Music: I'll Attack – 30 Second to Mars
Disclaimer: I own nothing!
Summary: He was sick and tired of every bloke that ever crossed their path thinking they had a chance with her. Marcus/Hermione
Marcus Flint was a possessive man by nature. He held his position in Quidditch in great regard and anybody who put that in jeopardy was quickly reminded of why he was the best beater in the league. The same could be said of most things; if Marcus treasured it, it wasn't to be touched, looked at or thought of. Perhaps it was the Pureblood in him, or the Slytherin higher-than-all-others mentality that he'd lived with for seven long years. He couldn't pinpoint it to one thing. He'd grown up with a father who was very strict and made sure that his son knew what was his and how it wasn't to be used by anybody but him.
As the years progressed, there were only two great loves in Marcus' life; Quidditch and his girlfriend. They were the most unlikely couple to most; a Slytherin and a Gryffindor that seemed to clash more than meet. However, their relationship was not quite as complicated as some might think. She loved her books, he loved his Quidditch. She hated cooking, he enjoyed it. She loved baking; he couldn't find the patience for it. Where she fell, he rose and vice versa. They made up for their misgivings, which came in handy since he had many. She could be obnoxiously intelligent while he was incredibly laid back. He could hold a conversation on most any topic; he just didn't go searching for mental stimulation like she did. He was stimulated more by the rush of the game and when he wasn't, he found it in her.
She was a beautiful creature, perhaps not in the most conventional of ways. She didn't have flawless skin, but a spatter of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her hair was thick and bushy, a waterfall of curls that his hands loved to grip and wrap around tightly as they spent quality time creating that rush in the privacy of their bedroom. Or in some cases, the not so private back porch of their house, the counters in their kitchen, the floor by the fireplace, the sunken bathtub, the stand up shower, the guest rooms, the pantry when guests were over, the backyard beneath the old oak tree, and various other places outside of their home.
They met at a pub, shortly after a loss for his team and a win for her friend Weasley's team. The annoying group was celebrating loudly in the back while he was sulking at the bar. She came up, flushed and in need of water when she spotted him glowering over his four lined up shots of Firewhiskey. Stealing one, she knocked it back easily and sat down beside him to congratulate him on a game well played. Surprised and a little miffed, thinking she was actually teasing him, he turned to tell her off, instead finding his tongue grow three sizes too big. She was really quite pretty. She was smiling at him genuinely and she didn't seem put-off by his brutish scowl at all. She seemed much tinier than him; a short, slip of a girl compared to his 6'3 tall frame of all muscle; wide shoulders, slim waist, rock hard in every place that counted. At that moment, however, despite his stature, celebrity, and background, he felt incredibly small compared to her; so pretty and free and completely comfortable sitting there next to him.
He grunted his thanks, unable to unfurl his tongue.
Her eyes glittered with laughter before she took another shot from in front of him. She lifted it to him and his large, calloused hand wrapped around a shot glass, raising next to hers to clink lightly.
Seven more shots would be shared between them while she listened to him retell the game, telling her exactly what he thought he did wrong and how he could rectify it next time.
"You remind me of Wood," she told him, eyes thinned in deep thought as she nodded. "So driven by the game."
He shrugged, frowning. "Wood," he muttered.
"You don't like him?" her tone was more curious than surprised.
"I don't like any of my competition," he told her, lifting a brow as if he couldn't understand why she wouldn't know that.
"But why?" She shook her head. "They're doing just the same as you. Playing the game. Do you think they dislike you as well?"
He shrugged. "Dunno. Don't care."
She frowned. "Well I doubt it. Oliver is a nice enough man."
Marcus snorted. He had the childish urge to ask her why she wasn't drinking with him then, but instead knocked another shot back to keep himself from making a fool in front of her.
"So where are your friends then? Why are you out here glowering alone?" she asked curiously, turning sideways in her seat and crossing her legs.
"Best mate Adrian had a date, rest of the team went home, I guess. I dunno." He sighed, moving his glass around in a circle, watching as it slid the excess water around it into a puddle.
"Are you hungry?" she asked suddenly, her hand falling to her stomach and a frown marring her face. "I'm starving and those boys'll be busy for some time. You want to get something to eat? I'd like the company if you're interested."
He was so shocked he simply paid the bill and stood up with her. He wasn't her type at all. Admittedly, he didn't know of anyone she dated, but he knew that girls like her didn't go for blokes like him. He was gruff and moody and he didn't talk much. He wasn't the most handsome bloke, even with magically transformed teeth and the various hair removing techniques his manager made him go through so he'd be more appealing to the masses as a pro Quidditch star. He was all rough edges and gruff personality. He hadn't shaved in a day or two and so he likely had quite the shadow around his jaw, his hair was still a little damp from his shower after the game and he was wearing very casual clothing compared to her fashionable outfit.
She looped her arm with him as they left, looking all the more small against his side. He had to look down to talk to her now, which was spent listening more than speaking really. But he liked watching her face light up as she spoke, her hands moving around rapidly and her eyes lighting up each time she glanced up to catch his gaze. "Oh, where would you like to go? Anywhere in particular?"
He shrugged. Food was food to him.
"Right," she said, pinching her lips in thought. "How about the Three Broomsticks then? Haven't been there for awhile."
He nodded. "Sounds good to me."
"Right then. Off we are."
She apparated them both with a small pop and he was surprised to find himself just a foot from the door. She opened it for the both of them, ushering him in before her. She scanned the room for a place to sit; it was quite busy really. She grabbed his hand and brought him back as she spotted a spare table. He kept his eyes off the people around him, sure that they all must be staring in shock that he could possibly manage to catch that attention of such a beautiful, brilliant witch. He'd had his share of brainless groupies that could barely say more than, "I like fame, want to go back to my hotel?" So he wasn't low on offers, just on those reaping the benefits of both beauty and intelligence.
They ordered something to eat, sitting across from each other, her comfortable while he squirmed in discomfort. "So," she said, lifting a brow at him. "Tell me something about yourself."
And somehow that started his tongue moving. Since the subject was him, he really didn't have much to hide. He could focus on himself and not be so entranced by her and found his mouth opening easily as he spilled little facts about his life and family. She listened earnestly, quite interested in what he had to say, despite the fact that his life really wasn't all that enthralling. She was respectful enough, however, not to yawn or change the subject, simply laughing at funny stories and reaching out to touch his forearm when there were darker parts.
They ended up spending most of the evening sitting at the back booth of the Three Broomsticks, discussing family, friends, their school days, work, and life in general. He laughed more than he ever had before. She wasn't put off by his brooding manner or his rather gruff appearance. He noticed more than once that she actually shivered at his coarse, husky voice, her eyes falling to half mass. He later realized that his voice did things to her; made her squirm in her seat and rub her thighs together. She also loved his hands, how rough and calloused they were, scraping against her soft skin.
That night started something never expected; a bond between the two of them that would go on for another six years, leading up to this night. Where she stood next to him at a Quidditch banquet; it was a week before the Quidditch World Cup where he'd be playing for the British National Team as beater. She was dressed elegantly in a dark red floor length gown that whispered over her curves gently. His hand sat possessively on her far hip while her hand covered his, thumb stroking the top. Potter and Weasley were around somewhere, probably avoiding the fangirls lurking everywhere. He was stuck listening to Crawford chatter on and on while barely hiding the way his eyes seemed drawn to Hermione's chest rather than her face. He'd already put up with four other blokes hitting on her. One of which grabbed her arse while they were dancing, a second that "accidentally" brushed her breast with the back of his hand while trying to brush away something on her shoulder. A third tried to kiss her which ended with a broken nose on his part and a scowl for Marcus as she led him away from the scene. Drunk or not, if another bloke tried to get in her knickers he was going to Avada someone.
He'd been dealing with it for ages. She was a well known witch that had grown quite attractive and had the brains to keep a man interested in more than just a quick shag. But she was his witch and he was more than a little tired of blokes who seemed to think they could best him and take her away. She may not have a ring on her finger, but she was completely taken. Most knew, most accepted, but there were a few daredevils who tried their luck at outdoing the snake and suffered the consequences for it.
"Oh Marcus, it's just the drink that has them all this way. I'm sure they'll all be owling us their most respectful apologies in the morning," she told him, her hand running up and down his back soothingly.
He scowled deeper. She really didn't quite grasp just what an important and worthy woman she was. He couldn't imagine how many chaps would give everything to be in his place. Admittedly, he knew he wasn't worthy either. She deserved someone smarter, better looking, less surly. But she loved him, for reasons he didn't know, and while he didn't say it often, he loved her too. He'd put up with his fair share of ribbing from former Slytherins, shocked to see that he had won over the Gryffindor princess. And he'd ignored the persistent voices telling him one day she was going to leave him, that she was using him to make someone else jealous (like Weasley). Six years she'd never given him any hint that what they had wasn't going to last. She'd been to his every game, ranted over all of his injuries, listened to his long spiels over good and bad games, and even put up with the likes of Malfoy and Zabini.
"Respectful," he heard a familiar voice snort and turned to see his best mate, Adrian Pucey standing nearby with a flute of champagne. "Right, it'll probably say something along the lines of, 'So sorry about last night, Flint . But really, could you expect any less? Beauty and the Beast was a fairytale, my friend. Can't blame a bloke for trying.'" He lifted a brow, grinning winningly.
Hermione rolled her eyes. "How much have you had to drink, Ade?" she wondered, her nose wrinkling. "And I had no idea you were so interested in Muggle children's fairytales." She scowled. "Beauty and the Beast, I'm really getting quite tired of the reference." She smiled up at Marcus wickedly and he shifted on his feet, mind wandering to the last time they spoke of the subject.
Rita Skeeter had written a scathing article about the two of them being more like Beauty and the Beast and that he was actually holding her captive through the Imperious curse. He'd wanted to take her head off with his beater's bat, but Hermione had quickly distracted him. "A beast, really?" She climbed into his lap, her mouth curling with a smirk. "Well, perhaps in bed. You can be rather…" She pulled his head forward, her lips ghosting over hers with a raw meld of gentle and harsh. "Rough," she breathed out before nipping his bottom lip. Her fingers slid up the plains of his face, sliding into his hair and gripping it tightly.
His hands slid up her legs, squeezing her thighs as they pushed up her nightgown. Her eyes fluttered as the coarse palms of his hands wrapped around her hips tightly, drawing her down into his lap.
She gasped against his mouth, her tongue trailing over the seam of his lips. "Personally, I rather prefer the wild side of you." She slid her body up against his and he could feel the curves of her breasts against his bare chest. A hand slid up her back, pushing the straps of her nightgown off and tugging her top down until she was gloriously free of any hindrance. He leaned down, kissing a path from her collar to the valley of her breasts. He watched gooseflesh fan over her pale, porcelain skin as his stubble grazed her. His lips slid to the left, wrapping around the rosy center of her breast, mouth quirking with a smirk as she gasped and arched against him.
"Marcus," she cried, breathlessly, her hands gripping his hair tight.
"Marcus?" he heard again, but now from a loud and annoyed male voice.
His mind wandered back to the present and he cleared his throat, eyes landing on a peeved Adrian . Hermione was smiling up at him mischievously, as if she knew exactly what he'd been thinking of. "What?" he asked, tone harsh.
Adrian rolled his eyes. "Nice time to just zone out on me, mate. Coach wants all the players up at the front," he said, nodding toward where Coach Perkis had a bunch of blokes and two women huddled together.
Marcus sighed but nodded. His arm fell away from Hermione who smiled at him encouragingly. Sometimes, it still rather surprised him that she could be so supportive and so caring of him when he didn't appear to be the type of person who appeared to want that kind of attention. He only appreciated it in her. Not even his mother fawned like she could. It took a few years for him to grow used to her attention and even then, he sometimes felt like he didn't show her enough consideration back. But she never said anything, never told him he ignored her or should say he loved her more often. It was likely one of the reasons they worked so well together. She didn't want to change him.
He made his way to the front, scowling at those around him. He nodded at the coach, standing between Crawford and Adrian, impatiently waiting for the introduction to begin and end. He hated these things; always had. Could care less whether or not there was a big gala every Quidditch cup. He'd much rather be back home, relaxing in bed with his girlfriend. 'Course home wasn't entirely peaceful lately, either. Not with his mother constantly owling him to ask when he was finally going to make Hermione an honest woman. At least she'd stopped sending the family ring with every note as a hint. It wasn't that he didn't want to marry Hermione. It was more that he wasn't sure she wanted to marry him. Sure, she'd stuck around six years, but some days he felt as though it was all just some tease by the Gods; that they'd take her away and laugh in his face. She was far too… everything for him. She never said so and she'd never implied that he was less intelligent or lacking in looks. But he saw the blokes that looked her way and they were all far more than him. Less gruff, easy to talk to, book smart, and had more to talk about than Quidditch.
Still though, she always turned away from their advances. "I'm happily seeing someone," she'd tell them with a firm shake of her head. Or, "No, thank you, I'll be celebrating with my boyfriend this evening. I'm sure there's a lovely single woman here who would enjoy your company." She'd then babble on about who she knew that wasn't dating for the time being, often asking if they knew Luna Lovegood and then calling the dreamy blonde over to meet her potential suitor, who then became flabbergasted and uncomfortable, leaving shortly thereafter. It was fun to watch, at least the outcome of every offer each man tried. Though seeing them hit on her always stomped on his last nerve. He couldn't count how many noses he'd broken or the many times he'd scared the wits out of a chap just for ogling her. Still, no matter what he did, it seemed there was always another willing to step up and try.
Marcus barely heard the coach going on about what a great team he'd put together that year. His eyes were focused on Hermione, standing in the crowd, a glass of champagne in her hand as she listened sincerely to his coach, smiling and clapping appropriately. He nodded when his name was called, did his best to show some semblance of a smile when the cameras turned his way, but mostly waited for the attention to finally end. He'd lost track of Hermione somewhere in the flash of the bulbs and an uneasy feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. He knew she could handle herself; he just didn't like the idea that she had to. He spotted Potter and Weasley by the refreshments, apparently in a deep discussion with Hermione nowhere in sight. He watched Adrian walk off with a buxom blonde, winking back at his best mate as his hands roved down to her arse. The crowd from the front had dispersed, going back to the festivities while he was left wondering where his girlfriend had disappeared to.
He did nothing to hide his scowl as he forced his way through the crowd, eyes scanned faces for her familiar brown eyes and warm smile. He finally caught sight of bushy brown hair and turned abruptly to get to her. There was no way he could confuse her thick brown locks for anybody else's. She was leaning against the bar, motioning to the busy man behind it to get her a water when he wasn't bogged down. Next to her was a smirking man with wandering eyes. His hand kept reaching out, brushing her shoulder, stroking her arm. It wasn't until he tried to wrap a strand of her hair around his finger that Marcus finally snapped.
There was a tiny voice of reason whispering in the back of his mind that he should calm down, sounding quite a bit like Hermione's rational voice actually. He ignored it entirely. When he was close enough, his hand wrapped around the front collar of the man's shirt and shoved him a foot back. "Sod off!" Marcus told him, sneering.
"Steady, mate, jus' tryin' to give the lady a goo' time," the man told him, glowering.
"She's not interested."
The man smirked mischievously. "I think she is. I think she be getting' wet jus' thinkin' 'bout it." He nodded his head toward Hermione and licked his lips lewdly. "How 'bout it then, beauty? You want a real man t' satisfy the ache between your—"
Marcus' fist collided so heavily with the man's face; the entire room went silent at the cracking noise. There was no stepping back and taking a deep breath to calm himself now. There was no reasonable voice telling him that he and Hermione could just walk away. All he saw was red; which was understandable seeing as he was beating the bloody shite out of the man before him.
He felt the knock against his chin but it didn't faze him much. He'd been hit with bludgers worse than that. Grabbing the front of the man's robes he lifted him up only to slam him back down against the floor harshly. Hands were yanking him back, trying to pull him away from the heavily bleeding arsehole that he'd laid out and was happily turning into mince meat.
"Marcus!" he heard through the angry fog that clouded his mind. It was her voice and it wasn't just in his head this time. His fist stopped mid-blow. He could feel blood dripping down the end of his knuckles. He was panting, his chest heaving, the black clouds that surrounded his vision fading. The flashes of cameras were catching it all and people were standing around, staring down in shock. "You've proven your point!" Hermione announced.
With a sneer, Marcus let go of the man's robe and stood up, shrugging off the hands of Potter, Weasley, and even Adrian.
The man on the floor moaned in pain, rolling over to spit out a gob of blood.
His jaw clenched in anger, his body tense with the fury rippling through his veins. He was sick and tired of every wizard out there thinking they could treat her like she was some prize to be won. She was taken. She was his. And he wasn't going to let them have her. Ever.
Without saying anything, he turned around and took Hermione's hand. A loud pop reverberated around the house as they side-along apparated into their bedroom. He knew she was mad; he didn't have to see her to know. Her hands were likely on her hips, her foot tapping against the floor angrily and her hair frizzing slightly with her temper. He tugged off the stifling tie around his neck and tossed it away, undoing his robe a little so he didn't feel so harnessed. He sat down on the side of the bed and leaned forward, elbows perched on his knees as he glared down at the floor, knowing what was coming.
"You can't just attack every man who pisses you off!" she shouted shrilly. "I understand that male posturing is something relevant in all Quidditch players, but honestly!" She stomped her foot. "He was a little drunk, Marcus. I'm sure after I politely declined he would've pissed off. But nooo…. You had to stake your territory, or- or- prove your manliness. Whichever!"
He rolled his eyes, frowning.
"Well?" she asked, impatiently.
He looked over at her from the side of his eyes, one of his brows lifted questioning. Well what?
"What d'you have to say for yourself?" she asked, lips pursed and cheeks flushed with anger.
She always looked rather exotic when she was mad. Her body taut as a bow, her chest heaving, her skin flushed. His lower body reacted instantly to the image and his eyes narrowed slightly, head tipping to one side as he surveyed her body. Gods, she was downright sexy. The man back at the bar saw only a fine shag, but he… he saw much more than that. He knew every sensitive spot on her body; he could find each one with his eyes closed. He knew what made her toes curl and her head fall back in passion. He knew what made her mewl and moan and beg for more. He knew what dirty words turned her on and that she was never one to just take it, but to fight for dominance each time. He could feel the heat coiling in his stomach. His anger was still there, still simmering at the very edge, but his want for her was competing for his attention now.
She recognized the glint in his eye and lifted one finger as if in warning. "Marcus…"
He was off the bed and pinning her to the wall so fast she barely had enough time to gasp. Her had her hands clasped with his and pressed tightly just above her head. Her feet were off the floor, her thighs spread apart and her heat pressed up against his robe covered bulge. "He got what he deserved, 'Mione," he said through grit teeth, his lips a mere hair's breath away.
She was panting, staring into his eyes that were quickly glazing. "Violence is never the answer," she whispered with much less zealous than she probably meant to.
"It's the only thing these blokes seem to understand," he replied, his tongue darting out to lick her top lip, making her shiver against him, her eyes falling to half-mass. "They should never touch you. Hell, they shouldn't even look at you," he sneered.
She shifted her hips, rolling them against him. "So possessive," she murmured, leaning her head forward and taking his bottom lip into her mouth, nibbling at it, slow and torturous.
One of his hands slid away from hers, traveling down her arm until it was grazing the side of her neck, walking the curve of her breast, and finally at the hem of her robes. He pushed them up to above her waist, revealing her long, slim legs and small black lace knickers. He trailed his forefinger over the apex of her thighs; she was already damp for him. She bit down on his lip as he teased her, fingers sliding along the sides of her panties.
"I'm not going to apologize," he informed her with a growl.
"You never do." Her head fell back, hitting the wall slightly as he tore her knickers away from her. She could always magic them back together if she really wanted to. He tossed them to the floor carelessly before smoothing his hand up her soft, shaking thigh.
"Maybe they'll learn this time," he said, kissing up the slope of her neck, nipping at her skin and grinning as she arched into him.
She snorted indelicately. "You said that when you put Clint in St. Mungo's or when that other drunk chap wouldn't stop grabbing my arse," she reminded.
"Well the message just isn't getting through their thick heads," he sneered. He pressed into her harder, grinning as she moaned against the pressure between her legs. His other hand slid down from hers to part her robes at the front, revealing her pale blue bra. He pushed the cup out of the way and wrapped his hand around her breast roughly, squeezing and massaging it as he kissed along her jawline. He could feel his few days of whiskers grazing against her skin and felt her shiver at the feeling.
"Just because they keep trying," she choked out, eyes fluttering and teeth biting down into her lip as she moaned. "D-doesn't mean that I'm ever going to agree." Her arms looped around his shoulder, fingers gripping his neck and his hair. She tugged at his robes, as if telling him to get them off. Quickly; now.
Instead of answering her plea, he kissed down her chest until he found the rosy center of her breast and took it into his mouth, teeth digging into the soft flesh around them. She cried out, her hands tightening in his hair. Her hands fumbled at the shoulder of his robes, managing to push them down some. He had to lift his arms away from her to get them out. Her fingers dug into the tensed muscles of his biceps, gripping them harshly, her nails scraping at his skin. He shifted his hips away from her just enough to let his robe fall to the ground, leaving him standing in nothing but naked glory.
His hands found the sleeves of her robe and tugged them away, his mouth venturing up to taste her shoulders and her arms. He could feel her breasts pressing deliciously against his bare chest; so smooth against the hard plains of his torso. Her hands fell down from his arms, trailing down his sides, fingers delving into the muscular sculpt of his body. Were they on the bed, she'd be kissing a familiar path all over his stomach; her tongue tracing the muscles and delving into his navel.
He didn't have the patience to take her robes off entirely, instead tugging her thighs up higher on his waist until her legs wrapped tight around him, ankles clasped just above his arse.
He found her mouth once more, kissing her hard and desperate. And then he was thrusting into her, deep and thick. She whimpered against his lips, nipping his tongue as it explored the roof of her mouth, tickling her. One of her hands fell low to his back, holding tight as if to encourage him to keep going, while the other tangled in his hair, gripping it and tugging it each time he sunk into her. He broke away from her mouth, his lips heatedly tracing down the front of her neck as her head fell back. Her hips rotated with his, meeting each of his thrusts knowingly. She was so hot and wet and tight around him; it was driving him mental with desire.
He wasn't her first, he knew that, but he was her last. When the war was still a high priority, she'd had a brief romance with the Weasley twins and later tried dating Viktor Krum again. Despite most assumptions, she and Ron Weasley never got together, thankfully. And then Marcus met her in that bar and it was all history after that. The first time they shagged, it was after his team had a big win and she'd met him in the locker room to congratulate him. Luckily, it was empty at the time and the shower came in quite handy. They moved in together after two years of dating, much to Mrs. Weasley's and his own mother's disappointment. They were adamant on marriage before cohabitation. Then again, neither probably agreed with sex before marriage either. Not that he much cared. The Weasley family wasn't his biggest supporter, by far, but they accepted Hermione's decision and didn't meddle. Well, not enough to actually break them up. Ginny often hinted that Hermione would be better off with her brother and Mrs. Weasley always mentioned some nice bloke Hermione might like. They gave up after four years though. Now six years into their relationship, everybody was just waiting for them to make it legal.
For six years he'd put up with the lustful glances. The overconfident expressions of men much better looking than him, thinking they could get her flat on her back anytime. The glint of impending triumph in their eyes and the want for a little competition. But she wasn't a game to be played. They all wanted to say they'd beat out Flint for his girlfriend and nobody had won so far. And so the game became more interesting. If it wasn't Hermione telling them where to shove it, it was Marcus shoving his fist in their faces. He thought after six years, his point would be clear, but apparently not. Would a ring on her finger really make any difference? She wasn't telling him it was what she wanted. She wasn't reminding him that all of her friends were happily married and she wasn't. And never once brought up the Flint family ring when he sent it back to his mother. She just accepted things as they were. He suddenly wondered if that should worry him. Didn't she want to marry him? Didn't she want to be his always? Shouldn't she be asking him for the ring and the marriage and the promise?
He thrust into her harder, suddenly even angrier than before. Did she really only want him for however long? Sure she hadn't accepted those other men, but she wasn't exactly telling him he was going to last either. His teeth grazed down her chest, nipping rather harshly at her skin, suckling it and laving it with his tongue. One of his hands gripped her hip while the other was pressed against her shoulder blade, drawing her closer.
They were making the walls shudder. The pictures were rattling, one even fell, and the loud noise of them hitting the wall echoed around their house. He could feel her quivering tightly around him and his resolve was breaking down. But still, he kept his pace. In and out, hard and deep, better and better each time. She was whimpering his name, nails scraping his back. He slid an arm beneath her and lifted her up a little higher against the wall, giving them a new angle that had her arching her stomach against him and groaning. He shook his head as worries of one day she might be calling somebody else's name, her heat might be surrounding somebody else, her hands might be clutching another man's body. He pressed into her deeply before pulling them against the wall and stumbling toward the bed. She lay sprawled across the blanket, her arms out and her hair lying around her hair in a halo of dark curls. Her eyes were surprised for only a moment before they fell shut as he pistoned into her. Her knees drew up and he threw one of her legs over his shoulder, his hand holding the back of her thigh as he hovered over her, his head falling and his mouth finding the pebbled center of her breast once more. His hands held her sides, thumbs stroking her ribs. Her fingers tangled in the bedspread beneath her, curling the blanket up beneath her fingers.
Could anybody else make her moan like that? Make her cry out and wiggle in want? To bite her lip so hard it nearly bled or her insides quiver and shake, tighten and grip. Would anybody else ever kiss her flesh or touch her breasts or sink deep inside of her? He sneered. Never!
His body clenched angrily and his hands tightened against her sides. He could feel her skin become slick beneath his fingers, could see the way her chest heaved with her panting, could feel her thighs tighten. He lowered his upper body against hers, stretching her leg farther back as he let his lips hover just above hers.
"You're mine," he growled possessively, nipping her lower lip and panting into her mouth heavily. "Always." He sunk into her deeper, harder and she moaned loudly, hips bucking up to meet his. "We'll get married. Tomorrow, yesterday, I don't care. And then… Then they'll bloody well learn… They touch you, they die." He kissed her harshly; teeth gnashing, tongues tangling, lips swelling. "You're mine!"
She nodded, eyes fluttering. "Gods, Marcus, yes," she called out as he drove into her. Her hands gripped his back, nails digging in.
"Mine, mine, mine," he murmured, over and over, as he kissed her neck, her shoulders, suckled her breasts, marked her with his teeth and tongue and touch.
She managed to turn them over somehow, her leg falling from his shoulder to sit curled against his side. Her hands wrapped around his biceps, pinning him to the bed beneath her. Her head ducked low and her mouth kissed from his navel to his neck, teeth nipping, tongue licking, lips caressing. Her fingers flexed against his muscled upper arms as she lifted and fell, enveloping all of him inside of her. He thrust upward, unable to simply lie there and take it. The meeting of their hips became erratic and he smirked as her back arched and her head fell back, pressing her breasts out in an erotic image. He lifted up onto his elbows and took one of her breasts into his mouth, teasing it as she rose high in ecstasy and crashed heavenly over the waves of pleasure. "Mmm, yes! Marcus! Marcus! Marcus!" she sobbed, her fingers finding his hair and weaving through it, holding his head against her breast.
The quivering of her heat around him sent him over the edge and he bit down against her soft flesh as he broke. His arms wrapped around her body, holding her close, hands gripping her slick back, fingers digging in. He could feel the ends of her hair brushing against the back of his hands, so soft against his rough skin. His eyes fell shut and he panted against the valley of her breasts as his body became consumed with the incredible sensations gripping his every nerve. As quickly as it had taken him, it felt as if it dwindled and he was falling back to the bed, exhausted. He took her with him and felt her soft body fall bonelessly against his chest. He could feel her heart heating erratically against his chest.
Reality crashed down on him and he closed his eyes tightly, scowling into the darkness of their bedroom. Sweaty and rather weak, he lay beneath her, arms encircling her tightly as if worried that if he let go, she'd leave. Him and his pathetic attempt at asking her to marry him. It wasn't even a question really. He'd more of ordered her to love him for the rest of their lives; ordered her to his and his alone. It could've just been the incredible waves of ecstasy that had her simply letting him decide their future and now that it was over she'd realize what he'd said and answer in the negative. Her body was so soft against his and light as she lay sprawled over his chest.
"You're mine," he told her, but this one held less certainty, almost a question. As if her answer would decide everything.
It seemed like an eternity before she answered and his hands held onto her a little tighter, thumbs stroking her skin.
She whispered sleepily against his chest, "And you're mine." That said it all.
He smirked, holding back the sigh of relief. Yes, he was.
A/N Finally! I can get this out. Took me forever but I got some time and it just spilled out. Marcus was a very interesting character to write. Hope you enjoyed this!
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