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When he was a child, Mark's nights of rest were filled with nothing but the blank, dark void of unconsciousness. He was very playful and adventurous, often outside daydreaming during all parts of the day. Every waking moment was spent picking grass blades, chatting with the boy next door about spelling tests along with what their fathers did for work, and drawing. When his mother demanded he came back inside the house and eat dinner with the family, he would always begrudgingly do so. And at night, when she tucked him into bed in his brother's old bedroom, he would fall asleep with a stuffed bear tucked under his arm. But he didn't dream of anything at all.
His twenties hit him before he had properly had the opportunity to ponder why he did not dream. Things changed fast. His father passed away when he was fifteen; he started turning his grief into art at seventeen and at nineteen he had stolen a stack of bills from his mother's safe and left their rural home for the city. Mark didn't blame himself for his father's death, but caring for his mother was harrowing. He loved her as much as a child could adore their mother, but he was still just that: a child. He knew that his brother would come home from college to be with her, anyway.
At twenty-one, Mark's sleep was still dreamless. Empty. An abyss. On some nights, he felt like he was sinking. Being swallowed whole by an infinite being he knew nothing about. His single mattress in the middle of a run down studio apartment didn't help, but neither did his childhood bed. There was no furniture in the apartment aside from a table and chair. Instead, the floor was littered with art supplies. Oil paints, graphite pencils and charcoal. Globs of paint were left on the floor, neglected to be cleaned or even acknowledged.
He had many canvases scattered around, the sizes varying and the contents amounting to either as much as a stylized landscape of the view from his smudged window or as little as a few drops of paint against a stark white background. One particularly large canvas was perched on top of the easel with a hole punched through its center. Creativity ebbed and flowed through him—on some days he possessed the vigor of a rabbit, able to finish a piece in one afternoon. On others, he found himself filled with frustration. The kind of boiling rage that bubbled over the surface and caused him to break things.
At twenty-four, the world was devoid of colour. Picking up the paintbrush felt like a chore. A dizzying, cloying numbness loomed over him like a shadow whenever he thought about painting. He would sit cross-legged on the mattress, his old linen button down shirt dangling from the broadness of his shoulders. Dried paint scorned the off-white fabric. Mark's eyes were red and raw. Since August second, days had bled together; fatefully intertwined. Sometimes he didn't even notice when he drifted between the realm of sleep and the waking world.
With a grunt, his back hit the mattress and he squeezed his eyes shut. The sting tingled, but it was hardly enough for him to care. His arms fell limp against the messed up sheets of his bed, still as tiny and depressing as it was three years ago. The light that filtered in through the windows burned his eyes briefly before the darkness consumed him. The problem with his dreamless sleep was that his thoughts didn't ever stop or manifest into a visual representation of something. Everything continued as normal, just as it did when he was awake.
When his mind melted into unconsciousness this time at around two thirty-five in the afternoon, something else waited for him.
His eyes opened slowly, finding themselves fixed onto the ceiling. The very same ceiling that he had stared at every morning and every night for three years. Sheets rustled as he moved to sit up, head throbbing with an ache that wasn't quite tangible. His mattress was off of the ground, which meant that he wasn't in his apartment—he couldn't be. The canvases that had previously been destroyed in a fit of defeated frustration were restored and they hung neatly on the walls. Everything had a halo-like glow to it, which made Mark unable to tell if there was something wrong with his eyes or not.
He hadn't noticed it immediately, but another person accompanied him within the apartment. A person he didn't know. In the past four years Mark had only seen his mother, his brother, his aunt and a kid called Jisung who worked at the local bakery, so not knowing the man's identity wasn't much of a shock.
Mark inhaled sharply, his teeth sinking into the cracked, dry skin of his lower lip. The man was nude, graced with an incredibly smooth and lush tanned complexion that showed off no flaws. His shoulders were dotted with freckles and moles and they had a pleasant curve to them that made Mark's gaze sweep across them like hills. His proportions were golden, no limb was too long or short. Mark felt his fingers tighten and curl, pinching the fabric of his trousers between them in an attempt to restrain himself. Something sinister slithered through Mark's body: a want, or rather need, waking within him like something that had been slumbering for his whole life.
The man's legs were the truest form of excellence. His thighs were round, probably soft to the touch and his behind was pert. His calves, his thighs, his hips and especially his very exposed and very erect cock made Mark grind his teeth together in a manner that shocked even himself.
"Mark." The man's voice was sweet, his head turning so that Mark could properly take him in. His hair was brown, a few shades darker than his skin, and was loosely permed. It curled around his ears and over his forehead just so. Purposeful. Angelic.
"Angel." Mark stammered breathlessly, as if the man had stolen it and whisked it away wickedly. His voice was rough and scratchy, its timbre reaching the man and making him smirk. "You're an angel."
Like tinkling bells, the angel's laugh rang in Mark's ear. It echoed over and over again and on his late father's grave, Mark swore he would hear that titter forever. Angel's pink, plush lips stretched into a smile. A little tender but a little mean. His eyelids were droopy, almost sleepy, and his lashes curved slightly at their ends.
"You do know how to make me blush." Angel's cheeks were flushed, but the hue of pink seemed natural and had little to do with Mark's bewildered and bewitched ramblings. His nose sat perfectly in the center of his symmetrical face. Kissable, Mark thought. Biteable, too.
On his cheek, three dark brown moles dotted in a triangle. While it was the only part of Angel that wasn't completely aligned and symmetrical, they were flawless in their own right. Mark's mouth ached. He could imagine how Angel's soft skin would give way to his teeth if he pressed firmly enough. If he were aggressive enough.
Angel's brown gaze was soft but dismissive. Not quite judgemental but clearly not agreeable, either. Mark remembered what he had gone to sleep wearing. He looked a mess.
Mark hastily pulled his shirt back up his shoulders and coughed, popping the buttons closed disjointedly which caused the shirt to ride upward. His embarrassment made Angel snort, the first properly crass thing he had done thus far.
"What are you doing?" Angel's gaze fixed upon Mark as if he were an insignificant insect to be disdained by. His question lingered in the air for a short moment, its existence obscured by how hot Mark felt from Angel's indifference. He had never felt his body blaze with attraction and something a little bit twisted before.
"I'm… Sorry." Mark sputtered his apology out pathetically, like a crying dog.
Angel's footsteps were light against the wooded floor, his flawless feet moving as if they were choreographed in a ballet. He glided forward to rest a hand against Mark's shoulder. His fingers squeezed the skin and muscle beneath the shirt. Shamefully, Mark's half-hard erection throbbed in response.
"You don't need to worry." Cooed Angel. His fingers shifted, their hold still very firm, until they reached Mark's neck and then his chin. A light push guided Mark's head to lull backwards so that their heated looks could finally meet. "You don't need to wear your clothes here." His voice was soft, never higher than a gentle whisper.
Mark's throat went horridly dry and a need to gasp for air washed over him. Like he was drowning in the ocean and the gorgeous man before him was a siren who pulled him deeper and deeper downwards. And maybe he'd be willing to drown if that had been the reality and Angel willed him to.
Angel's other hand reached out to cup the back of Mark's neck and the hand that had been holding his chin moved to share its warmth with Mark's cheek. He had leaned down slightly, bringing their faces together. The ache in Mark throbbed painfully the closer Angel got to him. His lips fell open, but no words or sounds could fall out. It felt like Angel had cut out his tongue.
Their lips were only a few inches apart, an agonizing distance when all Mark had desired to do was snatch Angel by the wrist and bite him, bruise him and love him. The glowing scene around them seemed to pause, and time slowed.
Angel's eyes flickered down to Mark's dry lips and back up again. He laughed, pulling his head back cruelly.
Mark had every thought in his mind to plead and beg for just one kiss. Just one more touch. Angel's fingers dug into his skin and he hissed. The pain was somehow so strong and dizzying that it made Mark's eyes squeeze shut.
When Mark opened his eyes again, he was staring up at the ceiling. His fingers twitched at his sides. Cold. Everything was cold. He sat up so fast that his head immediately began to spin. The room was still the same. Covered with failure and regret. If what he saw hadn't been reality, then there was only one explanation for what it could be. A dream. His first real dream was of a smooth-skinned, doll-eyed songbird that threatened with his actions alone to tear out Mark's heart and eat it.
He could still feel his erection in his trousers and he still felt breathless. Gasping for air did little to extinguish the raging flame in him. He hadn't even gotten a name from Angel. Just looks and touches that still threatened to burn him alive.
Beyond the wreckage of his previously destroyed canvases sat a pristine portrait canvas that was blank. A clean slate. It stood among the destruction like a white swan in black waters. A saving grace. An angel, even.
Like a man possessed, he scrambled off of the mattress and confidently strode towards the waiting canvas. His mind had previously been filled with nothing but static, an empty portrait of an abyss. One that made him feel hopeless. The artist block wasn't something Mark was unfamiliar with, but now that his night had been blessed by the angelic figure—he felt that his creativity would never run dry again. An ever-flowing fount of originality.
His hair had become entirely wrecked with some strands sticking up awkwardly at the back of his head. His eyes were still raw with sleep and his shirt still hung off of his shoulders as if it were desperately trying to escape, but only one thing—one person—was in Mark's mind. Nothing else mattered anymore.
🎨
He could feel his body shake, his fingertips twitched and quivered as they grazed the sketched out lines. By hour thirty-seven, and yes they had been consecutive, Mark had burned every curve and line and shape into his mind. He scarred himself with it like it was his only reason for living. It was so ingrained into him that when he closed his eyes the figure was there, taunting him. It was like a possession, a fierce power that grabbed and held tight to his whole body. Bewitched by beauty, ensnared by wickedness but entirely uncaring in it all. Even when his eyes screamed for rest and even when his stomach growled in protest, Mark simply couldn't cease what he was doing.
His hands were dusted with charcoal and pencil shavings, staining his fingertips black so thoroughly that it even crawled under his nails like an infection. The canvas was no longer blank and longing to be something, now it served its purpose. It held Angel's figure in its center, his entire body on display just as it had been in Mark's dream. From the droopy shape of his eyes to the plumpness of his thighs and ass, the entirety of Angel's body was captured in drawing form. His face was shaded with grey hues, because although Mark had longed to paint all of the heavenly colours that graced Angel's body, his hands itched to start drawing desperately and reserved no time to waste on paint mixing.
The sound of a knock from the front door echoed throughout the apartment, but Mark refused to move. Whoever it was, they could either wait or come back later. It couldn't be anything important, because what he was doing was the most important thing on Earth.
"Mark? Are you home?" The gentle, dulcet tone of Mark's good friend Jeno slipped through the cracks of the door and squirmed their way into the apartment to greet Mark. It somehow snapped him out of his stupor enough to blink three times and shuffle away from the canvas. The drawing wasn't finished, but Mark found it hard to ignore Jeno. For the past three years and even for a little longer, Jeno had been Mark's anchor throughout the bleakness that painted its way over Mark's life.
Mark shoved himself forward and he stumbled to his feet. His knees were weak as if he had forgotten how to stand, since he had spent most of his time on the floor or on his chair whilst constructing the portrait. He pressed his hands flat against the door to steady himself, bracing for what was likely to be a rather uncomfortable conversation as soon as he opened the door to see Jeno. His hand felt sweaty around the doorknob as he twisted it until it clicked.
Jeno's sweet, glossy eyes appeared round and concerned as soon as the door glided open. "Mark?" His voice was small and filled with concern. Rightfully so, because Mark's apartment looked as though a steam train had ran through it. "You haven't been outside in a few days, is everything alright? Renjun missed you at the bar."
Mark sniffed in response, his bloodshot eyes squinting as he stared back at Jeno. He knew who Renjun was, naturally, since he had known Renjun for many years. For whatever reason, though, Mark could not picture Renjun's face in his mind. Whenever he tried, and he had attempted to do so three separate times, an image of the figure from his dreams appeared instead.
"Sorry," Mark croaked, his throat raw and extremely sore from the hours he had spent awake either in complete silence or screaming into his mattress as he tried to remember the minute details of his new muse. "I got side tracked with something else."
Jeno looked past Mark's disheveled figure to peer at the state of the apartment. Black smudges stained the floor and wall near the canvas Mark had been working on along with small and used blocks of charcoal and snapped pencils. He stepped closer to garner a proper look at the artwork. As if he was mesmerized by it, Jeno's fingers reached up to graze the smudged lines of the muse's face. Jeno's fingers were calloused and imperfect, likely due to his profession of playing the violin, but the figure he was staring at was entirely the opposite of him. Perfect in every way.
"Who is this?" Jeno asked.
"He's my new muse." Mark's tone was defensive, perhaps oddly so in Jeno's eyes because the way his eyebrows furrowed with confusion made it clear that Mark may have overreacted. "I saw him." Hearing himself talk made him physically cringe like a wounded animal. The judgment on Jeno's face was not a secret, and it made Mark feel freakish.
"Really?" Jeno was cautious when choosing his next words, afraid of saying the wrong thing to Mark. He rubbed his fingers together, the charcoal on them smudging even further to taint his fingertips. "…Where? I don't recognize him from anywhere in town." Jeno's eyes didn't leave the canvas.
Mark wished that he had met Angel in real life. Perhaps he'd be a singer or a dancer at the local bar, his voice was lush enough to lull the masses into mania just like he had done to Mark in the span of one evening. Or perhaps he'd be a normal citizen doing a job away from the stage, much like Mark's good friend Chenle did. Either possibility was little more than fantasy, though. Had Angel been real, Mark's hands could sink into his flesh and leave their scars behind as proof to the world that a beautiful man was taken.
But that wasn't his reality, as sickening as that truth was.
"I saw him in a dream." Mark said. He moved to pick up the pieces of the broken pencils on the ground, the jagged edges of wood and lead scratching his hands.
Jeno chose not to speak. Mark was thankful for that because the embarrassment that crawled up his body burned him. Shame swallowed the numb feelings that had conquered him for weeks and months, but shame felt better than emptiness. And the deep, overpowering desire he had to see more of his muse was far greater than any shame could be. Even if Jeno did nervously stare at him as if he had grown two heads.
"I stopped by to ask if you wanted to go out again tonight." Jeno finally turned away from the drawing to face Mark, eyes still slightly narrowed with concern and brows still creased.
"Out? But it's only Thursday, Jen." Mark's palms felt wet with hot sweat, yet oddly shaky and unsure. The circles beneath his eyes were deep and his face was sullen with tiredness.
"Mark…" Jeno stepped over a smashed canvas to stand in front of the plain wall that hung two things side by side. The first was Mark's first ever portrait that he had made in school. It was flawed and the paint was chipped, his old sketch lines unsure and the colours off from what he could recall of the reference. Even still, he treasured the piece. The day he had brought it home, his father had lectured him and asked why he could put effort into art but not into what would be considered 'worthwhile studies' like business or mathematics. He remembered not being able to give an answer, nor could he look his father in the eyes. The portrait remained an impaired reminder of the path he had chosen when he left home.
Beside it, sat his calendar, loosely hung by a weak thread. The page stated yesterday's date on it, and Jeno lifted his fingers up to rip the page clean off to reveal the correct date beneath it. "It's Friday, we always go out on Fridays." Jeno continued, his neck craning to flash Mark a cheeky grin. Typically they found themselves downtown on Wednesday and Friday nights, and Jeno would drink until he felt silly. He'd often whine at Mark like a dog, woes tumbling from his pink lips like a melody. Not as sweet as Mark's muse, though.
Going out was less of a hobby and more of a ritual. Bottles, the smell of liquor and drunken flirting with whoever he was with distracted him from monotonous evenings that were spent painting commissions. Bland portraits and landscapes that were objectively beautiful but felt passionless and muted. The want to create was a fire within him that once burned bright and unpredictably within his chest but now dwindled and flickered with uncertainty.
Mark didn't want to go out tonight, didn't want to drown in his feelings and have his lungs ache and sputter from a lack of air. He wanted nothing more than to stay inside and draw his muse, fill every wall and empty space with Angel's face and body. He wanted to dream of wicked things involving the two of them. Most of all, though, he wanted to touch someone's body and feel their warmth and see the same intense feeling in Angel's eyes that he felt in his whole body just from one dream—one moment in time that simultaneously healed him and scathed him.
"Do you really want to go out again?"
"It's not like you to be like that!" Mused Jeno, mirth brightening up his face and forgetting where concern once sullied it. His shoes scuffed the hardwood floor as he moved closer to squeeze Mark's shoulders. "But I have to admit, and excuse my language, you do look like a damn mess."
Mark nodded his head, defeated. He couldn't disagree with Jeno, because he felt like a mess as well. Completely lost but also completely and mindlessly joyous. Invigorated with a purpose he hadn't felt in years. "Sorry, we can go out on Sunday to make up for it." Mark muttered, his words weak and drowsy.
Jeno made a sound of disappointment, but he ended up agreeing. There was little else to be said. Mark couldn't even bring himself to care when Jeno left, nor could he even make out what the words he was saying were. His vision blurred, the hours he had spent awake catching up with him and grabbing him by the neck to choke him and force him down to sleep. Reality melted away, waiting on a dream.
🎨
Angel stood by the wall when Mark's eyes next opened, looking out the window with something akin to boredom. The window was open, pulling in a soft breeze that pushed the waves of Angel's hair back ever so slightly. His fingertips drummed on the surface of the window, making a flat tune that resembled something Mark had heard on the radio just that morning. Bright white light was flooding in though the glass, gracing the muse's tanned face with its purity.
"You're awake." He observed, looking over his shoulder to peer at Mark's body that laid on the mattress tangled with soft sheets. "I was beginning to think that you were avoiding me." His pout curved his pink lips, giving them a rounder appearance. The sharp lines of his cupid's bow were highlighted by the glow from the window which accentuated the shape of his mouth. Round at the lower lip where his pout was but sharp at the top lip, and both were covered with a thin sheen of pink that caused Mark to subconsciously bite his own lip.
"Never." Mark replied, sitting up and wincing at the way his spine clicked with discomfort. The feeling was so real that it was hard to believe that he was dreaming, but the glowing halo effect that covered the room proved otherwise. "I was simply appreciating you during all of the hours I was awake."
"I know." Tittered the muse, his pout stretching into a cat-like smirk. His droopy eyes fluttered as they pointedly looked towards the canvas, which was now the lone artwork in the room. "Is that supposed to be me?" He asked, voice teasing but also filled with intention. The intention to instigate something, clearly.
"It isn't finished." Mark replied. His eyes never left Angel's face, taking in the way his face morphed and changed through his expressions like he was studying it. A silent promise to never forget any crucial part of Angel's face no matter the circumstance. "I didn't get the proper chance to understand the shapes of your body, Angel."
Delighted by what he was hearing, the muse stepped forward to reach Mark's side. "You can call me Donghyuck." He said. He crouched down to Mark's level and smiled, still graceful despite his cruel edge. The desire to string Mark along like a dog on a leash was blatant, but Mark had a different idea of how the events would unfold. "And this time, you should be very thorough with your research if you want to flatter me with a nice painting." He paused, his eyes shifting to something sly. A knowing look that showed that he was very aware of what he was doing to Mark. "Or several paintings, perhaps?"
"You're prettier when you don't talk."
"Is that right? Perhaps you should shut me up, then. This is your dream, isn't it?" If it were Mark's dream, he struggled to understand why he felt so powerless to Donghyuck's wiles. Temptation stained him after the very first touch, as teasing and as light as it had been.
Mark's hand, shaky and unsure, lifted to cup Donghyuck's jaw. The skin beneath him was tender and plush. Donghyuck looked him in the eye, the round sweep of his eyelids mesmerizing and dreamy. The browns of his eyes were soft, but the twisted emotion within them were anything but. While Mark was blinded by infatuation, Donghyuck seemed as though he thrived from the obsessiveness Mark had been plagued with.
Donghyuck guided Mark carefully, thorough rather than shy, so that they were close enough to kiss. Mark's fingers curled and gently pushed into Donghyuck's skin, just to watch the way the bouncy, soft surface dipped like dimples on his otherwise flawless body. It made him throb and Donghyuck could certainly tell.
"Kiss me, Mark, don't hesitate." His words were silky and laced with a kind of toxicity that beckoned Mark closer and closer. Their parted mouths met gently, one careful and one waiting, before Donghyuck experimentally licked Mark's lips. He brushed their tongues together, and Mark tasted something irresistible. The pace became faster as they each grew more feverish and Mark felt confidence and need take hold of his movements. Their lips slotted together wetly as they sucked and nipped at one another. Mark's teeth held onto Donghyuck's lower lip and bit down hard enough to coax a sudden gasp straight from Donghyuck's throat.
Sinking his teeth into the flesh tasting metal on his tongue gave Mark a high he was sure he could never ever come down from. The rush shocked him just as much as it had shocked Donghyuck, who quickly became pliant in Mark's grasp.
"Oh, Mark." Whimpered Donghyuck, his cheeks dusted with red the same way that the light from a sunset would sweep across the land. The apples of his cheeks felt pain as Mark squeezed and pinched at his face in helpless fascination. Fingernail crescents and print marks were left on Donghyuck's face and neck, the pure skin tainted by Mark's touch.
"Is it okay?" Mark asked, dragging his mouth down Donghyuck's throat and threatening to bite him. His fingers found themselves threaded through the curls of Donghyuck's fluffy hair. One hand kept Donghyuck's head in place, tilted at just the perfect angle so that Mark could ravish his neck and naked shoulders, while his other moved to massage Donghyuck's waist. To map out his entire body through touch in the hopes of reflecting it onto a canvas that he could stare at during all hours of the day. "I can be gentler if you want."
"No," Donghyuck's tone was breathy, a heavenly sound that gently caressed his ears. Though he was gentle, Mark knew the streak of slyness still rested within him. Of all kinds of people Mark could have dreamed up and weaved together, it had to be Donghyuck. His sharp words contrasted with the squeaks of pain and jagged, deep breaths he heaved in as Mark squeezed every inch of his body and kissed up and down his neck. "Don't be gentler, Mark, I need it harder." Donghyuck crashed their lips back together once again and sighed into Mark's mouth.
"Donghyuck…"
"Call me Angel."
"Fuck, Angel." Mark grunted as Donghyuck clambered on top of him and pulled at the fabric of his shirt with such aggression that it ripped off cleanly. Their kisses had become sloppy and uneven, a whirlwind of dizzying passion and addiction. Saliva stringed its bridge between their mouths whenever they'd part, and the remnants would slick Donghyuck's permanently glossy lips.
"I've never met anybody as beautiful as you before." Panted Mark, blood and spit painting the inside of his mouth.
"I know." Donghyuck murmured, leaning in so close that their noses pressed together. His fingers snaked down to pinch Mark's nipples between them and tug at them gingerly. "You're obsessed with me, I saw it when you first looked at me. Virgin eyes and all."
Mark scoffed, the sound coming out choked because of how adamant Donghyuck was in pinching his nipples. "Is that what you think I am?"
"My pure virgin painter." Donghyuck crooned. He grinned slowly; meanly.
Mark didn't attempt to stop himself from surging forward to bite Donghyuck's bicep. It was the closest thing he could latch onto, the skin curving and fitting into his mouth as he dug his teeth in and sucked. The heat in his stomach pulsed like fire, with each honey-spiked word from Donghyuck's sweet mouth fanning it to grow hotter.
"God!" Donghyuck yelped, the noise ripping from his throat.
"Yours?" Mark grunted against Donghyuck's skin, grinding their hips together slowly. The friction made his breath hitch while the fabric of his trousers brushed up against Donghyuck's bare crotch.
"Of course," Donghyuck replied, his head falling back slightly. "You are mine, but I'm not yours. Aren't I just a fantasy? Something you can pretend to own?"
Mark hissed, scathing truths he didn't want to hear. "I'm going to fuck you." He groaned, his hand stuffed down his trousers to try and push them downward. The fabric scraped across his thighs and his erection hard enough to make him hiss. "You won't have anything to say once I'm done with you."
Donghyuck laughed, weak and breathless but still filled with fiery need to challenge Mark. To take him apart and put him back together again with his words and actions. And Mark certainly was falling apart. "Is that what you think? Go ahead, then, try."
They fumbled with the remaining scraps of Mark's clothing before they were back against the lone mattress, beside white sheets that smelled of cotton and the lingering traces of Mark's body. Donghyuck sat on top of his thighs, staring down at him as if he were both insignificant and the only thing one could desire. His lips parted and his eyes raked up Mark's body—calculating and appreciative—before he finally decided that he liked what he saw. Or that what he saw was good enough, at least.
Donghyuck leaned down, the movement hypnotic and elegant rather than clumsy. Practiced, almost. His elbow rested at Mark's side and they stared at each other for a prolonged period of time. Mark didn't dare to blink, afraid that if he did Donghyuck might disappear entirely. That he might wake up and remember what reality was. The very thought made him feel sick.
Rhythmic and slow, Donghyuck's head tilted down to kiss down Mark's chest and abdomen. His cherished lips worshiped the skin like it was what they were made for. Perhaps that's what Donghyuck's purpose was, even in spite of his own words. His bottom lip dragged against the heated skin of Mark's stomach and he pressed his tongue against the surface before slowly dragging it up. He made a performance of doing it repeatedly until Mark's chest was covered with hickies and saliva.
Mark's head tilted back against the pillow and he sighed, the twisted passion almost knocked out of him from how Donghyuck commanded the energy between them. He slowed the pace right down and controlled Mark's movements like a puppeteer.
Mark ached, his whole body craved Donghyuck in ways that felt inhumane and crazed.
"Fuck me." Whispered Donghyuck, his eyes dark as he peered up at Mark through his lashes.
With his fingers sinking into Donghyuck's flesh, Mark pulled him into place. Donghyuck wasn't uninvitingly tight or gapingly loose, but was warm and snug like he was hand made for Mark's pleasure. When Mark pushed in, unprotected, he felt himself whine alongside Donghyuck—whose hole tightened and relaxed quickly.
The room around them blurred as soon as Donghyuck became the one to move. He shifted himself up and down, slowly at first but he soon found a fast pace that made them both stagger and splutter. Each time he slammed himself back down onto Mark's dick was more uneven and aggressive than the last. Mark barely had the thought to focus on the actual movement of Donghyuck sliding himself in and out of him because he was too focused on Donghyuck's face.
His lips, bitten and swollen and bleeding from their earlier kisses, were apart and allowing sounds to tumble out of them. The apples of his cheeks were flushed and the deep, hot scarlet traveled to his nose and the tips of his ears. His eyes struggled to stay open, the crease in his brow dipping with every roll of his hips. At one point, Mark watched the sweet brown irises cross and nearly unite in the middle. Hazed with pleasure, they both moaned. A duet that Mark never wanted to end.
He longed to paint this, to capture the unraveled state that Donghyuck became the more he moved. He intended to, he had to.
"I'm close…!"
A soft chuckle came from Donghyuck, the sound dampened by his breathlessness. His fingers gripped the mattress tightly to prop himself up as he stopped moving entirely.
Mark's eyes opened slowly, panting slightly still. "Why did you—"
"You don't deserve to come yet." Said Donghyuck, who loomed over him like a cat. Too pleased, slightly cruel but wholly beautiful.
"Why not?"
"I don't think you appreciate me enough." The words sounded scornful, though Donghyuck's tone was light and airy. Almost soft enough to fly away with the wind. It felt like a slap to Mark's face, right across his cheek, and it stung. "I want you to think about me more, paint me more and talk about me more. Make everything you ever do related to me."
"I already do."
"You should do it better then, hm?"
Mark had the temptation to beg, to plead for Donghyuck to let him get off. But he knew it would be fruitless. Donghyuck had more power over him than anything else on the planet. He sighed, a helpless squeak being drawn out of him when Donghyuck pulled off of him only to tease him with slow movements. He circled his hips carefully around Mark's before stopping. He'd stop and start, brutally fraying the loose threads of any dignity Mark had left.
Donghyuck didn't stop teasing him, either. He edged Mark and denied his orgasm until the dream world felt blurry and heavy. Only then did Donghyuck lean down to brush his lips against Mark's cheek. A kiss goodbye. But Mark knew he had to suffer in the waking world without Donghyuck, and the muse would never have that problem. He wouldn't exist, so he wouldn't have to spend hours thinking about Mark. If he were real, would he even? Mark's thoughts blurred together and all he could do was rest his head against the mattress and feel the familiar throb of him waking up.
Once more, his unconsciousness slipped away. The moment was fleeting, even if Mark wished that it would last forever.
🎨
Between claustrophobic clusters of people, the overwhelming smell of booze and cigarettes as well as the sleazy, loud and drunken laughs—Mark had always felt a little out of place in the bar. He wasn't much one for idle chatter with strangers or drunken flirting and half-hearted hookups. Before Donghyuck, nights out usually consisted of himself, Jeno and sometimes Renjun curled around a tiny table near the back of the bar. They always stayed away from the action, if possible, because the three of them only drank their sorrows away. Not an uncommon way to spend the evening by any means but for Mark, alcohol was a means to an end.
He drank just to feel something, to try and ignite feeling in his otherwise numbed mind. Typically the best it could do for him was spark trivial joy in conversations that would usually bore him. It allowed him to giggle alongside Jeno at something that, admittedly, was never really that funny. But that was all.
Mark stared at the full glass, the branding of the beer etched into its surface. He hadn't even taken a sip yet, it didn't beckon him the way it used to. His companions, on the other hand, were already down a glass each.
Renjun, who had been slightly frigid with Mark since their arrival, sighed as he clinked the empty glass on the table. The top rim of the glass had smearing stains of lip gloss, a soft rouge sheen that imprinted itself in a few separate places from where Renjun had lifted the glass to his lips. "I'm just wondering why he would say all of that and then still buy me a drink afterwards!" He complained, his cheeks flushed already and his usually gentle voice firmer and louder.
Jeno laughed from Mark's other side. "Maybe he felt bad?" He suggested, pulling his wallet out from his pocket in preparation to buy another round of drinks for the three of them. "I'd feel bad, too, you're beautiful, Jun."
"Flattery doesn't go a long way with me, you promised to buy the next round, Jeno."
"You're no fun."
"Mark," Renjun clicked his tongue loud enough to bring Mark back to their conversation. He looked unimpressed, but he had done the entire night so far. Mark couldn't exactly figure out why. "You haven't even touched your beer, the guy at the bar paid good money for that!"
"By all means, you drink it then. I don't have the appetite for booze tonight, anyway."
"More for me." Jeno shrugged. He reached for the glass, only for Renjun to smack his hand away and take the drink for himself.
"What's made you so holier-than-thou lately, anyway?" Renjun arched an eyebrow quizzically.
"Possibly because of his imaginary boyfriend." Jeno pretended to whisper, as if he was sharing a scandalizing secret, but his breath was hot and loud in Mark's ear which made his frown.
"Imaginary boyfriend? We aren't twelve, are we?" Renjun's gaze was pointed, as if to scrutinize the truth from Mark without even asking it from him.
"He is not my imaginary boyfriend. Neither of you would understand." Mark felt his lips twitch, not just in frustration or annoyance but in genuine anger. What could the two of them know about Donghyuck?
He had spent every waking hour for the past week thinking about Donghyuck. Painting him, writing about him and talking about him. He couldn't stop, and he didn't want to stop. The voice in his head that domineered every thought about Donghyuck commanded that he do everything. On the nights where he would fall asleep and not meet with Donghyuck, he felt empty. During the day, he'd write and draw and paint in a desperate attempt to bring his dreams to life. To humanize Donghyuck even if he never could truly be in the same room as Mark. Consciousness became Mark's sworn enemy that he could never quite conquer. Even within his dreams, he was always conscious enough to desire Donghyuck; to need him.
Donghyuck always laughed in his face in a manner that was both sweet and poisonous in the same breath. At night, Donghyuck physically controlled him. Every kiss, every sexual act and every word that ever left Mark's throat. Because although Mark wanted to humanize Donghyuck during the day, at night he had a sick and powerful desire to own him. And he felt as if it was very much intentional on Donghyuck's part. A wicked power that rendered Mark helpless to needing Donghyuck to function.
"It's all you ever talk about." Jeno said, shifting with discomfort.
"Because he's important," Insisted Mark. The shame that lingered in the pit of his stomach that defended a man who did not exist was ignored. "He matters the most to me."
Renjun and Jeno shared a look across the table. Though they had both already drank enough to be tipsy, the overall discomfort that Mark brought with him was obvious. He missed Donghyuck all over again, which was something he found himself doing a lot on this particular night out. Donghyuck would laugh, but he would never judge.
"Maybe Mark should buy the drinks this time." Said Renjun, his tongue poking at his cheek as he looked at Mark with an apprehensive glower.
Mark pushed his chair back, the squeal of the legs against the floor making all three of them cringe slightly. "Alright." He agreed.
Large crowds of people blocked the path between him and the wooden counter of the bar. Mark found himself sighing as he pushed past people. His shoulders collided with a few bodies who were too drunk to even realize what was happening. The warm light of the bar bathed over their faces as they talked loudly to one another. Flushed cheeks, thick alcoholic smells and sweat. Was this the life that Mark had led before Donghyuck?
His hands came to rest on the sticky, wooded surface of the bar itself and he felt himself subconsciously suck in a breath. The overall atmosphere of of the place was far more overwhelming than Mark remembered it being. Pensively, he wondered what Donghyuck would be like in a place like this. Perhaps he would be boisterous and loud, filled with energy and the epitome of electrifying sunshine. Or maybe he'd be quiet, like Mark was, and would prefer to duck into the shadows and enjoy the atmosphere from afar. To watch people as he sipped cider and cracked jokes.
The words that left his own mouth towards the aged barkeeper sounded like static, heavy on his tongue and practically falling from his mouth. It felt like his feet weren't touching the ground. He glanced to his left and saw a vision from his dreams. Donghyuck, dressed in typical evening attire and looking like he belonged. He was handsome. There was no halo effect that glistened over his flawless skin, just weak lights from above the bar that washed over his face in amber hues. His cheeks were flushed and one still had three moles dotted across it. Nothing about him had changed from the dream. His permed hair was still fluffy, his lips were still pink and glossy and his eyes still held mischief within them.
He seemed tangible, as well, his figure real and not wispy around the edges. Like if Mark reached out to touch him, he wouldn't vanish. The sound of glass scraping against wood was lost on Mark's ears when Donghyuck lifted his head to meet their eyes. He smiled, just the way he always did when they were together in Mark's fantasies. Donghyuck's features were sharp and masculine, but the sweetness in his eyes was softened and kind.
"You're beautiful." Breathed Mark, his lip quivering.
"Really?" Donghyuck look startled, his eyebrows twitching in a way Mark had never seen before. His body slid closer, their height difference not major but noticeable, and grinned. "Thank you." The smile was shy, unsure even. That was unlike the Donghyuck from Mark's dreams, whose audacity ruled the very existence of Mark's mind.
Mark shook his head and blinked a few times. The mirage of Donghyuck fluttered away like sand in the wind, leaving behind a different person entirely. The man was pretty, very kind looking and somewhat nervous to be complimented. Immediately, Mark averted his gaze down to the two glasses before him. One filled with beer and the other filled with whiskey. The vision of Donghyuck had been little more than his mind playing tricks on him.
He bowed his head apologetically to the pretty man. "Sorry," his voice croaked out sheepishly and somewhat embarrassed, "I thought that you were somebody else." The man recoiled as if he had been struck and he, too, muttered an apology before shuffling away back into the crowd of people. Mark's grip on the two glasses tightened painfully and he pulled a face. He missed Donghyuck, which was blatant enough, but when had he started to see Donghyuck in other people? Was everything that he lived for now related to Donghyuck?
The answer was yes, and he had reached it with alarmingly calm acceptance.
🎨
By the time that the evening had drawn to a close, Mark was exhausted from having to usher a drunk Renjun and Jeno back to their respective homes safely. He had tried not to drink, but it was hard to deny Jeno's pleading sparkly eyes when he had practically beg for Mark to have at least one glass. He was still mostly sober, but stumbled back into his apartment anyway due to his tiredness.
Most days were exhausting enough between his work and painting portraits of Donghyuck, but he was usually able to push though to the evenings with little worry. Whenever the nights would roll around, though, the exhaustion would always settle in his bones. It happened every evening without fail.
"Hi, Hyuck." He mumbled as he walked further into the apartment, shutting the door and clicking the lock behind him. Mark shrugged his jacket off of his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor as he stepped across it. He stopped in front of the easel that sat in the center of the room. He had traded all of the broken canvases for different sized portraits of Donghyuck. The latest one was his favorite, but he felt that about every single new piece he completed.
The canvas was tall, the charcoal portrait depicting Donghyuck by the window. A subtle breeze ruffled Donghyuck's curls and it pushed the curtains to obscure one of his smooth legs. He had his chin propped on his fist, which rested against the ledge of the window as he stared out of it pensively.
"I missed you." Mark moved to trace the edges of the canvas with his index finger, his gaze firmly on the portrait's face. Every detail that Mark had taken the time to learn was painstakingly replicated on the canvas. "I hope you missed me, too."
In his dreams it was never quite clear whether Donghyuck liked Mark with the same intensity that Mark showed him. It was hard to know, especially with the limited time they spent with one another. Part of Mark always assumed that Donghyuck would be sweeter in real life, a little bit of sugar to soothe the sting of his teasingly mean words. But Mark liked the brat he saw in Donghyuck, too.
He leaned in, closer to the flat center of the portrait where the lines and curves of Donghyuck's face resided and he brushed his lips over it slowly. For a brief moment, he was able to imagine the warmth of Donghyuck's skin against his mouth. It was too short lived, however, as he was reminded that Donghyuck couldn't be here with him just a moment later. A curse, truly.
"Donghyuck…" Mark's fingers trailed down the canvas board and fell against his own body. Something hot began to stir in him, something that he had been thinking about all night. The heat was familiar, a longing that tingled deep within his stomach. Not a want, but a need.
His palm pressed up against his crotch, squeezing through his trousers. His eyes never left the portrait of Donghyuck, as if it were central to the universe. The only object that mattered, since it was Donghyuck's only manifestation in the world. The button of his trousers popped open smoothly and he pulled the fabric down, along with his underwear, until it slid down his thighs and thudded against the floor.
His length throbbed, needing the warmth that only his own hand could provide in consciousness—though he wished the hand belonged to somebody else. When his eyes fluttered shut, he could imagine it like it was real. Mark's hand gripped the base of his dick and pumped slowly. His hands were slightly bigger than Donghyuck's were, but if he could ignore that minute detail…
"Hyuck…" Mark breathed out slowly, his hand carefully stroking himself. He thought about what Donghyuck might say. Would he call Mark handsome or pathetic? Or perhaps both? "I need to be inside of you," He whispered, voice shaky as he ignited pleasure from his own hand. "I need you inside of me."
His whimper went no further than the canvas sat in front of him. Donghyuck's image didn't even look him in the eye. Mark lifted his free hand to pull his shirt open and pinch his left nipple harshly, digging the nails of his index finger and thumb into his skin to mimic the nip of Donghyuck's teeth. It was a poor attempt, but it did arouse him further.
His hips rocked slowly as he thrust into his hand, it's temperature not too different from Donghyuck's hole. He wasn't beyond imagining things, because that was all he could do when he wasn't asleep these days. Fantasize about Donghyuck being with him. "God…" He continued, feeling his knees buckle slightly beneath him. "Does that feel good?" His voice was raspy and his eyes stung slightly with tears. He knew nobody would respond.
"Please," Mark's entire body tensed as he reached his orgasm, but he couldn't bring himself to actually do it, his fingers holding the base of his cock in a tight vice grip. "I need to come, please."
He sank to the floor in front of the portrait, his knees clunking against the hardwood. The shirt he wore had slid down his arms—practically forgotten—while his hand shifted from his wet erection, to the tears on his cheek. "I need you here, with me. Please." Mark wasn't entirely sure who he was begging to because Donghyuck most likely couldn't hear him and even if he did, there wasn't anything to be done to bring that fantasy to life. A fabricated person who, no matter how much Mark pleaded and wept, could never do anything more than make Mark feel alive at night and torture his mind during the day.
Because Donghyuck never could be human.
Mark shifted back until he found his mattress and laid his back flat against it. His hand rested on his hip and he could feel his neglected dick thud along with his heartbeat. The haze of arousal bathed the dark room in an odd light. The window was still open, the curtains parted to allow the moonlight to share its glow with the portrait at the very center of the room. Donghyuck was handsome, pretty and most of all he was Mark's. Nobody else could ever have him the way Mark did, after all.
That thought was enough for Mark to rock himself into his hand and orgasm. Cum spurted onto his chest and onto the sheets, and a moan erupted from his throat. His hand, which had also caught the mess of his release on it, slipped lower still. Past his length and around to his own hole. He had to shift his body to graze over the tight expanse properly. With his skin still warm from his previous movements, Mark willed himself to push his finger inside. It made him wince and groan, his hole too tight and inexperienced.
He tried to stretch himself out with unsure movements, but the sting was too sharp and his fingers were too dry.
"Fuck." He cursed softly, relenting almost immediately. He longed to feel Donghyuck inside of him just as much as he longed to be inside of Donghyuck. Everything in his life was about his muse, now. When his eyes closed he could see Donghyuck in the darkness. A helpless, addictive yearning to have Donghyuck, to be with him.
The room sang with silence, only Mark's jagged breathing could slice its tranquility. His gaze rested on the portrait that shone in the brilliance of the moonlight, and then it fell to the other paintings that were scattered around the room. Each one was of Donghyuck, from loose pencil sketches in his notebooks to large sprawling artworks where every colour seamlessly bled into one another to form its vision. His muse. Each gorgeous angle was better than the last, every waking thought fueled another twitch of his hand that led to more artwork.
Relatively speaking, this was the most productive year he had ever had for making art. And it was all thanks to his muse. To his Donghyuck.
"I love you." When Mark's eyes fluttered closed and his hand fell to his side, he felt at peace.
🎨
"Do you miss me like I miss you?" Mark's hand was firmly pressed against the naked skin of Donghyuck's hip as they laid side by side, facing one another.
Donghyuck was a vision of handsomeness and beauty in everything he did, which was all he was supposed to be. But he had managed to be far more than that, in some horrid way. A creature that delighted on Mark's obsession. A powerful Thing that manifested itself from Mark's deepest wishes. Detached but always there when Mark slipped out of consciousness.
"I think about you." Donghyuck chose to say instead, his eyes half-lidded. The depths of his stare was filled with something a little bit wicked. A familiar look; one that had Mark's breath caught in his throat each time he saw it.
"But do you miss me?"
Donghyuck wouldn't answer. Instead, his hand trailed up Mark's torso to cup the tender curve of Mark's jaw. The pad of Donghyuck's thumb pressed against the chapped, cracked skin of Mark's lip—caressing the seam between the top and bottom. It demanded entry, possibly to stop Mark from speaking. Reluctantly, Mark opened his mouth and accepted the digit. He felt it press against his tongue and all he could do was suckle on it.
"You're so good to me, Mark." Donghyuck mused, his voice silky with an air of condescension to it. His thumb rubbed slow circles around Mark's tongue. "You think about me every day, you paint me, you write for me and you always do exactly as I say." He retracted his thumb from Mark's mouth finally, smearing saliva over the corners of Mark's lips and his chin. "You're truly devoted to me."
"I love you." Mark's voice cracked but his words were firm, intense in a way that he could only be had he meant those words with certainty.
Delight painted its way across Donghyuck's face beautifully. He was sure of everything, like he knew that things would always go the way he wanted no matter what. In a sense, he was right. He ruled Mark through the night and the day. Wholeheartedly. "You love me? Are you sure?" He asked, breath fanning against Mark's lips. Their mouths connected for a chaste kiss. "That's quite a statement."
Mark's fingers squeezed Donghyuck's hip, his nails digging in very gently. His muse didn't even flinch. "I'm sure." The question of whether his feelings were reciprocated rested on his tongue before falling back down his throat and hiding in his stomach shamefully.
The next few kisses were harder and more feverish, Donghyuck's fingers curling around the back of Mark's neck as he beckoned him impossibly closer. Their bare bodies pressed together resolutely, as if they were trying to merge together as one. With each nibble, nip and lick, Mark could feel arousal ignite in him again. He chased Donghyuck's mouth every time he threatened to move slightly away. Always left wanting more and always teased for it. His addiction and obsession only burned brighter alongside the hotness of his desire.
Donghyuck certainly noticed.
"You're hard." He said against Mark's mouth, his free hand trailing down to palm Mark's growing erection. His hand wrapped around so that he could stroke the length from base to tip, so gentle yet so obvious.
"I've been thinking about having you all day." Replied Mark, his brows pinching together and his eyes fluttering shut in response to the delicate touch from Donghyuck's hands.
"Aren't you precious." Donghyuck cooed, planting one final sweetened kiss on Mark's lips before he shifted to sit directly in between Mark's legs. "Pretty, too, so pretty."
His head dipped down, arching his back in a hypnotic curve that Mark traced with his eyes. It was a pose for him to sketch as soon as he woke up. Donghyuck's tongue licked a slow stripe up the side of Mark's dick, teasing the crown and the slit with the very tip of his tongue.
"Hyuck!" Mark gasped. The way Donghyuck's lips stretched over the tip of Mark's erection made him whine, his hips twitching upwards in spite of himself. Donghyuck gagged at the sudden movement as Mark's dick surges into his mouth and to the back of his throat. He arched a brow up at Mark, but his eyes still twinkled with pretty enjoyment.
Donghyuck's head bobbed a few times, experimenting with the way Mark would react. His noises were loud and unfiltered. Mark found himself threading his fingers through Donghyuck's hair and pulling. It was gentle at first, but the third and fourth pulls were more than soft tugs. The vibrations of Donghyuck's dulcet groaning went straight to Mark's wet, hot dick. He could feel himself climbing the high, nearly reaching his orgasm.
"Please…!"
Donghyuck popped his mouth off of Mark and slowly pushed himself back up. His gaze was dark and his smile was wide; appreciative. "Not yet, baby, you can't come until I've been inside of you."
Mark's stomach flipped and his hands tensed at his sides.
"Do you still want that?"
"Yes. Please, Angel, I do."
Donghyuck grinned. He hollowed his cheeks out for a moment before motioning for Mark to turn over. His hand splayed against Mark's ass before spitting right onto Mark's tight hole. "I suppose we should stretch you out then." He mumbled. Mark's cheek pressed up against the bedsheets and he shuddered when he felt Donghyuck's fingers massage the area lovingly. As his finger pushed in, Mark sucked in a breath that was so deep that he nearly coughed.
The sensation was slightly sore, since only Donghyuck's spit was wetting the area, but the pain quickly subsided as he felt the fingers in him curl. He sighed, the soft noise of a whimper exhaling with his breath.
"Good job." Donghyuck praised, leaning down to kiss Mark's tailbone. His mouth dragged downwards to press light, worshiping kisses over the warm skin of Mark's ass. "You're so gorgeous, hm?" Donghyuck prompted, his fingers curling more to elicit another moan of agreement from Mark's trembling self. "Taking my fingers so well. Maybe it was you who was made for me."
His tongue pressed against Mark's hole, too, sliding in with relative ease now that it had been stretched open a bit. It slid in and out a couple of times before Donghyuck pulled back to press a final kiss to it.
"Do you think you can take me?"
"I want to."
"I'm not sure those two are the same thing." Donghyuck's voice was light and melodic, as it always was whenever his words had a teasing lilt to them.
The way he slid into Mark was slow, almost lazy in how casual it was. But nothing about Donghyuck was actually sluggish. He preferred to be methodical, teasing and always ready to have Mark gasping for more. The tightness in Mark's throat eased up and a whine struggled free, spilling from his lips like sweetened honey. Donghyuck swept down to gracefully kiss Mark's lips, like he was tasting the syrup of his desperation. The taste must have been saccharine enough for him, because his hips jerked backwards and forwards at a manageable speed to start with. Donghyuck never seemed uncertain; never hesitated when it came to desire and the scathing burn of Mark's passion.
Passion was something that, in a way, they both might've been born from. Mark's passion to create had existed since he was born, while Donghyuck's passion was created by fantasies and wishes—its origin dark and brooding.
Mark felt his body sing, the sensation of Donghyuck's repetitive and demanding thrusts accompanied with the sight of flushed breathlessness that overtook his face serving to make Mark feel everything all at once. Unbridled joy and sorrow and heat; he felt so warm.
Donghyuck's eyebrows creased beautifully, his face an artistic depiction of one who was about to come undone. A rare moment within these dreams where he looked as though he wasn't in control even when he was. His hand gripped the skin of Mark's thigh like a lifeline, holding it in place high enough for him to be able to thrust into Mark at the voracity that he was.
"You're so tight." He mumbled, voice still smooth and sweet despite the ragged state of their bodies. Stuttering, his hips twitched after one especially deep thrust. An especially tall wave of pleasure washed over him and he moaned. "Perfect. I guess you are my virgin painter, after all." His laugh was shaky but genuine.
"Yes." Mark replied, his voice high and squeaky. The fiery feeling within him was set to burst from every little sensation.
Donghyuck seemed as though he was setting out to make it worse by leaning down and sucking on the skin of Mark's abdomen as a way to muffle his own needy sounds. His teeth weren't sharp or harsh, but they were persistent. They grazed across Mark's skin as if they meant to bruise him inside rather than on the surface, aiming to gnaw on something deep within him until it snapped.
Saliva dripped down Mark's stomach like rain droplets, a result of Donghyuck's keen kissing and spitting. It was so distracting, that Mark could have even forgot that Donghyuck was inside of him had the quick, sloppy pushes of Donghyuck's cock right against his prostate not been there to remind him.
"You say I'm the muse, but your body was made to be worshiped." Donghyuck's tone was somewhat slurred, as if drunk from the high of their touching bodies and their united passions. His lips latched onto one of Mark's nipples while one wobbly hand moved from where it had been propping himself up to the base of Mark's erection. Immediately, Mark's hands flew up to steady him. He could feel the way Donghyuck smirked against his body.
"You're perfect, too. Handsome like a man but pretty like a doll. I suppose we're alike in that sense, too." Donghyuck's hum vibrated against Mark's skin. Helplessly, Mark sucked in a sharp breath that did little to soothe the burning neediness within his body. The tight knot that had slowly been loosening and was ready to come undone. "I could fuck you forever."
Forever.
The collective sensations of Donghyuck's dick, hand and mouth on and in him made Mark feel weak and completely dizzy in a heated haze. The words stuck to his mind, one singular word hooking him like prey. Just as he was sure Donghyuck knew it would. "Fuck!" He cursed.
The way Donghyuck's hand pumped him, the way his teeth subtly bit down on his nipple and pulled and the way his hips thrust messily into him was too much. His orgasm came like a tidal wave, spurting over Donghyuck's hand and wherever else it could reach.
Donghyuck paused, his hips slightly wobbly even after the thrusting had ceased. The mess of cum painted his fingers and the back side of his hand. Their eyes locked, deeply intimate. The darkness that was always somewhere in Donghyuck's gaze, lingering behind pretenses of teasing and sweetness, remained unwavering and monstrous. Mark felt as if it should give him unease, but it simply made him more captivated.
"Pretty." He said. His chest still expanded and contracted as he inhaled deep breaths. Mark longed to lean up and kiss him square on the mouth, to claim him and allow himself to be claimed. Something within Mark froze as he watched Donghyuck lift his hand to his mouth and lick the cum right off of it. The substance clung to his tongue every time he drew the wet muscle back even slightly. His throat bobbed when he swallowed.
"My God." Mark spluttered, both amazed and enraptured by Donghyuck's audacity. His sheer shamelessness in doing the dirtiest things imaginable was incredible. So much so that Mark nearly felt himself stir once again. "You're perfect."
Donghyuck merely grinned at him, wicked but thankful. "Allow me to pay you back for your compliment." He whispered. Sharply, he began moving in and out of Mark. He held nothing back, the sound of skin slapping against skin buzzing in Mark's ears.
The way Donghyuck moved was unrelenting and rough, so fast and powerful that he had released before Mark could properly even realize it. Donghyuck's squeal of relief was harmonious and unfiltered. Cute, even, and had Mark not been too dazed and his jaw was lax he would have said it. Donghyuck huffed out a laugh as his body buckled and ungracefully fell into Mark's arms.
"That was rather a lot." Conceded Donghyuck, his body trembling and tired.
They laid exactly as they were for a long pause, earnestness etched into one while something unintelligible written on the other.
Mark's eyes were wide, filled with feeling and an all encompassing joy that also swelled within his chest like it might burst out. Donghyuck, however, couldn't match his enthusiasm. His gaze remained distant, a vision in the mist that Mark could never quite uncover. Perhaps he couldn't know what Donghyuck felt, perhaps he wasn't meant to. It was even possible that Donghyuck felt nothing, but that didn't matter. Because while Mark didn't have anything tangible in his hand from the long whimsy filled nights, he had a spot within him that was once empty and now found itself filled.
A part of him knew of his own delusion, but he chose to ignore it like it held no weight. He could continue to live exactly as he was now and would feel infinitely content. But Donghyuck didn't seem content, he didn't really seem like anything.
Mark's fingers pressed into Donghyuck's skin, allowing it to roll and give and bleed its hypnotic warmth that kept him breathing. The touch this time felt wrong, like he was holding onto sand as it whisked away through his fingers. An hourglass flipped on its head that runs dangerously close to its end.
"Can you tell me that you love me?" Mark's voice, while quiet, only held a pathetic things within it. Desperation, need and sickening infatuation.
Donghyuck tilted his head, the light behind him falling over his curled hair like an angel's halo but his eyes sharp enough to cut Mark and watch him bleed to death. "Do you really want me to say that?"
"Yes." Mark's voice cracked pitifully.
"Even if I can't mean it? Even if we never see each other again?"
The thick wooziness that tampered with Mark's brain and whatever dwindling sanity that remained in him couldn't process Donghyuck's words for what they might've been; goodbye. "Please."
A pregnant silence filled the air with ice and unease. Worry licked at Mark inside, but if he squeezed his eyes shut tight enough he could ignore it.
"I love you, too."
🎨
From dawn until dusk on the following day, Mark soared the high that his dream—and by extension Donghyuck—had given him. It felt natural and euphoric to hear those three words bounce around his head. They meant everything to him even if they meant nothing to anybody else.
His day was filled with what it usually was, painting portraits and landscapes for strangers who always promised him a healthy profit while thinking about Donghyuck. Every part of him exuded a painful yearning for Donghyuck that could never be satiated or healed. His lungs breathed out air meant to be words for Donghyuck, his hands smudged paints and pencil lines instead of grazing over the pure heat of Donghyuck's body and his heart ached in a way that threatened to consume him.
By the time the sun had rolled beneath the horizon and the day had announced its conclusion, Mark was exhausted. It was typical now, because all of his energy and time was spent thinking about what he could see in his dreams.
When he flipped the lights off and greeted his portraits depicting Donghyuck a very pleasant evening, he slipped into a slumber that was too comfortable. Too ready for new things to unfold. Too naive.
Nothing happened.
He felt small and child-like again as he sank into an empty abyss. No room, no halo effect that made his vision feel clouded and no Donghyuck. Nothingness. The air was thin but deafening, like he was falling through a sky that had no colour or meaning to it. His breaths were shallow and panicked, cracks beginning to show in the false world his mind had built.
Denial held its firm grip on him, refusing to believe that this was how things were. Donghyuck wasn't here with him, but that didn't mean he was gone forever, did it?
Hours stretched into days that were like long, winding paths. Every night became the same. Nothing, no dream. Cold emptiness and the faint echo of feeling that made Mark realize that he had been foolish. Like he was resurfacing from the water after being pulled under the tide by a song that promised to consume him. But he preferred floating through the waves and sinking into delusion if it meant he could feel the buzz of joy in his chest.
Mark's fingers were stained with charcoal and paint, an infection that crawled underneath his fingernails and leaked into the lines on his palms and fingertips. Uncomfortably, he rubbed his hands together to try and kill the disgusting crawling sensation that skittered over him. A rare moment of consciousness held him in the center of his apartment as he stared at the unfinished portrait of Donghyuck just in front of him.
Donghyuck's soulless eyes looked back at him, his hair curved over his face in the same perfection that it always had. Flawless but aggravating. Scratches and smears of black dust and half-mixed paint surrounded the half finished display of Donghyuck's body. Words frantically clawed onto the canvas board seemed to ebb and flow, and Mark couldn't tell if it was his eyes deceiving him or if the words actually moved.
"Why?"
"Where did you go?"
"Come back."
A shaking, choking sob ripped itself from Mark's throat, an undeniable feeling of despair plunged into his chest like a cold knife. His hand slammed onto the canvas, its force knocking the easel down from beneath it with a terrified clatter. His hold on the edge of the portrait was so fierce, so helplessly aggressive, that his fingers pierced through the very center of Donghyuck's face. Mark's blackened fingers replaced the rendition of Donghyuck's face and they opened and closed tightly as if they hoped to feel something that could have never been there to begin with.
The canvas slipped from his fingers just as his knees gave way beneath him to send him tumbling to the floor, the hardwood creaking obnoxiously from the sudden plummet. Mark braced himself on the ground as he cried, the whole room dark with pictures of the very same fantasy that had lifted him up that now only stared at him emptily.
As his stained fingers brushed through his hair, he only wished that he could feel the ghost of a warm touch against his face again. To soothe him with words that could never mean much.
But, evidently, there was nothing. It was all hollow.