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Summary
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Every Friday Mingi replenished the marks of protection on Yunho's neck, like wards against evil carved in burst veins and black blood, and often found his gaze lingering on the color-shifting artwork. He wished he'd never found out that Yunho's throat fit into his grip like it was designed to have Mingi's fingers around it.
He couldn't leave Yunho with an abuser to feed his own increasingly unsettling urges; because his chest cramped and his dick twitched every time he saw his own shameless claims on Yunho's skin. But the idea of his paints fading, and Yunho's pretty neck returning to a whole, healthy, untouched canvas, unblemished and unchained, made his gut wrench.
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