Haneul shattered.
He came with acry so sharp it bordered on a sob, hips jerking, legs locking, cock twitching in Seungho’s mouth as he gasped Seungho’s name like a curse and a prayer. He tasted like salt and rain and want.
Seungho swallowed it all.
Then crawled up, kissed the side of Haneul’s neck where his pulse raced, pulled him against his chest and cradled him as the tremors passed.
But he wasn’t done.
He got back down on his knees between those pale legs and mouthed the inside of one trembling thigh, licking slowly toward the crease, hands spreading Haneul open, fingers brushing his hole like a question already answered.
Haneul jerked—whined—hips twitching upward.
“You—fuck—warn me, you can’t just—!”
“I can,” Seungho rumbled. “And I will.
He took his time. Opened the bedside drawer with a shake of his wrist, lube already waiting—because of course it was. Because Seungho planned this the way soldiers prepare for battle. Not to conquer, but to protect.
Warm liquid coated his fingers.
Then his mouth dropped lower—fevered lips brushing Haneul’s stomach, breath ghosting over skin like it might apologize before asking. He kissed down, bit the jut of one hipbone, lingered at the crease of Haneul’s thigh—not rushing, not claiming.
And when his finger slid between Haneul’s cheeks, circling the tight ring of muscle with reverent pressure before slipping in—slow, careful, measured—Haneul flinched.
His body jolted with a confusedgasp, more startled than pleasured.
Then a sound cracked from his throat—not a moan. Not a sob.
Something in between.
Not because of the stretch. But because of the kindness.
Because no one had ever done this for him before.
No one had touched him like this meant something.
“Seungho…” he whispered, voice thready, eyes wide. “I—”
He couldn’t.finish the sentence.
It had never hurt this little. Never felt this much.
He clenched instinctively around the intrusion, overwhelmed, trembling.
“It’s okay,” Seungho murmured, voice deep, low, anchoring, lips at his navel. “You’re doing perfect. Just let me in.”
His finger moved again—slick and slow, coaxing more than stretching. Gentle in a way Haneul hadn’t realized was even possible. His hips twitched, confused by the sensation, caught between tension and desperate, melting relief.
“Is this…” Haneul choked, eyes fluttering. “Is this normal?”
Seungho paused. Looked up, and kissed his hip like a vow.
“No,” he whispered. “It’s yours.”
Then he slid in a second finger—just as slow.
Haneul arched, legs falling further open.
