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There are things that everyone knows about Daniel Cleaver. He's built up somewhat of a reputation for himself in certain circles at Cambridge.
Daniel is a womaniser - a playboy through and through. He's unwaveringly confident, often crossing the line into being overtly arrogant, and he's entirely unashamed. He relishes in the effect he has on people, in the attraction and irritation he causes in equal measure.
Mark would probably find him more aggravating if he weren't so bloody fond of him.
But there are other things, too. Things about Daniel that only Mark knows.
Daniel practically has people throwing themselves at his feet. He never has to ask for what he wants – not when it's being handed to him so easily.
But Mark knows better.
Because Mark knows that almost as soon as he gets a cock inside him, Daniel practically falls apart. Mark knows Daniel isn't above pleading with him when he gets needy – when he's delirious from it all, desperately whining and begging for it, for him, for more.
He's loud, too – makes the most whorish noises when Mark fucks into him, shameless and wanton, as if he's forgotten the walls aren't soundproof, as if he doesn't even care. Once, after one evening spent shagging in Mark's dorm instead of Daniel's, one of Mark's flatmates asked him if he'd had a girl over the night before. Mark recalled the details – one of his hands gripping Daniel's hip hard enough to bruise, keeping him in his place as he fucked into him; the other clenched tightly in his soft hair, holding him down against the mattress; the obscene sound of skin against skin; Daniel practically screaming for him, barely muffled by his biting the pillow – and might have laughed if he were slightly less mortified.
A good half of the university's female population, Mark would guess, most likely knows what Daniel looks like when he comes. His slack-jawed expression coupled with the way he squeezes his eyes shut are, in all likelihood, relatively common knowledge for a good portion of the young women studying at Cambridge.
Mark, personally, finds it a uniquely beautiful look on him.
But only Mark knows what Daniel looks like with his mouth filled with dick. He knows the hollowing of his cheeks, knows the debauched, wet choking sounds he makes, spluttering as he tries not to gag when the tip hits the back of his throat.
Mark knows what Daniel's face looks like after he comes on it – knows how the mix of saliva and come shines on his cherry-red lips, knows how Daniel's eyes flutter closed when Mark's come hits his perfectly handsome face. Breathtaking.
Mark is the only person who knows what Daniel looks like when he pushes into him – when the thick head of Mark's cock breaches the tight heat of his arse. He knows the way that Daniel's breathing stutters, halts, as if his lungs had stopped. He knows how Daniel looks up at him, blue eyes gazing upwards through long eyelashes, like some ridiculously gorgeous porn star, immaculately-styled hair spread out over the pillow, soft brown against white sheets.
Mark knows the little sound Daniel makes when he finally bottoms out inside of him. He has it all committed to memory: the shudder that runs through Daniel's body, and the way he tips his head back, lets out a shaky little sigh, contented, like he's finally complete.
There's something remarkable about these tiny moments – the rare, quiet seconds in-between. Daniel smiles at him, and it's unlike any of his other smiles. It's warm, tender, lacking a certain sharpness that's usually there, a distinctive brashness he carries with him.
Vulnerable. Soft around the edges.
If Mark didn't know any better, he might say that Daniel almost looked as if he loved him.
And then, just like that, the smile is gone, and Daniel is back to grinning his wolfish little grin, cheeky and teasing. He pushes his hips back and up against Mark's, pressing insistently up into the point where their bodies connect.
Daniel's voice comes out breathless, laughing.
"Come on, then, Darce."