"You meant it?" he asked, voice small, muffled—a child’s question mangled by a brat’s pride. "The… throwing around? No… weird touchy things?"
Seungho froze—just for a heartbeat, but it was enough to show he understood the stakes, the depth of what was being asked. Not for softness, not for petting, not for that foreign tongue of kisses and caresses Haneul had never learned to trust. He was being asked: can you worship me with chaos? Can you love me through violence and survive the aftermath?
He grinned, slow, dangerous, and yanked the pillow from Haneul’s grip. Haneul yelped, eyes going huge, feral with panic and expectation.
Before he could spit another insult, Seungho grabbed his wrist, twisted, lifted—sudden and total, a dance of strength and want. Haneul went airborne, limbs flailing, a streak of frost and bare skin, laughter bursting out in a violent shriek as he was spun and dumped face-down onto the bedding, ass high, braid flapping behind him like a war banner.
Seungho sat heavy across Haneul’s thighs, his weight a promise, his presence the answer to every unspoken question. The breeze from the open balcony stirred petals across the floor—wisteria or magnolia, he wasn’t sure. Something that always bloomed after a storm.
"No weird touchy things," Seungho murmured, mouth close to Haneul’s ear, voice dark as winter thunder. "Just what you asked for."
His hands trailed down Haneul’s spine—not soft, not cruel, but steady. Mapping scars. Muscle. The quiet proof of survival.
Haneul shivered, a low sound caught between defiance and pleasure.
“You want to fly again, frostbite?”
He answered with a grunt, breath still uneven.
Seungho huffed a quiet laugh and tightened his hold just enough to shift Haneul’s balance—then flipped him again, swift and controlled, a burst of strength that sent frost skittering across the sheets.
No slap. No sting.
Just motion.
Haneul yelped anyway—half outrage, half delight—as he was pinned again, breath knocked from him in a rush.
“You speak when I ask you something,” Seungho said, not sharp—just amused.
“FUCK—You’re insufferable!” Haneul gasped, squirming, laughter breaking loose from somewhere wild and untamed.
He kicked his legs, twisting, trying to escape and absolutely not wanting to. The joy in him cracked open and bright.
“Wait—wait—LET ME—” he shouted, scrambling, hand clawing at the sheets. "Let me wear thebajiagain!! I KNOW you get all flustered and awkward if you see another cock—"
Seungho snarled, grabbed his wrist, pinned it to the mattress, leaning over Haneul’s back, voice gone low and rough:
"I’ve seen dozens, Sky."
Haneul twisted his head, grinning upside-down, eyes sparkling with challenge. "Yeah but not one THIS pretty—"
"You’re impossible," Seungho growled.
"That’s why you like me," Haneul purred.
Seungho shifted his weight — and the movement carried more heat than he’d intended.—Haneul’s laughter stuttered. Panic crept in, the edges of play suddenly blurring.
"...I’m gonna shut up now," Haneul muttered, bravado flickering as Seungho’s weight shifted—heat brushing somewhere Haneul hadn’t expected.
It happened fast. Subtle. One moment he was the storm in flight; the next, something in him jolted—voice sharp, breath ragged, panic flashing through the cracks of play.
"HEY—HEY! Stop—stop that! You said no weird touchy stuff—"
His arm swung—not playful now. Real.
Seungho froze.
Hands up.
