Archive of Our Own

Seongje never really noticed when it started.

At first, it was just a face he happened to run into, the Eunjang kid with glasses too big for his face and eyes too soft for the world they lived in. After the fall of the Union, Seongje thought that would be the end of it. He’d done his part, left his mark, survived. He wasn’t expecting anyone to come find him.

But one evening, outside a run-down shop where the flickering sign barely worked, there was Juntae. Small, hesitant, waiting. Seongje clocked him immediately; the way his shoulders hunched like he was bracing for rejection, the nervous shift of his feet, like he wanted to run but forced himself not to.

When Seongje met his eyes, Juntae smiled, soft and awkward. “I just… wanted to say thank you.”

That was it. No grand speech. No explanation. Just a thank you.

Seongje hadn’t said anything back. He only looked at him, bored eyes, faint smirk tugging at his mouth. The kind of look that usually sent people away. But Juntae just dipped his head with that tiny smile and left.

Seongje thought that would be the last time.

It wasn’t.

The second time, it was at a convenience store. Seongje had gone in late, grabbing something quick, not expecting anyone he knew. But when he reached the counter, Juntae was there, standing just close enough to catch his eye.

“I’ll pay,” Juntae said, already reaching for his wallet.

Seongje raised a brow but didn’t stop him. He watched as Juntae handed over cash, his hand shaking just a little, but not enough to miss. It wasn’t much, instant noodles, a drink, nothing worth the gesture. Still, Juntae had insisted.

Seongje let him.

And then there was the third time.

It was summer, hot even at night, the streets buzzing with leftover heat from the day. Seongje had been careless with another fight, another body left on the ground, his own bruises burning worse than usual. He’d sat down against a wall, letting the shadows swallow him, too tired to care who might pass.

Then Juntae appeared. Out of nowhere.

“Seongje—” His voice cracked with surprise, with worry, as he rushed over. He crouched down without hesitation, wide eyes scanning the mess of blood and scrapes. “Are you okay?”

Seongje didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. He just stared back, into those stupidly big, gentle eyes. For reasons he couldn’t explain, he let the boy touch him, let him clean the blood, press tissues against split skin, fuss over him with hands that shook but never faltered.

No questions. No demands. Just care.

That was the moment, maybe, when everything shifted.

The year that followed wasn’t random anymore. High school moved on. Days bled into weeks. And somehow, Seongje kept running into him. At first it was coincidence. Then maybe it wasn’t. Because Seongje found himself waiting sometimes, just to see if Juntae would be there. He found himself curious. Curious about the shy little Eunjang nerd with his quiet loyalty, the one person who looked at him without fear.

++++++++++++++++++

Seongje never thought he’d see twenty.

It wasn’t that he expected to die young, not exactly, it was just hard to imagine a future when every day used to feel like a countdown. Fights, debts, the Union, the weight of names that meant nothing outside cracked pavements and schoolyards. All of it had felt endless.

But now… high school is behind him. The Union is gone, fractured, swallowed into memory. Life is quieter. Not peaceful, but quieter.

And somehow, in that quiet, there’s Juntae.

Nineteen now, no longer just the kid with too-big glasses and slouched shoulders, though the softness is still there. The same soft eyes, the same hesitant voice, the same stubborn kind of loyalty that has no business surviving in a world like theirs, but it did.

What surprises Seongje most is how natural it’s become. The first time Juntae waited for him outside the old convenience store after graduation, it had felt strange. A leftover habit from the year they kept running into each other. But then it happened again. And again. Until it wasn’t strange anymore. Until Seongje found himself expecting it.

Sometimes they walk together. Sometimes they just sit, sharing cheap snacks and silence. Other times, Juntae talks about Sieun, about Hyuntak, about the odd jobs he’s been picking up to save money. And Seongje listens, not because he has to, but because he wants to.

It’s nothing he’s used to.

There are no deals now. No debts. No bargains in the shadows. Juntae doesn’t owe him a damn thing, but he still shows up. That’s what unsettles Seongje most, not the boy’s presence, but the fact that he chooses him.

And Seongje, against all reason, lets himself choose back.

On warm nights, when the air hums with the promise of summer, they drift through the city like they’re the only two people in it. Juntae still fusses over him sometimes, asking if he’s eating enough, if he’s staying out of fights. Seongje smirks and deflects, but secretly, he doesn’t mind the attention. No one’s ever asked before.

It’s the small things that catch him off guard. The way Juntae laughs at something dumb on his phone and tips his head back like he’s forgotten the world can be cruel. The way his glasses slide down his nose and he pushes them back up without thinking. The way he still, after everything, believes people are worth caring about.

Seongje doesn’t know when “random meetings” turned into this unspoken rhythm. He doesn’t know what it means. All he knows is that Juntae keeps showing up, and for the first time in his life, he doesn’t feel like pushing someone away.

If anything… he wants him closer.

++++++++++++++++++++++

The rain hasn’t stopped all day. Heavy, relentless, the kind that soaks through clothes in seconds. By the time Seongje spots Juntae waiting for him outside the corner store, the kid is drenched, hair sticking to his forehead, glasses fogged up.

“Idiot,” Seongje mutters, grabbing his sleeve before Juntae can say anything. “Come on.”

His apartment isn’t far, just a few blocks away, but it feels longer with Juntae trailing behind, dripping water with every step. Seongje doesn’t usually bring anyone here. Not Baekjin. Not Union kids. No one. The place is his, and it’s small, and it’s… his.

He pushes the door open and flicks on the light. The single room looks the same as always: cracked walls where paint peeled years ago, a table with one chair that wobbles if you lean on it too hard, a mattress against the wall with sheets that have seen better days. A shelf with some instant ramen cups stacked crookedly. A single mug drying on the sink.

It’s nothing. Less than nothing.

Seongje steps aside, bracing himself for the look. The hesitation. Maybe a polite “it’s… nice” that clearly means it’s a dump.

But Juntae doesn’t do any of that.

Instead, he steps inside like a kid being shown a secret hideout. His eyes roam the room quickly, curious, bright even through the wet glasses sliding down his nose. Then, without asking, he kicks off his soaked shoes, pads toward the mattress, and plops down like he’s been coming here for years.

“This is cozy,” Juntae says, smiling as he presses his wet sleeves against his knees.

Cozy. That’s… one word for it.

Seongje stares at him, caught between disbelief and irritation. “You’re dripping on the floor.”

“Oh—sorry!” Juntae fumbles with his jacket, tugging it off and folding it in his lap like that makes a difference. His hair is still plastered to his forehead, his glasses slipping dangerously low. He looks ridiculous. Pathetic. And for some reason, stupidly comfortable.

Seongje crosses his arms, leaning against the wall. “You act like you’ve been here before.”

Juntae looks up at him, earnest. “Well… you invited me. So I figured it’s fine, right?”

That’s it. No awkward comment about the peeling paint, no raised eyebrow at the size of the place, no fake sympathy. Just fine.

And it does something strange to Seongje’s chest.

He expected judgment. Or pity. Maybe even curiosity about how he ended up living like this. But Juntae doesn’t look at the cracks in the wall. He looks at Seongje, eyes soft, like the room doesn’t matter at all.

Like Seongje himself is enough.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Seongje says finally, trying to smother the strange warmth prickling at the edges of his thoughts.

Juntae just grins, pushing his glasses up with one finger. “Too late.”

And somehow, impossibly, Seongje feels his lips twitch into a smile.

Seongje digs around in the closet by the door, pulling out an old towel that’s a little frayed at the edges. He tosses it across the room without warning.

“Dry off before you make the place smell like wet dog.”

Juntae fumbles the catch, the towel smacking him in the face before sliding into his lap. His laugh is quiet, sheepish, as he presses the fabric to his hair. “Thanks.”

Seongje watches him through half-lidded eyes, pretending it doesn’t matter, but the sight sticks anyway, the way his glasses fog further as he pushes damp strands back, the way his hands move with that same carefulness he always has when patching someone up. Even now, drying his own hair, he looks gentle. Too gentle for this room. Too gentle for him.

“You really don’t have an umbrella?” Seongje asks after a stretch of silence.

Juntae shrugs, muffled behind the towel. “I did… then it broke last week. Haven’t replaced it yet.”

“Figures.”

When Juntae lowers the towel, his hair is sticking up in strange angles, a mess that makes him look even younger. He doesn’t seem to care. Instead, he leans back on his palms, eyes flicking around the apartment again. Not searching, not judging. Just… looking.

“You live here alone?” he asks softly.

The question is simple, but it lands heavier than it should. Seongje narrows his eyes, waiting for the pity, the sympathy, the careful words.

“Yeah,” he says flatly.

Juntae only nods. “It suits you.”

Seongje blinks, caught off guard. “…Suits me?”

“Mm.” Juntae smiles faintly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s quiet. Feels safe. Like… no one can get to you here unless you let them.”

Something sharp twists in Seongje’s chest. Safe. That’s not what this place has ever been. It’s been empty, lonely, a reminder of everything that’s gone. And yet, hearing Juntae say it that way makes the walls feel different.

“You’re weird,” Seongje mutters.

“Maybe,” Juntae says easily, still smiling.

Seongje turns toward the tiny kitchenette, opening a cabinet just to give himself something to do. Inside: two half-empty ramen packs, instant coffee, nothing else. He hears Juntae’s footsteps behind him and resists the urge to tense.

“…You don’t have much food,” Juntae observes quietly.

There it is. The thing Seongje didn’t want to hear. He closes the cabinet a little harder than necessary. “Didn’t invite you here to audit my groceries.”

But when he turns, expecting an awkward look or some apology, he only finds Juntae watching him with that same soft-eyed patience. No judgment. No pity. Just… worry.

“…I could cook something for you, sometime,” Juntae says, almost shyly, as if offering too much. “Proper food. If you want.”

Seongje lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

Juntae doesn’t seem bothered by it in fact, he looks even more comfortable, like the edges of his shyness are softening the longer he stays. He flops down on the edge of the couch, pushing his damp hair back with the towel, and says, “Then let’s just order delivery. You don’t need groceries if someone else cooks for you.”

Seongje raises a brow. “And who’s paying?”

Juntae grins at him, boyish, unguarded. “I offered, didn’t I?”

There’s something almost absurd in how easily he says it, like stepping into Seongje’s life - even this cramped, half-empty apartment - is natural. Like he belongs.

And then he tilts his head, teasing just a little. “Though I guess… living alone really does suit you. You’re one of a kind, after all.”

For once, the words don’t sting. They don’t sound like an insult. They pull the corner of Seongje’s mouth upward before he can stop it, a real smile this time.

One of a kind. Maybe. But being one of a kind had meant being alone. Parents gone, sending money every month like it was enough to replace their absence. No explanations, no visits, just money in the account and silence everywhere else. For years, the only company had been the quiet. And sure, sometimes it was fine, peaceful, even. Nights spent glued to a controller, grinding through games until dawn. Sleeping until the afternoon sun burned through the curtains. Wandering to the internet café when boredom got too sharp. Nights that blurred together with strangers, sweaty, drunk, names forgotten as soon as the door shut.

Lonely, yeah. But easier than pretending it wasn’t.

He wonders, for a second, if Juntae can read his thoughts, because when he glances over, the kid’s cheeks are tinged pink. He clears his throat, pushes his glasses up nervously, and says, “You’ve probably… had girlfriends here, right?”

Seongje freezes, then laughs under his breath. The innocence in the question makes something in him tighten, then loosen again. He leans back in his chair, lets a smirk curl slow across his lips.

“Not girlfriends,” he says simply.

The words hang there, heavier than they should.

Juntae looks at him, wide-eyed, lips parting just slightly, like he understands more than he wants to admit. And then his face blooms redder, the blush crawling all the way to his ears as he looks down at his hands.

It’s enough. More than enough. Seongje doesn’t need to say anything else. The look they shared says plenty, enough to make his pulse stir with something he doesn’t usually let himself feel.

Juntae’s ears are still red, his eyes stubbornly fixed on the floor as if the worn-out tiles are suddenly fascinating. Seongje can’t resist. He lets out a low chuckle, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

“What’s with that face? You’re the one who asked,” he says, smirk tugging at his lips.

Juntae fumbles with his glasses, mumbling, “I didn’t… I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Oh?” Seongje tilts his head, studying him like prey caught in the open. “Then what did you mean, huh? Sounds like you were curious.”

That gets Juntae to look up, wide-eyed, scandalized, like he’s been caught stealing. “I wasn’t!”

The denial only makes Seongje grin wider. “You were. You’re wondering what I’ve been doing here, all alone. Imagining it.” His voice dips lower, teasing, each word slow enough to watch the color climb higher on Juntae’s cheeks.

“I’m not imagining anything!” Juntae blurts, his voice pitching higher. He grabs the nearest pillow from the couch and tosses it at Seongje, who easily catches it one-handed, laughing outright now.

“Careful, kid,” Seongje says, tossing the pillow back at him with a lazy flick. “You’re the one who brought up girlfriends. Don’t get mad when the answer’s not what you pictured.”

Juntae hugs the pillow to his chest this time, muttering, “You’re impossible.”

Seongje tilts his head, lips curling. “Impossible, huh?” He leans back, arms stretched lazily along the couch. “Tell me something, then… you got a problem with boys liking boys?”

The way Juntae’s head snaps up is priceless, eyes wide, glasses slipping down his nose. “W-what? No! Of course not, I—”

Seongje cuts in smoothly, his voice low and amused. “Didn’t think so. Especially not with the books you read.”

The color drains from Juntae’s face only to rush back twice as hard, his blush climbing all the way to his ears. He opens his mouth, closes it again, like he’s physically choking on excuses.

“I—You—You don’t know what I read,” Juntae sputters, but it comes out so weak it only makes Seongje’s grin sharpen.

“Oh, I do,” Seongje says, smirking as if he’s caught him red-handed. “You’re not that sneaky. I’ve seen the covers.”

Juntae groans, hiding half his face behind the pillow like it could swallow him whole. His voice comes out muffled. “You’re the worst.”

Seongje watches him for a moment, quiet laughter rumbling in his chest. He can’t remember the last time he felt this entertained, this light. Strange, really. What happened to the guy who always insisted on walking alone? The one everyone looked at like a ticking bomb?

People whisper psycho when they see him. Some say it outright. Juntae’s friends, especially that sharp-eyed one, probably see him as something worse. And maybe they’re right. Violence has always been easier than conversation. Detachment easier than trust.

Yet here he is, sitting in his dingy little apartment with the Eunjang nerd curled into his couch like he belongs here, stammering and blushing about books and questions Seongje only threw at him to watch him squirm.

What’s crazier is… Juntae doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t bring up Sieun or Baku or Hyuntak when they’re together, doesn’t use them as a shield between them. Maybe he knows better. Maybe he knows Seongje doesn’t want to hear it.

But Seongje has seen the way those friends look at him when he used to wait outside the school gates. Suspicious. Protective. Like they’re wondering why their soft, quiet boy keeps trailing after someone like him.

Seongje smirks again, the thought lingering as he looks at Juntae still half-buried in that pillow. Let them stare, he thinks. They’ll never understand why Juntae’s still here and honestly, neither does he.

++++++++++++++++++++

Nothing really changes after that first rainy night in his apartment.

But slowly, without him noticing, Juntae just… starts showing up more. Sometimes he knocks on the door carrying a plastic container of something simple he cooked: fried rice, curry, ramen bulked up with actual vegetables. Other times he drops into Seongje’s couch and flips on whatever movie channel is working, like the place is half his already.

It never feels uncomfortable. If anything, it’s too easy. The silence is never awkward. They eat, they play games, they sit around. Seongje tells himself it doesn’t mean anything. He’s fine with the not-labelling, with letting it all just exist in the quiet corners of their evenings.

Then the rumor hits.

It’s a Thursday night, the neon hum of monitors painting the dim cybercafé blue. Seongje’s halfway through a match, fingers flying over the keys, when a voice from the next row cuts in.

“Oi, wasn’t that the short kid from Eunjang just now?”

Seongje’s ears catch it before his brain does. His head snaps up instantly, eyes darting toward the window though he’s nowhere near close enough to see outside.

“The one with glasses?” the guy adds, leaning toward his friend. “Pretty sure he just walked out of that tattoo shop down the street.”

Seongje freezes. The sound of his game blares in his headphones, but his focus is gone, every nerve in his body straining toward the conversation.

A laugh follows. “No way. That nerd? I can’t even picture him with his ears pierced, man. No chance he’s walking out of a tattoo shop. You’re seeing things.”

But the first guy insists, “Nah, I swear it was him. Short, round glasses, large pastel hoodie. Who else looks like that?”

Seongje doesn’t even realize he’s already pulled his headphones off, his match abandoned on the glowing screen. His pulse kicks hard in his chest, faster than it should for something this small.

Juntae. A tattoo?

The thought doesn’t fit. Juntae with his careful, neat handwriting. Juntae with his shy smiles and food containers wrapped in dish towels. Juntae who blushes like hell when teased about the books he reads.

And yet he can’t shake the image that forces itself into his mind: Juntae pushing open the door of a tattoo shop, glasses catching the light, something hidden under his sleeve.

Seongje’s jaw tightens, smirk tugging at the corner of his lips almost by instinct. Whether it’s true or not, the curiosity burns sharp.

Because if it is true, then the kid he thought he had figured out just slipped out of the neat little box Seongje had put him in.

And Seongje has never been able to resist peeling back layers.

++++++++++++++++++

Once the rumor lodges itself in Seongje’s head, it won’t leave.
A tattoo. On Juntae.

It shouldn’t matter. Who cares if the kid scribbled something permanent onto his skin? But the idea of it, it needles at Seongje until it becomes an itch he has to scratch. He wants to know. Needs to.

Because if it’s true, then Juntae’s not the open book Seongje thought he was. There’s something else hidden under those sleeves and soft smiles.

And Seongje can’t stand not knowing.

He doesn’t ask outright. That would be too easy. Too obvious. He wants to see it.

So the next time Juntae shows up at his place with groceries tucked under his arm, Seongje makes his move. The kid’s fussing over the stove, sleeves rolled neatly to the elbows as he stirs something in a pan, the smell of garlic filling the apartment.

Seongje stands from the couch without a word, padding over until he’s just behind him. Juntae doesn’t notice at first, too focused on not burning the food.

Then Seongje lifts a hand, casual but precise, brushing down the cuff of his sleeve. “You’ll get oil on this,” he mutters, tugging the fabric a little higher.

Juntae jolts. His whole body goes stiff, spoon clattering lightly against the pan. “Wh—what are you—”

Seongje doesn’t step back. He lets the closeness hang there, his fingers brushing the soft skin of Juntae’s forearm as he adjusts the fabric. He feels the kid’s pulse kick beneath the surface, fast and nervous.

But Seongje’s eyes aren’t on his face. They’re on his arm.
Nothing. Smooth skin, pale under the kitchen light. No ink, no lines.

His mouth quirks, almost disappointed. Almost. He leans in just enough for his breath to brush Juntae’s ear. “Relax. Just saving your shirt.”

Juntae swallows hard, still tense, eyes darting everywhere but him. “I—I could’ve done it myself.”

“I know,” Seongje says, voice low and even. He lingers a second longer before finally stepping back, smirk tugging at his lips.

So maybe it isn’t the arms. But that only makes the itch worse.
If Juntae really went through with it, he put it somewhere less obvious. Somewhere hidden.

And the thought of finding it, of uncovering what the kid chose to carve into his skin, sets something hot curling in Seongje’s chest.

Seongje watches Juntae move around the kitchen, chopping vegetables with that careful precision that always makes him pause. His mind doesn’t wander to the food, though it drifts back to the rumor, looping over and over.

Arms were a dead end. Smooth, bare, innocent-looking. Nothing there. But maybe, just maybe, it’s somewhere else.

“Hey,” Seongje says, voice casual, leaning against the counter. “Can you grab that from the top shelf?”

Juntae stretches, his shirt riding up slightly. Seongje’s eyes flick automatically to the small patch of skin revealed at the waistline. No tattoo. Just soft skin and the faint curve of muscle.

He smirks, feigning disappointment. “Hmm. Nothing here either.”

Seongje leans a little closer, casually brushing against him as he slides past to grab a pan. His fingers graze Juntae’s shoulder, and he can feel the startled shiver ripple beneath his touch.

“Relax,” Seongje murmurs. “I’m just… checking if you can handle a bit of crowding in the kitchen.”

Juntae swallows, muttering something about needing to concentrate. But his blush is bright, his movements slightly more hesitant, and Seongje can’t help but find it… adorable.

After dinner, they move to the couch, settling in with a shared game console. Juntae sits cross-legged, the hem of his shorts riding up just enough to show the tops of his calves. Seongje’s eyes flick down, nothing there either, but the pattern of shadows makes him curious. Could the tattoo be small? Hidden on the inside of an ankle, the side of a rib?

“Your legs are very… coordinated,” Seongje teases lightly, as if commenting on his gameplay, though his eyes linger a little too long.

Juntae freezes, then laughs nervously, “Thanks? I practice.”

Seongje smirks to himself, letting the tension hang. Every little movement, every nervous glance, it’s telling him more than words ever could. And the curiosity grows.

He’s not sure if he wants to find the tattoo for the thrill of knowing, or just to have another reason to see the kid squirm under his gaze. Maybe both.

Seongje settles back, plotting silently. Tomorrow, maybe he’ll suggest a walk in the sun, arm raised to brush his hair back, exposing the side of the torso. Or a trip to the convenience store where the sleeves might ride up naturally.

Whatever it takes, he’ll find out.

+++++++++++++++++

The next day drags, each second stretching longer than the last. Seongje can’t focus on anything, the monitors at the internet café blur, the pixels on the game he’s trying to play refuse to form a coherent pattern. His mind keeps snapping back to Juntae.

The tattoo. That damn tattoo. Where is it? Why is it hidden from him? Every time he thinks he’s close, every sleeve he rolls up, every shirt he brushes aside while cooking together, it’s gone. Nothing. Smooth, unmarked skin. And every failed attempt drives him deeper into a low, simmering frustration.

It doesn’t make sense. He didn’t plan to get… involved like this. Touching Juntae’s shoulder while adjusting a sleeve, brushing past his waist to reach the counter, leaning too close to smell the faint scent of the boy's shampoo, it was all supposed to be innocent, strategic, playful. For reconnaissance, in a sense.

And yet.

Every accidental touch, every little brush of skin, sends heat crawling up Seongje’s chest. He imagines Juntae in a tattoo studio, the artist’s hands pressing ink into that hidden part of his body. Hidden from Seongje. Someone else had seen it before him. And the anger sharp and possessive pulses behind his ribs. How dare someone else claim a piece of this quiet, soft boy before he even knew it existed?

He can’t think. He can’t sleep. He can barely focus on breathing properly. And so, instinct kicks in.

He pushes away from the table and steps out into the city. The streets are crowded, the air humid, the kind of chaos he thrives in. A corner of an alley looks promising. The usual gang of drunks and misfits loiters there, a perfect excuse.

Fists meet flesh, teeth grit, adrenaline blooms. He doesn’t even need the fight, doesn’t care who starts it, he just needs the release, the burn of motion, the thrum of anger turned physical.

It’s a dangerous sort of meditation. Normal people would go for a run, do yoga, or binge something mindless. But Seongje isn’t normal. Calm doesn’t stick to him. Peace doesn’t settle. Violence, chaos, and obsession, that’s what sharpens his focus. And right now, the obsession is Juntae.

He feels it in every punch, every dodge, every grunt as he steps back to watch his latest opponent stumble. All of it is an outlet, a way to channel the madness rising inside him, the part of him that wants to possess that hidden tattoo, that soft, awkward, irresistible boy.

And when he finally steps back, bloodied and breathing hard, the city lights blur around him, and he thinks, not for the first time, how utterly screwed he is.

Because no matter how many bruises he takes out on the world, he can’t fight the pull of that tiny, shy, Eunjang nerd who somehow wormed his way into the cracks of Seongje’s chest.

And tomorrow, he’ll be scheming again. Because the tattoo isn’t just ink, it’s a secret. And secrets are meant to be claimed.

++++++++++++++++++

The cheap restaurant buzzes with late-night noise, clattering bowls, sizzling oil from the kitchen, laughter spilling from another table. Seongje doesn’t really care about any of it. His focus is narrowed to the boy across from him, bent over a steaming bowl of noodles, chopsticks clumsy but precise.

Juntae looks too soft, too ordinary, to be sitting across from someone like him. And yet, here they are.

Seongje has been carrying a single thought for days, gnawing at the edges of his mind: the rumor. The tattoo. He still doesn’t know if it’s true. He hates that he doesn’t know. Hates even more the thought of someone else seeing it before him, some stranger’s hands brushing skin that Seongje hasn’t touched.

So he tries the direct route.

“...What do you think of tattoos?” His tone is smooth, casual but the question lands like a pebble tossed into still water.

Juntae blinks, caught off guard, nearly choking on his noodles. “Huh? Tattoos?”

Seongje leans back, chopsticks dangling lazily between his fingers, smirk in place. “Yeah. Been thinking about getting one for years. Just not sure what’d fit me.”

That earns him a flush. Juntae’s gaze flickers up, then down, lingering, scanning him in a way that makes Seongje’s grin widen. The cute nerd is obviously picturing it. Picturing him.

Finally, Juntae clears his throat. “I… I don’t have anything against them. I think… it’d suit you. Maybe… something on your chest.”

Seongje’s smirk sharpens. He tilts his head, voice dropping just enough to make the words sting with mischief.
“Ever thought about seeing my naked torso, then?”

The effect is immediate. Juntae freezes, eyes wide, cheeks turning crimson. His chopsticks clatter against the bowl as he stammers, “W-what—?! We’re— we’re in public!”

Seongje chuckles low in his chest, leaning forward on his elbow, savoring every second. “Relax, I was just asking. You’re blushing enough to turn the broth spicy.”

“Y-you’re impossible,” Juntae mutters, hugging his bowl like a shield.

Seongje hums, eyes gleaming. “Maybe you’ve just got a bad boy kink. Spending so much time with a criminal like me.”

Juntae’s blush deepens, but something steadier slips into his voice. “You’re not a criminal.”

The laughter dies from Seongje’s lips. His brow arches, intrigued. “Come on. Everyone says I’m trouble. A bad boy. People are scared of me.”

Juntae meets his gaze head-on, stubborn even in his embarrassment. “I’m not scared of you. And that should be enough.”

The words land heavier than Seongje expects. For a second, he forgets about the tattoo rumor entirely. The boy across from him has just knocked the ground out from under him with a single sentence.

Seongje tilts his head, studying him in silence, then asks quietly, “...So why do you spend time with me, huh? You’ve already got your friends, Hyuntak, Sieun, Baku, Suho. Guys who actually make sense next to you.”

Juntae doesn’t flinch at the question. Instead, he smiles. That damned dimple shows, and something in Seongje’s chest tightens painfully. It’s too soft.

And then Juntae answers with another question, his eyes glinting with quiet mischief.
“Why does someone like you spend time with someone like me?”

The retort hits harder than expected. Seongje huffs out a laugh, leaning back in his chair, shaking his head. “Tch. Probably because I’m bored.”

Juntae doesn’t bristle. He just smiles again, smaller this time, knowing. He sees right through the bluff, and Seongje hates how warm it makes him feel.

“I like spending time with you,” Juntae says simply, voice calm, almost matter-of-fact. “Because I feel safe.”

That makes Seongje pause. He raises a brow, chopsticks frozen halfway to his lips. “Safe? You don’t feel safe with your Eunjang guys?”

“I do,” Juntae admits, fiddling lightly with his noodles. “Of course I do. They’re my family. But…” His eyes flicker up to meet Seongje’s, steady. “It’s different with you. I’ve felt it since the day you saved me.”

Seongje’s chest tightens again, though he masks it with a smirk. “Different how?”

Juntae doesn’t look away. His voice is soft, but it doesn’t waver.
“At first, I was… confused. Why you’d even bother saving me. Fighting looks like your favorite hobby.”

That makes Seongje chuckle, low and sharp. “You’re not wrong.”

Juntae smiles at that, but keeps going. “But after spending time with you, I realized… you’re mostly show-off.”

That makes Seongje actually laugh, full and sudden, earning them a glare from the old man at the next table. “Show-off, huh? That’s what you think of me?”

Juntae nods, dimples showing again, and it does something to Seongje all over again.

“Yeah. And… I don’t think you ever fought for the Union’s cause. I think you fought because you wanted to belong somewhere. Because you didn’t want to feel lonely.”

The words strip away his smirk, leaving something quieter in its place. He looks at the boy across from him, really looks.

Juntae lowers his voice. “I know that feeling too. Being lonely. Not fitting in anywhere. Before Sieun and the others, I was just… the kid everyone bullied. And…” He hesitates, but the honesty shines through. “I don’t think you would’ve bullied me.”

That stops Seongje cold. Would he have? Probably not. He never liked picking fights with people weaker than him, it was pathetic, beneath him. That was probably why he felt that strange pull the day he saved Juntae, why he’d stepped in without even thinking. Maybe it wasn’t pity. Maybe it was instinct.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Seongje keeps replaying that damn meal in his head. The way Juntae looked at him, calm and sure, saying things no one else dared. Maybe he’s right, maybe Seongje never really gave a damn about the Union. He doesn’t need a reason to fight. He fights because he feels like it. Because his fists itch and the world annoys him. That’s why he never argues when people call him a psycho.

But the way Juntae said it… it hit different. It makes him question things he doesn’t usually question. Makes him wonder if maybe they’re not just friends.

And that thought, of course, drags him right back to the one thing that’s been eating him alive: the tattoo.

The rumor has its claws sunk deep in his brain. He can’t shake it. So one evening, he ends up standing outside the tattoo shop, hands shoved in his pockets, glaring at the neon sign like it personally wronged him.

What the hell is he even doing here? He’s not about to walk in and flash a picture of Juntae like some creep. “Hey, did you ink this nerd?” He’d look insane. But his feet move anyway, carrying him inside.

The place smells of ink and antiseptic, the low buzz of a machine thrumming in the back. Then, out he comes.

Tall. Dark hair. Tattoos crawling over his arms and neck like living art. Late twenties, maybe. Brooding face, sharp features, the kind of presence that sucks the air out of a room.

Seongje hates him instantly.

Because for once, he feels small. Like a kid. And that never happens. He’s supposed to be the tall, moody bastard, not this guy.

The artist’s gaze finds him, cool and professional. “Looking for something?” he asks, voice smooth and low. “Thinking about getting a tattoo?”

Seongje’s eyes dart around the shop. Pictures of clients’ fresh ink cover the walls. His pulse kicks. He scans them too quickly, paranoid. What if Juntae’s face shows up? Those round glasses, that soft shy smile immortalized next to some dragon or flower?

The thought burns. His jaw tightens. And then the real knife twist: imagining this guy,this towering inked-up asshole, leaning over Juntae’s bare skin. Touching him. Marking him. Watching him flinch under the sting of the needle.

Something hot and ugly coils in his chest. He’s mine.

“Hey,” the artist says again, pulling him back. “You want something specific, or just browsing?”

Seongje drags his eyes back to him, realizing he hasn’t answered in way too long. He forces a lazy smirk. “Yeah. Just… looking for ideas. Been thinking about it.”

The guy nods and starts talking, flipping open binders, explaining prices, showing off his work. His hands move smooth and confident, practiced in ways that make Seongje’s stomach twist.

But Seongje hears none of it.

His brain is too busy running wild, picturing Juntae sitting in this very chair, polite and fidgety. The tattoo artist leaning in close, maybe smirking, maybe saying something slic, because of course someone like him would. And Juntae, shy and blushing, probably eating it up.

Because Seongje knows the kind of books Juntae reads. Not the cheesy “perfect student” romances. No, his taste runs darker. Broody. Dangerous. Exactly the kind of shit this cliché tattoo bastard embodies.

Seongje’s nails bite into his palms. Over my dead body.

He glares at the artist like he’s guilty of a crime that hasn’t even happened.

People fall for tattoo artists all the time. It’s so damn cliché. Tall, hot, mysterious, covered in ink. He can practically hear the shitty romance novel lines in his head already.

But not Juntae. Not his nerd.

Because sure, Seongje drinks too much sometimes. Sure, he’s had his share of nights stumbling out of alleys with strangers whose names he never cared to learn. But he’s not some smooth-talking fuckboy with a tattoo gun.

He’d treat Juntae right. Better than anyone else. Better than this guy.

…Why the hell is he even thinking like this?

His lips curl into something between a smirk and a snarl. He’s losing his mind over a damn tattoo.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Seongje isn’t doing any better. If anything, he’s worse. He catches himself staring at Juntae too often, and the little guy notices. He blushes, fumbles, looks away shyly and it only makes things worse. Because it isn’t just curiosity about the damn tattoo anymore. It’s lust. Pure, unfiltered. Seongje finds himself imagining things he shouldn’t, like pressing Juntae down, leaving his own marks, making him forget whoever the hell touched him with that tattoo needle.

So, one evening in his apartment, the words just fall out:

“We should go swimming.”

Juntae blinks at him, caught off guard. “Swimming? You… swim?”

Seongje smirks, leaning back on the couch like he planned this. “Sure. Summer’s ending soon. You’ll be off to university. Still hot enough. Why not?”

Juntae looks skeptical at first, he’s not exactly the athletic type, but then something shifts in his expression, like he’s picturing a soft little beach trip. Cute, easy, fun. Seongje had only been thinking of a pool, simple and private. But the way Juntae’s eyes brighten when he suggests the beach… it doesn’t sound like a bad idea after all.

Then Juntae ruins it. “Can my friends come too?”

The question makes Seongje pause. The Eunjang guys? Why the hell would he—? But then Juntae’s face lights up in this way Seongje almost never sees, hopeful and unguarded. He knows how carefully Juntae usually avoids mixing his worlds, keeping Seongje and his friends apart. So the fact that he’s asking at all feels… important. And damn it, Seongje can’t bring himself to say no.

Which is how he ends up on a crowded city bus, heading toward some beach they found on the internet, with the entire Eunjang crew. He sits next to Juntae, trying not to scowl too openly. He’s surprised the others even agreed to come, but he figures Juntae’s puppy eyes work on them just like they did on him. Still, he doubts they’re thrilled to see him here.

When they reach the beach and settle on a spot, Seongje starts buzzing with impatience. The thought of Juntae peeling off layers, showing skin he hasn’t seen yet, it’s enough to make his chest tight.

That’s when Suho approaches him, casual but sharp-eyed. “So… what are you up to? Juntae said this was your idea.”

Seongje scoffs. “It wasn’t. My idea was just the two of us at a pool. Don’t even know how I ended up here.”

Suho smirks knowingly, and it grates, but Seongje doesn’t actually mind Suho much. If he had to pick one Eunjang guy to tolerate, it’d be him.

But then Hyuntak comes over, and Seongje’s whole body tenses. He hates Hyuntak. Too close to Juntae, always buzzing around him like some loyal watchdog.

“What’s the deal between you and Juntae?” Hyuntak asks, voice loaded with that overprotective big brother tone. It makes Seongje want to break his nose.

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even look at him. Because his eyes are fixed on Juntae a few meters away, fingers tugging at the hem of his hoodie, finally ready to take it off—

—only to reveal a full-coverage long-sleeve swim shirt.

Beside him, Sieun’s dressed the same. Both of them hiding their torsos like it’s some pact.

Seongje’s jaw tightens, fists clenching at his sides. Everyone else is shirtless, sun on their skin, and Juntae’s covering up like the universe personally conspired against him.

He wants to punch someone. Preferably Hyuntak. Maybe everyone. Because what the hell was the point of dragging himself here, surrounded by people he can’t stand, if he’s not even going to catch a glimpse of Juntae’s body?

The longer they sit there, the heavier Seongje’s mood gets. Everyone’s laughing, splashing around, stripping down without a care, and all he can focus on is Juntae hiding under those damn long sleeves. The irritation simmers in his chest until he’s sure it’s obvious on his face.

And of course, Juntae notices. He always notices.

He shuffles closer, tugging lightly at Seongje’s wrist. “Sorry… maybe bringing everyone wasn’t a good idea.” His voice is soft, hesitant, like he’s genuinely guilty.

That makes Seongje freeze. Great. Now he’s managed to make Juntae feel bad over something as stupid as… what? A shirt? The nerd’s modesty? What the hell was he even expecting? This is Juntae. Of course he wouldn’t flaunt his body around like the others. Of course he’d be shy.

Something in Seongje unclenches. He exhales and mutters, “I’m sorry.”

The words are barely out of his mouth before Baku, who apparently has sonar for weakness, whirls around with wide eyes. “Wait. Did I just hear right? Did Seongje apologize?”

The others laugh, and suddenly it’s open season. Teasing comments fly, all of them piling on, trying to get a rise out of him. Normally, Seongje would’ve snapped already, thrown a punch or stormed off. But now? He grits his teeth, muscles tight, doing everything in his power not to react.

Because Juntae’s looking at him. Big, round eyes behind his glasses, soft and warm in a way that cuts through everything. And Seongje’s heart, the traitor, can’t resist.

Juntae, sensing the tension, steps in to redirect. “Come on,” he says, smiling up at him. “Let’s go swim.”

It’s not how Seongje imagined this trip. Not by a long shot. But if it means time with Juntae, away from the chaos? He’ll take it. Hell, maybe the tattoo will magically reveal itself in saltwater, like some secret mermaid power.

He stands, brushing the sand from his shorts. “Fine. Let’s go.”

Behind them, Hyuntak calls out, his voice sharp and displeased: “Hey—” Something about watching Juntae, something about not trusting him.

Seongje doesn’t even let him finish. He catches Juntae’s hand in his, firm and unhesitating, and tugs him toward the waves. “Ignore them,” he says with a smirk, loud enough for Hyuntak to hear.

They break into a run across the sand, water spraying up as they crash into the surf. Juntae laughs, startled, his glasses crooked but his grin bright, and Seongje feels the sound sink straight into his chest.

The hand in his isn’t just to piss Hyuntak off anymore. It feels… good. Solid. Right.

The water is cooler than expected, but Juntae doesn’t complain, of course he doesn’t, not even with those ridiculous long sleeves sticking to his frame. Seongje swims a few strokes ahead, then turns back, smirking.

“You seriously came to the beach just to cosplay a monk?” He flicks water at the fabric clinging to Juntae’s arms. “Long sleeves? Really?”

Juntae blushes, adjusting his glasses as if that’ll save him. “I just… don’t like the sun much.”

Seongje’s eyes narrow, scanning every inch of him, hoping for even the faintest hint of ink beneath the wet fabric. Nothing. Just smooth, pale skin hidden where he can’t reach. It makes his teeth grind.

Before he can push further, a wave crashes into them. The impact knocks Juntae off balance, sending him stumbling into the surf. His glasses slip crooked, barely hanging onto his face.

When he looks up, wet hair plastered to his forehead, eyes bright and clear, he’s smiling. Pure, open, unguarded.

Seongje feels something burn in his chest. He hates it. (Not really. Not at all.)

Another wave rises. On instinct, he grabs Juntae’s hand again, pulling him closer. This time, his other hand slides low, steadying him at the waist. Small. Fragile. Too easy to lose.

The water pushes them back, foamy and loud, but all Seongje hears is Juntae’s laughter, soft, bubbling, unrestrained. It’s the most perfect sound in the world, and he wants to keep it for himself.

His grip tightens just slightly. He knows the others are watching, but for once, he doesn’t give a damn. Under the surface, where no one can see, his fingers brush down to Juntae’s wrist, then curl until their hands lock together, fingers intertwined.

“I got you,” Seongje murmurs, his voice low, meant for Juntae alone.

Juntae’s eyes meet his, steady despite the rush of the sea. His smile softens, almost tender. “I know.”

He doesn’t pull away. He lets their hands stay bound, their bodies swaying together with the tide. For a fleeting moment, it feels like they’re alone in the world. Just them.

Then... chaos. A loud splash, a yell, and suddenly water rains down on them as the others join in. Hyuntak, Sieun, Suho, Baku. All charging in, spraying and laughing, targeting Seongje first as if on instinct.

Seongje curses, spluttering as salt water hits his face. Juntae’s laughter rings beside him again.

And through it all, Seongje’s heart refuses to calm.

The sun is setting by the time they all pack up from the beach, skin salty, hair messy, sand clinging everywhere. Juntae looks content, carrying the leftover snacks in a plastic bag, his damp sleeves still clinging to his arms.

As they wait at the bus stop, Seongje leans closer to him.
“Come to my place after,” he says casually, like he’s just asking if Juntae wants extra noodles. “I’ll cook.”

Before Juntae can answer, Hyuntak - of course Hyuntak - cuts in, arms crossed, watching them with narrowed eyes.
“What exactly is going on here?”

Seongje doesn’t even bother hiding his sigh. “Nothing that’s any of your business.”

Hyuntak raises an eyebrow, stepping closer. “It is my business if it’s about Juntae. So what is it? What do you want with him?”

The air tenses for a second, Suho and Baku exchanging looks behind them. Sieun doesn’t say anything, but he’s clearly listening too.

Seongje tilts his head, smirk tugging at his mouth. “What do I want with him? I don’t know. Feed him? Keep him from drowning in long-sleeve swimsuits?”

Baku snorts. “That was a crime against humanity.”

Suho hides a grin. “Seriously though, I thought you two were gonna drown out there holding hands like lovebirds.”

Juntae chokes on air. “W-We weren’t—!”

But Hyuntak doesn’t let it slide. He jabs a finger toward Seongje, trying to sound stern but failing to hide the playful edge in his tone. “Listen. I don’t care how much Juntae trusts you now. If you mess with him—if you hurt him even once—we’ll be there. All of us. Got it?”

It should sound threatening. It would sound threatening coming from anyone else. But after a whole day of chaotic splashing, teasing, and seeing them reluctantly tolerate him for Juntae’s sake, it feels more like a pact of honor.

Seongje shrugs, meeting Hyuntak’s gaze steadily. “Relax. I’m not planning on hurting him. You’d know by now if I was.”

Juntae shifts awkwardly beside him, clutching his bag tighter. His ears are red, but he doesn’t say anything.

Finally, Hyuntak sighs and shakes his head. “Unbelievable. Juntae really picked the scariest stray dog he could find.”

“Better me than some random tattoo artist,” Seongje mutters under his breath, but loud enough that Juntae almost trips on the sidewalk.

The others laugh, the tension breaking. Sieun even pats Seongje on the shoulder in a rare sign of tolerance. “Just… don’t ruin this, alright?”

For once, Seongje doesn’t have a snarky reply. He only glances at Juntae, who is still red as a cherry, and feels that restless warmth stir again.

Before he can think about dragging Juntae away, Suho stretches his arms above his head and grins.
“Hey. Since we’re all here, why don’t we grab dinner together? Who knows when this will happen again?”

Seongje wants to curse. Out of all the suggestions… dinner? With them? He can almost see Juntae hesitate, eyes flickering nervously between the group. He knows the soft boy probably wants it, Juntae’s always been careful about balancing his friends and Seongje, as if the two worlds shouldn’t mix.

And if Seongje leaves it to him, he’ll be too torn to answer.

So he answers first. “Fine. But only if I don’t have to pay. And you’d better invite Juntae too, or I’m out.”

That earns him a sharp look from Juntae, his ears already turning pink.
“W-What are you even saying… of course I’d be—”

Baku bursts out laughing. “Look at him blush! Seriously, Juntae, you’re like a neon sign.”

By the time they’re crammed around a small, cheap barbecue place table, smoke curling up between them, Juntae is still bundled in Seongje’s oversized hoodie, sleeves covering half his hands. It hangs ridiculously loose on him, but he doesn’t complain, if anything, he looks… comfortable. Too comfortable.

The food sizzles, noodles steaming, and somehow the conversation flows easier than Seongje expected. They’re loud, teasing, talking over one another like it’s always been this way. He doesn’t join much, but he doesn’t hate it either.

Until Baku leans forward, chopsticks tapping against his bowl, eyes narrowing with mock seriousness.
“Alright. Enough beating around the bush. You two have been hanging around each other for over a year now. We all see it. Juntae, you don’t blush like that with us. So what are you?”

Juntae freezes mid-bite. His face goes scarlet.
“I—It’s not—”

Seongje smirks, seeing the perfect chance. He leans back in his chair, stretching an arm along the back of Juntae’s, pulling him subtly closer.
“Maybe we’re secretly married,” he drawls. “Didn’t invite you lot to the wedding because you stink.”

Juntae nearly drops his chopsticks. “S-Stop it! That’s not true!”

“See? Naive little Juntae feels the need to deny it.” Seongje chuckles, voice low with amusement.

Baku gasps dramatically, eyes lighting up. “Oh, I get it. Our Juntae has a crush. Can’t say I’m surprised. He is a yaoi enjoyer, after all, and what did he find? His very own bad boy with a soft heart.”

Seongje cringes so hard he wants to crawl under the table. Juntae actually hides behind his sleeves.

Sieun finally sighs, long-suffering. “Don’t gang up on him. You’re all unbearable.”

But Suho grins like a cat. “What? It’s true. Look at Seongje. He doesn’t even fight that much anymore. Our baby tamed him, turned him into a well-behaved dog.”

The table erupts in laughter.

Juntae’s voice comes out small, but clear, barely above the noise.
“I just… don’t like it when any of you—or Seongje—get hurt.”

That shuts them up. For a moment, the whole table softens, the gang looking at Juntae with something close to tenderness.

Seongje stares at him. At the sincerity in his eyes, the way he says it without hesitation, without shame. Before he realizes it, his hand moves on its own. He reaches out, gently brushing a damp strand of hair from Juntae’s forehead, tucking it behind his ear.

The table immediately erupts into groans.
“Oh my god—”
“Gross!”
“Spare us!”

Juntae looks like he might actually combust, his blush spreading to the tips of his ears.

Seongje realizes what he’s just done. His first instinct is to deny, to play it off, but he doesn’t panic. Instead, he shoots the others a flat glare that says one more word and I’ll knock your teeth out. Deep down, though, he wants to punch them all anyway—just to erase the smug looks from their faces.

++++++++++++++++++++++

The walk home is quiet, the kind of quiet that feels almost fragile, like a glass that might shatter if either of them speaks too loudly. The city hums in the background, cars in the distance, the buzz of neon signs but between them, there’s only the soft sound of shoes against pavement. Their hands brush now and then, barely-there touches that still manage to spark through Seongje like static.

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. Silence doesn’t feel heavy.

“...Thank you,” Juntae suddenly murmurs, voice low, almost carried away by the night air.

Seongje glances at him, brow quirking. “What for?”

Juntae hesitates, then pushes his glasses higher on his nose. “For today. I know it’s… not what you had in mind when you suggested swimming. And… for tolerating my friends. I could tell you weren’t exactly thrilled.” His tone is apologetic, soft, the way he always speaks when he feels guilty about something that isn’t even his fault.

That twinge of guilt hits Seongje sharp. He hates that Juntae noticed his sour mood earlier. And all because of something as stupid as long sleeves at the beach. What the hell was he expecting? This is Juntae, of course the kid wouldn’t strip down carefree, of course he’d cover himself up, shy and self-conscious. Seongje knows better, and still he let his frustration bleed through.

He exhales, softer this time. “Sorry.” The word slips out before he can stop it.

That’s when Baku’s voice echoes back in his mind, teasing him mercilessly earlier: How on earth is Seongje even apologizing? Damn clown. But it’s true, he doesn’t apologize. Not to anyone. Yet with Juntae, the word feels natural, necessary.

Juntae turns to him, eyes wide behind the lenses, and then he smiles. That smile, the one with the tiny dimple, like he doesn’t believe he deserves even the smallest kindness, and it hits Seongje square in the chest. Too soft. Too warm.

"Sometimes, I think you are too good for me, Seongje."

He laughs, shaking his head. “I can’t imagine a world where I’m ‘too good’ for you, Juntae. Hell, I couldn’t even imagine a world where you’d be my friend. But here we are.”

Here we are. Together. And Seongje doesn’t know what to do with the way that thought makes his chest tighten.

The next thing he knows, Juntae’s hand brushes against his again. Only this time, instead of pulling away, Juntae grabs it. Fingers tentative at first, then firm, intertwining with his like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Seongje’s heart stutters.

He doesn’t look down at their hands, doesn’t dare. He just feels the warmth, the softness of Juntae’s smaller fingers laced with his own, and for the first time in a long time, he feels something he can’t put words to. Something terrifying and good all at once.

“You Don't owe me anything,” Seongje mutters, voice lower than he intended, almost rough.

Juntae only shakes his head, still smiling that quiet smile. “You saved my life that day. I’ll always owe you for that.”

A flash of memory hits Seongje, the blood, Juntae trembling but standing his ground anyway. He swallows, looking straight ahead. “I’d do it again. Even if you decided never to talk to me after. I wouldn’t regret it.”

Juntae’s gaze softens, his smile smaller now, but it glows with something that makes Seongje’s chest feel too tight. “Still,” Juntae says quietly, “I want to give you a favor. Ask me anything, and I’ll do it. Or answer it. Whatever it is.”

Seongje’s breath catches.

This is it. His moment. The obsession that’s been eating at him, gnawing at the edges of every thought: the tattoo. Finally, a chance to get the truth out of him.

But not here. Not in the middle of a street under flickering lamps, not with people passing by and cars rushing in the distance. No, he wants privacy for this. He needs it.

He smirks faintly, squeezing Juntae’s hand, their fingers still tightly intertwined. “I’ve got one thing in mind,” he says, voice deliberately casual. “But I’ll ask later. At home.”

Juntae blinks at him, curious, maybe even a little nervous, but he nods. Trusting. Always trusting.

And Seongje doesn’t let go of his hand the entire walk back.

+++++++++++++++

The lock clicks shut behind them, the sound of the street fading out as Seongje tosses his keys onto the counter. His apartment feels even smaller than usual with Juntae inside, like the walls shrink to make room for him.

Juntae slips off his shoes neatly, places them by the door like he’s done this a hundred times. It’s stupid, but Seongje feels a strange warmth at how comfortable he looks in the space. Like it’s… theirs.

He drops onto the couch, stretching out like he owns the place—because he does—but his eyes never leave Juntae as the boy sets his bag down and fiddles with his damp sleeves.

And then it hits him again: the promise. Ask me anything. I’ll do it. Or answer it.

The tattoo.

His chest tightens. He wants to blurt it out, demand to know where it is, what it looks like, if it’s even real. He wants to strip those damn layers away and see for himself. The thought makes his pulse pound in his throat.

Instead, he watches Juntae fuss with the kettle, putting water on without asking, like it’s routine. Always so damn considerate. Always soft.

“So…” Juntae says, finally turning, glasses catching the dull light of the lamp. “What is it? The thing you wanted to ask.”

The words hang in the air, thick, heavy.

Seongje leans back into the couch, tilting his head lazily like it’s no big deal. He’s good at that, pretending he doesn’t care while his insides twist. “I heard a rumor,” he starts, voice slow, testing. “That you got a tattoo.”

Juntae freezes.

It’s subtle, but Seongje sees it. The way his hands still on the counter, the slight stiffening of his shoulders, the flicker of his eyes that won’t quite meet his.

Gotcha.

Seongje smirks, though inside, the tension coils tighter. “So? Was it just bullshit, or…?” He lets the question trail, like he’s bored, like it doesn’t matter.

Juntae finally turns, his face a little pink, lips pressing together. “You… heard that?”

“Cybercafé. Some idiots near the window swore they saw you leaving a shop.” Seongje’s gaze sharpens, pinning him. “Did they?”

The silence that follows is the loudest thing in the room.

Juntae pushes his glasses up again, but his hand lingers on the frame like a shield. “…What if I did?”

And there it is. Not a denial. Not confirmation, either. Just enough to light Seongje’s nerves on fire.

What if I did?

The thought of someone else’s hands on Juntae’s soft skin flashes through his head again, the damn tattoo artist, hovering over him, marking him. His jaw tightens before he can stop it.

He laughs, sharp, because he doesn’t trust what will come out if he doesn’t mask it. “Guess I’ll have to see it to believe it.”

Juntae’s blush deepens, his whole posture curling in on itself. “Y-you can’t just—”

“Can’t what?” Seongje cuts in, eyes narrowing playfully, voice low. “Ask my friend to show me his brand-new tattoo? What’s the point of getting inked if you’re gonna hide it?”

Juntae stammers, fumbling for words, and Seongje feels something dangerous spark in his chest. It’s not just curiosity anymore, it’s need.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, watching every flicker of Juntae’s face like it’s the only thing in the room worth seeing. “Come on, little Eunjang. Where is it?”

Juntae doesn’t answer. He just stands there by the counter, clutching the edge like it might hold him upright.

And something in Seongje snaps.

He rises from the couch slowly, deliberately, never taking his eyes off him. Each step closes the distance until he’s standing in front of Juntae, close enough to catch the faint scent of the beach on his body, the warmth of his skin under the oversized hoodie.

Seongje’s gaze drags over him, slow, searching. Shoulders, chest, arms, waist. The fabric hides everything, and it drives him insane.

“The hell’s the point of wearing my hoodie,” he murmurs, tugging lightly at the sleeve, “if you’re hiding something underneath?”

Juntae swallows, eyes darting away. His cheeks are burning red, but he doesn’t move back. Doesn’t push him away.

Seongje hooks a finger under the hem of the hoodie, tugging it just enough to make the fabric shift against Juntae’s hip. “So… where is it? Your arm? Your chest? Lower?” His tone dips, playful, but underneath it hums with something darker.

The air between them feels thick, charged, like static before a storm.

Juntae stammers, “S-Seongje…”

God, his voice is soft, pleading, like he doesn’t know whether to run or stay frozen. It coils around Seongje’s chest and squeezes.

He leans down, just enough so his mouth is close to Juntae’s ear, his words brushing against his skin. “What’re you hiding from me, huh?”

The hoodie bunches in Seongje’s hands as he toys with the fabric, like he could just peel it off, uncover what’s his.

Juntae finally lifts his eyes, wide behind his glasses. There’s no anger there, no sharp pushback just nerves, hesitation, and something that looks dangerously like trust.

And it guts him. Because suddenly it’s not just about the tattoo anymore.

It’s about the way Juntae looks at him like that. The way he lets him close, even when he’s trembling. The way Seongje’s own heart is hammering, loud enough to drown out every thought except mine.

Seongje doesn’t stop at tugging the hoodie. His hands linger at the hem, pulling lightly, enough to make Juntae’s breath stutter.

“You know,” Seongje murmurs, eyes scanning every inch of him like he could tear through fabric with sheer will, “wearing my hoodie while hiding something from me… it’s kinda cruel, don’t you think?” His voice is low, almost teasing, but there’s something underneath, raw, restless, dangerous.

He fists the fabric tighter, brushing his knuckles against the curve of Juntae’s waist. Even through layers of cloth, he feels him trembling.

Juntae catches at his wrists, not rough just holding, as if trying to anchor himself. “Seongje…” His voice is quiet, uncertain.

But Seongje doesn’t let go. One hand slips higher, pressing flat against his side under the hoodie, the warmth of his skin searing his palm. Juntae gasps softly, his lips parting, eyes wide and helpless behind his glasses.

Seongje leans in, close enough to feel his breath. “Where is it?” His tone is a whisper now, something that vibrates low in his throat. “Your chest? Your back? …Or somewhere only I should see?”

The silence that follows is unbearable. Juntae doesn’t answer. His lashes flutter, his cheeks are flushed pink, and he looks up at Seongje like he doesn’t know if he should run or stay.

His tiny hands push gently against Seongje’s chest, not enough to move him, just enough to make him feel it. A trembling barrier.

“Seongje…” he says again, softer this time, almost pleading.

And that breaks him.

Seongje’s grip falters. He lets the hem of the hoodie slip from his fingers, the heavy air between them vibrating with everything unsaid. He can’t tear his gaze away from Juntae’s flushed face, his damp lashes, the way his lips tremble like he’s about to speak and can’t.

Finally, Juntae steps back... just one, small step. Not angry. Not rejecting. Just… overwhelmed.

His arms curl around himself, clutching the hoodie closer, eyes downcast. “I can’t…” he whispers, and the words sound less like refusal, more like confession.

The room is still charged, buzzing with the ghost of Seongje’s hands on his skin. Seongje is left standing there, chest rising hard, hands burning, heart pounding like he just walked the edge of something dangerous and beautiful at the same time.

And Juntae isn’t gone. He’s right there. But he looks like one more touch might undo him completely.

“Don’t run,” Seongje says, his voice rougher than he intends. His gaze is locked on Juntae’s flushed face, drinking in the wide eyes and parted lips. “Not when you’re looking at me like that. You want this as much as I do.”

Juntae swallows hard, caught like a deer in headlights. His cheeks are burning, but he doesn’t move away. Doesn’t deny it.

Seongje lets out a low laugh, curling at the edge with something sharp. “Friends don’t stare at each other like this, huh? …Maybe we were never even friends in the first place. You don’t act like this with your Eunjang boys.”

The silence that follows tells him everything he needs to know. Juntae just stands there, drowned in the oversized hoodie Seongje had thrown at him earlier, fidgeting with the hem. Too obvious. Too easy to read. And Seongje’s chest aches with how much he wants to tear the shyness apart, claim him whole.

He steps closer, hand lifting almost on its own until his fingers are brushing along Juntae’s jaw. The skin there is warm, soft, trembling faintly. He pushes damp strands of hair back, still salty from the sea, and all he can think is how his lips might taste the same.

There’s only one way to know.

Seongje leans down, closing the space inch by inch, close enough to feel Juntae’s breath stumble against his own. He pauses, giving him a chance to push back. But instead, Juntae closes his eyes.

That’s all the answer Seongje needs.

Their lips touch, feather-light, the barest brush, but it’s enough to send fire down his spine. Juntae tastes of salt and heat and something maddeningly sweet. The kiss is short, careful, but when Seongje pulls back, Juntae doesn’t retreat.

So he kisses him again.

Deeper this time. His hand cups Juntae’s cheek, thumb grazing his hot skin. This time, Juntae responds shy, unsteady. The weight in Seongje’s chest sharpens into something violent and unbearably tender.

They break apart just long enough to stare at each other, foreheads nearly touching, breaths uneven. Juntae smiles, shaky and soft, and whispers, “That’s… definitely not what friends are supposed to do.”

Seongje barely has time to smirk before Juntae tips forward, standing on his toes to kiss him first this time.

The world tilts. Seongje grips his waist instinctively, the feel of him small and solid under his hands. He doesn’t expect Juntae’s sudden boldness, hands sliding from his chest up to the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair, but it nearly undoes him.

The kiss deepens, turning clumsy and hot, lips parting. Seongje takes the chance, sliding his tongue against Juntae’s, and the boy shivers against him but doesn’t pull away. He answers, fumbling but eager, and the sound of it makes Seongje’s control snap.

The room fills with their ragged breathing, desperate and uneven. Seongje presses him back against the wall, hands roaming wherever they can: his sides, his back, the curve of his waist. Too much and not enough all at once.

Juntae gasps into his mouth, and Seongje swallows it greedily, pressing closer, grounding him, claiming him. Every brush of his lips, every twitch of Juntae’s body against his, screams the same truth:

He wants.

And, impossibly, Juntae lets him.

Juntae’s back thuds softly against the wall, but he doesn’t complain. Doesn’t push him away. His small hands clutch at Seongje’s hair like he’s afraid of losing balance, like Seongje is the only thing keeping him upright.

And maybe he is.

Because Seongje feels the same. His whole body hums with it, the weight of Juntae pressed so close, the warmth of him spilling through damp fabric. The taste of him still lingers on his tongue, salty, sweet, addictive. He could drown in this and never care about surfacing.

He drags his mouth from Juntae’s lips just long enough to trace down the corner of his jaw, the fragile curve of his neck. Juntae’s sharp inhale is like gasoline poured straight into Seongje’s chest. He grins against that soft skin, a predator savoring the shiver he causes.

God, listen to him. He’s trembling. For me.

Seongje presses closer, teeth grazing lightly at the shell of Juntae’s ear. “This… doesn’t look like something friends do, does it?” His voice is low, rough, half-taunt, half-confession.

Juntae makes a sound, a whimper, barely there, but it shoots straight through Seongje’s veins. He wants to hear more of that. Wants to tear down every wall of shyness until there’s nothing but this heat, this surrender.

His hands roam greedily, sliding down over fabric that feels too much like a barrier. The oversized hoodie—his hoodie—hangs loose and damp, hiding too much. Seongje fists the hem, tugging it upward slowly, deliberately.

Juntae stiffens, his breath catching against Seongje’s lips. For a moment, Seongje stills, searching his face. Juntae’s cheeks are scarlet, his glasses slightly askew, eyes wide… but he doesn’t tell him to stop.

If anything, the way Juntae grips tighter at his hair feels like permission.

Seongje exhales, the sound shaky, hungry. Then don’t blame me for this, little nerd.

He pulls, sliding the hoodie up, over Juntae’s small frame, peeling it from his shoulders with agonizing slowness. The fabric catches at his arms before Seongje yanks it free and tosses it aside, forgotten.

And there he is.

Juntae, flushed and messy, t-shirt clinging damply to his body, the outline of his slim chest and soft curves finally visible. Not bare (not yet) but it’s enough to make Seongje’s head spin, enough to make his hands twitch with the urge to touch, to claim.

His voice drops, husky, almost a growl. “Better. I want to see you.”

Juntae looks up at him through his lashes, lips wet and parted, breath coming fast. And the way he doesn’t argue, doesn’t retreat, feels like the most dangerous invitation Seongje has ever been given.

Juntae doesn’t pull back, doesn’t falter under Seongje’s gaze. If anything, the tiny quiver in his body seems to urge Seongje on, daring him to cross the line he’s been craving for weeks. His hands wander, brushing against the damp fabric of Juntae’s t-shirt, fingers tracing the ridges of muscle, the soft curves, eliciting a shiver that sends electricity straight to his chest.

Their lips meet again, slow at first, tasting salt and warmth, teasing and exploring, until the kisses grow hungrier, more demanding. Juntae responds in kind, lips moving, hands clutching at Seongje’s neck and shoulders, guiding him closer, silently asking for more. Every little whimper, every soft gasp fuels Seongje’s need, makes his pulse hammer against his ribs.

“Seongje…” Juntae murmurs against his mouth, voice low and shaky, “I… want more.”

That single admission pushes Seongje over the edge. He presses harder, lips and hands roaming, and in response, Juntae finally lifts his arms, tugging at the sticky, salt-dampened long sleeves of his own shirt. The fabric comes off, revealing the soft, pale expanse of his chest and stomach.

Seongje freezes for a heartbeat, utterly overwhelmed. The small, perfect body before him, exposed and quivering, is everything he’s imagined, and more. He’s so caught up in the heat of the moment, in the curve of Juntae’s collarbones, the slight rise and fall of his chest, that he doesn’t notice at first the small mark on his left rib, not far from his heart.

Then his eyes catch it, and everything else disappears.

A tiny tattoo, subtle but unmistakable. A heartbeat line, delicate and precise, woven into it is an “S”, clever, intimate, meaningful. His chest tightens, and for a moment, Seongje is frozen, a mix of awe, possessiveness, and something deeper he can’t even name.

Juntae’s skin is perfect, soft under his touch, warm, alive and that mark, that secret mark, it’s for him.

Finally.

Seongje’s hands hover, trembling slightly, as he traces the line with a reverent touch, almost afraid to move too fast. His mind races, imagining the care it took, the courage it took for Juntae to let someone mark him, to hide it for so long… and now, it’s here, finally revealed, only for him.

He swallows hard, heat rising in his chest. It’s just a small mark, but it feels like everything.

And Juntae, noticing Seongje staring, doesn’t pull away. Instead, he bites his lip softly, cheeks flushed, and murmurs, “I… I wanted you to see it eventually.”

Seongje’s breath hitches, the words locking inside him. He wants to claim every inch of this moment, every pulse of Juntae’s heartbeat, and let the world outside vanish.

He leans in, pressing a slow, reverent kiss against the skin just above the tattoo, feeling the warmth, the tremble beneath his lips, and whispers, “…You’re mine.”

He doesn’t pause. Seongje’s lips travel, slow and demanding, from Juntae’s collarbone down across the gentle slope of his chest, teasing, tasting, marking the territory he’s already claimed in his mind. His hands roam, pressing into the soft planes of Juntae’s torso, tracing ribs, brushing against the warmth beneath the skin, until his mouth hovers just above the delicate line of the tattoo.

Juntae’s breath hitches, a soft, shaky sound that spurs Seongje on. Before he can taste the ink, Juntae speaks, voice low and trembling.

“It’s… a heartbeat line,” he murmurs, “to show… that I’m still alive. The S… it’s for… saved… safe…” His words are barely audible, but each syllable pierces Seongje like fire.

Seongje freezes for a second, absorbing it, before leaning in again. The tattooed skin is soft beneath his lips, the ink still seeming alive under his touch.

Juntae adds, almost shyly, almost reverently, “S… it’s also… for you.”

Seongje’s heart spikes. He can’t breathe for a moment, staring at the small, perfect mark and the boy who offered it so freely to him. “…You… you really marked your skin… with my name?” he asks, voice rough, disbelief and longing threading every word.

Juntae struggles to speak, words getting lost under Seongje’s kisses that now roam across his ribs, neck, chest, everywhere he can reach. “…I… I… whatever happens… you… you saved my life… that… that will never… change.”

Seongje grows heavier, possessive, pressing his body closer, hands gripping, lips claiming, almost forceful not to hurt, but to mark, to consume. He can’t stop thinking about the tattoo artist, imagining his hands on Juntae’s soft skin, and a sharp, hot thrill of satisfaction coils in him. No one gets to touch this, not like this, not before him. He’s the one who saved him, the one who sees every inch of him, and now the one whose name is permanently inked over his chest, over his life.

His lips linger near the “S,” tasting the salt of Juntae’s skin, tracing the delicate line again and again, murmuring low, heated promises. The realization, Juntae chose to mark himself, to carry Seongje in this private, unspoken, permanent way, drives him to a mix of madness and awe, every nerve alive.

“…Mine,” he breathes against that small heartbeat line, “…all mine.”

Juntae shivers, chest rising and falling against him, soft hands clutching at Seongje’s arms as if grounding himself. And Seongje, caught between lust and possession, knows this is more than desire, it’s a claim, a proof, a bond inked forever, and it’s intoxicating beyond anything he has ever known.

Seongje can feel his control slipping, every inch of his body reacting to Juntae pressed against him, soft and shivering beneath his hands. The tattoo,it’s small, subtle, but it feels monumental, like a key to something he never expected to hold in his hands. He can’t stop kissing it, tracing the heartbeat line with lips and tongue, tasting the salt of Juntae’s skin, feeling the tiny tremble beneath him.

Juntae gasps, his fingers tangling in Seongje’s hair, holding on as if this contact alone could anchor him. His soft voice breaks through, shaky and breathless.

“Seongje… don’t stop…”

The words ignite something darker, more possessive. Seongje’s hands slide lower, tracing along the sides of Juntae’s torso, fingertips teasing, exploring, claiming. He’s careful, yes, he’s never careless with this boy, but the desire to mark his presence, to be everywhere Juntae can feel him, is almost unbearable.

Juntae arches into his touch, hips tilting slightly, letting Seongje’s hands explore, letting him map every curve, every small tremor. His chest rises, soft, taut, warm, and the “S” on his ribs becomes a sacred landmark, a silent declaration. Seongje presses closer, chest to chest, and feels the rapid thrum of Juntae’s heartbeat, echoing the line inked into his skin.

Seongje murmurs low, almost possessively, “You’re mine. All of you… mine.”

Juntae doesn’t pull away. He barely breathes, shivering under Seongje’s mouth on his neck, his hands clutching his hair, nails grazing his scalp. He whispers something soft, “I… I’m yours.”

Juntae’s gasps and soft moans are music to him, and it’s not just lust, it’s claiming, acknowledging, a silent promise. Every time Seongje brushes against the tattoo, he feels the significance, the permanence, the vulnerability, and it makes him almost lose his mind with both desire and reverence.

For a long moment, they stay like that, a mix of saltwater and the electric tension of bodies discovering each other. Seongje’s hands wander, finding every curve, teasing, memorizing, feeling how small, soft, and perfect Juntae is.

Seongje feels every nerve in his body screaming for more. Juntae’s warmth presses against him, soft and yielding, and he can’t stop the possessive need to know him, taste him, claim him. The tattoo—the tiny S embedded in a heartbeat line—burns into Seongje’s mind, a marker of everything he wants and can’t have until now.

Juntae sighs, soft and trembling under his touch, and it’s enough to make Seongje shiver in response. He slides his hands under Juntae’s ribs, careful but insistent, tracing the line of muscle and softness, memorizing the feel of him. Juntae leans into every touch, hips tilting slightly, encouraging, guiding, and Seongje knows he’s giving himself completely in this moment.

“I’ve wanted this,” Seongje murmurs against Juntae’s lips, voice low, reverent, almost a growl. “Since the day I saved you, since the first time I saw you… I’ve wanted this.”

Juntae’s hands thread through Seongje’s hair, tugging gently, holding him as close as he can. “I… I’ve wanted it too,” he admits, voice trembling, eyes bright despite the blush staining his cheeks. “I just… didn’t know if I could.”

Seongje’s heart twists at the admission, possessiveness spiking, and he presses further, hands exploring more, tracing the curve of Juntae’s shoulders, sliding down to his waist, fingertips grazing the small of his back. He can feel the taut muscles and soft flesh under his hands, and it drives him wild, every gasp, every tremor from Juntae feeding the fire building inside him.

Juntae tilts his head, giving Seongje better access, trusting him completely. It makes Seongje ache in a way he’s never felt before, desire mixed with a protectiveness so sharp it hurts. He wants to mark this moment, to show, in every touch, that nothing and no one else matters.

Their movements synchronize, a careful, yet urgent dance of bodies and lips, hands exploring, skin brushing, hearts beating fast and uneven. Seongje presses light, claiming kisses along Juntae’s neck, over his shoulders, lingering where the salt from the beach still clings to his skin. Each time he returns to the tattoo, he can feel the subtle pulse beneath it, the living reminder of everything that connects them.

Juntae whispers his name, small, breathless, and it makes Seongje’s control fray further. He pulls back just enough to look at him, eyes dark and heated, voice low and rough. “Do you know what you do to me?”

Juntae smiles, shy but daring, and threads his fingers through Seongje’s hair, tugging lightly.

Seongje groans softly, leaning in again, pressing kisses along the curve of Juntae’s torso, hands mapping every inch. He wants more, but he’s careful. Juntae’s body responds perfectly, pressing back, guiding him in ways only he can, lips finding his with hungry determination.

Seongje knows he’s lost entirely to desire and he realizes: he doesn’t want to stop, doesn’t want to think of anything else.

Seongje gathers him up without a second thought, strong arms lifting the smaller boy as if he weighs nothing. Juntae makes a startled sound, clutching at his shoulders, cheeks burning, but doesn’t protest when Seongje carries him toward the bed. His pulse is hammering against Seongje’s neck, fluttering like it might escape, but his arms tighten as if he doesn’t want to let go.

When Seongje lays him down on the sheets, Juntae’s brows pinch with hesitation. He mumbles, voice fragile:
“I… I’m still sticky. From the salt… I should shower first—”

Seongje leans down, catching his lips in a slow, claiming kiss that silences the words. When he pulls back, his mouth hovers just above Juntae’s, whispering against the shaky breath:
“Then I’ll taste the ocean on you. Makes you better.”

The heat between them sharpens, heavy, almost unbearable. Juntae looks at him like he’s not sure if he should laugh or cry, but his fingers curl into Seongje’s shirt anyway, tugging weakly as if asking for more.

Seongje doesn’t make him wait. He pulls the shirt off over his head, tossing it aside carelessly, and finally lets Juntae’s small hands explore him. Those hands, shaking, hesitant at first press against his chest, trailing across the lines of muscle, tracing the ridges like they’re something rare.

Seongje swears his own skin is burning under that delicate touch. Every brush of those fingers makes him want to lose control, but he forces himself still, lets Juntae feel, lets him take.

“Tiny hands,” Seongje mutters, voice rough, his chest rising and falling unevenly. “You think you can handle me with those?”

Juntae’s blush deepens, but he doesn’t retreat. His palms flatten against Seongje’s torso, sliding up, then around his sides, like he’s memorizing every inch. And the look on his face, it’s not timid anymore. It’s reverent.

And Seongje, staring down at him, feels like he’s about to snap.

Juntae’s tiny hands splay across Seongje’s chest, sliding lower, hesitant but eager, and every touch makes Seongje’s restraint fray thinner. He grips the mattress on either side of Juntae’s head, caging him in, his breath harsh as he watches those delicate fingers roam over his body. Glasses long gone now.

“Damn, you’re killing me,” Seongje growls, half to himself, half to the boy beneath him.

Juntae blinks up at him, flushed and panting already, and instead of pulling away, he dares to press a soft kiss to Seongje’s collarbone. Just one. Light, tentative. But it’s enough to send fire racing down Seongje’s spine.

He can’t take it anymore. His hands are on Juntae again trailing down his sides, fingers dragging over overheated skin. Juntae arches into the touch, eyes fluttering shut, a faint sound leaving his lips that Seongje swears he’ll remember until the day he dies.

And right there, right above Juntae’s ribs, the tattoo. That mark that made Seongje lose his mind earlier. Still sharp, still dark against pale skin. His mark. His name.

Something primal snaps inside him. He lowers his head, kissing across Juntae’s chest, his neck, his shoulders, everywhere his lips can find, until he finally hovers over that ink again. His tongue flicks out, tasting the salt of the sea, the heat of Juntae’s skin, and Juntae gasps his name.

“Seongje…”

The sound is broken, pleading.

He groans, pressing harder, his lips moving across the tattoo, sucking, biting gently, claiming it as his. His hands grip Juntae’s waist tight, pulling him closer, until their bodies are flush, heat meeting heat.

Juntae squirms, overwhelmed, his small hands clutching Seongje’s hair, tugging him up until their mouths crash together again. This kiss is different, it’s messy, desperate, all tongue and teeth, neither of them holding back anymore.

Seongje grinds down against him, swallowing every shaky breath, every whimper. He doesn’t care that they’re both still salty from the beach, that their skin sticks and burns from the heat. If anything, it drives him crazier.

“You taste like the sea,” he pants against Juntae’s mouth, nipping at his lip before diving back in. “But sweeter. Always sweeter.”

Juntae shudders beneath him, body pliant, needy, but his voice comes out steady enough to whisper against Seongje’s lips:
“Don’t stop.”

And Seongje knows he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to.

The way Juntae arches beneath him, trembling but not pulling away, is a permission more dangerous than any fight, more intoxicating than any high. His lips trail lower, down the hollow of Juntae’s throat, his collarbone, his chest, every kiss staking claim. Each shiver, each soft sound that escapes Juntae’s lips, feeds the fire roaring in his veins.

“Seongje…” Juntae breathes his name like it’s fragile, like it might break if he holds it too tightly. But his hands, God, his hands… clutch at Seongje’s back, nails scraping lightly as though anchoring himself. He doesn’t push away. He pulls him closer.

“You feel this too,” Seongje growls against his skin, pressing another kiss just above the small tattoo etched over his ribcage. He doesn’t give Juntae time to argue, because he doesn’t want an argument, he wants surrender, wants proof. His mouth lingers there, tasting the ink, the salt, the heat. “You marked yourself with me. You’re mine.”

Juntae gasps, his whole body jolting when Seongje mouths over the delicate line. “…I told you. S is for safe… but it’s also for you.” His voice cracks, not from fear, but from the overwhelming weight of it all. “You saved me once. That never leaves me.”

Those words shatter what little restraint Seongje had left. He kisses him hard, hungry, consuming, until Juntae whimpers against his mouth, and still he doesn’t stop. His hands roam, memorizing every inch of soft skin, every tiny sound that proves Juntae wants this just as much.

They strip away what remains between them, hesitant hands helping, tugging, discarding, until there’s nothing left but skin and heat and breath. Juntae’s face is red, his chest rising fast, but his eyes, his eyes don’t look away.

“This your first?” Seongje whispers, even though he already knows.

Juntae nods, biting down on his swollen lower lip. “…But I want it. I want you.”

The words nearly undo him. Seongje leans down, kissing the corner of his mouth, softer now, reverent. “I’ll take care of you,” he promises, voice low and raw. His hand brushes through Juntae’s hair, thumb stroking his cheek. “I’ve got you.”

Juntae exhales shakily, fingers threading into Seongje’s hair, tugging him closer. “Don’t stop.”

And for the first time all night, Seongje hesitates, not because he doesn’t want it, but because he wants it too much. He pulls back just enough to look at Juntae, to search his eyes.

“You sure?” his voice comes rough, uneven. “Because once I start, I don’t think I can stop halfway.”

Juntae’s lips are wet, trembling, but his nod is steady. “I’m sure.”

That’s all it takes for Seongje to move again, but this time slower, gentler. His hands trail down, careful, deliberate. He presses kisses against Juntae’s temple, his cheek, his jaw, distracting him as his fingers work lower, teasing, easing him open with patience he didn’t even know he had. The tension in the room doesn’t break, it just sharpens, stretches, every gasp from Juntae making Seongje grit his teeth, focus.

When Juntae finally loosens under his touch, pliant and breathless, Seongje pauses again, because he’s not reckless, not with this. He reaches for the drawer by his bed, pulling out what he needs. Juntae catches the sound of the foil tearing, and his blush deepens, but he doesn’t shy away. If anything, he arches closer, whispering, “Good… thank you.”

The simple words nearly undo Seongje.

He leans down, kisses him again, slower this time, promising in the press of his mouth that he’ll take care of him. Every movement is deliberate, controlled, his hands steady even when his heart feels like it’s racing out of his chest.

And when everything is ready, when there’s nothing left between them but heat and trust, Juntae exhales his shaky plea again.

“Then… don’t stop.”

And Seongje doesn’t.

The room fills with the sound of them: kisses, gasps, whispered names. The heat builds, clumsy at first, but tender, guided by Juntae’s small hands exploring his torso, his shoulders, his scars. Every brush of those tentative fingers is a plea and a surrender all at once.

When Seongje finally presses deeper into him, slow, careful, patient despite the fire raging inside, Juntae gasps, clutching him tight. There’s tension, hesitation but not rejection. Just wide eyes and trust.

“It’s okay,” Seongje whispers, forehead pressed to his. “I’ve got you… just breathe.”

Juntae nods, shaky but sure, and after a moment, his body yields. The discomfort melts into something new, something that makes him cling tighter, whispering Seongje’s name like a prayer. Their movements sync, hesitant at first, then more natural, guided by want, by need.

The room fills with it, gasps sharp as the snap of waves, soft whimpers breaking into louder cries when Seongje thrusts a little deeper, a little harder. The slick sound of skin against skin, the rustle of sheets, the desperate rhythm of breath, it’s chaos, but the most beautiful kind.

Seongje can barely think. All he can hear is Juntae, every shaky inhale, every bitten-off moan, every time his name falls from those swollen lips like he’s the only thing that exists. The sounds drive him mad, claw at something feral inside him.

“More,” Juntae whispers against his ear, voice breaking, trembling all over but still pulling him closer, legs tightening around his waist. “Please… Seongje, more.”

The plea snaps something in him.

He growls low, guttural, animal and captures Juntae’s mouth in a bruising kiss, devouring him. His hips slam forward with more force, his hands gripping hard at Juntae’s thighs, his waist, his wrists, like he can’t decide where to claim him first. He leaves marks everywhere, teeth at his neck, tongue at his collarbone, lips branding his chest.

Juntae gasps, crying out louder now, no restraint left. His small body trembles beneath Seongje’s weight, overwhelmed, yet every time Seongje tries to slow down, Juntae shakes his head, whispers “don’t stop” in that trembling, broken voice that makes Seongje’s control unravel.

“You’re mine,” Seongje rasps against his throat, voice wrecked. He bites down lightly, then soothes the mark with his tongue. “Mine. Say it.”

Juntae moans, arching into him, nails dragging down his back. “Yours,” he breathes, breath hitching when Seongje drives harder into him. “I’m yours—Seongje—ah—”

The sound is sinful, and Seongje feels like he’s going insane. The wolf inside him is awake now, hungry, demanding, and he obeys. His pace grows rougher, his grip tighter, every thrust a claim, every kiss a vow. He doesn’t just want to take Juntae, he wants to consume him, body and soul, until no one else could ever touch him, until no one else could ever have him.

And Juntae, sweet, trembling Juntae, meets him every step of the way. His cries grow higher, desperate, echoing through the room. He clings to Seongje’s shoulders, his hair, his arms, grounding himself in the only anchor he has: the boy above him who feels less like a boy and more like something wild, unstoppable.

Seongje feels the edge creeping up fast, the tension coiling in every muscle, but he doesn’t care if he breaks apart as long as Juntae is coming with him, as long as Juntae’s voice keeps whispering his name, begging, needing, surrendering.

It’s reckless. It’s dangerous. It’s everything.

Every kiss grows deeper. Every touch more urgent. Every sound from Juntae makes Seongje want to lose himself completely. And when Juntae finally breaks apart beneath him, gasping, shaking, nails biting into his shoulders, Seongje follows, undone by the sheer beauty of him.

After, the room is quiet save for their breathing. Seongje stays pressed close, arms caging Juntae in, unwilling to let him go. Juntae looks wrecked, flushed, hair messy, lips bitten but he’s smiling.

“…That wasn’t very friendly,” Juntae whispers, voice still trembling.

Seongje laughs, breathless, pressing a kiss to his damp temple. “Good. I told you,we were never just friends.”

And in the silence that follows, Seongje knows: he’ll never let him forget it.

++++++++++++++++++

The room is still heavy with the memory of heat, but now it’s quiet, so quiet Seongje can hear nothing but the steady rhythm of Juntae’s breath against his chest. He runs a hand absentmindedly along the younger boy’s damp hair, still faintly smelling of soap from the shower he insisted on giving him. Salt and sweat washed away, leaving only that clean, delicate scent that is entirely Juntae.

Juntae is swallowed up in one of his oversized black shirts, the fabric hanging loose around his small frame, the sleeves almost covering his hands. The sight alone does something violent to Seongje’s heart. It looks too perfect, too right, as if the shirt had always belonged to him.

Neither of them talk for a while. They don’t need to. Seongje’s arm rests protectively around Juntae, and Juntae’s head rests right over his heart, small fingers brushing absent little patterns over his ribs through the fabric. It’s domestic in a way that feels dangerous, because it feels like something he could get addicted to.

But then Juntae giggles. A soft, unexpected sound that makes Seongje glance down, confused.

“What’s so funny?” he mutters.

“You keep staring,” Juntae says, voice muffled into his chest. He tips his head up just slightly, dimple showing as his lips twitch. “At my tattoo. Like you’re hypnotized.”

Seongje clicks his tongue, but he doesn’t deny it. His eyes flicker down to the mark etched on pale skin, just peeking from where the shirt collar hangs loose, right near his ribs. He has to fight the urge to touch it again.

“Did you do it on purpose?” he asks finally, tone low but curious. “You knew I’d see it one day, didn’t you? You planned this. You knew what it would do to me.”

Juntae blinks up at him, still smiling softly, still looking far too pure for someone who’s unravelled him so completely. He shakes his head gently.

“No. At first… it was just for me,” he says. His voice is calm, almost quiet, but every word lands heavy in Seongje’s chest. “Something to remind myself that I’m alive. Why I’m alive. It wasn’t meant for anyone else to see.”

Seongje swallows, his grip tightening slightly around him.

“But then,” Juntae continues, eyes softening as he gazes up at him, “we… got closer. Whatever this is. And I started imagining you finding it one day. What you’d think. How you’d react. I thought maybe it’d surprise you.” His lips curve again, shy and warm. “But the way you actually looked at me… it was better than anything I imagined. I didn’t know you’d be so obsessed with it.”

Obsessed. The word fits too perfectly. Seongje exhales, chest tight, pressing his face briefly into Juntae’s hair so he doesn’t say something reckless. Because he is obsessed. Not just with the tattoo, but with the boy lying on him like he belongs here. With the mark that feels like it was inked not just on Juntae’s skin, but into Seongje’s own bones.

Seongje traces the faint outline of the tattoo with his eyes again, lips quirking. “You know… I never thought you were the type to get a tattoo,” he mutters. His tone turns teasing, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “What, did you get the idea from one of your little yaoi stories? Some bad boy romance?”

Juntae’s cheeks flare immediately, and he swats half-heartedly at Seongje’s chest. “N-No. It wasn’t like that,” he stammers, the blush crawling all the way to his ears. Then, as if realizing he doesn’t want Seongje to laugh this off completely, his expression shifts, voice softening into something more serious.

“…After the Union. After everything. After all those years of being beaten down, bullied, humiliated…” Juntae pauses, eyes distant for a moment. “…I needed something. A reminder to keep fighting. To survive. To prove to myself, not anyone else, that I wasn’t as weak as they wanted me to believe.”

The words settle heavily between them. Seongje doesn’t joke this time. He reaches up, brushing his thumb along Juntae’s jaw, forcing him to look at him. “You’re not weak,” he says firmly. Then his lips curve in that crooked, smug grin. “…You’re just tiny.”

Juntae blinks, startled, then breaks into sudden laughter. Real laughter, bubbling and genuine, his whole body shaking against Seongje’s chest. Seongje finds himself laughing too, low and rough, the sound blending with Juntae’s softer one. The room feels warmer somehow, lighter.

But Seongje doesn’t let it end there. His hand lingers against Juntae’s cheek, fingers threading through his still-damp hair. His voice drops, steady and certain. “The boy who almost died fighting for his friends… for loyalty…” He exhales sharply, eyes narrowing, as if daring anyone else to deny it. “That’s not weakness. That’s strength. And maybe… that’s what made me so curious about you in the first place.”

For a second, Juntae just stares at him, wide-eyed, lips parted like he doesn’t know how to respond. Then, without a word, he leans up and presses a small, feather-light kiss to Seongje’s lips. It’s so soft it barely counts, more like a brush of warmth than a kiss, but it leaves Seongje stunned.

“...Cute,” Seongje mutters under his breath, though his chest feels like it might explode. He really wonders how the hell his life ended up like this, how someone like him, a psycho with blood on his hands and too many scars, ended up with someone this pure, this soft, this stubbornly kind. There’s no way he deserves it. No way in hell.

But he doesn’t say that. He just pulls Juntae closer, tight enough that their bodies mold together under the sheets, like maybe he can keep him there forever.

Then the image of that damn tattoo artist flickers into his head. Someone else’s hands, someone else’s ink, leaving a permanent mark on Juntae’s perfect skin. His jaw tightens at the thought, jealousy sparking hot and sharp in his chest. But alongside it, pride. Because whatever hands held that needle, it’s Seongje’s arms that hold Juntae now. It’s his chest where Juntae rests his head. His name, his mark, carved into skin that belongs here, with him.

And that’s enough to make his lips curl into something fierce and satisfied.

Seongje doesn’t loosen his hold, not even a little. He keeps Juntae tucked tight against him, breathing the clean scent of his skin after the shower. His fingers idly trace the slope of Juntae’s spine through the oversized black shirt, feeling how fragile, how small he is compared to his own frame.

Juntae hums softly, eyes already heavy, lips brushing against Seongje’s chest with each exhale. It would be easy to let him drift off like this. To stay quiet. To just hold him.

But Seongje’s mind won’t settle. Not with the weight of that tattoo still etched in his thoughts. Not with the memory of Juntae’s trembling voice saying it meant safe… and him.

His hand stills on Juntae’s back. He lowers his mouth to the top of his head, close enough that his words are for him alone, whispered into his hair.

“You shouldn’t have done it,” he murmurs. His voice is rough, low, frayed around the edges. “You shouldn’t have carved me into your skin. You have no idea what that does to me.”

Juntae stirs slightly, tilting his head up in sleepy confusion, but Seongje doesn’t let him speak. He presses his forehead against Juntae’s, their breaths tangling in the dark.

“It makes me want to keep you,” he admits, voice breaking into a growl, raw and unpolished. “Makes me want to make sure nobody ever touches you, ever looks at you the way I do. Makes me—” His throat tightens, and he swallows hard. “…Makes me want to ruin the world before I let it ruin you again.”

Juntae’s lips part, eyes wide, shimmering even in the dim light. For a second, Seongje regrets letting the words slip, regrets showing just how twisted, how possessive he really is.

But then Juntae smiles. Soft. Fragile. Almost shy. His hand reaches up, fingers brushing Seongje’s jaw. “...Then don’t let it,” he whispers back.

And that’s it. Seongje’s chest clenches, his heart a wild, restless beast that doesn’t know how to calm down. He kisses him again slow this time, deep but careful, sealing the vow he can’t take back.

When Juntae finally drifts off, breathing even and calm against his chest, Seongje stays awake longer, eyes tracing the ceiling, the tattoo burned into his memory. His arms never move, not even once.

Because he meant it. He won’t let the world take him.