About nicest

“Sahyoung…” utters his saje, hoarse and tempestuous, right below him, so quiet he’d barely hear, so he moves once more, from the same angle. His saje moans, it’s still no louder than a whisper, and he loves the sound. “Sahyoung”, tell him again, there’s no question in that, there’s no continuation in that, it’s like a prayer, when it was he who was supposed to be worshipping him. He looks at his saje, stripped and heated, sweat dripping down the other man’s back and neck, and they are the most beautiful muscles he has ever seen. His saje is beautiful, unfair and incomparable, as immutable as the plum blossoms. He’d like to see his eyes, his face, but he doesn’t want to hurt, no matter how slight — his saje deserves the best of everything. “Sahyoung!” and there’s a touch of frustration, a touch of embarrassment, as his Myeong-a presses his lips together familiarly, displeased with something, but overly stubborn, like when he forbade him to get wine in his childhood and youth; his saje is fabulous; Cheong Mun loves him. “Sahyoung, please, can you move faster!” being as impatient a brat as ever, he tries to move himself, thrusting himself at him, but Cheong Mun has known him long enough to hold him in place. It’ll leave bruises; he doesn’t like that. Cheong Myeong lets out a groan and a sob, and Cheong Mun almost — very nearly — succumbs to the provocation. “Myeong-a”, and despite the ingrained demandingness, his own voice is just as husky as it always is on one of their shared nights, “I don’t like hurting you”. “I can take it!” his saje replies, repeating another of their conversations about the same thing; he’s still sulking, and Cheong Mun has a hard time staying stern with him. He reaches up to imprint a kiss on one of the scars along the shoulder blade of his saje, who drops his head back down onto the pillow. He walks higher, along more scars, there are many, many more, not all of them deadly, not all of them even obtained in battle, but each one makes a part of him always worry. He stops at the back of his head, tucking his wild loose hair to the side, nuzzling his nose and sighing at the smell of plums, his saje always smells of them. “I know, Myeong-a”, and he kisses the skin behind his ear, smiling, “I know you’re strong, the strongest of all, the most the best, the most beautiful, the most—” “Sahyoung!” and Cheong Mun sees the blush on the other’s skin darken all the way down to his neck. That makes him laugh a little. “And you deserve all the nicest”, he finishes, to move inside his saje again.