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Johnny’s watch reads somewhere a little past midnight when he finally makes it through the door of the frat house, holding his keys gently so they don’t jingle against each other as he takes them out of the lock and closes the door behind him. Toeing off his shoes at the door, he does his best not to trip on anything as he hefts his bag on his shoulder and creeps through the first floor so he doesn’t disturb anyone. Turns out, there aren’t that many people to disturb, especially since Jaehyun, Lucas, and a couple of the other token loud ones are still with the rest of the basketball team.

But although the house is dark, it’s not completely lifeless. Sicheng is snooping around in the refrigerator when Johnny passes through the kitchen, and he can hear heavy metal seeping out into the hallway from the other side of Yuta’s door once he gets upstairs. A single knock has it being turned down with a quiet, “Sorry, Pres,” because Johnny’s the only one in the house who has the balls to tell Yuta to tone anything down. 

“G’night, Yu,” Johnny calls softly before continuing down the hallway. 

He pauses in front of Mark’s room, fist poised to knock, but it’s shut tight with no light shining through the crack underneath and no sounds coming from inside. He’s probably already asleep, and Johnny can’t blame him. Mark had a lot going on this weekend, too, schedule packed to keep him busy while Johnny was out of town at the tournament, or so he’d joked before pressing a goodbye kiss to Johnny’s nose on his way out the door a few days ago. 

It makes sense that he didn’t try to stay up for Johnny because he wasn’t expecting him home until late Monday afternoon with the rest of the team, but Johnny had decided to make the drive back tonight in a spur-of-the-moment decision. It was worth the long hours alone in the car if it meant he got to sleep in his own bed tonight.

Johnny lowers his fist with a small sigh, stuffing it in his pocket. He’d get to see Mark after he got back from his early morning practice tomorrow, but Johnny knows he should leave him to sleep for now—he needs his rest if he wants to be able to reign in those demons on ice that Johnny’s only had the visceral pleasure of meeting once. The meeting is a memory that will stay etched in the recesses of Johnny’s brain for the rest of his life, as well as the fear of Mark’s co-captain that he’s sure will linger for just as long.

The thought makes him smile, albeit a bit ruefully, as he turns from Mark’s door reluctantly and heads to the master bedroom at the end of the hall. He doesn’t exactly know how he ended up with it, but he’s not complaining. Yuta and Ten have been duking it out for “The Good Room” since they were just pledges, despite having no real desire to be chapter president, which has brought on many-a competition, and all of which Johnny chose to oversee instead of participate in. But when the August after Johnny got—unanimously—voted in as the next president once Sehun graduated, he walked into the house to find everyone else bickering over who’d get the mancave, while the master bedroom was untouched and waiting for him.

And, really, it’s not like Johnny doesn’t hold his own suspicions about Mark having something to do with his surprise acquiescence of the room anyway. Mark gets this mischievous gleam in his eye whenever the topic comes up in conversation, and the look he shoots both Yuta and Ten is pointed enough to keep their eyes from meeting Johnny’s and their mouths sealed shut. There are some cases where ignorance is bliss, though, and Johnny’s willing to wager that this is one of them.

Sure, in private Mark likes to complain to Johnny about how unfair it is that Johnny gets the big bedroom as if he doesn’t get fucked in it on the regular anyway, but Johnny is still willing to wager a good portion of his scholarships that Mark is the reason he has this room. Mark honestly probably sleeps in it more than he sleeps in his own room at this point, too, although Johnny can’t really say he’s complaining about that. Mark claims senior privilege is bullshit, and Johnny fucks him into the mattress until he shuts up about it for a few days. It’s a good system, in Johnny’s humble opinion.

Given how much time he’d just spent pondering over Mark spending time in Johnny’s room, he really shouldn’t be as surprised as he is when he shoulders his bedroom door open to find the lights on and Mark lying on the bed.

He’s curled up in a pair of university-logo-adorned sweatpants and an oversized hoodie, both of which Johnny is reasonably sure belong to him given how Mark is nearly swimming in them. He looks ridiculously cute like this: glasses on, sleeves hiked up to his elbows, hair curly in the way that lets Johnny know he’s feeling lazy and just let it air dry after his shower instead of using a blowdryer. He’s worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, tapping his pen against his chin as he reads over whatever godforsaken complicated material he’s been handed from his professors. Johnny knows better than to ask. Last time he made that mistake, Mark spent the better part of an hour trying to explain fluid dynamics and only shut up when Johnny kissed him silly. Johnny, respectfully, will never understand what kind of sick and twisted joy Mark manages to get out of math.

Mark is so absorbed in what he’s working on that he has yet to notice Johnny leaning against the doorway, and Johnny can’t help but smile a little. It’s a sight for sore eyes, quite literally.

After thoroughly appreciating the moment and letting it sink in just how much he loves Mark like this—unassuming, soft, his— Johnny knocks gently on the doorframe to alert him of his presence.

Mark startles a little at the sound, dropping his pencil in surprise, mouth dropping into a tiny circle of disbelief before his brain catches up with what he’s seeing and the expression melts into something softer, something a touch more familiar.

“Hey big guy,” he greets with a smile, eyes crinkling over the top of his glasses that have slipped down the bridge of his nose. “Heard you won big this weekend.”

Johnny sighs, but the edges of his lips curl up as he steps past the threshold, closing the door behind him. The exhaustion seems a little less overwhelming now that he’s here with Mark after a weekend away. He walks over and drops his bag next to the bed. Leaning down, he tucks a lock of hair behind Mark’s ear and dips down for a kiss in the same movement.

Mark’s happy to indulge, looping his arms around Johnny’s neck to pull him close. The wire frames of Mark’s glasses bump against Johnny’s cheeks as their mouths reacquaint themselves, but neither of them mind. Mark tastes of toothpaste and home, whereas Johnny knows he hasn't brushed his teeth since he left the hotel this morning, and pulls back as a courtesy even though he knows Mark would never complain.

“You—” Johnny places a kiss on Mark’s temple, pushing his glasses back into place— “are supposed to be in bed.”

Mark closes his textbook with a snap, making it bounce a little on the duvet. He peeks up at Johnny curiously. “Is that not where I am?”

“I meant in your own bed. Asleep.” Johnny turns away and strips off his coat to toss onto the chair at his desk. He’ll hang it up in the morning when he feels more like a functioning human than a worn out piece of rubber with a couple brain cells. “Don’t you have early practice tomorrow?”

“Nah,” Mark responds, stretching out languidly on the sheets, joints popping into place. Knowing him, he probably hadn’t moved for a few hours before Johnny walked in. “Yangyang and I cancelled it because of the boys’ performance in the game today. Told ‘em to take the day off and to at least try not to break diet too badly.”

Johnny eyes the empty pizza box on the floor next to the bed, and looks pointedly back up at a suddenly-guilty-looking Mark who followed his gaze.

“And how’s that going for you, cap? Setting quite the example for your team, I’d imagine.”

Mark flushes, squirming a little. “Shut up.” He kicks his foot out on the bed, discontent with being called out. “You weren’t supposed to be home until tomorrow to catch me.”

“Oh?” Johnny eyes how Mark’s more or less set up camp in his room, from the papers and textbooks on the bed to the hockey bag in the corner by the window to the red and blue jersey emblazoned with a bold-lettered LEE laid out across the windowsill. “Is this something you do every time I’m gone?”

“Not every time,” Mark defends, a little petulant. “’S not my fault I miss you.”

“So it’s my fault then?” Johnny asks, leaning down for another kiss that Mark happily indulges.

“Yup,” he claims, cupping Johnny’s face between his palms, thumbs rubbing at the dark circles under his eyes that Johnny has done his best to ignore. “You look tired, dude.”

“I am,” Johnny concedes. “Long weekend. Lots of games. Rowdy team. Long drive… The usual.”

“How was the tournament, though? I’m sorry I couldn’t make it.”

“You had your own game to worry about, it’s okay.” He straightens up and heads to his dresser to grab a clean t-shirt and sweatpants to change into. “Which, I know I texted you but congrats on that last shot. Wicked goal. Sungchan sent me the vid.”

“You’re avoiding the question,” Mark says. Johnny pauses. “Did something happen?”

“No, no, nothing like that.” He waves a hand. “Just… a lot to work on still if we have any dreams of going to the division championships again this year. We’re not as solid as we need to be.” Johnny doesn’t bother going into detail, knowing that anything technical will go right over Mark’s head. He doesn’t have to look back to know Mark’s lips are pursed, displeased.

“You still won, and I think that’s a testament to something, John.”

The use of the name startles him a bit, a rare signal that Mark’s particularly serious about something. In this case, it’s that Johnny’s spiraling in his own thoughts and has been for hours, overanalyzing every move and pass and shot he made in those games. The desire to work harder so he can improve and the need to relax are at war in his head, and no one gets that better than Mark does.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Johnny admits quietly.

A pair of arms wrap around his middle, and Mark rests his chin on Johnny’s shoulder. He has to get on his tiptoes to do it, and Johnny can’t force down the little smile that makes its way to his mouth at the sight of Mark’s socked feet, pointed at the toes to make him taller. “I’m always right when it comes to you.”

“The all-knowing Mark strikes again,” Johnny faux-bemoans, making Mark snicker. “It’s okay that you couldn’t make it, though, in all seriousness. You had your own team to lead.”

Mark pouts into the skin of Johnny’s neck. “Doesn’t mean I’m not sad I couldn’t come watch my hot boyfriend shoot hoops.”

Johnny pulls a face, shrugging a bit, and then smiling at the way Mark’s whole body lifts with his shoulder because his head is still resting there. “There’s so much more to what I do than just ‘shooting hoops,’ Mark.”

Mark grins, clearly unapologetic. “That’s why I bring Hyuck with me. He explains everything.”

“He only learned to impress Taeil,” Johnny snorts. “Donghyuck’s been prowling after my poor manager for months, so if you could kindly reign him in, that would be wonderful.”

“You say that like Taeil isn’t smitten with him of his own volition,” Mark points out, slipping away from Johnny to retreat back to the bed.

“Fair enough,” he chuckles, remembering that exact expression that crosses Taeil’s face every time he spots Donghyuck at one of their games: love-struck, full of pure adoration. Johnny knows because he’s sure he does the same thing when he sees Mark there in the stands, too. An upward curve threatening to overtake the line of his mouth, Johnny turns away to shuck his shirt off and hide it because Mark can always see right through him.

This weekend notwithstanding, Mark always does his best to make it to Johnny’s games in the same way Johnny tries to get to as many of Mark’s. Speaking of…

“Yo, Markles, don’t you have that friendly on Wednesday—”

Johnny turns around and cuts himself short when he sees Mark stripping off his sweatshirt, revealing those creamy lines of hard-earned muscles rippling across his back, how Johnny’s sweatpants slide down the line of his hips until they’re just hanging on. 

His mouth goes dry.

Mark turns his head just barely so he can look over his shoulder, gaze dark through his lashes. Johnny groans because Mark knows exactly what he’s doing.

“You’re the worst, you know that?” Johnny rasps, trying to force the words around the lump of cotton in his throat.

“Mmm,” Mark hums, tucking a thumb into the waistband of the sweatpants as he turns to face Johnny. Clearly very satisfied with himself, his tongue darts out to wet his lips. Johnny follows the movement and the subsequent growth of his feral grin. His head tilts to the side just a touch. “I did learn from the best, after all.”

It takes Johnny three steps and even fewer seconds to cross the room and tackle Mark to the bed, pinning him between his body and the mattress, mouth all over Mark.

“Absolutely insatiable,” he murmurs between Mark’s voracious kisses.

Mark just giggles and buries his fingers in Johnny’s hair to pull him impossibly closer.

It’s stupid, really, how fast Johnny gets hard, just pressed up against Mark like this, just making out on his questionably-obtained Tempur-Pedic mattress, courtesy of Yuta. Mark’s hands wander up Johnny’s sides before tracing down the sore contours of his back with fingers toughened by years of playing the guitar.

“We doing this?” Johnny presses his knee between Mark’s thighs—nothing short of delighted to find Mark just as hard as he is—as Mark’s palms find their way down to Johnny’s ass, kneading. 

“Please,” Mark groans, fingertips scrambling to grasp at Johnny in some concrete way, like Johnny’s going to slip away if he doesn’t hold on hard enough. “Been waiting.”

Johnny sits back on his heels, running on nothing but adrenaline and fumes as he hoists Mark’s hips up and yanks his sweatpants and briefs off in a single motion. It’s not smooth, but hearing Mark’s sharp inhale at being handled around like this makes the burn of his forearms lessen just a little. The briefs get caught on Mark’s ankle, but he kicks them off while tugging Johnny back down for another kiss, flinging them somewhere in the room that’s completely unimportant right now.

Mark slides his hands down Johnny’s back to tug at the waistband of his joggers insistently. “Off, off,” he demands, biting a ruthless faction of kisses down the column of Johnny’s throat.

By some miracle from above, Johnny manages to finagle his way out of his pants and boxers without Mark disconnecting his mouth from Johnny’s skin the entire time. When he finally falls back into place above Mark, lips finding each other once again as their hips grind into each other.

“Lube,” Johnny grunts, feeling his dick slide against Mark’s deliciously, but the aid of precome can only do so much. “Now.”

Mark blindly slaps a hand around on the bedside table until he manages to pull the drawer open and grapple for the little purple tube of Astroglide that Johnny keeps in there and tosses it to him. It’s suspiciously more empty than how he’d left it, but now is not the time to address that. Johnny snags it out of the air and pops it open with his thumb, squeezing a hefty glob out onto his fingers, not even bothering to snap the cap shut before he hastily tosses it back onto the nightstand. He positions himself a little more steadily: his knees bracketing one of Mark’s thighs, a forearm braced on the pillow by Mark’s head while the other hand busies itself warming up the lube between the pads of his fingers, feeling the excess drip down into his cupped palm. 

The pad of his pointer finger circles Mark’s rim for a moment, getting it sufficiently wet before even trying to slide in. When he finally does, the finger slips in with little resistance—which is to be expected given what Johnny can glean of Mark’s nighttime activities while he was away. A modicum of tension that eases out of Mark’s muscles, and Johnny can feel the way his slick walls easily accommodate the familiar intruder.

“Shoulda— shoulda gotten ready,” Mark wheezes, as if the words were forced out of his lungs by the mere presence of some part of Johnny inside of him at last. “Don’t wanna wait.”

“I’m not gonna rush this, and I never will. Now be patient,” Johnny reprimands, like he’s not itching to stick his dick in Mark right now just as badly. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

Mark squints up at him, disbelieving. “Right.”

Johnny kisses his temple. “I don’t wanna hurt you because of not enough prep,” he amends.

“Better,” Mark agrees. “Now gimme another.”

Obliging as always, Johnny slips his middle finger in next, slowly working to spread Mark out, and ah, now’s when the aches start to return to the forefront of his mind. The adrenaline has worn off enough that he can feel the places where he got fouled in the tournament, and he can feel his bones grinding in protest whenever he shifts his shoulder just wrong.

He doesn’t want to disappoint Mark after he’d waited patiently for this long, but his body is very quickly approaching its limits, and as an athlete on scholarship, Johnny has to listen to every fiber of his mortal being that’s currently yelling at him to stop.

For as much as Johnny would love to rail Mark into their new sheets tonight—Mark must’ve found them in the closet, but that begs the question why he needed the new sheets in the first place—he’s exhausted and sore and probably won’t last very long anyway with the rate things are going. His arm is trembling where he’s propping himself up, and his hand is already cramping, fingers working double time to keep Mark making those happy noises.

“Johnny,” Mark calls softly, reaching down to grip at Johnny’s wrist to pause him. His eyes are wide, shiny with concern. A little furrow has nestled itself between Mark’s brows, and Johnny hates to think that he's the reason for it being there. A soft kiss smooths it out, but not without a follow up. “Are you okay?”

Johnny knows he can’t lie for shit in front of Mark, even if it’s just to preserve his cool façade, which Mark would most likely argue that Johnny lost a long time ago anyway. He drops his head onto the pillow beside Mark’s head and pulls his fingers out. Mark winces beneath him, this sort of full-bodied discontented twitch that Johnny immediately feels bad for. He strokes over Mark’s hip carefully—the beginnings of an apology that he manages to choke out the words to finish. 

“Sorry, Markles,” he whispers. “Just tired today.” It’s the highly abridged version, but Mark, his wonderful Mark, always understands. Just another line in the very long list of reasons he’s hopelessly in love with this man.

A pair of lips grazes his cheek; gentle fingers tuck greasy hair behind his ear. God, Johnny needs to shower. “It’s okay,” Mark assures. “Do you wanna do anything? Or just wash up and sleep? You know we don't have to finish this.”

“But I’ve been waiting all weekend to fuck you,” Johnny whines, and it’s sort of pathetic. The shame of it lessens when he feels Mark nod and kiss over the shell of his ear.

“I know, I’ve been waiting too.” Mark’s voice is low in his chest, the kind of sultry it gets when he’s trying to seduce Johnny.

The problem is that Johnny is already thoroughly seduced—he’s just too exhausted to follow through. His dick seems to be a little late on the uptake of that memo, though, because he can feel himself still painfully hard, pressed tight to the crease of Mark’s bare thigh under the weight of his own body. 

Years ago, he might’ve been worried that he’d crush Mark like this, squish him like a very small bug against the sheets, but not anymore. He’s not the delicate boy Johnny used to make him out to be. Mark’s always been a lot stronger than he looks, than Johnny always gave him credit for. If he concentrates, he can feel Mark’s muscles jumping under his skin with every movement Johnny makes—can trace the outline of the definition in his arms, on his abdomen, across his thighs. His thighs.  

Johnny could probably mold them from clay by nothing but memory at this point, from how many times he’s kneaded them, supported them, kissed them until they were blooming their university colors, fucked them. He groans out loud just thinking about it, and Mark’s resounding giggle makes Johnny’s lips curl into a smushed smile against the pillow.

“I have an idea, if you’re up for it?” Mark offers carefully, treading over each word with a sort of gingerly considered precision that makes Johnny shiver. Just how long has Mark been thinking about what he’s about to say?

“What did you have in mind?” Johnny replies, turning his head so the words don’t end up stuffed into the pillow, never to reach Mark’s ears.

There’s no space to reply before a leg hooks around his hip and Johnny’s world blurs before his eyes. A mere moment later, finds himself lying on the bed, face up and a little dizzy. Mark’s perched neatly on Johnny’s hips now, instead of being pinned beneath him, and Johnny has to admit that he’s enjoying the change of scenery.

He relaxes back into the pillows as Mark gets comfy, rolling his hips down a few times to test it out. Seemingly satisfied with the results, Mark leans over the edge of the bed and starts rifling through Johnny’s bag, thighs clamping hard over Johnny’s hips to keep him anchored, clearly in search of something specific.

“What are you doing, Markles?” Johnny huffs out an incredulous laugh.

Mark doesn’t grace him with a reply for an extended moment, instead just letting out this tiny, triumphant noise as he finds what he’s looking for. “Gotcha!”

“Seriously, what are you up to—”

A flash of red and blue swinging from Mark’s index finger stops him. He’s holding Johnny’s practice jersey—although Johnny doubts Mark knows the difference between that and his real one—with a coy little smile dancing across his lips. All snarky complaints immediately die before they can reach the tip of Johnny’s tongue.

He wants to point out that it’s probably all sweaty and gross from being stuffed in his bag all weekend, but Mark clearly doesn’t seem to mind as he slips it on and bites the neckline of it playfully, smile spreading from sly to downright mischievous in the blink of an eye.

Johnny goes bug-eyed and curses under his breath at the glorious sight of his tiny boyfriend in his clothes like this. Seeing him in a filched sweatshirt or a stray t-shirt is one thing, but this is a whole new level of Johnny-monkey-brain-no-work-no-more. Mark must see all functioning levels of thought fly straight out of his head because he giggles, dropping the jersey from his mouth. It relaxes over Mark’s figure, stashing away those delicious curves of his behind the bagginess of the excessive fabric. Johnny has never had such a primal urge to rip a piece of clothing open before this point in his life. 

“I’ll take that as you like it, then?” Mark raises an accusatory brow, reaching forward to snatch the lube from where Johnny had tossed it onto the bedside table.

Johnny clears his throat, unsteady. “You could say that.”

Mark snorts, but offers no further shaming. Johnny suspects it’s because Mark’s just as into it as Johnny is, he’s just a little better at not showing it so blatantly.

The snap of the lube cap brings Johnny hurtling back to reality. He watches Mark squeeze a healthy dollop out onto his fingers, not even bothering to warm it up before reaching back and sliding three fingers in easily.

“You know,” Mark starts conversationally despite being knuckle-deep in his ass, which is an impressive feat, “we should get some more lube soon.”

The statement itself is unassuming, but Johnny knows all too well where this is headed. “Oh, no, no, we are not getting your weird flavored shit again,” he protests. “My generic Target-grade lube is just fine.”

“You liked it last time, don’t deny it.”

“In the heat of the moment, yeah, but that stained my favorite sheet set. Permanently.”

“Then we’ll have to get you more sheets, hmm?”

“We are not getting new sheets just so you can use your fucking caramel-flavored abomination again—”

“I’ll let you try out the thing.”

Johnny stops short. “You mean… you’d let me—”

“Shut up!” Mark goes red, looking away, but doesn’t stop fingering himself. “Don’t— don’t say it.”

“But you’d do it?”

Mark puffs out a breath straight up, making his bangs fly. “Only if you let me get the caramel and the watermelon.”

“Deal,” Johnny agrees hastily before Mark can take his offer back.

Thankfully, Mark is content to leave it at that. Or he just gets too distracted with stretching himself out where Johnny left off that he forgets his train of thought. Both are equally likely.

What’s for certain, though, is how ridiculously hot Mark looks like this. The dim lights of the room illuminate Mark from behind, making the sheen of sweat that has covered his body gleam a shade of golden that Johnny can’t help but want to taste. He sits up, propped up on his elbows, and the less-than-savory pull in his tired abdomen is proven to be worth it the moment his tongue touches skin.

He licks a stripe up the side of Mark’s neck where he’s hunched over from the pleasure, and relishes in his little shiver as Johnny latches his teeth on the hinge of his jaw to leave a heart-shaped bruise there. He tastes of salt and maple and boy, and Johnny wants to bottle him up and drink him every morning with his coffee.

“Johnny,” Mark moans, “fuck, dude.” The sloppy, wet noises coming from behind Mark get more frantic. Johnny absently wonders if Mark added a fourth finger at some point; he can’t tell.

“You close?”

Mark chokes on a bubbly laugh. “Close to coming or close to ready for you?”

“Either— both— shit, baby, I don’t know.”

“Mmm,” Mark hums low in his chest, removing his fingers with a definitive squelch. “I need you in me right now or I might actually explode.”

“And we wouldn’t want that.” The chuckle Johnny forces out is strained at best.

Mark doesn’t bother replying to that, which Johnny doesn’t mind, instead reaching over to the nightstand again and procuring a small silver square.

“Not in the mood for cleanup?” Johnny supplies.

“Hell no.”

With borderline terrifying, practiced efficiency, Mark rips open the condom with his teeth and rolls it on Johnny smoothly. Using the excess lube that he scoops up from where it’s dripping down his thighs, he slicks Johnny up, messily fisting his cock.

Johnny, who’s gone without solid stimulation for most of this, arches up at the sudden contact, brain whirring on overdrive. Before he can tell Mark to just get on with it, he watches Mark settle over Johnny’s hips steadily, he feels the head of his cock rub over Mark’s perineum once, twice, before catching on the rim of Mark’s hole to line up properly. With absolutely no further warning, he breaches the threshold of Mark’s body and it nearly sends him careening out into the depths of space.

“Johnny, shit!” Mark gasps thighs tensing under Johnny’s palms as he slowly, slowly, sinks down onto his cock. 

“Christ, Mark…” Johnny can feel the way Mark’s flesh molds around his cock, rearranges itself to accommodate the new intrusion; it never gets old, his fingers digging into Mark’s soft skin at the feeling. 

“Fuck,” Mark whispers, strained, small hands braced on Johnny’s chest to keep himself upright, blunt nails leaving shallow crescents where they cut into skin. Johnny doesn’t mind the sting. “You’re so big like this.”

Johnny levels him with a look, arching a brow. “So I wasn't big before?”

Mark glares at him—or, gives his best impression of one given his slack-jawed, glossy-eyed state. If looks could kill, Johnny would be dead six times over from the force of the glare alone, but he still can’t help but compare it to that of a grumpy kitten.

“Dude,” he says, unimpressed.

“Dude,” Johnny mocks, but glides a hand around to the small of Mark’s back to help keep him steady the rest of the way down, the other resting on the slope of his waist to guide the angle.

He lets out this adorable little breathy keen when his ass meets Johnny’s thighs, slumping forwards just a bit. His chin hits his sternum as he catches his breath, eyes blinking hard to reacquaint himself with the worldview from his new perch.

Johnny grins, petting over his flank. “You good, baby?”

“Always,” comes the smug response after a moment. He wiggles his hips a little— whether he’s testing the new position or just teasing is unclear—and Johnny’s hands dart to Mark’s waist to keep him still. “Now don’t move.”

He’s unfairly attractive like this, Johnny ponders, as Mark reaches up to comb his sweaty hair off his own forehead, lopsided grin aimed down at Johnny. Despite the rise of his arm, the hem of Johnny’s jersey doesn’t lift up far enough to see Mark’s hips, instead barely grazing his upper thigh before falling back once Mark relaxes his reach. That’s how much bigger Johnny is than Mark.

Johnny’s brain promptly stops working. 

It’s not like he’d been unaware of it before—in fact, he loves trapping Mark between him and the mattress, covering him completely as he drives into him, slow and deep until Mark is crying. But seeing it like this, displayed on a metaphorical—and weirdly literal—pedestal in front of him like this, on top of him like this, is a completely different ballpark.

Mark follows his gaze down to where he’s burning holes into the tops of his thighs, and gets this downright terrifying look in his eye. Johnny has to suppress the shiver that threatens to shimmy down his spine because he knows that Mark would both feel it and make fun of him for it. Instead, he puts his mind to taking Mark’s rapidly-growing ego down a few pegs.

Johnny cants his hips up into Mark’s tight heat, and Mark buckles on top of him, folding over vertebra by vertebra until his forehead is nearly resting on Johnny’s sternum. A delectable little whine is muffled between Johnny’s chest and Mark’s red-bitten lips, but not muffled enough to stop Johnny from clapping a hand over Mark’s mouth, reaching the other around to stroke Mark’s lower back to placate him.

Only once he’s sure that Mark is quiet again does he remove his hand, receiving an antagonistic lick across the palm as he draws it away. He deliberately wipes it down Mark’s arm, receiving an unhappy grunt in response.

“That’s disgusting,” Mark comments, lifting his head enough to meet Johnny’s eyes.

“You were being too loud,” he fires back. “And it’s not like you didn't like it, or anything.”

“And I wouldn’t have been if you’d just stayed still—” Mark punctuates the word with a roll of his hips that has Johnny hissing— “like I’d told you to. The whole reason I’m doing this is so you don’t have to do any work.” He completely glosses over the comment about him liking it, and it makes the pit of Johnny’s stomach burn with satisfaction.

“I didn’t exactly hear you complaining,” Johnny teases, fingers dancing down Mark’s spine, dipping down past the cleft of his ass until they’re pressing at where he’s buried balls-deep.

“John,” Mark starts, voice pitched low. He smacks Johnny’s hands away and sits up, eyes flashing with something borderline dangerous. It’s stupidly hot. Johnny feels himself twitch inside Mark. 

“Yes, dear?”

“So help me I will leave you like this if you don’t behave.”

On any other day, Johnny would push that irritation a step or three further just to see what Mark would do—what would make him break. He’d poke and prod at all of those sore areas until the outer shell of confidence cracks and he’s left with something raw and bare: Mark in his most simple, stripped-down form.

But today is not the day to do that, and Johnny’s content to let Mark take the reins this time. Johnny relaxes back into the mattress, folding one arm behind his head while the other one finds purchase underneath the jersey on Mark’s soft waist.

“Yes, your majesty.”

Mark takes to the mock title with an eager sort of abandon that Johnny didn’t expect. Whereas he’d been prepared for a glare or another snarky reply, he instead receives the glorious image of Mark lifting himself up with nothing but the strength of his thighs and seating himself back down smoothly on the throne he’s made of Johnny’s cock like he’s made for it.

And maybe he was made for it, because to Johnny’s Mark-addled brain, there’s no other explanation as to why Mark fits so perfectly in his lap, around his cock, between his legs, under his hands. His body is perfectly curated for Johnny, and not a day goes by where Johnny doesn’t try to make it very known how grateful he is for it.

Mark like this, settling into a steady rhythm as he rides Johnny into the sheets, is a better prize than the tournament champion trophy that’s currently sitting in the backseat of his car, and he tells Mark this through uneven words.

Mark makes a face at that, but his hips never stutter, and Johnny can feel him clench and bear down just a touch harder. “That’s a little objectifying, isn’t it?”

“You like it,” Johnny rebukes; it’s not a question.

He knows that Mark can’t deny that without straight up lying. Mark instead settles for a little, noncommittal hum as he swivels his hips. Gritting his teeth against an embarrassing groan that threatens to sneak through his defenses, Johnny takes the hand from under his head and grips the flesh of Mark’s thigh, grip strained and bone-colored.

“Mark…” The name comes out a little garbled, a little distorted from that saliva that’s been building up in his mouth. The desire to just pluck Mark off of him, toss him to the sheets, and suck him off until he’s writhing for release is something near overwhelming, but that heavy, exhaustive ache in every muscle fiber wins out in the end. Johnny swallows hard and tries again. “Mark.”

“What?” Mark snaps, a little huffy that Johnny keeps interrupting his concentration. He pauses for a moment to adjust his stance, then starts up riding him anew in a way that catches Johnny off-guard.

Johnny doesn’t even know why he called Mark’s name, if he’s being honest. If there was a reason at all in the first place, all thoughts of it have left his mind completely at the periodic weight of Mark’s ass against his pelvis.

“I love you,” he manages, because no matter how much Johnny may think he’s whittling Mark down to his most bare form during sex, Johnny’s the one who willingly gives his heart over in bed every time. “I love you, I love you, I love—”

He tilts his hips as he sits up to press kisses to Mark’s collarbone, biting over the bruises that have gone unbothered for long enough to heal into greens and yellows against Mark’s golden skin. Mark cries out at the new angle, hands finding purchase on Johnny’s shoulders as he continues to impale himself again and again with renewed vigor. He looks so pretty like this on top of Johnny, jaw slack in pleasure and eyes glossy.

“John, mmm… love you— fuck, ’m close, love you too.” The words spill over his lips one at a time, individually punched out of his chest by every slide downward. His head is tossed back, torso curved into Johnny’s, fingertips now digging into Johnny’s thighs to keep that same angle and ride him to completion.

Johnny reaches under the jersey, which is now slipping off of one sweat-slicked shoulder, and wraps a hand around Mark’s cock. “That’s it, c’mon, you’re so close.”

Mark jerks unsteadily, nearly toppling off of Johnny at the peak of his crescendo, unsure of whether to buck up into the tight circle of Johnny’s hand or keep the same bruising stimulation against his prostate that got him so close. He’s too far gone at this point to make that choice, so Johnny steps up for the first real time that night and makes it for him.

Crumpling the jersey into one hand, he shoves the hem of it up Mark’s chest so he has clear access to Mark’s dick: curved prettily, turned a heady pink, and leaking profusely. He swipes a thumb over the head and sets a brutal pace that makes his arm burn—a cruel reminder that he has conditioning in just a handful of hours—but it makes Mark keen in a way that makes it all worth it.

Mark has given up on bouncing, instead opting to circle his hips while fully seated, grinding down with as much force as his small body can muster—which is a surprising amount; Johnny needs to stop forgetting about that. 

“Johnny, ’m right there, gonna come, gonna oh—” Mark cuts himself off with a full-bodied gasp. He comes silently, as he usually does, shaking as Johnny works him through it, milking him of everything he has and just a little bit more until Mark weakly swats at his hand, overwhelming pleasure bordering on unpleasant pain.

“Good?” Johnny backs off, breathless. The jersey falls back down into place as Mark cracks an eye open just in time to see Johnny licking Mark’s come straight off of his fingers.

“Great,” he wheezes, voice terribly unsteady as his eyes follow each lap of Johnny’s tongue. He shifts his hips a bit, then frowns. “You’re still hard.”

“An astute observation, Markles. Would you like an award—”

Mark smacks his bicep weakly. “Well, I was going to ask if you wanted me to suck you off, but now…” He trails off teasingly because both of them know he’s going to do it anyway and this is just a formality that he loves Johnny playing straight into.

Johnny laughs, leaning forward to pull Mark into a lingering kiss, the taste of Mark now shared between their tongues. He pulls back and puts on his best smile, batting his eyes, hands clasped together in front of him. “Please, Markie? Would you suck me off?”

“Now that—” Mark wrinkles his nose— “was disgusting. Absolutely terrible. Completely unacceptable. Never ever do that again or so help me this will be the last time my mouth ever touches your dick, got it?”

“Sir, yes, sir.” Johnny gives him a mock salute that fails somewhere in the middle once Mark lifts himself off of Johnny’s cock. It makes them both hiss, but for very different reasons.

Mark handles Johnny’s aching legs around to hang over the edge of the bed, then slips down to the floor to kneel between them, barely taking a moment to strip the condom off before swallowing him down.

A string of shameless expletives leaves Johnny’s mouth, his clean hand winding its way into Mark’s hair as an anchor point. Without it, he’s sure he’d be floating far away by now. Johnny might bother to be a bit more embarrassed with how close he gets this fast, given that he likes to pride himself on stamina, but given that he’d gone nearly two weeks without getting his dick wet because both he and Mark have been far too busy, he’ll give himself a break this once.

Only once in the entire operation does Mark pull off, and it’s only for a moment once Johnny’s getting devastatingly close, to peek up at him with those gorgeous, wide eyes of his to ask:

“Dude, can you come in my mouth?”

If there’s anyone in this world who deserves a prize for emotional whiplash, it’s Mark Lee, Johnny decides, still reeling. He’s jarringly adorable like this: tongue lolling out of his mouth just barely, hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth, all while still sloppily fisting his dick. Who is Johnny to say no to such a pretty request like that, anyway?

“Yeah, fuck, yeah let’s do that.”

The way Mark lights up at the confirmation is a little despicable. He sits up straighter on his knees, pretty mouth parted and tongue sticking out while he jerks Johnny off.

“Can’t wait to taste your come again,” he pants, “I’ve missed it.”

And that does Johnny in right then and there, barely able to squeak a warning out before he can feel himself coming. Mark manages to close his eyes just in time as Johnny tightens his hand in his hair and loses himself in the onslaught of pleasure that crashes over his system.

By the time he can see straight again, somehow, miraculously, every drop of come has somehow made it between Mark’s parted lips and onto his awaiting tongue. When Johnny’s spent and soft, Mark lets him go and smacks his lips, a little dazed but clearly content.

“Is there anything on my face?” he asks.

Johnny, still breathless, shakes his head, running a thumb along the sharp line of Mark’s cheek.

“Nice!” A boyish grin rolls its way across the line of Mark’s mouth as he rests his head on Johnny’s thigh. “Nothing but net!”

Johnny blinks hard for a moment as the words sink in. Then, with a lack of anything else to do, he sighs and flops backward on the bed, releasing his hold on Mark’s hair. 

“I’m in love with an absolute fucking idiot,” he bemoans into the crook of his elbow. Mark may be one of the smartest people he knows, despite being a few years younger, but he’s also a complete dumbass and oh Johnny adores him so much because he’s Johnny’s dumbass.

“But, hyung,” Mark pipes up, poking at Johnny’s kneecap to get his attention, “did I use the term right? I know you explained it to me last time, but—”

“Yes, you used it right just…” Johnny runs a hand across his face. “Never use it in this context ever again, kapeesh?”

“Why?” It’s almost painful how genuinely curious Mark is.

“I might pop a boner next time one of the boys yells that, that’s why.”

“Aw.” Mark pouts. “Would that really be so bad?”

“I’m going to strangle you one of these days I swear. You’re an absolute menace to society. A threat to the public. We should keep you locked up.”

“Ooh, kinky.”

Johnny whacks him over the head. “No.”

“Okay, okay, sorry,” Mark giggles, clearly several miles outside the radius of really being sorry. “But I used it right! Aren’t you at least a tiny bit proud?”

Sadly, Johnny is, and he tells Mark so with a beleaguered sigh. Mark wiggles a little happy victory dance there on the floor before crawling up on top of Johnny to press a kiss to his mouth, which he gladly welcomes despite the aftertaste of Johnny’s own pleasure still lingering on his tongue.

“Mmm, you need to brush your teeth before you go to bed, otherwise I’m not gonna kiss you in the morning.” He brushes his nose against Mark’s gently, voice soft and low.

“Can I shower with you at least?”

“No funny business,” Johnny warns, but lets Mark tug him up and into the ensuite anyway. “You just use me for my bathroom, don’t you?” he asks, pressing a kiss to the hickey he’d left on the hinge of his jaw. It’s bright red, and Johnny might feel a little bad about leaving it if he didn’t know how much Mark liked it.

Mark shrugs, looking both entirely guilty and entirely unbothered about being guilty when he says, “Maybe.” He reaches into the glass stall of the shower and turns it on before immediately jumping back into Johnny’s chest so he doesn’t get hit with the cold spray.

“You can’t shower in my jersey, man,” Johnny urges fondly, tugging at Mark’s arms to raise them. “Let’s get this off you, yeah?”

But Mark stands frozen. “Uh, Johnny?”

“What’s up?”

“We got cum on your jersey, dude.”

“What?”

 

🏀

 

Johnny meets Mark in the center of the cement court as it’s nearing dusk, the sun staining the world with pinks and oranges that look like something straight out of a Bob Ross painting. Absently, he wishes he had his camera with him.

Mark has a basketball in his hands and a cap pulled low over his eyes as he focuses on trying to dribble. He’s not particularly good yet, but he’s improved a lot from where he started and he’s miles better at this than Johnny is at handling a puck, so he’ll try to refrain from saying anything too detrimental to Mark’s ego.

“Hey, baby,” he calls, stepping onto the court. He pulls his own hat off for long enough to run a hand through his hair before securing it on his head again, backwards as always.

“Yo!” Mark perks up and immediately gives up on trying to dribble. “How was practice?”

A shrug. “Same old, same old.”

Mark winces a little bit before leaning in conspiratorially. “Did they say anything about the jersey?” he whispers, a little nervous.

“They just asked me if I jerked off in my uniform,” Johnny snorts, waving him off. “Hansol was totally geared up to shame me for a second there, too.”

“But…?” Mark prompts, correctly sensing that there’s more to it.

“I explained to them that I was fucking my loving boyfriend, and he was the one wearing it and it’s actually his come on it. Not mine. So joke’s on them because I got laid.” Johnny punctuates each reference to Mark with a poke to his shoulder until Mark whacks his finger away.

“You’re out to your team?” Mark doesn’t sound incredulous like Johnny expected, just more curious than anything else.

“If they didn’t guess before, I am now.” Johnny shrugs. “They were all chill about it. Asked who the lucky guy was and all that jazz.”

“Oh, sick, bro!” Mark offers a fist bump that Johnny enthusiastically returns. “What do you wanna do tonight?”

“I was thinking of thanking you for all the work you did the other night,” Johnny starts, slipping an arm around Mark’s waist to pull him close, close enough that he can both hear and feel Mark’s breath hitch at the implication.

“Oh yeah?” Mark challenges.

Johnny hums an affirmative. “Then we can watch shitty action movies until we fall asleep.”

“Sounds great, but only if Tokyo Drift is in the lineup. I’ve had a hankering for young Sung Kang lately.

“Square deal.”

“Good.” Mark reaches up for a kiss, but Johnny pulls away, grinning. Mark pouts. “What? Don’t start teasing me already…”

“No kisses until you can make a free throw.”

“What? Johnny, come on,” he whines. “I’ll never get to kiss you again.”

“You said you’ve been practicing,” Johnny singsongs.

Mark purses his lips and pulls away, taking the ball out from where he’d tucked it under his arm to bounce it a few times. He walks over to stand in front of the hoop, lining himself up. “This is the right line, yeah?”

Johnny nods, shooting him an encouraging thumbs up before crossing his arms to scrutinize.

Mark’s stance is all wrong, and his wrist is bent at a weird angle, and the ball arcs a little too high in the air, but against all odds, the ball sinks through the rim and past the net with a definitive whoosh. By the power of sheer luck and nothing else, Mark made the damn shot on his first try.

He looks a little disbelieving for a moment, blinking slowly at where the ball is now rolling across the court. Then he jumps in celebration, pumping a fist up in the air excitedly.

“Yo, yo, dude, did you see that? I didn’t think I was gonna make it because I think I threw it weird, but I got it anyway!” He’s bubbling over with excitement, and it’s downright impossible for it to not be contagious.

Mark skips over to Johnny, giggling, and flings his arms around his neck. He presses up onto his tiptoes and leans in, but the bill of his hat whacks Johnny’s in the forehead. Before he can mumble out apologies, Johnny spins Mark’s hat around so the bill is over the back of his neck, and pulls him in again.

This time, their lips meet successfully, and they kiss right there in the middle of the park as the sun washes them in rosy hues, the quickly-disappearing orange of the sun just nipping at their heels now.

Johnny, in his most humble opinion, believes that nothing could ever be more perfect.