Mark Scenarios - Tumblr Posts

fearless (mark lee)

lowercase intended.

“did you enjoy tonight?” mark asks as you walk towards his car. you give him a smile, and cling yourself to his arms, “i loved it! i missed you so much, you know?” he gives you a kiss on your forehead and pulls you closer to him. “i know, baby, i’m on a break this week. i’m all yours.” he opens the passenger door and waits for you to go in. you and mark have been together for about two years now, but every single thing he does still gives you butterflies. “want to go home or go on a drive for a while?” he asks as he starts the engine. “let’s drive for a while.” after a few minutes of silence, you started to play music. you look out the window and gaze at the stars above, wondering what you did in your past life to have such a beautiful man with you. out of the billion people in this world, you found yourself crossing path with mark, coincidence or fate? you will never know, but you are grateful it happened. you get out of your thoughts as you hear the car door close, and you see mark walking towards your side, opening the door, and reaching out for your hand. a fate or coincidence? you will never know, but just as he does that, you faintly hear the music on the stereo;

and i don't know how it gets better than this you take my hand and drag me head first, fearless. and i don't know why but with you i'd dance in a storm in my best dress, fearless.

“let’s dance?” he asks as you take his hand. “mark, you know i don’t-” you look at your surroundings and find yourself mesmerized at the view you were seeing. stars shining in front of you as it reflects on the puddles on the pavement. street lamps shining bright, and flowers everywhere. you look over to mark, and see him already looking at you with a huge smile. “let’s dance?” you say, taking his hand to yours.

note: i was supposed to make an angsty one for either forever and always or the other side of the door, but i figured i'll just do one for the title of the album. this is a scenario for me to get ready for taylor swift's release of the fearless re-recording!! AAAAAA i'm so excited for later

touch (mark lee)

lowercase intended

“stop touching me,” mark tells haechan, removing the said man’s arm from his shoulders. “y/n, how do you deal with your boyfriend being like this?” haechan asks. you giggle at the scene in front you. mark isn’t really fond of physical touches even with you, his girlfriend. you have been dating for 5 months now, and you were used to it. he wouldn’t even let you hold his hands for more than a minute. it made you sad at first, but he explained that he just doesn’t like being touched often, and you understood him. it doesn’t mean he loves you less.

a month after

you and mark were both sitting on his couch, watching a movie you weren’t paying attention to anymore. you were busy looking at mark, and how cuddly he looks. you know how it will end if you try to cuddle— him subtly pushing you off him after a few minutes— but you would take those few minutes in his arms any day, so you slowly position yourself, and cuddle him. he wraps his hands around you, and gives you kisses on your forehead. you smile at him, and seize the moment. after a minute, you slowly get off him knowing he would do it himself. “where are you going?” he asks. “hmm? just here beside you,” you smile at him. “come here, let’s cuddle,” he pouts. “getting used to my touches now?” you joke, “the only touch i want on me forever.”

labyrinth (mark lee)

lowercase intended

you and mark were … friends? dating? in a situationship? that’s what you would probably call it. you both know you like each other, mark has once asked you to be his girlfriend, but you said you weren’t ready. you were too hurt from your last breakup— too afraid to enter a new one, yet here you are in his arms.

it was probably past 8pm, you were both watching tangled— your favorite film— while taylor swift’s ‘midnights’ was playing softly in the background.  you stare at mark who was focused on the movie despite watching it with you over a hundred times by now.

all of a sudden labyrinth started playing on the vinyl while the i see the light scene plays on screen.

breathe in, breathe through, breathe deep, breathe out.

you see flynn looking at rapunzel lovingly on screen, so you quickly glance at mark who was doing the same to you. you nestle closer to him, giving him a soft smile. “hey,” you say. he kisses your forehead as a response.

uh-oh, I’m fallin’ in love. oh no, i’m fallin’ in love again. oh, i’m fallin’ in love.

for some reason you had a feeling. the urge to… “don’t you ever regret waiting for an answer for this long? it has been a year,” you ask him. “never. it’s just a label. what i feel for you doesn’t need one, yeah? i’ll wait for you for eternity if i have to,” he says, nonchalantly, like he has been waiting to say it. you knew by then. you knew what you had to do.

i thought the plane was goin’ down, how’d you turn it right around?

“mark, can you ask me again?” you tell him, and he knew. he knew what you were asking him to do, so he smiles. “will you be my girlfriend?” he asks, once again. this time, you knew what your answer would be. no more waiting. “yes,” you whisper.

notes: i will mastermind my way for this to happen to me one day :DDD btw i love midnights so much.

salted caramel | lmh ( m )

you hadn’t been aware that mark’s jealousy followed the rules of baseball — three strikes, and he snaps?

read the first part here!

pairing: barista!bf!mark x reader verse: college!au rating: r warnings&tags: unprotected sex, mentions of creampies (although not an actual one), hickeys, possessiveness and jealousy, exhibitionism, sort of phone sex in conjunction with said exhibitionism, oral (m!receiving), mark has an understated but unending obsession with mc’s stomach, tummy bulges, we always love an implicit bigdick!mark, donghyuck is kind of a little shit and basically he has to cross a few lines for this “plot” to get to where it gets word count: 20.3k

a/n: this is a bit rushed and panicked because I basically wrote it in a feverish 2.5ish days… i’m so sorry that the pacing might be a little off, especially since I can never tell if it’s actually too fast or not. this is also unedited and unbeta’d but oh well because i never edit my stuff before posting and just re-edit when I re-read! regardless, i hope it’s something that you can enjoy, and i couldn’t pick between sweetest bf ever!mark and hottest mf ever!mark, so i guess you get a little bit of both!

if you liked it, please consider reblogging to support (especially because this may get flagged for mature content)!

You should have noticed it the first time, but in your overall defense, you find most things that you take note of about Mark Lee to be more on the highly positive and greatly endearing side — or, maybe, you just have a tendency to paint him in that kind of light.

You can’t really help it; he’s still got that halfway shy, softly adoring look in his eyes whenever he sees you, which is more often now than ever before, and you just can’t do anything but reciprocate, if only to see his eyes grow a little brighter. You wonder if Mark’s aware that if this were a Shakespearean scenario, you’d easily fall on your sword for him without question, for as long as he asked, but you don’t think there’s any pressing need to remind him — not with the way you spend most of your free time figuring out ways to be with him. You’re certain he should know, what with the fact that every time he looks at you, even just a glimpse, your gaze is always on him, ready to make eye contact whenever he turns his head — something he often acknowledges with one of those signature blushes that spread like wildfire across his cheeks, up to the tips of his ears.

It also should be unmistakably clear that you’re head over heels for him, given how at least once a week, he’s got his face buried between your legs in an attempt to hear the thing he wants you to say the most (see: his name, in varying pitches and decibels) — but if he doesn’t notice then, you can’t hold it against him; Mark’s mouth is so attentive that you doubt his mind is anywhere else apart from what inch of you his tongue is going to meet next in that moment. At least, that much is true for you.

He should at least know, what with you waiting for his classes to end so you can walk to Starbucks for his afternoon shift; you even race the twenty-minute distance to the Department of Mathematics, still holding your European Renaissance History textbook from your last lecture, just to make sure you’re there right as he gets out — a fact he has to know is an act of devotion, considering how often he finds you heaving for air and leaning your back against the brick wall outside the Accounting 150 Lab. Even his professor knows you as Mark Lee’s admirer, which is all well and good, but if you had the breath to spare, you’d correct his terminology for accuracy. Girlfriend. You’re Mark Lee’s girlfriend.

It’s a fact you don’t mind reminding him of but that you actually have to do quite often, because when you call Mark the appropriate counterpart — boyfriend — his eyes still widen, like he’s hearing it for the first time. It’s cute, just like everything else about him. You just have to wonder, at times, if he doesn’t believe you.

Whatever. It doesn’t matter; you’ll just keep telling him.

You don’t have any classes with Mark this semester, which is a shame, considering your favorite pastime over the last few months had just been to stare at his side profile and wish he’d look over so you could kiss him, but the fact that you spend almost every day with him now, using that time to remind him of how much you want to kiss him and actually getting it to do it right then and there, pretty much more than makes up for your previous schedule of daydreaming.

However, hanging out with him doesn’t always mean you’re just with him; you came to learn this after the first week of the new semester, and you’ve now gotten used to the fact that with Mark Lee sometimes comes his band of tall, often loud friends.

The loudest by far is Lee Donghyuck, the mysterious figure last semester that you’d only known by one syllable, now easily recognizable (and no longer enigmatic by any means to you) by his booming voice and even more demanding personality. He’s supremely outgoing, a trait you can’t say you mind, but there’s an interesting contrast between Mark, who tends to say things after carefully considering his ideas, and Donghyuck, who seems to just burst out in fits of impulsive rambling that often leads to some kind of semi-structured debate. It kind of gives you whiplash, in a funny, slightly perplexing way.

The whole friend group likes to meet up at Starbucks while Mark is on his shift, and now that they’ve come to know you as that girl Mark didn’t teach a single thing in College Algebra to but still somehow got lucky with (something you’ve wasted immense efforts into correcting but have ultimately failed to do so), you now find yourself sitting with them, all somehow waiting for who appears to be the nucleus of this group to stop taking coffee orders and hang up his (cute, but you’re the only one that thinks so, actually) green apron.

Again, you don’t mind it; new people aren’t an issue to you, and you’re also interested in finding out more about Mark through those closest to him. You get to see the few ways they’re alike in contrast to the staggering number of things that make them amusingly different from one another. Despite the broad spectrum of their intersecting interests, you’ve come to learn, through the conversations you’ve had to sit through over the last month, that they have varying opinions on said interests. For instance, you know they’re all into video games, Japanese manga, and long-winding fantasy movies, but every conversation takes flight the moment there’s even a spark of dissent from one person — and the source, usually (and quite unfortunately), is Lee Donghyuck himself.

Today is no exception.

“Dude, you’re crazy,” Zhong Chenle practically seethes. Whether by sheer coincidence or actual desire, he’s the one who most often finds himself staring Donghyuck down, trying to bend the latter’s will into admitting defeat. Donghyuck, on the other hand, has mastered the art of looking supremely unperturbed, especially when Chenle is in the heat of his rage. “The ninth was the worst, hands down.”

“Art and rendering were so solid.” Donghyuck raises a finger, and you’re not sure if it’s to start off a list or to shut Chenle up. You don’t want to ask, anyway, too busy finding amusement in the shifting expressions of despair, rage, anguish, and murderous intent on the latter’s face to speak up. You presume that’s why everyone else isn’t stopping them — or maybe they’re just preparing their own defenses and points to raise. “Intuitive combat and flawless combo chains. The fucking open world? Which other installment in the franchise offers that much depth in the gameplay?”

“Depth? Do you even hear yourself right now?” Chenle grips his head so tightly that when he pulls his hands away, there are actual red marks across his forehead and temple, and his bangs are askew. “What kind of depth comes from cloned movesets? The character designs are so stupidly traditional too. And—”

“There’s a unique kind of beauty in familiarity.”

“The open world was a disaster,” Chenle plows on. “It was so empty, and the map was the farthest thing from intuitive. It’s quite literally the worst thing KOEI has ever done. That’s exactly why they went back to the limited map strategy in later installments. Even the spin-offs.”

“I thought the grappling and ambush systems were pretty intuitive. Ingenious, even.”

It’s a singularly amusing sight — Chenle is one insult to his pride away from imploding, and Donghyuck is just checking the dirt under his nails like he’s waiting in line to take his school ID photo. Park Jisung, one of the quieter ones in the bunch, tries to diffuse the tension by clearing his throat and going ‘I actually really liked the Age Of Calamity Zelda one they released with all the different campaigns,’ but that just goes unnoticed by either party.

“You once failed an ambush play just because you were stuck behind a wall you couldn’t scale. Don’t say shit about the ambush and grappling mechanics.”

“Unlike some people sitting around this table, I learn from my mistakes. That’s also probably why some people — not naming names — just can’t appreciate the artistic beauty that is Dynasty Warriors 9.”

Donghyuck doesn’t even look up from his cuticles when Chenle explodes.

“You’re fucking impossible!”

“Can you guys relax?” Lee Jeno, who had somehow miraculously found the space and silence in the breaths between the entire argument to doze off, opens one eye, only slightly irate. “You’re making a scene over a dead game franchise.”

“It’s not dead; they’re on hiatus,” both Chenle and Donghyuck chime in together, apparently finding a moment of unique solidarity to shoot Jeno down before going back to glaring daggers at each other. Jeno shrugs, gives everyone else at the table an I tried kind of exasperated expression, and settles back into his seat, the one eye already closing before he’s fully folded his arms across his chest.

Your eyes wander away from the group over to the counter. You’re thankful for the fact that most of the time, you just get invited to share a table with them without necessarily being trapped in the middle of a conversation — especially one as heated as the one Chenle is prolonging while jabbing his finger accusingly at Donghyuck, as if he’s trying to pin a crime on the latter instead of just explaining why Donghyuck’s opinion is ‘borne of ignorance.’ When they’re all caught up in their business like this, you end up being able to revel in your more or less unobstructed view of Mark behind the barista’s station, where he’s busy piping an extra helping of whipped cream on top of a strawberry frappuccino for a kid that’s already jumping up and down next to the pick-up station.

The biting winter had already given way to the first signs of spring, and the Starbucks Mark works at has a supremely effective central heating system that allows people to shed their coats. This works in your favor, considering Mark wears nothing but a button-up shirt over his apron while he works, and he’s got this habit of rolling up his sleeves so they don’t catch any stains. You’re pretty sure he has a second motive, though; surely, he’s aware of how the view of his arms, muscles tightening under his skin whenever he even lightly grips something, drives you crazy. You’d bet a month’s allowance he’s doing it on purpose so that you start entertaining the thought of yelling at everyone in the branch to fuck off so you can grab him by the front of his stupid shirt so you can kiss his stupid face. Or ride it.

And for some inexplicable reason, he still has the audacity to act like there’s nothing amiss. When he looks up at you right after pushing the frappuccino towards the little girl, his eyes still brighten, almost innocent in their gaze, the corners of his lips turning up surreptitiously, hiding the smile he seems to save for only you from everyone else in the room.

You smile back, but when he turns away to take someone’s order, you let out a heavy sigh and take a long sip of your vanilla sweet cream cold brew until you start reaching the last dregs of it under the ice. Your brain pretty much cries out in protest, but you know it deserves as much as a mental cold shower for entertaining the thought of asking him to bend you over the counter at five-thirty in the afternoon in a Starbucks.

Stupid Mark. Stupid brain. Stupid fucking people in the room.

The warm breath in your ear alerts you to a slowly approaching presence, but you don’t have the reflexes to turn back to its source before it starts talking.

“Got anything to add to either of our cases, ___________?”

“What?” Your palm comes up to rub your ear as Donghyuck pulls away, laughing lightly. You’re sucked back into the foreground of the conversation, but you’re just as lost now as you had been before you started tuning them out in favor of your lust. “Uh — no. Sorry. To be honest, I know nothing about… sorry, what were you guys talking about again?”

“See, that’s how normal people act,” Jeno grumbles, both his eyes flying open this time. “Instead of hosting a presidential debate about Dynasty Warriors.”

“Not that there’s anything wrong with that.” You’re quick to add, and Jeno looks mildly amused at your attempt to still mollify the rest of the group. “I’m sure I would have liked it. If, you know, I actually had been introduced to it at any point in my life.”

“And if you had, I’m sure you’d have the taste to assert alongside me that the seventh installment was revolutionary,” Chenle sniffs, but he’s looking more pointedly at Donghyuck, who’s still ignoring him, save for the fact that he’s now looking at you instead of at his nails (which doesn’t feel like such a great upgrade).

“Nah, she’d be on my side. ___________ looks like she’d appreciate a good, scenic open world and grappling system. Right?”

“Uh…” you say smartly.

“Man, shut up.” Chenle throws his hands in the air before he stands up, his chair scraping against the floor as he pushes it back with astounding force. “Got me so pissed off I need to pee now.”

You have no idea what the correlation is between getting annoyed and needing to use the bathroom, but even if you wanted to bring up your doubts — which you don’t — Chenle is long gone before you can get your thoughts together. It’s only when he’s out of earshot that Donghyuck leans in, almost conspiratorially, to whisper to you again.

“Actually, I think the ninth sucks too. But isn’t it kind of funny how worked up that fucker gets?”

“To be honest, I’ve never known anyone with quite your talent in riling people up,” you admit, and even though you’re not sure what kind of meaning you want attached to that, you notice that he decides to take it as a compliment all on his own, his chest puffing out in pride. “Too bad I have no idea which opinion is really right, or I’d weigh in, too.”

“Not a Dynasty Warriors kind of girl, then?”

“No one is, Hyuck,” Jeno snorts, shaking his head. “You two are the only people I know who still played that past the fifth installment.”

“Fair. I nurture a love for old franchises.” Donghyuck leans back, looking supremely satisfied at how he’s managed to tick off one of his most important ‘to-do’ points of the day. “So what’s your poison, ___________?”

“What’s that mean?”

“You a Gardenscapes kind of girl? Tekken? Maybe you like some good ol’ fashioned LoL?”

“I honestly don’t have the hand-eye coordination to play,” you confess. “I know Mark likes to play PUBG from time to time. I mostly just sit and ask questions, though. The few times I tried playing with him, I swear any normal person would’ve cried. He had to babysit me like crazy. It was a miracle he didn’t throw me out.”

“She even tries to play with him,” Donghyuck whistles lowly. “Dude, how’d Mark get a chick like you?”

“Meaning?”

“You’re way too good for that dope.” His laugh is light and good-natured. “Never thought a moony-eyed weirdo like him would actually wind up with his dream girl — which he’s called you, more than once, by the way. Fucking disgusting, but… I get it. Doesn’t make it less crazy or weird to hear, though.”

“Sorry to put you through that.” You smile, using your straw to stir the contents of your cup. A warmth spreads through your shoulders and down your arms to the tips of your fingers as you digest what Donghyuck’s just said to you, and you find your eyes trailing back to Mark, who’s pulling off his apron. His eyes are already fixed on you, and when you lock gazes, he mouths a wait for me that makes you want to squeeze the life out of something in pure joy. You settle for a soft sigh. “I guess it won’t help if I say your friend over there’s my dream guy.”

“It absolutely will not,” Donghyuck groans, faking a gagging noise that has you laughing. “But tell you what — if you ever get tired of Mark playing PUBG and ignoring you like the clown he is, I’ll find you someone else more your speed.”

“No thanks,” you snort, taking the last sip of your drink. “More than that, I’d just want to be some kind of helpful to him if I ever play with him again.”

“We can help you with that too,” Jisung volunteers. “Jeno taught me the basics. I’m sure he can teach you too.”

“Yeah, and I’m guessing you’d be a better student than mister “how come you didn’t tell me I had to focus the crosshairs myself” over here,” Jeno chuckles, surreptitiously pointing at Jisung when you cast him a questioning look.

“I’m pretty good at sneak attacks myself.” Donghyuck makes a show of pretending to slice your neck before grinning smugly. “We’ll take care of you. Mark won’t know what hit him next time.”

“What’s happening to me next time?”

You feel Mark before you see him, his hand landing on your head lightly and smoothing your hair back in an idle, gentle motion to announce his presence. You look up at him, already beaming, and he returns the favor as his hand settles on your shoulder.

“We were just talking about replacing you. Both as a friend and as a boyfriend, for your poor little dream girl here who’s just too nice to turn you down.” Donghyuck lies like it’s second nature; you wonder if that’s a Finance major thing or just a him thing.

“And you’re offering that to someone who didn’t ask for it?” Mark snorts, nudging Chenle’s bag over so he can sit in the empty spot.

“She’s so caught up in your sticky little web that she can’t struggle against you.” Donghyuck feigns a heavy sigh that suggests he feels sorry for you before he puts a hand on your free shoulder, shaking his head in a convincing kind of pity. “I’ll save you, so don’t worry. Mark can’t keep his grubby hands on you forever. Whenever you need to be saved, I’ll come a-running to free you.”

There’s a tightness on one shoulder that disrupts the balance of your torso, and you find yourself leaning closer to Mark. Your hand finds its way to his knee, giving it a light squeeze under the table, and his grip loosens by a fraction. Donghyuck’s as quick to let go as he is to hang on.

“We were just talking about PUBG,” you correct, and Mark’s eyes snap to you. “I was asking for help — you know, so I won’t drag you down the next time I join in?”

“I don’t mind whatever you do in-game.” He’s quick to comfort you, even if you don’t actually need it, but it feels warm and cold “I’m just glad you wanna try it with me.”

“No, but I kind of want to learn too. So it can be fun for both of us. Also so you don’t have to keep avenging me after five minutes,” you laugh. Mark cracks a smile then, and you don’t realize his expression had been slightly harder until it softens under your gaze.

“Then I’ll teach you next time.”

“No, I want to surprise you with how cool I get. And then next time, I’ll even beat you.” You turn to Donghyuck, slightly unsure. “Uh… I can beat him, can’t I?”

“If you play different teams, yeah,” he confirms. “Trust me. I’ll help you kick his ass.”

“Or we’ll both kick yours,” Mark chuckles, his grasp now tightening and loosening intermittently. He’s massaging your shoulder lightly, and you end up sinking deeper into his side. You don’t miss the slightly nauseated amusement that passes across Donghyuck’s face nor the way he mouths ‘sap’ to Mark, who ignores this comment in its entirety.

“Yo, hotpot at seven? Renjun’s asking,” Chenle announces as he returns to your table, his phone in one hand and a crumpled paper towel in the other. “Jaemin can’t make it, though. Study group or whatever shit he always says.”

“I’m down,” Donghyuck immediately replies, and Chenle’s eyes shoot heavenward, like he’s already asking for the divine strength to not sock Donghyuck in the face later.

“Can’t,” Jeno yawns, both his arms outstretched as he tries to move the sleep out of his spine. “Pre-test tomorrow.”

“Dude, it’s a pre-test,” Donghyuck rolls his eyes. “You don’t have to study if they’re just testing how much you know before studying.”

“Gotta study all the same.”

“I gotta pass too,” Jisung looks actually apologetic. “I promised my mom I’d help her move some stuff to my aunt’s place tonight.”

“Boring,” Chenle grumbles before turning to the both of you. “Lovebirds?”

“Rain check,” Mark shakes his head. “Family dinner. My brother’s home for the weekend. How about Monday instead? Most of us can’t make it anyway. At least Jaemin doesn’t have study group either.”

“If that’s even what that weirdo’s doing,” Chenle sighs, already punching in a message to send to Renjun. “Fine; I’ll ask about Monday. You guys better actually reply to the goddamn group chat. I can’t coordinate in six different private chats ever again.”

“You can put my name down already,” Mark casts you a sideway glance, and you nod immediately. “Two names, actually.”

“I’m good on Monday too. When we see each other again, I’ll bring some prospects for you to sift through,” Donghyuck adds to you, and you laugh. “Cool guys. Jocks. I know this upperclassman all the girls say is really hot. I think I still have his Messenger from when we did a group discussion last semester.”

“I’ll have Mark look at them so he can reject them all for me,” you promise. Donghyuck feigns affront before looking at Mark in utter disbelief.

“How the fuck did you snag a girl like this, man?”

“I’m pretty sure she once told me I… what did you say?” Mark glances at you amusedly. “I had some moves, I guess.”

“You mean stutter and blush in her presence?” Donghyuck can’t decide how to look at you without being even the slightest bit offensive; he just settles on incredulity. “And that won you over?”

“Most powerful move in the Mark Lee playbook,” you shrug, grinning. “Had me from the first ‘um,’ and he’s had me ever since.”

“You lucky son of a bitch,” Donghyuck snorts, and neither of you misses the slightly abashed but unmistakable smugness in Mark’s face when you lean in to rest your head on his shoulder.

The second time it happens is on that Monday, in a far more noticeable capacity. You just aren’t quick enough to read the signs, as usual.

But in your defense (again), it hadn’t felt all that significant.

“Fuck, this is spicy,” Na Jaemin sucks air in through his teeth and lets it out in a sharp whistle that’s broken by a laugh that’s not necessarily at anything funny. Maybe he’s just laughing at the sheen of sweat across his forehead that he has to wipe off with the other side of his napkin.

Miraculously, the hotpot plan pushes through, with no small amount of effort in coordination on Chenle’s part; he’d even texted you just to make sure he’d gotten the head count right, despite the fact that Mark had already confirmed your attendance twice over. Even the often elusive Na Jaemin, who always seems to have one or another study group to attend on most nights, manages to come and is currently busy mixing his peanut sauce in his little bowl with such vigor that you can’t help but wonder if he’s not trying to drown the mala-flavored strips of meat in it completely.

“That’s why I said you need a bowl of water for dipping, you dimwit,” Donghyuck points his chopsticks at Jaemin’s messy plate in a way you can only describe as nagging, even if that’s actually impossible. “You’ve got super mala breath now.”

“Don’t know about me, but I can smell yours all the way from over here,” Jaemin quips back with an easy kind of nonchalance, hastily ducking the balled-up napkin that goes flying across the table. It lands on the floor behind his chair harmlessly.

It’s nice, you think, that Mark’s friends like to invite you to their outings now; despite all the jokes they’ve made at his expense, they’ve been consistently open to having you around. You’re not necessarily the type of couple that acts in a way that disgusts people into moving to a completely different table anyway, and you allow their conversations to unfold easily without ever interrupting, so you think that this arrangement works for all parties involved.

They’re even louder outside Starbucks, you’ve come to note; the restaurant is significantly busier than the cafe anyway, filled with people on their company dinners, so Mark’s friends all seem to want to rival that boisterous energy. Weirdly, you like it, even when they’re already half off their seats and one (Chenle) is just about to strangle the other (Donghyuck). The laughter flows freely, and there’s a messiness to the whole affair that makes it impossible to feel uncomfortable.

Even Mark pipes in occasionally, offering his opinion on topics he knows much more about than you, and you can’t help but admire how everyone listens to him when he starts to speak, even if he has nothing realistically important to say. His friends might find it odd that you’d been so drawn to him, but they just don’t know that even they’re victims of Mark’s natural magnetism, also falling quiet and eager to hear his voice, his light-hearted laugh, in response to the things they say.

But even when he’s mostly distracted by conversation, there’s a part of him that continuously pays attention to you in his own way. He nudges his ginger and soy sauce bowl towards you with the side of his wrist so you can dip your beef in, even if you’d adamantly declined him giving you your own bowl of it in the first place (you’d always thought you were peanut sauce or nothing kind of girl, but one sneaky venture into Mark’s sauce proved you wrong). His hand hovers over your head when you drop your chopsticks and bend over to pick them up from where they’ve rolled under the table, making sure you’re bump-free when you resurface.

And his palms always, always settle somewhere on you, no matter what he’s doing. If one hand is busy feeding himself, the other is intent on warming your thigh, passing over the denim in slow, steady strokes. His fingers tickle your knee when you laugh, just to make you laugh a little harder — you’d even almost kneed the table at one point, much to Huang Renjun’s alarm. But the most common place for his arm is around you, fingers lightly bunched into the side of your shirt, like he’s worried loosening his grip on you further will cause you to vanish. It keeps him close to you, keeps his scent and warmth washing over you in gentle waves, so much so that you often have to remind yourself that he’ll be the target of much light-hearted mockery if you so much as lean into him and rest your head on his shoulder.

But it’s hard to resist it, especially when his hand seems to be intent on outlining every curve on that side, passing over your hip and dipping into your waist. The motion allows him to slowly but surely lift the fabric of your shirt, up until there’s just enough of an opening for his palm to slip under, and suddenly it’s much warmer on that side, with the light roughness of his hand grazing at your skin. His fingers always stretch apart, like he’s trying to feel as much of you as he can, and the pads of his digits have a tendency to graze the plane of your stomach — his nails sometimes even travel featherlight just next to your navel, etching out words you can’t really decipher. Like he’s writing a message just for you.

It makes you feel like no matter what he’s doing, a part of his mind is always on you.

“You guys want to see that new horror movie? The Ghost Within, I think it’s called,” Jisung asks the group from over at the other end of the table, having to raise his voice significantly to make sure it isn’t swept away by the raucous laughter from across the restaurant. “I think it’s coming out in a week or two.”

“I’d be okay with it,” Renjun shrugs, although he doesn’t look enthused. “Kind of looks like a cliche horror with all those cheap jump scares and shit, but I’m down if you all are.”

A wave of assent passes over the group in general, but you notice Mark doesn’t immediately respond. You take this opportunity to lean in and confess your stance.

“If I have to sit around and watch a ghost pop out at me from a big-ass movie screen, you may never again see me in the same wonderful light you do today,” you warn. “Remember me as I am, not as I will be, Mark Lee.”

He snorts, coughing lightly as a mixture of ginger and fishcake sticks in his throat. “Yeah — we’ll pass, I think.”

“Scaredy-cat,” Donghyuck teases, and you’re surprised that Mark doesn’t come to his own defense. There’s something romantic in him not wanting to be the one to sell you out, but you suppose there’s also a kind of chivalry in being the one to take the bullet.

“Actually, I’m the one who can’t handle it well,” you smile in apology. “Sorry. I don’t have much of a reputation, so to speak, but what elegance may be attached to my name, however misplaced, is something I really want to maintain. At least until I graduate.”

“In short, you don’t want Mark to see you scream and cry,” Chenle deduces. You can’t even find fault in him figuring it out so quickly.

“Bingo.”

“Well, we can solve the problem,” Donghyuck claps his hands, getting everyone’s attention for no good reason. “__________, you sit beside me, and Mark can sit on the far end of the row. With how dark it is, he won’t see anything, and I get to sit next to a cute girl in a movie theater. Win-win.”

“Thanks for the offer,” you laugh, shaking your head. “But it’s not a win-win if I accidentally grab your hand out of instinct.”

“It is to me,” Donghyuck winks, and you feel Mark’s hand stop brushing over your stomach. His fingers curl in lightly, almost like he’s trying to make a fist but can’t quite get to that point out of personal restraint. “Or better yet, you could do what we all think you should do and dump Mark for someone you won’t be ashamed to cry in front of. I, for one, would not even bother to comment on whatever emotions you’re going through in the middle of a movie, so what do you say? It’s a pretty sweet deal, in my humble opinion. Me versus Mark Lee. The showdown of the century, right here in Hai Di Lao.”

You’ve noticed that the more Donghyuck piles onto his little teasing rampage, the more forcefully Mark tugs you over; his fingers aren’t just skimming over your skin but have now grown into the habit of gently pinching it, as if begging for your attention. It feels nice but also a little urgent, although it’s hard for you to understand why; the whole foundation of this group is built on teasing each other until someone (Chenle) snaps and lobs a bottle cap at someone else (Donghyuck), so it should be normal for Mark to be at the receiving end of some light banter.

“Should we ask the hostess to referee the match, then?” You ride along with the joke.

“No way. You’re the one calling the shots.” Donghyuck sits up a little straighter, putting on a smug face. “Okay, pick, __________. Me or Mark; who’s got the better punches?”

You make a show of acting thoughtful, even tapping your chin to pretend considering it deeply, but there was never any doubt on your choice. Still, you can’t really decipher the sudden slowness, the light tremble in Mark’s palm as it travels to your hip, where it settles, heavy, over the curve.

“It’s a complete knock-out,” you finally announce, grinning. “Championship belt goes to Mark.”

“Man, if I had a girlfriend as straight-shooting about her feelings for me as you are about your feelings for Mark, I’d propose in a day, max,” Jeno groans, half-exasperated and half-amused all at once.

“Man must’ve saved a nation or something in his past life,” Donghyuck grimaces. “No way he deserves a girl this hot and crazy about him. Hey — got any tips on stopping natural disasters or something? I could use a sexy, loyal girlfriend in my next life. Or maybe I’ll just poach yours in this one and see what it feels like.”

“I would actually deck you, so don’t even try it,” Mark snorts, his arm now winding full around your waist. You’re flush against his side, and he uses this opportunity to do something he doesn’t often do in front of his friends: show explicit affection by pressing a light kiss just behind your ear. It tickles, his breath grazing your earlobe, and you giggle, squirming in his hold. All he does is smile and pull you in tighter.

The bill’s split eight ways, but Mark’s fishing out cash to pay for your share even before you can get your wallet out from the bottom of your bag; it’s one of those quick, instinctive moves he likes to use on you, where he pushes the money and sends the bill back to the staff before you can even protest in full, so you have to settle on thanking him by returning the earlier favor — landing a peck on his cheek, which flushes a warm and contented pink the moment your lips make contact.

You just pointedly ignore the snickers that run around the table, particularly from Donghyuck and Jaemin.

The group splits ways at the front of the school dorms; most of them head in after their goodbyes, while Chenle backtracks towards his apartment building off-campus, mumbling something about how he hopes his roommate’s in because he accidentally left his key in the bowl next to their doorway. Mark should be piling in with the rest into the dorms, but he has a habit of insisting that he take you to the subway station; you’ve long since given up on convincing him against tagging along, mostly because he looks slightly hurt whenever you try to get him to stay put. You’re not going to complain anyway; for as much as you like being around Mark’s friends, it’s even better when you have this little slice of alone time despite the hassle it brings him.

Your fingers are linked when you walk under the street lights, the campus road leading to the station entrance significantly less busy at this time of evening; it’s cool enough for you to have an excuse to press yourself into Mark’s form, and he accepts this additional burden with an immense amount of grace, his arm finding its way around you again. Two minutes later, his palm is pressed against your bare skin once more, rubbing small, gentle circles just above your pelvis.

A part of you wonders if you’ll be able to do this — lean in, flush against him — when the summer heat starts to stick, but rather than really worrying about the logistics, you realize you’re more hung up on the idea of spending this summer with him.

“Sorry,” Mark murmurs out of the blue. Your eyebrows shoot up, and he looks down at you sheepishly. “Isn’t hanging out with my friends kind of driving you crazy?”

You hum in thought before shaking your head in resolution. “Not really. Not in a bad way, at least. I like how close you guys all are — and how big the group is. It’s usually just Yeji and Jisu with me, and they’re definitely not as rowdy. The change of pace is pretty fun.”

“Yeji and Jisu,” he echoes. “Your best friends. I haven’t met them yet, have I?”

“Not yet. Jisu started a part-time job across town, so we can’t get our schedules to align right just yet.” Your hip collides gently with his. “Should I let you, though?”

“One day… I think it would be nice to hang out with a less migraine-inducing crowd for a change.”

“I’ll tell them, then. They want to meet you.” You crane your neck up slightly, lowering your voice into a hushed whisper that’s completely unnecessary. “They want to know if you’re as cute as you look in your pictures.”

Mark draws back, laughing incredulously. “How do they know what my pictures look like?”

“I stalked your Instagram and showed them,” you answer simply. He throws you a funny look that’s equal parts disbelief and amusement. “They liked that one with the Spider-man costume.”

“Please don’t,” he groans, passing a hand over his face. “I should have taken that down, but I didn’t think anyone would care.”

“Why? I like it.” Your hand’s the one that manages to slip under his sweater this time, fingers trailing down his stomach; you feel him suck it in for a second in surprise before he lets out an exhale.

“I can’t ever understand what’s going through your head,” he chuckles, and you think it’s unfair that he manages to extract your hand from under the fabric while his is still firmly pressed against the side of your stomach. “You saw that and still wanted to date me?”

“Mark Lee, you simply underestimate how much I adore you. It’s kind of hurting my feelings at this rate.”

You’re just a few inches shy of the circle of light cast by the subway station sign. Your feet try to bring you forward, but Mark lingers behind, just outside the curve of soft white on the pavement, and his hand slips from under your shirt. You turn, and his hand skims down your arm instead, fingers locking around your wrist. With the slight distance between you, it looks like you’re caught in motion.

“I still can’t wrap my head around it sometimes.”

“What?”

“I just look over at you and feel like it’s not real. Like you’re going to disappear, and I’m just going to wake up from a dream and see you the next day, just some other stranger who doesn’t even know my name.” He licks his lips, and you want to reach out and kiss him already, but you know he isn’t done talking. “And I’m going to remember how much I liked you in that dream, but you won’t ever feel that same way.”

“You know I’m right here, though, don’t you?” Your fingers mimic his, squeezing around his wrist. “You can feel me. I’m here with you.”

Hesitation flashes across his face even when he nods, and you notice his eyes flit down to his shoes before looking back up at you — a habit of avoidance you know he’s trying to correct. “Sometimes I have to wonder if they’re right.”

“If… who’s right?”

“Them.” He jerks his thumb back in the general direction of the school dorms. “The guys. You know — when they ask me how I got a girl like you… the truth is, I don’t even really know. They can’t believe it, and it’s so crazy to me that I still sometimes can’t myself. So I start wondering if—”

You don’t let him finish this time; it’s rude to interrupt, you know, but you also know that what he’s about to say is probably something neither of you wants to hear anyway. Your lips connect with his, firm and demanding, and his words die in his throat, melting into a soft groan that vibrates against your skin. When you pull away, you don’t create the same distance, and Mark’s hands find their way to your waist, slightly trembling.

“They’re wrong,” you murmur, a quiet strength in your voice. “So stop wondering and just be with me.”

A smile starts tugging on the corners of his mouth, and the next moment, he’s nodding in assent, in wholehearted agreement, and the next kiss you share is one he starts, far more gentle than earlier.

“Next time I catch you entertaining nonsensical thoughts, there’ll be consequences.”

“Are you threatening me?” His laugh is colored with incredulity.

“Yes.” Your tone is firm, but your grin gives away too much of the jest. “Maybe I’ll ground you for a week, or something really childish.”

“I’d take it if you were with me.”

“That’s not how it works,” you snort, gently flicking the tip of his nose. He scrunches it on impact. “You’d be in solitary. You must reflect on your actions and all that nonsense. Meanwhile, I’ll be out having some good hotpot with everyone else.”

“If that happens, promise me one thing, then.” He maneuvers your stance until you’re both back in the blanket of darkness, just out of reach of the subway entrance. “Don’t sit next to Donghyuck.”

“And let him and Chenle give me an earful about how bad-slash-good the first Human Centipede movie was all over again? I think not.”

“No, really.” Mark buries his face into your neck, and you hear the quiet inhale as he breathes in your scent. On instinct, your hand comes up to thread through his hair, nails gently scratching at his scalp. “I don’t want you sitting there and hearing him talk your ear off about how much I don’t deserve you or that he’ll help you find someone better.”

“You know he’s just joking — and I’m just joking, right?”

“Just promise me.”

You pause, wondering if it’s in your best interest to tease him for whatever act he’s pulling, but there’s a shortness to his breathing that makes the whole situation feel weirdly tense. He’s really waiting for something — an answer. The right answer, maybe.

“I promise,” you finally say, and you know you’ve said the correct thing when Mark’s lips press a soft kiss to your collarbone, like he’s sealing in your vow.

On the third time, Mark pretty much gives up.

The strangest thing is that it starts at a time when you’re not even actually together; if you had to pinpoint the exact moment, it probably had to be when Donghyuck had walked you to the dorm from library. No — maybe even before that. Somewhere in the time you’d spent in there, he’d thought up yet another way to push Mark’s buttons. You just didn’t really know the exact minute he’d first seen you with Jung Jaehyun.

You don’t know how Jaehyun does it; he skips half his classes and somehow doesn’t even get in trouble, let alone fail. You’d only met him last semester, but he was just about the only person who was halfway familiar in your Anthropology 120 class, so you thought you could at least feel comfortable enough to chat with him about the weather or what had happened in the last meeting. You don’t expect him to strong-arm you into being something of a literal proxy for him; the first week of the semester, you’d spend almost each lecture period gnawing on your nails and fretting over the fact that your signature for attendance looked nothing like his. By the second week, you’d already come to realize that it doesn’t matter because he had only attended one lecture — the first one — thus far and your professor was as clueless about Jaehyun’s handwriting as you. By the fourth week, you had resigned yourself to being his slightly unwilling associate for his random escapades, allowing him to copy off your notes and turning in his homework for him.

Now that you think about it, that’s probably how he does it.

You sacrifice your free time for him today, caged up in a library for pretty much the afternoon. You can’t help but resent him, not just because the whole room is stuffy and the librarian keeps passing by, clucking to remind people not to litter between shelves, but also because you’d much rather do things that are important to you — like pretending to flirt with Mark for the first time when you place your order and watching him act like it’s the first time you’re saying something so sweet to him, except he’s definitely not pretending. Instead of watching Mark’s face color that cute shade of pink and that sweet little smile pull at his mouth until he’s basically biting his lips back to stop himself from grinning, you have to bore yourself with the sight of Jaehyun trying to decipher your handwriting.

“You should really be more legible with your strokes.” He has the audacity to chastise you as if he’s the one doing you a favor by giving you constructive criticism.

“You should really come to class more often,” you bite back, although there’s no real heat to your words. You just look out the window and watch the sun sink down behind the university hospital building, wondering if there’s a chance you’ll still be able to catch Mark before his shift ends.

“Would if I could.”

“You actually fucking can,” you say tiredly, and even the way he turns the page is so impossibly slow. “Can’t you just take a picture?”

“Nah; writing it down carefully really helps my retention of this kind of stuff.”

“So take a picture and then write it down carefully.”

“With your ridiculous handwriting? I’d probably fail.”

“So come to class and write it yourself!”

Your hiss increases in pitch, and it calls the attention of the librarian over to you. She swoops in, clicking her tongue, but she’s not even looking at you. Her eyes are zoned in on Jaehyun, who meets her gaze with so much innocence it’s hard to imagine you’d wanted to smack him two minutes ago.

“Jung Jaehyun,” the librarian snaps in an undertone. The slow, punctuated way she says his name suggests she knows him fairly well — and not in a great way. “I see you’re back in here after your probationary period.”

“Sorry for the trouble, Mrs. Park.” He grins up at her, looking anything but apologetic. “I promise I won’t get in your way again today.”

“And this one—” She points to you, and you point to yourself in shock at being pointed to, and Jaehyun’s pointing at you and mouthing ‘this one’ with excessive mirth in his eyes. “Isn’t another one of those girls you plan on defiling my sacred space with?”

Jaehyun says ‘we didn’t defile anything’ at the same time you say I’m going to throw up, and the librarian just adds to the noise by shushing you on top of that jumble of words.

“I’ll be keeping a close eye on you two,” Mrs. Park warns before stalking away, tutting at a library assistant for wrongly shelving a volume of Encyclopedia Brittanica.

“Please, Jaehyun,” you groan, crossing your arms over the table and flattening your forehead against them. “Just hurry up. Release me.”

He ignores you, still leaning closer to your notebook to decipher your handwriting. “I would like to set the record straight and make it known I didn’t fuck anyone in the library.”

“What’d you get probation for, then?”

“Just making out.” You notice he has the energy to grin wickedly even without meeting your eye, even while he’s still scrawling on his own notebook, and you groan something incoherent and irate once again. “What are you in such a big hurry for, anyway?”

“Has it ever occurred to you,” you grumble, raising your head. “That some people might want to do better things than sit here and watch you write stuff for ages?”

“No,” comes his simple reply. You bop your head onto your arms a few times in the hope that the impact will shake you out of this nightmare and you’d find yourself waking up in Mark’s arms instead, but you have no such luck. “By better things, do you mean fucking Mark Lee in someone else’s bedroom? That’s real defilement, by the way.”

“How’d you hear about that?” You squeeze your eyes shut and growl under your breath. “Fucking Youngho.”

“You doing that too?”

“Shut — please, would you hurry?”

He pointedly purses his lips in an effort to keep himself from letting out what you can only assume is, by the glint in his eyes, a witch’s cackle. “Almost done, man. Relax a bit. So did you guys get together — like, together together?”

You initially contemplate not telling him, but Jaehyun’s nosiness is probably going to reveal the truth to him sooner or later anyway. “Yeah. What’s it to you, though?”

“Nothing. You’re lucky.”

For the first time today, you feel like Jaehyun has finally said something right. “Yeah — yeah, I am.”

“I bet his friends don’t seem to think so.”

“Is this something you know because it’s a guy thing or because you’re so nosy that you just can’t help but listen in on every other juicy conversation around you?”

“A bit of both,” he chuckles. “Mostly just because I know Lee Donghyuck was giving him a hard time about it last semester.”

“I noticed that too — a bit, anyway. But it’s just banter, I think.”

“Probably. Imagine being his friend and getting a girlfriend; it’s like… the perfect ammunition for teasing. But I’m pretty sure half of the things that come out of his mouth are jokes meant to annoy.”

“What about yours?”

“I get it,” he sighs, shutting your notebook resolutely. It makes a thud that alerts the librarian two tables away, and she glares at you like you’re climbing onto Jaehyun’s lap in the middle of the References on the Korean War aisle. “I’ll set you free. Thanks, by the way, for letting me copy from you. Same time next week?”

“Or how about you look up the schedules for our classes and actually come instead of piggybacking off of my efforts and making snarky remarks about my handwriting while you’re taking advantage of my goodwill?”

“Sounds like too much effort on my end,” he yawns, waving you off as you stuff your notebook into your bag. “Later, ___________. Say hi to Mark for me. The normal way — not the girlfriend way, please.”

You stick your tongue out at him before you make a mad dash for the door, ignoring Mrs. Park as she shushes your footsteps on the marble. You’re so intent on fishing your phone out of your bag that you almost ram the door into the person standing behind it.

“Oh, fuck— Jesus, I’m sorry, I wa— wait, Donghyuck?”

“Great to see you too, ___________.” He rubs his jaw where the edge of the door grazed it. “You in a rush?”

“I was just about to go see if Mark was still at Starbucks.”

“His shift’s probably almost over. I’m headed back to the dorm if you wanna tag along.” When you nod, he starts leading the way, breaking the silence again soon after. “Were you in a study group, or something?”

“No,” you jerk your thumb backwards towards the minuscule form of Jaehyun, who’s now busy wasting time and space playing something on his phone where you’d left him. Donghyuck’s eyebrows shoot up. “He’s my classmate who never comes to class. I was just lending him my notes.”

“Oh, Jaehyun, yeah.” Donghyuck snaps his fingers. “We were classmates last semester. He never went to class either, but I don’t know who he mooched off of to pass. You guys close?”

“Not really. I just fell into the trap of being too nice to him.”

“It’s funny,” he hums, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Jaehyun seems more your speed. On paper, at least.”

You can’t help but look taken aback, and Donghyuck laughs at your expression. “What do you mean, my speed?”

“Not sure.” He pauses, trying to find the right words to explain himself. “Someone who’d fit more into your social circles. Someone who probably likes Formula One and considers men’s health magazines to be classic literature.”

“That’s your impression of my social circle?”

“You know what I mean. People like Jung Jaehyun or Seo Youngho. I literally thought you were dating him last semester, so it was totally crazy to hear you asked Mark out.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Like… you asked him out. Not even the other way around. That’s ridiculous.”

“Why?” You know he doesn’t mean anything bad by it; Donghyuck has next to no filter, and something about him being unable to process your relationship is honestly a little funny. “A girl can’t ask a guy out?”

(You try not to think too hard about the fact that up until you’d cornered him in Youngho’s room, you had been praying to whatever god could hear you to convince Mark Lee to do the romanticist thing and ask you out.)

“Nah, dude. Like… a girl like you asked a guy like him out.”

“I didn’t ask him out because he was a guy like that,” you say pointedly. “I asked him out because he was a guy I liked. I wouldn’t have asked anyone else out if it weren’t him.”

Donghyuck falls quiet for a while, and only the crunching of the leaves underfoot accompanies your walk. “You really like him that much, huh?”

“I’m crazy about him.” His nose scrunches up like he’s been hit with a horrible smell, and you laugh. “Can you stop giving him a hard time? Or tone it down? I know you probably don’t like it—”

Donghyuck’s chuckle is light and easy. “I’m not teasing him because I hate it; let’s be clear on that. I actually really like that you guys are together. I’ve never seen him this happy with anything or anyone.”

“Then why are you—”

“Because he’s Mark.” A devilish grin creeps up his features as he holds the door to the dorm lobby open for you. “And teasing him is my favorite thing to do.”

You shake your head; you can’t help your amusement, but you’re not sure you fully understand this kind of friendship. You suppose if Mark is okay with it in its totality, then there isn’t much you can say to change it either.

The next twenty minutes pass in comfortable back-and-forths; Donghyuck is, as you already have learned, an expert conversationalist, and while he doesn’t aggravate you the way he does Chenle, he does manage to navigate a quick-fire kind of exchange of thoughts and information that allows you to see the speed at which he thinks. There’s barely any lag between when he digests what you say and when he responds. You suppose there’s a measure of wit in that, but it’s also a little bemusing to see someone speak without at least running it through the conscience checker every once in a while. You decide you’ve never met anyone quite like Lee Donghyuck before.

He’s in the middle of asking you what the Anthropology professor is like because he’s planning on taking it as an elective if he can when you notice a familiar figure pushing into the lobby, backpack swinging on a folded elbow.

“Mark!” The brief confusion on his face morphs into a surprised joy when he spots you on the couch, even though a bit of it lingers upon recognizing that Donghyuck is seated next to you. He walks over in long strides, and your posture straightens to meet his palm as it comes down gently against the crown of your head again; it bumps lightly, causing the both of you to laugh.

“Hey, you.” His voice is warm and fond in its greeting, and you beam up at him. “Did you have a busy afternoon?”

“Unfortunately. Did you just get back from your shift?”

“I passed by the co-op to check out the new university letter jackets. Design’s pretty dope.” He nods towards the elevator. “You wanna head up for a little bit?” You almost get to respond before your companion cuts in instead.

“Hey. Can’t you see we’re having a riveting conversation over here?” Donghyuck sniffs, making a show of hitting Mark’s shin lightly with the heel of his shoe. “Have some respect.”

“Is the conversation so riveting that I can’t take my girl for the evening at all?”

You mouth out a no, but Donghyuck’s flair for dramatics has him humphing and shoving Mark’s hand away from your hair. “Yeah, man. At least let us finish up.”

“What’s this even about?”

“How Jung Jaehyun asked her out in the library today,” Donghyuck replies easily. You start, shaking your head immediately, but Mark’s jaw slackens a little upon hearing this. Donghyuck continues loudly over your protests, and you can’t keep your voice straight because you’re adamant and yet, somehow, still laughing incredulously in your shock. “Oh, dude, let me tell you. He had his arm around her like this — and he was giving her the bedroom eyes… I wouldn’t have blamed her if she folded, honestly.”

“Mark, no,” your stupid gasp comes out as half a giggle as a result of Donghyuck trying to reenact his imaginary scenario. He’s slung his arm across your shoulders and pulled himself in, doing his best expression of a pleading dog’s gaze, which is both perplexing and hilarious. “He’s just kidding—”

“Then he got all close like this—” Donghyuck presses his forehead against yours, and the view he allows himself blocks him from having to look at Mark. You, on the other hand, are still trying to resist a misunderstanding, your palms up and every part of your body that can move shaking vehemently, but you can see Mark’s face turn a violent shade of red you can’t remember having seen from him before. “Spoke all low — you remember he had that sexy, husky voice, right? ”

“He’s just messing with you,” you wheeze out, trying to extract yourself from Donghyuck’s hold, but he only tightens his arm around your neck, almost to the point where you can’t inhale properly.

“And he said ‘you’re the hottest chick I’ve ever seen—’ then you know what he did, Markie?”

Mark doesn’t respond; you’re not even sure if he can, considering his Adam’s apple is bobbing dangerously like he’s one misstep away from exploding. You laugh again, stupidly, because you don’t know what else to do; you know Donghyuck’s teasing him, and you know Mark usually takes it in stride, but you’ve also never seen the latter look so focused on anything that didn’t involve a math problem or eating you out. “No, really, nothing hap—”

You don’t even have the space to finish your sentence. Donghyuck’s too quick when he grabs your face and plants a comedically sloppy kiss on your cheek, bursting out in laughter when he pulls away. You can only sit there, probably as stunned as Mark looks, raising your hand slowly to wipe the spittle Donghyuck left behind in his wake.

“Oh, Jesus,” Donghyuck rasps out between snorts. “Your face is priceless, man.”

“Not funny,” Mark grumbles, and there’s a hoarseness to his voice that makes you feel like it’s barely controlled.

“Also not true. I just bumped into her on the way from the library. We were talking about one of her classes or whatever.” Donghyuck dramatically wipes the tears from his eyes, and you sigh, nudging him. “Sorry, sorry. I couldn’t resist. Man, don’t even worry. She’s downright crazy about you. Even if Jung Jaehyun had asked her out—”

“Anyway.” Mark reaches down, lacing your fingers together, pulling you up and closer to his side like he’s worried you’ll catch Donghyuck’s crazy. “If that’s all of it…”

“Yeah, yeah. You two lovebirds go moon over each other already. I just love seeing your face like that.”

Mark snorts, yanking on Donghyuck’s earlobe punitively, and the latter cries out sharply (and a little exaggeratedly) at the pain. Mark doesn’t even seem to care; he leads you to the elevator and punches in his floor. You barely have time to call out a belated ‘bye’ to Donghyuck, who acknowledges it with a raise of his palm, before the doors slide shut.

It’s a slow elevator, given that it’s an old building, and the first couple of floors pass without much noise between the two of you. You’re not unaware of how tight Mark’s grip is on your hand, but you don’t comment nor take it against him. By the fourth floor, you’re raising his hand up to your lips and pressing a kiss against his knuckles.

“Nothing happened.” You confirm his unasked question, and you see a modicum of tension leave his shoulders. “He was just messing with you because he thinks it’s funny.”

“Yeah, I know.” Even if he says it like that, there’s still lingering doubt in his voice. “Were you with Jung Jaehyun today, though? Is that why you didn’t show up?”

You nod. “He was copying my notes for Anthropology. Guy barely shows up to lectures, so he borrows my stuff. I can’t believe he hasn’t been suspended yet. Or punched in the face by the people he leeches off of.”

“No kidding.”

You step out on the sixth floor with him. Even if you already know where Mark’s dorm is, you let him lead the way, and he ushers you into an empty and dimly lit living space while taking his shoes off. His roommate barely seems to be around; you’ve seen him all of two times, and it doesn’t look like he’s here either right now. You pause anyway, listening to any signs of life just to be sure, but when you both confirm that there’s no one but the two of you, you busy yourselves with turning on the lights and plugging in the water dispenser.

You work in relative silence; it isn’t anything unusual since you’ve done this a million times, and you’ve come to learn that small talk isn’t necessary when you’re just washing your hands or opening the refrigerator aimlessly even if you know you both plan on ordering in. But there’s a weird aura around Mark that you’re not sure how to place; he doesn’t seem like he’s mad, but there definitely seems to be something off — a problem, at least, that you’re not sure you know how to ask about.

So you just try to diffuse whatever it is by completely ignoring it.

“Pizza or Chinese?” You ask, flopping onto the couch as he plugs the television into the outlet. He looks up at you, and you notice his eyes are slightly dazed, like you’ve just woken him up from a dream. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” His voice is hoarse the first time he says it, so he clears his throat and tries again. “Yeah, sorry.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“We just had pizza, so I’m thinking Chinese is the better option. Cream shrimp? Fried rice? Not the salted fish one, though, maybe.”

You hum in assent, but when he straightens up from behind the television, you extend your arm to him, attempting to clarify yourself. “I mean, what are you thinking so hard about?”

“Nothing.” His answer’s a little too quick. A moment of awkward silence passes where you telepathically tell him you know he’s lying and he has to come to terms with his horrible lying skills, and he sighs, crossing over to the couch and settling beside you. Immediately, he tangles your fingers together, belatedly returning the favor from the elevator and brushing his lips across your knuckles. “He didn’t ask you out, right?”

You know he knows the truth, so you decide to bat your own question back at him in an attempt at rhetoric. “What would it matter if he did? The answer would have been the same, real or imagined.”

Mark pinches the bridge of his nose, inhaling slowly. There’s a red flush on his neck that’s only started fading, it seems. You reach out and skim your finger along the vein that runs down the side of his throat. “I know. I don’t like it all the same. I hate… even thinking about it, actually.”

“Really — nothing happened. If you don’t count the fact that I almost strangled him for keeping me there — which I’m sure you’d agree doesn’t count as anything in favor of him.”

“I heard Jung Jaehyun’s kind of a playboy.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“Nothing. I don’t know.” His head lolls to the side, and his eyes hold a sadness that pulls at your heart. “It means he really could have made a pass at you. Or you could have — I don’t know. In the end… I just worry.”

“Don’t you trust me?” Your lower lip juts out, and his eyes widen slightly, his head shaking before his mouth can even work out a proper response.

“No — I mean, yes, absolutely. It’s — I mean, it’s just—” He inhales again to gather his wits, two fingers still rubbing his forehead. “I trust you, without a doubt. I don’t trust other people — not around you. Not Jaehyun, or Youngho, or—”

“Or Donghyuck?” You smile a little apologetically at his embarrassment, clear on his face when his eyes stray from yours. “Mark, you know he’s only messing with you, right? I thought it was a funny thing for you guys.”

“It’s not funny if it’s about you,” he mumbles, more to himself than to you. He looks up at you again, chewing on his bottom lip. “I know. I’m trying to control it. Sometimes… I don’t know why it gets under my skin. I guess it’s because it could happen — you… finding someone else. I kind of hate the thought of that.”

“And if I said I hate it even more than you?”

His gaze softens, something like relief passing over his features, but the rest of his body still holds a significant amount of tension; you know by the way he’s running agitated circles on the back of your hand. You gently tug on his arm, allowing yourself to use it as an anchor to shift your weight. Mark makes a soft noise of inquiry but says nothing more, waiting until you’ve maneuvered your body to settle on his lap.

The view is reminiscent, and you can see that the core memory you share flashes through his mind too. A small smile, still somewhat reluctant, plays on Mark’s lips, and you hate that it’s all you get right now, so you rectify this by leaning down and leaving a small, chaste kiss on them. You pull away much too soon, and his head follows in response to the distance, chasing your lips until you’re realistically too far to reach. His arm extends instead, swiftly tucking your hair behind your ear.

Your fingers close around his wrist, and your head turns, continuing the kiss against his palm — short and firm.

“Stop doing that.”

His eyebrows fly upward in questioning, his other hand freezing in its trail up your thighs. Even his breath seems to catch, and what’s left of it comes out as a raspy whisper. “Stop being jealous? I’m… I’m trying.”

You shake your head. “Stop being sexy when you’re jealous.”

The ‘what’ he seems to want to ask dies in his throat, his mouth only able to form half of the word before you interrupt, your lips taking in the rest of the syllable. When you kiss him this time, there’s a slow hunger to it; your teeth find his lower lip even before he’s able to get into the rhythm of kissing you back. You just want him to know — everything about him drives you wild, even when he doesn’t know it.

You’ll never grow sick of the taste of him, you’re sure; today, he tastes even more enticing, the hint of something rich mixing in with the stronger flavor of coffee on his tongue. It’s familiar and comforting, and it’s only when you break away, both your faces flushed from a prolonged lack of air, that you puzzle out what the taste is — the lingering aftermath of a vanilla sweet cream cold brew, one he must have prepared in anticipation of you this afternoon.

You briefly squeeze your eyes shut and thank whoever’s listening for the gift of Mark Lee.

“Mark,” your murmur, your voice much softer, intent on coaxing him into releasing his worries. “You know, right?”

His ‘hm’ is only half-there in focus, the rest of his attention on his hands, which have found their way to your ass and have started digging his fingers into the flesh beyond your jeans. You have to tilt his head up with one finger under his chin, and there’s a whirlpool of emotion in them: curiosity, desire, and, interestingly, a quiet, almost suppressed kind of anger.

“If it isn’t you,” you whisper. “Then there’s nobody else.”

You see his jaw tighten, feel his grip against you do the same, and his brow furrows, like he’s trying — much too hard, and for no good reason — to stop himself from tipping over. You don’t like that either; if he’s there, you think, you should take him over the edge.

“But if you want them to know so badly, then…” You tilt your head to the side, exposing more of your neck, bringing the expanse just a little closer to his mouth. “Why don’t you go ahead and put your claim on me?”

You swear you see his pupils dilate right before he presses his mouth to your skin. With a low, almost pained groan against your neck, he latches his teeth in lightly, and you feel the soft sting, the increase in pressure the moment he starts sucking a mark just above your collarbone. There’s a wet, messy pattern to his movements, always punctuated by the sweep of his tongue to soothe your flesh. Even with that, his movements are slow and careful, still gentle in the way he’s handling you, but you feel it anyway — all of his tension’s concentrated in his grip, the way he keeps you close, hips pinned against him as if he’s worried anything less will cause you to disappear.

“Every time you worry, remember you can do this.” You pause, your breath catching in a lilt as his teeth dig in a little more fiercely. “You’re the only one that can.”

His lips detach with a soft groan, fingers squeezing your ass tight for a moment. Warm breath cools against the damp patch on your neck, and a second later, you feel his mouth graze against the few inches of skin, sensitive and slightly raw. “I know. It’s just not fair.”

You hum in questioning, but he doesn’t answer immediately; his mouth busies itself just under the mark he’d surely left, already starting up the same routine. You’d let him, and you want him to, but you want to hear his voice more. Your fingers tangle into his hair, and you use that hold to ease his head back, urging him to look up at you. It’s almost a mistake, seeing him like that — lips slightly swollen and definitely slick with his own saliva, parted just a little to reveal teeth he’d been desperate to nip your flesh with again. It crosses your mind that Mark has a mouth made for kissing — no, that isn’t accurate.

A mouth made for you to kiss.

“What’s not fair?” You ask softly. Even now, he takes his time in answering, his eyes falling close for a second; you watch him swallow, lick his lips, breathe in before he speaks, and all of those mundane things he does somehow make you lose your mind all the more.

“How badly I keep wanting you,” he breathes out, his eyes slowly opening. “And how it makes me think everyone wants you just as much.”

His hands leave the curve of your ass, traveling up your shirt, resting against your sides. He holds you like he’s careful in trying not to break you, his fingers spread wide to make sure his thumbs almost meet against your stomach, but there’s a smoldering headiness in his gaze that tells you he’s thinking a little too hard about wanting to break you.

“I touch you like this, and I think that everyone would kill to do the same.” His fingers squeeze against your flesh, inching upwards until they rest just under your breasts; his thumbs stroke the curved underline of your bra. “I think about kissing you and it feels like everyone’s thinking it at the exact same time. I look at someone next to you, even if you don’t know them, and I wonder if they want to pull you close, if they want to feel you against them just as much as I do. When I—”

He inhales sharply between his words, and the exhale comes out somewhat shaky. For a moment, he grits his teeth, jaw flexing in an attempt to keep himself in check. You worry he doesn’t want to continue — doesn’t want to let you hear it, but it feels so important that you can’t let it go. “Tell me.”

“When I think about fucking you,” he breathes out, voice barely audible. “Whenever I look at you and think about how much I want to feel you around me, feel you cum around me… I just know everyone else wants the same thing, and it’s driving me crazy because… because they can’t.”

It’s there again, flashing in his eyes — a determination that reads almost like fury.

“They can’t,” he repeats, his voice firmer. “I won’t ever let them. Never.”

You don’t stop him this time when his mouth reclaims your skin. You let his thoughts fuel the need in his movements, allow yourself to move only in reaction to what he does — the tilting of your head to give him more room, the tightening of your fists against his shirt to keep yourself steady. A surprised mewl leaves you when you feel his teeth pinch against your flesh again, and it’s harder, sharper this time, his quiet anger finally dictating his strength. You grapple for words, but they come out in weak gasps.

“It doesn’t — doesn’t matter,” you manage to whimper out. “How many people think that way, how much they want me that way. I only ever want you.”

His breathing is caught, warm, in the pocket of space just between you and his mouth; it tingles against your skin, tickles your senses into heightening. Your fingers unfurl, pressing against his chest, and you can feel his quickened heartbeat thrumming under your palm.

“God, please,” he murmurs, the soft peck of a kiss landing against your collarbone. “Please, tell me.”

“Mark, I’m yours.” There’s no teasing in how you say it; it was never meant to rile him up. It even escapes sweetness, the romanticism it usually comes with when you remind him on any other occasion. This is a promise to him, something you’re reinforcing as fact, something that can’t ever change. “I’m always going to be yours — no one else’s. I’ll never let anyone have anything that’s yours. Ask anything, take everything you want. I’ll never say no to you. Only you — always you.”

You know something’s different in a number of ways; his arms circle around you, but instead of keeping you firm and stable in his lap, they’re tight, squeezing a whine out of you, holding your torso flush against his. His face never leaves the crook of your neck, but you hear — feel — something there — a soft growl of need, of frustration that begs release. Suddenly, you find yourself off the couch; you barely have the presence of mind to wrap your arms around his neck and tighten your thighs against his sides before he’s carrying you to his room, kicking the door open and letting the rebound of the impact against his wall slam it shut behind him.

You’ve been in Mark’s room before, so there’s absolutely no need for you to take in the scenery when he sets you down on his bed. It doesn’t matter anyway, even if this were your first time; Mark’s crawling over you, his face flush and eyes sharp with hunger, and he looks so enticing that you wouldn’t want to pay attention to anything else around you anyway. His limbs cage you in, arms on either side of your shoulders and his knees just by your thighs, and you don’t really know why he’s already panting, but it just makes you want him all the more.

“Never,” he groans out, leaning down to nose against the patch of skin his mouth had worked on. “I’m never going to let anyone take you, ever. You’re all mine.”

His name fades on your lips, carried away by a moan when his mouth reattaches itself to your neck; it moves, almost frenzied, to renew the mark he’d left, make it a deeper red, a slightly bruised purple. You’re usually careful not to do anything that will require any attention or cover-up after, but Mark seems a little too far gone to care, and you realize you like him best this way.

Even with all the attention he gives your neck, his fingers are busy; they work on the button of your jeans, sliding them down with the help you offer by raising your hips. They only reach halfway down your thighs, his reluctance to come back up for air stopping him from peeling them off completely, but it’s all he seems to need for now.

Eager fingers ease between your thighs, two at once, pressing against your folds. You’re unable to spread your legs like you usually do, but this tightness makes you all the more sensitive, and you keen as his digits fit themselves into your slit. Frustratingly, they don’t move right away, and you have to raise your hips again just to get some sort of friction. Even then, Mark doesn’t take the hint — or, perhaps, the bait — keeping a light pressure against your clit without doing anything else. His focus is still on your neck, now slightly aching under his lips, and when he finally pulls away, you see a look of triumph on his face. He tilts his head back slightly to admire his work — the blooming dark patch you’re sure he’s left where your skin tingles the most.

“If I said I wanted to mark you all over, would you let me?”

“What makes you think I wouldn’t ask for it?”

He chuckles, tightening the pressure of his fingers against your clit; you say something that sounds halfway between ‘Mark’ and a sob.

“I want to, so badly.” He admits, gaze still fixed on your neck. “I’d want to see you walk out of here, walk into class covered in them. I’d want people to ask you how you got them, and who gave them to you. And I’d want you to say it proudly — that it was me who did it. That I fucked you all night and made you mine over and over again.”

“Why don’t you?” His eyes snap up to you, a small smile forming on his lips. “I want to say that too. Let me brag about having you. Let me tell everyone how good you always make me feel. Then you can tell everyone who doesn’t believe you, too — how I let you take me every single time. Show me off and tell them to look at how you made me yours.”

Another laugh escapes him, but there’s more disbelief than humor in it; he seems to find it amazing, that you can just agree with what he says, no matter how strange he thinks it is.

“Show you off? If I mark you in other places, do I have to show them every part?”

“Do you not want to?”

“I want to, and I don’t.” He pauses, slightly amused, and you know he’s remembering the first time you fucked. “I don’t them to see your body, but I want them to see what I did to it. I don’t want them to look at what’s mine, but I just want them to know it is.”

“Then you can fuck me in front of everyone and make them watch you ruin me completely.”

He shakes his head, even if desire flashes clear across his features. He busies himself with actions while he mulls it over, tugging your jeans down alongside your panties and casting them aside before he straightens up. His eyes rake over your form; you’re bare from the waist down, your shirt halfway ridden up, the underside of your bra peeking out from under the hem. Again, his eyes land on your neck, and his smile widens slightly.

“Can’t.” He decides finally. “You’re too pretty for that.”

You hum thoughtfully, and he raises his eyebrows. He doesn’t move, even when you sit up, shifting yourself so you can tuck your calves under your thighs — not even when you reach out to undo his belt or tug down his zipper. He only reacts a little when your hand presses against his hardness through his boxers, the girth now easily familiar to your palm.

“What about something like this?” You ask, inching closer to the edge of the bed. You’ve started slow strokes against him, the fabric creating extra friction, more heat under your palm, and you watch his jaw clench as he swallows back a soft grunt. “Would you let them watch me do this for you?”

“Let me think about it,” he chuckles softly, and you nod, letting your fingers work to make your point. You don’t have to undress him completely to get what you want; all you need is to tug down the front of his boxers to free him, and you already have him wrapped in your palms, stroking his shaft to full hardness.

“Think faster,” you urge, and he shakes his head, slightly bemused. “Are you telling me you wouldn’t even want them to watch me jerk you off?”

“At least give me a full minute.”

You laugh lightly, whispering a ‘fine’ before you press a soft kiss against tip. He inhales sharp through his teeth, already sensitive, and you waste no time in letting your tongue flick out against the smooth head. He doesn’t need the lubrication, realistically; his precum’s already leaking from the tip, mixing in with your saliva as you run your tongue around it. All you do is make him a little messier, a little slicker, your spittle running down his length.

Taking Mark in your mouth is a demanding task, but one you’re always up for; there’s something uniquely satisfying about letting him fill your mouth, inch by inch, and watching his breathing hitch and stutter until your lips are closer to the base than to the head. What you can’t reach, your hand always squeezes around, eager to make sure he feels good completely. His expression is sublime when you draw your head back the first time, sucking as you do so — his eyes are half-lidded, and he doesn’t stop the moan that falls from his lips. His gaze is fixed on you, hazy but still able to drink the sight of you in, and you’re not sure how, but you almost feel like you could get off to watching him watch you taste him.

You try, somehow, vaguely conscious of the movement of your hips; you’re grinding at nothing at first, so your knees give way just enough for you to press yourself against his sheets. It’s slightly uncomfortable, a strain in your thighs that you’re not really used to, but you don’t care; Mark’s sharp inhale at seeing you attempt to grind your pussy against his mattress is pretty much as arousing as anything else. His cock twitches hard in your mouth, and you suck just a little harder, a little messier, your head bobbing down to meet your hand, still firmly wrapped around his girth.

The room’s filled with nothing but slick sounds and soft groans; Mark’s hand has found its way into your hair, tangled into a makeshift ponytail, and while he isn’t guiding your mouth to do anything, you can feel his hips stutter then start to move, pulling back when your head does. He tries to hide it, tries to keep himself steady, but pride blooms in your chest when you note that he can’t; he wants to feel like he’s fucking into your mouth, into your hand, the way he does when he takes your pussy.

It’s relatively quiet for that time, nothing but muffled moans from you that mix in with his noises, but you only realize you’d been waiting for an answer to something when he speaks up again.

“It’s… still a no for me.”

Your movements slow, your gaze lifting to communicate your mild confusion to him. You don’t want to ask; you just don’t want to lose the taste of him on your tongue just yet. He looks down at you, smiling with overflowing tenderness, almost like he’s apologetic.

“Even just this — you’re too pretty when you do it.” His hand reaches down, thumb stroking over your cheek. “I can’t let anyone see what you look like when you’re like this. They’ll keep thinking about you doing it for them. And you’d only do it for me — right?”

You nod immediately, your response causing your mouth to slip down his shaft just a little more. It elicits a guttural noise from him, one that fuels you into sucking him just a little harder, your enthusiasm overtaking your restraint. His fingers have let go of your hair, stroking it back into smoothness, almost comforting in their movements.

“God, I wish you could see yourself; you’d know what I mean,” he continues to murmur, his voice just a little louder over the eager, wet noises you’re making. “How pretty you look with your mouth wrapped around me. How perfect you are when you’re kneeling like this for me — how happy you look when you’re sucking me off. I can’t share that with anyone. Fuck — not ever.”

Your mouth draws back, completely this time, and your tongue presses against the underside of his cock. You lick a long stripe up his shaft, moaning softly at the light throb you feel, and you watch him tip his head back. The groan that follows soon after is almost close to a frustrated growl, ending in a whispered ‘shit’ before his eyes land back on you. He watches you press kiss after kiss against his tip, coaxing the precum out even more, and you take special care to leave more down each inch of his cock until you’re finally able to release your hold on his base so you can leave the last one there.

His hand combs your hair back before it falls to cup your chin, his thumb swiping at the corner of your mouth to gently clean up the froth of spittle there. You smile up at him in thanks, and his thumb sweeps over the seam of your lips to follow the slight curve.

“So pretty,” he repeats, and your cheeks glow pink under the palms that caress them. He leans down, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose. “Pretty as hell, fucking perfect — and you’re all mine.”

You kneel up again, chasing his lips with your own, and he locks you in his arms as his tongue slips its way past your teeth, the aroma of coffee still on it. He leaves today’s taste of him against your tongue, on the ridges of your teeth, until you feel like you’ve all but consumed him, and you whimper softly when he pulls away, urging you to turn around and lean back into his chest.

His mouth reattaches itself to the same spot; it’s like a home base for him, and he breathes in your scent from there before giving the same patch of skin a light suck, almost as if he’s worried it’ll fade in a few minutes’ time if he doesn’t give it attention.

“Show me.” Hands slide down to your hips, squeezing them lightly, like a prompt for your response. “Show me how pretty you are for me.”

His palms never leave you, not even when you detach yourself from his chest and bend down; your elbows meet the mattress, but your hips stay raised, giving him a view of your pussy. Your gasp easily turns into a moan when his digit dips into your wetness again, his other hand pushing gently at your asscheek to keep you open.

You think he’s about to slip his finger in, the tip brushing against your entrance, and you tense in anticipation, but it doesn’t happen; he continues to run his finger down your slit, careful not to linger against your clit for too long. The result is that you tighten around nothing, and you hear him suck in a breath as he watches your hole grow smaller for a second. You laugh breathily, resting your chin against the backs of your hands, one folded atop the other. “Pretty enough for you to fuck?”

“Do you have to ask if you already know?”

“I want to hear it anyway.”

His finger slips into your hole, finally, and you keen softly as he breaches the first ring of tightness. He doesn’t really move it, just tests your tightness, feels you contract around him as if to know what his cock will feel in a few moments.

“Your pussy’s too pretty not to fuck,” he manages out, and his throat sounds as tight as you feel. “Seeing it like this… makes me think there’s no way anyone can resist. It’s exactly why I can’t let anyone see you like this.”

You hum as his finger presses in deeper, and you know it’s nothing in comparison to the real thing, but you like feeling that mild stretch, the depth it reaches all the same. “How should we let them know, then? That I’m all yours.”

His finger stills, and you hum softly, swaying your hips to shake him out of whatever trance he’s in. He’s grown quiet, but there’s a thoughtfulness in this pause, like he’s seriously considering your question. You laugh lightly, ready to tell him you’re just egging him on until he fucks you, but he slips his finger out of you, leaving you clenching around nothing again. You can’t help the confused noise that comes out of you, but you at least know he isn’t completely backing away, his other hand still firmly on your ass.

“Mark, what—”

You get your answer in the thud that interrupts your question — he’s tossed his phone onto the bed, having it land next to you. Something in your blood runs hot, and your fingers tremble when you pick it up. You see yourself reflected in the blackened screen — excitement in your eyes, your lips glossy from your blowjob.

Mark’s silent as you let the meaning of his actions settle; wordlessly, he slips his finger into you again, followed by another one this time, and you shudder in pleasure at the difference in the stretch. He doesn’t ask, but you can tell he’s wondering if he’s gone too far— if you think he’s crazy. He lets his fingers stay anchored in you, unmoving, waiting for you to say something, but from where he is, he just can’t know the smile that passes your face.

Finally, he tries to speak up. “We don’t have to— I just meant—”

“What’s your passcode?”

He breathes out, the exhale quivering as much as you probably are. “Your birthday.”

Your smile only widens when you tap the screen to life and see a picture of you — you don’t even remember when he’d taken it, but it’s a shot of you sprawled on his bed, bundled in his blanket and reading something that looks oddly like your textbook for your European Renaissance History class. It’s grainy and dimly lit, a stolen photograph of you, but it makes your heart swell, and you laugh lightly as you key in your birthday; the screen unlocks, allowing you access to all his applications.

“What’s funny?”

“Just thinking about how you should replace this wallpaper.”

“To what?” He sounds bemused.

“The view of me you have now.”

His fingers curl in you, pressing down against your walls, and you push your hips back in a bid for more friction; you hear him hiss out a ‘fuck’ under his breath, and his hand digs harder into the flesh of your ass.

You open Mark’s contacts, scrolling down aimlessly. Most of the names, you don’t recognize, but you see a few familiar ones crop up here and there. He doesn’t ask, only starts pumping his fingers into you in quiet anticipation, wondering how far you’re willing to take it, how much you’ve bought into this crazy idea.

“Mark,” you call out, and he hums in response. “You trust me, don’t you?”

“With my life.”

“So if I called Donghyuck right now—” His fingers hook into you, the delicious pressure on your walls making you squeak instead of finish your sentence immediately. You twist your torso to meet his eyes, and you’re slightly surprised but not at all displeased to see something crazed lingering in his gaze. “How much of a show would you want to put on for him?”

He shifts his weight, his knee sinking into the mattress as he slots it between your legs. This change in position allows him to angle his fingers a little differently, driving down into you with a force that makes you squirm. You almost forget you’ve asked him something again until he leans in closer, his murmur almost drowned out by the slick sounds of his finger pressing into your hole.

“Just… enough for him to know you’ve always been mine.”

Your thumbs are shaking when you scroll through his contacts again, up and down until you find the right name — Lee Donghyuck — and Mark watches you intently, wordlessly, as you press his number, start the call, and put it on speaker.

The wait feels like an eternity, with Mark’s finger slipping in and out of you in a steady, languid pace as you watch the line connect, but in reality, Donghyuck really only answers after the fourth ring. “Yo, Mark.”

His voice is casual, lacking in any sort of expectation; you can hear explosions and gunshots in the background, and you’re willing to bet he’s in the middle of an action movie. You’re proven right when you hear random English babbling soon after.

“Hi, Hyuck.”

“___________?” He sounds genuinely confused that it’s you that greets him. “Where’s Mark? You okay?”

“He’s right here with me; don’t worry.” Your voice is a soft croon, and he has to lower the volume of the television to be able to hear you better. “We’re totally fine. What are you up to?”

“Watching Resident Evil. Uh, is there a reason you called?”

You want to draw out the lie of something casual for as long as you can, but Mark doesn’t let you. His fingers push, suddenly forceful, into you, and you let out a soft cry into the receiver. You look back at him, eyes wide with amusement, and he shrugs, having at least enough sense to look slightly abashed at his experiment.

One moment, you’re listening to a female voice shout something, and the next, Donghyuck’s side of the call is silent except for his breathing. When you don’t bother explaining what had just happened, he takes matters into his own hands.

“Hello?”

He sounds equal parts affronted and amused, like the shock of it has tickled him. You can’t help it; you laugh too, but it’s quickly cut off by another whine when Mark pulls his fingers out. Donghyuck makes an incredulous noise.

“Now, what the fuck is all this about, you freaks?”

“You kept wondering why I ended up asking Mark out,” you evade his question with another one. “Should I tell you why, if you’re that curious?”

“No way. Have fun, weirdos,” he laughs, and the line goes dead a second after.

You snort out a laugh, and Mark mumbles something that sounds vaguely like that was crazy before he leans down and presses a kiss to the small of your back. You make to turn so you can finally face him, but you’re distracted when his phone screen lights up again, and Donghyuck’s name flashes across it.

You exchange amused glances before you pick up the call, and you don’t even get a ‘hello’ out when his voice rings out, sharp and clear.

“But pretending I am,” he says, as though he hadn’t hung up the call a few seconds ago. “Exactly what kind of answer would I get?”

“The kind that’ll hopefully shut you up for good,” Mark pipes in instead of you.

“What’s that even going to sound like?” Already, Donghyuck’s activated whatever toggle in him that gets him to push Mark’s buttons. This time, though, you can’t say it works against you; you feel Mark inch closer to you, and a moment later, the fat tip of his cock nudges against your entrance. “I bet you can’t even get her to yawn, man.”

Mark doesn’t have to respond; you do it for him when he pushes in, torturously slow, as if to draw out your moan. It works a little too well, with you keening into the phone, and yet no part of you is acting for his sake. As familiar as the stretch is, it’s not something you’ve ever been able to commit to memory fully, and it feels like a new breaching of your tightness each time. Your legs fold in slightly, a useless movement that attempts to get you adjusted to his size faster, but Mark interprets it as discomfort, his hands tightening on your hips.

“You okay?” He sounds genuinely worried for a second, forgetting that Donghyuck’s still on the line. Your cheek brushes against his sheets as you nod, trying to meet his eye even in this position to let him know you’re being honest.

“Fucking big, Mark.” You hear Donghyuck tsk from his end, and you laugh breathlessly. “You don’t like knowing he’s big?”

“I just hate that fucker,” Donghyuck quips back easily, but there’s no seriousness in his voice. If anything, it sounds a little raspy, with him clearing his throat soon afterward.

“Well, I’m crazy about him,” you whisper into the call, and your breathing hitches as Mark finally bottoms out, groaning at your tightness. “I’m crazy about the way he touches me, the way he tastes. I’m crazy about how big his cock is, how deep it gets when he’s inside me, how he stretches me out — fuck—”

Your verbal rampage is cut short by a loud moan as Mark draws his hips back and pushes forcefully into you; you haven’t fully adjusted, and you’re even tighter now from what you’re saying, so the friction inside you is nothing short of delicious. He starts a pattern of thrusts, not bothering to build up from his usual slow and steady pace — hearing you talk that way and knowing that Donghyuck is listening is enough to get him to abandon self-imposed restrictions.

“Mark,” you whine out, accidentally pushing the phone a little further away as you reach out blindly for him behind you, and he catches your wrist to let you know he’s there. “Mark, fuck, it feels so good—”

You tighten around him as if to prove your words, and he growls in response. You find yourself having to press your cheek in a little harder into the mattress as he gathers your wrists together into one hand, pinning them to your lower back, and it’s with that hold on you that he leverages his thrusts, pumping into you a little harder each time.

You’re not completely unaware of your surroundings, but it takes a while for you to process the sounds coming from the phone’s speaker — labored breathing, the sound of a zipper being pulled down. You want to wonder if this is working a little too well, but nothing comes from your mouth apart from soft whimpers, and it’s all the cue Mark needs to be the one to fill in the relative silence himself.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he whispers, and you feel his lips press between your shoulder blades. It feels like a chaste kiss at first, but he leaves his breath there, still flitting over your skin as he continues to speak. “I’ll never get tired of how pretty you are — how pretty you always sound for me. Doesn’t she sound pretty, Hyuck?”

“Fucking pretty,” Donghyuck agrees, though his voice sounds somewhat distant. You can only sob back a quiet ‘fuck me, harder, harder,’ in response.

“Can you imagine how much prettier she looks under me?” It’s almost a full-blown conversation now, but even if Mark’s addressing Donghyuck, the rest of his attention’s fully on you. He adjusts his stance, still keeping his hold around your wrists as he angles himself deeper into you, causing you to cry out and squirm in pleasure. With your face pressed against the bed and his weight driving down into you, you feel utterly trapped, in the best kind of way. Mark, in the way he is now, is inescapable, almost incorrigible, and he pistons deeper into your pussy, his free hand brushing your hair away from your shoulder so he can leave a kiss against it. “Bent over, legs spread just a little, all for me to take. Pretty little hole wet for me, and so fucking tight. Can you imagine that?”

“I’m doing it right now.”

“It’s a thousand times better in person. Trust me.”

The same hand slips between your thighs, two fingers spreading your folds apart; the middle one circles your clit in a pace that matches his thrusts, sudden and shocking, and you arch your back upwards slightly with a choked noise. He finally releases your wrists, and you claw at the sheets helplessly to keep yourself somehow upright as the force of Mark’s hips, their impact against the backs of your thighs, pushes you forward, closer to the phone again. The stimulation is merciless, endless, and in the haze of your pleasure, you wonder if you should make Mark a little more jealous everyday if it gets him to act this way.

“Mark, I…. I’ve been— s-since—”

“Not yet,” he whispers, his teeth sinking into your shoulder as if to bring you back to reality. You shudder at the pain, the pleasure that accompanies it, and when you squeeze your eyes shut for a moment, you notice that a few tears escape your eyes. “Hold out for me a bit, okay? Please. It’s not enough. Not yet enough.”

You wonder if ‘enough’ is a concept the both of you even understand when it comes to wanting each other; already, you feel desire pooling in your stomach, threatening to spill from you, and clenching around him isn’t helping you stop it the way your body seems to think it’s supposed to. It also doesn’t help that Mark’s fingers are relentless, one still drawing tight, heavy circles around your clit, and the other creeping up under your shirt to tug down the cup of your bra, letting a breast spill into his warm palm. He kneads with an unusual — but not unpleasant — roughness, and you squeak out incoherently as he tweaks at the hardened bud of your nipple, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger.

“Hold on for me a little,” he continues murmuring, even after you shake your head and whisper ‘can’t’ to him over and over. “Do it for me. Tell Donghyuck — tell him how good it feels. How much you want to keep feeling me inside you.”

You don’t even know what to say; the pleasure that washes over you, the new kind of roughness that Mark exhibits has you drawing a blank, and you can only whine in a last attempt at protest, only for your tongue to start moving on autopilot, fueled by your want.

“It’s not enough,” you echo — and even if it feels like it is, even if it feels even more than you can possibly handle, something tells you that it’s true. “Not enough — need to feel you more, Mark. God, I want to feel you stretch me out, fuck my little hole into the shape of your cock— until no one else can fuck me but you—”

“What,” Donghyuck breathes out, his exhale coming across as static. “The fuck.”

You don’t have to explain; your babbling’s doing most of the work in that regard anyway, and you can tell by the wet, staccato noises on the other end that Donghyuck can easily piece together the scenario anyway. He’s jacking off to the both of you, something in your mind whispers, and the notion of that alone has you tightening around Mark’s cock. The change doesn’t go unnoticed, and his fingers sink deeper into your flesh; you cry out softly when you feel a jolt of pleasure as he gives your clit a sudden pinch.

“How much tighter can you get?” He sounds incredulous but also, interestingly, proud — there’s a smug tinge to his voice that arouses you even more. “Does it feel that good?”

“Fuck, yes,” you breathe out, the syllables quivering in your throat. “So good I’m going to lose my mind. Let me — God, please, let me—”

“Not yet,” Mark mumbles, and you whimper as he slows and slips out of you, his hand gently rubbing your folds in what feels like comfort — a small apology for his overt enthusiasm that you don’t even really need. “Just a little more. I need to see it.”

“See what?” Donghyuck’s voice is barely above a whisper, hoarse and pretty much muffled by the sound of his hand pumping his own shaft. Your head’s light, so your body moves on its own when Mark inches away slightly, giving you room to turn yourself around and lay on your back. You’ve barely even settled when he lifts your hips, dragging you closer to him and easing your thighs apart to slot himself between your legs.

His cock weighs heavy, pressed up against your folds, and he pushes his hips in a superficial thrust to get them to spread. His eyes fall briefly on your swollen clit, the wetness that you left on his shaft, even more of it still leaking from your hole. When he looks back up at you, there’s something triumphant in his gaze.

“Fucking gorgeous,” he coos, so lovingly it’d be hard to imagine his cock still sliding against your folds if you couldn’t feel it yourself. “I’ll never get enough of your perfect pussy — so perfect that it was made to take me.”

“See what?” Donghyuck presses, an impatience now coloring his voice. Mark chuckles, nodding at you and mouthing silently. Tell him.

Your inhale’s shaky, quivering like the rest of your body, and you don’t ever break away from Mark’s gaze, even as you speak.

“His cock fucking me in my stomach.”

Donghyuck’s ‘Jesus fucking Christ’ is drowned out by your cry of need as Mark pushes back into you. There’s no lag time now, no wait for any kind of adjustment; he takes you in one motion, until you feel his hips hit the backs of your thighs again. Your walls flutter around him, unable to process his size fully, and all that comes out of you is a string of messy mewls that’s constantly interrupted by the wet sounds of his thrusts.

Your body feels almost weightless, the only thing you can understand being the feeling of his cock pumping into you, stretching you out further. You’re only able to shake yourself out of the reverie when you feel his hands push back against your thighs, folding you in half, before they crowd atop your stomach.

“God, I need to feel it,” he groans out, his palms skimming under your navel, searching. “Please — do it for me.”

Even with your brain muddled, you don’t even have to try to figure it out; you let him feel it every time he asks. You inhale, deep and slow, until your stomach sinks, and the walls of your stomach flatten against his cock, which pauses briefly in its movements as he revels in the newfound feeling.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, and you flush in pleasure, in satisfaction at his praise. “Love seeing my cock inside you.”

He adjusts himself before he starts pumping into you again, burying his shaft all the way to the hilt each time; each thrust is followed by a soft sob from you, and you reach out, planting your hands on top of his. You obviously can’t feel his cock under your palms, but you don’t have to anyway; the fit’s tight enough that it feels, ridiculously, like he’s fucking your whole body, like he’s pressing into the deepest part of your core. You just want him to feel it more — the movement of the bulge under his hands, the resistance it has to push through to get to your stomach.

“Love feeling me inside you,” he continues, and his breathing stutters then, signaling that he’s also barely hanging on. “Love seeing how pretty you look when I rearrange your insides.”

You mouth out a disbelieving ‘what the fuck’ that earns you a simple smile, but Mark’s unrelenting in his movements anyway, his palms completely covering your stomach.

“Dude, I wanna see it too,” Donghyuck reminds you both of his presence when his voice comes through the speaker. “Put her on video.”

“No way,” comes Mark’s swift, firm reply. Donghyuck makes a noise of protest. “This is just for me.”

“Selfish as hell, calling me without really sharing.”

“The point wasn’t really ever to share.”

Mark’s hands suddenly press down on your stomach, and you stifle a soft scream; the pressure increases tenfold, as does the tightness of the fit, his cock brushing against your walls in a way that makes you feel breathless — it makes you feel used. Your hands fly up, fingers locking behind his neck, and you squirm under him, knowing fully well that you can’t escape anyway — not that you really want to, anyway.

“Mark,” you warn him again, your voice thin and airy. “I can’t anymore — I really—”

“I got you,” he murmurs — something you’ve come to learn he always says, always wants to let you know. He’ll be here until you break, until you can’t take anymore. “One second, okay?”

“Bro, what? Are you serious—” Even Donghyuck sounds confused, although his voice is tight too; he must be close, your mind weakly registers, but it doesn’t matter. Mark, albeit reluctantly, slips one hand away from your stomach — for a good cause, he must think, and you learn what it is when he ends the call, effectively cutting off Donghyuck’s complaints. Your eyes widen in confusion, but all Mark’s gaze is to you is reassuring, gentle, and he leans down to press a soft kiss to your lips before he answers your unspoken question.

“Can’t let him hear you cum,” he murmurs against your mouth. “That’s only for me, isn’t it?”

You nod, letting the movement of it brush your lips against his. “You’re the only one I’ll cum for — the only one that can make me.”

Above your head, his phone is trilling noisily; the vibrations course through your back, weak but persistent, and for some reason, it heightens your arousal all the more. Mark ignores it completely, single-mindedly focused on pistoning into you with the bulk of his strength. His hands push down just under your navel, increasing your awareness of the feeling of his cock, him fucking you, coaxing out your climax.

“Do it. Show me how pretty you look when you cum for me.”

You don’t think it’s possible for him to inject any more strength into his movements, but he proves you wrong time and time again; the wind’s knocked out of you as he braces himself and fucks you harder, sharper into the bed, and the only noises you can make are weak whimpers and choked sobs. Your mind’s so overrun with pleasure that your climax hits your body first before your mind fully parses it; your back arches again, and you mewl out something broken, something that sounds like his name as you come undone.

Mark still doesn’t relent, the tremble in your legs somehow only inspiring him to put more power in his thrusts. Even through the dazedness that comes with all the stimulation, you can see the fine details you’ve come to know so well — the tightness in his jaw, the growing flush across his collar, the quick heaving of his chest. He’s close too, so close he’s just holding himself back out of sheer force of will to make sure he can watch you come down from your climax completely. You don’t know why he has to, but you want to see him let go too, and you scramble for words, for more touch — pressing your thighs firm against his sides to keep him close, locked — just to get him there.

“Will you mark me up one last time?” You breathe out. He reacts almost instantaneously, moving to lean down and press his mouth against the still-untouched side of your neck, but your palm on his chest stops him from doing so. Surprise crosses his face, followed by slight confusion. You squeeze your thighs against him, trying to make your point, but even then, his brow furrows. “Mark me — inside.”

His eyes widen, and his hips stutter before they resume pace, his fingers digging into your stomach almost painfully as he tries to keep himself in control. “I— no, you know I can’t…”

“Do you want to?” You egg him on, your hand dropping from his chest to land on top of his again, adding to the pressure until you’re sure he can feel every small movement, every throb of his own cock inside you. “You can, you know — make me yours, from the inside out.”

“God — we can’t; you know we’d be in so much trouble.”

“But I’d let you anyway, if you wanted to. Do you ever think about it, Mark?” Your fingers toy with his, almost like you’re having a casual conversation instead of a situation in which he’s deep inside you, already aching for release. “Fucking your cum deep into me, letting it seep into my stomach — making sure no one else can fill me up?”

“Jesus,” he growls, and he reluctantly slips his hands out from under yours to grip your thighs. Realistically, he has enough strength to peel them away, have you release him, but his hold just tightens, not really making any motion to do so. You see the thought flash in his eyes, serious even just for a moment. He thinks about it all the time.

“Think about it,” you urge, your voice soft but close to a demand. “And every time you do, remember one day, you will — because you’re the only one that can.”

He tilts his head back, letting a growl rip from his throat, and he finally manages to push your thighs apart. You let him, let them fall apart so he can slip out of you. You watch him shift upwards, his knees on either side of your torso, and you’re met with the erotic sight of him fisting his cock in front of you, urging himself into completion. You do the only thing you can think of to help; you open your mouth wide, pushing your tongue out, silently asking for his load.

“Even when you do that, you’re fucking pretty,” he groans out, and his thumb presses his cock down, resting the underside flush against your tongue as he rocks his hips. “How much prettier are you going to look with my cum all over your face?”

He doesn’t have to wait long to find out, and you don’t have to respond; he gets the answer he wants with one last thrust against your tongue, and you close your eyes briefly, allowing yourself to drink in the taste, the smell of his cum as it streaks across your cheeks, all over your lips. You hear his release as it comes too — the soft rumble from his chest, the release of air that gently whistles through his teeth.

When you open your eyes again, Mark is looking down at you, a warm flush creeping up his cheeks and ears again; he’s breathless, panting as he comes down from his high. From the daze of his climax, a slightly sheepish look of apology crosses his face, and he reaches down, seemingly without any real plan, to clean you up, only to withdraw, slightly bemused, when you shake your head.

A laugh escapes him when you shimmy out from under him, straighten up, and extend your arms upward, puckering your lips in slight demand. You think he might reject you, but Mark doesn’t even hesitate longer than a second. He swoops down, capturing your lips in a fierce kiss, and your thighs press together tight as you enjoy the feeling of his tongue swiping away his cum from your bottom lip before he takes it between his teeth, sucking softly as if to clean you completely.

When he pulls away, his head dips into your shoulder; again, his face turns to press against the mark he’d left, and his teeth nip at the soft bruise that’s already begun to blossom. Satisfied by the soft noise you make at the sensitivity you feel from the contact, he breathes out, long and steady, against your skin.

“Just… can’t get enough of you,” he finally exhales, pressing another kiss to your neck; it’s gentler, situated just under your jaw.

“You don’t ever have to think about having enough,” you whisper, leaving a light nuzzle against his shoulder. “Just always think about having more.”

He lets out a breathy laugh, but he nods, accepting your offer anyway. A moment of silence passes, where you’re wrapped up in each other, his weight against you in a blanket of heat, and it stretches to what almost feels like an eternity — if not for the phone suddenly ringing again, Donghyuck’s name coming up on the ID. You both start, and Mark reaches over, fumbling with the sides of his device before he finds and toggles the silent switch.

“Seriously,” he grumbles, watching the call drop just for it to start up again, the screen flashing.

“We kind of left him hanging, to be fair.”

“No fairness.” Mark tosses the phone to the foot of the bed, where it lies, facedown and buzzing. “He got more than he deserved today.”

You watch him as he slips off the bed, rearranging himself before clipping his jeans button back into place. He whispers a gentle ‘be right back’ and exits the room, leaving the door only slightly ajar. You hear the water run in the bathroom, and a few moments later, Mark returns to your side, holding a damp towel.

He leaves a kiss after each light swipe across your face, as if to apologize for the pain he thinks he might be causing; you laugh, partly because it’s ridiculous, but mostly because you like it. He cleans your mouth last, even though there’s already nothing left, just so he has an excuse to leave a long, lasting kiss there.

You think it’s the last you’ll get for now, but he surprises you by bending down even further, hiking your shirt up your torso again. His hand rests on your thigh, keeping himself balanced as he presses a flutter of kisses around your navel, lingering at the exact spot that sits above where he knows his cock hits every time he bottoms out in you.

“One day,” he whispers into your skin before he looks up at you, his eyes shining. “I’ll really make you all mine.”

“Dummy.” Your voice is just as low, and you pull his head up again, enjoying the brush of his hair against your hand, the swoop of his jaw under your palm. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

“Every single day, considering I’ll never get tired of it.”

You hum, not one to deny him of what he asks anyway; you push him back onto his calves, climbing back onto his lap; it’s your favorite way to be near him, you decide, with almost nothing between you, almost everything of yours touching everything of his — like you fit in him perfectly. You rest your cheek against his shoulder, feeling their soft rise and fall as his breathing steadies, and you squirm a bit, if only to make sure his arms are locked securely around you — to make sure he won’t let go. Just like that, in his arms, you say it again — a truth, a fact, and a promise.

“I already am.”

hot things they do

mark pulls you in by the belt loop of your jeans. whether he wants to kiss you or simply have you closer to him, he'll hook his finger through the loop and pull; his hands immediately resting on your hips and a teasing smile on his face.

renjun tucks strands of hair behind your ear. sometimes when you're talking he's so focused on watching your facial expressions; he thinks the different faces you make while telling a story are endearing. he immediately notices the strand of hair that has fallen out of place, he knows it bothers you by the way you scrunch your nose. takes it upon himself to lean in and gently tuck it behind your ear with a soft smile.

jeno lifts his shirt up to wipe the sweat from his forehead; giving you a flash of his toned abs hidden underneath. it's something you've seen countless times before, but you can't help staring every time. it's amusing for jeno, who happens to catch you every time.

haechan looks you in the eye and glances back down to your lips before kissing you. absolutely loves to kiss you, so it happens quite often, but it never fails to make your heart beat a little faster; hurriedly moving to close the gap between your lips. 

jaemin loves to maintain eye contact. he’ll look into your eyes until you’re the one looking away. he knows you’ll try to beat him at his own game, it always happens; and you always fail. can only huff a laugh in return, you’re just too cute. 

chenle hugs you from behind. he’ll walk up behind you in the mornings; pouty lips and eyes still clouded with sleep. leaning on you, he wraps his arms around your waist and rests his head on your shoulder.

jisung kisses the back of your hand. something about kissing the back of your hand feels very intimate to him and is well aware of the effect it has on you. will press a lingering kiss very unexpectedly and will bask in your flustered state; pressing yet another kiss on the apples of your cheeks. 

launch | mark lee

word count: 25,916 (yikes)

genre: astronaut!au, 1960′s au, angst, fluff, some suggestive content but nothing too crazy, adventure, husband!au, father!au

warnings: death, near death experiences, a lot of crying, emotional baggage

author’s note: hi again!! so im back with a new fic!!i wanna start off by saying that this fic is not meant to belittle anyone’s accomplishments, even though it is based on real events this work is pure fiction, and should be taken as such. I hope you guys like this fic and i know its very long so if you get to the end just know that i love haha thank you!! also, its very possible that tublr will crash if this is opened n mobile so im sorry about that

synopsis: ever since he was a young boy, mark’s dream was to be the first man on the moon. along his journey to accomplish his dream, he finds there are many hardships would have to face in order to succesfully complete his mission and come back home to the love of his life.

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yandere! you ignoring them- nct dream

hyung line 

maknae line

mark

one thing you should know about mark

he does not like to be ignored

he kept calling your phone

but to no avail, you weren’t picking up

livid, he ran to the cafe you worked at, causing a scene

“has anyone seen y/n l/n?” he shouts aggressively

the customers look around, confusion written all over their faces

he runs to the counter, peaking through the ‘employees only’ room as workers come in and out of the door

then he finally spots your figure as you make your way past the door

“y/n!!!! come here right this second”

it was annoying. he always belittled you. always made you feel like a small child compared to him.

it pissed you off that he came to your job, let alone, made a scene!

you went over to him only because you didn’t want him to cause an even bigger commotion

he pulls you close so that his mouth is aligned with your ear, “ not only did you ignore my calls, babygirl. but you disobeyed me by not coming to me the first time i called your name.”

“when we get home, get ready for your punishment.”

renjun

you were supposed to be watching a web drama with renjun when your best friend called you

he gave you the “don’t answer it” look

but you answered anyway, saying it wouldn't take long

10 minutes went by and you were still on the phone

getting sick of this, he asked you when your phone call would end, “come on, let’s watch the drama…”

you only glanced at him before turning back to your phone

okay, now you’ve done it. renjun is fuming.

he snatched the phone out of your hand and threw it from the balcony window

you went to the balcony rail to see where your phone landed

the phone landed right in the middle of the street

not even ten seconds later a truck ran over the phone, smashing it into pieces

you looked at the crime scene in horror

“looks like you need a new phone. oh well. that’s what happens when you don’t listen to me.”

you slowly turned around, anger boiling inside of you

jeno

you were walking down the street on your way home when jeno called you

you didn’t answer because you were about to cross the street that led to your apartment building

then suddenly it started to rain

you walked quickly across the street, trying not to get your hair wet

you ran to the front entrance of the building, hurriedly getting inside the warm building

finally making it to your door, you entered your apartment

your boyfriend walking back and forth not noticing your presence

until you shut the door behind you, causing him to lookup

he embraced you in a deep hug, “i thought something bad happen to you. you don’t know how worried i was,” he sighs in relief.

he wasn’t mad that you ignored him. he could never be mad at you. he was more worried than anything. scared that something bad had happened to you.

in a way, he can be very possessive of you.

he hates it when he’s not by your side because he can’t easily protect you if he’s not with you.

“from now on, i’m picking you up from work.”

haechan

haechan had bought tickets to a musical

you were supposed to meet up with haechan at the theater by 6:45 pm but you were running late

he kept calling you to notify you that the show would be starting in 15 minutes. you denied each call.

haechan was angry because he spent so much money on these tickets

if you don’t show, then he did all of this for nothing

when you finally do show up, it’s 7:15, the show had already begun, and haechan grew angry

“sorry i’m late”, you say. “oh, it’s no problem. i only waited, say, 30 minutes outside.” he stated sarcastically. okay, he was mad.

sitting in your assigned seats, you tried whispering to him that you were sorry, but he didn’t budge.

majority of the car ride home, haechan talking about the show while you stared out the window finding the dull night sky more interesting than this uncomfortable small talk.

“y/n! did you hear me?” I continued staring out the window, not wanting to talk to him right now.

“so you’re ignoring me, is that it? just wait until we get home.”

yandere! you ignoring them- nct dream

maknae line

hyung line

jaemin

you both planned to spend time together tonight since he came back home from touring the day before

you told him you would be home by 7 pm, and that you could order in takeout and binge-watch a new psychological thriller show that was just released

he was thrilled to be able to relax with you and cuddle… and then 7 pm hit, and you were nowhere to be found

he texted you, “where are you?” but you didn’t reply. instead, you left him on read.

okay, maybe she’s busy at work, he thought

he dialed your number, letting it ring for a while, only for it to go straight to voicemail. oh, he is not having it. how dare you ignore him?

two hours later, you made it home, opening your apartment door. it’s pitch black, no sign of your boyfriend anywhere, you think

you lock your door and turn on the light switch when you hear a foot-tapping noise

“you know... i would have appreciated it if you would’ve at least called to tell me that you’d be late. damn, you could’ve even canceled. instead, you ignored my calls and texts. so now you’re in trouble.”

chenle

it was finally the weekend

chenle and you chose to stay in for the day 

and just binge-watch movies in your bedroom

you didn’t expect him to talk the entire time

“why did the she do that?” “what do think will happen at the end?”

and “oh my gosh, do you think that he’s the killer?”

you tried to stay calm not wanting to upset your boyfriend

but he was urging your nerves with the million questions he had

so you ignored his many questions

“y/n, i know you can hear me.” he grunted.

you were quiet as he pushed your hands down with a strong grip

“oh darling, you really shouldn’t test my limits. you don’t want another punishment, do you?”

he smirked, looking down at you struggling to get up.

jisung

today you and jisung had planned to clean the apartment like you did every sunday

you were throwing the pile of dirty clothes that were left on the floor into the washing machine while listening to music

and jisung was cleaning the kitchen and living room

he had called after you for help with something

you didn’t respond

though you couldn’t hear what he was saying, you did know that he was talking

to whom, you didn’t know

you just assumed that he was on the phone

you went into the kitchen to find your boyfriend watching tv on the couch instead of cleaning

“hey, how come you’re not cleaning?” you curiously asked as you sat beside him.

when he didn’t give you a reply you softly nudged him, attempting to gain his attention

so when you he kept ignoring you, you started to grow annoyed. you stood up from your seat and were about to walk away, thinking that maybe he needs some alone time.

you froze when he spoke up, “how does it feel to be ignored? you don’t like it do you”

“Now I’d like to have some cookies please” - Mark Scenario

Summary: A scenario in which Mark wants to have a cookie after Y/N rushed out of the room?

Genre: fluff. itty bitty little bit smut.

forth post

*READER’S DESCRIPTION ADVICED*

THIS TEXT MAY BE VERY CRAPPY!

ENJOY READING! ^^

Two years of many up’s and down’s, stupid and unnecessary fights like that one time where the two of you got thrown out of McDonald’s because you couldn’t agree on which fries to order. Mark had wanted to eat the curly fries reasoning that they were spicier and therefore  better than the plain, straight one’s. You however stubbornly claimed that they were too spicy, making it impossible for you to eat them, because your body couldn’t take spicy food. Looking back to that day, you can’t help but laugh. It was ridiculous.                    The whole fight could’ve been avoided, if the two of you weren’t so stubborn and a bit more willing to compromise with each other rather than against each other. Maybe then you wouldn’t be banned from entering that particular local.

It wasn’t always easy going between the two of you. Others may say that the both of you completed each other like a puzzle, but saying that would honestly be a lie.

Mark had his own mind and so did you. Nevertheless you were loving each other and honestly wouldn’t know what to do without one another.

A while ago, he had occasionally asked you to move in with him. You were together at his dorm, eating something from Lotte’s when he’d asked you.

Moving in together would open up many new opportunities for you as a couple. You’d be able to see each other a bit more frequently and wouldn’t have to worry about bothering your roommates or rather then that being bothered by them. Living together would definitely make certain things easier.

However it turned out to be harder than it sounded. The agreement that you’ve signed when moving into your previous dorm wouldn’t end ‘til July of this year. You’d have to wait at least 3 months until you were ready to move out. Fortunately Mark’s contract had ended two months earlier than yours. The contracts slowed your goal of living together a bit down, but that wasn’t the biggest problem that you had to face. Finding a small flat in a big city like Seoul was like searching for a needle in a pit.                                                                You’d put your individual savings together, which were actually kept for other purposes, but those were quickly left aside the moment that you two had agreed on moving in together.It wasn’t that much, but you’d hoped that it’d be enough to find something small. It doesn’t have to be a close to the city or have unnecessary. It just had to fit your budget.

You’ve visited many flats that both of you had liked, but a small peak on the rent for those flats immediately killed your attraction towards them. There was a point where the two of you had almost given up on living together, the world seemed to be against the both of you. 41 flat sightings and none of them fit. It was frustrating.

Eventually you’ve finally found the flat, the one that you’ve been hoping to find for a long, long time. The building was located on the outskirts of the city. It was a bit antiquated, but that didn’t bother you, since the flat itself was quite clean and huge compared to the one’s that you’ve visited. It was just right. (AYYYYY)

(CONGRATULATIONS!!)

Right now, you and Mark were packing the last few bits of your belongings together.There actually wasn’t much left. You just needed to pick up a few books and clothes, before returning the key.

“Aish, I’m going to miss these four walls.” you sadly mumbled, while tugging a few book into a box . “Ah, really? Don’t you feel happy to finally moving in with me?” Mark pouted upon hearing your words. “Nah, you may seem quiet to others, but I know the real you and it’s terrifying.”  you chuckled as Mark fake-gasped in disappointment.

You eyed him up and down and shot him a cocky smile, before pulling him into a hug.“Stop pouting. I love you, alright?” Mark shook his head, trying to wiggle out of your embrace. “No? What do you want me to say?” Mark shook his head again. He refused to talk to you, acting as if he’d been seriously insulted by your words. “You don’t want me to say anything?” he stopped shaking his head for a moment and looked you in the eye, before slowly nodding his head.

“Okay, so what do you want me to do?“ you curiously asked, looking into his eyes. He smiled, breaking your embrace, before motioning with his finger to his lips.

This cheeky little kid.

“You want me to kiss you?”

Mark nodded in agreement, cheeks blushing at your remark. He nervously licked his lips as he saw you moving closer to him. He kept his eyes locked onto your lips, earning to feel their softness on his.  

You smirked the moment you put your lips onto his. He lovingly placed his thumb onto your chin, pulling you closer. You sighed in satisfaction, loving the way his lips felt on top of yours. He left soft breathes out, while nibbling at your lips. The kiss quickly grew intense. The both of you were absorbed into the kiss. It was just you and him, everything around you was blurred out from the reality. You felt your senses leaving your body and slowly floating into a better place, until you came to realize that there was still something that you’d needed to finish.

“M-Mark-what time is it?” you asked, unwillingly breaking the kiss.

“Uh- uhm I don’t know 2 pm or something?” he dizzily stutters.

You took your phone out and read the time on your lockscreen.  

“Holy cow! I was supposed to meet the landlord 15 minutes ago! Mark could you get my things into the car? I gotta go-“you quickly jumped up, adjusting your hair before storming out of the room.

“Yeah- now I’d like to have some cookies please…” he mumbled, while gathering the boxes together and carefully moving towards the door.

THE END(?)

A/N Omo this is so crappy xD I was literally sitting three days on this thing. Originally this was supposed to be a Markson-thing but I changed it and saved the Markson one for another time.

P.S I’m taking in requests and stuff :) Just hit me up, if you want me to write sth. for ya ~ byeee:))xx

wet dream -> mark lee (m)

contents: mark x gn! reader, no pronouns but reader has female anatomy, smut without plot, no relationship established, handjob, guided masturbation, oral (m receiving), pet names, cumshot, dirty talk (?) wc: 1k

masterlist

18+ minors do not interact !

⋆ ★

the sight of you, sprawled between his legs with your ankles crossed in the air and a single finger tracing the skin on his thigh is straight out of a wet dream. you’re a sight for sore eyes, a vision of ecstasy, with your pretty plump lips parted and your blown out pupils focused solely on his hand that pumps his cock.

“does that feel good?”

mark nods his head quickly, but your mouth folds into a disapproving frown.

“use your words, mark. tell me how nice your hand feels.”

there’s no way you’re real, he thinks.

hell, how is he supposed to think straight with your naked body on his, much less answer you coherently? do you even know how dry his mouth has run? or that your plush breasts are pressing into his thighs and driving him crazy?

he blinks his half-lidded eyes at you once and clears his throat before finding his voice, "it feels so good, baby."

the pout on your lips quickly shifts into a smirk and you bring both of your hands forward, placing them on his thighs and sliding up towards his abdomen, then back down.

"mm, tease your tip for me."

it's fucking ironic, the way your tone is sweeter than nectar, but your words are tainted with filth. his dick twitches as if it had heard you, dreading the way his owner would carry out your instructions with no objection. twenty minutes had passed since you subjected him to this, and he was so desperate to come that he could feel the ache in his bones.

mark spares his red, swollen head an apologetic glance before bringing his fingers up and rubbing it, a shaky breath escaping his parted lips. he watches your face carefully, desperate for your approval.

the best part, he decides with some mild-to-moderate difficulty, is that he can tell this feels good for you too—that you're enjoying this just as much as he is, if not more.

he's noticed it all: the way you've been squeezing your thighs together, how your breathing has become labored, and how even though you're not touching yourself, your body and face are covered with a thin layer of sweat.

he thinks you're the prettiest thing ever, and he can't wait to come on your face.

that thought, combined with his hand wrapping around himself and squeezing brings him so close to edge that he gasps, but your hand flies out to stop him.

"i didn't say you could finish yet,"

"what?!" he pants, eyes widening, "baby, please. i'm so close."

it's tempting to give in to him, but you shake your head nonetheless, "just a little longer. i like making you feel good."

slowly, you move your hand and his, guiding it up and down his length for a few seconds, before slipping them both completely off. he involuntarily bucks his hips up to chase the feeling, letting a hiss slip through his tightened teeth as he mourns loss of contact.

"baby-"

"i know, i know," you coo, and he watches tentatively as you shift to hover above him.

your gaze remains locked on his expression long enough to watch the way his brow dips down into a crease, before shifting towards his cock to direct your aim. your jaw tightens, working to gather some spit to the front of your mouth and as soon mark realizes what you're doing, he holds his breath.

then, you let it fall from your lips, landing your spit over the very center of his slit where your finger swipes once to spread it, and both of you watch in awe as it spills down the side of him, trickling along his shaft.

when your hand finally wraps around him again, he fully moans, loudly, shamelessly, eyes rolling back in pure bliss.

you're gonna be the fucking death of him, and he would die the happiest man on earth.

"oh, my-" he whines, "faster, please,"

when you oblige, his hands start shaking. perhaps he didn't think you'd actually do it, since you'd been teasing him for the better part of an hour. but alas, he was wrong, and thank god for that.

within seconds, he's grasping at the bedsheets and even at his own hair in search of anything that can tether him before he floats away. there are no thoughts in his head anymore; you've got him squirming helplessly, pathetically.

his voice strained and speech slurred, almost unintelligible as he asks for more. the moment your lips wrap around him to appease his request, it's almost too much. he can't tear his eyes away from you, completely mesmerized by the way you're taking him into your mouth and swallowing around him.

the tears that slip from your eyes and your tongue that swirls around him make him so dizzy that he's seeing stars. he can feel how close he's getting, he's almost there. how were you doing this?

mark squeezes his eyes shut for a few seconds to help his blurring vision so he can manage one last, clear look at you in hopes that it will push him over the edge. and oh, it does exactly that.

when you lift mouth off of him with a pop and stick out your tongue to catch his cum, he falls apart. there's no warning, only the air hitching in his throat; thick stripes of white paint your face as he finishes, chanting your name like it's a prayer, and it may as well be.

he doesn't know how long his orgasm lasts, just that by the end of it, his legs are trembling and his fingertips have gone numb.

he's barely recovering when your thumb wipes at some of the fluid on your cheek, drawing it towards your mouth for a taste.

"you look beautiful," you giggle, feeling like you've never been more honest about anything in your life. if looks could kill, you'd be watching him from beyond the grave. his hair's a mess, chest flushed red and heaving, cheeks tinted a similar shade to match. his cum tastes sweet on your finger, and he's looking at you like he just won the lottery. yeah, he's certainly the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.

and you? you're definitely better than any wet dream he could ever have.

⋆ ★

So cuuuuteeeee please i wanna be all domestic with mark 🥺 please let me get all domestic with Mark Lee 😫

As Mark lies next to you, you can't help but smile adoringly. He's exhausted, yet he's battling the slumber that's attempting to take hold of him, just so he can affectionately gaze into your eyes. Every few minutes, his eyelids close and his head begins to sink into your couch, but he quickly catches himself, startling awake.

His hands are at a respectful place, your left hip, and yours have been caressing his cheek, scalp, and neck since the minute he laid down. This moment, although it won’t last long considering he has to leave in the morning, is so fulfilling.

“Go to sleep.” Your try your best to make your smile warm and inviting. You continue rubbing gentle circles onto him, but on his earlobe now, hoping it will be even more confirmation for him that you’re not upset at his exhaustion. His hand lifts from your hips for a mere second in protest, and you smile deviously as you know his resentment is coming from a place of deep comfort. The longer you rub, the more tired he gets, and he doesn’t want to be tired.

“I’m good. Let me just enjoy this, please. I haven’t seen you in way too long.” He wines, scooting closer to you. Your nose is on his now, and you can’t help but giggle as he begins to wiggle his eyebrows at you, as if that’s going to make you stop your antics.

“Utterly in love” is the term to describe the warm and fuzzy feeling you get whenever he’s around. He’s as perfect as a human being can be, and you’re not sure if he’s in love with you too yet, but you really hope he is. He has to feel something deeper than like with you at this point, considering instead of going back to his dorm and collapsing due to his intense schedules, he called you, begging to lay up with you because “I just wanna feel you in my arms tonight.”

You force him down on the sofa and climb on top of him, pressing his soft cheeks into your palms. In a delicate and encouraging kiss, your lips meet his, and he melts into yours. His breathing is slow and easy as his strong arms wrap around your waist, drawing you in as close as he can.

“Rest.” You giggle once you pull away. Your fingertips try to close his eyelids, and for a brief second, you believe you've won, but his doe eyes open at you again. He swallows hard, as if he had a secret to reveal but doesn't want to be judged for it.

“Say it.” You whisper encouragingly, although you have no idea what he could have on his mind. You know it will be sweet and romantic—definitely along the lines of him telling you how much appreciates you for always being so understanding, but he always says things like that to you. So what can it be?

“I think—I really think I’m in love with you, Y/N.”

Your heart stops for a split second before restarting. You're sweating profusely and itching all over, but you can't scratch because you don't want Mark to see how he's eroding your frigid aura day by day.

"I know I'm head over heels in love with you." You exclaim, exhaling a breath you weren't even aware you were holding.

“Really?”

“Really.”

Nothing else needs to be said after this. Mark smiles at you in a way that you’d never seen him look at anything before, not even himself in a mirror. His hands are on your cheeks now, pulling you in for a kiss that shows you that there is no question about it—he’s in love with you too.

gorgeous | lmh ( m )

there is a part 2!

you don’t know what in the football uniform mark is wearing is so attractive. maybe it’s how broad is shoulders always look in that jersey. maybe it’s how nicely accentuated his ass is when he’s running. or, maybe, just maybe, it’s how painfully conspicuous the outline of his cock is through those pants.  

or, you know. all of the above.  

pairing: mark x reader rating: R genre: college / football au, romance, humor, smut warnings: kind of feels like pwp with just a bit of background pining I guess, semi-public (?) sex, oral sex, just good ol’ fashioned smut perhaps with minimal dirty talk. nothing depraved (yet). please be sure that you are 18+ to read! word count: 12.4k

author’s notes: i literally have nothing to say like . i just wanted to post something that would gain me access into the 18+ section of the nctzen library i guess :^) this is once again an edited fic, but it is pretty unbeta’d, so i’d love for anyone to point out any mistakes they see! since this has explicit content, please do not read this unless you are of age! honesty is the best policy, everyone. :^) enjoy !

                                                       *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

You know you’re done for the moment the sky opens up and starts raining.  

You can’t even get off the field and run from the rain because it’s all a part of the whole cheerleading gig; if the playing team’s on the field, then you have to be, too.  

Sometimes, you think that there are more drawbacks to being in this position. For one, it’s completely risk-heavy; you can’t remember a game where someone didn’t at least obtain a sprain or slip on the mud in front of five hundred people while trying to still look like everything’s fine. Pile on other issues, like having to cut back hours of free time in a week to practice, having to constantly fit and refit uniforms that you also have to shell out your own money for (because what else is the university’s budget for if not to pay for a yet another science lab?), and dealing with slightly catty teammates because on no particular day of the month is the entire team period-free, and you almost have a deal ready to be broken.  

Just almost, though.  

Possibly the only perk that beats all those downsides is the fact that you have free access to the football team and all their practices and games. Most days, you think it’s actually worth it to risk breaking your neck coming down from a human pyramid (or, worse, being the base of one, which requires the kind of upper body strength you don’t think you have a lot of in you) if you get to at least see eleven cute guys jogging around the perimeter of the field they share with your team for practice.  

Oh, and, yeah, even if you had to pay for the cheerleading uniforms, they were kind of cute, in all honesty.  

You look up as the first droplets fall on your head, and you can see the collective grimace that sweeps over the cheerleading team; one girl even stamps her feet and yells something about her not wearing waterproof mascara just as the rain mixes with the crowd’s cheers when it starts to intensify. It quickly forms a thick curtain, and you lift a hand up to your forehead to shield your eyes as you scan the field in front of you. Everything is just a blur of white and blue sometimes interrupted by the droplets that hang off your eyelashes, but you keep looking anyway. It shouldn’t be that hard to spot him because he’s fairly tall in his own right, you think, except it’s hard because so is everyone else — perhaps even more so — and he’s probably being eclipsed by all these jacked up guys from the visiting team.  

You get called out of your search temporarily when the cheerleading captain plucks on your sleeve and tells you you’re all going to do one more routine; in that time, all you can do is think about not slipping on the mud that’s slowly deepening under your feet. Even your fucking pom-poms are a saggy mess.  

The only time you manage to see him is when the referee’s whistle blows for a time out, and the teams troop back, somewhat sluggishly, to their benches. He always walks at the back of the line, like he’s careful to not get crushed between his teammates, even though they always tell him to walk with them. He glances up at the scoreboard; there’s two minutes of play left, and your home team is ahead by a mile, so he could sit pretty for the rest of the game and they’d probably still win.  

In all honesty, no one had ever thought Mark would make the football team. Not even Donghyuck, his freshman roommate, who, in his own weird way, idolizes Mark (at times, to a fault). Not even you, his best friend, who had criticized him for never being active in any kind of extracurricular activity ever since you had met in your first year of high school. And especially not Mark himself, who had, in an attempt to get you off his back about being a hermit, tried out for college football just so that he could prove that he would never make it and would never fit in a team, anyway.

Except for some strange reason, he had. Inexplicably, he had even placed on the actual starting team instead of the reserve, like you and Donghyuck had initially guessed when he’d come home, slightly starstruck, with a jersey in his hand. You thought it was a joke — even though Mark rarely makes any of those in the first place — until he announced that he’d placed as a free safety and would be starting practice that coming Thursday.  

You’d thought it was a joke even when Thursday came along, convinced he was just trying to one up you and get you to admit maybe it’s not a big deal if he’s essentially disconnected from the rest of society, until you actually saw him come out of the locker rooms and start doing laps with the rest of the team. At that point, something just… snapped.  

Sure, Mark has always been attractive to you, in that kind of boy next door with the nice skin and the naturally casual laid-backness so many people try so hard to achieve, and a part of you has always been pretty aware of how appealing he was. You’d been pretty good at repressing it, though; only Donghyuck had slowly cottoned on over time, mostly because he refused to make friends with classmates he would only spend one semester with, which led him to tagging along on yours and Mark’s trips to the library (which he hates) as well as your trips to unlimited refill barbecue restaurants (which he loves).  

(Sometimes he hangs out with some other freshman kid named Renjun, whom neither you nor Mark have ever seen, but Mark swears he exists because he sometimes finds that his bed seems to have been slept in on days that Donghyuck is much more vocal about how cool he thinks Mark is.)  

“Why don’t you just tell Mark hyung that you like him?” Donghyuck had once asked when you’d both been sitting on the frontmost bleacher, waiting for Mark to finish a particularly long and seemingly grueling weekend practice. “You know it’s not like he’s going to think any less of you. Also, it would be better if you just ended up honest with him before he catches your dried up drool on your chin.”  

You’d flicked him on the forehead, partly because he was sticking his nose into where it didn’t belong, but mostly because he was suggesting the one thing that would overturn the delicate internal balance you’d been carefully building up since the first day you’d met Mark.  

Not that you’d never thought of it. You’d just been really, really good at talking yourself out of it, making excuses about how it’d probably just been your hormones telling you that you could stand to entertain a boyfriend or even a friend with benefits every once in a while. It had never really been about Mark, specifically.  

Until now.  

These days, you’re not so great at keeping yourself calm and collected at the thought of him. It’s the curse of being able to see him run across a field almost daily, his asscheeks tightening visibly when he lunges and the veins on his forearms bulging when he uses all his upper body strength to toss the ball. You’re thankful that cheerleading practice almost always winds up earlier than football practice because you can use the little gap between when you have to leave the field and when you have to see him again to do your homework together to take a cold shower or, when it’s really bad and your roommate isn’t around, to masturbate to the thought of him bending you over and pounding so deeply into you that you’re practically speaking in tongues.  

And it’s never any one else’s face that you imagine looking up at during a blowjob. It’s always his.  

You squint across the space between you and him, and even through the rain, your vision tunnels towards him. His shirt is soaked completely now, and it clings to his skin; you can see the deep curve of his spine and the definition of his right bicep even from here — proof that this football thing is really starting to shape his body in a way that is both frustrating and totally attractive to you. Behind the steady noise of the rain, you can’t help but give a slight whimper.  

You’re not sure if it’s because you catch his eye or just because he feels like someone’s watching him, but he suddenly looks up at you, mirroring your expression and squinting through the rain. When he realizes he’s looking at you, the corners of his lips turn up into a small but genuine smile, and your heart skids dangerously, breaking its already fast rhythm. You respond with a bigger, goofier grin before you can stop yourself, and you see the whites of his teeth peek out as he laughs at your expression.  

Damn you, Mark Lee. You gnash your teeth together as you turn away, but you’re really only chastising yourself. You hate that this is confusing. You hate that this situation is actually simple, but you’re too hesitant to do anything about it, so it becomes confusing. You hate that ever since Donghyuck had brought it up, you’ve been secretly planning out the ways you could just seduce him, and you also hate the slightly sick feeling that comes after those fantasies when you remind yourself that you’re being a hopeless pervert. You hate that the rain his making his pants just the slightest bit translucent, so you can see the outline of his cock just pushing against the fabric, and you almost want to scream because you really, really hate how much you wish he were fucking you with it at that exact moment.

Mostly, you hate that your body seems to be going through its whole mid-adolescent years sexual arousal phase all over again.  

The referee’s whistle sounds through the air, and the team troops back onto the field and gets into position. Someone from the squad calls your name, and you walk stiffly over to join the routine again, trying to make excuses about how you’re wet from the rain and not from thinking too much about your best friend.  

                                          *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

You’re drenched by the time the game comes to a close, the home team scoring an impressive 6-1, but you’re not the slightest bit concerned about the cheering and hugging that’s occurring all around you. You had just seen Mark bend over to pick up a bottle of water and scoped two whole eyefuls of his substantial ass stretching the fabric of his pants, so, yeah, you kind of have to do something about it.  

It isn’t as easy as it seems in your head, though. For one, he’s being blocked by people much, much larger than you, and they’re traveling in groups — the referee and the vice principal, three of his teammates carrying the team’s water cooler over to throw onto the coach (boys, seriously), and the two teams’ mascots walking side by side, their costumes absorbing all the rainfall. There’s also the problem of people holding you back, like Park Sooyoung, one of the juniors on the squad, hooking her finger into the back of your shirt and dragging you backwards to shout very loudly into your ear that most of the girls were going to go to a McDonald’s with some of the players right now. You try to shake her off with weak excuses, but her grip is unnaturally strong.  

“There still might be room in Jeno’s car, if you want to join,” she yells over the rain that’s practically torrential at this stage.

“No thanks,” you shout back, although you have the decency to at least keep your mouth a few inches away from her ear canal. “Stuff to do. Gotta shower, and all. And… Homework,” you add lamely when she gives you a disbelieving look.

“You can do it when we get back! Jeno’s car has a heater anyway. Aren’t you hungry?”  

Hungry? No. Thirsty? Yes. But not in the physiologically necessary sense.  

You manage to get her to cotton on that you have no intention of tagging along after a couple more refusals, making sure she zips off across the field with the rest of the squad before turning your attention back to Mark.  

Who is no longer where he had been five minutes ago.  

The weighty feeling of regret at a missed opportunity settles in your stomach as you spot him across the field now, nothing but a tiny white and blue dot disappearing into the boys’ locker room. The feeling is only alleviated slightly by you telling yourself that you didn’t even really have a plan anyway, so it was better that he’d disappeared before you got the chance to embarrass yourself.  

The rain stops overhead suddenly; you look up to see a familiar baby blue umbrella covering you, and you let out a small sigh of relief.  

“I thought you went back to the dorms already.”

“I almost did, but I saw you standing like a dumbass out here,” Donghyuck laughs. “You could just ask someone to sneeze on you if you really want to catch a cold.”  

“What I really want is a hot shower and a snack,” you respond.  

“I saw your teammates leave with Lee Jeno like three minutes ago. Why didn’t you go with them? I thought people liked you on that team,” he teases. You whack him in the face with a ruined, soggy pom-pom, but you don’t dignify his question with an answer. He spits out a piece of the paper that had stuck to his tongue on impact.  "Oh, I see. Distracted by external elements? More specifically, external elements on Mark hyung’s body?“  

"There isn’t a day that passes that I don’t wish you had a mute button.”  

“My mom couldn’t afford the down payment for it,” he shrugs. “You know, I could always mention it to him if you’re too chicken —”  

“I will never forgive you if you do that,” you cut him off. “Never. I will strangle you before I strangle myself if you tell him.”

“So you tell him,” Donghyuck snaps. “All you ever do is moon over him now. Just get laid so that we can go back to eating breakfast for dinner every Thursday instead of you never showing up or backing out at the last minute because you’re too worried seeing him eat pancakes will trigger hyperrealistic fantasies of him eating you out.”  

“I don’t think that way!” You yell, but you’re glad that he’s not really looking at you, so he doesn’t see the flush that spreads like wildfire across your face.  

“Fine; I won’t tell. But you have to soon. I can’t stand being in the middle of all this awkward atmosphere you’re suddenly creating. Plus, he keeps asking me if I’ve talked to you recently.” He shoots you a meaningful look that you ignore. “It’s not like he’s stupid. He thinks you’re avoiding him because you suddenly hate him, or something.”  

“I’m trying to fix that,” you frown.

“Fix it faster,” he nags, and you smack the pom-pom into his face again. It’s satisfying to see how little bits of wet paper stick to his nose.  

Donghyuck walks you to the locker rooms, overestimating the capacity of his umbrella by saying he’ll wait for you and Mark to come out so you can all head back to the dorms together. You try not to read too into the fact that he’s essentially forcing you to live through another fifteen minutes of wading through one-sided sexual tension and troop yourself into the locker room while he strolls off to the nearest waiting shed. It’s odd that you can’t hear any water running, and no one seems to even be inside. You figure everyone’s out making a mess out of the nearest McDonald’s until you turn on one of the showers and realize that there’s no hot water in the stall you’re in. And in the next one. And in the next one. Or the one after that.  

You groan in frustration, now acutely aware of how sticky and heavy your uniform feels against your skin. You could always just shower at the dorm, but that just means staying and walking around in this state longer, which doesn’t feel like a very comfortable option. You could also just brave the cold, but in this weather, it doesn’t sound like a healthy idea.

Of course, there is one other way.  

You weigh out your options briefly, but it’s not like there’s any better and more immediate choice. You gather your spare clothes and quickly exit the girls’ locker room, your hand over your mouth as though your breathing is going to be too loud and give you away.  

The distance between the girls’ locker room and the boys’ locker room is less than ten steps, but because you’re trying to be unbelievably careful, the tiptoe over to its entrance feels like a mile-long and extremely stressful endeavor. You bump into one of the members, Jung Jaehyun, right as you’re about to enter, but he at least doesn’t seem to notice how guilty you’re looking, or the fact that you have a towel and a shampoo bottle in your arms.

“Hey, _______________,” he greets you, shaking the remaining water out of his hair. “I thought you would have gone with Jeno and Doyoung. Most of the cheerleaders did.”

“I wanted to take a shower first,” you say lamely. You don’t add the in your locker room part.

“Same.” There’s steam forming a thin cloud around him as he stands in the doorway, so you’re at least assured your rule-breaking isn’t going to go to waste. “If you’re going to catch up, maybe you can invite Mark to come along with you. I asked him, but he said he was just going to go home and rest. He’s like a grandpa.”

“Oh,” you swallow thickly. “He — is Mark in there? Still?”

“Yeah, he was talking to coach about something, so he’s still in there getting ready. Anyway, at least try to get him to tag along; it’s as much his victory as it is the rest of the team’s. Text me if you guys are both coming to McDonald’s later. I’ll save you seats.”  

He gives you a pat on the shoulder before walking off; the rain has calmed into a light drizzle now, and you hear his jovial voice greet Donghyuck by the waiting shed, asking him if he wants to tag along for a burger.  

This is… fine. It’s not a big deal. You really just want to shower. Except, you know, you’re not really sure how you’re going to explain yourself to Mark. Except, do you really have to? It’s just a shower. He’d understand. He… showers too, doesn’t he? Yeah. That’s good.

Even with this logic, you walk in carefully, trying to keep your steps as light and as quiet as possible. The rows of lockers in here somehow look longer and larger — male athlete privilege, you guess — but you’re grateful for the fact that maybe in this tiny labyrinth of lockers and benches, you can completely avoid Mark.  

You almost do, too, right until your foot lands in a puddle and goes skidding so far you feel like your pelvis has snapped in half; with a squeak of surprise, you claw at the side of a locker row, making the loudest, most obnoxious set of sounds an accident could produce as you crumple to the floor, mildly shell-shocked.

“Who’s there?”  

The voice is unmistakable, and you right yourself just in time for Mark to peek out from behind the set of lockers two rows down. His face morphs from initial alarm, to brief surprise, finally settling with confusion. You try your best to look as collected as possible, but it’s hard when you take the whole form of him in and notice that he’s already stripped off his shirt and remains only in his pants.  

“Hey, um. Mark. Hey,” you force a smile out. “I didn’t know you were still here.”

“I was talking to coach,” he says in a small, slightly disbelieving voice. You don’t miss the once-over he gives your whole drowned rat aesthetic. “Sorry — what are you doing here, ____________?”

“I was, um—” you try to come up with something less stupid, but nothing sticks to you better than the truth, so you admit it anyway. “Just… wanted to take a shower here.”

“Oh… you know this… is the boys’ locker room,” he reminds you carefully, as if he’s trying not to hurt your feelings even if he’s essentially pointing out how stupid he thinks you are.  

“I know. There’s no hot water in the girls’ locker room, so I thought… I thought I would just—“ you gesture around yourself, and Mark’s round eyes follow the course of your left hand.  

“Right.”

“It would be really great if you didn’t tell anyone,” you add.

“I won’t. It’s just me in here, anyway.”

A terrible silence passes between you two. You can see the gooseflesh forming on his arms and shoulders from being exposed to the chill for too long. You’re acutely aware of how loud the sound of your heavy, wet skirt is when you shift your weight from foot to foot, and he’s watching you carefully, with this sort of strange, glazed-over look that you can’t read. You both open your mouth at the same time to speak.

“Have you been avoi—”

“Great game, by th—”  

You stop at the same time too, and you share a nervous laugh. At this, the tension in his shoulders goes away, even though he does look slightly uncomfortable standing half-naked in front of you. He gestures for you to keep talking.

“You played great, was what I wanted to say,” you rub at your arm. “I know Donghyuck and I weren’t serious about it at first, but you really play like you belong out there.”

“Oh — thanks,” for some reason, even if it’s a compliment, he looks mildly disappointed. “It’s really just practice.”

“I know that you practiced hard, but I also think you play pretty naturally. And you run… well, too.” You avoided a bullet by biting your tongue down and keeping it from saying something about how good he looks running.

“Thank you.” He folds his arms across his chest, keeping out the cold as much as he can. “Do — have you been, you know, avoiding me?” You shake your head, but he continues to elaborate. “I can quit, you know, if you don’t like it — me being on the football team. If it’s taking up too much time that we can’t even hang out after, I don’t really want that to be the reason for us to just fall out. I already talked to coach about it, and he said—”

“Mark,” you speak over him, a little alarmed. “I don’t — of course I don’t want you to quit.”

“Oh.” He looks slightly relieved. “But, then, you’ve been—”

“Yeah, I know I’ve been missing in action,” you lick your lips nervously. “It’s just personal stuff, but like, not the serious kind? Don’t — I mean, you don’t have to worry about it.”

“I thought maybe you hated that I was on the team now,” he goes on.

“It’s not that. I love that you’re on the team.” More than you know. “I’m sorry; I’ll be better. We can do breakfast for dinner on Thursdays again, like we used to.”

He stares at you, like he’s unsure of how to phrase his next thought into a meaningful sentence, so he just nods and settles with a shorter, “Donghyuck will like that.”

The next silence kills you as the desire to explain yourself bubbles up again, but the dying purity inside you causes you to swallow it back. Mark is the first to break the silence this time, without any interruption from you.

“I should really go take a shower.”

“Oh — yeah, me too,” you gesture vaguely to the exit with your thumb. “Donghyuck’s waiting for us.”

“Better not keep him standing out there in the rain, then,” he points jerkily to the next row of lockers. “You can just change there. Or wherever else. I’ll be in the shower anyway.”

You nod your thanks, not trusting yourself to speak clearly anymore, opting to shuffle to where he’d indicated. You’re all alone on this side of the lockers, but you can hear Mark moving about, a locker door opening and closing as he gets his things ready. You have to keep reminding yourself to stay on target instead of listening in like some creepy maniac, but you pause, swallowing thickly as you hear the tell-tale sound of wet fabric hitting the concrete floor, and you know that’s him taking off the last article of clothing he has on.  

You think that this experience can’t be good for your mental health, but it doesn’t even matter because your mind is so invested in the idea that Mark’s bare body is less than four feet away from you that it can’t think about its slow, inevitable death.  

The sound of a shower curtain being pulled close followed by water running signals that Mark is in the shower. You peel off the rest of your clothes, and hold your towel close to your chest as you walk over to the stalls. The one that he’s occupying falls right under the ceiling light, so you can see his blurry silhouette move through the fairly thin curtain. Your throat is dry, and you want to walk past it to get to the next stall, but you stop right in front of it, weirdly mesmerized by his form.  

“Mark,” you say before you can stop yourself. You see him stop and listen, one hand still in his hair, frozen in the act of shampooing. His head turns, and you can tell he knows you’re standing right outside the stall, mere inches away from him.  

“Yeah?” His voice sounds different — maybe higher and a little more frail, although you assume it’s just the steam affecting his vocal chords, or whatever excuse your mind half-assedly churns out.  

“I have been avoiding you,” you confess, doing that stupid shifting from foot to foot thing again. Something like a sigh escapes his lips, rising above the stall along with the steam.  

“I knew it. Do you really not like me being in the team that much? You should have just said so. I told you, I can quit — really. Our friendship is more important than some sport I didn’t even know how to play six months ago.”

“It’s not that I don’t like it,” you chew your lip. “It’s more that I like it so much I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“What? Football?”

“No. You playing football.”

Something hits the floor inside — probably a bar of soap — and you see Mark fumble with it for a moment before straightening back up. He doesn’t say anything, though, so you press on.

“Ever since you started playing, I sort of felt like you were — I don’t know. Different? You look different for sure, but you act differently; you even walk differently. But not in a bad way. Like, in a good way. A really good way. And it’s distracting me a lot, so for my own, um, sake, I had to… take a step back.”

You feel like you’ve said everything you can at this point without giving extreme on-the-nose specifics or a terrible love confession, so there’s nothing for you to do except wait for a response. When it comes, it isn’t what you’re really expecting.

“Actually, I don’t think there’s any hot water in the other stalls either,” he says in a careful voice, so soft that it’s almost drowned out by the water.  

“I can just shower after you,” you mutter in disappointment. The conversation seems over for a brief second until he replies with a much firmer voice.

“There won’t be any hot water after I shower.”

“I’ll just go to the dorms, then.”

“_____________,” he says your name in slow, deliberate syllables. “There won’t be any hot water there either. Trust me.“

You stare dully at his form through the shower curtain for what feels like forever until something dawns on you, and a mild shiver runs down your spine — not at the cold but at the thought of your interpretation being correct. Slowly, carefully, you toss your towel so that it hangs next to his on the metal rod on the shower curtain. You wait for him to protest, but all he does is make his silhouette grow slightly smaller as he steps back, and you take this as a good sign, pulling the shower curtain aside and quickly stepping into the stall before your nerve completely abandons you.  

You’ve never seen Mark naked before. It’s not like you’ve tried before recently, but when you think about it now, you feel like your assumptions have slightly undersold him. He’s always been on the slightly lankier side (at least, in your opinion), and even with all the toning up he’s done, you don’t actually expect him to look this… good. His muscles are actually well-defined now that you can see the shadows they create under the light, and his body is extremely well-groomed.

His cock is slightly bigger than you’d initially imagined, too, probably because you’ve only ever guessed at its form through stolen glances. It’s as long as you’ve assumed, but its girth is strangely more than the football pants had let on. You wonder if it had always been like this or if he had grown into it over a span of, like, ten years, and then you feel like a pervert again for being more concerned with that more than the fact that your best friend is backed up against the wall, regarding you with wide eyes.  

His lips are parted, and the water coming down from the shower catches on its curves and rolls down, creating a new dimension to them. It takes all of your self-restraint to stop yourself from kissing them at that exact moment.  

Your gaze meets his, and nervousness overtakes your lust; you have to remind yourself that he wanted this too — invited you in — just so that you don’t make a run for it.  

“I don’t think I’ve ever—” He swallows hard; the water on his lips make them look slick and irritatingly delicious. “Told you why I stayed on the team either.”

“Now’s a good time,” you say quietly, trying to be nonchalant, which is stupid, because your naked bodies are at most two feet away from each other.

“At first, I was thinking we could hang out more, since you were always caught up in practice during the afternoons. But recently, I—” Mark lets out a nervous chuckle. “When we take breaks, I watch you practice. I’ve never actually seen you; you look so pretty when you dance.”

“Shut up,” you whisper, feeling a blush crawl up your neck. “When have you ever said something like that to me?”

“What? You thought you were the only one brave enough to confess?” He laughs a little more easily. His back is off the wall now, body a little closer to yours. Whether this is intentional or not, you don’t know, and you don’t ask. “I was thinking… that I would pluck the courage to ask you out soon, but then it felt like you were ignoring me, and I worried, I guess?” He’s shifting from foot to foot now, too; the habit seems to be contagious. “I thought you didn’t like that I was on the football team.”

“I’ve always liked it. Maybe a little too much.”

He’s inches closer now; you think that this can’t be some random set of movements he’s unaware of. You’re also vividly aware of how hard his cock is, standing erect extremely close to your thigh.  

“I’ve always liked you,” he murmurs. “Maybe a little too much.”  

“You never acted like it,” you accuse him without real heat. He smiles, more to himself than anything.  

“I didn’t really know until the first time I saw you out on the field,” he chuckles. “If you hadn’t said anything first, I might have taken it to the grave, too.”

“I guess I have to live up to being the pushier one in this friendship now and then.”

He laughs, a rich sound that causes a pleasant shiver to pass through your body. Mark notices the slight movement, and he reaches out, pausing in hesitation before taking your waist, his palms pressing against your flesh.  

“We’re in the shower together,” he mumbles as if it’s the first time he’s noticing. “Two hours ago, I was worried you were going to stop being my friend.”  

“We’re in the shower together,” you repeat, a small smile lifting your lips. Mark mirrors the action. “I think that fact kind of trumps your fears.”

It takes him a while to say anything, his fingers doing most of the work by trailing along your side, dipping into the curve of your waist and skimming over your hip. The steam curls up over the both of you, creating a thin veil that leaves his skin glowing. He only speaks up again when his hands place light pressure against your skin, and he draws closer with this anchor, his eyes traveling further down the landscape of your frame.

“I—” he lets out a nervous laugh. “I can’t believe — we must be breaking twenty school rules right now.”

“Do you mind?”

“Not really. It’s new to me, but — you know. It’s not that weird; not when it’s with you.” His eyes move up again, gaze meeting yours. “Do you?”

“Mind?” You laugh, and his smile widens at the sound. “Not at all. Not when the pay off is looking at you this way.”

He stops pulling himself closer until you’re almost nose to nose, and he replaces his hands with his arms, slowly winding them around your form. From this level of closeness, you can see the droplets of water forming on his eyelashes, dripping down the curve of his cupid’s bow.  

“You said,” he tries again, his voice a little softer now — a whisper just for the both of you. “You said I was distracting you.”

“You were.”  

“How?”

“I thought a lot about you,” your voice is level with his, almost drowned out by the sound of the shower spray.  

“What did you think about?”

You hesitate. The situation at the present is well-established for sex, but you somehow still feel like you’re the only impure one in this stall. Mark is watching you, though, his expression somewhat expectant but mostly genuinely curious. You decide to go the gradually honest route.

“At first, I just… thought a lot about how different you were on the field. You’re more confident; you’re more… alive, I guess?” You laugh at your poor choice of words. “I was surprised, but I liked it a lot. But, um — more recently, you’ve been playing a more active role in the fiction-generated part of my train of thought.”

“Like how?”

You check his expression, and nothing has changed, except maybe his eyes have grown slightly wider.

“I think about… us,” you admit, suddenly refusing to meet his gaze for the rest of your spiel. “I thought a lot about situations where I’d get to see you like this. Where I would get to touch you and taste you.”

You’re so close to him now, wound up in his figure that you feel the shiver run through his body. He clears his throat. “Do I get to touch and taste you in any of those distracting thoughts, too?”

Your mouth falls open, but no sound comes out, and he looks… amused now. Slightly nervous, but there’s a small twinkle in his eye that is unmistakably mischievous. When you don’t respond, he plows on anyway.

“You’re not that special, ____________,” he teases breathily. Your eyes snap up to his again. His face is growing pink, but he doesn’t have any intention of stopping, clearly. “What? Like you’re the only one who’s allowed to think about us? I think about it, too. Sometimes I think about lying in bed with you. Other days, I think about making love to you. Most days, though…”

He sucks in a deep breath; you notice that his arms are shaking a little, like the act of saying so many things at once has drained him of a bulk of energy, but his grip around your waist only grows tighter, and his cock, pressed between your stomachs, twitches.  

“Most days I just think about kissing you.”

“Well,” you say, a little hoarsely. “Great minds think alike.”

Mark laughs right before he presses his mouth against yours, cutting the sound off with your lips. You initially assume that it’s going to be brief, but he seems to decide that now is not really the time for elementary-school-style chasteness, opting to part his lips against yours quickly and flicking his tongue out against the seam of your lips. You eagerly respond in kind, coaxing his tongue into your mouth and allowing him to explore it, the wet muscle flicking against your palate and passing over the ridges of your teeth. It kind of tickles, actually, and you want to laugh, except that would ruin the moment you’ve worked so damn hard for, and you would never forgive yourself for that.  

His hands are at your sides again, skimming up and down your skin with more fervor, and you return the favor by pressing your palm against his chest, fingers tracing long, slow lines down his chest, one digit catching on his nipple. You’d say something about how cute the consequent shiver is, but you’re currently rubbing your tongue against his eagerly, so you don’t really get to. There’s no other word to encompass Mark’s taste; it’s just clean — fresh, a little bit minty, maybe, and sharp in the most pleasant of ways. A moan passes between you, and you’re not sure who the source is, but it causes your lips to vibrate against his.  

Both of you are under the spray of the shower now, the warm water constantly running between your lips, and your hand follows the liquid trail downwards, stopping just above the base of his cock. Mark stiffens, and for a brief moment of panic, you think maybe you’re acting too fast. The fear dissipates just as quickly as it comes when his lips mouth against yours more eagerly, his teeth digging into the flesh of your bottom lip. You let out a soft whine, and he pulls away, his face suddenly morphing into unparalleled concern.

“Did that hurt? I’m sorry.”  

“No,” your fingers, acting on the unspoken green light, wrap around his shaft, and you can see him trying extremely hard not to drop his eyes and stare. A low huff escapes him. “I just wanted to do that to you first.”  

He chuckles, shaking his head in disbelief. “Do you really have the time to be competitive about this? Right now?”  

“I guess not,” you admit. “I should probably focus on what I’m doing, anyway.”

His second laugh segues into a low moan as your hand begins to stroke his cock slowly; it’s almost weird how much more heightened your arousal is at the sound, coupled with the sight of his jaw going just a little bit slack, his eyelids dropping halfway. You’ve never seen Mark like this — in fact,  you’re fairly certain no one has, and the thought of you being the first to witness pleasure on his face makes you feel maybe a little inappropriately emotional at a time like this. Luckily, the sounds he’s making are some you’re wholly willing to focus on instead.  

He leans back in, and you’re prepared for another sweet kiss, but he dips his head, soft lips landing on your shoulder. His kisses are firmer this time, more audible against your skin, and he trails them along the curve of your shoulder inwards until he reaches the dip of your neck. Something that doesn’t feel like his lips presses against your skin there — it’s his tongue, you realize a little belatedly as he licks a slow, careful stripe up your neck, causing a soft, surprised moan to leave you, and the hum that rumbles in his throat as he kisses back down your neck leaves small, tingling patches against your skin.  

You also think his mouth is content where it is, but it seems like Mark has a penchant for the unexpected that you’d never been fully aware of, because his lips trace a messy line even further down. When his hands come up your sides, they stop just above your stomach, and you feel his thumbs stretch out, tracing the lower curve of your breasts slowly. You’d planned on saying something — maybe to egg him on (the specifics hadn’t been laid out in your head yet) — but that plan flies out the window when he bends a little more, his lips tracing a small spiral around your nipple before he takes it between his lips.

“Holy shit.” The electric shock of his lips causes you to tighten your fingers slightly on his shaft, and your hand moves at a slightly quicker pace. You’re satisfied to hear the groan that sounds against your skin, even though this triumph is easily overwhelmed by the feeling of him sucking diligently — almost reverently — on your nipple, his hand cupped under your breast with just the right amount of pinch.  

The stall is filled with steam now, but with it rises the frequent sounds of your moans and heavy breaths. The water beating down on you makes Mark’s cock interestingly slippery, letting you speed up your strokes with little friction or resistance. The result is amazing; while his head is still bent, lips pressed down on your skin as they move relentlessly against your nipple, you see his hips moving slightly against your hand. You try to push past the haze of pleasure his fingers and mouth on your body are creating and slow your hand to a stop. You’re absolutely fascinated by the fact that even though he makes a soft, slightly questioning noise, his hips are still rocking in minute motions against your hold. Not for the first time, you feel faint in the shower stall; you’d never imagined you’d see Mark fucking himself into your hand, but here you are, witnessing it in high definition, and it’s glorious.

It doesn’t last for long, but it’s still a good enough amount of time before he realizes you’re almost motionless, dazed by the sight. You almost miss his question entirely. “What’s wrong?”  

“You,” your words come out breathless. “Are so hot. It’s not fair.”  

“You’re kidding, right?” He chuckles softly. You meet his eye now that the mini show is over. He’s looking up at you, wide-eyed and amused, lips still unintentionally grazing against your nipple.  

“Can we try something?” You ignore him entirely, but thanks to his general personality, he doesn’t complain; he just nods a little in response. No sooner has he pressed a tiny kiss to your nipple do you back him up against the shower stall’s wall, and he straightens his posture. Your plan is only slightly derailed when he reaches up, cradling your face and landing a brief kiss against your lips. He doesn’t say anything even as he watches you take a small step back before you carefully sink up to your knees or even when you place your palms flush against his thighs. The only time he actually starts asking questions again is when you brush your lips against the tip of his cock, to which he responds with a soft intake of breath.  

“What’s the plan here, ___________?”

“I’m going to put your cock in my mouth,” you announce, and you don’t miss how his eyebrows lift slightly. “And you’re going to move your hips. Can we do that?”  

“I don’t think I’m going to live through it,” he rasps. “I’m actually two seconds away from a heart attack.”  

“Well, hold it in,” you laugh softly, but he doesn’t join in this time; you can tell he’s torn between keeping himself in check and just letting his desire take the reins entirely. He stares down at you, chest rising and falling a little more aggressively. “Come on. Please?”

“I’ve never done that. What if I hurt you?”

“You won’t,” you make the promise for him. “Just do it slowly. I’ll tell you if it’s too much. Please?”

“You know you’re being unfair. It’s really hard to say no when you’re like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like this. Kneeling down in front of me. You know. Begging me,” his hands curl into your hair, making more of a mess of it. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter than ever. “Okay. We can try.”

He doesn’t lead you closer like you think he will with his hold on your hair, so you take the initiative, parting your lips so that your tongue can flick out against the tip of the head. It elicits a shiver that visibly runs through his body, and that’s all the invitation you need to wrap your lips around his cock. His grip tightens minutely, and he looks down at you again, still somewhat concerned. You think it would be kind of stupid to just nod with part of a dick in your mouth, so you squeeze his thighs lightly. Luckily, Mark gets the signal, and with a soft, drawn-out exhale, he starts to move his hips shallowly.  

It’s nothing extreme at this point, really; the tip doesn’t even hit the halfway point of your mouth, and he’s moving so carefully that a kid’s gait might outrun him at this rate, but the look on his face is exquisite. Mark in any angle is attractive, and you’ve long come to admit this, but you haven’t been able to decide on which angle is actually his best. You’d always assumed it was his profile, but the view you have now, with him looking down at you, gaze burning, his lips formed around an unspoken ‘o’ of pleasure, has trumped every other angle by a mile.  

You still think that him being quiet isn’t so much what you wanted — in fact, the minutes you’ve spent in the shower have not only come to embolden you but have also sparked a weird, internal competitiveness that makes you want to push all of Mark’s buttons until you can find the one that makes him noisy. So far, you’ve gotten a few moans out of him, but nothing that feels satisfying. Even when you roll your tongue against the underside of his cock with every slow pump into your mouth, he doesn’t do much but hum or groan a little, brow furrowed in concentration. You want to egg him on, but you don’t know how, and you’re also not sure how far down his cock you can go before something unfortunate happens.

The solution presents itself when you focus a little less on Mark’s face and more on his cock; more than half of his length is exposed to hot air and water. Your right hand leaves his thigh as your left one gives his thigh another reassuring squeeze, and your fingers once again wrap around the now familiar shape of his shaft just as he rolls them forward.  

Mark swears sparingly, especially since he tries to avoid situations that stress him out enough to get him to drop a bomb. For some reason, that just makes it more potent and extreme, like it’s a signal that indicates just how far something’s pushed him. It’s not surprising that you feel some kind of pride swell in your chest when the first out of a long string of fucks suddenly falls from his lips, hoarse and frustrated. His other hand joins the one already tangled in your hair, and there’s an uncharacteristic glassiness in his eyes as he rocks his hips forward with more intent.  

“Fuck, ____________,” he slows his litany of curse words with your name, tongue peeking out to catch the water that’s pooled just above his upper lip. “Fuck, you look so hot. What the fuck.”  

You can’t respond, so you make a pleased noise in the back of your throat that resonates down his shaft, and he tilts his head back at the feeling. His Adam’s apple bobs dangerously, like he’s swallowed down the rest of his obscenities, and you can’t see much of his face apart from his jawline, which has tensed into a sharp angle.  

Your left hand finally leaves his thigh, assured that he won’t need any more guidance, and it finds its way between your legs. You’ve gotten off embarrassingly quickly by imagining Mark like this — moaning, erect, drowning in pleasure because of you — but now that it’s playing out in real time in front of you, you have all the content you could ask for and more. Your fingers find your clit, rubbing it with the same speed his hips are following, and while you haven’t had much practice with your subordinate hand, it doesn’t even matter; you’re so turned on that even half-assed masturbation could probably get you off easily at this point.  

You actually think this is how it’s going to end — with Mark fucking into your hand and mouth until he cums, with you fingering yourself until you climax as well — but that fantasy comes to a disappointing halt when he stops moving his hips again, panting as he finally finds the strength to look back down at you. His hands lead your mouth back, easing your lips off his cock as he lets out a soft noise of relief.  

“Why’d you stop?” Your mouth feels a little numb, so you stumble over your words somewhat.  

“Wa — are you fingering yourself?” He asks, fascinated and now ignoring your question, drawing his head back in a vain attempt to get a better angle.

“You looked so good,” you state, like this should explain everything. “You tasted so good. Why did we stop?”

“As hot as that was, and it was really hot,” he chuckles. “I kind of feel like it’s unfair that you’re keeping your pussy to yourself.”  

His voice and words make your chest clench so hard that you can’t even make a noise; your mouth just forms soundlessly around an incredulous oh my god. Mark’s thumb traces your lips as they move.  

“Think you can still stand?”  

“I don’t know,” you admit. Your calves and thighs had started burning a few minutes into this position, considering you’d spent a good part of the evening before running around and jumping. “If I can’t, will you kneel down with me?“

“Yeah. But let’s try getting you up first.” He takes both of your hands, and you use his hold as leverage, slowly getting to your feet. Your face is impossibly close to his, and his hands are back around your waist. You can see a streak of water slide down his nose, and you lean in to press your lips to the tip, stopping it in its tracks. Mark laughs again, a low rumble of a sound that comes from his chest. “You good?”

You nod, opting to to spend more of your energy on pressing a kiss to his lips again; he returns it without hesitation, but it only lasts very briefly. When he pulls away, you notice that he squeezes your hips a little tighter.  

“Turn around,” His voice is still soft, but it’s lost whatever hesitation he’d had before this moment. You follow wordlessly, keeping yourself as close to his form as possible, and his hands never leave your waist, skimming over your stomach. Even if you hear him take a small step back to adjust, you can still feel his cock hard against you, settled between your asscheeks. You press your hips back against his, closing whatever tiny gap he may have made, and you hear him laugh quietly again.  

The one regrettable thing about agreeing to turn around is that you can’t see him anymore; his hands move across your skin, rising and falling over the curve of your ass, but you can’t watch him do it without putting a lot of strain on your neck. You have to content yourself with imagining his expression as his fingers dig into your skin lightly, spreading your cheeks apart slightly. At least he makes a sound — a low, appreciative hum that gives you just enough to guess.  

He shifts his stance, moving his cock downwards before his hands ease them between your legs; you feel his length pressed up against your folds, and he starts to rock his hips again in the same slow, controlled movements that seem almost trademark. You make the mistake of not keeping your volume in check as you let out a moan, feeling the tip rub against your clit.  

Fingers crawl up your stomach, his hands briefly stopping at your chest to squeeze at your breasts. He keeps one hand in place while the other continues its journey, settling gently at the base of your neck. His forefinger stretches upward slightly to press against your lips.

“Someone could hear you.”  

“We’re the only people left.”  

“You don’t know who could be outside,” he sounds amused at your quick, nonchalant response.  

“I don’t think they can hear us from outside. Even if they did, they wouldn’t know who’s in here,” you pause before smiling against his finger. “Unless you want them to.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I can be a little more specific, if that turns you on.”  

Mark falls silent, clearly trying to decide how to proceed. His finger traces the shape of your lips before falling lax in front of them, and you take this opportunity to flick your tongue out against it.  

You expect him to retract his hand, or something, but you don’t expect his hips to jerk forward a little in surprise, and you let out an even louder moan as his cock skims against your folds. Your thighs close a little more deliberately, adding to the friction.

“Jesus.” His voice is thick, distant, like he’s choked up on something. You can only imagine that he’s probably gritting his teeth, which is a sight you wish you could see, if you weren’t so intent on pushing this newfound button of his.  

“Mark,” you breathe out. You feel his cock twitch between your legs. “I want you inside me.”  

As soon as you finish your sentence, you part your lips, taking his finger into your mouth. There’s a sharp intake of breath behind you, and you waste no time in bringing your lips down to the knuckle, suckling languidly.  

You hear him say something about a heart attack again, but he complies, pulling his hips back so he can align himself to your entrance. In your impatience, you push your hips back. Your moans harmonize as you feel him enter you, and he only waits a moment to collect himself before he’s slowly pushing in, his grip on your breast tightening a little. He’s careful, so careful, like he’s worried if he moves too suddenly you’ll freak out and leave. Reluctantly, you release his finger.

“More,” you murmur when he seems to be slowing to a stop. “I want all of you.”  

“You need to relax or something. You’re so fucking tight. Holy shit.”

“You don’t have to act like I’m made of glass,” you laugh softly before letting out a noise of frustration as he actually stops halfway. “Mark.”

“I don’t want to hurt you. But also,” he exhales a little shakily. “This view is nice. Like, really nice.”

“I’ll be fine. I’ve been wet since I saw you shirtless outside,” you admit. He makes an amused sound. “Come on. I want to feel all of you stretch my pussy.”  

“If you keep talking like this I’m just going to cum on the spot,” he warns. “Is this the kind of dialogue you’ve been imagining we’d have during sex?”

“Sort of.” You don’t even have it in you to sound sheepish; you’ve focused your attention on more pressing matters, like trying to push yourself further along his length. “You’re kind of nastier in my head though. But that’s probably my fault more than yours.”  

“Okay, now that just makes me more curious.” His hands realign at your hips before moving backwards, and he spreads your asscheeks again, gripping your flesh a little more tightly as he inches himself forward. You finally let out a soft sigh of relief when you feel his hips flush against yours again, and your walls pulse around him. “Tell me what else you and I say in your head.”  

“Why don’t you start moving,” you suggest. “And we’ll see what comes out of my mouth.”  

He hums in assent before drawing his hips back and rolling them forward; the soft moan that comes from you is a signal for him to keep going. Mark thrusts in the same manner he seems to do everything in his life — cleanly, carefully, thoroughly. It feels good, but you can also tell he’s holding back, because his grip on your hips is unconventionally tight for his current pace.

It’s actually quiet apart from the intermittent sounds that pass between you; you actually think about saying something dirty, but you put that thought aside when it feels a little too sudden after a silence. You chew on your lip, trying to figure out how to get him to let loose without sounding way too demanding about it. It’s only when you think about Mark’s words — his heightened concern — that you start to pinpoint what the problem is.  

“It’s not just about hurting me, is it?”  

“Hmm?”

“You’re worried about something else.”  

“Is it that transparent?” He chuckles softly, his hips slowing to a stop again. You decide to let it slide this time.  

“You were fine before this,” you point out. “You even said—”

“I know, I know.”

“Do you not want to… anymore? It’s okay, you know. If you don’t,” you add quickly.  

“Wha — no,” this time, it’s his voice that rises a little. “No, that’s not it at all. I’ve always wanted to — you have no idea how much I’ve…”

“So what’s the problem?”  

“I don’t know. A while ago, I was kind of in the heat of the moment, and you looked so… so hot, and it was all good, and then, just now, I just realized,” he laughs softly at nothing in particular, but it’s an embarrassed kind of laugh. “I might not live up to your expectations at all.”

You want to throw him a look of disbelief, but you can only turn your head so far sideways, so you can’t see his face fully. You settle with giving him a side eye that you hope translates just how absurd you think he’s being.  

“Are you kidding?”  

“I don’t want our first time to be disappointing for you,” he continues. “If you have standards, and I don’t meet them, won’t it be too awkward for us after?”  

“I really want to look you in the eye right now, but since I like the fact that you’re still inside me while we’re having this conversation, you’re just going to have to imagine me looking a little sternly but affectionately at you,” you instruct, and he snorts softly. “Mark, the one and only standard I have for any fantasy I’ve ever had is that you’re part of it. Since you’re here, I think we can call this a win.”

“So after this…?”

“After this, we’re going to take Donghyuck out for a late dinner, and if we still have the energy after that, you’re going to tell him to sleep in Renjun’s room so I can come over and ride you, or something.”  

He’s quiet for a moment before he hums approvingly. “I guess I could roll with that, then.”  

“So stop holding back,” you groan. He chuckles, leaning in to press a kiss to your shoulder blade, the act of him nodding causing his lips to brush against your skin. This time, without your prompting, he starts to move his hips again, pulling them back and rolling them back forward with more resolution. “Fuck. Okay, this, I’m on board for.”  

His breath cools against your skin as he laughs silently, but it doesn’t last long; he focuses more of his energy on his movements, and you can hear a low groan echo from the back of his throat. His palms move to press against your stomach lightly, but one of them slides further downward. You feel his fingers press against your clit, rubbing it in intense circles that match his pace. You moan low, feeling yourself tighten around him again.

“I guess shower sex has that whole keeping you super wet perk.”

“Nope,” your voice is higher than usual, but it isn’t cracking yet, at least. “That’s all you.”

“Yeah, I kind of just wanted to hear you say it,” he chuckles. Your admission of it seems to renew his confidence, and his thrusts grow sharper, his two fingers spreading your folds so he can rub the middle one along your slit, having it brush against your clit with every upward stroke. You can’t help but squirm a little at the stimulation, but he keeps you firmly in the embrace of his other arm.  

“You like hearing how wet you make me?”

“It’s suddenly become my new favorite topic.”  

“I’ll be sure to bring it up at every appropriate time,” you promise. “Like when you’re balls deep in me, or something.”

“Great plan,” his voice sounds a little short, but your assumption is just that he’s trying to conserve his breath now that he’s giving it his all. Now that he’s not burdened with irrational worries, he’s fallen into the delicious pattern of drawing his hips back almost until he’s out of you before snapping his hips forward, burying himself back into you until the base. The feeling of being filled doesn’t turn you on as much as the idea of him being the one who’s filling you, and your moans increase in pitch and volume with every thrust. He doesn’t even try to shush you anymore; in fact, you feel like it’s sort of driving him, considering that he seems to move his hips more intensely whenever you moan his name, prolonging the last syllable.

The hot water is starting to run out; you feel even more goosebumps on your back and shoulder as the water starts to cool down. Your teeth are digging hard into your bottom lip because you’re desperately trying to hold back the fact that you’ve been humiliatingly close to cumming since you’d felt his cock against your clit, but you can feel yourself pulsing around him dangerously. Just when you’re about to confess, though, he suddenly pushes his hips harder into you, suddenly stopping with a low groan.  

“Mark —“  

“Don’t be mad,” he mutters, his voice dangerously low. “But I’ve been holding myself back since you gave me that blowjob.”

“Technically, you fucked my mouth —“  

“Yeah, whatever, that really hot thing you did that almost made me blow a load,” he snaps. You feel his cock throb inside you, and you mewl.  

“I’m really fucking close too,” you admit, and he doesn’t skip a single beat. His hips jerk up, allowing him to grind his cock into you for one intense second as he pulls your back flush hard against his chest. He buries his face into your shoulder, and you can feel his short, labored breathing as he pumps into you.  

You can’t even form coherent sentences to keep egging him on, so you’re just stammering at this point, switching between Mark and so close and a string of obscenities that heightens in volume when you feel yourself tighten right before you reach your peak. Even when your shoulders tense and you fall into a blissful silence in your climax, Mark doesn’t stop, diligently fucking into you in his determination to keep you riding your high. It doesn’t end when you come back down, either, and you’re a whimpering mess in his arms, nails digging into his forearms and repeatedly moaning out how much you want to see him cum.  

“Fuck,” he breathes out, and his voice breaks uncharacteristically; he’s close, but he’s still going, his thrusts growing erratic and sharp. “Fuck, _____________.”

“Mark,” you whine, neediness thick in your voice. “Let me blow you again.”

“You feel so good, though,” he whispers reluctantly. “I don’t want to stop.”

“Mark—”

“Shit, I know,” he groans, easing you away. You turn to look at him, and the sight makes your knees weak; his brow is furrowed, and his hand on his cock, stroking it haphazardly. His lips are parted slightly, and he’s staring at you with a burning desire that somehow makes you wish you hadn’t asked him to pull out. You’re so entranced by how he looks that you almost forget why you’d turned around in the first place, and it’s his low, drawn-out moan that snaps you back into focus.  

Getting back on your knees, you tug his hand away; it falls back to his side as you replace it with your own hand, stroking his length at a quicker pace. You can see him threatening to tilt backwards, and you call his attention before it can tip all the way.  

“Mark,” you breathe out. “Baby, look at me.”

He complies, slowly bending his head and squeezing his eyes shut for a second before opening them to gaze down at you. His pupils are blown out, and water caught on his lips drips down onto your hand and face.  

“Tell me where you want to cum.”

“Shit,” he looks dazed; the fact that you’re squeezing him probably isn’t helping. “I — I don’t know.”

“Do you want to cum in my mouth?”

“Oh my god.” He squeezes his eyes shut again. “Fuck. Fuck yes, yes.”  

“Look at me when you do,” you press. “I want you to see your cum all over my lips.”

He looks positively overwhelmed at this point, but he opens his eyes again, fixing his stare on your lips, which have parted to kiss his tip. Your tongue peeks out, pressing flat against the underside of his cock as you continue to stroke him, trying to coax him into climaxing.  

He starts to rock his hips again, but instead of intensifying his thrusts, he suddenly tenses; his cock twitches against your hold, and you feel the heat of his cum spill onto your tongue and stain your lips. You can tell he really wants to keep his voice down, but he can’t control the long groan that leaves him. Mark’s expression is something straight out of the million fantasies you’ve had, with him unconsciously licking his lips at the same time you lick your own clean. He stands in slightly dumbfounded silence, not breaking eye contact as he watches you swallow.  

He doesn’t even say anything as he helps you up, but he does gather you in his arms again. His embrace is tighter than before, and he presses a soft kiss to your forehead, then the bridge of your nose, then finally your lips. His fingers glide down your back, resting naturally just above your ass.  

“Holy shit,” he finally manages to cough out as he pulls away.  

“For sure,” you agree, and you watch his lips curl up into a grin. “Never had a shower sex fantasy. Not sure why, but I guess I found out what I should have imagined.”

“These fantasies of yours — do you have, like, a list, or—?”  

“Only up in here,” you point to your temple, and he pulls out a disappointed expression. “What does it matter?”  

“Well, what kind of checklist am I supposed to make now?”  

“You want a sex checklist? Can’t it just be spontaneous like this?”

“I’ll have to work on it.” He reaches behind you, taking the soap from the holder and pressing the flat of it against your back before rubbing it in gentle, circular motions. “It would be nice to have a guide, though, so I’m not repeating myself, or whatever. For example, we can’t have shower sex again tomorrow. That would just be lazy planning.”

“You don’t need a guide,” you say dismissively. “But I’m kind of into the fact that you already think we’re going to fuck again tomorrow.”  

“Are we not?”  

“We are. That’s why I’m into it.”  

                                          *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

When you come out of the boys’ locker room, Donghyuck is standing by the door, arms folded across his chest. He’s visibly miffed and bursts into an enraged whisper when you step out, followed by Mark.

“You guys were in there for an hour! The janitor came and tried to lock the door. Thank god he said there was a ghost inside and he went to the chapel to get the priest. What took you so long?”  

“There was only one shower,” Mark says simply. “The girls’ locker room didn’t have any hot water.”

“You take like ten minutes showering,” Donghyuck accuses him before turning to you. “And you hate long showers because they make your fingers wrinkly. Two showers back to back don’t equal an hour in there.”

“We didn’t take back to back showers,” you reply, equally monotone.  

The three of you stand in silence, with Mark only moving to close the door behind him. Donghyuck points a slim finger at him, then at you, then at the door. Finally, it makes its way back to you, and his jaw drops a little as the pieces fall into place.

“You’re the ghost?”

“Hey, I wasn’t the only one making noise in there.”  

“I wasn’t that loud,” Mark defends himself, hugging his jacket closer to his chest. Donghyuck shakes his closed umbrella, the droplets flying around.  

“You guys made me stand out here and try to talk the janitor into getting a different mop while you had locker room sex?”  

“Technically, it was shower sex. Locker room sex sounds too public,” you correct him, and he makes a disbelieving noise.

“Weren’t you the one pressuring me into admitting I had feelings for her?” Mark frowns, and Donghyuck freezes, his mouth still open from the words he had been about to say. Your eyes widen, and it’s your turn to point an accusing finger at him.

“You told Mark what?”

“He said I needed to confess or some other guy on the team would beat me to it.” Mark inhales sharply at his following realization. “There isn’t another guy on the team, is there?”

“Technically, we don’t know who has feelings for her on the team, so I might not have been lying so much as guessing with only little information,” Donghyuck sounds decidedly less hostile now. Mark rolls his eyes.

“You told me to just get laid!” You recall, and Donghyuck flinches.

“I didn’t mean right now in the damn showers while I waited for you out here for eons. I was thinking, like, one of you would confess, and then you’d go on a date later in the week, and if things go well then you’d kick me out of the room so you could bone, or something. It’s not my fault you guys made it sound like a scene from the exorcist in there.”

“We didn’t— okay, you know what?” You snatch his umbrella, and he lets it go without much resistance. “Let’s just go back. Come on, Mark.”

You open the umbrella, the remnants of the rain flying outwards as you do. Mark takes the handle from you, and you both march away, leaving Donghyuck behind in front of the boys’ locker room.  

You’re halfway across the field when Mark speaks up in a low voice.  

“We can’t leave him there.”  

“I know. I’m just trying to spook him.”

You both stop, turning to face Donghyuck, who’s still by the locker rooms. He’s clearly watching you, though, because the moment he sees you looking at him, he makes a run for it, his long legs carrying him across the grass at top speed. He’s huffing when he arrives, and he throws his arms around the both of you so he can minimize the space he takes up under the umbrella.  

When you reach the parking lot, Donghyuck speaks up.

“So, was it just one round in there, or what?”  

gorgeous ii | lmh ( ft. ldh )

part i

ever since your shower tryst with mark, donghyuck has been feeling left out, and he’s been hinting at it. not so subtly. pretty damn explicitly, actually. after multiple failed attempts at reassuring him you’re all still a well-oiled machine of a team, you’re left with only one solution.

interestingly, it’s not an option anyone seems to be too averse to.

pairing: mark x reader x donghyuck rating: R genre: humor, smut warnings: once again sorta pwp, basically hints at a mild level of polyamory kind of idk man, a threesome?? is a threesome a warning idk, mild mommy!kink for reader, slightly more pronounced daddy!kink for mark, mild baby!kink for donghyuck, some kinda praise kink for pretty much everyone, anal/double penetration, super brief impregnation!kink that i wish i had done more of but felt like it would be overkill, cum…play sjdfgj,,, light choking nothing major, more dirty talk, just. Nastie stuff i guess. please be sure that you are 18+ to read! word count: 16.6k

author’s notes : i’m simply deeply impatient and needed to post this i apologize :^)

You really should have picked up all the signs a little sooner.  

Donghyuck has never been good at acting, so he’s never been intensely successful at hiding his feelings; in fact, he’d once gotten a warning letter for looking so bored in class the teacher couldn’t overlook it any longer. In hindsight, it should have been obvious, given the way he’d been acting.  

Then again, it was fairly easy to pass off his recent behavior as regular Donghyuck, only intensified. He had always liked hanging out with Mark, which meant he mostly enjoyed hanging around you, too. He’d once crashed in your room when Mark had been out for a weekend visit to Jeonju to see some distant relatives and Donghyuck had left his room key card in the electricity slot, much to the ire of your own roommate. He’d asked the both of you to come with him to the MMCA in Gangnam because he wanted someone to take proof photos of him (your job) and read the captions on the artworks before explaining them to him so he could write his reflection paper for his Art Studies class (Mark’s much more unfortunate job). And, of course, he’d bullied you and Mark into confessing your feelings for each other to each other, although you’ve grown to suspect, almost to the point of confirmation, that he had done it not so much in the spirit of support for young love but more in response to his own intense desire to cut down on the immense awkwardness in the atmosphere whenever the three of you hung out.  

His expectation had clearly been that you two would kiss and make up before you took him out of campus for a dinner that he would wheedle you and Mark into splitting only two ways. Technically, that had all worked out in his favor, apart from the fact that in between the kissing and the making up, you had shared a steamy shower with Mark in the boys’ locker room that had ultimately ended with you scaring away the school janitor and had kept Donghyuck waiting outside in the rain (sort of) for the better part of an hour.  

He’d played it cool at first, so it seemed; he’d asked for details, which you refused to divulge in excess, and he’d promised to pester Mark about it later on when it was just the two of them, only he received the same — if not a firmer — kind of rejection from the latter. He’d even taken fairly kindly to the suggestion that he stay in Renjun’s room for a couple of nights in the week that followed so that you could, in his words, desecrate the living space with your love, which clearly implied that he’d expected the two of you to just be going at it in the middle of the common area.  

Over time, though, he’s grown fairly more wary of the implications of the relationship. It seemed to have started when he’d come home from class to find you both in the kitchen, where you had apparently been “making out next to the honey butter chips” he’d been so “excited to eat, and now it’s just ruined,” and he’d refused to listen to the argument that it couldn’t possibly be a health hazard considering the bag was still sealed. Or, it might have started a little before that, when he had to desperately run to Renjun’s bathroom to pee because you had engaged Mark in a steamier and much more enthusiastic reenactment of your shower room scene and had locked the door (something that, at the time, was for Donghyuck’s benefit). The conversation that had followed when you’d come out to an out-of breath and clearly upset Donghyuck had been sheepish and fairly uncomfortable for all parties involved, and you’d taken great care to gloss over the fact that he’d heard you repeatedly and not at all abashedly egging Mark on with a few choice nicknames and phrases.

Possibly the biggest issue, though, was the one time you and Mark had gone out for a date. There aren’t a ton of options around the campus area that have good food at a college-student-acceptable price, so there are only two options: this one supposedly Italian restaurant owned by a man who constantly ends a rundown of the specials with the statement that you can leave without paying if you don’t like the food — which you’ve long since considered but Mark says it’s unethical (something you think is kind of characteristic but still wholly unfair for him to say) — and the place you often go to with the boys that serves breakfast for dinner. You’d been trying to wheedle Mark into finally getting free pasta with you by breaking his moral code, and he’d finally agreed (possibly because you’d literally backed him into a corner after football practice and begged, among other things, on your knees), but the place had been full up, and neither of you were willing to stick around for half an hour in line. The alternative you’d gone to had been fine; for the first time in your life, you’d gotten to order something other than pancakes and sausages with egg, and you’d found out that the place did actually make good food that wasn’t meant to be consumed at eight in the morning.  

For the most part, it had been a great experience; the perks of being friends with Mark beforehand was that you had just skipped the awkward small talk phase altogether. In fact, it had been basically like a normal evening hang-out from before, except for the fact that Mark seemed less reserved than he had been when you were just friends. Also, you had never hung out with him as a friend with the knowledge that you had essentially strong-armed him into committing moral suicide at a snobby pasta joint by blowing him like half an hour prior. Even if you never actually got to eat said pasta. So there was all that.  

It had been going well until Mark had asked you to pour him a glass of water. In the middle of filling up his glass, you’d heard a tap at the window to your left accompanied by a shadow that loomed over your table. You’d snapped your head to the side to see Lee fucking Donghyuck, pouting at the both of you and pointing accusingly at the half-eaten spaghetti and meatballs on the table. His breath had been fogging up the glass to the point that his entire face was blurry, and you couldn’t really understand anything he was saying, but it had sounded a little like pancakes and without me. You had gaped so much at him that you’d completely forgotten Mark’s glass was already full, and the water had spilled out all over the table and onto his lap. By the time the fog had cleared up, you were more concerned with the problem of your boyfriend looking like he’d just wet himself, and Donghyuck had skulked off into the darkness.  

Since then, Donghyuck’s moods have ranged from teasing, to hesitant, to downright disgruntled. He’d constantly announce himself before coming into a room where the both of you were, which was kind of annoying when you were together in the library. Renjun had even once come to you during a lunch break, pleading that you and Mark take him back because he was tired of stepping on Donghyuck’s face every time he had to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night. You’d argued that there was a wall and a door separating Mark’s and Donghyuck’s bedrooms from each other, but he’d just fired back with the suggestion that you could chip in for some quality noise-canceling headphones. The worst was when Mark had told you — half-laughing, half-incredulous — that Donghyuck had canceled their shared Netflix subscription because he was worried all the rom-coms the two of you watch together while boning would appear on his suggested list. Mark had been more insulted by the thought of being associated with rom-coms more than anything else in that conversation.

You decided to more actively include Donghyuck into your activities at that time, and you and Mark made a pact to never act like a couple in front of him. It seemed clear that was what Donghyuck had wanted. Still, when you’d asked him out to study, it had felt kind of weird considering that you were a level higher than him and could only confer with each other, leaving Donghyuck to look sourly at you across the table like you were seducing each other instead of asking questions about the worksheet. There had even been an instance where you’d gone out for a morning jog together, but Donghyuck’s legs were much longer than the both of yours, and he ended up creating some distance between himself and the two of you, which had just led him to whine at the both of you to hurry up since you were probably lagging behind on purpose so you could find a way to slip away under the bleachers and bang one out before he’d made it around the track.

The pinnacle of tension arrives on a Thursday night, when you urged the both of them to keep Donghyuck’s favorite tradition and have breakfast for dinner. It seemed like a good idea, bringing back that one activity that represented your friendship, and even Donghyuck didn’t resist the suggestion. The problems only start when the three of you were seated in the exact same booth you’d been on during that date, a fact that Donghyuck seems to remember vividly as he stares at the table for a good, long, and wholly excruciating second before sliding in with an unreadably calm expression. You make desperate eye contact with Mark, who had been moving to sit next to you already, and he does this weird jerky reaction before he backtracks and moves to sit next to Donghyuck instead.  

A silence falls over the three of you after your orders are placed, and Mark is playing with his glass, turning it around and around idly. Donghyuck, on the other hand, is staring directly at you, still kind of blank, his hands folded on the tabletop. You open your mouth, and his eyebrows go up, but you realize you have nothing to say and shut it again.  

“So,” Donghyuck starts after a while. “Was the pasta here any good?”  

“It was okay,” you reply after glancing at Mark, who seems unperturbed by everything else, a talent you wish you could possess. “A little rich, but mostly okay.”

“Have you guys gone to that pasta place across the student center?”

“No, but we wanted to.”

“On another date, you mean.”  

You don’t miss the sadness in his voice; even Mark looks up at him, then at you, but offers nothing to say, for some absurd reason.  

“Well… that’s still up in the air,” you wave the topic away, but Donghyuck presses on, possibly convinced that this is all part of the required conversation friends that hang out should have.  

“You guys know that you can get free pasta there if you lie to the owner and say it wasn’t good, right?”  

“Yeah, I… we heard,” you admit.  

“We were actually thinking of going there,” Mark finally chimes in, although the timing is terrible and Donghyuck’s face darkens considerably. “But it was full up.”

“So you guys ended up here,” Donghyuck says, finally piecing together the bigger picture. “At our regular restaurant. That’s… cool.”  

You frown at Mark, who doesn’t even look remotely remorseful; he just shrugs, a small jerk of the shoulders that Donghyuck misses.  

That had been the longest silence you’d shared since… ever; you can’t even remember the last time that you’d hung out with Donghyuck and it had been this quiet. Mark was one thing, but Donghyuck, for the most part, liked to talk, and so did you. You distinctly remember the restaurant constantly filled with chatter, mostly from your table. What had you even talked about back then that had lasted for hours? You distinctly remember an argument about Iron Man’s fate in the last Avengers movie that had gone on until the waitress had told you to leave because she had to close down and go home to her kids. Now, you can’t even ask Donghyuck what he thinks about the weather.

The food that comes to your table is appropriate for the mood; it’s stale and a little bland, since nobody seems to like eating breakfast for dinner anymore, which just means reheated pancakes and microwaved hotdogs. Even with that topic up in the air, no one really says anything; at one point, you’re so bored that you check your phone to see that Mark has butt texted you a couple of times.  

Donghyuck’s first tiny outburst happens midway through the meal. You desperately want to add some kind of flavor to your food, but you don’t know if you’re up to breaking the silence. The result is you coughing loudly — twice, because Mark doesn’t pay attention the first time — and eyeing the little pitcher of maple syrup by his elbow. He doesn’t grasp it fully and reaches out for the napkin stand instead, which just leads to you staring more intensely at the syrup, furrowing your eyebrows at it like it’s supposed to help. All he does is throw you a much more intense look of confusion.  

Donghyuck, who appears to have been watching this depressing miscommunication between the two of you since the beginning, suddenly speaks up.  

“Do you want me to leave, or something? You can just say so.”  

“What?” You snap your gaze to him, shocked to the point that you can’t even acknowledge Mark’s intelligence belatedly returning to him as he passes you the maple syrup. “Of course not. Why would you think we want that?”

“I don’t know. This,” he points his fork at the two of you. A drop of maple syrup falls off of it and onto the table. “This weird eyefucking thing you two are doing.”

“We’re not eyefucking. I was asking for the maple syrup,” you clarify.

“Oh. Okay.” He doesn’t seem entirely convinced. “Couldn’t you have just asked?”

You have no response to this, and Mark throws you a patronizing yeah, you could have look that you pointedly ignore because you can only feel like it had been his fault for not understanding your blinks and squints anyway.  

The second scene happens when you’re finished and waiting for the bill. At this point, the silence, which had only been interrupted by brief and insignificant comments from either you and Donghyuck, had become so unbearably stuffy that you feel close to tears. In your exasperation, you try to catch Mark’s attention, hoping to get him to pull his weight by saying something. Unfortunately, he’s busy going through his wallet and rearranging the notes from the 50,000’s down to the 1,000’s, and he doesn’t see anything. You move to an alternative plan, which is to kick his foot until he notices, but when your foot collides with something hard, it’s not him that reacts first.  

“Ow!” Donghyuck yells, and you start, sitting up straighter and reaching out to him on impulse. “What the fuck was that for?”  

“Sorry!” You half-stand, unsure of what to do; Donghyuck is looking up at you like a wounded dog, which is as much as you deserve. “Sorry, sorry! I wasn’t — I didn’t mean — I was going for Mark!”  

“Why?” he demands, brow furrowing for a moment before they shoot up, and his expression morphs into one of disgust. “That’s nasty, noona!”

“What? No, I wasn’t — !” You throw your hands up, embarrassed and irritated all at once. “I was just trying to get his attention!”

“How?”

“I don’t know! He wasn’t looking, and it just felt weird, and I wanted him to say something!”  

“Really? All of this kama sutra shit while I’m around? You guys are just shoving it into my face at this point.”  

“Technically,” Mark says, now very unhelpfully and — more to the fact — uselessly. “We try to keep you out of the loop as much as possible.”

Donghyuck looks incensed, so this is clearly not the response he’d wanted. “How come I’m just supposed to sit here and watch you two make out without me and take it all in quietly? You could at least try to make me less of a third wheel when we’re together.”  

“Donghyuck, we’re not trying to make you a third wheel,” you reason. “I know it feels that way, but nothing’s changed.”

“Technically—” Mark starts again, and you kick him, this time with more precision, into silence. He falls quiet without argument.  

“It feels that way because it is that way. You guys are just living your best lives in love without me.” Donghyuck stands up, and you watch him do so with confusion and a ton of regret on your face. “Can we go back now? I have a presentation tomorrow and I want to make sure my PowerPoint doesn’t have any typos.”  

You watch in helpless disappointment as Mark obediently slips out of the booth so Donghyuck can walk out as well; after a moment of dumbly staring at them fixing their coat collars, you step out and join them. The restaurant’s lights shut off when you exit, and the three of you walk quietly back home. You feel Mark’s hand bump into yours a couple of times by accident, but on the third time, his fingers lace into yours, and he gives them a tight, reassuring squeeze.  

Donghyuck disappears into his room after announcing that he’s bought some new ear plugs from the pharmacy and had been planning on testing them out anyway, but the statement that you guys can do whatever you like seems half-hearted. To be safe, you and Mark take quick, separate showers before crawling into his bed. You keep the lights on because you’re fairly certain he’s going to fall asleep if he’s in the dark for more than ten minutes, and you want to make sure he stays up so that you can get some fairly substantial feedback when you unload the thoughts plaguing you since the restaurant experience.  

Still, you’re silent for the first few moments, trying to collect yourself into articulating your feelings. Mark is on his side, an elbow propping his head up, and his palm is laying on your stomach, rubbing it in small, gentle circles. The moments tick by, and neither of you speak until he bends down to press a kiss to your shoulder.  

“You gonna break up with me or something?” He chuckles softly after letting you have your long bout of silence. “I’m willing to beg if necessary.”  

“Isn’t it just weird?” You finally begin, ignoring his stupidly absurd question completely. He doesn’t even flinch at the volume difference between your voice and his. “I thought he was okay with it.”

“Me too. He even told me he was going to tell you he heard me jerking off in the shower after we studied for the Traditional History midterm if I didn’t confess to you.”  

“Yeah, and he — did you really do that?”  

“Obviously.” He doesn’t even turn red, or anything; Mark, since that day, has defied your personal expectations and grown immensely immune to feeling embarrassment when talking about the erotic. “That was too specific for me to make up.”

“What a coincidence,” you laugh. “I masturbated after that review session too.”  

“Really?”

“Your hair looked nice, plus you smelled super good.”

“I should go back to my old shampoo, if that’s what gets you running.”  

“I don’t really think it’s the shampoo,” you turn over as well, mimicking his position. His hand stays on you, now resting on the dip of your waist. “But about Donghyuck — is it mean that I feel like he’s overreacting?”  

“Not really, but only because it seems that way to me too. Like, now I have to pay for my own Netflix because he’s acting weird, which is just such a waste of money.” You think it’s a little bit funny that Mark’s still tied up on the Netflix issue, but you suppose that you’d be a little miffed if you had to redo your entire watchlist from scratch again too, so you opt not to say anything. “It’s really hard to overlook the fact that he thinks we’re doing everything in our power to stop being friends with him.”

“I know!” You say, louder than you should, and Mark’s finger flies to his lips as you both fall silent, listening for Donghyuck. You hear nothing, so you assume he hadn’t either. Still, you lower your voice to a much more acceptable decibel thereafter. “I know. It was like that time he spent playing annoying matchmaker had just flown out of the window.”  

“But we can’t blame him either,” Mark sighs softly, fingers drumming against your side. “Being a third wheel sucks. We all know that. We’ve all been there.”

“We’re not trying to actually exclude him when we’re together, though.”

“But we do.” He shrugs. “I mean, even without doing anything, we do. It’s already inherently different for him because he knows he’s not actually part of the equation.”  

“We can’t make him any more a part of this equation than we already have,” you frown.  

“I know that. Look — maybe he just needs a little bit of time to adjust. I’m sure he’s just reacting badly to change more than he is to our actual relationship.”  

“I guess,” you sigh again, heavily and more dramatically this time. “I just wish we could do something so he wouldn’t react badly at all.”

“We’ve tried. Maybe now just isn’t the right time.”  

The both of you fall into a thoughtful silence; you can see Mark’s eyelids getting heavy, and even you’re stifling a few yawns here and there. It seems the conversation’s mostly died out unresolved, but you’re not sure it’s actually ended; neither is Mark, who’s still watching you like he’s waiting for you to say something else. When you don’t, he leans in, pressing a small, sweet kiss to your forehead.  

The quiet is broken by Mark’s bedroom door flinging open. In the doorway stands Donghyuck, one earplug in his hand, the other wedged tightly into his ear. His bottom lip is jutting out already, which is a signal that he’s already prepared a full complaint report to file beforehand.  

“You guys could at least try to keep the sex down. There’s only two of you. There’s no way you’re having that much fun to make this much noise.”  

“We’re not even naked,” you respond in disbelief, twisting your torso to look at him. “We’re just talking.”  

“Oh.”  

Donghyuck rolls the earplug between his fingers, visibly embarrassed. You guess those things have been working well considering he hadn’t even heard you talking about anything before he’d burst in and make a small mental note to congratulate him on his great new investment. You watch him, waiting for him to say something — anything — about what’s bothering him and why he’s so intent on calling you out for the smallest things. Instead, he just gropes for the light switch on the wall next to him, pushing the button and plunging the three of you into darkness. He trudges away, closing the door behind himself while muttering something about energy conservation.  

You feel Mark shift; he takes the darkness as a signal that it’s time to sleep, so he lays down carefully on his side, his hand reaching out to rub at your back. Dismayed, you right your position, facing away from him and lying down as well. A moment later, you feel the warmth of his body against your back, and his breath blows lightly against your cheek.  

He dozes off five minutes in, and you know because his breathing becomes extremely deep and even. Even when you toy a little with his fingers, he doesn’t budge, and you lie there for what feels like hours trying to decode this weird situation. First the uncharacteristic silence and moodiness, followed by the weird experience in the restaurant. And now this, with him constantly expecting you to be ravaging each other, like his mind is just totally tunnel focusing on how everything you do is a byproduct of your being perpetually horny. It’s almost like he’s too weirdly interested in it, like he’s…  

You reach backwards, smacking Mark in the shoulder. He grunts in response but still doesn’t move, so you do it again, calling out to him. His grip tightens on your waist as he mumbles a sleepy what now?

“Do you remember what Donghyuck said in the restaurant?”  

“He hardly said anything.”  

“I know. But he said something weird about us.”

“What — that he thought we were eyefucking, or that he thought you were giving me a footjob?” Mark pauses for a moment. “By the way, out of pure curiosity, if we ever make a list of things we’re into, is that something you’d put or, like — because knowing you, I feel like it wouldn’t hurt to ask once —”

“No. No, he said something kind of wack, like,” you scrunch up your nose. “How come he has to sit there and watch us make out without him?”

“Yeah?” You can tell Mark is already drifting off again, so you turn around in an attempt to force him into the same epiphany you’ve experienced. Only one of his eyes is open and the other one is giving up pretty quickly too. “So?”  

“He was annoyed that we were making out,” you repeat. “Without him.”  

Carefully, almost comically, Mark’s other eye starts to open, and his eyebrows are also rising. He lifts his head off the pillow, gaping at you in sleepy shock.

“It can’t be.”

“You said we were leaving him out of the sex, and he looked really ticked off.”

“Yeah, because who wants to talk about sex over shit quality pancakes?”  

“There’s only two of you,” you mimic Donghyuck’s sleepy, irritated voice. “There’s no way you’re having that much fun to make this much noise.”  

Mark looks stumped. He’s actually reminiscent of a goldfish, his mouth opening and closing as he struggles to find the words. The only thing he can think of is a repeat of “It can’t be.”  

“Mark,” you say slowly. “What if we’ve been including Donghyuck in all the wrong things?”  

Surprisingly, it isn’t hard to convince Mark to play along. Maybe it’s because he’s not doing a lot of the proverbial heavy-lifting, or maybe he just knows there’s not much point in attempting to talk you out of anything once you’re convinced that you’re going to do it. Either way, he falls asleep in the middle of dazedly agreeing to what you’re planning, and when you wake up, he’s stuck a note to your forehead saying he’ll see you during practice and reminding you to eat your breakfast. Even Donghyuck is gone for his first class of the day.  

There’s a slightly new development when you go to practice after your classes, where the team captain, Sooyoung, instructs you all to go back to the locker room because the shipment of the new uniforms has finally arrived. You feel a slight twinge of resentment towards her, partly because the team had been waiting around under the heat of the afternoon sun for a good fifteen minutes before she’d arrived but also mostly because going back to the locker rooms means you can’t watch Mark do laps with the rest of the football team, a personal tradition you’ve always loved.  

Still, you don’t have much of a choice, and you allow yourself to be trooped back into the locker room with the rest of your team to squeeze yourself into the uniforms. The fact that you’d already gotten a little sticky from being outside makes it almost impossible to get yourself dressed in top speed, and it didn’t help that Sooyoung came to tell you all to hurry up so that you could try the new routine in the new devil’s suit. You don’t necessarily miss the old uniform, but this one, despite being more elastic, also has thick stripes of glitter around the collar and hem as well as in regular intervals on the skirt pleats, so you have to stay far from each other when walking to avoid melting together into one, gross glitter bomb.  

It pays off when you get back out, though, because the change is welcomed by the people on the field — mostly the players themselves — and it shows in small things, like how Jaehyun gets a face full of ball because he’s too busy checking his girlfriend out to pay attention to Jeno, who lobs the ball towards him with all his might, or like how Mark just stands by the ice box full of half-melted bottles of water with a blank, almost dazed expression until the coach calls him out by name.  

Football practice ends half an hour before cheerleading practice does today, considering you’d wasted time wrestling with your uniforms, but Mark patiently waits on the bleachers after his shower while you finish up. You actually think that his presence helps cut Sooyoung’s twenty-minute after-practice talk down to ten minutes because she keeps looking at him, like she’s worried he’s going to tell her to shut up, even though all he’s doing is staring ahead politely. When she dismisses everyone, you walk over to him, and he hands you a water bottle. You don’t miss the once-over he gives you before he decides to fix his gaze on your face.  

“Is this the new uniform?” He asks, as if he doesn’t know.  

“Yeah. Is it nice?”

“For sure,” he agrees. “It’s good you guys busted that out today instead of during a game. It looks like we have to learn how to get used to it. Me, especially.”  

“And Jaehyun.”

“And Jaehyun,” he laughs. “He’s still guilting Jeno into apologizing, even though we all know he wasn’t paying attention.”  

“I’m going to take a shower, then we can go back together. Did you do what I asked?”  

“Yeah. Oh — if you haven’t yet,” his fingers toy idly with a pleat on your skirt. “You should consider doing it in this.”  

“The fact that you’re actually actively participating in this is seriously attractive.” You run your fingers through his hair; the water keeps it stuck in the messy way you push it into. “I like your hair like this.”  

He chuckles, rejecting your hand and combing his hair forward into the neatness he’s so used to. You laugh when he smacks your hand away lightly as you try to muss it up again. “Go shower. I’ll wait out here.”  

You take a quick shower, only slightly derailed by the fact that you have to dash out to grab your towel, which you’ve left on the bench near your locker. When you come out, Mark is waiting by the door instead of on the bleachers, playing games on his phone. On the way back to his room, he tells you about how he had to leave that area because he thought that he’d heard Jaehyun moaning from somewhere under the bleachers, a sound he was not emotionally prepared to hear, and the thought that he’d been eavesdropping on something highly private and easily escalatable had driven him from his seat.  

When you get back to the room, though, you’re surprised that Donghyuck isn’t back yet, considering his classes had ended hours earlier. Mark theorizes that you’d scared him away, but you note that the food in the refrigerator is exactly as you’d seen it this morning when you’d grabbed breakfast, which heightens the likelihood that Donghyuck hasn’t come home at all. He doesn’t, actually, for another hour, during which you and Mark watch Blue Earth on Netflix simply because he doesn’t want the 10,000 won he pays every month to go down the drain. You’re halfway through the deep sea creatures episode when the door lock clicks and Donghyuck comes in, just as Mark is headed to his bedroom to take a call from his mom, who you distinctly hear asking about how well he’s treating you.  

“Nice suit,” you comment, noticing that Donghyuck dressed up for his presentation; you know he only has, like, one actually nice suit that he saves for events that require him to look decent and formal, considering the fact that he usually goes to class in ripped jeans and worn cotton t-shirts. “How’d your presentation go?”

You don’t actually expect a proper response, and you don’t get one; he just glares at you as he toes off his shoes and drops his backpack on the floor by the door. It’s a half-minute staring contest, with your innocent, questioning expression and his more venomous one, which ends when he stops in front of you, towering over your head and effectively blocking the television.  

“Where’s Mark hyung?”

“Talking to his mom about what a great girlfriend I am,” you reply. “Why?”  

“I have a bone to pick with both of you.”

“So pick away,” you reply, leaning back on the couch. “We don’t have to wait for him. I’ll get him up to speed when he comes back.”

“Fine,” he fishes around for his phone, extracting it from his pocket before opening it, angrily tapping on the screen and scrolling. You can hear his nails hit the glass with the force of his taps. “Fine. Care to explain this?”  

He shows you his phone, and you squint to read what he’s presented. It’s your Facebook chat with him, and on the top is the first thing you’d sent him this morning: a good luck on your presentation! message, with some very caring heart eyes and star emojis. Granted, you’d also accidentally pressed the middle finger emoji, but you’d quickly retracted that.  

“It’s a message that represents my utmost support for all of your academic endeavors,” you raise your eyebrows at him. “That you’ve cruelly seen zoned, so thank you for that.”  

“Not that — these,” he scrolls the chat further downwards for you.  

There’s a set of pictures under your earlier message, dated after practice today, none of which expose your face. The first one is focused on your chest, and you’re carefully tightening your arms closer together to push your boobs together, a selfie that had been fairly difficult to take and that you’d actually taken great pride in when you’d done it. The one under it is from a similar angle, except you’ve taken advantage of the amazing elasticity of the top of your cheerleading uniform to pull down the collar, the cup of your bra going down with it. Your thumb and forefinger are lightly pinching your nipple, and you hadn’t noticed earlier when you’d taken the picture, but there’s a smattering of residual glitter from the uniform that makes your skin look kind of awesome and mystical.  

The latter two had required a fair amount of logistic forethought as well as patience, since you had to wait for everyone else to leave before you could do it. You’re fairly pleased that they’d turned out pretty nicely; the third picture is a view of your ass, the uniform’s skirt pushed up over your hips to expose your underwear. Cheerleaders are technically required to wear cycling shorts under the skirt because, well, school rules, but you’d discarded them before taking the picture. You also usually favor function over fashion during practice, but since you’d prepared yourself for this moment, you’d decided to put your own preferences aside and worn something lacier and, consequently, a little more see-through. The last photo is a personal favorite, with you still in the same position, except you’ve pushed your underwear aside, revealing your pussy. As an added bonus, you’re also using your index and middle finger to spread your lips, which you thought was kind of hot at the time, except, by the look on Donghyuck’s face, it might have been overkill.  

Under all of those photos, you’d written one short and sweet message: All for you, baby. No lame emojis this time, because it had seemed like a serious matter.  

You look back up at Donghyuck, who’s clearly close to bursting with words with how red his face is.  

“We got a new cheerleading uniform today,” you explain, although you know it’s not really the reasoning he wants. “I was kind of proud of how nice it looked.”  

“I can barely see the uniform — you know what? You’re totally missing the point.” He looks like he’s gnashing his teeth. “That’s not even all of it.”  

He turns the phone back to himself, and you calmly wait as his taps grow increasingly aggressive. A minute later, he turns the phone back to you, showing you a different chat; Mark’s name is on top this time, and there’s only one picture. It’s actually kind of funny considering it’s a little blurry, but you greatly appreciate it nonetheless, considering it’s a photo of his dick, half-erect, while he’s standing in what appears to be the shower stall in the locker room. The exact same message you’d sent Donghyuck — the horny one, not the one about his presentation — is also under his single photo.  

You make eye contact with Donghyuck again, still fairly stoic. “Is that all of it?”  

He looks torn between being annoyed and nonplussed. “Is that all of it? You guys both wrong-sent me your couple nudes!”

“Do you not often get them, or something?”  

“I was at dinner, noona,” he clutches his phone to his chest now, like he’s afraid you’re going to nab it and start taking more naked pictures. “I was out with Renjun when you sent me these!”  

“So? You let Renjun look at your phone?”  

“No, of course not, but I—” he splutters, clearly befuddled by how calm you are about everything. “I don’t want to be eating something then have to see your accidental nudes to each other!”

“They’re not,” you correct him.  

“Not what? Nudes? These are, by every definition of a nude, nudes!”  

“I meant that they’re not accidental.”

You’ve seen Donghyuck stumped before, but you’ve never seen him this lost for words; after a brief, perplexed pause, he’s started making all these weird, breathy, disbelieving sounds, like he’s just forgotten how to form sentences at all. His knuckles turn white as he grips his phone even tighter.  

While he’s coming to terms with your statement, Mark quietly comes back in, having ended the call with his mother; you notice he’s watching Donghyuck carefully, but he says nothing as he sits down next to you. Donghyuck looks at him, like he’s expecting a sensible answer, or like a statement that this is all a joke, but Mark just sits there in the same kind of silence as you. You don’t even bother keeping him up to speed; it’s clear by his expression that he’s already aware of what’s going on.  

Two long, heavy minutes pass, and it becomes clear that Donghyuck isn’t going to speak. He’s just looking at you now, this sort of distant, glassy gaze on his face, his mind clearly working overtime and frying out. You decide to break the silence, since you know Mark isn’t going to.  

“Donghyuck,” you call out to him, and he apparently comes crashing back down to earth. “Do you want to have a seat?”  

“What do you mean they’re not accidental?” He finally demands.  

“Not accidental. Intentional? Deliberate.” You elaborate with a tone that suggests this should be obvious. "We sent them to you on purpose.”  

“But Mark hyung sent me the — the — this!” He flips his phone around again, almost losing his hold on it, to show Mark the screen. The latter just looks at it with mild interest.

“And when does Mark message someone the wrong thing?”  

“But you said! You said,” he turns the phone back to himself, eyes scanning the screen feverishly before showing it to you again, index finger jabbing at your message. “You said all for you, baby!”

“I don’t really call Mark ‘baby.’” You shrug. “I know you know that much now.”  

Donghyuck’s eyebrows have practically disappeared into his bangs, and his mouth is opening and closing soundlessly. Mark takes the phone from his hand, exiting his chat and going to yours, scrolling up a little to look at your pictures.  

“Nice,” he says appreciatively as he hands the phone back to Donghyuck, who takes it robotically.  

“Thank you.” You squeeze his thigh. Donghyuck just watches this exchange, disbelief still written on his face. “Donghyuck — I really do think you should sit down, or something. You look like you’re going to faint.”  

You watch him slowly go over to the tiny dining table in the kitchen, grabbing one of the monobloc chairs and dragging it back to his former position. He sinks down onto the seat, now looking at you with a renewed desire to speak.  

“You need to explain.”  

“Actually, I think you need to answer my question first.” You lean forward, and you see Donghyuck swallow. Hard. You also don’t miss the fact that his eyes flit nervously to your breasts, which have been pushed together slightly again as you rest your elbows on your knees. “Donghyuck, when you said you didn’t like being left out like a third wheel, what did you mean?”  

He fixes a bemused look on you, rubbing the back of his neck. “What do you mean ‘what did I mean’? Have you ever heard someone say damn, I wish I could be the loser third wheel to my best friends for the rest of my life?”  

“We’ve tried to do things with you, haven’t we? As far as we know, we’ve done most of the stuff we used to do with you before even until now, after Mark and I got together. We don’t do gross, couple-y stuff when you’re around. But we can tell that there’s still something bothering you. Isn’t there?”  

“Well,” his eyes flit to Mark, who’s just carefully and politely watching the events unfold. “Well, yeah. I just… wanted to sort of be included in stuff. More stuff.”

“Like?”  

He lets out a soft huff, but he doesn’t bother to say anything. Instead, you watch as his face grows redder, and he’s now refusing to make eye contact with either of you. Unfortunately, the only other thing in his immediate line of sight is your chest, which he has a spectacular view of from his seat, so he averts his eyes to the side, staring at the empty space beside you on the couch.  

“I’m going to just go out on a limb here,” you shrug when it’s clear he’s lapsed into another stony, embarrassed silence again. “And you can just tell me if I’m right, and if I’m wrong, Mark and I will sincerely apologize for everything we’ve put you through today. You just have to be honest. Okay?”  

You see him give the tiniest of nods towards the empty space on the couch.  

“Donghyuck, were you upset because you wanted in on the sex?”  

You’ve never seen Donghyuck this red; the reddest you’d seen him was during that Avengers argument, and even that look on him didn’t hold a candle to the state of his face now. He’s twisting his phone in his hands, agitated, and he keeps inexplicably glancing at you. After a while, he takes a shaky breath, once again keeping his gaze firmly away.

“I know it’s super fucked up.”  

“Not the most fucked up thing in the world, I’m pretty sure.”  

“Still sure it’s halfway up that list,” he sighs. “Look — at first, you know, it was… okay? I mean, technically, it still is, like, I’m not really mad that you guys are together, or whatever. But then, I don’t know — I got jealous, I guess? And it was kind of mixed in with how much I like you guys, and it was also this weird realization that, you know, maybe, maybe, I was kind of… attracted. To the both of you. I mean,” he flails his hands in an attempt to get the words to come out faster. “I mean, you’re both super hot.”  

“Thank you,” your joking voice harmonizes with Mark’s weirdly more serious and immediate response.  

“It was an extremely confusing period of time for me. So, I mean, obviously I got frustrated. Like, mentally, but also sexually. I shouldn’t have, but I guess I took it out on you guys.” His shoulders slump forward. “Sorry.”  

“First of all, thank you for your honesty,” you lean back onto the couch, and you hear him breathe out a small sigh of relief as he sees a window of opportunity to look at you again. “Second — I hope you don’t think you’re not super hot yourself.”  

“I mean,” he twiddles his thumbs; the shock and disbelief have left him, it seems, replaced by growing sheepishness. “I’m okay, I guess.”  

“That’s crappy modesty.” For the first time since he’d stormed in, he lets out a soft laugh. “Look — we’re sorry too.”

“You guys don’t have to be.” He looks up, a little alarmed. “I mean… you’re a couple. No one really wants their friend to just dive in when they’re supposed to be a third wheel.”  

“That’s the thing, though,” you shrug. “We don’t want you to be just a constant, unhappy third wheel.”  

You stare at Donghyuck’s phone, and he notices, peeling it away from his chest and looking back down at your messages with his brow furrowed. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Mark raise a hand to his mouth, probably to cover up the fact that he’s close to bursting out into laughter at Donghyuck’s constantly morphing comical expressions. He poorly disguises one chuckle as a cough.

Donghyuck seems to be stuck on buffering mode again, just opening and minimizing each picture in the chat ceaselessly. You place a hand on his knee, giving it a small squeeze to get him to look at you again.  

“What we’re asking  — you don’t have to do it, or whatever. But if you want to — if you really want to — just say so.”  

It’s a staring contest again, except there’s much less heat involved; Donghyuck seems to be mapping every plane of your face, trying to figure out if there’s any sign of insincerity. After a long moment, you see the corners of his mouth twitch, and his voice comes out soft.  

“You know I want to.”  

“Good,” you squeeze his thigh again. His eyes follow you as you stand, and he stays silent as you settle back down onto his lap, only sparing a glance at Mark like he wants some sort of confirmation. His gaze falls back on you as you comb his hair back with your fingers, a small smile playing on your lips. Donghyuck looks like he has a lot of questions, but he swallows them down as your fingers fall to his shoulders then to his chest, pushing aside the folds of his blazer. “If at any point, you feel like stopping — if it gets weird, or anything like that, just say so.”  

“I’m not going to.”

“I was hoping you’d say as much,” you laugh softly, helping him out of the blazer. Donghyuck isn’t by far the most muscular person you’ve met, but he’s naturally more substantial than most, and the fact that his inner shirt is kind of tight on him just highlights that. You can feel him shivering slightly under your fingers, which gives you the brief impression that he’s nervous, but it doesn’t show all that much when you start unbuttoning his shirt and he moves to help you, from the bottom up.  

His eyes keep shifting between you and Mark, like he can’t decide who to focus on more, but you catch his attention for a little while longer as you undo the knot on his tie, tugging it loose from his neck. The front folds of his shirt have fallen away from each other, hanging loose at his sides, and you can see now how quickly he’s breathing, his chest rising and falling erratically.

“You okay?” You whisper, hanging the tie over the back of your neck. You’re so close to him you actually hear him swallow slowly.

“Yeah, it’s just…” He licks his lips. Once. Twice. “This slow, sexy pace is coming at a bad time for me.”  

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I’ve been pretty hard since I left the restaurant. You guys couldn’t have picked a worse time to send those pictures.”  

“We were assuming you’d just be home,” Mark’s voice is a welcome addition to the dialogue — low and a little gruff, a telltale sign of his arousal. “You usually are.”  

“Yeah, well I…” Donghyuck’s voice trails off as he fixates on your fingers, which are moving around your neck. You observe his jaw going slack, little by little, as he takes in the fact that you’re using his tie as a makeshift choker, the ends forming a lopsided ribbon at the base of your throat. “I…”  

“Go on. We’re listening.”  

“I… am so…” He inhales deeply, closing his eyes for a second like he’s rebooting himself. “I am… unbelievably turned on.”

“You like this?” You finger the ends of the tie, your smile growing as he nods. “That’s a little kinky of you.”  

“I’m kinky?” His laugh is part breathless, part incredulous. “I’m not even half the kinky you are, noona.”  

You lean in closer, watching Donghyuck’s eyes instinctively flutter close; your lips land on the bridge of his nose first, then the tip, before falling onto his mouth, where he tilts his head up just enough to meet the kiss firmly. It’s brief but sweet, and when you pull back, his head follows on impulse, trying to chase yours. When you lean in again, your lips land on his jaw, trailing up the sharp angle all the way up to his earlobe. Your breath on his skin is either tickling him or revving him up, because he grips your waist tightly, blunt nails digging shallowly into your skin.  

“I’ll accept that compliment,” you murmur, blowing more hot air into the shell of his ear. “But no one in this room isn’t at least a little bit kinky.”  

“Even Mark hyung?”  

“Even Mark,” you agree, trapping his earlobe between your teeth and tugging on it lightly. A soft gasp escapes him, but instead of pulling away, he only holds you tighter, pulling your hips closer to his. “But we don’t call him that right now, do we?”  

Donghyuck’s shoulders freeze; it’s clear he’s holding his breath. For a moment, you’re worried you’ve scared him off, and you stay still too, until you feel him exhale shakily. He gives a minute shake of the head.  

“That’s right. What do we call him?”

Not for the first time today, you wonder if what you’re doing is a little overboard for Donghyuck, especially since he’s being initiated into this weird situation where you’re essentially playing out some of your personal whims. You experience a slight wave of worry in the span of time it takes for you to ask that question and for Donghyuck to respond, but the wait pays off when he clears his throat a little and answers, voice barely above a whisper.  

“Daddy.”  

“What about you, Donghyuck?” You continue to whisper, only pausing to let you tongue slip out, the tip tracing the shell of his ear. “What do you think we should call you?”  

His breathing hitches again, and you have to hold onto his shoulders while he shifts in his seat so you don’t topple off his lap. When he speaks, though, his voice is surprisingly clearer. You don’t know if he thinks there’s a right answer, but he says it nonetheless.

“Baby.”  

“That’s good,” you squeeze his shoulders in assurance, and he returns the favor on your waist. “You’re already doing so well, baby. Are you looking at daddy?”  

His earlobe bumps against your tongue as he nods again, and you trap it between your teeth again, tugging on it until he makes a soft whining sound.  

“Can you tell me what he’s doing?”  

“He’s…” Donghyuck clears his throat, losing a little bit of the nerve he’d had just a moment ago. That, or he’s distracted, and you can’t blame him given his answer. “He’s — he’s jerking himself off.”  

“Is that so?” You pull away, unable to resist confirming for yourself. You’re not disappointed; Mark is still in his exact same spot on the couch, but he’s pushed down the front of his sweatpants, palming at his cock through his boxers. His eyes lift to meet yours when you turn, and a small smile lifts the corners of his lips. “Having fun on your own?”  

“Just enjoying the view,” he chuckles softly. The bulge pushing against the fabric just keeps growing. “You can pretend I’m not here.”  

“No way.” Your hands make their way back to Donghyuck’s chest, tracing spirals down his skin. He sucks in his stomach a little when your touch travels down to his abdomen, and he blows out the air against your cheek a moment later. “Audience participation is mandatory.”  

“At least let me appreciate it for a little while longer.”  

“Fair enough,” you turn back to Donghyuck, who snaps his head back up to your face like he’s been caught not paying attention. He really hasn’t though, having taken more of an interest in wondering how far down your hand is going to go and looking a little crestfallen that your index finger is just hovering above his navel. “What do you say, Donghyuck? Should we give daddy a little show?”  

“What kind of show?”

“I was thinking something along the lines of my mouth around your cock, but I’m totally open to suggestions.”  

Donghyuck doesn’t waste time deciding, nodding instantly before you even finish your sentence. “No suggestions. That’s the best suggestion. Please.”  

Mark laughs softly along with you, but Donghyuck can’t afford to be amused when he looks so desperate to have something of any value happen. You oblige, fingers finally completing their journey as they find their way to his slacks, undoing the fastenings and carefully tugging down the zipper.

Donghyuck initiates the next kiss, his hands suddenly coming up to trap your face in between his palms and turning your head up so quickly you don’t even register what he wants before he’s already pressed his mouth against yours. There’s a greater level of want, if not need, in the way he mouths at your lips, like he’s finally realized this is really going somewhere and he doesn’t want to waste time anymore. His mouth is hungry, taking your bottom lip between his teeth and sucking on it so roughly it starts to go a little numb.  

You almost forget you’re in the middle of something, but his hips give a little jerk as if to remind you, and you blindly get back to work, pushing down the front of his boxers and wrapping your fingers around his cock. He’s already hard, the tip slick with pre-cum, his cock twitching at your touch. Even if he’d been enthusiastic about your idea, he doesn’t free you from the kiss immediately; he deepens it, tongue finding its way into your mouth, curling up against the roof of your mouth and rubbing against your own. You give his cock a couple of slow pumps as a reminder, but he just moans into your mouth, fingers tangling into your hair.  

It’s you that has to break contact first, coming back up for breath. Donghyuck just stares at you, dazed, his mouth still parted slightly. Before you say anything, he’s leaned in again, trapping your lips in another brief but wet kiss. And another. And another. And another. When you press your free hand against his chest to signal him to slow down, there’s a thin line of saliva traveling between your mouth and the corner of his lips. You laugh softly, wiping it away with your thumb. “You’re very eager.”  

He holds your face again, giving you another firm kiss; his aim misses slightly this time, landing more on your upper lip. There’s a bit of wetness sticking to the bottom of your nose after. “Is that bad?”  

“Of course not. It’s good.” You take his hands away from your face, bringing them up to your lips instead. You press a kiss to each of his knuckles affectionately. “You’re so good for me, baby.”  

You land a final kiss against the tip of his nose before shifting backwards. His fingers are still clinging onto yours, and you’re holding hands even when you get onto your knees, easing yourself between his legs. You glance back at Mark; he hasn’t really moved, save for the fact that his cock is now fully exposed too, and he’s pumping it in that slow, almost torturous pace he loves starting with. You don’t see Mark touch himself often, especially since you usually form a party of two with him to get off anyway, but this is a rare sight you actually wouldn’t mind enjoying more often. His brow is slightly furrowed, dark eyes trained on the both of you, a thin sheen of sweat glowing across his forehead. When his eyes meet yours, you wink, way too salaciously for him to take seriously, and the laugh that leaves him is breathy.

Donghyuck gives your fingers a small squeeze when you turn back to him. From this angle, you’re more aware of how flushed his neck and how dangerously quick his Adam’s apple is bobbing, probably because he can’t stop swallowing in anticipation. When you inch your head closer to his cock, he grips your hands even tighter, until the tips of your digits actually turn white.  

“Relax, baby,” you whisper, trying to curl your fingers — in vain, unfortunately, because he refuses to let go.

“I can’t,” he replies a little hoarsely. “I’m going to cum fast. I don’t want you guys to think I’m a quick shot.”  

“Don’t worry about it,” you reassure him, twisting your dominant hand out of his iron grasp. Desperate to still have something to hang onto, his hand moves immediately to your head, gripping your hair in a haphazard half-ponytail. “I think it’s cute that you’re this excited.”

“Don’t tease me, noona.”

“I’m not teasing you,” you say calmly, but your index finger is enjoying its independence way too much, dragging down the side of his shaft lightly and drawing spirals against his skin as it travels back upwards. He lets out a short, sharp hiss. “I’m just telling it as it is. And if you want to cum, all you need to do is tell me where.”  

“What?”  

“Tell me where. Mark prefers the mouth, mostly.” He gapes down at you, shaking his head slowly like he’s not fully comprehending how workaday your tone is in comparison to what you’re saying. “Although you can obviously choose on your own.”

“Wh—” His question dies in his throat as his eyes fixate on your mouth, which is now wrapped around the head of his cock. You feel it twitch against your lips, and Donghyuck’s low, drawn-out moans are the rhythmic soundtrack to your endeavor. His grip on your hair tightens, and he starts a mantra of curses once your tongue begins rolling around the tip. “Oh my g— noona, you need to slow down, holy shit—”

Your giggle is muffled against his skin, but the vibrations just seem to spur him on; he clenches your hand like you’re dangling him off a cliff. His head is tilted back, and his chest is heaving dangerously. The hand in your hair jerks your head accidentally, but you power through it, moving your lips downward. His swearing only intensifies as you start to suck on his length, your mouth running up and down half of it.  

Donghyuck can’t seem to come to a decision on how to proceed; on one hand, he frequently wheezes out a “no” in between sentences he never finishes, but on the other, he’s starting to place pressure on your head in an attempt to lead it further down. You end up deciding for him when he hisses out an almost angry “fuck, that feels so good,” pressing your tongue up against the underside of his shaft. His cock throbs noticeably in your mouth again; the timing perfectly aligns when you look up at him just to see his eyes roll back one quick moment before he squeezes them shut. His mouth is slightly agape, and he can’t even bring his lips together to swear properly at this point.  

Another dangerous twitch of his cock signals that he’s close, and he confirms this when his head suddenly snaps down, eyes flying open.  

“Fuck, I’m gonna—” He shakes his head again, now looking panicked. “I want — can I cum on your tits?”  

You think that’s kind of a complicated decision considering you’re the only one in the room still fully clothed, but you don’t want to deny him, especially not when he looks so desperate. You pull your mouth away quickly, a wet pop sounding between you, and he finally releases your now-numb hand, using it to stroke his cock in your absence. Leaning back, you wrestle your shirt off; you’re about to work on the clasp of your bra too, but a gentle hand gets there before you. Mark has shifted closer for a better view, now unhooking your bra with the hand that isn’t stroking himself.

“Show off.” You grin back at him. He laughs softly, but the sound is drowned out by a slightly louder moan from Donghyuck. His head is in its previous position, tilted back, his bangs matted to his forehead. He’s sucked in his stomach, like he’s holding his breath just to stop himself from cumming. You tap his moving hand to tell him to stop, but he moans out a throaty albeit much more insistent no. Slightly amazed, you watch him shift forward in his seat, half of his ass hanging off the edge, leading his cock closer to you.  

It takes you a split second before you cotton on, and in that short interlude, his groans get exponentially louder, so you try not to waste any more time, leaning forward again so that his shaft can rest against your cleavage. It’s clear that your guess on what he wants is correct, because the fist around his cock loosens; instead, he presses his thumb down on his cock, making sure it stays flush against your skin as he starts to roll his hips upward haphazardly.  

You’re so new to the sight of this that you don’t even move; you just watch him rut against you, wondering why you hadn’t at least set up a camera so you could have a souvenir when this was all over. Surprisingly, it’s Mark that takes the initiative again; sacrificing personal pleasure, both his palms slip under your arms, pressing against the sides of your breasts and pushing them closer to the center. The friction Donghyuck is creating intensifies when they press up against his cock, and his reaction is immediate; his hips jerk up sharply, cock barely missing your chin.  

Donghyuck’s movements are more erratic now, and the flush on his neck has spread upwards to his cheeks. He’s so close, and the only thing you can do at this point is to egg him on.

“That’s so good, baby.” Your whisper is barely audible, but you know he can hear it, even with everything else he’s saying about how much he’s already losing his mind. “You’re doing so well. I bet you look so good when you cum, don’t you? Show mommy how much you want to cum all over me.”  

His hips give one last sharp lurch before a drawn out groan rips from his chest; you feel a splash of heat against your neck first. Donghyuck has all but slid off his seat, but he manages to right himself, pulling away from you slightly so he can fist at his cock again to coax his climax to completion. You let out a soft, appreciative noise as you feel his cum hit your skin in quick bursts.  

You smile up at him when he slouches back into the chair, breathing labored. Something like a disbelieving laugh escapes him when your gazes lock, and your grin just widens in response.  

“Mommy?”  

“Sorry. Heat of the moment, and all that,” you shrug. “Too weird?”  

“Kind of hot, actually,” he admits. “I’m not mad about it.”  

“I agree,” Mark’s voice sounds fresh in the situation considering how absent it had been for the better part of the blowjob. His hands are still against your breasts, now cupping them lightly instead of pushing them together. You lean back slightly, your head bumping into his shoulder.  

“It was nice to have an active audience too, actually,” you sigh softly, feeling Mark’s torso shake weakly as he laughs again. “Very helpful at the right time.”  

“I just took advantage of a sudden opportunity.” His fingers squeeze at your breasts gently. Donghyuck has caught his breath now, mostly, and he sits up a little straighter. His expression has gone back to looking a bit careful, which you’re disappointed about until he speaks up again.

“So… is that… really it?”  

“Why?” You bite back a laugh. “Did you want more, or something?”  

“Kind of.”  

“That’s good, considering I wasn’t really planning on stopping just yet.” Your hands move up your sides, overlapping with Mark’s. “Looks like you need a break, though.”  

“I really don’t,” Donghyuck answers quickly, almost talking over you.  

“How quick is your recovery time?”

“I don’t usually have a stopwatch on me when I jack off twice in a row,” he frowns. “I usually don’t jack off twice in a row. Isn’t it bad for your heart, or something?”  

“I don’t know. Naver it, if you’re curious,” you suggest.  

“No, thanks. Kind of a mood killer.”  

“True.” you shrug. “I guess we’ll just have to speed it up a little.”

Your fingers close around Mark’s hand, peeling it away from your breast slowly. He makes a small, disappointed sound but doesn’t resist, even when you let his hand go for a moment before taking his forefinger back into your grasp. Leading it back to your skin, you slide his finger over your nipple, Donghyuck’s release slowly gathering on his digit as you move it upwards. You hear Donghyuck inhale sharply as you bring Mark’s finger up to your mouth, your tongue coming out to meet it so you can lick off the residual cum.  

“Is she usually this horny, or, like… what?” Donghyuck sounds both scandalized and amazed.  

“This is definitely in the top ten list of horniest things she’s done,” Mark replies. You don’t miss the fact that his words are laced with a soft, affectionate tone. “Right up there with a morning blowjob and offering to eat my ass.”  

“You didn’t take the offer?”  

“We had a test the next day. Also, she was half-asleep when she offered.”  

“I would have done it if you had woken me up after ten minutes like you were supposed to.” You drop your hold on Mark’s hand.  

“I could tell you were tired. You needed rest, not another reason to rile me up into having sex four hours before a morning exam.”

You shrug as Donghyuck laughs incredulously. Mark, catching up to your intentions, starts using his thumb to wipe the rest of Donghyuck’s cum off your skin before lifting it back up to your mouth. “The offer still stands,” you say right before your lips wrap around his finger, suckling on it languidly. You’re excessively noisy about it, since that seems to interest Donghyuck.  

“I’ll take it up on another day,” Mark promises.  

“And the daddy thing,” Donghyuck presses on, even though his eyes are fixed on where your mouth meets Mark’s skin. “Whose idea was that?”  

“Who else’s?”  

“Noona,” Donghyuck shakes his head. “You’re a hazard to men, do you know that?”

You pull your mouth away, pouting. “That’s not the whole story. You’re telling it wrong.”  

“But you did start it,” Mark replies simply, going back to the task of slowly wiping your chest clean.  

“I said it as a joke, but it turned you on so much I just kept using it,” you elaborate.

“Fine. So that’s what happened,” he concedes. “But you still started it.”  

“But you love it,” you fire back. He chuckles, his finger coming back up to trace the shape of your mouth. The movement of it laces the last of Donghyuck’s cum onto your lips.  

“Of course.”  

Donghyuck’s cock visibly twitches as he watches you trace your tongue over your lips, slowly licking the cum off of them. He just gapes for a moment, even when you’re finished and smiling up at him again, then gently pats the side of his face like he’s trying to get himself to wake up.

“I’m going to have a heart attack.”  

“Story of my life,” Mark responds. You feel his heat leave your back for a moment as he moves to sit back onto the couch, but he reaches out for you again quickly, arms snaking around your waist so he can tug you onto his lap. You lean most of your weight back onto his chest, and his hands move down to unbutton your shorts, thumbs digging into the waistband in an attempt to push them down. “Help me out here, Donghyuck.”  

The latter leans forward as instructed, tugging down your shorts by the hem and dragging your underwear along with them. You have to lift yourself to help them slide it off, and when you sit back down, you press back against Mark’s hips, feeling the shape of his cock push up flush against your bare ass. His knees slip between your legs, pushing them apart to give Donghyuck a fair view of your pussy. He takes in a deep breath, as though mentally preparing himself.  

“We usually do this in front of a mirror,” Mark explains. “But I think it might turn her on more to know you’re watching.”  

“Oh, I’m definitely watching,” Donghyuck promises. “I don’t even know if I have it in me to fucking blink.”  

Mark laughs, but you don’t join him; what comes out of you is a slightly needy sound as you feel his fingers press up against your core. He slips one between your folds, tracing lines repeatedly along your slit, and your moans just grow louder with every time he brushes up against your clit. The sounds you’re making reach its first apex when two digits press down a little harder against the nub, rubbing with a fair amount of intensity.  

In most other instances, Mark isn’t one for a lot of talk; he’ll play along when he has to, but he isn’t instinctively prone to mouthing off during sex unless you prompt some kind of dialogue. You’re not sure if it’s also because Donghyuck is watching, or because this is just one of the rare times he’s feeling up to it, but even in the haze of your growing pleasure, you feel mildly surprised when he suddenly speaks up.

“What’s going on, __________?” His voice is low, muffled against your shoulder as he speaks in between the kisses he’s pressing against your skin. “Tell me. What’s happening to you right now?”  

“Oh my god,” you whimper, feeling him add more pressure against your core. “You’re… you’re rubbing my clit. Your fingers feel so good, fuck.”

He hums softly in approval. “What else?”  

Your answer comes slightly delayed as you moan, a longer, slightly more tortured sound as his fingers leave your clit, moving down to toy at your entrance. “I’m getting so wet, holy shit.”

“Wet for who?”  

“Fuck,” your voice comes out as an embarrassing, high-pitched whine. “For you, daddy. I’m getting so wet for you.”  

“Who else?”  

“For Donghyuck.”  

You feel Mark’s lips brush against the curve of your neck as he speaks again. “Should we show him?”  

You nod, unsure if you can still speak without everything just coming out as a mess, and Mark moves his hand back to your folds, his forefinger and middle finger spreading them. Your legs instinctively follow suit, shifting further apart, and Donghyuck’s mouth goes slack to the point that you can actually see a little bit of drool pooling near the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t even seem to be noticing the fact that he’s growing harder again as the seconds pass, too fixated on Mark’s hand, which has found its way back to your entrance. One digit dips into your core, and you tense around it. He starts to pump it into you, but the movement is too shallow, and your mind is honestly thinking about something else entirely. He knows this, you’re fairly sure, but Mark isn’t usually one to tease, so when he does, you let him get away with it.  

Still, you instinctively let out a frustrated noise, and he catches it. His finger slows in you, and your nails bite into his forearms as a tiny form of revenge. He doesn’t even sound perturbed when he speaks again.  

“What’s wrong?”

“I want…” You huff, hips moving in a bid for some kind of friction. “I want more.”  

“More?”  

“Cock,” You demand. “I want your cock, daddy.”  

His other arm frees your waist, moving to press his palm against your back. You take it as a signal to lift yourself, and your thighs get an unexpected workout as you wait for him to align himself under you. The same hand leads you back down, and you let out what might be the lewdest moan you’ve made for the day so far, feeling the familiar girth of his cock stretch you in that subtle, delicious way you’ve come to love.  

Mark doesn’t even wait for you to settle back down on his lap; you’re only halfway down before he lifts his hips to meet yours, burying himself into you completely. It knocks a little bit of wind out of you, but you won’t deny the fact that his eagerness is a peak turn on at this point. You’re glad that he’s firmly holding your waist, because you don’t know how much strain your legs can take anymore — partly because of practice, but mostly because Mark is funneling all of his energy into thrusting deep into you, which just renders you incapable of focusing on any other task requiring more than minimum effort.  

There’s slight movement in front of you; Donghyuck’s hand has found its way back to his cock, and he’s stroking himself to hardness again, his expression half-pained, half-amazed. His eyes keep moving back and forth, once again unsure on what to focus on. For a while, his gaze is fixed on your breasts, which are bouncing slightly with the force of Mark’s thrusts, but for some reason, he ultimately decides to focus on your face. His fingers tighten around his shaft for a moment.  

“Are you hard again, baby?” You ask the obvious, but he doesn’t seem to mind, considering the fact that he nods immediately. “Does it turn you on —watching daddy fuck me like this?”  

“Jesus.” He runs a hand through his hair, locks sticking out at odd angles. “Jesus Christ.”  

“His cock feels so good in me. He’s filling me up so well, baby. Can you see it?”  

He nods again. “This is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”  

Your head tilts back a little when Mark bucks his hips up a little more sharply than before, mouth falling slack to allow a groan to escape; you feel yourself tighten around him, legs twitching in response. You think you hear Donghyuck call out to a deity again. When your head lifts back up, you lock eyes with Donghyuck again, and he speaks before you can think of anything filthier to say.  

“Can I fuck your mouth, noona?”

He’s already half-standing before you say yes, and Mark has to slow down for a moment as Donghyuck clambers up to line himself up to your mouth again. He doesn’t even need any prompting anymore, one hand immediately moving to tangle into your hair and keep your head still. He uses the other to guide his cock past your lips, and you notice that he feeds you more length than you had taken in earlier.  

Seeing Mark resume his movements is what gives Donghyuck the cue to start, too; he uses his hold in your hair as some kind of leverage, hips rolling forward in slow, controlled thrusts. There’s very little you can do apart from suck with whatever strength you have left and moan intermittently when Mark shifts down a little so he can pump into you at a different, slightly deeper angle. One hand has also found its way back against your pussy, picking up where it left off and toying with your clit. You feel your legs shake slightly with the overstimulation, and it takes a lot of concentration for you to keep yourself from going limp.  

In an attempt to stay preoccupied, you look up at Donghyuck. The sight of him feels almost criminal, with his tongue curled up against his upper lip and his brow furrowed with concentration. His thrusts are growing a little more confident, and with this newfound boldness, he pushes more of his cock past your lips. It doesn’t seem to be an accident, either; his hand leads your head forward a little every time, and if you had to guess, you had probably just about a quarter of his length left before you took it all in.

Suddenly, he pulls his hips away, and you gasp out a soft fuck when he frees your mouth, once again unable to focus on much else apart from Mark’s thrusting, which has also increased in pace and intensity. You’re practically praying in swear words, and Donghyuck has to call your name twice before you look back up at him.  

“Noona, do you think you can—” He swallows hard, fingers falling away from your hair. “Can you relax for me?”  

“I’m getting the dicking down of my life over here,” you rasp between moans. “I don’t think I can.”  

“I meant here,” his hand falls down to your jaw before tracing a line down your throat. His forefinger hooks into the ersatz choker you’ve fashioned out of his tie. “I want to see if you can take all of me.”

You nod, not even bothering to tease him about how uncertain he’s acting even when he’s asking for a goddamn deepthroating, and he tugs on the tie, once again bringing your slackened mouth closer to his tip. You feel Mark’s fingers tighten around your hip, and his hips start lifting up harder; the slap of skin on skin is obscenely audible, almost like applause as Donghyuck slides himself past your teeth again.

He doesn’t bother with thrusting anymore; it’s one smooth motion until your mouth is back where it had been a moment ago. You remember he’d asked you to relax, so you try not to give into your instinct to moan over and over, letting your jaw go slack. You know he feels the tension go down because he starts pushing forward again. Your tongue is pressed up flush against his cock, but you can’t move it at all. The rest of Donghyuck’s fingers join the one wrapped around the tie, gripping it a little tighter as he tugs you forward to meet his hips, and you have the good sense to breathe in right before he slips the remaining length into your mouth.  

The tip of his cock presses up against the back of your throat, and you feel the expected tears pool in your eyes and streak down your cheeks; you try to focus on Donghyuck’s expression, which is completely blissed out, but it’s a little hazy. When you start feeling lightheaded, you reach out to blindly swat at his thigh. He gets the signal, pulling away right before you can gag, but he doesn’t leave your mouth. Instead, he resumes thrusting, deciding to follow Mark’s quicker, rougher pace.

You’re pretty sure you would be moaning like crazy now, but you can’t even make noise properly. Without any warning, Donghyuck tugs at the tie again, and your throat instinctively loosens when you feel him pushing in deeper again. He stays there, buried in your mouth for what seems like forever, almost growling when he feels you trying to swallow around him.  

On his second withdrawal, he pulls out all the way; a long, escalating groan leaves you, and you feel your legs buckle suddenly as your climax hits unexpectedly. Mark’s arms wind around your waist, trying to keep you steady, but his hips move relentlessly, hellbent on keeping you going until your high ends. You collapse against his chest when it does, breathing heavily, your eyes closing halfway. Donghyuck inches closer, though, still lining his cock up against your mouth, and your tongue comes out to greet it, running messily along its side.  

“How was it?” Mark asks softly from under you, one hand gently rubbing your stomach.  

“Fucking amazing,” Donghyuck replies, watching you mouth at the tip before you suck on it languidly. “You’ve never tried?”  

“Not yet.”  

“It’s out of this world, hyung.” Your heart swells at the praise, and your mouth becomes a little more enthusiastic. Donghyuck lets out a shaky exhale. “Pro level.”  

Mark chuckles, the sound rumbling against your back. “That doesn’t surprise me.”

“If you add that to the fact that she basically swears like a pirate, she could really make a career out of it.”  

“That is something that’s never going to happen,” Mark squeezes your waist. “Like, over my dead body.”  

“I’m just saying it as a hypothetical thing. You know. To drive the compliment home.” You try to interrupt them, but Donghyuck’s shaft is still pressed up against your lips, muffling the sound. He angles his hips away so you can speak. “Sorry. What was that, noona?”  

“More,” you breathe out. Donghyuck’s eyebrows fly up as you repeat yourself. “More. Please.”  

“Are you sure? You can take a break. Trust me, with what just happened, we’ll still be hard.”  

You shake your head, carefully pushing yourself up off Mark’s lap; you’re still fairly wobbly, so he has to keep his hand on your back just to make sure you don’t reel backwards. He looks up at you, wide-eyed, wondering what you’re planning. You motion for him to scoot back near the armrest, and he does so, adjusting himself horizontally once he understands what you want. He reaches out a hand to help you back onto the couch, where you straddle his lap for a moment before you raise yourself, reaching between the two of you to hold onto the base of his shaft. His teeth come out to dig into his lip as you once again take in his cock, biting back a moan.  

When you turn back, Donghyuck is still in the same position, watching you; he’s clearly wondering where he fits into this equation. You beckon for him to come closer, and he complies wordlessly. You need to twist your arm a little to reach out for his, leading his fingers to your mouth. Your tongue presses up against his digits, rolling around them slowly for a long, fairly intense minute before you let his wrist go.  

He cottons on belatedly, after you’ve leaned back down to press your chest against Mark’s, pushing out your ass. Your fingers grip your cheeks, spreading them slightly, and Donghyuck lets out a strangled noise.  

“Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack,” you murmur, pressing the side of your face against Mark’s shoulder.  

“Are you — I’ve — hold on,” Donghyuck falls silent trying to form the best possible sentence, which is, apparently, “How are you this calm about this?”

“What do you want me to do?” You laugh breathily. “Cry about it?”  

“Have you ever done this before?”

“No,” you admit. “So you better stretch me out, or we might have a problem.”  

“Yeah, okay, no pressure.” You feel the couch dip a little as he inches forward, and in the next second, his hand finds its way to your ass, helping you push your cheeks apart. “Why hasn’t Mark hyung done this?”  

“He’s too scared.”

“That you’ll get hurt?”  

“That he’ll cum right away.”  

Donghyuck barks out a laugh, and even Mark snorts a little. “What about me? I’m afraid of that too.”

“Yeah, but we already know you’re kind of a quick shot.”  

Something cool presses up against your ass, and in the next moment, Donghyuck is sinking the first knuckle of his forefinger into you. You let out a slightly surprised moan that he talks over. “Am not.”  

“We’ll see,” your words come out short as you hold your breath in anticipation. Nothing happens, though; his finger stays completely still. “Fuck. You’re really taking your sweet time.”

“You’d kill me if I just stuffed one finger in right away,” he complains. You clench around him unexpectedly, and he pulls his finger away. “Okay, can you not do that first? My finger is just going to get sucked in or something.”

“That was the idea. Hurry up.”  

“Are you always this impatient?” More shifting happens behind you, and a moment later, you feel something softer and wetter press up against your entrance. You jerk forward in surprise, but Donghyuck’s hands are keeping your hips steady, allowing him to lap at the puckered flesh. You let out a breathy, incredulous laugh.  

“He’s eating my ass,” you inform Mark, who grins up at you. “This is the kind of kinky shit I could have done for you instead of reading Homer.”  

“You passed the exam, which is more important than my personal pleasure.”

“Agree to disagree.”

Mark doesn’t reply, allowing you the space to moan as Donghyuck’s tongue lubes you up. When he pulls away, you try to crane your head back in an attempt to catch a glimpse of his lips, which are shiny with saliva. His hand moves towards you again, and he eases his finger in slowly until it’s in entirely. You start to moan a little more loudly once he starts pumping his finger, and Mark slowly starts rolling his hips up again to add to the stimulation. You have to tuck your face into the crook of his neck to soften your groan as Donghyuck slowly pushes another finger in, spreading them out carefully before he resumes pumping.  

You think you could pretty much get off like this, and you actually feel pleasure building in your stomach, but it’s a low-burning fire with how slowly they’re taking it. A couple of times, you try to push back against them, but Donghyuck in particular seems to be enjoying taking his sweet time. The third finger enters when the buzz of ecstasy has settled in your nerves, adding a bit of spark to the low thrum coursing through your body. Even Mark doesn’t see the necessity in speeding up yet. You’re breathing deep against his neck, inhaling his scent constantly and getting heady from it, and you don’t even register the fact that your mouth has been half-open for the last ten minutes, just letting low, weak moans pass through. At one point, you actually cum quietly again, even with that horribly slow pace, and no one says anything; Mark just turns his head, pressing a firm kiss against your forehead.  

“Please,” your voice is barely audible. “Please. Give me your cock. I’m begging you. I want both of you in me already.”

Donghyuck doesn’t respond, but he does acknowledge your words, slowly tugging his fingers out of you. A moment later, something hard presses up against you, and your moan escalates exponentially once you feel it stretch you. You have to constantly tell yourself not to tense up, but with how desperate you are, you can’t help but feel a little tightly wound, and there’s a small bite of pain when the tip of Donghyuck’s cock makes it past the first ring of muscle.  

Mark’s hands leave your waist, lacing into your fingers and squeezing them reassuringly. You’ve gone back to swearing again, your voice more guttural this time, as Donghyuck works his way further into you. His hands are back on your cheeks, trying to help himself in by spreading them slightly as he moves. It takes what feels like an eternity before he bottoms out, and you let out a long, heavy sigh of relief, belatedly realizing you’d been holding your breath this entire time.  

Donghyuck’s breathing is pretty loud at this point; his hands are roaming across your back aimlessly. “You’re tight as hell. How does it feel?”  

“Fucking incredible,” you whimper. “I feel so fucking full.”

You don’t know if they’d quietly agreed on something, but Mark and Donghyuck start moving at the same time, at the same pace. It’s difficult to decide which feeling to focus on, and you have to shut your eyes to block out anything else that might distract you from the pleasure. Your nails bite into the backs of Mark’s palms, but he doesn’t say anything against it; his breathing is coming out a little more labored too as he thrusts up into you.

Donghyuck loses his reluctance a lot more quickly than Mark, you’ve come to learn; once he’s realized you’re not complaining, he starts speeding up, trying to match Mark’s practiced intensity. You let go of Mark’s hands, letting them move back to their original position as you press your palms against the couch, lifting your torso up slightly. Donghyuck’s hands, on the other hand, find their way to your breasts, rolling your nipples between his fingers.  

“Harder,” you whisper, now fully adjusted to the situation. “Fuck me harder, please, please.”  

No one objects at this point, each one of you ultimately more concerned with chasing your highs. Mark adjusts himself under you so that he has more mobility, and his thrusts become sharper in tandem with Donghyuck’s. The moans leaving you are shorter but more frequent, breathless and a little too loud, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. A small part of you is astonished at the idea that twenty-four hours ago, it had never crossed your mind that you’d be naked in between your boyfriend and his best friend, but that small part is ultimately shunted by the knowledge that, twenty-four hours later, you are, in fact, in haphazardly planned threesome with the aforementioned people.  

You haven’t said anything for a while now, having lost your own ability to form anything coherent and replacing words with garbled moans. Your expression has probably been dazed for the last few minutes, and when you look down, Mark is staring intently at you. Without any prompt, you lean down, pressing your lips hard against his; his mouth moves against yours, engaging you in a messy and wet kiss that ends with his tongue in your mouth and you suckling on it. Donghyuck’s fingers are digging into your breasts, squeezing them tightly as he briefly interrupts his thrusting to grind his hips up against your ass. You groan in surprise, letting go of Mark’s tongue, and Donghyuck takes this opportunity to tug you up, holding you flush against his chest. His hands move in opposite directions, one hand snaking around your waist tightly, the other dragging up against your cleavage and landing at the base of your throat, tightening a little.  

“Want to tell us what’s going on?” He seems to be taking a page out of Mark’s book. “Tell us what’s happening to you.”  

The first thing that leaves you is a whimper; you’re pretty sure you’ve been speaking in tongues for the past five minutes or so, and your mind is blanking out. Donghyuck’s fingers squeeze a little more against your throat before loosening again.  

“Come on, mommy,” he whispers into your ear, and you squeeze your eyes shut for a second, trying to keep yourself from imploding at that second. “Talk to me. What’s happening to you right now?”  

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you hiss out, feeling his fingers tighten and loosen again. “I’m getting fucked so good, holy shit—”

“Yeah? So good you’re going to cum for us again?”

“Yes, yes, oh my God,” your voice is thick, and it doesn’t help that Donghyuck’s hand squeezes around your throat in increasingly longer intervals. “I’m going to cum so hard. Please — don’t stop, don’t stop—”  

You yelp as Mark’s hips jerk up sharply, stopping for a second before he continues; the result is him falling out of sync with Donghyuck, thrusting in just as Donghyuck pulls back. The new rhythm gives you very little pause, and you feel your arousal heightening much more quickly. You know that Mark, at least, is close; his eyes are shut, and he’s starting to moan lowly — usual tells you’ve noticed over time. The timing seems perfect, then, as Donghyuck presses his lips back to your ear.

“Where should we cum, noona?” He murmurs. “It’s your choice this time.”  

You’re in no real state to make decisions, so you don’t answer right away. The only prompt you have to do so is Donghyuck’s hand once again closing around your throat, cutting off your air supply for a sweet second before letting you breathe again. You’re so close, you can’t care about logistics, and moving would just ruin everything.  

“Cum in me, baby,” you reply hoarsely. “Fuck — please, cum in me.”  

Donghyuck gives your throat one last squeeze, a slightly longer one, fingers flexing against your neck as he buries his cock into you with a throaty groan. You feel the heat almost immediately, and your vision whites out around the edges for a moment before he frees you. You use the air that fills your lungs almost immediately, moaning unrestrainedly as you climax once again, pulsing around both of their cocks. Mark moves his hips for your sake, hitting your sweet spot help you ride it out until you come back down. Donghyuck gently pulls his hands away, and your spine suddenly feels like jelly; you collapse into Mark with a soft thud.

A moment of stillness follows, filled only with heavy breathing and the occasionally whispered curse word. The three of you stay that way for five blissful minutes, until Donghyuck’s phone starts ringing obnoxiously from his bag near the door. The call drops and goes to voicemail because he takes his time pulling out, wasting a couple more seconds to watch a bit of his cum dribble out with an appreciative hum. When the phone rings again, you swat him away, and he sprints across the floor to dig it out of his bag. It’s Renjun, you learn when he answers the phone.  

You and Mark watch him converse with Renjun naturally, like he hadn’t been deep up your ass a moment ago, talking about an assignment he had forgotten to do research on. When he says he’s going to go online so the two of them can discuss, he shoots the two of you a look, like he’s asking you for permission. Mark mouths for him to stop dawdling and get to work, and Donghyuck pulls a face as he picks his backpack and trudges into his room. You notice he peeks at the two of you surreptitiously just before he closes the door.  

“Good job, mommy,” Mark murmurs when Donghyuck is finally out of earshot. He pushes your hair away from your face, tucking locks messily behind your ear to keep them from falling into his face and tickling his nose.  

“I could really get used to that name, but I might miss the title he stole from me now and again.”  

“I don’t mind either way,” he chuckles. “They both kind of suit you.”  

“At least we worked that out,” you hum softly. “I kind of felt bad for him at the beginning.”  

“He pouted and got to cum twice. Things work out.”

You stare down at him, confusion suddenly seeping into your expression. “Yeah. But you didn’t. At all.”  

“I know. It’s not like I can cum like this,” he laughs. “You have to move off of me. Quick, too, because I’ve been holding it in forever.”  

“Why?” You ask, perplexed.

“What do you mean, why? Because I can’t reach your mouth from down here.”

“You don’t have to,” you press a hand to his chest, stopping him from moving up. He meets your eye, now confused too. “I meant what I said. I want you to cum in me.”  

Shock crosses his face. “But—”

“Didn’t you want to? The first time?” He nods, and you tilt your head questioningly. “Do you not want to now?”

“I do. I mean — it would be so hot, but I’m just — I mean, are you sure?”  

“I’m sure.” You lean down, pressing a kiss to his nose. “It’s okay. I want to feel you.”  

He looks up at you, unblinking, assessing your expression like he’s trying to figure out if you’re just pranking him. When he decides you aren’t, he nods, and you dip your head again to press your lips to his. His hands grip your waist once again, and you feel him start to thrust — slowly at first, his speed building gradually. Your hands are pressed to his jaw, thumbs running up against his cheek as you kiss him — adoringly, carefully.  

His movements still for a moment, and you think he’s already climaxing, but you only feel your body shift in position; the next thing you know, you’re lying back against the couch, Mark hovering above you. He thrusts in deeper, sharper, and you whine, reaching out to press your hand to the back of his neck and bringing his head down. Your foreheads touch, and there’s very little gap between your lips and his, but you don’t close it. Instead, you keep your gaze locked on his, letting the breath that accompanies your moans wash over his lips as his hips start to move more intensely.  

That same expression you know so well starts to form on his face again; his eyes, however, are still uncertain, searching yours, offering you room to back out. You shake your head, but his brow only furrows deeper.  

“I’m okay,” you whisper, only loud enough for him to hear. “Please. I want it.”  

“You’re sure?” He rasps out. His voice sounds a little broken, like he’s doing all he can to keep himself from tipping over the edge. “I can still… I can still pull out.”  

“Don’t,” your voice comes out a little more sharply. “I want all of your cum. Please, daddy.”  

“I—” You feel his cock twitch in you, and his eyes start to close again. “God, I’m—”

“Daddy, please,” you urge him, your fingers pressing hard against his sides. “I want it. I want your cum. I want your baby. Please. Fill me up.”  

“Fuck—” His hips jerk, and he snaps them forward, burying himself inside you. You feel his release a moment later, and you mewl softly, tightening around him. He doesn’t move this time, and when his eyes open, they immediately shine with concern. You shake your head, tilting your head up to press a reassuring kiss to his lips.  

Even with him slowly softening inside you, he doesn’t pull out; you stay in the same position for some time, exchanging light kisses. At one point, he leans in, pressing a kiss much firmer than the others, and when he pulls back, words that break the silence tumble out.

“I love you. I’ve always loved you. I’ve never… I’ve never wanted anyone but you. Ever.”  

You lie there, stunned at the sudden confession. Mark doesn’t even look remotely abashed or regretful; he just stares down at you, and it doesn’t even look like he’s waiting for a response. You reach up, trapping his face between your palms and inching your head forward to press another deep kiss to his lips.  

“I love you,” you murmur against his mouth. “I always will.”  

At your words, he tugs you up with him, gathering you into his arms. His lips rest on your forehead, unmoving, hand rubbing your back lightly.  

It would have ended an extremely heartfelt moment, if not for the soft cough that had caused you to look up and see Donghyuck standing by his door, now fully clothed and slightly amused.

“So you guys decide to act like a normal, loving, not-kinky couple now?”

last eden - i . | lmh

part i, ii, iii

only one thing has ever mattered to you, in this lifetime, and in all others : mark lee — even if he doesn't know yet, and even if he may never remember.

pairing: mark x reader verse: canon/idol!verse, soulmates trope rating: T warnings: none, possibly some mild language, like... one very tame mention of making love ig word count: 4.3k

A/N: yeah i have a lot of these fics that i'm repurposing that i desperately want to post so i can continue them so please look the other way at my random over enthusiasm i beg !! my only long-standing mark fic is actually gorgeous, and while we do love a good raunchy piece, i love mark way too much to keep it to just that. this was my first ever fic on my old blog, and i'm quite attached to the idea despite the fact that it's actually very difficult for me to write. i changed the name because i actually love this song by maktub (anything he puts out is gold to me), which i think generally fits the vibe of the story, so give it a listen if you're interested! so i hope you all enjoy this idol!verse soulmates fic! (help a gal out by reblogging, liking, and leaving a few kind words if you're so inclined!)

“This isn’t really your best idea.” 

You know this. You’re fully aware of the possible and endless risks as well as the minimal benefits. But you have to go. The thing that Heehyeon, your roommate, doesn’t fully understand is that this could be your one and only shot, and it could mean life or death. And you know that sounds pretty dramatic, but it really is. you don’t really have all the details (when, where, how, the important stuff) but that doesn’t matter to you right now. 

What really matters is that today is NCT’s comeback stage at M! Countdown, and you have to be there. 

Unfortunately, this isn’t one of those things you have to go to because your a die-hard fan and you just have to support the group and do all those fan chants and lie to your mom about going to the library when you’re really staying over outside a company building for hours just to wave those silly, expensive light sticks that look like they came out of the factory a bit funny. Sure, NCT’s music was nice (enough), but that isn’t really the reason why you told your mom not to come over this weekend because you would be out on a company team building retreat (as if they actually do that). More than anything, you knew you had to take this chance to see him. 

When you don’t respond, Heehyeon presses on with a firmer tone, as if she’s determined to convince you even though you both know nothing is really going to stop you at this point.

“Listen to me, _____________. You are going to a tightly-packed music show with at least a hundred other fans, and you are going to stand in the middle of that dense crowd and — and what? Stare up at him. That’s it. He’s not going to see you; that stage is so high up he’ll probably only catch a look at your forehead, and that’s if you make it up front. And since we both know you’re neither the tallest nor the luckiest person in the world, you know the odds are against you. You’re probably going to get pushed to the back, or stampeded, and it’s going to be messy, and you’re going to push, and they’re going to push you back, and your make-up is going to fall apart, or whatever. Is this really worth it?”

“I told you,” you try to sound patient, but the idea of being buffeted away from the stage by a large wave of sweaty bodies causes more discomfort than you had originally anticipated thanks to her colorful and supremely unhelpful description. “If being near the stage doesn’t work out, I’ll wait out back, near the exit, and —“

“Oh yeah, and ambush him. Because you’ll be the only one there, and because that’s totally safe.” She drops the slightly (well, pretty) judgmental tone when she sees your bottom lip quiver. “I’m not… I’m not saying you shouldn’t try to reach out to him. But this doesn’t sound like the best way, _____________. Security is so tight there, and NCT’s security is even more wary. Even if you do manage to get close, what in the world are you going to say?” 

“I— I’ll figure it out once I’m there.” You purse your lips; surely I love you; we’re meant to be together wouldn’t be that hard on your end, but the more important question is: did it sound sane? You didn’t express this doubt, though. Doing so would give your roommate more ammunition to turn back at you; you’d play it by ear when you actually got around to making eye contact with him (if that ever happened at all). And — well, maybe you wouldn’t have to say anything. Maybe, just maybe, this time, he’d remember you.

At that thought, you feel an initial wave of laughter, closely followed by a second, much more painful wave of nausea. Of all the absurd things you could think of, that was probably the most ridiculous. 

“This isn’t a good idea,” she recapitulates, shaking her head. “You know what they do to people who stalk idols and say they’re really going to get married to them, or whatever. You know what they’d call you.”

“But I’m not crazy like that,” you argue.

“I know that, but they don’t know anything about you! You’d be labeled a sasaeng. They’ll probably think you’re one of those girls that sneak into their dorms and sniff their underwear before selling them on the dark side of Taobao through a weird Chinese proxy or something.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” You ball your fists at your side, feeling a little betrayed. Heehyeon, of all people, should be able to understand why you had to do this, even if it was ludicrous. She had remembered you, reached out to you before you could even place her. She’d heard your story, understood that you had been waiting years for this moment, even stopped you on other occasions when you were about to do the same thing you were planning now, saying it wasn’t the right time. “I don’t have any other way of contacting him. I don’t even know if this is going to work, but you know I have to try, and I feel like this is the right time. I have to see him. I have to — I have to be with him. I don’t need your blessing to go, you know.”

There’s a palpable tension hanging over you now, and Heehyeon’s expression has gone mostly unreadable, save for that twinge of worry still present in her gaze. The soft sound of regular, heavy exhales punctuate every few seconds that pass, and you realize a little later that it’s your breathing, which has turned a bit heavy from the energy spent sort-of yelling at your roommate. 

“I know that,” she finally sighs. “I know that, _____________. I just wish you used a different way. Like, a safer, less crazy one.”

“I would use one if there were one.” You frown. “I’m not going to do anything stupid, like attack him. I would never do that.”

She doesn’t say much anymore, opting to watch you instead as you stuff a few more essential things in your bag. A hat. A fan. a bottle of water. Heehyeon had tried to coerce you to buy one of those cheering kits with those slogans, but you didn’t want to waste your money on it, and, truthfully, you didn’t want his name hanging on your walls like some sick reminder in case he rejected you.

“What did you tell your manager?” She asks in a clear attempt to lighten the mood. 

“I told her I was sick. You know she never really asks as long as I find someone to substitute for me,” you sling your bag over your shoulder, standing straighter. “How do I look?” 

“Pretty damn healthy,” she notes. “But also kind of crazy.” 

“I’ll see you tonight, Heehyeon,” you roll your eyes as you make your way out of the room. Before you close the door, she makes one last quick remark.

“Not if I see you on the evening news first!”

You have to take two buses to get to Sangamsan-ro. Even though the traffic is generally mild, the buses make too many stops and wait too long for old ladies with their fruit baskets and newspapers to get on. The wait is making you anxious, and you think about getting an orange to abate your growing hunger, but you’re also so nervous that you’re sure you’re going to spew it all out onto the bus floor anyway. So, you content yourself with listening to music and fiddling with your fingers in your lap. 

All you have in your phone is NCT’s music. The files were so large that you’d had to delete everything else you used to listen to and a handful of pictures too (mostly selfies that would have never seen the light of day, anyway) just to get them to fit. You used to only listen to the Korean versions, but you’d found all these little nuances in how Mark raps his lines depending on the language, so you’d started listening to the English and Japanese releases too, even though you can’t understand a lick of anything but ‘baby.’ Most of the time, you skip over to the relevant (see: Mark-filled) parts, already having memorized their timestamps to a kind of sick degree. 

It was kind of dumb, and sort of selfish, but you had never really identified yourself as an NCT fan anyway. If you had been an active part of the groups following, people would have probably called you an akgae. You were really only concerned with one member, and it was that member’s voice that filled your ears when you’d plugged your earbuds in and put the volume up.

The first time you’d seen him was in your last year of college. One of your college friends had asked you to accompany them to a Nature Republic outlet downtown. Despite your general lack of interest in make-up at that point in time, you’d gone because she’d promised to buy you a corndog. What you’d gotten instead was a large standee of a handsome guy smiling at you and holding out a pot of aloe vera gel. 

You knew his eyes. Even though his features changed a million times in your memory, you could never mistake his eyes for anyone else’s — soft, warm, brown eyes that you’d stared into for truly an eternity. His were eyes you could never forget, were never allowed to forget. You could remember the millions of times they’d smiled up at you in those past lives you were haunted with, twinkled with mischief and laughter in your presence, borne deep into yours on hot summer nights as you made love. Of all the uncertain things in all of the lives you remembered living, these eyes acted as your anchor. 

You’d almost forgotten you were there with a friend until she’d called out to you, telling you to step inside the shop. Trying to sound disinterested despite the fact that your heart was pounding, you asked who the guy in the standee was. Mark, she’d called him. Mark of NCT. He was an idol, a rapper in one of those up and coming groups that was starting to gain a lot of attention within the general public because of their ‘cool, chic concepts.’ At that information, your heart had fallen into a pool of acid in your stomach. 

Other times were hard, but not this hard. Most of the factors that had kept you or torn you apart were much larger in scale — war, famine, other natural disasters. This, out of all the other times, seemed to be the most difficult; he wasn’t an ordinary man anymore, but a god among men — a god you couldn’t be allowed to approach. You had ditched your friend the moment she’d gotten her change back at the counter, citing a sudden time of the month as the root cause, and dashed out and back to school, sparing only one last glance at the standee. 

You’d been waiting for him for years, carefully looking for any sign of him in the people around you, but you had grown tired and had come to believe that maybe, in this life, you had been set free — that he didn’t exist, and the curse would be over. However, as you pored over each and every teaser, music video, advertisement, and blurry, noise-heavy radio interview you could find even a sliver of his face in, you realized that the curse had come back, and in a much larger force than you could ever imagine. 

You’d stared at your desk for the longest time that day; the sun had dipped out of sight already when you’d sighed yourself out of your trance. It had never been this difficult. Having the Memory was mostly the worst thing ever, but its usual perk was that you could pick him out a little easier, and he was never too far away — nobody you ever knew in your first life ever was. They just kept coming up again and again, running around in little circles throughout time and space, and you recognized them in a way you’ve come to grow familiar with. It’s a tug, sort of like a tickle in your stomach, and you knew then that he was close by. The signal only stopped when you found him, and it usually wasn’t that hard. From there, you were responsible for weaving the same kind of story — one in which you would fall in love, be happy for a period of time, and then… well. 

Heehyeon has the Memory, too. She’d remembered you from a previous life, too, and picked you out of a packed line at a coffee shop, striking up one of the most awkward conversations you’d ever had the displeasure of being a part of because she hadn’t been sure if you remembered her. It was only when she mentioned that you seemed like someone she could be good friends with and that you also seemed like you just happened to like your coffee black with two sugars did you realize that her sudden onslaught of friendliness was a sign she might be like you: unable to forget. She’d actually once asked you if you’d tried just letting him go, and you’d responded with a resolute no. At this point, it was too hard to call him a lost cause, even if he really seemed it. How could you stop loving someone you know you’ve loved for millennia? 

He’s extremely handsome in this life, you’ve noted. Girls were falling all over him, which only made things ten times harder. A couple of years back, some rumors of him dating a labelmate had come up. Heehyeon had talked you through that long night of you clutching tissues in a fist and sobbing about how you didn’t want this anymore, how it was never fair, how every single time you had to find him was just growing more and more difficult until it seemed to reach an impossible arc. But, mostly, you’d cried because you hated the possibility — probably the confirmation — that he didn’t remember you at all. 

You didn’t really expect him to, but you always hoped. Every life, you would approach him, and he would be a clean slate. It was a tiring process, one you wished you weren’t constantly responsible for. Some days, you resented him; how could he live his life carefree, without even the notion that you two were meant to be together? Most days, though, you just longed for him. Him, and a happy ending. 

You let out a sigh as the track changes. His voice greets you again; over time, you’ve noticed it sounding even cooler, more impactful. He’s doing well for himself. And here you are, attempting to make yourself stand out in a pool of fans he probably can’t even see clearly. Nice.

You get to listen to about half of the newly released album before you realize you’re nearing your stop. Sidestepping a couple of baskets of oranges, you make it to the door and dash out. Heehyeon had drawn you a crude map to CJ E&M, and you’d been skeptical of it at first, but you realize now you would have gotten lost and missed the stage long before you got there if you had gone in blind. You’d make sure to thank her when you got back. If you did actually come back in one piece. 

Heehyeon also hadn’t been joking; the line outside looks like it would fill a whole section of Jamsil. You’d heard of the dedication of some of these fans, but you’d never seen it like this, nor had you ever actually been a part of it. Kids were really up at three in the morning in support of NCT. Many of them are probably here specifically in support of Mark, you think. Sure enough, the people you line up behind are holding holographic slogans with the print “Mark-yah!” You swallow hard, trying not to regret your decision not to partake in that. 

It feels like hours before you get even close to the door of the building. The chatter has died down a little, but not by much; even with less people ahead of you, the noise pollution increases in tandem with the excitement in the atmosphere. You’re not excited, though. You’re sick to your stomach, wishing you hadn’t come alone and wondering if you were going to regret this. Probably. Luckily, a couple of teenagers behind you strike up a casual conversation starting with “ah, it’s getting more humid now,” and you take turns complaining about what the weather would probably be like later on in the day before you start talking about NCT. They’re both Jaehyun fans, and you think about whether or not you remember meeting him in a past life. Nothing really rings a bell.

When you tell them you’re here for Mark, they giggle. 

“We know,” they chime. “You’re wearing blue.” 

“It’s his favorite color,” you say, a little defensively. 

“Everyone knows that. Everyone here wearing that ocean blue is a Mark fan. Didn’t he say so once?” They dissolve into laughter again, but you say nothing. Maybe he had said that recently. Then again, his favorite color has always been blue — the color of the sky and the sea he seems to love so much. 

The line grows shorter and shorter, and your ankles feel like they’re starting to swell. You’ve been standing for a good two hours now, and you regret not having bought one of those NCT membership cards that get you up to the front of the line. It’s really no surprise that you, the two Jaehyun fans, and the others in the line behind you are all squished in the back, just like Heehyeon had said you would be. It takes a good twenty minutes before the lights dim down and the stage lights start up, and you hear the buzz that increases in volume right before it becomes a collective deafening shriek from the crowd. The light sticks go up, and you’re momentarily blinded by the large stars that blink NCT in some weird logo form before you get your bearings again. By that time, the members have begun trooping onto the stage in a single file, and you forget your swollen ankles as you tiptoe and crane your head for a better view. 

He’s there, your mind screams. He’s right there. You’ve got a whole crowd in front of you, but he’s right there. 

The Jaehyun fans are losing their mind too; he’s talking, asking them how they found the album and encouraging them to keep supporting it. Typical idol stuff, you assume, but the fans go wild in an attempt to reassure him that they will. They all speak in a line, and you note Mark will be last. When the mic is handed over to him, the fans start screaming again. You feel like you want to yell as well, except you’re not sure if you’ll say something actually coherent that other people will hear. Instead, you tiptoe a little higher, fixing your pretty bad eyesight on his face and perking your ears up. 

“You’re all here so early,” he starts. “How long have you been waiting for us?” 

A flurry of numbers fly across the room. He smiles in this genuinely affectionate way even though his eyes can’t focus on a single person in the dark, and your heart stutters at the sight.

“Do your mothers know you’re here?” He’s teasing now. “You can’t tell them that NCT is the reason you’re not sleeping well, you know. Everyone, make sure that you eat breakfast and rest well before school today, okay?” 

While the crowd screams in response, you let out a little whimper. It’s a weak, pathetic sound, but it essentially sums up how you feel, seeing him like this from so far away. 

The pre-recording starts, but you barely catch anything. You’re too small for this kind of life, and you get so tired of tiptoeing that you actually do try to push your way through the crowd. Of course, this is fruitless, and you end up squatting by the back wall of the room, sipping on your water conservatively and listening to the Jaehyun fans do the chant religiously. 

NCT performs the song two more times before they’re saying their goodbyes. You muster up the energy to stand again and make a beeline for the exit before everyone else can smash their way through. The sun is almost up now; beads of sweat form on the nape of your neck as you round the building, trying to find the indicated spot that Heehyeon had marked as the back exit of CJ E&M. You worry about how you’re in the wrong place for about ten minutes until you see the two Jaehyun fans turning the corner quickly, obviously with the same goal as you: to catch NCT as they leave the building. 

In no time, the fans have gathered at the spot again, and it seems like they’ve multiplied tenfold; the chants are louder and there are girls with gigantic cameras trying to shove you away from the spot. Security from the company camps out in front of you, their gazes shifting from the door to the crowd and back again. 

People around you roar the moment the doorknob turns. Nine of them file out, now in regular clothing, surrounded by their own security. You feel a surge of force behind you, trying to push forward, and someone’s camera lens hits you hard in the side of the face. You barely have time to cry out in surprise, caught in what would have been a scream of pain, when you see him. 

In the growing light, Mark looks like a king. No — like a god, actually. Everything on his face shines even when minimal sunlight strikes it; his teeth help, too, brightening his face as his mouth hangs open in an easy laugh. He’s talking to Doyoung and has to face him, his sharp jawline being the first thing anyone can see from that perspective, and it’s that angle that creates all these alarms in your head. 

For some reason, you’ve blocked out the noise around you. Even the pain from the camera lens attack isn’t bothering you as much anymore; you feel like you’re in an aquarium, and all the screams are on the other side of the glass. Your vision tunnels; all you can see is him. 

You’d promised Heehyeon you wouldn’t do anything stupid. Again and again, she’d asked you and drilled you and reminded you that you weren’t supposed to do anything that would get you into trouble. Even with those promises you’d made, she’d still doubted you. Later, when you’d tell her this story, she’d roll her eyes and yell I told you so!, because, well, she did tell you. And, when you’d look at it in retrospect, you’d see that you should have listened. 

Right now, though, you’re walking. Somehow, the camera lens that had attacked you had turned its gaze onto much more important targets; the guard stationed in front of you grunted in pain and reflexively retracted his hand after the lens made contact with it. It wasn’t a long movement, but it was enough for you to be pushed forward by the crowd. Enough to get your feet moving. 

Other fans had stopped trying to break through; though many were still hysterical, most were trying to take pictures of the members as they climbed into the van. One by one, they were disappearing before your eyes. No, you thought to yourself. Your chest tightened. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you think that the noise behind you has gotten much louder. Not now. He hasn’t seen me yet. Not yet, please. 

You don’t realize that your feet have picked up the pace, and you’ve broken into a short sprint before the building security could catch you. It’s too late; he can’t leave his post, and he only has to hope that NCT’s staff are well-equipped to fend off a running girl. They are, but they’re too busy helping the members that they’re caught unaware — just long enough for you to be within an arm’s reach of them. 

Mark is almost in the van; he’s caught off-guard, too, and he doesn’t realize that something’s not right until you’re already there. Security grabs his arm and tries to tug him out of your reach and into the van at the same time that a strong hand grapples at the back of your shirt. Doyoung, who had been by Mark’s side, tries to use his arms to shield you from his friend when he realizes who you are targeting, yelling out something you can’t really understand. 

It’s a ten-second long struggle of limbs in which you hear your own “Let go of me!” harmonize perfectly with Mark’s frantic “What the —?” Somehow, though, you’re able to fight through Doyoung’s arms and grip Mark’s wrist with a sweaty palm. The contact causes him to turn back reflexively, eyes wide in shock. 

His eyes. God, please, won’t he recognize me? Your fingers close around his wrist a little more tightly. Your mouth is dry, and your throat is on fire. You’re wasting precious time. You only manage out a weak, “Please, Mark, it’s me,” before he’s twisting his wrist away. The arm that gripped your shirt moves to lock around your waist, and you’re hauled, empty-handed, away from the van. Awareness you’d lost slowly trickles back into you. The crowd isn’t screaming at the members now; they’re screaming at you. They’re angry. As you’re dragged away, you vaguely note that the Jaehyun fans you were with are fuming behind the security guards still keeping them in place. 

The security guard that carried you off like a rag doll plants you in front of him, and he lets go of your waist but still keeps his grip tight around both your forearms, which have been twisted behind you. You have no choice but to watch from afar as the members drag Mark into the van, looks of concern etched across their faces. They ask him if he’s hurt, and he shakes his head. Right before the door closes, he quickly glances back at you. Your heart sinks for the second time today as you see something in his eyes you’d never seen before. 

Fear. Mark is afraid of you.

last eden - ii . | lmh

part i, ii, iii

only one thing has ever mattered to you, in this lifetime, and in all others : mark lee — even if he doesn't know yet, and even if he may never remember.

pairing: mark x reader verse: canon/idol!verse, soulmates trope rating: T warnings: none, i think! word count: 9k

A/N: i have not properly proofread this as i finished kinda editing at like 2am in what felt like a fever dream so if you see any mistakes, shoot me a quick message!

Going home is a traumatic experience, to say the least. You don’t actually get to leave the venue right away because, try as you might, you can’t escape the iron grip of the security guard who’s all but glued you down to the ground. You can’t do anything except watch the van speed off while a bunch of fans try (in vain) to follow it. You might have tried to follow it, too, except you already know you’re swimming in boiling water with the current viewing public (plus a couple of really miffed guards) and you might have gotten trampled on anyway.

You end up spending the next three and a half hours down at the police station. At first, you’re worried that they’re going to take your picture or something, but since you don’t have any kind of criminal record — well, until now — you end up waiting the entire time just to hear the chief of police grumble about how it’s too early for this kind of mess and why do all of these girls do all these crazy things for boys that don’t even know them. You don’t say much for the ten minutes it takes him to write your report and lecture you about how strong, young people should do something more substantial with their time and try to pick up skills that will help the community and sharpen one’s mind in pursuit of wisdom, which is really just a roundabout way of saying stop jumping idols. You leave the station with a heavy heart and a new strike against the justice system.

The bus stop is a no-go for you; it’s surely packed with fans who’ve no doubt spent the rest of the morning skipping class, eating breakfast, and probably talking about how outrageous you had been. The subway probably isn’t an option, too, so you end up taking a cab all the way back to your place, except you don’t actually have enough money to pay for the entire fare, so you’re forced to alight four streets away instead. You walk for about twenty minutes before realizing your body is crying in outrage for food; you hadn’t fed yourself at all this morning, save for the ten or so sips of water you had in the back of the M! Countdown studio.

With less than 10,000 won in your pocket, you end up just going into the nearest 7-11 and buying a triangle gimbap to avoid passing out completely on the street. You eat it just as slowly as you walk, partly because you want to savor it, but mostly because you want to avoid having to look Heehyeon in the eye.

Heehyeon. She probably knows everything. No, scratch that — you know she knows. She spends so much time on the internet that you’re sure she’d have her mind fused with a robot if she had enough money. Plus, she’d specifically told you not to do anything dumb, so of course she’d have kept an eye out for the actual dumb thing you really did.

When you arrive at your apartment, you linger behind the door. For some reason, you think about knocking, even though it’s your place and you have a key. You feel unfamiliar and unwelcome — pretty much the effects of ostracising yourself from the general public with just one dumb decision. Even though you decide there’s nothing for it except to face it head on, you try as much as possible to be silent when entering, hoping that Heehyeon has decided to skip out on all things digital today and just take a really long nap.

Of course, with the trajectory of your luck today, it’s no surprise that she’s sitting at the table with her laptop open and a half-eaten apple in her grasp, her free fingers scrolling quickly through what you assume to be the longest comments section ever. Her expression is tired — not sleepy tired but about-to-give-up tired. She doesn’t even have to look up for you to assume a guilty expression while you linger by the doorframe that separates the small kitchen from your living room.

“So what’d you get?” She asks, tone flat.

“A really long lecture and a couple of scratches on my forearm,” you try to sound light, but your attempt only causes the mood to darken a little more. “I didn’t have to pay a fine, or anything…”

Heehyeon glances up at you. You can tell she’s deciding whether or not to comfort you or chew your head off. Luckily, she’s intelligent enough to create a third option under the correct assumption that choosing either of the first two approaches would only end in tears for everyone.

“There’s still some pizza on the counter.”

It’s silent as you extract a slice from the box; the sound of the chair scraping against the floor raises the tiny hairs on your arm and the back of your neck at how loud it is. You don’t eat yet, though; you watch Heehyeon click click click click away, chewing on your bottom lip. It feels like a time for confession, but you’re not even sure where to begin. Before you can open your mouth to really say anything, she beats you to the punch.

“For future reference, when I say ‘don’t do something stupid,’ I mean—”

“Yeah,” you swallow hard. “You mean ‘don’t try to rip someone’s arm off in an attempt to get them to remember you.’ I know.”

“Okay, good. I’m just checking because this isn’t like back then in Greece where police didn’t exist.” She peers over her screen at you, expression unreadable.

“Rome was a better time, though.“ It had been a simpler time. No one had to wear socks with sneakers. You didn’t need an 8 to 5 job. Most importantly, Mark was in love with you. Your lower lip trembles at the memory.

“You all died in a natural disaster,” she reminds you. “But yeah.”

You two lock eyes properly for the first time, and something bubbles up in your chest. You’re not sure what gives you away; maybe it’s your flushed cheeks, or maybe it's the shaky inhale, or even the dangerous flutter of your eyelashes, perhaps. Whatever it is, Heehyeon has her laptop monitor down and is reaching over to clasp your hand in hers just before you burst into tears.

She doesn’t say anything, knows that words won’t really work right now. She just lets you cry it out, and you spend what feels like an hour shifting between weak hiccups, broken sobs, and unholy wails. You only really slow down when you feel like your throat is on fire already, and you have to sluggishly reach into your bag and dig out the water from earlier. Heehyeon’s thumb skates across the back of your hand idly as you try to make up for all the fluids you’ve lost; you even end up sloshing a good amount of the water down your front.

The passing of ten or so minutes sees you in a better state by a fraction; your eyes are puffy and your lips are swollen, but at least your lungs are processing a better amount of air now, and your nose, albeit being congested, has stopped running so much. It’s at this time that you find you still know some words, so you manage to blubber them out to your roommate.

“H-he looked at me like I wasn’t e-even human,” you choke out. “His f-f-face was so — I’d never seen him like th-that. He was mad — no, he h-hated me!”

“_____________, stop it.” She says firmly, and you’re not sure if she means stop saying that he hated you or if she means that you should stop crying, which is what you’re already threatening to resume. “You and I both know that your approach won’t win any congeniality awards this year, but he doesn’t hate you. He doesn’t even know y— okay, I’m sorry, I just meant —“

She’s torn between exasperation and pity as another sob resurfaces, and it takes her at least fifty I’m sorry’s and one trip to the fridge to get you another bottle of water to settle you back into silence. At this point, you’re cried out; your entire being is begging for sleep and you can no longer breathe through your nose.

“But you’re r— right.” You hiccup defeatedly. “He doesn’t even know me. I don’t know how to even get close to him. I just want to give up.”

Heehyeon lapses into silence, and a small voice in the back of your mind tells you she’s biting her tongue. She knows you won’t give up, but you can see she wants to support this decision. A part of you resents that, but in this state, you can’t help but feel like she would be right. Not trying would be a lot easier than trying.

“This just… means that you have to go down a different route. Try another less aggressive, less crazy way.”

“Everyone there must have thought I was crazy,” you groan. When she chooses not to say anything, she only confirms it. “What are they saying? Now, in the comments — what are they saying about me?”

“Nothing out of what would be ordinary.” She tries to spare you, her hand already pressed hard on her laptop, but you manage to move it away from her and turn it to face you instead. For a moment, Heehyeon looks like she wants to stand up and leave you in case you throw a fit, but she remembers she owns half the place, and the result of this is her half-standing before stopping and sitting back down again; she knots her fingers together nervously as you skim down the page she has open. The text isn’t surprising, but it’s not like the knowledge of that soothes your tattered spirit anyway.

NCT’S Mark ATTACKED BY SASAENG FAN

After NCT’s M! Countdown pre-recording today, Mark of NCT experienced a distressing event. As the idol group was about to leave CJ E&M Ent. Building, an unknown sasaeng fan broke through security and tried to abduct him. Area management was quick to apprehend her, and she has been taken to the appropriate authorities. Staff members quickly confirmed with us that Mark is safe and uninjured. His members are currently with him.

NCT will appear on M! Countdown for their special comeback stage tonight at 6PM to perform their newest title track, Favorite (Vampire).

TOP COMMENTS

[+1113, - 17] Ah seriously… it’s 2021 and sasaengs are still like this? Stop wasting your time on your oppas like this and study for your exams… stupid.

[+743, -122] NCT is really this popular. While I don’t condone any sasaeng activity, you can’t deny this is the result of being this famous…

[+556, -98] I was there when this happened. Really, it was crazy. She really looked like she was going to rip his arm off. I thought for sure he would die. So embarrassing…

[+89, -77] Desperate f***s. Haha. Does she really think Mark will fall in love with her like that? Ah,, really. It’s kind of funny. Dumb b****.

[+179, -2] The security should really be tighter. ㅠㅠ Mark-ah, don’t be discouraged!

Your insides have disappeared; there’s this dry hollowness in your stomach that allows you to push the laptop away without a word. Your pizza is still on your plate, but the crust is stale now and the most prominent topping on it is your tears. It’s a good thing that you’re not that hungry anymore.

“They… can’t be expected to understand,” Heehyeon tries carefully. You don’t say anything in response because you know she’s right, but it doesn’t make you feel much better. It also doesn’t make you feel much worse because, really, how much further down can your heart go? “I know you don’t really want to hear this right now, but I think it would be better if you just stayed low.”

“I know that.”

“Okay. I’m just — you know. I’m just saying.” You can tell she’s run out of comfort to offer; she’s no longer sure what to expect from you now that you’ve hit the top three on the checklist of what she had prepared for, which was (1) cry, (2) hate yourself, and (3) look at netizen comments that never promised anything good. You know that she’s willing to play it by ear and try to help, but you’re too tired. You had been up at the crack of dawn for virtually nothing, and you just wanted to crawl in the dark hole you called a room, sleep for ten years, and eventually die.

Except even that wouldn’t be an escape for you. Not really. Just another fresh start into a harder life.

When you stand, Heehyeon does too, and she holds out her hands carefully like she’s worried you’re going to keel over. You both know she doesn’t have the strength to actually carry you, though, so you bear with the sluggish, lead-like feeling your limbs seem to be constrained by and trudge into your room.

“I’ll turn up the air conditioning,” she says, breaking the silence. “I know you don’t like getting sticky when you sleep.”

You open your mouth, but nothing but a pitiful sound comes out. She waves it away, knowing what you mean. You’re thankful she’s this sensible at the best of times.

“For what it’s worth, __________, I—” she checks your expression again, just in case, before she continues. “I’m sorry this happened to you. But if there’s anything I know about you, it’s that you’ve never failed to make it work. I believe in you, even if you don’t really believe in yourself right now.”

Another sad noise escapes you, and Heehyeon nods in understanding, giving your arm a little squeeze before leaving to tamper with the temperature controls.

You should have noticed how dark the sky was today.

You should have, but you don’t because you have too much on your mind today — too many things to do. The main street is a fifteen minute walk from your house, and you have to be home by noon. There’s simply no time to take note of the weather.

You have to be more careful of where you step these days. The town had never fully recovered from the quake of 62, and the cracks in the pavement had deepened when the rainy season had started up; shallow, murky puddles now pepper the road, and you weave around them while trying to avoid any human collisions.

Everyone around you is wearing thicker, heavier clothes now. The turn of the season is near. It’s probably why the sun isn’t beating down on you, even if it’s close to its high. You tuck your limbs closer in as you cross the road, watching your feet to ensure you don’t slip on the rocks when you hop on them. There’s about a ten-inch interval between each one, and you have to make sure you land on just the right spot where your foot can fit. One misstep means a sandal drenched in sewage.

For some reason, Via dell’Abbondanza isn’t as crowded when you arrive there. For a main street, it’s a little too quiet. You can hear the harmony of sighs coming from the different stalls lined up on either side of the road. Not much good business today, then, you think.

You make a point to jingle your relatively small coin purse as you approach one stall. A flurry of limbs reveals the merchant’s son just standing up, trying his best to look attentive. He’s about your age. You’ve only seen him a few times as a child, and even fewer times as you grew up; when you left the merchant’s side of town to get married, you’d forgotten him, along with every other boy and girl that lived in that area. You’re sure you know his name, but you can’t quite place it; you know his father more, as he’s usually who greets you with fresh produce every week.

You express your mild surprise at seeing him by saying, “You’re father’s not well today?”

“Gout’s acting up again,” he answers. The lives of the somewhat rich weren’t always fabulous, you guessed, but you had never stayed long enough to really find out. “It’s just me today. What can I get you?”

“I’ve got a list.” Your eyes sweep over the goods, spread out before you, and you absently hand it over along with the sack. Tanned hands move swiftly, making sure to fit all the produce your tiny pouch can handle. “Do you have anything sweet?”

“I’ve got some fresh apples,” he offers, hand hovering over a bright red pile of fruit.

“Maybe something a little more special.”

He pauses for a moment before abandoning your sack, only half-filled with produce, to go to the back of the stall. Two minutes of rummaging results in him extracting a tiny bag from a box and spilling its contents onto his palm. Even in the grim light, they shine like gold pieces — small, round things rolling around in his hand. You lean forward to take a closer look.

“What are they?”

“Honey drops. Some men from India came with them last week. They say the Greeks love it.” His fingers curl in a little. “What do you need something special for?”

“It’s for my son. We’re celebrating his birthday today.”

The merchant’s son doesn’t say anything anymore; he turns his palm sideways and lets the honey drops fall into your pack. You stand in silence as he finishes off your list, tying the sack neatly up with the rope again. When you’re digging around for the money, though, he speaks.

“You were very young when you got married.” It’s not what you’d have expected, but you nod in response all the same. “Your father… he was upset. My father said he didn’t see your father for at least a month here. He let your brother manage the goods.”

“He was more upset that he didn’t get the dowry he was expecting out of me,” you say, tone rather clipped.

“So, it’s true, then? You ran away with a farmer. That’s what people say.”

“People still talk about it?” You frown. “It’s been years. I love him. I don’t regret it.”

“I never said — I’m sorry if you felt like I was criticizing. I’m not. I just didn’t—” he sighs. “I just think it must be nice.”

“To be gossiped about?”

“No. To marry for love.”

A dull silence follows, and you’re not sure how to react to his words. Instead, you ask, “How much?”

“Just twenty denarii.”

“And the honey drops?”

“You just take them,” he shakes his head. “For your son. Think of it as a gift for him.”

You offer him a small smile before counting out the silver pieces carefully. He cups his palm under your hand, skin brushing briefly against yours as you tip the money to him. Something like electricity runs up your arm and hits the back of your neck, and you both draw back sharply, looking sheepish.

“Thank you. Give your father my best,” you say, rubbing your neck.

“I will. Have a good day.”

Even though it’s noon when you get back, you can’t find the sun; the wind that blows against the back of your neck is hot and dry, though. Your son’s face is flushed when he runs to the door to meet you, but at least he doesn’t look uncomfortable; his eyes are wide with excitement. At the age of three — well, four today — he’s got too much energy trapped inside his tiny form, and he constantly tries to release it by running the perimeter of your tiny home. As you sit at the table, he resumes his crusade, sometimes standing on his tiptoes by the window and yelling “Domitian is our savior!” You’ve never figured out where he’d learned that, but you know it always tires him out a little faster, so you just let him be.

Around what feels like his hundredth time around the house, he sticks his head out of the window again. Instead of screaming the same praise for the emperor, he ends up saying, “Papa’s home!” Your head snaps up, and, sure enough, there’s a playful little knock on the door not a minute later. Your son almost trips over his chubby legs as he goes to open the door, revealing your husband, sun-kissed skin covered in a sheen of sweat and a wide grin across his face. More noise ensues as your son lets out a happy squeal at being swept up in his father’s arms and carried over to the table, limbs flailing fruitlessly. His arm collides with the side of your face gently when your husband leans down to press his lips to your forehead, and you let out a surprised laugh at the contact.

“I didn’t think they’d really let you come home early,” you say as your husband sets your squirming son down on a stool before taking his own seat. He starts unpacking the rest of the produce you’d left inside the sack.

“I said I couldn’t miss this special occasion,” he chuckles. “Besides, it looked like it was going to rain, anyway. What’s this?”

He rolls a honey drop between his calloused fingers. Your son stops making a fuss on his own and turns his attention to the sweet, eyes widening.

“Gold?” He whispers. Your husband bursts out laughing.

“Son, if we ever had this much gold, I could give your mother the life she truly deserved.”

“Stop it,” you smile, shaking your head. “You two are all I could ever ask for. I’m the luckiest person alive.”

“Frankly, I think that’s me, but let’s agree to disagree.” He flashes you another grin you can’t help but mirror. Your son reaches over and tries to grab the drop when you’re not watching, but your husband is smart enough to hide it in a fist and put it back in the sack where it can’t be reached. “Let’s save that for later. Should we pray first?”

The meal is filled with small talk. You tell your husband about the merchant’s gout. He tells you about one of the men who work with him on the field who had been caught and punished for stealing a bit of barley. You make him promise never to do that, and he pretends to be hurt by your lack of faith in him before making the promise, coupled with a kiss to your palm. Your son finishes his food quickly and goes to the window to yell one more time before asking the both of you if the emperor had greeted him a happy birthday. You assure him of it.

The food and the running around (at least, in your child’s case) quickly makes you sleepy, but your son insists that you both sing him a birthday song before you take him in for a nap. You don’t have that gift, so you let your husband lead, opting to clap along instead. Two minutes later, your son is yawning so widely you can see the back of his throat, and you pick him up to bring him to bed.

“What about the gold drops?” He asks sleepily.

“They’ll still be there when you wake up,” you promise. He concedes and lets you cart him off.

You’d only just seen your son off to sleep when you feel it — the first wave of something. It’s mild at first, but it’s quickly followed by a second, longer one. You stumble out of the room to find that your husband is also standing up, brow furrowed.

“An earthquake?” You ask.

“It could be,” he mutters. “But it—“

The third one is accompanied by a terrifying sound; it’s a deep rumble that passes through the earth under your feet and resonates in your chest. Instinctively, you run forward, and your husband wraps you in his arms. You both look out the window.

No one is on the street now, but you can see a few heads also peeking out of their windows. All their eyes seem to follow the same line, and you quickly direct your own gaze to what they’re so focused on. When you see it, you let out a weak gasp. Your husband’s hold on you grows tighter.

The thick outline of the volcano is different today; more than just its normal conical shape, you see a thick cloud of thick, gray smoke rising up from its tip. The cloud is moving fast — too fast to be something you could shrug off. Your husband seems to think the same thing, because he lets go of you quickly but keeps a hold on your arm, towing you towards the room where your son rested.

He can barely get out the words “we have to leave” before he’s interrupted by the sound of an explosion. You don’t see it, but you feel it instantly; the air grows alarmingly hotter, almost burning your skin. A new smell enters the hot wind; it’s sharp and unpleasant, sticking to the back of your throat.

There’s another tell-tale rumble in the floor, and your son screams in confusion as he sits up in bed. You land by his side, holding him close to you. You say it’s fine, but it’s not.

Another explosion. It’s much louder this time, maybe because people are screaming outside. You’re screaming too, face pressed into your son’s hair. It’s much too hot now. Too hot, like the air is setting you aflame completely.

The last two things you feel are your son’s tears dripping onto your knee and your husband’s form pressed firmly against you. It’s his body that catches most of the impact when the last explosion sounds off and you’re completely engulfed in ash.

When you come back into consciousness, you notice that your shirt is sticking to your back. Despite Heehyeon turning down the temperature, you’d still sweat through the nightmare. She’d been kind enough to leave you a glass of water by your bedside. You throw her a silent thank you as you throw your head back and gulp it down. You drink almost desperately, as if you’re trying to wash the last of the ashes out of your throat.

You ask your boss if you can leave work early when Heehyeon texts you that you have an “urgent package” a few days later. You’re pretty sure it’s for the fansign event. She lets you take the rest of the day off, but she can’t hide her exasperation.

“NCT models for Nature Republic,” she says pointedly. “You get to see them all day.”

“It’s not the same thing as seeing them in person,” you defend yourself.

“You go to a fan sign to see how pretty they are. What’s the difference?”

You feel like telling her that the difference is that in a fan sign, the love of your life is a real, three-dimensional person you can talk to and not a life-sized standee at the front of the shop, but you don’t really want to argue. She had just given you the day off, anyway.

“Just remember you’re working double shifts this Monday.” She says this like it’s a punishment, even though weekdays mean later opening times and less customers. “Sejeong has already covered for you twice this week. It’s a good thing she’s okay that you’re such a big NCT fan.”

There are two big boxes by your door when you get home, your face still flushed from running up the stairs; one has already been ripped open, and a big chunk of what was inside has already been extracted. You can hear the sound of ripping plastic and the regular sigh coming from the kitchen, and you enter it to find your roommate with a cutter in her hand and at least twenty NCT albums spread out across the table. She’s in the process of opening one of them, peeling off the cling wrap and shaking out the papers inside.

“You know you don’t even have to open them, right?” You say slowly. “They don’t stick the ticket inside. They do the draws on the websites, so all you need is the receipt.”

“I know; you told me that,” Heehyeon leans back, tossing the free Genie streaming pass to the side. “I’m looking at the photocards.”

“You don’t sound happy.”

“They’re all the same. You shouldn’t have bought it in bulk.”

“I had to,” you frown. “They say it’s better to get a whole range of entries instead of sparse numbers.”

“Well, you also got a whole range of Kim Doyoung photo cards.” To prove her point, she tosses a photo card in your direction. “Oh, and one Taeil card. So far.”

“No Mark?”

“No; it’s what I’ve been looking for.” You think she’s acting really considerate and touching for you until she says, “They’re the ones that make the most money often. Him and Jaehyun”

“You can’t sell my photocards.”

“Why not? You have at least ten Doyoungs right now. What are you going to do with them; make a Kim Doyoung photocard fort?”

You ignore her, taking an album instead and peeling off the wrapping. You leaf through the first few pages, but it’s the Chinese version, and you can’t read it, so you just skip to where all the extra goods have been stuck. When you turn the photo card over, you sigh. It’s just Jaehyun.

You don’t even get through the entire stack that Heehyeon has laid out on the kitchen table before you give up. Obviously, the photo cards aren’t urgent, so you just let her collect them with the Genie passes and move on to the boxes again. You nearly break a nail trying to rip open the other box, but it’s worth it; you manage to get your hands on the receipt, wedged between two albums, and the list of lottery entries for the fansign has been stapled to it.

Heehyeon has given up too, and she stands by the doorway as you scan the numbers. “So how many entries do you get?”

“Depends on how many albums you buy.”

“Well, how many albums did you buy?”

“A hundred and fifty,” you respond, not batting an eyelash.

“You crazy bitch,” she sighs heavily. “We could be living in a better apartment if you hadn’t thrown all your money at NCT.”

“At Mark,” you correct her. You may be a crazy bitch, but you’re also pretty loyal. “Our apartment is great now, anyway.”

“So if you do get a fan sign pass, what’s the plan?”

It sounds like a test or something, like there’s only one right answer to the question. There really is only one right answer, and you let her hear it. “The plan is not to attack anyone.”

“Good. I approve of this plan. But I’d sleep better knowing that I could actually make sure you stuck to it.” Her expression says what she doesn’t verbalize. Unlike last time.

“I’d be lucky to get one fan sign pass, let alone two.”

“Maybe you should let me take the one fan sign pass instead. I’ll give Mark your love.”

You make a motion to throw an album at her, but she doesn’t budge, knowing fully well that you won’t attack her with anything that expensive. She just sticks out her tongue in reply.

The announcement comes up later than expected; Heehyeon’s laptop is out on the kitchen table again after a quick argument about who should clean up the albums (apparently, since they’re yours, you are also responsible in some way; you’d played rock, paper, scissors with her, and had promptly lost). You put up a SuaSua page that autorefreshes the Synnara website while you eat dinner. Heehyeon tells you about how someone at her office had stuck a ripped bag of popcorn into the pantry’s microwave and had caused the butter to explode and leak out of the appliance, leading to the entire floor smelling like burnt popcorn. You ask her if that “someone” was her, and she starts talking about how the weather today was unusually hot.

Synarra’s website crashes for a good ten minutes, showing only a white page with a proxy error, and you realize they must be adding the announcement already. You grab the laptop and yank it towards you while Heehyeon inhales the rest of her rice quickly before moving her chair closer to yours and sticking her head closer to the monitor. A chipped gray nail drags down the screen, leaving a long fingerprint streak, and she says the numbers out loud as you check the list.

“98?”

“No.”

“121?”

“Nope.”

“How about 145?”

She loses almost all of her saliva trying to carefully read out the numbers, but there’s such a short list drawn from a slew of album sales that you’re slowly losing hope. Only about a hundred people will be able to enter the fan sign. You glance back at the boxes by the door, wondering if they’re enough. You’d thought so at first — 150 albums were a lot — but now you’re unsure. Heehyeon says something you don’t catch.

“What?” You ask dumbly.

“I said, do you have 322?”

“Oh-“ You check the first page of the list. Nothing. You’re holding your breath when you flip the page, your eyes more carefully counting the numbers. 317. 318. 319. God, please don’t let it stop there. 320. 321. “Yes, I—”

The paper is snatched out from your grasp before you can complete your poor word choice. Heehyeon’s jaw falls steadily lower as she counts the same numbers and arrives at the magic one.

“You crazy bitch,” she says for the second time today, but it’s less accusing now; in fact, it’s more of an awed whisper. “It actually worked.”

“You’re sure it says 322?”

You both take turns checking, but there’s no denying it. Your number is there. You’re going to the fan sign.

“This is crazy,” Heehyeon murmurs, and she sounds like she really thinks it’s the single most astonishing thing she’s ever seen in all of her lives. “I’d already written out my comforting in-case-you-didn’t-win speech.”

You don’t say anything in response; your mind is much too far away, focused on a week from now, on a day you would see Mark again. It wouldn’t be like M! Countdown. You’d be calmer. You’d be able to explain yourself. Maybe, just maybe, you’d be able to set things right. It’s a gamble, facing him again, but at this point, you feel like fate is finally starting to take your side, and you’re too high from running with it to think about all the cracks in the road.

Heehyeon takes you to CGV Apgujeong on the Saturday of the fansign a week later. There are a number of fans on the orange subway to Apgujeong station, and you panic momentarily in the fear that some of them might recognize you as That Sasaeng from Hell, but they don’t even pay attention; they’re too busy talking to each other, flipping through their albums and showing each other which gifts they want to give to the members. One of them has a goodie basket, and you tilt your head to read the card attached to it.

Mark oppa, please eat these snacks and gain some strength. Czennies are always with you!

It hits you again that the fan demographic for this group isn’t exactly the work a full time job kind, so they have to call him oppa. When you point this out to Heehyeon, all she does is give you a patronizing look and ask if you’re just jealous that you’re not the only one who can lovingly call him that. You ignore her for the rest of the train ride until she tries to make it up to you by dragging you into a coffee shop and buying you a churro.

Even though there are only 100 winners, the crowd at the building is at least five times larger. It’s M! Countdown all over again with the line, except only a select few can really go inside, and the others are just hanging around with their cameras to see if they’ll be able to get a glimpse of NCT. No one bothers you, and you start to realize that maybe less people had seen you in full during The Incident; maybe at that time, you had just looked like a very aggressive blur of pink. It also helps that Heehyeon is chatting to you loudly while dipping and re-dipping her churro into her chocolate so that you can keep your mind off of your building anxiety.

Of course, that dam breaks the moment security says only people with the winning albums can go through the door. Instinctively, you cling onto Heehyeon, and you realize you actually do want her in there with you. She’s the one that has to extract herself from your hold.

“Go on, _____________.”

“I’m terrified,” you admit, fiddling with the sticker on the album that says 322.

“It’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. Just remember what we talked about.” She leans in closer to whisper. “Keep your cool. Explain yourself. Say sorry for the other day, and give him the thing.”

You make a face. Right. The thing. While fans had brought their little dolls and gift baskets and toys, you had a letter — a stupid, handwritten letter that you tried to explain yourself with in the vaguest way possible (to avoid looking even more like a lunatic than you probably already do) while also begging for forgiveness for your attitude. You aren’t very good with words, so Heehyeon had stood behind you coaching you through what to say. All in all, the letter’s a mess, but at least you’re not going in empty-handed.

The elevator’s the only way to the theater where the fan sign is going to be held, so they let you in by batches. When it’s your turn, you get stuck between the wall and another fan the wrong way, the handle bar of the elevator digging into your stomach. You spend what feels like ten whole minutes like two uncomfortable inches away from Mark’s huge face on the poster that runs along the three walls of the elevator before you arrive at the fifth floor of the building and everyone trickles out of the cramped space. At this point, you’re absolutely nauseated, but you’re not sure if it’s because of the whole handle-punching-you thing in the elevator, or if it’s because you’re growing more and more nervous at the prospect of seeing Mark again.

The auditorium is full when you’re ushered to your seat, and you get to stay near the back, which is elevated so that you can see everything, albeit from a distance. Three long tables have been stuck together on the little stage they have set up in front of the theater screen curtains, and there are nine chairs set up in a row behind them. The sea of fans in front of you houses a good number of pink dots, and you remember what those Jaehyun fans at the M! Countdown pre-recording had said about how you could pick out a Mark fan by the color of their shirt. You’re not one of them this time, though; Heehyeon had told you not to draw any kind of attention to yourself, and a violently fuschia shirt was the antithesis to that advice. You content yourself with miserably counting how many people are wearing pink.

You’re in the 20 or so range when a loud cheer erupts from the crowd, and you start; you had been so busy counting that you hadn’t noticed that the staff and security had taken their place around the stage, soon followed by the NCT members themselves. They enter in a line, waving at the crowd enthusiastically. Johnny, who is leading the line and takes the farthest seat from the starting point, is throwing out a flurry of finger hearts that the crowd goes wild over. When they’re at their places, they do their greetings before taking their seats, and the fans quiet down to listen to Mark, who is starting off the opening ment and talking about how he’s really happy about this comeback.

You lean forward in your seat, your eyes trained on only him. Mark looks different today from when you last saw (some would say attacked) him. Today, there are no traces of make-up on his face, no hair products in place. His skin looks dewy and bright, and he’s wearing glasses, perched just on the edge of his nose. They move when he scrunches his nose as he laughs, and he has to push them back to keep them from falling when he leans forward to look at the other members down the line. The white shirt he has on is a little too big for him, but it looks comfortable. Seeing him on stage for a performance is different, you realize. He looks so… at home like this. So normal. So happy.

It makes your heart ache even more.

There’s nothing to do but wait for your turn, and it’s a long time until then. The process goes on a per-row basis to avoid a messy and overcrowded stage, and you watch as fans enter the line one after another, stopping to chat with each member. Some of them have obviously done this before — at least, enough times to be comfortably chatting and laughing with members who remember them. Others are a little more starstruck, and they come off the stage crying, their tears spilling over on their albums — more specifically, Johnny’s face, since they usually have the books open to his photo.

The more people that go up, the more unsure you are of this whole scenario. You wish you could be the kind of fan that they would remember fondly, but most of the members hadn’t even seen you properly when you’d run up to Mark. Probably the only person that would remember you apart from him would be Doyoung, and your only interaction with him had been him trying to pry you off his friend. Chances are, you’re going to end up like the other kind of fan that just broke down during the course of the fan sign, but maybe not for the same reasons.

When the row in front of you is led to the stage, you start feeling sick. You think it’s because you’ve been sitting too long, but, deep down, you know it’s you fears eating away at your insides, and this is only confirmed when you’re advised to stand, and you actually raise a hand to your mouth, pressing two fingers against your lips tightly just in case your churro decided to make a reappearance.

The walk to the stage is horrendously long, and even though you know the other fans are too busy leafing through their signed albums, you feel like you’re under scrutiny. The staff make sure you go up one by one to avoid some kind of traffic jam, and when it’s your turn, you feel your knees go weak. You’re not sure what you look like, but you can’t look that great. The staff at the front of the line asks you to hand over your album and follow the other fans, who’ve had to kneel in front of the idols. You’re inwardly thankful, because there’s almost no strength left in your calves.

The first member in line is Taeil, and he greets you quietly and without fuss. The staff member hands him your album, and he asks for your name. You barely manage to choke it out, and it’s embarrassing when he has to ask for it again. It’s worse with Yuta, who’s so intimidatingly attractive that you actually feel the need to scoot backwards onto your knees. He even asks you to spell out your name because your voice has gone too small.

“You seem so nervous,” he laughs. “Is this your first fan sign?”

“Um,” you answer unintelligibly. “Sorry?”

“No, no. I don’t mean it like it’s a bad thing. But don’t be nervous in front of us. We like seeing our fans happy.”

“Yes. I’m… happy.”

He spares you an amused glance as he’s finishing up his signature. You don’t know what’s so funny, unless you look paper-white and that somehow sets his funny bone off. Luckily, Taeyong isn’t the excessively talkative type — at least, not the kind that makes you feel like you’re under a lamplight in an interrogation room — and the only thing Haechan asks you is if he should call you “noona,” to which you also smartly reply with “uh.” You can’t remember when his birthday is; all you can think about is trying to keep consciousness. He just writes “noona” next to your name, anyway.

When you get to Jaehyun, you truly feel like you’re going to throw up. Mark is right beside him, talking to another fan animatedly. You hear him say something about ghost pepper noodles. He can’t take spicy food, you remember. Your head is light, and the room is spinning, and is that a halo around Mark’s head?

“You must like Mark, huh?”

When you look back at Jaehyun, it looks like a bright light is shining behind his head as well. He only spares you a quick glance, his entire body leaned forward to sign your album carefully. You lick your lips, unsurprised to find them bone dry.

“I — sorry,” you say quietly, and he laughs easily, signing across his torso in the picture. You briefly consider that these people have a weird sense of humor.

“No; it’s fine. Mark has so many fans, doesn’t he? It’s because he’s really talented and humble.”

“You’re… talented and humble too,” you mutter carefully. He chuckles again.

“Thank you. What did you say your name was again?”

“______________.”

He scrawls it messily above his signature before tilting his head back to look at the overall effect of his handwriting vandalizing his own photo. The last stroke of your name just touches his forehead in the picture. “_____________, I hope you continue to love and support Mark and NCT, then.”

Jaehyun pushes your album to the side towards Mark, but your hands are already outstretched to receive it. There’s this long, awkward pause where you’re just cupping thin air and he’s just staring at your hands, and you want to apologize again, except you’re not sure what to apologize for. He just bursts out laughing again, and takes your hand in his to shake it so you don’t look foolish. There must be a lot of static in the air, because the moment your palms make contact, the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, as if you’ve been weakly electrocuted.

He must feel it too because he draws back quickly, and his eyes, previously crinkled with laughter, are now wide and alert. On you. Your stomach drops as an unmistakable expression of recognition reforms his features. His jaw drops.

“Hold on—“

You’re screwed. He must recognize you from The Incident. You open your mouth, but you don’t even know what to say, and before you even have a chance to form a word, the girl beside you inches closer to kneel in front of Jaehyun; the staff behind him is motioning for you to move faster. All you can do is shoot him one last pleading look before you move in front of Mark, and  he’s still staring at you, a little dumbfounded, as you side-crawl further away.

Mark is talking to Doyoung, unaware of the hold-up you’ve caused. They’re sharing a joke, and Mark’s laughter rings in your ears. You actually feel yourself drowning out all the noise around you and focusing on the sound of it. All you can hear is that laugh, coupled by the erratic beat of your heart that feels like it’s about to rip through your chest.

It happens again — that slow-motion, tunnel vision thing you’d felt right before you’d rushed towards him last week. You think it’s nerves at first, but you quickly realize it’s your body warning you of an impending disaster.

He turns to face you, his eyes a little glassy and unfocused from laughing. He doesn’t recognize you for a moment, slim fingers already reaching out for your album and uncapping his pen. It’s only for a split second, really, but you lock eyes in that small span of time. The realization seeps through his gaze as his memory feeds him the information you fear the most.

Mark drops his pen at the same time that he pushes his chair back; the movement is so sharp and violent that the table he’s sharing with Doyoung and Johnny scrapes forward, hitting your chest — not too hard, but enough to knock a little wind out of you. The members look up in alarm at the noise, and it’s only aggravated by Mark’s loud voice hitting all four corners of the auditorium.

“It’s you—!”

Doyoung is the second to recognize you, and he stands up, looking still disoriented but mostly angry, and he jabs his index finger in your direction as if he wants everyone to know you’re the one Mark is referring to.

You don’t know what to do; you put your hands forward, but this just seems to cause an even larger riot. Staff are by your side in a second, and this burly guy grabs you by the elbow and hoists you up. A vague memory of him as the same guy who’d grabbed Mark after the pre-recording pings in the back of your mind, but you don’t have time to worry about that. You go up without resistance, but your gaze is still fixed on Mark, who is now just staring back at you in alarm, half his body hidden behind another security guard who’s shielding him, as if he thinks you’re just going to propel yourself forward and strangle the life out of someone.

Everyone at the table is standing now; even the fans are on their feet, looking livid. Suddenly, everything in your field of vision swims, and you feel the tears spilling over your cheeks, leaving hot, wet streaks of make-up that can’t look attractive.

“Mark,” your voice comes out weakly. “Mark, please. Please — just listen—”

Even if he were to really listen, you don’t have time; you’re already being dragged away by the staff, and they take you through the fire exit to avoid a bigger scene. This entire time, you’re looking back at the table, and you’re trying to call out Mark’s name, but he’s refusing to look your way now, shakily taking his seat as the staff realigns the tables. The only time you stop yelling is when the fire exit’s door slams shut.

It doesn’t take long for you to sober down, and you try telling the staff you weren’t planning on doing anything weird, but they aren’t taking any chances. Two big guys keep your arms practically pinned to your sides as they escort you to the first floor, where building security had called up the police again. You at least feel a little lucky that they don’t parade you out up front where everyone can see you.

You desperately want to call Heehyeon, but they’ve confiscated your phone and your wallet, so you just sit in the back of the police car, trying not to scream. You hadn’t even done anything, but he’d panicked anyway. You’d already spent your time regretting The Incident, but this, by far, was its worse effect. If you ever showed up in front of him again, you’d probably be given a real restraining order.

No one talks to you at the police station; they’re so busy trying to deal with other cases of misdemeanor here and there that they actually just let you sit by the door for twenty minutes. You could leave, but you don’t; you’re not taking any more chances right now. Eventually, you’re led into a temporary holding cell next to a shoplifter, and you’re suddenly glad they’ve confiscated your valuables.

It’s quiet, save for the footsteps of the shoplifter that’s pacing agitatedly. She keeps forgetting she doesn’t have a watch and actually checks her bare wrist every so often, as if she’s waiting for someone. You let out a long sigh and press your back against the wall for a second before you realize you don’t know what’s been near it, and you shoot up straight again, your features morphing to express disgust. Your cellmate snickers.

Heehyeon must know something’s wrong already. By now, everyone’s left the auditorium, and it won’t take a public service announcement for her to catch wind of something bad happening in the fan sign. She’d have to ask security about you, then wait for a cab to get to the police station. If she’s as smart as you think she is, she should be outside trying to bail you out of your overnight stay.

Your spirit lifts for the first time since the fan sign as you see the officer that apprehended you come back into the holding areas. He stops in front of your cell, gesturing for you come forward before getting the keys to unlock the cell.

“You’re letting me go?” You confirm, watching him struggle with the keys.

“Your friend paid your bail,” he drawls out the word friend, like he’s disgusted by the idea that Heehyeon is paying for your release. “He’s signing the papers outside.”

He?

You’re nothing short of confused when you exit the holding area, and your eyes immediately scan the police station for Heehyeon. There’s no sign of her though.

The only person you recognize is NCT’s Jaehyun, standing taller than almost everyone in the room, grinning and gesturing for you to come over.

last eden - iii . | lmh

part i, ii, iii

only one thing has ever mattered to you, in this lifetime, and in all others : mark lee — even if he doesn’t know yet, and even if he may never remember.

pairing: mark x reader verse: canon/idol!verse, soulmates trope rating: T warnings: none, i think! word count: 5.7k tag list: @kikookii

a/n: quite frankly i am having a terrible headache so if you see any bad slip ups once again please feel free to let me know!! literally no mark presence in this chapter (i apologize) however, it's integral to the story, plus you have quite a bit of jaehyun to bridge the gap, so ..................... here we go !!

What’s weird is that he gives you back your album. He casually hands it over alongside the release papers like you’re still in the auditorium and not exiting the police department, with a bunch of officers casting the both of you befuddled looks. Some guy by the water cooler seems to recognize Jaehyun and promptly drops his paper cup. The water stains his pants in a supremely unattractive way, but he just keeps on staring, kind of agape.

Who can blame him, though? You’ve got this tall, handsome guy coming out of the precinct jail all smiles with this really confused girl right behind him; the scene just… it makes no sense. At all. 

When you’re finally past the front doors, you open your mouth to ask him a question — any question — but nothing comes out; you’re not sure which one to prioritize. You just end up scratching your neck and saying “um,” which he responds to with a sincerely interested look, but you have nothing, so you just kind of stare at each other until even he starts looking a bit awkwardly placed.

“I couldn’t get anyone else’s signature on it anymore, but I thought you might at least like to have it back,” he gestures to the album, tucked between your side and your arm. “You know, fond memories.”

You’re sure that’s a joke, but neither of you laugh. He’s looking at you expectantly, like he wants you to have this big revelation, or to, like, start freaking out at least, but all you can do is look down at your release papers with this numbness in your chest. His name is on the signatory line: Jung Yoonoh. Like, you’d always know some of their names were stage names, but it wasn’t like you cared enough to research and memorize everyone else’s names and birthdays and favourite foods. Information on Mark was already too much, anyway. 

Still, seeing his real name also made him more… normal. Even if he is still freakishly tall. You have to crane your neck slightly to maintain eye contact with him, and you can’t be too close, or you’ll just have to bend your neck back to a really bad angle. 

“Your signature… looks different on this paper,” you observe stupidly.

“Yeah, well… I can’t really put a big, obnoxious autograph on a legal document, can I?” he chuckles. 

“Why did you — I mean, you didn’t have to, but thank you, but — why?”

“Why did I bail you out?” He looks away slowly, out towards the busy road. It looks so dramatic that you almost want to look around to see if you’re accidentally trapped in a primetime drama series with him. “Well, for one, I know you’re not crazy.”

That’s good. Not necessarily the NCT member you wanted to convince of your sanity, but it’s some kind of progress.

“But more importantly, I think it’s important that you’re aware that there are always people who are going to help you.”

That was way too much depth considering you’d just formally met each other about an hour or two ago. He turns back to you, a small smile still playing on his lips. You smile back — although it feels more like a grimace. 

“Thank… you?” You let the last syllable of your thanks hang awkwardly, unsure if he wants to just drop the conversation or something, but he looks at you expectantly, so you feel compelled to continue. “I mean… That’s nice of you to say so, and I’m grateful that you think that I’m not crazy — I’m really not — but I just… feel bad.”

“Bad?” It’s his turn to look bemused. 

“Bad, yeah. I mean, you’ve got so much on your plate without having to go through all this trouble just to help a fan you don’t know. I’m not complaining,” you add quickly. “I’m just saying… you… you didn’t have to. I could have called my friend or my mom, or something. The point is, you didn’t have to go out of your way and hassle yourself for a nobody you’ve never met.”

“We’ve met,” he raises his eyebrows.

“Yeah, like two hours ago.” 

“I kind of remember seeing you further back,” he says slowly.

“Okay, but that day doesn’t count,” you say, sounding dismissive, but you’re honestly just embarrassed he remembers you diving at Mark after the M! Countdown stage. “We didn’t even talk. I don’t even know if anyone else apart from Mark and Doyoung got a good look at my face. My point is —”

“I got a pretty good look from the car,” he replies simply, and you can see he’s struggling to keep down a smile. “But I mean—”

“My point is,” you press on. “Thank you. For today — for bailing me out even if I’m just some crazy fan and for, you know, assuring me that you don’t actually think I’m crazy.”

He waits for a second, then a huge, toothy grin spreads across his face. “That’s it?”

“I guess.” It felt kind of anticlimactic. You’re confused, yes, but under that, you’re really just grateful. And confused. But mostly grateful. 

“You’re welcome, then,” he says simply. “But if you’re really thankful, maybe you should take my advice when I say you should think about taking a break.” 

And now you’re stumped again. “What?”

“Take a break,” he repeats himself. “Try not to overexert yourself too much and get into this kind of trouble. Times are hard these days, and they’ll only get harder.”

“Is that your best fortune cookie impression?” 

He laughs again — loudly this time, so much so that the police officers stepping outside of the building shoot him a surprised look. “No, but I think it’s a pretty good one, don’t you?”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“You will,” he says, and although his words are mysterious, his demeanor is weirdly cavalier; he just shrugs his shoulders. “But it always takes time for it to sink in. When it does, you should call me.”

“I should huh?” 

He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a wrinkled ziplock bag that turns out to contain your phone. The front of the bag has all of your details, and some vindictive police officer had written CONFISCATED on it with a thick red pen. 

“I put my number in there; I hope you don’t mind. I’m not, like, randomly hitting on you, or anything weird like that, in case you were wondering. I just think you might want to keep in touch even after this.” He makes a slightly pained face. “Um, it’s also been ringing a lot. Your friend is probably looking for you, but I didn’t want to invade your privacy and answer it.” 

“I can tell,” you reply, fishing it out of the bag and unlocking it. You have eleven missed calls and a bunch of KakaoTalk messages. “How in the world did you unlock my phone?”

“I guessed your passcode. It wasn’t hard considering how much I already know about you. Call it an educated guess.”

“How much you — okay,” you don’t know if your agitation is a result of feeling slightly violated now or just residual trauma from today’s events as a whole. “You need to be straight with me and tell me what you’re saying, really.” 

“I’m NCT’s Jaehyun, and I just bailed you out of jail. I can be as mysterious as I want.” 

“Those two reasons literally don’t make sense!” you half-shriek. 

“Don’t yell; people might think I’m kidnapping you,” he actually looks around like he’s worried. 

“I’m the one with a criminal record in this conversation.”

“Did they really write you up as a criminal?”

“I’m pretty sure I saw them write that I was charged with viol — that’s besides the point,” you quickly haul the conversation back to the topic. “I don’t understand anything that’s going on here, and you sound like you’re saying something important, but all I hear is some weird guru babble.” 

“If I try to explain everything here, we’re just going to have a hard time. Besides, there’s no real learning if I just tell you everything.” You feel like you’re going to scream again, but you don’t really want to be caught harassing another idol, especially one that’s helped you, so you just bite your tongue. Hard. "You’re tired. I’m tired. People are looking for us. I need to get to practice, and you… need to… um, do stuff. Have dinner. Go see a movie, or something. I’ve got free passes, if you want them; they’re probably in my wallet somewhere —“ 

“Pass on the movie,” you say firmly. “I just… Okay. I’m going home. I’m going to process what just happened, crawl into bed, and then die, maybe.”

“Before you die,” he interrupts. “Call me. After the whole processing thing.”

“Before I die, I will consider calling you. Even though I don’t know why I should, and especially because that’s very weird, considering we’re not even friends.”

“I paid your bail,” he pouts. He pouts? In this day and age? “What else does it take to be your friend, then?”

“Clear responses.”

“Well, if that’s what it takes, we’ll be friends when you process everything that happened today and you inevitably call me.”

You awkwardly see Jung Jaehyun off, waiting for his cab to leave before calling Heehyeon back. Just as the car is about to move forward, the driver presses on the break again, and he rolls his window down. Jaehyun is beside him, craning his neck so you can hear him clearly when he says call me, okay? You make a half-hearted grunt that he takes for assent and finally allows the driver to speed away. 

“What happened to you?” Heehyeon screams into the phone the moment she picks up. “There were tons of policemen outside CGV! One of them said someone got arrested. Did you get arrested? Please give me at least one bit of good news today and tell me you didn’t.”

“I was… hauled away and put in time-out?”

“You’re so — oh my God, tell me which police station.” 

The moment you finish giving the address, she hangs up, and you can only assume she’s on her way. You end up standing outside of the police station for another twenty minutes, alternating between just looking guilty and playing 1010 on your phone. You hear your name being called out by a clearly incensed voice, and you turn to see your roommate charging at you, lips pressed in a tight line. Your palms, admittedly, get just a little sweaty. 

“Don’t start,” Heehyeon raises a hand. Her cheeks are flushed, probably because she’s minutes away from exploding and she’s also been running. Her chest is heaving, probably for similar reasons. “I had to hear from some kids that a crazy fan leapt over the signing table, pushed aside Doyoung and Jaehyun, and kissed Mark full on the mouth! I told you not to do anything crazy, and you had to do the one thing that made you look the craziest!”

“I did no such thing!” You argue, slightly affronted. “Why would you even believe I’d do that?”

“Because you’re not above that when it comes to Mark!” 

“I still have my dignity,” you retort.

“Do you? Do you really?”

“I didn’t do anything. I literally didn’t!” You cut her off before she can start again. “I was just moving along the line, ready to give him the album and the letter, and he and Doyoung recognized me —“ 

“More people recognized you? That’s just great —“

“The point is, I didn’t make any kind of scene!” You huff; despite knowing that this is somehow your fault, you can’t help but feel like people have blown this issue way out of proportion. You had only had a brief, harmless spell of hysteria once, and now you’re crazy? “I was just doing what I had planned to do. It just didn’t go as planned.” 

“I’ll say,” Heehyeon’s face is considerably less red; perhaps she’d come to believe you, or maybe she’d always just been really good at not blowing up at you for all of your strange decisions. She eases herself in front of you, sticking out her arm to call a cab. Her voice becomes muffled as she crawls her way into the far end of the backseat. “The whole first floor was a mess. Other people thought there was a bomb threat. They said a whole bunch of fans got arrested. How the hell did you get out?”

“I got bailed out,” you shift your weight between your feet before you follow suit. You can’t wait until this story gets even weirder, considering that the cab driver is looking at the two of you suspiciously. Heehyeon doesn’t notice, or if she does, she doesn’t mind, so she gives your address to him as he starts moving forward. 

“How — is your mom in town or something?”

“No, it was… you know.”

“I really don’t,” she replies, tiredly. You can’t blame her. Her heart has probably experienced just about the same amount of distress as your own. 

“It was… Jaehyun. You know.”

“Like, your manager?”

“Wh — no, I mean, Jung Jaehyun.” When her face draws a blank, you sigh, turning away. You pass by an Innisfree, and then a Nature Republic. You should really figure out how to make up for all the hours you took off from work. Somehow, you feel embarrassed about a lot of things. “You know. Jaehyun? From NCT?”

“I know of him.”

“Well, he paid my bail.” 

There’s silence in the backseat now. Heehyeon isn’t even making eye contact with you; her face is uncomfortably unreadable. The cab driver makes a turn and ups the volume of the song playing on the radio.

“Okay,” Heehyeon says slowly, after her long and strange pause. “New question. Why?”

“Good question,” you respond, blowing out a bit of air in frustration. “I don’t know.”

“Did he bribe you? To stay away from Mark?”

“No,” that would have made more sense, though. “He said we were friends and demanded that I call him soon.”

“Maybe it’s, like, a cry for help. Maybe SM Entertainment is just holding him hostage and he needs you to bail him out.”

“This isn’t a soap opera, you lunatic.”

“Yeah, you’re right. There would have to be another annoying girl competing for Mark’s affections while the main girl suffers in silence. Or, plot twist, you’re the annoying girl.”

“Well, he seemed like he was being genuine,” you ignore her last comment, although you do meet it with a standard eye roll. “He even broke into my phone and gave me his number.”

“That’s not creepy at all,” she pauses again, this time to snort. “Although anyone can break into your phone, now that I think about it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you’ve got a one-track mind. Anyone who can see that knows exactly what your passcode is. And I’m sure he saw that, considering he saw you lunging at Mark.”

“I did not lunge! And my passcode is fairly secure.”

“0802.”

“What?” You say defensively. 

“It’s 0802. Your passcode. It’s Mark’s birthday.”

“Lucky guess,” you mutter, shifting your vision away once again as she snickers behind her hand. 

You and Heehyeon split the cab fare and trudge up to your apartment; both of you look worse for wear, and she flops down onto the couch while you fiddle with the air conditioner’s remote. 

“You think he’s in love with you?”

“Who? Mark? I doubt it.”

“No; I meant Jaehyun.”

“I doubt that even more,” you sigh, pushing her feet off the couch so you can settle on it with a groan. 

“You’ll never know,” she pokes your thigh with her toe, and you swat at her ankles. “Maybe he likes girls that are kind of possessive.”

“I am not possessive!” You want to yell, but your fatigue is catching up to you. Instead, you smack her calf; a satisfying whimper escapes her.

“If you weren’t, you would just let him go.”

“You know why I can’t, you dumbass. He’s my soulmate.”

“What if that’s not a real thing? What if you’ve just been with him all this time because you keep finding a way to track him down?”

“Why would I have the memory to keep finding him if we weren’t meant to be together?” You say exasperatedly.

“All I’m saying is that you should think about taking a break. Go on vacation. Or a blind date.”

“You—“ you turn to her, your brows furrowed. “You sound like Jaehyun.”

“How so?”

“He told me to take a break,” you recall slowly. “Told me not to overexert myself. He said something about times just getting harder.”

Heehyeon sits up and stretches out; you hear her back crack. Her shirt rides up a little when she shrugs. “What does that mean?”

“Beats me. It’s kind of why I thought he was a little out of it.”

“Well, I’m telling you to take a break. If you’re not going to take it from him, take it from me. Knowing you’ve spent all of your lives chasing after Mark is tiring.” 

A strange tingle runs down your spine. “Wait, what did you say?”

“I said you should take a break.”

“No, not that,” you say impatiently. “The other thing.”

“I said knowing you’ve spent all of your lives chasing Mark is tiring, so you should give it a rest for a while.”

“Knowing I’ve spent all of my lives…” you echo. Your fingers curl into your palms, nails digging into your skin. Heehyeon tosses you a slightly confused look. “Do you think —no way. It can’t be, right? Not Jaehyun?”

“What ab —“ she freezes, her jaw suddenly going slack. You lick your lips, waiting for her to say something affirming, like no way, or you’re crazy, but she just meets your eyes with a slightly panicked expression. 

“Jesus Christ. You need to call him now.”

Jaehyun actually sounds really happy when he picks up. There’s music playing in the background, and you can hear voices talking over it. His own voice echoes a little in whatever space he’s in, and his breathing is slightly labored. 

“Did you get home safely? Did your friend come pick you up?” 

“I don’t want to be rude, but since you’re busy and probably have very little time to talk, can I be the one asking the questions this time?” 

“Okay — actually, it really isn’t a good time right now,” he hums. You want to scream with frustration, but you know idol’s lives are just the worst when it comes to having leeway for free time, so you swallow it down. “Are you free later tonight? You can ask whatever you want.”

“Like, 7:30, 8 pm?”

“More like past midnight,” he says, and now he has the audacity to sound a little sheepish. “Sorry. Tight schedule.”

“I have work tomorrow,” you half-whine. 

“I don’t really know when our next off-schedule is. Maybe in a couple of weeks?”

You can’t wait that long. Even the thought of waiting until 8 PM was already a little tortuous. But since he’s giving the answers, you have to play by some of his rules. “Fine. 1 am.”

You make plans to meet at a coffee shop in Garosu-gil, and he’s nice enough to promise you a ride home, even if it’s kind of out of the way for him. You hang up just in time to avoid Heehyeon yelling out I love you, Jaehyun! from the kitchen. She snickers when you throw an oven mitt in her general direction. 

A lot of the boutiques in the area are half-closed already, and there are very few people making their way down the street when you get out of the cab at a quarter to 1. You’re glad the street is fairly narrow, enough for only foot traffic, with all of its shops stuck together, but it’s still a fairly long stretch of road. You take your time strolling down the street, assuming that Jaehyun will be late considering he’s got a pretty tight schedule.

So you’re surprised that you see him by the window of the otherwise empty cafe, playing Gardenscapes on his phone. He notices you walk up, laughing at your alarmed expression as you pick up your pace considerably and enter the cafe.

“I thought you’d be late!” You hiss, using a fierce tone so as not to call attention to the embarrassment that’s probably clear in your overheated face.

“Hey, I can be punctual when I want to be.” He pockets his phone as you sit down across him, slipping your bag off your shoulder and kicking it under the table. “Smooth.”

“I was assuming you’d have some really heavy schedule to attend to, so I took my sweet time walking. You didn’t even text!”

“I didn’t want to hurry you or stress you out. You already kind of look like you stress yourself out.” 

You have no response to this, mostly because it’s true. You just stand up, mutter something unintelligible, and march off to the counter, ordering a cup of iced chocolate before sitting back down.

“So,” he leans forward, lacing his fingers together on the table. “Are you feeling any better?”

“Physically, yes. Mentally? Still pretty confused.”

“You said you had questions.”

“Yeah. First of all, how do you know what my passcode for my phone is?”

“What — Mark’s birthday?” He laughs at your frown. “Educated guess. You should really think about changing it.”

“I don’t think it’s that predictable if you aren’t a fan.”

“Is that really the thing you’re most concerned about right now?” 

“No,” you chew your lip, suddenly nervous. He doesn’t change his position, just kind of… sits there and waits really patiently. Both of your eyes follow the waiter’s hands as he sets down your iced chocolate a few inches away from Jaehyun’s half-finished iced Americano. “I want to know the truth about you.”

“Okay — my name is Jung Jaehyun. I was born on the 14th of February. My mom’s name is —” 

“No, not that stuff,” you wave his oncoming spiel away. He pretends to look affronted, which you also manage to ignore by taking a sip of your drink. “You know what I mean. Why did you bail me out? Why are you so friendly towards me when we’ve never met before? Why are you talking to me like you know so much about me?”

“What do you mean? We’ve met before.”

“How long ago?” 

He twists his cup in its saucer; a little puddle of coffee has formed around the base of the cup. Jaehyun seems really interested in it, suddenly. “Before I answer that, can I ask you something?” 

This conversation really isn’t going as planned. Then again, you had also refused to take Heehyeon’s advice to strap Jaehyun to a chair and tickle the answers out of him. Now you’re not really sure if you regret that decision. “I guess so. What?”

“What do you know about the Battle of Volgograd?”

You make a face that very clearly amuses him. “I only took Korean history in college. Even that was an elective. I know next to nothing about the rest of the world.” 

“Nothing? You don’t remember anything from it?” 

“Why are you asking me for a lecture on European history?”

“I sometimes dream about Russia. Like, really clearly,” he keeps turning his cup in its saucer. “But, like, I know what it looks like now, sort of, but it’s not really that way in my dreams. It’s more of like, a really bad war zone. Everything’s messed up. So many people are dead. Pretty sure I killed some of them? It was just a really bad time. In my dream, I mean.”

“Sure,” you’re turning your own cup, too. You’re not sure if he’s doing the same thing because he’s just as anxious and nervous as you are. It’s like there’s suddenly this blanket of tension over your heads, with a big revelation about to come out, and you just want to will it to be revealed faster. 

You lived through that time in Russia. Except it wasn’t called Volgograd; it was called Stalingrad back then, and it was at the brink of destruction. You later found out that the Soviet Union had won, but it wasn’t like you could be happy about that news, considering what you’d lost.

“What’s so weird is that Mark was in my dream, too,” Jaehyun continues. “Like, I know that it was him, even if he looked kind of different. It’s so weird, but I didn’t call him Mark, obviously. But he talked like him and acted like him, so I knew.” 

“So it was just all nine of you in Russia, or something?”

“Like, in NCT? No, just Mark. It wasn’t an ensemble cast, or anything.”

Your heart is pounding. It’s the kind of proof you need, but you feel like this moment is so tense that you don’t want to interrupt him. You just take a really big gulp of iced chocolate. 

“Mark and I were really close because we were both in the army. Before we slept every night, he’d look at a picture of this girl. He kept saying he wanted to go home to her. Like, he didn’t want to die without ever seeing her again. He’d write her letters, but sending them was too difficult and expensive. He just kept saying the fight wasn’t worth it.”

Jaehyun is looking at you, but you can’t make eye contact. His fingers drum against the surface of the table, more and more agitatedly as the seconds tick by. You actually hear him swallow before he continues. 

“Things got bad. We thought we were going to lose. The commander sent us out on some kind of suicide mission, and it should have gone fine, but you know how things are in war. Something always manages to go wrong, and we were gunned down. I barely made it out alive. Mark was badly wounded, and the medic tried to help, but they couldn’t bec—“

“Stop,” your voice is shaky. “This isn’t what I was asking about, Jaehyun.”

He looks apologetic, but his words are firm. “At least let me finish.” 

“I just need an answer to my questions.”

“These are my answers. They’re convoluted and weird, but it’s the best proof I have.” 

You can’t say anything after that, so you just keep your eyes on the table, your lip trembling a little. He takes this as a cue to keep talking. 

“Anyway, the medics told me that time was running out. If we stayed there for much longer, we’d all die. Mark has always kind of been this weird hero, you know? He makes all these weird sacrifices no one expects him to, and he’s just okay with it. And it was like that in the dream; he told me to leave, and he pulled out that picture he’d always kept in his jacket pocket and gave it to me. He made me promise to get her out of the city and take her somewhere safe so she wouldn’t get hurt if the Soviet lost the war.”

You’re not sure if it’s the lighting or the time, or maybe it’s just the weight of this dream on Jaehyun’s shoulders. Either way, he looks eerily older now, like his face is way tired and a little sunken. The dark circles around his eyes are pretty prominent without make-up, you note. 

“I went AWOL. I was pretty done with the fighting, too. The commander looked surprised that some of us came back alive, like we were just dispensable. That same night, I took Mark’s stuff and left camp. He wrote the girl’s address on all of the envelopes he kept his letters in, so I thought maybe she’d at least like to have them. What was so weird was that when I looked at her picture, I knew her. She was an old schoolmate of mine, and her dad and mine sometimes had drinks together.” He chuckles with little humor. “Kind of weird, isn’t it? You run into people later on in your life when you’ve just nearly forgotten all about them.”

“Did you find her?”

“Yeah, I did. What was so fucked up though was that when I told her, she didn’t even really cry. I was worried she’d gone into shock, or something, but she just took the letters, gave me something to drink, and told me to go back to the front.” 

“I’m guessing you didn’t.”

“No, of course not. I mean, not only did I not want to die, I also didn’t want to not do the last thing Mark asked me to. So we left. I helped her get back to her parents in the province. After that, the dream just kind of skips randomly. I never saw her again, though. She must have gotten married, or something. Who knows?”

“She didn’t.”

“It was just a dream,” he replies carefully. 

“Well, she didn’t.” You frown. “She never married.There was no point. He was supposed to come home and marry her.” 

“That’s not a very happy ending to think about.”

“It’s not, but it’s what happened.” The entire time he’d been telling his story, your stomach had felt hollow; now, it feels heavy with lead, dragging your heart down with it. Jaehyun’s hand reaches out instinctively, but he draws it back, fingers curling into a fist. 

“I wouldn’t know, but I’m sure you would. Considering that was you, and all.”

“How many do you remember?” You ask. 

“Vividly? I’d say maybe five. I’m sure there are others, but it’s kind of hard to keep track. I just know you’re always there. So is Mark.” 

“I don’t remember,” you admit. “I mean, I don’t remember you. When you tell me this story, I can remember it, but I never thought it was you, over and over.” 

“Yeah, well, I’m doing things differently this time around,” he smiles slightly. “I never told you before that I remembered you. Not sure how that’s going to change anything now, but at least I’m trying that.” 

“So, if I asked you if you remember anything about, say, Rome —“ 

“It was your son’s birthday. That day of the… uh —” 

“Right,” you lean back in your chair, shaking your head. “Okay. This is… fine, I guess. Kind of weird, but fine.”

“______________,” him saying your name is shocking, and it throws you off for some reason; your eyes shoot up to meet his. They’re very clearly concerned in a way that makes you feel both vulnerable and exposed. “I’m not acting like I know what you’re going through. But I’ve seen it over and over, from a close distance, at least. You’re more and more unhappy. I can’t begin to understand what kind of connection you have, but is it worth it to suffer this much every time? For one person?” 

“Are you implying that he’s not worth it?”

“Of course not. I’m just trying to wrap my head around why you would keep doing it knowing that something terrible will happen anyway.”

“Why?”

“I mean, you could change course,” he shrugs. “I’m trying it. Who knows? Maybe now that I’ve told you, I can stop remembering everything, and we can meet in the next life as totally new people. That’s why I suggested you take a break; do it for yourself. Why would you repeat the same shitty cycle?”

“Because I love him,” you reply, simply, and more firmly than you had at any other point in this messed up conversation. “Isn’t that enough?” 

Both of your cups are empty, save for the last dregs of your drinks. Jaehyun stares at you, both his hands wrapped around the curve of his mug. It feels like a whole lifetime stretches out before you before he sighs and lifts his cup to his lips, draining the last of his coffee. You watch him, befuddled, as he pats around his pockets and brings out his car key. 

“Okay,” he says, with a weird sort of finality. “Let’s get going, then.”

“What, that’s it?” You can’t even hide the disappointment in your voice. Somehow, you thought you’d be talking a lot more. But, then again, what more was there for you to figure out? “We’re leaving?”

“Yeah; I’m going back to the dorm,” he stands up, pulling a bill out of his other pocket and going over to the counter to place it in the tip jar. You scramble around for your bag, pulling it over your shoulder as you stand up as well.

“Oh,” you feel foolish and a little impertinent for asking, but it is the middle of the night, and you feel like looking slightly demanding is better than hailing a cab at this ungodly hour. “Will… I get to go home first?” 

“Yeah, I’ll drop you off there for sure. But we’ll just stop at the dorm for a bit.”

“Okay,” you don’t really feel like you have a huge say in this, and it’s not like you’re complaining yet, but you’re still slightly confused at the abrupt ending to this conversation. You express this as you try to keep up with Jaehyun’s much longer stride. “Do you gas up at the dorm, or something?”

He laughs. It’s really, really loud, especially for this time of night. “No. I was thinking, tonight, maybe I might talk you out of your bad life habits, but it’s obvious you’ve always been set in your ways. So we’re going with plan B.”

“What the hell is plan B?” When had there been a plan A? Why was this all becoming so weirdly convoluted?

Jaehyun helps you into the car, reminding you about the seatbelt before making his way around the front and climbing into the driver’s seat. 

“Plan B,” he jams the key into the ignition, turning it until the engine purrs to life. “Is getting you and Mark in the same room without him calling the police on you.” 

“I don’t want to be rude, but have you actually thought this plan through? The past couple of encounters didn’t go well. At all.”

He adjusts the rearview mirror before turning to you; his teeth are white, gleaming in the dark as he grins. 

“You know what they say. Third time’s the charm.”

sweet cream, cold brew | lmh ( m )

something about mark lee keeps you up at night, and you’re pretty sure that it isn’t the lingering smell of espresso on his shirt.

alternatively: mark is shy until he isn’t.

read the second part here!

pairing: nerd!barista!mark x reader verse: college au rating: r ( minors, do not interact! ) warnings&tags: unprotected sex, oral (f!receiving), fingering, slightly possessive/jealous dialogue, mark has a thing for tummy bulges because why not, implicitly that also means he has a big dick, a slight???? exhibitionism kink (not actually something that happens, only talked about), johnny exists in this simply to trigger something vaguely feral in mark, reader is a little bit assertive and schemes to get mark's attention, jaehyun is a nosy lil eavesdropper, i think that should be it?? word count: 26.4k

a/n: hello so this was a mess and honestly not a fic i would say showcases my best plot-wise but… what can I say apart from booty wurk mark has me in a chokehold and I needed to release some thoughts and feelings !!! please do not expect too much from the development of the story; i fear it’s quite long and choppy because my ideas were all over the place and i was wringing my hands and brain constantly and i was eager to get to the spicy parts !! this is also not beta’d/proofread, it’s currently almost 1am, and i’ve been writing this on and off for a full week with very few breaks so it honestly felt like a fever dream for me LMAO please forgive any oversights and mistakes; i’ll try to go back on them another day and fix them little by little! finally and …most importantly belated happy birthday, my beloved morkly!

p.s. this will probably be flagged as ‘mature’ by tumblr, which means there’s a high likelihood it won’t appear in tags or searches. please consider reblogging to boost the fic, if you feel so inclined!

You’ve heard tell of how caffeine has inherently addictive properties. 

The more of it you have in your lifetime, the more likely you are to experience symptoms of withdrawal whenever you try to have orange juice for breakfast in its stead. It sounds bad, actually, considering most addictive substances are, but you suppose that its benefits somehow outweigh its milder drawbacks. You’re not much of a coffee connoisseur the way some people — see: your best friends, Yeji and Jisu — are, trying one cafe after the other in pursuit of being able to nominate the winning beans of 2023 (an annual heated debate they participate in for no better reason than their own slow and useless entertainment during their six-hour long breaks), but you do know you’ve only ever experienced good things from having a cup every so often: better energy, a more focused approach to mental activities, and the ability to drive through fifty percent of a road trip without needing pop punk music blasting out of your speakers to keep yourself alert. 

The three of you are generally particular about the coffee you drink, only in different ways. While your friends have a tendency to demand only the best from any establishment — lest the staff hear fiery commentary about the flatness of the brew or the evident coarseness of the grind — you, on the other hand, are a singular individual of rather simple tastes. All you need to survive long days is a glass of vanilla sweet cream cold brew. No modifications to the sugar level or fancy new milk types are necessary; you’ll drink it as it’s served in a grande cup (or a venti, when things prove particularly grueling). 

Of course, you’re strict about other things in the experience of consumption —  like where it’s served and, more importantly, who serves it to you. 

While Yeji and Jisu have rated the Liberal Arts building’s on-campus Starbucks branch as a five with the strict label of POEO — ‘passable on emergencies only’ — branding the menu as “nothing revolutionary” and criticizing most baristas for subpar brewery, you happen to be extremely drawn to the place. Initially, you may have argued that this has to do with the fact that it’s walking distance from most of your classes, confined to the same general compound on campus, so you can always grab a quick recharger whenever needed, no matter how short the timeframe to do so is. Sometime later on, you may have found yourself asserting that the layout of the cafe, albeit small, is very convenient, considering that every table is situated next to an electrical outlet, so you’re never out of battery (important to other students for their laptops and powerpoint presentations, important to you because you have an unhealthy obsession with passing time on TikTok, scrolling past video after video of ASMR girls clicking their twenty-inch long acrylics with their crazy candyland designs), and this makes you feel at ease. 

A month ago, you finally came clean to yourself and, soon after, to your friends, and they came to understand, albeit begrudgingly and with no small amount of amusement, what made this Starbucks unbeatable in your eyes; it had one thing no other coffee shop could lay claim to.

What you know of Mark Lee is accrued from two major sources: long, surreptitious glances in the Modern World History class you share, and irritatingly brief interactions when you place your order from the other side of the counter behind which he stands, long fingers always poised to punch in your order at the speed of light. Sometimes, those encounters get cut even shorter when irate upperclassmen start prattling their orders out before you can even say anything past your own, except even this has its own consolation prize — an apologetic smile at you that seems only for you, although you’re not sure how much of this assumption is true. You’ll just believe it as you feel it. 

And what you’ve learned about Mark Lee has funneled down into two key points for you: first, he is single, a fact you were clued into when a group of his friends came to the coffee shop and sat around the table next to you. You hadn’t been eavesdropping; they’d just been pretty loud, but you’d also perked your ears the moment the one everyone seemed to call “Hyuck” — you aren’t sure if it’s his full name or a nickname, and you don’t particularly care — had leaned in for a conspiratorial whisper about having a vague master plan to set Mark up with an old high school friend’s younger sister that he was just waiting to spring on said Mark, busy slaving away on their six impossible orders near the espresso machine. 

You don’t really know what became of that plan, nor if anyone had telepathically been on your side to outright call it crazy (someone should have had a better reason than you, anyway) since the next moment, Hyuck’s voice becomes significantly louder when it orders the one named Jisung to collect the completed coffee and snacks waiting for them on the counter. However, you feel safe in the assumption that even if it had happened, no repercussions had followed, seeing as Mark still presently comes and goes from his shifts alone and in no clear hurry to meet any cute girls that are sisters of high school friends of his friends. Or, maybe you’re just ignoring what could be truth, but that’s whatever. 

Second, you’ve learned that Mark Lee should not actually be your type — at least, in theory. 

Saying you’re out of his league would be a bit juvenile, but if you had only so many words to describe the situation, you’d say so under duress. It isn’t so much that he’s beneath you in any way, but your interests and general social circles run different routes. Yours tend to be more classically patterned after constantly changing trends, and the people you interact with all seem to have similar goals; you like to call it ‘vibe networking,’ which, from experience, involves connecting with both groups and individuals that are equally aware that they will benefit in some way from any resulting acquaintanceship — whether it be by climbing the social ladder a couple of rungs or being able to call in a quick, off-the-charts favor for something very important and/or very exclusive down the road. You and your friends spend a significant amount of time in a year watching your style and image, something quite a lot of kids in the first couple of years of college tend to do, which means that while you don’t particularly like to spend your time following your grade trajectory, you do have quite a lot of pseudo-friends that all seem to offer something entertaining or helpful to you. 

Mark, on the contrast, prefers to keep his circle very close to his heart, it seems — that which acts as a receptacle for all his interests. You can tell that he likes to be up to date less with trending movies and more with comic books, a separate beast of a world that’s rather unknown to you. More than once, you’ve overheard him chat with his friends about Spider-man Issue Number Whatever-It-Is or engage in somewhat lively (sometimes rowdy, thanks to the Hyuck fellow) discussions about some webtoon you’ve come to understand is called Solo Leveling, which seems to have to do with monsters and hunters — two things you know next to nothing about. You’ve also never seen Mark holding anything remotely close to a magazine; his hands are always filled with either a freshly opened comic or a beat-up textbook. Maybe once or twice, you’ve seen him on his phone, but when you peeked over (surreptitiously, of course) on those occasions, you were met only with brightly colored panels and a singular word: BAM. 

In conclusion — you and Mark Lee live very different lives, likely never truly meant to intersect. 

And yet, you want him — not even in a way that speaks only to your curiosity, but in a manner that feels slightly delusional. More than once, you’ve found yourself having to shut your jaw close after realizing you’ve been watching him steam milk with your mouth slightly agape. Maybe it’s his side profile, which gives you a great view of the way his jaw tenses every time he puts whipped cream on someone’s frappuccino. Maybe it’s his eyes, which always seem to twinkle like he’s harboring some special secret every time someone in line asks for his recommendation on how to spice their order up. Maybe it’s his hands, steady and agile, with just the right showing of veins through the skin to tell you they’ve probably got significant strength to them too. Or maybe it’s just his mind — that thing he always manages to show off in class, working faster than lightning even when the rest of you are in your natural eight-in-the-morning stupor.

Whatever the reason for your interest, Mark Lee makes sure the Liberal Arts building’s Starbucks has you as a regular customer. 

You’re fully aware that this is the twenty-first century, which is why you could, as Yeji and Jisu have so kindly made known, simply ask him out. Under normal circumstances, you would have.

Unfortunately, in this particular area of your life, separate from all others, you’re something of a traditionalist. 

Actually, you just want to know what Mark asking you out would look like. Curiosity has fully gotten the better of you — how can it not, with how he breaks eye contact with you the moment it happens by accident in class, or with how pleasantly and shyly he smiles when you say ‘hey’ to him once you’re about to order? You’d like to see, first-hand, as a recipient of the experience itself, what he would look like taking control of a particular situation like that — something someone like him, so mild-mannered and laid-back, never really seemed to do upfront. 

You’d like to think you’ve given him clear signs. There’s a reason you always come in during his shift times, and it’s the same reason for why you have the same damn drink from the menu over and over again despite not even caring too much about coffee in the first place (something he admittedly doesn’t know and probably wouldn’t puzzle out, given how often you’re in that Starbucks, anyway). It’s that you want him to remember you.

Selfishly, it’s that you want him to think just a little bit more about you every single day. 

But if he does, Mark has never made it very clearly known; apart from taking your order in his genial customer service demeanor or letting a look of brief recognition pass his face over when you cross paths in the hallways, he’s never really shown heightened inquisitiveness about you. For all your differences, only you seem to actually care.

Frankly, that frustrates you, because if you have to think about him unhealthily, it would only be right for him to do that for your sake too. Still, you’ll shrug that hit on your pride off for as long as you can get his attention one way or another.

All you really need is for your plan to pan out as well as you think — and hope — it will. 

The thing is, you’re not even that bad at math. You’ve never really excelled at it, of course, but you wouldn’t go so far as to say you’re in dire need of help from anyone — the kind of help that feels like babysitting, at least.

However, Mark Lee doesn’t know that, and you’re not compelled to make that fact known to him when you notice that he’s leaning on the counter with his elbows, shoulders rolled forward and head bent down. He’s twirling his ballpoint in hand, wrist hovering over a worksheet, and you’re briefly distracted by the rapidly moving shadow underneath it.

His head snaps up when you gently knock on the counter, and the rest of his body follows suit, straightening as he shoves the paper away, one edge crumpling in on itself as it meets resistance in the form of the pastry display glass.

“Hey — hi, _________.” He knows your name, says it easily, and while you’d like to believe it’s because of his unprecedented interest in you, you know that it’s just because you’re always here and always having him write your name on the side of your cup. “Can I get you the usual?”

There’s no particular reason you order what you do; maybe it’s just rooted in the fact that when you first asked Mark for a recommendation, he said that the Vanilla Sweet Cream Cold Brew was pretty good, and you were inclined to believe him (while pointedly ignoring the fact that it was, at the time, a new item all of the baristas were required to push to indecisive, slightly moony-eyed customers such as yourself). Whatever the case, you found the drink generally palatable, and you were also able to score the first of many smiles that fed into your two-semester-long infatuation with him, so it was basically a win-win scenario for all. He even got to do his job by getting some rube (see: you) into trying a new product.

“Hey, Mark.” You’ve long since given up pretending that you don’t know his name and have to check the tag on his cute green apron (why is it cute? You don’t know. It’s the same, standard, Starbucks green, but Mark makes it look homely and natural, somehow). You’ve been here way too many times over the last academic year for a nonchalant, were you talking to me? approach to work, anyway. “That, plus a lemon loaf, if you don’t mind. What’ve you got there?”

His eyes follow the trail of yours over to his wrinkled worksheet. “Oh — no, sorry. It’s nothing.”

“Is it secret?” Your bottom lip juts out, and you see his Adam’s apple bob dangerously, a small telltale sign of minute nervousness before he lets out a short laugh. “Didn’t know we kept stuff from each other.”

You don’t know what makes you say that so naturally. The both of you don’t do much beyond exchanging pleasantries.

“We — uh, well, it’s just a worksheet. For Park Hyosung’s class. College algebra?”

“I’m in Kim Junghwa’s. Can I have a look? I want to know if you’re suffering just as much as I am.”

He pauses, considering your request for a moment, likely wondering if there’s any harm in it before he smooths the paper out and turns it towards you. His handwriting’s a little messy, but his solutions are extremely neat. You see, like, one erasure, max. You also don’t see anything that interests you — except the name written at the top. Still, you can see at a general glance that more than half of his answers are correct; the logic of his organization is way too elegant and his writing’s too sure to be anything else. You whistle low, and his eyebrows shoot up.

“Something wrong?”

“Pretty much the opposite. How is it that you’re doing this without breaking a sweat?”

“Oh, well — it’s not…” He doesn’t even know how to brag. Yet another item in the perpetually growing list of things you find cute about Mark Lee. “I mean, anyone… can?”

“I must not be anyone then.” You meet his quizzical look with a wry smile. “Either you guys are leaps and bounds ahead, or I’m really not going to make it through this semester.”

Another silence passes, just for a fraction of a second — short enough to be passable to others, but long enough for you to wonder if your humor code isn’t up to par with the rest of the world’s — before Mark’s chuckling lowly. His large palm comes down, covering a majority of his answers in the process.

“You’re kidding. I’m sure you’re doing just fine.”

“Mark, look at this face.” You gesture to your evidently dumbfounded, blank expression. “Does this look like the face of someone that’s doing just fine?”

You’re pleased to hear another laugh from him; you don’t know if he really finds you funny or if he’s just the type to be easily amused. You don’t want to know, anyway; assuming is better than actually finding out.

“That bad, huh?” He slides the worksheet away again, like he’s afraid his correct answers are going to offend you into leaving the cafe. Instead, his hands start working on your order, grabbing a cup and scrawling the shorthand of the drink on one of the little boxes. “Ever think about getting a tutor, maybe? If you really feel like you’re drowning, that is.”

“A tutor? I guess that depends. Are you free on weeknights?”

The marker makes a soft screeching sound as he drags it down with too much force, ruining the penmanship of your name. Mark takes a moment to stare at the mistake on the plastic before he looks at you, pointing the rim of the cup towards himself. “Sorry — am I free—?”

“You said I should get a tutor, right?”

“I thought — no, sorry, I was thinking more like one of those department-assigned tutors you can ask the faculty for, or something.”

“Oh. Are you not one of them?” You sigh, albeit a little over dramatically. Thankfully, he doesn’t really cotton onto your acting, too caught up in befuddlement at the turn of the conversation. “That’s a bummer. I was kinda hoping that if I was going to ask for help, I’d get an actual genius. You know — someone like you?”

You can tell by Mark’s expression that he’s torn between denying your compliment again and responding to your actual question; he looks both relieved and miffed when the student behind you clears her throat.

“Sorry, but— you know that there’s a line, right?”

You both apologize, Mark’s much more sincere than your own, and you step aside. His gaze follows you for a moment before it snaps back to the next customer, his voice abandoning that bemused uncertainty it had taken up with you. You don’t really mind; as far as you’re concerned, any dent in his barista persona when he talks to you is a step in the right direction.

You hang around the pick-up area, receipt in hand, watching Mark clear the line before moving to the actual stations near the kitchen area. There’s a concentration on his face that you find all the more attractive; he has a habit of chewing on his bottom lip when he’s trying to focus on getting the drizzle just right inside the cup’s cylinder.

He tends to try his best at everything, you figure. Not an unattractive quality — not by a long shot.

Mark finishes your drink first; the milk’s still only seeping, cloudy, into the coffee when he brings it over. He doesn’t even have to call your queue number, opting to meet your eye — albeit slightly nervously — instead. You reach out to hold the cup, a calculated move that allows you to brush hands against his without him being able to pull back on instinct. He doesn’t, nor does he really seem to want to, but his jaw tightens as a flush creeps along the curve of his ears.

“You really won’t help me?”

Your question’s abrupt, almost a little demanding, even if your voice is sweet. You’re not above asking this much, anyway, even if you technically want him to make the first move. The redness sinks down to his earlobes.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t really say anything,” you tease. The cup’s on the counter now, so he can easily relinquish it to you at this point, but he still hesitates, only one hand slipping out from under the heat of your palm. He uses it to rub the back of his neck, chuckling softly, and you take this as a green light. “What time does your shift end?”

“Five-thirty. You sure you wouldn’t want someone better?”

You pull your cup slowly to yourself, and his hand, still lightly trapped by your own, follows for a few inches before he’s withdrawing, the counter between the two of you forcing the distance. A smile follows the shaking of your head, and you take a small sip of the drink before you respond simply.

“There’s no one better than you.”

Mark is a prompt kind of person; you learn this when, at five-thirty, he comes over to your table, tugging his apron off over his head. Of course, you might attribute that to his overall personality, but the fact that you spend the remaining two hours of his shift casting him glances from the left side of the coffee shop might have also been a contributing factor. The looks you give him aren’t even furtive; they’re deliberately long, so you never miss whenever he looks over to you from time to time.

He doesn’t hold eye contact for very long (he does it well enough when he’s talking to customers, but it’s not like you’re ordering another cold brew from across the room at that point), but you can read snippets of his thoughts through the fleeting gaze exchanges. He’s curious as to why you’re asking for help, now, of all times, when the semester’s more than halfway over. He’s surprised that you asked him, of all people, because he just can’t conceive of a world that isn’t within a television show where this kind of abrupt, overt request makes sense. He’s flattered that you even asked him out of the blue. He’s equal parts anxious and eager to know what’s meant to happen after his shift, once he starts fulfilling your request.

Most of all, he’s unsure if he’s reading you right — if what it feels like you’re doing is something he’s attaching too deep a meaning to. If he’s right in reading your signs.

You don’t really mind it; you like knowing that Mark somehow wears his heart on his sleeve, even if he tries to remain neutral for the sake of appearances. You also bask quietly in the fact that he’s looking at you twice as much as he ever has in the time you’ve loosely known each other. Still, his bubbling confusion and inquisitiveness seem to be interfering with the rest of his work, especially when you notice that he’s been wiping down the surface of a table two down from where you are for more than seven minutes.

In the hopes of easing whatever tension might be in his heart, you offer him a small smile, but that’s only met with his eyes immediately glazing over and inching a couple of centimeters above your forehead, where the story of Starbucks’ origins is drawn out in a faux-manga style. He pretends to find it interesting, as if he hasn’t seen it a million times from coming into this establishment day after day — you know it well enough, and you don’t even have to, considering you don’t work here — and you can’t do anything but hold back your laughter.

A small part of you says you should just give him the affirmative answer to his biggest question, but every other cell in your body says that it’s no fun if he doesn’t ascertain it for himself.

He has his school bag and textbook in tow when he approaches, taking the seat across from you. There’s a steely resolution on his face, like he’s been emotionally preparing himself for such a daunting task, but it eases up the moment you laugh lightly.

“You don’t have to act like I’m going to eat you.”

“I’m still not sure why you’re suddenly asking me to help you,” he admits. He’s also very honest, you note. Again, not an unattractive trait. “I’m not complaining. I just didn’t think you even had an opinion of me.”

“Why’s that?” You’re genuinely surprised. Mark drums his fingers on the front of his textbook, thoughtful — less for the sake of thinking what to say and more for the sake of considering how to say it. It’s clear he wants to avoid calling attention to the fact that before now, you two have had no reason to run the same track, let alone sit together and talk at a coffee shop, as if you’ve always been the best of friends.

“Genuinely just thought I was the guy who gave you your afternoon coffee every day,” he finally settles. Your eyes widen, and another laugh escapes you — a little louder this time, enough to call the attention of a couple of jumpy freshmen nearby.

“Well — let me put it this way.” You lean over slightly, cupping your chin in your palm. “Was I just the girl you made coffee for every day until now?”

There are clear cogs turning in his head; his eyes unfocus slightly as he thinks of the possibilities. His silence suddenly makes you somewhat nervous; your tone had been confident, and you’d only said that to prove a point, to push him in the right direction, but you realize that you hadn’t previously factored in the possibility that he might simply say yes — or, worse, say no just to avoid hurting your feelings.

You watch his lower lip curl in; he uses his tongue to smooth out the skin that’s slightly dried from work fatigue. You would much rather it peeked out, so you could imagine it against your own. His response is mumbled in a lower register, but you catch some key syllables — didn’t… not … stranger — pretty … you?

“Sorry?” You ask patiently, but the fact that he turns red and laughs again — something you realize is not only a trademark of his personality but also downright delicious of him to be doing — is all the answer you need to let the apprehension seep from your shoulders. “I didn’t catch that.”

Mark clears his throat. “No, I… didn’t think of you that way. I mean… you’re my classmate.”

“Sure,” your tone’s breezy, but the somewhat sloppy confirmation of interest in you makes your heart soar. He just needs more of a push. “And we’re basically friends, right?”

“Yeah.” His voice is unsure at first, like he can’t seem to wrap his head around the concept. You can tell that Mark’s notion of friendship is likely based on shared interests, of which you admittedly have none. Technically, if you were his friend, you’d spend less time just telling him the exact same order every single day and more time sitting around a table trying to learn how to play Magic: The Gathering with him. Still, he takes one long look at your grin and suddenly gains confidence in his next words, as if it somehow convinces him that the briefness of your old conversations had been a mutually agreed-upon thing and not the product of social distance between the two of you. “Yeah. We’re friends.”

“Right. Friends help friends, don’t they? I’d definitely feel more comfortable having a friend teach me than some stuffy upperclassman I don’t know.”

You see Mark’s lips move slightly, in such small movements you could have imagined it as breathing if you didn’t care too much (which you do). He mouths, to himself — friends help friends. For some reason, that boosts his conviction even further, and he nods.

“Makes sense. Well — for as long as you don’t mind me, then.”

“Mind? I asked you, so I should be saying that.”

“I’d never mind — I mean, of course I don’t mind.” He’s quick to correct himself, and you have to stop your own hand from reaching out to try to satisfy your curiosity, the desire to know just how hot his cheeks get when he blushes. “More than happy to help, actually.”

“And I’m more than happy to be here.” You beam at him, and he mirrors your smile. You don’t know what it is about the look on his face — the brightness in his eyes, or the slight lift of his eyebrows, maybe — but it gives you the impression that he might be feeling at least a fraction of what you are: the feeling of your heart lifting off a few inches from your rib cage. “Since we’re on the same page, I hope — should we get to it?”

From the moment that Mark opens his textbook to a chapter on inverted parabolas, he assumes a personality you feel you haven’t seen from him before. You realize that you really do know him in only two limited capacities — his classroom persona that seems to really only view himself and the material, focused on the board and the professor’s words (even up until the useless anecdotes) to absorb as much information as possible, and his more genial customer service form, always happy to assist in the trained, easygoing way you’ve come to meet so often.

Right now, he’s a blend of both, yet somehow neither all at once. He’s quick to catch the parabolas you draw, either wrongly or downright poorly. Despite initial hesitation, he always manages to say something; there’s already a pattern to how he does it, from his slightly awkward, “Ah, sorry, actually —” to the way his finger traces over what you’ve written, outlining the right curve. You find his interruptions so endearing that you start drawing them wrong purposefully — not enough for him to realize your schemes in their entirety, but enough to cast you a few amused glances, like he can’t imagine why you’d map out such an absurd graph. You get the feeling he wants to actually laugh at how ridiculous you’re acting, but he can’t tell if you’re seriously struggling or not, so he settles for a smile he thinks he does well in keeping to himself, but that you catch anyway. He’s patient, even when you have to rip out pages from the back of his notebook because of your ‘mistakes,’ like he’s still catering to your request for an extra pump of syrup for your coffee on sleepy days.

But there’s also that side to him that comes out when he suddenly remembers the distance between you that, before today, had felt unlikely to be closed. It peaks at odd moments, like when you’re borrowing his pen because yours is currently holding your slowly unraveling bun up, and your fingers brush against his. It surfaces abruptly when you lean in to watch what he’s drawing until he realizes how close you are, arm lightly grazing his, and his pen freezes, ink blotting on the paper for a second. It’s in those times that you can almost hear his brain churning out questions — like he’s wondering if you’re just oblivious or if you’re doing something on purpose that he can’t quite believe. Like he wants to ask you what’s on your mind, but he just doesn’t know how.

If he asked, you would reply without missing a beat. The answer, after all, is simple (him). But Mark never raises the question, only does something without fully acknowledging what he’s doing — the adjustment of his glasses on the bridge of his nose, the ruffling of his hair as though to shake off his thoughts, the clearing of his throat to normalize his tone before he explains something you’ve just asked about. There’s always that light tinge of pink to his face that makes him look even more endearing, and it fades and returns every so often for the better part of two hours.

By the time he rubs oncoming fatigue out of his eyes, the sun has already set; there are far fewer people around you at this time, and for as much as you like spending time with him and breathing in the scent of his shirt — always a tinge of Downy, barely cutting through the much more overpowering scent of espresso and sugar — your back has begun hurting from your front-heavy posture and determination to have your face as close as rationally possible to Mark’s. Still, you don’t miss out on the fact that the act of him cracking his neck to relieve tension makes your lips curl inward, trying to stifle an inappropriate noise in reaction to the view.

“I feel like I talked your ear off,” he pipes up, sounding a bit sheepish. “Sometimes it’s hard to know when to stop once you’ve gotten started. I’m just hoping I didn’t bore you to death.”

“Meanwhile, I’m here hoping you aren’t sick of my questions already.” You smile, closing your notebook and hanging the clip of your pen on the spiral. Your arms stretch up first, followed by your back, a light twist to relax your posture into normalcy again. Mark’s breathing falls quiet, like he’d been preparing to say something in response but had let it die in the back of his throat instead. You let your eyes drop, expecting to see him looking at you, as he mostly has been — on and off — since his shift ended, but his eyes are far lower than yours, the telltale redness now growing in evident splotches across his cheeks.

The hem of your shirt has ridden up; while there’s nothing outrageous about it, there’s a short expanse of skin that it reveals, for a brief moment. His eyes are slightly glossy, brow furrowed like he’s trying to find a solution to something he can’t fully understand. You’re not even sure about what he could really be looking at, or if there’s something he’s just thinking of that caught his attention while his eyes focused on a rather unfortunate spot. To test your theory, you suck in your stomach slightly alongside an inhale.

It should be objectively funny to watch Mark blink unevenly, left eye going first before his right tries to catch up, but you manage to stifle your laughter — poorly, though, because you end up coughing a little and breaking him out of his strange trance. You avert your eyes quickly enough for him to look vaguely relieved that you hadn’t caught him looking. So he thinks, at least.

“Anyway.” You feel bad that you have to tear his mind away from whatever faraway land it must be trying to burrow a hole in; the dazed expression on his face dims into hastily hidden embarrassment. You don’t want him to feel awkward, so you just busy yourself with packing up, making an unnecessary show of stuffing your notebook back into your bag as if it isn’t half-empty at this point. “I really appreciate you taking the time to help me.”

“Any time.” His first attempt is a little raspy, maybe from overuse of his voice today, so he clears his throat and tries again. A slow smile builds on your lips. “Any time, really. I’m glad that this is actually helping you; you pick things up surprisingly fast.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah. Give it a couple of weeks, and you’ll probably be ready to tackle it on your own again, I’m sure.”

He smiles reassuringly, but all you can think about is how that’s not good. You should pretend to be a little dumber next time, or this will end much too prematurely.

The next five minutes pass in silence; you don’t expect to be knee-deep in conversation anyway since, as much as you try to convince him, you aren’t actually anywhere close to being those kinds of friends yet. There’s an unspoken rule to the give and take of things, where he pauses for you to get an item off the table and push it into your bag before he does the same with his own belongings. Neither of you really intersect paths, save for the moment you both grab your phones and stand at the same time.

His jaw falls open like he’s preparing to say something, then shuts as if he’s better decided against it. You decide to take the initiative to say what you’re assuming he wants to. “Same time, same table?”

“Oh — uh, yeah, for sure.”

You want to ask him to walk out with you. You want to lace your fingers with his, tug him out, and kiss him under the green and white glow of the sign outside. You want to know if kissing his collarbone means you’ll taste a hint of coffee. You think about doing it all somehow, especially since he’s fighting back a slight smile at the promise of tomorrow.

But it just isn’t the right time.

Instead, you place a hand on his shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. The slow movement of his throat — yet another hard swallow — isn’t lost on you, and his eyes land on where the two of you connect. With a grateful smile, you bid him a soft goodbye, taking your leave first.

You don’t look back — at least, not until you’re fully in the cover of the darkness outside. On the gravel path, just out of reach of the lamplight, you chance one last glance back into the store. Mark is still rooted to the same spot, his backpack slung over one shoulder, staring at the table like he’s dissociating from what just happened — like he can’t believe the last couple of hours.

Your smile grows when you see his own, and his hand comes around to the back of his neck, rubbing it lightly like it gives him small comfort to let him know that it was real.

Baby steps, you remind yourself. You’ve already got one foot in the door, after all.

As the days trickle by, you fall into a more comfortable standing with Mark; there’s a routine to your meetings that seems to eliminate the initial and abrupt awkwardness of that first day. You come into that Starbucks at four, greet Mark, who doesn’t ever have to ask for your order, and spend the next hour and a half slowly sipping on it until the ice has thinned and watered down your drink substantially. In that time, you allow yourself to do whatever you want (as if you’ve ever done otherwise anyway), and what you usually want the most is a good view of him. You therefore use most of the minutes you have on hand to regard him from different angles — from the side when he’s frothing milk, upfront when he turns to leave cups on the pick-up counter, from the back when he’s clearing tables — interspersed with moments of checking your TikTok feed, clearing group chat messages, and sometimes re-curling your bangs with a portable iron from the school’s co-op center, a relatively new purchase you tote around these days. You do essentially anything in between to avoid acting too suspicious while he works.

Sometimes, you catch Mark’s eye too; the more your meetings increase in number over the course of a few weeks, the more deliberately he looks over at you, and the longer it lasts. You feel like you’ve made significant progress when your gazes lock and he smiles slightly, albeit a bit unsurely, instead of turning away like he used to. The other day, he’d even passed by while apologizing for how long you always waited for him — not that you ever minded, something you made a point to clarify with him before he walked away, carrying a couple of chairs from the back room with him to replace rickety ones.

That he’s able to transport them easily, as if he’s lugging a bag of apples from the grocery, does not escape your watchful eye.

What you like the most is that you start to learn more about him in a way that isn’t fueled only by your expectations and, therefore, limited by your imagination. You find out that he’s from a close-knit family with a rather cushy background, and this barista job is just for interest funding and experience, in that exact order. Most of his earnings are funneled into the things he collects, which apparently isn’t limited to comic books and special edition blu-rays with director’s cut but also a rather stupendous amount of PopMart blind box figurines. Apparently, he particularly likes the Skullpanda series even if he hasn’t completed it yet; your last session together had adjourned thirty minutes earlier than usual so that he could catch a pre-rush hour inner circle train to Hongdae, where the flagship store was set to open on that day. He’d promised to show you his pulls (as long as they weren’t embarrassing dupes). You learn that he likes to listen to loud music when he studies to stimulate his mind, and he has a playlist that’s just a jumble of songs from Punk Goes Pop volumes that makes him feel empowered for some absurd reason, like he’s going against the grain. You don’t really get it, but you do like that spiced-up rendition of Ariana Grande’s Problem that he let you listen to once.

Of course, there are things that you find out not through conversation but through continued, closer observation. You notice that he likes to put on chapstick even if his lips aren’t particularly dry, but he does worry on them often, most especially when he’s thinking hard about something. He has a habit of saying honestly… at the start of every other sentence, as if he’s concerned you won’t take his word on anything, even though he’s just talking about how unnaturally hot it was at noon despite it still being spring. He has long eyelashes that you’re equal parts attracted to and jealous of, and he bites the inside of his cheek whenever he wants to pep himself up after grueling shifts. He plays beats you’re not even sure he knows he’s creating against his knee with his fingers, so enthusiastic and consistent in this habit that you want to offer your thigh instead. His shoulders always go first before he laughs, and he does this thing where he raises his hand to cover his mouth at the start of it, which is a shame, because you’d do anything to keep seeing him smile like that — or, better yet, to be the reason for it.

Then there are those things you notice he tries to hide. He always turns his face halfway to the side when he blushes, something he seems to do without fail every time you smile at him. He has to temper the intensity of his grin when you take the time to compliment him on how cool his shirt is, or how nice his hair looks today, or how smart he is, like he doesn’t want you to know how good it makes him feel even if you want him to feel good about it, around you, because of you. Sometimes he denies it for the sake of responding, and his voice always lilts on the first syllable in his refusal to accept what you say, even though he knows you won’t take it for an answer.

And after a couple more careful experiments, you notice that Mark, out of the many things he’s interested in, seems to have a particular thing for your stomach.

You don’t know if it has anything to do with him not really seeing much of it in real life in his own time or if he just has his own kind of fixation on it, but you start to cotton on by the fourth time you meet. An hour of being hunched over a table that’s not at the greatest height in relation to your neck and torso has you stiff, and you’d leaned back in your chair, arms pulling to the air, hoping your spine might feel like realigning if you exerted enough tension pressure that way. Your shirt hadn’t ridden up this time, considering it had been tucked into your jeans, and it was because of this that you’d caught a flicker of something new in his face that you hadn’t seen before.

You could have sworn it looked like disappointment.

Of course, he hides it quickly, as he does with most of his emotional candor, but it’s enough to make you suspicious — enough to make you wonder if Mark is also just keeping something to himself. Or maybe you’re just projecting your own presently secretive nature onto him. Regardless, you think it’s odd that whenever you stand up or stretch, his eyes almost immediately fall to your midriff, like he wants to challenge your clothing into a staring contest before he thinks better of it.

You don’t mind, anyway. He can look as much as he likes. Maybe when the weather’s warmer, you’ll even cater to that interest and wear a crop top. Hopefully, that’ll be the push he needs to act on human instinct and ask you out or, like… bend you over. Maybe.

You’re often plagued with these kinds of thoughts in between the ones you try to keep as family-friendly as possible — now, more so than ever.

Sometimes, it’s easier, especially when you’re caught up in talks with him; despite the fact that he doesn’t seem like much of a conversationalist when it comes to generic matters, when either he or you are enthusiastic about a particular topic, he has a tendency to get carried away. There’s nothing impure about how his eyes light up when you remember to ask him about the movie he saw with his friends over the weekend or the way he hums old Nickelodeon cartoon theme songs under his breath whenever he’s looking for a page in the textbook. It’s more of a situation where you’ll observe something and immediately run with it despite it being an objectively normal action.

Like right now, as you’re watching him turn his pen between his fingers. Now, while he’s shaking his knee in mild impatience, as if he’s trying to will the answer to the worksheets you’ve both been trying to get through for the better part of the day faster. You’d made copies of the problems your professors had assigned and exchanged them under the premise of being able to practice more intensely.

However, whereas Mark is actually focused on solving, you’re just watching him out of the corner of your eye, wondering if he’s ever been told that his fingers are fuck-worthy on a singular, unique level or if it’d feel good for you to ride the thigh he’s currently moving, jeans and all. You consider the feeling of his warm palms on your bare waist as you do it, and you end up wondering if that’s what crosses his mind whenever he sneaks glances at you, too.

You’d know the answer to all those things if he’d fucking ask you out. Maybe you could do it after all. Maybe you should, instead of relying on slowly increasing the probability over such a long period of time. Maybe if you asked nicely, Mark might pull the shades down on the storefront windows and rail you against the glass.

You’re so lost in thought that it genuinely startles you when he plops his textbook over the worksheet, rattling your eraser dangerously close to the edge of the table. You’re still clutching your heart while he rubs his eyes a little too violently.

“Can’t,” he groans, and his neck gives into the weight of his head, allowing it to loll backward. “I feel like the numbers are just melting into each other. I swear, I thought I could read words out of them.”

“Maybe we were a little too ambitious with the double worksheet agenda,” you admit, even though you’ve barely gotten past half of yours and certainly haven’t touched a single item on his. “Should we call it a day for now?”

“Yeah,” he agrees, although he still takes the time to encircle his final answers before clapping his palms to his cheeks (an act that has your mind dangerously close to wandering off inappropriately again) to wake himself up. “Woah. I didn’t even notice how dark it is already. I’d say time flies when you’re having fun, but I’m not too sure about the ‘fun’ part of it…”

You trace his gaze towards the glass; the moon’s already out, surrounded by a smattering of low-light stars. You hadn’t realized how late it had gotten, probably because your mind had been on R-18 mode for most of the afternoon. Also, the days are getting generally shorter, but that fact doesn’t make you feel as embarrassed, at least.

“You got a ride?”

The question once again shocks you out of your small trance, and you turn back to him with wide eyes. “Well — no. Wait, I didn’t know you had a car. Why’d you take the subway, then?”

“Oh — no, sorry, I… don’t.” He looks suddenly sheepish, eyes dropping to the shiny surface of the table for a moment before they snap back up, as if he’s actually actively reminding himself to look at you. “I was wondering if you wanted me to — actually, more than that, are you going home already? Not that you need to stay; it’s not that important, but…”

You try to gloss over the fact that he had just been about to initiate another huge step in the right direction (i.e. offering to walk you home) by beaming at him, maybe a little too widely, if only to mask your disappointment at the sudden shift in conversation. “I have nothing waiting at home for me but a sandwich dinner and Singles Inferno, so hit me with whatever it is.”

“Oh, cool.” His lips turn up, and the corners shake, this show of happiness once again tamped down by his own inexplicable desire to maintain a safe distance. How are you supposed to tell him you’re desperate to bridge that gap without using those exact words? “I came from the flagship store yesterday — the one in Hongdae that I told you about?” He allows the smile to widen slightly when you nod in genuine understanding. “Got the last six boxes of the collection I’ve been trying to finish.”

You whistle appreciatively. “Can I ask you for a loan on my next phone bill? You know, once I’ve upgraded to something pricier.”

“Nah — just itching to complete the set,” he laughs. You wonder if he’s been doing that more often because he knows its crippling effect on you, though you doubt he’s that sly. Again, maybe you’re just projecting too much of your own motivations onto him. “This was probably about two months of saving up combined.”

“No new Iron Man issues to look out for, then?” Your voice is warm even though it takes on a teasing tone; Mark’s hand rubs the back of his neck, and his expression is a little sheepish, but you’re happy that the times he used to go completely quiet, opting only to blush at your attempts to act more familiar with him are pretty much gone now.

“Maybe next month.” You also like that he doesn’t really treat his hobbies as secrets, neither out of shame nor snobbishness. He explains these things to you the same way he does the topics you study — with an air of contentedness, like he’s happy someone listens to him without interrupting. On your end, you have no qualms with listening to his voice for hours, wondering when he’ll stop using it to greet you when you come through the door and when he’ll start saying your name in a way that makes you feel like you’re the only one he sees whenever you’re near. It’s a win-win situation (sort of). “I was actually debating between this collection and a really rare copy of Spi— well, never mind that. I just thought — since you were asking me a bit about blind boxes last time. You know, if you wanted to. With… me.”

As much as he’s become comfortable talking to you about things that don’t involve coffee orders and school, you can’t say that you aren’t doing your fair share of the work in connecting the dots; the demand for your efforts is exponentially higher in moments like this, when you think he’s trying to ask you something but can’t seem to find less-than-eager words to avoid what he thinks might spook you.

Luckily, he augments his fragments with action; reaching into his backpack — which you notice seems to be bulkier than usual — he starts extracting small brown boxes, all with the same design; it seems, for lack of better words, aesthetically gothic, and you reach out to pick one up, turning it over and examining the print on each side with vague interest. Mark starts laying them out on top of each other until there’s a small, somewhat unstable pyramid in front of him, then shifts his attention fully to you, just as you’re putting the box in your hand atop all the rest.

“I’d love to.” You beam as he does, and there’s a wondrous relief in his eyes that tells you he’s glad you manage to catch onto his words — or lack, thereof — surprisingly well. “For as long as you don’t blame me for any bad draws.”

“The contents have already been decided by my own hand — sort of,” he chuckles. “Point is, I would never do that to you. But I won’t lie; I kind of want to rely on your luck a little more.”

“What makes you think I’d have any of that running through my system?”

“Not sure — beginner’s luck, maybe? You just kind of look like one of those kinds of people to me — like… you’re just made of good things.”

You don’t know how to take this compliment; on the one hand, it’s easily one of the sweetest things Mark has ever said to you that doesn’t involve anything with actual sugar content. On the other, you know you’re not as lucky as he makes it sound, considering you’re still striking out on getting past the borderline of friendship with him. All you can do is smile, nodding and making to move closer to him by sliding into the next seat.

It’s hard to ignore the sight of him stiffening; something like surprise mingled with both fear and interest flashes strong across his face, but you don’t do anything to acknowledge the slight change in atmosphere, choosing to settle down comfortably and clap your hands. “So. What are the rules? What can I do, and what can’t I?”

“Uh.” His throat constricts at the right moment, the syllable getting caught and causing him to clear his throat. You know that this is the nearest you’ve ever been to him, the sleeve of your shirt tickling his arm. Upon closer, albeit brief inspection, you note that he’s also rather veiny. That doesn’t do your impurity any favors. “Not… really rules, or anything like that. Just — these are the ones I’ve been looking for. Not that you can really control it, but in case you were curious about that.”

You squint intently at the scaled-down images he points out. There’s one that looks like a penguin caught in an oil spill; another that seems to be in a polar bear costume, dozing; and — “What’s… halo? Halo…bios?”

“It just means marine life,” he answers quickly, like the thought means close to nothing to him to know something that obscure. Whoever said that smart is the new sexy wasn’t joking. “Like… all things that live in the ocean, that kind of thing.”

“And you know this because?”

He pauses, looking thoughtful. “I’m not sure. I guess I must have just learned it when I was curious about what it meant some time ago. Isn’t that how we all learn things?”

You shake your head incredulously, and he smiles a little apologetically. “You never cease to amaze me.” Your nail drums against the silhouette of one with a question mark on it. “What’s this supposed to be? Can you draw your own figurine, or something?”

“No.” He’s clearly amused, but his expression’s still patronizing enough for you to not feel too bad about saying something idiotic. “It’s a secret design — a money drainer, basically. You could buy a full set of this and still not get it. Some people will open hundreds without any luck, so it’s really rare.”

“You don’t want it?”

“I try not to get too caught up in the secret thing,” he admits. “Otherwise…”

“No rare print comic books for the rest of your life, basically?”

He taps his nose, and you both share another laugh. It’s nice, you think, to have come this far — to be someone Mark can share his interests and thoughts with. You may have been stretching the word to its limit when you first punched your way into his social life and called yourself his friend, but it feels more real now, more natural to think about and say. Even if he still sometimes seems to be hyperaware of the gap between the both of you, there’s no denying, at least, that it’s been significantly reduced, and this much is a testament to that.

“Well, leave it up to me. I’ll let all of this beginner’s luck rub off on you,” you announce with overflowing albeit unfounded confidence.

You both decide to open a box each at the same time; Mark suddenly panics and asks you not to unseal the foil bag right away without looking at the card inside first, earning him one slightly alarmed look followed by a burst of laughter at his pained expression when you pretend to rip open the packaging. Comparing pulls, you identify them using the set chart — your luck doesn’t seem to be operating at full capacity yet because you can only offer him the card of one that looks like a floppy pigeon, which he responds to with a slightly apologetic grimace before saying he’s already pulled that thrice in the past. He, on the other hand, is turning the card of the polar bear over in his palm, trying not to make you feel bad for your duplicate pull by slipping it under his textbook when your eyes land on it.

The second round isn’t much better; both of you manage to pull something he’s already added to his collection, and as you’re ripping the seal to your third box, he pauses and watches you. You think it’s because he’s concerned about the obvious shit luck you’ve had thus far and wants to snatch it from you before your negative energy transfigures whatever’s inside into something he doesn’t want, and you’re just about to offer the half-opened package to him before he pushes the one on his end to you.

“No way, Mark.” Your eyes are wide, a palm up to reject it. “If that turns out to be another dupe by my hand, I’m literally going to walk into oncoming traffic.”

He has to control his amusement at your words so that it doesn’t completely shake his voice into incoherence. “I picked all of these while I was there, so if anything, you’re only riding off my bad luck. Besides, this is your first time doing this. I want you to have fun.”

“But,” your voice is pained. “Your money.”

“It’s not a big deal. With how few I need to complete them, I was definitely bound to run into more repeats than new ones.” He taps the front of the textbook — or, at least, the part of it not buried under the figurines and sealing tapes yet. “Probability mathematics.”

“I thought we already ended the study part of the day,” you grumble but concede, putting aside the one you half-opened to tear the top of his. You’re careful when you shake out the foil packaging, making sure to place it upright on the table before extracting the card. Both of your faces fall — yours more than his — when you see it’s a repeat of the polar bear.

“Almost. It would’ve been a pretty lucky pull earlier, so it’s technically not bad,” he tries to reassure you, but you childishly feel like you’ve been the sole source of his disappointment thus far. “Try the last one.”

It’s irrational, but you’re suddenly anxious about it. For some reason, you’re worried that this will topple the carefully constructed ladder you’ve propped up against Mark’s tower of social defense. Even if he’s being genial about your rotten pulls, you don’t know how much of it is just resignation to dismay on his part.

You say a small prayer, then fully rip off the seal; you don’t even take out the packaged figuring anymore. You just shimmy the card out of the box, turning it over when you notice it’s upside down.

For a moment, your shoulders deflate. It’s closest to this pastel purple figurine in the middle of the line-up, its stupid puckered lips almost taunting you. He hadn’t even mentioned it as something he’s looking for, so you almost feel like this has come to a horrible full circle. But then he grabs the box, checks the list, and looks back at your card again. He looks shell-shocked, and you’re not sure if it’s the strong air conditioning directed towards the two of you or if it’s just his hands, but the image he’s holding is shivering slightly.

You look more closely at it, and something just doesn’t feel right. Color palette aside, there are notable differences — different colored lips, a more intricate ear design, and closed eyes. It’s…

“Dream eater,” Mark’s voice is hushed, almost reverent, and very, very close to your ear. “It’s the secret one. You’re… incredible.”

“What are you talking about,” your words are just as raspy; you’re not sure if you’re actually choked up with emotion or something — over a figurine, you have to remind yourself. “You picked all of this. I just ripped open the box.”

The hush that falls over the both of you feels very concrete, weighty on your shoulders. His fingers creep towards the foil packet — the only one he actually opens because there’s no way he’s not keeping it. The shiny purple head gleams under the fluorescent, the glitter around the star and moon designs catching the light as he turns it left to right, like he’s worried it’s a fake. You can tell why people want these things so much; there’s a thrill in you that lingers, makes you feel warm and alert. It’s anticipation, despair, excitement, and triumph all in one sitting.

You’re stroking the smooth curve of the design by the ears lightly when Mark speaks up again and says the most outrageous thing.

“I want you to have it.”

“What?” You actually have to pop your ear canal in front of him with your pinky to make sure he knows how ludicrous he sounds. “This is… you said it was crazy rare.”

“Yeah. And you pulled it, with your magic. That’s like… unimaginable luck. Even more than beginner’s luck.”

“Like I said, I literally just opened the box.”

“No — you have like… the golden touch.”

“Please,” you hiss, a genuine testiness to your voice. “Do not. I was just here for the ride — the experience, and all.”

“Seriously, take it.”

“Absolutely not—”

It’s a chaotic moment of him trying to hand you the figurine and you outright rejecting it, with both your palms working hard to push it back to him. Instead of nudging the plastic back, though, you end up placing the full force of your hands against his fingers.

There’s no actual spark when you touch, but your reactions make it feel like there might as well have been; you even lock eyes in startled unison, like you can’t believe that just happened, before you pull away quickly, Mark drawing the figuring back to his torso while looking away towards the counter, where a lowerclassman is wiping down the stains. You want to scream at your warped reflection in the window. You barely initiate contact with him, but you imagine that if you ever did, you would prefer to not be saying something as abjectly negative as absolutely not while doing so.

Your mind flails in an attempt to mitigate the issue and water down the embarrassment, and clearly he’s struggling to figure it out too, because he pipes up before you can piece your thoughts together.

“No, really.” His tone is a lot milder and, consequently, a lot more persuasive this way. “You should take it. I want you to.”

“It’s not mine. This is your thing — your hobby.”

“That’s why I’m giving it to you. I swear — I want you to keep it.”

“Why?”

He lapses into silence again, but his face is much redder than earlier. His mouth opens in an attempt to say something, but he just manages to uh his way back into a state of quiet, which gives you a chance to speak instead.

“We can… share it,” you suggest. “Shared custody…. ish.”

His eyebrow cocks involuntarily, and his jaw falls again, but all he does in actual response is nod — slowly at first, then with more sureness to the act.

“Yeah. We can share it. I’d… like that.”

You’re glad that the bulk of the awkwardness has fizzled out fairly easily, and when you think about it, this feels like a pretty good course of action; you like that it’s this little link between the two of you now — something you share that no one else can touch.

Mark, you notice, is smiling as well — more to himself than towards you, it seems. His thumb grazes across the face of the figurine, slow across the lips, and you’re once again falling into a pit of nonsense by wondering when he’d do that to you.

“Thanks for staying with me, _________,” he finally says, and your heart jolts and melts all at once. “And for… doing this. For chatting with me. And giving me your luck, and all that. Great way to end the day… with you.”

You say no problem, but you instantly regret it when you realize you could have just said it didn’t have to end just yet.

“__________? Hello? Come back down to Earth?”

“Shut up,” you sigh at the guy seated across you — Seo Youngho, an upperclassman, your Gender Studies classmate, and current project partner, waves in front of your face. You shoo his hand away, which only joins his other one as he throws them in defeat above his head. “Stop moving. Be quiet. Don’t talk.”

“That’s the same thing as shut up and be quiet. What’s up with you?” He demands. “Fifteen minutes ago, you were full of ideas. Now I feel like I’m talking to a wax figure.”

You’d been engrossed in your report for the last hour and a half, and the subject matter is admittedly something you enjoy — the role of gender in Twenty-First Century Korean marketing and advertisement, a title Youngho had taken more than ten minutes to type into the Google Docs header because he was pissed off at how the numbers looked like in the fonts he chose. He’s an enthusiastic classmate and someone you’ve come to be friendly with, not only because he’s genuinely approachable but also because he has fits of nosiness and talkativeness at the strangest moments, so a chunk of your relationship is mostly based on social terrorism on his part. You like him well enough most of the time — save for the last fifteen minutes of this hour.

Because Mark had just come in for his shift fifteen minutes ago, and suddenly Youngho is much too noisy for your taste, and his head is honestly way too big to the point that it gets in the way of your opportunities to see Mark behind the counter. You even resent him for choosing a booth instead of your usual table all of a sudden, because your view of the central barista’s area is much more limited from this angle, especially since the huge espresso machine is in the of your field of vision.

You’re also (currently and abruptly) mad at Youngho because you remember that he’s the reason you’ve had to skip out on a couple of sessions with Mark. Like, it technically isn’t his fault that you have a lot of research to do for the literature review section of the paper, nor is it his fault that this is your final requirement that comprises a whopping forty percent of your grade, but like… you’ll blame him anyway. So you’re much more irritable, and you’ve definitely been missing Mark’s presence. In fact, you kind of just want to shove Youngho’s balloon head away and call Mark over to sit with you, but you’re not that much of an animal to actually do that.

Probably.

There had been inquisitiveness across Mark’s face when he’d come in; his eyes had trailed to the table at which you usually sat, surprised to find two guys hunched over a single phone there instead of the usual you, waiting for him with your eyes bright and your smile wide. You’d like to think it’s because he’s gotten as used to seeing you as you’re used to waiting to see him — like he just expects you to be there.

You hadn’t really known how to call his attention to where you were, especially since Youngho was prattling very matter-of-factly about the academic journal he’d unearthed yesterday and how he thought it would be useful in reshaping the methodology of your paper (whatever). There was a moment in which you briefly considered ordering another cup of coffee just to get in line to talk to him, but your hands were already shaking from the venti you’d had to keep yourself from passing out in front of your partner.

So you’re more than relieved when, half an hour into his shift, Mark finally steps out from behind the huge machine, a mug of water for himself in hand, and turns away from the front of the store to drink it — only for your eyes to lock as he twists his torso in your general direction.

The mug stops just inches from his lips, but you could swear he smiles at you briefly when he recognizes you, so you return the favor. Youngho’s face contorts into abject befuddlement, turning around to see what you’re grinning at.

“Oh, you poor sap,” he snorts, finally letting the puzzle pieces fall into place.

“What?” You’re still distracted even if Mark has taken a gulp of water and is now attending to a gaggle of girls still in the throes of discussing what to order.

“What what? You gonna spend the rest of the day eyefucking Mark Lee from over here? At least let me get a different table.”

“Shut up,” you repeat sullenly, coming back down to his level and finally — albeit reluctantly — meeting his eye (just because Mark isn’t looking your way). “What were you saying about the sample size?”

“That it’s much too large to be feasible, a point we closed twenty fucking minutes ago,” he says pointedly. “Is it a thing for baristas or a thing for smart guys?”

“It’s a thing for Mark Lee,” you sigh, following Youngho’s suit and shutting your laptop close. You’re at least glad he’s not annoyed that you’re delaying work for a crush, or maybe he’s also just equally lazy at this point. “You ever look at someone and think you would give it all up for a chance to hit that?”

“No, because this isn’t a porn movie, and I’m clearly not the main character in whatever’s going on in there.” He jabs at your forehead; you swat his hand away again.

“Well, I would.”

He rolls his eyes. “So do it, dumbass.” He says this so simply, like he can’t imagine why you’d be holding yourself back, which is a valid thing to feel, except it’s not really any of his business.

“Can’t.”

“Because?”

“Because it doesn’t fit into my elegant master plan. Also because I want him to ask me out. I just want that victory.”

“Oh yeah, there it is.” Youngho leans over, wiggling his fingers at your ears like he’s greeting a next-door neighbor. “Hey, delusion. Good to see you. Do you even understand how crazy it is that you’re taking a Gender Studies class while waiting for your dick-in-shining-armor like a damsel in distress?”

“Asshole,” you grumble, violently opening your laptop monitor again. “Get back on Google Drive.”

Thankfully, Youngho complies, and the next two hours pass in relative silence and productivity, with you hammering out a vague references list that he promises to format in your stead so you can ‘spend more time dreaming about Mark Lee between your legs.’ You want to strangle him, but there are far too many people in the cafe for you to get away with it. Also, aforementioned Mark Lee would only be a witness to your criminal record, and while you think there’s something romantic in killing for love, or whatever, you’re not sure it’d make the best impression on him.

“Next week’s my birthday,” Youngho announces as he stands to tug on his jacket.

“Congratulations,” you say wryly, peeking over his bulletin board torso to see Mark tugging off his apron and picking up his school bag. Your heart hammers in your chest as he looks over at you briefly, and something like embarrassment passes over his face before he busies himself with neatly folding the fabric. “Go away.”

“Usually people look uncomfortable for not knowing and then start thinking about what gifts to get the celebrant, but I always felt you were kind of a revolutionary.” He snaps his fingers right in front of your eyes, and you look up at him, a little offended. “I’m having a get-together — and by get-together, I mean it’s gonna be a rager. You should come.”

“When?”

“Next Thursday.”

“Can’t,” you chew on your lip, wondering if Mark is leaving. His movements seem particularly slow, but you wonder if he’s just taking his sweet time because he has nothing better to do. Of course, he would have something better to do if Youngho stopped fucking obscuring you from him and vice versa. “Busy. School… whatever.” Not completely untrue. Most of what you do with Mark has to do with school.

“This moony-eyed thing is just not for you, I fear.”

“Are you going to be here all day?”

“Are you? Why don’t you just fucking ask him out, you lunatic?” You can’t imagine why he sounds so exasperated. It’s not like this is his problem — or his business, for that matter. “Maybe if you did, you could fuck him and move on with your life and be an actual contributor to society’s development.”

“Has anyone ever told you how nosy you are?”

“Constantly.” He brings his palms down on the table, the thud shaking you out of another oncoming stupor. “Think about it. Maybe it’ll make you stop making that stupid face.”

“You’ve got a stupid face,” you mumble, sulking as he pinches your cheek as a goodbye before heading out of the shop.

At least you finally get to see Mark in full, glorious view — and you get to watch him come closer, although his stride is somewhat cautious.

“Hey.” Even his voice sounds unsure — almost like the way he used to sound earlier in your friendship. “I didn’t want to interrupt you and… your friend?”

“Oh. Well, you wouldn’t have been interrupting,” you inform him, completely genuine. “He was spouting a lot of nonsense.”

“You guys seemed pretty close.”

“I guess it’s a proximity thing,” you sigh, and Mark raises his eyebrows slightly in question. “We’re partners.”

“Oh.” The way he draws out the syllable is slow. “That definitely makes sense.”

The silence stretches out between the two of you again, with Mark checking his shoelaces. You almost grab your head; it hadn’t occurred to you until now how damaging missing meetings with him would be to your friendship. You feel like you’re slowly being dragged back to square one, and you want to give him an explanation.

“He’s actually… I haven’t been able to see you because I’ve been working on something with him.” you offer, trying to answer a question he didn’t even ask. “Sorry about that. I swear I’ll be back on track tomorrow.”

“No, no — I completely understand.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Thank you… for telling me, though. I— uh, appreciate that.”

“I’d love to see you tomorrow, though.” You try injecting more pep into your voice. “I’ve really been behind on my algebra. I’ve definitely been drowning without you.”

“Oh, yeah.” A small smile graces his lips, but you can’t tell if the reluctance behind it is from fatigue or something that looks oddly like sadness. “I’m down for tomorrow. Same time, same table, right?”

“Yeah, for sure.”

“Cool. See you, _________.”

You watch him turn on his heel, walking to the front door, and something like fear mingled with desperation clutches your heart. Fuck the traditional route, you think. You don’t know what it is about how he’s acting now, but it’s making you feel like he’s slipping through your fingers. All that hard work — there’s no way you’re letting him go.

“Mark, wait.”

You’re at his side, fingers curled into the sleeve of his jacket before you can figure out exactly what you want to say. You feel as surprised as he looks at your sudden liveliness in action, and his gaze trails from your clenched fist to your face slowly, like he’s trying to memorize this whole position.

Your exhale’s shaky, but even still, you try not to sound overtly self-conscious when you ask, “Do you like Chinese food?”

Something in the furrowing of his brows tells you he can’t seem to see where this conversation is headed, and that slightly bothers him. “I like it well enough. Why?”

“There’s this really good dim sum buffet near my mom’s office. We tried it before — the Xiaolongbao is awesome.”

“Hey, that sounds pretty cool. I love Xiaolongbao. I’ll definitely have to check it out then.”

You want to tear your hair out. “How about — you know, checking it out with me? Tonight? You know… together. With me.” You already fucking said that.

You’ve never seen Mark blink this rapidly; he looks like he’s trying to crunch large numbers in his head. A small part of you actually worries that he’s malfunctioning, but just when you think he’s going to glitch out completely, he clears his throat. It bothers you how uncomfortable he looks. “Tonight? Oh man… it’s my cousin’s birthday tonight. I can’t… reschedule. Well, obviously. Maybe some other… time?”

Your ‘oh, yeah’ is small, and so is the ghost of Mark’s smile. You can’t help but feel like he’s pitying you a little, although he doesn’t seem like the type, but the thought of it alone makes you want to puke. He makes no motion to move, and you think he’s extending this awkward moment out on purpose until you realize you’re still hanging onto him and he has no way of telling you to let go nicely.

Fingers unfurling from his sleeve, you take a careful step back, but when he walks away, it feels like you’ve gone much, much further away.

The worst part is that you can’t even figure out why.

Luckily, the next few times you see Mark, you manage to rebuild a rather shaky bridge back to where you had been. You even manage to strong-arm him into sharing an apple fritter one afternoon, and you know it’s a bit sad to think about it a particular, untrue way, but you can’t help but pattern what you’re doing into some kind of pseudo-date. Pathetic isn’t a word you normally associate yourself with, but you’ve been borderline desperate for progress where there seems to be none, so you take small victories where you can get them.

Unfortunately, you haven’t been able to revisit your stupid dim sum plan; sometimes, he says he has somewhere important to be, but most of the time, it’s actually your fault. No — it’s Youngho’s fault, because he keeps bothering you to finish the project. You’re aware that he can’t do it himself, but since he’s informed of your current plight, he could at least stand to be more sympathetic.

And you hate the way Mark looks every time you splutter out that you have to take a rain check for that reason; it’s not even disappointment, or something, which would be much more understandable. It’s this mysterious kind of faraway look, where his eyes glaze over a bit and he seems suddenly very lost in thought — or completely dissociated. He never strays away from his normal response of “next time, then,” but that ‘next time’ fades into the weekend and into the start of next week, and you have to spend every other evening with an annoying Seo fucking Youngho on a Google Meets call instead of eating soup dumplings loveshot style with Mark Lee.

Thursday night rolls around, and the former performs the most irritating stunt yet: blowing up your phone with so many KakaoTalk messages that it almost buzzes off the table during your session with Mark. Luckily, he seems to have learned a thing or two from his comic books, catching it before it hits the floor.

“You sure you don’t want to answer it?” He asks, gingerly handing the phone to you like he’s afraid it’s going to explode from all the pinging.

“Without the shadow of a doubt,” you sigh, flipping the screen downwards. Buzz.

“It kind of seems important. Or, like… urgent.”

“He’ll live. Unfortunately.”

Mark falls silent, fiddling with the page he’s on. He’s neatly highlighted the formulas on the page with blue ink, and his finger keeps scratching at the slightly wet paper. Buzz.

“Didn’t you say you two were partners?”

“Yes. Also unfortunately.” Youngho is actually a great person, but you kind of hate how Mark’s paying more attention to his texts than to you right now. “What did you get for number ten?” Buzz.

“A hundred and twe— are you really just going to let it keep ringing like that? What if he’s… I don’t know. In trouble? Like, he needs you?”

You smack your phone on its back, hoping that the punishment reaches Youngho because he absolutely is in trouble — only with you. “He’s just making a racket because it’s his birthday and he probably wants a bunch of people to trash his parents’ house, or something.”

“Sounds like fun.” The dubious tone in Mark’s voice indicates that his idea of fun definitely isn’t that. Buzz.

“Not really, but I assume he’ll only pipe down if he manages to get his way.”

“He must really want you there.”

There it is again — that weird, distant expression that makes you feel like he’s trying to free himself from the tethers of the earth. You close your textbook in defeat; it wasn’t even like you got the answer to number ten correct anyway. Buzz.

“He just wants everyone there, I bet. But I probably should show up so he shuts up.”

“Oh — yeah, okay. We’ll call it a day, then?” He’s avoiding your eye as he starts packing his things, which is actually impressive because you have practically nothing but your book to keep in comparison to his pencils and protractor, so you just stare, willing him to look at you.

You want to know what’s going on in his head. You want to know what’s going on in his heart — what he thinks of you, why he seems warm one second then almost like a stranger the next. You want to know if he knows you like him and if him not doing anything even if he knows is a sign that he doesn’t like you back. You want to know if he’d let you kiss him, if he’d kiss you first, if you can meet not because of sweet cream cold brews or algebra but because you just want to be together.

You just don’t know how to ask. For as much as you like him, for as much as you want him, you haven’t figured out the most basic part of this — if you mean anything more than a two hour talk to him at all.

“Mark.” This feels awfully like the dim sum conversation, only somehow ten times more disastrous. “Come with me.”

“Sorry?” The appalled look on his face makes you squirm in your seat.

“I don’t really want to go, but maybe if we go together… we can just hang out a bit and leave once it’s boring… I think it’d be fun,” you explain lamely, deciding at the last second to drop the with you that had originally come with your sentiment.

“I don’t think your… partner will like someone uninvited showing up.”

“I’m inviting you.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works.”

“You’d be, like, my saving grace or something — my excuse to scram. We’ll say we came right from a study session; we only popped in halfway through for the sake of greeting him a happy birthday. Then we can just go. We can say — uh, we’ve got more work to do.” You’re practically begging him at this point, and you don’t even get why. You just don’t want him to leave looking the way he does — confused and a little detached. You want the Mark that had smiled at you while giving you your coffee — the one that had kindly pointed out an arithmetic mistake in the most gentle way possible. You want to open blind boxes with him, whine about your rotten luck, and part ways with his warmth still against your coat sleeve.

You don’t know what comes over you then, but you pluck up the courage and initiative to slip your hand in his. He stiffens a little, but you don’t care; your fingers squeeze his in urging.

Something in his expression breaks — cracks first, then falls away, before he’s nodding, still looking vaguely thoughtful.

“If you think it’ll help you, then… okay.”

The bus ride to Youngho’s neighborhood is uneventful because it’s quiet. You stand close to Mark at all times, but you barely touch, save for the times your knuckles accidentally brush his when you lurch forward slightly as the vehicle comes to a dangerously abrupt stop. He doesn’t ask anything about the party or the company that’ll populate it, which is just as well, because you don’t have a clue.

You know it’s the right house because the door’s wide open and there’s music coming from inside; you can’t make out much more than the deep bass pumping through the concrete, but you’re pretty sure it’s making your heart jump in your chest even more than it already is. There are quite a few people you vaguely recognize on the lawn, and even more that you absolutely don’t; a good number of them glance at you and Mark as you step through the threshold then look away, probably deciding you’re of no real consequence or harm to their moods.

Youngho’s easily spottable because of his massive height; he towers over the rest of his guests, and the red plastic cup in his hand calls even more attention because he’s lifted it over everyone else’s heads. You throw Mark an apologetic glance that he responds to with a short nod before you dive into the crowd alone, trying to weave your way to where you’d last seen Youngho.

“Bro, finally!” Youngho greets you, pretty much shouting over the music. “Where’s the gift? Did you leave it on the table?”

“Happy birthday, Youngho. Do you know how close you were to being blocked?”

“I see you brought mister espresso with you,” he ignores your comment completely, nodding to Mark. When you turn back to see him, you notice he’s squishing his arms closer to his sides, trying to minimize the space he takes up. “So what? Y’all get to hook up already?”

“No. I brought him here because we were in the middle of something and someone,” you stop, offering him a pointed look that’s also ignored. “Wouldn’t stop texting.”

“Cockblock,” the guy next to Youngho, who you now realize has been eavesdropping, singsongs. “Oh, sorry. You looked angry when you stomped through the crowd, so I wanted the juicy details. Name’s Jaehyun.”

You take the hand he offers you briefly, introducing yourself. When you say your name, realization dawns on his face, and he jabs his forefinger at you.

“Oh, dude. You’re that girl — the Starbucks Showstopper.”

“The what?”

“That’s what his friends call you.” He scratches his ear, seemingly racking his brain for more information. “I’m with Mark and a couple of his friends — Lee Donghyuck and Na Jaemin — in College Algebra.”

You completely gloss over the fact that you’ve finally found out the real government identity of the mysterious figure named ‘Hyuck.’ “They… talk about me?”

“From time to time. Not really. Once or twice. Donghyuck only calls you that because Mark apparently keeps blowing them off to hang out with you.”

“How do you know this?”

“I have ears. It’s not hard when they talk like no one’s around.”

You shush Youngho’s exclamation of and you’re saying I’m nosy?, your heart hammering hard in your ears, practically drowning out the music. “What… what else did they talk about?”

“Not sure. Something about not seeing you that often these days. Jaemin teasing Mark about getting dropped now that you don’t need his help anymore. Donghyuck piling on and saying you’ve got a boyfriend.”

“What?”

“Don’t shoot the messenger.” Jaehyun still inches away from you when your voice rises in pitch and decibel. Some people around you start, then move away as well, as if scared you’re going to incinerate them. “They were just teasing him that you probably ditched him after you started dating someone. Your partner in some project, or what.”

“Oh gross.” The realization hits you like a speeding truck. Youngho’s expression is affronted.

“First of all, you bitch. Second of all, as if I would date someone who didn’t even buy me a gift. Or want to come. Or yelled at me after coming. Wow — now that I think about it, you’re terrible, _________.”

“Oh, shit; that someone was you?” The only person that isn’t tense in this conversation is Jaehyun, who laughs point blank at Youngho’s sour face. “I think they were offering to put you into one of their Death Note notebooks. Sucks for you, hotshot.”

“What a smudge on my good name,” Youngho sighs mournfully. “On my special day, too.”

“I desperately need you two to be quiet for one second. I have to — where’s Mark?”

Even when you stand on your tiptoes, you’re not nearly as tall as the two of them; it’s Youngho, with his freakish height, who manages to spot Mark by the bowl of nachos, looking as though he’s trying to decide if they’re safe for consumption. You hardly excuse yourself; actually, all you say is a distracted “later” that dismisses Jaehyun’s cooing that something’s going down and you should clue him into all the mess later as a thank you. Your appreciation of his sudden and somewhat short-lived presence in your life is still up in the air.

Mark’s busy making a sour face at the sip of punch he’d just taken; he only straightens up when you’re right in front of him, putting his cup down next to the nachos. “Hey. Did you get to find… um…”

“That’s not important.” Your hand bunches the fabric of his jacket in a death grip, something he barely has time to register, let alone question, before you’re tugging him through the throng of people. You want somewhere quiet, somewhere private, and you initially consider the lawn, except you know it’s strewn with cups and has stragglers debating whether to go home or not. You can’t risk any of them being expert eavesdroppers like Jaehyun, so you make a beeline for the stairs instead.

“We’re not leaving yet?” He has to shout over the music, but there’s no resistance in his stride; he follows you up and waits patiently, although a little perplexed, as you check the doors on the second floor. Two are locked, one is a bathroom, and the other is a messy, musk aftershave-scented place you can only presume is Youngho’s room. Talking in front of a sink and a toilet doesn’t feel like it’ll be very productive, so you just drag Mark into the bedroom, kicking aside the crumpled shirt on the floor — which you could’ve sworn you’d seen Youngho wear for class yesterday. “_________, what’s going on?”

“Mark Lee,” you burst out, ignoring the fact that his eyes widen slightly at your tone. “What’s your fucking deal?”

You don’t think you’ve ever sworn in front of him before; that much is evident when he continues to gawk silently, unable to find words to respond to your question. Or maybe it’s just the volume and force with which you demand an answer. The problem is that you don’t even know what kind of reply you want. A small part of you nags that this is uncalled for, especially at this level, with you practically caging him into an unknown room. In fact, even now, you’re still embarrassed at your behavior, wondering if you’ve gone too far and stepped over a line between you.

But the source of all your frustrations is, in fact, that line — one so strangely drawn, clear at some points and almost invisible at others. Sometimes, he seems simply content with the barest minimum of friendship: talking to you, helping you, politely laughing at your (terrible) jokes. But there are also times he blushes too hard for it to not mean anything, times that he makes you feel like you could mean a little something more to him too.

Yet, from there, he wavers, stepping back so as not to get entangled in something you don’t understand — like when he grows distant every time you mention Youngho to him. You don’t understand why he would unless he echoed, even just a little, the longing in you. But you also don’t get why he stays and builds more walls around himself, like he’s determined to ignore all the other signs — like he doesn’t want to know if it’s really true and will just accept the assumption that it is. You hate not knowing where you stand with him, and while you could easily ask, you know you don’t want to.

And for a long time, you’ve convinced yourself that it’s because you want to see Mark step out of his comfort zone and initiate something, but the ugly truth is staring at you: it’s simply just that you can’t stand the idea of seeing him come to the conclusion that you can’t be anything more to him than someone he makes a sweet cream cold brew for every so often.

There’s a moment of tense silence between you two, where you’re just staring at each other — him, perplexed, and you, agitated — and the only sound that passes is the faint but unmistakable voice of Youngho going who has the cake cutting knife? from somewhere down below. You try not to get caught up in the fact that Mark still looks cute when he’s dumbfounded.

“Sorry?”

“What,” you repeat pointedly. “Is your deal? Why have you been acting so weirdly around me these days? I thought — I thought we were… getting closer. I thought… we…”

You’ve confirmed it now; you’re the epitome of cowardliness. You can’t even say I thought we liked each other — because you know that you do, but you still can’t honestly, assuredly tell if he does. Maybe you just read too deeply into the smallest things — smiles before he asks for your order, glances at you when he thinks you’re not looking, sharing the dream eater figurine — to fuel your own emotions without really checking the depth of his.

“I thought we were cool,” you reroute your words, and they come out flat and lame. “But just when I think you’re warming up to me, you suddenly pull away. Like… you’re afraid of me. Or you don’t like me. I don’t know.”

“It’s not — I don’t — I’m not afraid of you,” he stumbles over his words, and even in the darkness of this space, you see his face turn bright red, very quickly. His feet shuffle, not because he’s lost his balance but because he seems to want to get rid of a sudden restlessness. “I do like you. We are — we were getting — we’re close. We — we’re friends. You said that, and we are.”

“Is it only because I say we are that you agree?”

“What? No, I—” His hand passes over his face, slowing at the curve of his chin. “I really like being friends with you. I like being around you.”

“Then why do you act so weird these days? Like — you’ll be fine one moment, then you’ll back off, like you suddenly remembered you don’t want to be around me.”

“It’s not like that. I’m — I don’t get…” He takes a deep inhale, recalibrating himself for a moment before his voice comes out again, less strained this time. “I just don’t want you to feel uncomfortable around me.”

“How could I?” There’s something more than confusion coloring your voice; there’s hurt, too, and he looks as surprised as you feel at hearing it. “I wanted to be your friend. I was the one that asked you to hang out. I was the one who wanted you to talk to me, to help me, to go to a goddamn dim sum place with me. Why would I feel uncomfortable? Or are you just using this as some roundabout way to say you feel uncomfortable?”

Mark falls silent, and you don’t know why this speaks volumes all of a sudden. His eyes are trained to the tips of his sneakers, which are rising in soft bumps every few seconds; he’s curling his toes inside them. You feel like you’ve gotten the worst answer possible, and something grows cold in your chest.

“You feel uncomfortable around me.” You rehash, but it’s no longer a question. “You don’t know how to get rid of me.”

“No, it’s not that.”

“You think I’m only using you.”

“No.”

“Then what?” Your voice breaks, no longer out of anger, but a desperate sadness. The moment your eyes feel hot and prickly, you decide you want to end the conversation. It’s embarrassing, you think, for someone like Mark Lee — whom you like, who only ever sees you as a friend — to see you get choked up at a fucking birthday party at someone else’s house.

A beat later, you’re mumbling a half-hearted forget it, and you detest overdramatics, but you hate the idea of being in a room with someone who’ll never return your feelings even more right now; you push past him, already on the thought of calling a cab home instead of taking the bus so that no half-drunk businessmen coming from their company dinners see you crying.

But something warm wraps around your wrist, then closes over your hand, and you’re unable to move, Mark’s palm pressed against the back of yours. When you look back, you notice he’s still not looking at you, but his ears are practically on fire with how red they are, and you feel his fingers tighten slightly, tremble slightly against yours.

“It’s not that. I didn’t ever want you to think — I heard about you two. That you were dating someone. Seo Youngho.”

“What does that matter?” Your words come out a little more bitterly than you expect, and you have to remind yourself to reel it in. “That doesn’t explain your discomfort.”

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he repeats, still evidently careful in choosing his words. “Because you wanted to be friends.”

“I don’t understand,” you state bluntly. In the back of your mind, you note that Mark’s grip keeps tightening and loosening, unsure of whether to keep holding on or let go. But there’s something else, too — the soft graze of skin against yours, his thumb gliding over your knuckles.

“That was all you said you wanted to be, right?” He waits for a response, but when you don’t give him one, he lets out a shaky breath and continues. “You kept saying — we were friends. You wanted us to be close like that. I just wanted to respect it, even if…”

“Respect what?”

“That you didn’t want… anything else.”

The music downstairs is a bit tamer now; you hear the door opening and closing every so often, signaling guests leaving here and there, but there are still enough footsteps downstairs for you to know that there’s a crowd Youngho hasn’t gotten rid of and therefore has to attend to. That much is good; you’d get slapped with a homicide charge if he came up here all of a sudden.

“You were jealous.”

Mark’s fingers pinch the bridge of his nose for a moment. “I tried to stop. I don’t have a lot of practice with — well, I didn’t know how to approach the situation. I thought I was still acting normally; I didn’t think… I didn’t want you to feel weird and stop hanging out with me just because… I couldn’t fix it.”

“Your friends are assholes,” you mumble, and he finally meets your eye, equal parts startled and amused. “We aren’t. Weren’t. We never were dating.”

“Even without that, I thought… it was a bit embarrassing. Liking someone like you — someone as pretty as you, as nice as you — I thought it would make you feel weird. Then you’d start avoiding me too. Or, worse, you’d keep doing it just because… you… felt bad for me.”

You don’t know what you find more ridiculous — that you hadn’t seen figured it out or that you could have avoided all of this if you’d just been a little more honest with him too. Mark’s hand starts loosening around yours, a little too much, and you turn your palm and grip his hand before he can escape. He stiffens again, just like earlier, but you now understand better why he does.

“I just wanted to keep hanging out with you as much as I could. I thought… It’d be fine, just spending time with you, and I’d be able to like you for a while, on my own, then…” He looks a little pained. “Then just let you go. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry you couldn’t let go?” You sigh softly, your palm guiding his until they connect, face to face, and you can finally lace your fingers into his. There’s no resistance, but his hand trembles slightly in yours still. “If there’s anything you should be apologizing for, it’s that you ever thought of doing it.”

Something clears in the air, lightens in his expression, and he chuckles, albeit a little shyly still. “It’s because I never thought someone like you would like someone like me.”

“I like you.” And it feels right to say it now, not at all out of the blue, never in fear of an answer he’s already given. “I like you when you smile at me every time you ask for my order. I like that you never get impatient when I’m getting my answers wrong. I like seeing you excited when you talk about a new series you’re looking forward to — something new you really want to collect. When you blush, when you laugh loudly, when you spin your pen in your hand — I like you in all those times.”

“Even when I’m jealous?”

“Especially when you are.” Your free hand comes up to cup his jaw, and you’re reminded of the fact that you’ve wanted to feel the strength of the angle under your palm for ages now. It’s not at all a disappointment, and your heart flutters irregularly in knowing you could’ve done this a long time ago, but it doesn’t matter because you’re doing it now, and fuck if Mark Lee doesn’t look good this close to you. “So be jealous — because now, you know you can be.”

Kissing him is better than you imagined, and you’ve imagined a little too much to be embarrassed at this point; there’s a heat to his lips that matches the one across his face, an upturn to them that makes you smile too. The setting’s not at all an expected one, but you’ll take it, not because it’s dark or because it’s private but because Mark’s in here with you, and you would have kissed him in a brightly lit football field full of people for as long as he’d let you.

You’d like to think he’s flushed for a reason other than shyness when you pull away, even if his laugh is quiet and breathy. In fact, when you murmur not enough, he’s the one that closes the gap this time, offering freely what you ask for with such little eloquence. The natural trepidation in his mouth relaxes, gives way to a curiosity that keeps you locked for so long that you forget you need to breathe, much more intent on finding out if Mark’s tongue tastes as good as you’ve imagined for so long.

It doesn’t; it tastes even better.

It’s still not enough, not by a long shot, but you have to resurface before you pass out like this, and even he looks a little dazed when you pull away — not in a bad way, with a grin on his face that you can only classify as endearingly goofy: slightly lopsided and a little shy, but with an unmistakable air of satisfaction.

“Months,” he mumbles, his lips still dangerously close to yours. Your eyebrows rise in questioning, and he laughs in that infectious way that makes you want to join in without even knowing what the punchline is. “I’ve been thinking of kissing you for months.”

And you do share the laughter this time, not out of amusement but of a happiness that spills without restraint. “But you’re suddenly holding back now?”

“Just letting myself bask in the moment, I guess. Letting it sink in so I remember everything.”

The two of you stand there quietly, still trying to fully parse the progression of events, and a small part of your mind registers that Mark’s thumb is still drawing circles on your skin. It’s also not enough — this touch, this closeness. You know now that he’s been thinking of you for months, and it reminds you that you spent that time dreaming of him too. And you remember you’ve always wanted to be even more familiar with him, and suddenly the desire is overwhelming; he’s right here, and you don’t ever want him out of your grasp again.

“Where are you going?” He’s only curious for the sake of it; there’s no alarm in the question because you keep your fingers tightly woven in his, tugging him along as you walk past him to the door. He’s still staring in wonder after the lock clicks shut. “What’s… happening now?”

“You waited months to kiss me, right?” He nods in response at your question. “I’ve been waiting just as long to have you too.”

His mouth falls open, but he doesn’t manage to say anything; his jaw tightens just as quickly when he feels your free hand trail down his chest, feather-light and asking for a green light. Your index finger stops just above his navel and draws back slowly, but not before you feel the shiver that runs down his torso.

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to,” you murmur, giving his hand a little squeeze. “But I just want you to know — I want to. I want you.”

A thoughtfulness settles on his face, and his eyes graze over yours, trying to read your seriousness. You don’t know how honest you look, but your words hold enough truth in them. A silence stretches over the next minute, but to you, it feels like an eternity, and you lose the test of patience somewhat, smiling softly at him.

“You don’t want to?”

“I—” His tongue peeks out, running over his bottom lip. “I do. It’s not that I don’t want to, but…”

“You seem worried.”

A hesitant nod. “I’ve never — well, no, I have, but not — with someone like you.”

“What’s someone like me?” You laugh airily.

“Someone pretty like you — I don’t know. Someone who seems to know exactly what they want. Someone who seems like… they could do better than me.”

“Mark.” You can’t keep the incredulity out of your voice. “I do know exactly what I want. I want you. The rest — I don’t care about. As long as it’s you, I want it.”

He cracks a smile, half of relief, half of disbelief. You don’t miss his hand coming up to press, warm, against your waist. “For real?”

Your fingers curl into the front of his shirt — an anchor to bring you closer, until the tips of your noses are brushing. “For real.”

The third time you kiss is slow, almost careful; there’s lingering worry in the line of his mouth that your lips try to ease until his slightly part under the movements of yours. You feel the tension leave his form in waves — first in his shoulders, then in his arms, until you’re able to press yourself closer and feel the slight give of his frame against your smaller one. He’s radiating an immense amount of body heat that’s pricking your skin and keeping you alert, and you’re hyperaware of the smallest things — the weak tremble in his mouth, the slight roughness of his teeth under your tongue, the ridges of his palate above it.

He tastes nothing like what he smells, you learn. Instead of the air of earthy coffee stuck to clean linen, you inhale a combination of spearmint and mild saltiness that’s made slightly sharper by the lingering splash of alcohol from his accidental sip of punch earlier. You decide then and there that this disparity is important to you; it makes you feel like you’re the only one who can have this experience — that everyone else can know his scent, but now, only you can know what Mark Lee tastes like.

You have to keep your wits about you to avoid this addictive stimulation of your senses; you let go of his hand only to lock your fingers around his neck, and there’s a show of trust in how he lets you lead him backwards, until his knees are hitting the edge of the unmade bed. The kiss breaks as he’s forced to settle on the mattress, and he looks up at you in what can only be described as a quiet kind of awe. He doesn’t complain when you place your hands, heavy, on his shoulders, using his sturdy form to keep you stable as you move to straddle his lap.

“I feel like,” his voice is hoarse as he speaks up. “We should have picked a different location. Someone… could walk in.”

“I locked the door,” you remind him, a light reassurance in your voice. He doesn’t say anything immediately, but it’s clear there are cogs turning in his head, and you think it’s unfair that he’s thinking way too hard about something else that isn’t you, right now, in this position. In a bid to rectify this, your face presses into the side of his neck, breathing in that familiar scent and leaving a light kiss on his skin right after. Your lips mark the moment he swallows hard at the contact. “Besides, would you really be that unhappy if someone did?”

His hands tighten against your waist, prompting you to leave another kiss against his collarbone. “What — what do you mean?”

“You wouldn’t like it if someone — say, Youngho — walked in to see me on your lap like this?”

The silence that follows your words is tense, and you can tell that Mark’s breathing has become shallower. Again, you can feel his throat constricting slightly, and you can’t help but laugh breathily as you nip at his skin, just under his Adam’s apple. He’s surprisingly easy to tease, you realize — quick to turn speechless and prone to hanging onto your words.

To say that you wouldn’t want to use that to your advantage would be a downright lie.

“Tell me,” you urge, your tone deceptively gentle. “You wouldn’t want him to see you kissing me like this? To see me wrapped around you, begging for more, saying your name over and over? You don’t want him to watch you take me — so he knows you’re the only one that can?”

A strangled groan punctuates your words, but it comes from him; his fingers dig hard into your side with barely constructed restraint. “What do you want from me, _________?”

“I want to know if kissing me was the only thing you wanted for months.”

You pull your head away, nudging his chin with the tip of your nose. Another groan escapes him, and his head tilts back slightly, almost like he’s praying. But when his gaze comes down to meet yours at your level again, you see a firm resolution in his eyes that stirs your heart — which takes off the moment he shakes his head, slowly but surely.

“Then,” you whisper. “What do you want from me?”

He doesn’t say so much as shows; he takes from you your breath, steals another kiss that’s now firmer and more openly demanding. Suddenly, his mouth can’t seem to stay still, trapping your lower lip in between his, drawing out your taste until it mixes with his against his teeth. You feel your head growing light again, and you’re pleasantly surprised that it’s suddenly become difficult to keep up with his lips, asking more from you without restraint. A hum of need sounds in the back of his throat, vaguely dissatisfied, and he’s telling you wordlessly that it isn’t enough right before he attaches his lips to the base of your neck, just above your collar. You think he’s just about to return the favor, but a laugh leaves you when you realize he’s taken it a step further, his teeth grazing your skin lightly, soft nips signaling how eager he is to sink his teeth in with only his slowly weakening self-control stopping him from doing it. Mark’s breathing is slightly labored when he pulls his lips away, warm breath fanning over your chest.

“It’s crazy — and stupid,” he croaks out, voice slightly raspy. “But I want it, and I don’t.”

“What do you mean?” Your fingers drag into his hair, combing it upward messily from his nape. He leans in for a quick kiss that’s somewhat misplaced, landing on the corner of your mouth instead of squarely atop it.

“I want them — him to see us. To see me with you, kissing you — fucking you, too. I want everyone to know we’re like this.”

You’ve never heard Mark say anything so forwardly before; a sweet, warm flush builds in your face, pleased at how comfortably he manages to say it — pleased that he’s saying it to you. “Then what’s the problem?”

“I don’t want him to see you.” There’s a bluntness to his words, but hiding behind them is an undertone of pleading — a serious request. “I don’t want him to see how pretty you look. I don’t want him to see you when you’re bare, or how you look when I’m inside you. I don’t want him to see—”

His voice wavers and dies, and you wonder if he’s embarrassed, but when you read his expression, you see an unyielding longing. A smile tugs at your lips, and your hand comes around to cup his chin, thumb extending upwards to drag his lower lip down.

“You don’t want him to see what’s only yours.”

He swallows hard again, but he doesn’t wait long to nod. Understanding passes between the both of you, silently but completely, and Mark presses his face to your throat, feeling the hum resonate as he places another long, firm kiss there.

“You’re mine,” he whispers, in a way that almost feels like he wants to convince himself of something impossible to believe. He doesn’t even wait for your affirmation, prefers to read it in the way you shiver lightly once his lips travel further down. His kisses trail past the collar of your shirt, and his hands are unabashed in how they seek skin, pushing the fabric upward so he can settle the palms of his hands, warm against your waist. Oddly, they don’t travel upwards; they only brush against the dip, down slightly over the upward rise of your hips, then upwards again, almost soothingly. It’s almost like he wants his mouth to meet them, but he stops halfway, sidetracked by the curve of your breasts.

He barely pulls away, only does for a moment, enough to meet your eyes.

“You’re only mine,” he repeats, his voice softer now. You realize he’s still waiting for some confirmation, and when you do, you’re quick to give it to him — quick to erase any doubt.

“I’m yours,” you affirm in the same tone, in the same careful volume. “Only yours, Mark.”

Whatever else he wanted to ask for, he knows you’ve given assent; that much is clear when he buries his face between your tits, inhaling your scent. You briefly wonder if he might feel just as intoxicated around you as you do around him, if your pleasant dizziness in being this close to him, in tasting and smelling him is something he experiences too, but you don’t get much time to dwell on it the moment you feel his lips part, a slight wetness seeping through the fabric. He’s kissing your chest, teeth grazing just above the cup of your bra, nipping without any real objective other than to feel the pad’s slight resistance to his mouth.

You almost miss what he says as he shifts his head, lips brushing over the curve of your breast — another breathless ‘mine’ that isn’t ever punctuated; his lips still stay parted, mouthing at the cloth, like he’s desperate to feel what’s underneath through it. There’s pressure where his tongue presses flush against the shape of your tit, tightness whenever he chooses to nip, attempting to take the flesh and all that’s between you and him between his teeth.

Not enough, you think, even when a whimper of need bubbles out of you; you want to be closer, your thighs pressing against the sides of his. You’re close in almost every way, but you still inch yourself further forward, enough to feel the taut hardness in his jeans. Your hips settle right there, letting fabric ride against fabric as you center yourself.

No sooner do you press yourself flush against him do you gasp; the light sting sends a jolt up your spine when his teeth close around your nipple through your bra, and when you look down at him, you see the corners of his mouth pulled up in evident satisfaction. He’s quick to atone, his tongue dragging your shirt slightly upwards in his attempt to soothe, and for some reason, the push of fabric and the barely-there feeling of motion leaves you tingling.

“Mark.” Your voice comes out in a whine, but in the haze you’re in, you don’t really have a clear idea of what you’re asking for. All you know is that you want more of him, and for as much as he’s already given you in kisses and words, you aren’t even halfway down the list of everything else you wish you could demand from him. You say the only thing that comes to mind — the only thing that really encompasses what you feel. “Mark, I want you. I want more of you.”

His hands on your waist are replaced by the significant tightness of his arms, locked around your torso; you don’t even have the time to take in your awe at the fact that he can easily carry you, turn you over until you’re on your back, until he’s already eased one knee between your legs.

The way he looks down at you is a mixture of hesitation and desire, but the former’s erased when you reach out for him, murmuring another ‘more’ so you can pull him in. With one palm pressed against the mattress, he lets his free hand graze against your side again, bolder in its movements, and his fingers trace a path up to your breast, squeezing the soft flesh through layers. Your back arches upwards in response, eager for more contact, for touch that’s almost there but not quite, and he smiles when you make a noise of frustration from his fingers tweaking the soft nub of your nipple.

“Mark, please—”

“Would you really let him see you like this?” His thumb’s still idly grazing over your breast, following the rise and fall of its curve. You swallow hard, trying to keep your voice level despite the growing want that threatens to break through it. “Would you really let him watch you… get fucked?”

You shake your head, and his brow furrows.

“I’d let him watch you fuck me,” you correct him, and the confusion in his face gives way to pure satisfaction the moment you make this nuance clear. “It has to be only you.”

His grip tightens briefly against your breast again, and he leans down, pressing a surprisingly chaste and brief kiss to your lips.

“Then I’ll unlock the door next time and give him a show.”

You don’t know if it’s what he says or what he does after — his hands bunching your shirt upward until the hem’s just below your neckline — that makes your breath hitch, but you decide it doesn’t matter when you realize you’d much rather be focusing on the journey his lips take, slick against your stomach as he presses languid kisses down to your navel. His fingers hook into the waistband of your jeans, the weight naturally pulling them down, and you see his muscles tighten for a moment as he stops himself from tugging them off completely.

Mark’s mouth is unparalleled in its attentiveness, seemingly intent on making sure he’s covered every inch of your stomach in warm kisses, but you only realize he’s somehow stalling when he starts the cycle again, his nails digging into the taut elastic of your jeans as though to remind himself to curb his desire.

You take the initiative instead, raising your hips slightly to signal your want, acutely aware of the fact that you brush lightly against his thigh when you do so. His eyes lift first, followed by the rest of his face, and he’s watching you quietly. You might have thought he was unsure of what to do all of a sudden again, but his knee pressing closer, an unmistakable pressure against you, is enough to tell you that he’s only curious to know what else you’ll do.

The second time you grind against his thigh, his hands catch your hips, keeping them aloft just long enough for him to tug the band of your jeans downward; he peels them off you with surprising ease, returning to the same position between your legs, hands still firm on your waist. With that done, he only has the thin garter of your panties left to curl his fingers into, bunching it into his fists when you roll your hips up one more time. You manage a shaky noise when you feel the stark difference — the roughness of the denim against you, the stick and drag of flimsy cloth. Mark lets out a low but unmistakable hiss.

“I can’t believe—” his idea is cut short by the movement of your hips again, and his grip tightens, knuckles pressing into your skin. “Can’t believe you’re here. I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

“What am I supposed to do,” you breathe out, the sound momentarily getting stuck in your throat. “So that you know it’s real?”

His fingers relax their hold, palms now pressed against your thighs; they travel between your hips and your knees, a soothing and thoughtful motion. “God — I don’t know. I just want — I just want you so badly. Like… I’m going to go crazy if I don’t have you now.”

You lean up, your weight resting on your elbow, and your other hand reaches out; Mark meets you halfway, bending just a little lower to press his cheek against your palm. There’s something intimate, something so giving about the way he turns his face to your fingers, pressing a fluttering kiss just under your thumb. The tips of your fingers trace the shape of his lips, even when they pucker again under your digits.

“Take me,” you murmur quietly. “Right now — from now on, every part of me is all for you.”

His exhale is shaky, but his fingers have a sureness to them; they slip under your thighs, cradling the backs of your knees, and lifting until they’re folded over your chest. You don’t even have the time to wonder if you should feel exposed all of a sudden; his breath warms the inside of your thigh as he presses his lips there — not a kiss, just a touch as he speaks.

“I want to taste you,” he mumbles, partly distracted with the act of inhaling the mild scent off of your skin. “Every inch of you — I want to know just how sweet you are.”

He lets his hold on your thighs relax, letting them fall apart; he busies his hands with your panties instead, hooking a finger into the strip of cloth just covering you. It’s clear you’re both aware that the fabric sticks light to your skin, poorly masking your wetness, and interest mingled with hunger flashes across his face as he pulls it aside.

“You’re so pretty,” he says, sounding like it’s a comment more for himself than anything else. His gaze flickers to you for a moment before it moves back to your pussy. “The prettiest fucking girl in the world.”

The pressure of his thumb between your folds causes you to forget what you wanted to say, and you know Mark had been nervous, but you realize that it doesn’t mean he’s supremely inexperienced by any means; there’s a quiet, understated confidence in the way he rubs slow, thorough circles, moving upward towards your clit. Your face, your neck, your whole torso feels flushed, but you power through the instinct to tilt your head back so that you can keep watching him — the minute changes in his expression, the slowly building strength in his touch.

“I want to taste you,” he repeats, looking up at you. “I want to know what you taste like when you cum against my mouth.”

You’re not sure if you’re gawking because you can hardly believe Mark Lee — your eternally blushing, mild mannered campus crush — had said all those words strung together into such a lewd sentence, but you’re sure as hell not going to deny him. Your hand travels down your torso, and he watches, curious at first, then awestruck when your index and forefinger settle against either side of your folds, pulling them apart in offering.

His eyes end up transfixed on your pussy again, observing how your fingers ease your folds further apart the more he massages his thumb against your slit. His mouth is slightly agape, intent on drinking in the sight, unaware that you’re trying to memorize this view of him too — Mark Lee, touching you, wanting you, eager to take you fully.

“I’ve always wanted to see what it’d look like with your face between my legs,” you say in a hushed tone, but he catches it anyway, briefly looking up at you again. “I’ve always wanted to know what your tongue would feel like against my pussy.”

Your index finger bumps against the tip of his thumb, and he stops its motions, allowing you to move his digit down until the pad of it hovers just in front of your tiny hole. You can see one cheek tucked between his teeth, bitten to muffle the groan you wish you’d heard louder.

“Won’t you show me?”

You think you hear him rasp out a ‘fuck yes’ before he bends down, pressing his half-open mouth against your pussy. The squeal of delight that leaves you is half-strangled as his thumb curls, hooking into your entrance. It starts a shallow, distracted motion, with his attention funneled much more clearly into keeping his tongue working. Flush against your slit, it drags up, and he releases a guttural noise at your taste, lips pursing slightly on the way back down — like he can’t stand not trapping every drop of wetness with his mouth.

The intensity of his tongue, the idle thrusting of his thumb — you’re not sure what you want to focus on more, and the result is you whimpering incoherently at the starkly contrasting combination of the two. Mark moves his mouth like he’s never tasted anything as good in his life; the sounds between your thighs are wet, sloppy — almost embarrassingly so — but you don’t have the presence of mind to dwell on that because Mark Lee is eating you out and that’s really all that you can think of.

The tip of his tongue suddenly flicks upwards; you keen, long and low, when it starts to circle your clit in that same intense, circular movement his thumb had gotten you used to. Your sensitivity skyrockets, and you’re completely unable to control the upward bucking of your hips, but Mark stays supremely unperturbed, his free arm winding under your thigh to keep the both of you steady. Your noises are growing embarrassingly loud, and you realize just how needy you’ve become when you vaguely notice that there’s a pattern in what you’re saying — his name, over and over again.

“Did you do that too?” He asks softly, his words slightly muffled against you. “Say my name, I mean — when you thought of me.”

“God, yes.” Your voice comes out strained, teetering on the edge of slurring. “So many times — every single fucking time.”

“Promise me something.” He lifts his head, and you see a fieriness in his gaze.

You nod — at this rate, whatever he’d ask you to do, you would without question. “Anything.”

His thumb presses in deeper, up to his knuckle and you reflexively tighten around his digit, but he keeps it anchored there, pushing down against your walls. He drinks in your gasp, the widening of your eyes, the way you chew on your lip with a singular kind of contentment on his face.

“Promise me — from now on, you’ll make sure I’m always there to hear it.”

The only kind of assent you’re able to make is a moan as he dives down again, mouth buried in your warmth, his nose pressed tight against your clit. His tongue moves in strong strokes, broad swipes that push your folds apart further, and his thumb, while not moving, increases in pressure to the point that you feel a heaviness adding to the growing pleasure. Your hands fly down, seeking some kind of sense and reason, and you thread your fingers into his hair, grip tightening as your climax builds in stride.

“Mark, I’m—” close, you want to say, embarrassingly so, but the moment he hears his name, his lips attach to your clit, and there’s suddenly so much more pressure as he sucks, almost like he’s desperate to draw out your orgasm. He chooses this of all time to start moving his thumb again, and this time, his movements are anything but slow and idle; they’re filled with the intent to drive you over the edge. “Fuck me, oh my god—”

“I want to,” he murmurs, pausing for just a moment to drag the tip of his tongue around the nub. “God, I want to. Let me see you cum first; let me taste how sweet you are.”

His thumb stops, buries deep into your pussy, and you’re not sure why this, of all things, is what pushes you beyond control; you’re only half-sure you say his name when your orgasm hits, the rest of your consciousness much too clouded by pleasure. He doesn’t stop, revels in the way you squirm under him as he hums low and keeps his tongue working against your clit. His licks become longer, more thorough as you come down from your high, your cries softening into whimpers as his tongue both attempts to clean you up and makes you messier in the process. His arm is still curled around your thigh, keeping you from inching away from him, even if instinct and stimulation are telling you to.

You’re barely lucid when you sit up, and Mark inches back, somewhat startled; you grab the front of his shirt, and the sight of his mouth, slick and glistening from your wetness, only makes you more curious to know what you taste like on him. You find out how tangy it is, how rich the two of you are together on his lips, and you’re able to fully appreciate the skill of the mouth that kisses you deeply, leaving traces of you against your tongue and teeth.

“Please — fuck me.” It’s the only thing you can say at this rate, only half-coherent and still trembling with desire, but Mark doesn’t seem to care that you’re stuttering over such a simple request. His thumb wipes traces of saliva off the corner of your mouth, kisses it clean for good measure, then straightens up, his hands working at his belt. You almost miss the fact that his hands are shaking slightly as he undoes the buckle and tugs it out from the loops.

You want to help — it’s the least you can do, after all, and your fingers push the button of his jeans out through the hole, his hands working in tandem to tug the zipper down. However, your movements falter when you hear a noise from just outside the room — the sound of the doorknob being jangled, the thud of a body gently hitting the door, as though worried it’s stuck. You glance up at Mark, ready to reassure him, but he either hadn’t heard or doesn’t care because he’s too busy stepping out from the pool of denim at his ankles, and you get completely sidetracked by the bulge straining against his boxers.

You almost ignore Youngho’s voice grumbling ‘Jesus Christ, now of all times? from behind the door, but you leverage it instead.

“Should we let him in?” You ask, tone innocent despite the evident deviousness in your words. It pays off, though; Mark’s cock twitches unmistakably under thin fabric, and he actually looks like he’s considering it. “You’re just about to fuck me, after all. Weren’t we going to — what did you say? Put on a show?”

He worries on his bottom lip, like he’s unsure if you’re serious, but in the end, he shakes his head, reaching out to smooth your hair away from your face and ushering you to lay back down. The lips that meet your forehead are gentle, almost apologetic.

“Not now,” he murmurs against your skin. “Right now, you’re all mine.”

You laugh lightly, nodding, and he chuckles too, but the sound of it slowly dies down when your finger hooks into the garter of his boxers. You can feel his breathing hitch as you tug it down, the elastic catching when it meets the shape of his cock, but you don’t make any move to free it just yet — for some reason, you want to see him do it.

“Show me.”

He complies without hesitation, one hand dragging the elastic down over his thighs, the other curling around the base of his length, and your face flushes as satisfaction works through your system at the bare sight of him.

Mark Lee is big — not monstrously so, but enough for you to make a pleased noise as your hand joins his, fingers barely wrapping around his girth. You give his shaft a gentle squeeze, and his exhale stutters, watching you stroke him, long and thorough in your movements. Your palm swipes over the tip, leaking precum, allowing it to slick up your hand enough to keep your movements smooth. You’re fixated on the tension in his lips, the throb of his cock against your palm, and the way his gaze never leaves your face, like a small, amazed part of him still can’t believe what you’re doing, even if you’re both half-naked already.

“I want to suck you off,” you plead, grip tightening slightly. He grits his teeth, stifling another groan, but he shakes his head clearly enough for you to slow your movements in mild surprise.

“Can’t — not now. I need to be in you so badly.” His breathing’s sharp and heavy, like he’s trying to keep himself in check. “You don’t even know — how long I’ve wanted to feel you.”

Your hold relaxes, and you let him maneuver you, his renewed hold on your hips dragging you closer to the edge of the bed. In this position, he can spread your thighs further, and you angle yourself optimally — enough for him to get a full view of your pussy, wet and still aching from your last orgasm.

“You don’t know how badly I’ve wanted to know how tight you are,” he continues, and there’s a faraway look in his eyes that makes you think he might be entrenched in fantasy. “How much I would have killed to see you — have you like this. I’m not gonna be able to wait anymore.”

His fingers dig into your sides, thumbs stroking your stomach in a weak pattern. The underside of his shaft presses against your folds, still half obscured by your panties, in a way that’s heavy enough to make you mewl, your hips reacting before your mind can, and he hisses softly as he feels his length glide along your slit before you relax your stance again.

“I can’t wait,” he reiterates, a breaking in his voice that sounds almost tortured. You don’t want him to either, want to see him buried to the hilt inside you, and you raise your hips again in need. “I want you so much it’s driving me crazy.”

“Then take me.”

And you’re not sure if it’s a demand or a plea, but he no longer stops himself; his hand fists his cock a few times, coating the slick of precum along his length before he lines the tip up with your entrance. His other hand’s flush against the inside of your thigh, a light pressure ensuring he always has enough space to fit himself between your legs — enough space to bottom out completely.

Mark’s considerate in his pace — maybe he knows he’s big, or maybe he’s just naturally careful, but he allows you the time to adjust to the stretch. Your nails almost puncture holes into the sheets, your grip so tight you wonder if it’s just to brace yourself or to hang onto the last threads of your sanity. He’s only halfway in, but you’re pushing fullness already, and he stops when his cock meets slight resistance, looking up at you in concern.

“You’re not—?”

“It doesn’t hurt,” you reassure him softly, and it’s true; the adjustment brings about slight discomfort, but it’s almost nothing to you — not compared to how much more you want. “Give me everything; I want all of you inside me.”

He pauses still, trying to read your expression for any lies, but when he can’t find any, he nods, his jaw tensing as he presses both palms against your thighs, keeping you open as much as possible to accommodate him. He doesn’t even stop when you whimper, feeling a tightening twitch in your pussy that also causes him to groan, until inch by inch, you’ve taken him, his hips flush against yours.

He doesn’t move — not yet, his eyes trained to where you’re connected like he’s once again unable to believe what he’s doing. You hear him mumble something to himself that you want to hear too; you squirm slightly, and he hisses through his teeth, looking up at you and finding the questioning in your face. He offers you a small smile, albeit somewhat strained.

“You’re tighter than I thought.”

“You’re bigger than I thought,” you hum, and neither of you is really to blame; the tight fit, the slight breathlessness it leaves you with, is perfect, you think — just what the both of you need. “Did you often think about fucking me?”

“Probably just as often as you’re making it sound like you thought about having me fuck you, I think.”

“Don’t get cocky,” you warn, but there’s no real heat in your voice.

“I won’t. But it makes me feel good — knowing you wanted me just as bad.”

“I still do.” Your gaze is lazy, a little hazy, even if you’re anticipating so much. Even just the feeling of Mark, throbbing inside you, is already slowly building the pleasure in your stomach again; you wonder if you could cum like this, given enough time, given enough patience. “I’m still waiting for you to fuck me. God, Mark— please.”

He chuckles good-naturedly, but even that’s drowned out by the long moan that leaves you once he draws his hips back; your body’s mildly shocked into a new adjustment, feeling a sudden emptiness that’s quickly mitigated by him filling you back up again. The pace is slow, almost torturous, although you know he isn’t doing it to get a rise out of you. He wants to ease you into speed, careful to help you adjust fully; his restraint in his movements is all the more evident on his face, in the furrowing of his brow and the determination in his gaze. Even with that, he can’t help what he says, so intent on controlling everything else he does that he lets his words spill out over your noises.

“Pretty,” he grunts out, and when your walls twitch around him, he accidentally thrusts sharper — just enough for you to whimper a little more loudly, and he has to reel his strength back again. “God, you’re beautiful. I should’ve told you sooner how much I wanted you. All those times I had to imagine you wrapped around me like this, wondering how much tighter you’d get once you came on my cock. All those times you drove me crazy while I was alone, when I could have been in you— I could have found out how good you felt. How pretty you’d look under me. And you’re still even prettier, even better than I ever dreamed.”

There’s an erratic melody of moans under his words, spilling from your mouth, and the fact that he riles himself up enough to increase his speed slightly doesn’t escape you. He’s a little less careful now, seemingly entranced by the view he gets, watching his shaft disappear into you only to come out glistening, and a part of you hates the idea of snapping out of his reverie, but the majority of your thoughts now lean towards wondering how much more you can get him to break free of his own self-imposed restrictions.

“I wanted to ask you so many times.” His eyes snap up, coming back into focus as he takes in the sight of you, flushed, hair tousled, gaze darkened. “Almost every day — I sat there, thinking about how all I could do was go home and fuck myself, frustrated you weren’t doing it for me. I should have taken you home with me right then and there — should have let you watch me touch myself thinking of you, should have let you touch me into cumming on your fingers.”

His breathing staggers as he leans in, eager to see you clearer, to hear your words, slowly becoming airier as they come out. For a moment, his gaze falls, torn between watching him move into you and meeting your eyes, but he ultimately chooses the latter once you speak up again, your tone even more hushed than before — like it’s meant to be a secret between just you and him.

“But there were times I wanted you even more than that, to the point that I almost felt like I couldn’t wait.” His eyes widen slightly, a few precious seconds of wondering if he understands what you mean, right before you confirm what he thinks. “I thought about making a move right then — I should have kissed you. I should have asked you.”

“Asked me what?” His voice is gruff with the effort to keep himself in check despite the fact that it’s clear to the both of you that it won’t last.

Your lazy smile’s illusionary; it hides the triumph swelling in your chest at knowing that he asked exactly what you hoped him to.

“I should have asked you to fuck me in front of everyone there.”

“God,” his eyes squeeze shut, his grip tightening. “Please. I can’t—”

“I should have bent over for you there, begged you to stretch me out right after our session,” you continue, bordering on merciless. “Mark, you don’t know — how badly I wanted to be on your lap, your cock in me, with everyone watching. How much I wanted you to fold me over that table, have people watch you pound me, have them listen to how good you make me feel. No one would ever even wonder; everyone would know I’m yours.”

You pause, allowing his eyes to fly open once again, and there’s a pleading in them that’s begging for release. Your eyes soften along with your voice, but you’re this far gone; you should at least see it through.

“And everyone would know you’re mine too.”

“Fuck,” he growls, and his hips stutter before new resolve fills him, his hips driving into you with the force of a strength you didn’t even know he had in him; your thighs tremble at the intensity, at the renewed impact, and feeling him drive his cock deeper into you has you crying out somewhere between a moan and a sob. “Fuck, _________. If I had known you’d thought about me like that — God.”

It’s your turn to shut your eyes for a while, allowing yourself to focus on his movements, breaching your tightness even faster now. You feel his hands skim up your sides again, fingers digging into the fabric of your bra and pulling them down until your bare tits are cupped in his hands. You shiver as his thumbs pass over your nipples, toying them into firm nubs.

“One day,” he hums out, his voice giving way to a slight hoarseness again. “I’ll do it. I’ll fuck you in front of him — in front of Youngho, in front of everyone. I’ll let them wonder how tight you are, how fucking warm you are, and I’ll let them leave knowing no one can know but me.”

It’ll never happen, you both know, but something about agreeing to something so absurd is what has your body almost shaking in longing, and it’s what causes him to press in deeper, folding your legs closer to your torso. Your hands do what little they can to help, keeping your thighs apart so as not to obstruct his view. You can tell it’s somehow not enough, not really all of what he wants when his brow furrows, and he shifts his weight, pushing into you at a new angle.

The stark difference has you gasping before you can control it. Immediately, Mark stops, and you’re already shaking your head before you even hear him say anything, presuming he’s paused out of concern. But before you can say you’re fine, his hushed voice cuts through the silence.

“Do that again.”

“What?”

“Do it again,” he mumbles, sounding distant. “Breathe in. Suck in your stomach.”

You’re not one to complain at such a simple request, albeit a little odd, so you comply, inhaling enough to tighten your torso. You’re surprised when you feel his cock twitch inside you, and you blow out the air alongside your question. “Mark, what are you—”

“I can see it,” he says in utter disbelief. “When you’re like this, I can — I can see my cock inside you. Just a bit.”

Your eyes follow his gaze, fixed just below your navel. From this angle, without any movement, you can’t see a thing, but you assume he’s not one to abandon fucking you so intently without good reason, so you press your palm against your stomach, just above your pelvis. Nothing really feels significantly out of place — up until the point when Mark draws his hips back again, and you feel the backward slide of his cock.

Your throat tightens, and you don’t really understand the feeling that spreads in you — a unique kind of arousal, knowing how deep he is inside you and how you’re taking all of him in despite the fit, because of the fit. Your hand falls away, allowing Mark’s to take its place, and he exerts just a little more pressure against your stomach in an attempt to get the most out of the experience when he thrusts back in. He groans, feeling the bulge push back up, and he quickly picks up the same pace, renewed in intensity so he can experience the rapid rise and fall he creates under his palm.

The faster he goes, the harder he presses, and you’re not sure if he knows it, but the onslaught of friction is what’s making you whine and squirm even more; you’re trapped, in the best way possible, in his hold, your hands back to clinging to the backs of your knees like a lifeline. Pressure from the outside builds on the slowly growing pressure inside, a knot in your pelvis that’s coiling so tightly you feel like you can’t breathe. If Mark notices how close you are, he doesn’t make it known; he’s busy feeling the outline of his cock against your stomach, and when he looks up at you again, his eyes are hazy.

“I would fuck you every single day, every single hour if I could feel this every time,” he whispers in a way that’s almost reverent. “Let me — I want to keep seeing you like this. I want to feel how deep I am inside you, too. Let me fuck you all the time.”

You nod, and your first attempt to say something is just another choked sob. When you do manage to get something out, it’s broken in tearful stutters. “M-Mark, I’m s— I’m so close… I’m — fuck—”

“Do it.” It’s not a harsh command but an urging made on short breath; through your misty vision, you see tension in Mark’s face and shoulders, like he’s bracing himself for something too. You barely register the ping in the back of your mind, too focused on the way he’s pressing his palm harder on your stomach, the way his hips quicken their pace — he’s close too. “Let me feel you — want to feel you cum all over my cock.”

You inhale, not to speak but to let out a loud whimper; your teeth dig into your lower lip as you try to stifle the moans that threaten to follow, but in the end, you whine out his name. Your thighs threaten to close, trembling as you finally reach your climax, an impossible explosion of pleasure, and you have to squeeze your eyes shut so that you don’t get dizzy from the stars that burst around your vision.

“Fuck.” Mark’s voice is strained, his one hand still firm against your stomach, the other sliding against the inside of your thigh. “You get even tighter — you feel even better when you cum.”

“Mark,” you hiccup, unable to do anything but flutter around him as he pistons harder into you. You don’t even know what you’re asking for when you say ‘please,’ but he somehow seems to, and you trust that your body’s saying something you can’t fully detect in this state, with your mind floating in the aftermath of ecstasy.

“I know,” his tone is soothing in contrast to the intensity of his thrusts. “I’ve got you. Just a little more — where do you want—?”

You blink slowly, his words sinking in at too leisurely a pace; his hips stutter dangerously before you’re able to respond. You barely even do that, your hand gently brushing over the one against your stomach, but he catches onto the meaning quickly enough.

You’ve never heard your name said in such a beautiful way; hearing him moaning it lowly is enough to make you whine again, and that noise is drawn out when he shifts and slips out of you fully. Your brain’s fuzzy, but your senses are at least sharp enough to drink in the perfect sight of him cumming — the way he leans his head back, jaw taut and eyes shut, as he pumps his cock and the heat of his release against your skin, pooling against your stomach once he finally cums. You see a shiver run through him, and then he’s still for a while in this position, the both of you basking in the afterglow of your highs.

You’re still weak and sensitive when Mark finally comes back down, a lucidity you don’t have right now coming back into his gaze. All you can do is smile when he leans in, catching your lips in another kiss — one that’s surprisingly soft and slow in comparison to everything else, but still leaves you breathless when he pulls away.

“Let me clean you up,” he murmurs, and you hum in agreement, your body limp as you watch him move off the bed and pull a handful of tissues from a box on the desk on the opposite wall. Even his hands are gentle when he scoops you up, shifting you until your head can lean against the pillows. They carry a scent you’re not used to, and your nose scrunches, rejecting the change, but that’s quickly overpowered by Mark’s familiar coffee-and-linen one when he presses next to you, careful as he wipes his cum off your stomach and thoroughly cleans between your thighs. From somewhere down below, you still hear hushed voices, and the front door slams shut again. People are still in the middle of leaving, but you know Youngho will likely run out of guests soon, and this makes you feel like the timing’s suddenly become urgent.

“I want to date you properly,” you start, slightly slurred but unmistakably blunt. Mark’s gaze snaps to yours, slightly amused, as he balls the tissues up in his fist. “You never asked me, so I’m asking you.”

He looks perplexed. “I just never thought you wanted me to, so I didn’t try.”

You reach up, locking your fingers into his hair and using your grip to pull him down. Your kiss is a little demanding, with a tinge of excess frustration, and he pulls away laughing lightly.

“Do you still think I don’t want you to?”

Mark hums thoughtfully. “I think you made a lot of things clear tonight. On my end, I was happy enough to be near you.” He smiles down at you, and in the faint light, you can see the flush slowly return to his cheeks. “Having you like this — dating you… there’s no way I’d say no.”

Your shoulders relax, satisfied with his answer, and you beam up at him — an act he easily returns, breathtaking and endearing all at once.

Moments later, you feel his arm wind around your waist; he allows you to lean into his side, his other hand crossing over his lap to stroke your thigh. His face turns, pressing a kiss to your hair, and you feel his lips move, hear the quick rush of a whisper. You tilt your head, eyes slightly wide in questioning. “What was that?”

He shakes his head at first, trying to pass it off as nothing. But when it’s clear your curiosity won’t abate, he chuckles softly, his hand gently cupping your chin so that you can only look at him. His thumb strokes your bottom lip gently, as if trying to coax the same words out of your mouth before he murmurs them to you one more time — and this time, he sounds fully convinced of them.

“You’re all mine.”

salted caramel | lmh ( m )

you hadn’t been aware that mark’s jealousy followed the rules of baseball — three strikes, and he snaps?

read the first part here!

pairing: barista!bf!mark x reader verse: college!au rating: r warnings&tags: unprotected sex, mentions of creampies (although not an actual one), hickeys, possessiveness and jealousy, exhibitionism, sort of phone sex in conjunction with said exhibitionism, oral (m!receiving), mark has an understated but unending obsession with mc’s stomach, tummy bulges, we always love an implicit bigdick!mark, donghyuck is kind of a little shit and basically he has to cross a few lines for this “plot” to get to where it gets word count: 20.3k

a/n: this is a bit rushed and panicked because I basically wrote it in a feverish 2.5ish days… i’m so sorry that the pacing might be a little off, especially since I can never tell if it’s actually too fast or not. this is also unedited and unbeta’d but oh well because i never edit my stuff before posting and just re-edit when I re-read! regardless, i hope it’s something that you can enjoy, and i couldn’t pick between sweetest bf ever!mark and hottest mf ever!mark, so i guess you get a little bit of both!

if you liked it, please consider reblogging to support (especially because this may get flagged for mature content)!

You should have noticed it the first time, but in your overall defense, you find most things that you take note of about Mark Lee to be more on the highly positive and greatly endearing side — or, maybe, you just have a tendency to paint him in that kind of light.

You can’t really help it; he’s still got that halfway shy, softly adoring look in his eyes whenever he sees you, which is more often now than ever before, and you just can’t do anything but reciprocate, if only to see his eyes grow a little brighter. You wonder if Mark’s aware that if this were a Shakespearean scenario, you’d easily fall on your sword for him without question, for as long as he asked, but you don’t think there’s any pressing need to remind him — not with the way you spend most of your free time figuring out ways to be with him. You’re certain he should know, what with the fact that every time he looks at you, even just a glimpse, your gaze is always on him, ready to make eye contact whenever he turns his head — something he often acknowledges with one of those signature blushes that spread like wildfire across his cheeks, up to the tips of his ears.

It also should be unmistakably clear that you’re head over heels for him, given how at least once a week, he’s got his face buried between your legs in an attempt to hear the thing he wants you to say the most (see: his name, in varying pitches and decibels) — but if he doesn’t notice then, you can’t hold it against him; Mark’s mouth is so attentive that you doubt his mind is anywhere else apart from what inch of you his tongue is going to meet next in that moment. At least, that much is true for you.

He should at least know, what with you waiting for his classes to end so you can walk to Starbucks for his afternoon shift; you even race the twenty-minute distance to the Department of Mathematics, still holding your European Renaissance History textbook from your last lecture, just to make sure you’re there right as he gets out — a fact he has to know is an act of devotion, considering how often he finds you heaving for air and leaning your back against the brick wall outside the Accounting 150 Lab. Even his professor knows you as Mark Lee’s admirer, which is all well and good, but if you had the breath to spare, you’d correct his terminology for accuracy. Girlfriend. You’re Mark Lee’s girlfriend.

It’s a fact you don’t mind reminding him of but that you actually have to do quite often, because when you call Mark the appropriate counterpart — boyfriend — his eyes still widen, like he’s hearing it for the first time. It’s cute, just like everything else about him. You just have to wonder, at times, if he doesn’t believe you.

Whatever. It doesn’t matter; you’ll just keep telling him.

You don’t have any classes with Mark this semester, which is a shame, considering your favorite pastime over the last few months had just been to stare at his side profile and wish he’d look over so you could kiss him, but the fact that you spend almost every day with him now, using that time to remind him of how much you want to kiss him and actually getting it to do it right then and there, pretty much more than makes up for your previous schedule of daydreaming.

However, hanging out with him doesn’t always mean you’re just with him; you came to learn this after the first week of the new semester, and you’ve now gotten used to the fact that with Mark Lee sometimes comes his band of tall, often loud friends.

The loudest by far is Lee Donghyuck, the mysterious figure last semester that you’d only known by one syllable, now easily recognizable (and no longer enigmatic by any means to you) by his booming voice and even more demanding personality. He’s supremely outgoing, a trait you can’t say you mind, but there’s an interesting contrast between Mark, who tends to say things after carefully considering his ideas, and Donghyuck, who seems to just burst out in fits of impulsive rambling that often leads to some kind of semi-structured debate. It kind of gives you whiplash, in a funny, slightly perplexing way.

The whole friend group likes to meet up at Starbucks while Mark is on his shift, and now that they’ve come to know you as that girl Mark didn’t teach a single thing in College Algebra to but still somehow got lucky with (something you’ve wasted immense efforts into correcting but have ultimately failed to do so), you now find yourself sitting with them, all somehow waiting for who appears to be the nucleus of this group to stop taking coffee orders and hang up his (cute, but you’re the only one that thinks so, actually) green apron.

Again, you don’t mind it; new people aren’t an issue to you, and you’re also interested in finding out more about Mark through those closest to him. You get to see the few ways they’re alike in contrast to the staggering number of things that make them amusingly different from one another. Despite the broad spectrum of their intersecting interests, you’ve come to learn, through the conversations you’ve had to sit through over the last month, that they have varying opinions on said interests. For instance, you know they’re all into video games, Japanese manga, and long-winding fantasy movies, but every conversation takes flight the moment there’s even a spark of dissent from one person — and the source, usually (and quite unfortunately), is Lee Donghyuck himself.

Today is no exception.

“Dude, you’re crazy,” Zhong Chenle practically seethes. Whether by sheer coincidence or actual desire, he’s the one who most often finds himself staring Donghyuck down, trying to bend the latter’s will into admitting defeat. Donghyuck, on the other hand, has mastered the art of looking supremely unperturbed, especially when Chenle is in the heat of his rage. “The ninth was the worst, hands down.”

“Art and rendering were so solid.” Donghyuck raises a finger, and you’re not sure if it’s to start off a list or to shut Chenle up. You don’t want to ask, anyway, too busy finding amusement in the shifting expressions of despair, rage, anguish, and murderous intent on the latter’s face to speak up. You presume that’s why everyone else isn’t stopping them — or maybe they’re just preparing their own defenses and points to raise. “Intuitive combat and flawless combo chains. The fucking open world? Which other installment in the franchise offers that much depth in the gameplay?”

“Depth? Do you even hear yourself right now?” Chenle grips his head so tightly that when he pulls his hands away, there are actual red marks across his forehead and temple, and his bangs are askew. “What kind of depth comes from cloned movesets? The character designs are so stupidly traditional too. And—”

“There’s a unique kind of beauty in familiarity.”

“The open world was a disaster,” Chenle plows on. “It was so empty, and the map was the farthest thing from intuitive. It’s quite literally the worst thing KOEI has ever done. That’s exactly why they went back to the limited map strategy in later installments. Even the spin-offs.”

“I thought the grappling and ambush systems were pretty intuitive. Ingenious, even.”

It’s a singularly amusing sight — Chenle is one insult to his pride away from imploding, and Donghyuck is just checking the dirt under his nails like he’s waiting in line to take his school ID photo. Park Jisung, one of the quieter ones in the bunch, tries to diffuse the tension by clearing his throat and going ‘I actually really liked the Age Of Calamity Zelda one they released with all the different campaigns,’ but that just goes unnoticed by either party.

“You once failed an ambush play just because you were stuck behind a wall you couldn’t scale. Don’t say shit about the ambush and grappling mechanics.”

“Unlike some people sitting around this table, I learn from my mistakes. That’s also probably why some people — not naming names — just can’t appreciate the artistic beauty that is Dynasty Warriors 9.”

Donghyuck doesn’t even look up from his cuticles when Chenle explodes.

“You’re fucking impossible!”

“Can you guys relax?” Lee Jeno, who had somehow miraculously found the space and silence in the breaths between the entire argument to doze off, opens one eye, only slightly irate. “You’re making a scene over a dead game franchise.”

“It’s not dead; they’re on hiatus,” both Chenle and Donghyuck chime in together, apparently finding a moment of unique solidarity to shoot Jeno down before going back to glaring daggers at each other. Jeno shrugs, gives everyone else at the table an I tried kind of exasperated expression, and settles back into his seat, the one eye already closing before he’s fully folded his arms across his chest.

Your eyes wander away from the group over to the counter. You’re thankful for the fact that most of the time, you just get invited to share a table with them without necessarily being trapped in the middle of a conversation — especially one as heated as the one Chenle is prolonging while jabbing his finger accusingly at Donghyuck, as if he’s trying to pin a crime on the latter instead of just explaining why Donghyuck’s opinion is ‘borne of ignorance.’ When they’re all caught up in their business like this, you end up being able to revel in your more or less unobstructed view of Mark behind the barista’s station, where he’s busy piping an extra helping of whipped cream on top of a strawberry frappuccino for a kid that’s already jumping up and down next to the pick-up station.

The biting winter had already given way to the first signs of spring, and the Starbucks Mark works at has a supremely effective central heating system that allows people to shed their coats. This works in your favor, considering Mark wears nothing but a button-up shirt over his apron while he works, and he’s got this habit of rolling up his sleeves so they don’t catch any stains. You’re pretty sure he has a second motive, though; surely, he’s aware of how the view of his arms, muscles tightening under his skin whenever he even lightly grips something, drives you crazy. You’d bet a month’s allowance he’s doing it on purpose so that you start entertaining the thought of yelling at everyone in the branch to fuck off so you can grab him by the front of his stupid shirt so you can kiss his stupid face. Or ride it.

And for some inexplicable reason, he still has the audacity to act like there’s nothing amiss. When he looks up at you right after pushing the frappuccino towards the little girl, his eyes still brighten, almost innocent in their gaze, the corners of his lips turning up surreptitiously, hiding the smile he seems to save for only you from everyone else in the room.

You smile back, but when he turns away to take someone’s order, you let out a heavy sigh and take a long sip of your vanilla sweet cream cold brew until you start reaching the last dregs of it under the ice. Your brain pretty much cries out in protest, but you know it deserves as much as a mental cold shower for entertaining the thought of asking him to bend you over the counter at five-thirty in the afternoon in a Starbucks.

Stupid Mark. Stupid brain. Stupid fucking people in the room.

The warm breath in your ear alerts you to a slowly approaching presence, but you don’t have the reflexes to turn back to its source before it starts talking.

“Got anything to add to either of our cases, ___________?”

“What?” Your palm comes up to rub your ear as Donghyuck pulls away, laughing lightly. You’re sucked back into the foreground of the conversation, but you’re just as lost now as you had been before you started tuning them out in favor of your lust. “Uh — no. Sorry. To be honest, I know nothing about… sorry, what were you guys talking about again?”

“See, that’s how normal people act,” Jeno grumbles, both his eyes flying open this time. “Instead of hosting a presidential debate about Dynasty Warriors.”

“Not that there’s anything wrong with that.” You’re quick to add, and Jeno looks mildly amused at your attempt to still mollify the rest of the group. “I’m sure I would have liked it. If, you know, I actually had been introduced to it at any point in my life.”

“And if you had, I’m sure you’d have the taste to assert alongside me that the seventh installment was revolutionary,” Chenle sniffs, but he’s looking more pointedly at Donghyuck, who’s still ignoring him, save for the fact that he’s now looking at you instead of at his nails (which doesn’t feel like such a great upgrade).

“Nah, she’d be on my side. ___________ looks like she’d appreciate a good, scenic open world and grappling system. Right?”

“Uh…” you say smartly.

“Man, shut up.” Chenle throws his hands in the air before he stands up, his chair scraping against the floor as he pushes it back with astounding force. “Got me so pissed off I need to pee now.”

You have no idea what the correlation is between getting annoyed and needing to use the bathroom, but even if you wanted to bring up your doubts — which you don’t — Chenle is long gone before you can get your thoughts together. It’s only when he’s out of earshot that Donghyuck leans in, almost conspiratorially, to whisper to you again.

“Actually, I think the ninth sucks too. But isn’t it kind of funny how worked up that fucker gets?”

“To be honest, I’ve never known anyone with quite your talent in riling people up,” you admit, and even though you’re not sure what kind of meaning you want attached to that, you notice that he decides to take it as a compliment all on his own, his chest puffing out in pride. “Too bad I have no idea which opinion is really right, or I’d weigh in, too.”

“Not a Dynasty Warriors kind of girl, then?”

“No one is, Hyuck,” Jeno snorts, shaking his head. “You two are the only people I know who still played that past the fifth installment.”

“Fair. I nurture a love for old franchises.” Donghyuck leans back, looking supremely satisfied at how he’s managed to tick off one of his most important ‘to-do’ points of the day. “So what’s your poison, ___________?”

“What’s that mean?”

“You a Gardenscapes kind of girl? Tekken? Maybe you like some good ol’ fashioned LoL?”

“I honestly don’t have the hand-eye coordination to play,” you confess. “I know Mark likes to play PUBG from time to time. I mostly just sit and ask questions, though. The few times I tried playing with him, I swear any normal person would’ve cried. He had to babysit me like crazy. It was a miracle he didn’t throw me out.”

“She even tries to play with him,” Donghyuck whistles lowly. “Dude, how’d Mark get a chick like you?”

“Meaning?”

“You’re way too good for that dope.” His laugh is light and good-natured. “Never thought a moony-eyed weirdo like him would actually wind up with his dream girl — which he’s called you, more than once, by the way. Fucking disgusting, but… I get it. Doesn’t make it less crazy or weird to hear, though.”

“Sorry to put you through that.” You smile, using your straw to stir the contents of your cup. A warmth spreads through your shoulders and down your arms to the tips of your fingers as you digest what Donghyuck’s just said to you, and you find your eyes trailing back to Mark, who’s pulling off his apron. His eyes are already fixed on you, and when you lock gazes, he mouths a wait for me that makes you want to squeeze the life out of something in pure joy. You settle for a soft sigh. “I guess it won’t help if I say your friend over there’s my dream guy.”

“It absolutely will not,” Donghyuck groans, faking a gagging noise that has you laughing. “But tell you what — if you ever get tired of Mark playing PUBG and ignoring you like the clown he is, I’ll find you someone else more your speed.”

“No thanks,” you snort, taking the last sip of your drink. “More than that, I’d just want to be some kind of helpful to him if I ever play with him again.”

“We can help you with that too,” Jisung volunteers. “Jeno taught me the basics. I’m sure he can teach you too.”

“Yeah, and I’m guessing you’d be a better student than mister “how come you didn’t tell me I had to focus the crosshairs myself” over here,” Jeno chuckles, surreptitiously pointing at Jisung when you cast him a questioning look.

“I’m pretty good at sneak attacks myself.” Donghyuck makes a show of pretending to slice your neck before grinning smugly. “We’ll take care of you. Mark won’t know what hit him next time.”

“What’s happening to me next time?”

You feel Mark before you see him, his hand landing on your head lightly and smoothing your hair back in an idle, gentle motion to announce his presence. You look up at him, already beaming, and he returns the favor as his hand settles on your shoulder.

“We were just talking about replacing you. Both as a friend and as a boyfriend, for your poor little dream girl here who’s just too nice to turn you down.” Donghyuck lies like it’s second nature; you wonder if that’s a Finance major thing or just a him thing.

“And you’re offering that to someone who didn’t ask for it?” Mark snorts, nudging Chenle’s bag over so he can sit in the empty spot.

“She’s so caught up in your sticky little web that she can’t struggle against you.” Donghyuck feigns a heavy sigh that suggests he feels sorry for you before he puts a hand on your free shoulder, shaking his head in a convincing kind of pity. “I’ll save you, so don’t worry. Mark can’t keep his grubby hands on you forever. Whenever you need to be saved, I’ll come a-running to free you.”

There’s a tightness on one shoulder that disrupts the balance of your torso, and you find yourself leaning closer to Mark. Your hand finds its way to his knee, giving it a light squeeze under the table, and his grip loosens by a fraction. Donghyuck’s as quick to let go as he is to hang on.

“We were just talking about PUBG,” you correct, and Mark’s eyes snap to you. “I was asking for help — you know, so I won’t drag you down the next time I join in?”

“I don’t mind whatever you do in-game.” He’s quick to comfort you, even if you don’t actually need it, but it feels warm and cold “I’m just glad you wanna try it with me.”

“No, but I kind of want to learn too. So it can be fun for both of us. Also so you don’t have to keep avenging me after five minutes,” you laugh. Mark cracks a smile then, and you don’t realize his expression had been slightly harder until it softens under your gaze.

“Then I’ll teach you next time.”

“No, I want to surprise you with how cool I get. And then next time, I’ll even beat you.” You turn to Donghyuck, slightly unsure. “Uh… I can beat him, can’t I?”

“If you play different teams, yeah,” he confirms. “Trust me. I’ll help you kick his ass.”

“Or we’ll both kick yours,” Mark chuckles, his grasp now tightening and loosening intermittently. He’s massaging your shoulder lightly, and you end up sinking deeper into his side. You don’t miss the slightly nauseated amusement that passes across Donghyuck’s face nor the way he mouths ‘sap’ to Mark, who ignores this comment in its entirety.

“Yo, hotpot at seven? Renjun’s asking,” Chenle announces as he returns to your table, his phone in one hand and a crumpled paper towel in the other. “Jaemin can’t make it, though. Study group or whatever shit he always says.”

“I’m down,” Donghyuck immediately replies, and Chenle’s eyes shoot heavenward, like he’s already asking for the divine strength to not sock Donghyuck in the face later.

“Can’t,” Jeno yawns, both his arms outstretched as he tries to move the sleep out of his spine. “Pre-test tomorrow.”

“Dude, it’s a pre-test,” Donghyuck rolls his eyes. “You don’t have to study if they’re just testing how much you know before studying.”

“Gotta study all the same.”

“I gotta pass too,” Jisung looks actually apologetic. “I promised my mom I’d help her move some stuff to my aunt’s place tonight.”

“Boring,” Chenle grumbles before turning to the both of you. “Lovebirds?”

“Rain check,” Mark shakes his head. “Family dinner. My brother’s home for the weekend. How about Monday instead? Most of us can’t make it anyway. At least Jaemin doesn’t have study group either.”

“If that’s even what that weirdo’s doing,” Chenle sighs, already punching in a message to send to Renjun. “Fine; I’ll ask about Monday. You guys better actually reply to the goddamn group chat. I can’t coordinate in six different private chats ever again.”

“You can put my name down already,” Mark casts you a sideway glance, and you nod immediately. “Two names, actually.”

“I’m good on Monday too. When we see each other again, I’ll bring some prospects for you to sift through,” Donghyuck adds to you, and you laugh. “Cool guys. Jocks. I know this upperclassman all the girls say is really hot. I think I still have his Messenger from when we did a group discussion last semester.”

“I’ll have Mark look at them so he can reject them all for me,” you promise. Donghyuck feigns affront before looking at Mark in utter disbelief.

“How the fuck did you snag a girl like this, man?”

“I’m pretty sure she once told me I… what did you say?” Mark glances at you amusedly. “I had some moves, I guess.”

“You mean stutter and blush in her presence?” Donghyuck can’t decide how to look at you without being even the slightest bit offensive; he just settles on incredulity. “And that won you over?”

“Most powerful move in the Mark Lee playbook,” you shrug, grinning. “Had me from the first ‘um,’ and he’s had me ever since.”

“You lucky son of a bitch,” Donghyuck snorts, and neither of you misses the slightly abashed but unmistakable smugness in Mark’s face when you lean in to rest your head on his shoulder.

The second time it happens is on that Monday, in a far more noticeable capacity. You just aren’t quick enough to read the signs, as usual.

But in your defense (again), it hadn’t felt all that significant.

“Fuck, this is spicy,” Na Jaemin sucks air in through his teeth and lets it out in a sharp whistle that’s broken by a laugh that’s not necessarily at anything funny. Maybe he’s just laughing at the sheen of sweat across his forehead that he has to wipe off with the other side of his napkin.

Miraculously, the hotpot plan pushes through, with no small amount of effort in coordination on Chenle’s part; he’d even texted you just to make sure he’d gotten the head count right, despite the fact that Mark had already confirmed your attendance twice over. Even the often elusive Na Jaemin, who always seems to have one or another study group to attend on most nights, manages to come and is currently busy mixing his peanut sauce in his little bowl with such vigor that you can’t help but wonder if he’s not trying to drown the mala-flavored strips of meat in it completely.

“That’s why I said you need a bowl of water for dipping, you dimwit,” Donghyuck points his chopsticks at Jaemin’s messy plate in a way you can only describe as nagging, even if that’s actually impossible. “You’ve got super mala breath now.”

“Don’t know about me, but I can smell yours all the way from over here,” Jaemin quips back with an easy kind of nonchalance, hastily ducking the balled-up napkin that goes flying across the table. It lands on the floor behind his chair harmlessly.

It’s nice, you think, that Mark’s friends like to invite you to their outings now; despite all the jokes they’ve made at his expense, they’ve been consistently open to having you around. You’re not necessarily the type of couple that acts in a way that disgusts people into moving to a completely different table anyway, and you allow their conversations to unfold easily without ever interrupting, so you think that this arrangement works for all parties involved.

They’re even louder outside Starbucks, you’ve come to note; the restaurant is significantly busier than the cafe anyway, filled with people on their company dinners, so Mark’s friends all seem to want to rival that boisterous energy. Weirdly, you like it, even when they’re already half off their seats and one (Chenle) is just about to strangle the other (Donghyuck). The laughter flows freely, and there’s a messiness to the whole affair that makes it impossible to feel uncomfortable.

Even Mark pipes in occasionally, offering his opinion on topics he knows much more about than you, and you can’t help but admire how everyone listens to him when he starts to speak, even if he has nothing realistically important to say. His friends might find it odd that you’d been so drawn to him, but they just don’t know that even they’re victims of Mark’s natural magnetism, also falling quiet and eager to hear his voice, his light-hearted laugh, in response to the things they say.

But even when he’s mostly distracted by conversation, there’s a part of him that continuously pays attention to you in his own way. He nudges his ginger and soy sauce bowl towards you with the side of his wrist so you can dip your beef in, even if you’d adamantly declined him giving you your own bowl of it in the first place (you’d always thought you were peanut sauce or nothing kind of girl, but one sneaky venture into Mark’s sauce proved you wrong). His hand hovers over your head when you drop your chopsticks and bend over to pick them up from where they’ve rolled under the table, making sure you’re bump-free when you resurface.

And his palms always, always settle somewhere on you, no matter what he’s doing. If one hand is busy feeding himself, the other is intent on warming your thigh, passing over the denim in slow, steady strokes. His fingers tickle your knee when you laugh, just to make you laugh a little harder — you’d even almost kneed the table at one point, much to Huang Renjun’s alarm. But the most common place for his arm is around you, fingers lightly bunched into the side of your shirt, like he’s worried loosening his grip on you further will cause you to vanish. It keeps him close to you, keeps his scent and warmth washing over you in gentle waves, so much so that you often have to remind yourself that he’ll be the target of much light-hearted mockery if you so much as lean into him and rest your head on his shoulder.

But it’s hard to resist it, especially when his hand seems to be intent on outlining every curve on that side, passing over your hip and dipping into your waist. The motion allows him to slowly but surely lift the fabric of your shirt, up until there’s just enough of an opening for his palm to slip under, and suddenly it’s much warmer on that side, with the light roughness of his hand grazing at your skin. His fingers always stretch apart, like he’s trying to feel as much of you as he can, and the pads of his digits have a tendency to graze the plane of your stomach — his nails sometimes even travel featherlight just next to your navel, etching out words you can’t really decipher. Like he’s writing a message just for you.

It makes you feel like no matter what he’s doing, a part of his mind is always on you.

“You guys want to see that new horror movie? The Ghost Within, I think it’s called,” Jisung asks the group from over at the other end of the table, having to raise his voice significantly to make sure it isn’t swept away by the raucous laughter from across the restaurant. “I think it’s coming out in a week or two.”

“I’d be okay with it,” Renjun shrugs, although he doesn’t look enthused. “Kind of looks like a cliche horror with all those cheap jump scares and shit, but I’m down if you all are.”

A wave of assent passes over the group in general, but you notice Mark doesn’t immediately respond. You take this opportunity to lean in and confess your stance.

“If I have to sit around and watch a ghost pop out at me from a big-ass movie screen, you may never again see me in the same wonderful light you do today,” you warn. “Remember me as I am, not as I will be, Mark Lee.”

He snorts, coughing lightly as a mixture of ginger and fishcake sticks in his throat. “Yeah — we’ll pass, I think.”

“Scaredy-cat,” Donghyuck teases, and you’re surprised that Mark doesn’t come to his own defense. There’s something romantic in him not wanting to be the one to sell you out, but you suppose there’s also a kind of chivalry in being the one to take the bullet.

“Actually, I’m the one who can’t handle it well,” you smile in apology. “Sorry. I don’t have much of a reputation, so to speak, but what elegance may be attached to my name, however misplaced, is something I really want to maintain. At least until I graduate.”

“In short, you don’t want Mark to see you scream and cry,” Chenle deduces. You can’t even find fault in him figuring it out so quickly.

“Bingo.”

“Well, we can solve the problem,” Donghyuck claps his hands, getting everyone’s attention for no good reason. “__________, you sit beside me, and Mark can sit on the far end of the row. With how dark it is, he won’t see anything, and I get to sit next to a cute girl in a movie theater. Win-win.”

“Thanks for the offer,” you laugh, shaking your head. “But it’s not a win-win if I accidentally grab your hand out of instinct.”

“It is to me,” Donghyuck winks, and you feel Mark’s hand stop brushing over your stomach. His fingers curl in lightly, almost like he’s trying to make a fist but can’t quite get to that point out of personal restraint. “Or better yet, you could do what we all think you should do and dump Mark for someone you won’t be ashamed to cry in front of. I, for one, would not even bother to comment on whatever emotions you’re going through in the middle of a movie, so what do you say? It’s a pretty sweet deal, in my humble opinion. Me versus Mark Lee. The showdown of the century, right here in Hai Di Lao.”

You’ve noticed that the more Donghyuck piles onto his little teasing rampage, the more forcefully Mark tugs you over; his fingers aren’t just skimming over your skin but have now grown into the habit of gently pinching it, as if begging for your attention. It feels nice but also a little urgent, although it’s hard for you to understand why; the whole foundation of this group is built on teasing each other until someone (Chenle) snaps and lobs a bottle cap at someone else (Donghyuck), so it should be normal for Mark to be at the receiving end of some light banter.

“Should we ask the hostess to referee the match, then?” You ride along with the joke.

“No way. You’re the one calling the shots.” Donghyuck sits up a little straighter, putting on a smug face. “Okay, pick, __________. Me or Mark; who’s got the better punches?”

You make a show of acting thoughtful, even tapping your chin to pretend considering it deeply, but there was never any doubt on your choice. Still, you can’t really decipher the sudden slowness, the light tremble in Mark’s palm as it travels to your hip, where it settles, heavy, over the curve.

“It’s a complete knock-out,” you finally announce, grinning. “Championship belt goes to Mark.”

“Man, if I had a girlfriend as straight-shooting about her feelings for me as you are about your feelings for Mark, I’d propose in a day, max,” Jeno groans, half-exasperated and half-amused all at once.

“Man must’ve saved a nation or something in his past life,” Donghyuck grimaces. “No way he deserves a girl this hot and crazy about him. Hey — got any tips on stopping natural disasters or something? I could use a sexy, loyal girlfriend in my next life. Or maybe I’ll just poach yours in this one and see what it feels like.”

“I would actually deck you, so don’t even try it,” Mark snorts, his arm now winding full around your waist. You’re flush against his side, and he uses this opportunity to do something he doesn’t often do in front of his friends: show explicit affection by pressing a light kiss just behind your ear. It tickles, his breath grazing your earlobe, and you giggle, squirming in his hold. All he does is smile and pull you in tighter.

The bill’s split eight ways, but Mark’s fishing out cash to pay for your share even before you can get your wallet out from the bottom of your bag; it’s one of those quick, instinctive moves he likes to use on you, where he pushes the money and sends the bill back to the staff before you can even protest in full, so you have to settle on thanking him by returning the earlier favor — landing a peck on his cheek, which flushes a warm and contented pink the moment your lips make contact.

You just pointedly ignore the snickers that run around the table, particularly from Donghyuck and Jaemin.

The group splits ways at the front of the school dorms; most of them head in after their goodbyes, while Chenle backtracks towards his apartment building off-campus, mumbling something about how he hopes his roommate’s in because he accidentally left his key in the bowl next to their doorway. Mark should be piling in with the rest into the dorms, but he has a habit of insisting that he take you to the subway station; you’ve long since given up on convincing him against tagging along, mostly because he looks slightly hurt whenever you try to get him to stay put. You’re not going to complain anyway; for as much as you like being around Mark’s friends, it’s even better when you have this little slice of alone time despite the hassle it brings him.

Your fingers are linked when you walk under the street lights, the campus road leading to the station entrance significantly less busy at this time of evening; it’s cool enough for you to have an excuse to press yourself into Mark’s form, and he accepts this additional burden with an immense amount of grace, his arm finding its way around you again. Two minutes later, his palm is pressed against your bare skin once more, rubbing small, gentle circles just above your pelvis.

A part of you wonders if you’ll be able to do this — lean in, flush against him — when the summer heat starts to stick, but rather than really worrying about the logistics, you realize you’re more hung up on the idea of spending this summer with him.

“Sorry,” Mark murmurs out of the blue. Your eyebrows shoot up, and he looks down at you sheepishly. “Isn’t hanging out with my friends kind of driving you crazy?”

You hum in thought before shaking your head in resolution. “Not really. Not in a bad way, at least. I like how close you guys all are — and how big the group is. It’s usually just Yeji and Jisu with me, and they’re definitely not as rowdy. The change of pace is pretty fun.”

“Yeji and Jisu,” he echoes. “Your best friends. I haven’t met them yet, have I?”

“Not yet. Jisu started a part-time job across town, so we can’t get our schedules to align right just yet.” Your hip collides gently with his. “Should I let you, though?”

“One day… I think it would be nice to hang out with a less migraine-inducing crowd for a change.”

“I’ll tell them, then. They want to meet you.” You crane your neck up slightly, lowering your voice into a hushed whisper that’s completely unnecessary. “They want to know if you’re as cute as you look in your pictures.”

Mark draws back, laughing incredulously. “How do they know what my pictures look like?”

“I stalked your Instagram and showed them,” you answer simply. He throws you a funny look that’s equal parts disbelief and amusement. “They liked that one with the Spider-man costume.”

“Please don’t,” he groans, passing a hand over his face. “I should have taken that down, but I didn’t think anyone would care.”

“Why? I like it.” Your hand’s the one that manages to slip under his sweater this time, fingers trailing down his stomach; you feel him suck it in for a second in surprise before he lets out an exhale.

“I can’t ever understand what’s going through your head,” he chuckles, and you think it’s unfair that he manages to extract your hand from under the fabric while his is still firmly pressed against the side of your stomach. “You saw that and still wanted to date me?”

“Mark Lee, you simply underestimate how much I adore you. It’s kind of hurting my feelings at this rate.”

You’re just a few inches shy of the circle of light cast by the subway station sign. Your feet try to bring you forward, but Mark lingers behind, just outside the curve of soft white on the pavement, and his hand slips from under your shirt. You turn, and his hand skims down your arm instead, fingers locking around your wrist. With the slight distance between you, it looks like you’re caught in motion.

“I still can’t wrap my head around it sometimes.”

“What?”

“I just look over at you and feel like it’s not real. Like you’re going to disappear, and I’m just going to wake up from a dream and see you the next day, just some other stranger who doesn’t even know my name.” He licks his lips, and you want to reach out and kiss him already, but you know he isn’t done talking. “And I’m going to remember how much I liked you in that dream, but you won’t ever feel that same way.”

“You know I’m right here, though, don’t you?” Your fingers mimic his, squeezing around his wrist. “You can feel me. I’m here with you.”

Hesitation flashes across his face even when he nods, and you notice his eyes flit down to his shoes before looking back up at you — a habit of avoidance you know he’s trying to correct. “Sometimes I have to wonder if they’re right.”

“If… who’s right?”

“Them.” He jerks his thumb back in the general direction of the school dorms. “The guys. You know — when they ask me how I got a girl like you… the truth is, I don’t even really know. They can’t believe it, and it’s so crazy to me that I still sometimes can’t myself. So I start wondering if—”

You don’t let him finish this time; it’s rude to interrupt, you know, but you also know that what he’s about to say is probably something neither of you wants to hear anyway. Your lips connect with his, firm and demanding, and his words die in his throat, melting into a soft groan that vibrates against your skin. When you pull away, you don’t create the same distance, and Mark’s hands find their way to your waist, slightly trembling.

“They’re wrong,” you murmur, a quiet strength in your voice. “So stop wondering and just be with me.”

A smile starts tugging on the corners of his mouth, and the next moment, he’s nodding in assent, in wholehearted agreement, and the next kiss you share is one he starts, far more gentle than earlier.

“Next time I catch you entertaining nonsensical thoughts, there’ll be consequences.”

“Are you threatening me?” His laugh is colored with incredulity.

“Yes.” Your tone is firm, but your grin gives away too much of the jest. “Maybe I’ll ground you for a week, or something really childish.”

“I’d take it if you were with me.”

“That’s not how it works,” you snort, gently flicking the tip of his nose. He scrunches it on impact. “You’d be in solitary. You must reflect on your actions and all that nonsense. Meanwhile, I’ll be out having some good hotpot with everyone else.”

“If that happens, promise me one thing, then.” He maneuvers your stance until you’re both back in the blanket of darkness, just out of reach of the subway entrance. “Don’t sit next to Donghyuck.”

“And let him and Chenle give me an earful about how bad-slash-good the first Human Centipede movie was all over again? I think not.”

“No, really.” Mark buries his face into your neck, and you hear the quiet inhale as he breathes in your scent. On instinct, your hand comes up to thread through his hair, nails gently scratching at his scalp. “I don’t want you sitting there and hearing him talk your ear off about how much I don’t deserve you or that he’ll help you find someone better.”

“You know he’s just joking — and I’m just joking, right?”

“Just promise me.”

You pause, wondering if it’s in your best interest to tease him for whatever act he’s pulling, but there’s a shortness to his breathing that makes the whole situation feel weirdly tense. He’s really waiting for something — an answer. The right answer, maybe.

“I promise,” you finally say, and you know you’ve said the correct thing when Mark’s lips press a soft kiss to your collarbone, like he’s sealing in your vow.

On the third time, Mark pretty much gives up.

The strangest thing is that it starts at a time when you’re not even actually together; if you had to pinpoint the exact moment, it probably had to be when Donghyuck had walked you to the dorm from library. No — maybe even before that. Somewhere in the time you’d spent in there, he’d thought up yet another way to push Mark’s buttons. You just didn’t really know the exact minute he’d first seen you with Jung Jaehyun.

You don’t know how Jaehyun does it; he skips half his classes and somehow doesn’t even get in trouble, let alone fail. You’d only met him last semester, but he was just about the only person who was halfway familiar in your Anthropology 120 class, so you thought you could at least feel comfortable enough to chat with him about the weather or what had happened in the last meeting. You don’t expect him to strong-arm you into being something of a literal proxy for him; the first week of the semester, you’d spend almost each lecture period gnawing on your nails and fretting over the fact that your signature for attendance looked nothing like his. By the second week, you’d already come to realize that it doesn’t matter because he had only attended one lecture — the first one — thus far and your professor was as clueless about Jaehyun’s handwriting as you. By the fourth week, you had resigned yourself to being his slightly unwilling associate for his random escapades, allowing him to copy off your notes and turning in his homework for him.

Now that you think about it, that’s probably how he does it.

You sacrifice your free time for him today, caged up in a library for pretty much the afternoon. You can’t help but resent him, not just because the whole room is stuffy and the librarian keeps passing by, clucking to remind people not to litter between shelves, but also because you’d much rather do things that are important to you — like pretending to flirt with Mark for the first time when you place your order and watching him act like it’s the first time you’re saying something so sweet to him, except he’s definitely not pretending. Instead of watching Mark’s face color that cute shade of pink and that sweet little smile pull at his mouth until he’s basically biting his lips back to stop himself from grinning, you have to bore yourself with the sight of Jaehyun trying to decipher your handwriting.

“You should really be more legible with your strokes.” He has the audacity to chastise you as if he’s the one doing you a favor by giving you constructive criticism.

“You should really come to class more often,” you bite back, although there’s no real heat to your words. You just look out the window and watch the sun sink down behind the university hospital building, wondering if there’s a chance you’ll still be able to catch Mark before his shift ends.

“Would if I could.”

“You actually fucking can,” you say tiredly, and even the way he turns the page is so impossibly slow. “Can’t you just take a picture?”

“Nah; writing it down carefully really helps my retention of this kind of stuff.”

“So take a picture and then write it down carefully.”

“With your ridiculous handwriting? I’d probably fail.”

“So come to class and write it yourself!”

Your hiss increases in pitch, and it calls the attention of the librarian over to you. She swoops in, clicking her tongue, but she’s not even looking at you. Her eyes are zoned in on Jaehyun, who meets her gaze with so much innocence it’s hard to imagine you’d wanted to smack him two minutes ago.

“Jung Jaehyun,” the librarian snaps in an undertone. The slow, punctuated way she says his name suggests she knows him fairly well — and not in a great way. “I see you’re back in here after your probationary period.”

“Sorry for the trouble, Mrs. Park.” He grins up at her, looking anything but apologetic. “I promise I won’t get in your way again today.”

“And this one—” She points to you, and you point to yourself in shock at being pointed to, and Jaehyun’s pointing at you and mouthing ‘this one’ with excessive mirth in his eyes. “Isn’t another one of those girls you plan on defiling my sacred space with?”

Jaehyun says ‘we didn’t defile anything’ at the same time you say I’m going to throw up, and the librarian just adds to the noise by shushing you on top of that jumble of words.

“I’ll be keeping a close eye on you two,” Mrs. Park warns before stalking away, tutting at a library assistant for wrongly shelving a volume of Encyclopedia Brittanica.

“Please, Jaehyun,” you groan, crossing your arms over the table and flattening your forehead against them. “Just hurry up. Release me.”

He ignores you, still leaning closer to your notebook to decipher your handwriting. “I would like to set the record straight and make it known I didn’t fuck anyone in the library.”

“What’d you get probation for, then?”

“Just making out.” You notice he has the energy to grin wickedly even without meeting your eye, even while he’s still scrawling on his own notebook, and you groan something incoherent and irate once again. “What are you in such a big hurry for, anyway?”

“Has it ever occurred to you,” you grumble, raising your head. “That some people might want to do better things than sit here and watch you write stuff for ages?”

“No,” comes his simple reply. You bop your head onto your arms a few times in the hope that the impact will shake you out of this nightmare and you’d find yourself waking up in Mark’s arms instead, but you have no such luck. “By better things, do you mean fucking Mark Lee in someone else’s bedroom? That’s real defilement, by the way.”

“How’d you hear about that?” You squeeze your eyes shut and growl under your breath. “Fucking Youngho.”

“You doing that too?”

“Shut — please, would you hurry?”

He pointedly purses his lips in an effort to keep himself from letting out what you can only assume is, by the glint in his eyes, a witch’s cackle. “Almost done, man. Relax a bit. So did you guys get together — like, together together?”

You initially contemplate not telling him, but Jaehyun’s nosiness is probably going to reveal the truth to him sooner or later anyway. “Yeah. What’s it to you, though?”

“Nothing. You’re lucky.”

For the first time today, you feel like Jaehyun has finally said something right. “Yeah — yeah, I am.”

“I bet his friends don’t seem to think so.”

“Is this something you know because it’s a guy thing or because you’re so nosy that you just can’t help but listen in on every other juicy conversation around you?”

“A bit of both,” he chuckles. “Mostly just because I know Lee Donghyuck was giving him a hard time about it last semester.”

“I noticed that too — a bit, anyway. But it’s just banter, I think.”

“Probably. Imagine being his friend and getting a girlfriend; it’s like… the perfect ammunition for teasing. But I’m pretty sure half of the things that come out of his mouth are jokes meant to annoy.”

“What about yours?”

“I get it,” he sighs, shutting your notebook resolutely. It makes a thud that alerts the librarian two tables away, and she glares at you like you’re climbing onto Jaehyun’s lap in the middle of the References on the Korean War aisle. “I’ll set you free. Thanks, by the way, for letting me copy from you. Same time next week?”

“Or how about you look up the schedules for our classes and actually come instead of piggybacking off of my efforts and making snarky remarks about my handwriting while you’re taking advantage of my goodwill?”

“Sounds like too much effort on my end,” he yawns, waving you off as you stuff your notebook into your bag. “Later, ___________. Say hi to Mark for me. The normal way — not the girlfriend way, please.”

You stick your tongue out at him before you make a mad dash for the door, ignoring Mrs. Park as she shushes your footsteps on the marble. You’re so intent on fishing your phone out of your bag that you almost ram the door into the person standing behind it.

“Oh, fuck— Jesus, I’m sorry, I wa— wait, Donghyuck?”

“Great to see you too, ___________.” He rubs his jaw where the edge of the door grazed it. “You in a rush?”

“I was just about to go see if Mark was still at Starbucks.”

“His shift’s probably almost over. I’m headed back to the dorm if you wanna tag along.” When you nod, he starts leading the way, breaking the silence again soon after. “Were you in a study group, or something?”

“No,” you jerk your thumb backwards towards the minuscule form of Jaehyun, who’s now busy wasting time and space playing something on his phone where you’d left him. Donghyuck’s eyebrows shoot up. “He’s my classmate who never comes to class. I was just lending him my notes.”

“Oh, Jaehyun, yeah.” Donghyuck snaps his fingers. “We were classmates last semester. He never went to class either, but I don’t know who he mooched off of to pass. You guys close?”

“Not really. I just fell into the trap of being too nice to him.”

“It’s funny,” he hums, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Jaehyun seems more your speed. On paper, at least.”

You can’t help but look taken aback, and Donghyuck laughs at your expression. “What do you mean, my speed?”

“Not sure.” He pauses, trying to find the right words to explain himself. “Someone who’d fit more into your social circles. Someone who probably likes Formula One and considers men’s health magazines to be classic literature.”

“That’s your impression of my social circle?”

“You know what I mean. People like Jung Jaehyun or Seo Youngho. I literally thought you were dating him last semester, so it was totally crazy to hear you asked Mark out.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Like… you asked him out. Not even the other way around. That’s ridiculous.”

“Why?” You know he doesn’t mean anything bad by it; Donghyuck has next to no filter, and something about him being unable to process your relationship is honestly a little funny. “A girl can’t ask a guy out?”

(You try not to think too hard about the fact that up until you’d cornered him in Youngho’s room, you had been praying to whatever god could hear you to convince Mark Lee to do the romanticist thing and ask you out.)

“Nah, dude. Like… a girl like you asked a guy like him out.”

“I didn’t ask him out because he was a guy like that,” you say pointedly. “I asked him out because he was a guy I liked. I wouldn’t have asked anyone else out if it weren’t him.”

Donghyuck falls quiet for a while, and only the crunching of the leaves underfoot accompanies your walk. “You really like him that much, huh?”

“I’m crazy about him.” His nose scrunches up like he’s been hit with a horrible smell, and you laugh. “Can you stop giving him a hard time? Or tone it down? I know you probably don’t like it—”

Donghyuck’s chuckle is light and easy. “I’m not teasing him because I hate it; let’s be clear on that. I actually really like that you guys are together. I’ve never seen him this happy with anything or anyone.”

“Then why are you—”

“Because he’s Mark.” A devilish grin creeps up his features as he holds the door to the dorm lobby open for you. “And teasing him is my favorite thing to do.”

You shake your head; you can’t help your amusement, but you’re not sure you fully understand this kind of friendship. You suppose if Mark is okay with it in its totality, then there isn’t much you can say to change it either.

The next twenty minutes pass in comfortable back-and-forths; Donghyuck is, as you already have learned, an expert conversationalist, and while he doesn’t aggravate you the way he does Chenle, he does manage to navigate a quick-fire kind of exchange of thoughts and information that allows you to see the speed at which he thinks. There’s barely any lag between when he digests what you say and when he responds. You suppose there’s a measure of wit in that, but it’s also a little bemusing to see someone speak without at least running it through the conscience checker every once in a while. You decide you’ve never met anyone quite like Lee Donghyuck before.

He’s in the middle of asking you what the Anthropology professor is like because he’s planning on taking it as an elective if he can when you notice a familiar figure pushing into the lobby, backpack swinging on a folded elbow.

“Mark!” The brief confusion on his face morphs into a surprised joy when he spots you on the couch, even though a bit of it lingers upon recognizing that Donghyuck is seated next to you. He walks over in long strides, and your posture straightens to meet his palm as it comes down gently against the crown of your head again; it bumps lightly, causing the both of you to laugh.

“Hey, you.” His voice is warm and fond in its greeting, and you beam up at him. “Did you have a busy afternoon?”

“Unfortunately. Did you just get back from your shift?”

“I passed by the co-op to check out the new university letter jackets. Design’s pretty dope.” He nods towards the elevator. “You wanna head up for a little bit?” You almost get to respond before your companion cuts in instead.

“Hey. Can’t you see we’re having a riveting conversation over here?” Donghyuck sniffs, making a show of hitting Mark’s shin lightly with the heel of his shoe. “Have some respect.”

“Is the conversation so riveting that I can’t take my girl for the evening at all?”

You mouth out a no, but Donghyuck’s flair for dramatics has him humphing and shoving Mark’s hand away from your hair. “Yeah, man. At least let us finish up.”

“What’s this even about?”

“How Jung Jaehyun asked her out in the library today,” Donghyuck replies easily. You start, shaking your head immediately, but Mark’s jaw slackens a little upon hearing this. Donghyuck continues loudly over your protests, and you can’t keep your voice straight because you’re adamant and yet, somehow, still laughing incredulously in your shock. “Oh, dude, let me tell you. He had his arm around her like this — and he was giving her the bedroom eyes… I wouldn’t have blamed her if she folded, honestly.”

“Mark, no,” your stupid gasp comes out as half a giggle as a result of Donghyuck trying to reenact his imaginary scenario. He’s slung his arm across your shoulders and pulled himself in, doing his best expression of a pleading dog’s gaze, which is both perplexing and hilarious. “He’s just kidding—”

“Then he got all close like this—” Donghyuck presses his forehead against yours, and the view he allows himself blocks him from having to look at Mark. You, on the other hand, are still trying to resist a misunderstanding, your palms up and every part of your body that can move shaking vehemently, but you can see Mark’s face turn a violent shade of red you can’t remember having seen from him before. “Spoke all low — you remember he had that sexy, husky voice, right? ”

“He’s just messing with you,” you wheeze out, trying to extract yourself from Donghyuck’s hold, but he only tightens his arm around your neck, almost to the point where you can’t inhale properly.

“And he said ‘you’re the hottest chick I’ve ever seen—’ then you know what he did, Markie?”

Mark doesn’t respond; you’re not even sure if he can, considering his Adam’s apple is bobbing dangerously like he’s one misstep away from exploding. You laugh again, stupidly, because you don’t know what else to do; you know Donghyuck’s teasing him, and you know Mark usually takes it in stride, but you’ve also never seen the latter look so focused on anything that didn’t involve a math problem or eating you out. “No, really, nothing hap—”

You don’t even have the space to finish your sentence. Donghyuck’s too quick when he grabs your face and plants a comedically sloppy kiss on your cheek, bursting out in laughter when he pulls away. You can only sit there, probably as stunned as Mark looks, raising your hand slowly to wipe the spittle Donghyuck left behind in his wake.

“Oh, Jesus,” Donghyuck rasps out between snorts. “Your face is priceless, man.”

“Not funny,” Mark grumbles, and there’s a hoarseness to his voice that makes you feel like it’s barely controlled.

“Also not true. I just bumped into her on the way from the library. We were talking about one of her classes or whatever.” Donghyuck dramatically wipes the tears from his eyes, and you sigh, nudging him. “Sorry, sorry. I couldn’t resist. Man, don’t even worry. She’s downright crazy about you. Even if Jung Jaehyun had asked her out—”

“Anyway.” Mark reaches down, lacing your fingers together, pulling you up and closer to his side like he’s worried you’ll catch Donghyuck’s crazy. “If that’s all of it…”

“Yeah, yeah. You two lovebirds go moon over each other already. I just love seeing your face like that.”

Mark snorts, yanking on Donghyuck’s earlobe punitively, and the latter cries out sharply (and a little exaggeratedly) at the pain. Mark doesn’t even seem to care; he leads you to the elevator and punches in his floor. You barely have time to call out a belated ‘bye’ to Donghyuck, who acknowledges it with a raise of his palm, before the doors slide shut.

It’s a slow elevator, given that it’s an old building, and the first couple of floors pass without much noise between the two of you. You’re not unaware of how tight Mark’s grip is on your hand, but you don’t comment nor take it against him. By the fourth floor, you’re raising his hand up to your lips and pressing a kiss against his knuckles.

“Nothing happened.” You confirm his unasked question, and you see a modicum of tension leave his shoulders. “He was just messing with you because he thinks it’s funny.”

“Yeah, I know.” Even if he says it like that, there’s still lingering doubt in his voice. “Were you with Jung Jaehyun today, though? Is that why you didn’t show up?”

You nod. “He was copying my notes for Anthropology. Guy barely shows up to lectures, so he borrows my stuff. I can’t believe he hasn’t been suspended yet. Or punched in the face by the people he leeches off of.”

“No kidding.”

You step out on the sixth floor with him. Even if you already know where Mark’s dorm is, you let him lead the way, and he ushers you into an empty and dimly lit living space while taking his shoes off. His roommate barely seems to be around; you’ve seen him all of two times, and it doesn’t look like he’s here either right now. You pause anyway, listening to any signs of life just to be sure, but when you both confirm that there’s no one but the two of you, you busy yourselves with turning on the lights and plugging in the water dispenser.

You work in relative silence; it isn’t anything unusual since you’ve done this a million times, and you’ve come to learn that small talk isn’t necessary when you’re just washing your hands or opening the refrigerator aimlessly even if you know you both plan on ordering in. But there’s a weird aura around Mark that you’re not sure how to place; he doesn’t seem like he’s mad, but there definitely seems to be something off — a problem, at least, that you’re not sure you know how to ask about.

So you just try to diffuse whatever it is by completely ignoring it.

“Pizza or Chinese?” You ask, flopping onto the couch as he plugs the television into the outlet. He looks up at you, and you notice his eyes are slightly dazed, like you’ve just woken him up from a dream. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” His voice is hoarse the first time he says it, so he clears his throat and tries again. “Yeah, sorry.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“We just had pizza, so I’m thinking Chinese is the better option. Cream shrimp? Fried rice? Not the salted fish one, though, maybe.”

You hum in assent, but when he straightens up from behind the television, you extend your arm to him, attempting to clarify yourself. “I mean, what are you thinking so hard about?”

“Nothing.” His answer’s a little too quick. A moment of awkward silence passes where you telepathically tell him you know he’s lying and he has to come to terms with his horrible lying skills, and he sighs, crossing over to the couch and settling beside you. Immediately, he tangles your fingers together, belatedly returning the favor from the elevator and brushing his lips across your knuckles. “He didn’t ask you out, right?”

You know he knows the truth, so you decide to bat your own question back at him in an attempt at rhetoric. “What would it matter if he did? The answer would have been the same, real or imagined.”

Mark pinches the bridge of his nose, inhaling slowly. There’s a red flush on his neck that’s only started fading, it seems. You reach out and skim your finger along the vein that runs down the side of his throat. “I know. I don’t like it all the same. I hate… even thinking about it, actually.”

“Really — nothing happened. If you don’t count the fact that I almost strangled him for keeping me there — which I’m sure you’d agree doesn’t count as anything in favor of him.”

“I heard Jung Jaehyun’s kind of a playboy.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“Nothing. I don’t know.” His head lolls to the side, and his eyes hold a sadness that pulls at your heart. “It means he really could have made a pass at you. Or you could have — I don’t know. In the end… I just worry.”

“Don’t you trust me?” Your lower lip juts out, and his eyes widen slightly, his head shaking before his mouth can even work out a proper response.

“No — I mean, yes, absolutely. It’s — I mean, it’s just—” He inhales again to gather his wits, two fingers still rubbing his forehead. “I trust you, without a doubt. I don’t trust other people — not around you. Not Jaehyun, or Youngho, or—”

“Or Donghyuck?” You smile a little apologetically at his embarrassment, clear on his face when his eyes stray from yours. “Mark, you know he’s only messing with you, right? I thought it was a funny thing for you guys.”

“It’s not funny if it’s about you,” he mumbles, more to himself than to you. He looks up at you again, chewing on his bottom lip. “I know. I’m trying to control it. Sometimes… I don’t know why it gets under my skin. I guess it’s because it could happen — you… finding someone else. I kind of hate the thought of that.”

“And if I said I hate it even more than you?”

His gaze softens, something like relief passing over his features, but the rest of his body still holds a significant amount of tension; you know by the way he’s running agitated circles on the back of your hand. You gently tug on his arm, allowing yourself to use it as an anchor to shift your weight. Mark makes a soft noise of inquiry but says nothing more, waiting until you’ve maneuvered your body to settle on his lap.

The view is reminiscent, and you can see that the core memory you share flashes through his mind too. A small smile, still somewhat reluctant, plays on Mark’s lips, and you hate that it’s all you get right now, so you rectify this by leaning down and leaving a small, chaste kiss on them. You pull away much too soon, and his head follows in response to the distance, chasing your lips until you’re realistically too far to reach. His arm extends instead, swiftly tucking your hair behind your ear.

Your fingers close around his wrist, and your head turns, continuing the kiss against his palm — short and firm.

“Stop doing that.”

His eyebrows fly upward in questioning, his other hand freezing in its trail up your thighs. Even his breath seems to catch, and what’s left of it comes out as a raspy whisper. “Stop being jealous? I’m… I’m trying.”

You shake your head. “Stop being sexy when you’re jealous.”

The ‘what’ he seems to want to ask dies in his throat, his mouth only able to form half of the word before you interrupt, your lips taking in the rest of the syllable. When you kiss him this time, there’s a slow hunger to it; your teeth find his lower lip even before he’s able to get into the rhythm of kissing you back. You just want him to know — everything about him drives you wild, even when he doesn’t know it.

You’ll never grow sick of the taste of him, you’re sure; today, he tastes even more enticing, the hint of something rich mixing in with the stronger flavor of coffee on his tongue. It’s familiar and comforting, and it’s only when you break away, both your faces flushed from a prolonged lack of air, that you puzzle out what the taste is — the lingering aftermath of a vanilla sweet cream cold brew, one he must have prepared in anticipation of you this afternoon.

You briefly squeeze your eyes shut and thank whoever’s listening for the gift of Mark Lee.

“Mark,” your murmur, your voice much softer, intent on coaxing him into releasing his worries. “You know, right?”

His ‘hm’ is only half-there in focus, the rest of his attention on his hands, which have found their way to your ass and have started digging his fingers into the flesh beyond your jeans. You have to tilt his head up with one finger under his chin, and there’s a whirlpool of emotion in them: curiosity, desire, and, interestingly, a quiet, almost suppressed kind of anger.

“If it isn’t you,” you whisper. “Then there’s nobody else.”

You see his jaw tighten, feel his grip against you do the same, and his brow furrows, like he’s trying — much too hard, and for no good reason — to stop himself from tipping over. You don’t like that either; if he’s there, you think, you should take him over the edge.

“But if you want them to know so badly, then…” You tilt your head to the side, exposing more of your neck, bringing the expanse just a little closer to his mouth. “Why don’t you go ahead and put your claim on me?”

You swear you see his pupils dilate right before he presses his mouth to your skin. With a low, almost pained groan against your neck, he latches his teeth in lightly, and you feel the soft sting, the increase in pressure the moment he starts sucking a mark just above your collarbone. There’s a wet, messy pattern to his movements, always punctuated by the sweep of his tongue to soothe your flesh. Even with that, his movements are slow and careful, still gentle in the way he’s handling you, but you feel it anyway — all of his tension’s concentrated in his grip, the way he keeps you close, hips pinned against him as if he’s worried anything less will cause you to disappear.

“Every time you worry, remember you can do this.” You pause, your breath catching in a lilt as his teeth dig in a little more fiercely. “You’re the only one that can.”

His lips detach with a soft groan, fingers squeezing your ass tight for a moment. Warm breath cools against the damp patch on your neck, and a second later, you feel his mouth graze against the few inches of skin, sensitive and slightly raw. “I know. It’s just not fair.”

You hum in questioning, but he doesn’t answer immediately; his mouth busies itself just under the mark he’d surely left, already starting up the same routine. You’d let him, and you want him to, but you want to hear his voice more. Your fingers tangle into his hair, and you use that hold to ease his head back, urging him to look up at you. It’s almost a mistake, seeing him like that — lips slightly swollen and definitely slick with his own saliva, parted just a little to reveal teeth he’d been desperate to nip your flesh with again. It crosses your mind that Mark has a mouth made for kissing — no, that isn’t accurate.

A mouth made for you to kiss.

“What’s not fair?” You ask softly. Even now, he takes his time in answering, his eyes falling close for a second; you watch him swallow, lick his lips, breathe in before he speaks, and all of those mundane things he does somehow make you lose your mind all the more.

“How badly I keep wanting you,” he breathes out, his eyes slowly opening. “And how it makes me think everyone wants you just as much.”

His hands leave the curve of your ass, traveling up your shirt, resting against your sides. He holds you like he’s careful in trying not to break you, his fingers spread wide to make sure his thumbs almost meet against your stomach, but there’s a smoldering headiness in his gaze that tells you he’s thinking a little too hard about wanting to break you.

“I touch you like this, and I think that everyone would kill to do the same.” His fingers squeeze against your flesh, inching upwards until they rest just under your breasts; his thumbs stroke the curved underline of your bra. “I think about kissing you and it feels like everyone’s thinking it at the exact same time. I look at someone next to you, even if you don’t know them, and I wonder if they want to pull you close, if they want to feel you against them just as much as I do. When I—”

He inhales sharply between his words, and the exhale comes out somewhat shaky. For a moment, he grits his teeth, jaw flexing in an attempt to keep himself in check. You worry he doesn’t want to continue — doesn’t want to let you hear it, but it feels so important that you can’t let it go. “Tell me.”

“When I think about fucking you,” he breathes out, voice barely audible. “Whenever I look at you and think about how much I want to feel you around me, feel you cum around me… I just know everyone else wants the same thing, and it’s driving me crazy because… because they can’t.”

It’s there again, flashing in his eyes — a determination that reads almost like fury.

“They can’t,” he repeats, his voice firmer. “I won’t ever let them. Never.”

You don’t stop him this time when his mouth reclaims your skin. You let his thoughts fuel the need in his movements, allow yourself to move only in reaction to what he does — the tilting of your head to give him more room, the tightening of your fists against his shirt to keep yourself steady. A surprised mewl leaves you when you feel his teeth pinch against your flesh again, and it’s harder, sharper this time, his quiet anger finally dictating his strength. You grapple for words, but they come out in weak gasps.

“It doesn’t — doesn’t matter,” you manage to whimper out. “How many people think that way, how much they want me that way. I only ever want you.”

His breathing is caught, warm, in the pocket of space just between you and his mouth; it tingles against your skin, tickles your senses into heightening. Your fingers unfurl, pressing against his chest, and you can feel his quickened heartbeat thrumming under your palm.

“God, please,” he murmurs, the soft peck of a kiss landing against your collarbone. “Please, tell me.”

“Mark, I’m yours.” There’s no teasing in how you say it; it was never meant to rile him up. It even escapes sweetness, the romanticism it usually comes with when you remind him on any other occasion. This is a promise to him, something you’re reinforcing as fact, something that can’t ever change. “I’m always going to be yours — no one else’s. I’ll never let anyone have anything that’s yours. Ask anything, take everything you want. I’ll never say no to you. Only you — always you.”

You know something’s different in a number of ways; his arms circle around you, but instead of keeping you firm and stable in his lap, they’re tight, squeezing a whine out of you, holding your torso flush against his. His face never leaves the crook of your neck, but you hear — feel — something there — a soft growl of need, of frustration that begs release. Suddenly, you find yourself off the couch; you barely have the presence of mind to wrap your arms around his neck and tighten your thighs against his sides before he’s carrying you to his room, kicking the door open and letting the rebound of the impact against his wall slam it shut behind him.

You’ve been in Mark’s room before, so there’s absolutely no need for you to take in the scenery when he sets you down on his bed. It doesn’t matter anyway, even if this were your first time; Mark’s crawling over you, his face flush and eyes sharp with hunger, and he looks so enticing that you wouldn’t want to pay attention to anything else around you anyway. His limbs cage you in, arms on either side of your shoulders and his knees just by your thighs, and you don’t really know why he’s already panting, but it just makes you want him all the more.

“Never,” he groans out, leaning down to nose against the patch of skin his mouth had worked on. “I’m never going to let anyone take you, ever. You’re all mine.”

His name fades on your lips, carried away by a moan when his mouth reattaches itself to your neck; it moves, almost frenzied, to renew the mark he’d left, make it a deeper red, a slightly bruised purple. You’re usually careful not to do anything that will require any attention or cover-up after, but Mark seems a little too far gone to care, and you realize you like him best this way.

Even with all the attention he gives your neck, his fingers are busy; they work on the button of your jeans, sliding them down with the help you offer by raising your hips. They only reach halfway down your thighs, his reluctance to come back up for air stopping him from peeling them off completely, but it’s all he seems to need for now.

Eager fingers ease between your thighs, two at once, pressing against your folds. You’re unable to spread your legs like you usually do, but this tightness makes you all the more sensitive, and you keen as his digits fit themselves into your slit. Frustratingly, they don’t move right away, and you have to raise your hips again just to get some sort of friction. Even then, Mark doesn’t take the hint — or, perhaps, the bait — keeping a light pressure against your clit without doing anything else. His focus is still on your neck, now slightly aching under his lips, and when he finally pulls away, you see a look of triumph on his face. He tilts his head back slightly to admire his work — the blooming dark patch you’re sure he’s left where your skin tingles the most.

“If I said I wanted to mark you all over, would you let me?”

“What makes you think I wouldn’t ask for it?”

He chuckles, tightening the pressure of his fingers against your clit; you say something that sounds halfway between ‘Mark’ and a sob.

“I want to, so badly.” He admits, gaze still fixed on your neck. “I’d want to see you walk out of here, walk into class covered in them. I’d want people to ask you how you got them, and who gave them to you. And I’d want you to say it proudly — that it was me who did it. That I fucked you all night and made you mine over and over again.”

“Why don’t you?” His eyes snap up to you, a small smile forming on his lips. “I want to say that too. Let me brag about having you. Let me tell everyone how good you always make me feel. Then you can tell everyone who doesn’t believe you, too — how I let you take me every single time. Show me off and tell them to look at how you made me yours.”

Another laugh escapes him, but there’s more disbelief than humor in it; he seems to find it amazing, that you can just agree with what he says, no matter how strange he thinks it is.

“Show you off? If I mark you in other places, do I have to show them every part?”

“Do you not want to?”

“I want to, and I don’t.” He pauses, slightly amused, and you know he’s remembering the first time you fucked. “I don’t them to see your body, but I want them to see what I did to it. I don’t want them to look at what’s mine, but I just want them to know it is.”

“Then you can fuck me in front of everyone and make them watch you ruin me completely.”

He shakes his head, even if desire flashes clear across his features. He busies himself with actions while he mulls it over, tugging your jeans down alongside your panties and casting them aside before he straightens up. His eyes rake over your form; you’re bare from the waist down, your shirt halfway ridden up, the underside of your bra peeking out from under the hem. Again, his eyes land on your neck, and his smile widens slightly.

“Can’t.” He decides finally. “You’re too pretty for that.”

You hum thoughtfully, and he raises his eyebrows. He doesn’t move, even when you sit up, shifting yourself so you can tuck your calves under your thighs — not even when you reach out to undo his belt or tug down his zipper. He only reacts a little when your hand presses against his hardness through his boxers, the girth now easily familiar to your palm.

“What about something like this?” You ask, inching closer to the edge of the bed. You’ve started slow strokes against him, the fabric creating extra friction, more heat under your palm, and you watch his jaw clench as he swallows back a soft grunt. “Would you let them watch me do this for you?”

“Let me think about it,” he chuckles softly, and you nod, letting your fingers work to make your point. You don’t have to undress him completely to get what you want; all you need is to tug down the front of his boxers to free him, and you already have him wrapped in your palms, stroking his shaft to full hardness.

“Think faster,” you urge, and he shakes his head, slightly bemused. “Are you telling me you wouldn’t even want them to watch me jerk you off?”

“At least give me a full minute.”

You laugh lightly, whispering a ‘fine’ before you press a soft kiss against tip. He inhales sharp through his teeth, already sensitive, and you waste no time in letting your tongue flick out against the smooth head. He doesn’t need the lubrication, realistically; his precum’s already leaking from the tip, mixing in with your saliva as you run your tongue around it. All you do is make him a little messier, a little slicker, your spittle running down his length.

Taking Mark in your mouth is a demanding task, but one you’re always up for; there’s something uniquely satisfying about letting him fill your mouth, inch by inch, and watching his breathing hitch and stutter until your lips are closer to the base than to the head. What you can’t reach, your hand always squeezes around, eager to make sure he feels good completely. His expression is sublime when you draw your head back the first time, sucking as you do so — his eyes are half-lidded, and he doesn’t stop the moan that falls from his lips. His gaze is fixed on you, hazy but still able to drink the sight of you in, and you’re not sure how, but you almost feel like you could get off to watching him watch you taste him.

You try, somehow, vaguely conscious of the movement of your hips; you’re grinding at nothing at first, so your knees give way just enough for you to press yourself against his sheets. It’s slightly uncomfortable, a strain in your thighs that you’re not really used to, but you don’t care; Mark’s sharp inhale at seeing you attempt to grind your pussy against his mattress is pretty much as arousing as anything else. His cock twitches hard in your mouth, and you suck just a little harder, a little messier, your head bobbing down to meet your hand, still firmly wrapped around his girth.

The room’s filled with nothing but slick sounds and soft groans; Mark’s hand has found its way into your hair, tangled into a makeshift ponytail, and while he isn’t guiding your mouth to do anything, you can feel his hips stutter then start to move, pulling back when your head does. He tries to hide it, tries to keep himself steady, but pride blooms in your chest when you note that he can’t; he wants to feel like he’s fucking into your mouth, into your hand, the way he does when he takes your pussy.

It’s relatively quiet for that time, nothing but muffled moans from you that mix in with his noises, but you only realize you’d been waiting for an answer to something when he speaks up again.

“It’s… still a no for me.”

Your movements slow, your gaze lifting to communicate your mild confusion to him. You don’t want to ask; you just don’t want to lose the taste of him on your tongue just yet. He looks down at you, smiling with overflowing tenderness, almost like he’s apologetic.

“Even just this — you’re too pretty when you do it.” His hand reaches down, thumb stroking over your cheek. “I can’t let anyone see what you look like when you’re like this. They’ll keep thinking about you doing it for them. And you’d only do it for me — right?”

You nod immediately, your response causing your mouth to slip down his shaft just a little more. It elicits a guttural noise from him, one that fuels you into sucking him just a little harder, your enthusiasm overtaking your restraint. His fingers have let go of your hair, stroking it back into smoothness, almost comforting in their movements.

“God, I wish you could see yourself; you’d know what I mean,” he continues to murmur, his voice just a little louder over the eager, wet noises you’re making. “How pretty you look with your mouth wrapped around me. How perfect you are when you’re kneeling like this for me — how happy you look when you’re sucking me off. I can’t share that with anyone. Fuck — not ever.”

Your mouth draws back, completely this time, and your tongue presses against the underside of his cock. You lick a long stripe up his shaft, moaning softly at the light throb you feel, and you watch him tip his head back. The groan that follows soon after is almost close to a frustrated growl, ending in a whispered ‘shit’ before his eyes land back on you. He watches you press kiss after kiss against his tip, coaxing the precum out even more, and you take special care to leave more down each inch of his cock until you’re finally able to release your hold on his base so you can leave the last one there.

His hand combs your hair back before it falls to cup your chin, his thumb swiping at the corner of your mouth to gently clean up the froth of spittle there. You smile up at him in thanks, and his thumb sweeps over the seam of your lips to follow the slight curve.

“So pretty,” he repeats, and your cheeks glow pink under the palms that caress them. He leans down, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose. “Pretty as hell, fucking perfect — and you’re all mine.”

You kneel up again, chasing his lips with your own, and he locks you in his arms as his tongue slips its way past your teeth, the aroma of coffee still on it. He leaves today’s taste of him against your tongue, on the ridges of your teeth, until you feel like you’ve all but consumed him, and you whimper softly when he pulls away, urging you to turn around and lean back into his chest.

His mouth reattaches itself to the same spot; it’s like a home base for him, and he breathes in your scent from there before giving the same patch of skin a light suck, almost as if he’s worried it’ll fade in a few minutes’ time if he doesn’t give it attention.

“Show me.” Hands slide down to your hips, squeezing them lightly, like a prompt for your response. “Show me how pretty you are for me.”

His palms never leave you, not even when you detach yourself from his chest and bend down; your elbows meet the mattress, but your hips stay raised, giving him a view of your pussy. Your gasp easily turns into a moan when his digit dips into your wetness again, his other hand pushing gently at your asscheek to keep you open.

You think he’s about to slip his finger in, the tip brushing against your entrance, and you tense in anticipation, but it doesn’t happen; he continues to run his finger down your slit, careful not to linger against your clit for too long. The result is that you tighten around nothing, and you hear him suck in a breath as he watches your hole grow smaller for a second. You laugh breathily, resting your chin against the backs of your hands, one folded atop the other. “Pretty enough for you to fuck?”

“Do you have to ask if you already know?”

“I want to hear it anyway.”

His finger slips into your hole, finally, and you keen softly as he breaches the first ring of tightness. He doesn’t really move it, just tests your tightness, feels you contract around him as if to know what his cock will feel in a few moments.

“Your pussy’s too pretty not to fuck,” he manages out, and his throat sounds as tight as you feel. “Seeing it like this… makes me think there’s no way anyone can resist. It’s exactly why I can’t let anyone see you like this.”

You hum as his finger presses in deeper, and you know it’s nothing in comparison to the real thing, but you like feeling that mild stretch, the depth it reaches all the same. “How should we let them know, then? That I’m all yours.”

His finger stills, and you hum softly, swaying your hips to shake him out of whatever trance he’s in. He’s grown quiet, but there’s a thoughtfulness in this pause, like he’s seriously considering your question. You laugh lightly, ready to tell him you’re just egging him on until he fucks you, but he slips his finger out of you, leaving you clenching around nothing again. You can’t help the confused noise that comes out of you, but you at least know he isn’t completely backing away, his other hand still firmly on your ass.

“Mark, what—”

You get your answer in the thud that interrupts your question — he’s tossed his phone onto the bed, having it land next to you. Something in your blood runs hot, and your fingers tremble when you pick it up. You see yourself reflected in the blackened screen — excitement in your eyes, your lips glossy from your blowjob.

Mark’s silent as you let the meaning of his actions settle; wordlessly, he slips his finger into you again, followed by another one this time, and you shudder in pleasure at the difference in the stretch. He doesn’t ask, but you can tell he’s wondering if he’s gone too far— if you think he’s crazy. He lets his fingers stay anchored in you, unmoving, waiting for you to say something, but from where he is, he just can’t know the smile that passes your face.

Finally, he tries to speak up. “We don’t have to— I just meant—”

“What’s your passcode?”

He breathes out, the exhale quivering as much as you probably are. “Your birthday.”

Your smile only widens when you tap the screen to life and see a picture of you — you don’t even remember when he’d taken it, but it’s a shot of you sprawled on his bed, bundled in his blanket and reading something that looks oddly like your textbook for your European Renaissance History class. It’s grainy and dimly lit, a stolen photograph of you, but it makes your heart swell, and you laugh lightly as you key in your birthday; the screen unlocks, allowing you access to all his applications.

“What’s funny?”

“Just thinking about how you should replace this wallpaper.”

“To what?” He sounds bemused.

“The view of me you have now.”

His fingers curl in you, pressing down against your walls, and you push your hips back in a bid for more friction; you hear him hiss out a ‘fuck’ under his breath, and his hand digs harder into the flesh of your ass.

You open Mark’s contacts, scrolling down aimlessly. Most of the names, you don’t recognize, but you see a few familiar ones crop up here and there. He doesn’t ask, only starts pumping his fingers into you in quiet anticipation, wondering how far you’re willing to take it, how much you’ve bought into this crazy idea.

“Mark,” you call out, and he hums in response. “You trust me, don’t you?”

“With my life.”

“So if I called Donghyuck right now—” His fingers hook into you, the delicious pressure on your walls making you squeak instead of finish your sentence immediately. You twist your torso to meet his eyes, and you’re slightly surprised but not at all displeased to see something crazed lingering in his gaze. “How much of a show would you want to put on for him?”

He shifts his weight, his knee sinking into the mattress as he slots it between your legs. This change in position allows him to angle his fingers a little differently, driving down into you with a force that makes you squirm. You almost forget you’ve asked him something again until he leans in closer, his murmur almost drowned out by the slick sounds of his finger pressing into your hole.

“Just… enough for him to know you’ve always been mine.”

Your thumbs are shaking when you scroll through his contacts again, up and down until you find the right name — Lee Donghyuck — and Mark watches you intently, wordlessly, as you press his number, start the call, and put it on speaker.

The wait feels like an eternity, with Mark’s finger slipping in and out of you in a steady, languid pace as you watch the line connect, but in reality, Donghyuck really only answers after the fourth ring. “Yo, Mark.”

His voice is casual, lacking in any sort of expectation; you can hear explosions and gunshots in the background, and you’re willing to bet he’s in the middle of an action movie. You’re proven right when you hear random English babbling soon after.

“Hi, Hyuck.”

“___________?” He sounds genuinely confused that it’s you that greets him. “Where’s Mark? You okay?”

“He’s right here with me; don’t worry.” Your voice is a soft croon, and he has to lower the volume of the television to be able to hear you better. “We’re totally fine. What are you up to?”

“Watching Resident Evil. Uh, is there a reason you called?”

You want to draw out the lie of something casual for as long as you can, but Mark doesn’t let you. His fingers push, suddenly forceful, into you, and you let out a soft cry into the receiver. You look back at him, eyes wide with amusement, and he shrugs, having at least enough sense to look slightly abashed at his experiment.

One moment, you’re listening to a female voice shout something, and the next, Donghyuck’s side of the call is silent except for his breathing. When you don’t bother explaining what had just happened, he takes matters into his own hands.

“Hello?”

He sounds equal parts affronted and amused, like the shock of it has tickled him. You can’t help it; you laugh too, but it’s quickly cut off by another whine when Mark pulls his fingers out. Donghyuck makes an incredulous noise.

“Now, what the fuck is all this about, you freaks?”

“You kept wondering why I ended up asking Mark out,” you evade his question with another one. “Should I tell you why, if you’re that curious?”

“No way. Have fun, weirdos,” he laughs, and the line goes dead a second after.

You snort out a laugh, and Mark mumbles something that sounds vaguely like that was crazy before he leans down and presses a kiss to the small of your back. You make to turn so you can finally face him, but you’re distracted when his phone screen lights up again, and Donghyuck’s name flashes across it.

You exchange amused glances before you pick up the call, and you don’t even get a ‘hello’ out when his voice rings out, sharp and clear.

“But pretending I am,” he says, as though he hadn’t hung up the call a few seconds ago. “Exactly what kind of answer would I get?”

“The kind that’ll hopefully shut you up for good,” Mark pipes in instead of you.

“What’s that even going to sound like?” Already, Donghyuck’s activated whatever toggle in him that gets him to push Mark’s buttons. This time, though, you can’t say it works against you; you feel Mark inch closer to you, and a moment later, the fat tip of his cock nudges against your entrance. “I bet you can’t even get her to yawn, man.”

Mark doesn’t have to respond; you do it for him when he pushes in, torturously slow, as if to draw out your moan. It works a little too well, with you keening into the phone, and yet no part of you is acting for his sake. As familiar as the stretch is, it’s not something you’ve ever been able to commit to memory fully, and it feels like a new breaching of your tightness each time. Your legs fold in slightly, a useless movement that attempts to get you adjusted to his size faster, but Mark interprets it as discomfort, his hands tightening on your hips.

“You okay?” He sounds genuinely worried for a second, forgetting that Donghyuck’s still on the line. Your cheek brushes against his sheets as you nod, trying to meet his eye even in this position to let him know you’re being honest.

“Fucking big, Mark.” You hear Donghyuck tsk from his end, and you laugh breathlessly. “You don’t like knowing he’s big?”

“I just hate that fucker,” Donghyuck quips back easily, but there’s no seriousness in his voice. If anything, it sounds a little raspy, with him clearing his throat soon afterward.

“Well, I’m crazy about him,” you whisper into the call, and your breathing hitches as Mark finally bottoms out, groaning at your tightness. “I’m crazy about the way he touches me, the way he tastes. I’m crazy about how big his cock is, how deep it gets when he’s inside me, how he stretches me out — fuck—”

Your verbal rampage is cut short by a loud moan as Mark draws his hips back and pushes forcefully into you; you haven’t fully adjusted, and you’re even tighter now from what you’re saying, so the friction inside you is nothing short of delicious. He starts a pattern of thrusts, not bothering to build up from his usual slow and steady pace — hearing you talk that way and knowing that Donghyuck is listening is enough to get him to abandon self-imposed restrictions.

“Mark,” you whine out, accidentally pushing the phone a little further away as you reach out blindly for him behind you, and he catches your wrist to let you know he’s there. “Mark, fuck, it feels so good—”

You tighten around him as if to prove your words, and he growls in response. You find yourself having to press your cheek in a little harder into the mattress as he gathers your wrists together into one hand, pinning them to your lower back, and it’s with that hold on you that he leverages his thrusts, pumping into you a little harder each time.

You’re not completely unaware of your surroundings, but it takes a while for you to process the sounds coming from the phone’s speaker — labored breathing, the sound of a zipper being pulled down. You want to wonder if this is working a little too well, but nothing comes from your mouth apart from soft whimpers, and it’s all the cue Mark needs to be the one to fill in the relative silence himself.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he whispers, and you feel his lips press between your shoulder blades. It feels like a chaste kiss at first, but he leaves his breath there, still flitting over your skin as he continues to speak. “I’ll never get tired of how pretty you are — how pretty you always sound for me. Doesn’t she sound pretty, Hyuck?”

“Fucking pretty,” Donghyuck agrees, though his voice sounds somewhat distant. You can only sob back a quiet ‘fuck me, harder, harder,’ in response.

“Can you imagine how much prettier she looks under me?” It’s almost a full-blown conversation now, but even if Mark’s addressing Donghyuck, the rest of his attention’s fully on you. He adjusts his stance, still keeping his hold around your wrists as he angles himself deeper into you, causing you to cry out and squirm in pleasure. With your face pressed against the bed and his weight driving down into you, you feel utterly trapped, in the best kind of way. Mark, in the way he is now, is inescapable, almost incorrigible, and he pistons deeper into your pussy, his free hand brushing your hair away from your shoulder so he can leave a kiss against it. “Bent over, legs spread just a little, all for me to take. Pretty little hole wet for me, and so fucking tight. Can you imagine that?”

“I’m doing it right now.”

“It’s a thousand times better in person. Trust me.”

The same hand slips between your thighs, two fingers spreading your folds apart; the middle one circles your clit in a pace that matches his thrusts, sudden and shocking, and you arch your back upwards slightly with a choked noise. He finally releases your wrists, and you claw at the sheets helplessly to keep yourself somehow upright as the force of Mark’s hips, their impact against the backs of your thighs, pushes you forward, closer to the phone again. The stimulation is merciless, endless, and in the haze of your pleasure, you wonder if you should make Mark a little more jealous everyday if it gets him to act this way.

“Mark, I…. I’ve been— s-since—”

“Not yet,” he whispers, his teeth sinking into your shoulder as if to bring you back to reality. You shudder at the pain, the pleasure that accompanies it, and when you squeeze your eyes shut for a moment, you notice that a few tears escape your eyes. “Hold out for me a bit, okay? Please. It’s not enough. Not yet enough.”

You wonder if ‘enough’ is a concept the both of you even understand when it comes to wanting each other; already, you feel desire pooling in your stomach, threatening to spill from you, and clenching around him isn’t helping you stop it the way your body seems to think it’s supposed to. It also doesn’t help that Mark’s fingers are relentless, one still drawing tight, heavy circles around your clit, and the other creeping up under your shirt to tug down the cup of your bra, letting a breast spill into his warm palm. He kneads with an unusual — but not unpleasant — roughness, and you squeak out incoherently as he tweaks at the hardened bud of your nipple, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger.

“Hold on for me a little,” he continues murmuring, even after you shake your head and whisper ‘can’t’ to him over and over. “Do it for me. Tell Donghyuck — tell him how good it feels. How much you want to keep feeling me inside you.”

You don’t even know what to say; the pleasure that washes over you, the new kind of roughness that Mark exhibits has you drawing a blank, and you can only whine in a last attempt at protest, only for your tongue to start moving on autopilot, fueled by your want.

“It’s not enough,” you echo — and even if it feels like it is, even if it feels even more than you can possibly handle, something tells you that it’s true. “Not enough — need to feel you more, Mark. God, I want to feel you stretch me out, fuck my little hole into the shape of your cock— until no one else can fuck me but you—”

“What,” Donghyuck breathes out, his exhale coming across as static. “The fuck.”

You don’t have to explain; your babbling’s doing most of the work in that regard anyway, and you can tell by the wet, staccato noises on the other end that Donghyuck can easily piece together the scenario anyway. He’s jacking off to the both of you, something in your mind whispers, and the notion of that alone has you tightening around Mark’s cock. The change doesn’t go unnoticed, and his fingers sink deeper into your flesh; you cry out softly when you feel a jolt of pleasure as he gives your clit a sudden pinch.

“How much tighter can you get?” He sounds incredulous but also, interestingly, proud — there’s a smug tinge to his voice that arouses you even more. “Does it feel that good?”

“Fuck, yes,” you breathe out, the syllables quivering in your throat. “So good I’m going to lose my mind. Let me — God, please, let me—”

“Not yet,” Mark mumbles, and you whimper as he slows and slips out of you, his hand gently rubbing your folds in what feels like comfort — a small apology for his overt enthusiasm that you don’t even really need. “Just a little more. I need to see it.”

“See what?” Donghyuck’s voice is barely above a whisper, hoarse and pretty much muffled by the sound of his hand pumping his own shaft. Your head’s light, so your body moves on its own when Mark inches away slightly, giving you room to turn yourself around and lay on your back. You’ve barely even settled when he lifts your hips, dragging you closer to him and easing your thighs apart to slot himself between your legs.

His cock weighs heavy, pressed up against your folds, and he pushes his hips in a superficial thrust to get them to spread. His eyes fall briefly on your swollen clit, the wetness that you left on his shaft, even more of it still leaking from your hole. When he looks back up at you, there’s something triumphant in his gaze.

“Fucking gorgeous,” he coos, so lovingly it’d be hard to imagine his cock still sliding against your folds if you couldn’t feel it yourself. “I’ll never get enough of your perfect pussy — so perfect that it was made to take me.”

“See what?” Donghyuck presses, an impatience now coloring his voice. Mark chuckles, nodding at you and mouthing silently. Tell him.

Your inhale’s shaky, quivering like the rest of your body, and you don’t ever break away from Mark’s gaze, even as you speak.

“His cock fucking me in my stomach.”

Donghyuck’s ‘Jesus fucking Christ’ is drowned out by your cry of need as Mark pushes back into you. There’s no lag time now, no wait for any kind of adjustment; he takes you in one motion, until you feel his hips hit the backs of your thighs again. Your walls flutter around him, unable to process his size fully, and all that comes out of you is a string of messy mewls that’s constantly interrupted by the wet sounds of his thrusts.

Your body feels almost weightless, the only thing you can understand being the feeling of his cock pumping into you, stretching you out further. You’re only able to shake yourself out of the reverie when you feel his hands push back against your thighs, folding you in half, before they crowd atop your stomach.

“God, I need to feel it,” he groans out, his palms skimming under your navel, searching. “Please — do it for me.”

Even with your brain muddled, you don’t even have to try to figure it out; you let him feel it every time he asks. You inhale, deep and slow, until your stomach sinks, and the walls of your stomach flatten against his cock, which pauses briefly in its movements as he revels in the newfound feeling.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, and you flush in pleasure, in satisfaction at his praise. “Love seeing my cock inside you.”

He adjusts himself before he starts pumping into you again, burying his shaft all the way to the hilt each time; each thrust is followed by a soft sob from you, and you reach out, planting your hands on top of his. You obviously can’t feel his cock under your palms, but you don’t have to anyway; the fit’s tight enough that it feels, ridiculously, like he’s fucking your whole body, like he’s pressing into the deepest part of your core. You just want him to feel it more — the movement of the bulge under his hands, the resistance it has to push through to get to your stomach.

“Love feeling me inside you,” he continues, and his breathing stutters then, signaling that he’s also barely hanging on. “Love seeing how pretty you look when I rearrange your insides.”

You mouth out a disbelieving ‘what the fuck’ that earns you a simple smile, but Mark’s unrelenting in his movements anyway, his palms completely covering your stomach.

“Dude, I wanna see it too,” Donghyuck reminds you both of his presence when his voice comes through the speaker. “Put her on video.”

“No way,” comes Mark’s swift, firm reply. Donghyuck makes a noise of protest. “This is just for me.”

“Selfish as hell, calling me without really sharing.”

“The point wasn’t really ever to share.”

Mark’s hands suddenly press down on your stomach, and you stifle a soft scream; the pressure increases tenfold, as does the tightness of the fit, his cock brushing against your walls in a way that makes you feel breathless — it makes you feel used. Your hands fly up, fingers locking behind his neck, and you squirm under him, knowing fully well that you can’t escape anyway — not that you really want to, anyway.

“Mark,” you warn him again, your voice thin and airy. “I can’t anymore — I really—”

“I got you,” he murmurs — something you’ve come to learn he always says, always wants to let you know. He’ll be here until you break, until you can’t take anymore. “One second, okay?”

“Bro, what? Are you serious—” Even Donghyuck sounds confused, although his voice is tight too; he must be close, your mind weakly registers, but it doesn’t matter. Mark, albeit reluctantly, slips one hand away from your stomach — for a good cause, he must think, and you learn what it is when he ends the call, effectively cutting off Donghyuck’s complaints. Your eyes widen in confusion, but all Mark’s gaze is to you is reassuring, gentle, and he leans down to press a soft kiss to your lips before he answers your unspoken question.

“Can’t let him hear you cum,” he murmurs against your mouth. “That’s only for me, isn’t it?”

You nod, letting the movement of it brush your lips against his. “You’re the only one I’ll cum for — the only one that can make me.”

Above your head, his phone is trilling noisily; the vibrations course through your back, weak but persistent, and for some reason, it heightens your arousal all the more. Mark ignores it completely, single-mindedly focused on pistoning into you with the bulk of his strength. His hands push down just under your navel, increasing your awareness of the feeling of his cock, him fucking you, coaxing out your climax.

“Do it. Show me how pretty you look when you cum for me.”

You don’t think it’s possible for him to inject any more strength into his movements, but he proves you wrong time and time again; the wind’s knocked out of you as he braces himself and fucks you harder, sharper into the bed, and the only noises you can make are weak whimpers and choked sobs. Your mind’s so overrun with pleasure that your climax hits your body first before your mind fully parses it; your back arches again, and you mewl out something broken, something that sounds like his name as you come undone.

Mark still doesn’t relent, the tremble in your legs somehow only inspiring him to put more power in his thrusts. Even through the dazedness that comes with all the stimulation, you can see the fine details you’ve come to know so well — the tightness in his jaw, the growing flush across his collar, the quick heaving of his chest. He’s close too, so close he’s just holding himself back out of sheer force of will to make sure he can watch you come down from your climax completely. You don’t know why he has to, but you want to see him let go too, and you scramble for words, for more touch — pressing your thighs firm against his sides to keep him close, locked — just to get him there.

“Will you mark me up one last time?” You breathe out. He reacts almost instantaneously, moving to lean down and press his mouth against the still-untouched side of your neck, but your palm on his chest stops him from doing so. Surprise crosses his face, followed by slight confusion. You squeeze your thighs against him, trying to make your point, but even then, his brow furrows. “Mark me — inside.”

His eyes widen, and his hips stutter before they resume pace, his fingers digging into your stomach almost painfully as he tries to keep himself in control. “I— no, you know I can’t…”

“Do you want to?” You egg him on, your hand dropping from his chest to land on top of his again, adding to the pressure until you’re sure he can feel every small movement, every throb of his own cock inside you. “You can, you know — make me yours, from the inside out.”

“God — we can’t; you know we’d be in so much trouble.”

“But I’d let you anyway, if you wanted to. Do you ever think about it, Mark?” Your fingers toy with his, almost like you’re having a casual conversation instead of a situation in which he’s deep inside you, already aching for release. “Fucking your cum deep into me, letting it seep into my stomach — making sure no one else can fill me up?”

“Jesus,” he growls, and he reluctantly slips his hands out from under yours to grip your thighs. Realistically, he has enough strength to peel them away, have you release him, but his hold just tightens, not really making any motion to do so. You see the thought flash in his eyes, serious even just for a moment. He thinks about it all the time.

“Think about it,” you urge, your voice soft but close to a demand. “And every time you do, remember one day, you will — because you’re the only one that can.”

He tilts his head back, letting a growl rip from his throat, and he finally manages to push your thighs apart. You let him, let them fall apart so he can slip out of you. You watch him shift upwards, his knees on either side of your torso, and you’re met with the erotic sight of him fisting his cock in front of you, urging himself into completion. You do the only thing you can think of to help; you open your mouth wide, pushing your tongue out, silently asking for his load.

“Even when you do that, you’re fucking pretty,” he groans out, and his thumb presses his cock down, resting the underside flush against your tongue as he rocks his hips. “How much prettier are you going to look with my cum all over your face?”

He doesn’t have to wait long to find out, and you don’t have to respond; he gets the answer he wants with one last thrust against your tongue, and you close your eyes briefly, allowing yourself to drink in the taste, the smell of his cum as it streaks across your cheeks, all over your lips. You hear his release as it comes too — the soft rumble from his chest, the release of air that gently whistles through his teeth.

When you open your eyes again, Mark is looking down at you, a warm flush creeping up his cheeks and ears again; he’s breathless, panting as he comes down from his high. From the daze of his climax, a slightly sheepish look of apology crosses his face, and he reaches down, seemingly without any real plan, to clean you up, only to withdraw, slightly bemused, when you shake your head.

A laugh escapes him when you shimmy out from under him, straighten up, and extend your arms upward, puckering your lips in slight demand. You think he might reject you, but Mark doesn’t even hesitate longer than a second. He swoops down, capturing your lips in a fierce kiss, and your thighs press together tight as you enjoy the feeling of his tongue swiping away his cum from your bottom lip before he takes it between his teeth, sucking softly as if to clean you completely.

When he pulls away, his head dips into your shoulder; again, his face turns to press against the mark he’d left, and his teeth nip at the soft bruise that’s already begun to blossom. Satisfied by the soft noise you make at the sensitivity you feel from the contact, he breathes out, long and steady, against your skin.

“Just… can’t get enough of you,” he finally exhales, pressing another kiss to your neck; it’s gentler, situated just under your jaw.

“You don’t ever have to think about having enough,” you whisper, leaving a light nuzzle against his shoulder. “Just always think about having more.”

He lets out a breathy laugh, but he nods, accepting your offer anyway. A moment of silence passes, where you’re wrapped up in each other, his weight against you in a blanket of heat, and it stretches to what almost feels like an eternity — if not for the phone suddenly ringing again, Donghyuck’s name coming up on the ID. You both start, and Mark reaches over, fumbling with the sides of his device before he finds and toggles the silent switch.

“Seriously,” he grumbles, watching the call drop just for it to start up again, the screen flashing.

“We kind of left him hanging, to be fair.”

“No fairness.” Mark tosses the phone to the foot of the bed, where it lies, facedown and buzzing. “He got more than he deserved today.”

You watch him as he slips off the bed, rearranging himself before clipping his jeans button back into place. He whispers a gentle ‘be right back’ and exits the room, leaving the door only slightly ajar. You hear the water run in the bathroom, and a few moments later, Mark returns to your side, holding a damp towel.

He leaves a kiss after each light swipe across your face, as if to apologize for the pain he thinks he might be causing; you laugh, partly because it’s ridiculous, but mostly because you like it. He cleans your mouth last, even though there’s already nothing left, just so he has an excuse to leave a long, lasting kiss there.

You think it’s the last you’ll get for now, but he surprises you by bending down even further, hiking your shirt up your torso again. His hand rests on your thigh, keeping himself balanced as he presses a flutter of kisses around your navel, lingering at the exact spot that sits above where he knows his cock hits every time he bottoms out in you.

“One day,” he whispers into your skin before he looks up at you, his eyes shining. “I’ll really make you all mine.”

“Dummy.” Your voice is just as low, and you pull his head up again, enjoying the brush of his hair against your hand, the swoop of his jaw under your palm. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

“Every single day, considering I’ll never get tired of it.”

You hum, not one to deny him of what he asks anyway; you push him back onto his calves, climbing back onto his lap; it’s your favorite way to be near him, you decide, with almost nothing between you, almost everything of yours touching everything of his — like you fit in him perfectly. You rest your cheek against his shoulder, feeling their soft rise and fall as his breathing steadies, and you squirm a bit, if only to make sure his arms are locked securely around you — to make sure he won’t let go. Just like that, in his arms, you say it again — a truth, a fact, and a promise.

“I already am.”

A scenario of a beach date with Mark of GOT7 please

Suzy : Hello. I’m back. Sorry for keeping it late, but I was working so much that I didn’t have much that time to be on a PC, so I try to write it on my phone. So, hope guys will like it ^_^ PS. : It’s quite long :D I really enjoyed to write this :D

___________________________

GOT7 Mark - A beach date

"Jagi, wake up!" your boyfriend Mark called you. “Hm…” you hummed in response. He’s from the new rookie group GOT7 and finally he got a day off but you thought you two will stay at home and sleep at least until 11 AM. “Babe, come on!” he took your blanket off. “Ungh…what time is it?” you asked and slowly sat up, eyes still closed. “It’s 7AM.” he said simply. “What?” your eyes suddenly opened wide, looked up at him surprised. “Why so early…Oppa, you got a day off!” you whined and wanted to take back the blanket. “No. Come on babe, I know but today is so nice and I want to go out with you. Not to just stay here.” he whined cutely. How could you resist him. You sigh : “All right. So, where are you wanna to go? Do you have any special place on your mind?” “Of course. I wanna to go to the beach. So let’s go prepare things.” he answered your question and you could see the excitement in his eyes. But you weren’t that excited as him. You started to worry and Mark of course noticed it. “What’s going on babe? Is there a problem with it?” he asked, hugged you tightly around your waist and looked into your eyes. “I just…I-I’m just not used to wear a swimsuit so often.” you whispered. You’re now feeling really shy and embarrased, didn’t want to look into his eyes. He knew that and lifted your chin by his hand. “______. You are shy right now, aren’t you?” he asked and you nodded. “Look.”, he began, “You are beautiful, don’t worry about it. I am that one who would be worrying because my girlfriend is so so beautiful, pretty, cute that the other guys will chase after you.” you smiled lightly at his words. He was so cheesy. “See. You’re smiling now. Come on babe, keep that smile and get ready for a trip to the beach.” he said and kissed you on your lips. You broke the kiss and hugged him tightly. “Thank you Oppa. I love you.” you said. His eyes were now big as owls. It was your first time you ever said that to him. He looked deeply into your eyes and said : “I love you too, Jagiya.” and he kissed you on your lips again, this time passionately. You smiled into the kiss and said : “All right, Oppa. Don’t waste your time and let’s go to the beach.” “Wow. Someone is so impatient.” He said, winked at you. “Maybe I can’t wait to see your abs!” you whispered into his ear. He chuckled and said : “You’re so naughty Jagi!!” “You changed me to be like this!” you said and slapped him lightly. “Ok Jagi. It’s my fault. I’m sorry. But all right, let’s go. I can’t wait to see you in your swimsuit, too!” he said and kissed you on your cheek. “Oppa!!!” _______ On the beach :

Finally, we’re here!!” You said. You two prepared your towels on the sand. “Come on Jagi. Let’s go to the water.” Mark said. You looked up at him but you stayed there frozen and stared at him. ‘Omg…I didn’t know that I have so hot hot hot boyfriend!’ you thought to yourself. “Jagiya!!! That’s not so nice to stare at somebody like that. Come on, I wanna go swim badly!” he said, took your hand. “All right Oppa but calm down. I still have my dress on, wait moment. I have to take it off. “Uh…come on ______, I really can’t wait to…” he turned around and saw you in your swimsuit, your hairs tied up in a loosing bun. He just stopped speaking and stared at you, admiring your beauty. “Oppa! That’s not so nice to stare at somebody like that!” you repeated his sentence. You started to go away when he woke up from his trance, ran to you and hugged you from behind. “Where do you think you’re going without me?” he said. You turned around, looked at him innocently : “Nowhere without you Oppa. I just wanna to go swimming so badly like you!” you smiled at him. He smirked and lifted you up on his shoulder : “So, miss ______ wanna go swimming!” he started to go to the sea. You were screaming, lightly punching him into his back. “Oppa!! Don’t you dare just think about it!!” “What do you mean babe??” he asked you, chuckled lightly. “You know what I mean. Oppa. Put me down, right now!” you yelled. “Your wish is my command babe!” he said and threw you into the water. “No…Oppa! NO!” you yelled but it was late. You were in the water. You stood up and saw him laughing. “Oppa!!!” you yelled and started to go closer to him, sending him death glares. “_______! Calm down, it was just a fun. ..I just…” he said. “I hate you. I said don’t do that…urgh. You just ruined the day!” you said and startes to go away but he hugged you tightly, didn’t let you go. “Jagi. I’m really sorry. Don’t go away. I won’t do that again. I promise.” he said. You looked up at him, saw his sad look. You melted immediately. “All right Oppa. I’m sorry too that I yelled at you. I was just angry.” you said and caressed hus cheek. You two after that did a lot of things like swimming, playing beach volleyball, eating ice cream. You really enjoyed the time beside him. You took some pics too. You two really looket cute together. You were writing to your friends when suddenly Mark called you. He was swimming again. “______-ah! Come here.” he called. “Yeah. What do you need Oppa?” you came near him and asked, smiled lightly at him. He came to you, hugged by your waist, lifted you up. “Oppa. You promised that you…” “Don’t be scared! I won’t do that again…I just remembered that I forgot to say that you looked really beautiful in this swimsuit. I really love you ______-ah.” You looked into his eyes and could se the sincere. You were really touched. “I love you too Oppa. And you’re really handsome, too!” you smiled at him, slowly leaned down and kissed him on the lips. He didn’t hesitate and kissed you back passionately. Your heart was beating really fast and you knew that it was beating only for him, the love of your live. He broke the kiss and said : “Honey, hold your breath.” You were speechless. “Why?” you asked him carefully. “Just hold your breath.” he repeated. “Oppa, if you throw me again I will hate you for a really long time!” you warned him. “Don’t worry. I just want to sink into the water.” he said, smiked at you brightly. “What? Wait, you didn’t said that you want to…Oppa!!!” and you two were in the water again.

NAWHH THIS IS TOO GOOD HELP HELP

sweet cream, cold brew | lmh ( m )

something about mark lee keeps you up at night, and you’re pretty sure that it isn’t the lingering smell of espresso on his shirt.

alternatively: mark is shy until he isn’t.

read the second part here!

pairing: nerd!barista!mark x reader verse: college au rating: r ( minors, do not interact! ) warnings&tags: unprotected sex, oral (f!receiving), fingering, slightly possessive/jealous dialogue, mark has a thing for tummy bulges because why not, implicitly that also means he has a big dick, a slight???? exhibitionism kink (not actually something that happens, only talked about), johnny exists in this simply to trigger something vaguely feral in mark, reader is a little bit assertive and schemes to get mark's attention, jaehyun is a nosy lil eavesdropper, i think that should be it?? word count: 26.4k

a/n: hello so this was a mess and honestly not a fic i would say showcases my best plot-wise but… what can I say apart from booty wurk mark has me in a chokehold and I needed to release some thoughts and feelings !!! please do not expect too much from the development of the story; i fear it’s quite long and choppy because my ideas were all over the place and i was wringing my hands and brain constantly and i was eager to get to the spicy parts !! this is also not beta’d/proofread, it’s currently almost 1am, and i’ve been writing this on and off for a full week with very few breaks so it honestly felt like a fever dream for me LMAO please forgive any oversights and mistakes; i’ll try to go back on them another day and fix them little by little! finally and …most importantly belated happy birthday, my beloved morkly!

p.s. this will probably be flagged as ‘mature’ by tumblr, which means there’s a high likelihood it won’t appear in tags or searches. please consider reblogging to boost the fic, if you feel so inclined!

You’ve heard tell of how caffeine has inherently addictive properties. 

The more of it you have in your lifetime, the more likely you are to experience symptoms of withdrawal whenever you try to have orange juice for breakfast in its stead. It sounds bad, actually, considering most addictive substances are, but you suppose that its benefits somehow outweigh its milder drawbacks. You’re not much of a coffee connoisseur the way some people — see: your best friends, Yeji and Jisu — are, trying one cafe after the other in pursuit of being able to nominate the winning beans of 2023 (an annual heated debate they participate in for no better reason than their own slow and useless entertainment during their six-hour long breaks), but you do know you’ve only ever experienced good things from having a cup every so often: better energy, a more focused approach to mental activities, and the ability to drive through fifty percent of a road trip without needing pop punk music blasting out of your speakers to keep yourself alert. 

The three of you are generally particular about the coffee you drink, only in different ways. While your friends have a tendency to demand only the best from any establishment — lest the staff hear fiery commentary about the flatness of the brew or the evident coarseness of the grind — you, on the other hand, are a singular individual of rather simple tastes. All you need to survive long days is a glass of vanilla sweet cream cold brew. No modifications to the sugar level or fancy new milk types are necessary; you’ll drink it as it’s served in a grande cup (or a venti, when things prove particularly grueling). 

Of course, you’re strict about other things in the experience of consumption —  like where it’s served and, more importantly, who serves it to you. 

While Yeji and Jisu have rated the Liberal Arts building’s on-campus Starbucks branch as a five with the strict label of POEO — ‘passable on emergencies only’ — branding the menu as “nothing revolutionary” and criticizing most baristas for subpar brewery, you happen to be extremely drawn to the place. Initially, you may have argued that this has to do with the fact that it’s walking distance from most of your classes, confined to the same general compound on campus, so you can always grab a quick recharger whenever needed, no matter how short the timeframe to do so is. Sometime later on, you may have found yourself asserting that the layout of the cafe, albeit small, is very convenient, considering that every table is situated next to an electrical outlet, so you’re never out of battery (important to other students for their laptops and powerpoint presentations, important to you because you have an unhealthy obsession with passing time on TikTok, scrolling past video after video of ASMR girls clicking their twenty-inch long acrylics with their crazy candyland designs), and this makes you feel at ease. 

A month ago, you finally came clean to yourself and, soon after, to your friends, and they came to understand, albeit begrudgingly and with no small amount of amusement, what made this Starbucks unbeatable in your eyes; it had one thing no other coffee shop could lay claim to.

What you know of Mark Lee is accrued from two major sources: long, surreptitious glances in the Modern World History class you share, and irritatingly brief interactions when you place your order from the other side of the counter behind which he stands, long fingers always poised to punch in your order at the speed of light. Sometimes, those encounters get cut even shorter when irate upperclassmen start prattling their orders out before you can even say anything past your own, except even this has its own consolation prize — an apologetic smile at you that seems only for you, although you’re not sure how much of this assumption is true. You’ll just believe it as you feel it. 

And what you’ve learned about Mark Lee has funneled down into two key points for you: first, he is single, a fact you were clued into when a group of his friends came to the coffee shop and sat around the table next to you. You hadn’t been eavesdropping; they’d just been pretty loud, but you’d also perked your ears the moment the one everyone seemed to call “Hyuck” — you aren’t sure if it’s his full name or a nickname, and you don’t particularly care — had leaned in for a conspiratorial whisper about having a vague master plan to set Mark up with an old high school friend’s younger sister that he was just waiting to spring on said Mark, busy slaving away on their six impossible orders near the espresso machine. 

You don’t really know what became of that plan, nor if anyone had telepathically been on your side to outright call it crazy (someone should have had a better reason than you, anyway) since the next moment, Hyuck’s voice becomes significantly louder when it orders the one named Jisung to collect the completed coffee and snacks waiting for them on the counter. However, you feel safe in the assumption that even if it had happened, no repercussions had followed, seeing as Mark still presently comes and goes from his shifts alone and in no clear hurry to meet any cute girls that are sisters of high school friends of his friends. Or, maybe you’re just ignoring what could be truth, but that’s whatever. 

Second, you’ve learned that Mark Lee should not actually be your type — at least, in theory. 

Saying you’re out of his league would be a bit juvenile, but if you had only so many words to describe the situation, you’d say so under duress. It isn’t so much that he’s beneath you in any way, but your interests and general social circles run different routes. Yours tend to be more classically patterned after constantly changing trends, and the people you interact with all seem to have similar goals; you like to call it ‘vibe networking,’ which, from experience, involves connecting with both groups and individuals that are equally aware that they will benefit in some way from any resulting acquaintanceship — whether it be by climbing the social ladder a couple of rungs or being able to call in a quick, off-the-charts favor for something very important and/or very exclusive down the road. You and your friends spend a significant amount of time in a year watching your style and image, something quite a lot of kids in the first couple of years of college tend to do, which means that while you don’t particularly like to spend your time following your grade trajectory, you do have quite a lot of pseudo-friends that all seem to offer something entertaining or helpful to you. 

Mark, on the contrast, prefers to keep his circle very close to his heart, it seems — that which acts as a receptacle for all his interests. You can tell that he likes to be up to date less with trending movies and more with comic books, a separate beast of a world that’s rather unknown to you. More than once, you’ve overheard him chat with his friends about Spider-man Issue Number Whatever-It-Is or engage in somewhat lively (sometimes rowdy, thanks to the Hyuck fellow) discussions about some webtoon you’ve come to understand is called Solo Leveling, which seems to have to do with monsters and hunters — two things you know next to nothing about. You’ve also never seen Mark holding anything remotely close to a magazine; his hands are always filled with either a freshly opened comic or a beat-up textbook. Maybe once or twice, you’ve seen him on his phone, but when you peeked over (surreptitiously, of course) on those occasions, you were met only with brightly colored panels and a singular word: BAM. 

In conclusion — you and Mark Lee live very different lives, likely never truly meant to intersect. 

And yet, you want him — not even in a way that speaks only to your curiosity, but in a manner that feels slightly delusional. More than once, you’ve found yourself having to shut your jaw close after realizing you’ve been watching him steam milk with your mouth slightly agape. Maybe it’s his side profile, which gives you a great view of the way his jaw tenses every time he puts whipped cream on someone’s frappuccino. Maybe it’s his eyes, which always seem to twinkle like he’s harboring some special secret every time someone in line asks for his recommendation on how to spice their order up. Maybe it’s his hands, steady and agile, with just the right showing of veins through the skin to tell you they’ve probably got significant strength to them too. Or maybe it’s just his mind — that thing he always manages to show off in class, working faster than lightning even when the rest of you are in your natural eight-in-the-morning stupor.

Whatever the reason for your interest, Mark Lee makes sure the Liberal Arts building’s Starbucks has you as a regular customer. 

You’re fully aware that this is the twenty-first century, which is why you could, as Yeji and Jisu have so kindly made known, simply ask him out. Under normal circumstances, you would have.

Unfortunately, in this particular area of your life, separate from all others, you’re something of a traditionalist. 

Actually, you just want to know what Mark asking you out would look like. Curiosity has fully gotten the better of you — how can it not, with how he breaks eye contact with you the moment it happens by accident in class, or with how pleasantly and shyly he smiles when you say ‘hey’ to him once you’re about to order? You’d like to see, first-hand, as a recipient of the experience itself, what he would look like taking control of a particular situation like that — something someone like him, so mild-mannered and laid-back, never really seemed to do upfront. 

You’d like to think you’ve given him clear signs. There’s a reason you always come in during his shift times, and it’s the same reason for why you have the same damn drink from the menu over and over again despite not even caring too much about coffee in the first place (something he admittedly doesn’t know and probably wouldn’t puzzle out, given how often you’re in that Starbucks, anyway). It’s that you want him to remember you.

Selfishly, it’s that you want him to think just a little bit more about you every single day. 

But if he does, Mark has never made it very clearly known; apart from taking your order in his genial customer service demeanor or letting a look of brief recognition pass his face over when you cross paths in the hallways, he’s never really shown heightened inquisitiveness about you. For all your differences, only you seem to actually care.

Frankly, that frustrates you, because if you have to think about him unhealthily, it would only be right for him to do that for your sake too. Still, you’ll shrug that hit on your pride off for as long as you can get his attention one way or another.

All you really need is for your plan to pan out as well as you think — and hope — it will. 

The thing is, you’re not even that bad at math. You’ve never really excelled at it, of course, but you wouldn’t go so far as to say you’re in dire need of help from anyone — the kind of help that feels like babysitting, at least.

However, Mark Lee doesn’t know that, and you’re not compelled to make that fact known to him when you notice that he’s leaning on the counter with his elbows, shoulders rolled forward and head bent down. He’s twirling his ballpoint in hand, wrist hovering over a worksheet, and you’re briefly distracted by the rapidly moving shadow underneath it.

His head snaps up when you gently knock on the counter, and the rest of his body follows suit, straightening as he shoves the paper away, one edge crumpling in on itself as it meets resistance in the form of the pastry display glass.

“Hey — hi, _________.” He knows your name, says it easily, and while you’d like to believe it’s because of his unprecedented interest in you, you know that it’s just because you’re always here and always having him write your name on the side of your cup. “Can I get you the usual?”

There’s no particular reason you order what you do; maybe it’s just rooted in the fact that when you first asked Mark for a recommendation, he said that the Vanilla Sweet Cream Cold Brew was pretty good, and you were inclined to believe him (while pointedly ignoring the fact that it was, at the time, a new item all of the baristas were required to push to indecisive, slightly moony-eyed customers such as yourself). Whatever the case, you found the drink generally palatable, and you were also able to score the first of many smiles that fed into your two-semester-long infatuation with him, so it was basically a win-win scenario for all. He even got to do his job by getting some rube (see: you) into trying a new product.

“Hey, Mark.” You’ve long since given up pretending that you don’t know his name and have to check the tag on his cute green apron (why is it cute? You don’t know. It’s the same, standard, Starbucks green, but Mark makes it look homely and natural, somehow). You’ve been here way too many times over the last academic year for a nonchalant, were you talking to me? approach to work, anyway. “That, plus a lemon loaf, if you don’t mind. What’ve you got there?”

His eyes follow the trail of yours over to his wrinkled worksheet. “Oh — no, sorry. It’s nothing.”

“Is it secret?” Your bottom lip juts out, and you see his Adam’s apple bob dangerously, a small telltale sign of minute nervousness before he lets out a short laugh. “Didn’t know we kept stuff from each other.”

You don’t know what makes you say that so naturally. The both of you don’t do much beyond exchanging pleasantries.

“We — uh, well, it’s just a worksheet. For Park Hyosung’s class. College algebra?”

“I’m in Kim Junghwa’s. Can I have a look? I want to know if you’re suffering just as much as I am.”

He pauses, considering your request for a moment, likely wondering if there’s any harm in it before he smooths the paper out and turns it towards you. His handwriting’s a little messy, but his solutions are extremely neat. You see, like, one erasure, max. You also don’t see anything that interests you — except the name written at the top. Still, you can see at a general glance that more than half of his answers are correct; the logic of his organization is way too elegant and his writing’s too sure to be anything else. You whistle low, and his eyebrows shoot up.

“Something wrong?”

“Pretty much the opposite. How is it that you’re doing this without breaking a sweat?”

“Oh, well — it’s not…” He doesn’t even know how to brag. Yet another item in the perpetually growing list of things you find cute about Mark Lee. “I mean, anyone… can?”

“I must not be anyone then.” You meet his quizzical look with a wry smile. “Either you guys are leaps and bounds ahead, or I’m really not going to make it through this semester.”

Another silence passes, just for a fraction of a second — short enough to be passable to others, but long enough for you to wonder if your humor code isn’t up to par with the rest of the world’s — before Mark’s chuckling lowly. His large palm comes down, covering a majority of his answers in the process.

“You’re kidding. I’m sure you’re doing just fine.”

“Mark, look at this face.” You gesture to your evidently dumbfounded, blank expression. “Does this look like the face of someone that’s doing just fine?”

You’re pleased to hear another laugh from him; you don’t know if he really finds you funny or if he’s just the type to be easily amused. You don’t want to know, anyway; assuming is better than actually finding out.

“That bad, huh?” He slides the worksheet away again, like he’s afraid his correct answers are going to offend you into leaving the cafe. Instead, his hands start working on your order, grabbing a cup and scrawling the shorthand of the drink on one of the little boxes. “Ever think about getting a tutor, maybe? If you really feel like you’re drowning, that is.”

“A tutor? I guess that depends. Are you free on weeknights?”

The marker makes a soft screeching sound as he drags it down with too much force, ruining the penmanship of your name. Mark takes a moment to stare at the mistake on the plastic before he looks at you, pointing the rim of the cup towards himself. “Sorry — am I free—?”

“You said I should get a tutor, right?”

“I thought — no, sorry, I was thinking more like one of those department-assigned tutors you can ask the faculty for, or something.”

“Oh. Are you not one of them?” You sigh, albeit a little over dramatically. Thankfully, he doesn’t really cotton onto your acting, too caught up in befuddlement at the turn of the conversation. “That’s a bummer. I was kinda hoping that if I was going to ask for help, I’d get an actual genius. You know — someone like you?”

You can tell by Mark’s expression that he’s torn between denying your compliment again and responding to your actual question; he looks both relieved and miffed when the student behind you clears her throat.

“Sorry, but— you know that there’s a line, right?”

You both apologize, Mark’s much more sincere than your own, and you step aside. His gaze follows you for a moment before it snaps back to the next customer, his voice abandoning that bemused uncertainty it had taken up with you. You don’t really mind; as far as you’re concerned, any dent in his barista persona when he talks to you is a step in the right direction.

You hang around the pick-up area, receipt in hand, watching Mark clear the line before moving to the actual stations near the kitchen area. There’s a concentration on his face that you find all the more attractive; he has a habit of chewing on his bottom lip when he’s trying to focus on getting the drizzle just right inside the cup’s cylinder.

He tends to try his best at everything, you figure. Not an unattractive quality — not by a long shot.

Mark finishes your drink first; the milk’s still only seeping, cloudy, into the coffee when he brings it over. He doesn’t even have to call your queue number, opting to meet your eye — albeit slightly nervously — instead. You reach out to hold the cup, a calculated move that allows you to brush hands against his without him being able to pull back on instinct. He doesn’t, nor does he really seem to want to, but his jaw tightens as a flush creeps along the curve of his ears.

“You really won’t help me?”

Your question’s abrupt, almost a little demanding, even if your voice is sweet. You’re not above asking this much, anyway, even if you technically want him to make the first move. The redness sinks down to his earlobes.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t really say anything,” you tease. The cup’s on the counter now, so he can easily relinquish it to you at this point, but he still hesitates, only one hand slipping out from under the heat of your palm. He uses it to rub the back of his neck, chuckling softly, and you take this as a green light. “What time does your shift end?”

“Five-thirty. You sure you wouldn’t want someone better?”

You pull your cup slowly to yourself, and his hand, still lightly trapped by your own, follows for a few inches before he’s withdrawing, the counter between the two of you forcing the distance. A smile follows the shaking of your head, and you take a small sip of the drink before you respond simply.

“There’s no one better than you.”

Mark is a prompt kind of person; you learn this when, at five-thirty, he comes over to your table, tugging his apron off over his head. Of course, you might attribute that to his overall personality, but the fact that you spend the remaining two hours of his shift casting him glances from the left side of the coffee shop might have also been a contributing factor. The looks you give him aren’t even furtive; they’re deliberately long, so you never miss whenever he looks over to you from time to time.

He doesn’t hold eye contact for very long (he does it well enough when he’s talking to customers, but it’s not like you’re ordering another cold brew from across the room at that point), but you can read snippets of his thoughts through the fleeting gaze exchanges. He’s curious as to why you’re asking for help, now, of all times, when the semester’s more than halfway over. He’s surprised that you asked him, of all people, because he just can’t conceive of a world that isn’t within a television show where this kind of abrupt, overt request makes sense. He’s flattered that you even asked him out of the blue. He’s equal parts anxious and eager to know what’s meant to happen after his shift, once he starts fulfilling your request.

Most of all, he’s unsure if he’s reading you right — if what it feels like you’re doing is something he’s attaching too deep a meaning to. If he’s right in reading your signs.

You don’t really mind it; you like knowing that Mark somehow wears his heart on his sleeve, even if he tries to remain neutral for the sake of appearances. You also bask quietly in the fact that he’s looking at you twice as much as he ever has in the time you’ve loosely known each other. Still, his bubbling confusion and inquisitiveness seem to be interfering with the rest of his work, especially when you notice that he’s been wiping down the surface of a table two down from where you are for more than seven minutes.

In the hopes of easing whatever tension might be in his heart, you offer him a small smile, but that’s only met with his eyes immediately glazing over and inching a couple of centimeters above your forehead, where the story of Starbucks’ origins is drawn out in a faux-manga style. He pretends to find it interesting, as if he hasn’t seen it a million times from coming into this establishment day after day — you know it well enough, and you don’t even have to, considering you don’t work here — and you can’t do anything but hold back your laughter.

A small part of you says you should just give him the affirmative answer to his biggest question, but every other cell in your body says that it’s no fun if he doesn’t ascertain it for himself.

He has his school bag and textbook in tow when he approaches, taking the seat across from you. There’s a steely resolution on his face, like he’s been emotionally preparing himself for such a daunting task, but it eases up the moment you laugh lightly.

“You don’t have to act like I’m going to eat you.”

“I’m still not sure why you’re suddenly asking me to help you,” he admits. He’s also very honest, you note. Again, not an unattractive trait. “I’m not complaining. I just didn’t think you even had an opinion of me.”

“Why’s that?” You’re genuinely surprised. Mark drums his fingers on the front of his textbook, thoughtful — less for the sake of thinking what to say and more for the sake of considering how to say it. It’s clear he wants to avoid calling attention to the fact that before now, you two have had no reason to run the same track, let alone sit together and talk at a coffee shop, as if you’ve always been the best of friends.

“Genuinely just thought I was the guy who gave you your afternoon coffee every day,” he finally settles. Your eyes widen, and another laugh escapes you — a little louder this time, enough to call the attention of a couple of jumpy freshmen nearby.

“Well — let me put it this way.” You lean over slightly, cupping your chin in your palm. “Was I just the girl you made coffee for every day until now?”

There are clear cogs turning in his head; his eyes unfocus slightly as he thinks of the possibilities. His silence suddenly makes you somewhat nervous; your tone had been confident, and you’d only said that to prove a point, to push him in the right direction, but you realize that you hadn’t previously factored in the possibility that he might simply say yes — or, worse, say no just to avoid hurting your feelings.

You watch his lower lip curl in; he uses his tongue to smooth out the skin that’s slightly dried from work fatigue. You would much rather it peeked out, so you could imagine it against your own. His response is mumbled in a lower register, but you catch some key syllables — didn’t… not … stranger — pretty … you?

“Sorry?” You ask patiently, but the fact that he turns red and laughs again — something you realize is not only a trademark of his personality but also downright delicious of him to be doing — is all the answer you need to let the apprehension seep from your shoulders. “I didn’t catch that.”

Mark clears his throat. “No, I… didn’t think of you that way. I mean… you’re my classmate.”

“Sure,” your tone’s breezy, but the somewhat sloppy confirmation of interest in you makes your heart soar. He just needs more of a push. “And we’re basically friends, right?”

“Yeah.” His voice is unsure at first, like he can’t seem to wrap his head around the concept. You can tell that Mark’s notion of friendship is likely based on shared interests, of which you admittedly have none. Technically, if you were his friend, you’d spend less time just telling him the exact same order every single day and more time sitting around a table trying to learn how to play Magic: The Gathering with him. Still, he takes one long look at your grin and suddenly gains confidence in his next words, as if it somehow convinces him that the briefness of your old conversations had been a mutually agreed-upon thing and not the product of social distance between the two of you. “Yeah. We’re friends.”

“Right. Friends help friends, don’t they? I’d definitely feel more comfortable having a friend teach me than some stuffy upperclassman I don’t know.”

You see Mark’s lips move slightly, in such small movements you could have imagined it as breathing if you didn’t care too much (which you do). He mouths, to himself — friends help friends. For some reason, that boosts his conviction even further, and he nods.

“Makes sense. Well — for as long as you don’t mind me, then.”

“Mind? I asked you, so I should be saying that.”

“I’d never mind — I mean, of course I don’t mind.” He’s quick to correct himself, and you have to stop your own hand from reaching out to try to satisfy your curiosity, the desire to know just how hot his cheeks get when he blushes. “More than happy to help, actually.”

“And I’m more than happy to be here.” You beam at him, and he mirrors your smile. You don’t know what it is about the look on his face — the brightness in his eyes, or the slight lift of his eyebrows, maybe — but it gives you the impression that he might be feeling at least a fraction of what you are: the feeling of your heart lifting off a few inches from your rib cage. “Since we’re on the same page, I hope — should we get to it?”

From the moment that Mark opens his textbook to a chapter on inverted parabolas, he assumes a personality you feel you haven’t seen from him before. You realize that you really do know him in only two limited capacities — his classroom persona that seems to really only view himself and the material, focused on the board and the professor’s words (even up until the useless anecdotes) to absorb as much information as possible, and his more genial customer service form, always happy to assist in the trained, easygoing way you’ve come to meet so often.

Right now, he’s a blend of both, yet somehow neither all at once. He’s quick to catch the parabolas you draw, either wrongly or downright poorly. Despite initial hesitation, he always manages to say something; there’s already a pattern to how he does it, from his slightly awkward, “Ah, sorry, actually —” to the way his finger traces over what you’ve written, outlining the right curve. You find his interruptions so endearing that you start drawing them wrong purposefully — not enough for him to realize your schemes in their entirety, but enough to cast you a few amused glances, like he can’t imagine why you’d map out such an absurd graph. You get the feeling he wants to actually laugh at how ridiculous you’re acting, but he can’t tell if you’re seriously struggling or not, so he settles for a smile he thinks he does well in keeping to himself, but that you catch anyway. He’s patient, even when you have to rip out pages from the back of his notebook because of your ‘mistakes,’ like he’s still catering to your request for an extra pump of syrup for your coffee on sleepy days.

But there’s also that side to him that comes out when he suddenly remembers the distance between you that, before today, had felt unlikely to be closed. It peaks at odd moments, like when you’re borrowing his pen because yours is currently holding your slowly unraveling bun up, and your fingers brush against his. It surfaces abruptly when you lean in to watch what he’s drawing until he realizes how close you are, arm lightly grazing his, and his pen freezes, ink blotting on the paper for a second. It’s in those times that you can almost hear his brain churning out questions — like he’s wondering if you’re just oblivious or if you’re doing something on purpose that he can’t quite believe. Like he wants to ask you what’s on your mind, but he just doesn’t know how.

If he asked, you would reply without missing a beat. The answer, after all, is simple (him). But Mark never raises the question, only does something without fully acknowledging what he’s doing — the adjustment of his glasses on the bridge of his nose, the ruffling of his hair as though to shake off his thoughts, the clearing of his throat to normalize his tone before he explains something you’ve just asked about. There’s always that light tinge of pink to his face that makes him look even more endearing, and it fades and returns every so often for the better part of two hours.

By the time he rubs oncoming fatigue out of his eyes, the sun has already set; there are far fewer people around you at this time, and for as much as you like spending time with him and breathing in the scent of his shirt — always a tinge of Downy, barely cutting through the much more overpowering scent of espresso and sugar — your back has begun hurting from your front-heavy posture and determination to have your face as close as rationally possible to Mark’s. Still, you don’t miss out on the fact that the act of him cracking his neck to relieve tension makes your lips curl inward, trying to stifle an inappropriate noise in reaction to the view.

“I feel like I talked your ear off,” he pipes up, sounding a bit sheepish. “Sometimes it’s hard to know when to stop once you’ve gotten started. I’m just hoping I didn’t bore you to death.”

“Meanwhile, I’m here hoping you aren’t sick of my questions already.” You smile, closing your notebook and hanging the clip of your pen on the spiral. Your arms stretch up first, followed by your back, a light twist to relax your posture into normalcy again. Mark’s breathing falls quiet, like he’d been preparing to say something in response but had let it die in the back of his throat instead. You let your eyes drop, expecting to see him looking at you, as he mostly has been — on and off — since his shift ended, but his eyes are far lower than yours, the telltale redness now growing in evident splotches across his cheeks.

The hem of your shirt has ridden up; while there’s nothing outrageous about it, there’s a short expanse of skin that it reveals, for a brief moment. His eyes are slightly glossy, brow furrowed like he’s trying to find a solution to something he can’t fully understand. You’re not even sure about what he could really be looking at, or if there’s something he’s just thinking of that caught his attention while his eyes focused on a rather unfortunate spot. To test your theory, you suck in your stomach slightly alongside an inhale.

It should be objectively funny to watch Mark blink unevenly, left eye going first before his right tries to catch up, but you manage to stifle your laughter — poorly, though, because you end up coughing a little and breaking him out of his strange trance. You avert your eyes quickly enough for him to look vaguely relieved that you hadn’t caught him looking. So he thinks, at least.

“Anyway.” You feel bad that you have to tear his mind away from whatever faraway land it must be trying to burrow a hole in; the dazed expression on his face dims into hastily hidden embarrassment. You don’t want him to feel awkward, so you just busy yourself with packing up, making an unnecessary show of stuffing your notebook back into your bag as if it isn’t half-empty at this point. “I really appreciate you taking the time to help me.”

“Any time.” His first attempt is a little raspy, maybe from overuse of his voice today, so he clears his throat and tries again. A slow smile builds on your lips. “Any time, really. I’m glad that this is actually helping you; you pick things up surprisingly fast.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah. Give it a couple of weeks, and you’ll probably be ready to tackle it on your own again, I’m sure.”

He smiles reassuringly, but all you can think about is how that’s not good. You should pretend to be a little dumber next time, or this will end much too prematurely.

The next five minutes pass in silence; you don’t expect to be knee-deep in conversation anyway since, as much as you try to convince him, you aren’t actually anywhere close to being those kinds of friends yet. There’s an unspoken rule to the give and take of things, where he pauses for you to get an item off the table and push it into your bag before he does the same with his own belongings. Neither of you really intersect paths, save for the moment you both grab your phones and stand at the same time.

His jaw falls open like he’s preparing to say something, then shuts as if he’s better decided against it. You decide to take the initiative to say what you’re assuming he wants to. “Same time, same table?”

“Oh — uh, yeah, for sure.”

You want to ask him to walk out with you. You want to lace your fingers with his, tug him out, and kiss him under the green and white glow of the sign outside. You want to know if kissing his collarbone means you’ll taste a hint of coffee. You think about doing it all somehow, especially since he’s fighting back a slight smile at the promise of tomorrow.

But it just isn’t the right time.

Instead, you place a hand on his shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. The slow movement of his throat — yet another hard swallow — isn’t lost on you, and his eyes land on where the two of you connect. With a grateful smile, you bid him a soft goodbye, taking your leave first.

You don’t look back — at least, not until you’re fully in the cover of the darkness outside. On the gravel path, just out of reach of the lamplight, you chance one last glance back into the store. Mark is still rooted to the same spot, his backpack slung over one shoulder, staring at the table like he’s dissociating from what just happened — like he can’t believe the last couple of hours.

Your smile grows when you see his own, and his hand comes around to the back of his neck, rubbing it lightly like it gives him small comfort to let him know that it was real.

Baby steps, you remind yourself. You’ve already got one foot in the door, after all.

As the days trickle by, you fall into a more comfortable standing with Mark; there’s a routine to your meetings that seems to eliminate the initial and abrupt awkwardness of that first day. You come into that Starbucks at four, greet Mark, who doesn’t ever have to ask for your order, and spend the next hour and a half slowly sipping on it until the ice has thinned and watered down your drink substantially. In that time, you allow yourself to do whatever you want (as if you’ve ever done otherwise anyway), and what you usually want the most is a good view of him. You therefore use most of the minutes you have on hand to regard him from different angles — from the side when he’s frothing milk, upfront when he turns to leave cups on the pick-up counter, from the back when he’s clearing tables — interspersed with moments of checking your TikTok feed, clearing group chat messages, and sometimes re-curling your bangs with a portable iron from the school’s co-op center, a relatively new purchase you tote around these days. You do essentially anything in between to avoid acting too suspicious while he works.

Sometimes, you catch Mark’s eye too; the more your meetings increase in number over the course of a few weeks, the more deliberately he looks over at you, and the longer it lasts. You feel like you’ve made significant progress when your gazes lock and he smiles slightly, albeit a bit unsurely, instead of turning away like he used to. The other day, he’d even passed by while apologizing for how long you always waited for him — not that you ever minded, something you made a point to clarify with him before he walked away, carrying a couple of chairs from the back room with him to replace rickety ones.

That he’s able to transport them easily, as if he’s lugging a bag of apples from the grocery, does not escape your watchful eye.

What you like the most is that you start to learn more about him in a way that isn’t fueled only by your expectations and, therefore, limited by your imagination. You find out that he’s from a close-knit family with a rather cushy background, and this barista job is just for interest funding and experience, in that exact order. Most of his earnings are funneled into the things he collects, which apparently isn’t limited to comic books and special edition blu-rays with director’s cut but also a rather stupendous amount of PopMart blind box figurines. Apparently, he particularly likes the Skullpanda series even if he hasn’t completed it yet; your last session together had adjourned thirty minutes earlier than usual so that he could catch a pre-rush hour inner circle train to Honda, where the flagship store was set to open on that day. He’d promised to show you his pulls (as long as they weren’t embarrassing dupes). You learn that he likes to listen to loud music when he studies to stimulate his mind, and he has a playlist that’s just a jumble of songs from Punk Goes Pop volumes that makes him feel empowered for some absurd reason, like he’s going against the grain. You don’t really get it, but you do like that spiced-up rendition of Ariana Grande’s Problem that he let you listen to once.

Of course, there are things that you find out not through conversation but through continued, closer observation. You notice that he likes to put on chapstick even if his lips aren’t particularly dry, but he does worry on them often, most especially when he’s thinking hard about something. He has a habit of saying honestly… at the start of every other sentence, as if he’s concerned you won’t take his word on anything, even though he’s just talking about how unnaturally hot it was at noon despite it still being spring. He has long eyelashes that you’re equal parts attracted to and jealous of, and he bites the inside of his cheek whenever he wants to pep himself up after grueling shifts. He plays beats you’re not even sure he knows he’s creating against his knee with his fingers, so enthusiastic and consistent in this habit that you want to offer your thigh instead. His shoulders always go first before he laughs, and he does this thing where he raises his hand to cover his mouth at the start of it, which is a shame, because you’d do anything to keep seeing him smile like that — or, better yet, to be the reason for it.

Then there are those things you notice he tries to hide. He always turns his face halfway to the side when he blushes, something he seems to do without fail every time you smile at him. He has to temper the intensity of his grin when you take the time to compliment him on how cool his shirt is, or how nice his hair looks today, or how smart he is, like he doesn’t want you to know how good it makes him feel even if you want him to feel good about it, around you, because of you. Sometimes he denies it for the sake of responding, and his voice always lilts on the first syllable in his refusal to accept what you say, even though he knows you won’t take it for an answer.

And after a couple more careful experiments, you notice that Mark, out of the many things he’s interested in, seems to have a particular thing for your stomach.

You don’t know if it has anything to do with him not really seeing much of it in real life in his own time or if he just has his own kind of fixation on it, but you start to cotton on by the fourth time you meet. An hour of being hunched over a table that’s not at the greatest height in relation to your neck and torso has you stiff, and you’d leaned back in your chair, arms pulling to the air, hoping your spine might feel like realigning if you exerted enough tension pressure that way. Your shirt hadn’t ridden up this time, considering it had been tucked into your jeans, and it was because of this that you’d caught a flicker of something new in his face that you hadn’t seen before.

You could have sworn it looked like disappointment.

Of course, he hides it quickly, as he does with most of his emotional candor, but it’s enough to make you suspicious — enough to make you wonder if Mark is also just keeping something to himself. Or maybe you’re just projecting your own presently secretive nature onto him. Regardless, you think it’s odd that whenever you stand up or stretch, his eyes almost immediately fall to your midriff, like he wants to challenge your clothing into a staring contest before he thinks better of it.

You don’t mind, anyway. He can look as much as he likes. Maybe when the weather’s warmer, you’ll even cater to that interest and wear a crop top. Hopefully, that’ll be the push he needs to act on human instinct and ask you out or, like… bend you over. Maybe.

You’re often plagued with these kinds of thoughts in between the ones you try to keep as family-friendly as possible — now, more so than ever.

Sometimes, it’s easier, especially when you’re caught up in talks with him; despite the fact that he doesn’t seem like much of a conversationalist when it comes to generic matters, when either he or you are enthusiastic about a particular topic, he has a tendency to get carried away. There’s nothing impure about how his eyes light up when you remember to ask him about the movie he saw with his friends over the weekend or the way he hums old Nickelodeon cartoon theme songs under his breath whenever he’s looking for a page in the textbook. It’s more of a situation where you’ll observe something and immediately run with it despite it being an objectively normal action.

Like right now, as you’re watching him turn his pen between his fingers. Now, while he’s shaking his knee in mild impatience, as if he’s trying to will the answer to the worksheets you’ve both been trying to get through for the better part of the day faster. You’d made copies of the problems your professors had assigned and exchanged them under the premise of being able to practice more intensely.

However, whereas Mark is actually focused on solving, you’re just watching him out of the corner of your eye, wondering if he’s ever been told that his fingers are fuck-worthy on a singular, unique level or if it’d feel good for you to ride the thigh he’s currently moving, jeans and all. You consider the feeling of his warm palms on your bare waist as you do it, and you end up wondering if that’s what crosses his mind whenever he sneaks glances at you, too.

You’d know the answer to all those things if he’d fucking ask you out. Maybe you could do it after all. Maybe you should, instead of relying on slowly increasing the probability over such a long period of time. Maybe if you asked nicely, Mark might pull the shades down on the storefront windows and rail you against the glass.

You’re so lost in thought that it genuinely startles you when he plops his textbook over the worksheet, rattling your eraser dangerously close to the edge of the table. You’re still clutching your heart while he rubs his eyes a little too violently.

“Can’t,” he groans, and his neck gives into the weight of his head, allowing it to loll backward. “I feel like the numbers are just melting into each other. I swear, I thought I could read words out of them.”

“Maybe we were a little too ambitious with the double worksheet agenda,” you admit, even though you’ve barely gotten past half of yours and certainly haven’t touched a single item on his. “Should we call it a day for now?”

“Yeah,” he agrees, although he still takes the time to encircle his final answers before clapping his palms to his cheeks (an act that has your mind dangerously close to wandering off inappropriately again) to wake himself up. “Woah. I didn’t even notice how dark it is already. I’d say time flies when you’re having fun, but I’m not too sure about the ‘fun’ part of it…”

You trace his gaze towards the glass; the moon’s already out, surrounded by a smattering of low-light stars. You hadn’t realized how late it had gotten, probably because your mind had been on R-18 mode for most of the afternoon. Also, the days are getting generally shorter, but that fact doesn’t make you feel as embarrassed, at least.

“You got a ride?”

The question once again shocks you out of your small trance, and you turn back to him with wide eyes. “Well — no. Wait, I didn’t know you had a car. Why’d you take the subway, then?”

“Oh — no, sorry, I… don’t.” He looks suddenly sheepish, eyes dropping to the shiny surface of the table for a moment before they snap back up, as if he’s actually actively reminding himself to look at you. “I was wondering if you wanted me to — actually, more than that, are you going home already? Not that you need to stay; it’s not that important, but…”

You try to gloss over the fact that he had just been about to initiate another huge step in the right direction (i.e. offering to walk you home) by beaming at him, maybe a little too widely, if only to mask your disappointment at the sudden shift in conversation. “I have nothing waiting at home for me but a sandwich dinner and Singles Inferno, so hit me with whatever it is.”

“Oh, cool.” His lips turn up, and the corners shake, this show of happiness once again tamped down by his own inexplicable desire to maintain a safe distance. How are you supposed to tell him you’re desperate to bridge that gap without using those exact words? “I came from the flagship store yesterday — the one in Hongdae that I told you about?” He allows the smile to widen slightly when you nod in genuine understanding. “Got the last six boxes of the collection I’ve been trying to finish.”

You whistle appreciatively. “Can I ask you for a loan on my next phone bill? You know, once I’ve upgraded to something pricier.”

“Nah — just itching to complete the set,” he laughs. You wonder if he’s been doing that more often because he knows its crippling effect on you, though you doubt he’s that sly. Again, maybe you’re just projecting too much of your own motivations onto him. “This was probably about two months of saving up combined.”

“No new Iron Man issues to look out for, then?” Your voice is warm even though it takes on a teasing tone; Mark’s hand rubs the back of his neck, and his expression is a little sheepish, but you’re happy that the times he used to go completely quiet, opting only to blush at your attempts to act more familiar with him are pretty much gone now.

“Maybe next month.” You also like that he doesn’t really treat his hobbies as secrets, neither out of shame nor snobbishness. He explains these things to you the same way he does the topics you study — with an air of contentedness, like he’s happy someone listens to him without interrupting. On your end, you have no qualms with listening to his voice for hours, wondering when he’ll stop using it to greet you when you come through the door and when he’ll start saying your name in a way that makes you feel like you’re the only one he sees whenever you’re near. It’s a win-win situation (sort of). “I was actually debating between this collection and a really rare copy of Spi— well, never mind that. I just thought — since you were asking me a bit about blind boxes last time. You know, if you wanted to. With… me.”

As much as he’s become comfortable talking to you about things that don’t involve coffee orders and school, you can’t say that you aren’t doing your fair share of the work in connecting the dots; the demand for your efforts is exponentially higher in moments like this, when you think he’s trying to ask you something but can’t seem to find less-than-eager words to avoid what he thinks might spook you.

Luckily, he augments his fragments with action; reaching into his backpack — which you notice seems to be bulkier than usual — he starts extracting small brown boxes, all with the same design; it seems, for lack of better words, aesthetically gothic, and you reach out to pick one up, turning it over and examining the print on each side with vague interest. Mark starts laying them out on top of each other until there’s a small, somewhat unstable pyramid in front of him, then shifts his attention fully to you, just as you’re putting the box in your hand atop all the rest.

“I’d love to.” You beam as he does, and there’s a wondrous relief in his eyes that tells you he’s glad you manage to catch onto his words — or lack, thereof — surprisingly well. “For as long as you don’t blame me for any bad draws.”

“The contents have already been decided by my own hand — sort of,” he chuckles. “Point is, I would never do that to you. But I won’t lie; I kind of want to rely on your luck a little more.”

“What makes you think I’d have any of that running through my system?”

“Not sure — beginner’s luck, maybe? You just kind of look like one of those kinds of people to me — like… you’re just made of good things.”

You don’t know how to take this compliment; on the one hand, it’s easily one of the sweetest things Mark has ever said to you that doesn’t involve anything with actual sugar content. On the other, you know you’re not as lucky as he makes it sound, considering you’re still striking out on getting past the borderline of friendship with him. All you can do is smile, nodding and making to move closer to him by sliding into the next seat.

It’s hard to ignore the sight of him stiffening; something like surprise mingled with both fear and interest flashes strong across his face, but you don’t do anything to acknowledge the slight change in atmosphere, choosing to settle down comfortably and clap your hands. “So. What are the rules? What can I do, and what can’t I?”

“Uh.” His throat constricts at the right moment, the syllable getting caught and causing him to clear his throat. You know that this is the nearest you’ve ever been to him, the sleeve of your shirt tickling his arm. Upon closer, albeit brief inspection, you note that he’s also rather veiny. That doesn’t do your impurity any favors. “Not… really rules, or anything like that. Just — these are the ones I’ve been looking for. Not that you can really control it, but in case you were curious about that.”

You squint intently at the scaled-down images he points out. There’s one that looks like a penguin caught in an oil spill; another that seems to be in a polar bear costume, dozing; and — “What’s… halo? Halo…bios?”

“It just means marine life,” he answers quickly, like the thought means close to nothing to him to know something that obscure. Whoever said that smart is the new sexy wasn’t joking. “Like… all things that live in the ocean, that kind of thing.”

“And you know this because?”

He pauses, looking thoughtful. “I’m not sure. I guess I must have just learned it when I was curious about what it meant some time ago. Isn’t that how we all learn things?”

You shake your head incredulously, and he smiles a little apologetically. “You never cease to amaze me.” Your nail drums against the silhouette of one with a question mark on it. “What’s this supposed to be? Can you draw your own figurine, or something?”

“No.” He’s clearly amused, but his expression’s still patronizing enough for you to not feel too bad about saying something idiotic. “It’s a secret design — a money drainer, basically. You could buy a full set of this and still not get it. Some people will open hundreds without any luck, so it’s really rare.”

“You don’t want it?”

“I try not to get too caught up in the secret thing,” he admits. “Otherwise…”

“No rare print comic books for the rest of your life, basically?”

He taps his nose, and you both share another laugh. It’s nice, you think, to have come this far — to be someone Mark can share his interests and thoughts with. You may have been stretching the word to its limit when you first punched your way into his social life and called yourself his friend, but it feels more real now, more natural to think about and say. Even if he still sometimes seems to be hyperaware of the gap between the both of you, there’s no denying, at least, that it’s been significantly reduced, and this much is a testament to that.

“Well, leave it up to me. I’ll let all of this beginner’s luck rub off on you,” you announce with overflowing albeit unfounded confidence.

You both decide to open a box each at the same time; Mark suddenly panics and asks you not to unseal the foil bag right away without looking at the card inside first, earning him one slightly alarmed look followed by a burst of laughter at his pained expression when you pretend to rip open the packaging. Comparing pulls, you identify them using the set chart — your luck doesn’t seem to be operating at full capacity yet because you can only offer him the card of one that looks like a floppy pigeon, which he responds to with a slightly apologetic grimace before saying he’s already pulled that thrice in the past. He, on the other hand, is turning the card of the polar bear over in his palm, trying not to make you feel bad for your duplicate pull by slipping it under his textbook when your eyes land on it.

The second round isn’t much better; both of you manage to pull something he’s already added to his collection, and as you’re ripping the seal to your third box, he pauses and watches you. You think it’s because he’s concerned about the obvious shit luck you’ve had thus far and wants to snatch it from you before your negative energy transfigures whatever’s inside into something he doesn’t want, and you’re just about to offer the half-opened package to him before he pushes the one on his end to you.

“No way, Mark.” Your eyes are wide, a palm up to reject it. “If that turns out to be another dupe by my hand, I’m literally going to walk into oncoming traffic.”

He has to control his amusement at your words so that it doesn’t completely shake his voice into incoherence. “I picked all of these while I was there, so if anything, you’re only riding off my bad luck. Besides, this is your first time doing this. I want you to have fun.”

“But,” your voice is pained. “Your money.”

“It’s not a big deal. With how few I need to complete them, I was definitely bound to run into more repeats than new ones.” He taps the front of the textbook — or, at least, the part of it not buried under the figurines and sealing tapes yet. “Probability mathematics.”

“I thought we already ended the study part of the day,” you grumble but concede, putting aside the one you half-opened to tear the top of his. You’re careful when you shake out the foil packaging, making sure to place it upright on the table before extracting the card. Both of your faces fall — yours more than his — when you see it’s a repeat of the polar bear.

“Almost. It would’ve been a pretty lucky pull earlier, so it’s technically not bad,” he tries to reassure you, but you childishly feel like you’ve been the sole source of his disappointment thus far. “Try the last one.”

It’s irrational, but you’re suddenly anxious about it. For some reason, you’re worried that this will topple the carefully constructed ladder you’ve propped up against Mark’s tower of social defense. Even if he’s being genial about your rotten pulls, you don’t know how much of it is just resignation to dismay on his part.

You say a small prayer, then fully rip off the seal; you don’t even take out the packaged figuring anymore. You just shimmy the card out of the box, turning it over when you notice it’s upside down.

For a moment, your shoulders deflate. It’s closest to this pastel purple figurine in the middle of the line-up, its stupid puckered lips almost taunting you. He hadn’t even mentioned it as something he’s looking for, so you almost feel like this has come to a horrible full circle. But then he grabs the box, checks the list, and looks back at your card again. He looks shell-shocked, and you’re not sure if it’s the strong air conditioning directed towards the two of you or if it’s just his hands, but the image he’s holding is shivering slightly.

You look more closely at it, and something just doesn’t feel right. Color palette aside, there are notable differences — different colored lips, a more intricate ear design, and closed eyes. It’s…

“Dream eater,” Mark’s voice is hushed, almost reverent, and very, very close to your ear. “It’s the secret one. You’re… incredible.”

“What are you talking about,” your words are just as raspy; you’re not sure if you’re actually choked up with emotion or something — over a figurine, you have to remind yourself. “You picked all of this. I just ripped open the box.”

The hush that falls over the both of you feels very concrete, weighty on your shoulders. His fingers creep towards the foil packet — the only one he actually opens because there’s no way he’s not keeping it. The shiny purple head gleams under the fluorescent, the glitter around the star and moon designs catching the light as he turns it left to right, like he’s worried it’s a fake. You can tell why people want these things so much; there’s a thrill in you that lingers, makes you feel warm and alert. It’s anticipation, despair, excitement, and triumph all in one sitting.

You’re stroking the smooth curve of the design by the ears lightly when Mark speaks up again and says the most outrageous thing.

“I want you to have it.”

“What?” You actually have to pop your ear canal in front of him with your pinky to make sure he knows how ludicrous he sounds. “This is… you said it was crazy rare.”

“Yeah. And you pulled it, with your magic. That’s like… unimaginable luck. Even more than beginner’s luck.”

“Like I said, I literally just opened the box.”

“No — you have like… the golden touch.”

“Please,” you hiss, a genuine testiness to your voice. “Do not. I was just here for the ride — the experience, and all.”

“Seriously, take it.”

“Absolutely not—”

It’s a chaotic moment of him trying to hand you the figurine and you outright rejecting it, with both your palms working hard to push it back to him. Instead of nudging the plastic back, though, you end up placing the full force of your hands against his fingers.

There’s no actual spark when you touch, but your reactions make it feel like there might as well have been; you even lock eyes in startled unison, like you can’t believe that just happened, before you pull away quickly, Mark drawing the figuring back to his torso while looking away towards the counter, where a lowerclassman is wiping down the stains. You want to scream at your warped reflection in the window. You barely initiate contact with him, but you imagine that if you ever did, you would prefer to not be saying something as abjectly negative as absolutely not while doing so.

Your mind flails in an attempt to mitigate the issue and water down the embarrassment, and clearly he’s struggling to figure it out too, because he pipes up before you can piece your thoughts together.

“No, really.” His tone is a lot milder and, consequently, a lot more persuasive this way. “You should take it. I want you to.”

“It’s not mine. This is your thing — your hobby.”

“That’s why I’m giving it to you. I swear — I want you to keep it.”

“Why?”

He lapses into silence again, but his face is much redder than earlier. His mouth opens in an attempt to say something, but he just manages to uh his way back into a state of quiet, which gives you a chance to speak instead.

“We can… share it,” you suggest. “Shared custody…. ish.”

His eyebrow cocks involuntarily, and his jaw falls again, but all he does in actual response is nod — slowly at first, then with more sureness to the act.

“Yeah. We can share it. I’d… like that.”

You’re glad that the bulk of the awkwardness has fizzled out fairly easily, and when you think about it, this feels like a pretty good course of action; you like that it’s this little link between the two of you now — something you share that no one else can touch.

Mark, you notice, is smiling as well — more to himself than towards you, it seems. His thumb grazes across the face of the figurine, slow across the lips, and you’re once again falling into a pit of nonsense by wondering when he’d do that to you.

“Thanks for staying with me, _________,” he finally says, and your heart jolts and melts all at once. “And for… doing this. For chatting with me. And giving me your luck, and all that. Great way to end the day… with you.”

You say no problem, but you instantly regret it when you realize you could have just said it didn’t have to end just yet.

“__________? Hello? Come back down to Earth?”

“Shut up,” you sigh at the guy seated across you — Seo Youngho, an upperclassman, your Gender Studies classmate, and current project partner, waves in front of your face. You shoo his hand away, which only joins his other one as he throws them in defeat above his head. “Stop moving. Be quiet. Don’t talk.”

“That’s the same thing as shut up and be quiet. What’s up with you?” He demands. “Fifteen minutes ago, you were full of ideas. Now I feel like I’m talking to a wax figure.”

You’d been engrossed in your report for the last hour and a half, and the subject matter is admittedly something you enjoy — the role of gender in Twenty-First Century Korean marketing and advertisement, a title Youngho had taken more than ten minutes to type into the Google Docs header because he was pissed off at how the numbers looked like in the fonts he chose. He’s an enthusiastic classmate and someone you’ve come to be friendly with, not only because he’s genuinely approachable but also because he has fits of nosiness and talkativeness at the strangest moments, so a chunk of your relationship is mostly based on social terrorism on his part. You like him well enough most of the time — save for the last fifteen minutes of this hour.

Because Mark had just come in for his shift fifteen minutes ago, and suddenly Youngho is much too noisy for your taste, and his head is honestly way too big to the point that it gets in the way of your opportunities to see Mark behind the counter. You even resent him for choosing a booth instead of your usual table all of a sudden, because your view of the central barista’s area is much more limited from this angle, especially since the huge espresso machine is in the of your field of vision.

You’re also (currently and abruptly) mad at Youngho because you remember that he’s the reason you’ve had to skip out on a couple of sessions with Mark. Like, it technically isn’t his fault that you have a lot of research to do for the literature review section of the paper, nor is it his fault that this is your final requirement that comprises a whopping forty percent of your grade, but like… you’ll blame him anyway. So you’re much more irritable, and you’ve definitely been missing Mark’s presence. In fact, you kind of just want to shove Youngho’s balloon head away and call Mark over to sit with you, but you’re not that much of an animal to actually do that.

Probably.

There had been inquisitiveness across Mark’s face when he’d come in; his eyes had trailed to the table at which you usually sat, surprised to find two guys hunched over a single phone there instead of the usual you, waiting for him with your eyes bright and your smile wide. You’d like to think it’s because he’s gotten as used to seeing you as you’re used to waiting to see him — like he just expects you to be there.

You hadn’t really known how to call his attention to where you were, especially since Youngho was prattling very matter-of-factly about the academic journal he’d unearthed yesterday and how he thought it would be useful in reshaping the methodology of your paper (whatever). There was a moment in which you briefly considered ordering another cup of coffee just to get in line to talk to him, but your hands were already shaking from the venti you’d had to keep yourself from passing out in front of your partner.

So you’re more than relieved when, half an hour into his shift, Mark finally steps out from behind the huge machine, a mug of water for himself in hand, and turns away from the front of the store to drink it — only for your eyes to lock as he twists his torso in your general direction.

The mug stops just inches from his lips, but you could swear he smiles at you briefly when he recognizes you, so you return the favor. Youngho’s face contorts into abject befuddlement, turning around to see what you’re grinning at.

“Oh, you poor sap,” he snorts, finally letting the puzzle pieces fall into place.

“What?” You’re still distracted even if Mark has taken a gulp of water and is now attending to a gaggle of girls still in the throes of discussing what to order.

“What what? You gonna spend the rest of the day eyefucking Mark Lee from over here? At least let me get a different table.”

“Shut up,” you repeat sullenly, coming back down to his level and finally — albeit reluctantly — meeting his eye (just because Mark isn’t looking your way). “What were you saying about the sample size?”

“That it’s much too large to be feasible, a point we closed twenty fucking minutes ago,” he says pointedly. “Is it a thing for baristas or a thing for smart guys?”

“It’s a thing for Mark Lee,” you sigh, following Youngho’s suit and shutting your laptop close. You’re at least glad he’s not annoyed that you’re delaying work for a crush, or maybe he’s also just equally lazy at this point. “You ever look at someone and think you would give it all up for a chance to hit that?”

“No, because this isn’t a porn movie, and I’m clearly not the main character in whatever’s going on in there.” He jabs at your forehead; you swat his hand away again.

“Well, I would.”

He rolls his eyes. “So do it, dumbass.” He says this so simply, like he can’t imagine why you’d be holding yourself back, which is a valid thing to feel, except it’s not really any of his business.

“Can’t.”

“Because?”

“Because it doesn’t fit into my elegant master plan. Also because I want him to ask me out. I just want that victory.”

“Oh yeah, there it is.” Youngho leans over, wiggling his fingers at your ears like he’s greeting a next-door neighbor. “Hey, delusion. Good to see you. Do you even understand how crazy it is that you’re taking a Gender Studies class while waiting for your dick-in-shining-armor like a damsel in distress?”

“Asshole,” you grumble, violently opening your laptop monitor again. “Get back on Google Drive.”

Thankfully, Youngho complies, and the next two hours pass in relative silence and productivity, with you hammering out a vague references list that he promises to format in your stead so you can ‘spend more time dreaming about Mark Lee between your legs.’ You want to strangle him, but there are far too many people in the cafe for you to get away with it. Also, aforementioned Mark Lee would only be a witness to your criminal record, and while you think there’s something romantic in killing for love, or whatever, you’re not sure it’d make the best impression on him.

“Next week’s my birthday,” Youngho announces as he stands to tug on his jacket.

“Congratulations,” you say wryly, peeking over his bulletin board torso to see Mark tugging off his apron and picking up his school bag. Your heart hammers in your chest as he looks over at you briefly, and something like embarrassment passes over his face before he busies himself with neatly folding the fabric. “Go away.”

“Usually people look uncomfortable for not knowing and then start thinking about what gifts to get the celebrant, but I always felt you were kind of a revolutionary.” He snaps his fingers right in front of your eyes, and you look up at him, a little offended. “I’m having a get-together — and by get-together, I mean it’s gonna be a rager. You should come.”

“When?”

“Next Thursday.”

“Can’t,” you chew on your lip, wondering if Mark is leaving. His movements seem particularly slow, but you wonder if he’s just taking his sweet time because he has nothing better to do. Of course, he would have something better to do if Youngho stopped fucking obscuring you from him and vice versa. “Busy. School… whatever.” Not completely untrue. Most of what you do with Mark has to do with school.

“This moony-eyed thing is just not for you, I fear.”

“Are you going to be here all day?”

“Are you? Why don’t you just fucking ask him out, you lunatic?” You can’t imagine why he sounds so exasperated. It’s not like this is his problem — or his business, for that matter. “Maybe if you did, you could fuck him and move on with your life and be an actual contributor to society’s development.”

“Has anyone ever told you how nosy you are?”

“Constantly.” He brings his palms down on the table, the thud shaking you out of another oncoming stupor. “Think about it. Maybe it’ll make you stop making that stupid face.”

“You’ve got a stupid face,” you mumble, sulking as he pinches your cheek as a goodbye before heading out of the shop.

At least you finally get to see Mark in full, glorious view — and you get to watch him come closer, although his stride is somewhat cautious.

“Hey.” Even his voice sounds unsure — almost like the way he used to sound earlier in your friendship. “I didn’t want to interrupt you and… your friend?”

“Oh. Well, you wouldn’t have been interrupting,” you inform him, completely genuine. “He was spouting a lot of nonsense.”

“You guys seemed pretty close.”

“I guess it’s a proximity thing,” you sigh, and Mark raises his eyebrows slightly in question. “We’re partners.”

“Oh.” The way he draws out the syllable is slow. “That definitely makes sense.”

The silence stretches out between the two of you again, with Mark checking his shoelaces. You almost grab your head; it hadn’t occurred to you until now how damaging missing meetings with him would be to your friendship. You feel like you’re slowly being dragged back to square one, and you want to give him an explanation.

“He’s actually… I haven’t been able to see you because I’ve been working on something with him.” you offer, trying to answer a question he didn’t even ask. “Sorry about that. I swear I’ll be back on track tomorrow.”

“No, no — I completely understand.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Thank you… for telling me, though. I— uh, appreciate that.”

“I’d love to see you tomorrow, though.” You try injecting more pep into your voice. “I’ve really been behind on my algebra. I’ve definitely been drowning without you.”

“Oh, yeah.” A small smile graces his lips, but you can’t tell if the reluctance behind it is from fatigue or something that looks oddly like sadness. “I’m down for tomorrow. Same time, same table, right?”

“Yeah, for sure.”

“Cool. See you, _________.”

You watch him turn on his heel, walking to the front door, and something like fear mingled with desperation clutches your heart. Fuck the traditional route, you think. You don’t know what it is about how he’s acting now, but it’s making you feel like he’s slipping through your fingers. All that hard work — there’s no way you’re letting him go.

“Mark, wait.”

You’re at his side, fingers curled into the sleeve of his jacket before you can figure out exactly what you want to say. You feel as surprised as he looks at your sudden liveliness in action, and his gaze trails from your clenched fist to your face slowly, like he’s trying to memorize this whole position.

Your exhale’s shaky, but even still, you try not to sound overtly self-conscious when you ask, “Do you like Chinese food?”

Something in the furrowing of his brows tells you he can’t seem to see where this conversation is headed, and that slightly bothers him. “I like it well enough. Why?”

“There’s this really good dim sum buffet near my mom’s office. We tried it before — the Xiaolongbao is awesome.”

“Hey, that sounds pretty cool. I love Xiaolongbao. I’ll definitely have to check it out then.”

You want to tear your hair out. “How about — you know, checking it out with me? Tonight? You know… together. With me.” You already fucking said that.

You’ve never seen Mark blink this rapidly; he looks like he’s trying to crunch large numbers in his head. A small part of you actually worries that he’s malfunctioning, but just when you think he’s going to glitch out completely, he clears his throat. It bothers you how uncomfortable he looks. “Tonight? Oh man… it’s my cousin’s birthday tonight. I can’t… reschedule. Well, obviously. Maybe some other… time?”

Your ‘oh, yeah’ is small, and so is the ghost of Mark’s smile. You can’t help but feel like he’s pitying you a little, although he doesn’t seem like the type, but the thought of it alone makes you want to puke. He makes no motion to move, and you think he’s extending this awkward moment out on purpose until you realize you’re still hanging onto him and he has no way of telling you to let go nicely.

Fingers unfurling from his sleeve, you take a careful step back, but when he walks away, it feels like you’ve gone much, much further away.

The worst part is that you can’t even figure out why.

Luckily, the next few times you see Mark, you manage to rebuild a rather shaky bridge back to where you had been. You even manage to strong-arm him into sharing an apple fritter one afternoon, and you know it’s a bit sad to think about it a particular, untrue way, but you can’t help but pattern what you’re doing into some kind of pseudo-date. Pathetic isn’t a word you normally associate yourself with, but you’ve been borderline desperate for progress where there seems to be none, so you take small victories where you can get them.

Unfortunately, you haven’t been able to revisit your stupid dim sum plan; sometimes, he says he has somewhere important to be, but most of the time, it’s actually your fault. No — it’s Youngho’s fault, because he keeps bothering you to finish the project. You’re aware that he can’t do it himself, but since he’s informed of your current plight, he could at least stand to be more sympathetic.

And you hate the way Mark looks every time you splutter out that you have to take a rain check for that reason; it’s not even disappointment, or something, which would be much more understandable. It’s this mysterious kind of faraway look, where his eyes glaze over a bit and he seems suddenly very lost in thought — or completely dissociated. He never strays away from his normal response of “next time, then,” but that ‘next time’ fades into the weekend and into the start of next week, and you have to spend every other evening with an annoying Seo fucking Youngho on a Google Meets call instead of eating soup dumplings loveshot style with Mark Lee.

Thursday night rolls around, and the former performs the most irritating stunt yet: blowing up your phone with so many KakaoTalk messages that it almost buzzes off the table during your session with Mark. Luckily, he seems to have learned a thing or two from his comic books, catching it before it hits the floor.

“You sure you don’t want to answer it?” He asks, gingerly handing the phone to you like he’s afraid it’s going to explode from all the pinging.

“Without the shadow of a doubt,” you sigh, flipping the screen downwards. Buzz.

“It kind of seems important. Or, like… urgent.”

“He’ll live. Unfortunately.”

Mark falls silent, fiddling with the page he’s on. He’s neatly highlighted the formulas on the page with blue ink, and his finger keeps scratching at the slightly wet paper. Buzz.

“Didn’t you say you two were partners?”

“Yes. Also unfortunately.” Youngho is actually a great person, but you kind of hate how Mark’s paying more attention to his texts than to you right now. “What did you get for number ten?” Buzz.

“A hundred and twe— are you really just going to let it keep ringing like that? What if he’s… I don’t know. In trouble? Like, he needs you?”

You smack your phone on its back, hoping that the punishment reaches Youngho because he absolutely is in trouble — only with you. “He’s just making a racket because it’s his birthday and he probably wants a bunch of people to trash his parents’ house, or something.”

“Sounds like fun.” The dubious tone in Mark’s voice indicates that his idea of fun definitely isn’t that. Buzz.

“Not really, but I assume he’ll only pipe down if he manages to get his way.”

“He must really want you there.”

There it is again — that weird, distant expression that makes you feel like he’s trying to free himself from the tethers of the earth. You close your textbook in defeat; it wasn’t even like you got the answer to number ten correct anyway. Buzz.

“He just wants everyone there, I bet. But I probably should show up so he shuts up.”

“Oh — yeah, okay. We’ll call it a day, then?” He’s avoiding your eye as he starts packing his things, which is actually impressive because you have practically nothing but your book to keep in comparison to his pencils and protractor, so you just stare, willing him to look at you.

You want to know what’s going on in his head. You want to know what’s going on in his heart — what he thinks of you, why he seems warm one second then almost like a stranger the next. You want to know if he knows you like him and if him not doing anything even if he knows is a sign that he doesn’t like you back. You want to know if he’d let you kiss him, if he’d kiss you first, if you can meet not because of sweet cream cold brews or algebra but because you just want to be together.

You just don’t know how to ask. For as much as you like him, for as much as you want him, you haven’t figured out the most basic part of this — if you mean anything more than a two hour talk to him at all.

“Mark.” This feels awfully like the dim sum conversation, only somehow ten times more disastrous. “Come with me.”

“Sorry?” The appalled look on his face makes you squirm in your seat.

“I don’t really want to go, but maybe if we go together… we can just hang out a bit and leave once it’s boring… I think it’d be fun,” you explain lamely, deciding at the last second to drop the with you that had originally come with your sentiment.

“I don’t think your… partner will like someone uninvited showing up.”

“I’m inviting you.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works.”

“You’d be, like, my saving grace or something — my excuse to scram. We’ll say we came right from a study session; we only popped in halfway through for the sake of greeting him a happy birthday. Then we can just go. We can say — uh, we’ve got more work to do.” You’re practically begging him at this point, and you don’t even get why. You just don’t want him to leave looking the way he does — confused and a little detached. You want the Mark that had smiled at you while giving you your coffee — the one that had kindly pointed out an arithmetic mistake in the most gentle way possible. You want to open blind boxes with him, whine about your rotten luck, and part ways with his warmth still against your coat sleeve.

You don’t know what comes over you then, but you pluck up the courage and initiative to slip your hand in his. He stiffens a little, but you don’t care; your fingers squeeze his in urging.

Something in his expression breaks — cracks first, then falls away, before he’s nodding, still looking vaguely thoughtful.

“If you think it’ll help you, then… okay.”

The bus ride to Youngho’s neighborhood is uneventful because it’s quiet. You stand close to Mark at all times, but you barely touch, save for the times your knuckles accidentally brush his when you lurch forward slightly as the vehicle comes to a dangerously abrupt stop. He doesn’t ask anything about the party or the company that’ll populate it, which is just as well, because you don’t have a clue.

You know it’s the right house because the door’s wide open and there’s music coming from inside; you can’t make out much more than the deep bass pumping through the concrete, but you’re pretty sure it’s making your heart jump in your chest even more than it already is. There are quite a few people you vaguely recognize on the lawn, and even more that you absolutely don’t; a good number of them glance at you and Mark as you step through the threshold then look away, probably deciding you’re of no real consequence or harm to their moods.

Youngho’s easily spottable because of his massive height; he towers over the rest of his guests, and the red plastic cup in his hand calls even more attention because he’s lifted it over everyone else’s heads. You throw Mark an apologetic glance that he responds to with a short nod before you dive into the crowd alone, trying to weave your way to where you’d last seen Youngho.

“Bro, finally!” Youngho greets you, pretty much shouting over the music. “Where’s the gift? Did you leave it on the table?”

“Happy birthday, Youngho. Do you know how close you were to being blocked?”

“I see you brought mister espresso with you,” he ignores your comment completely, nodding to Mark. When you turn back to see him, you notice he’s squishing his arms closer to his sides, trying to minimize the space he takes up. “So what? Y’all get to hook up already?”

“No. I brought him here because we were in the middle of something and someone,” you stop, offering him a pointed look that’s also ignored. “Wouldn’t stop texting.”

“Cockblock,” the guy next to Youngho, who you now realize has been eavesdropping, singsongs. “Oh, sorry. You looked angry when you stomped through the crowd, so I wanted the juicy details. Name’s Jaehyun.”

You take the hand he offers you briefly, introducing yourself. When you say your name, realization dawns on his face, and he jabs his forefinger at you.

“Oh, dude. You’re that girl — the Starbucks Showstopper.”

“The what?”

“That’s what his friends call you.” He scratches his ear, seemingly racking his brain for more information. “I’m with Mark and a couple of his friends — Lee Donghyuck and Na Jaemin — in College Algebra.”

You completely gloss over the fact that you’ve finally found out the real government identity of the mysterious figure named ‘Hyuck.’ “They… talk about me?”

“From time to time. Not really. Once or twice. Donghyuck only calls you that because Mark apparently keeps blowing them off to hang out with you.”

“How do you know this?”

“I have ears. It’s not hard when they talk like no one’s around.”

You shush Youngho’s exclamation of and you’re saying I’m nosy?, your heart hammering hard in your ears, practically drowning out the music. “What… what else did they talk about?”

“Not sure. Something about not seeing you that often these days. Jaemin teasing Mark about getting dropped now that you don’t need his help anymore. Donghyuck piling on and saying you’ve got a boyfriend.”

“What?”

“Don’t shoot the messenger.” Jaehyun still inches away from you when your voice rises in pitch and decibel. Some people around you start, then move away as well, as if scared you’re going to incinerate them. “They were just teasing him that you probably ditched him after you started dating someone. Your partner in some project, or what.”

“Oh gross.” The realization hits you like a speeding truck. Youngho’s expression is affronted.

“First of all, you bitch. Second of all, as if I would date someone who didn’t even buy me a gift. Or want to come. Or yelled at me after coming. Wow — now that I think about it, you’re terrible, _________.”

“Oh, shit; that someone was you?” The only person that isn’t tense in this conversation is Jaehyun, who laughs point blank at Youngho’s sour face. “I think they were offering to put you into one of their Death Note notebooks. Sucks for you, hotshot.”

“What a smudge on my good name,” Youngho sighs mournfully. “On my special day, too.”

“I desperately need you two to be quiet for one second. I have to — where’s Mark?”

Even when you stand on your tiptoes, you’re not nearly as tall as the two of them; it’s Youngho, with his freakish height, who manages to spot Mark by the bowl of nachos, looking as though he’s trying to decide if they’re safe for consumption. You hardly excuse yourself; actually, all you say is a distracted “later” that dismisses Jaehyun’s cooing that something’s going down and you should clue him into all the mess later as a thank you. Your appreciation of his sudden and somewhat short-lived presence in your life is still up in the air.

Mark’s busy making a sour face at the sip of punch he’d just taken; he only straightens up when you’re right in front of him, putting his cup down next to the nachos. “Hey. Did you get to find… um…”

“That’s not important.” Your hand bunches the fabric of his jacket in a death grip, something he barely has time to register, let alone question, before you’re tugging him through the throng of people. You want somewhere quiet, somewhere private, and you initially consider the lawn, except you know it’s strewn with cups and has stragglers debating whether to go home or not. You can’t risk any of them being expert eavesdroppers like Jaehyun, so you make a beeline for the stairs instead.

“We’re not leaving yet?” He has to shout over the music, but there’s no resistance in his stride; he follows you up and waits patiently, although a little perplexed, as you check the doors on the second floor. Two are locked, one is a bathroom, and the other is a messy, musk aftershave-scented place you can only presume is Youngho’s room. Talking in front of a sink and a toilet doesn’t feel like it’ll be very productive, so you just drag Mark into the bedroom, kicking aside the crumpled shirt on the floor — which you could’ve sworn you’d seen Youngho wear for class yesterday. “_________, what’s going on?”

“Mark Lee,” you burst out, ignoring the fact that his eyes widen slightly at your tone. “What’s your fucking deal?”

You don’t think you’ve ever sworn in front of him before; that much is evident when he continues to gawk silently, unable to find words to respond to your question. Or maybe it’s just the volume and force with which you demand an answer. The problem is that you don’t even know what kind of reply you want. A small part of you nags that this is uncalled for, especially at this level, with you practically caging him into an unknown room. In fact, even now, you’re still embarrassed at your behavior, wondering if you’ve gone too far and stepped over a line between you.

But the source of all your frustrations is, in fact, that line — one so strangely drawn, clear at some points and almost invisible at others. Sometimes, he seems simply content with the barest minimum of friendship: talking to you, helping you, politely laughing at your (terrible) jokes. But there are also times he blushes too hard for it to not mean anything, times that he makes you feel like you could mean a little something more to him too.

Yet, from there, he wavers, stepping back so as not to get entangled in something you don’t understand — like when he grows distant every time you mention Youngho to him. You don’t understand why he would unless he echoed, even just a little, the longing in you. But you also don’t get why he stays and builds more walls around himself, like he’s determined to ignore all the other signs — like he doesn’t want to know if it’s really true and will just accept the assumption that it is. You hate not knowing where you stand with him, and while you could easily ask, you know you don’t want to.

And for a long time, you’ve convinced yourself that it’s because you want to see Mark step out of his comfort zone and initiate something, but the ugly truth is staring at you: it’s simply just that you can’t stand the idea of seeing him come to the conclusion that you can’t be anything more to him than someone he makes a sweet cream cold brew for every so often.

There’s a moment of tense silence between you two, where you’re just staring at each other — him, perplexed, and you, agitated — and the only sound that passes is the faint but unmistakable voice of Youngho going who has the cake cutting knife? from somewhere down below. You try not to get caught up in the fact that Mark still looks cute when he’s dumbfounded.

“Sorry?”

“What,” you repeat pointedly. “Is your deal? Why have you been acting so weirdly around me these days? I thought — I thought we were… getting closer. I thought… we…”

You’ve confirmed it now; you’re the epitome of cowardliness. You can’t even say I thought we liked each other — because you know that you do, but you still can’t honestly, assuredly tell if he does. Maybe you just read too deeply into the smallest things — smiles before he asks for your order, glances at you when he thinks you’re not looking, sharing the dream eater figurine — to fuel your own emotions without really checking the depth of his.

“I thought we were cool,” you reroute your words, and they come out flat and lame. “But just when I think you’re warming up to me, you suddenly pull away. Like… you’re afraid of me. Or you don’t like me. I don’t know.”

“It’s not — I don’t — I’m not afraid of you,” he stumbles over his words, and even in the darkness of this space, you see his face turn bright red, very quickly. His feet shuffle, not because he’s lost his balance but because he seems to want to get rid of a sudden restlessness. “I do like you. We are — we were getting — we’re close. We — we’re friends. You said that, and we are.”

“Is it only because I say we are that you agree?”

“What? No, I—” His hand passes over his face, slowing at the curve of his chin. “I really like being friends with you. I like being around you.”

“Then why do you act so weird these days? Like — you’ll be fine one moment, then you’ll back off, like you suddenly remembered you don’t want to be around me.”

“It’s not like that. I’m — I don’t get…” He takes a deep inhale, recalibrating himself for a moment before his voice comes out again, less strained this time. “I just don’t want you to feel uncomfortable around me.”

“How could I?” There’s something more than confusion coloring your voice; there’s hurt, too, and he looks as surprised as you feel at hearing it. “I wanted to be your friend. I was the one that asked you to hang out. I was the one who wanted you to talk to me, to help me, to go to a goddamn dim sum place with me. Why would I feel uncomfortable? Or are you just using this as some roundabout way to say you feel uncomfortable?”

Mark falls silent, and you don’t know why this speaks volumes all of a sudden. His eyes are trained to the tips of his sneakers, which are rising in soft bumps every few seconds; he’s curling his toes inside them. You feel like you’ve gotten the worst answer possible, and something grows cold in your chest.

“You feel uncomfortable around me.” You rehash, but it’s no longer a question. “You don’t know how to get rid of me.”

“No, it’s not that.”

“You think I’m only using you.”

“No.”

“Then what?” Your voice breaks, no longer out of anger, but a desperate sadness. The moment your eyes feel hot and prickly, you decide you want to end the conversation. It’s embarrassing, you think, for someone like Mark Lee — whom you like, who only ever sees you as a friend — to see you get choked up at a fucking birthday party at someone else’s house.

A beat later, you’re mumbling a half-hearted forget it, and you detest overdramatics, but you hate the idea of being in a room with someone who’ll never return your feelings even more right now; you push past him, already on the thought of calling a cab home instead of taking the bus so that no half-drunk businessmen coming from their company dinners see you crying.

But something warm wraps around your wrist, then closes over your hand, and you’re unable to move, Mark’s palm pressed against the back of yours. When you look back, you notice he’s still not looking at you, but his ears are practically on fire with how red they are, and you feel his fingers tighten slightly, tremble slightly against yours.

“It’s not that. I didn’t ever want you to think — I heard about you two. That you were dating someone. Seo Youngho.”

“What does that matter?” Your words come out a little more bitterly than you expect, and you have to remind yourself to reel it in. “That doesn’t explain your discomfort.”

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he repeats, still evidently careful in choosing his words. “Because you wanted to be friends.”

“I don’t understand,” you state bluntly. In the back of your mind, you note that Mark’s grip keeps tightening and loosening, unsure of whether to keep holding on or let go. But there’s something else, too — the soft graze of skin against yours, his thumb gliding over your knuckles.

“That was all you said you wanted to be, right?” He waits for a response, but when you don’t give him one, he lets out a shaky breath and continues. “You kept saying — we were friends. You wanted us to be close like that. I just wanted to respect it, even if…”

“Respect what?”

“That you didn’t want… anything else.”

The music downstairs is a bit tamer now; you hear the door opening and closing every so often, signaling guests leaving here and there, but there are still enough footsteps downstairs for you to know that there’s a crowd Youngho hasn’t gotten rid of and therefore has to attend to. That much is good; you’d get slapped with a homicide charge if he came up here all of a sudden.

“You were jealous.”

Mark’s fingers pinch the bridge of his nose for a moment. “I tried to stop. I don’t have a lot of practice with — well, I didn’t know how to approach the situation. I thought I was still acting normally; I didn’t think… I didn’t want you to feel weird and stop hanging out with me just because… I couldn’t fix it.”

“Your friends are assholes,” you mumble, and he finally meets your eye, equal parts startled and amused. “We aren’t. Weren’t. We never were dating.”

“Even without that, I thought… it was a bit embarrassing. Liking someone like you — someone as pretty as you, as nice as you — I thought it would make you feel weird. Then you’d start avoiding me too. Or, worse, you’d keep doing it just because… you… felt bad for me.”

You don’t know what you find more ridiculous — that you hadn’t seen figured it out or that you could have avoided all of this if you’d just been a little more honest with him too. Mark’s hand starts loosening around yours, a little too much, and you turn your palm and grip his hand before he can escape. He stiffens again, just like earlier, but you now understand better why he does.

“I just wanted to keep hanging out with you as much as I could. I thought… It’d be fine, just spending time with you, and I’d be able to like you for a while, on my own, then…” He looks a little pained. “Then just let you go. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry you couldn’t let go?” You sigh softly, your palm guiding his until they connect, face to face, and you can finally lace your fingers into his. There’s no resistance, but his hand trembles slightly in yours still. “If there’s anything you should be apologizing for, it’s that you ever thought of doing it.”

Something clears in the air, lightens in his expression, and he chuckles, albeit a little shyly still. “It’s because I never thought someone like you would like someone like me.”

“I like you.” And it feels right to say it now, not at all out of the blue, never in fear of an answer he’s already given. “I like you when you smile at me every time you ask for my order. I like that you never get impatient when I’m getting my answers wrong. I like seeing you excited when you talk about a new series you’re looking forward to — something new you really want to collect. When you blush, when you laugh loudly, when you spin your pen in your hand — I like you in all those times.”

“Even when I’m jealous?”

“Especially when you are.” Your free hand comes up to cup his jaw, and you’re reminded of the fact that you’ve wanted to feel the strength of the angle under your palm for ages now. It’s not at all a disappointment, and your heart flutters irregularly in knowing you could’ve done this a long time ago, but it doesn’t matter because you’re doing it now, and fuck if Mark Lee doesn’t look good this close to you. “So be jealous — because now, you know you can be.”

Kissing him is better than you imagined, and you’ve imagined a little too much to be embarrassed at this point; there’s a heat to his lips that matches the one across his face, an upturn to them that makes you smile too. The setting’s not at all an expected one, but you’ll take it, not because it’s dark or because it’s private but because Mark’s in here with you, and you would have kissed him in a brightly lit football field full of people for as long as he’d let you.

You’d like to think he’s flushed for a reason other than shyness when you pull away, even if his laugh is quiet and breathy. In fact, when you murmur not enough, he’s the one that closes the gap this time, offering freely what you ask for with such little eloquence. The natural trepidation in his mouth relaxes, gives way to a curiosity that keeps you locked for so long that you forget you need to breathe, much more intent on finding out if Mark’s tongue tastes as good as you’ve imagined for so long.

It doesn’t; it tastes even better.

It’s still not enough, not by a long shot, but you have to resurface before you pass out like this, and even he looks a little dazed when you pull away — not in a bad way, with a grin on his face that you can only classify as endearingly goofy: slightly lopsided and a little shy, but with an unmistakable air of satisfaction.

“Months,” he mumbles, his lips still dangerously close to yours. Your eyebrows rise in questioning, and he laughs in that infectious way that makes you want to join in without even knowing what the punchline is. “I’ve been thinking of kissing you for months.”

And you do share the laughter this time, not out of amusement but of a happiness that spills without restraint. “But you’re suddenly holding back now?”

“Just letting myself bask in the moment, I guess. Letting it sink in so I remember everything.”

The two of you stand there quietly, still trying to fully parse the progression of events, and a small part of your mind registers that Mark’s thumb is still drawing circles on your skin. It’s also not enough — this touch, this closeness. You know now that he’s been thinking of you for months, and it reminds you that you spent that time dreaming of him too. And you remember you’ve always wanted to be even more familiar with him, and suddenly the desire is overwhelming; he’s right here, and you don’t ever want him out of your grasp again.

“Where are you going?” He’s only curious for the sake of it; there’s no alarm in the question because you keep your fingers tightly woven in his, tugging him along as you walk past him to the door. He’s still staring in wonder after the lock clicks shut. “What’s… happening now?”

“You waited months to kiss me, right?” He nods in response at your question. “I’ve been waiting just as long to have you too.”

His mouth falls open, but he doesn’t manage to say anything; his jaw tightens just as quickly when he feels your free hand trail down his chest, feather-light and asking for a green light. Your index finger stops just above his navel and draws back slowly, but not before you feel the shiver that runs down his torso.

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to,” you murmur, giving his hand a little squeeze. “But I just want you to know — I want to. I want you.”

A thoughtfulness settles on his face, and his eyes graze over yours, trying to read your seriousness. You don’t know how honest you look, but your words hold enough truth in them. A silence stretches over the next minute, but to you, it feels like an eternity, and you lose the test of patience somewhat, smiling softly at him.

“You don’t want to?”

“I—” His tongue peeks out, running over his bottom lip. “I do. It’s not that I don’t want to, but…”

“You seem worried.”

A hesitant nod. “I’ve never — well, no, I have, but not — with someone like you.”

“What’s someone like me?” You laugh airily.

“Someone pretty like you — I don’t know. Someone who seems to know exactly what they want. Someone who seems like… they could do better than me.”

“Mark.” You can’t keep the incredulity out of your voice. “I do know exactly what I want. I want you. The rest — I don’t care about. As long as it’s you, I want it.”

He cracks a smile, half of relief, half of disbelief. You don’t miss his hand coming up to press, warm, against your waist. “For real?”

Your fingers curl into the front of his shirt — an anchor to bring you closer, until the tips of your noses are brushing. “For real.”

The third time you kiss is slow, almost careful; there’s lingering worry in the line of his mouth that your lips try to ease until his slightly part under the movements of yours. You feel the tension leave his form in waves — first in his shoulders, then in his arms, until you’re able to press yourself closer and feel the slight give of his frame against your smaller one. He’s radiating an immense amount of body heat that’s pricking your skin and keeping you alert, and you’re hyperaware of the smallest things — the weak tremble in his mouth, the slight roughness of his teeth under your tongue, the ridges of his palate above it.

He tastes nothing like what he smells, you learn. Instead of the air of earthy coffee stuck to clean linen, you inhale a combination of spearmint and mild saltiness that’s made slightly sharper by the lingering splash of alcohol from his accidental sip of punch earlier. You decide then and there that this disparity is important to you; it makes you feel like you’re the only one who can have this experience — that everyone else can know his scent, but now, only you can know what Mark Lee tastes like.

You have to keep your wits about you to avoid this addictive stimulation of your senses; you let go of his hand only to lock your fingers around his neck, and there’s a show of trust in how he lets you lead him backwards, until his knees are hitting the edge of the unmade bed. The kiss breaks as he’s forced to settle on the mattress, and he looks up at you in what can only be described as a quiet kind of awe. He doesn’t complain when you place your hands, heavy, on his shoulders, using his sturdy form to keep you stable as you move to straddle his lap.

“I feel like,” his voice is hoarse as he speaks up. “We should have picked a different location. Someone… could walk in.”

“I locked the door,” you remind him, a light reassurance in your voice. He doesn’t say anything immediately, but it’s clear there are cogs turning in his head, and you think it’s unfair that he’s thinking way too hard about something else that isn’t you, right now, in this position. In a bid to rectify this, your face presses into the side of his neck, breathing in that familiar scent and leaving a light kiss on his skin right after. Your lips mark the moment he swallows hard at the contact. “Besides, would you really be that unhappy if someone did?”

His hands tighten against your waist, prompting you to leave another kiss against his collarbone. “What — what do you mean?”

“You wouldn’t like it if someone — say, Youngho — walked in to see me on your lap like this?”

The silence that follows your words is tense, and you can tell that Mark’s breathing has become shallower. Again, you can feel his throat constricting slightly, and you can’t help but laugh breathily as you nip at his skin, just under his Adam’s apple. He’s surprisingly easy to tease, you realize — quick to turn speechless and prone to hanging onto your words.

To say that you wouldn’t want to use that to your advantage would be a downright lie.

“Tell me,” you urge, your tone deceptively gentle. “You wouldn’t want him to see you kissing me like this? To see me wrapped around you, begging for more, saying your name over and over? You don’t want him to watch you take me — so he knows you’re the only one that can?”

A strangled groan punctuates your words, but it comes from him; his fingers dig hard into your side with barely constructed restraint. “What do you want from me, _________?”

“I want to know if kissing me was the only thing you wanted for months.”

You pull your head away, nudging his chin with the tip of your nose. Another groan escapes him, and his head tilts back slightly, almost like he’s praying. But when his gaze comes down to meet yours at your level again, you see a firm resolution in his eyes that stirs your heart — which takes off the moment he shakes his head, slowly but surely.

“Then,” you whisper. “What do you want from me?”

He doesn’t say so much as shows; he takes from you your breath, steals another kiss that’s now firmer and more openly demanding. Suddenly, his mouth can’t seem to stay still, trapping your lower lip in between his, drawing out your taste until it mixes with his against his teeth. You feel your head growing light again, and you’re pleasantly surprised that it’s suddenly become difficult to keep up with his lips, asking more from you without restraint. A hum of need sounds in the back of his throat, vaguely dissatisfied, and he’s telling you wordlessly that it isn’t enough right before he attaches his lips to the base of your neck, just above your collar. You think he’s just about to return the favor, but a laugh leaves you when you realize he’s taken it a step further, his teeth grazing your skin lightly, soft nips signaling how eager he is to sink his teeth in with only his slowly weakening self-control stopping him from doing it. Mark’s breathing is slightly labored when he pulls his lips away, warm breath fanning over your chest.

“It’s crazy — and stupid,” he croaks out, voice slightly raspy. “But I want it, and I don’t.”

“What do you mean?” Your fingers drag into his hair, combing it upward messily from his nape. He leans in for a quick kiss that’s somewhat misplaced, landing on the corner of your mouth instead of squarely atop it.

“I want them — him to see us. To see me with you, kissing you — fucking you, too. I want everyone to know we’re like this.”

You’ve never heard Mark say anything so forwardly before; a sweet, warm flush builds in your face, pleased at how comfortably he manages to say it — pleased that he’s saying it to you. “Then what’s the problem?”

“I don’t want him to see you.” There’s a bluntness to his words, but hiding behind them is an undertone of pleading — a serious request. “I don’t want him to see how pretty you look. I don’t want him to see you when you’re bare, or how you look when I’m inside you. I don’t want him to see—”

His voice wavers and dies, and you wonder if he’s embarrassed, but when you read his expression, you see an unyielding longing. A smile tugs at your lips, and your hand comes around to cup his chin, thumb extending upwards to drag his lower lip down.

“You don’t want him to see what’s only yours.”

He swallows hard again, but he doesn’t wait long to nod. Understanding passes between the both of you, silently but completely, and Mark presses his face to your throat, feeling the hum resonate as he places another long, firm kiss there.

“You’re mine,” he whispers, in a way that almost feels like he wants to convince himself of something impossible to believe. He doesn’t even wait for your affirmation, prefers to read it in the way you shiver lightly once his lips travel further down. His kisses trail past the collar of your shirt, and his hands are unabashed in how they seek skin, pushing the fabric upward so he can settle the palms of his hands, warm against your waist. Oddly, they don’t travel upwards; they only brush against the dip, down slightly over the upward rise of your hips, then upwards again, almost soothingly. It’s almost like he wants his mouth to meet them, but he stops halfway, sidetracked by the curve of your breasts.

He barely pulls away, only does for a moment, enough to meet your eyes.

“You’re only mine,” he repeats, his voice softer now. You realize he’s still waiting for some confirmation, and when you do, you’re quick to give it to him — quick to erase any doubt.

“I’m yours,” you affirm in the same tone, in the same careful volume. “Only yours, Mark.”

Whatever else he wanted to ask for, he knows you’ve given assent; that much is clear when he buries his face between your tits, inhaling your scent. You briefly wonder if he might feel just as intoxicated around you as you do around him, if your pleasant dizziness in being this close to him, in tasting and smelling him is something he experiences too, but you don’t get much time to dwell on it the moment you feel his lips part, a slight wetness seeping through the fabric. He’s kissing your chest, teeth grazing just above the cup of your bra, nipping without any real objective other than to feel the pad’s slight resistance to his mouth.

You almost miss what he says as he shifts his head, lips brushing over the curve of your breast — another breathless ‘mine’ that isn’t ever punctuated; his lips still stay parted, mouthing at the cloth, like he’s desperate to feel what’s underneath through it. There’s pressure where his tongue presses flush against the shape of your tit, tightness whenever he chooses to nip, attempting to take the flesh and all that’s between you and him between his teeth.

Not enough, you think, even when a whimper of need bubbles out of you; you want to be closer, your thighs pressing against the sides of his. You’re close in almost every way, but you still inch yourself further forward, enough to feel the taut hardness in his jeans. Your hips settle right there, letting fabric ride against fabric as you center yourself.

No sooner do you press yourself flush against him do you gasp; the light sting sends a jolt up your spine when his teeth close around your nipple through your bra, and when you look down at him, you see the corners of his mouth pulled up in evident satisfaction. He’s quick to atone, his tongue dragging your shirt slightly upwards in his attempt to soothe, and for some reason, the push of fabric and the barely-there feeling of motion leaves you tingling.

“Mark.” Your voice comes out in a whine, but in the haze you’re in, you don’t really have a clear idea of what you’re asking for. All you know is that you want more of him, and for as much as he’s already given you in kisses and words, you aren’t even halfway down the list of everything else you wish you could demand from him. You say the only thing that comes to mind — the only thing that really encompasses what you feel. “Mark, I want you. I want more of you.”

His hands on your waist are replaced by the significant tightness of his arms, locked around your torso; you don’t even have the time to take in your awe at the fact that he can easily carry you, turn you over until you’re on your back, until he’s already eased one knee between your legs.

The way he looks down at you is a mixture of hesitation and desire, but the former’s erased when you reach out for him, murmuring another ‘more’ so you can pull him in. With one palm pressed against the mattress, he lets his free hand graze against your side again, bolder in its movements, and his fingers trace a path up to your breast, squeezing the soft flesh through layers. Your back arches upwards in response, eager for more contact, for touch that’s almost there but not quite, and he smiles when you make a noise of frustration from his fingers tweaking the soft nub of your nipple.

“Mark, please—”

“Would you really let him see you like this?” His thumb’s still idly grazing over your breast, following the rise and fall of its curve. You swallow hard, trying to keep your voice level despite the growing want that threatens to break through it. “Would you really let him watch you… get fucked?”

You shake your head, and his brow furrows.

“I’d let him watch you fuck me,” you correct him, and the confusion in his face gives way to pure satisfaction the moment you make this nuance clear. “It has to be only you.”

His grip tightens briefly against your breast again, and he leans down, pressing a surprisingly chaste and brief kiss to your lips.

“Then I’ll unlock the door next time and give him a show.”

You don’t know if it’s what he says or what he does after — his hands bunching your shirt upward until the hem’s just below your neckline — that makes your breath hitch, but you decide it doesn’t matter when you realize you’d much rather be focusing on the journey his lips take, slick against your stomach as he presses languid kisses down to your navel. His fingers hook into the waistband of your jeans, the weight naturally pulling them down, and you see his muscles tighten for a moment as he stops himself from tugging them off completely.

Mark’s mouth is unparalleled in its attentiveness, seemingly intent on making sure he’s covered every inch of your stomach in warm kisses, but you only realize he’s somehow stalling when he starts the cycle again, his nails digging into the taut elastic of your jeans as though to remind himself to curb his desire.

You take the initiative instead, raising your hips slightly to signal your want, acutely aware of the fact that you brush lightly against his thigh when you do so. His eyes lift first, followed by the rest of his face, and he’s watching you quietly. You might have thought he was unsure of what to do all of a sudden again, but his knee pressing closer, an unmistakable pressure against you, is enough to tell you that he’s only curious to know what else you’ll do.

The second time you grind against his thigh, his hands catch your hips, keeping them aloft just long enough for him to tug the band of your jeans downward; he peels them off you with surprising ease, returning to the same position between your legs, hands still firm on your waist. With that done, he only has the thin garter of your panties left to curl his fingers into, bunching it into his fists when you roll your hips up one more time. You manage a shaky noise when you feel the stark difference — the roughness of the denim against you, the stick and drag of flimsy cloth. Mark lets out a low but unmistakable hiss.

“I can’t believe—” his idea is cut short by the movement of your hips again, and his grip tightens, knuckles pressing into your skin. “Can’t believe you’re here. I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

“What am I supposed to do,” you breathe out, the sound momentarily getting stuck in your throat. “So that you know it’s real?”

His fingers relax their hold, palms now pressed against your thighs; they travel between your hips and your knees, a soothing and thoughtful motion. “God — I don’t know. I just want — I just want you so badly. Like… I’m going to go crazy if I don’t have you now.”

You lean up, your weight resting on your elbow, and your other hand reaches out; Mark meets you halfway, bending just a little lower to press his cheek against your palm. There’s something intimate, something so giving about the way he turns his face to your fingers, pressing a fluttering kiss just under your thumb. The tips of your fingers trace the shape of his lips, even when they pucker again under your digits.

“Take me,” you murmur quietly. “Right now — from now on, every part of me is all for you.”

His exhale is shaky, but his fingers have a sureness to them; they slip under your thighs, cradling the backs of your knees, and lifting until they’re folded over your chest. You don’t even have the time to wonder if you should feel exposed all of a sudden; his breath warms the inside of your thigh as he presses his lips there — not a kiss, just a touch as he speaks.

“I want to taste you,” he mumbles, partly distracted with the act of inhaling the mild scent off of your skin. “Every inch of you — I want to know just how sweet you are.”

He lets his hold on your thighs relax, letting them fall apart; he busies his hands with your panties instead, hooking a finger into the strip of cloth just covering you. It’s clear you’re both aware that the fabric sticks light to your skin, poorly masking your wetness, and interest mingled with hunger flashes across his face as he pulls it aside.

“You’re so pretty,” he says, sounding like it’s a comment more for himself than anything else. His gaze flickers to you for a moment before it moves back to your pussy. “The prettiest fucking girl in the world.”

The pressure of his thumb between your folds causes you to forget what you wanted to say, and you know Mark had been nervous, but you realize that it doesn’t mean he’s supremely inexperienced by any means; there’s a quiet, understated confidence in the way he rubs slow, thorough circles, moving upward towards your clit. Your face, your neck, your whole torso feels flushed, but you power through the instinct to tilt your head back so that you can keep watching him — the minute changes in his expression, the slowly building strength in his touch.

“I want to taste you,” he repeats, looking up at you. “I want to know what you taste like when you cum against my mouth.”

You’re not sure if you’re gawking because you can hardly believe Mark Lee — your eternally blushing, mild mannered campus crush — had said all those words strung together into such a lewd sentence, but you’re sure as hell not going to deny him. Your hand travels down your torso, and he watches, curious at first, then awestruck when your index and forefinger settle against either side of your folds, pulling them apart in offering.

His eyes end up transfixed on your pussy again, observing how your fingers ease your folds further apart the more he massages his thumb against your slit. His mouth is slightly agape, intent on drinking in the sight, unaware that you’re trying to memorize this view of him too — Mark Lee, touching you, wanting you, eager to take you fully.

“I’ve always wanted to see what it’d look like with your face between my legs,” you say in a hushed tone, but he catches it anyway, briefly looking up at you again. “I’ve always wanted to know what your tongue would feel like against my pussy.”

Your index finger bumps against the tip of his thumb, and he stops its motions, allowing you to move his digit down until the pad of it hovers just in front of your tiny hole. You can see one cheek tucked between his teeth, bitten to muffle the groan you wish you’d heard louder.

“Won’t you show me?”

You think you hear him rasp out a ‘fuck yes’ before he bends down, pressing his half-open mouth against your pussy. The squeal of delight that leaves you is half-strangled as his thumb curls, hooking into your entrance. It starts a shallow, distracted motion, with his attention funneled much more clearly into keeping his tongue working. Flush against your slit, it drags up, and he releases a guttural noise at your taste, lips pursing slightly on the way back down — like he can’t stand not trapping every drop of wetness with his mouth.

The intensity of his tongue, the idle thrusting of his thumb — you’re not sure what you want to focus on more, and the result is you whimpering incoherently at the starkly contrasting combination of the two. Mark moves his mouth like he’s never tasted anything as good in his life; the sounds between your thighs are wet, sloppy — almost embarrassingly so — but you don’t have the presence of mind to dwell on that because Mark Lee is eating you out and that’s really all that you can think of.

The tip of his tongue suddenly flicks upwards; you keen, long and low, when it starts to circle your clit in that same intense, circular movement his thumb had gotten you used to. Your sensitivity skyrockets, and you’re completely unable to control the upward bucking of your hips, but Mark stays supremely unperturbed, his free arm winding under your thigh to keep the both of you steady. Your noises are growing embarrassingly loud, and you realize just how needy you’ve become when you vaguely notice that there’s a pattern in what you’re saying — his name, over and over again.

“Did you do that too?” He asks softly, his words slightly muffled against you. “Say my name, I mean — when you thought of me.”

“God, yes.” Your voice comes out strained, teetering on the edge of slurring. “So many times — every single fucking time.”

“Promise me something.” He lifts his head, and you see a fieriness in his gaze.

You nod — at this rate, whatever he’d ask you to do, you would without question. “Anything.”

His thumb presses in deeper, up to his knuckle and you reflexively tighten around his digit, but he keeps it anchored there, pushing down against your walls. He drinks in your gasp, the widening of your eyes, the way you chew on your lip with a singular kind of contentment on his face.

“Promise me — from now on, you’ll make sure I’m always there to hear it.”

The only kind of assent you’re able to make is a moan as he dives down again, mouth buried in your warmth, his nose pressed tight against your clit. His tongue moves in strong strokes, broad swipes that push your folds apart further, and his thumb, while not moving, increases in pressure to the point that you feel a heaviness adding to the growing pleasure. Your hands fly down, seeking some kind of sense and reason, and you thread your fingers into his hair, grip tightening as your climax builds in stride.

“Mark, I’m—” close, you want to say, embarrassingly so, but the moment he hears his name, his lips attach to your clit, and there’s suddenly so much more pressure as he sucks, almost like he’s desperate to draw out your orgasm. He chooses this of all time to start moving his thumb again, and this time, his movements are anything but slow and idle; they’re filled with the intent to drive you over the edge. “Fuck me, oh my god—”

“I want to,” he murmurs, pausing for just a moment to drag the tip of his tongue around the nub. “God, I want to. Let me see you cum first; let me taste how sweet you are.”

His thumb stops, buries deep into your pussy, and you’re not sure why this, of all things, is what pushes you beyond control; you’re only half-sure you say his name when your orgasm hits, the rest of your consciousness much too clouded by pleasure. He doesn’t stop, revels in the way you squirm under him as he hums low and keeps his tongue working against your clit. His licks become longer, more thorough as you come down from your high, your cries softening into whimpers as his tongue both attempts to clean you up and makes you messier in the process. His arm is still curled around your thigh, keeping you from inching away from him, even if instinct and stimulation are telling you to.

You’re barely lucid when you sit up, and Mark inches back, somewhat startled; you grab the front of his shirt, and the sight of his mouth, slick and glistening from your wetness, only makes you more curious to know what you taste like on him. You find out how tangy it is, how rich the two of you are together on his lips, and you’re able to fully appreciate the skill of the mouth that kisses you deeply, leaving traces of you against your tongue and teeth.

“Please — fuck me.” It’s the only thing you can say at this rate, only half-coherent and still trembling with desire, but Mark doesn’t seem to care that you’re stuttering over such a simple request. His thumb wipes traces of saliva off the corner of your mouth, kisses it clean for good measure, then straightens up, his hands working at his belt. You almost miss the fact that his hands are shaking slightly as he undoes the buckle and tugs it out from the loops.

You want to help — it’s the least you can do, after all, and your fingers push the button of his jeans out through the hole, his hands working in tandem to tug the zipper down. However, your movements falter when you hear a noise from just outside the room — the sound of the doorknob being jangled, the thud of a body gently hitting the door, as though worried it’s stuck. You glance up at Mark, ready to reassure him, but he either hadn’t heard or doesn’t care because he’s too busy stepping out from the pool of denim at his ankles, and you get completely sidetracked by the bulge straining against his boxers.

You almost ignore Youngho’s voice grumbling ‘Jesus Christ, now of all times? from behind the door, but you leverage it instead.

“Should we let him in?” You ask, tone innocent despite the evident deviousness in your words. It pays off, though; Mark’s cock twitches unmistakably under thin fabric, and he actually looks like he’s considering it. “You’re just about to fuck me, after all. Weren’t we going to — what did you say? Put on a show?”

He worries on his bottom lip, like he’s unsure if you’re serious, but in the end, he shakes his head, reaching out to smooth your hair away from your face and ushering you to lay back down. The lips that meet your forehead are gentle, almost apologetic.

“Not now,” he murmurs against your skin. “Right now, you’re all mine.”

You laugh lightly, nodding, and he chuckles too, but the sound of it slowly dies down when your finger hooks into the garter of his boxers. You can feel his breathing hitch as you tug it down, the elastic catching when it meets the shape of his cock, but you don’t make any move to free it just yet — for some reason, you want to see him do it.

“Show me.”

He complies without hesitation, one hand dragging the elastic down over his thighs, the other curling around the base of his length, and your face flushes as satisfaction works through your system at the bare sight of him.

Mark Lee is big — not monstrously so, but enough for you to make a pleased noise as your hand joins his, fingers barely wrapping around his girth. You give his shaft a gentle squeeze, and his exhale stutters, watching you stroke him, long and thorough in your movements. Your palm swipes over the tip, leaking precum, allowing it to slick up your hand enough to keep your movements smooth. You’re fixated on the tension in his lips, the throb of his cock against your palm, and the way his gaze never leaves your face, like a small, amazed part of him still can’t believe what you’re doing, even if you’re both half-naked already.

“I want to suck you off,” you plead, grip tightening slightly. He grits his teeth, stifling another groan, but he shakes his head clearly enough for you to slow your movements in mild surprise.

“Can’t — not now. I need to be in you so badly.” His breathing’s sharp and heavy, like he’s trying to keep himself in check. “You don’t even know — how long I’ve wanted to feel you.”

Your hold relaxes, and you let him maneuver you, his renewed hold on your hips dragging you closer to the edge of the bed. In this position, he can spread your thighs further, and you angle yourself optimally — enough for him to get a full view of your pussy, wet and still aching from your last orgasm.

“You don’t know how badly I’ve wanted to know how tight you are,” he continues, and there’s a faraway look in his eyes that makes you think he might be entrenched in fantasy. “How much I would have killed to see you — have you like this. I’m not gonna be able to wait anymore.”

His fingers dig into your sides, thumbs stroking your stomach in a weak pattern. The underside of his shaft presses against your folds, still half obscured by your panties, in a way that’s heavy enough to make you mewl, your hips reacting before your mind can, and he hisses softly as he feels his length glide along your slit before you relax your stance again.

“I can’t wait,” he reiterates, a breaking in his voice that sounds almost tortured. You don’t want him to either, want to see him buried to the hilt inside you, and you raise your hips again in need. “I want you so much it’s driving me crazy.”

“Then take me.”

And you’re not sure if it’s a demand or a plea, but he no longer stops himself; his hand fists his cock a few times, coating the slick of precum along his length before he lines the tip up with your entrance. His other hand’s flush against the inside of your thigh, a light pressure ensuring he always has enough space to fit himself between your legs — enough space to bottom out completely.

Mark’s considerate in his pace — maybe he knows he’s big, or maybe he’s just naturally careful, but he allows you the time to adjust to the stretch. Your nails almost puncture holes into the sheets, your grip so tight you wonder if it’s just to brace yourself or to hang onto the last threads of your sanity. He’s only halfway in, but you’re pushing fullness already, and he stops when his cock meets slight resistance, looking up at you in concern.

“You’re not—?”

“It doesn’t hurt,” you reassure him softly, and it’s true; the adjustment brings about slight discomfort, but it’s almost nothing to you — not compared to how much more you want. “Give me everything; I want all of you inside me.”

He pauses still, trying to read your expression for any lies, but when he can’t find any, he nods, his jaw tensing as he presses both palms against your thighs, keeping you open as much as possible to accommodate him. He doesn’t even stop when you whimper, feeling a tightening twitch in your pussy that also causes him to groan, until inch by inch, you’ve taken him, his hips flush against yours.

He doesn’t move — not yet, his eyes trained to where you’re connected like he’s once again unable to believe what he’s doing. You hear him mumble something to himself that you want to hear too; you squirm slightly, and he hisses through his teeth, looking up at you and finding the questioning in your face. He offers you a small smile, albeit somewhat strained.

“You’re tighter than I thought.”

“You’re bigger than I thought,” you hum, and neither of you is really to blame; the tight fit, the slight breathlessness it leaves you with, is perfect, you think — just what the both of you need. “Did you often think about fucking me?”

“Probably just as often as you’re making it sound like you thought about having me fuck you, I think.”

“Don’t get cocky,” you warn, but there’s no real heat in your voice.

“I won’t. But it makes me feel good — knowing you wanted me just as bad.”

“I still do.” Your gaze is lazy, a little hazy, even if you’re anticipating so much. Even just the feeling of Mark, throbbing inside you, is already slowly building the pleasure in your stomach again; you wonder if you could cum like this, given enough time, given enough patience. “I’m still waiting for you to fuck me. God, Mark— please.”

He chuckles good-naturedly, but even that’s drowned out by the long moan that leaves you once he draws his hips back; your body’s mildly shocked into a new adjustment, feeling a sudden emptiness that’s quickly mitigated by him filling you back up again. The pace is slow, almost torturous, although you know he isn’t doing it to get a rise out of you. He wants to ease you into speed, careful to help you adjust fully; his restraint in his movements is all the more evident on his face, in the furrowing of his brow and the determination in his gaze. Even with that, he can’t help what he says, so intent on controlling everything else he does that he lets his words spill out over your noises.

“Pretty,” he grunts out, and when your walls twitch around him, he accidentally thrusts sharper — just enough for you to whimper a little more loudly, and he has to reel his strength back again. “God, you’re beautiful. I should’ve told you sooner how much I wanted you. All those times I had to imagine you wrapped around me like this, wondering how much tighter you’d get once you came on my cock. All those times you drove me crazy while I was alone, when I could have been in you— I could have found out how good you felt. How pretty you’d look under me. And you’re still even prettier, even better than I ever dreamed.”

There’s an erratic melody of moans under his words, spilling from your mouth, and the fact that he riles himself up enough to increase his speed slightly doesn’t escape you. He’s a little less careful now, seemingly entranced by the view he gets, watching his shaft disappear into you only to come out glistening, and a part of you hates the idea of snapping out of his reverie, but the majority of your thoughts now lean towards wondering how much more you can get him to break free of his own self-imposed restrictions.

“I wanted to ask you so many times.” His eyes snap up, coming back into focus as he takes in the sight of you, flushed, hair tousled, gaze darkened. “Almost every day — I sat there, thinking about how all I could do was go home and fuck myself, frustrated you weren’t doing it for me. I should have taken you home with me right then and there — should have let you watch me touch myself thinking of you, should have let you touch me into cumming on your fingers.”

His breathing staggers as he leans in, eager to see you clearer, to hear your words, slowly becoming airier as they come out. For a moment, his gaze falls, torn between watching him move into you and meeting your eyes, but he ultimately chooses the latter once you speak up again, your tone even more hushed than before — like it’s meant to be a secret between just you and him.

“But there were times I wanted you even more than that, to the point that I almost felt like I couldn’t wait.” His eyes widen slightly, a few precious seconds of wondering if he understands what you mean, right before you confirm what he thinks. “I thought about making a move right then — I should have kissed you. I should have asked you.”

“Asked me what?” His voice is gruff with the effort to keep himself in check despite the fact that it’s clear to the both of you that it won’t last.

Your lazy smile’s illusionary; it hides the triumph swelling in your chest at knowing that he asked exactly what you hoped him to.

“I should have asked you to fuck me in front of everyone there.”

“God,” his eyes squeeze shut, his grip tightening. “Please. I can’t—”

“I should have bent over for you there, begged you to stretch me out right after our session,” you continue, bordering on merciless. “Mark, you don’t know — how badly I wanted to be on your lap, your cock in me, with everyone watching. How much I wanted you to fold me over that table, have people watch you pound me, have them listen to how good you make me feel. No one would ever even wonder; everyone would know I’m yours.”

You pause, allowing his eyes to fly open once again, and there’s a pleading in them that’s begging for release. Your eyes soften along with your voice, but you’re this far gone; you should at least see it through.

“And everyone would know you’re mine too.”

“Fuck,” he growls, and his hips stutter before new resolve fills him, his hips driving into you with the force of a strength you didn’t even know he had in him; your thighs tremble at the intensity, at the renewed impact, and feeling him drive his cock deeper into you has you crying out somewhere between a moan and a sob. “Fuck, _________. If I had known you’d thought about me like that — God.”

It’s your turn to shut your eyes for a while, allowing yourself to focus on his movements, breaching your tightness even faster now. You feel his hands skim up your sides again, fingers digging into the fabric of your bra and pulling them down until your bare tits are cupped in his hands. You shiver as his thumbs pass over your nipples, toying them into firm nubs.

“One day,” he hums out, his voice giving way to a slight hoarseness again. “I’ll do it. I’ll fuck you in front of him — in front of Youngho, in front of everyone. I’ll let them wonder how tight you are, how fucking warm you are, and I’ll let them leave knowing no one can know but me.”

It’ll never happen, you both know, but something about agreeing to something so absurd is what has your body almost shaking in longing, and it’s what causes him to press in deeper, folding your legs closer to your torso. Your hands do what little they can to help, keeping your thighs apart so as not to obstruct his view. You can tell it’s somehow not enough, not really all of what he wants when his brow furrows, and he shifts his weight, pushing into you at a new angle.

The stark difference has you gasping before you can control it. Immediately, Mark stops, and you’re already shaking your head before you even hear him say anything, presuming he’s paused out of concern. But before you can say you’re fine, his hushed voice cuts through the silence.

“Do that again.”

“What?”

“Do it again,” he mumbles, sounding distant. “Breathe in. Suck in your stomach.”

You’re not one to complain at such a simple request, albeit a little odd, so you comply, inhaling enough to tighten your torso. You’re surprised when you feel his cock twitch inside you, and you blow out the air alongside your question. “Mark, what are you—”

“I can see it,” he says in utter disbelief. “When you’re like this, I can — I can see my cock inside you. Just a bit.”

Your eyes follow his gaze, fixed just below your navel. From this angle, without any movement, you can’t see a thing, but you assume he’s not one to abandon fucking you so intently without good reason, so you press your palm against your stomach, just above your pelvis. Nothing really feels significantly out of place — up until the point when Mark draws his hips back again, and you feel the backward slide of his cock.

Your throat tightens, and you don’t really understand the feeling that spreads in you — a unique kind of arousal, knowing how deep he is inside you and how you’re taking all of him in despite the fit, because of the fit. Your hand falls away, allowing Mark’s to take its place, and he exerts just a little more pressure against your stomach in an attempt to get the most out of the experience when he thrusts back in. He groans, feeling the bulge push back up, and he quickly picks up the same pace, renewed in intensity so he can experience the rapid rise and fall he creates under his palm.

The faster he goes, the harder he presses, and you’re not sure if he knows it, but the onslaught of friction is what’s making you whine and squirm even more; you’re trapped, in the best way possible, in his hold, your hands back to clinging to the backs of your knees like a lifeline. Pressure from the outside builds on the slowly growing pressure inside, a knot in your pelvis that’s coiling so tightly you feel like you can’t breathe. If Mark notices how close you are, he doesn’t make it known; he’s busy feeling the outline of his cock against your stomach, and when he looks up at you again, his eyes are hazy.

“I would fuck you every single day, every single hour if I could feel this every time,” he whispers in a way that’s almost reverent. “Let me — I want to keep seeing you like this. I want to feel how deep I am inside you, too. Let me fuck you all the time.”

You nod, and your first attempt to say something is just another choked sob. When you do manage to get something out, it’s broken in tearful stutters. “M-Mark, I’m s— I’m so close… I’m — fuck—”

“Do it.” It’s not a harsh command but an urging made on short breath; through your misty vision, you see tension in Mark’s face and shoulders, like he’s bracing himself for something too. You barely register the ping in the back of your mind, too focused on the way he’s pressing his palm harder on your stomach, the way his hips quicken their pace — he’s close too. “Let me feel you — want to feel you cum all over my cock.”

You inhale, not to speak but to let out a loud whimper; your teeth dig into your lower lip as you try to stifle the moans that threaten to follow, but in the end, you whine out his name. Your thighs threaten to close, trembling as you finally reach your climax, an impossible explosion of pleasure, and you have to squeeze your eyes shut so that you don’t get dizzy from the stars that burst around your vision.

“Fuck.” Mark’s voice is strained, his one hand still firm against your stomach, the other sliding against the inside of your thigh. “You get even tighter — you feel even better when you cum.”

“Mark,” you hiccup, unable to do anything but flutter around him as he pistons harder into you. You don’t even know what you’re asking for when you say ‘please,’ but he somehow seems to, and you trust that your body’s saying something you can’t fully detect in this state, with your mind floating in the aftermath of ecstasy.

“I know,” his tone is soothing in contrast to the intensity of his thrusts. “I’ve got you. Just a little more — where do you want—?”

You blink slowly, his words sinking in at too leisurely a pace; his hips stutter dangerously before you’re able to respond. You barely even do that, your hand gently brushing over the one against your stomach, but he catches onto the meaning quickly enough.

You’ve never heard your name said in such a beautiful way; hearing him moaning it lowly is enough to make you whine again, and that noise is drawn out when he shifts and slips out of you fully. Your brain’s fuzzy, but your senses are at least sharp enough to drink in the perfect sight of him cumming — the way he leans his head back, jaw taut and eyes shut, as he pumps his cock and the heat of his release against your skin, pooling against your stomach once he finally cums. You see a shiver run through him, and then he’s still for a while in this position, the both of you basking in the afterglow of your highs.

You’re still weak and sensitive when Mark finally comes back down, a lucidity you don’t have right now coming back into his gaze. All you can do is smile when he leans in, catching your lips in another kiss — one that’s surprisingly soft and slow in comparison to everything else, but still leaves you breathless when he pulls away.

“Let me clean you up,” he murmurs, and you hum in agreement, your body limp as you watch him move off the bed and pull a handful of tissues from a box on the desk on the opposite wall. Even his hands are gentle when he scoops you up, shifting you until your head can lean against the pillows. They carry a scent you’re not used to, and your nose scrunches, rejecting the change, but that’s quickly overpowered by Mark’s familiar coffee-and-linen one when he presses next to you, careful as he wipes his cum off your stomach and thoroughly cleans between your thighs. From somewhere down below, you still hear hushed voices, and the front door slams shut again. People are still in the middle of leaving, but you know Youngho will likely run out of guests soon, and this makes you feel like the timing’s suddenly become urgent.

“I want to date you properly,” you start, slightly slurred but unmistakably blunt. Mark’s gaze snaps to yours, slightly amused, as he balls the tissues up in his fist. “You never asked me, so I’m asking you.”

He looks perplexed. “I just never thought you wanted me to, so I didn’t try.”

You reach up, locking your fingers into his hair and using your grip to pull him down. Your kiss is a little demanding, with a tinge of excess frustration, and he pulls away laughing lightly.

“Do you still think I don’t want you to?”

Mark hums thoughtfully. “I think you made a lot of things clear tonight. On my end, I was happy enough to be near you.” He smiles down at you, and in the faint light, you can see the flush slowly return to his cheeks. “Having you like this — dating you… there’s no way I’d say no.”

Your shoulders relax, satisfied with his answer, and you beam up at him — an act he easily returns, breathtaking and endearing all at once.

Moments later, you feel his arm wind around your waist; he allows you to lean into his side, his other hand crossing over his lap to stroke your thigh. His face turns, pressing a kiss to your hair, and you feel his lips move, hear the quick rush of a whisper. You tilt your head, eyes slightly wide in questioning. “What was that?”

He shakes his head at first, trying to pass it off as nothing. But when it’s clear your curiosity won’t abate, he chuckles softly, his hand gently cupping your chin so that you can only look at him. His thumb strokes your bottom lip gently, as if trying to coax the same words out of your mouth before he murmurs them to you one more time — and this time, he sounds fully convinced of them.

“You’re all mine.”