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bastardmandennis · 9 months

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even if it’s a false god (marc spector x fem!reader)

Summary: Your neighbor, Steven, asks you to feed his fish for him while he's away. Instead, you meet who you think is his brother, Marc.

Word Count: 6.9k (nice)

Warnings: oh boy. SMUT! (literally get out of here if you're not 18+ pls), afab reader, no y/n, brief mentions of a wound/blood, mentions of Steven/reader friendship, no layla (devastating tbh), men begging (woo), PIV sex, creampie, unsafe sex (wrap it before you tap it). riding, mentions of masturbation, oral (f receiving). one (1) singular slap. vague allusions to the moon knight system/konshu but not really important tbh, drinking of alcohol, i think that's it but pls let me know if i missed anything!

A/N: good lord. this has been drumming around in my head for TOO LONG. i just wanted an excuse to use ^this gif (only slightly joking). title comes from the song false god by tswift (even tho im mad at her rn) bc i am just a simple uncreative girl, okay? pls enjoy and let me know what you think!! xoxo

There in the low light, sitting at your kitchen table, is–fuck, it’s Steven. He doesn’t look good, sweaty and dirty and tired. He doesn’t notice you at first, too busy trying to reach over his shoulder for something. His shirt is on the floor, shredded, along with the bottle of vodka you keep for “emergencies.” What the fuck? “What the fuck?” you echo and he finally looks up at you. You drop the shoe and kick it to the side. “Steven, are you–what happened?” “Not Steven,” he grunts, and oh the sound of his gruff voice should not be turning you on right now. “Marc,” you breathe. His dark eyes snap to yours, hand paused awkwardly over his shoulder. You can’t even be too mad at him for breaking in here in the middle of the night, not when he’s looking at you like that, all broody eyes and pouty lips. Fuck, he’s pretty.

All day, there’s been a nagging feeling in the back of your mind that there was something important you forgot to do. At work, you go through your emails, your calendar–nothing there. On the bus ride home, you stare out at the passing scenery, wracking your brain trying to figure out what the hell you’re forgetting. It’s driving you crazy.

It’s not until you reach your apartment door, digging through your bag for your keys, that you realize what it is. You pull out a second set of keys, this one with a small teddy bear charm dangling, and it hits you like a ton of bricks. Fuck. You were supposed to feed your neighbor’s fish for him while he was away.

You drop your work bag and sprint up the stairs to Steven’s apartment. Please don’t be dead, please don’t be dead. You don’t think you’d be able to handle the disappointed puppy dog look he’d give you when he comes back and you have to tell him you killed his beloved fish. The way his arms would wrap around himself in comfort, sleeves covering his hands, the way he always did when he was upset. Upset because of you this time.

Your heart sinks when you make it to his door, panting. Oh this is not good. You can’t remember when exactly he’d said he’d be back–in your defense, he did call you at 2am on a Monday, his voice uncharacteristically gruff as he’d asked you to take care of Stev-my fish for me, apparently taking your mumbled mhm as a concrete sign of agreement. When you’d woken up for real later that day, his keys were sitting on your kitchen table, a note reading Thanks. scrawled out in unfamiliar handwriting. Weird, but Steven was a bit of an odd duck, popping in and out to say hey at all hours, whenever he was awake (which seemed like all the time). The man either slept like the dead or not at all, no inbetween.

You quickly go through his keys, unlocking the top two deadbolts before reaching the main door lock. This one sticks–you shove your shoulder against the door and it bursts open. You tumble into the apartment.

And right into Steven. He’s bare chested, a pair of pajama pants slung low on his hips. Holy shit, since when was Steven ripped? He’s got a few days’ worth of stubble covering his clenched jaw and dark circles under his eyes. His hair is gelled down carefully instead of in its usual wild fluffy curls.

“Steven,” you whisper. He’s still gripping your elbow and you quickly straighten up. “What are you do–”

“Should be asking you that,” he says. His voice is flat, no trace of his usual cheery accent to be seen.

You blink. Study his face, the scowl etched there, the pull of his brows. This isn’t the Steven you know–the one who always greets you with a smile and a quiet heya when you pass each other in the hallway. The one who knocks on your door in the middle of the night with some ancient translation he’s finally figured out, waving his notes excitedly at you. The one who brings you a doughnut on his way home from work sometimes. It’s Steven’s face, for sure, but you’ve never seen this angry expression twisting his features. It feels wrong, it feels…dangerous.

You nod toward the fish tank, where Gus is still swimming happily. Thank god. “Steven didn’t tell me his…brother…was coming to feed Gus,” you say. “I’ve been, um, watching him?”

He takes a step back, not meeting your eyes. “Right, he–he told me you’d be here.” A beat, and then, “Did you need something else?”

You can’t stop staring at him, how familiar yet alien the man standing in front of you is. You see glimpses of Steven, when he crosses his arms across his chest, but then he speaks, his voice gruff, flat, American, and the illusion is broken. He raises an eyebrow and you shake your head.

“Sorry, it’s just…Steven didn’t tell me he had a brother,” you say. “Not that–I mean, not that we’re super close, you know. I just moved in like, three–no, four months ago now, so we see each other around. Sometimes.”

You want to slap yourself for babbling–something about his intense stare, the way his dark eyes roam your face, makes you want to run and never come back. You feel rooted in place, waiting for him to pounce, and you don’t fully hate it.

His lips twitch. You want to see him smile, see if it’s the same crooked grin Steven usually sports. “Ok-ay, well, I’ll just go now,” you finally say when he doesn’t answer.

You spin around, eager to get as far away as possible when you hear him call out to you.

“Marc,” he says. “I’ll see you around.” The smile he gives you is small, more tightly controlled than Steven’s, but it still makes your heart race. Get it together.

You wave and practically sprint back to your apartment, slamming the door and leaning back against it. That could not have gone any worse. Your heart won’t stop pounding and you try to convince yourself it’s just from all the running, not the way you felt Marc’s eyes follow you out the door.

—-

You don’t see Marc–or Steven–for the next few days. You set alarms now, one before work and one at night, as a reminder to feed Gus. And if you make sure you look extra presentable when you get to Steven’s apartment, an extra coat of gloss and mascara thrown on, it’s definitely not because of Marc.

Right.

But each time you’re let down, the apartment as empty as you left it the time before, no sign of either Marc or Steven. You find yourself taking a few minutes every visit to straighten up some of the many books scattered around, pointedly avoiding the half-made bed in the middle of the room.

One time you’d dropped the can of fish food and it had rolled over to the bed, getting caught in the pile of–what is that, sand?–scattered around the edges. You’d huffed, crouching down to get it, only to come face to face with a long ankle restraint tied to one leg of the bed. Your face heated, even though no one was there to see you.

You tried not to think of Steven using it on someone—poor, sweet Steven, who you’ve known for three months now and will barely make eye contact with you. No, this seemed like something more up Marc’s alley, and you can’t help imagine his rough hands tightening the restraints across your ankles, holding your legs spread open for him as he kissed and bit his way up to your–

No. This is so wrong.

But it wasn’t wrong enough to stop the heat pooling in your stomach, the damp spot on your panties you tried to ignore. And if you touched yourself later that night, made yourself come imagining big hands and a harsh voice in your ear, well. That’s no one’s business.

Another three days pass, and you’re starting to get worried. There’s still no sign of Steven, and you don’t think he’s ever been gone this long–what is he even doing? It’s not like this is a work trip, right? Do museum gift shop workers even get leave from work? There’s mail beginning to pile up outside his door, and when you deposit the stack on the kitchen counter during your next visit a small envelope catches your attention.

Marc Spector is written on the front. There’s no return address. Weird–you’d just assumed he and Steven would have the same last name. You quickly place the envelope back with the rest of the mail. It’s not your business, you scold yourself. But that doesn’t stop you from googling Marc Spector when you get home and–nothing. Not even the usual abandoned Facebook page, the years-old photo tag from some distant relatives. A search of Steven Grant brings you to the wiki page for some Indiana Jones-style 80s movie. Another dead end, of course.

You consider calling the police, reporting Steven (and Marc) missing, but what could you even say? Hey, my neighbor and his mysterious secret twin brother are missing, no I don’t know where they could be, I’m just here to feed his fish, I don’t even have either of their phone numbers. It sounds crazy just thinking about it. Jesus. You toss and turn that night, finally telling yourself that if you don’t hear from Steven by the morning, you’ll go back to his apartment and look for a number for someone to call for help. You slip into a restless sleep soon after, images of Steven’s big puppy eyes and Marc’s scowling face flashing through your mind.

Bang.

Something scrapes across the floor and then you hear a muffled curse. Your eyes spring open, heart practically beating its way out of your chest as you try to orient yourself in the dark room. You fumble for your phone on the nightstand–dead, because of course you forgot to plug it in last night. A loud crash from the kitchen has you shooting up out of bed, grabbing for the only weapon-like thing available. You grip a high heel in your hand, ready to stab whoever decided to make the mistake of breaking into your apartment and interrupting your sleep.

“What the fuck?” you echo and he finally looks up at you. You drop the shoe and kick it to the side. “Steven, are you–what happened?”

“Not Steven,” he grunts, and oh the sound of his gruff voice should not be turning you on right now.

“Marc,” you breathe. His dark eyes snap to yours, hand paused awkwardly over his shoulder. You can’t even be too mad at him for breaking in here in the middle of the night, not when he’s looking at you like that, all broody eyes and pouty lips. Fuck, he’s pretty.

“Can you–” he gestures impatiently to his shoulder. You walk over in a trance, trying not to feel self-conscious in your sleep shorts and tank top, coming to a hesitant stop behind him. There’s a gash running across his shoulder blade and you gasp. A trickle of blood rolls down his back.

You flutter your hand around the makeshift rag he has pressed there. You can’t stop staring at his back, the shift of muscles as he tries to hold his other hand in place to stop the bleeding. He’s so broad and warm, heat radiating off of him into the chilly air around you. You make a noise in your throat and he huffs.

“Oh fuck, what–what is this?” you ask. Stupid question. You press down on the rag–is that one of your shirts? that fucker–and he groans, shifting in the chair.

“Just–can you just help,” Marc rasps. He twists around to meet your eyes, careful not to jostle your hand on his shoulder. “Please.”

Yeah, you’re fucked. It shouldn’t be this attractive, listening to him beg for your help, twisting in your kitchen chair in the middle of the night. You can’t help but think of other places you want to hear him beg and a flush creeps up your face.

“Okay, yeah,” you finally say. Clear your throat and think of the bare bones first aid kit underneath your bathroom sink. “But maybe you should just go to the hospital–”

“No!” His voice booms through the room and you freeze. “No, it’s–it’s not that bad, please.” His voice is soft, pleading. “Just a scratch, promise.”

A scratch? But he looks so confident–“okay,” you whisper against your better judgment. “Stay here, let me get my, uh, kit.”

His shoulders slump in relief. “Didn’t have anywhere else to go or I would’ve. I didn’t want to bother you but, Steven–” He pauses. “Steven clearly trusts you, so I figured…you’re my best option here.”

His words send butterflies through your stomach. You tear your eyes away from his clenched jaw, mumble something again about getting the kit. You’re relieved to find everything you need tucked away, praying it’s not as bad as it looks. You couldn’t sew to save your life, but for Marc you’d try. And if it’s really bad, well tough shit—you’d find some way to drag him to the hospital.

He’s drinking from the bottle of vodka when you come back, head tilted back as he swallows deeply. A drop escapes from the corner of his mouth and you track it down his neck until it disappears beneath his tank top. You clear your throat and he turns to look at you, hissing when the movement pulls his wound open.

“Stop moving,” you scold, ripping the bottle from his hand and placing it on the table next to you.

You’ve seen enough survival movies to know that disinfecting the wound is the basic first step, but really, what the hell can you do after that? You don’t have any medical experience, can barely handle your own papercuts–let alone a huge open wound on someone else. You take a shaky breath, feeling slightly hysterical; here’s this man you barely know practically bleeding out in your kitchen in the middle of the night, waiting for your help, instead of going to the hospital like a normal person. Plenty of time to freak out later, once Marc is gone, you remind yourself.

He’s silent in the chair, shoulders tense. His tank top flaps open where his skin is split–oh Marc, what have you gotten yourself into?

“I’m gonna,” you clear your throat. “Can you, um, take your shirt off? I can’t see.”

“Sure, doc,” he grumbles. You roll your eyes at the jab–you are technically a doctor, of philosophy though, not medicine, but you’re not sure if he knows that. You help him lift the shirt from his back, making sure it doesn’t catch on the edges of the cut. Thankfully he’s right, it’s not as bad as it looks. It’s shallow enough that you’re pretty sure you can get away with just cleaning it up and covering it with gauze, no sewing necessary.

“This is gonna hurt,” you warn. He grits his teeth and nods, turning his head away to stare out into the living room.

You grab a clean piece of gauze, douse it in vodka–no rubbing alcohol in the first aid kit, but this’ll be better than nothing. Your other hand runs down the non-injured side of his back, hoping to soothe him a little. Instead he tenses up even more, spits out get on with it. So you do, pressing the vodka-soaked gauze right onto the cut, ignoring his groan of pain. Wipe away the smears of blood left behind–thank god it wasn’t still actively bleeding, just needed to be cleaned and wrapped up.

He hisses when you dab the edges of the cut, reaching his hand out behind him. You pass him the bottle silently, trying to ignore the pull of his throat, the way his thick fingers grip the bottle. Steven would never drink with you, no matter how many times you’d offered. Marc doesn’t even flinch at the sting of vodka, and you wonder idly if this was some parent trap twin situation–they really couldn’t be more different.

You pull the bottle out of his hands, placing your lips where his just were, ignoring the bite of the still-cold vodka. The alcohol rushes through you, warming your veins and settling low in your stomach.

“Should you be drinking on the job?” He sounds amused. You scoff.

“Not even my job,” you mumble. Press a little too hard on the edge of his cut with the gauze accidentally-on-purpose, just to hear him bite back a whimper and pull away from you. You grab his shoulders and manhandle him back into the seat. “Hold still, ’m almost done.”

It’s silent besides the sound of you cutting the medical tape and Marc’s labored breathing. There’s so many questions brewing in your mind, but you bite your tongue and keep working, not wanting to upset him again. You press one last piece of tape to his back, hoping your patch job will last until–if–he finally decides to go to the doctor.

“All done,” you finally say, tapping his non-injured shoulder. Marc grunts and twists around to try to see what you’ve done.

You shove him back into the chair. “Don’t, you’ll undo all my hard work.”

“Thanks, doc,” he mumbles. Then he sits up straight like he’s going to get up and leave, without any sort of explanation for what the hell is going on. A flash of anger rises in you and you try to bite it back.

“Why?” you ask. He stops lacing his boots and stares at you. His eyes are just a little darker than Steven’s, you notice, a little sharper–more wolf than puppy. You shake the thought away.

“You gonna tell me what happened? Where Steven is?” You throw your hands up in frustration, letting them land on your bare thighs with a smack. His eyes drop to your legs and back to your face so quickly you almost miss it.

Marc runs a hand through his hair, disrupting his neatly gelled curls even more. “Steven is…away.”

“Away,” you repeat. He nods quickly, inching towards the door like he wants to make a run for it.

“But you know when he’ll be back.” It’s not a question.

He pauses, brows scrunched. A scowl pulls at his lips. “Yeah, I do.”

He makes another move to the door and your anger rises again–how dare he come into your house, uninvited, in the middle of the night, to demand your help, and give you vague non-answers to what you think should be pretty simple questions. You move quickly to stand in front of the door, stopping him with a hand to his chest. His heart beats quickly beneath your palm.

“I don’t get to know that? I’ve been here, waiting, taking care of poor Gus for what, almost two weeks now? I should’ve never said yes, should’ve never got–”

His lips, warm and firm against yours, stop your train of thought. Your eyes fly open in shock, mouth frozen, before he runs his tongue over the seam of your lips and you melt into his embrace. Stupid traitor body.

You twirl your fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck and yank and he groans, pulling you even closer as his chapped lips meet yours again. You can feel him harden against your thigh and that snaps you out of it. You pull back, ignoring the question on his face, and slap him. Hard.

The only sound in the room is both of your heavy breathing, and then:

“What the fuck?” He looks confused, bringing a hand up to touch his cheek. “What–”

“Doesn’t feel good, does it,” you say bitterly. “Being lied to. Not getting a straight answer.” You can’t look at his stupid, kissable face right now. You don’t even know him really, this stranger with your cute neighbor’s face. How stupid of you to even get involved.

“Oh honey, I–you don’t,” he takes a deep breath and grabs your limp hand. “Look at me, please? I’d tell you if I could, promise, I don’t–don’t want you to get hurt, understand?”

Your mind whirls, trying to process the kiss and his words and the kiss. He smells so good somehow, despite everything, a little sweaty and a little smoky. You exhale shakily and he steps closer, nudging your chin up to look at him. His brow furrows as he searches your face. When he swipes his thumb across your cheekbone your pulse leaps.

“Are you…in danger? Did you bring who-whoever did that to you back here?” You should be angry at him but you’re just bone-tired, now that the adrenaline is fading.

“No, no, of course not,” he says. He notices your hesitation and adds, “But I could…stay with you tonight, if you want? Just to, you know, make sure. Least I can do.”

His eyes are huge, pleading–even if you wanted to say no, you know you couldn’t.

“Fine,” you say, like you’re doing him a favor. You point to the mess of bloody gauze and assorted clothing strewn across the kitchen. “But you’re cleaning this up tomorrow.”

“Yeah yeah, don’t worry about it.” His face is soft in the early morning lighting, a little sleepy. A little more like Steven. You want to run your hands through his hair again, mess it up even more.

Marc is a silent shadow as you lead him to your bedroom, kicking a random shirt under the bed as you go. You sink down to the mattress with a groan and he watches with sharp eyes from the doorway.

You want to be mean, tell him since this is his mess he’s gotten you into, he can stand there all night for all you care. But then you notice how dark the circles under his eyes are, the way he sways in place, leaning heavily on the door frame–when’s the last time he had a good night’s sleep? you wonder–and a pang of guilt hits you.

Heart pounding, you pull the blanket up beside you, scooting to one side to make room for him behind you. When he doesn’t move you pat the empty space, gesturing for him to get over here.

He hesitates, until you snap get in already, before i change my mind, and he finally lowers himself down next to you with a grunt, careful to avoid pulling his bad shoulder. It’s quiet, the occasional sounds of the city outside filtering through the open window. You close your eyes and try to relax, try to ignore the fact that Marc is here in your bed. With you. He fidgets, fingers brushing the side of your bare thigh and you freeze.

Just when you think he’s finally asleep, his voice breaks the silence with a low whisper. “Thanks, doc. Really.”

“Of course.” Your voice is just as hushed as his. You reach out in the dark for his hand, brushing his pinky with yours. He links his finger with yours and that’s how you finally fall asleep, Marc’s warm body next to yours and a small smile on your face.

—-

He’s gone the next morning of course–it’s almost noon when you finally drag yourself out of bed, the spot next to you cold and vacant. The kitchen is spotless, no sign of any of last night’s struggle, and a box of donuts from your favorite cafe sits on the table. A note is shoved under the box in what you recognize as Marc’s messy scrawl: Steven told me these are your favorite. Thank you.

It shouldn’t make your stomach swoop, this little act of kindness, but it does. You think about Marc while you get ready to go out, staring at your messy sheets where you can imagine the imprint of his body lingers. You think about him during dinner with your friends, when you see a man with dark curly hair at the table behind you kissing his date. You think of the long line of Marc’s throat when you take shot after shot at the bar, pretending the heat in your stomach is just from the alcohol. You think of him when you crawl into bed afterwards, a little tipsy, and imagine you can still smell him on your pillow. You fall asleep too quickly, with your hand down your pants and his name on your lips.

You wake up the next morning to a (thankfully) manageable hangover and a text from an unknown local number:

Be back soon! Thank you again for watching Gus! xx

The reminder of Gus makes you groan; if it was anyone else, you would’ve given up by now, pawned the fish off to someone else to worry about, but then you think of Steven’s happy little smile for you (if he ever comes back) and later that night you trudge your way up to his apartment.

The bottom lock sticks, again, but this time there’s no shirtless Marc there to catch you on the other side–you stumble in and kick the door shut angrily behind you. And then you notice someone in Steven’s bed.

He’s kicked the covers off, a thin sheet crumpled around his bare waist and a hand resting just above the waistband of his briefs. The ankle strap is tied tightly around his leg and you feel your cheeks heat up. Stop being a perv and just leave, jesus–you’re just turning to quietly slink back to your apartment when you hear it: he murmurs your name, brow furrowed even in sleep.

You stop, thinking you’ve been caught creeping. “Steven?” you whisper. “Marc?”

He turns, thrashing around with a low whimper. The sheet drags even lower and you avert your eyes. You should leave for real, he’s definitely not awake, and you don’t even want to think about trying to explain yourself when he wakes up and sees you just standing there looking at him.

And then you step on a creaky spot on the floor and he bolts upright. He’s sweating, bare chest glinting in the low light as he looks around, wild eyes finally landing on you hovering in the doorway.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” you joke. A scowl pulls his features–okay, definitely Marc.

“How–but you…” he trails off. He looks around, disoriented, and then he drags his gaze back to you sharply. “Did you see Steven at all?”

“N-no,” you stammer. “He’s okay though, right?”

“He’s fine,” Marc promises. “Should be back, uh, soon?”

“Yeah, that’s what he said last week,” you mutter. He just looks at you helplessly, and you take that as your cue to leave.

“As fun as this has been,” you say, “I’m gonna…go. I’ll leave the keys, since you’re here. Tell Steven I said hey, whenever you see him.” You run your fingers along the fluffy bear on Steven’s keychain one last time before turning towards the door.

Then, in a voice so low you almost miss it, Marc says, “Wait, please. You can–you can stay, if you want.”

“Stay and…?” you trail off. “What, to watch you sleep?” He looks at you again, eyes so wide and pleading and so much like Steven it makes your heart break. “You’re serious.”

“I, um.” he rubs a hand across his jaw, scratching the thick stubble. “Had a nightmare. It’s usually better when there’s someone here, with me.”

You feel a spark of jealousy at his words, imagining the revolving door of different girls he’s probably gotten into his bed with that cheesy line, how many he’d sweet-talked into giving it up for him. Girls like the brooding angsty thing, right? But then you look at him a little longer, see the sheen of sweat sticking his curls to the side of his head. The perpetual dark shadows under his eyes. The way he’d called your name in his sleep. So you agree.

It’s dark, the light of the moon outside guiding you towards the bed. He’s laying on his back watching you with an arm behind his head, the picture of relaxation, and you can’t help the pulse of desire you feel. Stop it, stop it, stop it. You stand awkwardly at the edge of the bed, unsure how much or how little you should keep on. What’s the protocol for sleeping in bed with a guy you barely know for the second time?

Marc solves the dilemma for you–he reaches for a shirt on the side of the bed, passes it to you without a word. You recognize it as one of Steven’s museum shirts, the Really Makes You Sphinx one with the faded cartoon sphinx in the middle. Your fingers brush his as you reach for it and you shudder, quickly pulling the t-shirt over your head, shucking your pants and socks off as you do, and climb in next to him.

His fingers brush your bare thigh as he turns to look at you. You shift and he just looks at you, dark eyes watching your every move like a hawk. That feeling of danger is back, every instinct telling you to get out of there, now, but this time instead of running away from it, you want to run to him. You want to let him ruin you.

“Alright?” he murmurs softly and you nod.

“How’s your shoulder?” you finally ask. He turns to let you see it, the barely-healed scar that he’d sloppily taped over. You run your fingers around the edges of the tape, then down his spine, notch by notch, and he shivers.

“All good thanks to you, doc,” he says. You hum and he turns to look at you, tracing the knuckles of your hand mindlessly.

“Do you want to talk about it? The nightmare?” you blurt out.

His face hardens and he pulls his hand back to pick at a loose thread in the sheets. You miss the warmth immediately. “Not particularly,” he says after a moment, and you don’t push it.

“Yeah, okay,” you whisper. “Let’s just–here, lay down.”

You stretch your arms above your head, listening to the crack of your joints–you really hadn’t slept well last night, between the drinking and thinking about Marc…you’d been sloppy, too uncoordinated to get the angle of your fingers right and you’d fallen asleep even more frustrated. It all comes rushing back now, seeing him in person, rumpled and sleepy and dangerous but–vulnerable. It’s intoxicating and you shift to rub your thighs together, hoping for even a little bit of friction.

If Marc notices, he doesn’t say anything. Maybe you’re only imagining his heated gaze on your bare skin, the way your shirt–Steven’s shirt–lifts as you stretch. And maybe you can blame the sudden perking of your nipples on the chilly room, definitely nothing to do with Marc. Nope.

He leans back with a grunt, waving off your concern when you look at his injured shoulder. You hesitate, just for a second, but then your desire to sleep–just sleep–with him wins out. He watches you crawl over with half-lidded eyes, dragging a hand around your waist to pull you in even closer. He settles over you with a sigh, one arm right under your breasts, so close you can feel the steady thumping of his heart against your back. His breath is warm against the back of your neck, and when he whispers you okay? in your ear you nod and hope he can’t see the goosebumps there.

At first you’re stiff, not used to being this close to someone, and then his breathing evens out and he–he presses a kiss to the side of your neck, barely a brush of lips but it sets you on fire. You feel his lips pull into a smile against your neck as you fidget in his grasp.

“Go to sleep,” he groans. “’M tired, know you are too.”

You whine, pushing yourself back into him, hoping to change his mind, to get him to do something, but he just kisses your neck again, says nope, goodnight, and that’s that. You try to ignore the throbbing of your clit, the way your panties are sticking uncomfortably to your body and focus on the deep pulls of his breath behind you. Eventually you settle, lulled to sleep by Marc’s warm body behind you, holding on to you so tightly like he’s scared that’ll you’ll disappear when he wakes up.

—-

You were cold when you left your apartment, but you’re suddenly warm, almost uncomfortably so. Light streams through the curtains and you crack an eye open. There’s not much noise outside yet–it must still be early. You just settle back down into the bed, and then you hear a light snore behind you and remember where you are.

Your eyes fly open. Steven’s apartment. With Marc.

He’s even a cute sleeper, mouth open slightly as he snores. His brow is still slightly furrowed, even in his sleep–jesus, does he ever relax? His usual slicked-back curls are all over the place, fluffy and mussed from moving around. If you squint, he looks just like Steven. You resist the urge to smooth a piece of hair back from his face, laying back down and staring at a small crack in the ceiling.

Marc makes a noise and you think you’ve woken him up but he’s still sleeping, arms reaching out for you. You scoot closer and he yanks you back against him, throws a leg over yours to hold you there (as if you’d even want to leave) and that’s how you fall back asleep, cuddled up to Marc as the early morning sunlight streaks in through the window.

The next time you wake up, it’s to Marc’s hard cock pressing against your back.

It takes you a moment to process what’s happening. Steven’s apartment. Steven’s bed. Marc. Nightmare. Cuddling. And–

The desire from last night comes flooding back in a rush–you wiggle back just a little, just to see what’ll happen. You can feel the wet spot on the front of his boxers as it drags along your exposed skin. You’re so warm, bursting into flames just at this simple contact.

Marc grunts, shifts again so his arm is around your chest, fingers grazing your nipple. You whimper at the light contact and roll your hips back again, intentionally. He’s so hard and firm and you try to shift to get the angle just right when you feel his breathing change. He’s awake now.

“Marc,” you whimper, and he noses along the back of your neck, tweaking your nipple.

“G’morning to you, too,” he says, voice rough with sleep. He grips your hips tightly and rolls his hips, letting you feel how hard he is. Even through your layers of clothes, he feels big.

“Please, Marc,” you whine, reaching back to grab at his hair, and he groans, flipping you over so he can settle on top of you. His hips are perfectly aligned for you to grind up into him, the friction so good but still not enough.

“Driving me fuckin’ crazy, the way you keep saying my name,” he huffs. “First time I saw you, had to stop what I was doing and just fuck my own hand–feel what you do to me, huh baby?”

You’re burning up, at his words, at how close he is, trying to get your shirt off without moving him out of place. He grins, wolfish, and swats your hands away, rolling it up and off your body. His eyes are everywhere on your newly exposed skin, leaning down to mouth at the side of your breast, pressing light kisses as he goes. He bites down lightly and you moan.

His eyes are molten, so dark as he watches your reactions. The way you arch up into his mouth when he sucks a nipple. How your fingers twist in his hair and yank him up to your mouth. He kisses you like he’s on a mission, like he knows exactly what he wants from you. It’s hot, the way he takes control.

“Can I put my mouth on you, please, can I? Been dreaming about getting my mouth on you, on this sweet little pussy. Tell me what you want, baby, please.”

“Yeah, okay,” you croak. As if you’d say no to him. Marc grins, a huge smile that you can feel as he presses one last kiss to your neck before settling down at the foot of the bed. His broad shoulders push your legs open even more and for a moment he just runs his hand up your inner thigh, letting his warm breath fan over you until you’re squirming in his grip.

You reach down and tug his hair when he tries to muffle his whimper in your leg. “Stop teasing.”

And he listens, finally, pausing only to roll your soaked panties down and throw them into the corner of the room. You have a brief moment of panic when you think about Steven finding them later, and then every thought flies out of your head when he leans down and licks a wide stripe from your dripping hole up to your clit. A low moan tears from your throat.

He hums against you when you rake your hands through his hair and pull a little harder this time. He groans, sucking your clit lightly between his lips and you practically leap off the bed. One of his hands comes to hold you down, spreading across your hip and pressing you further into the bed. You can’t escape it, can’t escape him–the rough scrape of his stubble, the steady pressure around your clit, the way he gently presses a finger into you at the same time and rubs at the spongy spot there.

The hand not holding you down is under him, working his boxers off and fisting his cock–he’s flushed, practically dripping and he pulls back to swipe two fingers through your slick and use it to lube himself up. It’s so dirty and hot that you can’t help but grab him, pulling him up to kiss you, tasting yourself on his lips.

“See,” Marc says, smug. “Knew you would taste good. Even better’n I dreamed about.”

You blush and grab at his arms, trying to get him to move, to let you get on top. It’s like trying to move a solid wall, he’s so broad, and he laughs as you struggle. He tucks a sweaty strand of hair behind your ear, placing a kiss on the corner of your mouth as he flops back. Marc reaches up to pull you closer and you don’t miss the wince he tries to hide when his shoulder lifts.

You stop moving immediately and he whines. Loudly.

“Thought you said your shoulder was better,” you say faux-seriously. Roll your hips on him slowly, letting his cock settle in between your bare lips. He grips your hips in his sweaty hands.

“It’s fine, you can fix it again after–please, I need you,” he groans. His eyes never leave your cunt, watching as you drag your slick over him again and again. You lift your hips, hovering over him, and he grits his teeth at the loss of contact.

His grip on your hips tightens, trying to pull you back down, but you sit up out of his reach. He thrusts up into you, leaving a smear of precum on the inside of your thigh that glistens in the morning light.

He looks wrecked, flush running down his cheeks to his chest. He can’t sit still, running his hands over your bare skin, pleading with you to do something, please, c’mon. Finally you take mercy on him, gripping the base of his dick and lining it up to where you’re practically dripping. You sink down slowly, feeling the stretch, the way his thighs tense with the effort of holding back.

He bites back a groan and you can’t help but let out a small whimper. He’s so warm and solid and thick inside you–you clench down, just to feel his cock pulse inside you, his fingers digging into the meat of your ass.

“Oh god, please,” he begs. “This’ll be over–fuck–over too quick if you keep doing that.”

“Shit, Marc,” you groan when he shifts his hips, angling the wide head of his cock to catch perfectly on that spongy spot inside you. You roll your hips over him again and again, leaning forward to kiss him. The angle catches your clit just right and you cry out.

“Gonna come on my cock, baby? Go ahead, please, ruin me for anyone else. Never even wanna look at anyone else, yeah, just you. Fuck, you’re–you’re so good to me, feels so good,” he babbles.

Marc shoves his hips up once, twice, reaching down to roll your swollen clit between his fingers. The pressure is so good, exactly what you need and you come with a cry of his name, suddenly.

When you open your eyes again he’s already watching you, a tiny smile on his face that quickly shifts into a look of need when you clench down on him again. You can feel him twitch inside you when you cup your breast in your hand, swirling a finger around your nipple. He groans.

“Please, baby, where do you want it? I can’t–please don’t stop.” He’s staring at the slick leaking out of you onto his dick, the squelch when you lift yourself up and down so loud in the room, a harsh fuck tumbling out of his lips.

“Come in me,” you say, and that’s all it takes for him to throw his head back with a groan, muscles locking as he holds you down on his pulsing cock, letting you feel the surge of warm come deep inside you. You can feel it leak out when you lift yourself with a groan and flop back on the bed.

It’s quiet for a moment as you both catch your breath. He rolls over to face you, cupping your jaw in his hand, kissing you slowly. You melt into his arms, letting his steady breathing lull you back to sleep, and then your eyes fly open and you pull back.

“Maybe don’t, um, tell Steven I was here?”

He gives you a crooked grin, eyes crinkling. “Don’t worry, honey–’m good at keeping secrets.”

masterlist here

#marc spector fic #marc spector x reader #marc spector x you #marc spector #moon knight #moon knight fic #marvel fic #steven grant #marc spector smut #this was literally 20 pages in google docs im screaming #literally the longest thing ive ever written lowkey proud of it #listen i just KNOW mr people pleaser marc would beg during sex. idc argue with the wall #lexi writes things

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