♡ aki.

“comfortable?”, mark murmured, his lips brushing against your hairline. you could feel the steady rhythm of his breathing, the warmth of his body mixing with yours. you nodded, nuzzling deeper into his chest. the familiar scent of his cologne made your stomach flutter each time you inhaled.

his fingers moved from your arm, to your neck tracing the line of your jaw. you titled your head back, that’s when his hips found yours. the kiss was soft, with a hint urgency. you responded right away, your lips parted as his tongue traced your lower lip. your hands moved up to his chest, tangling in the fabric of his shirt. mark deepened the kiss, one hand slid from your shoulders to your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space between your bodies.

the bed sheets shifted beneath you as you adjusted your position, legs draping over his. his mouth moved from your lips to your neck, leaving a trail of open mouth kisses. you arched against him, a soft gasp escaping your lips as his teeth grazed that sensitive spot just below your ear.

mark’s hand moved from your waist to your thigh, fingers squeezing gently through the thin material of your leggings. “mark”, you let out needier than you intended. he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark with desire. “i want to touch you is that okay?”

you nodded unable to form words, his fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your leggings. the brush of his fingertips against your panties made you jump, shooting desire through your entire body. a small smile spread across his lips realizing how wet you are. “someone’s needy”, he teased.

your cheeks burned, the embarrassment you felt was quickly forgotten as his fingers pushed past your panties, finding your slick folds. you were embarrassingly wet, the sounds filling the room. mark circled your clit, slow and deliberate. your hips moved against his hand, seeking relief.

“please”, you whimpered, he obliged sliding one finger inside you while his thumb continued slow circles on your clit. your back arched off the bed as he found that spot, he added a second finger, stretching you deliciously as he curled them just right. your moans filled the room, “that’s it”, he encouraged. “let me hear you.”

his pace increased, his fingers pumping in and out of you while his thumb worked at your clit. the pressure was building inside you. mark’s other hand moved to your breast, thumbing your nipple through your bra.

“mark, i..”, the words dissolved into a broken cry as your orgasm washed over you. mark didn’t stop, his movements became more deliberate. your body trembled, the pleasure turning sharp. mark’s fingers pressed deeper, hitting that spot again and again.

“fuck, wait..”, a gush of liquid erupted from you, soaking mark’s hands, your leggings, and the sheets beneath you. the sensation was intense, almost overwhelming. your body shook uncontrollably, your vision went white as you road out your orgasm.

mark froze for a second, his eyes wide with shock as the liquid continued from your body. his expression quickly changed, from shock to pride. “holy shit”, he breathed, his voice filled with wonder. “did you just?”, you couldn’t answer, your body still trembling from the aftershocks as his fingers continued, slower this time. another gush escaped you, smaller this time. mark laughed, the sound vibrated through your body.

“again”, he demanded. his eyes locked on yours as he increased his pace. “i want to see it again.”, your mind went blank as he worked towards another orgasm. the overstimulation was almost too much.

this time when you came, mark watched everything. his fingers never stopping their movements as you came each orgasm more powerful than the last. the sheets beneath you were soaked, thighs drenched with your release but mark loved every second.

the dorm room was cramped, your twin bed pushed against the wall. mark sat on the edge, his broad shoulders made the desk chair appear smaller than usual. you’d been studying for what seems like hours, but the words blurred into meaningless chatter. you could only focus on the thoughts that clouded your mind. your heart hammered in your chest as you watched him stretch, his t shirt riding up to reveal his toned stomach.

“i should get going”, he said gathering his things. his voice was low that alone was enough to make your thighs press together. your hands trembled as you reached out, your fingers brushed against his wrist. “wait”, mark paused finally looking at you again. the room felt too small,too quiet. “mark?”, your voice came out almost like a whine. “can … can i try something?”, his full attention was now on you. you felt even smaller. “what kind of something?”

you slid off the bed, knees hitting the ground. your hands rested on his thighs, the denim felt rougher than usual. looking at him from his angle sent desire throughout your body. “i want ..”, you swallowed, your throat feeling dryer than before. “i want you to fuck my throat” the words hung in the air, mark’s eyes widen at your request. you’ve never asked for something like this, let alone suggest something so vulgar.

“jesus, babe”, he breathed out. “where did that come from?” you leaned closer your breasts pressing against his knees. “please i want you to use me”, your fingers fumbled with his his zipper, the sound of it filling the silent dorm room. he didn’t stop you, his hands stayed steady against his sides. you finally freed his cock, your breath caught. he was bigger than you imagined, thick already hardening in your grip. “are you sure about this?”, his voice was now strained.

instead of answering, you wrapped your lips around his head. the taste was enough to cause you to moan around him. you took his deeper, your jaw stretching to accommodate his size. you felt your tongue flattened against the sensitive underside, drawing a sharp hiss from him. mark’s hands finally moved, tangling in your hair. his grip was gentle, almost hesitate to avoid hurting you. “fuck, your mouth..”

you moaned around him, the vibration causing his hips to jerk forward. taking a deep breath through your nose, you pushed yourself down further until it was too much for your throat to handle. you gagged slightly, eyes watering, but you didn’t pull away. “god”, he moaned out, his fingers tightening in your hair. “you weren’t kidding huh?”, you shook your head slightly, unable to speak with your mouth full of him.

his hips began to move, small shallow thrust that pushed him deeper. the tears streamed down your face now from the overwhelming desire you felt in this moment. then something shifted, the grip mark had on your hair almost grew painful yet sent shockwaves of pleasure to your aching cunt. “you want to be used, yeah?”, you shook head quickly. wanting nothing more for mark to lose control and use you like you’ve been imagining all this time.

he pulled back until the head of his cock remained in your mouth, then slammed forward. your throat convulsed around him, your pussy fluttered around nothing, arousal pooling between your legs. drool and pre cum dripped down your chin, covering your shirt. “you look so pretty like this”, he set a brutal pace, each thrust punched the air from your lungs. your hands clawed at his thighs, not to push him away but to anchor yourself as he used your throat.

“take it”, he demanded, his balls slapping against your chin. “take all of it baby”

your fingers slipped between your thighs, rubbing frantically at your clit through the jeans. the denim being enough to provide friction. mark noticed, of course he noticed and laughed at your desperate attempts. “can’t even wait, can you? so desperate for my cock you’ll cum just from being used”, his words was the final push you needed before cumming around nothing. your throat clenched around him as you came, tears flowing freely mixing with the spit and precum.

♡ tw / cw: mentions of death, heavy themes of grief + loss, hurt/comfort, soft angst, fluff, markie being the sweetest boy ever :( please take care of yourself while reading... :,,)

a/n : hi angels ! just wanted to leave a quick note saying this story is actually super close to my heart bc it's based on my real life ((tho i changed some things slightly for the plot). after my mom passed, mark was honestly one of my biggest comfort... his music & just the way he is helped me heal so. much. he's my ultimate safe space and i wanted to write him that way for u too. i hope you guys can feel the love in this one. sending so much love, hugs & kisses to anyone missing someone today. ♡ 🌫️ :)

p.s. divider cr to @uzmacchiato !!!! ☕

The second Sunday of May always felt like a heavy, grey cloud had settled directly onto your chest, refusing to move until the sun went down.

It had been years since you were fourteen—the age when your world fractured and the word "Mom" became a hollow ache in your throat—but the anniversary never got lighter. It just became a different kind of heavy. A familiar weight you learned to carry, like an old, tattered coat that didn't fit anymore but you couldn't bring yourself to throw away.

The morning had been the hardest. You’d woken up to a barrage of "Happy Mother’s Day!" notifications in group chats you’d forgotten to mute. You’d scrolled past endless photos of friends holding bouquets and smiling beside women who looked just like them. Eventually, the noise of the world became too loud, and you did the only thing you knew how to do: you retreated.

By 3:00 PM, you were buried in the sanctuary of your bedroom. The curtains were drawn tight to block out the mocking brightness of the spring sun, and you were tucked under three layers of blankets, wearing an oversized hoodie that smelled faintly of laundry detergent. You were trying very hard to simply not exist for a few hours.

The sound of the front door opening didn't startle you. Only one person had a key, and only one person knew exactly where you’d be today.

You heard the soft thud of a bag being set on the kitchen counter, the familiar click of the kettle, and the muffled sound of footsteps moving with practiced quiet down the hallway. Your bedroom door creaked open, admitting a sliver of warm light from the hall.

"Hey," Mark whispered.

He didn't turn on the overhead light. He didn't ask if you were okay—he already knew the answer. He just walked over to the bed and sat on the edge, his weight causing the mattress to dip in a way that felt grounding. He looked like he’d come straight from a long day out—hair slightly tousled from the wind, a comfortable knit sweater hugging his frame—but his focus was entirely on the small, shivering lump you made under the covers.

"I brought the good tea," he said, his voice a low, soothing rasp. "The chamomile one from that little shop you like. And I got those honey biscuits."

You poked your nose out from under the duvet, your eyes red-rimmed and puffy. "You didn't have to come over, Mark. I know you had a long day."

Mark just shook his head, a small, sad smile playing on his lips. He reached out, his hand finding your shoulder through the thick fabric of your hoodie. "I’m exactly where I want to be. I’m not letting you do this day alone. Not a chance."

He stayed there for a long time, just rubbing your shoulder in slow, rhythmic circles while you stared at the wall. Mark was never one for grand, empty speeches. He knew that when you were grieving a decade-old loss, "it’ll be okay" was the last thing you wanted to hear. Instead, he offered the things he was best at: his time, his silence, and his unwavering presence.

Eventually, the silence of the bedroom started to feel a bit too heavy. Mark noticed the shift in your breathing before you even spoke.

"How about we move to the living room?" he suggested softly. "I’ve got the tea waiting. I think it's time we watch Modern Family again. Start from the pilot? We could use a little Phil Dunphy wisdom today."

It was your "safety" show. It stayed in the background of your best days and cushioned your worst ones. You didn't have to think when it was on; you just had to let the familiar chaos of the families wash over you.

"The pilot?" you croaked, your voice thick from crying.

"The pilot," he confirmed, offering a hand to help you up.

He helped you untangle yourself from the blankets, and when you stood up and felt that sudden wave of vertigo—the kind of soul-deep exhaustion that only grief brings—he caught you. He tucked your head under his chin, wrapping his arms around you in a hug that felt like a fortress.

Mark was solid. He smelled like clean cotton and the faint, citrusy scent of his cologne. Standing there in the dim light, you finally let yourself lean into him. You gripped the back of his shirt, your fingers trembling, and let out a long, shaky breath against his chest.

"I miss her so much today, Mark," you whispered. "It’s been so long, but I still feel like that fourteen-year-old girl standing in the hallway. It doesn't go away."

"I know," he murmured, his hand cradling the back of your head, fingers weaving through your hair. "I know it doesn't. And you don't have to pretend it does for me. You can be that fourteen-year-old girl for as long as you need today. I’ve got you."

He guided you to the living room, where he’d already set the mood. The lamp in the corner was dimmed to a soft amber, and the tea was steaming on the coffee table. He settled onto the sofa, pulling you into the space between his arm and his chest, and grabbed the remote.

As the familiar theme song filled the room, the tension in your jaw finally began to loosen. It was the comfort of the routine—the way Mark knew exactly which episodes made you laugh and which ones to skip if they were too "parent-heavy" for today.

"Tell me something about her?" he asked after a few minutes, his voice barely audible over the TV. It was his tradition. Every year, he’d ask for one story. One memory to keep her spirit in the room with you.

You took a sip of the tea, the warmth spreading through your chest. "She used to sing to me when I had nightmares," you said softly. "But she was a terrible singer. Like, genuinely off-key. I used to tell her to stop because she was making it worse, and she’d just laugh and sing louder until I started laughing, too. Sometimes I worry I'm forgetting the exact pitch of her voice, Mark. That's what scares me the most."

Mark reached for your hand, interlacing his fingers with yours and squeezing tightly. "You won't. And even if the sound fades a little, the way she made you feel... that’s written in your DNA. You carry her in the way you take care of people, and the way you have so much music in you. She’s not gone as long as you’re here."

He leaned over and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head. For the next few hours, you drifted in and out of the show. Mark didn't move, even when his arm probably went numb. He just kept his thumb moving in small circles against your hand, a constant, tethering reminder that you were grounded in the present.

When Phil did something characteristically ridiculous on screen, you let out a tiny, genuine huff of a laugh. Mark’s hold on you tightened almost imperceptibly, his own quiet chuckle vibrating against your side.

By the time the sun had fully set, the sharp, jagged edges of the day had been sanded down. Mark made you a simple dinner, coached you into eating a few bites, and eventually, when your eyes started to flutter shut against your will, he guided you back to bed.

He tucked the blankets around you with quiet, focused care. As he went to step away to clear the tea mugs, you caught his wrist.

"Stay?" you asked, your voice small.

He didn't even hesitate. He slid into the bed beside you, still in his soft t-shirt and sweats. He pulled you back against his chest—his front to your back—and draped his arm protectively over your waist, pulling you flush against him.

"Always," he whispered into the nape of your neck. "Go to sleep. I'll be here when you wake up. Tomorrow is a new day, and we'll get through that one, too."

a/n : hi angels. just a little heads up before you dive in... this piece is incredibly close to my heart because this is also another story of mine that is based on real events, so it deals with a very personal & specific trauma. it's actually been sitting in my drafts for quite some time now. it was just so hard for me to write that i couldn't finish it on my own, but I'm truly so grateful that my friend motivated me to finally finish it and helped me through the whole process.

because of the heavy themes, it includes sensitive topics that might be triggering or traumatizing to some of you. please protect your peace, look after yourselves & read at your own risk/discretion, angels. I highly suggest listening to sun bleached flies by ethel cain while reading it. love yall sm & always :)

The heavy wooden doors of the church always felt like a barrier, not an entrance. Outside, the Sunday sun beat down on the concrete pavement. Inside, the air smelled faintly of aged paper, floor wax, and the clean, linen scent of Mark’s ironed collar.

Mark stood a few paces ahead in the foyer, his posture naturally upright, hands neatly tucked into the pockets of his slacks. He was speaking with an elderly deacon, nodding with that genuine, wide-eyed attention that made everyone in the congregation adore him. Mark didn't just practice his faith; he lived it with a quiet, unshakeable warmth. He saw the world as a canvas of grace.

You stood near the bulletin board, your fingers tightly interlaced around the strap of your purse. Your fingernails dug into the leather until your tips turned white. You used to fit here. A lifetime ago, before the world fractured, you knew exactly when to sit, when to stand, and how to harmonize during the doxology.

Now, the music sounded like static. The prayers felt like oxygen being sucked from the room.

Mark excused himself from the deacon, his expression softening the moment his eyes landed on you. He walked over, his sneakers making no sound on the carpeted floor. He reached out, his warm palm gently cupping your elbow. “Hey,” he murmured, his voice low enough to stay between the two of you. “You okay? We can leave if it’s getting too loud.”

“I'm fine,” you lied, forcing a small smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “Just thinking.”

Mark didn't push. He never pushed. He knew the broad strokes of the shadow that followed you, though the full weight of it was something you only let out in fractured whispers during the darkest hours of the night. He knew that church wasn't sanctuary for you anymore. It was a crime scene.

—

The drive to his parents' house was forty minutes of heavy, suffocating silence, broken only by the low hum of the car’s engine and the soft jazz playing from the dashboard. Mark kept one hand on the steering wheel and the other resting face-up on the center console, an open invitation. You stared out the passenger window, watching the suburban landscape blur into a smear of green and gray.

Your mind, as it often did when you were cornered by silence, drifted back to the afternoon everything changed. It wasn’t a dramatic explosion. It was the soft click of a folder opening on your older sister’s phone. You had been looking for a recipe she promised to text you. Instead, you found a digital graveyard of your own privacy.

Dozens of photos. Angles from the high corner of the bathroom window. Angles from the gap in the closet door. You in the shower, completely vulnerable, completely unaware. And worse than the images themselves were the timestamps, matching the weekends her boyfriend had stayed over. Worst of all was the text thread directly beneath the folder, where your sister had sent the files with captions that made your stomach turn to ash.

You never said a word. You closed the phone. You put it back on the kitchen counter. You walked to your room, locked the door, and waited for God to strike them down, or to comfort you, or to give you a sign that you weren't entirely alone in the dark.

Nothing happened. The sun rose the next morning. Your sister made breakfast. Her boyfriend smiled at you across the table. The silence from heaven was absolute, loud enough to crack your foundations. If God was a father, he was the kind who watched his children get torn apart and chose to look the other way.

“We’re almost there,” Mark’s voice broke through the haze. You blinked, the suburban houses suddenly looking much closer, much grander. Mark’s family home was a beautiful, two-story brick house with a manicured lawn and a small, wooden cross hanging neatly beside the front door.

“My mom made that pot roast you liked last time,” Mark said, turning into the driveway. He looked over at you, his eyes searching your face. “Hey. Look at me.”

You turned your head. Mark’s expression was a mix of profound affection and deep concern. “You don't have to pretend,” he said softly. “My family loves you because I love you. You don't need to say the grace. You don't need to talk about theology. Just be you.”

“They’re going to ask, Mark,” you whispered, your throat tight. “They always ask what parish I’m attending now. They ask what my favorite verses are. Your dad is a minister.”

“And I'm his son, and I told him you’re going through a season of rest,” Mark said, his fingers finally reaching over to squeeze your hand. His skin was warm, a stark contrast to your freezing fingers. “I’ve got your back. Always.”

—

The dinner table was loud, filled with the clinking of silverware and the bright, overlapping chatter of Mark’s parents and his brother. The food was excellent, but every bite tasted like cardboard in your mouth.

“So, dear,” Mark’s mother said, leaning forward with a warm, maternal smile. “Mark tells us you’ve been doing some soul-searching lately. It’s so important for young women to find their own anchor in the Word, especially with how chaotic the world is right now.”

Your fork scraped loudly against the porcelain plate. The room seemed to drop five degrees. “Yes,” you managed to say, your voice sounding thin and distant to your own ears. “It’s... been a process.”

“It’s a beautiful process,” Mark’s father chimed in, his deep voice carrying the natural resonance of a man used to speaking from a pulpit. “The Lord welcomes the wrestling. Look at Jacob. Look at Job. Doubt isn’t the enemy of faith; it’s the crucible. But we must always remember that even when we feel abandoned, His eyes are on the sparrow. He protects His flock from the wolves.”

He protects His flock.

The phrase repeated in your head, turning into a screeching roar. The image of your sister’s phone screen flashed behind your eyelids—the bright blue light of the digital folder, the sound of water running in the shower, the feeling of invisible eyes watching you wash your hair. Where was the protector then? Was the bathroom door outside His jurisdiction?

“I think,” you started, but your breath caught in your throat.

“Actually, Dad,” Mark cut in quickly, noticing the way your posture had gone completely rigid. “She’s been working really long hours at the clinic. Let’s not turn dinner into a seminary lecture, yeah?” He laughed, trying to lighten the mood, but his eyes remained fixed on you, full of sharp worry.

“Of course, of course,” his father smiled, nodding. “We just care. The enemy loves to isolate us when we're tired.”

The enemy.

The room began to spin. The walls, decorated with framed Bible verses in elegant calligraphy, seemed to lean inward. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. Fear not, for I am with you.”—The words felt like a mockery, a grand joke you weren’t in on.

Your chest tightened, a vice gripping your ribs until you couldn't expand your lungs. Your heart began to hammer against your breastbone like a trapped bird.

“Excuse me,” you whispered.

You didn’t wait for a response. You pushed your chair back—the legs scraping harshly against the hardwood floor—and stood up. The room tilted. You walked toward the hallway, your vision blurring at the edges, turning into a dark, vignetted tunnel.

You found the downstairs bathroom by memory, stumbling inside and clicking the lock shut. The sound of the lock sliding into place—the very sound that was supposed to mean safety, but never did—triggered it completely. You slid down the back of the wooden door, your knees hitting the bathmat.

You couldn't breathe. Air was entering your mouth, but it wasn't reaching your lungs. Your hands began to shake uncontrollably, pins and needles radiating up your arms. The image of the phone, the feeling of being violated in your own home, the suffocating guilt of keeping the secret to protect a family dynamic that was already dead—it all came rushing up like bile.

“Please,” you gasped into the empty room, your forehead pressing against your knees. You didn’t know who you were asking. God, the universe, anyone. “Please, make it stop.”

A soft, hesitant knock sounded against the door.

“Hey,” Mark’s voice came through the wood, muffled but steady. “It’s just me. It’s Mark. Can I come in?”

You tried to answer, but only a broken, choked sob escaped your lips.

A moment later, the lock clicked from the outside—Mark always knew where the emergency key was kept in his parents' house. The door opened slowly, just enough for him to slip his lean frame through the gap before he closed it behind him.

He didn’t stand over you. He immediately dropped to his knees on the floor, disregarding his nice slacks, and pulled his legs in so he was sitting directly opposite you in the cramped space.

“Look at me, sweetheart,” he said, his voice incredibly calm, though his eyes were wide with a fierce, protective focus. “Don’t look at the floor. Look at my eyes.”

You forced your gaze up. His face was right there, familiar and safe.

“Match my breathing,” he commanded gently, taking a deep, exaggerated breath through his nose and letting it out slowly through his mouth. “In for four. Come on. With me.”

You tried, but your ribs felt locked. You shook your head, tears finally spilling over your eyelashes, hot and fast down your cheeks. “I can’t. Mark, I can’t breathe.”

“You can. I'm right here,” he said. He reached out, carefully placing one of his hands over your heart, feeling the frantic, terrifying rhythm. He took your trembling right hand and pressed it flat against his own chest.

“Feel that? That’s my heart. It’s steady. Borrow my rhythm.” He kept breathing loudly, deeply, holding your gaze with an intensity that anchored you to the present moment. Slowly, the walls stopped spinning. The air began to settle in your chest, thin at first, then deeper.

“There you go,” he whispered, his thumb wiping a tear from your cheek. “You’re doing it. You’re safe. You’re in a bathroom in Toronto, it’s 2026, and I’m right here with you. Nothing can touch you here.”

You leaned forward, your forehead dropping against his shoulder. He immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest, burying his face in your hair. He rocked you slightly, a tiny, repetitive movement that gradually quieted the screaming in your nerves.

“I hate it,” you choked out, your voice raw. “I hate the words. I hate the verses. They feel like a lie. They feel like a trap.”

Mark held you tighter. He didn't defend his faith. He didn’t quote a scripture to correct your perspective. He didn’t tell you that you were sinning by feeling this way.

“I know,” he murmured into your hair. “I know, baby. You don’t have to love them. You don’t have to listen to them.”

“Your parents...”

“Are going to understand that you felt sick and we had to leave,” Mark said firmly. “I’m already calling an Uber. We're going home. Our home.”

He stayed on the floor with you for another ten minutes, until the shaking stopped completely and your hands were warm again. When you finally stood up, he held your waist, ensuring your balance was steady before he opened the door. He walked you straight out the side entrance of the house to the driveway, never letting go of your hand, shielding you from any more questions.

—

Later that night, the apartment was completely quiet. The city lights filtered through the sheer curtains of the bedroom, casting long, blue-gray shadows across the bed.

You were sitting up against the headboard, wrapped in one of Mark’s oversized hoodies. The scent of him—cedarwood and detergent—was the only thing keeping the edges of the panic at bay.

Mark walked into the room carrying two mugs of chamomile tea. He set them on the nightstand, climbed into the bed beside you, and pulled the duvet over both of your laps. He reached out, pulling you into his side until your head was resting on his chest, right over his heartbeat.

“Mark?” you whispered, staring at the ceiling.

“Yeah?”

“How do you do it?” You turned your head slightly to look at his profile.

“How do you look at me, knowing how I feel about everything you believe in? Doesn’t it make you angry? Doesn’t it make you feel like I’m... broken?”

Mark was quiet for a long moment. His fingers ran through your hair, a slow, methodical stroke from your crown to your shoulders.

“When I look at you,” Mark said, his voice cracking slightly with an emotion he usually kept hidden,

“I don’t see someone who’s broken. I see someone who was broken into. Someone took something from you that wasn’t theirs to take. Your trust, your safety, your peace.”

He shifted, turning his body so he was looking down at you, his eyes incredibly serious in the dim light. “My faith isn’t a club to beat people with,” he said softly. “If my religion tells me to judge you because you’re hurting from an evil act done to you, then I’m reading the book wrong. Jesus wept when people were hurting. He didn’t hand them a tract and tell them to get over it.”

A tear slipped from your eye, soaking into the cotton of his shirt.

“I don’t think I can ever go back,” you admitted, the truth finally coming out without the fear of losing him. “I don’t think I can ever sit in a pew and feel like someone is watching out for me up there.”

Mark leaned down, pressing his lips gently to your forehead, holding the kiss there for a long, quiet second. “Then don’t," he whispered against your skin. “You don’t have to look up there for someone to watch out for you. I’m right here on the ground. Let me do it.”

You closed your eyes, listening to the steady, unbothered rhythm of his heart beneath your cheek. For the first time in years, the silence didn't feel like abandonment. It felt like room to breathe.

The weeks following that disastrous dinner passed in a heavy blur, but Mark became your anchor. He didn't ask you to be strong, nor did he ask you to pray. Instead, he sought out spaces where your mind could finally quiet down.

The autumn wind in Toronto carried a sharp, crisp edge, rustling the dry leaves across the pavement as you walked hand-in-hand with him toward the local botanical conservatory.

The moment you pushed through the heavy glass doors, the warmth of the greenhouse hit you instantly. The air inside was thick, humid, and smelled deeply of damp earth, rich moss, and blooming jasmine. It was a massive glass dome, filled with towering ferns and vibrant tropical flowers, completely isolated from the noise of the city outside. There were no wooden pews here. There were no altars, no guilt, and no expectations. There was only life, growing quietly in the dirt.

“Look at this one,” Mark whispered, pointing to a large, velvety green leaf of a prayer plant tucked near the edge of the stone pathway. “They fold their leaves up at night, like they’re resting, and then they open back up when the sun comes out. No matter how dark it gets, they just... wait for the light.”

You looked at the plant, then up at Mark. The filtered sunlight caught the soft edges of his jawline, his dark hair slightly messy from the wind.

“Do you think they get tired of waiting?” you asked, your voice barely above a murmur.

Mark shifted his gaze to you, his eyes incredibly soft. He reached up, his thumb gently tracing the line of your cheekbone. “Maybe. But they don’t have to try hard to grow. They just exist, and the earth takes care of them. That’s what we’re doing here. You don’t have to try, love. Just exist.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, inhaling the clean scent of his jacket mixed with the earthy humidity of the greenhouse. For an hour, you walked the stone paths in complete silence, letting the green canopy shield you from the rest of the world. Here, the silence didn't feel like a heavy, judgmental void. It felt like room to breathe.

The next evening, the quiet sanctuary of your apartment was filled with a different kind of warmth. The rain against the glass grew heavier, turning the city lights into long, weeping streaks of amber and blue. Inside, the coffee table was cluttered with empty takeout containers, used tissues, and half-empty mugs of tea.

On the couch, you were flanked by your two closest friends, Maya and Jin. Mark was in the kitchen, quietly brewing another pot of tea, giving you the space he knew you needed with the only people who truly knew the depth of your history.

Maya was holding your hand, her thumb rubbing circles over your knuckles, while Jin sat on the floor, leaning his back against your knees. They were the ones who had held you the night you found the files on your sister's phone. They were the ones who had helped you scrub the invisible dirt off your skin when you felt like you could never be clean again.

“I talked to my therapist about the holiday family dinners,” Maya said softly, breaking the quiet hum of the room. “She said it’s completely okay to set a hard boundary. You don’t owe your sister an audience. You don’t owe her boyfriend your presence. Keeping the secret to protect your parents' peace is a burden you didn’t ask to carry, but choosing not to see them is how you protect your peace.”

“it just feels like I’m the one who ran away,” you whispered, staring down at your lap.

“They get to act like everything is perfect. They go to church together. They have Sunday lunches. And I’m the one hiding in the dark, doubting everything I ever believed.”

Jin leaned his head back against your knee, looking up at you with fierce, protective eyes. “You aren’t hiding, look at where you are. You’re surviving an environment that was toxic to you. They didn’t protect you. The institution didn’t protect you. You walked away because the house was on fire, and you had every right to save yourself.”

From the kitchen threshold, Mark stood silently, holding a tray with fresh mugs. He had heard every word. He didn’t flinch, and he didn’t try to defend the religious structure your family used as a shield. He walked over, carefully setting the tray down, and dropped to his knees next to Jin, his eyes completely locked onto yours.

“They’re right, you know,” Mark said, his voice deep and steady. “A family that builds its peace on your silence isn’t a holy thing. It’s just a cover-up. You didn’t run away from truth. You ran away from cruelty. You’re the strongest person I know.”

Maya looked at Mark, a soft, appreciative smile touching her lips at how fiercely he guarded you, even against the traditions he’d known his whole life. A tear finally slipped down your nose—not from the familiar sting of panic, but from the quiet, overwhelming relief of finally being seen. It felt like the very first breath of a long, slow exhale.

—

Later that night, after Maya and Jin had fallen asleep tangled in blankets on the living room floor, you were curled up on the window seat, wrapped in Mark’s favorite oversized knit sweater.

Mark climbed up onto the wide ledge with you, pulling your legs across his lap. He reached out to the kitchen counter and brought over a small, heavy terracotta pot, setting it between you. Nestled in the dark, rich soil was a small, vibrant cutting of the same velvet-leafed prayer plant you had admired at the conservatory.

“The lady at the greenhouse said this one grew from a cutting of the big one we saw,” Mark said, a gentle, earnest smile touching his lips. “She told me that even when a plant goes through a shock—when it gets cut away from everything it used to know—it doesn’t die. It just spends a little time growing new roots in a safer place. I wanted you to have it. It’s yours. No church, no rules, no family pressure. Just a quiet thing that gets to grow at its own pace. Right here with me.”

Your chest tightened, but for the first time, it wasn’t the suffocating grip of panic. It was a swell of profound safety. You reached out, your fingers brushing the soft, velvety texture of the leaf. “Thank you, Mark,” you whispered. “It’s perfect.”

He tucked your head back under his chin, his hands folding over yours. “You don’t have to carry the weight of the sky anymore, love,” he whispered into the quiet room.

“If you can’t look up and see a father, then look across the room and see me. If you can’t find peace in a prayer, find it right here in my arms. I’m not going anywhere. I am right here on the ground with you, for as long as it takes.”

Two days later, Mark sat at the small wooden dining table in his parents' house. The dinner plates had been cleared, and his mother was folding napkins in the kitchen, but his father remained at the head of the table, an open Bible resting beside his glasses. The air between the two men was thick with an unsaid tension that had been building since you ran out of the house the week before.

“Mark,” his father began, his tone carrying the familiar, heavy weight of pastoral authority. “We’ve been praying for her. But you must understand my concern as your father, and as a minister. A relationship cannot thrive when unequally yoked. She is carrying a deep bitterness against the church, and against God. If she closes her heart to the Lord, she closes her heart to the truth that guides your life.”

Mark sat perfectly still. His hands were flat on the table, his knuckles slightly white, but his expression was entirely calm—the quiet before a storm.

“Dad,” Mark said, his voice low, lacking the usual deferential warmth he always gave his parents. “She isn’t bitter. She’s injured.”

His father sighed, leaning back. “We all experience trials, son. Job lost everything, yet he blessed the name of the Lord. We cannot allow our trauma to justify turning our backs on grace.”

“Do you know what happened to her?” Mark asked, his voice dropping an octave, cold and razor-sharp.

His father blinked, caught off guard by the sudden intensity in Mark’s eyes. “She said she was going through a difficult season—”

“Her sister’s boyfriend took non-consensual, private photos of her in the shower, in her own home, for months,” Mark stated, the brutal, unvarnished truth cutting through the pristine air of the dining room. “And her sister helped him do it. She found the images on her sister’s phone. She had to sit at the dinner table with them every single day, keeping that weight inside her chest because she knew it would destroy her family if she spoke up.”

The room went completely dead silent. In the kitchen, the sound of folding napkins stopped instantly. His father’s mouth opened slightly, his pastoral eloquence completely failing him as the reality of the horror shattered the abstract concept of ‘trials.’

“She prayed, Dad,” Mark continued, his voice trembling slightly with an anger he rarely let anyone see. “She grew up in the pews just like I did. She begged for help, and nothing changed. The boyfriend still smiled at her. The sister still pretended to love her. So when she sits in your church, she doesn’t hear hymns. She hears the silence of a structure that failed to protect her. If your first instinct is to tell her she needs to fix her theology instead of weeping for what was stolen from her, then you don’t know the heart of Christ at all.”

Mark stood up, pushing his chair back. He didn't raise his voice, but the authority in his tone completely eclipsed his father’s.

“I love her,” Mark said, looking down at his parents. “I am going to spend the rest of my life making sure she knows she is safe, clean, and cherished. If you want to be a part of my life, and a part of hers, you will never bring up her faith again. You will only show her grace, or you will not see us at all.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He turned, grabbed his coat from the hallway rack, and walked out into the cool evening air, leaving the heavy silence of the house behind him.

—

When Mark returned to your apartment, the lights were dimmed, and the low, comforting hum of the refrigerator was the only sound in the kitchen. You were curled up on the window seat, wrapped in your favorite hoodie that Mark gave you on your birthday, watching the rain start to smear the city lights outside.

He closed the door softly, kicking off his shoes. The moment he walked into the living room, you could see the emotional exhaustion etched into the lines of his face. Yet, the moment his eyes found yours, that familiar, protective warmth washed over his features. He walked over to the window seat, climbing up onto the wide ledge with you, pulling your legs across his lap. He wrapped his long arms around your waist, pulling you tightly against his chest until there was no space left between you.

“I talked to them,” he murmured into the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin. “They know. They know they were wrong, and they know they will never cross that line again. I made sure of it.”

You let out a shaky breath, your hands coming up to grip the fabric of his shirt. “You didn’t have to do that, Mark. You didn’t have to fight them for me.”

“Shh, I will always fight for you,” he said fiercely, his chin resting on your shoulder as he looked out at the rainy city skyline. “Against the world, against my family, against anything that tries to make you feel like you aren’t enough just as you are.”

You closed your eyes, listening to the steady, unbothered rhythm of his heart beneath your cheek. The memories of the phone, the bathroom lock, and the suffocating guilt were still there—shadows that would take time to fully recede into the past. But as Mark tightened his grip, holding you firmly against the earth, you realized you didn’t need a golden heaven or a perfect sermon to feel saved.

“don’t scream or i’ll slit your throat,” and that’s when you realize that the cold blade of a knife is pressing into your throat.

he pulls the covers off your body and moves the knife away from your neck, dragging it down your body, agonizingly slow.

“i missed you so much. did you miss me too?”

you’re still in disbelief and you fail to give mark an answer. he presses the point of the knife into your thigh, threatening to cut into the soft skin.

“i asked did you miss me?” the softness of his voice is gone and a look of disdain has replaced the grin that was present a mere seconds ago.

“i– i did, i missed you so much.”

he removes the knife from your thigh and places it on the pillow next to you. his free hand comes up to hold your chin as he gazes into your eyes and you wonder if he can tell how frightened you are.

he leans forward, bringing his lips down to meet yours. you forget he has a knife and without thinking you turn your head away from him. he pauses for a moment before forcibly turning your head back to face his.

“you know i would never hurt you, right baby? you know that, right?” his voice softens once again.

you nod your head and this time when he goes in for a kiss, you don’t turn away. his mouth ravishes yours, he can’t get enough. his tongue darts out to lick your bottom lip before biting it. you gasp and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue explores your mouth while the hand that was previously on your chin, makes its way down to play with your tits.

you whimper at the sudden attention to your tits and mark smiles into the kiss before pulling away to undo his belt. it finally hits you as to why he’s here.

he tugs at your underwear, wanting you to raise your hips. you hesitantly bring a hand up to rest on his shoulder, your voice shakes as you speak, “i don’t– i don’t want this.”

“i’m not going to hurt you. i’m just going to put the tip in, alright? i just want to feel you. don’t you think i deserve that after what you’ve done to me? you ignored my calls and texts, even my voicemails! then you blocked me and changed your number,” he chuckles, “you went as far as getting a restraining order against me. do you know how that made me feel?!”

he’s crazy, he’s obsessed with you. you don’t owe him anything, but given the fact that he’s broken into your apartment, violated the restraining order, and has a knife with him and who knows what else, you’re in no position to deny him. you shake your head, giving him the go ahead but mark wants to hear you say it. “use your words babygirl.”

“i’m sorry. you do deserve that much.”

that’s all he needs to hear because as soon as your panties are off, he pushes the tip in and he stays like that for a minute, with just the tip inside. you enjoy the slight burn of being stretched out so much that you almost don’t notice that he’s bottomed out in you.

“mark, w-what are you doing? y-you said you would only–“ your voice breaks before you can finish your sentence, he lied to you.

he stops thrusting into you, staring into your eyes with a spine-chilling look, menacingly laughing in your face, “you dumb little whore.”

he resumes his movements and a tear escapes your eye. you don’t want this, but you’d be lying if you said it doesn’t feel good having his dick inside you.

you find yourself wrapping your arms around mark’s neck, pulling him closer and telling him you need to feel more of him. he brings both your knees to your chest, fucking you deeper and repeatingly hitting your sweet spot.

“you’re disgusting. who else would enjoy getting fucked by their stalker?,” he pants, “you didn’t even fight back. you know, i think you wanted this. didn’t you slut?”

his words affect you more than they should and you let out one final moan before your vision goes blurry and pure ecstasy washes over you.

when you come down from your high, mark is still fucking you, chasing after his release. he mumbles something under his breath before he pulls out and tells you get on your knees and suck him off.

you tease his tip before taking as much of him as you can in your mouth and jerking off the rest of his length. he slaps your cheek and you pull away, seconds later he’s covering your face in cum.

he looks at his work before he grabs your chin, making you look up at him, “so pretty,” he murmurs.

His hair is damp from his shower, he was even more hot in the face at the thought that he couldn’t even relax without you going and stringing some poor guy along into your fuckery that would ultimately lead to you being in the same exact bed you were just in with him and being fucked stupid. Not that Mark minded putting you in your place where you belong; with him.

The moment he stands in front of your apartment he doesn’t have patience to be quiet and gentle, he balls up his fist banging on the hard wooden door waiting to for your face to pop up between the crack and chain lock before opening it. “What are you doing here? Did you text me?” You ask completely oblivious to his anger which riles Mark up even more he pushes the door open and his sheer force or lack of yours for that matter choking you up.

The feeling of his fist balling up your hair pulling your head back to fully look him in his eyes makes your eyes go wide and your voice die in your throat. “You like being around other guys right? You like entertaining little boys?” He asks making your hand press against his chest gripping desperately at his shirt.

“No- i don’t” you say but Mark doesn’t want to hear some bullshit excuse you’ll throw at him. “No? Then why’re you posting other dudes on your story? In your bed? Huh?” He says but he knows the answer and he doesn’t have time for theatrics. “He’s a guy i went college with Mark.” You say pulling at his shirt.

‘Right, college” he says but doesn’t care enough to hear or even know anymore. He was in your space, the sacred space Mark had made seem like was his second place residing there almost every night with some of his own belongings sitting around to remind you of him. Mark grips your hair tighter making you wince.

Dragging you along with every heart pounding step he took towards your bedroom, heart ready to fall out your ass at how rough he was being with you though it truly makes no difference to you as you knew awaited you on the other side of your bedroom door. “Dressin’ up and shit, what you wanna impress him? Getting all cute.” He says slamming the door to your room open and slamming it shut behind I’m as he pulls you towards the end of your bed.

“you like pissin’ me off don’t you? Shit gets you all excited huh?” He says now use deliberately picking at you because he knows you better than anyone that you’ll cave to his attitude, and you’d do anything to make it better. “No I swear, we were just catchin’ up” you say defensively. “In your bed? No.” Mark doesn’t want to hear it anymore.

His hand pulls you down to your knees in front of your mirror as he stands in front of you. “You like your mirror so much right? Like takin’ pictures with little boys. Take a picture now” he says his tone is teasing but it wasn’t an ounce of amusement behind his eyes. Making you pull your phone from your back pocket you reach up to give him the phone with no words said but he scoffs.

“Nah, you do it. You took pictures of him in your mirror why can’t you now?” Mark won’t let the mean persona crack one bit. Pulling your head back to lean down and press a kiss to your lips knowing now your irritation was leaking in, but a kiss would shut you up before you even got started.

You soften up looking at him as he pulls away slowly looking you in your eyes perking up his brows before kissing you once more harder then standing at his full height. You open your camera snapping pictures while you both hold eye contact. The shrill feeling of embarrassment creeps up on you making you pull your eyes away and press your life head to his thighs the second his grip loosened but immediately tightens the second your head lands on his thighs.

“Nah, don’t look away now. Look at yourself.” He demands and it makes you pull away as your face heats up more embarrassed than any moment before Mark had confronted you at the front door. Hesitantly you look at the mirror seeing his hands bulging with veins from his tight grip making your thighs press together.

“You don’t like this shit but remember what got you here” he says the ugly feeling he got seeing you and whoever the guy was. “Mark, he was literally just a friend- I didn’t plan on talking to him again” you say but it falls on deaf ears as Mark tugs your hair. “Get back to it. You’re not done” he says using his free hand to point to your phone.

You sigh and snap pictures not ripping your face away from looking up at Mark. Snapping a few too many in your opinion, yet you snapped until Mark said stop. And when you dropped your phone and slid it away mark finally lets go of his grip on your hair, crouching to your level. “You see how that shit feels?” He says looking you in your eyes making your eyes slightly widen.

“What?” You ask not catching the meaning behind his words but it doesn’t take long for Mark to answer. “Seeing my girl posting another dude? It’s fucking embarrassing, that shit pissed me off” he says his index and thumb gripping at your chin gently. “I don’t like seeing you with other people. It doesn’t sit right” Mark says, though he’s made it a point to always get the message across that he hates sharing you with anyone you’d never heard him outright say he was jealous.

“Arguing’s not gonna fix the problem” Mark says softly before littering your lips and face in kisses making you sigh knowing that whatever mark chooses to do to resolve his feelings at the moment you’d be content. “Ok” you shortly answer against his lips with a small sigh as he stands up and sits at the end of your bed still visible in the mirror. You knew Mark was waiting on you to make him feel better. You take the initiate sliding your knees against the floor feeling the ache in your bones as you settle between his legs.

Hands pressing against his legs sweatpants bringing warmth to the back of your palms until your hands reach the subtle bulge poking through the thick grey fabric. Mark releasing a sigh from above you at the pressure on his dick. "You gonna make me feel good?" he asks as he watches you tug at the waistband of his boxers and pants, lifting his hips to help you. you nod puffing out a small hum in confirmation. Looking into his dark eyes you feel the dull ache between your thighs that makes you clench your them shut to relieve the feeling.

Your hand gripping at his base in a grip that makes Mark groan at the feeling, pumping him in your fist, teasing his tip with your tongue pressing your thumb against it as a thin string of spit connects the two of you together. “Fuck, even when you’re being bratty you’re still a tease” Mark says wincing as your grip tightens and your movements speed up. The sight of his thighs shaking makes you smile, though you know the sheer slick sound of precut and spit wasn’t the only sound you could make hit the air.

Wrapping your lips around his cock pressing your head down farther ignoring the burn in your throat as you lets the tip of his cock press against the back of your throat letting the sound of a long awaited moan you had been wanting to hear making your throat tighten around him which makes his bunch your hair back up once more guiding your head up and down on his dick sucking as the soft gags and sound of suckleing breach the heavy air.

Mark letting his other hand run through his black hair and fall back down on his forehead. “F-fuck” he huffs as his hips buck into the warmth from the back of your throat. Biting his lip as he feels the tingling sensation in his lower stomach while his thighs tense. His heartbeat is thrumming in his ears as he feels like his body is being reduced to nothing.

“That’s it baby” he moans airily as his hand presses down on the back of your head guiding you down his cock faster, his hips respond, Mark loves the way you look with tears in your eyes and mascara spilled with spit dripping down your chin and onto your chest in strings as your hair is absolutely fucked up by his hand.

“Look so pretty like that baby” he moans as his vision gets splotched, he’s closer and he can feel the burning white heat in his stomach clenching up and roaring to be released. His eyes widening at the feeling of your soft palm pressed flat against his tip rubbing quickly making him whine as his hips fuck into your fist at his base.

“Gonna cum” he groans as he looks you in your eyes watching as your wet eyelashes fluttered and your eyes look up at him, jaw slacking Mark feels himself letting go earning a deep groan from his throat that makes you gasp at how much he’s giving you. “Fuck” you whisper looking down at his dick covered in cum, red and throbbing; while mark lays back on the bed his face pale as if he’s seeing the pearly gates.

“C’mere” he says throaty and drained you move to sit in his lap making sure not brush against his sensitive cock. Mark sits up on his hands pressing his palms deep into the mattress as they sink in, you hesitantly find a comforting way to sit without touching him harshly while he’s coming down.

The pad of his thumb why’s away the saliva around your lips before he presses his lips to your forehead then to your lips heatedly, you moan almost instantly craving the feeling of his plump lips pressed against yours as he tastes himself on your tongue. His hands gripping the fat of your ass squeezing as he pulls you closer your hands settle to the back of his neck letting your fingers run through his hair.

Pulling away Mark nips and suckles on the skin of your throat making you lean your head back give him all the space he needs to litter small marks across your skin waiting to bloom into purple and blue bruises. His hands finding the bottom of your shirt pulling it over your head slowly as he kisses the skin above your navel up to the bottom of your bra he doesn’t hesitate to unclip and throw to the ground with your shirt.

Mark pulls his shirt over his own head letting you take the time to pull your pants and panties off. Mark settles you in his lap once more facing the mirror almost embarrassed at how disheveled you looked. “Look at you, my girl looks so pretty. Waiting to get fucked stupid” Mark whispers in your ear as your eyes watches the way his cock his hard and pressed against your navel, you clench around nothing.

“You wanna make it up to me? Make me feel better? Ride this fucking dick” he mumbles and that makes your head drop back as a moan ripples off the walls through the air. “s’not fair mark” you mumble as you crumble at the feeling of your clit pressed against him your mind utterly cloud with nothing but mark, mark, mark. You can’t get enough of it, adjusting your hips to press his tip against your sticky entrance teasing him in return as you sink down on just the tip making him sink his nails into your hip earning a wince.

“I don’t got the patience baby” he mumbles against your shoulder as he looks at you over the shoulder slowly pressing his hips up into you slowly making you sink onto his cock taking every inch he can give you until your ass is pressed against his thighs. “That’s it” he hisses as you grind down on him the feeling of him taking up all your space, filled to the brim makes your stomach feel warm and your chest tight at the stretch.

Your feet folding under your thighs as your hands reach back to hold onto his hands, anything, you you just need to feel him but mark does you better by wrapping his arms around your waist letting his warm palms rub against your tummy. The slick sound of you grinding against him makes you whine. Slowly lifting your hips and dropping them making Mark’s breathing shutter like a stack of paper in the wind.

Bouncing on his lap, his thrusts deep enough to make your thighs tremble as you whine, your thighs starting to burn as you push through the feeling letting your finger nails dig crescent shapes into his skin. “You like that? s’It feel good?” He asks as his hips rock against you his eyes watching the way your ass bounces letting a hand fall behind you letting a deafening smack reverberate off the walls.

“Yeah” you nod your head his eyes can’t stay in one place bouncing from you to the mirror in love with everything in sight. The trembling in your thighs slows you down making you switch between bouncing and grinding your hips making Mark grip your thighs “don’t slow down” he chuckles as his hands lift the weight of your thighs as impact was less of a worry.

The slick sounds in the air make your head dizzy as you barely catch the dirty words mark are whispering into your skin as his lips trail up your spine making your bones utterly shiver. “Keep going, don’t stop” he says his voice low and gruff like gravel sending goosebumps all over your skin that makes your hips bounce faster.

“That’s it” he mumbled his fingers rubbing small circles on your clit that makes your head fall back immediately making Mark scoff. “Didn’t I say look in the mirror? Look in the fucking mirror” he says sternly his rough palm colliding with the skin of your ass that makes you whine as you straighten up looking at yourself.

Hair a mess, makeup smudged as your mascara runs. You couldn’t be embarrassed with the way you were absolutely fucking yourself dumb on his cock, it felt too good to care, the shrill feeling in your lower stomach making your breath get caught in your throat as you clench down tighter on him.

“Get up” he said and it immediately made you want to burst into tears. You were so close, just a hair away from feeling that rush of energy and pleasure wash over you in white warm waves. You move anyways, slowly as it makes you feel empty. Mark guides you to rest on your stomach arching your back he leans close between your thighs letting a glob of spit trickle down your pussy making you gasp.

Spreading your legs farther apart seeing the way you glisten under your bedrooms dim lamp propped in the corner. “Look at you, all tired, you tired baby?” He asks as he pumps himself watching your expression in the mirror with a smirk seeing you nod your head. “Just wanna see you cum” you mumble as your temple presses against the mattress.

Mark hums in response as he presses his tip to your soaked entrance as the strings of spit and slick string against his tip as he slaps his tip against you making your hips jerk in response before pushing against him, the stretch is welcomed and you moan at the feeling of being full again. “You like that?” He asks as he sinks in slower making your jaw slack before your teeth cage over your bottom lip nodding.

His hand pressing against your ass as the other against your hip as his pelvis touches your skin making you grind against him. “Feels so fucking good” you whisper as you stack your arms in front of you and rest your chin on your forearm watching mark through the mirror who looks at just how deep he is inside you.

Pulling out just enough for his tip to still be inside before pressing harshly back into you making you moan as he repeats more harshly before utterly pounding into you, his hands touching your body in ways he knows only he can. “You know where to look” he says groaning as he pats your ass making your eyes flicker from him to yourself.

You know mark looks good, his dark hair sticking to his forehead and neck sticky with sweat, his feint abs covered in sweat that makes him look absolutely delicious. “Fuck yourself on my dick, come on” he says gently and it makes your head spin “come on pretty” he whispers as you lift yourself on your hands using it as leverage to bounce yourself in his lap picking up the pace.

“please cum” you whimper as you let your head fall back to look mark in his eyes absolutely filled with lust. “Wan’ you to cum so fucking bad, please” you moan and it makes Mark feel like he’s gonna lose it. His hand presses to your upper back making you fall back into the mattress, Mark leans over you completely like a tower wrapping his arm around your neck putting you in a headlock as he lets his hips buck into you sloppily.

Your moans die out as the constricting feel in your throat makes your jaw drop in pleasure as your eyes roll back. “Look at that fucking mirror hm?” He says into your ear, his breathing heavy as he can feel himself getting close almost like a sneeze the tingling sensation bundles up in your lower stomach as you force yourself to look in the mirror.

“Don’t want anybody else no more right?” He asks as his hips continue to piston into you “no, just you” you slur your words can barely make it out of your mouth with how good he fucks you. “Your little friend can’t do better can he?” He asks even though he knows the answer he still asks just to hear it from your mouth. “Never could make me cum” you whine as your thighs twitch.

“Cum with me, that’s all I need you to do for me baby” he moans as he absolutely tears up your insides making you grip his arm and sink your nails into his skin as you smoosh your face against his temple releasing all tension in your stomach the same time you hear the deepest moan to be released past marks throat that makes keep your eyes shut tightly as your body falls limp against him in pleasure as he fills you with the warm feeling of his cum.

Letting a few more rough thrusts make you completely shutter against him as he stops pulling away from you making you feeling the coldest you have been since he’s stepped inside your apartment, pulling out Mark watched how your dripped with his cum spilling on the sheets and onto your thighs he hums tiredly in satisfaction of his work almost as if your pussy was a masterpiece he painted with his cum.

Standing up Mark works with you in gentle touches as you wince at the dull ache between your thighs. “It’s okay, I got you” he mumbles as he carries your weight to the bathroom sitting you on the counter as he runs a bath. The both of you eventually situate in the bath with your back pressed to his chest as he cups the bath water letting it spill over your shoulders as he runs the rag lathered in soap over your skin.

“You’re mean when you’re jealous” you say, your throat dry and hoarse yet you don’t mind using whatever little bit of your voice you have to tease Mark. “Well maybe when you do shit to make me jealous I just show the ugly feelings” he mumbles as he presses a kiss to your temple. “You’re never gonna talk to him an again are you?” He asks with a hint of teasing in his voice “after this? Absolutely not” you laugh as you reach your hand up to his hand letting your nails rake through the wet tangles that makes Mark relax into you as his chin rests on your shoulder pressing a kiss to the skin. “Good” he mumbles.