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mlqueen89 · 1 month ago

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Hi! Can I request Thanksgiving with Marc Spector? Pls make it smutty

UHM. YES, ANON. YES. Sorry it took me so long, but here you gooooo! ♡

pairing: marc spector x f!reader (moon knight)

rating: 18+ (minors dni)

warnings/triggers: smut, fingers in “pie”, oral (m & f receiving), (unprotected) p in v sex, slight dom behaviour, dirty talk, cream pie.

word count: 5,231

summary: november prompt request. marc has a kink for finger sucking which might definitely make you late for thanksgiving dinner with your family.

A/N: wanted to get this one out before American Thanksgiving. here you go guuuuys, enjoy smutty marc—thanks anon for requesting this one! p.s.: pleeeeeease read this at the dinner table or in front of your family and think about smutty marc. lemme know how that goes. also sorry, cause i don’t think i could write anything short to save my own damn life.

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“Pumpkin or apple?” You peered at the beautiful pies lined up behind the glass at the bakery, shifting your weight from one foot to the other as you balanced your phone between your cheek and shoulder.

“What?” Marc’s response crackled through the phone, and you could hear the faint sounds of a crowded grocery store in the background. Marc had offered to brave the Thanksgiving rush crowd that morning, leaving you at your shared apartment, apron tied around your waist, staring at a variety of ingredients and a mommy blogger’s recipe.

It had taken you three reads of the entire recipe, flour already spilled on the front of your old band tee, before you decided that there was a perfectly good bakery a fifteen-minute walk from here. Better to play it safe.

“Pumpkin or apple.”

“You said you’d bake it, didn’t you?” His voice took on a cautious edge, the kind he reserved for tense negotiations and life-or-death situations.

You laughed, dry, incredulous, catching the curious glance of the teenager behind the counter. “Marc, baby,” you drawled, straightening and pacing toward the large plate glass window, “do you remember what happened the last time I tried to bake a pie?”

“Are you talking about the fire or Steven being sick for a week?”

“Exactly,” you replied, ignoring that the question was an either or situation. His response was enough to prove your point.

“So…”

“So, I’m going to play it safe this time...” You studied your freshly manicured nails, the deep merlot polish shining in the mid-November sun streaming in through the bakery’s front window. “I’ll just take it out of the box, put it in a pie plate and—”

“Bob’s your uncle,” Marc finished and you could almost hear the smile in his tone. It still made your stomach do that stupid little flip it did, the same one you’d felt on your first date with him.

“Glad we’re on the same page,” you replied, the same smile in your voice as you nodded at the teenager to box up the pumpkin pie.

“Look, I’m cutting it close,” Marc said, his voice taking on that familiar clipped efficiency that you found strangely sexy. “I still have to grab the bread rolls and that canned cranberry sauce your uncle likes.”

You suppressed a gag. “How is it possible that someone willingly eats canned cranberry sauce?”

“Maybe it’s, I dunno—nostalgic?” He offered lightly.

“Or a very loud cry for help,” you muttered, tucking the boxed pie under your arm as you made your way to the register. “Anyway, just don’t be late. You know how my mom gets.”

“Oh, I remember,” Marc replied dryly, and you could practically hear him bracing for what was to come later that evening, sitting in a tiny split-level your parents refused to sell, all 19 of your family members crammed inside.

“Just—this is the first time you’re meeting my family, and it’s Thanksgiving—” you began, trying your best to underpin your nervous energy. You were sure Marc had clocked it from the moment you woke up last week with the odd stomachache and nauseated feeling that came only with the burgeoning terror of yet another family gathering.

“Hard to forget,” Marc sighed. You could hear the shuffle of activity on his end of the line, probably weaving between aisles and other patrons with the precise, purposeful strides that were very typical of Marc. “You’ve only reminded me six times this week.”

“I know it’s a bit—” you waved your hand even though you knew Marc couldn’t see it, trying to conjure the words clouding your mind, “much. It’s just because this year can’t be like last year.”

Even though you had been with Marc officially since before last Thanksgiving, this was the first time your family was meeting him.

Last year’s planned gathering had been efficiently derailed by what your family simply referred to as “The Great Turkey Incident,” which in reality was not simply just a series of near—catastrophes involving a broken oven, a kitchen fire, food poisoning and your sister swearing off hosting any family gathering for all of eternity. Your mother still choked up when you mentioned it, your father subsequently had to be medicated for high blood pressure. You assumed the latter had nothing to do with “TGTI,” but your dad swore up and down it did, in his thickest Bostonian accent, which only surfaced in moments of high stress or anger.

This year, your mother announced in August, would be better. Less chaotic. Normal or at least in the neighbourhood of normal. It remained to be seen, however, if that was at all possible. Property value in the Normal Neighbourhood had skyrocketed in the last year or so.

On one hand, Marc’s specialties were vast, especially when it came to making and keeping you extremely north of happy. Being normal, through no fault of his own, just wasn’t exactly one of those specialties.

As you stepped out of the bakery, into the November chill, you stopped, gathering yourself. “You’ve got this,” you amended softly, a bit for yourself and some for Marc too.

“What? Charming your entire family or surviving the day without anyone finding out about my… extracurricular activities?”

“Both,” you teased, your smile pulling up the corners of your lips until your cheeks hurt. How you’d gone so many years of your life without loving this man was beyond you.

“Great.” Marc’s response was quick, the hint of dry humour rolling through the phone, “piece of cake.”

“Pie. Piece of pie,” you shot back, “pumpkin, specifically.”

You smiled despite yourself, pulling your coat tighter as a chilly November breeze swept down the street. “It’s just… important to me, Marc. They’ve been waiting to meet you for ages, and after everything that happened last year…”

“I get it,” he said, his voice softer now. “But you don’t have to worry. I’ve got this.”

You stopped on the corner, letting his reassurance settle over you. Despite his gruff exterior and his tendency to run headfirst into danger, Marc Spector had a way of grounding you when you needed it most.

“See you soon, babe,” Marc sighed, and though his words were casual, there was something calming in the way he spoke, the cadence of his voice a soothing sound.

“Oh! Don’t forget the flowers!” You reminded him, just before he could hang up, as you dashed across the street toward your car, a death grip on the pie box.

There was a long pause on the other end, so long that you pulled the phone away from your face to see if he’d accidentally hung up. “Flowers?”

“Just—trust me. It’ll win my mom over.”

“I’ll do my best,” he said, a note of reluctant determination in his voice.

“Thanks, baby,” you smiled, making a kissing sound before you hung up the phone and carefully deposited the pie into the passenger seat and belted it in like precious cargo.

Tucking your phone away into a pocket, you shifted into the driver’s seat, hands on the wheel for a moment as you looked at the bustling street and sidewalk outside. This Thanksgiving was bound to be memorable—whether for all the right reasons or for another chapter of family chaos, you weren’t entirely sure. But if anyone could handle it, it was Marc Spector.

You hustled up the stairs to your second floor apartment, precious pie cargo gripped tightly in your hands as you pressed against the stubborn front door.

Marc had texted you about five minutes ago complaining about being at the back of some absurdly long lineup at the cashes, so you figured you had about 30 minutes to shower, get dressed and pull off the great pie lie.

Depositing the pie on the kitchen island, you hurried to the bathroom, stripping layers of clothing in a trail on your way. The hot spray of the water a welcome calm before the storm that would Thanksgiving with your family. Even when there weren’t disasters to speak of, there were differing opinions on everything ranging from politics to sports, celebrity dating drama to conspiracy theories. It was enough to drive even the most sane person, absolutely, stark—raving mad. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t just north of wary introducing Marc into this mix that was already a powder keg.

Maybe this year, you’d pitch that next year, your family could celebrate Canadian Thanksgiving instead: early October, no arguments over politics, singing Kumbaya and sharing maple flavoured desserts while saying “sorry” a lot. That was how Canadians did it, right?

You were in the middle of thinking maple dappled, northern thoughts under the warm cascade of water when you heard the telling sound of the sticky front door of your apartment opening, followed by the sound of Marc’s voice, calling your name.

“Shower!” You called, though you were sure that Marc would be able to follow the trail of clothing even if you hadn’t answered

By the time you’d wrapped up the shower and stepped out from the steamed room, you found Marc in the kitchen, his eyes peering into the pie box curiously, the lid lifted carefully. “I think you’re going to owe me for enabling this lie,” his eyes were still on the pie box as you padded into the kitchen in your towel. Replacing the lid daintily, he handled the dessert like it was ticking, wired with red and blue leads and affixed with a countdown clock before his eyes flicked up to you. You didn’t miss the way he assessed your clothing situation, or lack thereof.

It was one of the many things you loved about this man, he made no show of hiding that he was always one opportune moment away from fucking you.

“First of all,” you started, folding your arms across your chest, “it’s not a complete lie: it was baked by someone, just not me. So, more like pie-adjacent authenticity. If my mom buys it, then I think I owe you—a thank you.”

Marc raised an eyebrow, “a thank you, huh? That’s all I get for being complicit in a fib to save you from culinary embarrassment?”

“Depends,” you smirked, stepping closer to peak into the top of one of the paper bags on the counter, “did you pick up the flowers?”

Marc smirked, tipping his head to a small bouquet of seasonal blooms sitting on the counter. “I think you’re just trying to distract me from the conversation—we were talking about how much you owe me.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t keep a straight face as Marc stepped in closer, narrowing the space between you. “Fine. Thank you, Marc. You’re my Thanksgiving hero.” You feigned a swoon.

“Damn right, I am,” his voice dropped an octave, his hand finding your toweled waist, pulling you across what little distance remained between you. He dipped his head to your neck and you moved to allow him access, your body responding as if moving with him as he explored your body came as naturally as breathing, as easy as the path of orbit, the innate pull of gravity.

You eased into the touch of his lips, losing yourself in the feeling of him against your skin, suddenly hyperaware of the fact that you could feel the heat coiling low, between your legs, the wetness that had nothing to do with your shower growing.

“Marc…” you huffed as his hand left your waist and tangled in your damp hair at the nape of your neck, his other hand finding the top of the towel tucked against your body. “Careful…” you teased, but you were breathless as the words came out, no real urgency or command in them, “we still have to leave on time and you’re not exactly dressed for a first-time dinner with my family.”

“Plenty of time,” he murmured against your skin, his fingers hooked at the top of your towel, a single, gentle tug the only thing between you and the hungry man who stood before you, waiting to devour you completely.

If you didn’t have anywhere to be, you’d have shed the towel, found his belt and been on your knees in front of him, your mouth aching to be around his thick cock. But you did have somewhere to be and around the haze of the way Marc set your skin on fire under his touch, just on the edge of a losing battle between desire and responsibility, you knew you couldn’t. You’d attend dinner, stay an appropriate amount of time and then make sure to congratulate him for surviving your family on the drive home down a darkened stretch of backroad.

“You’re making this really hard for me….” you breathed out in a cross between a huff and a groan, pressing your hands flat against his chest and pushing without much effort, almost as if you wanted to say you’d put up a fight and had lost. There was always Christmas dinner, that was right around the corner, right?

“I was about to say the same thing.” His voice was a little more than a growl, a rumble in his chest you could feel beneath your palms, still flattened on his chest.

“Marc, baby,” you whispered, a small yelp interrupting your next words as he nipped at your jaw just below your ear, he was good. Too good. Marc had a way of making you forget where you were, of making everything around you melt away until it was just you and him, him and you, locked in perpetuity, together. “This isn’t going to get you out of wearing a tie….”

Marc groaned, his head falling to your bare shoulder and you turned to press your nose to his scalp, his soft, dark curls smelling of sandalwood and something distinctly him. “It was worth a shot….” he muttered after a moment before he kissed your collarbone and swiftly turned you around, giving you a slight, gently nudge toward the back bedroom. “Now go get dressed before I change my mind about taking that towel off.”

You sighed, pressing your knees together for a moment before you looked back at him over your shoulder, his hand pressed against the countertop for support, the bulge in his jeans clearly visible from where you stood. “Marc?”

His response was little more than a strained hum of acknowledgement, his eyes drawing up to you.

“Wear the tie Steven likes,” you smiled, partly knowing the playful tease would wedge somewhere under his skin, a small little dig, “it brings out your broody eyes. It’ll give you more of the boy-next-door look and less of the guy your mom warns you about.”

You carefully opened the lid of the pink pie box, using a knife to tactfully slice the tape holding it closed.

When you made it to the back bedroom, still in your towel, you thought briefly about touching yourself, loudly enough to entice Marc to finish what he started. It took you half a minute to decide against it, instead picking out Marc’s favourite pleated skirt, the one that was just barely appropriate for a family dinner. The one he’d fucked you in over the back of your couch after he brought you home from your third date together at that cute mini putt place downtown.

If you couldn’t fuck him now you’d make him sweat through the dinner, make him think about all the ways he wanted to fuck you when you got home.

You were only slightly disappointed that Marc was in the shower when you headed back into the kitchen. Quickly though, the disappointment faded to dread when you realized that you still had to plate the Lie Pie, the Pumpkin Pretense.

You were trying to lift the pie out of the box, when you felt hands on your waist, “you’re not playing fair,” Marc’s voice was next to your ear, his breath warm against your neck sending a shiver down your spine, his chin resting on your shoulder.

“Jesus, Marc!” You jumped, your hand slipping off one side of the pie, your index finger and thumb dipping into the custard pumpkin filling and pieces of the perfect crust crumbling into the top of the pie. You froze and you could feel Marc stiffen at your back.

Marc broke the silence first. “It looks more… uh—realistically baked by you?” He rubbed the back of his neck and you huffed, carefully setting the pie back down in the box. You felt Marc leave your back and watched from the corner of your eye as he shuffled over to the cutlery drawer. “It’s okay—it’s fine. We’ll just, smooth it down and crumble some of the other edges and—”

You noticed that Marc was shirtless, his dark hair damp from the shower, a white towel tied around his waist. Suddenly, you felt like the skirt wasn’t diabolical enough. Your man naturally exuded “fuck me” vibes. You’d absolutely dine on this image of him through dinner. In fact, at this rate, your eyes raking over the hard lines of muscle banding his shoulders and arms, the deep cut of his abs trailing below the line of the towel, you’d be the one opting to skip Thanksgiving dinner and beg him to undo you.

When he moved back behind you, a butter knife in hand to remedy the situation, you could feel the outline of his cock, fitting just between your ass cheeks through the thin materials of the skirt and the towel. You swallowed thickly.

The thought made you smirk, Marc always wanted you and that thought alone drove you crazy with want. Still, you tried to remember that this was supposed to be the year that your family met him, this was supposed to be the big leap in your relationship with him.

“Okay, so just—,” you pointed to the spot on the pie where you could see the divots from your fingers. Marc moved the knife over to the spot you’d pointed to, carefully trying to figure out how he could make it look like a more natural flaw. “Yeah, I mean, I’d just kind of—”

Without thinking, you stuck your thumb in your mouth, carefully sucking off the custard as you pointed to the offending dents in the pie with your other hand. You noticed when the knife in Marc’s grip faltered and his knuckles whitened against the handle. You were sticking your index finger between your lips when you turned to look at him and froze, his face so close to yours, but his eyes were on your mouth and the finger currently trapped between your lips. You could hear his breathing hitch for a fraction of a second, his eyes darkening as his own tongue moved to whet his lips. Behind you, you could feel the length of him twitch against your body and it was enough to make the coiling heat pulse low, between your legs.

In a fraction of a second, he’d abandoned the knife on the counter with a clatter, grasping your wrist as he pulled your finger from your mouth and stuck it in his up to your second knuckle. Slowly, he pulled it from his mouth, careful to relish the taste of the sweet dessert on you.

“You had to go and do that, didn’t you?” He huffed lowly as your finger left his mouth, clean, the sound almost a rumble in his chest and you leaned your head back against him. You definitely weren’t going to make it in time for dinner, but you’d known that when you slipped into the skirt. You were playing a dangerous game around Marc and he’d broken first.

“Marc…” you tried to sound exasperated, but his name came out as a whine as his rough hand slid up your thigh and dipped under the hem of your skirt. You could feel his hard cock against your ass through his towel as he pressed himself against you tightly. Instinctively, you pushed back and ground yourself against him and he groaned in response, his arm banding around your waist and anchoring you to him.

Reaching behind yourself, you wriggled to reach his length, but he moved just out of your reach, your fingers just brushing the rigid outline of him beneath the towel.

“Careful, gorgeous,” he murmured in your ear, a low warning, “not too fast. I’ve been wanting you all fucking day—”

Your head swam, the thought of him inside of you, pumping, pulsing, stretching you, bottoming out on repeat blurred all else. His fingers reached for the line of your panties under your skirt, and paused when they found none. You could feel his smirk against your neck as he alternated between kissing and nipping.

“Looking for something?” You hummed, teasing. Pleated skirt and no panties—you’d been asking for it, waiting for him to discover it. Though, to be fair, you hadn’t expected he’d find out this soon, not while you were still at home, at least. In testing his resolve, you’d set a trap for yourself, overestimating your ability to keep yourself from him.

Marc didn’t pause for long, his fingers following the lines of your already slick pussy until he found your swollen clit and began to massage in long, generous strokes. You sighed, humming as you melted into his touch.

“Can’t decide if you’re a bad girl or a good one….” Marc’s voice was low, his hips rutting against you as if he couldn’t help himself, couldn’t keep from the pleasure he felt as his shaft rubbed against the towel that rubbed against you. You responded under his touch in kind before the sound of a grunt that escaped him had you turning in his arms to face him.

“I can decide for you,” you murmured, low, your tone just on the edge of sing-song, husky with want. You just wanted him inside of you, any way you could get him. You began to sink to your knees in front him, your fingers hooked on the top of his towel. It came away easily, the cotton pooling at his feet, his cock springing out, erect.

Coyly, from your knees, you looked up at him through your lashes as he looked down on you, his pupils blown wide. You kept direct eye contact as you ran your tongue, wide and flat on the underside of him, tracing the path of the pronounced vein from base to ridged tip, slowly.

The deep moan that you pulled from his lips was enough to undo you, your hand wrapping around the base of his shaft as you slowly guided the length of him inside your mouth.

“Fuck, baby. I—I just—if you,” his words were choppy, interspersed with muttered curses, grunts and groans as your tongue made careful paintings on the underside of his pulsing cock, the taste of precum filling your mouth with each pass. “I’m going to—fuck, baby—”

Marc pulled you up from your knees before he dropped to his, throwing one of your legs over his shoulder before he set in on your wet center.

Holding yourself against the counter behind you, you arched your back, biting your lip against the moan that sounded more like a plea for more. As you reached for an edge of counter to grip, the tips of your fingers nudged the abandoned pie box. “Marc—fuck, fuck, fuck—” You pressed yourself up on the tips of the toes on the one leg that was still planted on the ground, your toes on the leg over Marc’s shoulder curling until your foot threatened to cramp.

“You said boy-next-door,” Marc huffed out a small laugh, the edges of his voice tinged with need as he lightly kissed your throbbing clit. He knew exactly how to drive you to the edge of madness and hold you there until you begged him to throw you over. “Is that what you want me to be right now?”

“F—oh god, fuck the boy next door,” your words were without heat, your tongue heavy, your mind a swirl of fog; you were malleable in his hands, you’d do anything he asked if he just said the words.

“Oh, is that what you want? I can get Steven out here if you—” Marc teased, stopping the perfect alternation of tongue and nose, thumb and light, maddening suction with his lips against your pulsating center. Before he could finish, you ground your hips into his face, cutting off his next words as you pressed your pussy against his mouth, encouraging him to continue with a moan as he licked a stripe between your folds carefully. Marc was nothing if not tactical, precise.

“Marc,” his name came out strained as you braced yourself against the counter at your back, your leg hooked over his shoulder as his fingers dug into your ass, pinning you in place, “please…”

You could feel yourself ascending, reaching the peak, your hips gyrating against each stroke of his tongue as he ate you out.

“Say my name, baby...” he murmured, his finger slipping into your wet cunt, his chin and mouth slick with you as he looked up at you from under dark lashes, his deep brown eyes blown wide. His gaze held yours, your chest heaving with each deep stroke of his thick finger, before he added another and you gasped, stretching around them. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips before he dipped to pepper light, noisy kisses on your clit.

“Marc—” you barely formed his name, your hand leaving the counter to grab a handful of his beautiful hair. “Please, I need you, now, right now—holy fuck—.”

Marc hardly ever lost control, hardly ever cracked, but when he had you, naked and begging for him… you felt powerful, like you held kryptonite, the kind that would bring Marc to his knees, quite literally.

Marc stood, holding you steady as your leg slipped off his shoulder and you lost your balance. Grabbing a nearby stool, he lifted you swiftly onto the edge of it, wedging himself between your open legs, the tip of his weeping cock nudging your slick opening. He held himself there for a moment, his hands on your hips, steadying you, his eyes holding yours as you wriggled, chest heaving, on the verge of begging for him to fill you.

“Say it again,” Marc’s eyes, dark with lust, held yours and you complied.

“Fuck. Me.” You breathed the words, low and clear, his thumb rubbing through your folds rhythmically, “please.”

Marc didn’t need to be told twice, his hips thrusting up into you, his length filling you as you gasped. Each thrust pulled him out nearly all the way, the long strokes, paired with the pressure of his pubic bone send you cascading over the edge. Marc wasn’t far behind, his pulsing cock emptying inside of you as you squeezed around him and you both breathed out the sounds of release.

“Well—” you sighed, content as you carefully balanced on the edge of the stool, your breathing evening out as Marc stood before you naked, still erect. “I think we’re definitely going to be late now.”

“Fashionably late?” Marc shrugged, bending to gather the forgotten towel off the floor. As he straightened, he stepped up to the counter, reaching across to grab the bouquet of flowers. “At least we have these and the—” Marc’s hand swept across the counter, misjudging the distance between him and the pie box.

The low thud of the pink box, pie still inside, hitting the tiled floor in the kitchen quickly wiped away the post-sex haze and you looked up at Marc, his eyes shifting to the floor and back to you, apologetically.

You shifted your weight as you and Marc stood on your parents’ porch, catching your breath after rushing from the car. Marc adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, still looking annoyingly put together despite the… delay. A delay that lead you to be a whole two hours late, between that and the pie clean up.

Meanwhile, you were still hoping no one would notice the hastily fixed flyaways in your hair or the slight flush on both your faces. You had left the skirt at home, put on some panties and changed into a more family appropriate green dress.

“You ready?” you asked, glancing at him, the glow of the yellowed porch light catching the angles on his face. “Remember, if my cousin Alex asks you about anything to do with his Art History classes, it’s okay to let Steven take the wheel for a bit…”

Marc smirked, his eyes raking over you appreciatively in a way that always made you feel loved. “More than ready. But next time, sweetheart, maybe we shouldn’t start something when there’s a ticking clock involved.”

You gave him a pointed look, though your lips twitched with amusement. “You’re the one who couldn’t keep his hands to himself.”

“You were wearing that skirt. I think you knew exactly what you were getting yourself into,” he teased, leaning in for a quick peck, “it’s not like you tried to stop me.”

Before you could retort, the door swung open.

“Finally!” your mom exclaimed, throwing her arms wide. “I thought I was going to have to start without you.” Her eyes lit up as she took Marc in. “And this must be Marc.”

Marc straightened, offering his hand with a charming smile. Oh good, he was trying the Steven approach first before laying into the smolder. “It’s great to finally meet you, Mrs—”

“Oh, none of that Mrs. nonsense,” your mom blustered, swatting his hand away to pull him into a hug instead. Marc stiffened for a beat before relaxing into it, casting you a slightly wide-eyed look over her shoulder.

Your mom pulled back, beaming. “I’ve heard so much about you. Now, come in, come in! Dinner’s almost ready, and everyone’s starving. Where’s that pie you were bringing?”

You froze for half a second before slipping seamlessly into a casual smile. “The pie?”

“Yes, the pie,” your mom said, hands on her hips. “Pumpkin, wasn’t it? You said you’d bring it. You texted me about it this afternoon—”

Marc opened his mouth to speak, but you jumped in, shooting him a sly grin. “Oh, uh—there was a pie shaped accident… a tragic end, really. I was really proud of the way it turned out too.”

“Tragic end?” your mom repeated, eyebrows arching.

Marc cleared his throat, stepping in smoothly to fill the gap. “Completely my fault, actually. I wasn’t paying attention, and it ended up on the floor. I promise to make it up to you—I’ve got a knack for desserts. Next time, I’ll bake something myself.”

Your mom looked between the two of you, her lips twitching as though she didn’t quite buy the story but wasn’t going to press. “Well, accidents happen,” she said, waving it off. “But next time, you’re on pie duty, Marc.”

Marc smiled, his charm dialed up to full. “It’s a deal.”

As your mom led the way to the dining room, you leaned into Marc, whispering, “Nice save.”

“You owe me,” Marc smirked down at you, his hand brushing the small of your back.

“Pretty sure you’re the one who owes me, pie destroyer.”

His low chuckle followed you both into the warm chaos of Thanksgiving dinner.

Tags: @silvernight-m

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