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Young Do’s no stranger to bruises. No stranger to their ache and color that light up his skin. Between his dad and martial arts, they’re an almost constant tattoo.
Looking in the long mirror, Young Do forces a smile so his lip cracks again, the cut stinging as he licks across it and then pulls it between his teeth. He takes off his shirt, and after a few moments thought, his pants too. There’s a large reddish purple swath right alongside his ribs from where Tan kicked him, and Young Do hovers his hand over it, watches his fingers shake as he swears he feels electric heat jump the small gap between his skin. The cut on his cheekbone throbs a bit, and his right knee is a mess of red that matches.
When he got home he ran into his dad, who asked the same question he always did when Young Do was injured: “Did you win?”
And the only acceptable answer was yes, so that was the one Young Do gave.
Young Do wrenches away from the mirror, turning quickly, and everything aches as he lies carefully on his bed. It’s uncomfortable, but he’s thrillingly aware of every inch of his body and he wonders if Tan’s the same way.
He thinks about the marks he must have left on Kim Tan in return, a visible claim, and Young Do can’t help but close his eyes on a shaky, too loud breath.
Reaching down, pushing hard so it hurts and he can determine the outline with his eyes still closed, Young Do traces the bruise on his side. But that’s not for long, because he’s got to stare at the best one, the three streaks on his right bicep almost painting Tan’s fingertips.
His fingers slide over the lines and Young Do presses, shudders, hips twitching. It’s like they’re holding hands.
It has always felt like when Tan touches him he’s been branded, but to actually be able to see it is something else. Young Do wishes he was hurt more, wishes he could wear a collar of thumbprints etched around his throat so everyone would know.
And everyone did watch the fight, so everyone does know, kind of, and really, Young Do wants more hands so he could push that pleasure out of each mark simultaneously. Now he’s limited to the one because his other hand is occupied shoving down his underwear, pulling at his dick. Each press makes him burn.
Young Do wants Tan’s attention so badly. Maybe, if he asked really nicely, maybe, if he begged, and oh, there’s a thought. One day Young Do could just fall down to his knees, please, please, and Tan’s so nice, he’d let him, probably, if he asked. Young Do’s never sucked anyone off before but imagining the weight of it, the fullness in his mouth, it sounds almost unbearably good. He’d lick his lips and they’d taste like Tan, and Tan might touch his head, might tell him he’s doing a good job, and Young Do would know he’s not lying because he’d be able to feel the proof between his lips while he’s on his knees before him. He’d be so good for him, so careful, so good.
Or- or what if he lay there, on, god, Tan’s bed, and Tan sat on his chest, thighs tight and clasping in Young Do’s heart, and Tan fed him his dick that way.
Young Do can tilt his head up, drop his mouth wetly open, and almost feel it as he shoves hard at his side to shudder at Tan all around him.
Tan would lean in and Young Do would love it; Tan would thrust in, pull Young Do on and off, and Young Do would love it. Tan inside him, consuming him, Young Do’s every breath Tan’s—
Whimpering, Young Do bites his lip to try and keep quiet as he comes, and breaks his lip even more.
He turns his face into his pillow to soak up the blood.