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Fuck, he was doing this.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Mark was really doing this.
After this night is over and Mark's consciousness returns to his body and makes him realize what he had done—or would do in a moment—he won't even be able to blame the alcohol like in the movies. The season had just begun, so he was strictly prohibited from drinking. Even if he drank a bit of champagne at the cocktail reception downstairs. His body is not like any other 25-year-old man's body, his metabolism should have already burned the millimeters of alcohol that was in his glass earlier. Perks of being a professional athlete.
Mark is sober, he doesn't have anything or anyone to blame besides himself for what is about to happen. He was doing this and he was doing it with Jaemin.
Jaemin
.
Of all eight billion people in the entire world, it was Jaemin in his hotel room. Na Jaemin. The biggest asshole in the world and the current number-one-ranked tennis player.
He knew this was a terrible idea. Not just because of the potential fallout, but because it was Jaemin. His biggest rival, the guy who made post-game interviews unbearable, turned every match between them into a battlefield.
Everyone knows Mark is responsible by nature, and always has been. The kind of guy who never let emotions take over, followed every rule, and understood the stakes of every decision he made. You have to be like this to win on court.
So, this entire situation just doesn't make sense at all.
If he couldn't blame the alcohol for his behavior and decisions, perhaps Mark could place the blame on the season's pressure in the courtroom of his conscience. Maybe it is the weight of the Australian Open looming over them, the tension that had been building since the second they'd seen each other tonight at the reception.
Yeah, that had to be it.
And Jaemin must take some responsibility for this too, he was the culprit somehow. He and his constant prodding and pushing, the way he always gets under Mark's skin. It all started with Jaemin's provocations, so it was only natural for Mark to react the way he did. Tomorrow, he can make his case to his personal judge and hopefully be exonerated from any guilt.
In fact, this time, Jaemin would be the one condemned. He didn't even acknowledge Mark's presence that evening at the reception. But this was kinda justified too. Jaemin always got a little grumpy and meaner after losing to Mark (just as Mark did when the roles were reversed).
The Australian Open Players Party Reception was the biggest social event before the first Grand Slam in Melbourne. It was supposed to gather all the players, coaches, sponsors, journalists, and whoever else was somehow connected to the world of tennis to celebrate the beginning of another season.
Mark had won the pre-season tournament in Adelaide against Jaemin last week, two-one. So it was only reasonable that all eyes at the party were on him and his increased favoritism to take the first Grand Slam of the year after winning Adelaide—even though his name and Jaemin's were always the only ones that came up in the conversation about the four main tournaments of the year. They were, after all, the faces of modern tennis.
Of course losing Adelaide and the lack of attention contributed to Jaemin's frustration as well. It was always a bitter feeling to start a season with a loss to your main rival, especially one who was also your biggest competition for the top spot in the world rankings. Mark knew this all too well because last year it was him in Jaemin's shoes.
And besides that, Jaemin had always been showy. Even though he kept a low profile when it came to his private life, he had always been the kind of athlete who enjoyed every aspect of their profession. Jaemin loved the fame, the attention, and the cameras flashing in his direction to praise his tennis skills.
So, if during the reception party Mark was surrounded by journalists and people indulging him in his victory, Jaemin was surrounded by a gray cloud of annoyance hovering above his head that Mark could see from the other side of the room.
Jaemin spent the entire party sipping one single glass of champagne with a scowl and avoiding eye contact with everyone. The party was crowded and stuffy, but it was as if the space around Jaemin was always a little cooler, a little sharper. Mark knew that game—Jaemin didn't have to say anything to anyone for him to feel his provocation.
As Mark observed Jaemin from across the ballroom, he could see the tension on his rival's shoulders. There was an edge to his movements that only someone who knew him well would notice. And Mark knew him, it was part of his job. To win a game, he had to know and constantly study the body language of his opponents and what their every move meant.
Jaemin was an edge to his charm tonight. His silence was a choice. An affront. And for some reason that was exactly what made Mark feel pulled towards him like a tennis ball sucked in by the spin of a racket.
Mark should go over, say something, and keep up appearances. But as reporters flocked to him, eager for quotes about his recent victory and his prospects for the upcoming Grand Slam, Mark also couldn't deny the thrill of being the center of attention this time. This was tennis, after all. There could only be one winner and right now that was him. He had won this round of his and Jaemin's personal game, and he was enjoying every little part of it.
The party was in full swing, the Australian summer heat making the air thick and heavy even as night fell. Champagne flowed freely as the guests mingled with excitement. It wasn't until later, when Mark headed back to his hotel room, that things took an unexpected turn.
The moment he stepped inside, he let out a deep breath, feeling the weight of the evening settle over him. Running a hand through his hair, Mark kicked off his shoes and unbuttoned his shirt as he walked toward the bed.
The room was dimly lit, with a warm golden glow from the bedside lamps. The curtains were drawn, casting shadows across the plush carpeted floor. The AC hummed softly in the background, providing a slight relief from the summer heat outside. A balcony with a view of the city skyline was visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
He let the shirt slip from his shoulders, tossing it carelessly onto the armchair by the window before reaching for his belt, pulling it loose, and letting his pants pool at his feet. Just as he reached for the waistband of his boxers, Mark heard a shuffle coming from the bathroom. He hadn't even noticed the bathroom door was closed and that a shaft of light escaped from under the wooden doorway.
There was someone in his hotel room.
Mark froze, his heart pounding in his chest. He held his breath, straining his ears to catch any further sound. For a moment, there was only silence. Then he heard it again—a soft rustle, the unmistakable sound of movement coming from behind the closed door.
His mind raced. Who could be in there and how had they gotten in?
Could it have been a hotel staff? But then why was the door locked?
It could be a journalist trying to dig up dirt on him before the tournament starts. Or worse, someone working in another player's team who was trying to sabotage him. This kind of thing might sound like something out of a movie, but it was more common than it seemed. Mark had experienced things like this before, especially in minor tennis leagues at the start of his career.
It could also be a crazy fan. Of course, Mark was no music or movie star, but fanatical fans existed everywhere, especially in sports. He genuinely didn't know whether he'd prefer it to be: a sick fan or someone trying to rob him.
Adrenaline surged through him as he realized he was nearly naked and completely vulnerable. If it was really a criminal, they could be armed. Mark glanced frantically around the room searching for a weapon, anything he could use to defend himself. His eyes fell on the heavy glass ashtray on the nightstand.
Slowly, carefully, he crept towards it, wincing as the carpet crunched beneath his bare feet. He grasped the ashtray, its weight oddly comforting in his hand. Mark inched towards the bathroom door, pulse thundering in his ears, muscles tensed ready to fight.
Just as he raised his hand to turn the handle, the door swung open and Mark stumbled back.
"Jaemin?"
The sight of Jaemin standing in the doorway, steam billowing out behind him, was so unexpected that Mark nearly dropped the ashtray. His pulse, already erratic, stuttered—not from fear this time, but from sheer disbelief.
Jaemin had just stepped out of the shower, his damp hair plastered to his forehead, water droplets trailing down the sharp lines of his collarbones and chest before disappearing beneath the white hotel towel wrapped low around his hips. His skin glistened under the bathroom light, but there was nothing soft or vulnerable about him. He stood there, composed as ever, like he belonged in Mark's space like he wasn't completely insane for this.
Jaemin arched a brow, arms crossed over his chest. "Were you about to attack me with that?" he asked, tilting his chin toward the ashtray still clenched in Mark's hand. His voice was deceptively calm, but there was something sharp underneath it.
Mark blinked and his grip on the ashtray tightened. " What the fuck," his voice came out rougher than intended, still laced with adrenaline. "What the hell are you doing in my room?"
Jaemin, in contrast, didn't look the least bit alarmed. If anything, he seemed annoyed. "Your room?" he echoed, brows furrowing. "This is my room."
"Yeah, no, pretty sure I know which room I checked into." Mark quickly let down the arm holding the ashtray.
"Don't be difficult right now, okay? I'm pretty tired of my flight and the party to entertain you."
"Difficult?" Mark let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. "The only one being difficult right now is you. You clearly invaded my space and took a shower in my bathroom just to annoy me. I bet you used my shampoo too."
"Don't be ridiculous. I would never want to smell like a mommy's boy like you. I used the one that was in the cabinet."
"That was mine, you idiot." Mark snorted and Jaemin just rolled his eyes.
For a moment, they just stared at each other, the absurdity of the situation sinking in. Then Jaemin's gaze dropped, taking in Mark's state of undress. "Nice boxers."
Mark felt heat rush to his face when he suddenly remembered he was standing there in nothing but his underwear. He resisted the urge to cover himself, instead squaring his shoulders and meeting Jaemin's eyes defiantly. "Thanks. Now explain how you got in here."
"I told you. This is my room," Jaemin's eyes narrowed, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face, "1407."
"But that's… That's my room number too." Mark shook his head, his own confusion growing.
Jaemin sighed, running a hand through his damp hair. "Look, I checked in about an hour ago."
Mark dragged a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. "So you just—what? Didn't notice all my shit lying around?"
"I noticed," Jaemin said simply, walking past him toward the dresser. "I just figured the hotel staff would take care later of it when the owner realizes he was stupid enough to leave his own suitcase behind. And honestly? I was too exhausted to care."
Mark stared at him incredulously. "And you didn't think to mention this to the front desk?"
Jaemin shrugged, rifling through the dresser drawers. "Like I said, I was tired. Besides, it's not exactly uncommon for hotels to make mistakes."
"Unbelievable," Mark muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. He could feel a headache coming on. "Okay, look. We need to sort this out. Now."
"Relax, Lee," Jaemin drawled as he reached for his clothes, "It's not the end of the world. I will call the front desk and get it sorted out," he said, voice muffled slightly as he pulled a t-shirt over his head. The fabric automatically became damp in some areas as Jaemin had not completely dried yet. "Unless you'd rather we just share."
Mark shot him a glare so sharp it could've cut through steel. Jaemin only smirked, clearly pleased with himself.
"Yeah," Mark muttered, turning away. "I'll pass on that offer, thanks."
Jaemin didn't rush to make the call. He grabbed the hotel phone with the same lazy ease as always, rubbing his damp hair with an extra small towel. He had thrown on a t-shirt over his body but his waist remained wrapped in the same fluffy white fabric from which he had emerged from the bathroom, because putting on underwear and pants meant taking the towel off, and that meant being completely naked in front of Mark.
Mark, on the other hand, had already put his pants back on, as if trying to reestablish some sense of normalcy after the initial chaos. He crossed his arms, waiting as Jaemin spoke to the staff in charge of this mess.
Mark could only hear Jaemin's side of the conversation, but the subtle furrow of his eyebrow was enough to tell him things weren't going well.
"Right… And you're sure there aren't any other rooms available? Not even a suite?" A pause. Jaemin exhaled through his nose, fingers drumming against the dresser. "I see. Yeah," Another pause, this time longer. "Yeah, no, I get it. Thanks for the advice too."
He hung up.
Mark raised a brow. "Well?"
"Well," Jaemin turned to face him fully. "We're stuck here."
Mark blinked. "What?"
Jaemin sighed. "The hotel is completely booked between the tournament delegation, the players, some journalists too, and whoever the hell else came to Melbourne for the Australian Open. They said they are sorry for the mistake but there's nothing available right now."
"No, this is unbelievable," Mark stared at him, waiting for a punchline. "You have to be kidding me."
Jaemin gave him a pointed look. "Do I look like I'm joking?"
Mark groaned, rubbing his hands down his face. "This is unbelievable."
"You've said that already."
"Because it is." Mark dropped his hands and shot him a glare. "I will make a few calls and see if I can secure a room at another hotel."
"The lady on the phone mentioned this as well. She said they would try to arrange accommodations at other hotels as an apology for the mix-up, but it may be difficult during high season with so many tourists and tennis fans in town. They will start looking for something now and call back if they find anything available."
Mark sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "Great. Just great. So we're basically stuck here with nowhere to go?"
"You can go and sleep in another player's room or your coach's. I don't care." Jaemin simply shrugged, still drying his hair with the towel, completely unfazed. "Not much I can do about it, Lee. Either we wait and deal with it ‘till they find you another place, or you go out there and find yourself a motel. It doesn't matter to me."
"And why the hell would I be the one to leave?" Mark scoffed. "Why don't you look for another place to crash?"
Jaemin smirked, but there was something sharper beneath it this time. "Well, you did win Adelaide, right?" he said, voice smooth but laced with something that made Mark's jaw tighten. "Maybe you should be the one with better connections."
"What the fuck are you implying right now?"
Jaemin didn't flinch at the sharp edge in Mark's voice. If anything, his smirk only deepened, eyes glinting with something almost challenging. Mark felt his patience thinning.
"Nothing," Jaemin said, tilting his head slightly. "But you know? You're kinda like the golden boy right now. Everyone loves a winner. I'm sure if you called around, someone would be so happy to accommodate you. Maybe even eager."
Mark's eyes narrowed instantly. "The fuck is that supposed to mean?"
"Exactly what I said. Having trouble understanding, Lee? Do you want me to spell it out?"
Mark scoffed, crossing his arms. "You're unbelievable."
"Is that the only adjective in your vocabulary?"
"Can you shut up now?" Mark exhaled sharply and turned away, grabbing his phone off the nightstand. "Fine. I will make some calls."
Jaemin let out a small, amused breath. "Be my guest."
Mark ignored him and quickly pulled up his contacts, dialing the number of his coach first. The line rang. Once, twice, three times before going to voicemail. That old man was probably sleeping already. He tried another number—one of the head tournament organizers he was on good terms with. No answer.
Jaemin watched him from where he stood, arms crossed. "No luck?"
Mark shot him a glare before trying one last number—his agent. It went straight to voicemail.
He lowered the phone, inhaling deeply. The room felt too warm all of a sudden, and the sight of Jaemin standing there, still half-dressed with his damp skin peeking out from beneath the hem of his shirt, only made it worse.
"So?" Jaemin prompted, arching a brow.
Mark exhaled through his nose.
"You know," Jaemin turned slightly to the dresser. "For someone who had the whole first Grand Slam party reception revolving around him, you sure didn't seem to enjoy it much. If you'd actually learn how to relax from time to time maybe you would've had a better time."
"Like you enjoyed it?" Mark narrowed his eyes. "Everyone could see and sense your shit humor the entire night, dude. You didn't even talk with anyone, not even me. If I need to learn how to relax, then you need to learn to be a little more mature than that. So grow the fuck up Jaemin."
Jaemin's movements stilled for half a second before he let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. "Oh, so that's what this is about."
"What now?" Mark scoffed.
Jaemin turned back to him fully now, his smirk fading into something a little more unreadable. "The fact that you love knowing I'm watching you. That's what pissed you off, right? That I didn't give you my attention tonight like everyone else?"
Mark laughed as if Jaemin had just told him the best joke in the world, and to be very honest, that might have been the case. "Let's be real dude," he said. "Between you and me, you're the one who thrives off attention. Don't project your issues onto me."
"So why are you so worked up about the fact that I didn't talk to you tonight?" Jaemin stepped closer slightly, but just enough for Mark to smell the lingering scent of his own soap on the other man's body. His voice was quieter this time, but no less sharp. "Careful, Lee. If anyone hears the things you're saying they might think we're friends. Or worse—that you like and want my approval."
"You're literally insane," Mark let out a humorless laugh. "All I'm saying is that you were acting like a baby silking in the corner all night. That's very mature of you, for sure."
"So I didn't talk to you because I was sulking? Over what—Adelaide?"
Mark didn't answer, but the way his jaw tightened was enough of a response.
Jaemin's lips quirked, but there was no amusement in it now. "You think I care that much about a pre-season tournament? That I actually believe you winning an ATP 250 means anything? Wake up, Lee. That's not even a Master."
"Right. So you implying that I have connections to win a simple 250 was nothing, just a hallucination of my mind."
Jaemin's gaze didn't waver. "If the shoe fits."
"You really want to go there, uh?" Mark took a step forward, anger flashing in his eyes. "Do you know what I think?" he asked, voice even but firm. "That you can't stand losing. Especially for me. Because you're insecure like that, and that's proof that I'm better than you." Neither of them moved. Neither of them looked away. So Mark continued. "Because I'm better than you and you know it."
Mark held Jaemin's gaze, the air between them thick and charged. He really hated how the tension between them was shifting into something else entirely.
Jaemin's smirk faltered for a moment, but it was enough for Mark to see the flicker of something beneath it—irritation, frustration, maybe even something deeper. Something uglier.
Then Jaemin took a step forward, closing the already small gap between them, and Mark could feel him—the warmth radiating off his skin, the scent of soap and clean sweat lingering in the air between them. Jaemin's hair was still damp, the strands at his temples clinging slightly to his skin. His shirt, already sticking to the parts of his body that hadn't dried completely, did little to hide the sharp lines of his frame.
Mark was suddenly very aware of how close they were, how Jaemin's towel was still hanging precariously low on his hips. He was keenly aware of all of it.
Jaemin tilted his head slightly, his voice was lower now, more controlled when he spoke again. "Say that again."
Mark didn't move—he wouldn't move. But he did what had been asked. Proudly.
"I said," he repeated, slow and deliberate. "I'm better than you."
Jaemin huffed out something that wasn't quite a laugh or anything else, his eyes locked onto Mark's with a sharpness that sent something electric down his spine. "Funny," Jaemin murmured, gaze flicking down to the lower part of Mark's face for the briefest second before snapping back to his eyes. "Because last I checked, I'm the one who finished last season at number one."
Mark felt his pulse hammering against his ribs, but he didn't let it show. Didn't let himself flinch. He stood his ground, jaw tight, muscles coiled, heart pounding.
The heat between them wasn't just from Jaemin's post-shower warmth anymore. It was something else. Something charged, something angry, something sharp enough to cut deep and draw blood.
Mark could hear his own breathing, steady but measured. He could feel Jaemin's too, close enough that their exhales mingled in the thick air between them. He should step back. Should break the stare-off and put some distance between them before things tipped too far into whatever the hell this was becoming. A fistfight, a blood match, or even worse.
But he didn't.
And that was definitely Mark's biggest life mistake.
The silence between them stretched, deafening and heavier than the quiet on court before a serve. The space between them was laughable, barely there, and yet neither of them moved to close it or took a step away. They were like two magnets, drawing closer and closer until the inevitable collision.
Jaemin's gaze flickered again, darting down just once before lifting at Mark's eyes. His lips parted slightly like he was going to speak, but he didn't.
Neither did Mark.
Because before he could second-guess it—before he could even think—Jaemin moved. Or maybe he did. Maybe they both did at the same time. But right now they were kissing.
The impact of their lips was hard enough to bruise, a force of a thousand spinning tornados. Jaemin's hands fisted to Mark's waist, pulling him in like it was a reflex and Mark barely had time to process it before his own fingers found Jaemin's hair, grabbing his locks with the same force he would grab his racquet on a decisive game.
It wasn't soft. Wasn't careful.
At first, it was all teeth and frustration—anger that had been simmering between them for years bleeding into something just as violent, but different. Something dangerous and reckless, something that neither of them had the control to stop. It was as if both of them were trying to beat each other as they had done many times before at the tennis court.
Their lips crashed with a force that sent a sharp bolt of something electric down Mark's spine. The pressure was almost painful as if they were trying to consume each other. Jaemin tasted like adrenaline and a hint of mint. Toothpaste, maybe. It was a mix that left Mark reeling.
Jaemin bit down on Mark's lower lip, sharp enough to sting, and the taste of metal hit Mark's tongue. It was like biting into a penny, strong and overpowering. The aftermath of a fight. Mark's hands slid down Jaemin's sides, feeling the damp fabric clinging to overheated skin. Jaemin's towel shifted slightly at the movement, making something twist hot and heavy in Mark's gut.
Jaemin's nails scratched against the back of Mark's neck, his fingers curling into the short hairs there, and Mark groaned into his mouth, pushing in harder, chasing something that he didn't know he was looking for or had the words for.
The silence in the room was gone. Their breaths turned into gasps when their tongues touched it. The wet sounds of their lips smacking together echoed like a battle cry. It was a thunderclap, the clash of two opposing forces colliding in a burst of radioactive energy. Erratic breaths and little nonsense noises filled the space between them.
So that was it.
Mark was really doing this. He was kissing Na Jaemin and showing no sign of stopping.
Jaemin's hands moved from Mark's neck to his bare back and Mark felt a tingling sensation, like static electricity, coursing through his entire body as Jaemin's small, short nails dug into his skin as if trying to penetrate it to hold Mark's muscles and bones.
They started moving blindly. Or Jaemin started to move and took Mark with him. Mark tried to steady himself but Jaemin was just as eager, hands gripping Mark's back and pulling him forward with desperate urgency.
They bumped into the dresser, the sharp edge digging into Mark's side, but the impact was barely registered as Mark's hand found their way to Jaemin's chest, his fingers digging and twisting into the fabric of Jaemin's shirt trying to pull him closer, as if the laws of physics didn't exist and the act was impossible at that moment.
They knocked into one of the side tables next, the lamp wobbling dangerously but they didn't stop—couldn't stop. Their feet tripped over the carpet causing them to tumble forward. In one swift motion, Jaemin shoved Mark backward, sending him directly into the middle of the bed with a startled grunt. The force of it sent Mark's body sprawling into the white sheets.
Jaemin's breath was heavy and his face was red when he spoke again, "You started this."
Mark's chest rose and fell at a rapid pace as he lifted his torso, supporting the weight of his body on both elbows. "Did I? Or were you the one who couldn't keep your mouth shut and your sticky hands to yourself?"
Jaemin stood between Mark's legs, hands hanging at his waist, as he watched Mark in bed in silence.
"What now?" Mark asked, feeling extremely exposed even if he was only shirtless right now.
"Nothing," Jaemin responded after one second, one minute, or one year—Mark really wouldn't be able to give the right answer even if he was asked, his mind was all foggy right now. "You just made quite a view spread like this in my bed."
" My bed, you mean," Mark corrected him.
Jaemin hummed, a slow smile playing on his lips as he climbed onto the bed, one knee on either side of Mark's body pressing hard into the soft sheets. "Details," he murmured as he caged Mark's head between his arms.
As Jaemin shifted, the knot of the towel around his waist came undone. Mark looked down and watched as the cloth opened a small gap in Jaemin's crotch. But he couldn't see any further than that as the towel hadn't completely slipped off Jaemin's body. Not yet at least. But right now any sudden move by Jaemin would be enough to expose him in front of Mark.
"So let me get this straight," Jaemin's body was hovering over Mark's and there was a wild look in his eyes that Mark couldn't read. "You admitted you kissed me to shut me up?"
Mark's hands clutch the sheets beneath him, itching to tear holes in it, because even now in the absurdity of their situation, Jaemin wanted to win over him.
His knuckles turned white from the force of it he was creasing the white fabric. It was that or punching Jaemin in the face. And no matter how much he wanted Jaemin to kiss his fists, how much he wanted to hurt him and feel like he's won, Mark needed his hands to play next week.
So yeah, no punches for him.
"I didn't kiss you," he said through his teeth instead. "It was you who kissed me."
Jaemin was closer now, chest to chest, warmth against warmth. His lips hovered above Mark's as their breath mingled, and there was something darker in his gaze. Even more than before, if that was possible.
And then, instead of answering Mark with another tease or annoying remark, Jaemin used his lips to attack Mark's neck.
Mark's reaction was instant. He threw his head back to make more room for Jaemin, whose lips kissed his way from Mark's collarbone to his left nipple. He gave it an experimental lick at the light brown areola that made Mark arch his back to be closer to him.
It was at that moment that Mark's realization hit him. The weight of the situation invaded Mark's mind and he was sure he was about to hook up with Jaemin.
Of all eight billion people in the entire world, Jaemin. Na Jaemin.
Fuck, he really was going to have sex with his biggest rival. Now. In this hotel room.
He shouldn't.
He knows he shouldn't. He knows he should stop it right now while they still have time, while they haven't gone all the way through. Mark knows that. Mark's supposed to be the rational one between them. He's the one who takes responsibility like a real and mature adult should and not like Jaemin's brat ways.
So of course he knows he shouldn't.
But the problem is, right now, he wants to.
Yeah, fuck it.
He wants to have sex with Jaemin. Now. In this hotel room.
Besides, his dick didn't seem to mind whatever shit show his thoughts are up to since Mark was starting to get hard. And maybe he wasn't quite ready to verbalize anything about the current situation going on to anyone—not even Jaemin—today or for the rest of his life, but the truth is that Mark wouldn't be able to want this if it wasn't what they both wanted.
It takes two to tango.
And judging by the way Jaemin's licks on his nipple turned into an insistent sucking, Mark was convinced that they were on the same page for the first time in their lives.
So fuck it. He was doing this.
"Good?" Jaemin asked after Mark let out a small whine.
"Shut up."
In retaliation for Mark's words, Jaemin bit down on the nipple he was sucking, taking the tip between his teeth and pulling it as he wiggled and twisted the other with his fingers.
Mark's head was spinning, chest heavy, breath uneasy, and toes curling. The burn of Jaemin's teeth as he pinched and pulled his nipple was hotter than the Australian summer heat. Mark could sense his skin pulsing, swollen and he could bet that it was red as fuck too.
Jaemin pulled his mouth away, licking his lips and giving the still-wet nipple one last flick with his tongue before switching to the other one. Mark felt an extreme chill when the AC air touched the skin abandoned covered in Jaemin's hot saliva. He wanted to hate Jaemin for it—the teasing, the undeniable pleasure, the way Jaemin's mouth made his body shiver—but the truth was, he was far from wanting to stop.
Jaemin lifted his head again and the sight Mark saw was definitely something. Jaemin was red from the nose to the chin. His lips were puffy and shiny. There was spit running down from his chin towards his neck. The million eyelashes in Jaemin's eyes cast a shadow on his full, slightly rosy cheeks. The glint in his eyes was a mix of something that seemed cruel and complicit at the same time.
Mark should definitely do something about it, but he can only close his eyes and gasp, biting his lower lip until it goes numb. He felt, in that moment, that he had lost this round.
"Still want me to shut up?" Jaemin's thick voice was slightly hoarse as he turned to Mark.
"I…" Mark didn't know exactly what to say. He swallowed hard and stared at Jaemin, drunk at the sight his eyes were giving him. He waited for his brain to come out of its jelly-like state but it wasn't working. "I…Just—"
"Just what?" Jaemin asked, seemingly amused by Mark's inebriated state.
Mark took a deep breath and tried again. "Just… Stop talking."
"As you wish, Your Majesty," Jaemin mocked and then pulled away from Mark, bending his knees to sit on his legs.
If Mark were anyone else and Jaemin were anyone else too, he would probably have complained about the act and the distance at a moment like this, after Jaemin had made Mark's breathing stagger. But Jaemin was still Jaemin, and Mark was still Mark. So he didn't say anything to make it easier for the next tease to leave Jaemin's mouth—because it certainly would come.
Besides, the moment Jaemin sat down on Mark's legs, the fluffy towel that was still covering him finally gave way and slipped down Jaemin's hips, leaving him exposed for Mark to see his half-hard erection. And that… That was certainly more interesting.
Jaemin didn't seem to be bothered by his own situation or the fact that Mark was staring at his cock as if it were part of the menu from the gala dinner they had attended earlier that evening. Typical. He was an exhibitionist after all.
His tone sounded proud when he asked, "What do you want then?"
It doesn't take a genius to figure out what exactly he was waiting for. From now on, Jaemin would want Mark to ask to be touched, or even beg—Mark wouldn't doubt Jaemin's level of sadism. He probably wants Mark to stroke his ego enough that it makes up for losing Adelaide and the favoritism over the first Grand Slam.
The worst part of it? Mark's core screams at him to do it. It's been too damn long since he had this and Jaemin's bullshit was kinda turning him on, strangely. He wanted to open his mouth to deliver the sweet talk that would get him blown out. And yet, his pride prevents that from happening. After all, that's what Mark had now, his pride. Or so he thought.
Jaemin let the silence stretch between them, his dark eyes locked onto Mark's face, waiting. His index finger tugged on Mark's belt loop, casual yet demanding. Mark could feel every point of contact of Jaemin's ass and legs through his jeans, making his body tighten with anticipation.
Still, he didn't speak.
Jaemin clicked his tongue, shaking his head as if Mark were some stubborn child refusing to admit he wanted dessert.
"Nothing to say, huh?" his voice was low drawl, thick with amusement, but there was something else beneath it, something hotter, more insistent. He shifted slightly, the movement making his already half-hard cock brush against Mark's low stomach, "Or are you just waiting for me to get tired of asking?"
If Mark wasn't so overstimulated right now to think straight, he would say it wasn't just pride keeping him silent—it was the goddamn principle of it. If he gave in, if he said what Jaemin wanted to hear, then he would be admitting something big, even if he wasn't sure yet what this something meant. He would be giving Jaemin more power too, more than he already had. And Mark had spent his whole career until now fighting for control, refusing to let anyone dictate his pace to claw his way to the top—a place where Jaemin was born and raised.
Jaemin leaned in again, close enough that Mark could feel his breath against his lips. His fingers trailed up Mark's bare arms, slow and teasing, digging in just enough to make Mark's skin burn with frustration.
"Come on, Markie," the nickname was mockery, but it sent a sharp pulse of heat straight through Mark’s veins.
"Don't call me that."
"It’s your name. Or do you prefer something else?" Jaemin tilted his head, eyes gleaming dangerously, and Mark knew there would be an explosion ahead. "Let's see," Jaemin's fingers kept moving—tracing lazy patterns down Mark's arms, then his sides, barely there but enough to set off the time bomb inside Mark. "Darling?"
Mark swallowed hard. "Shut up."
"You're not very good at asking nicely," Jaemin huffed a small laugh, lips brushing the corner of Mark's mouth. "What about sweetheart?"
Mark closed his eyes, the heat between them was getting unbearable.
"Am I close, angel?" Jaemin tried again and Mark's stomach squirmed for the thousandth time.
"Ew. Just—shut up."
"Cold. Okay, got it." Jaemin dragged his lips along Mark's jaw until he reached the lobe of his left ear, which he sucked like a popsicle before asking: "What about ‘baby’?"
That did it.
Mark's dick perked up immediately at the teasing and the pet name. He snapped, hands shooting out to grab Jaemin's hips, pulling him flush against him. Jaemin barely had time to smirk one more time before Mark crushed their mouths together in a messy, desperate kiss, all teeth again and pent-up aggression.
Jaemin fingers threaded into Mark's locks, tugging hard enough to make him gasp. "Now, was that so hard?" he murmured against Mark's lips, his own curling into something wicked. "You know, it's okay to admit I won, that you want my attention. Tonight’s events were the proof we needed."
"I ain't admitting shit." Mark gets defensive even though Jaemin technically was right due to hormones and the fact that Mark was getting cock-high.
"Oh baby, but I think you are."
"You know I still fucking hate you, right?"
Jaemin shifted again, pressing their bodies together, his breath heavy against Mark's jaw. "That's okay because I hate you too," he murmured, voice dripping with venom. "But you know what? Your little secret is safe with me, baby. If you want something, you should just say it. I wouldn't kiss and tell."
Mark clenched his teeth. He refused to give Jaemin the satisfaction of hearing it, but his body was already betraying him—his breathing unsteady, his grip too tight.
Jaemin smirked. "That's what I thought."
And then, without another word, Jaemin grabbed Mark's waist and turned him onto his stomach, leaving Mark's hard-on pressed against the soft mattress as he tried to ignore the swooping feeling that comes with being manhandled.
Jaemin tugged Mark's jeans and boxes off and now Mark could feel Jaemin's erection against his thighs for milliseconds before it disappeared again and Jaemin's hot breath began to tickle his lower back.
"Are you clean?"
"What?" Mark's voice was more air than sound as he expressed his confusion.
"Just fuck answer me."
Mark swallowed hard, heart pounding against his ribs, but he managed to let out a breathless reply after one or two tries. "Yeah, yeah. I am."
"Great," Jaemin left a kiss and a bite on one of Mark's ass cheeks. "Because I don't have lube, so this has to do it."
That was all the warning Mark got before Jaemin grabbed his ass with both hands and pulled it apart to lick his hole.
Mark buried his face in the pillow trying not to combust as he felt Jaemin pull away for a moment—just enough to take a deep breath and leave a hickey on Mark's skin. And then, another lick.
Mark grasped, the shock shooting up through his spine like an electric current. Jaemin didn't waste time, holding Mark firmly in place, hands grounding his hips against the mattress as Mark choked on his first real moan of the night, when he felt Jaemin push the tip of his tongue inside him, his hot mouth was working with precision like he knew exactly how to make him fall apart.
"Shit," Mark breathed out, his voice wrecked with pleasure. His brain felt like jelly, like cotton, as if a billion tennis balls had been stuffed into his brain and melted into a disgusting mush. His fingers clawed at the sheets, knuckles turning white as his body arched into the sensation. "Shit. Fuck. Fuck."
Jaemin pulled away again and nibbled on Mark's ass. "All good, baby?" He asked breathlessly.
He didn't wait for an answer before getting back to work, gripping Mark's things tighter to keep him spread, licking his hole, and sucking and biting off any piece of free skin he found—leaving Mark on the verge of losing control.
Mark had to admit, he had never been handled this way, so roughly, so dirty. He's usually always in control of any situation, even in bed—the speed, the pressure, the rhythm. But Jaemin doesn't even give him a chance to lay down the rules. Mark didn't even know he'd have his ass eaten tonight, nor could he have imagined that he'd be underneath Jaemin, at his mercy. He didn't even know Jaemin was gay until a few hours ago, for God's sake.
But it's…exciting.
Jaemin squeezed Mark's ass with both hands to give him enough time to collect saliva in his mouth and then pour it into Mark's hole. Then, Mark heard an unmistakable sucking sound and turned his head over his shoulder to find Jaemin sucking on his own fingers, spreading his spit all over it. Mark propped himself up on bent elbows as Jaemin slipped one finger inside him. It had been so long since Mark had felt the sensation of fingers inside him other than his own. It's fucking marvelous.
Jaemin worked patiently, sliding in the first one with ease before moving it in and out slowly. Mark's body tense up for a moment, trying to adjust to the intrusion.
"Relax, baby," Jaemin murmured against the warm skin of Mark's thigh, his voice rough and low—both an encouragement and a promise.
Mark let his head fall down on the pillow again, face buried in the scent of the hotel's fabric softener, muscles unraveling into an involuntary shiver. He was far from being inexperienced, but the way Jaemin did it—with no room for hesitation—plus their hate history, made everything more intense.
When the second finger slipped in, Mark pressed his hips deeper into the mattress. Jaemin remained meticulous, moving in and out in a torturous rhythm, twisting slightly two or three times, mapping out every inch inside him.
Jaemin muttered something in Korean behind him that Mark didn't quite understand and couldn't even try if he wanted. He only spoke Korean with his parents back home in Canada, and dirty sex talk wasn't a vocal occurrence between them. Mark groaned in response and Jaemin chuckled, he knew how terrible Mark's Korea could be.
Mark felt more saliva drip onto him before a third finger slid in alongside the others, stretching him even more. He grasped, and the only reason his thighs didn't start trembling was because he was a professional athlete with inhumane resistance to normal standards. Jaemin kept the pace, alternating between thrusting his fingers and twisting them.
"You're doing good, baby," Jaemin whispered, feeling the resistance fade, Mark's body opening up for him naturally. "I'll give you something even better in no time if you keep being this good."
"Just hurry the fuck up," Mark said and started pushing back against Jaemin's fingers, seeking more. "Or I may come before that."
"Always so fucking nice and polite when asking for something," Jaemin stated.
Mark felt the mattress become lighter as Jaemin's weight was lifted. He turned over on his stomach in time to watch Jaemin take off his t-shirt by pulling it through the back collar as he walked over to rummage through something in a suitcase.
He made his way back to the bed while opening a condom with his teeth. "Lucky for you, I don't really like the dry ones."
Jaemin climbed back onto the bed, settling between Mark's spread legs. He rolled the latex around his hard cock and stroked it a few times, rubbing lube all over it. He ran his hands up the back of Mark's thighs squeezing the firm muscles before pushing them further apart.
"You look fucking perfect like this, did you know?" Jaemin murmured, his voice thick with lust as he let his cock press against Mark's entrance. "Just like this—pliant and spread out under me."
Mark let out a frustrated sound, "Quit teasing and fuck me already."
"So you did learn how to ask for the things you want after all," Jaemin gripped Mark's hips tightly and didn't leave room for Mark to defend himself. Again, typical—he wanted to have the last word as always, no matter what.
But at least Jaemin's narcissistic ways didn't let Mark wait any longer. With one hand guiding himself Jaemin pressed in slowly, the head of his cock slipping past the tight resistance of Mark's asshole.
Mark sucked in a sharp breath, fingers gripping the sheets as Jaemin stretched him open, inch by inch. The burn was there, but so was the overwhelming sensation of fullness, of Jaemin sinking deeper, filling him completely.
"Fuck," Jaemin groaned or Mark groaned or they groaned together once Jaemin's was all the way in.
He gave Mark time to adjust until he exhaled shakily, body shuddering around Jaemin. "Move," he ordered, voice rough with need.
Jaemin didn't need to be told twice. He pulled back slightly before thrusting forward again, setting a slow, deliberate pace at first. The sensation was intense and uncomfortable for a second before melting into something ridiculously good.
When Mark started rocking back to meet his thrusts, desperate for more, Jaemin's control snapped. His grip on Mark's hips tightened and he picked up the pace, driving into him harder, deeper, pulling breathy, whiny moans and broken curses from Mark's lips.
The room filled with the sound of slick skin meeting and the air turned salty. Jaemin leaned over and kissed Mark, mouth open. It was a wet, messy thing Mark could get addicted to if he wasn't careful enough.
Jaemin licked his mouth, his jaw, his neck, and collarbones. With his lips pressed against Mark's ear, he murmured, "You're taking me so well baby," punctuating his words with sharp thrusts that had Mark gasping. "Feels good, doesn't it?"
Mark knew what Jaemin was trying to do, again—make him admit it out loud. But right now he could barely form a coherent thought, let alone a sentence to reply to Jaemin. All he could do was moan loudly, lost in the overwhelming pleasure. Being cock-dumb also had its advantages if they were not to hand victory to Jaemin.
Jaemin's hands were everywhere. In his face, arms, thighs, chest. His hips slam into Mark's with a bruising force as he sucks his neck passionately. And it feels good, it feels so fucking good. But he can't let Jaemin know that. Or, Mark doesn't want him to know that.
Jaemin can probably tell how good he's feeling by the way his back arches off the bed, the way he clenches his eyes and throws his head back on the pillow, the way his mouth is shaped itself into a perfect 'o', the way his moans are getting louder and louder, the way his legs are tightening around his waist.
Jaemin's hair falls into his face and Mark pushes it out the way, running his hand through the strands before using his grip to yank Jaemin forward to another kiss, even if he's too breathless to kiss properly.
After a few more thrusts, Jaemin closed his fist on Mark’s dick, stroking at a furious and delicious speed.
It wasn't soft. Wasn't careful.
But again, nothing about what they are and represent to each other was ever soft or careful. Nothing about Mark and Jaemin has ever been gentle and caring. It's always been backhanded remarks and hurtful taunts. Furious looks on and off the court. Words of hatred stuck in their throats because it's impolite to cause such a visceral scene of hatred in a sport like tennis, even if their relationship demanded such things.
So maybe this was the only scenario they could finally be themselves, in that hotel room, in that bed, with their bodies clinging to each other. It was, in some way and at some level, liberating.
When Mark cums, his entire body locks up—his legs wrapping around Jaemin's waist to pull him closer, nails clawing up his back before moving to Jaemin's hair, pulling at the short strands with all his strength.
Jaemin pounds Mark through his orgasm, not bothering to slow down to let him recover. That would be too generous, Mark supposes. He remains relentless, hips snapping forward steadfast, using Mark's own pleasure sensitivity against him.
Yes, it's too much. Yes, it's overwhelming. But Mark doesn't tell him to stop. Doesn't want him to.
Mark's body jerks each time Jaemin buries himself to the hilt, overstimulation twisting into something dangerously delightful and intoxicating. It makes sense, their relationship is based on insults and hatred, not exactly grounds for lovemaking. Jaemin's fingers dig into Mark's waist, his grip bruising as he leans down, pressing open-mouthed kisses against Mark's throat. He bites down just enough to make Mark gasp, then mutters more unintelligible nonsense in Korean against Mark's skin— a curse, maybe a plea.
Mark is barely holding on but Jaemin is determined to push him further, to see just how much more he can take. It's a dangerous thing, this pull between them. It always had been. Destructive in ways neither of them can fully comprehend. But when Jaemin shudders, groaning deep in his throat as he finally reaches his peak, Mark can't bring himself to care.
Jaemin's body collapses on top of Mark, the weight pinning him down until he moves to lie down next to him. Neither of them speaks. The only sound filling the room is from them trying to catch their breaths, harsh and uneven.
Mark's fingers remain tangled in Jaemin's hair, weaker this time. He could push him away—should push him away. Instead, he lets Jaemin stay.
The room smells of sweat and something undefinable that Mark can tell now is Jaemin. He should get up, take a shower, and say something to make what happened less real. But he doesn't move, and neither does Jaemin.
Instead, Mark feels the weight of Jaemin's body against his, the damp hair—now with sweat—brushing against his collarbone. He hated the fact that Jaemin was comfortable enough to stay there. He hated even more the fact that he couldn't muster the strength to send him away or be the one who left.
Mark stares at the ceiling, body warm and head cloudy. He can feel every inch of Jaemin's warm body next to him, too close, as if it were all normal. As if they were normal. As if all this hadn't been a colossal mistake.
Because it was a mistake. Right?
Of course, it was. They acted in the heat of the moment and got carried away.
Mark swallows dryly, closing his eyes for a second. He feels every point of contact between their bodies, every trace of what they've just done clinging to his skin, and the truth seeps into his thoughts like a miscalculated blow.
It was a mistake but there's no one to blame here. They were both grown-ups and aware of their own actions. If Mark really needed to accuse someone, he would probably accuse himself.
It was him.
Mark did it because he wanted to.
When he wakes up tomorrow and has to be accountable to his own conscience, he will make his case saying it was a technical error, like the unforced ones that happen in tennis when he sends the ball wide, misses the timing of the stroke, chooses the wrong shot—not because he was forced to, but because he failed on his own in something that could have been avoided if he had wanted to, if he had tried.
Mark has always hated making that kind of mistake.
But now, lying there, with Jaemin still by his side and the night clinging to their skin, he realizes that if he were to go back in time, he would do it all over again.
And that's what scares him the most.