As soon as they enter the warehouse, Key disappears. The sudden lack of their presence disorients Taemin a bit, left unmoored under the flashing lights, but he's been here enough times that he easily finds Key's preferred spot near the wall, in a clump of old, secondhand furniture that's accumulated over the years. He sinks down into a chair to wait. The music is loud enough to make his ears ring, the heavy heartbeat-thump of house spun up by the DJ, perched high above the concrete dancefloor.

The air reeks with the sour combination of weed and sweat and sex. There's a little group of people on the couch near him, shotgunning a joint, and the smoke makes the air around all of them hazy. He's close enough that the more he breathes in, the more his limbs feel heavy and distant, every movement on a half second delay. He likes it; it dulls the sharpness of the fear that lives in his chest, allows it to soften into its twin, anticipation.

His wrist still burns, a little bit, from where Key had put out their cigarette on Taemin's skin before they'd come in. He pokes at the red spot, rubbing over it with his finger to renew the pain. It joins innumerable other tiny scars that Key's given him — gifted him, really — from knives and needles and countless other cigarettes over the last six months.

He's not sure when Key will be back, but it's okay. He's happy to sit here, on this nasty, dilapidated armchair, just people-watching. They collide on the dancefloor in hot, sweaty jumbles; they sit in tangles around the periphery; they fuck in shadowed corners that aren't really private at all. Taemin likes watching, knowing that some other night, Key will take him into one of those corners to be shown off, to savor the pretense of sneaking around while being put on display. Key loves to show people what they can't have.

It's why they're here tonight, after all. Commitment. Taemin shudders, pressing his thumb into the tiny burn, apprehension coiling snake-like around the knot of arousal that sits in his stomach.

He met Key at a party not unlike this one, remembers vividly the way Key's eyes had locked onto him on the dancefloor, bright and piercing even through the mass of bodies. They'd both come alone, and when Key had approached him, danced with him, it was like they'd known him instantly and fundamentally. They claimed him, right there, pulled his hair and bruised his hips with their fingers and promised with lips pressed to his ear to fill in the missing pieces in his soul that yearned for someone to shape him, re-make him.

Key appears in front of him, like Taemin somehow summoned them with pure force of wanting. Jonghyun lingers at their shoulder, a step behind, shirt missing. It gives Taemin a good view of the piercings dotting his torso, some permanent and some recent, temporary, just for show. There's a small, round, angry mark on his left pec to match the one on Taemin's wrist.

Key doesn't usually allow them to be in the same place at the same time, but every once in a while, they make an exception. Taemin would be jealous, but Key made it very clear at the start that though they expect single-minded loyalty, it doesn't always go both ways. On these rare occasions, seeing the way Jonghyun is with Key often feels like looking into an discomfiting mirror, all of that devotion so plain and raw on his face; it prickles, knowing that Taemin almost certainly looks the same from the outside.

"Come on," Key says, the nasal tone of their voice cutting through the thrum of the crowd. "Up. It's time."

Taemin's on his feet so fast he gets dizzy, stumbling forward and catching himself against Key's chest. Their hands curl around his waist; their blunt, painted nails dig into his skin through the mesh of his tank top.

"Careful," they chide, and then they turn away and start walking. Taemin follows close behind as Key leads them around the edge of the massive room. Taemin can feel the itch of Jonghyun's eyes as he hangs back, just by a few steps, giving them space.

Key turns down a hallway and opens a door into a small, dim room. There's not much in it to speak of, just a couple plastic chairs and a rolling cart. Key closes the door behind them.

"Sit," they say. Taemin sits, the cheap plastic creaking under him. Key cards their hand through his hair, a perfunctory motion. Taemin swallows, hard, fear coalescing in his stomach as the reality of what they're about to do sinks in.

"Key—" he begins, voice coming out reedy and weak. Key's fingers tighten in his hair, lips twisting with irritation.

"Taemin. Jagiya." They lean down, close enough that he can smell the stale nicotine and tar on their breath and the earthy drydown of whatever perfume they'd chosen for the occasion. "It'll be okay. You said you'd do this for me, right?"

Taemin nods, slowly, but his heart beats rabbit-quick. "Yes, but I… I don't know."

Key straightens, clicks their tongue. "Jjong-ah, come here."

When he gets close enough, Key forcibly turns him around so Taemin can look at his broad back, tapering in to an elegant waist. The way they handle him is so brusque, almost careless, like they're manipulating a doll that they don't particularly care about. Jonghyun exhales shakily; Taemin can see the tremble in his hands, his hunched shoulders. Key taps their finger against a spot on Jonghyun's lower back, to the right of his spine. It's small, but visible — a patch of raised scar tissue in the shape of a lock.

"See? It's beautiful. Nothing to be afraid of. Right, Jjong-ah?"

Key's steel-under-velvet tone leaves no room for Jonghyun to disagree. He nods, mumbles a yeah. He stumbles when Key all but shoves him away to stand near the door again. Taemin can feel his eyes on the two of them, though he can't quite decode the emotions behind them: jealousy, definitely; fear, maybe; desire, almost certainly.

"Take your pants off," Key says, "and lay down on the floor. I've decided where I wanna put this."

Taemin obeys numbly. The floor is cold on his bare legs, through the mesh of his shirt. Key messes with some stuff on the cart before turning back to Taemin. For a moment, standing over him, head eclipsing the bare lightbulb on the ceiling, Key looks angelic, inhuman.

They kneel down, straddling Taemin's legs. With brusque hands, they pull Taemin's underwear further down on one side, leaving a patch of flat, unmarked skin on his hip exposed to Key's analytical gaze.

"Yeah," they murmur, absently, "that's perfect."

They don't ask Taemin if he's ready, or if he's sure, and Taemin's as grateful for it as he is terrified. Taemin watches, entranced, as Key flips on the blowtorch and begins to heat the brand.

"It's a really delicate thing," Key says, watching the flame carefully. "It has to be just hot enough. Too hot and I could damage you for real. Not hot enough and it won't scar properly, and we'd have to do it again."

If there's one thing Taemin's learned in his time with Key, it's that they always get things right the first time. They don't have the patience or the time to waste on second tries.

"Okay, there it is," Key says, after long, long moments with only the hiss of the blowtorch and Taemin's heavy breathing filling the room. The metal is cherry red with heat, difficult to look at.

"Key—" he begins again, a sudden pang of fear making his breath stutter in his chest.

"Shh, jagi," Key soothes. Their free hand smooths over Taemin's face, down his chest to pet over his bare thigh. "It'll be over soon, and then you'll be all mine. My Taeminnie."

It doesn't make sense. Taemin already belongs to Key, wonders what it is that he doesn't already have, although — he's seen the way Key is with Jonghyun, the way he orbits them like a planet around a star, the way Key barely has to say anything at all for Jonghyun to understand exactly what they want. Jonghyun's been with Key for so long, now, has offered years of devotion in exchange for Key's re-shaping.

Maybe there's some magic in this, in being marked permanently, that will bring him closer to that understanding. Like taking on the scar will imbue him with some new level of purpose. Taemin wants that, so badly it aches. What wouldn't he undergo to attain it?

"Yeah, yours," he breathes, lost in Key's dark eyes. A sense of peace settles over him, nearly overtaking the fear.

Key looks at him for another moment, covetous, inscrutable, before they lower the brand to Taemin's hip.

The pain is worse than anything he's ever felt before, worse than the cigarette burns or the scalpel or the time he begged Key to whip him until he bled on the sheets. It takes everything in him not to panic, to knock Key off him and dislodge the source of the pain and run far away from here. He tears at his own hair, bites back a scream that melts into sobbing, clenches and unclenches his toes.

"That's it, shh, almost done," Key soothes, except when Taemin looks at their face through the blur of tears, it's twisted in a rictus grin, manic and hungry. Taemin has the sudden, horrified, exhilarating thought that, if they could, Key might tear him apart piece by piece just to see what lives inside him.

Finally, the brand lifts off his hip. Taemin's body goes slack as he hears it clatter on the ground, off to the side somewhere. His stomach churns as he registers the smell of burnt flesh and hair.

"Aigoo, look how beautiful," Key says, fingers playing around the periphery of the wound. It throbs in time with the pounding of Taemin's heart, with the blood rushing to his dick as the adrenaline works its way through his system. Key scratches at Taemin's unmarked hip, down to cup him through his underwear.

Taemin whines. His head is so fuzzy. He's not sure he could control his voice or his body even if he wanted to, so it's good that Key will do it for him.

"Shall we go back out and let everyone see you?" Key suggests, though Taemin knows it's not a question he's meant to answer. "Come on, Taeminnie, up."

He tries to stand, but his legs are too weak; Key clicks their tongue and beckons Jonghyun over to help. They lock eyes, briefly, as he helps Taemin up and allows him to lean on his broad shoulder. He can't help but feel like they have a greater understanding, now, their matching scars the conduit. He wonders if Jonghyun feels the same, or whether he hates Taemin the way Taemin sometimes hates him, in his weakest moments.

The pain returns as the adrenaline rush recedes, throbbing so terribly that Taemin can barely focus on anything beyond it. He can't put his jeans back on, so Key takes off the long, gauzy skirt they'd been wearing and has Taemin step into it. It rides low on his hips, sitting just below the brand, and the full expanse of his bare legs is visible underneath. Taemin's never worn a skirt like this before; it makes him feel even more exposed than he already does.

Key slides on Taemin's jeans. "It suits you," they muse, looking Taemin over. "I should dress you up more often."

He wants nothing more than that, to be the clay that Key shapes and sculpts into whatever image they desire. To be nothing until they make him something.

"Key," he pleads, full of nebulous, unshaped need but unable to form real thoughts. Key smiles, eyes crinkling up. They lean in and kiss him, so gentle it aches far deeper than any physical hurt they could have given him. Deeper than the burn that has yet to abate, red-hot and sickening.

"Come on, baby." They pat his cheek, then take his hand. "It's time to go."

And, left no choices, Taemin goes.