#mark blurbs

you belonged in the shadows of the stone walls, where the air smelled of burnt sage and old parchment. where your hands, stained with crushed herbs and soot, crafted remedies for nobles who never looked you in the eye. you weren’t a lady, not by their measure—you didn’t wear silk, didn’t smile for men who thought your intelligence was a novelty. you were a necessity. useful. quiet. invisible.

until he came.

sir mark lee wasn’t supposed to speak to you. he was a knight—lowborn, yes, like you, but carved into legend by the steel in his grip and the loyalty in his gaze. they said he once felled a man twice his size for threatening the prince. they said his sword was blessed by god himself.

but he didn’t look like a legend when he stood in your chamber that night, armor scratched from battle, blood crusted at his temple. he looked human. lost.

“the healer’s too far,” he’d said, voice low and urgent. “they told me you could help.”

you remember the tremble of his body beneath your fingers as you cleaned the wound. how he watched your hands—not your face, not your figure, but your hands, like they held power.

“it’ll scar,” you told him, not knowing why you felt the need to speak softly. “but you’ll live.”

“then i owe you my life.”

he meant it.

after that, he returned often—always under the pretense of bruises and shallow wounds, always after dark. sometimes he didn’t even knock. just appeared in your doorway, breathless from training or battle, eyes searching the dim room until they found you.

“it’s quiet here,” he once said, the first night he stayed too long. “i can breathe.”

you didn’t touch each other. not yet. but the air between you grew heavy with want. every word he spoke lingered too long. every glance left your skin hot. he began to bring you things—dried rose petals, rare vials, broken relics from the battlefield. once, he placed a single golden pin in your palm. “it reminded me of you,” he said, and didn’t explain why.

you never wore it.

but you kept it in a drawer, where your fingers found it on restless nights.

because there was something unspoken between you—something dangerous. it curled beneath your skin like flame, threatening to devour you whole. you knew what it meant to be seen by a man like him. you knew what the court would say.

a knight and a witch, they’d whisper.

a blade and a curse.

they’d burn you for it.

but still, you let him return.

you let him look at you like that.

you let him touch your hand one night, when neither of you spoke, and the fire burned low, and the only sound was the trembling of your breath.

you didn’t stop him when his lips brushed your knuckles.

you didn’t stop him when they found you.

the night he kissed you, you thought it was a mistake.

he was half-drunk on pain and exhaustion, slouched in the wooden chair by your hearth. his armor lay discarded by the door, his tunic undone at the collar. the firelight carved golden edges into his face, highlighting the bruise along his jaw and the shadow beneath his cheekbone.

you stood beside him, grinding herbs in a small stone bowl, pretending not to notice the way his eyes followed you.

but you did.

“you should sleep,” you said, not looking at him. your voice was soft, too soft.

“i should,” he agreed.

he didn’t move.

you turned. “mark—”

“say that again.”

you blinked. “what?”

“my name. like that.”

you swallowed. “mark.”

his lips parted slightly, like it surprised him. like he hadn’t realized how much he wanted it.

“it sounds… holy. when you say it.” he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and you could feel the shift in the air—thick, charged.

“don’t say that,” you murmured, heart pounding.

“why not?”

“because i’m not holy.”

he smiled, slow and reverent. “i know. that’s why i come back.”

his fingers brushed yours. just barely. but it was enough to make you ache.

you could have pulled away. you should have.

instead, you set the bowl down and let your hand rest on his.

“this is dangerous,” you whispered, though your body leaned into the gravity of his.

his other hand came up to your waist—hesitant, warm, trembling slightly. “so is war. i still ride into it.”

you stood between his knees, close enough to feel the heat of him. his gaze dropped to your lips. lingered.

“tell me to stop,” he said. “and i will.”

you didn’t.

so he kissed you.

slow at first, like a secret. his lips moved gently against yours, searching, learning. he tasted like wine and fire and something softer—something only you had ever touched.

your hands curled into his hair, pulling him closer. he stood, lifting you with him, mouth never leaving yours. your back hit the wooden wall with a soft thud. your breath caught when he pressed against you—his body solid, needy.

“you don’t know what you do to me,” he murmured against your throat. “i dream about you.”

you gasped as his hands slid beneath your layers of cloth, palms hot against your waist, your hips.

“i think about you when i train,” he whispered, teeth grazing your collarbone. “when i’m bleeding. when i’m praying.”

his voice broke slightly. “i want you more than i want heaven.”

you pulled him closer, grounding yourself in his warmth. “then take me.”

he paused, forehead pressed to yours. “are you sure?”

you kissed him like an answer.

and he unraveled.

he lifted you easily, carrying you to the cot as if you weighed nothing. his kisses grew desperate—needy—his hands shaking as he undressed you. he looked at you like you were something sacred and forbidden, something he should fall to his knees before. and when he finally slid inside you, slow and deep, you swore you saw stars.

he held you like he couldn’t believe you were real. moved inside you like he wanted to memorize every sound you made, every tremor in your body.

“look at me,” he whispered. “please, look at me.”

you did.

and what you saw in his eyes was not lust. it was devotion.

pure. aching. terrifying.

like he’d burn the world for this.

like he already had.

he undresses you like he’s learning you.

his fingers move slowly over the laces of your bodice, undoing each one with reverence, his eyes fixed on your skin as it’s revealed inch by inch. he doesn't rush. doesn’t speak. he only breathes—deep and controlled, as though he's afraid the moment will vanish if he moves too fast.

“you’re trembling,” he murmurs, brushing your bare shoulder with the back of his hand.

“so are you.”

his lips press to your collarbone, warm and tender. “i’ve never wanted anything this much.”

your chemise slips down your arms and pools at your feet. he steps back for a moment—not to admire, but to steady himself. to feel the weight of seeing you bare in front of him for the first time. your nipples are hard from the cold, your thighs pressed together in shyness.

mark steps in close, his hands finding your hips, his mouth returning to yours—hungrier now. he kisses you like a man who’s been starved. tongue sliding past your lips, one hand gripping the back of your neck while the other slips down, down—

until it finds the heat between your legs.

you gasp into his mouth.

his fingers are rough from swordwork, but careful—featherlight as he brushes through your folds, slow and teasing.

“fuck,” he whispers when he feels how wet you are. “is that all for me?”

you nod, breath shaky.

“say it.”

“it’s for you,” you whisper. “it’s always been for you.”

he groans, sinking to his knees.

and that—that sight alone nearly makes you come. the court’s golden knight, down on the floor, pulling your thighs apart like a man possessed. he looks up at you once, lips swollen, eyes dark.

“hold on to something,” he says. “i’m not stopping.”

and he doesn’t.

his tongue finds your clit instantly—circling, sucking, flicking in just the right rhythm while two fingers slide into your dripping heat. the stretch is perfect, obscene, your body grinding against his face without shame.

you cry out his name. over and over.

“mark—mark, please—fuck—”

he moans into you like he’s savoring the taste. his fingers curl inside you, stroking your sweet spot until your thighs shake around his head. you come fast—too fast—your body clenching hard, legs trembling, and still, he doesn’t stop. he fucks you through it with his mouth and fingers, coaxing every drop of pleasure out of you until you’re whimpering, begging—

“please, mark, i need you inside me. now.”

he’s already halfway undressed. you help him push his pants down, and his cock springs free—thick, flushed, already leaking.

you reach for him, wrapping a hand around the base.

“you’re big,” you whisper, almost dazed.

he chuckles low in his throat. “you can take it. i’ll go slow.”

he lines himself up with your entrance, rubbing the tip through your soaked folds until your hips buck.

“ready?”

“yes. please—mark—”

he pushes in, inch by inch, stretching you open so deeply, so sweetly, your head falls back against the pillow. your mouth drops open in a silent cry. he groans, gripping your thigh.

“fuck—you’re so tight. so warm.”

he bottoms out, stays there for a second, trembling above you.

“you feel like home,” he breathes.

you lift your hips to urge him deeper, and he starts to move—slow thrusts, deep and measured, dragging along every sensitive inch inside you. one of his hands slides under your back to pull you closer, chest to chest.

“look at me,” he says again. “i need to see you.”

you do. and it nearly breaks you.

the way he stares—like you’re salvation and sin all at once. like he’d die in your arms if you asked.

he picks up the pace, hips snapping harder now, your bodies slapping together as your moans fill the room. you wrap your legs around his waist, and he fucks you deeper, faster, panting against your neck.

“i love you,” you whisper, breath caught between sobs of pleasure.

he freezes for half a second.

then he slams into you—hard—and groans against your throat.

“say it again.”

“i love you,” you repeat, louder this time. “i love you, mark—”

he thrusts faster, wild now, hand slipping between you to rub your clit again. it takes seconds before you’re coming again—clenching around him, gasping as your vision goes white.

“gonna come,” he growls, voice wrecked. “inside you. can i—?”

“yes,” you gasp. “mark, fill me, please—”

he groans your name as he spills into you, hips jerking erratically, cock pulsing deep inside. he kisses you through it—your lips, your cheeks, your temple—as if trying to brand himself into your skin.

when it’s over, he collapses on top of you, both of you slick with sweat, your hearts beating like war drums.

he stays buried inside you, still hard, still holding you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

“i’ve never had anything this real,” he whispers against your skin. “not until you.”

he stayed until morning.

you woke with your leg draped over his hip, his nose buried in your neck, his hand still on your waist like he couldn’t bear to let go, not even in sleep. the fire had burned out hours ago, but the warmth of his body—solid, steady—wrapped around you like a promise.

you stayed quiet for a long time. breathing him in.

you didn’t want to be the first to speak.

“i thought it was a dream,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep. “i’ve had so many.”

your fingers moved slowly through his hair. “this one’s real.”

he shifted, just enough to kiss your shoulder. “then let me stay in it. just a little longer.”

and he did. he stayed the whole day.

he made you tea. kissed you between sips. traced the curve of your hip with calloused fingers while you told him about the healing properties of dried rosemary. you watched the way he listened—truly listened—as if every word you spoke mattered more than any prayer, any sword, any oath.

you didn’t say the word love.

but it bloomed quietly in the room. in the touch of his hand on your back. in the way he kissed your ankle before laying you down again, mouth warm and reverent on your skin.

he knelt between your thighs like a man come to worship.

his tongue found you slowly—wet, careful, patient. he groaned when you moaned, gripping your thighs as if the sound alone undid him. he didn’t stop until your voice broke on his name, until your legs trembled and you begged him—desperately, breathlessly—to come inside you.

and when he did, it wasn’t rushed. it was slow, aching. he slid in deep and held your face in his hands like you might shatter if he didn’t.

“you feel like sin,” he whispered, “and i’d choose you anyway. every time.”

you kissed him to quiet the sob that rose in your throat.

because you knew. even then.

love like this wasn’t meant to last.

after that night, he returned as often as he could. not just with bruises or offerings—but with longing. with need.

“i missed you,” he’d whisper, shutting the door behind him with trembling hands. “days feel longer when i’m not inside you.”

and you’d undress him by candlelight, kiss the scar by his hip, feel him grow hard against your belly as you whispered your own confessions.

“i wait for you,” you’d admit. “i sleep in your shirt. i read your letters again and again.”

he’d bury himself in you like he could protect you from the world. he’d fuck you slowly some nights, eyes locked to yours, hand between your legs, breath hot on your ear. other nights he’d take you against the table, desperate and rough, your skirt bunched at your waist, his mouth muffling your moans.

but always—always—he held you after.

as if his body was your shield.

as if he could keep the world away.

but the world was not kind.

not to people like you.

you noticed the whispers first. the way the maids avoided your eyes. the way the king’s advisor lingered too long outside your door.

one morning, mark arrived later than usual. blood on his sword, panic in his eyes.

“they’re watching you.”

your hands trembled. “who?”

he stepped forward, gripping your shoulders. “the council. they’ve seen the relics you’ve been studying. the salves you’ve made. they think it’s unnatural.”

“it is natural,” you said, voice cracking. “it’s chemistry. observation. logic.”

“they don’t care.” his voice broke. “they’ve seen the burn marks on your fingers. the powders. the symbols in your notes.”

you stared at him. “you think they’ll accuse me?”

he looked like he was about to fall to his knees. “they already have.”

the night before your sentence, he came to you in secret.

the guards let him in without a word. his rank allowed it. no one questioned why a knight would want a final word with the woman he’d been ordered to kill.

you were sitting on the floor, your ankles shackled, your wrists raw from the chains.

he fell to his knees in front of you.

“don’t speak,” you whispered. “just hold me.”

and he did.

his hands shook as he undid your binds. his lips found your temple, your cheeks, your mouth. he kissed your tears away and pulled you into his lap like he couldn’t bear the distance. like his arms were the only place you had left to live.

you kissed him back—desperate, hungry, grieving.

when he lifted you into his arms and laid you down on the stone floor, neither of you cared that the world was ending outside that cell.

his body hovered over yours, his eyes soaked in pain and reverence.

“if this is the last time,” he said, voice cracking, “i want you to remember how i loved you.”

“show me.”

and he did.

his hands moved over you feverishly, like he needed to memorize every inch before they took you away. his mouth worshiped you—biting, kissing, licking everywhere he could reach.

he fucked you with a kind of despair that bled into every stroke—slow, hard, deep. he held your face the whole time. kissed you between every thrust. whispered your name like it was the last word he'd ever speak.

your nails clawed down his back, your bodies slapping in a rhythm more desperate than gentle.

“come for me,” he begged. “i need to feel it. please—please.”

you did, gasping, sobbing, breaking open beneath him.

he followed with a cry—buried inside you, body shaking, moaning your name like a prayer that wouldn’t save him.

after, he didn’t move. just held you.

and when dawn broke, he whispered three words into your hair:

“i have a plan.”

the air in the square feels carved from iron.

it’s barely morning, but already the sky is bruised, heavy with smoke and dust, the sun hidden behind low, churning clouds. the crowd gathers thick around the platform—commoners, merchants, guards, even a few nobles lining the edge in muted colors, whispering beneath their veils. no one dares to speak too loud. no one dares to look away.

up on the scaffold, a girl kneels.

she wears only a thin, off-white chemise—something that might’ve once been undergarments, now soaked from the morning dew, clinging to her body like a final insult. her hands are bound behind her back, and a coarse burlap sack has been pulled over her head. it covers her face completely, as if even in death, the sight of her is too much to bear.

beside her stands a knight.

armor polished. back straight. face unreadable.

mark.

he looks at the girl in silence for a moment longer than he should have.

his grip on the sword tightens.

then he speaks.

his voice carries across the square like a knife’s edge—sharp, clear, final.

“by order of the royal council, for the crimes of blasphemy, defiance of divine law, and the practice of forbidden arts…” he pauses. just long enough for the crowd to hold its breath. “(y/n), the court’s former alchemist, is hereby sentenced to death.”

some gasp. others cry.

but mark doesn’t blink.

he raises the sword above his head, perfectly still.

for a second—just a second—the wind seems to die.

and then the blade comes down.

a thud. a sharp cry from somewhere in the crowd. the body slumps forward, lifeless.

blood stains the wooden boards.

“the sentence has been carried out,” mark announces, stepping back from the fallen figure. “the accused is dead.”

the crowd erupts.

some cheer. some cross themselves. others simply watch in stunned silence as two guards approach to drag the limp body away.

mark turns, slowly, descending the scaffold with heavy steps. his face remains hard. unreadable. dutiful.

but behind his eyes, something burns.

and far beyond the square—beyond the walls, past the fields, deep in the cover of the forest—

a single horse races down a dirt path.

its hooves hammer the ground with desperate speed, mud flying, breath steaming in the cold air. tied to the back is a plain wooden carriage, bouncing wildly with every turn.

inside, hidden beneath layers of cloth, you lie curled on your side.

your fingers tremble as you pull back a layer of thick linen. the scent of earth and damp wood fills your lungs. the sky outside is blurry through the slats—branches whip past, wind howling like something feral. you clutch a dark cloak to your chest, still warm from the body that gave it to you.

from him.

you blink rapidly, eyes burning.

outside, a voice yells above the storm.

“hyah! go! faster, damn it—go!”

you know that voice.

donghyuck.

you remember the way he came to you in the dead of night, face pale, breath fast. don’t speak, he’d said. just trust him. trust me.

you hadn’t asked questions.

you’d only run.

and now you’re here, hidden among herbs and straw, body aching from the cold, alive—alive—while the crowd back in the village still believes you’re rotting on the scaffold.

you press a hand over your mouth as the realization strikes.

he lied.

he gave them a body. not yours.

he gave them a sentence. not your death.

he gave you a chance.

you gasp, swallowing down a sob, but it’s too late—the tears come hard and fast, hot against your cheeks. your fingers dig into the fabric of the cloak, desperate for something to hold onto, something that still smells like him.

you twist slightly, pulling the curtain back with trembling fingers.

and through the trees, barely visible in the distance, you see it—

the dark spire of the church tower. the same one that watched over your execution. the same one that now rings hollow bells into the sky.

you stare at it, eyes full of tears, heart breaking.

“mark…”

you whisper it like a prayer. like a farewell.

you know you won’t see him again.

you know he gave everything to save you—his oath, his honor, his life as he knew it. and he stayed behind, sword still dripping, face still carved from stone.

for you.

the carriage races on, carrying you further and further into the unknown.

and you, hidden beneath it all, turn your face to the past.

His fingers pull from your hair, forcing your head far from his figure. Deep breaths help you recover slightly. You open your eyes, noticing the notorious string of saliva connecting your lips to his tip. His length fully erect, covered with your spit. "Come on, open your mouth again" He asks with a sweet tone and a mischevious grin. You open your mouth widely. "Your tongue out, come on" You do so, looking directly into his eyes. His lips curve forming an evil smile. His length enters fully in your mouth once again.

You gag again when it reaches the limit of your throat, this time he keeps the position for longer, keeping the air away from your lungs. You protest against his skin, only limiting the air even more. Your hands tap on his thights, seeking compassion. His hands pull you away once again, except this time he kneels down, next to you. You are busy coughing and heavy breathing, so he allows you some seconds to recover.

After some time his fingers curl around your chin lifting your face to make you look at him. "Open your eyes and look at me" You follow his orders, though your tears make it difficult for you to see anything. "Did you like that?" His question seems so sudden, you've talked about this for hours before actually doing it, of course you were enjoying it. "Yes" There's no doubt on your voice. "Louder"

"Yes" You shout. "Yes what? What did you like?" You take a deep breath before answering. "I liked how you used my mouth" His fingers wrap your hair again, pulling it down, to make you look up as he gets up. "What a dirty slut" He lets out before spitting on your face. "Open your fucking mouth" He orders and you obey, receiving his hot spit into your mouth. His free hand recollect the spit decorating your face and puts it into your mouth. You swallow it all.

He pulls your hair, dragging your body across the room. His arms lift you and drop you onto the matress leaving your head hanging on the edge of the bed. His length enters your mouth once again, this time there's absolutely no way for you to move. He thrusts as he pleases, getting more and more worked up. At some point an extra pair of hands start touching your body softly. Mark must've arrive, you figure.

Donghyuck's hand grabs yours and places it on your throat. "Keep it there" He says, thrusting deeper into you, hands on the sides of your torso. You are confused at first, until you notice the bulge going up and down your throat, following his movements. A sudden wave of pleasure washes over you.

A hot tongue starts playing along your folds, taking advantage of the wet and messy state your cunt is in. Hyuck starts leaving a mix of kisses and bites over your stomach, so you never know what to expect, sometimes you get a soft caress of his lips over your sensitive skin and others you receive a painful yet pleasurable hint of his teeth. On rare ocassions he kisses over a spot that has been bitten, and even that softness pokes your sore skin.

Your pussy though, that's a different story, it's completely moistured, a mix of your own juices and Mark's saliva drips down your body, reaching your asshole. His tongue draws circles over your clit for a while, then he sucks your clit in with different intensities, then his tongue enters you, reaching inside as fas as it can. His fingers join later, for a deeper dive inside your walls, curling up to reach your g-spot. Your legs wrap around his neck, pushing him closer.

You end up cumming pretty fastly, but it does not affect anything around you, both boys keep their actions as if nothing happened, as if your loud moans hadn't been silenced by his length entering deepen inside your throat, as if your body hadn't been shakingfor a while. It had calmed down though, slowly, although a new wave of pleasure was already forming inside of you.

Hyuck pulls out of you suddenly. "You're gonna ask me permission to cum this time okay?" You simply nod. "Okay?" You gulp. "Yes" He smirks. "Good girl. Now look at the mirror" He says pointing at the mirror standing right behind Mark. "Look how fucking desperate you are, look how much of a slut you actually are" Your cheeks burn in embarrassment at his words.

"Can I cum?" You ask noticing how close you're getting. "Beg" His voice had a dark undertone to it. "Please, let me cum" He chuckles. "You can do it better" You take a deep breath to delay your orgasm. "Please, I'm a desperate slut, I need to cum so badly, please let me cum" He smirks. "Add more desperation" You start tearing up, almost unable to control your high any further. "Please, I'm so wet and desperate for cumming please, have mercy and let me" Before you can finish you hear his "Cum" and your body reacts instantly, with no need of further actions.

Hyuck comes closer to you and start kissing you passionately while Mark leaves wet kisses and bites on your thighs.

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Hii, I wanted to inform you all that I'll be testing a new format with the advent calendar fics, so if you leave a comment, I'll reply portraying the characters of the fic. If you want someone specific to answer you write his name, if you don't I'll choose for you. Have a nice day and comment if you want to test this <3

Advent calendar masterlist

"you do," you said without a beat's passing, your eyes still focused on the window of your classroom where a sullen girl had gone by. "don't you?"

mark blinked with a dejected yet amused smile. he had no idea why he was trying to defend himself when what you said was technically true. he does, in fact, have to let people down a lot.

it was only the start of the year, and he had already gotten plenty of love confessions from people from all corners of this town.

from the girl in cram school, the junior he was tutoring for an extra credit program, the senior from music club, and the boy he meets every morning at the bus stop. And, just then, a girl next class. he let all of them down by giving out countless rejections, and he has seen numerous disappointed smiles. he assumed things would get more hectic as valentine's week rolled to its red carpet entrance.

"it's not like i want to reject them," mark said, scribbling on the record book. "you can't fault me for who i didn't fall in love with."

you hummed thoughtfully and audibly; the tone he has long learned to recognize to mean that you have something insightful to say. he waited in silence for you to speak, his concentration hanging on his written words and his patience. he didn't notice it, but the class was unsatisfactory today, according to the teachers' remarks.

"move your hand, mark," you muttered suddenly as you reached over and tapped at his hand with the eraser tip of your pencil. he complied easily, glancing from your end of the table to the record book before him, then he heard you sigh. you asked, "did you not get the teacher's signature after school?"

"huh? uh, i didn't, i guess..." he replied with a drop of his voice. his attention was elsewhere.

mark suppressed a smile when he saw you glare at him with faint annoyance. your lips muttered your distaste for his careless mistake, complaining about the uselessness of your nagging for him to do tasks according to instructions.

you always tried to keep those words to yourself, perhaps as a caution to not hurt his feelings. but some part of your mind also desperately needed your frustration to be heard, so you always ended up giving him a scolding gaze that displayed a warm defeat he has grown to love so much. it was when he would talk too much in class, or when he would stray off-topic in discussions, or when he wasn't paying attention to your explanation of a math problem.

sometimes he does those things on purpose just to get a scrap of your endearment—something he found in the gaps of your every action toward him—despite having additional consequences. he has gone to detention just to hear you ask him to stop talking.

"it's okay! i'll make sure to get the signature tomorrow morning," he said optimistically.

you huffed with furrowed brows, then you relaxed. it wasn't really that big of a deal. "you better."

you returned to the class budget book. you were chosen to mind the budget for the upcoming school valentine's fair, where each class would be in charge of a station of their choice. it could be about food, music, or fashion as long as the theme is school-appropriate. it is also a good day to sell the school to prospective students as parents would likely come along with the middle school children.

mark stared at you expectedly for a moment before he cleared his throat. you had clearly forgotten about the previous conversation you started, and he still wanted to hear what you had to say about his love life. was he trying to gauge your interest in him? a little. has he ever been good at checking for people's romantic interests in him? absolutely not, but he suspected he would be hyper-aware of yours because he has feelings for you.

he just needed something, however trivial and however minor. it could even be a delusional assumption! he just needed to experience a leap of joy from believing that you may also be in love with him.

"so, you were saying?" he asked casually.

you looked at him then, confused. "saying what?"

"after i told you not to fault me for who i didn't fall in love with," he said as he returned your gaze.

you raised your brows, and your shoulders slumped in relaxation once your mind bounced back into deep thoughts. looking to the side where the corner of your desk was, you saw a glimpse of mark's hand that tended to rest there, and you looked away to the window, where you watched as mark rejected the pretty girl's confession. you frowned, causing his heart rate to pick up.

"i don't think falling in love is out of our control," you said. "i think we choose to love who we do."

"you're saying love is a choice," he asked rhetorically, the corner of his lips quirking in question.

you were about to push your stance until you saw the amused expression on his face. you squinted at him, knowing very well he disagreed with you just from the glint of his eyes, and you gave up on explaining your philosophy further. tapping your pencil's end against the desk mindlessly, you chuckled in surrender. he mirrored your laughter immediately just to hear how the air would sound with your voices woven together.

"each to their own," you said.

"alright," mark nodded, "but one of my friends said once that love is nothing but a promise."

you tilted your head with a faint, humming laugh. "which is a choice."

"i just thought it was romantic," he said with a shrug.

"i mean–when i say by choice, i just meant... " you sighed in frustration as you put down your pencil. mark looked up at you, and you pouted in dismay. you thought you weren't going to say more about this, but you always end up talking. you chuckled lowly to yourself. "goodness, and i tried to say each to their own opinion."

"it's okay," he reassured, his fingers playing with each other on the table. "what do you want to say?"

"nothing groundbreaking," you whispered with rejection, poor eyes staring at him to let it be known that your self-consciousness dampened your mood, then you looked away.

mark softened upon your sullen expression, much more than he had felt when he rejected the girl next class.

your misconception that you must only speak if you have new things to contribute to the conversation was, as he believed, nothing but a misconception. as he could hear you talk about anything. dull things, obvious things, unnecessary things. maybe that he was holding a pencil, or the sun was setting outside the school, or that you two were sitting across each other and you found him looking at you a lot. anything.

you turned to look out the window when you caught a glimpse of a figure. the girl from the next class walked past slowly, her eyes a faraway gaze you cannot reach. you watched her move, taking in the elegant beauty of only half of her features being visible. you found yourself drawn to her in a way that mark unbelievably was not; not in a romantic sense, only that you wondered why he didn’t at least try.

"i just don't understand. i don't understand why you rejected her," you said, brows furrowed in thoughts. "she's so pretty."

mark blinked in disbelief. he spared a glance out the window and quickly back at you, whose eyes remained focused on the past silhouette of the girl who admired him. he cursed inwardly at himself because he couldn't tell what you were thinking or what you were implying. there was no way for him to let it be known that the matter lay not in how beautiful someone else was but that his heart belonged to you.

and that fact had not been a choice. to make a choice, one has to be in the know of it being made.

but he never knew.

he knew nothing about how he captured the current youth on your face and yearned to watch the creases grow old so he could be able to tell the stories of them as he aged. he knew nothing about being above common sense as a boy who fell in love because all he did were stupid things just to hear you laugh at him, to hear you nag him. he knew nothing about worrying and overthinking, analyzing and longing, thinking about what you were doing and thinking even though you sat next to him.

mark didn't know he was in love with you until he did. until the realization hit him like vines tightening around his lungs, and he had to choke out his affection in a splatter of blood. and he couldn't trace back to where it all began.

even if you noticed the way he looked at you now, hazy eyes swarmed with an unknown substance that bubbled and foamed like soft clouds that were forbidden to leave the sky where they belonged, he doubted you would understand what his heart meant.

his body contorted upside down, his heart raced the speed of light, his dreams a vivid reaction to his desires to be with you.

his heart was yours, and you thought she was pretty.

"i'm sorry," mark muttered with a sorrowful chuckle. this was a new type of pain he had never experienced before; his lover being oblivious and directing him to another. "you can't fault me for who i fall in love with."

"i don't," you responded. "you be in love with whoever you want, as will i."

his heart paused, and he looked up through his lashes. for a moment, panic surged through his veins, the vines around his ribs suffocating him with the possible assumption that you would fall in love with another. his hand shook with uncertainty. the thought was haunting.

"woah," you expressed as you placed a hand over his, tightening your grip to stop his tremors. "are you okay, mark?"

your concerned eyes drew him in; he wondered if he drowned himself in your senses enough, you might get a whiff of his affectionate scent. he looked at you, his bones softening and melting upon the tender graze of your touch, and he wished you were right about love.