;

He’s excited. Displeasure flashes across Seungjun’s eyes, just barely cracking the aloof expression that he’d donned since the very beginning. The very prospect of having such influence is heady and Sehun can feel his throat constrict in response. From the moment they’d met, Jun’s absolute confidence in his reign of dominion was the one thing that has consistently permeated their dialogue; leisurely assurance oozed from his every action in such conviction that it was impossible to imagine him shaken. Yet Seungjun is clearly annoyed and his expression is telling a different story. Sehun can’t help but be hopelessly pulled in. He couldn’t be more enraptured by the broken man in front of him if he were chained with iron links, cuffs digging into his wrists and ankles bolted to the floor.

It’s dangerous as it is nonsensical; two words he actively tries to avoid. But Jun’s always been different, a deviation above all else.

“One would think that I’d know better.” The words have a bitter bite to them, Sehun’s hips digging into the counter edge as Seungjun presses his body against him. His lips pull apart in imitation of a smile; a flash of something indecipherable, something empty, something that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Their fronts are lined up with the exception of their chests, pale hands clamped down on either side of Sehun’s body to trap him. The physical intimacy of their position is something that he hasn’t experienced in a while and the sudden intrusion sends a jolt of destructive electricity down Sehun’s spine. His skin tingles with the sensation and he can’t stop himself from staring. The glint in Jun’s eyes seem to challenge Sehun to try something, to attack and to be attacked. Heat radiates off of the other’s body, pressing through Sehun’s pants and setting fire to his gut. The veins in his neck seem to thicken with the abrupt jump in his pulse, throat constricting– if Seungjun’s mere proximity makes him so disgustingly excited, then Sehun’s afraid to inch any closer.

But his instincts always seem to inflate in Jun’s presence, and all Sehun wants to do is close the gap between their bodies. With a resigned exhale, Sehun brings his gaze to the other’s face and leans just millimeters closer. The scent of the city clings to Jun like a second layer, tinged with traces of other smells; is that perfume? Sehun’s eye twitches.

“What are you doing here?” His lips are chapped and his tongue darts out to moisten them, his voice raspy with the dryness. Sehun hopes that the desperation doesn’t show up in his voice, revealing the questions that are hidden within his words. Where were you? Why now? His lids droop, eyes half-closed as he glances down at the other’s chest. They haven’t budged since Seungjun trapped him against the counter, and he’s not sure how much longer he can last.

“Always doing as you please, aren’t you? At least that hasn’t changed. What are you doing here, Jun.” Sehun repeats the question, subconsciously leaning forward. His eyes dart down to the other’s mouth; a motion that he’s sure not to miss. “Walking in like you own the place–” Sehun’s close enough that the words are breathed over Jun’s parted lips.

Oh. When did he get so close? Sehun doesn’t know. But that seems to be a trend when it involves Seungjun and he’s done trying to question it.In a split-second decision, Sehun closes the distance to press his lips against the other’s. It’s different from their usual interaction; there’s no bared teeth, no clenched fists, no manhandling. The metallic taste of blood is absent and Sehun’s taken aback by his own actions. So startled, in fact, that he almost jerks away– but. His hands clench into fists just inches away from Jun’s own curled fingers, nails digging into his palm as he slowly pulls away, the deliberateness in his movements contrasting with the roaring sound in his ears. He leans back just enough to be able to see Jun’s eyes, his body nearly trembling with anticipation. What will he do next?

What was he doing here? That was the first question that he asked? Seungjun figured it would be one of many others, but to think he couldn’t come up with something a little better. There were plenty of reasons why Seungjun came wandering in out of the blue – mostly because it wasn’t out of the blue. His appearance was perfectly well planned because as he waited a full year to come out into the space of the world, he had to wait another several months to finally see his friend’s face again ( in person that is ). Ultimately, after restoring himself from selfish-piece-of-shit to selfish with good reason, he finally gave a better eye to those around him. He spent ample time combing out his wants and needs from others with the help of Gain and found a way to mash up whatever he was feeling into a fully streamlined operation. If it wasn’t for her and his new epiphany, he would have damn near burned down everything anyone would have built for themselves. That included the already crumbling company Sehun was associated to. That didn’t mean he stopped believing in the concept, ‘If I burn, you burn too.’ He just had another way of going about doing that.

Either way, Seungjun felt a pang of disappointment in his chest because at the end of the day, he truly just missed him.

Silence was the only thing that conquered the small parlor because Sehun had finally given into the first of many intimate interactions between them. He had eaten anything Seungjun wanted to say in response and he allowed it to be that way. He preferred the gentle feeling of Sehun’s mouth pressing up against his and for once it had no form of malicious intent or mischievous behavior. Seungjun was known to always have something up his sleeve, but as of now, he was sedated by the first initial kiss that was given to him after a long year or so. He managed to melt what he could and keep the lingering sensation of plushness from disappearing too soon. He stretched it out and savored the taste of faint nicotine that carried a spiteful puff of nostalgia. He couldn’t declare his winnings because if he were honest he had almost fallen into it earlier. Instead, he waited out the moment until Sehun pulled back to look at him. Another few ticks of silence draped over them before he finally tore off the veil.

“The only thing I own in this place is you…”

It was a declaration of his place in Sehun’s life that couldn’t be reversed. Sehun had signed a contract with his mere existence that was inevitable. The only one to blame was himself and as Seungjun raised a hand to the back of Sehun’s head and grabbed a fistful of soft hair, he smiled at him once again. This time around, there was no hiding anything. He was going to pursue Sehun until he laid dead in his arms whether by old age, a freak accident, or Seungjun’s grubby hands.

He’s the living, breathing example of a willing prisoner and Sehun can’t find it in himself to stop.

Lanky fingers slide into Sehun’s hair, holding him securely in place. The other smiles and Sehun can feel himself slipping deeper into the hellhole that is Seungjun, losing his grip with the few things left that kept him anchored to reality. Family was obsolete, friends had abandoned him, and the flickering lights in his precious shop didn’t hold a candle to the man that stood in front of him. It’s easy to give in; it always has been.

Teeth sink into the soft, pulsing flesh of Sehun’s neck and Sehun sighs. It’s a sound of complete and utter satisfaction, despite how his body gives a violent spasm in response to the jolt of stinging pain. Sehun reaches up to card through Jun’s hair, calloused palms cradling the other’s head to his neck. He holds Seungjun there for a heartbeat, then two-- then Sehun’s moves to grip at the other’s bony hips, nails digging in as he jerks Seungjun closer. Their fronts slot together and it all feels unbearably hot. The warmth of Seungjun’s mouth spreads over Sehun’s body and he can’t help but press their torsos even closer together until he feels the edges of the other’s ribs digging into his abdomen.

Sehun’s stillness is something deliberately intended, his body frozen in juxtaposition to the turmoil churning in his chest. There’s thoughts - too many - whirring in his mind and he can’t bother to keep up with the incessant chitter when all he can do is stare. Sehun’s gaze is blatant and unapologetic as he simply watches. His focus is impeccable, intense in the most twisted way, his eyes locked on every one of Seungjun’s movements. The dim studio light does nothing to conceal the other’s expression but does everything to throw his features into haggard contrast. The flash of Jun’s pale neck sets a low fire alight in Sehun’s stomach and he almost hates himself for allowing indulgence in the show that’s being put on in front of him. Jun looks untouchable, untamable, risen above humanity– yet the smile resting on his chapped lips tells a different story, one that Sehun is hesitant to bring to light.

Instinct tells him to reject vulnerability but Seungjun makes it unbearably tempting.

“It was too quiet, without you.” The stagnant silence was unbearable. “But I figured you’d wander in eventually.” The agony of uncertainty drove me m a d–

Sehun’s voice is quiet yet unwavering, low timbre contrasting with how he seemed to breathe out the words. His gaze flickers to the lit end of a cigar with an unveiled hint of desire, one not consciously presented but intrinsic with character. The glowing embers draws him closer like a moth to a fire; he’s fully aware of the demise that lays just behind the enticing warmth yet willing to delve deeper. Seungjun’s mere presence is enough to shake Sehun’s shuddering control to the core and he feels weak.

“De ja vu, isn’t it?” The question isn’t really a question, Sehun’s pointed glance at the cigarette making his intentions obvious. “Haven’t we played this game before.” He reaches over with a calloused hand, changing his mind last-minute and plucking the crumbling stick from Jun’s lips rather than snuffing out the embers with his palm. There’s enough scar tissue there to dull the pain, but Jun’s appearance has prodded at Sehun’s old habits and he can’t help but bring the cigarette to his lips to take a leisurely drag. With the slightest tremble in his hand - just barely the image of movement, so minute that it’s nearly invisible at a glance - Sehun curls his fingers into the hair just above Jun’s nape and leans forward. The smoke that escapes from between his lips is thick and noxious, the fumes veiling both of their faces as Sehun exhales.

Silence. Then he draws back, releasing the other with an unreadable expression on his face.  

“…It’s almost closing.” Sehun murmurs, crushing the dying embers in a tight fist. He’s deliberately keeping his gaze from the other’s face, fingers rubbing together as he lets the ashes fall onto the counter. Seungjun has always kept him on his toes and Sehun’s almost afraid of what he might do if he doesn’t pull back quickly enough– afraid of his own urges, and the other’s tendency of setting fire to what remains of his self-control.

Seungjun could feel his body almost seem to melt right beneath the feeling Sehun’s hand. It made his mouth wet with a thrill that was forcibly swallowed. He didn’t need to put on display all the thoughts that were cruising through his mind. That was something that could ultimately wait for another opportunity. What’s the point of rushing in when building up the pressure was what made the entire ordeal all the more interesting. Then again – Seungjun was never really one to wait. He often delves straight into his temptations if it didn’t kill him right away. It was one of the things that Red had tried to so strictly engrave in his mind. Wait. Don’t rush. There will always be better opportunities. Don’t show too much interest. Your eyes speak too much sometimes. Things along that sort that whispered in his ear every now and again; of course, not always in those words or else it would irritate him. The question remains though: How could he not jump into that cesspool of pale skin and ink? That beautiful tone wrapping up bone and luring him into a trap. Seungjun knew that not everything he saw was correct. He knew that his disappearance had an effect on Sehun, he just couldn’t see it yet. Sehun was as good as concealing the truth as Red was and if he wanted to see more he was to taunt it out. The pressure was on to see who would crack - emotionally and physically.

Those lips were so close to his he couldn’t help the way he leaned in towards it. He would inhale the fumes as if it were the only thing left on the air to breathe before he suffocated to his death. It burned his eyelashes and the hair in his nose and the more it blew out of those lips the closer he leaned in. He was so close and yet too far to make a move to seal his temptation. The hand was dropped away from his nape and the irritating feeling of emptiness and fading warmth was burning in his chest that he almost glared at him. Seungjun’s entire thought process had been halted and he once again had to put himself together. Only this time, he made it fairly noticeable how unhappy he was that everything had disappeared once the fog had cleared. This was getting a little harder than he had previously anticipated.

It was almost offensive the way Sehun crushed the cigarette into his fist. Was that his way of telling him something that was hiding beneath the veil of stubborn blank expressions. Quite frankly, it was starting to make Seungjun impatient. The sudden collapse of his cigarette tempted him to force the fist open and feed him the remains if that meant he could share the paper and ashes between sloppy kisses; not to mention, the raging amount of insults that he was sure was waiting on his tongue like spit-fire. Oh, Sehun, how you’ve made me so … “What’s your point?” …obsessed. Seungjun pulled back from the counter and gripped the edges loosely before making slow steps around to get to him. He started off slow because wanted to see if Sehun would crumble under his pressure or force him back. Either way, his body invited it.

“You were just complaining how quiet it was and now you’re trying to kick me out? I’d say that’s pretty rude considering I came all this way to see you… or are you scared that that’s not actually the reason why I’m here? I’m sure you’ve questioned it, haven’t you? Why your King suddenly dropped you like a ball? If I were you, I would feel completely used up and yet here you are standing as if you are capable of withstanding anything that I can throw at you…”

At this point, he had made his way around the counter and pinned Sehun to it by the hips. Seungjun’s hands have made claim to the edge of the counter to trap his friend without a way out. It was about time their conversation was a little more interesting.

Displeasure flashes across Seungjun’s eyes, just barely cracking the aloof expression that he’d donned since the very beginning. The very prospect of having such influence is heady and Sehun can feel his throat constrict in response. From the moment they’d met, Jun’s absolute confidence in his reign of dominion was the one thing that has consistently permeated their dialogue; leisurely assurance oozed from his every action in such conviction that it was impossible to imagine him shaken. Yet Seungjun is clearly annoyed and his expression is telling a different story. Sehun can’t help but be hopelessly pulled in. He couldn’t be more enraptured by the broken man in front of him if he were chained with iron links, cuffs digging into his wrists and ankles bolted to the floor.

It’s dangerous as it is nonsensical; two words he actively tries to avoid. But Jun’s always been different, a deviation above all else.

“One would think that I’d know better.” The words have a bitter bite to them, Sehun’s hips digging into the counter edge as Seungjun presses his body against him. His lips pull apart in imitation of a smile; a flash of something indecipherable, something empty, something that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Their fronts are lined up with the exception of their chests, pale hands clamped down on either side of Sehun’s body to trap him. The physical intimacy of their position is something that he hasn’t experienced in a while and the sudden intrusion sends a jolt of destructive electricity down Sehun’s spine. His skin tingles with the sensation and he can’t stop himself from staring. The glint in Jun’s eyes seem to challenge Sehun to try something, to attack and to be attacked. Heat radiates off of the other’s body, pressing through Sehun’s pants and setting fire to his gut. The veins in his neck seem to thicken with the abrupt jump in his pulse, throat constricting-- if Seungjun’s mere proximity makes him so disgustingly excited, then Sehun’s afraid to inch any closer.

But his instincts always seem to inflate in Jun’s presence, and all Sehun wants to do is close the gap between their bodies. With a resigned exhale, Sehun brings his gaze to the other’s face and leans just millimeters closer. The scent of the city clings to Jun like a second layer, tinged with traces of other smells; is that perfume? Sehun’s eye twitches.

“What are you doing here?” His lips are chapped and his tongue darts out to moisten them, his voice raspy with the dryness. Sehun hopes that the desperation doesn’t show up in his voice, revealing the questions that are hidden within his words. Where were you? Why now? His lids droop, eyes half-closed as he glances down at the other’s chest. They haven’t budged since Seungjun trapped him against the counter, and he’s not sure how much longer he can last.

“Always doing as you please, aren’t you? At least that hasn’t changed. What are you doing here, Jun.” Sehun repeats the question, subconsciously leaning forward. His eyes dart down to the other’s mouth; a motion that he’s sure not to miss. “Walking in like you own the place--” Sehun’s close enough that the words are breathed over Jun’s parted lips.

Oh. When did he get so close? Sehun doesn’t know. But that seems to be a trend when it involves Seungjun and he’s done trying to question it.

                                   —– Seven minutes ‘till closing.

The methodical motions with which his hands move are telltale signs of Sehun’s experience, habits carved deep into his bones by means of incessant repetition. His hands are calloused now, little nicks and scars riddling the taut surface of his palm– a far cry from how delicate they’d been just a year ago.

The need for maintenance is obsolete. It’s useless to have pretty hands when all he did was ruin them.

Fingers flutter deftly over well-worn machinery as the tattoo parlor slowly putters to a halt. There are but a few lights illuminating Sehun’s immediate workspace, the rest of the cozy shop masked in a veiled darkness. Faint ghosts of the past have a way of making themselves known and the flickering shadows borne from the dim lights do nothing to help, seducing Sehun to withdraw back into the tangled crevasses of his thoughts. It’s only by sheer muscle memory that he manages to put everything away without pricking himself, really. How uncharacteristic of him.

But that’s exactly it. There remain only shadows of the man that Sehun was a year ago, his slacks and neat button-down traded in for a fitted pair of ripped jeans and a t-shirt too plain of a white to match his surroundings. Practiced smiles and polite greetings are nowhere to be seen now; Sehun’s beaten that horse for far too long to find any comfort in it. His brows are furrowed and his lips are drawn tight, the pink scar on the corner of his mouth drawing taut with the movement. It’s one of the many mementos that he’d been gifted by the past year. As if he didn’t have enough reminders already.

Life has a funny way of doing things, but Sehun’s failed to see the humor in it.

“All done.” The words are said to no one in particular, but the silent room is a forgiving audience. Sehun pulls himself to his feet with a rough sigh, wincing as he rolls his shoulders. The popping sounds that follow are enough to draw a satisfied grunt from his lips, lashes fluttering as he relishes the stretch of his muscles. It’s been a long time since Sehun’s had to spend a whole day at the shop and he still hasn’t adjusted to the rigors of holding his entire body still for hours at a time.

His hands are reaching for his phone before he can stop it, only halting when he realizes– “Ah.” He’ll only be met with the drawling noise of a dead line; his resources have been sapped dry, and the number of reliable informants dwindle with each passing day. Consciously, Sehun knows. Someone who doesn’t want to be found is not easily unearthed, especially when they were as deviously clever as they were unpredictable. He should know, of all people. There hasn’t been a day that’s passed without him hitting some kind of dead end, clues becoming harder to find as his target burrows into obscurity. Impossible.

Sehun turns his back to the counter, giving a frustrated shake of his head. He’s about to grab the key ring when the door swings open with an obnoxious ring, the deathly familiar scent of nicotine filling his nostrils along with a cold rush of air.

Sehun scowls and turns toward the last-minute visitor. “No smoking in here–” He starts, a low rumble in his chest, but he’s cut off when his eyes focus on the lanky figure standing just inside the glass doors. His gaze is painstakingly drawn over the other’s body, lips still parted as he processes what his eyes are telling him. Limber arms, shoulders sharp enough to cut– but wait. Another sleeve dons Jun’s previously-bare arm and Sehun can’t stop the flash of emotion that skates across his face. The feeling is not one described so simply; it’s as if someone had walked into his shop and scrawled their name all over the walls, stomping on Sehun’s pride and desecrating his domain. It crumbles and mixes with all of the other emotions stirring in Sehun’s chest. He doesn’t know whether to punch Jun square in the face or pin him against the nearest wall and confirm that this wasn’t a cruel trick the world was playing on him.

Sehun does neither, choosing instead to take a drawn-out silence to compose himself again, shoulders going slack as he makes his way behind the counter once more. His fist is drawn tight, knuckles going white, but that’s the only sign of the tension that’s building thick in the air.

“…No smoking inside.” He repeats, slower this time.

It’s not visibly seen, but Seungjun’s heart had stopped the moment he saw him and continued to stay still in his chest. There was no change in expression from him, but he was eating up everything that was being thrown his way; nothing gets past the King when he is invested in each minor breath - shallow or heavy - blowing out of lips no longer chapped. It’s been a full year - longer even - since he’d laid his eyes on Sehun. Of course, he had his pictures to keep him occupied as well as whatever information his own team relayed back to him about him. Seungjun was so obnoxiously sure that Sehun was looking for him and had been ever since he had dropped all contact. All his assumptions had been correct with what he witnessed running across those angry eyes of his. Unlike Sehun, Seungjun knew how exactly to disappear. He knew just who to contact and where to go, so he could only imagine what kind of a tough life the other had been forced into without him; emotionally, that is.

Seungjun was locked onto that frame like a predator waiting for the perfect chance to bite at it’s prey - or perhaps, he had already done the minor biting. He was waiting for the opportunity to swallow like the wolf he’d always been portrayed as being. Seungjun was definitely holding back just so that he could observe what will happen next. It was when his friend had moved around the counter that he felt his heartbeat return in rapid succession; excitement was filling him again and for the moment, after Sehun had spoken a sweet lullaby, he was almost certain he was going to run over if he fell into it. Instead, he took his time and slowly leaned his head to the left and back a bit with his eyes only slightly closed. The cigarette between his lips was moved around like a playful toothpick just waiting to be discarded. There was a look in his eyes of superiority - more so than there has ever been. It wasn’t as if he was looking down at his friend - no. He was merely observing him and drawing him in to the conclusion that, yes, he’s not who he used to be.

Not exactly.

Finally sucking up enough silent breaths to contain himself, he moved to the counter but stayed on the opposite side. He was a ‘customer’ after all. He didn’t say anything more as he leaned forward and rested his elbow on the smooth surface. He had taken out the lighter Hyejun had gifted him, black with praying hands, and lit up the stick. Of course, some things never change. His habit was still there and the clear need to bug the living shit out of one of the few people he’d want to fuck up his entire life for the sake of real genuine love. He smiled at him - truly smiled at him as he crossed his arms on the counter and leaned in towards him.

Instinct tells him to reject vulnerability but Seungjun makes it unbearably tempting.

“It was too quiet, without you.” The stagnant silence was unbearable. “But I figured you’d wander in eventually.” The agony of uncertainty drove me m a d--

Sehun’s voice is quiet yet unwavering, low timbre contrasting with how he seemed to breathe out the words. His gaze flickers to the lit end of a cigar with an unveiled hint of desire, one not consciously presented but intrinsic with character. The glowing embers draws him closer like a moth to a fire; he’s fully aware of the demise that lays just behind the enticing warmth yet willing to delve deeper. Seungjun’s mere presence is enough to shake Sehun’s shuddering control to the core and he feels weak.

“De ja vu, isn’t it?” The question isn’t really a question, Sehun’s pointed glance at the cigarette making his intentions obvious. “Haven’t we played this game before.” He reaches over with a calloused hand, changing his mind last-minute and plucking the crumbling stick from Jun’s lips rather than snuffing out the embers with his palm. There’s enough scar tissue there to dull the pain, but Jun’s appearance has prodded at Sehun’s old habits and he can’t help but bring the cigarette to his lips to take a leisurely drag. With the slightest tremble in his hand - just barely the image of movement, so minute that it’s nearly invisible at a glance - Sehun curls his fingers into the hair just above Jun’s nape and leans forward. The smoke that escapes from between his lips is thick and noxious, the fumes veiling both of their faces as Sehun exhales.

Silence. Then he draws back, releasing the other with an unreadable expression on his face.  

                                                - 👑 -

                                            @inkxhun

“King, your Bishop has returned to it’s original post.”

That announcement alone had him rising from his seat almost too abruptly. His hands were still plastered to the desk before him and as he stared down at his scattered mess of papers, he smiled to himself. It was a slowly growing smile that was almost unlike him. It curved upwards in a type of eagerness that only a child would be able to understand. His birthday had come early and it came in the form of the ink marked stain in his heart named Sehun. God, could he already taste the ash on his tongue grinding against the roof of his mouth and sinking the vile waste down his throat. It was an intimate gesture between the two and boy did he want to get fed again. Sehun was that fly that purposely fell into the spider’s web because it was an active thrill seeker and he knew that he could worm his way out if he wanted too. The only problem was that he never really wanted to. Every time those precious wings broke free, he would take a piece of the web with him to taunt the spider. It was a game only the both of them shared and he would play it over and over again for the rest of his life.

At this point, Seungjun was shaking in anticipation with his fingers curving and scrunching up the papers caught under his palms. This was a forced kind of torture because if he would go off right-away then he wouldn’t be able to think of his actions too clearly. He would become over-excited and forget every move he made - he couldn’t risk that. He wanted to savor the arrival and so he took a breath and let his eyes close. Seungjun had waited for a whole year for this moment. Of course, he was keeping minor tabs on the guy to make sure nothing too terrible was lead his way. It was too bad about his company, but as long as he was still breathing, he couldn’t care less about his financial situation. He just wanted another opportunity to create scars on a body he was too well invested in.

                                          “—–Thanks.”

Hours passed by before he found himself stable enough to return to the place they had first met. It was that time again where it was close to closing time and he made damn sure he was the last on the list to be attended to. Seungjun was all for nostalgia and living out history if it benefitted him. A perfect reenactment of their first meeting, except a lot less leather. He had since then finished the sleeves on both of his arms and tattooed his new ideology for Despotic beneath his collarbone. ‘Nothing is more despicable than respect based off fear’ Something that he had to work on through the year of forced dismissal. The hoodie he wore was Red and was cut off at the sleeves to purposely display the ink Daniel had so lovingly etched onto him. Some part of him hoped jealousy would strike Sehun across that deprived face of his so that he could retain the image of an annoyed Sehun into his memory. What a better way to say hello than to show off the work of another artist. It was Daniel that had done his tattoo’s prior to their first meeting, but that didn’t mean he didn’t want something signifying Sehun’s importance on him as well. Besides, it’s only ever the more interesting ones that he would ever allow such a branding.

He stepped in as royalty would with a face that displayed how much he didn’t give a fuck about the hour. He owned the area with just the way he sauntered in with that shit-eating grin on his face and cigarette shoved into the corner of his mouth.

The methodical motions with which his hands move are telltale signs of Sehun’s experience, habits carved deep into his bones by means of incessant repetition. His hands are calloused now, little nicks and scars riddling the taut surface of his palm-- a far cry from how delicate they’d been just a year ago.

The need for maintenance is obsolete. It’s useless to have pretty hands when all he did was ruin them.

Fingers flutter deftly over well-worn machinery as the tattoo parlor slowly putters to a halt. There are but a few lights illuminating Sehun’s immediate workspace, the rest of the cozy shop masked in a veiled darkness. Faint ghosts of the past have a way of making themselves known and the flickering shadows borne from the dim lights do nothing to help, seducing Sehun to withdraw back into the tangled crevasses of his thoughts. It’s only by sheer muscle memory that he manages to put everything away without pricking himself, really. How uncharacteristic of him.

But that’s exactly it. There remain only shadows of the man that Sehun was a year ago, his slacks and neat button-down traded in for a fitted pair of ripped jeans and a t-shirt too plain of a white to match his surroundings. Practiced smiles and polite greetings are nowhere to be seen now; Sehun’s beaten that horse for far too long to find any comfort in it. His brows are furrowed and his lips are drawn tight, the pink scar on the corner of his mouth drawing taut with the movement. It’s one of the many mementos that he’d been gifted by the past year. As if he didn’t have enough reminders already.

Life has a funny way of doing things, but Sehun’s failed to see the humor in it.

“All done.” The words are said to no one in particular, but the silent room is a forgiving audience. Sehun pulls himself to his feet with a rough sigh, wincing as he rolls his shoulders. The popping sounds that follow are enough to draw a satisfied grunt from his lips, lashes fluttering as he relishes the stretch of his muscles. It’s been a long time since Sehun’s had to spend a whole day at the shop and he still hasn’t adjusted to the rigors of holding his entire body still for hours at a time.

His hands are reaching for his phone before he can stop it, only halting when he realizes-- “Ah.” He’ll only be met with the drawling noise of a dead line; his resources have been sapped dry, and the number of reliable informants dwindle with each passing day. Consciously, Sehun knows. Someone who doesn’t want to be found is not easily unearthed, especially when they were as deviously clever as they were unpredictable. He should know, of all people. There hasn’t been a day that’s passed without him hitting some kind of dead end, clues becoming harder to find as his target burrows into obscurity. Impossible.

Sehun turns his back to the counter, giving a frustrated shake of his head. He’s about to grab the key ring when the door swings open with an obnoxious ring, the deathly familiar scent of nicotine filling his nostrils along with a cold rush of air.

Sehun scowls and turns toward the last-minute visitor. “No smoking in here--” He starts, a low rumble in his chest, but he’s cut off when his eyes focus on the lanky figure standing just inside the glass doors. His gaze is painstakingly drawn over the other’s body, lips still parted as he processes what his eyes are telling him. Limber arms, shoulders sharp enough to cut-- but wait. Another sleeve dons Jun’s previously-bare arm and Sehun can’t stop the flash of emotion that skates across his face. The feeling is not one described so simply; it’s as if someone had walked into his shop and scrawled their name all over the walls, stomping on Sehun’s pride and desecrating his domain. It crumbles and mixes with all of the other emotions stirring in Sehun’s chest. He doesn’t know whether to punch Jun square in the face or pin him against the nearest wall and confirm that this wasn’t a cruel trick the world was playing on him.

Sehun does neither, choosing instead to take a drawn-out silence to compose himself again, shoulders going slack as he makes his way behind the counter once more. His fist is drawn tight, knuckles going white, but that’s the only sign of the tension that’s building thick in the air.

There’s barely over an hour left and Chanyeol still doesn’t know what to do.

Granted, this really was his own fault, but he’s not the type to think seriously about the consequences unless they were staring right into his face. Which they were, now, but— small details.

Chanyeol scowls as he squints at his phone, thumb prodding at the dim screen as he scrolls through his contacts. There’s not that many numbers – less than two dozen – and he curses himself for leaving his work phone at the base. This is a device used only to keep up appearances, with no real purpose other than to keep a stranger from stumbling upon a convenient list of every single underground contact, organization, and messenger within a hundred-mile radius. Which means that it’s practically useless in helping him get himself out of this ridiculous situation.

How had this even happened in the first place? Of course Chanyeol knew why— he’d been careless, too focused on getting everyone off his back to really think about the consequences. The vague answers he’d been giving for the past two years just weren’t cutting it anymore. You’d think, with how busy everyone in the family was, they wouldn’t have time to pester their youngest member about getting a girlfriend, but the constant “So have you gotten laid yet?”s and “You should get a girlfriend while you’re young”s have really made him reach his limit. Dammit.

He’d blown off his stupid mouth with his stupid excuses and now he needs to find someone to stand in as his fiancé. No, he couldn’t have said that he had a girlfriend, that he was already pursuing someone, he had to go declare that he’s already proposed to an imaginary lover! Everyone’s twenties are a time for mistakes and dumb decisions but this really takes the cake. Chanyeol lets out a frustrated groan (too loudly, you might note, to startle the barista just ten feet away) and slumps in his seat, an obviously disgruntled expression settled on his face. The boss himself was coming to meet his nonexistent fiancé and Chanyeol really doesn’t know what to do.

“Do I really not have any friends?” It’s a mumbled statement, mostly because everyone he does know is either already married, past their forties, or a part of the boss’s family. Chanyeol simply hasn’t had the time to make any friends his age, especially not fiancé-worthy girls. It’s a dangerous world, the one he treads in, and it’s rare to find women who aren’t either more dangerous than himself or already screwing half a dozen other guys.

But. Chanyeol’s thumb freezes, hovering over the screen. There’s a contact, one that he’d recently added. He’d taken the phone with him to a gala – one of the many events that his family manages to keep up their legal façade – and the name stands out as one of the few that he remembers. Kim Joonmyeon. Chanyeol had met him few times before, strictly as the son of one of their many business connections, and his impression of the man was memorable enough for him to recall bright eyes and a soft smile. Kim Joonmyeon was absurdly pretty, far too soft around the edges for Chanyeol to maintain his front, and they’d exchanged numbers in a last-minute decision and a whirlwind of farewells.

He’s not a woman – obviously – and Chanyeol doesn’t even know that he remembers him, but he’ll take what he can get with only forty minutes to find a fiancé.

His fingers are moving before he can think, poking at the screen before he holds the phone up to his ear, leg bouncing up and down in anticipation. The dial rings, once, twice, and—

Click.

“Hello?”

College, work, and attending all sorts of functions and events related to the previous two things keep him plenty occupied. It’s not like a man of his background and looks couldn’t find someone worthy of his affections, but he has never had the time to even consider it. On top of everything he feels simply suspicious; worried that people would not pursue him with honest, sincere intentions, and would instead approach him only because of his name and his wealth. That is not someone he wants to live with for the rest of his life. He’s not sure how he will ever be able to combat this issue but he’ll get to it later when he has the time, and this is not it.

Joonmyeon knows that it’s a duty that he will have to fulfill sooner or later, but so far his parents haven’t been pushing him terribly. They seem to agree that he still has other things to achieve before marriage and more importantly offspring will be a relevant topic in any way. That’s his only relief; he has plenty of friends who are constantly being ushered into relationships, and he considers himself lucky that he still has at least a couple years ahead of him before the time comes for him as well.

When his phone rings he’s laying on the rug on his stomach, reading through the last of his paper work that he had taken home with him when the office got to be too much to handle. He’s not upset about the interruption; he could really use a break. But the name on the screen of his phone is not something he expected to see. Park Chanyeol… He doesn’t have to think very hard to remember the face, though. How could he forget someone so handsome, and most importantly so tall? Joonmyeon knows he’s short but he has never felt quite so tiny as he did standing next to him. So he picks up the phone and presses it against his ear with a slight smile, a tiny bit giddy to receive a phone call from someone so… dreamy.

He’s really like a school girl, isn’t he?

“I’m swell, but that’s not why I called.” Chanyeol’s words are slowly gaining speed, anxiousness seeping into his voice as he does his absolute best to sound like he totally knew what he was doing.

“I don’t know any other way to ask this, but I lied to my, er, family and told them that I was engaged— but the problem is I’m not, and they’re coming to meet them soon, and—“ He stops, then lets out a haggard sigh. He’s circling around the problem and that won’t do. Chanyeol shakes his head, then parts his lips again. “—and can you be here in, like, twenty minutes and pretend to be my fiancé.”

There. It’s a straightforward question but its implications are anything but. For now, all he needs to do is make it through this meeting but anything afterwards is utterly unpredictable. Joonmyeon is smart enough to figure out that this isn’t a one-time favor but Chanyeol’s desperate and he’s grasping at any chance he has.

Maybe that’s why Chanyeol’s not so surprised when Seungjun makes a move with his cigarette. Not completely taken off-guard, but— that doesn’t matter when the shock of red-hot pain sears his shoulder in an imitation of the bullets from so long ago, making his body lurch in shock.

The backward glance that Jaerim throws at Chanyeol is one of mixed emotions, brows twisted in discomfort while his eyes gleam with a smoldering kind of desire. Chanyeol can find hints of familiarity in the look and he latches onto the one that he recognizes, immediately reacting when Jaerim grinds his ass back onto Chanyeol’s crotch. Hands grasp at bare skin, nails digging into the sensitive flesh, and Chanyeol rolls his hips to meet Jaerim’s movements.

Though, if he’d been honest with himself, there hasn’t been a moment since that first night in the hotel that he’s wanted to be away from Chanyeol.

“Then fucking do it.” Chanyeol hisses, fumbling with his hands as he yanks the restraints loose, far too gone to think of the consequences. He’s chasing the high that always comes with their rough touches, aching to mark Jaerim, aching to be marked, silently letting the other’s warmth wash over him in a reminder that they’re alive, that he’s alive, that there’s nothing else that matters, nothing else that he cares about.

250-WORD CHALLENGE ACCEPTED BY : @hxartyeol

Maybe that’s why Chanyeol’s not so surprised when Seungjun makes a move with his cigarette. Not completely taken off-guard, but— that doesn’t matter when the shock of red-hot pain sears his shoulder in an imitation of the bullets from so long ago, making his body lurch in shock.

“No. I can’t, I can’tIcan’tIcan’t. Shh..” Paranoia takes over the initial fury, heart racing in Chanyeol’s chest as he drapes himself over the other’s crouched form. He’s desperate to ascertain Jaerim’s existence, he can’t get close enough. His chest is aligned with the other’s back, the front of his pants rubbing against Jaerim’s bare thighs, and Chanyeol still isn’t satisfied. With a heavy sigh, he dips his head, the tip of his nose skating over the scarred skin between Jaerim’s shoulder blades. He needs to get closer. Needs to bury himself in all that is Jaerim, ingrain himself into open flesh to leave his mark.

The backward glance that Jaerim throws at Chanyeol is one of mixed emotions, brows twisted in discomfort while his eyes gleam with a smoldering kind of desire. Chanyeol can find hints of familiarity in the look and he latches onto the one that he recognizes, immediately reacting when Jaerim grinds his ass back onto Chanyeol’s crotch. Hands grasp at bare skin, nails digging into the sensitive flesh, and Chanyeol rolls his hips to meet Jaerim’s movements.

Chanyeol’s almost mesmerized by the incredible coincidence, mind still stumbling to catch up with the circumstances as he mechanically lowers himself into the opposite seat. His jaw is loose, lips parted in an incredulous expression, eyes comically wide as he gapes. Stares. Thinks. Because beneath his childishly expressive personality, Chanyeol is a well-oiled machine, mind already racing to explore the new dangers and possibilities of the situation at hand. Obviously, the two know too much about each other to really have any kind of strategic leverage; the information is sensitive enough already so threats of exposure aren’t likely. Chanyeol’s confident that he won’t mind collaborating on two very different projects with the same person, but would Taehyung feel the same?

There’s only one way to find out.

“Question first, coffee later.” Chanyeol starts, blinking furiously as he putters back to life. He purses his lips, brows furrowed in a show of deep consideration. “Are you…alright with all of this?” At that, Chanyeol gestures towards the two of them, indicating just what this was. “Because I didn’t even consider this a possibility, yet– here we are.”

Chanyeol leans back in his seat, fist tucked under his chin as he inspects the other. “If you want to reconsider either projects, now would be the time.” As soon as he finishes, Chanyeol flashes a reassuring grin at the other. “Either way, I’ll make sure you get your coffee, so no need to worry about that.”

Taehyung stared blankly at the other man for a moment, mind lagging a little bit as it processed the question he was asked. But when it finally caught up with present time, the brunet shrugged nonchalantly. “Doesn’t matter. It’s not like I’ll say anything and if you do, you know that I can return the favor. So…” he paused to lean back in his chair cover his mouth as he yawned. “It’s really in both our favors to just overlook this wild coincidence and get the job done. Then we can just go our separate ways and pretend none of this happened. Quick, clean business.”

He tilted his head to the side as he took in the other, well-dressed and considerably less menacing than the last time he had seen him. “That’s what you want isn’t it?” he asked to be sure. Sometimes people he ran into after coordinating something on the darker side of things wanted to build a connection. For what reason, he was never one-hundred percent sure.

“In that case, I’ll be right back.” With a smile to reflect the other’s, Chanyeol pushes his chair out and strides towards the counter. Within a few seconds’ of conversation, a glance or two at the table, and some small talk with another customer, Chanyeol is making his way back to their table with two large coffees in hand. “Triple shot of espresso, I think we’re both going to need the extra kick.” He sets one of the cups in front of Taehyung, sneaking a sip of his own as he sits back down. Bitter. There’s sweeteners on the counter but Chanyeol drinks coffee for the necessity, not the taste, and something tells him that Taehyung might be thinking along the same lines.

Toys were more than a childish plaything to him. Toys are the reason for his obsession with taking things–both living and nonliving–apart. They captured his wide gray eyes, poked at his curiosity, and threaded him through the wonder of finding out how everything worked. The intricacies of the objects designed to build children’s imagination had only ever brought about the stark disparity between him and just about everyone else. And he wasn’t ashamed of that. He only needed to tuck away the fact that he adored the more detailed toys, and in doing so, he didn’t allow himself to purchase any. Not even Chanyeol’s.

This was why he was here, really. To see. To feed his growing hunger for the facts on which his favorite little toys were built. It didn’t even bother him that the other was throwing teasing remarks about his honesty and embarrassingly shameless acts bordering stalker-ish tendencies. He could only beam in excitement. “Anything you’re willing to show me I will accept. With open arms even,” he said as he followed the other, keeping a step and a half’s distance.

“You see,” Chanyeol starts, minding to not knock anything over as he alternates between walking backwards and gesturing with his hands. “The majority of the work I do here can be filed under three categories: concept design, assembly, and decoration.” He ticks them off one by one on his fingers, feet still scuffling as they make their way towards the workshop door. “I don’t have the means to manufacture any of the intricate metal or plastic pieces here…so, I simply come up with new projects, figure out what I want them to do, then send it to a friend to figure out how to make it a reality.” Everything’s handmade, just not necessarily by Chanyeol himself. “The assembly and decoration is all done here…” With that, Chanyeol swings open the door, squinting into the darkness for a brief moment before flicking on the lights.

What lays behind the doors is a sight that can only be described as artfully messy; desks and shelves line the entirety of the walls, every possible flat surface occupied by trinkets and tools. There are tables where spare pieces litter the top, then tables where neatly-arranged frameworks wait for the next step. Paint, brushes, pens, sprays, varnishes, metal leaf, every possible variety of adhesive—they’re all organized in mismatched rows, arranged in a pattern that seems to only make sense to Chanyeol. It’s not a large space, by any means, but it’s packed with enough material to fill half a dozen rooms of the same size and the sheer volume of the items themselves make the room a fascinating sight to see.

“That’s not how this works,” Chanyeol starts, forcing out a rough breath as he shifts to plant one foot on the bed. “I’ll make you remember, I’ll make sure your body fucking remembers, don’t start with me—“ Chanyeol’s voice tapers off with a grunt, nails scratching carelessly against the other’s skin as he positively tears his pants down. The material pools in a messy bunch around Jaerim’s knees and Chanyeol hisses. The usual grin is nowhere to be seen, his actions too rough to be called banter. Blood and bruises were nothing new between the two of them but this—this is different.

Touches have always been their best form of communication.

His wrists yank painfully against the restraints when he’s finally twisted over onto his stomach. Huffing into the sheets, he immediately tries to roll himself back over, one thigh hitched up to give himself traction, but the moment his cock cock brushes against the silken sheets a long moan drips from his lips. His spine arches with a shudder. His skin is on fire. His skin is on fire. 

“No. I can’t, I can’tIcan’tIcan’t. Shh..” Paranoia takes over the initial fury, heart racing in Chanyeol’s chest as he drapes himself over the other’s crouched form. He’s desperate to ascertain Jaerim’s existence, he can’t get close enough. His chest is aligned with the other’s back, the front of his pants rubbing against Jaerim’s bare thighs, and Chanyeol still isn’t satisfied. With a heavy sigh, he dips his head, the tip of his nose skating over the scarred skin between Jaerim’s shoulder blades. He needs to get closer. Needs to bury himself in all that is Jaerim, ingrain himself into open flesh to leave his mark.

“Yes.” The word is breathed out, Chanyeol’s lips parting as he lets his head fall back. The harsh lights in the basement shine through his closed lids, painting his world with a gleaming red. “As if some kid could. But—“ Chanyeol looks back down, a pained expression on his face. “—someone else could. I won’t let them, I won’t—“ Trembling fingers move down to skim hesitantly over the puckered scar on Jaerim’s ribs, the skin colored an angry red from the wound that still hasn’t healed. His madness is not something so easily shown and the kid was merely a trigger; the paranoia, the obsession had been building up ever since Jaerim’s close brush with death.

He still can’t forget the utter dread he’d felt when he saw the knife sticking out from Jaerim’s side.

“I was thinking, right? How I could let everyone know. You’re mine, they can’t touch you, you’re mine. The body never forgets, you know? Gotta leave my mark somehow.” He’s nearly dizzy with the urge to hold Jaerim close, to affirm his heat with his own body. Bites, bruises, scratches—none of them are permanent, but the body never forgets. Chanyeol needs to make sure that Jaerim never forgets how it feels to be held, to be fucked open till he can’t remember his goddamn name, to be so utterly and irrevocably torn apart so that he’ll never be able to lay with another without remembering Chanyeol. It’s his silent claim to Jaerim, an unspoken creed never to be broken.

His breath won’t come as easily now, and every new one pulled roughly into his lungs fans the heat that’s itching in his veins. His eyes widen, and with a slack lips, he grinds upwards with a choked moan. “The water. Fuck, Chanyeol, the water, what did you do to me.” His teeth click together sharply as he grits his jaw closed.

“That’s not how this works,” Chanyeol starts, forcing out a rough breath as he shifts to plant one foot on the bed. “I’ll make you remember, I’ll make sure your body fucking remembers, don’t start with me—“ Chanyeol’s voice tapers off with a grunt, nails scratching carelessly against the other’s skin as he positively tears his pants down. The material pools in a messy bunch around Jaerim’s knees and Chanyeol hisses. The usual grin is nowhere to be seen, his actions too rough to be called banter. Blood and bruises were nothing new between the two of them but this—this is different.

Touches have always been their best form of communication.