GUESS WHAT BROSKEROONIES

ANGST💋💋💋💋💋💋

"same difference," he mumbled, the words feeling inadequate. he stepped closer, the scent of his cheap laundry detergent mixing with the faint, ozone-like smell of the alien cloth pooling over his arm. "arms up."

you complied with a put-upon sigh that was almost certainly for show, but your eyes were sharp, tracking the shift of his hands, the drape of the fabric, with a tactical precision.

he’d seen that look a hundred times before, usually when you were scanning a battlefield or piecing together a shattered component on your workbench.

it was your ‘analyzing the problem’ face, and seeing it directed at something as simple as getting dressed sent a familiar, warm flutter through his stomach. he tried to ignore it, focusing on the soft weight in his hands.

the first step was the underlayer, a simple, sleeveless tunic. he guided it over your head, his hands brushing against your shoulders as he smoothed it down your torso.

you stood perfectly still, but he felt the subtle shift of muscle under his palms. you were always so contained, so controlled. it was a stark contrast to his own fumbling energy sometimes.

"so this is the base layer," he mumbled, more to himself than you. "makes sense. provides some modesty before you get all… flowy."

"fascinating. a two-piece cultural marvel."

he ignored the deadpan remark, picking up the main piece—the long, shimmering rectangle of fabric that would become the infamous skirt and sash.

"okay, this is the tricky part. you have to wrap it around, then twist this end and tuck it… here." he moved behind you, draping the fabric around your waist. his arms circled you as he brought the two ends together at your front.

he was close. he could feel the heat coming off your back, smell the faint, clean scent of your soap. his fingers fumbled slightly as he tried to remember the specific fold.

"having trouble, grayson?" you asked, your voice a low murmur, but mark could hear the faint smile in your tone. "need me to spin in circles?"

"shut up," he grumbled, but there was no heat in it. he finally got the twist right, his knuckles brushing against the firm plane of your stomach as he secured the fabric. a jolt, small and electric, went through him. you didn’t even flinch.

he stepped back to survey his work. the outfit was on, technically. the sleeveless top fit you well, hugging your chest and arms. the skirt fell in soft, shimmering folds around your legs.

but something was off. it looked… functional on you. like a uniform. it lacked the same awkward, flustered energy it had imposed on him.

"it’s on backwards," you stated, not even looking down.

"what? no, it’s not."

you pointed a finger downwards. "the primary decorative knot is supposed to be on the left hip. mine is on the right. you put it on backwards."

mark blinked. "you memorized the ceremonial dress code of a species you’ve never met?"

"i observe things for a living," you said flatly, already reaching to untuck the fabric. "it’s what keeps me from getting disintegrated." your fingers worked at the knot, and a low, quiet chuckle escaped you. "and of course i memorized how it's supposed to look. couldn't exactly keep my eyes off you, could i?"

mark let out a groan that was half exasperation, half sheer embarrassment, dragging his palm down his face as he felt his cheeks burn a hot, unmistakable pink.

in a few efficient, practiced motions, you had the fabric unwrapped, reversed, and re-draped. for a few fleeting seconds, the outfit was loose, and mark’s gaze snagged on the strip of bare skin at your waist, the shift of muscle in your back as you moved.

his imagination, ever a traitor, supplied a very vivid, very distracting image of his hands replacing the fabric, of tracing that same path with his fingers.

your hands moved with a certainty his had lacked, tying the final knot with a sharp, precise tug that snapped him back to reality. you adjusted the fall of the skirt, smoothed the sash over your shoulder, and then looked up at him, your expression shifting back to a cool, collected one.

"better?"

mark’s breath caught in his throat.

oh.

oh, he got it now.

the outfit didn’t look awkward on you. it looked… dangerous. the sleeveless cut showed off the defined strength in your arms—not bulging like his, but lean and corded, the kind of strength that came from years of sheer human will and relentless, grueling work. the kind of strength mark desperately wanted to feel under his hands, under his mouth.

the way the fabric cinched at your waist made your shoulders seem broader, more imposingly solid, and all he could think about was grabbing you there and pulling you flush against him.

the skirt, which had made him feel exposed and silly, just emphasized the powerful line of your thighs, the solid, grounded stance of a fighter who didn't need to fly to be lethal.

it was a devastating, silent reminder of everything you were underneath the dry humor and the deadpan remarks, and it made his head spin.

he wanted to drop to his knees right there, to press his face against the shimmering fabric covering your stomach and feel the muscle tense, to run his hands up under the hem of that stupid, beautiful skirt and learn the shape of your power with his palms.

but the real kicker was the expression on your face. you looked regal, and bored, and so, so hot it short-circuited a part of mark’s brain.

he finally understood the feral, brain-melting stare you’d given him. because he was doing the exact same thing now. his mouth had gone dry.

"so?" you prompted, your voice laced with amusement. "do i pass the thraxan dress code? or do i look like i’m about to preside over a very dull space tribunal?"

"you…" he started, then swallowed, his voice coming out rough. "you look… wow."

the word was pathetic, a tiny, insufficient sound for the hurricane of want crashing through him. all he could think about was crossing the space between them, fisting his hands in that delicate fabric at your hips and dragging you into a kiss that would leave you both breathless.

he wanted to walk you backwards until your knees hit the edge of his bed, to watch the shimmering skirt ride up your powerful thighs as you sat down.

he wanted to push the sash off your shoulder and follow the path with his mouth, to taste the skin where your neck met that unfairly strong shoulder.

he wanted to feel the slide of the alien silk under his palms while he mapped the familiar, solid strength of your body underneath, to see how the delicate material looked twisted in his grip while you were under him.

one corner of your mouth twitched. "’wow.’ very articulate. all those battles must have knocked the adjectives right out of you."

he didn’t have a comeback. he just stepped forward, his hands finding your waist on their own accord, his thumbs stroking over the shimmering fabric. he could feel the solid muscle beneath. "shut up," he whispered, leaning his forehead against yours. "you know what i mean."

"i do," you conceded, your own hands coming up to rest on his arms. your touch was lighter than his, more deliberate. "and for the record… now i really see the appeal." your gaze dropped to his lips, then back to his eyes, and the intensity in them made his knees feel weak. "so. what’s the protocol for removing this thing?"

"no," mark breathed out, the word barely a sound. his hands slid from your waist, moving up to cradle your arms, his fingers tracing the lean, corded muscle there from your shoulders all the way down to your wrists. "not yet."

a quiet, questioning hum rumbled in your chest. "why not?"

he didn't answer with words. his eyes did all the talking, trailing down your body with an unashamed, worshipful heat. his hands followed the path his gaze had taken, moving back up to squeeze your shoulders, feeling the incredible density there. his fingertips then drifted, feather-light, across the sharp line of your collarbone, making you shiver.

then his palms slid down, over the soft fabric covering your pecs. he explored the firm, defined planes of your chest, his touch experimental, reverent.

one of his hands stayed to map the territory, his thumb finding the shape of your nipple through the fabric and pressing down in a slow, deliberate circle. you let out a sharp, quiet inhale, your head tilting back just a fraction, and the reaction went straight to mark’s head like a drug.

as his other hand slid down to grip your hip, his imagination spiraled. he wanted to peel the fabric away with his teeth, to replace the brush of thraxan silk with the wet heat of his mouth.

he wanted to see if your skin would taste like starlight or just sweat and you. he pictured his hands, his mouth, on every newly exposed inch—sucking a dark mark right over your heart, biting the muscle of your pectoral just to feel you jump, laving his tongue over that sensitive nub until you were gasping and pulling his hair.

he wanted to worship this body until you forgot your own name and could only remember his.

a warm, firm grip closed around both of his wrists, snapping him out of his trance. he hadn’t even realized his hands had been moving, roaming far beyond the territory of your pecs and hips.

his palms were splayed against the small of your back, his fingers had been skating lower, dipping beneath the waistband of the skirt, and one thumb was stroking absent, possessive circles over your hip bone.

you were breathing a little heavier, a faint flush high on your cheekbones, and your eyes were dark, the pupils blown wide. but that familiar, dry smirk was still playing on your lips.

"and you said," you began, your voice a low, rough murmur that went straight to his groin, "we should save the rest of this for when we’re not in a shared room." you gave his wrists a slight, pointed squeeze. "yet you go and do things like this. a little contradictory, grayson."

mark’s brain short-circuited. the heat in his own face was a roaring blaze, but it was nothing compared to the desperate, aching want coiling tight in his stomach.

"i—you—," he stammered, completely useless, his eyes darting from your amused expression to your kiss-swollen lips and back. "you just… you look…"

he couldn’t finish the sentence. instead, he leaned in, his movement slow, almost reverent. he closed the small distance between you and pressed his lips to yours in a kiss that was soft, questioning, a silent apology and a plea all at once. it was gentle, full of the awe he couldn’t put into words.

for a second, you remained still, letting him worship you with that soft pressure. then, with a quiet, hungry sound from the back of your throat, you leaned into it, one hand releasing his wrist to fist in the hair at the nape of his neck.

you tilted his head, deepening the kiss, turning its reverent softness into something hotter, more demanding. your tongue swept into his mouth, and mark melted against you with a shuddering gasp, his free hand coming up to cradle your jaw.

when you finally broke apart for air, you were both panting, foreheads pressed together. but mark wasn’t done. he trailed his lips from your mouth, placing slow, open-mouthed kisses along the line of your jaw. he nuzzled into the sensitive spot just below your ear, inhaling the scent of your skin.

"so perfect," he whispered, the words ghosting over your pulse point. he felt you shiver. "you have no idea." he moved lower, pressing his lips to the column of your throat, tasting the salt of your skin. "the way you look in this… it should be illegal." his hands slid down your back, pulling you flush against him as he mouthed at your collarbone. "you’re so strong… so fucking beautiful. it drives me crazy."

a shaky, shuddering breath escaped you, the most unguarded sound he’d heard from you all night. your head fell back, giving him better access, your fingers tightening in his hair.

the usual dry, controlled composure was crumbling, replaced by a raw, pliant responsiveness that made mark’s heart hammer against his ribs.

you were letting him see this, letting him feel the effect he had on you, and it was the most powerful thing he’d ever experienced.

"mark," you breathed, your voice stripped down to a raw, wanting thread. it wasn’t a protest. it was a surrender.

that single word shattered the last of his restraint. in one fluid motion, he slid an arm under your knees and another around your back, lifting you as if you weighed nothing.

he carried you the few short steps to his bed, the thraxan fabric whispering against his skin. he laid you down amidst the rumpled sheets, his body caging yours, his eyes dark and desperate.

"can i kiss you?" he whispered, the question already rough with need.

you gave a single, sharp nod, and he was on you, his mouth capturing yours in a kiss that was anything but gentle. it was all heat and hunger, a frantic, consuming thing.

he groaned into your mouth, a low, vibrating sound that got swallowed between you. every shift of his hips, every desperate, rolling thrust against yours drew another broken sound from his throat, until he was panting your name against your lips like a prayer.

he finally had to pull away, his own lungs screaming for a breath he didn't technically need, but you did. he rested his forehead against yours, trying to calm the frantic hammering of his heart, trying to wrestle the superhuman strength in his limbs back under control. he could feel the fine tremors running through his arms where he braced himself above you.

"fuck," he groaned, the word strained. "i have to... i just need a second."

you let out a soft, breathless laugh beneath him, the sound fond and a little teasing. one of your hands came up to pat the side of his head, a gentle, grounding touch. "it's okay, grayson. i'm not made of glass."

"feels like you are sometimes," he muttered, the words muffled against your neck. he pressed a soft, apologetic kiss there, then another along your collarbone, savoring the salt-and-soap taste of your skin. "sorry. i don't wanna... you know. break you."

"you won't," you said, your voice steady and sure, your fingers carding gently through his hair. "i survived the night you finally returned from your first space mission. i think i can handle you."

he huffed a laugh against your skin, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. his fingers, which had been fisted in the sheets, relaxed and instead found the hem of the thraxan skirt, playing with the shimmering fabric where it was rucked up high on your thigh. he focused on the texture, the softness, trying to anchor himself.

and then he looked.

the skirt had ridden up so, so far, exposing the skin of your upper thighs, the sharp cut of muscle that made his mouth go dry all over again.

he closed his eyes for a brief second, sending a silent, desperate prayer to any god, celestial, or alien entity that might be listening. please, give me strength. give me discipline.

when he opened them, you were watching him, that small, private smile back on your lips. "see something you like?"

"shut up," he whispered, but there was no force behind it, only a world of aching want. he leaned down and pressed one more soft, lingering kiss to your lips, a promise and an apology all in one. "i just really, really like the outfit."

"ah, really? i couldn't tell."