“Ah—!”
The burn shot through him like a blade, tearing through nerve endings. He arched involuntarily, fists clenching against the edge of the sink. The mirror in front of him was cracked —fractured reflections of his own face, distorted, not quite real. A hundred versions of himself staring back, none of them whole.
Minseok grunted, thrusting in deeper. “Yeah, that’s what I fuckin’ thought. Tight little hole acting like it doesn’t want it. But look at you—”
A brutal snap of hips. The sound echoed in the bathroom: smack, smack, smack — hips slapping flesh in punishing rhythm.
“You take it like a fuckin’ champ now, don’t you?”
Haneul whimpered through clenched teeth. He didn’t want to make a sound, didn’t want to give Minseok anything. But his body couldn’t help it — every slam of Minseok’s cock inside him drove air out of his lungs in helpless little exhales. His feet slid on the tile. He couldn’t get purchase. Couldn’t get away.
He counted seconds between thrusts.
Between breaths.
Between the part of him that stayed and the part that left.
He felt his thighs trembling, the dull sting of bruises blooming across his hips where Minseok held him too tight, fingernails digging in like claws. His own cock hung soft and useless between his legs, untouched, forgotten, numb.
“Shit,” Minseok hissed, panting now, sweat dripping onto Haneul’s back. “This ass… fuck, you were made for this. So fuckin’ pretty when you’re silent like this. Like a perfect little toy. Bet you even like it, don’t you?”
He leaned over him, voice a growl against his ear. “Say it. Say you like getting fucked like this. Say you like being mine.”
Haneul blinked at the flame-shaped stain.
He thought of the man in the dream — the one with the ember-colored eyes and hands that looked like they could kill but didn’t. The heat of that memory burned hotter than Minseok ever had. It was the first time he’d wanted to reach for warmth instead of endure it.
When it was over, Minseok said nothing. He adjusted his belt, muttered something about how Haneul should “stop dressing like he’s asking for it,” and left.
Haneul stayed on the floor a little longer.
Pants tangled around one ankle, knees pressed against the cold tile, cheek resting on the edge of the sink.
The flame-shaped stain hadn’t moved.
He touched it with two fingers, half-expecting it to burn.
It didn’t. It was only rust.
But for a second he imagined it glowing, imagined it breathing, imagined that somewhere, someone with fire in their veins felt it too.
And that thought — ridiculous, delusional, impossible — was the first warm thing he’d felt in months.
He laughed then. A small, broken sound.
And the laugh echoed, strange and bright, like the first crack of ice before the thaw.
??????
Later, out in the alley behind the club, Junseo handed him a cigarette without asking.
“You okay?”
“Never.”
Junseo snorted. “At least you’re consistent.”
The snow had started falling again, soft and slow, catching in Haneul’s lashes. He didn’t brush it off.
