CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT – The Sky Always Lands on His Feet #2
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.
Then—quiet. A pause. Haneul murmured, “…you didn’t say no to slapping me around later.”
Seungho’s hands tightened on those impossible thighs. His voice, dark, deep, molten: “No. I didn’t.”
Haneul howled it. Like a war declaration, like joy, maybe both. “I’M NEVER GOING BACK TO MY CLAN!!! THIS PLACE IS THE BEST!!!”
The guards flinched, stable boys froze, a concubine dropped her basket of steamed buns in terror. Seungho kept walking, Haneul slung over his shoulder, still half-possessed by laughter and adrenaline, his braid streaming behind them like a war banner.
Then—soft. Almost too soft.
“Hey…”
Haneul wiggled, just enough to peer upside-down at Seungho’s neck, eyes narrowed, searching.
“…Fire King…”
Seungho’s shoulder tensed. He grunted.
Haneul didn’t giggle this time. Didn’t poke, didn’t slap. Instead—
“Have you ever married… anyone?”
The question fell heavy, like a stone into deep water. Seungho kept walking, his core flickering—a slow, crimson pulse, not angry, just older.
“No,” he answered, rough and true.
Haneul’s breath brushed the back of his neck, closer than he’d ever been while quiet. “Why not?”
Seungho glanced over his shoulder—just the sweep of Haneul’s braid, pale shoulder in a stolen robe. “Because fire like mine doesn’t make homes,” he said, slow. “Only ashes.”
Haneul just breathed, soft. Then, “…That’s stupid.”
He nuzzled into Seungho’s back, like a fox burrowing into a snowbank. “I’m made of frost and knives and no one ever stopped me from setting up tents in your bed.”
Seungho’s throat tightened.
“Fire doesn’t just destroy things, you know. It also cooks dumplings,” Haneul muttered, humming again, then—quiet, but not shy—“Even melts snow. Maybe you’re not the only one that burns.”
Oh, fuck.
That was the danger. Not the ass. Not the songs. That.
Haneul’s fingers lifted the hem of Seungho’s jeogori, grinning upside-down, not to be seductive but to make him laugh. His eyes were watching—really watching—not to see how hard he could push, but to heal, to murder the part of Seungho that ever believed love was something he could not have.
Seungho glanced over his shoulder, tried to scowl, but something cracked at the edge of his mouth—a twitch, a breath, dangerously close to laughter.
“There it is!” Haneul pointed, triumphant. “*That was a laugh!! Don’t you lie—I saw it!”
Seungho grunted. “You didn’t see shit, sky lunatic.”
“I saw your soul smile through your grumpy man beard—”
“I don’t even have a—”
“You’re basically married now. To me.” Haneul slapped his hip. “Congratulations, husband.”
Seungho choked. One step faltered, his foot skidded, Haneul almost tumbled.
“Husband?!”
“I sang to your ass, fed you custard buns, tucked myself into your bed, and now I’ve seen what’s under your robe—you’re mine.”
Seungho stopped walking. Turned. Grabbed Haneul’s waist, flipped him clean over—one sweep, cradled, held, face to face.
Haneul’s grin faded just a little. Not gone. Just something behind it. Seungho stared down, quiet, breathing hard, and murmured, “Then say it again.”
Haneul blinked. “…what?”
Seungho leaned in, nose brushing his. “If I’m yours…” His voice low, warm, wanting. “…say it again.”
Haneul blinked up at him, the blood finally rushing back to his legs, head spinning from being tossed like a war trophy. A thread of Seungho’s pants hung from his mouth like a cursed wedding veil.
Confusion flickered. “If… you are mine then… huh?”
He twisted in Seungho’s arms. “What—you don’t wanna be mine?! FINE.” He bit the word like iron. “Because I was joking, blockhead—”
There it was. The mask. Fake-disgust, fake-scorn, the fallback weapon.
Seungho saw it, felt it—the core pulse wrong. Not rage. Not hunger. Shame.
Not here. Not now.
He didn’t speak. Not right away. He pulled Haneul closer, not to trap, not to dominate, but just to hold. His hand rose, slow, gentle, and he pressed the edge of Haneul’s braid behind his ear, just so he could see the boy’s face.
“…Haneul,” Seungho whispered.
Haneul’s breath hitched. Seungho tipped his forehead to Haneul’s, thumb grazing a sharp cheekbone.
“You asked if I’ve ever married someone…” A pause. “You’re the first person who made me want to.”
Haneul froze, fists still curled, teeth biting the fabric. Seungho took it from his mouth, flicked the thread away, and murmured, softer than before, “I do want to be yours.”
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