Marcus Flint x Reader

Based on the Royston club song

He wasn’t a godly man, but every time you fucked he’d shout out “oh god” enough just to send up his own little prayer, the feeling of you under him as he rutted into you feeling borderline evangelical, tears pooling from his eyes as he thanked who ever had sent your body to him.

He wasn’t a lucky man, either but you certainly had him fooled. You managed to carve out a better man, one that truly loved you through and through. But now; as his own hand didn’t feel as good as you he questioned whether he showed you that enough.

He used to spend whole evenings watching the movement of your mouth, he’d take it all in and thank god that he did because the memory was all he was left with now. His thoughts were trapped inside for another night, as his junkie fingers scroll him back to another life, the tobacco cigarette stinging his fingers as he lets it burn, his eyes burning holes through pictures of you and him.

Fuck, he missed you all of the time. He couldn’t accept that it’s over, letting the air run out. All of those pictures of you and him, plastered on the hallways of his mind, but now that it’s over. He let the air run out.

He’s just a crooked man, he found god in sin. He’d dig up the past again, just to watch you dancing within like that time you both stayed over Christmas, enjoying tunes over the gramophone.

He’s missing the Call Lane and your cigarette stains, all the poetry in his hands that he never read. As he was outrageously dreaming of you both reconvening and you leading him back to bed.

He still wakes up with things to tell you, and he’d dream of you no matter who he was sleeping next to. Good god, he resents you for leaving but he can’t pretend he doesn’t need you. Please, indulge in this sin with him; he needs your delicate fingers trading his hairline again.

Just once again.

He’s not a godly man, but every time you fucked.

He dragged himself to your dorm, relatively hitting the door, tears running down his face as his knuckles bruised against the wood. You opened the door to him, and furrowed your brows as he collapsed onto his knees, begging to you reconsider him, praying like you were a saint able to revert his sins. “Please, I need you back. I need you so bad.” “Marcus,” “I don’t think I can live without you. I’ve read all the poems, I’ve smoked all the cigs,” he begged “I’m seeing someone else-” “I know, I know. But I’m in love with you.” He said through gasped breaths, as choked sobs escaped his lips.

You chewed on your lip for a moment before pushing the door open, allowing him in as he collapsed into your arms with a bear hug.

Oh, but I still wake up with things to tell you

That I dream of you, no matter who I'm sleeping next to

Good God, I resent you for leaving

But I can't pretend I don't need you

And, Cariad, indulge in this sin

I need your delicate fingers tracing my outline again

Just once again

I'm not a godly man