Adorable 10/10 - Tumblr Posts

marc spector- slow songs

Summary: Your friend, Marc, pretends to be your boyfriend at a wedding, but is it pretend? (~2.3k)

Contents: f!reader, fluff, fake dating/friends to lovers, language

part of @moonknight-events: MK spring ‘24 Bingo Event

This is the slow song:

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“Okay, just be calm. Stay cool, lay low.” You run your hands down your pale, blue dress.

Marc frowns at you. “That’s a terrible pep talk.”

“It’s not for you. It’s for me.” You give him a dirty look. “You’re used to lying to people’s faces, but I’m not.”

He rolls his eyes. “Okay, I deserved that one. But as a reminder, I don’t even want to be here. How’s the suit?”

You look him up and down. He has on a dark suit with a bow tie. His curly hair arranged in neat waves away from his face. He was on a mission somewhere sunny and came back tan.

He looks so gorgeous you want to scream.

“It’s not the worst you’ve ever looked.” You grab his hand and haul him into the reception hall.

“Well, I think you look amazing, cupcake,” Marc says with a grin. “My little candy heart-shaped nugget love, whatever.”

He stretches his neck in his shirt. “I’m gonna kill Steven.”

You sigh. Steven had volunteered to be your pretend boyfriend at a friend's wedding. The only way to avoid being put at the singles table, plus you’d have someone to joke with.

But when you’d told your friend you were bringing your new boyfriend, you’d lied and said you’d grown up together. So, not Steven because of his accent, and Jake was too charming to let loose on unsuspecting bridesmaids.

So, Marc had reluctantly agreed.

Not that you weren’t friends with all three of them, but you and Marc weren’t as close. You were never sure why. Probably because his walls were up so high you could see them from space.

“Can’t we just say we’re friends?” Marc says, loosening his bow tie.

You stop walking and re-tighten it. “No, or she’s going to try to set me up with her cousin. He’s had a crush on me for years. I want to tell him to fuck off, but he’d make a whole thing about it.” You give him another once over, smooth a stray curl off his forehead. “Maybe it worked out better this way. You’re intimidating. That’s good.”

Marc looks grim as you enter the ballroom, quiet classical music playing in the background.

“Anything I should know?” Marc says. “What even is your last name?”

You turn to him, mouth open. “We’ve been friends for months. You don’t know?”

He shrugs. 

“Okay, you know what,” you say, annoyed, “why don’t you pretend to be someone else? Someone who doesn’t walk around with an ancient God’s arm stuck up his butthole, working him like a puppet?”

“Guess I can’t argue with that,” Marc mutters.

Your friend’s parents walk up to you and hug you enthusiastically. You say what a beautiful ceremony it was and turn to introduce Marc.

You hold his hand. “These are my friend’s parents, Maureen and Sidney. And this is my boyfriend.”

Marc holds out his hand, a tight smile on his face. “Tony Wrinklebottom. Nice to meet you.”

You feel like you're having an out of body experience. WHAT IS HAPPENING?

Maureen’s eyes go wide. “It’s nice to meet you too. We haven’t heard a lot about you, but you’re very handsome. And such an unusual last name. Where did it come from?”

“I got it from my father,” Marc says unironically.

You squeeze his hand hard. “We’re going to go get a drink. I’m sure everyone is dying to talk to the parents of the bride. I’ll see you later.”

You plaster on a fake smile and push Marc toward the bar.

“I didn’t mean you had to make up a fake name,” you whisper scream at him.

“I panicked.” Marc leans on the bar. “Whiskey neat and a vodka soda with two limes.”

“You know my drink order, but not my last name?”

Marc takes his wallet out of his jacket to tip the bartender, generously you notice.

He looks at you from the corner of his eye. “What’s more important to our friendship? Your last name, or my knowing what you like to drink?”

You open your mouth. Shut it. Cross your arms. “This is a disaster.”

“Sure is.” Marc knocks back his first whisky and taps the glass for a second.

He holds his refill in one hand and holds his other arm out for you. You take it reluctantly.

“Let’s find our table,” you say, sipping your drink.

“Whatever you say, cookie-poo.” 

“Ugh,” you say, unable to stop the disgusted look on your face.

Marc smiles. “I take it back. This might be fun.”

And weirdly, it kind of is.

You and “Tony” are at a table with complete strangers. He’s not great at casual conversation, but with a face like his, people kind of go along with whatever he says.

He takes off his jacket and bow tie, and relaxes. Something you usually only see when you’re at his place watching a movie, or bringing him something you’d stress-baked.

Someone asks how you met.

Tony puts his arm around you. “My sweet pumpkin pie and I’ve known each other for years. She finally got the hint. All those times I stopped by with take out, or let her sleep with her head on my shoulder, we weren’t just hanging out.”

You smirk at him. “Pardon me for thinking we were friends.”

Marc’s eyes are almost black in the low light. His long lashes blink at you.

“You think friends plan their entire schedule, international travel, around Thursday movie nights? Friends go out of their way every night to walk you home?” His fingers tickle your neck lightly. 

You frown, your stomach feeling funny. “You said it was on your way from the gym.”

“I picked that gym because it’s close to your work,” he says with a raised eyebrow.

Marc’s face goes serious again. He pulls his arm away and takes a drink. “Look, just forget I said anything. I must be drunk.”

You watch uncertainty pass over his handsome face. You rub your hand over his forearm.

“You want to dance, Wrinklebottom?” You ask with a smile.

Marc huffs a half-laugh out of his nose. “Sure, pookie bear. Long as it’s a slow one.”

Marc’s broad shoulders are strong under your arms. His hands warm and wide as he holds your waist. He smells good. You get as close enough as you dare, breathing him in.

He hums along to the song. You're surprised he knows it.

“Jake says you’re the prettiest thing here,” he says quietly. “And Steven says he apologizes for not bringing flowers. Wait. No. He thinks I should apologize for not bringing you flowers.”

You and Steven had been in limbo for awhile now. You liked each other as more than friends. Jake had already told Steven to go for it. But you didn’t want to make Marc uncomfortable.

“Thank you, and thank you,” you say. You tilt your head away slightly so you can look at him. “And what does Marc Spector say?”

Marc’s eyes trace over your face. He licks his bottom lip. “The wedding cake was dry.”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. I’m going to return the gift I got them.”

Marc grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “One of those clocks where the cat’s tail swings back and forth?”

You smile. “Yeah, a big one.”

“Maybe it’s not the cat’s tail then.”

You snort out a laugh. “Stop. Weddings are romantic. No dick jokes.”

“Okay, honey lump, no dick jokes.” He pulls you a little closer. Close enough that your front sides are touching, swaying back and forth in unison. One of his hands rubs the small of your back.

“We can probably leave after this dance,” you say, even though you don’t want to. “We said hello to the bride and groom, ate, had drinks. I think that’s everything.”

“Leave? Tony Wrinklebottom doesn’t leave a party until he slow dances about four times with his girl.”

You rest your forehead on his shoulder. “Where the hell did you even get that stupid name?”

Marc’s hand rubs back and forth over your upper back now. “Jake’s watching one of the neighbor’s cats.”

“You named yourself after a cat?”

Marc shrugs. “My last name is Spector, which, given my profession, isn’t exactly subtle either. Besides, you should be so lucky. You could be Mrs. Wrinklebottom one day.”

You laugh, pressing your mouth into his shoulder to keep from drawing attention to yourself. “I always forget what a ridiculous sense of humor you have.”

“Makes you laugh, though,” Marc says.

You raise your head to argue with him, just for the fun of it. Your words die in your throat.

Marc’s looking at you with unusual softness. His head tilts slightly and you think, hope, that he’s going to kiss you. Instead, he cradles the back of your head with one of his hands, and slots it next to his, so your faces really are touching now.

“Your shampoo smells nice,” he says.

Your stomach flutters. “You look really hot.”

“I thought I looked like shit,” Marc says dryly.

You reposition your arms so they’re around his middle, your fingers brushing a little lower than they probably should.

“You’re hot and you know it. In this suit, or your other one when you’re all bloody and sweaty. As much as it pains me to compliment you,” you say.

“Yeah, we don’t really have that kind of friendship, do we? More likely give each other grief than go on and on about how you make the best lasagna. Or thank you for staying over that night last month. When you could tell I didn’t want to be alone. How good you feel in my arms. How much I-“ Marc stops. You feel his jaw tense.

“How much I love you?” You say.

“I didn’t say that.”

“But I did.”

You’ve stopped dancing. Both you standing in the middle of a crowd of people who are still moving back and forth slowly. You desperately hope that you haven’t made a mistake by saying something.

Marc’s gaze burns into yours. “Do you mean it?” He asks.

You smile. “Yes. And, not to sound full of myself, but I think you feel the same way.”

A grin cracks his serious facade. “I meant what I said earlier. About the things I do for you. Showing you how I feel.”

Love washes over you, covering your memories with Marc in warm light.

Part of you is grateful. He’d given both of you time to really know each other, set down a solid base together. But at the same time, he’d been so slow about it you want to shake his muscled shoulders.

“You’ve never even tried to hold my hand,” you say. “I thought we just had this awkward friendship, where you overdid it sometimes and retreated from me other times.”

“I was trying not to scare you away,” Marc says. “And you know how I am with feelings. I don’t like admitting that I have them.”

You roll your eyes. “I know. Talking about your feelings would really eat up your punching-people-in-their-faces time.”

“Punching people is easy.”

“I wouldn’t know,” you say.

Marc’s hands nudge your hips and you start dancing again. He doesn’t look tense, or anxious.

“If we do this,” Marc says, “I’m still your awkward friend.”

You pull him close, leaning in to kiss his cheek. His facial hair is already a little rough under your lips, even though he’d shaved just before you’d left.

“Maybe you’d get the upgrade to awkward boyfriend,” you say with a smile.

He kisses the side of your head. “I’d like that.”

“But just so you know, any time we go out, the reservations are going under your alias.”

Marc doesn’t even sigh. He just keeps dancing, his hands tracing over your body. “Mr. and Mrs. Tony Wrinklebottom.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Anthony G. Wrinklebottom.”

Marc chuckles. For the first time, chest to chest with him, you feel the deep rumble under his rib cage. You press in closer.

“Deal,” Marc says. He rests his knuckles under your chin so you’ll look at him. “So you’ll go out with me?”

“On one condition,” you say with a sweet smile. “What’s my last name?”

Marc’s smile freezes on his face. He shuts his eyes tight, but if you know Jake and Steven, they’re more likely to laugh at him than to give him an easy out.

He does that frowny smile that means he gives up, spins you around the dance floor.

He pulls you back in close to him. “I know other things about you. Like, we’re going to that place with the burgers and the fancy french fries for our first date. You can’t make reservations, but Jake knows the manager and we could skip the line.”

You groan. “I love that place.”

“I know,” Marc says smugly. “And the shop with the raspberry gelato for dessert. Walk through the park with the fountain you like. On Fridays the buskers that play Fleetwood Mac and Springsteen are there. We'll sit on the bench under the broken light, more privacy. That's where I want to kiss you.”

“Wow, that’s a good date,” you say, breath knocked out of you by Marc's words and eyes and plans.

“It should be, I’ve been fine-tuning it for three weeks,” he says self-deprecatingly.

You rest your hand against his cheek, rubbing your thumb on his skin. “This Friday, then.”

Marc nods, one of his hands resting around your waist, the other so light on the back of your neck you can barely feel him. He rests his forehead against yours as the song comes to a close.

“You look beautiful. Did I tell you that?” He says. “My little sugar bunny, cherry pie dove bean-“

You clap your hand over his mouth. “You’re what my grandma would’ve called, ‘a real piece of work.’”

He smiles under your palm, picking up the rhythm of the second slow song and easing you into it. You remove your hand, slide it back over his shoulder.

If this is the last thing you ever do as just friends, then Tony’s right. You don’t want to leave. You want to stay for all the slow songs.

-----

Square B "Fake Dating"

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