#broooo

mark snorts, rubbing the back of his neck like he does when he’s embarrassed. "dude, it was so awkward," he says, flopping back onto the bed with a huff. his arms flail a little as he reenacts the moment. "picture this—i’m standing there, still covered in, like, dry blood or whatever, and this thraxan—they look like giant blue praying mantis, by the way—just drops this flowy fabric into my hands." he sits up suddenly, gesturing wildly. "no instructions, no 'hey, human, here’s how you tie this,' just boom. alien laundry."

you bite your lip to keep from laughing as he mimics his own confusion, hands fumbling in the air like he’s trying to fold an invisible sheet. "i swear," he groans, "i looked like a toddler trying to put on a cape for the first time. just spinning in circles until someone took pity on me. i was literally wearing a mini skirt the whole time i was there."

you snort, shaking your head hard enough that a few strands of hair flop into your eyes. "i need to see this. like, right now," you demand, kicking your legs a little against the mattress for emphasis.

"what? no way," mark groans, letting his entire body go limp as he flops backward onto the bed. the springs creak under him, and he throws an arm over his face like he’s trying to hide. "it was so embarrassing. like, ritualistically embarrassing."

"oh, come on," you whine, immediately scrambling over him—knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips as you loom above him. you poke his side, right where you know he’s ticklish, and grin when he jerks with a half-stifled laugh. "you can’t just drop ‘i wore a sexy alien toga’ and not show me. that’s, like—intergalactically illegal."

mark peeks out from under his arm, squinting up at you. "sexy? you don’t even know what it looks like," he mutters, but his voice cracks just enough to betray him.

"yes, sexy," you insist, dragging out the word as you shift your weight, settling more firmly against him. your fingers sneak under the hem of his shirt, tracing idle circles on his waist just to feel him shiver. "now please? for me?" you bat your eyelashes obnoxiously, lips puckered in a mock pout—but then you soften, leaning down to nuzzle your nose against his. "c’mon, grayson. don’t make me beg."

mark rolls his eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t stick, but you feel it—the way his breath hitches when your arms tighten around him, the warm flush creeping up his neck.

"ugh, fine," he grumbles, dragging the word out like it physically pains him as he pushes himself upright. the bed creaks in protest as he swings his legs over the side, bare feet hitting the dorm’s scuffed linoleum with a soft thud. "but if you laugh," he warns, jabbing a finger in your direction, "i’m breaking up with you. permanently."

"noted," you say, pressing a hand to your chest like you’re taking a sacred vow—before immediately ruining the solemn act with a poorly-suppressed giggle that escapes through your nose in a tiny snort.

mark’s eyes narrow into a look—the kind that says you’re lucky you’re cute—before he turns and stomps the three steps to his closet. he yanks the door open with more force than necessary, making the hinges whine, and starts shoving aside hoodies and crumpled laundry with aggressive rustling. after a minute of muttering ("where the hell—? oh, come on—"), he finally pulls out the thraxan outfit—a cascade of delicate, shimmering fabric that spills over his arms like liquid moonlight, so stupidly elegant against his sleep-rumpled t-shirt and sweatpants. he holds it up by the shoulders, nose scrunched in hesitation, and you have to physically clamp your lips between your teeth to stop yourself from cooing like an overexcited pigeon.

"okay," he huffs, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "turn around."

"what? no!" you protest, scrambling to kneel at the edge of the bed, gripping the mattress like a kid at a candy store window. "i wanna see the whole—process." you wiggle your eyebrows for emphasis.

"absolutely not," mark says, pointing at you with the kind of exaggerated sternness usually reserved for misbehaving puppies. "turn. around."

you sigh like the weight of the world is on your shoulders, slumping forward until your forehead thunks against the cinderblock wall in defeat. behind you, there’s more rustling—fabric whispering against skin, a frustrated "how does this even—? ugh, stupid alien clothing—", the muffled snap of a waistband. then, after a beat of silence:

"...okay. you can look."

you spin around so fast your socks nearly skid on the dorm's cheap linoleum—and then your brain completely flatlines.

mark stands there, the thraxan outfit clinging to every unfairly sculpted inch of him like it was made to highlight his stupidly perfect body. the sleeveless design puts his arms on full display—those obscene biceps that flex when he shifts his weight, the defined ridges of his shoulders that you've bitten marks into more times than you can count. the fabric cinches snug around his waist, emphasizing how narrow it is compared to his chest, and holy shit, you could probably span it with your hands if you tried. but the real crime is the skirt—riding up just high enough on his thighs to show off the muscle there, thick and powerful from all those hours of flying, and you have to physically swallow around the sudden dryness in your throat.

the material shimmers under the crappy dorm lights, catching every shift of his body like liquid silver against his warm skin. he's blushing hard, fingers fidgeting with the hem of the skirt like he's torn between tugging it down or ripping the whole thing off. his biceps tense as he crosses his arms—god, why does that make his chest look even broader?—and the way the fabric stretches across his shoulders should be illegal.

"so…?" he prompts, voice cracking a little, and it's adorable how nervous he sounds when he looks like that.

you don’t answer. can’t. your mouth is hanging open like a broken hinge, your pulse roaring in your ears loud enough to drown out coherent thought. all you can process is: mark. thighs. waist. arms. holyfuckingSHIT—

your brain helpfully supplies an image of grabbing that skirt and yanking him closer, feeling all that muscle under your hands, and wow, okay, maybe you should lay down before you pass out.

"uh... you good?" mark waves a hand slowly in front of your glazed-over eyes, fingers snapping twice near your ear. his eyebrows pinch together—and yeah, okay, you get the concern, because your heart is hammering so violently you can feel it in your throat, your wrists, even your damn eyelids. it's like your entire nervous system just blue-screened the second you saw him.

"pretty," you finally choke out, the word punched out of you like you've been sucker-punched by how unfair he looks.

mark blinks, nose scrunching. "huh?"

"you're so pretty," you breathe, and then you're moving—launching off the bed so fast the sheets tangle around your ankles, nearly tripping in your haste to get to him. your hands are already reaching, trembling slightly as they skate up the shimmering fabric, over the hard curve of his shoulders—god, you can feel the heat of him even through the material—then higher, thumbs brushing the delicate dip of his collarbones. "oh my god, mark," you whisper, voice wrecked, "you—how are you real? how is this legal?"

his skin is warm under your palms, the blush spreading down his neck in real time as you trace the lines of him like you're trying to memorize every inch. the outfit clings to his waist like it was designed to taunt you, the skirt riding up just enough to make your mouth water, and you're this close to dropping to your knees right then and there.

mark's breath hitches when your fingers curl into the fabric at his hips. "okay, you're really overreacting—"

you cut him off by grabbing his face and kissing him hard, one hand fisting in his hair to tilt his head just so. mark makes a startled noise against your lips before melting into it, his hands sliding around your waist to pull you flush against him. you can feel the muscle of his thighs through the thin fabric, the way his stomach tenses when you nip at his lower lip, and fuck, it's so much—

when you finally pull back, you're both panting, foreheads pressed together. mark's pupils are blown wide, his lips kiss-swollen, and the way the thraxan outfit is just disheveled enough from your hands on him? devastating.

"so pretty," you murmur again, unable to stop the words from spilling out like a prayer as you press kisses along the warm curve of his cheek. your hands slide up his bare arms—god, the way the thraxan fabric leaves them exposed like this should be criminal—feeling the shift of muscle under smooth skin as he tilts his head for you. you linger at the sharp angle of his jaw, breathing in the familiar scent of his stupid citrus body wash mixed with something uniquely mark, before catching the corner of his mouth with your lips. it's barely a kiss, just a teasing brush, but it makes him shiver.

mark laughs, low and breathy, his fingers tangling in the back of your shirt to tug you closer. "you're such a dork," he says, but his voice is fond, roughened at the edges in a way that makes your stomach flip.

"uh, excuse me—your dork," you correct, punctuating it with a deliberate nip at his neck, right over the pulse point you know drives him crazy. the choked noise he makes—half gasp, half moan—sends a thrill down your spine, and you can't resist laving the spot with your tongue in apology, tasting salt and warmth.

"okay, okay—" mark's grip tightens on your shoulders, pushing you back just far enough that you can see the flush spreading down his chest, pink and perfect under the shimmering fabric. his breathing is uneven, lips parted, and fuck, the way the outfit clings to him now—rumpled from your hands, the skirt riding up even higher on his thighs—makes your brain short-circuit all over again. "as much as i'm really enjoying this," he says, voice dropping to that husky register that does things to your insides, "i do have roommates who could walk in literally any second."

you pout, letting your hands slide down to grip his waist—so narrow under your palms, you could probably circle it with your thumbs touching—and whine, "so? don't you and william have that sock rule thing, anyway?"

"so," mark grins, leaning in until his nose brushes yours, his breath warm against your lips, "maybe we save the rest of this for when we're not in a shared dorm." his thumb swipes over your bottom lip, teasing, and you nearly groan at the implication. "unless you want an audience for whatever that face was about. and besides, william still hasn't forgiven us for how long we took last time..."

(you definitely do not want to have an audience. you're trying to enjoy the full experience of mark grayson, not trying to perform and act, thank you very much. but the mental image of dragging mark into the nearest closet the second william and whoever he brought with him comes in? yeah. that’s staying.)

you groan dramatically, dragging your palms down your face like this is the greatest injustice you’ve ever endured—but you relent, stepping back just far enough that your fingers have to slip reluctantly from his waist. “fine,” you huff, jabbing a finger at his chest (and trying very hard not to get distracted by how the fabric stretches taut over his pecs). “but you’re keeping this stupidly hot outfit on for at least five more minutes. i need to memorize this.”

mark rolls his eyes so hard you worry they’ll stick, but he doesn’t argue—just lets you grab his wrists and tug him backward onto the bed with a yelp. the mattress squeaks in protest as you both collapse onto it, and you immediately burrow into his side, throwing a leg over his thighs like a possessive octopus. your hand finds the bare skin of his arm again, thumb tracing idle circles over his bicep just because you can, because the thraxan fabric left it gloriously exposed and god, he’s so warm.

you can’t help but sneak another glance up at him—the way the dim dorm light catches the shimmer of the outfit, how it pools around his hips like something out of a fantasy, the faint blush still dusting his cheekbones—and the words tumble out before you can stop them: “still pretty.”

mark sighs, long-suffering, but you feel the way his chest vibrates with a suppressed laugh, the way his arm tightens around your shoulders to pull you closer. “yeah, yeah,” he mutters, pressing a kiss to the top of your head that lingers just a second too long to play it cool. his lips brush against your hair as he adds, softer, “love you too, weirdo.”

(and if you nuzzle your face into his collarbone to hide your grin, well—that’s between you and whatever poor superperson who has telepathy.)