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piptoost · 1 month

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O'Hara with a chubby wife? Like dawg i wanna see him appreciate that chubbiness 😫 plus points she's always soft and kind to him which makes him fall even more

I'm so in love

I LOVE CHUBBY READER ESPECIALLY WHEN IT COMES TO MIGUEL ໒꒰ྀི ∩ ⸝⸝ ∩ ꒱ྀིა

It makes me think about Miguel fawning over you, looking at you from afar because he can’t help but keep his gaze on your plump curves. I think about him sitting on the sofa, while you’re in the kitchen, cooking or something, and he can’t stay focused on whatever he was looking at the tv.

When you turn around and catch him staring, he doesn’t look away. He is not embarrassed that you saw him gawking at you, because he wants you to know that he is obsessed with you. “Ven aquí, mi amor,” (come here, my love) he calls you, a soft smile when he sees you walking towards him with a raised brow.

When you stand before him, he looks up at you with pure love in his eyes, before resting his hands over your full hips and gently tugging you closer, guiding you between his legs. He rests his head on your soft tummy, and nuzzles his face there, sliding his hands under your shirt and pawning gently at your plump waist. He hums when you thread your fingers through his dark locks and closes his eyes as he relaxes against you. “What are you doing?,” you ask softly, laugh in your voice.

He lets out a soft playful groan, burying his face in your tummy before tugging you impossibly closer, almost making you fall if it wasn’t for you placing your hands over his shoulders. You chuckle softly when he mumbles against your shirt, “nothing, mamí, just appreciating you”.

A gasp leaves your lips when he quickly wraps his arms around your legs and moves you to the couch, pushing you to lay down before laying on top of you. You huff softly at his weight, squirming slightly to adjust yourself under him. Miguel groans against youand buries his face between your full breasts, a little smile on his lips at the plumpness of his new makeshift pillow.

“Comfortable?,” you asks teasingly, glancing down at him before wrapping your arms around his broad back and holding him close. He nods slightly against you, nuzzling even closer, “mucho”. (very much) You let out a soft hum before sliding your hand under his baggy shirt, scratching his skin gently.

You feel his grip tighten around you, squishing you under him as he relaxes even more under your touch. Soon after, you feel his breath getting slower and when you glance down, he is asleep. There is a smile on your lips when you reach for the tv control and switch it off.

can you hear me cry? ｡°(°.◜ᯅ◝°)°｡

(m.list)

#this is so 🥺#like I need more of this #pLEASE #cute n fluffy writing reblog 🥺

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piptoost · 1 month

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The Thing About Marc Spector

About this: for A who asked for dorm room Marc making you squirt. I'm LOOKING at you, @spacecowboyhotch. Fem!reader/Marc Spector. College AU. Fingering, some minor dirty talk, squirting. There's some mention of past ineptitude during sex and once instance of mentioned vomit.

You lean against the doorway of the dorm room’s bathroom, eyes squinting in protest of the cheap fluorescent lighting. Inside the bathroom, Marc Spector is thoroughly washing his hands.

“It’s just not possible for me.”

Marc hums in acknowledgement.

“I’m serious. People have tried.”

“I hear you.”

“I’ve tried. I just can’t do it.”

“Alright,” says Marc evenly. He’s already soaped and rinsed his hands once, but he soaps up again, and for some reason the ball of hysteria that has been growing just underneath your breastbone rises up and lodges in your throat at the sight of his thoroughness: washing his palms, the back of his hands, his wrists, between his fingers, under his nails, all while humming happy birthday under his breath the way they likely taught him to in grade school.

The juxtaposition of a grown man utilizing advice he was given in grade school while he prepares to—attempt!—to make you squirt for the first time is…it’s a lot to take in.

You reach out and turn off the water, convinced that it might be enough to give you a nervous breakdown. Marc merely turns to the clean towel hanging from the rack and dries his hands carefully. “I said, it can’t be done, Spector.”

Marc turns to you with raised brows, the most unamused, unaffected look on his face. “You said I could try.”

And then you are laying down on your bed. He has laid a towel underneath you, ignoring your scowl at his obvious display of confidence. Then he stripped you naked and spent a long time just staring at you, fighting not to smile every time he noticed your displeasure at his slow, patient nature.

You can’t help but feel exposed in a novel way though Marc has seen every part of your body up close. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s still dressed, that all he’s done is rolled up his sleeves and perched himself on the side of your bed. When he reaches for your thigh, you flinch, expecting his hands to be cold from the water. But Marc took the time to warm the water before scrubbing his hands. Marc always takes his time.

“You won’t be able to do it.”

“You’re just talking to yourself at this point,” Marc murmurs, eyes on your tits. He reaches out and tweaks one of your nipples. You slap at his hand, pretending to be offended, pretending like that one measly touch didn’t have your thighs clenching. He smiles at you, reaches out to pin your hand above your head and then plays with the offended nipple, teasing it gently between his fingers. You let out all of your breath in a warm rush, pressing your tongue to the roof of your mouth, determined not to moan. Not yet.

“That feel good?” he wonders, gently taking the sensitive peak between his thumb and forefinger, worrying it.

That’s another thing about Marc. Not only does he take his time, but he’s gentle. You’ve seen Marc at his most un-gentle—you’ve seen him beat the shit out of a guy in a bar who was harassing a woman. Once you saw him punch a wall, knuckles cracking through plaster like it was butter. Both of you know that he sometimes has a problem with violence (one that he has been faithfully working to remedy during sessions with an on-campus counselor every Thursday). But Marc has never been anything but infuriatingly gentle to you, even during the most intense sex of your life.

He lightly pinches you, pulling you from your thoughts. His eyes are on your face, watching you carefully as he switches breasts and begins to tease your neglected nipple. You bite back the moan once again—but it is a very close thing. “I asked if you feel good.”

“Yeah,” you admit. “Yeah, you always make me feel good.”

His smile grows a little smug. You roll your eyes.

He seems content with this: this soft teasing of you. Sometimes he leans down and laps his tongue over your breasts, suckling on one nipple and then the other, but he never even gives you the scrape of his teeth. He spends an inordinate amount of time dragging his fingers over your skin, starting at the dip of your throat, down your sternum, down to your belly, out to your hips, up the curve of your waist, and up the ribcage, biting back a snort every time you giggle when he comes too close to the sensitive skin underneath your arms.

He hasn’t even touched your pussy and you’re soaked.

“Come on, Marc,” you sigh. “Thought you were going to make me squirt. It doesn’t come out of my tits, you know.”

“It doesn’t?” he asks. “Wow, and you’ve just been letting me try for the last fifteen minutes? Now I feel like an idiot.”

“Touch me already,” you pout, ignoring his humor.

He hums, considering. This time when he draws the line down your stomach, he lets it trace further and further until he is ghosting the tips of his fingers over the seam of your sex. He barely even touches you, but you shiver, and when he pulls away, his fingertips are wet.

“This where you want touched?” he wonders, slipping his fingers back between your legs. Finally, a little mercy from him. You part your thighs for him, groaning when he uses both thumbs to spread you open to his eyes. He whistles softly. “Are you sure you didn’t squirt already? Look at all this—you’re soaked.”

You groan again but for opposite reasons, hiding your face in your hands. Marc laughs and lets you hide, makes a fist with one hand and drags the knuckles up from your entrance to your clit.

“God, you’re pretty,” he mutters. You hear the sound of him licking your slick off of his knuckles before his fingers are back, gently swirling circles over your clit.

“Oh fuck, Marc, please,” you whine.

“What is it? Whatever it is, I’ll give it to you.”

“I want you inside me. But fuck, I don’t want you to stop doing that.”

“God gave me two hands, baby. Pretty sure it wasn’t for this, but—” Marc slips two fingers into you, sliding in with ease, with the practiced motion of someone who has fucked you with their fingers a hundred times. He doesn’t bother thrusting them; he knows that sometimes your pussy just likes something to hold on to.

Your orgasm is just starting to build when you remember why you’re here, what he’s supposed to be trying to do. Your thighs tense, arms tucking in towards your chest even as you keep covering your face. Marc—observant, ever-watchful Marc—notices the change immediately. Now, letting you hide is no longer an option. He wraps his fingers around your wrist and gently coaxes it away, his brows furrowed at the expression on your face.

“What is it? Change your mind?”

“What if I can’t do it, though?” you ask. “It’s every guy’s dream, isn’t it? He fingerbangs his girl, there’s a gush like Old Faithful, he feels like a real man. But what if I’m not a real woman? What if I can’t?”

Marc’s face twists into a look of absolute confusion. “Baby—all due respect here—but what the fuck.”

“I’m serious!” you shriek. He catches your hand when you go to lightly slap him on the chest, giving you a look of paternal disapproval that definitely should not have you clenching your thighs together. You’ll consider the pretext for that in therapy at a future date. His other hand—fingers still wet from being inside you—rises to your lips and taps. You open and take them into your mouth, sucking softly, shoulders relaxing.

“I don’t care if you can’t squirt. I’m a real man, and you’re a real woman, whether geysers are involved in our sex or not. I don’t care about any of that weird, macho shit, baby. I never have. Just let me make you feel good—if you want me to.”

Another thing about Marc: he always knows what to say.

Around his fingers, you nod.

“That’s my girl,” he says, pulling his fingers free. He doesn’t bother wiping them off—not when he’s tucking them right back into your cunt.

He begins those soft, quick circles over your clit again. His eyes move between your face to your heaving tits to where his fingers move and back again, a constant cycle. When you reach up and palm your breasts, you can hear the sound of his breath catching, feel the way his fingers flex inside you.

Slow and so, so soft: he begins to stroke at the front wall of your pussy. Your legs jump. This is always your least favorite part. Popular theory be damned, plenty of men seem to know where the g-spot is, but many consider it a button poised for repeated hammering, like one of those bells you’re meant to ring to get customer service. You’ve always been sensitive. It’s one of the reasons why Marc is so gentle with you. But in the past, men looking to make you squirt have treated their fingers like battering rams and the walls of your pussy like the vault door to Fort Knox.

You force yourself to take a deep breath, relaxinging incrementally when his fingers never increase in force. The soft touches against that most tender spot have your legs jerking every now and then, involuntary spasms as if he’s zapping you with electricity. But with time, you get used to them. With more time, it comes to feel good, especially when he changes the direction of the circles he’s making on your clit. Counter-clockwise. Nice.

But how’s he going to make you squirt like this? How’s he going to unlock that mysterious, mythical part of your anatomy that you’ve read so much about in Cosmopolitan if he’s only whispering into the keyhole?

“Shouldn’t you be a little—more?”

Marc stops. “Is this not good?”

“No, it’s good—great, I just—” he begins to move again at your approval, and the sensation cuts off your words abruptly. You swallow hard, realizing you have stopped touching your breasts and are just cupping them as if for comfort. Trying to mimic his touch from earlier, you gently begin to tease yourself, a whine growing at the back of your throat.

“There you go,” Marc murmurs. “So fucking pretty. Look at you.”

“Ma-arc.”

He hums.

Your chest rises and falls faster. He changes directions on your clit again and you groan, the sound pulled from deep in your throat. God, he might not make you squirt, but he’s sure as hell going to make you cum, and it’s going to be good. He continues a litany of filthy praises, talking about how soft and wet you feel around his fingers, how hot you get him when you play with your own tits, how you’re such a good fucking girl.

But—:“Marc, I can’t do it. I can’t squirt.”

“Then don’t,” is all he says, eyes on your pussy. Your orgasm is welling up inside you, a ball of knots being pulled tighter and tighter low in the pit of your stomach. Your toes keep curling and uncurling. For some reason, you need to repeat yourself, you need to make him understand.

“I said, Spector, I can’t squirt.”

“I said, Then. Don’t.”

The feeling grows, swells, deepens and—

You gasp, pushing yourself up onto your elbows. “Oh my god, get away from me, I have to pee.”

“No you don’t,” he says, unconcerned with your panic.

“Marc Elias—”

“Wow, going for the full name,” he mutters distractedly, eyes never leaving his hands where they work you over.

And fine. Fine. You warned him—and at least it won’t be the worst bodily fluid of yours he’s had on him, not since your twenty-first birthday when he took you bar hopping and you threw up all over him while he was trying to help you wash your face clean of makeup in the dorm bathroom. If he wants you to piss on him, he’s going to fucking get it.

Your eyes fall down to where his hands are, and for some reason the sight of the tendons in his wrist flexing as he rubs that tender spot inside you is too much. It’s too much for you. The feeling in your belly sinks lower and you realize he was right.

You aren’t about to pee, you’re about to cum.

Marc pulls his fingers free just as your cunt clenches tight. It’s different from any orgasm you’ve felt before—the way it rushes out of you, what it takes out of you, the absolute silence it instills in you as your throat closes tight, eyes wide, entire body spasming. When at last you can take in air again, it’s just to shout, eyes squeezing shut as his fingers on your clit coax another orgasm out of you. Squirt just drips out of you this time, but the relief is so fucking deep. You can barely hear the sound of his filthy praises over the rush of blood in your ears and the constant babble of your own voice which you can no longer seem to control.

When you can take it no more, you reach for his wrist. He stops touching your clit right away, moving his hand to rest gently on your stomach.

There is a moment of endless silence, both of you staring at each other with wide eyes. Marc reaches up with his less soaked hand and smooths his hair back the way he does when he’s anxious or upset or completely mind blown. You can guess which one he’s feeling right now.

He clears his throat. “I’ll give you fifteen minutes. Then we’re doing that again.”

“What?”

He stands up, pats you on the side of your knee like he’s patting another guy’s shoulder in the quad, Nice catch, Chad, go long. Marc fucking Spector. That’s the thing about him. He’s kind of incredible.

All he says is: “Fifteen minutes!”

#WOAH #GOOD LORD #why'd I have to see this while on my PERIOD #also the part where he hums happy birthday is so silly 😋#really good writing reblog 😩

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