Jackets were discarded mid-kiss. Seungho’s shirt tore at the seam where Haneul ripped it, buttons scattering across the hotel floor like dice cast by gods. Haneul’s dress shirt went next—Seungho yanked it over his head and froze for a heartbeat when he saw what lay beneath.
Pale skin, flushed pink down the chest. A scatter of old, faded scars left by someone who had not touched with reverence. Ribcage sharp from missed meals. Seungho exhaled, chest caving slightly.
Then he bent—kissed his way across Haneul’s chest, his ribs, his sternum, open-mouthed and slow, one hand splayed wide over his belly as if anchoring him in the moment.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured. “And mine, if you let me be gentle.”
“Fuck gentle,” Haneul panted, though his hips arched into every kiss, every drag of tongue. “Just touch me—”
Haneul’s pants came off with a growl, boxers next, dragged down his thighs until his cock bobbed free—flushed, leaking, aching.
Seungho’s breath caught again.
“Fuck,” he whispered, hands running over the slim curves of Haneul’s waist, the ripple of muscle on his thighs that trembled despite the bravado—pale, tight, muscled from dance and fury, and shaking. The hard jut of his cock against his stomach. “You’re fucking perfect—how are you real?”
“Touch-starved mountain with a poetry kink?” Haneul hissed, tugging Seungho’s pants down enough to grab his cock in one palm—thick, heavy, hot. “Guess you’re lucky I’m not into normal.”
Seungho shuddered—the first real crack in control. His cock throbbed in Haneul’s hand, precome slicking over his knuckles.
“Lie back,” he growled.
Haneul did.
Bare, breathless, hair fanned across the sheets like a crown, thighs splayed open, one hand already in his own hair like he didn’t know what to do with himself now that this was real.
Seungho didn’t just stare.
He worshiped.
He kissed the inside of one thigh, just above the knee, and Haneul jerked.
“Oh—shit—”
He was hard.
Painfully so.
Hiscock lay flushed against his belly, slick with precome, twitching when Seungho’s breath hit it. He whimpered and tried to sit up—but Seungho pressed him back down with one hand.
Then kissed the base.
Then the tip.
And then took him slowly into his mouth, inch by inch, until Haneul let out a strangled sound that wasn’t a moan, wasn’t a cry—just something raw and breaking.
Seungho sucked him down with focus and reverence. One hand held his hip down firm, the other reached up, lacing their fingers together beside Haneul’s ribs. Tongue curled under the shaft, teasing the most sensitive part while the drag of his lips was obscene. His throat worked. He pulled back. Then pushed in again. Then hummed.
Haneul’s thighs clenched around his head.
“Don’t—fuck, don’t stop—you’re so fucking good—where the fuck did you learn this—”
“Books,” Seungho said, voice guttural, mouth wet, lips dragging across the head as he stroked the base. “And dreaming about you.”
Haneul cried out—full-bodied, high-pitched, hands gripping the sheets, his whole body vibrating like something about to explode.
“Seungho—I can’t—I’m going to—”
“Then come,” Seungho said, sinking his mouth again, rougher now. “Let me have it.”
