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bloodmoonmuses · 2 days ago

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tysm for leaving your thoughts! I'm glad you liked it!!! I'll think ab a part 2, I don't do that very often, lol <3333

yeah x10 | mark & haechan

summary: a tennis match illuminates the complexities in your relationships with mark and haechan.

genre/warnings: mark lee x reader, lee haechan x reader, challengers au, tennis au, suggestive/suggestive themes implied (mdni), strong language

This match is just for fun, but the stakes feel so much higher. It’s in the air- adrenaline, nervousness- the latter of which you’d never admit to, but it’s ravaging through your body in shock waves. Lightning accompanying the thunderous beating of your heart.

It’s just for fun, you say to yourself, over and over again. This means nothing. But doesn’t this mean everything? That you’ve gotten over it to some degree?

Wishful thinking on your part, to think for a second you could let either of them go, but the trying has gotta be worth something.

Mixed doubles. You and Haechan against Mark and Winter. You wish you could play Mark one-on-one, like you used to back in high school, but this’ll have to do. Haechan walks up to the service line, and you can feel his slurry of emotions permeate the atmosphere, even with your back to him. It’s distracting how much he wears his heart on his sleeve.

Anger; You hadn’t told him you’d be playing against Mark. Confusion; Why do you care about this match so much? Why are you twirling your racket around like a bashful school kid? Lust (or envy rather, Haechcan reasoned to himself- but are those not two sides of the same coin?); Mark is glistening in the sunlight and the tennis skirt adorning your form barely covers your ass.

Haechan wishes to be sought after in the multitude of ways you are. Sure, people yearn for him, but the fervor tends to be one note. He wants to consume someone’s waking thoughts- like you do his. Like you consume Mark��s. He’s jealous of you, as are many people, and he hates that he loves you. But he can’t look away. Haechan watches Mark’s eyes rake over you in ravenous awe.

Unlike Haechan, Mark's mind is on one thing only. He’s twitching with anticipation, overcome with the desire to humiliate Haechan in front of you specifically. Just the thought of doing so puts a smile on his face which, when paired with the furrowing of his brows, makes him look absolutely sadistic.

A bead of sweat forms on your forehead, dripping downward and settling on your eyelid. Quickly, you wipe it away, only for another to immediately form in its place. Fuck.

LOVE- LOVE.

Haechan serves, and it’s fast- you can hear the sheer force of it- but the ball hits the net. The sound that escapes his throat is akin to a growl. He takes another tennis ball out of his pocket, rubbing it against his thigh- a nervous tick of his- and Mark’s smirk deepens.

Winter looks back at Mark and says something inaudible to you, then turns her attention back to Haechan. The look in her eyes makes the grip on your racket tighten. You bend your knees and dig your heels into the ground.

“Focus,” you tell Haechan in a hushed sort of whisper-yell.

“I am.”

He serves again and, this time, Haechan’s ball makes it over the net, nearly hitting Mark in the head. Mark returns the ball, but just so, slightly caught off guard by Haechan's erratic blow. You hit a sloppy backhand, barely getting the ball to the other side, and Winter hustles to track it. She volleys it back towards you, but you’re quick on the uptake, slicing both Winter and Mark as the ball lands just inside the doubles alley. You allow yourself a breathy grin.

30- LOVE.

Mark throws down his racket in a fit. Winter attempts to calm him down, spewing variations of “It’s okay, it’s just the first point” and “Shake it off”. The hand she has on his shoulder makes you nauseous. If this were an official match, he’d get a code violation for racket abuse- but it’s not. It’s a friendly competition, as Mark had pitched last night.

Last night. It feels like a lifetime ago, like you had molten and shed numerous bodies since then, but the truth is that you can still feel his touch living under your skin. Feverish lips grazing the vastness of your body. Blunt nails digging into the plush of your thighs. You were a few vodka sodas too deep when you had snuck off to Mark’s place in the dead of night, leaving Haechan fast asleep in your hotel room.

“Golden boy off his game today?” Haechan prods, tugging you out of your remembrance (for the best, you think).

“Shut up and play,” Mark says. He squares up to the net, knees pointed at Haechan.

Your serve. It’s not as powerful as Haechan’s, but it makes it over the net, the ball promptly returned by Winter. The four of you get swept away in a rally- the first point clearly a warm up on everyone’s part- grunts and expletives orchestrating an otherwise silent display of resentful longing.

It’s a cacophony of squeaking tennis shoes, the ball hitting the rackets, and your own panting as Winter tires you out. That’s her technique after all, to make her opponent work for it, and you stumble to return a particularly wayward stroke. The ball just barely kisses the frame of your racket, failing to properly hit it. You fall to your knees.

30-30.

Haechan bends down to comfort you, palm flat against your back. You feel your sweat slicken his hand, and his lips come to touch the shell of your ear, raspy voice fighting against the thumping of your heart as he whispers, “Don’t let her run you like that again. Don’t give him the pleasure.”

“Him”? Is he talking about Winter or Mark? All you can do is nod as you try to catch your breath.

“Don’t give him the pleasure” echoes in your headspace like a mantra. “Hey… you gotta… faster,” Haechan says to you distantly, but you’re distracted- visions of the night prior flashing behind your eyelids.

Faster… faster… your arms are pinned above your head, Mark gripping you by the wrists as he hovers above you. “Faster,” you manage to plead in your drunken state.

Mark shakes his head slightly as he mouths your ear. “See, that’s the problem with that ‘coach’ of yours. You don’t wait for the ball to come to you. Always trying to be fast.” He says the word like it tastes bad. “Fast.”

“He’s not my coach,” you croak as Mark nuzzles into your neck, his exhales sending shivers down your spine.

“So it’s unsolicited advice,” Mark scoffs, “That sounds more like Haechan.” He bites you, enough to entice but not elicit the pleasure you’re desperate for. Your body arches towards him.

“Are we seriously talking about tennis right now?”

Mark moves down your abdomen, tongue dipping into your navel, then he drags the flat of it along the waistband of your shorts. “Depends,” Mark says, looking up at you from his precarious position. You evade his eyes.

“On what?” you ask.

“How often does he have you this way?”

Your mouth opens to speak, but nothing comes out.

Mark hums, the vibration of it coursing through you torturously. “Then, yes.I’m talking about tennis.”

Haechan pulls you up from your knees, trading spots so he’s playing at half court and you’re back at the service line, watching Mark dry the sweat off his forehead with the bottom of his shirt, toned abdomen exposed for half a second. He feels his mouth water and shifts his focus to you, seeing the way you bend over to tie your shoe. Mark’s eyes narrow in on where the hem of your skirt covers the inside of your thighs, hypnotized by the way the white fabric blows in the wind (and the bruise on your left wrist growing more purple with each passing minute).

You stand to serve, calling out the score again.

“Faster,” Haechan demands. “We need to tie it.” You exhale shakily, throwing up the ball, and try to smash it. But there’s too much topspin on your stroke. Fault. So you serve again. It hits the net again. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

30- 40. Match Point.

Haechan’s jumping in place, resisting the urge to slam his racket against the ground. With flared nostrils, he wordlessly directs you to return to the half court line and let him serve this time. You should’ve told him to do that last point, you think. Haechan’s serve has always been better than yours. Speed while maintaining accuracy. Not better than Mark’s, purely because of his strength, but a solid serve nonetheless. It’s a weakness of yours that agility and intuition makes up for only slightly, and usually the main focus of your practices with Haechan.

He’s not your coach or your partner in any sense of the words- but he’s more than a friend. You think of the first time you kissed Haechan, a day or two after meeting in college, only for it to never be spoken about again. At least, not in words. It’s something you do occasionally; kiss and nothing more- save for wandering hands when one of you got too into it. Late nights where the other simply needed a warm body. Kisses used as a placeholder for someone else.

Like the night Mark broke the news that he’d be transferring colleges. He gets a tennis scholarship, full ride, leaving you and Haechan to slum it with tennis hobbyists- not the pros Mark got to brush shoulders with. You and Haechan drank a lot that night- under the guise of celebrating Mark, you guess. You kissed a lot that night too, both you and Haechan feeling hollow as you sloppily made out on his twin-sized bed. If you had been more disciplined, more willing to sacrifice as Mark had, you’d be at Stanford too. But, alas. Here you are three years into a business degree, mourning a dream deferred.

A part of you would always resent Mark for leaving, but his raw talent is evident when Mark returns a particularly venomous serve from Haechan with tenured ease, the ball flying past you in a flash.

That’s game. Mark and Winter have won the match.

Haechan wordlessly goes to get some water, sitting on the bench with his head to the sky and draping a towel over his shoulder. Winter does likewise, sitting beside him. Mark, however, meets you at the net. Your breath hitches.

“How’s school been?” Mark starts, but there’s layers of meaning refracting off the condescendingly mundane question. “Didn’t get to ask last night.”

“Fine. Made the Dean’s List last semester.” It’s true, but you don’t care much. You can feel Haehan’s stare burning the back of your neck. Winter’s too, as she tries to piece together the puzzle in front of her.

“I’d expect nothing less.” Then Mark says, “You still haven’t cleaned up that serve of yours?”

You shrug in response.

Mark nudges his head towards Haechan. On the bench, Haechan sits dejectedly, muttering to himself in between sips of water. “I know he's always been a sore loser but-”

“You and Winter?” you interject, cutting off Mark. Enough of the thinly veiled niceties. You can’t take it anymore. If something’s going on between them, you have to know. Otherwise, the image of her porcelain hand on his shoulder will be a mainstay in your thought spirals.

“No.” Mark says, understanding your inquiry despite its brevity. He clarifies further when you give him a look. “We haven’t slept together.”

You sigh. Out of relief or something else, you’re not sure. It’s not like you could be with Mark in any real way. Not as long as Haechan’s in the picture.

Mark smirks. “You and Haechan-”

“Stop it.”

“Have you? You didn’t answer my question last-”

Enough about last night. The casualness with which it’s being regarded is driving you mad.

“What do you think?” you spit, voice laced with irritation.

“‘Who cares what I think? It’s a ‘yes’ or ‘no question.” Mark shrugs.

Winter walks up to the net after having retrieved her water bottle and sunglasses. She looks very chic for someone who just kicked your ass in what’s supposed to be your best sport. “Good match,” she says. “Your stamina’s impressive.”

“Haven’t rallied like that in a while,” you reply, lips tight. You shake her hand, noting how fragile it feels. “Going pro?”

Winter gestures to Mark, pointing a thumb at him. “This guy’s been trying to convince me, but I’m playing local tournaments for funsies lately. You?”

“Definitely not. That dream escaped me years ago.” you confess. When Mark left, particularly.

Haechan too walks up to the net, seeming as though he’s cooled down until he says, “Didn’t know you were gonna be here, Mark. Or that your parents moved back.” If he’s made any attempt at hiding his anger, he’s done so very poorly. The tension is eating you alive.

Mark’s shit-eating grin returns. “Is that why you two served three faults collectively? So excited to see me that you can’t play properly?”

Haechan rolls his eyes.“Fuck you.”

“I’m sure you’d love that, Haechan, but I don’t swing that way.”

“Very funny, Mark,” Winter remarks sarcastically. “Ready to go?”

You butt in as well, wanting to be anywhere else but here. “Yeah, great match, you two. Wanna head out, Haech-” But Haechan’s eyes are locked on Mark.

“Touring this year?” Haechan asks, a blush burning across his plump cheeks.

Mark leans on the net, chin in hand and looks at Haechan coyly. “Yep, trying to get my rank higher this year. Aiming for #20.”

Not wholly over-ambitious on his part. In fact, you think he could do better.

“Well, good luck to you.” With that, Haechan turns to leave the court, and you follow closely behind, gathering your things as you do so.

“Let’s play, Donghyuck!” Mark yells, just as the two of you reach the fence door. Haechan freezes at the use of his real name. ”You and me. One on one. Just like the old days.”

Haechan whips around, shouting back at Mark hoarsely. “I don’t need this like you need it. I have nothing to prove.”

“Then play.”

Haechan concedes, dropping his bag at his feet and running to position, leaving you to watch the two men from the court's entrance. You’re frozen in time, memories of the two of them in highschool fogging your vision.

LOVE- LOVE.

Mark’s serve. Just before he throws the ball, he stops, looking at Haechan with tempered ferocity. The corner of his mouth twitches upward as he says “Did _____ tell you where they disappeared to last night?” Then he hits it- an ace that lands squarely in the service box. Untouched by Haechan.

Haechan looks at you with wild eyes, privy to the shame written all over your features. Winter looks between the three of you in confusion. After throwing down his racket, Haechan bounds to the net, face to face with Mark. Their lips are nearly touching.

“You’re getting off on all of this, huh?” Haechan questions. “The bragging? The smirking? Galavanting around in your ugly ass Polo?”

Mark’s nose brushes against Haechan’s as he speaks. “Very much so. C’mon, dude. Let’s just play.”

Haechan rips himself away from Mark’s visage, walking off the court for good this time, and you follow, shoulder checking Mark on the way out.

“Hey, _____,” Mark calls after you, “Had a good time last night!”

By the time you catch up to Haechan in the facility’s locker room, you’re panting like you were during the match. For a moment, you and Haechan exchange nothing but ragged breaths, unsure of where to go from here. Last night. Fuck last night.

“Where’d he kiss you?” Haechan asks.

You bristle. “What?”

Haechan takes your face in his hands. “Where did Mark touch you?”

“I-I… Everywhere,” you confess in a murmur. Slowly, Haechan walks you backwards, with your face still in his hand. When your back hits the locker, the two of you linger there, chests heaving frantically in the summer heat. Then, Haecan takes your hand, kissing the bruise on your left wrist, all while maintaining eye contact.

“Be more specific. Point,” he demands. So you do.

You point to the column of your neck, your collar bones, your stomach, your hips, the insides of your thighs. Haechan explores the expanse of your body, replacing Mark’s reverence from the night before with adoration of his own- a trail of fire left in each bite’s wake. He does so until you're whimpering from the rawness- until all remnants of Mark have been etched over with his teeth and lips.

Haechan envisions Mark laying waste to your body, and he’s jealous in ways that confuse even himself. Why’d you have to leave last night?

“I’m sorry I lost the match.” Haechan says when finally pulls away. Your body is littered in flecks of purple.

“You didn’t lose me,” you say.

(But did he ever truly have you to begin with?)

#bloodmoonmuses #feedback

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bloodmoonmuses · 5 days ago

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241120 NCTsmtown Twitter Update

"Marie Claire Korea’s Fashion Film with #MARK"

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bloodmoonmuses · 5 days ago

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MARK for Marie Claire Korea (November 2024)

#i'm obsessed

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bloodmoonmuses · 5 days ago

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⏝ ི 𝄞 ྀ e𝓎𝑒𝓈 d𝑜𝓃'𝓉 l͟𝒾𝑒

💧

𝓈a𝓎 y𝑜𝓊'𝓇𝑒 m𝒾𝓃𝑒

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bloodmoonmuses · 5 days ago

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#ZOO WE MAMA

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bloodmoonmuses · 5 days ago

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when souls touch | mark lee.

genre: mark lee x reader, fluff, friends to lovers, drabble (0.7k words)

warnings: mentions of alcohol, strong language

It was as if your souls had touched- in a sort of catastrophic way. A cataclysmic way. Stardust and debris all blown up in your faces… A powdery explosion. Little bits of it dancing on your fluttering eyelashes. Fidgety hands rubbing specs of it out of tired eyes.

The moon tiptoes across the river before you. Mark speaks to the water, as if it’ll hold his secret (or confession rather) on the off chance you decide to rid yourself of it. Subconsciously preparing himself for rejection.

“I guess I’ve liked you for a while now,” Mark sighs. And his words are a bit slurred, as are the ones that sit ready upon your own lips. You’re barely able to make out his silhouette in the depth of the night. Barely able to ground yourself as you palm the grass beneath your hands.

You’ve both been drinking at this pseudo-picnic of yours on the riverbank. A last minute suggestion from Mark; he needed to escape from the burdens of the sun’s wake. From the daytime. From himself. The two of you had gorged yourselves with convenience store snacks and soju.

And now especially, Mark’s infatuation with the sky seems fitting. He’s the sun and the moon. Orange and blushy. Silver and shifty. Light and dark. His smile when he’s on stage. His furrowed brows as he grows frustrated at a late night dance practice. The way his laugh permeates his entire being. Feet dragging against pavement when he trudges into his apartment at two in the morning.

His shadowy figure beside you now, knees turned away from you as he awaits your response.

“Liked me? As in-”

“As in, I love you. Probably,” he says.

A scoff escapes you. There’s no bite to it. There’s no anything to it, really. Just air leaving your diaphragm. Then you’re shaking your head like you can’t believe what you’re hearing, because you can’t.

“Mark, I think you’re drunk,” you say, searching for his eyes. Searching for your sky.

Now it’s his turn to laugh. “Yeah, maybe a little bit.”

“Let’s get you home.” After he stands, you drape one of Mark’s arms across your back, his wrist in your hand. Your other hand grasps his waist. And though you’re drunk as well, legs wobbly and steps off-kilter, you giggle with him as the two of you hobble down the river and towards Mark’s apartment.

Then you’re searching again, trying to meet Mark’s eyes, and there’s stardust in them. Glassy with exhaustion and the weird elation that comes with getting something off your fucking chest. Even if there’s been no real response.

Quiet explosions with each step. Drawing nearer to a time in which you can’t avoid the something that’s between you. Hip to hip, the shell of Mark’s ear all folded up against you and red from the cold. Watching your breath plume in front of you like smoke.

You reach the steps of Mark’s apartment bitterly, not another word passed on the walk to it, and fish his keys out of his pocket. He topples over onto his couch, flopping like a thrown pile of laundry.

“You gonna be okay?” you ask.

Mark tugs the right side of his mouth into a smirk. Catastrophic. It’s muscle memory; you walking to his linen closet and grabbing a blanket to place gingerly over Mark’s sleep-laden body. You admire the rise and fall of his chest. The contentedness of his breaths. And for a second, you just stare.

Then suddenly, Mark stirs, and it takes everything in you to rip your eyes away from his peaceful face. “Are you watching me sleep?” he asks with his eyes still closed.

Shit. “You’re drunk,” you reply, stammering.

“Whatever you say.”

You start to leave, but linger in the doorway, looking back and forth between Mark and the doorknob.

“Remember when you said that you love me ‘probably’?” Your voice is barely above a whisper.

And with his eyes still closed Mark says, “Yes…”

“Like, how probable was that ‘probably’?”

“It’s at about 98% right now. Lessening the longer you keep me awake,” he mumbles.

“Noted. We’ll circle back tomorrow.”

“Okay. Text me when you get home. Love you.”

Cataclysmic. A powdery explosion. Stardust in your eyes on the taxi ride home.

a/n: feedback is always appreciated! <333

#bloodmoonmuses #thx for 100 notes! <3 #srb #icymi <3

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bloodmoonmuses · 5 days ago

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#like woah

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bloodmoonmuses · 6 days ago

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남김 없이 원할게

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bloodmoonmuses · 7 days ago

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tysm for leaving your thoughts!!! I'm glad you enjoyed this little drabble!! <333

when souls touch | mark lee.

genre: mark lee x reader, fluff, friends to lovers, drabble (0.7k words)

warnings: mentions of alcohol, strong language

His shadowy figure beside you now, knees turned away from you as he awaits your response.

“Liked me? As in-”

“As in, I love you. Probably,” he says.

“Mark, I think you’re drunk,” you say, searching for his eyes. Searching for your sky.

Now it’s his turn to laugh. “Yeah, maybe a little bit.”

“You gonna be okay?” you ask.

Then suddenly, Mark stirs, and it takes everything in you to rip your eyes away from his peaceful face. “Are you watching me sleep?” he asks with his eyes still closed.

Shit. “You’re drunk,” you reply, stammering.

“Whatever you say.”

You start to leave, but linger in the doorway, looking back and forth between Mark and the doorknob.

“Remember when you said that you love me ‘probably’?” Your voice is barely above a whisper.

And with his eyes still closed Mark says, “Yes…”

“Like, how probable was that ‘probably’?”

“It’s at about 98% right now. Lessening the longer you keep me awake,” he mumbles.

“Noted. We’ll circle back tomorrow.”

“Okay. Text me when you get home. Love you.”

Cataclysmic. A powdery explosion. Stardust in your eyes on the taxi ride home.

a/n: feedback is always appreciated! <333

#bloodmoonmuses #feedback

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bloodmoonmuses · 7 days ago

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hiiiii I'm alive!!!!

when souls touch | mark lee.

genre: mark lee x reader, fluff, friends to lovers, drabble (0.7k words)

warnings: mentions of alcohol, strong language

His shadowy figure beside you now, knees turned away from you as he awaits your response.

“Liked me? As in-”

“As in, I love you. Probably,” he says.

“Mark, I think you’re drunk,” you say, searching for his eyes. Searching for your sky.

Now it’s his turn to laugh. “Yeah, maybe a little bit.”

“You gonna be okay?” you ask.

Then suddenly, Mark stirs, and it takes everything in you to rip your eyes away from his peaceful face. “Are you watching me sleep?” he asks with his eyes still closed.

Shit. “You’re drunk,” you reply, stammering.

“Whatever you say.”

You start to leave, but linger in the doorway, looking back and forth between Mark and the doorknob.

“Remember when you said that you love me ‘probably’?” Your voice is barely above a whisper.

And with his eyes still closed Mark says, “Yes…”

“Like, how probable was that ‘probably’?”

“It’s at about 98% right now. Lessening the longer you keep me awake,” he mumbles.

“Noted. We’ll circle back tomorrow.”

“Okay. Text me when you get home. Love you.”

Cataclysmic. A powdery explosion. Stardust in your eyes on the taxi ride home.

a/n: feedback is always appreciated! <333

#bloodmoonmuses #nct 127 #srb #icymi <3

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bloodmoonmuses · 8 days ago

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when souls touch | mark lee.

genre: mark lee x reader, fluff, friends to lovers, drabble (0.7k words)

warnings: mentions of alcohol, strong language

His shadowy figure beside you now, knees turned away from you as he awaits your response.

“Liked me? As in-”

“As in, I love you. Probably,” he says.

“Mark, I think you’re drunk,” you say, searching for his eyes. Searching for your sky.

Now it’s his turn to laugh. “Yeah, maybe a little bit.”

“You gonna be okay?” you ask.

Then suddenly, Mark stirs, and it takes everything in you to rip your eyes away from his peaceful face. “Are you watching me sleep?” he asks with his eyes still closed.

Shit. “You’re drunk,” you reply, stammering

“Whatever you say.”

You start to leave, but linger in the doorway, looking back and forth between Mark and the doorknob.

“Remember when you said that you love me ‘probably’?” Your voice is barely above a whisper.

And with his eyes still closed Mark says, “Yes…”

“Like, how probable was that ‘probably’?”

“It’s at about 98% right now. Lessening the longer you keep me awake,” he mumbles.

“Noted. We’ll circle back tomorrow.”

“Okay. Text me when you get home. Love you.”

Cataclysmic. A powdery explosion. Stardust in your eyes on the taxi ride home.

#bloodmoonmuses #nct 127 #mark lee x reader #mark lee fic #nct dream fic #nct dream #nct 127 fluff #nct 127 angst #mark lee #nct dream fluff #mark lee fluff #mark lee imagines

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