#fic asks 💌

[jesuistrestriste]

art is the MESSIEST kisser ever like if u make out his spit is literally everywhere. like he'll kiss u on the mouth then keep on kissing ur neck but w the wettest kisses ever. and i JUST KNOW he def drools. like when u give him head and his head is resting against a pillow, he's so lost in it that he can't even think. like the only thing he can do anymore is whimper and moan like a little bitch. and when u look at him u see him drooling all over the pillow😭

art donaldson has a messy mouth. he drools when it feels too good, he kisses with almost too much tongue when he's desperate, and his warm, eager lips are always on your skin whenever he gets a chance to touch you properly.

he practically salivates like a thirsty puppy on a hot day. it pools under his tongue whenever he catches a glimpse of the more intimate areas of your soft skin; the nape of your neck, your stomach, your inner thighs. and he has to try desperately to swallow it down when you two are in public and he can't get his lips on you.

the first time you and art made out, it was very sloppy. you thought this mightve been a result of minor inexperience on his part, or nervousness, or excitement, so you let it happen. you let him moan into your open mouth and grab at your shirt while he slid his pink tongue over yours. you let his sticky saliva mix with yours as your mouths mashed together. you let him kiss you and kiss you and kiss you until he came in his pants.

the whole ordeal lasted about 7 minutes.

after that, you had assumed that—in time—he'd get more reserved with his mouth as you two continued to be intimate.

but this didn't happen.

if anything, he only got more comfortable with you, and thus only became more orally-fixated and messy with his mouth.

he liked to suck on your fingers during sex.

he liked to slather your arousal with his spit when he went down on you.

he liked to kiss you wetly all over your body before bed.

he liked yearned for it all.

when you'd give him head, your slick lips bobbing over his tip and swallowing salty dribbles of precome, he'd drool all over whatever was near his mouth. it was just too hard to focus on not drooling when the warmth of your tongue got him close so fast. his eyes would get lidded and his knees would grow weak and his mind would turn to mush the second you started to blow him. sometimes you'd have to hold his hips to keep him steady. he was very predictable.

one thing you two like to do together is have art get on all fours on the bed, knees spread apart with his cock hard and hanging between his thighs. his hands will go up and squeeze onto the pillows as he lowers his head and lets you jerk him off.

it’s kinda demeaning, in a way; being milked like a cow.

but you like doing it to him, and he likes whatever you like, so he loves this.

when your hand starts to stroke his cock, strings of pre leaking from his slit, his arms will usually start to shake. it'll start at his shoulders, and then go down to his elbows, and then end when his wrists can't hold him up anymore. he'll let himself collapse down onto the cushions without more than a whine of protest and a renewed tint of pink across the bridge of his nose. his head will lay on one side of his face, his lips parted to let out whimpers and whines as his hips jolt, and then it’ll start.

he’ll drool.

all over.

down the side of his face, over his bottom lip, down his chin. it all happens depending on how his head is positioned. but he always, always, always slobbers on the pillow a little.

just as his eyes start to roll back, and his pelvis starts to shallowly move to thrust his cock into your moving grasp, his sweet and sticky saliva will dribble down his face someway and soak into the pillowcase.

he can't help it.

because, again, you make it hard to pay attention to anything other than how good you make his dick feel. it throbs in your hand.

when you catch a glimpse of his drooling, you usually smile and speed up your touch.

"Art, baby-" you'll coo to him, "drooling."

and he'll know right away what you mean.

"Anghh— feel s'good, s'good— 'm sorry, 'm sorry," he'll inevitably slur.

he'll try to wipe it with the back of his hand, but he's usually shaking too much for that to do much of anything. it more just smears the transparent fluid across his flushed face.

slurp. wipe. whimper.

a few more strokes of your hand, and a thumb pressed right under his cockhead, is all he needs to let go after that point.

his eyes will roll back as he cries out and bucks into your fist, shooting and coating the bedding underneath with his load. he'll tremble and whine until his hands grasping at the sheets below have the instinct to fly between his legs and stop the overstimulation. you generally let up soon after he makes that known.

after you clean him up and ease him into bed, he'll make sure to kiss you goodnight. and it's messy and needy and a little bit too much, but you let him do it anyways. he's eager to please, and he's eager to show you how much he appreciates the way you take care of him. he’s just eager.

maybe one day you'll get sick of how much tongue he uses when he kisses, but you doubt it. it’s just so perfectly him.

[deviouz]

Imagine, sex with Jason and he's loud. And I mean loud loud. He's whining, whimpering, and doing literally everything just get you to do more to him, whatever you want just do more to him

THIS ‼️‼️

adding a cut bc i am an absolute fiend for one (1) jason todd (:<

it gets so much worse when he’s underneath you too. like, one hand on your hip with his other arm thrown over his eyes because it’s just too much for him to handle. cheeks all flushed and mouth left agape while he pants and whines and begs and pleads, occasionally dropping in praise after praise because he’s obsessed with how your hips stutter.

and because i’m a switch jason todd truther (!!!!), imagine how flustered he would get when you lean over him and pin his hands above his head? he’s more than capable of breaking free (have you seen his arms, oh my god) but he stays put because he just wants to be good for you ):

“c’mon, jay, tell me what you want. you can do that, can’t you?”

he’d look up at you with hazy eyes and a pleasure-struck expression, gasping when you rolled your hips just right. it’s taking every ounce of willpower he has to not buck his hips up into your addictive heat. surely you recognize that. you can see how good he’s being for you, right? won’t you relent a little?

“ah, fuck,” he gives a full-bodied shudder when you giggle at him, “anything, i want anything. please, angel, just use me-”

[pia-nor481]

ln4 is definetely into praise. 100%. and choking, but more giving than receiving.

Most definitely. Anytime he wants to kiss (more than a peck) he’s grabbing her neck lightly to pull her in, only applying light pressure to give her the weightless feeling. Or when he’s fucking her from the back, looking in a mirror, he’s reaching his hand around to grasp her neck, pulling her up so his chest is pressed against her back, watching as her eyes roll back, gasping for air. It brings him so close to the edge that he has to slow down. He does however like to be choked every now and then. Making when she’s riding him, her hands could be resting on his shoulders or chest and his hands will leave her hips or ass to grasp her wrists, pulling them to rest on his neck, she needs both hands to cover his skin. He loves felling her press down slightly for a little bit of support, the intimacy and trust makes him groan and maybe even whimper. Or when she’s riding his face, that’s one of his favourite things and he will always say yes.

As for praise he loves it, in all forms. When he’s dominant he’s loves giving “so perfect for me.” “You feel so good, Love.” “That’s it, good girl.” He gets off on seeing her reaction to such words. He also adores being told he doing things right. “Fuck, Lando, so close.”, “Yes, just like that.” “Fucking me so well.” It doesn’t matter whether he’s subbing or not, he just loves getting praised. He MUST hear his name, he needs to know who is making her feel so good. Let’s not forget his fondness of body worship. He works so hard to maintain his figure so he needs to hear how good he looks, how his body makes her feel.

[cosmicmunsonwrites]

can you maybe write something about jj always wanting to eat his girl out if that's okay:D

oh so close

pairing(s): bf!jj maybank x gf!fem!reader

warnings: implied oral, pet names, talks of sex

summary: jj begs to return the favor to his favorite girl.

authors note: thank you for the request, hun! enjoy :))

not edited

do not copy my works. i do not condone rewrites, translations, or edited versions. all my content is my content that i wrote.

not my gif

“please, please, please?” jj begged with his head laying on your stomach.

you chuckled to yourself. “no,” you replied.

“why?” he whined.

“maybe cause you just did it this morning? i need a break too,” you said, stifling a laugh.

he pouted and groaned. “you’ve had like 7 hours between then. you’ll be fine, baby.”

“i’m still sensitive, jj,” you reminded him.

he glared up at you. “even better,” he stated. “please, pretty girl? you know i’ll make you feel good.”

“i know you will,” you replied. “but you already did this morning.”

“you can go twice in one day, i know you can. you’ve done it before,” he said with a sweet smile.

you hated how soft and pretty he looked like this. you hated how you couldn’t help but say yes when he was looking at you like this, all pouty with glossy eyes.

“fine.”

the smile that took over his lips was huge as he urgently began to move down to lay between your legs. “trust me, sweetheart. i’ll make it so much better than this morning.”

[hynzsn]

Just male reader wants to ride bang chan after chan being stressed from work.

★ STRESS RELIEF ★

☆ bangchan x male reader

-> idol!chan x non-idol!reader

꩜ .ᐟ smut

contents: top!bangchan x bottom!reader, m/m, anal sex, cock riding, anal fingering, studio setting, chan being stressed from work, established relationship, porn without plot/what plot?, explicit language, neck kisses, tongue kissing, straddling, neck nuzzling, praise, aftercare, chan calls reader “babe.”

wc: 1.2k (i think)

a/n: i feel like this is so rushed 😭 forgive mee >.< i didn’t realize until after i read through it how rushed it actually was. like i probably missed out a few things but oh well. i hope the person who requested this likes it.

♡︎♡︎♡︎ likes, comments and reblogs are highly appreciated ♡︎♡︎♡︎

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

you find bangchan hunched over his desk in the dimly lit studio, headphones on, fingers flying over his keyboard. the room is filled with the soft glow of computer screens and the faint hum of unfinished tracks. you watch him for a moment, heart aching at the sight of his tense shoulders and exhausted expression. you know he's been working non-stop, barely taking a break, and it's starting to take a toll on him.

"chan," you call softly, stepping into the room.

he doesn't hear you at first, so you move closer, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. he jumps slightly, pulling off his headphones and turning to face you. his eyes soften when he sees you, but there's still a hint of stress lingering in them.

"hey, babe," he says, voice tired but affectionate. "what are you doing here?"

"i came to check on you," you reply, leaning in to press a kiss to his forehead. "you’ve been working too hard."

he sighs, running a hand through his hair. "i know, but there's so much to do. i can't afford to take a break right now."

you shake your head, cupping his face in your hands. "you need to relax, chan. come on, let's take a break. just for a little while."

he hesitates, but the pleading look in your eyes convinces him. he nods, letting you pull him up from his chair. you lead him over to the couch in the corner of the studio, pushing him down gently. he looks up at you, curiosity and a hint of arousal in his eyes as you straddle his lap.

“babe, what are you doing?" he asks, though there's no real protest in his voice.

you smirk, leaning in to kiss him deeply. "just let me take care of you, okay? you need to relax, and i know exactly how to help."

he groans as you grind down against him, already starting to get hard under you. you kiss him again, more urgently this time, your hands moving to unbutton his shirt. he shivers as your fingers brush against his skin, his hands coming up to grip your hips.

"fuck, babe," he mutters against your lips. "you’re gonna drive me crazy."

"that’s the plan," you reply with a grin, trailing kisses down his neck.

you can feel his cock straining against his pants, and you waste no time in unbuttoning them, pulling them down just enough to free him. your breath catches as you take in the sight of his impressive length—thick and veined, his cock stands proud and flushed a deep, enticing shade of red. it curves slightly upwards, the tip already glistening with pre-cum.

the sight alone is enough to make your mouth water, and you can't help but let out a soft moan of appreciation. he hisses as the cool air hits his heated skin, his hands tightening on your hips as he watches your reaction with dark, hooded eyes.

"lift your hips a little," you instruct, reaching for the small bottle of lube that chan, the little minx, had stashed on the side table behind a stack of notebooks.

he obeys, and you take a moment to strip off your own clothes, tossing them aside carelessly. as you stand there, fully exposed, you catch chan’s heated gaze raking over your body, his eyes darkening with lust.

you smirk, enjoying the way his breath hitches when you slick your fingers up with lube. locking eyes with him, you reach behind yourself, circling your anus with one finger before slowly pushing in. chan couldn’t help but groan at the sight, his grip on your hips almost becoming painful as you drive him wild.

"fuck, y/n," he mutters. "you’re so hot."

you added a second finger, scissoring them inside you. the stretch burns slightly, but it's a familiar and welcome sensation. you take your time, wanting to make sure you're fully prepared for him. chan’s eyes are glued to your movements, his breathing growing heavier with each passing second.

"fuck, i need you," he breathes, his voice strained.

"almost there," you assure him, adding a third finger and thrusting them in and out a few times before pulling them out completely.

you pour some more lube into your hand, slicking up his cock and giving it a few strokes. he groans loudly, his head falling back against the couch as he bucks up into your hand.

"y/n," he whines slightly. "i need to be inside you."

you position yourself above him, lining him up with your asshole. you sink down slowly, taking him inch by inch, the stretch almost too much but exactly what you need. he grips your hips tightly, his eyes locked on where you’re connected.

"fuck, you feel so good," he groans, his voice thick with arousal.

you start to move, riding him slowly at first to let both of you adjust. the feeling of him filling you completely is intoxicating, and you can't help the moan that escapes your lips. his hands guide you, urging you to move faster, and you comply, picking up the pace.

the room is filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin, your moans and his groans blending together in a symphony of pleasure. you can feel the tension in his body slowly starting to melt away, replaced by pure, unadulterated need.

"chan, you feel so good," you moan, your hands gripping his shoulders for support as you ride him harder.

he thrusts up to meet your movements, “yeah? fuck, you're amazing."

you lean down to kiss him, your tongues tangling as you continue to move together. the angle shifts slightly, and you gasp as he hits that perfect spot inside you. he smirks against your lips, clearly pleased with your reaction.

"right there?" he asks, his voice breathless.

"yes, fuck, right there," you reply, your nails digging into his shoulders.

he thrusts up harder, hitting that spot over and over until you're seeing stars. the pleasure is overwhelming, and you can feel your orgasm building rapidly.

"chan, i’m close," you warn, your voice barely more than a whimper.

"me too, babe," he responds, his thrusts becoming more erratic.

you ride him harder, chasing your release, and with one final thrust, you come undone. your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, and you cry out his name, your entire body trembling with pleasure. he follows right behind you, his grip on your hips almost bruising as he comes deep inside you.

you collapse against his chest, both of you panting and sweaty but thoroughly satisfied. he wraps his arms around you, holding you close as you both come down from your high.

"you’re perfect," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. "i really needed that."

you smile, nuzzling into his neck. "anytime, chan. i’m always here for you."

he chuckles, tightening his hold on you. "i know. and i love you for it."

"i love you too," you reply, your heart swelling with affection.

you stay like that for a while, just holding each other and basking in the afterglow. eventually, you both reluctantly get up, knowing that the work still needs to be done. but now, with the stress melted away and the bond between you even stronger, it doesn't seem quite so daunting.

as you help him tidy up the studio, he looks at you with a grateful smile. "i don't know what I'd do without you, babe."

you grin, leaning in to kiss him one last time. "luckily, you'll never have to find out."

[2hightocare]

We’re jk oc deprived 😭😭😭

Any new Drabble ?

noooo I can’t seem to finish any of my works for them, there’s only like prompts of barely 500 words here’s sum for you guys🥳🥳🥳🥳

1.

“Do you guys have triple extra-large condoms?”

“Your dick is not that big, oh please,” Yoongi bursts out laughing, throwing his head back and covering his face with his hands. You can’t help but snort softly as Lora tries to figure out how many inches triple extra-large would be using her hands.

“How is that possible..?” Jimin says, laying his head down on the hotel room bed beside Taehyung, who’s been snoring away since you all arrived.

“Just because you have a small dick doesn’t mean I do,” Jungkook retorts, crossing his arms and leaning against the colorful wall of the room.

You’re all in Las Vegas, celebrating Jungkook’s and your three-year wedding anniversary. It was a spontaneous trip planned just a few hours before catching the earliest plane. None of you are new to Vegas, Taehyung, who’s lacking enthusiasm. The moment he steps foot in your and Jungkook’s hotel room, he knocks out.

The room has become the main hangout spot for everyone.

“I aspire to be as delusional as Kook,” Ari jokes from her spot on the floor in front of the mirror, curling her hair. The group bursts out laughing as Jungkook rolls his eyes and wraps his arms around your neck from behind, joining in the laughter.

Jungkook’s strong personality is one of the things that drew you to him. He always knows how to make you laugh, no matter the situation, with his random remarks and perfect timing.

2.

“I think this is the dumbest thing ever,” Jungkook sighs, bouncing his leg where Iseul is sitting, sucking on her pink pacifier. Her two small pigtails bounce with each movement of your husband’s leg.

“She needs them, they’re literally mandatory, baby,” you lay your head on his shoulder, glancing around the clinic and noticing a brunette mom making googly eyes at your husband. Jungkook, too worried about his daughter, doesn’t even notice.

“I know, but do you not hear all the babies crying?” Jungkook says, watching Iseul giggle at his worried expression. “I’m afraid you’re worrying more than her,” you laugh, squeezing Iseul’s cheeks, making her squirm in Jungkook’s lap. “Aren’t you so cute, huh?” You coo, eliciting giggles from Iseul.

“Oh no,” Iseul pouts, pointing to the pacifier on the ground. “Oh no, it’s right, princess,” Jungkook bends over, picking up the pink pacifier and passing it to you. Iseul reaches for it eagerly, but you scrunch your face, sticking out your tongue. “Yuck,” you say, and Iseul mimics you, making Jungkook laugh at her reaction. “God, can’t believe I made such a perfect offspring,” Jungkook exclaims, showering Iseul’s face with kisses, which only makes her laugh more.

“You did not just call her offspring,” you gasp, a snort slipping past your mouth, making Jungkook laugh loudly before quieting down, realizing where you are. “Jeon Iseul?” The door opens, revealing a woman, likely the doctor’s assistant.

You and Jungkook immediately stand up, making your way to her. “Iseul?” she asks, and you confirm with a smile, interlocking your fingers with your husband’s as he holds Iseul on his other arm.

“Okay, follow me,” she says, leading you through a hallway adorned with pastel colors and animals painted on the walls, catching Iseul’s attention as she points and babbles.

“Gee-raffe!” she babbles, her baby teeth showing as she smiles at the animals. “Aw, she’s the cutest,” the assistant remarks, turning to give a warm smile to your daughter. She opens a sliding door with a giant elephant in the middle, leading you inside.

“Take a seat. Whoever’s going to hold her, please sit there,” she points to the big chair in the middle of the room. Jungkook sits, placing Iseul on his lap and adjusting her dress.

“Okay, can you tell me her birthday?” the assistant asks. “November 10th, 2022,” you answer, adjusting your cap as Jungkook pokes Iseul’s cheek.

“Okay, the doctor will be here in a few. Bye, Iseul. Nice meeting you,” she waves at your daughter, who waves back before the assistant exits the room.

3.

“I want another one,” Jungkook whines, attacking your neck with kisses. “Baby, no,” you moan as he sucks and nips, leaving red marks on your throat.

“Please, give me another one,” your husband pouts, finally looking at you. His tattooed hand holds the base of your neck, pulling you in for a kiss as he smiles into it, making your teeth clash.

The kiss is messy, strings of saliva connecting between you both each time you separate to catch your breath. Jungkook bites your lip, making you moan into his mouth, to which he replies with a cocky smile.

“I’ll fuck you so good, baby, please,” Jungkook whines between kisses. “Please,” kiss. “Please,” another kiss. “Please,” and another.

“We can’t,” you reply between kisses. “Why the fuck not? We can do them right now,” Jungkook says, pulling you closer by your throat.

Jungkook has been wanting another kid, but as much as you want to say ‘fuck it’ and do it, you just couldn’t at the moment. You’ve been too busy with school, and the same goes for Jungkook with work, but he didn’t seem to think it through. He wanted another mini you, turning the house upside down alongside Iseul.

“Please, Iseul would love to have a brother… or sister,” he adds late, causing you to side-eye him, which only makes him smile as he nestles into your neck.

“No babies yet, let’s wait,” you happily sigh as he places a kiss on your collarbone, twirling a strand of your hair.

“So we’re not fucking?” Jungkook peeks up with a grin as you burst out laughing. “Not without protection,” you scratch the back of his head, making him moan before he rests his head on your lap, looking up at you with a smile.

“I see how it is,” you joke as you feel him shift in your arms before laying his head on your lap. “What?” you ask, placing your small palm over his face before moving it around. Jungkook sticks his tongue out, licking your palm, which has you quickly retrieving your hand.

“Ew, you’re nasty,” you scrunch your nose as he reaches for your hair, pulling gently.

“That’s nasty? You literally asked me to spit in your mo—,” before he could finish, you place your palm over his mouth again, shutting him up as his eyes widen with amusement.

“Shush,” a small giggle leaves your lips as you blush like a high school girl. You’ve known Jungkook for over ten years, and till this day, he has you giggling and kicking your feet whenever he looks at you.

“I miss your lip piercing,” you pout, squishing his cheeks with your hand as he laughs, poking your belly button with his pinky. “I do too, but Iseul literally ripped my shit,” he says, a pained expression on his face as he remembers his daughter pulling on the lip piercing with incredible force.

“Is that why you took out your ear ones too?” you ask, biting your lower lip as your finger plays with his pierced earlobe. He nods, his eyes fluttering closed as your fingers trace along his perfectly carved eyebrows.

“Well, I miss them,” you pout, tracing the outline of his lips.

“I’ll put them back on tomorrow,” he winks, making you roll your eyes before pinching his lips together.

4.

“I still can’t believe you guys won’t add me to the group chat,” Jungkook whines, leaning his head on your shoulder and looking up at you with hopeful eyes.

“It’s only girls, so no,” Eunbi says, finishing braiding her thick blonde hair as Jungkook sends her a dirty look, which she returns.

“Namjoon is on it?” Your husband continues poking your cheek, as if that would make you add him to the group chat. But only if he knew that you weren’t even admin, and that it was Eunbi’s job to begin with.

“He’s part of the girls. He just gets us,” you give him an apologetic look, which he rolls his eyes at before scooting to the furthest edge of the couch and crossing his arms.

[lavendermin]

jing yuan is definitely the type of man to take your hand and kiss your fingers one by one WHILE keeping eye contact (literally STARING, waiting for u to break, become flustered and look away), and when you do, he would say smth along the lines of "look at me" / "is something wrong? why did you look away?" with that shitty grin of his

We’re dealing with a whole general in charge of the Luofu. That man is trained in the art of finding weaknesses to use to his advantage and effortlessly play off them. This partially translates into Jing Yuan’s methods for expressing love as well.

And he wouldn’t call these aspects your weaknesses per se. No, he would never degrade you like that. But he knows what makes you tick, what makes you short circuit, what buttons to push and when. Jing Yuan is well versed in the little things that draw out his favorite reactions from you. Something akin to cuteness aggression some might call it. His fondness for you is just that great. And your relationship is one that is lighthearted and filled with playful banter.

cw | suggestive, fem reader

He knows how to make your heart leap. Takes you to some secluded gardens past the hustle and bustle of the main city areas, away from prying eyes. He’s someone who prefers to love you in private, wanting to bare his soul to you and you only. The light breeze brings a beautiful rain of delicate petals from the plum blossom trees in the vicinity. With his tall stature he picks a low hanging flower from the tree without much effort, delicately placing it in your hair as he continues the pleasant conversation without missing a beat. It’s something that makes you momentarily fall out of step, caught a little off guard with the gesture. Your pulse quickens and the smile he wanted to see finally beams on your face, albeit shyly.

He knows what little things to do that get you looking at him with that lovesick gaze. During brief breaks between meetings he’ll bring you to the gardens in his estate, a blanket sprawled out for a quick afternoon snack to enjoy in good company. Some are favorites, other little additions are new and some just readily in season or imported. Jing Yuan always wordlessly insists on hand feeding you himself. Loves the flustered look in your eyes as he puts a slice of fruit to your lips, slowly parting them and glossing them with the nectar that drips from the treat. A sigh of contentment leaves you and he can’t help but smile fondly, leaning in to quickly place a peck on your lips.

Your eyes twinkle, heart full with the notion that he imported one of your favorite delicacies from a neighboring star system—and with such a limited season they are available in. He licks his lips, the sweetness from the kiss he stole lingering in his mouth with the taste of you. An ideal afternoon he wishes could be longer than thirty minutes before he’s off again. Might as well spend them with you.

He pulls you onto his chest as he lays back on the picnic blanket, eliciting a squeak of surprise from you.

“Just for fifteen minutes, let’s stay like this,” he whispers, pulling you down to press his lips to your forehead. It’s an intimacy that simmers and leaves your hearts full longer.

And with a smile you can’t help how love-struck you look at him, so prettily under you. Something that he mirrors equally as you both settle into the tranquil moment.

He’s especially good at teasing—knows what little habits you have and how to exploit them for his amusement (in good fun). And there are a lot of little habits that come with your shy demeanor.

You bite into the flesh of a peach, the juices running down your hands. He’s quick to seize an opportunity to take your hand, kissing each of your glistening fingers slowly—hungry gaze steadily holding yours. The action has you holding your breath without even realizing it. It warms your face with the intimacy of his soft lips pressing to the pads of your fingers—a heat quickly surging through your body like a wildfire. And you can’t move even if you wanted to (you don’t), his grasp firm on your wrist.

It’s almost like a little game of endurance. You’ve never felt more like a doe in a lion’s den than in these kinds of moments. His lips move to press to the second finger, the third finger…

“Eyes on me, little dove,” he mutters, voice an octave lower than usual. Commanding. The smirk on his lips reveals the mischief in his intention. “Don’t look away. Not for a second.”

Your eyes that had desperately tried to dart anywhere else are immediately back on him. Almost involuntarily. You can’t help but worry your lip to try and suppress any little gasps and whimpers that may threaten to leave you.

“That’s my sweet girl.”

He kisses the fourth, a subtle tremble on your own hand he can just barely feel. The glimmer in his honey eye tells you he wants to play with to his dinner today. You can only pray your weak heart can withstand what teasing he has in store for you as he slowly drags his tongue up your index finger. His mouth chases the sweetness of the fruit as it coats your hand, your eyes following the wet muscle with an involuntary whimper and shift of your thighs when he licks sensually between your index and middle finger.

And just like that he places a kiss to your palm and leaves you hot and bothered. Trembling and breathing a little uneven with a want settling deep in the pit of your belly.

“Were you hoping for something more?” Jing Yuan asks with that mischievous, innocent-looking smile he wears. His thumb swipes at the corner of his lips to catch remnants of the sweetness he stole from your delicate hands.

Sly goddam fox.

[enthusiasticharry]

I also might have a few ideas of a few scenes that take place between each of the years (maybe even one from Harry’s POV of when he realised his love for governess!yn!)

Ah this sounds so good!! Write it babee!!

I may have an idea (if you are comfortable writing smut) like they have sex for the first time after giving birth to nathaniel and she is lil insecure cause after her pregnancy thinks that Harry may not like her body and all

orrr a domestic day were H makes breakfast for everyone and nathaniel is 2 or 3 years old and they all spend time together??

I don't know if it's a good idea but write anything I will read about them!!💗

Suffer in Silence

Daisies (Part One) ; Edelweiss (Part Two)

summary: after the birth of YN and Harry's first child, YN finds herself struggling to believe that Harry still desires her and he wants to prove that is not the case.

author's note: a lil extra for the governess!yn universe!!thank you so much for this ask!! the second that I saw it I knew that I had to write it for them!! the second request is certainly in the works, so watch out for that in the future!!!

word count: 3.2k

warnings: smut, discussion of body image postpartum.

Pregnancy was a beautiful thing.

YN was never, ever in her life going to dispute that. It was, as far as she believed, one of the most beautiful things that a woman could do. The fact that beyond their scientific knowledge, the body was prepped and able to change and adapt to protect a child that was made (in YN’s case especially) as a result of the love between her and her husband. It was completely astonishing to her, and she would never change that experience for anything in the world. No matter the sickness she experienced, the tumultuous changes in her emotions or the constant fatigue that wracked her body – YN would do it all over again for Nathaniel.

He was the missing piece to a puzzle that YN did not even know she needed. He brought life and light into the family, and more importantly, love. The way that Noah and Norah had accepted Nate into their lives, and even more so the way he brought them so much closer together. They were a family, and no matter what YN had endured to get here, she would never change it for the world.

Every woman experienced pregnancy differently and YN would never, ever dispute that fact. Her pregnancy had not been easy, but Nate was the reward. A very beautiful, charming reward.

The only way that YN could describe how she felt now was that something was missing within her. She would never blame Nate for this – he was the newly found light in her life. However, she would certainly be lying if she said that Nate’s pregnancy had not changed her in certain ways.

To YN, the change that had recently become too difficult for her to ignore was her body. The one (more reasonable) part of her brain continued to remind her that her body had done a wonderful thing, it had grown their son, kept him safe for nine months and then helped welcome him safely into the world. The other part, the one that held centre stage right now as she stood in front of her mirror was what plagued her.

Her stomach, which had been stretched to accommodate Nate in his growing had not returned straight away to its normal state (which YN had not expected at all) but now that Nathaniel was nearing five months, she thought there would be some sort of normality returned. Instead, there was still loose skin and greying lines which held a pink hue (not as prominent as when she was pregnant, but still there) littering her stomach, hips, and thighs.  Her breasts, fuller than they had before had their own lines which reminded her daily of their change also. Again, there was the rational part of her brain that tried to remind her that her breasts had changed to be able to feed their child, but her brain often could not focus on that.

YN’s head was tipped as she looked herself up and down, her body bare apart from the dressing gown that rested upon her shoulders. It was difficult to focus on the benefits of the changes to her body, especially when the only word she could think of when she looked at herself was ugly.

She could not stop those thoughts, even more so when she tormented herself with the ideas of what would happen if Harry were to see her in such a state.

Before the pregnancy, and even during, Harry had always been remarkably touchy with YN. It was as though there was a pull that meant that a part of his body always had to be touching hers – whether that was a hand in hers, an arm over her waist as they slept or knees touching as they sat side by side. YN, once these thoughts had settled within her brain, found it difficult to shake them. It meant that, without necessarily thinking of the effect of such, she had pulled away from Harry in these last few months.

It had meant that when their nights had once been filled with soft kisses and lingering touches now found both of them falling asleep with a gap big enough for another person between them. It frightened YN, as much as it upset her. She had no way of knowing whether or not they would return to normal, or if there would be a point in which YN was comfortable enough to be that way with Harry again.

She had not even realised within her thoughts, as she stared at herself in the mirror that tears had begun to fall. They were light, but they were there.

YN sighed, shaking her head, and pulling her dressing gown closed, and that was when Harry opened the door to their bedchamber. YN gasped, watching as his eyes moved from hers down her body until meeting hers once more.

“What is it?” Harry stepped further into the room, closing the door behind him, immediately noticing her tear-stained cheeks, “What is wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong,” YN shook her head, pulling the fasten of her dressing gown tighter to her body, “I am just tired, I think. It is nice to have a child-free evening I suppose, as much as I miss them.”

“I would not worry about them,” Harry shook his head, moving even closer towards YN, “My mother is probably spoiling them rotten, and you know how much Nate lights up when Nana is around.”

YN smiled, but she could not help when that smile dropped the second Harry grabbed her hand, spinning her around so that they were looking into the mirror. He wrapped his arm around her waist, YN gasping when she felt the weight of him on her body. His head dropped to her shoulder, pressing a kiss to the exposed skin of her neck (which she guessed was still his favourite place to be).

“We have not had a night alone in the five months since Nate was born,” Harry mumbled into the skin of her neck, “I want to know what has upset you so much.”

“Nothing,” YN shook her head, hoping that Harry would believe her, “I am just missing the children, that is all.”

“Now, whilst I know that is partly true… I also know that you are keeping something from me.”

YN turned her head slightly, looking up at Harry with tears in her eyes once more, “I am sorry.”

“What are you apologising for?” Harry asked, lifting one of his hands to brush YN’s hair off her face, “You have nothing to apologise for.”

“No, I do,” YN nodded, placing her hand upon Harry’s, “I have been distant, and I have been cold and I…”

“YN, stop it,” Harry shook his head, “You just had a child. I know that I do not come first to Nate, or to Noah and Norah – I know that. You do not need to apologise for that.”

“But, it is my fault that I cannot be with you in the way that you need,” YN shook her head, “That is my fault. It is my fault that you no longer have a wife that you desire.”

Harry went silent, and it was as though all of the worries that YN had felt were finally confirmed. She thought she would cry even more, but she felt more content than anything.

Then she did not feel that way anymore.

“Is that truly what you think?” Harry’s eyebrows furrowed, and then a look of hurt crossed his features, “That I do not desire you anymore?”

“How can you? I do not blame you; I would not desire myself with how I look right now.”

 Harry sighed and shook his head. It was then that a look of what can only be described as anger crossed his features. His finger lightly tapped YN’s cheek, moving her head so that she was facing herself in the mirror again.

“You truly think I do not desire you?” YN nodded as Harry sighed once more, “YN… you are the most beautiful woman I have ever laid my eyes upon. God, I do not even know where to start. Those eyes of yours… you always say that my eyes are your home, but yours are mine. The soft skin of your cheeks, I would nestle my lips into them constantly if I knew it was not proper to do so. And… your lips. YN, how I lasted so long in my life without your lips I will never know, but if you think now that I have experienced them I would ever let them go – you are sorely mistaken.”

The tears that were collecting in YN’s eyes now were not because of her feelings but of the effect of Harry’s words. The look in Harry’s eye told YN that he was far from finished, but what else that man could say she had no idea.

His fingers drifted from her cheek down her neck, lightly running his fingertip from the bottom of her ear downwards until it met the nape of her neck, and then he smiled once more.

“Now, your neck,” Harry chuckled slightly from behind her, “You know the love I have for your neck, and how if I could live there, I most certainly would.”

YN chuckled from the side of him, “That would be a most terrible inconvenience.”

“You are calling me an inconvenience now? I see how it is,” Harry’s words have a slight teasing edge to them, and she knew that it would not end there.

It was then that YN truly realised the extent to which her words had annoyed him. It seemed that no matter what he was to say next, the fact that he had to utter those words was enough for YN’s chest to start heaving. His attack continued, his fingers moving down the exposed skin of her neck and collarbone until it landed upon the thin material of her nightgown. YN gasped slightly, worry crossing her features immediately at what his next step was to be.

“YN,” His fingers moved from the hem of her nightgown to the material further down, inching closer and closer to the tie that held the gown closed. YN immediately dropped her hands upon his, stopping his movements from continuing.

“I will disgust you, Harry,” YN shook her head, “I do not look the same as I did before.”

“I do not want you to look the same as you did before,” Harry shook his head, “You could never disgust me, YN. Your body has changed and as a result of that change, we have Nate. I cannot even fathom it; I swear to you. You would never disgust me, YN I am in awe of you.”

It was as though all of the worries that had accumulated within YN’s veins dissipated the second he said those words, and she almost felt a sense of relief. Her body dropped backwards, relishing the feeling of Harry’s body against hers. Harry’s eyes found YN’s again, and all it took was one nod of YN’s head his hands moved to the tie of her nightgown. With a quick pull of the bow, the material grew loose around her body. As Harry moved to pull the material from his body, his fingers grazed the skin of her stomach and whilst she tried not to wince she found it difficult not to do so.

“You are beautiful,” Harry pulled the material so it fell from her body, exposing her to him, “And if you think I do not, that I cannot desire you just the way that you are you are sorely mistaken.”

YN exhaled a breath, “You do not have to lie.”

“I am not lying,” Harry’s words are soft but stern – as though he is truly attempting to make sure she sees herself the way that he does, “Your breasts, YN if I did not already think they were magnificent then seeing what they can do to feed our son, that would have sealed the deal for me.”

YN gasped as his hands planted themselves upon her breasts. The touch was light, but it was enough for YN’s body to reel. Her breasts were more tender than they had been before, and Harry seemed to know just that. His feather-light touch moved from the expanse of her breasts downwards towards her stomach, where they wrapped around her body once more.

“I do know how anybody would find the place that kept their child safe undesirable,” Harry whispered, leaning down to press a kiss to the skin of her neck, “It may not look the same, but who is to care? I love you and every part of you, and I always will. Nothing could stop me from such.”

YN sighed, watching Harry’s eyes in the mirror move down her body. That look, the want and dare she say desire that his eyes held made her prior thoughts almost laughable. She could not believe that she ever allowed herself to think such things. It was then that his touch continued, moving further and further down until it slipped between her thighs. YN gasped, unable to take her eyes away from the scene unravelling in the mirror before her.

“I gave you your space, as I wished for you to recover,” Harry mumbled, his teeth skimming the skin on her neck ever so lightly, “But if you think that I did not wish, did not dream of the moment that I was allowed to see you in such a state again you are truly mistaken. I missed every part of this, of seeing you, of feeling you.”

YN gasped when his finger slipped between her folds, finding its place where she needed it the most. Harry loved to tease her, especially in the bedroom and yet today there was none of that. He was worshipping her. He was worshipping every part of her body and proving to her that what he had said had not been a lie, no matter how much her mind had tried to convince her of such.

His finger began to circle her clit, gently before continuing down. YN gasped out, reaching to grasp his arm as he pushed his finger inside of her.

Of course, she had missed Harry in this way. It was as though once she had been given a taste, it was hard to go without it for so long. But, as Harry continued to work his fingers inside of her, the palm of his hand rubbing against her clit with every movement – she was shocked at how long it had truly been since she had felt this way, how long it had been since they had been with each other in this way.

“Harry,” She gasped once more, her nails digging into his arm. The thin material of his shirt did little to stop the feeling.

“I know, I know,” Harry nodded, nudging her head with his slightly so that she turned to him.

It was immediately that his lips found hers with such a force. YN whined slightly into his mouth as he removed his fingers from her, but it was not for long. Harry placed his hands on the small of her, spinning her around quickly. YN’s fingers found their rightful place in the hair at the nape of Harry’s neck, tugging slightly as he moved his hands down to the back of her thighs. He parted them, and with a quick tap, she knew what to do. She jumped up, wrapping her legs around Harry’s waist.

Their lips never parted as Harry skilfully carried her towards the bed. She landed on the bed with a slight thud, causing a giggle to emit from her lips. Harry’s gaze never left hers as he pulled his shirt open, and she was pretty sure that buttons went flying off in every direction of the room but at this point, she did not care. His trousers were next, and YN’s teeth sunk into her lip. If she needed one last reason to believe that he still desired her, he was giving it to her right now.

“Come here,” YN mumbled, spreading her legs slightly in hopes of inviting him to her, “No teasing tonight.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Harry jested, with a raise of his eyebrow – but he still obliged her request, “I promise I will not.”

YN smiled. Harry’s hands rested by her head on the mattress, and YN rested hers on his shoulders. He gave her one last look, and the second that she nodded her head he pushed inside of her. YN gasped, pushing her body forward to connect her lips to his again. His thrusts were slow and gentle, as if not to hurt her but the second that she moved her hands down from his shoulders, and along his spine until they reached the curve of his bum, they began to speed up. YN moaned into Harry’s mouth, her nails digging into his peachy flesh.

Harry groaned into her mouth, a smile toying on his lips. As his hips started to move quicker, and hers joined him – all she could feel was him. All she could feel was his touch, his body, his love. It was all-possessing, and YN would not change it for the world.

“Harry… I’m –” YN gasped, pulling away from his lips to throw her head back in response to the pleasure he was causing her.

Once her eyes had closed, and his hips continued at their fast pace she had truly lost himself to him. At this point, there was no return for her. In a state where she did not feel truly like herself, Harry had pulled her immediately out of that. Harry watched her parted lips, her closed eyes, and her heaving chest.

She was beautiful to him and there would never, ever be a point that she was not.

“It is okay,” Harry dropped his head down so he could kiss her neck, and mumbled his words of encouragement into his ear, “It is okay, I promise you.”

YN gasped once more, her hands moving back towards his shoulders. She was sure that her nails were digging the ever-prominent crescent moons into his skin, but neither of them seemed to care at all. When she tightened around him, he groaned into her neck. It was as though neither of them could hold back on the pleasure that the other was giving, and it was enough for them.

It was as though once YN’s orgasm washed over her, Harry’s came soon after. They were always together, coaxing each other through the feeling – neither one of them moving too quickly without the other. It reminded her that whatever she needed, he was always there to help her and move her along. Whenever she tumbled, he was there to catch her.

This was love. This was the love that they deserved from one another, with one another.

Harry collapsed on top of her, moving to the side ever so gently to not squash her, but they still stayed as close to one another as they possibly could. YN smiled and accepted the light kiss that Harry placed on her lips.

“If you ever feel this way again, I want you to tell me,” Harry spoke, lifting his hand to run against her cheek lightly, “I do not want you to suffer in silence ever again.”

YN nodded lightly, “I will not.”

“I need you to promise me, YN,” Harry’s eyes were laced with concern for her now, “I love you.”

“I promise,” YN nodded, pressing another light kiss to his lips, “I love you.”  

[userlando]

that anon is a genuis? the showering one 🥺

okay okay I’m still gonna write a full on fic but I wanted to do the showering together rn because I have no shame, but but I hope you enjoy this lil fluffy thing

take care of you (2.k words) lando norris x fem!reader sickfic

You were never sick, and that’s why Lando was getting worried. The both of you had always laughed at the thought of being ill, boasting a little too much about your amazing immune systems and now it’s come to bite you in the ass.

It had started as - what you thought was - a hangover, having a little too much to drink at the bar where Max had practically forced you to come two days ago. Lando hadn’t really been feeling it, still a little sore from the race a few days prior and in need of a night in where he could just relax. But you’d both gone eventually, had a good time and then you’d woken up violently ill the next morning.

Lando had set aside his aversion to vomit, quietly gagging as he tried to nurse you back to health. But it had become clear that it wasn’t just the aftermath of the night before coming to haunt you. Your nose had turned stuffy, voice hoarse and your fevers were running high. Dangerously so. Lando had never seen you so drained of energy before and it was starting to scare him.

He’d ignored your protests of staying away, not wanting him to catch whatever the fuck was making you feel like death was knocking on your front door but Lando was nothing but stubborn, glaring angrily at you when you tried to wave him off.

Max had dropped in to dump a plastic bag of medicine and everything a pharmacy held before fleeing, saying that whatever you had, he didn’t want it. You just wished Lando had the same attitude.

You didn’t want to admit it out loud though, that a part of you was glad that you had your best friend by your side to look after your basic needs when you couldn't. He always ran cold and it was a great advantage as he sat by your side as you went in and out of consciousness, placing his chilly hand on your forehead and cheek to hopefully stave off the fever.

By day two, he’d had enough. His stomach was twisting in worry, and he’d rang his mum three times - looking for advice or anything to help with her in a different country. You’d been a little delirious, skin slick with sweat as you laid on the bed; barely conscious and drifting between that place where you're not quite lucid, but you're also not completely knocked out. Lando would’ve thought that you were sleeping if it weren’t for the mouth breathing and little whimpers you occasionally let out when the pain in your head spiked out of nowhere.

It was three in the morning when you sniffled, waking up from your doze and blinking at him. You looked so miserable that he couldn’t help but feel sorry for you, brushing a few strands of hair sticking to your forehead and ignoring the fact that your hair was absolutely soaking. Anxiety was already gripping his heart in a fist and he couldn't handle feeding into it anymore, in fear of it bursting at the seams.

“Do you need anything?” He asked, voice quiet as to not worsen your headache but you still groaned like he’d put a megaphone to your ear and screamed into it.

You made a pathetic attempt at shaking your head, and the little gesture made him smile in endearment when you nuzzled the side of your face against the pillow; squishing your nose and mouth into the damp fabric.

“No.” You murmured. “‘s so hot.”

He glanced at the one too many covers and blankets on you, thinking that maybe he’d gone overboard with his mum’s advice to ‘let you sweat your fever out’.

“I know, bug.” He frowned a little. “You’ll be okay soon.”

“I feel like I’ve taken a nap in the devil’s arse.” You complained and Lando laughed, a bit relieved that your humour was still there.

He thought back on his mum’s advice that he’d immediately brushed off with heated cheeks as soon as the words left her mouth. Let her have a shower, it’ll do wonders for her, poor girl.

How was Lando supposed to get you in the shower when you hadn’t even left the bed for days? He glanced down at you and sucked his teeth, hands going to push the covers from your body before he could second guess himself. You made a sound of confusion when he grabbed at your hands, helping you sit up.

“What are you doin’?” Your speech was a little slurred, exhaustion clinging to your very soul and Lando ignored the pang in his chest at your rare vulnerability.

He’d ever only seen you like this when you were pissed out of your mind drunk, or when you were really sad. Or sick.

“We’re taking a shower.” He said, helping you stand up and you went easily, leaning heavily on him because the room was fucking spinning and he’d just said we.

The slow realisation made you yelp as he walked the both of you to the bathroom, and you gripped his hoodie in your hands in a lousy effort to stop him from walking any further.

“We? You’re not seeing me naked.” You said, feeling a little panicked at that thought.

Lando gave you a look you couldn’t decipher, pushing the door open with his foot and guiding you inside. He flipped down the toilet seat lid and gently sat you down and any other day you would've laughed at how much he acted like his mother when she fussed over her son or even you.

“Then we’re showering in our clothes.” He said, like it was that simple but it really wasn't that simple.

“We’re not.” You frowned but immediately stopped because fuck, that hurt your head. “Don’t be ridiculous, I’ll shower tomorrow when I've got my strength up.”

“You said that yesterday. You’re literally laying in your pool of sweat.” He pointed in the direction of your bedroom as if to get his point across and your mouth pursed in displeasure.

“You said you wouldn’t mention that.”

Lando’s eyebrows climbed to his forehead in exasperation and you flushed hotly. It was embarrassing and he’d promised not to make fun of you. Not that he was making fun of you, but still.

“You’re being an idiot.” He said, watching you pout a little at that and immediately feeling bad. He backtracked. “I mean… I don’t want you feeling faint and falling when I’m not here. I promise I won’t be a creep and look.”

You narrowed your eyes in disbelief and Lando placed both of his hands on his hips as he exhaled, the tips of his ear turning a nice shade of pink.

“Fine. I won’t look too much.” He swept a hand in the air. “Can we please get you in the shower? You’re starting to stink.”

“Now you know how I feel every day around you.” You muttered, ignoring Lando as he repeated your words in a mocking tone. “Okay, can you at least just… Look away?”

He regarded you with a contemplative look before nodding slowly, turning around and you stared at his back for a few seconds before starting to undress. Lando was patient, keeping his eyes firmly on the sink as he heard the shuffle of clothes and your noises behind him. You made a small sound that let him know that you were done and he stretched a hand out without turning or looking, offering his support as you stepped into the shower with weak legs.

You didn’t want to admit that he was right. You were in no shape or form to wash yourself without risking blacking out, but Lando thankfully didn’t say a thing as he let you draw the shower drapes to cover you.

You stood quietly, shivering and a little nervous as you heard him undress, nausea roiling your stomach and tying it into knots and you couldn’t figure out if it was because you were nervous or simply sick. It must’ve been a combination of two, you decided, thoughts spiralling until Lando’s voice echoed in the bathroom.

“You okay?” He asked and you nodded before you realised that he couldn’t see you.

“Yeah.” You flattened your palm against the tiled wall when you started feeling a little dizzy, squeezing your eyes shut. “Can you hurry? I’m feeling sick.”

The weakness in your voice must’ve triggered your best friend into action because he pulled the drapes aside and stepped in, grabbing your hand like it was a normal and every day occurrence to be standing in the shower. Naked.

You opened your eyes to find him looking intensely at your face, eyebrows pulled together worriedly and you gave him a shaky smile.

“Do you wanna lean on me?” He asked, tilting his head to look you in the eyes.

You were about to shake your head when you felt your world tilt on its axis, stumbling a little and Lando was quick to wrap his arms around you. He pulled you into his embrace and took some of your weight off your feet, trying not to think about how incredibly naked and warm you were against him.

He exhaled, feeling your hands weakly rest on his back; like you were welcoming his help and it made something warm bloom in his chest.

“I’m going to turn the shower on now, okay?” He walked the two of you to the corner before reaching back and turning the knob.

There was a sputtering sound before the spray came, and you could feel the cold mist as the shower head splattered cold water by your feet. You hummed in delight, leaning your forehead against Lando’s shoulder and closing your eyes.

“I feel like shit.” You confessed quietly between the two of you and Lando’s hand came up to brush the hair down your neck in quiet comfort. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

“Don’t mention it. You know I always will.” There was something in his voice that you couldn’t quite decipher, but you let it go when he took a step back into the shower once he’d deemed it warm enough.

The lukewarm water felt like heaven as it pelted down the both of you, washing away the sweat and everything you’d managed to accumulate these past few days. You hummed in pleasure, feeling your hair soak and you pushed your head off his shoulder to look at your best friend.

He was busy making out the hundreds of different bottles, looking lost before he finally found the shampoo bottle. The sight would’ve made you laugh if you had any strength left, but you settled for an amused smile that Lando clocked as soon as he turned his attention back to you.

“Shut up.” He said, seeing the clear laughter in your eyes and you raised your eyebrows as if to say hey, I didn’t say anything. “Turn around and let me wash your hair.”

You weren’t about to protest, doing just that and placing the palm of your hand against the wall to keep yourself upright.

Lando quickly washed your hair, the suds of the shampoo sliding down your face and getting in your eyes and it wasn’t as relaxing as one would’ve thought but he did the job and you couldn’t complain. He even went as far as conditioning your hair, rinsing it off gently before you offered to do the same for him.

“You don’t have to do that.” He scrunched his nose. “You look like you’re two seconds away from falling asleep.”

“Put your head down and shut up. Let me wash your hair.” You tried to sound stern, but you ended up sounding a little ridiculous with your stuffy nose and Lando grinned before complying.

The smile on his face vanished when he realised that he had, in the process, put himself in direct eyesight of your naked body and he struggled not to tense up as he heard the cap of the bottle pop, staring hard at your bare feet instead.

You did a way better job at washing his hair, digging your nails pleasantly around his skull and massaging his curls thoroughly before rinsing the suds off. Lando didn’t realise how relaxed he’d became until he tried to stand upright, hair drooping over his face and dripping wet.

His breath stuttered when you let out a hoarse laugh, pushing the hair out of his face and the movement was so intimate that Lando had a hard time breathing, wondering what the fuck was happening.

You didn’t seem bothered by the gesture though, none the wiser as you picked up a loofah and pushed it into his hands. He blinked down at it like it was a foreign object, trying to make sense of what exactly you were asking of him.

“You want me to wash you?” His voice went high, almost in a squeak and you shot a questioning look at him.

“Yes.” You decided on replying before frowning, adding: “Is that weird? I can do it if —“

“No, no. Um, I can do it, just —“ He was flustered, turning a little in the small space of your shower and trying not to yelp when his arm brushed your naked skin. “Body wash. I need body wash.”

Your face was on fire, watching him pop the cap of the body wash and ripping it off in the process. He made a little sound in his throat but didn’t dare to pick the broken cap off the floor, squirting the liquid onto the loofah before waving it in front of you.

You turned around, figuring that it was maybe a little easier if you weren’t in each others faces and Lando must’ve felt the same because he blew out a breath and started washing your back, albeit a little timidly.

He gained confidence after a few moments, finishing scrubbing you before doing himself and you didn’t call him out on him using your sponge because really, he’d probably done it a million times whenever he showered at your place.

The both of you stepped out, and he was there to immediately wrap you up in a towel before doing the same to himself. You didn’t want to acknowledge your heart, how it was speeding up abnormally so at the sight of him and how sweet he was being. Taking care of you, sending updates to your mum with how you were and assuring her that you were being taken care of. He knew how much of a worrier she was, and it made something immense swell in your chest as he rubbed a second towel over your hair, gentle and so very careful not to snag your hair or accidentally hurt you.

“What?” He halted when he pulled the towel away, revealing your face and your eyes staring at him. He wasn’t sure if it was the shampoo that had gotten in your eyes but they looked like they were on the verge of welling up.

“Nothing.” You replied, voice thick and so obviously lying but Lando didn’t touch on the subject. He made sure to ask later, when the air wasn’t so charged and you weren't teetering on the brink of death.

“Get into bed, I’ll bring you fresh clothes.” He said as he steered the both of you back to your bedroom. Lando stopped as he eyed your bed, a little critically. “You know what, let’s go to the couch instead.”

You laughed, voice a little thick and you reached a hand to weakly slap at his arm.

“What?” He grinned. “We need to change the sheets. Or maybe even burn them.”

“You’re a prick!” The way your voice cracked made Lando cackle, yelping when you shoved him a lot harder than he had anticipated.

Your words may have sounded malicious, but there was an undertone that your best friend couldn’t help but latch onto.

It sounded a lot like, I love you.

don't look at me, i love pain. anyways, hope you enjoyed this little drabble as i go crawling back into my cave to write something better than this. (also how did this turn into 2.6k words? i need help)

[maxlarens]

How about jealous Lando or Max? They seem like the quiet type, but be very touchy and try to make sure people know your theirs, like just touching and staring at the one trying to flirt with you

ooo yeah yeah i spoke on jealous!lando a bit here. but i think like his mood/expressions post-race in austria is indicative of properly jealous lando. not quite as severe maybe because i think that was mixed with a lot of frustration/anger at the race. but yeah i think there are different degrees to it. first stage he’s trying to act normal about it and is like… gently possessive, very touchy and sweet in a way. but stage two is when he’s got mega feelings for you and actually genuinely cannot stand to see you flirting/dating another person. i think he’d just go very silent, very closed off if it was really hurting him. maybe bitchy, maybe hurtful in the right circumstances. but overall y’know, trying to be fine about it. i think he’d be tenderly trying to hold your hand or things like that. just trying to convey all his feelings to you without actually having to say it.

and yes i think formerly mad max would have a ROUGH time being jealous. i am actually writing a max jealousy one shot right now so u will all see my concrete thoughts soon-ish. max would be a huge glare-er like absolutely fucking staring down the person flirting with you. does not have a clue how obvious it is tho— and if he did he would not care!!! i don’t think he’d give a shit if it was revealing his feelings or whatever. he’d just be thinking like, she’s mine. she’s my friend why is this asshole talking to her??? i should be talking to her. bonus points if it’s charles, he’d be SOOO mad about charles taking up your time. UGH anyway yeah i’m writing something for this rn, very keen to share it.

[14dayswithyou]

I'm going to be a little evil :3c /silly

*I have stolen all of their headwear, leaving only FROGGY HAT in his closet.*

"Boy it sure is chilly today. Don't forget to wear a scarf and a hat when you come pick me up, okay [REDACTED]?"

✦゜ANSWERED: I believe in froggy hat [REDACTED] supremacy 🖤🐸

He knew. Of course he knew. [REDACTED]'s security system alerted him the second you stepped foot into his apartment, and it took the dark-haired hacker almost all of his willpower not to rush home and see you. But alas, he had other matters to attend to and messes to clean up here. Things he couldn't risk putting on hold, lest he pay the consequences for them later.

So, [REDACTED] settles for watching you through his cracked phone screen as you try to sneak your way around his apartment. They didn't really understand why you felt the need to be so secretive; you knew your boyfriend would be out for the day, you had his spare keycard and access to the entire 14th floor, and [REDACTED] had made it explicitly clear early on in the relationship that everything he owned was yours completely. Nothing was off limits to you, and that included every inch of his living space.

...And even himself.

Curiously, they watch with keen interest as you quietly slide the door to his walk-in closet open and take in your surroundings once more — making sure that you really were alone in his dimly-lit bedroom. But barely a moment passes before you stride in with a newfound purpose, unzip your backpack, and begin to stash all of his caps and beanies inside.

Well, alright then. If you decided he no longer needed those items, then so be it. He was never one to deny you anything.

But in retrospect, you were honestly doing [REDACTED] a favour. He genuinely didn't really need those items in his possession anymore — especially considering how he had no real reason to conceal his identity from you after all these years of being together.

He could never forget about that pivoted moment in time when you opened up to your beloved hacker about his rather... intense need to watch over you 24/7. And after you had scolded him multiple times for stalking you from darkened corners and alleyways outside your apartment complex, [REDACTED] had all but tried to change his ways. To better themselves for you.

After all, you deserved nothing less.

Glancing back at his phone once more, [REDACTED] takes in every little movement you make as you continue to tuck away his belongings; down to the turn of your head and the flex in your muscles. Not a single twitch or glance goes unnoticed under his watchful gaze — and had the dark-haired man not been so enraptured by your ministrations — he surely would've noticed that it was just about time for him to start packing his tools up and head home.

Home, in time for the date you had planned for the evening.

But the way you purposefully moved around his closet had [REDACTED] in a trance. You were extremely methodical about the things you were swiping from his shelves; neatly packing away all of the headgear, earmuffs, and scarves on display (and even the ones hidden within the depths of his drawers!). Yet... One single item remained in the aftermath of your wake.

Atop one of the lone shelves in the corner, it sits, isolated from the rest of its kind. Worn out yet well loved; it was no more than a novelty item your boyfriend had originally won for you from a crane game. But even after their constant insistence that you should keep it, you rebutted it all by saying it'd look better on him instead — all while pushing the cute, froggy hat back into his hands with a teasing smile.

("If you keep bleaching your hair like that," his real name falls from your lips like sweet nectar, "All of your hair will fall out. When that happens, you can use this to keep your bald head warm!"

"...When that happens? Hmph. You're gettin' cheeky." With a smile of his own, your boyfriend reaches out to gently pinch your cheek. "I haven't touched m'hair in ages.")

So after watching you be so meticulous with the items you were "robbing", the hacker couldn't help but wonder what your main motive was. Why leave that silly, little frog hat alone unless... Did you want him to wear it? You knew [REDACTED] would never say no to you — let alone to a frivolous request — but admittedly, they did find it rather endearing to watch you put in all that effort just for him.

Just like how he used to be... Back before you opened the curtains of his life and brought sunshine into his heart.

Gone are the days of "Ren", when [REDACTED] had to snoop around your apartment just to get any sort of inclination of what your type and interests might be. No longer did [REDACTED] have to "borrow" some of your old clothing to keep himself company on lonely nights; to put them over his pillow and pretend like it was you he was holding close to his chest. He no longer had to steal your presents and tokens out of spite and jealousy — only to return them days later once they noticed how upset it made you.

Too caught up in reminiscing about the past, [REDACTED] had almost missed your swift getaway from his bedroom. Living up to your nickname, you glide down the staircase and across his foyer as if you sprouted angel wings on your back and stroll into the elevator, before closing the door and pulling out your phone.

And just like clockwork, [REDACTED]'s camera feed gets replaced by the bright red and green call buttons that shake and taunt him at the bottom of the screen — alongside the personalised caller photo of you smiling towards the sunset ocean with [REDACTED]'s jacket atop your shoulders. The dark-haired man leaves no room for pause before he's swiping his finger across the screen and eagerly anticipating the sound of your voice.

You greet him in that casual, nonchalant tone of yours, and [REDACTED] had to resist the urge to start recording the call — to save the addictive timbre of your voice for when he needs to hear it the most.

"Man... It sure is chilly today, don't you think?"

There's the familiar sound of tacky elevator music playing in the background, and part of [REDACTED] thinks you're purposefully calling him right now to let him in on your (not so) secret escapades... To let them know where you are.

Or perhaps you were already aware that he knows, if the way you were glancing up at the elevator camera was anything to go by.

Regardless, you don't give away any other telling signs as your beloved hacker watches you through the camera. Your bag is still carefully slung over a shoulder, while one of his old, black university caps received the pleasure of being fiddled with in your hand. Your voice returns once more, and it causes a grin to form on his lips.

"Don't forget to wear a scarf and a hat when you come pick me up, okay?"

There's a newfound teasing lilt in your tone, which has [REDACTED] latching on to your every word with bated breath and scrambling for a reply.

"'Course. Wouldn't miss our date for the world. 'N make sure y'stay warm too, angel." Without missing a beat, he easily takes his place in your little game. "Wouldn't wanna misplace your jacket 'n get cold now, would we?"

Your pixelated smile on the screen gives everything away.

You hear the unmistakable sound of [REDACTED]'s sports motorbike before you see it; watching the corner of your street as he appears from the darkness like a phantom.

And like the gentleman that he is, [REDACTED] doesn't make you stray far from the safety of the streetlamp either. The moment your boyfriend pulls up in front of you, one of his large hands reaches around your waist to draw you near (almost as if he'd gone years without being in your presence), while the other makes quick work of the latch of his helmet. In one swift motion, he pulls it off and rests it against the tank—

Only to reveal that cute, pastel green frog hat sitting atop his head.

He can't help but smile when you do; clearly pleased that he went through with your silly request. At that, you let out a low hum of appreciation as you lean against your boyfriend's chest, and [REDACTED] returns the favour by bending down and pressing a chaste kiss against the crown of your head as well.

"...Think y'could give this unworthy prince another kiss, love?" Your beloved boyfriend leans in closer until your lips are millimetres away from touching, "Otherwise I might stay cursed t'live in this froggy form forever."

[jesuistrestriste]

30s art donaldson tired af from tashi working him to the bone. so tired that he just wants to lay down but is also very horny cuz when is that man not and he asks reader “can you please just sit on my face” in a really quiet whimper or smth idk (i really just want to read about sitting on art’s face lol)

when art showed up at your door, sweaty and tired and flushed all over, you knew that you wouldn't be able to resist his pleas for attention. the exhausted, slightly defeated look in his pretty blue eyes had you weak all over. it was just no use.

he looked like a kicked puppy.

or maybe just a really over-worked man.

but that was beside the point.

you ushered him inside, cupping his face and cooing at him in all the ways you knew that he needed you to. he pouted. he whined. you could practically imagine a tail tucked between his legs. his coach must have really chewed him out during practice. he had been on a downward spiral in terms of his ability to win for the last few months. it had been rough, to say the least.

he kicked off his shoes and stumbled over to your living room floor, sitting down on the carpet where he opted to stretch his hamstrings. you sat in front of him and ran a hand through his damp hair. he leaned into your touch instinctually, and then buried his face into your neck as his hands slid to hold your lower back.

you embraced him and rubbed his back, hearing him let out little noises of contentment as your palms caressed circles over his aching body. you pressed a kiss to his neck. he tasted like salt and self-doubt, which was not unusual for him after he had just freshly come back from the courts.

he moaned softly against you and then his lips were on yours with a tender ferocity that he always carried. his tongue was eagerly slipping past your teeth to lick at yours, and then he was pulling you closer and furrowing his brows.

"Please," he whispered against your lips as he tilted his head to change angles. his dick was already hard. that's how easy it was for you to get him worked up.

"What-" you pause, kissing him deeper, "What is it?"

his hands gripped your hips.

"Can you please just sit on my face?"

you felt your body warm up instantly at the sound of his whimpered plea, like a bucket of hot spring water had been dumped over you, and you nod slowly against his lips.

within thirty seconds, he was laying flat on his back on your floor, and the clothing on the lower half of your body had been removed and tossed aside to unknown places.

you crawled up his form, and he watched your every move with bated breath, letting his fingers ghost over your body as you inched your way up to his mouth.

when you finally hovered above him on your bent knees, pussy just inches away from his desperate tongue, he immediately shuddered underneath you and looked up to your eyes with a look that begged you before he could even get the right words out.

"C'mon, please.." he moaned pathetically, hands now grasping at your torso and trying to pull you down to him.

you smile, biting your bottom lip.

"Ask me again."

his hips lifted up from the carpet, bucking into the air and affectively jolting the both of you. it was an accident; he didn't mean to. it was just that his mouth was watering and he was too fucking aroused to think properly.

"Will you sit on my face? Please?"

and with that, you lowered your wet core down to his mouth and relished in the way that he immediately groaned into you. his hands tightly held the back of your thighs as his lips suckled on your clit and his tongue lathed sloppily over your slick folds. his tongue darted in and out slowly from your hole, trying with everything in him to taste all that he possibly could.

you rocked your hips over his face, smearing his chin and the tip of his nose with your slimy arousal, but he couldn't have asked for anything better. he loved this. he craved this with everything in him. he wanted you to sit on him like this for however long you could stand it. he could die like this and be happy.

your orgasm built quickly thanks to his expert knowledge on what and where you liked to be kissed and tongued, and he let you gush over his face until you were shaking like a leaf. he gulped every drop down.

at the tail end of your climax, you felt his body shake below you, his eyes rolled back into his head as he gasped and murmured muffled words into your sopping cunt. you arch your back and pivot your body to look down at his form, and your eyes are instantly drawn to the wet patch soaking and growing over the fabric of his gym shorts.

he made you cum a second time after that. and then a third. and a fourth. your hands stayed tangled in his hair through each one, and you called out his name every time the waves of pleasure rushed through you.

even though you wanted art to feel better about himself in terms of his tennis career, there were certain.. perks to him feeling down about it. making you cum let him feel like a winner again, so you were going to ride this low-point of his for as long as you could. you knew he wouldn't mind.

[tvgals]

you know when you have a gap in ur teeth u would spray water through it…connie would do that after u squirt in his mouth like the menace he is

NAHHHH LMAOOO

personal hc i added in here, we call connie nunu 😋

imagine connie just made you cum atleast three times in a row, this time he’s determined to make you squirt on his face. “nunu…baby, stop!” you cry out, arching your back. connie just giggles into your cunt like a child, almost kicking his feet because you taste so good. “not until you squirt on my face, baby..” he smiles, looking up at you.

with a few more sloppy kisses to your cunt, you squirt with a loud moan, a few cries mixed in there. connie chuckles before he opens his mouth and gulps down the clear stream gushing from your cunt. he saves just enough in his mouth for him to smile, pressing his tongue to the back of his front teeth, your squirt spurting from his mouth, back onto your sopping cunt. you look down at connie with a frown. “con’! why would you do that?” you ask, rolling your eyes.

“sorry.” connie smiles.

[cosmicmunsonwrites]

Reader is still shy with jj , like I can imagine her being afraid of being to clingy or anoying 😭

space is just a word

pairing(s): bf!jj maybank x gf!fem!reader

summary: pet names

authors note: thank you for the request! hopefully you enjoy :)

not edited

do not copy my works. i do not condone rewrites, translations, or edited versions. all my content is my content that i wrote.

not my gif

“wanna watch a movie?” your boyfriend asked.

you nodded and tossed him the remote from your side of the couch. he probably thought you were so weird for sitting so far from him.

but at the same time, you didn’t wanna weird him out or annoy him by being all over him. after all, your relationship was still so new.

you didn’t know what to do.

“sweetheart, the hell are you all the way over there for?” he asked with a crooked smile.

you shrugged and awkwardly chuckled. “i don’t know.”

he looked so warm and inviting. you wanted nothing more right now than to just cuddle up to him.

“c’mere then,” jj said, throwing the arm closest to you around the back of the couch so you could sit. “you think i smell of somethin’?”

you couldn’t help but let out a giggle as you shuffled closer to him. “no. jus’ didn’t want you to think i was weird or anything.”

“why would i think you’re weird? do you smell?” he joked.

you shook your head. “no, j. i didn’t want you to think i was weird if i was all over you or something.”

he pulled you as close as he possibly could and kissed your temple. “i don’t think that’s weird, baby. i love that shit.”

[myspacebrat]

Stepdad!Steve showing his buddy, Eddie, his wife’s daughter’s OnlyFans.

And he’s just bragging about you to Eddie, as they both pervertedly stalk your page, and talk about you… fantasize about you… think about what to do with you :)

STOP IT!!!!! I was gonna do something along these lines but I’m like ‘does anyone really want another steddie fic from me??’ I mean I’d totally be down to do this version, cause I’m foaming at the fucking mouth for it!!!! 🫠🫠🫠🫠 y’all lmk

[astroboots]

RED FLAGS ║ PART 13 | FINALE

CO-WRITTEN WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

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 for 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.