Marc Spector always thought himself to be a greedy man, stupid even, when it comes to keeping you around. You are too soft, too forgiving, too tenderhearted to be a part of this demented job of being a god's puppet. Not that any of those were bad traits per se, but he found that he was indulging in your gentleness far too much these past weeks. Ever since he met you he couldn't find it in himself to tear away, too wrapped up in the possibility of being loved by someone like you.
Yeah. He's selfish- definitely- but he's never once had the pleasure of coming home to a woman that would take his tired, bloodied soul into her warm embrace without a second thought, and some sick part of his psyche relishes in the mere idea of having something so valuable all to himself.
His cock tightens in his jeans every time he thinks about gazing into the rich color that occupies your eyes as you look up at him with such an innocence that he could never possess himself. If he wasn't constantly working a job, he'd be fishing himself out of his pants and fucking his fist until he's spilling over the hills of his bruised knuckles every chance he got.
Over. And over. And over-
God, he was deep in this vicious devotion. You haven't any inclination of what goes on inside his mind when it comes to his feelings, however. He liked to keep his emotions in check for your safety and he'd be damned if you truly knew how much you really meant to him. He knows you are too good, yet he can't help but feel the small spark of bitterness in the pit of his stomach when he thought about how anybody but himself could possibly be interested in your caring heart.
His resolve was slipping straight through his fingers and into the lush green valleys of your hands as each day passes by. Picking up the scattered pieces of the puzzle and sticking them back together.
Marc kept his heart locked in a box in fear of what his enemies would do if they found you to be someone special. Something precious to him. That among other things. Nothing good could come of it, that's one thing he was sure of. So, he kept you hidden away like the most glorious, glittering gold of treasures. Like a large, beast of a dragon in one of those children's stories.
It made his blood boil like magma, his hands shake like leaves, his head spin like a hurricane to think about all the terrible things he would inflict on every single person that even so much as thought about laying a slimy finger on your pretty little head. And he would enjoy it too. Bask in the sheer ecstasy of taking each and every pitiful life of those scum. Marc didn't particularly like killing people, but he would if it meant it would keep you out of harm's devastating grip.
Tonight was one of those nights he came back to you looking worse for wear, and there you were in the living room, waiting and ready to receive him with open arms as he entered through the dark wooden door of the attic apartment. Immediately standing to guide him into the small bathroom down the hall, soft palm squeezing against his own as you delicately hold his hand like a thin glass ornament, not even fazed by his clearly disheveled state.
On the closed lid of the toilet, he spies a folded pair of sweat pants and a black cotton shirt, along with it a fresh towel- all in a neat little pile. You made it your duty early on to get things prepped for the nightly bath he used to wash off the filth of the strenuous nights he'd endure, not wanting him to have to worry about all the little details like he used to before you came around.
Marc isn't surprised when you flip on the shining metal faucet in the white porcelain tub for him as well, taking the liberty of getting the water running before turning back to him with a warm and genuine smile stretching on your face. All he can do is stand there like a chipped stone statue when you step forward and take the blood-soaked collar of his grey dress shirt between your polished fingertips. Unfastening each button, not saying a word. You didn't have to. He'd let you do anything to him, take anything. Marc would give it all if you so much as asked him.
You're too focused on your task to notice he's gazing at your face, the whimsical look of his yearning heart flitting around in his eyes like little orange butterflies. The woman in front of him has never failed to steal the breath from his lungs when she goes as far as to undress him. Not wanting him to strain his already sore and aching muscles with such banal tasks.
What had he done to deserve you? Deserve this? He isn't exactly sure if he was being honest with himself. Nothing, obviously. He's always been unworthy of your affections.
Unworthy of you.
The familiarly strong feeling of indiscretion licks hot up his spine as these thoughts sink their sharpened teeth into the meat of his brain, immobilizing him into nothing but a stiff and crooked sculpture.
Marc feels the knuckles of your warm fingers skim just below his belly button to get rid of the worn leather belt that holds up his trousers, making a gasp seep through his lips, breath sticking in his dry throat.
Your touch isn't a seducing one, not an ounce of an ulterior motive fuels your actions- you just want to get him out of his stained clothes and into the bath. And it makes the shamefully dirty thoughts he's thinking that much more... erotic. But once he's free of everything but his boxers, you're leaving him to turn off the tap, letting him get rid of the black cotton material on his own.
Even after all the horrific, unthinkable things he's done, you still find it in your heart to respect his privacy.
How can one woman be so... perfect?
The milky basin is filled to the brim with piping hot water and it sloshes over the edge as he steps in one bare foot at a time. The temperature is high enough to make all the small cuts and contusions along his ochre skin sting. It has Marc practically moaning at the somewhat pleasurable sensation, submerging his entire body, tilting his head back until his heated neck meets the cool porcelain. He usually wasn't one for mundane luxuries- but- he'd have to add this to his growing list thanks to you.
At this point, you're turning around to exit the now steam-filled bathroom, but something inside Marc bubbles to the surface, his hand reaching out to grab your wrist without a second thought. Not tight, but firm enough to get you to face him again, his expression saying everything his mouth cannot. Thick brows are pinched across his tanned forehead, pink lips naturally frowned, droopy charcoal eyes lined with deep purple bags just staring up at you in a sort of plea for you to stay, to join him in his relaxation.
It is the not first time you have ever seen him look such a way, filled with such stark vulnerability, and you unabashedly revel in the fact you are the only one who gets to know him like this. The two of you had never been intimate before- sure you have had glimpses of his bare body, but that was for the purpose of cleaning him up, getting him into bed for some well-deserved rest only.
And of course, you felt his lingering gazes, his ghosting touches every time he thought you could not see him- feel him- blatantly watching your every move. He has never been the subtle type. No matter how hard he tried. Even then, Marc has never once acted on his impulsive desires. He couldn't do that to you, not unless he heard that sweet lull of permission fall from your lips first. Which you have yet to gift him.
So, until then, he would wait. Be the patient man he never thought he could be.
You give him a small, almost undetected nod of your chin and begin to pull your baggy blue T-shirt up over the rolling valleys of your tummy. Skimming the swell of your chest, finally lifting past your head to reveal a soft, lithe body. It's slow, it's sensual- but Marc knows that it's not on purpose, you're just that fucking beautiful. He's aware it seems like he just wants in your pants, aware of how fucking sick it sounds. But it's more than that to him.
So much more.
He thinks of his brain as a grand museum filled with only you. How much he's in love with you, how much he is obsessed with the mere notion of you. It's nowhere near coated in lust. It's a place where he feels as though he's drowning in the overfill of true and unadulterated tender emotion. Mind, body, and soul completely encompassed by everything that you are. Marc is so enraptured with his thoughts that he doesn't even take note that you are naked in front of him now, devoid of any clothing, already plunging one leg in and then the other. He can't take his eyes off of you for even a moment as you lower yourself into the bath to sit directly in front of him, thanking his lucky stars you both fit quite comfortably in the little oasis.
The room is pleasantly silent as you both sink into a state of peace, save for the trickling of water droplets dripping from the soaking rag you hold in your hands, lathering it up with a puck of oatmeal soap. Your soap, he should add.
Its scent is mild and sweet and smells like home to him. He'd be lying if he said he didn't sometimes use it instead of his own, wanting to be able to breathe it in even if you're not there with him. To lift his wrist to his nostrils and fill his lungs with something familiar before he snuffs out another life like the insignificant flame of an insignificant candle.
Marc felt like a fucking drug addict most days, spastic and wiry and all but paranoid when he wasn't able to get his fix of that calming aroma. And he was about to get one hefty dose as he regards the way you scoot yourself towards him now, breasts bobbing on top of the water as you move with a jerky motion. Your thick calves brush lightly against the protruding bones of his hips and it takes everything in him not to outright groan at the feathery touch of your bare skin. He's blessed he's not absolutely hard as a fucking rock right now, noticing a little too quickly that both of your most intimate parts are in achingly close proximity.
Marc wills himself not to so obviously look down into the rippling liquid, forcing his eyes to stay above collarbone level for your sake. That was a fucking grand feat of its own.
"This okay?" you asked him in a hushed tone. He just nods silently, not trusting himself to speak.
A hum of a song begins to float into the otherwise quiet bathroom as you gently lift one of his arms out of the tub, appendage wafting rolls of white steam into the cold air, quickly getting to work. He doesn't recognize the tune and he doesn't ask, not wanting to break the domestic trance this has both put you in. Scared if he even so much as mutters a word he would wake up from this dreamlike state. He's content to just sit and listen anyways.
Marc watches as you start to scrub at the back of his hand first, then his forearm before sliding the coarse grey cloth up and over his bicep, landing on his taut right shoulder. Making sure to wipe off every splatter of blood and spec of dirt along the way. It's almost sort of possessive the way you're bathing him yourself. You've never offered to help with that before. It was unusual. New. But he liked the primal feeling bursting in his chest when he feels you begin to sponge at the sides of his clammy neck. You want him to smell of your scent. Want to let everyone know that he belongs to you. You fucking own him.
All of him.
The second you slowly drag the sudsy rag across his collarbones to do the same to his other side, your gazes interlock and it's fucking electric. Marc doesn't look away, stuck and unwavering and unable to do anything other than just fucking take it in. Your eyes hold nothing but love and soft affections for him and they're like sparkling glasses of liquor, spiced and warm and inviting him to just take a sip.
He wonders how the hell you can be so calm, so laid back, when he's all but falling apart right in front of you. Your features show everything and he hopes his show nothing. Not used to being weak- defenseless- but you wouldn't think him so would you...
Never.
Before Marc can fully comprehend it, you're softly whispering into his ear for him to turn the other direction, hands gently nudging his shoulders while you slide away to give him enough room to maneuver. He obeys, doing what you say without protest. But when he's face to face with the blank dark wall of the bathroom, long legs bunched up in front of him so he can rest his chin on one knee, he feels your bare hands instead of the washcloth now. Pressing and pushing the broad expanse of his back, fingers slipping and sliding with ease as you wash away the pain.
It's pure heaven he thinks. As close to it as he'll ever get.
Marc's eyes tightly wind shut as he tries with everything he's got to focus on the caressing touch of your fingers. And he lets out a stunted puff of air when you dig your knuckles just right into a particularly fragile spot between the top of his shoulder blades. The sound is ragged in his throat and it only deepens in his chest when he feels you press a feather-light kiss to the exact same place. Its tickling sensation sent an instant white hot jolt of desire down his back, nestling itself low in his belly. Blooming like a wildfire in the scorching summer heat when your warm, wet tongue flicks on the blushing flesh.
You continue to lay kiss after kiss on every knotted muscle you find, moving your way up to the nape of his neck where dark curls meet golden skin. Massage completely and utterly forgotten. If he wasn't hard then, he definitely is now. Impossibly so.
It's a husky sigh when Marc says your name in a sort of whimpering question and all you do is hum lowly against the shell of his ear in response. Your breasts are pressed to his back, hands splayed flat above his heart to hold him to your chest. You seem too mesmerized to really listen to anything he has to say and he finds himself saying it again and again. Like a prayer falling from his lips until it is the only thing you can hear besides the sweet sounds of his breath escaping his lungs.
The want- no, the need- is palpable and thick in the air. Something he can practically taste. He knows what you both desire more than anything just by the way you are handling him like this.
It's not an easy task by any means, but with a little help, you're able to shift around him to perch yourself on his lap in one jostling motion. Thighs to thighs, chest to chest. The look in your eyes is blazing and he can feel its burn on his rosy cheeks as he searches your features to make sure this is real. That this is actually happening. And you read his face like a fucking open book, answering his unsaid questions with a light brush of your parted mouth.
The first kiss you share is absolute bliss. It's not rushed or hungry or lustful. Just pure... love. Your taste is sweet like maple syrups on his tongue as he carefully dips it into the cavern of your mouth, licking and supping at the honeyed flavor of your saliva before swallowing the addicting substance down his throat.
"God, I love you," it's a mess of words that escape in one breath. No consideration for their consequences. No hesitation. But you're instantly pulling away after they seem to hang dead in the humid air, "Shit- I- Marc, I'm sorry, I-"
"Say it again,"
"Wha-" confusion and shock settle on your pretty face as you take in his demand.
"Say it. Again." he grits out from behind clenched pearly teeth, every syllable emphasized with a harsh squeeze of your ass, pulling your bare sex down and against his smooth belly. It rubs the most sensitive part so deliciously that you collapse forward at the sensation, "Say it, baby. Please,"
You choke on the guttural moan that attempts to slither its way out of you like a serpent as his large hands guide your slick heat along his abdomen in a slow push and pull. The pleasure strikes hot like a whip in the depths of your gut while you continue to shamelessly fuck yourself on the hardened muscle of his tummy. "Ilove you- I fucking love you-"
He captures your lips in another passionate kiss, hips rutting up into your own, craving a friction that only the supple skin hidden in between your thighs can give him. Both of you chasing that high together without even having to fuck. Marc can tell you are already painstakingly close to the edge, teetering on the precipice. Your gyrations become sloppier and sloppier by the second, selfishly sucking on his swollen lips when you cry out for a sweet release.
"Marc," you beg him, "I-I'm gonna- holy shit-"
"Do it. Fuck- baby, give it to me," the grip Marc has on you is iron tight in his urgency, the pressure mixing with the euphoric buzzing of his words like a salacious cocktail that all but lights your body on fire as you cum with a shout of his name. Your orgasm is fiery, long and drawn out, feeling like it could go on forever and never drop it's that fucking good. Limbs twitching like warbling strawberry jelly as you go completely rigid.
Your forehead falls against his brow when it finally wanes and you breathe in each other's air like it's the only oxygen left on the planet. Noses bumping together lightly in tiny kisses of their own, eyes fluttering shut as you try and come down from the intense climax he just gave to you. You feel like you could honestly cry, shed salty trails of rivulets at how good he's made you feel in that very moment. And you almost do when you feel Marc leans back a smidge to peck at your flushed left cheek, trailing across your nose and to the other until he lands back on your giving mouth.
"You did so good... so good sweetheart," you can barely hear him muttering his thank-yous. Telling you that you're so beautiful and how much he fucking loves you. He doesn't even have to say it out loud for you to know this. His actions, his body, say everything for him. He just wanted to give back to you. Give you that one last part of himself and he would be all yours.
"Marc?"
"Yeah, baby?" he pants and you can feel his pinkened chest rise and fall with every heave of breath beneath your slightly trembling fingertips.
"Make love to me," you whisper, his cock instantly twitching against the swell of your ass, so desperately hard and straining and he lets out a whimper when you grind down on it before continuing your plea. "Please," you draw out, "I need you to,"
"Fuck... Okay, let me just-" Marc hikes you further up his stomach, hands lifting you from underneath your quivering thighs to extend his legs a bit, planting his pruned feet at the bottom of the tub to get some semblance of traction. You gently lay your head on his sturdy shoulder while he adjusts himself accordingly, licking and sucking on the pulse point of his neck as the pads of your fingers trace patterns on his bicep. Helping to soothe his racing heart beneath its bone cage.
A still moment of silence passes before he's murmuring into the edge of your hairline, "Hey, look at me," he says, cupping a hand over your jaw to bring your gaze back to his own. His eyes are heavy and half-lidded, chocolate irises churning with unsaid emotion, and he wonders just what you see when you look back at him. Reckless thoughts of possible peaceful futures together fly through his mind like wild birds, creating some sort of murmuration in the sky of his stare.
Were these all just hopeless and infantile fantasies? Marc's life was too dangerous for such a comfortable relationship, he knew that, even though it was all he craved from you. You're already too far in it for his liking. You could get hurt- or even killed- and he’d never forgive himself. But he just couldn’t let go.
A shy smile quirks at the corner of your lips then, and he thinks maybe you can see the torrent of thoughts through the skin of his forehead by the way you press your mouth to his deepening frown lines. His furrowed brow is next, and then the wrinkled crows-feet at the edge of his eyelids. Kissing away each part of his disheartened expression before he's guiding you back to his lips to resume what you had started.
Marc's nimble fingers slide into your sweat-dampened hair to cradle your head, the pad of his thumb caressing the small patch of skin just behind the shell of your ear. Taking control of the situation the only way he knew how to. The whining mewl that escapes your throat the moment he notches the head of his cock on you is deafening in his ear. Its erotic pitch only spurring him on as he gives it a few passes through to gather the growing wetness there. Making sure it will be that much easier to slide himself into your wanton cunt.
And when he does push only one forgiving inch into its silky warmth, a low grunt of pleasure in his throat, it's better than any fucking feeling he has ever experienced. Better than his own rough hand. Better than the wet dreams he's had of you night after night in this exact same position. You, sitting in his lap, dick buried so far in your pussy that you can feel the pressure of it in your stomach, was one he had quite frequently. And now it was his stark reality. He doesn't think it could get much nicer than this, but perhaps for once in his miserable life, he should just learn to enjoy the little things.
Marc's bruising grasp is intoxicating as he guides you the rest of the way down, a hiss on your lips when he slowly thrusts upwards to eagerly meet your trembling hips halfway. Bottoming out to fill you up completely. The stinging stretch hurts so good that you can't help but cry for real, fat tears sliding down your shiny cheeks to dribble past your chin. The pinch of pain and blinding pleasure at being so full is almost too much.
He just shushes you tenderly when you breathe a quiet whimper, waiting for you to get used to the new, but welcomed, feeling. Jesus Christ, he's only been inside you a good thirty seconds but he feels as though he could cum just from the slight throb of the scorching heat between your legs. It's everything he's ever needed. Everything he's ever wanted.
"God- move, Marc- please, baby," you huff, squirming in his lap to get your point across.
His arms lock you into place against his sweat-slicked chest at your request, slightly lifting you to pull back just as slow as he entered, only to slam your ass down onto him full force. An achingly delicious pain spiking through your lower half, filling your belly as he draws himself in and out, dragging just right against your walls. It's pulling the string of pleasure tight, ready to snap at any given moment. Egging him on to go faster, harder, to snatch up the devastating orgasm and take it for his own. But with the way you're gasping and sighing against his neck so sweetly, it has him keeping his steady pace, measured and sluggish thrusts so you can reach the that high he can feel coming your way.
"Fuck, you feel so good baby," he grunts the words, breath tense as he struggles to retain his control, "Cum for me- Please,"
"Shit-" you choke out, nails digging into the skin of his biceps, creating crescent-shaped indents in their wake. You feel the intense pressure that's building, about to burst, tipping over the rocky cliff into the raging ocean of desire down below.
And then- nothing and everything all at once. A shove over the edge, a piercing wail of ecstasy, a quivering body that lays limp upon its lover as it takes away sight with blinding white light behind closed lids. Something so shattering it leaves you in pieces as you find yourself searching to silence your cries with Marc's lips on yours. The soft flesh like a cooling salve for sizzling sunburns.
The deathly squeeze of your cunt when you cum once more is suffocating, spurring a beastly urge inside of Marc to finally drive himself home. Your name falling from his mouth in a needy whine as he spills himself into you with one last feeble thrust of his hips, feeling his seed overflow until it's leaking into the now cold bath water.
It's five long minutes before either of you speak. Just comfortable to lay with each other, Marc running his fingers in gentle soothing strokes up your bare back. He has never felt so sleepy before, not even when he's coming home late in the night after killing more evil son of a bitches than he can count. It's a blissful kind of tired, one that he can sense himself drifting into and not know he knocked out until he's waking up in the early morning light.
"Marc?" you ask.
"Hm?"
"I love you,"
"I know,"