#mooncard

The safe house was a repurposed tenement building in London, steeped in the smell of old brick and dust, but to Remy, it smelled like safety—or at least, a temporary reprieve from the chaos that usually followed him. He lay on the narrow bed in the spare room, the springs creaking softly under his weight. The room was dim, illuminated only by the flickering orange glow of a streetlamp outside the window.

Remy’s chest heaved, his bodysuit stripped down to his waist, leaving his upper body exposed to the cool air. His hand moved frantically over his cock, his strokes desperate and rough. He couldn't get the image out of his head—the warehouse, the blade, the way Marc had looked at him with those terrifying, hungry eyes. The memory of the cold metal against his throat made his balls tighten, a phantom sensation that sent jolts of electricity down his spine.

"Putain," Remy rattled, his head thrown back against the pillow. He was leaking profusely, the slick fluid coating his fingers as he worked himself over. It wasn't just the physical act; it was the submission, the feeling of being completely at the mercy of someone who might actually snap and kill him. Marc Spector was a lunatic, legally insane, a vessel for a god of vengeance, and Remy had never been harder in his life.

He was so close, teetering on the edge, his breath hitching in his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut, replaying the moment Marc had forced him to his knees, the guttural command to take it all.

Suddenly, the door to his room creaked open.

Remy’s eyes flew open, his heart hammering against his ribs as he scrambled to cover himself, grabbing the duvet and pulling it over his lap. Standing in the doorway was Marc—or rather, Steven. The shift in posture was subtle but obvious to anyone who knew what to look for. Steven stood with his shoulders slightly hunched, his expression one of wide-eyed, polite horror rather than predatory intent. He was wearing a faded gray t-shirt and sweatpants, his hair tousled from sleep.

"Oh! Bollocks," Steven exclaimed, his voice cracking as he averted his gaze, staring intently at a spot on the floor. "I’m— I’m so sorry. I thought I heard a noise, like a rat or something, and I just wanted to check. I didn't realize you were... uh... entertaining."

Remy flushed crimson, the heat spreading from his cheeks down to his chest. "It’s okay, Steven," he managed to choke out, his Cajun accent thickening with his embarrassment. "I... uh... I was just..."

"Say no more," Steven said quickly, backing toward the door, his hands raised in surrender. "I’ll just be going, then. Pretend I was never here. Good night, Remy. Sleep well. Or... continue what you were doing. Not that I'll be thinking about it. Because that's rude. Right. Well."

Remy let out a shaky breath, watching the Astoundingly British man retreat. But just as Steven’s hand touched the doorknob, he froze. The change was instantaneous and terrifying. The hunch in the shoulders vanished, replaced by a rigid, military-straight posture. The polite horror evaporated from his face, replaced by a cold, calculating stare that pinned Remy to the mattress.

It was Marc who turned back around, the door clicking shut with a definitive snap.

"Well, well," Marc drawled, his voice dropping an octave, shedding the soft London accent for the rough, jagged tones of the American mercenary. "Look what we have here. The thief couldn't wait, could he?"

Remy swallowed hard, his hand still clutching the blanket over his groin. "Marc... I..."

"Shut up," Marc cut him off, stepping further into the room. He prowled closer, moving with a lethal grace that made the small room feel smaller. "Steven nearly had a heart attack. He thought you were in pain." Marc let out a dark, humorless chuckle. "But you're not in pain, are you, LeBeau? You're getting off on it."

"I..." Remy started, but the words died in his throat as Marc reached the edge of the bed.

"Move the blanket," Marc commanded.

Remy hesitated for a fraction of a second, his rebellious nature warring with his overwhelming need to submit to this man. Ultimately, the need won. He slowly pulled the blanket aside, exposing his flushed, leaking cock standing at attention against his stomach.

Marc’s eyes raked over him, dissecting him. "Look at you. You're a mess. And you were touching yourself to what? To earlier? To me holding a knife to your throat?"

"Oui," Remy whispered, unable to lie. "I can't get it out of my head, sha."

"You're disgusting," Marc said, but there was a distinct edge of hunger in his voice that betrayed his arousal. "A desperate slut who needs to be put in his place."

Marc grabbed Remy’s ankle, pulling him roughly down the bed until his legs were dangling off the edge. "You want something to think about? I'll give you something to think about. If you're so obsessed with me, let's see how you handle the real thing without the adrenaline of a mission to save you."

Marc shoved his sweatpants down, freeing his erection. It was thick, angry, and already hard, bobbing heavily in the air between them.

"Touch it," Marc ordered. "Since your hands are already so practiced."

Remy reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as they wrapped around Marc’s length. He was hot to the touch. Remy began to stroke him, marveling at the weight of him in his hand.

"Is this what you were imagining?" Marc asked, his voice rough as he watched Remy’s hand move. "Were you imagining my cock in your hand while you played with your own little dick?"

Remy nodded, his eyes transfixed on the droplet of pre-cum beading at the tip of Marc’s cock. "Mm-, Marc. I wanted..."

"Show me," Marc interrupted. "Get me wet. Use your mouth."

Remy didn't need to be told twice. He leaned forward, his tongue darting out to lap at his treat, tasting the salt and musk. He opened his mouth wide, taking Marc in, sucking hard and running his tongue along the vein on the underside.

Marc groaned, his hand tangling in Remy’s hair, but he didn't thrust, letting Remy set the pace for the moment. "That’s it. Get it nice and slick. Because believe me, you’re going to need it."

After a few minutes, Marc pulled Remy off him by his hair, causing the Cajun to gasp. Marc looked down at him, his eyes dark and unreadable.

"Enough foreplay," Marc stated. "Turn over. Face down."

Remy’s heart skipped a beat. The dominance in Marc’s voice was crushing. He scrambled to obey, flipping onto his stomach and burying his face in the pillow. He felt vulnerable, exposed, his ass in the air.

"Head down," Marc commanded, pressing a hand between Remy’s shoulder blades and shoving him roughly into the mattress. "Arch your back."

Remy complied, sticking his ass out, his breath coming in short, shallow pants. He heard Marc spit, then felt the wetness hit his hole, followed by the blunt pressure of Marc’s cock against his entrance.

"Wait," Remy gasped, his body tensing. "Marc, maybe we should—"

"I told you to shut up," Marc growled, and then he shoved forward.

The cry was torn from Remy’s throat before he could stop it. It burned, an intense, stretching fire as Marc forced his way inside, bullying past the tight ring of muscle with little ceremony. He didn't stop until he was hilted, his balls slapping against Remy’s ass.

"Fuck!" Remy gasped, his hands fisting in the sheets. "You... you're too big. Slow down, s'il vous plaît!"

"You took it in the warehouse," Marc gritted out, his breathing heavy as he held himself still, letting Remy adjust to the intrusion. "You can take it now. Don't tell me you can't handle it."

"This... this is different," Remy whimpered, his face pressed into the pillow. The stretch was immense, bordering on painful, but beneath it was that same dark thrill he’d felt earlier. The feeling of being possessed, of being used.

"You wanted the real thing?" Marc asked, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "This is it. No distractions. Just me and you."

Marc pulled back slowly, almost all the way out, before slamming back in. The force knocked the air out of Remy’s lungs, his body jolting forward on the mattress.

"Ah!" Remy cried out. "Marc, please!"

"Please what?" Marc asked, setting a rhythm now, hard and fast, his hips snapping against Remy's ass with bruising force. "Please stop? Or please harder?"

"Slow... down," Remy gasped, tears pricking his eyes as Marc began to pound into him relentlessly. The bedframe was shaking violently, rattling against the wall. "You're... you're killing me."

"You're not dying," Marc scoffed, grabbing a handful of Remy’s hair and pulling his head back, arching his neck painfully. "You're loving it. Look at you. You're dripping all over the sheets."

It was true. Remy’s cock was trapped between his stomach and the mattress, rubbing against the rough fabric with every thrust Marc made. He was leaking pre-cum steadily, creating a wet spot beneath him. But it wasn't just pre. The brutal pressure against his prostate, combined with the overwhelming fullness, was wreaking havoc on his bladder control.

"Non, stop," Remy gasped, his face burning with humiliation. "I can't... I'm gonna..."

Marc seemed to realize what was happening. Instead of slowing down, he smirked, a cruel, twisting of his lips. "Let it go, slut. Piss yourself if you can't handle it. Show me how much of a filthy mess you are."

"Marc!" Remy cried out, but it was too late. The stimulation was too much. With a particularly vicious thrust that nailed his prostate, Remy’s bladder let go. A hot stream of urine flooded out of him, soaking the front of his bodysuit and the sheets beneath him.

The humiliation was high, but coupled with the degradation of Marc’s words, it threw him into a spiral of dark arousal. He was trembling, his body struggling to acclimate as Marc continued to fuck him through the wetness, the sounds of their sex growing wetter and sloppier.

"Look at that," Marc growled, sounding pleased with himself. "Pissing like a puppy. You really are a dirty little thing, aren't you, LeBeau?"

Remy couldn't answer. He was sobbing now, tears leaking into the pillow, overwhelmed by the sensations—the burning stretch, the wet heat beneath him, the brutal, relentless pace of Marc's hips. Every thrust felt like it was reshaping him, carving out a space inside him that only Marc could fill.

Marc shifted his grip, placing both hands on Remy’s shoulders to leverage himself deeper. "I'm getting close," he warned, his voice strained. "And you're going to take it all."

Remy’s mind was spinning. He felt lightheaded, drifting on a sea of pain and pleasure. He could barely process Marc’s words, his entire world shrinking down to the cock destroying his ass.

"Please," Remy whimpered, his voice barely audible. "I'm gonna... I Cant take it,"

"Not yet," Marc grunted. He pulled out suddenly, leaving Remy feeling empty and gaping.

Before Remy could even mourn the loss, Marc flipped him over onto his back. Remy looked up at him dazedly, eyes blurry with tears. Marc loomed over him, towering, powerful.

"Open up," Marc commanded, stroking his cock slick with Remy’s own fluids and spit.

Remy obeyed parting his lips instinctively. Marc didn't hesitate. He shoved his cock into Remy’s mouth, sliding down his throat..

Remy gagged, his throat ticking around the intrusion. He couldn't breathe. Marc’s hands held his head in a vice grip, preventing him from pulling away. Marc didn't move, holding himself there, cutting off Remy’s airway completely.

The asphyxiation hit Remy hard. Black spots danced in his vision. He panicked for a moment, his hands coming up to push at Marc’s thighs, but his strength was gone. He was completely at Marc's mercy.

"Look at me," Marc demanded, his voice sounding like it was coming from underwater. "Eyes open."

Remy forced his watering eyes to meet Marc’s. The intensity in Marc's gaze was terrifying and captivating. He saw the triumph there, the ownership.

"Good boy," Marc whispered, and then he began to move again, short, sharp thrusts into Remy’s throat, keeping him on the edge of consciousness.

Remy’s body went slack, his muscles relaxing as the oxygen deprivation took hold. He felt like he was floating, disconnected from his body. The only thing that grounded him was the presence in his mouth, the taste and smell of Marc overwhelming his senses.

"Fuck," Marc groaned, his hips jerking erratically. "Take it."

With a guttural roar, Marc came. He pressed himself deep, holding Remy’s face flush against his groin as he pulsed down the Cajun's throat. Remy felt the hot, thick spurts coating his esophagus, but he was too far gone to swallow properly. He just held on, his eyes rolling back in his head as the darkness threatened to swallow him whole.

Marc held him there, buried within him as Remy's body went through violent motions beneath him. At first, the Cajun's throat clenched in panic, muscles fluttering like a trapped bird's wings around Marc's cock as his lungs burned for air. His fingers scrabbled weakly at Marc's thighs, nails leaving crescent moons in the mercenary's skin—useless, desperate little scratches that only made Marc thrust deeper.

Then, as the darkness crept in at the edges of Remy's vision, his body softened, going pliant and lax under Marc's grip. His jaw slackened, his throat opening up like it was made for this, for him, swallowing Marc down with a wet, obscene ease. Tears spilled freely down his flushed cheeks, his chest heaving in silent, aborted gasps—no air, no relief, just Marc filling him completely.

Only when Marc was spent, his orgasm wrung from him in thick, pulsing waves, did he finally pull back. His cock slid free with a filthy pop, leaving Remy limp and shuddering, his lips swollen and glistening with spit. The Cajun's chest heaved as he gulped in air like a man drowned, his body still twitching with aftershocks, utterly ruined.

Remy gasped, air rushing back into his lungs. He coughed violently, his body arching off the bed as he tried to breathe. He was trembling uncontrollably, his vision slowly clearing.

Marc stood over him, watching him with a detached sort of amusement. He tucked himself back into his sweatpants, looking relatively calm while Remy lay wrecked on the bed.

"You look like hell," Marc observed.

Remy couldn't speak. His throat was raw, and his body felt like it had been put through a blender. But he was still hard. His cock was throbbing, trapped in the wet, ruined fabric of his bodysuit, desperate for release.

"Please," Remy rasped, his hand scrambling toward his groin. "Marc... let me... please."

Marc looked down at him, one eyebrow raised. "You want to cum?"

Remy nodded frantically, tears still streaming down his face. "Oui. S'il vous plaît. I need it."

Marc scoffed, shaking his head. "You really are a pet, aren't you? Begging for scraps."

Marc leaned down, close enough that Remy could smell the musk and sweat on him. "Go ahead. Make a mess of yourself. I want to see how pathetic you look."

That was all the permission Remy needed. He shoved his hand into his pants, wrapping his fingers around his neglected cock. He barely had to stroke himself. The sheer overload of everything—the degradation, the pain, the lack of air, the humiliation of wetting himself—had him on a hair trigger.

He came almost instantly. It wasn't a powerful orgasm; it was a pitiful, spurted release that barely coated his fingers. He cried out as it washed over him, his body twitching weakly.

"Is that it?" Marc asked, his voice dripping with disdain. "That’s all you have?" That got some more out of him.

Remy lay panting, his chest heaving. He felt small, used, and incredibly exposed. The once cocky, affable Gambit had been stripped away, leaving only this needy, submissive thing.

Marc reached out, grabbing Remy’s wrist and pulling his hand away from his groin. He looked at the mess on Remy’s fingers, then back at Remy’s face.

"Disgusting," Marc said, but his tone was strangely possessive. "But you're mine now, aren't you? My little mess."

Remy nodded weakly, unable to deny it. "Yours," he whispered.

Marc released Remy’s wrist, wiping his hand on the already ruined duvet. "Clean yourself up, LeBeau. You stink."

With that, Marc turned and walked out of the room, not looking back. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Remy alone in the dark, smelling of sex and sweat, lying in a puddle of his own making. Remy stared up at the ceiling, his body aching in every way possible, but for the first time in a long time, his mind was quiet. The chaos was gone, replaced by the lingering echo of Marc’s domination. He was a mess, yes, but he was Marc's mess. And as terrifying as that was, it was exactly what he wanted.

The third chapter of this freaks even me out, so it might not make it to public eyes