( where she's inwardly irritated by the thought and reality of having to do work, marc's irritated by the realisation that he's missing out on work for this. he could be doing anything — anything — other than sitting here, watching lottie alternately type on her laptop and her phone, anything other than flicking languidly, disinterestedly through newspapers.
he doesn't miss the way she seems to perk up every so often, the way her expression softens and the way the tap of her nails against her phone screen increases with speed. the way that she's — he's certain — doing it just to annoy him. he doesn't say anything further, doesn't add anything, not until lottie pauses, her gaze cold and haughty, shifts to meet his.
it lasts mere seconds before she opens her mouth to speak and it's not to him. sure, it's directed at him, but she's not giving him the satisfaction of being spoken to. she's making it clear, in the most roundabout way she can, just what she thinks of his behaviour, and all marc can think is that it serves to prove his point. lottie person is being a child. siri asserts that it's a playground taunt and his gaze, dropped back to his newspaper, lifts to look in her direction, lips quirking in petty amusement and smugness as siri backs him up.
paper crinkles as he turns a page (stiltman is still around, apparently—) and he hums. ) If I wanted to know about playground taunts, I'd ask Greer if William's heard any good ones.
[ What the fuck!! Lottie is instantaneously seething at that, eyes shooting up to the stupid way he holds his stupid paper and seeing that stupid (handsome) little quirk to his lips. Her phone is slammed down on his desk, something like hurt and disbelief crossing her features for a long moment before her anger bubbles over into staunch denial. ]
Whatever. Do you think I care that you still talk to Greer?
[ She's so fine she almost debates on texting Sunny. Or that annoying cop John. Anything to smooth over the weird sting in her chest because Greer is his exβ the one who he still talks to. The one whose kid knows Marc, or whatever. The who still sometimes comes around. The really nice hot one (she can handle nice, Lottie can't handle the fact she's as hot as herβ she's had many crises over this).
( the movement, the noise of her slamming her phone down on her desk is sudden, loud, and marc deliberately doesn't react. doesn't look up to catch the hurt that shifts into anger in her eyes and the set of her mouth. plausible deniability — she brought up playground taunts in the first place, and who knows them better than children? but he knows it's a delicate topic — not in the sense that they've discussed it, not like that, but because of how lottie is. because of how marc is. marc is prone to jealousy and there's so much of the two of them, unspoken and unacknowledged, that's the same.
it's only when she speaks that he meets her gaze. impassive. )
Of course you don't care. ( beat. ) Caring would be unreasonable.
( said like they're both reasonable people, like their unreasonableness isn't the entire cause of — whatever this situation is. this petty squabbling with no identifiable (to marc) cause. )
[ Of course you don't care. A beat. Caring would be unreasonable. ]
Esther is having Sunny do my shoot tomorrow.
[ And she was going to ask if he wanted her to stop working with himβ because she knows how he is. How she is. How she'd want him to extend the same courtesy so she could pretend to be reasonable or so she could indulge in how truly needy she is for Marc. Now, she isn't going to give him that option. Because caring would be unreasonable, right? Her eyes say that, burn as much into his, something like tears brimming the bottom of her lashes as she dares him to say something. ]
( he knows they're in dangerous territory, a tit-for-tat that has the potential — as ever — to go too far, for one or both of them to say something they'll regret in a couple of hours. her eyes are daring, wide and wet, the threat of tears ever present and there's a small part of marc that says he should shut up, that he should stop, that he should just apologise.
but he doesn't.
instead, his frown deepens, lips thinning before he looks away, abruptly. he's never told lottie about the time he'd followed marlene and that whoever kid she'd started seeing after they'd broken up, hasn't told her that it'd been several times and at least one of them had been with the express purpose of punching him. marc is unreasonable, has always been unreasonable. it's not something he's especially proud of, and though he doesn't — won't — treat sunny the same way, the distinct unhappiness at lottie's admission (taunt) makes the thought a little — little — tempting.
(at least a fright—.)
a lingering pause, and then, carefully, deliberately— ) Have fun.
[ There's a long, heavy, almost expectant silence that follows. Where Lottie assumes Marc is going to do something to smooth what he said over or apologize, but he doesn't. And in an instant she remembers they're birds of a feather, the same in the worst and best ways and it often manifests strong in moments like this. Where they both push and push, pretending they're fine and they aren't hurt. He says have fun and Lottie decides, well, her libido has officially been ruined. Taps a few more times on her phone until she's satisfied β pointedly, not even to rub it in Marc's face.
And then she closes her laptop, unplugs the charger and unplugs that from the wall. Wraps it all in her little case before putting her computer inside, too. If Marc looks up, when she bends to put everything away in her seat, when her coat rises up, he'll find bare skin. An endless sea of it, milky and soft, where safety shorts should be, maybe shapewear, a skirt at least.
If he doesn't, he'll find the brunt of the discovery hit him when she stands, begins the process of taking off her coatβ button by button, to reveal what was the big surprise all along: his waistcoat, from one of his many suits in her closet (she's taken to dry cleaning them when he doesn't have the time, a show of affection she takes pride in). Large but simply not large enough to cover all the important bits, draped on her frame like an ill fitting dress that still looks perfect. ]
You can have this back, then.
[ I don't need it, is the implication, Lottie fully intent on putting her coat back on after she takes this off. She's already three buttons down, skimming over her breasts and exposing the top of her abdomen, head tilted down in concentration because her nails are still long and it takes time no matter what, to do this. ]
( she doesn't say anything, not for what feels like an age and neither does marc. the silence is tense and unhappy, before shifting into something that feels a little like resignation.
he looks up at she moves, as she starts to gather her belongings and still he doesn't say anything because this is how arguments with marc go — he's infuriating and rarely recognises when to say enough's enough, and then whoever it is — lisa, layla, candace, marlene, greer &mdashh; leave. decide that marc's attitude — his pointed need to push away — will get him exactly what he wants: time alone to stew in his own thoughts and feel guilty.
he catches the teasing sight, now indeliberately so, of bare skin beneath her coat and the quizzical, questioning look that briefly makes an appearance in his features is involuntary and entirely reflexive. it's still not graceful, it's still not anything other than irritable, marc clinging — because what is he going to do, admit he was being a dick? — to the remnants of the thought that the impracticality of it all proves him right.
she doesn't leave though, not when she's put her laptop away, nor the charger. she stands and — against all expectations — starts to undo her coat. he looks away, the thought that she's doing this to get a rise out of him pulling accusatorily at the edges of his thoughts, even as the more rational part of him (maybe steven, maybe jake—) says no, that's not what it is. the hurt in her expression had been too present, too real for that to be the case.
it doesn't last long because as soon as she speaks, as soon as the words register, marc's gaze snaps back to her. impatient. questioning. she's not even looking at him, her attention focused entirely on undoing fiddly little buttons, hair doing more to cover her than—
—his waistcoat.
the realisation hits him with a jolt, cold and unpleasant, a mixed series of thoughts all vying for priority as he can't decide on what to think beyond 'fuck'. shit. the awareness that he's fucked up mingling in a strange way with the quickly fading leftovers of his petulance and moodiness, with the — absurd! given the situation — feeling-thought-sensation that his waistcoat looks good on her. more than good, even if 'on her' is doing a lot of heavy lifting.
the slight difference in their heights does nothing to mean that it covers much more of her than it does on marc, the curve of her breasts and her hips and her ass pulling at the material in such a way that it's almost obscene.
(god.) )
Lottie—. ( the intonation is as confused as marc seems to be, still undecided on whether he's stubborn enough to try and force himself to remain annoyed or whether the stark, sudden realisation of what he's missing out on is enough to make him make an effort to apologise. it's low, questioning, almost, slightly strangled. )
[ It does look good on her. That was the whole point and thought process she had behind the decision, because his jacket would be too bigβ no body, not fitted enough. His tie would be kinda cute but, what else? Where would it go? It's a no, after that. But his waistcoat? The right amount of skimpy and modest to be an overwhelming sensation of a sight. Squeezing her breasts together to create the perfect dip of cleavage and the right amount of shape to leave as little, and as much, to the imagination as a person will allow. The gaudy lace-up boots were purely so his eyes would be drawn to the meat of her thighs, lead his gaze to her hips and ass.
Apparently it is working, because Marc's tune is changing by the second. His body language, even the air in the room. It's less thick, oppressiveβ edging on curious and almost pained. She's halfway to taking it off entirely by the time he speaks her name, a warbly mix of everything but anger and petty irritation. This, by itself, makes the tense and purposeful way she lingers at a button stop. Lets it stay, but her hands toy with it. She's done enough to show him that on top of wearing his waistcoatβ she's definitely not wearing a bra. Chances are, not a thong either. Just her, and his clothing, and her boots. Her body shimmer accentuating the skin he can see and a perfume wafting through the air as moves. Draws a hand away to push her hair back, a pretty green to contrast all that white. ]
Giving this back to you. Because my plan was to tease you with whatever was under my coat. And if you were nice Marc, I was gonna do thisβ I was gonna show you how good I looked in your clothes and sit my ass on your desk.
[ She's looking at him now, expression even and focused. Not even the slightest bit embarrassed as she paints the picture for him. ]
You were gonna sit in your chair and I was gonna spread my legs and let you watch me touch myself. See I had no panties and I've been only wearing this the whole time. For you. No hands, because you had to earn that. And if you were a good boy Marc, I would've let you eat me out and come all over your face.
[ She punctuates that with silenceβ a few strong beats of it, where she's back to frowning, a little heated up. From the emotion, from the fact she still finds that image stupidly hot and her cheeks are a little pink. From the fact she likes how strangled his voice is from one look at her, something like regret and interest dancing in his eyes. Some of it is in hers, too, because she's feeling tall. Like she's the one with the winning hand.
And thenβ she undoes that one button she's been thumbing at. Nonchalantly, ]
( she stops, her fingers hovering over the button. toying, playing. he knows what's underneath, knows how her skin feels underneath his fingers, knows how smooth it is, how it tastes beneath his lips. he can imagine tracing lines along her chest, her stomach, pausing before he goes any lower, the way he'd glance up to catch lottie's expression.
there's none of that now, just her. there. her fingers and his clothes teasing what lies beneath, and she knows it. it's not a question, there's no doubt, and when she speaks he stays still.
—no, that's not true. when she starts to speak, he stays still, but the more she says the harder it is. she admits she planned on teasing him and his expression — watchful, wide eyes — hardens into something a touch more questioning until she quantifies. if you were nice. marc isn't nice, surely she knows that by now. he isn't-can't-won't be.
but where marc seems unsure of how to reply, lottie continues, self-assured and confident. forthright. she tells him she'd sit her ass on her desk and he glances at it (her), then the desk, then back again. once, he'd told her to get off his desk when she'd sat on it, but here and now, he's not sure he'd find quite it in him to say the same thing. (a part of him thinks it's deliberate and he can't decide if it infuriates him or not—.)
he shifts his weight, uncomfortable, hot, tight, as she describes what she'd planned on doing. the corners of his lips dip, just for a second, as marc realises anything — everything — else has faded into the background, a soft blur of nothing next to burgeoning arousal and— the question of how to respond because she does. lottie holds all the cards and marc could — he could tell her he doesn't want it, she's right, she can give him his waistcoat, put her coat back on and leave. but the words sit heady, unformable, a muddled mess. he could but he won't.
for all that marc spends his nights trading blows, pushing his body to its limit and finding something to enjoy in the darkness, he's not who most of his enemies, no, his colleagues think he is. he doesn't get off on causing pain, he doesn't enjoy hurting others. he doesn't find peace in violence or whatever the fuck it is that some of them seem to, but he does like it.
he likes the push-and-pull, the give-and-take, the way that winning takes being punished. he's met more than his fair share of people who can't feel pain, who gloat about it, who consider it a strength, but for marc it's the opposite. there's something pleasurable to be found in taking every hit thrown your way and getting up at the end of it.
it's satisfying.
the truth of it is most evident in how he conducts his relationships. in how he doesn't hate this, the way that lottie's putting him in his place and he's got nothing to come back with. he's got no choice but to agree, to let her have what she wants because she's right, but—.
he leans forward, arms outstretched. he can't help himself as he looks to the button she — finally! — undoes, gaze lingering on the exposed skin for one second, then two, then back to her face, to her eyes. )
[ It absolutely is on purposeβ a pointed reminder Lottie will always do what she wants in the end (always gets what she wants, in the end), and a pointed visual for when she's wet enough she drips. Stains the clean wood on his desk, where he'd sit and work and brood, with her slick. ]
I thought of that, too.
[ He leans forward, looks like he so dearly wants to touch but is afraid of what would happen if he did without her express permission. Good. She inhales slowly. Good. She takes a few measured steps back to lean against a corner of his deskβ arguably: an uncomfortable experience. There's no cushion of fabric to make the wood bite any less into her, this time. Just bare skin and his flimsy waistcoat, hanging on by a few buttons. She crosses her arms, visibly weighing her options. She isn't above leaving after all, after this, even with Marc's attention being gifted completely to her.
This is what she wanted originally, when she came into the Mission to start this whole charade in the first place. Now? It isn't enough. The way his eyes drink her skin in like he hasn't had water in days, isn't enough. Lottie needs more, feels the desire that comes with winning and putting Marc in his place (sometimes, winning means sitting on his lap, keeping his cock warm until she feels like riding him, other times it's letting him eat her out while she worksβ an unspoken battle for attention between him and an email, or even letting him play with her right before they have to go somewhere, leaving him high and dry and angry, needy) burgeoning inside her. She crosses her arms. ]
You wouldn't even get to watch. If you weren't good, you'd only get to hear me finger myself.
[ Would she blindfold him? Turn his chair around? She leaves it purposely vague, purposely obtuse. ]
And when I'm done you'd clean up the mess I made on your desk. You can only use your tongue. Obviously I'd have to watch, [ Him lapping juices from her pussy, so close to it. Because Lottie wouldn't move to make it easier for himβ she'd stay, legs spread, and have him accommodate to her. ] to make sure you did a good job.
( she says she thought of that, the chance that marc wasn't good and he thinks, in contrast to the semi-hardness of his dick in his pants, that she doesn't get what he means. she thinks he means here and now, that he's not good in fleeting moments and that's not it. he wants to tell her in no uncertain terms, that he's not a good person, that he never has been and that everything she's seen, everything she knows of him, is desperation. a sad man trying to be everything his nature says he's not.
she moves away and it's not unexpected. he follows her movements with his eyes. watchful. he can only imagine how the sharp edge feels against her skin, implied only by the fleeting shift in her expression otherwise carefully schooled. the hazy thought that she's trying to teach him a lesson occurs to him and he almost laughs. he's stubborn, an asshole through-and-through, and she thinks she has the upper hand—?
(of course she thinks that because she does. it's there in the lingering want of his gaze, the way that his attention flickers intermittently to her face and then back to her exposed skin, dappled with glitter, tan and healthy in ways that marc hasn't really seen in years.
he knows what she's thinking as she crosses her arms: she's thinking of all the times she's put him in his place previously, left him begging and near desperate, grumpy and whiny because she's had hers and he's been left. needy. wanting. that the both of them know it fulfils something else in him is unspoken. that marc doesn't quite know how to handle being content. that the concept of his expectations being met with refusal hovers between characteristic argumentativeness and a surprisingly pliant, muted, subservient nature is not something they've discussed. he refuses.
so she asserts itself and it does nothing to make marc any less desiring, does nothing to make him more happy. she tells him how the night would have progressed had he not been good, what he'd hear and be forbidden from being involved in, and it earns — at length — a flicker of a smile. he doesn't get as far as thinking of saying she knows he's good at doing as he's told because that's not quite true. he is and he isn't — he's difficult and combative, but ultimately—yes. he does as he's told in spite of how it might sit with him. with his soul. his being. )
So? ( he says instead, the word feeling thick and heavy and sticky in his throat and his mouth. she's there, in front of him, and all he has is the space between them. words.
he inhales. ) Where does that leave us, Lottie? I haven't been good. And that's my waistcoat. I could demand it back.
[ He says so and even Lottie can tell some part of him is trying to swallow it down before he can let it loose. Lets her know that he's getting sucked into the honey trap that is all that's spoken between them, painted by her glossy lips and lingering loudly in the silence of the Mission. The ambience of cars driving at night and the faint stir of people staying up late. Someone out there is probably halfway to finishing a fantastic date, someone else is in the throes of the most wildly passionate sex known to man.
And Lottie is here with Marc. Her boyfriend, Moon Knight, half hard and deeply regretting all he's done to make her upset and yet. He tries to skirt past it, asks where that leaves them because he is testing the waters. Checking the temperature to see if she'll let him sink or swim. If she'll join him or watch.
He tries to shift the power in his favor β postures with all his heart β and Lottie doesn't buy it. Just tilts her head down at him, because he had so much time to interrupt her. To tell her to take it off. He couldn't have said anything to begin with, and she would've been on her merry way to Caroline's.
That's the thing with Marc, if he really wanted to? He would've. He's just as obscenely stubborn as she is, a trainwreck that can't be stopped once the destination is set. Either dead set on being bratty or following her every whim like a good boy, kneeling when she wants him to. Where she wants him to. For as long, as she wants him to.
(Which, in a way, always makes her wonder where the lines need to be drawnβ how deep the mindset he dips into goes whenever he becomes quiet, subservient, malleable like clay. Moaning out the sweetest sounds for her that make her brain go blissfully numb.)
She looks down at him, trails her gaze over his chest down to his belly. His crotchβ the faint outline of his dick easy to see amongst the white on his frame. Then to the floorβ where she imagines what he'd look like staring up at her. Imploring. Needy. Vaguely upset at the fact he'd be aching and hard for longer than she'd let him, just for his comments. Her thighs cross, the fabric of his waistcoat riding up up up the meat of her thighs.
( she stays silent as does he. she waits, he waits.
(it's not a conversation to have — the one about what marc's thoughts are, about why he is the way he is, about why he argues but ultimately relents, about what it is that means he gives in. he's good at pretending, good at justifying, not so good at questioning, and if lottie were to ask, were to question those contradictions that make marc marc, he wouldn't know where to begin.
—no, he would, and that's the problem. he'd be able to weave a neat thread between the events (some) that helped form marc spector, be able to deftly point out the stark differences in personality between himself and his father, between who marc was and is, and who he was wanted to be.
he could, but he'd never be able to say it.)
he watches as her gaze tracks along his body, to the floor, and pauses. lingers. for once, marc isn't sure what she's thinking, where her thoughts are at. then, finally, she moves, folding one leg over the other and exposing more skin. lets him see the barest curve of her ass and the lack of anything else underneath. lets him know that everything she'd said, the promise of what she'd had planned, was exactly that and not an idle threat.
his gaze is hungry as she tells him to take it off — dares him, even, her voice and posture a challenge, the sort that says she has him in the palm of her hand and she knows it. knows that he knows it. he barely notices the sounds around them, the background noises of vehicles and other people going about their night. doesn't pay attention to the sound of car horns, friends yelling in jest at one another, laughter. his focus, firmly, is on lottie and that's precisely how she likes it.
(how marc likes it too, really—.)
and then he's up, out of the chair. a handful of steps and he's stood across from her, the height difference barely noticeable thanks to her boots. his breath is warm, the curve of his lips and the pinch of his brows intense and wanting. her perfume is all he can smell, but it's not that that's intoxicating, and he presses a thigh against hers, leans his weight into her to push her back against the desk, to push her into sitting.
(she'd said, after all.)
he runs his hands along the curve of her shoulders, pausing at the material of his (his) waistcoat, the one she'd taken without asking. he pushes, not exactly gently, not exactly roughly, just — slides it away. there's not much resistance, the action relatively easy given the buttons lottie's undone. more exposed skin, then, tantalising, teasing, and marc wants to. imagines, just for a moment, picking her up and lying her down against the desk. imagines exploring her not so much inch by inch from mouth to tit to pussy, but from there up. not seeing, but hearing her moans, her pleasure.
he thinks it but he doesn't do it, even as his cock stirs, presses more against his pants, against her and his fingers make their way across her collarbones, across her breasts — not lingering, not pausing, no matter how much he'd like to — until he gets to a button. a stupid crescent moon, and only then does he stop. looks to meet her gaze, watch her expression as he expertly, with intimate familiarity, undoes the button. )
[ A lot of Marc can always be read in his face. The lines of his forehead when his brows crease too much, the purse of his lips when he's upset, the squint of his eyes when he's judging her. The minute, barely there curl of his lips when he is satisfied.
Tonight, right now, it's his eyes. An even darker brown to complement her own, a dark abyss that contains the moon, the stars, the universe, every answer she could ever want (she'd tell him, when she's feeling sappy and romantic and stricken with emotion). She can feel just how badly he wants to devour her, swallow her down whole until there's nothing left for him to take. Can see how he's so focused on her, the rest of world doesn't even compare.
In hers, it's budding. He stands and her thighs clench tighter, entranced by the single-minded determination taking hold of him. His breath is warm and her eyes immediately dart to his lips, the same ones she kissed, whispered good morning against before she darted out of the door to go meet with Esther.
The firm muscle of his thigh is pressed against the soft skin of her own, the fabric cool on her skin. Marc doesn't often tell her what he wants in wordsβ it takes a bit of reading to figure what's in his mind, times like this. The way he corners her, almost bullies her onto his desk is probably the easiest thing she's read off him tonight. Was that so hard? Her eyes say, the way they linger on his as she sifts her bare ass, her pussy, onto his desk, shoves his shit off onto the ground carelessly. It clatters loud, a sound so small and insignificant to his callous hands on her shoulders. She was fuming, in some way still is, but she practically purrs at this touch. The way it feels like worship, like he doesn't know where to begin. Like maybe this isn't real.
(Whenever she thinks he's debating over it, it's always when she gives him a few ill placed hickeys. Bites him. Scratches his back until there's nothing but pretty red lines she can touch herself to later. Debates on this, too, if she should reward him with some if he manages to follow her rules.)
He slides the garment off her frame, strands of green rustling as Lottie becomes more naked by the second. But she isn't shy about itβ her body is one of her greatest assets, after all. Why she can live the life she can, with whoever she wants. So when she's bare, when her breasts are no longer teased but all there for him to see, her back straights. Her chest tauntingly juts outβ uses the excuse of an inhale to make it agonizing for Marc, when he chooses to run his fingers featherlight over them. They're all his, but he can't palm them. The hint of vein beneath velvet smooth skin, pebbled nipples, ones he'd know are sensitive. One of her favorite places to see him latch his lips onto and kiss, mouth at.
Smartly, he doesn't cross that boundary. Stays decidedly in 'good' territory, is edging himself back into her good graces when he decides to take her up on her dare. See what happens, she'd said.
The first thing that happens is a nailβ filed sharp, dangerous if she presses a little too hard β tracing over the front of him. Just above his crotch, above where his hard dick is trapped to his trousers. She doesn't even bother looking down to see, she just keeps her honey brown eyes on his. Doesn't break even when he checks on her before that button is done. It drags, pointed end tracing along the underside of him. Firm enough for him to feel the taut press of fabric hugging his cock, but never close enough for him to feel her human touch.
And then, she circles back. Hooks it into his zipper and plays with it, edges it down. Then back up. All over again. Raises her brow expectantly at him all the while. ]
( it's always obvious when a person knows marc, truly and utterly, by whether they can read his face. by whether they know that the pinch of his brows, the tension in carries in his expression is just a reflection of how he is; that he tends towards baffled and unsure as often as he's upset and angry. that he's unexpectedly boyish at times, prone to displays of affection that sit in opposition to his terseness, his grumpiness, his moodiness.
marc has always been, if nothing else, devoted. he has always been one to ignore his own predilections in favour of pleasing. (lingering father issues—.)
lottie's hard to say no to. he does of course, often without apparent rhyme or reason, his moods as changeable as the moon itself. but none of it means he enjoys it — in spite of himself, marc is someone that craves praise, that needs to be told he's doing a good job, whose self-worth hinges on the way that the people important to him perceive him. view him. the esteem in which they hold him.
it's why he'd taken so long to tell marlene the truth. and greer. lottie, too. what if—. (catastrophisising—.)
of course, none of that's on his mind now. instead, there's the sharp tinge of discomfort (not quite pain), fluttering, persuasive, almost; dancing as she runs a nail dangerously close to his dick and the sudden inhale is wanting and questioning all at once. almost pained at the lingering promise, faint and distant, until she pushes down, the only sounds in the room it and his breaths—.
(there may be more but marc doesn't register them—.)
then the zipper is pulled back up, the movements repeated as her eyebrows lift. smug, and marc can't decide if he's infatuated or infuriated, the only noise he's immediately capable of making being a low growl. fuck it, he'd been good, he reasons, and he pushes her back. pushes her further onto the desk, attention not distracted in the slightest by the noise of more whatever-the-fuck-it-doesn't-matter sliding off and hitting the floor. (it doesn't matter—.) )
You're a fucking tease, ( he mutters into her stomach. wet. low. his hands resting on her hips, expression level. daring, challenging. he could work his way up, circle around her breasts and her nipples, touch everything else with his mouth and his tongue, or he could make his way down, to her thighs, soft and warm and everything. he could be teasing too. make her wait. )
[ It's always easy to get a reaction out of him. It doesn't take much, really. A coy bat of her lashes or a strategic hint of leg, cleavage. This time she got him worked up with barely a touch to his zipper and Lottie feels stupidly elated as Marc growls.
The sound shoots straight to her gut and she doesn't fight him when he pushes her back, scoots her further onto his desk. She takes the opportunity to just wreck it, push everything off to make room for herself, for the way Marc stares down at her. Suddenly so big and mean that it makes her wet, her cheeks dabble pink. ]
You're the one who got mad!
[ She sits herself up on her elbows, finds it incredibly unfair that he's anchored himself there at her belly. The only ways to go from there being up or down, and she just knows he's going to make her wait. Make her just as frustrated as he is because it's already workingβ she wants the wet hot of his lips to be between her thighs, instead of near her navel, so bad she might die. Spontaneously combust. Would come so embarrassingly fast if she saw her wet his face, too.
Some part of her is, close to a Marc induced death, with the way his hands anchor at her hips and she already has to spread her legs open to make room for him. But that isn't going to stop her from trying to hitch a leg over his shoulder, to lock him into one choice with the way her hips have to shift and angle up. Maybe he can smell her, maybe he can feel the intoxicating heat of her just inches away. She's betting on the hand at his hair, the one she sidles her fingers through to draw his lips away from her skin, to focus all his attention on her, doing the trick. ]
Could've been sitting on your dick by now but noβ. [ Her voice wobbles, sounds less admonishing and more frustrated. Like she's turned on by her own idea and wishes he wasn't so stupidly stubborn so she could just fuck him already. ] Marc had to prove a point.
( she accuses him of being the one to have set the tone of the night, to have delayed everything — all of this — on the basis of his mood, his temper and if it wasn't for the flush to lottie's skin, the warmth that he feels more than anything he can see, his reaction would be different.
("are you saying I'm unreasonable?" he'd asked once, the question teasing and self-aware because of course he is. that's him, his personality through-and-through.)
as it is, he barely has a choice. her hand in his hair is guiding, part deliberate, part by instinct; her nails sharp against his scalp, fingers woven through strands that threaten waves that threaten curls. her leg rests on his shoulder and it might not be particularly elegant, might be slightly awkward, but it's effective. it forces marc to his knees to minimise the distance, to make it easier — for him at least, he doesn't think of lottie's hand, of the pull against his hair, not as he hands skirt over her hips, across the top of her thigh, the one that's not on top of him.
he makes a noise, something that might be a hmph, muffled against skin. she's trying to be—petulant? no, assertive but it's not quite there. it's a little whiny. impatient. he presses his mouth to the inside of her thigh, a lick first and then more, sucking at the skin, tasting her. there's more — he wants it as much as she does, her heat, her wetness, all of it inviting. captivating, but—.
marc had to prove a point, she says. he did. he always does, he never makes it easy — anything in his life. her bringing it up again doesn't make him want to make it any easier for her, either. petulance. unreasonableness. it'd make the — painful — wait worthwhile. )
[ He never makes anything easy and he is going to make her insane because of it. Lottie doesn't think he understands the fire he's laying withβ nipping and sucking at the inside of her thigh, mouth just shy of the soft skin that's dappled wet with her arousal. Mouth just shy of where she needs him, at her throbbing clit. It's terrible, watching him not even take his time but stay where he is just to be a pain in her ass.
(And she's seen him take his time. Lottie has felt him take his time, the way he'd kiss and suck and latch a every inch of skin in front of him. The way his moans would turn so doting, full of adoration, like he was drunk on her, and how she'd feel the timbre of it against her skin. He'd steal her breath away each time and she'd sigh out sweetly, soaking in his love and attention. In the way his incisors would dig deeper before smoothing a wet tongue over the mark, mumbling Lottie and baby in equal parts.)
She thinksβ fine, he wants to do this? Still? Fine. Whatever! Fine. The hand at his head draws away, not without letting those nails scratch at his scalp once her presence is gone. But she doesn't leaveβ no, Marc has a companion alongside him between her thighs, and it's her hand. Adorned with her usual silver rings, long slender fingers run up and down the length of her sex. She lets him hear how her breath catches when she brushes against her clit β swollen, eager β before doing it all over again.
He'll feel her thighs twitch beneath his mouth before he feels those very same fingers draw away from her folds to prod at his mouth. Just a touch to his lower lip, suggestive, imploring. She looks down at him between thick strands of green, through the valley of her breasts, simply waiting, watching, to see if he'll take her in his mouth. Suck her dry. ]
( marc is a contradiction in that he hates being told what to do but that he's very good at it. he complains and he rebuffs and he argues, but ultimately, he does. he'd say — incorrectly — that he doesn't take pleasure in being argumentative, but he doesn't not.
it's a game, almost. marc seeing just how far he can push before too much is too much, and as soon as he sees — feels — lottie's hand join the fray, he almost pauses. barely a second, attention shifting as lottie's breath is inhaled and exhaled in juddery, pleasured spurts, and truthfully, he doesn't need her fingers probing at his lips. her sounds, her smell, her taste, his hardness still tight, enclosed in his pants is encouragement enough.
he licks at her fingertips, coy, deliberate, before acquiescing. giving in and giving her what she's asking for, even if she hasn't asked for it. he presses his mouth to her clit, wet and slick and lottie. his. he sucks, tastes her and his fingers dig harder into her hips, hard enough to bruise, but he's not thinking about that, not thinking about much of anything.
he starts off slow, a straight-forward up-and-down with his tongue, listening to the pitching and catching of lottie's breaths, the way she tenses, the noises she makes. then circles, faster, then slower, then faster—. )
[ It's the prettiest sight she's ever seen: Marc giving in to what she wants. Prettier than when his tongue was on her thigh, or licking at her fingers. He sinks his lips onto her clit and she doesn't really think so much as she feels. She whines out something weak and wanting, so full of desire her voice feels thick on her tongue as he works his.
She remembers the first time they did thisβ Lottie almost shy about spreading her legs. Bashful, edging on demure as he figured out what she liked, stared up at her to see what would happen if he flicked his tongue like this, or pressed the flat of it like that.
Sometimes they dabble in that same innocence, its own sort of game. But this is not thatβ this is Marc utilizing how well he knows her body against her and it's working. Her heels dig into his back, the sharp point digging into his suit, Lottie groaning out low and needy, ] Marc, [ biting deep into her bottom lip to muffle the warble that leaves her lips whenever he starts flicking tight little circles at her. It's dizzyingβ it shows on her face, the way he edges her so eagerly only to back off.
She doesn't even realize she's smiling, too busy hyper-focusing on the dig of his fingers on her hips and seeing her wet slick coat his face (Marc Spector belongs there, she thinks, nestled between her thighs, always proving he's hers and she's his). She should be embarrassed by how soaked she is, how much worse it's getting, how her hips are starting to twitch up into him. But it only serves to make her burn hotter, sink that same hand she offered to him back into his hair to keep him there, so she can watch him with blown out eyes and parted lips. ]
( she makes that noise and it's like a punch to his gut, warm and all-encompassing, the sort that makes him want — need — to touch himself, or for lottie to but—. but. her fingers wrap his hair tighter, to pull more and he groans into her, his hands pressing deeper into her skin, sliding against the curve of her body, her ass, lingering and taking pleasure in the knowledge that every part of her is his.
how wet she is is so hot, so arousing, and though he notices — of course — her saying his name, the way it's slightly truncated, the way she seems to be trying her hardest to keep all of her contained, it hits a part of him that is more primal than it is him. she jerks up into him and his hands squeeze against her skin, against her ass cheek and against the slight flesh of her hip, pulling her closer towards him.
now he stops with the games, with playing. now his attention is fully, entirely on lottie, on making her come. it's not as selfless as all that, in part it's because he enjoys it, in the same way he finds enjoyment in moon knight, in being pushed down just to get back up again. he doesn't look to her face, doesn't catch the way she's looking at him, half-lidded and barely in control.
he holds her in place instead, manages a— )Lottie, ( vaguely demanding and low and wanting, because he wants her as much as he needs his. )
[ It's, frankly, embarrassing, and she is never going to live down just how quickly he gets her there. She tries her best to make it last once he presses her pussy firm to his face and effectively traps her, makes her squeal and yelp because he's a man possessed. Because once Marc sets his mind to something that's it. And as soon as she feels herself locked, his nails biting her ass, a low and so very sexy Lottie sounding from his lips? She knows she's doomed.
It's a full body spasm, her hands moving from the crown of his head to the desk, to her thighs, to her mouth (she bites at a finger, weakly cries around it as she chants just like that, right there, oh Marc, please in rapid fire succession). She can't seem to decide where to graspβ ] O-oh, fuck. [ βwhen she comes with a loud and sharp cry, voice breaking pathetically at the end, blood rushing to her ears and thighs threatening to squeeze his head with how they flex around him.
It lasts forever, how her body jerks and stutters when she comes down, after she's effectively soaked his face. Lottie's breathing is heavy, the shaking of her legs pronounced as she tries to weakly squirm up and out of his hold, overstimulated and so, so sensitive. ]
( she might think that she won't be able to live it down, but that's not what this is, not to marc. it's about the end result. it always is with marc, in every facet of his life — not, strictly, the what or the how, but the end. what happens.
she comes and it's not quiet, it's not subdued. it's loud and it's wet and it's all-encompassing. she jerks and tenses and marc's thoughts are not on how long (or not) it took, his thoughts are on her, her taste and her smell, the way she tries to move out of his grasp, slightly breathless and still so hot.
he lets her move, just a touch, pressing his lips, wet with her, against her leg, soft kisses working their way back up towards her navel. a breath of a pause and an actual breath, warm against her skin, punctuated by a glance up at her face. smug satisfaction pulls at the corners of his lips even as one of his hands lets go of her, slides towards his pants, to his zip, to his dick. his turn—
—as he leans up and forwards, presses his face into her hair and asks, whispered and deliberate, ) Was that what you had in mind?
[ It's wet kiss after wet kiss on her skin, up her thighs to her navel, upper abdomen. Lottie quivers and shakes, feels the corner of her eyes water from the sheer intensity of it all, even the aftershocks, and finds herself pleasantly (and always a little uncomfortablyβ finding how wet she gets a bit too overwhelming) sticky.
Stickier, when she manages to get a glance at one arm of his snaking down, her brain delightfully filling in the blanks when he noses at her hair. She whines in response, clenches around nothing and pulls Marc in, even as he is attempting to catch his breath. Hopes to maybe feel the thick of him already out and waiting at rest by her wet thigh, by the time she does. ]
Coming on your face? Fuck, my god, yeah.
[ She tilts her head to kiss at the space below his ear, at the delicate corner of his jaw. To work her way towards his lips so she can taste herself on him. ]
( she barely gives him time to pause, to orient himself before she presses her mouth, her lips to his skin and he moans, a low, deep noise of wanting that might be the result of her comment or might be the result of her attentiveness, or it could be both. there's no indication, nothing beyond the way that marc tilts into her kiss, into her lips, his stubble — near permanent unless steven gets his way, or jake — grazing her smooth, soft skin. )
Then you didn't need to make it so difficult, ( he says and it's whiny in the way that only marc can sound — gruff and petulant all at once, irritable even if he's not irritated at all. ) I'm not that disagreeable, ( he adds, and it's murmured more than spoken, and she will — she'll feel the length of his dick against her thigh, hear and feel his hand against the shaft, warm and slightly desperate. quick, hard pumps, and he tells her more than asks— ) Do you know how good you look like that?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
he doesn't miss the way she seems to perk up every so often, the way her expression softens and the way the tap of her nails against her phone screen increases with speed. the way that she's — he's certain — doing it just to annoy him. he doesn't say anything further, doesn't add anything, not until lottie pauses, her gaze cold and haughty, shifts to meet his.
it lasts mere seconds before she opens her mouth to speak and it's not to him. sure, it's directed at him, but she's not giving him the satisfaction of being spoken to. she's making it clear, in the most roundabout way she can, just what she thinks of his behaviour, and all marc can think is that it serves to prove his point. lottie person is being a child. siri asserts that it's a playground taunt and his gaze, dropped back to his newspaper, lifts to look in her direction, lips quirking in petty amusement and smugness as siri backs him up.
paper crinkles as he turns a page (stiltman is still around, apparently—) and he hums. ) If I wanted to know about playground taunts, I'd ask Greer if William's heard any good ones.
no subject
Whatever. Do you think I care that you still talk to Greer?
[ She's so fine she almost debates on texting Sunny. Or that annoying cop John. Anything to smooth over the weird sting in her chest because Greer is his exβ the one who he still talks to. The one whose kid knows Marc, or whatever. The who still sometimes comes around. The really nice hot one (she can handle nice, Lottie can't handle the fact she's as hot as herβ she's had many crises over this).
The one she is allergic to. ]
I'm completely fine with it!!
no subject
it's only when she speaks that he meets her gaze. impassive. )
Of course you don't care. ( beat. ) Caring would be unreasonable.
( said like they're both reasonable people, like their unreasonableness isn't the entire cause of — whatever this situation is. this petty squabbling with no identifiable (to marc) cause. )
no subject
Esther is having Sunny do my shoot tomorrow.
[ And she was going to ask if he wanted her to stop working with himβ because she knows how he is. How she is. How she'd want him to extend the same courtesy so she could pretend to be reasonable or so she could indulge in how truly needy she is for Marc. Now, she isn't going to give him that option. Because caring would be unreasonable, right? Her eyes say that, burn as much into his, something like tears brimming the bottom of her lashes as she dares him to say something. ]
no subject
but he doesn't.
instead, his frown deepens, lips thinning before he looks away, abruptly. he's never told lottie about the time he'd followed marlene and that whoever kid she'd started seeing after they'd broken up, hasn't told her that it'd been several times and at least one of them had been with the express purpose of punching him. marc is unreasonable, has always been unreasonable. it's not something he's especially proud of, and though he doesn't — won't — treat sunny the same way, the distinct unhappiness at lottie's admission (taunt) makes the thought a little — little — tempting.
(at least a fright—.)
a lingering pause, and then, carefully, deliberately— ) Have fun.
no subject
And then she closes her laptop, unplugs the charger and unplugs that from the wall. Wraps it all in her little case before putting her computer inside, too. If Marc looks up, when she bends to put everything away in her seat, when her coat rises up, he'll find bare skin. An endless sea of it, milky and soft, where safety shorts should be, maybe shapewear, a skirt at least.
If he doesn't, he'll find the brunt of the discovery hit him when she stands, begins the process of taking off her coatβ button by button, to reveal what was the big surprise all along: his waistcoat, from one of his many suits in her closet (she's taken to dry cleaning them when he doesn't have the time, a show of affection she takes pride in). Large but simply not large enough to cover all the important bits, draped on her frame like an ill fitting dress that still looks perfect. ]
You can have this back, then.
[ I don't need it, is the implication, Lottie fully intent on putting her coat back on after she takes this off. She's already three buttons down, skimming over her breasts and exposing the top of her abdomen, head tilted down in concentration because her nails are still long and it takes time no matter what, to do this. ]
no subject
he looks up at she moves, as she starts to gather her belongings and still he doesn't say anything because this is how arguments with marc go — he's infuriating and rarely recognises when to say enough's enough, and then whoever it is — lisa, layla, candace, marlene, greer &mdashh; leave. decide that marc's attitude — his pointed need to push away — will get him exactly what he wants: time alone to stew in his own thoughts and feel guilty.
he catches the teasing sight, now indeliberately so, of bare skin beneath her coat and the quizzical, questioning look that briefly makes an appearance in his features is involuntary and entirely reflexive. it's still not graceful, it's still not anything other than irritable, marc clinging — because what is he going to do, admit he was being a dick? — to the remnants of the thought that the impracticality of it all proves him right.
she doesn't leave though, not when she's put her laptop away, nor the charger. she stands and — against all expectations — starts to undo her coat. he looks away, the thought that she's doing this to get a rise out of him pulling accusatorily at the edges of his thoughts, even as the more rational part of him (maybe steven, maybe jake—) says no, that's not what it is. the hurt in her expression had been too present, too real for that to be the case.
it doesn't last long because as soon as she speaks, as soon as the words register, marc's gaze snaps back to her. impatient. questioning. she's not even looking at him, her attention focused entirely on undoing fiddly little buttons, hair doing more to cover her than—
—his waistcoat.
the realisation hits him with a jolt, cold and unpleasant, a mixed series of thoughts all vying for priority as he can't decide on what to think beyond 'fuck'. shit. the awareness that he's fucked up mingling in a strange way with the quickly fading leftovers of his petulance and moodiness, with the — absurd! given the situation — feeling-thought-sensation that his waistcoat looks good on her. more than good, even if 'on her' is doing a lot of heavy lifting.
the slight difference in their heights does nothing to mean that it covers much more of her than it does on marc, the curve of her breasts and her hips and her ass pulling at the material in such a way that it's almost obscene.
(god.) )
Lottie—. ( the intonation is as confused as marc seems to be, still undecided on whether he's stubborn enough to try and force himself to remain annoyed or whether the stark, sudden realisation of what he's missing out on is enough to make him make an effort to apologise. it's low, questioning, almost, slightly strangled. )
What are you doing?
no subject
Apparently it is working, because Marc's tune is changing by the second. His body language, even the air in the room. It's less thick, oppressiveβ edging on curious and almost pained. She's halfway to taking it off entirely by the time he speaks her name, a warbly mix of everything but anger and petty irritation. This, by itself, makes the tense and purposeful way she lingers at a button stop. Lets it stay, but her hands toy with it. She's done enough to show him that on top of wearing his waistcoatβ she's definitely not wearing a bra. Chances are, not a thong either. Just her, and his clothing, and her boots. Her body shimmer accentuating the skin he can see and a perfume wafting through the air as moves. Draws a hand away to push her hair back, a pretty green to contrast all that white. ]
Giving this back to you. Because my plan was to tease you with whatever was under my coat. And if you were nice Marc, I was gonna do thisβ I was gonna show you how good I looked in your clothes and sit my ass on your desk.
[ She's looking at him now, expression even and focused. Not even the slightest bit embarrassed as she paints the picture for him. ]
You were gonna sit in your chair and I was gonna spread my legs and let you watch me touch myself. See I had no panties and I've been only wearing this the whole time. For you. No hands, because you had to earn that. And if you were a good boy Marc, I would've let you eat me out and come all over your face.
[ She punctuates that with silenceβ a few strong beats of it, where she's back to frowning, a little heated up. From the emotion, from the fact she still finds that image stupidly hot and her cheeks are a little pink. From the fact she likes how strangled his voice is from one look at her, something like regret and interest dancing in his eyes. Some of it is in hers, too, because she's feeling tall. Like she's the one with the winning hand.
And thenβ she undoes that one button she's been thumbing at. Nonchalantly, ]
But you clearly don't want that, so.
no subject
there's none of that now, just her. there. her fingers and his clothes teasing what lies beneath, and she knows it. it's not a question, there's no doubt, and when she speaks he stays still.
—no, that's not true. when she starts to speak, he stays still, but the more she says the harder it is. she admits she planned on teasing him and his expression — watchful, wide eyes — hardens into something a touch more questioning until she quantifies. if you were nice. marc isn't nice, surely she knows that by now. he isn't-can't-won't be.
but where marc seems unsure of how to reply, lottie continues, self-assured and confident. forthright. she tells him she'd sit her ass on her desk and he glances at it (her), then the desk, then back again. once, he'd told her to get off his desk when she'd sat on it, but here and now, he's not sure he'd find quite it in him to say the same thing. (a part of him thinks it's deliberate and he can't decide if it infuriates him or not—.)
he shifts his weight, uncomfortable, hot, tight, as she describes what she'd planned on doing. the corners of his lips dip, just for a second, as marc realises anything — everything — else has faded into the background, a soft blur of nothing next to burgeoning arousal and— the question of how to respond because she does. lottie holds all the cards and marc could — he could tell her he doesn't want it, she's right, she can give him his waistcoat, put her coat back on and leave. but the words sit heady, unformable, a muddled mess. he could but he won't.
for all that marc spends his nights trading blows, pushing his body to its limit and finding something to enjoy in the darkness, he's not who most of his enemies, no, his colleagues think he is. he doesn't get off on causing pain, he doesn't enjoy hurting others. he doesn't find peace in violence or whatever the fuck it is that some of them seem to, but he does like it.
he likes the push-and-pull, the give-and-take, the way that winning takes being punished. he's met more than his fair share of people who can't feel pain, who gloat about it, who consider it a strength, but for marc it's the opposite. there's something pleasurable to be found in taking every hit thrown your way and getting up at the end of it.
it's satisfying.
the truth of it is most evident in how he conducts his relationships. in how he doesn't hate this, the way that lottie's putting him in his place and he's got nothing to come back with. he's got no choice but to agree, to let her have what she wants because she's right, but—.
he leans forward, arms outstretched. he can't help himself as he looks to the button she — finally! — undoes, gaze lingering on the exposed skin for one second, then two, then back to her face, to her eyes. )
I've never been good.
no subject
I thought of that, too.
[ He leans forward, looks like he so dearly wants to touch but is afraid of what would happen if he did without her express permission. Good. She inhales slowly. Good. She takes a few measured steps back to lean against a corner of his deskβ arguably: an uncomfortable experience. There's no cushion of fabric to make the wood bite any less into her, this time. Just bare skin and his flimsy waistcoat, hanging on by a few buttons. She crosses her arms, visibly weighing her options. She isn't above leaving after all, after this, even with Marc's attention being gifted completely to her.
This is what she wanted originally, when she came into the Mission to start this whole charade in the first place. Now? It isn't enough. The way his eyes drink her skin in like he hasn't had water in days, isn't enough. Lottie needs more, feels the desire that comes with winning and putting Marc in his place (sometimes, winning means sitting on his lap, keeping his cock warm until she feels like riding him, other times it's letting him eat her out while she worksβ an unspoken battle for attention between him and an email, or even letting him play with her right before they have to go somewhere, leaving him high and dry and angry, needy) burgeoning inside her. She crosses her arms. ]
You wouldn't even get to watch. If you weren't good, you'd only get to hear me finger myself.
[ Would she blindfold him? Turn his chair around? She leaves it purposely vague, purposely obtuse. ]
And when I'm done you'd clean up the mess I made on your desk. You can only use your tongue. Obviously I'd have to watch, [ Him lapping juices from her pussy, so close to it. Because Lottie wouldn't move to make it easier for himβ she'd stay, legs spread, and have him accommodate to her. ] to make sure you did a good job.
no subject
she moves away and it's not unexpected. he follows her movements with his eyes. watchful. he can only imagine how the sharp edge feels against her skin, implied only by the fleeting shift in her expression otherwise carefully schooled. the hazy thought that she's trying to teach him a lesson occurs to him and he almost laughs. he's stubborn, an asshole through-and-through, and she thinks she has the upper hand—?
(of course she thinks that because she does. it's there in the lingering want of his gaze, the way that his attention flickers intermittently to her face and then back to her exposed skin, dappled with glitter, tan and healthy in ways that marc hasn't really seen in years.
he knows what she's thinking as she crosses her arms: she's thinking of all the times she's put him in his place previously, left him begging and near desperate, grumpy and whiny because she's had hers and he's been left. needy. wanting. that the both of them know it fulfils something else in him is unspoken. that marc doesn't quite know how to handle being content. that the concept of his expectations being met with refusal hovers between characteristic argumentativeness and a surprisingly pliant, muted, subservient nature is not something they've discussed. he refuses.
so she asserts itself and it does nothing to make marc any less desiring, does nothing to make him more happy. she tells him how the night would have progressed had he not been good, what he'd hear and be forbidden from being involved in, and it earns — at length — a flicker of a smile. he doesn't get as far as thinking of saying she knows he's good at doing as he's told because that's not quite true. he is and he isn't — he's difficult and combative, but ultimately—yes. he does as he's told in spite of how it might sit with him. with his soul. his being. )
So? ( he says instead, the word feeling thick and heavy and sticky in his throat and his mouth. she's there, in front of him, and all he has is the space between them. words.
he inhales. ) Where does that leave us, Lottie? I haven't been good. And that's my waistcoat. I could demand it back.
no subject
And Lottie is here with Marc. Her boyfriend, Moon Knight, half hard and deeply regretting all he's done to make her upset and yet. He tries to skirt past it, asks where that leaves them because he is testing the waters. Checking the temperature to see if she'll let him sink or swim. If she'll join him or watch.
He tries to shift the power in his favor β postures with all his heart β and Lottie doesn't buy it. Just tilts her head down at him, because he had so much time to interrupt her. To tell her to take it off. He couldn't have said anything to begin with, and she would've been on her merry way to Caroline's.
That's the thing with Marc, if he really wanted to? He would've. He's just as obscenely stubborn as she is, a trainwreck that can't be stopped once the destination is set. Either dead set on being bratty or following her every whim like a good boy, kneeling when she wants him to. Where she wants him to. For as long, as she wants him to.
(Which, in a way, always makes her wonder where the lines need to be drawnβ how deep the mindset he dips into goes whenever he becomes quiet, subservient, malleable like clay. Moaning out the sweetest sounds for her that make her brain go blissfully numb.)
She looks down at him, trails her gaze over his chest down to his belly. His crotchβ the faint outline of his dick easy to see amongst the white on his frame. Then to the floorβ where she imagines what he'd look like staring up at her. Imploring. Needy. Vaguely upset at the fact he'd be aching and hard for longer than she'd let him, just for his comments. Her thighs cross, the fabric of his waistcoat riding up up up the meat of her thighs.
Half-lidded, low and feathery, ]
Then take it off.
[ See what happens, her voice implies. ]
no subject
she waits, he waits.
(it's not a conversation to have — the one about what marc's thoughts are, about why he is the way he is, about why he argues but ultimately relents, about what it is that means he gives in. he's good at pretending, good at justifying, not so good at questioning, and if lottie were to ask, were to question those contradictions that make marc marc, he wouldn't know where to begin.
—no, he would, and that's the problem. he'd be able to weave a neat thread between the events (some) that helped form marc spector, be able to deftly point out the stark differences in personality between himself and his father, between who marc was and is, and who he was wanted to be.
he could, but he'd never be able to say it.)
he watches as her gaze tracks along his body, to the floor, and pauses. lingers. for once, marc isn't sure what she's thinking, where her thoughts are at. then, finally, she moves, folding one leg over the other and exposing more skin. lets him see the barest curve of her ass and the lack of anything else underneath. lets him know that everything she'd said, the promise of what she'd had planned, was exactly that and not an idle threat.
his gaze is hungry as she tells him to take it off — dares him, even, her voice and posture a challenge, the sort that says she has him in the palm of her hand and she knows it. knows that he knows it. he barely notices the sounds around them, the background noises of vehicles and other people going about their night. doesn't pay attention to the sound of car horns, friends yelling in jest at one another, laughter. his focus, firmly, is on lottie and that's precisely how she likes it.
(how marc likes it too, really—.)
and then he's up, out of the chair. a handful of steps and he's stood across from her, the height difference barely noticeable thanks to her boots. his breath is warm, the curve of his lips and the pinch of his brows intense and wanting. her perfume is all he can smell, but it's not that that's intoxicating, and he presses a thigh against hers, leans his weight into her to push her back against the desk, to push her into sitting.
(she'd said, after all.)
he runs his hands along the curve of her shoulders, pausing at the material of his (his) waistcoat, the one she'd taken without asking. he pushes, not exactly gently, not exactly roughly, just — slides it away. there's not much resistance, the action relatively easy given the buttons lottie's undone. more exposed skin, then, tantalising, teasing, and marc wants to. imagines, just for a moment, picking her up and lying her down against the desk. imagines exploring her not so much inch by inch from mouth to tit to pussy, but from there up. not seeing, but hearing her moans, her pleasure.
he thinks it but he doesn't do it, even as his cock stirs, presses more against his pants, against her and his fingers make their way across her collarbones, across her breasts — not lingering, not pausing, no matter how much he'd like to — until he gets to a button. a stupid crescent moon, and only then does he stop. looks to meet her gaze, watch her expression as he expertly, with intimate familiarity, undoes the button. )
no subject
Tonight, right now, it's his eyes. An even darker brown to complement her own, a dark abyss that contains the moon, the stars, the universe, every answer she could ever want (she'd tell him, when she's feeling sappy and romantic and stricken with emotion). She can feel just how badly he wants to devour her, swallow her down whole until there's nothing left for him to take. Can see how he's so focused on her, the rest of world doesn't even compare.
In hers, it's budding. He stands and her thighs clench tighter, entranced by the single-minded determination taking hold of him. His breath is warm and her eyes immediately dart to his lips, the same ones she kissed, whispered good morning against before she darted out of the door to go meet with Esther.
The firm muscle of his thigh is pressed against the soft skin of her own, the fabric cool on her skin. Marc doesn't often tell her what he wants in wordsβ it takes a bit of reading to figure what's in his mind, times like this. The way he corners her, almost bullies her onto his desk is probably the easiest thing she's read off him tonight. Was that so hard? Her eyes say, the way they linger on his as she sifts her bare ass, her pussy, onto his desk, shoves his shit off onto the ground carelessly. It clatters loud, a sound so small and insignificant to his callous hands on her shoulders. She was fuming, in some way still is, but she practically purrs at this touch. The way it feels like worship, like he doesn't know where to begin. Like maybe this isn't real.
(Whenever she thinks he's debating over it, it's always when she gives him a few ill placed hickeys. Bites him. Scratches his back until there's nothing but pretty red lines she can touch herself to later. Debates on this, too, if she should reward him with some if he manages to follow her rules.)
He slides the garment off her frame, strands of green rustling as Lottie becomes more naked by the second. But she isn't shy about itβ her body is one of her greatest assets, after all. Why she can live the life she can, with whoever she wants. So when she's bare, when her breasts are no longer teased but all there for him to see, her back straights. Her chest tauntingly juts outβ uses the excuse of an inhale to make it agonizing for Marc, when he chooses to run his fingers featherlight over them. They're all his, but he can't palm them. The hint of vein beneath velvet smooth skin, pebbled nipples, ones he'd know are sensitive. One of her favorite places to see him latch his lips onto and kiss, mouth at.
Smartly, he doesn't cross that boundary. Stays decidedly in 'good' territory, is edging himself back into her good graces when he decides to take her up on her dare. See what happens, she'd said.
The first thing that happens is a nailβ filed sharp, dangerous if she presses a little too hard β tracing over the front of him. Just above his crotch, above where his hard dick is trapped to his trousers. She doesn't even bother looking down to see, she just keeps her honey brown eyes on his. Doesn't break even when he checks on her before that button is done. It drags, pointed end tracing along the underside of him. Firm enough for him to feel the taut press of fabric hugging his cock, but never close enough for him to feel her human touch.
And then, she circles back. Hooks it into his zipper and plays with it, edges it down. Then back up. All over again. Raises her brow expectantly at him all the while. ]
no subject
marc has always been, if nothing else, devoted. he has always been one to ignore his own predilections in favour of pleasing. (lingering father issues—.)
lottie's hard to say no to. he does of course, often without apparent rhyme or reason, his moods as changeable as the moon itself. but none of it means he enjoys it — in spite of himself, marc is someone that craves praise, that needs to be told he's doing a good job, whose self-worth hinges on the way that the people important to him perceive him. view him. the esteem in which they hold him.
it's why he'd taken so long to tell marlene the truth. and greer. lottie, too. what if—.
(catastrophisising—.)
of course, none of that's on his mind now. instead, there's the sharp tinge of discomfort (not quite pain), fluttering, persuasive, almost; dancing as she runs a nail dangerously close to his dick and the sudden inhale is wanting and questioning all at once. almost pained at the lingering promise, faint and distant, until she pushes down, the only sounds in the room it and his breaths—.
(there may be more but marc doesn't register them—.)
then the zipper is pulled back up, the movements repeated as her eyebrows lift. smug, and marc can't decide if he's infatuated or infuriated, the only noise he's immediately capable of making being a low growl. fuck it, he'd been good, he reasons, and he pushes her back. pushes her further onto the desk, attention not distracted in the slightest by the noise of more whatever-the-fuck-it-doesn't-matter sliding off and hitting the floor. (it doesn't matter—.) )
You're a fucking tease, ( he mutters into her stomach. wet. low. his hands resting on her hips, expression level. daring, challenging. he could work his way up, circle around her breasts and her nipples, touch everything else with his mouth and his tongue, or he could make his way down, to her thighs, soft and warm and everything. he could be teasing too. make her wait. )
no subject
The sound shoots straight to her gut and she doesn't fight him when he pushes her back, scoots her further onto his desk. She takes the opportunity to just wreck it, push everything off to make room for herself, for the way Marc stares down at her. Suddenly so big and mean that it makes her wet, her cheeks dabble pink. ]
You're the one who got mad!
[ She sits herself up on her elbows, finds it incredibly unfair that he's anchored himself there at her belly. The only ways to go from there being up or down, and she just knows he's going to make her wait. Make her just as frustrated as he is because it's already workingβ she wants the wet hot of his lips to be between her thighs, instead of near her navel, so bad she might die. Spontaneously combust. Would come so embarrassingly fast if she saw her wet his face, too.
Some part of her is, close to a Marc induced death, with the way his hands anchor at her hips and she already has to spread her legs open to make room for him. But that isn't going to stop her from trying to hitch a leg over his shoulder, to lock him into one choice with the way her hips have to shift and angle up. Maybe he can smell her, maybe he can feel the intoxicating heat of her just inches away. She's betting on the hand at his hair, the one she sidles her fingers through to draw his lips away from her skin, to focus all his attention on her, doing the trick. ]
Could've been sitting on your dick by now but noβ. [ Her voice wobbles, sounds less admonishing and more frustrated. Like she's turned on by her own idea and wishes he wasn't so stupidly stubborn so she could just fuck him already. ] Marc had to prove a point.
no subject
("are you saying I'm unreasonable?" he'd asked once, the question teasing and self-aware because of course he is. that's him, his personality through-and-through.)
as it is, he barely has a choice. her hand in his hair is guiding, part deliberate, part by instinct; her nails sharp against his scalp, fingers woven through strands that threaten waves that threaten curls. her leg rests on his shoulder and it might not be particularly elegant, might be slightly awkward, but it's effective. it forces marc to his knees to minimise the distance, to make it easier — for him at least, he doesn't think of lottie's hand, of the pull against his hair, not as he hands skirt over her hips, across the top of her thigh, the one that's not on top of him.
he makes a noise, something that might be a hmph, muffled against skin. she's trying to be—petulant? no, assertive but it's not quite there. it's a little whiny. impatient. he presses his mouth to the inside of her thigh, a lick first and then more, sucking at the skin, tasting her. there's more — he wants it as much as she does, her heat, her wetness, all of it inviting. captivating, but—.
marc had to prove a point, she says. he did. he always does, he never makes it easy — anything in his life. her bringing it up again doesn't make him want to make it any easier for her, either. petulance. unreasonableness. it'd make the — painful — wait worthwhile. )
no subject
(And she's seen him take his time. Lottie has felt him take his time, the way he'd kiss and suck and latch a every inch of skin in front of him. The way his moans would turn so doting, full of adoration, like he was drunk on her, and how she'd feel the timbre of it against her skin. He'd steal her breath away each time and she'd sigh out sweetly, soaking in his love and attention. In the way his incisors would dig deeper before smoothing a wet tongue over the mark, mumbling Lottie and baby in equal parts.)
She thinksβ fine, he wants to do this? Still? Fine. Whatever! Fine. The hand at his head draws away, not without letting those nails scratch at his scalp once her presence is gone. But she doesn't leaveβ no, Marc has a companion alongside him between her thighs, and it's her hand. Adorned with her usual silver rings, long slender fingers run up and down the length of her sex. She lets him hear how her breath catches when she brushes against her clit β swollen, eager β before doing it all over again.
He'll feel her thighs twitch beneath his mouth before he feels those very same fingers draw away from her folds to prod at his mouth. Just a touch to his lower lip, suggestive, imploring. She looks down at him between thick strands of green, through the valley of her breasts, simply waiting, watching, to see if he'll take her in his mouth. Suck her dry. ]
no subject
it's a game, almost. marc seeing just how far he can push before too much is too much, and as soon as he sees — feels — lottie's hand join the fray, he almost pauses. barely a second, attention shifting as lottie's breath is inhaled and exhaled in juddery, pleasured spurts, and truthfully, he doesn't need her fingers probing at his lips. her sounds, her smell, her taste, his hardness still tight, enclosed in his pants is encouragement enough.
he licks at her fingertips, coy, deliberate, before acquiescing. giving in and giving her what she's asking for, even if she hasn't asked for it. he presses his mouth to her clit, wet and slick and lottie. his. he sucks, tastes her and his fingers dig harder into her hips, hard enough to bruise, but he's not thinking about that, not thinking about much of anything.
he starts off slow, a straight-forward up-and-down with his tongue, listening to the pitching and catching of lottie's breaths, the way she tenses, the noises she makes. then circles, faster, then slower, then faster—. )
no subject
She remembers the first time they did thisβ Lottie almost shy about spreading her legs. Bashful, edging on demure as he figured out what she liked, stared up at her to see what would happen if he flicked his tongue like this, or pressed the flat of it like that.
Sometimes they dabble in that same innocence, its own sort of game. But this is not thatβ this is Marc utilizing how well he knows her body against her and it's working. Her heels dig into his back, the sharp point digging into his suit, Lottie groaning out low and needy, ] Marc, [ biting deep into her bottom lip to muffle the warble that leaves her lips whenever he starts flicking tight little circles at her. It's dizzyingβ it shows on her face, the way he edges her so eagerly only to back off.
She doesn't even realize she's smiling, too busy hyper-focusing on the dig of his fingers on her hips and seeing her wet slick coat his face (Marc Spector belongs there, she thinks, nestled between her thighs, always proving he's hers and she's his). She should be embarrassed by how soaked she is, how much worse it's getting, how her hips are starting to twitch up into him. But it only serves to make her burn hotter, sink that same hand she offered to him back into his hair to keep him there, so she can watch him with blown out eyes and parted lips. ]
no subject
how wet she is is so hot, so arousing, and though he notices — of course — her saying his name, the way it's slightly truncated, the way she seems to be trying her hardest to keep all of her contained, it hits a part of him that is more primal than it is him. she jerks up into him and his hands squeeze against her skin, against her ass cheek and against the slight flesh of her hip, pulling her closer towards him.
now he stops with the games, with playing. now his attention is fully, entirely on lottie, on making her come. it's not as selfless as all that, in part it's because he enjoys it, in the same way he finds enjoyment in moon knight, in being pushed down just to get back up again. he doesn't look to her face, doesn't catch the way she's looking at him, half-lidded and barely in control.
he holds her in place instead, manages a— ) Lottie, ( vaguely demanding and low and wanting, because he wants her as much as he needs his. )
no subject
It's a full body spasm, her hands moving from the crown of his head to the desk, to her thighs, to her mouth (she bites at a finger, weakly cries around it as she chants just like that, right there, oh Marc, please in rapid fire succession). She can't seem to decide where to graspβ ] O-oh, fuck. [ βwhen she comes with a loud and sharp cry, voice breaking pathetically at the end, blood rushing to her ears and thighs threatening to squeeze his head with how they flex around him.
It lasts forever, how her body jerks and stutters when she comes down, after she's effectively soaked his face. Lottie's breathing is heavy, the shaking of her legs pronounced as she tries to weakly squirm up and out of his hold, overstimulated and so, so sensitive. ]
no subject
she comes and it's not quiet, it's not subdued. it's loud and it's wet and it's all-encompassing. she jerks and tenses and marc's thoughts are not on how long (or not) it took, his thoughts are on her, her taste and her smell, the way she tries to move out of his grasp, slightly breathless and still so hot.
he lets her move, just a touch, pressing his lips, wet with her, against her leg, soft kisses working their way back up towards her navel. a breath of a pause and an actual breath, warm against her skin, punctuated by a glance up at her face. smug satisfaction pulls at the corners of his lips even as one of his hands lets go of her, slides towards his pants, to his zip, to his dick. his turn—
—as he leans up and forwards, presses his face into her hair and asks, whispered and deliberate, ) Was that what you had in mind?
no subject
Stickier, when she manages to get a glance at one arm of his snaking down, her brain delightfully filling in the blanks when he noses at her hair. She whines in response, clenches around nothing and pulls Marc in, even as he is attempting to catch his breath. Hopes to maybe feel the thick of him already out and waiting at rest by her wet thigh, by the time she does. ]
Coming on your face? Fuck, my god, yeah.
[ She tilts her head to kiss at the space below his ear, at the delicate corner of his jaw. To work her way towards his lips so she can taste herself on him. ]
I think about that all the time..
no subject
Then you didn't need to make it so difficult, ( he says and it's whiny in the way that only marc can sound — gruff and petulant all at once, irritable even if he's not irritated at all. ) I'm not that disagreeable, ( he adds, and it's murmured more than spoken, and she will — she'll feel the length of his dick against her thigh, hear and feel his hand against the shaft, warm and slightly desperate. quick, hard pumps, and he tells her more than asks— ) Do you know how good you look like that?
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)