Synopsis: You and Jeno argue like enemies and make up like lovers. Most of your fights are small. Late nights, missed time together, both of you just wanting a little more attention. Somehow it always ends the same way. Fucking the tension out of each other, but tonight he was focused on you.
Warnings: established relationship, toxic traits, period sex(f receiving), “fingering”, cursing, MDNI
A/n: let me know if a part 2 would be wanted/ divider from @k1ssyoursister
You and Jeno have been having a rough time in your relationship. He’s always out, and you’re always waiting. It’s the classic "I’m busy", "I’ll see you soon", "I’ll try to see you when I can".
It’s been a year in your relationship, and you haven’t even been able to celebrate your first anniversary because you both have been busy. Working as a junior animator was kicking your ass, deadlines, meetings, and your boss hitting on you from left and right, but god did you need this job.
You knew Jeno hadn’t had it easy either. He and the guys had been landing more gigs. They had constant practices that dragged on all through the night, working on songs. You understood that, at least until your own needs started getting shoved aside.
“Just try to understand,” he says. But you’ve been pretty understanding in your eyes.
For the past couple of months, you’ve been arguing, pretending nothing was wrong, and falling right back into the same cycle. You would fight so much that eventually you guys could just fuck it out of each other, but that never really solved anything, did it?
You couldn’t really blame him. It’s not like you didn’t want him. I mean, for fuck’s sake, it was Lee Jeno. And today, Jeno didn’t have practice.
He sat on the edge of your bed with his guitar, quietly strumming a few new pieces. Meanwhile, you were curled up beside him on the second day of your period, rubbing your stomach while cramps twisted through you. Your mood was all over the place. You were fuming. You couldn’t believe that while you were having cramps and rubbing your stomach, he could be unfazed, strumming his guitar.
He must’ve sensed it after a few minutes. Jeno set the guitar on the stand he kept in your room and turned toward you.
"Come here," he murmured. "Let's cuddle." For a split second, you forgot you were mad. But you were never one to turn down being wrapped in his arms. You lay together for at least five minutes as his fingers ran through your hair and the other hand traced circles on your back.
You were still mad, but his arms were too big to say no to. You could smell his cologne. God, just the smell of him makes the heat between your legs feel almost piping hot. God, even looking at Jeno made you go crazy.
"You smell so damn good, baby." His tone was deep, sultry. And fuck did it turn you on.
The only thing that brought you out of your thoughts was him pulling you closer until you were almost lying on top of him. He traced from your back to your thigh and back up, gripping your butt. If there was one thing Jeno loved, it was your ass.
Whenever he was stressed, he would just fondle it. He’d grab it like it was his personal stress ball. It was probably the only weakness in Lee Jeno’s world.
"You have such a nice ass babe." You couldn’t help but let out a giggle.
He kept teasing you, gently pulling your shorts slightly out of the way before his attention shifted back to your face. He leaned closer, his eyes fixed on you like you were the most precious thing in the world. His lips hovered over yours. You could feel his breath against your mouth. No matter how many times you’d kissed Jeno, your heart still sped up every single time.
His eyes traced over your lips, and he kissed your lips, slowly. The kiss got messier, it was full of desperation. And it felt like you were both trying to tell each other how much you missed each other. His groans filled your mouth, and his other hand was laced in your hair, not pulling hard, but just enough to make you let out a soft moan.
He shifted you both slightly so he was lying on his side while you were on your back. You desperately craved him. He kissed your jaw all the way to your neck slowly then he unzipped the hoodie you had on, knowing that you never wore anything under a hoodie.
“Jeno I’m on my period we-“
That’s all he allowed you to say before he kissed you again it wasn’t rough, but it was just enough to say I know. He trailed kisses slowly along your jaw and down your neck, making you shiver as his hands continued to wander over you. He licked your nipple softly dragging a moan out of you, once he heard that he couldn’t help himself. Jeno was a mad man for you.
His hand went into your shorts, slowly tracing the skin that led to the part you needed him to touch. He used one finger to slide between your wet folds. You gasp at the feeling of him sliding his fingers, finding your clit.
“Jeno oh my god~” you whined out needing more, you craved his fingers.
“Look at my princess, all needy for me.” He moved slowly, kissing you again and again until the pace made you whine.
“You’re so fucking beautiful like this,” he spoke into the kiss, and you kissed back, pulling him close. You sucked on his tongue, making him groan as his hand moved faster, making you flinch and try to close your legs and attempt to close your legs with how good he was touching you. Jeno was stronger, and he didn’t let you. He held your legs in place and continued working his magic on you as soft moans and whines spilled from your lips, all of them his name.
You could see your saliva still connected by a thin string as he pulled away slowly. And he kissed down your chest, sucking along the way.
You can’t help but let out every noise that you couldn’t keep in. He kissed down to your chest. He sucked on your nipple, and he kept eye contact with you, his pupils were dilated, and you could see how badly he wanted to see you come undone on his hand. He loved seeing the faces you made when he would touch you, hearing the noises that would spill out of you as he pounded into you, seeing how your chest rose covered in hickies, and seeing how your legs would twitch as he claimed you every time.
“Yeah, you’re doing so good, you’re going to cum, huh, princess?” He smiled at you, looking at your exposed chest and your face as you nodded.
Jeno’s eyes widened as he looked at you. Flushed cheeks, red lips from the lip biting you were doing, and your hair was all over the place. It was his favorite view in the world. Watch you become completely undone.
You felt his breathing get rough as he watched you fingers going faster as he whispered in your ear.
“God, I love you so much you’re so fucking breathtaking.”
And just like that, you kiss him. It was messy as his fingers went faster, making you moan into his mouth, your legs spread, and his other hand pinched your nipples as you shook, gasping for a release.
And there was you felt the knot in your stomach snap, making you arch your chest rising all you could see were stars as your vision got blurry.
“Fuck jeno!~” you cry out with your legs twitching almost gasping for air.
Your body felt so hot and he helped you ride it out as he kissed you softly. Your head relaxed into the pillow as you pull him down with you kissing his nose lazily.
He smiled and kissed your forehead.
“Now my baby’s happy,” you smile and shove him playfully. “Just one issue, baby.”
“Hm?” You tilted your head to the side in confusion.
In where loving Mark means learning how to sit beside him and still feel alone, a quiet emotional neglect and the ache of not being fully seen.
genre: angst, emotional neglect, established relationship
a/n: oneshot | let me know what if you want any for any other members !
Loneliness. Loneliness was the only thing I could feel.
Heavy in my chest while the TV flickered in front of me. I wasn’t really watching it, I didn’t even know what was on. I was just waiting, phone in hand.
“I’ll pick you up soon. Be ready.”
Four hours later, I was still ready. I was in the dress he got me because he said it brought out my eyes, my hair left naturally curly because he liked it like that.
When he finally called, I answered right away.
“Sorry babe, I was busy.”
Of course he was. They seemed like the only words he knew to speak these days.
“Are you on your way?” hem of my dress between my fingers as I fidgeted with it.
“Yeah, I’m just getting ice cream with the guys”
Ice cream. That’s why I’m waiting? I looked at the window. The sunset I had watched while sitting there in my outfit, makeup done, had already faded into night.
“But it’s 8”
“Yeah, I’ll stop by quick.”
Quick, like I was a last minute squeeze in into his day, like it was a favor that he would even come and see me.
“Okay.”
I washed my face and changed into pajamas. Threw the clothes I had been excited to wear into my hamper. By 9:30, I was already in bed. Cold, but not needing a blanket cold.
“I just dropped off the guys. I’m on my way.”
After everything else. That’s all I was.
When he walked in, he smiled.
“Hi baby.”
A soft kiss. Like routine. He laid down and pulled out his phone. Eyes on it more than he laid on me in the past 2 minutes.
He was there. Right next to me.
But not really.
His body was close, his scent filled my nose. And even then, it was as if his mind was somehwere else. Still with the guys, still with work, still with everything. Everything but me.
I sat beside him quietly. My energy wasn’t the same. It hadn’t been since the second hour of waiting. I wasn’t as bright. Not as talkative. Not excited anymore. I felt tired.
He didn’t notice…. He never did.
He didn’t ask why I was quieter than usual.
Didn’t ask why my makeup was gone.
Didn’t ask if I had been waiting long.
He just assumed everything was normal. That it was all “chill”.
And maybe that’s what hurt the most.
How he can be inches away from me and not feel the shift at all.
I felt myself wither next to him, becoming softer, quieter, easier to overlook.
He reached over absentmindedly, resting his hand on me while scrolling.
And I realized something.
You can be held
and still feel untouched.
You can be looked at
and still feel unseen.
He was there.
But I wasn’t felt.
And I didn’t know how to explain that without sounding like I was asking for too much.
In where loving Mark means learning how to sit beside him and still feel alone, a quiet emotional neglect and the ache of not being fully seen.
genre: angst, emotional neglect, established relationship
a/n: oneshot | let me know what if you want any for any other members !
Loneliness. Loneliness was the only thing I could feel.
Heavy in my chest while the TV flickered in front of me. I wasn’t really watching it, I didn’t even know what was on. I was just waiting, phone in hand.
“I’ll pick you up soon. Be ready.”
Four hours later, I was still ready. I was in the dress he got me because he said it brought out my eyes, my hair left naturally curly because he liked it like that.
When he finally called, I answered right away.
“Sorry babe, I was busy.”
Of course he was. They seemed like the only words he knew to speak these days.
“Are you on your way?” hem of my dress between my fingers as I fidgeted with it.
“Yeah, I’m just getting ice cream with the guys”
Ice cream. That’s why I’m waiting? I looked at the window. The sunset I had watched while sitting there in my outfit, makeup done, had already faded into night.
“But it’s 8”
“Yeah, I’ll stop by quick.”
Quick, like I was a last minute squeeze in into his day, like it was a favor that he would even come and see me.
“Okay.”
I washed my face and changed into pajamas. Threw the clothes I had been excited to wear into my hamper. By 9:30, I was already in bed. Cold, but not needing a blanket cold.
“I just dropped off the guys. I’m on my way.”
After everything else. That’s all I was.
When he walked in, he smiled.
“Hi baby.”
A soft kiss. Like routine. He laid down and pulled out his phone. Eyes on it more than he laid on me in the past 2 minutes.
He was there. Right next to me.
But not really.
His body was close, his scent filled my nose. And even then, it was as if his mind was somehwere else. Still with the guys, still with work, still with everything. Everything but me.
I sat beside him quietly. My energy wasn’t the same. It hadn’t been since the second hour of waiting. I wasn’t as bright. Not as talkative. Not excited anymore. I felt tired.
He didn’t notice…. He never did.
He didn’t ask why I was quieter than usual.
Didn’t ask why my makeup was gone.
Didn’t ask if I had been waiting long.
He just assumed everything was normal. That it was all “chill”.
And maybe that’s what hurt the most.
How he can be inches away from me and not feel the shift at all.
I felt myself wither next to him, becoming softer, quieter, easier to overlook.
He reached over absentmindedly, resting his hand on me while scrolling.
And I realized something.
You can be held
and still feel untouched.
You can be looked at
and still feel unseen.
He was there.
But I wasn’t felt.
And I didn’t know how to explain that without sounding like I was asking for too much.
It’s Yuta’s stupid Halloween party, where everyone’s drunk, loud, and against someone they shouldn’t be. You’re supposed to be mad at Mark for being late, but one look at him in that costume and you forget why. The air hums between every touch you share. One drink turns into two, a glance turns into a kiss, and before you know it, you’re both falling. Fast.
The scent of alcohol filled my nose and the sounds of cheering and laughing filled my ears. Everyone was having fun. Was I? Not at all.
I didn't hate Halloween I just hated parties. But Yuta practically forced me and Mark to attend. And here I as waiting for Mark. Having to fall witness to strangers practically fucking on the dancefloor.
I just sat there alone while everyone else was enjoying their time, looking at my phone. I send another text.
———————————
Where are you?
read 7:35pm
Markie:
I’m sorry traffic is horrible
7:35pm
———————————
Late, he was late again. I sigh pissed.
"Lee minhuung I'm so going to kill you" I look around already nervous due to my costume. We were supposed to be silk and spiderman. And that costume is very… tight.
Now I'm alone and way too sober to deal with anything or anyone. Just to my luck Jaemin comes up.
“No show from your little boyfriend?” If the second half of my costume being late wasn’t pissing me off then this definitely was the cherry on top.
“Save it Jaemin, he’s not my boyfriend” I adjusted my costume and didn’t miss the scan he did over me, his annoying face I despised giving me a shiver of disgust.
“You know it’s not to late too come home with me” I stand about to say something and miraculously Mark walks in. He was in costume and damn did he look hot.
His suit clung perfectly, his hair a little messy like he’d just swung in from saving the city. The sight made heat curl low in my stomach. As he walked up with his little grin that made me squeeze my thighs together.
“You stealing my partner Jaem?” Mark interrupted and jaemin smiled annoyed Mark was here “Never I was just mingling, carry on” he walked off and Mark came near me and I sigh.
“Y/n ple-“ I cut him off holding up my hand.
“An hour late?” I look at him as he scratches the back of his neck. “I’m sorry I-“ I stop him.
“We planned this mark I’ve been here for an hour or more waiting, you know I can’t stand parties,” I give him a hurt face.
He places his hands on my shoulders and looked at me, “Hey hey please don’t be mad at me, I hate you being mad at me.” he looked down at me, making me gulp, and I looked at him.
“I can’t stand my princess all mad at me” he tilts his head. I keep my gaze serious, well attempting to.
“Pretty please?” His puppy eyes tug at my heart, “Fine” I cave and sigh.
“Great I’ll get us some drinks!” He smiles at me and heads to get drinks for us. I sat on the counter waiting trying to fight the urge to jump his bones.
I noticed a few girls’ eyes following him. Rolling mine, I got up and slipped between them, looping my arm around his.
“You’re taking forever” I lean on him and look up all lovey.
He laughed and pat my head, “Just one second, okay, princess?”
I nodded and he continued, I turned and gave the girls a sweet smile as they stood defeated. Mark was mine.
The night slowly fades into a somewhat enjoyable environment with mark and I smile as we take some drinks and greet people.
After a few drinks I was at my limit, I sat on the couch while he lounged on a beanbag, due to it being a bit crowded. He had his drink in hand, scanning the room. I couldn’t stop watching him. He looked so damn hot.
“You think yutas already getting lucky?” He breaks the silence.
“Yutas whole point of having a party on Halloween was to get lucky” I giggle and Mark chuckles. He sips again and I look at him as he’s not paying attention, my mind drifting.
Does he have anything on under? Is the costume padded? Are those… his abs?
After daydreaming I look at his chest, I look at his face to see him looking at me already, scanning how Silk's web costume looks on me. We make eye contact, and he sips slowly leaning into the bean bag . I watch his neck as he swallows, watching his adam’s apple move up and down. He grins and spreads his legs a bit.
Fuck
Many drunk people later a spot next to me opens, and he gets up. My breath froze as I feel his weight on the couch with me as he sits.
The atmosphere was darker, and everyone was either black out drunk or shoving their tongues down someone’s throat.
I caught the scent of his cologne warm, clean, a little musky, with the faintest hint of alcohol. It wrapped around me, almost dizzying. The light casted purple hues along his face highlighting his features.
“Are you enjoying this?” I feel his breath graze my hair, making me gulp.
“What?” I look at him and he smiles a bit tipsy, making my heart jump from how close he was.
“The party,” he says. I nod, “Oh yes”.
“I’m not,” he says, looking at me.
“Why?” I look at him, and he smiles at me as he leans back on the couch, putting an arm behind me.
"I'd rather be at my place watching TV with you," he says, looking down at me.
My eyes meet his. I watch his chest rises and falls in my peripheral vision, mine almost imitating his. The cup in my hand forgotten, only remembered once I felt beads of liquid drip. As if it was reflex Mark grabs a napkin and wipes my hand, "Careful there princess, you're dripping" he said huskily.
No kidding
The party noise faded as we looked at each other, neither of us speaking. The heat between my legs growing just from him touching my skin. His thumb brushed the edge of my sleeve before he caught himself and leaned back again, exhaling slowly.
"Such pretty skin… such a pretty girl." He caresses my arm making me gasp. I smell the alcohol, and my breath hitches.
"Such a pretty face,'' the music and other conversations fade into background noise. Only this I could focus on was Mark, I needed him so bad.
"You don't even know what you do to me when you do that, it's killing me." He tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers trembling slightly as I take in this angle of him, needing the memory of how he looked in this moment burned into my mind.
"Mark-" he stops me, looking as if he needs to do something.
“God, I’m going crazy,” he breathed out shakily, he grabbed my face and pressed his forehead gently against mine.
I feel my face get rosey. Mark’s eyes flick down, just for a second, then back up to my eyes. His hand tightens into a fist like he’s trying to keep himself in check.
Without thinking, I cover it with my own. The room feels too warm, too close. His hand stills under mine, but he doesn’t pull away. For a moment, neither of us say anything. He just keeps his gaze on me, his eyes filled with a look I can’t explain.
“Mark… please,” I manage to squeeze out, his fingers brushing my cheek like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to.
“Mark…” I say again, softer this time.
“Yeah?” His voice catches a little.
“You’re… way too close,” I say quietly not even moving an inch. He gave a soft, uneven laugh. “You’re not moving away.”
I can feel the shake of his breath against my skin. Neither of us moves. My heart feels like it’s going to jump out of my body and run a marathon.
When he finally leans in, it’s not just a kiss. It’s everything we’ve been holding back for years. Every glance, every yearning moment, every emotion. It’s clumsy and desperate as he slips his hand to the back of my neck, steadying me, and for a second, the whole world stills and suddenly it's just us.
The noise, the lights, even the air disappear. There’s only him. His warmth, his voice, the way my name sounds when he breathes it out between us.
We pull away and look into each other's eyes.
“Fuck I’ve wanted to do that for forever” he pulls me close and sets me on his lap for a second kiss and I gasp.
He grips my waist as I straddle him holding his face. He kisses me as if I will disappear as well. The kiss was filled with love and desperation turning messier and needier as Mark pulled me closer groaning into the kiss, making my hands move into his hair.
"I need to get you home, now," he whines, kissing along my chin, and I let out a soft moan.
I look at his desperate state and he clings to my clothes “Please… I- can’t take it anymore” he continues kissing on my chin and neck.
In where your first love leaves, taking your heart with him. Now you’re a sea with no moon to pull in your tide.
pairing: mark x fem reader
genre: angst; best friend!au; sort of unrequited love
word count: ~846
a/n: debating on making a whole story off this so let me know!
Who was Mark? Mark Lee of course, but who was Mark really?
He was the boy I loved from afar.
The one who sat in front of me in second grade. That’s all I remembered… at first. He was the one who always gave me his serving of rice, patting it down flat first because as weird as it was, that’s how I liked it. The one who slid extra food onto my tray like it was nothing, as easy as breathing.
Never selfish, always giving. To everyone he was sweet guy. To me.. Mark was my…everything.
My music when he would talk about his ambitions. My muse when I wrote. My moon pulling the tides in my sea of emotions that I try not to spill so desperately.
Mark Lee, was my first love.
But he was gone.
I remember the day he left.
His family getting ready to go to the airport. My family saying bye, but not me. I couldn’t… I wouldn’t, I was sad. Mad. I watched as they all hugged, freezing seeing Mark look at my window. Giving me his smile as if saying,
“it’ll be okay”
But I turned away. I couldn’t face it, I didn’t want to believe it…. He was leaving. And he was taking my heart with him. Then I heard it, the car started and my heart pounded. They drove off. As I stand the door opens.
“Why didn’t you say bye?” the disappointment in chenle’s voice evident. “Just leave me alone lele” I can't look at him.
“He asked for you” My heart jumped at those words.
“I can’t say bye… I won’t say it!” I feel tears forming.
I hold my heart. “Why do I have to?” Chenle hugs me as I sob into his chest.
“He’s your friend too… You can’t let him leave like that”
That’s all it took.
I slipped from his arms, bolted down the stairs, past the noise of my parents’ voices. I grabbed my bike and whispered over and over as if I was praying.
“Don’t leave. Please don’t leave me.”
I rode through the streets feeling a pull, and tears dropped slowly. “Please don’t go,” I chanted, pedaling faster.
I see the airport and drop my bike running in looking around. “Excuse me… flights to Korea, where?” I pant out of breath as I beg a worker.
“Terminal 6”
I ran until my legs burned.
I didn’t care.
Then, I saw him. There he was, his brown hair catching the sunlight pouring through the windows. As if fate had spotlighted him just for me.
“Mark…”
My voice comes out quieter than I wanted. Still, he turns around, those big warm brown eyes looking at me. The eyes of the boy I was so hopelessly in love with. I could feel my chest rising as he looked at me. As if all my air was sucked out of my lungs. I see him take a step forward and my breath hitches. I speak again
“Mark”
This time louder. He took a step. So did I.
We ran to each other, like a scene in one of the dramas we used to laugh at.
“Don’t go please” I beg, as I hold him, feeling him wrap his arms around me. I hold him tightly, as if I let him go… I’d never see him again, and that thought shattered my heart. And his arms around me were the only thing keeping it together.
“I have to” he holds my face and I shake my head.
“You can’t leave Mark… I can’t.. I can’t lose you” I confess looking up at him with tears threatening to spill.
He looks down at me “Hey, I’ll always be a call away. That won’t change” I sniff.
“Korea is far… what if you change?… what if you forget me?”
He holds my shoulders as he looks down at me “I could never forget you, and no matter what I’ll always be your minhyung” and just like that.
I feel tears fall down my face. Slowly. He hugged me tight. And that broke me. His dad called out. His mom nodded toward the gate. He hugged me one last time.
“I have to go”
His voice stings me, and I clench onto his sleeves. He lets go, and my heart drops.
“Bye Y/n” he turns away walking to his parents. And just like that.
My heart shattered, and my knees gave out as I watched him walk away, through those glass doors that swallowed him whole.
I left the airport slowly, my face tight with dried tears. The sun had turned gray. I got on my bike and rode home, each pedal feeling, heavier than the last. I felt as if something was missing in my heart. I walk in, ignoring the questions coming from my family. I walk into my room. I pull up onto my bed. There, waiting for me, is the plushie he gave me on my 14th birthday, the last gift.
Warning(s) - smut, unprotected sex, p in v, oral (m and f receiving), dubcon (Mark insists 'just the tip' but it's very much not that), multiple orgasms
Summary - What starts as a joke about condoms turns into desperate, heated intimacy that ends with Mark grinning against your lips, swearing his pull-out game is flawless.
Word Count - 2.3k
Author’s Note - This was inspired by a fever dream about texting Mark
Taglist - @k-vanity @cosyhomenet @neocity-net @k-films @cinneorolls (join my taglist!)
Now Playing: Watching TV - Mark
Your thumbs hover over your phone longer than they should before you text your boyfriend, Mark.
‘we’re out of condoms’
‘too lazy to go buy more’
‘how good is your pull out game?’
You don’t expect a reply right away. He was probably on his way home right now. But your phone buzzes within seconds.
‘👀’
‘you wanna test it?’
‘because i’m almost home’
You laugh to yourself, tossing your phone aside. You were mostly joking anyway.
By the time you hear his key in the lock, you’ve forgotten all about it. You were in sweats and one of his hoodies, reheating leftovers and scrolling through social media when he walked in with a grin tucked into the corners of his mouth like he already knows something you don’t want to admit.
“Hey,” he greets, dropping his bag by the door. “About what you said earlier…”
“I was kidding,” you tell him, handing him a plate. “Mostly.”
Mark smirks, brushing a kiss to your cheek before settling on the couch. You join him not too long after. Dinner is easy, quiet. You eat with your legs tangled together, shoulders brushing, the TV humming in the background. It’s the kind of night that feels domestic. Warm lighting, full bellies, a shared blanket. Ordinary in the best way.
But then Mark’s hand slips beneath the hem of your hoodie. Just a little. Just enough to trace circles over your bare waist, his thumb brushing the softest part of your stomach. His fingertips graze the band of your underwear like it’s an accident, but you know better.
You glance at him, ready to tease, but he’s already watching you, his gaze low-lidded and dangerous.
“Still too lazy to go buy some?” he asks.
You blink at him. “You’re the one who drove here and didn’t stop to buy any.”
“Mmm,” he hums, lips twitching. His fingers trail higher, ghosting just beneath the curve of your breast before slipping away again. “Guess we’re not doing anything tonight, then.” You shove his shoulder lightly, but he only laughs, leaning closer until his breath warms your ear. “Nothing at all,” he whispers, hand skimming down your thigh under the blanket.
“Nothing,” you agree, biting back a smile, though neither of you seems to mean it as the teasing touches linger, each one daring the other to break first.
The first kiss is slow, more a press of mouths than anything urgent. But it builds fast, his fingers skating under your shirt, yours curling in his hair, the blanket slipping off both of your laps as he nudges you onto your back.
Mark’s hips settle between yours. It was just the weight of him, the warm slide of sweatpants against you. Then he grinds down, and your breath catches.
He groans, low and sharp. “Are you sure we don’t have anything?” he groans into your neck. “And you’re not—”
“Nope,” you respond, already rolling your hips up into his. “Not on anything.”
You both freeze for a second. The tension builds between you in a shared, sharp awareness. But then he does it again, a slow, deliberate roll of his hips, letting you feel how hard he is even through the layers.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “This is—this is so bad.”
“It’s so bad,” you echo, arms tightening around his shoulders. “But you feel so good.”
You’re both laughing under your breath, the kind of laugh that dissolves into breathless sighs as your bodies fall into a rhythm. Dry heat. Friction. His hips meet yours again and again, your panties growing damp.. You feel his cock twitch, how close he’s getting just from this.
Mark pulls back just enough to look at you. “You’re gonna make me cum if you keep doing that.”
“Doing what?” you tease, but your voice is thin, your thighs already trembling.
He kisses you again, messier this time, his hand dipping down between you and into your underwear. His fingers slide through the heat of you, and he groans into your mouth. “You’re so—” He doesn’t finish his sentence. Instead, he pushes two fingers inside, your walls gripping him instantly, and he swears against your lips.
The stretch makes you gasp, your hips lifting into his hand. He curls his fingers just right, knuckles dragging against your softest spots until your thighs tremble. It’s all slick sounds and sharp breaths now. His fingers massaging your walls, your hips rocking into his hand helplessly.
Your hand finds him, too, slipping past the waistband of his sweats. He’s flushed and hard when you feel the silky heat stretched tight over the heavy length of him. He shudders when your fingers wrap around him, leaking slick against your palm. You stroke him in time with the thrust of his fingers inside you, the rhythm sloppy and desperate but perfectly matched, each of you unraveling the other with every tug and curl.
“Fuck, babe—” Mark’s forehead drops to your shoulder, his breath hot against your skin. His fingers pump faster, curling deep until your thighs quake. The heel of his palm grinds against your clit with each movement, pulling sharp little sounds from your throat. You squeeze him harder in return, dragging your thumb over the swollen, wet tip, making his hips jerk helplessly into your hand.
It builds fast, too fast, and you’re clenching around his fingers, pulling him deeper, moaning into his mouth as your body seizes with release. He doesn’t let up, working you through it until your hips fall limp beneath him, sweat slicking your skin.
You barely catch your breath before you’re fumbling at your waistband, tugging your pants and underwear down your legs, and tossing them aside. Mark sits back, chest heaving, pupils blown wide as he watches you crawl towards him.
“Wait, wait—” Mark’s protest is drowned in a choked sound as you kneel between his thighs and tug his sweats down just enough to free him. He’s thick and flushed in your hand, twitching when you lean down to take him in your mouth.
The first wet lick up the full length of his cock has his head tilting back against the couch. “Oh, fuck.” His fingers thread into your hair, not pushing, just clinging.
You hollow your cheeks, sliding down until he hits the back of your throat, then pulling off with a wet pop to lick along the sensitive underside, tongue tracing every vein until he’s trembling. Mark moans helplessly, thighs flexing beneath your hands.
When you cup his balls gently, his whole body jerks. He gasps your name like it’s the only word he knows, high and thin, hips twitching up despite himself. You suck harder, dragging your tongue in slow, deliberate laps, alternating between swallowing him down and teasing the swollen head with light flicks until he’s whimpering.
“Fuck—baby, please…please, I can’t,” he pants, tugging weakly at your hair. “You’re killing me.” His voice breaks on a groan. “I need to be inside you, just the tip—I promise, just the tip.”
You hum around him, pulling back just enough to smirk. “Only the tip. You have to promise.”
“I promise!” he cries out, already dragging you up for a desperate kiss.
You’re already half gone, nodding as he pulls his sweatpants and underwear off, throwing them to join yours on the floor. He pushes you back against the couch, guiding himself to your entrance. The first stretch has you crying out, your nails digging into his arms.
Mark shudders, jaw tight, pushing only the head of his cock inside. His whole body shakes as he exhales through clenched teeth, forehead pressing to yours.
“Fuck—just the tip,” he growls, almost like a warning to himself. His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise as he fights not to push farther, but every pulse of your walls around him drags him deeper by instinct. He’s panting, chest heaving, veins standing out in his neck, yet he stays still, like he’s convincing himself as much as you. But then your hips twitch, a needy little roll that drags another inch of him inside.
“Mark,” you whine, already trembling.
He curses again, thrusting shallowly, just enough for the tip to press and retreat. His resolve breaks with every little sound that escapes from your mouth. Each time he rocks forward, more of him slips past the tight clutch of your walls until you feel the thick weight of him stretching you open.
“I only meant—just the tip,” he pants, but the lie dies when his hips drive forward harder, burying half of him in one slick thrust. “God—fuck—you’re so tight,” he stammers, voice cracking. His rhythm falters as he pulls almost all the way out, then sinks back in, slower this time, savoring every inch.
You cry out, back arching, knuckles white against his shoulders. “Mark—fuck, you’re already inside,” you whimper, voice breaking. “You might as well just fuck me.”
Mark squeezes his eyes shut, groaning like he’s tearing himself apart. But your desperate pleas crack him wide open. With one hard thrust, he pushes fully inside, hips flush to yours, the stretch searing and euphoric.
The heat of him fills every inch, thick and throbbing, textured veins dragging against your walls until you’re gasping, overwhelmed by how deep he reaches. You cling to him like you’ll fall apart if you don’t, sobbing his name against his shoulder as he holds you there, buried in your wet heat, shaking with the effort to stay in control.
It’s too much, too hot, too good. Mark sets a rougher pace, hips snapping into yours with raw need. His body trembles against you, growls ripping from his throat as he loses his rhythm. You’re gasping, nails scraping down his back, his body shaking with the effort of holding on.
“Shit—shit, I’m gonna cum—” His thrusts grow frantic and desperate, the tip of his cock nudging so deep you swear you can’t breathe.
Your hands fly up, clutching Mark’s face, forcing him to look at you. “Not inside, Mark—You have to pull out.” Your voice is broken but firm, even as your own pleasure crests.
He groans miserably, teeth gritted, fighting his body’s instinct. “Fuck—I will, I will—”
Mark’s hips stutter before he yanks out at the last second with a ragged groan cry, spilling hot across your stomach in heavy spurts where your hoodie rode up. The sound of his pleasure tears out of him, sharp and guttural, as his body bows and then collapses forward. His forehead falls to your shoulder, chest heaving, his muscles trembling with the aftershock. His breath is harsh against your neck, broken gasps tangled with the sound of your own ragged breathing.
But he doesn’t stop. Still shuddering, he drags his mouth down your throat, pushing your hoodie up higher, exposing your breasts, and leaving open-mouthed kisses on them as he makes his way lower. His hand slips between your thighs, spreading you wide as he settles in, his other palm smearing through his own release across your skin. He groans at the mess, at how wet you already are even before his tongue is on you.
The first drag of it is slow and deliberate, from your entrance to your clit, but then he’s sucking you into his mouth, greedy and insistent. He flattens his tongue against you, licking broad and heavy until you’re writhing, then narrowing to spear inside you, fucking into your heat with wet strokes that make your hips jump. He pulls back just enough to circle your clit, lips closing around it, sucking until your vision swims.
“Mark—holy fuck—” Your voice cracks, your thighs trembling around his head, but he only groans into you, the vibration shooting straight through your core. He alternates between tongue-fucking you deep and sucking hard on your clit, working you with a feral sort of focus that leaves you gasping. The wet, obscene sounds fill the air as he slurps at everything you give him, tongue drinking you down like he can’t get enough.
It’s too much, the pleasure building until it finally breaks you. Your body arches, shuddering hard as your orgasm rips through you, your thighs clamping tight around his head. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t even slow, licking you through it, swallowing every drop as you cry out and shake against him.
Only when you’re trembling and boneless does he finally let up, kissing back up your body in slow, messy lines. His tongue traces your stomach, licking up the cooling streaks of his cum, lapping at the taste of himself before moving higher.
When he reaches your lips, he kisses you deep and wet, pushing the salty tang of him and the sweetness of you onto your tongue. The kiss is filthy and desperate, spit-slick and hungry, until you’re both panting against each other’s mouths.
At last, Mark lowers himself onto you, his body heavy and warm as he goes limp. His arms circle around your shoulders, holding you close, his cheek pressed to yours, while his breathing finally starts to steady.
His hair is damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead when he finally cracks a grin against your cheek, breath ghosting over your skin. He nuzzles into you, lips brushing lazily along your jaw before he murmurs, voice hoarse but teasing. “My pull out game is pretty solid, huh?”
You let out a weak laugh, still dazed, smacking lightly at his shoulder. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
Mark only chuckles, smug but exhausted, pressing another sloppy kiss to your mouth as if to seal his point. “Almost doesn’t count, babe.”
You groan, burying your face in his chest, but the corners of your mouth betray you with a smile. His arms tighten around you, and even as his joke lingers, he melts further into your body, humming softly as sleep starts to creep in.
Autoplay: If you liked this, you may also like LOL (Laugh-Out-Loud) - S.Johnny
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.
In where your first love leaves, taking your heart with him. Now you’re a sea with no moon to pull in your tide.
pairing: mark x fem reader
genre: angst; best friend!au; sort of unrequited love
word count: ~846
a/n: debating on making a whole story off this so let me know!
Who was Mark? Mark Lee of course, but who was Mark really?
He was the boy I loved from afar.
The one who sat in front of me in second grade. That’s all I remembered… at first. He was the one who always gave me his serving of rice, patting it down flat first because as weird as it was, that’s how I liked it. The one who slid extra food onto my tray like it was nothing, as easy as breathing.
Never selfish, always giving. To everyone he was sweet guy. To me.. Mark was my…everything.
My music when he would talk about his ambitions. My muse when I wrote. My moon pulling the tides in my sea of emotions that I try not to spill so desperately.
Mark Lee, was my first love.
But he was gone.
I remember the day he left.
His family getting ready to go to the airport. My family saying bye, but not me. I couldn’t… I wouldn’t, I was sad. Mad. I watched as they all hugged, freezing seeing Mark look at my window. Giving me his smile as if saying,
“it’ll be okay”
But I turned away. I couldn’t face it, I didn’t want to believe it…. He was leaving. And he was taking my heart with him. Then I heard it, the car started and my heart pounded. They drove off. As I stand the door opens.
“Why didn’t you say bye?” the disappointment in chenle’s voice evident. “Just leave me alone lele” I can't look at him.
“He asked for you” My heart jumped at those words.
“I can’t say bye… I won’t say it!” I feel tears forming.
I hold my heart. “Why do I have to?” Chenle hugs me as I sob into his chest.
“He’s your friend too… You can’t let him leave like that”
That’s all it took.
I slipped from his arms, bolted down the stairs, past the noise of my parents’ voices. I grabbed my bike and whispered over and over as if I was praying.
“Don’t leave. Please don’t leave me.”
I rode through the streets feeling a pull, and tears dropped slowly. “Please don’t go,” I chanted, pedaling faster.
I see the airport and drop my bike running in looking around. “Excuse me… flights to Korea, where?” I pant out of breath as I beg a worker.
“Terminal 6”
I ran until my legs burned.
I didn’t care.
Then, I saw him. There he was, his brown hair catching the sunlight pouring through the windows. As if fate had spotlighted him just for me.
“Mark…”
My voice comes out quieter than I wanted. Still, he turns around, those big warm brown eyes looking at me. The eyes of the boy I was so hopelessly in love with. I could feel my chest rising as he looked at me. As if all my air was sucked out of my lungs. I see him take a step forward and my breath hitches. I speak again
“Mark”
This time louder. He took a step. So did I.
We ran to each other, like a scene in one of the dramas we used to laugh at.
“Don’t go please” I beg, as I hold him, feeling him wrap his arms around me. I hold him tightly, as if I let him go… I’d never see him again, and that thought shattered my heart. And his arms around me were the only thing keeping it together.
“I have to” he holds my face and I shake my head.
“You can’t leave Mark… I can’t.. I can’t lose you” I confess looking up at him with tears threatening to spill.
He looks down at me “Hey, I’ll always be a call away. That won’t change” I sniff.
“Korea is far… what if you change?… what if you forget me?”
He holds my shoulders as he looks down at me “I could never forget you, and no matter what I’ll always be your minhyung” and just like that.
I feel tears fall down my face. Slowly. He hugged me tight. And that broke me. His dad called out. His mom nodded toward the gate. He hugged me one last time.
“I have to go”
His voice stings me, and I clench onto his sleeves. He lets go, and my heart drops.
“Bye Y/n” he turns away walking to his parents. And just like that.
My heart shattered, and my knees gave out as I watched him walk away, through those glass doors that swallowed him whole.
I left the airport slowly, my face tight with dried tears. The sun had turned gray. I got on my bike and rode home, each pedal feeling, heavier than the last. I felt as if something was missing in my heart. I walk in, ignoring the questions coming from my family. I walk into my room. I pull up onto my bed. There, waiting for me, is the plushie he gave me on my 14th birthday, the last gift.
synopsis ☆ within your friend group, haena's father was commonly known as the daddy they'd love to fu— and while you've frequently imagined him treating you more than just his daughter's best friend, you think it starts to manifest itself into reality when haena brings you home and jaemin's eyes linger on your figure a little longer when it's just the two of you with nobody watching.
warning(s) ☆ legal age, jaemin is 20 years older so forty, daddy kink (duh), spitting kink, cum eating, dry humping, semi-rough sex, both are consenting adults! a lot of pet names, jaemin's horny. so are you. yeah
author's note. urmmm lengthy smut one shot that doesn't really make sense so technically not really porn with a plot? idk let me know if u enjoyed this! thinking of making a part two or a sequel or something cause im ovulating and was feeling extra horny for jaemin and this was sitting in my drafts for weeks so now seemed like the perfect time to finish it LMAO sorry if it isn't up to par or as good as my other works <3 reblogs and comments are appreciated <3
"Haena, your dad's a total dilf." Jimin gushes for the second time during your movie marathon with the girls. Haena, who's become numb to the annoying comments, rolls her eyes.
"Jimin's holding herself back from calling him a Daddy." You chuckle, earning a squeal from her. Haena is the only one unamused.
"Jimin, please shut up. He's an old man who's growing grey hair and, is my dad, thank you very much." She replies, annoyed that she's had to repeat herself. "Guys seriously, we're watching cruel intentions and all you're thinking about is my dad? Gross."
You give Haena an apologetic smile, knowing the girls weren't going to stop talking about her dad anytime soon, or ever. Haena's father has been a hot topic ever since he attended her graduation. He was the centre of attention of every single women in attendance and while you did find him attractive, you cared about Haena and respected her wishes to not sexualise her father.
At least, you wouldn't ever do it in front of her.
Two nights after that, Jimin and you are having dinner at a fancy restaurant in town. Jimin having received her bonus pay-check and you finally getting your TA request accepted, you both decided to treat yourselves. Take each other out while you both talked about your accomplishments over the week.
"I can't believe it took Professor Cha ages to read your email. If Jisung hadn't reminded him of the TA opening?" Jimin expresses her annoyance on behalf of you, making you chuckle.
"I know. It's ridiculous, but he saved my ass by asking that question. I'm pretty sure Yuta was the one who asked him to ask, he doesn't speak much."
"That's 'cause he's reserved. Have you seen him at the club? Boy is quiet but knows how to bust a move."
"I know. I'm thinking of signing up for one of his dance workshops— y'know, the one he set up for charity? All donations are going to an animal shelter."
"Ugh, and he's an animal lover too? I swear if I wasn't already head over heels for Haena's dad, I would have a crush on Yuta."
You take a sip out of your drink. It was a mix of Vodka, sprite, and something sweet. It was tangy, maybe a hint of citrus was in it too.
"Are you serious about your crush on Jaemin?" You ask, bewildered at your friend. You've all joked about liking Mr. Na, Haena's dad was named Jaemin, but Jimin actually seemed infatuated.
You couldn't really blame her. He was an attractive man, and it was rare for a forty year old to look that good.
"Serious? No. Definitely not, I'd never do that to Haena, but in another life? Yes. Girl, have you seen his body? I bet he works out when he's not handling court cases."
You chuckle, "You'd think so."
"Hey," Jimin softly tapped your shoulder then pointed at the table behind you. "Isn't that Mr. Na?"
"Okay, Jimin, I know you like him but there's no way he'd be here," You turn around to prove your point but widen your eyes when Jaemin walks in, and he isn't alone.
"He's here. Oh my God— Is he on a date?" Jimin asks, bewildered although slightly amused. You, on the other hand, have a confused look on your face. He doesn't seem too interested in his date, in fact he's looking at the interior of the restaurant instead of her.
"Ugh, there goes my one-sided love," Jimin sinks into her chair, feigning sadness. You laugh at your friend and nudge her feet with your heel. "It was nice while it was lasted."
"Haena's gonna be happy." You smile, picking at your salad. "Do you think she knows?"
Jimin's playful demeanour switches to a much more serious look, both concern and sympathy wash over the two of you as you think about your close friend.
"It hasn't been that long since they divorced, right? Maybe she does." Jimin glances at them over your shoulder again then shrugs, "I hope she does."
"Yeah," You nod and continue eating your dinner together.
The two of you continue to talk about your week; Jimin lets you know she's having an art exhibition for a charity event at the end of this week and you let her know you'll be there. Jimin was an incredible artist who ventured out with local artists outside of university to branch out and make connections.
She's had three solo exhibitions and one collaboration exhibition coming up. Proud was an understatement when it came to Jimin.
After some time, you excuse yourself to powder your face, literally, because you could feel your makeup sweating off you from the bright lights in the restaurant.
On the way back to the table, you spot a figure standing by your table talking to Jimin, who's eager to call you over once she sees you standing from afar.
"Y/N! Guess who came over to say hi," Jimin's eyes were giving you a hint. A glaringly obvious hint that at first was not received very well until you turned your head and saw who it was.
You controlled your face muscles from showing a reaction, only briefly widening your eyes back at Jimin as you looked back at Mr. Na.
"Mr. Na, what a coincidence! Jimin and I were just having a girls night out."
Jaemin is calm and collected, quiet confidence radiating off him from the way he stands. He's quiet, always the polite man he is and gives a kind smile to you and Jimin.
"Jimin's mentioned. I hear you girls have accomplished a lot since your graduation," Jaemin's eyes linger on you, they dart lower but before he gets caught he looks back at Jimin.
"Is that Haena over-exaggerating again?" Jimin asks, earning a laugh from Jaemin.
"I'm sure it isn't at all." He nods his head, "I should get back to my appointment. You girls enjoy dinner."
"Thank you, Mr. Na." Jimin says on behalf of you two.
You're subconsciously playing with the bracelets that adorn your wrists, catching Jaemin's attention. Your hands were right by the slit of your dress that stopped mid-thigh.
You don't notice his gaze on your exposed thigh, talking to Jimin about what dessert to order.
He clears his throat, "Please, call me Jaemin." He says, looking at Jimin then you. "I'll see you girls around."
Jaemin walks away without turning back, giving you and Jimin the chance the gawk at his back. He may be a man of few words but he was a very, very suave and attractive fella.
"God, his voice and that suit. Sign me up."
"Jimin!" You scold as you sit back down in your chair, taking your napkin to rest on your lap.
Jimin and you end up ordering a slice of lemon cheesecake for dessert. Halfway through your conversation you look around the restaurant and lock eyes with Jaemin, who's staring at your table. The two of you look at each other, giving each other a polite smile, then you go back to listening to Jimin.
Before leaving, Jimin and you are getting ready to pay for dinner when the waiter comes over to tell you that it's been taken care of.
Jaemin meets you and Jimin at the receptionist.
"Mr. Na— I mean, Jaemin. Thank you for paying for our dinner. You really didn't have to." Jimin began, speaking of behalf of you and her.
"Nonsense, it was my pleasure." Jaemin says, "Did you two have a good meal?" Jaemin turns to look at you.
You smile, "We did. Dessert was good." You say, thinking nothing of it. Jaemin smiles at your comment, nodding his head to himself.
Jaemin's guest pushes herself against Jaemin's arms, looking upset over something none of you have a clue about.
Jimin's eyes widened when his guest brazenly pushes her breasts against his arm. Jaemin, unaffected by the action, keeps his eyes on you as he nods.
"Do you girls need a ride home?"
"No, thank you." Jimin is quick to say, meanwhile you glance at the glare his guest is directing at you. After saying goodbye, with a confused look, you wave and follow after Jimin.
You barely miss the words, "Why do you keep staring at her?" slip through her lips while you walk out.
A month later you were helping Haena move out of her childhood bedroom.
Yuna was away for holiday, Jimin was caught up in work, so you were the only person aside from Jaemin, to help Haena out. You spent a good chunk of the day packing all of her things with her, then when it was time to load up the things into the truck, the movers and Jaemin took over. That left you and Haena to relax in the kitchen.
"Thanks again for helping me, Y/N. I don't know what I'd do without you."
"Of course," You smiled, taking a sip out of your orange juice. "What are friends for, Haena."
"Darling," Haena looked up from her phone to her father calling her by the kitchen doorway. You ignored the fluttering feeling in your stomach. He was talking to his daughter — who was your friend!
"Yeah, dad?"
Jaemin's eyes flickered to you then back to Haena. He was dressed in all black; black sweater with slacks that suited him perfectly.
"The movers need you to be there since they don't have a key to the apartment. Is your roommate home? You girls need me to drop you off?" Jaemin asked, looking at the two of you.
You got up to follow after Haena but she shook her head.
"No it's okay, I can drive. Yeri won't be back yet so I have to be there. I'll be quick though, Y/N. You can stay here and rest."
"What?" You asked, "I can go with you it's no problem, Hae."
"No, you've helped enough. I don't wanna be at the apartment long anyway, I'm coming back." Haena grabbed her car keys and smiled, "Y/N, just make yourself comfortable. This is practically your second home."
You laughed at Haena's words but hugged her goodbye, telling her you'd be in her room while waiting for her. Most of your things were in her room and you needed to sort out the classroom files on your laptop.
Once Haena left, it was just you in the kitchen as Jaemin walked Haena to her car. You typed away on your phone when you heard a clink of a mug right across from you.
"Coffee?" Jaemin asked, holding up a jug of black coffee which was not unusual, but it was already midday and from habit you remember Haena mentioning Jaemin's spike in coffee addiction.
"No, that's okay. I'm not a fan of bitter things." You politely declined, "Haena mentioned you were getting a promotion, Mr. Na?"
Jaemin smiled to himself as he put the jug away, taking moment to drink his coffee as he leaned against the counter across from you.
"Not really," He said. "I don't really get promotions, I just submit potential applicants who are qualified for the promotions." He informed kindly, "And I've told you to call me Jaemin, Y/N."
"Right," You say sheepishly.
"How has work been for you? Any troubles?" Jaemin asked.
The two of you indulge in small talk until Jaemin gets a call, that he takes in front of you. By the end of it, he's pissed. He doesn't yell, in fact it's impressive that he keeps his cool, but his strict demeanour is almost mesmerising to watch. Jaemin's stern voice triggers a memory.
Jaemin's eyes catches yours while he talks in business, the words don't make sense to you but his actions and his attitude does. Something in your body language shifts that makes Jaemin turn his attention solely on you.
When he hangs up, he tilts his head at you.
"Was there something on me?"
You snap out of your daze and shake your head, feeling your cheeks heat up.
"No, Mr. Na." Quickly, you cleared your throat then looked at him seriously. Jaemin matches your stance by titling his head. "The other day, when Jimin and I saw you at the restaurant, did I cause any trouble between you and your... guest?"
Jaemin's eyebrows crease together, then he remembered.
"Oh," Jaemin chuckled. "You didn't cause any trouble at all. Chaeyoung hates when the attention isn't on her."
Your mind fixates on his words. Who was he paying attention to?
"So, you two... serious?"
Jaemin laughs, a hearty one that almost makes you smile. For an older man, he had a boyish laugh — you found that attractive.
"Are you asking for Haena or for you?" Jaemin asked. Before you can respond, he continues, "She was a date. Just one, though. Didn't click very well with her."
"That's a shame." You nodded. "Does Haena know...?"
You supposed it was weird to be talking about love and the topic of dates with your friend's father but Jaemin always treated Haena's friends as adults and if the girls were with you, they'd be prying into his love life too.
There were many occasions where Jimin and Yuna had to be stopped by Haena the last time Jaemin accompanied the girls to a dinner.
Jaemin lips the corner of his lips as he contemplates how to answer that. Haena's mother and Jaemin got divorced recently, this topic could be too fresh to handle, but Jaemin didn't exactly try to hide that he was on a date.
"No." He said, as though it was finalised. "There are some things that are... well, they don't do well if they were known so openly." His eyes stay on yours then very slowly, as if intentionally, he drags his gaze down over your top, back up to your face, lingering on your lips?
"Mr. Na?" You can't help but feel giddy at the look he's giving you, but you don't want to entertain delusional hope. Not that you hoped for him to do something.
That would be crazy, right?
The energy buzzes. You don't know how it happens or what causes it to, but you're certain it isn't you. Jaemin takes three steps to stand in front of you, your nose is barely an inch away from his chest, almost grazing the material of his shirt when you look up at him.
He delicately tucks a stray hair behind your ear, leans in close and almost brushes his lips against your ear.
"Jaemin." You can hear the smile in his voice, yet you still turn to look at him. He doesn't move away, he only watches your expression change into curiosity. "Just Jaemin."
In a blink of an eye he's walking away from you and you're left with an aching feeling between your legs as you grip the marble counter with a sigh.
Jimin would scream if she was here. You, however, try to take your mind off of it while you're doing work in Haena's room.
Time flies by quick the longer you're stuck in your document that by the time Jaemin comes up to tell you dinner is ready, the sun has set and it's a quarter to eight. Haena still isn't home and you haven't gotten a text from her, which was weird.
Haena no matter how busy always kept you in the loop, especially if she was with you the hour before. Or, hours before.
As if to tell you something, it thunders outside and a second later, you get a call from Haena.
"Hey, are you okay?" You take the call as you watch the rain pour from her window. It's too heavy, even if you wanted to drive home, you couldn't get to your car.
"I'm okay! I got caught in the rain and decided to turn back so I'm gonna be staying in the apartment until the rain dies down. You okay at home?" Haena asks, her sweet voice asking out of concern.
"I am, just feels weird to be staying here without you actually here." You mutter to yourself, trying to find your car, but the rain is adamant on the opposite.
"I don't think I can drive home either. I can't find my damn car." You complain, rolling your eyes when Haena laughs.
"I told you to park in the garage. You're just so stubborn."
"Not the time," You groan. "Do you have food, at least? It doesn't look like it's gonna stop anytime soon."
"Yeah, I've got things to cook here. Thank God." Haena moves around in the apartment, "Where's my dad?"
At the mention of Jaemin, your mind drifts back to the tiny kitchen incident. You play with the hem of your sweater.
"Probably somewhere in the house," You say, "I've been in your room the whole time. He probably thinks I fell asleep."
Haena laughs, "Most likely. Look, just make yourself comfortable. You know where your clothes are in my closet."
"I know," You smile, "Call me if you need anything okay? I'll let your dad know where you are."
"Thanks. I texted him but he hasn't replied." Haena sighs, "I'll see you later. Hopefully."
You look at the clock above her bed and frown. It was nearing midnight, you doubt that the rain would rain before then.
"Okay, but be careful."
"You sound like my mom." Haena snorts, "Okay, bye. Love you. See ya, loser."
"Bye Haena." You chuckle, waiting for her to hang up first. Once she does, you stretch your body and make your way out of her room, looking for Jaemin to relay her message.
No matter how long you've been to her house, it was still incredibly massive to you. The foyer was the size of two rooms combined and the living room was even bigger. Usually, Jaemin would be in the kitchen anytime the girls were over, but it was quiet downstairs.
Not wanting to wander around the house without Haena there, you sat in the dining room. Haena always made sure to have little snacks in the house if she had guests over, so you reached out in the middle of the table to grab a granola bar.
You hummed to yourself as you tore the plastic wrapper open, then heard a door closing from somewhere in the room.
"Mr.—" You caught yourself, clearing your throat. "Jaemin?"
Walking into the house from the other side of the hallway was Jaemin. Drenched from head to toe in a white shirt and track pants. You widen your eyes at the sight of his shirt clinging to his skin and hurriedly look up at him, pretending to not have noticed his... attire.
"Y/N," He doesn't seem to notice your embarrassment, instead he's drying out his shirt and his hair with a towel. "I didn't hear you. I was making sure Haena's plants were okay."
Ah, your best friend and her green thumb.
"Admirable gesture, but are you okay? You could catch a cold." This time you weren't bashful or shy, you walked up to him and grabbed the towel to wipe the raindrops from his face.
Jaemin doesn't stop you from doing so. If he's surprised, he doesn't show it. He drops his hands to his side and lets you dab the towel against his face, shoulders, arms and body.
You do it without thinking, honestly. You were worried about Jaemin catching a chill because you had caught a cold in the rain and it took weeks to recover. But maybe Jaemin's immune system was much more efficient than yours, right?
Jaemin's hand stops you from going any lower when you start to reach his pants. His grip is strong, but it doesn't hurt you.
Only then, do you realise what you're doing.
"Oh." You say, "Oh my God. Jaemin— Mr. Na. I am so sorry. I didn't even— Oh dear God." You let go of the towel and look up at him, nervous.
Jaemin isn't affected. At least, it doesn't seem like it. But his gaze on you doesn't falter, instead it feels as thought it's stuck on you.
"Tell me, Y/N," Jaemin's voice is low and sultry as he talks to you now, his hand is still on your wrist. He tugs you closer so you're chest to chest.
You're trembling, but not because you're scared. You just can't believe this is happening. You can't believe you're enjoying it.
"Are you scared of me?" Jaemin asks."
"N-No, Sir."
Jaemin tilts his head.
"Do you like being this close to me?" He asks.
"S-Sorry?"
"If you aren't scared of me like you say so, then why, my dear girl, are you shaking in my arms?" He asks, tauntingly. You don't know if you should recoil, but you inch a little closer, subconsciously wanting him to hold you.
He smiles down at you, and it feels like very, very dangerous territory.
"Mr. Na—"
"Uh-uh." He tuts, deciding that since you two were already crossing a physical boundary, he could be more casual. You inhale sharply at the feel of his hand sliding up your waist. "Jaemin, darling." He smirks.
"Unless you like calling me... What was it that you girls were saying— Daddy?"
Your eyes widen at his words, surprised he was even aware that you were talking about him with your friend group. Damn you, Jimin. You silently curse.
Despite the shock, you rub your thighs together and Jaemin has to restrain himself from sliding his hands lower. He wouldn't do it without your consent. Even if you were gripping his shirt tightly, he wouldn't.
"You heard us."
"Hard not to when it echoes in the house, sweetheart." He says softly.
"Jaemin..." Your eyes dart down to his lips and even if the entire situation is wrong, your mind is screaming at you, yelling at you to take this chance. To hold him closer and have him kiss you.
Jaemin does the same, watching your lips say his name then staring deep into your eyes.
"Y/N, I've always thought you were the most genuine out of all of Haena's friends." Jaemin murmurs, close to your lips, "Therefore, if we cross the line here, I'd like to know if you want this."
You pull away slightly, "This...?"
Jaemin smiles, genuine and soft, kind. This is the man you knew under all the hotness and tension.
He glances down at your lips again, "This," His hand trials down to cup your clothed pussy. "This."
You gasp and tug at his shirt, licking your lips at the thought of Jaemin fingering you, of him eating yoh out, of him making you scream his name at the top of your lungs because only he can— you know he could.
"Do you want this, pretty girl? If not, we can pretend it never happened." He whispers, but you're only focused on the way his fingers lightly rub your slit over the cloth of your leggings and it's enough to throw all sensible thoughts, out the window.
"But, before you make your decision I will tell you. I think you're a very attractive girl, Y/N. And you are intelligent, intuitive and too good for any other man." He says, "Haena has mentioned the boys you've seen. None very impressionable, if I may add."
You exhale a chuckle. He wasn't wrong. Even if you didn't find Jaemin attractive, you agreed with his last statement. None of the boys you went out with were ever this forward or assertive. You liked a man who was confident but not arrogant. Many of the men you met were only the latter.
Jaemin's hands on your body anchor you back to reality.
"Tell me what you want," He says lowly. "Let me know what's going on inside that pretty little head."
After a beat, you give in.
Fuck it, right?
"I want you." You sigh, wrapping your arms around his neck. "I want you, so so much."
"Atta girl," He moans before taking control of the kiss he lands on your lips, capturing the pretty sounds you make from having his arms all over you.
Jaemin is swift in slipping his hands under your leggings, gripping your ass and running a hand up your back just to feel your skin and the strap of your bra. It seems like the thin clothing that's restricting him from feeling you is enough to make him growl.
"Fuck, you're mesmerising." He groans against your lips, hooking his arms under your thighs to carry you in his arms. Naturally, as if you've done this countless of times, you wrap your legs around his middle.
The two of you don't stop kissing, enraptured by the feeling of each other that even a second spent apart drew you crazy. You rolled your body against his, whispering how much you needed him against his lips while he licked your bottom lip, wanting you more and more and more.
He lays you down on a bed, and you realise under a glance that this is his bedroom. The door is close, giving you more privacy but the idea of someone finding you two only arouses you.
God, this was so wrong.
Jaemin's hand slipped under your thong and you moaned out loud, clamping a hand over your mouth.
But it felt so damn good.
"Yeah? You like that, don't you pretty girl? Barely even touched you and you're a mess." He coos, ripping off your leggings and spreading your wetness all over your core. "God, look at you. You're so fucking beautiful."
"Jaemin..." You whine, wanting more from him. His tongue. His fingers. Anything.
"I know," He crawls onto the bed, hovering over you, "You need me, don't you?" He kisses you. "Pretty girl. Pretty little thing just for Daddy."
The sound of his voice calling himself Daddy should not have you this wet, but you were horny and needy and you loved how dominating he was. Only with you. You smirked to yourself, having an idea to stir him up.
You ran your hands up against his chest, wrapping them around his neck and pulling him closer, writhing your hips as his fingers played with your pussy.
"I think Daddy needs to show me how good he is for me."
Jaemin smirks against your cheek, licking a stripe onto your cheek before gliding his tongue into your mouth, giving you the messiest kiss you've ever had with anyone, but you enjoy it. You moan into his mouth when you feel him grind against you. His pants move against your clit snd it feels too good. Too much to handle.
"Ha... Jaemin..." You whine, "Don't want to cum so early." You whimper, "Want to please you."
Jaemin can't help but chuckle as he gets up, missing your warmth around him but gladly helping you up as you get on your knees to suck him off. He's dreamt of it ever since he saw you during dinner. You looked too good in that dress to be sent off home.
"Look at you, wanting to please Daddy. Who knew you were such a nasty girl under that sweet smile?" His question is rhetorical but it makes you clench your thighs together.
You had always had this inside of you. You always wanted more from every one of your partner, sexually, but you had never been comfortable enough to express just how kinky you were. You kept telling yourself that the right person wouldn't question it or make you feel bad about it.
And here you were, on your knees in Na Jaemin's room sucking his cock like your life depended on it.
"Oooh fuck. Easy baby." Jaemin guides, running his hand through your hair and making a makeshift ponytail in his hands. He doesn't thrust into your mouth like any other guy would.
No, he talks you through it, asking you to take him deeper but when you can't, he tells you you're doing a good job. A great job at making him feel good.
"That's it, right there baby." He exhales, lightly thrusting his hips.
You run your tongue over his tip and that's when he loses it. He lets out a yell as he fucks your mouth, making you go crazy with need. You start grinding against his carpeted floor, making him groan.
"Fuck. Come here, sweet thing. I'll make you feel so damn good." He says, barely letting you get up when he scoops you in his arms and throws you onto his bed.
"How do you want it, Y/N?" He asks, "How does my baby like to get fucked?"
At his words you whimper and reach out for him, pulling him in for a kiss as you tug at his pants, desperate for him to lose them and his shirt.
"Baby's needy already, isn't she? Needs my cock, doesn't she?"
"Yes." You whine, "Want you to fuck me, Daddy. Don't care how. Just need you inside. Now."
Jaemin doesn't need to be told twice, but he does himself into you. His cock was heavy on your lips, but having him inside you felt heavenly.
"Oh, my God...!" You moan, rolling your eyes back at his thrust. He was big. Too big to fit in your mouth but he seemed to fit nicely in you, despite the slight pain, you felt like you were on cloud nine.
"Fuck, your pussy's so tight." Jaemin groans, "Taking me in so damn well— You're such a nasty girl, Y/N. Look at you, creaming all over my cock when I've barely done anything. Greedy little thing, aren't you?"
"Jaemin!" You scream out, clawing at his back while he increases the pace of his thrusts. "So... Too... Good..." You're at a loss for words, trying to describe what you're feeling but the sensation is too much.
"That's it, baby." He holds you close as he fucks you, barely pulling out entirely before he thrusts roughly into you. "Shit. You feel so good, Angel."
Jaemin doesn't stop thrusting into you. You lose count after your second orgasm just how long it's been since you guys started, but you don't care. You didn't want it to stop. The storm gets heavier but you're not sure which is louder; the thunderstorm or your screams.
"I'm close, baby." Jaemin moans, gripping your waist as he quickens his pace. You're dazed and too drunk on his cock to barely process what he says.
"Hey, hey," Jaemin leans down and cups your face. "Where do you want me, sweetheart? Need words."
You tug Jaemin close and kiss him, slowly and sensually, savouring the feeling of his lips against yours.
"Wherever you want, Daddy."
Jaemin grunts against your lips and manhandles you, carrying you so he's holding you by your waist. He's guiding your body against him, thrusting in and out with you in his arms and it feels heavenly. You were so entranced by this man, you didn't care what happened after this. You just needed him. Now, tomorrow— You don't think you could move on very quickly after knowing what a night with Jaemin entailed.
"You take me so well, baby. So fucking good, swallowing my big cock." Jaemin grunts, he's riled up and almost ready to cum. You expect him to finish inside of you when suddenly he pulls out, ignoring your protests.
"Next time, Princess. Right now, I need to see your pretty face."
At the mention of a next time, you get giddy and obediently place your face below his cock, hanging your tongue out as he jerks himself off over you.
"Fuck— so pretty. Where have you been all my life." He says to himself but it makes you giggle as you realise you've finally given in to the lust and attraction you had for Jaemin.
You could already feel the guilt clouding over your shoulder, but seeing Jaemin release over you surpassed that. You made him feel this way. He wanted you, and he got you. You felt smug in a way.
"Come here." Jaemin cups your face again, licking at his cum all over your face then finally kissing you. You moan when his tongue enters your mouth, forcefully feeding you his seed.
"You like that, huh?" Jaemin grins, "You know how to make a man go crazy for you, Y/N."
You smile against his lips, lazily kissing him while he massaged your hips, letting you straddle his lap as you both sat on the floor of his room.
When you pull away, you trail your fingers down his chest, openly admiring his toned abs and strong muscles.
"So, there'll be a next time?" You ask coyly, feeling brave enough to openly ask such a question. Especially after that.
Jaemin smirks, grabbing your hand in his to leave kisses over your knuckles.
"Sweetheart, whenever you need me I'll be at your door the second you call my phone." He lands a peck on your lips and carries you to the bed.