He flopped—unceremonious, spectacular, naked—straight into Seungho’s lap. Limbs everywhere. Bare ass landing squarely on the Fire King’s thighs. Arms slung heavy around his neck, braid sticky with dumpling sauce.
He thrust a dumpling forward. “Say aaaaaaahhhhh—” he chirped.
Seungho didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His heart slammed once, twice, a drumbeat beneath the boy’s wild weight. This—this chaos. This storm.
Haneul wiggled, pushing the dumpling closer, sticky fingers almost pressing against Seungho’s lips. He opened his mouth—wordless, dazed, undone.
The dumpling stuffed in. Too fast. Way too fast.
Sauce squelched between teeth and tongue. Haneul howled with laughter, high and bright, eyes alight with triumph, mouth open, breath sweet with rice and honey and all the feral energy in the world. He collapsed forward, face mashing into Seungho’s jaw, lips sticky, skin hot.
“You’re not mad, right?” he whispered, voice small now, a crack of soft worry threading through the delirium. For a second—a heartbeat—he was almost vulnerable.
Seungho’s voice was rough, wrecked, the words dragged out from somewhere near the bottom of his chest. “…No. Not yet.”
Haneul giggled, swaying. “Do you want me to feed you more?”
Seungho tried for patience, tried to find ground, but all he found was a hard ache and the impossible boy straddling his thighs. He managed, “You’re sitting on my cock, Haneul.”
Haneul blinked.
Looked down.
Looked up again. Grinned wider—devilish, delighted, not a flicker of embarrassment.
“Oops.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t apologize. Just rocked his hips ever so slightly, feeling the proof of everything burning beneath him. His laughter came again, soft, drunk and obscene and innocent at once.
Seungho’s hands curled around Haneul’s waist, fingers biting into the skin, the heat, the storm.
He didn’t say a word.
He didn’t have to.
Because everything was already burning.
Haneul scowled, eyes glinting, breath sweet with dumplings and danger. “Not—hic—not sitting on your damn… c-cock anymore, am I?!” He punctuated each word with a jab to Seungho’s chest as he tried to stand on his knees, his finger sharp and accusatory, a threat and a plea rolled into one drunken gesture. “So shtop… LOOKING at me like that… Because YOU… mister… are the one who said ‘cock’ first! And I am just FEEDING you DUMPLINGS!”
Each poke stoked the fire simmering just below Seungho’s skin. His magic core pulsed, molten, barely contained—a silent growl thrumming beneath every controlled breath. He gripped Haneul’s waist—not to pull, not to hold, just to remind him exactly where he was, who he was on.
Seungho leaned forward. The heat between them pressed like a storm, lips grazing Haneul’s temple. “Say one more word about my cock…” he whispered, voice molten and rough as volcanic stone.
Haneul grinned, eyes blown wide, mouth already opening for the challenge. “C—”
Seungho flipped him. Fast. The towel spun away, a flutter of grey, and Haneul landed on the bed, face-down, ass in the air, braid a wild lash of color flopping over his shoulder. Seungho loomed above him, breath ragged, eyes bright as a battlefield at dawn.
“You want to feed me dumplings?”
Nod—dazed, too honest to lie.
“You want to sit on my lap?”
Another nod.
“You want to poke my chest and say ‘daddy’ and pretend it’s not making you wet between the thighs?”
“Wha— I’m a MAN!”
