His teeth. Right in Seungho’s ass.
He bit through the baji. Through fire-clan reinforced war silk. Still bit, hard enough to make Seungho grunt and send up a plume of smoke from his shoulders.
“UGHHH—stupid fabric!!” Haneul sputtered, peeling lips from the fabric and hacking, eyes watering from indignation. He coughed, half-laughing, half-muttering about “bite access” like he was cataloguing palace architecture.
Seungho stopped dead. Jaw set. He glanced upward, sending a silent prayer to any god who’d listen: This is the creature I’ve chosen.
He gripped Haneul’s legs, hauled him firmly back into place. Another slap to the thigh—hard, hot, just enough to make a point.
“Try that again,” Seungho growled, “and I’ll throw you so high you’ll land in Silla.”
Haneul cackled. “Bet I’d still stick the landing!!”
Seungho groaned, but Haneul could feel it—the warmth of that grip, the stride steady and unhurried, the chest under him shaking with laughter the king would never, ever admit. Haneul dangled, all ruin and pride and impossible, barefoot snow demon—wreckage incarnate, groping and biting as if that was the only language he knew.
And Seungho, the Fire King, living inferno, king of a thousand battlefields—had never, in his entire brutal, black-blooded life, been so helplessly, wildly aroused.
They hadn’t even reached the outer gates. Soldiers parted for them; servants ducked. Haneul’s braid swung like a battle pennant, wild and proud.
Then—he started to hum. A tune. Whimsical, deranged, probably invented on the spot by a magic core with no impulse control.
“You have a nice ass,” Haneul giggled, palm finding Seungho’s backside and squeezing, fingers spreading like he was checking a melon at market.
Seungho stumbled—one foot slipping on the snow, catching himself with a growl. Haneul hummed louder, like Seungho’s ass was now the preferred instrument for all palace songs. His palm pressed, squeezed. He sighed contentedly, as if he’d just discovered paradise.
“Soft but deadly… like a war pillow…” Haneul mumbled.
Seungho’s core was blazing under his ribs, flaring red-hot, barely contained. This was seduction, intimacy—no candles, no gentle words. Just Haneul: upside down, dangling, groping and humming to a king’s ass like it was a spirit drum.
He stopped. Dead still.
Haneul thudded gently against his back. “…huh?”
Seungho’s voice was low, rough. “Keep that hand there and I swear I’ll take you straight to the sparring ring and pin you down until you say please.”
Haneul froze. Then, with a conspiratorial glint, “…both hands?” He grabbed with the other, squeezing both cheeks like he was checking for ripeness.
Smoke rose from Seungho’s shoulders again. The tiles cracked under his feet. Haneul, delighted, poked Seungho’s ass again, gasping with glee, discovering treasure. Then—without shame, without breath, without hesitation—he began to sing.
Not a full song. Not yet. Just a chirp. A grin. And then, his voice bright, blasphemous, triumphant:
“Oh mighty cheeks of the fire king—!”
A slap for emphasis. Seungho grunted.
“Firm like dragon-hide, bouncy like justice—”
Another poke. A hum.
“I pledge myself to thine ass, in battle and in storm—”
“Haneul—”
“—and if I perish, may I be buried between thine—”
“Enough.” Seungho’s voice, low, dangerous, vibrating with restraint.
Haneul’s laughter spilled, crystalline and wild, as he flopped forward over Seungho’s back, giggling like he’d won a duel without drawing a blade.
