kae ⭐️

You don't know you ended up here again.

Flat on your back, thighs trembling, fingers tangled tight in black hair, and Mark Grayson between your legs like a starved man--like he's trying to memorize your taste with his tongue alone.

Your voice is already hoarse from moaning, whimpering, crying out, "Mark, please--" but he's not listening. Or maybe he is. Maybe that's exactly why he keeps going.

Because he loves the way you taste.

"God, you're so fuckin' sweet..." he groans, breath hot against your soaked core before diving back in, tongue flicking against your clit with dizzying speed. His lips wrap around it just to suck hard, pulling a strangled cry from your throat as your hips jolt.

You've already cum once. Maybe twice. It's hard to keep track. Your legs are shaking. Your brain is fogged over. You're begging him to stop and mean it halfway, but he doesn't. You don't think he can.

His fingers dig into your thighs to keep them open, to anchor himself in place. His arms are locked under your legs like he's afraid you'll try to escape. And you might have if you had any strength left--if it the white-hot pleasure crawling up your spine didn't feel so goddamn good.

But it's Mark. And Mark's never been able to resist you. Not your voice, not your eyes, not your thighs--but especially not your taste.

"Fuck, babe," he moans into you, his lips dragging lower before flattening his tongue all the way up your slit, slow and heavy, just to hear the way your breath catches. "You're dripping like honey. I can't stop--I don't wanna stop--"

You sob, thighs twitching. "Mark, I--fuck--baby, I c-can't--!"

"Yes, you can. One more. Just give me one more, pretty girl." His voice is soaked in praise and desperation. "You're shaking so good for me. You always do. Fuckin' addicted to how you taste, you know that?"

Your back arches when he sucks again, circling his tongue fast and tight and relentless. He moans into you like he's getting off on it, grinding his hips into the mattress just from the taste of your slick on his tongue. Your sounds, your cries, your little gasps when his nose brushes your clit drives him wild.

And he loves the way you beg.

Loves how your hands shake when they claw through his hair. Loves the way your breath stutters every time he flicks his tongue just right. Loves the twitch in your thighs when you try to close them, and he just presses them wider.

"So fuckin' good... You taste like everything I've ever wanted." He kisses your inner thigh, messy and wet and reverent. "Why the hell would I stop now?"

You cry out when he dips back down, fast and unrelenting, tongue thrusting, lips sealed, devouring you.

Your eyes roll back.

Your body arches.

Your mind shatters.

And Mark?

Mark just moans at the flood of you against his tongue like he just won the jackpot.

You whimper, gasping, "Mark--fuck, I can't--too much--too sensitive--!"

But he doesn't stop. He doesn't even hesitate to let his hands slide down to your hips, pinning you still as he keeps fucking you with his tongue--deep and filthy. And you swear your soul tries to leave your body when he moans into your pussy again, like he's chasing your orgasm, hungry for more.

"Shhh," he whispers against you, voice muffled and wrecked. "I know, baby. I know it's too much. You're shaking so bad for me--fuck, that's it--cum again. Give it to me."

Your eyes fill with tears. Your voice breaks. You try to push at his shoulders, but your strength is gone, snapped from the way he devours you like you're his last meal.

You can feel his desperation--how he ruts against the sheets below, humping the mattress just to relieve some of the pressure in his boxers. He's grinding into nothing, hips twitching, just from the taste of you.

And it gets to you.

The thought of him getting off like--like this--with his face buried in your pussy, his tongue deep inside you, drooling all over your folds while your click coats his lips and chin and he's moaning for more?

It makes you clench your pussy around nothing.

"Oh my god--" you gasp, broken and wrecked. "You're--Mark--you're gonna make me cum again--"

"Good," he growls, licking up and flattening his tongue against your clit so hard it sends a shockwave through you. "You taste like fucking heaven. You don't get it, do you? I could do this all night--every fuckin' day--breakfast, lunch, and dinner. You wanna keep begging, baby? Huh? Wanna keep cryin' like that?"

You sob as your body spasms in his mouth, your orgasm hitting you like a truck.

White-hot, all-consuming, overwhelming.

You scream, body writhing, as your thighs close around his head this time --and Mark just lets it happen. Lets you squeeze his head tight, lets your juices spill all over his tongue, lets your body shake and twitch and jolt under him while he moan like he's in fucking bliss. He laps your juices like a desperate, loud slurping sounds filling the room.

When you finally collapse, limp and twitching, he pulls back just enough to look at you. His lips are shiny, his chin's soaked with you. And his voice?

Gone.

And his eyes?

Fucking feral.

"You done?" he asks, voice low and hoarse.

You nod weakly, lips parted, breathing hard--but Mark's already crawling up your body, grinding against your slick folds, hard and soaked through his boxers. He leans down, pressing his forehead to yours, smirking.

"You sure?" he whispers. "Because now I'm hard as fuck--and you've got that wrecked little look I love."

He rolls his hips once, rubbing his hardened cock--separated by cloth--against your swollen clit. You gasp at the feeling, your pussy already overstimulated from the countless times he made you cum all over his tongue. He grins cockily, loving how your thighs are shaking--all because of him. "You taste too good to stop," he murmurs, kissing you. "But now? I want you to feel how good you make me."

He kisses you like a man starved. Like tasting your lips somehow brings him closer to tasting you again.

Your slick coats his mouth, your scent thick on his tongue, and he kisses you filthy--wet, messy, tongue sliding against yours so you can taste yourself on his lips. It makes your stomach twist, makes your thighs twitch again, even though you've cum twice. Maybe three times. You lost count when he started murmuring between licks.

And now?

He's grinding into you like he can't help it, dry humping himself like his cock is aching and he's using your soaked folds as relief. "Feel that?" he pants against your mouth, voice trembling with restraint. "That's what you to me."

You nod weakly, not being able to form a single word, too dazed and wrecked to speak. But your hips shift, needy, your thighs trembling as you roll into him.

"fuck," he hisses, almost pained. "You're still so wet. Still dripping all over me like I didn't just spent twenty minutes making you cum."

He sits back enough to drag his boxers down, letting his cock spring free--hard, flushed, dripping at the tip, twitching from how long he's been grinding against the mattress while eating you out. You barely have time to breathe before he's sliding it between your folds, slow and teasing, getting himself soaked in your slick again.

Mark groans, head thrown back. "Shit, baby. You're fuckin' leaking for me..."

You whimper. "Mark, I--I can't--I'm too sensitive--"

"You can," he cuts you off, voice low and dark and full of need. "You will."

And then he pushes in.

Slow.

Torturous.

You let out a loud cry from the new sensation, your walls clenching around him immediately. He chokes on a gasp, body shuddering as your wet heat swallows him.

"Fuuuuck--" he moans, nearly bending over you. "You're so tight--I can feel every twitch--god, you're still clenching like you're not done."

You aren't.

And he knows it.

He bottoms out with a grunt, hips pressing flush against yours. And he doesn't move. Not yet. He just stays there, breathing hard, buried deep in your soaking cunt, letting your overstimulated body throb around him.

You're shaking.

Whimpering.

Your fingernails drag down his back as your body pulses--already so full, stretched around his cock, and he hasn't even fucked you yet.

But when he does?

It's deliberate.

He starts to move--slow, deep strokes, dragging his cock out inch by inch just to slide back in and hit your sweet spot with every thrust.

"Feel that?" he breathes, voice strained. "That's how deep I am. Gonna mark you, baby. Gonna fuck you so good you'll feel me for days."

You sob under him, already slow again--too soon--but he's not stopping. Not now. Not when your pussy's clenching around him like you need it. Like you're begging for more.

His pace builds.

Harder.

Faster.

His hands pin your wrists above your head as he pounds into you, sweat dripping down his forehead, his eyes wild.

"You're takin' me so fucking good, baby--so goddamn perfect--look at you, look at this messy little pussy, just swallowing me whole--fuck--"

He slams in deep and stays there, grinding his hips, cock pulsing inside you while your back arches off the bed, another orgasm threatening to tear you apart--

"Cum again," he whispers darkly. "I want you to cum while I'm buried in you. I want you to squeeze the fuck out of me, cry for me, give it to me. Let me feel how wrecked you are."

Your head falls back.

Your lips part in a scream.

Your body breaks.

You cum again, walls clamping around his cock like a vice, body trembling, mind shattering as tears slip down your cheeks from the sheer force of it.

Mark loses it.

"Holy--fuck, that's it--oh my god, baby--fuck--"

He rams into your harder, chasing his own high, hips snapping with wild abandon. You can feel him twitch, feel his pulse, feel every second of him falling apart inside you.

"Gonna fill you up," he groans, voice cracking, desperate. "Gonna pump you so full of cum, you won't be able to walk straight. You want that? Huh? Want me to fill you up, baby?"

"Yes, fuck yes, Mark. Fill me up. Fill this pussy up with your cum. Please--!"

"Oh, fuck--fuckfuck, I'm gonna cum--take it, fucking take it--"

And he slams in deep, cursing loud as he spills inside you, cock throbbing, body shaking as he empties every drop into your overstimulated cunt, still twitching around him like you're trying to milk him dry.

He collapses on top of you, panting heavily, letting the moment hang there--hot, heavy, trembling.

You both stay like that for a while.

Breathless.

Sweaty.

Still connected.

Still pulsing--his cock twitching, your body greedy, neither of you ready to let go.

Then Mark lifts his head up--kissing your shoulder, your cheek, and then your lips, murmuring with a lazy, cock-drunk grin:

"...You taste better than anything in the world."

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.

But lately?

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.

And today?

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.

It doesn't.

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.

And holy shit.

"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."

He chokes. "My what?!"

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.

His stomach flips.

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?"

And then--click.

His jaw clenches, eyes flicking down to your mouth, then back up, shoulders stiffen like he's bracing himself.

And you see it.

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."

And you do.

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.

Then his hand is back.

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."

Then--pressure.

His middle finger sinks in first, slow but firm, filling you with a stretch that makes your toes curl.

You gasp. "Shit--Mark!"

"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--"

"Oh, I'm gonna."

And without warning--

He adds a second finger.

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--"

But he doesn't stop.

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.

And when you cum?

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--"

You don't even hear him.

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.

You blink at him, dazed.

"...They're worse," you whisper. "They're a fucking problem."

He smirks.

"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:

Greed.

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.

You grin, breathless.

"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.

"My turn."

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.

Loudly.

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--"

But you're not stopping.

You keep going.

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.

"That's the point."

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--"

You hum low around him.

And that's all it takes.

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.

You swallow everything.

Everything.

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.

You grin.

"...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?"

He locks eyes with you.

Then--his voice drops.

"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."

Then--his mouth.

Oh, god--his mouth.

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?

Oh--they're back, baby.

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--"

But he doesn't stop.

His voice is muffled against your cunt, but you hear it:

"Cum on my face."

You shatter.

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--"

He snaps.

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.

But god, it's perfect.

"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.

And then he cums.

Hard.

Hot.

Deep.

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.

"So... round five?"

You smack his chest.

"Let me live first, you goddamn Viltrumite freak."

He just grins against your skin. "You love it."

You do.

God help you--you do.

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.

Neither of you speaks.

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 it.

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."

Mark snorts.

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--"

"Don't you dare."

He grins against your collarbone. "You'd let me."

You don't answer.

Because he's right.

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."

You hum in response.

"...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.

And just like that--

You're ruined all over again.

You smile.

"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."

"That's what I said."

You shoot him a look over your shoulder--flat, unimpressed, exhausted. "Mark."

He blinks. "Yeah?"

You sigh, voice softer this time. "Let's just sleep."

That quiets him.

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.

And he nods.

"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.

And now--

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.

Then you try to move.

Instant regret.

"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.

"Still warm."

He shifts behind you again and you feel the unmistakable twitch of something hard pressing against your ass.

"Mark."

"...Ignore it."

"MARK."

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--"

Knock knock.

You both freeze.

Your soul leaves your body.

"Mark?"

It's Debbie's voice.

"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--!"

Too late.

The door opens.

And behold--

Debbie stands in the doorway holding a tray of toast, eggs, and orange juice.

And guess what she sees?

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 to die.

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."

A pause.

"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.'"

You wheeze.

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."

You give him a look.

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 menace."

"A helpful menace. I'll even wash your hair."

You stare at him.

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.

You turn. "What?"

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.

Too 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."

You blink.

"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."

You close your eyes.

Let him rinse you clean.

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.

But you don't.

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."

"Still counts."

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.

Not anymore.

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.

But he chases it.

Soft.

Patient.

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.

Just you and him.

Warm. Real. Yours.

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 breathe it in.

It smells like him.

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?

Soft. Tired. But happy.

You catch Mark watching you in the mirror and raise an eyebrow.

"What?"

He just shakes his head a little. "Nothing. You just look really..." he trails off.

"Wrecked?"

"I was gonna say beautiful," he says softly. "But, yeah. That too."

You roll your eyes, cheeks flushing. "Shut up."

"Never."

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...

Debbie Grayson sits.

Calm. Composed.

Drinking her coffee like she didn't just walk in on you mid-sex hangover.

And you want to know someone worse is here?

Nolan Grayson.

Viltrumite. Husband. Father of the man who turned you into jello just hours ago.

He's drinking coffee.

Coffee.

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.

Nolan clears his throat.

"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."

Mark chokes.

You drop your fork.

Nolan's eye twitches.

"You know," Debbie adds, stirring her coffee, "I had no idea the bed frame could withstand that kind of--"

"MOM."

Nolan raises an eyebrow. "Is that what I heard shaking the house at 3 AM?"

You wish for death.

You wish for death immediately.

"W-We were--uh--playing--" Mark gulps. "Scrabble."

You blink at him.

Nolan stares.

"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.

Mark turns bone white.

"That was taken widely out of context," he whispers.

"Was it before or after she begged you not to stop?"

You audibly wheeze.

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."

"MOM--"

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."

You blink. She winks.

Nolan groans.

And Mark, pale and dead inside, lays his forehead on the table with a soft, broken:

"Please just kill me."

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.

"Same."

Mark lifts his head just enough to look at you.

You meet his gaze.

Then both of you slowly, silently, reach for the orange juice.

Not because you want it.

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.

Silence.

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."

You both stifle a laugh.

Debbie hums behind you.

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.

You don't.

But you think about it.

And the next time his hand brushes yours?

You don't pull away.

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.

Silence.

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."

"And the bed."

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?"

You pause. "Yes."

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.

Mark shudders.

"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."

"Think?"

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."

"Should we?"

You climb onto his lap.

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.

"Feel real to you?"

He doesn't answer.

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."

"I'm obsessed with 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.

Your entire body jerks.

"Oh my--f-fuck--!"

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."

And you do.

You cum hard.

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."

"No, you don't."

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."

And Mark's right.

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--

You whimper.

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.

You both groan.

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..

You scream.

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.

"Fuck, Mark--!"

He pulls out halfway--slow enough to make you feel every dragging inch--then slams back, sharp and deep.

You sob. "Oh my god--"

"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.

"I--Mark, I can't--!"

"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 scream again.

"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 can't talk.

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.

Real.

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 do.

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--

Knock knock.

"Kids?" Debbie's voice.

Mark freezes. Your soul leaves your body.

"...We're alive," Mark calls weakly.

"Barely," you mumble.

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."

You laugh. "For sure."

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.

The room smells like antiseptic and blood.

And you—still beneath it all—you.

Your sweat. Your skin. Your wrecked body calling to him like a fucking siren.

Mark shouldn't be hard right now.

You're hurt. You're bleeding. You almost died. And still, all he can think about is the way your legs are spread—like a dare.

Like a death sentence.

She's hurt. She's half-naked. She almost died. And I'm standing here like I'm about to fuck her in a hospital bed—because I am.

You're sprawled across the GDA medbed—bruised, bandaged, breathtaking. The remnants of your tank top barely cling to you, the shredded fabric sliding over your ribs. The gauze across your side is already bleeding through. One thigh's propped up slightly, bruises painted like ink across soft flesh.

And that stupid fucking blanket is hanging off your hip, one tug away from falling.

You look like sin.

Mark's hands are curled into fists. He tries not to breathe you in again—tries to look away from your thighs, from the blood, the curve of your waist—but his eye betray him.

Everything about you pulls him in. It always has.

Dangerous? No. You're catastrophic.

"You keep staring," you murmur, dry.

Mark's fingers twitch at his sides, his jaw clenched.

Of course I'm staring. Look at you. Fucking look at you. All wrecked and smug like you know what you're doing to me.

"Sorry," he mutters.

"No, you're not."

You don't even open your eyes. Just let your head tip back like you can sense how close he is to breaking.

"You could've died," he says.

"You say that every time."

"You keep almost dying."

"And yet," you breathe, finally cracking one eye open, "here I am. Breathing. Chest rising. Skin flushed. Guts still inside."

A smirk curls your lips. "Guess you'll have to deal with that, won't you?"

And that's it.

That's the moment Mark snaps, hitting him all at once—the fear of losing you, the aching need, the way you're taunting him, bleeding and beautiful.

And he breaks.

"Fuck it."

He's on you in seconds.

Not rough. Not angry.

Just urgent.

Desperate.

I'm not even pretending anymore. I need her. I need to taste her. I need to mark every fucking inch of her until she remembers she's mine.

His mouth crashes onto yours, fingers cradling your face, threading into your hair like he's afraid you'll vanish beneath him. You kiss him back without hesitation—tongue sliding against his, slow and warm and unbothered.

She tastes like heat. Salt. Blood. Fuck, she tastes alive.

"You—fuck, you don't know what you do to me," Mark groans, pulling back just enough to breathe.

His hand slides down your side, reverent.

You flinch slightly when he grazes the bandage on your ribs.

He freezes instantly.

"Not the left side," you murmur.

"Okay."

So he kisses the right instead.

Then just below it.

Then lower.

And lower.

Still, you don't stop him. Still watching him with half-lidded eyes like you're curious what he'll do if you just let go.

She's letting me. She's letting me see her like this. Letting me touch. Letting me taste. I'd drop to my knees for her every fucking time if she just asked.

Mark tugs the blanket down.

You're wearing black panties—thin, snug, and soaked.

And holy shit.

He nearly groans out loud just from the sight.

Fuck. Fuck. I can see the shape of her cunt through these. She's wet. She's wet for me.

"Do you—" his voice cracks. "Do you want this?"

You prop yourself up on one elbow. "What do you think?"

"I need to hear you say it."

You look him dead in the eye.

"I want your mouth between my legs."

Mark chokes on the air, feeling his cock throbbing.

Holy shit. Holy shit. Don't come in your pants, don't fucking come just from that—

He kisses your knee.

Then the curve of your thigh.

His mouth lingers on every bruise like he's trying to erase them with his tongue, every slow press of his lips a prayer to whatever god let you survive.

Finally, finally, he kisses you right over your panties.

"You smell so fucking good," he breathes, inhaling shamelessly. "Been thinking about this for weeks."

You huff a soft laugh. "Knew you were a pervert."

"Yeah," he groans, dragging his nose along the crease of your thigh. "I am. And I'm so gone for you. I'd lick this pussy through cotton, denim, Kevlar. Doesn't matter. I want it like I want air."

I'm a fucking mess. I'd sniff this pussy in public. I'd lap it up in front of a goddamn mirror just to watch myself beg.

He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your underwear and drags them down slow.

And when you're bare?

He dives in.

Tongue flattening against your slit. Then a slow, wet stripe all the way up to your clit. He groans—low, filthy, addicted.

God, she's soaked. Fuck, fuck, I knew it—I knew she'd taste good.

She's warm. Sweet. Salty. Fucking perfect. Mine. This pussy's fucking mine. I could die with my face buried here. I want it on my face, on my chin, want her dripping down my neck. Want to fuck her and lick it off my own cock.

You gasp, hips twitching.

Mark grips your thighs tighter, anchoring you.

"Don't move," he mutters against you. "Let me make you come. Just this once. Let me be the only one who ever gets to see you fall apart."

Then he sucks your clit into his mouth and moans like he's about to lose it.

Lapping. Sucking. Breathing against your folds.

I'm gonna make her scream. Gonna make her drip. Gonna make her beg.

You're panting now. Your fingers curl into his hair.

"Don't stop," you gasp.

"Say my name," he groans into you, tongue circling. "Say you want me."

"Mark—fuck—keep going—"

And that's all he needs.

He starts eating you like a man possessed.

Tongue dragging. Mouth sucking. Breath heavy through his nose as he fucks you with his mouth like it's the last thing he'll ever do, loving the way your hips jerk.

She's shaking. She's coming. She's falling apart just for me. God, I need this. I need her. I need her to come again. Again. Again—

You break.

Your orgasm hits hard, gasping, hips bucking off the bed—and he doesn't stop. He moans into your cunt, nose buried in your folds, licking you through it, chin soaked, tongue fucking you through the aftershocks.

I'm gonna make her come again. I don't care if she's twitching. I want her ruined. I want to fuck her full and then clean it all up with my tongue.

When he finally pulls back, his lips are glistening.

He swipes a thumb across his mouth and licks it clean, pupils blown wide.

"You gonna let me fuck you now?" he pants, voice raw. "Or do I have to make you come again first?"

You didn't say anything. Just watching him through lazy lashes, breathing heavily.

You looked like you knew.

Knew he's seconds from ruining every promise he made to take it slow. Knew how hard he's been since the moment he walked in. Knew you had him.

And let him see everything he needs in your eyes.

She's mine. Mine. And I'm about to fuck her like I'll never get the chance.

He runs a hand through his hair, ragged.

"I shouldn't."

You arched a brow. "But?"

He groans. "But I will."

Mark stands between your legs, breath shaking, hands trembling at your hips.

She wants me. She wants me now. After everything—after almost dying—she's giving this to me. Letting me have her. Letting me fuck her.

He shoves his pants down to mid-thigh, cock springing out and slapping against his abdomen—thick, flushed, and leaking already.

You glance at it, brows lifting. "You've been hard this whole time?"

He grits his teeth. "From just looking at you."

You hum. "Bigger than I expected."

Mark groans, fisting his cock once. Beads of pearl leak at the tip and smears down his shaft as he strokes. Your eyes linger on it, almost curious.

"You're evil."

You grin. "You love it."

He does.

He fucking does.

I love that she teases me. I love that she ruins me. I love that I'm this hard and she hasn't even touched me yet.

Mark slides two fingers between your folds.

You're soaked.

Dripping from the orgasm he just gave you. Warm, wet, swollen.

He nearly whimpers.

"God, you're soaked."

"You made me come," you say, voice lazy. "What did you expect?"

Mark presses the head of his cock to your entrance. His breath catches.

"You sure?"

are you sure?

You shoot him a look. "If you don't fuck me right now, I will break your nose."

That's all it takes.

He slides into you slowly—but he's so thick, so long, the stretch pulls a sound from your throat that's a half-growl, half-moan as your hips twitch.

Mark groans deep in his chest.

Holy fuck. She's tight. She's squeezing me like she doesn't wanna let go. Warm. Hot. Velvet. Fucking heaven.

You're panting, nails digging into his forearm.

"You're too big."

He pauses, buried halfway.

"I can stop—"

"Don't you dare."

He growls low in his throat and bottoms out, cock buried to the hilt.

Fuck. Fuck. She's wrapped around me. All of me. I could die like this. I could stay like this forever.

His forehead drops to yours, breathing hard, trying not to come on the spot.

"You feel—Jesus—you feel perfect."

You clenched around him on purpose, smirking.

"Mark?"

He swallows.

"Yeah?"

"Fuck me like you mean it."

And he does.

He snaps his hips forward, and you shout.

Hard, deep, fast.

No warm-up. No mercy. Just raw, hungry, desperate thrusts that shake the bed and jolt your body with every slam.

Your injured body rocks with each stroke, but you didn't stop him. You gripped him tighter. You moan louder. You meet him thrust for thrust.

You take him like you were made for it.

"You're gonna break me," you gasp.

He growls. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"You're the pervert—"

"You're the one taking me so fucking well—like your pussy belongs to me."

He pulls out halfway, slams back in, again and again, wet slaps echoing in the sterile room, your slick coating his cock.

He grips your thigh, pushes your knee up, angles deeper—and hits your spot.

Your back arches with a strangled cry.

"Mark—fuck—there, right there—!"

He doesn't stop.

He drives into it over and over, mercilessly, grinding his cock deep inside your soaked, pulsing cunt until your eyes roll back.

"Right there?" he pants, drilling into your spot again. "You want me to keep hitting it? Wanna come again on my cock?"

You moan. "Yes—yes—yes—"

"Say you want it," he pants.

"I want it—"

"Louder."

"I want your cock, Mark—I want you to ruin me—"

That's it.

He loses it.

She wants to be ruined? Then I'll fucking ruin her.

Mark grabs the headboard with one hand, the back of your thigh with the other, holding you down while he pounds into you, cock pistoning like he's trying to claim you from the inside. Wet slaps echo in the sterile room, your slick coating his cock as he pounds you ruthlessly.

Your cries get louder. Needier.

He watches your tits bounce with every thrust, watches your face twist in pleasure.

"Come for me," he growls. "Come all over this cock."

You do.

You scream.

You come so hard your thighs seize and your cunt clamps tight, pulsing around him in waves that make Mark sees stars.

And even then, he doesn't stop.

He keeps going.

Thrusting through it.

Grinding into your g-spot like he's chasing another orgasm before you can breathe.

She's not done. I'm not done. I'm gonna fill her. Gonna come inside her. Gonna make her leak for days.

He leans down, panting into your mouth.

"Can I—fuck—can I come inside?"

"Do it," you gasp.

"You're not on anything."

"I said do it, Mark—"

That's all it takes.

He slams in deep—one last time—and lets go.

He spills into you in thick, hot pulses, filling you to the brim, groaning against your neck, body shaking from the force of it.

You can feel it—his cum flooding your cunt, thick and hot, dripping already.

He doesn't pull out.

Not yet.

He just lays there, panting over you, cock twitching inside your drenched, used hole, both of you ruined.

You brush a hand through his sweaty hair, breath catching.

"Still a pervert," you murmur.

Mark grins against your skin.

"Only for you."

And you both know it's not over.

Because he's still hard. Still inside you.

Still hard.

Still twitching.

You're trembling beneath him. Bruised, wet, leaking, Your chest rises and falls with ragged gasps, skin flushed, sweat clinging to every dip of your body.

I just came and I'm still hard. Still deep. Still obsessed.

He doesn't move.

Doesn't pull out.

His cock throbs inside your slick, cum-stuffed cunt, and he feels your walls flutter around him again—like your body can't tell if it's sated or starving.

"Mark..." you breathe, voice raw "You're still—"

"Hard?" he murmurs against your neck, dragging his nose along your collarbone. "Yeah."

"You just came—"

"I know." He grinds his hips, slow, thick, deep. You jolt beneath him, overstimulated. Your moan is hoarse.

"And you're still dripping."

He can feel it. His cum, hot and thick, slid down your thighs, coating your pussy, soaking the ruined medbed beneath you.

He growls low in his throat.

"I filled you up," he murmurs. "But it's not enough."

You twitch—your leg jerks involuntarily when his cock shifts inside you again. Your body is too sensitive, your pussy so raw and full and wet.

Yet, you laugh, broken and breathless. "That's the pervert talking again."

He pulls out halfway—only to slam back in, thick and wet and deep.

"That pervert wants to watch it all leak out just so he can fuck it back in."

He fucks it back in.

Slow.

Heavy.

Deliberate.

You gasp, head tipping back.

Mark groans. "That's it. Take it. Take every drop like the good girl you are."

His hand trails down to your thigh, spreading you wider. His other slides under your back, lifting you just slightly, angling you so he can go deeper.

You whimper.

Fucking perfect. She's already wrecked, and I'm still hard. Still hungry. Still not done.

Your body twitches with every lazy thrust. You try to close your legs—but he grips your knees and pins them apart, burying himself deep again.

"I said lie back," he growls. "Be good. And let me finish the job."

"Mark—"

He cuts you off with a kiss—sloppy, wet, claiming.

You try to breathe, but he doesn't give you the space. His tongue slides past your lips, tasting you, owning you, devouring you.

And then—without warning—he flips you.

I want to see her face while I fuck her stupid. Want to watch her drool and sob and smile while I stuff her full again.

You gasp as he drags your hips back, hands firm, strong, urgent. He pulls you to your knees, forces your ass up, presses your chest to the sheets.

Look at her. Fucked dumb. Covered in bruises and cum and still so fucking tight.

You barely register the position shift before his cock slams back in.

You scream.

"F-Fuck—Mark—there—!"

He pounds into you from behind, skin slapping skin, each thrust harder than the last. Your ass ripples with every impact. Your arms tremble. The bed jerks beneath you.

Mark watches it all.

Your back arched. Your mouth open. Your thighs shaking.

She's mine. Mine. No one else gets to see her like this.

His hand wraps in your hair, yanks your head back so he can whisper into your ear:

"You wanted round two, baby? Then fucking take it."

He slams in again—wet, filthy, relentless. Your pussy's so soaked now that every thrust squelches, obscene and loud.

He watches your juices drip from our slit to the sheets. Watches his cock disappear into your cunt again and again.

"You're—nnngh—you're disgusting."

"You're soaked."

"I just came."

"You're gonna come again."

He fucks you faster, sloppier. His cum is squelching out around his cock now, coating your thighs, dripping off your ass, pooling under you.

It's filthy.

You let him rail you into the mattress like it's what your body was made for.

"You like this?" he groans. "You like being fucked so full you can't hold it?"

You nod desperately. "Yes—yes—Mark—please—"

He groans, hips jerking harder.

She's begging again. Already. And I'm just getting started.

His hand grips your jaw and pulls your face back to him.

"Say it again."

"Please—Mark—please don't stop—"

He fucks into you hard—one perfect, brutal thrust.

Your legs give out.

And then you come.

Again.

A sob rips from your throat as your pussy clenches, your body locking up around him, slick gushing down your thighs.

That's what does it.

Mark gives you everything again.

He slams deep—hips flush—cock pulsing as he comes inside you again, moaning against your neck, spilling himself into your already ruined cunt.

More. Hotter. Thicker.

Your body jerks with the force of it, and he keeps grinding in, like he's trying to push it in deeper.

You both collapse.

His chest on your back. His arms around your waist. His cock still inside you.

Neither of you speak.

There's only the sound of your breaths, your pulse, your soaked skin sticking to his.

His mouth presses to your shoulder, reverent.

"I'll do it again," he whispers.

You don't answer.

But your cunt clenches around him.

And Mark grins.

Eventually, he pulls out. You wince. His cum trickles down the inside of your thigh. Thick and white. Coating your folds. Sliding over your ass.

Holy fuck. That's mine. I did that. I filled her up and she's still leaking.

Mark swears softly under his breath and grabs the nearest towel, but his eyes are locked to your pussy. The stretch. The swollen, wet curve. The pink glistening between your thighs.

I want to push it back in. I want to use my fingers. My tongue. My cock again. I don't care how tired I am. I need to ruin her again.

"Sorry—here, I've got you. Just let me—fuck, you're dripping."

He presses the cloth between your legs gently, kissing your knee.

"Still okay?" he whispers, voice hoarse.

You hum. "Better than okay."

She's going to kill me. Fuck me to death and I'll die smiling.

He wipes you slowly, carefully, holding your legs open, watching his mess drip out of you.

He groans. "I don't wanna waste any of it."

You scoff. "Don't get ideas."

"I already have them," he grins, tossing the towel and crawling back up beside you. "Let me hold you."

"You're heavy."

"I'm warm."

"...Fine."

You let him spoon you from behind, his hand gently palming your bruised waist, thumb grazing your stomach.

"You're mine," he murmurs, pressing his nose into your hair. "No one gets to see you like that but me."

"Jealous?"

"Territorial."

"...Pervert."

"Yours," he murmurs. "Until you beg me to stop. And then I'll stop being a pervert. But now?"

He rolled his hips, letting you feel his already hardened cock grind against your lower back.

Slow.

Heavy.

"i'm not done," he growls.

"Mark..." you breathed, fingers curling against his shoulder. "You came—twice."

"So?" His voice is low. Wrecked. Dangerous. "You're still wet."

His hips grind against yours, cock dragging against your oversensitive walls, slow and thick. You twitch—gasping.

"I'm not done tasting you," he murmurs against your throat. "Not until you forget your own fucking name."

"Mark—" your voice cracks, almost a plea.

He growls.

"Say it again."

You bit your lip and shook your head.

Wrong move.

He grabs your hips, pulls out halfway, and slams back in hard enough to knock the air out of your lungs.

"Say it."

"Fuck—Mark!"

"There she is."

He fucks you slow—agonizingly slow. Each thrust drags slick down your thighs, your overstimulated cunt gripping him so tight he hisses through his teeth.

"You gonna tell me to stop?" he rasps. "Or you want me to keep going?"

"You're obsessed," you pant, nails dragging down his back.

He leans in, lips brushing your ear.

"I'm in love."

You freeze.

Just a second.

That's all he needs—because the next thrust steals your breath.

Harder now. More focused.

He's not fucking you just to fuck you. He's making a point.

That you're his.

That your body remembers him.

That no matter how hard you fight it—you melt for him.

Every. Damn. Time.

"You think I can stop now?" he groans, kissing the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your throat. "After feeling you come around me? After watching your eyes roll back? After hearing you beg?"

His cock slams deep—your moan cuts off.

"You're fucking soaked, baby."

His fingers find your clit again—rubbing it in tight, filthy circles.

You jerk, twitching, trying to squirm away.

He holds you still.

"Nope," he growls. "You don't get to run."

"Mark—I—I can't—"

"Yes, you can." His voice softens for just a moment. "You can take it. You always take it."

You whimper—just a little.

That makes him snap.

He flips you—hands on your waist, dragging your hips back, forcing you onto your knees on the medbed. You barely register the change in position before he's inside again, deeper now, angled just right to hit that sweet, devastating spot.

You cry out—loud.

"F-Fuck—there—!"

He pounds into you from behind, hands gripping your ass so tight it stings.

"Yeah?" he pants. "That's it? That's the spot?"

Your response is a broken sob of pleasure.

He leans over you, his chest brushing against your back as he whispers into your ear:

"Still so tight," he pants. "Still clenching. God—like your pussy knows me now."

His balls slap against your soaked cunt with every thrust. Your legs shake. Your arms tremble.

Your body is wrecked. Ruined. Perfectly fucked.

But you don't beg him to stop.

You take it.

You want it.

"Such a good girl," he pants. "Letting me use you like this. Letting me fill you up again and again."

"Please—Mark—please—"

He doesn't stop.

He growls your name like it's a prayer, a curse, a vow.

And then he grabs your hips—thrusts deep—and stays there.

You gasp.

He's not moving.

"W-Why—"

"I want you to feel every drop when I come inside you again."

"F-Fuck—"

Your cunt clenches around him, trembling, overstimulated, raw and needy.

And then you break.

Your fourth orgasm rips through you like a storm—your entire body locking, hips jerking, breath stuttering into a silent scream.

That does it.

Mark slams deep and stays, cock twitching as he empties inside you a third time—hot, thick spurts that flood your already ruined pussy.

He slumps forward, chest to your back, arms wrapping around your stomach, anchoring you.

Neither of you spoke.

Not for a long, long time.

You're shaking. You're leaking. You're full.

He doesn't pull out.

Not yet.

He kisses your neck. Your shoulder. The back of your ear.

And then—softly, like it's a secret—

"I'll do it again."

You smirk, dazed.

"...Round four?"

Mark grins against your skin.

"Oh, baby."

"We're just getting started."

The room still reeks of sex.

Of sweat, blood, and something filthy—something primal. The medbed's a mess. Your thighs are coated. Your body's trembling. And Mark?

Still inside you.

Still hard.

Still buried to the hilt.

You're slumped against the mattress, one cheek pressed to the pillow, your ass tilted up, both legs shaking from being fucked into another dimension. Your cunt is raw. leaking. Full.

Mark leans over you, lips brushing your spine. His cock twitches again inside your overstimulated pussy.

"...I think I blacked out," you rasp, voice hoarse and barely audible.

Mark lets out a short, ruined laugh, dazed. "Yeah. You clamped down so hard I—"

The door opens.

Both your heads jerk up.

"Mark, I need an update on—"

Cecil.

Fucking.

Stedman.

Stnading in the doorway.

Holding a folder.

Pausing.

Looking right at you.

Your entire half-naked body spread out across the GDA medbed, bruised, flushed and dripping. Hickeys across your neck. Bite marks on your shoulder. Cum leaking out of your cunt.

Mark is behind you. Also half-naked. Also covered in sweat. Cock still buried inside you.

Still hard.

Still twitching.

No one moves.

No one says a word.

Mark slowly lifts his head, mortified.

"...Sir."

Cecil doesn't even flinch.

He stares.

Long and hard.

Then exhales through his nose like he's been through Vietnam and this somehow ranks worse.

You groan, dropping your face back into the pillow. "For fuck's sake—"

"This isn't what it looks like." Mark blurts.

Cecil raises a single eyebrow. "Son. It exactly looks like what it looks like."

Cecil slowly turns to you, deadpan.

"You do realize you're on government surveillance, right?"

You blink.

"What."

He gestures at the corner. "Thermal cameras. Body monitors. Vital sensors. Whole nine yards. And unless I'm mistaken, we just clocked four orgasms, three ejaculations, one dislocated bed railing, and a sudden spike in your heartbeat that almost triggered a defibrillator call."

Mark makes a small dying noise.

You just glare.

"I said don't stop. I didn't say invite your boss."

Cecil pinches the bridge of his nose.

"I was coming to tell you she's cleared for fieldwork in seventy-two hours," he mutters, already turning back toward the door. "Not that you took it as an invitation to field test her flexibility."

"I'm still injured," you mumble into the pillow, hiding your face.

"Clearly not enough to stop you from reverse cowgirl while bleeding internally."

Mark groans.

Cecil turns at the doorway. "Also? You're on cleaning duty. Bed's broken."

He pauses.

"And for the record?" He looks at Mark with one absolutely withering glance. "If you're gonna rail someone so hard they lose brain function, maybe next time... lock the damn door, kid."

He walks out.

Slams it shut.

Silence.

Mark stares at the wall.

"...I'm gonna die," he whispers into your back.

You wheeze.

"You better not," you mutter. "You still owe me round four."

Mark groans again. Deeper. Filthier.

"Oh my god."

You reach back, slap his thigh. "Round four, Grayson."

He grabs your hips.

And thrusts.

Hard.

You scream into the pillow, laughing and moaning all at once.

Your body is limp. Breathless. Shaking.

But Mark—Mark is still hard inside you.

Still thick. Still pulsing. Still possessive.

The aftermath of round three clings to your skin like oil. His cum slicks your thighs, your stomach, the inside of your cunt—wet, warm, and never-ending. And he's not stopping. Not even close.

"You're insane," you gasp, voice hoarse, barely there.

Mark's lips are pressed to your spine, panting against your sweat-slicked skin. His cock throbs deep inside you—so deep it feels like you'll never be empty again.

He doesn't answer.

Just groans.

Long.

Low.

Starved.

I could stay inside her forever. Just fuck her slow until she begs me to stop—then keep going anyway.

"...Still warm," he rasps, hips rocking slow. "Still tight."

God, I can feel her twitching around me. Like her body wants me again. Like her pussy knows it belongs to me.

His fingers dig into your hips, bruising. His forehead rests between your shoulder blades. You can feel the tremble in his thighs, the possessive heat pulsing off of him like a second skin.

And then—

Then he moves again.

Slow. Sinful.

Dragging himself out of your swollen cunt inch by inch, just to slide back in with a filthy, squelching sound that makes you gasp intot he pillow.

"Mark—" Your voice cracks. "Please—"

"Still begging?" he groans. "Even after I fucked you full?"

Look at her. Limp. Leaking. And she still wants more. Fuck, I'll give her more. I'll break her open and stuff her full again until she forgets her name.

Your fingers curl against the sheets. Your whole body twitches.

"You wanted to be ruined," he growls. "So let me finish the job."

And then he starts fucking you again.

Hard.

Sloppy.

Obsessed.

Every thrust punches air from your lungs. Your tits bounce. Your bruised rubs ache. But all you can feel—all you want—is more. More of him. More of this. More of the way he fucks you like he owns you.

"You're still dripping," he snarls. "Fucking hell—look at you. Look at how much you needed this."

My cum's still leaking out of her and I can see it. Thick. White. Mine. Coating her thighs like a brand.

His cum leaks around the base of his cock with every thrust. You're soaked. Ruined. Splattered with it.

"You gonna come again?" he pants against your ear. "Gonna come with my cock still inside you? With my cum still inside you?"

You choke on a moan.

"F-Fuck—Mark—"

He grans your hips and slams into you, voice breaking.

"Say my name. Say it while I'm still fucking you like this."

Her voice—saying my name like that—fuck, I'd come just from that. I want to record it. Play it in my fucking ear every night while I jerk off.

"Mark—Mark—Mark—!"

"You're fucking mine."

This is mine. All of it. Her throat, her moans, her cunt milking me like she never wants to let go.

He grabs a fistful of your hair, pulls you up until your back arches against his chest, his cock still buried inside you from behind.

"You forget your own name yet?" he growls against your throat.

You shudder.

"Because I'm gonna make sure you do."

Then he starts pounding up into you, your ass bouncing off his thighs, your cunt a soaked mess around him. Every thrust hits that sweet, broken spot that makes your knees go weak.

His voice is ragged now—like he's losing it.

"I'll fuck you until you can't think straight. Until you forget what it feels like to not have me inside you."

You're babbling. Barely coherent. Tears sting the corner of your eyes—not from pain, but from overstimulation. From how good it is. How full you are. How utterly destroyed he's making you.

Mark bites down on your shoulder, groaning like an animal.

"You wanted round four, baby? You want everything?"

"Y-Yes—"

"Then take it."

He throws you down again. Flips you on your back. Crawls over you, cock still inside.

He stares down.

You're flushed. Wet. Shaking.

And smiling.

"You're such a fucking pervert," you whisper.

Mark's pupils are blown black. His body is tight, trembling above you. He lowers himself, cups your face.

And then—

His voice drops.

"I love you."

You freeze.

Just a second.

Then—

"I know," you breathe.

And then he kisses you.

Hard.

Deep.

Like it's the last thing he'll ever do.

Your breath's caught somewhere between a sob and a moan. Mark's lips are still on yours—feverish, clumsy, needy. His cock is still inside you. Throbbing. Dragging against your too-sensitive walls like he's trying to write his name on you.

You're so full.

His cum's already leaking out from round three, but he hasn't pulled out once. Just stayed there. Pressed deep. Obsessesd.

"I meant it," he murmurs into your mouth. "I love you."

You breathe in shakily, eyes fluttering. Your legs twitch around his hips.

"Mark—"

"Say it back."

You pause.

Then—soft, broken— "I love you."

Something breaks in him.

Fuck, I'd give her everything. My name. My life. My goddamn soul. Just to hear her say that again with my cock still inside her.

He growls, low and guttural. And then he moves again.

Slower now—but harder. Meaner. His cock drags out soaked and then slams back in until your thighs shake around him. Until your breath comes out in little gasps.

I should stop—but I can't. I don't want to. I want to make her come until she forgets how to walk.

He grabs your wrists. Pins them above your head.

"You love me?" he grits, thrusting again. "You love being fucked like this?"

You moan and nod like you’re barely holding together. Your whole body’s trembling, soaked, messy.

"Say it again,” he pants, desperate, like he needs to hear you say it to survive.

You gasp, almost crying, "I love you—I f-fucking love you—!"

He lets go of one wrist. Brings his thumb down to rub tight, filthy circles against your clit while his cock pounds up into you like a goddamn sledgehammer.

"I'm gonna make you come again," he pants. "I want to feel you squeeze me. Want to feel this perfect pussy milk every drop I give you."

You whine.

"Mark—"

"Yeah? Right there? You like that? You gonna come for me again?"

You're nodding—eyes wide, lips open, breath catching.

"Do it," he groans. "Fucking do it."

You break.

Your body locks up. Your thighs squeeze around his waist, your back arches hard—and then you shatter.

Slick floods around his cock. You're convulsing—again—wrung out, tears in your eyes, mouth open but no sound coming.

Mark doesn't stop.

"Oh my god," he groans. "You're still coming."

He slams in again. Harder. Rougher. His hips stutter. His voice turns desperate.

"F-Fuck, you’re squeezing the life outta me—Jesus, I can’t—"

You grab his arm—claw into his shoulder—

"Do it," you whisper. "Come inside. Again. I want to feel it—please, Mark—"

He slams in and stays.

Thick.

Buried.

Deep.

His cock jerks once, twice—

And then he's coming.

Hard.

So fucking much.

You feel every pulse. Every rope. Every drop of cum flooding into you like your pussy was made to take it. Your belly aches with the heat of it, your whole body shaking beneath him.

He moans into your mouth, still grinding his hips, like he wants to push it deeper. Like he's trying to mark you from the inside out.

"I love you," he says again. "You're mine. Mine. Fuck—"

His forehead presses to yours.

You both breathe like you just survived something.

And maybe you did.

He pulls out slow.

You whimper.

His cum spills out of you—wet, hot, shameless.

He watches it and groans.

God, I want to lick it all up. I want to see it on her tongue. Taste it from her pussy. Watch it drop onto my hand just so I can push it back inside.

Then—reaches down, spreads your thighs wider, pushes two fingers back in, curling them to keep it from leaking.

"I'm keeping it in," he murmurs. "Every drop."

You twitch. "Pervert."

"Yours," he smirks.

Your legs won't stop trembling.

You're boneless beneath him, soaked in sweat, skin sticky with bruises and spit and slick. Your pussy pulses with the aftershocks—raw, full, dripping. You can still feel him leaking out of you. Still feel his fingers there—gently plugging it back in.

Mark's forehead rests against your temple.

His voice is hoarse. "Didn't mean to get that hard."

You snort, exhausted. "Liar."

He laughs quietly, arm wrapping tighter around your waist.

"I did," he admits. "You looked too good. All bruised and bandaged and half-naked. And your mouth—God—your mouth was saying stop but your eyes said keep going."

"They didn't."

"They screamed it."

You hum, too tired to argue.

He shifts slightly and you wince, a soft sound escaping.

"Too much?"

"No," you rasp. "Not enough."

Mark groans and drops a kiss to your shoulder.

"You're unbelievable," he mumbles. "Most people want a nap after getting railed."

"Nap after round five," you mumble.

His cock twitches against your thigh.

"...Don't say that unless you mean it."

You crack one eye open. Smirk. "You're hard again?"

"You were clenching," he huffs. "You know what that does to me."

You roll onto your back—barely—pulling him with you. He drapes an arm over your waist, nose burying in your hair.

You both breathe in silence for a minute.

"...It smells like sex in here."

"Yeah," Mark grins into your neck. "Like you. And me. And all the filth we just did."

You feel his cock throb again. He's not even inside, and he's still hard. Still aching.

"Don't even think about it."

"I wasn't," he lies instantly.

If she clenches around me one more time, I'm gonna fuck her into the mattress and come until she's dripping for a week.

"You're twitching.”

"So are you."

"...Pervert."

He kisses the shell of your ear. "Yours."

His hand slides up under your ruined tank top. His palms rests beneath your ribs—warm. careful.

You sigh. Sink into him.

"I love you," he murmurs again, softer this time.

You whisper it back.

And finally, your eyes start to flutter closed.

And outside, Cecil orders every camera wiped, every log erased... and a hazmat crew for medbay three.

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a/n: heyooo! sorry for being inactive! i was out on vacation with my family and i didn't have time to post anything ;w;