ONESHOTS - Markicest, Darkstache, & More

You - Darkstache

"What do you think about when you undress?"

When Wilford had first asked that question, Dark was confused. What do I think about? he had thought.

With furrowed brows, he answered, "I don't know."

They never spoke of it again, but the next time Dark came home from a long day at work, dropping his satchel at the door and going straight to the closet, his mind wandered onto the thought of Wilford.

Even through the fog of fatigue, he subconsciously lingered on the idea of the man.

As his hands slid along his neck, a finger hooking beneath his suffocating tie, the image of Wilford played in the back of his mind. Pinks and yellows and smiles; a light through any dark day.

He loosened and pulled away his tie, discarding the fabric over a drawer. Shoulders shrugging off his suit jacket, tucking it onto a hanger. Fingers sliding along his collar, down his torso as he unbuttoned his dress shirt.

The image of Wilford grew clearer—a flashback on how he'd looked only hours ago, with the sun in his hair and the glitter in his eyes. How beautiful he looked when he laughed; how he rocked back in his seat and his body showed every sign of his enjoyment.

Dark slid his shirt off and folded it, setting it in a basket. Belt clinked as he undid it, sliding it out of the loops and hanging it on a rack. As he slid his pants down, he thought of when he'd seen Wilford later that evening—when the lights were darker and their voices were low. The way Wilford looked at Dark with an emotion he couldn't place, but still made him feel all flustered, and the way he seemed to know everything he was thinking.

As much as Dark hated to admit, he could never truly read the man.

Wilford was open, no doubt. He expressed his feelings, his body language conveyed what words couldn't say, but—deep down, Dark felt like there was something more.

Wilford was an open book with a secret between the lines, and Dark ached to know more.

Dark stripped off his boxers, and as he slipped off the fabric, his mind flickered towards a darker thought of Wil. The other man's hands, tightening around his waist. Or his muscular body pressed up against his.

Dark discarded the rest of his clothes into a basket and reached for a silk robe without another thought. He wrapped the fabric around himself and walked out of the closet, padding over to the bathroom. Mind trailing off to more thoughts of Wil—of what his voice would sound like deep in his ear, or how he'd sound when they—

Dark's hand stopped on top of the shower handle, the cold metal snapping him back to his senses.

"What do you think about," came Wilford's voice in his head, "when you undress?"

Dark sucked in a deep breath, and he turned the shower handle.

You, thought Dark, his chest stirring. I think of you.