Chapter Eight — Just Stand There, Beautiful
Luca had learned how to wait.
It wasn't something he'd decided to do. It was something his body seemed to figure out on its own. He waited to be touched. Waited to be looked at. Waited to be wanted. And when he was, he did as he was told—not with joy, not with resentment, but with a soft kind of accommodation.
It felt easier than wanting something for himself.
And now... there were two of them.
Ezra, all soft words and creeping hands.
Marcus, all dominance and weight and claiming eyes.
Neither knew about the other.
Or if they did, they didn't care.
Marcus especially—not the type to imagine that someone else could take what he already saw as his.
It was during gym period that Marcus made it clearer than ever.
The locker room had been full of noise when Luca arrived—shirts tossed, towels snapped, sneakers thudding on the tile. The air smelled of sweat and hot metal.
Luca moved quietly to his locker, slipping out of his blouse and folding it neatly on the bench. He wore the pleated skirt today—Marcus had told him once that he liked it better. Liked how it swayed. Liked how it gave views others could only look at but not touch.
Luca didn't question it anymore. If Marcus liked the skirt, he wore it.
He was halfway through pulling on his gym top when Marcus arrived—shoulders wide, shirt slung over one shoulder, eyes already locked on him.
A few boys looked up. The energy in the room dipped.
Marcus grinned lazily and walked right to Luca's bench.
"Don't bother with that."
Luca froze, shirt halfway over his chest.
Marcus plucked it from his hands and tossed it to the side.
"Stay just like that."
Luca blinked.
Marcus leaned in, voice dropping to a purr.
"Let them see what's mine."
And then, with casual ease, he gripped Luca's hips from behind and lifted the back of his skirt—high enough that every boy in the room could see the curve of him, the faint red marks that still hadn't faded, the heat of skin that had long since stopped resisting this kind of display.
The room went still.
A low whistle sounded from somewhere.
Luca's cheeks flamed—but his body didn't move.
He stood there, hands at his sides, waiting, like he was supposed to. Not presenting. Not performing. Just... waiting.
Marcus chuckled, voice louder now. "Look at this pretty thing. Doesn't even flinch anymore. Knows what's expected."
He let the skirt fall and smoothed it down with one broad hand, fingers lingering a second too long.
Then he turned Luca by the shoulders to face him. Cupped his jaw. Tipped his chin up.
"Stay here till I say."
Luca nodded faintly.
Marcus kissed him—open and rough, a full claim in front of the entire room. And when he finally pulled back, he left Luca standing there flushed, marked, trembling beneath the eyes of everyone.
Later, as Luca dressed in silence, Marcus passed by with a final low murmur.
"You wear my marks well, baby. Don't think of covering them."
And he walked away.
Luca's fingers shook faintly as he buttoned his blouse. But he didn't fight it.
He didn't think to.
If Marcus wanted him on display, that's where he would be.
If Ezra wanted him sweet and soft and willing later... he would be that too.
He waited now, for whoever would want him next.
At least when they wanted him, he existed.