#orginal content

Treats for the King

Tags: Heavy Dubcon, fantasy, somnophilia, somnabulism, sleepwalking, magic, aftercare, hypnotism, lucid dreams, wet dreams, PIV, Implied Drug Use, folklore, monster fucker, monster/human romance.

Word count: 3,413

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You were so pretty, so cute, and perfect. At least that's what Jamaru thought. Or as you knew him, Jay, your very kind neighbor. They liked to watch over you, that was all, nothing weird or creepy.

After his amazing Hogmanay Hootenanny had finally drawn to a close, Algy slept for many, many hours, and when he awoke he found that all his party guests had vanished, no doubt returning to the many magical places around the world from which they had come.

Feeling that he needed a wee bit of fresh air and exercise after such extensive partying, Algy flew around his assistants' garden several times. But he found that it was unpleasantly cold… It was early January, after all; the ponds were covered with thin sheets of ice, and the garden was hushed and quiet.

Suddenly, the sun burst through the wintry clouds, and although it was still exceedingly low in the sky, only just managing to clear the rocky ridges of the surrounding hills, parts of the garden were bathed in a beautiful golden light… at least for a few minutes, for the sun could evidently feel the chill too, and soon retreated to warmer climes.

It was glorious while it lasted, however, so Algy found himself a perch on a sunlit tree stump and indulged in a harmonious duet with a wee robin friend nearby, until the light faded into greyness once again. And while the two fluffy birds sang in wordless harmony, Algy took deep gulps of the January air and thought:

Something’s moving in, I hear the weather in the wind, sense the tension of a sheep-field and the pilgrimage of fins. Something’s not the same, I taste the sap and feel the grain, hear the rolling of the rowan ringing, singing in a change. Something’s set to start, there’s meadow-music in the dark and the clouds that shroud the mountain slowly, softly start to part.

old bed

*me and my buddies after starting a huge brawl in a saloon, shooting half of the sheriff's men, blowing up a bar with dynamite and getting about $200 bounty on our heads*

(we were supposed to stay low)

NO CUSSING!

After 3 years, I finally got around to design my first ever OC again!! And yes she went through another design change ^^;

Overall this is saffron the bat princess, ruler of the Dark kingdom. She’s unhappy with the placement she is in therefore she runs away to run away to make her own kingdom and unite with others, meeting new friends and challenges. All while her mother Zarabeth is hunting her down

Small info

Age - 17-18

Species- Fruit Bat

Role- Princess of the dark kingdom

Soulmate

Part Two

The café was warm with morning chatter, but Yeosang felt ice in his chest. He stirred his coffee in circles, listening as Wooyoung recounted the night like it had been written just for him.

“I mean, San’s just… different, you know?” Wooyoung’s grin was so wide it almost hurt to look at. He reached across the table, swatting lightly at San’s arm. “You don’t meet guys like him every day.”

San gave a small laugh, glancing at Wooyoung before looking quickly away. “You’re exaggerating.” But the faint curve of his lips lingered longer than it should have.

Yeosang’s heart twisted. He caught the way Wooyoung leaned into San’s space, the casual familiarity that hadn’t been there yesterday. The way San didn’t pull back.

Wooyoung winked, playful. “Don’t be shy. We all saw the way you danced with me. We made a pretty good team, huh?”

“Guess we did,” San said quietly, eyes dropping to his cup. But then his gaze flicked, brief and sharp, to Yeosang—like a reflex he couldn’t stop—before he pushed the look away.

Yeosang’s stomach sank. The dread from last night hadn’t faded. If anything, it had settled heavier, like cement. They weren’t together yet, not officially. But the closeness was there, building in ways Yeosang hadn’t been brave enough to allow.

Wooyoung nudged San with his shoulder, bright and certain. “You’ll see. We’re gonna make a great pair.” Yeosang’s hand tightened around his mug. The word echoed—pair. He forced a hollow smile, but the sound of it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Wooyoung is moving confidently toward San, already treating him like something more. San isn’t outright rejecting—he’s letting Wooyoung get close, even if his eyes betray where his pull really is. Yeosang feels the shift and the dread but stays silent.

It happened a week later.

The group had gathered again, laughter spilling into the familiar café where they always ended up. Yeosang slid into his usual spot, shoulders stiff, trying not to let his eyes search for San before anyone else.

He didn’t have to.

San was already there—sitting next to Wooyoung, close enough their knees touched beneath the table. And when Wooyoung leaned in, draping an arm casually over the back of San’s chair, San didn’t move away.

The conversation swirled around Yeosang, half-caught words slipping past him. It wasn’t until Wooyoung’s grin widened that the world seemed to still.

“Guess it’s official now,” Wooyoung announced, nudging San with his elbow. “San’s stuck with me.”

The table erupted with cheers and whistles. Someone clapped San on the shoulder, another teased Wooyoung about being too much to handle.

Yeosang sat frozen, the smile on his face stiff and wrong. He clapped once, softly, forcing out a laugh that scraped like glass in his throat.

San didn’t look at him. Not once.

But Yeosang felt it anyway—the invisible thread pulling taut in his chest, raw and unrelenting. He wanted to scream that it was wrong, that San wasn’t Wooyoung’s to claim, that he had felt it too, hadn’t he?

Instead, he sipped his coffee, hands trembling just enough to rattle the spoon in the cup. And he told himself it didn’t matter. Maybe soulmates weren’t real after all. Maybe it was all just made up.

When Yeosang stood from the table earlier, mumbling something about needing air, San’s head snapped up before he could stop himself.

It was nothing dramatic—just the scrape of a chair, the way Yeosang’s shoulders seemed too tight as he slipped through the crowd toward the door. But San felt it. A tug low in his chest, sharp and unrelenting, like a wire strung between them had been pulled taut.

He watched the door swing shut, watched the neon spill over Yeosang’s retreating figure before it disappeared into the night. His throat worked.

“You okay?” Wooyoung asked, nudging him, a grin still hanging off his lips.

San forced his eyes back to the table, to the drink in his hands. “Yeah. Just—thought I saw someone I knew outside.”

It was a weak lie, and it tasted bitter.

Because the truth was, he could feel Yeosang out there. The same way he had felt him last night on the dance floor, that undeniable current running beneath his skin. But Yeosang had never looked back at him. Never given him the same certainty.

San pressed his lips together and leaned into Wooyoung’s warmth when Wooyoung draped an arm over his shoulders. He told himself this was enough—Wooyoung wanted him, openly, confidently.

So why did his chest ache like something was missing every time Yeosang walked away?

Yeosang just couldn't bring himself to go back in with his friend and soulmate that we're all over each other as if he isn't even there. He sent Wooyoung a quick text letting him know that he had left. The hollow ache in his chest, he chewed his lower lip.

He headed away from the cafe. The air cool against hia flushed skin but not taming the heat in his heart. That when he felt the prickle of his skin on the back of his neck started— the sharp, crawling sensation. He didn't need to look back to know there was someone there, a second pair of footsteps joining his own.

"Like him, huh?" Jongho’s voice asked smoothly from the shadows. Yeosang froze, a sharp pain stinging in his throat. Jongho stepped out from the shadows, his smile sharp under the neon lights. "You don't need him." He continued, his tone honeyed, but his eyes dark. "You need me. Just me."

Yeosang’s heart thundered in his chest as he turned towards Jongho. His heart hammered painfully in his chest. He wanted to run, scream, but his body refused to do anything his brain was telling it to. Jonghos presence pressed down on him, suffocating him. Every word he said, heavy with obsession and possession.

Jongho stepped closer, carefully tucking some hair behind his ear. Yeosang couldn't tell if his heart was racing because of fear or close proximity. He slowly looked up at Jongho from underneath his lashes.

"He doesn't know what he is missing. You're so handsome. Beautiful. You deserve everything." Jongho whispered, and Yeosang felt his heart stuttered. Why is he doing this? Why is he telling him this? "No one will appreciate you like me. Love you like I do." Jongho whispered, and Yeosang swallowed.

"Do you not realize.. how crazy you are?" Yeosang choked out.

"Crazy for you." Jongho said before leaning down and kissing Yeosang. His eyes widened in shock as Jongho’s lips were solid and cold on his. He wasn't sure what to do. Push him away or pull this crazy man closer. Maybe he was right. Maybe Jongho was his soulmate. His best friend and soulmate couldn't even tell his feelings. Oh, he meant San.

Yeosang stumbled back as Jongho pushed him against a wall. He was so lost in thought he forgot that Jongho was kissing him. Yeosang slid his hand into his hair and forced his eyes shut as he kissed him back. A pang of guilt and longing twisted in his chest. San’s gace flashed in his mind, refusing to leave.

He finally broke away for air. His hands trembling on Jongho’s shoulders. His forehead pressed against Jongho’s. His breath ragged and barely came out a whisper:

"This.. this isn't right.." Yeosang said and flinched a bit as Jongho’s nail digged tighter into his back. Jongho’s hands stayed there, but he smiled, as if he already knew. "It doesn't feel wrong to me." He said softly. "This feels so right."

Yeosang doesn't know whether to listen to him– or his own twisted heart.

"Don't say anything else, just feel. Feel me. Feel our bodies move, our lips." Jongho whispered as he kissed Yeosang on his birthmark on his forehead. It's sent an electric current through his body.

So Yeosang did.

The warmth of Jongho’s body, the insistence of his touch, the way he spoke to him like he already owned his body, heart, and soul. Owned his attention. It was intoxicating, addictive. Every logical thought buried under his adrenaline, heat, and desire.

"I- but San-" Yeosang’s whispered caught in his throat. San’s face in his mind once more. But Jongho was here. Immediate, pressing, impossible to resist.

"Don't think about him now. You're here with me. Kissing me. Rubbing against me." Jongho breathed as he buried his nose into Yeosang’s neck before kissing and sucking softly. The command, the certainy.. it just pulled him in. His body reacted before his mind and his head fell to the side. Every touch was sharp and overwhelming. His eyes fell closed as he fell deeper and deeper in Jongho’s orbit.

Even as a tiny nagging voice in his head reminding of San. Screaming San’s name. 'No! San is your soulmate!' He silenced it. Jongho’s pull was too strong. Too exciting. Too.. dangerously addicting. Jongho finally stepped back slightly, letting Yeosang catch his breath. Jongho’s breaths were ragged. He grinned, almost smug.

"See? I'm what you want. Even if you won't admit it." Jongho breathed. Yeosang’s hands shook. His chest felt heavy with guilt and thrilling all at once. He should have said no. He should have RUN. But the truth was, he couldn't. And maybe, in a way, he hated to admit it. He didn't want to.

Jongho stepped back slightly, letting his gaze roam over Yeosang like he was assessing something precious… and fragile. “You’re mine tonight,” he said casually, but there was a weight in his tone, a quiet command that made Yeosang’s stomach flip.

“I… I don’t know if—” Yeosang began, but Jongho cut him off with a laugh that was low and dangerous.

“Don’t think. You’ll ruin it if you overthink.” He stepped closer, letting Yeosang feel the heat of his body, the way Jongho moved with complete confidence, every gesture claiming space—and Yeosang’s attention—without asking permission.

Yeosang swallowed hard, his pulse quickening despite the knot of anxiety tightening in his chest. This is crazy, he told himself. San… But even as the thought flared, it felt distant, like a whisper under a storm. Jongho’s pull was immediate, present, and impossible to ignore.

“You look tense,” Jongho murmured, tilting his head. “Let me help you relax.” His hand brushed Yeosang’s arm lightly—too light, teasing—and Yeosang flinched. Not from fear, but from the sharp thrill of being noticed, claimed, and tested.

“You’re… intense,” Yeosang admitted quietly, the words almost catching in his throat.

Jongho grinned, leaning close enough that his lips brushed the shell of Yeosang’s ear. “Good. I like intense. It makes it more… fun.”

And there it was—the first taste of what it would mean to be with Jongho: thrilling, overwhelming, and just dangerous enough to make every rational thought fade. Yeosang’s hands shook, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he let Jongho guide him again, letting the intoxication take over.

San’s face… Yeosang’s mind flickered there briefly, a pang of guilt sharp enough to sting. But Jongho’s laughter, low and magnetic, cut through it. The world narrowed to Jongho, to the heat of his presence, and to the dizzying, undeniable pull that made it feel impossible to resist.

By the time Yeosang finally stepped back to breathe, Jongho’s grin was smug, satisfied, and just a little dangerous. “Relax,” he said softly, almost tenderly, “you’ll get used to this. I’ll take care of you… if you let me.”

Yeosang’s heart skipped. He knew, deep down, that giving in would be a choice he’d regret. But at that moment, he didn’t care.

Yeosang stepped back slightly, taking a shaky breath as the world spun around Jongho’s magnetic presence. 'Fuck San', he thought bitterly, a spark of defiance flaring in his chest. 'He’s with my best friend anyway. Why the hell should I care?'

The thought surprised him—harsh, selfish, and yet comforting in its way. It made the heat of Jongho’s touch easier to bear, the tension of the kiss less confusing. If San already had someone else, then he could… he should let himself feel this.

Jongho’s grin widened as if he’d caught the exact shift in Yeosang’s thoughts. “Finally,” he murmured, brushing his thumb along Yeosang’s jaw. “You’re starting to get it.”

Yeosang’s lips pressed together, holding back a shiver that had nothing to do with fear. “Get what?” he asked quietly, though he already knew the answer. He wanted this—wanted Jongho’s heat, his confidence, his dangerous allure. And telling himself it had nothing to do with San made it almost painless.

Jongho’s eyes gleamed, sharp and intoxicating. “That you’re meant to be here… with me. Not someone else. Not some—” He gestured vaguely, but Yeosang’s mind filled in the blanks: San.

“Yeah,” Yeosang whispered, voice tight. “Yeah, I get it.”

And just like that, the excuse hardened into armor. 'San’s gone. He’s with Wooyoung. This… this is mine. I can want this. I deserve this.'

Jongho leaned in again, lips brushing Yeosang’s ear. “Good. That’s the kind of thinking I like. You’ll see—once you let go of the past, things get… so much better.”

Yeosang nodded, swallowing hard, and let himself be pulled closer. Every rational thought, every lingering ache for San, was shoved aside in favor of the immediate, consuming intensity Jongho offered. And deep down, a small, guilty part of him whispered, 'this is wrong. So wrong. But I don’t care.'

San was a bit worried when Yeosang said he needed some air and decided to leave. Why? Why did he leave? He didn't care about him the way Wooyoung did. Wooyoung was clear about his affections, and he was sure Yeosang didn't feel their soulmate connection. But when Wooyoung announced them dating, Yeosang had paled and seemed sick to the stomach. Then he texted and said something came up and he had to go?

San couldn't ignore it no matter how much he tried. And trust him, he tried.

"Hey, I'll be right back." San said softly as he kissed Wooyoung. He stepped out of the cafe. Yeosang couldn’t have gotten far. He just wanted to make sure he was okay. That's when he saw two figures again a wall about 20 feet away. He couldn't quite see who it was until he saw the flash of the heart-shaped birthmark as he rotated his head to the other side to continue kissing.

Jongho’s mouth was relentless, his kiss firm and demanding, and Yeosang let himself melt into it if only to drown out the ache in his chest. 'Fuck San. He’s with Wooyoung. He chose him. Not me.'

The thought was bitter but it gave him the courage to keep going, to press harder into Jongho, to match the intensity even though it felt strange and wrong in places. Maybe this was what he needed—someone who actually wanted him. Someone who wasn’t afraid to show it.

For a fleeting second, through the haze of neon and the pounding of his heart, Yeosang thought he saw movement at the corner of his eye. A tall silhouette just beyond the streetlight, frozen in place. His breath caught, and he almost pulled away.

But Jongho’s hand slid up, firm fingers gripping his jaw, holding him in place. His voice was a whisper against Yeosang’s mouth, possessive and sharp:

“Don’t look at anyone else. Just me.”

The command sent a shiver through Yeosang, and he squeezed his eyes shut, surrendering. He didn’t know why his heart hammered harder at those words. Maybe because part of him still wanted to turn, to see who it was. Maybe because the part of him that knew it could’ve been San was begging for confirmation.

But Jongho didn’t let him.

Yeosang’s breath hitched as Jongho kissed him harder, deeper—his hand tightening like a cage. And then, for a single charged moment, Yeosang felt it: the shift in Jongho’s body. The way his kiss grew smug, deliberate, almost cruel.

Because Jongho wasn’t just kissing him.

He was looking.

San couldn’t breathe.

Every instinct in him screamed to move, to rip Jongho away, to pull Yeosang into his arms and never let him go. The sight of Jongho’s hand gripping Yeosang’s jaw, angling his face like he owned him, made San’s blood boil. And then—

Jongho looked up.

Their eyes locked across the distance, and San’s whole body went rigid. The kiss didn’t falter—not for a second. Jongho kissed Yeosang harder, deeper, like he was devouring him, like he knew San was watching and wanted to carve the image into his skull.

The smug glint in Jongho’s gaze said everything San feared: 'You can’t stop me. You won’t stop me. He’s mine now.'

San’s chest clenched, a sharp, unbearable ache radiating through the bond. He felt it tug, raw and insistent, as if his soul was begging him to move, to fight, to claim what was his. But his feet stayed rooted to the ground. His fists curled until his nails dug deep into his palms, but still he didn’t move. He couldn’t.

Because Wooyoung was inside. Waiting for him. Trusting him. And San had promised—promised himself, promised Wooyoung—that he wouldn’t hurt him.

So he stood there, forced to watch Jongho consume Yeosang like he was starving, forced to endure the crushing weight of his soulmate’s lips pressed to someone else’s. And worst of all… Yeosang wasn’t pushing him away.

When Jongho finally broke the kiss, smirking against Yeosang’s lips, his eyes stayed locked on San. It wasn’t a kiss anymore—it was a challenge. A taunt. A declaration of war that San wasn’t allowed to answer.

San swallowed hard, his throat tight, and turned away before the sight tore him apart completely. He had no claim. No voice.

But deep down, he knew. That connection, that bond—it wasn’t gone. And Jongho damn well knew it too.

San sat across from Wooyoung at the little café table, the smell of coffee thick in the air. Wooyoung was talking animatedly, hands moving as he described something funny that had happened during practice. His eyes were bright, his grin warm, and every few sentences he’d glance at San like he was the most important person in the room.

And San tried. God, he tried. He nodded at the right moments, hummed agreements, even forced the occasional chuckle. But the words washed over him like background noise. Because every time he blinked, he saw it—Yeosang pressed against the wall, Jongho’s hand gripping his jaw, the bond pulling so tight it hurt to breathe.

It felt like betrayal. Like he had betrayed Wooyoung just by existing in that moment, by wanting to run, to rip Jongho off him and claim Yeosang for himself. And yet at the same time, it felt like Yeosang had betrayed him, choosing not to fight it, choosing to kiss back.

His chest burned with both.

“You’re really quiet,” Wooyoung teased lightly, leaning forward on his elbows. “Are you tired, Sannie?”

San blinked, forcing his eyes to focus. Wooyoung’s smile was soft, trusting, and San’s throat tightened around the truth he could never say. Instead, he reached across the table and brushed Wooyoung’s knuckles with his thumb.

“No,” San said, voice low but steady. “I’m just… happy.”

And Wooyoung’s whole face lit up at the simple words, his cheeks dusting pink as he ducked his head. San smiled back, hollow and aching, because the lie sounded so sweet when Wooyoung believed it.

But beneath the table, his leg bounced restlessly, the phantom tug of the bond with Yeosang gnawing at his chest. He couldn’t silence it, couldn’t sever it—he could only bury it deeper, deeper, until all that was left was the hollow comfort of Wooyoung’s laugh.

And all the while, San knew Jongho’s eyes had burned that challenge into him on purpose. That kiss hadn’t just been for Yeosang. It had been for him too. A warning. A dare.

And San had done nothing.

Jongho pulled away from the kiss, his lips wet with their saliva. He picked his lips before flashing a grin.

“See? You don’t need anyone else. You’re mine.”

Yeosang’s stomach twisted. He wanted to argue, wanted to scream no, that’s not true, but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he let Jongho lace their fingers together and tug him away from the wall, away from that lingering shadow in the corner of his vision that he still wasn’t sure was real.

And so Yeosang let Jongho guide him down the street, his steps stiff but unresisting, his mind a storm of confusion and bitterness.

When he returned home, San shut his bedroom door softly. The quiet was suffocating. Too quiet.

He leaned back against the door, fingers tightening around the handle until his knuckles turned white. His chest heaved, shallow breaths that refused to steady. For hours, he had smiled, laughed, pretended everything was fine with Wooyoung at his side. He had said all the right words and played the perfect boyfriend. It wasn't like he didn't like Wooyoung. He did. He loved how energetic and affectionate he was. He loved his confident and shy side. He liked how much love Wooyoung had to give and chose him to give it to. But he couldn't ignore it. The constant tug on his heart towards Yeosang. Sweet, shy, awkward, clueless Yeosang. He was exhausted from being the good boyfriend he is while ignoring that tug.

But now?

Now there was nothing left to hold him together.

San slid down the door, knees curling up to his chest as his hands dragged through his hair. The memory hit again—Yeosang against the wall, Jongho’s mouth on his, that searing flash of the heart-shaped birthmark that had carved itself into San’s soul the first time he saw it.

His soulmate.

His.

But not his.

San let out a sound between a sob and a laugh, ugly and raw. He buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking as tears slipped hot and fast down his cheeks.

He hated himself for wanting to rip Yeosang away.

He hated Yeosang for kissing back.

He hated Jongho most of all—for looking him dead in the eyes while stealing what was never his to take.

But more than all of that, he hated the bond. The unshakable, undeniable tether that kept dragging him toward someone he could never have. Someone who was already slipping further away every second.

A choked sob tore out of his throat, muffled against his palms. “Why… why didn’t you choose me?” he whispered, as if Yeosang could hear him through the walls, through the city, through the storm that lived in his chest.

The silence answered back, heavy and unrelenting.

San curled tighter into himself, trembling, until exhaustion finally dragged him under. But even in sleep, his body wouldn’t let him go. His dreams burned with honeyed skin, a mark on the neck, and lips he could still feel against his own—except in every dream, it was him kissing Yeosang, not Jongho.

And he woke with that bitter ache carved even deeper because morning meant one thing: putting the mask back on. Pretending again. For Wooyoung’s sake. For Yeosang’s sake. For everyone but his own. Because he knew deep down who he really wanted, and he knows.. now he can't have him.

The car rolled to a stop in front of Yeosang’s place. The drive had been quiet—too quiet. Yeosang kept his eyes on the passing streets, refusing to think about San, about Wooyoung, about the way his heart had split open in that café. His chest still ached, but he shoved it down, layer after layer, until all that was left was a hollow ache. Jongho still held his hand tightly, driving with one hand as if to make sure he was really still there.

“You don’t have to walk me in,” Yeosang muttered as he unbuckled his seatbelt, his voice rough from hours of silence.

“I wasn’t planning to.” Jongho’s tone was flat, but when Yeosang glanced at him, there was something dangerous in his eyes—possessive, hungry.

Yeosang opened the car door, stepped out into the cool night air, and headed toward the porch. He thought that would be the end of it. Just a goodnight, maybe a text later.

But then Jongho was suddenly there, right behind him, his hand wrapping around Yeosang’s wrist before he could even reach the door.

“Jongho—” Yeosang started, but his words caught in his throat when Jongho pressed him back against the wall, in the corner of his porch, lips hovering just beside his ear.

“Do you have any idea how you looked tonight?” Jongho whispered, his breath hot against Yeosang’s skin. “Falling apart in front of him. Pretending you didn’t want him while you kissed me back like you were starving.”

Yeosang’s pulse stumbled, heat crawling up his neck. He should’ve pushed him away, should’ve told him to leave. But the ache inside him—the bitterness of San choosing Wooyoung, the loneliness clawing at his ribs—made him freeze.

Jongho’s hand slid down, bold, dangerous, until it cupped him through his jeans. Yeosang’s breath hitched, his whole body going rigid.

“Jongho—” His voice cracked, barely more than a plea.

“Shh,” Jongho murmured, eyes burning as his thumb pressed harder. “I want to see you like this. Right here. Where anyone could walk by and see you falling apart for me.”

And then Jongho’s mouth was on him—first his jaw, then his neck, teeth grazing over sensitive skin. When his lips brushed Yeosang’s birthmark, hot and deliberate, a strangled sound tore out of Yeosang’s throat. The possessive way he was kissing his birthmark. It made his heart skip and his stomach flutter.

“That’s mine,” Jongho whispered against the mark before claiming his mouth in a bruising kiss, his hand working Yeosang with cruel precision. He slipped his hand in past the barrier of Yeosang’s waistband. Yeosang let out a whimper as he gripped tightly to Jongho’s shoulders. The male took ahold of him and stroking like he didn't want anything else in the world. Stroking hard and fast. It's almost desperate.

Yeosang trembled, shame and need colliding until he couldn’t breathe. He kissed Jongho back, desperate, lost, because what else was there? San had chosen Wooyoung. But Jongho was here, touching him, claiming him, marking him as his.

And when Yeosang finally came undone, muffling his cry against Jongho’s lips, Jongho pulled back just enough to smirk against his mouth. Yeosang trembled, holding himself up by Jongho’s shoulders as his knees almost gave out on him. Yeosang tried to catch his breath as Jongho pulled his hand out and looked at it.

"You came a lot." Jongho whispered, making Yeosang shiver as he licked it off his hands. Yeosang’s lips were bruised and swollen from Jongho, breaking him down, piece by piece. Jongho squeezed Yeosang’s hips before placing a solid and almost affectionate kiss on his forehead. "Good night." He said before leaving Yeosang trembling on his porch with his boxer wet and sticky. And to Yeosang’s horror, wanting more.

Yeosang watched as he started his car and drove away. Yeosang stood frozen for a minute or two before patting for his keys. He found them in his pocket and struggled to unlock the door due to his hands shaking. When he finally unlocked it he felt relief for a split moment due to the safety of his home.

The door clicked shut behind him, but Yeosang didn’t move. He just stood there in the entryway, staring into the darkness of his apartment as though it could swallow him whole. His chest rose and fell too fast, his lips still tingling, his forehead still warm where Jongho’s kiss had landed.

He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth. It did nothing to erase the ghost of Jongho’s lips. Nothing to stop the way his body still buzzed with raw electricity.

“God,” he whispered, stumbling toward the couch. His legs felt weak, and his heart wouldn’t slow. He collapsed onto the cushions, dragging both hands down his face until his palms trembled against his jaw. The same jaw Jongho had gripped possessively when Yeosang had tried to look and see who in the corner of his eye as they were making out. Dangerously.

He should feel disgusted. He should feel violated. And he did, a little—his stomach twisted with shame. But under all of that was something worse, something that made him want to claw his own skin open.

Want.

He wanted more.

Yeosang shook his head violently, as if the thought could be beaten out of him. “No. No, no, no.” His voice cracked. “This isn’t—he’s not—”

But when he closed his eyes, he saw Jongho’s smirk, felt the press of his mouth on his mark, the claim whispered against his skin. His body betrayed him, heat flaring low in his stomach again, and Yeosang choked on the sound that almost slipped free. He was hard again.

It horrified him. He curled in on himself, arms wrapping tight around his knees, forehead pressing to them as though he could crush the hunger out of his chest. He told himself it was just desperation. Just loneliness. Just San.

But another voice whispered louder, crueler: 'No one will love you like I do.'

Yeosang squeezed his eyes shut harder, trying to block it out. But it was already in him, etched deep by the brush of a forehead kiss that lingered like a brand.

And to his horror, beneath all the shame and fury, he realized he was already waiting for the next time.

Yeosang sat there for what felt like hours, the silence pressing in around him like a weight. His mind replayed every second on the porch, every word Jongho had whispered.

'You don’t need him. You need me.'

He hated it. He hated how his body had melted against Jongho’s touch, how his lips had parted so easily for that kiss. But worse than all of that—what terrified him most—was the way his chest still fluttered at the memory of Jongho’s lips on his forehead.

It had been so soft. So careful. Nothing like the sharp, possessive hunger that had left him trembling.

That part—the forehead kiss—felt… almost tender. Like Jongho wasn’t just claiming him, but protecting him.

Yeosang dragged a shaky breath in, trying to shake the thought away. But it came back stronger, weaving into all the cracks San had left in him. His stomach twisted, his throat tight. He pressed his fingers hard against his temples, but the logic slid in anyway, smooth and poisonous.

'Maybe Jongho really does care. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t leave you alone. Maybe that’s why he kissed your mark—because he knew what San ignored. Because he sees you.'

Yeosang’s chest clenched. He wanted to believe it. God, he wanted to believe it. Because if he didn’t, then he had to face the truth—that he was just weak, just lonely, that he had let someone use him because he couldn’t stand being unwanted. And that was unbearable.

So instead, he clung to the image of Jongho’s lips brushing his forehead. Gentle. Almost loving.

Maybe he was crazy. Maybe they were both crazy. But wasn’t that what love was supposed to feel like? Consuming? Desperate? He was feeling all of that right now. If you took out the fact Jongho was his stalker... that's what was going on between them.

Yeosang swallowed hard, curled tighter into himself on the couch, and whispered into the empty room, as if speaking it out loud would make it true:

“He… he cares about me.” The words felt wrong. They scraped like glass in his throat. But the more he repeated them, the more they began to dull, to settle into something almost comforting. “He cares about me.”

He closed his eyes, let the memory of Jongho’s kiss wash over him one more time, and clung to it like a lifeline. Because if he didn’t, he knew he’d drown.

Yeosang woke to the smell of something warm and savory drifting through the apartment. For a moment, still tangled in sleep, he thought he was dreaming—his mom making breakfast when he was a kid, the comforting scent of food wrapping around him.

But then his eyes opened. He was in his own bed. Alone. He sat up too fast, his head swimming, heart hammering. The smell was stronger now. Eggs. Toast. Coffee.

Yeosang’s pulse jumped. Someone was in his apartment. He staggered out of bed, stumbling toward the kitchen, and stopped dead in the doorway.

Jongho stood there, sleeves rolled up, casually flipping eggs in a pan like he’d been living here all along. He glanced over his shoulder when he heard Yeosang’s sharp breath, lips curving into that infuriatingly calm smile. His face just as handsome as last night when he had jerked him Off on his PORCH.

“Morning,” he said like it was the most natural thing in the world. “You don’t eat enough, so I thought I’d take care of that.”

Yeosang’s mouth went dry. “H-how did you—? You can’t just—”

But the words tangled on his tongue as Jongho set a plate down at the table and slid it toward him. The eggs were perfectly cooked. Toast golden. Even a mug of coffee waiting, steam curling up like an invitation. It looked so good and caused Yeosang’s stomach to growl and his mouth cottony.

“I let myself in,” Jongho said simply, as though breaking into someone’s home wasn’t insane.

'No shit Sherlock, I can see that.'

“You didn’t answer your phone. I got worried.”

Worried. The word sank into Yeosang’s chest like a stone. He should tell him to leave, to never do this again. He knew that. But instead his gaze fell to the plate, to the coffee. His stomach tightened at the thought of someone remembering him like this, caring enough to notice he hadn’t eaten.

“You don’t have to look at me like that,” Jongho said softly, stepping closer. “I’m not here to hurt you. I just… I can’t stand the thought of you sitting here alone, hungry, punishing yourself.” His fingers brushed Yeosang’s jaw, tilting his face up until their eyes locked.

Yeosang froze, the breath caught in his throat. Jongho’s gaze was steady, unwavering, not cruel this time. Just… intense. What exactly was going on between them? Yeosang didn't even know.

“I told you, Yeosang. No one will love you like I do.” His thumb brushed the corner of his mouth before pulling away. “Now eat.” Yeosang lowered himself into the chair without quite realizing it, staring down at the plate like it was proof of something bigger. Something real.

Jongho wasn’t lying. He did care. He had to. Why else would he go this far? Why else would he show up just to make sure he was okay?

He picked up the fork with trembling hands. And as he took the first bite, the food warm against his tongue, he whispered the thought he’d been fighting since last night—"Maybe this is what love looks like."

"This IS love, Yeosang." Jongho confirmed as he sat beside Yeksang and watched him eat the food he made for him. Jongho tilted his head as his eyes swept over Yeosang, taking in the stiffness in his shoulders, the way his hands fidgeted in his lap. He leaned in close, his voice low, coaxing.

“You’re always giving, Yeosang. Always putting yourself last. You never just… let go.” His thumb brushed Yeosang’s cheek, soft, disarming. “You’re beautiful when you do.” A shiver of pleasure rushed through his body. His eats burning as he looked at him with puppy dog eyes.

Yeosang’s throat tightened. The words sank into him like a stone into water, too heavy, too warm. His chest ached with the truth of them—how long had it been since anyone looked at him and said something like that?

Before he could speak, Jongho’s hands were burning on his bare chest. Why put of all the things he forgot had taken his shirt off before falling asleep? He had parades into his kitchen with a casual dressed Jongho .Jongho’s hand slipped lower, pressing against him through his clothes. Yeosang sucked in a sharp breath, but Jongho only smirked.

“You’re so tense,” Jongho murmured, lips ghosting against his ear. “Let me take care of you.”

Then, without asking, Jongho wrapped his hand firmly around him, heat flaring through Yeosang’s body. At the same time, he took Yeosang’s trembling wrist and guided it down, pressing it to his own length until Yeosang was touching him too.

Yeosang gasped. His hand twitched to pull back, but Jongho held it steady, covering his knuckles with his own. “With me,” he whispered. “We’ll move together.” Together? With him? Yeosang slowly nodded. He wasn't too experienced, jongho guided him until he was gripped on correctly. He stood them up before they started.

Their rhythm built, mirrored strokes, ragged breaths filling the air. Yeosang’s mind screamed this was wrong, that it was too much, but his body betrayed him. His hips jerked forward, his hand moving in time with Jongho’s as the pressure mounted. Their foreheads pressed together, their breaths mingling as one.

Jongho kissed along his neck, over the mark at his forehead, then claimed his mouth in a desperate kiss. But it wasn’t enough. Abruptly, he sank lower, down Yeosang’s chest, down his stomach, until Yeosang’s back slammed against the wall. Yeosang was shocked and almost whined when Jongho pulled his lips from his own.

“Wait—” Yeosang’s protest fractured into a strangled cry as Jongho’s mouth closed around him, hot and consuming. His knees nearly buckled. His body heated up incredibly quickly.

“God—Jongho—” His hand tangled in Jongho’s hair, caught between shoving him away and dragging him closer. Jongho hummed low in his throat, vibrations shooting through Yeosang’s entire body. And still, Jongho’s grip forced Yeosang’s palm to keep stroking him, unrelenting. Two rhythms. Two fires. No escape.

Yeosang’s head hit the wall, eyes squeezing shut as his body surrendered to the onslaught. Shame burned, but the longing burned hotter, tearing him apart. And when Jongho looked up through heavy lashes, lips wrapped around him, Yeosang shattered.

The world blurred, trembling release ripping through him as Jongho groaned against his skin.

When it was over, Jongho rose, breathless but steady, and kissed Yeosang hungrily, messily—then softened, pressing his lips to Yeosang’s forehead with devastating gentleness.

“See?” he whispered, brushing his thumb over Yeosang’s jaw like he was fragile. “This is you letting go. This is real. You’re mine, always.”

Yeosang sagged against him, body weak, mind screaming—but beneath the horror, one truth curled like a hook in his chest: he wanted more. He wanted more of Jongho. He wanted to give more to Jongho. San was nearly a distant memory now. Who's he lying to? The tug was still there but with his full focus on Jongho, he was hardly thinking about San. Especially because Jongho is returning the attention with no struggle or hesitation.