He gasped into Seungho’s mouth, writhing, one leg hooking instinctively over the older man’s hip. Skin met skin at the sliver where his shirt had ridden up, and it burned.
“I—fuck, I—slow down—I mean—don’t—but also—wait, I’ve never—like this, not like—shit—yes—”
Seungho pulled back just enough to speak, panting, lips wet and swollen. “You giving me directions, snowdrop?”
“I’m—trying—!”
Another deliberate grind of hips, cock against cock through soaked cotton and trembling muscle.
Haneul whimpered.
“Then don’t,” Seungho murmured, biting at his jawline, lips brushing over the corner of his mouth like a sin being memorized. “I know how to handle my desire, even if I’ve never bedded a man. Don’t think I was born yesterday.”
“I—nnnh—fuck, that’s hot—why is that so hot, you cocky mountain—”
The rest disintegrated in the press of Seungho’s mouth, the drag of his palm up under Haneul’s shirt—hot fingers skimming ribs, sternum, then splaying wide across the center of his chest where the core should have been, where something still pulsed.
He paused there.
Thumb against heartbeat. Mouth hovering just over Haneul’s.
A breath. A vow.
Then he moved.
Clothes didn’t vanish. They were shoved, ripped, dragged out of the way. Haneul’s shirt bunched under his armpits. Seungho’s slacks pushed low on his hips. One of Haneul’s thighs hooked higher, bare skin pressed against muscle, and stayed.
Seungho kissed every exposed inch like it owed him blood.
He licked into Haneul’s mouth like it was water, sucked down his throat, bit his collarbone until he groaned. His hand slid down, bold and warm, under the waistband of pants. He cupped Haneul’s cock in one broad palm—hot and hard and leaking—and gave a slow stroke, just once.
Haneul bucked, hissed, nearly screamed.
“Shit, you—fuck—warn me—!”
“That was the warning,” Seungho rasped against his neck. “The rest is mine.”
And gods, the way he touched—like Haneul was holy and breakable and already his. He stroked him with long, possessive sweeps of his hand, thumb teasing the sensitive tip, mouth never far from skin. Not just to arouse—but to know. To memorize how he trembled, where his thighs twitched, how his back arched and hips jerked and lashes fluttered with every upward twist of pleasure.
Haneul couldn’t stop gasping.
“Why the fuck are you so good at this—your hands are huge—your everything is huge—this isn’t fair—”
Seungho’s laugh was a dark growl, thick with hunger and delight. “You haven’t seen everything yet.”
Then he pulled back, just enough, and ground their cocks together.
Through cotton, soaked and clinging, the friction was obscene—hot, wet, dragging. Seungho fucked against him with slow, controlled force, cock thick and pulsing through boxers, aligned just right to drive both of them mad.
“I hate you,” Haneul gasped. “I hate you—don’t stop—”
“I’m not stopping,” Seungho growled, hand dragging Haneul’s waistband lower, exposing the curve of his hip. “I waited. You’re not walking away from this now.”
Seungho held Haneul down by the hips when he tried to writhe up, his restraint breaking in half-second glitches—at times crushing, other times fumbling, unsure of how to handle something this fragile and this wild at once.
Haneul cried out—an actual cry, high and desperate—as Seungho’s hand wrapped around him again, this time slick with spit. He pumped slow, tight, timed to the grind of their hips, until Haneul was arching off the bed, one hand clawing at Seungho’s back, the other gripping sheets like they were the only thing keeping him on earth.
“Please—please, I don’t even know what I’m asking for, I just—I need—”
