looking good, john

Marc's hands run over you shoulders, down the length of your spine, attempting to rub some warmth back into your bones. "You're like ice," he grumbles, almost irritated.

"I feel like ice," you huff into the soft skin of his throat, nose dipping into the hollow of his collarbone. "Cold."

Silence settles for a moment, the usual pop of the radiator gone, the traffic on the street below a muted hum. The only sound you register is Marc's heartbeat, the solid steady beat of it against your ear when you press your head to his chest.

You wriggle close to him, slipping your hands inside the oversized oatmeal colored sweater he wears. It's a sweater you're so sure belongs to Steven. Marc normally stuck to t-shirts of any kind and so you know he must be feeling chilled too. You press into him, bearing your body against his until the heat of him begins to seep into you.

Marc, to his infinite credit, doesn't complain about your frozen fingers against his skin. He let's you take, let's you bleed the very warmth out of his body - just so you won't be cold. You hope that he feels the heat of you too, that the chill doesn't make a home inside him.

He just wraps his arms around you and brushes a kiss to the crown of your head. "Better?"

"Sure," you mumble, feeling warm and sleepy and safe. "Have an idea though. To stay warm."

"Oh yeah?"

You hum in response and before he can stop you, you're fitting yourself inside that sweater with him, curling your arms around his back when you push your head through the collar of the sweater.

Marc huffs, sounding a bit choked at the fit. "Yeah, great," he snarks. "Can't fuckin' breathe."

"You love it," you say and you know it's true because Marc just hitches you closer, buries his nose in your throat. He brings one hand up to rest against the back of your neck, the pressure light, a reassurance that you would not move.

"Yeah, maybe I do," he admits, his voice quiet.

Marc wraps his free hand behind your knee, hiking it up over his hip. "Close enough? Warm?" He questions, sounding not at all as annoyed as he'd probably like to appear.

"Yes," you say.

And you are.

This close, it's impossible not to be. You like being this close, like the feeling of his skin against your cheek, the taut press of muscle against you.

Marc's fingers kneed the flesh of your hips, slide over the curve of your ass.

You feel your breath stutter and halt when he hooks his fingers into the band of your underwear. "There're other ways to get warm," he murmurs, his mouth by the shell of your ear.

"Oh?" You wriggle against him as he drags your panties down your legs, thick fingers seeking out the heat between your thighs, circling your clit briefly. "We might have to get rid of this sweater then," you say, the fabric suddenly too warm, the heat of Marc's skin like hot coal against you.

"Maybe," he says, lazily spreading your folds, his eyes on yours. His other arm curls around your back, dark eyes flicking over your face, watching you closely when he slowly presses one finger inside you.

You shudder, clenching around him. "I can't really touch you," you complain breathlessly, arms trapped inside the sweater, your reach limited. His thumb circles your clit, a second finger joining the first - so slow it makes you uneasy, like you're splitting open at the seams. "Please Marc?" You beg, because you know how much he likes that, how he likes to feel like you need him.

And you do.

You always need him.

But Marc isn't always convinced of that.

"Ask me nicely."

"I'm being so nice," you gasp, drawing your hands up his spine, along the column of the back of his neck.

"Nicer than that, baby," he commands, voice soft in your ear. "Want to feel your hands on me too."

You nip at his throat, the thick stretch of his fingers inside you not really enough.

But you're warm now. Hot. Burning. And you need the sweater off.

"Marc," you coo, because he likes to hear his name. "Marc, baby, I wanna touch you so bad. Can we take the sweater off, please?"

Too easily, he gives into you and you know he never meant for you to really beg, that he wants to give into you so badly. His fingers slip out of you. "Wasn't so hard was it?"

You don't answer as both of you struggle out of the sweater, Marc's hands pulling at your shirt too when the sweater hits the floor. He hovers over you, his hands brushing up over your ribs, the bottom curve of your breasts, thumbs tracing over the peaks of your nipples.

You arch into his touch, into the calloused softness, the tearing neediness.

There's no trace of ice between you now, but the cold air pockets between you - so you tug the duvet up and over you both, Marc's lips meeting yours in the dark cocoon.

Your whole world in that moment is Marc - its you and Marc and the space under the blanket.

You rake your hands up his sides, reach between you to palm him through his sweatpants.

His gives a tight groan into your mouth, a gently spoken, "Fuck," against your lips, the edge of your teeth, as he licks into you again.

Marc's mouth traces over your throat, your collarbone, the valley between your breasts as you work his sweatpants down and wrap your fingers around him.

He thrusts into your hand, teeth grazing the shell of your ear, demanding as you guide him to your entrance, let him sink slowly into you.

When you're full, like you can feel him in your lungs, like you can feel him everywhere, Marc stills and pushes the duvet back. You blink into the blinding light, Marc like a golden glow above you.

Sweat slicks both of you but he just kisses you, licks away the salt from your lips, big hands tracing over the length of you until he can fold his fingers through yours.

"Wanna be able to see you," he murmurs, hips meeting yours in a slow roll. His eyes are dark umber, like coffee and overturned soil.

It's your favorite color, it's your favorite look, when that hard gaze like amber and bedrock cracks and fractures and softens into something like this - like coffee on Sunday mornings and soft tilled earth - for you.

His palms fit against yours, your fingers slotting together tightly, like they should always remain that way. Intertwined. Together.

Marc fucks you slow and hard, the snap of his body against yours like the swell of the sea.

He never lets go of your hands, presses you into the mattress, keeps his eyes trained on yours. Marc demands things from you, even without words, and you'd give it all up, do anything he said, because you know you hold the same power in your hands.

Marc stretches your arms above your head, one hand circling both your wrists so he can slide a finger carefully against your wet pussy, your swollen clit. "Come for me," the demand is so soft, almost like a request - but your body answers immediately.

You cry out, the sound cut off by the fierce kiss that's leveled against your mouth, thighs trembling against him, cunt baring down when he curses against your lips and spills himself into you.

Marc releases your hands, collapses onto you, his weight and warmth welcome against you. You brush his curls back, his skin tacky with sweat. "Warm," you say into his temple, tracing a finger over his cheek, pressing kisses into his skin carefully. "Very warm."

He laughs and he sound is so good to your ears. "Glad to help," he murmurs against your skin.

Marc slides his fingers back into yours, clutches at your hands like a lifeline, like he never wants to let you go.