#mark is down bad

[partyluvr]

MULIEBRITY, mark lee

in which mark lee falls in love with his bisexual bestfriend.

downbad!mark x fem!reader

status: on going

chapter i. you

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☆*:.｡.｡.:*☆

mark finds you so beautiful. 

mark loves your hair and the way some strands always falls to your forehead. the way you subconsciously nibbles on your lips when you’re deep in your thoughts. the way you push back your glasses with her ring finger—that damned glasses you always misplace whenever you take them off. the way you laugh. the way you always talks about wanting more piercing despite having quite enough. the way you ruffle his hair. the way you get excited about wearing each other’s clothes.

you’re everything he has ever wanted, and he is everything but enough for you.

you love to watch movies, specifically, psychological thriller movies. the genre is not mark’s personal favorite, but it began to grew on him from time to time as you always seems to have one playing whenever mark comes over. 

the first time mark tried a vegan burger was with you. being a vegetarian was something that mark finds cool only because it’s you. you convinced him to get a vegan burger once and needless to say he was pleased. next thing he knows, every time the both of you would go out and eat it would be as if mark is also maintaining a vegetarian diet. it's funny how your close one can rub off on you. in this case, perhaps, mark was a little too biased and desperate to cling onto anything if that means he gets one more thing in common with you.

"the pizza's here!" he called out. mark put the two boxes on the table, just in front of the couch before sitting down and looking for the tv remote. dinner with you always requires a movie or a show to watch. both of you would talk over it most of the time, but having something playing in the background is always a nice touch. paying attention to it is another story. one time the both of you managed to finished four episodes of better call saul in one sitting. mark loves that show. you got him to watch it.

"oh, you ordered two?" you said upon looking at the two boxes on the table. 

mark nodded. "yeah, they got vegan pepperoni now so i figured we should try."

you crouched down to the table and opened one box of pizza which just so happens to be the pepperoni ones. the steam oozing out of the freshly cooked dish greeted you right in the face. 

"that looks so good."

mark’s mouth watered at the sight. whenever it’s pizza night, mark and you usually just order cheese pizza with mozzarella stuffed crust. it's been a while since you had pepperoni. not for the lack of trying, though, vegan pepperoni usually costs extra and they don't even taste that good. 

you sat down beside him. you brought your wrist to your mouth, biting on a hair tie before pulling your hair up into a ponytail. mark always loves watching you do that.

"should we put on superstore?" you chimed. you grabbed a slice of pizza from the box, pulling the cheese strings with your finger before licking it off. 

mark mimicked your action. mouthful, he replied. "yo, it’s been a while since i watched that.

“cause you’ve only watched it with me and i haven’t been binging it in a while.”

“yeah why is that?” mark question, some grease trickling down his arm making him hissed in annoyance.

you shrugged. “i don’t know. i got bored cause it was three seasons in and they haven’t fucked yet.”

“isn’t the girl, like, married?”

“okay, and?”

mark rolled his eyes playfully. superstore was one of the many sitcoms mark had to sit through when he hangs out at your place. he wasn’t one to complain, of course. it’s no surprise that your taste in art and pop culture is rubbing off on him, he can’t even remember the last time you put him onto something that he ends up not liking. is it because you know his taste so well or is it because he’s convincing himself to like anything that you like? that’s an overthinking sentiment he can push aside for a while. the reason he never watch any shows you introduced him to, no matter how much he likes it, is cause watching it with you is always way more pleasant. watching it alone without occasionally turning his head to you to see your reaction feels weird. mark swears he wasn’t a down bad loser, but he just couldn’t bring himself to be independent when it comes to you.

you hummed in delight as you bite down the pizza before turning to mark. “put it on."

mark loves every minute he spends with you. your friendship isn't the most affectionate ones. you were never one to be openly affectionate, which mark never minded. you’re not overly touchy—this he is grateful for, god knows how he was supposed to handle you if you were constantly touching him—you aren’t one to sit him down and ask him how he’s doing. he can tell you truly cares, you just struggle with showing it off.

you introduced mark to a lot of things. you made him realized there are a lot of things he enjoys, but he just never really explore the territory yet. for example, mark had to come to terms that vegan food is not all bad. mark also apparently has taken a liking in going to art museums. he doesn't know a single thing about paintings, but he loves looking at them. he loves looking at you while you look at the paintings. he loves the quiet atmosphere inside the museum. he loves seeing you get so observant over each paintings. you also introduced him to a lot of new music, one of his personal favorite memories with you is when the both of you spend an entire day going to one record stores to the another to find some niche vinyl record from the 80s that you have been wanting to purchase. mark took pride in his own knowledge about music but he never fails to be in awe at how much you know about the media. he couldnt tell if it was because he has a huge crush so that everything you do, he finds endearing.

whether it’s going out or staying in, mark just loves spending time with you. he promised himself he wouldn’t get too attached to your presence, but how could he not when he has been by your side for so long? your presence is all he could think about.

“are they even gonna fuck for real?” mark chimed. the tv was playing the third season of superstore. episode six was where it was left off on your netflix account. mark couldn’t remember a single thing since last time he watched it, but anything with you is enjoyable nonetheless.

“they better,” you snickered. “i’m pretty sure they’re endgame.”

“why can’t she just get a divorce already?”

“see this is where we differ.” you started. “me personally i don’t give a fuck if she cheated on her lame husband.”

mark rolled his eyes, tiny half smile hanging on his lips.

"oh, come on, her husband is so lame! he doesn’t have a job, he’s not even good looking—holy fuck, this pizza is good." you cut yourself off after taking a second bite.

mark chuckled at the sight of you stumbling through your words, mouth full as you chewed down on your big bite. 

"they only charged a dollar extra for the pepperoni, by the way."

your eyes widened, gone was your previous rant about whatever you were going to say about a lame husband of a lead sitcom. “wait really? how the fuck is it so good, i'm scared."

mark laughed before taking another bite of the slice of pizza on his hand. 

"so," he began. he was eyeing you whilst your eyes never left the tv. "any plans for the weekend?"

you nodded, swallowed what you chewed before leaning forward to grab a can of redbull, chugging it down. "i asked this girl out. we're gonna go bowling." 

oh, has mark mentioned that you’re into women?

as if other men weren't enough of a competition for him. mark had no problem with you being bisexual, he certainly wasn't homophobic, but rather he was jealous of those girls who made it seem so easy to catch your attention. 

your wipe your mouth with a tissue, crumpling it and throwing it on the table. "how about you? any plans this weekend?"

mark shrugged, taking back his intention of asking you to hang out. mark and you regularly hang out on the weekend; just going out to eat, or go bowling, or karaoke, or maybe just staying in and watching some movies. you stayed in at his place one time, watching uncut gems and eating too many junk food. mark remember waking up the next morning with a heartburn worse than a hangover, but seeing you asleep curled up on his bed was enough for him to decide that he would do it all again. it took everything in him to not scoot over closer and wrap his arms around you. mark wondered whether you would prefer being the big or the little spoon.

"not that i know of. i'll probably go to jaehyun’s house. his girlfriend bought him a ps5, by the way, did you know?" 

you raised her eyebrows. "you're kidding."

mark chuckled and shook his head. "i’m dead serious. she bought it for him like, a week after it came out."

"what the fuck," you muttered in disbelief.

"lucky bastard, huh?" mark chuckled, chugging down his canned sprite.

"how did jaehyun bag a sexy, rich surgeon? i mean jaehyun’s hot as fuck, i'll give him that, but holy shit."

"i don’t know, dude. he’s just lucky, i guess." he chuckled.

you shook your head with a blank stare as if you were in a trance.

"so," mark switched the topic. "this girl."

you tipped your chin up, signaling him to continue. it's not rare that both mark and you talk about love lives—mostly yours, since mark doesn't really go on dates that much. he refuses to settle down for anyone who isn't you. he's aware that the stubbornness would get him nowhere, but he couldn't careless. 

"is it any serious?" 

you shrugged. "probably not."

"you're gonna hook up with her?"

mark can never understand why he asks such questions as if the answer can serve him anything but heartbreak. misery needs a company, and it seems like mark is always the perfect candidate. 

"i mean, if she wants to. i'm not gonna initiate anything, though. she looks like the... innocent type."

"sounds cute." he tried so hard to sound enthusiastic. he's gotten good at it. "your type?"

"you know i don't have a type." you chuckled.

mark wants to be your type. he wants you to want him as much as he does. 

the night went on exactly the way it is. finishing the pizza, talking about nothing and everything. superstore was playing in the background though neither of you really paid attention.

the heavy weight on mark’s chest is still there, residing in his heart like it always does every time you mention about your love life. a life in which he's not a part of.

mark needs to get over you. sooner or later. 

☆*:.｡.｡.:*☆

aarrghhh im excited! please leave any feedbacks :3

[ye4gerz]

ideaaa what if i make another version of this but from marks pov whos secretly obsessed with reader omfff

‧˚⭒ pairing: jealous!bf!hyuck! x reader. ‧˚⭒ genre: smut! mentions of mark. (18+ MDNI.) ‧˚⭒ word count: 558 ‧˚⭒ cw: choking, exhibitionist hyuck, cursing, jealous/angry sex.

boyfriend hyuck who has you pinned down on his bed. your legs wrapped around his waist as he lifts you up by your thighs, gripping them. his headboard rocking back and forth— hitting against the wall with every deep thrust he lets out on you. the room filled with the dirty wet sounds of his cock sinking into your insides and the lewd noises escaping your mouth.

what you forget for a second is the fact that his roommate, mark, is in the other room, sharing that same wall with donghyuck.

also, mark was home.

it dawned on you minutes ago that mark might have realized what could possibly be going on in the next room. your focus was too deep on donghyuck and his grunts against your neck, the harder he continued against you.

‘til the moment you heard mark’s door open, the sound of his footsteps growing closer against haechan’s door.

uh-oh.

you grow concerned for a second, thoughts roaming in your head. what if mark was listening to you two? what if he heard all the dirty sounds coming from hyucks room?

hyuck realizes your mind is elsewhere for a moment, and he brings his eyes to yours. “what’s the matter, baby? is everything alright?”

you nod, gulping. his concern is sweet, and the touch of his fingers against your face is reassuring. however, his thrusts never came to a stop.

you whimper and squeeze around him when you hear mark shuffling near the door.

“hyuck…” you eye the door, attempting to send the message to your boyfriend.

he looks back, a brow raised in confusion, “use your words, sweetheart.”

you look up at him desperately. he loves seeing your face scrunch up in pleasure by how he fucks you. pride washes over him knowing he’s the only one allowed to ruin you like this.

his eyes immediately snap up to yours, the minute the name escapes your mouth, his thrusts come to a full stop.

“mark…” you try to warn him, his previous thrusts so deep, your pleading sentence sounding more like a moan.

“what was that?” something dark possesses hyuck.

“m-mark…he’s listening….” you point to the door, sweating, as you felt the sudden lost of his cock inside you. you whine, missing his warmth.

suddenly his hand wraps around your throat, giving you a difficult time to take proper breaths. he slams his cock back into you deeper and harder, your eyes roll back in intense pleasure.

his hand still having a hold on your throat, only he’s cautious with the amount of pressure he applies. something dark is still living in his expression and his voice grows deeper, “don’t you ever moan another person’s name while i fuck you.”

you try to respond, unable to from the pure shock and pleasure you’re experiencing.

“fuck– respond when i talk to you. hm? do you understand, y/n?” his smile sinister, fully aware of the affect he has on you right now.

you nod your head quickly, “yes donghyuck…”

he clicks his tongue at you, “that sounds much better. now, let’s give him a good show.” he smirks, whispering against your ear. he continues to lift your legs over his head again, repeatedly thrusting into your weak spot.

you lost count at how many orgasms he gave you that night, and so did mark.

[rafeyssugar]

sunkissed

doe reader x rafe cameron

rafe’s obsessed. like, actually obsessed.

and he doesn’t even try to hide it.

because y/n comes back from a beach day, all golden and glowing, and the second she steps foot in his room, he’s on her.

“jesus christ,” he mutters, tugging her closer, hands already gripping at her waist, fingers tracing over the contrast between sun-kissed skin and the untouched, paler slivers hidden beneath her bikini.

she lets out a soft laugh, eyes twinkling. “what?”

“you know what,” he murmurs, gaze dragging over her, drinking her in like she’s something holy. “you’re tryna kill me, angel.”

she rolls her eyes, feigning innocence. “it’s just a tan, rafe.”

but he’s not hearing none of that. not when she looks this good. not when her skin is warm under his touch, smelling like coconut sunscreen and salt, like summer itself.

his fingers ghost over the delicate line of her shoulder, dipping lower, following the curve of her tan lines like they’re a map leading straight to his undoing. “nah, see… this isn’t fair,” he hums, voice dropping. “you go out, get all pretty in the sun, and then expect me to act normal? not happening.”

she giggles, the sound soft, teasing. “you’re being dramatic.”

but then his lips are on her shoulder, pressing against the line where sun-darkened skin meets untouched flesh, and the teasing dies on her tongue.

“am i?” he muses, trailing his lips higher, up her neck, lingering just below her jaw.

her breath hitches, fingers tightening where they rest against his arms. “rafe—”

but he’s already tilting her chin up, already pressing their mouths together before she can finish, swallowing whatever protest she was about to make.

and she melts into it, into him, her hands sliding up to thread through his hair, pulling him impossibly closer.

his hands roam, palms flat against her back, fingers slipping beneath the hem of her shirt like he needs to feel more of her, needs to touch every inch of golden, warm skin.

by the time he pulls back, just barely, they’re both breathless.

his lips brush against hers as he murmurs, voice low, full of something possessive and heady, “yeah, i think i need to mark you up, too. even it out a little.”

[ehls1020]

Munch munch munch...

Mark Grayson is a certifying pussy eater, his warm slick tongue running a lap over your already dripping folds, his hands holding your hips in place as they circle gentle motions, all while his own hips rubbed against the folds of your sheets for pleasure

"your such a good girl~" his hums and groans sending shivers down your spine, all while your hips chased his mouth, pussy soaking, oh god you were so close....

Mark Grayson who would watch as you squirm and squeeze his head as your back ached, toes curled and face flushed, nonsenses leaving your swollen lips unable to form any actual words

"Fuck your so wet..." his fingers playing with your hole as his tongue continued to suck the living hell out of you.

Mark Grayson who refused to stop even after your whimpers and pleases to stop and let you catch your breath, he wasn't moving , no way, not after he had been craving you all day, and especially not when he had you just where he's been wanting you, Right underneath him.

after the third time you would think he would have had his fill...right?

Nope

"Please, 'm sorry, just- please let me keep eating you out..."

{you guys know how some countries Censor blood and make it white... ya I need him to do that to me}

[lilislegacy]

i think it’s the most funny and romantic thing ever that they’re so attracted to each other in dangerous/deathly situations. in both those scenes, they are an absolute mess - percy covered in dirt, blood, and spiderwebs, and annabeth covered in muck and sewer water - and yet they find each other so beautiful. they could literally be about to DIE, and yet all they’re thinking is “wow you look so hot right now.” i just love when they percabeth like that. they are so funny.

also. perseus jackson, where the HELL were you going with that thought about the way her beads looked on her throat before you stopped yourself, young man?

[wikiipediabf]

geniuenly what was their problem

[hyuckiestarz]

⭑.ᐟ best friends down bad series ༉‧₊˚.

- dreaming 'bout you 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶཐི༏ཋྀ󠀮

01; BEST FRIEND MARK .ᐟ

01.1; he's down bad

01.2; the members know

01.3; maybe you're also down bad

02; BEST FRIEND RENJUN .ᐟ

02.1; he's down bad

02.2; the members know

02.3; maybe you're also down bad

03; BEST FRIEND JENO .ᐟ

03.1; he's down bad

03.2; the members know

04; BEST FRIEND HAECHAN .ᐟ

04.1; he's down bad

04.2; the members know

04.3; maybe you're also down bad

04.4; you're both down bad

05; BEST FRIEND JAEMIN .ᐟ

05.1; he's down bad

05.2; the members know

05.3; maybe you're also down bad

06; BEST FRIEND CHENLE .ᐟ

06.1; he's down bad

06.2; the members know

06.3; maybe you're also down bad

07; BEST FRIEND JISUNG .ᐟ

07.1; he's down bad

07.2; the members know

07.3; maybe you're also down bad

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ back to main masterlist ⭑.ᐟ

[kestrel-of-herran]

all i do is sit and think about you / if i knew what you'd do

SEVERANCE (2022- )

[januarycitrus]

simp

[the-crooked-library]

the one thing that absolutely entrances me about Nosferatu is the sheer level of intimacy between Ellen and Orlok, especially in a setting that keeps its characters so thoroughly repressed. there are swathes of fabric and bonnets and heavy furs separating them from the world -

and then, a lock of lilac-scented hair. A hesitant caress, hovering over her cheek. She'll argue with Harding and even Thomas from across the room, but will get in Orlok's face to yell at him. He will be called "My Lord," unless it's Ellen. It’s always so... close to the skin. Hair falling, entirely loose, down her back. Skin against rotting flesh, his lips on her breast, and her hand on the back of his neck, clinging even as they both lie dead???? hhnnggghhhhhhhh

their chemistry is the lifeblood of the film, its framing is impeccable, 10/10 monsterfuckery

[thekittyokat]

you ever just have a lot, a LOT of feelings all at once about a character and not even remotely enough words or brainpower to FORM the words to describe everything you're feeling. so it feels like you may explode. yeah

[partyluvr]

MULIEBRITY, mark lee

in which mark lee falls in love with his bisexual bestfriend.

downbad!mark x fem!reader

status: on going

chapter iii. suits & fine dining

prev | next

☆*:.｡.｡.:*☆

"yo, can i borrow your suit?"

mark rummaged through your closet while you kept yourself busy in the kitchen.

"sure.” you replied. your small apartment was an advantage to not having to scream even when you were in separate room. “i only have one clean, though. the other one's in the laundry."

mark’s hands are busy making a mess in your not so tidied closet, looking for the said black suit. his eyes finally fell upon the clothing he had been searching for, he took it out of the hanger and straightened the crinkled material. he needs to iron it himself when he gets home.

"found it."

walking out of your bedroom, mark was met with you who was busy cutting what looks like chicken patty. knowing your diet, he knows that's got to be a substitute for chicken—definitely cauliflower, mark remembers you making a vegan chicken sandwich using cauliflower, it tasted pretty good, to his surprise. he remembers you feeding it to him, your eyes sparkling with excitement, eager to brag to him how the cauliflower taste just like a chicken patty. he remembers it vividly, you feeding it to him and he tries so hard to be normal about it.

"got it?" you questioned, briefly looking up from her busy hands.

mark raised the suit in his hand for you to see, in which you took another brief glance before dropping your gaze back to the cutting board. mark took a split second to take in the way you look right now. a baggy pajama pants, a white t-shirt, and an apron. how badly he wanted to get behind you and wrap his arms around your waist. he, also, would like to kiss your neck and have you writhe under his touch, but that’s a fantasy for later.

"what do you need it for?" you asked, breaking him out of his trance.

"my mom asked me to come have dinner with the family since it's been a while."

"fine dining?"

mark nodded, eyes still examining the suit in his hands. 

"ooh, fancy."

"do you want to come with?" mark asked, finally putting the suit down, laying it neatly on the sofa. he's thinking as to how to bring it home without ruining it. he's too lazy to iron it himself. "my mom would love for you to come."

you chuckled. “mark, it's a family dinner. as much as i want to, i'd hate to feel out of place."

"don't be silly,” his voice soft. “you're like a family to us."

that was the truth. you don’t have the best relationship with your family and mark has took it upon himself to make sure you know that you can always turn to him and his family anytime you need.

your parents are religious and you are far from it. that’s one of the first thing mark noticed from you when you first started being friends. your lack of faith is so contrast to him. you have always had problems being emotionally connected to your religion, and as you grew older you realized that maybe you’re just not a spiritual person. mark had no problem with that. he’s very comfortable with his faith and relationship with god that your atheist beliefs don’t bother him. if anything, he admired your bravery for being honest with yourself.

it took awhile for you to open up about your complicated family relationship to him. he was glad you trusted him enough to be open to him. ever since then mark would try and get you involved with his family. at first he was worried that he might come off as pushy and condescending, but he knew he made the right decision when he noticed that you were getting closer and friendlier to his mom. you get along really well, and mark hoped his mother could somehow temporarily fill the gap of the lack of parental figure in your life.

"thank you, lee, but it's fine. you go have fun wearing my suit." you chuckled.

mark sighed softly. he would love for zo to tag along, but forcing you and making you feel out of place is the last thing he wants. he understands that no matter how close you’re getting with his family, it still won't feel the same. the invisible barrier would still be there, and he understands that you would never feel completely at home.

"okay." he sighed once again. "it's this friday night if you change your mind, though."

"aw, shit." you whined. "then i really can’t go. i already got plans for friday."

mark simply nodded at that. usually he would ask you to elaborate what plans you’re having, but he doesn't feel like getting his heart crushed at the moment. he knows you’re probably going out with someone, someone that was not him. usually he would understand, but he doesn't feel like being so understanding at the moment. he wants to be selfish, to have you all for himself.

"we can hang out on saturday night, though." you suggested.

mark nodded again, more excitedly this time. "sure. in or out?"

"let's just plan it last minute."

chuckling, he responded. "yes, ma'am."

"you go have fun friday night. don't ruin my suit, though. that one's my favorite." you glared at him playfully, pointing a knife—she was so conveniently happened to be holding—at him.

mark furrowed his eyebrows. "how the fuck would i ruin a suit?"

"i don't know." you shrugged. "remember when you borrowed jaehyun’s tuxedo and you burned a hole through the sleeve?”

"it was one time! i didn't know johnny was holding a cigarette." mark protested, throwing his arms up in defense. "dude, if anything, we should be glad i didn’t get burned.”

it wasn't fully mark’s fault. he remembered it was taeyong’s wedding. him and a couple other guys were outside the ballroom just after they cut the cake. mark hadn’t realized johnny was standing beside him holding a cigarette, not until he heard a hissing noise.

jaehyun wasn't mad about the tux. his parents could pay him to get another one custom made if he wanted to. sometimes mark envies being that wealthy.

you squinted your eyes at him, enjoying poking fun at the boy. "right. don't do that to my suit."

"dude, i doubt anyone would be smoking in a fine dine." he rolled his eyes. 

"oh yeah, i keep forgetting it's fine dining." you chuckle before putting a serious face and once again pointed a knife to his face. "behave."

"you're so fucking annoying." mark rolled his eyes once again, turning his heel to walk away from you who clearly were having a good time teasing him.

"i mean it, lee, behave!" your voice yelled from the kitchen as mark entered your bedroom. he could almost hear your smirk from the tone.

"fuck you!"

"i love you too!"

☆*:.｡.｡.:*☆

[thelilylav]

Dizzie text posts cause I miss them

[alive-gh0st]

˗ˏˋ❝Afterglow❞ˎˊ˗

Mark Grayson x Med!Reader♡ྀི

…..ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨..ـ...

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

⛨ summary: you’re not sure what’s worse—his fake injuries or the way he keeps looking at you like he means it. like every visit is a reason to linger. like he wants you to see past the bruises and the bad lies and into something soft he’s trying to hide. he keeps showing up. you keep letting him. and eventually… one of you might break.

⛨ contains: sfw. slow burn tension at an all-time high. hospital flirting™. jealous glances. workplace drama. late-night phone calls. hand-hovering intimacy. emotional constipation (again). patch-up scene of doom. reader being flustered over a waist. mark being a tease. romantic yearning disguised as sarcasm. supply closet violations (almost). contact name crimes.

⛨ warnings: mild language. blood & injury treatment. bruises. longing. accidental touching. slow descent into horniness. future boyfriend antics. emotional walls. one almost-kiss. reader going feral over abs. mark’s v-line. reader’s vices.

⛨ wc: 4808

prologue, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: i fear reader is down bad in ways that violate at least three hospital policies and one moral code. but like… have you seen mark’s waist? i wouldn’t have survived either. chapter four will be worse—stay safe out there.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You’ve seen a lot of stupid injuries.

People impaling themselves with forks. A guy who tried to ’karate kick’ a vending machine. That one time someone walked into the ER because he thought his left eyebrow felt ’possessed.’

But this?

This is getting ridiculous.

Because standing in front of you—again, for the third time in two weeks—is him.

Mark Grayson.

Wrist wrapped in a pitiful excuse for an ice pack, wearing a hoodie that probably used to be gray but now lives in that existential space between ‘charcoal’ and ‘regret.’

And offering you the same crooked, annoyingly charming grin you’re starting to see in your sleep.

He lifts the ice pack with a wince. “I think I sprained it.”

You blink.

Then you blink again—slower this time.

You don’t even respond at first—you just grab the chart, grab the gloves, and hope no one notices the way your jaw clenches so tight it could crack.

“Room four,” you say.

He follows you.

Of course he follows you.

“Doesn’t really hurt that much,” he says casually once you’re in the room, like that’ll make it better.

“I mean, I can still move it a little. Mostly came in to make sure it’s not, y’know, falling off or something.”

You give him a look that should legally count as malpractice.

He shrugs, sheepish. “Okay. Bad joke.”

You ignore him. You’re professional. Clinical. Efficient. The exact opposite of how your heart is acting right now—beating like it just clocked into overtime.

The glove snaps around your wrist with more force than necessary.

“Left wrist?” you ask flatly.

He nods, holding it out like a peace offering. You take it—gently, despite everything—and start checking for swelling, bone displacement, range of motion.

You do not notice how warm his skin is under your fingers.

You do not notice how his eyes are watching you the whole time, like he’s waiting for you to laugh at his pain or say something sarcastic.

You do not notice how close he is.

How human he looks. How normal he acts, even though every part of your gut screams that he’s something else entirely.

Still. You say nothing.

Instead—

“How’d it happen?”

Mark pauses.

Too long.

“Uh… tripped. Over a… rug. At a friend’s house.”

A beat.

You raise an eyebrow. “A rug.”

“Yeah. Big one.”

Your stare is surgical. “Right.”

He clears his throat. “You probably had to be there.”

You don’t laugh. Not even a smile.

But your lips twitch.

You hate him.

The chart says ’minor sprain.’

Your notes say ’watch for re-injury.’

Your brain says, he’s lying through his teeth.

You hand him the discharge slip and turn to leave, already planning your lunch break that will now include exactly two Tylenol and one existential crisis.

But then—

“Thanks, by the way.”

You pause. Glance over your shoulder.

Mark’s still sitting on the exam bed, eyes soft. Voice softer. “For not yelling at me this time.”

You look at him. Really look at him.

His smile is lopsided. Wrist still slightly swollen. Hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows like he’s trying to look more pathetic.

You exhale. “Next time, make it believable.”

He grins. “That a promise?”

You’re already walking away.

You don’t see it—but Mark watches you leave like he wants you to look back. Like he’s hoping one of these visits will make you stay just a second longer.

Maybe next time.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

It happens again.

And again.

And again.

At this point, your coworkers don’t even ask for his name. He walks in, waves a little, and someone—usually Nurse Carla, with a look that says you owe me lunch—just hands him a clipboard and sends him your way.

“Room nine,” she tells you one night, like it’s the weather forecast. “Your favorite repeat offender’s back.”

You don’t look up. “What is it this time? Terminal idiot disease?”

“He says shoulder strain. Won’t shut up about a ‘kitchen incident.’”

You sigh. Loudly. Aggressively.

And go.

“Let me guess,” you say before the door even finishes clicking shut behind you. “Rug attack again?”

Mark’s seated on the exam bed, hoodie sleeves rolled up, one hand gingerly rubbing at his shoulder. He perks up when he sees you.

“Oh, hey. Nah, kitchen accident this time.”

You squint at him. “Did the fridge try to fight back?”

“I slipped on a rogue piece of ice. Could’ve died.”

You stare.

He grins.

You want to throw a scalpel.

You don’t. Mostly because there’s paperwork involved. And prison.

Instead, you grab a pair of gloves and walk over like you’re not already halfway spiraling.

The diagnosis is, once again, technically valid. Nothing torn. Just overuse. Strain.

But the frequency is… suspicious.

Mark Grayson is either the most accident-prone civilian on the planet or—

No. You’re not going there.

You’re not paid enough to unravel the chaos behind that stupidly warm smile and suspiciously nice arms. You’re here to treat the shoulder and move on.

That’s it.

So you press a little harder on the muscle and maybe enjoy it a little when he winces.

“Sorry,” you say, not sounding sorry at all.

He hisses. “Revenge?”

You tilt your head. “For what?”

“For existing.”

You pause. “That’s not a denial.”

He smiles again. “If this is your version of flirting, it’s medically inadvisable.”

You blink.

And then you’re laughing—short, sharp, a little horrified.

He lights up like it’s the first time he’s ever made you laugh, and it’s Christmas morning.

That’s when it hits you.

He’s not coming back because he’s hurt.

He’s coming back because of you.

And that’s a problem.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

Everyone knows.

It’s not subtle. It’s not secret. It’s not even slightly professional.

Mark Grayson has been in this hospital more times than the janitorial staff this month, and everyone has noticed.

Receptionists wave at him like he’s a returning sitcom character.

Orderlies call him “Crash Boy” behind his back (and sometimes to his face).

The lab techs have started taking bets on what his next injury will be.

You don’t participate.

You’re above it. You’re focused. Clinical. Efficient.

Totally not spiraling.

Totally not hearing the group of nurses whispering near the vending machines with wide eyes and hushed giggles like they’re in a goddamn K-drama.

“She’s totally into him.”

“Did you see the way he smiled at her?”

“If that was my patient, I’d fake a fall too.”

You walk faster.

You’re fine.

You’re great.

You’re professionally ignoring it like any emotionally stable adult would.

Even Carla’s in on it.

And she doesn’t say a thing.

Just watches. With those all-knowing eyes. That judgmental smirk. The silence of someone who is absolutely clocking your entire life.

You’d honestly prefer if she just made fun of you. That would be less terrifying.

But the worst moment?

The moment that breaks you?

It happens at the nurse’s station on a Tuesday.

You’re just finishing up paperwork when he strolls in. Casual. Bright-eyed. Smiling like he belongs here.

He chats with a few nurses. One of them—you don’t know her name, she’s new, she’s probably still in school—laughs too hard at something he says.

Her hand lingers on his forearm. She tosses her hair. Her scrubs are—unfairly flattering.

You’re not looking.

You’re definitely not glaring.

Okay, maybe you are.

But then—she slips him a piece of paper. Probably with her number. In front of you.

You nearly rupture a blood vessel.

Mark looks confused at first. Then a little smug. And then—he looks over.

Sees your expression.

The twitch in your jaw. The vein in your forehead. The pure murder behind your eyes.

And he chuckles.

Chuckles.

Like some teenage fanboy who just realized you’re jealous.

You want to disappear. Or commit a minor crime. Or both.

You choose to dramatically slam a clipboard and walk away before you punch something.

You do not look back.

(You do.)

And he’s still watching you. Grinning like he just won a game you didn’t know you were playing.

You hate him.

So much.

(You don’t.)

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

Your day off is sacred.

It’s the only time you can collapse onto your couch, wear pajamas that should be considered a war crime, and pretend your job doesn’t exist.

So when your phone buzzes mid-coffee sip, you glance at the screen with the enthusiasm of a corpse.

✆ Unknown Number:

hey. quick q—how long is soreness supposed to last after a shoulder strain?

You blink.

Stare.

Frown.

Then sigh like you’ve just aged thirty years.

Because of course it’s him.

A few seconds later, another text follows.

it’s mark btw. grayson.

didn’t wanna bother you but i also don’t wanna die of arm failure sooo

You roll your eyes. Hard. So hard, your soul might’ve left your body for a second.

You type back.

That depends.

Did you slip on another ice cube or fight a blender this time?

There’s a pause. Then—

wow.

harsh.

i’ll have you know the blender and i are in a good place now.

You shake your head, but your fingers move before you can stop them.

ice it 20 mins on, 20 off. stretch it lightly.

if it starts throbbing, go in for imaging.

A pause.

so you do care

You close your eyes.

unfortunately.

That’s how it starts.

Little check-ins. Random questions. Half-medical, half-ridiculous.

✆ Unknown Number:

is it normal to be this tired after walking up stairs?

or am i dying

✆ Unknown Number:

asking for a friend—what happens if you take tylenol on an empty stomach but also 3 gummy worms

✆ Unknown Number:

totally unrelated but like

hypothetically

if someone wanted your coffee order

what would that be

You don’t save his number.

You don’t need to.

You know it now—by the rhythm of his texts, the way he never uses caps, how he spells “definitely” wrong every single time.

He’s just there.

Sitting quietly in your phone like a secret. A quiet, buzzing, annoying little constant.

And maybe…

Maybe you start looking forward to it.

Even when you pretend you don’t.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

It starts with a simple text.

✆ Unknown Number:

you up?

No context. No greeting. No injury.

Just that.

You stare at it for a long minute, thumb hovering, debating whether to throw your phone across the room or call 911.

Eventually, you settle for the less dramatic option.

You call him.

The line clicks. He answers on the first ring.

“Hey.”

His voice is soft. Like he didn’t expect you to actually call. Like he’d already braced for rejection and is now wildly unprepared.

You roll your eyes. “If this is about a medical emergency, I swear to God—”

“It’s not.” A pause.

“I just… couldn’t sleep.”

Your mouth opens, then closes again.

You’re in your kitchen. Hoodie. Slippers. Lights off. Phone pressed to your ear like a lifeline.

“What do you want, Grayson?”

He breathes a laugh. “Dunno. Talk? You don’t have to, obviously. I just—thought of you.”

Silence.

Then—“…You always do that?”

“Do what?”

“Say things like that. Like you’re not trying to ruin someone’s night on purpose.”

He chuckles. “Only yours.”

You’re going to kill him. Slowly. Lovingly. Maybe with a pillow.

Still—you don’t hang up.

You lean against the counter instead, phone wedged between your cheek and shoulder, arms crossed over your chest.

“What did you do today?” you ask, voice quieter than you want it to be.

He hums.

“Got yelled at by a coffee machine. Ate cereal with a fork. Thought about texting you like eight times before actually doing it.”

You snort.

“Your turn,” he says.

You shrug, even though he can’t see it.

“Saved some idiot’s leg. Again. Almost killed Carla with a clipboard. Avoided committing a felony.”

“Proud of you.”

A breath.

Then another.

You don’t talk for a while after that.

Just… exist. Two quiet people sharing the same silence. The same phone line. The same heartbeat pacing slow and low under your skin.

He breaks it first.

“You always sound tired,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

You close your eyes.

“You always sound like you’re hiding something,” you say back.

That shuts him up.

Not in a bad way. Just… in a way that says he wasn’t expecting that. That maybe you’re both too honest right now.

Or maybe not enough.

The next thing you know, your head’s on the pillow.

The phone’s still pressed to your ear.

His breathing is slow. Steady.

You don’t even realize you’ve fallen asleep until you wake up the next morning and see the call log.

Call ended: 4 hours, 57 minutes.

You stare at it.

Then lock your phone.

You don’t say anything.

But the next night?

He texts you again.

✆ Unknown Number:

up?

And somehow, it’s already part of the routine.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

You don’t see his name on the intake board.

Which would be great.

Except—he’s here anyway.

Mark Grayson. Not limping. Not bleeding. Not holding an ice pack or pretending to have an invisible concussion.

Just… standing.

In the waiting area.

Smiling at the front desk like he owns the place.

You spot him during a chart pickup and physically pause. Like your body’s buffering. Like your brain is trying to update to the latest version of What the Hell Is He Doing Here 2.0.

He catches your stare instantly and waves. A little too enthusiastically. Like this is a surprise party and not a professional workplace.

You approach slowly. Warily. Already drafting an internal HR complaint in your head.

“You’re not even bleeding this time,” you say by way of greeting.

Mark shrugs, like you’ve just asked him what he had for lunch.

“I was in the area. Thought I’d stop by. Y’know—check on my favorite doctor.”

You stare at him.

“This is a hospital,” you say flatly. “Not a Starbucks.”

He gasps. “Wow. You wound me.”

“I’ll do more than that if you don’t get out of my hallway.”

He grins.

You really hate him.

(You don’t.)

All you can try to do is simply ignore him.

Really, you try to do so.

But he’s too tall. Too warm. Too smug. He somehow makes the break room coffee smell good, which should be physically impossible.

He chats with a nurse his age. Then another.

You watch it unfold over the rim of your clipboard with all the restraint of a saint and the rage of a woman one bad laugh away from murder.

One nurse touches his arm.

Another giggles—like really giggles.

You swear one of them actually twirls her hair.

And that’s it.

You corner him in the supply closet six minutes later.

Mark blinks as you slam the door shut behind you.

“Okay,” he says slowly, “this is new.”

You don’t even let him finish.

“You can’t just hang around here like this is a date,” you hiss.

“A… date?”

You wave a hand at the closed door.

“Talking to people. Smiling. Giggling—God, someone giggled. Do you know how hard it is to get people to even smile around here?”

Mark blinks again.

Then says, “Are you… jealous?”

You short-circuit.

“No,” you say too quickly. “Obviously not. That would be insane.”

“Right. Totally insane.” He nods, mock-serious. “Because it’s not like you dragged me into a closet or anything.”

You open your mouth. Then close it. Then try again.

“I’m trying to keep this professional.”

Mark takes a step forward.

You immediately take one back.

He keeps going.

Another step. Then another. Until your back hits the shelf and he’s right there. Not touching. Not crowding. But close.

Too close.

His arms cage around you—not touching, just braced on either side of your head. Heat radiates off him like a furnace.

His voice drops to something low. Steady.

“I didn’t come here for them.”

You don’t breathe.

His eyes scan your face, softer than you’ve ever seen them. “I’m only here for you.”

You want to say something.

Something scathing. Something sarcastic.

But the words fumble on your tongue and disappear altogether when his gaze drops to your mouth—just for a second.

Just long enough to make your pulse stutter.

You hate him.

So, so much.

(You don’t.)

This is completely unprofessional. Entirely against hospital policy.

And for some godawful reason?

You don’t want him to leave.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

Mark’s been a lot of things lately.

Tired. Sore. Bad at lying. Worse at staying away.

But mostly? He’s confused.

Because this—you—were never supposed to matter this much.

It started as curiosity. That’s what he tells himself.

Just some random hospital visit. He hadn’t been hurt, not really. Just enough to limp in as a civilian and sit through the fluorescent light misery like everyone else.

You’d been there.

Sharp. Efficient. Not a hint of softness in your tone. Told him to sit down and shut up like you hadn’t even noticed his face. Like you didn’t care.

He’d been hooked instantly.

You didn’t even blink.

And Mark couldn’t stop thinking about it.

So… yeah.

He came back.

The first fake injury had been dumb. He knows that now.

Sprained wrist, lame excuse. He’d tried to play it cool. He’d tried to be casual.

You didn’t buy it for a second.

But you also didn’t call him out. Not really.

You examined him like a puzzle piece you weren’t quite sure how to hold. Cold hands. Precise words. Steady fingers on his skin.

He’s never had to try this hard just to be noticed.

And it’s not even about the attention.

It’s about you.

He loves the way you frown at your clipboard. The way your voice drops when you’re tired. The way you say his name like you’re chewing on it, like you’re deciding whether it’s worth swallowing.

You think he doesn’t notice, but he does.

Every time your stare lingers.

Every time your fingers hover a little longer than they need to.

Every time your lips twitch when you’re pretending not to laugh.

It drives him crazy.

But there’s a problem.

You don’t know who he is.

You know Mark Grayson. College kid. Chronic klutz. Occasional insomniac.

You don’t know Invincible.

Not really.

Sure, you saw him twice—that version of him. But you hadn’t seen his face. You hadn’t put the pieces together. And he hadn’t given you a reason to.

Because if he tells you—

If he lets you in—

You might leave.

You might stop talking to him. You might look at him like everyone else does—too bright. Too strong. Too alien.

You might stop smiling at him like he’s just a guy.

And he loves that.

God, he loves that.

He loves being just a guy with you.

Not a hero. Not a name. Just a stupid, reckless twenty-something who texts you too much and doesn’t know how to say what he’s feeling without turning it into a joke.

He wants more.

He really does.

But he wants this even more—the late night calls. The sarcastic banter. The look on your face when you think he’s full of shit but don’t hate him for it.

So he waits.

And waits.

And waits some more.

Because maybe, one day, he’ll tell you everything.

But for now?

He just wants to hear you say his name again.

Just Mark.

Just yours.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

You don’t expect to hear your doorbell.

Not this late. Not on a night like this.

So when it rings—once, then again, a little longer—you groan from the couch, hoodie half-on, takeout half-eaten, dignity fully gone.

You don’t rush. Just shuffle toward the door like a zombie. Ready to murder whoever it is with a spoon.

But then you open it.

And—

Oh.

It’s him.

Mark.

He’s leaning against the frame, hood down, hair a mess. His face is pale. His lips are tight.

And there’s blood—real blood—trickling sluggishly down the side of his abdomen, soaking into his shirt.

“Hey,” he rasps, voice thin.

“Think I… might actually need medical attention this time.”

You stare at him.

Then blink.

Then stare harder.

“…What, no blender story?” you say automatically. Your tone is flat. A reflex. Something to hide the sudden weight in your throat.

He gives you a half-smile—weak, lopsided. “Didn’t wanna disrespect the blender.”

And then he sways.

You catch his arm before he can stumble. It’s instinct. It’s muscle memory. It’s terrifying.

“Jesus,” you mutter, hauling him inside. “You’re such a goddamn idiot.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, the faintest laugh. “But I’m your idiot, right?”

You don’t answer.

You just lock the door behind you. Lead him to the couch. Grab the med kit without thinking. Your hands are already in motion before your brain can catch up.

Because it’s not a joke this time. Not some bruised ego or imaginary fracture. It’s real.

He’s hurt.

And for some reason, that makes your chest ache more than it should.

You kneel in front of him, snapping on gloves with a sharp snap that sounds a lot more confident than you feel.

“Lift your shirt.”

Mark blinks. “Buy me dinner first.”

You glare.

He winces, lifts it anyway—slowly. Hesitantly.

And holy fuck.

It’s worse than you thought.

A deep gash across his side, jagged and angry and still bleeding sluggishly. Bruises blooming along his ribs in shades you don’t want to name. A few smaller cuts littered across his chest. There’s dried blood on his collarbone.

He exhales when your fingers ghost near the edge of the wound.

“Didn’t know where else to go,” he says quietly. “Didn’t want to go in. Not like this.”

You say nothing.

Because now? Now it’s not funny.

Not even a little.

You dip gauze in antiseptic, press it to the worst cut. He hisses.

“Sorry,” you murmur, but your voice sounds strange—tight.

Small.

Mark watches you. Watches your hands. The furrow in your brow. The tension in your jaw.

He doesn’t say a word.

You clean around the injury carefully. Work in silence. You try not to notice how warm his skin is.

How his breath stutters every time your hand brushes too close to his ribs.

You fail.

Utterly.

“You’re not the first moron to bleed in my hands,” you say after a long pause.

He huffs something like a laugh. “But your favorite, right?”

Your eyes flick up to meet his.

Mistake.

He’s looking at you—really looking at you.

His eyes burn into you like he’s memorizing you. Like he already has.

Something in your chest tugs.

You go back to patching him up like it’ll distract you. Like your hands aren’t shaking a little. Like your heart isn’t beating faster with every inch of exposed skin.

He closes his eyes briefly when your fingers graze a bruise. You feel his stomach twitch beneath your palm.

“Sorry,” you whisper again. Your voice is breathy this time. Too soft.

“You keep saying that,” he murmurs.

“You keep showing up like this.”

His lips tilt—not quite a smile. “Can’t help it. You make a damn good doctor.”

“Flattery won’t stop me from punching you.”

He opens one eye. “You’d patch me up after, though?”

You don’t answer.

You’re too busy staring at the cut. At the curve of his waist. At the way he breathes when you touch him.

You don’t mean to react. But God, he looks too good.

His waist—narrow and stupidly defined—tapers in like he was sculpted on purpose. Abs tight. Skin flushed. There’s blood, yes, and bruises, but all your traitorous brain can focus on is how good he looks like this.

Cut-up and pretty.

Which is horrifying.

You are a medical professional.

You are a grown woman.

You should not be getting distracted by the slope of some twenty-year-old’s V-line while he’s actively bleeding out in your living room.

But when his breath stutters under your touch, when his abdomen flinches ever-so-slightly with a soft, involuntary sound—

Yeah.

You absolute freak.

You try to focus. Really.

But your fingers keep brushing the edge of his hipbone, your eyes keep catching the way his chest rises and falls—and every time he winces, there’s a noise. Barely audible. Low and quiet and fuck, why is that attractive?

You press gauze harder than necessary.

He exhales sharply, jaw clenching. “You trying to kill me?”

“Stop making noises like that.”

“Like what?”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Because now you’re flustered. Because now you’re too aware of the silence. The tension. The way your breath hitches in tandem with his. The fact that your hands won’t move away.

You’re not patching up just any idiot.

You’re patching him up.

And his voice? His waist? The heat rolling off his skin?

It’s all getting to you in ways it shouldn’t.

Not here.

Not like this

It’s too much.

Too quiet.

Too close.

Your hands still.

Your breath catches.

And suddenly, he’s looking at you again—like he’s about to say something. Like he’s about to do something.

The air goes heavy. Thick. Tense enough to cut with the scalpel you dropped ten minutes ago.

His eyes flicker down—to your mouth.

You feel it like a jolt. A pulse.

Your heart stutters.

You lean in—

He does too—

But just before your lips meet—

He pulls back.

So do you.

Silence.

You don’t know what to say.

Neither does he.

Mark exhales shakily. Pushes his shirt down. Winces when it brushes his side.

“I should go,” he says.

You nod. Even though part of you wants to scream don’t.

He stands. Slowly. Carefully. Walks to the door. But before he opens it, he turns back.

Eyes soft. Voice even softer.

“You always make it hard to leave.”

Then he’s gone.

The door clicks shut behind him.

And you’re alone again.

You stare at the empty space where he stood. Unlock your phone. Open your messages. Type something out.

You okay? Text me when you’re—

Backspace.

Don’t be stupid next time—

Backspace.

I meant it. Don’t apologize—

Backspace.

You lock the screen.

Let it fall to the couch beside you.

And sit in the dark with your heart pounding, your hands still smelling like antiseptic and something else you can’t quite name.

Something you’re afraid to acknowledge.

And you know exactly what it is.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˖⁺‧₊˚❤️‍🔥˚₊‧⁺˖ ⋆ ˚｡⋆

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌He sees it by accident.

Sort of.

Mark’s at your place. Fifth time this week. You said you only allow it because he brings ACTUAL food. Does he care? No.

He would bring you anything and everything if you only asked.

Right now you’re tossing your phone between hands while half-asleep on the couch, scrolling aimlessly as you mumble about discharge paperwork and Nurse Carla’s espresso addiction.

He leans over to look at something—your screen lights up, message preview glowing.

“Unknown: you up?”

And it’s his message.

He blinks. Frowns. Stares at it like it’s personally betrayed him.

“Wait—hold on,” he says, sitting up. “You still have me saved as… Unknown?”

You glance at him, unfazed. “What else would I save you as?”

“I don’t know. Mark. Grayson. Hot guy who keeps bleeding in your ER. Something with a little dignity.”

You shrug. “Didn’t feel like changing it.”

He gapes. “Wow. Cold.”

You just smirk, stretch like a cat, and toss your phone aside as you get up to grab water.

And that?

That’s your mistake.

Because the second you’re out of the room—he pounces.

Grabs the phone. Unlocks it with terrifying ease. Scrolls straight to his contact entry like it’s a goddamn rescue mission.

’Unknown.’

Unacceptable.

He deletes it on instinct. Then pauses, thinking. Fingers hovering.

What would annoy you the most?

What would make you roll your eyes?

What would make your heart do that little stutter thing he’s started to notice, way too often?

He grins.

And types—

’Future Boyfriend’

He stares at it for a second.

Then adds a heart.

Then deletes the heart.

Too soft.

Then adds it back anyway.

Perfect.

He sets the phone down just as you return with a glass of water, eyeing him suspiciously.

“What did you do.”

Mark smiles. Innocent. Almost saintlike.

“Nothing.”

You squint. Then pick up your phone. Check your messages.

Pause.

Your brow furrows. And when you tap into the contact?

Your whole face goes still.

“…Are you kidding me?” you mutter.

He shrugs. “Thought it was more accurate.”

You glare.

He beams.

You shake your head. But then—you sigh. And your fingers curl around the phone like you’re not actually planning to change it back.

Your lips twitch.

Just barely.

But he sees it.

And when you don’t delete it—when you toss your phone back to the table like it’s nothing, like he’s nothing, even though your ears are a little warm—

Mark just leans back, smug as hell.

Victory tastes a lot like your name on his tongue. Like your laugh. Like the future he’s trying so hard not to beg for.

And he’s starving for more.

For you.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌ongoing TAGLIST: @pickledsoda @f3r4lfr0gg3r @bakugouswh0r3 @katkirishima @delusionalalien @bellelamoon @monaekelis @feminii @sketchlove @lilacoaks @cathuggnbear @forgotten-moon94 @lalana1703 @smikitty @barbare2 @sleepyzzz3 @sunspl0tionjuice @maki-rollsss @angelbelles @scarletdfox

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﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

[hyuckswoman]

down bad - collegestudent!mark x fem!reader smau

summary: in which a random business major finds herself joining a random music class not knowing the guy she had been fawning over attended it aswell.

Maybe after all her efforts he’ll finally notice her? After all this was the IT guy mark lee, what else could she have done but fall in love with him?

musicmajor!mark x fem!reader

genre: slowburn?, humour, collegeau, fluff, mutual pining, strangers to lovers

warnings: sexual jokes, death jokes, i don’t know much about anything, sorry!

this whole smau is the result of a dream where i had a huge crush on mark…i’m mentally unwell

(I apologize in advance for how the gc text are going to look like,, can’t find an app that makes it look good 😞)

status: finished

profiles: 00 - 00

masterslist:

a new music class?

EMERGENCY🚨‼️

I died lol

i love renjun

new roblox friend

you're gorg

mommy

mark is a loser

new music partner??

haechan is my favorite

lunch with mark?

renjun vs haechan

friend groups interacting

coquette

validation n compliments

i'm just a girl

sorry! i’ll stop

surface level

addressing the…situation

he ditched me

frank ocean

yapper

lesbian

blueberry

the game

chismosovirus

dick rider

soccer game

mark fan club

bigheaded

finals

dating rumors

showcase

storytime

third wheel

leaving the group?

homie hoppering

no more denial

double matching

emosung

jaem time

oh?

liar

do me

date??

dick pic

ignoring me (again)

i hate men

blocked

sorry

it’s over

bonus chapters

y/n's priv

mark’s priv

[kittyscabin]

LET'S GET MISCHIEVOUS (AND POLYAMOROUS!)

shortly before