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“No, sir, I don’t think you understand,” Mark stammers out, panic evident in every syllable. “That can’t be right.”
The judge looks bored when he sighs, turning his iPad for Mark to look for himself. Sure enough, listed under rap duos — NCC’s Mark Lee and SM Arts’ Taeyong Lee. Mark blanches, stomach dropping out of his body. “I don’t know what to tell you, kid. This is what was entered into the system. If you don’t want to perform together then we can pull you both out, and you can try again next year. But we can’t put you in the rap solo category now, it’s too late. So the next move is up to you.”
Mark fights the urge to scream, raking his nails through his dark hair. If Jaehyun had been there to watch Mark ruin the carefully tussled strands he’d worked so hard on, he probably would have screamed. But Mark’s appearance was the least of his concerns.
Because when Taeyong finds out…
“Does Taeyong know about this?” Mark squeaks out, a mixture of terrified, horribly nervous, and reluctantly excited to have been screwed over with the most well-known rapper in the entire competition. If anyone could get them to fix this it was probably Taeyong.
“Know about what?” A low voice drawls from behind him before the judge has a chance to respond — the man’s tone is cool and smooth and strong, leaving a trail of goosebumps down Mark’s spine as he speaks.
Mark turns slowly, making eye contact with sultry brown eyes, a midnight gaze lined in black liner, a gaze set to kill. The man has choppy white hair that stands out against his luxe red clothes, jewelry gracing his slender neck and long fingers, rings that probably cost more than Mark’s entire outfit — SM Art Institute’s own Taeyong Lee.
“Did you sign up as a solo artist?” Mark asks, stepping close to Taeyong and further from the dirty look the judge is shooting them both.
“Of course.” Taeyong’s voice is annoyingly unaffected. In contrast to the nervous scratch gracing each of Mark’s words, Taeyong sounds almost regal. Mark reminds himself that the sure glide to Taeyong’s words can be related back to the simple fact that Taeyong has done this so many times, and this is old hat by now. This is Mark’s first time competing, but that doesn’t mean Taeyong is better than him, just that he’s more seasoned in the world of competition.
“So then why are we listed as a duo on the line-up?” Mark asks, wincing at how nervous he sounds.
Taeyong blinks, his dark eyes moving slowly. Not once does emotion flicker across his dead gaze. Taeyong grins, polite but barbed, his lips stained a muted red that Mark wonders, distantly, whether or not it would come off on someone else’s lips. “You must be mistaken,” Taeyong says.
Mark fights the urge to roll his eyes. He is stressed, and he’s new, and he’s younger, fine. But he’s not stupid. “Sir?” Mark calls, turning back to the table to catch the judge’s eye. “Will you please show him tonight’s line up? I’m not sure he believes me that there’s been a mix-up.”
Taeyong’s shoes clack against the tiled floor as he walks to the table, long fingers spreading out against the dark wood as he leans forward to read the schedule on the judge’s iPad. There’s a long moment of stilted silence as Taeyong reads, emotion flickering across his gaze as he reads over their names placed together.
“That’s wrong,” Taeyong mutters under his breath, distracted. For someone so often referenced as the “ice prince,” he looks more like an unchecked wildfire than anything as he turns back to Mark, anger dancing in the brown of his irises. “Why the fuck would you do this?”
“Me?” Mark sputters out, floored. His eyes shoot wide when Taeyong starts to storm out of the room, shoulders hunched. Mark follows him like a kicked puppy, cheeks red with frustration as he jogs to catch up to him. “Wait, stop. I didn’t do this!”
“Sure,” Taeyong scoffs, pushing out through the door and letting it slam in Mark’s face.
Mark follows, still, one hand holding the door open and the other grabbing desperately for any part of Taeyong to get him to stop. Mark snags his wrist, jolting Taeyong back and forcing him to just look at him. “Why would I want this?”
Taeyong rolls his eyes, then, his jawline distractingly sharp as his head lulls back. “Right,” He bites out, sarcasm acidic in his tone. He raises an eyebrow. “Why would you want to ensure that you win the competition by pairing yourself up with the three-time reigning champion?”
Mark goes still, jaw clenching at the audacity of the accusation. Taeyong thinks Mark cheated to get ahead. Of course he does. “You don’t know anything about me.”
Taeyong grins then, a feral stretch of red stained lips over pearly white teeth. “I do, though, Mark Lee. I know everything about you. I know you’re some twenty year old nothing from Canada who moved here to try and prove himself, make a name for yourself in the industry, force your way in where no one else could. I know that you’re the best rapper to come out of NCC’s music program in years, and I know that you were supposed to be my only real competition tonight. I know you, Mark. Did you really think I wouldn’t scope out the new rookie everyone’s always talking about?”
Mark isn’t sure he’s still breathing when Taeyong finishes speaking, his heart hammering in his ears, and his stomach churning with a nervousness he wasn’t sure he could blame entirely on the anxiety of performing later tonight. Mark straightens his shoulders, clearing his throat when he meets Taeyong’s eyes.
“Twenty one,” Mark corrects softly, refusing to drop the eye contact. “My birthday was in August, Taeyong. So maybe you don’t know everything about me, after all.”
Something flashes in Taeyong’s eyes at the words, a low hum from his throat as he stares Mark down, considering something as he drags those feline eyes down Mark’s body. Mark tries not to flush under the weight of Taeyong’s full attention. Mark had only really seen him once before — two years ago, when Mark’s mentor brought him to this exact competition and told him that someday he could compete against Taeyong. But that had been two years ago, and from hundreds of yards away. Here, up close, Taeyong looks like a statue carved from marble itself. Where Mark has tired shoulders and a round jaw and naivety flushing his cheeks, Taeyong is sharp all over. Sharp gaze, sharp cheeks, sharp jaw, sharp lines, sharp with his wit.
Taeyong drags his eyes down Mark’s front like talons sinking into his skin, slow and contemplative. “I think I know enough,” he spits.
Mark wonders if the people that idolize Taeyong know that he acts like a petulant child. He supposes they aren’t his fans for his chivalry, though. Mark takes a long look at Taeyong’s face — pouty mouth, big eyes, perfect bone structure, smoldering gaze. No, the fans probably aren’t in it for his personality at all.
“You’ve got big talk for someone who’s just a pretty face,” Mark mutters, disappointed that he, too, once idolized the man in front of him.
“You think I’m intimidated by you, Lee?” Taeyong croons, face lighting up with wicked glee as he laughs, head lolling back and exposing the long, smooth column of his throat, the sharp angle of his jaw bronzed and strong. Mark’s nails carve dents into his palms, his jaw tight, teeth grinding. Taeyong levels his gaze. “Cute.”
Cute. Mark has to fight the urge to roll his eyes.
Mark dares another step forward, until he’s inches away from Taeyong’s shoes — close enough for his own breath to hitch when Taeyong meets his eyes, molten fury written into his dark, striking irises — and Mark forces his face into his most confident smirk, quirking an eyebrow. “You won’t think I’m quite so cute when I’m done with you, Taeyong.”
“Resorting to threats?” Taeyong asks, sounding amused. Mark’s blood simmers.
“Not a threat,” Mark hums, leaning forward until his breath hits Taeyong’s mouth, noses almost touching, tension crackling in the air between them like bottled lightning. Mark drops his voice to a whisper, “A promise.”
“Sure, baby,” Taeyong grins. “I’d love to see you try.”
Mark pictures it now — actually going up against Taeyong, neck to neck in the competition, the crowd roaring in front of them, the judges holding his fate in their hands. Mark imagines that it would be even more claws out, high stakes, and harsh words flying than he’d initially imagined it to be.
“Next year, then,” Mark mutters as he turns, competition all but forgotten as his hope sinks in his chest like a ship riddled with holes. He makes it a few quiet steps before Taeyong clears his throat, the sound settling down onto Mark’s skin, goosebumps rising on his flesh.
“Ah, ah, ah. Where do you think you’re going, Lee?”
“Sorry?” Mark asks, slightly out of breath as he turns back to Taeyong with wide eyes and furrowed brows.
Taeyong tilts his head, eyes contemplative as he nods back towards where the tents are set up for the artists. Taeyong grins, an edge to his smile, before he speaks again. “Well, we have a competition to win, don’t we?”
♯
“This isn’t working,” Mark groans, throwing his pen down and scrubbing his hand through his hair, tugging at the black strands, now greasy with how much he’s messed with them, his hair starting to curl around the edges of his face with sweat.
Taeyong doesn’t so much as hum in response, which drives Mark even further into frustrated madness.
The clock above their heads is mocking, a big red blinking reminder that Mark is failing right now. They have just shy of two hours left, the first hour gone and wasted arguing. In two hours, they are expected to perform. Not just come up with a rap that’s captivating and clever and good, but to perform. The stakes were high before — with Taeyong sitting as the reigning champion and Mark crowned the “rookie to watch out for” — but with them performing together, the stakes are through the roof.
“It would work better if you could come up with lyrics without someone holding your hand,” Taeyong mutters, voice tinged with something like disappointment. Mark wonders if Taeyong was expecting more from him; It certainly seemed like he was, when he called Mark his only competitor out of the forty or so people on the line-up. Some of which had even come close to beating Taeyong in years prior.
The thought of not living up to Taeyong’s expectations leaves an odd sense of ache in Mark’s stomach he didn’t expect he would ever feel in relation to the man in front of him. As much as he thinks Taeyong’s an asshole, he also respects the hell out of him. Taeyong had been a rookie, once, too. And now Taeyong was the name in everyone’s mouth when they talked about young rappers that could make it big, the first college student on every producer’s list to watch out for. The thought that Mark might let Taeyong down is almost more upsetting than the fact Mark can’t come up with any lyrics that aren’t about hating Taeyong in the first place.
“I don’t need someone to—” Mark argues before breaking off, mouth screwing shut. Taeyong doesn’t deserve an explanation or an apology. Mark takes a deep breath, channeling his frustration into focus. “Let’s see what you have, then.”
Taeyong turns his sheet of paper Mark’s way with raised eyebrows, like he’s amused by Mark’s outburst. Mark’s eyes linger on the way Taeyong’s slender fingers move, jeweled fingers tapping on a particular section of the page to draw Mark’s eye to his lyrics. Taeyong’s handwriting is neat, and his thoughts are organized into different verses — some scratched through, but all coherent. Concise. Neat. Professional.
Mark takes a deep breath and reads.
Mark is surprised to see that Taeyong’s work thus far is mostly in korean. Mark really shouldn’t be that surprised — the year before, Taeyong had won the competition with Long Flight, which had plenty of Korean written alongside English lyrics. Mark would know — the song had been recorded as a reward for winning the competition, and had played on the radio for weeks, even charting on Billboard. The chorus of Long Flight was stuck in Mark’s mind for months while he worked on his own projects.
Beyond the lines and lines of clever lyrics, one line of Taeyong’s rap in particular catches Mark’s eye. Mark raises an eyebrow, turning the page back to Taeyong with a smirk as he taps on the line. “I’m this area’s janitor, Stop talking and clean up? What the fuck does that even mean, dude?”
Taeyong, to Mark’s delight, flushes pink, pulling the page back over to his side of the table and scowling at Mark. “It flows well,” he explains under his breath before reaching for Mark’s lyric sheet. “Let me see what you have, since you want to make fun of my lyrics so badly.”
“Wait. No, it’s—”
Taeyong snatches the paper out of Mark’s hands, ignoring his protests. His eyebrows raise when he reads what Mark has scrawled down on the paper, eyes wide when he looks back up before Mark breaks eye contact. Mark flushes so dark he hopes the floor will just swallow him whole, scrambling to take the paper back from Taeyong as humiliation crawls up his throat.
Because instead of the same caliber of lyrics that Taeyong has written down on the white pages in the past half hour, Mark just has written down, over and over and over again in lazy red scrawl:
You make me so mad
You make me so mad
You make me so mad
You make me so mad
You make me so mad
“Look—” Mark tries, voice thick with embarrassment. “I promise I’ll have verses done by the time, I was just messing around and—”
“Stop,” Taeyong commands sharply, icy fingers circling under Mark’s chin, tilting his head up with a gentle yet firm touch, making Mark meet his eyes. What Mark finds in Taeyong’s gaze leaves his blood singing with confusion and a dark swirl of lust. Taeyong’s eyes aren’t laced with mocking amusement, like Mark had expected. Instead, there’s that familiar flame dancing in his irises, threatening to melt everything around them. Mark swallows hard, waiting for Taeyong to give him another command, worried he’s going to shatter the delicate moment of tension between them.
“Stand up,” Taeyong says.
Mark stands.
“Good. Now face me,” Taeyong continues, voice a velvet smooth, solid command. Mark follows, an eager lamb, as Taeyong’s praise settles heavy onto his bones in a warm wash of longing. Mark turns to face Taeyong and grits his teeth as he struggles to maintain eye-contact without turning to ash under Taeyong’s gaze.
Taeyong hands him back his lyric sheet, a slow grin spreading across his face when Mark accepts it with nervous, twitching fingers, glancing down at the scarlet mess on the page before looking back up at Taeyong with weary eyes.
“Now read what you wrote back to me,” Taeyong says cooly.
Mark’s heart drops out of his chest.
“Taeyong—” Mark tries, pleading as tears of frustration and humiliation bud in his eyes. He gets that it had been stupid, to waste thirty minutes basically writing down how much he hates Taeyong, but he still doesn’t feel like he needs to be humiliated because of it.
Taeyong’s fingers are back under Mark’s chin in an instant, pushing his face up to level his gaze. “Read me back what’s on the page, Mark.”
There’s no room for argument in Taeyong’s words, so Mark swallows his pride along with the swell of embarrassment clogging his throat, and takes a deep breath before speaking.
“You make me so mad,” Mark tries, voice weak, thick with humiliation. Maybe Taeyong did want to embarrass him after all. Mark’s knees feel weak, fingers trembling by his sides. Long gone is the confidence that he came into the competition with — the boy that walked in with his head held high, who told Taeyong that he was solid competition, that he was worth it, someone to watch out for. That Mark was nowhere to be found.
“Louder,” Taeyong commands, taking a step closer to Mark, slow and predatory. “Be firm.”
Mark clears his throat, leveling his tone as he grits out, hoarse: “You make me so mad.” And Mark means it, he does. Taeyong infuriates him. But he also makes Mark’s knees feel weak, and his heart beat funny, and leaves his skin tingling where Taeyong’s fingers are still pressed under his chin. Mark’s eyes slip shut for a moment when Taeyong retracts his touch, missing the weight of Taeyong’s fingers on his skin despite himself.
“That all you got, Markie?” Taeyong taunts, grinning now. He is baiting Mark, but God if he doesn’t bite.
“You make me so mad,” Mark repeats, deeper now, firm.
Taeyong’s eyes burn bright, grin widening to something feline and taunting. He hands Mark a microphone off of the table, holding it out until Mark takes it from him with tentative fingers. It’s not turned on, but Mark still raises it to his mouth, lips pressed against the cool metal head of the microphone. “Again,” Taeyong commands, a low growl to his tone that sets fire to Mark’s bones.
“You make me so mad,” Mark bites out, panting now as his heart races on in his chest.
“There,” Taeyong says, grabbing the other microphone off of the table as he walks towards Mark, backing him slowly against the wall. “Again.”
“You make me so mad,” Mark all but screams.
Taeyong presses forward, raising the microphone to his mouth in a practiced arc of his wrist, lips pressing against it. “You make me so mad,” he raps back — just as loud, just as aggressive, just as charged. Mark’s blood sings with desire, equal parts impressed and turned on at just how good Taeyong sounds.
“I’m gonna be so mad,” Mark raps back, taking the risk to change the line slightly to flow better, playing off of Taeyong’s energy. And it must have been the right move, because Taeyong’s eyes flicker with approval at Mark’s improvisation before he raises the mic back up to his mouth, staring at Mark as he raps back at him, again and again.
“You make me so mad.”
“I’m gonna be so mad.”
“You make me so mad.”
“I’m gonna be so mad.”
“Keep going,” Taeyong pants, fully pushing Mark now, a hand at his chest, curling in the front of his shirt, pushing the tension between them past aggression and into something deeper, something hotter. Mark feels his body thrum with desire at how hard Taeyong tugs him, and desperately tries to push it down, wishing the lust away. Mark can be professional. He has to be professional.
“You’re different, you’re making me go mad,” Mark continues, feeding off of Taeyong’s energy as adrenaline courses through his blood, his forehead now pressed against Taeyong’s, sweaty bangs pressed together, blonde and black swirling together.
Taeyong grins his approval, mouth so close to Mark’s he can feel his every breath against his lips. Mark is struck with the urge to kiss him, then, lyrics and rap all but forgotten. He could beg Taeyong to kiss him right now.
“Good,” Taeyong praises, one fist still wrapped up in Mark’s shirt. Mark flushes at the praise, mouth going dry as Taeyong pushes even closer, until Mark’s back is against the wall and there’s not an inch to breathe between them. Taeyong’s knee pushes between his thighs, dangerously close to pressing against where Mark is half-hard in his pants.
“Baby, look at us, look at us,” Taeyong continues, grinning against his mic when Mark’s cheeks burn scarlet at the pet-name casually thrown into his rap, even though it’s not actually directed at Mark. “You make me so mad.”
Mark goes still at the same time they fall into silence, both panting as they come down from the high of adrenaline between them, neck veins popping and knuckles going white around their microphones, the tension between them thick enough to reach out and grab.
Mark realizes that he was probably supposed to continue the freestyle about ten seconds too late, Taeyong already having caught Mark staring at his lips. It’s too late to take it back, his whole body thrumming with want as he stares and stares, wishing he could push forward another inch and just kiss Taeyong like he so desperately wants to.
“The ‘Baby’ got you, huh?” Taeyong teases him, knee creeping even further up between Mark’s legs. He’s onto Mark, he’s so onto Mark. But Mark doesn’t have the headspace to care, because Taeyong looks just as wrecked as Mark feels — his pupils blown wide enough that his whole gaze is swimming with onyx, his chest rising and falling rapidly in shallow pants, fingers rucked up into Mark’s shirt like a lifeline.
“Please,” Mark whispers, fingers clenching into Taeyong’s shirt, too scared to actually ask for what he wants as he leans forward, forehead pressing back against Taeyong’s as his eyes slip shut.
Taeyong must understand his plea because he pushes forward that last inch until their mouths meet — quick and desperate and full of teeth clashing and gasps of air as Taeyong kisses him within an inch of his life. Mark’s eyes squeeze tighter shut as the warmth of Taeyong’s mouth burns against him, the taste of mint on his soft palette as Taeyong slips his tongue past Mark’s lips, taking control of the kiss as his tongue licks behind Mark’s teeth in a hungry glide.
Mark gasps into the kiss as Taeyong’s fingers slip down his back to palm his ass, pulling Mark against his lithe body until every inch of wiry muscle is pressed against Mark’s front. Mark can feel Taeyong against his hip, too, just as hard where his own cock is pushing against the front of his pants, aching against the zipper of his jeans.
Taeyong kisses him like that, hungry and fast and all-consuming, until Mark can hardly breathe, pulling back to catch air as his head thumps dull against the wall, lips buzzing and slick from Taeyong’s spit. Mark can’t believe that just happened. Can’t believe Taeyong is looking at him like this — like Mark is something to be devoured, and he’s a starving man. Can’t believe he wants more, wants everything Taeyong will give him.
“You hate me,” Taeyong murmurs against Mark’s lips, matter of fact. Mark can feel Taeyong grinning even as he says it, the dark red of his mouth stretching into a smile before he pulls back, watching Mark with blown-wide pupils. It’s not a question, really. Not in the way Taeyong says it, like he already knows it’s true, and the thought amuses him.
Mark swallows hard at the accusation, not knowing what Taeyong wants him to answer, and desperate not to get it wrong, if it means Taeyong will stop kissing him. If Mark says yes, would that even be true, still? Mark’s not so sure. His body is singing with pleasure everywhere Taeyong’s touch drifts, his hips arching up like they can’t bear to be apart from the warmth of his body for more than a second, and his mouth is desperate to be latched back onto Taeyong’s. It certainly doesn’t feel like hate.
“Maybe,” Mark murmurs, the words stolen from his mouth when Taeyong drags him back down into a kiss, tongue licking slow and hot against the roof of Mark’s mouth, the kiss slowing to something that burns hot in Mark’s stomach, goosebumps rising on his skin. Mark moans into Taeyong’s mouth, fingers pushing under Taeyong’s shirt to rake lines of red over his ivory skin, hungry for every inch of Taeyong’s skin under his fingertips.
“You want me to fuck you,” Taeyong continues against his lips, just as casual, and just as matter-of-fact. Mark burns at the statement, cheeks hot and chest tight with need. He can feel his cock straining where it’s trapped between their bodies. He definitely wants Taeyong to fuck him, even if he doesn’t know if he could admit it out loud. But, still. The competition…
“I—” Mark breaks off, eyes slipping shut as he buries his head into Taeyong’s shoulder, biting a bruise into the pale skin as frustration rips through his chest. Mark groans, conflicted. “Our lyrics aren’t finished,” Mark reminds him, annoyed that they don’t have any real time before they’re expected to go on stage. Mark so desperately wants for Taeyong to ravish him fully, reduce him to a mess on the sheets of a real bed, take him apart and put him back together once he’s thoroughly used, but they don’t have time.
“Well,” Taeyong muses, pushing off of the wall and finally giving Mark an inch to breathe. Mark misses the warmth of his body immediately, but is thankful for the space to think, clear his head before begging Taeyong to fuck him right then and there against the wall, without thinking about the competition at all. “We just wrote the chorus, didn’t we?” Mark’s eyes go wide. He supposes they did. The rap was full of tension, and raw, and sexy. It fit the beat they were given perfectly, and it was something that could get them a win, for sure, if they executed it just like they did a few minutes ago. Taeyong continues, “So we just both have to write the rest of the verses, and run through it a few times, and then we’re golden. Right, baby?”
Baby… The pet name rips through Mark like a laced arrow, leaving his limbs heavy and buzzing with pleasure and desire. Mark swallows hard, taking a stuttered step forward like he’d been dragged by a rope around his waist, his body drawn to Taeyong like a compass pointing north. Mark considers what Taeyong’s saying, eyes flickering to the clock on the wall. They still have over an hour and a half…
Mark’s gaze slides back to Taeyong, a lock clicking into place as his resolve firms up into something sure. Mark watches with parted lips as Taeyong tosses his blazer to the side, settling onto the sofa in the corner of the room. Taeyong’s legs fall open to either side of him as his arms stretch over the back of the couch, his body a living invitation, taunting Mark to come over. Taeyong’s eyes land back on Mark from across the room, his gaze heady and predatory. Mark swallows under the weight of it, hair standing up on the backs of his arms. Taeyong looked hauntingly beautiful, spread out on the sofa with kiss-swollen lips and mussed hair.
“Right,” Mark whispers, crossing the room in quick steps, pushing his knee into the plush of the sofa and letting his body sink into it, his hands smoothing over Taeyong’s shoulders for balance. Mark settles onto Taeyong’s lap like he was made to sit there, blood running hot when he realizes how hard Taeyong is under him, his cock nestled up against Mark’s ass.
“Pretty,” Taeyong comments under his breath, palms sliding over the swell of Mark’s thighs, the fabric stretched thin over his muscles, pulled tight where he’s straddling Taeyong’s hips. Mark shudders at the praise, moaning when Taeyong’s palm runs over his lap, fingertips dancing along the length of his cock, visible where he’s straining against his pants.
“Fuck,” Mark hisses, when Taeyong squeezes right over the head of his cock, almost fully jacking Mark through his pants now.
“Feels good, hm?” Taeyong asks, his words causing Mark to meet his eyes, thumbs sweeping over Taeyong’s shoulders as he writhes on top of his lap. Mark flushes, nodding as his bottom lip catches between his teeth.
“Good,” Taeyong murmurs, pulling Mark’s belt undone in careful tugs before tossing it to the side in a metal clang. “‘S gonna feel even better when you’re bouncing on my cock like the good little slut that you are.”
The praise and degradation hit Mark at the same time as the realization that Taeyong just insinuated that he’s going to fuck Mark right here, right now, no questions asked. Mark curses, cock drooling at the thought of fucking himself down on Taeyong’s lap, sitting just like how they are right now, but with nothing between them except skin and sweat and delicious tension.
Mark’s gaze drifts down to where Taeyong is already working at the button of Mark’s pants, fingers making quick work of the zipper. Mark makes no move to stop Taeyong, desperate for Taeyong’s cool touch on his cock, his mouth back against Mark’s, his attention on Mark, and nothing else. “There’s people in the next room,” Mark says, not sure if he’s reminding Taeyong, or himself.
Taeyong hums as if thinking about it before looking up at Mark from under long lashes painted dark, something dangerous skittering around in his amber gaze. Mark wonders, distantly, if Taeyong likes that anyone could up and walk into this room, see exactly what they are doing, see how desperate Mark is, begging and writhing and moaning on Taeyong’s lap. Mark had a feeling before, just from watching Taeyong perform, that Taeyong likes to have all eyes on him, that he gets off on the rush of adrenaline of having hundreds of eyes glued to him, watching him move, watching him perform. This only confirmed it.
“Then you’ll have to be nice and quiet for me, won’t you?” Taeyong whispers. His mouth curls into a pleased grin as he pulls Mark’s cock out, clicking his tongue in warning when Mark moans, loud and wanton, as Taeyong’s hand wraps around his length. Taeyong tugs on Mark’s cock just once, the sudden rush of pressure around his shaft overwhelming after being neglected for so long, Taeyong’s every touch shooting arrows of pleasure straight to Mark’s brain. Mark’s entire body is burning, fully hard and aching within just a few clever strokes of Taeyong’s hand.
Mark ducks his head as he tries to bite back his next moan, wanting so desperately to be good for Taeyong, like he asked. Mark drags his mouth down Taeyong’s cheek to suck a kiss into Taeyong’s neck, fingers unbuttoning Taeyong’s top and sliding it off of his shoulders, desperate to get his hands on every inch of Taeyong’s skin that he will allow Mark to touch. Taeyong continues the torment of stroking Mark as slowly as he can, taking his time and watching as Mark crumbles at every touch, hips fucking into his tight fist as Mark chases the pleasure rising in his blood.
It should be embarrassing, how quickly Mark is reduced to a bumbling puddle of desire on Taeyong’s lap, begging him for his cock after just minutes of being touched.
“Want your cock,” Mark groans out, pawing at Taeyong’s pants as if it was helping get them off quicker.
Taeyong grins, fingers finding Mark’s jaw and tightening hard enough for Mark to whine under his grasp, eyes going wide and meeting Taeyong’s. “Use your manners, pet,” Taeyong drawls out. His words leave a hot flush on Mark’s cheeks, embarrassment and lust and satisfaction all mixing together in his chest.
“Can I please sit on your cock, Taeyong. Please, will you let me?” Mark tries, fingers drifting down Taeyong’s bare front to play with his zipper. Mark looks up at him, Taeyong’s fingers still tight on his jaw. Mark hopes distantly that Taeyong likes how he looks like this, that he gets off on the look of Mark’s big brown eyes opened wide and innocent, at how badly Mark wants taeyong to fuck him, that he’s willing to beg for it. Mark hopes that he does it for Taeyong in the same way that Taeyong does it for him, that he feels just as turned on by this as Mark does, that it’s good for him, too.
“Good manners, pretty boy,” Taeyong grins, drawing Mark closer by the grip on his jaw into a soft kiss, his lips melting under Mark’s, parting for him like a reward when Mark tries to lick into his mouth. Taeyong allows Mark to sit on his lap and do what he wants for a few minutes, the kisses turning sloppy when Taeyong’s fingers roll over the head of Mark’s cock, thumb digging into the slit and dragging precum down his shaft to ease the glide of his hand. They makeout lazy and slow for a few more moments before Mark has to break away, gasping into Taeyong’s mouth as his skin starts to burn with overwhelming pleasure.
Taeyong pushes Mark off to the side in a gentle nudge, giving himself room to take his pants off. Mark falls onto the other side of the sofa in an eager jumble of limbs, pulling the rest of his clothes off quickly. Mark’s cock twitches in his palm when he finally sees Taeyong in all of his bare glory, the picture of beauty and grace, body cut from marble and carved by the gods themselves.
“You’re so fucking pretty,” Mark slurs out, words sluggish from the pleasure clouding his brain.
“Thanks, doll,” Taeyong smiles, rolling his head back in the impression of a stretch, letting Mark ogle him openly, eyes tracing every inch of him from head to toe hungrily, committing the sight to memory. Even if they stopped hooking up here, Mark would have spank bank fodder for life, Taeyong was so fucking hot.
Mark watches like a starving man as Taeyong settles back onto the sofa, somehow still graceful despite how worked up he is. Taeyong’s cock is long and uncut and dripping at the tip, frustratingly as pretty as the rest of him. Mark aches to get Taeyong in his mouth, but knows they don’t have time. Mark pushes away the thought for another day, focusing instead on the way that Taeyong curls one jeweled hand around his length, playing with his foreskin before letting his cock slap back against his abs. Taeyong pats his thighs with both hands, beckoning Mark back over to him with a smirk.
“You get to sit on my cock now. Since you asked so nicely,” Taeyong purrs, every word laced with dark amusement as he coats his fingers with lube that Mark didn’t even see him get out of his bag, a condom discarded somewhere to the side of his lap. Mark’s too worked up to care about the fact that Taeyong is definitely making fun of just how fucking desperate Mark is right now, the light degradation and humiliation only making Mark want this more, want Taeyong more.
Mark takes the condom, ripping it open with his teeth.
“Eager, are we, baby?” Taeyong laughs, sticky fingers sliding between Mark’s asscheeks to toy with his rim, drawing lazy circles around the pucker that drive Mark insane. “I haven’t even fingered you yet.”
“You don’t have to,” Mark simply shrugs, a little smugness slipping into his grin as he savors the look of pleasant surprise on Taeyong’s face before Mark focuses on rolling the condom over Taeyong’s cock and coating it with the lube Taeyong had squeezed out onto his hand earlier. “Uh, I fingered myself earlier, before I drove here,” Mark admits, pushing up on his knees to hover over Taeyong, and making him tilt his head up to maintain eye-contact. “Orgasms make me rap better,” Mark whispers, sentence fragmenting into a broken gasp as he sinks down onto Taeyong’s cock.
The stretch to adjust to Taeyong’s size, even though Mark is still mostly loose from this morning, burns a trail of wildfire up Mark’s spine — that perfect kind of pain that Mark knows he’ll be feeling tomorrow, but not too intense that he wants to stop or ask for more lube.
“God,” Mark whines, head falling in the crook of Taeyong’s neck as his hands curl around his shoulders, entire body trembling. He rolls his hips forward, whimpering as the movement rocks Taeyong’s cock against his prostate. Mark does it again, his cock smearing precum over Taeyong’s pale abs where he brushes up against his front.
“You’re so tight, Mark,” Taeyong breathes out, voice wrecked. “Fucking perfect, aren’t you, baby?” Taeyong asks, his blonde hair messy from Mark’s fingers and falling into his eyes. Mark hums, distracted as his eyes slip shut, pleasure numbing his limbs as he rolls his hips over Taeyong’s lap.
“Ah, ah. Look at me when you ride me,” Taeyong commands, voice laced with sex and power, deeper than Mark thought his voice could go. Taeyong’s fingers grip harder into Mark’s hair, rings glancing Mark’s scalp as the grip tightens to something just shy of painful.
Mark lifts his forehead off of Taeyong’s shoulder like a marionette on strings, locking his gaze on Taeyong’s and drawing his knees below him, legs already jelly, despite how hard he’s flexing his thighs. One of his knees slips out from under him as he tries to get up on his feet, a curse tumbling from his lips when he knocks his forehead into Taeyong’s.
Taeyong rolls his eyes, his hands wrapping tight around Mark’s hips, pulling him off of his cock like Mark weighs nothing, until just the tip is in, the fat head of Taeyong’s cock pushing against Mark’s rim. Mark gasps as he’s dragged into the air, clutching at Taeyong’s sweaty shoulders as he tries to hold himself up on his own.
“Now be good and do it yourself,” Taeyong snaps, hands letting go of Mark entirely, gravity taking over as Mark falls back down fully on Taeyong’s lap, his cock burying back to the hilt. The movement punches a loud moan out of Mark’s chest then, unabashed and ringing in the otherwise silent room. Mark lets the noise go on for a few more seconds before he remembers himself, slapping a hand over his mouth.
Mark follows the order though, his hands going to Taeyong’s thighs to balance himself as he starts to bounce on his cock, using every last drop of energy in his body to make it good for Taeyong, to be good for Taeyong. The pace Mark sets is nearly impossible to maintain as his thighs strain, his ass slapping down against Taeyong’s sweat-slick skin with every movement, the sound obscene in the empty room.
“There you go, baby,” Taeyong encourages him, his voice going shaky the longer Mark bounces on his dick. Taeyong’s hand is still buried in Mark’s hair like a lifeline, the other curling around Mark’s hip in a possessive grip. Taeyong grunts softly every time he raises his hips up to meet Mark, their bodies working in perfect harmony. His voice sounds like heaven and sin, a low grumble in Mark’s ear. “Just like that,” Taeyong murmurs, hand smoothing up and down Mark’s side, squeezing handfuls of his ass. “Just like that. Fuck.”
Mark feels his oragsm budding like a tsunami threatening to crash over him at any second, but staves it off, desperate to make Taeyong come before he lets succumb to the rich pleasure humming in his veins. Taeyong had told him to be good, after all. Mark could be good. Just a little bit longer.
“Taeyong, I can’t—” Mark pants, legs trembling under him as he rises and falls, and goes again, up and down on Taeyong’s dick. “Are you cl—”
“Shit. I’m gonna—” Taeyong interrupts him, coming in a cry of Mark’s name, his face screwed up in pleasure but still gorgeous. Always gorgeous. Mark can’t believe Taeyong is real, the picture of beauty even when completely wrecked. Mark keeps the pace as tears bud in his eyes at the exertion, fucking himself down onto Taeyong’s cock as Taeyong rides out his orgasm. Mark’s own orgasm threatens to spill over at any given second, his vision whited out and ears filled with static.
“Let go,” Taeyong urges him, but it’s deaf to Mark’s ears, his mind too committed to bouncing on Taeyong’s cock, again and again and again. Taeyong flips them over with a grunt of effort and presses Mark into the sofa cushions as he takes over, never slipping out of Mark even as they roll. Taeyong fucks Mark hard enough to jostle him with every stroke, the shift in angle meaning his cock rubs against Mark’s prostate every time Taeyong slams into Mark’s body. One of Taeyong’s hands goes between their bodies to wrap around Mark’s leaking cock, pushing him over the edge. “Come on, baby. You’ve earned it. Let go.”
Mark listens then, his body splitting into fragments as he comes just like that, with his face buried in Taeyong’s shoulder, Taeyong’s fingers around his length and his cock still deep inside of him. Mark’s entire body trembles as he shouts out Taeyong’s name in a shattered whimper and spills over his fist.
Taeyong collapses onto Mark’s chest when Mark comes down from his orgasm, pulling out of him and apologizing with a soft kiss to Mark’s chest when Mark winces at the overstimulation of Taeyong’s cock dragging against his sensitive inner walls.
They lay like that, spent and pressed against another, tangled up on the sofa, until their heartbeats mellow into something quiet. Mark’s fingers trace absent-minded patterns on Taeyong’s back as he bathes in the glorious stillness of the room, chest warm with pleasure, eyes closed and body buzzing all over.
Just when Mark thinks he could lay like this forever, wrapped up in Taeyong’s arms and basking in the afterglow, skin slick with sweat and glowing with newfound energy, the clock above them buzzes in alarm. Red lights flash against the otherwise dimly lit-room, the two of them tilting their heads up to catch what the clock reads.
One hour left until their performance.
Mark grins against Taeyong’s shoulder. “You ready to keep writing?” he asks, pressing a kiss to a bruise he had sucked into the pale skin earlier; a bruise that nobody but him would know was there when they’re out there on stage performing together, a secret for just the two of them.
Taeyong pulls Mark’s head back to draw him into a kiss, unhurried now that the tension has fizzled down into something warm and mellow, all slow strokes of tongue and soft lips. “Oh, I’m ready, baby. Let’s show them how it’s done.”
♯
“Let’s give it up for NCC’s Mark Lee and SM Arts’ Taeyong Lee, performing in the rap duo category with Mad City!”
The announcer’s voice booms through the open crowd, loud and resonating in Mark’s ears even from under the stage. The crowd roars at the announcement, a thunder of applause that rumbles in Mark’s bones, a thrill going from his fingertips down to his toes, leaving his blood singing with giddy anticipation. His body is still humming from his orgasm, pleasure and excitement and pride all tangled together in his chest as he hears the announcement for their song.
“You ready?” Taeyong whispers, holding his mic away so no one catches the concern in his voice. Mark hears it though. Concern and excitement and even a light note of pride, if Mark listens close enough.
This is Mark’s first real competition. His first chance to get his name out there, to get traction on his tracks on soundcloud, to get noticed. By all means, he should be shitting himself with nerves right now. And Mark is nervous, sure, his hands are jittery and his legs feel a little numb. But he also has Taeyong by his side, steady and present and talented as fuck. Someone who believes in him.
“Are you ready?” Mark grins back, pushing Taeyong to the other side of the platform right as it starts to rise, both of them getting into position.
Taeyong just winks at him in lieu of response.
The lights come into view a few seconds later, the crowd roaring as the platform rises, flush with the stage. Mark ducks his head to hide the faint blush on his cheeks, getting into the zone as his nerves start to make his fingers tremble. Mark closes his eyes for a second, channeling all of their tension, all of that energy into this moment, the track coming on as Mark counts out the beats.
Taeyong catches his eye when Mark rises and nods, his face slipping back into that mask of cruel icy confidence that Mark had faced just hours before. It was almost unrecognizable, the face of confident cruelty that Taeyong wore when he was performing. Mark just reminds himself that he knows what lies beneath, the Taeyong who cleaned him up with gentle fingers and softer words, helped him get dressed and showered him in praise, the same man who had asked him on a date just twenty minutes prior. It was the same beautiful man, just wearing a new set of armor. The Taeyong smirking at the crowd and feeding off of their energy is the same Taeyong whose confidence in Mark is all that he needs to get through this, to perform. Mark puts on his game face, grinning against the microphone as he crosses the stage, straightening his coat and smirking at the crowd, his own mask slipping into place.
They had a competition to win, after all. They start together, eye to eye, tension rising between them and a playful darkness dancing in Taeyong’s gaze as he raises his microphone to his lips —
“You make me so mad.”