#mark fluff

Closing the door to your apartment behind you, quietly, twisting the knob to not make a single sound, you tip toed toward the kitchen table and set your purse down. Then your keys. Then, you jumped again.

“Fu-huck!”

His whine echoed from his room, out into the tiny hallway, into the kitchen, and up your skirt. Twisting your knees, squeezing your thighs together, you bit down on your bottom lip and cursed the fact you hadn’t gotten laid in months.

Having Mark for a roommate didn’t help.

Not when he sounded like that.

Pressing your hands into the wood, you sucked down a deep breath and shook it off. He was a male within a few feets radius of you, you didn’t want him, especially not right now, at the start of this week when you wanted anything and everything that walked. Just earlier on your walk home a street vendor complimented your legs, a catcall really, but you very well could’ve spun around and shown them to him up close. 

You didn’t want Mark. You were ovulating and overstimulated and sensitive. And he’s an attractive guy, you’ve told him that before, he knows it, everyone thinks he's sexy.

His bedroom door swung open and your stomach dropped past your knees. He wore grey sweats only, and his headphones lived around his neck, his hair a mess from where they once sat on his head. 

Games. Gaming. Gamer. He was playing games. 

Not fucking someone into his mattress. Though it was hard to tell the difference, he sucked air harshly through his teeth just the same, no matter the activity.

Not that you listened. Or paid attention. Or touched yourself when you knew he had his hand wrapped around his cock thinking his sounds were muffled by the low beat of his nighttime playlist full of underground this guy eats, trust me rappers.

“Hey,” he smiled at you, a flash of perfect teeth with a boyish curl of his lips, “Thought I heard you come in.”

“Hi,” you sighed, standing up straight, composing yourself. Your eyes dropped to his toned middle, his perfectly sculpted chest, the silver chain hanging around his neck…

He swaggered for the fridge, coming closer to you, bodies separated by the table in the middle of the kitchen. The expanse of his back, just as honey, just as broad, just as built as his front, as his everything else. Mark wasn’t a big guy, but jesus god almighty did everything on him fit together in perfect harmony. 

“How was work?” he asked, pulling a water bottle from a shelf, knobby fingers wrapping around the plastic. Arm flexing as he twisted off the cap and brought the spout to his lips, he turned to you and watched you while he drank. 

A slight furrow of his brows beneath his undone hair, a pout in his lips, especially after he pulled the bottle away, the wide innocence in his eyes he wears as a facade, a trick, a ploy, because beneath that purity…

“Did you hear me?”

His smile settled into a smirk.

“Hm?” you hummed, and you watched him drag his eyes up and down your body. Glancing down at yourself you felt your cheeks flush of all color. 

Bent over the table like you were, your knees had turned in. Thighs squeezing together, you practically trembled. Embarrassing. Humiliating really. Emitting a horniness reading absolutely off the charts, he could tell.

“Uh, yeah,” your voice almost squeaked. Pushing off the table you brushed your hands together and scooped up your things. “Work was… good.”

Mark leaned against a counter, his abs flexing ever so slightly. He crossed an arm over his chest and sipped his water, eyes narrowing.

“You’re lying,” he said, tongue darting between his lips, pointing at you with the bottle. Eyes glancing to his glistening lips, you withheld a whimper and shook your head.

You’ve got to get out of here.

“Not lying,” you said with the smallest of giggles, forcing some sort of smile onto your face. “I gotta shower.” 

Starting for your bedroom that lived at the end of the hall, adjacent to Marks, his laugh paralyzed you. Sarcastic, knowing, sadistic. It bled into your ears, melted over your skin, and you despised what it did to your heart. 

“You had your proposal today,” he started, pushing off the counter with his backside, padding over to the hall where you stood begging the bathroom to come closer to you so you wouldn’t have to withstand his presence any longer. “The big one. Your boss would be there, all the guys who think they have big dicks that own the company… Right?”

Turning slowly, very, very slowly, meeting his slightly confused expression, you nodded

“Riiiight,” he sang, voice going low and gravelly. A chill ran down your spine, one you’re hoping he didn’t notice. “I’ve listened to you all month. You’ve been dreading today, ‘cause you knew they weren’t gonna go for your team. They chose that asshole with the money, didn’t they?” 

“Yeah,” you whispered, and he tipped his chin up, looking down at you. The ache between your thighs, the heat beneath your skin, grew tenfold under his stare. 

You could reach out, grab him, fall onto the floor, yank down his sweatpants, slip your panties aside and sink onto him. It wasn’t even about him, you think, maybe. He’s a guy. A man who chronically oozed sex appeal, who caught the eye of everyone walking down the city streets. He’d be something hot, and hard, to fill yourself with, to relieve yourself upon, getting you through this week so you didn’t have to succumb to your vibrator or your own fingers…

He licked his lips again, the tip of his tongue sliding along his bottom lip dangerously slow. 

Back and forth… back and forth… back and- 

“You still with me?” he asked within a breath, almost a whisper, pulling you out of a trance.

You needed to leave. 

Gulping, you squeezed your eyes shut and shook your head. Shook him out of your head. Him and his hot, shirtless self with his grey sweatpants hanging so low on his hips you knew he wasn’t wearing anything beneath them because the definition between his hips, down his pelvis winked at you. 

“I’m fine.” Snapping your eyes open, you glared at him. “You’re right. Bad day. Thanks so much for reminding me.” You spun on your heels and stormed down the hall, stepping into your bedroom. He attempted to follow, arms shooting out at his side, eyes going wide, all signs of playing wiped from his cheeks.

“Hey, wait, I didn’t mean to do that, I was only trying to-“

You slammed your door shut.

In his face.

Mark Lee was not allowed in your bedroom, not right now. And probably not anytime in the near future. And then some.

This week sucked. A goddamned reminder that you had the worlds sexiest roommate and couldn’t do a thing about it. That the crush you’ve tried to swallow away for a year now was very much still real, very much still hanging over your head, something you can’t seem to escape. Not when your body quite literally begged you to reproduce with him.

Sighing, eyes falling shut, you threw your head back against the door.

Why Mark Lee???

Why your roommate you’ve grown tumultuously close to, closer than anyone else to you at this point in your life???

The Mark Lee who brings home girls some weekends, who goes out to party with friends he met in college, who works remotely, rarely has to leave the apartment, so he’s always here, always saying hi to you, always quick to greet you and bid you a good day when you leave in the morning…

Criminal really, how domestic it all seemed. How some days he’ll hint toward it, completely destroying weeks of suppression you worked oh so hard to build, only to now have to do it all over again.

You promised yourself you wouldn't get to this point.

That living with someone as attractive as Mark would work.

Guys and girls can be friends, you and Mark, you'd beat the stereotype.

Maybe it was time to move out.

Pushing off of your door to peel your top layers off, leaving a shirt and your skirt on to move to the bathroom with, you pulled pins from your hair and slumped onto your bed to pull your socks off.

Glancing about the space, your cozy bedroom you put together yourself, with Mark's help, he really etched himself into every part of your life. 

A hoodie of his laid over the back of a chair, a pair of his sunglasses sat on top of your dresser, some of the earrings in your jewelry box were his... For gods sake, you shared the same shampoo and soap.

Digging your hands through your hair, splaying yourself backwards on your bed, you reached for your laptop and pulled it over your stomach. Opening it, you punched Apartments.com in to the search bar and let available places in your area, nearby work, pop up.

Scrolling for about a minute, eyeing the monthly rent in comparison to location and appearance, you squeezed your eyes shut and groaned. 

Now was not the time.

Tossing your laptop to your mattress, not bothering to log out or shut it, you snatched your towel and disappeared into the bathroom, allowing the hot water to wash away work stress, ovulating thoughts, and feelings.

Wrapping yourself in your towel, tucking it in so it stayed put, you smoothed lotion over your exposed skin, up your neck, down your chest, around your arms. Making note of where your necklace and earrings were on the counter that you'd have to come back for, you picked up your clothes, flipped off the light, and peeked out into the hallway for any sign of Mark.

Years you've lived here, and yet the act of running from the shower to your bedroom performed like some sort of humiliation ritual. 

Not for Mark, of course. He'd wander around in his towel for hours.

The apartment was quiet. No games, no whines, no Mark.

Maybe he left.

Stepping out of the bathroom, leaving the door cracked, you took two giant strides toward your door and spun inside swiftly, turning the knob as you closed your door, just in case he was still here somewhere.

"What are you looking at these for?"

Jumping a mile, grabbing onto the top of your towel, you whirled around with a gasp. 

He was sitting on your bed with your laptop on his legs that were folded under him.

"Mark!" 

He glanced up at you, his brows furrowed and focused, paying no mind to how your cheeks flushed and your body still dripped. "When were you planning on moving?"

"I wasn't, I-I was just-"

Looking down at the screen, he squinted at something. "Looking for apartments in this building."

Stepping toward your bed, you held up a finger. "Everywhere, not just this building."

He scoffed, his lips perking into the tiniest of smirks. "So, you admit it. You're moving out." The way he looked at you...

Both hands held onto your towel, pressing to your chest for your own sanity and composure. 

You were naked.

He was on your bed, half naked.

"I wasn't planning on it," you sighed, eyes wide, hoping to tide him over with your words so that he'd leave and you could continue your search, or, at least put some clothes on. "You saw me when I came in here, I was stressed, so it was the first thing I thought of to do to help my nerves, I guess, I-"

Setting the laptop aside, he rose to his feet, head cocking to the right. All of his accessories were gone, it was just him, his sweats, and that silver chain around his neck.

"How is a new apartment gonna help relieve your stress at work?" he asked, taking small steps toward you. His frame stood bigger than your own. More clothed than you, taller than you, you sunk backward, your body pressing against your door. "I did see you, you were..." His eyes flickered to your lips. "Upset."

Five inches separated you.

"Mark," you whispered, and he looked at you. "It's just a bad day."

"Is it?" he asked, closing two more inches, eyeing your parted lips as your breath hitched. 

Gulping, you nodded, holding onto the cotton that covered you even tighter. "Bad day."

Narrowing his eyes, you could feel his warm breath trickling over your skin still damp from the shower. "So, you thought a new apartment would cure that bad day?" He didn't let you answer, cutting you off before you started. "Why don't you just tell me what you really need, sweetheart," he whispered, closing the gap between you, pressing himself against you, "And we can stop playing fucking games.”

His hands pressed against the wood of the door, his arms caging you in. Chest to chest, his nose nudged yours and he smirked as your eyes fluttered shut.

Intoxicating. 

Every siren in your head shot off.

His warmth, his presence, his smell, his words, his lips.

"Look at me," he murmured, and you obeyed, meeting his proud smile. "Good girl," he cooed, nudging your nose with his. Your knees trembled. He let a soft laugh loose. "Yeah, you like that. I knew it."

"Knew it?" you breathed, your heart pounding between your lungs.

Mark licked his lips and popped his brows. "I hear you too, sweetheart." His lips ghosted yours, smiling as your face screwed up in disbelief. "Oh, yeah," he sang, "You're filthy. How many toys you got in that drawer over there? Wanna play?"

Writhing, pressing your legs together, your core slick already, you whined and shook your head. "Mark."

Parting his lips, softening his face, he pouted. "Oh, babe, you're not in trouble." Taking a hand to your chin, he danced his thumb over your cheek, swooning as you melted into his touch. "I'm teasing," he whispered, taking in how you stared up at him, unable to look at anything else since he said look at me.

Swallowing thickly, you took shallow breaths, your mind tuning to the sound of his voice. Mark pinched your cheek gently, his brows steadying over his deep brown eyes. The way you stared at him, like he hung the stars and held the answer to all of your problems...

"I know what you need," he said just above a whisper, his fingers drawing over your skin gently, dancing down your neck. "As soon as you walked in the door, I could tell." His finger hooked below your chin, lifting it more, your doe eyes deepening. "Fuck," he whispered. "I'll leave you alone, okay, you can get into that drawer-"

He stepped away from you, and you reached for him, hands grabbing onto his bare biceps.

"Mark-"

Your towel slipped.

He didn't look.

His entire being softened.

Waiting.

His eyes never left yours.

Sucking in a shaky breath, he pushed out, "Yeah?"

Clenching your jaw, you gave him the tiniest nod of your head, and he groaned.

"Tell me," he whispered. The feeling of your fingers digging into his skin made his lashes flutter. "Say the words," he shook his head, "Or, you get nothing."

Steadying your breath, breaking through the part of you that longed for him to just give in and swallow you whole, you said, “I need you.”

It was all he needed.

Pushing you up against the door, one hand wrapping around the back of your neck and the other slipping down your body, Mark opened his mouth and pressed his lip to your neck, his teeth grazing over your skin as your arms hooked around his neck. Rocking with him, letting his weight push you to where he wanted you to be, you followed, body lax, under his control.

His fingers slipped between your legs, dragging through your folds, pressing to your clit. Moaning against your neck, grinding himself into you at the sound of your own whimper, he lifted his head and touched his forehead to yours.

“So fucking wet,” he mumbled, leaning in to kiss your lips, heavy yet slowly, his tongue poking through to meet with yours, “You’ve been pent up all day, haven’t you?”

“Three days,” you gasped, clinging to him, the massage of his fingers making you tremble.

His tongue dragged over your lips. “Three days?” Pressing wet kisses to your cheek, he muttered, “You’ve been this horny for three days?” Pulling away from you briefly, watching you writhe with every twist of his fingers, every brush of his thumb over your clit, he started to smile. The hand around your neck tightened, pressing into the sides.

“Mark,” you moaned, and the sound he made lit a spark in your belly.

Screwing your eyes shut, you thrashed against the door, knees going weak as he slid two into you, his thumb in a steady rhythm over your bud. Grinding into his hand, throwing your hips in a circle, his smile fell into a smirk.

“You want it bad,” he muttered, dipping down to nip at your neck. “What can I do to you, baby?”

Feeling your belly tighten every time you became aware that this was Mark doing this to you, touching you, making your toes curl, you couldn’t find it within yourself to hold back. Shame was lost on you.

Clawing at his back, gasping for air, a moaning mess, you babbled, “Anything, anything, y-you can do anything, I don’t… Fuck… Mark.”

“Good fucking girl,” he cooed, tugging at your earlobe with his teeth before his lips were latched to you once more. Pumping his fingers into you, curling them towards him, you shook. Bending at the knees, he pressed hot kisses down your chest, grabbing a handful on the way down, his fingers teasing your nipples. Searing his lips down your middle, over your belly button and below, he pulled his fingers from you on his knees and looked up at you. “You’re beautiful.”

Heaving breaths, your cheeks warmed. Covering your face with your hands, you managed to finally crack some sort of giggle. “Stop,” you whispered.

“Come here,” he breathed, gripping your hips, tugging your lower half toward him. Guiding one leg over his shoulder, he smoothed that hand up the back of your thigh, giving your ass a squeeze with a moan. Dragging his thumb through your slick, he curved his lips into the perfect ‘o’ and gazed up at you as he blew cool air over your core. 

Sucking air in through your teeth, jolting away from him, one hand flew down to lace through his hair, giving him the harshest tug. Proud of himself, he beamed up at you and let his tongue roll through his parted lips. 

“Where do you want me?” he asked, voice an octave lower than usual. He didn’t fight against your hold, but you could feel him start to try to. Letting him go, his smile wiped away. “No, hang on to me.”

“I didn’t wanna-”

He gripped your hip, his other hand sliding up your middle to grab a handful of tit. “Hang on to me,” he said through his teeth, nudging himself into your core, his nose pushing on your clit, his tongue sliding into your hole.

Both of your hands knit into his hair, holding onto him for balance as he held you up on one foot.

Lapping at you, his tongue swirling and twisting, the pressure in your belly growing tenfold, you cried out for him and allowed yourself to fall against him, all your composure gone. Mark pressed his fingers into your curves, pinched and toyed with your nipple while he moaned into your pussy soaking his face. Bobbing his head, tongue going flat, he moved with you, your hips circling on his face, riding wherever the pleasure wanted you to go.

Vision blurry, body on fire, you tugged at his hair but it wasn’t enough. You tried to reach down for him, but he wouldn’t move. You wanted to see him, to hold him, hold onto him, kiss him–

“Mark,” you whimpered, trying to pull him off of you. “Mark, please.”

Parting from you once, sucking in a breath, chest heaving, he gazed up at you with lust stricken eyes, his lips and cheeks a mess. “Wanna make you cum,” he groaned, soothing you with a circle of his hand on your thigh, “Doing so good, baby, please?”

“No,” you cried out, pulling him to his feet.

He let you. 

Gently placing you back on the ground, holding you up, he pressed himself to you and cupped your jaw. You gave him a kiss, one small, one soft, one tasting like you. Wrapping your arms around his shoulders, giggling as he pulled a hand up to wipe his face clean, he kissed you again, longer this time, your breaths in sync, like the beating of your hearts.

“I’m right here,” he whispered. “You okay?”

Nodding, gazing at him, you licked your lips and gave him the quietest whine.

His thumb pulled at your bottom lip, his eyes flickering to it, and with the gentlest whisper, he asked, “Your bed or mine?”

“Stay here,” you breathed, and he smiled.

Taking his hands to your waist, he pulled you up, wrapping you around his front. Stolen kisses on the way there, a few strides backward toward your bed, he tipped over as you giggled and laid you down on your mattress. Tongue escaping, nasty kisses pushed to your neck, Mark pushed his sweats to the floor and climbed over you, his knees pushing yours open.

Taking both hands to your jaw, he tipped your head backward and coerced your lips open with his thumbs, holding them there. His cheeks sucked in, as his length prodded at your entrance, he pursed his lips and let a ball of spit drip onto your tongue. Moans trapped in the back of your throat, you arched against him. 

Mark, eyes dark as ever, bobbed his head and stuck his thumb in your mouth, spreading his spit on your tongue. “I knew it,” he teased, “Again.” As if you were going to be able to question him, he looked you in the eyes and whispered, “Nasty.”

Eyes rolling, you wiggled your hips, the feeling of his tip not enough. Wrapping your lips around his thumb, giving him a harsh suck, you swore the devil flashed in his eyes.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he grumbled, “Don’t get me started. I want you gagging every which way, I’ve pictured it, gotten off to it.” You moaned and he laughed. “But, I wanna fuck your pussy more than I wanna fuck your throat,” he dipped down to press a kiss to your forehead, pushing stray hairs out of the way, whispering, “That okay?”

“Please,” you mumbled around his thumb, digging your teeth into it. “Mark, please.”

He lingered by your ear, lips brushing your lobe. “Please, what?”

“Fuck me,” you cried, writhing under him. He pulled his thumb out of your mouth and gripped your chin. Meeting his gaze, you whimpered. “Please, Mark, fuck me. I need you so bad.”

“Thought you were gonna let me bend you over the kitchen table,” he said, reaching a hand between your bodies to grip himself, “Pictured that before, too.”

“Fuck,” you gasped as he slid his tip into you.

He winced at how you squeezed him already, his brows tipped in the middle, his lips curling under. “Let me in, baby, can’t give you what you want if you don’t breathe.”

Your heart beat in your ears. You could barely get any air in as his length pushed inside of you, the pressure too great. The stretch, too much, the thought, the knowing that it was Mark, this was Mark, your roommate, inside of you, his cock, the pleasure–

A long sigh, laced with a whine, washed over him from your lips. Pushing into the hilt, your thighs touching, his hips on your hips, your clit pushing into his pelvis, he laid on top of you, your chests meshed. Parted lips met yours, the brush of a tongue on yours, the stinging of tears in your eyes as he rocked into you– you could feel him in your throat.

His thumbs pushed into your cheeks, his soft touch keeping you with him, brushing over your bottom lashes as your lips parted and you sighed, gazing up at him. 

A mess, both of you. His hair, pushed around in ways he’d never let you see, his eyes, glazed over with euphoria, his lips, parted and hungry. Teeth baring as he rocked into you, your breath hitching in your chest, you drug your hands down his back, your nails leaving behind plush red love marks as they came back up to his shoulders.

“God, I just wanna stay like this,” he mumbled, burying his head in your neck, moaning into your shoulder. “Feel so good, sweetheart,” he sighed, wrapping his lips in a kiss below your jaw.

One of your hands escaped to his hair, knitting into his locks, holding onto him for clarity. “You’re so… big…” you managed to gasp between snaps of his hips.

Smirking down at you, he pushed himself up to his hands, the silver chain on his neck dangling over your nose. “Yeah?”

Managing a smile with your twisted brows, you breathed through a laugh, “Knew it.”

“Fuck, you’re so cute,” he muttered, suffocating you with a kiss, his hands eager to hold you in anyway they possibly could. “You know what it takes to hold myself back?”

Your tongue wanted to pop out of your lips. Biting down on your lip, moaning without giving yourself permission, you blinked up at him, dazed, ignited with nirvana.

Relief.

Mark pushed up off of you, guiding your legs around his waist as he held onto yours. Picking your hips up off the mattress, he pistoled into you and tipped his head back, his groans echoing off the walls, lingering in the air.

“You know what it feels like… to have you walk around here… like you don’t know how hot you are?” He took a thumb to your clit, pressing down, grinning as you cried out and writhed, your hands gripping onto your sheets. “What it feels like… to hear you moan into your pillows… knowing that I could walk in here… and fuck you dumb?”

“Yes,” you gasped, voice broken, “Mark, yes, you drive me fucking crazy.”

He snickered. “Do I?”

Every twist of his thumb made you tremble, your high barreling toward you as you watched his body move. The arch in his back, the push of his hips, where your bodies met, the sound your bodies made…

“I wanted you as soon as I got home,” you babbled, fucking yourself back onto him as he thrust into you, “Wanted you to fuck me, wanted you to make me cum… Mark.”

His body let loose for a second, his composure dropping, his head lulling back, but then he grabbed your waist and pushed you both up to your pillows. Stretching his legs behind him, putting his hands behind your knees, he folded you in half and lowered himself on top of you. 

Hair stuck to his forehead, your breaths tangled in shared air, his chain kissed your chin, your nose, your neck.

“Mark,” you whispered, your belly tightening, your legs shaking around him. Pulling him closer, landing messy kisses to his cheek, to his jaw, you gasped, right on the edge. “M’fu- Mark!”

“Come on,” he whispered, lazy lips brushing your cheek, “C’mon, babe. I got you.” You squeezed him, your body twitching under him, a tumultuous build up, a crash you needed three days ago. Fueled by his hands, his hips, his tongue, you cried out for him, barely recognizing yourself. “Cum for me, sweetheart, c’mon, you can do it.”

Almost missing your lips with a kiss, he moaned into your mouth as his own belly tensed.

“Need you to cum first,” he groaned, letting his fingers toy with your clit, his speed relentless, but he knew as soon as you went silent, he had you. “Be a good girl,” he whined, nose pressing to your cheek, “C’mon… Cum on my cock, baby, isn’t that what you want? Cum and I’ll fill you up, you want that?”

Nodding, fast, barely breathing, only able to suck air in, unable to push any out, you clung to him as your vision seared white, and you convulsed into him, body ignited with a pleasure brand new. You squeezed him tight, giving him little time to warn you he was cumming, filling you up with half a thrust as he dropped to his elbows and whimpered.

You’re not sure how long you laid in silence, spent bodies pressed together on a mussed up bedspread that now needed a washing. Then, he stirred.

Picking up his head of messed up hair, he looked down at you, eyes heavy, lips swollen. Surprised to see you already looking, he smiled, a flash of his teeth poking between his lips. Pulling out of you, taking his time, watching you closely as he did, he kissed you gently.

“You’re incredible,” he whispered, shifting over your body to lay beside you, wrapping an arm around your back to tuck you into his side.

Unable to not look at him, you brushed your lips over his chest and whispered, “You’re incredible.”

Resting an arm behind his head, he looked down at you with a lazy smile. “You feel better?”

“Yes,” you answered quickly, making him laugh. “But, I think…”

He flipped his brows over, reaching his hand out to fix the mess that was your hair. “You think what, sweetheart?” 

Curling up against him, you cowered and hid your face in his arm.

“Tell me,” he said softly, smoothing his hand under your chin, lifting your head. Pursing your lips, as if he could tell by the flutter of your lashes, he poked his cheek with his tongue. “Be a good girl and use your words,” he whispered, and you almost whimpered.

Your heart swelled in your chest, your cheeks heating as you whispered, “I don’t want you to go.”

Mark glanced around your room before looking at you crazy. “Am I… going somewhere?” Smiling as you giggled, he screwed his face up and tried to wiggle away from you. “Oh, wait, actually, that's you. How’s the apartment hunt going?”

“No!” Grabbing onto him, pulling him back into you, he rolled over on his side, hovering over you. Blinking up at him, you took a deep breath and shook your head. “I’m not leaving. You overwhelmed me, I thought I had no other option.”

Mark raised his brows. “Instead of just asking me to fuck, you were going to move out? To a whole new apartment? When this one is just fine?” Your smile faded, and your resolve clouded over. Mark tilted his head, curious. “Talk to me.”

Rolling your eyes, dragging your nails against his back, softer this time, you mumbled, “I… like you… Mark.” He didn’t move. “I was thinking about moving, ‘cause… I have feelings for you. And, after this… I want you. I wanted you before. I want to be yours.”

It took his six whole seconds to break into a toothy grin. “Great,” he huffed, catching your lips in a slow kiss, whispering against them, “Which room do you want to be ours?”

Eyes widening, he shocked you with another kiss.

Nudging your nose with his, he winked. “I wanna be yours.”

 Last night’s party is still hanging around in his skull like a bad song he can’t skip. Every step feels like it’s happening underwater — students rushing, bikes clattering, the faint smell of coffee — but Mark barely notices

 “—and then he—ugh, I can’t even—” she huffs, flopping her arm dramatically against her tote bag.

 “Mm,” Mark mumbles, focusing on nothing in particular, willing the throbbing to ease.

 Out of the corner of his eye, movement. Someone rushing. Head down. Bag bouncing. Textbook late-for-class energy.

 “Giselle!” a voice calls, sharp but friendly.

 Mark freezes. Head still fuzzy. He glances over—and it clicks.

 Y/N. Shit. What the actual fuck. No way.

 His chest stutters in a way that’s both familiar and alarming. Two years ago. One night. One too many drinks. Memories creeping in before his brain has a chance to protest.

 Giselle, oblivious, smiles warmly. “Oh! Y/N, hey!”

 Mark blinks, still stunned.

 “Mark,” she says, gesturing to him, “this is Y/N. We…uh, go to the same Pilates class.”

 Simple. Casual. Like nothing else exists.

 You raise an eyebrow, calm, clear recognition. “We actually know each other,” you say lightly, voice teasing but neutral. “Small world, huh?”

 Mark’s throat goes dry. Words stick. Coffee threatens to slosh. His hangover doesn’t help. He wants to say something witty, something—anything—but his brain refuses to cooperate.

 You glance at your phone, already in motion. “Sorry, I’m actually so late. Catch you later Gi!” You pause for a moment. “Good to see you.” That last bit is directed at him and all Mark can do is bob his head like an idiot.

 “See you tomorrow!” Giselle exclaims, her chirpy voice penetrating his throbbing skull.

 You dart off without another word, back straight, long strides taking you in the opposite direction from the library.

 Mark stands frozen for a second, watching the familiar sway of your shoulders disappear down the path, stomach twisting, headache forgotten.

 Giselle nudges him. “You good?”

 Mark snaps back, clutching his backpack strap like a lifeline. “Yeah…yeah, fine,” he mutters, voice rough. But inside? His heart refuses to behave.

 This must be some kind of joke.

 “Dude.” Mark’s voice comes out in a whisper. As though he’s wary of people hearing.

 Giselle takes an inquisitive look at him. “Why are your eyes so big?”

 Great, now he looks insane.

 “How do you know her?” Mark asks, completely ignoring Giselle’s valid question. He needs to know.

 “I literally just said Pilates?”

 “Oh…right.” He keeps walking and Giselle quickly follows. Her expression nothing short of baffled.

 “Umm. What am I missing here?” She speaks in a rushed manner as she tries to keep up with Mark’s quick strides. Who is he even running from?

 “Nothing.” Mark deflates as he quickens his step. The library couldn’t feel any further.

 “Oi, spaz!” Giselle grabs onto Marks elbow. “Slow down and fess up.”

 Her demands get through to him. He halts his pace and turns to face his friend properly for the first time since you walked away from them. With a heavy sigh he accepts that even the slight attempt of hiding something from her, would be futile.

 “We slept together first week of uni.” The words come out so jumbled, he’d be surprised if Giselle caught them.

 “Pardon?”

 “We fucked. Two years ago.” He rephrases. Slower this time.

 “Sorry. What?” The question more of an indication of shock than a demand of clarification.

 “Ever heard of sex?” He tries sarcastically.

 “Uh-huh.” Giselle’s frown almost resembles an animated character’s.

 “I’ve had it. With her.” He points a thumb towards the direction you earlier walked off to and he can’t help but feel amused at Giselle’s flabbergasted reaction.

 “How-”

 “A party. Fresher’s week. C’mon dude, switch on please.” He’s embarrassed. Maybe even slightly irritated that his reckless escapades from freshers’ week have become such a big matter of attention.

 “Okay. Sorry, I just- I pictured it and now I need someone to reset me.” Giselle pinches the bridge of her nose, eyes closing as if trying to erase the picture from her brain.

 Marks rolls his eyes at his friend’s exaggerated gag. “I could flick your big fat head.”

 “Okay, okay. So…” She trails expectantly, completely dismissing his irritation.

 Mark doesn’t really know what more he can say. He’s elaborated enough.

 “Yeah..?” He gestures his hand for her to continue.

 “Well, what happened after the…you know.” Giselle’s eyebrows shoot up suggestively.

 “The sex?” Mark points out on purpose and snorts a laugh when his friend scrunches up her nose in disgust. He might as well make her feel as uncomfortable as he is.

 “Yeah, that.” Giselle nods, the pained expression still on her face.

 “I haven’t seen her since. Well, hadn’t.” He admits simply. It’s the truth.

 “Shit, so you quite literally just fucked.” It’s a statement but it comes out more like a question.

 “Pretty much.” Mark shrugs, struggling to keep an unbothered front. “She sneaked out in the morning and I just never saw her again.”

 “You didn’t get her number or…?”

 “I mean, I didn’t really get the chance. Plus…” He pauses to think. Or more like reminisce.

 It was his first night out on campus, and you? You were the first person he noticed when he stepped foot in that house party. The first girl he brought back to his tiny, undecorated dorm at the time.

 He didn’t really expect anything more than what he got. That’s what he approached you for initially. But he also didn’t expect you to disappear without so much of word after the night you had together.

 Mark still thinks about it sometimes. Not because it was magical or anything of the sort. If anything, his performance could easily be described as bang out average.

 What he really thinks about is how you two stayed up for hours. Naked. Talking, kissing, fucking then talking and kissing, then fucking again. He thinks about how he felt so comfortable. So at peace but also confused at the same time. How you’d only known him for a few hours but still trusted him enough to fall asleep on his chest, in that small first-year dorm bed.

 Mark, never having been the naive type, he knew he couldn’t just date the first girl he met at the first party he went to on campus, but spending days typing your first name in his instagram search bar definitely wasn’t on his bingo card. Not only that, but unintentionally searching for you at pubs, bars, parties, uni corridors for weeks? Yeah, that certainly wasn’t on his bingo card.

 “Plus, it wasn’t anything serious.” He concludes, sounding almost defensive.

 “Aww, Markie poo. Did she break your heart?” Giselle pouts performatively.

 “Tsk.” Mark kisses his teeth in annoyance, adamantly refusing to succumb to her mocking, as he resumes his quick steps. Giselle, of course, unfortunately for him, isn’t one to let things go. So she matches his pace.

 “Oh, come on. I’m just playing-

 “Wait. So, if you’re, like, friends,” Mark abruptly turns, index accusingly pointing at her, his steps coming to a halt again and Giselle exhales in relief. “How come you’ve never mentioned her?”

 “I literally met her a month ago. She was on a year abroad last year.” Ah. Well, that certainly explains a lot.

 “Damn, that’s cool.” He utters in surprise, as though he was hoping you were some kind of loser who was hiding out in a library. Meanwhile, you were out in god knows what country, doing god knows what and god knows who.

 “Damn, you falling back in love already?” Giselle coos annoyingly and Mark starts walking again, dismissive of her teasing. “Wait! I’m sorry! At least tell me if the sex was good. Oh my god, is she like the best you’ve ever had? Is that why you’re hung up on her?”

 “You’re a nuisance.” He mutters grumpily.

 “Awh, really? I mean I could invite her to Chenle’s on Saturday but if I’m such a nuisance then I guess I won’t bother-

 “Wait. Actually?” Mark’s head snaps toward his friend a lot quicker than he can comprehend, sounding too hopeful and probably a little pathetic, and Giselle’s sinister grin makes him realise his slip up.

 Damn it.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Mark’s patience started to waver about two days ago. Now it’s close to non-existent.

 There’s no way you’re not toying with him. You’re everywhere. Wherever he goes. The library? Tick. The park? Tick. The main building cafeteria? Tick. The psychology building cafeteria? Tick. His favourite café? Tick.

 How can someone go from not existing to occupying every corner of this plane earth?

 He’d gotten accustomed to not worrying about bumping into you, but now he’s always wary. Always alert. He’s even started putting more effort in his outfits, just in case you see him. Even though, he’s pretty sure you never notice him. At least not like he notices you.

 And however wary he is, he still feels taken aback each time he comes across your presence.

 And now, Mark is annoyed. Because he simply can’t enjoy his Saturday night like he always does.

He can’t get absolutely plastered with his friends like he always does to forget about deadlines and assignments. Because what if you’re here, at this very party? Yeah, Giselle did invite you and of course, you gave a very vague response — something along the lines of ‘yeah, that sounds like fun’ — and of course, you’re allowed to do as you please, but what if you turn up out of nowhere while Mark is blackout drunk? What if he embarrasses himself in front of you? Or worse, what if his big gob utters something stupid? God forbid.

 And so, he takes it easy tonight. Small sips. Slowly consuming whatever his cup contains. He thinks it’s vodka with some kind of tropical mixer. Not really his cup of tea, but he settled anyway.

 “What sort of pace is this?” Chenle asks, sounding almost offended.

 “Huh?” Mark looks up from his cup, one hand swirling the liquid in his cup, the other splayed on the back of the sofa behind Chenle’s shoulders.

 “Your drinking pace is embarrassing.” The younger boy explains. “We got no practice on Monday, so the whole two-day hangover excuse ain’t gonna save you this time.”

 “I got other commitments too, you know.” Mark side eyes his friend. “Basketball isn’t my only worry, I’m in final year.”

 “Blah blah blah. Don’t give me that shit, you’re acing all your exams. Pretty sure you’re on for a first class.” Chenle babbles loudly, definitely tipsy by now and Mark can’t help but wrap his arm around his friend’s shoulders, playfully trapping him in a headlock. Chenle doesn’t even fight him off, comfortably resting his head on Mark’s shoulder.

 “Since when do you worry so much about me, huh?” Mark teases, squeezing Chenle into his side.

 “Since when are you so affectionate?” Chenle questions suspiciously.

 “I thought you said being a little gay for your bros is acceptable.” Mark defends, referring to the time they spooned while having a drunk, deep meaningful conversation about their childhood trauma and then fell asleep.

 “Don’t remind me. I’ll get hard.”

 “Get off me.” Mark shoves a giggling Chenle away, squishing him against a random girl sat next to them. And just like that, in the midst of apologising, Chenle’s already compromised attention span works in Mark’s favour, because a few minutes later, the younger boy is entrapped in a flirty conversation with the girl that laughs a little too loud at his bad jokes.

 Thankfully, Mark’s gaze catches Giselle’s, who’s stood by the kitchen counter. She excitedly waves him over, holding a shot of clear liquid in each hand and he can’t help but scrunch his nose in disgust. The tilt of her head along with the disappointed expression on her face does enough to convince him.

 Fuck it. One shot won’t hurt. He’s a big boy.

 He spills a bit of his drink as he squeezes through the swamp of people that occupies the living room. Pitbull blares through the speakers and Mark realises that shot is definitely needed. He’s too sober for this chaos, so he rushes for the kitchen.

 “Honestly, how the fuck does Chenle get girls so-

 Mark is pretty sure the colour drains from his face the second he steps in the kitchen vicinity. There you are. Again. Like his fucking shadow. Haunting him. Only this time you’re mid-laugh, perched up on the counter, a filled shot glass in your hand and Mark realises that he’s walked right into Giselle’s trap.

 “Hey, loser.” Giselle interrupts his trance, casually shoving the spare shot glass in his free hand. “Here. Do a shot with us.”

 “Umm. Yeah, okay.” Mark doesn’t have the time to ponder his actions. As though he’s on autopilot, the second you and Giselle down your shots, he tips his head back, doing the same. He doesn’t even flinch at the burn, probably in need of it and the second his eyes land on yours, Giselle starts violently coughing.

 “Jesus.” He mutters, quickly grabbing an empty glass from the counter, filling it with tap water before passing it to his struggling friend. “Down it, you idiot.”

 And Giselle starts doing just that, but before she can finish the contents of the glass, she’s covering her mouth in panic. Mark steps closer, and the second he touches her shoulder in concern, she’s running out of the kitchen and down the hallway where the bathroom is.

 Fucking brilliant.

 “Do you think she needs help?” Your voice penetrates his ears, urging him to turn around and face you. As always, taken aback by your presence.

 “I- um- nah. Nah don’t worry. She’ll be fine.” Mark tries to sound reassuring, but his voice has a slight tremble to it. Get a grip, dude.

 “I can go check up on her if-

 “Honestly, she’ll be fine. The woman can never stomach shots. Trust me.” His words are rushed. Partly because he’s telling the truth, and partly because he refuses to miss the opportunity of whatever this is.

 “Are you two together then?”

 “What? No.” He shakes his head so fast his neck slightly cramps. “No, we’re not. Just friends. We live together.”

 He relaxes a little when you nod. A tight lipped smile adorns your pretty face and for the first time in what feels like forever, Mark finally gets the chance to take you in.

 Here you are, again. Right in front of him. So close. Looking at him. As pretty as he remembers you. Albeit looking different in a way, still carrying the same calm aura.

 “What?” You ask softly, smile a little lopsided.

 “Nothing. Just — don’t worry.” He shakes his head again, eyes drifting down to his hands, twirling his drink in his cup again to distract himself from his fast heartbeat. “It’s weird.”

 “I like weird.” You’re still smiling when he meets your eyes again.

 His eyebrows raise a little when you pat the spot next to you, silently asking him to join you on the counter as more people crowd the kitchen.

 His shoulder brushes yours briefly when he hoists himself up, the warmth hard to miss. He does his best to steady his breathing but feels like he’s miserably falling when he breathes in your sweet perfume. “I dunno. Just weird seeing you. Feels like I’m seeing a ghost. Kind of.”

 God, that sounds so lame. He almost winces in pain.

 “Wait, how do we know each other again? I know we do, but I’m having trouble placing you.” You say in genuine wonderment and Mark feels his heart drop to his stomach. He miserably prays that you’re playing a horrible prank on him, but your perplexed eyes tell him otherwise.

 “You don’t re- we- um- freshers week? C’mon. Surely you remember.” He tries subtly, hoping he won’t have to spell it out for you.

 You shake your head in denial. “I honestly have no clue what you’re on about.”

 Fuck. You have actually forgotten. Were you that drunk or was that night so insignificant to you?

 This is fucking horrifying. A nightmare he's hoping he can wake up from. “Yo, seriously?”

 “Remind me?” You suggest lightheartedly, with the most innocent smile. “I have the worst memory, I’m sorry.”

 What the actual fuck.

 “Wha- you actually don’t remember? Like no recollection whatsoever?” He checks one more time, hating that he sounds so desperate. He really finds it hard to believe that you’ve forgotten a night he remembers so vividly. A night he often has to lock up in the back of his mind.

 You snort, a short laugh escaping as your face shows nothing but amusement. “You’re really gullible, you know.”

 Jail. You belong in jail for that. He’s suing you for emotional damage.

 He scoffs loudly, hating that he almost fell for it.

You laugh a little louder this time and he can’t help the little smile that curls on his lips. “You fucking- are you having me on?”

 “Sorry, it was just too easy.”

 “Dude.” He whines, hiding his face in his hands. “That is actually vile behaviour. You’re going to hell.”

 “For being too funny?” Your comical expression would have normally pissed him off if you weren’t this captivating.

 He doesn’t have a comeback. He just stares straight ahead, jaw clenching to retain a smile, hands struggling not to squish the plastic cup in them and he almost flinches when your foot kicks his. Intentional, playful, soft as ever.

 “Of course, I remember.” Your gaze burning his side profile is so difficult to ignore. So he succumbs. Head turning to face you, eyes finding yours. “Kinda hard to forget.”

 “Really? That bad?” He jokes, although, he’s worried he might be right.

 You breathe out a cute laugh, eyes dropping to your fumbling hands, fingers playing with the rip on your jeans. “I’m not insulting your performance, Mark Lee.”

 He’s positive he’s blushing. His face and neck feel hot, hands are sweating and he’s very aware of your proximity. The music is loud enough for you to lean closer to speak.

 “What are you insulting then?”

 “I could be praising you know.” You side eye him for a reaction he refuses to offer. “Unless you’re not into that anymore.”

 He can’t help the shocked laugh that escapes his throat. How can someone be so forward? Bringing up a kink of his you clocked back then? Outrageous. Uncalled for. And honestly? Kind of sexy.

 “Well, this is embarrassing.” Mark nervously downs the remainder of his drink in a big gulp at a failed attempt to cool down as he’s pretty sure steam is coming out of his ears that don’t fail to pick up at the loud snort you let out.

 “See? I remember a lot more than you think.” You tap your temple with your index finger. A harmless gesture, which Mark finds inexplicably attractive.

 “Why hard to forget?” He redirects the subject, refusing to have a nervous breakdown before he finds out what’s important.

 You seem skeptical, as though you’re assessing your words before you utter them and Mark’s nerves resurface. “I guess there’s no harm in telling you now.”

 “What?” He presses impatiently.

 Did he get you pregnant or something? Oh god, is that why you disappeared? Does he currently have a two-year old child running about?

 “Okay, don’t make it a big deal.”

 “Shit. Do I have a kid?” He accidentally thinks out loud.

 “What? No, Mark, what the- no!” Your loud laugh helps him relax a little and he can’t help but notice the way you lightly shove him by the shoulder as you throw your head back. At least one of you is amused. “I was just gonna say— that it was my first time.”

 Oh.

 OH.

 “Huh?” It comes out louder than intended. He can’t help it. You’re definitely lying. “As in you never— before that?“

 “Yes.”

 “Really?”

 “Yes.”

 “Shit.” He can feel his eyes widening to the max as he looks around in shock. “I’m sorry.”

 “What for?” You’re clearly holding back a laugh and Mark feels like he desperately needs air. Or a whole bottle of vodka. Yeah, that would do.

 “I don’t know.” He panics. “I just— I mean, your first time is— you know, important. It should mean something. No?”

 You narrow your eyes at him for a second and Mark decides he’s going to die. Here, tonight, in Chenle’s fancy kitchen. “First of all. That couldn’t be more of a stereotype. Second of all. Who said it didn’t mean anything?”

 “I mean, it was pretty obvious it didn’t.” The words roll out like waterfall.

 “What?”

 “How much could it have meant if you just…left?” That seems to shut you up, your eyes wider than before, mouth slightly open. “Without a word.” He adds. He had to say it. After all this time, he finally gets to complain about something that bothered him long enough and he feels relief. A weight lifted off his shoulders.

 He expects you to argue. To defend yourself, and the little nod you give, somewhat shocks him.

 “Fair point.” Your attention returns to the rip on your thigh, your fingers pulling at the loose threads.

 “I didn’t do anything weird, right? Like, I didn’t make you feel uncomfortable in any way, or…?” He can’t help but worry that maybe it was all too much for you, considering you hadn’t been with anyone else prior to that. Maybe that’s why you quietly escaped in the morning?

 “No. Not at all.” You quickly shake your head with a sweet smile. “If anything, I don’t think it could have been any better.”

 Mark feels relief wash over him, his limbs instantly relaxing. He nods with a satisfied pout on his face but inside he’s proudly gloating.

 “Well, I’m glad I—ummm, you know.” He realises that whatever he’s about to say, could easily be misconstrued.

 “You’re glad you took my v-card?” You ask with an amused frown and he can’t help but roll his eyes. Mostly at his stupidity, but also at your relentless teasing.

 “No.” He gives you a pointed look. “Just glad I didn’t ruin it for you.”

 Your fond smile makes him feel warm. In a good way this time.

 “Can I ask you something?” He blurts out, curiosity getting the better of him. You simply give him a small nod as you take a small sip of your drink. “How come you didn’t say anything? Not that you had to obviously. I just feel like I would have been more careful if you had.”

 “That’s exactly why I didn’t.” Your purse your lips in thought. “I would have. But, with you, I figured it was unnecessary.”

 “Oh, sorry, was I a little too vanilla for you?” He complains sarcastically.

 “I’m not gonna give you feedback.” You retort with a grin and Mark swears your cheeks weren’t as flushed a minute ago.

 “I didn’t ask you to.” He shrugs, feigning nonchalance.

 It could be his delusion, but Mark feels tension brewing, and he wonders if it’s just him. Maybe it’s the alcohol finally catching up to him, but your silence betrays something he can’t quite decipher.

 “Was it not obvious then?” You interrupt his inner thoughts, the question simple, easy to answer, but Mark’s brain short circuits for a moment.

 “I mean, I wasn’t that experienced myself.” He clears his throat once. “I just thought we were both shy. Clearly that’s not the case for you anymore.”

 “That a problem?”

 “Nah. It’s been what? Two years? And you’ve spent a year in a foreign country. I’d be surprised if you were the exact same person.” He explains and he circles the rim of his cup slowly, suddenly a little bashful, but content at the same time.

 “What about you? You think you’re still shy?” You slowly reach over, hand gently wrapping around his wrist gently before you bring his hand to your lap. Mark is about to question your actions but your fingers delicately untying the knot of his bracelet make him hold back his protest.

 “At times.” He responds as he watches you fix the knot carefully.

 And when you’re done and he’s about to remove his hand, your hold tightens, preventing him. His breathing stutters and so does his pulse. The heat of your skin on his, too much for him to handle, but he still obliges, letting his hand rest limp on your thigh, palm facing up, unable to properly touch you, but still enough for his brain to remember things. To remember how he touched you that night. How you touched him.

 “What about now? Feeling shy?” You don’t meet his gaze when he looks at you, your eyes still on his hand as your thumb traces his pulse point. Goosebumps litter his skin, the tiny twitch of your lips telling him you’ve noticed.

 “I don’t know. Do I seem shy?” Answering with a question is the only way his brain can muster.

 “Hmm.” You finally eye him, carefully inspecting his face, and he feels exposed. “Maybe a little. I kinda think that’s part of your charm, though.”

 His eyebrows lift in genuine surprise. “My charm?”

 “Mhm.”

 “You think I’m charming?” He can’t conceal the stupid smile that erupts on his face. Weak man. Maybe he does have a praise kink.

 “You managed to get me in your bed. I’m not that easy.” You say with a casual shrug. Too casual. And Mark has to look away. If he could, he’d run away, but your damn hand is still wrapped around his arm, locking him down. It’s your fault he can’t escape and definitely not the fact that he doesn’t want to ever pull away from your touch.

 “Dude, are you, like, flirting with m—“

 “Do you wanna come back to mine?” Again, you’re too casual. No ounce of hesitation, just plain expectation.

 “Now?” It’s the only word he can come up with.

 “I mean, at some point tonight would be ideal, yes.” Your smirk irritates him. He wants to kiss it off your face. Maybe he can if he agrees to go back with you.

 Should he?

 “You want me to fuck you again?” He only realises he’s said the lewd words out loud by the widening of your eyes. Why does he always end up putting his foot in his mouth?

 “To put it plainly, yeah, I guess I want you to fuck me again.” You say with the most demure smile.

  The contrast scares him. You scare him. He should have been wise and ran for the hills the second he laid eyes on you two years ago.

 “I didn’t mean to say it like that.” He rushes to apologise but you cut him off with a squeeze around his wrist.

 “Yay or nay?” You ask, a hint of impatience in your tone that makes Mark bite his lip to hide a smile. You’ve got one eyebrow raised, expression almost offended at the delay in his reply.

 He quickly hops off the counter, empty cup forgotten on the surface, the skin on the arm you were touching only seconds ago, already tingling. But he’s made his decision.

 You seem taken aback, the crease between your eyebrows betraying your confusion. And if Mark were to take a guess, he could say there’s a trace of disappointment in your eyes.

 You’re about to hop off the counter when he cages you in. Almost in panic at the thought of you walking away from him. Your ass is on the edge of the surface and he can’t help but smile at the way you quickly grab onto his shoulders to steady yourself.

 “Where you off to?” He asks quietly, only for you to hear. His hands settling on each side on you on the counter as he steps closer.

 “Nowhere.” You match his tone, legs parting, allowing him to take up the space between them as your hands trail down to his chest. Your touch soft on his jumper, but he can still feel the weight of it.

 He’s positive you can feel his insane heart trying to jump out of his rib cage. He doesn’t mind. Not when he gets to have you this close and feel the heat radiating off your body.

 “Do you think about it?” His voice comes out in a whisper but he knows you hear him. “That night?”

 “Sometimes.” You admit. Eyes anywhere but on his; avoidant.

 “Are you embarrassed?” He leans down a little, levelling with you and you smile bashfully as you finally meet his gaze.

 “More like flustered.” Your hands travel down to his stomach as your knees squeeze him in and he moves even closer, his torso flush against yours.

 “Tell me. What do you think about?” He whispers, his lips brushing against the bridge of your nose as your hands slowly slide lower, until your fingers hook into his belt loops.

 “Not here.” Your breath hits his chin and he desperately wants to lean in, but he refrains, enjoying your squirming a little too much.

 “Why not?” He tilts his head, your lips just millimetres away. His hands decide to move on their own, finding their way to your waist as you inhale deeply. “Whatever it is, I’ve probably already thought about it.”

  Your cocky expression annoys him. “Do I often occupy your mind?”

 “You used to.” He admits openly as he delicately strokes along your ribs, thumbs smoothing over the undersides of your bra, your thin top making the touch more intense.

 You smile smugly as you let your fingers slip under the hem of his hoodie, finding the bare skin of his lower abdomen and he hates that the simplest of touches affects him so much. It’s all effortless. Just a trace of a finger has him weak in the knees, his breath unstable, lips aching to be on yours.

 “Mark?” You lean closer, your forehead dropping on his shoulder as you exhale a trembling breath.

 “Hm?” He traces his knuckles up and down your spine, his other hand splaying on your lower back, where your skin is uncovered.

 “I’m so wet right now, it’s fucking embarrassing.”

 “Jesus.” He whispers, lips touching your ear and he feels your shudder as his hand slithers in your hair, lightly tugging to get you to look at him.

 Your hands clutch at his belt, not really initiating anything, just holding. It’s enough for his blood to rush where it shouldn’t, heart pounding. Your hooded eyes don’t help either, and if it weren’t for the people occupying the kitchen, he’d be bending you over this counter right this second. The scandalous thought very unlike him.

 “There’s a spare room here. I stay in it sometimes after basketball practice.” He suggests carefully, not really possessing the patience to go back to either of your apartments. Fuck being in an uber with a hard on.

 You seem skeptical for a moment. “You ever fucked anyone in it?”

 “No.” He answers quickly. “I don’t really do one ni—“

 “Okay, yeah.” You nod, teeth trapping your bottom lip as you not-so-subtly stare at his mouth.

 He knows what you want. He wants the same thing. But when he kisses you, it’s going to be private. No people staring or interrupting.

 So he pulls away. Your shaky exhale makes him smile proudly. He made you nervous.

 “Come.” He takes your hand in his when you’re back on your feet and he feels giddy at how easily you comply, how you follow him, naturally clinging onto his arm as he guides you through the crowd.

 You squeeze on his bicep with the hand that’s not in his to get his attention and he slightly leans down to hear you over the music. You point your chin over to the occupied sofa, cheeky smile taking over your face as you take in the sight of a perfectly healthy Giselle, laughing her lungs out at something Chenle is so passionately rambling on about.

 Mark shakes his head with a smile, but mentally makes a note to later grill his friend about the totally fake throwing up incident. He doesn’t even say anything, just keeps walking down the hallway, where both bedrooms are.

 When you both enter the neat spare room, he shuts the door behind him and sighs at the loud crowd and music becoming nothing but a background noise.

 “Is this Chenle guy rich or something?” You ask curiously as you look around, inspecting the spacious room.

 Mark lets out a quick laugh, eyes following you around, observing you. “Yeah. His parents are loaded. Pretty sure his dad owns this whole building.”

 You nod with an approving pout and all Mark can think is how adorable you look as you fumble with the bedside lamp, trying to figure out how it works. The second it illuminates, you let out an exaggerated gasp, your eyes widening and Mark doesn’t know what takes over him but he flicks the main lights off, surprising both of you.

 He leans back on the door, resting his weight there, hands at the small of his back as he patiently waits for your next move.

 “Smooth.” You comment with a small grin as you place the small lamp back in its spot.

 He just shrugs, mirroring your expression as you slowly retrace your steps, walking back towards him. It’s difficult for him not to blush as you get closer and closer; his heart threatening to beat out of his chest again and again and he awkwardly lifts a hand to rub against his jawline. His eyes rake over you unintentionally, taking in the outfit you’ve got on tonight. It’s simple; an off-shoulder crop top and light-washed baggy jeans. Pretty. Easy to remove.

 He feels hot at the thought of undressing you. What if he’s too clumsy? What if your earrings get tangled in your top? What if he accidentally pulls your hair?

 “Are you just gonna stand there?” You speak tentatively, as though you’re enjoying the silence. You seem a lot more composed and calm than him. Not like someone who not too long ago uttered the words ‘I’m so wet right now. It’s fucking embarrassing’, but then again, maybe you’re always like this. Fluctuating.

 “Where do you want me?” He asks, not intending for the words to sound sexual, but somehow, they do, and he has to close his eyes for a moment. Composure slowly slipping away.

 “To be honest, you look pretty good just like this” You halt in front of him, but still out of reach. “But for tonight’s purposes, ideally, I’d want you on the bed.” Fuck. “Unless you have any other ideas.”

 Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

 “Dude.” He exhales a pained laugh, hand covering his eyes in frustration. You simply just giggle at his misery.

 Without him seeing, your hands are suddenly on him; one touching his chest, the other peeling his hand away from his face, forcing him to look at you. And he’s definitely not complaining. Before he has time to take in your pretty face, your palm is engulfing the back of his neck, pulling him down to your level.

 He’s not sure who finally closes the gap, his mind too occupied with the softness of your lips and the way they slot with his. So effortlessly. Deja vu is inevitable when your arms wrap around his neck, holding him closer, and his limbs suddenly come back to life; the sliver of skin between your top and jeans so soft under his touch and so are your hands trailing from his hair down to the sides of his neck.

 The kiss is slow, sensual, almost romantic and the little noise of satisfaction you let out goes straight to his already hardening cock. The way you kiss him, contrasts the demeanour you've held up until now. You’re going along with the pace he sets. You’re not leading and he wonders if it’s deliberate. Can he just do however he pleases with you or will you eventually take the upper hand?

 He decides it’s worth a try by slipping a hand into your hair, tilting your head to the side so he can easily slip his tongue into your eager mouth and he’s rewarded with a low moan of yours, your lips parting for him, allowing him to taste you properly as you lazily glide your tongue with his.

He moves on autopilot, slowly walking you backwards. One hand still in your hair, the other hovering above your ass, keeping you close.

 “Shoes—mph—off.” He mumbles against your lips before you obscenely lick into his mouth and he can’t hold back the grunt that escapes his throat.

 It all becomes messy so quickly. His hands clumsily unbutton your jeans as you rush to kick your shoes off without breaking the kiss, both of you gasping and laughing as you stumble over your feet. You’ve somehow managed to turn the situation around and he only realises when the backs of his knees hit the mattress.

His back hits the covers with a push from you and within seconds, you’re straddling his thighs; bare legs on either side of him as you go back to kissing him. He surprises himself with the noise he lets out when both his hands grope your ass. Not just because it’s your ass he’s touching, but mainly because of the lack of underwear, and he’d love to comment on your hastiness but at this point he doesn’t really care. As long as he’s got you naked and in bed, he’s a content man.

 “Take your top off.” He instructs in a whisper, and you oblige without a question, sitting up in a heartbeat and removing the last piece of clothing you’ve got on. No bra underneath and he mentally thanks the heavens. “Fuck.”

 His hands caress your thighs absentmindedly as he takes in the sight above him. There’s something about the fact that you’re fully naked, while he’s not removed a single article of clothing. And you’re not rushing him either, patiently letting him enjoy the view, hands on his chest, ass directly above the very prominent bulge in his jeans. You seem comfortable in your nakedness and that turns him on even more, cock twitching in its confines.

 “C’mon. Nothing you haven’t seen before.” Your voice is sultry, patience clearly wearing thin as his hands remain on your thighs and he abruptly sits up, crashing his mouth onto yours. One hand holds the back of your neck as the other slips between your bodies, shamelessly cupping your entire pussy, the heel of his palm rubbing against your undeniably swollen clit.

 “Fuck, you’re…” He’s not able to form a complete sentence, interrupted by the loud moan you let out against his lips.

 “I told you. It’s embarrassing.” Your fingers thread in his hair, desperately pulling, driving him insane.

 “It’s fucking hot.” He’s corrects, completely enamoured with the way your body responds to him. You’re literally grinding on his hand, seeking relief, kissing him like a starved woman, spit coating both of your lips as he sucks on your tongue, earning a cute whine from you.

 “Feel like I’m dripping on your jeans.” You complain, breathing harshly as the pads of his fingers slide between your drenched folds, spreading your arousal, making a mess between your legs.

 “Cause you are.” He whispers with a smug grin.

 He purposely avoids your clit, in the mood to tease you as his lips drag from your jaw down to the base of your neck. His tongue makes contact with your sweaty skin, tasting salt, your scent engulfing him as his hold on your hair tightens, pulling your head back to gain full access to your sensitive skin.

 “Please, I really need you to fuck me.” You murmur weakly, the hoarseness of your voice causing his heart to quicken and his cock to throb painfully.

 He’s so fucked. Beyond salvation. And you’re so fucking needy. But he doesn’t want to give into you just yet. It’s his turn to torment you a little.

 “In a bit.” He dismisses your pleas with another suck on your neck, your crazy pulse delicious on his tongue.

 “Mark—“

 “Shh. You can wait a little longer.” Two of his fingers tease your entrance, slowly circling, dipping shallowly before slipping out and repeating the action.

 He almost feels bad when your body starts trembling, so he snakes his arm around your middle, holding you as close as possible. Your messy kisses on his neck are cut short the second his fingers ease into you, following the curve of your cunt until they’re knuckles-deep. And when he curls them slightly, your walls tighten and so do your arms around his neck, face burying in his neck as he starts to slowly pump in and out, making sure to repeatedly hit that spot that made you tremble.

 “This feel good?” He whispers against your shoulder, arm tightening around you, the pads of his fingers almost reaching your side boob.

 “Yeah.” You sigh, sounding wrecked already and that urges him to quicken the pace. He starts jackhammering his fingers into you, cunt greedily sucking them inside, your slick dripping down his wrist, smearing on his jeans and the sleeve of his jumper. The filthy thought of never washing his clothes again crosses his unhinged mind.

 You’re both sweating unimaginably, and now he wishes he’d at least taken a layer off, but he pays no mind to that as your body tenses. “You close?”

 “Yeah. Don't stop.” Your nails dig into the skin of his nape, most likely leaving crescent moons and he desperately needs you to come before he combusts in his trousers.

 He starts slamming the heel of his hand into your clit, making sure you’re being stimulated to the max and your whiny exhale reassures him. “Cum.”

 And you do. Body tensing up for a moment before you start trembling against him, the secure arm around you helping you stay upright as you gasp for air.

 “Oh my god.” Your hips buck up, pussy spasming violently around his fingers as he fucks you through it all.

 “You’re okay.” His knuckles caressing your spine, attempting to calm you down as your body gradually goes limp on him.

 “I think I just saw god.” You mumble half-conscious, causing Mark to let out a little laugh.

 “Did you say hi?” He steals a little kiss off your cheek as he slowly pulls his fingers out. Your shudder makes him smile fondly and he lets his fingers lazily caress your slit, before they gently circle your swollen bundle of nerves.

 “You’ve definitely been in at least one relationship since l last saw you.” The statement catches him off guard, and he pulls back a little to look at you.

 “What makes you say that?”

 You blink lazily, sweat dripping down the sides of your face. “You found my g-spot. Real fucking quick as well.”

 “I need a girlfriend for that?”

 “Well, someone’s taught you.” Your smile is teasing and so is the light touch of your fingers on his jaw.

 “Situationships, I guess. No girlfriend though.” He takes in your expression, heart beating a little quicker at your silence. “Red flag?”

 You give him a sweet smile. “I just came. All your flags are bright green right now”

 He mirrors your expression as he leans in, silently asking for a kiss, which you easily give, slowly dragging your swollen lips against his.

 “Wanna keep going?” He speaks softly, praying for an affirmative response.

 “Yes, please.”

 He moans at your words, hands trailing up your sides until they’re cupping your tits, tongue sloppily licking into your mouth. The whine you let out as he pinches your nipples, spurs him on, and he squeezes the supple flesh a little harder.

 “Can I just fuck you? Please? I promise I’ll go down on you later.” The begging tone his voice carries almost makes him cringe. Pitiful.

 You let out a yelp when he flips you over, your back on the mattress now, and he can’t help but notice the way your tits bounce a little as well as the slippery mess between your spread thighs.

 “Yeah, no more foreplay.” You sit up as he stands between your legs that hang off the edge of the bed. “And take that stupid jumper off right now.”

 He chuckles lightly at your frustration but obliges anyway. His jumper and t-shirt are off in one go and he quickly kicks his shoes off as you start unbuckling his belt, lust-clouded eyes gazing up at him.

 “Don’t look at me like that.” He rasps as his hands join yours, quickly unbuttoning and unzipping.

 “Like what?” Your seductive tone clouds his head and the kisses you start leaving down his happy trail make his hands shake.

 You don’t give him time to answer, immediately shoving both his boxers along with his trousers down, deeming him incapable of thinking properly. Your warm exhale hits him straight where it hurts, his throbbing length twitching the second you wrap a hand around the base.

 “Get on your all fours.” He instructs, tone purposely devoid of any warmth. He’s had enough of your games now. But still, his hands engulf each side of your face, thumbs stroking your flushed cheeks. “Or I just cum on your face and we call it a night. Up to you.”

 Your smirk is sinister as you scoot up the bed until your head hits the pillows and you swiftly turn on your front, knees spread wide, supporting your lower half as you arch your back like a pro, tits squishing against the mattress.

 “Holy shit.” He exhales in awe.

 You’re on full display. Ass up in the air, cunt staring right through his soul, inviting him in, and who is he to decline such an invite? As though the mental breakdown he’s experiencing isn’t enough, you shamelessly slip a hand between your legs, two fingers sliding through your dripping folds.

 “Markie, please. It hurts.” You briefly look over your shoulder with a performative pout, shamelessly putting on a show for him.

 “What the fuck.” He’s lost for words, standing there butt naked, staring at your fingers circling your clit before they slowly trail up, catching at your clenching hole and easily slipping in.

 You’re an evil evil woman. He decides right there and then. And the moment you start fucking yourself, he sees red, any resolve left, completely forgotten.

 He’s on his knees behind you within seconds. Hand ripping your fingers away before shoving your face against the pillows by the back go your head. His cock slips inside easily, walls vacuuming him in and he doesn’t wait for you to adjust; his free hand grabbing your waist as he starts slamming into you.

 “You’re fucking filthy, you know that?” He grunts through your high pitched moaning. “Been torturing me since day one.”

 Your muffled voice sounds like a song he’s been trying to find for a long time and he’s finally succeeded.

 “M—markie,” You sound like you’re crying and he loves it. “Fuck, it's so good.”

 “Shut up.” His thrusts become more intense, balls harshly slapping against your pussy, the wet sounds of your walls suctioning around him each time he pulls out, sending him into a frenzy. “I bet this is what you wanted—fuck—to piss me off. Huh?”

 “N-no — I just wanted you.” You mumble in your delirious state, and of course, it goes straight to his head.

His eyes focus on the way his cock slips in and out of your sopping hole. A white ring of slick has already formed at his base and he’s afraid he might finish sooner than expected.

 So he buries himself to the hilt to take a much needed moment. His head dips back in ecstasy, a low groan rumbling in his chest as he tries his best to compose himself and when he looks back down, your droopy eyes are already on him, neck twisted as you stare over your shoulder, face half-hidden.

 You look nothing short of ethereal. Your skin glowing in sweat, back still arched beautifully, eyes glistening with want and unshed tears as they roll back briefly the second Mark experimentally grinds a little too deep.

 “Mark?” Your voice is broken, his name sounding like a prayer.

 “Hm?” He leans down, nose nuzzling against yous jaw as he keeps grinding his hips slowly, relishing in the mewls you let out.

 “Want you close.” You whisper into the pillow, a little whimper adorning the end of your sentence. Your desperation breaks him.

 “I’m here.” He reassures you with a sweet kiss on your cheek. “D’you wanna change positions?”

 Your tiny nod pulls at his heartstrings in a way that’s foreign to him. He’s always been gentle by nature, soft spoken, sensitive. But this is untouched territory.

 “Alright,” He leaves a kiss on your shoulder as he pulls out. Gentle hand patting your thigh. "C’mon, turn around."

 With rushed movements, you eagerly flop on your back and his hips find home between your parted legs, the soft skin of your inner thighs dragging against his sides, making him shudder as he slowly slips back into you with a choked moan.

 “You can still be rough. Just wanted to touch you.” You admit bashfully, eyes blinking up at him, eyebrows tensing as he bottoms out with a loud squelch.

 Your hand delicately brushes the hair off his drenched forehead, your fingers threading through the strands and the clenching and unclenching of your velvety walls cause his eyes to flutter closed —the intense feeling of contentment clogging his brain up.

It’s unholy. The effect you have on him. It’s fucked. It makes no sense to him. He barely knows you, yet he welcomes everything you give him. Gives into everything you ask for, like it’s some sort of ritual. Something predetermined. A done deal with the universe. Like he’d burn in hell if he resisted.

 “Do you actually want me to be rough?” He searches your face for a sign, but he only finds conflict.

 “I dunno. I’m confused.”

 “About what?” He carefully settles his weight on top of you, arm by your head, free hand caressing your ribs delicately, barely cupping the underside of your breast.

 “I um—I liked it just now. How you were. But I kind of just—“ You sigh in frustration, hips slowly raising for some friction.

 “Want it slow?” He matches your rhythm, grinding into you, going as deep as he can as he awaits for a verbal response. He doesn’t need it. Your bent legs spreading even further is enough confirmation, but he wants to hear it anyway. “You know I don’t mind vanilla.”

 His joke lands. Your breathy laugh, hard to ignore as it hits warm on his shoulder.

 “Don’t make jokes right now.” You scold with a little whine.

 “Why not?” He gives you a chaste kiss before setting a slow pace; deep languid thrusts, his fingers fisting the pillow by your head as he tries to hold back from giving into the sensation of your warm, gummy walls enveloping his sensitive cock.

 “You’re literally balls deep inside me.” Your hands pull his face closer, connecting your lips again, small pants mingling as you kiss him as slow as he’s fucking you.

 “Whatever.” He mumbles dreamily in your mouth, palm finally engulfing your boob, gently squeezing the soft flesh and he involuntarily delivers a harsher thrust. “Shit, sorry.”

 It’s not his fault. Your pussy tightening every time he does something new, has him reeling, losing the little control he’s got over his actions.

 “No, keep going, it feels good.” You kiss him harder, holding both of his cheeks desperately as he quickens his movements a little, hips lightly slapping against yours, the lewd, squelching sounds of sex, loud enough to echo alongside your wet kisses and intense breathing. “Fuck—Mark—you—oh shit—right there.”

 “Yeah?” He pants, unrestrained.

 It’s pathetic. Beyond pitiful how your incoherent but praiseful words turn him into a whiny mess. He feels dizzy, and he’s pretty sure he’s drooling on your lips as his jaw goes slack, tongue slipping out a tiny bit, attempting to taste you in the hazy mess. His eyes roll back in raw bliss as your nails scratch down his back, arms trembling on either side of your head.

 He feels helpless.

Your legs lock around his hips, only allowing him to pull a tiny fraction of his cock out before thrusting back in; quick short pumps seeming to do the trick for you both.

 “Shit. You gonna cum?” He asks in awe. Your suffocating walls and trembling breaths a clear sign, but he still asks, needing to hear you as he looks down, taking in your flushed body. Your bouncing tits, a sight for sore eyes.

 “Mhm.” You nod quickly, eyebrows tensing in a cute frown before your face nestles in his shoulder, your hot breath hitting his damp skin as he starts scattering a dewy mess of kisses up and down your neck. “Oh my god, I'm-”

 “I know, I know.” He gasps as he puts extra effort in keeping up the same rhythm as your cunt squeezes him, his impending orgasm clouding his brain.

 You go completely quiet for a few moments, before becoming a trembling mess beneath him and he knows you’ve reached your peak. He relentlessly pushes past the tight grip your walls have around him, desperate to keep your pleasure going as he starts fucking you harder through it, the cry you let out against his shoulder, a reward to his efforts.

 “Shit—I’m close.” He feels lightheaded, breathing laboured as he tries to hold on for a little longer.

 “You have to pull out.” You utter in panic, a thread of sensibility still holding onto one of you at least.

 “Yeah, I will.” He rasps, hand grabbing onto your thigh, fingers digging. “If you fucking let me.”

 “Shit, sorry.” You mumble in realisation.

 You quickly unwrap your legs from his waist, the tremble in them still noticeable as he sits up a little, delivering three more stuttering pumps before dragging his sensitive cock out with a grunt, his release immediately spilling all over your pussy, a spurt landing on your inner thigh, a few on your tummy, while some of it drips on the comforter. He pumps himself empty, until he’s got nothing more to give.

 You hold him close when he collapses on top of you with a tired huff, not even caring about the mess between your bodies.

 It’s quiet for a few moments. Just muffled music and heavy breathing. Just your hands combing through his damp hair. Just his cheek squished up against your chest. Just his fingers tracing random patterns on your ribcage.

 It’s only when his index accidentally brushes against your sensitive nipple that you whine, breaking the silence and causing him to breathe out a small laugh.

 “My bad.”

 “You’re good.” You pet his head gently. “Dude.”

 He snorts at your mocking tone. A little surprised at how not awkward this feels.

 “My guy.” He says casually, still a little out of breath, but joining the silly joking session regardless, and your chest vibrates under him in a giggle that makes him feel giddy.

 “You got a really peachy ass you know.” Your unexpected comment makes him raise his head to look at you in question.

 “Thanks, I guess?” His eyebrows furrow in a funny expression as his hand sneaks beneath your weight, playfully squeezing your asscheek, forcing a cute screech out of you. “I prefer yours.”

 “Ah, of course. An ass man.” You state with a playful roll of your eyes. He likes it.

 “Hmm, I dunno. I like your boobs just as much.” He drops his gaze to your chest in a very unsubtle manner. Intentional. An action which, of course, earns him whack in the head. “Yo, that hurt!”

 “Stop being a guy.”

 “I am a guy!”

 “And for that, you’re suffering.” Your tone is sweet and so is your smile, but there’s an edge hidden.

 “I’m actually having a pretty good time right now.” He retorts, making sure to add some smugness in his voice, though, it’s become abundantly clear that you’re not one to back down. Your free hand sneaks down his back, nails harshly digging into the muscle of his ass, making him yelp in pain. “Ow! Watch it with the claws.”

 “I’m actually having a pretty good time right now.” You imitate his tone, mocking him.

 “What kind of twisted way of flirting is this?” He hides his face between your boobs, nuzzling against the soft skin of your sternum as he allows his arms to circle around you, the gentle thump of your heart easing his nerves.

 “Who says I’m flirting?”

 Mark is aware of how oblivious he can be when it comes to girls, but he also knows a thing or two. And it’s the way your fingers scratch the back of his scalp soothingly that betrays you. Maybe even the goosebumps on your chest, just under the spot he kissed a few seconds ago. Or maybe it’s your legs tightening around him, holding him right where he wants to be. Could be the slight twitch of your hips under him as he moves to get more comfortable. Can it be the whimper you accidentally let slip when his lips start kissing across your chest?

 “My bad, my bad.” He murmurs as he presses a wet smooch just millimetres off your clearly hardened nipple. “I must be losing the plot.” He continues, sarcasm intentional, and so is the light flick of his tongue against the erect bud. “You’re not flirting.” His words sound mindless, but he’s definitely aware of what he’s doing to you. And he’s loving your cute little squirms as his release from earlier smears between your lower halves. “You’re just being a brat, as per.”

 “Don’t remember you being this annoying.” You complain breathlessly, back arching as you chase his tongue when he pulls back a little.

 “Mm, things change.” He feels himself getting hard again, but he ignores it. He’s got other plans. Teasing you seems to have become his priority and you don’t seem to mind either. “I don’t remember you being this needy.”

 “Fuck you.” There’s not an ounce of a malice laced with your tone.

 A deep moan escapes your chest the second his lips wrap around your wet nipple, sucking lazily as his tongue licks obscenely. He releases it with a lewd pop before letting the tip of his wet muscle flick, forcing louder sounds out of you.

 He hopes the remaining people in Chenle’s living room can hear you, discretion the last thing on his mind.

 He lifts his body a little, creating space for his hand to slip between your legs. The wet mess even worse now, but perfect nonetheless, and he doesn’t hover this time. Two of his digits find your clit in no time, circling the same way his tongue circles your abused nipple. Slow. Gentle.

 He can tell you’re still sensitive, overstimulated. But he wants more. Needs more. So he takes it. And you give it.

 It’s sloppy, the mixture of both your essences making everything slippery and he feels the subtle pulse of your bud under the pads of his fingers as he rubs with a little more precision; your laboured breaths nothing but an encouragement. His mouth hangs open against your chest, lips dragging aimlessly, your skin covered in his spit and he can’t help but moan lowly when you tug at his hair a little too hard.

 He really needs to feel you unravel again. The desire might as well be engraved in him by now.

 “Can I go down on you?” He looks up, gauging your reaction and you’re nothing but hooded eyes and flushed cheeks.

 “If you feel like tasting your own cum, go for it.” You respond casually, a lazy smirk forming on your lips.

 “I’m an introvert, Y/N, not a fucking prude.” He mumbles carelessly as he descends kisses down your body, no hesitation behind his actions when he reaches parts painted in his release. He just licks it all up, like he’s done it a million times. And Mark realises he actually never has. Sure, he’s kissed girls right after they’ve given him head, but eating his own cum off someone’s skin is something he’s never explored before.

 He greedily makes out with your pussy the second he settles between your thighs, tongue gliding gently up and down your slit, dipping a little when it reaches your entrance, your taste combined with his own, intoxicating him. The more he teases, the whinier you get.

 You get so restless he has no choice but to wrap his arms around your thighs to hold you down — one hand splaying just above your pubic bone to ground you, the other just settling for your thigh — and when his fingers pull the hood of your clip up, just a tiny bit, revealing the cute nub, he sucks. Hard. Then he flicks. Mercilessly. And he keeps interchanging between the two, letting your sounds guide him. Hard sucks and vigorous flicks just where you ache the most. He doesn’t need to do much more.

 Within a few minutes—maybe two, maybe three—he feels the quaking of your legs, hears the intensifying cries, relishes in the hard tugs on his hair and when you’re cumming on his tongue, just like he wanted you to, he’s moaning with you, helping you ride the high for as long as possible.

 “Fuck, s—stop.” You beg helplessly when it gets too much and he delivers one last kiss on your swollen bud before climbing up your body again.

 Your tongue is in his mouth, tangling with his before he can process what’s just happened, arms wrapping securely around his neck, as though he would escape otherwise. You flagrantly lick in his mouth, tasting everything like you need it. And maybe you do. He doubts you need it as much as he does though.

 You don’t seem to have a care in the world that his chin is smearing your combines fluids on yours. It’s dirty. Filthier than anything he’s ever experienced. And he feels corrupt. You simply have corrupted him. Ruined him without even trying, like it’s some daily routine of yours. And he’s gobbling it all up like a much needed fix.

 He needs air. Needs to breathe. But all he seems to be able to do is kiss you again and again and again, until you release him.

 “Do you think we’ll have to wash the bed covers?” You ask with a sincere look of curiosity, albeit out of breath.

 It takes a second for the random question to register due to his hazy state, but when it does, Mark can’t help but let out a weak laugh.

 “I think we might have to buy new ones.”

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──  

It takes you a second to realise why you feel so warm when you wake up. At first, you assume it’s the sun slipping through the curtains and hitting the skin of your back where the covers have fallen off.

 But then you shift slightly. Your eyes flutter open, looking for the real source of heat.

 Mark.

 He’s on his side, facing you, his face tucked gently against your bare chest like he drifted there without thinking. His arm is draped lazily over your waist, heavy and warm, hand resting at the small of your back. Not gripping. Just there. Like holding you is something he does without effort — even unconscious. Like even in a deep slumber he’s decided you’re something to hold onto.

 You stay still. Still taking it all in.

 He looks unfair like this.

 Sleep has softened every sharp edge he usually carries. His brows, normally expressive and quick to knit together, are smooth now. His lashes rest against his cheeks — longer than they have any right to be — casting faint shadows in the morning light. His lips are slightly parted, relaxed, the corners tilted just enough to make him look younger. Gentler.

 Pretty.

 The word slips into your mind before you can stop it.

 There’s something almost innocent about him like this. No teasing smirk. No knowing glances. Just warm skin and steady breathing and a boy who trusted you enough to fall asleep pressed this close.

 The faint stubble along his chin brushes against you when he shifts, softer than it looks. You trace it lightly with your fingertips, watching the way his mouth moves in response — a tiny unconscious reaction. His nose nudges closer, breath fanning against your skin. It tickles a little.

 Your heart speeds up.

 You hate that it does. Why would it?

 You hate that it isn’t just physical. That it isn’t just leftover heat from last night. It’s something else. Something quieter and far more dangerous. It’s odd. The way your chest feels tight just looking at him. The way you’re memorising the exact shape of his lips, the slope of his nose, the soft curve of his cheek in the sunlight.

 He’s too handsome first thing in the morning. Too warm. Too real.

 Your pulse thuds harder than you’d like, and you swallow, trying to steady yourself.

 This isn’t supposed to feel like this. It’s too simple for it to feel like this. You’ve slept with the guy twice over the course of two years for crying out loud.

 His fingers flex faintly on your skin, tightening for a brief second before settling again. Even asleep, he pulls you a fraction closer, like he’s afraid you might slip away. Just like you did last time.

 Your heart betrays you again.

 You brush his hair back gently, letting your fingers linger in the softness. He stirs at the touch, lashes fluttering before slowly lifting. His gaze is unfocused at first, hazy with sleep, and then it lands on you.

 He freezes.

 You watch awareness dawn in real time — the slight widening of his eyes, the way his throat moves when he swallows. A faint flush creeps up his neck.

 “Hi,” he murmurs, voice rough and small in the quiet room.

 It’s so shy, it almost doesn’t sound like the guy from last night.

 You don’t answer. You just keep looking at him, taking in the softness that hasn’t fully faded yet.

 His lips press together briefly before he adds, quieter, almost unsure, “Still here?”

 The way he says it makes something in you constrict.

 Before you can respond, he ducks his face back into your chest, hiding like he regrets letting you see that vulnerable edge. His arm slides a little tighter around your waist, pulling you in closer. You feel the warmth of his cheek against you — and then, softly, almost absentmindedly, he presses a small kiss on the skin between your breasts before settling there again, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

 You should say something. Make a lighthearted comment. A joke. Something. Anything.

 You don’t.

 Instead, you tilt his face up gently, fingers brushing along his jaw. He looks startled for a split second, brows lifting slightly.

 And then you do something that you shouldn’t feel that comfortable doing. You kiss him.

 It’s soft. Slow. Not teasing. Just your lips pressing against his like you couldn’t not do it.

 He makes the tiniest sound of surprise against your mouth — a quiet, breathy little noise that’s so embarrassingly cute. His hand flexes at your waist like he forgot what to do with it.

 But he kisses you back.

 Careful at first. Shy. Still waking up into it. Then a little surer, lips moving softly against yours, warm and unhurried.

 When you pull back just enough to breathe, he’s looking at you differently. Still flushed. Still flustered.

 Still holding you close.

 “You can’t just do that,” he mumbles, even though his thumb is tracing absent patterns against your waist now.

 And your heart, traitor that it is, keeps beating too fast.

 “Do what?” you whisper back, close enough that your lips almost brush his when you speak.

 He hesitates. You feel it — the flicker of nerves beneath the warmth. His gaze drops to your mouth like he’s debating something with himself.

 It doesn’t take him too long to decide, it seems. His lips are on yours in not time again.

 Not shy this time. Not startled.

 Just slow. Sensual.

 His hand tightens slightly at your waist, fingertips pressing into your skin as if to anchor himself. It all starts soft — just the gentle press of his lips to yours — but there’s intention behind it now. A quiet hunger that wasn’t there seconds ago.

 You feel the shift immediately. The undeniable throbbing between your legs. Your breathing matching his quickened one.

 His mouth moves more deliberately, head tilting to deepen the kiss, nose brushing lightly against your cheek as his tongue grazes your bottom lip, asking for permission you instantly give. Mouth parting for him without a thought, too excited to taste him. The faint rasp of his stubble grazes your skin when he adjusts closer, and you can’t help the small inhale that slips out of you.

 He hears it, of course. You feel the corner of his mouth lift against yours before he kisses you deeper.

 Your fingers slide into his hair again, nails barely grazing his scalp, and he exhales into your mouth — warm, shaky, almost reverent. His arm around your waist pulls you flush against him, his thigh pressing between yours, the warmth of him suddenly impossible to ignore when his skin drags against your sensitive and already wet cunt.

 The sound of it — soft breaths, fabric shifting, the quiet press of skin on skin — fills the room and it all feels… different compared to last night. Unrushed.

 Like he’s not trying to impress you. Not trying to prove anything.

 Just kissing you because he wants to.

 Your heart pounds harder than you like. Harder than it makes sense. You barely know him outside of dim lights and late-night tension and shared heat — and yet the way he’s touching you now, feels careful. Thoughtful. Like he’s memorising the shape of you through his hands.

 No one’s kissed you like this.

 Not like they could do it for hours. Not like it could become routine.

 His hand slides slightly higher along your spine, slow enough to make you aware of every inch it travels. Your body reacts before your brain can catch up, leaning into him, hips shifting unconsciously closer, grinding, looking for release against the muscle of his thigh.

 He makes that soft sound again — the small, surprised hum you’re starting to recognise — but this time it’s deeper. Less startled. More affected.

 The kiss grows wetter, heavier, until breathing becomes necessary. He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, lips parted, eyes darker now as they take in your lips. You can only imagine what they look like, judging from his swollen, glistening ones.

 The innocence of it all has disappeared as his hand travels down your back, settling when it’s reached your ass, kneading softly. Once. Twice. And then just resting there. Intentional and comfortable.

 Dangerously comfortable.

 You realise, with a slow creeping clarity, how easy this would be. To wake up like this again.

 To fall back into this again. Into him.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──  

Next time you sleep with Mark, it’s in your bed. The one after that, is in his bed. And the one after that, in your bed again. And the one after that is memorable because he makes you cum in any position you can think of. The time after that, he’s rougher than he’s ever been; manhandling you like it’s his job, fucking you so hard, pain mixing with pleasure, your tears blinding you, your cries deafening you, until his hand is around your throat, shutting you up.

 It gets to a point where the nights (and mornings) you’ve spent together, blur into one. It all easily becomes a habit. Calling him, texting him, meeting with him between classes. It’s all normal. Like it would be with a close friend.

 For you at least. You’re not really sure how he feels, but the fact that he’s never complained, comforts you in a way. Other times, it makes you doubt everything. You try not to dwell on those thoughts.

 Random hang-out sessions, that turn into lazy movie nights, become a frequent occurrence between the two of you.

 Much like right now.

 “What the hell?” You exclaim all aggravated, sitting up a little from your lying position on the sofa. Your feet shift on Mark’s lap and you can’t see his hand under the blanket, but you feel its warmth around your calf, through the cotton of your sock. It’s comforting. “Is that it?”

 Mark chuckles lightly.

 “I mean, yeah.” He shrugs casually as he pops a piece of pop corn in his mouth. “Thoughts?”

 “I’m fucking sad.”

 “Aww, dude, why?” He sits up a little too, getting more comfortable so he can look at you better as the credits keep rolling. “They said they’ll meet again.”

 “Yeah, but we don’t actually see that.” You complain loudly, making him chuckle again. At least one of you is entertained.

 “That’s the whole point.” He squeezes your calf once. “It all ends before sunrise for them, hence the title, but they get to experience so much in just one night that they don’t really need to know if they’ll actually meet again.”

 “Is that why it’s your favourite movie? You’re into the whole soppy, enigmatic love trope?” You tease with a smirk, loving his flustered reactions a little too much.

 The cute roll of his eyes makes you smile wider, without realising.

 “I guess we’re not watching the second one then.” He says with a playful pout and you can’t help the excited yelp you let out.

 “There’s a second one?”

 His eyes widen a little at your excitement, tiny amused smile taking place on his face. “And a third one. But I’ve never seen it.”

 “Well, we have to watch them.” You catch yourself moving closer. His hand slips higher on your leg, just below your knee, the warmth seeping through your comfy sweatpants.

 “Oh, we have to?” He raises his eyebrows expectantly, making your heart skip a beat at his subtle way of teasing you.

 “Yes, we.” You say stubbornly, refusing to let him have his way. “You’re the one who suggested this ridiculously sad shit.”

 He stares at you for a moment, in thought as he spreads his legs a little, letting your own dangle between them, bent knees hooked over his thigh. You instinctively move even closer, one of your arms stretching behind his shoulders, against the back of the sofa, as your free hand starts playing with one of his hoodie strings.

 The familiar scent of his after shave mixed with a hint of detergent engulfs you. It’s distinct. The kind that could traumatise you if things ever went south with him.

 “Did you not like it then?” His voice comes out quite this time.

 You purposely avoid eye contact, though, you can feel his gaze on you, and you have to actively force yourself to not focus on the way his hand caresses your inner thigh. It’s nothing but innocent, but that does something to you. It feels domestic. Absentminded.

 “No, I did.” Your eyes are still on your finger twirling the string on his chest. “Just hoped for a happier ending is all.”

 “Hmm, you can’t always have a happy ending, though.” He says skeptically and for some reason the words sit heavy in your chest.

 You ignore the unpleasant feeling and force your eyes onto his. “When did you become so wise?”

 “Tsk, I’ve always been wise.” His cute nose scrunches a tiny bit as his eyes narrow in a challenge.

 You try your best to mirror his expression as you tickle his chin with your index finger. “Sure, you have.”

 Your teasing gets interrupted quickly. A giggle erupts from you as he playfully tries to bite your finger off. His pearly whites making an appearance; a silly imitation of a cat making you act all giddy.

 He’s too cute for his own good.

 And so you give into the urge to drop a very sweet kiss on his cheek. Your hand cradles his jaw as he tries to pretend an escape.

 When you pull away, you have to bite your lip to hide your smile, your cheeks hurting.

 He looks away, attempting to hide his own smile from you, tongue poking the inside of the cheek you just smooched a little too loudly.

 “You’re still so shy with me.” You observe quietly and his frown makes you let out another giggle.

 “No, I’m not.” He pouts adorably.

 “It’s okay.” You lean closer as he sulks. Another kiss on his cheek, this time a tiny bit closer to the corner of his lips. “I like it.”

 “Do you really think I’m shy with you?” He searches for a reaction in your eyes as he wraps a hand around your wrist, urging you to wrap your arms around his neck.

 You give in too easily. It’s too difficult not to with his face so close to yours.

 “Not always.” You admit, as you start playing with the hair at his nape. “You’re shy, like, maybe fifty percent of the time.”

 “Fifty?!” He shrieks with an offended tone. “Dude, that’s still high.”

 “And I still like it.” You scold, arms tightening slightly around him as his hands rest on your thighs, still draped across his lap.

 “You just like being a pain in my ass.” He states with a knowing smirk, and you can’t even deny it.

 “See? You’re not shy now.” You deflect, enjoying the back and forth dynamic you have going on with him.

 “Stop flirting.” He scolds, hand squeezing your thigh softly.

 “Mm, no.” You cradle the back of his neck gently with one hand as your other arm drapes casually around his shoulders.

 “No?”

 “No.”

 “Just like that?”

 You simply nod. “Just like that.”

 He nods back with an approving pout. “Fair.”

 The second he leans in for a kiss, a dull pain in your lower abdomen reminds you of your state and you panic.

 “You can’t stay tonight.” You blurt out. The surprise evident on his face as he pulls back.

 “Umm, okay?” His confusion pulls at the strings in your heart. “Is something wrong? Like, did I—“

 “No.” You interrupt him, before he can make things even more awkward. Arm still around him. “I’m just on my period. So, we can’t…you know.”

 Realisation downs on him. Eyebrows raising slightly, lips parting. “Oh.” He nods once. “Right.”

 “Mmhm.” You give him an awkward, tight smile.

 You could have cancelled tonight. Should have. But you hadn’t seen him in almost a week due to a stupid essay you had to focus on. And you hate to admit it even to yourself, but you missed him. A little more than you a friend misses a friend. But that’s another story.

 “Are you feeling okay?” He asks a little too casually, but still concerned.

 The way he sneaks an arm around your middle, is too smooth. It’s with effort that you manage to maintain your composure as he pulls you closer into his side, his hand resting on your lower back. Gentle and reassuring.

 Your heart does something weird at the intimate gesture. “Yeah, I’m good. It’s the third day, so, it’s not too bad.”

 He nods understandingly. “Okay, well…I don’t know if I’m being too slow, but why exactly can’t I stay?”

 The question definitely catches you off guard, but you manage to stay grounded. “I mean, you can. You’re welcome to. We’re just not having sex.”

 “Yeah, fuck that, I’m off.” He moves to playfully shrug you off, but laughs at the way you childishly whine, refusing to move, stubbornly clinging onto him. He settles back with a huff and you bashfully hide your face in his shoulder. “Y/N, I obviously don’t care. I’ll stay if you want me to.”

 His voice is too soft. Too sweet.

 You exhale loudly, feigning annoyance. “Fine. Stay then.”

 “Ugh. Fine, I will.” You feel the delicate nudge of his nose against your forehead and, inevitably, you look up at him, still tucked safely in his side with your legs comfortably resting on top of his spread ones. “So, like, is kissing out of the question too?”

 You snort at the silly question. “No. Kissing’s allowed.”

 You’ve realised over time that you have a soft spot for his cheeky side. It’s rare that Mark Lee drops his serious stance, but you’ve managed to break through a few times now and each one of those has felt like a special reward.

 His lips find yours for the first time tonight. The hand cradling your jaw shouldn’t feel that good on your skin and the arm around your waist shouldn’t feel as safe as it does. But you savour everything, matching his slow pace.

 The kiss becomes less innocent with each drag of his lips against yours, but you can’t bring your self to pull away. Blame the raging hormones, blame the way he’s holding you so close, blame the universe.

 You need him to keep kissing you.

 The whiny sound you unintentionally let out, betrays said need, but Mark doesn’t seem phased at all. If anything, he deepens the kiss. More intent behind his touches.

 “Come here.” He mumbles against your lips as he tries to manoeuvre you, and you quickly oblige, throwing a leg over him, straddling his thighs without a second thought.

 He doesn’t seem to approve of your hovering as he shamelessly pushes you down by the hips, encouraging you to properly sit on him. And you do.

 He lets out a delicious sound, which you hungrily swallow as your crotch meets his. Hard length familiarly nestling between your thighs, nudging against your needy clit, and you’re glad you opted for a tampon instead of a pad earlier.

 “Are you comfortable?” He asks, pulling away slightly, watching your face for any sign of discomfort.

 “Yeah.” You nod as you allow your hands to rest on either side of his neck.

 “Is there anywhere I’m not allowed to touch?”

 You smile at the cryptic question. He’s clearly testing the waters, while trying to be respectful of any boundaries. You can see right through him.

 “My boobs are a little sore still, so be gentle.”

 He nods. “Anything else?”

 Your breath hitches as his fingers sneakily slip under the waistband of your sweatpants, eyes silently asking for permission.

 You give him a chaste kiss. “You can’t finger me, if that’s what you mean.”

 “Not exactly what I meant, no.” He murmurs as his hands completely slip inside your bottoms, cupping your ass over your underwear, deliberately urging you to drag your hips against his, fingers slightly digging into the flesh of your bum.

 He devours your lips in another kiss. Heated, but lazy. Slower than ever.

 Your tongues gliding languidly makes you unintentionally grind a little harder, allowing your sensitive clit to drag against his clothed cock and you feel your underwear slipping between your folds messily. He’s got you all wet and needy when he really shouldn’t.

 “Fuck, I really want you naked.” He whispers in your mouth, hands travelling up your back, taking the hem of your baggy t-shirt with them.

 There’s nothing else to do other than give him what he wants. So you reluctantly break the kiss, letting him remove your top before you rush to do the same for him.

 Your sports bra is gone in no time, both your top and his hoodie are somewhere on the living room floor and the second your tits are free, he’s got both his arms tightly wrapped around your middle, biceps flexing deliciously. Your nipples feel extra sensitive as they rub on his skin; breasts squished against his warm chest, the sensation comforting and arousing at the same time, you can’t help the sigh you let out against his lips.

 “Don’t really know where we’re going with this.” You speak all muffled as he eagerly tries to lick into your mouth, lips a little uncoordinated but you love it.

 You’re more than aware of the double meaning your words carry, and the hesitation in his eyes when he pulls away, tells you he is too. You both seem to ignore the complicated side of the statement.

 “I can still make you feel good, no?” His fingers splay in between your shoulder blades as his eyes inspect your face, lingering on your spit-kissed lips for a little too long.

 He doesn’t wait for an answer. He pulls you by the back of your neck, his mouth finding yours in another wet kiss, lips parted wide as tastes you with a quiet hum, and you feel more wetness seeping out of you, drenching your panties.

 A buck of your hips forces a moan out of both of you as your hands bury in his hair, gripping tight, searching for an anchor. You lean your head back with a soft exhale when he starts leaving wet kisses along your jaw, down to your neck. He licks, sucks, bites your flushed skin, tongue swirling on each mark he leaves behind, turning you on more than ever.

 This is so fucking inconvenient.

 He takes you by surprise when he licks a stripe from between your tits to your collarbones, painting your skin with his saliva.

 “Ah, shit.” You tighten your hold on his hair and he lets out a little grunt that vibrates against your sternum, his quick breaths hitting your damp skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Your nipples harden uncomfortably, asking for attention and he must notice as his hand cups one of your breasts, gently massaging the underside.

His lips find the raised peak, kissing around it, teasing you, forcing needy sounds out of you, and when he softly sucks it in his mouth, tongue swirling, you can’t help but grind down harder with a loud whine.

 “Careful.” You whisper weakly when his tongue flicks a little too hard, making you jolt.

 “Sorry.” He apologises with a sweet kiss between the space of your tits, and for a few moments, he gives all his attention to your slightly swollen mounds. Licking and sucking, carefully massaging them in his palms until you pull a little too hard at his hair, singling that it’s too much for you.

 You force him to lean back as you trap him between your body and the back of the sofa. The sound he makes when you wrap a hand around his throat, exhilarates you, and you give into another make out session as you let your fingers lightly press on his pulse points, loving the effect you have on him.

 You’re completely lost in his kisses and the way his firm chest feels on yours. It’s all too much and not enough at the same time and you really just don’t know what to do with yourself. So you just try to relax on top of him, arms loosely wrapping around his neck as you relish in the wet smacking sounds of your lips.

 It’s his hand that sneaks between your crotches that urges you to pull away, but he holds you there, his other hand on the back of your head.

 “Can I try something?” He mutters as his fingers slowly start undoing the knot at the front of your waistband. “Stop me if it’s weird.”

 Fuck Mark lee and his persuasiveness. “Okay.”

 You probably shouldn’t. It’s too intimate. Too vulnerable. And you normally wouldn’t let anyone else, but when Mark slips his hand past the front of your waistband, you let him.

 He’s careful. No rushed movements as he holds you close, lips brushing yours as he gauges your reaction and your mouth parts against his when you feel the warmth of his palm, engulfing the seat of your underwear. He rubs lightly over the drenched fabric until his fingers find your clit, pressing a little harder, evoking a half desperate half surprised sound out of you.

 You self-consciously wonder if he felt the thin string of your tampon when his fingers brushed past your entrance, but whether he did or not, he doesn’t really let on.

 He starts rubbing you in slow tiny circles, the gentle friction making you breathe harder, fingers shaking in his messy strands.

 “Can I touch you properly or is that a bit too far?” He must sense your contemplation as his fingers come to a brief halt. “I’ll stay here.” His fingers press on your clit, signalling what he means. “Won’t go anywhere else.”

 You pull back a smidge, the need to look at his face getting the better of you. His pleading eyes, full of adoration, overwhelm you and you cowardly hide your face in his neck, arms wrapping tighter around his shoulders.

 “What if I bleed all over your hand?” You whine dramatically. The thought of that actually happening, too embarrassing.

 He breathes out an amused laugh. “I’ll live.”

 “Yeah, well, I won’t.” You joke halfheartedly, but inhale sharply when he presses against the swollen bud again.

 “At least you’ll die happy.” He giggles at the warning bite you leave on his shoulder, playfully shrugging you away, but his arm around your middle holds you close. “You wanna cum. I wanna help. So let me.”

 “Fuck sake.” You sigh in defeat, forehead dropping against his shoulder. “If you touch anywhere other than—“

 “I won’t. Promise.” He seals it with an intimate kiss on your shoulder, making you shiver.

 “Okay.”

 He slips his hand inside the front of your cotton panties, quickly finding your pulsing bud and you instantly melt against him with a relieved whimper, the skin on skin contact already feeling a million times better. His two fingers send you reeling, making you moan in his neck, your jaw slackening when he speeds up a little, rubbing harder, more precise circles on the bundle of nerves. His hold around you tightens when you start slightly shaking on his lap and you feel dizzy when he starts flicking from side to side, bringing you closer and closer to a dangerous high.

 It’s addictive. The way he touches you, holds you, breathes on you like he’s the one being pleasured. It’s all out of this world. Too good. Too mind-numbing.

 “Mmph—f-fuck—right there.” You beg, all out of breath and flustered. His fingers keep brushing a spot on your clit, too sensitive, the pleasure so intense, you can barely handle it.

 “Yeah? Feels good?” His breathy tone adds to the hot sensation between your legs, your toes and fingers tingling as your eyes inevitably roll back.

 “So good, Markie.”

 He grunts when your nails dig into the flesh of his shoulder. “Fuck, baby. Wanna see you cum.”

 “Oh my god.” You whisper with a tremble, mouth ajar against his shoulder, your saliva smearing on his skin as you struggle to breathe, to keep a little bit of your sanity intact. “Mark. Ffffuck.”

 Your release crashes into you with force.  A muffled shriek erupts from your throat, resonating in the silence of the living room. You sound broken as he keeps rubbing fast and hard. Until your whole body shakes in ecstasy. Until the overstimulation is too much to endure.

 Your walls are spasming so hard you’re worried they might accidentally squeeze the tampon out, and you have to grab his wrist in panic, forcing him to stop his torturous ministrations on your abused clit.

 You slump forward. Body completely spent. Weight dropping on him in surrender as your brain floats somewhere unknown.

 The gentle scratch of his blunt nails against your scalp, helps bring you somewhat back to the surface.

 “Fuck, that felt—” You pant, struggling to form anything coherent. Your throat feels dry when you swallow.

 “Intense?” He finishes your incomplete thought for you.

 He has a tendency of doing that. Understanding you better than you can understand yourself sometimes. Unveiling thoughts and feelings you didn’t know you were capable of carrying.

 You don’t like it. The grip he has on you — you feel it most when he's not even touching you. When he's not even with you.

And it’s too intimate. More than you can handle.

 You often feel scrutinised under his gaze. Especially in raw, unfiltered moments like this. It never feels transactional. Whatever you have with Mark. It’s never just about fleeting pleasure. There’s always something underlying but undeniable at the same time.

 Something undoubtedly there, but difficult to define in your head.

 Something you wonder if his complex mind has been able to translate into words you always fail to find.

Inside, it’s warm. Soft. Safe.

Mark’s place isn’t big, but it’s cozy in a way that feels almost unfair. A couple of mismatched lamps cast a honey-colored glow across the living room, catching on the framed prints he swore he’d hang straight one day and the books stacked in uneven piles near the coffee table. The couch is a little too old and a little too soft, but it’s perfect for sinking into after long days, which is exactly what you’re both doing.

You’re curled up against one end, socked feet half-buried under a blanket. Mark is beside you, one knee up, arm slung along the back of the couch in that easy, thoughtless way he always does when it’s just you. His hoodie hangs loose on your frame, sleeves covering your hands, the faint scent of his laundry detergent and something undeniably him clinging to the fabric.

The TV plays some random show you started twenty minutes ago and promptly stopped paying attention to.

This isn’t unusual.

Your spare toothbrush lives in his bathroom. One of your old sweatshirts is draped over the back of his desk chair. There’s a half-empty bottle of your favorite sauce in his fridge because he remembered you said you liked it once. The edges of your lives have been blurring for a while now, your things quietly migrating into his space like they belong here.

Mark notices all of it.

He notices the way your shoulders drop as soon as you step through his door, like you left the whole world in the hallway. The way you tuck your feet under his thigh for warmth. How his hoodie dwarfs you, the sleeves slipping over your fingers. How right it looks—your body, your laughter, your scent—tucked into the little corners of his apartment.

He tells himself it’s normal. Friends get comfortable with each other. Friends share hoodies. Friends leave toothbrushes. Friends know exactly which crack in the ceiling the other person stares at when they can’t sleep.

Still, his gaze lingers.

On the curve of your cheek as the TV light flickers across your skin. On the way your lips twitch when something almost makes you laugh. On the soft line of your throat when you tilt your head back against the couch.

You shift closer, your shoulder bumping his. The contact is casual, familiar, the kind that’s been happening for so long that neither of you really registers when it started. Once upon a time, you would have been hyperaware of something this intimate.

Now? It’s just…how you are.

Your feet end up in his lap like they always do, ankles crossed, blanket draped sloppily over both of you. He doesn’t think before resting his hands lightly on your calves, thumbs tracing idle patterns over the fabric of your sweats.

You sigh. It’s a little sound, small and content.

His chest tightens.

On-screen, some character is crying about heartbreak, about being tired of trying with people who never see them. You’re only half-listening, the dialogue washing over you, but a line cuts through the haze:

“I’m just so tired of being everyone’s almost.”

Your breathing goes quiet beside him. He feels, more than sees, the way you still.

Without meaning to, you and Mark both turn toward the TV at the same time. You catch each other in your peripheral vision and your gazes snag—just for a heartbeat. Long enough for something to flash between you, quick and indefinable.

You look away first. He does, too, pretending to focus on the screen again. The show continues, laugh track blaring at something neither of you find that funny.

The unspoken thing settles between you like a third presence on the couch.

It’s a weeknight. That’s the excuse.

Most of your mutual friends are busy, working late or out with other people. You had tentative plans to go out earlier—maybe hit that bar downtown, maybe grab dessert somewhere—but when the time came, you were both somehow too tired, too worn around the edges.

“Your place?” you texted.

“Always,” Mark replied, before he had time to talk himself out of how much he meant it.

Then the rain started.

Now, outside his windows, it streaks down in silver sheets, tapping against the glass and making the city feel smaller, quieter. The world shrinks to the glow of his lamps, the low murmur of the TV, the warmth under the shared blanket.

It feels like being in a cocoon. Like the rest of your life is on pause.

You’re tired. The weight of the day has your body heavy and boneless, your thoughts soft at the edges. At some point, you shift again, pulling your feet from his lap to stretch out along the couch. There’s not enough room for both of you to lie down fully, but that’s never stopped you.

“Move,” you mumble, nudging at his side.

He huffs a laugh. “You move.”

You kick his thigh, no real force behind it. “I’m exhausted, Mark. I’m claiming horizontal rights.”

He rolls his eyes dramatically, but he shifts anyway, twisting so he’s sitting more upright, knees bent to make space. You scoot, rearrange, and somehow you end up with your head sliding into his lap, the side of your face pillowed against his thigh.

You’ve done this before. Late nights. Early mornings. After parties when the room tilted a little too much.

But tonight, it feels different.

His breath stutters when your cheek settles on him, warm and familiar. Your hair fans out over his legs, a few strands tickling his fingers where they hover, uncertain, above you.

You notice the hesitation.

“Comfortable?” you ask without looking up, voice blurred with exhaustion.

Mark wets his lips. “Yeah.” He clears his throat when it comes out rougher than expected. “Yeah, you’re good.”

He lets his hand drop.

His fingers find your hair like they always do. It’s easy, absentminded at first—just smoothing a flyaway here, gently combing through the strands there. Your body relaxes even more, a soft hum of appreciation escaping you.

His fingertips trace the curve where your neck meets your shoulder. It’s innocent. It’s always been innocent. Just touch, just grounding, just comfort.

Tonight, it burns.

He doesn’t know what changed. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.

Conversation drifts the way it often does at this hour.

You talk about work. About that coworker who chews too loudly in meetings. About the neighbor in your building who insists on doing laundry at 2 a.m. You complain about the app that keeps crashing on your phone and the podcast you’re trying to get into but can’t.

Eventually, inevitably, it circles back to the same topic it always does when the night gets late and the rain gets heavy:

Dating.

“Tell me again about your latest Hinge tragedy,” you mumble, eyes half-closed.

Mark snorts. “Tragedy is a strong word.”

“You literally texted me ‘this is a tragedy’ last week.”

“Well, okay, that one was bad,” he concedes. “In my defense, she told me her favorite hobby was waking up at five a.m. to ‘optimize her productivity cadence.’”

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “People like that are why I don’t go outside.”

“Yeah, well, maybe if I had better standards—”

“Your standards are fine,” you cut in. “Your taste is just…questionable.”

He gives your hair a little tug at that. You yelp, swatting vaguely at his knee.

“Ow. Rude.”

“You were rude first,” he says mildly, but there’s a smile in his voice.

You fall quiet for a moment, the air between you thickening with the weight of things unsaid. The show continues to play in the background, a meaningless noise you’re both using as cover.

You speak again, but your tone is different this time—softer, more raw.

“Honestly?” you sigh. “I’m just tired.”

“Tired of what?”

You stare at the television without seeing a single frame. “All of it. Swiping, small talk, pretending to be interesting to people who clearly don’t care. It’s like…no one really sees you, you know? They see whatever they want to project, and then the second you’re a real person with real baggage and weird habits, they’re out.”

His fingers pause in your hair.

You keep going, the words spilling out now that you’ve started.

“I don’t even need some big epic thing,” you murmur. “I just…miss being wanted. Like, really wanted. Not ‘you’re convenient’ or ‘you’re fun for now,’ but—”

You falter, searching for the right words.

“Like someone looks at you and thinks, ‘That. I want that. I want you,’ and they actually mean it.”

Your voice dips, quiet and fragile.

“I just…miss feeling like someone wants me.”

Mark goes very, very still.

His hand rests against your temple, fingers threaded gently in your hair. He stares at the TV without seeing it, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ache.

He wants to say, I do.

I’ve wanted you for so long I don’t remember what it’s like not to.

The words swell in his chest, a pressure that has nowhere to go.

He doesn’t say them.

“Yeah,” he manages instead, his voice low. “I get that.”

You huff a humorless little laugh. “Do you? Because you actually get matches. People want you.”

He glances down at you, at the side of your face pressed against his thigh. “People want…some version of me,” he says. “The easygoing guy. The one who makes decent playlists and shows them new food spots. But that’s not the same as…you know. Wanting someone.”

You swallow. “Yeah. Exactly.”

Silence settles over you again, but it’s not empty.

It’s thick. Charged.

You think about all the almosts you’ve had. The dates that were fine, but not enough. The people who liked your jokes but flinched away from your bad days. The ones who called you “too much” or “not enough,” never pausing to consider you might be exactly right for someone else.

Beside you, Mark thinks about every time he’s swallowed back something he wanted to say around you. Every time he’s stopped himself from reaching out, from pulling you closer, from pressing his mouth to your forehead when you fell asleep on his couch.

He thinks about the night, months ago, when you’d both stumbled back here after a party, laughter bubbling between you, your hand in his. How you’d stopped in his doorway, faces inches apart, your breath warm against his lips.

He remembers the way your gaze dropped to his mouth.

He remembers the way his heart stuttered, the way every cell in his body leaned forward.

He remembers the phone ringing—some drunken friend asking where you were, if you’d gotten home safe—and how the moment snapped like a rubber band.

He remembers pretending that was nothing, too.

The TV is still going, but neither of you is watching.

Your eyes have slipped closed, but you’re not asleep. Just floating in that strange space where your mind is both sharp and soft, more honest than it would be in daylight.

Mark’s touch changes.

It’s subtle at first. His fingers move slower, less like idle habit and more like intention.

He traces the shell of your ear, the curve of your jaw. The pads of his fingers linger at the corner of your mouth, just long enough to make you catch your breath. He drags a thumb lightly along the side of your throat, feeling your pulse skitter under your skin.

Your heart thumps faster.

You don’t open your eyes, but you tilt your head the tiniest bit into the contact. Just enough to say, I feel this. Just enough to say, I’m not pulling away.

He notices.

He’s always noticed you.

“Mark?” you murmur.

“Yeah?” His voice comes out rough.

You hesitate. Your tongue feels heavy in your mouth.

“Do you ever think,” you start, then stop.

He waits.

You swallow. “Do you ever think maybe we’re just…meant to be lonely together? You, me, your terrible Netflix recommendations.”

He huffs a small laugh, but the sound is unsteady. “My Netflix recommendations are elite, actually.”

“Debatable,” you mumble. “But really. Sometimes it feels like…maybe this is it. Maybe it’s just us. And that’s not…bad. It’s actually kind of…nice.”

You don’t see it, but your words hit him like a blow.

You don’t count, you mean.

When you talk about being alone, about not being wanted, about people not choosing you—you don’t mean him.

Because you’ve always had him. You always will.

He’s your constant.

Something in his chest twists, painfully tight and painfully sweet.

“You don’t count,” you add quietly, like you’re reading his mind. “You’re just…you.”

His hand stills in your hair.

You. Like a category of one. Like an exception to every rule.

He exerts every ounce of willpower he has not to say something that would change everything.

“Hey,” you say after a beat, your tone dipping, almost shy. “Can I ask you something kind of…dumb?”

He forces his lungs to work. “You can ask me anything.”

You bite your lip, gathering courage.

“Why do you…put up with me?” you ask softly. “Like, all of this. My late-night freakouts, my rants, my existential crises about snack choices. You always…show up. You always make space for me. Why?”

His throat goes dry.

“Because I care about you,” he says. It’s the simplest, safest truth he can offer.

“You care about a lot of people,” you murmur.

“Not like this,” he says before he can stop himself.

The words hang in the air, heavy.

Your eyes open.

For the first time in a while, you tilt your head back enough to really look up at him. His face is bathed in the dim gold from the lamp, shadows cutting across his cheekbones, his mouth pressed into a thin line like he’s holding something back.

“Mark,” you say quietly.

His gaze flicks down to meet yours, then away, then back again. He swallows hard.

“You know I’d do anything for you, right?” he says, voice low, almost hoarse.

Your breath catches.

He doesn’t quite look at you when he says it. His gaze hovers somewhere over your head, like if he meets your eyes fully, he’ll give himself away.

Your heart is beating too fast now, each thud echoing in your ears.

“Anything?” you ask, half-teasing, half desperately serious.

He lets out a soft, unsteady laugh. “You have no idea,” he says under his breath.

Something in you clicks.

Pieces slide into place—little moments you brushed off or didn’t let yourself examine too closely. The way his hand always finds the small of your back in crowded places. The way his eyes soften when he looks at you, like you’re answering a question he didn’t know he’d asked.

You shift, rolling carefully from your side so you’re half-turned in his lap, your body twisted to face him. The movement brings you closer, your faces a breath apart.

The TV is just noise now. The rain is just a blanket around the city.

Here, in this small, warm pocket of the world, it’s just the two of you.

You can feel his breath on your lips.

His gaze keeps dropping to your mouth, then back to your eyes, like he’s fighting himself. His fingers flex in your hair, the slightest tremor betraying how hard he’s trying to stay in control.

“Mark,” you whisper.

“Yeah?”

“If this is…nothing,” you say slowly, “you’re doing a terrible job pretending.”

His lips part.

He laughs once, a quiet, broken sound. When he speaks, it’s barely more than air.

“You have no idea,” he repeats.

Your chest tightens, nerves lighting up like a live wire.

“Then don’t pretend,” you say.

The words leave your mouth before you can second-guess them.

For a split second, everything stops.

His eyes search yours, frantic, disbelieving, hopeful, scared. Like he’s waiting for you to laugh, to say you’re joking, to snatch the floor out from under him.

You don’t.

You stay right where you are, your hand coming up to rest lightly on his chest. You feel his heart slam against your palm, wild and stuttering.

He inhales sharply.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs.

His hand slides from your hair to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone, touch reverent. He leans in, slow enough to give you every chance to pull away.

“Mark,” you breathe.

“Tell me to stop,” he repeats, voice barely there now, his forehead dipping to rest against yours.

You don’t say stop.

You lift your chin just a fraction instead.

It’s all he needs.

The first brush of his mouth against yours is almost nothing.

A ghost of a kiss. A question.

Your eyes flutter shut. Your fingers curl into his hoodie, knuckles pressing against his chest. He tastes like the soda you shared earlier and something warm and familiar that’s just him.

He pulls back a millimeter, just enough to look at you. Your breaths mingle in the narrow space, your noses almost touching.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You nod, the movement tiny, shaky. “Yeah,” you breathe. “Are you?”

He huffs a silent laugh that trembles. “Not even a little,” he admits. “But I don’t want to stop.”

“Then don’t,” you murmur.

This time, when he kisses you, it’s not quite so timid.

It’s still soft at first—careful, almost reverent. His lips move against yours like he’s memorizing the shape, the texture, the way you breathe out a tiny sound whenever he changes the angle.

Then something gives.

Maybe it’s the way your hand slides up to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair. Maybe it’s the little sigh that escapes you when his thumb strokes a slow line along your jaw. Maybe it’s simply the weight of every moment you’ve both spent wanting this without admitting it.

Whatever it is, the kiss deepens.

It turns urgent. Messy.

Your mouth parts under his, and his response is immediate, like he’s been waiting for years for that one small invitation. His other arm wraps around your waist, hauling you closer, somehow impossibly closer, until you’re half in his lap, the blanket slipping to the floor unnoticed.

You gasp quietly against his lips as your bodies press together, every inch of you alive and humming.

He breaks away just long enough to drag in a sharp breath, his forehead dropping to yours again.

“We’re supposed to be friends,” you whisper.

“We are,” he says, voice rough. “We still are.”

His thumb strokes your cheek, his eyes flicking between yours. “But I’ve…” He swallows hard. “I’ve wanted you for so long. I tried to be okay with just—this. With just being your friend. But every time you walk through that door, I—”

He cuts himself off, like he’s afraid if he keeps talking, he’ll say too much.

Your heart aches in a way that’s both terrifying and perfect.

“How long?” you ask quietly.

He lets out a breathy, humorless laugh. “Long enough that I don’t remember when it started. Long enough that I can tell you exactly how you take your coffee and which movie you put on when you can’t sleep and the exact sound you make when you’re trying not to cry in front of people.”

Your throat tightens.

“If you don’t want this,” he says, his voice suddenly trembling, “if this is just—tonight, or because you’re lonely, or because I’m here—tell me now. Please. I’ll stop. I’ll pretend this never happened. I’ll—”

“Mark.”

You cut him off by leaning in and kissing him again.

The answer is in the way you press your mouth to his, in the way you sigh into him like your body finally found something it didn’t know it was searching for.

He makes a small, helpless sound, his hand tightening at your waist.

The kiss turns slower again, then deeper, then slow again, ebbing and flowing with all the things you’re both too overwhelmed to say.

You don’t remember when your hands slide under his hoodie, palms flattening against the warm skin of his back. You don’t remember when he shifts you fully into his lap, one arm firm around you, the other cradling your face like you’re something precious, breakable, irreplaceable.

Time blurs.

The world narrows to the drag of his lips, the rush of his breath, the way he whispers your name like a promise between kisses.

“I’ve thought about this,” he confesses against your mouth, words punctuated by soft, breathless kisses. “Every time you’re here, I—”

“Yeah?” you murmur, your forehead resting against his, your fingers curling in the fabric at his shoulders.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he says, voice low and raw.

Heat flares in your chest, in your cheeks, everywhere.

You don’t need the details. You don’t need the graphic edges. The intensity in his voice, the way his hands tremble slightly where they hold you, tells you everything.

His care is threaded through every movement.

“Is this okay?” he asks when his lips wander to your jaw, your throat. He presses slow, lingering kisses there, each one a question as much as a declaration.

“Yeah,” you whisper, your head tipping back in silent invitation. “More than okay.”

He exhales shakily, relief and want tangling together.

“Tell me if anything’s too much,” he murmurs. “If you want to slow down—”

“Mark,” you say softly, pulling back just enough to look at him.

His eyes search your face, pupils blown wide, vulnerability stark and open.

“I trust you,” you say simply.

Something in his expression crumples, then rebuilds itself into something even more tender.

“Okay,” he breathes. “Okay.”

The night stretches out.

Everything stays close, intimate. The couch. The low lamplight. Your bodies pressed together like you’re both afraid the other might vanish if you let any space open up between you.

His touch is reverent. Patient. Like every inch of you is something he’s been waiting a long time to trace, to memorize.

Your kisses break again and again—because you’re laughing softly against his mouth at some half-whispered joke, because you’re both breathing too hard, because he keeps pulling back to check your eyes, to make sure you’re still there with him.

You are.

You’re more here than you’ve been in a long time.

At some point, the couch becomes too small, too cramped. You don’t remember who suggests moving, or if it’s just a wordless agreement when he stands and you cling, your legs wrapped around his waist, his arms secure beneath you.

The bedroom is dim, the citylight leaking in through the curtains painting soft stripes across the bed he drops you on. 

The feeling of Mark’s mouth, hot and wet on your skin, leaves your mind unravelling in spirals. You feel light, delicate and sensitive, unsure of the journey your bodies will take as they get lost in exploration of one another, but you’re eager and curious. 

Almost effortlessly, his hoodie gets lifted off your body, leaving you bare and exposed. Under the scrutiny of his eyes, you feel shy, aware that he’s taking in a sight of you that’s never been revealed to him before. 

A breath catches in your throat when his mouth connects with your chest. His tongue moves over your skin in a slow and controlled trail, wanting to savor every inch of you. He’s squeezing your waist, jaw fighting against biting down on your breasts. Your back curves instinctively, your body giving into him completely. You feel drunk on the warmth that courses through your nerves, all in response to him. 

He moves lower, bringing a familiar pulse alive between your legs. The only thought circling your mind is that you want him like you’ve never wanted anything more. An almost greedy groan escapes him when your fingers meet his by the waistband of your sweats, helping him push them off and away. 

His name is but a whisper on your tongue as his mouth finds the sweetest spot of you. Your brows furrow, the ache he had spurred within you dissipating the second he covets your taste. Wetness rushes through you, and he drinks it all up. 

You tug on his hair as he makes you cry out for him. Somewhere in your daze, your eyes meet, telling him everything he needs to know. His fingers replace his mouth while he sits up, the tent in his pants a hint at what’s to come next. 

Like any distance at all is unbearable, you reach for him, and he’s right there, fitting his mouth over yours once again. You can taste yourself on his tongue, a sensation that’s foreign yet so inviting. Under your palm, his jaw feels strong. His ears are hot to the touch, his entire body buzzing with a fervent energy that matches yours. 

He spreads your legs and dips his hips to meet yours, his pants bunched carelessly by his knees, too impatient to take them off completely. His cock is heavy and throbbing against your cunt as he rubs between your folds. Then, finally, he pushes himself inside you.

Lips parted, shared gasps, eyes shut, the sensation makes you crumble underneath him. Gripping your waist in place, he buries his face in your neck, jerking his hips forward. Quiet curses fill your ear as he begins thrusting into you, his movements precise and deliberate. 

You throw your head back, calling his name to give you more.

Everything that follows is slow and careful, threaded with breathy laughter and whispered names and the constant hum of, Is this okay? Are you okay? and your steady, gasped yes, yes, I’m okay, I’m with you.

It doesn’t feel filthy. It doesn’t feel wrong.

It feels like finally.

Like coming home to a place you didn’t know you’d been walking toward the entire time.

He flips you around, taking the time to completely undress himself now. Breathless, you wait for him, watching his every move from over your shoulder. His hand slips around you, holding you as close as he can as he enters you once more, pressing himself deep against the curve of your ass. 

You reach for his cheek as his mouth splays wet kisses all over your shoulder. The intimacy of it all, the way he’s so gentle and passionate, it drives you crazy. He’s giving you so much and yet, you can’t get enough of it. 

And neither can he. 

The sudden rouse of his hips tells you all you need to know, and you’re there with him. 

He lifts himself just slightly, skin slapping against yours in desperate vigor. Your moans spur him on, guiding him to the peak of ecstasy. He pulls out of you on instinct, fingers quick to wrap around his pulsing member as he releases onto your back, whining weakly. 

Then, without missing a beat, he raises your hips in the air and pulls your body back to his mouth, tongue circling your clit until you’re squirming in a way that confirms the knot of pleasure that’s been tightening within you has finally snapped. 

When he rises, you fall back into the mattress, the weight of your body finally registering in your mind. You feel him shift off the bed, only to be back moments later with a warm towel in tow, cleaning the traces of himself off of you.           

You turn around lazily, breaking into a breathless grin when your eyes meet his. His gaze is full of endearment, his skin flushed, chest rising and falling stiffly. 

“Mark…”

“Yeah?”

The words feel zealous coming from you, “That was perfect.”

He trades you a laugh in his usual embarrassed but agreeable way, handing you his hoodie that had fallen to the floor somewhere in all the chaos. You slip it on, carefully observing as he clothes himself partially and returns to your embrace.

The world eventually knits itself back together.

The rain has gentled to a soft patter outside. The sounds of the city have dulled to a distant murmur. The TV in the living room is still on, long forgotten, casting mute light across an empty couch and a discarded blanket.

In Mark’s bed, you lie tangled in the sheets, skin warm and a little damp, breaths slowly steadying.

For a while, neither of you speaks.

You’re on your side, facing him. The room is dim, but there’s enough light to see the details—the way his hair is mussed, the flush still lingering on his cheeks, the softness around his eyes.

You share a pillow, noses almost brushing.

He looks…young, suddenly. Unshielded. Like the Mark you see when he’s half-asleep on lazy weekend mornings, not the Mark the rest of the world gets.

His hand finds your waist under the sheet, fingers spreading over your skin with an unconscious possessiveness that makes your chest ache.

You let your own hand settle over his, threading your fingers between his.

He exhales, a small, disbelieving sound.

“You okay?” you ask quietly, echoing his earlier question.

He smiles, crooked and a little dazed. “Yeah,” he says. “Just…trying to wrap my head around the fact that this is real and not something I made up in my head at three a.m.”

Your heart stutters.

“How many three a.m.s have you spent thinking about this?” you ask gently.

He hums, pretending to consider. “Enough that if I told you the number, you’d bully me forever.”

You snort softly. “Rude of you to assume I’m not already going to bully you forever.”

His smile widens, the tension in his shoulders easing further.

“Yeah,” he says. “I guess I can live with that.”

He shifts closer, if that’s even possible, his forehead pressing to yours. You can feel the steady beat of his heart where your chests touch, solid and reassuring.

A quiet settles over you again, but it’s different now.

Not tense. Not filled with sharp, unspoken almosts.

It’s soft. Heavy with warmth.

“I don’t know what this means,” you admit after a while, voice barely above a whisper. “Like…for us. For everything. I don’t want to mess this up. I don’t want to lose you.”

His hand tightens around yours.

“You’re not going to lose me,” he says immediately, fiercely. “Hey. Look at me.”

You do.

His gaze is steady, even in the dim light.

“We’ll figure it out tomorrow,” he says, echoing the thought that’s been hovering in the back of your own mind.

There’s something about the way he says we—like it’s a promise. Like it’s a given.

“Tomorrow?” you murmur.

“Yeah,” he says. “We can…talk. Decide what we want this to be. Or try to, anyway. I’m probably going to be an idiot about it and you’re going to make fun of me and it’ll be a whole thing.”

You huff a soft laugh against his mouth. “Probably.”

“But…” He trails his thumb along the back of your hand. “You’re here. I’m here. You’re wearing my hoodie in my bed, and I can feel your heartbeat under my hand, and I’m not…imagining this.”

He lifts your joined hands to his lips and presses a slow kiss to your knuckles.

“For tonight,” he says quietly, “can it just be this? You and me? No labels, no panic. Just…this.”

You feel your eyes sting.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Yeah, I want that.”

His shoulders drop, some final thread of anxiety unwinding.

“Okay,” he says again, more to himself this time.

He moves in closer, tucking you against his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world. One arm wraps around your waist, firm but gentle, hand resting at your hip. The other slips under the pillow, his fingers brushing your neck.

He holds you like he has no intention of letting go.

He doesn’t realize he’s doing it until you make a small, pleased sound and burrow in even further.

“Comfortable?” he asks, voice already going soft with impending sleep.

“Yes,” you mumble into his skin. “You’re warm.”

“So are you,” he replies, pressing a lazy kiss into your hair.

You feel him shift again a few minutes later. He slips away just long enough to grab a bottle of water from his nightstand and offers it to you.

“Here,” he says. “Drink.”

You take a few sips, hand trembling with leftover adrenaline and something like wonder. He watches you with that same soft, aching look in his eyes, like you’re something he’s not quite sure he deserves but can’t stop reaching for.

When you’re done, he sets the bottle aside and wipes a thumb gently under your eye, even though there’s nothing there.

“You’re staring,” you murmur.

“Yeah,” he says, unbothered. “I know.”

You smile, small and full.

Minutes pass.

Your breaths start to sync up. The city outside keeps moving—cars passing, lights flickering, people living entire lives beyond these walls.

Inside, the world has shrunk down to the warmth of his chest under your cheek, the slow circles his thumb rubs against your hip, the steady beat of his heart.

You’re almost asleep when you feel his lips brush your temple.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers into your hair, so quiet you might have missed it if you weren’t pressed right against him.

You don’t know if he means tonight or tomorrow or every day after.

You decide to believe it’s all of them.

Your last coherent thought before sleep pulls you under is that for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like an almost.

You feel wanted.

Chosen.

Held.

The city lights leak in through the curtains, painting you both in soft silver. Outside, the world keeps humming. Inside, in the small, warm space of Mark’s apartment, you lie tangled together, his arms around you like he’s afraid you might disappear if he loosens his grip.

Tomorrow will come. Questions, complications, conversations.

But tonight, there is only this:

You. Mark. The quiet between you, no longer empty but full.

One day.  

No warning.  

You're in the middle of conversation, half-distracted, elbow-deep in a crinkly paper bag of fries, when you say it.

“Wait, can you pass me that? Thanks, baby.”

Just like that. Casual. Offhanded. As if you didn’t just drop a nuclear bomb onto his entire existence.

Silence.

You don’t even register it. Just keep rustling through your food, completely unaware of the spiritual event you’ve triggered behind you.

Mark freezes.

Hand halfway extended, holding the takeout container like it’s sacred scripture.

His whole body stills. Eyes wide. Jaw slack.

Soul... buffering.

“...What,” he breathes. “What did you just call me?”

You glance over your shoulder, chewing.

“Huh?”

He blinks. Slowly. Like he’s trying to reboot.

“You said—”

His voice cracks. “You said baby.”’

You shrug, lips full of noodles.

“Oh. Did I?”

“Did I??” he echoes, horrified. “Do you even understand what you’ve done?!”

You pop a spring roll into your mouth, already focused on unsealing the dipping sauce.

“Relax, Mark. It just slipped out.”

And that’s when he absolutely short-circuits.

“SLIPPED OUT?!”

He clutches his chest like he’s been mortally wounded. Slumps against the back of the chair with the drama of a soap opera lead.

“I need to sit down—wait, I am sitting. Then why do I feel like I’m gonna faint?”

You snort into your drink, nearly choking on a sip of iced tea.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m writing this down,” he rambles, hand now scrabbling blindly for his phone. “I’m journaling this. This is the highlight of my fucking life. Our future kids are hearing this story.”

“Mark. You’re crying.”

“I’M NOT—crying—I’m just—emotionally compromised.”

You shake your head, grinning into your food like an idiot, while across from you Mark stares at the ceiling in silent, reverent awe. Like he’s just heard the voice of God.

Later that night, you’re sprawled on the couch, stomach full, brain slow. Wrapped in post-dinner haze and the sound of the TV droning low in the background. One leg draped over the armrest, your hand resting lazily on your belly like a satisfied cat.

Mark’s on the other end, curled into himself, hoodie wrinkled, sleeves shoved up to his elbows as he wages war with a stubborn snack bag. His tongue pokes out in concentration, brows furrowed, completely unaware that you’re watching him like he’s the most endearing thing you’ve ever seen.

You pass behind the couch to grab your drink, then pause —

just long enough to lean down, press a soft kiss to the crown of his head, and murmur:

“Thanks, baby.”

You don’t even look back. Just grab your drink like it’s nothing.

But behind you—something shifts.

You make it three steps before it hits you.

Mark hasn’t moved.

You glance back.

He’s frozen. Snack bag in hand, half-open, arms slack. He’s staring ahead, not blinking—like someone just whispered the secrets of the universe in his ear and he’s trying to process them.

“…Mark?”

He turns to look at you, slow and awestruck. Like you just performed a miracle in front of him.

“You just—” He swallows hard. “You said it again.”

You tilt your head, one brow lifting.

“Said what?”

He gasps. Full gasp.

“Said what?! Don’t play dumb. You know exactly what you said.”

You rest your elbows against the back of the couch, watching him with a smirk that’s far too satisfied.

“You mean baby?”

Mark doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. The TV hums in the background. Somewhere outside, a car drives by.

Then it hits him. Again.

The snack bag falls from his hand with a soft crinkle. He recoils, clutching his chest like he’s trying to physically contain his heart.

“I’m sweating,” he mutters, fanning himself. “Do you feel that? That’s my soul leaving my body. You just—casually—called me baby like it was nothing. Like you didn’t just rewrite my entire DNA.”

You laugh so hard your knees buckle. You have to grab the couch just to stay upright.

“No, because what do I do now?!” he groans, sliding dramatically down into the cushions. “Do I sit normally? Offer you a ring? Should I faint? Do people faint romantically anymore?!”

“Mark—”

“I’m spiraling,” he moans, draping his arm over his face like he’s in the final scene of a tragic play. “You said it so casually. That was so unfair.”

You circle around to the front of the couch and settle yourself into his lap, straddling him like it’s second nature. He stiffens beneath you, lips parting slightly—like your weight on him just activated some buried instinct.

You tilt your head, playful. “If I said it again… would you survive?”

“Absolutely not.”

You lean in, close enough to feel his breath catch, your mouth brushing the shell of his ear.

“Thanks, baby.”

Mark’s brain stopped working.

His body locks up. Shoulders tense. Jaw slack. You swear you can hear his heartbeat from across the room.

His hands grips your waist, hard and instinctive, like he’s afraid the moment will vanish if he doesn’t hold onto it. His head drops back with a soft, helpless whimper — the kind he’d deny with every breath in his body later, but can’t suppress now.

“I’m not okay,” he breathes, eyes fluttering shut. “You’ve ruined me. Say it again.”

You’re still laughing, shoulders shaking, when his hand comes up and gently wraps around your wrist, pulling you closer— not rough, not demanding, just desperate.

Like he doesn’t even know what he’s doing. Like he just needs to feel you to know this is real.

“Say it again,” he pants, pupils blown wide. “I need to know it wasn’t an accident.”

You shrug, smirk curling at your lips. “It was an accident.”

“Liar,” he whispers.

His arms wrap around you tight, locking you in place. “You said it like you meant it.”

You pause. The laugh dies in your throat. Because something about the way he says it—quiet. steady. awestruck—makes your pulse stutter.

You drop your eyes to his lips. Your fingers are on his chest now, feeling the rapid thrum of his heart under your palm.

“You like it when I call you that, baby?”

His breath shudders. His grip on your waist tightens— like he can barely hold himself back.

You see the shift in his eyes. The air between you shifts—turns weighty, electric. Mark leans in, just enough that his nose brushes yours. He breathes you in.

The room suddenly feels warmer, your clothes feel suffocating.  

“Don’t say that,” he warns, voice rough. “Unless you want me to lose control.”

You grin, tilting your hips against his.  

“Maybe I do want you to lose control.”

That undoes him.

He grips your thighs, hard, and flips you underneath him in one swift, desperate motion. Your back hits the cushions with a soft thump, stealing your breath before you can even think.  

His body hovers above yours, warm and tense and trembling.

He moves before he even thinks—

No more softness. No teasing.  

His mouth crashes into yours like he needs to consume you— tongue licking into your mouth like he needs to taste the word baby right off your tongue.

His hands are already under your shirt, sliding up your stomach, dragging the fabric with them.

He groans into your mouth when he feels your bare skin— feels you tremble.

His lips leave yours, trailing down your jaw to the curve of your neck to your collarbone.

“You don’t get to say that and act innocent,” he growls, nipping at your skin.

His fingers slide down, skimming just above the waistband of your shorts— not quite dipping beneath, just teasing the edge.

“You’re fucking soaked through your shorts and I haven’t even touched you.”

You gasp, hips jerking.

“Want me to behave?” he hisses. “When you’re like this?”

You whimper.

He pulls back just enough to look at you—his hair falling into his eyes, lips flushed, chest rising and falling like he just ran a mile.

“You trust me?” he asks again, but this time it’s a whisper against your lips.

His fingers pause at the waistband of your shorts.

You nod, breathless. “Yes.”

You shift against him, guiding his hand lower. “I want this.”

He shoves your shorts down with one rough tug— underwear too— not even bothering to fully take them off.

He slides his hand between your legs, fingers slipping through your folds, achingly slow.

He groans the second he feels it.

“Jesus fuck,” he breathes.

His eyes flick up to yours, hazy and dazed.

“You’re dripping. Did that word really get you this wet, baby?”

You can’t answer. Can’t even think.

Your head drops back, and your hips lift instinctively into his hand.

He doesn’t rush.

He takes his time with you— running his fingers along your slit, collecting your slick and dragging it up in slow, lazy circles around your clit.

You jolt beneath him, letting out a broken noise. Somewhere between a gasp and a whimper.

“Greedy already?” he murmurs, voice hot against your skin. “Thought you didn’t do pet names.”

“Mark—fuck—please—”

“Oh, please now?” he teases. “Begging so sweet already. What if I make you say it again?”

He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Say it.”

You gasp.

“Baby.”

He groans—deep and guttural—like he’s unraveling from the inside out.

Then he sinks one finger into you.

Your back arches. Your walls clench instantly, the stretch rips a cry from your lips, and he watches—entranced.

His eyes are dark, locked on the way your body opens up for him, your mouth parting, breath stuttering.

“Yeah, that’s right,” he murmurs, his mouth brushing your pulse. “Say it when I’m inside you.”  

He starts to move—slow thrusts, deep and rhythmic. Each push of his finger drags a little moan out of you.

He curls his finger just right—presses deep and up—

and you gasp, hands scramble at his hoodie, digging into the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

His second finger slides in beside the first. He drags his fingers just right, slow and deliberate, making your stomach clench. His palm grinds against your clit every time he thrusts.

The wet sounds of your pussy echo with every stroke.  

“You hear that?” he growls. “You’re so wet I can fucking hear it, baby. That’s all you. All for me.”  

You cry out, hips lifting to grind into his hand.  

Mark’s eyes are wild. Possessive.  

He watches you like you’re unraveling just for him— like your pleasure is the only thing that exists.  

“Mark—oh my god—don’t stop—”  

He doesn’t. His fingers move faster now, smoother. Purposeful. Pressing again at that spot.

Your thighs tremble. Your breath comes in shallow gasps. Every nerve feels tight, like a bowstring ready to snap.

He laughs, low and breathless, and kisses your neck, open-mouthed and hungry. 

“Gonna cum on my fingers?” he breathes, curling them again. Dragging his palm over your clit in steady circles as his fingers fuck you deep. “Gonna fall apart just from my hand?”

You can’t answer. You’re too close. Too far gone.

“Say it again,” he breathes, lips brushing your jaw. “Let me hear it.”

“Baby—fuck, I’m—”  

He groans, deep and broken, like it cracked something open inside him.

He’s gone. No hesitation. No holding back—just raw, hungry need as his fingers move faster.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Just like that—baby, fuck—cum for me— let me feel it.”

Your breath catches.

One more stroke like and—

You break.

The orgasm hits so hard it steals the breath from your lungs. Your whole body jolts—back arching, legs locking around his hand. A cry rips from your throat, loud and raw.

Your walls pulse around his fingers as he fucks you through it, stroking you with deep, steady thrusts—like he wants to memorize every twitch, every moan.

“Holy fuck,” he whispers.

“That’s so fucking hot—baby, fuck,” he moans, like he feels it in his soul.  

He doesn’t stop until your hips twitch and you go soft beneath him, whimpering from the sensitivity.

Then he slows, easing out of you with soaked fingers, his eyes drinking you in like he’s never seen anything more divine.  

He sits back on his knees, eyes raking over you like he can’t believe what just happened. You’re a mess—hair damp, skin flushed, eyes glassy. Your chest rises and falls in shallow, shaky breaths — like your body’s still chasing the echo of his touch.

Mark exhales hard, staring at his wet fingers, trembling slightly — Then at you. Then—

without a word he brings his fingers to his mouth and licks them clean

One by one. Slow. Obscene. Eyes never leaving yours.

You make a sound you didn’t know you were capable of, and he smirks.

He leans in, presses a kiss to your temple.

Then one to your cheek.  

Then your lips—soft now, careful.  

“You have no idea what you just did to me,” he breathes.  

You smile, dazed and wrecked. “You’re dramatic.”  

He shakes his head slowly, eyes locked on yours.  

“No. I’m obsessed.”

You groan, hiding your face in his hoodie. He laughs, warm and breathless, as he leans down and presses a kiss to the crown of your head.

He lowers himself beside you on the couch, pulling you into his chest like something precious. Like he’s afraid if he lets go, this whole night will vanish into smoke.

The silence between you now isn’t awkward. It’s heavy in a good way. Thick with something neither of you wants to say out loud yet. So instead, he just holds you.

For a long moment, the only sound is the soft thrum of the TV. Your breathing syncs with his.

Then — quietly, tentatively — he speaks again.

“Baby,” he says again, like a prayer. Like a confession. “I’m gonna make you say that every time I touch you.”  

You bury your face in his neck, body still tingling.  

“You broke me. I’m changed. That word will haunt me—in the best way,” he says, grinning.  

You curl into his chest, breath syncing with his, safe in the warmth of his arms. Your fingers trace idle circles over his chest, hidden beneath the cotton of his hoodie. Slow and aimless. He holds you tighter and breathes you in, like he doesn’t want to let go.

“Say it again,” he whispers into your hair.

You blink. Look up.

“Not for sex,” he murmurs. “Not to mess with me. Just… say it.”

He looks at you like he’s holding his breath. Like he’s asking for a secret. A promise.

You lift your hand to his face, fingers brushing his jaw, gentle. He turns into your touch instinctively.

And you say it.

Soft. Sure. No teasing this time.

“I love you, baby.”  

Mark exhales — a sound that’s almost a laugh, almost a sob. Like relief, like peace.  

Like he can’t believe you’re real.  

Like you just gave him the world with one small word—

The one word he thought he’d never hear.

you had always been the image of virtue. ever since you were little, your life had revolved around the church—every sunday service, every youth retreat, every choir practice and prayer circle. your mother made sure you were dressed modestly, always with your bible tucked in your bag and your heart turned toward god. everyone in town knew your name, whispered it in admiration—such a good girl, they said. so devoted. so pure.

and mark lee... well, he was supposed to be the same. the pastor's son, golden and clean, always sitting in the front pew with his father’s bible open on his lap, eyes closed in pretend prayer. he smiled with soft dimples and spoke in warm, respectful tones that made your mother adore him instantly. she liked to say god had placed him in your path for a reason. and maybe that was true. maybe god had placed him there—to test you.

you hadn’t meant for anything to happen. it started so small, just conversations after service, long looks shared across the chapel, the brush of fingers when you passed him a hymnal. he was gentle at first, careful not to cross a line, but each moment alone with him felt like gravity pulling you closer. and when he kissed you the first time—behind the fellowship hall after bible study—you felt like the world stopped. his lips were warm and soft and sinful.

when you first started sneaking around with mark, things were softer. more innocent. you’d meet behind the church after evening mass, hiding between the tall hedges where no one could see you. he’d press gentle kisses to your lips, hold your hand tightly, whisper sweet nothings against your ear as if you were the most precious thing in the world.

he never rushed you—not at first. he’d just touch you over your clothes, his hands resting respectfully on your waist, sliding up under your blouse only when you let him. and each time you let him go a little further, his praise would melt you. you’re so good for me, baby. so sweet. so perfect.

the first time he touched you under your skirt, you thought your heart would stop. his fingers were warm, slow, exploring the damp heat between your thighs through your panties while he kissed your neck. you were shaking the whole time, clutching his shoulders like a lifeline as he whispered filth in your ear in that low, reverent voice of his.

god made this body just for me, didn’t he? you were meant to be mine.

the day you got on your knees for him was the day something shifted between you.

it was in the church parking lot, late at night, both of you hidden behind the youth ministry van. you’d been making out for too long, your thighs pressed together from the ache building inside you. his cock was hard against his jeans, and when he asked do you wanna try something new, baby?, you nodded without thinking.

he guided your hands to his zipper, helped you pull him out—long, thick, flushed at the tip. your breath caught when you saw it, your mouth already watering.

“just lick it for me,” he said softly, brushing your hair behind your ears. “just a little. just the tip.”

but it wasn’t just a little. not when you saw how much he wanted it, how his jaw clenched and his hands trembled when your lips wrapped around the head of his cock. you took him deeper, his praises growing filthier with every inch you swallowed. the taste of him was salt and skin, musky and intimate, and you moaned around him without meaning to.

he came down your throat that night, holding your head with both hands, whispering you’re so fucking perfect while you swallowed every drop. and afterward, he kissed you so gently you almost cried.

but still—you never let him go all the way.

you’d told him you were saving yourself for your husband. that you’d only give yourself completely after standing before god, in white, with a ring on your finger.

mark didn’t push. not exactly. but his hands got more confident, his touches more persuasive. and every time he left you trembling, wet, begging quietly into his mouth—he’d whisper:

“god will forgive you. he made you to want me”

now you were here, months later, hidden away in the church’s back room. it was where the choir robes were stored, a little room behind the altar with old wooden shelves and a dusty piano no one used anymore. you weren’t supposed to be here, not alone with a boy, not with him. but your hands were already shaking as he kissed down your neck, one of his palms pressed to the small of your back, keeping you pinned to the edge of the table.

“you’re so beautiful,” he whispered, lips brushing against your ear, “so perfect, baby. you know how crazy you make me?”

you whimpered, fingers curling in the sleeves of his shirt. “mark... we shouldn’t. not here... not like this.”

his hands slid lower, gripping your hips. “why not? no one’s gonna find us. besides... god will forgive us. he always forgives. he sees love in our hearts. don’t you love me?”

you bit your lip, your whole body trembling with guilt and want. “i do... but i want to wait until we’re married. i want to give myself to my husband. i want god to bless it.”

his eyes darkened, not with anger but with something deeper—desire. temptation. “then marry me. i swear i will. you’re the only girl i want. but i want you now... please. just let me have a little more.”

“mark, i can’t...” your voice cracked, shame pooling in your chest. “it’s a sin.”

“he’ll cleanse us,” he whispered, kissing along your jaw, “he knows your heart. you’re doing this out of love. and he knows you’re still pure... if we don’t—if i don’t take you like that.”

you blinked at him, confused. “like what?”

he leaned in, his lips ghosting over yours. “i’ll still leave your virginity intact,” he murmured, hand slipping down between your thighs, pressing over your clothes, “you’ll still be untouched. we won’t do it the usual way. i’ll just take you here—” he kissed your cheek, “from behind.”

your breath caught.

“it won’t count,” he whispered, voice sweet like a prayer, “you’ll still be a virgin. still god’s perfect girl.”

you hesitated. the weight of every sermon you’d ever heard sat heavy on your shoulders. but his hands were on your body, and his mouth was on your throat, and your skin was burning. and deep down, there was something dark inside you that wanted it. something that pulsed every time he touched you, something that made your knees weak and your mind hazy.

“promise me,” you whispered, voice barely audible. “promise me you’ll marry me.”

he pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. “i promise. i’ll take you to the altar myself.”

and that was all it took.

your heart was pounding in your chest as he turned you around gently, his hands never leaving your body. the room was dim, lit only by the soft amber light that spilled through the stained glass near the door. you could hear your own breathing, shallow and fast, as mark guided you to lean over the wooden table. the old surface creaked under your weight, the air cool against your thighs as he slowly lifted the hem of your white sunday dress.

“look at you,” he murmured, voice husky now, more raw, more real. “so innocent. so ready to sin for me.”

his fingers trailed up the back of your thighs, calloused and warm, until he reached the soft curve of your ass. your panties were white, lace-trimmed—modest, sweet, something your mother had bought for you. but they were soaked through, and mark saw it right away.

“jesus,” he breathed, a smirk forming on his lips. “you’re dripping already, baby.”

you whimpered as he tugged them down, the delicate fabric catching around your knees before sliding all the way to your ankles. your cheeks burned with shame and arousal, both twisting deep in your belly as you felt the cool air kiss your now-bare skin.

“bend down for me,” he whispered, pressing between your shoulders until you were fully bent over the table, your elbows resting on the worn wood, your ass presented to him like an offering.

you felt him drop to his knees behind you, felt his hands spread you open, exposing every trembling inch. he kissed along the inside of your thighs, soft and slow, his tongue flicking dangerously close to where you ached. you gasped when you felt him spit between your cheeks, fingers guiding the wetness to your tight entrance.

“it’ll hurt a little,” he murmured, voice lower now, more dangerous. “but you can take it. you’re a good girl, right? you want to make me feel good?”

you nodded, your eyes closing, your hands gripping the edge of the table so hard your knuckles went white. “yes… i want to be good.”

“then stay just like that for me.”

he stood again, one hand gripping your waist as you heard the rustle of his belt, the soft clink of the buckle as he undid his pants. then his cock was pressing against you, thick and hot, the head teasing at your tightest spot.

you tensed.

“nghh—ahhh, too much—!”

“shh,” he said softly, kissing your shoulder. “relax for me, baby. let me in.”

he pushed slowly at first, and your breath caught in your throat as the stretch began—hot and burning, unfamiliar and intense. tears pricked the corners of your eyes, and you whimpered, body trembling as he pushed further, inch by inch.

“m-mark—! it hurts—”

“shh, quiet, baby. you don’t want anyone hearing how much of a filthy little thing you are, do you?” once he was buried inside, he paused, letting you adjust, his fingers caressing your hips, your waist, whispering soft praises against your ear.

you could barely breathe as you felt every inch of him inside you, thick and pulsing, stretching you open in a way that made your entire body tense. your hands gripped the edge of the table so tightly that your wrists ached, your forehead pressed against the wood as your mouth hung open, panting through the pressure, through the sting. his hands were firm on your hips, thumbs digging into your skin as he stayed buried inside you, letting you feel the full weight of what you’d just done.

“fuck,” he whispered, voice reverent, almost in awe. “you’re squeezing me so tight. you feel like fucking heaven.”

you whimpered, a mix of pain and pleasure blooming in your belly like a wildfire. his hips rolled just slightly, testing how much you could take, and the slow friction made your knees shake. it wasn’t like anything you’d imagined. it wasn’t sweet or soft—it was raw and thick and full. your body fought to accommodate him, fluttering around the intrusion as he began to move in earnest.

“this is what you wanted. i’m just giving you what that virgin pussy of yours was too scared to handle.”

“mmph—! nghh—ahh—!”

“what was that? you like being stuffed full of my cock? like being my dirty little church whore?”

each thrust came a little deeper, a little harder, his pace increasing as the tightness began to melt into something warmer, wetter. you bit down on your lip, trying to stay quiet, but the sounds spilling from you betrayed how good it started to feel. shame pooled hot in your stomach, because it wasn’t supposed to feel like this. you weren’t supposed to like it.

“look at you,” he groaned, slamming into you harder now, one hand sliding up your back to grab a fistful of your hair. “moaning like a little slut while i fuck your virgin ass. does it feel good, baby? you gonna come for me like this?”

your mouth opened in a raw scream, half agony, half ecstasy, unable to hold back the flood of sound escaping you.

“oh my god, oh my god, it’s stretching me too much—!”

“jesus, you’re so fucking loud—shut up, baby, shut up.” he shoved your face down against the table, hand over your mouth again, his hips snapping harder.

“if anyone hears you, they’ll know how desperate you are to get fucked like this.”

you cried out as he pulled your head back, forcing your spine into a deep arch, making you feel every brutal thrust more sharply. the pain burned, yes, but under it was something more intense—your body trembling as a deep heat began to coil between your legs. your thighs were slick, your clit aching from how empty it felt, untouched but throbbing.

his balls slapped against you with each thrust, obscene sounds echoing in the small, sacred space of the church storage room. the smell of sweat and sex filled the air, mixing with the faint trace of incense that lingered on the choir robes stacked beside you. it was filthy. wrong. holy.

he let go of your hair and reached between your thighs, fingers finding your clit without hesitation. you sobbed as he rubbed fast, circles tight and relentless, and your hips started to jerk back against him on instinct, chasing something you didn’t fully understand.

“you’re gonna come,” he grunted, almost laughing, breath hot against your ear. “you’re gonna come like this, with my cock in your ass, right here in god’s house. fuck, baby... you’re perfect.”

“m-mark—i… i feel like i’m gonna pee—”

your vision blurred as your body locked up, tension snapping all at once in a flash of heat and shame and unbearable pleasure. your orgasm ripped through you like lightning, a violent gush exploding between your legs, spraying down your thighs and onto the floor with a loud, wet sound that shocked even you.

“jesus fucking christ—” he gasped, faltering for the first time as your body clenched around him like a vice, milking him deeper.

mark’s hips stuttered the moment he felt the rush of wetness pour out of you, his breath catching in his throat like he couldn’t believe what just happened. your body was shaking beneath him, trembling and spasming uncontrollably as your release coated your thighs, dripping messily down onto the floor. he pulled back just slightly to look, to see the way you squirted for him, your slick glistening under the dim church light.

“fuck, baby…” he groaned, sounding half-wrecked, half-awestruck. “you just—fuck—i made you do that?”

he grabbed your hips tighter, almost possessively, and slammed back into you, still deep in the grip of his own rising climax. your body was so sensitive now, every thrust making you jolt forward, your muscles twitching from the overstimulation. but he didn’t stop—not yet. he was chasing something now, something hot and desperate.

“you came so fucking hard,” he growled against your neck, his thrusts getting sloppier, deeper. “your little virgin body just squirted all over my cock… and you were so scared of sinning.”

you moaned weakly, your voice raw and broken, drool slipping from your lips as your cheek pressed flat against the table. your body felt like it was floating, skin hot and damp with sweat, your hole still stretched tight around him, sucking him in greedily every time he pulled back.

“mine,” he whispered like a prayer, fucking into you with final, brutal thrusts. “you’re mine. god can’t have you anymore. you belong to me.”

and then he came.

with a deep, guttural moan, mark buried himself inside you one last time and spilled everything into your ass—hot and thick, ropes of cum filling you until you could feel it dripping back out around his cock. his hips jerked as he emptied himself, one hand sliding up to hold your waist while the other rubbed your lower back in shaky, soothing circles.

he stayed inside you for a moment, breathing hard, chest rising and falling against your back, sweat clinging to both your skins. the room was quiet except for the sound of your combined breaths and the faint ticking of an old wall clock above the door.

you blinked slowly, still dazed, still trembling. and for a brief second, you felt completely hollow and completely full at the same time—ruined, marked, and claimed.

he pulled out slowly, and you whimpered at the emptiness, at the sticky warmth leaking down the back of your thighs. your body sagged against the table, weak and used, your legs barely holding you up. you could feel his release slipping from your hole, thick and hot, a constant reminder of what you’d let him do—what you’d begged him to do.

“stay still,” he murmured softly, voice gentler now, almost sweet. he reached for a folded choir robe from the shelf beside him, one of the ones no one ever used, and knelt behind you again. with quiet, careful hands, he cleaned the mess dripping down your thighs, the backs of your knees, and finally between your cheeks. he wiped away the cum from your entrance, his touch slow and reverent, like he was cleaning something sacred.

you flinched slightly, still too sensitive, and he pressed a kiss to your lower back. “i’ve got you,” he whispered. “you were perfect for me.”

when he was done, he helped you step back into your panties, tugging them up gently over your sore, sticky skin. he straightened your dress, smoothing out the wrinkles like he was tucking you back into your illusion of purity. then he kissed your cheek, your temple, your lips—slow and soft and careful, like he hadn’t just broken something inside you.

you both stood in silence for a moment, breathing slowly, the air still thick with the scent of sin and sweat.

and then he reached for his bible.

he tucked it under one arm and held out his other hand to you. you took it, fingers lacing with his, still trembling slightly. and together, you walked out of that little storage room, out into the bright white hallway of the church.

the front doors were open. sunlight poured in. a breeze moved through the sanctuary like nothing had happened.

as you stepped into the entryway, mark dipped his fingers into the small bowl of holy water near the door. he touched his forehead, chest, and shoulders, murmuring the sign of the cross with practiced grace. you followed suit, mimicking the motion, your fingers wet and cool against your burning skin.

no one would ever know.

you were still god’s children, still his favorites.