14 , 1 , 4 , (14. Artist/Muse + 1. Bedroom + 4. Rough Sex) with marco as the artist and ace and sabo as his muses? requested by anon
warnings/tags: eh. poetic bullshit lmao possession?
His fingers itch for his paints.
He can't really get them at the moment, but stars above his fingers itch for his paints, his charcoal, his pencil; anything to capture just how perfect Ace looks as he arches up with a whine, the shadows that play along his side. Sweat streaks Sabo's back, curling in little rivers along muscles highlighted by gold candlelight, and Marco cards his hand through Ace's hair, tugging gently on tiny knots.
Sabo's hands will leave bruises; the teeth marks on Ace's shoulders are chest are already flushed bright red and stunning plum purple, for all that the darkness softens them. Marco leans down to kiss Ace's eyelids, making him grin even as Sabo takes no time in biting him again, his teeth sinking into Ace's bicep. Ace cries out, his nose knocking into Marco's chin, and Marco runs his hand along the indents, pressing down on the bruises and making Ace whimper and writhe.
They're so beautiful, like this. They're so beautiful that his heart aches; he can so easily think of how to paint them, how to draw Ace's side in gorgeous fire-burnished bronze, how to hide Sabo's always-vicious grin in half-shadows to find the softness Marco knows is there.
And their scars, oh their scars - the tiny shrapnel stars hidden amongst freckles and burns - harder to draw, but Marco wouldn't rest until he got them right, those marks of their hard-won survival.
Ideas for sketches and statues fill his mind and his fingers won't stop itching for his paints-
But, then again, he's too possessive to ever share what he draws. The sight of Ace's parted lips and Sabo's wayward curls is for his eyes alone, and Marco can't help but feel blessed that they have chosen to share the sight with him, of all people.
The sight of them is for his eyes alone, no matter how beautiful a painting they would make on his canvas, and so he traces their muscles with his thumbs to draw them out beneath him, and his paint is in the marks he leaves.
