CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO – You’re Mine, Not for the Taking
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO – You’re Mine, Not for the Taking
Seungho returned to find the demon of winter ,still drunk, tangled in his bedding, half a towel wrapped around his hips, skin damp from the bath, a pink flush blooming across high cheekbones.
The room glowed with low lanterns, steam on the air, and the faint aroma of honey and medicine, a hush after violence so thick you could bite it.
Haneul sat on the edge of the bed, arms crossed, legs sprawled, eyes already rolling as Seungho entered with a bowl of medicine and a platter of late-night dumplings.
The king didn’t bother with servants. He didn’t trust anyone to do this right—not when his snowborn chaos was this soft, this undone, this entirely, perilously his.
“Drink,” Seungho said, setting the bowl down within reach. “It will help with the alcohol”.
Haneul sneered at the offering like it might contain poison. He reached for a dumpling instead, but Seungho stopped him with a single, commanding look.
“Ugh… Fine!!” Haneul snapped, shoving Seungho in the chest with just enough bratty force to make a point, not enough to budge a king. “You… oversized daddy… you sure love bossing around…”
The world cracked.
The Fire King went still. So still the air itself seemed to freeze, heat and cold tangling mid-room. Haneul, oblivious to the seismic shift, glared at the medicine, dumpling still half-shoved in his mouth, braid a tangled blue-and-silver rope over his bare shoulder.
Then he peeked. One eye, sideways. Waiting.
Seungho’s jaw ticked. His hands flexed once on his knees. “You called me what?”
Haneul chewed. Slowly. Speech slurred from alcohol. “You heard me.”
“I did.”
“So?”
Seungho leaned in, not aggressive—just inevitable, like an avalanche. His fingers found the back of Haneul’s neck, thumb pressing into tense muscle, palm warm, grounding. Haneul froze, hackles up, dumpling nearly falling from his mouth.
“Don’t go soft now,” Haneul managed, voice dry as drought.
“I’m not going soft.” Seungho squeezed, just once. “I’m just wondering how long you’ve been fantasizing about saying that.”
The reaction was volcanic—Haneul sputtered, nearly choked, went scarlet from throat to ear-tips. “I wasn’t! I just—! You act like one, so—”
“So what?”
A dumpling soared towards the fire king’s face—a clumsy missile. Seungho caught it. Ate it. Chewed, eyes locked to Haneul’s, a dare in every slow bite.
Haneul gaped, breath coming short. “Did you just—! That was mine—”
“And you’re mine,” Seungho replied, calm as gods, voice a molten thread.
Silence. Haneul’s ears burned. His jaw worked, searching for a retort—settled for grabbing the medicine, chin tilted, eyes narrowed. “Drink,” Seungho ordered.
Haneul’s voice, muttered and vengeful: “…Yes, Daddy.”
That did it. The last thread of Seungho’s restraint snapped. His smile was slow, sharp, a knife’s promise.
“You’re not ready for what that word means, Snowdrop.”
Haneul looked up—something flaring in his gaze. Not innocence. Not even mischief. A challenge. Maybe a plea.
“…Then teach me.”
The world shifted around them. Something ancient and riotous and new flickered in the space between their bodies.
Haneul threw back the medicine, took a gulp, and immediately convulsed. “BLECHHH—what the fuck is—this is—like—tastes like rotten fruit—ACKHH—”
He wiped his mouth on Seungho’s sleeve, scowling, completely unaware of the chaos left in his wake. Honey still clung to his lower lip. The king, who had faced down armies, watched the scene unfold with wide, disbelieving eyes, palm pressed to his own mouth to stifle a laugh—or a growl.
Haneul blinked, mouth twisted in disgust, voice gruff: “What… so “daddy” is the new ‘cock’ now? It turns you on or what?” He tried to sound sarcastic, but even his tongue rebelled—he sputtered, hacked again, cheeks flushed from more than just shame.
Seungho leaned in, slow, every line of his body electric. “You’re going to keep saying that word, and one day it’s going to mean something, Sky.”
Haneul glared. “So what if it already does?”
A beat.
Then he burped. Loud, shameless.
“…Gross,” he muttered, knuckling the sleep from his eyes.
Seungho’s eyes flashed, red and gold in the lamplight, jaw flexing around the words he wanted to say and the ones he’d never speak. “You’re lucky you’re pretty,” he growled.
Haneul grinned, triumphant and exhausted, mouth stained with honey, legs sprawled across the bed like he owned the kingdom and every secret the king had ever buried.
“I know.”
Haneul’s hands closed around the bottle like a wolf claiming the last kill of winter. “Gimme that,” he barked, voice rough, blurred at the edges by festival wine and sleeplessness, yanking the medicine from Seungho’s grip with the petulance of a half-starved prince.
Seungho just watched.
Watched as Haneul tipped it back once more, lips parted, eyes narrowed. The taste hit—hard. The boy’s whole face twisted, brow furrowed, nose wrinkling as if he’d swallowed a mouthful of nails. His shoulders bunched, spine arching, a violent shudder rippling down the slender length of him.
But then—a sound.
A giggle. Light, sharp, fractured, a child’s laugh run through with wildness and wine. It echoed in the chamber, bouncing off black stone and silk and something ancient. Seungho felt it cut straight through him—something holy and unhinged.
Haneul’s pupils were still blew wide. The blue of his eyes deepened, rimmed with white, hunger, glee, fever. Firewood dipped in oil, burning from the inside out.
He seized two dumplings, one in each hand, knuckles white.
He stalked—no, wobbled—across the furs toward Seungho, towel slipping off completely, skin glowing in the lamplight.
There was a shine of sweat on his collarbone, a flush at his throat.
Every movement was cocky, stumbling, and regal as a fox after raiding the emperor’s banquet.
He grinned. The world tilted around that grin. It was wicked and bright and impossibly young—teeth flashing, eyes glassy, the mouth of a godling who knew no shame and never would.
He flopped—unceremonious, spectacular, naked—straight into Seungho’s lap. Limbs everywhere. Bare ass landing squarely on the Fire King’s thighs. Arms slung heavy around his neck, braid sticky with dumpling sauce.
He thrust a dumpling forward. “Say aaaaaaahhhhh—” he chirped.
Seungho didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His heart slammed once, twice, a drumbeat beneath the boy’s wild weight. This—this chaos. This storm.
Haneul wiggled, pushing the dumpling closer, sticky fingers almost pressing against Seungho’s lips. He opened his mouth—wordless, dazed, undone.
The dumpling stuffed in. Too fast. Way too fast.
Sauce squelched between teeth and tongue. Haneul howled with laughter, high and bright, eyes alight with triumph, mouth open, breath sweet with rice and honey and all the feral energy in the world. He collapsed forward, face mashing into Seungho’s jaw, lips sticky, skin hot.
“You’re not mad, right?” he whispered, voice small now, a crack of soft worry threading through the delirium. For a second—a heartbeat—he was almost vulnerable.
Seungho’s voice was rough, wrecked, the words dragged out from somewhere near the bottom of his chest. “…No. Not yet.”
Haneul giggled, swaying. “Do you want me to feed you more?”
Seungho tried for patience, tried to find ground, but all he found was a hard ache and the impossible boy straddling his thighs. He managed, “You’re sitting on my cock, Haneul.”
Haneul blinked.
Looked down.
Looked up again. Grinned wider—devilish, delighted, not a flicker of embarrassment.
“Oops.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t apologize. Just rocked his hips ever so slightly, feeling the proof of everything burning beneath him. His laughter came again, soft, drunk and obscene and innocent at once.
Seungho’s hands curled around Haneul’s waist, fingers biting into the skin, the heat, the storm.
He didn’t say a word.
He didn’t have to.
Because everything was already burning.
Haneul scowled, eyes glinting, breath sweet with dumplings and danger.
“Not—hic—not sitting on your damn… c-cock anymore, am I?!” He punctuated each word with a jab to Seungho’s chest as he tried to stand on his knees, his finger sharp and accusatory, a threat and a plea rolled into one drunken gesture.
“So shtop… LOOKING at me like that… Because YOU… mister… are the one who said ‘cock’ first! And I am just FEEDING you DUMPLINGS!”
Each poke stoked the fire simmering just below Seungho’s skin. His magic core pulsed, molten, barely contained—a silent growl thrumming beneath every controlled breath. He gripped Haneul’s waist—not to pull, not to hold, just to remind him exactly where he was, who he was on.
Seungho leaned forward. The heat between them pressed like a storm, lips grazing Haneul’s temple. “Say one more word about my cock…” he whispered, voice molten and rough as volcanic stone.
Haneul grinned, eyes blown wide, mouth already opening for the challenge. “C—”
Seungho flipped him. Fast. The towel spun away, a flutter of grey, and Haneul landed on the bed, face-down, ass in the air, braid a wild lash of color flopping over his shoulder. Seungho loomed above him, breath ragged, eyes bright as a battlefield at dawn.
“You want to feed me dumplings?”
Nod—dazed, too honest to lie.
“You want to sit on my lap?”
Another nod.
“You want to poke my chest and say ‘daddy’ and pretend it’s not making you wet between the thighs?”
“Wha— I’m a MAN!”
“Exactly.”
Seungho dragged one finger down Haneul’s spine—slow, burning, a line of heat over pale, battle-scarred skin. The way the frost warrior shuddered, arching into the touch, was everything Seungho never knew he needed.
But then—the boy’s eyes caught on the fire in Seungho’s chest, the magic core pulsing crimson under bronzed skin. His breath hitched, and he turned over and reached, hand trembling, gaze hungry and awestruck. “W-wow… pretty…” His voice was reverent, breaking at the edges.