( 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?
[ Marc would be ruining this with his attitude if he didn't sound so cute doing it, if he weren't already jerking himself off at the same time. She fists his hair into the palm her hand, kisses him harder. Moans even louder despite the uncomfortable graze of stubble rubbing at her skin, because he's getting her slick wet on her lips. Smearing her lipstick onto his mouth, messy and hot.
She grins against him, mmmms into his lips at the way he praises her. It's no question she does, has utilized both her pretty privilege and her body against him when he's particularly upset or broody (sometimes to bug, sometimes in lieu of an apology). ]
Hmmm. I dunno, [ She playfully nips at his lower lip, ] I think you should show me how much you like it.
[ Lottie's offering him an invitation to use her however he likes. However he needs, if he wants to jerk off and spread his seed on her or inside, it doesn't matter, because she's eager for it either away. The anger of the night gone and forgotten with the fresh buzz of him, his smell, the sound of him pumping himself desperately. She coos, ] Get it a little wet, c'mon.
( this is the part that really gets him going, after lottie's had her due in every way that matters, in the way that she's slightly rougher. the way that he's had to wait, desperation and need sitting on edge together, pulling at his fraying patience. he knows she knows how she looks, knows she knows she's fucking gorgeous and gorgeous fucking, but that doesn't mean she gets tired of hearing it, doesn't mean that marc gets tired of seeing it, tired of saying it.
it's an easy win for her, using her body against him to distract him. to force him into a for-him-and-by-technicalities-only early night. she nips at his lip, the sensation sharp and not particularly painful, not by marc's definition, but it's enough for his breath to hitch, to catch. he's hot enough for her, wants enough for her that the tip of his dick is wet with pre-cum, and he nuzzles against her body. trails his kisses haphazardly down the line of her ribs, below the curve of her tits. across the tender skin, enough that he can feel the minute changes in her breath, feel her words as she speaks and fuck. he moans into her, heavy, the motion of his hand running up and down his dick seeming loud in the interludes, the silence between the few words they share.
marc is not a smart man, and despite everything, despite what he'd prefer, he is an emotive man. everything he feels and thinks is ready to read in his expression, his gaze, the deepness and clarity — or otherwise — of his gaze.
now it speaks of his adoration of lottie, of how much he wants her, how close he is. how desperate, how much words — really, anything that's not base and instinctual &madsh; is beyond him. )
[ He bows his head and nuzzles into her, weak and pathetic and so very needy. For her, for her help. He begs with his grunts, his kisses on her skin that is sweat dappled and blazing hot. He pleads with his moans, how his shoulders heave and tremble as he sits on the precipice. He looks at her like he so desperately wants to take the plunge but he just needs a push, maybe wants her to take his hand and do it with him.
And god, maybe she willβ later. Her pussy is starting to throb painfully again because Marc, as always, never knows how stupid hot she finds him. How seeing him like this ruins her, makes her so turned on her brain is starting to think me me me and not Marc Marc Marc. She wants to swallow every sound he makes and wear him like a blanket, mark his body in her designer lipstick and give him hickey after hickey. So everyone knows mine mine mine. ]
Where d'you want it? Huh? On my tits? My face? Inside?
[ He makes her feel so special and loved and possessive that she begins to ramble, finally settles on wanting to make him feel good above all else. But then she says inside and she can't help but whine weakly, the authority leaving her voice for the briefest of moments. She nudges him closer with the back of her heel on his ass, ]
Stick it inside and come in me, babe. Wanna feel you when you do it.
( if her voice hadn't wavered when she said inside, marc's response would have been different. lottie's body is everything, from her tits to her ass to her legs, and he'd have said tits, but her voice catches, hitches, whines, and it's enough to have the thought catch, to halt, to be interrupted — abruptly — between consideration and utterance.
marc is difficult. contrary. dislikes agreeing inherently, but—.
this is different. it's an odd balance, the middle-ground between marc agreeing with and bucking obstinately against what he's told to do, but lottie has an advantage in that she's her. truthfully, he doesn't need to be insider her to come, just needs to know that she wants it, wants him, and he presses against her, presses into her even before she nudges him with his foot. his noise, his utterance, is guttural and underliberate. it escapes his throat and he barely notices, his everything fixed on lottie, on the feeling that seems to extend from head to toe.
(no, that's not quite true—. —throbbing and rush; intense and tight and warm—))
—Fuck, ( in spite of himself. strained. ) Lottie—.
[ Her jaw hangs slack and her fingers clench around his stupid, stuffy, shirt, when he makes his decision (like she gave him much a choice, cooing into his ear where she wanted him) and eases himself inside. They've done this so many times before, but it will always feel electric every time. She trembles, sounds a decibel shy of pitiful at how he stretches her β even if, arguably, she is so very wet he just slips right in, so easy, so eager β at how full and good she suddenly feels. Like she's ascended someplace that isn't quite the Mission, that isn't quite atop Marc's stiff desk. But still very much here with him, him sinking into her pussy to the hilt. She sees starsβ ]
Ohhh, [ He throbs inside her and she pulls him even closer. ] yyyyes.
[ It's drawn out, stretched and so very pleased it might as well be a purr. And it doesn't matter how strained he sounds, Lottie is still very intent on getting words out of him. Especially if it means knowing just how much she's got him in a chokehold, her creamy cunt clenching tight around him with each second he stays stationary. ]
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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. )
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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. ]
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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. )
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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.
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("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. )
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(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. ]
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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—. )
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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. ]
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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. )
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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. ]
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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?
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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..
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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?
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She grins against him, mmmms into his lips at the way he praises her. It's no question she does, has utilized both her pretty privilege and her body against him when he's particularly upset or broody (sometimes to bug, sometimes in lieu of an apology). ]
Hmmm. I dunno, [ She playfully nips at his lower lip, ] I think you should show me how much you like it.
[ Lottie's offering him an invitation to use her however he likes. However he needs, if he wants to jerk off and spread his seed on her or inside, it doesn't matter, because she's eager for it either away. The anger of the night gone and forgotten with the fresh buzz of him, his smell, the sound of him pumping himself desperately. She coos, ] Get it a little wet, c'mon.
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it's an easy win for her, using her body against him to distract him. to force him into a for-him-and-by-technicalities-only early night. she nips at his lip, the sensation sharp and not particularly painful, not by marc's definition, but it's enough for his breath to hitch, to catch. he's hot enough for her, wants enough for her that the tip of his dick is wet with pre-cum, and he nuzzles against her body. trails his kisses haphazardly down the line of her ribs, below the curve of her tits. across the tender skin, enough that he can feel the minute changes in her breath, feel her words as she speaks and fuck. he moans into her, heavy, the motion of his hand running up and down his dick seeming loud in the interludes, the silence between the few words they share.
marc is not a smart man, and despite everything, despite what he'd prefer, he is an emotive man. everything he feels and thinks is ready to read in his expression, his gaze, the deepness and clarity — or otherwise — of his gaze.
now it speaks of his adoration of lottie, of how much he wants her, how close he is. how desperate, how much words — really, anything that's not base and instinctual &madsh; is beyond him. )
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And god, maybe she willβ later. Her pussy is starting to throb painfully again because Marc, as always, never knows how stupid hot she finds him. How seeing him like this ruins her, makes her so turned on her brain is starting to think me me me and not Marc Marc Marc. She wants to swallow every sound he makes and wear him like a blanket, mark his body in her designer lipstick and give him hickey after hickey. So everyone knows mine mine mine. ]
Where d'you want it? Huh? On my tits? My face? Inside?
[ He makes her feel so special and loved and possessive that she begins to ramble, finally settles on wanting to make him feel good above all else. But then she says inside and she can't help but whine weakly, the authority leaving her voice for the briefest of moments. She nudges him closer with the back of her heel on his ass, ]
Stick it inside and come in me, babe. Wanna feel you when you do it.
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marc is difficult. contrary. dislikes agreeing inherently, but—.
this is different. it's an odd balance, the middle-ground between marc agreeing with and bucking obstinately against what he's told to do, but lottie has an advantage in that she's her. truthfully, he doesn't need to be insider her to come, just needs to know that she wants it, wants him, and he presses against her, presses into her even before she nudges him with his foot. his noise, his utterance, is guttural and underliberate. it escapes his throat and he barely notices, his everything fixed on lottie, on the feeling that seems to extend from head to toe.
(no, that's not quite true—.
—throbbing and rush; intense and tight and warm—))
—Fuck, ( in spite of himself. strained. ) Lottie—.
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Ohhh, [ He throbs inside her and she pulls him even closer. ] yyyyes.
[ It's drawn out, stretched and so very pleased it might as well be a purr. And it doesn't matter how strained he sounds, Lottie is still very intent on getting words out of him. Especially if it means knowing just how much she's got him in a chokehold, her creamy cunt clenching tight around him with each second he stays stationary. ]
Feels good, huh? You like it?