( the look he gives her is short, appraising, indecisive. contemplative and uncertain. daphne is not the sort of woman marc falls in love with, is not the sort of woman steven falls in love with, nor jake. she's not far from it, probably — tempestuous, self-assured. if he had more self-awareness, he'd clarify. if he was more open, he'd mention marlene, diatrice. he'd explain. but he doesn't and he isn't.
he loves greer, he thinks, but he's not in love with her, not the way it'd been with marlene. not the constant push-and-pull, concern sitting against frustration sitting against an inability to communicate. sitting against an inability to understand. )
I'm not, but I'm still a priest. ( his gaze darts to the jacket still sat on her shoulders. ) I have my vestments, my god. ( the one he resents, the other abandoned, indifferent and silent—.
he doesn't say that she's not loveable, that'd be cruel and it'd ruin whatever this is, the odd sort of companionship of almost-honesty and almost-sincerity. instead, then, there's a flash of wry questioning, a levity to the implied doubt before he, against everything that says this is a POOR IDEA, presses his lips against hers, hands pressing tighter against the small of her back to hold her in place.
[Daphne has her own understanding with the moon, and none of it is Marc's business, or Khonshu's, for that matter. She had asked him about the choice - as if choice were a factor - of a god of the moon, mostly because the moon is feminine, changing, tied to women.
So. He's a priest of the moon. He might as well be a priest of Jesus, for all that means to her, which is to say-
-she kisses him back, rising up against his body, her breasts against his shirt. Her nipples are already hard, and it's not cold enough out for it to be because of that. She moves one hand to the back of his neck, her fingers just in the hair at the nape, and pulls him to practically devour his mouth.]
I don't give a single fuck about your god, Marc.
[She says it with a growl, and takes one of his hands from where it's at her back to between her legs, so he can feel how hot she is. She's just getting wet now.]
And I don't want you to think about him when you have me in your lap.
( it's not the first time he's heard 'I don't care about khonshu' and he doubts it'll be the last. it's fine, too, because although marc can't say he doesn't care because it's COMPLICATED and DIFFICULT, marc is far from precious about khonshu. doesn't care about whether he's worshipped (no), admired (ha) or not (most likely). the difficulty, then, is in marc's positioning, where he — moon knight — sits in relation to everything else.
not a particularly pressing problem, not when khonshu's locked up on asgard and especially not when marc feels daphne's body against his own. the warmth, her hand — fingers, twining through and pulling at the shortest strands of his hair. her lips and teeth and tongue against his mouth; her hand directing his. a sharp glance as he shifts his weight, necessary, as he pulls away from her lips to press his against her neck, his fingers exploratory, teasing.
a huff of breath against her skin, an exhale that's nowhere near a laugh, not really, but not wholly devoid of something that borders on amusement. )Fine. ( agreement, not remotely argumentative and easily won. )
[She says it with a smug, pleased satisfaction; one that comes with the shift of her hips up, and then down a little. Now that his hand is there, she moves hers away, and uses it to tug a bit at his shirt, to pull it up just a little so that her hand can snake in and trace over his stomach.]
I'm not sure why all my men here are built like fighters, but I can't help but be pleased about it.
[She says it just inches from his mouth, her smile almost pressing against the corner of his mouth. Her fingers turn, and start to snake down.]
(good boy sits strangely, a little odd, but he doesn't quite have time to think on it as his attention is otherwise taken by the way daphne says it, the purr to her voice, the way that she moves and pulls her hand away from his.
a sharp glance — or it would be, if her face wasn't so close to his, eyeing and watchful as her fingers graze across his skin, work their way down and—. )
Maybe you've got a type, ( he suggests instead of answering her question, instead of acknowledging the growing tightness of his pants. instead his fingers trace her shape, skirts along the inside of her thigh, light and teasing and slow, whilst his other hand presses tight against her back, pulls her forward just a little bit more. )
[She says it as she kisses him again, this time tripping her fingers over the fastening of his trousers, trying to get more space.
One long, sharp tooth slips down in a shift, and she catches his lip. It doesn’t cut deep, but the smell of blood is just there on the edge of her awareness.]
I want to play a game.
If you can get me off with your hand before I get your pants and shirt open, I’ll ride you until you can’t see straight.
If not…I’ll use my mouth on you. There may be teeth. There may not.
( he looks at her, a sharp, sudden movement that says neither of those options are inherently unappealing, not until the second option fully sinks in and there's a brief twitch to his lips, unsure, like he's undecided on how to take it. it takes a moment, then, for his tongue to dart out, to run over the mild cut she's given him, to taste the blood, metallic and familiar, wet and runny from saliva, in an instinctual effort to wipe it away without the use of his hands. )
Fine, ( he says, and it's murmured against her skin, against her neck, his mouth and tongue exploring, tasting, as he works his way inwards from her thigh, pressure increasing, speed increasing — gradually. building in rhythm, back and forth. )
[She laughs a little, but she's moving now, undulating over him a bit as she starts to tease his shirt open, starting at the top collar. The way her body moves is as much as tease as anything; her mouth catching his and kissing it open, with teeth and tongue.
The scrape of her tongue, now more cat than human, and the warmth of the cut she gave him healing.]
( his eyebrows arch at the question, a soft hum offered in lieu of a real answer as daphne starts with the top button of his shirt, one that has regular buttons instead of the ridiculous, fiddly, fussy crescent moons he insists on using on his waistcoat, and as cuff links.
she makes it easy, in a way, to accept. demanding in a way that's ultimately inconsequential, in a way that doesn't really ask anything of marc, and given the situation, given the circumstances, that's completely fine. an uncomplicated way of spending less time in his own head.
it's not an entirely unfamiliar sensation, her tongue against his mouth and lips. rough in a way that's reminiscent of greer, a similarity that now makes sense given daphne's — everything. it's a thought that's not quite a thought, more shapes and vagueness, a sense than anything else, because his attention, his focus, is almost entirely on daphne. he stills, not completely but enough outside of the rhythmic circles he makes with his fingers, thumb brushing over her clit, over the sensitive skin, mindful of her reaction. )
What? ( murmured against her skin, gaze flicking up to meet hers. ) You'd prefer 'challenge accepted'? ( he half-asks, not strictly interested in the answer as he ducks his head, presses his lips to her clavicle, ungentle kisses working their way down to her breasts, to her nipples. )
[Her breathing starts to quicken a bit as she lifts her chest so that he can kiss there, so that he can put his mouth on her. She's still undoing the buttons on his shirt, but she's clearly slowing down a little, distracted by the touch of his mouth on her, his tongue on her.
This is exactly right, the way he treats her. His kisses are rough and feel almost like, if he just pressed a little more, he might bite. Bites last on Daphne's skin as if she were human, and she can't help but hum at the thought of that.]
I think I do.
[She slips her fingers to undo a button just as his thumb presses right there and she bucks a bit. It shouldn't be a surprise, his hand has been on her, but there is something exceptionally good about the roughness of his hands.]
A secret.
[She leans down so she can just just curve her head next to his ear.]
( he feels her hum more than he hears it, the sound a not-unpleasant vibration against where his lips press to her skin. it's distracting enough that he half-pauses as she speaks, her words earning an exhale of breath that's not a million miles away from a laugh before she bucks at his touch and he thinks ah—.
he doesn't change what he's doing — that'd be stupid — but he does pause, just for a second, at the words 'a secret', the vague thought that she's going to ask the same question she had before, the one he'd answered almost in spite of himself, and looks to her as much as he can given their positions, given her lips against the side of his head. her breath is warm against his skin, and the intensity of his gaze quickly fades at the words that follow. the admission isn't a complete surprise, not given her remark about her men — a turn of phrase to spare thought to later, certainly not now — being built like fighters. )
Bad secret, Daphne, ( he tells her, fingers pressing against her pussy with a little more intensity, rubbing with a little more speed. ) If you like fighters, they're par the course.
[He almost laughs and it makes her practically squirm in his lap, the evidence of a reaction from her. She’s proud and sensible and she knows when men get too serious for their own good, and she likes it when they respond to her.
Like this.
She tugs at one of his buttons and two snap off (she’s not sorry) and she giggles.]
Fine, a secret.
[She kisses him, then, catching his mouth, and moaning against his tongue. Her pussy is only getting hotter, she things, blood pulsing in her ears.]
Keep doing that; the rough skin catching there-
[She stops unbuttoning his shirt and lifts her chest, instead, and uses a hand to guide her nipple to his mouth.]
(he'll be more annoyed about the buttons once they're done here, once he's had time to reflect and realise he's going to either have to pay real money to get the buttons reattached, or have to sit and sew them back on himself. fortunately, in a manner of speaking, he knows how to sew. the corps was quite adamant in teaching the basics, in having certain expectations in terms of cleanliness and presentation, expectations that were hard to kick.
but for now it registers only in a flicker of his expression, a brief knitting of his brows that doesn't last. it's a one-two punch of her kissing him, moaning into him, of her being warmer and wetter that means his noise, the one that sits between a moan and a groan, low and unbidden; that means the way his dick is hard and uncomfortable against his pants, is entirely instinctual. reactive.
she guides him and he lets her, and then she says teeth and he obliges, a sharp bite punctuated by a wet, grazing tongue. a suck and a fingers pressing deeper into the small of her back. want and acquiescence combined.
belatedly— ) —This wasn't cheap. ( the suit, he means. )
[She replies with a shudder that sends a wave of fur over her back and hips; it’s there for a second and then it’s gone, but one thing is clear. She’s losing a bit more control with that bite, and she grinds down onto his hand.
She wasn’t lying; the bite and the scratch and his hand, all of that is good enough on its own. His broad shoulders under her hands, the way he groans against her skin, that makes it all the better.
She can feel the sweet pressure of the coming orgasm. She knows it’s coming, and she won’t tell him, even though can probably feel the telltale clench of muscles, the tightening against his hand.
She closes her eyes and forgets trying to get his shirt off. If he’s being a prissy bitch about two buttons, if she goes and just rips it off he’ll probably throw a tantrum and harsh her post orgasm high.
Besides, she can feel his cock, hard and trapped, and she wants to feel if it’s really as thick as it looks, or if white adds heft.
So.
She tenses and whimpers, high pitched and unmistakable, and let’s the pleasure swarm her.]
turns out i had this half-finished in my drafts for five years
( he doesn't respond to the remark, not verbally, not in terms of a spoken response. the sudden appearance of fur is momentarily, fleetingly distracting, but not enough to interrupt, not enough to ruin whatever kind of moment this constitutes as. (pleasing—.)
a grunt, then, that borders on a moan, slightly strained and with the barest definition of words as she clenches and she tightens, and then—
she stops.
or at least, she stops with his shirt but doesn't stop otherwise. that's what catches his attention more than the rest of it, at least until she whimpers, until the noise hangs between them and marc realises he'd been holding his breath. it doesn't help. daphne's release, that is. neither the way she feels nor the way she sounds, and though he stops, his hand moving slightly away, grazing over her bare thigh, the warm skin to pull her closer, to readjust where she's positioned, that doesn't help either. he's aware, acutely, of the way she feels against him, against the material of his pants between them and— )
—Daphne.
( it's uttered in much the same way as a strained 'fuck', caught oddly between want and need and request. a thought, vague and distant, of the game she'd suggested, and a part of him thinks he should care more, and yet.
a hand, pressing into the cheek of her ass as if to hold her where she is (unneeded, but—.) ) That didn't seem fair.
You— ( he half-starts, doesn't quite finish as her hand presses against his dick, unaware of the unasked question. (he doesn't, has a wardrobe — back home — of the same suit countless times, knows a good tailor who doesn't ask any questions (specific days depending on occupation, a sticking point when it came to 'moon knight' — hero or villain? they'd settled, vaguely, on whatever. whenever MK deigned to turn up because it was complicated, even if he was insulted by the insinuation.
(monday, wednesday, friday for the "good guys".) ) ) Didn't put up a fair fight.
( skipping past her questions, the ones he doesn't really want to answer. it's a he doesn't know, something he's not about to vocalise. her tongue is rough, pleasantly so. it makes him shudder, shiver, and he makes a noise that's part acknowledgement, part frustration as her kiss turns into a sharp nip, one then two.
(he barely even notices the dimple this time.)
a flicker of surprise, a glance, sidelong and undecided — not because he disagrees, but because he's restless. caught up. ) What? ( a huff of breath that's almost a laugh. ) Best of three?
[She laughs and with a flick of her wrist she undoes the top button of his trousers, giving him a little space.]
What conversation have we ever had that made you think I fight fair?
[She gets her hand on his dick, then, hoisting herself up a bit on his lap to give her a little space to work. It's a tight fit, but she starts with a squeeze and then a rub, another, her hand moving firmly against him.]
Marc.
[She says it and bits his neck again, nip, nip.]
If you think it wasn't fair and you want me to leave, I can...just go.
( she speaks and he hmms, a murmur that'd be more contemplative if her hand wasn't on her dick, if she wasn't manoeuvring herself to a more convenient position to squeeze and then rub, the movement, her grip confident and easy and self-assured. it does nothing to focus his attention on her words more than on her, and there's a hitch of breath before an exhale of breath that's half-laugh, half-agreement.
it's not that he doesn't have any smart response to her remark — or, he doesn't, but he'd have something a little smarter if circumstances were slightly different.
it's good in a way that's not unexpected — he hadn't expected anything else really — but is pleasurable in an unguarded way that marc doesn't often allow himself to express around others. in spite of himself then, there's a moan, a twitch, and he lifts a hand to push her away from his neck, to tilt her head up, because as good as that is—.
he presses his mouth against her jaw, her lips, the curve of her neck. )
[She smiles, a predator's smile, the kind of smile that says she's a dangerous creature. He can't see it, thought, because his mouth, hot and good, is against her neck. She thinks she'd like to try his mouth out between her legs, to see how he uses those beautiful lips and that absolutely idiotic tongue.
She hums her pleasure.]
Good.
I'm glad we agree on that.
[She moves her hand, just a little, just tiny and barely-there twists of her wrist. She writhes just a little bit and tips her head to catch his mouth with hers. She kisses him and hums, and presses their foreheads together.]
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no subject
he loves greer, he thinks, but he's not in love with her, not the way it'd been with marlene. not the constant push-and-pull, concern sitting against frustration sitting against an inability to communicate. sitting against an inability to understand. )
I'm not, but I'm still a priest. ( his gaze darts to the jacket still sat on her shoulders. ) I have my vestments, my god. ( the one he resents, the other abandoned, indifferent and silent—.
he doesn't say that she's not loveable, that'd be cruel and it'd ruin whatever this is, the odd sort of companionship of almost-honesty and almost-sincerity. instead, then, there's a flash of wry questioning, a levity to the implied doubt before he, against everything that says this is a POOR IDEA, presses his lips against hers, hands pressing tighter against the small of her back to hold her in place.
love is one thing, but fun is quite another. )
no subject
So. He's a priest of the moon. He might as well be a priest of Jesus, for all that means to her, which is to say-
-she kisses him back, rising up against his body, her breasts against his shirt. Her nipples are already hard, and it's not cold enough out for it to be because of that. She moves one hand to the back of his neck, her fingers just in the hair at the nape, and pulls him to practically devour his mouth.]
I don't give a single fuck about your god, Marc.
[She says it with a growl, and takes one of his hands from where it's at her back to between her legs, so he can feel how hot she is. She's just getting wet now.]
And I don't want you to think about him when you have me in your lap.
no subject
not a particularly pressing problem, not when khonshu's locked up on asgard and especially not when marc feels daphne's body against his own. the warmth, her hand — fingers, twining through and pulling at the shortest strands of his hair. her lips and teeth and tongue against his mouth; her hand directing his. a sharp glance as he shifts his weight, necessary, as he pulls away from her lips to press his against her neck, his fingers exploratory, teasing.
a huff of breath against her skin, an exhale that's nowhere near a laugh, not really, but not wholly devoid of something that borders on amusement. ) Fine. ( agreement, not remotely argumentative and easily won. )
no subject
Good boy.
[She says it with a smug, pleased satisfaction; one that comes with the shift of her hips up, and then down a little. Now that his hand is there, she moves hers away, and uses it to tug a bit at his shirt, to pull it up just a little so that her hand can snake in and trace over his stomach.]
I'm not sure why all my men here are built like fighters, but I can't help but be pleased about it.
[She says it just inches from his mouth, her smile almost pressing against the corner of his mouth. Her fingers turn, and start to snake down.]
You're going to please me, aren't you?
WHOOPS not me accidentally hitting submit
a sharp glance — or it would be, if her face wasn't so close to his, eyeing and watchful as her fingers graze across his skin, work their way down and—. )
Maybe you've got a type, ( he suggests instead of answering her question, instead of acknowledging the growing tightness of his pants. instead his fingers trace her shape, skirts along the inside of her thigh, light and teasing and slow, whilst his other hand presses tight against her back, pulls her forward just a little bit more. )
no subject
[She says it as she kisses him again, this time tripping her fingers over the fastening of his trousers, trying to get more space.
One long, sharp tooth slips down in a shift, and she catches his lip. It doesn’t cut deep, but the smell of blood is just there on the edge of her awareness.]
I want to play a game.
If you can get me off with your hand before I get your pants and shirt open, I’ll ride you until you can’t see straight.
If not…I’ll use my mouth on you. There may be teeth. There may not.
no subject
Fine, ( he says, and it's murmured against her skin, against her neck, his mouth and tongue exploring, tasting, as he works his way inwards from her thigh, pressure increasing, speed increasing — gradually. building in rhythm, back and forth. )
no subject
[She laughs a little, but she's moving now, undulating over him a bit as she starts to tease his shirt open, starting at the top collar. The way her body moves is as much as tease as anything; her mouth catching his and kissing it open, with teeth and tongue.
The scrape of her tongue, now more cat than human, and the warmth of the cut she gave him healing.]
Is that all?
no subject
she makes it easy, in a way, to accept. demanding in a way that's ultimately inconsequential, in a way that doesn't really ask anything of marc, and given the situation, given the circumstances, that's completely fine. an uncomplicated way of spending less time in his own head.
it's not an entirely unfamiliar sensation, her tongue against his mouth and lips. rough in a way that's reminiscent of greer, a similarity that now makes sense given daphne's — everything. it's a thought that's not quite a thought, more shapes and vagueness, a sense than anything else, because his attention, his focus, is almost entirely on daphne. he stills, not completely but enough outside of the rhythmic circles he makes with his fingers, thumb brushing over her clit, over the sensitive skin, mindful of her reaction. )
What? ( murmured against her skin, gaze flicking up to meet hers. ) You'd prefer 'challenge accepted'? ( he half-asks, not strictly interested in the answer as he ducks his head, presses his lips to her clavicle, ungentle kisses working their way down to her breasts, to her nipples. )
no subject
This is exactly right, the way he treats her. His kisses are rough and feel almost like, if he just pressed a little more, he might bite. Bites last on Daphne's skin as if she were human, and she can't help but hum at the thought of that.]
I think I do.
[She slips her fingers to undo a button just as his thumb presses right there and she bucks a bit. It shouldn't be a surprise, his hand has been on her, but there is something exceptionally good about the roughness of his hands.]
A secret.
[She leans down so she can just just curve her head next to his ear.]
I like calluses.
no subject
he doesn't change what he's doing — that'd be stupid — but he does pause, just for a second, at the words 'a secret', the vague thought that she's going to ask the same question she had before, the one he'd answered almost in spite of himself, and looks to her as much as he can given their positions, given her lips against the side of his head. her breath is warm against his skin, and the intensity of his gaze quickly fades at the words that follow. the admission isn't a complete surprise, not given her remark about her men — a turn of phrase to spare thought to later, certainly not now — being built like fighters. )
Bad secret, Daphne, ( he tells her, fingers pressing against her pussy with a little more intensity, rubbing with a little more speed. ) If you like fighters, they're par the course.
no subject
Like this.
She tugs at one of his buttons and two snap off (she’s not sorry) and she giggles.]
Fine, a secret.
[She kisses him, then, catching his mouth, and moaning against his tongue. Her pussy is only getting hotter, she things, blood pulsing in her ears.]
Keep doing that; the rough skin catching there-
[She stops unbuttoning his shirt and lifts her chest, instead, and uses a hand to guide her nipple to his mouth.]
Use your teeth.
no subject
but for now it registers only in a flicker of his expression, a brief knitting of his brows that doesn't last. it's a one-two punch of her kissing him, moaning into him, of her being warmer and wetter that means his noise, the one that sits between a moan and a groan, low and unbidden; that means the way his dick is hard and uncomfortable against his pants, is entirely instinctual. reactive.
she guides him and he lets her, and then she says teeth and he obliges, a sharp bite punctuated by a wet, grazing tongue. a suck and a fingers pressing deeper into the small of her back. want and acquiescence combined.
belatedly— ) —This wasn't cheap. ( the suit, he means. )
no subject
[She replies with a shudder that sends a wave of fur over her back and hips; it’s there for a second and then it’s gone, but one thing is clear. She’s losing a bit more control with that bite, and she grinds down onto his hand.
She wasn’t lying; the bite and the scratch and his hand, all of that is good enough on its own. His broad shoulders under her hands, the way he groans against her skin, that makes it all the better.
She can feel the sweet pressure of the coming orgasm. She knows it’s coming, and she won’t tell him, even though can probably feel the telltale clench of muscles, the tightening against his hand.
She closes her eyes and forgets trying to get his shirt off. If he’s being a prissy bitch about two buttons, if she goes and just rips it off he’ll probably throw a tantrum and harsh her post orgasm high.
Besides, she can feel his cock, hard and trapped, and she wants to feel if it’s really as thick as it looks, or if white adds heft.
So.
She tenses and whimpers, high pitched and unmistakable, and let’s the pleasure swarm her.]
turns out i had this half-finished in my drafts for five years
a grunt, then, that borders on a moan, slightly strained and with the barest definition of words as she clenches and she tightens, and then—
she stops.
or at least, she stops with his shirt but doesn't stop otherwise. that's what catches his attention more than the rest of it, at least until she whimpers, until the noise hangs between them and marc realises he'd been holding his breath. it doesn't help. daphne's release, that is. neither the way she feels nor the way she sounds, and though he stops, his hand moving slightly away, grazing over her bare thigh, the warm skin to pull her closer, to readjust where she's positioned, that doesn't help either. he's aware, acutely, of the way she feels against him, against the material of his pants between them and— )
—Daphne.
( it's uttered in much the same way as a strained 'fuck', caught oddly between want and need and request. a thought, vague and distant, of the game she'd suggested, and a part of him thinks he should care more, and yet.
a hand, pressing into the cheek of her ass as if to hold her where she is (unneeded, but—.) ) That didn't seem fair.
( is that quite what he means? no. )
We love a reply
She leans against Marc.]
What isn’t fair?
[She shimmies her hips a little, and she presses a palm over the bulge in those absurd white trousers. How does he keep it so spotless?]
Me wanting this? Did you really want me to use my teeth?
[She licks a stripe up his throat and presses a kiss there, and a nipping bite. Her tongue is sandpaper rough.
He tastes good, like salt, clean; she nips again.]
This doesn’t have to be the only time, you and me.
no subject
(monday, wednesday, friday for the "good guys".) ) ) Didn't put up a fair fight.
( skipping past her questions, the ones he doesn't really want to answer. it's a he doesn't know, something he's not about to vocalise. her tongue is rough, pleasantly so. it makes him shudder, shiver, and he makes a noise that's part acknowledgement, part frustration as her kiss turns into a sharp nip, one then two.
(he barely even notices the dimple this time.)
a flicker of surprise, a glance, sidelong and undecided — not because he disagrees, but because he's restless. caught up. ) What? ( a huff of breath that's almost a laugh. ) Best of three?
no subject
What conversation have we ever had that made you think I fight fair?
[She gets her hand on his dick, then, hoisting herself up a bit on his lap to give her a little space to work. It's a tight fit, but she starts with a squeeze and then a rub, another, her hand moving firmly against him.]
Marc.
[She says it and bits his neck again, nip, nip.]
If you think it wasn't fair and you want me to leave, I can...just go.
no subject
it's not that he doesn't have any smart response to her remark — or, he doesn't, but he'd have something a little smarter if circumstances were slightly different.
it's good in a way that's not unexpected — he hadn't expected anything else really — but is pleasurable in an unguarded way that marc doesn't often allow himself to express around others. in spite of himself then, there's a moan, a twitch, and he lifts a hand to push her away from his neck, to tilt her head up, because as good as that is—.
he presses his mouth against her jaw, her lips, the curve of her neck. )
Sometimes it's the only way to win.
( "no." )
no subject
She hums her pleasure.]
Good.
I'm glad we agree on that.
[She moves her hand, just a little, just tiny and barely-there twists of her wrist. She writhes just a little bit and tips her head to catch his mouth with hers. She kisses him and hums, and presses their foreheads together.]
Can you move your hips up with me on your lap?