading Frankie along the edge. Hell if Frankie had his way he'd be shoving Santiago off of it.
It speaks to the difference in your friendship you both have with the same man. Frankie pushes him forward until Santiago gets to the ledge in the first place and not chicken out and run the other way. You pull Santiago back making sure he doesn't fall off so that he can make it to the other side.
Your hand reaches up to cup his cheek, pulling his eyes to yours. "You ready Santiago?"
His eyes focus, with a solemn pause that tells you he's really considering your question. As if he's hearing a thousand layers to your simple one, and needs to consider each implication. But then finally, he gives you a slow nod. "Yeah, sweetheart," he murmurs as he rests his hand on top of one of yours and drags it to his mouth and kisses the palm of it. "Yeah I'm ready now."
His hand draws down between his legs as he pulls the boxers the rest of the way, kicking them off, to reveal his flushed and hardened cock pressing eagerly against his stomach.
Your tongue feels dry even as your mouth floods with saliva at the sight of it and for all the blood that is roaring in your ears with excitement, blocking your hearing, you think you can hear Frankie groan from behind you as he watches Santiago. Can feel the eager weight of his cock twitch and jerk against the small of your back, dripping and smearing precome along your skin.
Fuck, fuuuck that's-- you're aching between your thighs, feeling much too empty in this second as you watch Santiago's hand grips the base of his cock and positioning himself against your entrance. Everything in you tingles with adrenaline, then he meets your gaze steadily, before pushing in.
The first slide of Santiago inside of you is perfect. Thick and filling, and with every inch of advance, you think you're going to go blind from the pleasure that fills you.
You didn't know it'd be like this.
Slow and careful, wide adoring eyes the way he's always looked at you when you were both in the same room. It's overwhelming, to have him this way. Your chest feels ripe and overfilled, the pleasure swirling warm and heavy in your belly, until you don't know if you can take anymore and not fall apart somehow.
Your hand grips onto Frankie's strong arms caged at your side, moaning and whining, and your husband hushes you comfortingly. "Shh baby, doing so good. You look so good taking Santiago's cock like this."
There's another choked sob, and you think it's from you at first, until you feel the way Santiago shakes against you. "Fuck, Frank."
He sounds breathless and out of it, eyes dazed, as he continues to push forward, the very last bit, until he's buried deep inside you as deep as he can be.
It's heaven, and you both moan in unison at the deep pressure.
“Does that feel good baby? You like having Santiago’s pretty cock inside you?” Frankie asks, lips pressing softly against the side of your temple and you nod in response with a whimpering keen.
Santiago pulls his hips away from you with a slow and sinful drag of his cock inside you. Searing pleasure swims across every one of your nerves, wild and demanding.
Your hands flies up and clamps over your mouth, trying to keep in the scream that wants to erupt from your chest, because fuck it feels too good. Too much. LIke it's not even real.
Frankie's hand comes up to your forehead, brushing an errant lock of hair out of your face. You're so grateful for his sturdy presence and touch. Because if he wasn't keeping you grounded to the here and now, encouraging you and Santiago both, in his raspy sleep-thick voice about how pretty you both look, you think you might have lost consciousness and blacked out from how surreal this all feels.
"How you doing there, Pope?" Frankie asks with a hint of amusement in his voice as Santiago's eyes squeeze shut, brows knitted in concentration.
He can't answer Frankie with words, just lets out a strained breathless moan before he finally manages a nod. He seems lost and overwhelmed, taking another pause of a second as if he needs one because this is all so much. Then he finally, slowly pushes back inside again. A long measured stroke that fill you all the way before he withdraws again, leaving you empty, only to fill you up again, and again, and again, until you're both losing your mind from it.
Santiago's hand slams down against the mattress, holding himself steady as he stills, half-way inside. He's breathing heavily, with a pinched expression as he rests his forehead against yours.
You can see he's overwhelmed. Can see he's holding on by a thread. But you can't help the neediness that burns thick and addictive in your veins for him, squirming as you try to get more of him inside you. But Santiago isn't obliging you in this instance.
Instead, it's Frankie's deep voice that comes to your help. "Want him deeper? Want me to help querida? Have him fill you all the way up?"
You nod eagerly, and you don't have to wait long before Frankie reaches an arm across the both of you, settling his grip on top of Santiago's hip and pulls him deeper into you.
There's a shattered and wrecked groan from Santiago, a noise that's been ripped from his very lungs, like he wasn't prepared for it, as his cock pushes its way deep into you. It breaks into a ragged sob, as he tries to catch his breath, but he doesn't get any reprieve.
Frankie's hand is already pushing his hips away from yours, until only the tip of Santiago's cock rests inside of you, and then he does it again. Pulling the man's hips forward, using Santiago to fuck you at a pace of his liking.
And god, it's good, it's so fucking good it has tears sting sharp in the corner of your eyes. The blinding heat from before, simmering hot and insistent in your veins, molten and sweet, as you wrap your arms around Santiago's neck and hold on.
Maybe it's because Santiago had the cards stacked against him from the start, barely half awake before he found himself in this position. Maybe it's the relentless, unforgiving pace that Frankie has set for him, not allowing him to stop even as he's practically whimpering out choked breaths. But you can see that Santiago is unraveling. His curls are a wild mess against the crown of his head. Jaw tense, and eyes rolling back to the back of his head.
His hand shoots out and clutches and digs into Frankie's arm, fingers curling into the strained bicep with enough force that Santiago goes white-knuckled. His eyes fly open, and there's a pained look in his face, brows pinched in distress with a pleading look for Frankie to ease up on him. Without a single spoken word, you both know that he's close.
Your hand reaches across his cheek, to soothe but it only seems to make things worse because the tense muscle in his jaw tics at your touch. "It's ok Santiago, come. I want you to come."
He doesn't answer you, just squeezes his eyes tightly shut as if he's trying to block out your very voice.
"Santiago," you try again, but there's nothing. He doesn't move, doesn't open his eyes. Just stays there, deep inside you, to your frustration, as he struggles to keep his breathing under control.
You try to squirm against him to no avail, and you decide to hedge your bets. If Santiago won't respond, your husband will. Frankie always indulges you and succumbs to your whims, always spoils you. You roll your hips, angling your back until you feel the heavy and hard weight of him press deeper into your flesh. Until you hear him groan with a low rasp in your ear.
But Frankie isn't moving either. Hips still, pressed firmly against your back.
Shit, shit shit shit, you want more. Need more. Want every inch of Santiago buried deep inside as he thrusts into you, hard and demanding until you can feel him spill every drop he has to give inside you. Want Frankie to hold you down as Santiago fucks his cock into you, until you're pressed so hard into the mattress they will have to dig you out with a shovel after.
You try to arch your back again, to goad Frankie, but this time his hands move down to your waist to keep you still. Frustration burns bright under your skin at being denied. You don't think this has ever happened to you before with Frankie. Have never had him deny you in any shape or form.
But fine, if Frankie's not going to help you. You'll help yourself. With neither of the men, responding to your coaxing, the only thing you can do is take matters into your own hands. Reaching across, you drag your hand over Santiago's hips, resting your palms over the round perfect curve of his ass, the way Frankie had earlier. Then you pull him closer to you, flush to your hips as deep as he goes. That one single thrust is enough, his eyes burst open, dark and wide with in startled shock, and something vulnerable within, and you already feel the way him twitching and—
Santiago sobs, actually sobs. "No, no no. not yet," his voice is strained and tortured, cracking at the edges, as he pleads with you, "Sweetheart please, just—I need—"
Those gorgeous eyes of his flicker away from yours in panic, looking past you. "Please," he pleads again.
You realize he's not asking you anymore, he's asking Frankie.
There's a pause and a silence, and as you stare up at Santiago, you can see a conversation with no words exchanged between him and Frankie that you are not privy to.
An unbreakable bond between the two men that had been forged in foreign countries you've never stepped a foot in.
Before you can dwell on it, before you can try to interpret and translate what is being said in the silence, Frankie's hand moves from your waist, joining your hand that's resting on Santiago. Then he's lacing his fingers with yours and pulls your hand away. He pulls you back from Santiago. You whine at the loss, at the torturous drag of Santiago's cock leaving you empty and aching.
"Fran--" you start to protest, but you never get to finish, you can already feel him, hot and heavy pressed against your slick folds as Frankie presses in from behind you and you blank out. His name on your tongue dies on the tip of your tongue, the oxygen in your lungs extinguished as he thrusts into you. The air rushes out with no space for anything else but his fat cock. Every single thought is lost at the perfect pressure of his cock inside you, how Frankie completely fills all of you and so much more.
Then Frankie slides out of you, in a sweet and achingly slow slide. His pace is almost lazy, as if he's trying to drag it out to buy Santiago some time.
Your eyes flutter open to see those gorgeous familiar brown eyes of Santiago's staring at you wide-eyed, pupils blown as he bites his lower lip.
You eye Santiago's cock, where it's pressed against your stomach. It's flushed and twitching, shining slick and glistening with our slick and the precome that's steadily dripping down the head, leaking what must be a comparable mess to the one Frankie's made of your back.
There's a gently but insistent pressure against the inside of your thighs, nudging them to widen. Then Frankie's gravelly voice brushes hot in your ear, "Baby, spread your legs, just like this okay, so Santiago can see better."
You comply, spreading your legs wider under Santiago's unwavering gaze. There's a heavy weight to it, to be pinned under Santiago's attention in this way. Comforting and intimidating and oh so addictive all at once. You felt it two weeks ago, as he was watching you swallow down your husband's cock. Felt it when Frankie's face was buried between your thighs. It should feel lewd and dirty, something out of a ridiculous dear penthouse letter, but it doesn't.
Because it's not about getting your rocks off to a stranger in a dirty bathroom stall. Santiago doesn't look at you like a dirty john at a peep show. There's too much history between the three of you for that. Too much love spoken and unspoken in every glance, and every touch he wants to reach out for but doesn't. Too many goodbyes and not enough welcome backs.
All you want is to bridge that gap that still exists between you.
From behind, Frankie's snapping his hips up and into you, and his cock hits something shattering. You swear it fills you so fucking deep from this new angle, there's no more space inside you, not even space for oxygen in your lungs. It's a sensation enough to make you lightheaded, as Frankie fucks into you, thorough and demanding, as he opens you up on his thick cock, and that familiar tingle on your spine sparks in alarm to warn you that you're going to come.
And Frankie knows it too. His voice is in your ear, low and gravelly, “You want to give the first one to Santiago, baby?”
It simmers insistently inside. Sweet heady pleasure that is about to crack and fracture across your veins. You're trying to say yes, but Frankie's not stopping, his cock dragging slick and hard inside you, robbing you of any words, as he continues. “You want that, baby? Let him feel your perfect pussy come around his cock?”
You open your eyes to look at Santiago (and fuck you don't even remember closing them again). The man seems more out of it than you are. Eyes glazed, and lost, with a look in his eyes like he wants to reach out but isn't. Like he's standing on the precipice of a cliff, looking down at the abyss if he were to fall.
You want to reach out and hold him. Want to lace your fingers together and tell him it's okay.
You don't have to. Frankie's reaching over from behind you, one strong and sturdy hand cupping over the back of Santiago's neck. He's pulling him closer until the whole of Santiago's torso is pressed along every inch of yours from your knees to your chest. Until you're compressed between the two men with not an inch of a crevice of space between. Then Frankie leans over your shoulder, pressing his lips to Santiago's.
All you can hear is the slick sound of their mouths, the wet slide of their tongues meeting, and the gentle dreamy hum from Santiago as Frankie moans into his mouth. Then Frankie's quiet, gentle voice. “You ready to go again Santiago?”
You can't see it, but you can feel Santiago nod. It's all that's needed before Frankie slides you off his cock. You don't even get the chance to properly mourn the loss of Frankie's cock inside of you, because before you've even taken a single breath Santiago is already there. Hand wrapped tight around the girth of his cock as he's pressing up against your dripping and slick cunt in a slow, easy slide until you've taken every inch down to the root of him. Pressing forward, until all of him, as far as he can go, is inside of you and both of you sigh with relief at the pressure and weight of him inside you.
His forehead rests against yours, and he smiles at you and it's fucking everything. It doesn't matter that he's done this a million times. Doesn't matter that his smiles are nothing rare in all your years of friendship. It's different now, and he knows it too.
This is a gentle smile, not the rakishly charming one he reserves for the gorgeous women he meets at an nondescript bar, 60 seconds before he walks out with them on his arm. Not the smug "I told you so" grin he wears when he knows he has won one over you. Just a simple smile on his lips as he looks into your eyes. Right now, he sees you in a way that Santiago only does. A smile that was reserved for just you and no other women or men. This smile is yours.
It's a promise that he'd always come back to you, no matter how far he went or how long he was gone for.
A smile worth standing alone in an abandoned field for as long as it takes.
You feel dopey and content, head buzzing with endorphins as you stare up at him. You love him. You love him so much you feel stupid, and you don't know how to tell him.
And maybe you don't need to.
He moves, long, drawn out strokes as he pushes his cock inside and there it is again, your orgasm flickering awake as it licks up your spine with its adamant presence. You don't last long.
Your toes curl into the sheet, hand grappling for something to hold onto, until you feel the familiar warmth and weight of Frankie's arms wrapped around you. "Right here, baby. I'm right here."
Maybe it should feel strange. Maybe it should feel wrong. To have your husband hold you in your arms while you're about to come on your best friend's cock. The same man that your husband has been in love with for as long as you've known him.
But it doesn't. What has always felt wrong was the wait. What was wrong was not having Santiago in your bed. Not having this man right next to the both of you in your lives together of supposed married bliss. It's why no matter how many rooms you donned up and filled up with furniture and trinkets and photos and memories, it always felt empty.
A space that would never be filled until Santiago came home to you both.
"It's okay, go ahead and come," Frankie whispers.
And fuck, with your husband's loving voice in your ear, you do.
It's consuming, streaks out in pulse after pulse across your nerves as the pleasure fills along every nerve. From the tip of your nose, to the air in your lungs, down to the aching muscles of your calves. Your back arch, your mouth parted with a moan or a scream, you don't even know. All you know is that it's bliss rushing to your head and blots out everything else as you come on Santiago's cock.
You're surprised you can even hear sound, when Frankie's lips are pressed to your temple and that familiar voice rumbles across your skin, encouraging and sweet. “Doesn’t she feel good Santiago?”
It's a bit distorted, too blissed out in your post-orgasmic bliss to understand what's being said even as you can hear Santiago's breathless voice and make out the words he's saying. “So good Frank", he moans, a strained, quiet little sound, "so fucking good. I think I’m losing my mind over it.”
“Yeah I know the feeling.”
Santiago's still hard inside you, still thrusting slow and measured, to drag out your climax, even as you're coming down on him, but you don't even know where to fit the warm buzzing pleasure skittering across your skin as he bends down his head and presses adoring kisses to your lips and cheeks. “You feel so fucking good when you come on my cock, sweetheart.”
You're so fucking out of it. Can barely hum in approval as you feel Santiago slip out of you and Frankie takes his place inside you. Gentle fingers come to your forehead, smoothing out the sweat-drenched locks. You don't know if it's Frankie or Santiago, but that's okay, because you don't think it matters.
Because he's here now. They both are.
“Let’s try to come together this time, okay baby?” Frankie asks and for the two of them, you do.
--
You fall asleep after, tucked and nestled between the two men you love the most.
You dream of standing in a field. Sun set high across the Azure blue sky, with not a plane in sight. Across the tarmac, there's a silhouette standing against the blaring sun. It doesn't matter that you can't see him against the blinding sun. Your wait is over.
It's the last time you have this dream.
Dedication & Credits: To my prawn clown sister @thirstworldproblemss because she is the best and I looooooooove her the mooooose-test
a/n: to be notified of new writing updates follow astroboots-writes and turn on notifs.
gn!afab!reader (no pronouns used, just coded language), smut (this fic is explicit, so 18+ only). pegging, brief mention of ~hand stuff (allusions, not shown). actually very soft. clocks in at 460 words.
You love seeing Poe like this, chest rising and falling rapidly as a broken whimper escapes his lips, his cheeks all flushed and his eyes squinched shut, eyelashes fanning across the tips of his cheekbones.
Another slow tilt of your hips makes his buck up, his thick cocky pretty and hard, already dripping precum. You haven't touched it yet, not quite wanting to overstimulate him as you continue to thrust into him with the strap on, his legs bracketing yours as you continue to rock in and out of him, his fingers laced between yours where you'd taken his hand in yours earlier.
He whines then, a lovely noise that makes you squeeze your thighs tighter together, your neglected clit aching. The desire for him to fill you over and over again until you're gasping and the rest of the world vanishes is so fucking intense that you nearly whimper too.
His brow is furrowed, plush pink lips parting in a wordless cry when the next thrust finally sends him catapulting over the edge, arching slightly as he comes: the combined rush of pride and arousal you feel is enough to make your breath hitch as you gently pull out.
The loss is enough to make Poe gasp softly, his body sagging against the bed as you remove the toy, sitting it aside so you can clamber up to the head of the bed to sit beside him.
He looks beautifully fucked-out, his soft-focused gaze quickly sharpening as he blinks his eyes open at you, a crooked and slightly dopey smile on his face. “Hey, sweetheart.”
He drops a heavy hand to your knee, rubbing absentmindedly at your bare skin and you shouldn't feel as much relief as you do at his touch.
“You alright?” You ask, reaching up to brush back a loose curl from where it's stuck to his forehead.
Poe's tongue pokes out to wet his bottom lip before answering, giving you a quick little nod. “Yeah. Yeah, I'm good. Thank you.”
A different kind of warmth suffuses through you at the adoring expression he has, the earnestness of his tone. “I should be thanking you,” you can't help but tease, leaning in to brush your lips against his. “You look so pretty spread out for me.”
Poe groans against your mouth. “Honey you can have me like that anytime you want.”
Your responding laugh makes his dark eyes dazzle like the night sky, and he confidently slides his hand up your knee up to your inner thigh.
“But in the meantime…” Your breath stalls as he brushes the tip of his fingers against your folds, barely a brush, but it's enough that your hips jerk forward and Poe's grin becomes cockier. “I think it's my turn.”
a/n: oh fuck me this is so soft and cozy. nothing but pure sleepy fluff ahead
ao3
It had been a long day.
Marc can tell as soon as you walk in and head straight to the shower, can tell because forty minutes later you emerge, fresh-faced, in sweats and one of his shirts, smiling at him in a tired way that doesn't quite reach your eyes.
"Hey, Marc," you say, stepping into his embrace. Marc holds you close, bending his head over yours.
"Hey, baby. Dinner?"
You readjust from where you have your face buried in his chest, peeking over his shoulder to the place on the counter: leftover pasta and sausage. Your stomachs grumbles and you whisper, "Yes, please."
Marc knows it was a long day because you tell him so between bites of food, about the annoying coworkers, obnoxious email chains, passive aggressive sticky notes - he can't imagine working the kind if job you do.
In return, Marc tells you about his day, about what Steven and Jake got up to, that he might be leaving in the next few days. Your face visibly falls at the last point, and Marc can't have that, so he reaches across the corner of the table and nudges your chin.
"Listen, I know you're off tomorrow, so I thought we can just stay home."
You perk up, smiling and sitting up straighter, leaning into his touch in a way that never fails to set off a whole swarm of butterflies in his stomach.
"Okay," you say. "I like that idea."
And can you really blame him for leaning over, cupping your cheek, and kissing you? He's been waiting all day for this, the way you always sigh and melt into his kiss - God, he really did love you.
"Marc," you whisper when you break the kiss to catch your breath, nudging your nose with him.
"What is it, baby?"
You open your eyes, blinking up at him beneath long lashes.
"There's a new documentary out I wanna watch."
He can't help it - Marc snorts with laughter, pinching your cheek lightly as he pulls away and takes your plate. Judging by your pleased smile and the way you watch him move around, chin in palm and eyes blinking sleepily, he thinks making him laugh was your goal.
But fifteen minutes into the hour long documentary about the Library of Alexandria, Marc looks over at you to find your eyes growing heavier with every slow breath you take. He should've sent you to bed after dinner but your insistence to stay up and watch something with him makes his chest feel warm and good. Marc realizes he's smiling at you, face open and soft; you tend to draw that out of him.
"Baby," he murmurs, squeezing your hand lightly. Rousing, you blink hard and shift, rubbing your eyes on his bicep.
"Mm, what - I'm awake," you say, groggy already and voice thick.
"Right," Marc says, amused. He rubs his thumb across your knuckles and watches the way the light from the television plays with the lines and shadows of your face. "You should just go to bed."
For some reason, you frown.
"But I'm cozy here," you argue, wiggling like you could possinly worm and burrow closer. "Don't wanna."
"Baby," Marc repeats, the slightest hint of exasperation creeping into his tone. "Go to bed, sweetheart."
"You aren't coming to bed though," you argue, nose scrunching, and Marc is very slightly overwhelmed by how cute you are. "Wanna stay with you. You make bad days better."
And, oh.
Oh.
Marc swallows thickly, and blinks hard. Your eyes are still trained on the TV screen, but he can tell you're starting to zone out again, the call of sleep too alluring, and yet - you don't want to go to bed because you want to be with him.
Every time Marc is reminded of how much you care for him, how much you truly love him, he feels a sensation in his chest like caving in. Like a lung is collapsing.
There is nothing he wouldn't do for you - all he wants is to keep you safe, keep you happy, and if that means staying by your side... somehow, some baffling way, Marc makes you happy, Marc and Steven and Jake, all three. He can hardly wrap his mind around it most days, but he thinks he's getting better at accepting it.
Your eyes are drifting closed again and Marc just sighs, something in him relaxing.
"C'mon," Marc says gently, setting the remote down, and turning towards you, jostling you slightly. "I'll carry you to bed."
You startle slightly, toeing the line between sleep and wakefulness, and only hum and put your arms around Marc's neck, kicking your feet happily as Marc gathers you to his chest and stands. The sensation of ground falling away from beneath you always jolts you, and you cling to him a little tighter, burying your nose in the curve of his neck, beneath his jaw. He smells good, like his aftershave and something else you're too sleepy to try and name.
You can't remember why you were fighting sleep.
The mattress dips as Marc sits on the edge, adjusting you so he can hold you close with one arm, and reach for your claw clip with the other that held your hair in place. He pulls it out as gently as it can and drops it to the floor, then twists and lays you down. Immediately you frown, reaching for him, blinking hard and looking up at him from beneath your lashes.
"Hey, I'm here, baby," Marc says, shushing you gently. He climbs over behind you and angles your head away from him. "Gonna braid your hair for you."
He knows how you hair sleeping with your damp hair lose, how you hate the sensation of it on your neck and face when you try to sleep. He's never seen you sleep with wet hair that is not in a braid and he didn't want you to have a bad night because of it.
In no time at all, Marc ties off the tail and leans over to look at your face; the soothing motions of him plaiting your hair had long since lulled you fully to sleep. The relaxed look of your slack, sleeping face never fails to send a pang through Marc's chest, a feeling that only lessened by holding you close, and strengthened when he is faced with the reality of how much you not only love him, but trust him.
Thankful you are asleep, and he no longer has to speak, Marc leans over you to turn off the light, the tucks himself behind you, curling an arm around your waist, your body pliant in sleep.
You always fit against him like you are made to be there.
Pairing: Steven Grant x female reader x Marc Spector (x hints of Jake Lockley)
Summary: The end is the beginning is the end. Or alternatively: You finally get to have Marc's beautiful face buried between your thighs.
Content: will cause unrealistic sex expectations.
Word count; 17k (guys I'm so sorry)
Series Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist | Thirstworldproblemss’ Masterlist
[PREVIOUS]
Your face, small and pinched and dirty, looks back at you from the tiny mirror in Steven’s loo. The unflattering fluorescent lights aren’t doing you any favours. Eyes wide and strung out. A burst bottom lip. You look dreadful.
Your clothes are soggy and cold underneath Marc’s somewhat drier jacket, mucky with grime and mud (and god knows what else), clinging wetly to your skin.
You look like something the cat dragged in.
You shiver. The idiom feels a little too on the nose, considering you were dragged across East London’s dirty concrete not even an hour ago. Just… not by a cat. You shiver again, harder this time, trying not to think about it.
A shower. Marc sent you in here to take a shower. “Go get clean,” he’d said, “Warm up.”
Right now you feel like you’ll never be warm again.
Marc’s jacket comes off first, and you hang it carefully on a hook, running two fingers over the cuff. You stare at it for a moment, fighting the urge to clutch it to your chest and bury your face in it. On autopilot, you reach out to undo your wristwatch instead, fingers running over the bare skin for a moment, searching, before you stare down at your wrist in confusion.
Right. Your watch is gone.
Or… not gone. Probably still out there in the alleyway, lying face up, cracked glass and all, on the concrete in the rain… next to the carcass of some invisible monster. You shake your head, pushing away the image. It’s as good as gone, then, isn’t it? You’re certainly not going back out to search for it at this point. You’re bloody well never going down that alleyway again if you can help it. Hell, even going outside ever again might be off the table.
Pulling the shower curtain aside, you start the shower and peel off your ruined clothing, letting everything plop in a solid, sodden mass on the corner of the bathroom floor.
The muscles in your arms and shoulders are stiffening up and threatening to cramp up as the last bit of adrenaline abandons your system, leaving bruises and all-encompassing exhaustion in its wake. Your knees throb with the leftover pain. The water stings your scraped shin when you step under the spray.
At least it’s warm.
The heat of the water feels like a balm on your aching limbs, and you close your eyes, tilting your head back under the spray, trying to let the comforting warmth relax you.
In the darkness behind your eyelids, the shower sounds like rain. Your nakedness feels like vulnerability. Like maybe you never made it back. Maybe you’re still out there, in the narrowness of the alley, under threat from an otherworldly creature that you cannot see, let alone fight.
Your chest squeezes painfully sharp, and your eyes fly open, half expecting to see the hazy moonlit sky overhead. But no, there’s nothing but the expanse of the blank white ceiling.
You’re still here in Steven’s shower. Safe, or as safe as it gets right now.
Dropping your gaze, you watch the blood and muck sluice down your legs and onto the tiled floor in rusty red-tinted waves to pool on the tile floor. The dirty water leaves lines of fine grit behind as the rest is sucked down the drain.
You feel strangely numb. Like some part of your brain (probably an amenable survival mechanism) is trying to block out what happened so you don’t go mad. But maybe it’s too late for that. After all, you were a hair's width away from meeting your maker tonight at the claws of an invisible blob monster.
It’s impossible to not think about. An irritated half-healed scab itching to be scratched. You turn it over in your mind, trying to process the fact that the supernatural is real—or those creatures were, at any rate. And apparently Marc dons a mummy costume and goes out into the night to battle them like he’s magical girl Sailor Moon.
God. All of this is right proper insane, isn’t it? You want to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness.
You almost died; your understanding of the world as you know it has fundamentally changed; yet none of it feels real. The world itself doesn’t feel real.
The water by your feet is running clear now. The dirt and grime finally washed off, but the film of exhaustion still clings to your limbs. Turning off the tap, you step out, grabbing the towel Marc left for you in the corner by the door. Your eyes linger on the set of clean clothes waiting for you underneath, folded into a neat square.
You can't reconcile the man who does this for you with the same man that pummelled a supernatural monster into a whimpering pulp without hesitation. Didn’t recognise the Marc you thought you knew in the man in the alleyway standing over the creature and curb-stomping it into the ground with cold and blank disdain in his eyes. Couldn’t see that man in the Marc who escorted you home and gently bullied you into the shower.
Reaching for the clothes, you quickly dress and pull aside the accordion door only to find the very man you were thinking of right outside the door, arms crossed and back plastered to the closest wall as he stands guard.
You barely cross the threshold before he's already pushing away from the wall and moving in to guide you gently but firmly towards the kitchen like a particularly insistent herding dog.
There’s a fairly extensive first aid kit laid out on the counter, well used by the look of it, and you try not to think too hard about why that might be.
"Up," Marc commands, curt as ever, swatting a hand down on the surface of the countertop, and you feel like a lamb being rounded back into the pen.
A ‘please’ wouldn’t have hurt him, but you let it go with just a glare as you shuffle over, too drained to put up a fight over something so small. You lift your arms to brace against the countertop, getting ready to hop up, and flinch a little as your shoulders twinge and ache.
Marc is in front of you in a heartbeat, watching you with worried eyes and a furrowed brow. His hands hover, like he wants to help but doesn't dare to touch, and any testiness in you fizzles out at the sight of him.
You give him a small nod, barely able to complete the motion before his hands come down on your waist, lifting you. Even though you’re expecting it, the loss of ground beneath your feet feels sudden, unbalancing you, and you gasp, hands instinctively flying to his shoulders to steady yourself.
Part of you expects him to drop you, but he doesn’t. Marc’s warm and solid under your palms, strong muscles bunching as he perches you on the counter.
Blood rushes to your head with furious speed. It must be from the sudden change in altitude. That’s what you tell yourself no matter how doubtful that is considering the standard kitchen counter height is not even three feet above the floor. You're not exactly climbing the Himalayan mountains. But you don’t want to think of the more probable reasons right now.
You're still reeling from lightheadedness when he lets you go in favour of busying himself with the large tin box on the counter, rifling through the arsenal of medical supplies, and sets down what he needs next to you. Then he's dragging a nearby chair to position himself in front of you. Sitting so close he's practically nestled between your legs.
It does nothing to help with your newly discovered vertigo symptoms.
"I’m going to check you over for injuries now,” he says perfunctory, pulling you from your thoughts, “Left leg.”
You stretch out your leg into the air, glancing down at him, unsure of where to rest it. There’s no space on the tiny kitchen stool. Do you just… put it down in his lap? On his crotch?!?! Or–
Marc's hand wraps around your ankle, and his executive decision-making ends your flailing, as he gently guides your foot to rest against his thigh. Then his head ducks down, and he starts to inspect the patch of scraped skin on your knee, dabbing gently at the scattered dots of blood with a square of clean gauze.
With how tender and swollen everything feels, you expect it to hurt. That at the slightest pressure on your skin, it is bound to sting and snag and tear. But it doesn't. Marc is gentle, barely pressing down and showing such minute care as he tends to you that you barely feel the brush of the cloth at all.
It's such an impossible contrast. The tenderness of his touch as he fusses over you, placing a plaster on your knee, compared to the brutality you’ve now seen him capable of.
You still can't make sense of it. What happened, or what that invisible monster in the rain was. Why Marc was out there. Or what he meant by that being "what he does."
"Marc," you start tentatively as you lean forward to get his attention, "What happened toni--"
“Wiggle your toes,” he interrupts.
His odd demand cuts off your line of thought. “What?”
“Try to wiggle your toes for me”, he repeats, without looking up. “Want to make sure you didn’t get any nerve damage.”
You frown, you’re not blind to the fact that his request conveniently just cut you off from asking a question that undoubtedly Marc doesn’t want to answer. Still, you comply, angling your foot upwards and wiggle your toes for his inspection.
Whether you passed his ad hoc medical examination, Marc’s expression isn’t giving you any clues. His face is as stoic as ever as he sets down your foot. He doesn’t say anything. Just reaches over to your right side to draw your other foot into his lap.
Marred with bruises, looking like something that got mangled in a bear trap. Your right foot does not make for a pretty sight. It’s swollen and bleeding sluggishly from long gashes where the blob monster’s claw-like grip must have broken through skin.
It's a gruesome picture, but miraculously, the injury doesn’t seem to be too serious. It stings more than it actually hurts, and it’s not even bleeding much anymore. Not even worth a trip to A&E really, as you doubt it’s deep enough to need stitches.
At least that’s the assessment based on your own limited medical knowledge. If you based the severity on Marc’s reaction, you’d think it needed amputation.
The line of his shoulder is pulled taut and reminds you of a live wire. Mouth set in a grim tortured line. He has the expression of a doctor about to give the nearest kin some heartbreaking news as he’s staring down at your foot with haunted guilt in his eyes.
"I'm all right. I’m sure it just looks a lot worse than it is," you tell him.
He doesn't meet your eyes or reply for that matter. Instead, he begins to gently tend the wound. Mouth pressing down so tightly his lips go pale white from it. He dabs away the oozing blood, carefully applying antibiotic ointment to the worst of the broken skin, and covering them with large squares of gauze that he tapes in place. It’s all quite professional, really, the practised ease that only comes with repetition.
You wonder how many times he has done this before. You wonder how much harder it must be for him to suture his own gashes and gaping wounds. Wonder how long he’s been doing this by himself, fighting these hellish creatures. These things that you still have no bloody fucking idea as to what they are.
"Marc,” you start tentatively, “what was--" A ticklish sensation rushes through you. In panic, you think a centipede is crawling down the sole of your foot. You instinctively jerk your leg up and away, nearly kneeing Marc in the face before you realise what’s happened.
Your eyes fly downwards to Marc who is entirely unfazed by the close call as you stare at him in shock. His index finger rests on the arch of your heel and you blink up at him in a dumb stupor, not believing your eyes.
Did he just– did he just fucking tickle you?!
There’s no hint of wrongdoing in his expression. No grin, or crack in his stony facade. He is unflappable as always as he continues cleaning your wound with a straight face.
"Needed to check if you still had sensation in that foot," he offers up as an explanation as if he thinks that tickling was a perfectly reasonable thing for him to do in the circumstances.
You frown, biting down the tart comment bubbling in your throat. You want to call him out on it, that you know what he’s up to and he’s acting like a child. But you know that the moment you do, the conversation will derail into an argument and in the flare of your temper, you’ll lose track of your questions. You’re pretty sure Marc knows you well enough that that’s exactly what he is aiming for.
Gathering a deep calming breath into your chest, you steady yourself before you take a second shot.
"What was that thing in the rain?" you ask again.
He acts like he doesn't hear you. "Roll your ankles side to side," he requests instead.
Irritation prickles your face. This bastard is still trying to evade your questions.
"Marc," you start again, "what was--"
"Press down your weight on my hand with your foot."
"Marc!" you bark.
He finally drags his eyes upwards to meet yours without bothering to lift his chin, seemingly as detached and reposed as ever. But there's something else in there too. A tiny flicker as you hold his gaze, and he has to look away.
He looks… scared.
Scared of what you don't know. The man practically single-handedly beat three monsters straight out of a Lovecraftian horror story with his bare fists tonight. With strength like that, you don't think anything should ever be capable of scaring him.
"Can we talk about what happened tonight?" you ask again, trying to keep your voice even.
His head ducks back down again, and he busies himself by rechecking the bandaids on your injured ankle.
“There's nothing to talk about,” he murmurs offhandedly, but his hands betray him.
There's no mistaking it. Even though his shoulders are obscuring your line of sight, you don’t need to see it in order to feel how unsteady his hands are. How his fingers stutter against your skin as they trail over your ankle.
He’s not letting go, as if he’s afraid that if he wasn’t holding onto you, you’d get up and walk away.
Gazing down on him from your vantage point of the counter, Marc doesn’t look as imposing as when you were looking up at him from the rainy concrete in the alley. From up here, he looks small and scared even.
Even though there is nothing in this flat that should intimidate him. No invisible monsters lurking in the dark shadows behind Steven’s piles and piles of books. The scariest thing in Steven’s flat is dust mites.
No, the only thing Marc is scared of, you realise, is this conversation.
That’s what Steven told you, wasn’t it? That 'there are things that Marc hasn't told you.' That 'once you know everything,’ Marc thinks ‘you'll walk away'.
It’s the final puzzle piece, slotted into its rightful place, and you can finally see the picture that was blurred out before, crystallising in startling detail.
This is it. This is the big secret. The thing that Marc hasn't told you.
You get it now. Why he has avoided you all this time. Why he stayed away even after you told him you love him.
Because how on earth would anyone even begin to explain what happened tonight to someone who wasn’t there?
How could he possibly have explained any of this to you before now? How would he possibly convince you those things out there (whatever they are) were real without dragging you into danger, head first, to see it with your own eyes?
Didn't you struggle with the very same thought when you’d first tried to tell Marc what you’d seen in the alley on your own before all hell broke loose? The fear that he wouldn't believe you. That he'd think you were insane.
Even if he had managed to explain and get you to believe him– what then?
You can understand it. Why he was convinced that you would leave not just him but Steven as well, causing further collateral damage, if he told you everything. You can see from where he was standing, why he’d worry.
But this is where Marc is wrong. You still want this. Him. Them.
"What happened tonight, it doesn't change how I feel about you," you start, and his hand on your foot spasms, grip tightening. It’s how you know your guess was right on the button, so you press on. "What I told you on the phone, I still mean it. I–" you hesitate on the word.
The last thing you want is to spook him away again by repeating it. It might be too much too soon. Instead, you settle for second best.
"I want you to come back. Steven and I both do."
Marc lets go of your foot. You can see his hand shaking despite Marc’s attempt to make it stop. His fingers flex and curl in agitation until he gives up and reaches up to drag it through his matted curls in frustration.
“You don’t want this,” he says quietly, and his face is still turned downwards, staring at the floor refusing to look up at you.
Knowing Marc, you know that he could very well mean the situation or himself. After everything that’s happened tonight, the part that upsets you the most is that he still feels this way about himself.
"I do," you counter, saying the words with the whole of your chest. “I. Want. You. I want all of this.”
In the face of your certainty, he flinches, face pinched as if telling him you want him is a physical slap that pains him. It takes him a second to recover, to shake his head in refusal as he stares down at the floor like it committed a great wrong against him.
"You want a normal life. Steven can give you that if it’s just the two of you. I can't,” he tells you. His voice, low in that weary and tired tone you overheard in the bathroom.
"I don't need you to give me a normal life. What does that even mean? ‘Normal,’” you say derisively. “I don't need or want normal if it means you're not there Marc. That's not the life I want.”
He's still not looking at you, biting the insides of his cheek, and you can almost see the walls closing in around him before your very eyes.
"You said you wanted me safe”, you say, ducking your head to try to catch his gaze, and you manage to see his eyes peer up at you from his lashes, as you continue. “And happy. I'm telling you now, I'm not going to be happy if you're not here."
Marc’s eyes widen with alarm. “You were awake?”
"I–" you start, but he cuts you off before you finish.
“You were pretending to be asleep?”
"No, I thought I was dreaming, I–"
“What else did you hear,” he asks. There’s panic in his voice, and he’s already rising from his seat in preparation to flee the room.
Fuck, how are you fucking this up this badly this fast? Seeing his distress almost makes you want to backtrack, to fold it up and call it a night, try again tomorrow maybe. Because you know in his mind Marc is already bolting for that door, ready to leg it and put as much distance as he can between you and him.
But… your mind flashes to the weight of his gentle touch on your shoulder. To his fingers brushing away the hair on your forehead. To his quiet voice as he whispered, 'I love you too'. You know what you heard in the dark: a testament of Marc’s feelings for you, and it emboldens you.
“Marc.” You lean forward, reaching out to take his hand in yours. He stiffens with a jolt as your fingertips brush up against his knuckles, and you can almost see the line of his shoulder vibrate. But he doesn't make any moves to pull away at your touch.
“I want you. Do you want me?” you ask.
He stills. Marc looks at you for a long unflinching moment. It’s the same conflicted set in his jaw when you were standing next to him in front of Gus’ tank. The same hesitation written over his face when you were watching him through the back window of the taxi as it pulled away from him in the night. That same pained look when your eyes met in your office before he fled from you.
His mouth parts with hesitation, but then he bites down and grinds his jaw hard enough that you think you can hear his molars grate from where you sit. “What I want doesn’t matter,” he answers you stubbornly.
It's enough to make you want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him back and forth and scream into his face.
“It does!” you say, almost half-shouting. “Of course it matters. You matter.”
"Don't. Don't do that.” Marc shakes his head, and he moves his free hand over yours, gently prying it off of him. “Save that for Steven. He deserves it. Deserves… you. I… I don't.”
“And what about what I deserve,” you demand, fed up to the gills with his tendency for self-sacrifice, “What I want? Don’t I deserve to decide for myself?”
That seems to catch him off guard. For once he doesn’t have a ready response, just glares at you, his jaw still set at that impossibly stubborn angle, but his eyes are full of so much pain that it hurts you to see it. You reach out again and cup his cheek.
"Remember that night Gus died? You came to me for help. You said I was the only one you could think of to ask, and it made me so happy that you did. I want you to ask me for things.”
There’s another moment of indecision in his eyes. The upper half of his body tilts in your direction, almost like he’s reaching for you, even if he won’t let his hands do so.
"I just want to be with you,” you continue, “I want to be your person. The person you come to when you need something. Can’t that be enough?"
His eyes are glued on you, mouth gaping open. For a moment you think you've succeeded, managed to stun him into silence and maybe even convinced him.
It doesn’t last.
He closes his parted mouth and clamps it shut until it’s compressed into a thin determined line. Then before you can react, he’s abruptly pulling away, turning with wordless efficiency, and walking away from you.
"Marc?" you call after him, but his determined stride doesn’t even falter, "Marc!"
Oh goddamnit!
You hop off the counter, your sore ankle twinging when you land on it, but you ignore the dull ache as you run after him.
“You don’t have to do this, Marc!" you shout. Slinging your arm out, you only just manage to catch him by the back of his shirt. Your fingers grip onto the fabric for dear life to stop him from getting further away, "You don’t have to do everything on your own. You don’t have to be alone. Steven and I are here. Stop running away from us! We want to support you. Please! You can lean on us.”
He stops, turning about sharply, fire and brimstone in his eyes. The fuse of his already short temper burnt to a crisp.
“You and Steven were never supposed to know about me or get caught up in any of this,” he snaps. “I’ve– My life is dangerous. It’s not safe.”
“Yeah, I noticed the red flags already, you dunce. I still care about you regardless!”
“I don’t want you to care!” Marc roars, and it hits you with the force of a punch to the chest.
You suck in a sharp pained breath, and he must see the hurt in your face because his eyes soften slightly, but his voice is no less emphatic, “You can’t go poking around in my life. Running out after me in the middle of the night. It's dangerous! You got hurt tonight. You could’ve been killed!"
And that does it. The pain of his implied rejection, the scolding tone, the way it feels like he’s blaming you for getting yourself hurt. It all rubs you the wrong way. All of the patience you had in you up until now evaporates, replaced by a fiery heat burning up your chest until it comes to a boiling point.
“Me?” you bite back indignantly. “What about you? Running around in a bloody Halloween costume in the middle of the night. Fighting invisible monsters? What if you got hurt? What on earth were you doing out there?”
“This is exactly why you needed to stay away from me. You do not want or need my fucking mess, okay!?"
“Yes, I bloody well do! I'll take your fucking mess, Marc—every speck of it—as long as I get to have you too.”
His gaze bores into yours, eyes dark like spilt ink and brimming with anger so stark it practically sparks.
“You really want to know what I do? Why I was out there tonight?” he asks, voice quieter, but the anger is still there, simmering just below the surface waiting to erupt.
The sudden change feels like a gauntlet being thrown down, challenging you to a metaphorical game of chicken, daring you to back away and run for the hills while you still can.
You stand your ground, heels digging into the floor as you nod, swallowing the anxiety you feel pressed up against your throat like an acidic heartburn.
“I serve Khonshu. I’m his avatar,” he says matter-of-factly as if it’s the most sensible thing in the world. As if any of this is supposed to make sense to you.
It doesn’t. It makes no fucking sense at all.
Your mind scrambles to connect the dots. Khonshu? Avatar? What the hell is he on about? Avatar as in James Cameron’s Pocahontas in space? And Khonshu? What even… You can’t even begin to think of what that is supposed to mean. Don’t recognise it save for a passing familiarity that it’s a word that Steven has used when passionately serenading you with facts on Ancient Egypt. The connection between the two is lost to you.
“What is… ‘Khonshu?'” you ask, and this time, you don’t have to drag the answer out of Marc.
He answers you willingly and as plainly without varnish as before. “Khonshu’s the ancient Egyptian god of the moon. Years ago, I was stabbed and left for dead. He saved my life and in return, I work for him now.”
There’s no hint of emotion as he says it. He’s not pleading for you to believe him despite how fantastical it sounds. Not trying to convince you of anything. Marc is leaving it to you whether or not you believe him, almost like he wishes you wouldn’t. Like this bizarre rambling will hopefully finally send you packing and out of his life. And that’s… how you know he’s not lying to you.
“Work for him… how?” you ask.
His eyes flick upwards, grinding his teeth as if he’s biting down on a curse, before his gaze settles back on you.
“I swore to protect travellers of the night.”
And once again, that tells you absolutely nothing. What does that even mean, ‘Travellers of the night’? As in prostitutes?!
Marc’s obfuscation and frankly dodgy-as-fuck explanations have your blood boiling. You’re almost positive he’s doing this on purpose to get you hacked off, and he’s succeeding.
“Can you speak in plain English?”
“I take care of bad guys so they don’t harm good people. Protect civilians who can’t protect themselves.”
“So you’re… what? Like a supernatural police officer? A monster hunter? A guardian of the night?”
He grits his teeth.
“Something like that.” The answer is dismissive, and so is his attitude. He folds his arms across his chest, trying to distance himself from you, casting a glance at the door. “Satisfied? We done here?”
“No! No, we’re not ‘done here.’ We are the furthest thing from done. I already told you, Marc. Nothing that’s happened tonight changes how I feel about you.”
He shakes his head, jaw set mulishly, before tearing his eyes away and turning towards the front door.
And that just won’t do. If you let Marc walk out now, you know he’ll do everything in his power to avoid you for the rest of his life.
Moving quickly, you dart around Marc and slide between him and the door. In your single-minded hurriedness, you bump into the small table by the door, sending several things clattering over and probably adding yet another bruise to your already abused body, but you don’t care. You cannot let him leave. Plastering your back to the door, you stand tall and raise your chin, prepared to act as a physical barrier if you have to.
Marc’s eyes narrow into slits, a snarl of pure exasperation erupting from the back of his throat.
“Move,” he orders, taking a step closer to you, but there is no real threat behind it. He doesn’t reach out to touch you; doesn’t grab you or shove you out of the way
He just looks at you like you are an actual obstacle he cannot surpass. But you know that he could move you by force if he wanted to. It’d be easy for him to force his way out of the flat with little effort.
Between the two of you, physically he’s the stronger one. You’ve witnessed him take out supernatural monsters tonight. If he wanted to, he could shove his way straight through you. Carry you into another room and lock you in. Could easily snap every bone in your wrist in the blink of an eye.
But he won't. After all this time, if there is one thing you’ve learnt about Marc, it is that harm is only ever his last resort.
The man is squirmish at the prospect of physically harming a goldfish. Would rather visit all the pet shops in all of London in the middle of the night to find a mythical one-finned fish to avoid that outcome. At the core of him, he wants to shield and protect, not break.
And towards you? He would never use brute strength on you. Would never hurt you. Would give his very life to make sure you’re safe and unharmed. Happy.
In front of you, Marc takes another step forward, closing the distance. His commanding presence crowds you in against the doorframe until there’s barely any space between you anymore.
Marc is angry. Jaw tense, shoulders tied up in a tangled knot, nose flaring like an angry bull emitting a bright and blaring warning signal for you to move. But you stay put because if he’s a bull, then that must make you a matador, practically waving a red cape at him to come charge you.
He’s staring down at you again. That look in his eyes, like he knows what is best for you. That same stern gaze when he swore you to secrecy, deciding what was best for Steven. The determination there that tells you that this is not up for discussion.
It’s a recurring pattern with Marc. He decides what he thinks is best for everyone else, with no consideration of what the person in question actually wants.
“Last chance,” he warns, through gritted teeth, “I won’t ask again.”
Marc probably thinks this is a threat. But it’s only because he can’t see himself, the pain-filled eyes that look back down at you. Nothing is menacing about it.
“I’m not moving,” you tell him.
It’s only a fraction of a second, but you catch his eyes flickering to your lips. A near-growling sound tears out of his throat, and then he’s moving forward further into your space.
What is he–?
His hand cups the back of your neck, pulling you to him, and then his lips are on yours.
Oh.
Marc Spector is kissing you.
It’s hard and demanding, his lips crushed to yours, clearly driven by the frustration and anger that seems to vibrate just under his skin. But it doesn’t matter. You have dreamed of kissing this man for so long. Even with the harshness, you can’t help but respond to him, meeting the brutal press of his lips with your own more eager one. Mouth parting in invitation for him.
Something shifts.
All the fight goes out of him, leaking away like hot air out of a punctured balloon, whatever anger was there fizzles out of him, and you feel him melt against your lips. The kiss slips into something softer, sweeter. Something that steals every ounce of oxygen from your lungs.
You don’t know how long it lasts, the only thing you know is that it doesn’t last long enough. If you could have the choice, you’d want it to last forever.
It doesn’t of course. Marc retreats from you with an unsteady step. His eyes are etched with shock as you take him in, brows pinched and pupils wide, and you already want to kiss him again.
The two of you have been here before. Staring at each other from so close a distance that your foreheads are inches from touching. Except this time it’s not in front of a fish tank with an imposter goldfish between you. A stray curl falls into his eyes and tickles your nose. It’s the hint of clean linen, the note of coffee you brew for him every night that he will unfailingly drink because you made it for him. It’s the smell you wake up to embedded in Steven’s sheets.
You want this man, all of him, to be yours.
Your face tilts up to him. So close, his lips ghost over yours.
“Marc,” you whisper, and his eyes flicker over your face. “Stop running.”
Part of you expects him to stop you again. That he will pull back, eyeing you like you’re something dangerous, the way he did that night in front of the fish tank.
He doesn’t.
You tip your face forward even further, your nose dragging along the bridge of his.
“I love you.”
You can hear the sharp inhale just like last time you said it over the phone when you did not know if he was on the other end or not. When you didn't know if the sound was imaginary or real. Now you know.
You couldn’t see his face then, but this time you get to. The pinched furrow between his brow, that look in his eyes that makes your heart seize in your chest. There’s no doubt about it now.
"And you love me,” you say.
His lips part, and you brace yourself for another protest or denial, but it doesn’t come. Instead, his head does the slightest tilt forward. A nod, you realise.
“Yeah.” He whispers it so quietly you nearly miss it at first.
You smile. Happiness surges through your insides, weaving through your ribs until you think that your chest might burst.
Marc Spector loves you.
You swallow in relief, smiling even as you feel a sting prickle the corner of your eyes. Then Marc leans down and closes that infinitesimal space between you, bringing down the final barrier of separation that he has maintained since you met him.
It’s a soft press of his lips to yours. So soft, it’s scarcely there, but it feels perfect all the same, a fluttering warmth that you can feel down to the curl of your toes.
It’s an admittance. An invitation. A sign of trust.
Marc kisses you again and again with lingering kisses that he deepens with each gentle press of his mouth to yours. His hand moves to cup your face in his palm, cradling your cheek like you're the most precious thing he’s ever touched.
You feel like you ought to be surprised by how gentle he is, but you’re not. Not at all, because of course he’s gentle.
That’s the thing, isn’t it? Marc’s hardness is all smoke and mirrors, hiding the vulnerable softness that lies under the hardened skin. Beneath it all, Marc is protective and caring, kind even.
And now, you finally get to have him in all his confounding complexities. This stubborn, kind, impossible idiot, right here in your arms.
You pull him closer, even as you keep kissing him, fingers twisting into the brushed cotton of his shirt, and he lets you. Head leaning down as he adjusts his angle so he can slant his mouth fully over yours. He’s pressed up against every single inch of you, from his knees to his chest, your lips fused and somehow it’s still not even close to enough for you. You tug his collar, encouraging him to come even closer and he does, obedient, in a way that you’ve never known him to be before.
Stepping forward, he follows your lead, inching closer, until the solidness of his chest presses you flush to the door. His arm comes to brace the side of your head, hand cupping behind the back of your neck, and you realise only belatedly it’s the reason why your head isn’t colliding with the hard wood behind you.
Not that it would matter if you did. You don’t even think you’d notice if your head went through the wall right now. Too focused on the softness of his lips. Too lost in the quiet, near-silent humming sound he makes as he kisses you that sets your nerves alight.
God, he’s perfect. His closeness is heady. There’s a growing hunger in your stomach that makes your limbs shake and tremble. After all the time he's been away, hiding from you, you feel starved for this. For him. You want to bite his neck, lick along the protruding line of his collarbone and swallow every inch of him down to the marrow if he’d let you.
For all the gentleness that Marc is showing you, you have no intention of returning the favour. Your teeth sink in, biting down on his bottom lip, and he lets out a quiet involuntary gasp into your mouth. Your veins burn at the sound. Fuck, you want him to make that noise again, that careless pitch of pleasure that sounds so unguarded coming from him. You want to bite and nibble and scratch and claw and have him make every noise known and unknown to mankind.
You drag your teeth along the swell of his lip, and he shivers, eyes squeezed firmly shut like he’s teetering on the very edge of his self-control. Then you nip down again.
His hips stutter forward involuntarily, and he curses, the sound breathless and raw, like you tore it out of him before he was prepared. It’s all you want. To hear that sound again and again and again. You want to hear his tiny moans in your ear, the involuntary muffled growl as he buries his face into your neck trying to keep quiet, hear him gasp ‘fuck’ in barely audible decibels. You want everything.
Hooking your fingers into the belt loops of his jeans, you haul him closer as if he wasn’t already pressed alongside your body. Thighs nestled between yours, the coarseness of denim scraping against your bare legs. You can feel the hardening bulge trapped between you, and you want him to grind against you, to rut into you mindlessly until you can feel his cock twitch against the softness of your belly.
But Marc isn’t showing any signs of obliging you in that department, and you’re not willing to stop kissing him in order to give him directions. Instead, you arch your back away from the wall, tilting your pelvis until you rub up against his crotch. He jolts hard at the contact, the line of his body wracked in shivers with a gorgeous groan that is cut off too soon.
"Shit!”
His hand leaves your neck. Then he’s pulling back and away from you in retreat. You immediately miss the warmth of his body, reaching up to try to chase after the loveliness of his lips, but he stops you. A gentle but firm hand comes down on your shoulder, pinning you against the wall.
You stare up at him, and you’re not sure you’re breathing anymore at the sight of him. You should be used to how preposterously beautiful this man is by now. But you never are. Each time feels novel and so much worse–no, better than the last time. The collar of his shirt is stretched and askew. Curls a mess against his forehead. Lips, slick and kiss-swollen as his mouth hangs open, chest heaving as he pants.
As stunningly pretty as Steven is when you’ve succeeded in making a mess out of him, to do it to Marc is something else entirely. This orderly, neat freak of a man who makes it his life mission to repress his emotions and jam them shut inside of himself with a tight lid. You did this. You’ve made a mess of him. It’s electric, your veins buzz with the thrill, and your brain is screaming for more.
Your hand reaches up, fingers carding through his hair as you reel him in by the back of his neck. Your mouth finds his, kissing him hard before he has time to overthink it or, god forbid, change his mind and try to bolt again. His mouth parts, and you swallow the soft oomph of surprise that escapes his throat and lean in, licking desperately into his mouth. If this is all you get, you want to try to savour him.
Marc doesn’t stop you this time. Instead, his hands settle on your waist, fingers digging into your hips as he’s pulling you closer. It has the whole of your back from the base of your spine to the tip of your nose tingling.
This time he’s the one grinding into you, the hard outline of his cock pressed tight between you. Even through the thick layer of denim, you can feel how hard he is, and you shiver pleasantly.
You moan into the kiss, rising on your tiptoes to meet him. There’s not an inch of space between your bodies, and you swear you can feel his cock twitch against your hip.
And fuck, fuck– that’s–
You need to get him in bed now before you hitch your legs and clamber onto his thighs to climb him like the trunk of a tree. Why the fuck did the architect place the bedroom section at the opposite end of the flat.
Stepping one foot sideways, you tug at the neck of Marc’s shirt to steer him towards the bed. There’s no resistance. He shows you the same obedience as before, easily letting himself be pulled by you as you start walking blindly backwards, navigating the two of you through the junkyard of Steven’s mess.
Any second now you’re expecting to trip over the damn ottoman, except this is Steven's flat, not yours. And this isn’t Steven; it’s Marc in your arms. Steady and composed in his every step, with none of the charming incoordination of Steven. No, Marc steers you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Arms bracketing your side to make sure your hips don’t bump into any hard-edged furniture, preemptively pushing back a teetering book from the shelf before it even has the time to leap off the ledge.
Marc—beautiful, stubborn Marc, who is as immovable as a rock in his decisions—is letting you pull and tug him in whatever direction you’re choosing to go. Kissing you with each unbalanced step backwards, like you’re the only air he ever needs to breathe.
There’s a flicker of light as you pass Gus’ tank, and it dims when you move past Steven’s desk and the telly. God. It’s a journey of fewer than 20 feet that should take you less than ten seconds and not the eternity that it seems to take.
When you finally feel the fine, gritty sand beneath the sole of your foot, it feels like victory. The soft brush of the sheets pressing up against your calves is the rope of the finish line that you’d never imagined you’d reach.
You want to memorialise this moment somehow. Etch it into your memory so you’ll never forget. Carve it into the wooden beam structures of this very flat so it’ll outlast you both.
Marc’s hands on your hips guide you gently to a stop, and you realise with a rush of giddiness that you’ve finally reached your destination. You break the kiss long enough to sit down on the edge of the bed, and you don’t even need to tug at the corner of his sleeve for Marc to dutifully follow you down. He helps you lay back and leans in after you, the firm weight of his body settling over you, pressing you down into the mattress.
The weight of Marc feels perfect, as his head tips down to your face, kissing over the curve of your jaw to your neck. He’s pressing open-mouthed kisses down the line of your throat and the swell of your chest. It’s tender. Reverent almost.
Marc is unbothered by the cotton layer of clothing that separates his mouth from your bare skin as he goes. His mouth grazes your knuckles, kissing the inside of your wrist. He’s soft yet insistent. Hungry but slow. God, he’s slow, infuriatingly so, to the point where you wonder if he’s taking the mick out of you.
His lips trail a row of devoted kisses against the bare skin of your stomach where your shirt has ridden up, barely lifting the hem up and letting it ride up against your ribs as he puts his mouth there too. If it didn’t feel so good to have his mouth on you, you’d consider it torture with the pace that he’s going. You’re aching, everything inside is pulled so taught and tight you might burst out of your skin.
Those cotton soft curls tickle against your thighs on his way down, and you spread them for him in a not-so-subtle invitation. But Marc doesn’t pay you any mind, that earlier obedience that had endeared him to you is nowhere to be found now. He continues down, knees sinking into the sand lining the perimeter of the bed until he’s kneeling down in front of you on the bed.
Then he stops.
You hold your breath waiting for him to continue. But nothing happens, and your first instinct is that he’s changed his mind again. You’re almost lunging after him. Fully prepared to tackle him down with a wrestling move you’ve seen on the telly and pin him against the sand and wooden floor.
But he’s not moving away from you.
Opening your eyes to peek, you lift yourself on one arm, tilting down your head to find yourself staring back at those pitch-dark eyes.
You’re not prepared for the sight of him. Of Marc on his knees, peering up at you through his lashes, like you’re a solemn prayer that he’s clinging onto by his fingertips. The vision of him flattens your lungs, taking any oxygen away with it. He’s looking at you like you’re something to be protected and cared for. As if you’re all he’s ever wanted and would never allow himself to have.
Marc’s bending down again, lips brushing your skinned knee as his warm breath ghosts over the raw skin. He goes over every scrape and scratch with his mouth. It’s his way of atoning for ever letting you get hurt.
And as good as that feels, as much as you never want him to stop. You need more. More than this torturous, drawn-out pace that he’s giving you, or you think you’ll tear your hair out by the roots and go mad with it.
“Marc.” You’re trying to say it with urgency, maybe even hint at your annoyance, but it comes out as a high-pitched, delirious plea, “Marc please, I need–”
He doesn’t answer you with any words. Instead, his hands come to the side of your hips, fingers slipping into your sleep shorts, hooking the hem of your knickers with them as he pulls them down.
“Lift,” he commands, in the same brusque way he had before when ordering you to sit on the kitchen counter. But this time you’re only too eager to comply.
You’re so excited you nearly deal a high kick to his face, miraculously missing him by only a couple of inches.
From the corner of your eye, you swear you catch an amused half-smile quirking the corners of his lips. But before you can take a better look to confirm it, he ducks his head back down, even though you think you can see the line of his shoulders shake from what might very well be laughter.
But your mind doesn't get to linger on it for long. His hand curls over your thigh, and he settles your leg on his shoulder, pressing a kiss to the inner side that his mouth can reach. Then he hooks your leg over his back, and sharp heat settles deep in your stomach.
His warm breath fans against the bare skin raising goosebumps in its wake. He continues to lick over the softness of your belly. Nipping at your hip and the insides of your legs, covering every inch of you he can reach with his mouth. Purposefully avoiding the slick ache between your legs where you need his mouth and tongue most.
Fuck, you could kill him for that.
“Marc.” His name is a whine between your lips. It sounds pathetic to your ears, but you don’t care. You’re not above begging. Not if there’s a chance it will get you more of this, of him.
“Please, Marc, just– I need you to–”
“Baby,” he murmurs, cutting off your pleas. It’s almost reproachful, but it doesn’t matter because that’s not what your mind is focused on. This is the first endearment Marc has ever used for you and it sounds so sweet on his lips. Makes you feel loved and cared for despite the admonishing tone.
“Be patient,” he scolds, but there’s so much fondness in his voice for you, it makes you lightheaded. “I’m gonna take my time with you.”
There’s only a brief second as you catch a peek of the pink tip of his tongue, glistening against his lips. His eyes flutter closed as he dips down. Heat crackles throughout your limbs, and your lungs pull tight in anticipation. The air around you thins, and for a moment as you try to desperately swallow down the air in your throat, the room seems to tilt.
Then he gives you his mouth, and as cliche as it sounds, it’s heaven. A long, controlled press of his tongue through your wet and slick folds. Endorphins rush through you to the top of your head, and you can’t help how your body reacts, arching up against his mouth with a gasp that is punched out of your lungs.
Then he does it again, and somehow, though you can’t even fathom how it’s not defying the laws of science and time as you know it, he goes even slower. The velvet softness of his tongue drags with an unhurried press across the seam of your pussy until he reaches the apex and licks with a silken glide on your wet clit. You nearly swallow your tongue to tamper the whine trapped in your throat.
This is not the pace you were expecting. Maybe it’s wishful thinking on your part, but you thought he’d be impatient. Almost anticipated that his movements would be sparse and efficient like every other aspect of his life, pushing you to a high-speed climax like a carcrash.
This is not that. This is Marc taking his own sweet time. His tongue is a slow decadent drag against your clit, and you feel his warm breath ghost over you, inhaling the scent of you as he takes you in.
Sweet heady pleasure climbs up the back of your thighs, filling your stomach with it. It’s so much, you don’t know if you can fit it all within, all the emotions that are welling up in your chest to spill out of you. Your fingers grip his solid shoulders to anchor yourself. You roll your hips against his mouth in an attempt to urge him on, but he refuses to take the hint. His tongue makes a slow, thorough exploration, interrupted only by the open-mouthed kisses that he presses against your mound, your hip, your cunt.
You can feel the tension in his shoulder under your thigh. Can hear it in the quick rasp of his breath, but still, his pace remains slow and measured. Steadily kindling the smouldering heat beneath your skin, lick by torturous lick.
It’s perfect. Hot as sin and twice as glorious, but you could scream with how agonisingly glacial the build-up is. A strange, high-pitched sound escapes you. An unflattering blend between a moan and a sob. It sounds like you’re in pain when all you feel is pleasure, and then you hear Marc shushing you again. This time softer, comforting even.
“It's alright. You're alright. You can take it for me,” he says into your skin, mouth pressed against your clit with a warm hum that rumbles through your flesh. Your veins drip with something sweet and honeyed at his tone.
Marc is so exacting, not at all like Steven’s wild hunger. His tongue laves at you, warm and wet, with an unceasing gentle pressure, gliding over and around your clit. Decadently slow, but never stopping. The feeling is intense and unrelenting. Somehow dragging you closer and closer to the edge but never quite enough to push you over.
Digging your heels into his back, you tilt your hips as far as the strain in your muscles will allow you to get closer. You rock yourself against his mouth, and Marc groans, a pleased, encouraging sound, even as his hands grip the flesh of your waist and hold you firm against the pillowy softness of the bed to make sure you don’t try to ride out your own pleasure against his face at a faster pace than he has set for you.
You could scream with frustration. If the left hemisphere of your brain responsible for speech wasn’t so severely compromised by Marc, you would be screeching until your throat goes raw with it. Instead, you hiccup a broken sob, his name quiet and cracked on your lips.
"That's right. You're alright," he soothes, as he presses his forehead against your stomach. If you didn’t know better, his voice almost sounds a bit shaky, slurring on the last word as he bends back down and puts his mouth back between your thighs, onto your sensitive flesh and gently sucks.
Those unruly curls tickle against the soft skin. You only meant to brush his hair away, but as soon as your fingers curl into the soft heat of them, you can’t help but grip tighter at the silky touch. Carding your hand through the curly locks.
You don’t mean to tug, but the careful drag of his teeth against your clit sends a sharp electric jolt up your spine, short-circuiting your lungs and sending you clawing at his curls for dear life. It should not feel this good, and yet you find yourself chasing the sensation, nearly buckling over, as your heel digs into the firm muscles of his back to anchor yourself.
You can’t even look anymore. Why torture yourself with the sight of him buried between your legs. Cheeks dusted crimson, and those breathtakingly expressive eyes burning into yours as if he’s trying to memorise every minute detail of your expression. You can see his jaw working on your pussy. Can feel him as his tongue keeps sliding hot and insistent without reprieve against your overstimulated clit.
It’s so much. Too much. All your senses feel overloaded. Your vision goes blurry. You’re not sure if it’s tears that are stinging behind your eyelids or if they cross at the back of your head as everything dims and darkens, like a fuse box blowing out. It’s all too much, and you’re being dragged under and drowning in the sensations. You need to pull up above the surface to breathe again or you’re sure you’re going to die.
You grab at Marc’s hand like he’s your life preserver, and he weaves his fingers between yours. It’s surprisingly intimate, as he squeezes your hand back, pressing your intwined hands to your hip bone, reassuring you he’s right there and—fuck, it’s… It’s so much, too much.
It’s chaos. A mayhem between your violently beating heart and burning lungs. You think there must be something wrong with you. Can’t possibly contain the pleasure that keeps pouring and pouring into you. For a fraction of a second, as your mind is torn apart by the sensations, and you are convinced that you must be having a heart attack. What other explanation could there possibly be?
“Ma–Marc, I–I’m– Fuck, oh god, oh fuck."
Marc eases back, “It’s okay.” He presses his mouth to your clit and kisses it, and the slick sound his mouth makes have you trembling and shaking so hard you’re convulsing against the sheets. “You’re okay,” he soothes. “Let go. I’ve got you. Come for me.”
Warmth floods your veins touching every part of your body, humming through every nerve and cell as your orgasm washes over you. It’s hard and unforgiving. Your body is trying to claim revenge on you for allowing it to take so long as it did. Everything else around you disappears, pulling you under with a vengeance that blots out your vision and all sounds with it.
But it doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters to you anymore is how everything in you tingles pleasantly. It lingers long after it’s over, and you can still feel it from the tip of your fingers to the curl of your toes as you come down on Marc’s tongue.
His face is still buried between your thighs. His tongue curled against your entrance as he laps every drop of slick out of you. Drinking you down and swallowing every trace of your pleasure. He doesn’t let up for long moments until finally he’s satisfied and drags his head up your body.
“Did so good,” he praises, voice raspy and raw as his tongue trails a long affectionate line down your femur.
He presses his mouth to your knee with the same gentle care he did when he’d applied plasters. It’s intimate. Sweet.
Part of you feels silly to feel this affected by such a simple affectionate gesture considering what preceded it, but your heartbeat flutters at the touch.
It doesn’t matter that you’ve barely just come down from your orgasm or that you’re still throbbing and sensitive between your legs. Limbs so wrung out, they’re tingling and numb. You’re already craving the closeness of him all over again.
“Marc,” you call out for him, arm outstretched in an invitation for him to join you on the bed.
He doesn’t move, and it takes you a few moments, your mind fuzzy around the edges with the afterwaves of your orgasm to register that something's wrong. Everything is blurry and obscured by a warm haze, and you have to blink through the watery periphery of your vision before you can see him a bit more clearly.
Still on his knees, Marc’s mouth parts slightly open, like he maybe wants to say something but he doesn’t know how. There’s hesitation there in the tenseness of his jaw as his eyes flick away from your gaze, as if there’s still some invisible barrier that he won’t let himself cross.
It is a little bit ridiculous. After all, what barriers between you are there possibly left to cross? You and him nearly died together tonight. You love him, and he loves you too. Bloody hell, he’s just spent the better half of this night with his head buried between your thighs. There’s no stone left unturned.
But you know it’s not that simple. There’s a deeply embedded seed in Marc, buried under his skin and flesh and left to sprout for decades, long before you came along. Making him doubt himself and his place with you. It doesn’t matter how far you two come. He might always struggle with letting himself have what he wants guilt-free. Because he still doesn’t think he has a right to, that he doesn’t deserve it.
You plant an elbow on the mattress to raise yourself. But your arms have turned into boneless gelatine, wobbling under your weight, and you nearly topple over. Marc moves so fast, you only register a blur of movement, before he’s by your side. Steadying you with his hands on your shoulders.
“Easy. Lie back,” he says, eyes narrowed and worried, as he’s ushering you back down. The man’s got a protective streak a mile wide.
“Marc, please—” you start, but you don’t have to finish.
He breaks with your plea, and his knee dips into the bed, fully climbing in. His arms brace your sides as he lowers himself onto the bed.
“What, baby? What do you need? Tell me.” He says it like you only have to speak the words, and then your every wish will be his command.
There’s no fight left in his tone anymore. Voice gone soft. Any internal doubts have melted out of him. The look in his eyes as he gazes down on you tells you that Marc would give you anything you ask for. This man would insist on throwing himself under a double-decker bus if he thought it would make the ride a tiny bit smoother for you.
And oh… You get it now.
It’s taken you far too long, but you might have finally solved the puzzle that is Marc Spector. For all his aversion to let himself have even a morsel of happiness, there’s always been one overriding drive. There’s one thing that towers above the shame and guilt. One thing that’s more important to him than everything else. It’s in the way he’s always trying to meet the needs of those he cares for. Their happiness. Steven’s. Yours.
All you need to do is ask for him.
“You. I need you. Want you. Please.”
You can see it in real time as it happens. How the last traces of hesitation in him crumble, replaced by a determination that carves into those rich brown eyes. He drops forward, then he's sealing his mouth over yours like he’s signing on the dotted line, giving himself over to you.
It's everything.
Marc leans back again, fingers hooking into the hem of his t-shirt and dragging it off over his head in a single fluid motion. There’s no tangling of fabric, and it doesn’t get snagged as he tugs it over his head. There’s none of the clumsy adorableness of his alter. Marc undresses with practised ease like it was choreographed for the sole purpose of making your heart race faster.
Good fucking grief, you might’ve already seen this man before you naked on more occasions than you can count. But as he towers above you, skin golden in the dim light, the sight of his bare chest feels novel in a way that has your heart dropping to your lungs that must be entirely medically unsafe. You can’t help but stare shamelessly.
Chiselled and hard from the top of his head to his toes. You remember being surprised by how fit Steven was the first time, but somehow on Marc, it seems right. His physique reminds you of mythic Greek heroes memorialised in marble, and you're taken aback at how soft and warm he is under your hands. That he's human, made out of flesh and bone, and that he shivers as you drag your palms across the bare skin of his chest and stomach.
The anticipation crackles in your thighs, burning with a searing intensity at the thought of undressing him, gingerly unwrap him like a decadent present. But you’re greedy and have none of Marc’s patience. You wrench at his belt with little to no finesse, reaching down and wedging your fingers along the hem of his jeans to shove them down forcefully against the generous curve of his ass. You tug hard enough that you hear Marc choke out a wheezed breath, but you’re not even paying it any attention.
His hardened cock slaps against his stomach with a heavy thud and everything in you roars to attention at how thick and swollen he is for you. You feel heavy with need at the sight of it, and your brain is on autopilot, acting without conscious thought as you’re already reaching forward. Your knuckles skim down over his stomach before greedily wrapping your hand around his cock.
A deep groan tears out of his chest, and his hand snaps up to grab your wrist, holding you still. He clamps his eyes shut and takes a deep breath, inhaling heavily through his nostrils, breathing in and out with great struggle.
As much as you enjoy getting a rise out of him, you’re not trying to make things difficult for Marc on purpose. At least you don’t think you are. But you can’t look away from his cock. You can feel it straining and twitching in your hold, can see the trickle of glistening precome welling up from the flushed tip.
Your tongue feels heavy in your mouth, practically salivating as your thumb gently drags over the slick wetness there. The touch has his hips bucking, stuttering into your hands with a sound that sounds suspiciously close to a whimper. Your cheeks burn and tingle, your whole body flashing hot.
“Fuck,” he snarls and knocks your hand away, “You fucking ruin me, you know that?”
You want to retort that he’s the one to talk. Point out that he’s left you a dripping slick mess that’s soaked into the bedsheets and mattress and made them unsalvageable; that your thighs are an aching mess and you’re still swollen and sensitive from his mouth. But all vocabulary flies out of your head at the sight of him, as he replaces your hand with his own, wrapping one large hand around his cock.
Your heart stutters somewhere in your chest, and the breath in your lungs still with anticipation as he drops down to settle himself into place between your legs, knees nudging against your thighs to spread you wider for him as he notches the fat tip against your slick entrance.
His eyes lock on yours, the tip of his nose brushing alongside yours. He leans down to kiss you again, mouth warm and slick. You can still taste yourself on him, tart and almost sweet. Then he pushes inside of you, and your mind goes numb.
The first slide of him inside you is perfect. A sweet filling stretch that threatens to blot out everything else into nothingness.
Even though it’s your first time with Marc, your body already knows him. Craves every inch of him, and he’s willing to give that to you now, inch by slow maddening inch as he eases inside. Large hands clutching your sides, as his hips press forward and he works himself inside you. His cock pushes deep until he’s buried to the hilt. Then he stills, shuddering.
“Shit—,” he groans, dipping his head to press his face into your shoulder. “You gotta be kidding me.” His voice sounds shaky and strained. You’re not entirely sure what he means or what he finds so implausible. If he can’t believe he’s finally inside you after all this time or how good it feels. You just know you can’t believe it either.
It's flawed logic, but you’re not exactly coherent at this moment. Lungs squeezing tight in your diaphragm, you’re only capable of sobbing nonsensically at the consuming sensation of him filling you. Can barely focus on the warm tingle on your spine that settles over you. Your mind has been filled with cotton, soft and hazy as he’s completely sheathed inside, as deep as he can physically be.
Marc holds there for a long moment, his breath hot on your skin where he pants against your collarbone. He doesn’t move. Hips pressed flush against yours, taking his time to let your body adjust to the girth of him.
His mouth is on your bare skin, pressing kisses to your lips and then the apples of your cheek, before he drags himself downwards to mouth at the side of your neck, and under your jaw. Hands roaming along your ribs and hips like he cannot stop touching you. It’s devoted, loving even, the gentleness to his touch. It makes everything all the more overwhelming for you. He’s ruining you, with every caress on your flesh, and kiss to your skin, and he has barely even moved yet.
And god, you need him to.
"Marc."
He doesn't seem to hear you, mouth continuing to dot lazy kisses across your clavicle.
"Please.” You arch your back towards him, but you don’t get very far with his weight flattening you down against the bed.
“Marc, need you to move," you try again, voice high-pitched and needy, but you could be pleading to a stone wall for all the good it seems to do. His hips don't move from his position, immovable like a boulder. Instead, his palms fan out against your ribs, fingerprints permanently searing into your skin with the heat of his touch.
You can’t take it anymore, everything inside you is screaming, bursting at the seams for more and you wrap your legs around his waist in an attempt to force him deeper. To move.
Your heels dig into the rounded curve of his ass, and he jerks and gasps. You can feel his cock twitching inside you, as those stupendously gorgeous eyes flutter open. He’s looking at you again, stirred from the spell and the soft expression on his face hardens with determination.
"Yeah, baby. I got you," he says, and he finally complies. His hand comes to rest on the small of your lower back, tilting you up to him as he moves again. The hard drag of his cock slides out of you until only the blunt tip rests inside, and then he thrusts back, unhurried and deliberate.
Slow simmering pleasure bubbles up in your veins and you have to swallow it down with a hiccup of a sob. It's still the same ruthlessly slow and thorough pace. The one that tells you he won't be rushed, won't be hurried, even as he's giving you exactly what you asked him for.
Stubborn. Unreasonable. Maddening. You won't survive him.
The next thrust is demanding. It strikes heat along your spine and squeezes the air out of your lungs, until there's none of it left so you can fit more of him inside. A strange squeaky noise punches out of your throat, and in panic you clamber onto him.
He does it again. Hips dragging back as he pulls himself away, altering the angle of your hips with a small adjustment as he cants your hips upwards again. This time he lifts you further up than before and he pushes his way in with an almost testing stroke. His eyes narrow as he gazes down on you, brows furrowed in concentration and you realise what he’s doing.
Marc is slow and exacting, studying your every reaction, learning the best way to intricately pull you apart.
Staring up at him like this feels like you’re witnessing your own demise as it unfurls. Those unwavering eyes are focused on you, watching your every expression. He’s tilting the angle of his thrusts until he drives the pleasure deeper inside you with devastating precision until there is nothing left of you. Until tears are stinging in the corner of your eyes because you’re sure that you can’t fit more within you — the pleasure and him— and then he does somehow.
He catches your leg, hitching them higher so that he can slide a few inches deeper. The angle shifts, striking against something raw and overwhelming. You think you go blind with it and you swear you see stars collapsing behind the darkness of your eyelids.
"Yeah, there we go." His voice in your ear is calm, but he also sounds proud and pleased, and you're not sure if it's with himself or you. It’s all you can hear, and then he’s moving again.
A rich pleasure fills you at the slow glide of his cock dragging out of you, and then he pushes inside again, deep and determined, until his cock is kissing that deep perfect spot that robs you of your ability to breathe.
“Fuck, that’s it, baby. Can feel–” he groans, rolling his hips into yours, and it’s fucking devastating.
Your mind goes blank. A clean slate with no thought left in you except how good it feels. All you can do is moan and whimper, hands clutching desperately to his shoulders. "Oh– Oh, god. Marc, I– oh!"
He groans, slanting his mouth over yours and swallows the words down, cradling your head with his fingers. Soft doting presses of his lips to yours.
"Fuck, you feel so–" His sentence is cut off, and you never get to hear the rest of what he was going to say.
His mouth is on yours again and it’s nothing like the starved and overwhelmingly eager kisses you’re used to from these lips when it’s Steven who’s kissing you. This is slow and measured. Patient and deliberate as he takes his time with you. He’s kissing you like he’s trying to tell you a secret. Like he’s entrusting you with something important, to protect and to keep for him.
His finger rubs small circles under your ear, his hips slow and consuming as he fucks his cock into you. His arms never leave your side. Mouth never lifting from yours. His whole body pressed as deeply into you as he physically can.
It feels like a confession.
The ‘I love you’ that he can’t bring himself to say in front of you and can only admit to in the dead of night when he thought you were asleep.
His kiss is a soft and devoted touch. A complete contrast to the rest of him, as he continues to thrust into you, fucking his cock deeper inside you and he doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up.
It’s pleasure. It’s aggravation. It’s love and a defeat and a million other contradictory emotions between you and Marc that may never be resolved.
And you’re not going to try to. You’re happy to take him as he is, cracks and all. You accept it, his lips pressed against yours. Accept his demanding rhythm as he drives himself into you deeper and deeper. Accept the insistent heat that curls at the base of your spine, until it is a searing and smouldering burn and sparks like ember, numbing your legs with it. It is threatening to consume your very being and burn you into ashes as it flares bright in your lungs and you can no longer breathe as the pleasure of it is ready to overspill, and—
“Baby, you close again?”
And fuck, that’s—that’s— Your stomach tenses up again. The warmth spreads, twining and branches out along every single vein flooding it with blinding bliss until you’re dizzy with it.
You’re trying to say yes, trying to nod, but your body isn’t responding to your will anymore. It has a mind of its own, and all it wants is to be closer to Marc, to grab onto him and never let go. Your limbs are wrapped all around him, legs locked around his waist, nails digging into the meat of his shoulders so hard you know you’re breaking skin. The only thing you’re still in control of is to helplessly squeeze down tight on his cock as it slides thick and heavy in you.
“Oh fuck, that’s–” his voice sounds pitched and almost vulnerable, the arm curled around your leg, squeezing tighter.
Pleasure builds in you like the tide, rising slow and steady but inexorable, filling you until there's no room for oxygen or thoughts or anything else except the consuming push of Marc’s cock inside of you.
And then it breaks, ecstasy streaking out along your every nerve, overwhelming and inescapable, threatening to wash you away with it, except that you’re pinned, held safe by the grounding weight of Marc’s body and the reassuring press of his forehead against yours as you come on his cock.
You open your eyes to find yourself staring up at him, still bleary-eyed and drunk on bliss. You can only make out the colour of his eyes, the dark ink of his hair. But blurry as he is, you’re intimately aware of how he can see all of you. The glazed look that you must be holding in your half-open eyes as wrought out with pleasure as you are. The hair plastered to your forehead. The absolute mess of a state he’s left you in, and how debauched you must look in front of him. Face to face, all of you bare and uncovered, there in its unembellished form for him to see.
But that means you can see Marc too. As your vision clears, you can pick out every small detail of his expression. The subtle tic of the muscle in his jaw. The furrow in his brow. How his mouth is slack with pleasure. Those rich eyes of his are blown wide open until they’re left exposed. You can see it clearly now, how he’s clearly trying and struggling to hold back. The vulnerability that he’s been trying to hide from the world the entire time you’ve known him.
Not for the first time, as he holds himself above you, you find yourself marvelling at how beautiful he is. Identical to Steven, yet worlds apart.
Steven is hope and light and the curve of a gentle smile. Marc is sharp lines and dark shadows and heat behind his pained eyes. Jagged edges to Steven’s soft curves. Jaded cynicism to Steven's cheerful enthusiasm. Dark secrets and carefully hidden skeletons lurking in closets to Steven's forthright honesty.
And god help you, you love them both beyond measure.
The weight of his body is pressing down against you now. Every inch of the smooth golden skin pinned against yours, warm and flushed against your heated flesh. He grinds himself against you, needy, and desperate. There’s no longer any rhythm or logic to it. Just an instinctual primal need to get closer. You spread your legs as wide as you can to welcome him deeper, to take all of him as much as you can even as your thighs ache in protest from overexertion.
His mouth moves against yours, stuttering and trembling, and it takes you far too long to register the words that are coming from him.
“Fuck, baby, fuck I’m–” he chokes out brokenly against your lips, his hands on your hips holding on tighter.
He stills, and you think maybe this is it, that he’s about to come. Anticipation rises in your chest, and you hold him tighter, body clenching down in preparation.
But he doesn’t come. Just holds himself there, shuddering against you, his forehead against your chin, panting breaths, hot and humid, against the base of your neck. His cock is pulsing where it’s buried thickly inside you. Thighs quivering and barely able to keep them upright where they’re pressed between yours. You know that he wants to come. Needs to come. You just don’t understand why he’s refusing to give in.
“It’s okay, Marc. You can let go. Come for me,” the words are a struggle to get out. Your voice hoarse and scraped raw in your throat.
There’s a long moment of stillness, then he heaves a sigh so weary it makes your heart clench, as he starts shaking his head.
“No,” he grits out, voice low and determined as it so often is. His head comes up, dark, fuck-drunk eyes meeting yours, jaw set at that stubborn angle you’ve come to know so well, and he says it again.
“No. I– I’m not–“ He cuts off, shaking his head again. “Not yet,” he says. Then he rallies through, lifting his body away from yours and drives himself deep inside you with a shudder. “Not ready. Don’t want this to end.”
It sounds like a plea, and you’re not sure who he’s pleading with, you or himself, and there is a pang of pain in your chest for him. Because this idiot still doesn’t get it.
It’s like he’s never known softness. Hardness forged from a lifetime of a man who’s always had to hold himself up without respite. There’s a loneliness in it, of being the one who always has to take care of everyone else with nowhere to put down his burdens.
Fondness swells up in you and there is nowhere to direct it except for the object of your affection. You wrap your arms tighter around him, smoothing one palm over the sweat-slick, heaving muscles of his back, and whisper reassurances into the hair above his ear.
“Marc,” you breathe out and at the sound of you calling his name, his eyes snap up to yours. “Nothing’s ending.”
His arms buckle and he lets out a small choked sound that almost sounds like a whimper. He looks like he can barely hold himself up anymore.
“You have me,” you murmur, pressing your mouth to his. You kiss the arch of his jaw and mouth at the column of his neck. “Have had me for a long time.”
He tenses at your words, whole body trembling above you. But he still refuses to let go.
How many times will you have to keep reaching out to this impossibly stubborn man before he starts believing that you mean it?
Your hands come to the sharp edge of his cheekbones, cradling this face that you have fallen in love with twice over. Not just because it is Steven’s face. Not just because he’s the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. But because it’s Marc too.
“I love you.”
At your words, those determined eyes pitched with dark concentration blanks into a stupefied daze.
His head tilts slightly, a movement so small it doesn’t register at first that he’s nodding. Then his face drops closer, pressing his lips to yours. The line of his shoulder softens under your locked arms, lowering himself down onto you. His hips sink into you, his cock dragging thickly inside you as deep as it goes.
You watch in awe as his mouth falls open, eyes rolling back, and you can feel it as he comes inside you. Pulse after devastating pulse.
And god, he’s so beautiful like this; unruly curls wild and ruined, cut cheeks a faint crimson, skin slick with glistening sweat in the dim light. So perfectly undone and at peace. The pulse of his cock inside you as he spills himself deep inside you is almost secondary.
You bask in it. The warmth of his arms caging you in, his forehead pressing down firm against yours. The feeling of him so deep inside you, you’ll happily drown in the feeling of this man after waiting for him so long. His body slumps, dropping his weight on yours, completely depleted.
His cock is still hard, arms still trembling when Marc shifts on top of you, trying to raise himself on one elbow. It's too soon for him to move, you don't want him to move, want him to lie on top of you forever.
Logically, you know it’s out of consideration. He’s probably worried that he’s squishing you, but an irrational fear swoops low in your stomach at the idea that he’s going to leave again. Your fingers dig into his forearm, dragging him back towards you.
He lands on top of you with a quiet and tired grunt in your ear, but there’s no other protest from him. Marc lets you, shifting ever so slightly to make sure that his elbow doesn’t jab into your ribs as he settles on top of you. Then he stays, and you get to listen to the slow steadying of his breath, as the erratic rise and fall of his chest ease into something more even.
The two of you stay this way for a long time, staring up at each other, with half-lidded eyes worn from exhaustion without speaking, and you catalogue his face as it cycles through a series of micro-expression with each second that ticks by.
If this was when you’d first known Marc, at first glance, each expression would have looked the same to you. But you know him well enough now that you can tell that the tiny pinch of his brow means something is troubling him. That the narrowing slant of his eyes means he can’t find the right words to express it. That him biting the inside of his cheeks means he’s hesitating on whether he would be offloading on you. Every detail says just as much as Steven’s openly variable animated expressions.
His eyes blink in quick succession, and Marc takes a deep heaving breath as if bracing himself. Then he’s lifting himself up and away from you by his forearms, slipping out of you to a sharp pained hiss as you whine in response at how empty you feel at the loss.
He rolls to the side of the bed next to you and settles there, and you feel a bit nervous about what’s going to happen next, because you don't know what is going to come.
“Is this still what you want?” Marc asks.
He’s looking at you as he says it, but somehow you feel like he’s looking through you, eyes not quite meeting yours. His voice sounds impassive, and if you haven’t spent so much time with him by now, it could easily be mistaken for disinterest or even boredom, instead of the defence mechanism that you know it is.
“Yes, of course, it is,” you say without hesitation.
There’s no response from Marc, he’s lying so still next to you. So quiet you can’t even hear him breathing anymore. If it turned out that he’d fallen asleep with his eyes open you wouldn’t be surprised.
You turn onto your side so that you can scoot even closer to him as you watch him. One sole stray curl is draped across his forehead, and it’s fallen into the line of his big gorgeous brown eyes. So ridiculously pretty, this one.
Yeah. This is definitely what you want. Him. Steven. Both. All of them.
“You’re– okay with all this?” he asks hesitantly, and he looks genuinely puzzled as to why you would be. “With... what happened earlier too?”
A breathless huff pushes its way up your chest. “I don’t know if ‘okay’ is the right word here, Marc. I’m not sure how to deal with the revelation that gods and monsters are real, and there’s a very high chance I’ll freak out about it tomorrow or next week. But…”
You press a kiss to the side of his cheek as you draw your eyes up and meet those rich expressive eyes of his. There’s no mistaking it, you feel it, in the same way that you do for Steven. Even if it’s different… there’s no doubt in you, haven’t been for a long time about this.
“What I’m sure of is that I want to be with you. You and Steven. No matter what. I’m not going anywhere. I meant what I said. I want to be your person as well as his. And– and I hope you can be mine.”
Marc tentatively draws his hand towards you, fingertips searching across the length of your arm until he finds your fingers and weaves them with his.
The palm of his hand is warm and sturdy, sending a pleasant buzzing sensation across the back of your neck. It’s your favourite thing in the world, whenever Steven does this, and you’re pretty sure it’s going to be your shared favourite when Marc does it too.
“Yeah”, he finally says after a long moment, “I’d like that.” His voice is soft and quiet, and a kaleidoscope of butterflies swoops your stomach at his warm tone filled with affection.
Tilting your head upwards, you close the distance between you, pressing your lips to his. It’s sweet and tender as his hand cups your cheeks protectively, like a promise that he’s not going to run anymore and it makes your toes curl into the sheet until you’re giddy.
You clutch at him, hands cupping the back of his neck and lace your fingers into those ridiculously soft curls of his. Marc shivers against you, and you smile like a loon as he ducks his head and buries his face into the crook of your neck contentedly, and exhale deeply.
Who would have guessed that post-sex, the man would be the world's most grumpy cat turned soft and cuddly, asking to be petted. You comb through the matted locks and the blunt tip of his nose nuzzles into your damp skin. He makes a quiet, content little sound somewhere from the back of his throat like he doesn’t want you to stop and who are you to deny him?
Your fingertips trail his scalp, from the nape of his neck to the crown of his head, when it occurs to you that you should probably be more careful with his head.
He was flung several feet in the air and landed head-first into a concrete wall with a bone-cracking sound that still makes you sick to your stomach. You continue to card through his hair, mapping him out in search of any signs of injuries, but you can’t find any and your fingers still.
It doesn’t make sense. You weren’t put through the ringer in any way near what Marc was tonight and you’ve still ended up with your fair share of scrapes and bruises. But there’s nothing on Marc.
No swelling, no bumps. No wounds.
On top of it all you’ve spent the better part of this evening, pulling and tearing at his hair. Your nails had been digging so deep into his shoulders you might as well have been excavating for gold and he hasn’t so much as hissed or flinched in pain even once.
There’s a faint muffled sound of complaint from Marc as he lies on top of you. It’s so distorted that it takes you a few moments to appreciate that they’re words.
“What's wrong?” Marc asks.
“You don’t have any injuries. You were hurt.”
“I was wearing the suit,” he answers in his typical deadpan manner. No background information, no context, no painting out a scene for you. To Marc, the limited information he’s given you should make perfect sense to you.
You grimace, and you’re just about to have a moan at him, when Marc seems to realise how confusing that explanation must be. He lifts his head from your neck as he continues. “Khonshu’s ceremonial armour. It protects me. Heals me when I need it.”
An image of the swirl of bandages wrapping itself around Marc’s body to form an otherworldly magical suit plays out behind your mind, and you can’t resist teasing him.
“So you transform like Sailor Moon and then fight evil at night?”
Marc lifts his eyebrow inquisitively, with a completely blank expression. “I don’t know what that is.”
“Really? Sailor–” you sputter, shocked he doesn’t know what you’re talking about. “Steven would know that reference.”
“Steven has too much free time,” he sighs, but the fondness hiding under his gruff tone is unmistakable.
The playful jab at Steven brings a small smile to your face. The levity of it is a nice change of pace from the whirlwind of seismic events and paradigm shifts tonight, because there’s been a lot to take in. Much of which, you’re pretty sure you haven’t fully taken in… Don’t even know how to start to process it.
Ancient Egyptian gods are real, and your boyfriend—(boyfriends? Just exactly how involved is Steven?)—is some kind of indentured fighter priest who battles invisible monsters—also real—for one of them.
What is the correct reaction to a revelation like that? How does one even begin to mentally process that?
“Any other questions? Now’s your chance,” Marc says.
There is no hostility like before and this time you don’t have to drag it out of him with the persistence of a detective in an interrogation room interviewing a suspect as you ordinarily have to.
You’re not entirely sure how you feel about that, except that you’re a little bit stunned and you realise that something has shifted between you and Marc.
He’s… opening up to you.
You look up at him, and he meets your eyes steadily. There are a million things you still want to ask: What’s the deal with his and Steven’s mum? What did he and Steven go through while they were away? How did he almost die, and how on bloody earth did he manage to just stumble upon an ancient Egyptian God to end up in his service?
Marc hasn’t moved from the spot as he observes you. Still seemingly expressionless, except…
There’s a tension to the set of his shoulders, isn’t there? And he’s too still—even for Marc… It hits you all at once he’s holding his breath, the line of his lips set in a thin nerve-biting straight line.
He’s waiting for you.
Regardless of how hard Marc tries to hide it, trying to school his expressions, there’s only so much his body language can repress. The ring of his eyes is dilated and vulnerable.
He’s nervous.
Marc’s jaw tightens in anticipation and maybe something a little like fear, and it makes your chest ache with an overwhelming need to protect him. Those other questions can wait. You have all the time in the world together. Right now you want to make him feel as safe and cared for as you do. You want to make him smile.
"So..." you begin, and you see him stiffen, watching as he braces himself like he’s expecting a blow. It’s how you know you’re making the right decision. "Do you actually like my coffee?"
His eyes widen and he sputters out "You– Your–" then barks out a laugh.
Even in the dark, you can see it, a soft smile on his face that illuminates the darkness of the room with it. A gentle curve, as the dimple of his cheeks carve a deep dent into those hollowed cheeks, the soft crinkle of lines around his eyes. It’s like nothing you have ever seen before. It’s bright and uninhibited. An electrical socket has been plugged in and every nerve in you is flicked alight with excitement.
It stuns you and takes your breath away, and for the longest moment, you forget about everything else.
Because god, he’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen in your life.
It takes you several seconds, maybe even a full minute to compose yourself enough to ask him again.
"Well...?" you prompt, and you’re gifted with the pleasure of watching him try and fail to hide that perfect smile.
"It's… a little more complicated than that," he says, and you narrow your eyes at him, trying to look playfully peeved while tampering your own smile that’s twitching at your lips and failing.
"I like that you make it for me," he tries.
"That wasn't the question, though."
Marc shifts in the bed, scooting closer to you until he’s brushing up against your knees. That small but near-magical smile is still on his face.
"Tell you what,” Marc murmurs, as he tightens his grip around you, pressing his forehead to yours, sweat-slicked curls tickling your nose. “Tomorrow, let's make it together."
His voice is so assured, it feels like he’s promising you a certainty, and you trust him with every inch of you.
A warmth spreads in your chest, and you can feel the dopey grin pulling at your lips until your cheeks almost hurt, but you can’t stop yourself and you don’t think you want to either.
There is so much that is still unresolved, so many more things you need answers to, but it’s a good start and that’s good enough for tonight. After all, as Steven would tell you: you have all the time in the world.
“That sounds perfect,” you tell him.
When you wake, the morning light is filtering in through the large windows. The sun is blinding and makes it difficult to see anything at all.
Reaching out your hand, the spot next to you is cold and empty, any residual heat long gone from the sheets. You’re alone in bed again.
Marc has really got to stop fucking doing that.
“Marc?” you call out, but there’s no response. You hesitate for a second before adding, “Steven?”
“Here.”
Then you hear familiar noises coming from the kitchen, and the tension in your chest melts away at the sound of porcelain clinking together. There are no folded clothes by your side, but to your surprise, your watch sits on the nightstand, cracked face turned up, waiting for you.
A small smile tugs at the corner of your lips, and your stomach warms at the sight. Marc must have gone back to retrieve it while you were asleep.
You sit up on the bed, bending over to grab a discarded shirt from the floor as well as your knickers from last night, and pull them on, smiling to yourself as you start to make your way across the flat to join him in the kitchen.
The familiar sweet, bread-like smell wafts out to greet you, and you falter.
Pancakes? That isn’t right. Today’s not Sunday.
In the bright morning sun, you see him standing, with his back turned against you over the kitchen stove. Wearing only his jeans, bare from the waist above, the carved muscles of his back flexing as he flips the frying pan with a dramatic flair. Even before he speaks, you already know what’s happened.
“Morning, sweetheart,” he greets you. He's turning his head just enough to throw you a quick glance, and a one-sided crooked smile.
You stop in your tracks. The cadence is alien, the smile off, but you recognize it immediately.
Not Marc. Not Steven. But you have met this man before.
That first night at Steven’s; the man you woke up to who looked at you like you were a stranger; the man who followed you to the lift to return your watch; the same man who towered over the invisible creature with nothing but cold contempt in his eyes as he snuffed out its time on earth with precision and brutality.
All this time, you thought that the first night you’d spent with Steven was also your first encounter with Marc.
But Marc doesn’t call you sweetheart. Marc doesn’t flirt. Marc doesn’t smirk like he’s trying to imitate something he’s seen on the telly.
This is detached and impersonal, like he’s not really smiling at all. When Marc smiles it’s snow thawing in the spring.
It’s funny how you didn’t see it until now. Marc was never the wolf.
You cross your arms against your chest, planting your feet firmly on the floor, standing up straight and tall as you confront the man before you.
“You’re not Marc, and you’re not Steven,” you say and you shift on your legs, puffing out your chest in a display of put-on courage. “Don’t you think it's time you introduced yourself, seeing that you’re in my boyfriends’ flat?”
The man huffs out a laugh, and his accent is different when he speaks again. A New York accent, you think, but almost cartoonishly so, like he’s watched one too many Martin Scorcese movies. It’s oozing out of every word as he speaks with a slow and nasal hum.
“Nothing gets past you, does it, sweetheart?”
He sets down the frying pan on the stove, turning it off before he wipes off his hand on a flower-patterned tea towel and extends it towards you, a polite invitation to shake.
“Name’s Jake Lockley.”
You take a step towards him, and maybe you should be nervous—afraid of this stranger wearing your boyfriends’ face—but the panic and fear from that first night you met him is absent. That painful pounding in your chest is no longer there.
You accept his hand, looking up into this man’s familiar eyes that are staring down at you in an entirely unfamiliar way. Not Steven’s wide and adoring gaze. Not Marc’s protective and gentle attention. No love resides in those eyes for you at this moment, just curiosity.
But you’re not scared this time.
Because come what may, you already know the most important part. Whatever happens next, whoever this Jake turns out to be, it’s not going to change your mind about Steven or Marc.
You’ll take them as they are. Red flags and all.
THE END.
Author's notes
This is the end. I wish I was more coherent to write a meaningful and heartwarming message about what this story has meant to me. How grateful I am to everyone reading it, but I do not think I have any words that can do it justice.
The only thing I can say is thank you. Thank you for reading this, whether you've read this from the first chapter, or whether you only read the first chapter or you've only read bits and pieces. Whether you've commented or liked or reblogged or simply just lurked-read, from the bottom of my heart thank you for giving this story your time, I'm really grateful to you all.
A big thank you to my friends who have listened to me whine and bitch and moan and generally emotionally terrorised them with this story, and especially thank you to my cowriter: thirstworldproblemss who has been put through the ringer with this story and suffered alongside with me. I love you the moooooooooooooooooooosetest
a/n: to be notified of new writing updates follow astroboots-writes and turn on notifs.
this deserves thousands comments and millions reblogs and a better review than the one I'm typing now but I remembered I'd never gotten around to actually reblogginf and realized what a TRAVESTY that is so this is me rectifying the situation
firstly. DKJSHFHJVUHDHCHSJFJD OB MY GODDDD THIS CHAPTER IS EVERYTHING TO ME DO YOU UNDERSTAND??????!?!! EVERYTHING!!!!!
my beloved Marc I love him so much he is so full of self loathing I just want to give him good things like self esteem and blowjobs
AND ALSO I JUST. THE ENDING???!?!?! JAKE????!?!?!? FUCKING CALLED IT THAT IT WAS HIM THE FIRST NIGHT SHE STAYED
In conclusion this masterpiece deserves more than my shitty slapdash comment and I stand by my statement that some day soon I'm gonna binge the whole series on ao3 and comment properly on each chapter bc this is so so worth it
18+ — unprotected p in v, creampie, rough sex, spit kink, praise kink
It's difficult to say what your favorite position with Poe is.
Traditional as it may be, you're particularly fond of when he's on top of you, brown eyes boring down into yours, one hand cupping the side of your face as you wrap your legs around his hips to meet his thrusts, his lips melded with yours when he finally spills his seed within you.
And then there's the way he stares up at you when you ride him, lips slightly parted, fingers grazing your bouncing tits, and a gaze that's equally lust-filled and reverent.
But there's something so feral about this—being on all fours for Poe as he nudges your thighs further apart. The way he leans in and spits right on your cunt, using two fingers to spread the slick saliva through your folds before pushing what remains into your fluttering entrance.
You're already dripping with arousal, the sticky fluid running down the inside of your thighs, before Poe's even notched his hard, flushed cock at your needy entrance. The sight makes him chuckle warmly, using both hands to firmly massage your ass cheeks before he plunges right into your waiting cunt to the hilt.
—there's no fanfare, no stretching you open carefully or easing his fat cock in.
When Poe fucks you like this, he knows you want it filthy and rough. You want to feel the burn of him splitting you open, the ache of his dick going in so deep he's pounding into your cervix.
You want to hear his voice, warm and thick like honey, as he murmurs, "Good girl," when you rut back into him, begging him to fuck you even harder until tears are pricking at the corners of your eyes as the heat simmering in your gut flares through your veins in a wildfire of pleasure.
You want to feel the stuttering of his hips when Poe finally loses control, fingers dragging across your skin as he slams into you one last time, emptying himself into the tight, wet heat between your legs.
