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writefightandflightclub · 3 years ago

Text

Six Ways to Sunday: Marc Spector x fem!reader (part 1/2)

Summary:

Yeah. It was only ever meant to be a one time thing. Just a one night stand. A casual Tinder hook-up with no strings and even fewer feelings.

Clearly, you had both decided that once wouldn’t be enough; but you’re still not sure you’re on the same page about what qualifies as too much.

Rating: EXPLICIT. This is 18+ ONLY. Minors DNI.

Genre: Smut with some plot (bear with it), some light angst.

Characters: Marc focussed, a cameo from Steven, fem!reader. Written when Marc and Steven have more communication going than they do by ep 2′s close.

Word count: 9k

Author’s note: I’ve opted to post this fic in 2 parts, so this part of a larger whole. It can totally be read as a standalone too, though I hope you’ll be excited to read part 2 as well? This is set up to part 2′s resolution - I just couldn’t finish them both just yet, so the split made sense for me - and hopefully for you, because this is already 9k! This is written after I saw ep 2 and before 3, so I have very little of Marc’s characterisation to go on. I was inspired by how Marc is protective of those in his life, and how sometimes that results in them being pushed away. I wanted to play with Marc doing his utmost to keep someone at arm’s length. How he might manage to fulfil some, ahem, needs but bury others. In this part, it plays out as explicit smut (and okay, I admit to a component of this being rather self-indulgent PWP), but I promise an emotional arc is buried overall, between parts 1 and 2 :o) Nervous to post but hope you like?

Warnings: VERY EXPLICIT ROUGH SMUT, from the get go, fully consensual, inc: public/risky sex (p in v), daddy kink; pain kink / blood kink / exhibitionism if you squint; slight age gap implied(?) - mainly as Marc calls reader “kid”, once, but I see him as doing this with anyone even slightly younger than him given how worldly he is- they are 100% plenty more than of age; fingering; oral mentions. Hook-ups / casual sex partner situation. Condoms, mentions of bareback. Marc being emotionally witholding. One moment where onlookers see what’s going on (reader obscured from view) and they make a non-consensual sexual comment about reader - the narrative quickly moves on from this. Not proofed very well. Sorry, if this is a mess - I’ve been ill, so this all may be one long fever dream anyway :P

GIF: by the amazing @damerondjarin 🧡

By clicking to read more, you are agreeing you are over the age of 18 and agree to read adult themes, as per the warnings above. Minors, DO NOT INTERACT.

You let out a ragged moan as you feel the swell of him splitting you apart, his fat, contoured head punching aggressively at a spot so deep inside of you that the edges of your vision blur, whiting-out like the soft edges of the moon. Fittingly, besides Marc, the round, full, bright spot is your only spectator in this tucked away backstreet, shining down on you from above the staggered constellation of rooftops beyond.

Hinged at the hips to present your rear to him, to place yourself at his mercy, you rake your hands down the wall for purchase as you feel your knees almost buckle and betray you with this divine swell of him, scraping textured, mottled brick and carving a hundred tiny crescents into your palms. Perfect little blood moons. The singing sting only takes you higher and you wane for him already, adjusting hurriedly – impaled on his dick - before he starts to move. You know all too well how that taut body of his holds enough power to knock you right out of orbit.

From behind you, you hear a perfunctory grunt from Marc as your walls grip and writhe on his length, subtly correcting angles like some divine geometry; and then, he is drawing out of you, inch by unforgiving inch. His hands clamping into the gathered meat of your hips – and you brace yourself. You brace yourself for the full force of him slamming his length back home, remaking the shape of you from within.

You don’t have long to make this count, not here, in this dark, public corner, but luckily – he’s long enough for the both of you. If anyone could make this count, you believe it’s him.

You whimper then, tears spiking in your eyes with sheer, unabashed relief as he finally fucks into you like this, the motion slamming your whole body and sending ripples through your flesh. Again and again, he slams you, picking up the pace and spearing you on the thick mass of him.

Your flimsy heels struggle for purchase on the rain-wetted concrete, one foot languishing in a puddle - but you can scarce care. In fact, as soon as you push your ass back to meet the force of his thrusts - his hands digging harder into the meat of your hips - you couldn’t care less about the dismal back street. Not the odour of old beer bottles or the drip of leftover rain from the gutters. Not the shush of the 47 bus in the adjacent street nor the distant shouts of drunk revellers making their way home.

You do not care about anything but this. Not as soon as Marc pulls you down on him so deep that you feel the slap of his balls and the bracing of his thighs against yours, his hot skin clammy against you as he slams home hard. You can hear your arousal as he fucks you; an abrupt, repetitive motion which punches sharp, rhythmic exhales from your lungs, your mouth dropping open in rapture and disbelief at the pleasure already tightening and coalescing in your middle like some bound star.

The motion is like a wave – back and forth – in and out, in and out. In and out of your tight, wet, suckering heat. Your necklace pendulums chaotically, the pendant colliding with the soft cushion of your shuddering breasts, lifted from out of their lace cups by his greedy hands only moments before. Your nipples are still wet with his spit, your breasts bitten and sucked until your nipples became puffy and your clit had ached for equivalent attentions.

It strikes you how exposed you are for him, here like this. Your ass bared with your skirt hitched up over the globes of you, your breasts bouncing and swaying with every brutal snap of his hips. Your arousal leaking from you and coating your inner thighs – coursing down his balls as he fills you with every inch he has to give. As much as you try to hold it together, it is unravelling you, your core a pool of pale, molten moonlight for him; your juices leaking from you and dripping down his straining shaft, the night air kissing coolness against your hot, slickened skin.

You let it happen. Marc is the one who is in control here, as though you are merely his avatar; some externalisation of his needs and wants. That’s okay, though. You give your body to him willingly, as your needs and wants in this moment overlap so closely with his, they are a circle; as bright and clear as the celestial object looking down on you now, shrouded by clouds like a mask over that lit face.

In case you were getting too comfortable, Marc fists a hand in your hair, pain needling over your scalp and causing your body to arc for him like a bent stem, spine curling. The angle of penetration shifts and immediately, his urgent thrusts begin to spark a pleasure that’s hot and bright in your centre; one which threatens to engulf you as he opens you up for him, like his wanton night-blooming flower.

It feels good. But more than that it feels hot and sweaty and thoroughly sordid. He’s taking you in some dingy back street from behind, like he couldn’t physically wait to have you. Like the quickening of his desire grew too stark for propriety. Like the need you inspired within him, with your lips working his hot throat and your fingers teasing the bulging shaft of him through his trousers, was too pressing to wait until you could ride the DLR home, alight at your stop, politely bypass your roommate, and spread you open on the crisp white Egyptian cotton of your sheets, until you were a tangle of limbs with him.

No. Marc had to have you now, urgent and raw and ravenous. He had to have you here. Had to remake you in the shadows. In the dark. He called you his fox, once, for you are his nocturnal animal. You think he is a wolf. He is just one man, seemingly so solitary, but he hunts with the precision of a pack, seeing from every angle. His eyes hold secrets. Tell of many facets working as one. He takes you down on his teeth and you know it is coming, but God, you relish that chase.

Your hair still tugged taut in the claws of his fingers, he twists your head towards him, wishing to see the pleasure play out on your face, perhaps. Gasps and puffs of air emptied of sound coming staccato from your lips, painted red as blood. You can’t really see him, but you can feel him, deep in the cavern of you as his thrusts punch your cervix, your whole body glowing with a deep suffusing warmth. Can’t really see much more than a silhouette. A shadow.

Like a moon before the sun, Marc’s dense, sculpted body eclipses the warm and yellowed ambience inside the pub, his form hunched - broad and muscled - between your body and the back door as he pumps himself into you. The pub which you had left for dead as soon as the swell of your desire has spirited you away from there, leading you to abandon the merry patrons and the craft IPAs and sticky floor in favour of this quick but very necessary dalliance.

It was a no brainer.

Your need had been just as urgent as his.

It’s not elegant, like this; but, it certainly is efficient. There’s no romance about this, certainly. It’s dirty and it’s sordid and you’re getting railed unceremoniously behind a stack of crates; but God, it’s good.

He smacks your buttock with his strident palm and a sudden sting radiates across your skin, the sharp, percussive sound bouncing off brick as you swallow you moans down into your chest.

You’re getting close, and Marc’s pace shows no sign of relenting.

Maybe it -this- shouldn’t be enough for you - this hasty fuck with your skirt hitched up above the cushion of your arse, entirely undignified – but, somehow, it’s more than. Marc makes this seem like everything you could want from a man. Everything and then some. Maybe it’s because he’s so fucking-

-You spit out an abortive moan.

- because he’s so fucking deep.

Of course it feels like enough, when he’s giving you almost more than you can take.

He’s giving you everything he’s got and yet, somehow, he still manages to seem so withholding. Barely any sound emanating from him. Only a series of harsh, sawing puffs of air. A peppering of restrained grunts as he has you convulsing on the needy mass of him, your eyes practically rolling back into your head with how good it feels to be taken like this.

The strangled sound you make when he smacks you again is alien to you, a yowl caught in your throat like a rabbit in a snare; but still, you want more. Always more.

And so, you rail against his punctuated thrusts, pushing your buttocks back in rhythm to meet that determined, urgent snap and angling of his hips. He’s giving it to you hard.

So hard that the grip of his hands is almost too harsh, digging into your middle like he could mould you into any shape he needed around him. So hard that your earring has shaken free from one ear, dropping to the floor. That the breasts he man-handled from the lace cups of your bra are bouncing far more violently now. So hard that he makes your body feel like a rag doll. Makes your mind blank out, as though you could forget who you are.

You’re full of him. So full.

He’s not gentle with you, not in the least. There are no roses here; but then again, Marc’s learned all too well how much you can take without breaking. He’s learned how much you like the thorns.

You don’t have long left. Not long at all before you-

“-Oh God.”

“There are no gods here, baby,” he bites off, his voice pleasingly hoarse and scolding. Sunken with need and exertion. “Only me.”

“Marc!” you correct, saying his name like a prayer all the same. Feeling the strain and tremble in your parted legs. The legs he had unceremoniously kicked open when he had spun you against the wall, hinging your hips to pert your heat towards him. Your spread legs with your red lace knickers stretched down around your parted knees, damp with the slick of your first release. You feel the echo of it now. The memory of where Marc had curled his hand like a crescent moon and beckoned your orgasm to him with ease. The feel of his girthy digits thrust inside of your slick. Buried up to the knuckle.

Now, you chase your second wave of pleasure, and he controls it like a moon would drag the tide. You feel a sea inside you roll and swell, entirely at his mercy, and you wish to soak him with it. Soothe over the sand in his throat as he expels guttural noises of pleasure. Over the heat of him, his sturdy body against you, his warmth bleeding through where he contacts you.

“Shit, Marc!”

Encouraged by you, his hips slam into the cushion of your bare ass so hard from behind that you have to brace yourself more thoroughly, palms splayed as wide as they will go against the mottled brick wall, and the sting as the rough texture drives pinpricks of pain across your palms only driving you higher. You keen a sliding note from between your lips, rough yet musical like the scratch and slur of a bow over strings - your core pulling just as taut.

You hear a commotion at the mouth of the alley which threatens to tear you from this bliss; but Marc is already reacting, slowing his thrusts slightly and waiting for the revellers to straggle by. You groan angrily – but not at the chance of being observed; rather at the subduing of his pace - and Marc chuckles darkly at your evident distress. He kneads your ass as you buck and writhe it on him in search of greater friction. Smooths over your flesh where only moments ago whips of his palm had marked you, the sharp smack bouncing off brick and ricocheting into your head.

“Marc! Fuck! Please! Don’t stop!” You shuck out the words, voice hoarse with desperation. You’re sure he’s trying to protect you but why can’t he understand that you don’t care. You don’t care who sees you. Let them watch. Let them watch how he fills you so full that you are overflowing.

“Sssssshhhhh”, Marc scolds, the sound filtering in to the shell of your ear, and with his hot, discombobulated breath sawing across your neck you realise that he has drawn your limpening body closer to his, back now flush to his sturdy, sculpted chest. “Be quiet for me, huh, pretty girl?”

You can barely think coherent thoughts any longer but you nod. You’re nodding and he’s tipping your chin, up and back, until your head is reclined against the junction of his dense, muscled shoulder. His hand is winding around the front of your throat, palm clammy with sweat and heavy with the scent of you; from where his thick fingers worked the seam of you open for him.

God. This is how he – as one wolf - works like a pack. His dick, his hands, his mouth, his tongue. His voice. All conspiring to take you down. To take you apart. All working as one to dismantle you. It feels premeditated. It feels systematic. It feels unstoppable.

Ragged breaths saw in your lungs now, your eyes falling shut with the weight of this incomprehensible need. The shift in position is a relief, the muscles in your arms and back aching from bracing against his sex, muscles cramping with the pulse of lactic acid under your skin.

You whimper, trying to beg for him to fuck you hard again but unable to get the words out, the slower drag of him through your heat teasing you deliciously, stoking your release.

God, he feels good.

The sturdy trunk of him up pressed up against your back. The meat of his muscled quads hard and smooth, tensing against the back of your legs as he fucks up into you - just shallow enough to make you want to curse him and just deep enough that you forget how.

Still, you cannot see him, which seems like a crime when the man is so fucking beautiful. But, you can smell him - the exertion evaporating from his body. Can hear him - the ways he is coming undone too. Percussive grunts. The chaotic jangling of his belt buckle as he fills you. You envision his jeans shoved down around his ample hips. Can imagine his peachy bum and thick thighs clenching – more than one full moon on display tonight.

Then, hooking one forearm under the crook of your left leg and shuffling you closer towards the wall, he draws your knee up to the side, meaning he can penetrate you just a little deeper. Fuck. That makes all the difference.

You scream for him as he picks up the pace again, balls resuming their rhythmic slap against you. “Too much?” he asks, knowing fine well it isn’t. Knowing exactly what he’s doing to you. You can’t see it, but you can hear the crescent-shaped uptick of his lips. Can hear how amused he is by how easily he is able to dismantle you. He knows all the ways how.

“More!” The words are punched from your lungs. “Give me more, Marc. Please. Harder.” You wring a pretty moan from deep within your chest as he snaps his hips up hard, and you barely know how you’re still standing on one flimsy stiletto but between your palms -rebraced against the wall - and his sturdy, muscled form taking some of your weight, you aren’t moving anywhere. At least, nowhere except deeper on to his shaft as he fucks you into oblivion. As he finds the rhythm that you want. That he knows you need.

This. This is how it goes. This is how it always goes. He’s going to take you apart; but, this is a well-matched fight. You’re also going to make him come undone. You are determined, that you will dissolve his restraint into chaos.

He drops your leg then and walks your body forwards, driving his hips and feet with you until he’s pinning you in place with his own weight. Until you are cramped helplessly between him and the wall, nowhere to go and nothing to do but keep taking it, his thrusts shallow and languid once more – the calm before the storm.

He loves teasing you and you hate him for it.

Still, for someone you claim to hate, you sure are fond of Marc right now. It certainly sounds like it. Indeed, you submit more pretty moans to him, flowered things, and meanwhile, he remains inscrutable as ever. You’d barely know his own end was close unless you’d learned to interpret the signs – clues he leaves, like some forgotten glyphs littered over his body. You think you must be the only one fluent. You can feel the ramping tension in his limbs, the discombobulated pace of his breath, the harsh set of his jaw. Still, he aims – as always, Lord knows why - to obscure the hold you have over him, and so, when he speaks again, the cracks in his voice are all smoothed out.

“Are you ready for a real fucking, beautiful?” His voice is rich and full-bodied now. Brimming with warmth and flavour, like the whisky you had tasted on his tongue as it had shoved over yours. “Gonna be a good girl for Daddy? Take my dick hard until I spill for you?”

He fucks up into you, just a little harder to foreshadow the rougher pace of his sex.

“Please.”

With your plea submitted, Marc buries himself into you as deep as he can go and he holds there for a moment, his cock twitching and needy inside you as your walls tighten, clamping around the head of him. Coiling up. Preparing to drown him in the flood of your release.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“Please, Daddy,” you beg, intoning a husky, throaty submission to him.

Shit. Fuck. Shit, you can barely fight it any longer.

He knows how that gets you. Calling him those things. Having him stay so calm and sure while you become chaos around him.

Again, he fucks you harder. Faster. He’s fucking you deep now, his hips snapping and pistoning and setting a brutal pace. You whimper pathetically, noises throaty and high-pitched. All undone - in such contrast to his deep, American smooth. His cool calm and his steady pace as you barrel ever closer to your end. Closer; and he keeps filling you. Keeps driving himself into the depths of you.

You are impossibly wet for him now. So wet and slick and accommodating that he groans. That he has to bite down and bury his head in the junction of your shoulder so that he stays quiet too. So wet, that he has to fight not to slip out of you, even if -at the same time- it feels like he’s filling you airtight, forcing your juices out of you since they have nowhere else to go.

“Mmm. Daddy,” you praise, twisting your head and straining to capture his lips, that amused crescent uptick gone from his lips and his whole face instead weighted by his pleasure. His face harsh planes, stern and shadowed, the pale moonlight joining you and stooping to kiss his brow. His high cheekbones and prominent nose, painting him with an ethereal glow like a fingertip through settled dust.

His tongue shoves over yours, and you swallow down his subtle, delicious moans, his thrusts becoming lazy and sloppy and you know that he’s close. Know you are dismantling him too, with less precision than he has shown you, but with equal force.

“When are you going to pull it together and fuck me, Daddy,” you tease, you chide, you tempt, and he laughs deliciously then. A dark but rich sound that promises you shouldn’t play with him; not unless you’re sure you can handle the consequences.

It’s not that you want this over with, no. Not that you want it to end. You don’t. It’s more that it’s a rush. Having him in the shadows like this. Making him spill over with his need for you. The fact that he keeps coming back for more when this was only ever supposed to be once. He could get it anywhere he wanted it; you’re sure he could have his pick. But he keeps coming back for more of you. You wish to feel that desire, that need, that want, shooting up into you. Want to be awash with it. Want to hold it in your centre like for a moment he could be in your orbit.

All that, yes, but most of all, you just want him to fuck you as hard as he can give it to you, and almost harder than you can take it.

He obliges.

You weaken as he hits your sweet spot, over and over.

“Please,” you keen, and he knows what you need. Always does.

He growls as he shoves his fingers past your lips - and you know what to do. You lave your tongue over them, sucking on them. Wetting them so he can move them down and rub your clit in circles; waxing and waning in a cycle which has you dizzy, your pleasure spinning you out of orbit. He plants a wet, biting slap to you the mound of you which had aftershocks zipping through your body.

He’s fucking you now, alright. Fucking you so hard it’s like he hates you. Or, maybe, like he hates himself. Like this is all he can allow himself. All he deserves. He might be cast in moonlight; but he only gives himself to you in the dark. In pieces, like there’s more of him you may never have. A crescent - a slice of him, despite that he is not at all broken. Despite that he must be entirely whole. Despite that you feel full with him. You only ever see the face he wishes to show you.

“Come for me,” you plead, unable to last out any longer, and wanting to tip over the edge together.

“Make me,” he rumbles, voice full of grit and seeping into every crack and every weakness in you like a shifting sandstorm. “Wring it out of me.”

“Marc!” Another plea as his hips snap against your ass, obscene noises filling the alleyway and your head. His name slips past your lips on a wave of praises and curses and expletives.

“Ah ah,” he scolds, and his voice is as deep and as dark as the shadows coalescing around you. You swear he must be grinning like a jackal with his next words readied in his mouth. “You can call me Daddy.”

Fuck. And there it is. That’s enough for you. That is more than enough for you to clamp down on him; or, it would be, but it is, in fact, the soft kiss he plants on the spot beneath your ear – in the next moment - which turns out to be your final breaking point. Which has you convulsing wildly on his length. Gushing over the fat head of him. The softness of his lips on your neck the act finally tipping the scales (those scales which have been seeking balance all this time) in your favour.

You shiver with it, and find your release, Marc chasing you soon after, his hips jerking and stuttering entirely out of rhythm. You offer your mouth to him for hungry, devouring kisses, tongue sliding over his as he comes undone. A taste of iron floods your tongue, as though he has bitten down hard enough on his own lip to draw blood – perhaps in attempts to stave off his end. God, you love that you can make him come undone. That he has to fight it, not to give in to you too soon.

Well, he gives in to you fully now.

You feel Marc’s thick length spasm deliciously inside of you, filling the condom, the pulse of his seed zipping from his balls and emptying inside of you drawing jittering aftershocks from your cunt.

God, you wish he could truly shoot himself up inside of you. Paint your walls with his spend until you were weeping with him. Claim you in that primal way.

Still twitching, on his softening length, another’s voice rips you away from this moment all too abruptly. “Wheeeyyyy! We’ve got a full moon out here tonight lads,” a reveller announces, spilling out from the pub’s back door, no doubt getting an eyeful of Marc’s behind. “Getting some action, fella? Fancy giving me a go of your missus next?”

Christ. Talk about timing.

You scramble for your modesty; but meanwhile, Marc is eerily calm, one hand clamping and pinning your hips flush to him with an iron grip. The other, gently tilting your head away, preserving your modesty via anonymity, and via the protective mask of his own body.

“Go back inside,” you hear him intone, his voice dripping with dark and threat, and directed towards the group of onlookers.

You are moments from panic -especially given your position of vulnerability - when, to your surprise, they obey. “Yeah, alright fella. Didn’t mean nothin’ by it.” You might wonder how he had such power over them, were you not equally caught up in doing his bidding. In fact, you can fully understand their obedience. Marc has an edge to him; sharp enough that you would not dare cross it for fear of being cut. Still, at the same time, you have never feared him. Not once. He is restraint around you. Protective. Only ever wielding the blunt side of his power. Only wielding it in ways you like.

Once the group has retreated, Marc holds the base of the condom and slips himself out of you -an easy glide. Bereft of his fullness, you feel pleasantly used up and fucked open, your pool of slick cool against the night air.

As you catch your breath, chest heaving, he swivels you around carefully, propping you with you back against the wall. He pulls your skirt down quickly to cover your modesty, even before he sees to his own pants, tucking his softening, sated roll of cock away with a one-handed slip of leather belt through its buckle. In the other he holds the condom, which he discards next– almost dropping it down a drain before looking perturbed and mouthing “fishes”- into an adjacent bin.

Then, he crosses back to you, watching you with interest as you quickly pull up your knickers, a struggle as the silky, lacy material sticks to your heated, clammy thighs.

Marc hums and moves his body close to you now, those delicious eyes raking over you - heavy lidded half-moons. Dark planets pulling you into their thrall.

“Mmm. Marc,” you hum with satisfaction, looping your arms around his middle to pull him flush to you, grateful of his warmth as the night chill claims your heat. You kiss the stray bead of sweat from his temple, gathering it on your tongue as though it is the last pearl of water in a desert. The only thing which could quench you, and your lips linger there.

“You good?” he asks smoothly. “Wasn’t too rough?”

You shake your head, and he chides you for your lack of clarity. “Use your words, Princess.”

“’M good,” you confirm.

He nods once, satisfied with that, and your gaze sweeps over the planes of his face. The face which looks sharp and shadowed when it counts, but always marginally softer in these fleeting moments after. As though you could muster power to have him soften further, you lift your palm, pressing it flush to his face, tenderly scraping it down his cheek.

You don’t have a lot of time. You know how you need to drink him in before it’s too late.

However, your gesture has the opposite effect than intended. As you contact his rough brush of stubble, you feel a soft sting. “Ah shit,” you curse, pulling your hand away and glancing down at it. You recall how you had dug it into the mottled brick. How it had retaliated by carving out little crescent indents, your palms now flecked with red; a constellation of tiny blood moons.

A weight settles on Marc’s brow as he reaches to inspect you for himself. “Why didn’t you say?” A hard swallow trails down your throat as Marc’s tone becomes scolding, a sharper edge settling on his features. His strong jaw twitching. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“But I like it,” you coo, making your eyes big and batting your lashes to counterbalance your challenge – albeit to little avail. The weight on Marc’s brow becomes an increasing burden on his features, casting his eyes almost entirely in darkness beneath the heavy set of it. You sigh, a shiver tracing up your spine like a cold finger, matching his demeanour. You’re not exactly surprised. This. This is how it goes. There’s the blissful peak, and after that, it usually sours quickly. “That bothers you, doesn’t it?”

“I need to be able to trust you. To tell me if I go too far.” His features contort with what you can only interpret as regret. As though maybe he’s had enough dealings with pain for a lifetime and he would prefer not to cross paths with it again.

Still, you fold your arms over your chest. He has the audacity to talk about trust here? Really? “Too far according to whom?” you bite, and you watch him chew on some unspoken words. “I know my own limits better than you do, thank you very much.” He huffs out air through his nose. Looks down at the floor. “Anyway. You can trust me.” What remains unspoken is heavily implied. That he is altogether more aligned with secrets than you are.

He smiles, but it’s not out of joy. It’s a tired, jaded thing. Thin as paper. Still, he reaches up, looking you in the eye and jostling the point of your chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Don’t do this again, kid. It doesn’t lead anywhere good.” His tone is so deliberately smoothed and free from cracks that you can see right through it. He’s trying to placate you. Subdue you.

Well, the first problem is that he knows just how to do it. Has it down to an art. And, the second problem is that you don’t entirely mind; because unlike your lines of questioning, that usually does lead somewhere good.

“Now.” He winds his hand between your legs, finding that damp strip of material – the pad of his index finger skimming over your plumped, clothed clit. “Do you want me to give you another one? Or do you want to go home?” Placating you. Case in point.

Still, you defy him. “I want to go home.”

You search conscientiously for any flicker of disappointment you are able to discern in his face; but it’s too dark and he’s too good to let his mask of indifference slip, even for a moment – if it truly is a mask he wears at all.

“Well. That was pretty fun,” you breeze, pushing off from the wall. “Think that’s in the top three fucks that I’ve had in an alleyway.” That’s a lie. You’ve never fucked in an alleyway before. And, if you’re talking top fucks, Marc currently occupies spots one through 28. (Given that’s as many times as you’ve had hook-ups with him, his record is pretty consistently good. Gleaming, in fact.)

You examine his face now, for any hint of jealousy or bruised ego at the insinuation he many share the leading rank with some other of your conquests; but your comment seems only to have amused him. Maybe he can see through you, already?

Fuck. Maybe next time he’ll even make you admit it. Edge you for hours until you admit it to him. That he’s the best you’ve had.

If there is a next time, that is. Being his booty call is a precarious game.

Normally, you can handle that he never expresses anything much back to you – his face impassive. No gushing praise for how well you take him or how good you feel on his cock. You would barely know he enjoyed you at all - aside from the obvious, the straining mass of him and gush of liquid – if it weren’t for the fact he keeps coming back for more. Coming back to you.

Yeah. It was only ever meant to be a one time thing. Just a one night stand. A casual Tinder hook-up with no strings and even fewer feelings.

Clearly, you had both decided that once wouldn’t be enough; but you’re still not sure you’re on the same page about what qualifies as too much.

Marc places his broad palm on the small of your back to gently encourage you back inside, and you allow it. “Did you bring a coat?”

“I’m not living in Newcastle anymore. What do you think?” Marc looks blank. He doesn’t understand the reference. Why would he? He’s not from around here. “Newcastle,” you explain dryly. “Residents famed for not wearing coats on nights out?” Still nothing. It’s a regional stereotype, and sometimes brandished unkindly, but even so, some of your friends from up there would genuinely give you shit for this. Would call you a Southern softie. “Yes,” you concede in a monotone. “In the cloakroom.”

Marc’s hand becomes a little more insistent on your back, and for some reason it irks you. It’s like now that he’s taken what he wanted he can’t wait to be rid of you. For that, you shrug him off you. And, you don’t want to say it. You don’t want to push him. But you can feel it bubbling up in you. This desire for a little more. “You know. We could grab a drink if you-“

“-We did what we came to do,” he says neutrally. Probably things he’s doing you a favour too. Stopping you before you can humiliate yourself further. “You know I don’t do pillow talk.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes, hard, as you head deeper into the warren of pub corridors. “Pillow talk? Please. When was the last time we fucked in an actual bed?”

Annoyance twitches on Marc’s face. “You know what I mean.”

Your expression grows bitter in turn and Marc sighs, cupping a hand on to your elbow and gently moving you to a dark corner next to the stairs, planting his feet and coming to face you. “Look. This is just sex, and it’s all it’s ever going to be.” Wow. Not pulling any punches here, is he? You pinch your lips together in a tight line, and as tears ball in your eyes his face softens marginally. You think you detect just a hint of sympathy in his tone. “I’m sorry to be cold. But I don’t want pleasantries. I don’t want a girlfriend.” You dip your chin and gaze down to the floor, hoping he can’t see how much that stings. It’s not that this is news to you – not at all. He’s been upfront with you from the start, and Marc is nothing if not consistent.

It's just that, gradually, you have found yourself wishing that could change. Would a soft cuddle and some chat after being railed into oblivion be too much to ask for on the odd occasion? Would it really?

Marc brings his forefinger beneath your chin, gingerly tipping your gaze back to him. His touch is tender, but you know better than to expect that from his words, and inwardly you brace yourself, your fists clenching and reminding you all over again of the sting in your palms. “I don’t want to chat. Become buddies. I don’t want to know anything about you, don’t need to know anything about you, other than how to make you come six ways to Sunday.” He shifts his hips a little closer to you, winding one arm around your waist and so help you, you hate yourself for being so weak that a heat crawls and crackles beneath your skin from this contact. “If that bothers you, you’re free to stop. But it’s good, isn’t it? This thing we do?”

Fuck.

Are you? Free to stop? About as free as the sea is. Looks like it - that great expanse of water. Looks wild and unstoppable and ferocious; but, the moon drags it in line, every time. Always entices it back to smash itself upon the rocks. You feel a tide within you drawing you to him, and you’re not sure that you have the strength to escape it.

Still, he’s not wrong. It is good – this thing you do. Even now, a heat curls in your belly at the memory. You exhale a breath in concession, and Marc perhaps gives an inch too. Perhaps realises that just a smidgen of aftercare wouldn’t be remiss, and he searches your eyes in something which could pass for apology. You feel embarrassed that you have tears balling there, but you still loop your hands around his neck regardless as he offers his arms for a hug. As his big warm hands smooth your back.

“You did so well, Princess,” he coos, his prominent nose nuzzling into the cushion of your cheek. His lips skimming yours for a fleeting, almost sweet kiss. Almost. “So good for me, huh?”

There he goes again, eh? Placating you.

His lips dip for another kiss but you wilfully shake yourself out of your stupor. You paint on a thin smile and brace your hands on his shoulders, pushing him away from you. He immediately steps back, creating space, looking a little put out. Well, good.

“Walk me to the tube?” you ask perfunctorily, tilting your head in direction of the ladies’ toilets. “I need to piss first,” you say bluntly. There’s no elegance in this – any of this – so why put up a charade? You have no masks to wear. That’s his domain. “Will you just let me wee in peace?”

He nods efficiently. “I’ll get your coat.” You fumble the cloakroom ticket from your handbag and pass it off to him, and then you head your separate ways for the moment.

It gives you a valuable moment to gather yourself. You wee. Wash your grazed hands in cool water. Fish some unsightly mascara goop from the corner of your eye. You splash some cold water on your still heated cheeks, and then you smooth yourself, so that by the time you step out into the corridor – Marc holding your coat – you feel almost as inscrutable as him. Just as unbothered.

He helps you shrug on your coat and the banality of the action almost makes you laugh. Almost.

Then, you head together out into the street. You link your arm into the crook of his elbow so that he can support some of the weight of you, the balls of your feet starting to ache in these flimsy shoes – one of them particularly soggy still from languishing in that puddle.

You walk in silence, letting Marc navigate to the nearest tube stop and not giving much thought to anything else. What’s the point, anyway? It’s not as though he wants to make conversation. He’s made that abundantly clear.

Indeed, his words from moments ago replay in your head, but now one choice phrase sticks out.

You huff out a small laugh, directed nowhere in particular. “Six ways to Sunday, eh?” Marc turns his head towards you. “Well, you certainly have that down.” You’ll give him that.

He says nothing, of course. Doesn’t even deign to look smug about it. It irks you, that. His impassivity. And then all of a sudden you can’t help but fling your words out on a surge of emotion. You are trying to be more like him, but it’s wrong, isn’t it? That won’t do. You’re not the same. You care.

Your tone drips with ire, all your complaints bubbling up at once. “Why do you keep doing this, if you hate it so much?” You mean all of it – your whole arrangement - but why put himself through this, specifically? The prolonged walk to the tube? Can’t he just shove you in a taxi and be done with it?

“I don’t,” he says coolly. “I… don’t hate it.” There is a beat as you try to suss him out. “Why do you?”

You tut and huff and you don’t even care what he thinks of you at this point. “Why do I what?”

“Keep doing this. If you hate it.”

You swallow. You allow a stretched silence, the only sound you make for a few beats is the relentless clacking of your heels against the pavement.

You don’t hate it. Not exactly.

A troubled frown settles on your brow. Fuck, what are you even doing?

You’d told him earlier how you like things that hurt. That you know your own limits for pain. But, you’re starting to wonder if that’s as true as you thought it was, given that this -this arrangement in and of itself - is starting to hurt you. You know all the right safe words for the physical stuff, sure, but when it comes to your heart? Apparently, you just don’t know when to quit. Don’t know how to get out before you get bruised.

God. You wish sometimes he could be another man. Someone who would cuddle you and buy you chocolates. Who wants a girlfriend. You knew what you’d signed up for, it’s true, but you hadn’t known what you were getting yourself into. And now, you can’t see your way out of it. How could you, when you only ever see him in the shadows. Your path is not illuminated.

Oh well. Fuck it. You double-down on your frown. Pick up the pace of your steps. “On second thoughts, I think you were on to something, Marc. Let’s not talk.”

Indeed, that’s how you arrive at the otherwise deserted tube station; wordlessly. You shuffle to the platform, wincing at the pain in your feet and aching body, and flick your eyes up to the illuminated sign. Three minutes before the arrival of the next train.

You don’t have much time.

Time seems to slip away faster all of a sudden, like sand through your fingers. You’re already thinking ahead to your day tomorrow. About what time to set your alarm and what you have in your calendar. You’re already compartmentalising Marc away. Consigning him to the dark. Burying him like some treasure that you might later excavate, but that, for right now, you need to forget all about.

You could forget he was there at all - if he didn’t reach out for you, his hand finding the small of your back again. “Text me, when you get home safe.”

You don’t fight your eye-roll this time. “What do you care?”

You hear his long sigh then. You realise all of a sudden, under the artificial lights in the underground station, how tired he looks. Still, he continues to be just as stoic and withholding as ever. You want to be bratty and petty and provoke him, but you know it would be futile. It would be like meeting a wall of stone. A blocked entrance to a tomb, where his cold, dead heart must languish within.

Besides, what use would it be trying to appeal to him? You feel like you have more to lose here than he does. Marc is pushing you away, and it’s all too deliberate – he’s made no bones about that - but you can’t have him thinking he’s pushed you too far. After all, for better or worse, you need this again. You need him to come back to you. “When will I see you again?”

His voice stoops a little with apology. “You know I can’t make any guarantees.”

You make a point of looking ahead into the blackened mouth of the tunnel. Looking away from him, as though you can’t wait to get away. “I won’t just sit around any wait by the phone, Marc.”

It’s frustrating. You have to deal with his weird fucking schedule again? Really? Disappearing for days or weeks? He’s straight down the line about the fact he doesn’t want more than a fuck from you… but, damn. Everything else? A big fat question mark. You’re not exactly naïve, though. You like to think you’re actually quite perceptive as a person. You know fine well he has stuff to hide – though you’re not entirely sure you want to know what it is he’s hiding, anyway.

You look at the sign again and he follows your line of sight. Two minutes left before the train. Marc looks perturbed by that fact for the exact opposite reason that you are. Two minutes for you to needle him. Well, whatever. You’ve tried. You’ve tried to give him your soft side – and he doesn’t want it. It doesn’t matter what you do. “Are you seeing anyone else?” you ask as casually as possible. You hear the tension laid out in his breaths before you see it on his face, finally looking back at him. No doubt, he must think you are jealous. About to spin some wild theories about his whereabouts when you don’t hear from him. “Relax, Marc. I just ask because… the condoms. If we didn’t need to use them it’d be...” He quirks an eyebrow at you, prompting you to finish that thought. (Ah, yes. Fucking. The one topic of conversation that’s safe with him.) “Well. That’d be… fun. Wouldn’t it?”

You paint a devious smile on your pretty mouth and you watch with satisfaction as a hard swallow trails down Marc’s corded neck. There is a beat. There always is. But, then he answers you. No mirrors or deflection that you can tell. “I’m not seeing anyone else,” he says plainly.

Your mouth falls open, and you close it quickly.

Honestly? That surprises you. You watch desire weigh him down, his eyes growing hooded as a result of your proposition. “Aren’t you?” he asks with the level of casual you had attempted to muster. “Seeing anyone else? Alley fucking champions one through two?”

A devious spark lights your eyes. Good. So that comment did get under his skin a little bit, then? You answer him with reciprocal plainness. “No.”

Heat brews in his gorgeous earth brown eyes at your statement. “Would you like that? Me shooting myself inside of you?”

You look at him levelly. “I’d like that a lot.” His desire, in turn, warms you, your core turning molten all over again.

This. This is all he wants from you, and this is all of himself he’s prepared to give, but isn’t this enough? Even a sliver of him is enough to light your glow through the lonely nights. A sliver of him – a mere crescent - shining down on you? That is better than the dark, you think. So much better than the dark.

You look at the sign. One minute.

You’re running out of time.

So, hastily, and with a devious half-moon smile to rival his best, you slip your damp silken, lacy knickers from your legs, stepping out of them and stuffing them into his jacket pocket. You lean forward to whisper into the shell of his ear, your voice and your scent fanning over him. “Something to remember me by, Daddy.”

His curls are whipped about his deliciously dumbfounded face by the rushing air in the tube, as the train whooshes in on its approach. You take satisfaction in your timing. In the fact your little act has blindsided him. Indeed, you watch him pile his restraint on like armour, like a mask, his nostrils flaring and his tongue darting out hungrily along his lip as you spin away from him. You step aboard the tube as the hideous, jarring beep sounds, signalling that the doors are about to swallow you up.

When the signal sounds, Marc looks primed to pounce. He looks after you with regret. Like he could jump through those doors and wrestle you on to the floor right there. Instead though, he has two little words for you. “Text me,” he says sternly, before his hand shoves into his pocket. No doubt searching for how soaked your panties are. Feeling how wet he had made you; for it was all for him.

Settling in a seat, in the interior of the train, you deliver him a wolfish smile through the window, texting him a message which he opens immediately. “Perv.”

He smiles then. Actually smiles at you, eyes eclipsed with mirth and surprise - and still that lazily blazing heat. He gives you a wink, and he pulls his fingers from his pocket to smell you on him, your stomach flipping with desire as he does so.

God, he makes your blood run beneath your skin like a pack of wolves. Chaotic but focussed. Animalistic and wild. The clamour and pulse of it unrelenting.

You see him typing again on his shitty phone. “Text me. When you’re HOME SAFE.” You look up at him and he dips his chin pointedly. Raises an eyebrow, signalling that you should not dare disobey him. Not on this occasion.

“Alright,” you type back. “But no-one says ‘text’ anymore, old man.”

He smiles again, and for the first time it is a soft thing. Lingering as you watch him shove his hands into his trouser pockets, preparing to slink off into the shadows without so much as a wave.

This. This is what you don’t understand about the man. He’s caring in so many ways. He’s respectful. Never prepared to compromise on your physical safety. Straight up in that he has never tried to trick you; has always been honest in his intentions. But, his eyes are harbouring so many secrets.

Still. For the first time, tonight, you wonder if they were finally harbouring some secrets about you. For the first time, you wonder if you have finally managed to crack his façade. To see a glimpse of who he might be beneath the mask.

You watch him slink away, but for just a moment your attention is diverted by a rowdy group of hens, with whom you share the carriage. They distract you for a moment, with their colourful sashes and booming laughter, and when you slant your eyes back, Marc is gone.

“He was a bit of alright,” one of the friendly and rather tipsy women pipes up, practically drooling in the direction of the window. “Is he your bloke?” Her eyes are a little glassy. A little unfocussed.

You look between her and her pals with a taut smile. “Not really.” You too look out of the window now, a little wistfully, picking the spot he disappeared into as the train pulls away. “I don’t think that he belongs to anyone.” You shake your head, dismissing the thought before it drags you down. You pull your coat around you, and nod politely towards the bride. “Congratulations on the wedding.” Her face apples with an unrestrained joy. You wonder what that’s like.

“Thanks chick,” she grins, and then, just like that, you are on the outside again. The group forgets you, descending back into their own bubble of giggles and jokes.

Naturally, as you sit and wait for your stop, your thoughts wander. Naturally, they drag back to Marc; like you are the tide and he is the moon. Every now and again, he keeps emerging from the dark. Holding this power of you. You never know if you’ll see him again.

It was only meant to be once, and that means you’re already out of time.

He always disappears from your grasp.

In fact, the only way you’d know he was ever there at all -that he enjoys you - is the dull, continued throb between your legs. That’s the only thing you have to remember him by, and that will be gone by morning.

Just like he always is.

***

The next day, Steven puts his hand into his pocket, expecting to find a little box of tic-tacs.

“Oh, bloody hell,” he curses instead, as he unfurls the intricate red lace underwear between his fingers.

As a mirroring hot-red heat blooms up his neck, he looks up into the bathroom mirror, clearly awaiting some sort of explanation.

Marc’s face peers back at him from within the reflective surface, looking all bent out of shape – as he so often does. Maybe that’s just his face, Steven thinks, never one to judge. “They don’t belong to you, buddy,” Marc warns, in that robust, smooth tone of his.

Oh? A little possessive of these, is he? How telling.

“Yeah? Is that right?” Steven says animatedly. “’Cause they don’t strike me as belonging to you either, mate.”

Marc tilts his head. A concessionary move he hopes will invite no further questions. But, he musn’t forget. This is Steven he’s dealing with.

“Has Marc-y gone and got ‘imself a girlfriend?” Steven sing-songs, abruptly shoving the knickers back into his pocket as the bathroom door opens, to guard them from sight.

When the other man enters the stall, Steven glances back to the mirror, to see Marc shaking his head. Quite adamant that that’s not what’s happening here. Not at all.

Steven grins, knowingly. A little too knowingly for Marc’s liking.

Well, well, well. The mercenary has many secrets, including from Steven; but it seems you are no longer one of them.

You can’t possibly know yet, just how significant that fact will be… and the truth is, neither can he.

TO BE CONTINUED.

Part 2 is here!

#moon knight spoilers #Marc Spector x reader #steven grant x reader #moon knight x reader #Oscar Isaac

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