Crescent
“Hey, baby.”
To Marc’s amusement your first reaction is to glance up, skimming the rooftops above you, head tilted back, brows scrunching together in confusion when you don’t immediately spot him.
“Marc?” You call up, turning in a circle.
Marc chuckles, watches the smooth line of your throat, watches your gaze flit down and then across to him at the sound of his laughter.
“Marc!” You exclaim, surprise sweeping over your features. His heart contracts, squeezes the air out of his lungs just a little, because you sound happy to see him. Not worried, not hesitant and small, but happy. “Not skulking about tonight?” You joke.
He tries and fails to hide a grin. That’s another thing you do now, you joke with him, you no longer walk on eggshells.
“Not tonight,” he answers.
“Has Steven finally convinced you to meet me on the ground?” You ask, stepping gracefully toward him.
Marc automatically reaches out, scoops your bag out of your hands. “No. I thought we could walk together. If you don’t mind.”
Your hands flutter and hover in front of you, like you aren’t sure if you should reach out to him.
Marc slings your bag over his shoulder and holds one hand out to you.
You don’t hesitate in lacing your fingers through his, smiling at him again, your face split open with the warmth you show him. “This is much better.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, leaning over to kiss you. “It is.” Something in his chest cracks, shivers with pride, because you tilt your face toward him, because he can kiss you and it’s something that’s so normal and good.
He reaches up with his free hand to cup your jaw, slide his thumb over the arch of your cheekbone. You loop your fingers around his wrist and when he pulls away, you keep your eyes shut for just a moment longer than you should, like you’re savoring the moment.
“Baby,” he says again when you open your eyes, just to watch you get flustered. You try to repress the smile that pulls at your lips, but the light reaches your eyes. Marc bumps his forehead against yours, keeping his gaze on yours, steeling himself for his next question. Braced for you to say no, and to be okay with that, that it wasn’t rejection. “Wanna come back to the flat with me?”
You pull back, head tilting to the side. “Sure,” You agree, tightening your fingers against his. “I would love to.”
Marc doesn’t know where to put that, that you want to, without hesitation or consideration. Marc does not feel like a burden in your company, and it’s only a slightly strange feeling.
You tip your chin up again, and this time you wait for Marc to meet your lips. “I’m really glad you’re walking with me,” you say when he pulls away.
Though it’s only been a week since your last performance, you’re already back in the theater, back in the studio, and Marc is back to walking you home each night.
But every night it gets harder for him to leave you, harder to watch you close the door of your building and disappear up the stairwell he can just see from the roofline.
Steven had told him to stop bloody pouting and just walk you home like a normal bloke, Marc, it’s okay to want something normal.
So here he is, walking you home, having a conversation with you. On the ground, without the ceremonial armor.
Like a normal guy.
You’re talking animatedly, all the things you normally say quietly to yourself you get to actually tell him, watch his reaction. And Marc realizes maybe he’s been depriving you of something too by keeping his distance.
Something you really clearly want.
Taking you home to the flat is easy. You don’t even need to make a stop at your place because enough of your things have made a home among Steven’s clutter. You don’t wait for him at the door, stepping out of your shoes to beeline toward the counter, where you fill the kettle with water and leave it to boil while you dig through the cupboard.
“Would you like a cup too?” You ask, turning from the kitchen cabinet where you hold up two boxes of different types of tea. Something about it warms him, that you always ask, even though he doesn’t care for tea.
Marc shakes his head, carefully setting your bag on the floor by the door. “No.”
You nod and turn back to the counter, reaching for a cup.
A strange feeling nudges at the space behind his breastbone, lodging firmly next to his heart. It’s a heavy feeling, one that’s hard to name, to say exactly what it is.
He just knows that seeing you making tea in the flat’s kitchen makes him itch with it. Seeing you so confidently and comfortably move around the kitchen, makes the feeling strain tighter.
“Why’d you want me to come over?” You ask eventually, pouring steaming water into your mug. You peak over your shoulder at him. “Just because?”
He shrugs and finally takes off his own coat, boots following, before he crosses the kitchen to lean on his forearms next to you at the counter.
Really, he means to just say it, he means it to be casual. But the words get lodged in his throat for a moment, choked with that familiar feeling of despair anytime he attempts to honestly express his feelings. So the words come out laden with more gravitas that he means to assign to them.
Either way, it's true.
And for Marc, that’s a step in the right direction.
He means to always be honest with you. He doesn’t want to hide anything from you.
“I missed you,” he says, eyes flicking up to meet your gaze.
Your eyes aren’t worried, just curious. It’s something else that’s changed about you very quickly since he kissed you, since he confessed his feelings.
Gone were the days where his silences made you fret.
Now, you wait.
Like you’re always expecting him to take time to reply, that there are conversations you can’t hear, that his silences don’t mean he doesn’t want to answer or that you’d overstepped some invisible boundary that you couldn’t know existed in the first place.
“I missed you too,” you reply easily, smiling at him. You reach out and cup his cheek gently. “I’m glad you asked me to come over.”
“We like having you here,” he frowns, a little confused by your comment. “Of course we want you here.”
The tension that forms in his chest with the admission eases almost immediately with your answer. “I like being here. My flat is almost lonely now.” You blink at him, owlish with your attention. Your hand is still against his cheek, your skin warm against his.
Marc straightens and winds his arms around your back, tugging you close to him. Your breath fans across his lips. You smell like mint and soap.
There’s a little hitch in your breathing as you glance from his eyes down to his mouth, your teeth digging into your bottom lip as you do. That drives him fucking crazy, the little divot that appears in your lip when you bite it. You do that a lot. When you’re reading, when you’re thinking.
He loves that little crease, has the constant urge to kiss it.
Before he can do that, you say, “You know, before I met Steven, I was really lonely.”
That gives Marc pause, his heart constricting with the words. Marc knows what it means to be lonely, what it means to live most of your life begging for connection and never getting it.
Marc glances toward the golden sun-shaped magnet on the fridge - a gift from you when you’d spent a weekend in Portugal. Steven had been unbearable for those three days, but you’d brought the mirror back especially for them, for the kitchen, so they could communicate more easily.
Steven is reflected back in the mirrored center of the sun, not looking at Marc but at you, his face a picture of shock.
“I moved to London only a couple months before I met Steven. I was having a rough go of it actually. I had left all my friends and family back home and it turned out to be hard to meet people here. The girls in my company…there’s too much competition to really be friends.”
“I hadn’t known,” Steven murmurs. “I didn’t realize.”
Marc opens his mouth to relay that to you but you barrel on. “It’s why I went to the museum all the time. I liked it there and I didn’t have to go home and sit alone in my apartment. After I met Steven though, I got the courage to start trying to meet people in other ways. Other than through work, and I did. And I saw Steven all the time. And then, of course, you came along. And things aren’t lonely anymore.”
“Steven said he didn’t know.”
You smile, pressing a palm to the back of his neck, stroking your fingers gently against the tendon there, “I know. It’s because things were so different after I met him. It was like the whole world was brighter. I didn’t feel alone anymore, even when I didn’t really know him yet.”
Steven makes a noise like a squeak, spluttering over words he can’t get out in his shock. Because of course he doesn’t know, has no idea how good he is. But Marc doesn’t look over at him, he keeps his eyes on you. He knows exactly what you mean, when you say Steven makes the whole world brighter. “He has that effect. He doesn’t know it though.”
At that, Steven goes silent and Marc feels some part of Steven go mushy and soft with the realization that Marc thinks that about him too.
“So do you,” you say adamantly, unaware of the silent, unspoken communication. “You made me feel safe walking home. I knew you listened to me and I had a confidant in you.” You reach up to squeeze his hands when he cups your face between his palms. “So. I like being here. I’m not lonely anymore.”
Marc wants to deny it, deny that he has that effect on anyone let alone you, but he can’t quite bring himself to. “Why’d you wanna tell me this?”
You purse your lips at him, leaning closer. “So that you know. I want you to know. I’m trying to be better about that. I don’t want to assume things anymore.”
“Me too,” he says, before he can stop himself, leaning in to kiss you.
“She’s a bloody miracle, she is,” Steven marvels, awed. “Marc, hang on a mo’.” Marc pauses, his mouth almost touching yours. “Tell her it was the same for me. Exactly the same.” Something in Marc’s chest twinges, “All of it, yeah? I got her, and then I got you, and we aren’t alone anymore.”
Marc swallows down the inexplicable lump in his throat. “Steven wants you to know it was the same for him,” he clears his throat, but his voice still cracks. “All of it.”
“Oh,” you murmur, twirling one finger into the curls at the nape of his neck. “Oh.” It seems like it's the only word you’re able to manage at that moment. You tuck yourself against him, hugging him hard.
Marc isn’t sure if it’s meant for him or Steven or both of them.
Either way, he clutches you back, accepting whatever you were willing to give to them.
Instead of telling you that it’s true for him too, he asks, “What do you want for dinner?”
~
Luck isn’t a concept Marc is familiar with.
Any luck he’s ever had, has been a cursed kind, with hidden obligations and rules and an uneven playing field. Luck is something that came to him at the worst times, when he’d wished it wouldn’t.
With you, he feels the kind of luck other people describe. Where luck just meant that something good had happened, or that the expected bad thing hadn’t.
He feels lucky just to be with you, without marionette strings pinching at his hands and feet, without lies and deception, without hidden agendas.
He feels lucky when he gets to help you cook, when he gets to lean in close to you and the gentle scent of your perfumed skin washes over him, without the bitter knowledge that it might not last because he struck a deal or withheld something from you. Everything between you is honest and real and Marc isn’t sure he’s ever had that before - not with Layla, not even with Steven.
Before you sit down to eat, you slip into the bathroom to change into your pajamas.
And Marc realizes he wants moments like these. Moments where he gets to see you fresh faced and dewy and wearing a shirt of Steven's, the sleeves long and falling past your fingertips.
He thinks you look beautiful, and realizes this is the first time he’s seeing you like this with his own eyes, soft before bed, with bare legs and feet and shorts that are partially hidden by the overly large shirt.
Much later, after you eat together and spend too much time just talking at the table, it happens, that feeling of luck snaps into place.
Because he has you and he has Steven and things really really really aren’t as dark as they used to be. He doesn’t want to hide away inside himself anymore.
Eventually you stand to hunt for something sweet and Marc takes the time to gather up your dishes and stack them in the sink, wondering if he should wash them or if it could wait until the next morning. You dig through one of the kitchen cabinets until you find a leftover, half-used bag of chocolate chips. “From when I made cookies a couple weeks ago,” you chirp, unclipping the bag.
You reach out to him and tug him closer to you, shaping his hand into a cup before you dump a handful into his palm. “Dessert!”
He snorts and tosses the whole handful into his mouth as you pick a couple out at a time and eat them slowly.
Marc wants moments like these.
Lucky little moments where he gets to watch you eat chocolate chips out of the bag while you sit on the kitchen counter in your pajamas.
You rustle the bag at him, nodding at his hand, but Marc takes the bag from you instead and tosses it aside.
“Hey,” you pout, “I wasn’t done with those-,”
Marc slots himself between your legs and tilts up to kiss you. You hum against him, locking your fingers together against the back of his neck.
You taste like chocolate, and your fingers are warm at the edge of his jaw. He cups your knees, sliding his hands slowly up your bare thighs until he reaches the edge of your shorts.
Marc is used to touching you, but mostly in a clinical way, wrapping your ankles after a hard day in the studio, massaging the sore muscles in your legs through the fabric of your leggings.
This is different. This is your bare skin against his hands, warm and soft and pliant beneath his touch.
Your breath stutters against his lips when he pulls back. “Marc,” you whisper, a needy whine lodged in your throat.
“What baby?” He asks, shifting his hands ever higher. “What is it?”
You push gently at his shoulder and Marc moves back an inch, so you can breathe without him crowding you, so you can see his eyes. “What?” He asks again, less sultry and more serious.
Before he can take another step back, you hook one knee against the back of his thigh. “I just want you to be sure.”
“Sure?” Marc questions, a spear of uncertainty laced with something much worse skating against the inside of his skin. “Sure about what?”
“Me,” you say, running your fingers up and down his forearm, the scratch of your nails against the vein in his arm so nice, soothing him away from the ledge before he has a chance to jump. “I just don’t want you to feel like we have to. Because of me and Steven. We have time. You don’t have to rush anything.”
“You think I feel like I have to do this?” He grips your hips, slides a palm up your spine beneath your shirt. “Fuck, I want you.”
You suck in a shaky breath when Marc drags his hand around, slides the tips of his fingers across your belly and ribs, the pad of his thumb tracing the underside of one breast. “Oh,” you murmur, before you slide off the counter and press your body into his, warm and firm against him, the soft press of your lips against his neck.
“Oh, fuck,” you exhale. “I want you too.”
Marc doesn’t know what it’s like when you and Steven fuck, he’s never peered in on that. But it’s hard to imagine you pushing Steven back into the counter with any amount of force and dropping to your knees, desperate to have him in your mouth.
Then again, maybe you do. Because he also can’t imagine Steven not loving every second of this.
You look up at him, eyes wide, as you hook your fingers in the waistband of his sweatpants.
The pink of your tongue darts out to wet your lips, the shine of your skin in the kitchen light igniting something low and hot in his belly. The little divot in your lip is highlighted again.
He thinks about kissing you but he wants to see those pretty wet lips around his cock.
You tug down his sweatpants when he nods at you, your eyes flicking away from him. Something coils low and hot in his belly when you have to take a moment to push back the sleeves of your shirt before you can wrap your fingers around him.
Marc can’t look at you when you glance up at him.
He tosses his head back instead, toes curling when your tongue glides over him. “Fuck,” he whispers at the ceiling as you take more of him into your mouth, stroking the rest of him with slow deliberate touches.
You steady yourself with one hand against his thigh, and Marc reaches down to thread his fingers through yours. The wet, hot cavern of your mouth is silk smooth, the firm curl of your tongue sweeping around him.
When you pull back and give a long stroke to his cock with your hand, he glances down at you. “Please look at me,” you request, your voice soft.
Marc tenses and then squeezes your hand. “Want me to see you, baby?”
You nod, chest heaving, lips parted as your eyes go back to his cock.
You lean in slowly, looking up to make sure he’s watching, as you take as much of him in your mouth as you can, eyes watering with unshed tears.
“You look so pretty,” he says when you pull back to breathe.
Your eyes go soft and you absolutely preen at his words. Marc tries to catch his breath but he can’t manage it when you’re looking at him like that, swallowing his cock down again and building a steady rhythm that makes him feel stupid with lust.
And he can’t look away from you again, not when you’d asked so nicely that he watch you.
He gets it, though.
When he eats your pussy later, you’re not going to be closing your eyes to him.
That thought has him briefly slamming his eyes closed, taking a shaky inhale as you swallow him down again, gagging when he hits the back of your throat.
Marc nearly comes at the sight, tears bleeding from the corners of your eyes, lips stretched around him. He drags his thumb against the corner of your mouth, when you tilt back, licking your lips, pupils blown wide and huge.
You glance up at him when you kiss the pad of his thumb, and that’s enough to have him dragging you up, kissing you hard, licking into your mouth. He groans when he tastes himself on your mouth, your hand curling around his cock as he fights to get enough of you. He’s not close enough, feels like he’ll never have enough of you to satisfy that yawning pit in his belly.
Marc slots either palm against your jaw, tips your head back so he can look into your eyes. Kissing you is not enough, he needs all of you.
He reaches between you and covers your hand with his, stopping your movement. You squeeze gently and he moans into you, snagging his teeth against your bottom lip. “I wanna fuck you.”
You hum, and move your hand to his hip, tracing circles there.
“I wanna taste you too,” he continues, when you just look at him, like you’re content to lick the traces of him from your lips and drink him in like that.
“You can have both,” you say. And then, “You look pretty too.” And you reach up to rub your thumb along the crest of his cheek, where he can feel heat pooling under his skin.
Marc tugs you close, kisses you until he goes dizzy with the feeling.
“Baby,” he says, and then kicks out of his sweats and follows you to the bed when you tug him along.
Marc shucks out of his shirt as he goes.
And now he’s naked and you aren’t, he’s hard and wet and you haven’t been touched and that’s a fucking problem.
You yelp when he tugs you to the end of the bed by one ankle, hooking his fingers in the waistband of your shorts and underwear and yanking them down and off in one pull.
Your cunt is wet, and when Marc hooks your legs around his hips and thrusts shallowly against you, his cock slides easily against your folds.
He tugs on your shirt. “Lemme see you.”
For a moment you don’t move, eyes squeezing shut at the feeling of his cock rubbing over your slick pussy.
“Baby,” he says, patting your thigh with his free hand, he tugs on the material until you blink up at him and ruck it up, wriggling out of the shirt. “Good girl.”
Your eyes flutter shut again and Marc pulls away to drop to his knees. “You gonna look at me, baby?” He asks, nudging you until your legs curl over his shoulders. “C’mon, I looked at you.”
You blink down at him, fingers tangling in his hair as you nod. “Marc,” you say, his name in your mouth like rain in the desert.
He releases your hand to spread your cunt, to watch you flutter and clench, before he licks into you. You’re so wet, you drench his mouth and he groans into you, at the taste of you on his tongue.
It’s a divine taste.
Marc glances up to make sure you’re looking at him, and you are. Your eyes are firmly glued to his, lips parted as your chest heaves.
Your free hand is plucking at your nipple, and Marc knows he won’t last long between your thighs.
He needs to be inside you, to devour you.
He’s painfully hard, and as he dips his tongue into your entrance he reaches a hand down to palm at his cock.
It does little to relieve the feeling, especially when he knows it’s your spit on his cock that makes the slide so smooth. He wants to be inside you, this is not enough, it will never be enough.
But he needs you to come first, he wants to feel you come on his tongue, wants to taste the fresh wave of arousal.
You lift yourself onto one elbow, the fingers buried in his hair tightening painfully as you roll your hips into his mouth, taking what you want from him.
Marc growls low in the back of his throat, before he moves to press an arm over your waist, holding you in place as he slots his fingers inside you. You cry out, dropping back down to the bed, eyes clenched closed. He grins, bites the inside of your thigh gently. “Look,” he reminds you, drawing his fingers out of you slowly, driving himself insane with the motion because he can feel you clenching around him, your body desperately trying to keep him inside you.
Your eyes snap open and Marc dips forward to such the hardened bud of your clit into his mouth, thrusting his fingers back inside you. The noise that tears out of you barely sounds human, and goes straight to his dick.
“Fuck,” he mumbles, stroking the walls of your cunt, until your body suddently seizes and your eyes roll back.
Your arms flail back, fingers hooking into the sheets as your back arches off the bed.
Marc can’t take it anymore, he fucking needs you.
Your orgasm is still curling through you when he stands and nudges you onto your belly.
The swollen wet flesh of your pussy is so pretty, he almost goes back to his knees. But he spreads your lips instead and strokes the soft folds of you.
“Marc,” you murmur, lazy as you look over your shoulder at him.
You start to move, to get your knees beneath you, but he lays a hand against your lower back, and tugs you to the edge of the bed instead, so you’re bent over the end.
“You okay?” He rubs a hand over your spine, the other fisted around his cock. “Comfortable?” You nod, but even so he reaches for a pillow and slots in under your chest and arms.
Your feet are flat against the floor so you aren’t straining your legs.
You’re watching him with parted lips, eyes flicking between his face and his cock. He leans over you and kisses you slow and gentle as he pushes inside you. You taste like him, and he wonders if you can taste yourself on his mouth and if it drives you just as crazy.
It’s better than he imagined.
You take him so well, the slide easy.
Still, he gives you a second to adjust before he thrusts shallowly against you. You give a keening wail against his mouth. “You feel perfect,” he says as he pulls back.
Your eyes flutter and you reach up to cup one hand around his wrist, his fist anchored on the mattress next to your shoulder.
“Fuck me,” you murmur, thumb sweeping against the vein in his wrist. “Please Marc. I need you.”
You bite your lip, that little divot reappearing. Marc ruts against you gently, not ready to give you what you want quite yet. He wants to look at you, look at the scar against your cheekbone, the tiny indent that still fills him with rage. He wants to look at the desperation in your eyes, he needs to see that want in your gaze and know that you want him, that you need this, as much as he does.
He’s done being careful with you, he wants you and you know it and you still want him, you still like everything about him despite it all.
Your pupils are blown wide and he knows he probably looks the same.
“Marc,” you say his name again, a whine in your mouth.
“C’mere,” he cups your jaw, thumb digging into the flesh below your jaw. He presses your mouth to his, the languid caress of your tongue against his sending little sparks skittering under his skin.
He pulls back and drives into you, a first brutal thrust.
You gasp and clutch at his wrist again, a desperate moan reverberating against his skin when you press the crown of your head to his forearm.
Marc thinks again for a moment about how he doesn’t know what it’s like when you and Steven fuck. He isn’t sure if it’s ever rough.
“Hey,” he says, his voice strained. “You have to tell me-,”
You’re already nodding, wriggling your ass back at him. “Please, please, Marc, please. I know. It’s okay,” you pant.
He tilts your face back from his arm and presses another messy kiss to your lips, a line of spit connecting you that you break when you lick your lips. It does something to him, something primal, that you chase every part of him. He wonders if he asked you to open your mouth, if you’d take the spit you so desperately lick from your lips, directly into your mouth.
It’s then that he breaks, thrusting hard into you, setting a brutal pace. You moan and grip the sheets again, momentarily burying your face into the pillow until you remember to look at him, peaking over your shoulder at him, lips parted and wet.
Your cunt swallows him perfectly, the stretch of your pussy around him better than anything his imagination ever conjured up. Better than his fucking hand ever felt for sure.
The flat is filled with the sharp sounds of flesh against flesh, of you taking him so well and without complaint, those pretty eyes still on his until you’re bucking your hips back into his, a cry torn out of your throat as your pussy squeezes him.
“Shit,” he leans over you, kissing you hard again, sucking on the tip of your tongue when you open your mouth to him. “Fuck, you’re gonna make me come.”
“Okay,” you agree, eyelids lowered to half-mast, fucked out and so pretty . “Come for me Marc.”
Fuck.
He lifts himself away from you, slides his fingers under your hip to the crux of your thighs so he can rub your clit, force another orgasm out of you. “C’mon, baby,” he mutters, driving his hips against your ass. “One more, so I can come in that pretty pussy.”
You curl inward, fist shaking around the sheet balled in your fist when you break and your cunt spasms around him.
Marc swallows the moan that escapes you, when the pressure curling at the base of his spine snaps. A desperate, embarrassing noise escapes him and falls against your mouth. But it's okay, because you hum and open your mouth to him, like you’d eat the sound if you could. He falls against you, wrapping his arms around you hard, moving with you through the last dregs of both your pleasure.
“Fuck,” he mutters into your skin, sweat slick and so sweet on his tongue when he drags his mouth against your cheek and down your neck.
Marc tangles his fingers with yours and feels the press of your mouth against his bicep, the flat of your tongue against his skin before it disappears and you nuzzle there. You licked him and he liked it, and he wonders if you’re obsessed with his taste the way he is with yours.
Silence presses in, heavy and calm. And though he doesn’t want to move, he knows he has to. The position can’t be comfortable for you and his weight is only making it worse.
Still, you make a noise of complaint when he moves.
Gently as he can, he pulls himself back from you, stroking a hand down your spine, over your ass and the back of your thigh, rubbing gently. “You okay?”
“Mm.”
Marc nods, still massaging your skin. Couldn’t have your legs being strained anymore than they already were. You had enough issues with your ankles and knees and Marc would not be the one to make it worse.
He wants to lie there with you, but he encourages you to shift up onto the bed fully before he goes to the bathroom for a damp cloth.
When he comes back you’re lying the wrong way across the bed, your breaths even and slow even if you shiver.
He slots himself next to you, starts to press the cloth between your legs when he catches sight of his come dripping from you. Before he can touch it, your hand is there, running through the wet mess of your thighs and cunt.
You hum and Marc steals your hand away, slipping the cloth between your legs before he can think about it too much, before his brain can fucking short circuit and he does something you might not like. He tosses the cloth back toward the bathroom. He’d wanted to bury his face between your legs and lick you clean, but he settles for sucking your coated fingers into his mouth.
“Oh,” you sound startled but you don’t pull away, your mouth falling open as you watch him, mesmerized.
And when he kisses you after you hum at the taste.
He yanks the sheet over you when he notices you’re still shivering, tucking you close to his chest.
Your eyes are already shut, your breathing slow and even, hands pressed close to his chest, over his heart, and its hard not to feel stupid with feelings in that moment.
A little over a week ago, he really hadn’t been sure you liked him all that much, or wanted him around beyond being an important part of Steven’s life.
Now, this.
Now, you and him. Separate from you and Steven. And still important all together.
He nestles close behind you, thinks about that stupid book you’d been reading, about how you know where everything in the flat is, how you’re so comfortable with him now, how you’re making an effort just like he is, to say what you mean, to be honest even if it hurts, to listen.
He loves you.
He doesn’t say it though.
Already, he wants to spread you open again, to fuck you slow and soft, and fall asleep inside you.
This is something he never thought he’d get, honesty and pleasure mixed up in one, still, he got it anyway.
Marc got lucky with you, and for once, there are no threads to pull him away.