CO-WRITTEN WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS
Pairing: Marc Spector x female reader x Steven Grant (x hints of Jake Lockley)
Summary: Marc is possessed by a horny ancient sex spirit and refuses the help you're willingly offering. Sequel to Gift of Min but can be read as stand alone.
Content: sex pollen, restraints, Marc being a stubborn bastard.
Word count; 12,800 words (do not look at me)
Series Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist | Thirstworldproblemss’ Masterlist
There's a white, pot-bellied goose staring up at Marc expectantly with hunger. He ignores it, pretending he doesn't see it as he turns his head, eyes circling around the park.
If he ignores it, it will give up eventually.
"Oh hello there fella! You're a plump one aren't you?"
Marc resists the deeply ingrained urge to roll his eyes. Of course, Steven would acknowledge the animal.
“I think it wants us to feed it”, Steven says.
Marc hums in acknowledgment. He doesn't want to get into this right now. Doesn't want Steven distracted and excitedly buzz in their head with anecdotes about Geese and the bird wildlife in London when they're supposed to be on the lookout for their contact.
Flicking his wrist, Marc glares at his watch.
Twelve minutes late. You'd think Ancient Egyptian Deities would have some kind of culling process when picking their Avatars. Punctuality should be a bare minimum requirement.
He leans back against the wooden slats of the park bench, hands shoved inside his field jacket against the chill of the London air as a woman with a stroller walks by nearly running over the goose in the process (to Steven's outrage). For the umpteenth time since he sat down, Marc's fingers trace the lining until he catches at the sharp edge of the small golden trinket box, just to make sure it's still there.
Gift of Min. A tiny trinket box that's been sealing away some sex-crazed sprite serving the Ancient God of Sex for decades. One that Steven managed to accidentally free with his uncanny puzzle solving skills in just under a minute, getting himself possessed in the process.
Marc's fingers clutch at the brass-metal, until it's digging into his palms as he squeezes down. Flashes of your bare skin underneath Steven's hands, and the soft curves of your naked form pressed underneath him, pushes to the surface of his mind.
Fuck, he shakes his head. No, his mind is not going there. He needs to stay here, in the present, find the other Avatar and hand this over so it's out of your lives for good.
Get rid of it so that what happened last week won't ever repeat itself. He won’t allow that to happen, won’t risk putting you in harm’s way again.
It's all so vivid and Marc has replayed the memory of it so many times, every detail of it. Every gasp, moan and whimper of your voice. The way your back arched from the floor, the way your mouth fell open. The way your eyes would roll back right before you came… repeatedly. He’s played it like a VHS tape on repeat until it’s been so worn out from replays that the image is filled with static and he almost can't tell anymore if it was entirely Steven's experience or his as well, trapped as he was in the mind space.
Steven rutting into you mindlessly like an animal. Hips snapping against your soft plump thighs. Your legs squeezed tight around his hips, around his cock as you kept coming uncontrollably, again and again and–
With a jolt, Marc's pulled from his thoughts at the voice. Looking up, there's a man standing two feet away from him with a much too friendly smile on his face for someone that's—Marc flicks his watch—22 minutes late.
The man reaches out a hand in an inviting gesture to shake Marc's hand.
These Avatars always want to make pleasantries and be friends, like they're all part of the Mickey Mouse Club on account of their ostensible connection of being in indentured servitude to defunct Egyptian Gods.
Reluctantly, Marc relents, slipping one hand out of his pocket. The man's hand is bony, his grip tight like he's trying to assert dominance by crushing Marc's hand. Then he lets it go, the smile spreading even wider with that uncanny eager friendliness.
"I believe you have something for me?"
Standing up from the bench, Marc reaches into his pocket again and shoves it into the man's hand.
"Ah there it is. Gorgeous little thing isn't it?" Min’s avatar holds the box up in the daylight, inspecting it as if it were a diamond, then he tilts his head with a confused expression.
"Oh dear," he says.
At first, Marc misses the alarm in his voice, because the man practically sings out the words.
"What?" Marc asks.
Instead of answering Marc, the man hums, turning the trinket box in his hand as if weighing the contents, his friendly smile fading into a slight frown.
"What is it?" Marc repeats, irritated this time.
"Well…" the man shifts the box into his other hand, repeating the same weighing motion. Then the man holds the box up to his ear, like he’s trying to hear the ocean in a seashell.
The Avatar’s inability to give a straight answer has Marc's patience balanced on a tenuous line that he can physically hear as it snaps.
"What is wrong," Marc repeats for a third time through gritted teeth.
"The seal's been opened."
There's a tension in Marc's jaw as he grinds down on his teeth. "There was an accident. Someone opened it. But I made sure to trap the sprite back inside."
"Well whatever you did, you didn't do a good enough job.” The man says it so matter-of-factly like it’s not even an insult, and Marc has to take a deep calming breath, his hand closing into a fist.
“The puzzle sequence wasn't completed when you retrapped the spirit and thus not sealed. It must have escaped." This time, the man flips the panels in sequence of motion, in-out-up-up-down until Marc loses track. The gears in the box whir and the box opens-- and adrenaline ramps up in Marc as instincts have him backing away from the box, holding up an arm to shield his nose and mouth shut.
But there's nothing. No blue shiny smoke like last time.
“Wait so what does that mean?” you ask him, as you stab the fork into the thick double slice of french toast he’s made you. Double dipped in batter drowned in cinnamon sugar, just the way you like them.
Turning on the tap, Marc fills the kettle with water as he puts it on the stove to boil your morning tea.
Except it’s not morning anymore. It’s the afternoon now, almost 1pm. You slept through the whole of the morning, but considering the morning-afternoon-and parts of the evening you endured with Steven barely 48 hours ago, Marc is hardly going to begrudge you sleeping in.
“Don’t worry about it,” Marc says, hoping his reassurance will allay any worries you may have. Because you don’t have to worry. He’s going to fix it—fix everything—and keep you out of trouble this time.
But as he looks up at you, the frown that borders on a glare on your face tells him that was absolutely the wrong thing to say.
Shit, he’s doing that thing again isn’t he? The very thing you told him not to do after the post-possession talk.
His shoulders sag. He sighs in capitulation. Right. Communication. Tell you things.
“I have to find it again. This time I’ll have Steven seal it so it doesn’t escape.”
“It’s been days, it could be anywhere, did they tell you how to find it? Do we have some kind of magical ancient artifact compass?”
Marc’s shoulders tenses at your use of ‘we.’ There’s no ‘we’ here. He’s not getting you involved in this. He’s gonna catch it. Steven’s gonna seal it. That’s the plan.
“Marc?” You ask, but he pretends he doesn’t hear you as he moves to the cupboard, to find a teapot.
“Do we know how to find it?” you repeat when he doesn’t answer.
He pretends to busy himself, foregoing the perfectly good teapots he can use that sits in the front and pushes them aside as he continues to search the cupboard.
If he ignores you, you will give up eventually.
Faintly, he thinks he can hear Jake’s (sarcastic) voice in his head. “Jefe, she’s not a Goose. Ignoring her isn’t going to cut it.”
“Stop pretending you’re looking for teapots and ignoring me. I’m just going to keep asking until you answer.”
You’re so insistent. Worse than park geese. Worse than Steven and Jake combined.
“No compass,” Marc answers as he pulls out a random teapot in the furthest corner. Dusty from lack of use. He’s gonna have to clean this. With the way Steven cleans this apartment, it might be covered in asbestos for all he knows.
“The guy said it likes cramped small enclosed places. Tiny chests, jewelry boxes, tupperware. Anything that closes with a lid.”
“That hardly narrows it down in London!”
“Like I said, I’ll take care of it.”
Turning on the tap, he runs the teapot under water in the sink, scrubbing the dust and grime. He lifts the lid but it’s been so long since it’s been used the pot is practically sealed shut from dirt, even as Marc pushes against the top.
He can hear you approaching from behind. “You won’t get it open that way,” you offer as you turn the tap and turn it as far as it goes for hot water. Then you take the pot from him, running the lid over the running water, gripping at the base and start to turn it until he can hear it give with a quiet ‘pop’.
You’re grinning at your success, and Marc has to bite the inside of his cheek to tamper down his own smile at the sight of you. Because fuck, that gloating, I-know better-than-you smile, (which should be aggravating) is infectious.
“See! This is why you need me,” you sing-song, rubbing your success in his face as you lift the lid. He’s so distracted by your easy-smile and glow of schadenfreude he doesn’t pay attention to the quiet hiss of pressure that gives from the lid.
A tendril of blue-white fog rises up, reaching towards you. Before Marc fully processes what he’s doing, he’s already stepping forward into your space. One hand clasps at your wrist as he yanks you backwards and away from the kitchen.
Gotta fucking be kidding him. That fucking thing was hiding in the teapot all this time.
It hits him like a kick in the gut. It’s like swallowing live fire into his throat except it keeps burning all the way as it travels into his chest and digs into the inside of his stomach, settling into every inch of his flesh. It’s the feeling of downing a bottle of whiskey in one sitting with none of the side sickness and nausea that he has to swallow down. It burns and crackles inside his veins.
With the intensity of the heat as it bubbles in his blood, he had expected it to hurt. It doesn’t. Instead it’s molten and slow, oozing through his system like a heated haze. He feels heady as the sensation rushes through him from the curl of his toes to the tip of his nose until it has his scalp tingling. It’s pleasant. Euphoric even if he lets his mind linger on it. He doesn’t.
From a distance he thinks he can hear your voice, and buried underneath the fog, Steven’s concerned babbling. But it’s drowned out by the blood thrashing in his ears. He tries to find you, but his vision is swimming in front of him.
Then he hears it, you’re shouting his name. You sound so worried.
He can feel you. Soft and doting hands cupping his cheeks with a tender touch that has the heat in his stomach reach a boiling point, then you tilt his face upwards to meet your worried gaze.
It’s the same expression on your face when you were tending to Steven not two days ago. Heat spikes in his lower belly, his cock twitching against the constricted confines where it’s trapped under hard denim.
‘Need you’, a voice inside his head, neither Steven or Jake’s but entirely his own, calls out. ‘Want you’.
Flashes of you, your back arching from the floor, trapped underneath him as he thrusts into you invade his vision. The phantom sensation of your wet tightness wrapped around his cock shivers through him and the ache makes the length of him pressed hard against his boxers, twitch and leak against the soft fabric.
Fuck… He can’t put you through that again.
He can’t have you here.
"Leave," he grits out, scooting backwards, dragging himself away from you by the heel of his hands along the wooden floor.
"You need to go. Leave!" He barks out.
He tries to get up but fuck, his legs have gone all wobbly like fucking Bambi, can't steady himself, and his faulty balance has you running forwards towards him.
Marc throws out his hands, palms up as a signal for you to keep your distance.
"No! Don't get close to me. You need to go now."
He grabs at the side of one of the wooden shelves, as he steadies himself on his feet and props himself up, but fuck, everything is spinning. He feels like he's drunk, and he closes his eyes to make it stop.
"Marc," you say his name so softly, it makes the heat in his veins grow hotter. There's liquid fire pumping through his blood.
Even with his eyes closed, he sees you.
You underneath him, exhausted and fucked out. Swollen lips kissed raw and tender. Legs shiny and slick, with your come and his, as it drips over his cock in a shiny silvery thread and down the wooden floor below.
Shit! Shit! Stop, don't think of that.
His eyes fly open to the sight of you, the you in front of him right now, your pretty face mere inches from his. Lips so close he can practically fucking taste you already on his tongue from pure sense memory.
He's getting worse by the second. He's not sure how much longer he can keep his body in check. Every inch of him wants to touch you. Fingers itching to dig into your plump flesh. His cheeks tingle and all he wants is to have your thighs pressing down and enveloping his face. His tongue is heavy in his mouth and salivating at the thought of licking every inch of your soft skin, to have the familiar taste of you fill his mouth– fuck, he can’t– he needs something to restrain himself with as a precaution.
His eyes flicker to the bed, and of course, it's not there. Where is Steven's stupid ankle bracelet when it’s actually needed?
Wait, the cuffs. Jake keeps some cuffs here, where did he – his eyes roam the space, until he spots the shiny metal glinting from underneath Jake's cap that he's carelessly slung against the shelf behind him.
"I'm not going to leave you here by yourself. Let me help," you say and his eyes linger on your pouty lips, the way they open and close as you bite your lower lip in worry. He wants to sink his own teeth into them until you whine for him. Slip his aching cock between them, until his hard cock is enveloped by your softness.
He shakes his head, taking a step back as he looks around himself, planning his exit route. The front door is behind you, which means he'd have to get past you to get out.
Crap. Stubborn as you are, you'd try to block him in a heartbeat, and unless he's gonna tackle you (out of the question) this is going to get him nowhere.
"You can't help with this," he says, eyes continuing to scan the room until he spots the open door to the bathroom.
You frown, eyes narrowing in irritation. "I can actually. We've been here before Marc. I helped Steven remember?"
And fuck does he remember, can't forget. That's part of the problem.
Your hand reaches for him, fingertips brushing over his fisted knuckles, and the touch of it tingles with a burning ache.
"It'll feel better if you let me help you," you say.
Marc takes a step back, arm reaching behind him, until he feels the cold metal against his hand and grabs the cuff.
"I'm not going to do that to you," he says. Before you get a chance to respond, he's already turning around. He's leaping on his feet, darting to the bathroom and slams the door shut behind him.
His fingers are trembling, cold sweat dripping down his forehead as he fumbles locking the door.
From behind the door he can hear your panicked voice calling for him.
The rickety panel door rattles and shakes against the frame with your effort to slide it open. “Marc, did you lock the door?! Marc!”
You sound so worried, and a small pang digs under his skin when he hears you.
It’s so stupid. He knows you’re safe, that the worry in your voice is meant for him, and yet every instinct in his body is screaming out for him to check on you and make sure you’re okay. He fights it. Eyes darting around the tiny confined space to search for something, anything, permanently affixed to the wall that he can cuff himself to.
“Marc, open the door or I’m gonna kick this bloody thing down. I swear to god.”
Marc doesn’t have much to work with. There’s the toilet, the sink, with nothing he can attach the cuffs to, and the railing to the shower head that looks… flimsy at best. Still beggars can’t be choosers.
Forcing his stupidly shaky hands to bring the cuffs to the shower, he tightens one end to his wrist until he can feel the sharp metal dig through his skin, hard enough that it’s probably going to cause the blood flow to constrict.
Stupid, he’s so stupid, he knows better than this, but his coordination isn’t cooperating and if Marc is honest with himself, the blunt pain helps.
Helps his mind to sharpen and to distract himself from the burning heat that’s riding him hard at the sound of your voice on the other end of the door calling his name.
Helps him to shove down the pathetic need that sings in his vein to tear off the flimsy panel door and run into your arms and beg you to help him.
Helps him find the will in himself to clasp the other end of the cuffs around the metal rod before it clicks satisfyingly to let him know the deed is done.
Safe. the metal click tells him. You’re safe from him now. He couldn’t get his grubby hands on you even if his weak will breaks.
The rattling of the door has stopped now. The room fills with silence and you’re no longer shouting for him. Marc turns back and sees the shadow of your feet under the spring as you walk away from the door. You’ve finally given up on him.
Good. That’s good.
You should get as far away from him as possible. With any luck, you’re already halfway down the stairs towards the tube.
He knows you’re pissed. Probably slamming the front door on your way out. But that’s ok. He’ll take your anger over your worry. He can deal with anger, knows how to handle it like an old shitty friend he wants to cut ties with but never can. What he can’t take is the way you sounded when you were calling for him.
The worry. The care. You always care. And it’s wasted on him. All that’s ever earned you since you got involved with him is trouble.
If you weren’t involved with him then you wouldn’t have been in their apartment that morning when Steven opened the stupid thing. If you weren’t there, Marc would’ve taken over, would’ve taken care of himself instead of — instead of–
‘Steven, fuckfuck Steven–’ the phantom memory of your voice rings hauntingly sharp in his ears. Slurred and honeyed, the feel of you, slick and dripping between your thighs, clamping down tightly on his Steven’s cock.
His whole body aches. Skin flushed and burning and his brain feels feverish and rubbed raw with heat at the fraying edges.
A shower. A cold shower will help.
Marc takes a shaky breath, as his fingers fumble with the taps. Turning the cold water as far as it goes. He thinks he’s prepared for it but he’s not. It’s a shock to the system. The cold water slams down on him with a heavy punch. Cold and piercing and bitter as it wraps all around his feverish skin and strangles his lungs with it.
His eyes are closed, but instead of the blank darkness all he sees are your big eyes staring back up at him. Dazed and out of it, fuckdrunk, on him.
His skin burns. Blood boiling inside his veins until it’s painful. The icy water is still pummelling down at him punishingly, and he’s grateful for it because he thinks he’s going to incinerate from the inside out if it wasn’t. His cock is hard and heavy against the clammy and cold wet denim that’s pressing up against his searing skin. It’s uncomfortable, painful.
The memory of you refuses to leave him. The silky feel of you wet and hot and writhing on his painfully hard cock. Fuck, fuck, why does he do this to himself. One hand comes up to his face, and he scrubs it hard with the freezing water, rubbing his thumb into his eyes to help with the throbbing heat that’s growing at his temple. It doesn’t help. Can’t scrub out the image of you, mouth parted, head thrown back as you squirm on his cock, as you grind yourself on him and come… again, and again, and– again. His eyes slam open, until he’s staring at the grungy white tiles of the wall.
There’s something inside his flesh, burrowing into his skin and veins. An infectious heat that slivers and crawls that drips with hunger and greed. Starved for touch and pleasure, it screams and it roars until it’s all Marc can feel too. He wants it, wants you, and nothing else will do. You and the warmth of your body and the way you always welcome him as you wrap yourself around him.
Shit, he – fuck. fuckfuckfuck.
He takes a long shuddery breath and it fogs against the cold of the room. He’s shivering but if it’s from the cold of the water stinging against his skin or the heat burning underneath it he doesn’t know anymore. Does it even matter?
Everything feels raw and painful. Sore and tangled up inside him. He wants– fuck, no fucking stop. He needs to –
“Marc.” He can hear it again. Your voice calling out his name. Not Steven’s name, his. It echoes and lingers in his mind, soft and sweet. The way it had been when he’d been the one fucking you into the bed between the soft sheets of their bed the night before the incident.
The way you’d whimpered it, while your nails were digging crescent shaped marks into his skin that were still denting the back of his shoulders when he’d looked this morning. Tiny little marks that are evidence of your love for him.
His stomach draws tight, hips hitching up without his permission, desperately searching for any friction… shit shit, it’s not enough and it’s too much, the sensation that spears through his stomach as his cock rubs against the hard seam of his jeans. Heat settles at the base of his spine and the sound that escapes him is pathetic. He’s not sure if it’s a gasp or a sob, but he grinds it down between his teeth, snuffing it out.
Why is his brain trying to murder him like this?
The heat (or the cold, he doesn’t know which anymore but it doesn’t matter, one of them) is making his mind fuzzy. The grout delineating the tiles in front of him is blurring together, and the room, Marc realizes, is starting to sway and swim. He draws in another breath into his chest, but there’s no oxygen in it. He tries again, and this time the sharp jagged breath hurts, like swallowing broken glass and needles. He doesn’t know what’s wrong. The body is panicking.
Jake’s trying to push him for the front seat. Marc can feel it, an insistent presence that lingers at the edges of his mind, trying to gain and take hold. But Marc is much better at resisting him these days. Marc’s not going to let him. He doesn’t trust that Jake will be able to hold himself back when it comes to you. Doesn’t trust that the man won’t selfishly uncuff their body and run straight to where you are. His priorities are different from Marc. Jake’s prime concern is to always take care of their body first, everything else comes secondary to that man. Marc doesn’t trust it. Doesn’t trust him. Not with you. He can’t risk it.
Alarm and anxiety blares bright in his veins, but he can take it. Can endure this. Can–
There’s a loud slam from behind him.
“Marc, Jesus christ!”
The sound of your voice makes him whip around. You’re standing in front of him, the bathroom door’s been shoved to the side, wide open, and you’re holding a butter knife in your one hand and what looks like the remnants of his dismantled door handle in your other.
His heart flutters erratically, a pleasant warmth trickling into his chest. You’re here.
It lasts for a heartbeat and a half, until the realization hits him harder and colder than any ice water could have. You’re here. You’re actually here.
There’s a concerned expression in your face as you take him in for a full second. Then you drop the items in your hand and rush forward to him until you’re standing under the shower with him.
“The water is bloody freezing! Have you lost your mind?” You’re shoving past him to get to the tap and turn it off entirely, as you continue to scold him. “You’re going to get hypothermia”.
Your voice might be harsh, but your hands are soft and doting, palms cupping his cheeks, and your eyes are wide and worried in that way that makes everything inside him tighten. His skin tingles where your fingertips brush up against his cheekbones and it takes everything in him to not nuzzle his mouth against your wrists, chasing into your touch for more.
“You feel like ice. We need to get you into bed, we need to–” your eyes stop at the shower rail and then trail downwards to his right hand that’s cuffed to it in disbelief. Then he hears you take a long exasperated inhale. “Of course, you did,” you murmur, “of course you’d cuff yourself to the damn shower. Where are the keys, Marc?”
His eyes flicker away from your face to stare at the tiles on his left as he grinds his mouth and jaw shut.
You sigh, then you come closer. You’re crowding in on him, pressed tight to his chest, “fine, I’ll just look myself shall I?” You stand on your tiptoes to reach for the small shower shelf behind him, lifting a shampoo bottle to check if there’s a key underneath.
Your hair tickles his nose and the familiar comforting smell of you surround him. You’re soft and warm, and amazing and he just wants to sink his teeth into your bare throat that’s inches from his jaw and bite into you like the sweetest and ripest fruit of Summer.
You shift as you reach for the highest shelf, hips rubbing up against him where they’re slotted between his thighs and fuck–fuck–
Sharp heat shoots through his stomach, white pleasure blinding and intense that rushes to his head and his knees want to fold under his weight. He groans at the touch and you freeze as he does.
For a moment both of you are silent and still. The only thing Marc can hear is his own ragged and hash breathing. His body is trying to acclimatize to the new temperature of the room as the heat from his body is quickly evaporating out of him. But the thing under his skin, poisoning his mind and sanity is still there. He feels like he’s on fire. You’re pressed up against every inch of him, and it is screaming in his ears with an ugly hungry need. Marc feels like he’s burning up. Like he’s going to die, flesh burning away until there’s only ashes left, and that’s okay the burrowing need tells him. Let it burn away every inch of resistance left within him, and then he can have you.
Marc wants that, wants you in any way he can have.
Wants you to grind up on his aching cock that’s so hard it hurts. Wants you to hold him, fingers tugging at his hair until it stings and burns. Want your legs and arms wrapped around him as he sinks inside of you, bury his cock as deep as it goes until he can never leave.
Wants you, wants you, wants you. It echoes with fury and overtakes everything else. There’s no other brain process except this, as his hand clamps down on your waist and grinds you down on him. His traitorous hips hitching up until he can feel that perfect press of your body against his trapped and pulsing cock.
You don’t stop him, hand coming up to the back of his neck and hold him close to you. You’re so fucking perfect letting him rub himself up against you, even when he’s acting like some stupid animal in heat. The pleasure sends him on the tip of his toes, chasing the high and it’s good, it feel so fucking– Fuck!
His eyes slam open, tearing himself away from you. You’re blinking up at him with a confused look.
The fuck is he doing?
With his free hand, he moves you out of the range of the shower until your back is pressed against the opposite wall.
He’s such an idiot, he’s such a fucking stupid– his cheeks burn and prickle, sweat stinging his back underneath the waterlogged shirt. He needs to cool down. Get his head straight. Needs to rid himself of this burning inferno of a hellfire that is roaring under his skin.
A shower, a cold fucking shower. He needs to calm the fuck down. Needs to– Marc moves back towards the tap and turns it back on.
“Marc! No! Stop!”
You’re leaping forward into the shower again, uncaring of being in the firing range of the cold water cascading from the showerhead, as you reach for the tap to turn it off.
“You’re fucking freezing, you need to stop. Marc, I need to get you out of the shower. We need to warm you up. Where’s the keys?”
He ignores you, tries to wrangle you away from the shower with his back and shoulders, wrestling his path to the tap again.
You slap at his hand. “Marc, no!” you bark. “Stubborn fucking –”
He knocks your hand away from the tap, turning it again as he tries to block the ensuing shower from you with his shoulders, and you growl in frustration.
“Fine, fine! You want the water on, it stays on, but you have to let me–” you shove your way back to the front of the tap, turning the hot water on. It takes a few moments but then the punishing coldness turns lukewarm and almost comforting against his stinging skin.
“There,” you murmur and back away enough until you’re both staring up at each other again. The water is hitting you too, drenching and soaking your clothes as you peer up at him cautiously.
“Should I help you take your clothes off? It’ll be more comfortable for you this way,” you say the words slowly, giving him the time to react before you move.
The logical part in him that’s still intact knows he should stop you. Should tell you to leave before he loses the last of his sanity and tries to maul you like an animal again.
But his tongue is heavy in his mouth. All his words are failing him, and as you inch closer to him, all he can do is stare up at you, silently begging you– to go, to stay, to abandon him, to touch him, to run, to help him– until he doesn’t know anymore what he wants, and ducks his head to the ground.
“I can help you if you want to,” you tell him.
His eyes squeeze shut. He’s so fucking useless. He swore to never let this happen again to you, never put you in that situation again and here the two of you are not even 48 hours later, in the exact same fucking seat. He’s no better than Steven at this. Useless at protecting you. Instead you’re the one trying to take care of him. Maybe you’d be better off with Jake in the saddle.
“You shouldn’t have to hel–” he starts, but you cut him off.
“I want to help you,” you enunciate each word and syllable, leaving no room for doubt, as you’re facing up to him in challenge. Then your eyes soften as does your voice. “But I don’t want to force anything on you that you don’t want.”
There’s a brief silence and the only thing he can hear is the water falling from the shower. Then, “Marc, look at me.” You say it softly, it doesn’t sound like an order, but not quite a request either as Marc tips his head up to meet your gaze. “I’m not going to touch you unless you want to. But I’m gonna stay here with you until this passes. I’m not going anywhere.”
He stares up at you like an idiot, eyes drawn to that determined look in your eyes that he knows he can never win against, and he feels his resolve fail him.
“Is it okay if I take off your clothes?” you ask again.
And until he gives you an answer, he realizes, you’re going to ask him again and again. You’re so persistent, more than a goose. He loves that about you and he doesn’t know how to say no to you anymore, even if he had wanted to (which he doesn't, not really).
So he doesn’t, instead he nods.
You move slow, giving him plenty of time to change his mind. Your hands come to the soggy hem of his shirt, drawing it up against his torso and over his head. Fingertips scraping under the bare naked skin underneath as you go, and it fucking tingles. It tingles and burns and smolders until his insides are on fire, and for a second, Marc is sure that his knees can no longer carry his weight and he’s going to tip over and capsize.
He leans down his head for balance, and you’re there to catch him. You ground him, as you always do. He rests his forehead against yours and for a moment, the roaring noise of blazing fire in his veins stops. It’s quiet and calm in his head.
“You okay?” you ask, staring up at him, eyes gentle, as you go slow.
His shirt is left hanging on the shower rail, where his hand is still cuffed to it. Then your fingers come to the front of his jeans, nail tapping against the metal button and his cock jerks and strains against the wet and heavy material in anticipation.
Popping open the button, you undo his fly, and the too-strict pressure of the material finally eases. He squirms, “Fuck, baby,” he gasps out, raw and broken.
You hush him, sweet and comfortingly, with your lips pressed close to his ear, “do you want me to touch you?”
His mouth feels thick and dry, everything turned into cotton against the roof of his mouth. He swallows, taking another long breath and holds it deep as he tries to get himself together. He’s weak, useless. Can’t get anything right. Can’t even say no when he knows he should.
“Marc?” you ask again and he inhales deeply to calm himself, then nods.
You smile, sweet and bright, and…relieved. You look so relieved and… happy, even. It makes it better. Makes him feel a little bit less of a colossal fuck up that you’re doing this for him when you’re smiling at him like that. Your head tips up, lips pressing up against his, and that helps too. With his eyes closed, listening to the sound of your soft hums as he licks into your mouth, he can almost pretend to himself that this is okay.
Your hand wraps around his cock, squeezing firm and tight in that perfect way that you know he likes. It's relief and pleasure and warmth all wrapped into one, as everything inside him buzzes with a quiet soothing noise that drowns out the rest.
Your soft lips, drags downwards, mouthing at his neck, teeth nipping at his shoulder. He’s still aching, but it feels good. It doesn’t hurt this time, instead everything lingers pleasantly as your lips drift further down, soft plushness dragging against the sore muscle, down the slope of his belly and–wait! What’re you–
His eyes fly open. He’s staring at the empty walls again. You’re no longer standing face to face with him and his head drops down. The sight that greets him slams into his ribs until he nearly doubles over. Fuck.
You’re on your knees on the wet bathroom floor, tucked between his legs. Staring up at his cock through your water-lined lashes that glitters against the harsh fluorescent light.
“Baby– wai–wait,” his words fumble and trip out of his mouth, brain unable to process the sight in front of him. He wasn’t prepared for this. “You don’t have to–”
“Marc,” you breathe, cutting him off again. From this close distance he can feel the warmth of your mouth gust over the overwrought tip of his cock, and he nearly blacks out. Your voice sounds drippingly sweet and warm. “I know I don’t have to. I want to. Let me do this for you”.
He should stop you. You shouldn’t have to be on your knees and take care of him when he’s the one who fucked up and got himself caught in this mess. There’s a tight lump stuck in his throat that he tries to swallow down so he can speak, but it doesn’t ease and the words aren’t coming to him.
Your hand comes to the side of his thighs, dragging the drenched denim down his legs and discard them into a sloppy pile in the corner of the floor.
He gazes down on you, how the shower has drenched your oversized sleepshirt, until the white of it has gone see-through. The drenched cotton cling onto your skin and the curve of your breasts and his cock bobs up and strains against his stomach at the sight. Shit.
Embarrassed heat climbs his cheeks, and judging from the smile tugging at your cheeks, you definitely noticed his reaction. You lean up, mouth brushing up against the length of his cock and press a kiss to the swollen flesh. White blinding heat streaks through his chest and his stomach draws in tight. He can’t think.
It’s here again, that hungry ember that scalds hot in his veins. It’s overwhelming, his toes curl against the tiles, breath catching sharp in his lungs until he feels like the ground is going to swallow him up. His knees are giving out, the hard tiles gone soft and weightless beneath the sole of his feet. He’s panicking again. His hand flings out, clutching at your shoulders, fingers digging in, it’s too hard and too rough, and he shouldn’t be doing that – shouldn’t be doing anything of this, but he can’t help himself.
One of your hands comes to rest on top of his, and you tilt your head just enough to press a soft kiss to his knuckles.
“It’s okay, Marc. it’s okay,” you say, and with those words, the panic in him dissipates somewhat. Enough to have his fingers ease their hard grip on your shoulders, as you lean your back closer between his thighs.
Try as he might, he can’t pretend he doesn’t want this, want you. Your mouth is inches from his cock, and he can see the incriminating precome welling up at the tip, where it shines slick, giving him away. His breath constricts in his chest, as he waits for you.
You lean closer, and he catches the pink tip of your tongue as it darts out to lick at the liquid dribbling down the length of him. His spine seizes up at the barely there contact, an ugly noise tearing from his throat.
“Marc, you okay?” you ask, and when he blinks down at you, lips slick with him, he feels undone. “Should I keep going?”
Marc swallows down the whimper that is lingering dangerously at the tip of his tongue that wants to leap out. He nods a little bit too frantically in response and he barely has the time to meet your eyes, and how it glitters with pride at his reaction. Then your lips part and you envelop his cock in the perfect sweet warmth of your mouth.
An electrical static noise crackles in his head. Your mouth is so fucking good. Soft silk wrapped all around him. Your tongue slides softly over the ridge of his cock and sweet aching bliss twines through his limbs. It’s slow and languid, the tip of your tongue darting out with soft, fluttering licks against his oversensitive flesh as you take your time and try to murder him. You’re succeeding too.
Heat carves through him sharp and intense. With the way his heart is trying to pound its way through flesh and muscle and out of his chest, he’s pretty sure he’s only got minutes to spare before his heart entirely gives out and he drops dead on the bathroom floor.
You’re so ridiculously gorgeous. Eyes half-lidded as you stare up at him with unwavering attention.
It’s bliss. It’s torture. It’s heaven and hell. Marc doesn’t know up from down anymore. All he knows as his cock slides between your lips, wet and slippery and so fucking good, is that he doesn’t want it to stop.
For all the composure he’s trained into himself for years and decades, he can’t seem to find an ounce of it to draw from in this moment. He never can as far as you're concerned. His hands fists at his side, every muscle in him tensing, trying to stop the way his hips cants up with small thrusts into your mouth. But it’s not working. His body is betraying him, refusing to stay still.
Good, it feels so– The burning flame under his skin is back, the whole of his body is wracked in warm pleasant shivers and he wants to curl into your touch.
You hum, a small quiet little sound as you suck on the tip and he can feel the pleasant vibrations of it skitter up his entire spine. He jackknifes forward, pressing further into your mouth and fuck, he can feel the head of his cock nudge against the resistance of your throat. He stops there. Makes himself stop, ignores how every muscle in him is screaming for him to move. His cock pulses eagerly on your tongue, desperate for friction. But he ignores it.
He can’t have this for himself. Doesn’t deserve it.
“Come back up here, need to make you feel good baby. Let me- fuck let me make you feel good,” he says, even as his balls are drawing up, cock going somehow even harder, swelling and throbbing on your tongue.
Marc swears, bites down on his lip hard until he tastes blood, and clenches every damn muscle in his body as he backs away, and slides himself out between your lips. Somehow, miraculously, he manages to hold on. His damn dick jerks and bounces spasmodically, oozing precome all over the damn floor as he struggles for control. And through it all you just smile indulgently up at him, eyes gleaming, the pearly edge of your teeth digging into that perfectly plump lower lip.
He wonders if you even fucking heard him, because you’re leaning back in towards him, and wrap your mouth back around his cock. That inescapable fire is building at the base of his spine, threatening to burn him to the ground, but he can’t let himself come yet. He can’t because then it will be over, and you’ll have given this to him, and he doesn’t fucking deserve it.
Marc doesn't deserve you, period. But he definitely doesn't deserve to have you on your knees like this for his miserable ass. Doesn't deserve that warm, worshipful mouth, slicking and sliding so perfectly over his aching cock. Perfect lips stretched tight around him as you struggle to take him as deep as you can. Doesn't deserve the way your hand alternates between clutching at him and petting so gently over his skin. Doesn't deserve the loving look in your eyes. Has to close his own eyes against the sight of you or this is all going to be over in about half a second.
But somehow that's even fucking worse, behind closed eyes it makes the feeling of it all the more acute. There's nothing there to distract him. He can't escape the feel of your clever tongue and perfect wet heat of your mouth wrapped around him in the blank darkness. The way your tongue curls around him. You’re moaning just slightly with each press forward, and he can feel the vibrations of it along every throbbing inch of his dick. It's fucking killing him.
“Let me–I can’t stop, I can’t–” He’s sobbing, the sound raw and needy as it wrenches out of his throat. Pleasure sears through his entire back.
He's trying to hold still. He's fucking trying. But his legs are fucking shaking. Trembling thighs threatening to dump him on his ass any second, and he can't seem to control the way his hips are hitching forward in tiny abortive thrusts, seeking more even as he knows he should be jerking back, pulling away, and convincing you to let him make you feel good instead. but you don't seem to mind at all.
Fuck, you seem to love it, moaning louder every time he loses the battle with his instincts.
This is so wrong. He’s not in his right mind, not in control. You should be shoving him away, but instead you’re clutching at his ass with one hand, fingernails digging in as you encourage him to thrust harder, deeper. Tiny sharp bites of pain that just seem to add to the maelstrom of pleasure twisting and building in his gut.
Marc opens his mouth, determined to make one more attempt at convincing you, but then you swallow around him, moan around him, and all that comes out is a guttural groan.
"Ba-baby-," he stutters out. He tugs on your hair, trying desperately to be gentle, but he's not entirely sure he manages it. You let him pull you off, one torturous inch at a time, and he barely manages to stop the thrust of his hips, the instinctual need to chase your mouth.
You look up at him, all wide eyes and slick, swollen lips. One long shiny string of spit or precome of both still connecting the two of you.
Oh shit, how is he supposed to resist when you’re looking at him like that? Like he's actually worth a damn, when you’re the one who's worth anything, everything. He can’t, he was crazy to think he ever fucking could.
"Marc," you say, tone mildly reproachful. Your voice is hoarse... from swallowing his cock, and for a second, he thinks that's fucking it for him.
Close, so fucking close. It’s pushing and clawing at every stitch and seam inside of his skin and he is unraveling. No wonder Steven lost it. No wonder he gave in. Marc can taste his climax at the tip of his tongue, dangling precariously on the fine thread of his fragile sanity. He squeezes his eyes shut. Tries to block it out.
“Let go,” you hum, and you press your mouth to the trembling muscle on the inside of his thigh that makes him jolt up and nearly swallow his tongue. “You don’t have to hold on anymore. I want you to come. Want you to come in my mouth.”
You kiss your way up, and he’s trying desperately to hold on, to hold back. But he can’t, not when he feels your tongue trail the underside of his cock with a long wet and devoted line. Not when you’re kissing his hips. Not when you put that perfect mouth of yours back on his cock and swallow him down.
Your hand wraps around the base of his cock, where your mouth can’t reach, giving it a firm stroke downwards, and his toes tingle. His whole body is shaking uncontrollably now. The pleasure is almost unbearable. his muscles jerking and twitching uncontrollably with every slide of those pretty lips.
That insidious flame flickers at the base of his spine ominously. Warning him of what’s to come. It feels too fucking good, he can’t deny himself of this anymore. His orgasm swells up, large and looming, rushing out along every nerve ending and won’t be ignored.
“Baby, fuckfuck, please– I can’t–can’t,” he opens his eyes, and looks down on you and fuck that’s such a mistake. You’re looking up at him, a dark pitch that bleeds into your blown pupils. His eyes slam back shut again because he can't survive the hungry look in your eyes.
But it’s already too late.
His orgasm is consuming, large and looming as it’s trying to eat him whole. It wraps around his flesh and licks down to the marrow. From the curl of his toes, searing through his thighs until it’s permanently carved somewhere deep into his ribs, as he comes down your throat. Leaving nothing but a tingling ache in its wake.
It feels endless, the way he keeps pulsing into your mouth. Cock twitching against your lips, riding out his oversensitivity at your lapping tongue.
He’s moaning and whimpering, toes skidding along the wet tiles as he desperately tries to find his footing. There’s nothing left but his undeniable surrender. Letting you take as much as you want from him. Until he’s empty and the blazing blue flame in his veins is sated and wrung dry from your attentive tongue.
There’s clarity again. The dust and smoke clears until there’s only a faint smell of ashes lingering in the back of his mind and he feels like he can think again. His muscles ache with the soreness, and as he takes a long inhale, oxygen floods his head with a rush. Sweet fucking relief, he can breathe again.
It doesn’t last very long. His eyes open, to see you smile up at him, bleary eyed and messy, drenched hair plastered on your forehead. The water from the shower is still running down your face as you’re trying to catch your breath.
You look like a mess. He did that to you, and you look so fucking good like this.
It’s all it takes, and the insidious heat licks at his bones, corrupting his blood again. The hunger in him returns with a devastating scream in his flesh. His mouth salivates, like what came before was only an appetizer. Now he’s gotten a taste and he’s hungrier than he was before.
It makes him gain a new sympathy for Steven and the hell the man must’ve gone through with you two nights ago.
Fuck what’s wrong with him. Marc’s already gotten one release. That should’ve sated him. But he can already feel the simmering hunger gain hold again. All it did was make that selfish hungry monster inside him more insatiable. The greedy need claws at his veins, refusing to be ignored anymore.
There’s a knowing look in your eyes that makes his heart seize up. “Do you need more? Do you want to go again?” you ask.
He swallows around the constricting lump of guilt lodged deep in his throat, blinking up at you, unable to answer. Unable to open his mouth to ask. You’ve given him too much already, he can’t ask for more.
“It’s okay, Marc. You can ask me.”
You say it with that voice. Breathless, filled with love and affection, like you’d offer him the world if he asked you for it, and it’s not right, he’s the one that should be doing that. The one to give you everything. Yet somehow he keeps finding himself in this seat where he’s the one taking and you’re the one giving.
“I’m here,” you tell him. “It’s going to be okay, I’m not going anywhere until you’re okay.”
Shit. His chest squeezes tight. The feeling is so large and overwhelming his veins are overbrimming with it. But he never knew how to tell you with words. So he shows you in the only way he’s ever known.
He drops down to his knees, ignoring the strain in his shoulder from the hand still cuffed tight to the shower. His free hand reaches for you, cupping the back of your neck to pull you in, His mouth slant over yours, and he swallows the sweet affectionate hum between your lips.
I love you.
That’s what he’d say if he knew how to.
I love you and I want to be everything to you.
He cups your face in his one free hand, thumb smoothing over your cheekbone as he tilts you up to his mouth and kisses you. Your mouth parts, letting him lick into into your mouth properly. You still taste of him. Tart and salty, and the taste of him on your tongue makes him lightheaded.
Needy heat rolls over his back, and he can feel it again. The demanding hunger that is consuming his insides. The one that wants him to sink his teeth into your soft and pliant flesh, lick and nip at every inch of wet skin you’ll let him as he tries to swallow you whole. It’s not enough. Kissing you isn’t enough. He wants you pressed up against every inch of him. Wants your body lined against his, your legs spread wide as he settles between them. Wants your back arching up against him, breathless and keen as he buries himself inside you.
He leans further down, pressing you downwards until he has you flat on your back against the cold and hard tiles, and he should do better by you. Should take you into bed, where it’s soft and warm. Nice and sweet. Not fuck you against the dirty floor of Steven’s dirty bathroom like some savage.
But his body isn’t listening to him, surging down to reclaim your lips as he grinds his hips and cock against the softness of your stomach. He’s hard again, or maybe he never went down for the count, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that he’s aching for you. All of him dying to be buried inside of you to the hilt.
Pleasure sparks deep in his veins at the contact, and he does it again, grinds himself needily into you, smearing precome over the fabric of your already soaked sleepshirt. God he’s such a mess, he’s ruining your clothes.
He forces himself up again, kneeling over your body, as he stares down at you. He’s made such a fucking mess of things… of you. Your face is wet from the shower, hair matted against your forehead, and your shirt is soaked and opaque clinging wetly to your skin underneath. The sight of you makes his mouth dry with heat.
Behind him, the spray of the shower is raining down lukewarm water over his back. It should calm him, that’s why he turned the damn thing on in the first place, but it doesn’t. He can’t even feel it anymore, can barely hear the sound of the shower drizzling down like rain. Instead it’s all turned to static noise inside his head.
The only thing he sees is your pretty face look up at him, warm and affectionate, and so fucking loving, and he feels sick with want over you.
“Baby, you gotta tell me to stop,” he forces out, and his hand draws down between his legs to grip his aching cock, that’s throbbing in time with his heartbeat.
“If it gets too much– you have to–”
You rise up to meet him, curling one arm around his neck until you’re face to face, so close that your nose nudges his. Your hand reaches down between you, wrapping your hand over his, and your eyes never falter from his, as you shove your panties to the side and guide his hand to notch his cock against your entrance.
Fuck, you’re dripping. He’s not even inside, and he can feel you slick and warm and wet against the head of his cock.
“Can you feel that?” you murmur, against his lips. “How wet you got me? I need this too. Need you to fuck your cock inside me, Marc.”
He snaps. Plain and simple.
He thrusts down and into you with a long and deep consuming stroke and it’s fucking everything.
Ecstasy rushes into his bloodstream with a heady sugary rush, and he chases it with his hips, burying his cock inside as deep as you can take him, until it nudges something sweet and blissful that has you clawing at his arm with a gorgeous sob ripped from your throat.
And it’s so good, so fucking good, he wants to crawl into that sound and nestle into it. He drags himself out of you, until only the overwrought tip of his cock rests inside you, watching you bite down on your lip to muffle your sounds, and that won’t do. Marc wants to hear you. Wants you to scream so loud his ears ring from pain with it. Fuck, he wants to go deaf with it. Wants the sound of your voice obliterate him until it echoes in his ears til the day he dies.
His arm moves to your leg, curling around your thigh to pull you in closer towards his torso, canting you upwards, tilting you at that angle that he knows will make you cry for him. Then he slams forward, his thighs tense, burning with the pleasure that threatens to incinerate him. You’re so fucking tight around him. It’s heaven if Marc ever believed in one.
Your fingers tighten down on him, nails digging into his skin and the biting pain only makes the pleasure of it all the more ripe and sweet as you clamp down around his cock.
He can’t stop. Hips thrusting into you with a demanding pace like his body is no longer his own, just a conduit for him to chase that mad pleasure that skitters to his brain and has him want to go harder, deeper, until he’s lodged so deep inside that you can never rid him of you.
It’s a selfish need that Marc would never allow himself to give voice to. He keeps it jammed under a lid and pretends it’s not there. That deep gnawing hunger that wants you all to himself and never have to share. The possessive streak in his veins that wants to mark you, fuck himself so deep into you until you can fucking taste him in your throat.
Your legs are wrapped all around him, clamping down around his torso until he’s sure you’re constricting his lungs from the sheer force of it and he almost can’t breathe. “Shit, baby–fuck, you’re so– I–” he grinds down on his teeth, and doesn't let himself say the words, swallowing down the groan that tears through his throat.
So good, he thinks to himself. You feel so fucking good. So warm and wet and blissfully tight around his cock. He loves you. Loves you so fucking much and he can’t stop, won’t stop– Never want to stop fucking his cock into you.
Then he sees it. That all familiar tell that lets him know you are close. Every muscle in your body goes taut, and you’re squeezing down almost rhythmically and so tight it knocks the fucking breath out of his lungs. “That’s it baby, come on my cock for me.”
Your eyes roll back, mouth parting as your back arches upward.
And there you go. You’re so fucking beautiful.
You come hard and punishingly tight as you squeeze around his cock.
The pleasure swirls hot and hungry inside his gut, and it’s all it takes to push him right over the edge with you. He spills himself inside, pulse after greedy pulse as he fills you.
He barely manages to catch himself with a palm braced next to your head on the tiles as he tries to come down.
There’s no relief this time. Not like last time, however brief it was. This time his climax only serves to fuel the pathetic need in his chest. Like someone threw gasoline over an open fire and now it’s spreading everywhere and there’s no extinguisher in sight.
More, the hunger inside his veins scream out. Again.
Wants to feel you come again. Wants to feel you squeeze tight around his cock, as your lips part and moan out his name in bliss again. Want to feel your slick drench his cock as you come again and again and again and again.
He’s still hard.
He thrusts forward, and you cry, high pitched and broken and the sound makes the blood in his veins sing.
You're slick and excruciatingly tight, but his come drips out of you, easing the tight press of his cock no matter how hard you squeeze down on him.
“It’s okay baby,” he hushes, and you sob in reply even as he bends down to press a kiss to your temple. “It’s okay. You can take it for me. Doing so good. You’re being so good,” he coos, as he cants his hips and pushes into you as deeply as he can again.
Closer. He needs you closer than this. Wants his hands to touch and grip every inch of your skin. He brings his other arm to wrap around your waist, and something tugs and restrains him from behind. It locks up his shoulder, and no matter how hard he pulls forward, he can’t quite reach you.
You blink up at him, eyes narrowing in confusion as you watch him before your eyes widen, hand reaching up for him. “Marc, wait– you’re–”
His free arm shoots out around your shoulders and reels you close as he captures your mouth, swallowing down your words. He’s trying to come down to you, to press you down against the floor with the weight of his body, and wrap his arms around you, and never let go. Hold you so tight to him until you can never leave. But something won’t let him. No matter how hard he strains forward the strength holding back his arm won’t budge.
There’s a metallic groaning noise that protests as he continues to pull against the resisting strength from behind him, as he rolls his hips relentlessly into you, chasing the pleasure. It digs sharp into his wrist with a jagged pain, but he doesn’t even care. Marc wants to hold you close, wrap his arm around your leg and squeeze it tight to his hips and lock you there.
He rips against the hindrance, with an impatient and angry snarl. The strain and resistance finally gives, and he’s free to put both his hands on you. His arms lock up tight around your waist.
There's a cacophony of sound somewhere in the distance. Of broken dishes and sharp crashing noise, but he doesn't care. The roof could be collapsing right now and it wouldn't make any damn difference to him so long as you were still here with him.
It doesn’t even register until he hears your agitated shout. He looks up in a daze at you, Your wide and alarmed eyes. Something’s wrong.
His head whips back, tearing himself away from you prepared to leap into action at the culprit. But that's not what he sees.
There’s debris on the wall. Bare cement in the large torn cracks of the tiled walls. There’s jagged pieces of cracked white porcelain on the floor. Debris and parts of the wall along with the showerhead and the metal rod he handcuffed himself to is lying in ruined shambles below, as the shower spits out water all around like a death rattle.
Fuck– what is he…
He’s completely lost control. The familiar dread and anxiety bleeds into his veins, and he can fight it all he wants, but it’s already here.
It wasn’t supposed to go like this. He was the one who was supposed to be able to keep it together. The one who was supposed to protect you from this and keep you safe from harm. The bitter acrid taste of failure lingers on his tongue and drips down his throat until it reaches his lungs. Embarrassment clings to his cheeks and burns like fire. His body wants to curl into itself and hide, until he’s so small no one can see him anymore, least of all you.
“Marc, it’s okay,” you say as you plant an elbow against the slippery floor to you can raise yourself into a sitting position. Until you’re both at eye level with each other.
“It’s okay. Just ignore it. We’ll clean it up later,” you murmur as you crawl closer to him, until your face is within inches from his and you press your mouth to his cheek. Then you climb into his lap, the firm press of your warm body straddling his thighs and he looks up at you in dazed awe.
“Do you want to keep going?” you ask.
Despite the fact that he knows he shouldn’t. That he shouldn’t ask this of you, he still nods, whimpering at the reassuring press of your body against his achingly hard cock.
“As many times as it takes, okay?” Your fingers circle around the base of his cock, and he chokes on a moan, as you position him against your entrance. You’re slick and warm and fucking dripping for him.
“Let’s keep going until you feel better. I don’t want you to hold back anymore. Is that okay?” you say.
He doesn't understand how that's a question. Of course it's okay, it's more than okay, it's all he wants. All he ever wants. He nods, and you smile at him. That warm and affectionate smile filled with love and it fills him to the brim. He feels like his heart is going to give out again. There's no more space for shame anymore, the way your smile crowds his vision and every inch of space inside him.
You lift your hips slightly, then you lower your knees, slowly sinking down on his cock until he’s buried all the way inside you, squeezing down around his cock in that perfect way you do, and he can’t fucking think.
You’re looking down at him like you’re expecting him to answer and he doesn’t even remember how to open his mouth and use vocal cords anymore, fuck he doesn’t even remember what the question was.
“Marc,” you repeat,
He still doesn’t know what you’re asking him. But it doesn’t matter does it? When it comes to you, he’s never going to say no to you. So he answers you with the only answer he has.
It must be the right answer you were looking for, because you’re looking at him in that way again, smiling up brightly at him, like he’s worth a damn, worth everything to you. He knows that you’re wrong about that. He doesn’t deserve it. But it fills his chest with something sweet and heady. An antidote to the poisonous fire that’s still burning hot and bitter in his veins. He doesn’t fight it. Doesn’t fight the warm buzz that’s trickling slowly into his veins and lets himself bask in it.
After all, who is he to say no to you?
You roll your hips against him and your eyes flutter close with a gasp as his cock hits something deep inside, and both of you moan at the feeling as he tightens his arms around your waist.
You lean closer, lips pressed to his ear, “I love you, Marc” you whisper in the hair above his ears and his whole back shudders pleasantly.
He tilts his head upwards, his nose brushing up against your chin and cheeks as he tries to find his way back to your mouth.
Marc might not deserve you. But you deserve everything you want and more, and if Marc is one of those things (for whatever unfathomable reason that he will never understand)… then that makes things a little bit easier for him.
He wakes with a pounding headache.
The muscles in his shoulders and back are stiff and sore, cramping up with a sharp throb as he tries to get up. Every limb aches. He feels like he was hit by a fucking truck going at full speed down a highway.
“Morning,” your voice greets, as your hand comes to his forehead and rests there as if you’re checking for his temperature. It’s soft and soothing, a balm to the ache in body and he fights every instinct to not nuzzle into the palm of your hand. “How are you feeling?”
“Like shit,” he replies. His voice scrapes against the lining of his throat, like something crawled up in there and died.
He can hear you laugh quietly at his reply, and despite how crap he feels, the sound seeps into his chest and the stiffness melts just a little bit. The bed dips as you sit down on the edge next to him.
“How long was I out for?”
“Not too long. Just a bit. You needed the rest,” you answer, and it's entirely too vague for his liking.
He anchors his elbow into the soft bedding below and despite the angry creak of the mattress and the protesting groan in his bones, he tries to get up into a sitting position. His head feels lightheaded with the sudden altitude, like he’s about to throw up all over the sheets. It’s like he’s experiencing the world’s worst hangover, the second time in less two days. As soon as he gets his hand on that sex sprite, he’s going to fling it into the surface of the sun. Don’t care how upset that will make Min’s avatar.
Bringing his hand to his face, he rubs at his temples and the blunt throbbing pain that’s killing his head, when it occurs to him. His wrist feels light and unimpeded, there’s no sharp metal digging into his wrist. He stares down at his now bare wrist, then he looks up at you in confusion.
“Jake told me where the key was,” you answer.
He frowns, but holds his tongue. That means at some point while Marc was still unconscious, Jake must've woken up without him being aware. Marc doesn’t love that. He’s still not completely at ease with Jake being around you. Especially when he’s unconscious and can’t keep an eye out to step in and protect you if something were to go wrong.
As if something hasn’t already.
Marc is such a hypocrite, talking about protecting you as if he isn’t the very wolf at your door, fangs poised at your throat.
Your thumb smooths over his knuckles, as you nudge his leg with your knees. “Should I make you some coffee? Maybe some breakfast. Can whip up some omelets for you.”
He shakes his head. “No I gotta get up. Try to catch that thing before it does more damage again.”
He should tell you to leave. It’s not safe for you here. But he knows you’re going to fight him tooth and nail over it.
“Oh, there’s no need for that,” you say as you rise from the bed, “stay there for just a sec will you?”
You walk up to the Gus trio’s tank, sliding a few books around, and pick something up before you make your way back to him, holding an all too familiar brass-metal box in the palm of your hand outstretched to him.
He can see from the shape on the golden lid the puzzle sequence has been properly completed, just like that obnoxious Avatar had shown him. Locked and sealed.
“How did you–” he sputters out in shock as he eyes it.
“Steven sealed it for me.”
He blinks, feeling a little bit stunned as he takes the box from you. “How did you get it back in there in the first place.”
“You said that it liked small cramped spaces with a lid. I figured it couldn’t have gotten far from the flat like last time. So I just started opening every single item in the place with a lid. It hid in an empty shoebox this time.”
Marc grits his teeth. “That’s dangerous, it could’ve possessed you.”
You wave your hands dismissively at his concerns. “It’s alright. I had a fly-swatter,” you answer, like that answers everything and Marc’s just being silly.
“A flyswatter. I just swatted at it until it finally got back into the box. Had to chase it around the flat, reopening every jar and box in the flat for a good hour or so until it got the hint.”
He wants to scold you, want to point out everything that could’ve gone wrong and how you should have just ran out of the apartment and gotten yourself to safety. It’s a speech he’s made a hundred times before, but you never listened then either, and those times you didn’t have the upper hand with the argument, given that he passed out and you saved the day.
So he bites his tongue.
“Hey,” you say softly as your hand comes to cup his cheek. “Everything worked out fine alright? It’s a happy ending. You don’t have to look so sad.”
He bites the insides of his cheek. Flashes of you under him, soft and moaning, legs spread and wrapped around him, invading in startling technicolor.
“I’m…” he wants to say sorry, but the word won't come. His hand curls into a fist to his side with unease. “That shouldn’t have happened. I shouldn’t have let you stay and do that for me”.
“Marc, it’s not a punishment for me to have sex with you. This shouldn't come as a surprise to you by now, but I like having sex with you.”
He doesn’t answer you, just stares blindly at his feet at the end of the bed, as the guilt crawls in his gut and tries to consume him. Maybe he should let it. It’s what he deserves after all.
You scoot closer to him, an exasperated but fond look in your eyes as you take his hand in yours. “You see Marc, when two adults love each other very much,” you sing-song and start to jokingly explain to him about the bird and the bees.
Despite himself he can feel the smile tugging at his lips, and the gnawing anxiety fades a bit. You think you’re so fucking funny sometimes (and to Marc you are), but he isn’t going to let the laugh that wants to push up against his throat betray him. You meet his smile with your own, and that helps to take away the last of that sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
“Can you promise me that next time something like this happens again, you won't run away… or lock yourself in the bathroom to deal with it all by yourself? We’ll handle it together alright?”
Marc meets the look in your eye. It's the same one that he keeps finding somehow even though he never quite understands why, of love and adoration for him.
A part of him wants to fight it, push it away because he doesn't deserve it... But your soft voice echoes in his ear. The weight of your arms wrapped around his shoulders still lingers from before. 'I love you', you had told him, and whether he deserves your love or not is maybe not the point. You love him regardless. And who is he to say no to you?
“Yeah,” Marc nods. “Together.”
a/n: to be notified of new writing updates follow astroboots-writes and turn on notifs.
Happy Moon-aversary everyone!!! I can't believe I'm still here a whole year after this show premiered. When I first saw that trailer with Oscar Isaac's strange british accent I remember telling @thirstworldproblemss I was sceptical and then I watched about 5 minutes of Steven on screen and went "oh no, I'm in love with this man" and the rest is history.
I hope you guys enjoyed this piece as much as I enjoyed writing it, thank you so much for taking the time to read it I appreciate all of you so very much.
Dedications and credit
To my co-worker, co-clown and the love of my life @thirstworldproblemss she's had a busy few months and she is everything to me please go over and send her some love if you have time!!!!
Also to my muse @guruan who draws horny sketches and the most inspiring artpieces that makes me write near 13k of blowjob for this man. That blowjob scene was particularly inspired by THIS sketch. Send her love! Send her reblogs, send her everything you have and more!
Castle of glass: Frank Castle x fem!reader
my fav @somest1 was in need of hurt/comfort with Punisher so how could I refuse? :D :D
A/N: My first Frank fanfiction so pls, be understanding since he may be a bit ooc.
Summary: Secrets and understatements are relationship killers. And Frank is walking on thin ice with it. In his case, this may be the reason of someone getting phisically hurt.
The only answer was his back turned to her and silent hum, barely audible, almost like a sign he acknowledged her presence, not able to ignore it, but didn’t wish to talk.
“Frank.” She tried again, this time her voice stronger, more confident, yet not enough to make him speak. “Damn it, Castle, answer me, what the hell happened!?
“Nothing you should be worrying about.” He muttered not changing position to face her and his behavior finally made her loose it.
“Nothing…? Nothing I should be worrying about?! Do you even hear yourself, Frank? Your face is all over the news! People are after you!”
“It’s nothing” he insisted
“God damn it, why are you so stubborn?” she circled the room and sat on the carpet in front of him in an attempt to catch his attention, but of course, since he was the Punisher, intimidating, tough and unwavering he did not give up. At least for the first five minutes. “Frank.” She spoke again silently reaching for his hand making him raise head and focus eyes on her face “Come on, tell me. What did you do?”
“Do you trust me?” he asked with that hoarse, a bit shaking voice.
“Frank…..” Y/N eyes looks so pleading, almost begging him to stop playing whatever game this was
“Of course I do. But…..”
“Then I need you to keep doing that.” He grabbed her hand tighter “Whatever you hear or see I need you to believe me. Do you understand? They will try to play with your mind, break us apart, set you against me. “
“Who….?” Her voice shook a bit “Frank, you are scaring me now….”
“I’m sorry, honey. But I can’t say anything more. It will put you in more danger than…..”
“So I am in danger?”
“I will protect you.” he assured
“Mhm. I’m sure. But who will protect you?”
“I can handle myself.”
“Right. You’ve got enough prove of that on your face and all over your body. Why are you still doing this?”
“I need to set some things straight.”
“I don’t understand a single thing from what you are saying to me.” She stood up abruptly and once again started circling the room in nerves, not able to sit still and look at him, still unfazed. He was so withdrawn and persistent. Always feeling like he had to carry the weight of the world on his shoulder. Torn between not wanting to drag anyone into his mess and yet, ending up making people that cared about him with mixed emotions – stress, fear, anger, pain…..
“I need you to …..”
“Trust you, you said it!” she spat “And I already told you I do! But you are making it nearly impossible for me. I never asked you to change, all right! All I needed from you was honesty.” She sighed deeply, frustrated and feeling betrayed. “Why won’t you keep me in the dark, Frank? Still. We’ve been together for a while now and….”
“And look where it got you!” he raised and took a step towards her, his clenched fists and narrowed eyes making her stumble back. “Look how your life looks like right now! No matter what I do, no matter how hard I try you are still scared!”
“What, huh? What?!” he yelled at her not realizing how his emotions were controlling him now
“This is so unfair, Frank.” She sobbed “you are being unfair. And wrong. I am not scared about my life. I am scared about you. I know your past, I know what you did, all that violence and hardheadedness. And I know that other part you are trying to cover up for so much. I know that you care, I know that you are not a monster people portray you like. But it’s so fucking hard to have to discover it all by myself, because you won’t tell me a single thing!”
“Of course you can’t! Of course you can’t tell my why you are accused of a shooting in the Hell’s kitchen! I’m sure you can’t explain to me why your former lawyers and my closest friends are calling me asking what the fuck you are doing.”
“Yes, Matt and Foggy. Oh, and Karen. She is fairly disappointed in you, let me let you. Not that is bothers you, of course. You are that one person who are stuck so much in your own ways you can’t change them! You’d rather burn than speak!”
“I trust you Frank, I really do. But you are stepping on very, very thin ice right now. And I think I need to be alone for a while. You can go fix whatever mess you got yourself into and ….. possibly find me later.”
“I need you to stay here. Don’t do anything stupid.”
“Mhm, sure. See you later Frank” she turned around crossing her arms, the only sound she heard was slamming of the door. Stay here, damn my ass! He is not the boss of me. Y/N clenched her hands and without any more hesitation reached for the phone, dialing familiar number.
“Karen? I got s story and I think I could use your help in pursuit.”
“Thanks again for your help, Karen. You are like the only person I could ask for this favor.”
“I know. I would never back down from a good story.”
“The one that can set things straight?” Y/N raised an eyebrow at her blonde friend, unknowingly using the same words Frank choose while speaking to her a few hours later.
“Hey, you help Frank, I help Matt.”
“ So the devil got himself in some trouble as well.”
“Can’t remember the time where he did not.” Karen sighed “the shooting?”
“So you’ve heard…..”
“Y/N, be serious, everyone heard. It’s all over the news.”
“So I guess Matt believed it?”
“No?” Y/N frowned. Considering Matt’s character and his relationship with Frank, both in civil and in the other impersonation this was quite surprising .
“No.” Karen shook her head “If anything, he had one of those hunch of his, you know what I mean” Karen rolled her eyes “and despite any rational argument decided to get to the bottom of it. Figure out who was a real perpetrator behind this …. Massacre.” And it got news talking about devil turning to the dark side.”
“This is not good. They are not in the best of terms and if they meet ……”
“They’ll be fine. We saw them working together before.”
“And it got them both bloodied and beaten up.”
“Nothing new, I guess.” The blonde shrugged
“And yet we are here to do exactly the same thing.”
“You are too modest, Y/N. We both know we are way better than both of them combined.”
“I’ll drink to that.” The girls laughed lightly. It was nice to have somewhat humorous approach but deep inside they were aware of the seriousness of the task they were up for.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same question.”
Two men were standing on the rooftop in front of each other. A second ago one of them was crouching on the edge, observing the group in the opposite building, but hearing soft landing behind reached for his gun and pointed it towards the other.
“Come on, Frank, I come in peace.” Matt Murdock in his Daredevil gear smirked “if I didn’t know better I would say you are scared.”
“You value yourself too much, Red.”
“And that is coming from you.”
Slowly Matt moved towards Frank and the latter lowered the weapon.
“I believe we have common interests here.”
“I work alone.”
“So do I. But this time ….”
“It’s no different this time.”
“You’re starting to get on my nerves here, Murdock.” Matt did not even bother to reply to that accusation. “I’m gonna ask you once again – why. The hell. Are you. here?”
“I got some bad press.” As if that sentence wasn’t vague enough
“I need to clear my name.”
“You mean, devil’s name.” Frank snorted “I never took for the one who cared about reputation.”
“The girls are chasing this story as well.”
“Y/N?” Frank’s heartrate picked up significantly and Matt smirked. They had a fight.
“Alongside with Karen.”
“I told her to …..”
“And she is known for her listening, right? The only way to keep them safe is if we uncover the truth first. You know I’m right.”
“I hate you, Red.”
“What have you got till now?’
Seems like they were about to work together after all.
“So there was no suspicious activity in the neighborhood in that time?” Y/N was interrogating one of the residents in the area with her most doe-like eyes, acting all innocent, like a scared little girl. This was something that always got people soft and talking.
“Sorry, doll. I was watching a football match. Heard nothing due to all my shouting. Can you imagine that this damn team….”
“Thank you so much, sir.” she cut him off and walked away before he could get the chance to bore her with all the unimportant sport details.
“Anything?” Karen asked when Y/N crossed the street and approached her.
“Nope. Apart from some new knowledge of insects and soccer. You?”
“I may have a lead.”
“Of course you do. I don’t understand how you do that …..”
“Practice” Karen smiled “we will have to go to one of the bad areas.”
“Are there any different ones here, because I don’t think so.”
“But it’s getting dark, we will have to be careful.”
“Tell me something new, Karen. You are the one with the gun in your purse, so I guess I will have to hide behind you if we get in trouble. Now, where do we go?”
“Tell us what you know!” Matt and Frank where alternately yelling at the bloodied and almost unconscious man, five or six others defeated on the floor, leaving a gruesome trail of their actions.
“you two truly are pathetic and desperate….” The crime boss known under the alias Gold laughed mockingly “I’m not a snitch. You’ll get nothing from me.”
“I bet we can find a way to ….” Frank put a gun towards Gold’s head almost expecting Matt to stop him, but it never came.
“You assume your little gun can help you, Castle. Funny as it is. I’m not afraid of death….”
“You’re not dying just yet.” Matt hissed “it won’t be so easy……”
Karen and Y/N hesitantly approached suspiciously looking dive bar, the feeling of danger amplified by the quietness of the district and by the flicking street lights.
“Maybe we should……?”
“But we’ve come so far…..”
“But still, this is way above our level of expertise …….”
“As much as I hate to admit it, you may be right.”
“So, do we?”
“Not so fast you two!” deep voice made two girls froze in the spot. Soon they heard footsteps of many other people around, surrounding them, blocking any way out.
“Shit.” Both girls hissed in unison getting closer to each other in poor attempt to stay calm.
“Will you hurry up, RED?!”
“You are the one who are slowing us down!”
“Shut the fuck up! Y/N is in danger now!”
“So is Karen!”
“Sweet, little, pathetic and innocent little girls. You came here looking for trouble or fun?”
“We can give you fun.”
“Even if it’s just going to be such from our point of view.”
Y/N and Karen were captured, taken to the basement and thrown into the middle of it, five criminals watching them like prays. While Y/N decided it would be best to just stay quiet and not give them any satisfaction Karen had a different plan in her head.
“Are you all responsible for the firefight?”
“Are you a journalist, dearie? You want information? Guess you will have to work harder to get any.”
“I don’t really need them. I already figured out the truth.”
“Karen.” Y/N hissed warning her friend not to go any further with her words.
“Relax, I know what I’m doing.”
“Do you?” the other girl hissed “I think you act delusional! Can’t you see, we are in deep shit!”
“Well, well, well, I guess we got one who got some reason inside.” One of the man chuckled “good for you, girl. If you …. entertain us, we may even consider letting you out. As for your friend, not so sure. She is way too unruly, for her own good.” He came closer grabbing Karen’s chin making her look straight into his face.
“How would you like me to entertain you?” Y/N’s sultry voice distracted him enough to let go .
“I’ve got some ideas. First of all, I don’t like that little T-shirt of yours.”
“Y/N what the hell are you doing?!” Karen cried ‘Stop it!”
“Hush, quiet, I’m sure we can work our way with those gentlemen.”
“Willing one, aren’t you. I like it.”
“Do you? Maybe you can convince my friend to join the game as well. What do you wish to do with us?”
“I’ve had so many girls during the years, you know, baby. So many different races transported from one place to another, here and there but you are the only one who are so open to the ideas”
“How am I different from them?” Y/N continued her flirting “is it my voice? My lips? My body?”
“They were always fighting. When we captured them and talked calmly they never listened. Just like your friend. Little sluts. We had to use some pills to actually convince them.”
“Oh….. how rude of them.” It was getting harder to keep the serious voice. This idiot had no idea what he was just doing, hypnotized by her words and the way she was sticking out her breasts.
“But you….. I might keep you to myself. You seem far too precious to sell you to anyone else.”
“Can you untie me then?”
“Boss!” before Y/N got what she wanted the person who was on the lookout outside came running inside
“What the fuck, now!?”
“We got company! And I don’t mean those girls! Daredevil and Punisher!”
“WHAT! You brought them here!?”
“We did not!”
“Right. Like I believe you! And we were just getting acquainted! Too bad I will be forced to hurt you, baby. Just like I did before when someone got too interested in my business and we had to open fire. Now come here, little one” he grabbed Y/N pointing towards one of his minder instructing him to do the same with Karen. “We’re leaving.”
“Get the girls! I’ll hold them back!”
“Y/N!” shooting left and right Frank got the room where the boss escaped with the girls, now keeping Y/N close to his, pointing a knife to her throat. “Let her go or I’ll kill you.”
“Before the bullet gets to me she’ll be already bleeding out. If you lower your gat however I may consider letting her go.
“Right. It is, pure bullshit.” He smiled vindiclively and without any hesitation slit the girl’s throat.
“Y/N!” Frank and Karen yelled and from that moment the events turned unexpected turn.
Four people were crowded in the tiny room. Foggy joined his friends as soon as he could, after receiving disturbing call from Karen who was sobbing and in shaky voice described him what happened.
Three of them dressed neatly in black, the last one refusing to choose this color and instead straying in his casual, ruffled clothes. Karen had flowers in her hands but she lacked any strength to hold them properly so they dangled dolefully. No one said a single word and it made the whole situation even more tragic. This is not how it was supposed to go. This was never supposed to happen.
Each one of them, were immersed in their own thoughts and feelings.
Karen was utterly broken, Foggy still processing the situation (since he wasn’t present at the scene), Matt angry and Frank….. Frank was just standing in front of the window, without a single emotion on his face. His whole body stiff, his eyes unmoving, fists clenched. It was his fault. Again. It was all on him. She was right from the beginning. If he was honest with her it would never ended up like this. This was on him and he would never never live it through.
“Frank….” Karen noticed the catatonic state he was in and approached him quietly “frank?”
“FUCK!” he yelled taking her by surprise even if it was predictable.
“It’s not….” she started
“Don’t even started it. It is because of me! I should have stopped her and now…. now…..” his voice broke
“Y/N’s sot the person who could be stopped and you know it.”
“I just can’t …..” acting out of character he hid his face in hands “not again…..”
Seconds after Y/N got her throat cut, Matt came running through the door, aiming straight at the crime boss taking him down in a few, well aimed punches and kicks. Only then he had some time to wrap his head around the situation. Karen was crying and shaking on the ground next to Frank, who was holding Y/N in his arms, cradling her close, getting his hands and chest dirty and bloodied with her blood flowing freely.”
“It’s gonna be all right, baby, it’s gonna be all right. Just stay with me, please.”
“Frank.” Matt’s voice got the other man’s attention “We need to….”
“No. No, we don’t need to anything. I will take her.”
“Be serious. We are still wanted. We can’t just walk into the hospital. I’ll call Claire, she will help us. Fuck! Take the help, Frank. You’re not the only one who cares about her!”
Castle just muttered something under his nose but nodded and as quick as it was possible they transported bleeding out girl to the medical facility hoping it was not too late to save her.
While Frank carried Y/N outside something dropped from the girl’s pocket. Dictating machine. She got it all on record. The confession of the criminals. Now, thanks to her sacrifice, it was possible to set things straight.
“It’s gonna be fine, Frank. We will…..”
“It’s time.” Foggy interrupted them before any words were said. “We can go in now.”
“Maybe we should let Frank do it alone at first.” Matt chimed in “we can wait.” His eyes crossed Frank’s who just nodded and surprisingly quiet entered the adjacent room.
The clarity, sterility and brightness of the place was tragicomic contract to the way he looked like in his dark, messy clothes. Y/N was lying in the bed in the middle, looking innocent, pale, fragile and to small surrounded by the much bigger bedframe. Just another victim of rumble she should never be involved in, hurt, broken and yet, so peaceful. Frank clenched his jaws, since this was the only way for him to avoid screaming or breaking something. He could not stand seeing her this way. So…. lifeless. Seconds stretched into hours when he approached her, examining girl’s face.
“Y/n…..” he spoke with desperation in his voice, begging any higher entity he did not believe in to bring her back to him. “please…..”
“ Frank….?” Y/n stirred in her sleep, the first word in her lips being his name. And then she open eyes, her e/c orbs meeting his. “Hi…..” she whispered softly.
“ Y/N…..” he grabbed her hand, bringing it to his face “I thought I lost you…..”
“How …. How long was I out?”
“What happened?” she tried to lift herself up, but since it took too much strength she gave up and fell back onto the pillows.
“How much do you remember?”
“I…..” her hand involuntarily travelled to her throat “do I have a scar? Am I a badass now?”
“You were always a badass.” He admitted “Y/n…. I’m sorry…..”
“You were right.”
“Hm? Can you say that again? I was right?”
“Don’t.” he warned, corners of his lips lifting slightly
“Ok. But I need you to promise me something Frank. Right now, while you looking at me here. I need you to swear to me you will be honest with me from this time on. So I can help, having all the information. So I won’t have to search for my own and get hurt. Or worse, see you hurt. I am not a helpless little girl you take me for.”
“You surely look like one now, sweetheart. I was really scared about you. The doctors barely saved you……”
“This is a taste of your own medicine, dear. Now you know what it feels like to see the person you care about broken and hurting. Now, promise me.”
“I promise” he whispered leaning down and kissing her forehead in the most affectionate way he could, hoping she would get the silent message he could not relay with words. I love you.
“Will you stay with me? I’m sure Matt, Karen and Foggy are out wanting to see me, but I just want you for a while.”
Lessons in Love.
Bucky didn't believe in love at first sight. Then he met you.
Pairing - Bucky Barnes x female reader
Warnings - None
Word Count - 3615
Author's Note - hello gorgeous people, hope you're all doing well. writing this has made my heart so full, and I hope it makes you feel the same. requests are always open and more than encouraged!! currently working on a stunning jake seresin request that's just so lovely. i'm SO open to more jake requests, but also any marvel, top gun maverick, criminal minds, narcos and any others you have in mind!! just send them over, and I'll see what I can do. as always, so much love x
“No way. How is that even possible?”
You look at the bewildered man in front of you and can’t help but smile.
“It’ll play anything you want it to. Anything in the world. Just ask it!” you encourage, beaming grin still plastered on your face.
“Alexa,” he says tentatively, “play Marvin Gaye.”
The first notes of Trouble Man begin to sound through your apartment, and his eyes light up. He’s looking at you like you’ve discovered something completely revolutionary.
You laugh – a real, genuine, delighted sound that flows through Bucky like a beam of light, illuminates his bones, makes his heart beat that little bit faster.
Grabbing your notebook, you delicately place a check next to Number 26 – voice-controlled devices. Number 27 is air fryers. Number 28 is Bluetooth. Number 29 is kindles and e-readers. Number 30 is Doordash. You’ve already checked off Spotify, and ATMs, and Google, and online banking, amongst many others. A list of things to better integrate Bucky into the 21st Century. A list of things to make him feel less like a man out of time. A list of things that allow you to spend all the time with him that you can.
A warm hand on your left hip and a cold one on your right pull you back into reality.
“Dance with me.” he murmurs. “Let me teach you something, for once.”
Before you can process his words, he’s gliding across the kitchen with you in his arms. Trouble Man isn’t playing anymore, instead replaced with something slower, richer. Bucky hasn’t taken his eyes off you, not even for a second. He’s watching your every move, every expression, every twitch of your lips. Reading you like a book.
You bring your hands to rest around his neck, and he relaxes into you. He’s leading, swaying you gently, occasionally twirling you like a ballerina in a music box. Perfectly effortless. He’s good at this.
The sun is setting, casting a warm orange hue across the kitchen. The light is reflecting onto your hair, making you glow, giving you a halo. Angelic, he thinks. My guardian angel.
You close the space between your bodies, wrapping your arms around his middle. Resting your head on his chest, he prays you can’t hear how his heart is working overtime. You shut your eyes, and breathe him in. He smells faintly like the Bakery, like sugar and coffee and cinnamon. The place that started it all.
⋆ . ✵ ⋆ . ✵ ⋆ . ✵ ⋆ . ✵
When Bucky first moved into his apartment, he’d noticed the Bakery down the street immediately. The smell of cake and coffee drifted out of the lilac colored door, enticing him in. He resisted the urge, and told himself that he’d go inside tomorrow.
The next day, he stood outside of the red brick building, and read the menu on the noticeboard carefully. Then he reread it. And then read it again. Since when was coffee so complicated? And don’t even get him started on cake. He swore there was only a few types back in the forties. Now, there was at least fifty different kinds on this menu alone. He was overwhelmed. He thought he’d be able to walk into this Bakery, get some coffee, maybe something sweet, and leave content. Instead, he's stood on the sidewalk on the verge of a panic attack. Tomorrow, he thinks to himself. I’ll go in tomorrow.
Tomorrow never comes. Every day, he takes a walk, and purposely passes the building that he longs to go into. But somehow, he can never find the courage. He knows he’ll just look like an idiot if he walks in. He’ll look lost, and out of place, and everyone will laugh and mutter. Look, they’ll jeer, The Winter Soldier can’t even order a coffee.
And so, he spares himself the pain. Lets his feet carry him past, only slowing down slightly when he passes the lilac door. Every day for three months, he takes the same route. Willing himself to go in, to find the courage. It’s just coffee, he tells himself. Get a grip.
Until, one day, you decided to change his life, unknowingly. Or maybe knowingly. He’s still not sure.
He takes his usual path, and just as he gets to the lilac door – you’re there. Stood, waiting, soft smile on your face. Bucky panics, and wills his feet to move faster, to take him away from this inevitably awkward situation. You stop him before he can make a run for it.
Oh. You’re talking to him. You’re staring into his soul with no judgment, or fear, or trepidation. You’re staring into his soul with gentleness. Kindness. Friendship. He’s terrified.
“Uh – hi.” He rubs the back of his neck. Nervous habit.
“So, uh, I hope this isn’t weird, or anything. But, I’ve been watching you walk past every day for like three months, and, well…” you trail off. Now you look nervous. “Actually, I haven’t really thought this far ahead. I just see you, and I wanted to… invite you in, I guess? Not that you need an invite, of course not, we’re open to everyone, but… you always look like you’re going to come in, and then you never do. And I’ve been telling myself for months that I should properly invite you in, but now I’m realising this is, uh, really weird. And I’m sorry.”
You still have that gentle smile on your face, but it’s more tentative now. A dusting of pink is making its way onto your cheeks, and Bucky thinks it might be his new favourite color.
It’s now that he really starts to take you in. Your hair is blowing slightly in the breeze, and the sleeves of your sweater are pulled down over your wrists, to try and keep the New York chill at bay. You have bright, inquisitive eyes – eyes that contain hope, love, laughter. You make him feel almost peaceful. No one makes him feel like that. Damn.
You’ve stepped closer to him now, to get out of the way of the customers making their way through the door. You smell like sugar, and coffee, and optimism. He wants to breathe you in, let you settle in his lungs. A comfortable warmth spreads through his chest.
He decides to take a gamble and bear his truth to you. He’s not sure why, but he trusts you. He doesn’t trust anyone, these days. But he trusts you.
“Can I be honest with you?”, he asks, looking at you expectantly. You’re almost expecting him to laugh in your face at the absurdity of it all. You nod anyway, signalling for him to continue.
“I’ve been trying to work up the courage to come in. But every time I try, I just, uh-” he stutters, and you can tell that his mind is screaming at him, sounding alarm bells, begging him to stop with all this sudden vulnerability.
“It’s overwhelming, right?” you ask, cutting him off. Saving him. Guardian angel.
You see the relief in his body at your question. His fists unclench, the tension leaves his shoulders. He smiles bashfully. Half grateful, half embarrassed. You get it.
“Yeah,” he chuckles. You giggle, and he’s convinced that the melodious sound will circle around in his mind forever, like the Earth orbiting the Sun.
You fiddle with the strings of your mint green apron, and look at him. You’re gazing at him so earnestly that he’s worried he might spontaneously combust.
“Are you busy tonight?” you ask suddenly, and he feels so dizzy he’s concerned momentarily that he’s going to pass out.
“Uh, no. I’m not,” he replies, managing to force the words out of his mouth.
“We close at 6, so meet me here at 7.”
You still have that sparkle in your eye. He couldn’t say no to you if he tried.
“Why?” he queries. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t absolutely petrified at the turn the conversation has taken.
“I want to show you around. Maybe make you a coffee, introduce you to some of my favourite things. You won’t believe how good my raspberry and white chocolate cookies are. They’re best sellers for a reason,” you beam at him.
Beaming. He wonders how he’s lived his whole life without your light illuminating his universe. Anywhere he goes without you is going to feel so dark, he thinks. How did I ever live like this?
He manages to pull himself together to smile back at you. His first genuine grin in God knows how long. He’s forgotten what joy feels like, and he’s almost drunk on it now.
He agrees to your plan, and you turn on your heel, about to make your way back inside.
“Wait!” he yells, louder than intended. “What’s your name?”
Your lips turn up into a smirk, mischief seeping out of your pores.
“Come back at 7 and find out.” You wink at him, and he has to take a few deep breaths in order to stay conscious. With that, you leave him alone on the sidewalk, where he’s silently thanking the universe for dropping you in his lap. Finally, he thinks. The cosmic punishment is over.
He does come back at 7. In fact, he’s stood outside waiting at 6:45. He can see you mopping the floor, singing as you go. His supersoldier hearing allows him to listen to your voice, even from this far away. He’s never been more grateful for the thing he used to call a curse. He’d be cursed every damn day if it meant he got to listen to you like this.
At 6:58, you appear at the lilac door, beckoning him to follow you inside. He knows that stepping over that threshold is going to change him fundamentally. He can’t wait.
Upon entering, he’s hit with the smell of cinnamon, sugar, coffee, and you. A beautiful mix of all three. Without a second thought, he reaches out with his right hand, and gently brushes some flour from your cheekbone.
“Bucky,” he murmurs.
You can’t tear your eyes away from him. Lips slightly parted, chest heaving, it takes you a minute to register that he spoke.
“What?” you ask, dazed by the handsome stranger with the steel blue eyes.
“My name,” he speaks softly. “It’s Bucky.”
You smile knowingly, and take a deep breath. It’s overwhelming, meeting someone that you know is going to be in your life forever. You’re both feeling the same, neither of you sure just quite what to do.
You grab his left hand, sighing quietly in relief at the feeling the cool metal against your heated skin. Leading him gently, he lets you guide him through the front of the store, until you stop behind the counter. He’s convinced he’d let you lead him anywhere, as long as he gets to feel your skin, soft and warm, on his. Grounding. Comforting. Easy.
“What kind of milk do you like?” you ask, fingers still intertwined with his.
“There’s more than one kind of milk?”
Bucky looks so disorientated, that you want to kiss the confused expression off his face. You chuckle softly, and the sound bounces off the metal in the room, twinkling around him.
“We have cows’ milk, oat milk, almond milk and soy milk.” You take one look at him, and decide to change course. “Let’s start with something less complex, actually. Any allergies I should know about?”
He shakes his head, mischievous grin beginning to form on his handsome face. There he is, you think. He’s with me.
“I’m going to make you a latte. It’s milky, and not too strong or too sweet. I think you’ll like it.”
She thinks I’ll like it, he muses. And he trusts you - whether it be with his life, or just a cup of coffee.
You reluctantly let go of his hand, and begin to flit around, gathering everything you need. Bucky leans back against the counter and watches carefully. He watches the way you bite your lip when you measure out the milk. He watches the way the steam from the coffee machine blows your hair back from your face gently. He watches the way you’re trying to make everything perfect. He can’t remember the last time someone paid attention to him like this. His mind is telling him to sprint in the opposite direction, to excuse himself and never come back. He’s terrified. But he stays. I deserve this, he thinks. I deserve something good.
You pull him from his thoughts by handing him the mug of warm coffee. He takes it from you carefully, and, without breaking eye contact, takes a sip. He smiles, really smiles. That’s all the validation you needed.
“Let me show you where we bake everything,” you say quietly, as if you’re afraid to burst this bubble of warmth and trust you’ve created. You’re scared he’s going to bolt if you give him the chance. So, you don’t. You take his hand once more, and guide him through to the kitchen.
“Have you done much baking in your life, Bucky?”
No, he thinks. But I will. I’ll bake everyday for the rest of my life if it means you’ll love me. If you’ll make me coffee and smile at me like that.
Instead, he answers cautiously.
“Not really. I’d like to, though.” He adds that last part bashfully. You smile back at him earnestly.
“Well then you’re in the right place,” you wink. He has the overwhelming urge to drop to his knees. To pray at your altar. To worship you like an angel sent down just for him. He’s surprised he’s still stood on two feet.
Before he can even register what’s happening, you’re beginning to create a mixture for your infamous cookies. You direct him to stir, while you add meticulously measured ingredients into the bowl.
“Put those arms to good use,” you’d smirked, and a blush had risen up to his cheeks almost instantly.
You click the radio on, and a soft, jazzy melody begins to drift through the room. You’re humming quietly, gliding around the kitchen, and he decides that this is it for him. You’re it for him. He could watch you do this every day and die a happy man.
Cookies baking in the oven, you jump up to sit on one of the counters. Bucky moves to stand in between your legs, still being careful to keep his distance ever so slightly. He knows if he touches you, he won’t ever want to let go.
“This wasn’t as scary as I thought it was going to be,” he confesses.
“What, me?” you tease.
“No. Coffee. And cookies,” he chuckles.
“Are there lots of things that you haven’t done because you find them scary?” you ask genuinely. You want to know him. All of him. Fears, wants, quirks. All of it.
“Yeah, actually. The world is so different now. I don’t really know where to start. It’s all terrifying, honestly,” he laughs. You laugh with him, but you know there’s truth to his words. You want to wrap your arms around him. He may be 6 foot tall and made of solid muscle and vibranium, but you want to protect him.
“Why don’t we do it together?”
A pause. He’s confused again.
“Do what together?”
“All of it. The learning. I’ll help you. Everything is less scary if you do it with someone else.”
It’s now that he’s convinced he’s dreaming. You can’t be real. Why would you be here, offering him everything, after all that he’s done? He has to remind himself. I deserve this. I deserve something good.
You can sense his trepidation, so you keep talking.
“Why don’t we make a list? You write down the things you want to learn about. I’ll write down other things I think you should know. You’ll be an expert on the 21st Century before long, Buck.”
Buck. The nickname sounds like a gift coming from your lips.
“Okay. Yeah. Are you sure you don’t mind?”
The anxiety is coming off him in waves. He’s panicking. You grab a hold of both of his hands, and place one on each of your legs, just above your knees. He steps in closer, and takes a breath. You’re warm, and you’re soft, and you’re love personified. He’s okay.
“Of course I don’t mind. I’m excited!” you assure him. Then, quieter, “It means I get to spend more time with you.”
He aims a beaming, megawatt smile in your direction. He feels as if his nerve endings are alight. You’ve awoken something in him. He’d forgotten what it was like to feel like this. To feel alive.
You reach over and grab your notebook. In it, you simply write his name, followed by a love heart. Then, underneath, you begin to list everything you can think of that you want to teach him. You hand the list to him, and he adds his own requests. Between you, you manage to write 50 different lessons.
“Perfect. We’ll start with number one, and work our way down. Are you busy tomorrow evening?”
He chuckles at your eagerness, but secretly, he can’t wait. He knows he’ll be counting down the hours until he can see you again.
“Nope, I’m not. You are my only priority, sweetheart.”
The term of endearment seeps into your skin, settles in your ribcage. You’re convinced it’ll warm you up from the inside out. If he keeps calling you sweetheart in that Brooklyn drawl of his, you’ll never be cold again.
⋆ . ✵ ⋆ . ✵ ⋆ . ✵ ⋆ . ✵
You’re not sure if you’ve been swaying in your kitchen with Bucky to Marvin Gaye for 2 minutes or 2 hours. You’re comfortably settled into him, as if the space in his arms was made especially for you. Maybe it was.
Bucky’s voice breaks through the solitude.
“You know, I’ve created my own list,” he murmurs against the top of your hair, where he’s resting his head.
You pull back, still in his arms, to look at him carefully.
“Yeah. Read it, and tell me what you think.”
He untangles himself from you and crosses the room, to retrieve his leather-bound notebook. He returns, and places it carefully in your awaiting hands.
You flick open the cover to reveal the first page. You recognise his handwriting instantly. It’s spiralling, and imperfect, but so Bucky. At the top of the page, you spot the title – your name, with a love heart next to it. Exactly the same as you’d done for him when you’d originally created your list together.
Underneath your name, only one thing is written.
I love you.
You look up at him, to see him watching you, holding his breath. Neither of you know what to say. You know what you want to say. You want to tell him that you hope the list never ends, so you always have an excuse to spend time with him. You want to tell him that you watched him walk past the door of the Bakery every day for 3 months because you thought he was the most beautiful person you’d ever seen. You want to tell him that every time he looks at you, you feel as if you’re going to pass out. You want to tell him that you can recognise him anywhere, by touch or smell alone. Instead, you say,
That genuine, million dollar smile is back, etched on his face. He’s glowing, light radiating from his bones.
“Yes. I do. I think I’ve loved you ever since I saw you waiting for me on the doorstep of the Bakery that day.”
You think you might be floating. Levitating above ground, fuelled by love. You laugh.
“That’s the exact moment I fell in love with you.”
He laughs with you, then. You could get drunk off the sound.
“I didn’t think love at first sight was a real thing. I thought I was going crazy,” he confesses.
He’s convinced that the two of you have discovered something, invented it even. Because he doesn’t understand. If love feels like this, so all encompassing, so consuming – how does anyone live? Every moment of every day, Bucky thinks of you. How does anyone go to work? How does anyone ever feel sad, or angry, when love like this exists?
You drop the notebook and cross the room to him. He closes the gap, and throws his arms around you, spinning you in circles, laughing with joy. He sets you back on your feet, and tilts your chin up, so you’re looking into his steel blue eyes. You could drown in the ocean of his irises if he let you.
He leans down, and presses his lips to yours. He’s giving you all of the love, the joy, the laughter – everything good that he has ever felt, because of you – through his kiss. Your knees go weak, and he holds you up by your waist, his strong arms encircling your frame. He tastes like coffee, and sugar, and promises. You’ll never want to taste anything else.
Eventually, you break away for air. You gaze up at him, and he sees sunshine in your eyes. He’s not sure what he did to earn a love like this. You seem to sense his doubts creeping in, because you say, in the most assured voice he’s ever heard –
“No one has ever loved anyone as much as I love you.”
I deserve this, he thinks. I deserve something good.