he’s already breathing hard when you slide your hand down. his moans start soft, but they build with every second, low, needy, unfiltered. he hides his face in your neck like that’ll muffle the sounds, but it doesn’t.
you hear everything. the way his voice trembles, the way he gasps when your thumb brushes the tip, the way he curses under his breath like he’s about to fall apart.
the moment your fingers wrap around him, he moans. no warning, no hesitation, just this guttural sound that escapes his throat like it’s been trapped there forever.
“fuck—”
his hips jerk up, needy, desperate, he’s been waiting all day just to feel you. he can’t stop the sounds that leave him, deep, raw moans that grow louder with every stroke, every squeeze. he’s loud, almost embarrassingly so, but you don’t tell him to quiet down.
“you feel so fucking good,” he breathes, head falling back, lips parted. “please— don’t stop—”
he’s losing it, moaning without shame, the kind of sounds that make your skin burn and your thighs press together. every breath is laced with your name.
“i love it when you touch me like this,” he gasps, eyes fluttering shut. “i swear— i can’t think— i just want you.”
you lean in, lips brushing his jaw.
“then let me have you,” you whisper.
and the moan he lets out at that, loud, broken, aching, makes your whole body shiver. he’s so close, so open, so undone for you. all you did was touch him, and he’s already giving you everything.
wc: 0.5k warnings: uhh they makeout ig notes: i can't believe mark released 200 a whole year ago | LIBRARY
Mark can't cook. It's a simple fact that everyone knows.
But Mark isn't stupid. Anyone can follow a few instructions and throw a few things into a pot, stirring every once in a while to make sure things don't stick, and he's no different. He's done it a thousand times before and as long as he doesn't lose focus or slip up, which unfortunately happens a little too often for his liking, it goes pretty well.
So maybe, it's not really that Mark can't cook, more that he shouldn’t.
You can though, and your cooking, if you do say so yourself, isn't too bad, pretty good in fact.
So Haechan, cannot for the life of him understand why, when you and Mark are in the kitchen together, the food always turns out a little caramelised. Burnt, if he wasn't trying to protect your feelings.
He walked into the kitchen last week to the smell of something a little charred, noticing how you and Mark were already sighing and groaning about how difficult it'd be too clean the pot.
“You burned the food again?” he couldn't even act surprised, “What even happens in here when you two cook together.”
He should've figured from the way your cheeks flushed over and the tips of Mark’s ears turned red, but Haechan was too focused on hunting for something to satisfy his hunger from your fridge.
And you couldn't have been more glad that he didn't push any further, because God knows how you'd live it down.
But Mark doesn't seem to care. Not about being caught, and definitely not about the stew bubbling away on the stove on one end of the kitchen, because he had his arms looped around your waist, placing kisses to your cheek even after you'd both agreed to actually cook this time.
“Mark.’ You warned.
Your voice wasn't exactly intimidating or anything, so with a grin, he only continued to place kisses across your face, eventually trailing down your neck, in hopes he would change your mind.
But your grip on the spoon was firm, for all of maybe five minutes.
Soon enough your back was against the counter and your lips were moving against his, a hand pressed against his chest.
“Mark, we should really–”
He cut you off, “Kiss some more?” He smiled, taking in your features for a moment, “Yeah I agree.”
“Mark the food.”
He shrugged, pulling you into for another kiss, “Just one more.”
That was a lie if you'd ever heard one.
Because soon enough, Haechan had come through the kitchen door with two fingers dramatically pinched over his nose. You didn't notice of course.
“Guys I really don't understand how you manage to—.”
You froze, barely processing his words as Mark stumbled back, his hands halfway under your shirt.
“Oh my God.”
All you could do was clear your throat and smooth your hair down, leaving Mark to deal with Haechan, who stood in the doorway, mouth agape.
“I should've known you didn’t burn the food by accident.” He muttered, running a hand through his hair.
“Dude we were um, multitasking?”
Haechan scoffed, “What trying to start a family while making dinner?”
( 六月 ). ─────you got my heartbeat to play to your time.
one thing about your boyfriend is that he would always take care of you 🫐📨 엔시티이민형 &fem!rea. ｡ ｡warn. ment. of being drunk, kiss 1THOU one shot, fluff, 𝑒𝓈𝓉 𝓇𝑒𝓁𝒶.
노트 my bf btw click4more
It’s a good thing the elevator in your apartment hadn’t gone out yet, otherwise the man on your arm would’ve been upset—though he’d never let you know that.
He just loved you too much for that. And, you kept telling him about how much of a good night it was for you. Seeing old friends and getting drinks. He’d never dream of ruining that.
“Baby,” He stated quietly, pulling your arm around his waist higher, as it kept slipping. “Hold on, just a little longer…why’d you have to live on the 10th floor? Thank God the elevator isn’t out. Is the view really worth it though?” He watched the numbers climb, illuminated electronically above the door.
Your eyebrows furrowed, and though you were hunched against him, you willed your head up.
Deadpanning, you replied, “duh.” To which he just laughed at, “You just don’t get it, Mark! Have you seen it? It’s beautiful! Not more than you but, you know.”
“Many times—actually, I helped you move in, baby.”
You giggled, head falling into his side, “Y-yeah, you did…do you remember haechan falling up the stairs? He wasn’t even carrying anything heavy! Oh my god, it was so funny, I swear I peed my pants!”
Mark thought that, for a drunk girl, you were very good at not sounding slurred with your words. However, standing or walking in a straight line were two very different tasks for you to accomplish in this state. But, he thought it was cute that you thought of him to pick you up and make sure you got home safely. He loved that you loved him so much; shared so many memories with him and were still willing to make them.
And truthfully, he loved you more.
The elevator dinged, the voice telling you that the doors were now opening. Mark braced his arm around you tighter, hiking you up to be, at least a little, straighter.
You trudged along, holding back his attempts to keep a steady pace. You knew it was difficult to move on your own accord in your current state but, honestly you could’ve just fallen asleep on the floor if you fell.
“Work—with—me—here, y/n. Please,” He gritted, practically dragging your giggling figure, “Do you even want to sleep in your own bed?”
Your eyes narrowed soberly, “Are you staying?”
“Will that make you walk faster?”
As if possessed, the thought alone was enough to make you straighten your back and begin willing your legs to move—clumsily, of course, but you knew your boyfriend was still a crutch to make sure you didn’t hit the floor.
He laughed in disbelief, then relief once you two finally had made it to your numbered door. Mark put in the passcode and it chimed with satisfaction.
“You scare me sometimes, baby.”
You hopped in place, the door swinging open with the length of his arm. You slumped against the wall, unhooking the strap of your heels and kicking them off.
“Let’s go to bed!” And when you were about take off down the hall, a hand grabbed yours and stopped you—your feet comically still stomping in place. Your eyebrows furrowed, and you looked over your shoulder in confusion.
“First,” he started, leading you down the hall; for a moment you thought he just didn’t want you to run but, he turned off into your bathroom. Mark hit the switch and illuminated the room, your eyes shutting instinctively. “Your makeup.”
As if it was a daunting statement, you whined, trying to get out of his grip. “No.”
“You’ll kill me in the morning, babe,” He grabbed your waist, hoisting you onto the counter and trapping you with his body, “It won’t take long.”
Your pinky swung from the porcelain and into his view, “Promise.” You weren’t asking, and that made him laugh.
His pinky connected with yours, “Promise.” He replied adamantly, mimicking your movement and kissing the end of his balled fist.
He got to work, grabbing the remover and a couple cotton rounds. He gently swiped your skin, and you swear your head kept drifting to the side with tiredness. You couldn’t help that your boyfriend was the sole reason you could get a good-nights sleep.
Instead of trying to keep you up, he grabbed it, huffing out another laugh at your antics but, letting you fully fall asleep in his hand.
Mark admired you as he tried his best to get the mascara off, smudging it and making you look a little foolish. He thought you were cute; the way your lips were parted, small snores leaving them. The slight crease of your brows as he put your moisturizer and serums on. He swears he could feel his heart swell, knowing you were just that comfortable around him—so adamant to have him by your side—to have him love you.
And, he did.
He loved you so fucking much. His future was you. If he was your world, you were his sun. You were his lifeline. You were the one person he knew he could rely on without contest. If he was a producer, you were his muse. Everything revolved around you. Even if his thoughts weren’t originally for you, they’d eventually make their way back to you. He was excited to talk to you about anything and everything. He was blindsided by a love as strong as this mutual one.
He’d die for you, and that’s why he lives.
Honestly, he was so embarrassingly emotional right now for you, he could practically feel the tears welling up.
Mark swallowed the lump in his throat, grabbing the other side of your head and watching as you blinked yourself conscious.
You smiled sleepily, “When’d you get here, baby?”
He could feel your arms climb to be around his neck, pulling him and simultaneously pushing yourself to get body-to-body. You always craved the warmth (even subconscious) like you were cold-blooded.
“I’m always here.” He kissed the side of your mouth, whispering against your lips, “Now, let’s go to bed?”
──in which you meet that one boy at the airport you will never forget. but not in the way that you had originally thought.
genre. fluff, mutual pining? meeting by chance, non!idol au ; tags. sweet mark, moves kinda fast, a little cliché ; w.c. 955
you always thought airports were a strange place. everyone you passed by had a different story, different destination, and faces you would never see again. each interaction only a short period of time before they went about their own lives. moments of simple glances and polite smiles over in an instant.
but not this one.
you had been walking from your terminal, with your headphones on. letting your phone play whatever, you drowned out the bustling noise of the busy airport. some people leisurely walking by, and others racing by causing small gusts of wind.
you were so immersed in your music, you failed to notice that your favorite lipgloss had fallen out of your bag and onto the cold floor. it rolled backwards until hitting a strangers foot. he bent down to grab it and looked back up. assuming it was yours by the unzipped pocket of your bag, he jogged to catch up to you.
tapping on your shoulder softly, you turned around with a small jump and took your headphones off one ear.
he gave you a small apologetic smile. “you—uh dropped this,” he said holding the lipgloss up.
if you didn’t look dumb already, distracted by his handsome face, you stared at the lipgloss in his hand for a moment. he would’ve thought it actually wasn’t yours if you hadn’t spoken up in that moment. “oh—i didn’t even…thank you,” you replied a little breathless.
you took it from him, your fingers grazing his warm ones for a second. “no problem,” he smiled, stuffing his hands back into the pockets of his blue jacket. then he hesitated, as if wanting to say more. you felt that you did too.
but just like that, the moment was over.
now here you both were, in the same layover. your flights had been delayed, the universe lengthening your encounter with one another.
as you waited, you tried not to stare. you kept trying to keep your eyes on the book in your lap that really wasn’t that interesting now that you knew this same beautiful stranger from earlier was in front of you. you would glance up, he would tear his eyes from you. and yet, every time your eyes met there was this flicker of connection. one that kept your eyes moving back up to him.
he was perfect really; fit, lean frame, with black hair that fell over his eyes effortlessly, good style, beautiful smile, and the most attractive eyes you’d ever made contact with. you trues to shake the thoughts. he was just another stranger that would become a distant memory after leaving the airport. but something kept pushing the thoughts right back to the front of your mind.
he felt the same not able to tear his eyes away from you until you looked up, just to look back when he thought you weren’t. to say he was struck by your beauty and effortless charm was an understatement. he was entranced by you almost. he persisted on trying to find a way to talk to you again, needing to know more about you.
you try not to stare. he does too. but every time your eyes meet, there’s a flicker of something—amusement, curiosity, maybe even recognition. it’s a game, almost, this silent conversation neither of you are brave enough to start.
the layover terminal was busy, a low mix of conversations and rolling suitcases filling the air. but somehow, the only thing you’re aware of is him.
across from you, mark shifts. he adjusting his jacket, fingers toying with the zipper. then, out of nowhere—
“hey,” he says, voice warm. “do you always travel alone?”
you blink at the sudden question, but shake your head. “not always. just this time.”
he nods, glancing at the departures screen before looking back at you. “me too.”
there’s a small pause, comfortable in a way you wouldn’t expect with a stranger.
then he smiles. “i’m glad i caught you when i did.”
you tilt your head. “huh?”
he gestures towards your bag near your feet. “you know. the lip gloss.”
a soft laugh escapes you. “you make it sound like a life—or—death situation.”
“hey, you never know.” he grins. “i might’ve just saved you from a serious lipgloss emergency.”
you roll your eyes, but you can’t stop the smile tugging at your lips. “right. my hero.”
he laughs, the sound light and easy, before settling back into a quiet moment.
“but really,” he says after a beat, voice softer this time. “i’m glad i got to talk to you.”
there’s something in the way he says it that makes your heart ache just a little. because you know what he means.
airports aren’t made for keeping people. they’re for passing through. and you both know, eventually, you’ll have to board separate flights, head in different directions.
but for now, you’re here. and so is he. the thought was slightly comforting this time.
mark looks down at his boarding pass, thumb smoothing over the edge before he glances back at you.
“can i—” he hesitates, then shakes his head, laughing a little at himself. “never mind.”
you blink. “what?”
he looks up, something uncertain but hopeful in his expression. “i was gonna ask for your number, but… i don’t know if that’s weird.”
your heart skips.
“it’s not weird,” you say quietly.
his eyes search yours, lips curving into a small smile. “yeah?”
you nod.
he hands you his phone, speaking up softly. “i’m mark by the way,” and for the first time, this layover doesn’t feel like just a passing moment.
maybe airports are temporary. and the people you meet just as temporary.
. eu vi um cara no tiktok cantando wap da cardi b com sotaque britânico, daí eu vi um comentário falando que era o tom holland cantando pra zendaya toda noite KKKKKK ai eu lembrei do mark porque os dois são spiderman's e lembrei que eu amo as músicas da doja e o mark também, assim nasceu essa fic minúscula.
— Mark, eu escolhi a música! Vem logo!
Pelo menos uma sexta-feira no mês, você e seu namorado faziam um karaokê. Geralmente chamavam os amigos e, na manhã seguinte, recebiam no mínimo quatro mensagens no grupo do prédio reclamando da barulheira. Ainda assim, seus amigos escandalosos tinham diminuído o volume nos últimos meses, o que reduziu também o envio das mensagens passivo-agressivas.
Mas aconteceu que, naquele mês, não conseguiram se reunir — o que era ótimo, porque naquela sexta-feira você e Mark estavam completando seis anos de namoro.
— Essa não.
— Eu sei a letra inteira, boboca! Senta aí — você pediu com um sorrisinho angelical no rosto.
Mark te obedeceu como sempre. Tinha voltado da cozinha com pipoca, morango e chocolate, mas não tocou em nenhuma das guloseimas, aguardando sua performance chegar ao fim.
— Por que você não escolheu 1D?
Você sempre foi uma adolescente tranquila, com pôsteres do Zayn Malik grudados na parede do quarto. Introvertida, mas falava pelos cotovelos com quem conhecia. Dentre os casais de amigos, você e Mark eram os mais falantes, os mais engraçadinhos — do tipo em que você começava a cantarolar uma música besta porque estava na cabeça e ele continuava.
Eram um casal fofo… só que você era meio pervertida. O traço introvertido te fazia passar madrugadas em claro lendo coisas, imaginando coisas, posições que jamais…
Os três primeiros anos de namoro foram tranquilos, sem nenhum — ou quase nenhum — toque malicioso. No quarto ano, isso mudou. Mark conhecera sua versão corrompida e gostava bastante dela, considerando os palavrões que você deixava escapar no escurinho do quarto de vocês.
Ah, e a perversão se estendia para as letras das músicas.
Mark deu um sorrisinho, elevando o rosto e encaixando você melhor no colo dele, suas coxas ao redor do corpo dele, enquanto você cantava empolgada e desafinada — uma desafinada extremamente sexy.
“Spank me, slap me, choke me, bite me.”
— Eu jamais faria isso, sou um cavalheiro.
— Mentira! Você já me deu um tapa — um tapinha — você parou a música, usando o controle da TV como microfone.
Mark ficou chocado, e você sorriu, inclinando-se para beijá-lo levemente na boca.
— Eu não lembro, mô.
Ele te encarou com aqueles olhinhos grandes — o suficiente pra você não conseguir se conter — e logo distribuiu centenas de beijinhos pelo rosto dele, descendo pro pescoço, onde sua boca alcançava sentada no colo dele. As mãos de Mark subiram, entrando por baixo da sua camiseta, acariciando suas costas com um toque levemente gelado que logo esquentava em contato com a sua pele.
— É que você só faz quando tá louquinho.
Dessa vez, foi Mark quem te beijou. As mãos voltaram para suas coxas, pressionando enquanto ele sorria no meio do beijo lento, preguiçoso — de um jeito gostoso.
