❝DADDY LONG LEGS FINGERS❞
synopsis: it started as a harmless hand comparison with your best friend, mark grayson… but the second you noticed how long his fingers are? yeah. that filthy little brain of yours spiraled fast--and now you're about to find out exactly what those fingers can do.
warning: SMUT-WITH-FLUFF, fem!reader, switch!mark, unprotected sex, creampie, oral (f + m receiving), fingering, handjob, blowjob, face sitting, p in v, dirty talk, breeding?, mentioning of tummy bulging, mark acts like a little shit, friends-to-lovers kinda vibe, reader is implied to be loud, debbie and nolan knows
a/n: another long post done that was sitting in my drafts for a long time is finally completed! woohoo! and don't worry guys, i have another long, filthy post you freaks out there might enjoy ^^
It starts simple. Just the two of you, killing time on a hot-ass day.
Mark's stretched out on his bed in a plain white tee and sweatpants, bare feet dangling off the edge, a comic held above his face. You're lying on your stomach beside him, scrolling through your phone with one hand and popping grapes into your mouth from the bowl on the nightstand with the other. The fan hums overhead, blades lazily spinning, sending a soft breeze that flutters the edge of your shirt.
It's been one of those quiet days--easy, comfortable, familiar. The kind of day that slips by without effort. You've been friends forever. Close enough to joke about everything, to touch without flinching, to share a bed or a bite of food without thinking twice.
Something's been simmering beneath the surface. Something unspoken. Lingering glances. That low, fluttery buzz in your stomach when your shoulders brush. When his thigh bumps yours. When he looks over at you with sleep-wrecked hair and that heavy-lidded stare.
You should be used to it by now. This closeness. This... everything. But it's getting harder to ignore how good his arms look when he stretches, or how your stomach does that dumb little flip every time he laughs in that sleepy, raspy voice.
Today, he looks too good for his own damn safety.
You glance up from your phone--not really meaning to--and find yourself looking at his mouth. He's chewing the corner of his lip, eyes flicking across the comic like he's actually reading, but his fingers haven't turned the page in a while. His shirt's riding up just a bit, teasing a strip of his stomach.
And God help you, you notice.
You stare. Look back at your phone. Pop a grape in your mouth like that'll fix anything.
When you glance up again, he's smiling. Not at you--at something in the comic--but the way the corner of his mouth lifts first? The way it makes that damn dimple show?
That should be illegal. Like, arrest-worthy--because of that dimple? Way too hot.
(As if he wasn't already criminally attractive.)
His arm is resting near yours, casual and close, and for some reason... it's his hand that catches your attention this time. The veins. The tendons. The long, twitchy fingers. You watch them turn a page, and something flutters in your chest--sharp and sudden.
"...Hey," you murmur, nudging his arm. "Lemme see your hand."
Mark glances over, confused but obliging. "Uh... okay?"
He lowers the comic, and you immediately take his hand in yours--palm to palm.
"I knew it," you mutter. "You've got big hands."
Mark furrows his brow. "I mean... you've got tiny hands. That's not really a surprise."
"No, no. This is different." You scoot closer, studying the way your fingertips don't even reach the last knuckle of his. "They're longer. Like, spider-leg long."
He snorts. "Gee, thanks."
But his voice cracks slightly, trying to be casual. He thinks he's being casual. But inside? His brain is already short-circuiting.
Why are you looking at his hand like that?
Why are you holding it like that?
You glide your fingers slowly to his, tracing the length with teasing precision. "I mean it as a compliment. Kinda."
"'Kinda,'" he echoes, already scrambling, because your voice just dropped half an octave and his heart's pounding.
You shoot him a look. "Don't get cocky just 'cause your mutant fingers are hot."
But you're not letting it go. Not now. Not after your brain catches up to the possibilities.
Those fingers... long, nimble, warm. Strong when they grip things. And you've seen the way they wrap around water bottles, seen how they flex when he's clenching a fist or holding a pencil or absentmindedly drumming on his thigh while thinking.
God, what could those fingers do to you?
You stare down at your hands against his, thoughts spiraling rapidly from innocent observation to filthy, spiraling fantasy.
His long fingers wrapped around your throat. Curling inside you just right, hitting that perfect spot that makes you see stars. Holding your hips down while you squirm beneath him, breathless, begging him to stop because it's too much, it's too good--and you don't know if you can take it.
You feel a rush of heat crawl up to your neck, something throbbing deep and low, causing you to press your thighs together without thinking--tight, needy, like your body's already begging for his hands.
And Mark feels it too. Feels the shift. Sees the look in your eyes and he's panicking.
"Okay, weird inspection's over--" he tries to pull away.
But you catch his wrist and give him that look.
The one that says: you're not leaving this moment unscathed.
Then your lips curl into a devilish grin, slow and deliberate, causing Mark's breath to hitch. He watches your lips part, feeling his mouth go dry until--
"...You ever put those fingers to good use, Grayson?"
Your voice is silk and heat. And Mark?
Mark's brain lags like a bad Wi-Fi connection.
"I--wha--what does that even mean?" he stammers, eyes wide, cheeks already tinting red as your grip on his wrist tightens just slightly. His fingers twitch against yours, and you swear you feel a spark shoot up your arm.
You lean in closer, like you're about to share a secret.
"It means," you purr, tracing one of his long fingers with your nail, from base to tip in a deliberate, slow drag. "you've got tools, Mark. Real potential. And now I'm wondering what they'd feel like... y'know..."
You let your voice drop, eyes lidded. "Inside someone."
Mark makes a choked sound in his throat, like his soul just left his body. "You're messing with me," he says, voice shaky, trying hard to sound firm. "You--this is just another one of your dumb jokes."
You tilt your head, that same grin playing at the corner of your mouth as your fingers slide down his palm, lightly tickling the veins there. "Am I joking?" you ask inocently. "Or are you just scared?"
"Scared?!" he repeats, voice cracking.
"Oh yeah," you hum. "You're redder than a tomato right now. What, is it too much? Can't handle a little finger talk?"
"I can handle--" Mark's voice pitches, indignant and flustered all at once. "It's not like I haven't--done stuff before!"
"Yeah?" you lean forward, so close now that your lips are barely a few inches from his, eyes locked. "Then prove it."
Mark's breath hitches. "W-What?"
You keep going, teasing, relentless, your voice practically wrapping around him. "Show me how good they are. Those hands of yours. Or was all that talk just for show?"
His jaw clenches, eyes flicking down to your mouth, then back up, shoulders stiffen like he's bracing himself.
The moment Mark Grayson breaks.
"You're playing with fire," he says, voice low and dangerous.
Your smirk deepens. "Good. I like the burn."
And suddenly, his hand that had been under yours moves. Firm and sure, sliding up, fingers brushing your wrist, your forearm, until he's gripping just below your elbow.
"You want me to use my fingers?" he asks, voice husky now, a dark undercurrent that wasn't there before. "On you?"
You pause for a breath, caught by the tension snapping in the air.
"...I mean," you whisper, "unless you're too scared."
His smile curves--crooked and dangerous. "I already told you. I can handle it."
Then his hand slides up to your jaw, tilting your chin--slow, deliberate, commanding. Your breath catches as you watch the way his eyes darken, eyes lidded as he stares you down.
"And I will," he adds. "But if I do, you better be ready to take all of it. No running away when it gets too much. No teasing halfway."
Your heart pounds. His fingers--god, those fingers--are cradling your jaw now, brushing over your lips, your cheek, slow and maddening.
"I don't run," you whisper.
He leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmurs, "Then lie back."
You don't break eye contact when you shift, body thrumming with heat as you lie back on his bed, sinking into his sheets. There's a moment--just one--where you feel almost too exposed, nerves prickling under your skin. You hadn't expected him to rise to the challenge. Not like this. Not with that look in his eye.
Mark settles beside you, bracing one hand next to your head, the other skimming down your side.
"You sure?" he murmurs, voice a low rasp, lips brushing the corner of your mouth. "You're not gonna tap out if I go too far?"
You grin, but your voice wavers with need. "Try me."
And that's all it take for Mark to snap.
His mouth crashes into yours--hot, messy, hungry. It's not your first kiss, but it feels like the first time he's really kissing you, like he's been waiting to unleash it. His tongue tangles with yours as his hand slides down to your waistband, pushing your shirt up just enough to expose your stomach.
"You looked so smug earlier," he growls, teeth catching your bottom lip. "Talking shit about my fingers like you weren't desperate for me to use them on you."
You gasp into the kiss. "I wasn't--!"
"You were," he says, cutting you off as his fingers trail beneath your waistband, over your panties. "And now I get to hear how cocky you sound when you're soaked."
He drags two fingers between your legs, slow, and you jerk beneath him with a soft moan.
"God, you're already wet?"
"Shut up," you pant, trying to squirm, but he presses his hand down--just enough to hold you still.
"Oh, now you wanna be shy?" His smirk is wicked. "Nah. I want all that attitude. I want you to look me in the eye when I make you fall apart."
He hooks his fingers beneath the waistband of your panties and drags them down your thighs. You kick them off, already impatient, legs shifting restlessly.
Two fingers sliding through your folds, dragging through slick heat. He watches every reaction--how your breath catches, how your hips jerk, how your thighs twitch open wider for him.
"Fuck," he murmurs. "You feel good."
His middle finger sinks in first, slow but firm, filling you with a stretch that makes your toes curl.
"Too much already?" he teases, even as he pumps it in and out, curling slightly on each thrust. "That's just one, babe."
You throw your arm over your eyes, breath coming faster. "Don't you fucking dare--"
The stretch is intense--but it's not painful. It's deep. Long. And his fingers--god, they reach so much further than yours ever could. He starts working them with slow, deep thrusts, curling them just right.
"Fuck--right there," you gasp, hips stuttering against the bed.
Mark freezes, grinning. "There?"
You glare at him through hazy lashes. "If you stop now I swear to god--"
He grinds the heel of his palm against your clit and starts really fucking you with his fingers--deep, fast, curling perfectly with every thrust. The squelch of slick heat fills the room, obscene and loud. Your thighs are shaking, hips bucking helplessly against him.
"Listen to you," he groans, pupils blown wide. "Dripping all over my hand. You like these long fingers, huh? You were practically begging for it without even saying it."
You can't even argue--not with your head thrown back, jaw slack, moaning with every snap of his wrist. The way his long fingers curl perfectly to hit that spot over and over again that makes you scream, pumping slowly just to tease you.
"Mark--oh fuck! Don't stop--!"
"That's it, baby," he growls. "You gonna cum for me? Just from my fingers?"
You nod frantically, too far gone to speak. And he knows it--he fucks you faster now. Deeper. Grinning when you babble his name between whimpers and gasps.
It's messy--loud, full-body shudders, thighs clamping around his wrist as you cry out and clamp down around his fingers, your back arching clean off the bed.
"Fuck," Mark mutters, watching you like he's starving. "God, that was--"
Your brain feels like it's turned to liquid. Your body's still shaking and clenching weakly around his fingers.
He pulls them out slowly, dragging them through your folds one more time before lifting them to his mouth. His lips part, and he sucks them clean, eyes fixed on yours the entire time.
"Guess my fingers aren't so freakish after all, huh?" he murmurs, voice husky.
"...They're worse," you whisper. "They're a fucking problem."
"Good. I hope you suffer."
You huff, rolling your eyes playfully as you try to catch your breath--still panting, legs slack, thighs twitching with the aftershocks. Your body feels like it's been melted into the sheets, your skin hot and humming.
But despite the high, despite your racing heart... something heavier, hotter, and needier is pulsing between your legs now:
He had the audacity to smirk at you while tasting you from his fingers. The gall to look you in the eye, lips glistening, and say he hopes you suffer.
Like, what the actual fuck?
He thinks he's in control no--acting all smug and high just by making you cum with those long fingers of his.
But the truth is--he's not.
You stare up at him, eyes hooded, lips parted. Mark's still leaning over you, licking his fingers clean with that cocky-ass smirk that makes your stomach clench all over again.
And that's when you see it.
The shape of him. His sweatpants are tented with zero shame--his hard-on straining against the thin fabric, leaking just from touching you. He's rock hard, flushed all the way to his ears, but he hasn't even touched himself yet.
"Oh my god," you whisper. "You're fucking dripping."
Mark freezes. "I--shut up."
You sit up slowly, your strength returning in wicked waves. "All that from just fingering me?"
His mouth opens, then closes. His confidence falters. "I mean, you--you were hot--"
You crawl toward him on your hands and knees--half-naked, eyes locked on his. "You came in cocky, Mark," you murmur. "But you didn't think about what happens after, did you?"
He sits back a little, swallowing hard. "After...?"
You reach for the waistband of his sweatpants, tugging it down a bit to reveal more of that delicious faint trail of hair that disappears under his boxers.
You glance up at him, mock-innocent as a wicked smile spreads across your face.
Mark hisses through his teeth when you yank them down. His cock springs free--thick, flushed, the tip wet with precum, twitching like it's been dying for attention. And you just smile at the sight of it, all flushed and twitching against his stomach.
You wrap your hand around the base, deliberately slow, and his entire body goes rigid.
"Oh, baby," you coo, grinning like you didn't just almost trip on the sheets. "You were so good for me just now. You deserve a little treat, right?"
"I--fuck--fuck," Mark pants as your fist glides up the length, thumb swiping over the head, smearing the slickness there. "Jesus--your hands feel--"
"Not freakish?" you tease, lips brushing his throat as you pump him in slow, tight strokes. "Mine might be smaller, but I know exactly how to use them."
His head drops back, neck straining.
Your thumb presses under the head, circling the ridge, and his hips thrust into your grip with a gasp.
"Shit--you're gonna make me cum--!"
"Already?" You pout. "But I was just getting started..."
And you are. You bend down, lips parting over the tip, and when your tongue flicks across that sensitive slit, Mark whimpers.
You flatten your tongue against the underside and drag it slowly to the head, then suck him into your mouth until your cheeks hollow around him.
You moan around him, causing Mark to cry out loud from the sudden vibration shooting throughout his body.
"Fuckfuckfuck--" His hands claw at the sheets. "That's not fair--you can't--Jesus--"
Your hand stays tight around the base while your mouth takes the rest--sucking, swirling, teasing until his thighs are shaking and he's leaking even more, gasping your name like it's the only word he remembers.
He lifts his head to watch you, wide-eyed and wrecked, eyes glassy.
"You're--you're evil," he chokes. "You're so--fucking perfect--I'm not gonna last--"
You need a breath. A break. But the way he's looking at you, like he'd worship the ground you walk on just for sucking him dry? You're not done yet. You pull off him with a pop, strings of spit connecting from your lips to his tip as you grin up at him, spit-slick lips shining.
Then your fist tightens, your mouth drops back down, and you suck him deep this time--fast, wet, filthy, until his thighs are shaking and he's panting and begging under his breath:
"Please, baby--please let me cum--fuck, I need it--I need it so bad--"
He explodes with a groan so guttural it doesn't sound real--his body locking up, his hand gripping your hair, his cock twitching hard as he spills into your mouth in thick, hot spurts.
Not a single drop was wasted. Even after he cums, you keep going. Sucking slow, dragging it out. His hips twitch helplessly, his breath ragged and choked.
"Too much," he whines, trying to push your head back. "I-I can't--"
You finally pull off, eyes gleaming, lips shiny.
"You lasted longer than I thought," you murmur sweetly. "Guess those long fingers aren't the only impressive thing on you."
He collapses backward onto the bed, totally fucked out, arm thrown over his eyes. "Holt shit," he rasps. "I'm gonna die."
You crawl up beside him, curling against his chest. "You're not dying," you whisper against his neck. "You're just getting started."
Mark groans. "You're gonna kill me."
"And you're gonna thank me for it," you tease.
He chuckles breathlessly, still trying to catch his breath as you tangle your legs with his--one hand lazily tracing the lines on his stomach, your breath warm against his skin.
You hear it before you feel it: the hitch in his breath, the subtle twitch of his hips, the way his fingers shift to grip your waist just a little tighter.
"...Mark," you murmur, chin resting on his chest. "Are you getting hard again?"
He groans and throws an arm over his face. "Don't judge me--"
You shift up and straddle his hips, grinding down slightly--and there it is. Hard. Thick. Already twitching.
"Oh my god." You laugh, breathless. "You're actually insane."
Mark peeks out from under his arm, flushed and panting. "You sucked the soul out of me. What do you expect?"
You lean in, dragging your nails slightly across his chest. "You really wanna go again?"
"Not just go again," he murmurs. "I wanna taste you now."
Your breath catches. "What--"
"I've been thinking about it since you got on top of me." His hands slide to your ass, squeezing hard. "Since I watched your pretty lips wrapped around my cock, swallowing every drop I had. You made me cum so much... and now I think it's my turn to return the favor back."
You gasp as he sits up, flipping you easily until you're underneath him, and then back again until you're straddling his face.
"Mark--" your voice cracks. "This is--this is so unfair."
"You teased me, sucked me dry, smirked through it like you won," he growls, kissing the inside of your thigh. "So now? I'm eating you until you cry."
He grabs your thighs and pulls you down onto his face, tongue instantly diving between your folds, lapping at you like he's starving.
Your scream tears out of you before you can stop it--leaving no time to be embarrassed.
His lips seal around your clit and suck hard, sending a shockwave through your core that makes your legs buckle. His tongue flicks, circles, teases--then plunges deep inside you, fucking you with his mouth like he's trying to wring another orgasm out of you right now.
"Mark--fuck, I--" You can't even breathe.
He groans under you, gripping your thighs tighter, pulling you in closer, not letting you up. Every movement is greedy, possessive--he eats you like it's his, like this is the only thing that matters in the word right now.
You grab the headboard for balance, hips rocking against his face uncontrollably.
His nose nudges your clit just right. His tongue? Fucking ruthless. And those long fingers?
One slips inside again, already soaked, curling just right--then another, his mouth and fingers working together in tandem.
You cry out, thighs trembling violently. "Mark--I'm--I'm gonna cum again--I can't--"
His voice is muffled against your cunt, but you hear it:
You scream his name, hips grinding down as your orgasm slams into you--so much harder than the first. Your vision goes white, your body convulsing as you ride his mouth, dripping all over him.
He moans through it. Drinks through it.
Even as your thighs tremble, even as you whimper and twitch, he doesn't let up. He licks you through it, into it--until your entire body goes limp, slumping forward against the wall behind his bed, breathing like you ran a marathon.
He finally pulls back, chin soaked, eyes blown out and obsessed as he stares up at you.
"You good?" he pants, voice hoarse.
You shake your head, dazed and breathless. "No. I'm dead. You ruined me."
He grins, flipping you back underneath him again, kissing down your throat. "Good," he growls. "Because I'm not done yet until I make you scream my name again."
You whine, your body trembling--eyes dazed, thighs slick, lips parted as you try to catch your breath. Your body's spent, slick between your legs, twitching with every brush of air. Mark's leaning over you, breath warm on your neck, and the look in his eyes is feral.
"You said I ruined you," he rasps, his hand slipping between your thighs, spreading you wide again, and he groans when he feels how soaked you still are. "Then let me finish the job."
You barely manage a nod--your body is too needy, too raw and desperate to even protest. And when he grabs his cock--hard again, thick and flushed--you nearly whimper at the sight of it.
He runs the head through your folds, gathering every bit of slick he pulled out of you, then lines himself up.
"You still want this?" he growls, voice low, teeth gritted as he teases your entrance. "Still want me to fuck you, even like this?"
You nod frantically, fingers curling into the sheets. "Please, Mark--I need it, I need you--inside me--"
In one deep, smooth thrust, he sinks all the way in--bottoming out with a groan so guttural it makes your toes curl.
"F-Fuck--" he gasps, forehead dropping to yours. "You're so tight, fuck--you feel so--shit."
You cry out, body jolting as you stretch around him. It's too much--he's thick and hot and deep, and your cunt is still aching from earlier.
"You're dripping," he grits, thrusting in slowly, deliberately deep. "Still fucking leaking from my fingers and my mouth--and now this pussy's clenching like it never wants me to leave."
You whimper. "I don't. Don't pull out."
He growls like an animal, grabbing your thighs and pinning them up toward your chest, folding you beneath him as he fucks deeper.
"Yeah?" he snarls. "You want me to fill you up? Get you so full of me you're leaking for days?"
You moan, nails digging into this back. "Wanna feel you everywhere--"
"You will," he promises, voice harsh and breathless. "I'm gonna fuck you so deep, you'll still feel me when you walk tomorrow."
His hips start snapping forward faster--harder. His cock slams into your sweet spot, dragging wet, obscene sounds out of you with every thrust. You can barely breathe--his pace is brutal now, deep and punishing, hips slamming into yours.
"Mark--fuckfuck, you're so deep--!" you sob, legs wrapped around his waist.
He snarls into your neck, biting down gently. "You take it so fucking good. Look at you. Fucked out. Crying for me."
Your eyes are rolling. You're drooling. His cock hits that spit so perfectly, your vision's going white again.
"Cum again," he demands. "Now."
You wail--your orgasm crashes over you with no warning, your body seizing as you scream his name. You tighten around him so hard it nearly rips a groan out of him.
"Fuck--! Shit, baby," Mark shudders, barely hanging on. "You're--fuck, you're milking me--I can't--"
His rhythm falters, slamming in once--twice--then freezes.
You feel it--pulse after pulse of him spilling inside, thick and warm, coating your insides until it's leaking back out around his cock. His whole body shakes above you, every muscle straining as he rides out his orgasm with a ragged, animalistic moan.
"Shit--oh my god--" he pants, hips still twitching.
You're both shaking, your bodies stuck together by sweat and heat and slick, breaths ragged and broken.
"...Holy shit," you whisper, voice cracking.
Mark lets out a breathless laugh into your neck.
"Let me live first, you goddamn Viltrumite freak."
He just grins against your skin. "You love it."
You breathe out a shaky laugh, not sure if you're recovering... or relapsing.
You love it when he holds you like this after. When all the teasing and tension fades into something quieter. When he doesn't let go. When his forehead rests against yours like he might be just as afraid of what this means. When the jokes stop and it's just breath and heartbeat and skin--and it feels like that neither of you really knows how to walk away anymore.
Your heart's still pounding. Every nerve in your body still sings from where he touched you, where he held you down, where he pulled you apart with maddening precision. His fingers--those fingers--are still ghosting idle circles into your thigh, like they don't know they've already ruined you.
Mark's body is half-draped over yours, his weight is grounding, his breath brushing your collarbone in slow, satisfied exhales. There's a smear of your lip gloss near his jaw. A bite mark on his shoulder. Your nails carved down his back like proof.
The air is thick with sweat, heat, and sex. The fan buzzes lazily overhead. Your lungs are still catching up. Your thighs are still twitching.
But the thing is--Mark is still inside you, yes.
But he's also brushing sweaty strands of hair from your face like you're something precious. Like the way he held your jaw earlier was just the start of something dangerous and tender.
You feel him twitch once, lazily, and you both groan at the oversensitive drag of it.
"...You didn't pull out," you mumble, voice cracked and hoarse.
He lets out a dazed, cocky little laugh into the crook of your neck. "Yeah," he exhales, "No shit."
You can't help the soft, worn-out giggle that escapes you. There's a lot of him still leaking out of you. You can feel it. And the worst part?
You love the way he claimed you. The mess. The stretch. The soreness. The heat still blooming in your stomach like something dangerous took root there.
His arm slides under your shoulders, cradling you against him, and you feel the press of his lips at your temple.
"You okay?" he whispers. "Did I go too hard?"
You turn your head slightly and stare at him. Your voice is flat. "You ate me like i was your final meal and then ruined my soul."
You swat his side. "That's a yes, in case you were wondering"
He groans dramatically and buries his face in your neck. "I blacked out somewhere around round three. I'm not even sure what happened."
"You talked dirty. Like, filthy filthy."
"Did I?" he says, voice muffled against your skin. "That doesn't sound like me."
You shift under him and immediately regret it.
A sharp gasp escapes you.
"Oh my god," you whimper. "I'm gonna feel you for a week."
"...Still inside you, by the way," Mark adds, so helpfully. "Which means if I twitch just a little--"
He grins against your collarbone. "You'd let me."
Instead, you run your fingers through his sweaty hair and rest your cheek against his head. The silence settles again--quiet and warm, his heart beating against yours. His fingers draw slow, lazy circles on your side.
After a moment, he murmurs, "Hey."
"...I really like you, y'know."
That makes your eyes open.
You turn your head again and find him staring at you--soft-eyed, messy-haired, completely wrecked and somehow still beautiful. There's no teasing in his voice this time. Just bare, honest reaction.
You're ruined all over again.
"Yeah," you whisper. "I really like you too, Grayson."
Then, he kisses you slow. No pressure. No rush. Just lips pressed to lips, fingers curled around your waist, two bodies tangled under the weight of everything you just shared.
Eventually, when your legs stop trembling and your brain returns to your body, he finally pulls out with a hiss and a curse--and you both watch the mess drip out of you with tired fascination.
"...That's disgusting," you mumble.
Mark beams. "That's mine."
You groan and bury your face in the pillow.
"Round five in the morning?" he adds sweetly.
You lift one hand and flip him off.
Mark just laughs, too proud of himself to care. He ducks down to press a kiss to your shoulder--mocking, smug, sweet.
"I'll take that as a yes."
You groan again, rolling to the side and dragging the sheet up with you, your legs still too shaky to trust. Your body's wrecked. Mark's still watching you like he hasn't had enough--like he's already plotting round five.
"It's a fuck you, actually."
You shoot him a look over your shoulder--flat, unimpressed, exhausted. "Mark."
You sigh, voice softer this time. "Let's just sleep."
For a second, he studies you--really looks. The sweat still drying on your skin. The twitch of your thighs. The way your brows pinch just barely, even now, like you're so close to your limit. Not just physically, but emotionally too.
"Yeah. Okay," he says, voice low and sincere.
He shifts behind you, wrapping an arm around your waist as you tuck into the pillow. No teasing. No pushing. Just his hand smoothing down your side in slow, grounding strokes. His breath brushes the nape of your neck.
"I'm not going anywhere," he murmurs.
You hum, already half-asleep. "Didn't ask you to."
But still--you relax a little more.
And just before sleep claims you, with his breath warm against your skin, you wonder if maybe you never really stood a chance.
Not against this. Not against him.
You don't remember falling asleep.
Just the weight of him behind you, his hand warm over your stomach, his breath steady at the nape of your neck.
Now the sun is leaking through the blinds, gold and heavy. The fan hums above in slow, lazy spins. You blink, throat dry, body screaming at you with every little twitch.
But your body doesn't hurt in a bad way. No, this is the type of pain you wake up smiling through--sore thighs, a faint ache between your legs, the ghost of deep pressure low in your stomach. You're covered in dried sweat, bite marks, and hickeys that are definitely going to show. And the worst part?
You'd do it all over again.
You will do it all over again--if the way Mark's arm is slung across your waist, his hand curled possessively against your stomach, is any indication. He's still behind you, breathing slow and even, clinging to you even in his sleep like he's afraid you'll vanish if he lets go, like you're his.
You blink at the ceiling. Still in Mark's bed. Naked. Under a single thin sheet.
"Ow," you whisper sharply, gripping your thigh.
Behind you, Mark groans and shifts. "Told you I'd ruin you," he murmurs, still half-asleep and smug.
You elbow him in the ribs.
"I hate you," you mumble into his pillow.
He kisses your shoulder. "No you don't."
You grumble something incoherent and try to sit up again. Your legs wobble. You glare at him over your shoulder.
"I swear to god, Mark Grayson--if I can't walk straight today--"
He grins, looking away too pleased with himself.
"Then my job here is done."
You lunge for a pillow and whack him across the face with it, which only makes him laugh harder, arms wrapping around your waist to drag you back down.
"C'mon," he murmurs, voice gravelly. "Five more minutes. You're warm."
"I'm sticky," you shoot back, squirming.
He shifts behind you again and you feel the unmistakable twitch of something hard pressing against your ass.
He laughs, breath puffing against your skin. "It's not my fault you were making those sounds last night," he grins, shameless. "My body remembers."
You groan and cover your face with both hands. "We were so loud."
"I told you not to scream my name."
"You told me to look you in the eye and cum on your cock!"
"Oh yeah." He grins, eyes dreamy. "That was a good moment--"
Your soul leaves your body.
"You up? I brought breakfast--"
"NO--NO, I'M GOOD--WE'RE GOOD!" he yells suddenly, leaping halfway out of bed while fumbling for a shirt to cover your both. One leg gets caught in the sheets, and he slams straight into the nightstand. "Shit--!"
The lamp crashes to the floor, and you cackle behind your hand, trying to stay silent.
"YOU DON'T HAVE TO COME IN--!"
Debbie stands in the doorway holding a tray of toast, eggs, and orange juice.
You. Naked. In Mark's bed.
Mark. Shirtless, sweaty, the room reeked of sex.
The sheet is halfway off your body. Hickeys. Hair a mess. Her son's very obvious boner.
You want the ground to swallow you whole.
Debbie blinks once--twice--and looks at Mark. Then at you. And then at the tray. "...Well," she says calmly. "I guess breakfast can wait."
"Next time, lock the door. And maybe crack a window."
She turns around, leaves, and gently closes the door behind her. You lie there, face hot, hands gripping the sheets and Mark just flops face-first onto the bed and screams into the pillow.
"You're never getting laid in this house again," you mutter.
"She's gonna tell my dad," Mark groans.
"Oh, she's definitely gonna tell your dad."
You both dissolve into mortified, hysterical laughter.
It's the kind of laughter that feels like crying. Like maybe if you don't laugh, your brain will melt into a puddle of shame and your soul will astral project off the planet.
You collapse back into the sheets, hiding your face.
Mark is still screaming into the pillow.
"She saw everything," you whisper, like saying it out loud will exorcise the horror. "Everything. Your dick. My hickeys. My ass--oh my god--"
"She's gonna bleach the house," he groans, muffled.
"She's gonna sage the room."
"She's gonna send us a Google doc titled 'Safe Sex and Boundaries.'"
There's a long beat of silence.
"...I have to go out there," you whisper, frozen with dread.
Mark lifts his head just enough to squint at you. "You don't have to."
"I can't just stay in your room like a cryptid and hide."
"You could. Cryptids are cool."
He flops back onto the bed with a groan. "Fine. Let me find you some clothes."
He rolls off the mattress with all the grace of someone who got rail-gunned by orgasmic bliss, limping dramatically toward his dresser, still stark naked, still half-hard.
You blink. "You're seriously walking around like that?"
He waves you off. "She already saw the worst. The damage is done."
He opens the drawer and tosses an oversized hoodie and boxers onto the bed beside you. "There. Cover that pretty ass before I get ideas."
You raise a brow. "You already had ideas. Several times."
Mark shoots you a crooked grin, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, well. Can you blame me?"
You roll your eyes--but your smile gives you away.
Then you sit up, groaning again, gripping your sore thigh. "I can't go out there like this. I feel disgusting. My thighs are stuck together, Mark."
"You're welcome," he says, proud.
You grab a pillow and throw it at his head.
He dodges easily, laughing. "Okay, okay--how about a shower?"
Your eyes narrow. "A solo shower."
Mark places a hand on his chest, mock-offended. "What do you take me for?"
"A helpful menace. I'll even wash your hair."
He smirks. "I'll behave."
"...You said that last night."
"Yeah, and look how that turned out."
You groan. "Fine. But no funny business."
Mark salutes. "Scout's honor."
You slide out of bed, wincing a little as your feet touch the floor. Everything between your thighs aches in that used, sore, completely-fucked-out way. You grab the shirt he tossed and slip it over your head--it drowns you instantly, falling halfway to your knees.
Mark makes a sound behind you.
He's watching you like he wants to sin all over again. His lip tugs into a grin. "Nothing. Just--you look good in my clothes."
You roll your eyes, padding toward the bathroom. "Shut up and turn on the water."
He follows, grabbing a towel on the way, and by the time you step into the shower, steam is already starting to curl around the curtain rod. The room's small, a little too warm, and Mark is definitely not giving you space.
"You said you'd behave," you remind him, raising a brow as he steps in behind you.
He shrugs, lips twitching. "This is me behaving."
The water runs hot over your skin, rinsing away dried sweat and whatever dignity you had left. You sigh, letting it wash over your face, your neck, your chest.
Behind you, Mark is quiet.
Then his hands gently find your waist.
You tense--but he doesn't move. Doesn't grab/ Doesn't grope. He just holds you there, thumbs brushing slow circles over your skin.
"I meant it, by the way," he murmurs into your ear, voice low, soft. "Last night."
"The part where I said I really like you."
You exhale, leaning your back against his chest, water running over both of you. "Yeah," you whisper. "I meant it too."
His arms wrap around you fully this time, pulling you closer under the spray. "I know we joke a lot," he says, "but I'm not just in this for the sex. Even if the sex is--like--holy shit."
You snort. "Wow. So romantic."
He kisses your temple. "You know what I mean."
You nod, letting yourself lean into him for a moment longer--just the water, the heat, and the steady thrum of his heart pressed to your spine.
Eventually, Mark reaches for the shampoo and works it into your hair with surprising gentleness, fingers massaging your scalp while you hum in contentment.
"This is dangerously domestic," you murmur.
He grins. "Too late to run now."
Let the moment stretch--quiet and warm and real.
His fingers are gentle now. No teasing. No games. Just slow movements over your skin, like he's memorizing every inch of you in silence.
The water slips down your shoulders in lazy streams. His palm drags across your back, your hips, smoothing soap into the curve of your spine like you'll break if he pushes too hard. He presses a kiss between your shoulder blades.
You exhale, soft. Melting under the steady rhythm of him.
"I meant what I said," Mark murmurs.
You open your eyes halfway. "Which part?"
He doesn't answer right away. Just reaches for your hand under the spray and laces your fingers together. His thumb brushes the side of yours.
"All of it," he says finally. "I don't regret any of this."
The silence that follows is heavier than it should be. It hangs between your bodies, slick with more than water. You want to believe it. You do. But it scares you how much you want to stay like this--how much you want this to mean something.
You turn around slowly, water cascading down your skin, and meet his eyes.
He looks serious. Like he's searching for something in your expression. Like he's bracing himself for you to run.
You lean in, pressing your forehead to his, your noses brushing. His breath hitches.
"I don't regret it either," you whisper.
Mark lets out a breath like he's been holding it since last night. His grip tightens on your hand. You stay like that for a moment--close, bare, hearts thudding in sync under the hot spray--until he finally lets out a quiet lopsided laugh.
"You're still not walking straight, are you?"
You smack his chest without looking up. "Shut up."
He laughs harder and pulls you close, arms wrapping around your waist under the water. "You love me."
"You're lucky I'm too sore to punch you."
You roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away.
And just like that--beneath the running water, tangled in each other, soaked and tired and vulnerable--you realize this isn't just a fling. This is real. Something's shifted. And neither of you wants to go back.
He holds you there, chest to chest, the steam curling around your shoulders and the sound of the water muffling the outside world.
Your fingers curl into the back of his neck, slow, deliberate. You tilt your head just enough to brush your mouth against his--barely there, a ghost of a kiss.
His lips press into yours with none of the urgency from last night. This isn't about heat. This isn't about need. This is something else.
He kisses you like he means it. Like he's choosing to mean it. Like he's never going to let himself forget what this feels like--your mouth wet and warm against his, your hand slipping up to cup his jaw, your thumb tracing the damp corner of his mouth.
He sighs into the kiss, like the weight he's been carrying finally loosens.
"You taste like my chapstick," you murmur against his lips.
"You taste like trouble," he murmurs back.
Your brows lift. "Seriously?"
"I'm trying to be romantic. Shut up."
You smile. It's soft and real and completely wrecks him.
And then he kisses you again--deeper, slower, until the water beating down your shoulders feels far away, until your fingers are tangled in his damp hair, until your breath catches like it's the first time all over again.
When you finally break apart, forehead still touching, his voice is barely a whisper. "You're it for me, you know."
You don't speak right away. You just nod once, because the words would come out too fast, too raw, if you tried.
Instead, you press one more kiss to the corner of his mouth, rest your head against his chest, and let him hold you there.
Let the water rinse away everything else.
Eventually, the water starts to cool. Goosebumps rise on your skin, and you shiver against him.
Mark notices immediately.
"Alright," he murmurs, reluctantly reaching behind you to turn off the tap. "Come on. Before you freeze."
You nod, stepping carefully out of the tub with his hands steadying your waist the whole way. He grabs a towel and warps it around your shoulders, then reaches for another to dry your hair, ruffling it gently.
You glare. "If I walk out looking like a wet sheepdog, I'm blaming you."
He grins, unapologetic. "You'll still be the hottest sheepdog I've ever seen."
You deadpan. "Do you often see sexy sheepdogs?"
"I try not to judge beauty by species."
You smack his bare chest with the towel. He just laughs and leans in, pressing a quick, warm kiss to your forehead--almost like muscle memory now.
"Okay, smartass," you mutter. "Where's that hoodie you promised?"
Mark grabs it off the counter where he folded it earlier, then holds it open for you to slip into. It's huge on you. The sleeves fall past your hands, and the hem hits your thighs like a dress. Still warm from the dryer.
You almost don't want to give it back.
Mark pulls on a fresh t-shirt and sweats, towel-drying his hair as you both glance at your reflection in the fogged mirror. You grimace. Your hair's wild. There's a faint red mark on your neck that's definitely not a bug bite. And your eyes?
You catch Mark watching you in the mirror and raise an eyebrow.
He just shakes his head a little. "Nothing. You just look really..." he trails off.
"I was gonna say beautiful," he says softly. "But, yeah. That too."
You roll your eyes, cheeks flushing. "Shut up."
You shove his shoulder on your way out the door, but you're smiling. Quietly. Like you forgot how to stop.
Now you're sitting at the kitchen table in one of Mark's old oversized hoodies--because you didn't bring clothes, because you weren't supposed to sleep over, and because your real outfit is still somewhere on the floor of his bedroom, probably stuck to a wall.
The hoodie hangs halfway down your thighs. Your legs are bare. Two faint hickeys peek out just beneath the collar. And despite Mark's best attempt to brush your hair into something vaguely socially acceptable, you still look like you got steamrolled by the entire Guardians of the Globe.
Mark sits beside you, hunched over, t-shirt pulled halfway up to cover his face. His hand had been in yours in the shower not long ago, rinsing suds from your shoulders like you meant more than a one-time mistake. Now he won't even look up from under his shirt, as if meeting your eyes might make this moment real. You're honestly not sure if he's still alive.
And across the kitchen table...
Drinking her coffee like she didn't just walk in on you mid-sex hangover.
And you want to know someone worse is here?
Viltrumite. Husband. Father of the man who turned you into jello just hours ago.
Sitting next to his lovely wife, staring you down with his piercing blue eyes like he's trying to solve the mystery of what exactly his Viltrumite ears heard last night.
Like he didn't hear every moan, whimper, and "Harder, Mark--oh my god don't stop--" echo through the house with his enhanced alien hearing.
You stab your eggs like they personally betrayed you, trying your best to keep your racing heart calm.
Do Viltrumites believe in mercy? Please let it be mercy, you thought, watching Nolan sip his coffee like he wasn't planning your execution with every blink.
The air is thick with shame, tension, and Debbie's fluffy pancakes.
"So," he says casually. "Did you both... sleep well?"
Mark lets out a sound somewhere between a squeak and a death rattle.
You try to disappear into your mug of orange juice.
"Oh, they slept great," Debbie chimes, cheerful as hell. "Eventually."
"You know," Debbie adds, stirring her coffee, "I had no idea the bed frame could withstand that kind of--"
Nolan raises an eyebrow. "Is that what I heard shaking the house at 3 AM?"
You wish for death immediately.
"W-We were--uh--playing--" Mark gulps. "Scrabble."
"Scrabble," he repeats, slowly.
Mark nods vigorously. "Yeah. It got... competitive."
"Oh yes," Debbie says smoothly. "Lots of screaming. Very vocal game, apparently."
Nolan sets down his mug. "Son... was that you yelling 'I'm gonna fuck you so deep you'll be feeling me for days?'"
Your soul leaves your body.
"That was taken widely out of context," he whispers.
"Was it before or after she begged you not to stop?"
Nolan pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out a long, pained sigh.
"This is... so much worse than I imagined."
Debbie sips her coffee. "At least he's not a virgin anymore."
You want to implode, but you just reach for your toast, hands shaking, trying to find comfort in carbs.
Then Debbie slides a bottle of orange juice in front of you.
"Oh, sweetie? Drink up. Gotta stay hydrated after a long night."
And Mark, pale and dead inside, lays his forehead on the table with a soft, broken:
You stare at him for a second, fork hovering mid-air.
"Would you prefer slow and painful," you say dryly, "or fast and dramatic?"
He groans. "Whatever ends this faster."
You pat his head dramatically. "You know she's gonna tell your dad everything."
"She already did," he mumbles into the wood grain. "We're probably gonna get a family group chat notification about it later."
You snort. "With diagrams."
"And bullet points," Mark whispers, eyes wide. "With bolded text."
You both stare at your plates in silence, haunted by the same shared vision of his mom's Google Docs and his dad's silent judgement.
"...I'm not hungry anymore," you say faintly.
Mark lifts his head just enough to look at you.
Then both of you slowly, silently, reach for the orange juice.
But because Debbie told you to.
And somehow... that's worse.
Debbie hums as she flips a pancake behind you, calm as ever. "You know," she says casually, "I once told your father I wanted grandkids before menopause. Thought it was a joke. Now? Not so sure."
You choke on your orange juice.
Mark makes a sound like a dying animal. "Mom--please."
Nolan rises silently from his chair, grabs his coffee, and mutters under his breath, "I'm going to space," before walking out of the kitchen like he's heading to war.
Then Debbie pipes up again, chipper, "Want more eggs, sweetheart?"
You and Mark speak in unison. "NO."
You sit there in the aftermath, toast cold, dignity dead, but... somehow still breathing. Mark nudges your hand under the table--quietly, like he needs to know you're real and still here. You glance at him, and his eyes meet yours.
Still wide. Still traumatized in those big, beautiful brown eyes of his. But there's something softer underneath the mortification. Something honest. Warm. Like even if the earth cracked open and swallowed you whole, he'd reach for you first.
You smile, just a little.
And Mark leans closer, muttering out of the corner of his mouth. "We need to leave this house."
"Like, today," you whisper. "Fake our deaths. Move to Idaho."
"Start over. New names. New lives. No parents."
Mark leans in even closer. "Or... we sneak back upstairs, lock the door, and finish what we started."
You arch a brow. "You mean Scrabble?"
He smirks, that damn dimple popping out. "Exactly."
And despite everything, despite the trauma, the humiliation, and the pancakes--you want to kiss him again.
And the next time his hand brushes yours?
Instead, you lace your fingers with his under the table--quiet, hidden, just for the two of you.
Mark squeezes your hand once before he stands, clearing his throat. "We're, uh--gonna go... lie down."
Debbie doesn't even glance up from her newspaper. "Just don't break anything this time."
Mark grabs your wrist. You don't resist as he pulls you along like a man on a mission--away from the kitchen, up the stairs, and back into the safety of his room, where the door shuts with a merciful click.
You both just stand there, staring at each other.
"...That was the worst morning of my life," he mumbles.
You nod slowly. "Easily top three for me. And I've seen a man explode."
Mark lets out a low groan and falls face-first onto the bed. "She winked at you."
"She offered me more eggs."
"She brought orange juice."
You flop down beside him, face-to-face on the mattress, hair still slightly damp from your earlier shower, your legs brushing his under the sheets. "We're gonna have to burn the kitchen down."
You hum. "I like the bed."
Mark glances at you, mouth twitching into a smirk. "Me too."
Silence settles again, warm and safe this time. No parents. No judgement. Just the two of you, tucked away like the world doesn't exist.
Mark shifts onto his side to face you more directly, eyes tracing your features--your lashes, your lips, the fading flush in your cheeks.
"You still good?" he asks softly, thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles.
You nod. "Yeah. Just... recovering."
His smirk softens. "From the sex or the trauma?"
Mark laughs, low and quiet. Then his hand moves--slowly, deliberately--to rest against your waist. You feel the pressure of his fingers through the hoodie. Warm. Solid.
Then he murmurs, quiet now:
"Remember what I said in the shower?"
You blink slowly, your heart skipping at the weight in his voice.
"Still true," he says, eyes meeting yours. "All of it."
You don't say anything at first. Just let the words settle between you.
Then you shift closer, tucking your forehead against his chest. "Yeah," you whisper. "Me too."
Mark holds you like that, arms curling around your back, thumb stroking slow, lazy circles over your spine.
"Do you think," you murmur, "your mom would notice if we never came back out?"
"She'd probably bring us snacks."
"...That's the worst idea."
You both laugh again, soft and breathless, the tension finally starting to lift. His breath fans your temple. You feel the slow beat of his heart under your cheek.
And for the first time all morning--maybe longer--you feel okay. Not mortified. Not exposed. Just... okay.
Maybe even a little happy.
Marks kisses your forehead. "We'll survive this."
You lift your head, nose brushing his. "Promise?"
He smiles, really smiles, and dips down to kiss you--soft, slow, a quiet yes pressed against your mouth.
But suddenly, the kiss starts to deepen.
From lips brushing lips, breaths mingling... to eating each others face off. His hands slide up your sides, dragging the hoodie with them, while yours fist in his hair like you're trying to keep him exactly where you want him. The air between you turns hot, greedy--every soft kiss turning sharper, hungrier, until you're both a mess of teeth, tongue, and muffled sounds that have no business being this desperate... not after surviving that awkward breakfast with his parents.
"You're seriously gonna kill me," he murmurs against your mouth, voice low, rough with sleep and leftover embarrassment. "We just survived breakfast."
You grin. "Survived is a strong word."
He chuckles... but it stutters when you shift, thigh nudging between his legs. Your hand slides under his shirt, skimming the ridges of his abs, feeling them tighten under your touch. Higher, higher--you drag the fabric up with you until he lets you peel it off entirely, baring him to the cool air.
"I thought we were recovering," he whispers, breathless now, lashes fluttering as you press your mouth to his jaw.
"We are recovering," you say sweetly, biting down on his earlobe before whispering: "This is my fifth form of therapy."
He groans. "I think I just got hard again."
Your hand finds proof in the way his sweatpants tent against your thigh. You palm him slowly through the fabric, watching his jaw go slack.
"Okay," he gasps. "Not think. Definitely hard. Very hard. Dangerously hard. We should do something about that."
Mark stares up at you like you're religious experience--bare legs, wild hair, his oversized hoodie slipping off one shoulder. His hands find your thighs instantly, squeezing hard, like he doesn't trust himself not to black out.
"Fuck," he whispers. "You're not real."
You roll your hips once--just enough to drag a groan from him--and lean forward, lips brushing his.
He just yanks you down and kisses you like he needs to.
You moan into it, rocking against the growing bulge beneath you. The friction is slow, addictive, maddening. He pulls the hoodie up to your ribs, palms gliding along your waist before sliding around to grab your ass, hard.
"You're gonna fuckin' kill me," he gasps again, voice already wrecked.
You grind down harder. "I told you I wasn't done with you."
Mark flips you over before you can get another word in.
One second you're on top, smug and teasing--smirk curling on your lips. The next, you're flat on your back, legs spread, breath knocked out of you as the mattress dips under his weight. His hands are already at your hips, yanking your boxer--his--down with a low, muttered curse.
"You're insane," he mutters, voice rasping like he's already drunk on you. "You're so fucking lucky I love this."
"You do love this," you breathe, squirming under him as he pushes your thighs apart. "Admit it."
And then his mouth is on you--tongue licking into you with no warning, no hesitation, no mercy. You gasp, fists curling in the sheets as he pins your hips down and devours you like a man on a mission. Like he needs this round to prove something. Maybe that he's still in control. Maybe that you're his. Maybe that this--you--is worth every embarrassing second of breakfast.
You cry out his name, louder than you mean to, and he growls into you like that was exactly what he wanted.
"You're so loud," he says, voice muffled against your cunt. "My dad's gonna hear you again."
Your hips jolt, breath catching on a broken moan. "Fuck your dad."
He lifts his head just enough to smirk, lips slick and shiny. "That's what you were doing last night."
You slap his shoulder, breathless.
Then he sinks two long fingers in without warning--and you arch off the bed with a cry.
"Round five," Mark murmurs, dark and reverent as he curls his fingers just right, just deep enough to make your vision blur. "Let's make it count."
Your mouth falls open in a silent moan as his fingers curl again--perfect, practiced, hitting that spot that makes your thighs tremble.
"Mark--" you gasp, chest arching into the air. "We just showered--"
"Mm." His lips kiss the inside of your thigh, hot breath skimming your skin before his teeth graze lightly. Eyes half-lidded, dark with want, he murmurs, "Guess we're gonna need another one."
You try to push at his shoulder, but he doesn't budge. Just presses his tongue flat against your clit and sucks.
He groans into you, like the sound of your voice gets him off. His fingers keep moving--slow, deliberate pumps that stretch you open, wet and hot and obscene.
You're already clenching around him, body tightening with dangerous speed. "M-Mark, baby--I can't--"
"Yes, you can." His voice is low, husky. "You're taking it. Like you always do."
Your back arches off the mattress, thighs clamping around his head, hands fisting the sheets as you cry out. The world blurs into white heat. He doesn't stop. Doesn't slow. He tongue keeps fucking you, greedy and relentless, until your voice breaks, your nails scrape helplessly at his shoulders, and your legs finally give out.
When he finally pulls back, his lips are glossy and smug.
"Still warm," he teases, licking his lips. "Still sweet."
You collapse flat against the bed, trying to catch your breath. "I hate you."
He slides up your body, one hand stroking your side as he kisses his way up to your neck.
"I should hate you," you mumble.
He grins against your jaw. "But you don't."
You're soaked, twitching, still gasping--and when he grinds his hips down--when you feel the heavy press of his cock against your thigh--
Mark growls softly. "That's what I thought."
He pushes his sweats down enough to free himself, one hand gripping the base of his cock to line himself up, the other resting on your hip.
He pushes in slow--too slow--like he's teasing you on purpose.
He stretches you open inch by inch, the burn delicious, your pussy already swollen and sore from everything he's done yesterday and today. But you still want it. Still need it.
"Shit," Mark breathes. "You're still so tight. How are you this tight after four rounds?"
Your nails drag down the slope of his spine, lips parting on a needy gasp. "Move, Mark--please--"
He slams in the rest of the way, bottoming out in one sharp, brutal thrust..
He doesn't move at first. Just stays there, fully sheathed, buried to the hilt, making you feel every thick, aching inch of him.
His breath shudders against your neck. "Fuck," he pants. "You feel that?"
You nod shakily, too breathless to speak.
"That's where I belong. Right there."
His hand slides to your lower stomach, forcing you to feel exactly where he's buried inside you. The blunt pressure makes you gasp, a sharp moan tearing out as your walls flutter around him. His breath stutters--like he can feel every single pulse.
"Yeah...," he murmurs, voice low and wrecked, "you see how deep I am? How far I'm filling you in?"
Your eyes flicker down, catching the faint bulge under his palm, and your breath stutters violently. Heat floods your body in a dizzy rush, and before you can think, you grind down on him, desperate for more. He groans low, the sound vibrating against your skin.
"That's it," he rasps, eyes dark and locked on yours. "Feel me there. Every inch. Right where you need it."
His hips rolls once--slow, deliberate, mercilessly deep--and the pressure under his hand shifts, punching a broken cry out of you.
He pulls out halfway--slow enough to make you feel every dragging inch--then slams back, sharp and deep.
"That's it," he pants, setting a brutal rhythm. His grin is sharp, hungry, a wild look burning in his eyes. "That's my pretty girl. Can't get enough, can you?"
You shake your head, babbling something that isn't even words anymore. He shifts his weight, pressing harder into your lower stomach while his hips snap forward, relentless, every thrust grinding into that exact spot that makes your toes curl. The sound that leaves you is closer to a cry than a moan.
"Louder," he demands, grabbing your leg and throwing it over his shoulder. "I want my parents to hear it this time."
You wail, spine bowing off the bed as the new angle makes him hit--perfect, sharp, devastating--again and again. He groans at the way you tighten around him, watching your body quake under him like he's addicted to it.
"Yeah? Right there?" His voice drops, rough and smug. "Is that your spot? Can't take me without shaking, huh?"
Your nails rake down his back, trying to anchor yourself against the overwhelming rhythm. Every thrust knocks the air out of your lungs, making your vision go white. He's so deep you can feel him in places you didn't know existed--just heat, stretch, and the ruthless tempo of him owning every part of you over and over that makes your brain turn into mush.
"Yes you can," His tone is all command, no mercy. "You're gonna take it. You're gonna cum with my cock this deep and you're gonna feel it for days."
"Mark--Mark, it's too much--!"
"It's not too much. You wanted this. You begged for this. Said it was therapy, right?"
"You wanted round five," he growls, slamming in even harder. "Now fucking take it."
You're crying. Literally crying.
Tears in your eyes, voice broken, nails digging into his back that would leave ugly, red marks. You can feel the pressure inside of you building up--fast. Unbearable. You try to tell him you're already close but the words dissolve into helpless moans.
"Don't you dare hold back," he snarls. "Cum for me. Right on it. Right there."
And then he gives you one, two, three deep, punishing thrusts, holding you in place so you can't run from it, his palm still pressing down like he's making sure you know exactly where he is inside you.
The orgasm rips through you so hard your body locks up, every muscle trembling. Your scream echoes between you, raw and broken, and he fucks you through it, jaw clenched, eyes locked on yours like he's watching you fall apart just for him.
"That's it," he rasps, slowing just enough to draw it out, milking every last aftershock. "That's mine."
Your body collapses back onto the mattress, limp, shaking, every nerve still sparking from the force of it. You can barely breathe, can barely think--and he's still there, still buried deep, still pulsing inside you.
Mark's right behind you--balls tightening, abs clenching, groaning as his forehead drops to yours. "Fuck--gonna cum--where do you want it, baby--?"
Mustering up enough strength, you grab his face, voice a wreck: "Inside."
His pupils blow wide. "Fuck, fuck--!"
His thrusts gets frantic. Sloppy. Desperate. Rhythm faltering as he chases his high.
You feel him twitch, feel his cock swell--then he slams in one last time and spills inside you with a deep, wrecked moan that sounds like your name was the only thing keeping him tethered to this earth.
His cum fills your insides, warmth spilling deep in hot, thick ropes.
It must be a lot, because the heat just keeps coming, spilling past the tight seal of your body until you feel it dripping down your ass to the sheets.
Mark groans low in his throat, hips grinding like he's trying to push it even deeper, making sure not a drop escapes. "God... look at you," he pants, eyes flicking down between your bodies. "You're full. So full of me."
He groans again, holding you so tight it hurts. His cock is still thick inside you,twitching with the aftershocks, and you can feel the slow, obscene drip of him leaking out around the seal of his length. His breath is ragged against your neck, hot and uneven, like he's not ready to let you go--not ready to let you close up without him there.
"Holy shit," he breathes into your neck.
You're not even sure if you can talk from how much he made you scream his name out despite the thin walls of his house--loud enough for his mom and dad to hear every filthy word, the headboard slamming against the wall, and the mattress creaking again.
God bless his parents' souls (and their ears).
The hoodie Mark lets you borrow is covered with sweat, so much sweat that it makes your body feel even hotter and disgusting.
With a tired groan, you weakly strip the hoodie off, dropping it on the floor.
Mark doesn't move for a while.
Just lies there on top of you, panting, one arm curled tight around your waist while the other braces himself on the bed. His forehead rests against yours, sticky and damp with sweat, and his breath comes out in warm, ragged exhales across your lips.
You can still feel him pulsing inside you.
Still feel his cum slowly dripping, spreading warmth and ache through your lower belly.
You blink at the ceiling, eyes unfocused. "I think I just met God."
Mark lets out a soft, breathless laugh. "Pretty sure you screamed my name instead."
You snort, weakly smacking his back. "Same difference."
He smiles and kisses you--soft this time. No urgency. No teasing. Just the press of lips, slow and tired, like he's saying I'm still here. We're okay.
He then pulls out with a low groan--the loss making you shiver, and you can feel him leak out immediately, hot and slick against your thigh. Mark just watches it for a moment--almost proud--before he flops onto his back beside you, arms dragging you against his chest.
Your arms come up to wrap around his shoulders, fingers trailing gently through his hair, damped with sweat. He's still catching his breath, but the heat between you has finally eased into something warmer. Softer.
He kisses your cheek. Then your temple. Then the side of your neck where a fading bite mark throbs beneath his lips.
"You okay?" he murmurs, voice so hoarse it almost sounds like a rasp.
You nod, barely, because your brain is still somewhere back at the moment he pressed down on your stomach and made you see stars.
Your body feels like it's been wrecked. But not in a bad way. There's a faint sting when you shift, a slow throb between your legs, and your thighs still twitch when his fingers graze too close. But you feel... good. Calm. Full.
He brushes your hair back, looking at you with sleepy eyes and a small, crooked smile.
"I meant it, you know," he says quietly. "When I said I'm not done. Not just with this. With you."
You stare up at him, throat tightening.
"...You're getting sappy on me," you murmur.
"Yeah," he says, unbothered. "Deal with it."
You reach up, press a kiss to his lips slow. Grateful.
And for a long moment, neither of you says anything. You just breathe. Wrapped around each other in sweat and warmth and something dangerously close to love.
Then, from somewhere outside the door--
Mark freezes. Your soul leaves your body.
"...We're alive," Mark calls weakly.
Debbie hums. "Good. Don't forget to hydrate. I left water bottles by the door. Also--please open a window. This hallway smells like sex and regret."
You groan into your pillow, embarrassment already gnawing at your spine.
Mark throws a sheet over both your heads and mutters, "We're moving out."
Under the blanket, you feel him grin against your temple, his arm tightening around you. And even with your face burning and your dignity in shambles, you realize you wouldn't trade this morning--or this mess of a boy pressed up against you--for anything.
