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bise de glace

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Mark has never been good at playing the odds.

He’s got a pocket pair of jacks, a third on the board, a threat hanging over his head (probability states that he’s probably got the worst hand out of himself, the dealer, and the blonde sitting across the table from him), and his boyfriend’s hand in his lap, gently teasing him with the idea of jerking him off at the table with every ginger pass of his fingertip across the ever-tightening fabric of the front of Mark’s jeans.

Yuta is smarter than Mark is, it seems. He’d folded without even a single ante, sacrificing a small blind. An empty hand is better to feel up Mark with, he supposes. The smooth edge of his nail crests the gently aching head of Mark’s dick through his pants.

The air is acrid with cigarette smoke, and Mark’s two complimentary drinks down, and there’s something about Yuta messing with him that has him feeling…

Well. Bold.

Said blonde across the table is watching him with a smirk dragging across her painted mouth, so slowly, so deliberately that she’s got to be hiding something. Like, it wouldn’t make sense otherwise. The way her face contorts as she watches Mark consider his options is just downright fuckin’ unnatural. Uncanny valley type shit.

Yuta leans over to whisper in his ear, but Mark holds up a hand to stop him and, in the process, leans in to mask the way his hips cant up, toward Yuta’s waiting fingers. He wants to get out of here. He wants to win whatever money he’s going to win, and get his brains fucked out as celebration. His skin is on fire with the need to escape the bustling casino floor. Already he’s trying to work out, in his busy head, the best route to the elevator so they can get back up to their suite.

“You have thirty seconds,” says the dealer, obviously unamused, judging by the set of his brow. He must be tired of waiting on Mark’s indecision. Mark can’t say he blames the guy, but he’s been a good tipper all night, doesn’t know why he should

“Right, uh,” and here Mark stalls. His odds aren’t great and he knows it but they’ve got to be better than the girl who must’ve called time on him. Powerplay. He rolls his eyes, his shoulders, and tosses a handful of carefully counted chips in front of him. “Call.”

Thank God there’s one more card left to come out. The river hits, and it’s a fourth jack. He hates that kind of luck, because he hates it when it belongs to others, but then— everyone’s like that. There’s no way he’s going to get beat, now.

She bets. He raises three times her bet. She calls in a snap. It’s all over.

The dealer had three of a kind, too, matching with the eight sitting between Mark’s two jacks. The weird woman staring at him from across the table reveals the missing pieces of a straight otherwise left across the board, which uses the same cards Mark and the dealer had been using.

He can’t help that he erupts with a victorious cheer, hands held over his head. Even Yuta forgets himself, just for a moment, just long enough to pick Mark up around the waist and sort of wave him around like a ragdoll of a trophy. Mark would probably admit to being turned on by the manhandling if it wouldn’t get him put on some kinda list, what with the way that Yuta’s been waiting to get hands or mouth or whatever on his dick all night.

“Let’s cash out,” Mark says, sensibly, because he’s the sensible one of the two of them. And Yuta freckles his cheek with kisses, because he’s the romantic, totally ignores the way Mark lifts his shoulder, bashful beyond measure.


They don’t fuck when they get back up to the room for a shower and a change of clothes, namely because Yuta is visibly dizzy on the adrenaline of someone else’s win, and complaining about being hungry. They get kinda close in the shower they share, though, Yuta being keen on touching Mark’s ass whenever he gets the chance; the only thing that keeps Mark’s dick from responding in a way that might be considered ‘untoward’ is the fact that this stomach, too, is rumbling for something he hasn’t had in awhile. He does let Yuta wash his back, though, and feels the gentle, relaxed stretch of his own spine under Yuta’s careful fingers. In return he scrubs violet shampoo into Yuta’s bleached hair, and kisses the spot between his collarbones. It’s a promise, for later. They’re both really good at both making and keeping promises, despite not being super good at delivering them in anything vaguely resembling a timely manner.

They don’t fuck in the restaurant they end up going to, either, although Mark’s got an idea or two about that while they dine on good sushi and drink to their heart’s content. He keeps nudging at Yuta’s knee with his own, exchanging sideways glances with him. He knows too well that Yuta is super into the way Mark keeps ordering more for them -- more alcohol, more food, more attention. Like he’s in command of something. Maybe he is, because when he accidentally-on-purpose brushes the heel of his palm against Yuta’s lap, he feels a certain significant stirring there that makes his own cheeks heat up.

Fuck his boyfriend, being so hot. Literally. Fuck him. (Mark’s gonna try all night if he has to, but this game of push-and-pull that they play, more often than not, thrills him in a way that flashing lights and card games can’t.)

Eventually, though, they’re out of room in their stomachs and Yuta stretches, catlike, with his arms suspended above his head. “Let’s go on a walk, Markie,” he says, too casually, gaze caught on the soft edge of Mark’s own lazy stare.

He can’t say he disagrees. His legs are cramping from the amount of not-moving he’s been doing tonight, and his knee has started to shake under the table.

One would think that the strip would be less crowded when the clock strikes later, but it doesn’t. If anything, it’s even more crowded, bodies upon bodies upon bodies. Mark might be nervous without space to move around, but as they patrol the perimeter of a hugely fancy church, Yuta slips his hand into Mark’s. He tucks his cheek cutely onto Mark’s shoulder, even as they’re moving.

It’s precious, and Mark’s heart is at ease.

“You ever think about getting married?” asks Yuta, in that way of his that’s too practised, like he’s been thinking about it for days without saying anything. “I mean. Not to me necessarily. Just. In general.”

This isn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation, although it is the first time with the valiant sounds of some people they don’t know having a fistfight about fifty feet away. Mark watches absently as the police break up the kerfuffle. “Yeah,” he says, almost dreamy as his eyes flicker up to the lights advertising a chapel. “All the time.” But only when I’m with you. It goes without saying, he thinks. But he doesn’t know for sure. Maybe he should say it? He tucks the words behind his teeth, for later. “You’re not just asking because Donghyuck got married, right?”

“No,” and here Yuta lifts his head to peer down into Mark’s face, the bridge of his nose wrinkling up. “No, it doesn’t have anything to do with your friend. I just… I don’t know. We’re good together. I think about spending forever with you all the time.”

Mark couldn’t deny that if he tried, is flooded with memories of times in which he’d been sure they’d end up breaking up over one dumb thing his runaway mouth had said only for them to become stronger through miscommunication.

He squeezes Yuta’s hand in his own, his thumb dragging along the soft skin of Yuta’s inner wrist. “We’re good together,” he agrees. “We could spend forever together, yeah.”

They talk about everything and nothing, after that, namely gossip about how Donghyuck’s husband’s friend had made heart eyes at Renjun all through lunch and not paid anyone else a lick of attention. “It must be nice,” jokes Yuta, “to have someone that pays that much attention to you.” It earns him an affectionate punch to the side, but he laughs all the while anyway. “No, but really, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Renjun that cool about it. He’s more powerful than he knows.”

Mark nods his agreement, tottering a little as he reaches the berm, the pavement giving way beneath him. “He’s gotten more confident since he broke up with Jaemin.”

“Wait, they broke up?”

“Yeah, you didn’t know?” Mark laughs, tugging at Yuta’s wrist like he should have gleaned this somehow. “There’s a reason it’s me, you, and Donghyuck on this trip, instead of him.”

“I’m glad it’s us,” Yuta says, actively refraining from saying aloud what they’re both thinking, which is thank God Jaemin and Renjun broke up.

They eventually stop, Yuta complaining of a stomach cramp, and lean against concrete railing. Mark takes a couple calming breaths. He watches the way the fountains pump endlessly into the air. He lets Yuta hook a pinky around his own as they clutch at the barricade. “You’re always touching me,” Mark says, cheeks pink.

Yuta hums out assent. He’s got something in his head, and Mark knows it, but it’s better not to ask. He’ll say what he says in his own time.

For now, they bask in the sound of water spilling unto itself. Mark hasn’t been this content in a long while.

And then, Yuta, devil that he is, interrupts Mark’s thoughts, easy and free-flowing as they are, to ask: “Would you swim in the fountain with me?”

Mark stares down at the reflective pools, then into his boyfriend’s eyes. “Would I fucking what?” he asks, with a blink, a brief shake of his head, a modicum of disbelief that he normally lends to his friends’ antics. “Dude, you can’t be serious.”

“I’m so serious,” says Yuta, inching closer, until their shoulders touch and they can exchange breaths merely by speaking. The intensity of his eyes burns holes into Mark’s very spirit. “Swim in the fountain with me.”

“How deep is it?” Mark asks, more to himself than a question that needs answering.

“Not as deep as the pool you’re always going to.” Yuta pinches Mark’s side, making that high-pitched noise that’s usually reserved for deep appreciation of Mark’s body and everything that entails. “Please, baby? Please? I’ve been thinking about this all night. I want to make this memorable for both of us.”

It’s well-known in his friend circle how whipped Mark is for Yuta’s begging, the way in which his bottom lip sticks out almost cutely, if his intentions weren’t so evil. “Won’t we get in trouble?” This he says with a huff of a laugh, not sure if he’s trying to discourage the line of thinking that will lead to them soaking wet and trying to drag themselves out of a pool. He should know better, should know that he’s only adding fuel to the fire in Yuta’s eyes. “I mean. Should we be getting in trouble on my friend’s graduation vacation?”

“I think we’ll be okay,” mumbles Yuta as he leans in for a kiss on the mouth, one that Mark knows will be bruising. His mouth can take it. His ego can’t. He catches Yuta at the last minute, hands cupped around his cheeks, earning himself a pout. Unfair. He’s weak to the pout. “Please?” Yuta tries again, hands fitting around the slim bones and tendons of Mark’s wrist.

“Yeah, but,” and here Mark pauses, drags his tongue over his lips, ignoring the almost homing beacon-like way in which Yuta’s eyes dart down to the shape of Mark’s mouth. “Only if you promise me something.”

“Anything,” Yuta says, breathless, leaning in for the kiss. Mark lets him take it this time, their mouths crushing together a split-second before their tongues tangle almost inappropriately. Yuta tastes of expensive dinner and eagerness. He is sunshine as a person. Mark would do anything for him. It’s quick, messy, hot—Mark’s favourite.

Eventually they part. Mark tips his head down a bit, peeks up at Yuta from beneath the thick line of his lashes. “Marry me after this.”

“Yeah?” Yuta’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, face open, eyes wide, smiling from ear to ear. He flings his arms around Mark’s neck and drags him into a hug that leans sideways, almost drunken when they tip against the railing. “Yeah. I’ll marry you any day, Mark Lee.” He dusts the side of Mark’s neck with kisses, and it’s almost enough to dissuade the image of falling face-first into the water below.


“Let’s do it, then,” says Mark after a long pause, his arms around Yuta’s waist unwinding. He hates to let go. They hold hands upon the railing, peering over the edge in tandem.

“Ready?” asks Yuta.


They exchange a quick peck, a promise full of meaning, and then like synchronised swimmers fling themselves into the fountain and the cold, cold water below.

The first thing he notices is that he expected it to be deeper; he’s only chest high when his feet touch the bottom, and he’s standing straight up. Yuta splashes in not a moment later, directly beside him. He starts swimming, his backstroke impeccable, but Mark can’t do much of anything, seeing as his muscles seize up almost as soon as he breaches the water’s surface . Instead of moving, he lets out an uncharacteristically high-pitched scream that pierces through the inane background chatter of the strip. He wraps his arms around himself, trying to ward off the cold that’s soaked through his clothes. Not that he can. Not that he trusts himself to do anything except watch Yuta disappear against the brightly lit fountains.

“C’mon, baby,” he teases, a dozen strokes away if he’s a mile. “You wanted to go swimming, right?”

And fuck, but he did, because Mark Lee would do anything if Yuta asked nicely enough, if he looked at Mark the way he always does. He’s a sucker like that, born and bred and made this way by the subtle aching of his heart whenever Yuta so much as breathes his name.

As he butterflies his way across the water, it occurs to him that he is technically kind of engaged right now, as of a couple seconds ago, which is. Weird. Nice, but weird. He’d never thought himself marriageable in the first place, let alone to the most smoking-hot guy he’s ever met in his entire life, whose hair creases prettily when he wears it up in a ponytail, and who challenges him to read books, and who fucks like a machine when they’ve got the time–a whole weekend’s worth of it, anyhow, leaving Mark sore and aching and empty when it’s all done and Yuta’s cooing little endearments into his hair.

“You really want to marry me?” Mark bobs at the surface of the water.

The shouting comes from thirty feet behind. There are uniformed officers shining their high-beam flashlights directly into Yuta’s eyes, making him flinch away, cover his face with the backs of his hands. This is the end, and while it isn’t exactly Bonnie-and-fucking-Clyde of them to end up like this, Yuta’s face is open wide, and he laughs like nothing has ever been this funny before in his entire life.

“Baby, I’d do anything for you,” he says, and crosses the distance between them, a short couple of strokes but the world apart when there are cops watching them. He takes Mark’s face in his hands and kisses him, bruising, biting blood from Mark’s bottom lip.


“So I have a record, now,” says Mark, several hours and one very cold holding cell later. He can’t believe he’s done this. Can’t believe his ears are still somehow full of fountain water and ringing with the constant sound of incoming arrestees and conversations he wishes he could unhear. Can’t believe he spent a lot of his third night in Vegas barefoot sprawled across a holding cell floor. Can’t believe his clothes haven’t dried despite the fact that he hasn’t been wearing them since they’d decided to pat him down. His skin smells like cheap laundry soap, his skin is coated in a grime he isn’t sure even the hottest of showers can wash off, and he wants so badly to get back to the hotel room, to wear something different, to fucking sleep. His brief period with cellies had never made him more grateful that he had friends on this trip rather than complete strangers.

Yuta, who had waited on him outside the jail like the good probably-fiancé he is, fits his arm around Mark’s waist. “Yeah, that’s kind of hot?” he says, tipping to one side so he can plant a kiss to the apple of Mark’s cheek. How he manages to pretzel himself to shower Mark in affection every single time remains a mystery. “Who got us out? Do you know phone numbers?”

“Just one,” mumbles Mark, colouring red.

They make their way down the street like this, until they spot a decidedly expensive-looking car. Yuta gives Mark a Look, a question he doesn’t ask, and he opens his mouth to speak when the tinted window rolls down.

“Hey, dumbass,” shouts Donghyuck, leaning over the edge of the window, his hands cupped over his mouth. “Didn’t I tell you not to get arrested while you were here?”

“You didn’t specify,” says Mark with a gentle quirk of his mouth. He approaches the car, keenly aware that given where he just came from and the number of people in the holding cell who had been kind enough to tell him exactly why not to become a high-class—or low class, for that matter—escort, he probably looks very, very suspicious. Leave it to him to worry about whether the cops thought they should have picked him up on more than just ‘criminal mischief’. “Where did you get the money to bail us out?”

The window cracks further, revealing a very irritated-looking Doyoung in the driver’s seat. “There was no bail,” he clarifies, raising an eyebrow. He doesn’t say more than that. Mark thinks about how he would probably find that hot, if he didn’t only have eyes for one blond punk who hooks him in by stuffing a hand in the back pocket of his jeans. “Get in, we’re going for breakfast, since you heathens can’t stay out of the fucking fountain long enough to let us live.”

“What time is it?” asks Mark, peering up at the still-dark sky.

“‘Bout 5am.” Donghyuck smirks as the Yuta-and-Mark collective slide slimily into the backseat.

“You’re paying the cleaning fee on this rental,” Doyoung complains, tipping his head back against his headrest. “Nasty swamp monsters.”

“Is that a bad thing?” asks Yuta, amusement curling around the edges of his words. “The time, I mean. Obviously it’s my dream to be a swamp monster.”

Mark shifts uncomfortably when he realises that Yuta hasn’t moved his hand, hasn’t hooked into his seat belt, is still palming at the curve of Mark’s ass despite their current seating situation. When Mark gives him a Look, a question unspoken, Yuta just shrugs a shoulder like this is something that happens every day.

“Hey, I learned some things from my cellies,” he murmurs against Mark’s ear. “Wanna find out what they are later?”

“Please stop talking about jail,” mutters Mark, closing his eyes and letting Yuta nip at the shell of his ear affectionately. “I would really like to never talk about jail.”

“Only if you promise I get to suck you off later.” Yuta’s mouth hasn’t moved, his whispers against Mark’s ear shooting a shiver of promise all the way to his tiptoes.

“Can you two quit making out?” Donghyuck has, in the brief span of time that it’s taken Mark to stop paying attention, whipped all the way around. Mark is honestly a little impressed? He didn’t know spines could bend that way. “You’re ruining my honeymoon and Doyoung hyung’s one-night stand.”

“Oh, now you call me hyung.” Doyoung rolls his eyes. “We’re going for breakfast because I know for a fact they didn’t feed you, or if they did, you did the right thing and didn’t eat.”

“Why would that be the right thing?” asks Yuta. Mark doesn’t ask, how do you know for a fact? Namely because he doesn’t think he wants to know more about Doyoung at this juncture. “Oh, wait, does that mean it’s true about jail food backing you up?”

In the rearview, Mark catches sight of Doyoung’s prim line of a mouth, and figures it’s probably true. Again, he doesn’t know that he wants to know more. If Doyoung has been to jail, it’s probably for burning an apple pie or something.

“Where are we going to get breakfast at 5am?” Yuta presses.

“I know a place,” Donghyuck says. Funny. That sounds like his evil voice. He turns to Doyoung. “D’you think if I called Johnny he’d come meet up with us?”

“Depends on whether or not his phone is charged.”

“I plugged it in—”

“Can you guarantee he didn’t get up and take a big shit in the middle of the night?”

“I thought we were avoiding talking about taking shits,” Yuta protests, fitting his arm around Mark, who curls into his side, tipping his head back to flash those sparkly eyes he knows his boyfriend is so fond of.

Yuta turns, craning a bit, and leans down to dust a kiss along the softly-parted seam of Mark’s mouth. Later, he says, without saying a thing. The softness of his gaze is betrayed by the mischievous curl at the left corner of his mouth.

Mark wonders when later is, if it’ll be sooner than he anticipates.


Breakfast, conveniently located in the dining room of the graduation party’s hotel, should be quiet, seeing as the clock has ticked away to 6am instead of 5. The sleepy business people in their well-pressed suits and dress shirts remind Mark of lunch the day before, of Johnny and Doyoung overdressed by comparison to the California squad (as he’s come to think of it), and it’s...weirdly comforting? Not that he’ll say that out loud. So, too, is Doyoung and Donghyuck pretending they don’t like spending time together.

“Hey, do we owe you for the bail?” Mark asks, mouth half-full of continental eggs. It’s a good break in the banter, because Doyoung and Donghyuck had just been acting like either of them care about what they’re going to do today. Everyone at this table knows that Donghyuck is going to crawl into bed with his new husband, Doyoung included.

Doyoung finishes off the slice of French toast he’d been gumming his way through and officiously rattles off a number, tugging at the sleeve of his shirt. “I mean. If you can scrape it.”

“I won that in cards last night,” Mark confesses, looking a bit shy. “I left it in my room, though, for savings? I can go get it for you tonight. If,” and here Yuta gives him a sidelong look that speaks to the contrary, “I’m going to see you tonight.”

“Oh, yeah, are you gonna see Renjun again?” Yuta grins, all wide-eyed and wolfish, like he was in the room last night while Doyoung and Renjun presumably went at it.

“I’m not going to see anyone again if you don’t shut the fuck up and quit teasing me,” Doyoung says, prim all over again.

“Not my fault my best friend so kindly sent me the details of your hookup.” Donghyuck sniffs, sips at a cup of black, sweet coffee. Mark’s had a sip or two of his own and wonders how in the fuck Donghyuck manages to choke it down when the bitterness and the burn are overwhelming to Mark himself. “Pictures of the rugburn and everything.”

“Rugburn!!” Doyoung shrieks, drawing the eyes of literally everyone else in this dining room. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, rugburn—”

Yuta gently nudges Mark’s shoulder, very quietly puts down his cutlery, scoots away from the table. Of course, Mark follows suit–he’d follow Yuta into hell if offered the opportunity–and his retreat into the men’s room is soundtracked by the unintelligible debate coming from their table.

As soon as they’re in the door, Yuta flips like a switch and turns on his heel. He grabs Mark by the shoulders to press him up against the lacquered wood and kiss him for all he’s worth. Mark’s mouth is still sore from earlier, from how hard Yuta had bitten into him upon the moment of their imminent arrest, but he kisses Yuta anyway, hands tangling in the almost-white-blond of his hair. Yuta grabs Mark’s thin wrists and pins them above his head, giggling even when he bites down, playful and pretty. They whine into one another’s mouth, Mark from pain, Yuta from patience worn paper-thin, and start to rut together like horny fucking teenagers. For what it’s worth, Yuta always makes Mark feel this way, like he’s younger than he is, like he’s someone who’s worth lusting after, like he’s going to die if he isn’t touched.

This is just a remnant, he tells himself. Leftover horny energy from the card table last night, the emotional remains of the halfhearted edging he’d put himself through at Yuta’s hands for the entire night only to end up separated by concrete walls and handcuffs. Fuck the law, he thinks, tilting his head so that Yuta can bite a purple-and-red trail down the column of his neck, carefully avoiding the point where his pulse hammers beneath his skin.

Yuta’s hands find the hem of Mark’s shirt–still damp, but less, still clinging to the gently-sculpted contours of his sides, his hips–and explore everything that is his underneath. “You know I love you,” Yuta mumbles, muffled by the skin where Mark’s neck meets his shoulder. “You know I’d do anything for you, you know you’re so fucking hot literally all the time—want to eat you up, want to keep you like this, you’re so pretty—”

“Like you aren’t,” Mark shoots back, biting back a groan. He uses the little leverage afforded him by virtue of their position to push Yuta away, usher him into the bathroom stall, because God help them both if one or both of their friends has to pee in the middle of their stupid fucking arguments. “Like you aren’t the single most stunning fucking thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life, you jerk, you got me arrested—”

“Yeah, and you wanted to do it,” Yuta breathes, letting out a little ‘oof’ when Mark shoves him hard up against the bathroom stall’s brittle, polyurethane wall. The light of his hair looks pretty against the red, spray-painted surface. Mark shoves both his hands in it, drags Yuta close, kisses him hard enough that they’re both gently bleeding with the impact, and he moans when he tastes Yuta’s blood on the tip of his tongue. That makes Yuta huff out effort-laden laughter between kisses, running at the mouth like he always does when he’s stupidly fucking aroused and doesn’t have anything to do with all that energy. “You’re such a little fucking freak, you know that? I love that about you, god, love everything about you, Marky, you’re so cute, such a good boy, we’re gonna get married—”

Mark stops. He breathes. They’re going to get married. This is his future husband.

“You want me to suck you off?” Mark suggests, mouth quirking, because he is nothing if not evil, deep down. It’s why he and Yuta work so well together.

Yuta groans, and takes Mark by the shoulders, and pushes him down into the slightly-sticky tiled floor. His sweats come down in the descent, pooling around his knees, a soggy mass of fabric that will probably need to be sent to the hotel laundry room, if they ever see the inside of their room. Of course he isn’t wearing underwear. They’d planned to fuck around after dinner, hadn’t they, before Yuta’d gotten his bright idea.

Yuta traces his thumb against Mark’s lip when Mark gazes up at him; there’s a brief smear of blood on the pad of it when he pulls away to filter his fingers through Mark’s hair.

“You’re so fucking hot,” Mark mumbles, nuzzling at Yuta’s cock with the apple of his cheek. “Wanted you since last night, since you were grabbing me at the card table, since you teased me and never got me off—”

“I’ll get you off, baby,” Yuta promises. “I’ll do it. You wanna suck me off, though, don’t you? You’re a good boy?”

And fuck, is Mark Lee ever a good boy, especially when Yuta gazes down at him like he’s the only thing in the entire world, when he makes it seem as if everything around them has fallen away. He swallows his boyfriend–fiancé!!!–down with the ease of someone who’d done it a thousand times. (That’s a low-ball number if Mark’s ever thought one.) His cheeks stretch to accommodate and he wants so badly to choke, gag, depraved as hell when they’re in this restaurant bathroom, but Yuta shushes him.

Had he been whining? Mark doesn’t know. He works his tongue carefully along the underside of Yuta’s length, gusto doubling, tripling when Yuta traces the shape of his own cock head as it stretches the flesh of Mark’s cheek. He bobs his head carefully, letting Yuta babble as much as he wants.

“So good, baby,” he’s saying from some ephemeral place high above Mark’s head, “so fucking good, do whatever I want, I’ll do anything for you,” and he’s quickly unraveling. Clearly it hadn’t been just for Mark to put off whatever they were going to do. Mark quietly enjoys not being the only one made crazy by these games they’re always playing, the push-and-pull of it. Yuta’s hips cant forward, and Mark makes a surprised sound but lets it happen, throat easing to accommodate the tip of Yuta’s dick. There’s salt leaking down his throat already, he can taste it, and Mark moans around his mouthful, his own dick growing hard between his legs. Curse these jeans and the boxers he’d chosen to wear underneath them, clinging to his skin with chemically-clean fountain water. Curse his own lack of foresight because he is so fucking uncomfortable he wants to scream even with Yuta halfway down his fucking throat—

The bathroom door slams open, and they freeze, suspended mid-facefuck for a hilarious moment. Mark pops off Yuta’s dick as quietly as he can, ignoring the insistent throb between his legs and the intrusive urge to wrap his knees around Yuta’s leg and hump like a fucking dog. Yuta, for the record, would be super into that if they weren’t being threatened by the notion of their friends coming looking for them here. They’d deserve it, if Donghyuck gave them shit about this for the rest of their lives.

His mouth trails with drool at either corner as he holds his breath, hand coming up to cup his sore throat. Yuta peers down at him with narrowed eyes, fondness playing at the corners of his lips. He traces the swollen shape of Mark’s own mouth with a trembling fingertip, unaccustomed as he is to being interrupted by someone they don’t know, someone who wouldn’t find this as funny as their friends would.

Fortunately for them both, it’s a stranger, dress shoes unfamiliar when Mark peers beneath the stall door to see who their interloper is. They do their business at the urinal, and leave without washing their hands.

“In this economy?” asks Yuta, deadpan, staring in the direction of the door, judgment clear in the careful knit of his brow.

Mark almost chokes on his laughter, but instead takes a deep breath through flared nostrils and takes Yuta back in his mouth. The fact that Yuta’s laughter dies in his throat, that his hand fists in Mark’s hair, is a point of pride for Mark, the likes of which he cannot entirely explain. He keeps breathing, and lets Yuta fuck his mouth to his heart’s content, nose burying repeatedly in the slightly-wild thatch of hair at the base of his cock.

“You’re so good, Marky, baby, you’re so good,” purrs Yuta. “You’re getting so hard, do you want to touch yourself?”

Mark makes a noise of affirmation, but doesn’t stop what he’s doing, only gagging a little when Yuta’s hand slips from his crown to his nape to hold him in place.

“That’s too bad, isn’t it, baby boy, because what’s going to be left for me if you don’t be good and wait?”

In demonstration of his resolve Mark puts both hands on the curve of Yuta’s ass, fingers digging in and dimpling taut flesh. That only makes him go harder, until he’s throbbing against the muscle of Mark’s tongue laving at every inch of him it can reach.

“Close, baby,” Yuta grunts out, trying to keep it down–as fun as exhibitionism is, it’s one thing to think about getting caught and another to get caught a second time in the same 24 hours. “Close, want me to cum down your throat?”

As an answer, Mark squeezes hard at Yuta’s ass. Yes. There’s nothing more he’s wanted this morning than to feel Yuta spill hot down his throat. Yuta’s strokes become messy, mistimed, and to make up the difference Mark bobs his head, an imperfect rhythm but one that has Yuta sharply whispering his name and cutting through the wet noise of sucking cock—

When Yuta finally does cum, it’s with a mantra of “Marky, Mark, baby, baby boy, baby” pouring from his lips like money from a slot machine, and Mark knows for sure he’s hit the jackpot.

He’s still aching to be touched, though, and Yuta sighs quietly as he slumps against the stall wall, lets Mark stand up straight, fit arms around his waist. He loves to be held close, even when he’s got his clothes mostly on. He loves even more to lick his way into Mark’s mouth, taste the bare hint of his own flavour at the back of Mark’s tongue. They kiss like this a long while, lazy, Yuta sated and Mark impatient, worse yet by the minute.

Almost as if by accident, Yuta reaches around, grabs Mark’s pert ass and gives it a rigorous squeeze just to hear him whine.

“Wanna fuck you, baby,” Yuta whispers against Mark’s mouth. “Can we get upstairs without getting caught?”

Probably not, Mark’s mind predicts, but he nods, jaw sore, throat aching, Mark still not sure of the capability of his own voice after getting fucked like that. His dick aches, and he wants Yuta to take pity, but the thought of Yuta inside him after all that waiting…

“Yeah, let’s do it.”

They sneak from the bathroom, Mark’s hair a mess, his dick throbbing and bobbing between his legs, when they are, predictably, caught. Not by Donghyuck, which is a blessing in and of itself–Mark knows there’s only so much good-natured ribbing he can take when he’s horny out of his fucking mind–but rather by Doyoung.

“Hey, you don’t really have to worry about the whole ‘bail money’ thing,” he says, all but cornering them near the service desk. “It’s okay. I’ll probably just harass Johnny to pay me back if I really need it. He owes me one, after all the shit he’s put me through.” A little quirk plays itself across the corner of his mouth. “Maybe less than one. But still.”

And Mark still isn’t sure he wants to know more about Doyoung, but he doesn’t think he minds this dude. Or, at least, he wouldn’t if he could comfortably make it up to his and Yuta’s shared hotel room.

Yuta slips a hand into his, tapping his thumb along the outside of Mark’s wrist, a signal they’ve developed over their time together. Calm down. “Thanks, but we’d rather pay you back if we can.” He scruffs Mark in that moment, pinching at the sides of his neck with his free hand. “Hey, can you excuse us? Mark did actually eat the jail food and isn’t feeling super well.”

Doyoung gives them a suspicious glance, but nods, puts his hand on Mark’s shoulder. This should be comforting, Mark figures, but it’s actually kind of painful considering his entire body is begging for someone to relieve the pressure twitching heavy between his thighs, in whatever way they deem appropriate. Desperation looks like that, doesn’t it. “Feel better,” Doyoung says, softly, carefully, like someone treading around a snake with no intention to scare it. Funny: Mark never saw himself as the snake until just now.

“Yeah, thanks, you too,” Mark squeaks, letting Yuta drag him along, haul him bodily into the elevator. His sneakers skid on the polished tile as his feet try to keep up. He’s sure Doyoung can see a cartoonish cloud outline where the two of them had just been standing.

They’re staying on the fourteenth floor. That’s a hell of a long ride. Long enough that Yuta thinks it’s a good idea to back Mark into the corner of the elevator, their arms fitted around each other–Yuta’s around Mark’s waist, Mark’s around Yuta’s neck–and kiss him in that long, slow, sensual way typically reserved for their quieter nights in. He tastes of waiting, of wanting, of salt and earth.

Mark loves him.

He doesn’t love the cold of the metal elevator wall digging into his shoulderblades through the thin material of his shirt, sending shivers all through him and raising gooseflesh at his nape. So he leans into Yuta, lets himself be held, lets Yuta kiss the hinge of his jaw and the side of his neck and nibble at his earlobe. At this point it doesn’t matter if the doors ever ding open; he’s happy to lose himself here.

Of course, when they finally do open, Renjun is standing there, and Mark knows better than to talk to him. Yuta isn’t so lucky, when he jumps away like he hadn’t been two seconds from jumping Mark’s bones, probably in front of a camera.

“Hi,” he says quickly, almost nervously. Of all Mark’s friends, Yuta had been the most worried about making a good impression on this one, though it had been beside the point. That comes back in full force when Yuta offers a nervous wave. “We’re just going to bed, we had to—” He cuts off with a ‘hmmph’ when Mark grabs him by the waistband of his pants and drags him along.

He’s got the keycard in his wallet; while he fumbles with it Yuta watches Renjun step, zombie-like, into the elevator, ear tilted that direction. When it clicks shut, a metallic echo in the otherwise empty hallway, he sidles up behind Mark, arms around his shoulders, chin tucked into the crook of his neck. “What just happened?”

Mark snorts as he slides the key into the lock; it beeps and opens. “Don’t talk to Renjun before breakfast,” he says, a mantra held over from their year as roommates. “Are we going to fuck or are you going to worry about whether or not my friends like you?”

Yuta makes a noise like that’s a fair question at all. The door swings shut behind them both as they toddle, four-legged, into the room. With a groan Mark pulls away, shucks himself of his clothing, his shoes, all in one slow-frenzied task. It’s almost impressive. He ends up naked in a heap of limbs atop the untouched bed covers, staring up at the ceiling.

He’s so tired after the night he’s been through, he could fall asleep just like this, ass-naked and deeply unsatisfied.

Fortunately for him, Yuta isn’t far behind, half-hard and pressed neatly against the curve of Mark’s ass. It’s skin on skin when he fits his arms around Mark’s waist from behind, spooning him like he’s the only boy in the world. He leaves a smattering of kisses that grow hotter with each pass along Mark’s nape, nose brushing in the trimmed hair there almost tenderly. “Wanna make a mess of you again,” Yuta mumbles, hand traveling Mark’s shoulder, the soft inner of his elbow, the carved plane of his hip before reaching around him. His fingers make a dry circle around Mark’s leaking cock, give him a pump, slicking him up with his own precum, and Mark shudders back into Yuta’s arms.

He did not realise just how badly he needed Yuta to touch him.

Still, sleep is a threat, and Yuta has been with him long enough, knows his tendency to fall into its embrace at the most inconvenient of times, and whispers in Mark’s ear, “I want you to sleep, babe.”

They make quick work of it, because Mark is shameless and Yuta loves basking in that brazenness almost as much as he loves Mark himself. Mark ruts up into the taut circle of Yuta’s hand a few times, moaning Yuta’s name all the while. He only just manages to turn his head at the last minute to gasp out a swear word and seal his throbbing mouth to Yuta’s, heated at a simmer rather than the full burn they’d been just fourteen floors and a men’s bathroom ago. They both still taste of blood, but Mark can’t be bothered to care, licks the flakes of red from Yuta’s lips. It’s not five seconds later before he spills over the backs of Yuta’s knuckles, splatters upon the pristine white of the comforter, a guttural cry at his own crimson-flecked lips.

They’ll fuck proper, Mark knows as he comes, when they’ve had some rest. For now, though, the excitement of vacation in Vegas is too much for him, and black spots have already threatened his vision as he’d come.

He barely notices the give in the pillowtop mattress, a tell-tale sign of Yuta leaving to clean himself, if he does at all, if he doesn’t lick it from his fingers like the fucking sexy caveman he is. They’ll get the sheets cleaned when housekeeping comes along. Wouldn’t be the first time Mark had ever slept right after finishing, lying halfway in a tiny puddle of his own cum, and it wouldn’t be the last.

The last thing he hears as sleep grips him hard by the chest is Yuta’s voice rumbling a similarly sleepy “I love you so much, Mark Lee” directly in his ear.


Yuta is gone when Mark wakes up.

It’s disorienting, coming to after the escapades only to find the other side of the hotel bed cold and barely rumpled.

He snuggles into bed, wrapping his whole self around the pillow Yuta had left behind, untouched save a strand of platinum hair in the corner of the case. He’s so sleepy, so out-of-whack, he almost doesn’t notice the note scribbled on hotel stationery and tucked beneath the . He picks it up with numb hands, reads it a couple times before words are something he can fully comprehend.

Went to find you an engagement ring worth wearing, it says, I’ll be back soon. Love you always, future husband.

Mark’s grin stretches so hard it pains him. He’s never been great at playing the odds, but the odds are that he’ll see Yuta soon, and that he’s going to get the fucking of a lifetime, and that they very well might borrow Doyoung’s expensive rental car and take themselves through a drive-thru wedding chapel. That’s what matters–not a couple hours alone. He’s still sleepy; he curls around the pillow tighter and lets himself be lulled back to sleep by the soft rumbling of the air conditioning.