#invincible reader insert

There was nothing harder than being a teenager.

Think your life was tough? Try surviving a day in high school while pretending you weren’t having a full-blown existential crisis, and trying to fulfill everyone’s expectations at the same time. Everything was a disaster. Your brain said one thing, your heart screamed another. So really, who could blame you for being such a brat? It wasn’t entirely your fault, clearly.

The only halfway decent excuse for why you became so insufferable was that you were basically half an orphan. Or at least, that’s how you liked to put it. The moment your mom walked out on you and your dad, claiming she’d missed out on life by getting pregnant in her senior year of high school, she might as well have been dead to you. You didn’t miss her. Really, you didn’t.

It wasn’t like there was much to miss.

Her disdain for kids (or maybe just for you specifically) had never exactly been subtle. You couldn’t even remember her giving you something as simple as a hug. Or a smile. Or anything that vaguely resembled what a mother was supposed to give her child. So when she cleaned out the joint bank account and vanished without a word, it wasn’t even that surprising. Disappointing? Kinda. But shocking? Not in the slightest. Why she didn’t leave earlier was a bigger mystery to you. That would've saved you a lot of unresolved mommy issues, for sure.

That’s why you were the way you were. And it didn’t help that your dad tried to make up for her complete lack of parenting all your childhood by being the most emotionally available, open-minded, “cool” parent to walk the planet. He even took some online parenting classes a few years ago, and things only got worse from there.

“I’m so proud of you.”

“I’ll always support you.”

“Do you want to talk about how you’re feeling today?”

Nothing objectively terrible, you admitted. And yet, that rage inside you refused to settle, even when he tried so hard to fill the hole your mom left behind. Stupid, right? You didn’t want her in your life, and here was the best dad imaginable, trying everything to connect with you, his only daughter… and still, you couldn’t bring yourself to meet him halfway. You didn’t even know why.

That immature mess of feelings, the anger, confusion, and pride, clouded your judgment. It’s what made you ignore his desperate, awkward attempts at bonding. He’d eat alone in the dining room, watch TV by himself, and go on walks solo, while you stayed holed up in your room by yourself, sinking deeper and deeper into self-pity.

Which is probably how you ended up here: sitting in some overpriced, fancy restaurant you’d never set foot in by choice, forced into a tight dress instead of your usual baggy hoodie, poking at a plate of Australian wagyu.

“I heard from your dad that you got a full-ride scholarship to Upstate,” a voice said, snapping you out of your thoughts. “You must’ve worked really hard for that.”

You glanced up from your plate, locking eyes with the middle-aged woman across the table. She was smiling warmly at you, but you couldn’t quite return the gesture.

You’d already forgotten her name. Delia? Daphne? Something that started with a D, you were pretty sure.

A week ago, your dad had sat you down on the couch and dramatically taken your hand in his. For a brief second, you actually thought he was about to drop something devastating, judging by the way he was acting.

Maybe he’d lost his job, and you’d have to sell the house and move away. Or maybe he had a secret gambling addiction and now you had to flee from all the people that he owed money to. Or worse, Grandma had passed, and no one had told you yet. Grim scenarios spun through your head, each one darker than the last, and for the first time in a long while, something other than that dull, monotone apathy stirred in your chest.

But then he said he was seeing someone. And even though no one had died, something twisted in your stomach in a way that felt pretty close.

Not that it should’ve been a shock. You’d known he was lonely. Ever since Mom left, it was obvious. Painfully so. And it’s not like you were much help in that regard, either. You barely spoke to him anymore. So, really, it was only a matter of time before he picked himself up, dusted off the whole high-school-sweetheart-divorce thing, and reentered the dating scene.

You should have seen it coming.

He met her at some work event, apparently. Said she was smart, kind, and made him happy. That was the pitch, anyway.

And despite your usual indifference, you did love your dad. You really did. But being a moody teenager, that wasn’t always something you could say out loud. So instead, you showed it in small ways, like the time he hugged you on your birthday, tears in his eyes, barely able to contain how proud he was to see “his little girl” growing up. You didn’t pull away. And by your standards, that was a pretty big sign of love, just so we're clear. That’s why agreeing to this dinner, to meet his new girlfriend, felt like proof of how much he meant to you.

Because this was hell.

You hated meeting new people. Especially people who might become your new mom. You hated pretentious restaurants with dress codes and fifteen-course menus with ridiculously tiny portions. You even found yourself irrationally hating the overly chipper server who swung by every five minutes with the same fake smile, asking, “How’s everything tasting?”

Absolutely everything about this was a complete nightmare—horrible, terrible, there wasn’t a single word in the whole encyclopaedia that could describe how awful this situation was. You’d never missed the quiet of your room more than you did right now.

“She won every spelling bee in elementary school and took first place in every science fair,” your dad chimed in, grinning from ear to ear as he set down his fork and knife. “She’s always been the smart one.”

You tried not to roll your eyes, but the grimace tugging at your lips was hard to fight.

When was the last time you saw him like that? The way his eyes lit up when he introduced you to her. The way his whole face softened when she made a joke. How his expression got all stupid and soft every time you said something remotely polite to her. A couple of years ago, maybe? Back when Mom was still around?

So, you swallowed your pride, bit your tongue, and decided to ride it out. Just for tonight, you told yourself.

You shrugged silently as your dad gave you a light pat on the shoulder.

“That’s amazing!” the woman said, her smile somehow stretching even wider. “This guy here could definitely learn a thing or two from you.”

Your eyes flicked to the boy sitting next to her, who immediately went pale as his mother gestured to him with a nod of her head. Still mid-bite, he awkwardly chewed and swallowed. Her son. Same age as you. Mark… or was it Matt? Something painfully ordinary.

He looked like your typical shy nerd: scrawny and a little hunched. He probably owned a collection of graphic tees with bad puns printed on them. Definitely not someone you’d ever talk to voluntarily. Not that you thought you were better than him.

When he finally swallowed, he gave a nervous smile and glanced at his mom before speaking.

“I’ve still got a couple of months until graduation. Maybe I can pull my grades up before then,” he said, scratching the back of his neck.

They laughed and exchanged a few light jokes that weren’t funny. You weren’t listening anyway.

College was just around the corner. You’d go to Upstate, graduate top of your class, then settle into a painfully average life as an office worker—just like your dad had. Not exactly something worth looking forward to, in your opinion. You couldn’t share their enthusiasm, but you bit back any snarky remark.

You settled back, staring down at your plate, when your name was being called again.

You looked up, lifting your chin from your palm.

It was your dad.

His eyebrows were drawn together, and his lips held a strained half-smile. You knew that look all too well.

“Maybe you could help Mark with some of his assignments?” he asked, nodding toward the boy across from you.

Your face twisted into an instant frown. Tutoring was already bad when it was for kids—you’d only done it during summer to make some quick cash for those limited edition shoes you wanted. The stupid questions, the growing impatience when they still wouldn’t get it after explaining it over and over and over again… Not to mention the shit pay. Doing it with someone your own age sounded even worse. You wouldn’t do it, even if your life depended on it.

Definitely not.

You opened your mouth to decline, to tell him that you’d rather choke on your steak than tutor that dimwit, but your dad was watching you so earnestly and the words stuck in your throat. Then, involuntarily, you thought of all the times he’d sat alone on the couch, eating popcorn and watching reruns of trashy reality shows that you outgrew of. His sad smile, whenever the two would talk about the day you’d eventually move out for college, leaving him behind all by himself. Of the mornings he woke up with red eyes, still hurting from the way your mom left without a warning.

The memory of it stung. You hated that feeling.

A simple “no” would’ve done the job. A shake of your head. Even a shrug would’ve sufficed. But instead, you nodded, just barely, and gave the faintest smile.

Your dad’s face lit up as he turned back to his girlfriend and her son, completely unaware of the storm churning in your chest. And all you could do was sit there and quietly curse yourself.

The rest of the night dragged by just as painfully slow, and you couldn’t imagine the dinner getting any worse—until you found yourself standing outside the restaurant with the girlfriend’s son, waiting for your parents to bring the car around.

Neither of you spoke, and you hoped it would stay that way. Even though you’d barely listened to him mumbling through dinner, you’d already decided there was nothing between you that could carry a decent conversation. There was no way you were going to keep pretending to get along with him when this whole date had already been exhausting enough.

All you wanted was to go home, crawl into bed, and never see him or his mother again.

But things never really went your way. Of course, they didn’t.

So when you heard him clear his throat, a not-so-subtle attempt to get your attention, you weren’t even surprised.

“Thanks for the offer, by the way,” he said. “The tutoring. You’re really saving me.”

“Don’t mention it,” you replied flatly.

“Your dad seems nice,” he added. “My mom’s already told me a lot about him.”

You hummed, unable to hide the disinterest in your voice any longer. This was torture.

A brief silence followed, and for a moment, you thought he might have finally taken the hint and pieced together your lack of enthusiasm with the painfully obvious signals in your body language. But apparently, just like his academic performance, his social awareness wasn’t exactly stellar.

“I haven’t seen her this happy in a while.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “She was really nervous about meeting you, too—”

“Hey.” You cut him off. Your voice came out much sterner than you intended, and the surprise on his face made it clear he hadn’t expected it, too.

Your gaze flicked over him, catching the way he fidgeted where he stood. It only made you roll your eyes again.

“Look, Matt—”

“It’s Mark.”

There was a moment of awkward silence. You ignored it and continued.

“Let’s not start this whole ‘happy family’ thing,” you said. “It’s not like we don’t both know we’re only doing this,” you gestured between the two of you, “for our parents’ sake. So let’s just not.”

The stupid grin on his face slowly faded as your words sank in. Maybe someone else would’ve felt bad for crushing this poor boy’s idea of some perfect patchwork family, but his kicked-puppy expression did nothing for you. If anything, it only made the irritation simmering inside you even worse.

“What’s wrong with trying to get along?” Mark asked, and you were surprised he was still pushing. “I’m just trying to be nice.”

You scoffed.

“I’m moving out in a few months anyway,” you said. “We won’t have to deal with each other for much longer, so don’t bother.”

You opened your clutch and started rummaging through it, searching for your earphones. That should’ve been enough, even for someone as socially inept as Matt, to signal that the conversation was over. How far away had your dad parked the car, anyway? If he didn’t show up soon, you were actually going to lose it.

“You don’t have to be such an asshole about it,” he muttered, his voice low enough that you almost didn’t catch it.

You should’ve ignored it. You knew you should have. He was just being a naïve, overly sensitive baby. But the anger that had been building all night finally tipped over, and before you could stop yourself, you turned back around.

“Oh, don’t pretend you don’t hate this,” you shot back. “Just because you’re trying to suck up to your mom doesn’t make you better than me.”

“At least I’m not a miserable mess like you.” His voice cut clearly through the air; far more confident than it had been all night.

Then, thick silence settled over you, the atmosphere tense and heavy, but neither of you looked away. Your eyes widened, your hands curling into fists at your sides.

You had tried.

You really had.

But it wasn’t your fault your dad’s girlfriend had raised such a dick. So whatever came out of your mouth next was completely justified, as far as you were concerned. The insults spilled out before you could stop them, one after another, even as your dad finally pulled up.

“And just so we’re clear—” you yanked the car door open and raised your middle finger, holding it up in Mark’s direction. You didn’t even wait for a response before dropping into the passenger seat and slamming the door shut with a loud bang.

You were grounded for the next two weeks afterward.

“You look hungry.” Your emphasis. It draws out the grit in your voice; that saccharine drawl lances through his thoughts and spears him right in the chest. His heart pounds with the roar of a war drum, disconcertingly loud in his ears and you’re standing so close—just to pour his water—that he worries for a moment you can hear it too. He prays to God you don’t notice how tense he is or how red his face has gotten since you’ve stepped into his vicinity. 

What is he so flustered by, anyway? Is it the smell of your perfume that’s got him short circuiting? The faint tickle of your breath on his ear? The mere thought of you being anywhere near him?

The answer is D: all of the above. 

Having come to this conclusion, it sets the facts in stone--

He really is fucked. 

He’d be surprised if he still had a girlfriend by the end of the night cause his eyes have been glued to you since you opened the door, caught on your every word. Amber was over the moon about it at first. He’d been housebroken in five minutes tops; yes and ma’am his two favorite words.

“Hungry?”

It's hardly anything but you light up anyway, your shock giving way to a restrained excitement and in an instant your demeanor entirely made over. Your eyes became alive and bright, smile lines gentle crescents on your face as your grin spans ear to ear. 

You have been doing most of the talking. He can’t get his thoughts in a straight line when you look him in the eyes so instead of being tongue-tied, second guessing and editing every genuine reaction, he made himself set dressing; he was your coat rack in the corner, the ottoman that held your drinks, your plaid couch cushion. He observed the banter between you and Amber and acted like some stranger, or her shadow as opposed to ‘her little friend.’ You had tried to coax him out of his shell.

Nudged his shoulder. A quick What do you think, Mark? just to see if he’ll bite. He only nodded politely. Kept eye-contact but hardly emoted; you don’t think this kid has blinked for the past five minutes. I think it’s just fine, ma’am. No dice. Cool and calm, but it feels too curated. Contained.

You think he doesn’t like you at first and that is entirely on him. The bit of sadness in your eyes and the odd glance from Amber fills him with dread, but ultimately he decides it’s worth it. It was far better than you getting too close and finding out he actually likes you—a lot more than he should. He feels the rage of his hormones itching at his hind brain; a stirring in his pants just because you brushed his shoulder.

During all your pleasantries he was preoccupied. Busy exercising dwindling self-restraint, jaw tightened and fingers dug into his palms so hard he’s sure he bled a bit.

Behind his eyes is his rational mind resisting the urge to ogle. Eye contact is the bane of him but so is your body, each curve and sharp edge unfortunately (mournfully, even) hidden beneath the threshold of your neck. He dared not look any lower. 

He’d done more than enough staring when Amber first showed him your picture. She brought up the whole dinner idea and flashed a pic of you offhandedly, said it was from your birthday.

He should’ve called it there. He should’ve wisened up and cut his losses, because this was a bad fucking idea. 

He was staring for wayyy too long; being rendered slack-jawed in front of your girl for any amount of time by anyone who’s not her is immediately and unignorably suspect. However, you are the girl’s mother, and Mark is praying Amber thinks he is in his right mind and does not jump to the conclusion that, briefly, he wondered what your tits looked like sans top. 

“She’s…” Hot. “Beautiful. I see where you get your good looks from, babe.” Amber laughed at that, missing the single drip of sweat that had to have been sliding down his temple. She elbowed him, paltry laughter coloring her speech. “Okay good, cuz’ that was a test.” Mark squints at her, hands closing in at her waist and gently pinching her fat, teasing. “Testing me? What are you vetting for? What—” He had laughed from the nerves, picked at a loose thread on his jeans to diffuse his inner tension. “Do people say crazy shit about your mom to your face?”

He’d been peering at the picture from beneath her thumb when she shook her head. “You’d be surprised! Some people booold as fuck.”

Mark was busy looking, didn’t respond right away. “Yeah… that’s, that’s wild.” 

Did you get knocked up fresh out of highschool? There are some natural lines of age that accentuate your smile and reach your eyes, but none of that even matters; it’s like your aura is timeless, your confidence striking, he could feel your joy, and he smiles back at you like a dumbass.

“You good?” She’s noticed it, the shift in the energy. 

SOUND THE ALARMS! He’s been caught. It’s over. Amber hates his guts thinks he’s disgusting and is never going to speak to him again—

“Yeah! I’m just super excited to meet her. She seems like a lovely woman.” When she smiles back, the flood sirens stop, hazard lights go out. “She is! Mom of year material, swear to god.” 

“...yeah.”

Good grief, what the hell would his mother say? Catching him drooling over a woman twice his age—he hoped she’d at least laugh before she smacked him upside the head.

But he feels as blameless as he does shameful.

Because look at you. As far as he’s concerned, dinner’s already been served.

His mouth is dry by the time it catches up to his mind. 

“Yeah, I know that look man. You’re starving.” You step back from around him and walk towards the oven, and he justifies his staring by convincing himself he was already looking over before you walked there. He gulps.

Your pants cup your ass so perfectly; two beautiful cheeks, teasing him from under thin denim— “Uh.. yeah, I guess I am. Thirsty, too. Thanks for the water,” he cheers at you and you shake your head, putting on cow print oven mitts. They match your apron, your drink coasters, and utensil grips. There’s a joke there somewhere: something something, mommies and milkies.

“Don’t mention it! But sorry for the wait; dinner doesn’t usually take this long to start—I have no idea what that girl is doing up there.” You open the oven. “Oh! Before I forget: if you want anything other than water, or if you want seconds, just let me know sweetheart.”

He eats you up with his eyes, you don’t know he’s already on his third plate.

Your voice—suave, smooth—soothes and excites him. You speak with the cadence of a song, your expressive lilt or husky croons tickle his brain in just the right way. You are genuine, cordial, have been since he’s stepped foot into your home. Amber is always coming over with little lunches, post-it notes with squiggly hearts attached. You sign everything in the same flowy script, for my beautiful daughter; since you have learned of his existence, you’ve tacked on and her little friend in parenthesis, packing the snacks Amber told you he liked. 

You’re attentive. Thoughtful. You’d even gotten him a gift for his birthday before you even met in person. He refused to accept the present at first, but Amber said it’d be a bigger hassle to try and get you to give it back, from one of those shows Amber said you liked written on the card attached. 

A limited edition shiny, which he can’t fathom you found for any price cheaper than an arm and a leg. Amber said you had a friend and just thought he might like it.

It was really… sweet. How much you wanted them to work out. He senses that same sincerity in your every action. In every smile or wave, in the time you took to prepare him a beautiful dinner—and you’re right, he actually is hungry—all in an effort to get to know him better. You’re not some cougar, or some hyper-nymphomaniac slut who’d try to seduce her daughter’s boyfriend. Which was unfortunate, for him.

You are just a good mom. A great one even, and a better host besides. Mark is just some fucking pervert.

While you’re pulling the trays out of the oven, he is glued to your every movement, tilting his head to get your best angles. Your spread is immaculate.

The gentle swing of your hips, and fuck—he swears he can see the outline of it. The subtle flare of your pussy lips, shrink wrapped in your jeans. Either he’s imagining things, or your cunt’s just as fat as he thought it’d be.

Fuck dinner, he desperately wants to skip straight to dessert, peach juice dribbling down his chin. He’d lick you up quick—you’re liquid gold, too precious to waste a drop. “...she’s probably getting cute for her little friend…” You mutter to yourself, which cuts through the fog of perversion, and he takes a sip of his water in a futile attempt to cool off.

His final shame would be getting hard at your dinner table. It’s not like you’re doing it on purpose, it’s just out of your control just like it’s out of his, in a way. You can’t help looking good in your clothes!  That’s why you buy them, for the way they cuddle your supple curves, snuggle between your folds, caressing your fat so well they had to have been tailor-made for you. 

You’d look good in his clothes, too.

His dick twitches at the thought, grip around his glass tightening.

“I should’ve asked Amber what you like to eat but,” You start, still taking trays out the oven.”I guess the invitation was super last minute, so apologies if our meager dinner doesn’t suit your highfalutin’ tastes.” He can hear the smile on the tip of your tongue, your jibes easing his wariness. ”Don’t even worry about that,” he reassures, thinking too hard about what to say next. “It smells way too good in here for the food to not hit, ya’know?” He facepalms internally.

“Well, aren’t you a flatterer? Why thank you, Mark. It’s nice to feel appreciated.” You’re dramatic, palm to chest and flourishing with the flair of a broadway star, and it catches him so off guard he laughs. You’re emboldened by his energy, moving around with an ineffable pep, almost like you’re dancing. It’s silly frankly, watching you butter bread buns as you jam to an invisible concert.

Mark should have been laughing. Should have been prancing around the kitchen alongside you, playing The Good Boyfriend, collecting his brownie points by helping his girlfriend’s mother around the house. Just be a normal fucking person.

But he’s caught. Fish-on-the-hook, rat-in-a-trap, caught. On the swell of your hips, the twist of your spine, the expanse of your neck, the dimples on your back whenever your shirt rides up. The way your ass sticks out when you get on your tippy toes to grab something from a high shelf. Your body is intoxicating and Mark isn’t the drinking type, but since time immemorial have there been exceptions. He’s been making a lot, tonight, so what’s another?

Everything about this is lovely. There’s fresh baked bread, rice and beans on the stove, baked mac and cheese set aside on a cooling rack, and the chicken… he sniffs. 

“Is that cumin?” He asks, in an attempt to distract himself. You make a noise that sounds like surprise and glance back at him. “Yeah! It is. Some nose you got on ya, Mark! You cook a lot or something? Or maybe…just have an uncanny sense of smell.” You tap your nose, smirking, and Mark just shrugs. “I watch my Mom, she shows me how to cook some stuff from time to time. Or when I ask. But I’m not exactly the greatest student, so I don’t wanna waste her time you know.” He laughs. It makes an odd wheeze coming out, and on impulse he scratches the back of his neck as you sample a sauce. “No worries about that, here. I’m an excellent teacher.” Your smugness palpable, you crook your finger at him. “C’mere, I’ll show you a little something-something.”

And he can’t just say no.

So, there he stands next to you, half-chubbed, in front of the stove. You two are hip-to-hip at your insistence—you can’t learn standing all the way back there—the steam in his face not nearly as hot as he is under the collar. “Veggies with lotsa water are a bitch to cook so I don’t even bother. We’re doing cauliflower tonight. Something simple, sumn’ light. Now, the trick is to be loose with it, don’t worry about whether or not you’re gonna fuck it up. Just let it rock,” You look over at him and he is stiff, like he has half a mind to let your hard work burn to a blackened crisp. You grab his hand to try help him stir and he starts to turn pink. You didn’t think the kitchen was that hot.  “Try and relax. Breathe in, breathe out. You got this baby.” You’re fucking with him. You just have to be. 

Are you really that sultry-toned, bedroom-eyed? Or is he seeing things, steam fogging up his thoughts. He begins, trying not to sound so nervous, “Mrs. Bennett—”

“You can just call me by my name, Mark.” You snort. He swallows. “Okay, ma’a- Uhhh,” He stutters and you chuckle. “If that’s too familiar for you, you can always just call me Mom.” You wink and his heart flutters in his chest. “Okay, mom.” He has to keep himself from shivering as the word rolls off his tongue. 

He’s out of place next to you, a milk jug in the candy aisle, clown shoes paired with a cocktail dress. Your softness contrasts his on-edge, he’s surprised he hasn’t cut you yet. 

“Take a deep breath Mark, you don’t need to overthink it. We’re not doing rocket science.” You guide him. In and then out. Your hand crooks his wrist and he forces himself to relax. “Grab the handle of the pan.” It’s easy to do whatever you ask of him. He’s only waiting for you to say jump. 

“Now stir in a slow continuous motion, loosen your wrists but keep your grip on the spoon tight.” 

You’re training wheels falling away as the cogs in his brain start to turn again. He rotates his wrist and keeps going, stirring in time with your humming. The pale cauliflower change color from white to gold. He takes a peek out of his periphery to gauge how he’s doing, and the wry grin splitting your face makes him smile, too. 

“See? You’re a natural when you put your mind to it. Or maybe you just needed a more hands-on kind of teacher?” you hum. 

He short circuits a second. He doesn’t even notice you snatching a simmering cauliflower out of the pan; you have a mother’s immunity to this kind of heat. “Sample your work always. Never serve someone something you haven’t tried yourself.” You blow gently on the piece you plucked and offer it to him.

“My hands are sort of preoccupied, mom.” Saying that feels much better than it should. “I don’t think I can—” Heat at his lips silences him.

“Open.” 

Housebroken was right. He doesn’t have to think about it, he’s blinked and the cauliflower is already grinding under his teeth. The tastes of garlic and onion bloom beautifully on his palette, not overbearing, just delicious.

“Oh shit yeah,” He groans a little, then remembers himself, drawing back in. “Sorry, pardon my language.” Try as he might to dissuade himself, a snake of a smile slithers onto his face. “It’s great.” Mark smacks his lips together gently as you look at him, expectant. He licks the residue of seasonings off his lip and tries not to imagine what you taste like. “I’m wondering if your tongue’s as sensitive as your nose. So what’s the verdict? Give me a run down.”

He sucks his teeth. “Garlic. Onions. Or maybe shallots? Is there a difference? I just assumed they were just kind of smaller onions.”  He can smell the difference but he likes the way you light up when he asks. “Yeah, there is! Shallots are like… a distant cousin. They’re from a whole different family, Allum- something or other.” You reach in front of him to turn down the heat on the stove and you get far too close for comfort.

“Go on.” He thinks for a moment. “I thought I tasted,” You hold out your hand and he instinctively hands you the spoon. “Hm. I don’t know, I thought I tasted something spicy, a little sweet, maybe.” You nod. “That’s what you call the spice of life: Paprika.” Que jazz hands.

“Two outta three isn’t too bad. I’ll make a chef out of you yet Grayson.” You beam and it is blinding, he has to look away. “You’re shaping up to be an excellent pupil.”  He full body perks up at your praise. If he had a tail, it’d be wagging. “Do me a favor Mark?” His dog ears perk up. “Get a cup from the cabinet above you. Then take the pitcher,” You gesture as you slide your oven mitts on. “And put it in the middle of the table.”

“Okay!” He nods so giddily at you that you can’t help your laughter, rich as it flows from you. You’re opening the oven when you say it. You don’t even have the courtesy of facing him as you completely and utterly ruin his life.

“You’re a real good boy, aren’t you Mark?”  

Everything is quiet then—

—SMASH!

The pitcher makes your teeth rattle when it shatters, your head darting to the side so quick it’s a miracle you don’t snap your neck. Mark is standing there a few feet away from you, turned around, water and glass shards pooled at his feet.

“Are you okay?” The urgency in your voice pulls him out of his stupor. “Um. Yeah!” He chirps back, too fast. He is frozen in place. 

“Just! Hold on—” You drop the flan on the counter and chuck your mitts. 

Mark does not move.

His system is shot. All the blood has been evacuated from his brain, he can hardly focus on regulating his breathing—nevermind the words coming out your mouth. “Sweetheart..?” You try, brow arching. “What happened? Are you hurt?” 

“No! I’m fine.” He is on fire. Every muscle in his body coils tight as his fight or flight malfunctions. He freezes.

He’s completely crashed.

Over two fucking words.

Mark is stock still for a second, rock hard dick trapped between his thigh and pants far too tight.

You’re taken aback by his abruptness and quiet for a moment. “Okaaay. Well. Are you going to move over, at least?” You have something like a laugh lodged in between your words, riding closely behind irritation as your eyes follow the rolling stream of water beneath his feet.

“Yes! Yeah, of course, sorry.” 

He doesn’t mean to whimper like a kicked puppy, adorned with shame and all, and Mark hates the way you fold for him. The way you reassure him. It’s fine, crooned in that same saccharine tone because you wholeheartedly give a shit about him. Which is the worst, because he does not deserve your concern. He does not deserve your daughter. He does not deserve you. Least of all your damn dinner.

He was right. He only wished he could’ve been happy about that. 

Mark feels your laser eyes biting into his back, scoring over his skin as he moves out of the mess he’s made.

“Thank you. Now, can you pass me the broom? It’s in front of you.” 

He presses his palm to his mouth and eats his sigh. “Of course,” The throbbing in his pants is growing more insistent by the second but he can’t look down. Can’t acknowledge it or it’ll become uncomfortably real. But it’s not like he can stand still forever. He walks forward and grabs the broom, quick as he turns and hands it to you. You’re not even looking at him, too busy making sure you’re not tracking water underfoot. “I’m so, so sorry.” He starts, but you wave him off, leaning the broom against the fridge as you kneel to sop up the water.

”I didn’t think you were the jumpy type.” You jibe, spritely even as you weave around glass splinter and shards, trying not to scrape your hardwood floor. “But it’s fine—it happens to me too. Sometimes shit breaks,” you shrug. “Pardon my french, but no point bitching about it! ” You chuckle. “I am definitely gonna bully you about it, though.” You really, really shouldn’t; he likes this pair of pants.

His shoulders loosen hesitantly, only to be agitated as he gauges the urgency of his real problem. He is tenting.

His jeans are more heavy duty than the suggestion you call clothing but it’s obvious if you know what to look for. The tautness in the material as his dick fills it out, darkening brought on by the precum crowning his tip.

“Yeah, sorry. I guess I just—got worked up.” That’s certainly a way of putting it. “I was worried about messing this whole thing up, but then I went and made a fool of myself anyway.  Real classy, me.”  He laughs as he scolds himself, scratching the back of his head. You don’t see him while you’re bent over, cleaning, but he’s sure as hell seeing you. His conscience hits him with quick onset shame, but there’s not enough blood circulating to his brain for it to keep up with his reservations; he ogles shamelessly.

He has to catch himself everytime he leans too far forward, but it can’t be helped. He has a premium seat at the theatre and the main feature is your panty line, the poor excuse for a thong that creeps down the cleft of your ass, dipping below the horizon of your cheeks.  He envies it.

“I had a feeling you might’ve been a little nervous,” Your voice snaps him out of his perv’s reverie.  “But don’t worry, I like you plenty Mark. ‘M not expecting you to roll over or jump through hoops to impress me. You’re not a dog.” you say, laughing, but you don’t know. 

You rise from where you were crouched on the floor and turn quicker than he was expecting, but it’s easy to play off his staring and meets you with a smile. It is returned. ”You’re good, right? Not wet or anything?” You give him a quick once over and he stops breathing. 

You don’t seem to find what you’re looking for, meeting his eyes once more. “Yeah,” he says when he finds his voice, “Not anything, I’m fine.” You nod, exhaling short through your nose as if to say okay. 

“Great.” You sigh, arms akimbo, as you look at the shattered glass, at the broom, then at Mark. “Come here.” 

Then you’re on top of him. Hugging him. Ruffling the hair on the back of his head, tits pushed up against his chest, hard nipples poking through your bra, hugging him. “Uh, Mrs. Bennett—”

“What’d I say about calling me that?” You pull back, holding his shoulders while he stands with all the confidence of a wet cat, looking bewildered, then bashful. “At least say Miss, it makes me feel younger.” You joke.

“Miss,” He can’t help but comply. “What uh, what are you doing?” You squeeze his arms. 

“...have you never been hugged before, Mark Grayson?” You tease, while he attempts to position his hips as far away from your anything as he can. “I’m doing the Mom thing, you know? Comforting you.” You can hardly keep your laughter in one second, and then the next you’re decadently soothing, voice barely above a whisper. 

“You didn’t embarrass yourself, okay? Mistakes happen. You’ll give yourself an aneurysm if you keep stressing about making a good impression. As far as I’m concerned, you’re already part of the family.” You snuggle into him, rubbing comforting circles on his back. He shudders at your touch. 

You’re just as soft as he imagined, just as plush and warm, but he can’t hug you back, not in his state. You won't let him go.

“I can feel it, you know?”

His heart sinks. “Uh? What’re you talking about?

“Your tension. You’re stiff as all hell, man. You were sorta makin’ me nervous, cause you wanna look like you’re being held hostage.” He briefly looks at the arms girding him, then back to your babydoll face.

Wow. You’re breathtaking. Pillowy lips, spiderwicked lashes, vibrant eyes. You smell softly of coconut, cocoa butter, vanilla, a hint of sweet almonds. 

“Just relax man. Deep breath in, deep breath out.” He complies as his compulsion demands of him, and he, regretfully, relaxes in your arms. He relaxes to the feel, sight, and smell of you.

You made him too comfortable. He let out a sigh, eyes closed as he draped himself over your shoulder.

“That’s it, big guy, just calm down.” You pat him gently. He returns the hug.

Mark knows when you feel it. He knows because it sends a nasty jolt through his entire body when you rub up against it. His body locks up and his eyes widen, mortified. He feels hot, the room almost set to spinning as his mind is overwhelmed; he startles himself, the tiniest groan escaping him, but that is not when you notice, no.

He doesn’t say anything. He just leaves it be, cock throbbing as he tries to wade through the bog of his thoughts, trying not to rock himself against you.

It’s only when you pull back that you see it. You had this half-smile on your face, hand propped on your hip, mouth open like you were about to speak and then,

you looked down.

On reflex. It was quick. Not even a half-a-second long. But then you double, triple take.

He wondered if you thought he was big, naturally, though the state of your face summed up everything you’d never say. The wide-eyed shock, inhale of breath, supple lips softly parted. Then confusion, a furrow in your brow, uncertainty as your eyes flick back to his burning face. A twinge of disgust, but it’s brief as you are quick to school your expression. 

He’s bigger than your husband, maybe, or you’re wondering if this dick has fucked your daughter.

(He’s wondering if you’d take it better.)

If there’s hunger in your eyes, he couldn’t read it. Hell, he honestly can’t look you in the eye long enough to try.

In reality, you’re only surprised his face is so red; you’d have thought all the blood went, well…

“Oh.” You step away from him and tuck your hands behind your back. Neither of you speak for a moment, his wide eyes blinking at your indecipherable expression. 

Then, you attempt to diffuse the tension. “Well.  I'm... sure it happens to the best of us, Mark. It’s no hard feelings, I mean!--” You seem to remember the broken glass then, the thing you should've looked at in the first place, and busy yourself begin cleaning it up.

He doesn't try to speak. The silence resumes.

Until eventually, you try again. “When I met my husband, he had an issue with getting ‘excited’ too, you know?” Around you? Color Mark unsurprised.  “It’s only natural, especially for young men your age! Don’t worry.”

 His face burns with shame, or is it irritation? If old boy’s not in the picture, then maybe he could…?

No, no, he’s getting ahead of himself again.

He eats up your sweetness, and his teeth rot alongside his dignity. “Amber’s not ready, so you can head up to the bathroom while I clean up in here and we never have to talk about it again.  It can be our little secret.” You didn’t have to whisper the last part. He swears you’re just mocking him now. 

“Really?” He heaves sighs like mountains, eyes wily as they connect with yours. “You won’t tell Amber?”

“Really really, Mark. I’m sure she can live without knowing…this,” You gesture to him with your palm and all five fingers. “Ever happened. Especially after last time, she’s probaby--” You touch on something you clearly didn’t mean to, cutting yourself off before heaping refuse into a cow-print pail. “Nevermind. Bathroom’s upstairs, second door on the left, sweetheart. There are some towels too, if you need to, um…?” You trail off. “Uh. Under the cabinet.”

“Okay—I’m gonna go now, if you don’t mind, thank you so much ma’am—” He stands and for some reason you’re not looking him in the eyes anymore. 

“It’s no problem Mark, none at all.” You smile, quickly turning to dump the glass in the trash as he heads out. You catch the back of his head out of the corner of your eye, and let go of the chuckle you were holding onto as soon as you think he’s gone. “...just make sure you don’t poke someone’s eye out with that thing.” 

He doesn’t know where his mind goes after that. He’s hardly walked down the hall and he’s already played it over in his head five times. He’s deluded, mind a broken record, cock trying to jump out his pants and it only gets worse the more your words play over in his head. He walks with great urgency, gait awkward as he skids to the far end of the hall and reaches the base of the staircase.

In the blink of an eye he’s at the top of the stairs and yet, he is not fast enough to miss your rose of a daughter. Amber looks surprised to see him. “You came up to find me?” She was just touching up her makeup by the looks of it, blush renewed, baby blue eyeshadow reapplied, that artificial cherry gloss he likes. He could smell it from a mile off.

“Yeah,” He lies reflexively, “You were kind of taking forever…we thought you got lost on the way back or somethin’.”  Amber sounds so carefree when she laughs. He notices now how her face crinkles a lot like yours does, those same dimples and smile lines feeling intimately familiar now that he’s basked in your presence. She does a little flourish for him, stepping between him and the washroom and posing a little. “So! How am I looking?” She pauses after she takes him in, his cheeks bleeding red, eyes flittering elsewhere.

“Mark, you feeling alright? You’re looking really… hot?” Mark blanks for a second thinking of what he ought to say before she glances down. Amber expression dwells somewhere between humored and pleasant as she stares, openly.

He is going to die.

“Uhh, I’m flattered Mark, but right now isn’t really the best time,” she laughs. He sees now where she gets her humor from. “I’ll make a mental note: deep necklines and low rise jeans got you whipped.” 

He has absolutely no rebuttal to that. You wear it better, though.

God that’s so fucked—

“I, uh-- I can explain,” He starts, but Amber holds her hand up, fingers curling around his outstretched hand. “No need.” He sighs in relief. “The bathroom’s behind me. I’ll be with Mom. I’ve been gone for way too long, she’ll start thinking I died or something.” She smiles and heads towards the stairs.

“Just—give me a few minutes. Don’t wait up.” Amber says something that’s muffled by the click of the bathroom door.

Finally.

He relaxes at the door, the roar in his mind quieted by the change in scenery.

Even the inside of your bathroom is cute. There is more bovine based decor bathed in warm yellow light. Everything from the soap dispenser to the rugs to the curtains are brown, beige, sand, pink or peach, and it smells utterly divine.

It’s that perfume you’re wearing. Mark should be concerned he has already committed that scent to memory but he’s all bloodhound, thrown caution to the wind, sense on overdrive as he follows the trail to its end, X tucked behind the curtain of your bathtub. 

…

It’s your underwear. He knows it’s yours on account of the cow spots. Not like he could imagine Amber in a number this racy anyway; the crotch is missing, blue frills lining the slit down the center and what he assumed were the leg holes. Modesty was certainly not something she inherited from you, he thinks, as he plucks this choice piece off the rack.

He has to hold it in both hands, feel the cotton under his thumb pad to believe it’s real. The fabric is soft to the touch. He can catch a whiff of the soap you used, the scent of your skin lingering just behind that. He’s not even holding you close and you’re still so potent it makes his eye twitch and head hurt.

He imagines you in them. The smooth plane of your ass filling it out, the squish of your skin under the tension of the elastic. 

He shouldn’t even be entertaining the thought, and yet…

…

Soon he’s slumped over your toilet seat, arm laid up on the tank as his hand darts down to his pants and undoes the clasp. “Fuuuuck me,“ He groans, some of the pressure relieved as his tent pitches up, freed and now angrily demanding his attention. With your panties in his left hand, he pulls his boxers down with the other, his cock smacking against his stomach with a dull smack. 

He knows he’s big but you must’ve done something to him, spiked his water, casted a spell, something, cause his tip is so red--so leaky, drooling and needy--and he’s soo fucking hard. His cock stands ramrod, twitching as he rubs the tip with a tentative index finger. He makes himself whimper, replaces index with his thumb, smearing his pre-cum in circles until he’s bold enough to curl his hand around the shaft. The slightest touch makes him buck, hips swinging upward as his balls clap against the back of his hand, his expression breaking off into a half dazed smile as his spine decompresses and his body begins to truly relax.

He goes slow, breath catching as he gets used to the feeling of doing this, relieving himself among your things, in your space, your fucking panties folded in his hand, but he can’t care. He can’t care when he feels this wired; can’t care when the feeling of his foreskin dragging back and forth, up and down, and it feels mind-numbing, a match to his skin. He happily burns.

Propriety is dead; all he can think about is you. The way you sung his name and praises. The way your ass looked so perky in jeans. The way your tits bounce with your gait.  “God,” he could cum just thinking about it. He’s already moaning, arm sliding up his shirt to cup his pec, the shlick, schlick of him hammering his fist filling the bathroom; he’s got a steady rhythm up and down his cock, his sensitivity feeling heightened from your affections. He’s still thinking about the way you looked at it.

The way your jaw dropped, mouth hung open like a proposition. If you’d get on your knees to clean up the mess he made, what else could he make you kneel for?

“fuck—”

You called him a good boy. 

Good boy? 

Mark Grayson was everything, anything, but.

He certainly did feel like a dog, though. Panting, half bent over himself and jerking his dick so hard his toes are curling. 

Mark gets himself worked up easily. When it smells like you, it’s easy to get lost in the fantasy, your precious hands wrapped around his fat dick and sucking it for all its worth. He wonders what kind of noise you make—if you suck just as sloppily as Amber. 

You seem like you’d have a tight throat. Tight pussy, too. Maybe he has to give it to you easy, treat you gentle and feed it in slow til’ you’re squeezing on his dick like a vicegrip and mewling for him.  Or maybe—

—maybe, he can just sliiiiiide right in. Fill you out all nice-like, leave you with a real good first impression. You would fit him like a glove, wet cunt soaking him to the bone.

And exactly how would he have you? There’s no shortage of options, just not enough time. You’d live your whole life and never know a moment of peace again, if he got his hands on you.

Then there’s your panties. He doesn’t even know what to do with them, having left them limply dangling between his hand and his thigh as he’s beside himself, because you linger in his bones like bad cold, all ice and teeth and biting. He breathes heat into the air as he lets his head fall back, pretending the tightness of his fist is as good as the inside of your pussy. He imagines the way your ass would squish against his hips when he pounds you from the back. His balls would slap against your clit so good, have your eyes rolling back, ecstasy running a live wire through you, set your system to shock.

He’d probably fold you in half, first, give it to you standing. Thinks about how easy it would be, to pull your hair, flip you around, bend you over. 

He wants to Fuck. You. Up.

You look like a moaner too. He can picture it, your tits smushed up against his chest as he gets your legs slung over his shoulders and breaks your back in.

He can hear the way you whimper out his name, stitched together from the bytes of you he’s stored in his memory. Mark has you wailing, whining, scratching your nails blunt on the flat of his back. 

You whisper his name in prayer. 

Mark. 

Mark. 

Mark.

MARK!—

He feels his balls tighten, just as a fist hammers against the door.

“Maaark!” 

He cums to the sound of Amber’s voice; you two sound so, so similar. Like your voice, too, it snaps him back to reality. He was wholly unprepared for this moment. He can’t stop cumming.

It shoots on to his tummy, thick white ropes of cum sticking to his abdomen before he can think to stop it, and Amber is still hammering on the door, could’ve been for the past five minutes and Mark could not have known. He can’t speak for a moment, throat dry and gummed together at the same time.

“...Mark?” The knocking softens. “Are you okay?”

His cock throbs in his hand as it pumps another load and his mind is stuff chock full of fuzz, vision spacey as he comes down from seeing stars. He can’t bask in the afterglow long, not to the sound of Amber knocking.  Mark’s eyes go wide as saucers, and his mind runs on instinct.

He reflexively wipes the cum off his stomach with your thong. His pupils dilate. Uh…

Guess he can’t take it back now. He cleans himself off, catching the rest of his mess in the sponge of fabric. 

The panties are properly soiled by the time he’s done.

Voice broken like he’d been crying (because he had shed a few tears), he calls back. “I’ll be out in a second.” The knocking stops and the voice on the other end sighs. “We thought you slipped and cracked your head dude; you’ve been gone for a cool 15. Unless you’re taking a-”

Mark opens the door. 

He’s looking pristine; zen, subtle smile breaking his nonchalant demeanor. He looks down at her, expectantly. “You gonna move over, or do I have to make you?” He jokes with a tilt of his head.

Amber quirks her lips at him, then backs up to give him space. He spills out of the bathroom and quickly closes the door behind him. 

“It always take you that long to freshen up?” Mark sucks his teeth as they begin to walk down the stairs. “You can’t talk. How long were you gone for again? Like thirty minutes? Just to put on blush?” She elbows him, giggling.

“It’s my house you dolt, I’ll go missing in it as long as I want.” They can laugh together, finally, and it surprises Amber, the first time she’s seen him unwound the whole night. “What kind of peptalk did you give yourself to make your little problem go away, huh?” She asks at the last second; he uses them crossing the threshold of your kitchen as an excuse to keep mum.

“Found him, ma!” Amber presents him as he takes a seat at this godforsaken table.

Dinner is just fine. Perfect, you could say. There’s a light in Mark’s eyes you haven’t seen all night, his conversation lively and engaging. No more yes ma’am, no ma’am; no ma’am at all for the rest of the night. 

That’s not to mention the food itself. It’s immaculate, meat fall-off-the-bone tender, beans seasoned and flavorful, garlic buttered bread so good it’s got his thighs squeezing together.

But he still can’t help but think:

You’d taste so much better.

FIN

Later…

Home.

At home, he can lock himself in his room and no nosy girlfriend will come knocking. 

At home he can kick his feet up, play with his balls and beat off to the thought of you without interruption. 

But it’s odd. He smells himself, the room around him. It smells like you still, somehow. Mark thinks he’s just caught on you, olfactory giving him false signals, but before he brushes it off as a red herring, he catches another whiff of you.

Then another.

And another,

Until he’s tearing up his room looking for the source of it. Until he finds himself staring at the pair of khakis he wore. Until he’s picking them up, and realizes the outside of the pocket looks greasy—or damp.

He slowly reaches in, revealing a sad, sad pair of panties, surely missing the ass that filled them out. At first he has the sensibility to be horrified, but while holding them, cum smeared and all, he sniffs. He stifles the little groan that slips from his lips. 

Yup, that’s you alright.

He looks around like he’s being judged by the shadows, the light filtering in through the curtains. 

He closes them.

The world shouldn’t have to bear witness to his depravity.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀all writtens are penned by ©️omniphilic !

he hands you the phone with a heart-stopping grin—remember to say cheese, babe—and you snap a few angles like this, then one more where you're chest-to-chest and he's got the camera.

he smells like citrus shampoo (still using his mom's like he always has) and wind and your detergent. the last note lights a sparkler behind your ribs.

he guides you to crash on his bed, laughing when you both bounce a little too high. leans in close to show you the pictures, mouth curled into that stupid, dorky smile that always makes your heart flip.

"that song," you tell him as he scrolls, grabbing his wrist.

"it's too lovey-dovey," mark says with a wrinkle in his nose. you smooth it out with a knuckle.

"don't you wanna sell it? it'll be more real like that."

(not that he would want it to be real too.)

(right?)

you end up falling asleep with your stomachs full of dark chocolate and chips, duvet a tangled mess around your legs, hands twisted in his hoodie. mark left a movie on, one of those low-budget romcoms with a cult following.

it's a comfort to have mark in a way no one else does, even if it means denying rumors and walking in the thin margin of 'best friends'.

you're only awakened by a buzz when the windows have gone dark; you can hear oliver rummaging around the kitchen while debbie flicks through tv channels downstairs, plus the neighbor's st bernard barking at the pigeons.

his phone screen is lit up like a christmas tree, and you stare back at his new wallpaper: the picture he chose to post, chest-to-chest with you.

mark is still snoring softly, oblivious to the message he’s just gotten.

clockedthetea replied to your story ・ 2m u aren’t fooling me…. ask her out… ^u^

it sends something bubbling through your veins in a rush. you're schoolgirl-giddy as you set his phone down, tuck back in and watch mark’s lashes flutter in sleep, feel the soft puffs of his breathing against your hairline.

and maybe—just maybe—valentine's isn't that bad after all.

notes; ignore how this is 4 months after val’s… luv luv fake soft launching its too funny and mark would absolutely do it imo LMAO

Sick of waiting, he grabs the strap of your backpack and tugs you into the room, snickering when you stumble forward.

You roll your eyes at his manhandling and the way he drops your bag haphazardly on the floor next to his bedside table. Happy he’s gotten his way, he shuts the door behind you with his heel.

“I even left my phone downstairs!” He makes a show of turning the pockets of his sweatpants inside out. “There will be zero distractions tonight, I mean it. No calls, no nothing. I’m all yours for the next… five hours. Or so. Give or take.”

“It’s six PM. Do you turn into a pumpkin at midnight, or something? Is that why I haven’t slept over in so long?”

He shrugs, his head tilting sweetly. “Something like that.”

You tilt your head at him, unamused, and he just smiles.

It seems like second nature to him when he pulls you forward and shrugs your jacket off for you. He ditches it on the ground the same way he left your backpack and corrals you in the direction of his bed, further away from the door.

“We’re going to watch this movie from start to end,” he promises, “and I swear the only thing that will take me away from you is if a bomb goes off and blows the both of us up.”

For the past few months, Mark Grayson has done nothing but prove to you that he’s decided to become a terrible liar, completely unreliable, and a bad friend. He’s started cancelling plans last minute, prattling off lame excuses about something he forgot he had to do. Sometimes, if you're lucky, you’ll get to listen to a rushed apology in a voicemail he leaves you.

Other times, you don’t even get a heads up that he’s ditching, and find out he’s ‘not gonna make it’ while you’re waiting for him to show up.

You haven’t spent more than a few hours a day with him since probably the start of the school year, and it sucks.

Mark Grayson sucks.

…And unfortunately, he’s your best friend. Which means you know just how sincere he is when he apologizes (no matter how shitty it is), and know just how badly he wants to make it up to you. He just has no idea how to follow through with it.

You sigh, flopping backwards onto his pillows. You focus on the sight of his ceiling fan instead of his presence at your right side.

The bed dips under his weight, and his frustratingly sweet smile comes into view. He plants one hand next to your head as he slips the remote into your hands, his touch lingering on the skin of your palms. “I swear on my life that I’m not going anywhere. Now, can you pick the movie, already?”

With the way he’s leaning over you, your mind can’t help but drift to the thought of how solid his arms are, all muscle and smooth skin right next to your face. He still hasn’t moved away, and your fingers twitch where they brush against his.

You want to shove him away from you. You also kinda want to kiss him.

Fumbling for the last scraps of your sanity, you reach up with your free hand and tug hard on his ear.

“Fine. Can you shut the window, though?” you ask, tilting your chin to where the pane is slid open.

He pokes you goodnaturedly, happy with your compliance. “Of course, Your Highness. Want me to feed you grapes, too? I can totally fan you with a giant leaf if you’re into that.”

Ignoring his quip, you watch him as he goes, your thoughts lingering on the way his shoulders roll as he stretches.

You get the urge to strangle him.

Not one, but two unwelcome thoughts about Mark in the span of a minute has to be a new record. His absence has made your mind go weird.

“Are you cold?” he asks, as the curtains settle against the wall again. It’s a serious offer when he says, “I could get you a hoodie, if you want.”

“No, thanks. But since your phone shut off, I’m half convinced a carrier pigeon’s going to fly in here to tell me you have to go.”

A look comes across his face while he squints out the glass, his eyes darting both ways down the street. “Uh—we’ll shut the curtains for good measure then, yeah?”

“Hm. Thanks.”

You choose a random romcom from one of Mark’s fifteen streaming services, and it’s forgotten about immediately after you put it on.

You lay propped against his headboard, and Mark sits with his back to the TV at the foot of the bed. The floor behind him is littered with popcorn he didn’t manage catching in his mouth.

“Walsh and Cassie?” Mark repeats, his mouth full. “You’re kidding.”

“Gross, Mark, chew first. You’re gonna choke,” you complain, poking your heel into his stomach.

He rolls his eyes while he swallows. “My bad. But can you blame me? Who caught them?”

You lean forward, grinning. “The soccer coach.”

“No way. You’re lying.”

“I swear! They were just going at it in the parking lot after his game, apparently. Poor Coach M.”

Mark squeezes your calf where it rests over his lap, and you toss him another piece of popcorn that he’s lucky enough to catch.

A few seconds of exaggerated chewing later, he says, “I’ve really missed a lot at school, huh?”

“No shit,” you say, your eyes moving to the TV for the first time in a while. It’s a flashback to what’s probably the 80’s. “That’s what happens when you miss class half the time.”

He drags his knuckles against the skin at your ankle, smiling when you jerk, ticklish.

“I don’t skip school that much,” he defends, one hundred percent serious.

You can’t help it—you laugh.

“Dude, you haven’t shown up in so long that someone’s started sitting in your seat in Spanish.” You brush crumbs off the blanket while Mark turns back to look at you, his brows furrowed. “He thought it was empty.”

He inches closer to you, confused. “What? Who?”

“Uh, Brian. You know him, he—”

He blinks. “That—the asshole with the mullet? He’s sitting in my seat?”

You make a face. “Are you being serious?”

All he does is move even closer to you, resting his hands on your bent knees, waiting for your explanation.

“He’s not an asshole, Mark,” you defend, picking a piece of fuzz off his sleeve. “And what was I supposed to tell him, no?”

His eyes morph into appalled pools of brown. “Yeah, kinda. Did you forget about that time he almost concussed me?”

You groan. There’s absolutely no way he’s bringing this up again. “We were eight and he accidentally hit you with a pitch in Little League.”

“Believe it or not, I was there. He was a little child asshole back then, too.” Mark squints at you. “And I still haven’t forgotten the way he was with you. Pushing you down slides and pulling your hair. What a dick.”

He says it so seriously, you’re kind of endeared. Mark’s really been holding a grudge against some kid for being mean to you ten years ago.

“Okay, fine,” you huff, trying to watch the movie around Mark’s massive head. He’s purposefully sitting in front of you like this to annoy you, and—is being this close to you really necessary? You tug at your sweater, feeling hot. “He might’ve sucked when we were kids, but he’s really nice now, okay? Even William agrees.”

“He’s got William on his side, too?” he cries, sounding downright horrified.

“Come on, Mark—”

“I can’t believe this. You’re letting this guy replace me.” He gives you a very pointed look when he adds on, “The next thing I know, we won’t be allowed to hang out because he doesn’t want us to.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.” You place a soothing hand on his shoulder, though it’s not very effective. He’s still frowning, the thought of Brian weaseling his way into your lives irking him. “He’s fine. And he’s not stealing me away, he’s just—”

Mark stares at you, waiting for you to continue. The movie drones on in the background, playing a pop song from the early 2000s.

You blink at him, retracting your hand. You’ve said too much.

“He’s just… what?” Mark repeats, pushing you to continue.

“Nothing,” you insist, wanting to slap your hands over your face. “It’s nothing.”

You really hoped you wouldn’t have to have this conversation with him, but you’re just as shit at lying as Mark is.

You press two fingers to his jaw, trying to direct his gaze back to the TV, and find that you’re met with a surprising amount of resistance.

You poke at his neck. What the hell is this guy made out of?

“Whatever,” you continue, switching topics, “did your mom ever find that shirt I left here? The one with the stripes?”

“You can ask her when she gets home,” Mark says slowly, so close to you now his chest is pressed against your shins. “But c’mon. What were you gonna say?”

You feel pinned by his eyes. He looks half ready to physically drag the words from your larynx himself.

You slide up his headboard, practically sitting on top of the pillows. “It’s not a big deal. He’s just… we’re going out this weekend.”

You thought you had shocked Mark earlier with the news of your classmates’ parking lot hookup. Turns out, the expression on his face then would be nothing compared to the look he’s giving you now.

“You’re what?”

The sentence comes out so quickly, you wince. “He asked me out last week. We’re going to the movies.”

“And he asked you out… during Spanish class?”

“Yeah.”

Mark drags a hand down his face. Overdramatic and clearly distraught, he gets up from the bed to pace the length of his room. “I can actually never miss class ever again. Is this dick blackmailing you, or something?”

You roll your eyes, watching as he nearly wears a hole into his carpet.

“I just don’t get why you’re going out with him. Like, out of all the people that go to our school.” Mark sits back down on your left side and sighs like he’s just come back from a long day of work. “He sucks. And you’re just… the opposite of him.”

Ugh. He’s kind of cute, stressed out about this, his elbows resting heavy on his knees. The pads of his fingers massage circles into his forehead, like the thought actually pains him.

“Don’t worry, Romeo, I’m only doing it to get back at my ex.”

Mark turns slightly, an eyebrow raised. “What? What does he have to do with this?”

“He and Brian are best friends. I’m just being petty,” you admit. “He came into Giordano’s with his new girlfriend. Passed on a free table just so he could sit in my section.”

Even though he’s still clearly upset at the thought of your date, he still reaches over to rub your arm in sympathy. “You should’ve said yes when William offered to hit him with his car.”

You smile at him, sitting forward to squeeze his wrist. “It’s whatever. But I’m only going out with his friend to piss him off. We aren’t getting married anytime soon, so don’t worry.”

“I don’t care what the reasoning is. You deserve better than going out with a loser.”

Seated close enough now, you move a loose strand of hair out of his face. “I’m glad you think so. But I’m still seeing it through, so.”

Mark very clearly wants to say more, but you climb over him to grab the remote and crank the volume of the TV up, effectively ending the conversation.

You toss it back over to his bedside table and stare at him until he has no choice but to lay down too, your sides pressed together just enough that you can tip your head onto his shoulder.

Mark makes it all of fifteen minutes before he brings it up again. You feel his lips ghost by a few inches from your ear while the characters argue in a bar.

“Hey,” he whispers, before pulling back.

You hum.

“What if you got back at him in another way?”

“Mark, I already told you I’m not breaking any laws.”

“What? No. I meant… I think instead of going on a fake date with Brian, uh—”

You look over at him. His eyes are dead set on the screen again, though you can tell he isn’t actually watching.

“You could… Jesus,” he cuts himself off, frustrated. “Just don’t go out with him.”

The tail end of that sentence is lost somewhere in his head. You nod at him. “Because?”

“I could fake date you, instead.”

The two of you go silent.

Your eyes trace over every square inch of his face, looking for the slightest upturn of his lips, or the faintest twitch of his jaw — any sign that he’s messing with you.

All he does is look back at you, the beginnings of… embarrassment creeping into his features.

“I mean, he totally hated my guts, didn’t he?” Mark continues. “If we dated — uh, fake dated — it’d probably have the same effect.”

Your time with your ex had been… interesting. He’d only been your first boyfriend, but even you know it shouldn’t have been that much of a disaster.

The guy already had a mile long list of red flags, but what had truly ended the relationship was the way he had treated Mark.

From day one, your ex made it clear he had it out for him. The weird comments had started as just about him, like how he was shit at driving or had said something irritating. But it wasn’t long until the digs started including you and your friendship with him.

He was convinced you were acting like way more than friends, and out of fear of losing your first ever relationship, you ghosted Mark.

It ended up making you feel like actual shit, though, and only lasted a week. Even though you’d basically stopped seeing Mark altogether, your ex-boyfriend couldn’t go a day without bringing him up — there was always a comment about the way he was always asking about you, or ‘staring at you for way too fucking long that it was starting to get creepy.’

You came to your senses sooner or later, and in the end, Mark was kind of the reason you broke up with your boyfriend.

Now, the thought of pissing him off by doing something as simple as pretending to date your best friend…

It was all too perfect.

Your face splits into a grin. “You would… you’d actually be my fake boyfriend just to help me be petty?”

Mark nods, relief replacing the short-lived tension in his shoulders. “Yeah, I mean… I’d love to.”

You hit him lightly on the shoulder. “Okay, weird.”

“I mean, it can’t be that hard, right?” His brows furrow, deep in thought. “What’ll I have to do, like hold your hand?”

“I mean, I guess. We’ll probably have to kiss a few times in front of him.”

This manages to catch him off guard. “Kiss?”

“If you’re cool with that. What kind of fake relationship would it be if we never kissed?”

There’s a few seconds of silence while Mark turns the thought over in his head. “Yeah. I guess you're right.”

His jaw clicks, like something’s still nagging at him.

“Is that okay with you?” you ask, and he runs a hand through his hair, exhaling lightly.

“‘Course it is. You’re you. It’s just kind of weird, knowing that I’m going to kiss you in front of your ex. The same one who threatened to show up to my house after I walked you to class once.”

You fake two punches to his chest just to see the upwards twitch of his lips. “Aw, don’t worry. You can handle him.”

“Pfft. I know that. But, what if he doesn’t buy it?”

Definitely a possibility you hadn’t considered. After all, you’d only seen your ex and his girlfriend last week. If this was going to work, you and Mark would have to convince him.

“We could always practice kissing, then,” you offer. “It could make it look more natural when we have to do the real thing. If you’re good with that.”

Mark shrugs. “Not a bad idea. We might as well go all out, right?”

“Right.”

The two of you nod in sync, mostly to yourselves, though you’re not sure why.

You think you’re trying to psych yourself up for what’s probably going to be the most nerve-wracking moment of your entire life. You have no idea what Mark’s trying to convince himself of.

You’re still sitting side by side, and your right arm feels like it burns where it brushes against his.

Demonic possession is the only way you can explain why you ask, “Could I sit in your lap?”

His lips part slightly, surprise coloring his eyes.

“I just—I think it’d be easier that way,” you rush to explain, your heart racing.

Mark nods again, shifting on his sheets so he’s upright against the headrest. “No, yeah. That’s cool. Great. Come here.”

He taps his knee and gestures for you to move closer, and you have to swallow to clear your throat.

You move on unsteady limbs as you shift to straddle him, sitting back against his thighs. You’re almost startled at how tense he is, the nerves radiating from his skin as you smooth your hands down his arms. His muscles are stretched taut—with stress or anticipation, you’re not sure—so you cup his jaw in the palm of your hand.

There’s the smallest patch of discolored skin on his right cheekbone, the remnants of a bruise he said he had ‘no idea how it got there.’ Mark shivers when you swipe your thumb over it, deep in thought.

“You don’t have to be so worried, you know,” you tease, guiding his hand around your waist. “It’s just us, right?”

When it doesn’t seem like a strong gust of wind is going to snap him in half, you return your hand to the smooth skin of his face.

Seated this close together, you get to watch as his eyes dart over your face, never settling. He inhales and seems to relax a little, tightening the hold he has on your hip.

“Yeah. I just don’t want to do anything you don’t like.”

A sudden wave of sadness washes over you. You’ve never felt so cared for like this, sitting with a boy who is sweet and wants to be good to you.

This is fake, you remind yourself. Mark’s just offering to help you out, as a friend.

“That’s why we’re practicing.” You lean close enough to kiss the apple of his cheek, and his eyes slide shut. “We’ll be pros soon.”

Mark’s hand makes its way to the nape of your neck, urging you even closer. He tips his head up, so close you can feel him exhale, his lips parted ever so slightly.

“We really don’t have to kiss if you don’t want to,” you remind him gently. Your faces are so close together you’d be kissing if you moved an inch. “I didn’t mean to throw this on you like this.”

You think back to ten minutes ago, when he’d been seated so far away an entire bed separated the both of you. You wonder how you ever had been happy without him so close.

“I want to,” he promises, one hand warm against your back. “I really want to. So don’t worry.”

“‘Kay,” you hum.

You’ve both been patient enough.

There isn’t any fanfare. Your head pitches down the slightest bit, and the two of you are kissing.

This one is quick. There’s no way it lasts longer than a few seconds — just a short press of lips while he cradles the back of your head in his palm.

His lips are soft, and it means you’re forced to exercise the utmost restraint to pull away.

You’re quiet at first, frozen at the reminder that you’ve just kissed Mark. For practice.

The tips of your fingers tingle like you’re having trouble breathing.

It takes a second for his eyes to open, but when they do, his gaze darts right down to your lips again.

You let out a sigh, your hand fisting around a tuft of his hair, and it’s like you watch his head clear in real time. Mark leans forward to pull you in, both of his hands reaching to hold your face.

The stream of consciousness going in circles around your brain shifts from normal, coherent thoughts to flashes of your best friend — his eyes, his skin, his voice, his… so on and so forth.

Mark kisses like he’s been deprived of something vital. He sucks lightly on your upper lip and you go limp, leaning heavy against his chest.

He doesn’t settle for a second. His hands roam your sides before going up to your shoulder blades or down to your thighs, and the cycle repeats, like he can’t sit still.

You feel warmth spread throughout your entire body, like molten rock was just poured into your bloodstream. You wish desperately that Mark had left the window open — you’re burning where you’re pressed against him.

Your hand not woven into the hair at the nape of his neck slides down his chest, and Mark groans against your mouth when the pads of your fingers graze over his sternum.

You wonder if Mark would consider a fake marriage, too.

It’s only when he moves to kiss along your jaw that you manage to catch your breath.

“You’re crazy,” you say, though it comes out as more of a sigh.

He slows but doesn’t stop, speaking into your skin. “Is this okay?”

You feel the vibration of his voice in your throat, and a shiver wracks your entire body. Reaching blindly behind you, you find one of his hands up the back of your shirt and place it over the left side of your chest. “I think I’m having a heart attack.”

Funnily enough, Mark looks… a little tipsy. His face is flushed red, and his gaze is a little unfocused when he looks up at you.

He smiles at you, somehow having the capacity to look shy after letting you pull at his hair and slipping his tongue into your mouth.

“We can’t have that,” he says coyly.

Your ears start ringing when he lowers you down against his bed sheets.

You only regain sentience some time later, when you get too tired to kiss and Mark moves onto laying a line of them down your sternum.

Someone’s lawn mower starts up outside, a low growling sound that cuts through the quietness of the room. There’s the screeching of tires and then the screeching of some sort of animal, and you find yourself tilting your head in the direction of the window.

“What was that?” you say, your head cloudy.

“Don’t know and don’t care,” Mark answers, his mouth at the dip of your neckline. “This house isn’t burning down, and the movie’s still on, which means I’m not leaving this room.”

He’s so determined, you say nothing about how the TV is silent and let your hands smooth over his shoulders as your eyes slide shut again.

“Are you gonna kiss me like this in front of him, too?”

The mention of your ex doesn’t even sour the moment. You feel dizzy.

He shifts back over you to hum against your lips, his lungs made of fucking steel, apparently. “Sure. Against his car in the parking lot?”

He says it so casually, like he’s offering you the last of his fries, or offering to walk you home from his house.

“Funny.”

He laughs. “Can you blame me? I mean…”

Mark freezes, his hands unmoving where they rest on your side and on your thigh. His head pivots, and—

Down the hall, a voice says, “Mark?”

Your head is spinning. You blink, and you’re on the floor next to his bed, the side by his window and furthest from the door. The carpet tickles your shoulder blades as you try to reorient yourself.

What the—

Mark gets up on shaky legs, his eyes wide.

You can’t see her from the floor, but it is unmistakably Debbie standing in the doorway.

You think you stop breathing.

From where she’s standing, there’s no way she can see you where you lay frozen on the ground, but your heart drops anyway.

You can only imagine what the two of you look like, your shirt askew and Mark unable to focus with his eyes. The hair on the back of his head sticks out at an odd angle from how you’d been tugging on it earlier.

He gives his mom a tight-lipped smile, looking like he’s just fallen down a flight of steps.

“You’re, uh—you’re back early,” he says, kicking the sweatshirt he discarded earlier out of view.

There’s a heavy pause, and you thank your lucky stars that the heat of her scrutinizing stare is on her son and not you.

“I called you eight times, but you weren’t picking up. All the roads to the store are closed, so I took it as a sign to order in.”

“Sorry,” he rushes out, his face scrunching in a wince. “I left my phone downstairs on the counter. But, uh, that’s good with me.” He drums his fingers against his sides, a nervous tic. “I can call the pizza place.”

“What’ve you been doing?” she asks, so obviously skeptic it makes your head hurt.

“Nothing much,” Mark lies, as terribly as always. “Just watched a movie.”

“By yourself?”

“Mhm, yeah. Why?”

You glance up at the TV. It’s dark, but a few white words glow back at you.

Are you still watching?

There’s another few seconds of quiet while Debbie considers his words. “No reason. Could you also order some wings with the pizza?”

“Yep. Garlic parm?”

Debbie must nod, because the door creaks as she turns to leave. Mark turns around, running a stressed hand through his already mussed hair.

Before the door shuts, she pauses in the doorway.

As casually as ever, Debbie says your name.

Mark pales. You feel your soul leave your body.

“Uh, what about her?”

“Get her off the floor, honey. And ask her if she wants to stay for dinner.”

The door clicks shut behind her, sending the room into a stifling silence.

It’s only a few hours later, after you sit across from Debbie at dinner and pretend like nothing happened, that you finally ask, “Mark, how did we end up on the floor earlier?”

You’re on your new fake-boyfriend’s bed, watching him vacuum up old pieces of popcorn. Unlike before, his bedroom door is now cracked open a few inches.

He gives you a weird look before laughing, scratching at the nape of his neck. “Uh, I pulled you down, remember? I heard my mom coming up the steps.”

You think back, wracking your brain to the seconds before Mark’s mom walked through the door.

Weirdly, it’s all a blur. All you can remember is him kissing you before you registered the sound of the door opening, and then… you were laying on the carpet.

“It felt like we teleported,” you say, for lack of a better description. You’d been on his bed one second, and somewhere else the next.

He laughs hard, even though you weren’t trying to be funny. “I’m such a great kisser you lost your memory, I guess.”

“Ew, whatever.”

—

It starts with a crack. Not just a crack, but really an explosion of glass, a shriek of wind, and the sharp twang of something small and plastic ricocheting off the opposite wall. You freeze in the kitchen, work uniform half-smeared with banana mush and its watered down taste.

Across the room, the window is obliterated. Shattered glass glitters on the floor like a warning. And at the epicenter, with his fists balled and cheeks flushed purple, is Oliver, practically vibrating with frustration. The pacifier lies in the corner like the murder weapon it is. A stubby, rubber-tipped missile of infant rage.

“Okay,” you say slowly, voice high-pitched and tight. “So we’re entering our supervillain phase early. That’s cool.” Before you can even take a step, there’s a loud thud and Mark crashes through the hallway barefoot, hoodie half-zipped and clinging to one arm, hair soaking wet and sticking up in every direction like he lost a fight with a showerhead and a towel of all things.

He’s holding one of Oliver’s tiny socks in one hand and nothing in the other. No shirt, no shoes, just sweatpants and alarm. “What happened? Are you okay? Did someone break in—?” He pauses and sees the window, then Oliver. Then you, standing frozen with a spoonful of rejected mashed banana still in your hand.

Mark’s chest rises and falls with the kind of slow, controlled inhale you recognize immediately. Do not freak out in front of the baby, do not freak out in front of the baby, do not—

He exhales and rubs his face. “What did I miss?” You gesture broadly at the destruction. “He didn’t like the unmashed banana bits.” Mark squints. “So he shattered the window?” You hold up the spoon. “I didn’t chew it first and… apparently that’s a crime now.”

There’s a long pause as Oliver lets out a little grunt, his chubby fingers clawing at the legs of your trousers, his face formed into the most pitiful pout. Mark presses his knuckles to his temple. “Cecil’s going to want to classify him as a WMD.” You snort. “I mean. Technically… he already is.”

Mark walks over, still barefoot, and carefully lowers Oliver back into the bouncer with gentle, practiced hands. Oliver lets out one last indignant coo before settling, hands clasping around his finger. Mark looks back at you. “I’ll fix the glass,” you murmur. “You just… survive until nap time.” You glance at him—hoodie half-hanging off one shoulder, sleep lines on his face, eyes soft and tired, wide from adrenaline. And yeah, you think, maybe this is a disaster.

— It’s almost midnight when it’s finally quiet again.

The pacifier incident has been cleaned. The window is now repaired thanks to Cecil’s intervention (and Mark, who partially caved and followed a tutorial and swore under his breath the entire time). Oliver is tucked in, finally knocked out cold after Mark flew circles around the home until the kid passed out mid-air.

You’re standing in the kitchen, stirring a lukewarm cup of tea and staring into the nothingness that lives inside every sleep-deprived parent’s soul.

Behind you, theres that familiar heat. That slight change in air pressure when Mark enters the room, reminiscent of a suffocating longing. When he leans against the fridge with that look that always gets you into trouble. A lopsided grin, a raised brow, and a T-shirt long abandoned in the laundry apocalypse. What’s left of his khaki’s slung low, one hand casually holding a bowl of food he’s absolutely not eating. 

"You good?" he asks, voice low. "You look like you're about to throw the tea at the wall."

You glance over your shoulder. “If I don’t have a breakdown soon, it’s gonna get stuck in my chest. Gotta let the crazy out somehow.” You pause, finally catching his innuendo. “Are you trying to seduce me with that logic or your cereal breath?”

Mark steps behind you, hands finding your hips. His warmth sinks into your back, and you lean into him instinctively. His nose brushes your neck. “Both. Let it out later. We’ve got ten whole minutes of peace. Maybe twenty.”

You feel his hand drift, slide under the hem of your hoodie, fingers skimming over the expanse of flesh. Your breath catches in your throat. Your whole body hums and you can feel the tension shift—into this sharp, sweet, and starved need. His lips graze just behind your ear. “You smell like puff dust,” he murmurs. “It’s weirdly hot.”

You laugh, breathless, turning to face him. He lifts you onto the counter without hesitation, standing between your knees. He’s kissing you—slow and deep, tongue running against the roof of your mouth, one hand curling around your waist like he’s remembering your shape. Your fingers tangle within his curls, his fingers traveling lower unsure of their destination. You let him press you back against the fridge, and god, it’s been weeks. You can feel the tension unraveling between you both, fingertips digging, breathing uneven—

WAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH. You both freeze, eyes going wide.

Mark groans, head dropping to your shoulder. “I jinxed it.”

“I knew he was waiting to ruin this. He has a sixth sense for foreplay.” It was the next morning, and you both were awoken by the print of small feet against your lower back and the soft padded knocks at the front door. Cecil had sent a nanny. You weren't consulted, nor was Mark.

She arrives at 7 a.m. sharp in a shimmering suit, floating half an inch off the floor. Thressa, from the Glorvax system. She had glowing skin, so faint you’d assume she was a human with a wonderful skincare routine had she not been levitating. Elegant limbs and eyes like a lava lamp. She walks into the home like she's visited a dozen times and scoops Oliver up. He giggles and reaches for her face before nuzzling her like a puppy.

You and Mark stare in utter, sleep-deprived bewilderment. Both looking like abandoned houseplants as she explains his development and gently feeds Oliver a new formula. Mark leans in, whispering, “Do you think she’s actually a nanny or just here to steal him from us?” You narrow your eyes. “She called him ‘my sweet hatchling.’ That’s not childcare. That’s basically claiming him!”

Thressa turns and smiles warmly. “You two look stressed. Would you like time to yourselves? Perhaps a long shower together?” You silently stare at her. Mark begins coughing violently, clearly flustered as Oliver’s gleeful giggles ring out. “She knows Viltrumite development inside and out,” Cecil says, appearing via teleportation, money soon to be wasted as you hastily usher him away. “We need to start assessments. He’s already got strength enhancements and advanced development. She’ll help you prepare.”

“Did you hire her?” you ask flatly.

“No,” Cecil says, giving you that firm but appeasing look. “I deployed her.”

And that’s when you snap.

You’re pacing Mark’s bedroom, hair mussed and voice sharp. “She shows up, picks up our kid, and suddenly he’s just—hers? She calls him her hatchling, Mark. Who says that? Who just decides they’re a better parent without even talking to us?”

Mark sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, watching you quietly. “I’m trying,” you say, and your voice breaks just a little. “I’m not his real parent. I know that. I’m not even—whatever we are, I just—but I love him. I choose him every single day. And I—”

You cut yourself off, chest heaving. Mark’s looking at you like you’ve just lit up the whole room.

“What?” you ask, flustered beyond comparison. “You said ‘our kid,’” he says quietly. “Like it’s just true. No hesitation.” You blink. “I—yeah. Because it is.” There was no in your words hesitation this time. He crosses the room in three steps and pulls you into a hug that feels like a home. "You're walking this with me. Every step. You didn't have to. But you are." And for a moment, you just breathe together, hearts dancing amongst one another as the night crickets sing.

Later that night, you’re curled up on the couch. Oliver’s asleep on your chest, tiny fingers fisted in your shirt. Mark’s beside you, legs tangled with yours softly. “I’ve been thinking,” he says, voice rough with something raw. “About all of this. You. Him. Us.” You glance over and see his hand is fidgeting in his hoodie pocket. You feel your heart catch.

Mark doesn’t look at you. “It’s not the life I pictured. But it’s the only one I want. I don’t need perfect. I just need you.” You lean in and start placing soft kisses—one to his forehead. One to his closed eyelid. One to his cheek. Your lips brush his jaw last, and you whisper, “I already said yes.”

He looks at you, blinking, smile blooming like sunlight. He starts to move, to speak, maybe reach for something, and then— BLLAAAHHRGGHHH. A full-force stream of baby puke explodes all over your chest. Oliver sits up mid-sleep and lets out a happy screech as you and Mark stare absolutely frozen at your vomit ridden shirt. …

You sigh. “So. Romantic.” Mark laughs, helpless, but relieved. “I was so close.” You press your forehead to his. “You still are. Just—Just give me a moment.” The house is quiet for once—no screeching, no flying objects, and no sudden diaper blowouts or random alien agency visits. The air fills with that tired kind of stillness you only get after surviving a war made entirely of juice spills and broken windows one too many times.

You’re both on the couch, half-curled into each other like always—your legs over his lap, his hand absently stroking up and down your shin. There’s a half-empty bottle of formula abandoned on the coffee table, and Mark’s hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows as he stares at your joined limbs like he’s seeing something new.

He’s not shirtless, shockingly, but the gray tee he is wearing is soft and thin and rides up when he shifts. You’re trying not to think about that. Or about how stupid in love you feel. And then he does it—says the thing that makes everything tilt slightly sideways.

“I really wanted to do this earlier.”

You glance over at him, brow raised. “Do what?” You knew, but you always loved watching him stammer. Mark’s eyes flick toward the hallway—where the baby’s sleeping like a tiny purple demon—and then back to you. “The real version. Not the puke-soaked one.”

Your chest tightens. That thing in your stomach flips over once. He shifts under your legs, suddenly looking very much like the guy who once flew through asteroids but is now panicking because emotions are harder than world threatening catastrophes. Apparently.

“I didn’t get to say it the way I wanted to,” he says. “Didn’t even get the sentence out. But I’ve been thinking about it a lot. About you. About Oliver. About how you’ve been in it with me. Even when it’s been hell. And I just—” He stops and scratches the back of his neck, blotches of blush creeping up his skin.

“I’m not great at this,” he mutters. “The talking thing. Or the… ring thing.” Your breath catches as he pulls something out of his pocket. It’s small a small, silver band at first glance. No grand box, no sparkle, but a very honest proposal. The kind of ring someone keeps in their hoodie for weeks, fiddling between anxious fingers, because they never know when life will let them have five minutes to use it.

He looks up at you. His eyes are soft and unsteady. “I don’t need a ceremony or a perfect moment. I just want to make this official. Me and you. And him. Because you’re already it for me. You’ve been it since you didn’t flinch when I showed up with a purple alien baby and said, ‘Hey, I kind of need you.’”

You stare at him for a second, heart full to the point of bursting, brain trying to keep up with the wave of affection suddenly choking you. You lean in slowly, your lips brush along his jaw as you whisper, “You never had to ask.” He exhales like you just took all the weight out of his chest.

You take the ring from his fingers and slide it onto your own without ceremony, just solid, quiet finality. The ring is smooth and silver-toned, with a thin, engraved pattern around the band—a repeating geometric design that, at first glance, looks abstract. But you recognize it immediately: a minimalist recreation of the pattern around Science Dog’s communicator. On the inside, there’s a small engraving: “For the one who made it all mean something. (Issue#47)”

“Wait, is this… Science Dog’s communicator symbol?”

“You noticed that?” Mark mumbles, stumbling slightly over his words. “Yeah. I mean, he always picks love over logic, even when it gets him hurt. Felt fitting.” It was fitting. He left you in a stunned silence, a grin etching across your lips as his panic set in.

“Look, I saw it on a fan site and the engraving said, ‘Intergalactic loyalty since Issue #1’ and I just—it felt right, okay? Don’t make fun of me.” He laughs—small and a little dazed—and pulls you into his lap, burying his face in your neck. “God, you’re stuck with me now.”

“Mark,” you murmur, smiling. “I’ve been stuck since the first time you showed up at my job holding a diaper bag and looking like a confused golden retriever.” He snorts. “Sexy golden retriever,” he corrects, smitten against your collarbone. “Yeah. Covered in formula and baby wipes. Total heartthrob.”

He pulls back to look at you, the grin soft but teasing. “I love you.” The words are quiet. Uncomplicated and true.

The only sound left in the room is your breathing—and his. Your fingers brush his jaw, just enough to tilt his face toward yours. His eyes are tired but warm—lit from within by something more than adrenaline or duty or even affection. It’s love, and it’s undeniable.

His hands curl around your waist, pulling you closer like he’s making sure this is real. Your thighs bracket his, your knees brushing, and your fingers slide into his hair with a practiced ease that makes him shudder. “We could…” he whispers, his breath catching as your lips brush the curve of his neck. “Maybe… actually finish something tonight?”

You grin against his skin. “Finish or start something. We don’t have to be ambitious.” He laughs, low and warm, and leans into the kiss again, deeper this time. It builds—slow but certain. A quiet dam that’s been waiting to break.

Your hips shift against his. His hand trails beneath the hem of your shirt, and you feel it in your stomach first—the pull of wanting, of comfort, of home. But you pause. Just long enough to breathe together, forehead pressed to his.

Mark’s ring glinting softly on his finger where it presses against your clothed skin. The family photo Eve took on your fridge: slightly blurry, your hair a mess, Mark looking exhausted, Oliver mid-sneeze—and all of you smiling like you didn’t know the moment was going to matter. Because it does.

Mark didn’t plan for any of this. Not fatherhood. Not an engagement. Not this future. But right now, watching you lean into him like you were always meant to be there, he wouldn’t trade a second of it. Because this is his family. And you?

You’ve been his world since the day he showed up in your doorway with panic in his eyes and a baby in his arms. You kiss him again, slowly this time. No interruptions, no crying, no urgency. Just his warmth and his hands around your waist. Your fingers gliding across his scalp. Mouths meeting gently, like you’ve got all the time in the world.

And for once… you do. A/N: I'm contractually obligated to end every fic with a sappy one liner. CONGRATS READER, YOU'RE OFFICIALLY A GRAYSON. (If anyone requests a part three, I promise you I will go full chaos with the nest one, had to keep this one adjacent to comic timing, though.)