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leejenowrld · 5 hours ago

Text

back to friends — (m)

“𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐞 𝐠𝐨 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐞 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐚 𝐛𝐞𝐝?”

word count — 21k words

genre — smut, fluff, angst

pairing — best friend!mark lee x oc! reader

synopsis — after years of crossing lines and pretending you’re just friends, one reckless night destroys every boundary between you and mark. you fuck like you’re starving—filthy, desperate, angry—never able to stop wanting him, no matter how much it ruins you. now, tangled in a mess of jealousy, heartbreak, and possessive sex, you both spiral through hookups, fights, and raw confessions, knowing the truth is the one thing that could end you. this is a story about the addictive, ruinous pull between best friends who can’t stop breaking each other open, and the fear that you’ll never be able to go back to the way things were.

chapter warnings — explicit language, college au, mark and readers relationship dynamic may be confusing, explicit sexual content graphic descriptions of oral, vaginal, and a lot of smut in this, rough sex, spanking, slapping, spit play, choking, ass play, begging, face sitting, and overstimulation, car sex, party bathroom sex, possessiveness/jealousy kink, rough claiming, jealousy-fueled sex, use of degrading language, humiliation play, dirty talk/degradation, mutual masturbation & exhibitionism, fingering, oral in front of mirrors, riding in laps, emotional vulnerability & comfort sex, sex after distress, crying during/after sex, aftercare, unprotected sex alcohol use, smoking, references to partying

surprise drop, happy birthday markie 🫶<3!!

[fic playlist]

It’s four in the morning when you wake to find Mark asleep at the foot of your bed, arm slung over the comforter, cheek pressed against your shin. The light leaking from the cracked bathroom door pools along the floorboards, blurring the boundary between your space and his, as if even the shadows have given up trying to separate the two of you. There’s a mug half-spilled on your nightstand, the faded print smudged from the last time he stole it for his endless late-night coffees. You can smell his cologne even now, sharp and familiar, woven into the sheets you both pretend are only yours.

You’re so used to finding pieces of him everywhere, a shoe kicked under your desk, rings abandoned in the kitchen sink, half-folded t-shirts on your chair, that sometimes it feels like you’re borrowing your own life. There’s a comfort in it, the kind that breeds laziness, or maybe just a low-level hunger you’re never supposed to feed. He never bothers with an excuse. Mark slips into your bed the way he claims a seat beside you at the movies, or stretches out on your carpet with his head in your lap, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like it’s always been his. None of you ever question it when he stays over after movie nights and you both drift off tangled together, limbs knotted and breaths slow. It’s just instinct, the way you end up side by side, sharing pillows and warmth, the quiet thrum of his heart pressed into your spine. There’s never a conversation, never a line drawn, never a need for reason, just the ease of knowing where he fits, how your bodies slot together, how you both sleep best when it’s like this, close and careless and unconcerned with how it looks to anyone else.

The lines between you and Mark have always been blurred, dragged out and rubbed raw by every touch that lingers too long, every look that burns a little too openly. There’s nothing innocent about the way his hands find your hips at parties, yanking you in to shut you up with his mouth against yours, tongue deep and desperate while the room spins and your friends just laugh, pretending they haven’t noticed you pressed up against a wall, his fingers tangled in your hair. You shower together when you’re hungover and lazy, but it’s never just about saving time, he stands behind you, soap slick on your skin, rinsing shampoo from your hair with a mouthful of filthy jokes, his hands sliding down your body until you’re shivering, thighs slick and parted under the spray, knowing he’ll only stop if you say so.

There are nights sprawled out half-naked on your bedroom floor, sharing half a bottle of vodka and a pack of cigarettes, his head in your lap as you dare each other into confessions that always spiral into touch: his fingers stroking your stomach, your hand curled around the waistband of his boxers, your breaths thick and uneven, hearts racing so hard you can hear them in your ears. Everyone assumes you’re fucking and you do fuck, in every way that counts except the last. You’ve never corrected anyone, never had the nerve to call it what it is. What would you even say? That he’s your best friend? That you want him in ways that ruin you, that you’d let him do anything if he only asked? That sometimes, when he leans in close and your lips brush, the whole world shrinks to the heat and hunger trembling in that half-inch between you, and you want to tear him open and swallow whatever’s left?

You fuck him more often than you’d ever admit, even to yourself. It happens on nights when you’re both pissed off from shitty dates or ghosted by people you barely cared about, nights you storm in with ruined mascara, rip off your clothes, and climb straight onto his cock while he’s half-asleep on the couch, riding him until you both forget your own names. It’s casual, matter-of-fact, so unashamed you could laugh; there’s no pretending at innocence, not after the hundredth time he’s bent you over the kitchen counter at two in the morning, tongue in your cunt, fingers in your mouth, holding you open so you can watch yourself fall apart in the black window glass. He’ll fuck you with his rings on, thick fingers pressing bruises into your thighs, palm around your throat while you whimper his name. Sometimes you tie him up with your own scarves and make him beg, make him writhe, make him lose all that easy confidence until he’s swearing and panting for you, so hard he can’t think.

Other nights he’ll pull your hair, spit in your mouth, fuck you so slow you go mad, pin your wrists over your head and keep you there until you’re crying, cock-drunk and shuddering, dripping all over his sheets. You both see other people, sometimes they call while he’s still inside you, and you answer on speaker just to hear him curse under his breath, teeth gritted as you squeeze him tighter. Sex is the language you both speak best, the only place you let yourselves be honest: no shame, no shyness, just bodies wrecked together, craving and needed and real. You never talk about what it means. You never call it love. But there’s a logic to it, a ritual, whenever you’re both frayed and desperate and lonely, it’s Mark you crawl to, Mark who splits you open, Mark who leaves you marked up and grinning, both of you spent and half-laughing in the aftermath, pretending it’s just how friends take care of each other. Sometimes you think your life together is one long, unsent message. Half-truths and borrowed comforts, spun out in the shape of routine, his name on your takeout order, your number as his emergency contact, a toothbrush in every drawer. You wonder if this is how it’ll always be: two bodies in orbit, never colliding, always trembling on the verge of disaster. Still, every morning he’s there, curled into the shape of something almost tender, and you let yourself believe you’re not alone. It’s easier that way. You both have your ways of pretending.

You haven’t spoken in days, just shouting, slamming doors, fucking each other stupid whenever the fight gets too hot to handle, the kind of angry sex that leaves you shaking after, mascara smeared down your cheeks, hickeys blooming across your collarbone where your dress won’t cover. Right now you’re in Mark’s car, the hem of your dress hitched up over your hips, slick already painting the inside of your thighs as he buries his face between your legs, tongue working circles around your clit, jaw flexing with every desperate whimper you give him. The car is bouncing with every sharp thrust of his fingers, back seat fogging up, streetlights flickering across the sheer straps of your dress, a strappy, skin-tight slip in cherry red, cut so high it barely covers your ass when you climb out, tits pushed up and mouth still painted, heels kicked off in the footwell. He drags you forward by the waist, hands rough and unrepentant, as if he’s trying to fuck the thought of Jay right out of you, eating you like he’s starving. You’re gasping, shoving at his hair, telling him, “Don’t—Mark, be soft, I can’t go in there covered in your cum—” but he just groans, tongue flicking, fingers curling, the taste of your skin making him growl.

The argument lingers between you, thick as sweat, Mark’s voice from earlier echoing in your head, snarling about Jay, about how he treats girls like shit, how he’s seen Jay ghost girls after fucking them at some shitty afterparty, how he’s rude, uses girls for ego, brags about every fuck. You spat it back, called Mark jealous, accused him of never letting you make your own choices, and he’d just stared at you, fists clenched, jaw tight, eyes dark and wild. “Maybe I am jealous,” he’d bitten out, “but I’m not gonna let you get wrecked by some dickhead who doesn’t know how to treat you.” Every time you argue like this, it ends with you on your back, it doesn't matter if it’s your bed, his car, or the hallway floor, Mark always needing to stake his claim, to leave his spit and cum where no one else can touch. Right now, as his mouth pushes you higher, you can’t think straight, whining for him to slow down, begging him to be gentle so you don’t walk into that restaurant with Jay’s name on your lips and Mark’s fingerprints all over your thighs. You look wrecked, hair tumbling wild around your face, lips swollen and parted, dress riding up so high you’re one deep breath from flashing half the parking lot, eyes glazed, skin flushed with want. Mark glances up at you, mouth glistening, smirks, and murmurs, “You want me to be soft? That’s not how you argued for it, princess.”

He’s brutal tonight, knuckles pressing into the slick heat of your thighs, tongue splitting you open with single-minded hunger, eyes locked on yours like he’s daring you to look away. You’re sprawled in the backseat, legs thrown over his shoulders, that tiny red dress bunched at your waist and the straps falling off your arms. He palms your hips hard enough to bruise, dragging you down the leather seat until your ass squeaks against it and you’re arching into his face, heels digging into his back. His breath is hot, tongue working relentless circles over your clit, sometimes slow, just the tip flicking, then deep and savage, mouthing at you like he wants to swallow every sound you make. Every time you whine, he growls low, the vibration making your thighs tremble. His hair is a mess where you’ve grabbed at it, yanking him closer, grinding against his mouth in frustration when he doesn’t give you what you want fast enough. The windows are fogged and dripping with condensation, every movement rocking the car, headlights sliding across your skin like a silent audience.

You’re panting, trying to claw your composure back, but the argument’s still clawing through your veins, thick and mean. Mark’s tongue is relentless, lips slick and jaw aching, but when you grind down harder and drag that taunt into the charged, cramped air, “Wonder if Jay would do it like this,”—he doesn’t let you finish. Your hips rock against his face, every muscle in his shoulders flexing under your thighs, but his eyes snap up to yours, black and burning, and he actually growls. The sound is feral, furious, vibrating straight through your cunt, teeth gritted as he pulls his mouth away just enough to rasp.

“Shut the fuck up about Jay.” His breath is hot against your skin, eyes still locked on yours, possessive and wild. “He wouldn’t even know where to start.” Then he dives back in, tongue punishing, sucking your clit so hard your vision blurs, fingers pressing bruises into your hips as if he’s daring you to even think about anyone else. Every flick and drag of his mouth now is a threat, a promise, all of it—watch me, remember this, you’re fucking mine.

Mark’s grip on your thighs tightens, nails biting in, and he sucks your clit hard, just to shut you up. You gasp, almost sob, your back arching off the seat. “Fuck—Mark, he’d probably cum in his pants just seeing me like this, wouldn’t he?” You say it just to see his jaw tense, just to watch the darkness bloom in his eyes as he licks up your slit, slow and punishing, then buries his face deeper, groaning into you as if he can drown out every other man’s name with the sound of you falling apart on his tongue.

You feel him grin, lips curled around your cunt, breath hot and furious. “Keep talking,” he rasps between licks, “see where it gets you.”

Your hands slip from his hair to his shoulders, nails scraping red lines down his back as his tongue fucks into you harder, relentless, filthy, he’s eating you out like it’s a fight he has to win, mouth slick and greedy, lips swollen and wet as he laps you up. You whimper, trying to twist away, but he just pins you down, forearm heavy across your stomach, fingers digging into your thigh so you can’t escape, forcing you to feel every brutal, beautiful drag of his mouth. You curse him, moan for him, tell him he’s being rough, that he’s going to ruin your dress, but you can’t stop rocking against his tongue, riding his face, cunt throbbing with every flick and press. “Yeah, ruin it,” he mutters, mouth hot and sticky against you, “let him see exactly who fucked you up.” The car smells like sweat and sex and leather, your mascara running, eyes glazed and lips bitten raw, legs trembling every time he sucks your clit between his teeth, tongue flicking so fast your vision whites out.

You start to break, hips shaking, chest heaving, voice cracking as you try to warn him you’re close, but he only doubles down, tongue and fingers working you open until you’re crying, sobbing his name, begging for him to slow down, to let you breathe. He doesn’t stop. His hands slip up your waist, pinning you in place, and he keeps licking, keeps sucking, chasing your orgasm like he needs to own it, to brand you from the inside out. You choke out his name, thighs squeezing his head, the whole car rocking with the force of your release, body wrung out and spent, pussy clenching around nothing as he laps up every drop, groaning like he’s drunk on you. Your hands fist in his hair, tears streaking down your cheeks, breath stuttering as you finally go limp, Mark’s mouth still hot and wet on your cunt, his voice nothing but a gravel whisper, “let him fucking wait, you’re mine first, always mine.”

Your body’s still shuddering, cunt still pulsing around nothing, when your phone buzzes with a message, telling you that he’s inside and waiting for you. You’re yanked back into the glare of the real world, heat flashing across your face as you gasp and push at Mark’s head. “Stop, Mark—fuck, he’s here,” you hiss, voice raw and breathless, hips jerking when he gives your clit one last, stubborn, filthy lick before finally letting you go. You’re left a mess: thighs sticky, dress rumpled up around your waist, hair wild from where he gripped it. You reach for the visor, yanking it down and frantically trying to tame your hair, fingers trembling as you swipe at your mascara, rub your mouth raw with your thumb until the smeared lipstick is half fixed. Mark just sits back in the seat, lips swollen and chin shining with you, watching with that unreadable look, chest still heaving, hands clenched tight on his knees as you smooth your dress back down over your thighs, cover up the marks he left in every place you’ll never forget.

You shoot him a look, equal parts exasperation and wrecked, cheeks burning as you stuff your heels back on, heart pounding against your ribs like it’s trying to break free. “Jay’s inside,” you mumble, barely trusting your voice not to shake. He just sighs, low and frustrated, the anger and want still burning underneath, too much left unsaid between you. For a second you think he might start another argument, might grab your wrist and pull you back in for more, but instead he just leans across the console, catches your chin, and presses the softest, most fucked-up kiss to your forehead. It’s the kind of touch that undoes you, gentle, dizzying, painfully close to love. “I’m only a call away,” he murmurs, voice barely holding together. You nod, swallowing hard, lips parted but no words coming, and the moment hangs there, long, slow, brutal, like you’re both waiting for something to give.

You force a laugh, breathless, still trembling as you open the car door and step out, your knees unsteady, dress clinging to your skin where he left you marked. “Bye, Mark,” you whisper, voice tiny, and you don’t look back as you walk toward the restaurant, clutching your phone like a lifeline, pulse still fluttering from his mouth. You can feel his eyes on you the whole way, your body still humming with him, every step echoing the ache of leaving him in that car, unfinished. Only when you’re finally inside, safe past the glass doors and lost in the low golden lights, do you dare to glance back, Mark’s car still parked there, headlights low, engine running. He’s watching, always watching, jaw tight, and only when you disappear from sight does he finally shake his head and pull away, leaving you there with every nerve raw and every line between you just that much more impossible to untangle.

The restaurant is loud and bright, all glass and chatter and laughter pressing in from every side, but none of it distracts you from the phantom ache still humming between your thighs, Mark’s touch lingering on your skin like a bruise that won’t fade. You try to focus on Jay, on the way he leans across the table with that easy, practiced confidence, but it’s all surface: compliments that sound like lines, eyes that never quite meet yours unless he’s checking out your cleavage, every conversation turning back to sex no matter how you try to steer it elsewhere. You laugh when you’re supposed to, sip your drink, play the game, but Mark’s words circle in your head—he doesn’t care about you, he just wants to get off, he’ll use you up and leave you feeling cheap—and for the first time, you start to wonder if he’s right.

Jay’s hand finds your knee under the table, fingers inching up your thigh with a confidence that feels wrong, too familiar, nothing like the heat and safety you’re used to. He whispers something in your ear about how good you look, how he couldn’t stop thinking about you all day, but there’s no warmth behind it, no care, just that greedy undertone that makes your stomach twist. You force yourself to flirt back, to play along, letting his hand go higher, laughing at jokes that don’t land, but you’re thinking about Mark, the taste of him, the burn in his eyes when you teased him, the way he made you feel like you were the only thing that mattered in the world. You wonder if Jay could ever make you feel like that. The answer settles low in your chest, heavy and cold.

Jay’s conversation grows sloppier as the night drags on, eyes glazing with every drink, stories getting more explicit, leaning into crude innuendos and little comments about what he wants to do to you. There’s no curiosity about your life, your dreams, your day, just hungry glances at your mouth, at your thighs, hands always wandering, lips always parted. You nod, smile, let him take your hand, but every touch feels wrong, like you’re playing at someone else’s fantasy, and Mark’s warning rings louder in your ears: guys like that don’t know how to take care of a girl like you. For a second, you think about texting Mark, about running back to his car and letting him take you home, but you swallow it down and keep smiling, keep pretending. It’s not until Jay licks his thumb and tries to wipe a streak of mascara from your cheek—clumsy and a little too rough, breath hot and sour from his last drink—that the ick crawls up your spine. You laugh it off, brushing his hand away, blaming it on too many cocktails. He leans in close, lips brushing your ear, and says, “Do you wanna go back to mine?” The question is blunt, expectation hanging heavy in the air. You force another bright smile, nodding, feeling the lie burn your tongue, and stand to follow him out, heart pounding, Mark’s shadow still clinging to your skin as you step into the night.

You know you’ve made a mistake as soon as Jay’s door clicks shut behind you. The apartment is colder than you expected, lights low, the air thick with last night’s booze and the stale, burnt edge of cheap weed. There’s a mess of trainers in the hallway, empty shot glasses on every windowsill, and the soundtrack of some club remix leaking from a speaker you can’t see. Jay doesn’t ask if you want a drink, doesn’t even bother making small talk, just hooks his fingers into the crook of your elbow and leads you straight down the hall, eyes already scanning your body like he’s checking off a list. His room’s the same: sheets tangled, two condoms already torn open on the nightstand, the air sharp with sweat and something sweet and sour, a girl’s bra slung over his desk chair like a souvenir.

Jay’s notorious, everyone knows it. His crew, Sunghoon and Heeseung and Jake, haunt campus bars and afterparties, all swagger and loud voices, a constant echo of hands on waists and crude bets. Mark and his lot, Jeno, Jaemin, Donghyuck, have never tried to blend, never tried to fake nice. Mark calls Jay’s friends walking red flags, says they don’t know the meaning of respect, and it’s easy to see why. Where Mark is careless with his heart but careful with your body, Jay’s got nothing but appetite—he doesn’t ask, doesn’t check, just takes. You can feel the difference in every touch, every glance, the way Mark would always pause to search your eyes, to brush your hair off your cheek, but Jay just grins, eyes heavy-lidded, hands already traveling up the slit of your dress as you fall back onto his bed. Jay and his group of friends afd the kind of boys who wear their conquests like a joke, whose group chats are full of body counts and grainy photos. Mark and his friends can’t stand them, never could. Mark talks shit about them in every room, calls them out for being trash, and even though he’s got a reputation of his own, you know how different he really is. Mark might fuck around, but he always asks, always cares, always checks if you’re okay before he goes any further. Jay’s just the opposite, entitlement, assumption, no patience for the word no.

It starts hot, at least in theory, his mouth hungry on yours, teeth and tongue, your dress shoved down your arms, tits spilling out while he grinds against your bare thigh, rutting like he’s been hard for hours. His fingers are rough, pinching your nipple, one hand sliding straight down to your cunt, pushing your panties aside without a word. You kiss him back, roll your hips into his palm, try to conjure up some version of wanting, but the smell of him and the pushy scrape of his knuckles just leaves you colder. Still, you let him maneuver you, let him hitch your leg up higher, cock slapping heavy against your cunt as he grinds in, but when he tries to shove inside you, barely any warning, no condom, no preamble, something in you freezes. You press a palm to his chest, breath ragged. “Just—wait,” you manage, and for a moment he just stares, blank and annoyed, as if you’re a glitch in his program.

His lip curls. “Wait? For what, princess? What do you think we’re here for?” His hand stays tight on your thigh, fingers digging in, but there’s no warmth, no coaxing, just expectation. “You think I dragged you out here for a chat? You know who you are, right? I’ve seen the way you look at Mark, shit, I’ve heard the stories. Everyone has. You ride him in the kitchen, suck him off in the locker room. Sunghoon said he walked in on you with his cock down your throat after a game, Jake said you let Mark fuck you in the shower after finals. Don’t pretend you’re shy now. My boys said not to bother with you, said you’re just his slut, but if he keeps coming back for more when he’s got every girl on campus lined up, must be a tight little pussy. You’re fit, I’ll give you that. Great tits, that mouth, that body—wouldn’t mind a turn. Now stop wasting my time and get on all fours.” His voice turns cruel, mouth close to your ear. “Let’s see if you’re as good as they say. Get on your knees. Or do you only do that for him?”

His words gut you, filthy, degrading, each syllable scraping something raw. For a second, you just stare, dress halfway down your hips, chest bare, breath stuck in your throat. Then the shame curdles to rage. You shove him hard, voice sharp and shaking. “Go fuck yourself,” you spit, scrambling off the bed, yanking your dress up over your chest, fumbling for your bag with shaking hands.

Jay laughs, cold and bored, already rolling over and grabbing his phone, muttering, “Fucking tease, you’re all the same,” as you stumble barefoot down his hallway. The door slams behind you, breath burning, heart racing, humiliation prickling over your skin. You don’t even think, just punch Mark’s name into your phone with trembling fingers, fighting tears as you hurry out into the cold, the need to hear his voice outweighing every other instinct.

Mark picks up on the first ring. His voice is gentle, low, softer than you’ve heard it in days, all the anger and tension stripped away in an instant. “Hey, I’ve got you, where are you?” he murmurs, like it’s a secret, like it’s just for you. You can’t even get the words out, just shaking and gasping, tears spilling down your cheeks, every breath ragged and broken. “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay,” he soothes, so much warmth in his tone you can feel it curl around you through the line. “Don’t talk, just stay there. I’ll be there in a few minutes. I already know where you are.” You hear the jingle of his keys, the sound of his door slamming, the familiar rush of him moving, every detail so achingly familiar, every detail safety itself. He never makes you say it, never asks for an explanation, never tells you what you should’ve done differently. He just moves.

Within minutes, headlights cut through the dark, his car pulling up wild, tires spinning. The passenger door’s thrown open before you can even wipe your cheeks, Mark’s already out, moving fast, finding you half-crumpled on the curb, he pulls off his jacket, shoving your arms through the sleeves before you can think to refuse. “Come here,” he says, voice thick, hands gentle, steady as he pulls you against his chest. You bury your face in his shoulder, sobbing, still trembling so hard your knees knock together, his warmth the only anchor in the spinning night. He holds you there, big hands running slowly, grounding circles up and down your back, pressing kisses into your hair, your forehead, the shell of your ear. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, voice low and trembling at your ear, breath hot where it fans your cheek, “I’ve got you, baby. Nobody touches you but me, yeah? You’re safe—only with me. Always.” The words are a secret, a promise, spoken with a hunger that shakes you, his arms winding tighter around your waist like he could fuse you to his chest. There’s a catch in his throat, something raw and desperate, as if he’d tear the world apart just to keep you right here, shivering in his jacket, head buried under his chin. You hear the way he clings to every syllable, turning your safety into a vow he’ll never break, no matter what.

He helps you into the car, steady hands guiding you by the waist, fingers slow, gentle, trembling just a little when they brush the bare skin above your hip. He buckles your seatbelt, the metal clicks loud in the silence, and when he leans in, his thumb strokes your jaw with a tenderness that makes your eyes sting all over again. His lips brush your forehead, warm, lingering, pressed a little too long, like he can’t bring himself to let go. He doesn’t move to his side. For a moment, he’s still, the cabin thick with the scent of him, the windows steaming up, engine humming low beneath you both. You watch as his jaw tightens, eyes burning, fists clenched so hard his knuckles pale. He glances back at Jay’s apartment door, a muscle jumping in his cheek, the promise of violence simmering just beneath his calm.

You groan, soft and hoarse, head falling back against the seat, every part of you already knowing—knowing—what he’s thinking. “Mark, not now,” you whisper, half pleading, too exhausted and raw to argue but too fragile to watch him break himself over this.

He doesn’t take his eyes off the door, doesn’t look at you, just squeezes your knee in his palm, thumb rubbing slow circles, grounding you. “Don’t worry,” he says, voice low, sweet but with a thread of steel you feel all the way in your bones. “I’ll take care of it.” It’s soft, but it’s a promise, and you can taste the fury in every word, like the act of hurting you has become something personal to him, a trespass that needs retribution.

Before you can protest, he’s gone, the door swinging open, closing behind him with a weight that says don’t follow. You watch him cross the pavement, each step heavier, more certain, his shoulders squared and head high. There’s a brutality to his focus, the set of his mouth, the way he raises his fist to the door and knocks, once, twice, hard enough to echo through the whole shitty house. The wait is barely a breath. Jay opens, half-dressed, eyes already rolling as he catches sight of Mark standing there, every inch of him radiating danger. “The fuck do you want?” Jay slurs, gaze flicking from Mark to where you’re curled in the car, nothing in his expression but contempt. “Come to pick up your little bitch? She was crying before she even got her panties off. Guess she only gets loud for you, huh? Sloppy seconds, Lee.”

Mark doesn’t hesitate. He grabs Jay by the collar, yanking him forward, slamming him into the doorframe. His fist meets Jay’s jaw, a brutal, ugly sound, and you see the shock in Jay’s face as Mark doesn’t let go, doesn’t back down, rage boiling over in every blow. “Don’t ever talk about her. Don’t even fucking think about her,” Mark snarls, voice ragged, every word punctuated by another hit.

Jay spits blood, muttering curses, still trying to wound. “You’re both pathetic, does she let anyone fuck her if you’re not around. Do you want her? Go ahead, man, she’s a fucking mess.”

Mark’s grip only tightens, knuckles bone-white, eyes burning holes through Jay’s skull. “I know exactly what you tried. I don’t need her to tell me—you’re done. Don’t look at her, don’t even breathe her name, or I’ll fucking end you.” The words land low, venomous, and he slams Jay back into the doorframe with a final shove that leaves Jay slumped, head lolling, split lip and swelling jaw already blossoming purple. Mark doesn’t give him another glance, just wipes his bloody knuckles on his jeans and stalks away, steps echoing off cracked pavement. Through the blur of your tears you catch a crooked smile tugging at your lips, sick with adrenaline and relief, crying and shaking but impossibly grateful that it’s always him. This isn’t the first time Mark’s thrown a punch for you, and it won’t be the last; you’ve lost count of the times he’s come back to you with bloody knuckles and bruised pride, just to make sure you’re safe, just to remind you that nobody gets to hurt you.

When he slides back into the driver’s seat, the anger still crackling through him, your chest hiccups with a sob, breath catching when he glances over at you—wild, messy, but his entire expression melting into that rare, unguarded tenderness that belongs only to you. He reaches for your hand and laces his fingers through yours, squeezing so tight you nearly gasp, but it’s the safest feeling in the world. “You good?” he murmurs, voice velvet-soft, thumb stroking slowly over your knuckles, and when you nod, tears streaking your cheeks, he just smiles—a real, aching smile that makes something inside you unclench. He starts the engine, one hand never leaving yours, and for the whole ride home, the anger drains out of him, replaced by this slow-burning intimacy, like the world’s shrunk to just the warmth of his palm and your breaths getting steadier by the second.

You’re still sniffling, cheeks wet, but every mile feels easier when he turns up your favorite song and quietly hums along, the notes vibrating through the space between you. He cracks dumb jokes under his breath, says your hair looks like a crime scene, and when you let out a watery laugh, he grins like it’s his life’s mission to make you smile. At a red light, he pulls your hand into his lap, turns his head, and kisses the inside of your wrist so softly it makes you whimper, heat pooling low in your stomach. “You were right about him, Mark,” you whisper, voice small, gratitude and exhaustion tangled together. He just hums, squeezing your hand again, his eyes all gentle pride and need. “You can say ‘I told you so,’ if you want,” you sigh, already melting into the sweetness of him.

Mark just leans closer, his voice a velvet drag in your ear, “Why would I waste time saying ‘I told you so’ when I’d rather show you how good you’ve got it right here?” His breath is warm, his words electric, and the way you gasp, shivering, makes him smile even wider because there’s nothing casual in the way he loves you, nothing in the world that could ever make you feel safer than his hands and that hungry, gentle devotion shining in his eyes.

The apartment feels softer in the dark, the hush only broken by the distant hum of the fridge and the weight of Mark’s footsteps beside you. He keeps your heels in his hand, swinging them absently, the other arm wrapped steady around your waist as you stumble inside. Your face is sticky with tears, mascara smudged to your jaw, every part of you heavy and tender, but Mark never lets you walk alone, not even for a step. He toes the door shut behind you and hangs your bag on the hook, then gently tugs the ruined shoes from your hand, leaving them by the entry like it’s a ritual he’s done a thousand times. You’re shivering, arms crossed, but he just moves closer, fingers brushing your cheek, knuckles soft as he tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “Let’s get you out of this, yeah?” he murmurs, voice low and slow, every syllable dragging comfort through your bones.

He helps you undress, careful and patient, unzips your dress, eases it down your arms, unhooks your bra with deft hands, never rushing, never taking more than you offer. He keeps his eyes on your face, checking for every flinch, every wince, and when you’re left in nothing but his old hoodie, he pulls you into the bathroom and starts the shower, testing the water temperature with his wrist like he always does for you. The steam blooms around you both, warm and safe, and you let him guide you under the spray. Mark washes you slow, lathering your hair, massaging your scalp, fingers tracing the lines of your shoulders and back. His touch is reverent, never sexual, just the steady comfort of someone who’s seen you at your ugliest and loves you anyway. He lets you lean on his chest as he rinses the soap away, lips pressed to your temple, his hands soothing every place Jay’s gaze made you feel small. “You’re here, with me. That’s all that matters,” he whispers, over and over, and for a few long minutes, it’s almost enough to believe him.

When you’re clean, he wraps you in a towel and dries your hair with the old t-shirt he knows is your favorite. He kneels to pull warm socks onto your feet, his thumb lingering at your ankle, eyes never leaving yours. You both slip into bed, tangled together under the covers, the world shrinking to the soft cotton and the thump of his heartbeat pressed into your spine. Mark’s arms fold around you, one hand smoothing over your ribs, the other playing lazy patterns on your thigh. You talk about everything and nothing, favorite movies, the time he made you pancakes and burned every single one, how much you hated Jay’s cologne, how you wish things could be simple. His voice is always soft, never pushing, just inviting you to spill whatever needs to be let out. “You’re allowed to be mad. You’re allowed to be sad,” he says, “but you don’t have to do it alone.”

It’s only when the apartment is dark, Mark’s breathing steady at your back, that it all catches up to you, the way Jay looked at you, the way his words scraped through your skin, every sick stare and cruel sneer. The ache bursts out in great, shuddering sobs, your body curling tight, knees to your chest, shoulders shaking. Mark doesn’t say anything, just pulls you closer, sliding his arms around your waist, pressing his lips to the wet salt of your hair, holding you so close you almost believe nothing bad could ever touch you again. You let it all out, safe in the dark, safe in his arms, the ugliness of the world pressed back by the quiet, dogged strength of his love.

Mark shifts beside you, rolling his body over yours with the same slow, careful weight he’s used a hundred times before, but tonight every movement is reverent, almost aching. He nudges your knees apart, sliding between your thighs, the mattress dipping under his warmth, and you blink up at him through wet lashes. His palm cups your cheek, thumb gentle as it wipes away each fresh tear, tracing the curve of your jaw, lips brushing over the lines his own fingers made. His eyes are so open, so impossibly soft, brown glass catching every glimmer of you, searching your face for pain, for permission. “Look at me, baby,” he whispers, voice thick with devotion, “just let me take care of you, yeah? Nothing else matters right now. Just you and me.”

You reach for him, need cracking open and spilling between your bodies. Your hands clutch at the back of his neck, sliding into his hair, tugging him down until your mouths crash together, messy, gasping, hungry, all teeth and tongue and bruised want. Your lips part wide, tongue stroking deep into his mouth, swallowing the groan he lets out as you grind your hips up, the heat of him already heavy against your thigh. His hands bracket your face, fingertips tracing your temples, then trailing down to your throat, mapping every inch of you like he needs to relearn your body just to be sure you’re real and safe and his. You moan into him, arching up so your tits press flush to his chest, your cunt already slick and desperate, rubbing against the bulge in his boxers.

He groans, rough and low, hips rocking into yours, breath hot and broken against your mouth as his hands slide down, thumbs tracing the wet salt off your cheeks, curling under your jaw to tip your face up, his kiss deepening, claiming. You bite at his lip, grinning through the mess, and he growls, biting you back, his tongue tangling with yours, the kiss all hunger and healing and every secret you’ve never had the courage to say. You’re grinding up into him now, cunt slicking his thigh, moaning his name, dragging his hand down to cup your ass, desperate for him to fill you, fuck you, remind you that you’re his. “Let me make it better, baby,” he pants, voice shredded with want, hips pushing down until you can feel every hard inch of him pressed between your legs. “Let me make you forget all of it—just us, just this, just you.” You whimper, lips swollen, thighs falling open wider, and he groans again, mouth slanting over yours as he kisses you deeper, fucking you with his tongue, grinding his cock against your soaked pussy until neither of you can tell where comfort ends and hunger begins.

Your lips break from his, breath ragged, head pressed back into the pillow as you look up at him through blurred lashes, the ache spilling from your mouth before you can even think to stop it. “I feel fucking disgusting, Mark,” you whisper, voice raw and shaking, tears hot again as your hands fist in the sheets beneath you. “He looked at me like I was nothing. Like I was just, just a hole to use, something to brag about. I knew he was a dick, I knew it, but I just—I wanted to feel good for once, to feel wanted, and now I just—” Your voice cracks, sob catching on the edge of his name. “I feel stupid. I feel like I let him do it. Like I should’ve known better. Like everyone probably thinks I’m easy, or dirty, or pathetic, and I can’t get the way he talked about me out of my head.”

Your chest heaves, the pain relentless, every word dragging old wounds to the surface. “I’m so tired, Mark. I’m tired of pretending it doesn’t get to me, tired of letting people touch me like I don’t matter. I know I act tough but it hurts, it really fucking hurts, and I keep thinking maybe I deserve it, maybe if I was different, if I was stronger, if I wasn’t such a mess—” Your hands tremble as you clutch his wrist, needing the warmth of his skin, the certainty of his grip. “I hate how much it gets to me. I hate that he made me feel small. I hate that I let him get close at all. I just—I don’t want to be anyone’s dirty secret. I want someone to look at me like I’m worth something. I want someone to want me, all of me, even when I’m like this, even when I’m crying and ugly and ruined inside.” You choke on a sob, eyes searching for him, voice breaking on every syllable. “He kept saying things about us, about you—like I was just your slut, like I let you do anything. Like I’m just easy for you. And it’s not true, it’s never been true, I only ever wanted you to want me. I wanted to feel safe with you, wanted to matter to you. I just—I feel so empty. I’m so tired of letting people use me. I just want to feel something good that doesn’t turn ugly in the morning.”

Mark lowers his head, forehead pressing to yours, his breath shaky against your cheek as his hands cradle your face, thumbs brushing away the tears you can’t stop shedding. For a long moment he’s silent, jaw working, the air thick with all the things he’s never let himself say, everything raw and trembling behind his eyes. “I hate the way you talk about yourself,” he murmurs, voice so gentle it nearly breaks you, every word quivering with something desperate and unsaid. “You’re not dirty. You’re not easy. You’re the best thing I’ve ever touched. The only thing that ever felt fucking right.” His hands tighten, grounding you, his lips ghosting over your eyelids, your cheeks, every place that hurts. “You’re worth everything. You always have been. I wish you could see yourself the way I do—fucking hell, I wish I could make you believe it.”

He exhales, heavy, and you feel him fighting himself, holding so much back, voice low and ragged. “I know I act like I don’t care. I know I fuck around, and I say shit I don’t mean, and I let people think you’re just another girl in my bed. But you’re not. You never have been.” He pulls back just enough to look you dead in the eyes, every inch of him open, hurting. “You’re the only thing that scares me. You’re the only one who could ever fuck me up like this. I’d do anything to make you feel safe, to make you feel good. I’d burn the whole fucking world down for you, I swear. I just—” His voice cracks, softer than you’ve ever heard. “I’m fucked up too, you know? I want you so bad it hurts, and I’m so scared I’ll ruin you. But I never, ever want to see you hurt like this again. Not from him. Not from anyone. Not even me.”

You climb onto him, your knees bracketing his hips, every inch of your skin burning, your cheeks still streaked with tears. Mark is sprawled beneath you, hair wild against the pillow, chest rising and falling in harsh waves as you crawl over him, one trembling hand wrapping around the back of his neck. Your lips crash into his, tongues tangling, hungry, animal, slick—nothing soft about it. You grind your hips down, rolling your soaked pussy over his cock through thin cotton, the friction brutal and perfect, your clit catching on the ridge of his head until you’re whimpering, eyes fluttering, slick smearing all over him. The room fills with the wet slide of your cunt dragging over his cock, your sobs turning to gasps, every movement messy and raw.

You moan against his mouth, so desperate it’s embarrassing, “Need you to fuck me, Mark—need it, need you inside me, please—” The way your voice cracks on please has him growling, hands flying to your ass, squeezing hard, dragging you down over him until you can feel every twitch and throb through his boxers.

He’s still trying to slow you down, hands gentle even when you don’t want gentle, whispering, “Hey, baby, you’re still crying—fuck, slow down, let me—”

But you shake your head, breathless, hips rutting down, grinding your clit on the head of his cock, smearing slick through the fabric. “No, Mark, just—just let me, I want it, want you, want you to make me feel good, want to feel you stretch me, wanna come for you, wanna show you you’re the only one, always you—”

He lets out a broken laugh, one hand smoothing up your spine to fist in your hair, dragging you down for another kiss, tongue fucking into your mouth as his hips buck up into you, cock straining, leaking for you. “God, look at you, can’t get enough, can you? My fucking girl, riding me like you’re starved.” You whimper, biting at his lip, pressing your tits to his chest, nails raking down his sides as you finally tug his boxers down, your fist wrapping around the length of him, guiding him to your entrance. The head of his cock nudges your slit, and you’re both shaking, you from need, him from holding back. “You know I love you, right?” he pants, voice hoarse, eyes wild but clear. “I tell you every day, but right now, fuck, I need you to hear it—I love you, I love you, I love you—always have, always will. You’re mine.”

It isn’t a shock, not really, a thousand ‘I love you’s’ have already hung between you and Mark, braided through every part of your lives like a shared secret language. You say it when you’re laughing over burnt toast in the kitchen, when you steal each other’s fries, when you collapse together after an exam, when you find his socks in your laundry or your hairbands on his wrist. You say it every night, almost on autopilot, a soft “love you, idiot” as you roll over, or a muttered “love you too” when one of you leaves for class, or a quick “I love you more” lobbed across the hall like a dare. It’s part of the fabric of you, familiar and safe, a truth you both wear without thinking.

But this, this is different. There’s nothing casual or careless in the way he says it now, voice breaking, fingers digging into your hips as you ride him, sweat and salt and tears glimmering on your skin. There’s no armor, no routine, just the raw ache of it, the way your bodies slot together and all those words finally mean what they’re supposed to. It’s not a crazy thing to say “I love you” here because you both already know; it’s always been true. But when you’re desperate for him, bouncing in his lap, sobbing into his mouth, begging him to claim you with every thrust, it lands differently, stripped of every offhand joke and every safety net. You hear it in the way he gasps your name, in how his hands shake, in how you both cling tighter, desperate to make the words real in a way they’ve never been before. It’s the first time you’ve said it and needed it to hurt, to heal, to fill every crack left by the world outside this bed. Here, I love you isn’t a throwaway or a punchline; it’s a demand, a prayer, a promise you both bleed for and believe. Here, it sounds like home.

You sink down on him, body opening up inch by inch, the stretch perfect, obscene, your cunt swallowing him until you’re stuffed full, skin to skin, dizzy from the heat and fullness. You start to move, grinding down slow and deep, clenching around him, making filthy sounds in your throat as you ride him, hips snapping, fucking yourself stupid on his cock. Every thrust is a confession, every moan a worship, your mouth hungry on his throat, jaw, lips, biting and sucking, leaving him marked and breathless. “Say it again,” you beg, voice cracking as you bounce in his lap, thighs burning, tits bouncing with every movement, “say you love me, say it’s just me, please, Mark, need it—”

He grabs your hips, rocking up into you, his own voice cracking, “I love you, fuck, I love you, look at you—so perfect, all mine, nobody else gets you like this—” He can’t stop saying it, can’t stop touching you, every word poured into your mouth, your skin, your cunt, until you’re sobbing his name, coming hard on his cock, breaking open for him, every inch of you desperate and raw and safe, wrapped up in the kind of love that leaves you ruined, trembling, and whole all at once.

You sink deeper onto his cock, the thick, perfect stretch making you moan so loud it’s almost a scream, thighs trembling as you take him to the root. Mark groans, the sound raw, filthy, hands flying to grip your hips so hard his fingers leave imprints. “Fuck—so fucking tight,” he grits, voice already shaking, eyes glued to the place where your cunt swallows him, wet and glistening, obscene in the dim light. You can feel him twitch inside you, your walls clenching around him, greedy for every inch, every throb, as you settle your hands on his chest for leverage. His head falls back, lips parted, jaw sharp with want, his chest already slick with sweat. “You love riding me, don’t you? Love showing me how this pussy was made for me.” The words are ragged, half challenge, half worship.

You start to move, slow at first, rolling your hips, grinding down in a circle, feeling every ridge and vein drag against your soaked walls. The friction is delicious, cruel, and you can’t help but tease, lifting yourself almost all the way off, just the tip buried inside, before slamming back down, making the head of his cock press against that sweet spot inside you. Mark hisses, hands flying up to cup your tits, rolling your nipples between his fingers until you arch your back, riding him harder, breath catching as he leans up and latches onto your nipple, sucking hard, teeth grazing, tongue swirling. You grind down, rutting your clit against his pelvis, making both of you gasp. “You want it rough, baby?” he pants, voice gravel, one hand sliding down to slap your ass, the sound sharp, skin stinging as you bounce faster. “Fucking take it. Show me who you belong to.”

“Yours,” you whimper, picking up the pace, ass slapping down onto his thighs, the wet smack filling the room, your tits bouncing in his face, hair wild around your shoulders. “All yours, Mark—fuck, only yours, nobody else gets me like this.” You lean forward, licking a stripe up his throat, biting at his jaw, your cunt milking him, fluttering around him with every thrust.

He growls, fingers digging into the meat of your ass, guiding you up and down, his voice low and sharp: “That’s right. Let them talk. Let the whole fucking building hear you scream for me.” He brings his thumb down to your clit, circles tight, ruthless, until you’re whining, legs starting to shake, tears welling again from the sheer intensity. “Look at you, bouncing like a fucking whore, taking everything I give you. You love being watched, don’t you? Love being my filthy girl.”

You nod, dizzy, drunk on him, on the slap of skin and the stretch of him splitting you open, on how you can feel every inch inside. “Want you to fill me up, want you to fuck me until I can’t walk,” you babble, riding him hard, hands braced on his chest, nails scraping red lines down his skin. “Want to make a mess all over you, want you to come inside me, want everyone to know you ruined me—”

Mark snarls, bucks up into you, fucking you from beneath, the bed frame rocking, his hips slamming up to meet yours. “Say it again,” he commands, thumb circling your clit faster, his cock hitting so deep you see stars. “Tell me who this pussy belongs to.”

“Yours, fuck, it’s yours—only yours, always yours, Mark, please, please, harder—” You’re sobbing, writhing, sweat slicking your thighs, bouncing faster, grinding down until your clit throbs, every muscle in your body burning with the need to come.

He slips two fingers into your mouth, groaning as you suck, tongue swirling, spit dripping down your chin as you stare into his eyes. “Good girl,” he growls, pulling his fingers free, sliding them down to press into your ass, stretching you, filling you, making you moan even louder. “So greedy, so fucking perfect, taking everything I give you.”

You feel yourself unraveling, body shaking as your orgasm builds, the filth of it making you dizzy. “Gonna come, Mark—need it, need you, fuck, please—” He’s ruthless now, hips pounding up into you, his cock hitting that spot over and over, thumb punishing your clit until you shatter, orgasm ripping through you, cunt squeezing him so tight he curses, gripping your hips, rutting up as he follows you over the edge. You come undone together, a mess of sweat, spit, and tears, his name a broken sob on your lips as he fills you, cock pulsing, warmth spilling inside you, leaking down your thighs as you keep grinding, milking every last drop.

When you finally collapse on top of him, shuddering, boneless, Mark wraps his arms around your back, pressing kisses into your hair, your cheek, your jaw. He’s whispering, desperate, needy, filthy: “You’re mine, fuck, you’re mine, look at this mess you made for me. I’ll eat you out right now, clean you up with my mouth—want you dripping with me, want everyone to see. Let me, baby, let me taste you, wanna eat my cum out of your pussy.” You whimper, exhausted but high, moaning as he pulls you up, drags you back down onto his face, tongue greedy and relentless, licking you clean, humming filth into your skin as you twitch and shake, overstimulated and glowing, marked up for him and only him.

Mark doesn’t let you go, even when you start to squirm, legs trembling, breath shuddering in your chest. He’s ravenous, tongue working through your folds, lapping up the mess he left inside you, groaning low like he’s starved for the taste of you. “Fuck, you’re leaking everywhere,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and sweet against your skin. “So fucking pretty when you’re full. All of it is mine.” His hands grip your ass, spreading you wider, holding you open so he can lick every drop that spills out, the filth of it making your head spin. Your thighs quake on either side of his head, body arching up, overstimulation prickling every nerve, but you can’t stop grinding down, needing more, needing him, needing to be ruined all over again.

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t pause, tongue flattening against your clit, sucking, swirling, fingers sliding back into your pussy, spreading you open, pressing deep, curling just right. “God, baby, you taste so fucking good—could eat you all night, fuck, never get enough of you,” he groans, the words vibrating right into your core. You’re sobbing, voice gone, hands fisted in his hair, hips jerking helplessly as he keeps you locked in place, tongue relentless, unrepentant, pushing you higher even as you whimper for a break. He kisses up your stomach, wet and hungry, lips dragging across every mark he’s left, then latches onto your nipple, sucking until you cry out, the sensation bright and sharp and aching.

“Can’t believe you let me wreck you like this,” he rasps, lips swollen, chin slick with you and him, eyes blown wide with hunger and something deeper, darker. “No one else gets this, no one else gets to see you fall apart. Just me, yeah? Just Mark.” You nod frantically, tears mixing with sweat, thighs squeezed tight around his face, cunt fluttering around his fingers as you chase another high. He fucks you slow, then fast, teasing, twisting, making you beg, making you sob for more. “Say it again, baby,” he commands, mouth hot at your ear as he pulls you down, grinding you onto his tongue, “tell me who’s pussy this is. Tell me what you want.”

“Yours, yours, yours, Mark—please, please, want you to fuck me, want your cock again, want you everywhere, fill me up, ruin me, make it hurt, please—” The words spill out in a litany, half-cry, half-moan, every one of them making him groan, making him fuck you deeper, his hands bruising your hips as you bounce, clit throbbing, every inch of you vibrating with the need to come again.

He grins up at you, filthy and proud, eyes shining. “Good girl. Want me to finger you while I eat you out? Want to come on my tongue while you look me in the eye?”

You barely manage a nod before he pushes two fingers in deep, curling them just right, tongue flicking your clit merciless, eyes locked to yours as you writhe above him, moaning, gasping, begging for release. The tension snaps, your body convulsing, cunt spasming around his fingers, soaking his face as you come hard, the orgasm ripping through you, leaving you trembling and weak. Mark moans, licking you clean, fucking you through every aftershock, refusing to let go, refusing to let the high end. “That’s it, that’s my girl—look how pretty you are, how wrecked you get for me. Let me taste all of it, let me drink it down.”

He finally lets you collapse against his chest, holding you close, one hand soothing up and down your spine, the other tangled in your hair. You’re both shaking, sweat and tears and cum slicking your thighs, breath mingling as you press kisses to his throat, jaw, lips—each one messier than the last. “You’re mine,” he whispers, voice choked, desperate, reverent. “Always mine. No one touches you like this, no one ever will.” You answer with your mouth, tongue plunging into his, your hips rolling against his thigh again, not able to stop yourself, not wanting to, addicted to the way he makes you feel.

Mark shifts beneath you, hard again, cock twitching, leaking pre-cum between your thighs. He grins, crooked, wild, pupils blown, all the softness twisted into hunger. “Greedy little thing, huh? Didn’t get enough the first time? Need more?” He grabs your hips, grinding you against him, making you feel every inch, every pulse. “You want to bounce for me again? Want to come on my cock until you’re begging me to stop?” You nod, breathless, ruined, ready for anything he gives. He pulls you up, positions you over him, the tip of his cock nudging your entrance, eyes holding yours, burning with love and lust and everything you’ll never need to ask for—because he’s already giving it, over and over, as many times as you want, as many times as you need.

When Mark guides you down, there’s no rush—just a quiet, shared breath as your hips sink into the cradle of his, his cock slipping inside you slow and steady, letting your bodies meet with all the patience neither of you ever get from the world. The stretch is familiar, not urgent; it’s a filling you’ve known a thousand times, but it never stops being new. His hands rest on your hips, not gripping, just warming your skin, thumbs painting lazy circles over bone and softness. He looks up at you like you’re the only thing in the universe worth seeing, eyes gentle, a little glassy, his mouth parted and waiting for you to come to him.

You settle over him, rolling your hips in a slow, searching rhythm, chasing sensation but never hurrying it. Every slide is accompanied by a sigh, a whispered “good, so good, you’re perfect” from Mark, and you shiver with tenderness, hands coming up to rest on his chest, fingers curling in the faded cotton of his t-shirt. You move together with the easy grace of muscle memory—like dancing, like breathing, like the oldest story you’ve ever written together. He strokes your back, your arms, your thighs, caressing you as if memorizing every inch, grounding you in touch, in safety. When you start to tremble, he hushes you, murmurs sweet, secret things into the hollow of your throat: “I’ve got you, always. You can let go here.”

You lean down to kiss him, lips soft and plush, noses bumping, both of you smiling into it even as you start to moan. His mouth opens for you, tongue sliding gentle against yours, no teeth, no rush—just warmth, just home. You taste tears, both yours and his, and neither of you flinch from the salt. When you break the kiss, you press your forehead to his, your bodies moving in slow, rolling waves. The room is quiet, just the wet sound of your bodies, the creak of the bed, the stutter of your breaths tangled together. He cups your cheek, brushes his thumb under your eye, wipes away the last remnants of tonight’s pain, replacing it with the weight of his love.

He whispers every truth you need to hear, voice ragged with feeling, velvet and breaking: “You’re my favorite. My best thing. I’ll never get tired of you, not ever. You’re the reason I believe in good things.” His hands wander—tucking your hair behind your ear, smoothing the arch of your back, resting over your heart to feel it thump. You’re moving slow, hips grinding down so his cock drags along every sweet spot inside you, your clit rubbing perfectly against his pelvis. There’s nothing rough here, just the shared ache to be close, to give and be given, to be seen, to be known. Every time you gasp his name, it sounds like a prayer.

Mark presses kisses to your collarbone, to your shoulder, up the long line of your neck, breathing you in like he needs it to survive. His hands never stop moving—down your sides, up your waist, tracing every old scar and new bruise with a reverence that almost makes you cry. “So beautiful,” he sighs, voice slurred with love, and you can feel him shaking beneath you, holding back, lost in the wonder of you. When you slow, grinding down with your walls fluttering, his arms wrap around your back, pulling you to his chest so you can bury your face in the crook of his neck, clinging to him, rocking together in small, slow motions that make the whole world disappear.

You start to unravel, pleasure building slow and deep, every little friction a spark, every whispered word a balm. “Come for me, sweetheart,” Mark urges softly, thumb stroking your cheek, kissing your closed eyelids as your hips start to stutter. “Let go, I’ve got you. I’ll hold you together.” The orgasm creeps up, gentle but overwhelming, warmth spreading through your belly, stealing your breath, making you gasp and cling tighter, crying out his name as your body pulses around him, every muscle melting. He follows, shuddering, breath stuttering against your shoulder, cock pulsing deep inside, holding you so close you could almost swear you hear his heartbeat inside your own chest. After, you don’t move. You stay wrapped around each other, skin pressed tight, limbs tangled, chests rising and falling in sync. Mark strokes your hair, kisses your jaw, rubs your back slow and patient, humming the song you love under his breath. The room is dark, safe, your bodies glowing with afterglow and the simple, fragile wonder of being wanted—of being chosen, every part of you, again and again, in the soft, golden hush where you both finally belong.

Mark doesn’t let you go, not even when your bodies start to settle and your breaths fall quiet, content to just exist in each other’s arms. His hand slides up your thigh, slow and steady, knuckles grazing soft skin, his eyes still fixed on your face like he’s trying to memorize you in the half-dark. He shifts you gently, turning your bodies with a practiced, loving patience, rolling you onto your back so he can drape himself over you, cocooning you beneath his weight. There’s nothing hurried—just the slow press of his chest against yours, the heat of his cock nestled between your thighs, the soft sound of his mouth brushing your cheek, your jaw, the bridge of your nose. He kisses you everywhere but your mouth, as if saving the best for last.

He enters you again, slow and careful, never breaking eye contact, his cock pushing deep inch by inch until you’re full, breath caught, eyes fluttering shut at the sensation. Mark hooks his arms under your knees, angling your hips just right, spreading you wide, but every movement is reverent, tender—his thumbs drawing slow circles on the backs of your thighs, his lips never far from your skin. He starts to move in long, lazy strokes, hips rolling against yours, cock dragging against every sensitive place inside you, making you gasp and arch and shiver beneath him. He whispers your name with every thrust, a mantra, a worship, something holy spun into the dark.

Between each movement he pauses, leaning in to press his forehead to yours, brushing your hair back, kissing your eyelids, breathing you in. His hands cradle your face, fingertips stroking your jaw, and he murmurs little confessions—how good you feel, how beautiful you look, how he wants to spend the rest of his life learning every secret your body holds. The room is filled with your soft noises: the hitch in your breath when he pushes deeper, the shaky “I love you” you whisper back, the shuddering moans you can’t hold in as his rhythm starts to stutter, each slow thrust drawing you closer and closer to unraveling. Mark’s hips never slam, never lose that soft rolling tempo—he’s making love to you like there’s all the time in the world, like you’re the only two people left alive.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, fingers threading through his hair, heels digging into his lower back, grounding him to you. Your bodies rock together in the oldest rhythm, slow and deep, every inch of skin slick and warm, his mouth pressing open-mouthed kisses to your neck, your collarbone, your trembling lips. He tells you you’re perfect, that you’re safe, that there’s nowhere he’d rather be than right here, inside you, loving you soft and open and real. You whisper back, tell him he’s home, that he’s your favorite, your best thing, your only thing. Every time you moan his name, he answers with a kiss, with a squeeze, with another lazy, delicious thrust.

As the night bleeds on, he makes you come slow, again and again, never rushing, never letting the moment slip away. He draws it out—his cock dragging in and out, fingers finding your clit, his words spilling like honey in your ear, keeping you on the edge until you’re crying with the sweetness of it, the intimacy, the love that fills every space between your bones. When you fall apart for him, it’s soft and loud all at once, your whole body trembling as he holds you, murmurs “that’s it, let go, I’ve got you,” kissing away every tear, rocking you through every aftershock.

Mark folds his body over yours, the shift slow and hushed, the mattress sighing beneath the new weight, and you feel every inch of him settle like warm silk against your skin, a curtain of safety drawn around the night, his lips meeting your brow in a kiss that tastes of rainwater and promises that never rust, and for a moment you swear the room has no walls at all, only the breath of his devotion circling you, holding back every sorrow the world once pressed into your shoulders. His palm glides from the hollow of your throat to the soft underside of your thigh, lifting until your bodies open to each other with the reverence of a blossom at dawn, and he sinks inside with a patience wide as the ocean, inch by inch, filling every empty space as if sculpting new constellations under your ribs. He stays buried deep, forehead resting to yours, hearts hammering together in a shared drum, and you feel the evening inhale through the open window, the curtain billowing like a tide, carrying away the last shadow of hurt that clung to you when the door closed behind Jay earlier. Two hearts beat, two lungs breathe, two mouths search, and the silence between pulses feels holy.

Each slow thrust turns into a tide rolling over sand, smoothing every sharp edge the day carved into you, and you rise to meet him with matching softness, hips canting in a rhythm stitched from memory and wonder, your fingers weaving through his hair where curls spring loose like vines reaching for light, and he murmurs your name with each glide deeper, voice velvet and raw, a psalm for two. The lamp on the dresser casts a warm ellipse across his shoulders, revealing the shadows of freckles and half-healed bruises left by earlier hunger, and you map them with your lips, sealing every dark mark with a kiss that promises gentleness, while his thumb sweeps the curve of your cheekbone as though outlining a secret script only his pulse can read. He whispers you are safe, you are wanted, you are cherished, repeating the words until they seep into marrow, and with every breath you offer him your trust the way petals offer dawn, aching wide for warmth and color. Your bodies sway together, slow arcs, until the hush inside the room grows louder than any storm you have known.

When he moves faster it feels like a sunrise cresting the horizon rather than a blaze, gold pouring through unseen cracks and pooling beneath your ribs, filling you with gentle light, and your tears return, only these carry sweetness instead of salt, glimmering against your temples before slipping to his lips where he kisses each one away, drinking them like sacred wine. You whisper you love him in a voice small yet steady, the phrase that once floated casually through shared breakfast air now rooted deep as an ancient oak, and his reply sounds like soil and seed and future in full bloom, I love you, more than any morning, more than any sky, and the words thread through your pulse while his hips keep that slow tender rhythm, coaxing wave after wave of warmth through your belly until pleasure swells gentle and immense, an unfurling banner of soft fire behind your eyelids. You cling to him, nails grazing shoulders in silent applause, thighs trembling around his waist, and when climax washes over both of you it arrives like a slow-rolling thunder, low and resonant, leaving the air vibrating with quiet awe, bodies fused in a glow that feels unbreakable.

Afterward he never pulls away, his weight a quiet shield over your heart, breaths mingling as his fingertips sketch lazy spirals along your spine, and the outside world retreats to a distant hush while inside these four joined limbs the universe remakes itself calmer and brighter. You trade soft kisses that taste of sleep and spun sugar, the covers tucked around your sides like gentle tides, and you let your eyes drift closed to the sound of his hum, a lullaby older than memory, until dreams drift onto the shore carrying lanterns lit with his name, and the last thing you feel before slipping under is his thumb tracing the arc of your hip, sealing the night with a promise made of silken light and quiet infinity.

He doesn’t leave you empty. Mark stays inside, hips pressed tight to yours, chest heavy over your heart, mouth pressed to your hairline, humming your favorite song. You fall asleep that way—tangled up, him buried deep, his hands stroking your sides, your bodies sticky and spent and glowing in the hush. When you wake, it’s to the slow drag of his hips and the sweet, aching stretch of him moving inside you again, his voice low and thick with love, promising you a hundred more mornings just like this, a thousand more nights where it’s only you, only him, and the world outside fading into nothing at all. You drift in the hush that follows, your head cradled against Mark’s chest, his heartbeat slow and steady under your cheek. His arms never loosen, even as your breathing evens out and your lashes grow heavy, the sweat drying on your skin where his body warms every shivering inch of you. He tucks the blankets up around your shoulders, fingers sliding through your hair, thumb smoothing across your brow with a tenderness that feels older than language. He kisses your temple, barely a whisper of contact, but it glows through you like a fuse catching light. You melt into the bed, boneless and warm, body marked inside and out with the memory of him.

The room is thick with quiet and heartbeats and the spent hush of night after a storm. Mark’s hand rests over your sternum, palm rising and falling with your breaths, as if anchoring you to the present, or to him. You find yourself tracing small circles on his ribs, the two of you still tangled, legs and arms and the faint press of his chest hair beneath your fingertips, and it feels too intimate to be anything less than forever—but neither of you speak, both hovering at the edge of a truth that feels too new and too old at once. Your eyes close, a soft sigh slipping from your lips, and the world contracts to the space between your heart and his. You don’t say anything about how different it feels, about the way every slow thrust, every whispered promise, every sobbed I love you has rewired something permanent between you. You don’t dare name it, not tonight, not yet. But as you fall asleep with his hand still holding your heart steady and his body molded to yours in the dark, you know with a certainty that burrows deep and quiet: nothing about you and Mark will ever be the same again. Tomorrow, the world will shift on its axis. But for now, in this quiet cocoon of tenderness and heat, you let yourself rest, not knowing what’s changed, only that everything has.

You wake alone, sunlight slicing across the tangled sheets, the faint warmth of where Mark’s body should be already fading from the mattress beside you. The apartment is too still, the air holding its breath, no gentle snore or lazy arm thrown over your waist, no sleep-drunk smile pressed into your shoulder. Your heart gives a slow, uncertain twist, this isn’t how it goes, not ever. Mark always stays until the last possible second, always needs to be woken with your fingers tracing his ribs or your lips against his jaw, always rolls over with a muttered “five more minutes, baby” and holds you tighter, refusing to let you go. Today, you only have cold sheets and a pillow that still smells like his cologne, a ghost of last night clinging to the fabric.

You shuffle out to the kitchen, still wearing his old shirt, bare legs chilly against the floor, hoping to find some sign that the intimacy of last night wasn’t just a fever dream. But Mark’s already dressed, standing at the counter in his hoodie, head bent over a mug he rinses with mechanical precision. His movements are sharp, practiced, every edge drawn tighter than usual, shoulders hunched like he’s bracing for impact. He doesn’t look at you when you enter, doesn’t call you “trouble,” doesn’t offer that lazy smile you love, just keeps his eyes on the swirl of black coffee in the press. “Morning,” he mutters, and that’s all. You hover, aching for him to turn, to pull you in by the waist and kiss your temple, to ask if you slept okay, but he just pours a cup for himself, leaves yours untouched on the shelf. There’s no note on the napkin, no inside joke, no warmth in the simple routines that have always been yours.

You cross your arms, leaning against the doorway, watching him as he stirs sugar into his coffee. He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t ask about your plans, doesn’t tease you for your messy hair or the way his shirt hangs off your shoulder. The silence grows heavy, the kind that drowns conversation before it’s born, and when you finally risk a gentle, “Did you sleep okay?”

His response is little more than a shrug, eyes still glued to the mug. “Yeah. Fine. Hope you got some rest.” He glances at you once, fleeting and unreadable, before his gaze drops to his phone, thumb moving across the screen like you’re not even there. You want to reach for him, to close the distance, to say last night changed everything, but the words won’t come. It feels like talking to a stranger who wears your lover’s skin.

He sits at the table, scrolling through notifications, answering texts, never looking up, never reaching for your hand beneath the battered wood the way he always does. Every movement is careful, contained, like he’s built a wall in the night and you’re still outside, shivering. Even the sun seems sharper, more indifferent. When his alarm buzzes, he stands abruptly, drains the last of his coffee, and slings his bag over his shoulder. There’s a beat where you think he might stop—might cross the kitchen, gather you close, whisper something only for you—but he just slips on his shoes, fingers fumbling with the laces, his mouth a flat line. “Got class,” he says. “I’ll see you later.” No kiss, no “love you,” not even the habitual tug of your hair before he leaves.

The door clicks shut, the sound too soft, almost apologetic, and you’re left standing in the kitchen, clutching his shirt to your chest, every part of you ringing with the ache of what’s gone missing. Last night’s tenderness is still on your skin, the memory of his hands, his mouth, his whispered I love yous—now so distant you wonder if you dreamed it. The kitchen feels colder, the world newly unfamiliar. You sink into the nearest chair, press your fingertips to your lips as if you can hold in the shape of his kisses, and try to remember what it was like before everything changed. You stare at the closed door and realize you have no idea when—if—he’ll walk back through it the same as he was.

It’s been weeks. The seasons have changed, trees shedding gold at the curbs, but you and Mark have become strangers inside the apartment you once treated like your shared skin. He’s barely home—leaves early, comes back late, never brings you coffee, never collapses beside you with laughter still clinging to his collar. He’s always somewhere: the library, the courts, the party circuits, always with a different girl in tow. You’ve seen the stories on friends’ feeds, Mark pressed close to someone else, lips half-hidden by her hair, hands on hips, faces blurred in the strobe and sweat. You pretend it doesn’t cut, but it does. You both orbit the same social spaces, but where you used to gravitate together—tangled on some couch, legs thrown over his lap, the inside joke always ready—now there’s only the brittle clatter of small talk if you pass in the kitchen, the cold hush when he comes home and leaves again without looking up.

The silence is worst at night, when your room feels cavernous, sheets too smooth, the air carrying nothing but the faint echo of his laughter from down the hall. When you see him, he’s different—sharper, harder around the eyes, smirking too wide, flirting with anyone who’ll bite. You’ve tried to fill the space with other people: dates who feel more like distractions, long walks with boys who say the right things but touch you wrong, dinners that end in awkward hugs at your door. None of them fit. You lie to yourself, say it’s freedom, say you’re over it, but every time you open your phone and see his name, your chest knots up and the ache returns, raw and endless.

It all comes out over takeout one night, the carton half-empty in your lap, your face buried in Chaewon’s shoulder. She’s always been gossip central, the first to know who’s fucking who, who cheated, who got dumped, who’s lying about being over someone. Tonight she just lets you cry, stroking your hair, murmuring little comforts—“He’s an idiot, you’re better off, you deserve so much more, babe”—until the sobs fade to sniffles and you can finally talk. You tell her you miss him more than anything, that you feel like you’ve lost your best friend and your world at once, that you’d trade every kiss with every stranger just to get back the sound of his voice in the middle of the night.

After a while, Chaewon sighs, pulling you upright, pushing hair out of your eyes. “Listen,” she says, her tone shifting from gentle to sharp, “word on the street is that Mark admitted to Jeno he’s, like, actually in love with you. Not just in-love, like wrecked over you. Like, all his friends know it. Even Jeno told Haechan and now everyone’s side-eyeing him when he walks into a room. The thing is—” She twirls a chopstick between her fingers, lips twisting. “—that’s exactly why he’s keeping away. He told Jeno he doesn’t know how to act around you now, like he’s scared if he’s close he’ll fuck it up or make things worse. You know how he is—doesn’t trust himself, hates losing control, especially with you. So he’s…what do guys do? He’s running. He’s fucking around, acting like it’s nothing, because if he lets himself feel it, he thinks it’ll ruin everything you have left. That’s how his brain works. He thinks loving you means letting you go. Classic Mark Lee logic. Absolute idiot.”

Her words slice through the haze, and you realize this mess—this constant blur, this never-defining, never-settling—is the only way you’ve ever known each other. You think about every night you watched him slip out to hook up with someone else, every morning you curled up in his bed and pretended not to care, every time you both went on dates just to avoid the way you looked at each other in the dark. Maybe you thought this loose, confusing dance was freedom. Maybe it was just fear, the slow decay of not daring to say what you wanted, the thousand half-truths you told yourself because you couldn’t bear to break what little you had.

Chaewon watches you, waiting for it to sink in, then nudges your knee. “So. Here’s what I think: you need to stop waiting for him to figure it out. He’s an idiot but he loves you, and he’s scared shitless. But you’re both just as miserable now, so what’s the point in pretending? Just go to him. Tell him the truth. Make him listen. Don’t let fear decide what happens to you. If you want him, fight for it. Someone has to go first. Why not you?” She smiles, a little sad, a little wise. “Besides, babe, you’ve spent too long missing each other. It’s time you let yourselves have something real.”

It’s been weeks. The seasons have changed, trees shedding gold at the curbs, but you and Mark have become strangers inside the apartment you once treated like your shared skin. He’s barely home, leaves early, comes back late, never brings you coffee, never collapses beside you with laughter still clinging to his collar. He’s always somewhere: the library, the courts, the party circuits, always with a different girl in tow. You’ve seen the stories on friends’ feeds, Mark pressed close to someone else, lips half-hidden by her hair, hands on hips, faces blurred in the strobe and sweat. You pretend it doesn’t cut, but it does. You both orbit the same social spaces, but where you used to gravitate together, tangled on some couch, legs thrown over his lap, the inside joke always ready, now there’s only the brittle clatter of small talk if you pass in the kitchen, the cold hush when he comes home and leaves again without looking up.

After a while, Chaewon sighs, pulling you upright, pushing hair out of your eyes. “Listen,” she says, her tone shifting from gentle to sharp, “word on the street is that Mark admitted to Jeno he’s, like, actually in love with you. Not just in-love, like wrecked over you. Like, all his friends know it. Even Jeno told Donnghyuck and now everyone’s side-eyeing him when he walks into a room. The thing is—” She twirls a chopstick between her fingers, lips twisting. “—that’s exactly why he’s keeping away. He told Jeno he doesn’t know how to act around you now, like he’s scared if he’s close he’ll fuck it up or make things worse. You know how he is, doesn’t trust himself, hates losing control, especially with you. So he’s…what do guys do? He’s running. He’s fucking around, acting like it’s nothing, because if he lets himself feel it, he thinks it’ll ruin everything you have left. That’s how his brain works. He thinks loving you means letting you go. Classic Mark Lee logic. Absolute idiot.”

Her words slice through the haze, and you realize this mess,this constant blur, this never-defining, never-settling, is the only way you’ve ever known each other. You think about every night you watched him slip out to hook up with someone else, every morning you curled up in his bed and pretended not to care, every time you both went on dates just to avoid the way you looked at each other in the dark. Maybe you thought this loose, confusing dance was freedom. Maybe it was just fear, the slow decay of not daring to say what you wanted, the thousand half-truths you told yourself because you couldn’t bear to break what little you had.

You nod, still blinking away the sting of Chaewon’s advice, half terrified she’s right, half wishing it were that simple. But before the ache can settle too deep, she straightens, a wicked spark flickering in her eyes. “Okay, then. Time to put your money where your heartbreak is, babe. There’s a party at Jeno’s this weekend, he’s calling it, get this, ‘the Fall of the House of Lee’ because he thinks it’ll be so wild someone’s gonna end up crying on the roof or falling in love in the kitchen.” She cackles, nudging you again. “He said he’s even bought fairy lights, disposable cameras, and a fog machine. Full main character moment.”

You laugh, in spite of yourself, but she leans in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Listen, Winter’s already been telling everyone that Mark’s taking her, that it’s basically a done deal and they’re the new campus power couple. You really want her running her mouth all over group chat tomorrow? Babe, you’re gonna walk in with someone else, make him squirm. Make him remember exactly who he’s losing.” She taps her phone against her chin, eyebrows wiggling. “So. Prospects. Let’s see… Jaemin? No, too pretty—he’d steal your thunder and probably try to make out with Jeno by midnight. Renjun? Absolutely not, you’ll both end up psychoanalyzing each other in the bathroom by 10 p.m. Donghyuck? Hah! You’d end up co-hosting karaoke and spilling all your secrets, plus he’s still banned from Jeno’s after the glitter bomb incident. Chenle? Please. You’d have to sign a waiver and split the tequila bill.”

You start to laugh harder, and Chaewon grins, triumphant. “That leaves us with the obvious. Jeno. He’s hot, he’s safe, he’s never minded playing boyfriend for a night, and you know he’ll hype you up so good Winter will pop a blood vessel. Plus, Mark has always, always had a weird thing about you and Jeno. You know he’ll notice.” She squeezes your hand, the plan already taking shape. “So that’s it. You’re going to walk in on Jeno’s arm, all legs and lipstick, looking like you’re the one having the night of your life—and you’re going to let Mark see every second of it.” She leans in, eyes glinting with mischief and something close to hope. “Trust me, babe. Sometimes you have to start the fire yourself and watch who runs through it for you.”

When the weekend finally hits, the air’s electric—Chaewon’s already on your bed before sunset, a tornado of silk scarves and lip gloss and scattered jewelry. She raids your closet with merciless glee, tossing out anything even remotely demure, crowing with triumph when she unearths the slinky black dress you only ever wear when you want to feel like chaos bottled in velvet. “This one,” she declares, pressing it against your frame, the hem barely grazing your thighs, neckline plunging, every curve on unapologetic display. She drapes it over a chair and sets her sights on you—“Tonight’s for revenge, baby, not for comfort.”

She props you up on the stool, dusts shimmer along your cheekbones, blends gold into your eyelids until you look like you’re glowing from inside out. Her fingers work deftly, threading your hair into loose, glossy waves, letting a few strands tumble artfully around your shoulders. You watch her in the mirror, her reflection grinning back, eyes gleaming. “No bra. Trust me. If he’s gonna stare, give him a reason.” The fabric skims your skin, clings to your hips, the side slit flashing smooth thigh with every step. She drapes a delicate gold chain around your neck, slides thin bangles onto your wrist, fastens hoops through your ears, every detail curated to make you look expensive, dangerous, absolutely untouchable.

You tilt your head, studying the final result: lips lacquered in wine-dark red, hair soft and wild, bare skin gleaming under the low light. Your perfume is the last touch, spicy and heady, dabbed at your throat and wrists until you can feel the pulse of your own want. Chaewon stands back, hands on her hips, admiring her work. “He won’t know what hit him,” she says, voice wicked. “Nobody will.” You laugh, nerves twisted up with something giddy and mean. For the first time in weeks, you feel powerful—predatory, a little cruel, the kind of girl who walks into a room and rewrites the story. By the time you slip into your heels and zip your dress, you’re grinning at your reflection, ready to burn the night down and let everyone—especially Mark—watch you glow.

You arrive with her at your side, arm in arm, laughter bubbling nervously and wild. Jeno greets you at the door with his usual bear hug, swinging you off your feet. “If it isn’t heartbreak herself,” he teases, ruffling your hair, “and Chaewon, my second favorite bad influence. You two plan on breaking anyone’s heart tonight, or just each other’s records for shots?”

Jaemin’s there too, leaning against the kitchen counter, eyebrows waggling as he catches sight of you. “Who let you get this hot? Jeno, I told you to set a dress code, this is indecent—what if Mark’s delicate sensibilities can’t take it?”

Donghyuck snickers, tossing you a lemon wedge. “You could wear a trash bag and he’d still combust. Not that I’m complaining.

Everyone’s in rare form tonight, the kind of party where the air’s thick with heat and risk and everything feels spun just a little too tight. Jeno’s living room is a glowing maze of bodies, Jaemin has commandeered the kitchen counter, charming his way into someone’s phone, Donghyuck and Renjun have staged a mock rap battle on top of the coffee table, making the crowd shriek and howl with every savage rhyme. The karaoke mic keeps cutting in and out, but nobody cares, someone’s always belting into it, half the party on their feet, the rest pressed close in little clusters, limbs entwined, voices lost in the music and the press of skin.

Chaewon is a vision in silver, already holding court by the hallway mirror, arms tangled with friends new and old, but she never lets you stray too far. You catch her gaze across the room—she winks, raises her glass, and mouths, don’t you dare stop now. Jeno materialises at your side, all effortless charm and mischief, leaning in until his lips brush your ear. “Chaewon’s told me what the plan is gonna be. Tonight, we’re raising hell. Let’s make him beg.” His hand finds yours, fingers lacing tight, and you squeeze back, grinning as he spins you straight onto the dance floor.

The music thunders, heavy and sensual, lights flickering gold and scarlet, and you let Jeno pull you close, one hand at your hip, the other guiding your wrist, both of you moving slow at first, bodies pressed chest to chest. He dips you low, makes you laugh, spins you wild until you’re dizzy and sparkling, the world a blur except for his smile and your own reflection in his dark, dancing eyes. When the beat shifts, he pulls you in tight, your back to his chest, his hands splayed wide over your hips as you roll together, letting every curve and sway broadcast exactly how good it feels to be wanted, to be watched.

Drinks appear, cold and fizzing, and you clink glasses, laughing against his shoulder. You toss your head back, arch into him, letting his hands trace your sides, the dress riding high, your skin hot where his palms press possessive. Jeno’s voice is warm in your ear: “He’s watching, babe. He hasn’t looked away once.” Chaewon howls from the sofa, egging you on, and you drop into his lap, straddling him right there on the couch, hands sliding into his hair, lips finding his in a show-stopping kiss—hot, deep, slow, tongue tangled, your body moving against him in time with the bass, both of you unbothered by the roar of the party around you.

You break away, panting, one hand cupping his jaw, the other gripping his thigh. Jeno’s eyes are bright, laughter and adrenaline mixing as he squeezes your waist, grinding you down just enough to make your skirt ride even higher. You feel the eyes on you, the energy shifting, the music drowning out everything but the heat between you and the promise of chaos in every touch. For the first time all night, you let yourself feel wild, and alive, and absolutely untouchable, knowing full well that across the room, Mark’s hands have gone slack on Winter’s hips, and there’s fire in his eyes that’s only for you.

Mark and Winter are sprawled across the couch directly opposite, the two of them a tableau of manufactured ease, her dress hiked high over tanned thighs, one heel digging into the cushion, her body twisted half into his lap. She laughs too loud at something he hasn’t said, lipstick smeared messily across his jaw as she clings to him, running painted nails through his hair with the sort of entitlement that makes your skin crawl. But Mark’s only going through the motions, barely even touching her, his arm flung along the back of the couch, bottle dangling carelessly from his fingers. His face is angled toward Winter, but his gaze never stops roaming, drifting past her shoulder, sweeping the crowd until his eyes lock on you, over and over, never subtle, burning holes through the haze and noise.

You catch the heat of his stare as you lean in closer to Jeno, the two of you performing for the whole room, your laughter ringing out, nails tracing lazy circles on Jeno’s chest. Jeno plays along with relish, hand splayed wide on your thigh, voice dropping to a murmur meant for Mark’s ears as much as yours. “He’s dying over there, you know. Can’t take his fucking eyes off you.” You glance back, meeting Mark’s glare dead-on, lips parting just enough for him to see your tongue dart out, glossy and wet, before you press your mouth to Jeno’s jaw, letting him tug you fully onto his lap.

Winter, sensing the shift, winds herself tighter around Mark, grinding into him with an exaggerated roll of her hips, breathless and brazen, but it only makes him stiffer, his fingers digging so hard into the leather you wonder if he’ll snap it in half. Every time you giggle for Jeno, Mark’s grip tightens; when you grind down, his jaw clenches, something ugly and wild flickering behind his eyes. Even Winter starts to falter, her laughter brittle, eyes darting between the two of you, her voice growing shrill. She leans in, mouthing something hot and dirty in Mark’s ear, but he just nods, gaze trained over her shoulder, watching the way you arch for Jeno, how your thighs bracket his, your hand tugging Jeno’s shirt open at the collar, the whole thing a dance you both know is for him.

You stretch your legs across Jeno’s lap, arching your back, laughter rising as Jeno whispers something wicked, fingers skimming the bare skin above your knee. You don’t miss the way Mark’s nostrils flare, the way he shifts under Winter, his own hips jerking almost involuntarily. Jeno grins, voice hot in your ear: “If looks could kill, he’d be dragging me out by the throat right now. You want to really break him?” His hands slip to your waist, tugging you flush against his chest. “Just say the word.” The tension in the room builds—thick, stifling, sexual in a way that leaves every inch of you buzzing, the crowd around you oblivious to the storm brewing between your couch and his. Winter grabs Mark’s face, pulls him in for a messy, desperate kiss, smearing her lipstick in a line across his cheek, but he barely responds, his eyes wide open, locked on you, like he’s daring you to stop, to come claim him, to end the game before it spirals past the point of no return.

Chaewon catches your eye from across the room, nods once, all teeth and knowing wickedness. “Ready?” she mouths, and you hold Mark’s gaze, something like a challenge written in every line of your body, heart hammering in your chest as you nod back. The room spins, time hanging suspended on the cusp of something dangerous, and you know—whatever happens next, there’s no turning back. Not tonight. Not for either of you.

The music dips, bassline giving way to a slow, dirty beat—something older, heavier, the kind of song that seeps into your bones and makes everyone move closer. Sweat clings to your skin, your dress hitching higher as Jeno keeps you tight against him, hands gripping your thighs as you grind in his lap, the old sofa creaking beneath you. The lights have softened, gold and violet spilling across tangled limbs, the crowd thinning as people drift to the kitchen or the balcony for air, but you stay, refusing to break the spell, refusing to look away from Mark, who sits opposite with Winter splayed across him like a threat he never asked for.

Chaewon starts a truth-or-dare in the corner, cackling as Jaemin kisses someone upside-down, but you and Jeno spin in your own orbit, laughter and showy flirtation pulling a small audience. Mark’s knuckles have gone white, jaw clenched so tight you see the muscle ticking as he watches, not even bothering to hide it anymore. Every time you throw your head back and laugh at something Jeno says, Mark’s stare burns through you, fingers digging into the couch, his chest rising and falling too fast. Jeno leans up, warm breath against your ear, voice low and playful: “He’s dying, you know. If he doesn’t do something soon, I really am going to take you home.”

You grin, emboldened, and let your hand slide up Jeno’s thigh, close enough that Mark sees everything. You nuzzle into Jeno’s neck, mouth open against his skin, moaning just loud enough for the people nearby to catch, and Mark—across the room—looks seconds from snapping. Winter’s all over him, lips smearing fresh red over his jaw, but his body’s rigid, his hands just resting on her waist, the light in his eyes growing feral every time your laughter cracks the air. Finally, Mark grabs Winter’s wrist, gentle but firm, says something low and final, and she yanks away, glowering, stalking off through the crowd with her pride in tatters.

Now Mark is alone on the couch, eyes locked to yours, and the whole party seems to press in around the two of you. Jeno smirks, nudges you off his lap, and with a quick stretch, he disappears into the crowd, catching Chaewon’s eye and giving her a little wink. She lifts her drink in a silent toast, her grin wide and satisfied. You sit there, heart pounding, adrenaline washing through you, not sure if you’re the hunter or the hunted anymore. Mark stands slowly, draining his glass, the buzz of the room warping and dulling as he closes the space between you. Every step is careful, his expression unreadable, until he’s there—right in front of you, so close you can smell the whiskey and something sharp and familiar. He kneels down, hands landing on your knees, fingers tracing circles over your skin.

Mark leans in, crowd blurring into a wall of noise, every nerve in your body sharp and exposed under his stare. His hands rest on your knees, and for a second you think he’s going to pull you in, but there’s too much distance in his eyes—something shuttered and dark, lips pressed into a hard line. You wait for him to say something soft, to apologize, to laugh the way he always does when things get tense, but all you get is silence and the furious pulse of your own heart. “You done playing?” he says, voice low but brittle, barely holding steady. “You get what you wanted out of Jeno, or do you want another round?” His thumb skims your bare skin, but there’s nothing gentle in the touch; it’s an accusation, every word sharp enough to cut.

You blink, disbelief rolling through you, the whole party vanishing from your mind. “Are you serious right now?” you shoot back, trying to keep your voice steady, refusing to let him see you flinch. “You’ve barely looked at me for weeks. You’ve been an asshole, Mark. Don’t act like this is on me. You ghosted me. You made me feel like shit, like none of it meant anything. Don’t fucking turn this around.”

You let out a shaky breath, fingers twisting the hem of your dress, pulse thumping everywhere you wish you could be numb. You lean back, meeting his eyes, voice trembling but relentless. “You don’t get to act like this is nothing, Mark. You hurt me. You really fucking hurt me. You just—left. You shut me out, you pretended you didn’t care, you let everyone think we were just friends again, like nothing happened between us. You went and hooked up with other people, you let Winter and a million of other bozo’s hang all over you, you stopped talking to me and just expected me to pretend it was fine. Do you know what that felt like? I was your best friend, Mark. You made me feel like I didn’t matter at all. Like none of it mattered.”

Your voice cracks, heat behind your eyes, but you don’t stop. “You didn’t even say anything. You just disappeared. You let me sit there, wondering what I did wrong, wondering why I wasn’t enough, why you couldn’t just talk to me. I missed you so much it made me sick. I still miss you, even now, and it’s fucking killing me to sit here and pretend that I’m okay. I needed you and you weren’t there, not even a little. I tried to move on because I had to—because I couldn’t stand the idea that you didn’t want me anymore, or that maybe you never did. So don’t you dare look at me like I’m the one who broke us. And you left after we made love, Mark—just slipped out like it didn’t mean anything, like I was just another girl you fucked at some party, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt lonelier in my life. I lay there in your bed, still smelling you on my skin, trying to convince myself it didn’t hurt, but it did. I felt empty and stupid, ashamed for wanting more, for thinking maybe you wanted me back. I just kept thinking, if you really cared, you’d have stayed—you’d have looked at me in the morning and made me feel safe. Instead, I woke up alone.”

He swallows, eyes shining, mouth open but no words at first—just the frantic rise and fall of his chest, the way his hand hovers over your thigh, needing permission to touch. “I’m sorry,” he finally says, voice raw and unsteady. “I’m so fucking sorry, I know I was awful. I didn’t want to hurt you, I just—I was scared. I was losing it, feeling everything get so fucking big, and I didn’t know how to handle it. Every time I looked at you, I wanted more. I wanted everything. And that scared the shit out of me. I thought if I kept my distance, if I acted like I didn’t care, maybe it would go away, maybe I could handle it. But I can’t. I couldn’t. You’re everywhere. You’re in everything I do. I didn’t talk to you because I didn’t know how to say any of this. I kept thinking I’d ruin us, that you’d leave if you really knew how much you mean to me. That you’d see how fucked up I am about you and run.”

Mark’s hand tightens around yours, thumb tracing desperate circles, his voice rough and ragged. “What I felt after that night scared me more than anything,” he admits, searching your face, shame flickering behind every word. “Making love to you—it wasn’t just sex, it was everything, it was all the shit I’ve been trying not to feel for years. I woke up and realized I couldn’t go back. I didn’t want to ruin us—I thought if I stayed, if I let myself be close, I’d mess it up and lose you for good. I was terrified that I’d break what we had, that I’d be too much, that you’d wake up and see I was never enough for you. So I panicked. I thought maybe if I acted like it was nothing, if I kept my distance, we could keep our friendship, keep something, even if it meant losing the part of you I wanted most. I’m sorry I hurt you. I just—I didn’t know how to handle what I felt.”

Mark exhales, thumb brushing the tear tracks on your cheeks like he can erase them molecule by molecule, and when he speaks his voice trembles with the weight of every unsent text, every middle-of-the-night thought he tries to bury. “I woke up that morning, sunlight spilling over your back, and it hit me so hard I couldn’t breathe, how right it felt, how badly I wanted to wake up beside you a thousand more times. And I panicked, because you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, the only thing I’ve never wanted to risk. I lay there counting all the ridiculous little ways you already owned me: the extra blanket you leave folded on the couch because you know I run cold, the way you steal my hoodies but always wash them with that lavender detergent so they still smell like home, the playlist you made for my 3-a.m. study nights and updated every semester without telling me. I thought about freshman year when you dragged me to the ER at 2 a.m. because I’d sliced my hand cooking ramen, and you sat on the hospital floor making stupid puns to keep me from passing out. I thought about sophomore winter when you lost your voice for a week and still showed up to my recital with a sign that said you’re doing amazing, Mark,’ shaking it like a lunatic. Every single memory said the same thing: I love you.”

“And that terrified me. All my life, people leave when I get too intense, when the fun slips and the real stuff shows. I kept thinking if I stayed in that bed, if I let the morning happen, coffee with you in my shirt, your laugh in my kitchen, my heart on my sleeve, you’d see how deep it goes and decide it’s too much. So I did the only cowardly thing I know: I ran. I tried to file the night away under ‘good memories,’ like it was a photo I could tuck in a drawer and visit when it hurt less. But then I saw you in the kitchen that first morning after, trying to pretend you were fine while I pretended I didn’t notice the way your hands shook around your mug, and it wrecked me. Ghosting you was never about not caring; it was about caring so violently I didn’t know how to hold it without crushing it—or you. I thought space would protect us. Instead it hollowed me out. Every song on the radio was you, every stupid campus rumor about who you were dating felt like a blade. I’d walk past the laundry room and see my hoodie missing, and I’d have to bite my tongue to keep from begging you to come home.

“I love you,” he repeats, the words fragile and fierce all at once, “because you’re the pulse under every quiet moment of my day. Because even when I tried to forget you, everything I did was a map back to you. I love you for the way you correct people’s pronouns without making it a spectacle, for the way you hum off-key in the grocery store, for the way you mouth ‘you’ve got this’ before every exam even when you’re the one who studied all night. I love you when you’re brave and when you’re scared, when you’re gentle and when you’re spitting mad. I love you because you make me want to write better songs, be a better friend, take better care of myself, just so I can be worthy of standing next to you.” He cups the back of your neck, forehead resting against yours, breath warm and trembling. “So yeah, I left that morning, but every step away from you felt wrong. I’m done running. If you’ll let me, I’ll spend every morning for the rest of my life proving I’m not going anywhere again.”

There’s a riot swelling behind you—Chaewon’s shriek, Jeno’s wolf-whistle, Jaemin’s howl, Donghyuck’s palms beating a slow, mocking clap that rolls through the room and ripples into a hundred shouts and laughter—but none of it touches you. You’re gone, lost in the heat and hunger of Mark’s mouth on yours, the taste of relief and apology and every unsaid word. His hands cradle your face, then drop to your hips, dragging you closer, crushing you into his chest until you feel your heart slamming against his, the world tilting on its axis. He kisses you like he’s starving, like he can’t believe you’re real, his lips bruising and soft, teeth biting, tongue sliding into your mouth and swallowing every protest. Your hands fist in his hair, pulling him down, grinding into his lap, letting yourself drown in the pressure of his hands, the way he groans when you roll your hips and press your body hard to his.

You’re half on his lap, breathless and dizzy, the room blurring into nothing but the urgent, frantic slide of mouths and hands. He breaks the kiss only long enough to rasp, “Come here,” and then he’s standing, hands gripping under your thighs, lifting you like you weigh nothing, carrying you through the crowd. The cheers fade, replaced by the thud of your pulse, your legs wrapped around his waist, fingers twisted tight in the collar of his shirt. Mark shoulders through the hallway, head bent to yours, lips never far from your skin. He finds the nearest empty bathroom, fumbles the lock behind you, and sets you down on the counter—his hands greedy, his eyes wild, the taste of you still on his lips. For the first time in weeks, you’re both exactly where you belong, nothing between you but heat and want and every promise you couldn’t say until now.

Mark’s hands don’t waste a second, skimming up your thighs, rough and sure, hiking your dress over your hips with a greed that makes your breath catch, his knuckles scraping your skin. He nudges your knees wider, dropping to his knees in front of you right there on the counter, the door barely locked, your body trembling from the rush. He palms your thighs, spreads you so wide the cool tile bites at your skin, and dips his head between your legs like he’s been starved for years, tongue flat and hot and immediate, licking a stripe up your slit, groaning at the taste. “Fuck, you’re already soaked for me,” he mutters, lips sliding against you, voice guttural and low, hands bruising your hips as he holds you in place, refusing to let you squirm away.

You arch into him, moaning loud, the sound ricocheting off the tiled walls, your hands flying to his hair, tugging hard, but he only groans, tongue pushing deeper, lapping at your clit, circles slow then fast, relentless and hungry. “Open up for me,” he growls, “Let me see how much you missed me.” Your legs shake, thighs clamping around his head, but he just grins against your cunt, hands splayed possessive on your stomach, holding you still as he devours you, tongue fucking you, nose bumping your clit until you’re a mess, already dripping down his chin. He spits on you, rubs it in with two fingers, tongue flicking vicious and quick, making you gasp, begging, “Please, Mark, please—don’t stop, fuck, don’t you dare stop.”

He eats you like he’s drowning, like you’re the only air in the world. “Taste so fucking good, baby,” he pants, pulling back just enough to watch your slick pool, then leans in again, sucking your clit into his mouth, humming deep in his chest until you’re nearly sobbing. You grip the edge of the counter, back arching, one heel slipping, toes curling as you grind against his face, chasing every filthy, wet sound, lost in the feel of his tongue, his lips, his teeth. He fucks two fingers into you, crooking them just right, curling deep, fucking you open, stretching you out for his cock. “That’s it, take it, all of it—let me ruin you, let me make you come for me.”

Your orgasm hits fast and mean, pleasure flooding your veins, your thighs clamped so tight around his head he groans, nose buried in your cunt as you cry out, body shaking. He rides it out, keeps licking, doesn’t let up until you’re twitching and oversensitive, begging for mercy, tears slipping down your cheeks from how much you need him, how badly you’ve missed him. He finally pulls back, mouth glistening, licking his lips, wiping his chin with the back of his hand, eyes blazing. “So fucking perfect, look at you, ruined just for me,” he whispers, voice raw, fingers still buried inside you, pressing against that spot until your whole body jerks with aftershocks.

He stands, kissing you hard, making you taste yourself on his tongue, groaning when you bite his lip, fingers fisted in his shirt. He grabs you by the waist, flips you around, bends you over the counter, your cheek pressed to the cool marble, ass bared to him, dress pushed up around your ribs. He drags his cock against your slick folds, teasing, rubbing the head through your mess, groaning at the heat, the slide. “Beg for it,” he murmurs, one hand gripping your hair, yanking your head up so you meet his eyes in the foggy mirror. “Tell me how much you want it.”

You whine, voice wrecked, desperate, “Please, Mark, I need you, fuck me, I need you inside me, want you to fill me up, want everyone to know I’m yours—please, don’t tease, just give it to me.”

He laughs, mean and soft, lining himself up and slamming into you in one hard, smooth thrust, filling you so deep you cry out, clawing at the counter for purchase. “That’s it, baby, take it, take every inch, fuck, you feel so good—so fucking tight, so fucking wet for me,” he growls, hips snapping, his cock drilling into you over and over, the slap of skin echoing through the bathroom, filth pouring from his mouth as he ruts into you, unrelenting, desperate.

He grabs your hips, pulling you back to meet every thrust, the pace brutal, your breath fogging the glass, your tits pressed flat to the marble, moans bouncing off the walls. “Look at yourself,” he pants, one hand gripping your throat, thumb pressed to your pulse, making you stare at the reflection—your eyes wild, mouth open, cheeks streaked with tears and pleasure. “See how pretty you look getting fucked stupid? See how much you love my cock?” He slaps your ass, watches the red bloom, then soothes the sting with his palm, bending over to mouth at your shoulder, biting down until you gasp, your body shuddering under him.

He slows just to torture you, rolling his hips, dragging his cock out until you whimper, then slamming back in, hard enough to make you scream. “Say it,” he demands, voice wrecked. “Say you’re mine. Say nobody else gets this, nobody else makes you come like this.”

You sob it out, voice raw: “I’m yours, only yours, fuck, nobody else, please, Mark, harder, I need it, need you, want you to fill me up—” He groans, hips stuttering, hand moving from your throat to your clit, rubbing furious circles, pushing you right to the edge. “Come for me again,” he pants, “Want to feel you squeeze me, want you to milk my cock while I fill you up.”

Your orgasm rips through you, every muscle locked, cunt spasming around him as you scream his name, stars bursting behind your eyes, whole body shaking. He follows, cock throbbing, slamming deep, hips jerking as he spills inside you, flooding you, holding you down so you can’t escape, both of you shaking, breathless, ruined. He stays buried in you, kissing your neck, murmuring every filthy, tender thing he never said, hands roaming your body, worshipping every inch like you’re the only prayer he’s ever known.

When he finally pulls out, your legs wobble, his cum dripping down your thighs, both of you grinning, wrecked and shining, skin sticky with sweat and spit and love. He pulls you upright, spins you around, kisses you slow, hands gentle now, holding your face, thumb brushing your jaw as he whispers, “Mine. Always.” He helps you fix your dress, smoothing your hair, still pressed close, foreheads touching, eyes locked, letting you breathe in the softness after the storm.

You stare at each other, hearts pounding, laughter bubbling up as you realize the party is still raging just outside, your world forever changed behind a locked door. He kisses you again, soft and slow, then grabs your hand, fingers lacing tight. “Let’s go make them all jealous,” he grins, wicked and soft, pulling you back into the night, your body humming, every inch of you branded by him. For once, there’s no question, no fear—just the wild, aching certainty that what’s yours will always find you, no matter how hard the world tries to tear it away.

author’s note

now, if you made it this far, i’d love it if you left me a comment, reblog, or even a like. i read every single one and they mean so much to me—it’s genuinely the best way to let me know what moved you, what you loved, or even what broke your heart. writing is a little lonely sometimes, it always takes me restless nights, and hearing from you makes it all feel worthwhile, like sharing a secret or lighting a candle for these characters. so don’t be shy! every little note is treasured and makes me want to keep going. thank you for reading, and for loving these messy, magical people with me. <3

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