Archive of Our Own

Mark absolutely cannot fuck this up.

It isn’t the first time that he and Donghyuck have been invited to one of Johnny’s house parties, but it is the first time that Johnny looked over his shoulder at them as he was climbing the stairs to the loft and went, Aren’t you coming?

And since Mark moved away from home and started college he’s really, really tried to not fall into high school thinking. There certainly were cool kids at his high school—and he certainly was not one of them—but looking back, only a year and some change removed, he realizes they were never as cool as he thought they were. And he’s always thought that maybe if he just held himself together a bit better, he could’ve been friends with them. So, he doesn’t want to think that it's a big deal that he and Donghyuck are the only two underclassmen up in the loft with Johnny and his friends, he doesn’t want to think that they’re all infinitely cooler than him, but he can’t help it. 

The music is quieter up here, the gaps between songs filled with low conversation. Fairy lights are strung across the ceiling and there’s a salt lamp in the far corner. Kun is sitting next to it, meticulously rolling a blunt with his long, pretty fingers. His cheeks are already flushed with alcohol, but the blunt is far better than anything Mark has ever rolled. Johnny and Taeyong are slouched together on a mattress—Mark burns with the thought that it might actually be the one they sleep on—fingers tangled together, heads tipped close as they share soft whispers. One of Johnny’s big hands is curled around a Bud Light and Taeyong is taking hits off a bright green vape and there shouldn’t be anything cool about them but there’s this bubble around them, one that no one else can ever seem to pop, with all of Taeyong’s perfect clothing and Johnny’s frightening confidence, that makes them feel impossible to approach. There’s another couple tangled up on a beanbag chair, and after staring a second too long, Mark realizes it’s Ten, pushing a pretty boy down into the beanbag and shoving his tongue down his throat—completely uncaring of everyone around them. Probably not anticipating Mark staring at them like a creep.

And, of course, Yuta. Yuta is up in the loft. And Mark knows this, but his brain refuses to connect to his eyes, refuses to pick Yuta out through the dreamy lighting and the fresh wave of smoke from Kun's blunt. Because if Mark looks at Yuta then he will definitely fuck this up, and Donghyuck would never forgive him because he’s finally shooting his shot with Johnny and Taeyong—climbing up onto their mattress, batting his pretty eyelashes and preening when Taeyong giggles and Johnny reaches out to pet him—so Mark will not look at Yuta and will not fuck this up.

He shuffles out of the way of the stairs, dares not think about how long he stood there and looked around like an idiot, and tries to take a sip of his hard seltzer only to find that it's empty. He flushes so fast he feels sick and keeps holding the can at his chest, tries to look casual crushed back against the wall amidst people who are so much cooler than him in basically every way—

“Mark!” He blinks and it takes him a second to realize that Kun is waving at him from the far corner. He blinks again. He had no idea Kun even knew his name. Obviously, Mark knows his. He’s a legend in the music department, lauded for his voice and inherent musicality, and every playwright he knows from his program hopes that Kun will stoop so low as to help compose for their next show. He resists the urge to point at himself and make sure that Kun is sure he wants to talk to him, and just ducks his head and crosses the room. He can feel eyes on him, he feels like he’s splitting their normal—cool—night in two by just walking across the loft. What is wrong with him?

“Sit, c’mon.” Kun pats the scant space next to him and Mark folds down into it because he is not about to fuck this up. “Do you smoke?” he asks. Mark takes note of how he skips over introductions, like they’ve already had a hundred conversations and don’t need to bother with the formalities. He appreciates it. 

“Uh—no. Weed makes me… nervous,” he says and instantly cringes at himself.

Kun just giggles, a sweet sound that lasts a little too long. He must be properly crossfaded now, and Mark can feel it rubbing off on him, a smile tugging at his mouth. “You’re so real for that,” he says, bumping their shoulders together as he takes another hit. “But you need a drink then, hang on.”

“Oh, no—you don’t—” Mark tries to say, because even though his brain wouldn’t compute the information, his eyes still gathered who was sitting on the sagging, stained couch, next to a small cooler.

“Hey! Yuta!” And Mark follows the call of his voice, brain and eyes finally clicking together as Yuta looks up from his phone. Their gazes meet and Mark almost crumples right there. Instead, he freezes, which is probably the better option, considering Kun is reaching over him to retrieve his empty can and shake it in Yuta’s direction until he gets it and reaches over and opens the cooler. Freezing is much better than folding himself up into a ball and having a panic attack or running back down the stairs before Yuta looks at him again. He grabs another White Claw out of the cooler and shifts on the couch, dropping his hand low like he’s about to toss it toward them when Kun squeaks and waves his hands wildly. “Nono, I’m high, bring it here.” Which is the worst thing that Mark has ever heard.

It’s bad enough that Yuta looks so fucking good: hair dyed a dark red, black eyeliner smudged around his eyes, wearing a black t-shirt for some band that Mark has never heard of with the sleeves cut off to reveal the tattoo banding his bicep, and black jeans that are way, way too tight for Mark’s sanity. His hand looks massive on the can too, long, long fingers and stacked silver rings and black polish. The idea of Yuta getting any closer to him makes his throat feel like it’s going to close up, but he can’t fuck this up.

He honestly thinks that Yuta might not remember. Maybe Mark just hopes that Yuta was drunk enough to not remember, even though he’s never seen him more than tipsy or mildly high. It’s been a year too, so maybe he’s forgotten. Maybe he’s forgotten how Mark accidentally stumbled into the bathroom that Yuta was occupying at the first college party Mark ever went to. Maybe he forgot how Mark, too drunk for his own good, literally dropped to his knees at the sight of Yuta’s cock, soft in his hand after just having pissed, and asked for it in his mouth. Begged. 

Mark, unfortunately, can’t forget. It’s been a year and he still remembers exactly what he was wearing, the dull ache in his knees from dropping to the floor too fast, the mild bleach smell of the bathroom—as Yuta tucked himself back into his pants and let Mark down easy. That is the part that Mark doesn’t remember, the mortifying burn of rejection blocking out all his senses as he scrambled off the floor and fled not only the bathroom, but the party entirely. 

He’s done a fairly good job of avoiding Yuta since then. Donghyuck pried the story out of him and graciously didn’t drag Mark to any of Johnny’s parties until the vicious embarrassment wore off enough to not make him want to throw up every time he walked into Johnny’s place. And when they went back, it was easy enough to avoid Yuta as he went up to the loft with the rest of Johnny’s upperclassmen friends. Mark never used the bathroom at Johnny’s ever again, and only had one unfortunate accident on the way back to his dorm in the year since it happened. But, somehow, Mark became friends with Johnny in their linguistics class, and got invites to parties and kickbacks and movie nights. He usually managed to figure out if Yuta would be going before he accepted anything, and always brought Donghyuck as his social crutch, which he was happy to be when it meant a chance to try and seduce the happy couple. 

Now, his streak ends, as Yuta pins him with a dark, intense look, and then rises from the couch. Mark wants to look away, Mark wants to hide, Mark wants to be anywhere but here, but he’s frozen. He’s forced to watch as Yuta walks toward them, cold wet can in his hand, all long legs and black denim and big boots and Mark feels like he’s getting turned inside out with want and embarrassment. Because of course he still has a crush on Yuta, how could he not? He’s also a musical marvel, and the actor that everyone wants to work with, down for anything with his pretty accent and nice laugh and how fucking pathetic is it that Yuta already told him he wasn’t interested and Mark can’t move on?

Yuta stops in front of him, and Kun is saying something, but Mark can’t hear him as Yuta bends and hands him the drink. Mark has to look away from his eyes then, too afraid of what Yuta might see written all over him if he keeps his face tilted up toward him, but looking at his hand is almost worse. Those rings, that chipped black nail polish, it’s deja vu almost, as Mark reaches for the can and tries to take it without touching him. 

Yuta doesn’t let go. Mark bites his lip and forces himself to take a breath and then looks up. He expects to see that same dark intensity that he saw from across the room, but Yuta is smiling at him. Yuta is smiling at him and his eyes are sparkling and he tilts his head to the side as he says, “You should come sit with me.” And Mark’s mouth drops open and he must be so obvious, but Yuta isn’t pulling away. “Once you’re finished,” he amends, when Kun makes an affronted noise. Mark must nod or make some vague sound of affirmation, because then Yuta is grinning even wider and he lets go of the drink. It bumps into Mark’s belly and he flinches at the cold.

He exhales shakily and cracks open the drink, gulping too much too fast, and blinking hard against the impending questions that Kun must be about to ask. But then, Kun surprises him. He takes another hit and rolls his shoulders and lifts his chin toward the bed. “Your friend is quite industrious.”

Mark follows his line of sight and catches a laugh in his palm when he sees Donghyuck with his face buried in Taeyong’s belly, arms wrapped around his middle, Johnny’s big hand petting down the line of his spine. “He’s stubborn.” Mark can’t help but grin. Donghyuck has been “manifesting” this for a year now, and no matter how annoying he’s been about it, Mark only ever wants to see him happy. “Do you think he has a chance?” he asks.

“Oh, absolutely. He’s all they talk about.” That has something warm settling in Mark’s chest and he’s already looking forward to relaying that information to Donghyuck later that night. Or tomorrow morning, he amends, as Johnny squeezes Donghyuck’s ass and makes him jolt against Taeyong. “He’s not in it for just a hookup, right?”

An incredulous laugh breaks out of Mark before he can stop it. “He’s never done anything casually in his entire life. So, no,” he says, still giggling and sipping on his drink as his gaze pivots back to Kun. He’s smiling too, and Mark doesn’t know how he did it, but he suddenly feels perfectly comfortable sitting on the floor in the middle of this party filled with people who are remarkably cooler than him. 

Kun blinks, and then rears back, and points right at Mark’s face. “Oh shit! I knew I recognized you from somewhere, you helped Jungwoo with his recent script—you were in those blocking videos he showed me when I was working on his music.”

Mark laughs and feels himself flush down over his throat. “Oh, dude, c’mon, I don’t know if I really helped all that—”

“No way, no way.” Kun leans into him again. “His dialogue always sounds too much like him in the final act, your editing probably saved that show.” He bumps their shoulders together, and for maybe the first time in his life, Mark decides to take the compliment.

“I like editing. Especially for him,” he says, bending the tab on his can back and forth. “His scripts get messy but his characters are always phenomenal, and the way they have this, like, musicality without being a full musical is just so cool to me.” The tab snaps off and he squeezes it between his thumb and pointer finger. “You two make a good pair, too. You know hyung tries to draft with music that’s already been written in mind, but whenever we workshop he’s always talking about what you might put there instead. Or I bring it up since the scenes always feel so brittle without your voice in them.” He blinks. He’s been rambling without realizing, how he always does when someone brings up music or writing. It’s the worst when they bring up both. 

But Kun matches him. He talks slower, picks his words more carefully, and giggles a lot more, but he seems genuinely interested in what Mark has to say. He doesn’t know if this is what people usually talk about at parties—how a mutual friend likens partnered dancing to worshiping God in a way that makes Mark feel uncomfortable and intrigued—but he doesn’t really care.

At some point, Doyoung and Jaehyun stumble up the stairs into the loft and Mark tries not to notice how Yuta throws his legs up over the couch and refuses to move when they try to sit down. Kun rolls a joint and Ten takes a break from kissing the boy—who Mark realizes is Yangyang, a brilliant dancer—to share it with him. Ten folds into their conversation easily, since he choreographs for Jungwoo’s pieces regularly, and Mark finds he doesn’t mind too much when Ten teases him with his razor edged grin and bright eyes. Mark finishes his drink and spots Johnny finally kissing Donghyuck across the room and he feels good. Nothing feels as perilous as it did when he first came up into the loft. 

Ten passes the joint back to Kun and curls in closer to Yangyang. His eyes flash to Mark and another vicious smile twists his lips. “You know, you should probably go talk to loverboy before he comes over here and chews my head off for making you laugh again,” he says, in a voice just slightly too loud.

Mark blinks and is about to ask him what on earth he’s talking about, when Ten jerks his head toward the couch. It’s only then that Mark remembers that Yuta asked him to come sit with him. Or maybe it’s only then that he realizes that Yuta was serious. When he looks over at him, Yuta is… sulking. He doesn’t look ready to come and tear Ten’s head off at all. He’s still sprawled out over the entire couch, with his arms crossed over his chest and his teeth tearing at his bottom lip. But then, his eyes move from the ceiling, to Mark, and they light upon him with such singular focus that Mark feels it like a punch to the chest. He loses his breath, he feels woozy, because boys have only ever looked at him like that in the ten or so minutes before they try to get a hand in his pants—but Yuta, Yuta didn’t—

He sits up and swings his legs off the couch. He slouches and spreads his legs in that way that men do that makes Mark feel so small and desperate with the need to be folded at their feet. And the only thing that it could be is an invitation. 

Mark still doesn’t really understand what’s happening, but he’s tipsy enough, brave enough after so many smooth conversations, to put a hand on Kun’s shoulder and hoist himself up onto his feet. Yuta’s face splits into a grin, teeth flashing, eyes shining with something like triumph and only then does Mark think he might have the capacity for tearing out throats when he doesn’t get what he wants. The thought makes him stumble as he walks toward him, but embarrassment is far off—everything is far off when Yuta is staring at him like that, and one of his pretty hands is patting his thigh as Mark gets closer. 

Mark is brave, but not that brave, and he chews on the inside of his cheek as he sits next to Yuta instead. All at once anxiety burns back through him. He doesn’t have a drink to sip on or a can to squeeze and soothe himself. He stares down at his lap and finds a loose thread on the seam of his jeans, plucking at it with intense focus as he tries not to crawl out of his skin. He has no idea what Yuta is about to say, or if he should say something first, or if he should just leave now before he inevitably embarrasses himself. Or maybe Yuta will embarrass him, by telling everyone how much of a nasty slut he is, and Mark read all of this wrong. 

He’s completely unprepared for Yuta’s hand on the inside of his knee, his worried face ducking into his line of sight—the kind of worry he sometimes sees on Jeno’s face when he’s already called Mark’s name once or twice and he didn’t react. “Hey, if you don’t want to sit with me, you don’t have to. I’m not trying to ruin your night.” Somehow, Mark forgot how sweet and melodic Yuta’s voice was, how it always soothed his nerves and eased the weight off his shoulders. Yuta isn’t like Ten, or even Johnny, who both delight in embarrassing Mark, in laughing at him instead of with him. Yuta likes to tease and play around—with everyone—but he isn’t cruel. It might be better if he was, maybe Mark could’ve moved on if Yuta told everyone how he humiliated himself in that bathroom, but as far as Mark knows, he’s never said a word about it.

“You aren’t,” Mark says. He’s ruining his own night, so tied up in knots trying to be cool and normal. “I just—I don’t.” He clears his throat and can’t find any more words to fill in his thoughts.

Yuta laughs, but it’s nothing mean, it’s sweet and easy, a balm to smooth over Mark’s awkwardness. He leans out of Mark’s line of vision, but doesn’t take his hand off Mark’s knee, and Mark bites down on the inside of his cheek again. Silence falls over them, and it isn’t particularly uncomfortable, but Mark burns with the need to fill it anyway, babble on about something inane so the churn of his thoughts doesn’t feel so violent. 

Yuta finds words first. “You know, I really was going to let you avoid me forever.” Mark closes his eyes and tries to keep breathing. Of course, Yuta noticed. He wasn’t particularly subtle about it, going as far to fake a stomach ache when Yuta showed up during one of their movie nights unannounced, but the sting of mortification is still almost too much for him to bear. “But, you looked too good tonight.” Mark’s belly swoops, mouth dry as he swallows. “And I always just assumed that you regretted what you asked for, but.” Yuta’s hand squeezes Mark’s knee, tight and quick, like he didn’t even mean to, and Mark has to look at him, even if it turns him inside out, even if he regrets it later, he has to.

He forces his eyes open and looks up to find Yuta already staring back at him. There’s a dark, bottomless want in his eyes, tongue pushing against his bottom lip as he finds the thread of his words and Mark aches all the way down to his marrow for him. “But, you gave me that same look.” Mark jumps, embarrassment zips down his spine and thickens the heat in his belly like it always does, his wires crossed so badly they must be completely twisted together. “You gave me that same look that you did in the bathroom, like you wanted me so badly you’d let me do anything to you,” Yuta murmurs. Mark is leaning toward him without realizing, needing to hear him over the low thrum of the music downstairs to know that this isn’t a dream. “So, I decided to not let you avoid me anymore.”

Mark nods. Their thighs are pressed together, his hand is braced on the couch cushion next to Yuta’s hip. He can smell Yuta’s cologne, something musky and spicy and so masculine it makes Mark’s thighs twitch, underlaid with the smell of cigarettes that he knows he should find gross. He doesn’t. “So you don’t regret it?” Yuta asks. It takes concerted effort for Mark to not look at his mouth. He shakes his head. “Why didn’t you come and find me when you were sober then?” 

Mark blinks. There’s a line between Yuta’s brows now, a moue to his mouth that might be confusion or annoyance, and Mark leans back. “Wait, what?”

Yuta stares at him. He tries to keep up the pout, but Mark can see the corners of his mouth trying to turn up. “Baby.” All of Mark’s neurons fire at once, a hard reset to his brain as Yuta slips his hand up the inside of Mark’s thigh and tugs him closer. “That night. I told you to sober up and then I’d give you what you wanted.”

“No—I didn’t, I thought—” For once heartstopping moment, Mark thinks he might cry. He swallows hard and twists his face away from the rest of the room, nearly burying his nose in Yuta’s shoulder as he forces himself to breathe. “Sorry,” he croaks, breathless and embarrassed and overwhelmed. 

“Baby,” Yuta says, again, voice so warm and attentive and intense that Mark already wants to come apart for him. “Don’t be upset, it’s alright.” He squeezes the inside of Mark’s thigh as his arm goes around him, pulling him in close to the heat of his body, the smell of his cologne filling his nose as it rubs over the shoulder of his shirt. “I should’ve gone after you, but I thought you might’ve been too embarrassed.” He rubs a warm hand between Mark’s shoulder blades, easing the tension out of him until Mark can breathe easily again. 

Mark makes a low miserable noise, because he was too embarrassed. If Yuta would’ve followed him that night, he probably would’ve imploded, too drunk to understand what he meant and definitely too much of a weepy drunk for Yuta to manage. But a whole year of avoiding him, based on Mark not hearing him, on Mark being instantly heartbroken the moment Yuta tucked his cock back into his briefs. “Sorry,” he says again, pulling his face out of Yuta’s shoulder to look up at him.

He watches as Yuta’s worry melts into something else, something warm and sweet and intense enough to take Mark’s breath away. “Don’t be sorry,” he says. His hand rubs down Mark’s spine and settles in the small of his back. He tilts his head closer to Mark, until it would be so, so easy to kiss him, until Mark’s entire world narrows down to him. “You’re really cute when you’re embarrassed, has anyone ever told you that?” he asks, his voice a bare, warm whisper.

A smile splits across Mark’s face, and it’s the first time since he sat down that this thing between them feels stable, like Mark’s inability to be normal won’t freak Yuta out. And Yuta is still so close to him, still looking at him, still warm and handsome, with his hands on Mark’s body, and Mark decides he can give himself to this. “Nobody’s ever said that,” he murmurs, and feels Yuta’s warm breath against his mouth and nose. “But I’m glad you think so.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” Mark steels his nerves. He can give himself to Yuta. Yuta makes it easy, Yuta will make the embarrassment worth it, and Mark’s already done it once. With a soft sigh, he melts into Yuta’s hands. He lets his thigh press against Yuta’s, lets the gentle brace of his hand hold the curve of his spine. Every inch of his body turns toward Yuta, a sunflower to the sun, a moon with its planet. He gives into a year’s worth of anxious desire in a single breath, and watches as Yuta realizes, feels Yuta tighten his hand on his thigh and slip his hand into the curve of his waist to pull him even closer. “‘S good, since ‘m embarrassed a lot,” Mark murmurs, almost slurred, like he’s drunker than he is, but that’s not what it is at all, and they both know that.

Yuta sways with the shift between them, pupils blowing wide, tongue laving over his bottom lip, before tension flows back into him and snaps taut in the space between them. “You’re making that face again,” he says, voice rough and wanting and Mark burns with that perfect mix of desire and humiliation. He savors it. If everything goes well, he’ll be too far gone to be embarrassed soon. 

Mark nods because he definitely would let Yuta do anything to him and it no longer feels like the end of the world that it shows on his face. He shifts again, pressing his hands against Yuta’s belly, fingers curling into the soft, worn fabric of his shirt. “Are you going to do whatever you want to me?” he asks, tongue loose and body warm with desire, his entire world narrowed down to Yuta’s face: eyes molten, mouth stretching into a crooked smile as his hand rises to squeeze at the nape of Mark’s neck.

Yuta pulls him into a kiss instead of answering. A slow, sweet press of their lips together, and then Yuta is squeezing his nape tighter and guiding Mark’s head to the side as his mouth opens. Mark whimpers, humid heat suffusing through his body as Yuta licks into his mouth, a slow indulgent roll of his tongue against Mark’s that makes tingles crawl over his scalp. He presses his hands harder into Yuta’s belly, tangling his fingers even deeper into his shirt. He’s overwhelmed already, cock hard and pressing against his zipper, skin over sensitive wherever Yuta touches him, even the thick denim of his jeans can’t fully protect him from the buzzing intensity of Yuta’s palm. 

His mouth goes slack on a soft whine, closed eyes squeezing tighter as Yuta pulls him closer. He keeps licking into his mouth, pausing to give him these luscious, slow kisses, dragging his bottom lip, then his top lip into his mouth, until Mark’s entire mouth feels swollen and oversensitive. And Yuta doesn’t seem to care that he’s not really reciprocating. In fact, he seems to delight in it: sucking on Mark’s limp tongue and biting at his lower lip and licking the insides of his cheeks in the filthiest make out he’s ever received. With anyone else, it would probably be gross, but Yuta’s tongue ring (of course his tongue is pierced, Mark can’t believe he never noticed) keeps clicking against his teeth, and he keeps making these low, rumbling, wanting noises while he massages the sides of Mark’s neck—so it just feels indulgent and a bit embarrassing and perfect.

Then, Yuta eases back, but pulls Mark forward, wet lips at the corner of his mouth as he tugs Mark up and into his lap like he weighs nothing. Mark gives in, just like he wants to, he doesn’t think about the rest of the room, doesn’t think about how embarrassingly hard he is or worry about how heavy he might be—he just goes. He melts into Yuta’s lap, hands shifting from his belly up over his chest as he pushes close to him, bulge pressed into Yuta’s belly as their mouths meet again. 

For a second, Mark tries to kiss back, pushing his tongue into Yuta’s mouth and taking sharp little breaths through his nose. But, Yuta’s thumb digs hard into the tender spot right at the base of Mark’s skull and he shudders, caught in a flash fire of pleasure as Yuta groans. He gives up, then, and just leans into Yuta and scratches over his clothed chest and lets Yuta consume him. 

It doesn’t take much, when he’s been waiting and wanting this for over a year and Yuta’s hand is moving from the inside of his thigh to the meager curve of his ass, grip greedy and tight. He gasps, open mouthed and drooly, when Yuta slips his hand into his back pocket and urges his hips forward. Yuta’s tongue dips into his mouth, running along the inside of his bottom lip before he eases back again. “You want it?” he asks, and Mark has no idea what he’s talking about, his heartbeat throbbing in his ears as his cock leaks into his briefs and makes a smeary mess of the cotton.

Yuta hums and drops his hand from Mark’s neck to his hip. He pushes Mark’s hips back and jerks his knee up at the same time, giving Mark a single second of hot, breathless pressure before it’s gone again. He slumps forward, arms winding around Yuta’s shoulders, face twisting into the side of his neck as Yuta squeezes his ass and urges his hips into a filthy grind. “You want it?” Yuta asks again, and Mark muffles an open mouthed whimper against the soft skin of his throat. 

He nods. Then shakes his head. He pushes his fingers into the shaggy hair at the back of Yuta’s neck, tugging gently as he mouths at his throat. Yuta waits, he keeps his grip on him, massages his fingers into the tender flesh of his hip, and waits. And Mark feels so held, so ready to split open so long as that’s what Yuta wants. So, he tips his face up, until his lips are almost at Yuta’s earlobe and says, “They’re gonna see.”

Yuta’s grip on him tightens, his breath slips raggedly over Mark’s hair. “So?” he says, voice deep and rich. “Don’t worry about them. You’re doing this for me.” 

Mark whimpers, too loud, but Yuta’s fingers dig even harder into his ass and he answers with a thick groan of his own. If he were in his right mind, he probably wouldn’t listen to Yuta. He’d probably think about Johnny seeing him riding his thigh and calling him a slut and control himself instead. He’d imagine Ten laughing at him and Kun curling his lip in disgust and he’d manage to convince Yuta not to ask this of him. Mark isn’t in his right mind. He’s so hard he feels lightheaded and all he wants is for Yuta to put his pierced tongue back in his mouth and then call him a good boy. And Mark wants to do this for him.

So, he nods. He nods and scores his teeth over Yuta’s pulse and shifts in his lap until he’s straddling only one of Yuta’s thighs. Yuta curses, voice low and hot, hands spasming on Mark’s body as his knees squeeze tight around his thigh. Mark tugs harder at his hair, mouth damp and soft against Yuta’s skin, mind swirling between embarrassment and arousal as his hips jerk forward. “Baby,” Yuta groans, hand shifting so his thumb can slip under the hem of his shirt, rubbing over the crest of his hip until Mark feels like his skin is on fire. “Keep going.”

All uncertainty dissolves out of Mark, like water from his cupped palms as Yuta’s fingers curl against his ass. Mark’s hips jerk back then forward in an awkward, stuttering rhythm that only serves to make him more desperate. The rough drag of their jeans together makes the insides of his thighs hot and the taut, blunt pressure of Yuta against his cock and balls is as teasing as it is addictive, making Mark feel filthy and desperate as he tongues at his pulse. It ticks up as he spreads his knees wider, forcing more of his weight down onto Yuta’s leg, trying to get more pressure against his aching cock. An image flashes across his mind—Yuta on top of him, big hands tight on Mark’s thighs, pulling him hard into the unforgiving pressure of his knee, grinding harder and harder until Mark sobs and comes. He wants it so bad he’s blinded by it, breath whistling out of him in an almost moan, hands dropping out of Yuta’s hair to claw at his shoulders. 

“Feels good?” Yuta asks, head tilted so his mouth is almost against Mark’s ear, voice warm and rough and almost too much to bear. 

Mark nods. He tries to shove himself down harder, pleasure zipping up his spine as he bounces against Yuta’s thigh. It makes him ache, pain winding up through his belly as his balls throb and he spills more wet into his briefs. “More,” he whispers, “more.” It sounds more like a whimper then, like a plea, and Yuta’s teeth catch the edge of his earlobe.

He doesn’t ask if Mark’s sure, doesn’t even ask what Mark means, he just slips his hand out of Mark’s back pocket, grips his hips hard, and forces him down onto his thigh. His knee jerks up at the same time as he drags him forward, giving Mark something between a bounce and a grind, that makes sparks pop behind his eyes. “Yes, yes, yes—hyung,” he gasps, nails dragging down Yuta’s back, hips grinding forward and back and bouncing in time with the jerks of Yuta’s knee until drool is running out of the corner of his mouth and he’s letting lose a string of moans that are more like a constant, wavering whimper. 

The space between his legs is dissolving into pure heat, all syrupy pleasure and spikes of pain and the burn of his jeans on the insides of his thighs. He’s oversensitive, belly bubbling with an impending orgasm  that he tries to hold back, face twisting out of Yuta’s throat, eyes squeezed shut and bottom lip caught between his teeth to try and hold back the tidal wave of pleasure that threatens him. Just from some sloppy grinding and a friction burn. The embarrassment only makes it worse—it crawls up Mark’s spine and settles sticky in his belly, giving every drop of pleasure a delicious edge as Yuta’s thumbs rub over the crests of his hips.

“Do you remember—do you remember what you said to me that night?” Yuta asks, voice thready, and the proof that he’s as affected as Mark is makes his belly turn.

Mark tries not to. Unless he’s alone in his dorm at night, twisting his fingers into himself and thinking about how Yuta’s grin goes crooked whenever Ten calls him that. He remembers then: the ache in his knees, the sting of bleach in his nose, the hot burn of desire under his skin at how Yuta’s rings glinted under the light as he gripped his cock and Mark whimpered Oppa, please fuck my face like a pornstar. A shudder of humiliation rocks through him and Yuta jerks his knee up again, making Mark bounce on his thigh and knot his fingers in the back of his shirt. 

“Yeah baby, I know you do,” Yuta says. His thumbs curl, nails scoring the delicate skin over Mark’s hips and he gasps, a new sharper pain rolling across his nerves. The pleasure in his belly is bubbling now, close to a boil, and he jerks his hips harder, faster until sweat is making his jeans feel damp and itches in his armpits. “Say it for me.”

Mark spasms, clawed fingers dragging down Yuta’s shoulders to settle somewhere around his hips, knuckles burning against the upholstery of the couch. He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth. He can’t, he can’t, because the pleasure is running too thick and too hot in his veins and if he opens his mouth now, if he lets himself make any noise, he’ll scream it, he’ll wail it and everyone will know what a disgusting slut he is. But, he can’t deny Yuta anything, he doesn’t know how to deny Yuta anything when he feels like this. He gnaws on his bottom lip and bounces on Yuta’s thigh, hoping that maybe he’ll drop it as long as Mark presses close to him and puts his face back in his neck.

“Say it for me,” Yuta says again, voice a little steelier. His hands slip up Mark’s shirt, dragging his hands over his sensitive skin until they rest against his ribs, skin warm, rings cool. Yuta rakes his nails down Mark’s sides, raising tender pink lines that make him shiver. “Say it for me, Mark,” Yuta murmurs, hands tight on his waist, shoving him down against his thigh until a bruised ache flares between his legs. “Say it for me and come in my lap and I’ll take you home and do whatever I want to you.” He jostles his knee, and flexes his hands and pain and pleasure burst through Mark in perfect opposition.

Mark can’t deny Yuta. He can’t deny himself. Especially not when Yuta is promising him so much. 

He drags his spit soaked bottom lip from between his teeth. He tips his mouth back toward Yuta’s ear and squeezes his eyes shut tight. “Op—” Yuta jerks his leg up hard and Mark’s hips stutter, rutting across the taut plane of Yuta’s thigh as a wavering moan breaks out of him. It’s too loud, he knows it’s too loud, but Yuta’s hands are so tight on him, holding him and all his pain and pleasure together and for a second he can forget about everyone else in the loft. “Oppa, oppa,” he gasps, trying to rut down harder even though his thighs are shaking and he’s sweating and blinded by want. “Oppa, wanna come, let me come.” 

“Fuck, yes, Mark—baby.” And of course that’s what does it, that warm wonderful endearment delivered in his raspy cracked groan. Mark comes with a shudder and a whimper that he tries to muffle into the skin behind Yuta’s ear, fingers clawing at the back of his shirt, pelvis dropped down against his thigh as cum drips sluggishly into his briefs and smears into his skin. “You are unreal,” Yuta whispers, hands loosening on his waist to stroke up and down his sides. His skin is tender and sweaty and chills ripple across him under Yuta’s touch.

“Oppa,” he says again, tongue loose and mind hazy as his hips shift. His cock throbs, oversensitive and half hard as the wet fabric of his briefs drags against him.

“Yeah baby, I’ve got you,” Yuta says. He slips his hands out from under Mark’s shirt and winds his arms around him, dragging him tight into his chest, filling him with his own heat as Mark starts to shiver. He opens his eyes and blinks slowly, the rest of the party still blocked out by the smell of Yuta’s cologne and cigarette smoke and the warmth of his throat against his face. Some of his haze clears, enough for thoughts to trickle through him slowly, but not so much as to have him trembling and broken open on Yuta’s lap. He feels good, in a dreamy space between reality and fantasy, held there by Yuta.

He smacks his lips a few times and then whispers, “You’re hard.”

Under him, Yuta’s chest rumbles with a laugh. “Obviously. The boy of my dreams just got off in my lap, what did you expect?” His voice is warm and teasing, that tone that makes everything feel easy and less serious and makes a fresh wave of arousal roll through Mark’s body. He’s about to open his mouth, about to core himself open and ask, but Yuta beats him to it. “You tell me when you’re ready to go and we can go back to mine.” There’s no question, no opportunity for Mark to overthink if Yuta actually means what he says, only complete and easy clarity about what Yuta wants. 

And it makes it so easy to nod and push himself away from Yuta and whisper, “I wanna go now, oppa.”

He watches Yuta’s eyes darken, his mouth part, and then stretch into an easy smile. Warmth suffuses from Mark’s chest through the rest of his body, and he eases back from Yuta, standing up onto shaky legs. Yuta reaches out and stabilizes him with careful hands on his hips, before Mark grabs his hand and pulls him up from the couch. Yuta stands much steadier than Mark, and loops an arm around his waist to guide him toward the stairs. Caught in Yuta’s warmth and still hazy around the edges, Mark looks back over his shoulder into the loft. No one even spares him a glance, Kun and Doyoung caught in some kind of argument, Ten and Yangayng tangled up similarly to how Mark and Yuta just were. And of course, Donghyuck is naked and sprawled out on Johnny’s mattress. His head is in Taeyong’s lap and his legs are spread around Johnny’s hips and his face is a flushed mask of ecstasy. Any remaining humiliation lurking under his skin melts away as he slips down the stairs beside Yuta. 

Yuta’s hand leaves Mark’s hip, but he laces their fingers together, keeping Mark wound close to his side as he carves through the crowded ground floor. His rings are thick between Mark’s fingers, his thumb rubs against Mark’s, and soon they’re out of the house and onto the sidewalk. It’s late now, but house parties on this block are only getting started, music spilling out into the night as students weave up and down the street. Yuta keeps Mark close to his side and doesn’t try to make conversation as they walk, and for once, Mark doesn’t feel bothered by the silence. The night is cool but not cold, the sky above is clear, and Mark feels calm for the first time in ages.

Yuta tugs him along and keeps smiling at him and when he keys them into the lobby of his apartment complex, he holds the door open and ducks in to kiss Mark, quick and hard and hot. Mark’s knees go to liquid and he grabs Yuta’s wrist, pulling him inside and smiling back at Yuta’s big, spit-slick grin. He pushes Mark up against the wall of the elevator too and twists his arm up behind his back with their fingers firmly laced together. Mark tests his grip as Yuta’s tongue piercing clicks against his teeth and his cock swells as Yuta forces his hand against the base of his spine, knuckles grinding into his skin. 

Yuta bites his bottom lip and pulls him out of the elevator, keys jingling in his hand as Mark leans into his side. It takes two tries to get his front door open, and then he’s letting go of Mark’s hand and pushing him inside. Mark gasps as he stumbles in the entryway, light flaring above his head as Yuta shuts the door and flicks the switch. He looks at Yuta and for the first time all night, thinks he might be out of his depth. Instead of souring the haze that’s drifting at the edges of his mind, the dark, hot look on Yuta’s face only thickens it.

Deja vu hits Mark again, that same pathetic, humiliating want swirling in his belly as Yuta stares at him. Mark’s body moves before his mind can even catch up with what he wants, spit puddling under his tongue as he drops to his knees and tilts his face up toward him. “Oppa,” he says, like he did over a year ago, tongue flicking out over his bottom lip as Yuta’s hands flex at his sides. “Oppa, please fuck my face.” And the disconcerting layering of his memories breaks as Yuta closes the distance between them, and instead of letting Mark down easy, he slips a hand into his hair and knots his fingers tight, tight, right against his scalp. Burning, prickling pain rolls over his nerves and Mark’s mouth drops open, spit already threatening to overflow as Yuta starts unbuttoning his jeans an inch from his nose. 

Mark lifts his shaking hands, intent on helping him, only for Yuta to give him a sharp little shake. Mark’s teeth click together, a pathetic little noise winds out of his mouth, and he drops his hands back to his lap. “Ever gotten your face fucked before?” Yuta asks, pulling his jeans open and then hooking his thumb into the waistband of his dark briefs. Mark manages to shake his head, before Yuta’s cock springs out of his briefs and smacks against his stomach, and every coherent thought he’s ever had disappears. 

He’s a grower, Mark thinks, belly twisting. He already wasn’t small when he first saw him soft in the bathroom, but now this is just ridiculous. He doesn’t know how he’s going to fit him in his ass, much less his mouth, and he’s still thick enough to make Mark’s jaw throb in anticipatory ache. There’s a glint of metal at the tip of his cock, already slick with a drop of pre-come, and Mark would’ve swooned if not for the tight grip in his hair. Yuta definitely did not have a ring through the tip of his cock last year.

“Like it?” Yuta asks, smirking crookedly as he strokes himself once, tight and slow, pausing to thumb at the ball sitting right against his slit. Mark’s only answer is his mouth dropping open, want surging through him in a blast of bright want as Yuta’s eyes flash. He strokes himself once more, fingers settling in a tight ring at the base as he drags Mark even closer. He goes, scalp stinging and drool spilling over his bottom lip as Yuta angles his cock down toward his mouth. “There you go, pretty boy. Did you wait for this? Did you ask any of your other hyungs to fuck your face how you’ve been dreaming of?”

Mark shudders. Yuta’s easy, warm tone has gone low and derisive, and he finds Mark’s buttons so easily. He likes it, he wants more of it, but some latent need to defend himself still rears its head. Or maybe it's the need to prove himself, to show that he hasn’t just been licking his wounds and waiting for Yuta to look his way all this time. “I—I’ve sucked cock before,” he says. There’s so much spit in his mouth. He doesn’t bother to swallow. “I know how to suck cock.”

Yuta’s smirk splits into a grin, something cruel lurking behind his teeth as he rocks forward and rubs his piercing against Mark’s bottom lip. “I’m sure you do. I’m sure you’re the prettiest little cocksucker ever.” Mark tries to close his mouth around Yuta’s tip, but he pulls away, clicking his tongue while he drags his cock across Mark’s cheek, smearing pre-come into his skin. “But, you aren’t going to suck my cock.” Mark whines, an instant, humiliating noise that makes Yuta’s cock throb against the side of his face. “You’re going to open your mouth, and relax your throat, and let me skullfuck you until you’re begging for mercy.”

Mark is already nodding, already whining, cock already hard again in his briefs, trapped in his jeans, before Yuta even finishes speaking. This is what he usually dreams about, when he dreams about Yuta. Him finally being the person to grip that restless, wanting thing that lives at the back of Mark’s head, and force it down into quiet submission. And Yuta does it easily, like he isn’t even really thinking about it, and Mark wants him so badly he can’t help the way he whimpers when Yuta finally pushes his cock into his mouth. 

He’s gentler than Mark expects, fingers flexing in his hair as he rubs his tip against Mark’s tongue. Pre-come spills into the back of his mouth, hot and bitter, and Mark whimpers. Yuta already feels so big in his mouth, lips stretched and jaw cranked open as he sucks at what little he’s been given. Above him, Yuta hums and Mark closes his eyes, flushed with pleasure and desire as he rubs his tongue at his frenulum, spine jolting with pleasure at the hard press of his piercing. He wonders if he’ll be able to feel it inside him, hopes he will, and then Yuta shifts.

He lets go of his hair and slips his hand down to the side of his skull. His other hand follows, fingers pushing back through his hair until his palms are right behind his ears and his fingers are tangled in the hair at his nape. Mark’s head falls back instinctually, lashes fluttering as some of Yuta’s cock slips out of his mouth, lips already over sensitive and swollen as he tries to breathe, tries to prepare for what comes next. “Relax, baby,” Yuta says, voice warm, grip tight. The shifts are so minute Mark can’t catch them before they’re happening to him. Yuta slips between gentle and cruel so easily, like he was made to do it, like Mark was made to take what he gives. It’s magical, it’s chemical, it’s magnetic—Mark hopes he remembers this feeling later so he can write about it, the way that Yuta predicts what he needs before even he himself can, the way that Yuta weaves Mark’s fantasies out of thin air and only ever makes him feel small and wretched in the way that he loves. Mark has to write about this later.

“Stay with me,” Yuta says and instantly, Mark’s mind empties and refills with the taste of salt on Yuta’s skin and the sharp smell of his sweat. “Baby,” he purrs and it’s the sweetest praise that Mark has ever been given. “Stay right here, right here with me, and relax.” Mark exhales and all the tension flows out of his body, a hand falling to Yuta’s ankle to ground himself as his mind dissolves into rolling, gentle static, and his jaw relaxes completely. Yuta groans, fingers spasming as another hot drip of pre-come rolls down the back of Mark’s tongue and into his throat. “Good boy,” Yuta says. Then, he finally fucks into Mark’s throat.

It’s rough, and as worshipful as it is mean with Yuta’s fingers tangled in his hair and his melodic moans in Mark’s ears as he forces his cock through the tight pinch of Mark’s throat. He tries to swallow, to make it easier, but it still hurts, a bone deep, violating burn that fuzzes his mind even further and makes his heart race. Yuta forces him all the way down on the first go, slow but ruthless, making Mark’s throat spasm around his entire cock before he eases him back. Mark gags as he pulls out, a rush of hot, thick spit splattering over his chin and Yuta’s cock. It’s such an awful mess that his belly twists, squeezing his eyes shut tight in anticipation of Yuta’s disgust. But he just groans and tugs Mark’s head back again, rising up onto his toes to fuck down into Mark’s throat, faster and rougher than before.

Mark takes it, Mark revels in it, opening his throat so Yuta can fuck through his gag easier, groaning sharp and short whenever Mark trembles and whimpers for it. He can’t quite suppress his gag reflex, still shuddering and choking when Yuta pushes too far too fast or pulls out, but Yuta likes that too, groaning his name, groaning baby like it’s his name, filling Mark’s mouth with more sticky, salty spurts of pre-come. It hurts. His throat stings and his jaw aches and his tongue is swollen, spills of thick spit making his chin and neck itchy. Mark loves it. His mind is completely quiet, completely empty, turned off, his entire world narrowed to opening his throat for Yuta’s cock and remembering to breathe even when his nose feels clogged and tears start to drip steadily down his cheeks. 

If he could stay like this forever, he would. He doesn’t care about the ache in his knees or the hazy unfulfilled heat between his legs or the bruised feeling in the back of his throat. As long as Yuta keeps using him like this, like Mark is his beloved toy, his favorite place to warm his cock. As long as Yuta keeps dragging him forward into every long, luxurious thrust of his cock, brutalizing his throat even as he shakes and whimpers and cries. 

There’s a moment, as Yuta sinks all the way down into his throat, where his cock throbs hard on Mark’s tongue. He gets even bigger, for a short, breathless second, and Mark thinks he’s going to come down his throat. He thinks about Yuta spilling so deep in his mouth that he won’t even be able to taste it, that he’ll be forced to take it all, without Yuta giving a single thought to his comfort or his pleasure. And the thought is so intoxicating, so vivid in his blissed out, empty mind, that his cock jerks between his legs. He whimpers, eyes finally peeling open, as his hand spasms around Yuta’s ankle. For one, dizzying moment, he thinks he might come, just from Yuta fucking his throat like it’s a fleshlight.

Then, Yuta eases back, pulling all the way out of his throat. He puts his hand right under Mark’s mouth, catching the deluge of spit that flows out of Mark’s mouth with a low, wet moan. “Baby, baby,” Yuta says, combing his fingers through Mark’s sweaty hair. “You with me, pretty boy?” he asks, wiping his hand on the front of his shirt and then tugging it off over his head. Mark’s eyelids flutter as Yuta uses it to wipe his face, a hand still in his hair, still murmuring, “Almost made me come, gorgeous. Really thought about just creaming your pretty face.” Mark whines as Yuta wipes the last of his mess off his throat and throws the shirt somewhere before Mark can see it. He laughs softly and cups Mark’s face with both hands. “Yeah, I thought you might want a little more than that.”

It pings weirdly in Mark’s head, like he might’ve done something to keep Yuta from getting what he really wanted. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so needy, so slutty, maybe then Yuta would’ve just came down his throat like he obviously wanted to, maybe—

“And anyway, I wanna stretch your pretty hole around my cock,” Yuta says, his voice balancing on that line between sweet cruelty and cloying, condescending sweetness. It wipes every uncertainty out of Mark’s head and he nods as Yuta reaches down and helps him up to his feet. “You’re gonna be so pretty for me, aren’t you?” Yuta is grinning as he slowly walks Mark backward toward his bedroom, hands tight around his waist as Mark winds his arms around his neck.

He’s overwhelmed by the insistent press of Yuta’s bare skin. His cock, still wet and wedged between their stomachs, the tattoos curling over his arms and chest, the glint of a piercing at his navel. He’s so beautiful. He’s so dangerous, eyes bright and intense as they stumble into his dark bedroom. Mark tangles his fingers into his hair and pulls him into a kiss, suddenly buzzing with the need for it, suddenly convinced he’ll vibrate out of his skin if he doesn’t get Yuta’s tongue in his mouth. Yuta obliges easily, tonguing at Mark’s teeth as he tips him back onto the mattress. Their lips part for a bare moment, before Yuta is climbing on top of him and biting at Mark’s mouth again.

The sheets are cool at his back, centering him out of his feverish want as Yuta pushes his hands up under his shirt and scratches over the same places he already laid tender pink lines into. Mark trembles, nipples hard and cock aching as Yuta breaks their kiss with a low growl of a moan. “You’re amazing,” he breathes, and in the dim light of his bedroom, Mark can only barely see the gleam of his blown wide pupils.

“Oppa,” he whispers, breathless and mindless as Yuta ducks into the curve of his neck, dragging his wet mouth across his sensitive skin. Mark’s head falls back, hands gripping at Yuta’s shoulders, and then cradling his neck, and then slipping into his hair, failing to settle anywhere as Yuta’s teeth score over his throat and his breath caresses him, hot and damp. “You—I need—” Mark swallows hard. He doesn’t really know what he needs, or what he wants, he just knows that he’s going to come in his pants again if Yuta keeps gnawing at his throat and thumbing at his nipples. 

“You need?” Yuta asks, and Mark can feel his grin. “Tell oppa what you need. Maybe I’ll be generous.”

There’s an edge in his voice that makes Mark think he isn’t feeling very generous at all, but that doesn’t stop him from bending instantly to the command. “Your cock,” he says, like he doesn’t have a shred of dignity left. His face flares with heat, blush suffusing from his cheeks down his throat as Yuta hums and waits for him to go on. “Oppa, want your cock. Please, fuck me.” He keeps running his fingers through Yuta’s hair, resisting the urge to tug hard enough to pull him away from his throat, to see the look on his face while Mark begs for his cock. When Yuta still doesn’t seem moved, Mark whines louder, body rolling underneath Yuta’s, head swirling with desperation. “You have to fuck me, oppa, please, I’ve been good. I—I just, you—I’ve been so good haven’t I, oppa? Please, ah—please,” he babbles, words tripping over each other and running together, breath coming in short little gasps as Yuta eases back from him.

Mark’s eyes have adjusted to the dark. Now, he can see the sweet-mean grin on Yuta’s lips, he can see the affection and want gleaming in his eyes, he can see that Yuta is still hard, still wanting. He can see, written all over Yuta’s body, that he doesn’t have anything to worry about. That Yuta is going to take what he wants while giving Mark everything that he’s ever dreamed of, and he might still kiss him afterward too. “Such nice begging, you have a pretty mouth baby,” Yuta says. He grabs Mark’s bunched up shirt and pulls it over his head. “You don’t want me to tease you anymore?” he asks, dragging his hands down Mark’s chest, rings hard and cool against his skin.

Mark shakes his head. His hands fall from Yuta’s neck to tangle in the sheets as he murmurs, “I’ll… I’ll come again.” 

Yuta’s long, pretty fingers jerk where they play against the button of Mark’s jeans. His even prettier mouth parts, some real surprise playing behind his eyes in a way that makes Mark feel even more flush with embarrassment. Then, he curses, and yanks Mark’s jeans open. “You are unreal, you drive me crazy,” Yuta says, with such raw intensity that Mark doesn’t know whether to apologize or thank him. He hangs onto the sheets instead of doing either, blinking at Yuta as he hooks his hands into Mark’s jeans and briefs to pull them off all at once. He curses again, eyes roaming over Mark’s legs, his cock, hands following in quick, greedy touches, befores he eases back. “Up against the headboard, lean back against the pillows,” Yuta says, leaning down to kiss the inside of Mark’s knee before he lets him shift.

He shimmies awkwardly up the mattress, trying not to be embarrassed at the way his cock smacks against his belly, or how his heels skid awkwardly over the smooth sheets. He lays back on Yuta’s mountain of pillows and watches him climb off the edge of the bed and shove his pants the rest of the way off. He’s elegant in the way that Mark never is: casual and confident, at ease with his body as he stops next to the bed and tugs open the nightstand. Mark chews on his lip as he stares at him, unable to tear his eyes away from the tattoo on his hip and the slick length of his cock. “You want a condom?” Yuta asks, tossing a bottle of lube onto the bed.

Mark’s breath catches in his throat, burning straight down into his core as he forces himself to shake his head. “Wanna feel it,” he mumbles. His ears are hot.

Yuta’s mouth cuts into another one of those vicious grins. “Wanna feel my come dripping back out of you once I’ve fucked you loose?” Mark’s cock jerks and leaks onto his belly. A few well placed words and he feels melty all over again, with no way to hide the want that’s radiating off him. Yuta nods, his dark gaze dragging over Mark’s body as he starts to tug the rings off his fingers. Mark watches as he sets them into a dish waiting on his nightstand, metal clattering into the glazed ceramic. “Were you hoping I’d keep them on?” Yuta asks. 

“Yeah,” Mark says, dignity left behind as he watches the tendons under Yuta’s skin shift. Two more rings get dropped into the dish and he scores his teeth over his bottom lip. “Do you take them off when… when you jerk off?” 

Yuta huffs a laugh and Mark burns. “Usually, yeah.” He tugs his heavy thumb ring off. “Sometime, I’ll keep them on and you can watch. Would you like that?” 

Mark whines. The image slots in right beside what he first saw in the bathroom a year ago: Yuta’s cock hardening in his fist, black polish freshly done and shining, rings still adorning all his fingers as he tugs at his cock and aims it over Mark’s open mouth. He’s caught so thoroughly in the tide of the fantasy that he doesn’t realize Yuta has taken off the rest of his rings until he’s climbing back into bed, all sinuous motion and tattooed skin and red hair falling into his eyes as he kneels between Mark’s legs. “Yeah, baby, you’re so hot. I’ll jerk off onto your pretty face while you can’t do anything but watch, hm?” He slips his hands along the insides of Mark’s thighs, tugging them open and out, until Mark is falling even deeper into the mountain of pillows while he nods. 

“Such a sweet boy,” Yuta murmurs, scratching at the insides of Mark’s thighs until he’s trembling under the sensation. “Love seeing you in my bed, gorgeous.” He squeezes Mark right at that tender spot between his thigh and hip, and then reaches for the lube. Mark must be flushed all the way down to his navel with the praise, melty and easy for everything that Yuta might want to give him.

His head lolls back as lube wet fingers circle his rim, pulsing against his hole until his breath is catching around a whine of Yuta’s name. “Oppa,” he says, more spit welling up in his mouth as he tilts his hips up. Yuta hums and finally pushes his finger inside of him. It’s a slick, hot stretch without a single moment of discomfort and Mark catches his bottom lip between his teeth. He already wants Yuta to push another inside him, and some part of him already wants Yuta’s cock, even if it hurts—even if he tears. 

But, Yuta is already pushing a second finger into him, lube smearing inside of him, rolling down his skin and onto the sheets as Yuta flexes his fingers inside him. “Thought you said you weren’t getting fucked by your other hyungs,” Yuta says, and there’s an edge of something real in his voice, something like possession.

The thought of being kept by him, of being wanted by him, makes so much pleasure roll through Mark it makes him lightheaded. “Didn’t—haven’t,” he gasps, head snapping back and forth as Yuta starts to thrust his fingers. He has to convince Yuta, he has to prove that he’s good enough, good enough to be kept and possessed and used—

“But, you’re so loose baby,” Yuta says. “Feels like you’re all worn out. Feels like a slut snuck into my bed.”

Mark whimpers, belly twisting with a sick messy feeling that still makes his cock leak onto his belly. His head is stuffed with cotton, the tips of his fingers are tingling, his tongue is thick in his mouth and he can’t find his words. He can’t find the words to say that he hasn’t hooked up with anyone in weeks, that even when he did hook up with guys it was always easier with Jaemin or Chenle—younger guys that could still give him what he needs without reminding him too much of Yuta. And that he’s so loose, so worn out, because he spends the hours that Donghyuck is out of their dorm screwing his fingers into himself and clamping a hand over his mouth, imagining that its a faceless hyung with nice hands, who always transforms into Yuta right when he’s about to come. 

“Not a slut, not a slut,” he mumbles, trying to catch the thread of his words, even as Yuta starts thrusting his fingers harder, hand curling to thumb at his taint. “Just—touch, just play with myself, oppa—promise, promise ‘m not a slut,” he gasps. 

“Ohhhh.” Yuta’s voice is rich and low. His fingers crook and he manages to catch Mark’s prostate, pressing and then rubbing until Mark is dripping and trembling, pleasure rolling through his veins and shuddering in his lungs. “You’re just desperate, aren’t you? Gotta keep this pretty little hole filled?” He grinds his fingers into Mark again, another starburst of pleasure shattering in his belly as Yuta rubs his prostate in a tight, mean little circle. “Are you going to be a slut for me, baby? Are you going to cry on my cock like a perfect little slut, just for me, Mark?” He eases his fingers off Mark’s prostate, thrusts them quickly, and then twists a third into him.

The stretch, the sound of his name rolling off Yuta’s tongue, just a little rough and a little mean, nearly does Mark in. His knees snap together, back arching so hard his spine pops as he cries, a long warbling noise squeezing out from between his clenched teeth as he desperately tries to claw himself back from the edge. “Don’t come,” Yuta says, his voice toeing that perfect line between a rude demand and a low, warm request, somehow threatening punishment and promising reward all at once and Mark gasps, fingers clawing at the sheets as he just barely pulls himself away from the precipice of his orgasm.

He’s babbling before he’s all the way back down, desperation bubbling up through him on the tail of his denied orgasm, already so strung out on pleasure that it’s so easy to say, “Oppa, oppa please fuck me—just, inside—don’t care if it hurts, you can hu-hurt me just, guh, just need you inside please, please, please—”

Yuta forces his legs back open and Mark moans a low cry as his hips over extend, knees forced so far apart that they touch the sheets as he tugs his fingers out of Mark. “Should’ve said so, baby.” He rubs his wet fingers over Mark’s hot, swollen rim, before he curses and grabs the lube again. “Would’ve fucked you like a slut if you just asked for it. Made it hurt just how you wanted.”

Mark whimpers, fresh humiliation tangling up in that heat bubbling through him, all his disgusting wants laid bare under Yuta’s perceptive gaze as he twists a wet hand around his cock. “Please, oppa,” is all he can say, eyes stinging and mouth swollen from scrapes of his teeth. 

“Already crying, honey?” Yuta asks, words edged by a moan, striking that same cord of humiliation at a different angle, something cloying and sweet and still so, so mean. “Maybe it’s good you didn’t ask for it. I don’t think you’d be able to handle it.” He rocks forward, the head of his cock catching on Mark’s hole, before he pushes too hard too fast and his cock grinds hard over Mark’s taint instead of slipping inside. 

Mark gasps as Yuta reangles his cock and sinks in. He fucks in just past the first squeeze of muscle and pulls out before he can slip any further. It’s torture, these quick hitching thrusts that make Mark sting with pleasure, when all he really wants is Yuta to soothe that ache deep in his belly. It’s too much and not enough and Yuta’s words are still running through his head, so sweet and so mean, and Mark squeezes around him, trying to draw him deeper. Yuta doesn’t give it to him. His hands flex on Mark’s thighs and he sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, and keeps fucking him with just his tip. 

Mark whimpers and peers at Yuta through the tears in his eyes, pushing past the haze of pleasure just long enough to focus on the sharp intensity of want that darkens Yuta’s face. Somehow, Mark already knows what he wants, he can feel it in their tensile connection and intuit it from the pleasure that arcs between them like electricity between exposed wires. “Oppa, I can take it,” Mark murmurs. His voice is thick with pleasure, but clear. Yuta’s nails dig into his thighs and chills race across Mark’s body. “Want it, Yuta-oppa, give it to me. I can take it.” 

Yuta grits his teeth. Pleasure flashes in his eyes before his hips finally snap forward and he fills Mark completely. It aches, somewhere in his belly, that vague feeling of over fullness, that sensitivity bordering on pain as he stretches even further around the base of his cock, rim throbbing. His head tips back, a wobbly moan spilling over his bottom lip as Yuta’s hands fall to his hips. He shoves him down into the mattress, hips bucking in short, hard thrusts that make Mark feel even more full. There isn’t anything elegant or sweet or even particularly good about how Yuta fucks him—its rough and mean and barely takes his pleasure into account and Mark loves it. He’s already too sensitive, cock throbbing and balls tight as he keeps spilling these short little uhuhuh sorts of moans that make him sound so slutty and desperate. 

It makes it even more intense when Yuta braces a hand over his belly and pulls all the way out of him. Mark gasps out one massive sob, eyes stinging as he feels himself gape, warm lube dripping out as Yuta positions his fingers right at his hole. He fucks back inside, slow and smooth, angled away from his prostate to drag his piercing right over Mark’s swollen rim. He chokes, pleasure tangling around his throat as Yuta pulls out—all the way—and then pushes back in. He doesn’t hesitate, he builds a quick rhythm, with his fingers positioned to guide himself back in with every thrust. He pulses his hand against Mark’s belly, making him feel even more full, even more surrounded and sensitive to every thrust. 

“Oppa, oppa, oppa, oppa.” Mark finds himself crying for it, completely carved apart by Yuta’s cock and attention, cock dripping across Yuta’s knuckles, hole squeezing down on him every time he tries to pull out. Yuta groans, but his rhythm stays steady, only pausing to rub his tip against where Mark is hot and swollen and open for him. It’s torture, the catch of his piercing, the hard, slow rhythm—this slow build of pleasure that is liable to truly break Mark open whenever Yuta decides that he’s satisfied. 

But then, Yuta’s hand returns to his thigh. He holds Mark open as his hips tip up on the next thrust, finally grinding over his prostate, and Mark decides he’s ready to break open, that it’ll be fine as long as Yuta keeps his hands on the tenderest parts of him and keeps groaning for him so sweetly. “God, Mark,” he murmurs, finding a new rhythm with his hand still on Mark’s belly, pushing him down against the mattress in counterpoint to his thrusts, practically bouncing Mark on his cock. “Fuckin’ gorgeous slut, would keep you on my cock all the time if I could.”

Drool streaks out of the side of Mark’s mouth. He can’t bother to wipe it away, he can’t even bother to hide behind the shield of his hand or his arm when Yuta is grinding against his prostate with every thrust and talking him up to the edge. “Feels so—so good, oppa,” he mumbles, words fading into a gasp as Yuta’s nails score over his tender belly. “Wanna all the time, want it all the time.” Color swirls across his vision, his head spins, dropping down even deeper into pure, easy euphoria. 

Yuta groans and shoves him down into the mattress, holding him there against the soft sheets so he can fuck him even harder, pushing Mark’s knee up toward his chest until he’s curled up at the perfect angle for Yuta to get even deeper. Mark whimpers for it, tears spilling sluggishly down his cheeks as he looks at Yuta. His hair hangs in his eyes, his skin gleams with sweat, arms flexing as he pushes down on Mark. His face has sharpened with pleasure, eyes gleaming and teeth bared as he moans. It’s the hottest thing that Mark has ever seen in his entire life. 

Pleasure crashes into Mark all at once, hot in his mouth and tingling up his spine and boiling in his belly, and all he can do is reach for Yuta. He grips Yuta’s forearm, head tipping back, breath sawing in and out of his lungs, as he whimpers, “G’nna come—ah, oh, oppa please, just keep, yes, yes, Yuta!” He breaks off into a silent scream, breath caught in his throat, back arching as he claws at Yuta’s skin and thrashes across the sheets and comes. He expects it to be a flash fire, a sharp sweet orgasm that leaves him boneless and floating for a few minutes—but it just keeps going. His cock throbs and spills onto his belly, a thick slow drip of cum that makes chills roll over his sensitive skin. Yuta keeps fucking him, murmuring his name and grinding over his prostate and Mark thinks he might die. It just won’t stop, static in his ears and his tongue hanging out of his mouth as he starts making rough, little groaning noises to try and release some of the pleasure that’s filling his body.

“Oh, beautiful boy,” Yuta murmurs. He folds down over Mark, shaking off his weak grip to fold Mark into his arms. He sinks all the way inside him, ignoring Mark’s low cry, uncaring of how Mark wraps his arms around him and immediately starts clawing at his shoulders. “You really are just so sensitive,” he whispers, lifting a hand to cup the back of Mark’s head, setting his lips right against the corner of Mark’s lips. 

Mark can’t respond, Mark can barely think, and the press of Yuta’s skin is the only thing that keeps him settled in his body. For a moment, the pleasure fades, and he thinks it’s over—only for Yuta to hitch his hips in a tiny motion, not even a thrust, and Mark shatters again. He sobs, face twisting to catch Yuta in a sloppy kiss, one that must be awful for him, but Yuta doesn’t pull away. He threads his fingers into Mark’s hair and tugs gently, holding him steady as he lets Mark lick into his mouth and suck at his lips. “So—so much, oppa, you—its—”

“I’ve got you,” Yuta says. He licks Mark’s bottom lip. He grinds into him again. Mark squeezes on him, body chasing this impossible, overwhelming pleasure even when he doesn’t think he can survive it. But, he watches Yuta’s face flicker with pleasure, batting his eyelashes and breathing a hot little moan against Mark’s parted lips, and somehow, somehow desire flares in him again. 

“Don’t—” He hiccups another moan, words escaping him as Yuta smiles and tugs on his hair again. “Keep goin’ still wan’ you to come inside.” Surprise and desire flick across Yuta’s face in quick succession and it fills Mark with warmth, knowing that even this thoroughly wrecked and probably looking disastrous, Yuta still isn’t pulling away from him. “Please,” he whispers when Yuta still doesn’t move to keep fucking him.

Finally, Yuta nods. He kisses Mark’s bottom lip, drawing it gently into his mouth, his hand flattening against the back of Mark’s head to just cradle his skull. “Just like this, baby.” And he doesn’t draw away, or push Mark back down into the mattress. He stays close to Mark as his hips start moving in short, smooth thrusts, their mouths brushing each time they rock into each other. He doesn’t flinch away when Mark moans loud and long, fresh pleasure spilling over him like hot honey, scalding and sticky and completely overwhelming. “So sweet, so beautiful. Fuck, Mark,” Yuta murmurs, low and melodic and genuine and Mark clings to him, nails digging deep into his shoulders as he shudders. 

It doesn’t take much. Mark coasts over the white hot pleasure and into oversensitivity without noticing, cock soft and rim starting to feel raw and stinging as Yuta shoves deep into him one last time. His head dips, breath damp on Mark’s throat, lips wet against his skin as he moans low and sweet and comes inside of him. Mark shudders, his entire body pulsing as Yuta fills him in the way that he’s been hoping for and dreaming about for a year. Maybe longer.

They’re stuck together with sweat and come as the world begins to creep back in. Mark keeps holding onto Yuta, even when the feeling returns to his limbs, even when the sheets sticking to his damp skin start to feel uncomfortable. Yuta hums and doesn’t try to pull away. He eases to the side so he can slip out of Mark, kissing his throat again when he hisses in discomfort, and lets his leg down to the sheets. He collapses into Mark right after, pressing a smile into his neck when Mark lets out an oof.  

They lay together for a long while. Mark’s embarrassment comes and goes in waves. Memories of his overt desperation burning hot in his cheeks and in the back of his throat, soothed by the knowledge that Yuta must’ve liked it, soothed by the sticky, dirty press of Yuta against him.

He takes a long, slow breath, and Yuta pecks the side of his throat and says, “You good?”

“Um.” Mark doesn’t really know what that means. Is he just asking? Is he asking Mark to be good and relax? Should Mark leave? He doesn’t know how he feels. He feels—he feels too much and his mind keeps shutting down every time he tries to think further and, and—

One of Yuta’s hands strokes from Mark’s ribs down over his hip. It’s such a casual, intimate touch that every tangled, confusing thought evaporates from Mark’s mind instantly. “Just asking if you feel alright, to lay here for a little bit without me right on top of you,” he says.

Mark nods. “I’m good, oppa.” Fresh humiliation blooms in his belly and he’s about to open his mouth and take it back when Yuta pushes himself up onto his elbow and leans down to kiss him. It’s quick and chaste and easy, tasting like salt from Mark’s own skin and he melts back down into the mattress. 

“Good. I just need a smoke.” Yuta slips off him, and the rush of cool air over Mark’s body is a relief. “You mind if I just crack a window in here? Or should I go out?” Mark turns onto his side, out of the wet spot, to watch as Yuta rounds the bed and digs a pack of Marlboro reds out of his abandoned jeans. 

The thought of Yuta leaving the room makes Mark feel vaguely sick. “Here is fine,” he murmurs, voice cracked and thick in his throat. Yuta cuts him a knowing look, one that’s still sweet and easy, and it makes Mark want to preen, it makes him want to cheer and get his hopes up all over again. He tries to shove all of that down, tries to enjoy the cool air on his hot skin, tries to enjoy all the beautiful lines of Yuta’s naked body as he shamelessly opens the window and lights a cigarette. “Won’t you get in trouble—” 

He regrets saying it as soon as Yuta laughs, suddenly feeling too exposed and so young and out of place—even while in Yuta’s bed with his come still leaking out of him. He thinks of leaving, of levering himself up onto his shaky knees and putting his clothes on without showering, he thinks of how he’ll ignore Yuta again, of telling his therapist that he embarrassed himself again and he’s never going to leave his dorm.

“You have no idea how many times auntie has scolded me!” Yuta is still laughing, face turned up toward the cool light of the moon, and Mark realizes he isn’t laughing at him. “So far, I’ve managed to charm her out of evicting me.” Mark watches him stick his hand through a hole in the screen over the window, to ash his cigarette out onto the brick ledge. “This time, I might need you to use those pretty eyes on her though too, yeah?” He turns and takes another drag, one eyebrow lifted, cock soft against his thigh, torso twisted so a roll of fat appears on his side. Mark nods, breathless and breaking under the realization that he might be way, way in over his head.

He curls his fingers into the sheets and reminds himself to breathe, watching as Yuta turns away from him again, watching as Yuta doesn’t pick up on any of it because how could he. How could Yuta know that he needs to anticipate Mark’s realization that this isn’t—that this never would be—an easy hookup? Mark feels sick.

“You think really hard,” Yuta says.

Mark laughs. It catches on his insides, making him feel bruised and sore. “Yeah, so I’ve been told.”

Yuta blows a big lungful of smoke out the window. “You wanna tell me about it? Or ask me something?”

Mark blinks at him. He hadn’t considered that would be an option, not in this situation. Donghyuck is always abundantly clear with him, all of his friends are, they answer his questions even when it’s annoying and make sure he’s never caught off balance. The guys he hooks up with never entertain him in the same way, even Jaemin and Chenle have a tendency to shoo him off after they’ve gotten their dicks wet. Mark hadn’t thought it was an option, to pose a question and have it clearly answered, to not have to live with the nebulous confusion that burns in his chest in the aftermath. It flows through him, a balm to all his ragged nerves, like the volume knob on all the static in his brain finally got turned down. 

“Do you want me to leave?” he asks. 

Yuta takes his last drag on the cigarette and reaches through the screen again to stub it out. “Nope.” He doesn’t drop the butt off the edge. He pulls it inside, shuts the window, and drops it in a trashcan next to his desk. “I’m not a very good cook, but we can order something in the morning.” 

Something warm swells in Mark’s chest as he watches Yuta crawl back onto the bed. He rolls back over onto his back and Yuta slips back between his legs, their bodies fitting together in effortless harmony. “Just assuming I’m a bad cook, then?” 

Yuta purses his lips. And then his mouth splits into a smile. And Mark knows exactly what he’s about to say. “Oh no, no he didn’t!” he wails, smacking his hands over his face as Yuta giggles. “Broooo, no, no, okay—Yuta! Stop laughing!” Yuta does not stop laughing and Mark is smiling too hard to properly scold him. “Just because I can’t fry an egg, doesn’t mean I’m a bad cook—oh man, I’m going to kill Johnny.” 

Yuta leans down and kisses him, still giggling a little bit, and successfully silences the rest of Mark’s annoyed babbling. He reaches up and loops his arms around Yuta’s neck again, fingers teasing through the sweaty hair at his nape. “It was actually Taeyong that told me,” Yuta whispers, their mouths still brushing.

Mark groans. He’d rather jump off a bridge than scold Taeyong. Yuta giggles at him again and then rolls them onto their sides, body wrapping around Mark’s like an octopus. Mark falls asleep like that, Yuta’s breath ruffling his hair and his heartbeat in his ears, hoping that promises of breakfast delivered will still come true in the morning.

~

Mark wakes to his very warm and slightly bony pillow shifting. And ten seconds later, he groans with disgust. The skipped shower last night has caught up to him, throwing him into discomfort when the morning light is still early and gray. He’s sticky between his legs and itchy with sweat and beneath him, Yuta’s chest shudders with laughter. “Yeah baby. Shower time.” 

Even though it’s the only prescription for Mark’s sudden desire to scrub all of his skin off, he still complains the whole way, too drowsy to stop himself. Yuta doesn’t mind. He laughs and smiles as he urges Mark into the shower, he wipes the crust out of his eyes and grins even brighter when Mark squints at him through the steam. He washes Mark’s hair and kisses him when he whines, he lets Mark hog all the water, and even when Mark wakes up more and tries to grab the washcloth to scrub himself, Yuta holds it out of his reach until he gives up. He washes Mark gently, pressing kisses to his soapy skin, and Mark has to close his eyes so he doesn’t swoon—wrapped up in the smell of Yuta’s body wash and shampoo, feeling so soft and easy and domestic as Yuta folds down onto his knees for him. He cleans Mark’s groin and kisses the insides of his thighs, murmuring sweet nothings as he cleans his own cum out of Mark without a single moment of disgust or annoyance at Mark’s liberal complaining. Mark braces himself on Yuta’s shoulder as he washes his feet. He wrings out the washcloth and then guides Mark back under the spray of the water, running his hands all across his body until the suds are washed away. 

By the end of it, Mark is sleepy all over again. And hard. But that feels secondary to Yuta’s gentle hands easing him back against the tile wall of the shower, still keeping half the warm water on him as he starts washing his hair. “Lemme do it,” Mark mumbles, wiggling his fingers in Yuta’s face even as he yawns. 

Yuta laughs and leans in to kiss him. His morning breath is awful and he tastes more like an ashtray than he did last night, but Mark doesn’t dream of leaning away. “Just focus on staying awake, baby. You can do it for me next time.” Mark is sufficiently placated by that, and settles back against the wall to watch Yuta. His hard-on does not go down as he watches Yuta push his wet hair off his forehead and reach for a different washcloth to scrub his skin. Still, the desire is mostly benign, flowing sluggishly through him as Yuta bends over to scrub his feet.

Somehow, Yuta gets them both out of the shower and dried off. There’s only one fluffy robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door, but after a short, sleepy argument, Mark ends up in it. They brush their teeth with their shoulders bumping together, hair mussed and damp. 

As soon as Yuta lets him out of the bathroom, Mark sheds the bathrobe and crawls back into his bed, curling up onto this side in the last clean spot on the sheets. He’s out as soon as his head hits the pillow.

~

Mark wakes for the second time to heat at his back and a hand over his belly. “Wuh?” he mumbles, torn between falling back into a dream where Yuta took him on a date on the moon, and rousing for the press of lips at the back of his neck.

“Breakfast’s here, baby. Wanna get up?” Yuta’s voice is warm and low and smells of coffee. 

Mark blinks himself awake and reaches down to slip his arm over top of Yuta’s. “How long you been awake?” he mumbles, voice rough with sleep.

Yuta chuckles and spreads his fingers so Mark’s can slip between. “Didn’t go back to sleep after our shower,” he says. Mark hums. He vaguely remembers that. Yuta took good care of him. “You slept for a few more hours.”

Mark groans and finally opens his eyes properly. The room is warm with sunlight, it’s easily midday now. “Should’ve woken me up,” he mumbles, squirming until Yuta lets go of him so they can both sit up. Mark can feel his hair sticking straight up on one side and he scrubs some dried drool off his chin as he turns to look at Yuta. Who looks perfect. Hair styled and eyes bright, mouth stretched into the prettiest smile Mark has ever seen, wearing a tight tank top and a pair of gray sweatpants. 

Yuta coos at him, reaching up to bat down his hair and leaning in to plant a quick kiss on Mark’s mouth. He’s instantly placated, face warm as he tilts toward Yuta, uncaring of the fact that he’s naked. “You’re too cute when you’re sleeping, not my fault,” Yuta says, tapping Mark’s nose before he slips out of bed. A moment later, Mark is hit in the face by a bundle of clothes that smell like Yuta’s laundry detergent. “Put some clothes on so we can eat.” He blows Mark a kiss and then slips out of the bedroom.

Mark grins to himself as he tugs on a pair of Yuta’s briefs, followed by a pair of sweatpants that are so oversized he has to roll the waistband twice, and a big t-shirt. It’s all well washed and soft on his skin. Outside the bedroom, there’s a pair of slippers waiting for him, and his chest aches as he slips his feet into them and goes into the living room. 

Spread out on a kotatsu that Mark was too busy to notice last night, is more breakfast food than two people could possibly eat. Waffles and pancakes and sliced fruit along with crispy bacon and sausage links. Two cups of coffee are steaming on either side of the flat table, and Yuta is already seated, chomping on a piece of bacon while lining up sheets of nori and stabbing a set of chopsticks into a takeout container of rice. Mark is floored. “You didn’t—why—” he stammers, reaching down to tangle his fingers in the hem of his shirt. 

Yuta looks up at him. He blinks and then smiles. “I just ordered what I thought we’d both like.” Then, Yuta’s eyebrows pinch together. “Unless you prefer porridge, sorry I sort of assumed—”

Mark shakes his head and waves his hand toward him. “No, no, this is what I like.” He sits down across from Yuta and slips his legs under the kotatsu. The blanket is patterned with Sanrio characters and that vague ache in Mark’s chest flares even brighter. Silence falls as they eat. Mark digs into the stack of pancakes and tears through most of the bacon on the plate while taking sips of his coffee. Yuta alternates between bites of rice and nori and sips of miso soup. He drinks his coffee in long pulls, his feet wiggling under the kotatsu against Mark’s thigh.

It’s comfortable. There’s no reason for Mark to feel like he’s going to explode, except for the fact that nothing about this feels casual. Nothing about it has felt casual, but neither of them have said it, and he doesn’t know if he can be the one to bring it up. He might die. 

“Sort of feels like catching up on lost time,” Yuta says. His eyes cut quickly to Mark as he eats the last grains of rice off his chopsticks and then steals the last piece of bacon.

“What do you mean?” Mark asks. He holds his coffee mug with both hands to keep it from trembling. It’s a hand spun mug, the top half of it glazed in speckled blue and the bottom half rough against his palms.

“We could’ve been doing this for a year,” Yuta says. He’s smiling, but it feels a little more forced now, less like he’s teasing Mark and more like he’s waiting for Mark to get something.

“Doing what?” And Mark feels like an idiot for not getting it, but Yuta doesn’t roll his eyes or laugh.

He just tilts his head. His foot brushes against Mark’s thigh again. “You’re drinking out of my favorite mug. I made it the last time that I went and saw my family,” Yuta says. Mark blinks. “Usually, I don’t let anyone else drink out of it.”

Oh. Oh.

The sensation of holding something precious—the mug, the moment—overwhelms Mark. He hopes he remembers to write about this feeling later. It’s something that he’s never felt before, paired with that burning ache in his chest and the quick beat of his heart, the far off sensation of things slotting together. “Oh man,” he says, suddenly overwhelmed.

And Yuta laughs. Not at Mark, but in that way that means Mark can join in. That means Mark can set the precious mug down on the kotatsu and slip out from beneath it to sit beside Yuta instead. That means he can hold Yuta’s face in both hands and kiss him, slow and sweet. Yuta kisses him back.

~

Later (days later, Yuta won’t let Mark leave his apartment except for class for nearly 72 hours) Mark will be on Yuta’s lap in the living room, gripping onto his shoulders that will be perpetually scratched in sets of four pink lines, and whining into his mouth while he rides his cock. Even later, Yuta will wrap his hand (still adorned with rings) around Mark’s cock and stroke him off. And slightly later, right after that, Yuta will lick Mark’s slack mouth and then murmur, “I told Johnny you were my boyfriend today by the way.” 

And Mark will yelp and stare at him wide eyed and Yuta will be terrified that he’s done something wrong, that he’s somehow broken this fragile but so, so easy thing between them. Only for Mark to go white as a ghost and groan, “Bro, Donghyuck is going to kill me. I haven’t told him yet!!” 

Yuta will laugh and kiss him again and then the fragile thing between them won’t feel so fragile anymore.