keytar player of HEAVY METAL DREAMS the series ⊳
0:00 ⬤─────────── 18:5k words
summary: From the moment you start working together, Mark could not be more obvious about his crush. You're persistent to keep him at arm's length, which eventually leads him to take advice from an unlikely professional.
pairing: soft boy!Mark x song writer fem!reader
genre: porn w plot, angst, eventual heavy fluff (this is a Mark slow burn, heavy fluff is mandatory)
trope: rock star au, co-workers to lovers, hopeless romantic Mark isn't exactly as soft as you think he is
a/n: if you think you remember this having a different title, no you don't:)) it's been SOFTCORE this entire time! it definitely was not titled SHOW OFF up until a few weeks ago...
warnings: rough unprotected sex, oral (fem & male), thigh riding, masturbation, praise, marking, lil breeding kink, drinking, smoking & drugs, dubcon for like 0.1 sec, me pushing the Mark big dick agenda, dom Mark, sub reader
You consider yourself a good judge of character. When you meet people, your eyes scan them from head to toe, sorting them into two categories: trustworthy or dangerous.
It’s a necessary skill you were forced to hone very quickly being a young person in the music industry. You refuse to be taken advantage of just because you haven’t accumulated as much experience as other songwriters. More often than not, it’s a sink or swim business. Immediately determining friend or foe in your line of work is simply standard protocol.
All it takes is one look at the individual trying to bypass the steel turnstile in the music label’s lobby by repeatedly scanning the wrong end of his new security ID pass, for you to envision the industry eating a naive, rookie soft boy like him alive, in one gulp.
“Oh my god…dude, come on,” the boyishly handsome musician grumbles under his breath.
You quietly watch him struggle for another few seconds before intervening. “Hi, do you take constructive criticism?”
“Shi-!” He flinches, in a fright. His hands fumble both the magnetized card and his cellphone to the floor. Clutching his chest, he whips around to face you. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to see you needed my help or neither of us would be going into work today,” you joke, lightheartedly.
He crouches down to pick up the belongings that lay on the speckled granite tile. He turns the phone over to discover the smudged glass screen with a giant crack running through the middle of it, and quietly curses.
You snap your tongue with pity. “God, I’m sorry for scaring you,” you politely apologize.
He lets out a heavy sigh. “It’s okay. I’ve been meaning to, like, get a new one soon.”
You stand there awkwardly, momentarily frozen in place because he’s still in the way, staring down at his cracked iphone screen, and you don’t want to be rude since it was technically your fault. You glance over his shoulder at the circular clock on the wall, nailed above the elevator, then back at him.
“Um, so, anyways…” you start, pausing for his downcast eyes to meet yours again. “I know it can be a bit tricky when you’re new, but, here, just hold your keycard like-” You lean around him to demonstrate the proper way to scan it. “-this.”
The glass dividers grant you access, swinging inwardly. He pockets his own card and the shattered old phone in his dark jeans. He’s right on your tail to slip in behind you before the dividers close.
“Got it. Thank you…?” Below your rectangular employee picture, he sees your name printed in capital letters. “Ms. y/last n.”
“Yeah, no problem.”
He falls into step next to you, headed in the same direction. “I mean, I-I would’ve gotten it eventually.”
You rub your lips together, trying to hide your amusement. “I don’t doubt it.”
He slows his pace and looks around. His eyes land on the plaque pointing towards the stairs while you press the glowing button to summon the elevator. A dull ding echoes in his ears as the steel doors part open, but he doesn’t budge an inch.
You board the elevator, expecting him to be right behind you, although when you spin around, you discover he stopped a ways away from it. You watch the cogs turning in his head, weighing his options about whether or not to follow you. His hesitancy gives you the opportunity to give him another once over with your eyes.
He looks familiar. Very familiar.
A gray beanie sits atop his head, his scruffy brown hair sticking out from beneath it slightly. He wears a dark charcoal jean jacket over a white graphic t-shirt, most of the metallic buttons undone, save for the two below his sternum. His faded, baggy black jeans have brown patches sewn over the knees, and they stretch long enough down his legs that you can only see the tips of his black converse sticking out from under the bottom hem. He has a navy jansport backpack thrown over his shoulder, and from the worn quality of the canvas, you can tell it’s weathered more than a handful of years with him. Caught up in his own thoughts, he chews on top lip absentmindedly, picking his painted nails, and chipping away at the black polish.
A lightbulb goes off in your head, finally placing his familiarity.
“Are you coming, Mr. Mark Lee?” you call out to him.
His mouth falls open in surprise hearing his name roll off your tongue.
The reflective elevator doors begin to slide closed, prompting you to stick your foot in the middle of where they’re parted. You lightly tap one side, holding the lift hostage for him to join you. “I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to be at a meeting in-” You check your wrist watch. “-5 minutes.”
Mark blinks at you twice before jogging towards the elevator. “You know who I am?”
“Yes, I do.” You press the button on the panel reading your designated floor, and white light rims the number 7. “Actually, I wrote a few of the b-sides that are going to be on your second album.”
He makes a small curious noise in the back of his throat. “So, you, like, actually know the ba- my band?”
“M’hmm. I couldn’t go into this blindly without adapting the songs a little to fit your style, and how could I do that without being familiar with your band?”
Mark hums and nods along to your explanation. “Oh. Um, yeah, that makes sense, yeah.”
A rock ballad plays softly in the elevator as you smoothly ascend. Whereas it doesn’t bother you, he feels the need to fill the silence.
“What are they called?”
“You’ll find out when you hear the demos soon,” you tell him.
“Wait, I’m not hearing the demos today?” He quirks his neck, bewildered by the circumstances of his meeting today. “I, like, thought it was weird my manager told me to come alone today, but, I don’t know, I kinda assumed it was because I write a lot of our songs so I was hearing them first?”
He sneaks a glance your way and sees the corners of your mouth prick up. “No, today is about…a surprise.”
He fully turns to face you, excitedly. “A surprise?”
You giggle at his childlike joy. “Yes, surprise.”
The mutedly ding from the elevator announces your arrival. The doors slide open and you two hop off, his steps visibly more peppy than yours.
“I’m guessing you don’t know where you’re going, huh?”
“Uh-” Mark gulps, pulling his beanie down a bit in the back.
You smile and nod, taking that as a no. “Follow me.”
“So, any hints about the surprise?” he whispers. He pays no mind to where you’re leading him, trusting you to steer him in the right direction.
“Hints, hmm…” You scrunch your face up like you’re trying to think of something to say, then smirk teasingly. “Nope. No hints.”
Mark opens his mouth to protest right as you round the corner of a long hallway. You stop, abruptly, in front of the door to the conference room and he bumps into your shoulder by accident. He leaps away from you with wide-eyes, and whispers, “My bad, sorry, Ms.y/last n.”
“Call me y/n,” you reply with a smile.
He smiles back at you, warmly. The corners of his bright eyes crinkling up with fondness that spells attraction loud and clear. If you didn’t know any better, you might even say that sparks fly – within a heartbeat, Mark would say that sparks fly. Glitter rains down around you and him, the tender moment of your first introduction encapsulated in his own little snow globe that, if real, he would place on his bedroom shelf and cherish forever.
You only read it on his face for a single millisecond before pushing the heavy glass conference room door inward. Like the elevator, you hold it open for him to enter too. The president of the label, the head creative director and a few other staff members Mark recognizes but can’t place names to faces, sit opposite the band’s new manager, at a long rectangular table. Laid out in front of them, they have prepared multiple copies of uniformly clipped packets, printed with plans and quarterly projections on thin white pages. The company logo is slapped on the cover of every single one of them.
“Aah! Here he is. Mr. Mark Lee! Come in, come in,” the creative director ushers him inside, enthusiastically. He extends a hand across the table and shares a firm handshake with the rookie keytar player. “Thanks for coming this morning.”
“Thank you for inviting me, Sir.”
Mark takes a seat next to his manager. He expects you to pull up a chair somewhere too (preferably next to him) but when he cranes his neck around, you’re still planted in the doorway.
“Thank you for showing him the way, y/n.” He nods at you.
“No problem. He looked a little lost.” You give Mark a tiny wave. “See you next week, Mark.”
“Next week?” he parrots, with a puzzled expression, as you start to swing the glass door closed. “Oh, okay! Bye, y/n!”
“So, Mark…you don’t mind if I call you Mark, right, son?” The older man slides a folder across the table. “Let's talk about your band’s future…”
Despite not seeing Mark’s reaction to the exciting surprise hidden within the crisp sheets of paper, as you walk away, you can picture his round, starry eyes and pink pouty lips parting open in an O shape, shocked by the news. The image alone is enough to tug a slight smile to your face.
“I still can’t believe we are going on a fucking tour,” Haechan says a week later while he’s driving all of them to listen to the demos. He takes another drag of the cigarette between his slender index and middle fingers, then cracks the window open a sliver to blow white smoke from his mouth. “Swear to god, I thought you were fucking with us at first.”
Mark scoffs. “Man, I wouldn’t joke about something big like that. I mean, like, it’s not a BIG big tour but-”
“Hey! Whether it’s five shows or fifty shows, a tour is a tour,” Renjun pipes up from the backseat of the van.
“Yeah! We’re still traveling places and playing lots of venues,” Jeno says. He nudges Jaemin’s forearm to get his attention, pulling him out of his own little Jaemin world that he retreats into sometimes. “Where are you looking forward to most?”
“Hm,” Jaemin hums and stares out the window. “Hmmm…”
“Thanks for sharing, Jaemin,” Haechan interjects after a few moments of silence. Jeno kicks the back of his seat, dishing him minor whiplash, but instead of shutting him up, Haechan laughs.
They each share the places they are most eager to visit, and by the time they approach the soundproof studio door, at Jeno’s suggestion, the five of them have made a pact to wear identical matching outfits to the airport on the first flight they take for the tour. They even tell you so, 2 minutes after they walk in.
After your first and second recording sessions with the band, you understand why every person you encounter at the company has something good to say about not only the band, but their leader, most especially. There will be weeks of preparation for the official release of their second album, and you look forward to cultivating their sound and learning more about them along the way. In the meantime, you quickly discover that, simply put, they’re just fun to be around.
“Mark’s the best leader on the planet! Even if he does hound us about every single minor mistake of ours under the sun,” Jaemin comments.
Mark shoots him a look, wide eyes communicating “we’re going to talk about this when we get home, young man” wordlessly, like a stern mother to a misbehaved child in public, with a pointed glare. His head snaps back to you, searching your face for a reaction, and finding amusement rather than judgment.
“Um, speak for yourself. I don’t make mistakes,” Haechan says with a smirk.
“Of course you don’t. You’re absolutely perfect all the time,” he deadpans.
“Thank you, Jaemin. That means a lot coming from you,” the cocky singer replies.
The way Jaemin’s hand twitches, and yet doesn’t leave his lap, demonstrates impressive restraint. “You’re so welcome Haechanie,” he says with sarcasm. He stares at him with a fake smile and intense eyes until Haechan is forced to look away.
Mark laughs when you laugh, not because he thinks the band’s Tom and Jerry bickering in this specific scenario is funny, but because your laughter makes his heart flutter, and he can’t help but smile hearing it.
“The kids are just joking by the way. I’m really not that mean,” Mark says once they’ve left to get food without him, per his instruction to get time alone with you.
You hum affectionately, hearing the term of endearment he used. “The kids, huh? You’re just some mean old man to them or something?” you poke fun at his choice of words.
Rosy red surfaces on his cheeks ,and he rubs the back of his equally red neck, bashfully. “I mean, like, Haechan literally just said to me yesterday that he didn’t know people lived in 1999, so…there’s that. But honestly though, like, I grew up with those guys. We’re practically the same age.”
“Cute,” you coo. You look away to gather scattered pages with lyrics and detailed notations scribbled in the margins. You store them in a protective folder that gets placed back in your bag.
“What’s cute? Me?” His eyes pop open, caught off guard by your single, one-worded compliment, but even more so that he replied ‘me’ immediately afterwards. “Um-”
You giggle at the soft boy’s endearing awkwardness. “I was talking about your relationship with the guys, Mark.”
If you thought he was rosy red before, he’s beat red now. He wants nothing more than to disappear into thin air and never address this moment ever again. “Uhh, right, um-”
“But I guess you’re pretty cute too,” you finish.
Mark is at a loss for words, mind trying to process you called him cute to his face. To his face!
“Don’t let the kids convince you that you’re a mean old man, okay?” You rake your bag up your arm. “Because you’re a cute one.”
Mark blinks, piecing together what you said. “Wh- hey!”
“Joking!”You smile, patting his shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
“Y-yeah!” Mark gets to his feet.
A mini battle between hugging you or simply getting the door for you takes place in his head. Before he reaches his decision, you’re already out the door.
Mark flicks on the lights in the kitchen when he gets home, hoping to find they haven’t finished every bite of food in the time it took him to uber back.
Haechan winces from the living room, shielding his eyes from the overhead light that pours from the room over, and nearly spills his lime flavored Pepsi zero sugar. “Argh, and then the Lord said ‘Let there be bright.’”
He sneaks a glance at Mark to see his reaction, genuinely hoping he’ll be reprimanded because for some inexplicable reason he’s into that. Mark parts his lips, on the verge of correcting him about the Bible verse, but dismisses it and rolls his eyes instead.
Jeno laughs when Haechan pouts slightly, disappointed he failed to bait his self-proclaimed soulmate’s scolding. “So tell us all about it, man! What’d you say?”
“Yeah, how badly did you screw up?” Renjun hounds him.
Mark groans. He goes to retrieve the take out boxes they so generously saved for him, chucking a few choice words at him over his shoulder. The five of them congregate in the living room where he gives them a play-by-play of the whole scenario.
“I don’t know what to tell you, dude. Maybe you’re just not her type,” Jeno offers, unhelpfully.
“Why would she call me cute then?” Mark frowns.
“I think you mean to say ‘cute old man,’ if I recall correctly,” Haechan points out.
Mark scowls at him and disappears momentarily to throw away the cardboard boxes stained with remnants of a cold dinner. When he returns, he flops down on the couch in a huff next to Renjun.
“Huh…” Renjun croons. His mouth twists up as he formulates an analysis in his head.
“What?” Mark nudges him lightly. “What are you thinking?”
“Well-” He sighs, slowly choosing his next words carefully. “Maybe her, uh, calling you cute isn’t such a good thing.”
“Ooo, good point, good point,” Jeno voices, nodding along in agreement.
“Wh-why?” Mark squeaks.
Jaemin coos at him. “Because you don’t want her to think of you as cute! You want y/n to look at you and think ‘He’s so hot, I wanna get on my knees and suck him off.’” He uses a higher pitched voice, trying his best to mimic what he imagines you would sound like if you actually delivered those lines. “‘I really wish he’d FUCK ME in the studio right this very sec-’”
“Don’t talk about her like that,” Mark cuts him off. His tone, deeper and more serious than before, catches the drummer off guard. “I mean it, Jaemin.”
“Sorrryyy.” Jaemin tilts forward from where he sits on the coffee table in front of the couch, and rubs the love sick puppy’s knee. “You need to be more forward with her,” Jaemin insists. “Girls like confident guys. When you get a chance with her, and you feel the time is right, just go for it.”
Haechan snorts. “Oh, really? Is that how you plan on winning over the hair stylist we specifically asked you not to hit on yesterday?”
“She’s falling for me already. You guys just haven't seen it yet,” Jaemin retorts, folding his arms over his chest.
“Yeah, because it hasn’t happened yet.”
Mark sighs. He doesn’t protest when Haechan lays down on the opposite side of Renjun, placing his head in his lap, and dangling his legs over the armrest of the couch. Jeno goes to retrieve a stash of blunts he scored a few days ago while the others carry on with their trivial chattering.
Tuning them out, Mark instead favors to stare at the ceiling, despondent and distracted. He counts every unidentified stain that he’s never noticed before. It’s no wonder, though, that they’ve never caught his attention. There has never been a time that calls for such reflection on his self conscious nature that his eyes would have sought out the tiny details up there.
He can be confident, right? Definitely.
No question about it.
But can he be confident, quit his stuttering, AND avoid putting his foot in his mouth around you? Now that is a valid question. He’ll just have to wait and figure it out tomorrow, at your last recording session with them. He crosses his fingers as the word CUTE circles around his head, taunting him.
If you looked up the definition of adorable, you would find a picture of Mark Lee.
His infectious smile, high cheekbones and expressive eyebrows? Adorable. The fact that he’s physically incapable of not clapping, stomping his feet, or jumping up and down when he’s laughing? Adorable. His nervous habit of absentmindedly tucking his hair behind his ears? Adorable. The way he scrunches his nose up when he’s concentrating or looking at something fondly? Adorable. His bright boba eyes, filled with wonder, and swirling with more twinkling stars than the milky way? Adorable.
There’s just something about his natural curiosity, lack of self awareness, and borderline innocent cluelessness that makes you want to squeeze his cheeks and coo. He’s a friendly, lovable dork with a carefree disposition, while simultaneously eager, driven and endlessly talented. He rolls with the punches, picking himself up and dusting himself off when he’s knocked down, or the universe deals him a particularly bad hand of cards. Each and every time his life has been turned upside down, he has always landed on his feet. It takes a whole lot of courage to uproot your life and drop out of college to pursue a career in something as uncertain as music.
From the day he first picked up an instrument, he’s given it his all. When the band first started playing together, they were merely messing around, doing covers of their favorite rock songs, just for the hell of it. They didn’t expect to be scouted at a local bar, and then signed to a big record label after only releasing one album and a handful of singles.
Mark took an earnest crack at songwriting and cultivated their band’s first album with some help from his friends. He had found his calling but it still didn’t sink in that one of his wildest dreams was actually coming true until he stepped into the company building.
High ceilings, low hanging light fixtures illuminating the rooms with a soft white glow, and abstract art masquerading as lobby sofas. Hallways were lined with framed platinum records and evenly spaced awards, of every shape and size, sat on long rows of shelves, bolted to the eggshell white walls.
You felt a bit starstruck walking into the building for the first time too, but quickly learned your way around the place. You climbed up the totem pole of most sought after songwriters and grew comfortable with the first record label that took a chance on a young, independent creator such as yourself. From that point on, you rarely strayed away from working with the same people in the past. The familiarity was something no other label could offer, and the higher up executives are well aware of how lucky they are to have signed you to only produce and create for them. They even promised, recently, that you can help with the creative direction for another pop/r&b group, and you’re beyond excited to start on that soon.
In fact, you start next week.
For Mark, out of every experience of his since he has joined the label, out of every higher up executive and big name musician or producer he’s been acquainted with, every piece of advice he’s received or secret technique for evolving musicality he’s been privy to, Mark values his time working with you above all else.
Which is why, when they’ve finished with the last day of recording for their second album, a bittersweet taste lies heavily on his tongue.
“Hey, great job today,” you say, leaning over a few feet to place your hand on top of his.
You’re in nearly the same position as you were the day before: sitting next to Mark, directly outside the recording booth. You bounce your knee and slowly swivel side to side, while you two review the final section of the last song to cap off their album.
He is glad that his palms are facing downward, folded one over the other on the edge of the soundboard, so that you don’t feel how clammy they are. He looks down at your hand clasped over his for a single moment, then up at your face.
You notice the adorable way Mark blushes when he receives compliments, and it makes you want to shower him with praise until he’s firetruck red and dizzy. His crush on you could not be more obvious. You don’t mean to toy with him, but you can’t exactly ignore his heart eyes when they’re glued to you for the majority of your time together.
You give him a small, sincere smile and turn back to the computer screen. He almost whines when you remove your hand from where it rested on top of his, missing your touch.
“y/n?” His voice is barely above a whisper.
“Hm? What’s up?” You glance at him then back to the computer.
He takes a deep breath, his best attempt at calming the jittery nerves buzzing in his system. “Why do you think I’m cute?”
You stop bouncing your knee. “Oh, uh…I don’t know, you’re just-” You shrug your shoulders. “Cute.”
Is that the best you can do? Really?
He doesn’t respond, still staring at your profile, waiting for you to finish a sentence you never imagined you would be saying out loud, let alone to Mark himself. Sighing and giving in, you swivel to face him. You missed the part where he scooted closer to you and his knees brush against yours lightly.
Mark had been tugging on one of his red hot ears, but instantly drops both of his hands into his lap. He presses his lips together, face taut and expectant.
“You have a lot of adorable quirks, I guess.” You shrug again.
“Oh,” he says, looking down at his hands.
Now it’s your turn to wait for more words to come out of his mouth, but after a beat of deafening silence, you elect to spare him from trying to explain why he’s fishing for compliments. You feel inclined to elaborate in some way because he clearly isn’t satisfied with your answer, although you don’t know what to tell him. It’s not like you can give him a list of all the things you find cute about him…
Okay, now that is a lie.
You could totally give him a list with detailed reasoning behind why you find specific quirks of his adorable, but that is beside the point.
“Yeah,” you say, softly.
Mark has it in his head that this is the last chance he’ll get with you because he doesn’t know the next time he’ll get you alone like this. Things are definitely not going according to plan (if you could even count Jaemin’s semi sleazy advice as a plan at all) but he has to try. This is the moment he’s been imagining and he can’t let it slip away.
“y/n?” he starts again.
“Do you…maybe wanna, I don’t know, like, go out with me?” he stutters. “Because I really like you and I know I’m leaving soon and things are about to get even busier with the album release and everything, but I feel like-like I might explode if I don’t ask at all. So yeah. This is me, um, asking.”
Even if Mark rambled and tripped over his words, at the very least, he is proud of himself for muscling his way through the question before it clogged his airway and choked him to death.
To be completely honest, you’re incredibly surprised he had it in him to ask you out. You look down in your lap then back up to him. “Mark…I-”
By the expression on your face, Mark can already sense rejection. “You know what? Nevermind. Forget I said anything.” He pushes his chair back abruptly, forcing a fake laugh as he stands and throws his navy backpack over his shoulder.
“Hey! You didn’t even let me finish.” You get up to block his path. Your back is to the door he desperately wants to go through, but it’s not like he can bulldoze over you. “I…I feel like things would be different if you weren’t you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, confusion resulting in his face scrunching up and arched eyebrows knitting together, and even when he’s lost and doesn’t understand what you’re implying, he looks adorable.
You take a deep breath, reaching out to cup his cheek with your hand. His eyes go wide, body freezing up, breath hitched in the back of his throat. Mark’s mind short circuits for a brief few seconds, before leaning into your touch. He gently lays his hand over yours and closes his eyes.
You remain silent, just soaking in the bittersweet moment that feels like the last day of summer before school starts, and you have to resume learning subjects you don’t much care for but are obligated to pass whether you resent them or not.
“What I mean is that you’re right. You are leaving soon and things are about to get busier for you and the band. And I’ve really really loved working with you guys. But-”
Your lips twitch into a small smile. Mark loves your smile, especially when he’s the one who brings the corners of your lips to curl up, and he can see a spark of joy or genuine amusement in your eyes. But for the first time, he wishes you weren’t smiling at him like you are now.
“But I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Why not?” He tucks his bottom lip in between his teeth, biting down so hard that he wouldn’t be surprised if the metallic taste of blood coated his tongue soon enough.
“Because long distance relationships are hard, and at the moment, I can’t handle hard. I don’t want us to get involved with each other and lose sight of why we’re here, in this building, in the first place: music.” You sigh. “I just think we’re young and both going in two different directions right now. And even if we only go on one date, that’s one date closer to a relationship…because I don’t know if I’d be able to say no if you asked me at the end of that night.”
Mark holds your hand slightly harder to his cheek. “Wait, you-you would really say ye-”
You shush him by pressing your index finger to his red lips, effectively shutting him up. He looks cross eyed at your finger. “Let’s not talk about hypotheticals anymore. The point is, I’m sorry but I’m going to have to say no.”
You pull your hand off his cheek, lowering it to his shoulder. “I sincerely wish you the best and safest tour ever.”
Leaning towards him, Mark closes his eyes, heartbeat accelerating, and silently praying your lips meet his.
The familiar sky blue scent of cool crystal clear springwater, mixed with airy clean cotton, draws you in and cradles your senses with featherly white bedding as pearly as his straight teeth. Behind his best friend’s back, Haechan showed you some old photos of them together that were taken when Mark still wore transparent braces. You’re positive his goal was to embarrass Mark, and if he had been present, Haechan would have been successful, and subsequently receive a punch to his arm. Despite his intention, like nearly everything else that involves Mark, you found the middle school aged photos downright adorable.
You wish you could’ve met each other as kids, back when you didn’t have careers on the line and you weren’t taking turns going out of town for long periods of time. At the last second, you curve your head around to kiss his cheek.
He only opens his eyes once you’ve let go of him, and he hears the squeaky bolts of you lowering yourself into the swivel chair. He isn’t too sure he would’ve been able to let you step away if he had seen you in such close proximity to him, and felt your lips on his skin in some way.
With your back to him, not meeting his heart broken gaze, he croaks, “Goodbye, y/n.”
And just like that, he’s gone, leaving a dark cloud of loneliness in his place.
You are halfway through a bowl of cereal when inspiration strikes like lightning. You drop the spoon in the ceramic dish and the sharp clatter of the silverware clinking against the rim rings through the kitchen of your empty apartment.
Time is of the essence. You race to your office to jot down some revised verses, humming the tune of what you hope to be the next hit song destined for the band whose tour is nearly over. The soggy food is long forgotten as you sit back in your comfy desk chair, reviewing what you scribbled onto the lined paper of your songwriting notebook.
A proud grin spreads across your face, eager to show them what you’ve composed so far in their absence while they were busy with their tour. And you kind of hate to say it, but more than anyone in the band, you want to share it with one person: Mark Lee.
It’s not like the other four don’t appreciate and respect your songwriting, but there's just something special about sharing a piece of work that you’re proud of with someone who relates to you on a base level about it. Songwriting and producing is a labor of love for you; of the five, Mark simply understands that better than they do.
You are really looking forward to when they get back from their tour in two weeks. Renjun invited you to go out for drinks with them at a place called Neo Bar because you missed their album release party since you were off helping the creative director with the group Red Velvet, in addition to missing the party that was after their first show.
He said Mark would not be coming with you guys for some reason, and you don’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed about not having to face him after months of separation.
As they say, absence truly does make the heart grow fonder.
“Let’s play ‘never have I ever’ when we get back,” Haechan suggests, as you and the other three popsicles he calls his same age bandmates trudge through the blizzard-like conditions. His proposal is met by exhausted groans, automatically protesting the late night game.
“That’s a terrible idea,” Renjun huffs, rubbing his hands together. He blows what little warm air remains in his lungs into his frostbite vulnerable fingers.
“Come on! We can make it a drinking game too. Every time a person puts two fingers down, they take a shot!”
“Haechan, we just walked eight blocks in the snow only to find out that Neo Bar is closed. I’m too cold and tired to do anything else for the next three business days,” Jaemin whines loudly. “I didn’t even want to leave the house in the first place! Jeno made me do it.”
“Euh?!” He whips his head around to see Jaemin, who trails five feet behind the rest of them. “All I did was tell you we were going out with y/n tonight. You were the one who got dressed and followed me outside.”
You’re not too opposed to the proposal since you have nothing better to do for the night and there’s not a lick of alcohol in your system like you expected there to be by this time. “I’d be up for a round of ‘never have I ever’ if everyone else plays too.”
Haechan smiles triumphantly, throwing his arm over your shoulders. “I knew I liked you for a reason.”
At long last, you approach the front door. Renjun digs through his pockets, fishing for the front door key. The brass handle is cold to the touch and requires some heavy jiggling of its presumably corresponding key.
“Fuck. I think this is the mail key,” Renjun mutters. “Does anyone have their key on them?” The sheepish looks they share amongst each other answer the question with a resounding NO.
“I guess we’re lucky that Mark’s home,” Jeno says.
“Mark’s home?” you ask without thinking.
Renjun balls up his small fist and knocks on the door, wincing afterward. “Yeah? Where else would he be?” He glances at Haechan who has a knowing smirk on his face.
“Why? Are you avoiding him or something, babe?”
You shake your head quickly. “Um, no. Not avoiding.”
Jaemin nudges your side. “Surrre. We totally believe you.”
Before you can respond, the door swings open to reveal their disgruntled, half asleep leader. He wears red plaid pajama bottoms and a deep sea blue Polo Sport puffer jacket, zipped up to his chin. His messy, black hair sticks up in different directions.
“What? Dude, did you seriously forget your-” he starts. His squinted, sleepy eyes land on you and pop open. He pushes his round black glasses up the bridge of his nose and sniffles. “Y/n…hey.”
“Hey, Mark.” You give him an awkward smile.
“Yeah, hey, Mark! I’m freezing out here, would you let us in already?” Haechan pipes up.
Mark blinks a few times before stepping out of the way. “Oh, yeah, sorry. Come on in.”
“Thank you!” he says sarcastically.
“So, like, what happened? Why are you guys here?” he questions once you’ve all escaped the treacherous weather of the outside world. His nervous eyes flick to you as if he forgot the girl that rejected him was here, in his house. “Not like I don’t want you here! I just was, um, under the impression I wasn’t going to be seeing youuu-” He turns away and gestures to everyone. “-guys tonight.”
“Real subtle there, Mark,” Jaemin teases him a little louder than Mark would have preferred, whacking his arm.
Haechan catches him up on what you guys are going to be doing. “You can join us too, I guess,” he finishes, retrieving the alcohol and shot glasses from the kitchen. “Is that okay with you, y/n?”
All eyes dart to where you are sitting on the floor in front of their coffee table, twiddling your thumbs and avoiding looking at Mark. You only glance up at Haechan, conjuring the most neutral expression you can manage. “Why wouldn’t I be okay with Mark joining us?”
“I don’t knowww. It was just a question!” He shrugs with that same smirk on his face that you wish he would drop already.
Before starting the game, the band asks what they missed while they were on tour. You divulge the details about how the label fired the old head creative director right before they got back; and then a new guy named Chenle came in and the first thing he proposed was for the band to have a special winter mini album, with the title track being the song you rearranged from an older pop one, first released in 1996, into a soft rock melody.
Jaemin yawns. “Okay, enough gossipping. I’m tired. Let's play already.” He curls his legs under him, sitting criss-cross applesauce. Mark takes a seat next to him. You don’t know whether intentional or not, but he sits down directly across from you, making it so you basically can’t stare straight forward without looking at him.
Haechan kneels next to you, pouring the clear liquid into the tiny glasses he set on the coffee table. “You’re literally no fun,” he pouts.
10 minutes later, Renjun has 3 fingers down; you are tied with Jeno and Jaemin, having 5 down; Haechan has 8 and Mark has 9, predictably being the two targets of their silly, biased R-rated game, incredibly close to having to carry out whatever little challenge that they are appointed by the person who has the least fingers down by the end of the game.
Mark takes a deep breath, subsequently throwing the 4th shot down his throat from putting his eighth finger down. He hisses at the burn radiating through him.
“N-never have I ever…” His eyes light up, an idea striking him suddenly. “...watched one of my friends have sex,” Mark slurs. You gawk as three of them put their fingers down.
“No fair. That was a total accident,” Renjun grumbles, bitterly.
Haechan scoffs. “It’s not an accident if you guys stared for more than 2 seconds.”
He narrows his eyes, resentfully. “Fine. Never have I ever-”
“Wait, wait, wait. I think we’re moving past this watching a friend having sex thing too quickly,” you blurt out.
“Aw, y/n,” Haechan coos, booping your nose. “I’ll tell you about it when you get older.”
You narrow your eyes at him, failing to bite back a smile that accompanies your look. Neither you nor Haechan notice the green glint in Mark’s eyes. Renjun clears his throat before you have the chance to question their sexcapades further. “As I was saying! Never have I ever read my own fanfiction.”
You choke on the water you’re sipping, coughing and sputtering when Haechan lowers his 9th finger. “God, have you actually read your own fanfiction?”
“Yeah, so? Some of them are pretty okay, okay?” He shrugs his shoulders like it’s no big deal, like he’s not mildly embarrassed to admit he has snooped on the internet for made up stories their fans have written, although it’s impossible for him to conceal his flushed cheeks growing hotter when everyone looks at him. “Plus, it’s like t-taking a survey of what fans imagine us to be like based on what gets the best reception.”
You hum and nod, impressed by the fact that Haechan is able to craft an effective case despite being considerably inebriated. “That’s actually pretty smart.”
“Thank y-you,” he hiccups. “I think so too.”
“Tell us then, Haechan, out of every group and artist at the company, who’s the most popular pairing on the biggest fanfiction site?” Jaemin asks with an expectant, devilish smile born out of ulterior motive rather than pure curiosity. “Don’t be shy. You love talking!”
The loud mouth in question looks between you and Mark, fighting to keep his lips sealed shut. He’s very tempted to elbow his fellow menace sitting next to him, and questioning why he didn’t have the sense to not sit next to Jaemin in the first place.
“Haechanie, we’re waiting,” Jaemin sing-songs. “Bet y/n really wants to know.”
“Eh, it’s okay. You don’t have to tell me,” you say, putting him out of his misery. He exhales as if he was holding his breath before. “Besides, if I was really that curious, I can look it up myself someday.”
Mark laughs, nervously. “Y-yeah! You are so right…anyway, uh, Jeno! Your turn, dude.”
Jeno grins, knowing he has been handed the hammer to put the nail in the coffin for the members with 9 fingers down, and gets to seal two fates with one truth. “Never have I ever dyed my hair more than 5 times in one year.”
Mark and Haechan begrudgingly put their thumbs down. They each take their 5th and final shot, leaving them at the mercy of the pure boy (even if that’s only a nickname).
“So, y/n, what do you think we should do with them?” Renjun asks you.
“Well…” You glance at Mark and his adorable puppy eyes make you want to squish his cheeks, wrap him up in a warm blanket and feed him soup. “They’re already shit-faced and a killer hangover is basically a punishment in and of itself…I think we should go easy on them.”
“Hmm, okay, lemme think…”
Mark shakes his head back and forth, aiming to jostle some semblance of energy into his body while he struggles to concentrate on the task at hand. The tendrils of hazy sleep curl around him like the white smoke he and his friends blow out of their mouths, losing the battle to keep his heavy eyelids open.
The next thing he knows, you are by his side, pressing the back on your hand to his forehead. His eyes flutter open, settling on the way you pout your lips for a moment before springing up. The sudden delayed knee-jerk reaction to your skin having any form of contact with him prompts him to flinch back.
“Oh, good. You’re up,” you sigh.
“Mmh, yes…up,” Mark repeats. His mouth feels dry, lips like sandpaper when he licks them.
“Are you feeling okay?” you ask, worriedly.
He greets you with a wry smile. “I’m fine. Just getting terrible sleep these days.”
You press your knuckles to his forehead again, paying no attention to the thin layer of sweat dotting the edge of his thoroughly fried hair line. Since your game of “never have I ever” with the band, the color has changed, now freshly dyed a light sky blue that matches his scent and seems very Mark Lee™.
It won’t last very long in that same exact shade. If you had to guess, you estimate it will not surpass 3 days before fading into a new one, and you pity his poor scalp for having to put up with not only the maintenance of a specific shade, but the frequency at which he tries out new colors, too. You wonder how coarse and “broom-like” (his words, not yours) his hair is, and fight against the internal temptation you feel to run your fingers through the blue strands of hair atop his head.
“And why’s that?”
“Oh, it’s just the-” Mark stretches his arms above his head while he yawns. “-fucking going on at our house. I don’t know why I thought Haechan and Jaemin getting girlfriends, instead of bringing home one-night stands, would make them, like, stop having sex so often and SO loudly.”
You giggle and take a seat next to him. He mentions that some of the members are in talks to move out, and how he’s making arrangements of his own with Renjun and Jeno. You then work in tandem on the b-sides from their upcoming winter mini album. For the first time since you walked in, you glance at the page he’s scribbling on. He hunches over it, one forearm practically covering the full sheet, besides the tiny section he’s focusing on.
It looks like a page of song lyrics, which is strange to you.
Why would Mark be hiding something he wrote from you?
You have always been excited to share songs with Mark. Plus, even if he is a perfectionist, once he deems a song good enough for someone else's ears, he types it up, prints it out, and readily hands it over too. What’s so different about this one?
“Hey, what do you have there?” you lightheartedly ask. “Working on something new?”
“W-what? I’m not working on anything,” he answers, suspiciously fast.
“Um, yes you are.” You gesture at the page, smiling with bemusement.
Mark sighs and moves his arms to reveal the typed out lyrics to your song, the one you painstakingly rearranged and wrote new lyrics for sections that were previously a bit empty. Several verses sprinkled throughout the page have been crossed out with red ink, and tiny extensive notations fill the margins.
You raise an accusatory eyebrow. “Is there something wrong with my song?”
“What? No!” he croaks. “It’s just, uh, I was told by one of the, like, other higher up producers that they think the song’s vibe is a tad bit, um, childish? And some of it should be more-” He clears his throat awkwardly. “-i don’t know, like, a little more s-suggestive?”
“Okay, so let me get this straight.” You fold your arms over your chest defensively. “My lyrics aren’t explicit enough and now you have to change things to make it about fucking?”
“i- no! It’s not like that!”
You snap your tongue, disappointedly, for what you’re disappointed with is unclear. Maybe it’s because you had faith in the label to trust your lyrical judgment, or perhaps it’s that you wouldn’t peg Mark to be the kind of person to go behind your back about something like this.
“I guess this is what I get for ending up too attached to a song,” you grumble, beginning to stand up.
“Y/n, wait.” Mark abruptly reaches for your forearm to stop you. Just as quickly as he grabs you, he releases, realizing how firm his hold is. “Actually, can you stay?”
Furrowing your brows, you sit back down tentatively. You rub your forearm where he had latched onto you. “Why should I stay?”
“Um…help?” he squeaks, shyly. “Please?”
“Help with what, exactly?”
You scoff and roll your eyes. “Seriously? I’ve heard some of your other stuff. You know I’ve heard some of your other stuff. You’ve written plenty of sexual lyrics by yourself.”
Mark’s skin prickles with heat. Since when did it get so hot in here? He sheepishly rubs the back of his neck, wiping off beads of sweat as he attempts to stutter through a reason that justifies your continual presence. And when he can’t think of a good one, he spits out the first thing that pops into his mind.
“I think you might be able to, like, give me more… experience?”
“Experience? You’re kidding me. I-” You purse your lips and tilt your head back to stare at the ceiling.
Mark blinks at you, confused about why you paused. “What? What is it?”
Your eyes meet his again, and he half wishes you had kept staring at the ceiling. “Is this about the fanfiction scene?”
“Um-” He gulps, your response cuing his turn to look away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, y/n.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “Renjun told me that he decided you and Haechan each have to act out a scene from some fanfiction he found on Ao3. If you asking me to give you more sexual experience isn’t a line from fanfiction, what could you possibly have to do this week?”
His eyes dart around the room, like he’s double checking if he’s being pranked, a sliver of himself wondering if Ashton Kutcher will jump out from behind the black sofa next to him and yell out “You’ve just been punked!” Because having the girl who, even after all these months of being separated, and even after the tough heartbreaking rejection, he has the world’s biggest crush on, is asking him about what Renjun told him he had to do.
“Mark?” you repeat since he doesn’t respond after a dozen seconds. It takes another handful of silence to compel you to leave. “Fine. Don’t tell me.”
You start to get up but, for the second time tonight, he suddenly grabs the arm rest to prevent you from slipping away. Against your will, you spin to face him again and flinch.
Mark’s eyes flick down from your startled, wide eyes to your slightly parted lips. They look a bit puffier than they usually do from you chewing on them as you concentrated on the tailend of producing today (Mark would know; he has stared at your mouth long enough). He has memorized how your lips look through every facial expression you have ever made around him.
Admittedly, Mark feels guilty for imagining them wrapped around something else when he jacks off too, what it would look like if he looked down and you were on your knees, how pretty you would look with tears streaming down your cheeks as you struggled to breathe and take him down your throat.
Before he even realizes what he’s doing, he lurches forward. Leaning his hands on the armrests over your wrists, cementing you to the chair where you can’t get up or squirm away from him. He tilts his head to the side and presses his lips to yours forcefully. The chair leans back as he does so, pushing into your personal bubble without invitation.
Within seconds, he slips his tongue into your mouth and you squeak. He tastes of sweet honey lemon from the cough drop he was sucking on earlier. You slowly close your eyes and he hums softly when your mouths move together as one.
He really just…went for it.
Barely any hesitation whatsoever.
Never in a million years- actually, no, scratch that. Never in a trillion years would you have guessed Mark Lee –THE Mark Lee– would do such a thing as forcibly kiss you.
And now he’s making out with you and your mind is blank because you weren’t prepared for it, and your heart is beating a thousand miles per hour, and the butterflies in your stomach are fluttering wildly for some inexplicable reason that is far beyond you.
You subconsciously spread your thighs open for him to slot himself in between them. Sinking even closer to your body, he lifts a knee up onto the seat of the chair. Mark slides it further until it’s pressed up against your core. Beneath your jeans, your pussy tightly pulses to the rhythm of his mouth moving against yours. You moan involuntarily and feel him smile against your lips.
And that smile is the thing that brings you back to the life of the living, on the precipice of taking your last breath because you’re so close to the heaven of giving into him that you can see the pearly gates, and the kiss is so aggressive, while simultaneously passionate and desperate, that it’s hard to breathe. You’re so lightheaded and dizzy that you are almost willing to accept that this not so soft boy will be the death of you and you’d welcome the dark if you could see the light with him.
Obviously, you’re not really going to die.
But what does die is your trust in Mark.
Your eyes pop open and, with all your might, you yank your wrists from his firm grip. You summon the strength to push him off of you, placing both of your hands flat against his chest and shoving him backward.
Both of your chests are rising and falling rapidly, trying to catch your breath. Mark shakes his head, blinking a handful of times before looking up at you. The most devastating apology is carved into his features, and it takes all of you to not fall for it.
You snatch your bag from where it sits, propped up against the leg of the soundboard. Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand you storm out of the room without so much as looking back.
So much for soft boy Mark. And so much for you thinking you’re a good judge of character.
If you were, you wouldn’t have ever called him cute, not to his face, nor in private. Because in your eyes, there’s nothing cute about driving home with tears in your eyes because you were wrong about a boy.
“I seriously cannot put into words how dumb you are, Mark Lee,” Renjun scolds him. “What were you fucking thinking?”
Mark sighs. “I wasn’t, I-”
“Why didn’t you tell us after it happened, huh?” Haechan piles on.
“It was just-”
“Plus, you're the one who told Jaemin he needed to stop hitting on the hairdresser months ago because she supposedly might quit if he pushes her too hard! When, in reality, YOU are the one who PHYSICALLY pushed yourself onto a DIFFERENT one of our coworkers.”
“I know! I know!” Mark yells, throwing his hands up in frustration.
“Don’t yell at us, Mark. You have no right to yell at us,” Jeno mutters.
Mark sighs. “You-you’re right. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, you guys.”
“Sorry? Mark, we’re not exactly the ones who deserve multiple apologies about this.”
“I know…” Mark rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands, exhaustion setting in after not sleeping properly for days.
There was a serious notion swirling round and round in his head to call you a thousand times, begging for forgiveness, sending an equal amount of flower bouquets, heart shaped boxes of chocolates, cuddly stuffed animals, and the whole shebang; but he didn’t even know if you liked those kinds of things. Besides, it only took a smidge of reason for him to realize that was inappropriate, given the situation he put himself in.
“You’re right. I fucked up.”
“Fucked up?” Renjun scoffs. “Do you have a fucking fucking problem? Is that what it is? Because if you need me to get you viagra or something, I would be more than happy to, if it meant you could blow off some steam and refrain yourself from jumping our-” He gestures to the bandmates present in Mark’s room. “-friend,” Renjun snaps, temper short and tone biting, radically different from the pure boy Mark likes to coddle every chance he gets.
They leave him to stew in his perpetual misery while Mark paces back and forth. It’s been a week since the incident with you, and the severity of the guilt eating him up inside, gnaws away with determination to make him suffer. He can still remember the look of betrayal you threw at him as you raced out of the room.
He doesn’t blame you in the slightest for booking it as quickly as you did, putting as much distance between yourself and him in record time after he caged you in, and forcibly stole much more than a simple kiss from you. He sincerely doubts there will ever be a time in his life where he forgives himself for that. Honest to god, he doesn’t know what came over him. It was like a knee jerk reaction to watching his window of opportunity sliding shut before his very eyes, and his body, yearning for yours for months, made the executive decision for him to act on impulse.
When his manager had dropped him off at home, he was too numb to do anything else, other than lie in bed. He couldn’t close his eyes without seeing you though, a combination of fright and anger sewn into your face. He couldn’t stand to eat anything either, too sick of himself that it manifested in physical nausea. He wanted his body to waste away and shrivel up, until there was nothing left of him but bones to be thrown in a shallow grave, with a headstone stuck in the ground overhead that read:
“Here lies Mark Lee: untrustworthy and rightfully self-loathing.”
The only reason that didn’t happen was because after a few days of watching his friend slowly starve, Jaemin, with the help of Jeno’s strength to hold him down, basically force fed him until he gave in and shoved a tiny amount of food into his own mouth by choice. The first mouthful of chicken that his roommates successfully managed to get into his mouth, had Mark wondering if this was how you felt. Afterall, his situation wasn’t too far off from that dreaded previous one.
They share the same elements: being held down, having something forcibly stuck in his mouth, closing his eyes and accepting that this was really happening, and feeling nearly helpless to get it to stop at that moment. But, unlike Jaemin and Jeno, who were doing it for Mark’s own good, Mark had done it for a selfish need to taste your mouth if it was the last thing he ever did on this earth.
The band got the impression that Mark had seized up, afraid of being rejected for the second time, so he didn’t even try to make a move on you again, that he was even more of a nervous dorky mess that he couldn’t muster up the confidence Jaemin insisted he needed to have in order to win you over before they left on tour.
Jaemin, the band’s resident fuck boy (or was the band’s resident fuck boy before he found a girlfriend), had always talked about toying with girls like it was a game. The concept of winning you over, like you were a prize to be won by some lucky contender who stepped up to take their chances, made him uncomfortable; which is why he’s ashamed to admit that he wanted you to look at him and think “he’s hot. I wish he’d fuck me” like Jaemin so crudely commented the day before he was rejected by you the first time.
If only he’d waited.
The smart thing to do would have been to be honest about the whole fanfiction situation, no matter how embarrassing it might have been to admit out loud to you. Although, he knows he’s never been the smartest in the group. He did well in school and was rational enough to get this far in life, but without Haechan to steer the group with a keen skepticism and eye for realistic expectations in the industry, they would have been led awry a long time ago. That’s what makes them a good team. Relying on each other to succeed and trust that everything will turn out okay as long as they stick together and try.
As cliche as it might sound, it’s “the power of friendship” and all the jazz that gets them through the toughest of times.
Too bad Mark feels powerless when it comes to solving his own mistake with you. And on top of that, it’s too bad that his friends are justifiably mad at him too. How is he supposed to dig himself out of this one? Then again, maybe he doesn’t deserve to dig himself out of anything.
“Mark?” someone calls his name from outside his door. They knock on it for good measure when he doesn’t respond.
Mark looks down at his phone, tapping the screen to check the time. His eyes bug out of his head, discovering he’s been trapped behind bars with his own thoughts for over 2 hours.
The person in the hall takes that as an invitation inside. Without waiting for Mark to open it up for him, the door swings inward and Jaemin steps inside. He carefully closes it behind him.
“Hey, Mark,” he says, gently.
Mark greets him with a depressed hum.
Jaemin sits on the edge of his bed and pats the spot next to him. Mark hesitates but takes a seat anyway, hanging his head low and avoiding eye contact.
“So…I heard you fucked up.” Surprisingly, Jaemin’s voice isn’t laced with anger like the others, but there is a twinge of disappointment, which everyone knows is far worse.
“Just so you know-” Jaemin pauses. He internally questions how to approach this so his words accurately convey his stance on the matter, without muddying the water too much. “-this isn’t what I meant when I said that you need to be more forward with y/n.”
“Yeah…I know.” Mark sighs, pitifully. “I’m sorry I told you at the beginning of our tour to stop hitting on your current girlfriend because it probably made her uncomfortable. Like, looking back, that was, uh, super hypocritical of me since you never, like…forcibly kissed her at some point.”
Jaemin snaps his tongue. “You know, I gotta say: that was a real dick thing to do.” Jaemin squeezes his thigh, and Mark nods but doesn’t reply. “Hey, tell you what. Me and the guys are heading out to Neo Bar now that it’s finally open. How about you come with us and drown your sorrows? I can’t promise it’ll make you feel any better but at least it’ll take your mind off of it, right?”
Mark purses his lips, debating whether or not he should take him up on the nice offer. Mark doesn’t think he deserves nice.
“I don’t think the other guys want me there. Everyone’s mad at me…Ha!” he huffs, humorlessly. “I’m mad at me. And I don’t want to drink away anything.”
“Well I’m not mad at you. And I want you there. My girlfriend hates that place so I’ll be by your side all night.” Jaemin throws his arm over Mark’s shoulders. He leans into his side, giving him a half hug with one arm, then stands up, positioning himself in front of the depressed Canadian with hunched shoulders. “Come on, Mark. You can be mad at yourself there. Plus, you can pay for our drinks instead.” He holds out his hand, wiggling his fingers invitingly. “They won’t hate you tagging along if they get free drinks out of it.”
Mark stares at it briefly, before letting Jaemin pull him to his feet – both of them unaware of the trouble brewing at the bar, and what the wild, unpredictable night has in store.
You are fast asleep when your phone rings, the call yanking you out of a peaceful dream. You open one eye, glaring at the bright screen projecting light onto your bedroom ceiling from where it sits on your nightstand. The faint red glowing clock next to your phone reads 3:28 am.
You squeeze your eyes closed and impatiently wait for the caller to give up on trying to contact you. Although, unfortunately, that does not happen, the insistent notification not letting up at all. Groaning, you scold yourself for forgetting to put your phone on silent before you closed your eyes to sleep tonight. You wiggle across the mattress towards the noisy nightstand. When you push back the thick covers that were clinging to your shoulders, the chilly air in your bedroom hits your skin, raising every hair on your exposed arms and neck.
You grab the buzzing device and slip back into your warm cocoon of blankets quickly. Blinking a few times, your eyes adjust to the bright screen. You have half a mind to turn it off and leave them hanging with no answer, but your bubbling frustration pressures you into wanting to give them a piece of your mind.
They did wake you up after all. The absolute least they deserve is an earful of angry curses.
“GOD! Do you know what time-”
“Y/n?” the boy on the other end of the line starts in a soft voice.
“-it is?! It’s 3:30 in the morning! Fuck off you-!”
“Y/n, wait, wait!” he tries again a little louder. “I’m sorry for calling but-”
Mark sighs. “Hey, y/n.”
“What-?” You attempt to shed the sleep out of your system by rubbing your knuckles over your eyelids. “Why are you calling me?”
“So…” He clears his throat. “I, um, need you to, like, come pick me up…please.”
You can hear the urgency in his voice. He sounds desperate. It pulls on your heart strings, feeling compelled to help him at all costs. “I…where-” The memory of the last time you saw him last week replays in your head, cutting off your response.
“Y/n? I don’t have much time,” he says after a few moments of silence.
You frown. Internal conflict or not, your curiosity gets the best of you. “Why? Where are you?”
“Uhhh…” He sighs again, this time his tone blanketed in guilt and shame, this time, for more than one reason.
“Mark, where are you?” you ask more forcefully.
“Okay, okay, so…” Mark gulps. “I’m, like, at the…police station.”
Your upper half snaps up, letting the covers fall off your shoulders, but now too distracted to feel the biting cold on your skin anymore, goosebumps covering every inch of your body. “Why?! What happened?”
Mark, again, heavily sighs. “Can I explain it to you later? I…I tried all the guys but no one’s picked up…I’m really extremely sorry to put you in this position, but I really need you, y/n. Please.”
You have no idea why he was arrested, although you doubt it was for a valid reason. You may have doubted he wouldn’t kiss you like he did, but you're beyond positive he would have done anything tremendously bad.
The tiniest part of you wants him to remain behind bars. The thing is, an overwhelming majority of you wishes that you would’ve just kissed him back last week, since there was only one stupid, stubborn, silly little reason you didn’t: pride.
You used to pride yourself on being a good judge of character, but that changed once he pressed his lips to your aggressively, forcefully, in a way you never imagined he would, and in a way that made you want him to go even further. Nevertheless, you were mad at yourself for being wrong about him as a person, not because you were mad at him for kissing you.
He was the soft boy, and you wanted to be right, you were so certain you were right, especially after the timid way he asked you out the first time. When you realized you were wrong, you were mad in general.
You hesitate for a moment longer, before shoving pride down the stairs, and swinging your legs over the side of the bed. “What’s the address?”
Mark keeps his mouth shut once he hops in the car. The explanation he promised you remains a mystery, guarded by his steady still silence. You don’t protest when he takes the aux cord and plugs in his dead iphone, a newer one without a shattered glass screen. It lights up and you see he has dozens of notifications from the band. He types out a quick “I’m fine, stop calling me” in their group chat and hits send. You don’t ask about it though, only wait for him to share first.
He stares out the passenger seat window, fiddling with one of his jean’s square pocket zippers sewn over his thighs. The Neighbourhood’s “Softcore” plays quietly as you drive away from the police station.
I’m always gone, out on the go
I’m on the run and you’re home alone
I’m too consumed with my own life
Are we too young for this? Feels like I can’t move
He clears his throat, awkwardly. “You know, this song has, like, nothing to do with softcore.” He changes the song, perhaps overthinking the situation, feeling the lyrics hit a little too close to home. Mark, in the least subtle way possible, chooses “Do I Wanna Know?” by the Arctic Monkeys.
You pull up to a red stop light, your car gradually rolling up to the wide white cross walk. Your eyes flit to his hunched over body, where he is still avoiding looking at you. This time he’s scrolling through his spotify playlists to distract himself – either that, or make himself appear busy enough to justify prolonging the silence. You wait for him to speak, just like you wait for the light to turn green at the empty intersection. There isn’t a soul in sight on the roads, only lonely worn asphalt lanes, and faded white and yellow painted traffic lines.
“What do you think it is, then?” you ask, making an effort to get him to talk. Even if it’s not about whatever went down tonight that happened to warrant his arrest, it’s still a start, and you have to start somewhere with him. “Because when I hear that I just think soft-core porn.”
“Uhh, well, no,” he stutters, surprised by your mention of porn out of nowhere. It’s one thing to talk about sex in front of you with his friends when you’re all tipsy or drunk, but completely sober and alone, trapped in a car with you, that’s an entirely different ball game. He sits up straighter, leaning his weight back, and wipes his nose with the back of his hand. “I don’t know, um, pretty flowers and pastel colors and little hearts and being sentimental…and, like, a warm fuzzy feeling? Like that sort of vibe, or something.”
You hum as an acknowledgment of his interpretation. Hearing his description, softcore reminds you a bit of Mark.
The light turns green and you inch past the crosswalk slightly. “...so, Mark-”
“Wait!” he cuts you off suddenly, grabbing the steering wheel.
You slam on the brakes and the car lurches forward, giving both of you whiplash. “What!?”
Mark sighs for the umpteeth time. “I’m sorry but can we go to your place? I really, really don’t want to face the guys right now.”
You snap your tongue. “Why? What did they do?” For the first time since you picked him up, he turns to look you in the eye, and you finally notice the little cut over the arch of his eyebrow. It doesn’t look too deep but seeing dried blood on part of his face is worrying.
You’re always finding out more about yourself when you’re around him, because the thought of someone hurting Mark worries you more than you expected it would.
“Oh my god! Seriously, what fucking happened tonight?”
He lightly laughs, humorlessly. “Uh, it’s a long story.”
Skeptically searching his face for answers and finding none, you turn the steering wheel in the opposite direction. You snap your tongue, settling on heading home, like he so asked nicely, instead of dropping him off at his house like you initially planned.
Apparently, all it takes for you to say yes to Mark is hearing the word please, and that’s kind of scary to think about.
“Fine but you’re actually telling me the truth this time, got it?”
Mark nods, affirmatively. “Yeah, yes, got it. Promise.”
As it turns out, Mark wasn’t even arrested like you were led to believe. Mark explains that there was some guy who drugged Jaemin’s girlfriend at Neo Bar a few months ago, before the tour started. Mark had pointed him out to Jaemin and Jeno, which, in hindsight, was not the smartest thing to do, because they were completely shitfaced and out for vengeance. They went out to the parking lot 5 minutes later and lit his car on fire (“Deserved” you spat).
The only person who that douchebag recognized was Mark, and he came to the conclusion that Mark was the one who did it, which resulted in him trying to attack Mark. And, at that exact moment, the police rolled up with the fire engine in tow, and they arrested the guy who drugged Jaemin’s girlfriend, undoubtedly with the motive to take advantage of her when she was out cold. Mark went with them to give a statement, forgetting his wallet was with the boys and arriving at the station with a dead battery.
“Wow…what a story,” you mutter while you wipe the dried blood off his face as you sit on the living room sofa.
“Yeah, it sure is,” he replies, solemnly.
“I never would’ve pegged Jaemin or Jeno as the type to…commit arson-”
“Yeah, me neither,” he grumbles.
“-but I’m glad you’re okay. And, hey, on the brightside, though, you might even get a song out of it,” you say, making him laugh, lightly. “I’ll be right back,” you tell him.
You step away into the bathroom to wash the red out of the warm hand towel you had been using. Running it under hot water, you wring it out and stare at yourself in the mirror.
Your inner monologue screams WHAT ARE YOU DOING with a megaphone in your ear, nearly pitched high enough to give you tinnitus. You blink away any apprehension, hearing music flowing through the air from the other room.
You return to find Mark at the grand piano, playing an old song you pulled out of your arsenal of unfinished pieces. You stop dead in your tracks when you realize what version of trial lyrics you left at the piano yesterday.
After your conversation (and impromptu makeout session) with Mark last week, you came home and used the adrenaline coursing through your veins to craft something that could prove that upper producer Mark was talking about wrong. If the label wanted sexy, you could at least try to take a run at sexy with a b-side track. It was a lot easier than you thought it might be. What you wrote was downright explicit, far too explicit to actually make it into the final version and far too explicit for you to want to show anyone else. They were supposed to be for your eyes only, not anyone else’s, and certainly not Mark’s.
Blood rushes to his crotch as his eyes repeatedly sweep over the explicit lyrics, visualizing all of it playing out in real life in front of him this very second. He was already half hard from being close to you when you were cleaning his face, but now his growing erection is straining against his jeans, begging to be dealt with, preferably by the author of the dirty lyrics.
You gulp, ultimately deciding to address the elephant in the room, or rather, two elephants in the room. You can’t just pretend he didn’t kiss you, no more than you can pretend he hasn’t already discovered the revised lyrics that he continues to stare at as you approach. Walking up behind him slowly, you take a seat next to him on the mahogany piano bench. You clasp your hands together, and lace them in your lap.
He stops playing, sucking in a giant breath of fresh air, gathering courage in the form of oxygen. He holds it in for a second, then softly answers your question from last week in one exhale. “The fanfiction was about me and Haechan.” He glances at your face, gauging reaction. “Like…together. Together- together…do you know what I mean?” He takes your silence as a cue to continue. “We just had to hold hands at this radio show we went to and I had to kiss his cheek, and he had to kiss my neck once. Like, just a peck. It was nothing, really.”
You blink. “And what purpose does that serve, exactly?” you ask after a beat, genuinely trying to understand their thought process.
“Something about, like, giving fans what they want, I think?” His voice cracks at the end of his answer and he clears his throat.
“Okay? But was any of that much different from what you’re like with Haechan now? Forced PDA at a specific time and place isn’t exactly a punishment if you do it without being forced to normally.” He parts his lips to respond but leaves his jaw hanging open a second like that just occurred to him and hadn’t ever crossed his mind. “Also, if it was nothing, then why did you hide it from me?”
“It hadn’t happened yet! And part of the punishment, or challenge or whatever dumb name you wanna call it, was that we couldn’t tell anyone, including you.” Mark balls his hands into fists, lazer eyes staring holes into the rectangular digital clock resting on a shelf across the living room, willing to turn back time to that moment when he fucked up. “But I wish I did. I wish I would’ve told you about the Haechan thing and I really wish I wouldn’t have kissed you,” he admits, through gritted teeth.
You wait for him to unclench his hands and then reveal your own thoughts on the situation. “Honestly, Mark…I really wish I had actually kissed you back.”
“You…you what?” he whispers. “So you mean you don’t hate me?”
“I thought I did at first,” you start tentatively, placing your hand over his on the piano. “Then I got home and it hit me. I wanted you to kiss me, I just didn’t think it would happen like that. I didn’t think you would be so…hard. I imagined you would be softer. That’s how I always pictured you in my head.” You shrug, weakly. “Cute and soft.”
“Y/n, do you…want me to be soft with you?” he asks, an intense lilt in his voice that grows darker upon his second inquiry. “Or do you want me to be hard?”
Lust vibrates in the room all around you, a single chord playing in your ear that sounds like destiny. It calls out for you to spread your legs and pour your heart into his.
You gulp and close your eyes. Electing that honesty is the best policy, you tell him the truth through a whisper barely audible. “I don’t care either way. I just want you.”
Mark takes a second to process, then stands up wordlessly. You stay where you are, sitting at the piano, waiting for him to make the first move like he’s done twice already.
Third time’s the charm, right?
Mark places his calloused fingers under your chin, gently raising your head up to meet his gaze as he stands next to the piano bench. His typically round, curious, and soft starry eyes, and their swirling galaxies you are so accustomed to finding yourself lost in, untethered to any space station or rocket ship that could bring you back down to earth, this time completely consumed by hunger. His pupils are dilated and glossy. Your eyes flick down to his pink lips, fixating on his mouth. Subconsciously, you run your tongue along your bottom lip.
The gravitational force between you and him, like a collapsing star, bewitches you with the promise of something you’ve deprived yourself of for too long. You spring up, wrapping your arms around his neck. Your mouths collide, and this time, you are the one to slip your tongue into his mouth. It may be the second kiss you’ve shared, but it's the first kiss to ever mean so much to him because you initiated it.
Mark’s skin is hot to the touch, searing flesh red and splotchy, turning your legs to jelly. He leaves sloppy, open mouthed kisses as he moves down your neck, nibbling at your sensitive skin whenever he hears you moan. You tilt your head down, taking his thumb that was still holding your chin gently, into your mouth. Sucking on it slowly, he groans at the feeling tingling through his body.
“Oh-oh my god,” he breathes out, having very little physical reason to be so out of breath this early on, but just the image of you squirming underneath him sucks all the oxygen from his lungs. His cock twitches picturing you sucking him off too, just like he did last week.
Reading his mind, you fall to your knees, accepting the fact that they will be bruised tomorrow because of the cold dark tile under you. Mark perches on the edge of the mahogany piano bench, his jeans bunched up at his ankles, sitting his bare ass on the surface. You spit in your hand and grip the base of Mark’s cock. Jerking him up and down a few times elicits a low groan from him. You tilt forward, kitten licking drops of precum
You’re tempted to keep teasing him like this, but feel too compelled to suck him off and bring Mark to the brink of heaven to make him wait. Wrapping your lips around his head and taking him into your mouth, you stare up at him with big round, bright eyes.
Mark’s eyes flutter closed. He leans back and firmly grips the piano bench with clammy hands. Salty tears sprout at the corners of your eyes, and after thirty seconds of choking on his cock, they trail down your face. You try to concentrate on breathing through your runny nose while he bashes the back of your throat over and over again until your jaw is throbbing.
“Aww, babe,” Mark coos, petting the top of your head. You hum and the vibrations, coupled with a master’s degree in mind blowing blow jobs, drive him up the walls. “S-so good to me.”
Based on his heavy breathing and twitching thighs, you predict he won’t last much longer before he shoots his cum down your throat. You bob your head more aggressively and shove your mouth down as far as you can manage. Closing your eyes and relaxing the back of your throat, you swallow around his length.
He hisses and threads his fingers into your hair. Gently pulling you off of his cock with a *pop* a string of saliva connects your glossy bottom lip to his head. When you tilt your head up, it dribbles down your chin. He reaches his hand out, smiling, and swipes his knuckles across your messy chin, fondly. “You’re my good lil girl, right, y/n?”
Trying to catch your breath, you simply nod, batting your eyelashes at him. “M’hmm.”
He licks his lips and exhales shakily. “I wanna hear you say it, babe.”
You swallow excess saliva and pre-cum in your mouth with a gulp. “i-i’m your good little girl, Mark.”
He cups your cheek and you lean into his touch, roles reversed since the time before the second album release. You rest your eyes for a moment. He sighs and slides his hand under your jaw, lifting gently. “C’mere, baby. Up,” he orders in a soft voice.
You follow his instruction, getting to your feet just in time before they fall asleep. You steady your wobbly legs by grabbing his shoulders.
“Give me a kiss.” He angles his head up for you to press your lips to his. Mark doesn’t hesitate to stick his tongue into your mouth, humming melodically when he tastes himself in your mouth.
He tugs your thick sweater over your head in one swoop and it doesn’t even feel like you're on the brink of winter anymore and it snowed a few inches yesterday. That’s a whole nother story when you remove your bra, your perky nipples begging to differ with your mind’s interpretation of the temperature.
His fingers hook into the waistband of your pants and he drags them down your legs, leaving you standing in front of him with only your panties to hide how ridiculously aroused you are. He helps you step out of your pants while he kicks off his own that were still rung around his ankles.
Mark’s hands squeeze the back of your thighs and roam their way up to your ass. He snakes one of them in between your legs. With his index finger, he lightly grazes the wet patch. You gasp and dig your fingers into his strong broad shoulders.
“See, this…” Mark rubs along the thoroughly soaked material covering your pussy, back and forth from your clit to your throbbing core. “...THIS is something I’m going to write a song about.” He applies more pressure, using two fingers now instead of only the one. Moving your sticky panties to the side, he finally makes contact with your wetness. “A wet, pretty pussy like this needs to be praised.”
Mark slides two fingers inside of you easily, crooking them in a certain way that causes a spike of pleasure. You whimper his name, making him smile.
“I love the way my name sounds when you say it.” He uses his free hand to tweak your nipple, rolling the bud between his fingers slowly.
“I g-guess it’s a good thing I love saying it,” you reply.
“Mmmh, more than a good thing,” he agrees. He retracts his fingers and you whine. “Sit,” he orders, patting his naked thigh.
You hum, happily complying, and sitting on him like he instructed. You shudder as your clit brushes against his skin. He controls your motions, tightly gripping your hips, giving you no control whatsoever as you rock back and forth on his thigh. You mewl and squeeze your eyes shut. Leaning forward, you ring your arms around his neck again, preoccupying your mouth by pressing open mouthed kisses to the spot directly under his ear. You’re about 10 seconds away from seeing stars when you suck his neck slightly harder than you intended, and apologize for it.
“No, y/n, don’t be sorry,” he insists, voice gruff. “Do it harder.”
You grab his shoulders, leaning back to look at him square in the face, concern peeking through the veil of the heated moment. “I don’t want to leave any hickies on you. What if someone sees them?”
He stops rocking your hips to stare back at you, questionably. “What if I want them to see, baby? What if I want people to know – that – I – am – taken?” Mark grinds you against his flexed thigh in between his words.
“But…but, wait-” you wheeze, and he stops to let you finish.
“Hm?” he hums, patiently. He removes one of his hands from your body to cup your flushed face. You’re confident that if you looked down, you would see the imprint from his bruisingly tight clutch on your hip.
“Aren’t you guys taking pictures for the album in the next few days?”
“Um, tomorrow, yeah.”
Your eyes bug out of your head. “Tomorrow? Seriously?” You try to hoist yourself up, off of Mark’s thigh, but are proven unsuccessful, when he lowers the hand that was on your cheek to reinforce his hold on your body.
“y/n, we’re wearing big puffy jackets and ear muffs, and I think I’m wearing a scarf too. No one’s gonna see a damn thing on the album, babe.” He kisses your forehead, softly. “Besides, they can cover anything with makeup or edit it out in post production.” Mark rests his forehead against yours and sighs. “What are you thinking about? Tell me what’s goin‘ on in that pretty little head of yours.”
You quirk an eyebrow up at him, teasingly. “You think my head is small?”
“Wha-no!” Mark loosens his hands to a feather touch. “Uh, tell me what’s goin‘ on in that very smart, super intelligent head of yours, huh?”
Giggling lightly, you clasp your hands over his, grounding his waning confidence back to your body. “Mark, I’m joking.” You kiss his cheek, ignoring the faint affronted noise he makes in the back of his throat. “Why does it matter so much to you?” you quietly ask after a beat.
He shrugs his shoulders, humming an “I don’t know” sound. “I wanna look in the mirror when I get home, and be able to see where your mouth was. There were so many times on tour, you don't even know how many times, where I’d, like, go into a hotel room, and flick on the bathroom lights, and just picture purple…because that would mean…”
You nestle your noses together gently, aiming to milk the confession out of him, paying no regard to the perspiration shining on both of your faces, by this point. “That would mean what?”
“...that would mean I was yours,” Mark exhales, gently squeezing your body for emphasis.
He moans as your mouth, finding its way back to the sensitive spot under his ear, sucks the desired magenta patch into his soft skin. His body works on autopilot, picking up where you two left off, controlling your hips to grind your core against him with vigor. His neck absorbs the squeals that escape your tight throat from the sensation of riding his thigh.
Once you’ve littered a few precious hickies into Mark’s neck, and your first orgasm is nearly on the horizon, he tugs your body close and scoops you up. You wrap your arms and legs around him, your nails scratching his upper back, clinging on as he heads to your bedroom. Instead of letting instinct guide the way, you tell him it’s the last door on the left to make things easier.
Mark tosses you on the bed and latches his mouth onto your pussy. He slurps noisily, him unabashedly moaning not only for the reason that he knows the vibrations feel amazing for you, but because he finds a genuine love for eating you out. His mouth focuses on your clit, while he curls two fingers inside you.
The obscene wet sounds, and the soft desperate noises that fall from your lips, echoing through the room, ring in his ears, calling him like a siren to a sailor on the precipice of death. The thing is, he would willingly dive into the deepest and darkest of oceans, risking the possibility of succumbing to your song and/or drowning, if it meant he might reach a point where he’s consumed by you entirely. Mark wants to be swallowed up whole by you, and never spit out, the salty water that is your mind, body and soul flooding his own veins, and filling his lungs until it’s impossible for him to inhale oxygen like a normal person, only surviving by breathing in your wild ocean. You could sink razor sharp teeth into his neck, and he would welcome it with a blissful smile on his lips. There is a strong throbbing desire in his heart to be inside you, connecting your bodies together, becoming one with each other.
Mark slips a third finger inside you in preparation for his large cock. You know it’ll hurt at first since you struggled to even take him down your throat. You come undone on his fingers, whimpering as he continues to rub aggressive circles around your clit.
He retracts his fingers and brings them up to his mouth. Licking your juices off of them, he holds intense eye contact with you. “Hmm, now everytime I hear ‘Watermelon Sugar’ on the radio, I’ll think about eating you out, baby,” he says, a proud smile plastered on his messy lips. He wipes off your wetness with the back of his hand. “I guess I have no choice. I’ll just have to write my own song about making you come with my mouth. How’s that sound?”
You shakily hum, approvingly. “That makes me co-producer, right, Mark?”
“You’re damn right, it does, y/n.” He looks down at you, a fond, yet hungry, glassy polish to his eyes, dark marbles that roll over your figure and burn every inch of your body into memory. “Where are the condoms? I can’t fucking wait any more.”
You shake your head and thread your fingers together. “I’m clean and on birth control and I can’t fucking wait to actually feel you inside me.”
Mark licks his bottom lip and drags his tip through your messy folds for a handful of seconds. “God, am I dreaming right now? Fuck.”
He gathers enough wetness to coat himself completely before prodding your opening, and slowly sinking his cock inside you. Your mouth falls open and he’s quick to duck forward for a kiss. His lips are soft, passionately making out with you and licking into your mouth hungrily to eat your soft, pained whine.
He disconnects your mouths to look down to where your pussy has swallowed him in, clenching around him whenever he moves even the tiniest bit. “Are you okay?” he whispers, waiting for permission to take you as he pleases.
You gulp and sniffle, nodding your head. He kisses your forehead before drawing his hips back to the point he almost slips out of you, then subsequently plunging his whole length inside in one brutal motion. The feeling of being stuffed full so suddenly elicits a broken moan from your gaping mouth, your warm walls hugging his cock tightly.
“You take me so fucking well, baby,” he praises. He hooks his arms under your thighs. Dragging you down the bed a bit further and directly underneath him, he throws your legs over his shoulders.
He snaps his hips into you, driving his cock deeper and deeper with each thrust at this new angle. You sob out and grip the blankets at your sides. His skin slaps against your ass, the sound of skin on skin contact weaving its way into the unrestrained pleasured noises that leave both of your mouths and the wet squelching coming from in between your legs.
“How are you…how are you so good at e-everything,” you pant. Your eyes roll back into your head as he thrusts once, twice, three times inside you, particularly hard and deep.
“I don’t know, babe. How do you feel so good, hm?” he grunts. He lowers your legs off his shoulders and folds them to your sides. “Be a good girl and hold your legs open for me.”
You whimper and comply, doing exactly as he says. The room starts to spin, your vision slightly blurring and speckled with stars like the ones you attribute to Mark’s eyes. Heat surges through your body, inner temperature cranking up to the max. Mark rubs your clit impossibly fast to prolong what is an already overwhelming second orgasm. You are a slobbering mess, writhing and twitching underneath him violently, unable to articulate how your skin is on fire. Gagged by the rushing sensation, nothing intelligible leaves your mouth.
Mark continues to fuck you sensless, slamming his cock into your throbbing hole, stretching your hot walls until he can confidently say you are molded to fit around him perfectly, and no one and nothing will ever compare to him. Mark is an ace through and through; if he’s not the absolutely best at everything he puts genuine effort into, then he’s not doing his job correctly.
You’re at your limit, overstimulating you to the point where tears stream down your cheeks like crystal clear rivers traveling down high mountains topped with the melting snow during early spring.
His face scrunches up on the verge of orgasm, and you love this expression just as much as the other times his adorable soft side scrunches up in joy. He stops abusing your clit and retracts his hips as if to pull out and come on your stomach.
“Come…come in me,” you rasp. You lock your ankles together behind his back to keep him right where you want him.
“Yeah? You want my cum? Want me to fill you up?”
You squeeze your eyes shut and eke affirmatively. “P-please, Mark.”
Mark’s brutal pace falters as he shoots his cum inside you, slowly rocking into your pussy as he fills you up, ensuring that when he pulls out, you feel nice and warm and full. Your train of thought trails off into a static void, humming blissfully.
He doesn’t pull out right away, slumping over your body so your skin sticks together with sweat, the tiniest part of him picturing how gorgeous you will be when he puts a baby in you someday.
Against your will, your annoying internal alarm clock prompts your eyelids to flutter open the next day, at a time you deem far too early. You don’t move your body at first, the heavy ache that lies within your bones, holding you down momentarily. By studying at your bedroom wall, based on the pale yellow sunlight that penetrates your thick glass windows, pouring into your room from this certain angle, it must be no later than noon.
You expected to find the boyishly handsome, charming rockstar who basically fucked you into oblivion last night, by your side this morning. Maybe, you imagined, he would just brush your legs against his casually, leaving light touches on your shoulders and arms, with no intention other than comfort; or wrap his arms around you from behind to serve as your big spoon, pulling you flat against his chest so he can protect you from everything under the sun.
Groaning painfully, you uncurl one of your arms from where you held it close to your chest. You lift it behind you to check if the spot is empty, still not peaking over your shoulder just yet. Patting down the vacant side of the mattress with an ice cold hand in need of holding, confirms your disappointment.
Just as you are about to pick up your phone, you hear a noise coming from the backyard. You freeze in place, for real this time, frozen muscles and joints, and icicle lined ribs that forbid even so much as one breath of fresh air. You listen intently for a few moments then, as quietly as you can manage, spring out of the warm covers to chase down the disturbance. You throw on a long fluffy robe, step into your fuzzy slippers and grab the self defense switchblade your family made you carry around everywhere. Taking a deep breath, summoning adrenaline and courage, you open your bedroom door.
Your ears perk up while the tension in your body dissipates and the emergency lights flashing in your mind are cut off. As slowly and as quietly you got out of bed when you feared there was an intruder, you find yourself gravitating towards the soft, frustrated voice of your favorite person in the backyard, dragging your numb feet across the floor in search of him.
The sliding glass backyard door is parted open wide enough for Mark to slip by if he turned his body to the side and sucked in a breath. Approaching the open door, you see he’s crouched down, doing something with his hands on the planter box, and then you see his snowy masterpiece.
“Hi, do you take constructive criticism?” you call out again, like when you first met him in the lobby of the music label’s company building; except this time around, Mark doesn’t flinch.
He looks over his shoulder and laughs like you actually told a funny joke or something. “You know what? I do take constructive criticism. But, like, I think I know how to make a snowman, thank you very much.”
You wrap your arms around yourself tighter, preparing for the cold air of the backyard to nip at any exposed skin on your body, and slip by the parted glass doors, too.
“You know, when I hear Canada I think moose, maple syrup and snow…What I’m trying to say is I thought you’d be better at doing this,” you muse, flicking your chin up at his clumsy work. “Pretty sure his arms are gonna fall off by the way.”
Your teasing prompts the corners of his lips to perk up, naturally. He leans back on his heels, crossing his arms, carefully scanning over his handiwork. “What? No way, man. It’s-”
Just as you predicted, the left twig droops to the frosty ledge of the backyard planter box on which he is building his creation, followed by the right one a second later. His high, angular, rosy cheekbones and glittery, smiling eyes drop too, upturned mouth falling into an adorable pout.
He pauses a moment to assess the damage, then clicks his tongue, disappointedly. “Godammit.”
There wasn’t much snow to begin with, a good portion of what yesterday’s storm left behind, melting away throughout the late autumn morning. He crouches down next to it and tries to morph the blob into something that resembles what he initially envisioned.
The tiny rocks he pushed into its white skull for eyes sag down, threatening to end up where the twig arms did on the stone planter box. You rest your hands on his broad shoulders while he tinkers with the deformed melting blob.
“Well…that’s the best I can do,” Mark huffs, throwing in the towel. He gets to his feet, rubbing his frozen hands together to flick the slush off.
You bow down to lightly press the tiny twig hair he gave the snowman back into place. “It could be worse?” you offer, your comment sounding more like a question than a reassuring certainty to compliment his efforts. You smile at him weakly.
Mark looks back and forth between your face and his sorry excuse for a snowman, then giggles adorably. “I guess that can be said for anything, really.”
“What, it could be worse?”
He hums, suddenly serious about the topic, and absentmindedly rubs the stubble on his chin with the backside of his fingers. “Yeah…I mean, like, you gotta be realistic about things, you know?”
“Yeah, I get what you mean. As you said, ‘Life is a bastard,’ of course,” you recite Mark’s line from the band’s previous album, which makes him smile again. “I think-” you start, sighing, “-I think I always assume the worst out of life and prepare for when it hits. Like, it’s so hard to find something good that doesn’t corrupt or hurt another person.”
“Something good, huh?” Mark echos. He remains silent for a few seconds, looking everywhere but your face, before opening his mouth again. “Are we good?”
“Of course we’re good.” You lightly touch one of the purple marks in the constellation of hickies you left on his neck. “We’re more than good.” You loll your head on his shoulder.
“I don’t think these slippers are supposed to be worn outside. My feet are wet now.”
There is a spare second of silence before he coos. “Aw, that’s not the kinda wet I like my pretty baby to be.”
One string of seductive words from his mouth has you feeling a pang of heat striking your core. Arousal rushes through your body, the air around you two sexually charged within a matter of seconds. He snakes an arm around your waist, feeling your body tense up in anticipation.
“A-and what kinda wet is that?” you play along, sneaking your hand down to palm his crotch. You can hear your rapid heartbeat in your ears, thumping in your tight chest.
“You know exactly what I mean, y/n.”
Mark looks down at you through half-lidded eyes, and you stare back completely captivated by intense gaze. You gasp as he suddenly spins you around, latching his strong hands to your hips. He pulls your body back to meet his frontside, his bulge pressing against your ass. You hum dazedly, grinding your hips back in a circular motion and reach up to tangle your fingers in his dyed hair with one hand.
“So just how wet are you, baby?” he asks. “Mind if I check?”
He doesn’t wait for your response before his hand maneuvers around the opening of your robe. The pads of his fingers stroke through your folds, growing wetter by the second. You whimper when his middle finger presses against your clit and he begins to rub the sensitive nub.
“I’ll never get tired of hearing your little noises, darling,” Mark whispers, his lips grazing the spot below your ear and causing goosebumps to bubble along your skin.
He teasingly rims your pussy with two fingers. You let out a long desperate whine, impatiently waiting for his fingers to pet the inside of your walls. He chuckles at your neediness and pulls his hand away despite you grabbing his wrist to keep him in place.
“W-wait, no,” you whine. You spin around to face him with puppy dog eyes. “Ple-”
He slips his clean hand into yours and tugs you towards the backyard door. “Come on, baby, let’s go inside. It’s cold out here and you’re shivering.” He leads you back inside your cozy apartment and slides the door closed behind you.
You hadn’t registered the cold since Mark laid his hands on you, but the gentle reminder brought your temporarily absent sensory awareness back to you. Funny how that always tends to happen when it comes to Mark.
“Huh…I didn’t really notice.”
“Wow, I make you feel that good?” he teases you with a lopsided grin emerging on his adorable face.
“Oh, shut up.” You swat his chest playfully and the corners of your mouth curl up on reflex, despite your mission to keep a straight face.
It’s that small smile of fondness and affection that always manages to appear on your face whenever you’re around Mark, creeping up on you and making your insides all gooey and mushy.
As you go to turn on the heater and make hot chocolate, you’re already beginning to map out the perfect life with Mark in your head. The domesticity and warm intimacy that you want to be yours, that you want to have with him. He bore a hole into your chest, sneaking in and stealing your heart like a thief in the night.
He sits down at your kitchen table and you find your rightful place in his lap. You lift the mug to your mouth and sip the rich beverage, perfect for cold sweater weather like today.
“I knew from the moment we first met, that you were soft boy – cute and dorky and clumsy and-”
“Hey!” he protests, pinching your side and making you giggle.
“-but I didn’t know, hell I had no fucking clue, that I could be just a soft for you.”
“You should write that down, y/n,” Mark says in a gentle voice that makes it incredibly difficult for you not to swoon. “Because that just might be one of the prettiest potential song lyrics I’ve ever heard.”
tag list: @nominsgirll @mazzygaze @y4wnjunz @youryuno @jaeymark @domhyuckie @sweetjaemss @chitaphrrrr @ahnneyong @huangrens @jaehyunsbread @dreamscometru
me: *writes rv into my fic to later plug their new song at the end*
it's been so long since i added to this series that at the end of its previous installment, i plugged red velvet's last comeback...how has it been that fucking long like what even is time ??
also, in case you didn't hear, Chenle actually is the one who proposed the special winter mini album to SM! therefore, it is very fitting in my mind, yk? is me writing in characters who serve no significant purpose in the plot whatsoever annoying? probably. but it makes me smile, same goes for referencing irl projects like said mini album. so yeah...there you go:)
thank you so much for reading! and to all of you who waited a million years for me to post, thank you for your patience. i sincerely appreciate you, and i really do mean that.
stream Dream's *CANDY* digitally released Dec 16th (physical release Dec 19th) and stream Red Velvet's *BIRTHDAY* out now!
© 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟐 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬, 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝.