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在莽莽雪原中 等 一阵春风
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i hope you know you are loved! even if people don't express it like you wish they would! even if you're the most affectionate out of all of your friends. you are still loved and cherished and thought of even if people don't voice that to you. and i hope you have a good day
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The best part of being authentic is that there is no image to maintain. You will delight some and disturb others, and none of it will concern the truth of your being.
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had a DREAM my bff was IN LOVE with me i hate my LIFE
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tell me if the fluff i uploaded is cringe and we can forget all about it by morning
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*gently knocks* any summer mark thoughts lately…
where do i even begin
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my friend gave me a slice of pie that he made and then made me sniff his "favorite container in the house" (tupperware of bagged spices)
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home | mark lee
[fluff fluff fluff. room descriptions. cozycore. cross posed on ao3]
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There was something about your apartment that always made him sleep better. Mark never could put his finger on it.
Perhaps it’s the jade colored sheets that are always soft to the touch. Or the way your place always smelled suspiciously like vanilla, even without a candle in sight (he had found out later about things called wax warmers.) Maybe it’s the pile of books sitting on your nightstand, dog-eared in the middle of the foreword because you never could pay much attention when reading new genres.
Mark thinks about the way you decorate your walls. There are no vintage faces to leer at him. No contemporary faces either. You’ve got a calendar hung up by a magnetic board. Mark can make out his own handwriting: a note he left you not long after your five month anniversary. He marvels at the fact that you still have it there, untouched by your eraser like it’s something sacred, and not just a silly note to make you laugh.
There’s a picture of him taped to your bed frame, and it’s the sweetest idea in the world, Mark thinks, that you keep him so close to you. Along the walls you play with different textures, like embroidered quotes, hanging beads and fringe, photos he’s gifted you, and photos you’ve taken when you thought he wasn’t looking.
He thinks about the drawer in your dresser: his drawer, with his own dividers and his own deodorant, and his own clothes that smell like your laundry detergent. He thinks of the bright pink toothbrush settled beside your red one. He thinks of his shampoo sitting beside yours in the shower. Even though he doesn’t live here, you still make it home.
Thoughts like this overwhelm him when he fits his key into the lock. You gave it to him awhile back, almost too nonchalantly. Mark keeps it as safe as he can, unwilling to lose something so significant to him. Something that feels like a part of you.
And he never knows how to thank you enough. Even now, as he pushes the door open, grabs your mail on the way in and sets it on your table, he feels a little lost. The grocery bags feel almost pointless when he sets them on the counter.
He’s not a good cook — and he doesn’t pretend he is. So he got a kit prepared at the store, one you just stick in the oven and kind of hope for the best. He got wine that one of the workers told him would pair well with it, though he can’t be certain they knew what they were talking about. And for dessert, he got your favorite pastry from a bakery that’s always too far away for you to just drop in whenever you have a craving.
He wants to spoil you. He wants you to come home to something warm and good and safe.
Mark knows your schedule. He knows you like to shower as soon as you come home, because it soothes your bones and helps you prepare for the evening. So when you do come home, with the sweetest smile on your face, he ushers you into your bathroom and tells you to take your time.
When you return, soft in your sweatpants and old t-shirt, he can smell his body wash on you, like maybe you ran out of yours, or simply decided to wear his, but it fills him with pride. Like you’re a part of him. Like you want to be closer to him.
Mark is kissing you before he can stop himself. Just a soft peck on your head, and then your cheeks, and then your eyelids, chin, and nose for good measure. “You’re so lovely.”
You preen under his gaze, and Mark wonders why his opinion means anything at all to you. How he ended up with someone so gentle, he can’t begin to fathom.
You eat and sip the wine, and Mark tries not to be obvious in watching your reactions, ready to dial for pizza the moment you seem displeased. But you finish your plate and ask him where you can buy another kit just like it, because you liked the flavor he picked.
When he reveals the pastry, your squeal of excitement warrants a beam of joy to shoot through him. Making your day makes his, and watching you tear the pastry into two equal pieces to share with him makes him love you even more.
He washes the dishes, refuses to let you help. So you sit on the counter and tell him about your day. His hands are still wet with grape-scented suds when he wraps them around your waist and pulls you into him.
You’re sweet. You’re so sweet, so good. Your arms and legs wrap around him like you know he’d never do a thing to hurt you. Like you trust him to carry you.
Mark squeezes you until you begin to laugh. Then he’s carrying you to bed, dropping you on the blankets and smothering you with as many kisses as he can before you’re pushing him off, telling him to wash up so the two of you can cuddle.
Sometimes he holds you. Sometimes you hold him. Sometimes, like tonight, the two of you face each other, legs tangled and pinkies linked together. Mark nudges your nose with his. “I love you,” he says, even if it’s not even half of what he feels. Even if he could write essays expanding on and explaining why. The thing is, you know. You know, but you’re tired, and Mark knows when to rest in silence with you.
“I love you too,” your voice is soft with slumber, like you’re already falling, and Mark squeezes your pinky just a little tighter, a wordless promise between the two of you to keep this love, and home, forever.
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surface pressure | mark lee
[mark tries to relieve some stress. romance. interior decorating. alt version on ao3 is also mine]
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It’s not hard to notice that you’re stressed. Mark doesn’t need to be a superhero to notice the bags under your eyes, the tenseness of your shoulders, the way you always do things without being asked. Things that someone else should be doing.
You’ve confessed it to him before, in little fragments when you didn't think it was a huge deal like “My mom expected me to have the house cleaned by the time she got home from work, even though I had a job too.” and “I got sick of staring at my roommates’ dirty dishes so I just did them.”
Mark has always done his best to remind you that it’s not your job to save others from their own doing. But still, you insist, this fear pricking it’s way up your throat that you may be held responsible for the doing of others. And it’s not without reason: you’ve been held responsible before.
Now that the two of you finally have your own place, Mark has done his absolute best to lift the burden, but you’re so damn stubborn. By the time he returns home from his classes or his job, you already have the house clean, and his laundry washed, and for God’s sake you’ll even reorganize the kitchen if you're antsy enough.
This week has been interesting. You and Mark have been in the process of unpacking and decorating. After a Christmas bonus from your boss, you and Mark had purchased new decor for your shared space, so that the two of you could make it your own. See, even with your own money, you spend it partly on someone else.
Mark wants you to be selfish. But he knows there’s not a selfish bone inside of you, so he’s going to have to beat you at your own game.
The house is slightly cluttered with moving boxes, old decor, and the new decor you’ve just bought. Tomorrow is your first day off for the first time in a while, and you’ve casually mentioned to Mark that you’re going to spend it unpacking and cleaning the house.
Mark Lee is going to die before he lets that happen.
He waits until you’ve left for work, and then he’s turning on his favorite 90’s r&b playlist. He labels the boxes, takes his time between organizing what needs to go on shelves and what needs to be sent off for donation. He leaves the decor the two of you had bought in a tidy box on top of the coffee table, because he knows decorating is something you wouldn’t want him to do without you.
He vacuums the rugs, and refills the cat's food bowl. He cleans out the fridge and takes out the trash. There is an entire drawer of candles you’ve picked up, having liked the scents, so Mark picks up one he recalls liking and lights it, setting it on the center of the table. He straightens the placemats (he finds it adorable that you leave the table set every night, even when the two of you usually take your dinners to the couch.)
He wipes down the counter, using minimal products the way you like to. He cleans the toilet. He gathers all the trash in your shared bedroom and makes the bed. He folds the orange throw blanket you got him and sets it on the edge of the bed, so your cat can cuddle against it the way she likes.
When he’s sure you’re on your way home, he orders pizza. He turns on the television and sets your favorite show on pause. He’s so giddy and excited for you to get home, he thinks he could burst.
The house smells of garlic and vanilla when you walk in through the door. You pause in the doorway, bundled so sweetly in your scarf and jacket. You look at the lack of clutter and furrow your brows. “I thought– I thought you worked late today.”
“I took the day off.”
He rushes up to you and helps you take off your jacket, quick to hang it on the hook. Before you can take off your scarf, he grabs the frayed edges and pulls you close to him, so that your forehead presses to his.
You hum warmly. “You’re so sweet, Mark.”
Mark grins, flushed with praise. It's almost embarrassing, how much he likes pleasing you. And yet, he can't find it in himself to change. "I left the decor out so we could decorate tomorrow. I figured you’d rather spend your day off decorating than unpacking.”
Your eyes tear up. You look at the sleeves to see that he’s taken down everything you guys have decided to give away or get rid of. “Mark… You work so hard…”
“No,” Mark swiftly kisses your cheek. “You work hard. And you take on too much. I want you to start leaning on me more, okay? You’re not carrying this alone.”
You nod, shyness washing over you. When you wrap your arms around Mark’s middle, he can feel the tenseness leave your muscles. “Thank you so much.”
“Hush,” he orders. “No more thanking me. Don’t ever think you don’t deserve this, okay? I want to take care of our home. I want to take care of you.”
The two of you eat pizza, and while you watch the tv screen, Mark watches you.
The sweetness of your laugh. The way you munch on your food. Your hair and your clothes and the way you wipe your fingers on a napkin. “C’mere,” he says.
Selfish, he knows, but he interrupts your eating to draw you into his lap. Your weight atop his thighs grounds him like noticing else. He peers up at you, and he knows he’s got that look in his eyes that you always make fun of. You’ve often told him that he looks lovesick, and that’s exactly what he is. He tucks your hair back behind your ears so he can see your face. “You’re incredible. And I know you can do things by yourself, but you don’t have to, okay? Not with me.”
You nod, bowing your head to avert his gaze. “Yeah, I know.”
He holds your face, and rubs his thumb across your jaw. Your eyelids flutter closed. “I’m not fussing at you. Promise. I’m so proud of you, and I’ll be just as proud of you if you take time to rest.”
He pulls your face to his and kisses you sweetly, reveling in the softness of your mouth and the lovely, lovely sounds that escape you. He loves the way you melt against him, the way you trust him to take care of the burdens you’ve held onto for so long. He’s Mark Lee after all, he can handle it.
You tuck your face against his neck, cuddling as close to him as you can. “I love you,” you mumble sleepily.
He kisses your head, feeling accomplished. “I love you more.”
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tlc | mark lee
[mark takes care of u when ur sick. roommate au. pure fluff. alt version on ao3 is also mine]
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So, you’re sick. It’s just a small bug, nothing you can’t handle. Sure, you can’t keep food down and you’ve got this chill you can’t shake, but you’re not dying or anything. This is the disclaimer you gave to your worrywart of a roommate, Mark, when you had asked him to bring home some plain crackers and gatorade.
You’re sitting on the couch during sundown. The house is clean, save for the plastic bag of used tissues leaning against the couch. There’s a documentary about some obscure cult in the sixties on the television, and you’re wrapped up in your most comforting blanket. It happens to be Mark’s, taken from his room. The weight of it feels like a hug, and it smells of him, like that vanilla lotion his mom ingrained into his head to use after showering.
With the volume of the television, you barely hear Mark walk through the door. When he sets a takeout bag onto the coffee table, you finally look up, “Oh hey, Mark. What’d you get?”
“I got you soup, Dork,” Mark says. He sits on the table, long legs causing his knees to brush against the edge of the couch and subsequently, your sock-covered toes. When you look at him, you realize he’s pouting. “You said it wasn’t that bad.”
“It isn’t,” you assure him, but you follow it with a cough to your elbow. You wonder what you look like to make him think it’s worse than it is. “I’m fine.”
“You’re sweating.”
“But I’m cold.”
Mark hums. His cheeks and nose are rosy from the winter air, which makes him look even more adorable than usual. “Tell you what: eat your soup before it gets cold. I’m gonna go set up the bathroom and run a bath. I’ll put some salts and oils in there that are good for congestion, and when you’re ready you can come warm up. Maybe it’ll draw the fever out.”
“I don’t have a fever,” you argue.
Mark opens the soup container and hands it to you, along with a spoon. “Whatever you say.”
You try to take your time with the soup, but it takes you a little less than ten minutes to drain the bowl. You're left with a weight in your stomach that chases away the nausea you’ve been feeling all day. You dump the bowl in the sink and head into the bathroom.
Mark had grabbed a pair of your comfiest pajamas and underwear, and set them on the sink counter along with a fluffy towel. The overhead light is off, replaced with a lavender scented candle on the rim of the bathtub. The water is practically steaming, and he’s set up one of those bath pillows so your neck won’t get tired. You’re so thankful the two of you ordered that thing one drunken night.
“Don’t undress yet,” he calls from down the hall. He comes in with his tablet and hands it to you, along with the stand he usually uses when he wants to watch videos. “You can finish your documentary on here!”
Thank God for shared accounts, because Mark sets the tablet up so that it’s right where you paused it in the living room. You watch him work, fiddling with the buttons and fitting the stand on the closed toilet so that it won’t fall into the tub. With fondness, you realize he hasn’t even shed his coat yet, his only goal to make you feel better. He’s often doing that: sacrificing his needs for yours.
And it warms you from your head to your toes. Even more so than the fever, you’re dizzy with the realization that Mark loves you, in whatever way that may be, enough to do all of this for you. You want to repay him, but it will have to wait until you get your energy back.
You do what you can, though. When he stands up, you hug him tight, loving the small sound of surprise that escapes him.
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Mark turned down your blankets while you were in the bath. There’s a bottle of water on your bedside table and two small pill capsules. You take them, thankful he didn’t get the liquid medicine your mom used to make you drink. You end up draining the water bottle, not realizing how thirsty you were.
You’re almost ready for bed when you realize you still have his tablet, so you make your way across the hall and knock on his door. A sudden shyness overcomes you and has you averting your eyes when he opens the door, finally dressed for his own comfort. “Here’s your tablet back. Thanks for taking care of me, Mark.”
“Always.” Mark isn’t smiling like usual. He’s got this sincere look on his face, furrowed brows and straight mouth, just daring you to defy his gestures of love. “I’m always here for you. You know that.”
“Of course I do,” you assure him with your own look of surety. Some voice in the back of your head is calling it love.
He leans down to kiss your head. “Get some sleep, okay? I’ll keep my ringer on in case you need me.”
“Goodnight, Mark.”
“Goodnight, Dork.”
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missed your presence on the dash!! hope you’re doing well 💗
hihi this is so sweet! i'm trying to fall back in love with writing! hope ur doing well too!!!
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Mark in 잘 자 (Teddy Bear)' & 'Saturday Drip' Recording Behind the Scene
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a neo a day keeps the feelings at bay [11/∞]
#i wish it was okay to kiss people's eyeballs bc thats what i want to do when i see the first gif#marky sharky
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he’s moving back to toronto to play baseball ⚾
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favorite mark outfits (42/?)
#mark i am emotionally mature enough for a secret long distance relationship if u are reading this#marky sharky
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