#can you tell im obsessed with this mans nose
Summary:Marc Spector can’t bake, but for you he’ll try. You and Marc bake cookies together… among other things.
Angst, fluff, smut (the big three)
Pairing:Marc Spector x f!reader, hint of Jake Lockley and Steven Grant x f!reader
Warnings:Sad Marc, DID, Oral sex (f receiving), Not edited
A/N:I just think Marc needs some more love, and I’ve been baking to deal with stress. I’m still working on requests, so if you’re waiting for one, it is coming!
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Marc Spector has no idea what he’s doing. There’s an egg about to roll off the counter, and he reaches out and catches it with the instincts of a superhero.
Because that’s what he is - a superhero not a baker. Except that for you he’ll be anyone, do anything. That includes telling Khonshu to fuck off for the night so he can bake chocolate chip cookies and try to have a nice date with you. You who have been talking about these stupid cookies all week but have had no time to make them.
He sighs and returns the egg to it’s container. This is useless. He wanted to do something nice for you, but all he’s accomplished is making three trips to the store.
“Just fuck. That always goes over well.”
“Jake, mate,” Steven sighs. “He’s trying to be romantic, considerate, show his love.”
Marc ignores their squabbling, turning back to the recipe on the back of the chocolate chip bag. Flour, salt, butter. No milk. Why the hell does he have milk out then? He picks up the carton and fixes it with a harsh stare like it’s the milk’s fault for messing this all up.
That is how you find Marc when you come home. You walk into the kitchen and sit on the table, legs dangling in the air while you watch Marc stare down a carton of milk.
“What did it do?” You ask when you realize he hasn’t noticed you.
He turns, and his eyes glow with moonlight for the briefest instant before he realizes it’s just you. His harsh, irritated expression turns into something else as he looks you up and down.
“You’re early,” he mutters.
“It’s five-thirty,” you reply with a laugh; it’s the same time you always get home.
He glances at the clock, “Shit!”
You’re still trying to figure out what emotion he’s wearing as he returns the milk to the fridge and runs his hands through his curly hair. Frustration. Maybe a hint of sadness. Disappointment, but with who? Knowing Marc, probably himself.
“Marc,” any hint of humor is gone. “Are you alright?”
“I’m-” his throat bobs as he swallows hard. “I’m fine.”
Your gaze catches the bag of chocolate chips behind him, something you know for a fact was not in your apartment prior to today. You know because you had searched for them desperately for days and craving chocolate chip cookies more than anything in the world for the last week. Marc follows your gaze, and when you meet his eyes the words come spilling from his mouth.
“I wanted to make you these stupid cookies. You talk about them every night, and you’re always doing so much for us, for me, and- and I wanted to do something for you.”
Marc’s lips are falling into that little frown that means he’s about to cry. This isn’t about chocolate chip cookies or Marc’s lack of cooking skills, you know that. Marc isn’t the type of man to be driven to tears by a failed baking experiment. He is the type of man who feels like he can never be enough, never be good enough for the people he loves.
Marc is glancing at the reflective surface of the microwave; you know he is trying to get Steven, or maybe Jake, to front right now.
“Marc,” you reach for his hand and pull him close to you.
Before you can utter another word, he buries his face in your neck. His arms circle your waist, holding tightly. He is shaking, crying. Only a few times have you seen him this vulnerable, and each time Marc had made Steven front to avoid this exact situation.
You wrap an arm over his shoulder and run your free hand through his soft curls.
“You do so much,” you murmur. “It means a lot that you thought of me.”
He holds you tighter but doesn’t respond. His body is warm against you as he cries, and you can only stroke his hair, sometimes brushing your fingers across his cheek or jaw. The soft press of his lips to your neck makes you shiver. It tickles. He does it again, then again, then leans back. A few tears are running down his face, and you reach out to brush them off. You hold his face between your hands, but he’s not looking at you.
“You are enough, Marc Spector. I love you, and you are enough.”
“I really tried,” he eventually whispers and looks up at you through his lashes.
You move a stray curl from his eyes and kiss his forehead, kiss his nose, kiss his lips. His cheek, his jaw, the lines around his eyes. You pepper kisses everywhere, the best way you know to show this man love, until he grabs your face and kisses you with a bruising intensity. Marc works his lips against yours, molding your bodies together until you’re both panting and he pulls back. His hands rest on your hips, your hands on his chest.
“You’re wonderful,” he smiles, and though his eyes are still red-rimmed, you can tell he’s back from that dark place of self-hatred. “I love you.”
The curl is back, the dark hair always falling across his forehead no matter what he does. Cookie ingredients are still spread out on the counter behind him, and though you would love to take this handsome man to bed right now and spend the rest of the evening tangled up with him, the temptation of the cookies is too strong.
“I can teach you how to make them,” you nod to the ingredients. “We can do it together.”
Marc slides you off the table and kisses you on top of the head.
“Okay. Teach me.”
You set Marc up measuring dry ingredients into a bowl while you pour sugar and crack eggs. You laugh when he bumps his hip into the counter, swears, spills the bag of flour everywhere.
“You think that’s funny,” he growls, eyes shining with amusement; he loves how you laugh.
“I though you’d be more graceful, Moon Knight,” you tease, grinning.
Mischief flashes across his face, and he grasps a fistful of spilled flour. You jump back, but he smears flour across your face, spilling it down the front of your shirt.
“Marc!” You protest, but it is half-hearted.
Any further arguments are cut off by his kiss. His dirty hands leave prints all over your body as he presses you into the counter, peppering your face with soft kisses until he finds your lips. If not for the beep of the oven you would have kissed Marc Spector all night. He leans back at the sound, and you duck under his arm to get back to baking.
Marc slides up behind you, holding you around the waist with his chin on your shoulder so he can watch you work. He kisses your cheek each time you move, and when it’s time he adds ingredients to your bowl as you stir, his arms still trapping you against the counter.
“Chocolate chips,” you request.
Reluctantly, Marc moves away to find the package of chocolate and adds it to the dough. His dark hair is now smeared with flour, so is his face and his clothes. You’re probably no better off, but seeing the usually tough man covered in baking ingredients and wearing a goofy grin makes your heart flutter.
“Now what?” Marc asks.
There’s no cookie scoop in the apartment, so you hand him a small spoon. You show him how to scoop the dough and roll it into a ball. As you slide the cookies into the oven and set a timer, you notice Marc starting to take the bowl to the sink.
“Wait!” You call.
He turns back to you with that one eyebrow curved up.
“We’re supposed to eat that.”
“The raw cookie dough?” He questions.
You nod and pluck the bowl from his hands, scooping out a bit with your spoon, and popping it in your mouth with an innocent smile. He is fixated on your lips.
“Focus, Spector,” you tease; you’re fully aware of what thoughts you have evoked in your boyfriend as you offer him the spoon. “Cookie dough?”
“Not what I’m hungry for,” his voice has dropped to a low rumble as he smirks down at you.
If his earlier softness went right to your heart, this goes right to your pussy.
“There’s only seven minutes on the timer,” you warn.
“I can work with that,” he grabs the bowl from your hand and tosses it onto the counter. “Bed.”
Marc has you out of your pants and flat on your back in seconds. He pulls you closer to the edge of the bed so your legs dangle over the edge, and he kneels between them. His eyes are dark as he palms your thighs, his breath tickling your center as he looks to you for confirmation, consent.
You nod, and just like that Marc buries his face in your cunt. He’s licking and sucking, using his tongue with a skill that always shocks you. His broad nose brushes against your clit, and for a second you’re distracted by the question of how he breathes when he’s going down on you. It’s just for a second because a moment later his tongue is flicking at your clit, drawing delightful little circles that have you squirming.
Marc is absolutely smirking as you meet his eyes and a soft breathy sound escapes your throat unbidden. Warmth coils in your stomach as he devours you like he is a starving man. You’re so close. He leaves one hand at your thigh, keeping your legs apart, and uses the other to push two fingers into you with a slowness that is borderline torturous.
“Fuck,” you whimper and reach for his hair, getting a handful of those soft dark locks much to Marc’s delight.
He curls his fingers and presses deeply into you even as his mouth settles over that spot you love. You can feel that tension building and building, warmth pooling in your stomach.
There’s a roaring in your ears as you cum, throwing your head back, shutting your eyes, twitching around his fingers and moaning his name quietly, your whole body shaking as that warmth spreads out from your center. He fucks you right through it, only pulling back when the pulsing has stopped and you begin to squirm away from the over-stimulation.
The timer beeps just as he sits back. Timer? Shit. You’d forgotten about the cookies.
“I got ‘em,” Marc presses a kiss to your inner thigh and stands while you simply lay back and catch your breath.
Water runs. The oven door opens. The stove beeps. A few seconds later, Marc flops heavily into bed. You peek your eyes open to look at him. He has a cookie broken in half, offering part to you. You turn on your side to look at Marc, taking the cookie but really focused on the former mercenary whose eyes are wide with delight as he bites into the desert, chocolate smearing his lips as he chews.
You would stop the Earth from spinning to see that look on Marc’s face again.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” He finally notices your expression.
“You have chocolate,” you answer awkwardly to evade the question and gesture to his lips.
His smile is mischievous as he leans forward, kissing your cheek and leaving a chocolate stain on your skin.
“Marc!”
“Why are you looking at me like that?” He repeats the question.
“You look happy,” you whisper.
He pushes you onto your back and tucks his head into your shoulder, smiling against you.
“I am happy.”
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