marsiltrum - Tumblr blog

marsiltrum · 2 months ago

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&&. " my friend's weird new roommate. " (au! sinister mark x gn!reader part two) || part one here !

warnings: 18+, mentions of death/killing, this is just regular life (death/taxes/going to college while being minimum wage), reader is a college student with the world’s worst friends, public sex, denial, drugs/alcohol mention, sex under the influence, piss mention at the end because a friend wanted it, reader is gender neutral but they have afab genitalia, etc.

summary: It’s been two months since your new roommate, a desperate request you made on facebook, moved in. Ever since then, the town you live in has become steadily engulfed into the black void that is Mark Grayson. People are going missing, bodies aren’t being found, and your “friends” still can’t help but come over to your house— but Mark wants to make certain that they never come back.

Two weeks after your friend asks you about his girlfriend, they find her bloated, waterlogged corpse on the lip of a lake three miles from your home. Naked as the day she was born, blue as the sky. You know this because her killer is the first to show this fact to you. Wearing the necklace that was missing from her body, leaned up against your doorframe, Mark Grayson waits for you to open the door just for the sake of showing you. Rejoicing in your reaction as you blinked away both sleep and the image of her drowned body now flash seared into the back of your eyeballs.

Everyday now, knowing you know and knowing there's nothing you will do to stop him, Mark relishes in that fact.

It seems like there is no day where you can escape from the fact that you have accepted a killer into your home. That you have not only accepted him but welcomed him into your arms and into the core of your being. You find missing person's posters everywhere around your home now. Scrunched up in the bin next to the toilet. Slapped onto the refrigerator. Snuck into your bag that you know you keep in your room, under your bed, where only you should be able to access it.

You don't ask how Mark does it. You know he won't give you an answer and you know that even if he did, it would be layered on top of seventeen other lies that have their own syrupy Mark honesty slathered overtop.

The one thing you can't forgive, however, is that even with all of Mark's brutality, even with all his destruction and poison, your friends still won't stop coming over to see him. Not you, not the person who was supposed to be their friend, but Mark. The one who is killing their brothers and their mothers and their lovers, not you, but him.

What you can't forgive is the fact that it's Mark you want, not them.

The wet slick of his cum over the expanse of your naked stomach. The unsatisfied knot of pleasure sitting between your thighs, one long drawn-out orgasm that Mark refuses to let you peak over. Watching with his void eyes as you dip your hand down and lap up every last drop of his release from your quivering, shaking fingers. "Good puppy." He calls you, saccharine sweet, against your temple. "You still have a little more left." Dragging his teeth across the rim of your ear. Refusing to release his death grip upon your hips. "Think you can clean me off too while you're at it?"

The phone calls are the worst part of it. All the sobbing and preening and fake sweetness in an attempt to win you over on letting them through your doors. You know it's not all a lie but something about being around Mark, absorbing his cruelty, hearing through his ears, you start picking up all the little pieces that are. "It'd be nice to get the chance to talk to you." (Talk to you. Lie.) "It's really hard, with everything going on." (Everything. Mark standing over you while you sleep. Doing nothing but staring. Doing everything but taking.) "Is it alright if I come over? Maybe we can share a drink? Help get our minds off of what's going on?" (We. You and Mark. Mark and you, you sitting at the kitchen counter. Mark sitting in the center. You in his horrible, terrible orbit.)

At world's end, your "friends" call together a party. Modelos and Bacardi and too much pizza for so much grief.

What they don't tell you is that they plan it on the day you work. That after a centuries long shift, you have to find street parking because they've filled your lot with three different cars and more e-bikes than you've ever seen around town. That when you finally crawl your way to your door, you have to physically shove the door open because they've packed the whole place so full even Mark has lost the urge to care about keeping people from leaving.

Yet, you still find him. In the swell of sweaty high bodies, you still find Mark.

Nestled there on your couch, surrounded by the welcoming envoy of blabbering drunk flies, legs splayed open, filling up as much space as he possibly can with his frame. As if he is waiting for you, waiting for you to walk through the crowd and take your rightful place upon his lap. Of course Mark knew you were working today. Of course he knew that you would have to wade through the dirt to get your way back to him. You know he knows because you can see it in his black eyes when he finally locks upon you and every pretense of his bullshit veneer drops from his cheeks.

You feel disgusting.

It's not just the sweat that has clung to you like a second skin from the work shift you just finished. Not just the sweat of all your "friends" friends that you've absorbed shoving your way through them. It's the filth of knowing you've made your whole way there to your living room, to your couch, just for him. Just to get to Mark.

"You think this is fucking funny?" Of course he does. Mark has some sinister comedy laced so deep into his nerves that everything he does, every person he kills, every drink he forces your friends to chug down, is poisoned with it. All their mess around you, discarded beer cans, strewn pieces of clothing from the heat of the four walls, it's all a result of Mark. The fact that you feel electricity running down your exhausted legs is all his fault. The fact that you feel it burn in your core as he laughs is all his fault.

"You didn't tell me you worked today." Mark smiles out and he doesn't even try to coat it in any kind of falseness. Of course he knew. He knew and he didn't mention it to any of them because he knew how little your "friends" cared to know. Wanted to test the waters, see just how far they would go. (It's what he always does. Asking questions. Knowing the answer. In another universe, it had to be his modus operandi. His villain catchphrase. "You actually thought--" "What chance do you---" "You really think---" Always a question. Always prying. That is Mark down to his very core. One big question.) "Were you hoping I'd invite you?"

"Get them out of here." You don't even particularly care that much about the mess. Not even that much about the fact that your friends are here mourning his victims. You care about the fact that they are touching him. Being infected by him. Charmed by him. You hate the fact that Mark is staring up at you and it feels like you are the only thing in this entire room beside him that he sees. That Mark is reaching over to you and you let him slowly drag you down onto his lap to straddle him.

Everything about him you hate.

Hate how cold his hands are. Hate how you shiver when he sets them down on your hips and you can feel them gently snaking under your work shirt. Hate how he's still fucking talking. Not to you, but to the others around you who are so drunk they can hardly see under their own half-shut eyes. Hate how you can feel how hard he is under you. The only warm part of him. Slowly rocking up against you, just barely, but just enough to let you know.

"What is this? This--- thing you want from me?" You'd been uncertain for days after that night. The way everything slotted back into nothingness. When you woke up that next day, not in each other's bed or with maybe a kiss or an acknowledgment, it was as if Mark was simply only there. Not as someone who wanted you, not as someone who loved you, Mark Grayson simply continued as he was. No titles, no claims. (Maybe you wanted to be claimed by him. Eaten by him. Devoured into his everything. Maybe you wanted Mark to kill you and forever be taken by his hands alone.) "We aren't friends, Mark. Whatever this is-- I don't know you." Yet here you were. Standing at the end of his bed. Waiting for him to invite you in, even as he continues to scroll on his phone, laid on his back, arm folded behind his head.

"Does it really matter?" Even against the blue light of his screen, his dark eyes never reflect anything back. Just a vacant lot of everything you'd never be able to decipher and the heavy weight of wanting to be the only thing that could ever matter to him. "If I know everything about you, about what you want, does it really matter what you call me?" You can feel his mattress strain beneath him as he settles onto his elbows. Mark's heavy frame filling up the space in the room. Lunging forward just enough to yank you all the way down into his arms.

He smells like bleach today. Bleach and your best friend's favorite laundry detergent. When you recoil back, all Mark does is wind his arms even tighter around you. Absorbs you into his flesh. Intertwines his legs in yours to keep you from escaping.

"The only one who needs to know that you are mine is you." There's no romance in his words. No heartwarming declaration of cosmic love or destined soulmateship. Mark has claimed you. The same way that the sun claims every planet around into its orbit. The same way oil pollutes the sea and submits all its life to its death. Mark Grayson, with his cold lips that lay his kisses across your shivering neck, with his hands that drive their weight down into the flesh of your back, has claimed you as his. Till death do you part, or till he does it himself. "Just seems right, doesn't it?" When you go limp in his arms, it feels like victory. “Aww… no more fight?”

“It’s a great party, ain’t it?” So loud. So busy. It’s everything you hated most in your home, but it’s the perfect distraction. Bodies on bodies, surrounded by more bodies to distract the other bodies. Mark barely misses a beat in rutting against you to pluck a joint off a nearby victim; inhaling deep for the simple sake of blowing it back into your face. When you cough, waving the acrid air away, Mark chuckles and you hate how it makes your heart skip a beat for just a moment too long. “Come on. Enjoy it a little.” He offers but even you can tell there’s not much in the way of choice in the matter. A second too long of not answering and Mark presses the joint against your lips and you can see it in his eyes. Command, down to his marrow. “Take a hit.”

So of course you do.

It’s the smallest little roach you have ever seen. Rolled up with as much love and care as a high schooler’s first and it hurts like hellfire coming out. Laced with something more than just flower. Oil, maybe, rosin hopefully. Everything from that moment on feels like bliss.

You learn just how little Mark cares about the world, all its boundaries and norms, once the weed in your lungs begins buzzing down to your limbs. The crowd is still there, intertwined in their conversations and debaucheries, but Mark doesn’t care. You think he must just be fucking around at first when he starts tugging at the belt of your work pants. Itchy fingers and maybe just a little bit of playfulness.

“Why don’t you grab another drink? You look like you need it.” Mark in his fifth conversation while he deftly slides your belt off and behind the living room couch. “The girl over there is checking you out. You should grab her number. Don’t be chickenshit.” Mark’s zipper completely undone. The strain of his cock against the slightest peek of his exposed boxers. “Go talk to someone else and mind your fucking business.” Mark’s biting response when one of your friend’s comes over with a drink while he’s face deep in your neck, making sure it carries through to his teeth and into your flesh.

It feels like paradise. Like being eaten alive. You and Mark on your living room couch, dry humping in a home full of victims and strangers. You try to be quiet at first. Caught up in shame and pathetic remorse but Mark refuses to let you bite your lips. He lets you bite his fingers instead, two thick ones shoved into your mouth and against your drooling tongue. “Don’t act shy now.” Mark hums out, his right hand busying itself with your work pants. The cool breeze against the sweat of your thighs as he yanks it off and somewhere in the room for someone else to trip over.

“Are you fucking crazy?” You try to say but the only word that comes out between his fingers and the moan he draws out of you by dragging his hand over your dripping clothed cunt is a harsh “fuck”. All it serves to do is entertain him further. Push your bounds just a little bit more. Pop his fingers out your lips and use both hands to turn you around in his lap until your back is pressed against his chest. The slow beat of his heart slamming against the curve of your spine. The slick of your arousal against his clothed cock, straining against his boxers.

“No one here gives a fuck about you.” Maybe it’d hurt if everything Mark was doing didn’t feel so good. The agonizingly slow rut of his leaking cock against your entrance. His hands diving under your shirt to pinch and pull at your hard nipples. “Not a single person here—fuck.” It feels better than anything to hear the sounds he makes when you move against him. The rough choke of a moan in his throat that comes out in laughter and airy chuckles. The way his hips jerk up when you dig your nails into his wrists to stop him from venturing down towards your underwear. (But you want it. More than anything. For him to fuck you raw in-front of everyone. To let them know that he’s yours and you are his. That they can’t have him the way you do.) But it doesn’t matter how hard you try to resist him. Mark’s hand dives into your underwear and you can feel through your lungs and through the little watching eyes in your haze the sound he makes. A deep, unforgiving groan when all three of his fingers plunge into your soaked cunt without even the slightest resistance.

“Just fuck me already, Mark.” All he wants to do is eat you whole. “Please.” It’s all he needs to hear. Not the confirmation, just the desperation. The pitiful, shameful, begging desperation. “Please, please—“ Mark laps up the wet sounds of your pleasure through the smoke and blasting speakers. The way you rise your hips to meet up against his knuckles, buried so deep in you that he can feel your clit pulsating against his palm. “I need you.” So close. So fucking close. “Just fucking ruin me.” He’s smiling in a way you’ve never seen him smiling before. This horrible, toothy thing that reaches up to his eyes. The first time— true and utter glee.

“Okay, puppy.” You yelp when he slides his boxers to the side and all you can feel is the heavy slap of his cock against your underwear. Arms locked around your waist. His cold, heavy head set into your shoulder. His heartbeat picking up, slapping wet against your vertebrae as he maneuvers himself around the soaked fabric. “Anything you want.” All it takes is one quick, slick motion, and you can feel Mark bury himself in you up to the hilt. Head hammered against your cervix. And more than anything, besides the whispers and the vacant laughter of “Shit, are they really fucking right now?” and “Holy fuck. Look at Mark go!” all you can feel is how desperately Mark is clinging to you. How deep he has fingers buried into your sides. How much teeth he has in your jugular. How fucking hard he is. How hard he still is when he begins slamming you down onto his lap, relishing in every little whimper and curse that falls out from your lips.

And still, it’s not enough for him. Mark wants louder. He wants you crying out his name. He wants every person in your home to know his name. To hear just how wet you are. Even as a few people begin shuffling out, hands to mouths, quiet gasps and giggles, Mark doesn’t relent. Even as you can see from the corner of your eye someone take their phone out and begin recording, Mark keeps going. Pinching at your begging clit to startle a cry from your lips. “Sorry puppy— little too hard?” Rubbing the ache away under his rough palm. Chuckling when someone remarks how fucking wet you are, how obscene the sound is. And when you try to cover your face, save yourself just that little bit of decorum, Mark wrenches your hands and cages them behind your back. Using them as the perfect anchor to keep slamming into your hole.

“Mark— Mark please, I-“ You don’t have any words for the pleasure or the shame or even the sight through your barely open eyes as those left in the room continue watching. Palming at their own groins. Some looking through their parted fingers. It’s the disgust that Mark is looking for, in those people who you call “friends”, the way they reel away when he looks up and smiles at them. Buried so fucking deep in you that he can feel your arousal slathered against his balls and thighs. “More, please I—I need more!” And yet, they still don’t run away when Mark barks at them to pass him another joint.

Mark fills his mouth up with smoke and the "more" is engulfing your lips to force it in your lungs. All you can see is stars and iPhone flashlights and the look in Mark’s eyes when he pulls away, lips wet with your saliva. A look that says, “You’re mine.” A kiss that says, “Let them watch. Let them know.” A void that says, “There isn’t a single other person in this room beside you that will live a month after I’m done fucking you.” It’s enough to make anyone fall in love.

You love him, you think.

Or maybe you just love the full feeling of him buried inside of him. Love the way he lets out a proud hoot when he can see his cock through your stomach. Straining against your flesh. “Fucking beautiful.” He groans out and you can feel it down to your shaking legs when he stuffs your face down into the couch and continues ramming into you. Barking at another of the few people left in your home “to get their shit together and get the fuck out—“ before you can reach your climax. Laughing when they run out with their tail between their legs. Laughing harder when you don’t so much as hear it over the grotesque sounds of Mark slamming his cock into you. All you can hear is him, all you can feel is him, all you can taste as you orgasm around his cock and he pulls it out just to shove it into your drooling, open mouth, is your own slick and his hot release as he buries it down your throat. Pinching your nose to keep every drop of it inside, releasing it only when you begin to turn blue. Watching over the bridge of his nose and the twitch of his half-stiff length as you cough and whimper, one hand clinging to his thigh, the other filling the emptiness he left behind with your fingers. Chasing that high as desperately as you possibly can.

Through your tearful eyes and the quiet of your home, empty, shared only by you and Mark, all you can see is how much more he wants from you. How starving he is. How much of you he is ready to continue chewing away at. And you let him. You sink down before him and swallow his length into your begging lips and something like a growl emanates from Mark’s lips. His claws burying themselves into your hair and against your scalp, pushing your head down to the hilt, nose buried in his pubes. Wrenching you back by your hair when all the alcohol has finally caught up to him and the only convenient spot to release it all is the open willing part of your lips. The vibrations of his deep laughter as the bitter liquid bobbed at your throat and dribbled down the side of your mouth, staining your ruined work shirt. Smiling even bigger when you lap up the last drops of piss from Mark’s head and go back to sucking him off. Hand clutching at his thigh, hand fingering yourself raw.

“Oh, your poor thing.” Mark coos and it feels like being kissed. “You really are something special, huh?”

writer's comments: wow! you made it to the end! did you enjoy it? did you feel truly "loved" by mark? thanks so much for reading if you made it all the way here! i unfortunately am full with sinister mark parasites and he drives me utterly insane-- so i hope you felt a percentage of that insanity with me! i have plans for a mohawk mark fic after this but please send requests if you have them! i love doing little hc posts or mini-stuff as well so be my guest. remember to smoke safely friends!

#invincible x reader #sinister mark x reader #sinister mark x you #invincible x y/n #alternative universe #invincible x you #mark variant x reader #invincible fic #invincible imagine #normal posts to release on a wednesday (thursday?) night

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marsiltrum · 2 months ago

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⠀⠀⠀⭒󠀠󠀠󠀠 ( ´ཀ` ) YOU LOOK HUNGRY ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀mark actually makes it in time for dinner, but he thinks missing it would’ve been less embarrassing than getting bricked up at your table.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀a.k.a ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Amber’s Mom Has Got It Going On

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀> all characters involved are 18 and older. the following fic contains ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀mark grayson thirsting over someone at least 20 years his senior. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

warnings & tags | i guess it is implied the reader is poc. but idk if u are white just imagine amber is biracial (or imagine the one from the comics ig) 🤷🏾‍♀️ inconvenient boners, the perverse mind of a sweet suburban boy (he's thirsty), mishandling of an embarrassing situation, male masturbation, scent kink, misuse of cow print panties. mark thinks of cheating on amber (spiritually?), you're not in on it <3 you are a baddie minding your business. reader is a good mom (serious). reader is said to have fat/pudge/curves at least once. mark is uncircumcised. the reader is referred to using titles that align with she/her/hers, you are considered Amber's 'mom'. PORN WITH PLOT i take the premise extremely seriously lol. 7.3k words.

yapper notes | i went to a music lounge and a young woman (very beautiful alt girl) sang a song dedicated to her ex called 'you look hungry' and i immediately got the idea for this fic . shout out to the big homie @on-hit for helping me every step of the way with it they are an AWESOME beta reader, and to my inspirations @sophsthebest @slutla @batsovergotham @nana-au @arieswritez who have been making me go CWAZY with their mark content. first fic is dedicated to yall <33 taglist | @zomqiez

“—k hungry.” His glass clinks off the wood of the table when you set it down, the sound snapping Mark back to reality.

Mark blinks out of his stupor, memories of the time and place rushing back to him. “I’m sorry Mrs. Bennett—what’d you say?” Smiling awkwardly, Mark realized then and there he should not have agreed to this. He should have found some way to tell Amber he couldn’t make it. He should have bailed and asked mom to make some shit up so he didn’t have to be seated across from you at this dinner table. The flu excuse was a classic—although, he hadn’t seemed sick earlier that week. Scratch that, couldn’t work. Food poisoning, though? He was sure that could’ve worked well enough to have kept him the fuck home.

He knows that Mom probably wouldn’t have done it, though. She’d have gone on and on about honesty—sincerity. The things that make or break a relationship. He would’ve had to tell Amber himself anyway.

He secretly hoped Cecil changed his mind about having reassigned him, but dashed the thought as quickly as he had it. Mark Grayson would never hope to be that lucky.

“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!—

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.

thank you so much for reading! drink some water (cause ik you thirsty), remember to reblog, & stay tuned for more writing. comments, questions or thirsts? send it to my inbox or leave a note below!

#i should be able to tag a post w/ a really tiny gif in the tags #[that one gif of sonic rubbing his hands together and licking his lips]#this is SOOOOOO SO SO GOOD #🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤

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