He scowled. “Cedar. Who the fuck smells like cedar? What is he, made of incense and ego?”
Still Seungho didn’t move.
Now Haneul studied the king’s throat, the long, sculpted column leading to a collarbone gleaming gold in the early light, a triangle of bare chest exposed by the undone top buttons. Ridges of muscle, faded scars, veins like marble—testament to a man who lived in violence and was not broken by it.
Haneul’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell does he eat to look like this…? Fucking… fire clan lunatics.”
He sighed, still kneeling, still looking, still haunted by the oddest thing: he wasn’t angry. He was just… curious. Fascinated,even. Wanting to know, to puzzle out the truth of this man.
Above the king, the god of mischief incarnate, Haneul’s gaze grew sly. He leaned in, close enough to smell the fire king’s breath, close enough for his own to leave dew on Seungho’s cheek.
He hovered, breath held, heart pounding with the wicked joy of getting away with something sacred. His braid swung down, brushing the king’s shoulder, sending a jolt of static through the air.
He grinned, wide and wild.
And then, with every ounce of nerve, Haneul blew—a sharp, impish gust of air straight into Seungho’s face.
Nothing happened. For a heartbeat, two—Seungho lay perfectly still. Haneul almost laughed, almost believed he had gotten away with it.
Then, without warning, an iron arm snapped up and coiled around Haneul’s waist, yanking him down in one easy, practiced motion. Haneul’s chest landed flush against Seungho’s, noses almost colliding, the towel nearly undone, legs astride the king’s thigh.
“Gotcha,” Seungho growled, voice sandpaper and honey, lips brushing Haneul’s temple. The king’s grip was absolute—unyielding, warm, fierce.
Haneul squeaked, an actual undignified noise ripped from somewhere deep in his chest. He squirmed, wriggling like a captured cat, feet kicking air, towel threatening to betray him completely.
“Let go!” he hissed, writhing, nails scraping uselessly at Seungho’s chest.
Seungho just laughed—not loud, not mocking, but low and lazy, the sound rumbling in his chest like a distant storm. Still half-asleep, half-predator, wholly in control.
Haneul’s strangled yelp. rang through the chamber—sharp, startled, the noise of a god caught in a very human act. Not terror, not true fear, but the animal panic of being seen in a moment dangerously close to tenderness. And the magic—always there, always hungry—answered first.
A pulse detonated from his core, a burst of freezing energy too wild to stop. Snow exploded outward in a shimmering shockwave—white frost dusting the sheets, the king’s chest, the walls, the thick curtains, the very air. The bed crackled with ice; the room temperature dropped by half in a breath.
Seungho, king of fire, blinked, momentarily stunned. His bare chest was rimed with frost, hair and lashes dusted in white. He looked like a lion caught in a snowstorm, a little less god and a little more man—un-composed, for just a heartbeat.
Then—shove.
Haneul’s hands planted against Seungho’s chest, wiry muscles coiling, and with one furious, embarrassed burst of strength he launched himself backward off the bed. It was not graceful. It was not dignified. Limbs flailed, knees shot skyward, towel slipping, hair wild—a tumble of pale skin and silver braid and squawking, breathless protest.
THUMP.
He landed on the tatami mat, a beautiful heap of chaos, legs somehow over his head, braid in his mouth, towel gone, eyes blown wide in shock and indignation. He looked like a sacrificial prince at the altar of dawn—untamed, stunned, divine and ridiculous.
He blinked. Twice. The air left his lungs in a huff that might’ve been a curse.
Seungho propped himself up on one elbow, sprawled amid the wreckage of frost and pride, hair glittering with snow. He peered over the edge of the bed, snow dusting his lashes, mouth twisted in a grin that threatened to melt everything Haneul had just frozen.
“…You good?” he deadpanned, voice low and amused.
Haneul opened his mouth. Closed it. He flailed, knees drawn together, every inch a portrait of bruised dignity and princely outrage.
Seungho didn’t laugh. Not yet. But the smile playing at his lips was bright enough to shame the dawn.
“You always wake up like this?” he asked, voice lazy, teasing. “Or am I just lucky?”
There was Haneul—bare-assed, sprawled, family jewels on full display to the indifferent gods, hair askew, cheeks burning brilliant pink, limbs still wrangling with themselves. He looked every inch the wild-born storm, dignity in ruins, pride in tatters, and still he managed a snarl, baring his teeth in furious accusation.
“Sh—shut up!!!” he barked, untangling himself with a tangle of curses. “Fuck… I busted my ass…!”
