boyfriend!mark x reader, slightly jealous gf
Fluff
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why do girls have to be touching up your boyfriend's lips :(
You’re sitting just off to the side, watching Mark in the makeup chair as he gets his final touch-ups before the shoot. His stylists move around him efficiently, but your eyes are fixed on one in particular; the makeup artist carefully dabbing at his lips with her pen. Again. And again. And again. You narrow your eyes without meaning to, a little sulky glare slipping onto your face every time her hand goes near his mouth. She’s just doing her job, sure but did she really have to be that close? Mark notices instantly. Of course he does. He squeezes your hand where it rests between his fingers, his thumb brushing slow circles against your skin. His lips twitch into a small smile as he bites back a chuckle, his eyes flicking toward you soft, amused, those big brown eyes full of affection. He’s clearly enjoying this. The next time the pen touches his lips, he glances right at you again, laughter dancing in his eyes now. You huff quietly, crossing your legs and trying to look at your phone instead but your other hand stays locked in his, his grip warm and comforting.
“She’s just fixing my lip line, baby,” he murmurs under his breath, low enough that only you can hear. “I know,” you mutter back, still sulking, avoiding his gaze because you know he’s smirking.
Mark chuckles again, the sound soft, private.
The moment they call wrap on makeup, Mark stands up from the chair, still holding your hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The room buzzes with movement ; staff packing up palettes and brushes, lights adjusting, assistants chatting but you’re still in your little bubble, fingers curled around his stubbornly. You’re still pouting. Still sulking. Still grumbling under your breath about how unfair it was that someone else got to touch his lips, even with a brush. Mark lets out a low chuckle, squeezing your hand as he turns toward you. “Baby,” he whines softly, dragging the word out in that playful tone he knows gets to you, “don’t be like this...look at your face…” He pokes your cheek gently with his free hand, like it’ll force the pout away. But you only pout harder. He laughs, he can’t help it. And before you can spit out another dramatic little complaint, he steps in closer and wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you right into him.
“Still mine, right?” he murmurs, dipping his head as your rant trails off mid-sentence. You’re caught off guard by how close he is, how soft his voice sounds when it’s just for you. You’re about to reply, but he’s already pressing a kiss to your pout. Just once, then again, lingering this time, like he’s trying to kiss the sulk straight off your lips. You sigh into the kiss, annoyed but undeniably melting. “It’s just not fair,” you whisper against his mouth, fingers sliding up to cup the sides of his head. “You’re mine.” “I am yours,” he breathes, grinning now.
And then you kiss him.
Once. Then again. And again. A whole flurry of soft little kisses, your hands gentle in his hair, his fingers tightening just a bit at your waist each time your lips find his. He lets out this helpless, breathy laugh in between kisses, letting you steal as many as you want. “You’re really not mad, huh?” he teases, voice low and warm. You shake your head as you kiss him once more. “No,” you whisper, “but you’re not allowed to be this pretty when other people are around.”
He smiles into your mouth like he’s won the lottery. “Deal. As long as you keep doing that.”














