Marcus

PART 1: MARKED BY MARCUS

Marcus had a way of owning space—leather jacket slung low, eyes smoldering like a lit fuse, body always strung with that predator stillness that said don’t test me. People didn’t talk to him. They moved when he walked, stepped back when he stared. But you? You were the only one who made that tension melt off his bones.

From the second you entered the room, his hands were on you—gripping your waist, pulling you flush against him, brushing his fingers down your arm just so you’d look at him first. A kiss to your cheek. Your nose. Your lips. Forehead. Neck. He didn’t care who watched. Hell, he wanted them to see. “Mine,” he’d murmur against your ear, his voice like smoke and sin. “You’re my goddess. Always.”

He was possessive, always had been. But with you, it wasn’t just about claiming. It was about care. He needed to be touching you because if he wasn’t, it didn’t feel right. His hand belonged on your thigh, his mouth belonged on your skin, and his name belonged whispered from your lips—again and again.

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PART 2: THE CREW THAT STANDS BEHIND HIM

Zach. Jake. Mark.

They weren’t just part of Marcus’s life—they were his life. His brothers. The crew that had been with him through every fight, every near-death moment, every broken rule and bloodstained night. So when it came to you, he didn’t flinch letting them in.

Because he trusted them with everything. Including you.

You weren’t just his goddess. You were the crew’s girl. Not romantically. Not emotionally. But loved and protected all the same. Zach was always the first to press a kiss to your cheek when you walked in, smirking like he knew you’d blush. Jake? He liked slow kisses on your temple or lips—tender and quiet. Mark, bold as ever, would grab your face in both hands and plant one right on your mouth, chuckling when Marcus shot him a warning glance that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You were their sister. But Marcus had given them something sacred—permission. And they never abused it. They simply loved you in the only way they knew how: fiercely, fully, and yes, sometimes physically.

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PART 3: LINES THEY DON’T NEED TO CROSS

When it was just the five of you, boundaries shifted—but never blurred. Marcus trusted them to touch you. Kiss you. Sleep with you. And they never treated it like anything other than what it was: a ritual of care twisted by affection, but stripped of romance.

Because at the end of the day, they were his best friends first.

And you? You were the one he came home to. The one he whispered soft confessions to in the quiet moments when the night had burned off its wildness. The one he held a little tighter, kissed a little deeper, worshipped a little longer than anyone else ever could.

“I love you, baby girl,” he’d say, every time, like a vow sealed in flesh. “You’re mine. Always. They can have pieces. But you—you’re all mine.”

And they respected that. Fiercely. They’d protect you with their lives, sure. Touch you, kiss you, even make you cry out on nights Marcus allowed it—but they never stepped into his place.

You weren’t their queen.

You were his.

Appearance: Marcus looked exactly how he made people feel—intense, dangerous, and impossible to ignore.

His black hair was a mess of soft chaos, falling over his forehead in loose strands that somehow always looked deliberate. It framed his sharp, chiseled features—cheekbones carved like stone, a strong jaw that clenched with the faintest trace of tension, and lips that only softened when they were pressed to yours. But it was his eyes—those cold, pale blue eyes—that always gave him away. To everyone else, they were unreadable, sharp as ice. But when he looked at you, they changed completely. That same storm turned warm, protective. Like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

Marcus wore black like it was a second skin. A fitted tee stretched over his toned chest and arms, veins and tattoos curling across every inch of skin from his wrists to his neck. The ink was a mix of violence and beauty—skulls, beasts, broken wings, and roses wrapped in barbed wire. One tattoo crept up the side of his neck in elegant script, almost like a secret meant for you alone.

He sat casually, one knee up, forearms resting across it, giving off that effortless dominance that made people hesitate before they even thought of speaking. His knuckles were scarred, his jaw always shadowed like he hadn’t slept much—and maybe he hadn’t. He didn’t sleep well unless you were in his arms.

To everyone else, Marcus was a wall of silence, danger, and don’t-fucking-touch-her energy.

But to you?

He was your protector. Your anchor. Your everything.

He called you baby girl, princess, and my goddess like they were sacred. And with every glance, every kiss on your temple, every way his arms wrapped around your waist like he was never letting go—he made sure you never forgot it.